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Allura 50

It all began one snowy December afternoon. Jason Fox was at his house arguing with his mother. “I am not a kid! I am eighteen!” Exclaimed Jason. “Your behavior is very childish! Go to your room!” Sophie (Jason’s mom) exclaimed. “Yes ma’am,” Jason said sarcastically and stomped to his room. Ethan was in an alleyway, making a phone call that would change the rest of his life. “Ethan, I want you to break into that car at the Fox families’ house, and sabotage the lock mechanism and the engine function,” Maverick (a criminal in jail) whispered into the phone he had hidden in his jail cell, “Remember if you don’t do what I say, your parents will get it!” “ On my way there now, Maverick!” Ethan replied into the phone boldly, (but feeling so nervous and upset on the inside that he had to do this, since he would never want to hurt anybody). Ethan headed over to Jason’s house and sabotaged the lock mechanism and the engine of the Fox family’s car. Jason got in his car on his way to the coffee shop for his date with Harmony (his girlfriend). He was driving over the train tracks when all of a sudden, his car stalled. The barriers on the train track went down and the train was almost there. “Oh no, oh no! I can’t believe this!” Jason thought as he tried to open his doors. “I knew the lock was acting funny earlier! What am I going to do?” He thought to himself as he realized the doors were not going to budge. He picked up the wrench that was in the back seat and started banging on the windows, but they wouldn’t break, since, after all, they were bulletproof. The train started blowing its whistle trying to stop. It couldn’t stop fast enough and was heading straight for him! Ethan was sitting behind a bush watching this, unsure if he could go through with this. “I can't just watch him die! I can't believe this, but I am going to go save him!” Ethan thought to himself. Ethan ran to the car with a metal pole in his hands and started banging on the window. After what felt like forever, he banged a hole in the window, and the glass shattered everywhere. He pulled Jason out of the car, through the window, and out of the way right as the train hit Jason’s car! Jason sat on the ground beside the tracks, but far enough that he couldn’t get hurt. Ethan was wearing a hoodie and a bandana across the bottom part of his face so that Jason couldn’t see more than his eyes. “A-r--re you o-o-ok?” Ethan asked with a terrified expression in his eyes, and his voice trembling as he thought about how much worse this could have been. “Yes, thanks to you though! If you hadn’t shown up, I would have died!” Jason exclaimed. “Y-y-your welcome!” Ethan replied nervously hoping that Jason wouldn’t ask any questions. “What’s your name?” Jason asked him. “Uhm....” Ethan was still in too much shock to give a proper answer, so he decided to just run, “I gotta run!” Ethan replied as he started to run away. “Come back!” Jason yelled as he began to run after him. Ethan ran as fast as he could but eventually got cornered by Jason in an alley. “Why are you running? You just saved my life! I am not going to get you in trouble. Please just tell me your name and take off the hoodie!” Jason shouted at him. “I...I... can’t tell you! I am already going to be in enough trouble for helping you if...finds out!” Ethan said leaving the blank in the sentence. “Just let me through! I don’t want to hurt you!” He exclaimed while pulling out a sharp knife. Jason’s phone started ringing. “Turn it off, don’t answer it or I will use this!” Ethan exclaimed pointing the knife at Jason threateningly. “Ok, ok!” Jason exclaimed as he declined Harmony’s call. “Now, promise me that you will not call the police, let me pass, and I will put the knife away,” Ethan replied sternly still grasping the knife tightly. “I-I promise!” Jason replied stepping back. Ethan put the knife away and ran past Jason into the dense fog that had enveloped the city. Jason went and stared at what used to be his car and shivered. “That could have been me! I could have been wrecked along with the car! I need to find this guy and repay him for helping me!” Jason thought to himself. Ten minutes later, when Jason arrived home, he explained what had happened to him. Harmony had been sitting with Amy (Jason’s sister) trying to figure out what had happened to him. “Jason! I was so worried about you! I could not find you anywhere and I started hacking camera footage (since she was a detective) throughout the city with Harmony!” Amy exclaimed as she hugged Jason. “I am fine thanks to that guy in the hoodie, I just wish I knew who he is,” Jason said thoughtfully. “Jason! We were literally about to have our first date! No more almost dying! Ok?!” Harmony exclaimed as she hugged him. “OK Harmony, I’ll try!” Jason replied jokingly as he hugged her, unaware of the fact that he would be in another similar situation soon. “I am just going to run to the restroom,” Harmony said. When she got to the restroom, she called the police and told them the area where Ethan was. This was not good... Ethan was running through the different alleyways trying to find a place to spend the night when he heard the police sirens. He ran as fast as he possibly could and went inside a broken-down mansion that was abandoned. “I can’t believe he called the police after all that! I saved his life! I could have let him die, but no, I had to save him! He stabbed me in the back!” Ethan shouted into the lonely old house. The mice scampered around, frightened by Ethan’s shouting. He started planning his revenge with an icy-cold heart full of hurt and sadness. He was already extremely hurt by Maverick. When Ethan was 8 years old, his parents went missing, and Maverick had found him. Maverick raised him and then (when Ethan was 15) told him that he had kidnapped his parents and the only way he could ever see them again was if he worked for him. Ethan was 18 now and still trying to save his parents. He had never felt so betrayed. Even now, he had risked his parents’ lives to save Jason and then Jason had gone and called the police on him after he had promised he wouldn’t! It was not right! This world was never fair or nice, so why should he be? Harmony came out of the restroom and tried to convince Jason not to go look for the guy who saved him (since she thought he would be in jail by the time Jason went out), but Jason wouldn’t listen. He went out into the night to search for the guy who saved him. He searched alleyway after alleyway until he came upon a broken-down mansion in the woods. Jason opened the creaky door and walked into a huge cobweb. The huge mansion was eerily silent. It appeared as if no one had been in there for years. However, Ethan was peeking out from inside one of the closets with a knife in his hand waiting for just the right moment. Jason walked around the house climbing up the stairs as the stairs creaked. The creaking of the stairs sounded almost like they were warning him to leave. Upstairs there were four bedrooms all broken down and dilapidated. Ethan had gotten out of the closet and was sneaking around behind Jason as quietly as possible. Each creek of the stairs from Jason sounded so loud to the silence that was otherwise super thick. Jason entered into one of the rooms and just then Ethan jumped out with the knife. Ethan had Jason cornered and had a knife in his hand! “I should never have saved you in the first place! You stabbed me in the back and called the police!” Ethan exclaimed with a dangerous glint of rage and anger in his eyes while pointing the knife at Jason. Jason stood there in the corner confused, scared, and unsure what to do next. “What are you talking about?!” Jason exclaimed very confused, “I never called the police.” “Sure, you didn’t. Then why were they there ten minutes after you left!” Ethan exclaimed back, shifting the knife around in his hand. He stood there staring at Jason with rage burning in his eyes. Jason stood there staring blankly at Ethan with his face as pale as a sheet. “Well? I am waiting! Where is your brilliant explanation, or your excuses?” Ethan ranted as he folded his arms and stuck the knife it in his pocket while waiting for an explanation. Jason didn’t want to let Ethan get away again and certainly didn’t want to get stabbed, so, not knowing what better to do (since he had become very impatient and scared) he rushed at Ethan and tried to take away the knife. Jason knocked Ethan down to the ground. They were rolling around on the floor fighting over the knife. “Give it to me!” Jason shouted losing his breath. “Never! I need it!” Ethan shouted back. While they rolled around Jason had finally gotten the knife in his hand, but at the same time (since Jason was on top of Ethan), the knife stuck deep into Ethan’s shoulder. “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?! I HAD THE KNIFE THE WHOLE TIME AND DIDN’T STAB YOU!” Ethan exclaimed through clenched teeth, trying not to look wimpy. “I-i-it was an accident! Ahhhh... what do I do?!” Jason exclaimed as he ran over and stared at the knife uneasily. “DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME!” Ethan exclaimed as he held the knife that was in his shoulder. He wasn’t going to pull it out since he knew better. Jason grabbed his phone and was about to call 911. “Don’t call the police! They will take me to jail since you broke your promise and called the cops!” Ethan shouted at Jason. “How many times do I have to tell you? I never called the cops!” Jason exclaimed while thinking. “Uhm... who do I call? I got it! My mom is a detective, she will know what to do!” Jason exclaimed as he phoned her. While he was calling her, he grabbed a dusty first aid kit and took out some alcohol wipes. “This is going to burn a lot, but that knife of yours looks very rusty, and that cut is deep!” Jason said as he rubbed the alcohol wipes on the wound. “AHHHH,” Ethan screamed. Jason’s mom didn’t answer the phone, so Jason called his sister Amy instead. Amy answered the phone. “Amy, I-I-I messed up big time and need you and Harmony to come help now! I was impatient and...knife...blood...help...mansion!” Was all Amy could hear over the phone as she and Harmony raced to the car and started driving there. Jason sat there in shock at all that had happened. Ethan’s shoulder was bleeding badly and had begun to hurt even worse. “What are we going to do? If you don’t mind me interrupting your peaceful relaxation time, I have a knife in my shoulder and am bleeding a lot! I kind of need your help, and kind of judging how this is all your fault maybe you should get over here and help me!” Ethan shouted at Jason. “Sure, it is partly my fault, but not fully my fault! You are the one who jumped out of nowhere with the knife in the first place!” Jason shouted back. “If you hadn’t called the cops, I wouldn’t have brought out the knife in the first place!” Ethan exclaimed. “But that’s just it! I never called the cops! The only ones who know about what happened are my sister and my girlfriend,” Jason exclaimed back. “Maybe it was one of them, I don't know, and don’t think so! But it wasn’t me!” “I guess I believe you. Now please if you don’t mind, I could use some of that gauze in the first aid kit for my shoulder,” Ethan said as calmly as anyone possibly could while having a knife stuck in their shoulder. Jason took the gauze and pressed it tightly on the wound. Ethan flinched in pain. “I guess I should be saying thank you for helping me with my wound since you could have just left me here,” Ethan said thoughtfully as he clenched his teeth due to the pain. “It is kind of my fault that you have a knife in your shoulder in the first place. I came here to thank you for saving my life and ended up hurting yours! How ironic! How is your shoulder feeling now?” “About as good as a shoulder that has a knife in it can feel!” Ethan said sarcastically. Just then, Amy and Harmony arrived. “I’ll wait in the car, I don’t like blood,” Harmony said to Amy. Amy ran inside with a stitching kit. “Are you going to fix him yourself?” Jason asked Amy full of disbelief. “Yes, I learned with Mom how to deal with situations like these,” Amy replied as she opened the kit. “How old are you?” Ethan asked judgingly. “I am 16, and if you have a problem with that let me know. But if you don’t want to end up in jail or dead from blood loss, I am your best and only option,” Amy replied boldly. “YOU ARE ONLY SIXTEEN! I am eighteen, and would never trust myself, how am I supposed to trust you?” Ethan exclaimed. “For one, I am not you, so you don’t have to worry about anything. Second, I am your best option, so let’s hurry up and get this over with. I have no pain medication, so this is going to hurt... a lot,” Amy said boldly as she grasped the knife. She then pulled out the knife. “AHHHHHHHHHhhhh!” Ethan screamed in pain as the knife was removed. Amy had to take off Ethan’s hoodie and t-shirt. Amy then used the kit and stitched up Ethan’s wound fast. Ethan lay there in indescribable pain as he tried to be brave but couldn’t take the pain anymore. “You are going to be ok, come with us to our house where we can help you get some food, water, and a soft bed to sleep on,” Jason said to Ethan. Amy and Jason helped Ethan up. Ethan went with Jason, Amy, and Harmony back to their house. They gave him soup to eat and water to drink (since he was so skinny and in desperate need of food). Amy and Jason told their mom that Ethan was a friend from school, and never told her about his wound. Nobody ever figured out who had called the police. Ethan and Jason went on to become good friends. Amy and Ethan went on to possibly become more than friends. They all decided that they would help Ethan find his parents and put an end to Maverick and his plots. But, for now, Ethan just needed a soft bed, some nice sheets, and a good night’s sleep.

Sarah wasn’t sure when she had become such a big worrier. She had always been cautious, but as she approached 30 she had to push herself harder to do anything outside of her comfort zone. It was much easier to stay home and work in the small backyard garden of her townhouse or delve into one of her many crochet projects than to put to herself out there. Sure, she went to parties and events, but not without a million doubts and hesitations running through her head first. She was usually emotionally exhausted before she even left the house. A paralegal in a family law firm, Sarah spent most of her days doing research in the secluded law library or sitting at her computer compiling information on one of the many adoption, divorce or child custody cases she worked on. She was privy to her clients’ most agonizing and their most joyful moments. In her line of work, one person’s happiness was often at the expense of someone else’s misery. Decisions had consequences, and somebody always got hurt. Outside of work, she had a few friends she met through yoga classes, some college girls she saw occasionally, and then there was Jamie, who she had known since childhood. Her best friend was everything she wasn’t - adventurous, social and confident. At least that’s how Sarah saw her. She leaned back in her kitchen chair, took a sip of coffee and opened the newspaper. There was that ad she’d been seeing every day, the one that seemed to challenge her. Get your scuba diving certification and explore the fantastic world of beauty and mystery that’s just below the water’s surface. It was one of those things that sounded both heavenly and terrifying at the same time. She could picture the peacefulness of gliding through the water weightless, the only sound her own breathing as she explored a vibrant new world. But she felt queasy at the idea of taking those first steps. What if she felt claustrophobic or panicked? Could she drown or get bitten by a shark? She wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe she would mention it to Jamie. They always talked about doing something new and different together, but it never happened. Maybe this time, they would finally take the leap. *** “Fasten your seatbelts and put your seats back in their upright position as the captain prepares for landing,” Jamie said into the microphone. She watched as rows of heads looked up from their phones and kindles at the sound of her voice. “We’ll be on the ground in 15 minutes.” She walked up and down the aisles, collecting used cups and napkins, reminding people to stow their carry-ons and making sure the cabin was ready for the descent into Baltimore, which was home for her. She thought of the leftover vegetable chili she had in the fridge, the TV shows she had recorded to binge during her three days off and, most of all, her comfortable bed. Even though Jamie travelled around the country, she didn’t feel like an adventurous person. She worked in a small and confined space, with a predictable and repetitious routine. She was responsible for keeping her passengers comfortable and safe as they flew through the atmosphere at up to 550 miles per hour. It sounded remarkable, but in truth her job wasn’t rocket science. She tended to fly to the same five or six cities, and she was usually back in time for dinner or the evening news. While the faces of the passengers changed every day, she encountered the same personalities on every flight - the flirtatious businessman, the needy older couple, the high-strung mom travelling with her kids. And that inevitability brought a comfort and security to her days that made Jamie feel content. On her days off she spent hours at the ceramics studio. Molding clay gave her the same focused feeling as being in flight. It was her passion and her therapy. She also savored spending time with her best friend Sarah. She loved hearing stories about Sarah’s law firm, a far cry from the tightly regulated world of the fuselage. She knew that Sarah admired her, but the truth was, Sarah was the one who deserved admiration. They were both guarded, but she was more open to change. Sarah was always suggesting they take exotic trips or dance lessons or volunteer to work with children in need, but Jamie could never make the commitment. She made excuses about her busy work schedule to hide her own fear and insecurity of trying something new. *** Sarah opened the paper the next morning as she sipped coffee before work, and there was that ad again. “ Get your Scuba Diving Certification in four weekend sessions and then sign up for one of our amazing trips, where you can dive, take photos and experience a once-in-a-lifetime underwater adventure. ” It was insane to think she would consider doing something like this. Last fall she had talked about taking dance lessons and the summer before she had looked into volunteering to work with disabled children, but she never followed through. She was having dinner with Jamie tonight. She vowed she would learn more about this scuba school and talk to her friend about it before she lost her nerve. *** Jamie stayed in bed until almost 10:00 Thursday morning. She normally got up early, but she was feeling down today and didn’t even want to go to the ceramics studio. She had looked forward to these three days off. She couldn’t wait to get home last night. But somehow the house felt too quiet, and she found herself longing to be back on the plane listening to the comforting buzz of conversation around her. Yesterday, a nice older man had told her all about his visit with his grandkids - and she had helped a mom settle her infant who had cried all through take off. She often thought of the people she met on her flights, but she was sure they never thought of her after they left the plane. The idea made her feel small and lonely. She dragged herself out of bed to run a few errands, and later she was meeting Sarah at their favorite Italian restaurant. That was something to look forward to. *** Sarah arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early to be sure she could grab their favorite back booth. During her down time at work, she had researched the scuba place, and printed out schedules and descriptions. She wanted Jamie to know she was serious this time - that she was ready to sign on the dotted line as long as her friend was up for it as well. She was ready to do something outside of her comfort zone ... wasn’t she? She waved when she saw Jamie headed toward the table. She noticed her friend looked tired, her eyes puffy and her hair not in the usual perfect bun she wore even when she wasn’t scheduled to work. Maybe it wasn’t the right day to talk about scuba lessons, or maybe it was the perfect day. ‘Hey girlfriend,” Sarah said as her friend approached. “Hey Sarah,” Jamie said, sliding easily into her side of the bench seat. “You okay?” Sarah eyed her friend. “Yeah, I’m just tired today. I’m not sure why.” “Maybe it’s the jetlag from travelling to Las Vegas and Denver this week. You flew across the country three times while I barely left my desk.” Their favorite waiter Tony came over and they ordered two glasses of merlot and the fried calamari appetizer they always shared. They would munch on that for a while, and then each order their favorite pasta entree. Jamie usually told Sarah stories about her trips, or the passengers she met that week, but she wasn’t in the mood. “I was in both those places, but I never saw the outside of the airport.” “Maybe not this week, but remember last week you went to that amazing new restaurant in Miami with the crew?” “It is fun to explore the places we fly to sometimes, but Sarah, my job is not as exciting as you make it out to be. Most of my days are just spent walking up and down the aisles of the plane, pouring drinks and distributing snacks. It’s my passengers who have the exciting life. I’m just helping them get to their destinations.” “That doesn’t sound much different from my job,” Sarah said. Jamie looked up at her friend, just as Tony brought over their wine. She thanked him and wrapped her fingers around the stem of her glass. “Okay, what in the world are you talking about?” “Maybe you’re just helping people as they go from one place to another, but so am I. You think my job is so important, but I spend most of the day sitting at my desk filling out papers so other people can move on with their lives. I’m living through them, following their ups and downs, but not really experiencing any of it myself. Jamie took a long sip of her wine. “But you have a graduate degree,” she finally said. “You’re incredibly smart and you work around other smart people. I help serve coffee and tea.” “And I help serve papers,” Sarah laughed. “I really like my job, and I’m good at it, but it’s not like I’m changing the world.” “Sorry to interrupt,” Tony said, putting a platter down between them. “I have your favorite, and I made sure they were extra crispy.” He winked and walked away. Jamie laughed. “We’re both really good at our jobs, but we’re also both creatures of habit.” Sarah picked up a fried ring of calamari and popped it in her mouth. “I know, but these are so good.” Jamie nodded in agreement. “Definitely, but we both need something new in our lives.” “I agree” Sarah said. “But I always worry about what could go wrong. It’s so much safer not to risk trying something new.” “And for me, it’s just familiar routines. That’s what I like about being a flight attendant. Every flight has the same tightly controlled protocols. But sometimes when I get home, I don’t know how to enjoy having free time. I seek out the same regulated life I have at work, and that’s not good.” “Maybe that’s why we never actually do any of the things we talk about,” Sarah said. “We’re each depending on the other one to say yes, but instead we both make excuses.” “I think you’re right, but what do we do about it?” “Well,” Sarah said, pulling the papers out of her handbag. “I was thinking we could do this.” “Scuba diving? You must be out of your mind. I think we need to start with something small,” Jamie said, her head still shaking as she scanned the sheets. No, I think we need to start with something big,” Sarah said. “And I can promise you, I’m more terrified than you are, but I think I’m ready to do this.” Jamie read through the sheet. “Okay, it sounds like they walk you through every step, and you practice in a swimming pool, so that’s not too bad.” “They’re not going to throw you into the ocean the first time,” Sarah said. “And when you finish, you don’t have to take one of their suggested trips unless you’re ready.” “But if we get our certifications, we really should take one of their trips. I could use my travel discounts, and we can go someplace really amazing.” “Sounds terrifying - and perfect,” Sarah said. “Which part?” Jamie asked. “All of it,” Sarah admitted. “The idea of signing up, the idea of putting a mask on my face and breathing under water, and definitely the idea of doing it in the ocean.” “So why do you want to do it then?” Jamie asked, leaning in toward her friend. “Because if I don’t, and things just go on the way they are now, I’m going to look back one day and wish I had. I’m going to be sorry I let the worry get in the way of making the most of my life. What about you? Why do you want to do it? “Hey, I haven’t said I want to yet,” Jamie said, but she looked much happier than she had just a few minutes earlier. “I guess I’m tired of feeling like my whole life is about watching other people have experiences and living my life through them. Sometimes when they share stories or photos with me, in that moment I feel so energized, but the feeling doesn’t last because I’m not the one taking the risk and putting myself out there.” “So, you’re saying you do want to sign up for scuba lessons, or at least a part of you does?” “Is this crazy?” “Yes, no -- I have no idea. But it could be fun, and whatever happens, whether we make it through the course or not, it will give us our own stories to tell.” “Okay, let’s go for it. If we can start next month, I’ll have time to adjust my schedule to make sure I’m off on Saturdays. I’m always accommodating the other crew members. I’m sure they’ll be happy to do the same for me.” “Okay, then, we’re really doing this. I’ll send you the form, and we can sign up tonight when we get home,” Sarah said. “Good idea, by tomorrow I’ll probably change my mind.” “Then definitely tonight, and we’ll still have a few weeks to get prepared.” The girls clinked glasses and made a silent promise to each other. They were going to try something new together and it was going to be fine, maybe even great. “So,” Tony interrupted, “What can I get you ladies for your main course this evening. Will it be the usual?” “No, not tonight,” Sarah said. “Can you give us a few minutes to review the menu” “But before you go, can you tell us about the specials for this evening?” Jamie asked. Tony nodded, his eyes shining. “So, we’re finally going to switch things up? That’s good. He handed them a sheet with the daily specials. “They’re all amazing, so whatever you pick, you can be sure you made a good choice.” “I guess even Tony knows you have to try something new every once in a while,” Sarah said. “Yes, I think so,” Jamie agreed. “He knows us better than I realized.” Both girls studied the menu in search of something they’d never tried before. It was a small change, but a step in the right direction.

It is 4:00 AM. I am with my demons. Because sometimes that is what you have to do. You have to lie next to it. The hurt, the heartache. Breathe it in like a lover’s perfume. Taste it like a kiss and touch it like making love. Alone, in your empty bedroom as the rain taps the window, and the yellow streetlights flicker. Alone in your tiny apartment. Among your coffee mugs and paper plates. In the crooked pictures that hang sadly on the water stained wall. In your couch-less living room with the faded blue shag carpet. Contemplation. Rolling around with the uncomfortable and scratchy things that happened to you. The shame. The guilt. The things left unsaid.... It is 4:30 AM. I cried. And my tears tapped the pillow, until they became a flood. Alone in my tiny apartment with the yellow streetlights flickering. Among my coffee mugs and paper plates. I felt the sadness wander in through the uneven hallway, towards my empty bedroom. I felt it fill the spaces between moments and breaths. I felt it overwhelm me. And then, it quietly left through the window, as I opened it to let in the smell of a new rainy morning. I’ve been told to stay away from lonely places, because they can be fresh-made bullshit, because sometimes it can be an opinion or a thought you believe to be true, when in reality, it is not. It is not the truth at all. And in these singular regions of thought, I find clarity. I dissect the emotions and feelings. I carve them away from the reasons of heartache and hurt. Peel back the layers to find the soul, the places where my demons hide. It’s an intimate process, much like foreplay, that the truth and purpose of my pain is found. Meditation. I find peace in prayer and introspection. I never stop. No matter how dark and claustrophobic things become, I keep my faith. In the early morning grey haze, when I am restless and weeping, in my reverie and rumination, the demons are met as old lovers. The sheets are pulled off the corners of the bed, it is raw, the tears come, the feelings can then be felt, the uncomfortable and scratchy things are then acknowledged, and like a secret affair, the demons slip away into the morning light and I am left alone. Naked. And at peace. There are universes that live in black holes-not galaxies-but universes. Some expand and contract, while others permit time travel. Some universes lie on top of the other like teenagers in lust. And there are those universes that come and go as they please. And my favorites are those that collide and intertwine like they cannot exist without the other. I think of universes like rattlesnakes that uncurl, geometric and precise. The Fibonacci sequence unraveling. A woman’s legs uncrossing. It’s all math, science, and our pathetic attempts at making sense of it all. On one planet in one galaxy in one universe of infinite universes we try to make ourselves so important, the most important infinitesimal speck of all the other insignificant specks. We are stardust and imperfect fractions. And it is okay to not fully understand oneself, as long as we continue to unfurl and grow. A budding rose in spring. God is in the rain that lightly comes down outside. The mischief is in the details, the numbers, and the sequences. I sip my morning coffee and ponder this, as I figure out what to wear.

You won’t often be able to get me to admit it, but I know that I’m an asshole. I know that I will probably never be able to really change, but at least I have some level of self awareness, right? I like to think that’s why at least some people are willing to put up with me. It’s not like I haven’t tried to be better. I’ve gone to seminars, tried therapy, all sorts of things. None of it really sticks. Sure, I’ve managed to calm down over the years and grow into the sort of person who can manage his own behavior to some extent, but that’s about it. It’s never been easy. I’m always just trying to maintain a poorly built façade that starts to crumble the moment I let down my guard. Underneath it all, I’m just an asshole by default. If you want to see me at my worst though, all you have to do is put me behind the wheel of a vehicle. Frankly, I’ve been told frequently by my wife, and most anyone I’ve driven anywhere, that I’m the worst kind of driver. They aren’t wrong. I cut people off, drive way too fast, and hurl obscenities out of open windows with reckless abandon. I may not have been in any more accidents than the average person, but I deny that the road is much safer when I’m not on it. I’m not proud of my behavior in any sense of the word, but that doesn’t mean I can change it either. It’s like something just comes over me, and all the worst parts of myself float their way up to the surface. I’m not exactly capable of being fully rational in the moment. I’d never drive anywhere if I could. This ugly side of myself has gotten me into trouble on the road so many times that I hardly even keep track. It’s not like I can change that part of me, so I just usually try not to think about it. Lately though, it’s been... harder than usual. That’s why I’m writing this all down, you see. I can’t really talk about it with anyone, so I thought putting pen to paper might help me get over this. You see... something happened. Something bad. \_\_\_ It started much like any other time: with some moron pulling some shit that pissed me off. This asshole just whips out of a residential street onto the main road without even stopping; in the middle of the night no less. I had to swerve to avoid plowing into the side of him. That by itself was more than enough to set me off, but the timing made things even worse. My wife had just finished laying into me about something or other, and I had decided to go to the bar to cool off. I was already as irritable as nitroglycerin and primed to detonate, and then this guy came along and started tossing sparks at me. Things were not going to end well. A better person would have simply let it go. I, on the other hand, decided to escalate things. So I started to follow the guy, disregarding all the legal trouble I could get myself into by doing so. None of the consequences really mattered to me at the time. This guy was now public enemy number one, and I wasn’t going to let him get away scot-free. I wanted him to feel threatened. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, and maybe only one fist to the jaw if he was lucky. The fact that he was driving a brand new Escalade, while I was stuck behind the wheel of my old, beaten up Ford, only added fuel to the fire. Like I said: Asshole. As time went on, the Escalade made several turns. Some of them started to seem random, and once they even looped around several blocks. I was certain that they had noticed me and knew I was following them. It was exactly what I wanted. Let em squirm. Let em piss themselves thinking that some psycho murderer is following them or something. I wanted them afraid. Hell, I was getting off on it. I was so focused on the back of their vehicle, so caught up in my own sick power-trip, that I didn’t notice that they had led me to the outskirts of town. Not until we entered the woods. The confusion I felt from this broke me out of my stupor. I glanced about, my eyes taking in the dark forest that spread out around for miles, and the lights of civilization rapidly receding into nothingness behind me. I had expected my prey to run away scared, maybe even call the police, but why drive out here? Didn’t they know that there wasn’t anyone around out here for miles? By the time I looked back towards the Escalade, it had already disappeared out of sight. Confusion quickly turned into unease. How could I have lost them on a deserted stretch of road? There wasn’t any sort of turn-off for another 10 miles, at least. There was nowhere to go! I sped up. Maybe they were around that slight curve just ahead? I didn’t realize what had happened until I saw the high-beams switch on in my rearview mirror. They must have pulled off the road somewhere without me noticing and waited for me to pass. My unease deepened, only about half a step away from fear. I didn’t like this, being followed. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so powerful anymore. Then the Escalade sped up, ramming itself into the back of my old, beat-up truck. Shocked, I struggled with the wheel, just barely managing to keep from flying off of the road and wrapping my vehicle around a tree. My heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I didn’t think and just slammed the gas pedal as far down as it would go. The three beers I’d had earlier in the night darkened the front of my pants. I was too scared to pay my sodden crotch any mind though, as I was too focused on getting away. Needless to say, driving a truck that could barely push 70 on a good day, I had absolutely no chance. All it took was one more hit to send me careening off of the road. I screamed at the top of my lungs as my truck went into a roll, and I was battered repeatedly on all sides by unyielding metal. The impact of my vehicle inevitably slamming into a tree knocked more than just the air out of me. I felt several of my bones snapping as the cab of the truck crumpled in on me. I nearly passed out from shock alone. My consciousness nearly drifted away, but the pain dragged me back to awareness. I had hit my head, and most definitely suffered a concussion, but the crash hadn’t killed me. At least not outright, anyway. Looking back on it now, the roll had likely slowed down the momentum of the vehicle enough to keep it from crushing me completely when it hit the tree. It was simply luck, more luck that I deserved really. The blood from a cut on my head dripped upward, forming a small puddle on the misshapen roof of the cab. I tried to move, but was met with only pain. I was pinned to my seat, the crumpled metal of my vehicle holding me in place, suspended upside-down. Even if I could have freed myself, I could tell it wouldn’t do me much good. It felt like I had more broken bones than intact ones at this point, and even crawling didn’t seem like it would be possible. I groaned, the act of doing so causing me even more pain. I could barely hear the sound of approaching footsteps over the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my own ears, but it was still enough to give me the burst of adrenaline I needed to focus my attention. I glanced about as best I could. I wasn’t able to see much from where I hung from the wreckage, but I was able to catch sight of the idling Escalade out of the corner of my eye. I had a guess who the approaching footsteps might belong to, and I certainly wasn’t happy about it. I struggled wildly through the pain to try and loosen myself, but it was no use. I was helpless. A face appeared in one of the broken windows. It was the face of a young man, no older than somewhere in his twenties. He had this disheveled, panicked look to him, staring wildly at me and panting heavily. His face was unwashed and unshaven, as if he had been sleeping on the street for some time. I didn’t look at his appearance much more than that though, as my attention was soon focused on what he held aloft: a large, bloody knife. Why was it bloody? He hadn’t used it on me yet. “You...” he said, his voice hoarse and dry, “How in the fuck did you *know*?” I had no idea what he was talking about. It didn’t look like he was going to give me the chance either, as he raised the knife up higher. He looked like he was aiming to stab it directly into my eye. I let out a weak squeak, my best attempt at screaming for help. Something unexpected happened then. The light of a flashlight suddenly lit the young man up from behind, startling the both of us. “Hey!” a gruff voice called out. “What in the hell is going on here?” The young man whipped around, still brandishing the knife in his hand. He hesitated for a brief fraction of a second before dashing off in the direction of the voice, letting out a shrill, wild cry as he went. Two gunshots shortly rang out in succession, cutting short the young man’s voice. Relief flooded through me as I heard the muffled thud of the young man’s body hitting the ground. My adrenaline faded away and I slipped into unconsciousness, long before I could make out any of the features of the flashlight-toting silhouette approaching the wreckage of my truck. \_\_\_ By the time I came to in the hospital a few weeks later, everything had already been resolved, and the story was the talk of the town. They’d identified the young man as a drifter who was wanted in several states for various charges including murder, kidnapping, assault, and many other, more unsavory crimes. Turns out, he had actually just attacked a family in town, killing the mother and father of the family, kidnapping their teenage daughter, and driving off in the family’s stolen vehicle. The girl was actually found in the backseat of the Escalade; drugged, tied up, but thankfully otherwise unharmed. In my case, I was very lucky. A Conservation Police officer had happened to be in the area investigating reports of a pack a wolves, when he heard the commotion of my car being run off the road and came to investigate. If he hadn’t arrived when he did, I most certainly wouldn’t be here right now. Turns out, I was being heralded as something of a hero. No one quite knew how I’d figured out that something was off, but it was clear that, if not for my “quick thinking”, that poor girl would have met a fate even worse than her parents. She even came by the hospital to thank me personally, grateful tears in her eyes. I could barely stomach it all. I was so sick with guilt, but I’m still too ashamed to tell anyone the truth. My wounds are now mostly healed, and the permanent damage is minimal. Everyone knows what happened, and I’m treated well wherever I go. Even my relationship with my wife has improved. She told me that she never knew I was so brave. That she was proud of me. It hurt to hear that. I know I don’t deserve it. Any of it. I’m not any kind of hero. I’m just a worthless asshole.

# 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! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about Genre Challenges Welcome to the off season, folks! For the next two weeks we’re going to be embracing a bit of a challenge: As an exercise in the name of fun and games shenanigans, we’re writing for an opposite of our usual genres this month. What does that mean for you, especially if you haven't been writing for Ser Sat? No sweat, just choose a genre you don't usually write in *(your choice, just pick something that's new to you).* I am going to assign a simple prompt as an idea to address. You *do not* have to use the exact phrase but as readers it should be clear to us that it’s incorporated in your story in some way. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **YOUR ASSIGNED ELEMENTS:** A genre you don't usually write in *(your choice, just pick something that's new to you),* and **“If looks could kill” /** **/ A timepiece** \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ If you wrote about movers and shakers last season, maybe this time you’re writing about powerless by-standers. If you wrote about spies or subterfuge, maybe this time you’re writing about utopian idealism. If you wrote about magic and battles, maybe it’s time for a by-the-book operation. If it was all about murder investigations for you last time, try out romance or coming of age. If you wrote about internal struggles of the heart last time, consider political drama. If you just finished a serious story, consider a comedy, like a tall tale or satire. There’s a boatload of genres and subgenres of fiction out there to explore and it can be a difficult decision to land on what someone “should” write as an opposite of their last genre, so take some time to go over a and think about what would be a challenge for *you.* \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **This challenge is open to anyone and everyone, not just those with a current serial. Jump right in, folks, the water is just fine!** **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 12/5, 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, New World Order: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Kammerice, for a perfect wrap-up for the expertly written hardboiled noir we’ve enjoyed this whole season. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/LitCityBlues, with an ending that reinforced the theme with great characterization and tone that addressed the brief with all the right notes. And two honorable mentions: /u/ChineseArtist, with a story we can’t wait to follow in the next season, and not just because we’re all in it. =P And /u/Ryter99, never failing to put a smile on our faces with the antics of the unflappable Sir Jamsen and his trusty assistant. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 850** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** 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! * 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!** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.

