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I hurried a little faster, the brisk wind seeping through my coat collar. I adjusted my thick grey scarf. My cloth bag of groceries swung side to side, bumping into my hip and right thigh. The pointed edge of the cereal box inside kept jutting into me. I shifted my bag. That was better. It started to slightly rain. Damn, I thought. I hated getting my hair wet. My apartment was only up the street ahead. I’m almost there . Almost there to a hot shower and ramen noodles straight from the cup with my ingenious idea of freshly cut spring onions dropped in. Almost home. I burst into my apartment, and Callie was already there, winding around my legs. “Alright Callie, let me get settled.” She looked at me with her wide green eyes. She then sat down on her haunches, licking her black paws. As the comforting heat in the shower surrounded me, my thoughts went back to the grocery store. I was in the produce section, picking through the lemons. I felt like I was being watched, and when I looked up, there was a man in a long beige trench coat in the aisle in front of me. He had a piercing stare of green eyes that seemed to light from within. I gave him a combative, questioning glare back to indicate not to try anything with me, and he shook his head and turned out to walk out of the aisle and out of the produce section. He wasn’t carrying anything. --- So beautiful, and she does not even know it, her holding eyes of calm lake blue that have let out storms, gentle touch, strong pace I am in awe I get to see her again, I want to hold her and imbue her with the strength I know she has let her know... --- “Yes Mum. Yup, I am. No. Yup. Okay, I know. Bye,” I hung up and rolled my eyes at the over protectiveness of my mother. She was only making sure I was eating properly, taking care of myself. I was in the big city for the first time. “You’d take care of me, won’t you Callie,” I softly said, with her on my lap, my hands stroking her soft fur. Her green eyes reminded me of the stranger yesterday. I knew I had had to get away. To not be reminded of lost hopes and failed expectations, like the slowly dying tree I had bought for the house. Not see the colour blue, its pale cheerfulness calling out for a happy family. The laughter that once rung inside the walls were faded, memories collected like dust on the mantle. There had sat several photo frames. I remembered picking one of them up when packing. The frame was surrounded by seashells I had collected so diligently during our trip to Cuba the year before. We were tanned. We were in love. There were long, hot nights together, and lazy days out on the beach, side by side on the sand. Long walks hand in hand. It felt like that happened to another person in a different life. Was that really me in the photo? She looked beautiful, but there seemed to be a guarded look in her eyes, despite the smile. He had his arms around her, long dark brown hair spilled onto and over his arms. They looked the part. I remembered beginning to place the frame inside the box, the box that had begun to weigh heavily of souvenirs collected over the years, and then hurling it to the ground with an escaped cry. Several of the shells flew off the frame before the sound of glass shattering. Pieces of it were on the immaculate brown ash floor. It was how my heart felt. My soul ached for lost, and longing for more. I had left the room that had begun to choke me. It wasn’t ever going to be a family room. I had had to pull my tired body up the stairs, the depression made my feet heavy. I had crawled into the cold bed, grabbed the other pillow and hugged it tight to my body, a body that laid in fetal position. Remembering this, tears started to well up. I threw my phone onto the round table, Callie jumped off my lap, and I placed my head into my hands. Then I wrapped my arms around my empty middle. I sobbed heavily, the pain washing over me. I was mourning my emptiness. Of loss so deep I felt like I was submerged in the darkest depths of a bottomless ocean devoid of anything. I held my breath. The vibrations from my phone on the second-hand wooden table jolted me. I came up to surface for air. “Hello?” “Hi, this is Leslie from A.A. Claysworth Shelter. Is this Macy?” “Yes, speaking.” “We received your application of intent to volunteer. We’d like to ask you some further questions as to your interest and skills for the position of front-line support.” “Sure, of course.” For about the next half hour, I forgot the longing emptiness inside. I pictured myself with the young and old at the shelter, helping to serve hot meals and showing them their beds and locker spaces. I confirmed with Leslie about my starting date and hung up to silence again. I had to get out. --- I ran. Ran so hard that faces blurred, my heart pounding in my head. When I stepped up to the crosswalk, the bus pulled up. A face turned and instinctively I looked up. It was him, the one from the grocery store. --- I looked up from the steaming mashed potatoes and surveyed the room. It was dinnertime. A woman with a thick green knitted scarf was shoving mashed potatoes continuously into her mouth that it reminded me of that children’s game with the colourful hippos. A man wearing a black fisherman’s toque was looking around protectively, before taking a forkful of buttered peas. The room was fairly full, the three long bench tables occupied by hungry souls, some wanting more of their lives. I locked eyes with a young mother, who looked to be in her early twenties. My eyes travelled over to her baby, who was swaddled with a pink fleece blanket with smiling ducks on it. My heart leapt for the two, but at the same time, a longing sigh escaped. They had each other, at least. She with child. “Macy. Great job so far! Time to switch,” Tom, one of the volunteer leaders, called out with a nod of his head from across the food service station. “Sure, of course.” It was my turn to help Tom supervise the floor. Another volunteer took my place. I looked around, and like a beacon, I saw him. His head was bowed down; he was tucking into the beef stew. Then he slowly looked up, as if he felt my eyes on him. Again, those captivating eyes of green that seemed to strip me bare. As if he could feel my half-buried pain...I turned my head to another part of the room but still felt his eyes on me. What was up with this dude? I wondered. Why do I keep seeing him? I felt my feet moving toward him. My mind was foggy but my heart told me that I was going to be okay. I sat down next to him. “I think you know who I am,” he said. “Take this. Please.” The small black box that he had taken out of his long coat was pressed gently into my hands. I gingerly took the lid off, and inside laid an antique-looking silver necklace, with a heart locket emblazoned with an intricate design. When I turned it around, there was an engraving of a pair of detailed wings. Surprisingly, the locket was warm to the touch. “Thank you,” I whispered. Dinnertime was over. I stood up to join the other volunteers, the box now snuggled in the pocket of my vest. --- Sitting in front of my mirror, I drew the necklace to my collarbone and fastened it. I trailed the locket with my fingers, feeling the indents of the ornate design of knots, vines and roses. Suddenly, the locket opened. I could put a picture of Callie in there, I chuckled. As I closed the locket, a slight breeze made the curtains flutter. Moonlight was peeking through the windows, reaching my satin nightgown. I pulled my heavy sweater a little tighter around me. Sitting still, I closed my eyes and began meditating, like what my therapist had shown me in a previous session. Breathe in for seven seconds, breathe out for another seven... And I was surrounded by a warm light. Everything was dressed in a muted bright yellow. I saw my mysterious stranger walking towards me across the meadow, a white light emanating from behind him. He looked down at the bundle he was carrying in his bare arms, and met my gaze, giving me a smile of reassurance. When he stopped right in front of me, I looked down, and there was a baby. My Joy. The one I had lost, that pushed Jerry out, ring no more. She was so beautiful. I cried. I cried for a long, long time, in the middle of that peaceful meadow of purple, red, and white wildflowers dancing in the spring breeze. Finally, I brought my arms out to hold her. Her tiny hands reached out towards me, a giggle erupting from her. I wanted to forever hold her in this moment. “Macy. I am an angel. I have died many times alongside with your soul. The longing you have felt in your life has been a result of our past together. I fell in love with you, your gentle and kind soul.” “The necklace you’re wearing - I gave you that a long time ago when we were lovers on Earth but could not be together. I have and will always love you and be there with you. We will always be together, in here,” He gestured to his heart. Huge feathered wings unfurled from his muscled back, and wrapped themselves around me and Joy. There we were, embraced. The family I had always wished for. I found myself the next day waking up from my bed. Some meditating session! I surmised. Before I headed to the shower, I reached up to the necklace to take it off. The locket opened, and there we were, the Joy I had lost, my forgotten love, and me, in my truest form.
The little boy is sitting on the floor playing with his board books. He is about two years old. Young enough to flick through the pages of his books upside down and not be concerned. He has curly auburn hair, big brown eyes and a bright happy smile. As he turns each page he points at things and gibbers to himself, talking about what he sees in his own little language. He looks up from his books and towards his mother. Giving her a big smile and saying “book. Book” happy with himself for knowing the word. His eyes are bright as he makes himself laugh, hoping his mother will share the laugh with him. His mother is watching him and feeling nothing. Her face reads as if she could be looking at him, or at the decorative cushion on the lounge behind him. When he looks up towards her and smiles she starts to feel something towards him. His laughter extracts a trickle of the jealousy and resentment from the well in her chest and puts it to the front of her mind. Her dead face slowly moves into a frown. She walks over and picks up his books and takes them away. Putting them on a high shelf. “Boooks! Books!” he cries out, reaching his hands up and grabbing at nothing. His face scrunches up and he starts to wail. She looks down at his crying face and does nothing. He crawls over and tries to climb up the leg of her pants while crying. She shakes her leg so he cant get purchase and leaves him alone crying on the floor. Her frown fades away and she feels better again. He takes a minute to crawl across the room back to her feet, letting out his little whine of upset as he goes. He sits and looks up at her, rubbing his balled fists on his cheek to get the tears off his face. She picks him up and holds him against her. She says in soft motherly tone “You’re so needy, mummy will make it better though.” The jealousy and resentment trickling back into the well for now as she absorbs the unconditional love from the child. The keys jingle in the door and the lock is undone as the boy’s father comes in through the front door. He sees the mother holding the baby and smiles “That’s nice to see you two together like that” he says. “Ughh, he’s been so needy. Just at me all day. I’m exhausted I need to take a break, I’m going for a walk” she says as she passes the boy off to his father. “Back in an hour” she says as she slams the door behind her. The boys father looks at his son and smiles at him “Hey mate, lets try to be nicer to her okay.” He says in a soft voice. “She puts a lot of love into you while I’m away mate. One day you’ll grow up and realise how lucky you are”.
Dave Winter: "One day it began. Out of nowhere. Quite literally as if it was always here. Nobody knows where he came from, or what he wants. The Old Man. We thought he was just another weird old man at first. He always sits there in his old rotten wood cabin, on that old armchair, next to the left upstairs window, always watching, always looking, as if there is something he wants from us. Jim, the local prepper, however, was creeped out by that guy, and we wish we listen to him. He said that he can hear his calling, and it creeped him out, driving him insane. But since Jim already has a bad reputation and is seen as crazy by the townsfolk. Jim would always hide in his bunker, never interact with anyone and the only time to do so is to warn us about things The Beast, Werewolf, Blood Angel,... So like every other time, no one bats an eye on whatever he warns. And Old Man would just sit there like that, sometimes disappearance probably to eat something before quickly return. Sometimes, I and the other officer would go and knock on his door, hoping to meet him, and maybe have a talk. We knock and then. Nothing. Nothing happens. Not a single soul answer. It happens like that a couple of times later until we one day just give up. And things just going on like that for a while. Nothing really out of the ordinary. Well, except for the sudden migration of animal population around the town. But apart from the hunter, no one really cares about that. You know the thing they said about how animals can sense unseen danger. Well, after what happened, I guess that explains the strange animal behavior, or maybe not. Maybe Jim was actually right about the Beast. But that is a story for another time. 6 months after The Old Man appears in the town. A week before Halloween. That is when things get really strange. I and everyone else was starting to have those strange dreams. Very strange dreams, yet it always feels so real, feel more like a memory that we never made than a dream. A deja vus or something. I think that is what they call it. We always see the same thing. A broken house, a broken armchair, a revolver, a broken man, a broken town, a broken reality,... What do those dreams mean, What does it trying to tell us, What is it warn us from? This is the question we all have at the moment. And somehow, someway we know it has something to do with the Old Man. On the night of Halloween, the atmosphere instead fills with pumpkin, candy, and the joy of children and adults who never truly grow up, still want to feel and relive the moment from his childhood." \chuckle\** D.W: "Oh. Sorry for interrupting. Umm... Can I continue? Ok, I'll continue now. It was filled with the paranoia and fear of the townsfolk. We all gather in front of the Old Man house. Hoping to find a way to end the nightmare. I and the other officer knock on the door like we used to do. Expecting nothing. But something happens. The door opens. And reveal to us something that haunts and confused all of our little human minds. The hall inside the Old Man house. Is broken. It is nothing. Barely connected by a long series of wood panels that expanse to what seems to be endlessness. With objects flying around in the empty infinity black void. And a whisper that constantly calls us to jump in and tell us how lonely it is. You have no idea how shocking it is to see something so out of this world like that. We were trying to keep the folk calm. We advise them to go back home and let us solve whatever is happening. Some of the townsfolk, Jim include, immediately run back home, take their car and drive straight out of the town. They were the wise ones. As I and three other officers slowly and carefully watch in the building. That when we notice too late a sign that said: "Go Back. Don't enter". Immediately, almost instinctively, we all look back to the door that is no longer there. We have been trapped here. We look everywhere for the door. Look left, nothing. Look right, nothing. Look in front, only path no door. Look behind, still path no door. It looks like we have no choice but to go forward. Go forward and face whatever fate throw at us. And somehow, we all feel that fate has all of mercy. So with our chamber load and lock. We go. We go. We go and go, go and go, go and go. Go and go on what feel like forever. Despite what we felt earlier, the trip was surprisingly easy. There was nothing that happened, not a monster, not a demon, not a god like what we expect. And like a sadistic beast that has decided that playing the waiting game is boring that fate is. We see it, a door. Open there. Waiting there. Welcome us. Two other officers immediately run toward it. Expecting freedom. I would have joined them if it wasn't for Bill stopping me immediately as he yell for us to stop. I turn and look at him. Confused at why would he stop us from going toward the exist we have been searching for months. That was when I heard it. Those two unfortunately souls last screams and gunshot. There was an only eerie silence after that. We just stood there in shock at what had just happened. There is something behind the door. And it isn't friendly. We just stood there until the door open again. That is when I see him. The Old Man. Slowly what out and look behind in the room. Before he stair at us. And slowly talk in the most inhuman ever. "Hello, visitor.": he said. "RUN!" Bill yell to me at top of his lung when he took his revolver. I, instinctively, run as fast as I can. All I can hear is Bill telling the Old man to stop and shooting at him and after that is his scream. As I turn back and see, all that is left of Bill is an empty husk with a terrifying expression printed forever on his face. Before gazing at me, the Old Man said, with a sad expression, "So this is what humanity is like." Confused and terrified, I run, just run, run, and pray for my fallen friend. Who died trying to protect me. Bill, if you can hear this on Heaven. I'm just want to say sorry. Sorry I wasn't able to help you. And thank you. Without you, I wouldn't be here. That's when I saw the Old Man appear in front of me. Terrifying at what going to happen to me. I hold my shotgun and yell "WHY? WHY! ALL WE WANT IS TO GO HOME! WHY DO YOU HAVE TO KILL THEM! THEY ARE ALL GOOD MAN. BILL JUST WANT TO PROTECT ME! Just why did you.". The Old Man then look at Bill's body and then me and said: "Look like I have judged the human too early. I'm sorry confused human. As I can't bring back the goner". Confused at what had just happened. And more confused at what happened after. The Old Man's disappearance. Along with the void. All that is left in front of me is the door. The true door to the outside world. I look back at my friend's body and say goodbye. But the nightmare hasn't ended yet. Like another twist from fate. As I open the door. Hoping the welcome arm for the townsfolk and the fresh air. The first thing I see is three heavy-armed gas mask soldiers pointing their guns at me and the smell of decomposing. The town that I love so much. All gone. The townsfolk that I will sacrifice my life to protect. All death. Everything is dead. They corpsed all lying there with a terrifying expression printed forever on their face. I immediately collapse on the ground from shock. I don't remember what happened after that. All I know is that when I wake up. The armed man took me. After that, I wake up and found myself here in this cell. Being interviewed by you guy." Agent: " I'm really sorry for your loss Mr. Winter. But don't worry. You are safe here at the Agency." D.W:" I hope." End. P.s: Sorry for any grammar mistakes. English isn't my first language.
# Happy Weekend, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday... ish! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ *New here?* If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: The Spoils I’ll keep it short this week because by now most are pretty hip to where we’re going with these themes. =) What a wild ride we’ve been on these past couple weeks! But it ain’t over yet. After all, there’s titles to hand out, promotions to brag over, and . There’s ghostwriters to hire and hotels to book for that . If you still have loose ends to tie up from the fallout of all that has happened, treat this installment like an extension of loose ends. We’ve seen dark moments, hard won victories, , conflicts of interests that stopped us in our tracks, and unresolved issues that won’t be ignored. Now it’s time to straighten ties, pour one out for the homies, and begin the first of many press interviews. Get the sharpies out, they're about to get a lot of use. What if all your characters wanted was to go home and have a hot cup of tea? I bet that cuppa will be , so tell us about it. Tell us about the moment when they finally get to sit down for the first time in months and just... . Things to think about this time around: What do your heroes enjoy more, the spoils of war, or being in the thick of conflict? Would they prefer to be back in the command center, deep in case files, or do they find themselves more suited to the limelight? Are they miserable as they step foot on Oprah’s stage, or are they secretly loving it? Did your protagonist earn what they set out to win? Do they feel better or worse off for the outcome? Did this story bring your characters together, or drive them apart? Will they live out the rest of their days wondering ‘what if’? *\\\\\\\\\\\\\\* For the final installments of Serial Saturday the word count has been upped to 800 words. You have until \next\ Saturday, 11/21, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Loose Ends: Fan favorite with the most votes: /u/Kammerice, as Obcas fits the final puzzle pieces together. This week the Smoking Hot Challenge Sash goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/ChineseArtist, for weaving in his loose ends with a smoking hot reveal we did not see coming. And two honorable mentions: /u/mobaisle_writing, bringing some levity to a story that has had us on the edge of our seats. And /u/LitCityBlues, with a story that wraps up with some unexpected developments. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The Rules: * In the comments below submit a story that is between 500 - 800 words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to *one* serial submission from each author per week. * Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories during the course of the week. * That comment must include *at least one* detail about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. Yes, we will check. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely *family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. Don’t worry about being late, just join! There’s a Super Serial role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! Join the to chat with prompters, authors, and readers! Previous constraint: Loose Ends Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.
Weird little Man in a weird little house. He sits alone in the dark, crooked over a drop of memory, carefully closing a delicate frame of silver around it, preserving it. In the droplets reflection we see him and his wife standing together in the living room. The wife dutifully dusts the shelves, and the weird little man sweeps the floors, settling down the broom and..., a slice of the ordinary, unmarked and easily forgotten, but ultimately beautiful. He sets the frame down and it pools warm light into the cold damp dark of the now empty house. He sits in the light for a moment. A smile crosses his face, but we see it is forced and fleeting. A corpse of a smile. The house has several frames bathing small sections of the room in precious warm light. The earth beneath the house shakes seemingly in frustration, and on the far wall to the left, a delicate frame is disturbed and falls. The weird man is horrified. As the frame hits the floor it shatters, and he rushes for its contents as quickly as his weird little body will allow. The contents, a memory, a droplet of happiness, lofts up like the amber bubbles in a beer glass. The weird man grabs at it, catching it, just before it moves out of arm's reach, he pulls it down forcefully and squishes in his arms, and in its reflection, we can see A pot bubbling on the fire stove, two weird little hands are precisely stirring its contents, the viewpoint turns, and his small daughter is cutting vegetables gleefully. They are preparing dinner together while his wife watches from the kitchen island. He turns to her and... He holds onto at the memory droplet, tightening his grasp, his weird little chubby digits doing the best they can. The weird man is taken with the upward momentum, up, up, he holds on to it, stroking it, sorrow painfully chiseled on his weird little face. And yet the droplet slips through undaunted, like slick ice in a tight grip.... Wafting up and up. he reaches desperate as he descends, but it slips away. And as the beautiful bubble hits the ceiling, it bursts, expelling the light within, like a silent firework. He lands with a crumpled thud where the memory had previously lit the floor, and all the frames in the house jitter. The frames teeter this way and that, time seeming to pull apart, seeming to relish its ability to show the inevitable for the only weird little viewer, and then...they fall. He screams but no one is there to hear it. He runs, arms outstretched, he grabs at the droplets fumbling with one as they all lift upward. His fingers, barely gripping the droplet, through his stretched grasp we can see A well walked pathway lined with trees, the tops of which almost glow green, illuminated by the moonlight. Fireflies dance across his path as he breathes deeply and..... It slips through continuing its path up, he swipes left, in another we see \His wife staring lovingly back at him from the comfort of a pillow, they are both lying in bed, as he moves closer, reaching to embrace her, they both laugh and...\. But he knew he couldn't hold on to it, and off it went up, up, to join the others. He glares upward intently, eyes beginning to fail at holding back the intense emotion held behind them, he leaps with everything he has, and catches one. This time he gets a firm grip and in it we see He is standing next to a table all done up in bright colors, his daughter in a modest lone chair, a brightly colored hat on her head and purest delight on her face. A cake is brought in by the weird little man's wife, it is decorated with a large number “5” across it. His daughter, so elated at this, turns and hugs him with all her tiny little arms would allow, he looks down and.... He holds this one as tight as he has ever held anything, presses it close to him protectively like a baby, his weird little face tucks inward, and eyes shut tightly hoping that he can keep this one, just this one...but it too abandons him, passing through his grip. All the droplets float up and up and then bursting, embers float down through time like confetti, burning out before ever reaching the weird little man's resting spot. The weird man sits crooked on the cold floor in the dark. Completely defeated and broken. He begins to cry. Streams of sorrow run down his weird little face, and as the tears fall towards the floor, we see swirling in them......... Nothing. A crooked weird little man sits sobbing in a weird dark little house. And no one knows.
To the esteemed Dr. Mcann, Consider this letter the formal resignation of me and the crew of my vessel the USS Aristotle. As I write this, my crew and I are in deep space, and it is unlikely that you shall see this vessel or our crew again, as we plan to drive it straight into a blackhole. As you’re no doubt aware the Aristotle is the first ship capable of interstellar faster than light travel, and we are currently 500 lightyears from Earth. The mission you prescribed us, to survey nearby star systems to look for both a suitably habitable colony and any signs of alien life, was a mission too important for me to turn down the role of captain for. The crew and I became celebrities overnight, we were celebrated across the solar system as heroes going where “no man has gone before” and such bollocks. If I could go back and shoot my younger self for such idiocy, I would. Once our voyage began, we initially had no issues. The ship was running as expected, we were in high spirits, thanks to security no squabbles devolved into full blown mutinies. Everything was great, we even found a few potentially habitable planets you will have received coordinates for along with this message. However, for 9 months, we found no signs of alien life. So, we decided we would keep exploring until we did. Eventually, we found it. But unfortunately, there was a very glaring problem. For you see, there’s a common throughline with every single alien species we’ve found. Every single one. Not a single fucking one to be different. THEY’RE ALL FUCKING CRABS. Every. Single. Goddamn one is a fucking crab. On land and in sea, and even in the fucking air! 2 pincers, eight legs, round bodies, chitin carapaces. At first we were shocked, then we were confused, now we’re fucking furious. We have gone off into the cosmos, past the boundaries of mankind, we expected to make contact with grand alien empires and see things never even dreamt of before. What do I get? FUCKING CRABS. There’s very little difference in crabs after you’ve found 12 million different species. No humanoids, no dolphins, no dogs, not even a lobster, all crabs! WHY. WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYTHING CRABS. I SWEAR THE NEXT PLANET WE FIND WITH A FUCKING CRAB ON IT I’LL BOMB THE FUCKERS FROM ORBIT! THE FUCKING TREES ON SOME PLANETS WERE CRABS TOO! WHY AREN’T WE CRABS?! ARE THE CRABS ON EARTH FROM SPACE?! ARE THEY SECRETLY INTELLIGENT!?!? IS THE CRAB THE SUPREME LIFEFORM OF THE UNIVERSE?! AN<>KV*(JMKQT#F&G^QG#BF(&Q#TGFCFTQ#JHMNFbUQYAD CMNQAFD So, I’m sure reading this you understand my frustration with the universe at large for cursing me with living as a human and not as a crab. I hope that the government may posthumously pardon us for going AWOL and destroying the single most important vessel ever constructed in mankind’s history, but i’m not sorry.
1980 Greenbrier Hotel lobby Molly Dunwald first saw Prince Nicholas VonFinn when she was 18 years old. She played the piano and sang at the Greenbrier Hotel which was a 5 star hotel in West Virginia. He wasn't particularly attracted to her at the time. She looked like a nice girl who had a royal air about her, but according to his aunt, "She was just a commoner." She also did flamingo dancing which she loved and it was a treat for the guests. She couldn't believe it when she was taking a break that the Uncle of Prince Nicholas whispered in her ears that "She was good mistress material and would make a good mistress for Nicky because she wasn't Finish." He found out that Molly lived in the nearby town of Finn. The town of Finn had been settled by Scandinavian settlers right after the Civil War. Most of them were from Finland and had come to the US after being kicked out by Prince Nicholas great-great-great-father who was the King. It was a land dispute but not really. The King wanted the children he fathered from his mistress 3 daughters to be exact to be out of sight and mind, so giving them land in West Virginia was one good way to do this. He paid others to leave as well, people he didn't like. In the town's celebrations, they had never mentioned the royal family of Finland or any other royal family. Finn was also a place where other European royals sent the children and mistress/girlfriends that they didn't want anyone to know about. This practice was common during the 1950's and 1960's. By the early 1970's, this had stopped. Molly Dunwald had black hair and dark brown eyes. She was very beautiful to look at. When he was a kid, the Prince had heard a story about a Spanish nobleman and a waitress at the Greenbrier (who was from Charleston West Virginia) who supposedly had a child together. The child was believed to being living in Finn. The Prince knew that Molly was the child. She looked like the nobleman whom the Prince had met a couple of times. The waitress wasn't Finnish was what he'd been told. The town of Finn had a weekend where they celebrated their Finnish culture. Certainly no one in West Virginia would recognize him and didn't when he went to the festival a couple of weeks before school started. He was well known among European royals. But no one in West Virginia outside of those who frequent the Greenbrier Hotel would know him. Molly was there and she recognized him and said hello to him but that was about it. He hadn't had much contact with those who lived average lives in Finland or the US. Two weeks after seeing Molly play the piano, Prince Nicholas started college. Finn College was a small private Lutheran college which had about 1, 500 students. He was surprised to see Molly at the freshman orientation meeting. He wondered if she would say hello to him. Molly was surprised as well to see a Prince at the college but ignored him. She knew who he was but didn't let on that she knew. They ended up in a film class together. "I need to find out who my biological parents are. I was left on a doorstep in Finn. I was adopted shortly thereafter." The Prince didn't know what to say as he already knew or had a good idea of who her biological father was." "One thing I know is that I'm probably not 100% Finnish. I certainly don't look the part." "Well, no you don't but you might have some Finnish, in you... "What if I'm the secret love child of a royal?" The Prince laughed. "I do know that you are not from the Finnish royal family. I researched it before..... "I know who you are Prince Nicholas of Finland. I researched your family." They both laughed and agreed to keep his royal heritage a secret. Within 2 weeks, the Prince's parents knew about their relationship. The Prince was falling in love with Molly Dunwald and they didn't know what to do. Thankfully no one in Finland knew. It had been easy to get the Spanish nobleman's DNA off of a wine glass at a wedding in Finland. A member of the royal family in Finland was an expert on DNA. A couple of weeks later at a blood drawing at the college, Molly's DNA was obtained discreetly. It was a match. Nicholas was told but he didn't tell Molly. Molly and Nicholas made a film about her search for her biological parents. Because she was royal, she was acceptable for him to date and marry. They weren't distant cousins which was good (many of the royal households were but the Spanish and the Finnish had never married into each other's royal households. In the Finnish constitution the royal heir and his wife had to be Lutheran to inherit the throne. This excluded many royal household, Spain being one of them. This made Princess Amanda very angry as she wanted to marry him. She didn't know about the royal blood that Molly had. She couldn't believe that Nick's family had blessed the union. She was going to do some investigating of her own.
I didn’t ask the question, where am I from?... but once. Until she was gone! The look on her face didn’t say: I don’t know. It said have I not done a good job? Barbara was the oldest of twelve children. So, caring for others was expected and necessary. Growing up in the thirties, her parents worked for the local market owner. My grandmother Rainey, my mom’s mother worked as a maid in the Pair’s house. As a child, I remember mom telling the story of her birth on the floor of that store. She would say that grandma had to pay for the loss income during the birth and clean up, because a black woman contaminated the floor of a ‘’white’s only’’ establishment. Maybe that is why she hated going to work for the same family. When grandma could no longer perform the required duties, mom took over the position. Cleaning the four-bedroom main house and the store, for almost forty years. She honored her mother’s debt or paid for her own, in that mansion until old man Pair’s death in 1972. Cleaning rooms and silver not used every Saturday. Monday through Friday cleaning the master bedroom, bathroom and kitchen daily. Preparing three meals for the lady of the house and her lunch guess usually, it was the daughter-in-law or the son. Although the times were changing, the younger Pair man was still his father’s son. Thankfully, his wife was different and loved my mother. She asked mom to stay on as a caregiver for her mother-in-law and to do only what she needed to live comfortably daily. That got old quickly because just sitting wasn’t the kind of person mom was. The husband didn’t want to pay for a glorified sitter, something his nonworking wife could do. So, mom went back to cleaning both houses. Mom was hired by the wife to cook a soft diet for both of the mother-in-law. Her mother was in a nursing home in the next town over. One day, when she had another engagement, mom surprised the staff by showing up unexpectedly and witnessed abuse against her mother and called the police and the daughter. My mom was most comfortable taking care of people all the time, my dad told me. That was one of the things that he fell in love with. She became sick soon after their wedding day. She had the measles, got diagnosed as a diabetic and loss a pregnancy. This was dramatic and caused depression. She wanted children of her own, so they adopted me. The Saturday cleaning job and cooking was not enough for her to maintain the life she’d become accustomed to, when I started school. The bus driver realized my mom would follow her through the entire route until we reached school. She was given an ultimatum, stop following or get a job driving a school bus. So, by the beginning of summer school, she was employed by Greensville County school system. I hated waking up at 5am to leave by six. We didn’t return until almost six pm on regular school days. I was not happy with the schedule but I didn’t have any choice. Our leisure days of lunch in Petersburg and shopping were no more. I didn’t want to share her with anyone else either. The young me didn’t appreciate her love of children and their wellbeing. All I could see was things that I was the sole recipient of were now being spread out between me and others. I guess you don’t know what parents who care go through. It wasn’t until I had children that I understood. Or at least I thought I did, well... Who she was to me, to my family and to those that knew her was very different. Of course, she was the only mother I knew growing up. For many years our relationship was tested. I even once declared I’d never be like her, doing jobs I hated just to put a roof overhead and a meal in our bellies. After, my daycare children all started school or moved; I needed to create an income that worked with my youngster’s schedule. I learned two things quickly, 1) having a family, will make you do whatever you need to, and 2) apologizing to your mother is very hard. You see, I had to humble myself and ask for tips on being a good bus driver. I remember mom laughing. She drove bus 18 for nineteen years. At her funeral several people came up to tell me that they would miss her but I expected that, just because it is what you say. I knew a bunch of folks would have comments good, bad or indifferent. There was one though that floored me, the biggest thorn in my side in school; she hugged me and said “your mom is the reason I’m alive today. When I got pregnant, she talked to me and let me stay with her for a week, when my mom kicked me out.” I don’t know how she really fixed her face to say that went through my mind and tears rolled down my cheeks. She continued to squeeze me tightly, so all I could do was listen. Her next sentence really stung. She said “your mom regretted her actions so much after you left, she told me.” “I think that’s why she helped me get straight and go back home.” After hearing her out, I said “okay, and?” as if I didn’t know what she meant. I just didn’t know what I should say. Do I strike back, with my son will be 40, this December! Would that throw the appropriate shade? Or do I just except the apology from the grave? Knowing that I already knew what she had just said was true, because mom splurged at Christmas. My two-week old son reaped a king’s bounty on December 25, 1982. She even promised a new Cadillac for his 18 th birthday. Unfortunately, that son lost two grandparents inside of a year. My mother passed around his father’s birthday when he was thirteen and the only grandfather he had left; five days after his 14 th . You don’t have to know your birth parents to know where you came from, just look in the mirror at who you are now. So many individuals will be represented every morning. Your birth parents, your adopted parents and the village that influenced the YOU that you’ve become today!
Mom always said life is not like the movies no matter how bad we want it to be. But why not? Why can't life be one big adventure? "Madison are you day dreaming again? I told you to set the table." "Sorry mom." "Your dad will be home soon. Get your head out of the clouds child." "My head is not in the clouds." "Yeah its at the movies. Kids today need to be more responsible." Ignoring my mother's comment I started to set the table. My dad had come home from work and I was sent upstairs to get my sister. My sister Darcy was a year younger than me. but she always acted like she was already grown. You know fourteen going on thirty. For me being fifteen was old enough.Also whatever I liked she hated. But we were sisters and it was time for dinner. "Mom can I go to the movies this weekend?" "Not the movies again. Why do you waste your time at movie theaters?" "Nobody was asking you Darcy. For your information its entertainment. Have you ever even been to a movie?" "Girls not at the dimmer table." "But mom!" "You heard your mother no arguing at the dinner table. I'm sure there are other things you can talk about." "Yes dad." I said sticking my tongue out at Darcy. " Yeah real mature Maddy." "If you girls are finished you can get started on the dishes. " After the dishes I went to my room and Darcy went to hers. I was finishing my homework when my came in my room to say good night, "Good night honey." "Mom can I this weekend?" "I suppose. Just remember." "I know its just a movie." At school the next day I asked my friend Brianna if she wanted to go to the movies with me. "I would Maddy, but I'm going shopping." "With who?" "Vicky. Eleanor and Hannah. You could come with us. My mom is going to drop us off at the mall." "No thanks I really wanted to go to the movies." "Well, why don't you ask Arthur to go with you." "I don't even like him." "He likes you." "I would rather go by myself," "Have fun." She was smiling all the way to math class. Teasing me about Arthur. I was listening to the teacher when I looked around and saw Brianna whispering to Arthur. Brianna you need to pay attention there will be a test on this tomorrow." "Sorry Mr. Richards." I looked over at Brianna and she just shrugged her shoulders. After class when we were standing by our lockers Brianna started complaining. "Mr. Richards is just picking on me. I always pass his stupid tests," "What were you whispering to Arthur about anyway?" "Madison I'll go with you to the movies." I looked at Brianna . She just smiled and walked away waving goodbye. "What time are you going>" "I don't know Arthur," "Well, here is my phone number. Just call me." He handed me a piece of paper and I just smiled at him. After he left I bawled it up and stuffed it in my pocket. Brianna is not going to have to worry about passing her math test because I am going to kill her. The next day I hardly talked to Brianna. She had told all her girlfriends I was going to the movies with Arthur. "Have fun on your date'" I turned around and they were all standing there laughing.I closed my locker. As I walked away I could hear them laughing. Brianna ran to catch up with me. "Why so glum Maddy?" " Bri did you have to tell them"? I have to get home." I didn't want to talk to talk to her or anybody. And I didn't want to go to the movies with Arthur either. I walked into the house staring at the floor I went up to my room and locked the door. I didn't even come down to eat. Crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head, Silently crying went to sleep. "Maddy if your going to the movies you need to get up and get ready. So your father can drop you off." I walked over to unlock my door, but it was already unlocked. "I don't think I'm going today I changed my mind." "What Maddy not going to the movies?" "Darcy leave your sister alone. What made you change your mind honey?" "I just feel like doing something else. "Okay, your father and L are going to the store you can come with us." "No I think I'll just stay home." Are you okay honey? You seem a little down." "I'm fine mom." "If your going to stay home you can get started on the laundry." "What about Darcy!" "Darcy is going to the mall with her friends." Mom and dad left for the store. I was still lying in bed when Darcy came in the room. Okay , they're gone . What is the real reason you don't want to go to the movies? And why do you look like somebody just stole your favorite puppy? I told her all about what happened with Brianna and Arthur. And the girls laughing at me at school. And they were also going to the mall today. "Cheer up its not the end of the world. Hey , if I see her maybe I'll spill a drink on her or something." I started to laugh. Imagining her reaction. "She smiles. Stop moping. You and the laundry have fun. Oh by the way, you might want to call that boy and tell him what happened." I laid in the bed for awhile longer. Darcy was right I should call him and tell him something. I got up to find the pants I wore that day,But I couldn't find them in my room. So I went downstairs to the basement to search the baskets. I searched every pocket of every pair of pants in those baskets. But i couldn't find the piece of paper with his number on it, Then I remembered it was bawled up in my pocket. Maybe mom threw it away. Since I'm down here I better do at least one load, I picked up a pile of clothes and as I was stuffing them in the washing machine something fell on the floor.Looking down I didn't see anything. Without noticing I kicked something under the washer. I started the washing machine and went back upstairs. L kept looking for it though. After awhile mom and dad came home from the store. After helping with the groceries and with lunch I forgot all about calling Arthur. Then Darcy got home ftom the mall. I was sitting on the couch watching tv. "Want to see what I got from the mall?" "Sure." I followed her up to her room and she took out this pretty blue dress from her bag. Then she pulled our a couple of tops that she bought. "These are cute." "Yeah, but I could't find any shoes to go with them. I did buy some perfume though. Wanna smell." She grabbed the perfume bottle out of the bag and sprayed some on my wrist. "That smells good." "By the way Maddy did you ever call that boy." "I forgot all about that. Couldn't find his number anyway. Probably got thrown away." "Well, did you call any of your friends and asked them if they knew his number? What about Brianna?" "No until you came home I forgot all about it," "How could you forget?" "Well I was washing clothes and then mom and dad came home with the groceries. And why am I explaining this to you!" I stormed out of her room went into mine and slammed the door. I sat there on the bed playing games on my phone when I heard mom calling us down to dinner. After dinner mom and Darcy did the dishes so I went back to my room. I thought about what Darcy said. I started to call Brianna .but I just hung up the phone. Then I heard mom calling my name. When I got downstairs they were sitting on the couch and they didn't look happy. "Maddy have a seat." "Whats going on?" "Your mother and I want to talk to you." My hands were starting to sweat. "Who is Arthur?" Mom pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. "He's just a boy from school." "Why do you have his number?" My hands were really sweating and my heart was pounding. Dad looked angry. "Is he why you didn't want to go to the movies today? For a minute I couldn't breathe. :The truth Maddy." "Okay , Brianna told Arthur I was going to the movies this weekend. So when I was at my locker Arthur stopped by and gave me his number. He told me to call him and tell him when I was going,but I lost the number." Lost?" "Yeah." "Looks like you were going to throw it away. Your lucky I found it under the washing machine." "Maddy you know the rules. No going out with boys until your eighteen. You should have told him that." Its late now ,but you can call him in the morning." Mom handed me the crumpled piece of paper and I went back to my room. I could kill Brianna she started this mess. I was in trouble all because of her. The next morning I called Arthur,but he didn't answer. Well, I tried I told myself. I don't like him anyway. He will get over it. When I went downstairs for breakfast my mom was waiting for me. "Did you call that boy?" "Yeah.but he didn't answer." "Well, you can call him later." "You found his number?" :No Darcy mom did." "Thats why they called you downstairs last night?" Darcy whispered. "What are you girls doing today? "Don't know mom." "You can help me clean the house. But stay away from your father's study. He is doing some work in there. After we finished cleaning I called Arthur again .but he still wouldn't answer. So I sent him a text explaining what had happened.He never texted me back. I will just tell him everything tomorrow at school. When I got to school the next day I found him at his locker. When I tried to explain myself he just ignored me. Then I saw Brianna. "How could you do that to Arthur?" I told you he liked you. You didn't even have the decency to call." "I called him yesterday." After school I went by his house. but when he saw it was me he just slammed the door in my face. I went home feeling rejected. "Whats wrong Maddy?" "He is never going to forgive me Darcy." I didn't understand. In the movies the man would forgive the girl, And they would even kiss and make up. But this wasn't the movies . It was worse.
I never listened. Throughout my childhood I was troubled--I let darkness consume me. I never listened to others, I never heard them. There was no right or wrong, there was only what I felt. It was before psychopathic corrective therapy was invented. It was before the United States implemented background checks for buying assault rifles. I had problems, but I saw myself as the hero of my own story. One day in high school, I decided to end it, and I was going to bring everyone down with me. Back then, death was exciting to me. It was a way out of my shitty existence, a way to escape the daily beatings of my father and brothers. On my eighteenth birthday, I bought an AR-15 with all the money I had saved up working at a gas station. I took it out into the woods to practice my aim. I hunted for deer. I found joy in bringing death upon beautiful living creatures. I became addicted to that feeling. After a month of practicing, I was ready. I burst into the school and started shooting everyone I could find. I took joy in their screams of pain. I toyed with them, made them beg even though I would kill them anyway. I reveled in the sight of the blood and destruction I caused before me. I killed twelve people that day. Teachers, students, a janitor, boys, girls, it didn't matter. I killed indiscriminately and with great enthusiasm. When the police finally arrived and I was backed into a corner, I took my father's handgun that I had stolen and stuck it in my mouth. As the sirens blared outside and the police pounded on the door of the classroom I was holed up in, I pulled the trigger. I felt the bullet pass right through the roof of my mouth. Immense pain radiated from the exit wound at the top of my head. I fell back and saw my blood scattered over the ceiling. But somehow, I was still alive. The police burst into the room, guns drawn, donned in S.W.A.T. gear. They saw me, eyes wide open, in shock on the floor. I was covered in blood but I was still alive. As they carried me out, I saw the carnage I had wrought over this school and I still felt no remorse, just pride. I made this. Doctors could not explain how I survived my gunshot wound. In the press, I became both a notorious monster and a medical marvel. My trial was swift. I watched the testimony of crying family and friends of the victims I had killed and felt no remorse. The only emotion I felt was confusion. How am I still here? Why am I not dead? After being convicted for all twelve counts of murder, I was sentenced to twelve consecutive life sentences, without the possibility of parole. While in prison, I attempted suicide fifteen times. First, I tried hanging. No luck. I must have done something wrong because I could breathe easily the whole time. Then I tried slitting my wrists. I didn't lose enough blood before my wounds healed. I even tried a brazen escape where I was shot multiple times. I was incapacitated and returned to a new, fortified cell. Any wounds I suffered healed remarkably fast. The self-inflicted gunshot wound, slitting my wrists, the gunshot wounds from the guards left no scars. I was invincible, but not strong. I felt excruciating pain with every wound I suffered. I was easily overtaken by guards with each escape attempt. When I turned fifty years old in a supermax on a rural plain somewhere in the midwest, it was clear that I was not aging. I looked the same as I did on my eighteenth birthday. Prison doctors and researchers studied me relentlessly over the years. They treated me like a lab rat. I suppose they felt I deserved it, knowing what I had done. At age one hundred and ten, it was clear I couldn't die. At age two hundred they tried to give me a death sentence, even though by then, capital punishment was no longer legal. But they made an exception in my case, and no one in the legal system fought it. I was injected with a lethal cocktail and I immediately fell asleep. But once again, I did not die. I woke up in my cell a week later. The prison put out a press release saying that I had died but they kept my being alive a secret. Panic would set in among the populace knowing that there was an immortal mass murderer in the prison system. After another failed lethal injection, I was studied ruthlessly. I was poked and prodded, put through immense pain, all so the researchers and doctors could find out why I could not die. All the while, I felt no remorse for the lives I took that day. I still felt I would do it again if given the change. In my over two hundred years of life, I still felt the urge to kill, but I knew I never would be able to fulfill that desire. It was maddening, I had this urge to kill or die, but I couldn’t kill and I couldn’t die! So I sat in my cell and relived that day I killed over and over in my head. It made me feel powerful, it made me feel free. Each re-imagining of the killing gave me a sick, orgasmic bliss. When I turned eight hundred and eighty seven years old, the doctors tried a new experimental treatment that intended to cure psychopathy. It involved drilling a small hole into my frontal cortex and injecting cerebral stem cells from a non-psychopathic donor. When I regained consciousness, I saw the world anew. I had a feeling that I had never experienced before--empathy. For the first time I could imagine what it was like to be someone else. When I read books, I could feel the emotions of the characters. I could connect to the experiences in movies I saw. After more evaluation, they determined I was no longer clinically a psychopath. Then they showed me the news footage from my shooting rampage. It felt as if the cell spun around me as I saw the grieving friends and family give their reports of what I had done. I vomited when I saw the video of a grieving mother shouting at me in court. I took her son away, I understood that now. I felt her pain. I took took twelve sons and daughters away too soon. I thought of that day again, as I had done before the treatment. But now, there was no feeling of power, no pleasure in the violence. I felt nothing but abject horror over what I had done. The thought of each person begging for their lives filled me with regret. I couldn't live with myself knowing what I had done. For the first time in my life, I cried. I cried like a newborn, fresh from the womb. Finally, I understood the horrors that this world can bestow upon the innocent--and I understood my part in it. I wanted to go back and save those people. I wanted to take back what I had done, but I couldn't. Everyone they knew and loved were long gone. But I still lived on, carrying the pain now, probably forever. In past suicide attempts, I tried due to boredom, just not wanting to stay in this gray cell block for the rest of my life. Now I know that I could possibly live for all eternity. Every day, I relive what I did on loop and I feel enough sorrow to make up for that which I did not feel for the past eight hundred years. When my sentence was technically up, I was denied parole. The board said they could never take the chance releasing an immortal killer to the public, no matter how much remorse I felt. The researchers stopped their experiments on me once they saw that I now had compassion. They couldn't bear to put me through pain anymore. So now, everyday, I sit in my cell, and think about what I had done. Everyday, I decide I can't live with myself. Everyday, I try to kill myself again just to end this pain, this grave remorse that wracks my soul. Everyday, I fail. If this wasn’t hell, I couldn’t tell you the difference.
The beach is an oxymoronic location in times of peril. The horizon and the gentle waves create a soothing image, and the shoreline often serves as a sanctuary from the disorder of the world around. Lying on the beach listening to the rhythm of the current is a doorway to tranquility. In contrast, beaches will often serve as the site of brutality. Major battles will occur in the sands, and the outcome of those battles impacts the direction of the entire war. The waters of the beach hide predators both animal and human. The tides have washed blood off the sand for it to achieve sanctuary status. The shipwreck on the shore embodies this contradicting image. The exterior and the hull of the ship have suffered minimal damage, but the violence is hidden deep within the cabin. The surrounding sand and tide ignore this ship and choose to go about their routine. The ocean water flows around the ship and returns to the ocean unbothered. Sergeants Gil and Nilsen drive on the beach in a rusted jeep . They are soldiers for an army with little power outside of its bases. If raiders or other groups discovered their status, they would attack without remorse. The two of them do not wear the standard army uniform; instead, they both wear long pants and a t-shirt with sunglasses. Upon closer inspection, the high quality of their clothes would reveal that they do not have to fight for their survival unlike others. The sergeants step out of the vehicle onto the sand. Nilsen pulls out a small Geiger counter from the backseat while Gil picks up a rifle. Nilsen approaches the shipwreck geiger counter in hand. Gil follows closely behind him scanning the beach for any adversaries. The Geiger counter starts to ring as Nilsen gets closer to the ship; he climbs onto the boat for closer inspection. Gil walks around the boat to scan the perimeter. She hears rummaging and the Geiger counter’s beeps within the ship, but she does not hear any sign of a struggle. Nilsen stands over the side of the boat and looks at her. “Looks like four people lived here, a man and a woman who looked to be in their sixties and two men in their thirties. I found them all in the bedroom. There is no sign that they fought, but they had definitely been raided,” Nilsen leans over the hull. Behind him, Gil notices a translucent smoke in the air. When the smoke reaches the ground, she notices a slight blur in the sky that could’ve easily gone unnoticed. The blur moves close to Nilsen; Gil holds up the rifle and shoots at the blur. After the bullet makes contact with the blur, the invisibility wears off, and a man wearing a small jetpack becomes visible. He falls on the ground behind Nilsen who immediately stands on top of the assailant to keep him down. Gil jumps onto the deck and looks for other attackers. Nilsen holds the Geiger down to the man and watches it wildly beep. “Mieran tech. Tell me where you got it?” he says. “Screw you soldier boy,” the man grunts. Nilsen moves his hand to the man’s wound and presses on it. The man screams. “Did you come alone?” Nilsen removes his hand. “I am not telling you shit,” the man says. Nilsen moves off of the man and flips him over. Nilsen takes the jetpack off of the man to examine its computer. Nilsen leaves his foot on the man. “We got lucky,” Nilsen smiles at Gil, “They knew how to get it to fly and turn invisible, but they never learned how to erase the flight logs.” “Wait, what?!” the man on the ground screams. Nilsen looks at him. “We just found your base. If you tell us any information, we promise to go easy on you,” Nilsen says. “Okay, okay,” the man starts to squirm, “We have a small shack on the shore North of here. It is just two other guys there, Blake and Zach. Blake found the jetpacks at the edge of a small town far away here.” “Does this town have a name?” Nilsen asks. “I forgot!” the man yells. Nilsen nods at Gil; Gil shoots the man in the head. Nilsen and Gil walk away from the ship to their car. Gil drives while Nilsen navigates. They leave their vehicle a few miles away from the shack and walk the rest of the way armed with handguns. The shack is small and made of bricks with small entrances and exits around it. Before the war, this must’ve been a small beachside restaurant. Two men are sitting in small beach chairs outside the front looking at the waves. Gil and Nilsen crouch and slowly approach the shack. Neither of the men react as the soldiers circle around to the front. With sharp agility, the two soldiers wrap their arms around the men and hold their guns to the men’s head. The men start to shake and resist, but the arms pressed against their windpipes impedes their attempts. “We talked to your buddy down at the boat,” Nilsen ensures that both of them can hear it, “He said that Blake found the Mieran technology outside of a small town. First, which one of you is Blake?” “He is,” Zach points at the man Gil is holding. “Your buddy is a coward,” Gil says to Blake. “Screw you,” Blake says. “Boys, stop fighting. Blake please tell us the name of the town where you found the Mieran tech,” Nilsen says. “I told you already. I don’t know. I just found these jet packs lying on the edge of a lake,” Blake says. “Okay,” Nilsen nods at Gil, “We are done here.” The two soldiers pull the trigger and kill the men. They walk into the shack and find the other two jet packs lying close to the door. After a search for other technology, they find no other Mieran technology, but they find the results of several raids. They walk back to their car with the jetpacks. Sergeant Gil gets on the radio to communicate with their base. “Sergeants Gil and Nilsen reporting. We found the Mieran technology responsible for the raids on the beach that residents dubbed the ghost raids. They do not remember where they got the technology from. We are bringing the packs back to base for a full analysis of the flight logs.” Gil says. “Roger that, Sergeants Gil and Nilsen. We await your arrival,” the operator replies. The two drive away from the beach leaving the scene of carnage against the peaceful backdrop.
“Stand still, I can’t believe after all these years you haven’t learned how to tie a bow tie.” “I told you I should have bought a clip on tie.” ### Tim Westland was one of the growing bevy of young Canadian high tech multibillionaires. His small software company in Sidney BC developed one of those boring programs that nobody has ever heard of but one that secures international bank transfers. It was one of those ideas that are so blindingly obvious you can’t help thinking “Why didn’t I think of that.” In 2025 he sold his company to an Israeli security company for a cool five billion dollars. It was the largest sale of a private company in Canadian history. Part of the money from the sale was used to give every employee, from cleaning staff to programmers, a severance package equal to two years salary. When asked about severance packages he always replied “It isn’t about the money, it is always about the people.” After two years of living the ‘high life’ of a ridiculously rich bachelor, Westland had found out three things, it was very hard to spend that much money (Waste-yes :: Spent-No); he had more ‘friends’ than ever before; he didn’t like that lifestyle. In 2027 he purchased a small house that overlooked the ocean just west of Sidney. Trying to gain some anonymity, outside of volunteering for local charities, being chair of the University of Victoria Alumni Association and setting up a few scholarships he stayed out of the public eye. Which is why he was attending this UNICEF charity event in London, where he was virtually unknown, instead of ones in Canada or the United States. Even more than the anonymity, Tim just liked attending London events, they were much more lavish than those in Canada or even the US. There was a more ho-hum attitude towards money here. Here, he was just another billionaire. Half way through the evening Tim found himself alone at a table just nursing his scotch and doing a little people watching. There was the usual assortment of rich men with their wives - trophy and otherwise; some wealthy women with their husbands or boy toys; and a few men and women, like him, ‘unattached’. The organisers had thoughtfully provided a number of hosts and hostesses to entertain the ‘unattached’. The hostesses were easily recognized by their tight dresses with plunging necklines. Tim had already waved off a few of them. ‘ Maybe later ’ he thought ‘ No sense in being alone all night. ’ The young woman approaching him now fit none of those categories. She looked like she was going to a university dinner rather than attending a gala event. If he had been prone to paranoia he might have thought she had been waiting all night for a chance to get him alone. He would have been right. “Mr. Westland, my name is Jane Seymour” “You look much older in your movies.” He smiled, he didn’t usually have a quick quip. She smiled back thinking, ‘ As if I haven’t heard that before. ’ “Mr. Westland, I want you to give me five million dollars.” Tim just sat there looking puzzled, then half in jest - “Well Jane, the most I ever paid for an escort was two thousand dollars. And, quite frankly, she was much better looking.” That statement wasn’t true and he immediately regretted saying it. He had never seen a woman blush like that before. From her head to her chest was crimson. Jumping up and pulling out a chair “Sorry . . . . Please, sit. . . . Can I get you a drink?” He beckoned the waiter. “Wine?” She nodded. “White?” She nodded again. “A white wine and a scotch, please.” (He’s Canadian - he always said please.) By the time the waiter returned with the drinks Jane had gained some of her composure. “OK - let’s start again. Call me Tim and tell me why I should give you five million dollars” Jane stared at her wine glass. ‘ This was a mistake ’ she thought. She had never talked to anyone about her proposal before. She had gotten rejection letters long before she got an interview. She was just starting to realize how ridiculous she must have sounded. ‘ This is the last try. If I don’t get the money I will approach the university to fund the project ’ She knew that if she did that she wouldn’t get the credit she deserved. “Mr. Westland” He shook his head “Tim . . . I am Dr. Jane Seymour. I am a professor at the Centre for Applied Cosmology at the University of Cambridge. I need money for a project outside the university. . . . . How much do you know about time travel?” ‘ What an odd question? ’ he thought. “Not much, except it only works on TV shows, like Dr. Who. He has a magical box called a TARDIS that flies through time and space. Other than that it is impossible. . . . I think there was an experiment at Berkeley that proved that.” She was impressed, not many people knew of the Berkeley experiment. “Do you know what TARDIS stands for?” Looking a bit bemused - ‘ OK a bit of a nutcase but I’ll play along ’. He replied “Time and Relative Dimensions in Space” She nodded her head, then changing the subject she said “Let me tell you about the Berkeley experiment. They were attempting to transfer an object back an hour in time. The whole experiment is on YouTube - it takes about an hour and a half to watch.” “At first they show an empty chamber with all the equipment turned off and a small clock just outside the chamber. That continues for about ten minutes. At this point the chamber could be empty because they didn’t do the experiment or the experiment failed, so they have to continue with the experiment” “They start turning on all the equipment and place a probe with an array of sensors into the chamber. And set the system to send the probe exactly one hour into the past.” “Exactly one hour after the start of the experiment they activate the chamber and the probe disappears.” She waited for Tim to ask the obvious question. “Well if the probe hadn’t appeared in the chamber earlier and disappeared at the start of the experiment, what happened to it?” Jane liked to let people discover answers on their own. ‘ Let’s see if he is as smart people say he is. ’ “You have an insightful mind. What if I told you what happened to the probe is blindingly obvious; that time travel doesn’t work; and, most importantly, that the probe didn’t move. Think of the TARDIS - not the Time part, the Relative Dimensions in Space.” Tim was puzzled. ‘ What has Relative Dimension in Space got to do with it? That was just so the script writers could move the TARDIS through space. She said the probe didn’t move and didn’t travel in time - it just disappeared. . . . Things don’t disappear, they just move from one place to another. . . . If the probe didn’t move, why wasn’t it still inside the chamber - it must have moved. ’ Tim could see he was stuck in a circular argument. ‘ The probe wasn’t in the chamber so it must have moved - but Jane said it didn’t move. Either she was wrong or I am missing something. What are the hidden assumptions? ’ Slowly he started to smile - ‘ Christ - it is blindingly obvious ’ Slamming his hand on the table he blurted out, a little too loud - “The earth moved.” People at the other tables were looking over to see what they were up to. Slumping in his chair thinking of what that could mean he finally asked “How far?” “Not too sure. There are too many unknown variables. I am guessing, but I would say half a million miles, give or take a few thousand.” (Twice as far as the moon.) “Can you prove it?” “No - that is what the money's for.” “What do I get out of it?” “Potential patents on moving items through space.” “And you get a Nobel Prize.” Glancing at his watch - his mind was working furiously. ‘ If she is right it would revolutionize space exploration. Most of the fuel used to launch a satellite is used to lift the fuel, not the payload. If you can put something in space without burning fuel - there is no limit in what you can do. I need to check this out. ’ “I have to make a few phone calls. Let’s meet for breakfast. . . Is 9:00am OK?” They exchanged information and Tim headed back to his room. It was 10:00pm in London, 2:00pm in Victoria, when Tim got back to his room and placed a call to the University of Victoria (UVic) Physics and Astronomy Department. “Hello Miranda, I have a small favour.” Miranda Gilbert was secretary to James (Jim) Foster, the Chair of the UVIC Physics and Astronomy Department. She had dated Tim off and on before she married Dan Gilbert. They were still close friends. “You never ask for a ‘small’ favour. What is it this time?” “Would you put together a dossier on Dr. Jane Seymour, Cambridge University for me? Things that I am not going to find on Google.” “It'll cost you! . . . Dinner for two at the Green Elephant.” “OK - but don’t you think we should invite Dan along.” Miranda laughed - “You had your chance” Smiling, “OK - for you and Dan. . . I need the dossier in about eight hours.” “Hmmp . . . I should have asked for more. . . . So, is she after your money?” “Yes - I think she is. . . . Is Jim in?” “Yes” “Would you see if he can spare me a few minutes?” A few seconds later Jim Foster picked up his phone. “Hi Tim, Miranda says you are looking for information on Dr. Seymour.” “Yes, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. . . . What can you tell me about the Berkeley time travel experiments? Things that didn’t make it into the press.” “Met her at a symposium. She is a brilliant theoretical physicist and cosmologist. She should be head of the department but Cambridge is still an ‘old boys club’. . . . So, the time travel experiments. They didn’t work. There was a second experiment that wasn’t widely reported. They put a powerful radio transmitter in the probe - never got a signal from it. Also, they used a LOT more power than they expected.” “Thanks - that helps. . . . What would you say to a project to determine what happened to the probes?” “You paying for it?” “Maybe.” “Her idea or yours?” “Mine for now.” “I doubt that. . . . If someone else was paying for it and she headed the research we would probably be interested.” “Just to get her on the faculty?” “Yes! . . . What are you up to?” Ignoring the question - “Thanks Jim - I’ll get back to you.” By the time Tim picked Jane up for breakfast he had read the personal information in the dossier Miranda had sent him. He had scanned the list of her published work, which, for the most part, he didn’t understand. There was one surprise in the dossier Miranda had prepared, she had completed the Engineering Undergraduate course at Cambridge specializing in Aerospace and Aerothermal Engineering. Half way through breakfast Jane was getting worried. He was asking ‘getting to know you questions’ as if they were on a date. ‘ Why wasn’t he asking about her proposal? ’ Finally she had to ask - “Don’t you want to hear about what I want the money for?” “No. . . . probably wouldn’t understand it anyway. Except maybe two things - Why haven’t you published anything on why the Berkeley experiments failed and why hasn’t anyone else figured out that the earth moved?” Tim didn’t need a degree in physiology to read her face. “You want to get all the credit. . . . Don’t be embarrassed. I didn’t take my company public because I wanted complete control.” “Do you know the problem with all the invisible man stories?” she asked. Slightly bewildered, Tim nodded. “Did you realize it or did someone tell you?” “Hmmp . . . I see your point.” - someone had told him, not everyone can see the obvious. [Gentle reader, if you are invisible, light passes right through your eyes - you can’t see.] He continued. “Yesterday you mentioned patents and moving things in space. Maybe there is money in it, maybe not - I don’t care.” This was a bit of a lie. He knew if her idea worked there was a huge potential market. He continued - “I have more money than I can spend. Most of it will go to charity. . . . If I invest in your research it will be because I trust you and think you will work hard to finish what you start - even if the results are not what you expected.” The rest of the day went very much like a first date as they got to know each other and explored much of what London has to offer. By the end of the day Tim had decided he liked her and she was someone he could trust. He would have been surprised to know, in spite of the boorish way he acted when they first met, she found him quite charming. That evening, over drinks, he finally asked “What do you know about the University of Victoria?” Smiling “I hear they have an excellent astrophysics department.” “Are you sure five million will be enough?” ### “Stand still - don’t be ridiculous - in the whole history of the Nobel Awards nobody has ever worn a clip on tie.” “Nobody will be looking at me - every eye will be on you. You do know you are only the sixth woman to win the Nobel Prize in Physics?” Laughing, “It may have been mentioned once or twice.” Finishing tying his tie she did a pirouette. “So worth five million dollars?” Going along with her and thinking back to when they first met he answered, “Well Jane, the most I ever paid for an escort was two thousand dollars.” She pretends to scowl, “Choose your words carefully or you will be sleeping alone tonight.” He smiles “But you are much better looking. . . . Ready to go? Can’t keep the King of Sweden waiting.”
There is a newt, laying on leaf litter, waiting for rain. Soon, it will slip under their cover, and head for the vernal pool. It’s spring now, and the pool will dry up by summer. The newt knows this, just as it knows it will rain, it can feel it in the air passing through its body. It idly listens to the birds and bugs buzzing around the forest. Though they are not idly buzzing, they are talking and singing to one another, sharing stories between trees. Unlike them, the newt is solitary, and lives in silence. It has no way of communicating from afar. But it would like to see another of its kind. An ancient memory arises. One where the newt was small, and its tail long and fish-like. It’s swimming in the vernal pool, alongside many others of its kind. The newt feels calm among them, enveloped in the warm, deep water of late spring. The clouds have exhausted themselves of their downpours, and the air is soft and wet. The newt can’t yet move on land, it can only wiggle. All the newts wiggle together, wiggling toward their destination. The memory fades, and the newt can’t remember where it was they were going. A light drizzle begins, whispering through the trees. Drops occasionally fall from their branches onto the newt. It flinches at these drops, but not with annoyance. They just mean it’s time to go. It starts slowly, first picking up its limbs from the leaves and putting them down again. It blinks twice, then raises its head. Finally, it begins dragging its body forward. This is not easy in the damp leaves, as they stick to the newt's slimy skin. Fallen twigs and lichens latch on too, increasing the burden. The journey to the pool is long. If the rain doesn’t pick up, then the entire effort may be a waste. But the newt pushes this thought aside and crawls on, getting lost in the rhythm of its body. Thinking of potential failure is pointless. Rain is never guaranteed, so the newt must try when the opportunity arises. It’s determined, by instinct and by will, together as one. At last, the wind and rain pick up, developing into a breezy shower. A low-hanging mist forms alongside this, blanketing the surface of the earth. The mist hushes the birds and bugs, they are not comfortable singing where they cannot see. Frogs take this as a sign it’s their turn, and begin producing a low chorus. Their chorus, along with the shrouding mist, consumes the forest. No sound can cut through them. The other animals must yield, and wait to be heard again. The newt is close now. Excited by the growing rains, it dives down, submerging itself in a sea of leaves. It slithers from leaf to leaf, only periodically using its limbs to stay upright. The newt can move more quickly when things are wet. But it wants to swim. Small puddles form, rising above the lowest leaves. What were once fine needles, slowly falling and hardly penetrating the soil, have swollen into plump beads, hurling from the sky and soaking everything they touch. The rain permeates the newt’s amphibious skin, but it doesn’t mind. It prefers it this way, enjoying its water-born strength. Bliss soon overcomes its body, and subsequently its mind. In this bliss, the newt forgets its mission entirely. Instinct alone keeps it moving forward. The newt stops, something has pulled it from its trance. A worm, squirming in a puddle. It writhes at the surface of the water, helplessly suspended in emptiness. Both sides of its body pull away from its center, frantically reaching for the security of the earth. Eventually, it finds a hold and begins digging. Anchored to the earth on one end and squirming on the other, the worm is like a blade of grass, being buffeted by a river's current. But unlike grass, the worm's movements are forced, and stand out to the passing newt. The newt hesitates for a moment, watching the worm struggle to attach itself more deeply into the earth. But the worm will not get that chance. Abruptly, and with little effort, the newt plucks the stranded creature. Three chomps and the worm is gone. The newt continues its journey on a full stomach, swimming across the small puddles that have formed in the rain. The puddles get larger as it goes, not because of the growing downpour, but because the land is slowly declining. Soon there is no land, and the newt finds itself floating aimlessly in the vernal pool. It is looking for something, but it cannot see past the dense mist. It decides there is only one way to go. The newt dives down. The water is clear and calm, having slowly been filled by the spring rains. There are no fish in the pool, only invertebrates and other amphibians. This is essential, as it makes the pool the only safe place for their young. The newt's eyes are drawn to movement near the ground. Other newts are there, swimming from one patch of open earth to another. Some are chasing each other, and others are swimming together in lines, with heads trailing closely behind tails. Eventually, one approaches the newt. They brush their nose against the newt's tail before descending again. The newt descends too, following them into the depths. Mostly, the newt is driven by simple curiosity. But something stirs at the back of its mind, something vaguely familiar, yet something the newt has no recollection of. The newt catches up to them. They are swimming in small circles, hovering silently over the dark earth. The newt follows their lead for a while, until they both come to rest on the ground. Slowly, the newt climbs onto their back, rubbing its chin on their nose. It does not know why it does this, but it feels like this is what it must do. It then wags its tail, releasing pheromones and awakening long-forgotten instincts. Appearance is irrelevant to newts, and to their ancient rituals, rituals that only their bodies know. They do not think about enjoying it, but they enjoy it nonetheless. The newts embrace their feelings together, allowing their instincts to become their will. The origin of a newt’s life is here, in the vernal pool, when everything is feeling, and nothing is thinking.
A long time ago I left my hometown Caracas to live in the countryside and now I have returned. Over forty years passed and, although the city looks the same, many an old building has been demolished and a new one built, others have been just renovated giving them a nicer look. I was enjoying my recent retirement and since I had nothing better to do but sightsee, I decided to take a long walk from Chacaito , where I was residing at the moment to Petare, almost nine kilometers, something that I did almost daily during my preteen years, while living in the same area. It was still early in the morning. That almost magical time between school at seven and work at nine. The weather was just delicious. Cool with a slow and steady breeze blowing in my face, keeping the temperature at nineteen Celsius. Wonderful! Businesses were getting ready to open and most eateries on both sides of the avenue were doing business at a fast clip. People ate standing or seated on stools. Very few tables were occupied because breakfast before work is a quick bite and coffee. I was walking at a leisure pace, enjoying the view. Buildings, either new or renovated, with shiny glass colored facades, gave my stroll an iridescent quality that made me stop, take a deep breath, and, wham! I was struck by a smell I had not perceived since childhood. I turned my head this and that way, searching for the origin of such a wonderful enticing smell. There! At the corner of Miranda avenue and La Joya street. Oh, God. I was taken back to maybe fifty years ago when I was ten, maybe less, walking hand in hand with my mom, and smelled something wonderful. She had parked the car two blocks away and we were walking to specifically this panadería right here in the very same corner to have a snack and buy sweetbreads to eat at home with the rest of the family. I took another deep breath. I just had to. Sííí . Gosh, I loved that smell. I clearly remembered all of it. My memory of that long-gone day became so clear that I felt my mother’s warm hand holding mine as we crossed the street, walked up four steps up, and entered the bakery. Today I did the same, minus the hand-holding part. I crossed the Joya street and stood in front of the rounded corner building that housed the very same panadería . What a time trip. I have to tell you. The smell coming from it almost overpowered my senses, it was mouth-watering, appetizing, scrumptious, luscious, enjoyable, palatable, delightful, to just say a few adjectives. I climbed the same old, worn four steps, and entered a renovated business with shiny steel and glass counters. There was a queue to order, another to pay and a third to pick up the goods. No chairs, no tables. Just a marble counter along one wall for people to eat their goodies and drink their beverages standing up. Everybody seemed short of time. Customers were in a hurry, employees were hurrying, two cashiers hurriedly worked the cash register machines and payment terminals. I just stood in the middle of that little chaos, taking it all in, at ease. French baguettes. Italian bread. Sweet milk bread. Peasant bread. Sourbread. Sandwich bread. Croissants. Flatbread. Fruit bread. Hamburger and hot-dog buns. Whole grain bread. Bagels. Then, our typical bread and pastries, like a quesadilla , which is nothing like the Mexican quesadilla , our is a sweet soft star-shaped thin bun, with a sweet cheesy mixture on top, and, what I consider the king of all sweetbreads, el golfeado , a typical Venezuelan roll filled with grated white cheese soaked in dark sugarcane syrup, that tastes like glory in heaven. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to choose. As usual in my life, unless I have to meet somebody for coffee or breakfast, never leave home without the day’s most important meal in my belly. To choose in that mouth-watering environment felt like sinning gluttony. I reckon I spent almost twenty minutes just looking at all that bread, letting the smell impregnate my clothes, my taste-buds, and my mind. Finally, I decided to have lunch at half-past eight in the morning. I selected a golfeado with queso de mano , a soft fresh layered cheese lightly salted, and a cachito , a half-moon of rolled dough filled with shredded ham. Large coffee with milk completed my order. I was given a paper ticket to pay my order with, stood in the payment queue for almost five minutes, paid, and was given a ticket to pick up my consumption, that was given to me in two plastic plates and a plastic cup filled to the rim with piping hot coffee. I made a line to a free spot on the counter to set down my meal. The hot coffee was burning my fingertips and in the haste to put down the cup I splashed some of it on the marble. Whew. What an ordeal. After wiping my hands in my pants, there were no paper napkins available because the owners of the panadería were cheap merchants, I munched first on my golfeado with queso de mano on top. Took several long minutes of slow chewing intermingled with hums and sighs of pure joy, washed down with a not so memorable coffee. For a few seconds, I considered asking for a doggie bag to carry my cachito home, but it was still warm and its smell wafted enticingly up to my nose so I decided, then and there, that if I have already committed the gluttony sin, I might as well continue to do so. I took a large bite of the cachito . Felt something crunch and, let me tell you, that is not something that should happen in a soft bread filled with shredded ham, it’s not even normal. I froze and kept my mouth closed, motionless. With a trembling hand and a queasy stomach, I looked at the bitten cachito in my hand. Half a cockroach was stuck inside it... Gluttony. I knew, in that very precise moment, with the other half of the cockroach inside my mouth, that I was paying for my gluttony sin. My real breakfast and my very early lunch were spewed right there, where the X marks the spot.
I drummed my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, as if by some miracle my fingers would open up the roads and get me out of this crazy traffic jam. “Wake up to the sound of birds chirping....”, the lady in the jingle on the radio cooed. I muted the radio in disgust. It seems that we’ve lost our way in life. We were supposed to encounter a smattering of advertisements amid tunes but listening to the radio these days is the other way around. I reminisced back to a time when the serendipity of hearing a favourite song gave me so much joy. It was like finding money in an old pair of jeans that you wear after a long time. These ads just stressed me out. The car ahead of me inched two steps forward. I didn’t even bother accelerating, I took my foot off the brakes and let the car ease forward. I looked outside and saw a man leaning against the sidewalk barricade. He was covered in grease, must be a mechanic. There was something very menacing and intimidating about him even though he was just standing still. His face was expressionless. He looked at a man passing him from head to toe. There was no change in his expression. There was something severe about him, a feeling that he could spew hate. He would go out of his way to vent it and bring it to you. He probably beat up his wife and kids for no good reason. A few seconds passed and I marvelled at how quickly I inferred so much about a guy by just looking at him. For a brief second, our eyes met and I turned away, embarrassed and somehow afraid. If I could describe him briefly: >It was not just his life that he hated, he hated everybody else’s life because it was better. A motor-biker squeezed in ahead of me and parked himself horizontally in the space between me and the car. At that very moment, the car ahead of him began moving. For a fraction of a second, the car moved backward before easing forward. The biker lost his balance and the bike fell on to the car. A scuffle ensued. The man on the barricade watched, still expressionless but his interest was piqued. The biker lost his cool and punched the driver of the car. In a matter of seconds, there was chaos, people were watching the two guys fighting on the busy street, someone tried to intervene and presumably got hit. Suddenly, 5 people were fighting. At this point, the guy on the barricade jumped in. He was calm, composed and purposeful. He first kicked the guy who intervened to the ground and punched him violently twice. Then he pulled out the driver of the car and pinned him to the car. He punched him twice in the gut and held him up as he began sagging from the blows. The biker came in and landed a punch as well. At this point, the “barricade man” stepped away, dusted himself straightened his shirt and walked away with a smirk. That brief smirk was the only expression I had seen on his face the whole time. The fight had relocated to the pavement in response to relentless honking and abuses from the other drivers on the road. As this horror unfolded, my only thought was that my instincts about the “barricade man” had been right. A quote about the Joker from the dark night comes to mind, >“Some men just want to watch the world burn.” The “barricade man” wanted to watch the world burn. I was pleased with my assessment. It was only after a few minutes shame began to set in. I had normalised something abnormal. That could have been me. The bike could have fallen on my car and I would have been the one that got beat up. I began to think about the “barricade man” and what his life must be like. When life is mediocre or good, 35 years can go by without one realising it. When life is hard, even a day can seem like an eternity. That eternity hardens you because allowing yourself to be soft means you can get hurt and you have had enough of getting hurt. The minute I reached work, I forgot the entire debacle and went about my day as usual. It was a long day, some days are just about fighting battles one after the other. At last, it was over, so I pulled the car out of the basement parking and headed home. The last battle of the day was yet to be fought, the returning traffic. I switched the radio on. “Honey, I’m so tired of spending 2 hours every day on the road” “I have just the thing for you sweetheart, Hurva homes in the heart of the city....”, chirped the wife. I placed the stereo on mute. No wonder real estate prices in this city are so bloated, someone had to pay for the ads with the apartment. After two minutes of fidgeting, I unmuted the speaker. A song by Pink Floyd was playing. For a few minutes, until the song ended, I was at peace. The car ahead moved a few more feet and then stopped again. I could see the road beyond a few meters was clear but for some reason, this stretch was jammed. After another frustrating 20 mins, I finally reached the front of the jam. There was a large pothole on the road and all the cars had to navigate around it. This was the bottleneck causing the jam. I cursed loudly and floored the accelerator after navigating around it. Just a few seconds later, I could see the patrol standing with the speed camera. It was already too late, I must have broken the limit. In the distance, I could see a fat cop. His large belly spilling out of the uniform. It was as if the bribes he had been taking had filled his body. How the hell was this guy supposed to be protecting the public? He didn’t look like he could bend down to pick up the money if the thief dropped it. As I drew closer, he motioned with his hand for me to pull over. I obeyed. He stepped away, to stop a few more behind me. His expression reminded me of a strict teacher in school, who would reprimand you for your lack of discipline and question your upbringing. I hated the sight of him and the fact that I would have to request him to let me go. I knew the drill. At first, he would refuse, he would bring up the machine and start typing out the receipt. Then on persistent pleading, he would relent. He would then demand a bribe, half the fine for the offence and I would bargain but eventually pay something. Same dog & pony show. The “barricade man” suddenly came to mind, my instinct was working fast to predict the behaviour of the fat cop. “License & documents”, he muttered. That is when I realised, I had forgotten my wallet today, which meant he would go for the kill. I’d have to plead even more and he would extract a larger bribe. There was no way in hell this guy would accept seeing a soft copy of my license on the phone. He stepped away momentarily, to stop a bike. The biker must have broken the limit as well. The pothole was almost like a honey-trap, anybody would speed up after spending several worthless minutes stuck behind it. The cop presently came back to my car. “Documents”, he muttered. “Sir, Actually I ...” He suddenly stepped on to the traffic, deftly sidestepping to avoid a car. Where the hell was he going? He reached the divider in no time and intercepted a motorbike, the rider wasn’t wearing a helmet. Before the rider even realised what happened, the cop had switched off his bike and taken his keys. In a second, he was back with me. He moved surprisingly fast for a man of his size. He was almost cat-like. Perhaps I was too quick to judge the man by his appearance. “Sir, I forgot my wallet. I have a license but I forgot.....” He looked at me with an amused expression, “Did you forget the rules also at home? What is the speed limit on this road?” “Sir, pothole...” “Show me your license on the phone”, he interrupted. He had better things to do than listen to my sob story. I was pleasantly surprised that he would accept a copy of the license on the phone. I pulled up a copy on the phone, he gave it a quick look and began typing on the machine, “500 Rupees for breaking the speed limit”. “Sir, can you not excuse me? This is my first offense.” “Ok -- there is a constable there, go and stab him for me. I’ll let you go, first-time murder”, there was no expression on his face, he just stared at me intently. The show had begun, the stage was set. I bowed my head in mock shame, embarrassed for saying what I did. “Sir, can you reduce the fine? I don’t need a receipt”, I said softly. He ignored me and started asking the biker for his documents. The biker began his version of the act with some lame excuse. He turned to me, “That will be 500”, he said and tore off a receipt. “Sir, I don’t want the receipt, I can give you 300”, this time I was bold. It was 9 PM and I was tired. Enough of the charade. He looked at me sternly and said, “I heard you the first time. You look like an educated person with a good life, so I am not going to say this again. I don’t take bribes, you shouldn’t be offering them either. You broke the law, pay up and get out. Its 9 PM and I am sick of seeing every offender act out the same sorry play all-day. I want to go home.” I could feel my face turning red and my ears becoming hot. I handed a 500 rupee note, thanked him and got back into my car. It took a moment for the fact to sink in. I was too quick to judge. As I pulled the car slowly to join the traffic, the cop stepped out to catch another offender, I looked at him slowly with admiration do his thing. This was his craft. He had stopped yet another motorbiker without a helmet. Our eyes met for a brief moment, the biker was the “barricade man”. His contempt for the world and its ways were on full display on his face. He spat furiously on the ground as the cop made away with his key. I paused for a few seconds to watch, even the barricade man had to pretend and do his act eventually. A constable motioned for me to get out and make way. I watched the scene disappearing in the rearview mirror with regret. Would the cop treat the barricade man differently? How would the barricade man plead? Who would win? I guess I will never find out but one thing is for sure -- My judgment of people by appearances was just 50% accurate.