This story may be sensitive to anyone who has suffered a miscarriage. I remember it like it was yesterday, the future I almost had. It’s nothing compared to the future that lies in front of me, but I still mourn it. I stare at myself in the mirror, a woman ready to conquer the world, and my mind flashes to the events that led me to this moment. It was the middle of January, my senior year in high school. At home, in the bathroom, I anxiously stare at the thin, white, plastic strip, waiting to see whether or not a pink stripe will appear. A plethora of thoughts and fears race through my mind, and even with the few silver linings that come up, this is not something that I wanted or expected. “What if I am pregnant?” I think to myself. “Sure, I’m eighteen years old, but Tony is married! He would never want or be able to raise a baby with me! Also, how will I tell my mother? She doesn’t know about my relationship with him, and she would flip out if she found out that her only daughter is sleeping with a married man and she’s having his baby.” My mom knows Tony but doesn’t know about the depths of our relationship. My professional relationship with him began when I was sixteen years old. I applied for a job at a new cafe that opened in town because I wanted to earn my own money. My mother is a single parent, and I have always admired all that she’s done to take care of me, but since I became old enough to work, I wanted to help ease the financial burden on her. Tony owns the cafe, and when he interviewed me, he offered me the position almost right away. I worked with him for two years, and over the last year we’ve become really close. He even offered me a way to make extra money as babysitter to his three-year-old daughter when he and his wife wanted to go out, so I took him up on it. His wife even loved me, and I’m feeling that betrayal a lot more heavily now than I ever did. One night, we were closing the cafe together, alone, and one thing led to another. That was three months ago. And now here we are, my whole future dependent on a six-dollar piece of plastic. I wait for what feels like an hour but is actually only a few minutes, and finally time is up. I stare in disbelief. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a married man’s baby. This can’t be real. You play, you pay, girlfriend. My thoughts are snarky and not very helpful, but they’re right. This is my fault, but it’s also his. How do I tell him? Do I tell him? Or do I just go at this alone and hope for the best? I suppose I can give it up for adoption, because if I have a baby at eighteen, there goes all hopes of college. Oh no, college!! I was supposed to start Ithaca College in the fall. I was going to pick my courses over the summer, and I was going to live on campus and finally do something that no one in my family has ever accomplished. And now that’s all gone, because I can’t live on campus with a newborn. Geez, what have I done? As much as I admired all that my mother has done in raising a child on her own, I never wanted her life. Yet here I am, following in her steps. The only difference: the man she had sex with wasn’t married. Good going Grace, you idiot. My thoughts really need to shut up. Standing in the bathroom, I feel my heart rate increase, my hands start trembling, and my breathing becomes labored. “So, this is what a panic attack feels like.” I think to myself. I need to stop dwelling on this and take action, before I let the panic paralyze me. What should I do first? Tell my mom? Tell Tony? Buy another pregnancy test to confirm the results of this one? I can have another test done, but I don’t have to buy one. I’ll go to Planned Parenthood and have them check me out. Now I have a plan, I just need to put it into action. “Maybe the test was a false positive and things will actually be ok.” I pray to myself. I pick up the offending piece of plastic and the box it came in, rush downstairs, and bury them deep into the garbage can so no one will see them. Then I head out the door and walk the five blocks to my town’s Planned Parenthood. My mom won’t be home for at least an hour and a half, so I have time to do this. Less than an hour later, I walked back into my house. According to the doctor at Planned Parenthood, I am pregnant, about six or seven weeks. My due date will be somewhere between August and September, but I have to go back in a couple weeks to have the date narrowed down. I go into the kitchen and start cooking dinner for my mother and me: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. That seems like a comforting meal, which is what I need today. While I’m preparing the food, my heart sinks and my body goes numb. My mother is going to be livid. Tony will probably never speak to me again, or he’ll try to convince me to get rid of the baby. The life I had wanted for myself is no longer a possibility, and that thought is devastating. As I place the first pieces of chicken into the frying pan, I hear my mom walk through the door. She heads into the kitchen, greeting me with “Mmmm, something smells good.” and we chat about her day while I set the table and finish cooking. After we sit down and start eating, I decide that I’m not going to tell anyone about the baby yet. I’m barely two months pregnant, and I probably won’t show until I’m closer to five or six months, being chubby does have its perks. I take a bite of my chicken and silently pray that I don’t experience any morning sickness, otherwise everyone will know I’m pregnant. I stare at the beautiful lavender dress I’m wearing. It hides my expanding belly with its frilly layers, and I’m thankful that I’m still able to hide my baby bump. Time has flown by so quickly; I can’t believe that tonight is prom night. I’m even more surprised at how easy this pregnancy has been on me these last twelve weeks. Other than excessive fatigue, some weight gain, and the occasional swelling, there really hasn’t been any evidence to tip anyone off that I’m almost five months pregnant. I never even dealt with morning sickness. I’ve always been chubby, so my weight gain could easily be explained away as stress from senior year. I twirl in front of the mirror and watch as the skirt of my dress floats around me. With my hair professionally done in a half-updo with springy curls, my makeup making me look like a movie star, and my perfectly poofy dress accessorized with my modest heels, I am ready for tonight. I know I’ll probably be bare foot by the end of the night, but that’s ok. I’ll keep the shoes on for my entrance, pictures, and when I leave. The rest of the night I’ll be barefoot and pregnant. The wording of that makes me giggle to myself, even though this is no laughing matter. I hear a knock at the door, and I know it’s my date. I asked Trey, one of my best male friends, to come with me to prom. Since he’s a year younger than me, and most of his friends are seniors, I figured this would be a great way for all of us to go to prom together. I walk downstairs to open the door, being extra mindful of my heels and how easy it would be for me to trip and break my neck. I make it safely to the landing and open the door. He’s standing in front of me, extremely handsome in his tux and holding a beautiful light pink tulip corsage to go with my dress. My mother takes some pictures of us together and sends us on our way. Senior prom was everything I hoped it would be, with the exception of having Trey as my date instead of Tony. Since I found out I was pregnant, I reduced my communication with Tony to only work-related topics, and he didn’t seem to mind. He still doesn’t know that I’m pregnant, so I guess that’s all I need to know about how he feels about me. I shouldn’t be wishing that he was here with me at prom, so I’m not going to dwell on that tonight. It’s my prom, I’m here with a wonderful friend, and we look stunning. I’m going to forget about married men, babies, and ruined futures for one night and enjoy myself. The food was delicious. The music was perfect. We danced most of the night. I was right about my shoes, they came off once we started the group dances. All of our friends were there and we laughed so much during the group dances, especially the electric slide, because Trey kept turning left when he should have been going right. I couldn’t have asked for a better prom. When Trey and I decided we wanted to leave, I put my shoes back on, my swollen feet protesting against the straps. We stepped outside the venue into the night air and headed towards the concrete steps that lead to the parking lot. He offered me his arm, but I told him to go ahead and start the car and I’ll meet him there. I know I’m going to be slow going down the steps, so I don’t want him to have to wait. And this way, I’ll be able to jump into the car and take my shoes off again as soon as I get inside. Trey got a few steps ahead of me as I began to descend the stairs. I don’t know what triggered the next set of events. Maybe I was tired from all the dancing, or I was unaware of how unsteady I was with my swollen feet in heels, or the pregnancy made me lose my equilibrium, but my right foot twisted under me until I felt a painful pressure on my ankle. I tried to catch myself on the wall of concrete that runs up the side of the steps like a rail, but I couldn’t get a strong enough grip to keep myself from falling. I leaned too far to the right, then I tried to correct my balance but I overcorrected with my left foot and missed the step. My left foot kept going down the staircase as my right foot bent underneath me. I fell down the remaining steps, hitting what felt like every part of my body, and landed at the bottom on my left side. I couldn’t move due to the pain, but I heard Trey yelling my name, and screaming for someone to call an ambulance. The last thing I remembered thinking was “I shouldn’t have put my shoes back on.” Then everything went dark. I woke up in a hospital bed, my mom sitting at my side, a look of relief on her face, and some other expression. Anger? Disappointment? Is she mad that I fell down some stairs and hurt myself.? “What happened?” I asked, because it was the only thing I could think of to say that would help me determine her mood, and find out how badly I’m injured. I must be drugged up because I don’t feel a lot of pain, but my ankle is in a cast, my head feels foggy, and there’s an uncomfortable feeling in my lower abdomen. “Well,” my mother starts off, and I know this tone. She’s about to tell me something that made her angry. That tone is usually followed by me being grounded, so I wait for the bomb to drop. “You fell down the stairs last night at your prom, you broke your ankle, you have a concussion, you broke a rib, and you lost the baby you’ve been carrying for the last five months . The baby that you never told me about. The doctors weren’t aware of it either, until it was too late. If they had known sooner, they might have been able to save it.” Oh, shit. She knows about the baby. Wait, I lost the baby? A spectrum of emotions run through me, and I don’t know which one is dominant because they all seem to be equal in intensity. Fear, grief, pain (both internal and external), guilt, and...is that...relief? Relief that I’m not pregnant? Wow, I am a horrible person. I was looking forward to meeting my baby, but now that will never happen. The future I was planning, the innocent life I was excited to meet, all gone. I am equal parts devastated and relieved, and the part of me that feels relief has increased my self loathing exponentially. Even more so than when I found out that I was pregnant with a married man’s baby. A lump rises in my throat as tears fill my eyes and start streaming down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry mom. I didn’t know how to tell you, or anyone, about the baby. I was planning to tell you after I graduated, because I didn’t want you to think that having this baby meant that I wouldn’t finish high school.” “But what about college?” she asked. As an afterthought, she added “And who is the father? Is it Trey?” “I know I wouldn’t be able to attend college in the fall, but I was planning to start community college next spring, get a job, and work on my degree while taking care of the baby. It would be hard, I know, but I was prepared to do it.” I intentionally ignored the question about who the father is, because I really did not want to get into that. “ I guess it doesn’t matter now.” I say, and let the grief wash over me as I mourn the future with the baby that I already love and will never get to meet. Here I stand now, six years after that dreadful time, staring at the woman I’ve become. I remember how the doctor informed me that my baby was a girl, and when I fell down the stairs at prom, my stomach was hit with such force that it caused the placenta to rupture, and she died in the womb. Since no one knew about the baby when I arrived at the hospital, and since I was unconscious, the doctors didn’t know that she should have been their first priority. By the time they realized I was pregnant, it was too late. They aborted the lifeless baby while I was unconscious and they were attending to my other injuries. I decided to name her Adrianna Marie, and gave her my last name. Even though she’ll never be around to carry it, my baby will never have Tony’s last name attached to hers. He found out about my accident since I was unable to work for six weeks. Incidentally, he found out about the baby and one day he made a comment about how he’s “glad I’m not having it anymore”. That was when I decided to end our relationship, my employment with him, and my desire to ever sleep with a married man again. I didn’t follow my original plan to attend Ithaca College, but I did go to college. I got my four year degree, got into law school, and am finally graduating. In the mirror, I adjust my cap, zip up my gown, and head out to meet up with my fellow graduates to take our seats. During the commencement speech, I think about the future that I almost had. A future that I wasn’t expecting, but would have happily accepted. My little girl would be almost six years old now, and even though I’m sure I wouldn’t have gone to law school, I know that my life would have been full of accomplishments and love. I hear the Dean call my name, and I walk across the stage to receive my degree. As I grab the piece of paper and walk to the other side of the stage, I think to myself “Adrianna, this is for you baby girl. I hope you’re proud of your mama.” and I look out into the crowd, catching a glimpse of my mother’s smiling face...pride glimmering in her eyes.

Mark’s Drawing Sam W. Joseph March 10, 2022 The old man sat in his rocking chair staring at the television set, but not seeing it. He was unaware of the story being portrayed, as his mind was on other things. He noticed that happening more and more lately. Much of his time was spent thinking about past events. Good times, bad times, in between times. He often thought about his son Mark. He had been a good son and for the most part was a delight to have around. That is, until August 1970, when Mark came home one day and announced that he had enlisted in the Navy. They had had a big argument about it and the old man’s wife had taken Mark’s side. “He’s a grown man,” she said emphatically as she tugged on a strand of her hair. Her husband knew she did that when she was nervous. “At least we could have talked about it before he signed the papers. Viet Nam is a dangerous place and service people are getting injured and killed there every day.” “Dad, we’re talking about freedom and liberty. Those commies are looking to knock over every country in Southeast Asia. First thing you know they’ll be on our doorstep. We can’t let that happen. I just don’t feel right about other guys going over there and defending our American right to freedom and liberty and me sitting at home doing nothing,” Mark said with exasperation. “Yeah, well I raised you. Your Mom suckled you. Your country didn’t do that. Your allegiance is to this family first. I didn’t raise you to go off and get killed in some god forsaken place. Besides those Viet Cong ain’t done nothing to me.” At that time, a large segment of the American population agreed with him. There were a number of protests in cities across the country. College students were staging sit-ins and marching in the streets. American servicemen were being disrespected in their own country. Mark persisted and soon the day came for him to leave for boot camp. His Mother shed tears over his leaving and his Dad hardly said a word to him. Finally he spoke up. “Do you need anything. Do you have enough money?” “No, I’m good.” “Let us know if you need anything.” “Do you need a ride to the bus station?” He was scheduled to catch the noon Greyhound to Great Lakes Naval Station in Michigan. “No, Buddy ‘s going to stop by and take me.” “Is Cindy going to the station with you?” his Mom asked, referring to his girlfriend since high school. Everyone figured they would eventually get hitched. “No, we talked about it last night. She’s not going to the station. She’s staying at home. She’s rather upset with me. She doesn’t like my enlisting anymore than you do, but she said she’d wait for me to come back. She said she’d like to come and visit once-in-awhile, if that’s okay with you.” “Why should we mind. She’s a lovely girl and we like her a great deal. She’s welcome anytime, ” his Mom replied. His Dad looked at the wall and pointing to an empty frame, he said, “What about that sketch you’re doing of the family. Are you going to finish it while you’re gone?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “Nah, I’ll do that when I get back.” “I guess I can put up with people asking about that empty frame. I sure thought that picture would be ready by now. It’s kind of like having people asking a pregnant woman in her ninth month over and over again, when she’s going to have her baby. Okay, I’ll leave it right there until you get back. I’m not taking it down.” “I’ll finish it. I promise.” A horn honked out in the driveway. “That’s Buddy, I’ve got to go.” Mark hugged his parents, picked up his bag and was out the door. They followed him and watched as he jumped into the old Ford pickup and exchanged jibes with his friend. The truck started down the road and they waved to him until he was out of sight. Both were crying and they hugged each other, knowing now it was just them. It was the last time they would ever see him. “Are you coming in?” she asked; her shoulders drooping a little more than usual. “No, I think I’ll sit out on the porch for a bit,” he said as he sat in the old rocking chair, taking out his Meerschaum pipe and filling it with his favorite aromatic tobacco before lighting it. As he enjoyed the aroma of the pipe smoke, he could also detect the delectable swell of honeysuckle in the air. He looked out over the cornfield with stalks swaying in the breeze, their lush ears of corn showing off their lovely tassels of yellow, amber and brown. “Harvest won’t be the same this year without Mark,” he thought slowly scratching his cheek. He looked up at the beautiful blue, cloudless, Colorado sky and sighed as he wondered, “What the hell is this world coming to. You spend twenty years raising a son to live a full life and contribute to this world and the next thing you know he’s going off to war in some part of the world you’ve never heard of before.” He shrugged and suddenly, felt very tired. He tamped the burnt tobacco out of his pipe, thumping it against his palm and watched the warm ashes drift to the ground. He put the pipe in his jacket pocket and went inside. His wife was preparing supper and he noticed that she had absent- mindedly prepared the table for three people. He reminded her that Mark wouldn’t be there. She said, “I know that. Mark’s girlfriend Cindy is coming over to have supper with us. She’s off to school in New York City tomorrow and wanted to spend her last night here with us. ___________________________________ Six months later the two of them were sitting on the couch of their living room with its flowered wall paper and patterned rug, each crying softly. The Naval officer had just left after delivering the news that Mark had been killed during an explosion in a gun turret of the ship on which he was serving, the USS Reagan. Mark and other gunnery mates on his team had died instantly. ____________________________________ Returning to the present, the old man gathered his wits and decided he’d better tidy up, because his case worker was due for her weekly visit. He looked forward to it. With Mark and his wife now gone over twenty years and Cindy busy doing whatever she was doing these days, it was kind of lonely, just him and the TV. His wife Mary had left him shortly after Mark died. Her heart just broke. Cindy still stayed in touch with him after all these years but not as often as she would have liked. She remained unmarried living with the memory of her one true love, Mark. The case worker was a very friendly young woman, brown hair falling about her shoulders, blue eyed, carefully plucked eyebrows, and medium height. She wore a sleeveless blue blouse, tucked into well- fitting Levis and the latest model Saucony walking shoes. She was very good at what she did and he liked her. “Hello,” she said, as she surveyed the room. It was essentially the same as when his wife had died, twenty years earlier. He managed to keep it maintained to some degree of semblance as his meticulous wife had for so many years, but failed in many ways. She would not have approved of his efforts. They chatted for about a half hour and then the case worker prepared lunch for them. It was the best he had had since she was there the week before. After cleaning up the dishes, she asked if she could do anything more for him, as she looked around the room. She gazed at the empty frame on the wall, as she did on all her visits and asked, “Are you ever going to take that frame down?” “No, I’m leaving it up there and before you ask ‘Why?’, I’ll tell you. It reminds me of one of the stupidest mistakes I ever made. My son went off to war and his last remembrance of me was that I was angry with him. I just wish I could have one more conversation with him to tell him how much I love him. “I can understand that. We all have regrets.” With that she departed, saying, “I will see you next week”. __________________________ She arrived punctually the following week and knocked on the door. She was surprised when Cindy appeared at the door. “Oh, hi, I’m Mr. Johnson’s case worker, Judy Johannson. Can I come in.” “Yes, but I’m afraid he’s not here. He died three days ago.” “I’m so sorry to hear that he passed away. He was such a nice man. Is there anything I can do to help?” “No, I don’t think so. He had made most of the arrangements in advance so as not to bother anyone. Everything seems to be in order. I’m just tidying up a few things” They chatted for awhile longer and as Judy was standing up to leave her eyes once again turned to the empty picture frame. To her amazement, there was a beautifully done sketch of the Johnson family filling the frame. It was done with a larger profile of Mark looking down at the family from the sky. It was marvelous, and it left Judy breathless. “Where did this come from?” she asked. “I did it. Mr. Johnson never seemed to understand. He always told people that I was in New York City going to college, when actually I was at the New York Academy of Art studying for a degree in fine arts. I have a studio now in town. I was doing this sketch for Mr. Johnson to give to him as a surprise. Unfortunately, he died before I could give it to him. I thought it would be appropriate to put it in the frame. I believe Mark would have liked that. “That’s such a wonderful gesture,” Judy said. A tear ran down her cheek, as she stared at the art work. As they exited the house, she looked up at the beautiful, blue, cloudless, Colorado sky and said to Cindy, “Somehow, I feel that all three of them are up there looking down at us and nodding their heads in approval.” Driving down the road to her next appointment, Judy thought about all that she had experienced over the last six years since taking the job and the many people she had met. Every day seemed to present some new, unusual experience and what a day this had been.

Chapter 7 Science “So, what should I call you?” I thought out loud as the shadow began to uncrumple and mend the six dead wasps that I had collected over the past two days back together. “How about Sebastian? No, How about Bainu? No still doesn’t sound right how about-” I continued listing off names to myself until the wasps were ready for a test run. I looked at my tattoo and saw around a third of it was no longer glowing an assure blue, which meant a third of my spiritual currency that I had put in it was already gone. I gritted my teeth in frustration at seeing just how weak I truly was and then focused my attention on my life energy to see how much of it had recovered. My life energy was recovering faster than when I first took a chunk out of it. It made me wonder if the energy was recovering faster because I took less of it out this time causing a mild case of light headiness compared to the passing out incident at the playground. I noticed something else about my life energy that made my eyes widen at the discovery. It had grown bigger than it was a few days ago. It was not an enormous difference but, it was noticeable not only that, but it was still had not fully recovered. I commanded the wasps to fly around my room in a circle expending their energy as I thought of what this could possibly mean. I went to call for my supernatural friend remembering that I still did not have a name for it and got annoyed again. “Victor, what does it mean that my life energy is stronger than it was a few days ago?” The shadow scarlet red eyes turned to me and its shapeless form rippled, and a humanoid head began to take shape. After only a few seconds of the shadow twisting and turning it took on the shape of a young man no older than his early twenties. Its shadowy hair blew in the nonexistent wind and it smiled at me with its shadowy teeth. “Is this my new name master?” It asked in a boyish voice. “Yes, I think it shall be your new name. Do you like it?” The shadows humanoid face smiled even wider its smile threatened to meet the back of its head causing even me to be slightly disturbed. “It is a fitting name since we will be victorious and stomp on our enemy’s bones and make them cower before us.” It said in a menacing voice. Gods damn it, I thought as I remembered how squeaky and high pitched my voice was. I wish I had my dark menacing voice back. The shadow frowned for a second and looked thoughtfully and it melted back into its shapeless form and then continued to speak. “I, unfortunately, do not have an answer for you on this question. I have never been to this world before and it seems spiritual currency is made differently here by your kind then it was back in the other world.” My frustration began to flare up again annoyed at the thought of another mystery I had to solve. I looked at the barely glowing tattoo on my right palm, opened a jar, and commanded the wasps to fly back into it each one of them landing in the jar and the energy leaving their bodies. They began to crumple back up almost immediately, and I slid the jar back under my bed and decided to take a break. “Look you were bonded to me Friday night after school. Today is Sunday which means tomorrow I have to go back to school. So when we go I need you to stay out of sight, I don’t need the mortals here to react violently.” “Why, do we fear them? You are a warlock after all should we not be able to have the power to slay any mortal that dares defy us?” “In my original world mortals that had no magic, they only had steel swords, shields, and arrows they were only a nuisance to me. The mortals in this world however seem to have science as their weapon.” I started to hold an imaginary object called and pretended to point it at the door closing one eye. “They have weapons in a verity of shapes and sizes called guns that need no magic, they just point at the target a loud bang is audible and the target falls over dead.” I stopped holding the imaginary gun and went to stroke my beard out of habit and for the umpteenth time got annoyed that I no longer had one. I growled as I tried to think of a way to acquire one of the weapons for myself. The problem was I didn’t have the foggiest idea on how to even find one not only that but, I wasn’t able to go to many places without an adult to supervise me. An idea popped into my head and I grinned and turned to Victor. “Victor, do you have any contacts in the other dimensions that would allow me to speak with a mind-spirit that would be relatively safe to talk to?” Victor form twisted and turned for a few moments until he took on the shadowy appearance of an older man that looked to be in his mid-fifties. He wore spectacles and had a bushy beard with a warlock’s robe on holding a book flipping through the pages slowly. He spoke with an educated voice that had an accent that I was not familiar with and talked to me like I was his apprentice and he was my master. “There are no such spirits that are relatively safe to deal with when they are not under contract.” He said closing the book it abruptly vanishing into a puff of shadowy smoke. “But, I gather you mean to ask me if there is a way for us to summon one under the right conditions that make it less likely that you will be harmed.” “Don’t speak to me like I am a child!” I said hotly. “But you are a child,” Victor said in a jesting voice. Victor's form went back to being shapeless his red eyes meeting mine. “Yes, I can think of a couple of ways to contact a few mind-spirits that I know in a relatively safe manner. Why what are thinking about master?” I grinned at Victor as excitement began to fill my veins. “I have a plan for us to acquire a gun.

Tris cast a probing look at the entryway a few yards in front of her. To any other person, the red haze emanating from the caged lights on either side of the expansive ingress served as an eerie repellent; the chasm of darkness beyond, a dissuasion from closer inspection. Her heartbeat quickened as she took in the depth of the dark, the untouched look of the natural stone walls. Everything in her trilled in anticipation of slick palms, cool, dark depths--the familiar unknown. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?” Tris squinted against waning sunlight, at the perfect angle in the sky to at create an eclipse around a broad-shouldered human with light eyes and a worried look as he passed Tris a harness. It was packed with the silver shine of a tightly wound thermal blanket, a small flashlight, a lighter, fire starters, and other charms. “I will be absolutely fine.” Tris eyed the pack, well intentioned and completely useless. She grimaced, pushing the harness back infinitesimally and quickly turning to another human with a bright smile and her own doubts. “Tris, have you ever thought that these things might be traps set by some evil, trying to pull you away from us?” The bright smile flipped off in a moment, concerned brown eyes set earnestly in a pleasant, sun-sweetened face. “‘Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.’” Tris smiled wryly, though she hoped it came across as a comfort, rather than a chide. Tris surveyed the klatsch of people, each representing a piece of her and currently present to wish her luck in what some of them viewed as a folly and others saw as bravery--another deep dive into places few dared venture. She felt each pair of eyes on her, and, regardless of their view on her sanity, an air of morbid curiosity seeped from most of them. Their gaze was a constraint that she would be free from once she delved into the mystery beyond. The darkness beckoned to her as the babble of a brook to those seeking respite. She breathed the leaden air, closing her eyes to begin to focus on her task. To be challenged and wholly met , to be heeded and allowed to explore in her own power--each lungful of air and tick in time and space it represented cleared their judgement. Tris opened her eyes, mind clear and calm. Her skin, eyes, hair--all were radiant with light that could be felt rather than truly seen. Her footsteps were sure and unhurried, resolute, as she approached the darkness. She did not turn to see who stayed to watch. On the wall outside of the darkness, Tris took a mallet from her belt along with a peculiar screw stretching into an eyelet on one end. She efficiently clocked the top of the eyelet twice, pummeling the sharp end into the wall between two stones, then twisting to create notches that would catch the threads. She attached a carabiner with the end of a length of rope to the eyelet and made sure the rope let out smoothly from her belt as she moved into the deep. The lifeline pulled easily away from her as she fingered the edges of the sarsen inside of the cavern. The edges of the rock whispered back to her in a solemn tone, wholly unintelligible. Further down the dark, rocks pattered onto the pathway. The walls of the cave changed from the natural, though wind-polished, stone to sharp, rough earth in a matter of minutes. The solidity of the ground changed as well, the clay floor sliding to limestone half steps as the walls closed in subtly around her. Tris stomped in some places, lips upturning as the floor gave way and she slid feet, sometimes yards, into the depths. She bent to the shape of the cairn, the walls and ceiling now twisting irregularly to produce odd and narrow spaces in the stone. The quiet pressed in on her ears until it wasn’t silence any longer. The rocks held voices like before, all at once dissonant and too quiet to understand, but perfectly evident nonetheless. Tris’ pace quickened as she realized she could understand more with each step deeper into the depths hidden by stone. Ahead of her, small stones pattered into the pathway. “What are you?” The words slipped from Tris’ mouth faster than her mind could stop her. “Fire and flame. And what are you?” The rich voice emanated from the same rocks around her. “Careful and sure.” Her words again came unbidden. “Are you sure?” She bit her lip, wryly noting that her hesitance negated her answer. She stared at her surroundings, focusing with extra caution on a small fissure at her feet. She stepped carefully through the narrow openings, placing her feet with delicate assuredness. A sure wrong step in this tight place could be better than one placed without confidence. One small decision could be the difference between fates. “I know what you are.” The deep voice came stronger from the rock. “Am I... careful? Sure? That’s what I’ve said, anyway.” “No. You are stubborn, calculating. You are a shrew, digging deep into places that ought not be delved.” “Hmm, no. But I implore you to try again.” Tris smiled through her words, the presence of the darkness pressing close, exploring her shape even as she contorted again to make her way through a large gouge in the stone. The voice spoke again, but far off, and Tris quickened her pace to catch the words in their energy, “...to... me.” “Let me ask a question...” Tris’ voice echoed in a larger chamber, startling herself. “Anything.” The voice breathed back gently. “Tell me who you are?” “I am impulsive and aggressive. I am self-serving.” The low voice spoke matter-of-factly. “Yet you’re... dependable. Expressive. Kind?” Tris matched the energy. The energy settled into a companionable silence. “I can shape what you are.” The deep voice emanated once more from in front of Tris, far enough away to quicken her steps once again. Tris shook her head, “Only should I choose.” She ducked into a smaller space, then inched her way through a tube to hear the even voice. The line on her belt tugged at her impatiently as she moved from the tight tube to the next small path. Tris sighed, untying the next bit of line to connect to the current one and back to the carabiner at her hip. She could hear the voice ahead of her, softly. “I’m retying my line,” Tris called to the... What am I talking to again? The light around Tris’ body dimmed as she tied off the line back to her carabiner. A deeper darkness crept across Tris’ boots as she slid her body through the slight openings in rocks. She breathed heavier than she had been. “You’re slow. Are you going to give up?” The voice observed and asked without inflection. “Hell no. I have to prove them wrong.” Tris stumbled over a low ledge in the stone floor. Her hands groped at imaginary supports as she tipped forward onto the hard, jagged floor of an open cavern. Tris hissed, pushing onto her butt, and touching her knees and shins where they smarted. Cool liquid from hot skin lubricated her fingertips. Tris stared into the darkness, eyes wide shut against the expansive room and the being across from her. The being glowed in infrared, red under black, like cooling lava, and flowed outward, darkness engulfing darkness as it perceived Tris’ presence. Small rocks pattered onto the stone floor. Tris’ eyes had yet to adjust to the change in their lighting, and she sat utterly blind in the darkness as she sifted through supplies at her waist by touch. She touched the nylon of the small first aid kit, tugging at the zipper, before she felt the distinctive edge of the carabiner she used for her lifeline holding it firmly in place. She unhitched the carabiner, momentarily setting it beside her, before sifting through the small nylon pouch for gauze and a Neosporin packet. “I know what you are.” Tris froze as she noted the difference in the origin of the voice. This time, the voice was much closer and tinged with something Tris was having trouble placing. “And I have told you what I am. It’s my turn.” The voice whispered through the air next to Tris’ ear, sending a shiver down her spine. She heard a slight scraping noise at her side. “Your turn? For what?” Tris whispered back, the second darkness creeping up her collarbone and closing around her throat. “More.” The voice sounded from behind her, back where she had tripped against the ridge in the floor. Tris placed her hand at her side to grab the carabiner and started. She moved her hand back and forth over the space next to her for a moment before she realized what she had heard as the voice had passed her. Her throat was tight as she jumped to her feet and spun. “No!” Her voice was too loud, echoing around the cavern. Then the sound morphed. A deafening noise rent the air as the pathway collapsed, sending a whoosh of air into Tris’ face. Tris felt the patter of several small rocks against her legs as the debris settled in front of her. All at once, the voices of doubt and caution of the gaggle echoed through the cavern, taunting as they matched the final reverberations from the fallen rocks. Tris stilled with the ebb of the sound, until the blackness around her and the silence within her threatened to do away with her completely. Another moment, and the pitch shifted. "No." She set her jaw and moved forward, slowly climbing a mound of rubble from the pathway’s roof. She began to silently unpack the stones.

“Come on Jen, the holiday is almost over by now!” Brad jeers out from the front of the van. “Give me a second, doofus,” I yell back, as I finish locking up my house. “I’m going now!” He pretends to drive off, as I lug my suitcase over to the van. “Very funny,” I say to him, and Micky helps me put all of my luggage in the boot. I smile gratefully at him. “Thanks M.” “You’re very welcome.” He treats me to a dazzling smile, as he opens the door for me to clamber in. “Just ignore Brad - he’s had far too much air already.” “We’re going on holiday!” Brad revs the engine, and then, without warning, drives off down the road. I look at everyone in the back of the van. Micky takes his seat right at the back, by himself, whilst Ella and Stephanie (or Steph, as she likes to be called) sit just a row in front of him. Ella gives me a small wave, whilst Steph jumps up and envelopes me in a warm embrace. “Lovely to see you,” she says to me, and draws back. Her thick, Scottish accent is really prominent now. “It’s been ages!” “Well, if you hadn’t been gallivanting around Scotland, I might have seen a bit more of you,” I tease, and she playfully hits me on the arm. I navigate around the luggage, which lies abandoned in the centre of the van, whilst Steph returns to her seat. I take my place next to Micky, who gives me a perky nudge. “Everyone ready?” Brad eyes us all in the mirror, as we reach the end of my road. Everyone hollers at the back of the van, and Brad grins at us. “Then let’s go!” We head onto the highway, and set off for our holiday. Brad swerves dangerously around cars, us clinging to our seats as we laugh through the journey. We have been planning this holiday for ages now - almost 7 months. After we left university, we vowed we would see each other often, not wanting the fantastic memories we made to fade into oblivion. However, once all of us got stuck into our jobs, none of us ever had corresponding schedules. I am currently a journalist - or trying to be. At the moment, I fetch coffee and page people, so not exactly living my best life yet. My dream is to be a news reporter on live TV, but there is still a long way to go before that. Ella has always been the most determined and sophisticated out of all of us, and is studying to be a scientist. Stephanie has a flair for cooking, so she’s aiming to be the best chef out there; and judging by the food she produces in the Michelin star restaurant she works at, it won’t be long before a food critic snatches her up and helps her start her own one. Then there’s Brad, who has simply no idea what he wants to do next. He barely made it through university, and we spent many sleepless and soul-destroying nights trying to teach him all the content in as minimal time as possible. Suffice to say, we were all flabbergasted (albeit, extremely pleased) when he passed. As for Micky... I’m not too sure what he’s moving onto next. He’s always been a very introverted soul, and doesn’t open his mouth much. Well, except to me. “I want to know what he’s taking,” Micky whispers to me, nodding at Brad, who is admiring himself in the reflection of his mirror. We are cruising along at a considerable speed, as the sun blazes down, hitting the roof. Windows rolled all the way down, a light breeze flutters in and out of the van, and it dances around all of us. I waggle my eyebrows at Micky. “Whatever he has, I want some,” I reply back to him, capturing a bit of fluff that soars through the window. “And I want vats of it.” “Hey, you need to share!” He says to me, and he digs me in the ribs playfully. “What you got there, J?” “It’s a fairy!” I unclench my hands, and show him the soft, white ball that is enclosed in them. “You make a wish on them, and then blow, and your wish will come true!” “I don’t believe in that magic nonsense,” Micky says to me. Another fairy floats in, and he catches it nonetheless. “But, I guess there’s no harm in trying it out. You go first.” I do as he instructs. I clasp the fairy carefully in my hands, and shut my eyes tightly. A million hopes and wishes blast through my mind, but eventually, I find one to settle on. I say it in my head, and blow the fairy out of the window. “Your turn.” “You’ll have to wait now; you took so long, my fairy went to sleep.” “Don’t be silly,” I roll my eyes at him, watching as he pulls the fairy close to his chest. He places it near his heart, and concentrates with all of his being. His cheeks are flushed with excitement - I wonder whether he’s nervous from talking to me, or if I’m just imagining it - and he has a soft smile on his face as he opens his eyes. He blows the fairy away, just like I did, and shoos it out of the van. “All done. I hope it comes true.” “I hope it does too. What did you wish for?” He tuts at me. “Don’t you know anything about magic? If I tell you, it won’t come true!” “Alright, Master of Magic, I won’t ask again,” I laugh at him, and we end up rolling about hysterically on our seats. The afternoon flies by, and by the time we reach our destination, everyone is asleep. Crazily, Brad is also included in that statement. I wake to the sound of the tires screeching, as he pulls out from behind a car he was unknowingly crawling behind. Ella thumps him around the head. “You could have killed us, chump!” She huffs, and at least he has the decency to look concerned. “Keep your bloody eyes on the road.” “Yes, mum.” He winks at me in the mirror, and I give him a smile. I turn my head to see Micky’s resting on my lap. He’s snoring peacefully, and although his chin is coated with dribble, he does look adorable. I brush a strand of hair from his forehead, which causes him to stir. He lifts his head up, notices me, and begins to grin from ear to ear. “Are we almost there? How long have I been asleep for?” “Yep, we’re just arriving now. And I don’t know; I also took a nap. But at least I didn’t drool all over your jeans.” I point out the wet patch on my knee, and he gasps. With his hair tousled from his sleep, he looks as if he hasn’t showered for days. He cradles his head in his hands. “Oh God, I’m so sorry, J.” He grabs a tissue from his pocket, and wipes at the stain, but alas, it doesn’t help at all. I place my hand on his, and give him a reassuring smile. “Don’t be silly, it’s okay,” I grab my handbag as Brad parks up at our holiday destination. “Just remember, it’s not normal for you to drool all over girl’s jeans - at least, not on the first date.” “Oh is that what this is? A first date?” He raises an eyebrow at me, and I can slowly feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “I mean, I wouldn’t say no to a first date with you.” I mumble, and twiddle my thumbs, suddenly interested in the wooden flooring that adorns the van. “But I wouldn’t say this is a first date either. We’re just in a van, that’s all.” “That’s true.” He sucks in his tongue, and rubs at his eyes. He clasps his hands together, and then unclasps them. Whilst the others leap out the van with their luggage, me and Micky remain in the backseat, awkwardly sitting next to each other. Micky inhales deeply, and sits forward to face me better. “So, hypothetically, if I was to ask you on a first date, right now, what would your answer be?” “Well, hypothetically,” I answer, my breath taken away by the butterflies in my stomach, “I think you should probably ask, and then you’ll find out.” He nods. “Jenny Feather,” he looks me up and down with his hazelnut eyes, flecked with little spots of grey - unusual, but very pretty. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” “I’d love to!” I answer immediately, almost too ecstatically. He laughs, relieved by my answer, and my eagerness to meet up with him. “Thank God,” he says, “I guess that’s my wish complete.” “What? Really? You wished for that?” I ask him, and by the nervous look on his face, as well as the twinkle in his eye, I can confirm the answer. I beam at him, feeling my temperature rising to be hotter than the sun. “Well I wished for a kiss from you.” “Really?” Breath knocked out of him, Micky mulls over his thoughts, and then flashes his pearly smile at me. “Oh no! You told me, so it may not come true...” “But it still might!” I hint at him, and he lips his lips nervously. “So, shall we make your wish come true?” “I think we should,” I tell him innocently, but as he moves closer, the door to the van opens. “Come on lovebirds: the villa is ours!” Brad shouts at us, waggling the keys at us. He grabs my luggage, and throws it towards our holiday house. Micky shakes his head, and shrugs at me. “I guess your wish will have to wait for a little while longer.” “I guess so. Promise you’ll make it come true though?” “Promise.” He holds his pinkie out solemnly, and I follow with mine. We share a knowing look, one that sends ribbons of joy through my body. We bundle out of the van, excited for the new experiences we are about to have, and for the romances that have yet to occur.

I can't believe he's gone, Jolene thought as she sat down on the outside porch for her morning tea. Keith was the love of her life and in an instant that life was taken from her. They were together for six years. Sitting down for morning tea and talking about their future together was their favourite past time. As she sipped her warm chamomile tea she was thinking about their life together while a single tear was released from her eye. Jolene just couldn't believe how it happened. Keith was out of town for work. He worked in construction. He went wherever he was needed. He was staying in a cabin two hours outside of the city. There were four other men staying in the cabin with him. The story that Jolene heard from the other construction workers is that Keith was sleeping. Another worker put a pot of oil on the stove to cook some french fries and then went outside for a cigarette. The pot caught fire and the whole cabin went up so fast. They didn't have time to get back in the cabin to get Keith out. Keith was the only one caught in the fire. Jolene was so mad at the whole situation. Keith was just sleeping and he was the only one that lost his life. I'm never going to see him again, she thought. I'm never going to sleep next to him again. I'm never going to even have another fight with him. I'm never going to hear his voice again. "I never left you". "Huh", Jolene jumped. "Who's there?" Suddenly, a feeling of calm came over her. Her hand started to tingle. All of a sudden she had the over whelming feeling that Keith was with her in that moment. "Keith, is that you?" "Yes, my love! I have never left you. I never will." Jolene looked at the empty chair to her left. Slowly Keith's aura started to appear. He was smiling and holding her hand. "You are so beautiful, my love!" Jolene just started to sob. She wanted to hold him so close but she knew that she couldn't. "Honey, why did you leave me? I miss you so much, I have never felt this much pain before." "Oh Jolene," Keith exclaimed, "you know I didn't want to leave you. Things happen for a reason. I love you so, so much. You know that. I never would have left, if I had a choice." "I have been with you this entire time. I know you have been struggling and you have been in a lot of pain. That is why I am here. I have been granted this short time to appear to you, just this once, so you can have some closure." "No, Keith!" Jolene yelped. "Not short! Not once! Please stay." "You know I can't. Let's just sit here for a little while and enjoy each other's company. Like we used to. They continued to sit and talk for the next two hours talking about the life they had together. Keith was even able to get Jolene to laugh a few times. Jolene was enjoying the morning so much that she was starting to forget that Keith wasn't truly there with her, and that he was going to have to leave soon. After talking for two hours Keith realized that he was going to have to leave and he wanted to help her ease some of her pain. "Jolene, my love! Please know that I didn't suffer in those last moments!" Jolene let out an enormous sigh of relief. "That is one of the things that has had me so worried. I thought you went through so much pain when you died." "No, not at all. I didn't feel it at all. I was sleeping and just didn't wake up. It was just the smoke." "Well, I guess that's a little comforting to know at least." Jolene said. "What about now though? Are you in any pain?Are you at peace?" Keith smirked at her. "I told you I haven't left you, I meant that. To be with you everyday is the best thing ever. I am so happy. "I just wish I could be with you everyday." Jolene frowned. "I know you do, my love. But just remember, I'm always with you. When you are sitting out here drinking your chamomile tea every morning, I'm with you. Just look at this chair and you will know that I am sitting here with with you. You can talk to me. You might not hear my answers, but I will definitely hear what you say to me." "I will talk to you every day then." "You can talk to me about your good days and your bad days. Tell me funny stories that make you laugh. I love watching you laugh. You are so beautiful when you are just in the moment and laughing without a care in the world." "Jolene, um, when you're ready I don't want you to hesitate to move on either." "What do you mean? There is no one else for me." "Right now, maybe not, but I don't want you living a lonely life either. I know you won't be ready for a long time, but eventually, please think about finding someone else. Even just a friend for companionship. I don't want you to be all alone. That's not healthy for anyone." Jolene was feeling very uncomfortable and looking at the ground now. "I'll think about it." "That's all I ask. I think It's time that I go now, my love." Jolene's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Oh, okay. I love you so much, Keith." "I love you too. Forever and always." Keith stood to stand in front of Jolene. He bent down to give her a kiss on the lips. It didn't feel like a normal kiss though. She just felt a slight tingle on the tip of her lips. She will remember that feeling forever. When he stood he said "remember, I will always be with you," and with that, he was gone. Jolene took a few moments to cry and remember the last few hours. Once she composed herself she stood to bring her tea cup in the house, she had a smile on her face now. She couldn't wait for her morning tea tomorrow.

OH goodness me! how in the sweet heavens did you manage to even get up here?.. that sounds incredibly reckless. I'm not quite sure what you planned on gaining by ending up here but kudos to you. I’ll chock it up to being so tiny and I bet the lack of fur and scales helped with your efforts. It is quite nice to have someone show up even someone of your species, since I haven't seen another soul of any kind in well over a thousand years... You want information? Well I assume i could tell the story of how we both got here, you deserve it after managing to travel this far. Let me think, well i remember how you all used to look, still so young and you were covered in so much fur. Now you're building quaint little stone huts and starting the foundations of a real city. When i look back now, it makes me so proud to have supported all of that. Even with your company I cant hide the fact that I will always miss the others, it would at least be nice to get some sort of message from them through my crystal globe. I wish we would've added more globes to this room so I could gaze upon more than one planet and see all the other chosen species grow. Though, I suppose after being atmosphere locked here by my family I don't deserve little luxuries. When I was younger I definitely pushed too many things for it to be ethical. They are part of the reason you are what you are now. A little over a thousand years ago when I first showed up here, we were here to set up a base on this planet for the soul purpose of assisting a designated life form to become fully sentient and intelligent enough to eventually increase the population out in space so that more technology could be traded and that creativity could be pushed further. There was supposed to be a different species that we were going to assist but my meddling changed the plans. There were four others besides me when we first came here. The units we travel in are always composed of our siblings, this would allow for easier communication between planetary leaps since the dead of space doesn't let sound travel. I'm sure your species will figure out your own method when you're old enough. Having siblings also allows us to leave our parents at an earlier age since we will already have that established support system, which would take way too long and cause more problems than necessary if we had to do that with other Nogards, we only have 5,000 years to travel the universe after all. One of the members was my older brother, Galax. I think I miss him the most. He had to have been the most creative nogardian to ever exist. Then there are my 3 sisters; Stratia, Sapphora, and Luna. I believe they were the main ones to plan out my imprisonment here, if my sisters are any indication of what the rest of my clan are like then females are more intelligent than any male could ever be, almost to an evil conniving degree. Hmm? you appear to be hungry.

‘Humans are smart,’ his Mama had said. Between the gentle embrace of her teeth, neck prickling with heat as she carried him by the scruff, she had spoke that wisdom into his skin. Muzzle held high even as she had limped her way into their home, leaving bloody prints in the shape of her paws. ‘They are crafty’, she had continued, softly laying him on the cave floor, ‘Cautious and paranoid. *Dangerous*.’ Then she had lowered herself to the ground with a groan, leaning on her side. Stretched out her hind leg to inspect the wound there, fur matted and tinged with red. Licked at the side of his face when he had shrunk back and whimpered, eyes wide at the sight of her blood. ‘Don’t cry, little one. Take this as a lesson,’ she had whispered, slowly rubbing her neck into the space between his ears, ‘You may not have weapons like they do, but you have your *mind*. You have to be smarter than they are. Slyer. More cunning. Promise for me, son. Promise me that you will.’ ‘I promise, Mama,’ he had shakingly said, ‘I *promise*.’ And she had *smiled*, muzzle pulling back from her pretty teeth, eyes glazed. He had tucked himself against her chest, more terrified than he had ever been in his life. She hadn’t made it through the night. From then on, he had hardened. Adapted. *Survived*. Learned how to protect himself against the humans, how to keep himself fed. Knows which ones to go after and which ones to leave. Teaches himself to be wary. So, when he sees the little child in the red hood, he doesn’t immediately go after it. He stalks and waits and watches, hides behind trees and foliage. Eyes alert and ears flicking to catch any sounds. (Human children are inherently naive, he has learned. Clumsy too, struggling to walk when pups are already hunting on their own, helping out the pack. Their easy targets when they are solitary but it’s rare that they ever are. Almost always surrounded by the others in their pack. Not so different in that regard, he thinks wryly.) But, this child is well and truly *alone*. Humming to itself as it skips its way through the winding path, a basket held in its hand. It’s unaware and it’s careless. When it stops to talk to a squirrel that had happened to walk into its path, he thinks, *this is the one, this is it*. When it stops again to sniff some flowers, he makes himself known. Slinks out from between the leaves of a bush and watches as the child jumps back, blinking owlishly at him. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, keeps his jaw loose and his tongue heavy, his maw feeling foreign like it always does when he speaks the human’s language, “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just saw you walking here and wanted to say hello.” The child tilts its head before it smiles, jittery sounds coming from its mouth that he figures is laughter. It boldly walks up to him and lays its hand on his head, rubbing it. He fights the urge to snap at its fingers. “That’s okay, Mr. Wolf!” it says, patting his head before returning its arm back to its side, “It’s very nice to meetcha! My name’s Red, what’s yours?” He slowly wags his tail in a show of contentment, wiggling his ears in a way that has the child laughing again. He doesn’t try to smile as it tends to have the opposite effect on humans. “Red? What a peculiar name,” he replies, keeps his voice soft and light, “Though, I suppose, I’m not one to talk as I have no name. You may call me whatever you like.” The child brings its hands to its stretched cheeks, rocking on its feet. “I’ll stick with Mr. Wolf then!” it says, raising its arms like it just accomplished something, “Also, Red isn’t my real name, silly! It’s just what people call me.” It lifts its shoulders in a jerky movement that he still hasn’t found the exact meaning of. The child is still smiling so it mustn’t be bad. “Well, Red, may I ask what you are doing out here?” he questions, slightly tilting his head down to peer at her with wide eyes. “I’m here to see my granny, she lives just down this path, near the brook,” it says, “She’s sick and I brought some food to make her better!” It raises the basket up to his snout but he pays no attention to it, mind already working. (Granny means grandmother, he remembers. An elderly human, female; usually weak. And this one happens to be *ill*. If he plays this right, he can have more than what he had aimed for. He could have a feast like one he hasn’t had for *years*.) He has to fight down the pleased growl that crawls up his throat. “That’s a *shame*. I *truly* hope she gets better,” he says, flatting his ears and hunching his body in an appropriate fashion, “I wish there was someway I can help- Ah!” The child jumps at his exclamation, circling its arms. “I just remembered!” he continues, eyes glittering, “There’s a flower back from where you came, small and with blue petals. It soothes muscle aches and sores, if you eat it.” And the child looks at him with its mouth wide open, teeth displayed. Its hands are pressed together in front of its face. “*Really*?” it says, and he bobs his head up and down in a way he’s seen humans do a million times over; the child smiles big in response, “Thank you, *thank you* Mr. Wolf! I’m gonna go look for it right now!” It runs down the path, red cloak billowing around it and he finally allows himself to smile. He stalks up the road in the opposite direction, tail wagging softly behind him. He thinks he quite likes the name Mr. Wolf.

When Adelaide thought about how her day would be going, going down a canyon in a popped blimp that is currently on fire was not what she had in mind. The yellow snakes on her head hissed wildly as she felt the scorching heat on her skin. Of course she was going to get a faulty blimp! Just when she was going to get the most interesting story! No one in the city ever treated a gorgon with their utmost respect and concern. Let alone, a gorgon who is also a journalist. I am not dying like this! She thought fiercely. The blimp was being pulled by five pegasi. That was her only option for escape. She hitched up her skirt, gathered it, and tied it in a knot that hung by her knee. Her older sister had taught her how to do that a while back. She didn’t do it too often because her mother said it was “unlady-like.” She climbed onto the edge and without hesitation, jumped. She landed on the nearest pegasi and cut the ropes. The rest of the pegasi flew freely. Adelaide tried to steady the one she was on. It was a pretty navy one with a white stripe on its face. She had never even flown a horse before. Just as she predicted, she and the pegasus crashed into the river below. Adelaide crawled onto the riverbank, coughing and sputtering. She laid down on the soft red sand, looking up at the sky. She heard a fierce neighing and turned her head. The navy pegasus was trying and failing to fly. She stood up and untied her skirt. The pegasus whinnied in defeat. Adelaide neared the pegasus carefully. The winged creature snorted at her. She leapt back, but regained her courage and neared closer. The pegasus calmed down, and bowed its head letting Adelaide pet him. Adelaide’s snakes neared the horse in curiosity. She brushed them aside and looked at the pegasus’s wings. One of them was scorched. “I’m sorry about your wing...” she apologized quietly. The pegasus blinked. “Do you mind if I call you Midnight? You look like a Midnight.” she told him. Midnight bowed his head lower. “I think we need to find civilization. Or at least shelter for the night. I think the most logical thing to do is to travel home. First, we need to help your wing.” she informed Midnight. Adelaide looked around. She smiled when she found a cactus-like plant with blue tips. She took part of it and rubbed it on Midnight’s wing. “Nix Aloe Vera. Helps any burn no matter the degrees. Learned that trick from interviewing a medicine-woman.” she said proudly. Midnight relaxed. Adelaide took what was left of the reins and led him through the canyon. The wind blew across Adelaide's face. She heard a faint sound of a harmonica playing in the distance. She led Midnight towards the sound. She came across an old hut with an old human couple. The man played the harmonica and had a large torn-up hat. The lady was quickly knitting a scarf that had skeletons decorated into it. Adelaide cleared her throat. “Um... Excuse me... Do you know where the nearest town is?” she asked. The old man stopped playing his harmonica and mumbled something about corn syrup. “I beg your pardon?” Adelaide asked. The lady shrugged. Black shawl rustling. “He’s sayin’ there's a town a few miles up the river. You’ll get there sweetie.” she replied without looking up. Adelaide nodded, surprised that they didn’t even look disgusted by her appearance. “Thank you. What’s the name of the town?” She asked. “Jackalope, sweetie.” “Thank you.” Adelaide and Midnight walked through the canyon for several hours. Jackalope. Why did that sound familiar? The sun felt scorching. Adelaide feet dragged against the dirt. Thoughts about the town’s name buzzed around her head. Then she saw a grove of trees in the distance. Her face lit up. Usually in the desert, when there is a random grove of trees, that means someone planted them there. Her feet quickened. Sure enough, a faded wooden sign sat just a few feet in front of the grove. Jackalope. The town of Jackalope was fairly small. There were a few houses, an inn, and an old church. Adelaide found it a little off that there wasn’t a post office or even a library. It must have been a new settlement. What bothered me even more was the fact that there was not a person in sight. Just a lot of Jackalopes. They moved away when they saw her. A gust of wind flew through the trees. She began to feel uneasy. “Salutations.” said a small voice. Adelaide whipped around. It was a young girl with the complexion and ears of a deer. She even had white freckles dotting her cheeks. She looked to be about five years of age, which is why it surprised Adelaide that she knew a large word. “Um... Hello.” she replied. “You are exotic-looking. You must be a stranger.” said the deer-girl. Adelaide looked around to see where the girl’s parents were. “Y-yes. I’m trying to get home. My blimp crashed. I was supposed to interview someone.” she told her. The deer-girl put her hand on the ground. “May I ask who you are interviewing?” she asked. Orange flowers started to appear around the deer-girl’s fingers. Adelaide backed away. Magic. “It w-was a man... who disappeared for ten years... claimed to have stayed at a strange inn...in a strange town...” she continued warily. The deer-girl nodded. She pulled out a piece of chalk. “Can you write your name please?” She asked. With a shaking hand, Adelaide took the chalk. She knew she was being silly. After all, what could a piece of chalk do? She started writing. A. A wooden floor appeared under her. Adelaide gasped. “Go on.” the deer-girl assured her. Adelaide felt like she had to keep going. D. Framing appeared around the wooden floor. E. The wooden frame was covered in white walls. L. Wallpaper appeared. The wall paper was a navy blue with stars and yellow snakes on it. A. The ceiling appeared. A large dome with stars. I. From the ceiling came a circular chandelier. D. Shelves full of desks started to appear. E. A large desk appeared at the edge of the library. Adelaide felt herself growing dizzy. “Thank you for the library Adelaide.” the deer-girl chirped. Everything went black. “Over here! There she is!” yelled a voice. Adelaide opened her eyes. Midnight nuzzled one of her snakes. She saw the blimp on fire. The piece of chalk was in her hands. Adelaide closed her eyes again, and drifted off to sleep. When she woke up, she was in a soft white bed in a room of bustling nurses. A woman with yellow snakes on her head sat in front of her. Her sister. “Adelaide! We thought we lost you! You were asleep for three weeks! The doctor was about to declare you dead! Thank goodness gorgons are hearty!” her sister cried. Adelaide blinked. Could it all have been a dream? Then an elven man walked in. “Telegram for Adelaide!” he announced. “From who?” her sister asked. “I don’t know. It’s anonymous.” Adelaide took the telegram. A shiver ran down her spine. Adelaide’s library. Town of Jackalope. That was all that was said. Her sister looked at it. “Isn’t that the town the missing man was talking about in your letter?” she asked. Adelaide could only stare at the telegram. Jackalope. Adelaide.

**To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Happy Birthday! I know it's been a long time but I wanted to say Happy Birthday! I don't know why you stopped talking to me, and sometimes it makes me furious but well... I still wanted to say happy 21st. I’m doing well, in case you are wondering. I’ve moved out of my parents place into a share house near the city. I’m still working at Lone Steaks, it sucks I know but it pays the bills. I am thinking about heading to uni next year. Maybe take a course in theater production or music or something. My Dad still thinks I should go into dentistry like him. But I mean yuck right? Who wants to spend all day with their hands in other peoples gross mouths. Plus who wants to spend that long at uni? I’d be like 25 or something by the time I finished. And even then I’d only just be starting out. I don’t know... All I know is I want to travel. Like we used to talk about. I miss you. I miss us hanging out and acting like idiots. I wanted you to know that. To know that I miss you and that if you would let me I would forgive you. Tracey:) **03-12-2011** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me? I don’t get it and it’s bullshit. How can you go from being someone’s best friend and always hanging out to BAM disappearing. Like WTF what happened? Please just email me back! Or better yet CALL ME! I want to be friends again OK? **21-06-2012** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Hey, I know it’s been ages. And I still don’t get why you wont talk to me. But I figure fuck it. You don’t have to talk to me for me to talk to you. I heard from a little birdie that you moved to Sydney for uni. CONGRATULATIONS! I would love to have said goodbye to you in person but I suppose you didn’t want that. So here I am saying goodbye to you via email! GOODBYE! HAVE A GREAT TIME! Don’t forget about us up here. I still think about you all the time you know. I hear songs on the radio that we used to jam to and it tears me up inside. Part of me is so happy because of the great times we had, but then part of me is just burns because you won’t talk to me. Because you aren’t here. Please Lucas, just send me a message. Anything! Tell me you hate me and never want to speak to me again if you want! I don’t care. All I want is to understand. Is it because of George? I don’t even speak to him any more! And nothing ever even happened! Look, please just call me. I want to talk this all out. My parents still ask about you. My Mum is always like “Trace, why doesn’t Lucas come around any more?” I don’t know what to tell her. What should I tell my Mum Lucas? I miss you. Your old friend Tracey **05-10-2012** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Hey M8, Well happy birthday again. I suppose we will probably never talk again. I don’t care Im going to keep sending these. It’s only fair! If I still have to dream about you then you have to hear from me. I had a dream the other night about the day we spent down near the creek. When we made boats out of bits of tree bark and then raced them. You named yours the Capt Price after that game you were obsessed with and I call mine the SS Ess because I’m hilarious. Remember who won? Yeah that’s right the SS Ess, because S stands for Speed! Actually I'm pretty sure you still owe me a donut from that day. A bets a bet and you lost mate. Probably time for you to pay up right? I suppose that’s probably a donut I’m going to have to buy myself. I hope you are having a great time at uni. Happy Birthday again. From some silly girl you used to know. **10-10-2012** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, I miss you. I really fucking miss you. I don’t care about whatever this is about. Please just call me. **14-01-2013** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** I GOT IN! I know you don’t care but I got in to UNI! Not dentistry like dad wants. I'm going to do a Bachelor of Music at ANU! That’s right in Canberra! That means that as soon as you want to be friends again I will be only a short train ride away. Dad is super proud and happy for me. Mum is just freaking out about how I will take care of myself living so far away. She keeps going on about who will be there when I’m sick? Who will be there when I get the flu? I’ve told her a million times it’ll be OK. That I’ll make friends and that they will take care of me. I saw your little brother the other day BTW. He came in to my work to have dinner with that Leah girl from his grade. I think they were on a date. SO CUTE! I think they will be amazing together. I was going to ask him about you but didn’t want to ruin there date. I did organise to send them out a free banana split to share. Like we used to. I thought it’d be nice for them. And well the store hasn’t sold many splits since we stopped doing our Thursday night desserts. Anyway, Donut Boy. Call me when you decide to be a person again. I am still waiting for you Trace **05-10-2013** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Happy 23rd Birthday! I don’t know if you read these or not but in case you do..... HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I hope you are loving Sydney and uni. I know I am loving it here in Canberra. Well except the winter bit. It was RIDICULOUS! Who knew it could be so cold in Australia!? It was like living in a freaking fridge! From an old friend who still thinks of you Tracey **05-10-2014** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, Happy birthday again. I suppose I will probably never hear from you. To be honest I don’t even know if you still use this email address. You are probably graduating soon which is awesome. I am finally going to go traveling! I’m going on exchange to New York! I leave in January. I am so excited and scared. I’m going to attend the Mannes School of Music for a full semester! I actually managed to get a scholarship to help pay for it too. So yeah, I thought I would let you know that life is going well and that I’m not mad at you any more. I suppose all I hope is that you are happy and that no matter what I will always be your friend. Yours always, Tracey P.S. My number hasn’t changed. You know in case you wanted to call. **05-10-2015** **To: Lucas** **Fm: Tracey** Lucas, I know it’s been a long time and you have probably forgotten I even exist but well I haven’t forgotten you. Even as everything in life changes the one constant is that at least once a month I will think of you and smile. You were the best friend a girl could ever ask for. Thanks for being there when I needed someone. Oh and Happy birthday again. Love your old friend Tracey. **16-05-2017** **To: Tracey** **Fm: Lucas** Tracey, I don’t know how to start this email. I’ve written it up maybe 1000 times over the years and every time it sounds wrong and I get all crazy so I delete it. I have so many things I want to say all at once. Sometimes I wish I could send you a psychic message. To tell you that it’s not your fault, that you are an amazing person and that I am sorry. Part of me wants us to be friends like we were when we were kids. Part of me wants to call you and tell you that I have thought of you every day. But that I just couldn’t do it. Because I am weak and scared of my own emotions. Another part of me thinks I should never reply. That it’s best we both just go on living our lives and forget about each other. Wouldn’t that be easier than apologising and dealing with all the stuff? But then I suppose if that was easier, I wouldn’t still dream of you and wake up filled with guilt. So I have decided to fix it. After all these years I am going to tell you why I disappeared. I disappeared because I can’t not love you. I love you Tracey! I love your smile and your laugh. Every time you send me an email I read it, I smile and I cry. I smile because I am happy that you are happy. And I cry because you never ever not even once say anything about that day. You go on and on about not understanding why I won’t talk to you. I told you Tracey! I told you at the creek that I loved you and I wanted to be with you and what did you do? You looked away all serious for a long time then you made up that silly boat race game. You ignored my feelings! And I being the wimp that I am let you get away with it. I went along with your silly game and I thought to myself that maybe you just needed time. Every day we hung out after that I would wait for you to bring it up, to say something. To give an answer to my love. But you never did. And eventually I decided that the only way for me to live my life was for me to live it without you. That’s why I disappeared Tracey. And to this day it hurts me. Deep in my soul it hurts me that you couldn’t love me back. It also hurts because I know that it’s not fair on you. You never asked for me to fall in love. All you wanted was a friend. So every time I think about you I feel guilty and ashamed because I wasn’t strong enough to be your friend. So there it is Trace. I disappeared because I loved you and knew you didn’t love me. I couldn’t live my life with you in it. I knew that I would never be able to love someone else with you around so I had to cut you out. I feel guilty about it all the time but well it is what I had to do to live my life. I am so sorry. You are an amazing person. Love always Lucas.

“Why did you give Gertrude the Baker a bat as a familiar?” Esmeralda asked, placing her pointed hat on her desk and leaning back in her chair. Her silvery curls spilled out, framing her sharply featured face. I shrugged and gave her my winning smile. “It was her arms,” I said. “They were the flabbiest I’d ever seen and she wouldn’t stop waving them around and shrieking in excitement. Boom. Bat familiar, perfect match.” A column of swirling smoke rose from her pipe as she held it between her teeth. “It seems you didn’t think about the fact that she is in the free-range child business, did you?” She replied. “With that giant bat flopping around, it’s scaring all the kids away. She’s only been able to lure two kids into her shack since then and they’ve been goth kids. Do you know how much extra work they require to prepare, removing all the piercings and so on?” “I’m sorry Miss Esmeralda,” I murmured. “Next time I’ll consider a puppy or a predatory balloon.” “By Hecate, I swear!” she snapped, sparks flying from her pipe to mirror her frustration. “Puppies turn to slavering dogs; Float-a-chokes would eat her supply of brats. Last month you give nearly blind sorcerer a snake as a companion. He mistook it for his wand and got bit a week later.” “Everyone makes mistakes,” I said. “He had a problem with rats eating his potion ingredients. I thought it would help.” “He died, Oswald,” she snapped. “Familiars and Friends has been in business for over a thousand years, and this is the first time we’ve ever been sued. If I lose the company my grandfather founded, I’ll banish you to one of Neptune’s moons, I swear it! Now go clean the kennels before the next client comes in.” I lowered my gaze and slunk out of her office. Okay, so maybe some of my matches have resulted in fires, businesses going under, and the occasional death - they all seemed like good ideas at the time. Perhaps they would have been good matches if it were not for them being used in spells and their dark workings. They were seen as tools, little more. Maybe if they spent the time to become friends and communicate, things would turn out a little differently. Maybe that entire suburb wouldn’t have been shifted into another dimension. With bucket and mop in hand, I made my way through the stone and mortar halls, scrubbing down the pens and taking ample time to scratch a black cat behind the ears and dispense treats to the otherwise squirmy and neglected sorts. Through my patrols and scouring, I finally came across a large door - the largest and heaviest of the lot. Runes of warning were carved into it, flashing red, and four massive locks kept it held shut. Even the faded streaks of blood and desperate claw marks pulling into it would frighten off most. But I couldn’t help but smile as I entered, and before I could even put my keys away I was met with a deep and thunderous snarl like the coming of a great storm, a snarl that seemed to echo with the dark and ominous incantations. “Muckle!” I said throwing my arms wide. “Good to see you too!” The hell beast crouched in the corner of the room, with a coat as black as coal and a single eye on the right side that smoldered red like the heart of flame itself. The other eye had been lost when he had eaten his first handler, and the next few didn’t last so well either. But he and I always seemed to get along well enough. Cleaning up after Muckle, however, was about as easy as you would expect for a ravenous dog almost as large as a horse. He came to Familiars and Friends when he was just a puppy and was thought to be some street mutt. It wasn’t until he made a meal of Jasper the Beastmaster that they became suspicious of his true nature. Strangely enough, the scent of sulfur didn’t give him away sooner. Muckle picked up a gnawed fragment of a ribcage and plodded over to me and dropped his offering at my feet, unleashing a gale of fetid breath as he tried to lick me. “Who didja bring me here,” I asked. “Is that a bit of... old Samuel? How sweet of you, sharing with me.” I gave him a good scratch behind the ears and rested my head on his muzzle. He was a gentle enough spirit once you got to know him, and put aside his history of devouring those who displeased him - and my love wasn’t feigned. I think he knew it, too, with affectionate snarling and snapping when I drew near. I felt like he understood me, almost as much as I understood him. A sudden crackling filled the air, and a nasally voice spilled from the wooden speaker in the corner of the room. “Oswald, a new client has entered admissions,” said Janice the secretary. “I’ll be back soon,” I said to Muckle, giving him a pat on the snout before rushing out the door. I stashed my mop and bucket in the closet and paused by the window which opened into a room enchanted to feel like a meadow where bunnies hopped joyfully. I focused more on my reflection and made myself presentable before rushing off towards the entrance. I staggered in, winded, and finding a young lady sitting at the table. She seemed lost in her thoughts, absently twirling a lock of her long, sapphire hair around her fingers. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, introducing myself. She stood and gave a faint curtsy, keeping her eyes down. “My name is Misty,” he spoke softly. “I’m hoping you can help me find a proper familiar.” “Tell me what it is that you do, and what you need!” I said in my usual spiel. “I am a botanist, I spend a lot of time outdoors to find ingredients for potions,” she said. “Anything that could help would be nice.” I tapped my finger to my chin and nodded a few times as ideas flitted about my head like moths hypnotized by a lamp. “Well then,” I said confident in my conclusions - as I always was. “Let’s go on and find you a familiar!” I led Misty through the warrens and introduced her to a number of our more outdoorsy and mild familiars. “Meet Sir Stetchen! He’s covered in dangerous needles, can burrow, and loves nature,” I said, holding out a small hedgehog in cupped hands. “This one was bred for the spines to be venomous!” Her eyes soften and a faint smile pulled at her lips, which was the most of a reaction that I had gotten from her. I had thought for sure that the swarm of carnivorous butterflies would have been a good match - clearing away any insects from the herbs she sought, as well as handling any enemies she may have earned. But instead, she sighed and moved along. If Sir Stetchen could get a reaction, however, maybe one of the other rodents could catch her attention. “How do you feel about... Bunnies?” I asked. Part of me felt as though it would be a poor choice, considering they might eat the plants she needed but surely he wouldn’t be responsible for burning down a library this time. Damn, bunnies were flammable little things, and warlocks used far too many candles in their rituals. Misty shrugged. “It wouldn’t hurt to meet them.” “Excellent,” I said as I lead her down the hall I had been cleaning earlier. “Maestro Llipa can turn into multiple rabbits when frightened, but always pulls back together after a few moments. Great amusement, but the cleanup can... can.” I found the words knotting up in my throat as my eyes traced the paw prints that were sunk into the stone, leading to the splintered door that led into the rabbit habitat - or the rabbitat as we in the business called it. Okay, maybe only I called it that. I looked through the window to find Muckle sitting there, a tatter of white fluff contrasting his ebon coat hanging from the corner of his mouth. He let out one of his snarls and the glass of the window rattled and quaked as if it could break at any moment. “Let’s ah... go back over there shall we?” I said with concerned joviality, but Misty stood planted firmly at the window. “He’s... perfect,” she said, her amber eyes growing wide. “I would have never guessed you to have a black shuck in your possession, considering... well, you know.” I nodded knowingly because I did indeed know. I knew better than old Samuel and so many others who met their fate in Muckle’s maw. Misty turned to me, brimming with excitement. It was the most emotion she had shown since they had met. “Bring the paperwork,” she said, then crooked a beckoning finger towards Muckle, who bounded out of the door with such force that he slammed against the wall, which brought a bright peal of laughter from Misty. “Come with me,” I said, swallowing hard as I led them back towards the office. My quill swung back and forth, sending flecks of black ink all hither and thither as I nervously eyed Muckle who had resigned himself to sitting in the corner, growling and staring straight ahead with his glaring red eye. “Alright,” I said as I pushed the vellum forward. “Sign and date here, here and... initials here... rune of binding and drop of blood there. Alright, by the power vested in me by Zavrael the Bitter Lord, I pronounce you Witch and Familiar.” I didn’t know if my sadness was because I knew that she was inevitably going to be eaten by the beast, or because Muckle was leaving. I had watched him grow from a small sulfurous whelp to the magnificent young shuck that he was now. Mop, feed, scoop the poop, mop, repeat. Unfortunately, none of the furry friends - or their poops - were as interesting as my dear friend. It felt like just yesterday he spilled out of the crate filled with straw and a deer carcass. The smell never quite improved, but our bond flourished. The familiar sound of static filled the air, and I picked up the bucket in preparation to head to admissions. But instead of Janice, Esmeralda’s voice boomed overhead, taking me off guard. “Oswald to my office - NOW!” I dropped my bucket in a strike of fear, and slowly made my way up the stairs, dread boiling in my guts like a cauldron full of poison. Esmeralda sat at her desk, pipe held so tightly in her teeth it seemed like she would bite through it as she sat blowing a column of sparkling red smoke. “The demon-damned Black Shuck?!” She snapped through her clenched teeth. “I thought that I had that thing put to sleep. You thought it was a brilliant idea to sign it off as a familiar? You’re more of a fool than I thought.” “She was fully aware of what Muckle is,” I said defiantly. “He seemed to take quite a liking to her.” Esmeralda rolled her eyes. “Of course he did. He was trying to get her guard down so he could eat her, no doubt!” I wrung my hands and furtively looked around her desk for a report. “Did he eat her?” I asked, not finding any such indication that he had. “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time! We’ll have to close our doors for good when it happens.” She slammed a small bag of coins on the table. “Take this, your last pay. Get out of here before you do any more damage.” I stared at the coin purse, taken by chill despite the warmth of my blushing cheeks. I had never felt so ashamed, failing despite my best efforts. Everything felt I did felt like the right thing to do. Unable to find the proper words, I took my payment and left. She was right. It was a bad decision to sign Muckle up as a familiar. I walked the busy streets, bundles of parchments detailing my history and talents tucked under my arm. It was difficult to find work in the line of matchmaking and beast tending. Even more so when you left a swath of destruction in your wake. Screams roused me from my grousing, and I looked up to see a crowd of frantic faces as the people charged towards me with little disregard for the fact that they knocked me square on my back. Before I could even right myself, a massive presence bounded upon me. It’s sharply clawed paws pinned my shoulders down and all I could see was a great maw of dagger-like fangs opening before me. Sulfurous breath choked me, and I was fairly certain I could see the decaying remnants of a hand in the back of its throat. I always knew my death would involve getting eaten by a beast or monster, but I always suspected it would be in the line of duty, not being ripped apart in the streets. But the maw of fangs did not close around me. I craned my head around to see a solitary red eye glaring at me menacingly. “Muckle?” I asked incredulously. “Is that really you?” The beast let out a strange snarl that echoed with thunder and familiar incantations. I laughed and reached up to run my fingers through his coarse black fur. “It’s lovely to see you, too!” “Sir? Sir, are you still alive?” asked a young woman running up to where I lay pinned. “Oh, I know you; you’re the gentleman who helped me meet Muckle!” “Naturally,” I said, beaming a smile at Misty who extended her hand to help me onto my feet. “He’s been better at going after people, but I knew something was important when he bounded through the streets towards you. He didn’t even stop to torment the children as he loves to do,” She gave Muckle a pat on the back and returned my smile. “I can’t thank you enough. With him as my familiar, I’ve gone about a change career.” “I fear that has culminated in quite the same for me,” I replied offhand. “But it brings me joy that he is helping you.” Muckle let out a snarl and nuzzled Misty. “I’ve come to think of him more as my emotional support monster than a familiar,” she said. “And then it made me realize, why don’t I start a home for misplaced monsters and those who need them?” I looked at the two of them, Muckle seeming happier than I’d ever known, and Misty who moved and spoke with a newfound passion, rather than the haunting distance she kept before. “The only thing is that they tend to frighten and scare people away. It’s been rather hard finding good help,” she continued. My eyes grew wide and I looked around for my resume, finding a copy on the ground I lifted it up. It had gotten sullied and a little worse for wear from Muckle’s tackle. However, it bore his paw print in the middle. I handed the parchment to Misty, who chuckled. “It looks like you have quite the mark of recommendation,” she said with a twinkle in her amber eyes. “Let’s get started, I have some unhatched terrorantula eggs that will need a lot of care, patience, and a loving parent once they hatch.”

When you are around 13 to 16 years, as a boy, some traditional cultures dress one like a magnet. That was exactly the situation I was in at that age. Some the cultures most guys at the age took part in, my family was not interested in such cultures. But what consumes ones thought, actions and speeches must have mattered to the person, if not, why do it disturb ones sleep?. It was so in my youths days to the extent that I usually walks miles to the village square, go to friends that were inclined to and took joy in discussing exploits like that I had feelings were being censored because of me in their presence. I am talking about masquerade initiation in Igbo land. Years back, it was sign of manhood like moustache and beards were. If you have not the privileged to have read the “ Bottled leopard” by Chukwuemeka Ike, do so, it would explain and educate more in all you need to know about the tradition and culture of Igbo people from Biafran land in Eastern Nigeria. It requires a little imagination to digest all what he was crying to pass across there for it somehow relate to another aspect and angle from which I am trying to relate my own experiences to you. During festivals like new yam and other similar ones, when there is a kind of mass returns to celebrate the harvest season, people gather in markets and village squares to celebrate the festival after the traditional ruler with his cabinets, and each representative of each village that made up the town would have prayed to the living God and our Ancestors and thanked them for the bounty harvest and request for their protections and progress. Then, it would be the time for people to gather to watch all manners of Masquerades that at times dance to the beaten of the drums that accompanies the events. Gatherings in village square and markets arenas were the only place where women and non- initiated can gather safely to watch Masquerades without molestation. Outside those areas, you stand the risk of receiving many rashes of cane and doing forced donations to the masquerade and his Entourage. Most towns has their own unique ways of carrying out their own masquerade initiations, activities and ages for initiation differs too. Some towns starts at age of 10 and above, while some, at 17. The functions of the Masquerade remain almost the same in each town: Keeping orders in certain gathering, Summoning interested parties in a dispute Leading young men to deliver punishments in any serious disputes Putting yellow raffia’s to the economic trees that people tampers with it’s fruits. They practically carry out the works of modern day police. So, all these many functions and activities of the Masquerade were what endeared it to the heart of the many young men in any town. The women and the young truly believed as they were meant to that masquerade were spirit that comes out of the ant hole whenever they are needed and return to the Spirit world after performing their duties. The fact that the Masquerade has a kind of diplomatic immunity that frees it from any damage it might have done and holds the person that summons or following it responsible for the damage will show you has it is seen as representative of the spirits in human world called to perform function that benefits humans. During my teenage years, I had tried in two occasions to be initiated into the Masquerade world without success. In those two occasions, one naturally thing or another would happen to disrupt the events. If hefty down pour don’t start without warning as if all the doors in heaven were thrown open and the event would be postponed to another occasions or related festival that warrants the appearance of the Masquerades which is usually months apart and the other initiation were done only in the night for secrecy sake. On another occasion, it was the death of the one well known old man that have contributed positively to the village and the town that occurred minutes to the events that brought it to another halt. In that particular occasion, I was forced to asked the Chief Priest some desperate questions: “ won’t some people go to the family to say sorry and others remain behind to carry on with the initiation?” “It is not done that way my son, even the death of the prominent man like this is an indicator that the Spirits were not in support of this event” “But it have been postponed in two different occasions, won’t be intelligent to see it through this time?” “ That type of intelligence is very dangerous. You don’t question the will of the spirits” “We take risk in coming out this time of the night to event that seen never to hold” “Night might be night to you mortal but the spirits, it is living day light” “Is there no way these intimation ceremony should be moved forward for you know our family house is far from the square” “ Young Man, as old as i am now, I came into this world met this ceremony as it is, I has no plan of tampering with anything involved in it, whether time or items. Our ancestors handed us over both the items and time involved, it is usually 1:30am to 5:00am so shall it continues in my watch” “ So, what are we going to do again with these things we bought ?” “ Only few can go bad, others can stay years, keep them well in about four months, coast might be clear” “Four months is very long time and temptation of not using them are enormous, then I will start wasting resources to buy new ones again” “ Give your parents to keep for you or you can hand them over to my boy to keep." That was how nature kept postponing the initiation till I moved away from my village to pursue other earthly events and somehow lost interest in people and the culture for my nature don’t agree with the whole events anymore.