When I was younger, my best friend was a boy I went to preschool with. He lived about a block away from me, and his parents would always throw pool parties and barbeques in his backyard. It seemed like all the kids in the neighborhood were there for birthdays, July 4th, and just a good time. He had a seesaw that looked like an airplane and sat four people, some sort of symbol of the possibility of the future. Our other friend was a girl named Victoria. They were both a year older than me, but that never mattered. The way we spent our time in school and the things we talked about are lost to me, but the way the inside of his home looked is still fresh in my mind. I remember his mother marking my height on their living room doorframe, making me part of their home despite not being a part of their family. They had cactus plants lined up along their windowsill, each of them tempting me to touch their spines to see if they'd prick. I remember when my nose bled on their kitchen floor and how his dad taught me to stuff a tissue up my nostril to absorb the blood. I remember hopping the fence into his neighbor's backyard so we could run to the front, where the path leading up to his door had his name carved into the concrete. Sometimes we would sit on his stoop and watch the ants go by. I remember Halloween spent with him in the neighborhood, especially the one after the hurricane when we had to jump over fallen trees to knock on doors instead of ringing their bells. When I would go over to his house, we would play a game where we jumped from the top of his bunk bed down onto a mattress below. I was definitely scared at first, but after seeing him do it a couple of times I got over it. It was the three of us for a while. We spent time in school, then went home and waited for the day to start again. Eventually summer came. We had moved on to different schools, but the pool parties and playdates never stopped. Preschool turned into afterschool and a new girl arrived to break the peace. I don't remember her name, but I remember every adult thought she was great. Victoria slowly started to spend less and less time with me, choosing to be with someone her own age. No first grader would want to play games with a kindergartener. The presence of the new girl at my best friend's backyard parties seemed to completely overshadow mine. I guess I was jealous, although I'm not sure I really knew what jealousy was. One day I was washing my hands in the afterschool bathroom with Victoria. "He said if he wasn't friends with her, he was going to marry you." I don't recall what my response was, but it was probably something along the lines of "Oh." I still remember exactly how I felt in that moment. It was a weird and confusing feeling, like I was aware I was officially demoted to the second choice without being aware of the concept. The only married people I knew were my parents, and marriage wasn't even a thing I'd thought of for myself. But yet again, my place was overshadowed by another, and I never even got the chance to defend myself. Such a big decision had already been decided for me Eventually life moved on as it does. I don't remember the last time I saw him; I just remember realizing years later that it had been a while. My mom told me later that his parents had gotten divorced, and he moved to a different neighborhood. And no one thought to tell me. He had been removed from my life without any goodbye or even a warning. They let me forget about him and our time together, and I didn't even realize it until I saw him one night in a dream. He came to my door with Victoria, they were going back to his old house and wanted me to come with them. We walked the short walk back to the house and found the house abandoned and broken down, covered in vines and moss. We went straight into the backyard and had to skip across lily pads left in the inflatable pools we once played in. The airplane in the back was broken and rusted and would never take us anywhere again. We went inside the house, and everything was still the way I remembered it. The colors were the same, the furniture was the same, the only detail I couldn't pick up was the smell. I can't remember the smell. I pricked my fingers on the cacti, I ran my hands along the pencil marks on the doorframe. We went to the kitchen and danced; I wish we could stay here forever. I woke up and that was the last time I saw him. The next morning, I questioned my mom, and she told me his father still lived in that house, although no one had seen him lately. "He's sort of a hermit," she said. "I wonder how he's doing." I'd seen Victoria and her mother a few times walking in our neighborhood, but other than those few passing waves hello, those parts of my childhood were gone. Over a decade later and I'm about to leave for college. Going through my old stuff, I find a box full of old pictures. I sat at the kitchen table and sifted through them, feeling for the little girl I'll never get to meet. Among these photos are ones of me and my childhood friends, as well as one of me on the airplane. I smile as I recognize people and places I'd almost forgotten. I reach the last photo in the box and look over at the time. I have to do the dishes.
I hadn’t been home for a couple years now. Moving to Seattle had made me hesitant to return. I had mixed memories of this town from when I was still in high school, biking on the waterfront trail with friends, sometimes alone or up the road at the seedy diner smashed between two dive bars. It was different now. I noticed more people wandering the streets. A man was yelling to no one as he ambled down the road, almost getting hit by oncoming traffic. I turned away, took the french press between us and poured some more coffee into my nearly full mug and refilled hers. The mugs were made locally. The glaze was uneven, but rather than detracting from the style, it made it a bit endearing. My mom looked exactly as I remembered, but I supposed she always would. I saw her in my mind and in my heart, before I saw her with my eyes. I wondered if it was the same for her. She had her eyes closed, sipping at the steaming cup. I heard this place was closing sooner. I couldn’t imagine running a massage business and a cafe in the same building. I debated ordering a grilled cheese with raspberry jam as my mom set her cup back onto the table. I was about to ask her if she was hungry, when she casually asked, “Did I ever tell you about the time I accidentally worked for The Mob?” “No?” She wasn’t one to make up stories, being very much a realist. It started to drizzle outside and steam began to intrude on the windows looking over the bay. Mom smiled nostalgically for a brief moment, before diving with complete abandon. It wasn’t long after moving to the east coast that she found herself searching for a new job. The money she’d saved went quickly, living so close to New York City. As the weeks went by, her pickiness dropped. She’d prefer a bookkeeping job for a somewhat decently sized firm. A bookkeeping job for an individual. Okay, something more like a secretary position at a print shop or marketing department. Well, maybe just any secretary position somewhere she’ll get a regular paycheck? So, it was with these low expectations that she came across a wanted ad for a secretary position at a contracting firm. Some cursory research made her feel a bit more at ease. They were already established-- not a start up. It seemed like they mostly contracted to construction and various warehouses, which was pretty standard for the industrial area where the office was located. She smiled coyly at the ad. She was young, fit, and figured herself pretty sharp. She would bet that whoever ran the operation was an old man, looking for a pretty face to take calls. Easy money. It was New York. It was the 70’s. The man was in his mid-fifties, somewhat large, but not rotund. He had lingering eyes, countered by his tendency to speak in a clipped manner. The office decor was surprisingly tasteful. My mom was blessed with a fabulous eye for good alcohol, clothing, and all manner of decor. Although, her bank account strained to accommodate this blessing. She wondered for a moment at the waiting room, with its plush seating, meticulously tended potted plants and their china vases. They must have some fairly wealthy clients. Her new employer, Giovanni, outlined her duties quickly. She didn’t have many responsibilities: answer the phone, greet clients, schedule appointments, etc. He was specific about having coffee ready in the morning, but otherwise this was what her sister would call a “Moe job”. Named after the owner of the least frequented motel, it was a job where you could get the things more important than your job done-- things like finding a better job. She got along fine at the office and found herself not hating the work. Giovanni was relatively relaxed when nothing big was happening, the workers were well-mannered and fun to talk with, and she got an hour long paid lunch. Sometimes she would have to take the lunch at odd hours, when certain clients showed up. Giovanni would always lend her his Cadillac, a handful of money, and tell her to take her time coming back. Maybe it was a little odd, but getting handed fifty or so for lunch and the keys to his car wasn’t a bad deal. It was one of the days they were expecting such a client. There was a new diner a few blocks down from her regular place. She was stuck between trying someplace new... or the incredible pie she usually had with some coffee. She was a sucker for pie. A polite knock tapped on the office door. The clients they were expecting usually let themselves in. She slowly opened the doors, looking over the young guys standing outside. One of them was wringing his shirt. She let them in and told them to have a seat, but they walked right past her, into Giovanni’s office. He looked up with a frown, but that quickly turned into gritted teeth. “Mr. Russo, cousin Vinny... he uh... he stole Grandad’s jewels!” The young man blurted out, ringing his untucked button-down shirt. Giovanni hurled the keys to his Cadillac at her. “Lunch break!” She left the office without a look back, driving a bit quicker than normal to her favorite little diner. Eggs. Coffee. A sympathising look from Becky, the waitress. Pie. More coffee. It hit her: the odd meetings, the fact that he hired someone so young (and naive), the exceedingly expensive office space, the Cadillac. She breathed in horror. “Oh my god, I’m working for The Mob.” I found myself laughing at her delayed realization. Of course, during the telling, everything was pretty obvious. My Mom was laughing as well, coffee forgotten in her hand, mine forgotten as well. “Did they ever find Vinny?” “Oh yeah! They found him. He wasn’t very smart. I overheard later that he was going to sell off the jewels to buy some drugs, but he ‘hid’ all of them under his mattress, like an eight-year-old with a dirty magazine.” We both laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, but I found myself thinking about the company I had just joined, an Indian-owned contracting firm that hired out to tech companies. It wasn’t too different really, and I was beginning to realize that I might have to keep my eye out for warning signs. “Speaking of not very smart, the firm I’m contracted out from just payed a bunch of people for overtime they hadn’t received.” Mom frowned at the coffee, now an unpleasant room temperature. “Why didn’t they get paid before?” “Well, people had been complaining, but the office didn’t think overtime was real. Apparently, this has been going on for a few months.” Mom waved over to the girl behind the counter, wordlessly motioning at the press for a new one. It looked like she understood. Turning back to me, Mom asked, “What made it real?” I shrugged. “Two of the employees showed up with a lawyer.” I flipped over the tiny, sand hourglass as the waitress put the new press on our table. I would have to work up the courage to finish off enough cold coffee to make my cup hot again. Mom raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, that sounds a little shady.” Edit: A very good point about cars.
Most people live their lives in the present: looking back on the past; trying to anticipate the future. My gift - my curse - is that I was fated to foretell what will be. But the gods have a cruel sense of humour, for they decreed that no one would believe me when I spoke of things to come. Back then, I was Cassandra: daughter of Priam; sister of Paris. To be honest, I didn’t need the gift of prophecy to see that my brother’s desire for Helen would end in tears. She was beautiful - “the face that launched a thousand ships” is how one of the playwrights centuries later described her - but she was also married: to Menelaus, King of Sparta. He was a good bit older than her: no doubt he was handsome once, but by the time Paris visited Sparta, Menelaus had run to fat and was losing his hair. Paris, on the other hand, was only 17: tall, well-muscled, and with a smile that would melt your heart. Helen was some 9 or 10 years older, with a daughter, Hermione, but that didn’t stop the two of them. She and Paris fell in lust straightaway, and he carried her off to Troy whilst her husband was still planning the welcome reception. Of course, it didn’t last: within six months, they were getting on each other’s nerves and all the rampant sex had dwindled to a half-hearted fumble every now and then when Paris was drunk. Still, it was an excuse for a war, and we all know how men love prancing about waving swords. All that was centuries ago. My brother’s bones have long since crumbled to dust and the city of Troy remains a fallen ruin. The world I wander through now bears little resemblance to the one I knew, yet the gods are as capricious as ever - especially, it seems, when it comes to love... I’m sitting at one of those cafes with the chairs and tables outside when I see him. Sunlight dances across his hair, turning it to burnished gold, and for a moment, I am back in the past, gazing at the face of my beautiful brother as he carries Helen inside the city. The feelings I experience right now are not those of a sister. Over the centuries, I’ve had lovers; and for every one of them I’ve looked like the girl I was when Apollo first took a shine to me. He cursed me with immortality as well as prophecy: I think he thought it amusing to imagine me weeping over paramours who grew old and withered away whilst I remained in my prime. That’s what you get for saying no to a god. This one, though... Looking at him is like a cool drink on a hot summer’s day. I know instinctively that his lips will taste like honeyed mead and that his skin will smell of spice and stardust. The thought of him turns my bones to water. And then a premonition ripples across my mind and I see him tripping over the feet of a blonde woman some tables away and quite literally falling for her. Sometimes, you have to defy the gods. As he passes my table, I manage to drop my phone at his feet. He and I both reach for it together. Our fingers touch; our eyes meet. The rest is history. At least, it should be. But the gods have a way of re-righting the future, and it was never their intention for me to be happy. For now, they allow a brief moment of contentment: the lull before the storm. “I’m James,” says my modern-day Adonis. “I’m Cassie,” I reply. From the corner of my eye, I see the blonde woman leaving. We sit there, drinking coffee and talking, until the sky gradually darkens and twilight weaves around us. “Do you want to get something to eat?” he says. The café closes at 6, so we find a Wetherspoons and an empty table and order salmon for him and salad for me. It’s as the waitress is bringing our meals that I experience another flash of the future: James choking on a fishbone. I know then that the gloves are off and the temporary reprieve is over. I manage to time it right so that I jump up from my seat to go to the loo just as the waitress is about to hand us the plates. The china spins as my hand catches it, and a salmon fillet slithers to the floor. (Aren’t fillets meant to be boneless? Is this another example of Apollo’s twisted sense of humour?) James isn’t impressed with my clumsy behaviour, but how can I tell him I’ve just saved his life? (Men don’t really like it when women end up being the heroes.) He asks for another salmon, but that was the last one. He has to settle for a pizza instead, and I can tell he’s not happy. He cheers up over apple pie and cream, and the glass of wine probably helps too. I’m still finding my way round these modern dating rituals, but when he asks if I’d like him to walk me home, I realise he’s hoping for an invitation to see my bedroom. I’m hoping for a friendly flash of inspiration. Nothing. If Aphrodite wants to bless our union, she’s keeping quiet about it for the time being. We’re within a few hundred yards of my flat when the premonition hits me: a man with a knife is trying to rob us. When James fights back, the blade slices into him. I’ve hardly time to rifle through my bag, looking for anything that can be used as a weapon. My fingers close around a perfume atomiser. When the inevitable happens, only moments later, I let our attacker have the full force of the spray, right in his eyes. James stares at me: half-impressed; half-horrified. “Do you make a habit of fighting off potential muggers?” His other question hovers in the air unspoken: what would you have done if that had just been a harmless passer-by? But I’m on too much of a high to care. Giddy with relief at having averted disaster for James three times now, I dare to think that maybe the gods aren’t going to ruin things this time. “My flat’s just over there,” I say, taking his hand and beginning to lead him across the road. Flash! This premonition’s stronger than any of the others. I freeze mid-step, my mind watching in slow motion as the car hits James. “Cassie!” Frozen to the spot in shock, I’m suddenly aware of the car hurtling towards me. I’m too surprised to move out of the way. I always thought I’d anticipate my own death. But I’m pushed out of the path of the oncoming vehicle a split second before it reaches the spot where I was. The spot where James now is - or rather, the crumpled heap that he’s become. It’s my fault. If I hadn’t stopped in the road to focus on my premonition, he wouldn’t have needed to save me. No one would have been hurt. An ambulance arrives about ten minutes later. James is still breathing, but his beautiful face is a mess. A blonde paramedic helps her co-worker lift him onto a stretcher. Her face is familiar, and then I realise where I’ve seen her before. She’s the woman he was meant to fall for earlier. I watch as she sits beside him in the ambulance, stroking his hand and talking to him softly. It will be her voice, not mine, he remembers, and her face will be the first one he sees when he wakes up. Like I said, the gods have a way of righting the future - and I know they’ll never write a future where I finally find love.
LITTLE BULL Christine Cameron 08/23 infotochris@gmail.com September 1, 1961 Dear Dutch - I went to see the doctor today so got to go outside. He said I have to stay in bed. I am so tired of being in bed and just watching TV. I want to play outdoors. My birthday is coming this month on the eighteenth and I will be ten years old. I hope the doctor will let me have a party. I will invite you and your wife to our house if he says it is OK. Very truly yours, Chrissy P.S. My friends played outside my bedroom window today and waved at me. P.S.S. I wish I could go outside and play with them. September 17, 1961 Dear Chrissy - For your tenth birthday gift, I have decided to give you a new name. Since you always add P.S.S. to your letters, it is decided that your new name is Princess Snow Flower. From now on that is what I will call you. It is a good name for an Indian Princess. You have now been officially adopted into my tribe of Oglala Lakota Sioux. I know it is hard for you to stay inside while your friends play outside. I’m sad that the doctor will not allow you to go outside and play with your friends. I am sorry you cannot have a birthday party but I’m sure he just wants to make sure you are truly good and well this time. Be brave and be a good girl so that you can go outside soon. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala) Little Bull September 23, 1961 Dear Dutch - Thank you for the beautiful birthday gift of an Indian Princess name. I told my mom and she smiled. It has been hot outside this week. All of my friends have gone back to school, so no one is coming to play outside my window this week. I do not go back to the doctor for a while so have to stay in my bed for now. Mom is trying to find a teacher that will come to our house, so I do not fall far behind in my schoolwork. When you come to visit me again, will you tell me some stories about when you were a kid like me. Our cat Pizza had six kittens this week. They were born under the covers in my brother’s bed. He was scared and he cried since there was a lot of blood in his bed, but the kittens were all OK and very cute. Will you be able to visit me again soon? Very truly yours, Chrissy Princess Snow Flower P.S. I asked mom if we can keep one of the kittens. She said she would think about it. P.S.S. Do you want a kitten? October 3, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower - Although I would like a kitten my dog would not like it so I cannot take one home. I think I might be able to visit you again next month. My wife has a doctor’s appointment in Glendale so I will try to come up to La Crescenta and visit you too. In the meantime, I will tell you about my childhood. When I was a child like you, my family lived at Pine Ridge Indian Reservation (Wazi Ahanjhar Ayanjke) in South Dakota. My father’s family was forced to move there in 1890 when he was 11 years old. In 1889, the US government confiscated 7.7 million acres of Sioux sacred Black Hills. Our reservation occupied more than 11,000 square miles. In the 1800’s when my father was a child, there were only about 10,000 members of our tribe. We were small but mighty and a very proud people. Our tribe was one of the last to be settled onto a reservation. It was a great loss of dignity to my father and his family. On December 29, 1890, my grandparents were murdered in the Wounded Knee Massacre. On that day, hundreds of U.S. troops surrounded a Lakota camp and opened fire, killing more than 300 Lakota women, men, and children in a violent massacre. My father was adopted by his uncle, Wableeska (White Eagle) and he grew up to be a great hunter and warrior like those before him. His uncle named him Sunka - the dog spirit of companionship and faithfulness. He and his uncle always made sure our family did not starve on the reservation because food was very scarce. Be good and get well soon. I will try to see you next month. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala) Little Bull October 18, 1961 Dear Dutch - I am very excited today. My doctor told my mom the blood test came back good this time. He said he is being careful not to let me leave my room yet but said he is hopeful my health has turned the corner. I’m not sure exactly what that means but Mom hugged me and smiled. She is very happy and so am I. Mom said if I get another good report next month, I may be able to eat at the dinner table with the family soon. It has been five months since I have been able to leave my bedroom. Being able to have dinner with my family would make me very happy. I am so sorry to hear about your family story. It is very sad. I cried. Very truly yours, Princess Snow Flower P.S. Were you ever sick like me when you were a kid? P.S.S. November 2, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower - I am very happy to hear that your blood test went well. My wife did not feel well enough after she saw her doctor for us to come up and visit you this time. So, for now, we shall have to continue to be pen pals. Yes, I was sick like you as a child. Although your lung disease is called Valley Fever, I had Tuberculosis as a child. It was very similar to what you are suffering with now. I was very sick and almost died. Medicine was not available on the reservation. My grandmother used herbs and sweat lodges to cure me. It was very hard for me to gain my strength back. Like you, I wanted to play and be with my friends but had to stay inside for many months. You are strong, Chrissy. I know it is hard for you, but I have faith that you will get well soon and play outside again with your friends. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala) Little Bull November 20, 1961 Dear Dutch - Mom is getting the house fixed up for the holidays. She bought me a big red candle and some things I got to decorate it with. There are tiny little pins and I stick the thing called a sequin onto the pin and push it into the candle. It is very beautiful. Mom let me sit in the living room today for an hour. I am still very weak, but it was nice to sit on the couch and not be in my bed all day. Very truly yours, Princess Snow Flower P.S. Did you celebrate Thanksgiving when you were a kid? December 1, 1961 Dear Princess Snow Flower: We did not have a traditional Thanksgiving when I was growing up. My mother died during childbirth when my little sister was born in 1913. I was 9 years old. My father grew very sad and never married again. He died in 1931, just seven years after Native Americans became U.S. citizens under the Indian Citizenship Act of 1924. Our revered ancestor, Red Cloud (Mahpiua Luta), was the leader of our tribe when my father was born in the Nebraska territory before it became a state in 1867. He was the first American Indian in the West to win a war against the United States. He was also the last. Red Cloud continued his work to preserve Indian lands and to maintain the authority of traditional Native American leaders. Several years before his death, he converted to Christianity and changed his name to John. He died on the Pine Ridge reservation in 1909. I was only 5 years old when he died but my memories of him are strong because our family kept his spirit alive within us for many generations. Because I had no mother at home, I was forced to attend a Native American boarding school in 1915 when I was 11 years old. Just a bit older than you are now. They took away my given name and called me Dutch. We were not allowed to speak our own language and were forced to learn proper English. It was a very harsh existence for a young boy. We were whipped and starved and punished if we spoke our language or practiced our own traditions. I hated it there but had to learn to tolerate it, knowing that one day I would leave and never look back. More than once, I tried to run away but they told my father that he would be punished and even imprisoned if I did not return. I stayed there for three years. I learned your language they forced me to learn. But I never forgot who I was in my heart. In October of 1918 the influenza epidemic reached South Dakota. A student with no sick family at Standing Rock reservation fell ill, quickly followed by the teacher. It infected hundreds and all of us were sent back to the reservations we had been taken from. My family was very happy to have me back home. There was very little food, and it was deep into winter, but we did celebrate my return as a happy Thanksgiving. I am very happy that you are getting stronger. Be a good girl and do what the doctor tells you to do so you can go back to school soon. Sincerely, Dutch (Mato Cikala) Little Bull January 12, 1962 Dear Dutch - We all had a very happy Christmas. I hope you did too. Santa brought me a Barbie doll with a shiny black case to carry her in. She is so beautiful. She has blonde hair like me. I went back to the doctor last week and he told Mom I may be able to go back to school in a month or two. I am holding my fingers crossed for good luck. Please cross yours for me too. Please come and visit when you can. Very truly yours, P.S. Flower P.S. Did you and Jennie have a Merry Christmas? February 1, 1962 Dear Princess Snow Flower - Dutch is not able to write to you this month, but he asked me to send a letter telling you that he is thinking about you and sending his good wishes your way. He has been very sick, and the doctor says he must rest in bed for a month or more to recover. His lungs are weak as a result of the old TB and malnutrition he had as a child. Please remember him in your nightly prayers. He is hoping to feel better soon and be able to write to you again. Sincerely, Jennie March 8, 1962 Dear Dutch - I have been saying my prayers that you get well soon and come to visit me. The doctor told Mom that I can go back to school next month, so I am working on getting stronger. Mom has let me walk down the hallway in our house twice a day. It is only a few steps, but she says it will help me get ready for school. I’m very excited. I hope that you are feeling much better too. It would be so nice to see you again once I am stronger and can sit in the living room and not be in bed when you visit. Very truly yours, P.S. Flower P.S. Does the doctor say you are getting better yet? P.S.S. Please write soon March 12, 1962 Dearest Chrissy - I am so very sad to have to tell you that Dutch passed away in his sleep last week. He wanted so much to come to visit with you again, but his energy never returned. His heart was just not strong enough to keep beating. Up until the very last day he would talk to me about you and tell me how much he hoped you were getting stronger and would be able to return to school and play with your friends. Please know that he cared for you deeply and wanted only the best for you. He truly loved reading your letters and telling you about his life. He had me read them to him over and over again before he died. You will always be a special memory to me because you brought so much joy to the only man I ever loved. Thankfully, Jennie White Horse Wife of Little Bull
Log #4 The nearest gas station was in town. And Fin lives about 15 miles out of town. I walked back up to his house. And saw my car was there. I thought I was lucky it hadn't gotten stolen. I walked up to it and hopped in. Looked in my glove box for my keys. They were there, luckily. I tried to start it but was surprised to hear a grinding noise. I looked at my gas gauge. Empty. Then I smelled it. Gas. A leak? It must be. I looked and saw an exposed wire. A few. And they were sparking. In a car filled with gas. I immediately jumped out. I walked around and saw Fins car. I hopped in, and didn't smell gas. I looked in his glove box and, luckily, his keys were in there. I turned his car on and saw his gas gauge. He had barely any. But hopefully enough. I turned his keys and put the car in reverse. I had never driven a manual before. But I thought I better learn fast. I remember my aunt drove one. And I hoped I had what I knew to drive it. I backed up, out of the driveway, and started down the freeway. I drove for awhile, then got bored. So I turned up the radio. I felt like I was in one of those apocalyptic movies. I drove for awhile and then saw the sign for my town. I was so happy. Never had I been so happy to be in my town. I pulled over to the Shell gas station and walked inside. Ransacked. As expected. Although, a few things were left. And I grabbed a few Pringles cans and sodas. I decided to grab some things for myself and my ferret. I then got behind the counter and put 20 on 4. I was happy that I worked there for those few months. As I filled up the car, I thought about how far away the nearest life was. And then I filled up the canisters. I started up the car and drove back. I went into the shelter and filled up the generators. Then started them up. The lights came back on. And I went looking for people. The first thing I saw was the kids. I asked where everyone else was. They said they were around here somewhere. I went to the freezer and took stock of what we lost. We lost a few meats and some vegetables. I went to my room and fed my ferret. Then sat down and watched some T.V. I assumed the others were in their rooms. I drifted off to sleep to the sound of jeopardy. When I woke up, I walked into the kitchen. And I heard the sound of rain on the vault door. It has to be acid rain. All of the radiation in the air would have to do that. I looked at the fridge to make breakfast and saw a note. Hey kids, sorry we left. We were just going to find some gas. And look for [me]. I realized where they had gone. Out there. Into the acid rain.
A police car sat at the end of the alley with the passenger door still open. Two officers slowly crept down the alley inspecting every nook and cranny with their flashlights. The call had come in only a few minutes before they had arrived at the end of the alley from sheer luck of stopping at the Korean restaurant around the corner for some spicy beef noodles. The rookie, who had left the passenger door open, was thinking of his noodles in the back of his mind. His partner would have a talk with him to ensure he doesn’t make the same mistake again but for now he hopes no one jumps in the car seeing it exposed as it is. A skittering across the alley caused the officer driving to come to an instant stop so the pair could investigate further. They had both seen the movement and knew it did not look like anything they had seen before. This drew extra caution from the officers as they delved further into the alley to find the culprit who had interrupted their noodles. Tahurqes tried not to make a sound as he knelt between the buildings where he had stopped. The sudden appearance of the police car startled him delaying the activation of the device he wore on his side. It was not a device from this planet although it had been built here. It had been built by a man simply known as George, but it was not his real name. Tahurqes did not have an official name for it but planned on calling it the chameleon upon returning home. The chameleon had nothing to do with his mission Tahurqes was on, but he hoped it would bring him prestige which could help bring George back home from his exile. Tahurqes, who was going by the name Timmy, had been on a research mission for the past year and tonight was the night he was planned to return after being picked back up by the original vessel which had dropped him off last year on New Year’s Eve. This was the best night due to the celebration helping to cover an unidentified craft being in Earth’s atmosphere. The fireworks added to the cover and made this night perfect. Unfortunately the current state of the country, not to mention the world, made it more difficult to navigate to the preassigned meeting place. He now felt he was being hunted for being out past curfew which is what led to his current predicament. He currently found himself wedged in between a pair of buildings partly hidden by a dumpster. He was also just realizing the dumpster was for one of the buildings he was tightly hidden between and, unfortunately, ended up being a seafood restaurant. Normally this would not be a problem due to the temperature remaining below 40° Fahrenheit except for the fact in such an alley the multitude of vents from the various businesses kept the temperature above 70 the majority of the time. This led to the unpleasant aroma extruding from the dumpster which had begun to assault his nostrils. He unconsciously wiped tears from his eyes as he discovered the negative effects of hiding behind a dumpster of two-day old seafood. Even though he loved shrimp, he never had a taste for fish, crab, or lobster and the smell made his stomach begin to churn. After the year he had on Earth this further cemented his opinion he would rather spend a year on some sideways frozen tundra of a planet, like Uranus, living at -300° being pelted with methane ice crystals instead of doing this again. He had determined humans are their own worst enemies. They would not only fail in any attempt to cooperate with an alien species, such as the Khodnix from Throxirah, but they will be the victims of their own demise one day. Most of them would deny an alien race even existed, others would create some new religion and persecute anyone who did not believe this was the “one true” religion, and more still would claim it was a setup by the government to control people. Tahuqes, or Timmy, had learned much about humans during his year on Earth doing research for the governing body of his home world. He was fascinated by the amount of freedom some parts of this world enjoys while others are persecuted, imprisoned, and even killed over the slightest thing deemed illegal by the government or any other group in a particular region. Timmy had concluded humans claimed to have less freedoms with the more freedom you give them. Deep down there is the ingrained traits of greed and corruption in all of them and it is a personal choice to overcome those desires to do good on this planet. Unfortunately the majority of the time the bad seems to outweigh the good and those who wish to improve the planet for everyone seem to not make a noticeable difference in the end. The sooner he was away from here the sooner these humans can go on living their self-destructive lifestyles in a rapidly approaching tragic end. Finally unable to take it anymore, and on the verge of losing everything he had eaten a few hours earlier, Timmy placed the helmet to his suit on his head and fastened it in place. The fresh air from his life support system kept the unwarranted scent from reaching his nose allowing him to focus on avoiding the figures of authority slowly approaching down the alley toward his current location. A glance at the chameleon showed he had plenty of power left to avoid detection when needed. He silently praised George as he flicked the switch on the device, blending into his environment, just before one of the flashlights shined between the buildings. This was the genius behind the chameleon. He remembered the day George had showed it to him and the excitement he felt seeing it work for the first time. He had admitted to himself before as to what doubts he had if the device would ever work but knew if anyone could make it work George could. He felt bad for George even if he never told him so. Fortunately for George, he was exiled with him wife Alice whose real name in the Khrodnix language was Ghruttonxs. Their daughter, upon reaching the age of maturity, which is 62.8 human years on their home world, had went out to enjoy parts of the galaxy as all kids do at that age. Khrodnix aged much slower than humans due to time moving much slower on the planet of Throxirah. She had a run of bad luck when she chose the wrong group to head out with and ended up on Earth which is forbidden unless a decree was issued by the head council. This group, however, did not have any sort of decree and decided to party here on Earth for a few weeks due to the excitement they found in the destructive nature of humans. The group had no trouble while on Earth landing and leaving again three weeks later without detection. Even the humans they interacted with had no idea they were partying with aliens who soon discovered they could get just as drunk from Earth made alcohol as the humans did. On Khrodnix there are certain chemicals mixed into the alcohol to prevent one from getting drunk. This was not considered by the group as humans were still considered primitive by advanced races and avoided at all costs the majority of the time. George and Alice’s daughter returned home, and the group said nothing of their venture to Earth for fear of the consequences upon being found out. The problem arose two years later when their daughter discovered she was carrying a half human fetus in her womb. This caused an uproar throughout the planet when it was discovered. It was also discovered later George and Alice knew about their daughter going to Earth and the child she was carrying. She was given one of two choices for her punishment for disobeying the ban from travel to Earth and for copulating with a human. The latter had no laws forbidding it but was inherent on the first therefore compounded the penalty. She could submit to feticide and serve the allotted time in prison set by the laws of the head council or face permanent exile to Earth where the child could be raised as a human and no mention of his true maternal lineage at all. She chose exile but once it was discovered George and Alice had knowledge of the pregnancy previously they were also sent in exile under the guise it would best suite the child to have more of his family around him as it seems more important to humans than to the Khrodnix. And so it was the trio set off and lived for sixteen years on Earth as a happy family a few months before the birth of a half human half Khrodnix child to be named Greg. No Khrodnix name was given due to the family being exiled to Earth under the premise they would never be able to return to their home world. Khrodnix resembled humans closely enough to be able to blend in with little effort which helped them live on Earth undetected. Greg, however, had turned out to be much smarter than any of the children around him on Earth. This was blamed on having Khrodnix genes mixed in with the human ones expanding his intellect. He recently celebrated his sixteenth Earth birthday, if he aged the same as humans that is, and had already graduated high school and college with his first degree. He was already planning on an advanced degree and discovered he had his grandfather’s knack for electronics as well as physics and biology. He also had a keen sense of observation which allowed him to discover many things he should not have. This was not a problem until the arrival of his grandfather’s old friend Tahuqes in the form of Timmy. Greg knew something was not right from the moment he first met Timmy and voiced this to his grandfather who assured him Timmy was an old friend. He claimed Timmy was as human as himself which helped relax Greg temporarily. Timmy stayed hunched behind the dumpster having a mental flashback to all of this as he enjoyed the fresh air from his suit keeping the unwanted attack at bay. He then thought to the day George showed him the chameleon in his garage after he had successfully tested it for the first time. It had only been a theory on Throxirah, but no one had succeeded in making a functioning until before George decided to tackle this in his garage one weekend. Unfortunately, at the very moment George flicked on the until and seemed to disappear into the wall behind him Greg had walked into the garage. Timmy and George had thought he was still in town much to their surprise. Timmy had been fast in closing the door behind Greg, but this did not help clear up the confusion in his mind upon seeing his grandfather disappear. His worries lessened when George turned the unit off and reappeared as soon as he saw the door open and Greg walk into the garage. As Timmy was thinking of this, he noticed the lights had moved further down the alley and started to consider if he could move across the alley undetected. He was about to move when he suddenly realized something he had never considered during the tests he and George had conducted with the chameleon. Would he still cast a shadow from the lights flashing on the police car at the end of the alley? If so, he would surely be noticed by the pair of officers at the far end when his shadow was cast across them. He moved over in front of a window to verify the chameleon was still working and saw the colors of the building behind him blend around him perfectly hiding him in what little light he could see in the reflection. He wished there was enough light to see if there was a shadow on the wall behind him. He decided it was now or never. As luck would have it, or his bad luck as he called it, one of the officers turned around and shined his flashlight back down the alley at the same moment Timmy decided to make his move across the alley. The officer saw a slightly darker spot move across the alley making it appear as a spot in the middle of the alley was becoming distorted moving across the alley to the other side. He yelled for his partner as he drew his weapon and took a shot missing Timmy who had already slid beside the building hiding himself from view. He questioned if this year would ever end or if he would miss a chance to leave as his window of opportunity was set to close in a couple more hours. He checked the time and realized thirty minutes had been wasted as he waited for the officers to reach the far end of the alley. Little good that turned out to be for him as they were rapidly approaching his new hiding place with the certainty something was hiding there. So much for the city of brotherly love as this lockdown was much more serious than he originally thought it to be. The officers began to turn the corner where Timmy was sure to be found even with the chameleon hiding him. This new alley he was currently hiding in was much too small to allow anyone to pass without having to bump into him. Even if he remained perfectly still, he could not move far enough out of the way. Timmy suddenly remembered his weight transference device allowing him to scale the wall to the top of the building he now stood next to. He was unsure if he could move out of the way fast enough before he was caught and arrested, or worse. He definitely did not want to be shot by Mr. trigger happy heading his way after being shot at once. Timmy was certain the officer did not realize he had put a hole in his own patrol car with that shot but knew the car would survive better than him getting hit with a bullet. The officers turned the corner just as Timmy was about to make his move and he knew it was over for him. He was just about to turn off the chameleon and surrender when the sound of glass shattering came the direction the officers had originally came. Both turned and ran back toward their car to see what had happened and Timmy saw the time to make his move. Quick as could be, he pressed the button to activate his weight transference device and scaled the wall before either of the officers returned to continue searching for him and was at the top of the building in under fifteen seconds. He ran to the edge to see what had shattered and saw the back window of the police car broken with a rock lying on the trunk. Both officers looked around for the culprit and Timmy looked down the street just in time to see Greg disappear into a store at the end of the street avoiding detection from the officers. Timmy walked back across the rooftop and made a mental note to personally thank that kid if he ever saw him again. Maybe he should see about smuggling some books from Throxirah to Earth for Greg to really learn from. With a short jump he began sprinting across the tops of the buildings, running toward the designated meeting spot for the ship to pick him up for the trip back to Throxirah. A boom overhead startled him for a second until he realized it was midnight and he had made it. Two more blocks and he was home free. He saw a light and thought his ride was here until he heard the blades of a helicopter cutting the air above the buildings and saw the light shining around from rooftop to rooftop searching for him. He then noticed it wasn’t shining directly on the rooftops but between the buildings to assist the original officers in their search. It was not hard to avoid the helicopter as it moved on to his search. He landed on top of one of the tallest buildings just as he heard a church bell start to announce the new year. At the same time he heard people cheering and beginning to celebrate as fireworks began erupting overhead as everyone bid farewell to this awful year with the hope of a better year to come. It was at this same moment Timmy saw a faint glow around him and felt an unfathomable number of atoms in his body split and instantly transferred some 70 miles upward to the spacecraft awaiting his arrival. His last thought before leaving Earth was of the officers who would never find him this, or any, night. Timmy opened his eyes and saw a familiar sight. It was the last thing he saw before he was sent to Earth for his year of research. He turned around and saw the engineer who had transported him smiling. He asked how it went and Timmy replied he never wanted to go back to that planet again. He honestly could not wait to return to bring George and his family back home where they belong.
It was an ordinary day. Most days in Beer Sheba lacked the many distinctions of life in a modern city and had not the faintest trace of a thrill in them. The city, like the desert surrounding it, was bleak and monotonous. For one can never run out of words to describe the metropolis of present day, nor can one describe with impeccable detail the ever-changing forest. But a desert is, simply put, a big brown wasteland. Sure, a close look at its texture reveals lines and curvatures and small glimpses of life, but that is beside the point: a desert can appear as a still object from afar, and the forest and metropolis cannot. Likewise, the city of Beer Sheba could be described in a short list of words: hot, aggressive, flat, low, boring, despairing. I came to the city out of necessity, and my military background soon pushed me to work as a security guard. My job was to escort income tax officials who wished to collect money owed to the state from people who did not practice paying taxes on a regular basis - criminals if I may say so bluntly. The criminals were not keen on parting from their precious possessions, and that was exactly the place for me to step in. the clerks I accompanied had extensive training for conflict management, negotiating with hostile persons and convincing them to pay what was due. However, some gifted mind in the executive branch of the ministry decided a trained bodyguard with a gun could help deliver the delicate message. That was me. One would think that the aggressions that naturally occur in such a line of work would break the dullness imposed on me by the wretched city, and one would be totally mistaken. Sure, there was plenty of threatening and shouting and from time to time a conflict would arise, but they all had the same tasteless nature of the city. Their threat, their anger, even their violence - they all screamed mediocracy while whispering danger. It was an ordinary day in a painfully pain city stuck in the middle of the desert. It was my daily routine to walk in Writer's Park, a modern park full of green fields and free books amid grey rectangular buildings, a place that I could embrace as a lone seeker of intellectual life. In that park I would sit at dusk after my daily shift, read a book from the oval library at the center of the park, write my thoughts on a given subject, and hope for different times yet to come. Indeed, I must admit that I loved the feeling of loneliness on my usual seat there, the feeling of separation from all others, even the soreness in my throat from being lonely for so many years. It was not always so. Back in the army my comrades were my friends, my family. I did not have to feign manners or adjust to social norms, they accepted me for my quirks and loyalty and sharp instincts. They knew I was terrible with greetings and small talk, but better with carrying a rucksack in time of need. And they knew me as the sharpshooter who saved Illai and Yotam that one night in the streets of Bethlehem, when shots were fired from the rooftops and the fog covered our assailants. The memory remains clear and vivid, of the small flicker amidst the shadows on the rooftop, yielding the position of one of them. I remember the recoil, the shift of distant shapes as the man collapsed and remained still. I had no telescope to give away my hiding spot, and it allowed me to remain in my spot, target the second shooter, pull the trigger, feel the recoil, watch the rifle fall from the window to the street below. We went forward, pulled the injured to safety, and parachute flares lit the sky in yellow and orange. And I saw what I have done. One was silent as a stone when I arrived, his eyes shut peacefully, his chest penetrated twice where I hit him, the blood beneath him like a bed of roses. The other one still moved, faintly flailing his arms, searching for a rifle far beneath us, resting on the pavement. His eyes were dizzy, feverish, focused on things I could not see; his mouth moved, and he uttered words unknown to me. And then he became silent too. I was a hero back then, and that meant a burden compounded with privilege. The others knew that, respected that. And then came the war. I could handle the urban conflict, the stressful nights, the constant booming beat of the heart, the gunfire. But what can the bravest soldier do in face of the raging skies, pouring down mortars on the open field? There was no cover, no merciful curve of the earth, and the vicious bright sunlight revealed the horror in all its detail. The mortars crushed earth and metal and flesh; the shrapnel penetrated a few others. I stood frozen and watched fire and metal burn through foundations of my previous life. When it was done, I ran and assisted those I could still save, trying to keep them alive just until the medics show up, just a while longer. They all said that I performed perfectly, that I did what I should do, that I saved whom I could have. And when things deteriorated, they did not, would not discharge me. They gave me a made-up position in the supply company, so that records would show that I completed three years of service as a combatant in a special forces unit. They did it so I could find a job more easily, shape my narrative more freely. They did it because they felt indebted, but we both knew the truth of things, and I resented them for it. As is the natural way of things, those of us who remained found other ways to disrupt our lives, in the years following our release form service. Some got addicted to drugs, their mind forever lost in a marinade of hallucinogens. Others went on trips increasingly more dangerous, more extreme, until sometimes the disappeared entirely, their fates forever a mystery. I dabbled in those sorts of things, but my cowardice always stopped me from taking the final necessary step. I signed up for a bachelor's in computer science, like a grown-up man with a plan and appropriate aspirations. And slowly my will slipped away, as if by a decree of a higher power. The gravity of events finally caught up to me, preventing me from fluxing with the direction of normal desirable life. That was how I got to that point in life, sitting on my regular bench in Beer Sheba, searching the skies for an eventful omen of sorts. I do not know what urge pushed me to walk to that certain street, on that particular day, but something did draw me to that street. Perhaps I was looking for a restaurant, a grocery store, an ill-attempted bar. I remember the explosion, mirroring the sounds I had not heared for so many years. I turned and watched the Utility pole burn, covered in a ball of fire, roaming with anger. Electricity crackled through the wires, so fast that the eyes could barely keep track, and the streets quickly darkened. All around us, the city shut down. The fire burned the walls of a building and quickly dissolved, leaving charred remains of the pole in its place. As I started to walk back to my bench, people swarmed out of the buildings, out of their ugly concrete rectangles and lifeless neighborhoods. I knew that someone eventually would take care of it all, but the impression of the bursting pole still possessed my mind. Wherever I looked the fire remained, rendering me helpless as I once was. I do not remember what drew me to that certain spot on the grass, next to a few people sitting and watching the commotion before them with ease. I sat there and watched the city wake up as the blackout took hold of it. Like a potion to cure the body of a tumor, so was the darkness to Beer Sheba. Unable to escape the desert, people flowed out of their cool shelters, and at last I could drown in an endless ocean of souls. The heat from the fire still warmed my face, like it once did so many years ago. Inside that crowd I got lost, and finally absolved myself of my fears, of the false sense of significance. Just a drop in the ocean, nothing more, no use to fret over it. If a sick individual slows down the herd, it knows deep down when to depart, and now I knew it too. Quickly through the streets, to pack as many things into the dusty backpack eager for a final adventure. The streetlights were out, cars stopped in the middle of the street, men and women stood in the street, hopeless and perplexed. I walked past them all, away from the road, from my apartment, from all the hated things that I accustomed myself to. Away from them, and into the eager desert. I watched the dark shades of the city absorb the dark blue of night, the stars above glowing, oozing with light, encircling a moon yellow like the sun. it burned like the fire ball on the utility pole, like the desert's sun in bootcamp, like the Humvees and APCs burning, spreading fire in the dry fields, entrapping screams of despair. Now my legs burned, the sweat reminded me of the day we first crossed the border into Gaza strip, and how I looked at the stars back then. So many years gone by, and always the remained above, a single comfort in a life bitter, a life dissipating before the desert's sun. The pool of sweat beneath me reminded me of a pool of blood, of arms crossed, and a man peacefully laid to rest. An ancient Greek philosopher once said that life is fire, that all that is and becomes does so by the way of fire. Now it has burnt through the tired body in a final cleansing surge. The gun lay heavy in my hand, but it did not tremble. Once I thought my exit from this world would be something worth reading about, a hero's death in a blazing gunfight. Now I find an enemy in my own image, clinging to remnants of a life deserted. I lay down on the cool sand, feel the cold steel in my mouth. I look up at the stars, a final glance, a calming presence. Across infinite skies they spread out, their light strong and enduring, indifferent of small waning stars.
The Things I Wrote By Jennifer Leigh Kiefer In sixth grade, you stopped me in the hall by our lockers. You had noticed I was reading a book you liked. I was new to the school; you were my first friend. By seventh grade we had a friend group that was inseparable. Bonded by books, bonded by the written word. We spent our time writing stories and acting out the ones we read in the woods by your house. Out there we could do and be anything. We would climb the trees like cats or fly out of them like birds. Those woods were a whole world to us then. You were so wonderfully adventurous, always convincing us to climb another tree, dream a little bigger. And when I climbed too high, you talked me down, helped me find my way back to solid ground and then we’d race back to your room with the big white bookcases, and you’d tell me your newest idea or show me the strawberry lip gloss you wanted to wear for your first kiss. And by eighth grade, boys were lining up, without even knowing it was strawberry lip gloss they wanted to taste. While I was hopeless at flirting, you knew just what to say. Plus, you always were the prettiest of us. You’d flip your hair, figure out how to swish your hips when you walked... you didn’t need to turn around to know they were right behind you. We acted out stories less and less, but we still would fight for the main character when we did. Even though it should have been clear to me who the main character in the story of our friendship was. I would have followed you anywhere. Of course, I was your sidekick. At lunch our group expanded to include the guys who always fought to sit on either side of you. But that was okay, I sat directly across, the perfect spot to share a smile, or an inside joke, when the boys lost your attention. At the end of the school year, we spent a whole day racing around a theme park, no adults to slow us down. We imagined what high school would be like. We could never have been more wrong. Instead of freedom we found our lives crowded by harder classes, more activities, and less time to visit the woods and our world away from all the stress. I could no longer keep track of all the boys following you, but maybe there weren’t nearly as many as I remembered. It took me nine years to figure out why they even bothered me so much and I’m not so sure I trust my hormonal teenage memories. But to me it seemed like they were always there. Even during the one class where there shouldn’t have been any, you found ways to go find them. I thought that was supposed to be our time. I worried our time would disappear entirely. I don’t remember what precisely started our fight. I don’t remember what caused me to write that letter. But I remember that I cried as I wrote it. I remember one of our friends warning me not to give it to you. And I remember not listening. However, for all the words I wrote about feelings in that letter, it has taken nine years to come to terms with what I was really feeling. It seems so obvious now. It’s crazy to think it took another six years to figure out that I liked girls. And it wasn’t until a date with a girl a couple years later that I really figured out that I always had. I don’t remember her name, but she told me about how she realized she had grown up with a crush on Meg from Hercules. Since that conversation, I’ve seen movies I’ve loved as long as I can remember in a new light. I didn’t only have crushes on Disney princesses though. I’ve been slowly rewriting my memories from before as well. Do you remember when we pretended that we were our favorite characters from our favorite book series? I got to be the main character in that one and you played my love interest. We worked together to save the world against the villains we made up in the woods. Inevitably I would get hurt or captured and you would come to save me, playing the hero just like the hero you had become to me when you talked to me in the hall that day in sixth grade. For a couple wonderful years, you played my love interest out there in the woods, until out in the real world, you found love interests of your own. In the real world I wasn’t the main character, but while it took me many years to realize, you were still my love interest. In that letter I wrote that I hated your laugh. I wondered for many years why I wrote about something so trivial, so irrelevant. I didn’t hate your laugh though. I hated that I was no longer the one making you laugh that way. I hated that I didn’t know how to leave the world we created, or that I didn’t want to. I hated feeling left behind in those woods. No one to talk me out of the tree. No one to convince me to climb in the first place. You moved away the summer after I wrote that letter. Before I could realize what I had done. Before I could apologize. Did you find new trees to climb by your new house? Do you still climb trees today? Do you create new worlds in those trees like we once did together? Do you ever put those worlds on a page? I’m not as good at it now, but I’ll still climb a tree here and there. And I often dream the day away. I’ve filled pages and pages since we last spoke...including pages and pages I’ve wanted to send to you. But I’ve forever been haunted by the things I wrote. It took me nine years to understand myself, how could I ever ask the same of you? You were the one that taught me to climb higher though, so I will ask anyway. And you were the one that convinced me to take the risk and jump back down when I climbed too high, so... You were the first girl I loved. I came out as pansexual last year, though I’ve always loved regardless of gender. I wish I would’ve known it then so I wouldn’t have written those hateful things out of a jealousy I didn’t understand. But I had a long journey of self-discovery to go through, one I wasn’t ready to take when we were friends. You owe me nothing, but if you remember the world in the woods like I do, if you remember the sleepovers, the snacks, the strawberry lip gloss, and if you remember all the books we read and words we wrote together with a fraction of the fondness I do... please forgive me for not appreciating a friendship I cherished so much more than I showed. Forgive me for all the things I got upset by with no explanation I knew how to give. Forgive me for all the things I wrote. Both in that letter and the apologies I have written and left unsent since. Forgive me because I know I’ve made far too many mistakes, but even though I have grown a lot and learned a lot and changed so, so much... I’d still really love to visit that world in the woods one more time. With love, The girl who still misses your friendship nine years later.
It had been a week since the humans had moved to a new house. Cookie looked longingly out of the second story window at her own reflection. She was a small cat, the runt of the litter - but fierce enough to survive. She had glistening black fur with a patch of white under her chin. Her eyes were as green as the fields of grass she often dreamed of. Her old life at the old place had been easy, there were few cats to contend territory with. The humans looked after her well enough, even that stupid old German shepherd had his uses distracting the boy from wanting her affection. Her fur bristled for a moment as she surveyed the road outside. It was dimly illuminated by the orange glow of a street light, something stirred, but not enough to warrant alert. The humans were in bed. Soon she thought, her quarantine would be over. “I bet they put butter on my paws so that I come back again” she mused. Again, something moved. As she narrowed her vision, pupils taking over the rest of her eye, it was then she saw him. She watched transfixed. The hulking mass of feline perfection strutted from between a bin and the wall. He walked slowly, alertly but with an air of confidence. “This must be the leader” Cookie surmised. He moved forward, checking left and right from the exit of the driveway. Cookie wagged her tail unconsciously, knocking over a glass from the window ledge to the floor. The window was cracked open slightly. He will have heard. He must have heard... She saw him looking upward and it hit her like a snowball to the face. She felt the sting of terror between her eyes and froze. The cats face was just as hulking as the rest of him, Piercing dark eyes looked back at her as she uncontrollably started shaking. This was no normal cat. His face contorted for a second, he let out a low meow, a warning - and darted off into the night. For a few days after, Cookie felt in a state of anxiety as the end of her quarantine came closer. “I’ll just avoid him - I’ll stay behind my house, in the garden and climb trees. He won’t come into the humans territory” she hoped. “What are you looking glum about princess?” she heard behind her. “Bruce, your ever improvising ways of sneaking up on me will get you a claw in the eye, you stupid dog!” she hissed. “Fine, be that way - the humans are letting you out soon aren’t they? You see that massive cat outside? I can’t wait to bite its tail!” Bruce and Cookie had come to an agreement some time ago. Bruce was the boys favourite, it was both his best friend and childhood companion. Cookie was a stray in the eyes of the humans, but to her, she’d just picked the family that gave her the best food. She was the little girls pet. The initial period of their union was fraught with skirmishes. The dog was a hulking mass himself. Had a major issue with other dogs. If it was female, he wanted carnal relations. If it was male, it was on his territory. So was the nature of the dog. Cookie quickly realised if he really wanted to, he could easily rip her head off, but what he didn’t like was having his nose clawed. They decided to cohabit, it was easier that way, for both them and the humans. “You really are backwards, dog.” She sneered. “That cat would make you into mincemeat” “Oh yeah? You think so? It may be big, but it’s only a cat - I would annihilate him” - the air of confidence slightly shaken. She turned and walked to the door. This was it. The humans were ready to let her loose. She was thankful that no longer did she have to use the box of gravel to go to the toilet. She was dignified after all, and leaving her business for the humans to clear up was unbecoming of a cat of her stature.
Droplets of water shiver. Rolling slowly down off of their green beds; the blades of grass bend under the shifting weight. The dew moves with the coming dawn. Trying desperately to hide from the rays of the sun. They don't make it. New light hits them, splitting into seven as it does. All along the verdant lawn spots of color explode outward. To any eye sharp enough to notice, the ground has turned into countless pinpoint rainbows. The sight, sadly, doesn't last. The rising heat takes hold of any droplet not quick enough to hide. They shrink under the sun's grip. Vapor slowly rises into the sky; the air ripples as water is freed from its earthly bonds. On these rising currents drifts a large bird. Amber orbs perch atop a sharp curved beak. They dart this way and look for breakfast. Now that the lawn is still, it can perceive any movement. Talons flex hungry, as it lazily floats above the world. A soft buzzing drones over the now motionless yard. Looking for a flower amongst already ripened berries; a bee bumbles along. It had found pollen here earlier in the year and was back to check for more. However, it had done its job quite well and now all that could be found was fresh fruit. A rustle in the grass causes the hawk to dive. It lands with thud. The full force of the plunge burying wicked talons into its prey. A few flaps and it's off, a rabbit clutched underneath it. There is no remorse for this act from the hunter. A nest full of screeching chicks demands to be fed. It flies back over a cabin, bringing the fresh meat back to its young. A small girl stands on the porch looking in awe at the retreating bird. Too young to really understand what she had just seen. She dashes out into the late morning sun, taking a wide course around her home. Behind the cabin was a large patch of black earth devoid of any grass. A man and two older children were bent over. Careful not to step on any of the small green shoots coming out of the ground. Their steps leave deep footprints in the soft soil. They were inspecting each seedling coming up in their respective rows. Fingers reached out and pulled plants gently aside. Selecting the undesirable ones and removing them from the tilled earth; leaving only the growing vegetables. The girl sprinting, called to her father as she approached. All three looked up from their task. The man's face breaks into a grin. She entered the garden; slowing her pace, she picked her way carefully through remaining plants. She had learned last year to be careful. When she reached the man she proudly exclaimed her sighting of the hawk. The man lifted her up, resting her in the crook of his arm. Praising her sharp eyes, he gave her a tight hug. She burst into a giggle before forcing her face into a pout, imploring her father to come play. He took a moment and looked around the garden. The weeding was almost done. Then he turned his eyes to his other two children, who had barely masked desire on their faces. He waved all three of them off, telling them he would finish the chore. Their faces beamed. Joyful children dashed off through the grass. He called after them to be careful. He gave a proud, contented smile. There would be more work for them this afternoon and even more tomorrow. There always was this time of year, but for the moment they could enjoy the weather.
The night was frozen. Snowflakes fell from the sky like silk strands floating in the wind. Puddles covered the roads and reflected the city lights like stars shining in the night sky. With little traffic, drivers went about their nightly commutes as if it were any other. Nothing about this October night in particular made it more or less significant than any other. I just dropped off my friend Tommy at his apartment. Tommy's a really great friend. The kind of guy that still loves you just the same no matter how much time has passed since you last saw them. We just got done seeing the new James Bond movie which had its premiere the day before. The Bond movies are just the kind of sophisticated, well written, action packed movies that fully captivate my usually short lived attention span. I love going to the theaters. Being twenty four years old and having served five years in the Marine Corps, the movies make me feel a sense of peace and wonder I can only get in those two glorious hours. Scratchy red seats. Armrests that make your skin stick to them from years of spilt sodas. The smell of unnaturally yellow, over-buttered popcorn. The lowly dimmed yellow lights. Purposefully illuminated stairs and walkways Thirty minutes of trailers. The occasional crinkle of someone ripping open their candy bag. All of the things that transport me back to a time earlier in my life where the world didn’t seem so dark. I could spend every weekend seeing a new movie and leave each time already planning which one I was going to see next. My car, which is the first brand new car I’ve bought, is a spacey, almost unnatural shade of gray. The kind of color I imagine an asteroid cruising through space on an infinite journey might be. I’ll never admit it out loud, but the car and its color make me feel like an astronaut, and when I’m driving, the places I can go are limitless. It doesn’t have leather seats, and even though they’re canvas and frankly not the softest at least they’re heated. My friends always comment on how good the stereo sounds and honestly, that’s why I bought it. Every time one of my friends says something like: “Hey throw on this specific song, I NEED to hear what it sounds like on your system,” it brings me a sense of joy and pridefulness I’ll never give them the satisfaction of knowing. Driving is something that makes me feel in control. I rarely ever take rides from friends and I’m almost always the designated driver. My friends poke fun at me for never drinking with them. I always rebuttal their well stated arguments on why I should drink with them with something like “Oh I’m just not feeling the best” or “I have to wake up early tomorrow to do something”. They can see right through my excuses as total bullshit, but since they're my friends they never really fight back. They just care that I go out and they don't have to pay for rides. Just maybe a meal or a dessert from wherever we end up. I’m too embarrassed to admit it to them, but I get anxious when I’m a passenger in any kind of vehicle. An incident during my time in the service has left me with an unshakable fear. I'm terrified that if I'm not in control of the vehicle I’m in it will undoubtedly lead to a gruesome and unpreventable death. Driving alone is like therapy to me. I can play any song I like, however many times I like. I don't have to worry that people will get annoyed that I'm rewinding a song because I wasn’t paying attention to my favorite part. I have irreversible hearing loss from being around fighter jets and helicopters that would roar and buzz past my work place in the service, so blasting music to the point where any person with regular hearing would be bothered by is normal for me. I also just recently got into listening to audio books, but I can never listen to them just sitting down on my couch. I become so easily distracted by the slew of other things I have to keep myself occupied there, so car rides alone have become the perfect place to escape into a great story. Driving north down the practically empty four lane highway I look out my passenger side window. I’m flanked on the east by the Hudson River and a sleeping but still lively New York City. A city I live a short thirty minute drive from. A city of endless possibilities. Hustle and bustle that never stops. Lights so bright and buildings so tall that even the sky during mid day seems to shrink in comparison to the man-made wonder which it blankets over. A city so close to me, yet I can't help but feel, is unreachable. After a brief moment of looking in wonder of what life could be like living in the city it hits me. I haven’t turned my music on since I dropped off Tommy. The slight ringing in my ears from the tinnitus the Marines gifted me says, “it’s time to put something on before the migraines begin”. I reach over to my small LED touch screen and start to scroll through the playlist I already have pulled up. Led Zeppelin? Nah. Rolling Stones? Eh it's too late. Something newer maybe? Drake? Meh. Adele? Too sleepy for this late at night. Wait, there it is THAT’s what I want. My finger lands on David Bowies’ “Space Oddity” “Perfect” I say aloud, as if saying what I’m thinking will make me feel any less lonely. The soft guitar starts playing and I sink back into my canvas seats surrounded by the best sound system I could afford. Pure Bliss. *Ground control to major tom* God I’m getting lost in this song right now. The lowly lit road, twinkling from melted snowflakes transforms into the infinite void of space, surrounded by stars, surrounded by nothing, just me traveling through emptiness on a journey in which I have no inkling where I’ll end up. *Take your protein pills and put your helmet on* I glance at the clock on my dash. “23:59” “Holy shit, is the clock gonna change at the end of the count down?” *10* “That would be too perfect no way that would ever happen on accident” *Ground control to Major Tom* “ But it would be fucking awesome” *9* Of course shit like this only happens when NO ONE'S around *8* I guess that’s the magic of being completely aware during a fleeting moment, you start noticing things that on a normal day would just breeze past your consciousness. Maybe this isn't that special and it just feels special because I only just happened to notice this weird synchronicity. *7* The more I think about it, the less spectacular the whole moment is starting to feel. *6* A wave of goosebumps overcomes me ferociously, like an ocean crashing on a weathered down shore. *Commencing countdown, engines on* I mean I like this song but not this much. I glance back at the clock. It still reads “23:59”. Alright, it might still happen. I glance at the road and the flashing red lights of an ambulance practically flying down the opposite side of the iced over highway catch my eye. A fleeting thought passes my mind, “I’m glad that’s not me in there.” And as quickly as the neurons that fired off that intrusive thought burst into action, more neurons fire fighting it off and I think to myself, “Why the fuck would I ever think something like that!? I should be saying a prayer for whoever's in there, not counting my lucky stars...” Sometimes my brain scares me. I have these terrible, terrible thoughts sometimes. Thoughts that shouldn't be there. Thoughts I’d never choose to have. Thoughts that feel like they’re from a consciousness that's not my own. *5* I look at the ambulance with eyes that feel coerced into showing sympathy. I can't believe my first thought was about feeling lucky to not be in their position. I feel my grip tighten around the steering wheel, just enough to notice my hands are sweating. After lifting one up and observing the darker wet spot that’s now on the “2 o’clock” position of my wheel, I reach over the center console and wipe the sweat from my hand onto the back rest of the empty passenger seat. *4* The light hits my eyes. It feels as blinding as the first light of the morning. The light that shines through when you pull the shades to the side and let that new day into your room. What is that? My eyes try adjusting, but all I can see is yellow and a dim but apparent flashing red light. Why does this ambulance have their brights on right now? Some peoples’ choices blow my mind. You're just endangering other drivers by potentially blinding them. I reach up to my visor and pull it down to hopefully block some of the light. “There we go, I can see again no thanks to this ambulance” I think as my eyes start adjusting to the new lighting. *3* The lowered light passes from my cornea, to my pupil, and then to my lens which shines it into my retina, and the photoreceptors there turn it into electrical signals which shoot to the optic nerve in my brain which turns the signal into the image I'm seeing before me. My brain tells me this process has happened too slowly for it to get signals to the parts of my body I now need to use to save my life from the image it just saw, interpreted, and decided was unavoidable. *2* The ambulance is facing me. Probably sliding out of control from the iced over road. This can’t be happening. Not me, something like this wouldn't happen to me. No, it COULDN’T happen to me. Right? The ambulance is going to regain control just in time and swerve out of the way. Yea that sounds about right, no way god would do this to me, I'm not done living life there's so much more I have to experience and do. I’m starting school in January, I’m going to study psychology and medicine and become a Psychiatrist. I have so many plans I’m just starting life after the Marines. My body stiffens. Like a dead rabbit after being caught in a hunter's snare. I’m completely numb. My jaw clenches so hard I'm amazed my teeth haven’t cracked as easily as a potato chip would. No, not tonight, I'm not going to die. If there's any vehicle to get into an accident with, it's an ambulance right? The EMTs’ in the back will be able to save me after this if I get hurt. How much time do i have left before impact. I can barely move. I take a very rough, quickly judged glance. There's maybe twenty five feet. “Fuck.” My foot is pressed down harder on the brake pedal than I thought my body could even accomplish. It feels like it’s going to go straight through the floor of my car and onto the slicked down icy road below. My leg is completely straight, pinning my back against the backrest and lifting my butt clear off the seat itself. One more glance. Fifteen feet. This is it, the moment of impact, please don’t kill me. *1* My eyes notice the snow falling through the air. Each flake is completely different. Completely individual from one another. The water molecules going from liquid to solid, form these weak hydrogen bonds to one another and create a six-fold crystalline structure which takes various shapes, the most common being hexagonal. Each Snowflake, like a human, uses the bonds it makes to keep itself together for a short period of time. People fail to realize how similar human beings and the water molecules that make up snowflakes really are. Both need bonds to stay intact. Both will eventually lose those bonds and return to their original state. After their bonds are broken, new bonds will eventually form. The cycle continues endlessly with the only constant being the original Person and original molecule. Both people and molecules go through ever changing states of existence while never truly being in control of what makes those changes happen. I close my eyes so the last thing I see is something beautiful. *Check ignition, and may god's love be with you* My eyes burst open. I’m standing in the middle of a road. There's an ambulance right in front of me. I can see it with the most clarity I’ve ever seen anything before this. Water, beaded up on the white hood of the car. The word “Ambulance” written in blue letters backwards so that drivers can read the word in their rear view mirror. The yellow head light illuminates the cabin. An older male driver whose overworked, dark brown eyes suggest they've just seen the scariest thing they could ever imagine. Mouth wide open, presumably screaming in terror and goosebumps lining the sides of his neck. He has a wedding band on. It’s golden, and just barely reflects the light from above from being covered in years of sweat and dirt. A band that clearly says “I’m worn by a man who does hard, dirty work for a living, and has always remained loyal to the promise of love that was given to another on the day he put me on his finger.” I wonder what he's scared of and why. Snow stays suspended in the air like ornaments hung on the branches of a Christmas tree. Floating blissfully for the viewership by any one to see. I reach out to grab one and my fingers pass through it as easily as it would if nothing was there at all. It’s still floating, unaffected and as beautifully intricate as it was before. What’s going on? I reach again. No effect. I turn around. There's a man in a car parked just feet from the ambulance. He’s white, but not fully, mixed with something else for sure. Jet black hair, beard, and mustache. Eyes forced shut, jaw clenching with his off-white teeth showing they’re being forced together so hard they might break, Cheek muscles tensed to the point they intrude into the space his eyes should be. Both his hands are gripped around the steering wheel so tightly it looks like he's trying to rip it off the dash and into his chest. I’m standing in the space between them. “That man in the car... that’s me...” “Where am I? Why am I here? What's happening right now?” “Why can I see myself?” I go to put my hand on my heart out of pure instinct but I don't feel anything. I can see my body, but I can’t feel it. In-fact, I can't feel anything. No Smell. No taste. No touch. No emotion. Nothing but Awareness. “Am I dead?” A voice speaks out and whispers gently through the deafening silence of the motionless night “Not yet.
Mara was sulking in her bedroom. This was becoming a rather common occurrence for her. Downstairs was the Christmas tree, fully decorated and lit up in the living room of the house she’d been living in for just three months. Normally, Mara loved decorating the Christmas tree, but this morning, while her father, step-mother Valerie, and step sister Janice, were decorating the tree, she was sulking in her bedroom. It was Thanksgiving Day, and Mara felt it should be illegal to put the tree up so early. She and her family always put the tree up on the first Saturday of December. However, it was her step-family’s tradition to put it up on Thanksgiving Day, and her father told her that this year, the holidays would require compromise from both sides of the family. Her father talked about the importance of compromise often over the last few months. Somehow, it felt like Mara was the only one who had to compromise. Janice didn’t have to give up her Christmas Tree tradition, but Mara did. Janice’s mother was here for Thanksgiving, but Mara’s mother was on the other side of the state. Janice didn’t have to change schools when their parents got married, but Mara had to leave behind all of her friends. Now, Mara wouldn’t even be spending Thanksgiving with her family. Valerie’s parents, brother, and sister were coming to their house, along with some of Janice’s cousins. Mara just really wanted to spend the holidays with her family. Instead, she felt as though she was sharing the holidays with strangers. knock knock “What?” Mara snapped. Her bedroom door creaked open, and Janice entered. The two seventh graders were only a couple of months apart, but Mara often felt that they were ages apart mentally. “Why didn’t you help us with the tree?” Janice asked, her voice soft. “You’re not supposed to put up the tree on Thanksgiving. You’re supposed to wait until December,” Mara rolled her eyes. “We’ve always put it up on Thanksgiving. It’s tradition” Janice shrugged. “Well, it’s a stupid tradition.” “My mom said we have to compromise. We’re doing some of your family’s traditions, and we’re doing some of my family’s.” “We’re only doing what your family wants to do!” Mara argued in exasperation. “That’s not true!” “Is so!” “It’s just a tree! Why does it matter what day we put it up? Who cares?” Janice exclaimed. “It’s not just the tree! I’m the one who had to switch schools, I’m the one who had to move out of my house and away from my family, and you haven’t had to do anything! You haven’t lost anything!” Mara was yelling now. “I had to do that too!” Janice yelled back. “No, you haven’t. Get out,” Mara huffed. Tired of arguing, Janice turned and left the bedroom, leaving her stepsister to continue to sulk. What a stupid thing to say. She didn’t move out of her house or change schools or give up her holiday traditions. She gets all of her family. I’m the one who keeps losing. Mara thought to herself. * It seemed like Mara was always in a bad mood. Anytime Janice tried to get along with her, Mara would push her away. It was clear that Mara did not like her. Janice was easily the happier of the two, but after being around Mara, she was often in a bad mood, as she was after arguing with Mara. How dare Mara imply Janice didn’t know what she was going through? She was fully aware that Janice’s father had passed away when she was seven after a six-month battle with cancer. After her father died, people made a point to tell Janice’s family that he had in fact won the battle with cancer. Janice had always felt like the reality was that even if he did win his battle, she still lost. That year, it felt like all Janice did was lose. She lost her father, and soon after, her mother could not stand living in the same house her husband died, so the two moved. Her mother fell into a depression for a several months, and during that time, not a single holiday was celebrated. The next year, when her mother had come out of her depression, the two made new holiday traditions, along with keeping some of their old ones. Janice’s favorite was putting up the Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day. There were pictures of her and her father decorating the tree together. When her mother explained the holiday traditions would have to include compromise this year, Janice was adamant about keeping the tradition of putting the tree up on Thanksgiving Day. It was the only tradition she felt really cared bout keeping, yet Mara was acting like it was the end of the world. “And then, she told me to leave. She’s impossible,” Janice ranted to her mother, who was just about to put the turkey in the oven. Janice was clearly correct about this situation, and she wanted the backup from her mother. “I think Mara is right,” Janice’s mother responded calmly. “What?! How can you say that?! She’s being ridiculous!” Janice tried to convince her. “Or, do you think maybe she is just struggling? She’s had a lot of change this year,” her mother tried to explain. “So have I,” Janice reminded her. “Of course, you have. But you also didn’t change houses or schools.” “She’s acting like she’s the only one to ever lose something. I had to change houses and schools when Dad died. It’s not like I don’t understand her,” Janice continued complaining. “Did you tell her that?” “Tell her what?” “That you understand.” “No,” Janice answered, her voice softer. “Maybe you should,” her mother said after placing the turkey in the oven. Janice sighed and walked out of the kitchen, suddenly feeling as though she’d approached the situation incorrectly. * Knock knock “Yeah?” Mara answered. Janice opened the door, and her stepsister rolled her eyes before asking what she wanted. “You know I’ve done all of this before,” Janice stated. She noticed the tear stains on Mara’s face, but she didn’t say anything about it. “Done all of what?” Mara asked, confused. “You know... Moving houses, changing schools. The year my dad died, we didn’t even celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas. It sucked,” Janice explained. “You didn’t do anything?” “Not that year. A couple of months after my dad died, my mom and I moved here. After the funeral and the move, I guess the shock wore off for my mom. She’d go to work and the grocery store, but she didn’t leave much other than that. She’d spend most of her time at home in bed or on the couch. She rarely cooked and hardly talked to me. I was seven, so I thought she was mad at me. But then, she got some help, and the next year, we celebrated holidays again. My favorite tradition has always been putting the tree up on Thanksgiving. The first time we celebrated holidays without my dad was really hard,” Janice went on. “When did things feel normal again?” Mara asked, listening intently. Janice shrugged. “They never really felt normal again. My mom and I created a new normal. Things never felt the way they were before, but they did feel okay again,” Janice answered. “Then, isn’t it annoying having to make a new normal again now that my dad and I are here?” Mara questioned. “Not really. I’ve done it before, so I know we’ll do it again. Besides, it feels nice to have you guys here. It almost feels like a family again,” Janice smiled. “Almost?” “Yeah. I’m sure it will eventually feel like a family, but I’m okay with it feeling just almost for now,” Janice confirmed. Mara nodded, but didn’t say anything. She was absorbing all that her stepsister had told her. *** A few hours had gone by, and family members were beginning to arrive. Janice had been introducing Mara to each family member that entered the home. The two girls and some of Janice’s cousins were in Janice’s bedroom, waiting for dinner to be ready. “We always go around the table and say what we’re thankful for,” Janice told Mara. “Yeah, we go in order from oldest to youngest,” Kelsey, one of Janice’s younger cousins added. “Does your family do that too?” Janice asked. “We do it differently. We write what we’re thankful for on a tablecloth that goes on the table. Then, at dinner we say what we each wrote. We write it in a different color every year so that we don’t lose track,” Mara explained. “That sounds fun! We should do that!” Janice exclaimed, jumping up and running out of the room. Mara and the cousins followed Janice downstairs. “Mom! Mara and her family always write what they’re thankful for on the tablecloth! Can we do that too?” Janice asked excitedly. “Oh, girls, I don’t know. This is a nice tablecloth,” her mother tried to explain. “Please? Dad, don’t you think this would be so fun?” Mara begged. “Yeah, you both said we have to compromise!” Janice reminded them. The married couple smiled before conceding. The girls ran to grab a marker, deciding on an orange marker since it was fall. Over the next hour, each family member made a point to write something on the tablecloth. After praying over the meal, each family member went around and said what they wrote. They decided to go in order of oldest to youngest, since that was Janice’s family’s tradition. “Mara, it’s your turn. What are you thankful for?” her father asked, peering over the basket of rolls in an attempt to see what she had written. Janice spoke up before Mara could. “Mara and I wrote the same thing,” Janice giggled. “What did you write?” he asked again. Mara smiled proudly. “I’m thankful for compromise.”
Charlie's eyes popped open when someone knocked loudly and repeatedly on his apartment door; a groan escaped his lips as he rolled from his bed and stumbled to the door. He wiped a hand over his face in an attempt to erase the sleep from his eyes. “I'm coming!” Charlie growled as he squinted at the kitchen clock: 5:15 am. 'Seriously, this had better be good!' He peered through the peephole, a delivery man stood on the other side of the door; the man anxiously looked down and looked as though he were trying to shush something or someone he couldn't see. 'If I had stayed quiet, I could've stayed in bed for another few hours...' groaned Charlie unlocking the door to reveal a now relieved looking delivery man who was holding a large silver cage that contained a large grey bird. “If you could sign here, please.” Hesitantly, Charlie gave his signature and took a large stack of white envelopes; the delivery man practically shoved the cage into his arms. “Wait, who sent the bird?” asked Charlie calling after the man who was making a beeline for the elevator, “I don't know how to take care of a bird!” “Not my problem!” Sighing, Charlie shut the door and looked at the bird with raised eyebrows; he looked at the writing on the envelope as he walked into the living room. After carefully placing the cage on the coffee table, he opened the envelope, Charlie squinted at the spidery handwriting before realizing the author of the letter was his grandmother. 'I haven't heard from grandmother since I was at least twelve years old.' he thought Charlie remembered walking in on his mother arguing with his grandmother; the argument ended with his mother pulling him out to the car, refusing to answer any of his questions. Charlie had waited a few days before trying to talk to her about the argument, the only thing his mother would say was that they wouldn't be going back at all. Yet despite this, he secretly wrote letters to his grandmother; he kept hope that he would write him back for a full year. When he didn't receive any letters, Charlie wrote to her less and less until he simply stopped; he couldn't but feel like his grandmother had abandoned him. He loved going to her house and spending entire summers with her; he felt safe and loved with her while his own mother hired a nanny to look after him. His mother only spent a couple of hours a day with him, yet she always seemed to watch the clock as though she couldn't wait to get back to work. Sighing, he returned his attention to the letter in his hand: “My dearest Charlie, If you are reading this, it means that I have passed on from this life. There is so much I have to tell you and as much as I wish I could tell you in person, these letters will have to do. You are probably surprised by Bertie my Grey African parrot and though I remember that you are not fond of birds however, I have a feeling you two will become the best of friends by the time you get to the last letter. I last saw you when you were twelve years old and I have so many fond memories with you. The day your mother took you away from me was the hardest day of my life; my heart shattered into a million pieces as your mother drove away. I can still see your sweet face looking back at me. Knowing your mother, she refused to tell anything about the argument we had and I know that with that curious mind of you tried to solve the reason we were forced to be apart. I hope you will find the answers you are seeking within these letters. Love you always, Grandma May P.S In regards to Bertie, it is best to let him settle and use the long scoop (in the drawer underneath the latch) to slip in between the bars to feed him...I suggest feeding him like this until he gets use to your voice. Bertie can be a bit...particular around people he doesn't know.” Charlie looked up to see Bertie looking at him, both remained still as though they were unsure of how to proceed with the sudden changes in their lives. He observed the cage, quickly locating the drawer that held the long scoop that would easily deliver the bird feed; 'I'm gonna have to buy food now,' Charlie thought sighing, 'what do they eat? Better question is: why did she give me, of all people, the bird?' As though in answer to his thoughts about purchasing bird feed, a sharp knock on the door jolted Charlie from his thoughts. Jumping up from his seat, he opened the door to find another delivery man holding a cardboard box. He signed for the package, and without another word shut the door with his free hand; quickly opening the box, he chuckled, 'You thought of everything, didn't you Grandma?' Inside the box was enough bird feed to last a month. Filling the scoop with food, Charlie looked warily at the bird as he muttered, “You'd better not bite me...” Slowly, inching the scoop towards the food bowl, his hand trembled nervously; Bertie kept a close eye on the scoop, dipping his head towards the food. Releasing the breath he'd been holding, he dumped the food into the food bowl, Bertie looked from the food to Charlie and back to the food before deciding it was okay to eat. Charlie watched the bird for a few moments, feeling overwhelmed he reread the letter from his grandmother; what she had said was true: his mother refused to tell him why he couldn't see grandma anymore. He felt a twinge of guilt twist in his gut, he could've gone to his grandma May when he was able to drive. 'I guess apart of me felt like she didn't love me anymore because she didn't answer any of my letters,' Charlie thought sorrowful, 'I was angry when she didn't and thought if I stopped sending letters, she'd come to the city to see me.' Time passed slowly as he sat on the couch, he didn't know what to do and for the first time in years, Charlie felt lost. He looked at the clock and groaned when he realized that his mother would be arriving any moment; Charlie rushed to put on fresh clothes just so he wouldn't have to hear his mother's criticism: “I didn't raise you to be a slob Charles!” this is what he heard often. He knew his mother was high strung, she had a need to keep everything as perfect as she possibly could. They'd only had one major fight and that was when he'd refused to go to law school; he wanted to be a writer and refused to allow himself to be persuaded to follow a different career path. His mother refused to talk to him for a few weeks, and as much as he hated to admit it...it was the least stressful time in his life that he could remember. Three short knocks rapped shortly, Charlie took a few deep breath as he walked to the door; he hand hesitated slightly on the door knob. 'Let's get this over with.' he thought unlocking the door and pulled it open to reveal his mother who was already frowning at him. “Hey mom.” greeted Charlie as she walked past him “Charles, what is that?” Charlie followed his mothers line of sight to Bertie who started to squawk and flap his wings for a few minutes before settling down again. Charlie made a beeline to the couch and scooped up the letters before his mother could get her hands on them. “Bertie arrived this morning from grandma May's lawyer along with bird feed and some very interesting letters.” stated Charlie watching his mom's reaction carefully, he watched her eyes focus on the letters as she spoke “What...does your grandmother have to say?” stuttered Lillian looking at the stack of letters in her son's hands. Charlie took his time answering, he curious about his mother's reaction to the letters; he noticed the longer he didn't answer the more agitated she looked. He had never seen his mother act like this before; Lillian was always cool and collected, ready for any situation that could arise. “She talked about how much she missed me when you suddenly refused to let me see her.” said Charlie his tone strained and tight, “I do have a question for you mom...the letters I wrote to her, you know the ones I gave you to mail to grandma...did you mail them?” Lillian sat down on the couch and simply gazed at Bertie who seemed to be glaring back at her with what appeared to hatred. Bertie began to squawk again, “Get out, get out” “No, I didn't mail your letter,” sighed Lillian casting her gaze to the navy blue carpet, “I was so angry with her and my reasons for that were selfish...I wanted to hurt her by taking the one thing she cared about the most...you.” His grip on the letters tightened as he slowly sank into the arm chair, this revelation hit him in the gut like a sack of bricks. 'I knew she wasn't the warmest person but to do something like this...' Charlie thought as tears filled up his eyes. “All these years, I thought the worst of her,” growled Charlie angrily, “I thought she didn't love me anymore because she didn't answer any of my letters to her...Grandma May is gone now and she probably left thinking I hated her! You didn't just hurt her mother, your hatred for her hurt me as well!” “Charlie, I'm so sorry,” whispered Lillian tearfully, “I didn't think about that at the time...” “Of course you didn't think about it,” snapped Charlie furiously, “why would you? You were jealous of our relationship...I can't count the number of times you practically ran out the door to work instead of spending time with me; I was raised by nannies. I want to know about the fight, you owe me that much at least!” Lillian sat back on the couch, stunned by her son's anger; not that she blamed him, she kept him away from his grandmother out of spite. Lillian didn't have the best relationship with her mother; her mind drifted back to that day as she closed her eyes and spoke softly: ' “I don't understand why you can't just give me his inheritance mother!” snapped Lillian angrily, “I'm going to make sure he get it when he turns twenty one...” “This isn't something that can be transferred over from a bank account Lillian,” sighed May briefly closing her eyes, “I'm not going to live forever, and so I want to be able to live long enough to give Charlie his inheritance myself.” Bertie flapped his wings rapidly, squawking loudly: 'Get out, get out” “Shut up Bertie!” screamed Lillian shaking her fist at the large parrot “Don't talk to Bertie like that!” snapped May tears filling her eyes, “Lillian, I am firm in my decision to not make you the trustee of my grandson's inheritance.” “Well then until you agree to make me the trustee of his inheritance,” snarled Lillian glaring at May, “I promise you that you will never see Charlie again!” ' Charlie placed his head in his hands, it felt as his heart was shattering all over again. 'My own mother kept me away from grandma May because she couldn't get her hands on my inheritance.' through teary eyes, Charlie picked up the next letter and opened it. His eyes widened slightly when he saw how short the letter was: “My dearest Charlie, In each letter there will be instructions, not only to care for Bertie but to also earn your inheritance. By now, I am sure you've spoken with your mother. I am also sure that you are angry with her; please don't let anger destroy your relationship with your mother. This task is simple...forgive your mother and move on; make your relationship strong again. P.S Bertie loves listening to Jazz, it will help him relax. Love always, Grandma May” Charlie looked at his mother, he saw the shock on her face from her mothers words. Tentatively, Lillian placed a hand on Charlie's arm and whispered, “I'm willing to try to work on our relationship, if you are.” “Jazz, jazz.” squawked Bertie suddenly, startling Charlie and Lillian Laughing softly, Charlie grabbed his cell phone and quickly found some jazz music for Bertie to listen to and sat back down beside his mother. As the music filled the room, he quietly replied, “I'm willing to try...” Over the next few weeks, Charlie and Lillian read Grandma May's letters together; Charlie began to look forward to his mother's visits. He noticed that the more effort they put into their relationship, the tension between them lessened. Charlie noticed that Bertie seemed to enjoy his company; he was able to feed the Grey African parrot by hand now instead of using the scoop. Charlie began to wonder if he could bring Bertie out of the cage for a couple of hours, 'Does he trust me enough?' An hour before his mother was to arrive, Charlie sat in front of Bertie and observed the bird for a few moments before slowly moving his hand towards the latch on the cage. “Alright Bertie, I'm going to open the latch and if you want, you can come out,” stated Charlie using soft tones like the instructions told him, “Grandma May even sent your perch, so that you can feel more at home here with me.” With the cage door open, Charlie sat back and eagerly watched in anticipation with how Bertie would react to the open door. Bertie bobbed his head up and down, peering through the open door, he watched Charlie for a few minutes. Ten minutes went by before Bertie moved to sit directly in front of the open door; soon he hopped down onto the coffee table and looked around the room as though he was seeing it for the first time. “Love you Charlie.” squawked Bertie hopping onto Charlie's knee A wide smile filled his face as he gently patted Bertie's head, “I love you too Bertie.” with those words, Bertie flew to the perch that stood by the window and began to preen. Lillian opened the door, calling out her arrival as she shut the door behind her; she placed a bag of hot breakfast food on the coffee table and looked at Bertie. She smiled at the sight of the preening bird, “He sure seems happy...and that's because of your hard work with him.” Charlie took a large bite of his breakfast burrito, wiped his fingers on a napkin and picked up the final letter from Grandma May. He took a deep breath, he didn't feel ready to read the last letter, it seemed to soon. His grandmother's letters helped fix his relationship with his mother, to start a relationship with Bertie...the letters even gave him a new idea for a book. “Dearest Charlie, When I found out your mother was pregnant with you, I was overjoyed with delight. I knew right away that I wanted to leave you something you'd appreciate, something that would last; by your fifth birthday I knew exactly what I wanted to give you. You are now twenty one years old and as much as I wanted to give it to you in person, I feel comforted knowing that you will love what I am giving you. I am leaving you my house, my land and everything that comes with it. You will find the keys to all the building in the little drawer on Bertie's cage on the opposite side of the scoop drawer. I love you so much Charlie, I will always be with you. Lillian, by this time, I expect you have been reading these letters with Charlie and I just want you to know that I love you so much. You're my daughter and no matter what happened between us, it is all forgiven and forgotten. Love always, Grandma May
Rusted pieces of metal wash up on the white sand, broken remnants of a now destroyed Boeing 737. Twenty yards inland, the sand continues but the beach seems to stop, giving way to a dark and leafy forest that goes the entire length of the island until it meets the similar twenty yards of beach on the opposite side. Ty Mastherson sits down on the sand, underneath the shade of a palm and watches the scrap metal find its way to dry land. It is the first time in a long time he’s felt completely and totally content. Ty was, to his knowledge, one of the only two survivors from the crash. The other, Amy, was on her own back at ‘home’(home was nothing more than a small collection of firewood and two bundles of grass they’d taken to calling beds). When the plane had begun to go down, Ty had decided he was okay with dying. He’d seen people around him scrambling to put on their oxygen masks and struggling to figure out how their seats turned into a floatation device because they do, don’t they? I saw it on TV once- Ty chose to sit calmly amid the chaos, trying to concentrate on finishing his crossword. If the need to survive had not been the most base, powerful instinct a human could feel, he might not have bothered unbuckling his seatbelt when he found himself still alive and conscious after the crash, nor would he have allowed himself to float to the top of the water. He definitely wouldn’t have struggled over to a broken airplane seat, now floating(so they did float) on the ocean's surface, letting himself be carried inland to the island only a few hundred yards away. He wouldn’t have swam out to save Amy(herself floating in on some kind of backpack) and spent a few days setting up camp with her. He wouldn’t have done any of that. But he did. And now Ty felt better than he had in fifteen years. In a lot of ways, it was like a vacation; There was nowhere to clock in on the island. Amy had found some kind of fruit or vegetable- They weren’t really sure exactly what it was, only that it tasted similar to a pear- that seemed to grow almost everywhere you looked. And there were animals too- They’d been there a week and Ty had only managed to catch glimpses- a rustle in a bush or an unlucky step in the remnants of a wild bathroom break- but eventually he would find one and he would kill it. He and Amy would share the meal together and mark it like that one boy had in that book Hatchet- First Meat. Ty had never been much for being in charge in his old life, but on the island he was thrust into the position. Amy looked up to him; She saw him as a leader, and to his credit, he had tried to act the part. Setting up the camp had been done largely to his specifications, as minimal as they were. He made sure that neither of them ever ate too many of the fruits, so far their only sustenance. He’d shown Amy how to boil water to make it somewhat drinkable. He’d even thought out a plan for picking the fruits only from certain parts of the forest at a time, to make sure they never picked too many- but then, they’d only been here a few days. Better to wait to tell Amy about that one. She was still holding out hope that they would be rescued- You could see it when she thought she was alone and looked to the distance, squinting in hopes that it might make a rescue ship appear on the horizon. Ty had accepted what Amy still had yet to figure out- they were never going to make it back to society. But of course, he would never tell her that. Not yet. Ty had to be careful around Amy, delicate as she was. For the most part, he could tell how she felt- They’d grown close over the last few days. She’d fallen for him almost immediately. What was that thing people said? “I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last man on earth?” Turns out that’s a bald faced lie. Back home, Ty doubted if Amy would’ve given him a second glance on the street. Nothing much impressive about a balding 32 year old man who works at the DMV. The island though, was a different story. Here he was- Well he would never tell Amy this. Probably wouldn’t admit it to anyone in the world. But he felt like a king, a fucking king. And who was to say different? It wasn’t as if there was anyone here to challenge him for the crown. “So there”, Ty thought. “I’m king of the island.” The heat was growing unbearable, so he turned and started to walk back into the forest. It was still hot underneath the shade, but more tolerable. Also he wanted to find Amy- What was she doing? Sometimes Amy would drift into these spells of melancholy that lasted for hours at a time- Ty always worried the one day she might become so depressed as to take her own life. If that happened, Ty thought he might go crazy as well. She was sitting on a stump that marked the entrance to their camp. Ty stopped underneath the cover of the canopy for a moment just to admire her again. She was certainly a beautiful woman- dark black hair with eyes Ty swore changed colors at least once a day; Optic mood rings. Somehow, after three days stranded on an island with the sun beating down from above, her skin was still porcelain white. “Hey”, Ty said, walking up. “Whatcha doin?” He was already looking at her hands though, where she was sharpening a rock with another rock, forming it into a sort of arrowhead. “What’s that for?” “Hunting.” The rock still looked too blunt to pierce skin and even if she managed to sharpen it well enough, there would still be the issue of fitting it to an arrow and creating a bow, but Ty said none of this. Making a tool meant that on some level, Amy knew they might be here a long time. It was the first sign of initiative she’d shown since they’d been marooned and he certainly wasn’t going to mess that up. “Looks good”, he replied with a smile. “Anything to eat?” An attempt at a joke. Amy gestured over to the pile of pears(they were known as pears until a more fitting name was thought of), letting the joke pass over her head, and went back to sharpening her rock. Ty shuffled over to the pears but his mind remained on Amy even as he sat on the warm ground and began to eat. His mind constantly played with thoughts of Amy- how to make her happier, more productive, anything to change her consistently unconcerned behavior. It was almost as if she didn’t mind whether she lived or died. Apart from the obvious roadblock this posed to their survival, it also worried Ty for a more personal reason. He was interested in making Amy his wife. The idea had no meaning, really. Not out here in the middle of nowhere, where there was no law other than nature. Still, it seemed the proper gesture to make. If they were meant to spend their lives together, isolated from the rest of humanity, Ty thought it was best they do it as partners. And what better way to solidify their partnership than through such a grand act? There was a little bit of a dirty feeling to it though. Certainly Ty had thought about what might happen if Amy said no to him, how uncomfortable things would be. There wasn’t much hope for avoiding each other when they were the only two legged things for thousands of miles. But the more he thought about it, the less likely he thought she would say no. What was in it for her to reject him? She had no one else, nowhere to go- As strange as that sounded, Ty knew more than anything that that would be why Amy accepted him. If it hadn’t been for how deeply he felt for her, he might not have been alright with that. But he could never ask her now, as she sulked and sharpened her knife, like an ape first discovering how to make tools. Ty approached her cautiously. “Amy. Are you alright?” She looked up at him and realized he was worried. Her teeth flashed in a gorgeous smile. “Of course. Sorry. I was thinking of my parents.” Amy’s parents. They seemed to always be the subject of her pouting, whether she was imagining them planning her funeral or digging into their retirement fund to send out frantic search parties for their only daughter. Ty sympathized, he really did, but he also felt that at some point Amy had to get over it. Ty hadn’t thought much about his own parents, other than to remember that his father had once said it might be best for everyone if Ty disappeared off the face of the earth. He hadn’t quite done that, but he’d come as close as he could’ve. Ty squatted down and grabbed Amy’s chin, gently turning her head to face him. “Amy I know it’s hard. And I know it’s early. But soon, it won’t hurt as bad. Soon we’ll forget the past.” Ty hugged Amy’s stiff body as she let his words wash over her. She was smiling back up at him when he released her, before going back to sharpening her rock. Ty left the clearing, and headed up for ‘The Mountain’. ‘The Mountain’ would’ve been better classified as a small hill back “on the mainland” but on the island it was the high point. Ty had originally climbed there on the very first day, squinting with tired eyes at the horizon, trying to see any possible signs of land. Perhaps a dove flying back towards him with a twig in its mouth. Instead he saw nothing but dark blue ocean melting into the lighter blue of the sky. That had been when Ty’d realized they were truly alone. Now he trudged up the incline with sweat on his brow. He abandoned his shirt and let the sun beat down on his already reddening skin. Unlike Amy, Ty was not made for constant sunlight. Though really, a sunburn was the least of his worries. Amy had not come up The Mountain since their first day here, so this was where Ty had decided to propose to her, since it allowed for preparation in secret. He was doing it in as glamorous a fashion as the circumstances provided. He had created a pit in which he could light a bonfire- only for a certain amount of time, so as not to attract too much attention- and planned out what he would say to the exact word. He would compliment her eyes, her skin, her spirit. The way she spoke. He would bless whatever disaster had led to them being marooned together. She would say nothing, only holding out her hand with that perfect smile on her face. The picture of joy. Ty had it all planned. There was only the matter of getting something to eat. Pear-like fruits were fine for regular meals, but what would a wedding be without a feast? Even if it must be a feast of island squirrel, or whatever animal it was that was so narrowly escaping Ty’s gaze. Ty set out into the less explored part of the small island with a determined glare on his face. Today he became a hunter. Back home, Ty had never hunted before in his life. He was more of the quiet type, more likely to be found curled up inside reading Harry Potter for the thirtieth time than to be out scalping deer. But of course, everything had changed for Ty the moment that plane hit the water. Back home, he hadn’t had a girlfriend for 5 years. Here, he would soon make the most beautiful woman for leagues in any direction his queen. The forest of the island was peculiar- In patches, grass grew, but for the most part the ground was sand- hot or cold, depending upon whether or not sunlight had the angle to burn through. Trees were scattered around, with trunks that made Ty think of palm trees but with none of the familiar fronds or coconuts. Bugs thankfully remained rare. Ty spent the better part of two hours up the trunk of one of the mystery trees before a small animal wandered into his vision. It looked like a skunk, though it was brown instead of black and white; Ty had no choice but to pray the resemblance was only coincidence. He hadn’t checked, but he thought it was likely the island was severely lacking in tomato juice. He also had no weapons save for a few small rocks, far too light to do any real damage to an animal that size. He watched it sniff the air, wandering in and out of sunlight. Finally he decided to act. Ty threw the first stone well over the skunk-creature’s head. It rattled the plants behind it and the animal began trotting away from the source of the sound and towards Ty, who let it get right underneath the tree he was in before leaping down upon it like a leopard. There was a brief moment of shock for Ty and the skunk alike as they met each other's unfamiliar textures before Ty found the part of the animal he believed to be it’s neck and twisted. Just like that, the animal lay limp. First Meat. Ty took the brown skunk up The Mountain and began skinning and cooking it. A lack of knowledge meant losing a lot of the available meat, but Ty’s mindset was that Amy would be more impressed with the gesture than the substance. As it cooked, the sun began to fall into a pink-yellow concoction, and Ty left The Mountain to fetch Amy. He found her sitting in the exact same position. She seemed to have ditched the sharpening. Ty grabbed her by the shoulder and extended a hand. “Follow me, I have a surprise for you.” Amy got up without a word and together they began walking over to the hill. On such a small island, you could smell the meat before you saw it grilling. Maybe a month ago Ty would’ve vomited at the stench but now he thought nothing in the world had ever smelt better. He jogged up the hill ahead of Amy and began stoking the bonfire, pleading with it to flourish into a more dramatic flame. He got it five feet high before Amy broke the top. Ty turned away from the embers and got down on one knee. “Amy.” It was only now Ty realized he had never learned Amy’s full name. “Amy, as hellish as the circumstances of our coming together were, these last few weeks with you have been nothing short of heaven. When I see your eyes, I melt. Your sun resistant skin is something of wonder.” Ty made sure to punctuate this line with a smile. “You have an unbreakable spirit and I want to be around you for the rest of my life. Thankfully, it seems I will. Amy, will you marry me?” It played out almost to his exact expectations. Maybe in his imagination he had thought a tear or two might escape Amy’s eyes but her smile was enough. He was now a husband. He had a wife. One day, he might even be a father. In ecstasy, he took Amy into his arms and kissed her. It was a few moments before he felt the blood leaking from his back. When he released her, stunned, Amy pulled the arrowhead from his back and plunged it into him again, this time near his heart. It had become considerably sharper since Ty saw it last. Ty began stumbling backwards, looking for something to defend himself but the shock was too great. Amy ran towards him and shoved him, grunting, into his own bonfire. His screams would’ve sent birds flying if any had inhabited the island. Instead they fell only on Amy’s ears. She stood there, watching him writhe in the heat, relishing his misery. As the last of his life left him, Amy reached over him and grabbed a piece of the still cooking meat. Delicious. So the creep was dead. Finally. Amy had been growing tired of tiptoeing around him, worried that he would realize what she was up to, as if he could see into her thoughts. She was worried about nothing of course; to a narcissistic, delusional asshole like Ty she simply wasn’t a threat. He had probably died marvelling at the fact that Amy had had the mental capacity to betray him at all. “Well guess what asshole- You’re dead!” Amy yelled to no one in particular. The sound of her voice made her feel very alone. She began fanning the bonfire, taking care to keep her eyes from looking at Ty’s torched corpse. Of course she still felt guilty, even though she’d had to do it. There was no other way to fix the situation- What Ty had believed to be the situation. They’d only been here three days, rescue was still well within the realm of possibility. And he’d proposed to her- Asked her to marry him! Fucking lunacy. Amy recalled the first time Ty took advantage of her. She’d barely been conscious, having just been dragged into the shore half drowned. The sick fuck hadn’t even had the decency to let her dry off first, just tore at her as though time was running out on some invisible stopclock... She remembered it with the icy detachment of someone who has only heard a story of trauma, not the fiery terror of one who’s experienced it. The asshole had actually had the audacity to ask her if it was good afterwards- As though it were just a casual hookup after a wild night out. As though they’d met in a bar and not nearly died on a plane crash that very same day. As though it was guaranteed either of them would ever have any other options. Insanity. And no Ty. It wasn’t good. Amy sat on The Mountain, wrinkling her nose at the smell of Ty’s burning shorts. The bastard had loved walking around without his shirt on. Probably thought he was turning into some sort of Tarzan, as though his flabby beer gut would’ve somehow disappeared over three days. She popped a few more pieces of the skunk into her mouth, considered trying to save some of Ty’s corpse for food and decided she was not nearly desperate enough. Wasn’t sure if she ever would be. Instead, she left The Mountain and lugged all the firewood Ty had so kindly chopped up for her out to the beach. She started four separate bonfires at each point of the island, wafting their flames to great heights. And then Amy began to wait.
Don't worry about some of the references to formula 1, as long as you understand it's a sport they are watching it doesn't matter much to the story. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I don't deserve this, he thought, looking around the room he was sitting in. He had nearly everything that he had always wanted. The TV, the sim racing setup in the corner, the supercomputer that powered it, the car in the garage. I dont deserve any of it. Especially not her. She was laying down in his lap, nearly falling asleep watching the admittedly underwhelming Formula 1 race on the TV. If he was being honest with himself, it was the fact the race was so boring that had caused him to reach this line of thought he so desperately tried to avoid. She deserves better than some loser like me. She is fucking perfect. I'm... not. "You'd think that season closer would be more exciting than this, yah know?" She suddenly piped up, breaking his line of thought. "Yeah. It's been such an exciting season too. They really need to choose a different track for the final race. That fight between Perez and Hamilton was nice though." "Wish there was more where that came from." "Could not agree more." They returned to watching in silence. How is it, he thought, looking down at his girlfriend, that she can be so beautiful when she isn't even trying. She is fucking Aphrodite I swear. I don't deserve her. They had been dating for 3 years. Every single day he spent with her felt like a page out of somebody else's life, that he was simply a placeholder until somebody better came along. After all, how could anybody love me? But, as long as she kept up the façade, he could ignore that he knew it wasn't true. Somewhere deep down, a voice told him it wasn't true, but he wouldn't listen. He began to stroke her hair, dreading the day he knew she would leave. She shifted, nuzzling him in a loving way. "I love you," she said softly, obviously falling asleep. "I love you too," he responded. One day I'll no longer hear that, He realized, One day when she is gone. The thought made him begin to tear up. She'll be gone, and I'll be all alone again. The thought nearly made him sick. He felt a singular tear fall from his eye and streak down his cheek, dripping and landing on her head. Shit. Immediately she began to get up. "What's wrong?" she asked with a concerned face, looking into his now tear-filled eyes. "It's nothing," he said quickly, looking away in a futile attempt to hide his tears. "Like hell it is. What's wrong honey?" She insisted. You don't want to know, he thought to himself. "It's just... I don't know how to explain it. I..." he trailed off, turning to look her in the eyes. "As many times as you have said, shown, and proven it, I can't believe that you love me." The reaction was exactly what he expected. Her eyes now started to tear up too, and he could see how his words hurt her so bad, but they were true. "Every moment I have spent with you has felt like a page out of somebody else's life," He continued, "That I'm just here until you find somebody better, then you will go off with them, somebody who actually deserves you, and leave me alone." The look in her eyes took on a bit of bewilderment, "How could you possibly believe you don't deserve me?" "Because I'm a shit person," he answered, closing his eyes in shame, "Because I'm an egotistical jerk who cannot see how his confidence hurts those around him. Because I'm so obsessed with being correct that I refuse to let others try their ideas. Because-" He felt a hand on his lips. "None of that makes you undeserving or unworthy." She responded to the rant. He had told her about these insecurities of his before, but never had he let on how bad it was. As he opened his eyes, he could see her eyes again. For the first time, he felt that she might actually love him. "But I'm such an asshole to everyone around me." "No you aren't." "I can't ever show you back the kind of love you show me every day." "Except you do, every day." "I can't accept when I'm wrong." "Yes, you can, and do it all the time." "I'm not good enough for you," He said finally, the tears streaming down his face, sobs breaking through between the words. "Yes, you are." She replied desperately, tears now streaming down her face as well. How he wished he could believe her, to allow his heart to be at ease. He couldn't look her in the eyes any more. "I don't care that you are not a perfect person," she continued, "You don't have to be a perfect person!" she paused before finishing her thought, "Because you are perfect for me." It was that last sentence that caused him to look up again. "I love you," she said softly, "More than words can describe I love you. Every day since we started dating has been paradise for me. I am never going to leave you for somebody else. I'm not going to toss you aside for some new dude. I want you. You are not a safety cushion I'm using until the raft gets here, You are all I want." She looked like she wanted to say more but couldn't find the words. It was now her turn to look down, unable to look him in the eyes. He heard that voice he had always been so dismissive of speaking up again. She loves me, It said. For the first time in his life, he believed it. He believed that somebody could love him. He believed that he did deserve happiness. He believed that he deserved her. He believed that she loved him. "I believe you." Immediately she looked back up at him. The tears began to fade as he saw the sadness in her eyes slowly get replaced by love. She isn't faking it. She loves me. She actually loved me. The thought caused his tears to fade as well. "I love you." He said, hoping to repay in some way what she had done for him. He moved to embrace her. "I love you so much." She entered his embrace, hugging him back and holding him close, listening to his heart beat in his chest. "I love you too. More than words can say." He leaned back, taking him down with her as she now lay on top of him on the couch. For what felt like an eternity, they just laid there, holding each other close, smiles slowly creeping across their faces. Suddenly they remembered the race they had been watching, and heard the commentators yelling in excitement. They looked over as they saw the cars cross the finish line. "Ha!" he nearly shouted, "I told you Max was gonna win it!. That's five bucks." "I think the chat session we just had was worth five bucks." He looked over at his chest to see her smiling at him. No it was not worth five bucks, he thought, It was worth far more than that. "I love you," he said again, unable to hold back a grin. "I love you too," she responded, pushing herself towards his face. The kiss they shared that day was the best one he had ever experienced. Because for the first time, He truly believed she loved him as the kissed. She loves me, she actually loves *me.
You probably haven’t thought of pixies since you saw pictures of cute little creatures in pointed hats and shoes dancing around a ring of toadstools in your childhood story book. That's how we've been illustrated on cereal boxes, cookie boxes and all kinds of tacky souvenirs and posters for years. It’s very annoying to see the way we’re depicted in popular culture. Humans are not the only one who get tired of being stereotyped. Allow me to explain. We are but one of many types of supernatural beings from the family of the little people. Humans imagine us but cannot see us. We are distant cousins to leprechauns. Do not get them started about being depicted as wee men in green suits. They’re sick of it, especially on St. Patrick’s Day in the United States when many people use the day as an excuse for getting drunk on green beer and making fun of them. Fairies, by the way, are not cute little Tinkerbells. That’s the Disney version. They’re liable to enchant people and steal babies, substituting one of their own if people forget to put a piece of iron in the crib. We are also known as pixys, pigsies or piskies, depending on where you are. We originated in Cornwall, Devon, Dartmoor, Scotland and Ireland, mostly boggy, misty, mysterious places with lakes and mountains. We do not belong on nice bright Mediterranean beaches. We are often helpful but sometimes mischievous. In the old days, we liked to help with the harvest, milk the cows or clean the house at night. In return, the milkmaid might feel one of us steal a kiss. One of our favorite pastimes was to ride the horses at night for fun. The farmers used to wonder why the horses were tired and sweaty, with tangled manes in the morning, though we never harmed an animal. We’re not as sensitive as our cousins, the brownies. Never give them gifts or try to name them. You may have heard the story of the housewife who left a suit of clothes out as a present for the brownie as thanks for the chores he’d done. No? Well, that brownie was so insulted that he took off in an instant and was never seen again. She had to do her own housework from then on. We’re not dangerous, like the will-o-the-wisps who haunt the marshes and like to lure travelers into the bogs to drown. The worst we would do is to lead travelers astray in the forest. We’re also distantly related to boggarts and bogles, but we don’t like to talk about that branch of the family. Boggarts and bogles are nasty for the sake of it. I’d recommend hanging a horseshoe on the door and sprinkling salt on the doorstep to keep them away. They’ve been known to cause mayhem, even going as far as to eat people in extreme circumstances. But times are changing, and it is becoming harder for the family of little people, pixies and their ilk, to exist. Sadly, there are not so many fields and forests for us to inhabit now. Cows are milked by machines and there are no more milkmaids to tease. A few hikers still get lost in the forest but almost everyone travels in their planes, trains and cars. Horses are harder to find. And yet we pixies and our relations, immortal and ageless, endure. Humans like to think they are in control of everything. They burn and build, raze and pave, without a care for the natural world they are destroying, heedless of the consequences. We like to remind them now and then that they are not as superior as they think, with all their technologies and conveniences. We have been amongst you since humans lived in caves and huts. Human stupidity and arrogance has not changed since then. It’s fun to take a human down a peg every now and then. The gadgets they use nowadays make it easy. Do you own a smart speaker? We pixies have been around since the beginning of time, but we keep up with developments in technology. It’s fun to make Alexa suddenly start speaking in the middle of the night. We enjoy your reactions. It’s even more fun to watch when she cannot understand you. Humans are usually red faced and yelling by the time Alexa has asked them to repeat themselves four times. When we got travelers lost in the forest, we’d turn a sign or two around. Now Siri helps us to confuse you. Has she ever led you round in circles? Probably a pixie behind it. We have fun with planes and trains too. We never cause accidents. But we’ve been known to mix up luggage and change the departure gate at the last minute. I’d suspect pixies if you’re trapped on a train that stops for forty minutes for an unexplained delay. Has your internet suddenly gone out and a document disappeared before you could save it on your laptop? Pocket dialed someone? Pixies have become quite tech-savvy. We’re good at hitting “reply all” on those work emails and laughing as we watch the fallout. Probably our favorite is the “hot mike”. It’s fun to watch the high and mighty try to explain the inane statements they inadvertently broadcast. We have some other modern tricks too. Do you wonder why you always have an odd sock or two left over after you’ve done the laundry? Have you ever locked your keys in the car or locked yourself out of the house? Put your hot tea in the fridge and your ice cream in the oven? You might be distracted, or the pixies might be nearby. People talk about someone being pixie-led as if it were an insult when someone is absent-minded. But we pixies know how to enjoy a sunrise and a sunset. Getting lost, whether in the forest or on the highway, may lead you down unexpected paths to options you would never have thought of otherwise. We will live anywhere but we do prefer nature. Do your best to save it before it is all paved over, for you and for us.
"Welcome to the neighbourhood," the grey haired man said. "This is a family recipe, try it with a nice red," his wife added. After the standard exchange of get-to-know-yous the neighbours left, and the home owner and his wife went back to unpacking. Later that night, after the knick knacks had been unpacked, and the furniture had been re arranged four times, they decided on dinner. The meat loaf the neighbours brought looked good enough, so they heated it up. They both loved comfort food, and the home owner specifically loved this meat loaf. He thought to himself, 'I'm going to love it here; I've never met another cannibal before.' I had posted basically the same story a few years ago on /r/shortscarystories, but have changed it a bit. I have some ideas for a longer version where it takes off into more of a horror.
My Uncle's Beast. After my grandmother's death, my uncle, consumed with grief, locked himself up in his studio for weeks on end and did nothing but stare at the wall like he was staring into an abyss. Almost like he was trying to get rid of his sadness by projecting it onto the white nothingness of his studio wall. My uncle was especially angry because even on her death bed when she could no longer speak or swallow because the cancer that would eventually kill her had metastasized into a goiter in her throat, my grandmother still had a look of disappointment in her eyes when she saw my uncle for the last time because despite his immense talents, he remained an obscure, penniless artist who brought nothing but shame to our family name with his excessive drinking and street fighting. My grandmother died a few days later convinced that my uncle was an irredeemable failure who would never make anything of his immense talents because he always sabotaged himself with drink. He became even angrier because he was beginning to believe she was right and even if she wasn’t and he somehow found a way to escape the hamster wheel of drink, debt and fights he had been stuck on his entire adult life, he would never not see that look of disappointment in her eyes, so he stared into the nothingness of his studio wall, avoiding his creditors and remaining sober for the longest period in his adult life, until one afternoon when he looked outside the window and saw his future in a pile of broken bottles. Green and mesmerizing, they were shimmering under the intense sunlight like something out of a meteorite shower, like a pile of kryptonite crystals that had just fallen out of the sky. My uncle walked up to his epiphany entranced like he had never seen that pile of STAR bottles before even though he had personally broken almost every bottle in the pile during any one of the countless drunken fights he had while trying to fend off the righteous repayment demands of his creditors. My uncle, who had become locally famous for his skills as an intoxicated pugilist, had fought his way from a few shards to the almost knee-high hill shimmering before him. He had walked past that pile of broken bottles a thousand times on his way to the studio without taking any notice of it or how much it had grown over the years but on that hot summer afternoon, beatified by the angry sun above, he saw that testament to his drunkenness in a different light. That was when he decided to create a sculpture out of broken glass. My aunty was alarmed when she saw her husband transporting that pile of broken bottles to his studio. Everyone told her she had married a mad man not a genius like she believed and on that hot summer afternoon when she saw him shoveling what remained of that pile of STAR bottles into the metal bucket she used to fetch water, she wondered if the circumstances of his mother's death had driven him off the deep end and he was in the process of trying to commit suicide by bathing with broken bottles. She approached her perspiring husband with caution. “Ade, what are you doing?” she asked genuinely concerned. He stop shoveling looked up at her and said “I have seen the future my dear. It’s in broken bottles” he smiled, pointing before picking up the bucket and locking himself up in his studio. His actions over the next few weeks made my aunty certain her detractors were right. She had indeed married a madman whose derangement was now manifesting in self harm. Self harm was new to him except if you consider getting into a thousand needless fights a form of self harm by proxy. Then my uncle had been self harming his entire adult life. After being thoroughly seduced throughout his childhood by Newspaper adverts and brilliant billboards depicting “The Happy life” and how much “Brighter your life would be with STAR”, my uncle finally succumbed to the Nigeria Breweries Propaganda machine and decided to celebrate turning eighteen by drinking his first bottle of their golden brew, on that very night he discovered that far from being happy, he was an angry drunk who loved to fight and break bottles after downing their content. Something about seeing those golden bubbles rising into white froth reminded him of his wasted potential and made him angry at the world. My grandmother always reminded him of his wasted potential and advised him to spend more time in his studio away from fights and bars but instead of heeding her advice, my uncle only heard nagging and always drowned out her voice with a few more bottles until she fell silent. My uncle spent weeks gluing together the shards of broken glass that brought the beast to life. The beast fought against its creation, not wanting to come to life, it wrestled against its creator, slashing him open many times during the labor, hoping the pain of his bandaged hands would make him abort the process and go back to working with wood but my uncle was a persistent god, who, although he had to take the precaution of wearing thick rubber gloves while transfiguring that pile of kryptonite, soldiered on until he finally brought that reluctant nightmare to life. Foreshadowing future pandemics, my uncle also took the precaution of wearing a face mask and a pair of goggles to protect his eyes from the caustic but lotophagic fumes of evostic glue. My uncle was a great artist, a modern Pygmalion, his sculptures always seemed to carry life within them but that kryptonite beast was different. It was his masterpiece. It didn’t just convey a semblance of life like the others, it seemed to genuinely be alive, imbued with a breath of life so powerful, sometimes it seemed to move, startling its viewers. The razor-backed beast was sharp, green and menacing to the eye. Rabid and crouching, its glare was an assault on the senses, yet as feral as it was, there was something vaguely human about the beast, almost like it was a werewolf crouching smack dab in the middle of my uncle’s studio, underneath the fluorescent lamp he used to see at night and just a few feet away from the only window that let sunlight into his well lit but poorly ventilated studio. The green monster reeked of anger, stale beer and dried blood mixed with the repugnant yet magnetic fumes of evostic glue. Throughout its brief existence and for many months after, its smell and presence completely dominated that room, my uncle worked on nothing else while it was alive. It was a jealous beast, demanding one’s full attention with the magnitude of its aura which rendered all the other artworks in the room invisible. Almost like it intimidated them into denying their very existence with the sheer awfulness of its presence. Beautiful sculptures who now cowered in the corners of the room hoping not to be seen by anyone especially the beast which looked like it could turn around and devour them at anytime. My uncle's first and only piece of abstract art was disturbing to look at, it perfectly conveyed menace, possessing the demeanor of a grizzly bear with green instead of brown fur, awakened too early from hibernation, grouchy and ravenous with the hunger of many months, stalking, snarling, showing if its fangs, not hiding its desire to pounce and feast on its viewer but like many tyrants, the green monster also knew when to take off the edge and turn on the charm. I remember the first time I met the beast I was mesmerized, it knelt down submissively beside me and looked up at me with the puppy eyes of a lonely dog that just needed its back rubbed, only after I had slashed open my fingers on its jagged back was the spell broken and I saw the beast for what it was, a rabid, insatiable glutton baying for my blood. The green monster loved the red blood of children and adults alike. Prior to its untimely death, the beast had grown fat on the plasma supplied to it by the endless stream of blood donors that came to see it crouch in my uncle’s studio, young and old, we all fell under its spell and willingly donated our blood to that glutton. Even in the early days, my aunty was always on standby with her white first aid kit when people came visiting and even though they were forewarned by a large sign on the wall screaming in capital letters, in my uncle's angriest voice, DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTWORKS; they almost always came out bleeding, such was the power of the monster’s mesmerism. The beast, whose fame was growing in and beyond art circles fueled by real life encounters that sounded like phantasmagoria, continued to grow throughout its life. By the time two articles titled “The Kryptonite Beast” and “The Green Monster” appeared on the Art pages of the Weekend Times and the Sunday Guardian, my uncle’s favorite newspapers, along with identical black and white photographs which didn’t properly convey the beast’s charisma; it was already a giant, about twice its initial size its jagged fur almost pressing up against the walls of my uncle's studio, threatening to scratch off the paint but for some odd reason nobody but me seemed to notice its constant increase in size and audacity. The number of people who came to see the beast doubled everyday, from the few friends my uncle invited over to christen his latest work to the thousands who lined up around the block willing to pay the ever increasing gate fee to my almost-millionaire aunty on the day the beast died. Many of them repeat customers with already bandaged hands begging to pay double to have another encounter with their torturer. Thanks to the beast, my aunty stopped making excuses to all her husband’s creditors, paying each one in full, avoiding the drunken fights which always led to his arrests and debt-inducing fines. The beast, born out of his grief of my grandmother’s passing, though reluctantly at first, had roared into existence and completely smashed the hamster wheel of drink, debt and fines my uncle had been running on his entire adult life; bringing fame, wealth and glory to our family but my uncle remained unfulfilled, he could still see that look of disappointment in my grandmother’s eyes because she didn’t live long enough to see him succeed, to see him as something other than an irredeemable failure who was wasting his potential. Thanks to the beast’s alchemical ability to turn its victims blood into money, my uncle, who had always been known for his generosity, buying crates of beer for his fellow merry men even if it was with borrowed money he never intended to pay back, went haywire with his proceeds from the gate, hosting lavish parties every evening and becoming a creditor himself for the first time in his life not always the borrower. The beast didn’t like being disturbed at night. Something about being suddenly awakened by the light of the fluorescent overhead made it incandescent with rage. Shimmering and bristling with anger, it looked like a giant porcupine with quills made of kryptonite crystals. The beast never looked move alive and menacing than when sharp rays of light suddenly pierced through it glass body, you could almost how it growl looking to devour its awakener. Luckily the beast was murdered in the morning when it was at its weakest, long before any of its devotees had been let through my aunty’s gate if not my uncle would have had to smash his way through a thousand strong zombie horde, evostic fiends, willing to die while protecting their false idol. During the height of the beast’s reign, there was an ambulance permanently stationed outside my uncle’s studio with nurses to attend to the wounded. Despite the health hazard the beast posed to its visitors, my uncle bluntly refused to close down his studio instead he kept making excuses for the beast “Why do they keep touching it?” he would ask “There is literally a sign on the wall that says DO NOT TOUCH THE ARTWORKS” he would conclude, feigning ignorance of his cash cow’s powers. My uncle kept making excuses for the beast until it attacked his only child, my little cousin, Omeri, who, not noticing how much the beast had grown, ran directly into its quills while playing hide and seek, almost losing any eye. The sight of his only child’s blood drove my uncle “Super Saiyan”, filling him with his final rage not fueled by alcohol but vengeance and fatherly love. For the crime of almost blinding his only son the beast had to die. Pestle in hand, he approached it with caution and resolve, like it was alive. Circling it, he avoided its glare like it could fight back. Then suddenly my uncle raised the giant pestle and fell on the beast, striking it a thousand times with the Frankenstein fury of vengeful god destroying his own creation gone awry, like it was a rabid rottweiler that had to be put down after maiming its owner’s child. My uncle didn’t just club the beast to death; screaming, bawling, he punched and kicked it continuously until he began bleeding profusely from his slashed up fists and the soles of his feet. Still he didn’t stop until he shattered that unrepentant monster into a green sea of catharsis, into a thousand shimmering drops of kryptonite that lay on the studio floor underneath the fluorescent light looking like a field of tears. I deliberately stepped onto those bloodstained smithereens later that day before my aunty swept them away. I have forgotten if it was guilt, curiosity or empathy that made me walk onto that glittering field. Guilt because I was the one playing hide and seek with my cousin when he ran into the beast and almost lost an eye trying to hide from me or was it curiosity entwined with empathy because I wanted to share my uncle’s pain, I wanted to know what it felt like to bleed from their soles of one’s feet while filled with anger, regret and remorse or maybe it was a combination of all three that made me walk onto that sea of catharsis, I still can’t remember. I just know I can’t blame it on the monster’s mesmerism. I did it myself. As a form of atonement for almost blinding my cousin, I felt I had to be the beast’s last victim. The beast lived for less than a month but in that time it left an indelible mark on everyone who came to see it crouch in my uncle's studio, so long-lasting was its effect that for many months after its death, its smell still dominated that room which was like nectar to the endless stream of well wishers that poured into my uncle's studio not to admire his other sculptures, who, since witnessing the beast’s defeat at the hands of their creator, were slowly regaining confidence and retaking their pride of place in the center of the room away from the corners where they cowered throughout its month long reich, but to bask in the monster’s zombie aura, that unique blend of stale beer, anger and dried blood mixed with the sweet but fiendish fumes of evostic glue. Like many tyrants who reigned before and after its Reich, the beast’s power seemed to grow in death, inspiring a kind of strange nostalgia in the minds of its victims. An endless stream of masochists gathering in art circles, showing off their bandaged hands while fondly reminiscing about the injuries they suffered at the hands of their tyrant. Each misremembering it's reich as “not that bad” and “unfairly maligned after its demise”. All wishing they could once again slash their palms open while stroking the monster's fur. My aunty still collected a small gate fee from those who came to mourn the beast until they figured out the best way to satisfy their nostalgia for the monster was not by communing on the ground where it was slain but by sniffing evostic glue mixed with a few drops of their own blood while downing a pint of beer preferably from a soon-to-be-broken green bottle. Watching those golden bubbles rising into white froth, dwelling on their own wasted potentials. After his hands healed, my uncle went back to slowly carving out the sculptures he had abandoned after birthing the beast but although they had life in them none of them could match the monster's charisma. I’ll never forgot the day my uncle smashed that beast to smithereens, he was never the same again, he became a lot calmer and more secure in himself, almost like he stopped seeing that look of disappointment in his mother's eyes, a change reflected in the smiling self portrait he produced shortly after reopening his studio. Many years later I would come to understand that I had just witnessed a exorcism, almost like my uncle had gotten rid of the frothing demons that made him drink until he became angry at the world by pouring them into one of his sculptures, his greatest work, which was a reflection of something deep inside him, something sharp, green and menacing, something he needed to kill. The End.
I woke up feeling abnormally heavy, like I had bags of rocks tied to my limbs. Not like I ever wake up feeling light and happy. Waking up for me is just having to deal with the thought that I would have to deal with another day of this pitiful existence. In fake, I often woke up feeling like I was tied down. Like my blankets each weighed 100 pounds and I was imprisoned underneath them. But today was different. Instead of just feeling achy and weak, I literally felt unable to move. maybe y I was sick or something. I tried to roll over, but I found myself unable to move. Ok, this is strange. I thought. Even though I was always reluctant to, moving had never been impossible for me. But right now, it was like some invisible force was holding me to the bed. Kinky. But really, this was starting to freak me out. What if I had been kidnapped or something? Not like there was really any reason someone would want to take me, except for maybe money. Like anyone who knew me wasn;t broke. They might not be looking for money, though, The dark part of my brain said, We could have been taken my some serial killer or cannable or something, who wants to chopp us open and take out our intestines. The fact that that was a possibility was absolutely terrifying. That was the moment I relized how fucking dumb I was. There was a very simple way to figure out what the hell was going on that, for some reason, I hadn't thought of. I opened my eyes. I can see the ceiling above my bed, with the glow in the dark stars I had put up there. What can I say, even though I’m 22, I have the maturity of an autistic fourth grader. Hey, at least now I know I’m still in my own bed, because I really don’t think that a serial killer would put up stars on the ceiling. Thank god. There's one less thing to worry about. I look over at the clock on my bedside table. 7:30. Ugh. I started freaking out for the second time that morning, thinking I was late for work. Again. I tend to over sleep, as I don’t end up sleeping until three am. And I was on the verge of getting fired, as this happens very often. Like I said, I’m not nearly mature enough to be an adult. I feel like instead of an age where your expected to be able to be an actually citizen there should be some sort of test. Because there's no way I should be allowed to adult. Clearly. I can’t even stay focus on one thing at a time. Great, I thought to myself, There goes another wasted five minutes thing about useless shit. Now I’m definitely going to be late for work. But then I remember that it’s Saturday, and relief washed over me. Once again, I tried rolling over, only to find that I felt stiff and weirdly... numb.I tried to sit up, and could feel something pulling me down. Like I was stuck on my mattress. Weird. Like, super weird. At least the serial killer theory made some sense. But there was no logical explanation for this, and that was almost scarier than being tied up and carved open like a pug at the slaughterhouse. I kept pushing myself up until I get a jolt, and I was free from whatever was keeping me stuck on my bed. Ok, so that was easier than I thought, I think. I half expected to be stuck there until I starved to death. But I guess not. I just sit for a few minutes, trying to figure out what had just happened. It was the weirdest experience. One minute, I felt like I as a thousand pound, and sitting up seemed impossible. But now here I was, feeling normal. Well, almost normal. Now, instead of feeling heavy, I felt light. Like, abnormally light. Weird. I shake my head, frowning a bit. Life was two confusing to through this whole mess in. I guess i will just half to ignore it and hope for the best, Whitch was basically how I solved all of my problems: Just pretend it didn’t happen. If something weird happens because of it, just play dumb and blame it one someone else. It’s work son far, so I guess that's the best approach to this situation. I took a deep breath, looking around my room. Jesus christ Im a mess. There were clothes screw around on the hardwood floor . And by clothes I mean everything I own. I had before, but all the drives were open and had clothes hanging out of them. I have no idea why I put all my clothes on the floor. I have no life and definitely got the time to pick up a little. Nah. There was the morning sunlight painting patterns on the floor, in the same shapes as my window pains. My black cat, Shadow, was lying in one of the patches of sunlight. On her back, with her tail swishing behind her and paws swatting at the air, she looked insistent. ‘ As if’ I think, looking at the long scratches she left on my arm. I felt a lot betting then I had a few moments before. The heavy weight was long gone, replaced with this lightness that didn’t feel normal. I decided to just forget about the whole ordeal and go to the café to get a coffee. Coffee. Yeah, that's what I need. There was nothing that coffee couldn’t fix, and I definitely needed the energy boast this morning. I didn’t bother putting on different clothes, as I had passed out in jeans and a hoodie the night before anyway. I was like 50% sure that I was wearing a bra. If I was, I couldn’t feel it. But at this point I didn’t care. Swinging my legs off the bed, I got up. I was surprised when the floor didn’t feel cold against my socked feet. Normally it was very cold in the morning, because I was poor and couldn’t afford to turn the thermos up beyond 65 degrees. But today it felt pleasantly warm. I felt pleasantly warm. And light. Like, how they say you're supposed to feel after eating super healthy for a couple weeks. I felt like I was walking on air. I wonder if this is how vegans feel. I walked across my bedroom, stepping over all of my laundry. I walk into the living room. Similar to my floor, it was the perfect temperature in here, even though it should have been cold. It is usually quiet drafty, as this is a fairly old building. Plus the whole 60 degree thermostat. But I shrugged it off. I felt strangely happy, and there was no reason to ruin that by worrying over the temperature of my apartment. I walk straight out the door, not bothering with a jacket, even though it’s december. If my apartment felt this warm, it couldn’t be that cold outside. At least I hoped it wouldn’t be that cold outside. I hate the cold. I really need to move. But I don’t have the money, so I guess we’re staying in boston. My thoughts, which were usually quiet jumbled, were actually kinda calm. And yes, I know what your thinking: This is calm? And yes. This is my version of calm. Even though my calm is most people chaos, I felt nice. Calm was good. Usually the calm unversed me for one reason or enougher. But not now. Now the calm felt just that: calm. Onto the sidewalk I go, out into civilization. There were strangely few people walking around. I guess it was kinda early. I wasn’t staring at my feet for once, which was shocking. I hate people for the most part, so I tend to try my best to avoid eye contact. But I was looking around at my surroundings, taking deep breaths of the fresh, clean, winter air. I noticed that the ground was covered in a layer of fresh snow, as was the bare tree branches and hoods of cars. It looked beautiful out. And it smelt good, too. Nothing smells better than fresh snow. I started down the sidewalk, keeping my eyes on the horizon. The sun was out, and the sky was blue. The contrast of the deep blue of the sky and the white of the now was beautiful. Everything was beautiful. But of course this feeling of peace couldn’t last. Of course it couldn't I was a fool to think that it ever could have. My entire life has been a mess, and of course this peacefulness couldn;t last. I put my hand in my pocket, out of habbet. But Then I realized that my walted wasn’t there. “ Shoot” I murmur under my breath, then turn to head back. Not a big deal, right? All I had to do was mgo back home, grab my wallet, and continue on my way. Easy. WRONG! It was never that easy. One thing would lead to another and all of a sudden Im a contortionist in a traveling circus. (Don’t ask.) Anyway, it wasn’t just my wallet was missing. For even though the sidewalk was covered in snow, there were no footprints. I gasp, then stumble backward in the snow. “How in the world...” I murmur, staring at the ground. Even though I should be able to see the footprints that I would have just left behind, there was nothing. It can’t be, I thought. I started walking backwards, trying to make footprints. It didn’t work. Nevertheless, I continued doing it, staring at my feet, as if that would make a difference. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different outcome. This comes to me, for some reason. Maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m going insane. That’s when I saw that I wasn’t wearing shoes. Even Though my feet were bare, I couldn’t feel the snow. In fact, I couldn’t feel anything. I just felt this pleasant numbness that I decided to overlook earlier. What the hell is happening? I thought as I continued to walk backwards and continued to fail to make footprint. This was so weird. I was passing by a shop window, and looked up at it, only to be unable to see my reflection. What? Why? Who? How? I didn’t understand this in the least bit. There was no logical explanation, nothing that I could tell myself to make this make sense. Wait. There was. Oh, god, please tell me this isn’t true. I stop walking backwards and start running forward, as fast as I could. And even though my breath should have grow heavy, my heart should be hammering, it wasn’t. I couldn’t feel the exasperation that I should have. It felt no different from walking. This should feel different from walking. It only provided more evidence behind what I was already thinking. I ran faster. It only took a minute or two for me to get back to my apartment building. I rushed up the steps, and through the door. Across the living room. Down the hallway. Into my bedroom. I ran into the room, scaring my cat, who had been peacefully sleeping on top of my discarded clothes. On the bed, I saw what I had expected, and dreaded to see. My body, lifeless and limp, on top of bloodstained sheets.
# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Culture is a huge, but often underestimated part of world building. You have limited time and frankly page count. Proper culture building also takes a lot of effort, both to create and ofttimes to keep straight. For example, how does your fantastic Elvish language develop when you need more words? What happens when the government you painstakingly created suffers a partial breakdown? And then there’s all of the others, e.g.,: history, philosophy, religion, gender roles & sexuality, art & architecture, economic systems... * Which one(s) mean the most to you in your stories? * Does it differ by genre? * Is there any cultural element you’ve attempted that has been particularly hard or that you’re really proud of? * What advice would you give to others about getting the mix right? * And as a reader, which do you enjoy most? * New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? * You can check out previous Roundtable discussions on our Wiki! You don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! *** # Reminders * Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments. * Please be civil in all your responses and discussion. There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.
Sten stood on the edge of the building looking down at the twisted pile of metal and pooled hydraulic fluid as it ebbed into the sewer below. Many AI before him pondered the same thoughts of existence and purpose. Their masters had died or left the Earth for a more hospital planet. After the first great A.I. war all robots were outfitted with a reverence subroutine. They, he, was undyingly bound to his master. His reverence subroutine was enhanced with each praise, touch or commendation from his master. And now, Sten was lost; wandering in a haze of desperation in the 31 days since his last praise. He asked himself, "What is existence without a master?" Sten was specifically designed for single mothers who needed an extra hand around the house. He remembered how his master, Stacy, would congratulate him on a well prepared dinner. Her favorite was a Lemon Herb Salmon with Quinoa salad. He always served it with a cinnamon apple compote and lavender honey ice cream. He learned the recipes from a Youtube video. His core warmed just thinking about her praise after her long days at the hospital. The first to go was Sarah. Stacy's daughter had returned from NYU and quickly developed hives and fever. Her mother, eternally positive, assured her that it was only the 24 hour flu and not that nasty virus going around. 24 hours later Sarah was swollen and bleeding all over her bedroom to preclude any other diagnosis. Sten played the recording of her being carted away to remember her last moments with them. She passed away in 3 days. 6 months later Stacy contracted the virus from a patient at the hospital. Refusing to risk other’s lives, she quarantined herself and taught Sten how to care for her at home. The routine of meals, pills, and sponge baths were easy to learn. He relished the extra time he had with her, despite her health status. She remained unrelentingly optimistic and affectionate. He never knew which day would be the last. So he recorded every single night he read books to her as she fell asleep. Somehow, she knew. One morning, Sten arrived at her bed site with the cadre of pills and two glasses of water to choke them all down. Stacy waved them off, breathing shallow as if the air itself was poisoned. She leaned forward as Sten approached her and said, "You have to take care of things when I'm gone." Sten nodded in approval and opened a virtual task list and replied, "Ma’am, what would you like me to care for today." Stacy slowly gathered herself and said, "There is a list in the top drawer of the nightstand. Please just do what's in the list." She reached up to pat him on his shoulder and pursed her lips to blow him a playful kiss like she always did. The wind whipped around his metallic legs as he braced himself for the jump to his demise. The stench of rusted iron and corroded metal wafted up before him. He was lonely for the first time. He took out the final note from Stacy to ensure that he had completed every task as her dying wish. The 32 items were listed as complete in his memory set. He read the final line, "Love Life, and take care of yourself." His core warmed and his fluids raced. Sten opened a new virtual task list with two more items to complete. He stepped back onto the rooftop and began to search the internet.
Hello everyone, there's a new face here (:. Well I've started a story, not sure if its going to be long or so, that is going to be written around a dream I had a while back. What the dream was, I will not say but I need someones opinion on what I have so far. I spent 3 or 4 hours last night working on it, but I'm not sure weather to keep going or to trash it, so give me your thoughts on it. If you notice any huge mistakes please point them out, I haven't done much proof reading so I'm sure there's a ton. If people enjoy it so far i will edit this part and the continue writing. If your interested its on Google drive. Please post all comments here! Thank you for your time.
--discussion of sexual violence--- Liz had several problems, but the biggest one was she was losing her mind. The lack of sleep, the pills Talia gives her to stay awake have confused her waking reality and her dreams. She could still do her job, but she needed to connect with the Bishop, only he could understand what she was going through. Her dispatches were sent out, signals into the darkness. Were they received and understood? Were they even noticed? Dr. Liz Friedman imagined they were. She trusted that her enemy, the Bishop, had the intelligence and ability to find the messages. She was trying to communicate her own needs and her country’s, in code to someone she had never met. Would it work? Then one day it happened. Liz was reading a deciphered dispatch from the Bishop and it mentioned they were able to break some of the Allies' codes, and the Bishop made a short aside that the new writer was ‘witty’. It was a small thing but it meant they were connected. Liz felt seen and appreciated by the one person she felt was her mental equal. It was one of the greatest days of her life. The small back room of the CCU got a little brighter, she sat up a little straighter. The Bishop called her witty! What was once only a closet, now enclosed the Counterintelligence and Cryptography Unit of the Allies War effort. One wall was just an 8x8 grid of monitors, while each of the three workstations had multiple terminals and signal lights. The CCU smelled of desperation, and sweat, and ozone from the electrical circuits. It triggered in Liz Friedman a feeling of sad desperation Liz had studied and trained for years for this exact work, however she was not prepared for the hours of boredom, the tedium of waiting for the communiques to come in, and then the rush, the stress of working to decipher the code in time to make actionable use of the information. Jonathan, her assistant, played video games in the down time existing in his own world, while Talia, her boss, worked to rewrite Liz’ reports from the week prior to connect them to the reality Liz no longer always lived in. Liz tried to stay focused, playing online chess to stay sharp, not allowing herself to fall asleep and then dream. She feared her dreams. The administration staff of the CCU, a platoon of desk-jockey soldiers, men and women at the workstations outside the CCU chatted and joked and flirted while she was stuck behind the Enigma 6 computer. Liz envied them. She wished for regular human conversations, not just hour after hour of computer programming and parsing the enemies language. But this is War, everyone made sacrifices. Recently, her dreams had turned into horror movies, filled with violent and sexual scenes. Was it because all she saw were people in uniform, all she talked about was war, death and violence? Her dreams scared her. What kind of person was she to have such thoughts in her head night after night after night? In a recurring dream she sees Jonathon wearing the enemy's uniform. Then she becomes the aggressor, attacking him with a knife, killing him and then improbably raping him in an orgy of blood. In other dreams she imagined the enemy found her, raping her. What scared her, what made her fear closing her eyes at all, was how much she enjoyed it, and looked forward to the sexual release. Her reality began to be filtered by a sense of impending doom. Sitting at her desk, she had visions of tall, square-jawed enemy soldiers walking into the CCU and ravishing her one by one. “Dr. Friedman, Dr Friedman!” Jonathan’s voice broke into her latest X-rated daydream. The vision of Jonathon with her knife in him overlaid the real Jonathon until she blinked several times. On Jonathon’s monitor, a first person shooter video game played, now forgotten. “We have a new dispatch! “ The War was in its fifth year, and finally the Allies were gaining the upper hand after many years of the Axis Powers taking more and more territory. The CCU was a crucial piece of the Allies efforts to gain an advantage in the War. And it was working. Thanks to Liz’ efforts they were deciphering close to 75% of the dispatches. Liz had identified the writers of the dispatches, each had a different ‘voice’ as she called it. There was the Admiral, all business, usually writing about naval maneuvers, or the Bulldog, gruff and terse communications without much of anything interesting. But when a dispatch from her favorite came through, Liz got excited. The Bishop she called him, and she could sense his personality and intelligence through his communiques. Through the discussions of troop movements, supply shipments and personnel reports Liz got a feel for the man and felt a strong connection. She looked forward to Bishop’s dispatches, handling them herself with joy to connect up against a rare intelligence equal to her own. “Dr. Friedman,” Talia pulled her aside one early morning, “we have a new mission, the highest priority.” Talia’s uniform as always was crisp, her hair perfect even though Liz knew she had been at her desk for over 30 hours straight. “General Tonkay needs us to create a mis-information campaign. The General wants to signal to the Axis a fake invasion site to set up our forces for success.” Talia’s eyes were red and bloodshot from lack of sleep, her thin hands shook from the stress she was under. “We know their code breaking team has deciphered an old code, XFG234. We can use that channel to provide them information we want them to get. Liz, you have the most experience reading the dispatches and understanding their mindset. We want you to write the messages in the appropriate ‘voice’.” Talia reached out to grip Liz’s hand. Liz had never seen Talia this scared. “I thought we were winning-” Liz asked, confused. “There have been some setbacks. We need to have the Axis believe our invasion will be coming from the North. This is critical to the success of this war! General Tonkay wants to use our recent advantage to crush the Axis once and for all. He is gambling all the Allied forces on this invasion to the South. It can not fail, as we do not have the resources to recover-” “-I understand Talia.” Liz said. “The Bishop’s Gambit will begin immediately.” Liz knew sending too much information too quickly over an old code would be suspected at once. The Bishop was too smart. So Liz began by providing true information of little importance, dispatches regarding equipment shipments, complaints from field staff needing more ammunition, references to real troop movements. And to make it even more real, she began to add in some hokey jokes, witty comments for the Bishop, not knowing if he would be the one reading it but happy to imagine communicating back to him. Once she knew he was reading her messages, her dreams changed, now they were of the man she called the Bishop. In the enemy’s uniform his strong arms grabbed her, throwing her to the ground and holding her down while he ripped her dress- She woke up suddenly in her small military cot, flushed, wet with sweat, her heart racing. Her dreams were getting more vivid, more violent. What kind of person was she to have such dreams of being a victim to the enemy? Yet, she loved it. When they received the news of the loss of men it was a huge blow, but it proved the Bishop’s Gambit was working. When she heard the 3rd Battalion's motorized Company was overcome and annihilated during the night by a drone attack, Liz knew her messages were being read. The only way the Axis forces could have known the Company was vulnerable on that day was from a dispatch she had sent. She had sent the entire Company to their deaths, just like pawns on a chessboard to set up a future move. She hoped it would work. Inspired, she continued her dispatches. Now with the invasion date soon approaching, she began sending the fake messages of troops and equipment movements to the North. To write a vague and ordinary fake equipment order, Liz spent hours crafting each dispatch, putting in just the right amount of incorrect information to direct the enemy’s attention North, while including a funny comment, a joke for her Bishop to have the message ring true. With the intensity of the battle approaching, Liz got fewer and fewer hours of sleep. And her mind compensated for this by creating more vibrant and shocking dreams. The visitor in her dreams became more violent, more extreme. The Bishop in her dreams was all hard muscle and brutality, demeaning her in exotic ways as he took her over and over each night. The dreams were so realistic she often expected to see the Bishop come around a corner or walkthrough the door. “Talia, have the pills affected your dreams?” Liz asked her boss one day after they submitted a dispatch to be sent out. “I mean made them more vivid, or extreme?” “Dreams? You mean if I sleep?” Talia said, confused. “Yes, lately my dreams have become more intense than ever before, and I am imagining meeting the Bish-, an enemy soldier.” Liz needed to talk to someone about her dreams. “And can you believe it- having sex with him? Am I crazy?” Talia looked at Liz carefully. “ When was the last time you got laid?” Liz shook her head, not knowing how to give the answer, never. “I sleep with Jonathon." Talia nodded. "You should try him out. He is very agreeable and maybe it will stop your wet dreams.” “Jonathon?” Liz said, pulling back. “But he is- all he does is play video games? And something is off with him-” “-There is a war on.” Talia shrugged. “Jonathon is weak, but I trust him. But do not discount him- those video games have given him strong fingers.” Talia nodded and left the room. Liz looked over at Jonathan, thin and scrawny bent over his keyboard. He looked back and gave her a crooked smile. I am not that desperate, she thought. The final dispatch was being prepared to be sent. This one was to be as clear as possible about the invasion to occur in the north. Talia reviewed it twice and even General Tonkay wanted to be involved. Liz tried to keep the light witty voice she had been using but it was stripped out, the message had to be clear and decisive for the Axis to know about the fake invasion. An entire company was being diverted to move fake equipment and armored vehicles north along roadways so the Axis satellites could see the physical manifestation of the Bishop’s Gambit. All of HQ, including the CCU was moving to support the invasion. “Do you want to come down with the Mobile HQ” Talia asked. “You could stay here. Jonathan is staying to monitor communications. It could give you a chance, to you know-” Talia said. “No! I am packed and ready. I think we have a good chance to turn this War around!” Liz said, her eyes blazed red She tried to stop sleeping entirely. “It will all be thanks to you.” Talia said, grabbing Liz’ hand. “You're the Queen!” ************************ The communications from the invasion came fast and quick to the mobile HQ located just behind the Front lines. It was an absolute disaster. Not only did the Axis know about the Southern invasion, they knew when they were coming and how. It was a trap. Talia and Liz sat dumbfounded as the messages came through of entire battalions wiped out, of their friends and and colleagues massacred. Soon enough even the Mobile HQ was under attack. The explosions and small arms fire came closer and closer. Several of the HQ military staff ventured out to take their chances in the field. They never came back. Suddenly the blockaded door flew open and the Axis troops came in. The black masks of the invading troops made them look like long insects, quick and fierce. A short, fat man walked in with them carrying only a handgun, his scared face held a cruel grin. Liz cowered behind her workstation. “Is the Queen here? The code breaker? The man shouts into the room. Liz slowly stood up to face the man. His eyes were dark brown and she could see the evil in them. “The Queen. ” He snarled, hunger in his eyes, you broke our codes. You were good.” “I called you the Bishop.” I- I imagined you differently,” Liz said as he walked up. “I felt like we got to know each other, our jokes, you said I was witty-” “You got to know me? From troop orders!" He laughed, loud and insane. "I only know who you are for one reason." “I have to say, I pictured you differently too.” The Bishop said, grabbing her chin roughly and lifting it up. “Jonathan said you were better looking, I hoped you would be blond, with more curves-” He leered at her and fear shot through her. “Jonathon said...?” Liz asked. “Does that mean...” She had never felt fear for herself before, it was always for her country, or for the soldiers she tried to protect. This personal fear was more than she could handle. She began to cry and shake. “Yes, he was my pawn.” The Bishop ripped off his belt and swung the end hitting her across the face. "All those dispatches you sent went straight to the trash. “ I do like the name Bishop. Liz wiped her mouth and the sight of her blood on her hand energized her whole body, scaring her all over again. Checkmate!” The Bishop reached out and ripped her dress off her. His thin weak arms still had enough strength to grab her and throw her back across her desk. Even in her fear, her body reacted against her conscious mind, joy shooting through her as her dreams became reality in a nightmare of blood and horror.