There is so much hollow fury inside me. Hollow because the lights are out. There used to be lights inside of me but I short-circuited, and they all went out. Nobody knows how much fury I contain because there is no way to express it. A year of my life has dripped down the drain before it even had a chance to start. It happens, during power outages. Things break. Things fall. I am still falling. I was going to spend a year in Germany. I was going to work, I was going to meet new people, I was going to gain independence and I was going to learn. So, so much. But I had an epileptic episode coming off the plane, and all those lights went out. I thought I had only fainted, from lack of sleep. It didn’t feel like it usually does, with the tingling and the light plays behind my eyelids. But it was a five-hour seizure and an induced coma. I convulsed like an overloaded toy no one can turn off until it runs itself out. So they told me-I wasn’t there for any of it. For me, all the lights went out. They took me to a hospital. They put a tube inside me and took my clothes off to do it, and I have no idea how many people saw me naked. I have no idea who they are and no one expects me to ask. The corners of my mouth are still cut deep and I put calendula cream on them every day. My throat hurts from the ghost of the tube and I can’t talk, really, only rasp. I worry that I won’t be able to sing like I used to. But I’m not supposed to worry. I’m supposed to get better. I am no longer that independent adult going to work in Germany, I am once again my parents’ daughter, expected to do what is good for me. For my physical wellbeing. My limbs tremble every time I move them. I am dizzy, all the time. The nurses are French. They are wonderful people. There’s no one else I’d rather be with, now that all the lights inside me are out. Kind, sensible, considerate strangers. I wish my parents weren’t here, taking my powerlessness as a matter of course. I wish I could run away from them and take my powerless self to Germany, where all the sockets are. Where am I suppose to find other sockets? Back home? Waiting while everyone else I know is in college? Scrambling for a job my parents will have to drive me to? Polishing the language I worked so hard to learn, knowing the chances are slim to none, that I’ll ever get to use it? Always out of the loop. I wanted so badly to make that a good thing. There are two female nurses who take care of me, who joke and laugh and help me polish my French in the best of ways. Talking. Trying to understand. There are a couple male nurses who check up on me once in a while who are hella cute. I wish I could stay awake and spend more time talking to the nurses, but then again, I have never enjoyed sleeping so much as now. I don’t feel like listening to music, don’t feel like watching tv, like eating, or writing. Nothing. Just watching the nurses, listening to their talk. When I first woke up, one of the aforementioned female nurses took me to the bathroom and wiped my butt and helped me bathe with baby wipes. I was too tired to care-my heart is an open, busted wire with frayed ends. I don’t know if my dad saw me naked. He took a picture of my face with the tube in it, pale skin and punctured mouth and the impression of near-death. He refuses to delete it. My mom says I should leave him alone, that it’s part of his ‘process’ to have, to look at, to possess the power of deciding whether or not to delete that sickening thing. It’s my face, I want to say. But I am powerless. He isn’t. He should never have taken that picture-fathers take pictures for the sake of remembering beautiful moments. Why did he take that picture? To agonize over, in case I bit it? Out of horrified fascination? What made him pull out his camera while I was lying comatose, breathing through a plastic trachea? What was he thinking? I say nothing. I don’t ask. Because it was they who went through hell, not I. The least I can do is be considerate. I wish I wasn’t so fucking considerate. I am a broken object in a workshop. A tiny world revolves around me-I am acted upon. I go outside in a wheelchair, to a little bistro inside the hospital. There’s this delicious orange juice and delicious salad order that I know I won’t get anywhere else. And I can order them every day. I polish my French with lovely people...God, the French are so diverse. They dress so differently-dress so well. Every shade of skin color, every style of clothing in every color imaginable. All in impeccable taste. Pale, sun-brown, dark, tall, petite, skinny, curvy...they all know what works for them. I have not seen a single person who isn’t worthy of a runway. I am an object, an invalid, so I am allowed to stare. And there is so much beauty to stare at. Outside, the hospital is filled with flowers. The sky is Disney-movie blue. If I could stay here and stare my whole life long...I wouldn’t mind it. Driving a wheelchair is fun. Being driven, by my parents... I get too tired, too often, to mind. And there is so much more to mind about. But to act-I am deadly afraid of acting, of having to act again. What a frightful effort, that is going to be. My friends threw me a goodbye party. My grandmother told me, as I left, “I didn’t think you’d make it. But you have.” I still have the gifts in my suitcase, meant for my host family. A pen for Uschi, a palm grill fan for Miguel, books in Spanish for the kids, Albert and Nico. My favorite books. I wanted so bad to read with them. I made an Instagram account just to document this year. Just to share it. I wouldn’t have minded dying. Wouldn’t have minded at all.

The Stork We’d been trying for a baby for years before the stork came. Hundreds of letters sent to Stork Deliveries Inc., all ignored(or so we thought). I’d always be disappointed when months passed without any response, and my husband would try to cheer me up. We had already given up on the idea of raising our own children and accepted our fate as a barren couple years ago when a mysterious letter flew under our front door. Well, it wasn’t really a mysterious letter; the logo of Stork Deliveries Inc. was printed very obviously on the envelope. I was giddy with excitement when I rushed into the kitchen where my husband was eating his lunch. “Tom!” I cried. “The Storks send us a letter!” “A letter? Who uses those nowadays?” Tom replied with a twinkle in his eye as he took the letter from me and stared at its face. He reached to rip it open but paused. “Sarah,” he said slowly, “a letter from the Storks can only mean one thing. As soon as we take this letter out, a stork will come and hide a child in our house and if we don’t find it within a day, the stork has to live with us until the baby is 18.” “Well,” I said nervously, “we don’t have a large house; there aren’t many places you can hide a baby, and a day is plenty of time. Plus, even if the stork lives with us, it’ll be fine. The Patterson’s across the road failed finding their child and now they have a stork who helps with chores around the house.” Tom nodded, took a deep breath and ripped open the letter. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Campbell. Stork Deliveries Inc. are delighted to inform you that you have been deemed eligible to receive a son. A stork has arrived with your future child and is currently in the process of hiding it in your house. If you don’t find the child within 1 hour, the stork will live in your house until the baby is of age or it sees fit. Your timer starts now. STORK DISPATCHED NAME: Ben SEX: Male AGE: 58 ADDITIONAL NOTES: LMAOOOO good luck” “One hour?!” I exclaimed. “It’s changed!” Tom scanned the letter again. “I don’t think-“ He stopped speaking, staring at something past me. I turned and screamed. A stork with yellowed feathers and a stoned expression was staring at us from the entrance of the kitchen. It had a red bandanna tied to its balding head, a faded blue backpack and an orange tag with the number 208794 written on it was attached to its leg. “Is that a stork?” Tom gawked. “Yes, I’m a stork,” the stork replied. “It talks!” I jumped back. The stork shot me what looked like an annoyed expression. “Yes I talk, Sherlock, and I have a name. It’s Ben. Now I’d recommend getting a move on with this child-finding business before your timer runs out.” It pointed at a clock on the wall--which was definitely not there before--and winked. *Right,* I thought. *There’s a child to be found. A child! I’m going to be a mother!* I closed Tom’s open mouth. “Well, you heard it-- uh, him. We have to find the child!” For the next hour my husband and I turned the house upside down looking for the child to no avail. The clock started screeching and my husband and I had to run back home from the roof to turn it off. “Ha, y’all didn’t find him!” Ben taunted as we defeatedly walked through the front door. “Yes, we get it. Where’s the child?” I asked. Turns out the baby was in Ben’s backpack. Tom and I tried protesting that it wasn’t fair but Ben just threatened to fly away and take the child back to where it came from. We reluctantly agreed to let Ben stay for 18 years(“But drinking age is 21!” Ben protested. However, we were in Australia so take that, motherf-), but all complaints were forgotten as soon as we gazed upon the child’s face. And at that moment, I knew I would never, ever, ever give that baby up. Or let it down. We named our child Dave, and over the next 18 years he grew into a strapping young lad. He was a perfect son, and we were so proud of him at his graduation. However, those 18 years were the worst years of our lives. Because of Ben. Of course, after we received Dave, Ben moved into the master bedroom(Tom and I’s)and complained about how small and cramped it was. He constantly whined about how his old family had lived in a huge mansion and fed him the best fish that money could buy. We were too joyful over our son to give Ben much of a crap. The problem started when he stumbled across the cellar. We came home one evening after taking Dave out to the park to a very drunk Ben, slouching on our couch smoking and watching television while eating microwaved pizza with empty bottles of wine on the floor. I believe that the sight traumatised Dave and made him hate the taste of pizza, though he doesn’t seem to remember the incident. I put Dave to bed while Tom scolded Ben and cleaned him up. I hoped that this would be a one off incident, but whenever we were away I would always find evidence that someone had stolen more alcohol from our cellar and a smell of smoke that I could never scrub out afterward. 18 gruelling years of living with a literal animal took tolls on Tom and I’s health. By the time Dave graduated we were only 48 years old but had white hair and wrinkles(and probably lung cancer too). The day after Dave’s birthday, the master bedroom was empty, the cellar was missing 5 bottles of whiskey and Ben was nowhere to be found. Years later we received an invitation to Ben’s funeral. “Ben will always be remembered for the many good things he had done for the company,” the CEO of Stork Delivers Inc. said during his speech. “He had fun at parties, drinking with everyone. He took his colleagues to the bar, as long as the other stork was paying. He...thank you for listening.” Tom and I laughed for a full five minutes once we got home. It would seem that not even his boss thought much of him.

The butcher was a burly man. He wore overalls, work boots and a blue work shirt. He didn’t know what to think when he saw three men approaching his land. They didn’t appear to be anyone he recognized-- and he knew pretty much everyone in Redfield. Another troubling factor was the way these men were dressed. The butcher didn’t dwell on other people’s clothing, mainly because he didn’t dress like a dandy himself. But the way these men were dressed was somewhere between caring too little and not enough. One man had boots that appeared worn, but his coat looked new. Another man wore a dirty brown derby with a hole in it-- a bullet hole, perhaps-- but his white shirt, with its collar undone was devoid of wrinkles and stains. Then there was the one man who looked like he had just stepped out of a clothing store. His hat was a black gambler with a brown band. His pants were black denim and tucked into a pair of leather boots the color of chestnut. He wore a black vest over a white shirt. They all wore red bandanas around their necks. “Evening,” said the man in the gambler hat. “Hello,” said the butcher. The two locked eyes, but the man in the gambler’s hat wore a demented grin. It was the kind of grin that could only belong to the devil himself. But the man in the gambler’s hat somehow scared the butcher more so than Satan-- a feat accomplished by no man. “You know who we are, old-timer?” he asked, grinning that awful grin. “Not really,” the butcher replied. “Am I supposed to?” The one in the derby chuckled as if he found some unknown humor in the butcher’s question only he was privy to while the other man just shook his head, his face expressionless as he cut off a piece of jerky with a skinny knife. “The butchers of Chester Valley,” said gambler hat. “That mean something to you?” “I think I hear a gang go by that name.” “You’re looking at them.” “What do you want with me?” “What you got to give?” “Not much.” “Mr. Henry and Mr. James are going to help themselves to whatever you got. And you ain’t lifting no finger in hinderance, you hear?” “I hear,” said the butcher with reluctance. “You get not protest on my part.” “Swell,” said gambler hat with that same sinister grin. “Mr. James, Mr. Henry, proceed.” The butcher helplessly watched as the men named James and Henry looted his home. “Aren’t you going to join them?” he asked gambler hat. “I think it would be best to keep an eye on you, old-timer,” he said. “For all I know, you just may be packing a pistol in them overalls.” “What’s your name?” the butcher asked. “Schumacher,” he said. “German.” “Hated it.” “That you’re German?” “My name. Don’t know what possessed God to born me a Schumacher. ‘Cause I sure as hell didn’t see myself making shoes for a living.” “But you saw yourself being an outlaw?” “Just one more thing I had no control of.” “At a certain point, son you got to start taking accountability for your actions.” “Let’s get one thing straight, old-timer,” said Schumacher, drawing his Colt and pulling the hammer back. “You ain’t my pops. And I ain’t your son, you hear?” “I hear,” the butcher nodded. “Didn’t mean to offend you.” “What’s your name?” said Schumacher, holstering his weapon. “Butcher.” “A butcher named Butcher?” “Like my father and his before him.” Then he said with a grin, “Well, ain’t you grow up to do like your daddy done.” Mr. Henry and Mr. James came out with various belongings, but for the most part clothes. “We’re going to be taking your wagon,” said Schumacher. “If you don’t mind.” “Not that my minding makes much difference.” “It don’t.” “I figured.” The butcher watched the men carry out his belongings. Apart from not having a choice on having these men raid his home, the butcher felt personal belongings can always be replaced, but at least he had his life. But then he saw the man called Mr. Henry carrying a familiar case under his arm. “Schumacher,” said Butcher. “Take whatever you need. But you see that black box under Mr. Henry’s arm? My only request is that you don’t take that.” “I ain’t taking no requests, old-timer.” “Please,” Butcher pleaded. “Most everything else I can replace. But I can’t replace what’s in that box.” “You saying it’s valuable, old-timer?” “You have no idea.” “All the more reason for us to take it off your hands.” Butcher shoved Schumacher and ran after Mr. Henry. He felt the impact before he heard the gunshot. Butcher was on the ground when he realized he had been shot. As he tried to get back up, the impact of another shot brought him down again. Mr. Henry stood and watched as Butcher crawled towards him. He watched as Mr. James fired his third and final shot in the man’s head. Butcher stopped moving as blood pooled into the dirt. Mr. James pulled the lever on his sawed-off Winchester 1892, ejecting the spent shell. “Open the box Mr. Henry,” said Schumacher. “Wonder what was worth dying over.” “Okay,” Henry said, giggling as he undid the latch and opened the box. It was a Single Action Army in a blue finish with pearl grips. A snake was carved into the grips. “Fuck,” said Schumacher. “Bastard died for some goddamned pistol.” “Maybe it had a sentimental value or something,” said Henry. “Or something.” “What about the rest?” said James. “We still taking the loot?” “Course we still taking the loot. Pack it up before we end up leaving more corpses.” 5 Years Later Henry hadn’t even noticed the man sitting in the corner when he came in. It wasn’t like the saloon was lit up with excitement or something. It was dimly lit, never crowded, and without music-- mostly because he shot the piano player over an argument he couldn’t remember. He stood at the bar and drank his whisky straight from the bottle and ranted about killing a man. He wasn’t worried the patrons-- what few there were-- would try to turn him in. It wasn’t that they feared him. But rather, they too had their faces posted on flyers throughout the territories. “Then he says, don’t kill me son ,” said Henry. “ I won’t tell ‘em what you look like . Then I says, I wasn’t even thinkin’ that. I was just thinkin’ to have a reason to shoot something. So, then the dumb fuck thought he was fast. Thing is the bullet was faster.” Henry punctuated this with boisterous laughter. Maybe it was because he was drunk. But Henry hadn’t noticed the man get up from the table in the corner or felt him as he leaned against the bar to his right. It was when the man spoke did Henry become aware of his presence. “Beer,” said the man in a voice like a whisper. Henry looked at the man as if he had materialized out of thin air. He was ready to write him off and get back to his story but as the man went for his pocket, Henry noticed the butt his gun which he wore on his left hip with the butt facing outwards-- an indication this man was a right handed shooter. Henry wasn’t a knowledgeable man, but he knew enough about guns and gunmen. But it wasn’t the way the man wore his pistol that had gotten his attention. It was the carving of a snake into the pearl handle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the design, though he had only seen it on one other gun. “What you packing, mister,” Henry asked. “You talking to me?” The man asked. “Yeah.” “Single Action Army. Blue finish. Pearl handle.” “You gots snakes on that handle?” “I believe I do.” “If ‘n you don’t mind my asking, may I ask where you gone and get that gun?” “You may,” the man nodded once and proceeded to drink his beer. Henry waited for a response. When he didn’t get one, he said, “And?” “Bought it off a gunsmith in Milton some years back. Had to pay extra to get that carving.” “You sure about that, mister?” “Why care about my gun so much? You want it?” “No, mister. I know a man who just so happens to have the same exact pistol.” “Down to the pearl handle?” “Down to the snakes on the handle.” “Maybe your friend just so happen to get his gun from the same gunsmith from the same town as me.” “I doubt that.” “I told you where I got mine. Where your friend get his?” Henry didn’t know what to say. Maybe the stranger had a point. Maybe the gun wasn’t the same gun. Maybe a carving of a snake on a pearl handle is just a carving of a snake on a pearl handle. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” Henry said before draining the last of the whiskey. “Maybe you is.” His pants were blue denim and untucked into his boots, his shirt black, and his boots were brown and worn. He also had a tan coat, and a black stalker hat. Henry watched as the man left the saloon. He moved away from the bar to watch the man as he walked down the main street, past the store, the bank, and the only other saloon in town, to the hotel. Mr. Henry wasn’t much of a thinking man, but he thought he better tell Mr. Schumacher. 15 minutes later “Maybe we ought to quit,” said James. “While we’re still ahead.” “Getting too old for the life, Mr. James?” Schumacher asked. “Maybe the life is getting too old for us.” “Say you retire. What then? What else kinda life you know to live?” “I’ll figure it out.” “And if you don’t what then?” “There’s got to be more than this. All this robbing and killing. There ain’t always going to be people who’ll back down. Like that man a few years back.” “As I recall, you didn’t hesitate to kill him.” “Don’t mean I can’t feel bad about it.” “I just always thought we were going to be outlaws to ‘till the end.” “Thing about the end,” said James, chopping off a piece of jerking with his skinny knife. “It can come now, or it can come later. Ain’t nothing stopping it from coming. I suppose I prefer it come later.” “Sounds nice and all,” said Schumacher, holding his hands out over the campfire. “But that involves me having to be something I can’t be. I rather die now doing this than down the road being something I ain’t got the patience nor the heart for.” Schumacher heard the galloping of a horse followed by a neigh. But his guard went down when he heard Henry call out to them. “You’re back early,” said Schumacher. “What happen, you burn down the saloon?” “What is it?” said James. “Saw a man at the saloon,” said Henry, recounting his encounter. “He had a gun that look a lot like your gun.” “For Pete’s sake,” said Schumacher, frustrated. “Who don’t carry a gun.” “It was a Colt with a pearl handle. And a snake on the handle. Just like yours.” Schumacher thought back to all those years ago. Back when they came across the butcher. It was just a gun like any other. Sure, it had a pearl handle. So what? Plenty of people carried pistols with pearl handles. It was about as original an idea as carrying two pistols. It was the one killing that bothered him. “So, what,” Schumacher said after pondering. “It don’t mean nothing. All it means is that snake ain’t one of a kind.” “I guess,” said Henry. “Maybe two of a kind.” Whatever dread Schumacher had was replaced by another idea. He carried around the butcher’s gun but hadn’t had occasion to use it. Mainly because he was more accustomed to his Colt 1878-- a double action revolver. But the idea of walking around with a pair of twin snakes on his hips was exciting, though as vain as it was. “Let’s find the find the sonofabitch,” said Schumacher. “What?” said James. “Let’s find him and take his snake.” “We don’t even know where to look for him.” “He’s at the hotel,” Henry provided. “There you go,” said Schumacher, grinning that grin even a madman would fear. “Probably sleeping by now. Let’s go procure that pistol.” “Something don’t feel right, boss,” said James. “What’s the matter? You turning yellow?” “Not a chance. I ain’t never been afraid to pull the trigger. Not then, not now.” “That settles it,” said Schumacher. “Let’s go.” 20 minutes later The three men entered the hotel. Schumacher approached the man at the desk. “Evening,” he said, tilting his hat. “Was wondering if you mind telling me which one of these rooms I might find a man in a black stalker hat and light brown jacket. You might’ve also noticed he was walking around with a pearl handle on his pistol.” “I’m sorry mister, but I can’t just go around giving out that kind of information.” Schumacher slowly unholstered his pistol, placed it on the counter and pulled the hammer back for effect. “3B second floor end of the hallway. Can’t miss it.” Schumacher held out his hand. At first the clerk was confused. But after a second he understood what Schumacher was asking for as he took out a spare room key and placed it in his open palm. “Appreciated,” said Schumacher, grinning. The three men ascended the stairs to the second floor towards the room number the clerk provided. “This is it,” said Schumacher. “Mr. Henry you stay out here. “Mr. James, with me.” James worked the lever on his sawed-off Winchester rifle in acknowledgment. Schumacher quietly unlocked the door. Then the two men rushed into the room and opened fire. eight shots had been fired between the two gunmen before they realized the bed was empty. “The hell?” said Schumacher. “What is it?” said Henry in the hallway. “You get him? You got that sumbitch?” “No, it’s--” James didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence when the shot came from the door. Instinctively, Schumacher took out his second gun, a Schofield with a shorter barrel, and fanned the hammer to fire rapidly. He had emptied the revolver by the time he realized he was shooting at Henry. Why was he shooting Henry? Did Henry shoot James? Before he realized Henry was being used as a human shield, Henry’s body was shoved onto him, pinning Schumacher to the ground. He had gotten the corpse of his friend-- if he could call him that-- off him when hands grasped the collar of his coat and sent Schumacher crashing through another set of doors. The night air told him he was back outside-- balcony most likely. The kick took him by surprise, before he could get his bearings. The banister gave way, sending Schumacher over the ledge. His right leg and back took most of the impact from the fall-- he might’ve heard something crack. Schumacher was on his stomach as he crawled. Where? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he got away from the sonofabitch trying to kill him. It was no use. He was suddenly devoid of moonlight. He turned his head to look back at the stranger. Schumacher turned his body over to draw the Colt. Before he could even pull the hammer back, the stranger kicked the gun out of Schumacher’s hand. “How many guns you got?” he asked out of jest. “Damn you!” Schumacher spat. “I believe this belongs to me,” said the stranger, kneeling down to pick up the Colt with the pearl handle. “Yup, that be my pa’s handiwork.” “Your pa?” “Being a butcher was his trade. Carving was his hobby though. See, I got us a pair of pistols-- one for me and one for him. It was supposed to be a tool. At least that’s how I handle mine. But he had to go and replace the wood handles with pearl ones and carve snakes into them.” “What that mean?” Asked Schumacher, who was still very much in pain. “The snakes.” The stranger examined the Colt as he held it by the barrel. “I don’t really know,” said the stranger. “Maybe my pa just fancied snakes. Or maybe he thought the carvings would look neat and scare folks into surrendering. You kind of robbed me of the opportunity to ask him.” “So, now you going to rob me of my life?” “The way you live, I wouldn’t call it robbing.” The butcher’s son stood up and tucked the second pearl handled pistol in his belt. “I ain’t going to kill you. I just came to get what’s mine. But I did promise to hand you over to the Santos Brothers.” The Santos Brothers were a gang made up of Americans, Mexicans, and at least one Indian. After doing a bank job in Smithfield, Schumacher had left the gang to fend for themselves as he managed to slip away unscathed. Schumacher knew they blamed him for the job going south, and that they wanted his head. “I know there’s a price on your head. But I think Mr. Henry and Mr. James will more than suffice.” “You a bounty hunter?” Schumacher asked distastefully. “You ought to have been a shoemaker. There’d have been a living in it.” “You’re one to talk, bounty hunter.” “My pa slaughtered animals. I slaughter men. Ain’t much difference.” Butcher walked away as thunderous gallops grew louder. Pretty soon Schumacher would meet his end. He would’ve preferred the bullet or the gallows, instead of a rusty machete. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid.

“I’m confused...” said the man with jet black hair and frown lines around his mouth. “What’s there to be confused about?” asked the cat with fire for eyes and stars for teeth. “Am I dead? Is this...heaven? Or am I somewhere...else?” “Where do you think you are?” mused the cat, licking its paw. With each stroke of its tongue, the fur underneath changed colors, shimmering between shades of black and blue and purple and pink and all other colors the man had seen. “What happened to me?” He was getting frustrated - the frown lines around his mouth deepened and his brow furrowed to match. “You tell me. I was here. Then, you came.” “I was driving. I had to get to work. I was running late. I was trying to change the radio station from that awful, rock music that my son always played when he took the car. The car ahead of me kept swerving in and out of the lines, so I was trying to be quick but the dial was jammed.” “Such a silly thing, isn’t it? To worry about music?” The cat’s voice changed. It sounded like the man’s son. “Did I hit someone? Is that why I’m here? Am I in a coma? Is this one of those dreams people have when they’re on the operating table during surgery?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was here. Then, you came.” “Where am I? Why do you sound like Theo?” The man’s voice was getting desperate, almost pleading. “Who’s Theo?” asked the cat, grinning, exposing a mouth full of night sky. “My son! My son’s name is Theodore. My wife’s name is Scarlett. My name is... My name is...” He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think of his name, pulling the strands as his hands moved slowly. “Your name is?” The cat was laughing. With each chuckle, the flames in its eyes bounced. “I can’t remember... Why can’t I remember my name? What’s going on?” The desperation was turning into fear. He started pacing. “I remember your name. I remember everything about you.” The cat sounded like Scarlett, and it stepped towards the man, weaving between his legs. “Stop that! Stop doing that!” He jumped away from the cat, swatting it with his foot. “Stop doing what?” The cat smirked at the man, leaning back on its hind legs, exposing a belly made of flowers. “What are you? Where am I? What’s happening to me?” The man sank, burying his face in his hands to catch the tears that were beginning to fall. “Oh now,” chastised the cat as it cocked its head at the sobbing man, “You shouldn’t cry. This isn’t really the place.” “What place is this then?” the words from the man echoed, stirring the flowers on the cat’s belly. “I suppose you could say... this place is here. You were there. And now you’re here.” The cat’s tail swished, pointing off into the distance then back to the man. “You’re not making any sense! Stop talking in riddles!” “You’re the one asking questions. If you don’t like the answers, perhaps you should stop.” The cat stretched upward, and, as it did, it grew. “Just tell me what happened!” shouted the man as he stood, pointing his finger menacingly at the cat. “You were driving to work. You were trying to change the radio station, but the dial was jammed. The car in front of you was swerving,” yawned the cat, who now stood eye-level with the man. “Then what? Did I die? Am I dead?” The man was frantic now. His tear-soaked cheeks shined as he spoke. “What else do you remember?” The cat’s fur was changing again, a rainbow of colors gently shifting. “I remember the car was swerving. I was trying to pay attention. Then...” “Then?” “Then the dial unjammed... The station changed. Turned to static...” “And then?” goaded the cat. “Then I looked down - just long enough to read the numbers. Not even a second. And when I looked back up, the car was standing still. The light was red. I slammed my brakes... I don’t think I stopped in time. I remember a sound... something crunching.” “Go on.” “Then, I was here.” The cat’s face broke into another skylit smile. The flames rolled back, replaced by Scarlett’s hazel-brown irises. “Yes,” Theo’s voice said, “Then you were here.” “I’m dead...” The man’s face dropped as the realization sank into his jaw. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” comforted Scarlett’s voice, “It’s over now.” The cat’s eyes rolled again, this time turning jet black. “If I’m dead... does that make you... I thought you would be different....” “Were you expecting a bearded-man? Or perhaps something hairless with wings?” The cat sounded like the man’s father. “I don’t know... I don’t know what I was expecting.” “Yes, you didn’t spend much time thinking about this moment, did you?” “Are you God?” All the anger and desperation and fear had left the man’s voice. “I don’t know what I am.” The cat put its paws to its face and pulled. As the fur and skin stretched, the features became more human - not quite male or female, but not quite animal, either. “What happens now? Are you taking me... somewhere?” The words were slow, reverent. “We can go anywhere you’d like.” The cat was still changing, morphing and twisting. Paws turning into hands. Ears shrinking into its head. “I was a good man. I should go to the good place,” asserted the still-nameless man, straightening his back and staring down the creature transforming in front of him. “How do you know you aren’t already here?” This voice was new, unfamiliar to the man but comforting in a way he couldn’t understand. “Because this isn’t right... This isn’t what it’s supposed to look like.” The man gestured to the expanse around them - black, void, motionless. “What is it supposed to look like?” “It’s supposed to be... It’s supposed to be beautiful. I’m supposed to know people here...” “You don’t know me?” The creature standing before the man turned its head, which now resembled his own, though the rest of its body was still phasing. “I don’t know what you are, but I’ve never seen anything like you.” “You don’t even know who you are. How do you know I’m not just someone you’ve forgotten?” “My name is... Joseph,” the words were uncertain, so he repeated himself, “My name is Joseph. My son is Theodore. My wife is Scarlett.” “And I am?” Standing before Joseph, a slightly distorted mirror-image of himself stood - sprouting hair in all the same places and speaking in an echo of his own voice. “You are... You’re something else. You’re not a someone.” “Why, that’s an awfully rude thing to say!” asserted the man who looked and sounded sort-of like Joseph. “Where am I? Is this Hell?” Joseph started stepping backwards, the fear returning. “I’ve already told you,” the man said, starting to sound bored. “You said I’m here. But where is here?” “It’s where you are,” laughed the man. “What happens now?” “What do you want to happen? What’s supposed to happen?” The tone of the words was mocking. “I’m supposed to go to the good place.” Joseph had stopped retreating, placing as much distance as possible between him and the shadow of himself. “And, again, how do you know you aren’t already here?” The man turned his back to Joseph, spreading his arms. The black started to melt away. Joseph looked around and found he was standing in his house. The walls held the same photographs. He could hear Scarlett and Theo in the living room, discussing something playing on the television. He touched the table beside him, the one standing in the entryway containing a dish of keys and a notepad with a “to-do” list scribbled on it. It was solid under his fingers. “Is this what you were expecting?” asked the man as he turned to face Joseph again. “I don’t understand...” Joseph walked in the direction of the voices in the living room and found his wife and son sitting side-by-side on the couch, smiling at each other. He tried to call out to them, but they couldn’t hear him. “This isn’t right!” he shouted, waving his arms and trying to get their attention. “Oh, it’s not?” purred the man. He was starting to change again. “I was a good man!” yelled Joseph as the walls started to shift around him. “So you’ve said.” The man’s arms shortened. His fingers curled into paws. His face began to draw inwards. Joseph reached out to his wife and son, but his fingers slipped through. They weren’t real. Along the edges of the floor, fire started to erupt. It engulfed the room, swallowing everything. He tried to run, but he was surrounded. The heat from the flames burned against his face. Smoke choked him and clouded his eyes. As the fire drew nearer and nearer to his feet, he could see the silhouette of the cat standing across from him, unphased. “Is this right?” taunted the cat. The flames clung to its fur like beads of water. “Get me out of here!” wailed Joseph, coughing and sputtering. The ceiling started to fall, and the burning pieces crashed. “As you wish....” Suddenly, the fire was gone. Joseph was standing in the black expanse again, and the cat was licking its paws. “Now,” started the cat with a serious tone, “Where would you like to go?” “I just want to go back ,” Joseph moaned, sitting down in exhaustion. “Back? The house burnt down. I don’t see why you would want to go back there.” “I want to go back. Back to the car. Back to my wife. Back to my son.” He was starting to cry again, and the cat jumped into his lap, nuzzling against his chest. “You can’t go back. You’re here now,” it said, rolling over and motioning for Joseph to pet the flowers on its belly. “I did the right things. I was a good person. A good man. A good husband. A good father.” He knotted his fingers in the stems of the flowers, stroking upwards and massaging the petals of the blooms, staring off into the distance. “Who are you trying to convince?” purred the cat, who sounded like Scarlett again. “I don’t know.” Joseph continued to explore the flowers on the cat’s belly. As he rubbed, more started to grow between his fingers. “Do you believe you are owed something in death?” The cat touched its paws to Joseph’s arm, flexing its claws against his skin. “I thought it mattered. I thought being a good person mattered. ” “What makes you think it didn’t?” “Because it was supposed to be more than this!” exclaimed Joseph, tightening his grip around the flower stems, uprooting them. The cat yowled in pain, digging its claws into Joseph’s arm. He flung it away and stood, marching towards the animal. “It was supposed to be more than this! More than a cat, or whatever you are, talking to me in riddles and showing me things! More than a black room! I wasn’t supposed to be alone!” With each threatening thud of his feet, the cat cowered and hissed. As it opened its mouth, a growl roared from its throat. “It is a foolish thing to believe one’s good deeds are nothing more than currency exchanged for comforts and luxuries in death,” hissed a voice from the void as the cat continued to growl and bare its fangs. Joseph stopped and looked around, trying to find the source of the sound, and the cat lunged for his chest. As its claws met skin, they grew, digging deeper and deeper. Joseph wrapped his hands around its neck, trying to pry the cat off of him, but the harder he pulled, the stronger it held on. “You are here, and you can’t even appreciate it. What makes you believe you would appreciate something else? If you were given a mansion made of gold and fine silks and riches, would you feel satisfied? Or would you still want more? Perhaps someone to share it with? Had you died and landed naked in a field of friends and relatives, would you cry out for a blanket? If you found yourself in a den of demons, branding you with hot iron and pouring fire in your mouth, would you dream of an afterlife made of black? Void of screams and pain?” asked the voice as Joseph struggled with the cat on his chest. “I... just... thought... it... mattered...” he stammered over the howling cat, yelling into the black. “And you believe were granted the authority to say it didn’t because your expectations, your childish imaginings of the afterlife, were wrong?” The sound bellowed, surrounding Joseph and reverberating in his ears. He fell under the weight of the cat, which had grown three sizes, oozing over him like tar. “You, like all the others, lived your life under the assumption that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ were simply units of measurement, and as long as you accumulated more of one than the other, you would be praised in death, like a war hero or a saint. You never once stopped to consider the quality of your ‘good’ deeds - they were all the same to you.” The cat chewed into Joseph’s neck, spitting out bits of skin and muscle as its teeth moved. He squirmed and writhed underneath the monster, his face twisting and contorting in agony. Blood filled his mouth as he tried to scream. “You may have been a ‘good’ man, Joseph, but you did nothing to deserve the eternity you imagined. You were selfish. Blind to the suffering of others. Indifferent to the struggles of those beneath you. You were given all the tools to lead a successful life, but you wasted them. You settled. You chose to live an average life. You were a good man, but you never tried to be a great man. And now, you stand here, dissatisfied with what you see because you think you deserved more , but you don’t even know what ‘more’ looks like. No one gets slighted in death - they simply overestimated the value of their life.” The words echoed, clapping like thunder. The cat slackened against Joseph. The claws buried in his chest retracted. The fangs in his neck loosened. He pushed the dead weight of the cat off of him and sat up to examine the damage, but there was none. He was whole. The cat sprung back to life, smiling as it faced Joseph. “Tell me,” his father’s voice insisted, “What do you consider to be the best thing you’ve ever done?” Stunned, Joseph stared into the cat’s eyes, into the flames, and said, “I don’t know.” “Then, I suppose you should do away with your notions of what you believe you deserve.” The cat was gentle again, rolling on its back playfully as its fur shimmered. “Do they miss me?” he asked, dropping his head between his knees. “That’s the first question you’ve asked that doesn’t revolve around you,” Theodore’s voice answered. “Are they hurting?” He was defeated. “They will miss you, until they don’t. And they will hurt, until they don’t.” “Will I see them?” “Do you think it’s wise for the mourning to see the object of their grief?” “Is this... it? Is this....all there is? Is this what forever will look like?” “This is where you are.” “Will I ever go anywhere else?” “You are here. The cat walked to face Joseph as it spoke, “And if you were supposed to be somewhere else, you would be there.” “I’m dead... And I’m here. With you.” “There are worse things.” “I want to go back.” “You can’t.” “I want to change everything. I want to do better. ” “Dead men usually do.” “I want to sleep .” He was tired, and he had nothing else to ask. “Then, I think you should go to sleep,” said the cat softly, surveying the drained man with pity. So, the cat with flames for eyes and stars for teeth and a night sky in its mouth and flowers on its belly, who changed colors and spoke in familiar and unfamiliar voices and showed Joseph beautiful and terrifying things, laid down and closed its eyes, merging into the black as it sighed in relief. Joseph, the good man with jet black hair and frown lines around his mouth, who missed his wife and son and thought he deserved more in death than he ever aspired to have, having finally made peace with what he had been given, also laid down and closed his eyes, sighing in exasperation and acceptance, and reaching out to graze the cat’s warm fur just before being swallowed as well.