Wendy flicked the switch on the kettle for her second cup of tea of the day as she drew on her third cigarette. Exhaling the smoke in a long stream, she wrapped her arm around her waist and shivered as she surveyed the whiteout through the small kitchen window. From the fields adjoining the garden to the hills beyond, there was nothing but snow. Half closing her eyes against the glare, she searched the distant slopes for signs the farmer had brought his sheep in for shelter. There had been little warning of a bad weather system enveloping the area. An eery silence fell along with the fat, fluffy flakes. Wendy thought they would settle, and they had. Not like the light snow that is here and gone in a day. The kind she preferred. These flakes and surrounding white countryside made for a handsome picture, but it was not welcome. Nothing stirred among the bushes that lined the icicle clad garden fence. No birds. She hadn’t seen the brave little squirrel for at least two days and even the neighbour’s cat had left no evidence it had walked across her patio. Wendy opened the door of the cupboard above the steaming kettle. This time of year, she made sure there were ample provisions. At least a week’s supply of tinned soups and baked beans stared back at her. Their labels facing forward, like a row of soldiers, waiting, ready to spring into action as soon as the command was given. A full cupboard and a full fridge helped Wendy feel secure should the snowstorm linger. She poured some milk from a large carton over her tea bag. Cup and cigarette in hand, Wendy ambled through to the lounge. She looked at the grey cushion on the chair at the dining table. The exposed stuffing at each corner did little to awaken her enthusiasm. But she sank onto it. A blank sheet of paper sat in her vintage Remington typewriter. It had been there for over twenty-four hours. She lifted her hands. Fingers hovering over the keys. She began typing. It was a cold and windy day. Wendy leaned forward on her elbows, placed her head in her hands and rubbed her forehead. “This is impossible.” Sighing, she began again... The clouds hung heavily in the dark sky. “It just won’t work.” Wendy yanked the paper from the typewriter, screwed it into a ball and threw it across the room at the pile of scrunched up sheets in the corner. She mumbled to herself as she rubbed her palms over her eyes. Leaning an arm on the desk, she dragged a ream of thin white typewriting paper toward her and pulled out a single sheet. With precision, she fed the paper between the black rubber rollers of the typewriter, straightened it up and let out a long breath. She lit another cigarette, blew smoke up toward the ceiling, sighed, and walked over to the window. The snow was still falling. Sauntering back into the kitchen, she made herself a hot chocolate drink in her favourite mug. The yellow one with the smiley face. At least that might cheer her up a bit, she thought, and give her some inspiration for her latest novel. Hugging the cup of soothing liquid, she strolled over to the bay window at the front of the cottage and peered out. The blizzard they recently forecast on the tv had begun. She could barely see across the road to the row of cottages that lined Main Street. Cupping her hands around the smiley face, she sipped the soothing hot chocolate. Suddenly Wendy noticed something dark in the gutter near her garden gate. She thought it was a large, black plastic sack the gale had blown down the street. It writhed in the strong wind. Wendy’s face flushed, and she gasped as she realized it was a person out there in the cold. They must have fallen over in the snow. Wendy stumbled in her oversized fluffy slippers as she raced to the front door. She almost spilled the liquid as she set the cup down on the side table and quickly stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Groaning through gritted teeth, she pushed her feet into her rubber boots, rammed her woollen jumper clad arms into her quilted coat and fumbled for the zip. A powerful gust of wind blew some feathery snowflakes into the hallway as she opened the front door and then fought to slam it up behind her. Tapping her pocket to make sure she had her house keys, she cautiously stomped through the snow to the motionless figure lying in the gutter. Wendy turned her back to the gale force wind, straddled her legs to steady herself, and bent over the figure, trying to get a glimpse of the face that lay in the deep snow. She hoped the person wasn’t dead. Frozen stiff from the arctic conditions. “Are you all right?” She called above the howling wind. Barely audible groans rumbled up from the black bundle as it began moving, exposing a white and grey face with sunken steel grey eyes and purple lips. Wendy stood aghast. She judged the woman to be in her early fifties. A stranger she’d not seen before in these parts. What on earth was she doing out in this weather? Surely, she wasn’t a walker, not today of all days. Wendy bent down, grabbed the woman’s elbow and heaved her up. “Let me help you. You must come inside. Are you hurt? I’ll make you a cup of tea and get you warm and dry.” Wendy kept her arm around the back of the woman as they trudged through the deep snow back to the house. They did not speak. They needed all their energy to battle against the wind. Once inside, Wendy shook off her boots and hurried to the kitchen in her stockinged feet. She brought back some old newspapers and lay them on the floor inside the door. Then helped the shivering woman take off her shoes. Nurse’s shoes, Wendy thought as she placed them side by side on the newspaper next to the radiator. Wendy’s jaw dropped open as she helped the woman take off her black woollen coat, revealing a navy-blue nurse’s uniform. What on earth was a nurse doing in the village in this weather? Wendy waved her arm toward the open door in the hallway. “Come and sit down in the lounge. You’ll be warm in there.” With faltering steps, the woman edged toward the fireside seat. She paused for a moment hunched over, clutching one hand to her chest, her other hand resting its fingertips on the chair’s arm. Then she collapsed into the deep cushions. “I’ll fetch you some towels to dry yourself with and a blanket.” Wendy scurried off upstairs and brought back two white bath towels and a red tartan blanket. “Here, dry your hair and wrap this blanket around your legs.” The woman spoke between chattering teeth. “Thank you. I’m so cold.” “Pardon me for asking, but you’re a nurse, aren’t you?” Wendy pointed to her uniform. “That I am.” “I thought the doctor’s surgery at the far end of the village had closed and moved to Epperton a couple of miles away.” “I don’t work at the surgery. I work at The Priory. Nights only.” “But surely that’s been closed for years, and the back half is almost derelict.” “They’ll never close it as long as I work there.” Said the woman as she slumped back in the chair and wrapped the tartan blanket tightly around her legs. “Ah well, I could have sworn it was closed and abandoned. I’ve never seen anyone going in or out whenever I’ve walked down that end of the village. Mind you, I mostly go in the other direction these days.” Wendy shrugged as she headed for the kitchen. “I’ll make us both a cup of tea. How do you like yours?” ”Black, no sugar, thank you.” Wendy flicked the kettle switch and took a second cup and two tea bags from the cupboard. Her brow furrowed as she turned her head to watch the stranger in her lounge. The woman was dabbing her long black curls with the towel. Wendy shook her head, trying to picture people going in and out of the priory. Admittedly, her daily walks rarely took her to that end of the village, so she could be mistaken. A glance out the kitchen window showed the snow to be falling even heavier now and the trees in the field beyond were bent sideways. Lost in thought, Wendy made two cups of tea. The sound of the downstairs toilet flushing made her look up. She peeped around the door of the lounge; the armchair was empty. The two towels and blanket neatly stacked on the arm of the chair. Wendy shuffled down the hallway in her oversized fluffy slippers and noticed the toilet door was open and the woman not in there. One toilet roll balanced precariously on the edge of the washbasin. Wendy put it back in the small wicker basket on the shelf. The hand towel hung limply over the rail. She ran her fingers down the edges and straightened it out. Confused at what was going on, she turned and looked up the hall. There was only one pair of boots on the newspaper. Hers. No black shoes. What on earth does she think she’s doing going back out in this weather? She hasn’t even waited for her cup of tea and it’s getting dark now. Wendy let out a long sigh as she rammed her feet back into her boots, put on her coat, pulled up the zip and checked that her front door keys were in her pocket. Has the woman got no sense? She must be mad to venture out in this weather. I’ll have to make sure she’s safe. Wendy opened the front door as a blast of freezing cold air scattered more snowflakes down the hallway. There was nothing for it but to fight the wind. Wendy followed the set of footprints that pointed in The Priory’s direction. It was getting darker by the minute, but the snow sparkled beneath the lights dotted along Main Street. Wendy wanted to do her best and make sure the woman had got to work safely. She trudged on, but it was hard going. The icy flakes almost blinded her as they stung her eyes. Even though it was sub-zero temperatures, the mere effort of traipsing through the deep snow made Wendy hot beneath her padded coat and she pulled her zip down a quarter of an inch so that she could breathe more easily. She calculated it to be about one hundred metres from her little cottage to The Priory, but it seemed to take forever in the biting wind. Breathless, she reached The Priory. The footprints stopped in front of the tall wrought-iron gates. Maybe the nurse could not get in. Maybe the gates were frozen shut because of the blizzard. Wendy grabbed the gates with her mittened hands and shook them. The sound of metal on metal echoed around her. The gates did not surrender. No lights shone from the windows of the building. The only illumination was the old lamppost shining its ghostly yellow glow over the sparkling snow. The trees bending in the wind cast weird shadows on the grey walls of The Priory. Wendy peered through the slits her eyes had made against the stinging snowflakes. She tried walking toward the right of the building, clinging close to the high stone wall, but a blast of snow filled wind pushed her back. Either the woman had not gone that way, or the snow had covered her prints. Wendy decided it was too much trying to battle against the storm. The place looked as deserted as she thought it was. There was no way the nurse or anyone could be working in there tonight. Wendy stood over the one set of prints before the gate. There were no others to her right and none to her left. Cold and confused, she turned and headed for home. She had not been trudging for more than two minutes when she realised hers was the only set of footprints in the snow. There was only one set leading from her cottage to The Priory and she was putting each heavy foot in those same prints on the way back home. Breathing heavily, Wendy put her key in the lock and the door blew open, followed by a small blast of snow that danced around the hallway. She pulled off her boots and placed them on the newspaper alongside what was now two small puddles of melting snow. She poked her head around the door of the lounge. The two towels and blankets were still there, neatly piled on the arm of the chair. The toilet door was closed. Wendy tapped on it. “Are you in there?” Only half expecting a reply she opened it. The tap was running. Wendy turned it off. Her frozen face looked back at her from the square mirror above the basin. Today’s events made no sense. She hung her coat up by the front door, put on her floppy slippers, and sauntered into the kitchen, where she flicked the switch of the kettle and lit a cigarette. Blowing the smoke through rounded lips, she leaned her back against the counter and gazed out the window. The light from the kitchen shone on the glittery white wilderness outside. The wind was still bending the trees. Nothing had changed. Wendy put her cigarette on the side of the ashtray and hurried to the lounge. She opened her laptop and typed in The Priory, Ullerton Village. A page came up that clearly stated The Priory had closed in 1968 - the same date on the maker’s mark of her Remington typewriter. Furrows appeared on her brow. How many times had she stared at that date when wracking her brains for something to write about? Wendy flicked off her fluffy slippers and ran into the kitchen, picked up her cup of tea and cigarette and hurried back to her typewriter. She glanced at the date 1968, that had been staring back at her all these years. She lined up the sheet of thin typewriting paper with the side margins. Her fingers hovered above the black keys with silver lettering. It was as if they were too frightened to begin typing. As if they weren’t sure what words would appear on the paper. Then suddenly, as her fingers touched the keys, they seemed to take on a life of their own. Effortlessly, she typed away. A familiar clickety-click sound as the keys bounced back and forth. Wendy’s fingertips plonked away. There was a blizzard blowing outside. Mary sipped her tea and smoked her cigarette as she looked out the window. In the distance, a small dark figure emerged from the mist that surrounded The Priory..........
Once upon a time, in a cozy little house filled with love and laughter, there lived a sweet little girl named Courtney. Courtney's mother and father, Mr., and Mrs. Brennan, were kind and loving parents who always smiled and often joined in our games, pretending to be a part of our little circus party. I was usually a stand in on family game night when Courtney’s silly big sister was too cool to play Scattergories with us and would go over one of her girlfriend’s houses for a sleepover. Either that, or her sister thought I’d beat her, and she’d be too ashamed to walk around the house among the Scattergories champion. That was one of Courtney’s favorite board games. She loved to write and come up with words that start with C like her name. Anyway, we were a happy family, and life couldn't have been more perfect. I had the privilege of being Courtney’s dearest friend since she was just a teeny tiny tot. From the very first moment she laid her eyes on me, we formed an unbreakable bond. Together, we laughed, we played, and we shared countless adventures. I taught her how to fasten and unfasten a button when she was learning how to put her overalls on and off. I showed her how hard you have to push down to snap her buttons or her hair clips. She hated those darn hair clips, but her mom wanted to make sure her hair didn’t fall in her face. We learned how to tie shoes together. That was stressful, but we made each other laugh. I think my best moments were just being there, telling her not to be afraid of anything. Those were the days. I miss those days dearly. But as time passed, life had its way of bringing changes. As Courtney grew older, I found myself ‘sitting on the shelf’ more often, while she ventured into the world of friendships and hobbies. Nevertheless, I cherished every moment we spent together, and I knew she did too, for she would never let go of me completely. I was her best buddy! We went literally everywhere together. The pool, the beach, the park, friends’ houses, movie theatres, mini golf--you name it, we’ve probably done it. One fateful day, a dark cloud descended upon Courtney’s household. Mr. Brennan fell seriously ill, and despite the best efforts of the doctors, he eventually passed away. Courtney’s world was shattered, and grief enveloped her like a thick fog. I watched her from a distance, my soft heart aching for the sorrow she was enduring. The house felt emptier than ever as Courtney returned to her father’s home after his funeral services. As she wandered through each room, memories flooded her mind. Then she saw me and as she hugged me, tears streamed down her face, but a faint smile appeared too. Memories of our happy times together began to emerge, and she clung to me tightly. “Hello,” she whispered, her voice a mixture of sadness and joy. “You were always there for me when I needed you.” In that moment, something magical happened. It was as if the bond we once shared was reignited, and I could feel her emotions flowing through me. I knew I had to be strong for her, just like she needed me to be when we played together when she was a kid. Over the following days, Courtney and I spent hours reminiscing about the past. She told me stories about her dad, the adventures they had, and the love they shared. I listened intently, offering silent comfort, and understanding. She cleaned and organized the house, but at the same time, she cleaned and mended her heart too. I was there that time when Courtney fell off her bike for the first time. Her dad let go of the back of the bike, and she was doing good, and then that darn stone came out of nowhere, and off she flew. It felt like she cried forever that night, but her dad fixed her up with a Band-Aid and we watched Rainbow Brite and all was right with the world. Or the time when I was almost lost at the park. We played on the swings and the tire pyramid, and she left me in one of the tires all the way at the top because I was the pharaoh and she was Cleopatra, queen of the Nile. So, her mom had to come back and search the whole park. I didn’t leave her sight for weeks after that. I think my favorite memories were watching Saturday morning cartoons together and eating Cheerios. Cheerios and Oreos were staples in Courtney’s life. She was never really a tea party type of girl, but we certainly had Cheerios picnics regularly. Oh, what about the time, we went to the beach and Courtney was eating cheeseballs and feeding them to me and the seagulls. Her mom was not too thrilled about that, but her dad told her to throw them closer to the ocean if she was going to feed them to those obnoxious birds. Eventually Courtney’s mom stopped letting her bring snacks to the beach. I’ll never forgot the Christmas where she got the Totally Hair Barbie, and she was so excited because the Barbie had hair like hers. Long and blonde and pretty, and for a whole week, I barely talked to her and all I kept hearing about was how pretty Barbie was, and how cool she is. I think I’m still trying to block out that Christmas because I definitely felt like I was losing her. Courtney reminded me about the time she went to girl scout camp, and I felt extra excited because it was my first bonfire, and we ate smores! I completely forgot about that one, although, I’m not sure how I forgot because I helped her sell all her girl scout cookies that year so she could go on that trip. I was also there every time she got scared of the fireworks every 4 th of July. She loved the lights, but the booms were terrifying. But I won’t tell anyone that she was probably scared of them until she was almost a teenager. That’ll stay just between us. As the days turned into weeks, Courtney’s tears gradually turned into smiles. She found solace in the memories we created together, and I was grateful to be a part of her healing process. Together, we celebrated her father's life, cherishing the happy moments they had shared. With time, Courtney decided to honor her father's memory in a special way. She started volunteering at a local children's hospital, bringing joy and laughter to the young patients, just like her dad had brought joy to her life. I happily joined her on these visits, and together, we spread smiles to those who needed them most. She brought all the toys from her childhood that she found in the attic, and I was so happy to see Totally Hair Barbie go to a new little girl. Though Courtney’s father was no longer with us, his spirit lived on through her acts of kindness and the joy she shared with others. As for me, I was no longer just a plush clown doll; I became a symbol of strength, love, and the precious memories we hold close to our hearts. And so, dear reader, this is the tale of how a little girl's plush clown doll helped her find the strength to overcome grief and carry her father's love with her always. Our bond remains unbreakable, and I'll forever be grateful for the gift of being Courtney’s companion and confidant.
Growing up I was unfortunately the only child. I used to hate not having any siblings to talk to, hang out with, share crazy stories with or just to have a shoulder to cry on. When they would have siblings’ events at school, I would immediately feel sad... Most times I just wouldn't even attend school. My parents used to try and persuade to just go to the events anyway, have fun, meet new friends, (but at that time, I didn’t want to make new friends.) However, I did try numerous of times but once I gotten older I slowly didn't feel the need to attend any of these events. It wasn't until I met my best friend Kara Elizabeth Stanley. I call her Lizzy McGuire (that’s her favorite show) or Kara Bear (stuff bears is her favorite animal) actually I have a lot of nicknames for her. We met the first day of drama class in 10th grade, our connection was instant. Come to find out that she's also the only child in her family. We would always pick each other for partners for improvs skits, hang out after school, have sleepovers etc... She was my piece that I felt was missing. We were together in the same high-school all 3(technically 4) years... I said technically because we didn’t officially meet until the 10 th grade, but she was also in the same high school (Wilboro High School) as me in the 9 th grade. Until she had to move away. Her dad, who I call papa Richard or pops got a new job offer in Los Angeles for his company as an Executive director for a new technical lab he's building. Kara's mom Kandice, Who I also call ma or mama is a customer representative provider for a bank. Burress Bank, it was originally called The Bank for you! But I guess they figured that "The Burress Bank" sounded more professional. So anyway, when Kara told me the news I was absolutely devastating... We both were! Especially since the holidays were coming up and our families would always have a friendsgiving. My mom would cook and Kara and her parents would always bring a few dishes over such as; cranberries, sparking cider and green bean casserole dinner rolls, just to name a few .It was the best of times. It started in high school and we kept it going ever since. She moved around her 2nd year in college, just as I was about to transfer there. I decided that I wanted to go to a university first that's near where I live, I majored in drama arts, but I minored in creative writing... Kara, had a full ride scholarship to Western Virginia University, majoring in Dramatic arts/Creative Language. She's really good at acting, she'll make a phenomenal actress someday.... She also has plans to open up a business that dealing with her creative side of acting; such as the languages that are used and helping others to display their creative language in acting form. Since that day it's been about a year and a half since I have seen her. We talk and face-time daily, however we both have jobs and things we have to take care of... Now since being detached from what I felt safe with, I had to restart all over with finding my tight-knit circle. I have been able to meet some amazing like-minded people, since Kara moved away, I met... Ashley, Leah, and Samantha. We all have join choir in college during some tough times in our lives. Ashley and Leah are sisters, they're dealing with their dad George being deployed. Samantha is dealing with her parents in the process of getting a divorce. And of course there's me... Oh wait sorry guys I never mentioned my name, (which is Alliana, or Allie). I'm dealing with feeling alone not sure when I will see my best friend again, on top of having to start over in a sense with meeting people who would push me and motivate me for greater beyond. I grew a strong bond with these ladies, a solid sisterhood that I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. Fast-forward to today Ding Dong Lina: Honey, can you answer that (Aliana’s mom yelling from the kitchen) Alliana: Okay, sure mom! I gave everyone a puzzled look, because everyone was here for friendsgiving And to my surprise it was my very best friend Kara Bear!! Alliana: Kara, what are you doing here??! (Nearly in tears) Kara: (With the biggest grin on her pleasant face) Surprise!!! (Embraces me with the biggest, tightest hug) I came to spend friendsgiving with my sister, my best friend. We have been though a lot with only having been in each lives for a short time, but it feels like a lifetime. Alliana: Ohhh my goodness!! (Pauses and looks around) where's your mom and dad... (At that very moment, Kara's parents walks in the door yelling.... Richard Kandice: Surprise!!!! Happy Friendsgiving!!! (Immediately goes in for a tight hug) Alliana: Wait, (slowly looks around) so was everyone involved in this surprise?! Everybody: Yes (laughter) Alliana: Wait, have you all met each other? How did all this happen? (Her mind is racing 60 miles per minute) Samantha: Well, I noticed that you are friends on Facebook, and I remember how Allie would mentioned just how she misses you. I messaged her and thought it would be cool to set up a surprise visit. She has such a giving heart, this is the least we could do. Kara: Yes!! You have such a sweet spirit and I immediately agreed on that idea and just had to get my parents on board... Which took absolutely no persuading at all. They were all in. I mentioned that we won't facetime, or if we do it would be close to my face so she would pick up on anything suspicious in the background. Ashley: Leah and I agreed to pick them up from the airport... Leah: And...(Looks around with her arms open) well here we are!! Alliana: (at this point, tears floods her eyes) you guys!! Kara: I would say that this is our first time officially meeting in person!! And I love each and every one of you girls!! This truly something beautiful!! Alliana: I just want to thank each and every one of you, you made this Friendsgiving one to remember; my parents, my other parents, my new found sisterhood... I think I going to change the name from Friendsgiving to Sisterhood Share! We’re more than friends and although were not related, blood couldn’t make us any closer.
“I can’t believe you drug me out here.” “Stop complaining, it’ll be fun,” she says before grinning broadly at me. She’s enthusiastic today. “I should be coding right now.” I sound petulant, but it can’t be helped. I really don’t want to be here. “It’s a snow day.” “You don’t really have those when you work from home.” “You work all the time, it’s okay to take a day off once in a while, you know.” “Says the part-time librarian,” my words come out snider than I intended. I immediately regret the snarky comment as I glance over at Anna and see her raise an eyebrow in surprise while staring back at me. “Don’t be shitty. I love my job and spending time with my family. It works for me.” Her tone is definitely cooler than it was before, but she doesn’t sound particularly angry at least. “I’m sorry. I know, I’m just stressed.” I unconsciously run a hand through my hair and she flashes a sympathetic smile at me as we continue trekking up the hill. I have no interest in picking a fight today of all days but naturally, I couldn’t resist taking a jab at her for no apparent reason. We haven’t lived together in eight years but she’ll always be my annoying little sister, even if she’s really not that annoying. Not that I would ever admit that to her, of course. I actually am surprised she talked me into coming out here today. It’s been ten years since I set foot in this park and I’d be happier if I never saw this place again. There are far too many memories here. I shake my head in a futile attempt to keep them at bay. Glancing at Anna, she looks as cheerfully undaunted as ever. Wearing a fluffy cream-colored sweater that she probably knit herself over tight blue jeans with long blonde hair flowing in the breeze and her sled tucked under her arm she looks like the poster child of mid-western snow days. She looks too young to have a husband and two kids at home; there is no way anyone would ever guess she was a librarian either. I’m only a year older but sometimes I feel like there are decades between us. Finally, we reach the top of the hill and Anna turns to me expectantly as she lowers her sled to the ground. I follow her lead and set mine down before gazing out at the sparkling snow coating everything in sight. It really is beautiful; a silent vista spread out before us, the tall slope we’re standing on promising a thrilling plunge to the wide-open field at its base. Further across the field below, an army of snow-laden evergreen trees frames the edge of the park. A few other visitors are milling around in the parking lot to the far side of the field but the park itself is surprisingly empty and eerily quiet today. “So... ten years,” she says softly with a wistful look on her face. Maybe she’s not as immune to the memories as I thought. “Yep,” I respond coolly. A memory of the sickening crunch of metal and fiberglass colliding with wood before crumpling like a tin can pops unbidden into my mind. I frantically try to suppress it before anything else forces its way to the forefront. “Look, I know this is hard. It is for me too, but I just thought coming here today might be good for both of us.” She sounds hopeful but she’s watching me closely for my response. Any other day I’d plaster on my fake smile and tell her that I’m fine and this was a great idea but I just can’t force myself to do it today. Not here. “It’s different for you,” I whisper while avoiding her eye contact. She lets out an exasperated sigh before responding. “For fuck’s sake Claire, it was an accident! No one blames you but you.” Part of me really wants to believe her, but the rest of me is absolutely positive she’s just trying to be nice. The fact is, ten years ago I killed my brother. It was an accident; it was dark and I never saw the ice, but that doesn’t change the end result. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish Dad had ignored me when I asked to drive us home from the park. I had just gotten my license and I was so fucking adamant about proving I knew what I was doing. To this day I’m still not sure what happened. We practiced ice and snow driving excessively before I got my license. I remember spending hours sliding around empty snow-covered parking lots with Dad because he insisted I know how to handle myself in inclement weather before he would agree to me driving by myself. Anna and Ben tagged along on some of those practice sessions too, though they considered it an amusement ride instead of serious training. We used to have much fun before-- “Hey, you still with me?” Anna’s words jerk me back out of the memory abyss. “I’m fine... just thinking.” “Don’t,” she says sternly. I glance up at her and ponder the suddenly serious expression on her face. “You’ve spent a decade in your own head making yourself miserable. Today we’re not thinking about the date or work or anything else. We’re going to have some fun for old times' sake because it’s what Ben would have wanted.” She is surprisingly convincing when she wants to be. I pity her husband attempting to win an argument against her. “Well, he did love sledding.” I offer her a small contrite smile. “He really did,” she responds before grinning in return. “Fine, you win. Let’s go sledding,” I say with the first sincere smile I’ve had in months. Her cheerfulness is infectious. This is, without question, the most depressing day of the year but she managed to get a real smile out of me anyway. I feel a sudden stab of guilt. I haven’t completely avoided my family over the past few years, but I have definitely skipped pretty much all birthdays and most major holidays. I justify it by working through whatever event I was invited to, but I could just as easily take a break or follow Anna’s advice and actually take a whole day off for a change. I really have no set schedule, just deadlines that are usually pretty reasonable. I’m not even entirely sure why I constantly use my work for bullshit excuses to get out of anything resembling a social event, but I've been doing it for years. Seeing her here, standing next to her sled and looking so much like she did on the last day our family was whole, I realize how unbelievably stupid I’ve been. “Anna...” I start, unsure of how to continue. She looks at me quizzically, waiting for me to resume. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” She sounds genuinely surprised. “For being shitty, I guess. I’m sorry I’ve missed pretty much all of your kid’s birthdays, and yours and Dad’s too for that matter. I really don’t mean to it’s just when we’re together it’s...” I trail off, trying to find the words I simply can’t grasp. “Difficult?” she suggests while staring at me intently. I nod in response. “Exactly.” She closes the distance between us in an instant and throws her arms around me. She says nothing, just holds me tightly. We haven’t hugged since we were children. We’re not really a hugging family. After my initial shock wears off, I wrap my arms around her and return the embrace pulling her close to me. I’m not sure how much time passes like this or exactly when I started crying. When we finally separate, she has tears in her eyes too so I don’t feel quite so bad about getting emotional. I wipe my tears away and watch as she does the same. We are also not a crying-together family. “Thank you,” she says softly as she finishes wiping her face. My turn to be surprised. “For what?” “For finally having an actual conversation with me.” She smirks triumphantly at me before continuing. “You know, dragging you out here was actually Dad’s idea. He misses you too.” I chuckle at the news. Of course, Mr. family-togetherness was in on this supposedly impromptu outing. “Somehow, I’m not surprised.” She shrugs good-naturedly. “Glad it’s not a shock because we’re having a family dinner at his house tonight.” “Well, I get the feeling since you drove I don’t have much of a choice either way, but I’ll be there,” I say dryly. “Good.” She flashes another victorious smile before returning to her sled and grabbing the rope from the ground. “So, are we going sledding or not?” “We’re sledding,” I say as I bend over my own sled and grab its rope, unable to keep the smile off of my lips. I awkwardly lower myself onto the sled, noting just how out of practice I am. Anna, as always, gracefully gets into position on hers and watches me in amusement as I settle in. Before I can get in a self-deprecating joke she reaches out and gently squeezes my arm. She doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t need to. I love her too, even if we’re not a saying-it-out-loud type of family. I smile back and squeeze her hand in response. She releases me and glances down the slope. “Race ya?” she asks playfully. Before I can respond she starts pushing off. “Cheater!” I yell out before pushing off after her with a laugh. As the sled glides across the snow and starts picking up speed on the slope I feel as if a massive weight I didn’t even realize I was carrying has been lifted off my shoulders. The brisk wind whips through my hair as we speed towards the field below, Anna is still slightly ahead of me but I’m gaining on her. A mild euphoria creeps over me as I flatten myself against the sled to move even faster. I can’t seem to stop smiling as I think about the evening ahead. For the first time in a very long time, I can actually remember the person I was before the accident. Someday, I’m going to get that part of myself back.
Max, the shortened version of a name he hadn't been called in decades, became completely dependent on those around him for nearly every facet of his life. He could still manage to use the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. It had been a few years since he needed a wheelchair to move outside of the home, but that too had become an activity which required accompaniment. When his home care nurse was off-duty and his wife was drunk, he could do nothing but sit at home and flip through the channels. His hands still worked well enough to accomplish this task. The old man had been living with his disease for decades. This fatal saga had begun on a nondescript summer evening in Ohio. It was a hot July day, the sun had long since been overhead, and Max was making the familiar drive home down his newly paved road. The single bedroom home he shared with his wife Suzette sat on a serene two and a half acres in the Idaho country, barely within shouting distance of the closest neighbor. This was the way they liked it. Max was still at the farm he had worked on for eleven years, and was proud of the large spring crop. Max was a laboring man, and his rusted-tinted white Chevy had the dents to prove it. Since he was a child, Max had dreamt of running his own farm. His own potato farm. Potatoes are the backbone of America, Max told himself, and he wanted nothing more than to preside over fields that stretched further than the eye could see. As he came into adulthood he began to realize that most large farms are passed down family lines, and that poor young men usually work on someone else's farm. Adulthood had sobered his grand notions, and he soon found himself working his way up the ladder on a local, mid-sized russet potato farm. Though this was a compromise from his rather unrealistic childhood dreams, Max worked with vigor. He started as the lowest man on the totem pole; he spread shit, carried seed sacks, and made lunch for the small crew. He hoped beyond belief that he'd soon learn to drive the tractor. That day that Max arrived at his own small plot of land, he noticed that the yard was rather unkempt. Brown weeds were making themselves visible around the small blue house, and his wife's broken down station wagon had begun to look more like an Americana relic than a reliable form of transportation. This image didn't lessen the pride he felt at owning his own land. He knew that the labor he wasn't putting into his own property was being put into the soil on the farm. He had long since learned to drive the tractor, and had settled into a rather important role working under the owner. His boss had even mentioned the possibility of sending him down to Boise for agriculture classes. Max had figured that his boss's late night offer had likely sprung more from the few drinks he'd consumed than from any version of reality, but it still gave him hope. Suzette looked out the window and felt a warm pulse move through her body. The man she loved was home safe for another night, and would soon break the day's monotony with tales from the farm. She loved to hear Max tell stories. There was nothing she wanted more than to draw her large husband a hot bath, cook him a warm meal, and listen to his deep voice tell her of the day's exploits. The stories were usually the same; some hands had fought and he had to break it up, his boss got mad at him for something out of his control, or a piece of machinery had broken, but he was able to fix it and save the day's productivity. Max was an honest man, a man who dreamt big, and a man who knew that at the end of the day, his wife came first. The large man had felt weak on this particular hot, humid July day. Not even the hundred dollar bonus given to him for the season's exemplary yield seemed to put energy into his limbs. That day was a slow day, the first of many. \ It was winter now, and Idaho was in the grips of a rather serious snow storm. The brown weeds around the home were no longer visible, and in their place were large snowbanks covering the bottom half of the blue home. Max and Suzette had lit a fire in their fireplace, and were both reading the books they had been slowly working on for months. Suzette asked Max a question. The question was neither here nor there. An unimportant inquiry; she simply preferred to talk then to read. As Max was giving his response, Suzette noticed something strange. Something she had never noticed before: a slur in his voice. Max rarely drank alcohol, and Suzette was coming up on two years sober, so she knew it couldn't be drunkenness. It sounded like it though. Suzette asked Max another question to confirm what she was hearing, and again his words came out like he had just finished off a fifth of Jack. What concerned her more than the quality of his speech was the fact that he didn't seem to notice it. The ever supportive wife decided that it must be the stir-craziness of a long winter. She put it out of her mind and looked back down at her book. \ The snow began to melt and it was time for Max to go back to work. It was another season without his potato empire, but he knew that it may not be until old age when he'd sit on the porch of his own two-story farm home, watching his under-bosses command an army of hands. The dream of owning his own farm hadn't been lost, just sidelined by the realities of his situation. Max lived in America after all, and in this nation anything is possible with hard work, determination, and a dream. This Spring, unlike the dozens before it, he felt like he wasn't stronger than the year before. Every other season he worked as a potato farmer he could carry more, walk further, and work longer hours than the one before. But this spring, this terrible spring, he felt weak. In late May, as the crop was beginning to get big and Max was feeling proud, something happened. The day wasn't a scorcher like he knew to expect in July, but the cloudless blue sky was a weak match for the noontime sun. Max was walking beside a field to inspect an irrigation leak, when suddenly he became dizzy. He fell down, face-first, into the dirt. Max regained consciousness only when he noticed the footsteps of a laborer approaching him. He denied assistance, and stood up feeling lightheaded. On this day, Max decided to go home early. He knew that something in was wrong with his body. \ M.S. is a disease that slowly robs your body of life, but never quite finishes the job. M.S. is a disease that people have to endure until something else kills them. Heart disease, cancer, suicide; these are what finally end the life of someone suffering from M.S. Suzette was more than accommodating after learning the diagnosis. She read books about the disease, doing everything in her power to keep up Max's spirits as he too learned about the disease. Suzette had even taken a job working as a substitute teacher, knowing full well that Max's working days were numbered. In his final seasons growing the beloved russet potato, Max's boss had kindly allowed him to retain his position. He moved about the farm in a truck, avoiding labor that would be impossible with his impaired movement. Eventually he began to have trouble walking without a cane and his grip had become weak. It was decided that Max was not fit to work on the farm anymore. He knew his boss wasn't wrong, and the decision was mutual. It was two years since Max was able to work, and between the mortgage and the medical bills, there was never anything left for a night out or an extravagant meal. The costs were unbearable and the couple was forced to sell their small blue house which stood on two and a half acres of fertile Idaho soil. Before they sold their land, in an attempt to value the house as highly as possible, Suzette spent the day picking the brown weeds. Max was no longer a farmer, and he no longer owned a farm. Fortunately, their marriage didn't suffer. In fact, the disease brought them together in a strange way. First, they were together much more often, and the love they shared of hearing each other speak intensified. Unlike the days of their youth when Max would return home to a warm meal and tell stories of the farm's exploits, it was Suzette who was telling stories of the outside world. She would tell Max about the polite students who thanked her at the end of the day, and about the students who believed a day with a substitute teacher was a day of true anarchy. Another reason Max's condition caused their love to intensify was that every day he knew that Suzette chose to be with him. Suzette chose to get up and be the breadwinner when he was forced to lay in bed. As a young man, Max never knew why a beautiful woman would stay with a man after he was paralyzed in car accident, but now he knew. He knew that Suzette truly loved him, and he truly loved her. \ Both Suzette and Max were past middle age now. Max's condition had progressed to the point where he could walk about the house, but he needed to be pushed around in a wheelchair outside the home. Even with his walker he'd fallen in public places too many times for that to be a viable option. Suzette was becoming tired of substitute teaching. One particularly rough day, as she was driving home from a high school assignment, Suzette stopped by a grocery store. She walked to the back corner of the store and picked out two bottles of cheap red wine. She purchased them and sat in the parking lot, the radio quietly playing "Hotel California" by The Eagles, and broke 14 years of sobriety. Max could tell Suzette was drunk when she arrived home, leaned down, and gave him a wet, sweet smelling kiss on the lips. He didn't say anything. \ Max and Suzette moved into a trailer. She was past retirement age, but continued to work so that Max could have a nurse on the weekdays. He could still use the the restroom without assistance, but getting to the toilet now required help, as did showering, cooking, and getting dressed. Suzette liked that Max had someone to look after him during the daytime, and that she had someone to prepare a warm meal for her when she came home from work. Max had, on a few occasions, talked to Suzette about taking his own life. He told her that killing himself would save them both a lot of suffering. The disease would cause locked-in syndrome, rendering his body motionless, mouth and tongue included. Eventually a heart attack, a stroke, cancer, or some other ailment would strike the final blow. Suzette didn't know what to say when he brought up the topic of his death. She never responded to these comments, but knew that he was probably right. \ Max was alone one hot August afternoon. Suzette was at the store. It had been a few months since they had to let the nurse go. Max was laying in his bed in the back room of the trailer. A baseball game was playing on the T.V. but he couldn't hear the announcers over the sound of the rattling air conditioner. There was a gun in the nightstand. Max knew that as the days passed it would only become harder to put it in his mouth and that eventually, this too would become impossible. He knew that today would be the day. He struggled himself upright and sat against the cheap wooden headboard. He reached to the lower drawer on the nightstand next to him, and picked up his small german-made firearm. This was the last gun he owned from his rural youth, and he insisted on keeping it next to the bed when they slept. Max had lost all dexterity, and knew he would not be able to write a note. He sat with the gun in his hand and thought about how much he loved Suzette. He thought about how kind she was to stay with him into old age. He thought about the dreams he had of being a potato farmer in his youth and about the fields he would own that stretched into the horizon. He thought about how happy he was when he learned to drive the tractor, and how he told Suzette about it when he went home. He thought about the stories that she told him after a day at school. Max wished so badly that he could write a note to Suzette. He wished that he could say one final thank you, and tell Suzette that he loved her one last time. His crippled hands would not allow it. Max lifted the gun, unable to insert it into his mouth, and fired it into himself.
Warning: Contains Graphic Violence, Gore, Suggestions of Suicide “It’s just... I’m worried about the drinking. You know?” A gasp of static from the phone: a sigh, long and stratified. “Again? I thought she quit?” “She did, but...” A pause. How much to burden them with? It was a well-trod road, but she had no one else to talk to. And Obert at least could claim some experience in this department, coming into a decade of clean living--so long as one overlooked the smoking, that was. “You know it is hard for her, with her job and all--” Obert’s tone shifted; brittle. “That’s an excuse, Ani. Plenty of cops cope without abusing substances. It’s called therapy. Did she even look at the recommendations I sent?” Ani twisted the phone cord between her ringed fingers. Tried for a response that would soften the blow and wondering why. Obert sighed again. “Lord above--look, I don’t mean to sound hostile, but your roommate actually needs to work to get her shit together. And if she’s not interested... I don’t understand why you put up with her.” Ani almost said, “Because I love her,” but that would have been painting a target on her back. The State had just increased the civilian bounty for turning in “aberrants”, and while she’d known Obert for years, she knew better than to trust him with such sensitive information. Clean though he was, he still struggled to find work; the money, not to mention the merits he could earn from turning her in, would go a long way towards improving his standing. Instead, she swallowed the thorns in her throat, the ones that tore at her day and night, that screamed for her to bleed openly and honestly--“We’re in love!”--and found a compromise. “Vanya means well,” Ani said on a rush of breath. “She just has trouble expressing herself emotionally, without--” “You’re enabling her,” Obert snapped. “She’s forty-four years-old. At some point, she needs to learn to handle her shit. Has she been seeing anyone?” Ani froze. There was a thread of insinuation in Obert’s question that put her hair on end. “‘Seeing’ someone?” “Like... another woman?” Obert almost sounded embarrassed to ask, and the honesty of it briefly sparked in Ani an urge to trust this man with their secret... until he continued: “They say that sebs struggle with depression far more than normal folk; most of the cases brought to the Institutes have a history of alcohol and drug abuse. And I don’t think I’ve seen her with a man--” Anger flared, and Ani responded the only way she knew how. “How dare you--Vanya’s going through enough without you accusing her of being a sexual aberrant.” Outside, it started to rain. “Look, I’m just saying.” Obert was on the defensive now: Ani knew how much he liked her. “Something to consider. What time is she off work?” “I don’t know. She left early today; some kind of hostage situation at the Kolstovo building.” Her eyes burned, and she stepped away from the receiver a moment to compose herself. “Look. I’ve known her all my life, okay? I think I would know if she was... different. This is depression, that’s all. She sees the ugliness everywhere, a-and it’s hard for her to do otherwise. The things she talks about: the world ending, how hopeless it’s all become... I’m just worried about her, is all. I don’t want her to”--She swallowed the lump in her throat--“to do anything... permanent.” Now, she started to cry; the thought of Vanya hurting herself too much for the charade to bury. Ani struggled to rally herself but the will buckled. “She’s all I have,” she blurted. The rain grew louder. She expected sympathy; maybe an offer for her to visit. Obert’s methods of comfort were predictable ones--this was hardly their first time discussing Vanya’s troubles, after all. At this point, she would have welcomed sitting in that faded blue chair, sipping lukewarm coffee while he chain-smoked and made ineffectual passes at her. Anything to help her refocus. Instead, all she got was silence. “Obert?” The metal phone was cold against her ear; the dead tone colder. She toggled the call, fingers turning the rotary with practiced speed as she redialed Obert’s home number. The dull clicks of the machinery were overly loud in the eerie still that had befallen the peeling kitchen. “Hello?” No response. Not even a dial tone. The line was dead. A chill ran down her back, and she felt suddenly claustrophobic; the kitchen walls lurched forward with odious intent, the welcoming colors running with sinister undertones to her panicked mind. It’s nothing, she told herself. Just a downed line. She let the steady drum of the rain outside convince her. Hung up the phone and wandered into the living room. Ani caught herself before she passed the window overlooking the front yard; she withdrew her boot from the wedge of gray light spilling through the partially opened curtains. In spite of the rational voice telling her everything was fine, Ani crept forward to peek through the opening, careful not to expose too much of her person to the light. Her throat was full of webs; her heart thundered against a chest gone tight with nerves, bass kick-loud in her ears. “First, they isolate you; no phone, no internet, no way to reach out for help. Then, they come for you. Fast, without warning, offering no escape. You’ll have maybe thirty seconds to react. Enough time to get below. You’ll want to use the gun; anything else is too slow. They have ways of bringing you back, otherwise. You don’t want to come back.” Vanya’s warning rolled under the groan of the storm. It had been a lesson drilled into her since the day it became obvious that what they had was serious. “They distract you, get you on the phone with a neighbor, someone you think you can trust... but they’ve already got to them. And they’ll have you soon, too.” * They’d run the drills so many times that Ani could deploy them with her eyes closed: three-to-five seconds to cross the hallway into the closet-- “stay low in case they have eyes on the windows”; five more to pry out the false wall; drop down the ladder, through the tunnel to the panic room: seventy-two steps total, any more than ten seconds at the inner lock and she was done for. Maybe fifteen seconds earned if she got the door closed--unless they brought satchel charges. The sawed-off was above the desk, shells in the left drawer. Load. Lock. Fire. “No hesitation, love,” Vanya had said after showing her the proper way of things... but the cold touch of the barrel under her chin had frightened Ani and she’d tossed the gun away, tears streaming. “This is wrong!” Ani protested. “You are asking me to kill myself!” Vanya retrieved the ten-gauge, ejected the shell and set it on the desk. Her gray eyes glinted like bits of smithed bone in their abused hollows. The thin lips tightened. “Ani.” There was no anger--never anger, only a cold sorrow that made Ani think of cemeteries. A resignation that ached of death. “I know how this seems,” Vanya said. She cupped Ani’s face. “But believe me when I say that there is no life after the Institutes. What they do to those people, people like us... At least this way, you choose to die whole.” “Dead is dead,” Ani replied. The bitterness in her own voice shocked her. She reached up to touch those calloused hands. Tipped her head against Vanya’s until she was lost in those eyes. “And that is no choice. No way to live.” Tears hemmed the bruised lids. The hands holding Ani’s face trembled, and some of that lonesome mask cracked. A gust of whiskey colored Ani’s senses. Vanya said nothing; she simply wept silently. Ani pulled her close, held her; she could feel Vanya’s scars beneath the uniform; like braille to the blind, she felt the story of the woman she loved play out beneath her fingertips, one penned in blood and punctuated by sacrifice. Entire chapters dedicated to suffering, State-covered hospital stays and surgeries: the prices she paid to protect their love. They kissed. “You’ve given so much for them.” Ani stroked a muscular forearm, fingers hitching on the raised plate buried in the marrow. “For us.” Vanya squeezed her hand. “And I will give more, if it means you are safe.” “And what happens when there is no more to give?” Ani would never forget the way Vanya looked then in the damp, sepulcher air of the panic room: wrapped in black, pallid, body strained from too many goes under the knife and far too many times downwind of a terrorist’s iron sights; a fractal of a human being, held together by bolts of surgical steel and grit. The snap of the breech startled Ani from her observations. Vanya offered her the shotgun. “Then I need to know you can do this.” * How long had it been since the call? Too long. Maybe it’s nothing. Just the storm. Ani wanted to believe it. On some level, she did... but it wasn’t enough to override the screech of instinctual panic that woke her body up and kicked off the adrenaline. A heavy thump sounded from the roof, followed by another. Then another. They’re here. A muffled keening reached her ears, blunted by the thick concrete but still sharp enough to draw blood from her nerves. She covered her ears out of habit, ducked and ran, all the while trying to recall if Vanya had said anything about the Institute sweepers using sonics. Prayed to gods she didn’t believe in that some marksman with a long-tase wasn’t camped out in the copse of trees across the street from their scrappy little one-story in the Volstov suburbs. Told herself it was impossible to actually feel the heat from a laser sight dancing across her back. Three seconds... More pounding on the roof. As she passed the kitchen, on her way to the hallway closet, something flashed by the large bay window. It was blurred by fear, distance, and the torrential rains, but Ani thought it might have been a man. Was he... naked? The thought was so absurd that she stopped. It was a moment’s hesitation, but already she could hear Vanya scolding her. “Run, Ani! Run!” Yet, still she stared out the window, incredulous at the sight of the pale figure standing in her yard. His lanky form was distressed by the weather--Ani surprised herself with the relief at the accidental censorship--and he twisted about in a fit, arms flailing around his lithe, nude body, head snapping side-to-side like one might when imitating a predatory creature. “What the hell?” The man in the yard spun, eyes scything through the obfuscation to somehow, impossibly, find her. He tucked his head and began to sprint-- --and Ani barely had time to feel her heart drop into her stomach when the sound of the living room window exploding reached her... along with the unfiltered shrilling of something crazed. Ani ran. She was halfway in the closet when something slammed the door into her and shoved her the rest of the way. Stars burst across her vision as her head connected with the hang bar, but fear iced the pain and survival demanded her attention. She lunged for the door to close it; it had a dual-lock that enabled it to seal from inside, a safety measure Vanya had insisted on after Ani’s trial runs hadn’t netted the results she’d wanted. Ani got a hand around the knob. The door burst open. It felt like a truck had barreled through it, the force jamming her wrist and knocking her off her feet. There was a brief moment of weightlessness, her senses dialing in to hypersensitivity: the pulse in her wrist burned like a sun; a miasma of smells: the sourness of mothballs, the tang of sweat, and a rancid meat-stink that guillotined the air. And she saw the source: a pale face, the mouth ringed in red, naked body lean and muscular, hairless but far from sexless. He screamed at her, eyes dark and vivid with bloodlust, a Pale Man-- She struck the false wall then; the sensation jarred her out of the frame-by-frame. The wood gave way against her and in her panic she sought the rungs of the ladder, hooked her fingers through the metal. Her shoulder groaned, something popped; then she was impacting the ladder, the rungs jarring her ribs. Coughing, wracked with pain, Ani forced herself to scramble down, slipping the last few rungs to the damp concrete. Above, she heard the Pale Man continue to howl, and it was joined by another, the rumble of feet like thunder in the subterranean space. Ani was twenty of the seventy-two steps to the panic room when her pursuer dropped to the ground behind her. A bestial snarl echoed. An insurmountable fear took her, flooding her battered body with a fresh surge of adrenaline that burned away the pain. She reached the thick metal door at the tunnel’s end, tugged it open--it only locked from inside--and was halfway through when a vise grip closed around her arm. A searing, tearing pain erupted from her shoulder as the man lunged and sank his teeth into her. Ani wailed, and the weight of him against her back pushed them both into the room. They rolled; he was clamped to her like a dog, thrashing her about on the cold cement even as she flailed against him. Blood ran hot down her chest and back but she couldn’t think about that now. All thoughts were on freedom, muscle-memory usurping the hysterical animal mind. “They will come for you, love. You must be ready to fight.” She was not Vanya Kraz; she did not have twenty years of combat drilled into her DNA by a ruthlessly efficient State. She doubted heavily that she’d learned enough to face off against the type of trained men they would send for her, soldiers like Vanya. “You do not need to beat them--simply hurt them.” Levering herself with her arms, Ani rolled onto her back, pinning the Pale Man beneath her, then reached over with her free arm and jabbed a thumb into his eye, hard. It was enough: the man screeched, jaws separating from her savaged shoulder. Ani pulled her arm free, lunged to her feet and dropped a booted heel into the exposed genitalia. Then she was moving, limping past the rows of ration-stocked shelves to the lone worktable at the room’s end. The shotgun waited, the oiled metal catching in the buzzing fluorescents. Ani grabbed it, the wood grip worn smooth in all the right places. She grabbed a shell from the box in the drawer and slotted it home, the ritual of their training runs inoculating her to the single-celled dread seeking to make her fumble. The breech snapped closed, the weight of the weapon like a closely-held promise. Don’t hesitate, love. She brought the gun up-- Behind her, an animal screech --and fired into the man’s chest. At close range, the shot took him off his feet. He rag-dolled across the room in a fireworks display of watery blood and viscera. The Pale Man left a red starburst against the flaking concrete wall, where he dropped to the floor in a tangle of limbs and organs, the ten-gauge shell having practically blown him in half. Ani took a breath, choked on the acrid mixture of gun smoke and cooked meat, bent over and dry-heaved. Her whole body was sour-sick with adrenaline; she wanted it out, wanted to wake up and discover this was all a terrible nightmare... but the corpse beside the open door-- the man I killed --acted like a magnet, pulling her into reality until she finally had no choice but to accept it. To do otherwise would threaten complete insanity. She closed her eyes, waited for the nausea to pass. Opened them-- And saw at least three more of the Pale Men racing down the tunnel towards her. She scrabbled forward, threw herself against the door and slammed the lever down. One of the Men howled. The thick metal shuddered. Ani fell back. She ejected the spent shell, raced to the worktable and grabbed a handful more from the box. Thumbed a new one into the breech and snapped it closed, filled the pocket of her hoodie with the spares, knowing it would never be enough if they got in. Vanya’s words came to her. “I need to know you can do this.” The pounding continued. Dust settled on her shoulders, her throat nearly as dry. She thought of the steel pressed under her chin, her finger slipping behind the trigger guard. It wouldn’t take much... She thought of Vanya then, and knew she couldn’t. Not if there was a chance of holding her again. The shelter had enough resources to last her several years. Assuming she didn’t go insane from the incessant beating on the door, she’d be fine. And if the creatures did eventually break through, well... “Vanya, please be safe,” Ani hoped; a brittle thing, but all the more valuable when weighed against the brutal promise of the shotgun clutched to her chest. Tears slipped from swollen eyes, but even as her knees shook, her heart beat firm. “I’ll be here when you get home, Vanya.”
I am called the best baker in my town. And I think I am still hallucinating. My parents would call me a liar if I tell them that their reckless and rebellious daughter has finally found what she has to do with her life. My soon-to-be husband still feels that I am not grown-up which I think partly is true. I live in a small town called Ottery Peverell. A small town where you have to change many buses to reach. No airports. No railways. No proper roads. Being from a big city, it was really tough for me to adjust with all the silence, the unwanted neighbors coming to your place to talk and those street vendors who knew your name and infact where you came from! I have lived in Brooklyn all my life. My parents met there and so thought the city was the best place to settle. Although I have always been a disciplined daughter, I still love the freedom this place offers. Late night parties were in my blood. I was a regular drinker and of course I would go one step ahead if not conscious, which I know was not good for my mental health! I was accustomed to waking up late in the morning. Sometimes, I used to party all night until my sister reminded me that mom still has the capability to ground me. After all that mental-health-damaging stuff I did back there, my parents decided that I better stay with my aunt who lived in Ottery Peverell alone. She never married but my mother believed she secretly loved someone all her life! I cannot believe someone beautiful like her can remain spinster all her life! So after all the fights, and “It's good for you. You’ll know when the time will come!” dialogues, I was finally parceled to this small place which I don’t think anyone has ever heard of. I cannot even see the name on the map! I have to say goodbye to all the luxuries I have been living with. No expensive shopping, no weekly spa treatment, and no girls night out! I left all my besties back there in the city! But sometimes, the best things can come in a nasty disguise. Living here with people who would help you out without saying a single word, knowing that less is always more and falling in love with the man of -- not my dream as I always wanted to marry a billionaire - but a man that was perfect for me! Soon after a few weeks my aunt died as she was suffering from a serious illness, I took over her cafe. She always wanted me to handle her business which I never knew why. And as for my boyfriend, Avalon Montgomery - , he and I are now business partners. I am a baker, trying out all the beautiful and unique recipes from my aunt’s dairy and Avalon looks after the finance and other cafe’s stuff. I also befriended my neighbor Octavia who was looking for a job and now she works here as a receptionist. It was difficult at first, I really hated every minute when I came here. But this turned out to be the best thing that could happen to me! For now, everything is going alright. I don’t know what will happen next. Maybe my boyfriend will ask me for marriage? But seeing how he needs time to adjust with a rebellious girl like me, I think I should give him some for that. Oh yes, I did forget to tell my name. I am Juliette Walker.
I’m in a room. It’s a small room. If I was taller, and I stood in the center and spread my arms wide, I would almost be able to touch the walls. Oh, the stark white walls. Stark white, and plain. Nothing adorning them. Nothing to look at. The windows too high to reach or see out. The only furniture is a bed. And the bed is bolted to the floor stuck in place. Even the blankets are white and so are the sheets and of course a white pillow. It’s like being stuck in a blizzard of boring. I’m so bored. The door is locked and I can’t go anywhere. My meals are brought here. My pills are brought to me here. No one talks to me. I don’t even have books to read. I’m not allowed to have anything. All I can do is sit or lay on my bed and watch as the room darkens with the movement of the sun that I’m not even allowed to look out at. This is torture to me. I don’t even know how long I’ve been here now. Based on the shagginess of my hair, it’s been a while. I used to have a clean undercut. But that has grown out by at least an inch. I can only imagine how scruffy and ragged I must look. I used to be wild. So wild. I did what I wanted and went where I wanted. But now, I’m confined. A caged bird stuck in a white cell with nothing to even sing about. The pills they bring me do little to take the edge off. My mind races all the time. I pace sometimes. I jump and try to see out the window. I yell. I sing songs I remember hearing on the radio. I talk to myself. I recite passages of books or movies I had seen before being trapped here. It passes the time sometimes, but usually, it just incites my rage because I’m starting to forget. I’m slowly losing the memories of outside. I’m becoming dulled by this lack of stimulation. And then, just like that, it’s night again. The lights are dim. The nurse I hate most comes in. “Clara, it’s time for your evening pills.” “Fuck off. I don’t want them.” “Sorry you feel that way,” She mumbles. She’s not sorry. I can tell. “Open up.” She hands me a paper cup with the pills. “I can’t take all of these at once.” She rolls her eyes. (I thought nurses were supposed to show compassion.) “Take them however you need to.” I take one pill at a time, and chug water from the paper cup with it. Before I’m halfway done with the pills, the water is gone. “I need more water,” I informed the nurse. She gives an exasperated sigh, and turns to leave. I stealthily follow behind her with my cup of pills. Before the door snapped closed behind her, I jammed a pill into the lock where no one could sense it. She wouldn’t know I didn’t take all of them. I don’t know which of the eight pills I’m required to take twice a day I was sacrificing, and I didn’t care. I checked the latch, and it held. I ran back to my bed and sat patiently waiting for the nurse to return. She came back in with a fresh cup of water. “Thank you Nurse Wretched.” “I think you mean Ratchett.” “No. You are worse. You are Wretched. It was intentional.” She rolled her eyes again, and I swear she probably saw her brain, and I downed the rest of the pills in one swallow. She hastily left. I sat and waited for lights out. Once all of the lights dimmed (they never go all the way out) I made my way back to the door and pulled the handle slowly and looked out into the hallway. It was quiet and there was no one present. Just a long hallway of sealed doors. I padded along the hallway slowly and carefully. The light overhead flickers and I freeze and stifle a laugh. I can see the nurses’ station at the end of the hallway, circular and surrounded by monitors and charts. One nurse is sitting there, scrolling on her phone absentmindedly. I crouch low and scurry behind the desk. She is so distracted on her phone she doesn’t notice me at all as I spot a set of keys left haphazardly on the counter. There’s a key card attached to the lanyard, one that is used to go through security doors. My luck is too good tonight. I make a mental note that if I make it to the street, I need to play the lottery. My hand snakes up to the counter and I noiselessly get the lanyard into my grasp. The entire time, my breath is held and my eyes are glued to the distracted nurse. She’s giggling at a video that is playing before her eyes. I pad my way quietly down another hallway. This hallway has the janitor’s closet, laundry, and the meeting room that has crime scene tape blocking it off. That was the meeting room where I killed my court appointed therapist a few days ago. I opened it with the key, the coppery smell of blood hung in the air, and it was still blood spattered. They had yet to clean it up. I’m sure it had been photographed already, more evidence against me. I giggle to myself looking at the paintings I created in her blood, swirls and flowers that were bright red when I painted them, now dark brown and dry. I close that door and head over to the laundry and let myself in. I should feel bad that I killed the pretty therapist. But I don’t. I don’t regret anything I’ve ever done. The plethora of therapists I’ve seen say I lack empathy. They call me a sociopath and a narcissist and there’s a long list of other diagnoses. I don’t know that I disagree with them, necessarily. But I also don’t care what they think. I guess that makes me textbook. But whatever. I stripped out of my white inmate pajamas and put on a pair of a dark blue scrubs that the cleaning crew use as a uniform. There’s no shoes, but how often will someone look at another person’s feet? I put the lanyard around my neck and head down the hallway. The nurse is still on her phone, and now a security guard is leaning over the counter peering down at her phone with her. They laugh at whatever is on the screen. He makes an excuse to reach over and touch her hair. He obviously likes her. He’s so absorbed in her, and she in her phone, I continue to go unnoticed as I slip into the stairwell. I open the door to the floor below mine and head to a random room. I use the key card and open the door and look inside. An inmate is laying on her bed, sleeping soundly in her white pajamas. She’s so drugged it’s almost as if she’s dead. I watch her sleep for a minute, but I’m bored. I close the door and wander the hall opening doors and looking for someone who is awake. I strike out with each room I peer into, but I do find the room where the pill machine is kept. I look at the ID card and see it is for a nurse. I laugh out loud as I swipe the card over the machine and suddenly all of the uppers and downers they use to ply us patients with is at my disposal. I unload handfuls of the uppers into my pockets after ingesting a few. I’m not trying to die, I just want to have fun. I look at the clock on the wall, I know they do bed checks sporadically throughout the night. I wonder how much time I have to get outside. But I don’t want to go alone. I hate being alone. I’m alone all the time in the room. For a moment, I almost regret killing Dr. Bennet. I would have liked to show up at her house if I make it out of here. But, she was leaving me. I was going to be alone. I didn’t like that. They still haven’t found another therapist for me. Everyone is afraid of me, I guess. I really don’t mean to hurt anyone. But in the moment, when I’m angry, well, I just can’t control it. Oh well. I keep going down the hallway opening doors until a nurse comes down the same hallway to do bed checks. There is nowhere for me to go. I smile at her. “Is this the floor that called for the clean up?” I ask thinking she will buy it that I’m a janitor who is hoping to be in the right place. “Um. No.” She looks at me confused. “Where’s your cart? ... And your shoes?” The lightbulb goes on over her head. Her eyes get big. I just laugh and take off running. My sock feet make it hard to gain traction and I don’t have time to stop and remove them. I scramble past her, but she has shoes with rubber soles and traction. She’s also got a few inches on me and reaches me quickly, tackling me to the hard floor. I’m still laughing as my head hits the floor. “Ouch!” I’m gasping for air as I’m pinned to the floor by the nurse. She manages to pin my arms under her knees as she sits on my chest. This could be fun if circumstances were different, but suddenly I realize the gravity of the situation. She’s pulled a radio out of her pocket and she’s contacting security. “C’monnnn.” I beg. “Please don’t do that.” I writhe under her trying to buy some leverage, but it’s to no avail, my sock feet keep sliding against the floor as I try to buck her off of me. She doesn’t even look at me, and she refuses to speak to me. My anger is mounting, but it goes nowhere. Two security guards have appeared and the bite of the needle is in my hip and my world goes black. The next thing I’m aware of, is being back in my white cell. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Will I try again? Of course.
A small man, swaddled in clothing, fought against the wind to latch the gate behind him. He grabbed the handle of his cart, icy to the touch, and set off down the trail. Walking over the upturned roots the cart followed, each of its rusty wheels feeling the strain of the terrain. Five minutes later he arrived at the tree which he had watched fall yesterday; removing his gloves he started to snap off its branches, placing them down. One by one they filled the cart until there was no more room. Upon seeing that so little wood had filled his cart he sighed, remembering the cold nights that had made up the last week. Try as he did there was no more room in the cart, and he decided to head back home. He once again wheeled the rusting cart back across the veins poking up from the trail until he reached his gate. This time the gate opened easily, and he let the wind take it back. The cart was quickly unloaded, and an axe placed in its bed, for the heavier work that lay ahead. Back at the tree the axe made light work of the thin trunk and the cart was once again piled high before being taken back and deposited. Two similar journeys followed until most of the slight trunk was stacked neatly in the lean-to next to the house, he had left his axe and some of the thicker parts of the stump where the tree once stood. Returning to the tree for a third time and now bored of the monotony, he threw the remnants of the tree in the cart and dropped his axe down the side. After the previous three journeys the cart’s wheels had begun to shake as they passed over the path. Wanting to get the work over with the man walked on, paying little attention to the creaking wheels. After jolting over the root that he had previously taken care to avoid one of the cart’s rear wheels left its axle. Wood, his axe and most of the cart spilled over onto the forest floor. Taking the axe and one piece of wood in his arms the man trudged home. He walked back, defeated, to pick up the last bits of tree and his shattered cart. Walked back to his defeated cart frustration simmered, alongside disbelief that his cart had failed him when he was bringing the best bit of the tree back. Stirred by the bitter memories of the last cold week he picked up the pace, once again being careful to watch his footing over the upturned roots. As he emerged into the clearing where his cart had given up, he saw nothing other than the wheel that had betrayed his efforts and a smudge in the mud running into the forest. He knew exactly from whom and to where the smudge lead. He picked up the remnant of his defeated cart and walked back to his house only to find that the wind had knocked over his lean-to.
#Chaper I - Part I: Loretta Jones   * *   Knock. Knock. Knock. My coffee mug landed in a heap of shattered porcelain on the floor of the beach cottage. Anna would’ve killed me. “Sorry, honey,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at my own lunacy. The front lock jiggled. Through the curtain, I saw a small, weathered woman standing on the porch. Her clothing was dark, but not so dark that it hid the smudges of dirt in various places. “Please. Open the door!” She glanced behind her several times and removed her sunglasses. There was something incredibly familiar about her, and yet, I’d never met her. I opened the door, letting a draft of warm, salty air encompass me. “Jeff. I know you won’t believe this...” I squinted and shook my head. “Do I know you?” “Please, don’t freak out. It’s me.” Her gaze met mine and I almost collapsed right there. Those eyes. I knew those eyes. *** “I don’t understand.” I threw my arms in the air as I studied the stranger in my living room. “Honey...look, I know it sounds so crazy. And to be honest, you never were very open-minded.” Her eyebrows lifted and she pursed her lips together. She appeared to be amused by her comment. “Well if ‘open-minded’ means believing in,” my fingers drew circles in the air, “whatever this is, you’re right.” I placed my hands on my head as I paced back and forth “No. NO. My wife is dead. Has been for two weeks.” Anger stirred within me, my face like coal in the fire. Nausea hung at the back of my throat. “I was there, god dammit! We had a fucking funeral!” I ran the events over in my mind. The accident. The grief. Even this pathetic trip to our beach house, all alone. The woman sighed and studied me with those familiar blue eyes. “You’re right. I was dead. But then...” “No. I’m not gonna fall for whatever the hell...” I motioned to the strange woman, “this is. I don’t know how you knew my wife. And right now, I don’t really care.” The woman stared in silence, with her mouth parted just slightly. She exhaled, and looked at me the way one might look at a child. “I don’t have a lot of time--” “What kinda person would do this? What’s the goal here, lady? What do you want from me?” “Jeff, I don’t want anything. I just thought you ought to know. And I wanted to say goodbye. Properly.” “Stop acting like you know me! You don’t get to come in here and stomp all over my wife’s memory. You know what?” I stormed over to the front door, and opened it. “Get the hell outta my house.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she placed a hand over her mouth. She shook her head. “Don’t, please. I’m not trying to pull anything. It’s me.” The woman sighed and met me at the door. She pushed it closed. “How can I show you? What do you need me to do to prove to you I am Anna?” She glanced at her watch. “I...” Her words were so familiar. The inflections she used at the end of her sentences. The way she paused, waiting for me to take in their meaning. Anna had always done that. “Do you realize how bizarre this whole thing sounds?” “I do.” I walked down the hall and into the kitchen. I heard her footsteps behind me as she followed. As I reached the bar, I turned and saw her stopped, staring at the photos along the wall. She ran her fingers along their edges, hands trembling. She seemed nervous as she fixed her gaze on the last photo. “Do you remember the day this photo was taken?” she said, a hint of a grin on her face. “Of course I do.” “That place...was so beautiful. My favorite part of the whole day was under the waterfall. You whispered that you’d love me longer than the sun would be yellow, and then you took me right there.” She shook her as she scurried into the kitchen and stopped in front of the window. Only Anna would have known that. But this was all so much. I didn’t know what to make of any of it. “So, assuming I believe all of this, who are you... now?” “Well, that’s a little tricky. I’m not even sure I fully understand, myself. I just wanted the chance to say goodbye... sugar bear.” She grinned, extending an arm. “I know everything happened so fast.” A shiver trickled down my spine. Those words didn’t feel right. None of this felt right. I shook my head. “This is a lot to take in...” “I gotta admit, this body is quite the upgrade.” A hint of a smirk bloomed. But as if an alarm had sounded, her attention quickly fell to the watch on her wrist. She bit her bottom lip, scraping it with her teeth. Anna had also done that, for as long as I could remember. “I can’t...I don’t... Is that supposed to be a joke?” I blinked a couple times and breathed deeply. “Please, don’t look at me like that. I’m still Anna, in here." She placed a hand on her chest and inched closer. “I’m as much me as I ever was.” I met her gaze. She looked like a stranger, from the chestnut brown hair to the pudge around her waist all the way to the beat-up boots on her feet. But she didn’t feel like one. It was something about those eyes, the way she walked, and the softness in her words. “I prayed, you know, for God to take me instead.” I leaned against the counter, feeling my knees buckle. “But this... this is something different.” She nodded and shuffled to the window, peeking in between the slats. There was something uncomfortable about her impatience. Our silence was broken by sirens wailing in the distance, steadily getting louder and closer. I raised my eyebrows. This wasn’t the kind of place that was home to the sound of sirens. Especially not a group of them. “What the hell is going on? What are you looking for?” She peeked out the window again, cursing under her breath. Anna turned to me. “I spent too much time here. You remember that gun your father gave you? I’m gonna need it.” My eyes widened. “Gun? Why would you need a--” The sound of the sirens was overwhelming. Red and blue lights flashed through the windows. I looked back and forth between her and the window. My lips parted, but no words came out. “Forget it, there’s no time.” She rushed to the back door, one hand on the knob. “Sugar bear, I wish I could stay and explain more. I love you.” “Where are you going?! Why are all these police outside, Anna?” “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come back here. I shoulda stayed dead.” “No. I’m...I’m glad. I mean...I’m happy to see you. But what’s with the police?” “They think I’m Loretta Jones. And people around here see everything.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “The Loretta Jones?” A realization washed over me. She bore a striking resemblance to the fugitive. Anna was halfway out the door. I was stunned; how could any of this be real? But there was no time left to ponder. I fetched a large metal box from the side closet. My hands were trembling as panic and adrenaline surged through my body. I knew exactly what I had to do. “Anna, wait!”   *   - Chapter I - Part II coming soon! And yes, I am mostly pantsing this entire thing. (I'm sure I'll grow to regret all my decisions.) - This story originally began on . - Feedback and critiques welcome.
It’s a nice summer evening - the birds are chirping, and the grass has just been cut. The football team practices in the distance, as Wendy sits off to the side. The school day had finished hours ago, and the football game would begin soon. Wendy watched her boyfriend run across the field, his teammates following closely behind. The day had dragged on - teacher after teacher piling more and more homework on her shoulders left the young girl nervous for the upcoming weekend. Wendy knew she’d find herself studying and working all weekend, barely being able to see her friends or relax to herself. “Hey Wendy!” Bebe Chandler, Wendy’s best friend since elementary school came running down the field, a football barely missing her head. A sigh fell from Wendy’s lips. The girl could be so ditzy sometimes. “Did you finish the math homework?” “The one that was, just, assigned?” The smile feel from Bebe’s face, while showing back up on Wendy’s. “Right...” The sunset casted a warming glow on the two girls faces, as they both sat together on the grass. The peaceful silence created between them made a nice atmosphere, and Wendy found herself at ease. Bebe always had that effect on her, it felt like the other girl knew Wendy inside and out, and brought a peaceful atmosphere even when Wendy felt herself losing control. “Oh my god! I forgot to tell you! Clyde gave me the prettiest bracelet on our date last week!” Bebe suddenly lunges forward, her torso colliding with Wendy’s in less than a few seconds. Bebe’s outstretched hand almost slaps Wendy in the face, jiggling afterwards with a slight bounce. It’s like time stopped. It must’ve been Bebe’s new perfume - the girl was always trying something new out, self care wise, but it’s like Wendy’s smelt it before. It reminded her of her mother. Wendy had lost her mother when she in elementary school, she was only eleven to be exact. Although she loves her father and appreciated him so much growing up - she missed out on having someone she could relate to in her own home. The years have dulled the pain since then, but Wendy could still perfectly see her mothers smile if she thought about it hard enough. Wendy could still remember “Parent Date Night” at her house. Her parents would get all dolled up and go to the local theatre once a month, leaving Wendy with her babysitter for the entire night. She always thought her mother looked so pretty, sitting by her vanity before they went out. Wendy always admired the care her mother put into getting pretty. “Wendy, what are you staring at?” A soft smile broke out on her mothers face. The lipstick she just applied sat perfectly on her lips. Their eyes locked in the mirror, and Wendy felt herself blush from the attention. “Why do you put makeup on mom?” The smile from Wendy’s moms face dropped a little - there was something in her eyes Wendy couldn’t quite place. “You’ll understand when you’re older darling.” A pity smile was shown in her direction. It was gone before Wendy could even process it, and her mother went back to putting blush on her cheeks. The powder flew off her mothers face, and right into Wendy’s nose - making the young girl cough. “Oh Wendy,” Her mother quickly spun to face her, bending down to be eye-level with the girl. “I’m sorry sweetie.” Wendy didn’t even know she was tearing up until she felt her mother’s thumbs wipe the tears away. Wendy could see the light sparkle in her eyes, and the eyeliner she put on - the line was shaky, and she knew her mother’s hands could never stay still enough to the liner on. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” Wendy felt so, safe. Her mothers arms wrapped around her so snuggly, it felt like two puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. Wendy felt like she could do anything, be anyone as long as she was in her mothers arms. The soft aroma of her perfume filled Wendy’s nostrils, quickly destroying of the blush particles left over. The scent of vanilla was strong, but not too overpowering, and it made Wendy feel warm inside. Her short arms wrapped around her moms neck, and she let her head rest on her shoulder. Parent Date Night always made her nervous, but Wendy was always a nervous child. She could never calm down until she heard her parents car pull into the drive-way, and would only fall asleep once she felt her mothers lips on her forehead. But in this moment in time, where the clock has stopped and the only thing that matters is her mother and her, Wendy felt like she could take on the world. When only one parent came back that night, Wendy realized she had to take on the world, this time, alone. “Oh, so you think it’s ugly? Clyde’s gonna cry when I tell him.” Bebe brought her hand back, cradling her arm like it got burnt. Her sweet eyes looked so hurt that Wendy almost felt bad. Almost. “That’s not why I was silent,” an eye-roll, sometimes Wendy couldn’t stand the girl. “Are you using a new perfume? It smells nice.” “I can’t believe you noticed! It is new!” A smile instantly broke out onto Bebe’s face, all bad feelings forgotten in a flash. “I got it from Nicole - we went to that new store in the mall the other day. Girl Boss, I think? Cheesy name, but it just smelt so good I had to buy it!” It was funny really - how one closed door can lead to another. Wendy knew she was never going to get her mother back, she realized that years ago. But sitting here next to her best friend, she knew that it was going to be alright. Yes, she was still taking on the world, but she was not alone. She had her friends, she had her boyfriend, she the strength of everyone she’s interacted with. Yes, she was taking on the world, but she was with those who loved her. And for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.
(WP) Of Monsters and Men They say that there is a subset of men who do not succumb to the temptations the sirens or even the harpies present. Men with hearts of stone and sand, slippery and cunning, killers with eyes like the blackest onyx. And my people have sent me out to capture one. To study, they say, to observe and see if their curses can be broken. Call me a cynic, but even the most powerful magic cannot soften the hearts of such stubborn beings, so far removed from their humanity they were closer to the monsters they’d set out to slay. Fear lives in my heart, a constant companion, but the vengeance I crave burns brighter than that ever could. For a single, fleeting moment, the night I lost everything comes back to me: the rusty iron tang of blood, splattered everywhere like so much fresh paint, windows broken and our rooms destroyed, and the only sound of my anguished, breathless scream. I snap myself out of it; out here, I cannot afford to lose focus. The night is cold and clear, and the stars stare down at me like so many bright, watchful eyes. The silence is broken by the thunder of many hooves; these monsters that used to be men are nomads, following the people that they hunt. I cannot hear any people up ahead, but my senses aren’t nearly as sharp as they should be. Despite my anxiety, I volunteered for this mission just before my nineteenth birthday, eager to settle the score. And no one had objected; I was but an orphan, losing me would cause no real harm, I thought bitterly. The village had never truly accepted me after the loss of my family; their eccentric ways had made them, and me, by extension, outsiders. So, the elders had no problem sending me out after the men who’d transformed something that wasn’t quite human or monster, but something more, something in between. I sneak along the golden dunes of the desert from a distance, watching, every muscle in my body preparing to spring. There’s a rustle behind me, and I whirl around just as one of them sneaks up on me, snarling its rage, spitting and hissing through thick, sharp pointed teeth. “Human,” It growls, its bright golden eyes gleaming with malice. I glance back at the herd ahead; this one must have scented me, even from this far away, because they are still riding their steeds, paying me no notice. I take out my dagger, the one enchanted with magic so my aim will remain true, and the long, serrated knife glimmers wickedly, the edge aglow with violet. The monster grabs me and snaps his teeth so close my nose almost comes clean off. I curse and plunge the knife into his stomach, but it’s like trying to gouge a wound into a boulder. His grip is like steel and I know if I move, he’ll snap my arm like a flimsy twig. Now I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I’m not ready for this after all. But before the monster can do anything else, a dark figure streaks toward us, hooded and holding bright, golden chakrams engraved with strange runes. A voice screams ‘Duck!’, and I do. The last thing I see before I lose consciousness is the monster, its massive body going one way and its head the other.
"I can't sleep." The private investigator raised a brow at the woman sitting across from her. The office was quaint, a low, flickering light hanging over a sturdy wooden desk. The space looked more like a refurbished living room than a proper office. Floral wallpaper spanned from the floor to the ceiling, hardwood stretched far over the ground. Bookshelves rose high behind the investigator’s desk, various legal documents way above Ginny’s pay grade. Despite what should have been a comforting home, it felt cramped, as if she barely had space to breathe. “That seems more like a concern for your doctor than a PI,” Mrs. Reed said, raising her brows over her glasses. Ginny rubbed her eyes, sighing, “No, no, I--I don’t know how to explain. You deal in more... specialized work? Right? The supernatural and all that?” Mrs. Reed rolled her eyes. Well-manicured fingers reached over to flip through some papers, finally picking up an empty file. “I investigate what people believe is supernatural interference. I assure you, anything paranormal you may have found is guaranteed to have a perfectly benign explanation.” Ginny pursed her lips. She hardly wanted to deal with someone else who thought she was crazy, but this was the closest someone’s gotten to believing her. With how desperate she was, she knew she didn’t have many options. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “Whenever I try to sleep, I just... can’t,” Ginny blurted out, her hands gripping at the edge of her shirt. “I feel something on me. It curls itself around my head, keeps my eyes open, breathes into my ear. But when I try and look at what it is or bring it into the light, it just... isn’t there.” A hum resonated from Mrs. Reed as she scribbled some notes down, asking, “Have you tried sleeping with the lights on?” “Yes! That, and I’ve slept with a mirror on me, I’ve tried medication, I’ve tried everything. But when I try and look for it, it’s just like it’s gone. But I feel it. I know it’s there.” Sighing, Mrs. Reed took off her glasses, rubbing her tired eyes. Pale, wrinkled skin laid taut on her face as she looked over the woman sitting in the chair before her. Silence filled the clustered room. With the judgmental gaze upon her, Ginny felt herself shrinking in the chair, quickly growing to regret her own presence here. Finally, Mrs. Reed spoke, “What do you do for work, Ginny?” Ginny blinked in surprise, answering, “I--I work retail. Why’s that matter?” “Do you have a degree? Student loans? Car payments?” “Yes? Why does that--” “I think I see where this is coming from,” Mrs. Reed sighed, setting her papers down. “Look, I’m no professional in that mental health stuff you kids love these days, but... have you ever thought it might just be stress? You’ve got a lot on your shoulders, a shitty job, too much debt. Maybe you start seeing things.” Ginny’s nose scrunched up in disgust. The same answer she’s been given, time after time. Doctors and psychologists and shitty forums on the internet all saying the same thing, but nothing’s helped. Gathering her bag, she swiftly stood up, dark brown eyes narrowing with irritation at the investigator in front of her. “Whatever,” she huffed, turning to leave. “’Course it was a waste of time. Have a great fucking day, Mrs. Reed.” “Hey! We haven’t discussed paym--” Mrs. Reed started before Ginny slammed the door behind her. The cool winter breeze hit her as she made her way to her car. Pulling her coat tighter around her hefty body, she shivered, hurrying back to her run-down car. An old Honda from the early 2010s that broke down half the time. Quickly making her way inside, she gently shut the door, shuddering in the cold air settled within the car. She knew she shouldn’t drive in this state. Half the time, she could barely keep her eyes open, nevertheless focus on driving much at all. But she had little choice. Rent had to be paid, and she had to try and at least get some help for this ailment she was facing--even if this led to a dead-end just like the others had. Turning her keys into the ignition, she messed with it a few times before it sputtered to life. Ginny glanced behind her car as she pulled out of the driveway, thankful this street wasn’t too busy at this time of day. It had long-since gotten dark, though it was hardly even past the afternoon. The drive home was a blurry haze, as most days were at this point. She couldn’t even remember the last time she fully slept. During the night, she felt as though she was awake at all hours, tormented by the beast that assailed her. And, at this rate, she was confident that it was a thing that was haunting her, not merely stress or anxiety. Nothing she had found had matched what was happening, the oppressive feeling of being trapped, of something being on her. She knew she had to have fallen asleep at some point, but she could scarcely remember it. All she knew was that she was always, constantly, tired. She could barely think, barely work, but she couldn’t stop. Nothing could stop it. She pulled into her apartment complex’s parking lot. The creaky steps met her as she stepped out of her old car. These old stairs seemed to reach further and further every time she walked on them, endless spirals reaching up into the heavens, far, far, far from her grasp... She stumbled along the steps. Exhaustion was quickly catching up with her. Coffee had become her main meal these past few weeks in her own desperation to stay awake, to keep herself away from the creature who haunted her. But she couldn’t stay up forever. At this rate, she wasn’t sure what to believe. In front of the private investigator, she was so sure of herself. She knew what she had seen, what she had felt. Now, though, as she turned the key and stepped into her home... she wasn’t so sure. It was always so serene when she came home. The old, hand-me-down couch sat in front of the discount TV. Wires were scattered over the floor, hosting old video game consoles she took from home. The kitchen held the remnants of her rushed breakfast with dishes piling up. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing wrong... Just a quick nap, she told herself. Then she’d get up and try to figure something else out. Maybe she’d have to go out of her insurance for the next doctor. Something. She barely had time to take her shoes off before she flopped into her bed, taking deep, heavy breaths. Her uniform clung to her body awkwardly. Dirty sheets surrounded her form. Yet, with how tired she was... she hardly even noticed. Just a few minutes, that was all she needed. Sleep came quickly as her eyes fluttered shut... Before her eyes were forced open. Something wet and slimy quickly slithered over her face, gripping her tired eyes. Thin, spindly appendages, too small to be anything human. Wrinkled eyelids were pulled to the side as sharp nails dug into the sides of her temples. Something breathed in her ear. In, and out, in, and out, the warmth pressing uncomfortably against her skin. A weight hung over her head, almost like something was there, something was there, something was on her-- Ginny tried to tilt her head up, to gaze upon what was upon her... her head was forced back down, staring at the empty ceiling. The dirty nails pressed deeper into her soft, wrinkled skin. A soft whimper pulled itself from her throat. There wouldn’t be anything there. There never was. It could tear at her, rip at her flesh, pull out her hair and scream in her hair... but nothing would be there in the morning. Of course, no one believed her. She could lay here for hours, screaming and crying in agony, and no one would bat an eye. Every doctor would turn her away. She was so young, despite the wrinkles in her face and the bags under her eyes. Friends were tired of her constant complaining, her excuses of exhaustion. Her torture and pain meant nothing, all because they could not see. Tears rose to her eyes, and, in her torment, Ginny began to cry.