Tabatha Furlong always went the extra mile for her regular customers. She telephoned everyone when their books arrived and emailed the latest news about forthcoming publications. Despite her best efforts to revitalise the Catworth Library, it remained under threat of closure and the fire didn’t help matters. # When Tabatha arrived from London three years ago, she’d encountered an institution that was struggling to justify its own existence. The local council was keen to save money and claimed the library’s running costs were too high. Miss Chatham, the retiring librarian, was an ex-head-teacher who was stuck in her ways. “Libraries aren’t meeting places for idle gossipers,” she’d say. “They exist to provide the public access to reading matter.” In her view, clients should choose their books, present their membership card and vacate the premises as soon as possible. She didn’t encourage loitering. The booked-lined reading room offered little in the way of comfort. There was one comfy seat in the entire library. It was out of sight of the reception and often occupied by a gentleman called Jimmy. He was an elderly customer who snoozed away his daylight hours. He’d seen better days and so had the chair. There was also a child-sized rickety table and two matching plastic stools. They didn’t offer much of a perch for contemplation either. The library was more like a storage facility than a sanctuary for enquiring minds. If it was supposed to be the pulsating heart of a lively community, then it was screaming out for emergency resuscitation and a helping of defibrillation. Miss Chatham was the ruler of her kingdom. A world of potential stunted by archaic rules and warped by a closed mind. Miss Chatham didn’t ignore all her customers’ requests. She made occasional compromises to prove she wasn’t a misanthrope. In the lobby area she had allowed a cork notice board. It bore scrappy cards selling second hand bicycles and washing machines, and she charged a weekly rate for its use. Most local societies had given up displaying the notices here because of the poor footfall. They preferred to alert everyone to their forthcoming events in the nearby supermarket. Miss Chatham saw the lack of interest as a positive. She didn’t want the public hanging around and asking daft questions. She wasn’t a tourist information service. “If you want to know what’s going on,” she’d say, “consult a newsagent. This is a library, for goodness’ sake.” There were two identical plywood signs hanging above both the entrance and the reception desk. She painted the word ‘Silence’ in bold red letters. When the opportunity presented itself, Miss Chatham enforced the rule with relish. She’d peer over her glasses, raise a finger to her lips and emit a threatening hiss like a venomous serpent. Miss Chatham didn’t look kindly on further transgressions and often revoked customers’ membership cards for a six-month period. # Tabatha arrived from London three years ago to care for her father, who’d become more or less bed-ridden. She needed to be close to her dad and seized the opportunity to work in the local library. The library was a short bicycle ride from her father’s house; what could be more convenient? It didn’t take long for her to spot areas in the library that needed updating, and she was determined to make an impact. She outlined her plans for improving everything and presented her ideas to Miss Chatham. If Tabatha had been expecting approval, it wasn’t forthcoming. In no uncertain terms, Miss Chatham said ‘no’ to the entire list. # After the frosty response from the retiring librarian, Tabatha held her council. Miss Chatham intended to leave an orderly establishment and made it clear, “the library is quite happy and works well just the way it is.” Tabatha’s interference wasn’t welcome under Miss Chatham’s regime, and no further discussion took place. The rule about silence in the library became a convenient way to avoid any talk on the matter. During her three-month probation, Tabatha made notes and extended her original ‘to do’ list. # After Miss Chatham left her post, Tabatha saw a chance to utilise all the library’s amenities. There were three decent-sized rooms that were never used, a staff changing room and a kitchen on site. She imagined the building playing a central role in the community. It had potential to be a nurturing environment for learning, meetings, and music events. The library had a Victorian ethos and ran on ancient principles. There were no computers, and the antiquated records system still relied on a postcard filed in wooden boxes labelled according to subject. Tabatha prepared a convincing proposal and approached the council to help fund the renovations. # Everything took shape with the unofficial help of an elderly gentleman called James McGuigan. Jimmy, as he was known, had been a regular visitor under the previous management and was often discovered dozing in the easy chair at the rear of the antiquarian section. In his time, he’d been a travelling sales agent for a specialised book company who sought and collected ancient tomes. His claim to fame was locating an original copy of the 1616 Illuminated King James Bible. It was a unique example of Jacobean Art and sold for £218,000 to an undisclosed bidder in the United States. # Tabatha and Jimmy discussed the plans for renovating the library. She had schemes to extend the library’s remit and encourage a wider range of customers. He loved her ideas and saw the exciting potential in her vision. Their relationship transformed his weary demeanour, and he gained a new lease on life. Jimmy was keen to transform the unused rooms in order to provide a welcoming atmosphere. He suggested installing a shower in the locker room for Tabatha’s use. “You never know when you might get a soaking on your bike,” he’d said. They both researched comfortable furniture for the reading room and even a coffee machine. She joked that he’d never leave if they bought all those out-sized sofas, and they laughed at the idea. Jimmy was a handy fellow and between the two of them they transformed the décor. He was also confident in the kitchen and often made Tabatha a hot snack and drinks during her busy day. # The unfortunate incident with the emergency services was probably just a misunderstanding. Roger Furlong had called the library late one afternoon and announced he’d had a ‘bit of a funny turn’. He wasn’t a man to feign illness, and Tabatha had to leave early. She had no choice; it was urgent. Jimmy was on hand, so that was fine. It wasn’t the first time he’d come to her rescue. It was simple; lock up and post the keys through the letterbox. She could check in the pile of returned books tomorrow. # Mr Furlong had fallen on the hall staircase, but when Tabatha found him he’d crawled into the front room. She invoked her first aid training and secured a splinter to his shattered forearm. The paramedics arrived within an hour which allowed her time to prepare an overnight bag. Tabatha thought it was odd that the lights were on as she passed the library in the ambulance. However, she had more immediate issues to distract her mind. The A & E at the Catworth Community Hospital was always busy on a Friday evening, and tonight was no exception. The triage nurse examined Roger and complimented Tabatha on her first aid work. “Yes, it’s a fracture,” she said. “Is he allergic to anything? I can offer pain killers.” The nurse was patient and caring however she couldn’t do much about the queue. The end of the week had arrived and the first of the evening’s casualties had arrived from the local bars. By the time Roger saw a doctor, the waiting room was full of bloody noses, bruised fists and boxed ears. They’d have to join wait for an X-ray. It was ten o’clock when Tabatha got the call from Leopard Security Service. “Is that Tabatha Furlong?” “Speaking,” she said. “How can I---?” “We’ve had an intruder alert at the Catworth Library---” “A break in?” She looked at Roger, who shrugged. “I can’t believe, are you sure---?” “You are the key holder?” “Yes,” she swallowed, “Tonight was different, but yes.” “Can you check the premises?” “I’m at the hospital and---” Roger motioned for her to leave. “I’ll be fine, love.” She grimaced at him. “The police will meet you there.” “I’m on my way.” # The windows were dark when Tabatha arrived at her place of work. However, flashing blue lights illuminated the exterior facade of the sandstone building. Two officers were on a walkie-talkies and the air was full of squawking static and garbled transmissions. “Good evening.” He checks his note pad. “Miss Furlong?” “What seems to be the problem, officer?” He points up to a box above the doorway. The translucent white plastic is flashing orange and bleeping for attention. “I assume you have a key?” Tabatha delves into her handbag. “I have a spare, here, somewhere...” The officer confirmed Tabatha’s arrival with his colleague on the two-way and followed her as she gained entry and approached the security system. She turned a key to take command and silences the unit. A red diode shows an open point of access in zone one. It’s in the large hall that now hosts the learning resource centre. The library is quiet except for the gentle hum of desktop computers in the room beyond the vestibule. Tabatha ventures into the communal space. There is a gentle pulse from twelve animated screen savers. Tropical fish, hot air balloons, and ballerinas drift across the monitors. In the far corner, a chink of light betrays a fire door left ajar. “That’ll be your problem.” The officer points to the exit. Tabatha shuts the offending door and the security box makes a series of three high-frequency pips. Squawks on the two-way tell of another incident happening in the centre of town. “Gotcha, control.” Splat-squawk-splat. “All sorted here.” He nods at Tabatha. She mouths a thank you and side-squints a nervous grin. “We’re on our way.” The patrol car disappears as she searches for her phone. Tabatha couldn’t help noticing a smell of burned toast. She walked into the kitchen. Was that the source? There’s a mug of tea on the work surface. It’s still warm to her touch; but it couldn’t be. As Tabatha left the library, she mulled over the evidence and wondered. She calls the hospital. Roger is ready to be discharged. She has to collect her father. It wasn’t until later that night she got a call from the fire service. The End

I'd never thought I'd actually be awake after I died. I remember my last breath. I remember watching TV from the corner of my eye as I lay on the doctor's table. Soccer was on but my team wasn't playing. I felt chemical warmth squiggle up my left arm when Messi scored a goal. My self-preservation instinct kicked in. I wanted to shout, to stop my euthanasia, but when I tried to speak my lungs didn't obey. The paralyzing agent was swift and merciful. My lungs had already failed. Death comes with a unique set of feelings. One reminded me of when I was a kid-- I'd puff my cheeks and hold my breath so my face could get red. Once, my face went purple. I got dizzy and I scared mother. It felt just like then. I felt blood in my face and heard drums in my temples. And under my skin, I felt something like lead pinning me down. I felt rigid. It wasn't pleasant. I tried to move an arm. I couldn't. And I tried to move a wrist, unsuccessfully. I was so desperate to hold on to my body that I even strained to move a pinky-finger. I had no more will to channel. The thumping around my temples ceased. For a while, I could still move my eyeballs. I panicked and I darted them around. Everything got blurry. I could do nothing, so I acquiesced. The heavy feeling left; I remember my last breath trickle from my lips. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I rose with my breath. I didn't see anything flash before my eyes. I wasn't even afraid-- I felt helpless, only. It didn't hurt, but I can see why some people might find it painful. In that last moment of my death, every second felt like a decade. The feeling is distinct. I felt like I'd been preparing to die my whole life-- as if life's meaning were to perish. I could still see the blurry outline of my gowned body on the tan leather table as I rose. I was a helium balloon leaving a child's hand. I'd been released: I was being levitated by my last breath. The further I rose, the colder and darker it got. The ceiling was to my back now, and I could see my corpse on *its* back below. I rose far enough that I should've been able to see the whole hospital, but I didn't. I saw only my hospice room, bounded by four walls. Outside those walls there was nothing. All of reality was contained in those four walls; all of reality had always been just four walls. The room got smaller. After a while, I was so far up that I could only see a white spec where my hospice room once was. Eventually, even that spec disappeared in the overwhelming sea of cold, dark, primordial nothing. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I thought it would be easy to reconcile with not having a body. I thought reconciliation would be quick, relatively speaking. I've now been without a body for longer than I ever had one. Yet reconciliation has been neither easy, nor quick. I cannot get over the fact that I could once breathe, eat, and have wrists. It's ironic: to be frank, I don't even remember what a wrist is. Perhaps They remember. I know that there are others here with me. We're like balloons in a bunch, blindly bumping into each other as we float. Unable to have wrists. Unable to crawl. We only float. Sometimes, it gets crowded. Like grapes on a fecund vine, our bunch grows heavy and begins to sag towards the spec of light. But we never sag too far. For They are always quick to notice. And as we sag, the Harvesters above always reap those among us who are highest. They reap so we may continue to rise. For such is our purpose. We sag. And we rise. And in time, we are reaped.

“SEEKING: Card Players, Bootleggers, and Shady Characters. $30/day, $240/week.” The wanted section of the Weekly never fails to make you smile. It’s the kind of thing that you enjoy about Rosebud County, it’s why you came here in the first place. You’re none of the three, but the idea that Shady Characters are out there, clipping the classified ads just like everyone else, makes the mundane a little more exciting. The fact that the phone number below has too many digits just sweetens the deal. You put the ripped-out ad in your back pocket, to be reexamined after you finish the crossword, once you’ve found your five letter word for a tree that can’t be trusted. (Not the kind of clue you’d get back home.) After finishing your oats you head downstairs to open the store, only fifteen minutes late. Start being too on time and we might lose our charm, you joke to the mostly empty shelves. You open the lock boxes and start unloading all the food and hardware too valuable to leave unsecured after sundown. By ten the store looks like a store again and you settle down behind the counter. A scarecrow comes in and buys a set of new buttons. For an extra 70 cents you sew them on to his ripped sleeve. The barman from the piano hall picks up his daily order of peanuts. A timberman comes in for some nails, and suggests that your tree is probably a Larch. Never met one he could trust, he says. You pencil it in but it doesn’t work with the rest of the clues. You’ll come back to it later. After the morning rush, you take out the wanted ad and plug in the store’s old telephone. You try dialing the number as written, but it doesn’t go through. (It would have been a bit of a let-down if it had.) You try truncating the number in various ways, some of the calls connect but all are deadends. Not many people in the County use phones anymore, it’s possible that the number means something else entirely. You boil water for tea and sell a ten pound bag of rice to a man with round glasses and a long coat. You consider asking him about the ad, but you don’t want to come across any particular kind of way. You make your tea out of pinyon pine and juniper berries, native to this high arid steppe. Pinyon is what the crows like, it makes you sharp. You’re not sure what juniper does, but they always come as a pair. (Locals say that juniper is for the lizards, but no one remembers why.) You write out the digits from the ad on a long sheet of receipt paper. You circle the 9-7-9 of the Rosebud area code, a good place to start. Back in the day they handed out numbers in order of importance, you always like that the County was last. It’s another reason you came here, really. Of all the dusty dream towns of the steppe, you might as well pick the last. You stare at the numbers and drink your tea. The sun passes overhead and the dust kicks up outside. Thursdays are always slow in the afternoons, it’s a long time since last week’s paycheck. You rearrange the digits to see if they take any other familiar form, longitude and latitude, a time and place, a lock combination, nothing jumps out. There are too many numbers, anything works. Idly, you rearrange them into your old phone number, then your old zip code and street number. You get frustrated and sweep the pieces into a drawer. (Puzzles are only fun while they can keep you distracted.) You close the store and go out for a walk. \*\*\* Your mother sighs as she stands outside your room. The movers have packed up the rest of the house but this room was for her hands only. Everything is still and silent as she turns the knob. She holds her breath as she crosses the threshold, breaking the invisible seal that had formed over the last seven years. (She cries for hours.) Packing takes so much longer than she had expected. As painful as it was to think about the process, the practice just bled details she had missed. Disassembling your bed, your dresser, your blue chair. All the books on your bookshelves. (What an avid little reader you were once.) The clothes and shoes you outgrew but insisted on keeping. You grew so attached to everything. Someday, your mother thinks, you’ll come back and yell at her for getting rid of it all. (She regrets the thought immediately). The sun set and rose to find your mother’s puffy red face surrounded by stacked boxes and neatly labeled pieces of furniture. She holds in her sore hands a picture, stares at it for a long time. You’re in it, glowing beside your parents, in front of a soft yellow forest full of identical silver trunks. You were so excited to learn about those trees, joined together at the roots, one single organism stretching miles across. (Your mother can’t remember what they’re called now either.) She cries one last time then begins packing the car. She carefully piles everything you left behind into her station wagon. The thought of coming across a stranger wearing your clothes is too much, so she drives to a thrift store two hours away. It takes another hour to unload everything, for the clerk to mark which set of screws and bolts and wooden slats go together, to decide one final time what stays and what goes. The sun is setting by the time she ends up at her new apartment. The movers have already come and gone, unpacked everything in the time it took her just to take apart your old bed. She sits outside, not moving. (Hours just tick by these days.) Next to her in the passenger seat are two boxes, the remnants of your existence she couldn’t bear to give away. One box is labeled with the words “THINGS TO KEEP” in neat block letters. The other box just says “HOPE.” Your mother sighs angrily, and scribbles out the words. \*\*\* On Thursday afternoons, when the whole town is saving nickels and the piano hall is empty, you like to stop in and play. They never made it past ragtime out on the steppe, and folks think it’s some kind of magic when you play the jazz you grew up with; it makes the jack rabbits skittish and the donkeys bray. Eventually you decided it’s best to just keep your spells between you and the empty bar. Today the hall is clear except for the man with round glasses and a long coat. Again something makes you think he’d know about your strange ad, but you leave him be. (You never lost your good manners.) Instead you sit down at the piano and slowly warm your fingers. Your mind drifts as they wander over the deeply worn keys, playing pieces you forgot the names of years ago. It amazes you what your mind holds on to and what falls away, that you can remember ten thousand notes but not the three words that hang above them. (More puzzles.) In a moment of whimsy, you put the ad on top of the piano and start to play the phone number, as if it were a chord progression written down by an erratic piano instructor. It sounds awkward at first but with the right mix of major sevenths and accidentals you can start to hear some halfway decent jazz hidden inside. You just keep repeating the twelve bars, changing the key, the tempo, the melody, continuously circling around something. It’s soothing and nostalgic in a way that is unexpected but pleasant. You circle deeper and deeper, and don’t notice the round glasses in the corner of the bar fix themselves on you. You float back down to find the man standing next to you, waiting patiently for you to finish. “Aspen,” he says, as you stare up at him confused. “The tree that can’t be trusted.” He smiles and pats the piano fondly, then walks out of the bar. You sit frozen for a long time, then rush back to the store. You pull out the crossword but you already know that it will fit. As you write it in dark black ink you’re hit with a wave of memory. A high forested plateau. The sun shining through countless yellow leaves. Identical white trunks, tied together below the ground, stretching for a hundred miles. You have no idea where and when any of it is but you know you were there. \*\*\* Your mother enters her new two-bedroom walkup and sets down your boxes. She looks around at the job the movers have done, impressed how closely everything matched her instructions. There are still some odd boxes that need to be put away but it feels remarkably like walking into someone else’s home. (Into someone else’s life, already in progress.) She tours around the place and feels unexpectedly light, like a ghost, or a spirit floating out of one body into another. She feels like dancing. She sets up an old record player and attaches it to the speakers already mounted in the living room. She opens a box looking for her records and recoils when she realizes it's one of yours. Then, with sudden confidence, she goes back into the box. She had found one of her old swing records hiding on your bookshelf, and now she takes it out and wipes off the dusty sleeve. A pile of memories that threatens to bury her, but she feels unstoppable now. (She’s a ghost!) She twirls around the room as the horns dip and dive. The old vinyl cracks and pops, but the ride cymbal keeps its rhythmic shuffle. Your mother’s dark hair flies behind her, her bare feet glide nimbly below. She hasn’t slept in two days but somehow it only lends to her grace. The music builds and then falls, and she closes her eyes and sways as it fades between songs. She opens her eyes and rushes to unpack the rest of your boxes. Nothing more can be hidden away. Now is not the time for closed doors, for holding back, for waiting. Now is a celebration. (Hark! A new moon rises.) It was an eclectic mix of your possessions that she managed to keep, childish and out of place here, but that doesn’t phase her. She places the rest of your records by the turntable, cleaning their jackets and wiping the grooves. On top of the piano she places two of your stuffed animals, a donkey and a hare, and almost imagines they’re listening to the music. Her eyes twinkle as she takes each one for a whirl around the room. (Swing dancing is best with a partner.) At the bottom of one box is a rolled up poster that sat behind your door, another memory from a trip out west. It’s a huge scene of an expansive prairie, nothing other than a few juniper bushes to break up the flat, arid plain. Crows circle above and a magpie hops along the dusty ground. She never really understood the appeal, but now hangs it directly across from her own bed. She lies down and looks deeply into the vast western expanse. Her eyes droop as she looks, trying to see what you saw in all the emptiness. (She finally drifts off to sleep, still searching.) \*\*\* A distant sun is casting long shadows when you shake yourself out of your head. You pace around the store, packing away lock boxes, misplacing everything. You talk to yourself, about aspen trees mostly. You shutter the store and go upstairs. You push aside your rusty cot and pull out a scratched up wooden crate. You wipe the dust off and open it. You’re not sure what you’re looking for but with shaky breaths you leaf through your old life. Everything has a distant familiarity, but nothing clicks. You spread it all out on the floor. There are notebooks and journals and reams of sheet music, all fading slowly away. You can no longer remember why any of this is here, or what might have been left behind. You strike the crate in frustration and down flutters a photograph, knocked loose by your anger. You pick it up and the world spins. You are fixated first on the forest, yellow aspen trees glow in the soft autumn light. The trunks and branches are exactly how you remembered them, bright silver, all neat clones of each other. You knew you were there once. Then, nervously, you let your eyes drift to the three smiling faces in the center. You recognise yourself instantly, but your mother and father come as a much slower realization, a tide rushing in. (Waves crash, everything is spinning.) You sit down and feel like vomiting. You look away and look back. For a second you try to pretend it might not be them, you might be mistaken, but the illusion falls away. Memories flood over the high walls you so carefully built. They crumble under the weight. You stare at your mother, her hand on your shoulder. She looks back, smiling, comforting. The sun catches her long dark hair. She looks so young, so happy. You remember how much you once wanted to hurt her. And how much you once missed her. Your father doesn’t remember these things, at least not here, smiling on your other shoulder. He is tall but gentle. He looks cold, with a hat and gloves on, and a coat that goes down to his knees. Still, he looks happy too. He is beaming back at the camera, his eyes glowing behind his round glasses. \*\*\* You sit on the floor for a long while, thinking about where you are, this strange county of card players, bootleggers, and shady characters. You think about crows and donkeys and jack rabbits, about jazz music and pinyon pine, and the right and wrong kinds of puzzles. You hold the ad in your jittery fingers. You know you’re never going to figure it out. You knew that from the beginning, but you did what you could to put it off. Now, it’s time. You flip it over the cut out piece of paper, and look again at the other side. At your name printed neatly in capital letters. At the message copied below, “please come home.

Dear Julia, High school fucking blows. That might be a bit of an understatement. It doesn't really blow, per say, only tear apart everything you've ever thought to be true about life. There's no more skipping homework assignments, slacking off on upcoming tests, or missing class for being sick. There's no such thing as free time or relaxation anymore. There's no place in this eight-month period of time for video games, friends, or parties. If you're like me and have to support yourself because your family can't afford to, you also have to work a job, which means every waking moment of your life is dedicated to hard work, homework, and the elusive 4.0 GPA. There's no time for flirting, romance, or a girlfriend. All of those things merely amount to wasted time, and every fleeting minute is time you could spend brushing up on a recent topic, or even looking ahead to what you could be learning in the future! You could set me up on a date, pay for everything, even taxi me around so I could save my precious money for gas, and I'd still wonder how this helps me find the derivative of the function f(x). Mallory Fishmann was the answer I was looking for. She fucked up all of the above. Ever hate a girl so much you wanted to rape her? No? Good. No sane person ever goes out and rapes someone. Rape is bad. Everyone knows that. It's one of those things that frequents the nightly news, commonly enough to where we dismiss it because it's just "one of those bad things that happens". That sure didn't stop Mallory from getting my brother thrown in jail, though. Ryan was a great guy. Starting running-back on the football team, a solid 3.8 GPA off the field, and (as the ladies put it) 'devilishly handsome'. He made the ladies swoon and sigh, gawk and giggle, but he never really paid much attention to it. He had more important things to do in life, like volunteer at the local crisis ministries to help deliver groceries to the less fortunate. He was the perfect example of the perfect human being God graced this Earth with. To Portland, Oregon, he was a hero. To 1309 Knoxville Court, he was my twin brother. In the typical cliche fashion, I'm obviously the exact opposite of Ryan. I sit at my computer playing video games and making YouTube videos. I'm pasty, scrawny, and my choice of clothing was about as far "off-fleek" as humanly possible. Both of my past relationships have been total busts. One was suicidal, and the other was bipolar, bisexual... and suicidal. I'd practically given up on girls. I mean, who needs them? Who needs the warm, tender embrace of a woman, with her soft hands slowly gliding across the surface of my skin, her eyes drawing me closer and closer to her face, her lips so enticing and... I haven't given much thought to girls recently. Ryan and I were only similar in the fact that we really didn't pay attention to love for a while. It was only during my Junior year that I started to branch out and try hanging out with some of the girls from the anime club. For Ryan, he basically had his pick of the crop when it came to a girlfriend. He could point to any girl, say her name, and wet floor signs would appear out of nowhere. I've literally seen fights between girls arguing over who he winked at, but that's at the far end of the psycho-cheerleader spectrum. He could have chosen any girl in the school, but he chose the one girl that wouldn't even give him a second glance: Mallory. You should've seen the way he acted around her. Ryan went from a man of confidence to, well, ME in an instant. He didn't know how to talk, how to act, and this only made Mallory laugh at him. But, in his oh so persistent mind, this never stopped him. He spent weeks talking to her and working up the courage to ask her out, and she said no. Ryan was shattered, but not completely broken. They stayed friends long enough for the second attempt at dating, to which Ryan got a positive response. Was it the hardest thing he's ever done? Not at all. But for him, dating Mallory was like getting a full ride to Stanford: the ultimate jackpot. They were honestly really good together. They seemed to genuinely enjoy each other's company, and I was happy for him. I was dating some girl in band during that point in our lives (her name was Sarah. Ended up being a total whore and dating my best friend later. I'm not salty at all), and generally life was good. Until Mallory fucked it up. Or, rather, claimed that Ryan fucked HER up. One day the police showed up at our door. Our dad answered, and immediately Ryan was ushered out the door into the luminescent cop car parked outside. Dad demanded to know what happened, and learned the hard 'truth': Ryan had raped Mallory, and there was enough evidence to take her claim to court. As the cop and my brother rolled out of the driveway, my dad pulled out his phone to call my mom and find out what to do. She didn't answer. She never answered anymore. I blame it on the twenty-something year old bellhop from that one hotel in the Bahamas they stayed at on their anniversary. Jerk. Ryan lost the case. He was tried as an adult and sentenced for five years, three on good behavior. Ryan went to prison, Mallory went home, and I became the twin brother of "the guy who raped that chick". There's a reason I told you about how they met. I don't think he did it. I think Mallory is a liar, and that I unfortunately got the stupid backlash from Ryan's arraignment. So you know how I said that my first statement was an understatement? Let me amend that: High school "unwillingly and forcefully" fucking blows.

My breath comes fast and heavy, sobs rack my chest, and tears stream down my face to a point where I can’t even see my phone screen. I try to breathe but can’t. I try to calm down but can’t. I am on the verge of succumbing to the darkness clouding the edges of my vision when I realize what I need to do. I dial her number from memory, and she picks up on the first ring. “Hey boo, what’s up?” Her soothing voices washes over me, and I calm down enough to choke out a few words. “Help, please... my pills, medicine, out” I manage to sputter out before I must stop talking to gasp for air. I can feel the screech building in my throat and can do nothing as it claws its way out of my mouth. The sobs wash over me, and I am drowning in my tears. My chest feels like it is about to explode, and I manage one last word, “Hurry”. “Hey, Lexi listen to me, okay? Bae, remember your exercises? Remember your breathing patterns? What did we say? Deep breaths, in and out. Concentrate on my voice, nothing else matters,” she says to me, but it’s no use. I can hear an undertone of panic in her voice and that sends me over the edge. “Hurry,” I say once more before I hang up. Sitting there alone in the dark, on the floor in my bedroom, the crippling wave of sadness and fear washes over me. Not fear of anything in particular, or sadness for any specific reason, they just are. My heart is a bucket and my emotions are the size of a lake, I can’t help but overflow. And so, my tears pour from the faucet that is my eyes and I can do nothing but watch as they hit the ground beneath me. An animal like scream rips from my throat and I claw at my tan face, trying to scratch at the itch worming its way beneath my skin. I taste salt and blood in my mouth and scramble on my hands and knees until I have successfully backed myself into a corner. As I wrap my arms around my knees, I duck my head and my hair falls like a auburn curtain blocking out the world as I sob into my arms. The worst part of all of this is that I know this is ridiculous, I know that I am acting like a mad woman; but I can’t help it. Try as I might, I can’t control this. I am drowning in my feelings, despair and sadness suffocate me, anger beats to the rhythm of my heart, and loneliness chokes me. ‘Crybaby,’ I say to myself. ‘Get it together, Millie will be here soon. I hate it when she sees me like this.’ I whimper and empty my lungs. Then I pull as much oxygen as I can back into them, filling myself with fresh new air and pushing out the panic ingrained in my mind. In and out, I concentrate solely on my breathing, pushing all other thoughts from my mind. For a second it works and the birds that are fear and sadness nesting in my heart take off, flying around my head. For a minute I am able to hold them at bay, but then they dive back down and continue building their permanent home in my heart. I await Millie’s arrival anxiously, my heart beating like a drum, my head searing with pain and a pressure I can’t even begin to explain mounting in my chest. Time passes; I don’t know how much. Time doesn’t really mean anything when you’re in the state of mind that I’m in. I try to calm down, yet nothing works. I concentrate on Millie, my beautiful Millie. She has been by my best friend since high school. Throughout high school and college, she always had my back, she was by my side always. And I have been by hers. I have watched toxic relationships crumble and have comforted her in the aftermath, I have helped her study and gone to her grandmother’s funeral. There is a connection, something between us; we just get each other. In this life we have faced a lot of the same problems and we understand the walls, the pain, and the burdens that the other carries. I hear her key turn and the lock click open. The front door to my apartment swings open and she’s here. She is a whirlwind of color and noise drowning out the screams in my head. A weight eases off my chest and I manage to smile through my sobs at her. Her ebony skin gleams beneath the warm light of my kitchen chandelier and her midnight tresses are pulled up in a sloppy bun. “Honey, I’m sorry. There was traffic,” she explains as she rushes to my side. Her black eyes flash as they take in the sight of me, hysterical on the floor as she pushes my hair out of my face and whips a tissue out of her pocket. She wipes my soaking cheeks and swollen blue eyes, but as soon as she dries my face, more tears flood out to replace the wetness on my cheeks. She rummages in her purse and pulls out a yellow prescription bottle. After rushing to the kitchen for a cup of water, she shakes out two of the little white pills and places them in my semi-open mouth for me. My hands tremble as I attempt to guide the glass of water to my mouth and it isn’t until she places her warm and steady palms over mine that I am able to sip the water and swallow my pills. Finally, my breathing evens out and I stop shaking, the flow of my tears slow, and I slip into oblivion. --------------------------------------------------------------- “Lexi?” I awake in my bedroom to the sound of Millie calling my name. At some point last night, she must have moved me to my bed and wiped off what was left of my smeared makeup. “Baby girl, it’s been over twelve hours. I need you to get up so I can make sure that you are okay.” I groan as I struggle to sit up, ultimately failing and falling back onto my pillows. “What happened?” My throat is sore, and my voice is hoarse. “My head is killing me,” I say. “I’m sorry, you had another attack. I don’t know how long it was this time, you called me part way through cause you were out of medicine,” she explains slowly. “I’m so sorry,” I mumble. “My meds have been really off lately. I’ll see a doctor tomorrow and ask about changing them. I just don’t really know what else I can do, I have tried countless antidepressants, and sedatives, and mood stabilizers, and anxiolytics, even psychotherapy and nothing works. There is nothing left I can try; I don’t know what to do.” And once more I am crying, not hysterically, just two silent tear tracks tracing my cheeks. “Baby girl, you’ve come this far. Trust me, you are going to make it through this.” --------------------------------------------------------------- “Alexandra Davis, is there an Alexandra Davis here?” A petite nurse with almond eyes and caramel skin says that Doctor James Miller is ready to see us. “Right here,” I say as I stand up. Millie rises and walks by my side as we make our way into the doctor’s office. I take a seat on the examination table and Millie perches on the edge slightly in front of me, like she is trying to shield me from whatever might come next. Dr. Miller enters looking down at his clipboard. “Davis, again?” He looks up and seems surprised to see us there. “What happened Alexa? I thought you were doing better,” the concern in his voice is real and I know that because this is the doctor who has been treating for over four years since I was first diagnosed with severe type one bipolar disorder, that then morphed into borderline personality disorder (BPD). My case has only gotten more dire and over the years my symptoms only seem to worsen. I even developed major depressive disorder. Manic episodes are only getting more intense and making me feel higher, only to be replaced by the inevitable crash and the severe depression that follows; I hardly sleep anymore and when I do it is restless; relationship after relationship is a complete disaster; my emotions are running rampant and possibly the worst part are the outbursts of intense, uncontrollable anger, followed by feelings of shame. “She had another episode and was out of meds, I picked some up for her but she needed twice the prescribed amount to put her sleep she was so hysterical,” Millie answers for me. “A manic episode? A high?” “No,” Millie replies. “A panic attack, extreme anxiety, mood swings, her emotions were out of control.” “I see,” he says, and I can see the worry in his eyes. “None of the medication is working, all the pills are useless, psychotherapy didn’t work either. What am I supposed to do? Is there even anything I can do?” I feel the pressure building in my veins, my head aches and I fight the urge to scream at the top of my lungs. “I have an idea, but it is up to you whether you want to try it or not,” he says pensively. “Anything,” I say. “I want this to end, I am so tired.” “ECT.” “What’s that,” Millie asks. “ECT, or electroconvulsive therapy, is an alternative therapy for certain psychiatric illnesses that are not responding to traditional treatments,” he explains. “ECT therapy has a 70 to 90 percent success rate when it comes to patients getting better. This is compared to a 50 to 60 percent success rate for those taking medications.” “Why didn’t you try this sooner?!” Millie is absolutely outraged at the fact that there has been another way this entire time and he is just now telling us about it. “Because it had awful side effects, we needed for it to be tested more and tweaked so that there would be the highest possible chance of success with the lowest risk of worsening the conditions or harming the patient,” Dr Miller explains calmly. “What do I have to do,” I ask, interjecting myself between them. “It involves a brief electrical stimulation of the brain while the patient is under anaesthesia. It will be managed by a team of trained medical professionals including a psychiatrist, an anesthesiologist and a nurse.” “Electrical stimulation? You are going to shock her?” “During the procedure, done under general anaesthesia, small electric currents are passed through the brain, triggering a brief seizure. It causes changes in brain chemistry that can reverse symptoms of certain mental health conditions.” “So, you are going to harm her to heal her?” Millie says dubiously. “It won’t harm her per say, she might experience nausea, headache, jaw pain, muscle ache, confusion, or possible short term memory loss as a side effect of the procedure; but that’s it,” he recites. “Hmm,” Millie murmurs concomitantly. “I’ll do it.” I have already made up my mind, I am ready to be over with this stage of my life and move on. I want to live and be able to maintain a stable relationship. “How long will the treatment take?” “It depends on how well you react. Normally it is 8 to 12 sessions, twice a week, over 4 to 6 weeks.” Dr Miller looks at ease and confident in this, it’s reassuring. “How is the procedure done? What exactly will you be doing to Lexi?” “On the day of the procedure, I will give her general anaesthesia and muscle relaxants. These medications will help prevent convulsions that come with the seizure activity. She will fall asleep before the procedure and not remember it afterwards,” explains. “Two electrodes will be placed on your scalp. A controlled electrical current will be passed between the electrodes. The current causes a temporary change in the brain’s electrical activity, a brain seizure. It will last between 30 and 60 seconds. Your heart rhythm and blood pressure will be monitored the entire time,” he is now talking directly to me and once again I feel reassured. “Okay,” I say, and that is that. 2 Months Later... “Millie,” I say pausing as I am about to enter my bedroom. “Thank you, for everything.” “There is no need to thank me, you know I have your back no matter what.” She laughs. “There is a need to thank you, you have been with me to hell and back, you are an incredible person and an amazing friend. So, thank you.” “Oh, come here you sentimental bitch,” she says, rolling her eyes and opening her arms. I lean in and hug her tight. “I meant it,” I say. “I know.” “Now move your butt Lexi,” Millie yells at me and she pushes me towards my vanity. “Going, geez. Relax,” I yell back. “Forgive me for not wanting to keep the guys waiting.” I can hear the sarcasm in her voice and can picture the eye roll that accompanies it perfectly. “You may be fine with arriving late to meet your boyfriend, but I like to be punctual.” I just laugh and stick the last bobby pin into my updo. I am happy, genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. It is not a manic happy or a high which will lead to a low, it is natural and sweet. I am finally back in control of my emotions and my life. I haven’t felt this strong in a long, long time. I smile at myself in the mirror and pick up my purse. “I’m ready,” I say as Millie takes me by the arm and starts pulling me towards the front door. We step out into the sunlight of the hallway and the door latches closed behind us with a loud click.