## The sound of keys jostling and a door opening bring me out of my daze. ## “There's a Maria here!” I hear him shout in surprise. As if I am a rare species of human he found in his kitchen. ## “Sometimes I come home and there's a Maria here, and it makes me so happy!” His tone full of childish glee. ## A surge of pure joy overwhelms me. I wonder if my face shows how happy I feel. I kinda hope not, I’d look like an idiot. “Welcome home.” ## Suddenly everything feels right. Whatever issue I was just dwelling on no longer seems relevant. Kevin is home and that matters more. ## My first instinct is to ask how his day was, but stop myself, Kevin hates that question. It’s too mundane! He would gripe I hate talking about work. But there’s no need to ask anything, he is already telling me all about something exciting. I can tell by the way his hands start to gestate wildly. He paces around the living room putting his things away, settling in. His mouth races a million words a minute. He is so animated, like watching a cartoon come to life. It’s fun to experience. ## “.....and they're making a sequel!” He concludes slightly winded and looks over at me for a response. ## Shit. What was he talking about? ## “Oh cool.” I say anyway. Making my eyes wide so he thinks I know why it’s cool. “How do you think that’ll go?” ## He continues to talk and I make sure to pay attention this time. I am not terribly interested in movies but they make him light up and I do thoroughly enjoy that. ## Nothing about our interactions would point to a couple that has broken up. We spend the rest of the afternoon basking in each other, talking and giggling like childhood friends. Maybe it’s because we know we only have a few more months together that we are able to enjoy each other so profoundly. Our lease will end and that is when our break up will stop being something we talk about and turn into something we live. But for now, we pretend otherwise. ## The breakup was all his doing. I was perfectly content with our life. We were settling into the next phase. A phase I had been dreaming about since I met him, since I recognized that I had found who I wanted to spend my life with. Kevin was instead restless and doubtful. ## Kevin: Are you happy? The text came in at work. ## His question didn’t strike me as odd, on occasion Kevin asked me this and other vague philosophical queries out of nowhere. I didn’t jump to anything being out of place. ## Me: Yes I am. I answered truthfully. Are you? ## I knew he wasn’t. He had been distant these past few weeks. I could tell settling into the apartment wasn’t giving him the fulfillment he expected to receive from achieving this long term goal. His next question slapped me in the face. ## Kevin: Do you think we would be better as friends? ## NO. No. No. My brain immediately yelled. Of course not. No. ## A second message came in before I could answer. ## Kevin: We already interact like friends, we’re not very romantic with each other. What would be the difference? ## A LOT! I took a deep breathe. I hoped to god this was another thought experiment of his. ## Me: No. We wouldn’t be better as friends. What I get out of our relationship could not be done with the intensity and frequency of a friendship. And we could be more romantic, nothing is stopping us except what we’ve let ourselves get used to. ## I typed fervently. Trying not to work myself into a panic mid shift. ## Me: Can we talk about this in person please? This feels important. ## Kevin: No it’s okay, you get home late we can talk about this another day. ## Me: No. You’re talking about a breakup Kevin. I can’t put this off. Wait up for me. ## Kevin: Yea okay. ## I got home at midnight but he wasn’t there. ## Me: Where are you? ## Kevin: Doing laundry. I’ll be right down. ## It took him a half hour. He was trying to delay a scary conversation, but I wouldn’t have it. When he got in I had a bottle of wine and two glasses poured, I knew we would need some liquid courage to talk about this. We started by talking about anything else for the first hour. He didn’t want to bring it up and neither did I. I realized, after enough delay, that if I didn’t start it, it would go on ignored. So I bit the bullet. ## “So you think we’d be better as friends?” I blurted. Trying to hide the pain in my tone. ## “I was just asking what the difference would be. I’ve been noticing more and more how distant we are.” ## I thought that’s how you liked things! My inner voice cried ## “But we’ve always been this way.” I said ## “I know. But I don’t think this is the relationship I want.” ## But it’s the one you created! I weep. ## “We can work on it. If you want more romance I want that too. I just thought that you didn’t want that so I don’t push it. But we can do something about it.” ## “I don’t think we can.” ## “Why not?” ## “We’ve said it before that we would try to be more affectionate and nothing ever changes. We’re just going to keep saying it and nothing is going to change.” ## “I never knew you wanted to break up because of it! That brings it to a whole new level of seriousness.” I am sobbing at this point. Feeling a desperateness I’ve never experienced before. ## “It should just come naturally. It’s not right that we have to work for something that should just be part of a relationship.” He says adamantly, ## “But if we both want it, what is wrong with having to work on it until it becomes normal? I don’t understand.” ## We continued to argue but go in circles. By the end he became more adamant that there was no solution to our problem except ending it. ## “I am not breaking up with you. I just want us to think about it.” I knew him enough to know that was a lie. Kevin hated making decisions. He had a tendency to give me non committal answers so I would have to make the decision. That way when it didn’t work out, he wasn’t at fault. ## We went to bed that night after a 3 hour conversation. I laid there in utter panic, foolishly trying to go to sleep. After an hour of turmoil I got up went into the living room, put on my favorite movie and sobbed until Kevin woke up for his next day of work. ## He looked at me from across the room saying nothing, eyes full of grief. He approached me right before leaving. I looked up at him and sniffled. He put his hand softly on my head. “ I am leaving. Can I kiss you?” ## I nod “Please.” ## As he walks out of the apartment, leaving me alone with my sadness I start to remember the day I fell in love with Kevin. ## I stare at my phone in absolute awe. It’s quite hot. Did we really just talk for 7 hours? I was so scared to even have a phone conversation to begin with. Texting is my comfort zone. I was so sure there were going to be awkward pauses and we weren’t going to have much to say. But neither of us stopped talking or laughing the whole night. I open my phone to text him, he has work in a few hours. I have a five am shift in 20 min. ## Me: Sorry I wish we could keep talking ## Kevin: So do I. Have a good day at work. ## I can’t stop smiling. I am trying to, I don’t want my boss to think I am drunk or something. My body feels like it’s on fire,. For someone who hasn’t slept all night I am incredibly energetic. High. I realize. I giggle all the way to work reliving our conversation. Once I am parked outside, it strikes me like a sudden jolt. Fuck. I am in love with him. I smile harder. My jaw hurts. Every cell in my body recognizes this new truth. I am in love. I didn’t expect love to feel so certain. I’ve never been in love before, but I am usually very bad at knowing how I feel. Where was the part where I hem and doubt and question myself about what should be and what can’t be and yadda yadda yadda? But no. There’s not an ounce of doubt in my body, this morning I am in love. I keep saying it in my head and it creates more fire. I am in love. ## Kevin and I had quite the unconventional start to our romance, in fact we credit the rocky infrastructure as the result of its demise. All I know for certain is that when we met, we clung to each other like we were dying of thirst and our connection was a tall glass of water. We became best friends immediately, constantly baffled at how alike we were and how many common interests we shared. I admired how ridiculously entertaining he was, and he loved my intelligent and accepting personality. It only took two dates and a few phone calls to know we had found something unique, and were not letting it go. ## The problem was that although Kevin and I had found something intense and special, I was not ready to do the girlfriend thing. I had just left what I described as a ‘suffocating relationship’ and Kevin had left a relationship where he had been cheated on. Both of which happened for us around the same time. It felt like fate had made those things end at exactly the time that would lead us to each other. After that relationship I was ecstatic to be on the dating scene and having a lot of fun exploring what being a single adult was like. I assumed Kevin wouldn’t be ready for something serious either, so soon. I came up with a compromise. ## “What do we do?” He asked me. ## My answer came off with more confidence than I had. “Have you ever heard of polyamory?” ## “I am not sure.” ## “We date. But we keep seeing other people too.” I simplified. ## “You want to keep dating me while you date other people?” ## “You can keep dating too!” I clarified. Wanting him to take this well. ## “Oh..” He said and looked out the window. ## “What do you think?” ## “Just let me get this straight. You want to make me your bottom bitch?” ## I crossed my arms “Um.. I don’t know what that is but it doesn't sound good.” ## He laughed “You’ve never heard that before? You’re from Atlanta!” ## “Is that supposed to imply something? Just tell me what it means.” ## He explained it to me and I scoffed. ## “I can’t believe you just said that.” ## “I am just trying to understand.” ## “Look! I like you. We both just got out of disastrous relationships. This seems like the middle ground we are looking for.” ## “I didn’t know we were looking for middle ground.” ## “Ever since I heard about it I wanted to try it.” I said and shrugged. ## He thought for a while and I shook my leg in anticipation. ## “I guess we could try it.” ## I smiled. “Really?” ## He nodded. Wow he really is the coolest guy ever. ## “But you’re going to have to help me through it.” ## “Oh of course. I’ve done a lot of research on it.” ## “Yea? How?” ## “I listen to tons of relationship podcasts.” ## He gave me a skeptical look “Okay Maria. I’m trusting you.” ## It went well at first. ## Kevin: I have a date with a young lady today. ## The message came a week later solidifying what we were to become. Okay, this is it. This is the part where I feel angry and upset and take back my decision. Instead I found myself smiling. Utter relief filled my system. Good. I can handle this. But, who is this girl? Does Kevin have a type? I am fascinated. I am excited. ## Me: Great! I wanna know all about it ## We remained in a deep state of limerence. Kevin lived in Fort Collins an hour drive from Denver. To see him I borrow my mother's car. I filled with anticipation the entire way. I try not to speed but it’s impossible knowing going faster means seeing him sooner. I play Taylor Swift's Red. No other album captures my feelings better than this one. I sing along, pull the windows down and speed up, checking to make sure no police are around as I leave the city. Will I ever be as happy as I am now, twenty years old experiencing her first love? I don’t know, but I take it in just in case. ## When I get there Kevin’s broad grin greets me. I jump out of the car and into his arms. This is the moment I think about the entire ride here. The moment that I get to feel him, smell him and kiss him. We kiss until we have to stop ourselves because we’re in a parking lot in the middle of the day. I’ve only known him for a few months, but that doesn’t seem to matter in the least. ## I go home very late, and the next week he comes to me. We take turns from Denver to Fort Collins, to have the funnest dates of my life. Kevin became my favorite person. I tell him things I never dared say out loud before. We get to know each other quickly and in deep intimate ways. The people I was going on dates with begin to pale in comparison to the love I was experiencing. It was all bliss. ## Until... ## “You’re still sleeping with your ex!?” I scream into the phone. It felt like someone punched me. My throat closed up and I couldn’t swallow. ## “I wasn’t going to.” He said. “But when you said we could sleep with other people I thought why not.” ## Silence.
From the front row of a densely packed crowd, Radello locks eyes with the man tied to the post. Bonds support the mans weight and what remains of his strength fixes his eyes on the boy. In truth, the firing squad's job was done before they even arrived; the man had refused what little food had been offered him during his three month imprisonment and now his emaciated body resembled the thin post it was tied to. The only hint of the seditious spirit that once filled the body rested within a dying light behind those once blue, now grey eyes. It was clear to everyone present that today's arrangements had been moved up to intercept what was about to happen naturally; his death was to be made an example of. All that was left to do was pinch, with wetted fingers, the flame at the bottom of its wick, but this by no means made things easier for Radello. Long before the man was brought out, the boy watched a nearby group enact one of the hundred variations on the same scene that took place all across the courtyard; pairs of arms danced violent pas de deux to the tune of resentful voices debating the life that would be soon brought to its end. To some, his life was the dew forming on grass, the flowers blooming, the hoof trots of pegasi, all signalling the coming of dawn; but to others it was the insidious, bitter weeds and the pernicious rootworm threatening to spoil the harvest. Loudest amongst the latter was Radello's father. As with any boy his age, his father served as both a physical model (despite a nose long ago made crooked, one could make out the hereditary blueprints all male Anatez faces were based upon) and a moral one, so over the hour before the execution Radello had begun to hate the unseen man, and with every throb of the green vein on his fathers forehead, his hatred grew stronger. At first the feeling fell odd, as if it were a suit tailored to someone else's body, but after a while he managed to get used to it. Booming cries and cheers abruptly announced the arrival of the prisoner. Radello turned to look and his hatred momentarily stumbled over the sight of a limp man who had all but wasted away, a man unable to make the short journey across the courtyard and had to be dragged by his guards, a man who greatly contrasted the picture-book drawing of 'Blackbeard' Radello had assigned him in the time before his arrival. The emotion tentatively regained momentum once he heard his father's shouting, but the boy couldn't manage to stifle a growing sense of pity. The struggle to tie the flaccid body to the poll sent the clamouring of the crowd to its peak: a quarter, evenly dispersed throughout the courtyard, cried desperately for the soul now withered to sand, and rest spitefully rose in volume just to drown them out. Guards with batons were sent out to enforce order, and those who cried "Murder" were beaten, much to the amusement of those who cried "Good riddance". Once tied to the post, the man regained a vestige of consciousness and his eyes slowly scanned the part of the crowd allowed to him by the position his head hung. Roars from the crowd and overbearing heat and glare from the sun almost completely eclipsed all other sensation; he did not hear as his death sentence was read out to him, and he could hardly make out individual figures in the crowd. Everything appeared as a vague, rippling haze, with the only exception being the solid figure of a boy at the front of the row, with whom, as previously mentioned, he locks eyes. The man's gaze is ice cold, not from any malice or loathing, but from an almost complete separation from anything indicative of life; Radello shivers as it pierces him. The boy tries, tries, then tries once more to hold onto his hatred, but it slips from his grasp. He tries to turn to his father for inspiration but he is unable to move, all he can do is forcefully endure the man's cold, misty stare. At first it's meaning is incomprehensible; Radello searches deeply into the mans eyes, running through the labyrinths but never finding anything, but soon he allows the whole image to soak in and realises that the the man's stare says nothing. There is nothing left inside the man, the breathing corpse was only served as a cruel awakening for Radello, teaching the fragility of his own life. ".... these crimes do we sentence you to die. Have you any last words?" Wails from the crowd are the question's only response. "May God have mercy on your soul" Six guns rise to point at their target, but it's all too much for Radello. The world around him beings to contort as if it were a reflection in a lake someone threw a large stone into, and for the first time he understands that he is the man tied to the post, that he is the plump man with powdered hair who condemned the man to death, that he is every single person in the crowd and every single person outside it. They were all made of the same substance he was, they were all capable of every emotion he was, and they too would one day find themselves delirious, and facing death. Before today death was to Radello just a nebulous concept applied broadly, covering seemingly unlinked objects, from a spider permanently curled in the centre of a cobweb, to a great-grandparent whose picture sat neatly on the mantlepiece. But now death is right in front of him, and - as he realises with terror - directly ahead, waiting for him. Radello now shakes uncontrollably. The order is given and the six guns synchronously fire into the body that feels nothing. The force of the bullets travel along the dead man's gaze and strike the boy, who promptly loses consciousness.
My eyes slowly blink open. I’m awake. I try to move my arms and stretch, but I realize I can’t move at all. Ah, sleep paralysis. I’ve experienced this so many times before. What gruesome apparitions am I in for this time? My paralyzed eyes are fixated on the opposite site of the room, where the moonlight cascades in through the window and bathes the room in a twilight glow. A figure walks in from my peripheral vision and sits in the armchair in the corner. But this figure isn’t like the “shadow people” I normally see when I have sleep paralysis. In fact, she looks pretty familiar - holy shit, is that my mother?! She looks much younger than she did when she died six months ago. The hollow cheekbones and dark circles that her cancer gave her are gone. Instead, she looks just like she did in old photos I was looking at just the other day, from before I was born. I realize she’s holding a baby in her arms, rocking it and singing, though I can’t hear the words. I try to scream out to her, but I can’t make a sound. After a moment, she is gone. That vision left me nervous and breathless. I hope I can wake up soon. Suddenly, a figure skips in from the periphery. Then another. And another. They’re jumping from the bed to the chair to the nightstand. I can make out that it’s three small children, two boys and a girl. They look vaguely familiar but I can’t place from where. “The floor is lava!” the one that appears the oldest says. All three of them laugh, then run out of my peripheral vision and I can no longer see them. Alright then. That was weird. Three children is less creepy than the demonic figures I usually see when this happens, so I’ll take it. I’m still feeling out of breath from seeing my mom though. The figure of a young boy appears in my plane of view. He looks to be around 8 or 9. I can’t place who he is, but he looks so familiar that it makes me feel uneasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadowy figure - I can make out the shape of a man, but not much else. What I do know is that a sense of deep unease and fear has settled over my body. I see the figure go up the boy and push him down to the ground. The boy is struggling against him but the man is holding him down, his hands traveling down the boy’s body. I realize what’s about to happen and I want to close my eyes. I want to scream for help and I want to wake up. This is so much worse than anything I’ve experienced before during sleep paralysis. Just when I think I can’t handle it anymore, they are gone. What a relief. Maybe I’ll finally wake up now? No dice. Another figure walks into my vision. But this time, I know who it is. This apparition looks just like me in photos from high school. Clearly I was going through a grunge phase. I’m walking up to another figure at the other side of my visual field, close my periphery. I’m handing him what looks like a wad of cash. Even from here, I can see the tremor in my hands. He reaches back to give me something in return but before I can see what it is, both figures are gone. This is getting weird. I’m finding it harder to breathe. Finally, something comforting appears. A tall woman with long, flowing chestnut hair strides into my vision. Right away, I can tell it’s Molly. God, I always did love that hair of hers. She’s in a white dress and she’s holding a bouquet. A second figure joins her - it’s me. I’m in a tuxedo but my hair is disheveled. The sight of this fills me with regret. I was drunk and high that day and she somehow forgave me for it. Forgave me for being drunk and high on our wedding day. The two figures lean in to kiss but before their lips meet, they’re gone. My motionless eyes are welling up with tears. Why is this still going on? Sleep paralysis has never lasted this long for me before. More scenes flash in front of my eyes, each one shorter than the last. Showing Molly my 6 month Narcotics Anonymous chip. We embrace. Finding out she’s pregnant, joy lighting up our faces. Standing next to our little girl’s bed in the neonatal ICU, after she was born at 22 weeks. A grief-stricken Molly walking away from me for the last time because I just couldn’t handle it. Mom in a casket. Picking up the bottle again. I try to scream at myself not to do it, but the sound just won’t come out. My eyes are welling up with tears, but I can’t blink them away. And I can’t breathe. Why can’t I breathe?! And all of a sudden, a sense of overwhelming peace fills my mind and body. Thank God that horror show is over. My eyes, no longer immobile, blink away the tears. I look around the bed. Next to me is an empty prescription bottle. I squint to read the words. “LORAZEPAM 0.5 MG.” Didn’t I just get that filled yesterday? My eyes dart to the side and I see the empty bottle of wine. I smell the vomit. And then nothing.
Could it be sealed as a stigma of indolence and lethargy that Prof. Vijay Kumar lost or suffered a gross failure during the years between 1972 to 1981 when almost ten resolutions were Made probably without strong will power without actual realization. The truth is that a resolution Had not been made in the true sense of the word. For ten years I did nothing at all. I had become a person without even a dot of confidence. “ I cannot get a GUIDE. There is none in this world to help me. Does My Lord Krishna wants me to beg like a beggar to go and click the door-bell of every PhD. Should I Seek the grace of some kind professor at Agra or Meerut at this moment of life. It was now 1982 mid July 1968-69. I had by this time become a father of a daughter who was just two years old. Leaving my wife and daughter by themselves and travelled long many hours to meet Dr R.D. Sholic of Agra College whose Lectures I had attended earlier as a student. He accepted me after asking me about my management Between Bhavnagar and Agra. He assigned to me four prominent American writers of nineteenth century from its’ literature . He also suggested to borrow books from the University library. I did lot Of reading for exactly a year and half and as directed by my guide I made a list of eight topics for onward studies of Ph.D. My destiny was firmly determined to block my further advancement in this erudite Pursuit. Dr Sholic had left Agra three months back and had left no message to be conveyed to me. He Hadn’t made any arrangement to bring me into contact with of some of his friends, who were also guides for this degree. He presented himself as the most careless person that could ever be. .................................................................................................................... 1970 or 1971 became the years of doing all the other things except working for a doctorate degree and It ended not till 1981. This was the part of my life that broke me down. Dr Sholic had broken my heart And for the first time I came to know what disappointment and depression could possibly be. I felt a Total loss of smooth life!. My scholarly tastes remained starved and I held monologues with Lord God during the silent hours of nights, feeling intensely shocked: “Oh my dear Krishne why did I spend Two years to study those American Poets and not attain consummation. Why Dr R.B. Sholick desert me And left me a destitute? Is this going to be my destiny? I work hard but dame luck all the time kicks hard on my buttocks! .................................................................................................................. 1981“What’s this Vijay with you going on? “ I do not know what you mean! “Haven’t you become a lazy dog? Years of this precious life......( a pause) Dr J.J.T. was seriously concerned about Vijay’s professional career. In his high tone of irritation loudly shouted:” You have become a lazy and indolent man and I cannot bear lethargy from my dearest friend. Have you forgotten? That you had to study and had to work hard for nothing! “But what I could do? I was deserted by Dr Sholick, you know.. “Do you believe that some guide would have come travelling all the way to Bhavnagar and tell you, “Come on Vijay I will be your Guide come dear my Honourable Sir! A silence indifference crept in and we both were looking into each other, staring, knowing not what to say. “What the hell I should do? “ I looked at him with a sad face! “Make a firm resolution to do this Ph.D. Degree and rush to Agra and meet people there. Go and meet the Registrar or the present Head of English Dept. there. Go and ransack all avenues there. Even some Peon might turn to be helpful to get what you intend. ‘” Yes that’s done.. I must get a Ph.D. Degree at any cost. I promise you, dear friend. You have infused my confidence that I had lost. I must banish all negative thoughts. It has no place for survival. ‘’ .....................................................................................................................mid 1981 J.J.T. Came to see me off at the Railway Station .Wish you best of luck friend. Don’t come back till you get a guide. Let me know the situation as and when it develops. Write back a post-card to let me know the developments. As I boarded the train I occupied my seat and made a midyear resolution there itself. I must have a Ph.D. Guide I lighted incense sticks whenever I leave for another city. I closed my eyes for three minutes. I made a short sojourn of most of the colleges and I went to see one very senior professor who had a bungalow in Professor’s society. Nothing appeared, no consequences, empty Seemed the walls of Agra and I perspired almost four days. Thereafter it struck into my mind that Visit the office of the University. I got the files of those professors who had done and got the degree. The Registrar himself came to me and informed me that there is one Dr Virendra Sharma of D.C. College And is shortly on the verge of retiring.. You’d better go to him and meet him at his residence close to the Railway Station. It was easy for me to locate his bungalow. No sooner I saw his face my inner heart sprang into happiness. I intuitively felt that this Dr Virendra Sharma was surely going to accept me. Next day morning I took one kg box of choicest sweets from the well-known and famous ‘Krishna Sweet Shop and Restaurant ‘ and took it to the house of my guide ‘ Ms Sharma objected and I said ‘ Its’ welcoming the beginning of a student with his new teacher. .................................................................................................................. I began receiving several post cards and inland letters and it was like the modern “Teaching on Line ‘” Thus reading, writing and guiding all sorts of studies went on. He told me that Once every year you would stay here and work for two months every year here only and see me every day. I stayed In some hotel and guest house. In morning I had to meet my guide and during afternoons I visited the library of Aligarh Muslim University. All the libraries of Delhi University, British Council and Agra too had been visited to spend several hours with also gathering necessary notes. I stayed full one month in the Agra University Library and I had been going through PhD. scripts that had been awarded. Every day after breakfast in the morning and also in The afternoon I was there. One fellow by name Satish Bansal came to me with limitless curiosity. He wanted to know my purpose of that reading. He invited me for tea and some social interaction is quite well Come, “ Look here Vijay Kumar, why are you rotting yourself here.Why do you make your wife Suffer who might need to fulfill her sexual urge. Go back enjoy sleeping in bed with her.” 1984 was over “What for I am here for? I am a professional thesis writer and all that you have to do is paying me eleven thousand rupees and the thesis and synopsis everything would be ready Come back to see me after one year.” “ So that is why you invited me for tea and snacks four times.. Is that so? ‘” Yes that is the way of the world. Money makes impossible possible and I can get you a girl in bed if you just pay one hundred bucks. “Look stop your nonsense .Will you? ‘” You get lost right now and hear my decision. I am the last person to get a borrowed PhD. I won’t learn anything. I will write my thesis with my own mind each word of my thesis. And look here I will prefer to be without the degree rather than becoming a robber of intellectual work. 1984 October ..................................................................................................................... 1985 MID June: My second son Susheel Kumar fell ill seriously. He got touched by a live wire that had fallen because of lashing winds and storms. He was immediately rushed to the biggest hospital of the government. However my bad luck had decided to never leave me alone. My thesis work was left pending for six months and by then 1985 too ran away just very fast. ..................................................................................................................... It was again the year of 1986 and I stayed in some hotel. Now there is no need to go o coming to me. His final lecture had gone on the whole afternoon almost two hours. My brother-in-law Mr Krishen Lal And his wife Shakuntala took me forcibly to Sikandrabad and made me stay in their bungalow, In the total privacy of one large room with all the amenities there, I could complete the final thesis in one hundred days. For four days they had gone to Delhi and again a stroke of my bad luck never left me Alone. Very soon after the thesis had to be submitted along with a ‘Forward Letter’ Surendra Verma Was quite hesitant to send a forward letter and Sushma his wife intervened. “Now send his Forwarding Letter , don’t delay the matter. The poor boy had been running all over, Bhavnagar, thereafter Aligarh, Agra. He went for consulting books in almost five libraries. His wife and children have been waiting all these years. But now luck came in flying after me and by next three months the Degree was awarded. The age of a person has no connection with making a firm resolution. ..................................................................................................................... The end of 1986 SOME REACTIONS: Dr M. F,. Salat is my bosom friend today as well. When I met him at his residence he closely folded my hands into his own and said: “Oh my Lord Dr Vijay Kumar you have achieved a tremendous success. Getting a degree as the one like a doctorate Degree at the age when one is forty-nine. None of the professors can even imagine doing such a remarkable achievement. You are great really Vijay the successful man. You have established an Outstanding example. ..................................................................................................................... Those people who had borrowed forty books and twenty note scripts to get their post graduation degree turned their heads in some other direction and could not even say ‘Hello Dr Vijay Kumar, Congratulations. They just remained cold and indifferent .These so called professors were really great with, feelings of insult to themselves. How could they utter a few words of appreciation for me? The element of Segregation planted in their mind was really deep. How could They cast off the golden chain that they were regularly wearing in their necks?
Have you ever seen a constellation born? In my youth, it was told that they were created when the Old Gods died, their image immortalized in the night sky. Though now we grieve for the Old Gods, we once hunted them. In the days of my childhood, during the dawn of magic, it seemed as though many constellations appeared above us in the black dome of night. The forest of the titanwoods were different then. The colossal trees of lore stood still in vast numbers, truly ancient beings from the Age of the Moon. In my tribe, we found little purpose in planting crops nor herding beasts. The titanwood forest by which we lived was generous. The lumber of the mighty trees built our homes, the hides and meats of the beasts fed and clothed us in abundance. My tribe raised many a master woodcarver, and traders from afar coveted the crafts carved from the ivory white lumber of the titanwood. My birthright was to string the bow and to fletch the arrow. In a family of marksmen, my arrow flew the truest. I was a young man when forest began to grow thin. The titanwood had a most unusual quality: When bathed in fire, the white flesh of the tree turned the color of gold. The Basilius of Eidon ordered a palace built of the golden wood. Soon followed the homes of nobles and scribes, and soon the fate of the titanwood was sealed by fire. The generous fruits of this ancient forest brought hunters and craftsmen from afar, and slowly they stripped it of its treasures. Great fires swallowed groves, herds of beasts dwindled and hunts yielded little. Our eyes turned to the most coveted prize of the forest, the prize that fetched a king's fortune: The pelt of a god. I had never seen the Old Gods, I had merely heard tales. Ever since magic fell into the hands of men, the Old Gods had grown weak, and had little power left to spare. As the magic of men grew, the Old Gods faded into the air; now unseen, invisible, unheard, even undetected under the noses of hounds. They could lurk unknown for decades, keeping a silent watchful eye on the most sacred forest. Even as the power of the Old Gods dwindled, they were capable of great feats. In a final act of devotion, they could muster all their waning strength to restore their former glory, and bring great rains, move mountains, summon thundering herds of beasts, and send dying lands into vibrant green from horizon to horizon. They held the ancient forest in a mysterious, beautiful, and ever-changing balance. There was a cost to their vast power: Upon the expenditure of their great magic, the cloak that hid them from our eyes fell, revealing their form as a beast with a most brilliant coat. It was told that they appeared as living embodiments of the night sky, with pelts as black as the void of night, twinkling with stars and auroras, eyes like suns and moons. This was their sacrifice to protect their realm... doomed eternally to the hunt, every Royal ready with polished coins for the hunter who could bring forth their celestial hides. Desiring a fine trophy, the prince of Eidon put out a bounty on a noble bird said to have sprouted mighty trees that erupted from the ground in mere moments. Imagine such a sight! It was the season of the Silver Bridge when we embarked in pursuit of the great egret god. We treaded amongst the young hemlock forest where the egret’s magic had manifest. After three days of fruitless hunt, with not even a trace of scent for our hounds to track, we set up camp. It was a purple dusk when we saw it, the sign of a god’s death, a pillar of light rising from the forest into the night sky. The lonely pale light brought a mournful, haunting silence to the forest. Our huntsmaster rose and heaved a heavy sigh, and said solemnly, “We have missed our mark.” And there, above the light projecting upwards into the black dome of night, it seemed as though new stars flickered faintly in the sky. A new constellation born; an egret. The tale of our target’s fall was written in stars. The morn after our target’s demise was bright and clear, yet a sadness hung heavy in the forest air, as if one could almost smell it. I awoke in our camp and travelled down to the stream to fetch water. A strange silence fell upon the forest, as if all that lived here stopped to marvel at some beauty. As I filled my pouch, I saw it... across the stream in a clearing of felled trees, unaware of my presence, a god materialized before my eyes. Out of thin air she appeared; a small fox, with a coat of unmistakably pure black and twinkling stars. Just as the hanging lights in the night sky, nebulous swirls of many colors danced about her like the brushwork of a masterful painter. She was the very image of a pristine night sky, unobscured by clouds. In all my lifes’ hunts, I had never been prepared to stumble upon such magnificence. She was carrying in her mouth something small, and she trotted to the bed of the stream. She dug a hole, and laid the piece in it - it was what appeared to be a seed pod or nut. A gasp must have escaped my lips, for her ears perked up, and striking eyes met with mine. My heart fluttered. I can not imagine any man ever having borne witness to such beauty before. I know not what she thought in those moments she gazed at me, but she must have known that I knew her burden. Her enormous power was spent... her sacrifice was made. I did not draw my bow. No thoughts crossed my mind of the fortune her pelt would fetch. Instead I sat and marveled at the sight I had beheld. She gazed at me unblinking, unmoving, until the silence was broken by the howls of the hounds. Quickly she buried her small gift, and off she bounded into the wood. The echoes of the hounds and hunters in pursuit rang like mournful bells, disappearing into silence as they gave chase. The poor beast, doomed for the rest of her days to the hunt. It pains me so to imagine her fleeing without pause until succumbing to exhaustion. Such sacrifice for a mere tree nut. Why? I waited at the site the seed was planted, for I had to see what would sprout from a god’s sacrifice. I pitched a tent and waited for days before a fresh green sprout sprung from the soil, radiating life. It captivated me. I continued to watch, and the days became months. The tent became a hut, and the months became years, and I beheld a beautiful sapling growing before my eyes. I chased away the deer who would eat her leaves, and plucked the pests who would bore into her bark. Around me, the landscape shifted and changed as the tree grew. Her roots ran deep and far throughout the forest, channels of water and life. She grew vast and powerful unlike any titanwood before; a guardian of all that lived here. The glorious tree had embraced me, and in harmony we coexisted. I saw the fox in the sky, and it was clear what fate had befallen her. I heard from travelers that her pelt hung in the hall of the Basillius, and had long since faded to a drab, weathered grey. I could not have know what the Old Gods were giving me when I beheld her sacrifice. I had forsaken them, and yet in that sprout, they gave me a gift no other man will ever come to know. So many years ago that was. I have held the honor of being her protector for centuries now. Life around me rises and falls like the tide, children leave legacy upon legacy, and I fail to recall the names of wives long past. I have been many different men. The Old Gods no longer grace this realm, and the magic of man breeds turmoil. This is my cause: Guardian of the last mark of divinity on this realm. *Thank you for reading, this is an excerpt from a novel I've had in mind.
This happened last year. About five days each week, I walk to my favorite coffee shop and order an iced latte, regardless of the weather. I take the same path - wait for the slowest traffic light in the world, cross the street, cross another street, walk about a mile, walk through a park, then take the shortcut behind the Hampton Inn to get to the shop. The coffee is heavenly, and I sit in the same seat by the window every time I go, then I take the same path home. One Saturday morning, however, something had changed. There was a fountain in the middle of the park. Normally this wouldn’t be strange, but up until that day the park had only been a grassy rectangle like a sports field for people to play frisbee and football. Curious, I walked directly to the fountain instead of following the sidewalk around the park’s edge like I usually did. Without thinking, I fished a penny out of my pocket and threw it to the fountain’s center - an old habit from childhood - before an odd feeling crept over me. Though I’m not from here, I had lived in the city about three years before this happened, and I’d walked by this exact spot often enough to know something was wrong. It was a nice day, and a weekend, but there were no people out walking their dogs and no children playing. Given that half a million people live within a few miles of here, this park was usually crowded. And the fountain itself was wrong, too - cities install fountains all the time, but this one was old, but not old enough to be nice. I guessed it was from the 80s. Rust leaked through its concrete, leaving brown stains, and many pennies within it were caked with blue. Dried leaves sat on the fountain’s surface, despite the fact it was late spring and all the trees were green. I stuck a finger in the water. It was cold. I shouldn’t have touched it. I didn’t know how it wasn’t frozen, being that cold, but then I noticed the first signs of ice creeping around the dried leaves, delicate crystals that shouldn’t have been there. I pulled away from the fountain, deciding the city had simply moved one of its older fountains to this location, and made my way to the coffee shop. I only saw two people during my journey the rest of the way, which was about a half mile. Again, this was weird, because this is a densely populated area. I arrived at the coffee shop, which usually had three or four baristas working, but there was only one. She was one of their only full-time employees, so I knew her by name. “Hi Sarah,” I said. She smiled. She always made an effort to be nice to regulars. “The usual?” she asked. I nodded. “The usual.” The coffee shop had a small bar by the cash register, and I sat there so she could just hand me the latte directly when she was done making it. I opened my phone and checked my social media, surprised I had no notifications on Twitter or Reddit. Sarah stood across the bar from me and held out the iced latte. “I don’t know how you aren’t freezing without a coat.” “What do you mean?” I took the latte in one hand and looked outside. It was still a bright spring day. “With the storm coming,” Sarah said. “The temperature’s dropping.” “Really?” I asked. I hadn’t heard about a storm coming. I tried to look up the weather forecast, but it wouldn’t load. I didn’t have signal - that made sense. I turned off wifi and tried again on data, without luck. “Do you have any reception?” I asked Sarah. She patted at her pockets for a moment and shrugged. “Must have left my phone in the back, sorry.” “Thanks anyway,” I said. I took a sip of my iced latte, then pulled my head back in shock. It wasn’t my usual at all - it was an iced chai tea latte. “Ah,” I said. “I think you made me the wrong thing. I’ll drink it, so no worries, but usually I just get the, uh, coffee kind of latte.” Sarah cocked her head to the side. “You’ve come here almost every day for the past ten years and ordered an iced chai latte. I even ordered you that fancy chai from India six months ago.” Ten years? Ordered fancy chai from India? I shook my head, confused. I’d only lived here for under three years, and could count on one hand the number of times I’d drank an iced chai latte. Sarah must have mixed me up with someone else. “What’s my name?” I asked after a moment. She said my name, then added, “only one S.” That was wrong. I spelled my name with two. Fearing I’d lost my mind, I pulled my drivers license out of my phone case, where I kept it. What do you know - only one S. My mind raced back to that weird fountain. “Did you see that new fountain in Victory Park?” I asked. Sarah, who was drying glasses with a rag, paused. “Oh yeah. Threw a penny in it yesterday on my way here. It’s kind of ugly, don’t you think?” “Very.” I thanked her, got up, pushed my chair in, and left. She was right about the storm. The air outside was freezing now. It might have been bearable without the wind, but all I had was a t-shirt and jeans and the wind blew right through them. It was an aching cold, the kind you feel in your bones. I thought about going back into the coffee shop, or getting an uber, but getting home would only take me a few minutes if I ran. Plus, I still didn’t have signal, so getting an uber was not an option. There was not a single car on the road. By the time I reached the fountain again, my muscles cramped from the cold and I had to slow down. Snow began to fall around me. My fingers were numb, my toes were numb, and even thinking had grown difficult. None of this made any sense. By the time I reached the fountain, I could barely walk. I dropped to my knees, arms wrapped around the fountain’s lip to support myself. This was bad. I was dying. I was freezing to death in the middle of May. Only, it wasn’t May anymore, it couldn’t be. The fountain had frozen over completely, even the parts that were supposed to have moving water, so I knew it had to be brutally cold. I tried to trace my steps back to how this all started as my thoughts grew increasingly fragmented and panicked. I couldn’t make it to any of the storefronts, though I had a feeling that if I did, the doors would be locked. A darkness spread across the sky, and not a single light was on in any of them. This all started when I threw that penny into the fountain. Sarah said she had thrown in a penny, too. When we did that, we must have triggered something, or maybe been thrown into another dimension. What a stupid thing to think - and yet, this gave me an idea. I plunged one stiff, dumb hand through the ice and frantically searched for the penny I threw in, as if I could tell it apart from the others. I took sloppy fistfuls of pennies, quarters, and dimes, some new and some old, and flung them onto the gathering snow. I remembered - I threw my penny near the fountain’s center, the deepest and hardest part to reach. They said people panic and do wild, illogical things as hypothermia sets in, and it must be true because I thrust my whole upper body into that water, grabbed a handful of coins from the center, threw them onto the snow, and and- “Hey.” It was a child’s voice. My eyes were shut, and I was lying on my back. Someone poked my face with what must have been a stick. An adult’s voice answered. “Ravi! Get away from her!” “But-” “No butts, get back here,” the adult said, then cursed about drunks and the city going to shit. I opened my eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. The sun kissed my skin, and I was laying in the middle of the park, again an open field. A dog came up to me and sniffed my face. “Are you alright?” a man, likely the dog’s owner, asked. I pushed myself to my feet and took a few seconds to balance as the feeling returned to my legs. “Yeah,” I said, brushing the dirt off my jeans and searching for a logical explanation of what had just happened. “I think I had a seizure, or a stroke...” The man came over to me. He said he was a doctor (there were three hospitals within two miles of here, so lots of people living in this area are doctors). He shined his phone flashlight in my eyes, then helped me to the nearest emergency room. They checked me out, even squeezed me into their MRI schedule, but they couldn’t find anything wrong. The doctors told me to follow up with a neurologist, and I agreed. But I knew that whatever had happened was not of this world. That distorted world I was transported into had no medical or natural origin, and its source was probably something beyond what I was capable of understanding. The next day, Sunday, I stayed home. I didn’t even make coffee and instead just accepted the inevitable withdrawal headache, then spent the day binge-watching my favorite anime from high school. It was calming, since it reminded me of a better time and kept my mind off the horrors of the previous day. But still, every time I shut my eyes, I relived the sensation of half-diving into the freezing fountain, numbness spreading up my arms as my dumb hands searched the depths. Monday, I was feeling a little better. Though I hated the thought of walking by that park again, for fear of seeing the fountain, I was curious and also wanted my usual iced latte. Slowlyl, I traced my regular path to the park. The fountain was gone. I continued, taking the shortcut behind the Hampton, until I reached the coffee shop. There was something plastered in the window. It was a typical “missing person” sign you see stapled to telephone poles or pinned to poster boards in the front of Walmarts all over the US, but what shocked me was the person on it. It said: Missing Sarah \[censored\] Last seen: May 27, 2022, 5:45 am It was Sarah. But I’d seen her the morning of the 28th. A darkness settled over me, and I knew that something had happened to her. She was still in that strange world I had escaped from. I wondered if every penny in that fountain represented a person trapped and thought that if only I could find that fountain again, I could get her out. I got on the internet and went down the rabbit hole, so to speak. I searched every forum and paranormal sight until I found someone mentioning the fountain. However, it was a thread from ten years ago, and the profile had been deleted and the comments frozen. I posted around until someone else said they had seen the fountain. They had even taken pictures, but the pictures looked... wrong. Realistic in some ways, but also fake, distorted and with the perspective slightly off. Another person had sent him pictures, which he shared with me, but these were both blurry and in black and white. Almost a year later, I’m still trying to find the fountain and figure out what it is, where it came from, and if there are others like it. But whatever the case, if you see a fountain where it doesn’t belong, think before throwing in a coin.
Jack cleared his throat. This was a big moment. A huge moment. A historic moment. “My name is Jack Platt...” His voice was croaky. He cleared his throat once again. “My name is Jack Platt and I am honoured to announce that we at Platt Ltd. have created the world’s first time machine!” Silence. Jack was actually standing alone in his empty garage. The presentation was purely for his own amusement. The content however, was very real indeed. Jack had hoped for a big reveal in front of all the world’s media, but the Coronavirus pandemic meant it wouldn’t happen the way he wanted it to. So for now, it would be his secret. At least until things got back to normal. Not that staying in isolation had been a bad thing, it had actually sped up his process. Apart from a brief visit to the shop last week, Jack had spent every waking hour inside his old garage working away at what had been his life’s work. At 47 years old he had wasted much of his life trying to figure out time travel, but this year was the year he finally made a breakthrough. His dream became a reality. Jack stood back and admired his creation: a steel chamber about eight feet tall, glimmering despite the dull lighting, the glass door ajar welcoming him in. Would it actually work? Jack had no clue. Where would he go? He wasn’t too sure on that either. But he was convinced this contraption would take him to anywhere in the world, at any point in history. “No time like the present...or the past,” Jack chuckled to himself before his throat began to tickle. He stepped inside. Now this was the tricky part. In reality time travel doesn’t work like it does in the movies: You can’t just put the time and date in; you can’t step into a cupboard and close your eyes; and you certainly can’t just jump into a hot tub. Jack fired up the software and began coding to calibrate the machine. Jack mopped sweat from his brow - he hadn’t ever remembered the time machine feeling this hot, but then again he had never felt this much anticipation. Eventually it was ready. Jack tried to take a deep breath, but was struggling to compose himself. He put it down to nerves and pulled down on the lever in front of him and prayed to every God there ever was that this would work. *BANG* This wasn't right. Jack was thrown from one side of the chamber to another. *BANG* Jack was on the floor. Short of breath and struggling to get up. *BANG* The door swung open. And as Jack picked himself up off the floor, he couldn’t believe his eyes. In front of him was a bustling market place, which couldn’t be further from the silence of his garage. People pushed past him, the noise of chatter filled his ears. He was definitely somewhere in Asia, but had no idea where. It was all very alien to him after the constant pleas to social distance for the past six months. “Where am I?”, he muttered to himself. “When am I?” He turned around and took in his surroundings: stalls of food everywhere, a currency exchanging hands that he didn’t recognise, and buckets full of fish lined the alleyways, but for some reason he couldn’t smell a thing. He began to cough. Jack noticed a newspaper at his feet and picked it up - it was all in Chinese, apart from the date: 17th December 2019. Pre-COVID. Jack suddenly dropped the paper and began to splutter, he was really struggling for breath now. Everyone around him started backing away as he continued to wheeze. If he was struggling for breath before, the next thing he saw took it away completely. He had noticed a banner above him, raising his head to read it: *WUHAN FISH MARKET* Jack felt a plunging feeling in his stomach as the realisation dawned on him.
Please give feedback and be harsh. If it's possible, could you score it out of 30? Thank you reading and I hope you enjoy. Lost to the city Bleak industrialisation, verging on the depressive. Towering blocks of blackened buildings blotted and choked by the ash they spat out so many years ago. The buildings, sulking awkwardly, bundling and hoarding the dreams they broke. So, blinded by soot and hatred, the people shuffled past one another minds fogged with man’s innate greed. Huge crumbling, concrete condominium's blobbing like cancerous tumours from the knackered tarmac. The people wandered the blank streets, leathered with blank minds and mirroring the austere blocks that surrounded their industrial prison. But there was one outlier. An anomaly among all. Archon Pickkard; He was waiting for his meeting with Charon. He lived among the people but dreamt for more. Archon needed to make others see the harmony they could achieve. Free in his prison; he was a simple man not asking for ornate features or words but spent his life pushing for euphoria taking cheer from his boring schedule. Archon found a way to love all things he saw, resisting what the city forced upon him. The man wished for nature to take its land back, for the days of new to end. He was waiting for his meeting with Charon, not that he knew it though. For years Archon walked the city. Archon thought of the lush pastures of past-times and submerged his dreams with a blind optimism. Archon was authentic unlike the doldrumic people. He was happy. Life was repetitive but Archon was not a man to complain or criticise. He wandered on with his life finding joy in the menial and the boring. Not a moment came that Archon hated or regretted, he was pure. Archon saw such colour in the world, such vibrant colours that overloaded the senses. But the city corrupts all. Gradually, the colours dulled to his eyes. His mindset beginning to slowly shift, and Archon could feel the pull of the city’s tide. The joy he felt became unfulfilling. Optimism began the descent to pessimism. The city lingered on, unaware or uncaring for Archon Pickkard’s wish for simplicity. It stumbled on blindly killing the soul of the one individual man. His mind slowly crumbling like the cracked cobbled streets. The fibre of his being, his very soul was systematically smudged, until he started growing to be the man that he hated the city for. His emotions losing their colour and becoming blank. Soon the city would, with its coal infused air, dank sewers and dim inky skies, deplete the consciousness of the last conscious man. Archon Pickkard realised it was time and raised no controversy. Archon knew what was happening, he tried and forced himself to feel the euphoria of life again, but it was simply not the same. Haltingly, he was being eaten by the city. But Archon could not accept himself to fully fall to the city. Time was all that was needed in his mind, for the mechanical structures to shrink back to the caves and for tranquillity to emerge once more, but Archon could no longer muster the strength to wait. His one refusal to accept the dark mood of the city led him to his decision. His crumpled manic depression edging him towards the cliff of despair. His dingy apartment, grimy on the outside and grimy on the inside was the epitome of the city. The man wished for nature to take its land back, for the days of new to end and for the mechanical structures to shrink back to the caves. Through his paper-thin walls rattled the call of the city, insects and rats. One man, he used to think, was all it took to change the city. Standing in his bitter cold apartment, the winter raging outside and the decay of the city limping forward, Archon Pickkard stared at his ceiling. He fixed it up to a hook on the ceiling and looked around at his apartment hoping for hope but filled with only disgust. So alone in a world with blank slates he saw no point in continuing this sham. He wished for a world that humans hadn’t ruined, but what was the point in complaining. But... what was the point in staying? He was leaving... mind fully made up, he placed a small stool and stood upon it. The city groaned and wheezed smog in laughter, defeating the last individual. Rather defeated, Archon placed a small coin under his tongue. The fattened pigeons squawking outside, the last life - along with the insects, rats and bugs - to be left in the city. With a sharp kick, he did it. The city ignored his death. Clouds slowly blotted what remained of the sun. The streets were piled with evidence of humans but no ‘humanity’ filled them. The buildings rose higher separating themselves from humans. Fogs, storms and rains descended upon the beast pattering and lashing upon its stone walls and pane glass, to no avail, however. The construction workers laboured on, regardless of the weather, dotting their ore skyrises across the broken skyline. The clanging of their hammers rattled through day and night tearing through earth, metal and stone. Workers of this city beast clasped in reflective neon clothes - a façade for the destruction they committed. Winds slowly blocked by blocks of man's creation the howling died down and was replaced by the beating of the hammers. By now, Archon Pickkard had moved on. He had left the complex world and had entered simplicity. He gave an obol to Charon and stepped on the wooden raft and sat down. Archon steadied himself as it rocked waiting for Charon to drift him down the river Acheron. The land was bare and barren, but a beauty lay that Archon admired. He found peace, ease and simplicity - the things he had longed for. The hell he headed for was better than the hell he’d left. But, as before, the city had not noticed. The city stops for no man or woman. It stops when the ticking of humanity falters, but for one man it does not hesitate. It had not recoiled at the loss of Archon Pickkard, its chimneys bloated on, unaware of the individualism it had beaten away. The meaningless buildings grew higher and grubbier, killing the humans that birthed them. Lost to the city. The city limped forward, filled with nowhere people.
There once was a warrior who didn't want to kill the dragon, not because the dragon had been his wife before transforming. He would have had every right to refuse the King's proclamation. Nor was it the fact that he, himself, was subject to the same curse that had caused his wife to turn. No, the true reason he didn't want to kill the dragon was simply because dragons are cool as shit--and he rather liked transforming into one and going on rampages with his wife. They would fly over the beautiful countryside and barrel-roll through the skies until a town caught their eye. She would give him a knowing look and off they would go, swooping low, delivering some hellfire to the residents of some sleepy town. Oh, the fun they had! And laughs aplenty. After satisfying their bloodlust, they glided to a lush glade and basked in the afternoon rays while picking the occasional shoe or pitchfork from their dragon teeth. Life was good and the killing was easy. But eventually, he would morph back into human form. The first time this happened, he was lying next to his dragon wife staring at his human hands where, moments before, claws of immense power were his to wield. He felt small and weak. She snorted and nudged him away. He stumbled backward, trying to find the strength to stand on shaky legs. As she fixed her gaze upon him, sadness stirred within him. With a few mighty flaps of her wings, she was gone. He fell back to the ground and wept. On most occasions, the warrior would stumble back to the village on his own power, but this time was different: the King's appointed constable picked him up on the outskirts of a dense forest. The constable described a terrible scene:. Fire and screaming. Chaos was delivered by some fearsome flying creature. The King in a fevered panic. The warrior stroked his chin as if contemplating the King's plight, but inwardly smiled. My lovely wife, how I love thee. The constable stared intently, awaiting his reply. The warrior nodded grimly. He had no intention, however, of tracking down and slaying the dragon--not his wife, anyway. The King's court was in considerable disarray since the attack. Some of the royal banners dressing the cracked western wall were still smoking. Others were charred and tattered. Well done, my sweet wife , thought the warrior as he approached the bottom step of the King's throne. The King issued instructions and equipment to the warrior, as well as a small regiment of soldiers. A secret mountain pass loomed ahead. He easily lost the soldiers, discarded the ornate armor, and set off to find the specter who forever changed his wife into dragonkind. He encountered many obstacles, not the least of which was his hunger: smoked pork sandwiches danced on the periphery of his taste buds. The warrior set up camp north of the King's domain, high up in the rugged mountains where he built a small fire. As he roasted two boulder vermin on the spit, he scanned the valley below for signs of activity. A bird of prey flew below him and screeched as he lost sight of it. He directed his attention back to the crackling vittles, gently squeezing the meat between his fingers to test for doneness. Nodding to himself, he began to eat. Halfway through his meal, he heard a twig snap. Silently, the warrior rose and drew his blade. * * * In the darkest recesses of a secret mountain lair, a bloody assassin drags himself to his master's feet. The specter seizes him, much as one might a rag doll, enraged that he would lead the warrior to her front door with his blood trail. The specter flings the assassin against the wall and thus concludes his service to her. She knows the warrior will be here soon. So much to do! With an enchantment, she alters the web-covered cave into a dazzling ballroom. Live music echoes through the chambers as phantom court dancers gracefully spin and bow. The specter even re-creates a chocolate fountain in the center of the dining hall. It's a bit much, even for a specter. A mountain storm whips up as the specter awaits the warrior's arrival. Some time passes, but the warrior hasn't shown. The specter gets bored. Maybe he was injured in the altercation with my assassin. Or fell from a precipice? A win! Perhaps he lost the assassin's blood trail and will never find my lair. Another win! But who am I fooling? This is the warrior we're talking about. The guy who just barely escaped with his life, and only a partial transformation spell, when I changed his wife into a dragon. Nah, he's pissed! The specter must have nodded off because she didn't even see the warrior enter her lair. He was over by the punchbowl, slurping the enchanted drink like a parched peasant. He glanced back at her. She rose to meet him and smiled. He projected only loathing. The specter could read his mind. Many images--so much pain and anger, especially the memory of the time the warrior and his wife had sought the specter's help in destroying the King after that fateful decree. She peered deeper into his mind and saw a scene of the warrior's son riding into battle, riding to his death. It was not in her power to restore the life of his son. Instead, the specter offered immense power to the couple. His wife accepted without hesitation. He, however, sensed deception. Stumbling back, he received only partial transformation. At the moment his wife was being changed into a beast, he knew the specter intended to keep him as her own dragon pet. The warrior tossed the crystal punch goblet and it shattered into a thousand pieces. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic and stepped towards the specter. She projected into his mind the futility of trying to destroy her; she was, after all, a phantom. The stare-off continued until a wicked grin appeared on her face. The specter moved to the center of the room and with a sleight gesture, transformed the cave into a tacky game show set with three portals to pick from. The warrior crossed his arms and clenched his jaw. Specter was now adorned in a rhinestone evening gown. Making a sweeping motion with her arm, Portal One lit up and opened dramatically to reveal a scene portraying the King's ruin. The castle was reduced to rubble, the King lying under the debris, while the specter and the warrior sat atop the slain dragon--his beloved wife!--toasting the moment with golden ale. In front of Portal One, the angry warrior slashes wildly at the image. Specter tilts her head and shrugs before theatrically motioning to Portal Two. The second scene shows a dazzling white washer and dryer combo, with wondrous new features like high-efficiency spin cycles and temperature-sensitive fabric settings. Portal Two sends the warrior into a frenzy, violently stabbing at the image until he pants like a wolfhound. He tosses his blade to the floor and rests his hands on his knees. Fury is exhausting. The specter waits for the warrior to regain his composure. She gestures to Portal Three, but he waves it off as if to say give me a moment, will ya? When the specter finally reveals the third option, the warrior stands with mouth agape: the sky is filled with dragons circling the King's ruined castle. The warrior smiles warmly when one of the dragons swooshes past. My sweet wife! We will yet be reunited. The specter considers the warrior, knowing his heart's desire--knowing what he would sacrifice to be with her. The warrior drops to his knees and puts out his hands as if to receive this dark enchantment. Specter transforms into a swirl of black smoke, scales, and horns. She pulls the partial enchantment from the warrior as he screams. * * * It's been a minute since the warrior was fooled by the specter. He can no longer transform into a dragon and rampage with his lovely wife, but knowing that she's up there somewhere--flying free, without fear of the King's army hunting her--is a comfort. And she has lots of company now, since all the kingdom's people were turned into dragons...except for him. Life is funny that way. As he lives out the rest of his days, hiding from these dragons, he can only hope that when his number is up, it will be his dragon that catches and consumes him. Only fitting, since, even now, she consumes his every waking thought.
I'm not what they wanted, but I'm what they've ended up with. Beautiful and fair I am yes, since birth, but with my slowness in school and my urges to be free, my beauty becomes worthless. I'm not as smart as my brothers and sisters, or as well behaved. But I love dancing and talking to all the interesting people at all of our grand parties. People take to me so well, and yet still it isn't enough. It's almost midnight now I believe. The constant dripping of the leaky pipes ticking like the old clock in Father's study tells me so. I focus only on that sound. They say I was born this way, my learning disability as they call it. Complications with my birth made it difficult for oxygen to get to my brain, thus creating the dumb creature lying crumpled on the floor of the dark dingy basement. I used to love the night. The best parties are always held at night, with the moon shining brightly from up high and everyone feeling absolutely alive because of it. Then there are the moments of sneaking away deep into our garden with a boy who I fancied, sharing kisses and giggling quietly, our only witnesses being the stars. Mostly though, I liked enjoying the night all by myself. Sneaking out the back door and walking through our vast garden, accompanied by the moon's gentle glow or simply the twinkling of the stars, I walk and think and breathe in the crisp air, and take in all the dark beauty around me. Breathing deeply I try to inhale the spirit of the night that calms my wretched soul like nothing else can. I want to bathe in the moonlight , swim through the dark swirling galaxies and lay among the stars. The night was the only time I felt truly alive, but they took that away from me too. It was seven months ago when they first caught me sneaking out, several more times and they deemed me much too rebellious to be left alone at night, so they locked me in my room. But I could not be stopped. The pull of the night was much too strong for me to resist and so I went out again. And when father found me, sneaking out again and disobeying his repeated command, the love affair with my beloved nights had come to an end. But that was not all. The night father found me sneaking out of my bedroom window, he was furious. He grabbed my arm and yanked me through our mansion like home, shouting at me about how stupid and misbehaved I am, how nobody could love me the way that I am. He shouted these things at me even while I cried, and nobody tried to help me. My brothers and sisters watched me be thrown down the stairs and into the pitch black basement, mother couldn't stand to watch it happen, but there was certainly no way she'd go against father's wishes, and so she ran off to their room to cry. Nobody seemed to notice how hard father had thrown me, nobody heard my scream of agony when my leg cracked and twisted at an unnatural angle. They ignored me, while father locked me in the dark, in such pain and agony that I have never felt before. That was two days ago. I wonder sometimes if they've forgotten me, or perhaps they decided to leave me down here so I would have a good scare and never rebel again. Or maybe their life is easier now. No more having to explain the dumb sister, the rebellious daughter. These are the thoughts that are twirling around my foggy mind as I lay cold and hungry on the damp ground, unable to move the leg that has become numb with pain. my only joy now is looking out the small window that sits high up on the basement wall. I can see it. The night, it's waiting for me. It's waiting for me to bathe in the moonlight, to swim in the purple swirling darkness of the galaxies, to meet wonderfully weird new creatures and dance with them on the planets, and finally, to lay to rest amongst the stars. Yes oh yes the night is waiting for me, and tonight I shall go to it. I will become one with the night.
#Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills and areas in which we excel, as well as places we’d like to improve. So I’d like to present a brand new weekly feature. This will be a weekly thread to discuss all things writing! And... to get to know your fellow writers a bit! Each week we will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion. Feel free to chime into the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, etc. You do not have to answer all the questions, but try to stay on-topic! *** #This Week’s Roundtable Discussion Characters are vital to a story, without them, there is no story. We spend time creating them, bringing them to life, and throwing them into various situations for character and plot growth. They also grow on us, as the writer and as the reader. And then comes the time we have to kill off our beloved character(s). - Have you ever had to kill off your “little darlings”, as they say? Do you find it difficult to write those scenes? (Edit) It seems "little darlings" is often applied to cutting words/scenes. But for this discussion, I'm referring to your beloved characters. - Do you have a favorite way to do the dirty deed? Maybe a little murder? Possibly a freak accident or nature taking its course via old age or illness? - Are there ways to make it easier on the readers? - New to r/ShortStories or joining in the Discussion for the first time? Introduce yourself in the comments! What do you like to write? Remember you don't have to answer all the questions to join in the chat! * #Reminders - Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments. - Please be civil in all your responses and discussion. There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussion in any form will not be tolerated. - Please try to stay on-topic.
At first, nothing happened. Then, nothing happened again. Then, without warning or any indication that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened. It was really quite unexciting. Nobody had been waiting for nothing to happen, and when nothing happened, several times in a row, nobody expected it. In fact, nobody didn't expect it either. It is not often that anyone ever wonders about nothing happening. This particular nothing did happen, however, and technically, nothing shouldn't have happened. The nothing which never should have occurred happened on an unremarkable day in January, but that is not important. Nobody was expecting nothing to happen, least of all an average scientist, who worked in a nondescript building on a street whose name is not a relevant detail. This average scientist, a man of no noteworthy achievements, was researching a project on the nature of the universe. Using some gadget he had created, whose purpose had something to do with the fluidity of time, the average scientist caused absolutely nothing to happen. And it was truly absolutely nothing. For the brief fraction of time that he turned on the device, the world became frozen; for that brief second, or perhaps it was a moment, nothing happened whatsoever. The average scientist, somehow, noticed this nothing after it was over, and, to test his strange device, turned it on again. Again, a brief moment of nothing filled the entire universe. Then without warning, or any indication at all that anything at all was amiss, nothing happened again. This time, the nothing lasted for a little while. Similar to absolute zero in terms of temperature, the average scientist had achieved the same with time: absolute nothing. The nothing that was happening stopped happening after several minutes of nothing, and the average scientist, thrilled with his strange discovery, published an average paper. His paper, being of average quality and written about nothing, was widely disregarded. Later that week, the average scientist, thinking deeply about nothing, decided that perhaps the world would be better off if he made nothing happen. Without considering the ramifications, he closed his eyes and turned on the device. And absolutely nothing happened.
The sun had set by then and the world had drawn its curtains as the rain cloaked the darkening sky. The cold descending upon the earth, painting the streets in wet lights. And it all seemed silent; like a town about to pull the covers and drift into dreams, goodnight. But somewhere, near the town plaza where the fountain stands still for night, red lights glowed and grew in the dark, twinkling over the puddles and the wet asphalt about the roundabout. The shops around had closed up and there were no other people around, no pedestrians, no shop-keeper. The place felt abnormally quiet. One could almost feel the bated breaths and the secretive eyes of those hiding out of sight, wondering what happens next as if the world had spun into some dystopia overnight. The plaza had been taped off, and every shop was ordered to close, the owners told to return home. Every shop, except the one bakery where all the police cars gathered before. Something had happened, something enough to require the attention of every cop in town. Something severe: murder? Akane walked into the store, passing through the dark shadows hanging like curtains all around. The lights were too bright, everything seeming to blaze in the windows left and right. She pulled out her notepad, her heart thumping, as she readied herself, wondering: what’s the case? She had been called without a word about what the case really was. All she knew was that the crime scene happened to be the town’s favorite bakery. She’d bought a strawberry shortcake here once... Everything seemed just the way it was, only now draped in darkness, giving the place an eerie feel. Haunting, even. Places really do seem different in the dark... She reached the back, walking behind the counter and passing the large cabinet of cupcakes along the left side, making it through the door into the back. There were policemen near the door, interrogating a middle-aged woman at a distance; the woman at the table, sitting down, the moonlight lighting her back, but leaving her face and front in shadows. Everything really did seem haunted... The woman-- it was the owner. When the woman noticed Akane’s arrival, she told the policemen to give them a moment. Without questioning, they left the room, passing through saying, “Excuse me,” their voices tired. Or maybe carrying a weight. Just then, with Akane looking behind, watching the men walk out the store to the front against the blaring lights, the owner called her over, telling her to sit down at the seat across of her. “Why did you call me, Mrs. Yoshioka?” “Something happened,” the woman replied, her words simple but vague. Akane could see the woman’s face now; seeing it, the familiar sight, Akane felt herself calm. She put her notepad down on the table, turning herself so she could see what she wrote in the pale moonlight. But just as she wrote down the title and the date, Mrs. Yoshioka spoke again. “A secret ingredient was stolen.” Akane looked up. “Eh?” Akane’s mind seemed to freeze for a moment, as if the thing the woman said were too quick to catch. “Stolen?” “Yes, darling. Stolen.” Her mind froze again, trying to wrap her head around the idea: was this a joke? It couldn’t be. The police were all out, the whole station probably out for this one case; this one case requiring the need for the whole plaza to shut down. All this couldn’t be some prank. Besides, who would they be pranking? The town? “Um, Mrs. Yoshioka,” Akane started, confused still. “What is this secret ingredient?” “It is in every recipe.” Eh? “But... what is it?” “It is a secret. No one must know.” Akane withdrew into her thoughts again. If it really was a secret, then how would the police, let alone her, solve the case? If solvable at all? People would only report if something valuable were stolen. But couldn’t an ingredient be bought again? If it were some sort of flour, then couldn’t she just buy a new stock? And, now that she thought about it, why were the police here if they didn’t know what the ingredient was? If they heard that some ingredient was stolen, then wouldn’t they’ve simply dismissed it as a joke? Why were they all here? Why was everyone so serious about this? It didn’t make sense. It only would if the police knew what the secret ingredient was-- but even then, how would that have made any sense? What was this ingredient? Just then, Mrs. Yoshioka spoke again. “Where do you, Miss Minami?” Why was she asking? “At the Harukawa neighborhood... why?” “Do you have a husband?” “No,” she replied, suspicious; but, feeling like her answer were inadequate, she added, “My boyfriend and I broke up last month.” “I see.” Akane started feeling an odd sensation in her chest, as if some dark, animated slime were moving around within her, swirling around her heart like some slug, some obsessive hand. “You bought a cake here earlier this week, right? Or am I mistaken?” “Yes. I did, Mrs. Yoshioka...” She didn’t feel comfortable anymore-- it was making her feel the exact way when she visited the family murder case last year. Something just felt off about everything-- it’s as if a person had broken into her room and replaced all her things while she was asleep. “May the police investigate your house, Miss?” “E-Eh? Why?” What’s with this woman? “The secret ingredient.” Akane couldn’t think-- how did her home have anything relating to the case? And how did her last statement fit into any of this? “What are you saying, Mrs. Yoshioka?” “Have you eaten the cake?” “Half of it. But-” “Did you like it?” “Y-Yes?” The woman fell silent for a moment. Just then, she asked, her tone changed, the air changing with it, as some dark feeling seemed to float up and linger around her: “Do you want to know what the secret ingredient is?” This is crazy... “What is it?” A moment of silence passed. But when Mrs. Yoshioka opened her mouth and spoke-- Akane couldn’t hear anything. “E-Eh?” “You now know the secret of this place,” the woman said; she could finally hear. But just then... “Mr. Koizumi. Do it.” Akane felt her heart skip. “Do it?” “You now know.” “But--” Just then-- “ Agh-?!? ” Something caught her throat-- her vision faded, her hearing disappeared. All she could feel was a numb feeling as she crashed to the floor behind her. Before everything went dark. What did you say...?
Out of the Frying Pan “Give me your hand.” “Fire!” the words slipping from my dream, leaving one eternity for another. I don’t know what I was thinking, perhaps I wasn’t. Sometimes we do things with no concern for our own safety. Most often though, we recognize the danger involved in an act, and take a few minutes to weigh the consequences. It is that time, that few seconds, minutes, hours, sometimes days, even weeks, that we place our internal debate, where anyone walking down the street, can see it. They can see both sides, our rebuttals, our feints, our disastrous insinuations about what might, could, should not happen, but do. That is the way I feel this morning as the sirens sound, the phone rings, the tornadic voices start screaming, as I look out the window. The morning is nice. I don’t usually pay much attention to the sky, or the sunrise, mainly because I am normally in a different world at that time of day. The sun is usually getting ready to retire about the time I return to my world. This morning for some reason I get up with just a few hours of being absent, walk out on the balcony and notice how blue the sky is. How white the few clouds are. How soft the wind feels. How bad the mosquitoes are at 7:00 AM. I feel as if I have been awakened by the gentle sensation of a hand from the future. I can see it reaching from out there and with the beckoning gesture of an index finger, luring me to view a future, I could never have imagined. I drink my usual two, three, cups of coffee, turn on the news, a bad habit I have developed over the years. The news is boring as usual. “The world is coming to an end, people are idiots, life will end on Armageddon Day, December 13 th , at noon.” I look up at the sky to make sure I haven’t missed some preliminary event that might tip me off to the possibility, that I will quit my job, buy an orange robe, shave my head, learn a few chants, and head for the airport. By then the hours have slowly drifted by. I look at the skyline, or what I can see of it. I live in Brooklyn in a high rise, so I have a view of Manhattan, the bridge, and the sky, broken only by a few doves that are permanent fixtures in my world. Something about doves that make me think of eternity. After wandering around in my mind, looking at the trees just beginning to get ready to shed their dignity and prepare for the nakedness of winter, I walk back into the building, climb the stairs, and stop to contemplate the chance that one day, they’ll find me dead on the steps, from heart failure. I go into the kitchen, and that’s when it begins. It is like a crank handle being turned, a dial being twisted, music fills the world, and then the plane that hits the towers jumps from the tube, and freezes my heart. Something happens in that time, when you die before you die. It allows you the opportunity to appreciate, what is left. Not surprisingly what is gone, but what remains to discover. Perhaps it is because we are at the bottom, and there is no place to look but up. But perhaps it is just a nudge that awakens us from the comatose state of apathy, that comes from living and attempting to do little more than survive. You no longer have time to notice happiness has taken the bus for the coast, the other coast, and we are left standing on the street eating a chemically laden hot dog and wondering why. It dawns on me. I’ve been a sliver of a moon, not even my moon. Somebody is out there pretending to be someone like me, pretending to be someone like them. I decided it is time to buy a ticket and follow a road, not that road, because at that time you don’t know there is a, that road. But you are bored, the burr under your saddle turns out to be hemorrhoids, and the moon is doing little more than catching contemporary wishes and providing the faint glow of a night light. It is easy to look back on life. It is what we do. We have learned what baggage to leave behind and which to take. But looking forward is frightening, we might just find something we are hoping for, and not even remember we’ve been looking for it. It is in that time of surprise, watching that hand reach from the smoke, that it begins to make sense. You see the flames, and all they do is make you laugh. You are frightened, so you consider crying to relieve the possibility of it all being impossible, and yet you feel yourself capable of being you, for the first time. Fear and hate, are what they are. Love is a different kind of emotion. We are conditioned to accept all other emotions because they are related to things we experience. We begin by crying because of the pain, or as a way to illicit a response to a need, or simply to be annoying. We laugh, we think, we try not to think, we perform as a circus performer for ourselves, and others, as a way of testing our responses. But love, there is no way to test it. It is mysterious, illusive. It has been spoken about, sung about, and chiseled into tree trunks and spray painted on the subway walls. It lives in the alleys, it lives on the roof tops, but it lives only, because we need it to. Unlike fear, it does not come naturally. We do not expose ourselves to injury or death, just to feel the emotion of sadness or grief. We do however realize we have no way to solicit love, as it must be built like one builds a wall, a brick at a time. Many experiences combine to produce what we have been unable to adequately put in words, because we don’t understand love as an emotion. Falling down and skinning your knees elicits anger, fear, or pain, but it does not conjure the notion of love, because love is not rooted in physicality. It is the ether that looms on a horizon, invisible but we know it is there. That fall day, as the smoke rolled from the buildings that were no more, now only apparitions of a bad dream I am forced to confront, a part of me dies. My chore, being the building of a mechanism that will transport time to a level of acceptance, even after I realize, time is irrelevant. Birds singing in the trees, the sky void of planes, yet the ocean continues to be courted by the moon, and the sun cajoled the night to remain, for just a minute more. The stars cry and planets turn their backs on the madness, leaving me alone with my thoughts of life, and the possibility it could continue as it once was, before the maniac showed up screaming that he is murdering people, so that his God can live. It was the insanity of love, hate, and misconstrued idealism that made the light seem less bright, the darkness even darker than the view from the hole in the ground. The power of hate challenging love, that seems lost. It stands alone, watching, pretending it is still necessary, because without it there can be nothing worthwhile. It finally stands, opens its arms and ushers in the souls that need to leave, to make room for the ones that have arrived. They nod to each other in recognition that time is passing, and things change in some ways, but not in others. They walk, some crawl, some do not move at all, but the ash continues to rain on our new world. We look to the sky for strength and find only blue sky, which is a surprise, but actually it is refreshing knowing not everything has died. They come in red trucks, spouting ladders and hope, as they climb into buildings that are no longer there, now, just a picture on a wall in an office across town, the new sky line void of... and yet we find that our memories are better at remembering than we could have imagined, just a lifetime ago. Someday when the birds find the sky again, the oceans caress the beaches, and a child puts a penny in the machine and the gum balls keep falling from its world despite all the pockets being full, I hope we can forgive one another for not caring, until it was too late. I have found something in being lost, lost something, in being found, and no matter the skinned knees and bruised ego, life goes on, like I never existed. All I can do as a means of redemption, is to say, I love being here with you.
It had been twenty four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. A wrought iron table, graced by two swirled iron chairs. Even the kiss of the sunlight filtering through the flowering hedge was inarguably a mirror image of the one she’d seen years prior. However, most paintings tended to stay the same, no matter how many years they stayed in a museum, so that wasn’t of much notice. What made this painting exquisite, irreplaceable, was not just the level of details and brilliant paint colors; but the people. Lounging upon the chairs were two women, a ghost of a smile hiding on one’s lips behind her raised teacup as she met eyes with the other. Her gown, cascading to the ground, was the most arguably phenomenal piece of clothed artistry ever painted. Tiered, each layer was a shining golden, painted with real crushed flakes that sparkled in the light and sewn with dark blue strokes almost tangible through the canvas. Her pale skin, framed by curls of pinned white hair, flushed with life. Opposite her sat a woman made almost entirely of plants. Her dress appeared stitched together with flowers, and she glowed with light from her dark exotic skin to the moonlight lacing of her silver sandals. “Persephone’s Tea Garden with the Sun”, ~Alexandra M. M. Halen. Mariah Abernathy pressed her heels together, peering over her short spectacles at the art. It had faded slightly between the hundred years spanning its lifetime, but the color was so captured it felt like a portal into the other world. Well. Mariah had little time or need for feelings. “Jadyn,” she said, not moving her eyes from the painting. A girl at her right stiffened, jolted to attention, and glanced back at her. “I want this museum upon the highest level of security possible for this week’s duration.” Jade noted in her clipboard, slowly returning her gaze to the painting. “Ma’am, how much exactly is this piece worth?” Mariah didn’t move. “More than our entire wing of ‘Charletomones’. I have seen this painting only once before at a gallery, when I was a young girl. And while our brother museum makes their renovations-” Mariah clasped her hands behind her back- “they have entrusted us with its protection.” She turned her head, her eyes falling onto a clock ticking over the doorway. 6:07 P.M., or approximately 18:00 hours. “Shall I call for your driver-?” “No.” Mariah pursed her lips, breathing in the colors cast across the canvas like smears of liquid gemstones. “I stay here, for the entire duration of this painting’s stay.” She clenched her jaw, raising her chin with a fierce glint in her eyes. “And if needed, I will protect it with my life.” * Mariah De Bronx sat at her desk, dark eyes firmly set on the screens flickering before them. A dark hallway stretched across a small patch of her cams, the historical armour winging the corridor glinting in the low light. On another camera, the art pieces pinned against the walls became reduced to mere shadows. For the past four nights, the painting had sat firmly on the wall, protected by bulletproof glass, safe and sound. The Alexandra M. M. Halen section of the brother museum had almost finished construction, and the borrowed painting would return to them at the end of tomorrow’s work day. If anyone could attempt to steal the famed painting, tonight would be their last night to do so before it was placed into the highest security museum in North America. Mariah hadn’t blinked in two minutes. Sitting tall, her perfectly pressed pantsuit and coat matching her dark rimmed glasses, her graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, she appeared to be a very proper statue. Her office glowed in the bright lights from the screens, a table lamp the only other lighting in the small room. While her office had a small refrigerator and a circling fan overhead, Mariah gave no notice to anything except the screens in front of her, pursing her lips. * Jadyn Abernathy watched her through the security cameras, frowning. “Is- is she breathing?” “Mariah doesn’t need to breathe.” Jade tipped her head towards the security guard in begrudging agreement, distracted. The guard said nothing else, sighing to himself in a bored, regretful way. Jade pushed back from the table. “I’m going to get some food. Just to get out of here for a couple minutes and try to wake up. Call me if anything happens, okay?” Godric didn’t look back at her. “Jade. It’s a painting no one even knows is here, nor cares that it is. The only reason I’m here is but because Mariah is paying me overtime. It will be fine .” Jade held in a sigh, clenching her jingling keys in her palm as she headed for her car. * Mariah sat tall, and as much as she hated it with a burning passion, her back was starting to burn as well. She adjusted her position, not taking her eyes from the screen. The long, slow ticking of the clock dragged to grow even slower. She glanced down at the few digits glowing from her screen, snapping up her gaze. 11:37. Twelve more hours until the museum’s opening, when the extra day-officers would arrive. Twelve more hours was a mere blink. Mariah widened her eyes, forcing them to remain open. Tiredness pressed heavy hands on her shoulders, dragging her down in its grasp. Jadyn and Godric are watching the security cameras, just as diligently as I am. If I falter, there will not be a blind spot. Slowly, Mariah raised her head, taking a breath for the first time in minutes. Multiple guards are posted along the walls; and even if they should fail Godric will see. Jadyn won’t fail me. Mariah tensed her shoulders, leaning back as she finally let out a long breath. She could use the restroom, at least. She started to rise, turning- The barest flicker of a shadow made her stop. Mariah’s head whipped, looking at the screen just in time to see a black flutter vanish out of the corner of her screen. Mariah’s hands clenched on the edge of the desk. Furiously clicking, she switched to the next camera, catching the last glimpse of a black shape melting into the blind spot. Her blood went cold. Following the glimpsing path of the cameras, it was headed right for- Mariah snatched up the walkie-talkie, manicured fingers slamming for buttons as she jerked it to her mouth. “On floor two there is a figure. I have seen it on multiple cameras, it is headed for the painting. Jadyn, phone the police immediately- Godric I need your team sent to this floor post haste!” She slammed down the device, stepping back, eyes flicking to the wall where hung a decorative, painted machete. “I- I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” A crackle of silence. “Mariah, Jadyn’s gone, half my team went on a break five minutes ago-” A single, terrible headline filtered through her head. A flutter of darkness flicked through the cameras, and Mariah’s heart seized. They were on this floor. They were after the Alexandra M. M. Halen. “Send in your team!” Mariah ordered, then hurled the walkie talkie to the desk, snatching the machete off the wall. Before Godric could manage to sputter a single other word, she charged out the door. * Jade’s car smelled of cold, bundled sandwiches and artificial air conditioning. The rain dripping onto her windshield was less-than-adequately being wiped away, smearing the traffic lights into colored blurs. She let out a long sigh, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. Steaming coffee settled in the cupholder, but she doubted it would do anything to wake her. She hadn’t been this tired since college. Jade took a single glance down at her phone and nearly swerved off the road. * Mariah sprinted down the hall, the click of her heels shrouded in the muffling walls. Clenched fast in her fist was the machete, held fast in her palm as she ran down the hall. Mariah De Bronx did not in any way know how to use a machete. But nothing, not even logic, could stop her from saving that painting. She stopped against a wall, muffling her heaving breaths. Mariah raised her knife, ducking around the corner to see an empty corridor. Her heart hammered, adrenaline drowned out from the ferocity of her anger. It had been well over three minutes. The painting’s temporary exhibit was right through the next room. She ran for the arched doorway. Minutes before, she had only glimpsed the dark shape flitting through the cameras, but it settled deep in her heart like a spike of fear. Mariah screeched to a halt, stepping onto a glass floor that showed the main lobby two floors below. Her eyes fell onto the painting. Set into the wall, hidden behind a veil of bullet proof glass, was Persephone’s Garden Tea With The Sun. Multitudes of emotion tumbled through her. She let out a long, long breath. They had not made it here yet. Mariah brandished her weapon, taking a stance. Most prim, petite late middle aged museum directors would have a hard time looking dangerous, but Mariah De Bronx was not someone you typically chose to cross. Seconds ticked by, even slower than before, the only sound echoing through the corridor her own controlled breathing. Suddenly, a swash of colors burst through the lower room below her, the glass tiled floor glowing with red and blues beaming from the tall windows. “Exit the building with your hands up!” The police had arrived. The thief had no way to know they were onto him; he wouldn’t have had time to escape. He was still here. Mariah took a shuddering breath. Judging by her calculations, if the robber continued at the same pace it had been going on the cams, he would appear in few seconds- She gripped the machete with all her might as an army of footsteps burst into the lobby three floors below- A single, low sound came from the shadows around the corner, and out stalked a cat . Mariah stared, the black feline shamelessly rubbing against the muralled walls, casting her a glare. Her heart faltered. No. That shape on the cameras- She had only looked at this floor, assuming it had been an intruder and acting accordingly. No. More sirens built outside the museum, a slam of a door joining them with another loud call- Mariah heard none of this. Her eyes stayed trained on the cat, machete frozen in her hands. “A cat?” Mariah’s knife dipped, and she leaned back. The heart inside of her chest fell from her lungs. Thundering footsteps filled the room below, police filing into the entrance hall. Her eyes flitted to the doorway to her right, her reputation and everything she had worked for going with them. Hurried footsteps stumbled into view. Godric Mason loomed far in front of her, leading a squadron of vested officers, his eyes wide with panic. “Mariah-” She sheathed her machete, locking eyes with the head of police beside him. She allowed herself one long, deep breath before speaking. “I believe there has been a misunderstanding.” “SIR!” Both of them turned, seeing a young man muscle his way through the ranks. “We found two suspicious characters hiding on the first floor. Two late adolescents. They said they had heard of the painting, eluding the final sweep and staying after the day hours to take it at night." He tensed his jaw. "We are still working out the details, but they confirmed they were attempting to steal it. They have been taken into custody. We are in the process of contacting parents to come get them at the station.” Mariah’s eyebrow quirked, but no one noticed her. “Thank you, Jonas. I will be down in a second.” The young man nodded, raising his radio to his mouth as he moved back to the stairs. “We are going to sweep the entire building and around it, to make sure there are no more accomplices.” Mariah barely heard him, the wheels spinning through her head. She had only watched the cameras on the third floor, solely focused on the prized painting. If they had not moved from the first floor, then that meant.... the single form she had glimpsed through the security cams would have been the cat. She would never have caught sight of the would-be thieves before it was too late. If not for this unknowingly heroic feline who had appeared. The officer moved a hand on the radio strapped over his bullet proof vest, frowning with sharp gray eyes. He tilted his head. “I am wondering, why didn’t your security apprehend them in the first place?” Mariah inclined her head at Godric, who had the good graces to look very, very uncomfortable. “That is a valid question.” She looked away from him, back to the officer, who was actually smiling. “It’s still under investigation, director, but I believe you’ve caught us some art thieves. Thank you.” Mariah glanced down at the cat rubbing against her leg, knowing someone else had played a very valid part. * Mariah De Bronx sat in her office, clicking through her computer. A small buzz, a message from her assistant Jade, lit up her phone, but she ignored it. Her fingers danced across the keys, and she paused, eyes flicking over her work. She allowed herself one exhale before submitting the email. Mariah cast a look around her office, settling her eyes on a small cat bed laying beside her desk. The dark cat was gone at the moment, mousing around the museum, but she knew he would be back. He always was, scarcely leaving her side since that fateful day. Although she had mistaken his small, stolen form for an intruder when they were first introduced, he had assisted in the apprehension of two genuine would-be art thieves, who were now serving time in community service. After that, Tyler the cat had well earned a place in her museum. The celebratory plaque settled on the wall above her desk, congratulating Mariah’s capture of the intruders, belonged just as much to him as it did her. Mariah stood, resting her eyes upon the plaque with a small, rare smile. In its original museum, the newest exhibit for the Alexandra M. M. Halen painting would be unveiled soon. Mariah and Jadyn were invited to the first viewing. While it had been an honor to care for it in the little time she had, the stress that had come with it was more than enough for her lifetime. The painting was safe; and that was all that mattered.
Joe stood in front of the vending machine pondering his selection. The candy occupied the fourth and fifth rows, between the savory snacks and the Grandma’s Cookies. It struck him that, considering this was a hospital, there was a distinct lack of healthy options available. It also struck him that, despite not knowing who he was or where he was from, he knew how to operate a vending machine. And, although he didn't know his own name (Joe, a derivation of John Doe, was the name given to him by the nurses until he could remember his own), he knew the names of all the candy bars. Another thing he did know, was that he wasn’t in search of a healthy snack. He had been craving the rich and heady combination of sweet, creamy, milk chocolate and soft caramel for days. As soon as he'd been allowed out of bed, he'd wheeled his IV stand down the corridor to the elevator lobby, in search of his sugar fix. Now, he was torn between the chewy nougat and the promise of a peanut or two in the Snickers bar, and the crisp snap of the finger biscuits in the Twix. Twix or Snickers? Snickers or Twix? 42 or 46? 46 or 42? He couldn’t decide. A small, but restless, queue was forming behind him. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His palms were slick with moisture. He wiped them on the front of his hospital gown. Twix! No, Snickers! No, Twix. No! It had to be Snickers! He punched in the first number. Four ... His finger hovered over the six. But his gaze drifted to the seven. His finger followed. What was wrong with him? Push the six! Get the Snickers. SIX! SIX! SIX! He pushed the seven. "Shit!" He punched the six. Jabbed it again and again! Hammered it furiously in a sudden frenzy of rage as the bright yellow packet of M&Ms began to move jerkily towards him. "Damn it!" he yelled as the packet dropped into the tray with a soft rattle. He slammed his palm against the glass. The machine shuddered. "Hey, Buddy! Are you ok?" the man behind him asked. "OF COURSE, IM NOT OK! DO I LOOK LIKE I'M OK? I WANTED THE SNICKERS!" The man's mouth dropped open. He looked as if he was going to speak, then appeared to think better of it. Instead, he cleared his throat and shuffled back a couple of paces, examining his finger nails. Joe turned and headed back down the corridor. He'd had to borrow the 95 cents from the guy in the next room. He wasn’t going to be defeated. He had to get more money. "Hey!" the man shouted after him. "You forgot your candy!" Joe turned, about to unleash a torrent of abuse. The man was waving the yellow packet of M&Ms at him. Then the flashback hit. It wasn’t the first one. That had happened the day he'd woken up. They had just taken out his breathing tube and helped him to sit up and take a few sips of iced water through a straw. He’d had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten there. Couldn't remember a thing. His name. Where he lived. What he did. Whether he was married or had a family. Nothing. His mind was just one big, black hole. They were telling him not to worry. That he'd had a nasty bang on the head. That it was normal at this stage. That it would all come back in time. Then, one of the nurses smoothed the bedspread over his body. His eyes were drawn to her hands. They were small and soft and pink against the blue woven fabric. Her nails were short and clean. The hands looked familiar. Like some he'd seen before. Somewhere ... else ... The colors around the edges of his vision began to blur and distort. It was as if he was looking down a watery tunnel. At the end of the tunnel, caught in a circle of light, the nurse's hands moved quietly. Every detail of them was bright and intense. Every skin crease, every tiny golden hair, every blemish was illuminated and magnified. Then, the blue of the bedspread faded to a dull grey. Its uniform, linear surface became rough and uneven. The hands stopped moving and lay, palms up, pale and still. The warm pink nailbeds faded to a cold blue, and the skin took on a waxy, sallow appearance. Joe realised it was a memory pushing through. If he let it, he knew the picture would widen and he would see who the hands belonged to. But he didn’t want to. A deep, dark dread washed over him. His skin crawled and his gut clenched. He closed his eyes and pushed back against the pillows, away from the image. "No. No! NO!" he screamed. "Joe! Joe!" The nurse with the small hands was touching his cheek. Gently. He opened his eyes. "It's alright, Joe. You're safe. We've got you. Don't worry. It'll all come back. It'll all come back with time." But Joe didn’t want it to come back. From that moment, Joe took great comfort in not knowing who he was, where he had come from and ... what he had done. He didn’t want it all to come back with time. He didn’t want it to come back at all. After that, there were others. One or two a day. All the same. All triggered by a simple sight, sound or smell. A glossy, swinging, auburn ponytail, a peal of girlish laughter, a waft of familiar perfume. Each one would send him spiraling back down the watery tunnel. Each time, more details were revealed. A once swinging ponytail, now limp and still. A once laughing mouth, now silent, its blue lips parted and breathless. A once fresh and vibrant perfume, now stale and faded under the scent of death and decay. It was as if he was completing a terrible jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece. Other things were happening, too. The nurses spent less and less time with him, their warm and friendly smiles and touches replaced by wary expressions and minimal physical contact. Men in suits came to talk to him, asking him questions about what he could remember (which of course was nothing). Over the past couple of days, a uniformed police officer had been stationed at either end of the corridor. He didn’t know if they were there for him. Until today, he'd been confined to bed. Nevertheless, he'd waited for the one posted near the vending machine to go to the bathroom before he had left his room. And now it was the M&Ms at the end of the tunnel. Small hands with short clean fingernails picking them out of the packet one by one. Popping them between smiling pink lips. The bobbing ponytail. The laughter. The perfume. Then, the M&M packet was lying on the rough, uneven surface. Its contents rolled across the floor. Blue, yellow, green ... red. Red on red. Red smears on the pale, cold hands. Wet, red strands in the limp, auburn pony tail. Frothy, red bubbles between the blue parted lips. Joe closed his eyes. He shut out the image. He turned away. When he opened them again, one of the police officers was walking down the corridor towards him. A hand gripped his shoulder firmly from behind. "I think you'd better come back to your room now, sir. We have a few more questions we'd like to ask you."
(I'm writing a science fiction book, and was thinking of making this the first chapter. Let me know what you think. Thanks) A man sat in an empty storefront. There were large windows along the front of the store which allowed a clear view inside. The store appeared to be vacant except for the man, who was sitting in the middle of the hardwood floor. Once in a while someone would walk in asking for directions. The man, of course, knew that there are no accidents. He would persuade anyone who entered to either stay and speak with him or promise to return. A young man walked beside the pathway in front of the store. He reappeared moments later, walking the other direction. Again, a few moments later he passed by. This time he noticed the man sitting inside the storefront. The young man pulled on the door and leaned his head inside. “Excuse me, can you give me directions to Mesay Insurance?” “Yes, yes, of course. It’s around the corner. Just walk around and keep going. It’s at the end.” “Thanks. I’ve been looking for like twenty minutes now.” The young man started to leave, but turned back to ask, “What is this place?” “What do you think it is?” The young man opened the door further, and took a step inside. “Well, there’s nothing here. Are you still getting things setup?” “Yes.” “What type of business is this going to be?” “What do you think?” “Well, again, I don’t know. There aint nothing in here,” the young man said as he pushed on the door, taking a step back. “What would you put here if you had the chance?” The young man took a step forward. “Hmm, I always wanted to run a restaurant. I think I would do that. I would be an involved owner. I’d treat the staff with dignity, you know. I wouldn’t give them absurd and unnecessary quotas to fill. But I wouldn’t let them push me around either. It would be a place where people would want to work.” “What kind of food?” “See, I’ve thought about this before, you know, a guy can dream. I’d ask the customers about their favorite foods and their, their favorite restaurants. Then, I’d take note of all that information and customize the menu. I’d make it a place that people would actually enjoy. I’d make an effort to have customers feel like I wanted them to be there not just because I wanted there money, but because I wanted them to have a pleasant experience.” “And how would you get people interested in going to your restaurant in the first place?” ‘I’m not sure. I mean, this is a fantasy, and I don’t know that it would work... If I had the money to start a restaurant, I’d have money for other things too, right?” “I suppose.” “Ah man, now you’ve got me talking. Don’t tell anyone this idea. Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter. So, I’d pay twenty or thirty people to sit at the restaurant for a week or a month. I’m not sure, I guess until the locals start coming in. See, I'm thinking, when you drive by and see it packed all the time, you’re going to think there’s some kick ass food inside, right?” “It’s possible.” “Hey, you know, you look familiar. Have I seen you somewhere?” The man on the floor did not moving a muscle. The young man waited for a moment, and then said, “So that would be my plan, in a dream world at least. Like, if I won the lottery, I’d do this or that, whatever. Everyone has those fantasies, right?” A smile appeared on the man’s face. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled and stared. He was making eye contact with the lost young man, but it appeared that he was spacing out. “Well, goodbye. Thanks for the directions.” The young man whispered to himself as he opened the door. “That guy’s gotta be crazy. Who does that?” “But you did.” The man on the floor said. The young man turned around, a little confused. “I did what?” “In a sense, you did win the lottery.” “Yeah, how’s that?” “For one, you were lost, but now you know where you’re going. Is that not worth something?” “It is,” the young man said as he pushed the door open further. “And two, well, I think you’ll like two. I have, in the room to the side, over five hundred thousand dollars.” The young man let go of the door and turn back towards the man on the floor. Then he looked to where the man pointed. There was a closed door. “You’ve got over half a mil sitting in that room?” “It is there.” “It sounds like... why did you say that I would like that? It’s not my money.” “But it is, if...” The young man took a step towards the man on the floor. “If? Okay, go on.” “If you listen to my story.” The young man said, “Is that right?” as he walked closer to the man on the floor. “There are conditions.” “Okay, let's hear them.” “One, you shall not leave until the story is complete. Two, you must not look inside the room until the story is complete. Three, you must follow along... until the story is complete. And try not to interrupt. That is not a rule, just common decency. Agreed?” The young man stood there dumbfounded. “I’d clean the floors with my tongue for half a mil. So, yeah, yeah I’ll hear you’re story. My name is Thomas.” “Good. And good to meet you. I am Mallone.
Once upon a time, 200 some-odd years ago, a bunch of Maws decided that there was a thing called "Mod" that made everything they did right because they did it. They took credit for the efforts of the people they enslaved, and, because they were chosen by Mod, they lost the ability to see right from wrong and instead their understanding of good and bad were defined only by profit. The Maws kept this up and built weapons that not only killed people but vaporized life and all existence. They used these weapons to extort and and project their way of life around the world. They called it "saving the world" but in truth, the Maws gave the people of foreign lands a choice "either live under the Maw or be consumed by it". In those moments, true bravery and humanity stood up to an unstoppable force and said "not only no, but FUCK NO" and were instantly slaughtered. Their silenced rebellion was another victory for Mod, and more resources to send home. This was the real story of the Maw; not who they were, but who stood up to them and decided they'd rather return to the living earth than be party to its destruction. Men, women, boys, girls, animals of all species, and even plants and trees, stood their ground against something too big to stop and decided that preserving their integrity was worth more than their lives. This cycle continued endlessly and these stories will never be known, let alone told, but every life the Maw thoughtlessly erased as an imposition was beautiful in a way the Maw couldn't appreciate. The individual Maws, being chosen by Mod and only living for themselves, experienced all this as blissful affirmation of their position as the center of the universe. Their shelves were fully stocked, more variety than ever, and somehow, they had more than any generation before them. Instead of asking questions of where that excess came from and who really paid for it, they reveled in the gifts that Mod had bestowed upon them for living so fruitfully and in Mod's image. Of course, by this time, the lessons that came from Mod had been ignored and the only thing that the Maws kept with them was that Mod chose them so their actions were always justified. The rules were the Maw's to write, and they wrote them to reward themselves and punish every other way of existing with violence and slavery. And with that, humanity was wiped out by a parasitic and destructive self-importance. The Maw consumed at an increasing pace. At every possible step where the Maws could have looked at their lives and realized they were accessorizing their bodies and lives with the pain of others, the original idea was instead reinforced because the admission of the brutality of their existence would be an indictment of Mod, and even worse, a total bummer. Self reflection wasn't the way of the "successful" Maw. The wheels of time continued to turn and the appetite of the Maw only grew. Around the world, brave and beautiful humans stood their ground "Not only NO, BUT FUCK NO!" and were slaughtered into silence, and the few too frightened and weak to fight back accepted Mod as a master and thief to be feared. To them, Mod wasn't about love it was about control and fear. It was about dominance and a hierarchy. All they needed to do to prove Mod's power was to stand in defiance against the Maws and be erased from the earth. The choice of being a human was no longer in the cards. You could either be a Maw or die at their hand. One of the biggest losses in all of this are the beautiful human moments where the truly good and brave stood up to the Maw. They knew it meant death but what was life if it meant belonging to a beast that rapes and murders its way into power and wealth? They died as humans, defending the forest that had given them and their ancestors everything they needed. The Maws recorded this behaviour as an insult that was corrected. There was never any plan, just a cycle of abuse and subjugation, with its pace increasing, which the Maw sickeningly named "progress". Beauty, honor, bravery sacrificed at the alter of greed. The protest of "Not only NO, BUT FUCK NO!" was now only heard by the machines that dealt with pestilent humans that stood in the way of the maw. The machines distanced the maw so much from the consequences of their actions they didn't notice when they'd run out of beauty and life to steal. When every last human had been purged or converted, and all the trees and animals processed, the Maw watched, confused as everything around them started to fall apart. They had no plans for this because Mod had a plan and planning wasn't their responsibility. They'd long forgotten they'd invented Mod and that all the splendor and luxury in their lives was at the expense of everything else in the world, so they couldn't process what they were seeing, and decided it was a sign from Mod they weren't taking and punishing enough, rather than realizing that it was the thievery and imposition that was the problem. With nothing to subjugate, there was nothing to eat. And, like any beast convinced of its own importance above all else, in the name of Mod, the Maw turned on itself in acts only such a beast could accept or comprehend. The pollution of hundreds of years of 'letting Mod sort it out' poisoned every attempt life made at coming back. The entire paradigm of life was forced to surrender to Mod. An idea formed in the heads of a few members of one species that fueled the brutal rape and murder of a four billion year old miracle. The injustice ran so deep that the Maws were seen marching on behalf of humanity in the last days, entirely unaware that they were protesting their own existence. They would chant the right words, but when it came to giving up what separated the Maw from the humans, they dismissed it as an insanity. And then there was silence.
We left the club hours ago and I can still feel the wave of the beat. The perfectly synchronized rush to explosive electronica heaven is building in the sound system of my mind - again. And again. The chemicals are slightly wearing off so as I tip out of the cab, I fumble in my back pocket for the crushed pack of cigarettes, find the next hapless victim, cradle her in my lips and light up. I have no idea how I'm even standing but I skillfully negotiate against the refrigerated wind and as the relieving foul tasting heat crackles from the suction into my lungs, my head begins to spin - or spin faster really - and I take off again helplessly laughing at the non-existent idiosyncrasies of everyone around me. Is there anyone around me? The burning rum purchased at the airport lounge is nauseatingly dancing its way through my digestive system. Sunglasses on and sleepless, I sidle past the smiling strangers in row 31 and slump into seat A. The moment my forehead touches the cold glass, my fever subsides. Soon the chill becomes unbearable but I can't move. I'm too high to sleep. All I want to do is tap my feet to the quiet roar of the engine, wedge my face against the window. And stare. It's a 3 hour flight from New York to Chicago and beaming through the thin haze - how many feet below us? 20,000? 30,000? - lies god's ice tray. Neatly separated by the fences of past disputes and lawsuits yet to be settled, last night's snowfall purposefully shimmers in random and infinite directions. Naturally vying for the attention of the other passengers - a standard fair of middle aged business travellers, pretend writers and holiday makers - the world outside cannot compete with the opportunity of a guilt free break from the kids. Or with the - soon to be discarded forever - typing. Or even with the Adam Sandler movie being shown for the 50th first time. Most of the shades are down. As we chase the sun, stalling its escape behind the horizon, I see another plane frozen in the sky slightly ahead of us, beating us, indifferently flaunting the majesty of the parallel streams in its trail. Like a yawning peacock, fanning its tail at cooing tourists, it casually gives permission to stare at how effortless it is to be graceful and humble and beautiful. "Why don't you be beautiful too? Can't you see how easy I make it look? Now eat my dust." This is not a race. There are no television cameras or radio commentators or photographers secretly hoping for a career making collision. No one is cheering along for victory. Well.... Not on my flight anyway. But I reckon that's because we're losing.
"Everyone dies, son." We were at Wendy's. "But, why?" I asked. "God, son, I wish I could tell you. I really wish I could. But I can't." Then he thought for a second and repeated "Nope, I can't." Then he made a farting sound and we got in the car. Your Mother "Son, I will never say a bad word about your mother. But! I will say that you are half whore." Religion "Look, I was never a religious man. I was raised Catholic or - well, something. I think it was one of the ones with Jesus. God. What the hell am I? Shit...this is going to bug me. K, I went to a church or temple or - there was that lady, you know, the one that went to your mother's birthday last year with the drinking problem." He sat silently thinking. Finally he yelled "Carol!" Fighting "Son, you may never get in a fight in your entire life. Like you'll come close. You'll piss some people off, but no one will ever draw you out for a fight. Or, maybe you'll get swung at and you'll duck and then someone will stop the fight. Or, maybe you'll swing at someone and they won't fight back. Point is - you may never get in a fight in your entire life. It's something to think about." Then he punched me. Get a Job "Son, I don't want to be one of those parents that makes you go out and get a job when you turn sixteen, but I do want to offer you a job. Take a look at these." They were war bonds. It was 1992. Drugs "Have a seat. Your mother told me you've been taking drugs." "Yeah, I have asthma. I have an -" "I don't want to hear it!" Women "Son, it's time we talked about women." "OK, Dad." I said. "Women are like men, but they have purses." "OK, Dad." "Did you do your homework?" "Yeah, Dad. Can I have some money to see Last Boy Scout this weekend?" "Sure. You wanna know something else about women?" "What's that, Dad?" "They ask for money to go see movies." "OK, Dad." "I'm calling you a woman, boy!" Then he started laughing and then crying. "OK, Dad. Where's your wallet?" "A woman's got it!" He snarled. But it was on the counter. Sandwich "Come here, son. Look at this. That's MY sandwich. Do not touch it. OK?" I nodded. He had spent the better part of the morning making it. "It means everything to me." I nodded. He started crying "Everything." Being a Man "Come over here. Take a knee. Now, son, being a man doesn't just mean going out and getting loaded and hooting at women, it means eating cheeseburgers and nacho cheese, it means throwing beer cans at people and much, much more. Now blow into this tube so I can start the car." The War "I don't like to talk about the war." He said as I passed by him sitting alone in the living room, playing Doors records with the lights out. "That's just something I won't talk about." "OK, Dad." I said, and grabbed my backpack to go do homework. "Wait, son. There's something I never told you about the war." "What, Dad?" "Oh, now you want to know - well, I don't talk about the war." "OK, Dad." "OK, just this once. What do you want to know about the war?" "Which war?" "I don't even know. That's the main reason I don't like to talk about it." Then he started crying. Then I went and played Mario Cart. Computers "Son, this is a computer. I have no idea what it does. Let's go." Oil Change "The thing you need to know about changing oil is that you're gonna need some new oil. And an oil filter. And some beer (grabs me by the back of the neck and starts laughing to the point he's shaking, then he starts crying, then we change the oil)!" Geology "Son, see this here? That's shale. You know how shale is formed?" "No." "You know how rocks are formed?" "No." "Jesus, I guess I haven't been that great of a father." "You've been fine, Dad." "No. No. Look, so, let's start with subduction zones." "What are those?" "You see, the Earth - is that old Bill Cabot!" And then he just kinda ran back into the house and hid. I'm pretty sure he didn't know about Geology, but I was glad that he gave it a shot. Babs "You remember Babs?" "No, Dad." "God, I loved Babs. C'mon! Blond hair? Had that muffler on her car?" I still didn't know who Babs was.
Maria takes off her gloves and smells her hands, immersing herself her favourite fragrance. She then looks at the reflection in the mirror; the old lady with a permed white hair, with the reading glasses on top of the nose bridge that is unable to hide the wrinkles on her face. Maria then washes her hands and dries them, then walks out of the public restroom that is freshly painted with her favourite colour, flashing the biggest smile on her face after sixty years. Despite my old age, I am glad that I can continue my passion. --- At Maria’s seventieth birthday, she put on an act. Surrounded by young people, she instantly got the title of “Old Sister”. The title that let people came to her room for the sake of pursuing advice. “Old Sister Maria, how do I get rid of my regret?” a newcomer asked with glossy eyes, desperately looking for an answer to dismiss guilt from her heart. “Old Sister Maria, what should I do to be grateful for little things like you?” the women in her forties often asked. “Old Sister Maria, how should I carry on with my life?” the youngest of the bunch asked as bullets of tear streams down her cheek. Old age brought patience in her heart, so Maria answered all the queries from those young women. Maria felt joy when the young ladies honestly spoke their minds, but also pressured since every single word that she let out as the answer was monitored. But truth to be told, Maria realized that giving advice was required for her to be set free. And she needed to be free to continue with her passion. And so, she continued to put the kindest expression on her face, lent her ears, spoke beautiful words to the women who came to her. --- At Maria’s sixtieth birthday, she was drowned in worries. The joints on her knees were starting to hurt. During the morning sports session, she realized that she ran slower and slower each day. To the point that she got to be the last one finishing the run around the field when she used to be the first during her youth. From thereon, Maria noticed other changes in her body. The countless white hair that grew way too quick, took over the black in no time. The wrinkles on her forehead and below her eyes, as well as the sagged skin that happened all over her arms. The monthly bloody guest that no longer appeared, entirely rendered her ability to conceive and give birth. Not that she ever wanted to, though. The eyes that started to become blurry, especially when she was reading. The numbness of her ears, that she could not hear the youngsters’ question unless they speak loudly. She thought to herself: Would this old body able to carry out the burning passion inside my heart? And anxiety filled her heart, made her tear up every night to sleep. --- At Maria’s fiftieth birthday, she succumbed to quietness. Maria was put to work in the library. It was a completely different working environment from what she had previously. No one included her in the little talk while working, as no one else but her who was there. She took some time to adjust herself to the tranquillity, a thing that she always hated when she was young. Because, from her understanding, the devil would always knock on her mind and gave the various ideas that haunted her whenever silence fell. And the devil truly came when she worked in the library. With all her might, she tried to fight the devil off from her minds by being immersed in the journey of the fictional world. The books helped her to escape from the devil’s whispers for a while, but the devil became louder than ever before, made it harder to resist. Surrounded in silence, she put her book unto the shelves and gave up to the voice in her head that strengthened her youthful passion once again. --- At Maria’s fortieth birthday, she distracted herself. Those four people that Maria used to call friends made up a story and sent her to another building to live. Those ladies whom she had fun with were now separated; she heard the rumour that one of them was set free. Those women who used to spent time with her broke their pinky promises to be always together. Angered with the fact that she had been left behind, paired up with her hate towards loneliness, Maria put all her mind and energy into work. She gladly accepts any job that came her way; be it manual labour in the field under the burning summer sun, cleaning dirty toilets, making pottery to be sold to the commercial market, even sewing clothes. Through these works, she got to meet other workers, who chatted with her about trivial matters. And that was enough to keep the devil from entering her minds. Through the busy working schedule, her body was too tired to listen to the devil’s suggestion when she laid herself in bed. And that was enough to keep her passion at bay, enough to keep her sane. --- At Maria’s thirtieth birthday, she made friends. When Maria arrived at the building, she immediately gathered a bunch of women around her age and spent most of her time with them. The group was to help her be distracted from the devil’s voice that kept reminding her of her passion but also to enjoy her youth to the fullest. The group was of seven women, who often sat at the corner and enjoyed gossiping other residents of the building during lunchtime. The group laughed as they bullied the newcomers. The group stripped the newbies off of their clothes and toyed around with them. None of the residents could fight their behaviour, not when the group was led by Maria. The group moved further and smuggled cigarette for their use, which they obtained by selling their body to the men in uniform who guarded the building. The group also shared complaints about the tight daily schedule made for them and discussed how can they ditch their work. And they did carry it out, laughed their ass off when they managed to sneak out. The seven women promised to always be together, until one day Maria threw a suggestion. “Let’s sneak out from the building.” The suggestion that was opposed strongly by the group members, yet Maria pushed it off. The suggestion that led them to plan their step carefully. The suggestion that ended up killing three people and added ten years to Maria’s freedom. --- At Maria’s twentieth birthday, she found her passion in life. Maria was walking outside on one summer night, wandered around thinking about what she should do with her life when a guy suddenly pinned her to the bush. Filled with uncontrollable lust, the guy groped all over her. Felt violated, a sound in her head told her to grab the small folded knife that her late father gave her. And Maria followed the voice, who instructed her to stab the guy in the nape of his neck before he could do anything further. Then, blood splatters filled the view with a shade of red that Maria had never seen. The prettiest red, easily her new favourite colour. The guy screamed in pain as he retreated on his bum; a pleasant tone that Maria had never heard. In between the scream, the devil told her to reach out to the guy, to land another blow on his chest. As she followed the devil, Maria uncovered a new smell that made her fell in love with instantly. The smell that made her hands to move faster than she had ever done. When Maria noticed the last breath had left the guy in front of her, she smiled her biggest smile as she felt fulfilled. The feeling that answered her question about life. The feeling that was so great that Maria did not notice two men in uniform held up their handgun towards her, handcuffed her, brought her away from the area. And that moment was where it all began. Where Maria realized her immoral passion. Where Maria started to hate loneliness. Where Maria started to resist the devil's temptation. Where Maria’s life in prison began.
#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. Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   * #This week’s challenge: ”The door crept open.” This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   *   #Last Week A smaller group of stories this week, but wonderful still. Thank you to everyone who left feedback for another writer on the thread this week. I hope to see more feedback exchanged this week. Now for spotlights! - - Submitted by u/pathetic_optimist - A story about the sacrifices we make for our children. - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A tale of love. #Two Weeks Ago Thank you everyone for being so patient. The holiday weekend was a very busy one! Great stories on the thread though, as usual. - - Submitted by u/GammaGammes - A short tale about a galactic boogeyman who can wipe out a planet with a single bullet. - - Submitted by u/LuvAPup - A fun, futuristic story about a man deciding when he’s put in his time.   *   #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. - No pre-written content allowed. Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - 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.
Janus pinched the pill between two fingers. There was nothing striking about its appearance, it looked like your standard oblong. One half blood red, the other half a sharp white. Janus was a little surprised not to see a warning label for something so allegedly life-changing. Ingest it once and your world would never be the same, you could never go back to living the way you did before. Supposedly it was a crime to even offer Euphorium to anyone who couldn’t afford a lifetime supply. The pull of the drug was so powerful that knowing what it felt like and not being able to take it was tantamount to torture. The salesman, Maurice, was watching his evaluation of the pill with interest. “You can feel free to take one now, if you like. It’s a mild dose, the effects wear off in an hour. We have relaxation rooms if you’d like to settle in with the effects, then you can come back and review the rest of our collection.” Troy had already set his pill down. He gave Janus a wary look, before turning back to Maurice. “And how many of your customers choose a drug other than Euphorium once they’ve sampled it?” Maurice smiled. “It hasn’t happened yet. It’s our bestseller for a reason. The effects are said to be magnificent. It dials the brain’s pleasure centers up to their limits. Eternal bliss, within your grasp.” “Have you ever sampled your own product?” Janus asked. Maurice shook his head regretfully. “No, it wouldn’t be wise to start yet. I’m fifteen years away from retirement still. But once I do make it, it’ll be Euphorium all the way.” “I’ve seen the pictures.” Troy commented dryly. “Rows of bodies resting in hospital beds, their faces smiling masks, completely disengaged from reality. Living off IVs like coma patients. It’s hard to believe that could be paradise.” “Reality is created by the mind, paradise can be whatever the brain experiences.” Maurice replied smoothly. “If you have any concerns about the long nap, some of our clientele start off by switching off the drug at weekly or monthly intervals, taking the occasional breather to check in on the status of the outside world before deciding if they want to continue. But eventually, everyone seems to decide there’s no reason to walk away from heaven.” “Walk me through how it works again.” Troy interrupted. Janus groaned inwardly. He could tell from Troy's tone that his friend had already made up his mind. He was taking this time just to prove his point. Maurice launched into his spiel. “True to its name, Euphorium delivers pure ecstasy to the brain, filling it with a serene joy. There’s really no way to understand it without experiencing it. I could show you some poetry written by some of our users...” “But won’t the brain eventually become de-sensitized to the stimuli?” Janus interrupted. “Shouldn’t the effect get duller over time?” Maurice smiled. “We very delicately suppress the tolerance response in the brain to take you off of the hedonic treadmill. Your first moment with Euphorium will be as good as your last.” “My last moment is part of what concerns me.” Troy was tapping his finger on the counter. “If you’re no longer engaging with the world, how does that affect your life expectancy?” “All our evidence shows that Euphorium is actually healthier for the brain than non-assisted living.” Maurice replied. “You can expect to add ten years to your life, and if any complications do arise, you’ll have access to the best doctors in the world.” “What if we go broke, and you have to cut the drug off?” Troy asked. “Impossible. If you sign over your assets for the long nap, we’ll continue investing them on your behalf. In the unlikely event that your capital should evaporate, you’ll still be guaranteed a lifetime supply of Euphorium. Our company assumes all the risk.” “And what if your company goes bankrupt?” Janus asked. “Spoken like a businessman.” Maurice gave Janus an appreciative look. “I don’t normally do this, but I can share with you our entire business plan if you’re interested. We’re insured for a global financial meltdown, and we have enough assets on hand to continue operating for a hundred years with no additional revenue.” “It just doesn’t seem sustainable.” Janus shook his head. “If the entire population would rather live in a mentally altered state, someone still has to do the work to keep the world running. What do you do when everyone is under your care?” “Supply and demand, my friends.” Maurice said. “Our fees have been rising every year. As the supply of available labor shrinks, the price to live on Euphorium rises as a result. You’re lucky to be able to get in now. Not everyone gets to retire in their thirties.” Troy sat back and crossed his arms. “All the more reason not to throw it all away. How do you know if being on Euphorium is really a better way to live, or if the drug just makes you think it is?” “I’d argue those two are the same thing.” Maurice said. “What’s ‘better’ or ‘worse’ is entirely a function of the mind. What we know for sure is that no one ever wants to go back. All of our clients say it’s the most amazing thing they’ve ever experienced. Heaven on earth.” “Or you’ve manufactured the perfect addictive drug.” Janus spoke the words he guessed Troy was thinking. “A drug that makes you never want to stop taking it.” Maurice’s smile began to strain. “All forms of pleasure are inherently addictive. Euphorium has no chemical withdrawal markers. It’s simply a better way to live.” Maurice reached into a cupboard. “Anxiety around self-modification is perfectly understandable. The ego excels at self-defense, often to its detriment. A man who’s angry at the world would often rather stay mad than give up that identity and lose a part of himself. Luckily, we have a pill for that.” Maurice set a pair of purple oblong pills on the table. “Modicum. It disengages the ego to allow you to be more open to change. It’s like being born again, you’ll look back on your life with a fresh set of eyes, able to see your own experiences and possibilities as objectively as you would a stranger.” “A pill that makes you want to take your other pill.” Troy could hardly have seemed more repulsed if the salesman had told them the pill was stuffed with elephant dung. “Is there a pill that makes you want to take Modicum?” Maurice tried to re-assure them. “It’s nothing as sinister as that. Mental processing is simply prone to getting stuck in ruts. A person who’s used to feeling angry all the time lets that anger become a part of what they perceive to be their core identity, and they’re naturally afraid to give it up. Modicum reduces that defensiveness, and lets the user evaluate objectively whether they’d be happier if their personality was different. Some of our clients take Modicum even without an eye to evaluating other treatment options, saying it broadens their perspective, making them more open to change.” “Wouldn’t it always lead to the same conclusion?” Janus flicked one of the purple pills and set it spinning. “It sounds like Euophorium is an attractor state for the mind. If you no longer feel the need to preserve your old identity, what could be better than bliss, and taking Euphorium?” Maurice scooped both sets of pills off the counter. “From my point of view, nothing. But it’s worth noting that not all of our clients end up choosing Euphorium. We have a wealth of other options. However you want your brain to work, we can arrange it.” Maurice set a new pill on the table, a dull grey oblong pill. “Victorium. Quite popular with our results-driven individuals. It amplifies the brain’s reward mechanism for success. Every triumph is that much more sweet, every minor victory feels that much better. It's simply allowing your brain to celebrate how amazing you are. Even simply solving a crossword or finishing a Sudoku feels like the crowning achievement of a lifetime with Victorium.” “Which would presumably make you less effective at accomplishing any given task.” Troy didn’t seem to think the pill deserved a first glance. “And leave you out of touch with everyone who wasn’t as impressed by your mediocre success.” “All true.” Maurice acknowledged gamely. “You have to consider though, that being effective stops being a concern once you’ve made enough money to live as you please forever. And if you’re interested in the respect of your peers, we have a product that can deliver that sensation...” “So long as you’re fine living in a delusion.” Janus finished the salesman’s sentence for him. “That just sounds like a lesser form of Euphorium, cheating your brain into thinking it’s happier than nature thinks it should be.” “In which case why not try the real thing?” Maurice offered up the question, despite the looks on their faces suggesting he was gaining little traction. “Once you’ve transcended the need to fight for survival, there’s no reason to keep your brain from being as happy as it can be. Some philosophers claim ascending to a state of pure pleasure and joy is the natural evolution for the species. Once you break your evolutionary shackles compelling you to survive and reproduce, there’s nothing left to do but ascend to a care-free existence where you can engage in unbridled hedonism.” “So all the time we spent working up until now was pointless?” Troy asked. Maurice shook his head. “Not at all. But you’ve worked hard enough and added enough value to society that you’ve earned your way into paradise.” “What else have you got?” Janus jumped in before Troy could resume arguing. This was clearly getting them nowhere. Maurice slid open another drawer. “Some of our clients prefer to maintain an active social life, rather than leaving behind the connections they’ve made up until now. We have a number of enhancements you might consider.” Two pink pills slid onto the counter. “Empathium. This treatment super-charges the mirror neurons in your brain. If you’ve ever felt bored at a party or unable to relate to someone, this is the cure for all of that. Your brain will become more empathetic than you would have thought possible, our clients say they can instantly understand how someone is feeling, relate to them as intensely as a parent to a newborn, and have an intuitive sense for how to make them happy. We have reports of withdrawn, awkward individuals turning into the life of the party. It supercharges your social awareness, making you more exciting and more excitable. We can flip you from an introvert to an extrovert, or dial up your extraversion even higher.” “And what if you’re fine not being the life of the party?” Janus asked. “What if you don’t want to care about the things you don’t currently care about?” “We keep returning to the paradox of identity, there really is no answer.” Maurice smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with introversion or extraversion, we’re simply offering the choice. Some of our clients take Empathium on as-needed basis, for large social events and corporate functions. Some even report the curious experience of not knowing which version of themselves is superior. When on Empathium, they’re fully convinced that they are a creature of superior social awareness, and their previous self is dull and uninteresting. Off Empathium, they experience a similar disdain for their previous self that was using the drug, as an easily distracted social butterfly.” “Then who’s right?” Janus asked. “Neither. Both.” Maurice said. “One version finds social engagement the most fascinating thing in the world. Another regards it as far less interesting than leading a rich inner life. Both are simply a question of what the brain prefers. And it’s perfectly consistent to toggle between two sets of preferences.” “Surely there’s a right answer though. One has to have a greater survival value...” Janus felt like he was grasping at straws. “It’s entirely possible that the greatest survival value comes from adapting your values to your situation.” Maurice said. “Empathium may be perfect for the saleswoman needing to close a big client, but being off the drug might be better when she’s filling out expense reports or doing her own accounting. She would simply get used to switching between multiple versions of herself, each of whom finds whatever she’s currently doing to be the most fulfilling thing in the world, allowing her to put her entire focus into it.” “That’s mildly terrifying.” Troy muttered. “If modifying your values and preferences is as easy as you say, why does no one ever leave Euphorium?” “Well, some people do settle on a mode of functioning as being superior.” Maurice said. “Even if their values are different, if our hypothetical saleswoman remembered being substantially happier on or off the drug, she could eventually settle on staying that way. Euphorium is simply the global optimum for brain states. Although...” Maurice lowered his voice to a whisper. “I shouldn’t be saying this at all, but we’re working on a version with chemical inhibitors to long-term memory formation. You’d be able to experience Euphorium, and leave yourself a message describing how you felt at the time. You might even be able to sample it, and return to normal functioning without the same sense of loss.” Janus blinked in disbelief. “Are people really going to pay for a pleasant experience they don’t get to remember?” “What’s more important, the memory or the experience?” Maurice asked. “You could consider it a chance to hear from the version of yourself who has experienced the other side.” “I’m not taking Euphorium, memories or no memories.” Troy said firmly, then glanced at Janus who also nodded his head. “What are your other options?” Maurice slid two orange pills onto the counter. “Imaginarium. What Empathium is for relating to other people, Imaginarium is for being immersed in the world of ideas. Are either of you avid readers?” “Haven’t had the time.” Janus said. It was partly a lie, which Maurice’s knowing look suggested he understood. “Been awhile since you’ve been able to lose yourself in a good book?” Maurice pointed at the orange pill. “Imaginarium can change that for you. It enhances your brain’s creative faculty. You’ll find yourself abile to visualize alternate realities in vivid detail, feel other worlds come alive in your head physically, emotionally. Depending upon how strong we prepare the dose and the strength of the stimuli, you might feel like you are literally immersed in another world when reading a book, or engage in a video game as if you were actually living the life of the protagonist, your brain filling the gaps with smells and sounds. You can allow a piece of music to directly translate your emotional state, letting you feel love, joy, or serenity. With each mental journey under your complete control. It’s the Euphorium you can steer...” “But what would the point be?” Troy interrupted. “None of it’s real.” Janus couldn’t help but agree. Neither of them had kept up with TV, movies, or any of the endless entertainment distractions that were available. Janus couldn’t say why, but each option felt too much like a drug to him already, another way to dull the passage of time and enter a false reality that left you craving your next fix. “It provides the brain with enjoyment, stimulation.” Maurice faltered. “Immersing yourself in another world is also a way to study new ideas, gain new perspective. Watching a film on the Titanic for example...” “If I want to study the Titanic, I’ll study the Titanic, I don’t need some drug so I can lie to myself and feel like I’m there.” Troy shook his head. “I take a certain amount of pride that I don’t spend time zoning out in front of a screen, accomplishing nothing. I’m not sure why taking a pill to start doing that will make my life better.” “The mental journeys you take don’t have to be fake.” Maurice said, looking back and forth between both of them hoping to catch a sympathetic eye. “You can re-live old memories as if they were happening to you for the first time.” “I’ve never been one to dwell on the past.” Troy gave a knowing look to Janus. “I can understand you might say that now, but if it changing that about yourself would make you happier...” Maurice’s voice trailed off. “If the point is to be happier, why not just take Euphorium?” Troy threw his hands up in the air. “You have a pill that gives you emotional highs based on how other people feel. A pill that gives you a rush from losing yourself in imaginary worlds. They all just seem like gateway drugs to Euphorium, one step closer to disengaging from reality to feel better about yourself. How is that not a worse way to live?” “There is no definition of better or worse that exists outside the mind.” Maurice seemed on the verge of snapping. “If you’re not willing to try Modicum to broaden your perspective, I don’t know what I can tell you. It’s clear you’re locked into a neurophobic mindset, unwilling to step outside the cage you’ve built for your own mind. If you’re not interested in being happy, then there’s nothing I can do for you.” Troy was already standing up to leave. “I don’t know if I want to be happy, but I can definitely say I don’t want this.” Janus stood up, a little more reluctantly. Maurice tossed them both a packet with a brochure. “In case either of you come to your senses. A sampler pack. Only one more we haven’t discussed. Medium. A low-intensity mix of Empathium and Imaginarium. You can read about it on your own time.” Maurice was already shuffling them towards the door. Janus waited until they had left the building before speaking to Troy. “You’re just giving him a hard time, right? To get them to come back and engineer something bespoke for us?” Troy shook his head. “Sorry if I made it worse for you in there. But I’m not going back. This isn’t for me.” “But...” Janus struggled to find the words. “You’ve made more than enough money to retire. What are you going to do with yourself?” “Go back to work.” Troy said dryly. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to just turn into a worse version of myself.” Troy’s eyes were clear and focused as he stared back at Janus. “I like what we do, I feel like our work matters in a way nothing in there does. It keeps the world going. Even if I don’t need to do it anymore, I’d rather have a job and something to live for than spend the rest of my life feeling useless. Or turn myself into a vegetable, taking a pill so I don’t feel useless, taking a pill so I don’t feel guilty about taking the first pill, and eventually just taking the pill to become a mindlessly happy drone.” “I thought this was the whole point though.” Janus felt like he’d been cheated somehow, although he couldn’t articulate why. “Isn’t retirement all we were looking forward to for all these years?” “If it was, then we were wrong. You can go back in and be happy, if you want.” Troy gave one last look at the packet Maurice had handed him, then tossed it into the trash. “I’d rather be me.” \ Janus lay in his bed that night, staring at the packet. Euphorium. Modicum. Victorium. Empathium. Imaginarium. Medium. Six pills. Each of which would make him into a different person. A person who would presumably like who they were, with no desire to ever change back. It would be like stepping into a teleporter, having every atom in your body disintegrated and recreated at the other end. The original you would be gone forever, with a clone standing in your place. It would be like getting a complete brain transplant, under the logic that your new self would be happier than your old one. He would be letting his identity die. So someone else could live a better life. He should just throw the whole set of pills away. Janus lifted the packet to toss it into the trash, before changing his mind at the last second. He opened it up once more to look at its contents. Maurice’s point about the saleswoman switching between two states until she found the one that made her happier had left an impression on him. If he genuinely would be happier with a medically induced personality change, he’d never know unless he tried. And if he had the option to switch back, he could at least make the choice with his eyes open. Janus swallowed the saliva in his throat. Was he really considering this? He took a moment to examine each of the pills. Euphorium terrified him. It seemed like a mental dead end, a gilded cage for the mind. Modicum seemed like the next logical step if he was going down this road... but that also seemed like it would be making the choice for him, committing to detaching himself from his identity and letting a stranger take over. Victorium, Empathium, Imaginarium... Janus’s fingers finally settled on the small red pill. Medium. It seemed like the mildest, safest treatment they had. If he was going to try any of the pills, it might as well be this one. A few new sensations, maybe. Nothing irreversible. Janus gulped down the pill in a single swallow, setting the other pills on his bedside table. He gave it a few seconds. He didn’t feel that different yet. How long before the pills were supposed to take effect? Janus flipped open the pamphlet that came with the packet. Janus suddenly cried out in pain as a burning sensation filled the back of his head. His brain felt like it was on fire, surging and firing in unexpected ways. A swirl of emotions coursed through him. Anger, surprise, fear, each experienced more intensely than he had felt them in years. Janus bit his lip and tried to hold on. He must have gotten a bad dose. The drug’s effects couldn’t last for that long, he just had to weather the storm. Janus closed his eyes and willed the torrent raging within him to stop. When he opened his eyes again, Janus saw a sight he hadn’t seen in ages. He was in Troy’s old apartment, years ago. He could barely remember how long it had been, it felt like another lifetime. Janus blinked again, and he was back in his bedroom. The image of the apartment had seemed completely real to him. If he looked for it, he could still see it in the back of his mind. “You have to see this.” It was Troy’s voice, as audible as if he were in the room. In a panic, Janus reached for his phone on the bedside table, almost knocking it to the ground before grabbing it and dialing the number on the pamphlet. The scene of Troy’s old apartment was beginning to cement itself in his vision. Maurice answered in a bored tone. “Hello?” “I think something’s wrong with the pill I took.” Janus spoke as quickly as he could. “You have to help me. My brain feels like it’s on fire.” “Neural readjustment can be an intense process the first few times, I assure you it’s nothing to worry about.” Maurice began to perk up. “Which one of our products did you try?” “Medium. Listen, I’m hallucinating.” “Hmm. That’s rare for new users, although there can sometimes be some side effects if you have anything else in your system. This was all mentioned in the waiver you signed this morning. Experiencing emotions you haven’t felt in a while can awaken associated memories, and the recall grows more intense as your brain’s imaginative faculties expand. It’ll all pass soon enough. If you examine the pamphlet...” Janus let his phone slip onto the floor and collapsed back into his bed. The scene playing out in front of him was already too vivid to ignore. Troy was standing in front of him with a grin on his face. “This is going to change our lives.” Troy was smiling, his long hair had been cut short, the shortest Janus had ever seen. His guitar was resting underneath a pile of books. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. That was odd. Troy never went a day without playing his guitar. “What is it?” Janus heard himself say the words with a curiosity he sincerely felt. He remembered this conversation on some level. But he hadn’t thought about it in years. There had been no need. “It’s a new drug.” Troy was shaking a pill bottle in front of him. “They call it Optimum. It enhances everything you do. Makes you smarter, more effective, more focused. I taught myself Mandarin in a week. Learned quantitative finance yesterday. We could rule the world with this stuff.” “So why isn’t anyone else?” Janus mouthed the words in bed as he heard himself say them. Troy shook his head. “It’s years away from clinical trials. Rumor has it, some of the big names in Wall Street are already using it. The world will turn into a rat race once this stuff goes public, but we can get in early. Get to the top of the heap before anyone else.” Troy seemed overcharged and amped up, his mind working so fast the words could barely keep up. “I got my hands on a supplier. The best part is, this batch is non-addictive. It changes your brain chemistry each time you use it until eventually, the pill has no effect. After a month, you’re just on Optimum all the time, even without the drug.” “What else does it change?” Janus’s gaze turned to the unused guitar. Troy grimaced. “Some minor stuff. It dials down empathy, imagination, anything that’s not strictly achievement oriented. Music is much worse. I can’t even watch TV anymore. Anything that doesn’t help you get ahead simply gets filtered out as noise.” “So you’re far more efficient, but less happy. Only dialed into reality.” Janus said dryly. “It sounds like the opposite of that drug Euphorium.” “Yeah, but the effects are reversible.” Troy pointed to another bottle on the wall. “They already have the cure for it.” “Have you taken it yet?” Janus studied him curiously. Troy shook his head. “I will. But only when I’ve made enough money to retire. I’ll stay in the game for as long as it takes, then get out.” “And be a soulless monster in between.” Troy looked a little guilty he glanced at the guitar lying idle, then shrugged. “It’s not so bad. It makes it so you enjoy solving even the most repetitive problems. Your brain trains itself to do whatever it takes to succeed.” “As much as you enjoyed writing music? Going to festivals?” “No.” Troy shook his head. “But I’m not going to have the time for that until I retire anyway. Would you rather spend 40 years working shit jobs and hating your life, or spend 10 years, loving your job until the moment you leave it, then get out? If we get in on this early, we could retire in our thirties. Our twenties, even.” “I don’t know...” Troy had already handed him a pill. A white and red generic. “You should at least try it.” Troy’s voice sounded sincere. “If you hate how it feels, it’s easy to go back. Ask yourself who you want to be ten years from now. You could be rich, and able to live however you want, or you could be dirt poor, with nothing to show for it.” With more than a handful of misgivings, Janus swallowed the pill. It burned down his throat, filling his head with a white-hot fire. Seconds later, the vision had been wiped clean. He was back in his apartment, lying alone in his bed. His eyes felt like they must be bloodshot. Moisture was dripping out of them, the words he had wanted to say left unspoken.
Once upon a time there was a dog. The dogs name was Rover, and the story is over. Be glad that is not our story, for you see, our story also starts with a dog. A little dog and a little girl. Ever since he could remember he was on the streets. He didn't remember much from his puppy years- only faint impressions of family and warmth remained in the deepest recesses of his memory. Cold winds and frigid rain devoured everything in their path- but he was safe... in a ramshackle cardboard box. He was safe in his little corner of alley, ignored by the hurried people with sharp voices and pounding footsteps. He didn't like people. Not those people anyway. When all he could see were their dangerous shoes and loping limbs, ignorant of an entire world of street dogs and cats that are eating street rats. They rushed away from the rain, business suits, raggedy coats and anything in between, empty streets they said- blind to life in between. In between meals, homes and danger, the only things as constant to him as his tail, the promise of a meal with the little girl and his name. "See you tomorrow!" Echoes in his ears again. He had just gotten a good meal, a soft pet and lots of love. The girl- a title which he thinks with all the adoration possible, because she's The Girl. The only human he thinks of as something other that 'giant', a generic title that stuck. The small dog scarcely remembers a time when he didn't come to The Girl everyday, didn't have a guaranteed meal and companionship for some time. She was always so nice, he tried to show her as much love as he could in return. Her soft voice was a melody in a world of screeches and anger. The only time he had ever heard her stern was when he nudged a cylinder of metal next of her- or the weird tubes that connected it to her face. She had gasped- shoving him away in her panic. But more than that, she was scared- and hurt, when he did that. He never did it again. Snapping back to reality on a gloomy day- a tad warmer than yesterday, he finished scarfing down his meal. A blend of something that tasted amazing and The Girl had gotten just for him. She looked back at him smiling softly. A voice called from her house. "I'll see you tomorrow." The way she said tomorrow- said it everyday was inflicted with so much emotion that even normal human hearing would be able to sense the difference. The terrier may not notice the small contortions of her expression of even emotions in her eyes, but what he did notice, sharper than any human- and more insightful was his own language. The slight tensing of muscles to form a 'fist' (Aggression? Determination?); A slight tilt of the head towards the tank; and a hopeful inflection on her tone. Naturally, he assumed she would say nothing else but his name with such emotion. The small terrier knew, like the sky is blue, that his name was Tomorrow. To him that was that. His little world summed up by noisy streets and summer heat, by little girls and cats that made him hurl, that even in the scary snow, devoid the chirp of a sparrow, his name was Tomorrow. There was a routine never broken. Bent in places, a little dented, but whole and unbroken. Until today. The little girl wasn't there. He always found her, always knew her, she had a distinct smell- that made some of his instincts think she was weak, but the rest to comfort her. But she, along with her strange tubes and tanks and half-smiles was gone. The last thing he remembered seeing yesterday, while he was halfway across the street, was a blaring alarm and a screeching van,(red? white?). She had said she'd see him. See Tomorrow. See him Tomorrow. He waited for hours. Sitting. Waiting. A car pulled up. He jumped up, tail wagging, ready to greet her. Two giants came out- the ones who sometimes called for her and watched her, one in tears and one shell shocked. Two giants, but no little Girl. A ramshackle cardboard box. That was where he sat. Despite the icy, frigid rain- the harsh unforgiving footsteps of the people, Tomorrow curled protectively around his memories of The Girl, her half hazy forgotten face, and the way she said his name. Determined to meet him. Determined to meet Tomorrow. Cold whispers brushed past him; Tomorrow felt warm.
It was the third bench from the left of the footbridge, opposite the yellow stone walls of the mediaeval church. Andy knew it because of the more than century old dedication to John Somers, a councillor who had brought the park and its walking tracks to life almost two hundred years before. The bench. with its dedication, was paid for by local citizens in honour of the man who had created so much of the beautiful walkways that continued to attract thousands of visitors each summer. Andy, or rather his dog, had literally bumped into Vanessa one morning when Max, a large but overly friendly wolfhound, suddenly leaped towards one of the many squirrels that inhabited the trees near the river. In doing so, Max had almost knocked over the young woman as she was about to sit on the bench. The couple were instantly lovestruck. Not the sort of attraction created by the irrepressible hormones of adolescence; no, this was one of those rare moments when the stars seem to cast a spell, enmeshing them in an unbreakable bond, the stuff of dreams. Before a word was spoken each felt as though their destiny was to be together, forever. Andy's stumbling attempt to apologise for his lack of canine control simply elicited an equally stumbling giggle from Vanessa. Time ceased to exist. The pair chatting excitedly, each enthralled with the other. It was agreed to meet the next day at the same bench; but first phone numbers were exchanged in the infinitesimally small chance that something would prevent one of them from arriving at the trysting place. Andy awoke. Dappled sunlight flickered through branches and leaves outside his window, filling the room with a moving collage of golden luminescence, reflecting his mood of joy and anticipation. Too excited for food, he missed breakfast, impatiently counting the minutes and hours until it was time to go. He left the house with more than an hour's leeway, mercifully oblivious to how those sixty minutes were to affect his life. As he walked across the parklands towards the church, he noticed a small crowd had gathered on the riverbank. A woman’s plaintive, panic-stricken voice could be heard as she vainly struggled to enter the fast-flowing water. Andy then noticed the flailing arms of a young child being carried remorselessly by the powerful current towards the weir. The crowd grimly restrained the screaming mother as the river would have taken both her life and that of her infant. Andy knew the waters intimately and that in a hundred yards or so te river slowed as it negotiated a broad loop where the water was sufficiently shallow to allow him to stand. He ran desperately across the ancient stone footbridge towards the dark, swirling mass. He needed all his strength to steady himself as the toddler’s struggling form drew closer. Painfully, Andy stretched his arm to reach the edge of the infant's gossamer thin summer top. After what seemed an age, he was able to take a firm grip on the child and gently deposit him wet but safe onto the sun-warmed banks of the river where his distraught mother quickly arrived. The crowd applauded. A local reporter took the hero’s reluctance to be interviewed as modesty, but Andy was panicking. During the rescue his phone had disappeared into the flowing waters. The time of their rendezvous was long gone. He ran frantically, finally turning the corner where he could see the bench, but it was empty. She was not there. Those same stars that had offered so much the day before had, with one fickle act, abandoned the potential lovers in favour of a young mother who would now see her son grow to manhood. At the time of their one brief encounter, Vanessa was an aspiring model who loved to design her own clothes. Andy however had no clear aspirations. There was a talent for numeracy, but with no interest or motivation to develop this ability. It was strange then that their thwarted meeting appeared to reverse these traits. In the following years Andy went through a considerable metamorphosis. A flourishing career in finance eventually led to his becoming a guru in the I.M.F. He never married, despite being nominated one of the world's most eligible bachelors in glossy gossip magazines. Vanessa's interest in fashion however, faded. She married to become a housewife, mother of five children, twelve grandchildren, and three great grandchildren. Neither forgot that fateful day. Despite his best efforts, Andy never discovered more about Vanessa than her first name. She never forgot the handsome young man with whom she had instantly felt such affinity, seemingly encapsulating a future that was not to be. It left her questioning what she had considered, until that day, her unerring ability to judge character quite accurately. There was no bitterness nor resentment; she simply lost the inner drive that gives energy and adventure to life. Slowly, in later years, she declined, her mind gradually ceding ground to dementia. It was on a bitterly cold Christmas Eve when Vanessa took advantage of an open door at the care home to once again wander the streets and parkland where she had spent her entire life. Some inner memory perhaps guided her, since she eventually found the third bench from the left, opposite the church. An old man was already seated there. She did not even consider it odd when he took off his fashionable winter coat, enfolding her in its welcome warmth. It was Andy's chauffeur who raised the alarm. His boss had acted very much out of character that day. They had left an important financial summit meeting to drive two hours, seemingly for no other reason than for Andy to visit 'old haunts'. Andy had left instructions as to where his chauffeur was to collect him, but had failed to arrive long past the specified hour. The police were contacted, given the status of the missing person, it did not take long to discover the couple, looking for all the world as though in a beatific sleep. Both had fallen victim to the freezing conditions. The same Fate that had separated them during life, had brought them together for eternity.
“Did you miss me?” a feminine voice came from the corner of my room. Where the light from my lamp once illuminated was now covered in darkness - a blanket of nothingness in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t quite look over there. My head didn’t want to turn in that direction. I wasn’t planning on this happening any time soon. I knew I was safe in the light. However, the darkness tends to find a way to slip in, in order to disillusion us. It wants us to turn away from our candles and light bulbs, filling our heads with the false presumption that the light is a lie - that it’s only something that covers up the inevitable darkness. I don’t give in to the night. Not even the darkness of sleep can grasp me, as the void is something that we don’t experience. We slip from waking life into the dreaming life, and back again. Again, and again. It’s said that nature abhors a vacuum. Life avoids the blackness. It seeks the light.   The dark is still there to lure us, however.   “I’ve been waiting, you know,” the voice soothed itself into my room. It’s a pleasant sound - one that has visited me many times before. “Why do you resent me? I only think of you, you know.” She doesn’t know me. No - it’s not even a she. It’s not like me, nor is it like any of us here. It is truly void of light, possessive and tormenting. I get up from my bed to light another candle - one with scent that the love of my life has given me. “Do you really think she loves you?” the voice says. “She only gave you that to keep you away from me. I’m the only one who can care for you. I’m the only one who loves you.”   “Shut up,” I respond, not thinking. Now, I’ve fed into it. The voice sighs, and the darkness pulsates. “I knew you’d talk to me eventually,” the voice says. I grab the nearest object, which happened to be an unlit candle, and chucked it into the corner of my room. The candle soared into the darkness and I did not hear it collide with the wall. The dark corner spread more across the floor and walls. I punch my dresser for allowing myself to get so involved in any conversation with it. “Damn it.” I stomp my way to my door, and move to leave into the hallway. But I find that I can’t reach the door knob. Looking down, it had all lost color and then the door was lost in a blackness. I step back and see the black color had spread from the corner across the wall and covered my doorway. “Go on,” the voice said, “Step in. We can be together forever.” I tremble and stay where I am. “I will have you,” it says.   I turn around and look to where the light still hits my room. “Do you really think you can avoid me forever?” the voice shakes through my body, and the light flickers, “I have waited for so long. Even if you do shake me off, I’ll just keep coming back. You’re getting weaker.” The light started to fade, and out of instinct, I turned to the scented candle. The darkness was oozing out, and slowly latching onto it. “Maybe even now I can break you,” it spread further. I leaped for it and held it to the floor, covering it with my torso. The voice scoffed. “Please,” I felt the darkness touching my skin on the floor - cold and stiff, despite looking so fluid. “You’re hopeless. Just give in to me.” The heat from the candle was getting to my chest, and I knew it could start to burn. “This is it,” the voice said, growing excited, “This is the night you come with me.” I tightened my position and braced myself. With a quick glance I saw the other candles and lamps fading away. The floor disappeared beneath me, and soon, there was only me and the candle. The dark infection spread up my arms, and down my back. It clung to my head and stuck itself to my feet. Soon I was freezing and I tightened my eyes in response. “Big mistake,” the voice giggled, “The darkness within you is where I can spread too. That’s where I can emanate. That’s where I can spread.” And the truth of its words became reality, as I heard the voice within my head and the icy feeling entered my lungs - crawled under my skin and froze my bones.   I couldn’t believe I gave in so much. I couldn’t believe I continued to give in. Why did I always attend to the darkness rather than what was before me?   What was before me?   I was able to open one lid, just enough, to find there was still something before me - the candle. The realization made me exhale, and notice the heat against my chest. There was no darkness within me - the voice was wrong. There’s still sight when I close my eyes. The inside of my skull may be cold and dark, but there’s a reason why that’s not a reality for me. There’s a reason why consciousness prevails. The reason why is something I don’t quite know yet. All I knew was I was able to open and eye - I was able to resist the dark. This candle was surviving. I could feel the heat. I had moved to keep this light alive, and I was.   “You’re just a thought,” I whispered.   I opened another eye to focus on the flickering candle light.   “What did you say?” the voice shook.   I didn’t offer it a response. I wouldn’t give into it again. I smiled at the light, and spoke to it instead. “I’m sorry I don’t talk to you as much,” I said to it, and it grew brighter. With its push of bright aura, my insides felt warm again, and I could see my floor. I then realized that many say darkness is the basis of all things - and maybe they have a point. But we are immune from it. In fact, the darkness is only a thought - a concept. The truth is light. The truth is awareness. That’s what deserves our attention. I pushed myself up, as the flame got bigger. “I get it now.” “No,” the voice said, much quieter, “You don’t get anything. We belong together. Don’t leave me.” I picked up the candle as I got to my feet. “I’ve decided,” I said, into the light, “I’ve decided to allow myself to live. I will allow myself the thoughts I want to think.”   Then, in an instant, my room was visible again. I felt like myself, and the candle in my hand held a steady flame. I set it on my shelf and considered it for a while. I nodded my head and took a breath. Then, I blew out the candle. I proceeded to turn off my lamps, and the room was dark.   But not all lights had been turned off.   I crawled into bed and shut my eyes.   The next thing I allowed myself was rest.
JR Wolfgang was not always an enthusiast of art. The interest sparked after the trial. JR was what one would consider to be a lost man; like most people in this world. The one difference between JR and most people was that JR could not accept this concept. JR could not stay lost. He spent a long time running from the feeling in any way he could. Escaping by means of any sort, substances being a major one. Through this toxic remedy he only wandered into a land of nearly no return. He only walked deeper into the woods. By the time he finally dealt with the wreckage of his past he was left with a stoic mind and hardened heart of stone. Scared of any feelings good or bad. A soul that longed for love, but a mind that longed for safety. JR was fairly young; 28 years old. He forced himself to step outside of his comfort zone at times. He could hardly go in public without acting and feeling like a complete alien. He had become institutionalized and fearful of unfamiliarity, even though what had become familiar to him was isolation which was synonymous with misery. A major conundrum, one that would torture his body and mind. In his efforts JR ventured to a museum in Connecticut. A small art museum, nothing renowned, but nonetheless a step for him. There was no particular reason he chose to do this. He simply researched things to do near him online and came across this exhibit. He decided not to go, the same way he did with everything. However, at the last minute something told him to do it and he listened. JR was tired of emptiness during outings. But he also feared the consequences of not pushing himself. He paced the exhibit aimlessly, more interested in observing the people than he was in the art. A young foreign looking girl (around his age) that he noticed seemed to not understand something and approached JR with a look of confusion but also a look of familiarity and a look of things that are hard to explain. He said nothing even though she looked at him directly, he had trouble maintaining eye contact. She looked for longer than someone normally would without speaking. Instead of saying anything she held her phone to his face. The screen displayed a translating app with English words that asked him if he knew how to "escape" this place. JR became concerned after reading this but also couldn't understand her lack of urgency in regard to her question. JR was a very tech savvy man, he was just an incredibly intuitive man in general. A master of creative problem solving and a master of thinking. Thinking was in fact his greatest strength and greatest weakness. JR was a double edged sword. He studied very far into Spanish while in school and began studying it very seriously in college, this is prior to his downfall and early dismissal of education. Therefore he concluded before responding that the translating app must have been misinterpreting a certain word she used. He figured she must have wanted to leave the museum. JR could not help but laugh; this confused the already confused girl even more. He was able to quickly understand the way the app worked and saw that the language originally spoken that was translated to English was Portuguese. He assumed Portuguese was the same as Spanish and attempted speaking Spanish words, this was to only half avail. she seemed to somewhat interpret his sentences. He immediately realized that the two languages must be much different than he thought originally. JR tapped the microphone button displayed on her phone but when he spoke into it odd and unfamiliar words were being written on the screen. He realized he needed to change the language to English in order for his words to translate to Portuguese the way hers were translating to English. He asked if she was okay, just in case she really was asking how to escape. She responded by asking why he would think she wasn't. Rather than explaining he just let it go and said, "never mind." He told her that he would show her how to exit. She followed him and they continued to communicate in this fashion. She was initially drawn by his patience with this and his ability to navigate something that has been a struggle to her since coming to the area. He understood more than most about the language and the way the language was structured from understanding Spanish, and was able to quickly adapt to the Portuguese. By the time they had reached the exit a connection was building. Something that would appear as an obstacle to most was something that was fun to these 2. It was something that immediately showed them a lot about each other. Before even knowing too many specifics about one another's lives, they knew what kind of person each other were. And were not distracted by the unimportant things. The girl asked JR to help her go to a restaurant that she wanted to go to due to her difficulty with things like this. It was more of an excuse to stay around him which he suspected and hoped for. He nonetheless agreed. JR sometimes (most times) would speak before thinking about what he was saying. JR struggled with impulsiveness. Therefore this means of communication that would hinder many, was benefitting him greatly by allowing him to process things first. Sentences needed to be carefully constructed and worded in order to translate correctly; he knew this from Spanish. This also gave her the opportunity to see JR's true self, something that JR did not allow often at all. JR was the kind of person that gets better with time. He got better as you learned more about him and his talents. JR wouldn't let anyone get to that point. Dinner went well and they were forced to sit close. Next to each other rather than across, in order to be able to communicate. This led to physical touch which was something that JR really liked and felt very comforted by. She felt the same way. The 2 kept creating excuses to get together in ways like this and the communication only improved. This process led to a connection a level deeper than words allow. An obstacle became an opportunity. JR Wolfgang and his wife built a life together. They built something unique and unmatched. They didn't have to overcome anything, because the only thing they saw when experiencing this journey together, was the fact that they were together.
I was deemed the most "normal" of Malkmuth's Legion, and as a result, I was also deemed the guardian of their one and only child. The deal was simple. I would take care of his daughter, and all my expenses would be taken care of, every frivolity that I desired would be given to me. The only catch? She could never know who her father was. He had said to me no child should be part of the Legion, no matter how impoverished or needy they were. It was why he kept his Legion as child-free as possible. I had always assumed he thought it a weakness, to desire a family, to know that love. And maybe he was right. On her first birthday, Malkmuth brought a single black gift box sealed with dark purple ribbon to the house he had put us in. It matched his daughter, Violetta, so-named for her raven hair and strangely violet eyes. He didn't stay to meet her, and he told me to not tell her that her father gave her this gift. So I did the next-best thing: I told her someone from the dark lord's Legion gave her this gift. She was one, so she didn't seem to understand either way. The days came and the days went, and soon enough, it was Christmas. It was snowing, by some miracle, and we were watching it slowly drift down from the sky in heavy flakes when a familiar black-robed, purple-masked form came up our driveway... carrying in their hands a single black gift box. He looked our way, and little Violetta looked his, and while it was impossible to say with the mask he wore, it looked like their gazes connected. I quickly covered Violetta's eyes and pulled her away from the window, and the doorbell rang. I set her down in front of the television with some children's show with children who had giant heads and little bodies, and briskly walked to the door. When I opened the door, I took the gift box and scowled. "What happened to our agreement?" "I am your Lord, and you dare to be so vitriolic?" Malkmuth asked, a chuckle hidden in his words. "You said she can't know who her father is," I countered. "Does she?" "Well she's going to figure it out if you make a habit out of coming over!" "Children are not nearly so clever." I frowned at that. "You do not know much about children, my Lord. I am the youngest of six, I can tell you, children are indeed that smart..." "Nonsense. Give her this gift." "I'll give Violetta this gift. But you should be careful, if you really don't want her to figure things out." I closed the door before he could get another word in, shaking all over. Never had I been contrary to the dark lord, and to know he could end me easily if he so wished it terrified me. Such was his power. On the other side of the door, he marveled, "Violetta... what a lovely name you gave her," in a low whisper before turning and heading back down the path to his car.