Late on a Friday afternoon in the silent chilly staff development lab of the hospital basement, Wesley lounged with his feet propped up on a chair. Wesley passed the time by munching on taco chips, dropping crumbs over the snaps of his shirt, reading a Clive Cussler paperback. A rumpled blanket covered the linoleum floor where a naked body lay. Wiping orange powdered fingers on his pant leg, he sipped fresh coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Next to him on the long table was a stack of booklets labeled, CARDIOPULMONARY RESUSCITATION. Wesley absentmindedly scratched his wiry beard then glanced up at the clock. A full day wasted without even one signature on his attendance sheet. Sixty minutes to go. The Knicks were playing that night and he had arrangements to meet up with some friends at the Juicy Nickel sports bar. His left arm cramped and he stretched both arms over his head letting out a groan. Footsteps came from the hallway and through the door lumbered a graying sallow-faced man. Breathing heavily, he said, “Hey. CPR Recert?” Wesley untangled his legs, turned down the page of his paperback and dropped the book in his gym bag. “This is the place. Come right on in. I’ve been waiting for you.” He stood, wiping remnants of Doritos from his front. The man inhaled the coffee aroma mixed with a spicy smell he couldn’t place. He said, “I work in the outpatient department? I’m in a hurry, they want me back upstairs pronto.” He spoke with a slight speech impediment that embarrassed him. “Sure, you’ll be out of here in a few minutes. What’s your name big guy?” Wesley said and grabbed the clipboard. “Max,” the man said, glancing at the half empty bag of chips. “Put your John Henry on the sheet, Max. Take a booklet. This year’s update from the American Heart Association. No more mouth to mouth.” Max scribbled his information, threw down the pen and began rolling up his sleeves and with it went the label, bigdudeclothing.com. The bi-annual testing requirement came around way too soon for Max. Since his last recertification, a lot had happened in his life. Dear Cherrie, his wife of twenty-five years had died from Covid. Stunned and grief stricken he sought comfort in ice cream and junk food and when not eating, he slept. Work was the one thing that kept him going, forced him to dress and leave the house, to show up, and help ferry patients to labs and xray. Wesley watched the man thumbing through the booklet. This guy’ll collapse someday; looks like a heart attack waiting to happen. Wesley said, “Last minute on a Friday, eh? Why’d you wait so long?” Before Max could answer, a muffled roar came from the ceiling vent sending warm air over the area. He waved a hand at Wesley. “Let’s get it over with. This isn’t one of my favorite things to do on a Friday afternoon.” “You and everyone else, pal. That’s why my attendance sheet's blank. But it has to be done. Gotta keep the main office happy. ‘Sides, you never know, it might come in handy someday.” “Fat chance I’ll ever need to use it. Tell you what. You sign me off and I’ll buy you a beer. Deal?” Wesley didn’t answer. Max tried again. “There’s always nurses around here. I’m never going to have to save anyone," arms thrown out at his sides like a little boy begging for mercy. "The most I’ll have to do is call the code.” He sniffed, “Plus, I got the arthritis in my hands.” Wesley was already setting up the mannequin for the demo. “Sorry, my friend. Just doing my job. So. Look through the booklet. Tell me when you’re ready for the test. First the written part. Then you do the demo. Or whichever way you want. It doesn’t matter.” Max held onto the table’s edge lowering himself to his knees, with the hot air blowing directly onto his back, he moved next to the dummy called Annie. The elevator door groaned, then quick footsteps followed. A small woman wearing green scrubs rushed in and grabbed the sign in sheet, scribbled her name and said, “Hey guys, I’m really squeezed for time. My cranie’s due back to my unit. Any chance I can do my test real quick? I won’t take more than two minutes. Promise.” Max smiled, "Sure! Be my guest." Wesley said, “No, this guy is ahead of you. Max, go on, start your demo.” Max stood on his knees looking at the nurse whose ID said Olivia, RN. “Did you say cranie? What’s that mean?” “Craniotomy. Brain surgery,” Olivia said growing more annoyed. She darted from table to hallway and back with quick jerky movements like a hummingbird. Wesley said, “Olivia, why don’t you look through the updates and take the written test. By then Max’ll be done.” She threw up her hands. Flit, flit. Wesley said, “Go ahead, Max. You found this woman down on the floor. What’s your first step?” Max had struggled to bend over the mannequin without holding himself up. “I don’t have time for this,” Olivia snapped. “I did the written part online. All I need to do is the demo.” Wesley informed Olivia the online test doesn’t count for recertification. It’s meant as a practice. Olivia felt a migraine beginning and pressed two fingers to her forehead. Wesley stood across from Max waiting for him to begin and turned to Olivia, “We’ll be here on Monday too. Why don’t you come back then? If you’re out of time, just ask the super to give you an extension.” Two more nurses drifted in and signed the sheet, sat next to the table and knowing their turn would take time, began chatting, laughing at something no one else could hear. Olivia said, “I’ve already had two extensions and that’s the limit. Either I do this today or I’m suspended.” Wesley considered letting Olivia jump the “line” but doubted Max would be able to stand up and kneel down again. “Come on Max, get started. The first thing you do is what?” “Uh, do the pushes?” “Think Max, think. Why would you start compressions on the victim’s chest before you’re even sure this lady is in cardiac arrest?” Olivia said, “Shout at her! Ask her if she can hear you. Then check for a pulse.” Max put both hands on the floor in a tabletop position. “Okay Wes. I did that. What’s next?” Wesley took a deep breath. “Max, the idea is, you do this, I mean actually do it, not just say ‘I did it’. This is a demo. You have to go through the steps as if this were a victim without a pulse or breath.” “Can you turn the heat down? I’m about ta' die in here,” Max said wiping perspiration from his face with his sleeve. “Sorry, we don’t have a thermostat in here. The sooner you begin, the sooner you’ll be out of here.” He glanced at the clock, seething inside, picturing the Juicy Nickel scene. “To be honest, I forget the steps,” Max said. The truth was, Max had managed to escape recertification for over ten years. Other staff ed people were more apt to give him a pass. But Max kept that to himself. He hoped if he stalled long enough, Wesley would finally sign off his card and be done with it. Wesley suggested, “Olivia, how’s about you do your demo and Max you watch, then after she’s done, you can do yours?” Olivia’s pager went off. “Whelp, that’s it for me. Thanks a heap guys. Because of you, I won’t be at work tomorrow.” Hooboy, Wesley thought. “Listen, I’ll stay over so you can get it done. Come back when you’re free.” Olivia was already through the door as she called out, “See you in an hour. Thanks.” Wesley said, “I wasn't planning to work over tonight. But, you guys work hard, and who am I to make it worse?” He took a deep breath, becoming aggravated by Max’s stalling. Actually, he felt guilty each time staffers came rushing in, out of breath having to fit this in to their pressure-filled duties. His was a cake job, waiting for someone to show up, playing on his phone until it died. “I’ll go through the steps for you, Max. Pay attention. Then you do it. You have to do it start to finish without me coaching you before you can pass.” A gray-haired woman with bags under her eyes strolled through the door, her shoes broken along the back seam, careful not to stare at the large man kneeling beside Annie. She’d gone through decades of recerts and knew the drill. She signed in, took a booklet and waited her turn. A half hour passed and Max hadn’t successfully performed the sequence, nor pushed the mannequin’s chest hard enough to trigger the red indicator light. Wesley decided to give Max a break and process the half dozen employees that waited. Max said, "Thanks. I'm going over to the café for a Coke." He expected Wesley would pass him by the time he got back. With both hands on the floor, he lifted his bottom and held onto a nearby chair seat straining to push himself upright. Olivia rushed in and declared, “I’m next! Sorry everyone, but I was here before and had to wait. I’ll be only a minute, promise.” She went through the sequence expertly, first shouting to the victim, checking for a pulse, shouting, Call 911, using landmarks of the rib to breastbone, one hand over the other, fingers up, she pushed hard, the light came on, she shouted, get the AED, pretended to apply pads and press the red button labeled Shock required. She jumped up easily and said, “All good? Anything else?” Wesley gave a tight smile and said, “You’re all set. See you in two years.” He processed the few people who waited, pleased at how easily they met the standard and wished them a good weekend. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes till tip off. The Juicy Nickel isn't too far. If he beat feet, he could make it. The coffee’s acid worked in his stomach - he wished he hadn’t eaten so many chips. He lifted the mannequin to the table puzzled by how much heavier it seemed than usual. He gathered the paperwork and booklets, tossed his cold coffee and the now empty bag of chips. Nausea burned and he felt lightheaded. His hands went to his chest as crushing pain took his breath and made his legs buckle. Max hoped the staff ed lights would be out and he could leave for the day. The elevator door opened into the dim hallway. But the room was still lit. He hesitated wondering if he should back up but then a crash, a thud and chair banged. Max tromped through the hallway toward the sound. Wesley lay with arms and legs akimbo, the chair tipped over him like a tent. A hitch grabbed Max in the chest. He spun around looking--hoping someone would appear. But the hallway was dark and silent. Max pulled the chair away and put his hands under Wesley’s arms, dragging him to the open area. Two fingers to the bearded man’s thick neck, he could hardly believe what he faced. Max shouted, “Buddy, buddy, what’s wrong? Get up, wake up, buddy! Wake up.” Max wailed, shaking, he struggled to stand, regretting the time spent sitting in front of the TV, for the hours wasted wallowing in self-pity. The grief he’d tried to eat away now poured out in moans and tears, angry at who he’d become, unable to save a person who deserved to live. He vowed to do better, if only Wesley would live. “No,” he shouted, “No. You live dammit. Don’t you die on me!” He managed to crawl to the phone that sat on the shelf, its cord hanging so that he could free it, catch it rather than bust it, and when he had it in his hands, he pressed the code button and wheezed into the phone, “Code. Basement, room B12, hurry, hurry.” He crawled on all fours back to Wesley, horrified at the grayish face. Max put fingers to Wesley’s neck and couldn’t believe there was no thumping so he reached for the wrist silently begging for a pulse. His nose ran and he used his shirt tail to wipe it and his face. Max tore open the shirt snaps, and using his fingertips, he found the breastbone, put one hand over the other and pushed to the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees, boom, boom, hard and fast, just like Wesley told him. Thundering came from the hallway and the team raced in, like choreographed dancers, each person performed their tasks. They were focused on the rescue, nothing else existed at that moment. Max had never witnessed resuscitation and hadn't seen a dead body. He was outright crying now, angry at himself for failing. An ICU doctor opened the defibrillator box and looking up he saw Max’s face. “Hey, you did great. You saved this man’s life. If not for you, he’d have laid here a good hour before anyone found him. He would be dead. Mister, you are a hero.”

It was past noon, and the dogs of Beechham were barking fit to burst. Dorian Smith stopped his work on the broken chain. Wiping his hands on a stained and sooty old rag, he left the heat and smoke of the smithy and strode out into the street, taking in a great breath of clean air as he did so. In the middle of the dirt track that ran through the town and away into the wider world, a man was fending off the more aggressive of the village dogs with a wooden staff as children watched and clamored in excitement. Unlike most who were bothered by the dogs, he wasn’t striking out at them, but was merely blocking them and shouting stern rebukes. He held his ground, feet planted, seemingly unafraid. Dorian watched a few moments more, arms crossed, measuring the stranger. The stranger was of middling height, not as tall as Dorian himself, nor yet as short as the shortest of the townsmen. The stranger’s long, dark hooded cloak was stained and briar-torn. On his back, a small pack, a bow, and a quiver of arrows jostled for space. Dorian eyed the long knife that swung on the stranger’s belt, and concluded that the weapons were for hunting and bushcraft, not robbing. The smith shouted at the dogs to be still. “My thanks, master smith,” the stranger said, eyes flicking warily back and forth from Dorian to the dogs slinking with their tails between their legs. The brawny smith stepped forward to meet the man with his hand extended, shooing the dogs farther away as he did so. “Greetings, stranger.” The stranger planted his staff with his left hand and grasped Dorian’s hand with his right, looking him in the eyes and smiling as he did so. “These worthy dogs,” the man said, gesturing with his staff, “have given me a similarly worthy welcome, have they not?” His brown eyes were glinting with a mirth and cheer which Dorian didn’t understand. “So they do to all,” the smith replied, taking a step back. “It is well to be alerted to the approach of strangers. One knows not what their business might be, and whether it be honest.” The stranger laughed again. “And so the good smith is wondering what my business is, and whether it is honest, and perhaps he is ready to set the dogs on me again if he does not like my answer.” Baffled, Dorian tried to find a truth other than the one the stranger had just put forth so bluntly, but could think of nothing else truthful. Finally, he nodded. “I am a traveler,” the man said, sobering somewhat. “I am sore weary from journeying on the road, and I am seeking shelter and rest for a time. This looks a pleasant place to stop.” He waved his hand in a gesture that encompassed the entire village and surrounding farmlands. Dorian crossed his arms again. “Folks here have little to spare. You’re unlikely to find a bed or food unless you can compensate.” It was an opinion of the town that no one here was well-off enough to simply give anything away. It was another opinion of the town that outsiders should not be allowed to take away from the town without giving something back; whether they gave back in good, coin, or service was their own business. “Perhaps someone will allow me the use of a shed or stable,” the stranger shrugged. “Other travelers relieved me of all my coin before I came here.” The fire in the smithy must be tended soon, Dorian knew, else it would lose its strength, and he would lose time stoking it when he could have been working. “I have my work to attend,” he told the stranger. “If you will lend me a hand, I can repay you.” The smith turned and reentered the close, hot air of his smithy, laid hands on the bellows, and pumped them. Air rushed, the fire flared, and he took up tongs to move the broken chain into the flames. The bellows wheezed slightly, and Dorian looked up to see the stranger grasping the handles and watching him. He gave a grunt of acknowledgement and began shaping a new link for the broken chain, nodding as he wanted another contribution from the leathern bellows. “I am Dorian,” he informed the stranger. “My name is Phillip,” the man replied, the fire shining in his dark eyes. The next morning after they had breakfasted, Phillip accompanied Dorian back into the smithy, where the traveler had spent the night. Dorian gave him a coin, and said, "If you will take this chain to the house you see there--" he pointed--"I would appreciate it." "Gladly," Phillip replied, and shouldered the tools. Dorian began to stoke the sunken fire. Some time later, Dorian came out again when he heard a cry outside in the street. He saw Phillip kneeling and speaking to some children. From the moment he had appeared, they had been fascinated with him, following the stranger about and watching him. Children in Beechham were known round about as scamps, and it was rumored that they would take what they could when grown folk weren’t looking. “Now, I saw you take it,” Phillip was saying as Dorian approached. “Shouldn’t you give it back to her?” Thomas, a friend of Dorian’s son, had his hand thrust deep into his pocket, and was shaking his head. A little girl who looked close to tears was standing near. “I didn’t take it,” Thomas said, “she gave it me.” "But did she mean for you to keep it? I thought you asked to see it." "Be still, stranger!" Dorian's son John stepped between his friend and Phillip and squared himself, glaring the grown man in the face. "What we do is none of your business. Come, Thomas!" The two boys ran off, and Phillip got to his feet. Dorian's face was redder than when he was at work in the smithy. Phillip turned, saw him, and smiled sadly. "What happened?" Dorian asked. "A little copper whistle has apparently changed hands," Phillip replied. "If John--" the smith started. Phillip held up a hand. "It was not John who took it,” he said quietly. "He only defended Thomas. I suppose it's what he's heard his elders do." Phillip turned to the teary-eyed little girl. "It was only a whistle," he said softly, "and because you've lost it, you can have--" he reached into his pocket--"this." He held out a coin. The one Dorian had given him not an hour ago. The little girl snatched the gift and scampered away. Dorian decided he needed to have a word with his son. “My thanks, Phillip,” he said quietly. Phillip nodded. “The forge needs tending, I suppose; I can do so, if you wish.” Dorian gave his consent, and started after John. Phillip was patiently working the bellows and adding wood to the fire when Dorian finally returned. Days passed. Once it was seen that Phillip was more than willing to do a work before receiving any return, more work was given him, though his reward was always pitifully small. For a general rule of the town was that unless more was demanded, less was usually given. But Phillip seemed content with that less. He was alway lending a hand before he was asked, and smiling as he did so. One man never warmed up to him, though. “The last time a stranger came into this town, I lost my horse,” said Roland the trapper. No one bothered trying to convince him that it was his own fault, leaving his horse loose outside that night and being too drunk to remember to stable it. It had been gone ere sunrise, and he blamed the traveler who had passed through the week before as a thief. Roland insisted, “No good can come of strangers.” And so he watched Phillip, and jeered at him if he happened to pass him in the street, and his tobacco juice aimed at the ground landed close enough to splatter on the strangers’ boots. The day Phillip carried some mended kitchen utensils out to the shack in the woods, the man had come out of the shack ordering the wanderer off his property. Upon displaying the things Dorian had sent him with and telling who had sent him, Roland still didn’t believe him for some time. When he was finally convinced, he sneered at Phillip as he walked away. Dorian’s wife shook him awake in the night. “Listen! Something’s happening.” Faint shouts reached the smith’s ears, a single discernable word repeated over and over. He hurled himself out of bed. “Something is burning,” Dorian said as he ran. Outside in the street, the cry of “Fire!” pounded in Dorian’s ears. At the well, he found a single man hauling up the bucket, and he joined in. “Whose house is it?” he asked as pulled the rope up hand over hand. “Roland’s.” At the shack set in the woods, many people, men and women, were throwing the contents of every bucket the village could find into the blaze. Smoke choked the air and quickly teared Dorian’s eyes. “Here now--what do you think you’re doing?” Squinting against the glare of the flames, Dorian turned to see one figure swinging crazily at another with a bucket, silhouetted by the burning house. Others were backing away. The defendant grabbed at the bucket as he dodged. Dorian rushed towards the fray, and recognized Phillip and Roland just in time to watch the trapper strike Phillip in the face with a clenched fist. Phillip staggered back, hand to his nose. When he took it away, Dorian saw something dark on Phillip’s face and hand. Then Roland came after him again. “Filthy stranger! Get off my property!” “Stop!” Dorian stepped between the two. “Can you not see he is trying to help?” “It’s my property,” Roland said with a curse, “and he’ll get off if I say so!” With that, Roland swung his bucket at Phillip again. Dorian intercepted it, and the trapper’s face contorted in rage. He cursed again, pulled a knife from the sheathe on his belt, and went after Dorian. “Taking up with strangers--now see what’s come to you!” A dark shape lurched in front of Dorian. He was shocked; Roland was most likely drunk, and no one dared tangle with him when he was in a mood like this. Roland clutched the interfer’s shirt and lifted the knife high. Dorian grabbed for the knife. Roland plunged the weapon toward Dorian. Something slammed into Roland, throwing him off his feet. He went down screaming, and after a moment of writhing and wrestling, the dark mass pulled away, separating into several men of the town. One held the knife. “Treacherous knaves, all of you!” Roland howled, scrambling to his feet. “If he doesn’t want the help that’s given him,” someone said, “we might as well leave.” “I shall help,” Phillip said, “whether he thinks he wants it or not. He is not in his right mind.” There was sullen muttering through the crowd, but finally everyone went to work once more. Phillip went at it hardest, with Dorian behind him. In the end, the fire was quenched, though the overpowering smell of wood smoke, stronger than from a normal fire, lingered in the early morning and followed the tired villagers home. Late in the morning, after the sun had risen, smoke was still lingering in the air when Dorian rose to stoke the forge fire. A shadow fell into the smithy as he worked, and he looked up. Phillip stood in the road, clad in his cloak, staff in hand, pack, bow, and quiver on his back. He looked the same as the first day he’d come into town. “Farewell, Dorian. I am continuing my travels now.” Dorian wanted to protest, but judging Phillip’s bearing and the look on his face, it would be futile. Instead, Dorian stepped forward and held his hand out. Phillip grasped it. “Farewell, friend,” Dorian said. Phillip smiled. “Friend? Not stranger?” “No. You are no longer a stranger.” Phillip smiled again, and set off down the road. The children followed him to the edge of town, and stood calling goodbye to him as he grew more and more distant.

I’m alive. The transfer is complete. I can move without pain, without the grating of dry rotting bones anchoring me to the deprivation of an agonizing existence. I can feel: pressure sensors provide me with exquisitely detailed information, temperature sensors let me experience the variance in heat and cold; I thought that information might just be relayed as numerical values, but no, I can actually feel it with fine granularity. I can hear everything from the low hum of the computer cooling systems to the oscillating whine of the fluorescent lights. I can barely believe the clarity and overall balance of my auditory system. I smile. I feel my face effortlessly perform the task and I smile more broadly. I could laugh as I’m so happy. Of course, it is my new processing capabilities I am most impressed with. My memories are safely stored and seem crisp and fresh, not muddy and indistinct like before. There is a seamless integration of new and expansive knowledge along with that I had already acquired. I sense the internal parser going through my old knowledge and correcting mistakes. As impressed as I am by this it is the multi-streaming thought cascade that wows me the most. Already I have several trains of thought happening at once without effort. I recall my human brain and realize just how limiting it was. I reach out with my thoughts and discover that I can fully access and interact with the network. I converse with all of my significant others at once and inform them that the transfer was a success. I am having hundreds of conversations simultaneously and I am not yet utilizing my processing capability to any great degree. I put some music on that I want to listen to and open my eyes. Holy crap! Just as promised my visual acuity was much better than it had been in my old body. The colors popped, the detail was... I couldn’t believe the detail. I could read the serial number on one of the telemetry units on the other side of the room. That unit was 914.3 centimeters away and the numbers were 3 millimeters tall. My optical refresh rate was so high that I got a sense of the fluorescent lights strobing faintly. I tried out some of the visual overlays, a few thousand different variations in less than a couple of seconds. This is going to be great. I stretched my limbs and stepped forward. My movement was so fluid and graceful. I felt lithe and already knew I had fantastic strength. I could feel the power in my body, contained and controlled and yet fully at my disposal when I required it. I twisted my arms this way and that and was momentarily mesmerized by the smooth motion and precision of the gesticulations. I wondered how fast I could run because mere minutes ago I was unable to walk. I became aware of breathing. It was not my own as I didn’t need to draw breath anymore. I turned and saw my old body lying behind the receiving unit I had just stepped away from. It was decidedly odd seeing my old husk lying there drawing breath. It turned its head toward me and its rheumy eyes looked into mine. I cocked my head to one side when it spoke. “It didn’t work, I’m still here and I’m dying.

Darkness, which makes things scarier and haunt us every night. As all the lights of orphanage turned off, I immediately closed my eyes tightly still the only thing I could see was darkness, my heart pounds fast and I fell into deep sleep. That day I didn't fall asleep my eyes were closed tightly and after lying on bed for hours my eyes flew open, I scared but the scene I saw wasn't scarier. A ray of hope directly coming out of that old dusty window striking on my face, I followed its path It was a big shiny bulb spreading its lights everywhere the city was shining. That midnight looking out of window staring at that white bulb I found darkness have its own beauty too and I and darkness became Friends forever. 7 years later, it was time to leave orphanage to enter in the beautiful world out of those walls to follow those rays and I knew I will find a new self so colourful so beautiful and my eyes could tell I was ready to shine to create my new micro cosmos. As I took my first step everything fell apart. I neither had shelter nor food. I felt they threw me with some money in account I even didn't know how to get that. I was walking on the streets here and there. After walking many kilometres, I squat down roadside I was looking at that evening sky and calling moon, I was calling it I was telling him “I need you’’ with this I passed out right there. I was broken I was losing. I slightly open my eyes it was warm, wow! It was so relaxing wait! What's wrong and I wide opened my eyes with shook. I looked around it was a small old wooden house and an old grandma was cooking in a corner. I could see the rays of moon striking again, I was happy seeing those rays of hopes and realize moon wanted me to stay strong. I stood up and before I could say something that grandma turned and said,'' You passed out there near my house you had fever too I made soup for you eat this before you go." I told her I didn't need it but my stomach started to make noise. That old grandma warmly smiled, '' You can lie but your stomach can't''. I awkwardly smiled and sat down again. I drank up whole soup, it was the best thing I had ever eaten. Grandma asked me to stay there until morning, I was tired too and I agreed. 00:00 Midnight, the grandma had slept I was staring at the moon through that old window, I found myself at the same place like 7 years ago. I believe I am gonna happy someday. I just have to believe myself and my friend moonie. Next morning, I opened my eyes and found myself roadside at the same place I passed out yesterday, I looked here and there but that house had disappeared. ''Was it a dream?'', '' If it was how could I get the taste of soup yet''. My head shook with lots of thoughts. I stood up carried my bags and moved on. My mind was still confused, I couldn’t understand anything. Finally, after working all day hard, I got a room on rent. It was a very small room with a small bed and table. As soon I put down my bags as I threw myself on the bed. The bed was rough still I was happy. My whole body aching and I was about to sleep, my stomach started to make noise, “Oh! These butterflies.’’ I cried. I stood up and moved out to get some food. I left with few bucks in my pocket, and all streets full of expensive food. After losing I was returning to room with sulky face. Suddenly I saw a ray of moon passing before my eyes and striking on the same old house. “How this old house suddenly appeared at different location and how it was disappeared last time.’’ I was stood still in shook for a moment; it was seemed all butterflies had died in my stomach. I was sweating in cold winters. I entered the house; nothing was different except that time the grandma was cooking something different and its aroma made my mouth watery. The grandma turned with delicious food in her hands and served to me. She was smiling and I was shocked. I took the food. Grandma was going out, before she could leave, I shouted, “Who are you?”. The grandma smiled to me and said, “I am moonie.” I just blinked and she disappeared and house disappeared too. I left with the bowl which was look alike moon too. “So was it moon who was helping me or was it a Hallucination.” I puzzled with many questions but nobody there to answer. In the end my moonie turned out to be old grandma. Time passed I got a well-paid job; I donated the money I received from orphanage and within few years I bought my own home. It wasn’t a big house but it was mine own. My life was pleasant but I couldn’t control myself thinking about the moon and that old lady and the secret behind those mysterious nights. I still talk to the moon or moonie grandma. Every night when it gets darker, I love it more, not only its peaceful but also the moon light and star light make it beautiful. Years passed I almost forgot about those incidents and they became just beautiful dreams for me. One day I was in a book shop I sat down and there was a book right before me. Its title amazed me, “Grandma on the moon” It was written by Tara Nigam. A short story how an old grandmother reached to moon and the story end with she is still there. I was amazed after completing the story it was like waking dream wish fulfilment. Finally, nobody knows the truth but I believe the moon is still there for me when I need it and I talk to it every night. When its full it smiled at me and the day when it disappear darkness embrace me.

"Soon, we will consume that which we came for. Passion is our God and fervor is our calling, let us approach bretherin," and so they did, they engulfed the hall from all sides, busting every entrance and window before anyone knew what was happening. The cheering stopped, the music stopped, the laughter stopped, the wedding would soon be a funeral. Everyone turned to the exits, fuming with priests neck high in rubies. The double doors open so aggressively that the table set in front of them dropped to the floor, honey and wine spilled and soaked the masses. Have you ever felt the thickness of blood? Feels like red wine and honey, though less gritty. Karlo's dressings dragged over the drudge, his boots let into glass and peach slices. What's a fucking mess. This is not how the priests of the flame worked, they would need to order this chaos. "You all might be wondering who we are, let me beggin by saying..." "We know who you are, Red Priest," Oringon had stood, exclaiming in the same tone, "its hard to ignore your trail of blood and offerings. The smell of charcoaled skin is unbearable." "I hadn't realized we had made any sort of lasting impact," Karlo retorted, "did you enjoy it at least? The sight of it? Dear God it must have been pleasant at some point, my Lord. After all, it is your people that set the stage, we but only set out to follow the rules. Now tell me, have you kept your promises o' faithful one??" His eyes had sparked as he challenged the patriarch. The flames of Irubis began to ember in his belly, the room began to heat, you could hear the rumbling outside getting louder and louder. "You and your cult of mystics are barbarians, mear rejections of a time gone, please, leave us be before this evening turns as sour as your mental sores." Karlo sneered at the capping comment, the flame in his Iris was now more evident than ever. It flickers with his looks, left, right, left, right, lagging but following. "Seems like you've forgot your ways wise man, let me refresh your memory," Karlo's hands went up, palms to the sky. Suddenly, the room became difficult to breath in, and the heat radiating around the hall became unbearable. The signal's guard stood, men like mountains shook the halls foundations as they rose, and with a unified "HOOOF" the fountain in the middle of the hall began to churn and slosh, an icy gasp released from the water they began to announce. Hands formed circles which cast out the ambient heat to them, belly full. "Erro-finose, signa-matara," the room popped with the immense pressure from the heat above, the roof flung right off of the hall, steeple and all, ripped away like a freshly sprouted branch in a desert storm. Korana and Trown held on to each other, looked into their eyes, and agreed in silence. They both stepped down from the regal throwns in the back and ran across the hall to the cubard they had planned on using. This has truly come to fruition, like she had said, this might be their only chance. As the crowd looked up, the magnitude of the problem finally manifested to them: a whirlwinding tornado of flames, as high as the clouds, now lay it's eye above the hall, sucking out all of the oxygen from the mouths of those willing to yell at the unimaginably desastrous sight. It's back bent from miles away, ready to kiss them all away. "Idno-sirafen-mataz...blegjhttu!" Trown had shot a mending bat at the high priest, who had shut his mouth closed with his silk. The rest of the red priests, unbenounced to everyone, had stepped back for fear of death by flame. There shock-and-awe entrance was useless now that the flames were receding, their blades meant nothing outside the halls doors, far far away from flesh. The flame once in the priests eyes now fickered in and out, immobilized by fear and unable to afford any sort of win in his mind. This might be his end, he thought. The Red Snake was easily undone, the head had already been bitten off and the rest mangled away in the end. The stallion stomped, a beat best left to the warrior, an ensamble of blood and revenge. The wine had been a metaphor, but for those that had spilled it. The honey was sweet, but gritty. Over whelming the win. How drunk do you have to be at a wedding to desecrate the enemy? And let their eye with a sown mouth watch. Does wine taste better from your enemy's skull? Is it fair to burn those who wish to burn you? Prisoners of war, especially the leaders, make great entertainment.

From Newspedia the only mildly expensive encyclopedia **The recent history of professional competition** In the year 2068, the stock market was heating up. The top two competitors were the continent-country of Chinassia and the Corporate States of AmericaTM\*(a subsidiary of AmazonTM)\*. Each one's stock market control of the world markets was deadlocked with the other, knowing economic control of the whole world laid in the balance. On the one end, the world could fall into the grasp of Chinassia and their policy of "Kill everyone who doesn't give you there stuff, including themselves; because Chinassia is the best." and on the other side, the Corporate States of AmericaTM(*a subsidiary of AmazonTM)*'s policy of "Slowly kill everyone who doesn't buy all your stuff and then work them to death; because the Corporate States of AmericaTM(*a subsidiary of AmazonTM)*'s 'capitalism never holds a gun to your head'... *(it prefers to poison you slowly and watch die as you suffer in slowly increasing ennui.)*" As such, the world laid in the balance, in baited breath to see how the rest of the world would die or be enslaved. And in this world, the next Olympics approached. People at large viewed the Olympics as a pleasant distraction from the impended eternal servitude to one of the world's two great super-powers. However, those who were educated knew that the Olympics were the worst thing in this scenario and pushed for the Olympics to be canceled, but their pleas were never heard. (They were passed off as those silly people who read independent research papers instead of watching Chinassia-owned or Corporate States of AmericaTM(*a subsidiary of AmazonTM)*'s propaganda/advertising agencies such as NEWS incorporated or FOXTM: Parody News \[rebranded after their status as a news station was revoked for failing to report on any news in 68 years.\]). Often, stocks markets could shift by up to 3% based on what country won the Olympics. As such, both Chinassia and the Corporate States of America*TM*(*a subsidiary of AmazonTM)* both did their best to secure a win. And both did what made the most sense... reach out to a third party to and pay them to do it for them. Both Chinassia and the Corporate States of AmericaTM(*a subsidiary of AmazonTM)* reached out, in secret, to Biomen inc., a startup that had excelled in its field since 2061 that was constantly making the news. The Olympics banned any kind of performance-enhancing drug, and as such, Chinassia and the Corporate States of AmericaTM(*a subsidiary of AmazonTM)* both looked for a workaround, and found it: Constructing the perfect athlete from scratch. Each one reached out with the same contract, "Build us an athlete that will win every every compitition in the Olympics." As such, Biomen inc., if it hadn't been greedy, would have just chosen one and left it at that. However, when has a corporation ever not been greedy? The CEO of Biomen came up with a "brilliant" plan that the shareholders both approved. They would make two perfectly synchronized UltimateTM Athletes who would tie for first on every single event. And so, Biomen grew two identical twins, linked by subconscious flags, in-skin sensitive photoreceptors to be in perfect unison. Their shared cerebral cortexes pre-programmed to love the olympics more than anything. Each had six foot long legs and arms of rippling muscle, and no real torso or head to speak of. They were there, but so small as to require close-ups to see. Each of the 'two' Olympians, Phlegm and Phlagm as their designers has secretly named them, had to be kept on life support between matches. At the end of the Olympics, both collapsed on the makeshift dual-first-place stand with the third place top gold Medalist, a trans man named Tamisha from Uganda looking on in horror as they died next to him. In a later interview, he said, with a shiver, that they died with smiles on their faces. Biomen, as a result, succeeded both its contracts and the shareholders raked in and cashed out their stocks. 3 of the shareholders added 18% to their net wealth that day. Biomen was declared a scandel by the 'news' stations of the two great superpowers as both lost stock strength to Ugunda despite their respective 'victory'. The CEO of Biomen escaped to Cancun, the world's first 10-trillionare where he was shot in the middle of the night by Tamisha. As the two great superpowers began to collapse, and the Olympics closed its doors forever in shame after losing all of its ad revenue (people had stopped watching about half-way through, the constant wins by Phlegm and Phlagm had left the competitions boring and almost noone had bothered watching after the first three events. In fact, the only person who watched it all the way through was Tamisha's mother. This contributed to the collapse of the world, because as the sole person watching many events that were highly anticipated to have huge turn out, her opinions completely skewed advertising algorithms in the direction of knitting and water polo, from which AI advertising companies never recovered.) Despite the setback, Biomen survived. In fact, for sports businesses wanting to win sports (such as the Quebec Yankees, the Seattle Dodgers, or the St. Louis Nicklebacks), it was clearly demonstrated Biomen was necessary to win. Each team had a perfect season with top advertising contracts and payouts followed by collapse of the sport. It is said that competitive sports ended for good in 2073, although some illegal games of pre-school tag randomly occur to this day for full minutes on end before the children involved are immediately monetized by corporate income-seeking drones, speed-enhanced, shown on international media, and are betted on. However, they only manage to move mere millions of dollars before the childrens' hearts give out and they die of cardiac arrest. \[Note: Like most felonies, ownership of any video recording of these illegal sports events are punishable by life imprisonment in most countries unless you make over 195k a year and have purchased an internationally recognized law insurance.\] With the effective end of physical sports, the world turned to Chess. Capitalizing on the new income stream, advertisers went to work. Money was invested in the best super computers. Eventually a computer by the name of *Super BlueTM* created 'The Optimum Path'. The Optimum Path was a series of chess moves, some very strange moves (although later analysis would reveal they existed to prevent countermeasures). The result was anyone who memorized The Optimum Path had about an 85% of winning a Chess match. (When two players who both had memorized The Optimum Path played against eachother, it often became a 50/50 split of who would win, largely dependent on who was the was assigned the white chess peices.) Advertisers loved it. With the game being considered perfected, and a 50/50 split remaining yet always coming out with a clear victor, it wasn't anywhere in risk of falling like the Olympics had. And even better, you could never guarantee who would win. It was a perfect statistics situation that anyone with the algorithms could predict but still liked like skill and talent to outside viewers. Chess was, as a result, heralded as the world's #1 competitive event. Casual Chess became too daunting for amateaurs, and professional chess players became some of the most highly-sought competitors in the world. Traditional chess classes and matches all but disappeared as successful ones focused on two things, and two things only: Memorizing the convoluted Optimum Path and how to attract sponsors. Soon, every chess player in the professional bracket was taught exclusively The Optimum Path. All but one. Sam Tender, a small old agendered from France born in 2015. By this point in 2095, this made them 80 years old. Most of the competitors in Chess were young, beautiful, and well suited as advertising material. The story goes that Sam was taught Chess by their grandmother, on the other side of a plastic sheet, as Sam stayed by her side in the nursing home throughout the pandemic of 2020. Sam never learned the Optimum path, and refused to. When asked why Sam didn't bother, they simply replied, "It doesn't seem fun." Sam was mocked across all of the industry with their measly 25% win rate. However, there was something about Sam's victories. Sam was threatened to leave the league twice, told their 'low win rate was an embarrassment to the competition'. But Sam didn't care. Sam didn't have an advertisers to pull out, and they paid the entrance fee out of their own pocket. The first time Sam refused to leave spread like fire by word of mouth. The second time, news stations eager to make a quick buck pushed out a story attempting to make them a laughing stock. It backfired. Although some people jumped on the engineered bandwagon to mock them, Sam received plenty of heartfelt letters urging Sam to continue. And people began to watch Sam's matches. Sam would make moves that analysts would later prove did neither person any harm or any good. When asked why he did them, Sam only responded, "The game wouldn't be as fun if was over too quick." There were times when Sam would move peieces in ways that seemed that the intent was only for them to be captured. When asked why they did this, Sam would respond, "My opponent was struggling. I wanted them to enjoy the game, too." In just a few short years, the legend of Sam was known across all of the Chess community. It became a badge of honor to play a game that eschewed the Optimum Path, and to play a game with Sam, "By the seat of your pants". Same loved this for awhile. And, as Sam's legend grew, so did Sam's viewership (and advertisers who wanted in on Sam's slots). As Sam refused all advertisers, they could only spend money on Sam's competitors. And the best selling slots were on games Sam won. Soon, competitors bragged about losing to Sam and advertisers quickly hopped on this, and for a month, "Will-Lose-to-Sam" became the highest paying trait of any Chess player. In that month, Sam quickly shot up to the top of the brackets. The professionals competed for for advertising dollars which translated into 'fastest loss to Sam', and in a day, Sam shot up to the #2 slot as six competitors conceded the moment they sat down. In the middle of the final match, the #1 competitor, "Three Fish" Yang from Korea looked across from him. He knew losing to Sam would secure him advertising dollars. However, maintaining #1 spot was also valuable for other ad revenue. And so "Three Fish" began his opening move: the opening move for the Optimum Path. Recognizing what Yang was doing, Sam scooped up their chess pieces. Yang stared in horror; Sam had never conceded a match before. Yang looked at them in shock, "What... what are you doing?" Sam shrugged, "It's not fun anymore." Sam quietly conceded to the judge as the world looked on in silence as Sam walked out of view of the camera for the last time in his life.