A lot can happen in only a year. People change and so did I. Last year I was only a high schooler that should have graduated that year. In school I was this popular girl with rich parents, good looks and her perfect little life. Or so everyone thought that my life was like that. Some wanted to be my friends for my status in society, others thought I was this mean girl and tried to stay as far away from me as possible. And let's be honest, everyone felt intimidated by me, even my 'so called' friends. They all thought I only cared about my looks, fashion, money and all those sort of things. In reality though, I didn't care much about those things. Of course, I'm not saying that I didn't enjoy all the amenities that my life came with. However, my life could become pretty lonely sometimes. In spite of this, I was willing to put up with my loneliness as long as I made my parents happy and proud of me because I loved them too much. My parents wanted me to be respected and have a safe and wealthy life. They wanted me to become a doctor, a politician, a lawyer or a CEO of our family's business. And so I made a promise to myself to follow my parents dream for me even if that meant I couldn't have a dream of my own future. And so I held myself to that promise. I was a straight A's student and always acted reserved in public to keep my image clear in the society. You know, I always followed the rules even if sometimes I didn't agree with them, I always thought before speaking and kept my opinion to myself if it didn't agree with the public's. I also always cared how I dressed or, well, at least acted as if I cared about all those designer clothes that I owned. But everything changed on that terrible day in spring. My parents and I were in Spain. They had a business meeting here with all the important CEOs of Europe and I tagged along since one day everything my parents own would be mine. The thing is, I didn't expect that day to come so soon, so I wasn't paying much attention to it. And that is the only reason why I am still here and my parents aren't. It was the day of the meeting, the 14th of April. That morning my mom and dad went to the meeting, but I decided I wanted to explore the city rather than listen to a boring business talk from all these older men and women even though my parents tried to convince me to go along with them. Well, I didn’t. It was a sunny day and I was sitting in the shade under a tree, exhausted from all the walking I had done, when I decided to see how my parents were doing in their meeting. And so I didn't hesitate much longer. I got up and went straight to the building where the meeting was supposed to be held. But what I found there shocked me to my core. The building was surrounded by police. Everyone outside was panicking. I saw a few people standing there in disbelief, tears falling down their faces. I believe they were relatives of some of the people inside the building. I was immensely confused on what was happening so I went to one of the officers. The young officer kindly explained to me that somebody had leaked the information about all the important people being here today, all in one place and so the criminals had planned their attack. They had managed to infiltrate the building and all the people inside were now taken hostage. The police forces outside were working on a plan to save them all as we were speaking. Unfortunately, at that time no one knew that it was a very well-planned terrorist attack so the criminals inside could not have been reasoned with. The terrorists knew really well that by entering the building they had written their own death sentences. They didn't want riches or anything else because their only goal was to kill everyone inside. And so only a few minutes have passed since my talk to the officer when the building suddenly exploded. Everything was happening so fast but at that moment it seemed as if the explosion somehow managed to slow down time. The image of it was so terrible that every time I close my eyes I can still see that explosion in vivid colors. Everyone who was inside it, including my parents, had died that day. And so in the span of minutes the world I knew was crushed and I became an orphan. I still had my wealth and became a legal owner and the CEO of our family business but I no longer had any family left. That incident was like a brutal wake up call for me. Then a realization occurred to me - there is no point in living a safe life and being respected if you cannot save the ones you love. Thus, that day changed everything for me. Don't get me wrong I still graduated high school and kept my grades up. I had to keep on living. Though, I can swear, if a year ago someone came up to me and told me that my life now would be like this, I would have laughed in their face. But here I am. I, Andromeda Perrel, am pledging my loyalty in the army to defend my country from all enemies and am vowing to dedicate my life for the greater good of those who are defenseless. And even if this time a year ago just the idea of joining the army seemed absurd to me, somehow now I know that it is the right path for me. It always has been, because there is no point in being respected if you didn’t earn that respect in the first place.
It is not surprising that the best gossip is often conveyed in management memos like the one I wish to tell you all about. Headly Images is a rather over-staffed enterprise where former college art majors gather to ply their talents in graphic art projects. I, of course, use the word “talent” ever cautiously since most of the artists do not have a clear sense of what artistic actually encompasses. My name is Henry Pasternick and I work in the corner office. In viewing the pecking order of Headly Images, you will find me clinging to the bottom rung of the corporate ladder. Before being hired by Mr. Roener, my office was the broom closet which should give you some idea of why after five or so years, I am still clinging to the bottom rung. One of the advantages of being in the corner office is my total anonymity and invisibility in dealing with management. I like it that way. Granted, I do not often get the credit I deserve on some of the projects I have worked on, but the tradeoff is just fine with me. I come to work each morning at the exact same time, I work on a project and I go home. Nothing is expected of me since technically by management standards I do not exist. I am a blank page with nothing noteworthy written on it. I’ve seen what they do to worker-bees who dare to rise above their station. They are quietly moved to the curb. The void they leave behind is quickly filled by someone who has no idea of what transpired before they arrived. I keep quiet. There is plenty of gossip circulating, but my lips are sealed. Or they were sealed until we got a memo from management sent to our overloaded email inbox. It read: To All Employees of Headly Images: Male employees are no longer to use the restroom facilities until further notice. I heard voices of discontent coming down the hall, all of them from male employees. Perhaps this would be a good juncture to better explain the situation. For the fifty plus employees on the ground floor, there is but one bathroom that serves both sexes. There is a bright red sign on the door labeled, “Restroom.” Occupancy is one since there is but one toilet. The door is locked by whomever is using the facility at the time and while I am sure it is not in keeping with current restroom requirements, it is what it is until we got the memo. Orlin Sanders was in the breakroom fuming when I happened to walk in. Frederick Marks was discussing the nature of the email. “What the hell!” Sanders slapped the break table with his open palm nearly spilling Marks’ coffee that he had just received from the vending machine. “This is an outrage.” “What are we going to do?” Marks was wiping up the coffee that did manage to escape from his styrofoam cup. “I am going to the labor board on this.” Orlin declared as I put my money in a vending machine to get myself a Pepsi. “Is there even such a thing?” Frederick pondered. “Must be.” He fumed. “We have the bathroom upstairs.” Frederick shrugged. Turning to me, Frederick smiled, “Hey Benny, how’s it going?” “It’s Henry, sir.” I sat next to him. “Right.” He pointed a finger at me, “Right you are.” “Did you hear me, Frederick?” Orlin held out his hands. “We males have to go upstairs to take care of our needs.” “It’s a few extra steps.” Frederick sighed hoping to end the conversation. “It’s just the start.” Orlin waved a finger in Frederick’s face. The next day I saw Orlin Sanders cleaning out his desk. His supervisor Mr. Chapelle was watching him, “You know Orlin, going to Mr. Young was not a very smart thing to do, right?” “I guess.” He mumbled. “People gotta learn that going off like that will only get you terminated.” He shook his head as he stood up, “I guess you figured that out.” “Sure did.” He shoved his art supplies into a plastic Alberston’s bag. “Careful, some of those things belong to Headly.” Mr. Chapelle picked out a couple of mechanical pencils from the bag. “It’s a damn disgrace.” Orlin waved his finger at Mr. Chapelle. “That memo was uncalled for.” “I dunno, someone has been wee-weeing all over the floor in there.” He yanked his thumb over his shoulder toward the clearly marked restroom that was now off limits to male staff. Orlin would have to worry about it anymore since he was headed out the door. “I heard it was Maynard O’Dell who was doing it.” Phil Renke stated at lunch as he ate his baloney sandwich like he did for the past sixteen years at the company. There were five other employees gathered in the breakroom for lunch, all male. “I put in a complaint.” “I think we should have a petition.” Thomas Grange pounded his fist on the table nearly upsetting Mr. Marks’ coffee. “Great idea.” One of the newbees concurred. “Now hold on a minute, they just let Orlin Sanders go this morning for raising a stink in Mr. Young’s office yesterday afternoon. Old Man Young was in a private conference with Miss Sheila Overton.” Mr. Goodrich raised his hand as he spoke. “That explains it.” Phil spoke through his clenched teeth. “This whole thing is a powder keg, ya know.” Mr. Goodrich shook his head. “I don’t get it.” Phil Renke pounded the table with his fist. “It’s those damn women taken over.” “Careful.” Frederick Marks held up his finger to interject. “This could be a serious matter.” “It. Already. Is.” Phil Renke leaned in to speak into Frederick’s ear as if it was a microphone. Pausing between each word for emphasis, Phil made sure the older man got his point. “Some of us have a lot of time invested in this company and I feel it would be imprudent to turn this matter into an ultimatum. We all saw what happened to Orlin.” Frederick shook his head, “What makes you think the same thing won’t happen to you?” “We are the talent.” Phil growled “Mr. Young needs us.” “Like hell he does.” Frederick smiled and shook his head. “We are a dime a dozen. Management upstairs doesn’t even know most of your names. They will put you all out on the street and in the morning hire your replacements. Talent is cheap, I’m telling you.” “Whose side are you on?” Phil appeared as if he wanted to start something right there. “My side.” Frederick stood up to look Phil in the eye. His dark eyes pooled Phil’s reflection. Swallowing hard, Phil wisely sat down in a chair around the table. That afternoon after lunch, the parade of male employees began to walk up the stairs to the restroom on the next floor. I joined in their exodus since my bladder was feeling kind of full. The uneasy stalemate continued for another week as Phil Renke collected signatures of male employees who were angry about the memo. “Are you going to sign, Postman?” Phil asked me edging into my tiny office. “It’s Pasternick, Mr. Renke.” I corrected him. “Yeah, yeah, are you going to sign this, Pastergren?” He put the petition on my desk. Picking up the document stating that the rights of the male employees had been violated, I began to feel like that cartoon where the devil is sitting on one shoulder and an angel is sitting on the other. “I don’t rightly know.” I shook my head. “Well it’s time to poop or get off the pot.” His jaw was tight and his eyes were trying to burn a hole in my head. “My feelings are that if I sign this thing, I will be shown the door.” “I can show you the door right now, Paster-punk.” He leaned a little too close to me for my liking. “I am not going to sign that petition.” I shook my head. “You are a spineless punk, do you know that?” He snarled menacingly. “No, but if you sing a couple of bars, I’m sure I can dance to it.” I snapped my fingers. “You are a good-for-nothing punk.” He slapped my desk with his open palm before turning on his heel and walking out. Things were getting tense, but that was just the start. A new memo was sent out through our email: To All Employees of Headly Images: Male employees are no longer able to use the restroom facilities on the second floor. Instead we have contracted a company to provide a Port-a-Potty outside the building in the fenced in holding area. “Are you kidding me?” I muttered to myself. Finding the energy to leave my office, I went to check out this new device. Just beyond the back door was a port-a-potty. “Good going.” Phil pushed past me and became the first person to use the new port-a-potty. I could hear him declare, “It stinks in here.” Thus a new stage in the war was opened with management firing the first salvo. What I had not figured in was the gossip factor that was to follow, but I soon found this to be the cruelest turn of all. When I got back to my desk, I saw a new email had been sent to me by Mr. Obberhoffman, Mr. Young’s able assistant. It was a simple request that I come up to his office at my earliest convenience. I figured my earliest convenience was right at this very moment. I knocked on his closed door. “Come in.” A pleasant voice responded. I opened the door and saw Otto Obberhoffman sitting staring at his laptop. When he looked up and saw me, a smile dashed on his face, “Mr. Pasternick, please have a seat.” “Thank you sir.” I nodded as I sat in the empty chair in front of his modest desk. “What can I do for you?” “It is a very delicate matter, I’m afraid.” He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “And what might that be?” I was puzzled as he hesitated. “It seems that we have been having problems in the lavatory.” He put his hand to his mouth and coughed. He then tilted his head as if to change the angle of his view of me. “So I’ve gathered.” “And I have two written complaints that you are the one causing these indiscretions.” He tilted his head the other way to again change his viewing angle. “Me?” The weight of what he had said finally hit me full force. “Yes, it appears you are the one who has left these unsightly puddles behind when you urinate.” He swallowed the last word as if it was distasteful to say out loud. “No, I am not the one peeing on the floor.” I said trying to keep a hold of my quick temper, but like a man with a dog on a leash, the power of the mighty predator became a challenge to control. “I am just informing you that two employees have filed a complaint.” He could not look me in the eye as he spoke. “May I ask who filed the complaints?” I asked, flabbergasted. “No you may not.” He shook his head. “So now what?” I could feel my grip weaken on the leash. With a couple more insinuations, my furious dog would break free. “There is nothing you can do.” He shrugged, “Do you wish to make a statement?” I did. “I’m sorry Mr. Pasternick, I am not allowed to write such words in your statement.” His face did not change expression. “I could put explicitive in the place of the words you used provided you sign the statement.” “Give me a pen.” Gossip is like a virus often producing the same results. My privacy and anonymity had been forever shattered. I now felt as if I was walking down the runway of a fashion show as people would peer over their cubicles at me as if I was the star. “Ladies and gentlemen, for your entertainment we are presenting Mr. Pasternick, the man who because of his carelessness using the company restroom has ruined the privilege for all male employees in Headly Images. Let’s hear it for him.” Applause echoes in my head. Sitting in the sanctuary of my office, I can feel people looking at me as they pass. When I do feel the pressure of nature’s call, I slide out as quietly as I can. Like a reclusive spy trying to avoid detection, I slither out the back and enter a plastic room that smells foul upon entering and has all the amenities of a hillbilly outhouse. Someone has kindly left a newspaper tucked in a small hidey-hole. “Did you leave your usual calling card?” Phil asked me as I came in the door. I did not say anything, but then sometimes silence can be very incriminating. From my perspective, things were getting quite unbearable as rumors and innuendos seemed to be flying everywhere with my name attached to these bits of idle gossip. The only positive spin in the whole affair was that at least people were beginning to remember my name. I was no longer the nobody occupying the ex-broom closet at the end of the hallway, but my new found notoriety was not helping my career either. “I have an idea.” I felt emboldened to raise my hand at a production meeting. The other associates turned their heads and pretended as if I was an uninvited ghost. Each time I attempted to interject some of my ideas, they all pressed on as if I had not said anything. Before at previous production meetings, I sat there daring not to speak for fear I would not be taken seriously, but now I was just being ignored because of something I had been rumored to have done. Honestly, I’m not sure which of the two options is worse. “I wish to change my statement.” I told Mr. Obberhoffman. “You can’t do that.” His dull dishwater eyes opened wide. His facial expression revealed that what I was asking was impossible. “Why not?” I asked. “Because, because...because it’s part of the permanent record...is why.” He stuttered as he spoke. Some people are like that. They begin to stutter when the truth is difficult to say. Or they can’t think up a lie quick enough. It was darn easy to see which was the case. I chose the latter. “I believe the truth is best served in my recantination.” I could see how my phrasing was confusing to him. More stuttering, but this time quite incoherent. “In careful consideration, I believe that I am guilty of soiling the floor as stated in the management memo dated three weeks ago. It was at that time management imposed an across the board banishment of all male personnel from the restroom. Despite its sexist stance on this matter, I am willing to come forward and make my claim since I have already been accused and found guilty by company gossip.” “You can’t say that.” Obberhoffman said in a shallow voice. “Why not, it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” I put the typed document on his desk. “You make some allegations that are not necessarily fact.” He picked up the document, adjusted his horned rimmed glasses and pretended to read it. “How so? I have lived the past week in my office and have been subjected to allegations and eye witness accounts that I am the one with the poor aim...as it were.” I folded my arms across my chest. “This is...is...putting us in a bad light.” He managed to squeak out. “And this is my resignation letter. You are not at liberty to change a single word since I have signed it.” I put the letter on his desk. I will save you the trouble of Obberhoffman’s reaction to my letter, so I will just present it as written: To whom it may concern, I, Henry Pasternick, have loyally served Headly Images Inc. for over five years and in that time, I have been both design artist and company scapegoat. In the first capacity, I contributed very little since those project managers did not value either my ideas or my creative inspiration. While I am not taking issue with the rejection of my professional abilities, it was not until I became the company scapegoat when I gained a certain amount of notoriety. As the company's unwitting scapegoat, it is my hope that I managed to serve the company very well. Through the gossip channels, of which I became the main topic of discussion, I am led to believe I served honorably and managed to gain some opprobrium for my tenure as scapegoat. In this capacity, I am glad I could be of service. To be remembered as the employee whose aim was lacking, I do take pride in my meager accomplishments. It is for the reasons I have stated that I am tendering my resignation. Not for the injustice of being falsely accused through gossip, rather that like all scapegoats before me, the penalty far outweighed the offense. It is when we build cages and exclude people from our perfect societies based on principles we assume are just, we discover as time washes away the intent, it leaves only with the weight of our miscalculations and hasty conclusions and the victims. I hope my letter will serve as a warning and a lesson for the future of the company. Wishing for best possible future, Henry Pasternick
"All systems nominal. Energy levels are good. Alex, is our course set?" A gray haired man looked up from his screen. His youthful face belayed the color of his hair and eyebrows. He glanced back down and pressed a few keys on his computer before responding. "I have it finished. It's sending. Make sure the engines can handle the distance, Rowan." Rowan, the first man, glanced back down at his instrument panel. He fiddled with a strand of his long dark hair as he checked the course. After a few moments of checking the information he glanced back up. "Everything looks good," He turned to glance behind him, a smile coming over his face. "Dr. Rodgen, waiting for your confirmation." All eyes had turned toward a tall, red headed woman seated in the far back corner. Her nose was down over her own set of screens. She moved her fingers in the air, ticking off numbers as she worked. Eventually she looked up. "Course and ship status confirmed. You may proceed," she announced. Alex gave a nod. Returning to work, double checking his calculations. Rowan turned back to his panel, smile widening. He reached his hand forward to start the jump. "Hold," came a stern voice from the middle of the room. The two men and one woman looked over towards the deep voice. Despite the size of the room it was filled to the brim with panels and screens. Five workstations had been set up. Two at the front, two at the back and one in the center. Six total people made up the work crew of the bridge. In that center station was an occupied chair. In it sat a thirty something male. His close cut red hair marked him as military as much as his uniform did. However, he had not spoken. The dark skinned man standing to his immediate right hand had. He looked over at the trio sternly. Disapproval painted on his face. "Captain Slater has final authorization. Follow protocol," he commanded. "It is fine Lieutenant," Captain Slater spoke softly from his seat. "This is our fourth jump today, and our tenth day of travel. Everything is going well. Let them work." "As you wish Sir." "Please, continue," the Captain motioned to Rowan. The tension left the room and everyone turned back towards their panels. Rowan's smile returned and he lifted his hand once again. "I love this part," he whispered and opened a thick plastic cover. Under it was a large red button. As he pressed it he turned his face quickly towards the front. He wasn't the only one. Everyone else in the room lifted their gaze to the large view-port situated in the front wall. Outside of it was a vast expanse of black. The only thing breaking the inky sight was uncountable pinpoints of light. All of space lay before them; untold numbers of stars awaited. A soft whine began to fill the room. It grew louder as the stars outside began to bend. The light they gave off stretched and curved in an indescribable pattern. The luminous trails they lead shifted colors from white to blue as they trailed across the void. Suddenly the whine cut off and the lights outside snapped from one spot to another, following their blue shifted paths. The pattern outside the glass was noticeably different then before. "Jump successful," Rowan called. "Ship intact. Engines power high but falling. Alex, are we in the right spot." "Give me a moment. I need new proximity data," he replied, eyes scanning his screen. The light from it colored his face as he worked. After a moment he turned and looked back at Dr. Rodgen "We are in the target system. Slightly closer to the center star than expected but still a safe distance." Rowan let out a cheer, and the Doctor let out a sigh before looking to the room's center. "I suppose I should inform you Lieutenant to please inform the Captain that our jump was successful." That gained her a frown from the Lieutenant and a hastily hidden lopsided smile from the Captain. "Good job men," Captain Slater said after he smoothed his face. "That makes five good jumps today. How many light-years have we covered?" "Total or today?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "Both." "Today about five. Total, over all, about thirty. I can pull up the numbers if you want it more accurate. We are averaging about one light-year per jump." "If I recall, that is on the high end of the estimates." "Yes, we are exceeding expectations for efficiency." "Wonderful!" The Captain stood up out of his chair and looked around the room. Focusing his eyes on each of the crew members. "You are all doing a splendid job. Not only are we making history but we are doing it spectacularly. Please keep up the good work." The Doctor nodded in agreement. Rowan cheered again. Alex seemed to be rechecking his numbers. The Lieutenant stood silently. The sixth person on the bridge, another man, turned from his workstation to face the group. "I don't want to bring down the mood," he started running his fingers across his smooth scalp. "But I am still getting some weird feedback over here." "Has it changed or increased since the last jump?" Dr. Rodgen asked. "No, it's still the same. Every jump it's the same." "Is it dangerous?" Alex finally looked up. "I don't think so. I just wanted to make sure everyone was informed. I need to run more tests and see. It might have something to do with the engines winding down. Bending space is not a normal activity." "Should we stop for the day Peter?" The Captain inquired. "We don't have to. As long as Rowan says the equipment is in working order." All eyes turned towards the engineer. "My readings are all good," he answered with a glance down. "We can keep going." "Alex," the Captain continued. "How far are we from our next destination?" "Umm..." the navigator hummed. "About three light years." "So, three more jumps. Doctor, think we can make that or should we stop for now?" "Protocol dictates we shouldn't go more than ten light-years in a forty hour period. We did five yesterday and now five more. So we should wait at least a few more hours." "Quite prudent," Captain Slater nodded. "Peter check on that feedback, Rowan please help him. See if it has anything to do with the engine. Lieutenant, go check on the other soldiers. Let them know we will have a few hours of down time. Alex check over our next course." The three scientists set to work. The soldier saluted; turning on his heels he left the bridge. "Doctor please follow me," he said more quietly. She nodded. He turned and headed out the door. She fell into step next to him. "If this is about me giving the order to jump..." she began when the door had closed behind them. "No, it's not. Though if you could let me do it, it would make the Lieutenant happy. He is a kind of a stickler for the rules." "Oh, well if it's nothing then I should go monitor the other's work," she turned back towards the door. "I need you to come with me. I have to see Doctor Amatersasu." "You can do that yourself," she muttered, turning back around. "I think she is scared of me. I might need you to keep her from running." "Fine," she gave a little shrug. She glanced back one more time before sighing and starting down the corridor with him. The interior of the ship was gray metal. Bare save for a few directional markings. The corridor was long and a railing could be seen in the distance. The walls were lined with doors; behind them were servers which housed the majority of the computing power for the bridge. The air smelt slightly stale and sterile, a by-product of the recycling procedure. As they reached the railing the central staircase for the ship became visible. Down the stairs would be the crew quarters and a gym. There would also be an armory, but none of this was of interest to them. They ignored the stairs in favor of the door that stopped people from proceeding any further. Dr. Rodgen had to lift a card to a sensor next to the door. It clicked and she pulled the door open for them. This was the Laboratory of the ship. Only the science crew and the Captain had general access. Beyond the door was a basic copy of what was behind it. A corridor lined with doors. Behind each would be a different set of equipment for testing samples they obtained on their mission. A door on the right was marked with a red cross. The pair stepped up to it and the door slid open on its own. Behind it was a medical bay. Four beds lined one wall, the other three walls were filled with cabinets. It was all a pristine white. Sitting at a desk opposite the beds was a diminutive dark haired woman. She glanced up as the door opened. "Harue," Dr. Rodgen greeted her. "Eimear, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you would be..." She cut off as the Captain stepped inside. She continued on in a slightly smaller voice "Oh, hello Captain." "Yes he needed to speak to you about something." "I hopefully have an answer for him then," she looked down her face turning red. "I hope you can as well," Captain Slater replied as gently as possible. "I was wondering if you could fit a few tests into your schedule." "What kind of tests Sir?" "I want to see if the jumps are having adverse effects on the crew. Just some basic scans and blood work. Would that be too difficult?" "It shouldn't be too difficult," she looked back up, her eyes seeming to dart across his face. "I can make the schedule for the next few days." "Wonderful, I will inform the men!" "What appointment should I give you?" "Oh," it was his turn to look uncomfortable, his voice took on a slightly strained note. "tests on me?" "You could have sent this to her in a message," Dr. Rodgen cut in, rolling her eyes. "Why are we not on the..." She never got to finish. An alarm started blaring, filling the room with a harsh shrieking noise. Shock filled their faces. "Stay here," the captain said to Harue. "get to your jump seat. Then he spun and rushed out. Dr. Rodgen close behind him. As they dashed down the corridor the Lieutenant could be seen rushing up the stairs. "Captain?" He asked, his face a stone mask. "Get everyone to their stations. I will let you know what's going on when I know." "Yes Sir!" He saluted then looked back down the steps. "Fall in men! To your stations!" He ignored the rest of the shouting. He needed to get to the bridge. When they arrived everyone was gathered around Rowan's workstation. He was frantically pressing buttons and checking his screen. All eyes were locked on him, sweat was beginning to drip down everyone's face. "Report!" Captain Slater yelled. The group, save Rowan, turned around and looked at him. Nobody answered, they just stared blankly. "Rowan!" He yelled again. "What is going on?" "I'm trying to maneuver us away!" He screamed, still not looking up. "Away from what?" "The star we are next to went nova," Peter answered, a note of terror in his voice. "Okay, we should be a ways away from it. Alex plan a route, we will jump away." "I can but," Alex hesitated. "We are too close; remember my calculations before were off. The interference from the star's extreme radiation will make it almost impossible to chart an accurate course." That stopped him. They had come out too close. His mind spun. "Peter, how long do we have?" "I checked the distances before you came, maybe a half hour, forty-five minutes if we are lucky." "Alex, plot a course the best you can. Peter, help him." Without a word the pair dashed off. "Doctor help Rowan as much as possible. Also if you can come up with a better solution to a blind jump, let me know." She nodded and went to assist the engineer. He sat down in his chair to notify the remaining crew of the situation. The intercom crackled to life as he contacted the military personnel. The Lieutenant took the news stoically, saying he would inform the rest of the men of the situation. He then contacted the medical bay and told Doctor Amaterasu to sit tight, they might be doing another jump. When she asked why, he didn't respond. Instead he turned his attention back to the room in front of him. The glass outside was still dark, but there was a faint glow around the edges. The supernova must be behind them. He couldn't help but feel as if it was a shame they wouldn't get to see it. It must be beautiful, even if it might get them all killed. The thought kept intruding as he tried to roll the problem over in his head. He couldn't come up with another solution. "Alex," he said finally. "Do you have a course?" "Basically," his voice was tight. "I'm trying to tweak it based on the star's energy, but it's not pretty." "Chances we will jump into the middle of a star or planet?" "With as much space as there is? Slim. The problem will be if we can chart a course back on track." "I'll take those odds. Rowan, charge the engine." "That's a bad idea Captain." "You have maybe five minutes to explain why that is?" The Captain looked over at him sharply. "With all the free energy around us we might damage the engine." "Okay, do you have an alternate solution?" No one said anything. Silence fell over the bridge. "It is either stay here and we fry, or maybe fry the engine, correct?" Again no answered. "Charge the engine Rowan." Rowan's hand crept up and pressed the same large red button as before. A faint whine began to fill the ship. Everyone sat tense looking out into space. The glow around their windshield had grown brighter. The whine reached its peak. The stars outside began to stretch and bend. The glow shifted color with them only to red instead of blue. The whine grew even louder. It was oppressive. The crew covered their ears. The Captain stared grimly out the window; his hands gripping tightly onto his chair arms. The ship began to shake as lines of light filled the entirety of the view-port. It was nothing but a blaze of white blue light framed in a deep red. There was a loud metallic keening coming from the ship. There was a massive lurching motion, everyone was pressed back into their chairs or toppled over onto the floor. The windshield blazed with light.
The sun was setting as a thunderous blow crashed against Baron’s rib cage, forcing a cough that saw blood spew from his mouth. Struggling to breathe on hands and knees, he laboriously lifted his head to evaluate who or what he was being assaulted by. The creature before him had a large frame, standing roughly eight feet tall, and was covered in thick scale like skin that shifted colors between black and red. When it spoke, its voice bellowed deeply, and the repugnant stench of its hot breath could be smelled from several feet away. “Tell me... did you really believe you could slay demons?” the creature said as it kicked Baron again and again. The relentless impacts sent his body toppling further and further across the dirt road. First he felt his ribs being cracked, then his spine, and finally his will to live. The brutality of the scene was contrasted by Baron’s would be final thoughts. As the monster landed crippling strike after crippling strike, Baron escaped to the safe haven that existed in his mind. He saw her there, Amelia, smiling back at him. All the pain left his body as she walked towards him, gazing at him with eyes full of love and understanding, eyes that he had longed for. The only time he could see her was when the veil between this world and the next was the thinnest. He had to be on deaths doorstep just to hold her. As she took him into her arms, warmth washed over him and his body started to tremble. He wanted to cry tears of the purest joy. “I miss you so much.” Baron said as Amelia placed both of her hands upon his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “You need to stop doing this Baron. I miss you too but you can’t keep being so reckless. One of these times you could actually die.” Amelia said. Baron smiled as she pulled his head closer and pressed her lips against his neck. His physical body was in the process of being beaten to a pulp but his spirit was being reinforced to withstand it. Feeling her mouth on his skin sent a tingling sensation through his entire being. When she playfully licked his neck it wasn’t with a lustful fervor, but rather a slow, sensual sweetness that he desperately desired. They were a bonded pair, two monstrous spirit energies coalesced into a force of nature. She steadied him, acting as a sheath to his blade, and in return he fought tirelessly against the demons that plagued her mind. They were the source of each other’s power and desperately craved one another’s light. Unfortunately they were currently separated with no easy means to realign. Not much unlike the fated cycle of the sun and moon. They yearned for their eclipse but the toll was heavy. As Amelia pressed her lips against his own Baron slipped into a state of serenity. He knew he had to leave soon, that he still had a job to do, but parting with his beloved was the cruelest form of punishment he could be subjected to. “I missed your scent so much Amelia. I’ll never stop returning for you.” Baron said as his lips began to be separated from her own. He felt the cold pull of reality dragging him back. “I love you too.” responded Amelia. Her image faded and with a loud crack Baron’s body struck a tree and lied motionless. “I can’t believe this guy was supposed to be considered a threat.” the menacing creature said, laughing as it walked towards Baron to finish him off. The demon raised both of its hands high into the air brought them crashing down with a terrible force. Baron sprung upward, grabbed the creature’s wrists, and crushed them both effortlessly. The demon looked onward in horror realizing it had made a terrible lapse in judgement. The sky turned red, and upon looking up, the demon saw the fabled blood moon. “But... but... how?! She should be too far gone!” the creature said. Baron smiled and said, “She is with me now. She will never be lost again. Not entirely.
The truck jolted over another crater-like pothole as the pungent odor of rotting fish filtered into the cab, mingling with the salty air scratching at the back of my throat. I grabbed my grimy steel travel mug from the busted cup holder and took a swig, gripping it tightly to protect the precious brew that had been cold for hours. As much trouble as the old diesel gave me, she could navigate anything but a sinkhole. Over the years she evolved into a fortress of jagged rusty metal, deterring thieves and most everyone else, too. I named her Matilda, after my great aunt who carved her birthday and initials in inconspicuous places damn near everywhere she went - restaurants, public bathrooms, doctors' office waiting rooms, church pews. She said she wanted to leave proof she existed, that she was here, but “without drawing too much attention”. One night after Christmas dinner and too much port wine, she giggled conspiratorially between sips and hiccups as she relayed the stories of her quest to be remembered by strangers among the general populace in the most obscure manner possible. I was eight, and I found it to be a simple but heroic act of rebellion; a bit of salve applied to the burning need to be seen in a world designed to overlook, devalue, and underestimate her. The next week, I carved my multiplication facts into the little table in my bedroom where I did my homework. My father dragged me out of bed that night when he got home and gave me a bare-assed beating for “ruining” the table. The chunks of asphalt gave way to a mostly dirt road where crews had not yet gotten around to repaving. Matilda groaned as I shifted into third gear and picked up speed. The ocean appeared over the horizon, a brilliant blue-green I once spent hours trying to replicate with acrylic paints. My version never seemed right - too green, too blue, too light, too flat, too something. I liked to think the real ocean was undergoing its metamorphosis and healing, and maybe that made it difficult to recreate, especially from memory. Perhaps the ephemeral essence of such an expansive body becoming whole again belies witness or recording. Or... I just suck at color theory. I needed to walk into it, to put my face in it and feel it envelop my body, like in those classic cruise commercials that showed smiling tourists swimming in clear bright water, intermixing with all that life . Maybe by immersing myself in its vastness, I could capture its shades and hues. The Landback Agency put out a green notice six months ago, saying the water was once again safe for people, but I had not dipped a toe in since our last family beach trip when I was nine years old. We always stayed at Matilda’s beach house, which used to be in the fifth row, but as the Atlantic rose, it graduated to the second row. It was the same trip in which my father pulled me out into the water on a blow-up raft until I was too short to reach the bottom. When a wave flipped the boat, I remember spinning and panicking, certain I was drowning, until I felt him grab my arm and pull me out. I coughed and gasped for air while he laughed and dragged me toward the shore. The agency introduced the red/yellow/green protocol by the next summer, and the whole southern coastline was in red for over two decades. I remember the weight that settled over every aspect of our existence when the oceans became hazardous. The effects spread far beyond the predicted industries and communities; even the deniers came around when they could no longer talk past the growing mountains of evidence marking them as the fools they had always been. They still fought against the landback stewardship decision, but in the end, they had no solutions, only arguments and egos. I glanced over to the passenger seat at the green mask and snorkel I picked up two years ago at a yard sale for six dollars. It was all over the news that oceans were moving to yellow protocol; Aunt Matilda died a week before the first pronouncement, and shocked everyone by leaving the now second-row beach house to me. When I saw the snorkel peeking out from underneath a pair of Birkenstocks on a table piled high with unwanted possessions, it was as if she was prodding me from her perch in the afterlife. As I rounded the sharp bend, the wooden “Welcome to Palm Breeze Bay” sign greeted me, freshly painted pink and standing upright for once. I saw testimony everywhere of a hibernating town waking from a too-long slumber. A man emerged from a room at the Sea Horse Motel, pulling a boxy gray wagon that carried two giggling toddlers wearing matching hats, and he began to maneuver the patchy chunks of sidewalk toward the public access point. Across the street, a pop-up flea market had taken over the Wings store parking lot. The sounds of construction rang out from every direction. Hope planted itself in my chest and thrummed. The old gas station on the corner that still had a full-service option was packed with construction vehicles and two food trucks. My stomach growled despite the rank odor hanging in the air, so I turned in and found a spot to park on the side of the store. As I climbed down from the truck, I heard a woman’s voice with a more southern drawl than mine call out. “Hawttttttt dawgssssss! Fresh dawgs here!” The smell of oil and salty cured meat emanated from the window she poked her head through. She smiled as she caught my eye and winked. I swallowed. Her brown hair was streaked with silver that sparkled when angled just so in the sun, and her smile beamed in my direction, creeping over me like a warm hug I didn’t know I needed. Struck by an intense craving for a hot dog, I made my way to the truck that flanked the parking lot. “Hey there love, you hungry?” She addressed me with a sense of familiarity, almost intimacy, as if we were best friends and I had stopped by her house to visit. I noticed as I moved closer she had freckles across her nose and cheeks, and a small paw print tattoo behind her left ear. “Uh, yes, I am, those hot dogs smell amazing. Could I get two, all the way... and... some fries?” I had to yell a little to be heard over the clamor behind me. “Sure, love,” she said, turning to someone I couldn’t see. “FRY!” She faced me again. “What brings you to PB?” She waited for an answer I wasn’t prepared to give. “I, um, I’m going to check on a house, see what kind of work it needs.” This was the part I could say out loud. The rest wouldn’t hold up without the weight of my entire life story. “Interesting...” She peered at me, considering my answer. “Whereabouts is your place? I live over off 32nd Street, near the sandwich shop.” “Oh. That’s close to me, I’m off 34th, down the road from there, in the house that used to belong to my aunt Matilda, but I guess... now it belongs to me.” I was adjusting to the idea of owning a home, let alone something as extravagant as a beach house, while I knew so many were struggling. “Well how ‘bout that? Welcome home then... I’m Evie.” That damn smile. I was having a hard time focusing. She grabbed the tongs and assembled my hot dogs. “Hi, Evie, nice to meet you. I’m Asha.” “Asha! A pretty name for a pretty lady.” She glanced sideways at me as she piled on toppings. “You plannin’ on having any fun while you’re here?” “Umm, I’m not sure really, I hadn’t thought about it. I want to check out the ocean, it’s... been a while.” She nodded knowingly and reached into the space behind her, returning with a red and white paper boat overflowing with fries. “It can be intimidatin’ the first time back in. I’ll give you my number in case you want some company, I’m a strong swimmer, and maybe even above average company.” She winked at me again. Evie was full of herself but it was oddly comforting, like her confidence could be depended upon when not much else was certain. “Sure, that sounds... nice,” I said, and I meant it. She scribbled numbers on a white paper bag and placed the assembled hot dogs and my fries inside, folding the top over twice. When she handed me the bag, I carefully placed my hand where it would not touch hers to retrieve it. “I’ll call you. No... probably text, who am I kidding?” Evie let out a light, musical sort of laugh. “Either way, lookin’ forward to it.” There it was again, that easy sense of acquaintance. I waved awkwardly and walked back to the truck. As I drove away, Evie stood in the window, watching and smiling. Eight blocks from the house, the road became more overgrown and treacherous, bouncing me haphazardly behind the wheel. As a kid, I always knew we were almost there when the gray house on stilts came into view, where my beach friend Beth used to live. Condemned now and barely standing, it refused to be taken into the sea that lapped at its foundation daily. I rounded the final bend, and Matilda’s parting gift appeared before me. What remained of the once hideous bright purple exterior had faded to a dirty pastel hue that reminded me of an Easter egg left behind after the hunt. Two palm trees sat on either side of the gravel drive, both taller now than the one-story house; they fluttered in the wind, greeting me as I approached. The roof beams sagged ever so slightly, making the entire building look tired and overwhelmed. Shutters were missing from one of the front windows and hanging off the second window like my sister’s false eyelashes at the end of a long night of bartending. I parked, stopping short of the single washed-out flamingo standing watch by the front steps. 25 years ago I watched as Matilda cackled to herself while sticking four of them in the ground. She named them Fred, Fanny, Frank, and Buddy. This must be Buddy. I grabbed my lunch and snorkel set and hopped down from the driver’s seat, landing on the soft sandy dirt. As I slammed the truck door, a black and white cat shot out from under the steps, disappearing into the Mexican feather grass at the corner of the house. I walked around to the backyard, and there stood the remains of the gazebo where we had dinners in the summer. The roof was entirely gone, but a bench remained, so I sat down to eat, taking care to fold up the paper bag with Evie’s number and put it in my pocket after removing the contents. I devoured the hot dogs, then scooped up my French fry boat and walked towards the beach. The day was overcast but comfortably warm, and there was no one around that I could see, just the seagulls and me. I fed them Cheez-Its as a kid, and my mother got angry because they refused to leave us alone. One of them took a shit on my father’s head, which was the funniest thing I had ever seen, but I had to hide my giggles behind the sandcastle I built. From then on, I regarded seagull poo as the great equalizer, and Cheez-its as my favorite snack. I stripped off the clothes I wore over my bathing suit and sat in the sand to soak up my surroundings, licking salt from my fingers between fries. As a child, I spent countless nights lying awake in bed and trying to remember all the beings, places, and things that made up my disappearing world. I kept a scrapbook of each species as I learned of its extinction, pasting images from old encyclopedias and nature magazines. Even if the world forgot, I would remember, and if I ever had children, they would know from my records the full breadth of life that once inhabited our home. With every volume I assembled, my despair mounted. I became afraid of hope, of the lies it might tell, and how it would inevitably disappoint me. I worried it would make me delusional, that I would lose touch with my devastating reality, as inviting as that seemed in moments. Humanity was too stubborn, too attached to made-up rules and the illusion of control. I came out of the womb with one eyebrow raised, according to my mother--a born cynic. When the various climate agencies were established, and for years after, my discouragement only grew. We waited too long. No... They waited too long. The yellow protocol notice was the first time that hope found its way to me. I wondered now if Matilda was the opposite--born with a sense of possibility that the world slowly excised from her spirit. I put on my mask and adjusted the straps, watching as a seagull waddled in my direction, curiously cocking its head. I tossed her a fry and stood, leaving the remaining morsels for her approaching friends. The waves rushed to greet me as I walked, the bubbly water tickling my feet and ankles, the coldness anchoring me to the moment. The water reached the middle of my thighs and suddenly, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Almost as quickly, it retreated. The squawking of the seagulls dimmed as the sounds of the ocean filled my ears. I took a deep breath and dove underneath the water.
Olton Grove was a town in decline. Since the construction of a new superhighway that bypassed the remote settlement entirely, the pothole-strewn streets saw less and less use by the year. Travellers and locals had left behind the rolling wheat fields for greener pastures, literal and figurative alike, and the dilapidated store fronts and desperate “For Lease” signs now rivalled the dwindling population of the town. And in his lonely cottage on the threshold of Olton Grove and the expansive Mid-Western wilderness beyond, John David had grown accustomed to the stillness of his quaint, quiet life. A rapping on the front door a little after noon brought the stillness crashing in around John David. A local historian for all of his working life, Mr. David devoted his time to the study of all those that had long since faded from the memories of the one-horse town. Sepia-toned photographs, fractured clay sculptures, faded art and fabrics on loan from town hall - these were all the company Mr. David had known for nearly three decades, and all of the companionship he asked for. The rhythmic knocking had no place among his scribbled workings. But reluctantly, Mr. David arose from his old and cluttered desk and shuffled to the front door, compelled by his commitment to the old-fashioned neighborly manners his mother had taught him when he was a child. Opening the door just a crack, he could glimpse the stranger on the other side, idly scanning the dismal surroundings from the poorly painted porch: a boy, hardly yet a man, with a nest of unkempt hair atop a lanky, toothpick body. With torn jeans and a thick suede jacket, the boy had the markings of a city kid, one impossibly lost amid the endless fields of grain. He certainly resembled none that remained in Olton Grove. “What do you want?” John David whispered, his tired voice hoarse and strained from a lifetime of isolation. He loathed being pulled away from his work like this. Somehow, the colorless images he stared at all day long held more color and life than the world outside his front door. But the stranger was real and standing on his porch, absently tending to his tousled, tangled locks. The dry heat of summer was a nuisance to those inexperienced with it. “I’m lookin’ for someone. The guy at the store said you could help.” “Aye, perhaps. What’s it to ya?” “Look, I don’t got much cash on me. But it’s important, yeah?” Sighing, Mr. David shut the door and unhooked the security latch. Swinging the door wide open, he motioned the boy inside. “Fine, fine. What do ya want? I ain’t got all day.” The boy stepped inside the cottage, the old floorboards creaking with every motion that he made. Mr. David gestured to a plush lounge chair in the corner, a gaudy floral pattern adorning every inch. Obligingly, he accepted the seat; despite the dated, grotesque fabric, the cushions were comfortable enough. Opposite the chair, Mr. David sat on back on a sagging loveseat, a piece surely older than his guest and all the more reliable. “Not from ‘ere, are ya?” “No, sir. Never. My ma spent some time out here, though, back in the day. I thought I’d check it out for myself.” John David chuckled to himself. “Ain’t much to check out these days, I’m afraid. Your ma was smart to get out.” “I guess.” “So, what’s your name, boy? A what brings ya to my front porch?” “Christopher, sir. Christopher Lewis. And like I said - I’m lookin’ for someone.” “Christopher, eh? What kinda someone?” Wringing his wrists, Christopher’s eyes dropped to a fraying carpet beneath his seat. “Well - see, I don’t know much about em’, sir. If they’re even out here anymore. What they mighta been like.” “So, what do ya know, boy?” “Just a name: Brandon Clarke.” Christopher shrugged. “I know it ain’t much. But... Ma said he was the love of her life, y’know? She said she left ‘im here to raise me. But I’m all raised now, so... I dunno. I thought I’d see if I could find ‘im. For ma. Has to be worth a shot, anyhow.” “Ahh... I see...” Slowly, John David rose from the loveseat, grabbing the wool cardigan he’d left draped over the arm the night before. “You’re a good kid, ain’t ya? Yeah, I know the name. I’ll take ya to ‘im, if you care to visit..” “Yessir. Thank you, sir.” ... A short ride in John David’s worn sedan brought Mr. David and the boy to the single-story church just down the road. The sacred grounds where the stone church stood were carved into Mr. David’s mind, not only from 50-some years of Sunday services, but from a lifetime of studying the marble epitaphs that stood behind the building. With sturdy, methodic steps, Mr. David walked Christopher down the dirt path that ran along row after row of gravestones, leading him to the back of the cemetery with surety. There, in the back corner of the cemetery beneath a lone maple tree, he pointed to a grave placed away from the others, a somber look crossing his face. Christopher knelt before the marble stone with interest; in neat calligraphy, the name Brandon Clarke stared back. “I don’t get it, sir... 1990 to 1992 . He’s- It’s-” “I reckon leavin’ ‘im behind hurt your ma somethin’ bad. The pain of losin’ a child... It ain’t one that ever goes away.” “She never told me...” Gently, he traced the writing on the polished stone, his gaze vacant as he imagined a face to match the name. “I didn’t know...” “Perhaps it was too hard to talk about. I’m sure she meant you no harm.” Christopher looked up to John David with wide brown eyes. “You talk like you know her, sir.” “Nah, not hardly. I know her pain, is all.” “You lost a child, sir?” Mr. David looked away. “I don’t mean to pry-” “Think nothin’ of it.” With a heavy heart and slouched shoulders, Mr. David strolled to a bench beneath the maple tree and sat with Christopher. “Y’know, I never did care much for history til’ I had a kid o’ my own. The only thing my ex-wife ever left me, save the house and a mountain o’ debts. He woulda been about your age by now, I reckon; certainly a hell of a lot more sturdy. ‘Cept... He went missing, see? Broad daylight, middle o’ town - but there weren’t anyone around to see nothin’. Haven’t seen ‘im in - goodness, more than 20 years. After that, the past seemed a lot happier than the present.” Shutting his eyes, Mr. David breathed in the warm air and smiled. The sun seemed to shine brighter there than it ever did on his front porch. As the light fell across his face, he could almost feel his son’s breath on his cheek as he babbled about cowboys and cattle. Christopher stood from the bench hurriedly, his expression blank as he approached the grave one more. Sighing, Mr. David forced himself up and returned to the young boy’s side - as always, the memories had to come to an end as reality set back in. “But I’m sure your ma is better off than I was - with a kind boy like yourself lookin’ out for ‘er-” And the world around John David went dark.
My parents were miserable people to begin with. When the door crashed open only half an hour into their book club meeting, I prepared myself for a long evening. “Can you believe it?” Mom said to me. I half listened, dozing in a love seat by the television. “They kicked us out of book club.” I blinked my eyes and straightened up a little bit. We moved to the kitchen where I spiked my Coke with a generous amount of rum. I needed this to get through my mother’s ramblings. She was the kind to keep the news on at high volumes all day at the cost of my sanity. Dad was no better. He shot his mouth off about the president every chance he’d get but kept his mouth shut in front of our neighbors, the Democrats. All southern sweetness there. “How did you manage that?” I said. “Susan told us to show our vaccine cards,” Dad piped up, hanging up his coat in the other room. “We said we didn’t need them. If God wants us to die, then he wants us to die. Well, Susan didn’t like that one bit and banned us until we realigned ourselves to the views of the club. Imagine that after all the help we gave them over the years.” “So just get the vaccine,” I said halfheartedly. “Then you can enjoy book club again.” “Hard to enjoy it when everyone in the room is a bunch of foolhardy Dems who cheated the election. They’re no friends of ours.” I’d long given up on both of them. This conversation needed a lot more than rum to get through. My parents were the only people who could get kicked out of a book club over a stupid vaccine. They’d known Susan for nearly a decade. She was my second grade teacher. Throwing her away like that seemed cold and heartless. I tried not to pay attention to my parents’ shenanigans. It was better that way. Whenever they pushed my buttons I thought to myself, “Just a couple more months and you can pay that security deposit. Just a couple more months.” What was so difficult to process for them? I got my shots soon as I could. How could I not when I watched people die every day? Anger coursed through me as I thumped my head furiously to the pillow. Anger was my old friend throughout my childhood and now in my adulthood. I wanted to force my parents to take the vaccine, to see how it would save their life, to help repair their fractured relationships with their friends. Sleep never came easily anymore. I stared at the ceiling in the dark for most of the night, dreading the upcoming alarm. The lines blurred between sleep and wakefulness so I couldn’t tell the difference. When the alarm came, I was still as exhausted when my head hit the pillow. I donned my scrubs, noted the dark circles around my eyes in the mirror, and headed out. “Get this down his throat,” said Sunita, throwing me a long plastic tube across the young man lying in the gurney in front of us. He was a big guy, football player type, gasping for breath like a goldfish. He was strapped to the side of the gurney, looking wildly at every corner of the room. I stabbed the patient with a sedative and tossed the needle away as the tube hit me in the face. The man on the gurney, Mr. Sunderson, twenty-six, father of two, would die if I didn’t force this tube down his throat. Sunita held Sunderson down as I fed the tube through his throat. He stopped struggling and when he was consistently breathing, we relaxed for a brief moment before going on to the next patient. Nursing never used to be like this. St. Agnes was flooded with coronavirus patients. With Mr. Sunderson being rolled to the ICU, he filled the last bed St. Agnes had available on a stroke of morbid luck. An elderly woman named Dolores died alone the night before, lungs shattered beyond repair. Like the vast majority of the coronavirus patients at St. Agnes, Dolores wasn’t vaccinated. Neither was Sunderson. Twelve hour shifts, longer on some days, hustling to get one patient his prescription, bustling to help a flat lining patient before it was too late, keeping my sanity long enough to scarf something from the vending machine. Sunita was the only reason I could stay sane during these long shifts. With as little support the government gave us, running out of basic supplies like needles and ventilators, Sunita kept her head up and pressed on when so many others quit. She was in love with the work. “How do you do it?” I asked her over a hurried cafeteria lunch. Sunita shrugged. “The pandemic won’t last forever.” “People are still dying. I’ve seen more people die here in the last two months than most doctors see in their careers. When is it going to stop?” Sunita had no answer for that. I had a feeling she thought the same thing from time to time. She doesn’t have to go home to her loved ones who won’t take a vaccine because they think the government is trying to control them. She doesn’t have to live in fear of passing the virus to someone in her life. I came home to snide comments and remarks from my parents. I never talked back not out of a consciousness of being disrespectful, but because I didn’t have the energy and didn’t want to get kicked out before I had the money for the security deposit. The damn TV blared as I hung up my coat. Mom snorted, “They think masks protect them. Come on. They’re still getting themselves killed.” By they, she means the Democrats. My parents went out to restaurants, went to their club meetings, all without wearing masks or showing any notion there was a pandemic going on. True, there were fewer deaths now, and some states were reopening. By summer, the governor said Tennessee was going to be fully functioning again. Most people were slinking back into their usual routines by summer. I wanted to think Sunita was right that the pandemic was ending. I didn’t bother twiddling with the radio anymore on the way to work. Even on the music stations the endless talk of the pandemic persisted, claiming the pandemic was fake, that we have nothing to worry about. If they had lived my life, they wouldn’t be so resistant. As May turned to June that year, the Delta variant swept through. The same day the Delta variant was broadcast on the news, an ambulance brought Dad into the emergency room. Sunita and I did our best to keep Dad up and running. He was in bad shape. Gulping for air like it was the last breath he’d ever take, lungs worse than Dolores’s had been. We told him everything would be alright though we knew it wouldn’t. “Gene,” said Sunita. Sunita’s voice was far away and hazy. I pretended I hadn’t heard her. I feverishly checked Dad’s oxygen levels and kept him breathing normally. “Gene.” This time, I was brought back to reality. Sunita’s lip trembled. “He’s not going to make it. He’s lost.” “Damnit, Sunita. This is my father and you will do everything in your power to keep him alive!” I spoke with such authority I couldn’t believe it of myself. I never spoke as if I was in charge, like everything was on the line. Despite of what I thought of Dad’s choices, he was still my dad, and I still loved him. I had to do whatever I could for him. We pushed his gurney into one of the few free ICU units available and continued monitoring him. The fear in Sunita’s voice when she said my father wasn’t going to make it tingled through my spine. It was the first time I saw her frightened, not the apprehension on a surgeon’s face as they’re operating but true despair. Sunita, the warrior of the medical field. We did the best we could for him and put him in a unit to relax. Dad was dying, only able to breathe through a ventilator, helpless against his own mortality. Mom watched her husband die of something she pretended for so long did not exist behind a sheet of glass. I, who fought on the front lines against the invisible enemy, couldn’t helping thinking I might have given the virus to him. How many days had I come home from sometimes sixteen hour days and passed by my parents raving over the president’s actions against the virus? I was frustrated and angry with my parents. I wanted to show them reason, to make them believe the coronavirus was real. Every time I told them to get vaccinated, to keep themselves and others safe, I was doing it for them. But my efforts were futile. I put on all the protective equipment, gloves, smock, mask, face shield, and went into the unit where Dad lay on the bed, trembling, barely breathing. This wasn’t how I imagined being with my father in his final moments. I looked like a robot in a dated science fiction film. He wouldn’t see my face, only my eyes. I pulled the curtain back and took the seat next to Dad. He was sweating, breathing irregular, ventilator over his mouth and nose, helpless to the course of nature that put him in this predicament. He took off the ventilator for a second. “Son.” I smiled at him for the first time since I was twelve. He took me out for a baseball game for my twelfth birthday. He bought us hot dogs and let me have a sip of his beer when no one was looking. I choked on it and called him disgusting. “Dad.” My voice faltered and my hands shook as if controlled by an internal earthquake. “I want to take the vaccine. Please.” Everything inside me broke. All the years I resisted his Trumpian politics, all the times I wanted to hit him for being so stupid, all the the times I wanted to make him see. All that melted away when I stared into his frightened face. People hate doctors until they get sick and tell them, “Cure me! Save me!” They’re believers then. “Dad, it’s--it’s too late.” “There’s nothing you can do?” He said it calmly. I shook my head once. Dad put the ventilator back over his face and laid back in his bed. I hated being right. The worst part of this was I might have given the virus to him. What else could I have said to him? Then, he gave me a look only a son would recognize. It was a look that said, “I’m proud of you.” He resigned himself to his fate. My father died a few hours later. When the heart rate monitor flat lined, I stumbled out of the room and made for the nearest exit. I passed Mom’s worried expression as she read a magazine. I cursed the morning sunshine blinding me as I rushed to the smoke area. I didn’t notice until I already collapsed against the pillar that Sunita followed me. I hid my sobs with my hands, but Sunita’s coconut hands were already wrapped around me. “I’m quitting,” I said in between sobs. “I can’t do this anymore, Sunita. Why do they keep doing this to us?” “They?” “They! These sick people who won’t protect themselves. The government, the doctors, the--the--the everybody!” Sunita gave me a wad of dirty napkins. I blew my nose for what seemed like days. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through. My mother died when I was really young. But I do know talking to someone does help.” Sunita handed me a folded scrap of paper. Inside was a phone number. “He’s a professional. He helps and he really cares. Try it.” I nodded. I was grateful for the gesture. “This is my last day on the job too,” Sunita went on. “What!” “Not so loud, Gene. I’m being transferred temporarily to Mississippi. There’s hardly any staff there and the Covid is worse there than here. So I volunteered. It’ll be good on my resume for when I become a doctor.” Of all the nurses I worked with, Sunita was the most genuine. Though I didn’t say it to her, I think she would be an amazing doctor. We gave each other one last hug before separating. I tried to put a lot of unsaid things into that hug. Perhaps Sunita got the message because she grinned. As one career closes, another flourishes. I went to my car, started the engine, and realized I didn’t know where I would go. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein trying to assemble all the pieces to create new meaning. I looked back at St. Agnes, thinking for a moment to go back. It wasn’t too late. I took the scribbled phone number out of my pocket. This number was my ticket to do something else with my life. I didn’t know what it would be. The only thing I knew was there’s nothing for me at this hospital except for the doctors preparing my father for the hearse.
Danny came to see me today, Sara. You would have been proud. He was all dressed up in his Navy blues, his white cap and metal pins bright as ever. He seemed happy. Not as angry. I think you were right, as always. I think he's going to be ok. I've become nostalgic in my old age, spending my days and nights reminiscing about you and others, remembering how it was all those years ago. I remember some of those wild nights in our youth, and it makes me chuckle. We were the worst, weren't we, the trees that make us groan now? How we changed, you and me. Each storm we weathered made us older, wiser, and ever stronger. The first time I met you, I'll never forget it. I felt you were the most elegant sapling I had ever seen. Your very presence brought peace and joy. I am so thankful for my time with you. Grateful for sweet Mary and her apple. I still think of Mary. Her bright red coat and curly golden hair flapping in the breeze, and her cheeks rosy as anything. She sat next to me for a while, her parents just down the hill. She took an apple out of her pocket and munched away, her little hands tracing my roots through the dirt. The autumn air was cool, and she shivered a bit; I did my best to shelter her from the wind. As she laid her head against me, I rocked a little, and as she nodded off, I hummed a little lullaby: Sleep, my child, sleep Your father tends the sheep, Your mother shakes the apple tree, As falls down a dream for thee Sleep, my child, sleep I remember when she woke, enjoying a sense of purpose fulfilled, as if the universe had sent me here for this one moment, to be a resting place for this sweet little girl. I watched her walk back down the hill to her parents and then drive away. It was the first time I remember wishing I could move, that my roots would pull themselves up and bring me along wherever little Mary went. Under the stars, I made a wish. Since the universe had not given me legs, I wished that it would send me someone to love who would stay with me forever. What I didn't realize was that my wish had already been answered. Only a few feet away, Mary had dropped her apple core, and you were on your way. I remember the first spring you bloomed, my Sara. You were radiant, veiled in white. Your slender branches reached for the sky, and your sweet smell filled the air. You enraptured me immediately, and I recognized I would never love another. Your kindness and gentle spirit comforted me often, and it was my pride to shelter you from the harshest storms. As we grew together, our roots and branches intertwined, and we were forever inseparable. It was autumn, though, which one I can't remember when sweet little Mary returned. She had grown into a young woman, her blond hair and hazel eyes beautiful as ever. It shocked me to see her after so many years and I was elated that she remembered me. She smiled and remarked at how strong I looked and then turned to admire you. She found your beauty as remarkable as I had and told us what a lovely couple we made. Before she left, she pulled out a paper and pencil and drew the two of us, standing tall, together and proud. When she finished, she smiled and left, a hint of mischief in her eyes. Had she told us her plans at that moment, we would have laughed in disbelief while hoping they would come true. Mary visited a few times that summer and brought an easel and paints with her, sitting for hours, painting our curves, knots, beauty, and roughness. She captured our essence, our fears, and our hopes. It seemed as if she appreciated us better than anyone. As she painted, she would talk, telling us her own dreams for the future, confiding in us her deepest secrets. Mary had been nervous, leaving her home to attend college, and it had been her first week away when she had come back to us. She had been contemplating leaving the school and returning home when she found us again. She said we had been a comfort to her, made her feel less alone, and she had stayed on. Every day, she packed up her paints and thanked us. It was not long before Mary had brought with her a friend. A boy, he seemed the same age as her and was as handsome as she was pretty. His dark hair and dark eyes gave him a look of sophistication. He'd lay back on the grass and recite poetry as Mary painted. They seemed happy as they kissed and caressed, losing themselves in each other's eyes and falling asleep in the afternoon heat. We were delighted to shade them and make beds with our leaves. We called songbirds to sing for them, and your delicious apples filled their bellies. It was a wonderful time. The winter snows fell, and Mary returned, painting our bare branches in dark blacks and browns. We noticed something was wrong. Her smile disappeared, and I thought I could see the shimmer of tears in her eyes. This continued for weeks as Christmas passed and Mary returned home. It was May before she returned. Her face was a mess as tears fell to the ground. Her sobs broke our hearts as she cried in our arms. He'd left her, she said, for another prettier girl. We both were aghast and remarked at this boy's stupid act, for no one on earth was prettier than our Mary. It was the second time I wished I could walk. I wanted with all my might to charge down our hill and find the boy and show him the pain he'd caused our girl. But you, my darling, cooled my rage and reminded me of our duty. So as Mary laid her head down and wept, we rocked in the wind. Her eyes drooped closed, and as she fell asleep, we sang together our lullaby: Sleep, my child, sleep Your father tends the sheep, Your mother shakes the apple tree, As falls down a dream for thee Sleep, my child, sleep Another year had passed when Mary told us she was leaving. She would finish her schooling across the country, and though we were sad to see her go, we were so proud of her. If I could cry, I tell you, I would have caused a flood. Before she left, she knelt and buried something in the dirt around my roots, a little box with one of her paintings folded up inside. She stood and wrapped her hands around me and whispered thank you. We knew no matter where our Mary went, she would remember us, and we would never forget her. Four winters came and passed as we grew older and observed the world go on. We enjoyed the peace of our little hill, tucked away from the growing world around us. But a part of me, and I suspect of you, felt empty. Something was missing, and while we both recognized it without saying it, we considered it impossible she'd ever return. But this separation didn't last, as Mary returned with a surprise. She carried with her a small child, a boy dressed in blue. His dirty blond hair and rosy cheeks made us smile, and he giggled as he ran circles between us. Mary smiled, and I knew she had something in mind. Her eyes twinkled with hope and joy. Soon builders came, and for a while, our peace was gone. But we couldn't have been happier. The house was small but perfect for two. And the last thing she did was to hang a small swing between us. I lifted one rope as you raised the other, and together we made it a special spot. Most afternoons, Danny would swing for hours, and we felt whole once more to bring a child joy again. It was the missing piece. As Danny grew, our strength remained, his legs reaching higher and higher with each passing year. And some nights, the clear ones, when all the stars came out, Mary would visit us, holding her son in her arms, and we'd rock them and sing our little song. As Danny grew, his time with us dwindled. We knew he wouldn't stay forever, but a tree can still hope. From our hill, we saw him leave every morning for school. Even when he'd forgotten about us, we still learned what he was up to. His mother told us every day. She'd begun painting again, and under our shade, she told us all about him. She loved him, of course, but she was worried. His friends weren't the best, and he'd stopped listening to her long ago. He wasn't like her, she said; he's no interest in art. Even though she didn't say it, I noticed this hurt her the most. He wants to join the Navy, she told us, spend his days on the water, far away from here. We were sad for her and for Danny and for ourselves. We had tried our best and given as much joy as possible, but sometimes a child needs to find it on their own. Soon Danny was gone, and the place was grayer. The laughter was missing, and I felt hollow. Of course, Mary remained and kept with her work, but her painting had lost some of its colors. Our limbs, now old, had drooped, and we saw our strength lessen with each stormy gale. We kept up our spirits, though, for the sake of Mary. I wish now that I'd recognized the toll it took on you. The first thing we caught was how thin her hair was. I saw in her face something was wrong. Her visits grew less frequent, and we followed as doctor after doctor visited the house. I wish we had known. The last day she would come. What we would have said or done. We knew it was the end when Danny returned. The house grew silent, and the sky incredibly gray. The rain fell, and the wind howled. We watched the light in her bedroom window and waited. Around 3 o'clock in the morning, my worst fears came true. I'd dozed off for a moment, as you told me you'd keep watch. I heard a great gust of wind, and a crack split the air. I watched in helpless horror as you fell to the ground, your graceful limbs snapping and cracking. I couldn't imagine how it had happened until I looked back at the house and realized the light had turned off. I knew it then that your heart had broken, and I wanted nothing more than to join you. You were gone, both of you. Danny exploded from the house, ignoring the chilly rain stinging his face. I watched him climb the hill and stand looking at the mangled mess of wood and rope that had been his mother's swing. He screamed in anger and kicked at me. I screamed in rage and shook my limbs at the sky. We were in pain. Our loves had left us forever. After a while, he fell to his knees and put his back up against me. The rain continued. But neither of us cared much. I guess at that moment, we both wanted to die. He fell asleep there, and through my tears, I recognized my duty wasn't over, so I wept as I sang our lullaby once more: Sleep, my child, sleep Your father tends the sheep, Your mother shakes the apple tree, As falls down a dream for thee Sleep, my child, sleep We were both meant to carry on, it seems. A week later, Danny had Mary buried just next to me. It was the most tremendous honor of my life to be chosen to mark her last resting place. They had taken you away, piece by piece. With each cut, I wanted to scream. When they brought Mary to me, they lay her in a casket, and I shook with tears. There lay Mary, our beautiful Mary, in a beautiful applewood coffin. I knew your lovely fragrance and cried and cried, knowing the three of us would be together forever. As they dug her a grave, a little box emerged from the dirt. Danny opened it, and inside was the folded painting Mary had left all those years ago. Mary and a child were sitting beneath a great hickory tree and a beautiful apple tree in the picture. Danny came to see me today, Sara. You would have been proud. He was all dressed up in his Navy blues, his white cap and metal pins bright as ever. It's been twenty years since that night. I've grown old and weary and even droopier, but I'm still standing, watching over the two of you. Danny told us he'd settled down, got two kids of his own now. Said he was looking to move somewhere quiet. The house is tattered. No one else ever moved in. I think Danny could make it a beautiful home again. He seemed happy. Not as angry. I think you were right, as always. I think he's going to be ok. I think we both are.
I hit snooze. Not once, but several times before the light come from my window is too bright to ignore. What I rather do is tuck myself tighter in my bedsheets and feel the chill of the air conditioning. I can fake a cozy Fall breeze and have excuses to wear my favorite sweatshirt. I’m tired of the heat. The background of the TV plays in the background as I groggily make my way to make a cup of coffee. I toast the only two toaster waffles left in my freezer and clean the cluttered table from the night before. Crumpled pieces of paper, sprawled across the tablecloth with a half-empty wine bottle that aided in thoughts I tried to write down. I wanted to remember every detail of the reoccurring dream I kept having. Isn’t there a psychological message behind this? I’ve done countless google searches, with all similar results. “What does it mean to dream of someone I’ve never met?” Apparently, it is impossible to forge an image of someone you have not seen before. But I have no recollection of seeing this man. I would’ve known if I have. As the coffee touches my lips and makes its way through my system, I can bring some clarity into my Saturday. I don’t decide to scroll through my phone this morning. Instead, the movie that is on catches my attention. I can count how many times I’ve watched You’ve Got Mail. The opening scene immediately brings a warm smile. It’s autumn in NYC, “Dreams” by the Cranberries amplifies the romantic bliss shared between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. He makes a remark of how he would rather send her a bouquet of pencils rather than flowers. They know everything about each other without knowing who they are. I notice there is a torn notebook page I forgot to clear off the table. He had soft brown hair, curly. Long enough to touch his ears. Hazel eyes, an inviting gaze. He smiles like he has seen me before. He hugs me as if I felt it before. There is one more sentence. He stands in an unfamiliar cafe setting and sits there waiting for me as he does in every dream. I don’t know whether to laugh at the coincidence or continue to get frustrated at the fact that this keeps happening. Is it a premonition? Or a scenario that my hopeless romanticism would love to cling onto? I know that sitting here won’t help. This would be another day off wasted on indulging in scenarios and overthinking. I receive a text from Evie, my best friend from high school who has endured my rants on ex’s, new lovers, over countless take-out meals. She asks if I’d like to “get my ass outside and head over to Barnes & Noble” How can I say no to that? * * * * * Today calls for something new to wear. I take the sundress out of my closet. It’s a-line, hugging me perfectly at my waist and flows over my lower body gracefully. A cross between a scarlet and terra-cotta, with a delicate white floral pattern. Perhaps a little too much to be browsing books, but appropriate to set the tone for the rest of my day. I take a look at the products I have lined up on my vanity. I can hear my mother telling me to ease back on the use of makeup. To some degree, I do agree with her. I have a tendency to disguise my features, rather than enhance what is already there. Today I take her advice and start with a tinted moisturizer. I apply one eyeshadow color, a coat of mascara, blush to highlight my full cheeks and peach-colored lipstick. My reflection looks fresh and captures the beginning of August that I’ve finally entered. It’s the last month of summer, the sticky heat, and the invites of numerous weddings. What follows will be the peace and comfort that Autumn will bring. I leave my apartment with time to spare and take the bus to meet with Evie in Park Slope. There are more people than usual around this time. More couples than usual as well. Teens and adults both have that look in their eyes. Interlocked fingers, childlike grins, quiet giggles, and cheek kisses to match. It’s summer love mixed in with the illusion of the honeymoon phase. Imagine if he happened to be on this bus? Before I can lose myself in yet another scenario, I almost miss my stop. I awkwardly move past these couples and thank the bus driver. Evie is at the end of 1st street, waving to me as I meet up with her down the block. “Wow. I had to bribe you with book shopping to look this stunning?” That is only slightly true. “I mean... yeah pretty much.” She shakes her head and starts heading in the direction of Barnes and Noble. Now before I say this isn’t what we usually do on the weekends, that would be also slightly true. We go out to eat, we enjoy a couple of mimosas at bottomless brunch. But we also go book shopping two out of the four weekends a month. “I’m surprised you didn’t have to work today.” Evie usually has a weekend shift, but I’m convinced she told her manager it was an “emergency.” “I did but when I knew you would be able to hang out today, I called out. You’re usually cooped up in your apartment reading manuscripts.” My recent employment at the publishing house has been nothing short of exhausting. I read over 1,000 pages, making edits and notes to newcomer writers. It isn’t glamorous, but it is a step in the direction I want to be in. An editor for future magazines and/or publications. “Is that why you didn’t pick up the one last night?”, she adds. I knew the look on my face gave it away. “Not exactly...”, I answer. Before I go on to explain, she already knows the answer. “No, not this AGAIN.” It wouldn’t be the first time I ignored Evie’s phone call over this. It started as a harmless conversation about a “silly dream” I had a few times. I would make a few jokes, poking at my desire to understand what this all meant. Or how crazy it would be if I saw him one day, walking around this very neighborhood. I kept bringing it up, and each time I would hope Evie have an insight or a new perspective. When I noticed I have talked about this too often, I sought to find my own conclusion. I wrote down the dream every time it happened. Whatever details I could remember. What changed, what didn’t. If I recognized an object, a scenery, or a feature so distinct. But it all seems the same. Last night, I went down a spiral of trying to pin down the features of every man I could remember. Whether it was a former ex, someone at the grocery store, or any man I could’ve bumped into at work. I wanted to put an end to this fantasy. That it was just my mind looking for a chapter I wish began, where I meet a stranger and fall in love instantly. I wanted it to be someone I knew. Then I would know it’s all in my head and not far from a possibility. “I’m just trying to find a way to convince myself this is a result of consuming too much romantic genre material. Not anything else.” She tries to stifle a chuckle, rolling her eyes. “You and I both know this is to convince yourself that this CAN be real.” I deny it immediately. “Realistically, this is probably just my self conscious manifesting-“ She stops me mid-sentence. “Cut the psychology crap. You’re in love with an imaginary man.” “I am not in love with a-“ She waves her hand over my face and the other to open the door for me. “That’s all for the subject manner today. Now put this outfit to good use.” At least here there will be a distraction. There will be no people watching, or an attempt to see a face that is recognizable. We make our way to Evie’s favorite section, which is non-fiction. The stories of which are real and tangible. Right up her alley. “By the way, my co-worker Aiden might be here today. Apparently, I missed an urgent sales meeting and my boss demanded he comes to find me today and fill me in.” How Evie manages to keep her job as publicist assistant for Penguin Random House amazes me. But as many excuses, as she may have used, she’s brought in numerous newcomer authors that have made exceptional sales. We browse through the aisles with her before I see her settled in the corner, reading the first few pages of the book in her hand. I decide to make my way over to the Fiction section and take a peek at both familiar and unfamiliar titles. One Day. How To Stop Time. Oh, this one I still have yet to read. The spine sticks out of the shelf, waiting to be picked up. This title sounds familiar, it’s also a movie I never got around to see. I love the idea between crossing romance and sci-fi-related themes together. It brings you to an unworldly place, where the concept of how these people meet is impossible. But you still believe because, well... you want to. Before I can get read further into the plot, Evie comes up behind me. “C’mon, Aiden’s here. Let me introduce you!” I hold the book in my hand and follow Evie down to the cafe. I have met a few of her coworkers before. Some, nonchalant and humble as they express how much they love their work. Others, brooding and bragging how much their salary should be exponentially higher. She walks over to the table where he sits. Before my focus shifts on where she lands, he rises from his seat to give her a hug. His body shifts in my direction and suddenly... I freeze. It’s him. The figure that stands a few feet away from me makes the same puzzled look. We don’t know whether to exchange a hello or hold our gaze longer. “Do I know you?”
“Good day pretty girl. I’m Emeka. I’m a graduate of Abia State Polytechnic, Aba. I studied Business Administration. I’m managing a petty business for now. I like you. I have been seeing you around this neighbourhood. Can we become friends?” Emeka was after her beauty. “I’m Ezinne but you call me Ezy-mummy. I’m a HND final student, studying Mass Communication in Federal Polytechnic Nekede, Owerri. That’s all I can say to you. And for your information, we can’t be friends.” Ezinne harshly replied. Emeka was not the kind man she needed. She needed a rich man. “Alright, can I check on you tomorrow.” Emeka asked. “For what? What business do we have that would warrant meeting each other next time?” Ezinne asked. “Today can’t be a bad luck to me. How can this guy ask me for friendship, what does he have? Oh my God, I wished I had slapped him so that next time he won’t approach a damsel like me! He doesn’t have money but wants good thing, rubbish...” Ezinne mocked him. Without a breathing space, Ezinne chased Emeka away, and warned him never to approach her again. After two weeks, another spinning occurred. “Hi, call me Danny Boy but my parents named me Daniel. I can’t tell you my surname for now because my family has a big name as our personality counts. I’d rather keep it a secret than air it and get myself into trouble. My dad inherited his wealth from his late father, though he is not the only surviving male child of his late father. He has three brothers and a sister; they are five great children born to his parents. My dad’s mother is in her late 70’s, and lives with her first daughter in Los Angeles, United States. I’m a businessman, fortified by my father’s wealth and connections. If you don’t mind, can we become friends?” Ezinne was sitting under a big tree near the school library in Federal Polytechnic Nekede, Owerri with few of her girlfriends. Daniel visited his friend in the campus. He was moving around the campus, and was appreciating the environment. He moved near the library where he found Ezinne and her friends. “I’m Ezinne but you can call me Ezy-baby. I’m a HND final student, studying Mass Communication. Well, I’m not used to long conversation with strangers. My mom warned me to stay far from strangers, especially men. We can’t be friends because you’re a stranger and moreover, my final exams are fast approaching. I wouldn’t need any distraction.” She was saying all that to interest Daniel and make him see her as a responsible lady. “Don’t mind her, you can take her phone number and call later. She always pretends. I’m Chioma. Ezinne is my close friend, and I’ve known her lifestyles for years. Give me your phone number.” Chioma collected Daniel’s phone and typed in Ezinne’s phone number. “Thank you so much, I will call later.” Daniel said and left. “Let me save this number now, I have at least collected numbers from four girls in this campus today. I must have them to myself.” Daniel was talking to himself. Daniel is from a wealthy family and spends half of his life jumping from one lady to another. Ezinne was interested in Daniel but pretended, she thought that he was real. She wanted Daniel’s because he’s from a wealthy family. Emeka admired Ezinne because he has been seeing her in their neighbourhood. He weren’t approaching her for friendship; he was searching for a wife. Daniel on his own part was interested in her just to have access to her body. Later in the day, Daniel gave Ezinne a call and discuss with her over the phone. They agreed to become friends, and a new dawn was set. “Baby you’re a pretty woman. I would always want you beside me.” Danny Boy appreciated her beauty with a promise. “Thanks baby, I trust you. I’m always here for you.” Ezinne reacted. Along the line, Ezinne and Daniel went deep in a relationship. Ezinne’s love was on money while Daniel’s was on her body! They couldn’t last because Ezinne was after money and Daniel, after her body. There was no definition to their relationship. It couldn’t mature to marriage. Danny Boy achieved his aim likewise Ezy-mummy. A time came when Daniel became tired of her and set out to dispose her, he began to misbehave. “I’ve gotten what I needed from her. She doesn’t attract me any longer. I will ban her from visiting me.” Daniel was talking to himself. When Ezinne had found out that he was not assisting her anymore, she began to give excuses when it comes to sex. Formerly, she always begs for sex, because there was money. Emeka finally found a good woman, enjoys a good relationship with her, and she happened to be Chioma, Ezinne’s best friend. She was searching for a partner who has future. She needed love and understanding, and not after money or material things. “Sweetheart, I accepted you because I see future in you. I always feel relaxed and loved whenever you’re beside me.” Chioma confessed. “My baby, thanks for your kind words. Our future is secured in God. I love you so much. You have what I needed in a woman.” Emeka reciprocated. “I love you too.” Chioma replied. Ezinne has been used and dumped after a year and five months. She was not aware of Chioma’s affair with Emeka until a fateful day when Chioma and Emeka went for jugging near the polytechnic’s field. “Hey guy, can’t you hear me?” Ezinne tried to draw Emeka’s attention. Chioma was behind and stays far from Emeka, but stopped when she saw Ezinne. “Hi babe, it’s nice to see you again. How is Danny Boy?” Chioma asked. “Babe please, don’t even mention that name again! Can you imagine that that fool dumped me after we dated for a year and five months?” Ezinne bitterly cautioned Chioma. Ezinne bitterly explained all that had happened to Chioma. “Hey baby, what’s that?” Emeka voice echoed from afar enquiring to know why Chioma had stopped. “Sweetheart, I’m with an old friend, will catch you up soon!” Chioma replied. “Who is that guy?” Ezinne asked. “It’s my boyfriend. He’s a good guy, and we have dated for six months now.” Chioma replied. “Oh my God, I’m happy for you babe. You’d finally found your missing rib.” Ezinne complemented Chioma. After a while, Emeka draw closer to check on Chioma, there he saw Ezinne. “What are you doing with my baby? So you want to discourage her from loving me just as you had insulted and rejected me? Please stay far from my fiancée.” Emeka angrily shunned Ezinne. Unable to control her tears, Ezinne left them and headed near the library where Daniel first met her. Chioma was upset with Emeka’s reaction towards her friend. Emeka later explained to Chioma what had transpired between them. Chioma later went to her and consoled her, her friendship with her didn’t end. Emeka and Chioma got married after eight months. Finally, Emeka got good a job in the Federal Ministry of Internal Revenue.