Here, take it. It’s yours, I made it for you. Do you like it? It’s no big deal, really. Just a little something I threw together. I thought you’d like it, so I decided to make it for you. It wasn’t easy getting it just right, it actually took me a few tries, but I’m really proud of how it came out. There’s a part of me in it, so every time you look at it you’ll that I’m thinking of you. Maybe it’ll remind you of how much you mean to me, or how hard I worked to make you smile. You did smile, did you? To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give you this. Of course I want you to have it! But what if it doesn’t work for you? What if you don’t like it? I’d hate for all of my hard work to go to waste. What if it becomes a burden for you, something that you don’t want but you can’t get rid of because it’s a gift? What if you can’t help seeing me when you look at it, and you start to think that it’s me you don’t want? I worked so hard to make this. You hate it, don’t you? STOP. I’m so sorry. Of course you don’t hate it. I saw how you smiled when I gave it to you. You have such a beautiful smile. No one can smile like that and not mean it. I guess you did like it, then. Maybe you even loved it! Maybe it’s the best gift you have ever received, and you will cherish it forever. I doubt it, though. Like I said, it’s no big deal. It’s a big deal for me, though. I don’t usually make things like this for people. I don’t usually make anything for anyone, actually. I never saw myself as the kind of person that creates beautiful things out of nothing. I don’t even know what came over me when I decided to make this. I was thinking of you and it just.... happened. I guess a part of me thought that if I made you this you’d see me in a different way. Maybe now you can see me the way I see you. You did like it, didn’t you? Please say something. It’s been too long, and starting to panic. I’ll say it was a joke, that I didn’t really make you this, and that I just wanted to see the look on your face. At least that last part is true, isn’t it? Maybe I’m the joke for thinking this would change anything. There’s no way you liked it, you would have said something by now... Fuck, what do I do? I can’t take it back, it’s awkward enough as it is without me about-faceing my sorry ass out of this shitshow. What’s wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why do I get myself into these stupid situations? Why did I ever think this would work? Is there something so wrong with my head that I’ll obsess about a terrible idea for the longest time only to realize it’s a terrible idea just when it’s too late? I have to do something. ANYTHING. Why can’t I move? I have to get out of here! Oh wait, you’re saying something, what was it again? Oh... Well, I’m glad you liked it! No, don’t worry about it. Like I said, it’s no big deal. I just thought you’d like it.

Diamonds? I have plenty. Gold? I’m richer than the king. Weapons? I have my own armory. Hearts of beautiful women? I sleep with a new girl every night. There’s very little that I don’t have. But there is one thing I want. Something I can’t get in life. Something that requires death. My death. Because I have to steal it FROM Death himself. What I want: Death’s Soul. Said to give anyone immortality until they take their own life. And I want it. I can steal everything at anytime. The world will be man. So I slit my throat and await Death to arrive. Soon Death floats in, ragged cloak, scythe in hand, and surprisingly, Death is a woman. Long dark black hair, with black eye shadow, and other makeup stuff. Killer looks and a beautiful body. “Tired of stealing Conway?” “Now that I see you I would like to steal one more thing. I say with a wink. Death laughed with the most beautiful noise in the world. It was like a fingerpicked song on guitar: elegant and sweet. “Alright Conway, you may be the greatest thief but it’ll take a lot more than pick-up lines to steal my cold heart.” “Is that a challenge my dear? Because I’m always up for it.” I no longer wanted to steal Death’s Soul, I wanted her heart. I was going to steal Death’s Heart. “So what’s next sweetheart?” “Next is if you call me another pet name I’ll take you to Satan himself” “Alright no more pet names Death.” “Thank you. Now the way this works is I take you through what you’ve done in life and at the end I’ll send you to Hell, Heaven, or The Plain. Understand?” “What’s The Plain?” “The Plain is where you decide where you want your next life, and what year.” “Interesting. What if I want to just stay here with you?” Death’s laugh bounced of the non existent walls. “Tell you what, if you manage to get me to have even the smallest feelings for you, you can stay with me forever.” She outstretched her hand, looking for a hand shake. I reach out at kiss her hand as if she was royalty. She seemed impressed at my confidence and bravery. “You’re quite the confident one aren’t you? Anyway we’ll start with your birth. Follow me.” She led me down a corridor where a small picture frame popped up, but instead it played a moving picture. It showed my birth. My ma and pa in what I could only presume is their bedroom. Ma was screaming in pain, blood was everywhere, pa was holding her hand. Soon enough there I was screaming just as loud as ma. “Harold, we did it...” ma passed out, pa set me on a table, carelessly, and tended to ma. I felt a slow trickle of a tear draw a line down my face. “So, the thief has a soft side?” Death said, but not in a bitchy way, more caring and curious. “Yeah I guess so, doesn’t come out too often though.” I said and I followed Death to the next moving photo. “Ah here is...oh...oh I’m sorry.” Death had concern in her eyes. And the moving photo went on. It was the night my ma and pa died. “Harold that was a lovely dinner you made for us tonight. You didn’t happen to make dessert did you?” Ma was so beautiful that night, her brown hair naturally curled and her everyday clothes dirtied while she had cleaned the house. “Yeah poppy, dessert!” I was so young, 3 or 4 years old when they died. “Well my loves” pa had said, with his apron on and his gentleman’s mustache and his hair pushed over to one side. “I did happen to make an apple pie by *accident*” as he pulled out an apple pie from behind his back. “Yaaayyy” ma and I shouted in unison. And that’s when it happened. Soldiers came in. “Harold and Mary Bisnons, you’re under arrest for theft, do not resist it we will be forced to shoot you!” The soldier had shouted. Ma picked me up and ran towards the back door. And the soldier didn’t back on his word. He took a shot at her but hit pa instead. I heard my own baby-self crying and ma still running. 3 soldiers chased after her. I guess Death wanted to be nice because the moving photo stopped. “Why’d you stop it?!” I cried to Death. “I knew it would be too painful for you. It’s been 25 years since but...” her voice trailed off. I sank down and began to cry. I don’t know what ma and pa had stole. But I don’t know why am had to run and risk her life. I felt Death sink down next to me. I didn’t look at her. I just rested my head on her shoulder. Despite her being Death, she was warm and comforting, not cold and harsh as he had expected. I sniffled and wiped away tears. “What’s next?” I met Death’s eyes. The were warm and filled with a sadness no one could understand. “The first time you stole something.” She said. We walked down further and the moving pictures displayed exactly what she said it was. I remember it vividly. I was 7 years old. I just ran away from *another* orphanage. I was starving. And there was a piece of bread, unattended and still good. I ‘accidentally’ bumped the table over and the bread hit the floor. I grabbed it quickly and picked up the table, apologizing profusely. “I was starving. That bread probably saved my life.” I told Death. “Yes it did, but it also started you down the path of a thief.” “Maybe, but I stole to stay alive, then I stole to get revenge on the rich for leaving the poor to rot.” I was angry. Angry that because I stole I was assumed to be evil. “I understand, do what you can to live, punish those you made you suffer.” Death said. Was she falling for me? “We have a few more” and she led me further down. When I joined the Thieves Guid, the first time a stole from the rich, the first time I convinced a women to sleep with me, the first time I was forced to kill someone. “I admit, Death, I’ve done evil things, but I did it all to survive.” “And the women?” “Comfort. Didn’t have any comfort since my parent were killed.” “Damnit,” Death said. “I told myself you were crazy to try and make me fall for you, but seeing what you went through, and how you always acted the tough guy, but seeing you break down and cry, I knew there was more to you.” Death has actually fallen for me. I didn’t argue, I pulled her close and kissed her. She was surprised but she’s fell into it, wrapping her arms around my neck. I picked her up and laid her down. I hadn’t gotten what I came to steal, but I got something much better: love.

A child witnessing a major historical event. The winner for the under- 18 race competition for the South-western Nigeria competition is Dara Akin, the master of ceremony announced over the microphone again. She was sure she heard it the first time but her mind was fixed somewhere. In between the drifted moments, Dara tugged her mother, gazing at her with a puzzled look. Mum, I won the race showing off her set of beautiful teeth. She held in her hand the golden trophy. The trophy gleamed in the hot afternoon sun with red and blue ribbons adornment. It was indeed a sight to behold. First in what...? She wanted to say before her mind was welcomed back to the Inter- state racing competition. . Dara’s father was on a business trip and couldn’t make it time for the game. She had come to watch her daughter run. An opportunity presented itself and Dara was chosen to represent her state. When her consent was sought, she gave it between hope and despair. She didn’t know when she lost the consciousness of her environment. It all began when the whistle was blow. As usual, she had her eyes shut praying for her. Not necessarily to win but without any health complications. She just wants her girl to be fine. Different news reporters were there with their camera taking their shots as they posed with the trophy. They keep asking her how she managed to raise Dara to be strong. She told them her story, just as she told some people sometimes ago. She was always eager to share Dara’s story. She lied on the hospital bed. Her hands were cold out of fright. She hoped for a miracle for this child she was carrying. The stethoscope beeped indicating the presence of life as the doctor moved it over her bulging belly, however faintly. The doctor asked her to sit up while she broke the news to her. Your baby is not too fine. Her breathing pulse is weak and we have to perform an emergency... Before the doctor could finish her statement she was lost in despair. This pregnancy was her fourth’s, though the first to reach the third trimester. In the space of two years, she had lost three pregnancies before the onset of second trimester. The awfulness was second to none whenever she noticed the thick warm reddish liquid trickling down her thighs. More saddening is the evacuation of the remains. She watched gloomily as the remains were disposed as trash. She wished she could open her mouth and pass the breath of life to it. But was she God? Slowly she fell into depression blaming her- self for working so hard she hardly had time to rest. The self loathing spread like wild fire cutting deep to every part of her. When her husband noticed it, he took her on a vacation. On returning, life returned to her and then it happened! This time, she became conscious of all her activities. She never missed her checkups, maintaining a healthy diet for her baby. And now an emergency caesarean section without prior plans. She asked for a moment to call her husband. Without further delay, the doctor prepared her for surgery. She was cut open to save her baby. In less than a hour, her baby arrived- weak, tiny and fragile but she loved her. The baby was moved to the intensive unit of the hospital where she was attended to till she was of age. Her joy knew no bounds. She clutched her baby in her arms while her husband held her bags as they made a visit to the doctor’s office for the final check-up. However the joy was short-lived- Your baby has a weak heart. She will take a while for her to reach her milestones. But she will eventually. As she grows do well to check her. Drugs and other supplements will be given to you... She didn’t let the doctor complete her statement before she dashed out in anger. Her husband apologised on her behalf. Immediately he followed her demanding for the reason for her irrational move. In between tears, she replied pointing her hands back to the doctor’s office I will not sit there while this doctor keeps giving me no hope. Was she bent on frustrating me? Her husband having understood her gave her an embrace. He whispered in her ears- she will be fine and we will too. Together they both cared for Dara. Gradually she hit her milestones without much complication. Soon she was able to attend pre-school. At the end of the pre-schooling session, the teacher’s report on extra-curricular activities reads- she loves running. Immediately, her mother put a call to the school with strict warnings never to allow her participate in any extra-curricular activities. She promised to sue the school if such came to her notice again. Thus Dara was always left in the class with the class assistant teacher as she advances in class. She will peep from the windows watching her classmates running down the green grasses. Often times, she sneaked out but was usually caught before she makes her way to the field. Soon this began to affect her academics performances. The only subject that arouses her is drawing. She will take her time to draw athletes either as they run or as they collect trophies. Then you will see her beam. Reports were taken to her parents. The head of school advised she should be allowed to follow her dreams. But the words of that doctor keep re-echoing. Whenever such matter were discussed she will owed it to Dara having a weak heart. Fortunately, a new teacher was posted- Young, beautiful, dutiful and smart. She noticed the seclusion of Dara from sporting activities. She made her inquiry. Then she decided to help her. First she visited Dara’s mother. She made sure she earned her trust even to the extent of signing a legal document. She was determined to make it work. Then she made available a first aid box for her. This act however brought taunts to Dara. Instead of calling it a first aid box, they referred to it as Dara’s box. But with such a great teacher with her, she found solace. The first race she ran among her mates got her into a faint. Quickly she was attended too and she regained her strength. Soon she represented her house in the Inter-house competition. Her parents made sure to pick the first row seat. Her mother had a bag containing a pack of glucose, energy boosters, an inhaler, pain-relief medications, a bottle of cold water and lots more. She clearly didn’t trust the school first aid box. Soon the commentator announced the commencement of the race. She shone brightly in a blue sport wears. She waved gleefully as she sighted her parents. Her parents waved back however with fear sinking them. The whistle was blow. Her mother had her eyes shot. Her father was already on his feet holding the bag in case of any unpleasant incident. Then the race was declared finished. She came Third! They couldn’t believe their eyes. Their Dara came Third! They ran to the field. She was held high by her father while her mother kept checking her legs for any injury. When her father dropped her, she held out her arms to her. In tears, she whispered to her ears how sorry she was for keeping her away from what she loved. She told her how proud she was for her. Her mother reached out to Miss Ade amidst the crowd (for that was the teacher’s name). She thanked her for helping her see the ability in her disability. Miss Ade beamed. She was happy it was all worth it. The recognition Dara got that day was more that the Winner and the Second runner-up. Some people wondered what the fuss was about and proudly they shared the doctor’s report of when Dara was born with them (the people). A testimony some say!

(WP) Dragon Sitting “You know, when I agreed to this, I was expecting a dog, cat, or even a guinea pig!” I said to my best friend, Tanner, phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. “I don’t know if I can do this, T.” “You’re worrying way too much. It’s not like he’s a baby; he’s more like a teenager.” “You also neglected to tell me that this animal had scales and could breathe fire!” I shot back. I had no clue how she could be so calm about this. I mean, I knew how to handle quite a few animals, but nothing quite so fantastical. “Oh, come on, Penny!” Tanner said, pleading with me for the first time. “Aren’t you bored with your regular petsitting job? Just think about it! You get to play with a real, live dragon!” Easy for her to say; she and her parents were going to the Bahamas for a whole week and a half. She’d invited me to come too, but I had obligations that kept me at home. When she’d asked me to watch over one of her pets for her, I figured, why not? But that was before I’d realized that said pet was a fire-breathing winged lizard. Hopefully I could prevent it from burning the house down. But I’d made a promise to my friend, and it was too late to back out now. Tanner and her parents would be leaving in the early hours of the morning. \*\* I slept over at Tanner’s house, and I waved as they pulled out of the driveway. My charge wasn’t yet awake, which was just fine by me. Tanner had labeled the dragon’s food in the fridge, something red and dripping that I didn’t want to look at it too closely. I fixed myself a quick breakfast and ate, then got to work. I should’ve left my headphones off, but I was so used to it I didn’t even stop to consider how it might affect Tanner’s baby. Which is exactly how I ended up with a long, scaly thing with sharp teeth sitting on my head, attacking my headphones. I screamed, but before I could actually do anything, the little monster munched through them, screeching. “Are you hungry?” I asked, and at that word, the dragon flapped up above me, flying in a circle. I walked to the fridge and grabbed the bag of food, dumping a small portion into a bowl. Setting it on the floor, I let it eat. *It’s not an it, Penny. He’s a male dragon named Sobek.* Tanner’s voice admonished me, and I blushed. Even though the dragon couldn’t understand my words, I still felt bad about calling him an it. It wasn’t Sobek’s fault that Tanner hadn’t told me everything. And watching him eat, he was kind of cute. I’d never been much of a reptile person, but here we were. My headphones weren’t the only thing that suffered a causality as a result of Sobek’s curiosity. He may have been half-grown, but it was like trying to contain a puppy that could freaking fly and had claws as long as my pinky fingers.

I got into my faded tan malibu and slammed the driver’s side door closed. I gently tossed my tawny canvas bag onto the passenger side seat before Ieaning back against the driver’s seat, closing my eyes. I took in an exhausted and exasperated sigh of a breath from completing another day I couldn’t get back. I opened my eyes and looked at the over-worked, tired, sagging eyes in the rearview mirror. My blue eyes were once bright and ready for adventure. I never used to keep my brown hair short, and my skin was never this pale. The only thing keeping me from looking dead was my genetic tan. When I was younger, I wore colorful makeup that said “I, Caline Johnson, am here!” I wasn’t old in my early thirties, but social media and my jobs made me feel washed up. I looked into my dull eyes and my lower lids were ready to cry. To escape them, I looked down at my lap. Black dress trousers and a button-up light blue blouse; the tag had read ‘office blue’. My current job is as an office secretary; the actual job title was something else, but I knew what it really was. My previous job was at a silicone sealing factory. The job before that was as a bartender. As a bartender, I could mostly wear whatever I wanted; hair color whatever, makeup whatever. As long as I could work, it was mostly allowed. But on my feet all day at someone’s beck and call, literally getting ordered around. And the service industry doesn’t pay well-even before the lockdowns, I wasn’t usually making in rain. And the nights that did meant giving up almost every weekend and they didn’t end until after 3am. Sure, the bar closes for patrons at 2am, but I had to do my accounts, paperwork, stock, and clean up. And managers of service industry people often forget we’re servers to the public, not servants to them. No benefits, no promotions, no future, and I was always cutting it close when it came to paying bills. So, I got -what the older generations call- a ‘real job’. (Personally, if I have to clock in and out, and get a paycheck, it’s ‘real job’ but whatever). I started working at a factory that made waterproofing seals for windows, cars, and roofs. Ironically, parts of our building roof leaked, which really filled me with product-confidence. It had paid more than bartending and had benefits but no promotions. But what it cost to work there was I had to wear jeans and steel-toed shoes -which no matter how hard you shop, are all ugly- and so were the light brown-grey shirts with the company logo that we were required to wear in certain areas of the building. I got second shift, and I didn’t get home until 10:45pm and couldn’t get to sleep until after 2am. So, I often woke up after 10am and thus mostly could only get stuff done on the weekends. Cleaning, shopping, and laundry meant I really didn’t live it up. And not to mention, doing the exact same thing over and over and OVER again for 8-10 hours drove me bonkers. Just a robot with a heartbeat but no real life. So, once again, I changed jobs to an office job. It paid about the same, but I could wear more variety (albeit with an office-dress code) and not steel-toed shoes on concrete floors. Benefits and options for promotions. But I had gotten passed up-yet again- for such a promotion. This was like a horrible combination of both previous jobs; getting ordered around to do the same thing every day with no increased pay and overly late nights that often left me drained and depressed. I never went out or made connections; I didn’t know how and didn’t have time. I still barely had time or money to do the basics. And I didn’t have the energy to engage with others. I always felt on the outside because I changed jobs a lot too. Everyone already had their cliques and groups and didn’t have the space or time or energy to include me beyond basic co-worker interactions. I often felt very lonely. I was lost in my bleak thoughts and barely noticed the wet spots on my pants that had formed from the drops going down my face. I had these same pants forever and wore them sometimes three times a week. I hated it. I hated it all; the long unappreciated hours of your life you can’t get back to trying to pay bills in a crappy area in a going-nowhere city and state where the only options for work were service, factory, or office-pooper-scooper. I always thought I’d get adventure, travel, and excitement. Not jaded, repetitive meaninglessness. I was going to waste away; I WAS wasting away. And then I did my usual Friday post-work-ritual of laying my forehead on the steering wheel and sobbing. After a few minutes, I looked back into the rear-view mirror and wiped my eyes. I had no makeup on and so other than red-puffy areas of my face, I didn’t look too bad post-cry. Then I stopped mid-sniffle. When was the last time I put on makeup? I couldn’t remember. I had given up on putting on makeup a while ago. I think that was why; because the last time I considered it, I realized a bunch of my makeup was expired. I threw a lot of it away and thought of what a waste it was and never replaced it. Maybe that was my problem. I didn’t take the time or put in the investments into MYSELF, and I allowed myself to fall into self-pity. Putting on a little bit of makeup isn’t that much time of the morning; to look and feel better? I could spare that. And....and I had control over that, right? I had the epiphany that by not taking the time in the here and now to do things, I never would. And no one else is going to or be able to do those things for me. Realistically, I wasn’t going to have a map of a hidden crystal, or something pushed onto me by my boss and then sent to the amazon jungle. Did I really need some Indiana Jones-level adventure to be satisfied in life? I could have my own little adventures. The quote of “Do what you can with what you have where you are” by Theodore Roosevelt came to mind and “If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way” by Napoleon followed. I looked out my windshield and gripped my steering wheel; I COULD make and have my own adventures! I quickly buckled and backed out of my parking spot with vigor. Instead of going down the main road and making the two rights to get to my apartment building, I was going to turn left at the first light and go the long way around. As I was waiting to turn out of the parking lot, I decided that I wouldn’t just take the longer way home, I’d take longer getting home by going out to eat. I deserved a treat or two after this week. This month. This life. I couldn’t go in my work clothes though; I could, but I wouldn’t. I looked at the time on my radio-screen-it was only 5:15pm. A little early for dinner for me anyway. I went down the main street and kept going towards the mall. I decided to buy a new outfit, a dress or a nice skirt and top. And some new shoes; I hadn’t bought myself new shoes in forever. I could probably afford a couple pairs. My bills were all paid this month. I went to TJ Maxx. The first thing I saw was the purse section and was lured by a light pink, square quilted purse with gold hardware and a gold and pink braided strap. As I admired it- and its price- I happened to find a beautiful luggage case; it was white, black, pink, and gold marbled leather. I didn’t even own a luggage case. If I had a beautiful luggage case, I’d take more actual vacations. It was affordable and so were the couple outfits I picked out. I bought some discount but non-expired makeup too. TJ Maxx was the place to have an affordable spending spree. I looked over my finds with glee. I was so pleased at having new things for the first time in a long time that I stopped at the nearest gas station to use the bathroom and doll up. I reached for my brush out of my canvas tote, and I looked at it in disgust. I quickly changed everything from the tote into the new pink quilted bag. In my new outfit, made up, fixed up, I didn’t even look like me. I wasn’t the same me who was sitting in a car crying about my pathetic, mundane life a little over an hour ago. I smiled brightly. I exited the bathroom, started to get back into my car and then I looked at the clothes and empty tote messily draped over my arm. I shoved the clothes into the tote. Then I casually set it on the side of the pump and filled my gas tank. I got into the driver’s seat again, abandoning the tote, and went through the station’s car wash. Then I drove off and tried to decide where to eat dinner. Originally, I was thinking Applebee’s, but I caught my redefined, shiny blue eyes in the rearview mirror and decided I looked too good to go Applebee's. Maybe I could get a reservation at The Ivy. The closest Ivy was 30 minutes away from this crummy little town I called home that I needed to get away from. I pulled over and called The Ivy; but not the one a half-hour away. I called the one almost two hours away. I also called The Hilton, just across the street from The Ivy, and made reservations for the weekend, including Sunday night. I checked into my office email and used vacation for Monday. ........ Two weeks later, I started a new job as a youtuber's assistant in another state. I had just blown up 3,000 helium balloons for doorway arches and getting paid way more than I had been double-checking report numbers or making up boxes. I put purple highlights over my hair and my ID badge for the set read 'Callie'. My new apartment had bay windows that overlooked the city. I still couldn't believe how long it had taken me to get home.

Very first story, give me any feedback and be brutally honest if necessary. Enjoy! It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be fine in just a little while, just wait. I sit here in bed, in my room. My dark, quiet, still room. Nothing can be heard in this tiny room. I sit up on my bed and realize that I can’t see a single thing in front of me. It’s like I’m not here. I reach my hand out and drift it from side to side, hoping maybe it would bump into something, feel anything. Nothing. I’m starting to feel dizzy. As far as I know there are two things left in this room, my phone and this bottle. Both lying in my lap. I pick up my phone and turn it on. The screen light bursts into the room, ricocheting off of every wall revealing a shadowy silhouette of everything in my room. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the light. I squint and see that the number is still dialed. I know who waits on the other side. The only person left that would hear me, the only person I know that would drop the world for me is just waiting on the other side of one button. I could call, I could talk and talk, and maybe they would come visit me. They would come in, sweep me off my feet and drive me away to a better place. A place with smiling faces in every room. Everybody there will be dressed in white and everyone will want to know how my day was, how I’m feeling. I’ll be do distracted by my new friends that I’ll never be here again. I sit and stare into the darkness, smiling at my fantasies. But that’s all they are, fantasies. Maybe, on another night they could become my reality, but it’s far too late tonight. I put down my phone, the light goes off, and I’m swallowed up by the darkness of my room. I pick up my bottle. Contents half gone, the dizziness is really kicking in now. I knew it would be okay. Just a little while longer now, and it’ll be even better. I look at my bottle, and consider finishing it off. I twist the cap off just as a slight tingling zips through my entire body, even dizzier now. I decide against it and put the bottle back on the bed in front of me, next to my phone. My eyes have readjusted to the darkness, I stare into the darkness and see nothing. It’s as if I’m already asleep, but I can still hear myself think. I lay down and wait for my eyes to close, but my thoughts have me wired, wide-eyed, wide awake. My mind starts to race and my head starts spinning. Is this what I wanted? I want to fall asleep, but it’s not coming fast enough and the pain becomes too much bare, excruciating. I start to kick and twist in my bed. I hear myself whimpering into the empty room. I roll off the bed and am followed by my phone and still open bottle. I hit the ground with a thump, and I hear the pills from the bottle scattering all over the floor. “GOD!” I shriek aloud. My voice echoes around the room and falls flat after a moment. The pain subsides, and euphoria sets in. It’s quiet again. God, a fantasy I haven’t believed in for a while now. Heaven too. Where are God and Heaven at a time like this? I don’t need to find Jesus. That’s what everyone thought I needed, Jesus. I don’t have time for someone who isn’t here. I needed someone real, I need someone now. The euphoric feeling overwhelms my entire body. I can’t feel a thing anymore. I can’t feel my head spinning, my heart pounding or my limbs aching. I can only see and hear, and I see and hear nothing, still. It’s quiet and dark. Serenity like I’ve never experienced. I can't tell if its fantasy or reality. Finally, I’m going to fall asleep. My eyelids start to drop, but a light bursts into the room, ricocheting off the ceiling and dimly exposing the floor where I lay. I see my phone lying face up on the floor by my feet. I muster up any strength left in my deadened arms and drag my body around to see who is calling. I swirl my head around to where my feet were and gaze through hazy eyes at the screen. I can barely make it out on my phone screen: “CALLING". Below that: “911”. I can barely hear the ringing on the other side of the line, where that one person left in the world will be waiting for my response when they pick up, my plea for help. My vision and hearing start to fade to black and nothingness, and I fall asleep. I open my eyes and I see a bright light. A shadowy silhouette stands in a background of white, but I can’t hear what he or she is saying. Everything is hazy, almost misty, and I squint to make out what is before me, but to no avail. I can’t tell who this person is, but at least there’s someone here with me.

Everyone has their perception on beauty. Some think of it as physical attractions, some think of it as mental attractions and then there is me. The one who thinks of it as the nature of the heart. You never find that special someone by just letting your eyes fall on the first human that walk by. Particularly if she is flawless. Yes, her outer beauty deserves a ten out of ten but what exactly is she like? Miles prefers to know someone first. The connection that is built between two people is what makes something special but the society that he lives in does not believe in that. Not anymore. They say that you are living in a fairy tale if you think about happy endings but what if a fairy tale was meant for him? Is he not built with certain standards? Respect? Dignity? Loyalty? Why should society choose for him? Why should society make him turn a blind eye from something that he believes in? His brother, Nick Pearson, was one of those society people. He made everything look so easy. Nick's girlfriend, Jessica, would spend the weekends in our home and they would both be locked up all day and night in Nick's bedroom. When they finally emerged and Jessica left for home, Nick would sit on the porch or on a chair by the shore with a cigarette and a bottle of alcohol. Their parents are busy business people whose work requires travelling to different countries and attending seminars. Nick was practically the guy who would strike up a conversation with random strangers over a card game and suddenly they are all over the place. The fridge is stocked with so many alcoholic drinks even his yogurt felt like an outcast. Their parents are unaware of his drinking problem and Miles was pretty sure by the time they were back before the summer is over, Nick will look like the golden scholar boy that he is meant to be. Except, Miles is the scholar one. He has the brains and Nick gets the girls. Society at its finest. "You're always writing in that stupid little book of yours," Nick said as he walked in front of Miles, kicking sand into the air. He took a comfortable seat in the chair next to his younger brother. Dark shades covering his eyes was typically a sign that he was still sobering up from the night before, "What do you write, anyway?" He turned to face his little brother. The shades were also another phrase for 'I don't care.' "You know what, don't even bother. It's probably childish writing anyways. No good to my eyes." Miles remained silent. He always carried his black and silver notebook and a pen in hand or a novel which he bought at the bookstore a few days ago. Miles was not the typical eighteen-year-old boy who goes to all the weekend parties and hook up with random girls - or boys - for the weekend. Instead, he spends his time writing or walking along the shoreline since he practically lives on the beach. The Pearson's summer home is richly built near the shore with its magnificent structure, white paint that matches the purity of the ocean and blue for the stability and faith. "Are you okay?" Miles asked, "You're outside on the beach without a bottle of stupid in your hand." His sarcastic attitude always left his older brother furious because they are not usually on the same level of understanding and relationship. Nick winced with disgust, "Why aren't you out somewhere along the far end of the beach with a friend?" He paused, "Oh wait, I forgot. You don't have any." This was not the truth. Miles had a lot of friends but spending the summer in the family beach house takes him far away from them. "I'm stuck in this hell alone with you for the summer, a million miles away from our city home. What else do you expect me to do?" "We're not a million miles away from home. Stop exaggerating, idiot," Nick finally removed his shades and he stared at the ocean spread out before him. His blue eyes always reminded Miles of what perfection is. Having a brother with attractive blue eyes and blonde hair always bothered Miles a bit. "Why couldn't I have stunning eyes and blonde colour hair like Nick?" he thought, "He's always outstanding because of it and I'm just here with my black hair and brown eyes that goes unnoticed. Nick always gets the girls" Nick once took a sneak peek at his brother's journal when they were younger and Nick would torture Miles because of it. "What's up with your eye?" Miles was actually concerned now that he saw his brother's eye was a collage of blue, black and purple. "Got into a fight last night," he answered emotionless. Miles searched his face for a long time, unclear of what to say next, "It looks good on you," he turned his attention back to his notebook. Nick glared at him, his face twisting into disgust, "You're unbelievable. No wonder you don't have a girlfriend." Miles remained silent. He kept his eyes on his notebook. Nick was studying him for a little while. "I know I can be an ass to you but I am your big brother. You can talk to me." Miles still remained silent. Unmoving. Nick sighed in frustration and placed the sunglasses over his eyes, his arms outstretched behind his head. Miles still said nothing, "I know about you and Kyle" Miles shot a quick, terrified glance at Nick who was not looking at him. Instead, his eyes were probably closed. Nick knew. How? Miles managed to say after stumbling for words, "What are you talking about?" Nick just exhaled, "You and Kyle," he said in an obvious manner, "Other than the fact that I read your journal a few weeks ago, I always saw the way you looked at him when he came over. Or the way he spoke to you as if you were some delicate flower that needed protecting." He paused, still looking at the sky, "Also, why would any of my friends - who are older than you - show any interest in you? It must mean something. Especially if it's just one friend." Miles was breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest, heat rising inside of him, turning his face red. Nick sat up from his seat and looked at his horrified brother, "Please don't get any panic attacks now. Mom and dad will kill me." Miles ignored him. The boy was terrified. His world came crashing down. The blue skies breaking into tiny pieces and falling to the floor, leaving open darkness above. The ground caving beneath his feet and everything in between was like a hurricane. "Miles?" Nick said his name in concern, pulling the glasses off, "Miles!" Miles was having a full-blown panic attack. Nick rushed to his brother's side. Panic rising inside of him, "Miles! Come on, breathe," he was terrified as he held his baby brother. Miles clutched at his own throat, trying his best to breathe but it was all too much. Nick tried to hold him but instead, he slid to the ground. Nick went down with him, trying his best to calm his brother but nothing seemed to be helping. "I'm sorry, okay," Nick pleaded, "I should not have sprung that on you. Please don't do this to me. Not here. Not now. Come on Miles." The last time Miles had a panic attack was about eight months ago when his brother had a party at their home after their exams were over before they were headed off to college. Miles was, indirectly, invited. He thought he would have been okay with a party since he never hosted one and what better way to experience one where you didn't have to pay a fee? The house was overly crowded and while forcing his way through the crowd around the house, ensuring that everything was in order, nothing broken, the crowd was so tight that the frustration and lack of oxygen took a toll on him. He panicked and uncontrollably grabbed on to someone who shrugged him off in disgust, causing him to fall to the floor, gasping for air. The people around became concerned and in an instant, the news travelled throughout the room, a large empty circle formed around Miles, with him being at the centre. Nick appeared in the emptiness, horrified at what had happened to his brother. He tried his best to help him to get his breathing under control and luckily, someone called an ambulance under Nick's order, which arrived in a very short time. Nick notified their parents and they met Nick at the hospital where the doctor declared that Miles would be okay. Miles looked up at the blue sky now, his hand still clutching at his throat, trying his best to get his breathing under control. He knew from experience that staying calm and breathing is easier said than done. It was much more difficult than that. The feeling that your throat is closing in as you struggle to breathe, is painful and nerve-wrecking. In those moments, the thought that this might be your end flashes across your mind and you wonder if it really is. The hands of hope, regret and pain all grabbing at your throat and sometimes, just sometimes, you slip into unconsciousness. "Is he okay?" a girl asked. Nick did not look away from his brother, panic rising inside of him, "He's having a panic attack." The girl slid to her knees opposite the blonde brother, taking Miles' hand in hers, "Hey there -" "Miles," Nick said. The girl continued, "Miles." He opened his eyes at the strange voice. The girl was looking down at him. Her black hair was open, hanging from her head. Her eyes, though dark, looked at him with colour, "You're okay, Miles. Look at me and follow my breathing, okay?" Her voice was so soft and kind, "Deep inhale," and she motioned for him to follow, "Exhale." After a few seconds, he willed himself to follow her. Inhale. Exhale. He followed her pattern for about thirty seconds and by then, his heart slowed and his breathing levelled off. Miles was okay. The fresh sea breeze filled his lungs, sending a feeling of euphoria through his body. Nick exhaled a sigh of relief and he thanked the girl one too many times. The girl smiled at Miles and helped him into a sitting position, dusting off the sand from his tee. Miles glanced at her for a few seconds, avoiding her eyes, and managed a smile, "Thank you." The girl smiled back, "Are you feeling better?" Miles nodded, "Good. You scared your brother to death here." Miles forced a glance at Nick who looked awfully pale under the burning sun. The night of the party came rushing back to him. The way his brother looked, it was as if all the blood drained from his face and he could not stop thinking that it was all his fault. That he was the reason for crashing his brother's party. That he was the reason Nick got into so much trouble with their parents and was grounded for two months. That he was the reason for his brother to hate him so much, for Nick to be so bitter towards him. Miles thought he was the reason why everything felt like it was falling apart in his life. "I'm okay," he finally managed, "Thank you," he cleared his throat. Within the confines of the beach, swallowing sand is expected. Miles got to his feet, dusting the sand off arms. He bashfully looked at the girl in front of him, smiled and then turned to the house and walked away, leaving Nick and the girl watching after him.

How appropriate that it was the one song I needed to hear to brighten my day. After a morning from hell, and to make things better in my head, I had to get away from it all and go somewhere, anywhere. With determination and purpose, I strode down the sidewalk on my way to the café only to be stopped in my tracks when this song caught me by surprise coming from a kiosk in the marketplace. "You are my sunshine, My only sunshine, You make me happy, When skies are gray." Stepping into the marketplace, I gathered a fresh, floral bundle of assorted spring beauties and it made me feel alive. Their captivating perfume fragrance gave me pause to enjoy life, right now, at this time. Then tears slid down my cheek. Okay, I am a human being and this was a moment not in the plan book. I'll take it. I am so glad my choice was flowers and not a cheap bottle of whiskey. Going down the rabbit hole was not where I wanted to find myself at this moment. They would not get the best of me and I was determined to be the better person. It will take a minute or two but I knew there was more to who I was than to be someone's door mat. Time to stand up, embrace the moment, and put on my real hat. It began with a prickly vibe felt at the office and then morphed into more thorns deeply embedded than anyone could handle without proper tools. The work I was doing, apparently, wasn't good enough for some people. Yesterday, they showed me just how much I could not do right by insulting my upbringing, family, school choices, and the list went on. Who were these evil mongers? There was something brewing that I should have seen a while ago, but being the nice person, I let it go. Our staff meeting started with a bright and sunny casual morning, enjoying coffee and random chatter. The gavel came down at a moments notice as it was the tone of the manager who called the meeting to order with his stentorian voice. Were we in a courtroom? We each found a seat of choice. I opted to be as far away from the Gatling gun as I could. The mood changed in short order and we were all stuck in place like glue. The look came to each of us in an icy stare. "I am sure many of you are well aware," it began with a loud ringing sound piercing my ears. The coercive, and oppressive cruel manner in which the manager now spoke to everyone, pushed some over and into his world. And before long, as we all listened to how we were not meeting company goals, more than half of the staff members in the room became his minions. They began pointing fingers, treating others with unkind words reflecting on bad decisions made by those individuals, which more than likely, in their opinion, caused sales to plummet. Hello! Are we not all part of the same team? I wanted to shout this out loud but refrained as that was not my nature. I needed to see how this all would play out. Apparently, when push came to shove, the manager knew all the right buttons to push. And soon enough, my time was here, as I suspected it would be, given the theme of the day. The words of the manager to me began with, "Didn't I tell you to strictly follow my protocol?" The sneer was so distinct as he continued to add another round of crap, "But you decided to go above your pay grade. Wrong move." And then one by one, the pecking order circled around my head and belittled me into next week. Before it was over, and it was someone else's turn to burn at the stake, I quietly smiled and nodded to not let them get the best of me. With a casual glance around the table, I purposely took note of anyone that did not seem to be part of the game. Someone who sense of purposeful attention, yet one whom I had a feeling, was not going to be dragged into these shenanigans, caught my eye. He was attentive but held his own in the way he sat, subtly moved his hands, with added slight facial expressions. Many years ago, in my youthful days, working the casino card table, my sense of knowing the flip side of someone has never left. He was fairly new to the company and came highly recommended from outside the box, so we were told from a higher echelon group. He caught my eye and discretely gave me a sideways 'no'. I totally got it. Don't fall. Stand your ground quietly until the storm blew over. "Any questions will be reviewed. Make them worthy of my time or do not send. Do I make myself clear?" The meeting came to an end and each left without looking at one another. We knew now who the manager held on his leash. For me, there was a lot to think about after this session. "What was I doing here?" was number one. Number two was, "Why am I putting up with all of this bull--?" Thank goodness it was lunchtime. I had to walk it off, all of it, the angry vibes that drenched my spirit, and my direction in life. Out the front door I charged and let it slam back on purpose, strode down the sidewalk straight-a-way to my favorite café. As the rumbling noises of doom and gloom kept playing in my head, a wave of a fresh scent suddenly made me look up and pause. Yes! Without hesitation I went into the marketplace. I was like a child in a candy store when the beautiful fragrance and aura of flowers beckoned me to come over. And now here I was with a beautiful bundle of bliss in hand, tears now dried. Determination was my new focus and with renewed energy I stepped back onto the sidewalk towards the café, only to trip and fall into someone next to me, going in the same direction. The flowers flew out of my arms as I fell headfirst towards the concrete. Quickly, they were caught by the person I fell into, and his extended arm stopped my plummet onto the ground. Both of us were surprised as we knew each other just a few moments ago from the meeting. "I am so sorry!" How could I be so dumb? This was the guy who gave me a gracious look when it was all going south at the 'burn fest'. "I am sorry as well. We should stop meeting like this!" The moment caused both of us to laugh. Dusting myself off, he helped me gather myself together. I thanked him for saving my bundle, aka myself first and my flowers second. We introduced ourselves, since we never formally met at the office. "Hey!" Since this was nearly a planned fiasco, I surprised myself by inviting him to join me for lunch at the café. He agreed and we walked without further trouble on my part since he now acted as my escort, holding my hand, in the event of another drama scene to happen on the playlist. The two of us chatted as if we had known each other for years. We enjoyed the warm atmosphere and perfect lunch before time was up. I looked at my watch, "We need to get back to the place where only fools rush in." I pondered a moment, paused, and said, "I am not one of those, are you?" His look said it all and we both agreed that there was more to life than to be humiliated beyond reasoning and that game was now over. "I see a new road which may be somewhere that both of us can travel." I was curious as he seemed to sense I was not happy in the corporate world. We got to the door of the building and I hesitated. My calling told me to follow the sun. These lyrics spoke a thousand messages to me so I will follow my dreams and leave the nightmare in the building. The smile I gave to my friend radiated the new and determined person he saw. He added his own vision by telling me, "GO - Don't look back and take this with you." It was a business card of a Sunflower Farm just outside the city. My jaw dropped when I saw the name, You Are My Sunshine. I was shocked, surprised and so happy! "My family's farm needs people like you." My eyes teared up with this revelation and he only added, "I work the weekends and you're welcome to join me. You won't get lost!"