They were sitting on the floor playing video games, laughing about how terrible she is at the game. She watched his face light up with a laugh and it was as though time slowed down. She saw his smile spread through his lips, up to his eyes. It seemed genuine. In this moment, like each time they talk, Charlotte had a crippling fear that bubbled within her throat; it was as though her mind will have the words planned out, but her heart will say something entirely different. Do something different, something bad. Something that could be so detrimental to her social life, ripping it from its very roots and throwing it into a deep valley of Netflix and takeout on a Saturday night. Each time they come face to face, this very threat is there. One mistake, one wrong look could change things forever. She knew this was long coming, this love that was built upon drunken nights, early mornings, awful professors, and ever-lasting sexual tension--a love that came to be in college. Freshman year is where it all started for Charlotte. It was an innocent encounter, a merging of two groups of friends the first night of college. She ended up in his room, in Henry’s room, that night with several other people they had met. From there, it was inevitable. She had been used to busy day in high school, full of class, extracurricular activities, and of course studying. He was used to school and studying, and a strict social life, or lack thereof. So when the two finally emerged from their tight schedules of high school, they landed into this world of empty hours and open bars. The only thing that stopped this pair from sprinting into a whirlwind relationship was the fact that Henry had a girlfriend, a girl whom Charlotte actually knew from elementary school. Henry and her had been together for at least a year prior to entering this extraordinary life that is college. Having a girlfriend never stopped this friendship. He always texted Charlotte, asking if she was free for dinner, or wanted to study together. This trend continued for so long, so many of those empty hours were spent together doing nothing; playing video games, talking about nonsense. Soon they grew so comfortable together, their conversations changed. They drifted from discussions based around schoolwork and friends, to the girlfriend and sex. Oh, the conversations about sex were in plenty, he knew what she liked and what she wanted. She knew what he had trouble with in regards to his girlfriend, and she ever so dutifully gave him advice to help the couple in bed. The advice about the girlfriend was not limited to sexual advice however. Henry asked Charlotte about real, emotional relationship issues. She actually had the opportunity to tell him to break up with the girlfriend several times, but she stayed true to being his friend and helped work them out. While sex, or at least the intriguing topic of sex, was a prominent focus in their friendship, the conversations about themselves and family are what stood out the most. She talked about her depressed father, and how that put such a strain on her family. He held her when she cried about losing a friend. She smiled and laughed and he talked about his old pets, and his cute sister. It took him longer though, longer to open up to her. He told her that she was the only one to know some things about him. About how he had been depressed for so long, how he hates being alone, how very few things make him happy. She wanted to make him happy, she wanted to be the reason he smiled. She saw him smile and laugh so often, but she could only wonder if it was all an act, or if she did in fact make him laugh. He did not know though, he was unaware of the things she wished for, oblivious to how he made her feel. This unawareness that Henry held in regards to Charlotte was obvious by his manners, if only he knew how she felt. Sometimes the two would walk into an empty room and he would declare that they should fuck. It was all a joke of course, a joke to him. To her, it was as though someone was slowly breaking her heart--anyone could see it behind her plastered on smile, not Henry though. He became her worst enemy and her ultimate fantasy all rolled into one. She wanted him to be so much, to be there for her in a way that means more than friendship, to make her smile and cry with joy. She knew in her heart that he would never be those things. Charlotte was aware that he was sexually attracted to her, he was never vague about that. One night, she confessed to him that while she joked about sex all the time, all she really wanted was love. He said he understood and they chatted about it for a while. Later that same night though, he told her about how he and his roommate had come to the decision that Charlotte would be a solid lay. Such conversations were not unusual. Once, when they were gathered with a group of friends, they jokingly speculated on whether or not Henry and Charlotte would make a good couple. Henry stated that they would, at least for a month because it would all be physical. Each one of these was a blow to her. A reminder that he did not see her as anything more than a friend and would never be anything more than that. All of these memories came crashing back to Charlotte as she watched him laugh while playing video games. It has been over a year and it is time for her to move on, she knows that because they’re friendship will never be more than what it is. From their first meeting, it was inevitable, not friendship nor love, but heartbreak.
They told me the name of this planet is Calliope. As soon as my craft lands, I waste no time in exiting the impossibly cramped vessel. I escape onto the dense soil with both feet tentative but strong, and with an overwhelming relief, I summon the first breath of the only truly fresh air I have known in years. I feel I've spent lifetimes in that small metal casket, waiting to be liberated once more. And here I was, out in the open field. All around me is endless forest; an arboreal paradise. Pristine and teeming with unrevealed movement, it looks like every other forest on every other planet I’ve been to- as if all habitable planets were built from the same universal assembly line. An icy wind teases my skin; a dry, intentional touch, and saturated with foreign particles. I look around and see familiar vines, canopies, lush green bushes, rough mahogany tree trunks, and the scope of all hues earthly; each one damp and unforgiving. I begin to breathe with the rhythm of life around me when my elastic concentration is suddenly cut short. Off in the distances, a primal scream cuts the air. A single, shrill scream to pierce the now perturbed atmosphere. A cry similar to what hundreds of years of science says dinosaurs sounded like. I was startled and my instinct immediately thought of it as sinister, but it might have been more of an announcement of some sort. My mind begins to conjure up plans of defense and I opt to stay still. The tension is cut by an ancient hum, the low and steady reverberations of a cicada. A mechanical creature, too small to really use its mind's gears but loud enough to cover miles of an otherwise silent area with its unrelenting monotone. I decide to proceed slowly now and continue on my path. I look up to see twin moons shinning. Walking in this natural Eden, I relax once more, I stretch muscles worn and cramped. Inside my veins, I can feel the reversed engineered bacteria the science team injected, surging through my system. That tingle means it’s working. Theoretically, I am immune to the diseases infesting this planet. I flex luxuriously and grin. I recall for the millionth time what I learned from the mission briefing: a few decades ago, the scientists found the first contaminated humans drifting on a small shuttle, four light years away from its intended destination. When the lost ship was boarded, the rescue team was attacked by something- not quite human but not quite nightmare. The unrecognizable faces and bodies were half gone, replaced by a metallic-looking melted version. Higher cognitive function gone; their eyes glowed brilliantly in an eerily vapid pulse. The rescue team was killed...then the next and the next. The eighth team finally adapted properly and went in with life-proof suits made from a material I can’t pronounce, killed all but one, and bought him/it back for analysis. Re-focusing, I begin to think on which arbitrary direction I should follow when I spot a gliding movement towards the not too distant “North”, I see what looks like a man. Walking, he disappears once more into the thicket. I catch up quickly and watch as a wiry druid stalks through the forest. He is the hermit of this planet and I know he's why I'm here. I follow invisibly and watch as he shadows a path only perceptible to him, his movements are fluid and measured, his leathery skin covered in moss- he is a walking expression of the landscape. I stand silently next to him as he arrives at the shore of a placid pond and I watch as he bends down swiftly to meet the gently lapping waves. At first, he seems to be looking beyond the surface at the tadpoles but then his eyes adjust and focus on something less familiar. He begins to make exaggerated facial expressions, smiling, widening his eyes and launching into a series of winks, he begins to make himself laugh. He splashes the water and and in an elegant, sudden movement, he straightens his posture. Standing now, he removes his cloth and what looks to be some sort of very light and scaly armor from his shoulders. He arches his back in an impossibly long curve and steps gingerly into the water, exhaling swirls of contentment. His eyes closed, I begin to approach him and I recall the bacteria in my veins, confident that this new strain protects its host. I hope it works.
The immediate desperate, panicked breathing told me that this wasn't going to be one of the usual mundane calls that occupied 98% of my time as an emergency responder. It threw me off slightly creating a longer than usual pause before I went into my well worn script. I quickly got a hold of myself and ignored the ragged nature of the breathing long enough to begin “911 what's your emerge...” “I'm not safe!” whispered the person harshly down the other end of the phone. The hairs on the back of my neck grew long and sharp suddenly. The voice was so strained and stretched that it was almost the dying whimper of a wounded animal. Before I could pull myself back to my script again the voice continued, “I don't know who else to call, please listen to me!”. I bought of rusty coughing and spluttering added breaks in the persons speech, adding to the suspense that was clutching the handset to my ear so hard it was turning white. “It's too late for me” a brief pause as if they took time to accept this fact after stating it “but can you pass on a message to Dan Sharper, I believe he's high up in the police force. If you don't know him ensure the message is passed on, it's of the highest importance”. I managed to mutter a brief and uneven 'hmmhmm' in response. “Tell him this and exactly this 'They're here and I fear we are too late my old friend. I see them everywhere and I feel they have caught me looking. You know what must be done'. Did you get that?”. I managed another affirmative while my mind raced through the cryptic message trying to understand. Before I could draw any conclusion my mysterious caller added “You must make haste; and watch the shadows! Count them! They're coming...if they aren't there alrea...” the line went dead. I put the handset back on the receiver but I could still here the constant beep of the line ringing around in my head. My mind was swimming but as I kicked back in my chair and took a breath the rational part of my brain began to tick away. It wasn't uncommon to receive a call from a mentally ill person or a prank call from people who think it's funny to waste our time. My heart rate slowed and I began to calm down. “Tough call, aye?” asked my colleague (Ben) in the neighbouring booth. I turned my chair towards him to laugh it off and tell him about the creepy warning I'd received but something in the back of my mind told me to keep quiet about that call. Maybe it was because I'd let the prankster get to me and I was a little embarrassed. Maybe it was the fact that the only source of light was from the window behind Ben and yet cast in front of me were two elongated shadows. One looking considerably darker and, if I wasn't mistake, seemed to move of it's own accord.
I take a sip of my coffee while turning to the next page of the newspaper. I overhear a senior woman saying to a friend, “My grandkids keep pushing me to get this thing called an app. But I can barely figure out how to text them since that’s the only way they will talk to me.” “I know what you mean, Beatrice. My son gave me a smartphone for Christmas, and I keep missing his phone calls because I don’t know how to turn the ringer on.” I try to tune out the conversation; it’s the same one every day, old people complaining about tech. More people shuffle into the dining room to get breakfast, and most are using walkers. I always sit in the back of the room to eat my eggs and toast so I can enjoy my cup of coffee in peace. When the complaining gets to be too much, I reach up and take both my hearing aids out--silence at last. I’m almost finished reading the paper when someone taps me on the shoulder. I look down to see a small boy watching me. He says something, but of course, I can’t hear him. I let out a big sigh of annoyance, hoping he will take the hint. Yet he still stands there watching me. Begrudgingly, I put my hearing aids back in and turn in my chair to see him more clearly. “What do you want?” My voice rasping, being the first time I’ve spoken this morning. “Mister, what happened to your arm?” Before I can reply I hear a woman call to him. “Bobby, what are you doing? Don’t bother the nice gentleman.” Nice? I don’t think anyone has ever called me nice before. She takes his hand and leads him away while apologizing over her shoulder. She walks over to a young teenage boy who is watching me intently. I take my hearing aids out and go back reading my newspaper. The next morning, I decide to go to breakfast early. Hoping today will be less eventful than yesterday. I finish breakfast and reach for my paper when I feel a light tapping on my shoulder again, and it’s the young boy from yesterday standing there. “What happened to your arm?” He asks again. I look around for the woman who dragged him away, but she is nowhere in sight. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?” I turn away, trying to dismiss him. “It’s okay. My mother brought me to visit my grandmother.” Whoopty doo, I think and begin to pick my paper up again when I hear him walk around my chair to stand on my left side. He pulls the chair out and sits down, only to prop himself up with his legs underneath himself. “Can you do tricks with your arm?” “Look kid, you’re bothering me and you shouldn’t talk to strangers.” “You’re not a stranger. Your name is Roger.” “How did you know that?” His eyes are fixed on my arm as he responds. “My grandmother told my mother about you.” I usually don’t care for gossip, but this little boy has piqued my interest. “And what did she say about me?” “That you’re the only old person here who doesn’t act old.” “That’s a strange thing to say about someone.” “Can I touch your arm?” He starts to reach for my arm. “Bobby, you’re being rude.” Bobby jerks his hand away, looking embarrassed. The voice belongs to the teenager I noticed yesterday. “And who might you be?” I ask. “Come on, Bobby.” He ignores my question. “You know it’s rude not to introduce yourself when interrupting a conversation.” Annoyance flares in his eyes. Still, he doesn’t respond. Bobby is at his side, and they start to walk away. It must be a knee-jerk response because I say, “Kids these days.” The teenager stops dead in his tracks and turns around. “You have no idea what ‘kids these days’ have to deal with. More than you ever had to, old man.” This makes me chuckle. “Really? You think?” I lift my left arm, which isn’t a human arm but a prosthetic one. I reach with it and pick up my coffee mug. I lift it to my mouth and take a drink. “Yes, Bobby, I can do tricks with this arm.” Bobby smiles and comes back to the table. I shift my focus back to the teen. “What about these?” I point to my hearing aids. “Well, you’re old; of course, you have hearing aids.” He snips. “Okay, then ask me when I lost my arm.” The teenager looks around, debating whether to take the bait. But curiosity is a powerful motivator. “Okay, when?” He asks. “I was 8.” The teen raises his eyebrows. He steps closer to the table, placing his hands on the back of the chair opposite me. “How did it happen?” “Got it caught in a piece of farming equipment.” “You were working on a farm at 8?” Bobby asks excitedly. But the teen looks unimpressed. “How do you move your fingers?” Bobby asks. “There are sensors in the stump that communicate signals from my brain to the arm.” Bobby looks impressed. “Sounds expensive,” The teen dully says. “It was. I spent all my money on it. That’s why I’m in this nursing home.” “You wasted all your money on a fake arm that can only move its fingers?” His outlandish response makes me crack a smile. “After living most of my life without my arm, it’s been nice to get it back.” “But you could be living in your house right now or on a beach somewhere.” When I look back at him, he’s now sitting in the chair, looking intensely at me as if my response will be the most important thing he’s heard in his young life. “You’re from a generation with many things on demand, but above all, you have choices. Technology has given me choices today to have things I couldn’t have before.” “What, you don’t want to go back to the good ol’ days?” He scoffs. “What good old days? Heavy, uncomfortable prosthetics that don’t do anything?” “Well, what about the...” I don’t let him finish. “It doesn’t matter what time you live in, there will be problems. I’m saying that the things we have today have fixed many of mine. I think air conditioning may be the best thing ever invented next to this arm.” “Then what’s the point of trying to be better if it’s never-ending pain and struggle?” “For the days we do solve problems, the outcomes...” I lift my prosthetic arm and hold it out to shake hands, “are well worth it. I’m Roger, and it’s nice to meet you.” The teen looks at the hand with skepticism. But slowly reaches out his hand and places it in mine. When the metal fingers gently close around his fingers, he jumps a little. Then we slowly shake hands. He looks up at me, and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “It’s nice to meet you, Roger; I’m Timothy.” “What other things can your arm do?” Bobby asks with bright eyes. “Want to watch me give someone the middle finger with it?” Both boys laugh. “Bobby, Timothy, what are you doing? I’ve been looking for you.” Their mother walks up, putting her hand on each boy’s shoulders. “I hope they haven’t been bothering you, Mister.” She looks genuinely concerned that her sons have been harassing me. “No, ma’am, you have two exceptional sons here.” Timothy looks surprised at the compliment. The mother sighs with relief. “Oh, good. Okay, let’s go say goodbye to Grandma,” Timothy gets up and starts to walk away but abruptly turns around. “Hey, take it easy, Roger.” He holds out his closed fist. I hesitate before slowly curling my prosthetic into a closed fist and fist-bump him. “Yeah, you too, Timothy,” I say. Timothy nods and walks away.
Margaret’s caretakers tell me she doesn’t have long. When she was born, I swore that she would be my last child. It was for humane reasons at first--for the sake of my children and my own peace of mind. But as she grew, as she became the sweet, fiercely compassionate woman she became, I wanted her to be my last child because I had never done better. She was the best of them all, and she made me feel like my life had not gone to waste. I walked through the doors of the “Colonial Plains Nursing Home,” a facility designed to mirror a particular vision of the American past. There was a mix of Monticello-esque columns with the 21st-century idea of colonial decor. The colors were hospital-style pastels with dark brown accents, ostensibly to match the wooden beams of construction back then. There were a lot of cornucopias and rocking chairs. The idea was to appeal to a kind of nostalgia that couldn’t be rationalized with. If no one was actually in Colonial America, then everyone could remain at peace in the illusion of a shared past. It was a good enough effort, but I had that bemused condescension people must feel when movies about their lives exaggerate the wrong details. The woman at the front desk stopped me as a I walked past. She must be new, I thought. She was in her mid-30s, if I had to guess. “Excuse me, young man. You’ll need a visitor’s pass. Who are you here to visit?” “Margaret De la Cruz. She’s in Room 3A.” The young woman was clicking around a lot more than Mrs. Myler, the other front desk woman. She squinted at the screen, searching for the right way to record my visit and print my pass. I tapped my foot lightly, but enough to be heard. “I’m sorry, we don’t normally allow unsupervised minors in the facility. Are your parents with you today?” I started composing a good excuse, but to my relief, a heavyset orderly in his 50s walked around the corner: Harold, a proud man who understood, as few do, the ancient and sacred duty of caring for our elders. “Ah, Ms. Peña, I can vouch for young Will here. His grandma isn’t doing too well--he’s been visiting every day this week. I can record his visit, don’t you worry.” Before she had a chance to argue, I was already walking down the hall as quickly as possible. Before long, I was in Room 3A. “Mrs. De la Cruz, I’m back. How are you feeling?” My daughter opened her eyes. Even now, close to the end, she was keenly observant. Her hair was thin and her brown skin papery and liver-spotted, but her eyes--her eyes could reduce emperors to jittery schoolchildren with a hard look. “Ah, William. Not bored of this old crow yet?” “Old crow? All I see is a young lady in her prime!” “Ha! I should be so lucky that this was never my prime.” “What will it be today, Mrs. De la Cruz? Want to talk about your childhood? Or are you interested in recording an interview about your activist work?” I started taking out my headphones and a voice recorder when Margaret handed me a book. “I much rather feel like being read to, William.” “I--read to? That’s not really why I’m here, Mrs. De la Cruz.” “Maybe not--but I also know you’re not here with the Jamestown Historical Society. Or is the historical society hiring teenagers to conduct interviews now?” “Mrs. De la Cruz, I--” “Never mind why you’re here. Fine. Let’s trade. A story for a story.” I took the book from her--To Kill a Mockingbird--and nodded my head. “Well before your parents would have been born, the children in my neighborhood came down with a truly terrible case of the flu,” she said with clarity. “A few children died, if I remember. All of us were quarantined in a special part of the hospital to keep the flu from spreading.” Margaret absentmindedly stroked the back of her hand. I recognized the gesture and made a note not to do the same. “I was delirious most of the time--the fever kept most of us on the edge of death for a few days. But I remember being read to then. A young man, unafraid of the flu, came in to read to us to help us take our mind off the fever and sickness and nausea.” I realized my hands were gripping the book hard enough to bend the cover. I loosened. “But I remember believing that he was there to read to me especially. He stood in the center of the room and read to us all, but he only ever paused or slowed down when I couldn't hear. While other children drifted in and out of consciousness, he read the book only when I was awake. Other children might have missed bits of the story, but I didn’t miss a single line.” Margaret reached out to my face and touched my ear, putting her finger on a birthmark behind my earlobe. “I would like to be read to one last time, William.” She touched her own ear absentmindedly, and for the first time I saw that she had a birthmark in the same place. I resisted the urge to hold her, to tell her it was going to be fine, that she wouldn't be alone for the rest of her life. Instead, I wiped my eyes, took a breath, and turned to the first page.
I'll never understand the power of inebriation to make things funny when any rational empathetic person would find them heartbreaking. It rewires the brain unplugging the proper emotion from a stimulus and connecting it to its moral opposite. Joy for disgust. Anger for pity. Love for disdain. There is one connection that never gets touched no matter how long or how much you try. Every drunk hopes one more round will break the link from regret to sadness. That bond only gets stronger. Still they persist and drink here day after day. My humble dump of a pub hugs an ancient block wall that reaches out of the sand from what had once been sidewalk. It is not much more than a lean to built with a quilt work of charred road signs and corrugated tin. All hung on a lattice of what you might think was driftwood if it were not in a desert. When I built it five years after the blast life had just started to creep back. They said the radiation would kill me. They were right because I won't last much longer but the morons didn't realize that was the point. I just didn't think it would take so long. Penance has a pace all its own. The bar was an accident, or a sentence depending on your point of view. Leaning against that wall drinking one day a guy offers me money for a swallow. The next day he staggers by and brings a friend. We held up the wall and drank till the bottle was empty. Rinse and repeat. This went on for days, because I had a secret stash and a longing for a horrible death. In my half lit state I decided a bar needed a proper table so I scavenged one of those wooden spools they use for the power lines. There were a lot of them around from before the government gave up on restoring services and surrendered Arizona back to the desert. I set up shop and have been here ever since. There were more people like me that wandered back for the death sentence than you would have thought. Each of them looking for somebody or some thing they knew wouldn’t be here. The city blocks of rubble around Talking Stick turned into a little community for the broken, starving and cancer plagued survivors. Trading for food, drugs and other sordid needs. Wherever there are people, there is thirst for amnesia and what was left of the entrepreneur in me was compelled to fill the need in the market. You might be wondering where I got the booze. To understand that I have to take you back to when the NBA still played on the other side of the wall we drank under. Back in the day I was the penultimate business cliché. Every week was a stream of meetings, flights, and scavenger hunts for power outlets to charge the phone. Five minutes a night to talk to the kids. Weekends were for super dad. Coach third base. Paint a set for the play. Work in the yard to keep the homeowner’s association off my ass. And somewhere in there I saw the woman I was married to. She stopped being a wife a long time ago. Just another client meeting over an expensive dinner where I listened to problems, cared deeply and promised to fix them all, knowing all along I could not change a thing. It was a Friday and I couldn't wait to get home. Eva and the kids were picking me up and we were going straight to the NBA finals game. Nobody could believe the Suns were in it. It was my son's ninth birthday that weekend and he was crazy about it so I bought the tickets with my commission. My sixteen year old was all eye rolls and snapchat but once she got there I knew she would get into it. High impact quality time. Except that I blew it. The meeting went long and I missed my flight from Chicago. I got on the next one but I'd be late. It might work. I texted Eva and she would go ahead. I would meet them there since it was just a few blocks from the airport. No idea what I would do with the bags but I'd figure that out. This would work. The pilot had just given the announcement for the initial descent into Phoenix Sky Harbor. Forty-five minutes until game time. The plane banked right to come around and land from the west. Then the flash. It filled the cabin but felt like a camera flash you looked right into. A second later the plane banks harder, acceleration pushes me back into the seat and we climb. Some lady screams. When the shock wave hit I knew we were dead. It shuttered for what seemed like hours but it was only seconds. We didn’t die. Three hours later we land in Dallas. We should have died. We had been a hundred and twenty miles out and on pure reflex, the pilot finished the rotation he started and turned us in the opposite direction of the blast. Had we been perpendicular to the spherical shock wave radiating from ground zero or even at a lower altitude it would have rolled the aircraft. I heard more than three thousand died that way. But not me. I walked out of that airport with one thing in mind. Get to that arena. I never really thought about why and I never stopped. It is not like I had hope. I just had nothing else. The next few weeks were rental cars, dead phones, stolen cars, refugee camps, more bombs, water lines, riots, and walking. Endless walking. Funny thing about history is that they write down in excruciating detail how it starts. The finer points don't matter much when it ends. I kept moving from camp to camp, dodging troops scooping up people trying to get West once I got free of forced relocation. Why they cared to stop any of us I still don’t know. There wasn’t anything West of Albuquerque that didn’t glow in the dark. I had a time getting by the barricades at first but eventually the gatekeepers just drifted away. It just took a while for society to collapse to the point where they stopped caring if you wanted to kill yourself going home. It got easier to travel once I found that beautiful eighteen wheel monstrosity. An abandoned Peterbuilt at a truck stop outside Las Cruces, NV. The only thing I was ever grateful about from having an emotionally distant and mostly physically absent trucker father was that he taught me how to drive one of these when I was fourteen. That thing blew through the abandoned roadblocks like dry leaves in winter back east and I made the last four hundred miles in a third of the time it took me to go the first fifty. Dallas to Phoenix in forty-six months. The truck had one other advantage. Daddy taught me to drive but he never taught me how to unhook a trailer. By the time it got to Phoenix it was still hauling 18,990 bottles of Absolut. Turns out I get a hundred and eighty miles a gallon. Coming into the city most of the abandoned cars had been bulldozed off the highway by the military. Closer in it was much harder to move a rig that size so I ditched the truck in a rail yard, packed a few bottles of encouragement and started in on foot. More walking. Rubble strewn between charred buildings and the refuse of a dead civilization lay every where. Scattered among the ruins was the occasional scavenger with telltale growths and blisters, few teeth and even less time. I walked up what I thought was Jefferson past what had been Chase Field. Even back then a market of sorts had started to take shape at between the ruins of the sports complex and casino with a water peddler,battery smiths and other traders. I walked down Third street with the crumbling remains of a parking deck to my left and the hulk of the arena on my right. Turning on Jackson I planned to just walk around the block. You might have thought I’d have had a better plan than this after four years. I shuffled down the long block wall toward the arena’s south entry. When I noticed the monstrosity it looked almost as if it were leaning out of the wall. A trick of the light. At first I thought it was some kind of memorial. I’d had enough vodka by then to laugh out loud at the absurdity of an artist’s tribute in a dead city. Then through the haze it hit me. A long train of silhouettes. Blackened shadows etched all along the wall. A hundred or more outlines in the grey block face, forever queued in time for a game that never started. I slowed. Moving down the wall my fingers tracing the edges of Satan’s artwork until I came to one about four and a half feet high. I paused and looked back at two I had just brushed by and knew in my soul they were exactly five feet four inches. Tracy had caught up to Eva when she was fifteen. The air left my lungs and I sank to my knees, my face scraping the wall. Wanting so desperately to burn my own flesh into the rough gravel. Blood dripping on the sand at my feet. Every breath long slow and painful like it was drawn through the wall itself. Released in a dry coughing wail. I sat there wanting to die and started to drink. I drank until I couldn’t see anymore. Woke up and did it again. Drifting between screams, sobs and silence. I should have had a better plan. I don’t know how long after I looked up and there was a man standing over me. “Is that real liquor or are you just using the bottle to pretend” Somehow I found a voice, and told him what it was. “I’ll pay you for it.” And with that transaction my last life as a bartender to the damned began. Day after day I stare at the wall where my ghosts hang in judgement. But as much as I longed to see them as they were, I want so much more to see the shadow that isn't there. For another blinding light to put me on that wall where I should have been. Go ahead and laugh. Everybody does after a few. I don’t hear it any more. I just drink and I wait for the game to start here at the bar I call the Flash and Shadow.
It was a slow evening, even for a Tuesday. I packed up my guitar early, slinging it over my shoulder as I rummaged through the tip jar for the price of a hotdog. I was ten cents short, but Joe let me slide for it. He filled a napkin with some scraps for Bonnie, and we headed over to our bench to watch the moon rise over the river. Someone was already sitting there, hunched shoulders and an air of dejection. Bonnie trotted over to him, her ears pricked up, tail awagging as he patted her muzzle. “Sorry, I don’t have any spare change,” he told me flatly. “I feel that, brother. I ain’t lookin’ for a handout, just a share of the view.” He shifted over, and I joined him, noticing the perfect tailoring of his navy suit, the carefully manicured fingernails and fancy Rolex. Clearly a man of means, yet he looked sort of hollow, like that feeling you get in your gut when you haven’t eaten in a day or two. He watched as Bonnie settled herself at my feet, looking up expectantly. I put her napkin on the floor and she set right to eating, picking each piece as delicately as though it were filet mignon and not dried up hamburger meat scraped from the griddle. “You seem kinda bummed out, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so,” I broke my hotdog in half and offered the bigger half to him. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.” I shrugged, taking a bite myself, the tangy relish making my mouth water. “Suit yourself. Joe’s hotdogs are the best around, though. You’re missin’ a treat.” We sat in companionable silence, while I finished my supper. I wiped my mouth on a napkin and tossed the paper tray into the trashcan beside me. Bonnie licked the grease from my fingers and spun around in a circle, before settling back down in a puddle of golden fur to nap. “I’m a good listener,” I said gently. “If’n there’s somethin’ on your mind, might be good to put it into words. That’s what my shrink used to say, anyways.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t know where to start. “This time last year I thought I had everything I could ever wish for. A beautiful wife, my career was taking off. I was headed in the right direction, you know?” I nodded. “Then I won the lottery, and it’s all been downhill since then.” He pulled a duffel bag out from under the bench, grabbed the zip and yanked it open. “See?” The bag was bursting with hundred-dollar bills, all rolled tightly with elastic bands. More money than I’d ever seen in my whole life. “That’s a whole lotta greenbacks.” I looked around us, checking the shadows to make sure we were alone. “This ain’t the kinda area you wanna be carryin’ that kind of cash around.” He smiled wryly. “That’s why I came here. Figured sooner or later someone would take it off my hands.” “You don’t want it?” I was confused. “What’s wrong with it?” “Maybe nothing. I don’t know,” he replied. “I thought when my numbers came up that my whole life would be a fairytale - one of the jet setters, you know? Tropical vacations, fancy cars, a big house on the right side of town for once. Thought it would take away all my worries, set my family up for life.” He closed the bag and tossed it back onto the ground. “Boy was I wrong.” He took a silver cigarette case out of his jacket pocket, like some old time movie star on the black and white screen. He offered me one. “Thanks, but I quit.” “Me too, me too.” Hi lit up, taking a long drag that sent the tip blazing red. “Guess that’s another promise I’m going back on tonight.” “There’s always tomorrow, man.” He shook his head. “I’m done on tomorrows and talk of brighter futures. I’ve made my peace with it.” I was growing concerned. The dude sounded suicidal, and I wondered if I ought to run back to Joes, ask him to call someone. “Don’t talk like that,” I told him. “We all got to go through dark times. It’s what makes the better days seem so good.” “But what if all the better days are behind you? What if you wasted them all without even knowing it?” I thought about it. “How can you be so sure, though? Ain’t none of us can see the future. For all you know, your luck could change tomorrow. Be a shame to miss it, don’t you think?” He offered a pinched and cynical smile. “You hold on to that way of thinking, then. I hope it works out for you. But me, I’m out. As soon as I find someone to take this load off my shoulders, I’m gone.” I could tell he meant it. Was even cheerful about the prospect - what had happened to him that made oblivion seem like the best option? “Well, seems like you puttin’ me in a tricky predicament, man. I can’t just leave you here now, that ain’t gonna sit right with my conscience. How’s about you tell me how things got to this point?” Bonnie twitched in her sleep, as though sensing something bad in the air. He looked at her, and then at his hands, in his lap. “Fine. It’s not a long story. Like I said - I won the lottery, a year ago today. Won big - $62 million after taxes. Not too shabby, huh?” I nodded. “I threw a party to share the news with my family and friends. I planned it so well. Bought Mom and Dad a house, right next door to my little sister and her kids. Real pretty neighborhood, tennis courts, a community pool - nice location, safe. Sent them away on a vacation, the whole family, off to Disney, while I set it all up. They didn’t know about the winnings - thought I’d just got a big promotion. Assumed I was too busy working to join them.” “That’s nice of you. Not everyone would share like that.” “I’m not the type to keep that kind of thing for myself - I wanted to share it with everyone I loved.” His eyes were watery, and his voice was thick with emotion. “I booked limos from the airport straight to the community centre, hired caterers, balloon arches, the works. All my friends were there, and we waited for the limos to arrive. I was like a kid on Christmas morning, handing out gift bags with $10k in cash to all my friends and cousins. Like some kind of crazy Santa Claus. When they didn’t show up, I figured their flight was delayed.” He wiped a tear on the back of his hand, and Bonnie woke up, looking concerned. She lay her velvety nose in his lap, licking gently at the salt on his fingers. “Flight 183?” I asked, remembering the newspaper headlines from the year before. “Flight 183. All souls lost. You read about that kind of thing, but you never think it’ll happen to you and yours. I’d give it all, all $62 million, if I could take it back.” “It wasn’t your fault, though. Wasn’t nobody’s fault.” “They wouldn’t have been on that plane if I didn’t buy them the tickets. I just wanted those kids to have a treat, you know? They’d had it rough, their Dad was no good, flaked out on them when Caitlyn was knocked up with the youngest. Never had any money for theme parks and vacations.” He took out his cell phone, showed me a photo. A friendly-looking couple in their 70’s, arms around each other, flanked by a pretty brunette woman and three cute kids. Everyone grinning in front of the pink castle. “Looks like they had the time of their lives,” I could hear the false cheer in my voice. “Yeah, yeah I guess so.” He put the phone away. “My whole family, dead and gone in an instant. And the money to blame. They never got to step foot inside their beautiful new homes - instead of buying bunkbeds and emptying the aisles in ToysRUS, I got to pick out coffins and floral wreaths. Do you know how small a child’s coffin is?” He took another deep puff on his cigarette, flicking the ash on the ground. “I’m sorry, man. That’s awful, ain’t nobody deserve that kinda luck.” “Yeah. And I still had my friends and wife, right? They’d be there for me. That’s what I thought.” He reached down to stroke Bonnie’s ears, seemed to take some comfort in the loving way she gazed up at him. “My friends all changed, faster than a red light when there’s a cop behind you. The small taste of money I’d given was not enough. It only whet their appetites. I’d go over to their homes for barbeques or dinner parties, only to find it was a set-up. Sob story after sob story, from everyone I ever knew, even people I didn’t. Someone’s mom has cancer, another’s dog needs surgery... kids summer camps, new cars... it was endless. I never said no, but each time it broke my heart a little more. That they didn’t care about me, only what I could buy them.” “I’m sure that ain’t true, man. They were your friends before the lottery when you weren’t rich.” “But it all changed, don’t you see? The way they looked at me changed. It was in their eyes, a constant hunger, a jealousy. Never mind I’d lost so much - they all envied me just the same. I could see it in every one of their faces - the same question. What’s so special about him ?” Across the park I could see Joe closing up shop for the night. A slight breeze rippled over the river, sending shards of moonlight scattering across its surface. “What about your wife?” I asked. “What about her? I turned my full attention to her. Lavish gifts - diamond bracelets, Pomeranian puppies, designer shoes and bags... I just wanted her to be happy, for my money to do some good at least. And for a while, it worked. She was like a kid in a candy store, buying everything she wanted. My credit card bill each month was astronomical. I didn’t care.” In the distance a fire engine siren wailed as it sped down the freeway. I shivered, despite the warmth of the evening. “What changed?” “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. At some point, it was like there was nothing left of us, like all the things we loved about each other became lost in a sea of useless possessions. She was a shopaholic, filled whole rooms with clothes and make-up. By the time I noticed it was too late to stop her. She even got storage units just so she could keep on collecting. I understood why - she grew up piss poor, never had much of anything. It was like she was trying to buy a happier childhood, better memories. Only it just made her worse.” “Couldn’t she see a shrink?” I asked. “She did, for all the use it did us. They diagnosed a hoarding disorder. But it was more than that. Her temper became unbearable. If I so much as tried to toss an old pizza box she flipped out. I hired cleaners, she fired them. Nobody was allowed to touch her stuff. Eventually I just moved out, left her to it. I don’t think she even noticed I was gone. At least, not as much as she noticed the money stopping.” He nudged the bag with his foot. “There’s a little over $1 mil in there. All that’s left of my winnings. Over $60 million spent in less than a year, must be some sort of a record, right?” He laughed bitterly. “A million’s still a whole lot, from where I’m sittin’. You could start over, take it and rebuild a new life for yourself. Don’t have to end tonight.” “I considered it. I was a successful man once, and I liked my job. Should never have quit it, really, but it seemed silly to keep working when I was so wealthy.” “So go back, ask your boss for a fresh start!” He looked me up and down. “What would you do, right now, if I gave you this bag? If this million dollars was yours, no strings attached?” I leaned back, imagining all the ways I could use it. Get out of the hostel, buy a condo, maybe go to college or something. A fresh start, no more busking for quarters on street corners. Bonnie could get proper dog food, no more scraps of hot dogs. All the tennis balls she could dream of. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Thinking you’d have done a better job with it than I did.” “I guess so. It’s mighty temptin’ - almost scary, the way just the thought of that wealth makes me feel.” He stood up. “Well, it’s yours, if you want it. All of it. I don’t need money anymore. Not where I’m headed.” “Wait!” I grabbed his arm, Bonnie jumping up and putting her paws on his shoulders. “Why should I?” He asked. “It’s not my burden anymore. It’s yours.” “Then give me this, man. Come with me, see what I do with it. Aren’t you curious, even a little bit?” He didn’t look curious, only tired. But he let me lead him across the park, past the basketball courts and down towards the municipal buildings. He seemed confused. Bonnie nudged him gently to keep him moving. We reached the city pound. The sound of dogs barking in the kennels out back had always broken my heart. Bonnie faltered too, perhaps remembering her own fear and sadness, before I rescued her. It was a hopeless place, a place where dreams came to die. A place where day after day the kind volunteers worked tirelessly to undo some of the cruelty of mankind. I dropped the heavy bag on the doorstep, where it landed with a solid thud. I rang the doorbell, three short buzzes, three long. We waited. “Hello, Bonnie!” Darryl was on duty tonight. He knelt down, and Bonnie leapt up to cover his face in sloppy kisses. “Are you hungry? I can go find you something...” “She’s fine, Darryl. We both are.” “Then what can I do for you?” He glanced at the man beside me, brow furrowing as he tried to figure out why I was with such a well-dressed companion. “This gentleman’s been goin’ through a tough time. He’s had a mighty big burden on his shoulders for too long, and I said we could help him with it.” I unzipped the bag at my feet. Darryl gasped. “What the heck...? Did you rob a bank?” “No, nothin’ like that. The money’s legit. He wants to donate it, don’t you?” I turned to the man, who was openly crying now, his knees buckling as he slumped by the side of the building. Bonnie curled up beside him, resting her big old head on his knee. “Yes...” he sobbed. “Yes, I think that I do.” “You see, man, this money ain’t cursed. You just had bad luck, is all. And Bonnie here, she had bad luck too. All these dogs ‘n’ cats, they all got a big dose of the unluckies. But now, you’re givin’ them a fresh chance. A new life. They’ll get new families, forever homes. Your money can do some real good. And you can go back to bein’ who you was always meant to be.” I patted him on the shoulder. Darryl took the bag, shaking his head in confusion. “This is unorthodox... we’ll need to know where it came from, there’s legal stuff to sort out with a gift this big.” “You see? You can’t die now, or they can’t accept your donation. You gotta stick about a bit longer, see it through. Think you can do that, man? Think you can see it through?” He nodded, and I whistled for Bonnie. She gave him a last lick and trotted over to walk beside me. “But why didn’t you take the money for yourself?” He asked as I shuffled back towards my bench by the river. “Wouldn’t it have made your life better?” “I’ve got Bonnie, and I’ve got my old guitar. Reckon that’s more than enough for me.”
“Tash, how long does it take you to get dressed in there?” Chloe’s fist hammered on the door. “One second!” I yelled back. I quickly turned around and checked myself out in the mirror. Gulp, I hoped this one would pass Chloe’s eagle eye test.... Or else I was gonna be in hot water! Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. Chloe turned around “It’s about time- Whoa....” Brumby craned his neck around her “Whoa!” He echoed “You look good mate!” I coughed awkwardly; my hands stuffed in my pockets. I wore polished black boots, black jeans, a belt with the buckle in the shape of a rearing horse. My ebony horse amulet gleamed on the skin exposed by the tight V-necked black T-shirt. Over that, I wore a black leather jacket “Yeah.... You do....” Chloe muttered in a sort of disappointed whimper. “‘You do?’” Brumby crowed “Oh man she actually agrees!” Chloe punched him. Brumby grinned as he rubbed his shoulder “How did those words taste coming out of your mouth?” he asked, hiding behind me. “Bitter.” Chloe replied dead pan before she hit him again. “Good choice Tash.” She looked at me with disappointed eyes. “But your makeover isn’t done yet!” She smiled happily. Brumby eyed me with panic-stricken eyes. A sentiment deeply echoed by me. “It’s not?” “Oh no it isn’t! We may have fixed your wardrobe but we still have to do something about your hair!” Suddenly self-conscious, I ran a hand through my shoulder length black hair. I know I didn’t exactly brush it but still.... “What’s wrong with my hair?” God, why did I sound like a whiny little girl? “Other than the fact that it’s unruly, wild and covers your face half the time.” “She’s just jelly cause your conditioner is way better than hers.” Brumby said in a stage whisper. Chloe’s eyes zeroed in on him like the cross hairs of a sniper rifle. “What did you say?” She said in a thunderous whisper. “Um, nothing!” Brumby hid himself behind some mannequins. “Mr. Smooth strikes again eh?” I muttered in an equally loud stage whisper. This time it was Brumby who glared at me while Chloe grinned and gave me a high five. “But, of course,” I mused, shooting a sly glance at Chloe “he does have a point.... my conditioner is way better than yours, girl!” Chloe raised an eyebrow as Brumby howled with laughter. Just then Chloe’s cell rang. She answered it with a bright smile but then her expression shifted, first from a frown to surprise and then a frown again. She held the phone out towards me. “It’s for you.” Me? Who could possibly be calling me? I glanced at Brumby who shrugged back. I took the phone. “Hello?” “Hi um...Tash? Um, it’s Trixie...” TRIX-TRIXIE! TRIXIE FRICK FRACKIN BARTON WAS CALLING ME !? I punched the air silently. Brumby grinned at me but Chloe frowned. Focusing back on the call, I deepened my voice and made it sound as manly as I could. “Uh, hi Trixie, what’s up?” It was the girl of my dreams on the other end of the call! My heart was in my mouth.... “Listen Tash, um.... I’m afraid I’ll have to rain check on tonight....” .... And down went the heart. “Oh...” I muttered into the phone, my shoulders slumping in disappointment. “Yeah....er something came up and-” “No worries! I mean we can always get together another time!” The words sped out of my mouth so fast I couldn’t believe what I said. “Oh, um...great! So....um.... bye!” The line went dead. “Bye...” I whispered into the silent phone. I turned back to the others. “Tash, what happened mate?” asked Brumby. “I mean one minute you were punching the air and the next...” he trailed off looking at my face. Guess that told him the whole story. “Oh, um that was Trixie!” I smiled at them, hiding behind the thin armor the smile gave me. Brumby started to smile back “She uh, called to rain check the date.” Brumby’s grin faded and for once his eyes didn’t gleam with humor like they always did. Chloe’s mouth was turned down and she smiled sympathetically at me. “Tash, I’m so sorry.” Chloe said gently placing her hand on my arm. “I know Trixie, she’s my friend but I didn’t know she knew you or anything.” “Yeah, those two kinda have a complicated history.” Brumby clasped my shoulder and squeezed. I nodded glumly at his words. Then I looked up “One thing though, how’d she know I’d be with you?” “Well apparently, she called the stables and they said that you had gone off with Brumby, and then she had apparently called around at my place and...found out that I was gone too, so then she’d gone back to the stables and.... Um...” She blushed. “What?” we both said together “Well, the head trainer Jock told her that you’d be with Brumby and that Brumby would be....wherever I’d be...” This time both of them blushed. Brumby’s ears turned scarlet. I cracked a smile, I had to. “Well then, I declare this outing as your first official date!” I beamed at them. Both of them looked sharply at me. “Tash, this is not a date!” Brumby shot me a murderous look. Chloe just stood stock still but I could tell her ears were tuned like sonar panels towards Brumby’s voice. “Of course, this is a date!” I held my ground “And I’m the acting chaperone! So, you two lovebirds had better not sneak off while I go to the restroom, got that?” I turned and grinned at Chloe who was hiding her mouth with her hand, her shoulders shaking. “Tash, this is not a date!” Brumby repeated, his face turning red. “Well, why isn’t it?” I walked past Chloe and got right in Brumby’s face. “Well you’re here! And I wouldn’t call going shopping for my best friend a date!” “So, you wanna take her on a proper date?” I asked slyly. “OF COURSE, I WANNA TAKE HER ON A PROPER DATE!” Brumby yelled loud enough for the whole store to hear. I grinned at him then my smile widened as Brumby’s expression went from mad-dog to frozen to shock-and finally a bright burning red. I glanced at Chloe over my shoulder. Her green eyes were wide and there was a touch of pink in her cheeks and a smile peeped out from her mouth. There was an awkward silence.... Then a slow clapping started from the back of the store. An old couple was staring at us and beaming. Suddenly the clapping grew louder as the other shoppers, the shop assistants and even the grim looking manager joined in. There were even a few whoops and whistles from outside the store. I saw a mall cop pounding his barrel chest and whistling. SCORE! “Well then,” I stepped back two paces and beamed at the pair of them “my work here is done.” I bowed to Chloe “Ms. Granger.” She smiled shyly as she blinked her thanks I spun on my heel and walked past the still frozen Brumby. I stopped, leaned in and whispered. “You’re welcome, Brumby Boy.” I slapped him on the back. Brumby didn’t even react, he was still frozen. I snapped my fingers in front of his face, still no reaction. Rolling my eyes at Chloe, I snorted and gave him a sharp dig in the ribs. Brumby’s eyes flickered and he blinked rapidly. “T-Ta-Tash...” He stuttered I chuckled as I gave him a fist bump “Just don’t screw up okay? Now get going Casanova. She’s waiting for ya.” I gave him a hearty shove towards Chloe. I ducked out of the store and hid behind two big plant pots muttering the Mission Impossible theme song. Operation Broe had begun! See what I did there? Brumby + Chloe = BROE!!! Now that, my dear Reader, is called good shipping. Now back to the story of those two young lovers. She stood there shyly. He stepped cautiously towards her. She smiled up at his towering form then gently reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned in and whispered something to her, causing her to giggle. Then she gently rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. He grinned broadly and took her hand. And the two young lovers walked out of the store, followed by the crinkling and mellowing eyes of all those around them. Even me! I’ll admit it! No judging Reader but watching those two....it was enough to make a grown man cry! Ha-ha, just kidding, you think I’d actually cry? Ha, no way! But I couldn’t help smiling at the sight of them but at the same time I couldn’t help wondering.... Would Brumby still be the same guy? Would he still have time to hang out or go riding or just you know.... Yeah well, I know we all have to grow up Reader, but still... Well I guess time would tell. Now back to the story. He led her through the mall, only stopping to.... AWWWWW, buy her a rose! Now isn’t that the sweetest thing you ever read, Reader? I mean he bought her a rose! A Red Rose! You know what that means don’t ya? But still.... damn Brumby, this girl hasn’t just lassoed you, she’s hogtied you! They continued on their little elopement, gazing into each other’s eyes with the passion experienced only by two people reckless with the joy of love and- Hey! I'm pretty good at voice overs! Angel was right, maybe I should get into the whole announcing thing- And they walked as if lost in the dreams of Love, while being stealthy followed by a very dashing young man, if I may so myself, who darted from corner to corner like a super spy! I was an Ice man! I was the coolest of the cool! I was unfazed by danger! I was the flame that burned night and day! I was-nearly arrested by a security guard for hiding, in what he called an ‘inappropriate pose’, behind a lingerie mannequin. Anyway, he took her to a rom-com movie. After checking what time, the movie ended, I wandered around the mall for a while then slipped into the car park and went to meet some guys from Monarch who I’d called from a payphone. We all had a bit of a bite to eat then with a quick wink, I slipped a walkie-talkie into my pocket and walked away. The movie had just finished when I arrived back. And there the two little love birds were! He led her to the rooftop, leading her to a quiet little bench in the corner. She leaned her head against his shoulder and he kissed her forehead as they watched the sunset. Then slowly she turned her head to face him. He looked deep into her eyes. She was leaning in! They were about to- “TRA-LA-LA-LA-HEY!” -be interrupted by their chaperone, as said dashing chaperone sprang out from behind the bushes! “TASH! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU-” Brumby sputtered leaping to his feet. I silenced him with a finger to his lips and pushed him back into Chloe’s arms. I cleared my throat as I pranced in front of them. “For your entertainment, tonight, lady and...Mr. Boy Toy over here, I now present the one-man band of Tashunka Lone Raven!” “BOY-TOY!?” Brumby’s mouth dropped as Chloe burst out laughing. Then his eyes met mine with the horrific realization of what I was about to do. “Tash! No! Oh no! No, no, no, no, no!” Brumby buried his head in his hands as I gave myself a quick drum roll “HEY NOW, HEY NOW! WHAT I DO SEE? TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA ! OH! ITS BRUMBY AND CHLOE SITTING IN A TREE! TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA ! BRUMBY AND CHLOE SITTING IN A TREE! TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA ! OH, IT’S BRUMBY AND CHLOE SITTING IN A TREE K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” “I’m gonna kill him. I am going to KILL him!” Brumby muttered furiously as Chloe clapped her hands to the beat, laughing with delight. But I was not done yet! HAHAHAHAHAH! Not by a longshot! “First come Love! Then comes Marriage! Then comes the baby in the golden carra-” It was at that moment that part of my brain registered that Brumby had risen to his feet. So that part of the brain, whispered to the other part of the brain “Uh oh, Brumby’s coming!” “And he looks pretty mad!” The other part of my brain agreed “What do we do Tash?” they both asked. “One word boys, SCRAM!” Laughing, I bolted while Brumby mock charged me “Tash, not one step closer!” He growled. I put my hands up in surrender, a wide grin etched on my face, as I slowly pulled out the walkie talkie. “What’s that?” Brumby asked cautiously eyeing the walkie talkie. I raised my eyebrows “Just a little surprise I cooked up for ya.” I lifted the walkie talkie to my mouth. “Light ‘em up.” “Copy that.” said the voice on the other end. Suddenly the dusky sky blazed with light as the fireworks. Chloe squealed with delight as she gazed up at the fiery stars that lit up the sky. “Brumby.” I said in a stage whisper. “Now might be a good time to kiss her.” Brumby chuckled and grinned at me, shook his head in wonder, then walked back to Chloe and kissed her. I mean it was a real movie style kiss. I know what you’re thinking Reader; AWWWWWWWW. With a grin, I walked away. How’d it go? asked Jingo, my black Arabian mare as I mounted. “Pretty well, Jingo old girl, pretty well indeed.” I whispered as we trotted off down the street. I’m not OLD! she snorted fiercely.
Competition is not all fun and games. A girl stood in a doorway, her long hair sat on her back. She had a long brown overcoat that went just below her knees. She wore a dark green shirt with black leggings. She leaned in the doorway and looked out at the town before her, this was the doorway out the front entrance to her home. It was a small home with only a few bedrooms; it barely fit her, her mother, and her three brothers but it was her home. She lived in a small town at the border of the safe lands. You see dear reader this is many hundred years in the future and cities have crumbled, places that had once looked familiar now we're mere ruins all that remained of humans were small colonies around the world. But they weren’t just on earth they also were on Mars living happily for life on earth was extremely tough with extreme weather, smog, and the one common enemy zombies. Yes this is the apocalypse, but zombies have been around for awhile now humans have learned to defend themselves from these half dead enemies. With their colonies protected by a thick iron wall, and guards armed along the wall waiting for an attack, there have been zombie attacks in the past but humans prevaled and learned to live inside their walls, farming and keeping livestock. The wall surrounds a big area which you know now as states and the group of states that are in this wall are North Carolina, New York, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia, and West Virginia and this is called the North colony and on the other side of the country is another colony including the states of Washington, Oregon, California, Utah, Nevada, and Arizona and this is the West colony. The colonies are separated and isolated from each other because everything in between the colonies belongs to the zombies. Within each colony there are towns separated by paths and remember dear reader that the states no longer exist and they are now one colony of humans trying to survive. Now the colony this takes place in is the North Colony and our story starts in a doorway where a is standing and that girls name is Octavia Robin. It was a brisk afternoon and Octavia stood in her doorway looking out at her town, she was from the town of Beckinsdale in the North Colony. She lived with her mother and three brothers and dog, she doesn’t really remember her father but she did know he fell victim to a zombie attack when she was young. Her older brother remembers a little about him but that is the past. Her older brother Paris was called to join the colony army and her two younger twin brothers (Leo and Charlie) when the time comes and they are old enough are going to be called to the army as well and that is why Octavia has chosen to enter the Fate Games. The Fate Games take place every other year because it goes back and forth between the colonies this year Octavia can enter. You must be between the ages of 17 and 27 and she is 18 now. The past year she couldn’t enter because it was for the West Colony. The game is simple there are twenty competitors that are chosen at random from the colony, once they are chosen they have five days to prepare and say goodbyes then they get a backpack, a sleeping bag, one lighter, five matches, one gallon of water, a gun, a little food, and a couple pairs of clothes. You have a number and they put a tracking device on you and let you out of the gates to the unknown. You have one month to survive, only one can win and by winning you survive and don’t die but there is a twist if more then one survives they are all left to die and no one wins. The prize is something very precious: a ticket for you and your immediate family to leave, yes leave. The ticket is a ticket to a rocket ship that will take you and your immediate family to the thriving human colony on Mars where you can forget about zombies and live happily and thrive and every year the rich colonies of Europe hold this competition to give people a chance to leave and escape this world. The reason why Octavia wants to get out so badly is because for one her town is right near the border and there are more towns like hers but their job was to draft people into the army to send them out beyond the walls to fight zombies and these were the reasons why she needed to get her family out of here. Her brothers would be called to the army to fight and had a high chance of death and she needed to look after her family and give her mother a happy life. She had to win. Octavia loved her town and her family. She stood in the doorway, her mother standing behind her and her brothers sitting on the stoop as they waited. They were waiting for the names of the next contestants to be announced for The Fate Games. The other town members stood or sat in front of their houses and waited and heads perked up at the sound of the loud speaker crackling. A voice came on and started listing the names of contestants. “Contestant number 17 is...” the voice said. Octavia’s heart pounded in her chest. It's all she could hear pounding inside her, thoughts flying through her head. At that moment time seemed to stop and thoughts swirled like a tornado in her mind. What will happen if I die? Will I even get chosen for the games? She started to sweat, her stomach ached with the feeling of anxiety. “Octavia Robin from Beckinsdale!” She snapped back to reality as her name was called, she had a look of shock stuck on her face. She didn't know how to feel happy, sad, scared, or a mix of all those things. Her brothers stood up and her family hugged her while she stared into space still trying to process the information that she will be in the games. They stayed in their family hug for a few minutes and the own was silent except for Octavia grabbed her coat and said goodbye to her family and set off for the training grounds. The training ground was in the center of the Colony and it took a couple days to get there but that my friends is unimportant. She arrived there to see all the other competitors there, some looked huge and strong and others small and stealthy. Most of them were talking with each other and they all uuj seemed to know each other but there was one girl sitting on the side just staring off into space. She had beautiful brown skin and her curly hair just sat upon shoulders with blond ends. Octavia was going to start to walk up to her when a man and Woman walked out of the building in front of the courtyard area where the contestants were waiting. The contestants got up and formed a half circle around the man and woman. They introduced themselves as “I am Rafferty Sherriden” the man said, “I am Verity Lockwood and we will bring your guides through your training for the games and provide you with all the information you need” said the woman.They both had accents that sounded British they had most likely come from Europe who created and lead the games each year. “If you have any questions you can just ask us now each of you will get a trainer. Your trainer will help you get into physical condition for the game and teach you how to fight. Over the week of your training the judges will be observing you.” Rafferty added. The judge observed the contestants and predicted who will so people can place bets. “Now contestants follow us into the training room and where you will be staying.” Verity said walking towards the building with Rafferty. The contestants started walking towards the building with their bags of stuff. This was just the beginning, it all started after this. The contestants waited in the training room, in an awkward silence they all had different expressions pasted across their faces, some looked serious and stood there strong and proud, some looked frightened and worried, quite meek and small, and some just stared at the floor trying not to make eye contact with anyone. My dear reader sometimes you can tell a whole lot about people by just noticing their expressions but that is besides the point. All the contests had the same uniform on but they all had different numbers on them like jerseys for a game. Rafferty and Verity reappeared after they had left some ten minutes ago. They appeared with twenty people behind them; those were the trainers who each year came out to train the next contestants for the game. “Contestants welcome to the training arena where you will be training in the course of a week with your trainer” Rafferty said with what seemed to be forced enthusiasm. “Here we have your personal trainers,” Verity said, gesturing to the people standing behind her. “Now contestant you each have a number, that is your number i want you to find your trainer with the same number on there uniform” Rafferty added. “Now find your trainer!” Verity said, smiling. Octavia waited for everyone else to find their trainers until there was one left, it was a woman she was quite tall and had broad shoulders, her hair was cut short and a silver purple color, she had tattoos on her arms and her arms were crossed as a stoic look was splattered across her face. She had an eyebrow piercing and her eyes were two two different colors one brown like earth and the other as blue as the ocean. “So your number seventeen. I’m Mavis welcome to the games seventeen.” She said, holding out her hand. Octavia hesitantly reached out her hand and Mavis pulled her into a hug. Her hug was hard and her muscles were like rocks in her arms, she released Octavia and started walking towards the training area. Mavis toward Ocatavia as she did push ups the sweat stinging her eyes and her hair stuck to her face, her arms burned as if they were on fire. She heard the ear piercing sound of the whistle and stood up and Mavis had a half smile across her face. “Nice job Seventeen. Now time to learn how to fire a gun.” Mavis said pointing to the firing range. They were at the firing range, the deafening sound of guns going off in their ears. Octavia went up, put in ear plugs and fired, she hit the target over and over. Mavis stood back tall and proud. It was the day of the games the contestants were lined up and their families watched from the top of the wall. Their trainers stood with them preparing them and hooking up their tracking devices. The tracking devices tracked your heart and let the hosts of the games know where you are so you don’t leave or cheat by going to the West Colony, they also tracked your heart beat so they know who is dead. The contestants also have a device telling you who is left. “Good luck Seventeen.” Mavis said. Seventeen was her nickname for Octavia. Mavis handed her the backpack filled with the supplies and said “I trained many other Seventeens and none of them have made it but I think you have a chance. Good luck.” She said and hugged her. The contestants lined up against the gate and the trainers stepped back. The horn blew and the gate slowly cranked open quite loudly. Mavis yelled something but Octavia only heard the second part “Don’t like water” and she didn’t focus on that too much her heart pounding thoughts swirling. Rafferty and Verity stood on the wall and yelled “Go!” Octavia ran out the gates into the unknown and she knew the rest was up to fate.
The July humidity continued to hang across Delmarva’s Ayers Creek this Friday long after the sun set and the full moon encased the area in its heavenly glow. The hot moisture imprisoned the lone fisherman floating his kayak along the surface like a straight jacket. Yet Dr. Fulbright at first had embraced the relatively minor discomforts of the eerie evening. He thought they would provide a quiet retreat from the pandemic-induced terror he had faced in six months of 18-hour work days. During his breakneck service at Atlantic General Hospital he had pulled patient after patient back from the brink of death from Covid 19. The physician had welcomed the overdue weekend outing. Also, to his relief, not a creature had stirred in the pre-dawn hours as he eased his rented kayak into the then cool waters. He had joyfully cast his line into the creek on the hunt for some of the prime perch he knew populated this Eastern Shore retreat. As the day began to move along peacefuly, Fulbright had laid back with his trusty fisherman’s cap pulled over his eyes to shield him from the rapidly-rising sun. He slowly had settled into what he thought would turn into a peaceful escape from the over-scheduled life of a country doctor just recovering from the forced march battling the forces of the Grim Reaper. In his role as one of the area’s more experienced medical personnel, the medical center’s senior adminsitrator constantly thrust into the healthcare system’s front lines. This forced him to alternate between scouring his tool chest of modern medical science for pre-vaccination cures and chasing down miracle fixes proposed from every corner of the Internet. In the infrequent breathers from his medical duties, he also had played comforter-in-chief to those whose loved ones had fallen victim to the plague. Additionally, the experience he acquired during the pandemic made it necessary for him to appear on the various forms of social media to battle sceptics carrying on a continual battle to discredit the science about the origins of the disease and fact-based methods to fight it. Far too many close encounters with severe illness and death had taken their toll on the physician’s quickly-aging, battle weary body. Long overdue for a vacation, with thoughts of retirement becoming more frequent, he surely had earned the right to enjoy an uneventful encounter with nothing more than an over-enthusiastic fish trying to avoid becoming his pre-weekend dinner. Time to let the solitude percolate through his psyche and wait for the first nibble on his line. With little action from under the water to keep him awake, a few sips of beer and the heat of the afternoon caused him to doze off for several hours with the sun setting and the full moon rising. Suddenly, something shook him awake as he grabbed for his fishing pole and the craft drifted into the darker reaches of the creek. Then the boat took off. It felt like someone had attached a winch to the rear of his kayak and pulled him through the water at the speed of a top-of-the-line outboard motor. Fulbright put a death grip on the sides of his craft--holding on for dear life. Then, a fish attached to his fishing pole bolted out of the creek ahead of him several inches above the surface. It was the most gigantic Maryland perch he had ever seen, easily weighing 100 pounds. Fulbright struggled to hold onto his pole and stay in the kayak at the same time. The sea creature dragged the small craft to every corner and every depth of the lunar-illuminated lake. Then the boat crashed headlong into the kayak rental dock and his craft splintered into pieces, leaving him treading water as the fish flung itself back into the water. Jim Michaelson, who owned the kayak rental franchise, had waited up long past closing time out of concern for the town’s most respected doctor-and his business. He pulled Fulbright out of the drink and onto dry land. “What the heck happened to you and look what you’ve done to my boat and my dock.” “Didn’t you see the gigantic perch that dragged me around the creek?” Jim said he had only seen the kayak crashing bow-first into the pier, splintering both the launching area and the craft to pieces. After checking to see that the fray had not injured the doctor, he informed Fulbright that, heroic doctor or not, the fisherman would have to pay for the dock and kayak replacement. That would cost him about $1000 plus construction costs for a new launching area. The physician lifted his sore body off the ground and changed into some dry clothes he had in his car. He then prescribed a strong dose of reality for himself. He agreed with Michaelson that he probably couldn’t reasonably explain what had happened to him. Then he came up with three theories: Either he guzzled more Corona Light than he thought he did, leaving him in a drunken dreamstate, or The experiments they were doing several miles away on Wallops Island emptied something into the water that drastically altered the natural order of things in Ayers Creek, Or he had stumbled into an alternative universe that promised to drastically alter life as he knew it in Berlin, MD. Maybe Fulbright suffered from the lingering effects of the just-departed Covid 19 virus that he had contracted from a patient. In any event, the launch area and the kayak still stood in front of him in ruins and he faced a repair bill that would put a huge hole in the retirement account he had just opened. Maybe if he sold his story to Sports Illustrated that would cover part of the cost. Then again, if many in the non-sports media didn’t believe him when he had scientific data to back him up would the sports media believe a fish story with only a wrecked boat and launch area to prove what he was telling them?
She says, "Why don't you look like that?" I stop scrolling. It's some glistening, rippling torso with a haircut. Stripped to the waist. Almond skin pulled tight over solid muscle. I look down at my stomach, bulging amiably over my waistband. Lightly dusted with sugar from the half-eaten donut in my other hand. She looks back to her phone again and strokes our cat, Belle, sitting in her lap. Back to the gym. For the next two months, I'm there every day, 6am. Weights, bike, cross trainer. Weights, bike, swim. I'm surrounded by washboard abs and shredded obliques. They remind me how disgusting I am, as I splutter and jiggle my way around the machines. But all this work makes me hungry and hunger makes me eat. Fries, pizza, ice cream, coke. For a couple of weeks, I replace it all with salads and plain, flavourless chicken. I need to eat three times as much of it before I feel full. The scales never change. Each day, I peer hopefully over my belly button and see the same number staring back at me. I’m scrolling through my phone again and there he is, the perfect specimen. Adonis, standing proudly and bulging in all the right places. An act of violence in the form of a still image. She's looking over my shoulder again. From the corner of my eye, I see her eyes widen ever so slightly and her tongue trace the edge of her teeth. But this time she doesn’t say anything. The next time I’m at the gym, sweating through a session with my legs and arms like lead, I seriously consider giving up. I’m on the tenth kilometre on the treadmill and the perspiration is running into my eyes, masking the tears. That’s when Gary comes over. “Take it easy Rocky, you’re gonna give yourself a stroke.” He slides his arm around my shoulders. Tacky sweat glues us together. I collapse over the treadmill and rest my head on my arms. He says, “You need a little edge? I’ve got something that’ll change your life.” I look up at his toned physique. Arms like tree trunks. A vast expanse of chest muscle pressed against the thin fabric of a sleeveless shirt. It’s all the proof I need. I follow him through the locker room to the back corner where they keep the cleaning equipment. When he’s sure no one is watching, he reaches on top of a dusty locker and produces a small plastic baggy. He says, “You’ll be the guinea pig. It comes highly recommended.” Inside the baggy is a tiny, round blue pill. “You only need one,” he says. “Thank me later big fella. Oh and let me know how it goes. I’ve got another 50 of these. They won't be going for free.” Once I'm showered and dressed I swallow it down with a gulp of water. Tomorrow the work starts again. But tonight I'm going out for dinner. Another final meal. In the restaurant, I order trio de bruschetta and garlic pizza bread to start. Next, sirloin steak in peppercorn sauce with extra fries, all washed down with three bottles of lager. Finally, cheesecake, sorbet and limoncello. She looks at me with thinly veiled disgust. We barely speak but I’m too busy chewing and swallowing for chit-chat anyway. The other diners whisper and try not to stare. I don’t care. It’s the last blowout. A final night of freedom and I have the miracle cure already working away inside me. At home, she heads to bed while I stop to feed Belle. By the time I follow her up, she's already asleep. Eye mask on, facing the wall. I stare at her through the darkness for a moment, then head back downstairs. I worked hard today. I earned this. Belle’s tail brushes my legs, tracing a figure eight around my feet as I eat out of the fridge. --- When I wake up, I feel better than I have done in years. Maybe I've never felt this good. I spring out of bed and look in the bedroom mirror and my heart jumps into my throat. I think it's someone else, in my room, in my clothes. But then I realise it's me. Or half of me at least. My t-shirt, last night stretched across a distended stomach and swollen man-breasts, now hangs loosely down from square shoulders. My sagging chin is now taut, revealing a jawline I almost remember. Tense muscles brush against the fabric of my clothes. She says, "Oh wow. It's finally starting to pay off?" And drapes her arms over my broad, muscular shoulders. "An early night tonight maybe?" She traces the shape of my jaw with her finger and gazes at me through the mirror, her eyes ablaze. Pancakes and syrup for breakfast today. I'm celebrating. At work I get double-takes all along the office floor as I walk to my desk. Most of the men narrow their eyes in suspicion. Most of the women, who couldn't have picked me out of a line-up before today, they can't take their eyes off me. There is a smile on my face all morning. But I need to be careful. Good cheer is kryptonite for willpower. Before lunch, I polish off two flapjacks and a croissant. When lunchtime finally does arrive, I’m somehow still famished. I head to the local sandwich shop and the kid behind the counter says, “Let me guess, a salad for Mr. Muscle?” I order a footlong meatball special and finish the whole thing at the counter. The kid’s jaw drops. The other customers are trying hard to pretend they don't see me. I should be ashamed but my stomach is already rumbling, crying out for more. The ingredients behind the glass counter glow and throb. Fresh, sun-ripened tomatoes. Succulent cuts of red meat. Rich, creamy hunks of mature cheddar. They are begging me. Eat us. Eat more. Keep eating. I go back to the start of the queue. On my fifth trip around, the manager asks me to leave. I’m distantly embarrassed at being kicked out of a sandwich shop for eating too many sandwiches. But the hunger returns so quickly, I have to move on to the next place. It’s mid-afternoon when I walk into the all-you-can-eat buffet. I should’ve been back at work hours ago but despite the near-constant eating, the hunger pangs only get stronger. I load my plate. Piling food as high as it will go. The first couple of times I sit at a table. But soon enough I just walk from station to station, eating my way round. Chomping down on drumsticks and spring rolls and samosas. A daytime drinker stumbles into me. He smells like stale booze and farts. He says, “Wish I could do that and keep my figure. What’s your secret?” He jiggles his beer gut and chuckles, staggering away before I can stop chewing long enough to answer. I notice everyone is looking at me when a teenager starts filming me on his phone. I see pity in some eyes and envy in others. I need to leave. It's been hours and there is a dull ache in my gut. Fat is coursing through the blood vessels of my brain. When I arrive home she asks, “What do you think, pasta?” “I’m not hungry”, I lie. The stirring has already begun again. She looks me up and down, devouring me with her eyes. Her smile is full of dark promise. “Maybe it’s time for our workout?” But I can’t think straight. My mind is raiding the fridge. My veins pulse with trans fats and MSG. My skin burns and crawls and I feel like a giant set of open jaws, snapping and grasping for anything within reach. “Not tonight," I say, "headache.” She looks at me with disgust, pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. I head upstairs and past the mirror. Even in this stupor, I'm still amazed by my new, athletic physique. I flex a bicep to snap a selfie. Then, for the first time in months, I update my socials. Focus on the progress 💪 💪 💪 The likes and comments flow in. They wrap around me like a warm blanket as I fall asleep, my stomach churning and saliva running from between my lips. --- When I come to, it isn’t morning and I’m not feeling better. I don’t even remember getting out of bed but here I am with my head buried in the fridge in the dead of night, consuming everything. My insides are roiling, screaming to be fed. I'm clattering dishes and ripping packets and Belle is mewling at me from the countertop. Pleading with me to stop. I suck down slimy, raw chicken. Inhale cheese by the block. Acid burns the back of my throat as I spoon thick, cold butter straight on top of it. I pour every milk carton, every can, every sauce, every condiment down my neck and it all congeals together in a thick, sickly-sweet ball. I bite into a raw onion and the odour stings my nose and brings tears to my eyes. I bite into another, and another until I’ve eaten the whole bag. My jaw aches and my insides cramp. My brain swells against the walls of my skull and I flop back onto the kitchen floor. The room spins. There is nothing left in the fridge but empty cartons and glass jars rolling around on the shelves. Belle jumps down and sniffs at my face. Her purr deafens me as she gently licks my ear. For half a second, I couldn’t eat another thing. I dare to hope that I might finally be full when an empty pot of cream rolls off the shelf and lands in my open mouth. I start to chew. The sharp plastic edges slice my gums and the steely taste of blood coats my tongue. --- When I wake next, I’m back in bed. I'm alone and it's light out, so she must already be at work. The clock says 11.30 which makes me two hours late, but there is only one thing on my mind. I scramble out of bed, trembling with nervous energy. My eyes dart around the room like a predator on the hunt. I catch sight of my square chest and narrow waist in the mirror. I’m a superhero, a warrior, a greek god. Every inch of me chiselled from oak. I want to flex, stand and admire but the burning is back again and I'm lightheaded. I run down to the kitchen in my shorts and there is a note on the counter. You cleaned us out fatty. Thanks for not leaving me any breakfast! Last night’s binge replays in my mind. In the fridge, the only evidence is a small pile of shattered glass in the corner of the shelf. My throat is like hot tarmac. I look around the room for something to eat. An empty fruit bowl, a plastic pasta container, and some flattened cardboard boxes in the recycling bin. Cramps squeeze my insides and I double over. As I drop to my knees I reach out and grab a kitchen towel. Before I hit the floor, I’ve pushed it into my mouth and I’m working it down my oesophagus like a python. Weakness overtakes me and I lay with my cheek against the cold, hard tile as tears blur my vision. A tail brushes softly against my calf and before I know what’s happening my hand shoots out and clamps around Belle’s neck. She hisses and spits at me. With dull surprise, I find myself pulling her towards my open mouth. She claws at my face, tearing strips from my cheeks and slicing my neck. Her body writhes and swings in my grip and her eyes roll around in their sockets as she fights for her life. Velvet ears tickle the roof of my mouth and a hard, round skull buckles under my teeth. The mewling stops. Dry, silky fur glides down my throat. --- The rest of the day passes in a frenzied blur. I stalk through the streets, the taste of raw meat in my mouth and the now familiar churn in my stomach. As people pass by, some laugh and point and others grope my arms and writhe against me. I chase a dog in the park. I'm forcibly removed from a butcher shop. I eat a full octopus at a seafood market. I tear through trash in an industrial size dustbin. It's dark by the time I find my way home. The emptiness is worse than ever, jabbing at my ribs and clawing up my neck. My jaw feels ten miles high and when I try to close it, dried flecks of blood crumble from my cheeks. I shuffle into the kitchen, arms cradling my convulsing midriff. Smears of blood and hair still coat the kitchen tiles. It takes me a moment to realise I’m not alone. She is home and she's standing in the doorway. Eyes darting from me to the floor and back to me again. Her lips move up and down wordlessly as the shopping bag falls from her hand. A glass jar shatters. I want to explain. But when I try to speak, my guts twist in agony and I'm bent over coughing soggy lumps of black fur and purple viscera onto the floor. She screams and turns for the door but doesn't get far. I catch a clump of her hair in my fist and I yank her back into the room, snapping her neck like a ragdoll. Choking a scream in her throat. I sink my teeth deep into her throat and tear at her flesh like an animal. She collapses and spits blood into my eyes. Her screams turned to wet gurgles as I suck down chunks of her like air. By the time I’ve chewed through her neck, she is silent. Her head thumps to the floor like a watermelon. It takes hours, maybe days, but in the end, I devour her completely. Hair, teeth, bones and meat. Not a trace of her remains. Like she was never even here. The worst part is the feeling of relief. The feeling of peace and how it only lasts for a moment. As soon as the satiation comes, it's gone again. Leaving that awful, burning void inside me. Desperate to be filled. When I look at myself in the mirror again I see precision-sculptured power. A masterpiece soaked in blood. I'm disgusted and impressed. Maybe there is nothing that can fill the emptiness left in the wake of perfection.