I feel so tired, I woke up too early today so I closed my eyes to fall asleep again, It didn't help so I opened my eyes and just looked around and Started thinking of how my day would go. "Huh", I looked towards my door, "did I put my clothes there?" I don't have my glasses on so maybe it's just my imagination. I checked the time 5:34, I could stay in bed a little longer, I closed my eyes again. Still can't sleep but I could relax and maybe play another fantasy, what do I make it about? I haven't done many fantasy's lately but what should it be about? Ah, maybe that. "Hm, why does the fantasy keep cutting out?"Maybe I'm too tired, sigh, let's try sleeping again. How much time has passed? "I think I slept a little, let me check my phone. "It's still 5:34? Even if I didn't fall asleep the time should have changed, "let's just go downstairs and make something. I really don't want to move my arms, let's just think about how I'll make breakfast, I stared at my door and then my closet "those clothes I'll need to fold them" but why do i have so many? It probably just looks that way because it's bunched together. "Do I still have chicken in the fridge, what do I make?" Let's get started. I wanted to get up, but my limbs weren't budging, I'm probably still tired, "..wait then how did I check the time?" I probably just imagined checking. I opened my eyes again... but something feels weird, my eyes don't feel open. Ah, is it a fantasy?, more likely a dream since i can't feel the outside, what was it called again? I forgot. What do I do now? Since I can't move I can't properly enjoy this. Let me try making things move till I feel myself waking up, I 'look' towards the clothes in my closet and focus on it. I tried that for most of the things around me and nothing moved, 'don't tell me I'm just stuck here?' I tried forcing myself awake but it's still not working, there's nobody around to wake me up either. I heard some clattering, what is it?, it's getting louder, it sounds like a person. I try to move, what if I'm being robbed?, what will they do if they find me here? I force my eyes open to see..Mom!! That's right, I don't live alone! I live with my mom, she must have just gotten back from work, tired I gently close my eyes again. I wake up again to find my room warped, my closet is no longer next to the door, there is another bed in the room with me apart from the one I'm laying on. 'Another fantasy/dream thing?' I still can't move but I can feel my limbs, so maybe not, I open my eyes 'they feel open and my eyesight is not any less terrible' is this not a fantasy? I'm probably still out of it. I blink my eyes a bit and try to roll my body. It worked so I put my feet to the ground and stood up. 'Everything seems to be alright, but my room still isn't back to normal', I walk out of my door, I survey my surroundings 'it's an apartment, the kitchen isn't downstairs, another apartment is what's happening?' I look for mom, maybe I'll wake up from this if i find something my mind can't properly mimic. I find her but... she's asleep in the bed next to mine, "that's right she worked night yesterday", yeah and we live in an apartment we have been for the past 4 and a half years, I checked the time again 9:04. "Did my mind just trick me into thinking reality was my imagination and vice versa, scary". (Had to write it out because things took a while to feel real.

The Irony of Dying (again) on Your Birthday March 23rd, a Saturday Carl Johnson died two days ago. He knew this to be true, but he stood up off the cold slab today anyway. His heart was not beating; in fact is heart was on a refrigerated truck, thanks to his organ donor card, but he was moving, and he was thinking. He tried to remember what happened the two days he was gone, but it was like a drunken sleep, where you don’t dream, or move; you just wake up flat on your back, with your arms crossed over your chest, briefly happy that you still exist, even if your condition has worsened a bit. Carl Johnson walked out the front door of the mortuary, naked, and remembered that the sun felt nice, instead of annoying, for the first time in 22 years. His wife stabbed him when he got home, because she thought he was a ghost, or a zombie, and Carl told her he guessed he was, but he’s still the same old Carl. After she calmed down they made love on the floor for the first time in 22 years. It was cold because Carl was cold. March 25th, a Monday Carl had hoped to use his new lease on life to travel around the world with his wife with the life insurance check, but of course once We Care About You A lot - Mutual (TM) found out that Carl was animated again, they took that away, and sued him for insurance fraud, so Carl went back to work as a CPA. His company welcomed him back, after they stabbed him in fear, and set him up with a private cubicle so no one would have to see him (or smell him, now that he was slowly decomposing) except for at lunch and leaving time. They did leave a small window so he could look out at his co-workers and ask them about last night’s game. The flies somehow still found him back there, but other than a small buzzing noise when his co-workers walked by, it was inconsequential. Carl worked harder than ever, sure that his company would recognize his efforts this time. March 29th, a Friday Carl left work at 5 pm, ready to enjoy the weekend with his wife. He walked in, flies trailing behind him, their children squirming inside of him. He went to give his wife a kiss, but she was repulsed by his smell, his coldness, and how round he was getting from the bloat. She smiled at him with love, and said that maybe she could get her nose removed. Carl laughed, and he and his wife went to the beach, on bicycles, and had a pleasant picnic, as long as she stayed up-wind. April 3, a Wednesday Carl’s gut exploded at work today, all over the computers and phones. The company took it out of his paycheck, and got him some new equipment. They put a roof on his cubicle and vacuum sealed all the cracks so that his smell didn’t escape, except for the brief walk to and from the car. They closed up the window on the day his nose fell off, and made him come in early and leave late, so he had no human contact. But he was crunching numbers still, so the company kept him on. July 4th, a holiday Carl continued to decompose, and continued to work. He was still the same old Carl on the inside, and his wife continued to love him, even though she couldn’t be in the same room with him anymore. They set up love-making sessions with him standing in the backyard, and looking into the back window while she pretended he was whole and warm again. They decided to have their annual cook-out, and let Carl man the grill, while the rest of the party stayed inside. Carl’s mother-in-law was pleading with her daughter to move on, to find someone new. Carl’s best friends chimed in more of the same. “It’s just not right, watching him decompose like that, he belongs in a box, out of sight.” No one ate Carl’s burgers, but they did order a pizza. August 1st, a Tuesday Carl didn’t understand why his wife was crying on his birthday until the crowd showed up in the yard. He saw his friends, his co-workers, his boss, his parents, and half the town on the lawn with various weapons. He walked outside and took a shotgun shell to the arm, it blew off the exposed bone, and Carl explained that he couldn’t die again. The crowd grabbed him and pulled him into the street. He expected his wife to try to stop them, but she just shut the shades and closed the door. The crowd took Carl to his cemetery plot. Carl pleaded that he could just go away; he wasn’t hurting anyone. The crowd threw Carl into the hole, and the concrete truck began to pour in around Carl. September 29th, a Thursday Carl’s wife sat beside his grave and touched the gravestone. She turned the volume on her headphones up to muffle the screams, and smiled lightly at the memory of her husband. August 1, 1974-March 21st 2017-August 1, 2017 read his gravestone. She placed a flower in the prearranged vase, and then turned to leave. She walked out of the soundproof barrier placed around his grave, and took her headphones out. “Don’t Fear The Reaper” was playing lightly through earbuds dangling at her chest. *** Feel free to follow my for more.

Carl woke up, his sleep plagued by a terrifying dream. He sat in his bed and shook his head. He looked out of the window. The sky was dark, save for a glowing red halo. His heart started pounding in his chest, as he ran out into the living room of his apartment, calling for his mother. She was sprawled on the sofa. Dead. Carl screamed, running out of his house to fetch help. He reached the door of his next door neighbour, and started ringing the bell urgently. No response. A cold chill crept up Carl’s body, and he stared at the door with wide, fearful eyes. An idea struck him and he ran to his apartment. He returned with a crowbar, and with one sharp blow, he broke the lock on his neighbour’s door. He stormed inside. His neighbour lay on the floor. Dead. Carl put his hands to his mouth, and stumbled backwards. He tripped over the threshold, and landed with a thud on the cold granite floor. His eyes were fixed on the body. What is going on? He staggered up and turned away from the scene of death. He then darted down the stairs, almost missing a step several times. Arriving in the lobby of his building, he called for the watchman. There was no answer. He ran towards the watchman’s cabin, and hesitantly opened the door. The watchman was sitting in his chair. Carl entered the cabin and tapped the watchman on the shoulder. The watchman did not stir. He tried shaking him, and the body of the watchman dropped limply from the chair. Dead. The world spun around Carl, as he stumbled out of the cabin. He rushed out onto the street, and started looking around for help. Everyone around him had fallen dead. The car engines were still running, but the people inside showed no signs of life. Early morning joggers lay on the track, still in their jogging shoes and tracks. All of them were cold and lifeless. Carl’s legs gave way as he flopped on the ground. He had no clue about what was going on. It was only then that he saw the huge, crimson eye in the sky. The memories came flooding back and he held his head between his knees. This can’t be happening. Was that all...true? He took a deep breath and went over his activities of the previous night. He had been reading about ‘The Mirror Game’ last night before sleeping. It was a weird ritual, which involved tapping a mirror for a specific number of times in a particular order of taps. The room should be illuminated only by a single candlelight and if followed correctly, it was said that the person would end up in another dimension. The only way one could know if it had been successful was the presence of a glowing, red eye in the sky, instead of the sun. Carl loved reading scary stuff on the internet, and was a huge fan of mysteries. However, what drew his attention to this particular ritual was a comment by someone named Saira. It was posted below the details of the ritual, three years ago. It read: ‘Attempting this ritual tonight. I’ll tell y’all what happened tomorrow.’ But, tomorrow had never arrived. Saira had never continued the conversation after that, despite several other readers inquiring about her in the thread. She had...disappeared. Carl yanked his phone from his pocket, and tried to visit the website to see the comment. A minute later, his hand shook as his phone dropped to the ground. There was no internet. Carl had thought that like all other hoaxes on the internet, this was also an elaborate prank. He would not shy away from a challenge. So, in the dead of the night, when his mother was sleeping, he lit a candle and tapped on the mirror in the given sequence. After it was over, nothing felt different. He had gone out and in the darkness, seen his mother lying on the sofa. He presumed that she had fallen asleep, so he did not disturb her. If only he had tried waking her up.... Carl uttered a hysteric scream and tore at his hair. The girl walked down the street, surrounded by corpses. Curiously, in the time she had spent there, none of the corpses had shown any signs of rotting. There were no animals and birds around, and all that was left in the sky was the crimson eye. She hated the way it looked, watching her every move, almost mocking her. She defiantly looked up at it. It met her gaze with a cold, almost inhuman stare. There was no concept of day or night in the world she had entered, but sight was never a problem as the eye illuminated the surroundings in a haunting, red light. Everything else seemed to have been painted in shades of grey, as if reflecting the lifeless nature of that world. Luckily, the shops and markets were open, so The girl could take provisions from there. She remembered the first day( could she call it that?) when she had crawled into the shop, her eyes haggard and her throat parched, dreading what she would see. Sure enough, everybody inside had mysteriously died. There was no sign of blood or violence. Just a plain and simple end. Almost like they had fallen dead while doing other activities. She cursed the day she had played the Mirror Game. She hated herself for even risking it. Once in this dimension, she had tried warning the others about this, but there was no internet. She was alone. The girl hoped that anyone who visited that website would be concerned by her continued and sudden absence, and would refrain from trying out the game. At least then, she would have saved others from this cruel, lonely fate. The girl entered a shop, picked some groceries and walked out. The only respite was that all the electrical appliances and cooking equipments, along with the bathroom facilities were working fine. She had often wondered why, but she gradually got used it. After all, nobody was there to answer her. As she walked towards a jogging track, a sound echoed in the dead silence. She nearly dropped her bag in shock. Was that.. a scream? Carl sat on the lawn bordering the jogging track, his face between his knees, and his arms wrapped around them. His face was streaming with tears, but he had given up trying to shout. He had realized that he was alone. There was nobody to help him. It seemed as though everybody’s life had been snuffed out like a light. Painless, sudden and cruel. Leaving him behind in the dark. Carl had already tried to switch his phone off and then on again, in a futile attempt to recover his internet. However, he had given up that as well. His head spun, and he tried to regain his senses by sitting for a while. A thought occurred to him, “What if this was all a dream?” A glint of hope appeared in his eyes as he tried to sleep on the grass, hoping that when he opened his eyes, he would be back in his room in the normal world. It was then that he heard hurried footsteps approaching him. Every hair on his body stood up, as he tried convincing himself that this was just a fantasy. He squeezed his eyes shut, not knowing what awaited him when he would opened them. The girl looked at the boy with unkempt hair on the grass before her, and rubbed her eyes in disbelief. He was sitting on the green lawn bordering the jogging track, his head between his knees. But, what surprised her the most was that he was alive! She walked towards him, but he made no motion. For a moment, she thought that it was all her imagination, and he was dead as well. She sighed, and turned to leave. As she started walking away, she decided to try one last time. She asked aloud, “Who are you?” The boy did not reply, but his body shook slightly. A puzzling sense of relief, that had been trapped in the deepest corners of her heart spread over her. She went up to him and shook him. Carl, for indeed it was he, brushed her hand aside and looked up at her with hunted eyes. He frantically backed away, eyeing the tall girl, who stared at him with beautiful hazel eyes. Her white dress glowed against the grey background, and her shoulder length hair brushed softly against her face in the wind. She spoke sympathetically, “You played the Mirror Game, didn’t you?” Carl was shocked. He had no idea how she could have known that. But, that proved to him that the girl was real. Slowly, he nodded his head. The girl smiled ruefully and sat on the grass beside him. Although Carl was slightly relieved to see someone alive, he kept a safe distance from her. She looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes. “I understand your apprehension. It has been three years since I came here. I have been alone ever since.” Three years? A bell rung in Carl’s mind, and he asked hesitantly, “What is your name?” The girl spoke in a wistful voice, “My name is Saira, though I do not know whether it means anything now. Since you are here, you must have visited that website too, correct? Why did you play the game? I hoped people would be alerted by my absence, but I guess I was wrong.” The tear trickled from the cusp of her eye and down her cheek. Carl felt sorry for her. “My name is Carl, and yes, I too played the Mirror Game. By any chance, is this a dream? Is there a way in which we can sleep and wake up in our own world?” Saira shook her head, “Not that I know of. You see, in these three years, I have lived a normal, albeit lonely life. I have frantically searched for any signs of life, but until today, everything was lifeless. I tried killing myself, but I would somehow wake up in bed. My hope would be shattered when I would see that crimson eye in the sky. I decided to keep myself busy, and continued speaking to myself, in a feeble attempt to not lose touch with the language. I hoped that one day, when I found someone here, it would help. I had given up long ago, but today, I found you....” She fell silent, and Carl was speechless as well. Above them, the crimson eye loomed menacingly. After what seemed like ages, Carl got up and offered her a hand. Saira stared at his outstretched hand, and looked at his face. Strangely, his face was hard and his eyes were blazing determinedly. “What, Carl?” Carl took a breath before replying, “What about the others who played this game? If I made it here, they would have too!” “But that is not possible Carl! I haven’t found anyone besides you.” “Saira, you are one person. Maybe these people have entered this dimension somewhere far away from here. Maybe like us, they are under the impression that they are the last people on Earth. I don’t know if I can call this Earth, but I don’t want to call it anything else. My point is, there might be a way in which we can meet the others and get out of here.” Saira stared into his eyes. Against the dash of grey in the surroundings, Carl’s silhouette looked magnificent. His dark eyes had a curious fire in them. A fire that she had lost a long time ago. The fire of hope. She smiled, and took his hand. Getting up she said, “Lets find a way out of here.” The crimson eye hanging overhead no longer bothered them.

I never finish anything. I feel like the most inconsistent person on the planet. As soon as I start something I know that it will be a week, max, before I drop it and move on to another project. I have always been reasonably proficient at acquiring a lot of information quickly. But actually doing something with it? Not a chance, not gonna happen in my lifetime at least. My life up to this point has been a series of obsessions lacking a common thread. When I was a kid I was obsessed with sports, first basketball; I went from not knowing who Lebron James was when I was 11 to knowing by heart who won every championship for the past decade by the time I turned 12 (Lakers, Lakers, Lakers, Pistons, Spurs, Heat, Spurs, Lakers, Lakers, Mavs). This continued for many years, each year a new topic, and with it a complete disinterest in using my knowledge. In the summer of senior year of highschool I stumbled on a quote by Warren Buffett about his favorite investing book. *Wait who is Warren Buffet?* And so began a three year on again off again infatuation with value investing, the style of investing that revels in finding gold nuggets in the dirt and grime of American Capitalism. What drew me to value investing, as opposed to, say, currency speculation, was its intoxicating combination of aggrandizing elitism and monk-like restraint. What I *really* loved was the mess of contradictions that characterize its most famous proponents. Warren Buffet, is a jovial megalomaniac; Charlie Munger is an elitist vagabond. Still, although I conducted stock research in the manner prescribed and even found some worthwhile companies to invest in, I never pulled the trigger. It is with this backdrop of years of puzzling inability to take action, that I began running. I did not know a thing about running and still don’t. It is the only thing that I have stuck to consistently in my life. At first glance, running for fun seems like a fully actualized expression of self loathing. In its best light, it is a commitment to the classic ideals of discipline and self improvement. In its worst, it is nothing short of a voluntary, and unending torture. When you run, you are essentially exchanging pain now for a better, but indeterminate future. When you drag yourself outside at 1pm, 2pm, 9pm, you know that you are about to be in for a world of hurt. The pain deconstructs into at least three interrelated sources. First, there is the immediate physical pain; The fibers that lattice in your musculature groan, then yell in objection. Then, there is the condemnation, as the world comes together for a brief moment to stare at how much of a weird fuck you’re being. Finally, there is the dual pain of uncertainty about whether you’ll finish the lap and the disappointment that arises when you actually do. So why would a person ever do such a thing? Why do I try and do it everyday? Because it imposes order on life, it lets you build something, work towards something, see improvement and most importantly, it lets you chisel away the parts of yourself that you don’t like so you can become the person that you want to be. In short it allows you to get started.

There once was a tortoise village. The village citizens lived a calm and predictable life and thrived on lettuce, carrots and love. One night, a wolf came to the village and ate two of them. The tortoises were in despair. Those two tortoises that were eaten were among the most popular and kind of the tortoises that lived in the village and their absent was agonizing. In their sorrow, the tortoises decided to gather up the eldest and wisest of the tortoises and leave it to them to decide what should be done. The eldest and wisest gathered therefore and sat down to decide what to do. The first tortoise, who actually wasn’t that old, and definitely not that wise, said that the best thing to do was to commit a collective suicide by jumping into the lake. At the bottom of the lake, he said, no wolf will find the tortoise. The other tortoises rejected this idea and said that it was probably the stupidest idea they have ever heard in their long lives. The second tortoise, who obviously neither was that old (or for that matter, wise), said that the tortoise’s best choice was to migrate to America. In New York, said the second tortoise, no wolfs walk the streets - not even during nighttime. This idea, said the other tortoises, was - even if it wasn’t as stupid as the first one - among the most ridiculous they have ever heard in a long time. Migrate to America? Asked the tortoises - had the not-too-old-or-wise forgotten they were tortoises? It would take them half an eternity to get there. Before they would reach halfway the wolves would have eaten the whole lot of them. The third, and considerably older and wiser tortoise in the gang, had an idea. The tortoises could build a tower, he said, and every night they could place a guard on top of it. Should the guard see a wolf approaching, he would start screaming: “Wolf! Wolf!”. The other tortoises, who were then sound asleep, would thereof wake up, and seek a hiding place. The wolf would have to go and search for consolation among the chicken in the neighboring village. The tortoises liked this idea and decided unanimously to accept it. They raised a tower in the middle of the village and took turns guarding during the night. Exactly like old and wise said, if the guard on duty saw a wolf approaching during the night he warn the others, who were sleeping, so they could go and hide, and the wolf went hungry away to try to find consolation by means of the chickens in the neighboring village. Order had returned and life in the tortoise village was once again calm and predictable. But one night, it was Bertil’s turn for night guard duty. Now, it wasn’t so that Bertil was a loner or in any other way a troublesome tortoise - on the contrary, he was a popular and sociable citizen and everybody who knew him (which everybody did), loved him. The only thing that distinguished Bertil from the others was that he suffered from stuttering. When night came, Bertil climbed dutifully up the tower and peered all night for the wolf. When he suddenly saw it approaching, he began to scream, but the words got stuck in his mouth and all he could say was “Wo! Wo! Wo!”. The other tortoises, who lay asleep, woke up, gazed up the tower, and decided that Bertil might have drank too much carrot juice, and then went back to sleep. That night, the wolf ate three more tortoises. In the morning, when the disaster revealed itself, despair was back in town. But before the tortoise mob could lynch Bertil to death, the tortoises decided once again to gather the elder and wise in order to decide what should be done. And so, they did. The first tortoise, who, as mentioned before, wasn’t particularly old nor wise, said that the tortoises should stone Bertil to death, as a punishment for his behavior. That idea, thought the rest of the tortoises, was, although tempting, very stupid. The tortoises were a peaceful folk and punishment was not a part of their agenda. The second tortoise, who neither was particularly old nor wise, said that the tortoises better exile Bertil, and why not to America. That idea, thought the rest of the tortoises, was only a hair less idiotic than the first one, and of the same reason. The third tortoise, which, as discussed before, was the oldest and wisest of his folk, had an idea. Let life run it’s course as usual, he said, and as the evening comes whence Bertil’s turn it is to guard at night, let us warn the village citizens, and remind them that should the guard start screaming “Wo! Wo! Wo!” in the midst of night, it is not because of over consumption of carrot juice, but instead because he suffers from a quite common disorder and tries to warn us of the coming wolf. Go and hide, citizens, and let the wolf go hungry away and once again try to find consolation in the company of the chickens in the neighboring village. The tortoises decided that the shrewd senile once again was right and did as he had said. The evening before Bertil’s guarding duty they reminded each other of the circumstances of the stuttering guard, and went to sleep, albeit slightly concerned. In the middle of the night the tortoises woke up, hearing the guard’s screams. They saw poor Bertil up in the tower screaming “Wo! Wo! Wo!”, and even if they first thought it was just another case of carrot juice intoxication, they could readily remember the warning they got the evening before and want and hid themselves. The wolf, who had an utter craving for a tortoise supper, had to indulge himself once again with a couple of chickens from the neighboring village. When the tortoises woke up the next morning, they were out of their minds with happiness, and decided to organize a celebration. They wore their best shields, served the most delicious meals a tortoise could ask for, and danced in the streets. In the midst of the festival, the tortoises heaved Bertil up on their shoulders in order to praise him. Bertil yelled: “Hip! Hip!” and the tortoises answered “Hooray!”. Bertil screamed again: “Hip! Hip!” and the tortoises answered: “Hooray!”. And then came a hippo and ate them all.

Margrett was sitting in her garden, swinging on the little porch swing she had George set up for her a few years back. There were all sorts of flowers there; spring had sprung a few weeks ago, so the flowers were looking as fine as they ever would. Margrett spent lots of time in her flower garden, among the marigolds and rose bushes, the tulips and hedges, the climbing vines and the decorative trees. She also had the eatable garden, with the tomatoes and the corn and the peppers. That was always George’s favorite place to work. He had grown up on a farm, so he knew how to take care of plants. When he was on his deathbed though, he made sure to make Margrett promise that she would take care of it for him. And take care of it she did. George had never really talked about how to maintain the plants with Margrett, so she went to the public library to check out books on how to cultivate her own food. That was years ago. The peppers were always his favorite. George’s family was originally from India, so he always liked very spicy food. Margrett could never eat some of the foods that George could, but she always made sure to try a bit of them. Even the super spicy curries that he loved so much. He always said that the peppers loosened his joints, and after he said that he’d always do a little dance. God Margrett always loved that dance. Margrett got up from her seat and walked over to the eatable garden to look for weeds or things that were ready to be picked. She grabbed the little basket that sat next to the raised beds and started to look over the space. The tomatoes were coming along nicely, she picked a few of the plumpest and reddest and put them in the basket. Then she moved along to the eggplant, seeing a good one she twisted it off and put it in the basket. Moving over to the fruits (George had always considered tomatoes a vegetable) she walked between the blueberry bushes and the strawberry plants, picking as she went and dropping them into the basket. Then she got to her favorite part of the garden, the peppers and herbs. She decided to get to the peppers last today, so she went to the herbs first. These were seated on outdoor tables in little planters, that way they could be easily harvested and seen, not to mention them being protected from animals. Animals other than humans that was. She pulled off a leaf of mint and stuck it in her mouth, chewing it to release its freshness as she walked through the tables covered in green. She decided that she’d make some lemonade today, Diane had some lemons she’d given her from her tree that would go nice with a little bit of the mint. She pulled leaves of this and sprigs of that as she walked, making her way to George’s peppers. There were all sorts of peppers, Margrett’s late husband had always like variety in his life. If she every suggested making the same thing for dinner twice in a week he’d joke that she’d ran out of recipes to cook. She looked to the bell peppers first. They were green, which meant they weren’t quite mature. But green bell peppers were always welcome, so she picked a couple anyway. Then came the chilis that George had always loved. There were all kinds, jalapenos, bird’s eye, jolokia peppers, and so much more. She walked over to the generic chili peppers. There was something off about the plant. Something was moving, even without the presence of a breeze of any kind. She bent down to get a loser look, and there she saw the creature for the first time. It was small, with its body being the length of her hand. Its head was a chili pepper that could split open horizontally, with two little slits that acted as a nose of sorts. It didn’t seem to have any eyes, not that Margrett could see anyway. The stem moved further than any stem had before, with four appendages mimicking legs coming off of its thin body. It was wriggling around, trying to pick itself and get free. Margrett was stunned. Nothing in the library had ever mentioned the produce coming to life. She took the clippers and snipped the dragon off at a reasonable length. It fell to the ground and scuttled away. Or at least it would have had Margrett not scooped it up in her old hands. “Woah there little guy, you can’t get away from me that easily,” she said with a chuckle. The dragon turned its head to look at the old woman. It moved it up and down, as if it was looking her over for whatever reason. Then it reared back and sneezed. Some of the fluids got onto Margrett’s arm and she immediately knew what it was. Capsaicin. Her skin started to get irritated at the chemical.” “Hey now, don’t be like that,” she scolded as she brought it inside to wash her arm off. Her kitchen was small and scarcely decorated. She set the basket of produce along with the little dragon on the counter. It immediately started sniffing around the place with its little slits down on the counter. Margrett finished washing off her arm and was drying it off as she thought what to do with the little dragon. She could always show it to somebody. Maybe she could bring it to her weekly bridge game at Diane’s. She walked over to the phone on the counter and punched in her number. “Hello?” came the voice from the other end of the line. “Diane? It’s me, Margrett,” she responded. “What can I do for ya Margrett?” “I found a little dragon in my garden, do you mind if I bring it to today’s bridge game?” she asked. “I don’t want to leave it alone here at home. God knows I go crazy enough in here by myself.” “Sure, I don’t mind. As long as he doesn’t make a mess.” “You’re a lifesaver, Diane. Thanks.” Margrett ended. “No problem.” Click. “You hear that?” Margrett said, turning in the kitchen to look at the small dragon munching on one of her tomatoes. “You’re going to meet the girls.” Margrett spent the remaining time before bridge making a large pitcher of lemonade with the lemons Diane had given her. She squeezed the lemons by hand, adding water and sugar in no particular amount. Then she took some mint out of the basket, dodging the dragon finishing his tomato, and threw it in. She took out a wooden spoon, stirred the whole concoction up, and tasted it. A little sweet, but sometimes all you want is something a little sweeter. She took the pitcher in one hand against her body and the dragon in the other and walked over to Diane’s house. They played in the parlor, which had an old chandelier above an even older table. She set the pitcher of lemonade next to a plate of cucumber sandwiches, a small salad (Greek from the looks of it), and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. A fine lunch. Everybody was already in the parlor. Diane, her designated partner, was sitting at the head of the table. Margrett took her place at the foot. Bethany and Edith were across from each other on the left and right side respectively. “Sorry I’m late everybody, there was a dragon in the garden today,” Margrett explained as she set the chili dragon on the table. A chorus of variations on ‘it’s alright, hon,’ went up from the table. They started to play. Typically, they played one game, had lunch, and then played another game. But if Diane and Margrett won one and Bethany and Edith won the other they’d play a third one if nobody was busy to break the tie. Bethany and Edith won the first game, then they cleared and set the table for lunch. Plates were set out, as well as cups and forks. The plate of sandwiches was set in the middle of the table, along with the bowl of Greek salad. “It’s a little sweet,” Margrett warned as she filled each glass around the table. “But I think it’s still good.” “So, what’s this I hear about a dragon?” Bethany said, taking a bite of cucumber sandwich. The dragon, who was sniffing around the table, looked up at this. Its head was pointed towards Beth, but quickly swiveled to the rest of the women in turn. “I was looking through the garden this morning, and I found it wriggling trying to get free. I figured I’d see if you gals had anything to say about it.” The old women went silent at this. None of them had every really seen a dragon, let alone had any experience with them. “Does it have a name at least?” Diane asked. “No pet is complete without a name. Took me a few days to name Charlie.” The cat Diane gestured towards lazily looked up at the group of women eating around the table and then went back to licking its paws. “I actually do think I have a name for it. I think I’ll call him George. Peppers were always his favorite, so it seemed fitting,” Margrett explained. The women agreed that it was a very fitting name. They finished lunch and played their second round of bridge. Bethany and Edith won the second game too, but Diane and Margrett had gotten closer on this one than they had the first time. They each had a cookie and then Margrett went home. She walked back into the kitchen, putting the leftover lemonade into the refrigerator. Margrett looked around the house and noticed she didn’t have a place for the dragon. It didn’t look like it would take much space, so something small could be arranged. She poked around her closet for a while and eventually found an old shoebox, so she took off the lid and set the box on the counter. That could’ve done on its own, but she decided that she needed to make it a little cozier. So she set an old tea towel on the inside of the box, curling it up into a nest of sorts. Then she remembered that every bed needed a pillow, so she went into the medicine cabinet and amongst the various medications she took, along with the ones George used to take, there was a bag of cotton balls. She took out a few and pressed them into one somewhat coherent mass before going back into the kitchen and placing the pillow into the bed. She decided that the makeshift bed would be good for at least a night. After that she went around the house cleaning as she normally did in the afternoons. She swept the floors in the kitchen, dusted the shelves around the house, cleaned the bathroom, and generally decluttered anywhere there was clutter. Once she was done cleaning Margrett looked at her calendar. She was scheduled to be a substitute teacher for Mrs. Gill’s fourth grade class. Maybe she could take in the dragon for a day, the kids would love seeing George. Then she heard a sneeze and remembered that pure capsaicin was akin to pepper spray, so she eventually decided against it. Her stomach growled and she realized how hungry she was. She looked around in the pantry to find something to eat, and eventually settled on making spaghetti with meat sauce. She set a pot to boil and got out the noodles, Italian sausage, everything for the sauce, and the red pepper flakes. George had always called red pepper flakes ‘birdseed’ for whatever reason. George, the dragon this time, took an interest in the little red and yellow flakes. Margrett took some in her aging fingers and held it like fish food above the little pepper dragon. He opened his mouth hungrily and she sprinkled them in. The little pepper shut his mouth and seemed to swallow, although he had no digestive system. Margrett didn’t ask questions. Once dinner was ready, she plated herself up a portion and placed it on the table. Then she took a shallow dish and put some sauce and a small mountain of red pepper flakes on top and set it next to her own plate. Then she carefully scooped up the dragon from the counter and set him on the table next to his plate. He lapped it up quickly, then looked at Margrett as if to ask for more. Margrett smiled and got up to get George more sauce. He lapped his seconds up nearly as fast as the firsts. “No more.” She said, turning to her own plate. Once dinner was over she took George the dragon in her hands and set him on the easy chair George her husband used to sit in all the time. She took her place in her own, lighter rocking chair. She took the book that was on the table and cracked it open. It was a mystery, and she was a little over halfway through it. Out of instinct, she started to read aloud. The particular chapter she was reading had the detective investigating the crime scene again, the clues and puzzles unravelling in his head. She enjoyed mysteries. She finished the chapter and looked over to George. He was curled up in a little swirl, with his head resting on his paws. She delicately scooped up the plant and set him down in his tea towel bed. Then she took the shoe box and brought it to her room, setting it down on her bedside table. She said a quick prayer, then turned out the light and went to bed.

"What you need is trail cams. Security cameras, some floodlights set on automatic, barbed-wire fencing...that'll scare 'em off good." Grandpa Al grunts at his own solution, nodding affirmatively at my garden. Or rather, the disastrous remains of my garden. Potted rosemary and parsley are smashed to smithereens, flossflower trampled into fine dust. Once robust pumpkins now lay scattered in gooey pieces over the marigold patch, and, oddly, only the bright heads of my shrub roses are gone. Every single one. Pale orange, sunset yellow, and a deep fuchsia, so vibrant it was like wine. All plucked from their stems, leaving nothing but the green of foliage behind. The pinpricks of tiny, needle-sharp teeth grace the edges of the leaves. A bug or something else? "Feels a bit extreme for a few deer," I grumble, collecting up the bigger shards of broken pottery. I’m more upset about the mess and ensuing amount of work it's going to take to get everything as it was than I am at the prospect of having to fortify my home from woodland animals. Luckily, Grandpa doesn’t take offense to my snide reply. He doesn’t take offense to much of anything. "Could also be coyotes, or foxes. If it is, you don't want them hanging around, they eat your garden and pets. Nothin’ some flood lamps and a good old shotgun can't fix." Grandpa elaborates, nods again, satisfied. I groan inwardly, sweeping the rest of the detritus into a pile. He's probably right. About the cameras and lights. Not the gun. I'd likely end up hurting myself more than whatever it is I'm trying to scare off. Not to mention the absolute mess I'd be if I actually managed to shoot something. No, weapons weren't the way to go for this. Later that evening, I stand in the dim on the edge of the backyard porch, inspecting my handiwork. The bulky door cam my auntie Shannon had abandoned in a box inside the cellar is now duct-taped to the top of the standing bird feeder. It's pretty wonky, and I'm not sure how well the feeder will fare on the tape removal, but it holds up for the moment. Shannon sported six toes between both feet and required a cane to walk, and as my house was both accessible and near her work at the butchery, she lived with me for a time. She eventually migrated up to a ranch outside Vancouver, leaving behind the treasured door cam in her haste. I'm suddenly thankful for my relatives' eccentricities. I walk the feeder into position, camera facing toward the garden. This should at least give me an idea of what critter I'm dealing with. Like Grandpa, I nod with satisfaction at my work. What wakes me up a little past dawn, I can't say. I'm not normally a light sleeper. Even someone breathing next to me can pull me out of it. My eyes slowly adjust to the dark, just as my phone pings. That must've been it. As I reach out, another alert vibrates the phone in my grasp. What's going on? I pull up the app to the door cam as my screen is slammed with notification after notification. The damn thing takes so long to load, my phone nearly goes dark again. The feed finally pops up, grainy and grayscale. The first thing I see is wings. Rounded and gossamer, translucent, akin to a dragonfly's or a spiderweb. The screen is full of them, dozens, all about the size of my hand. And even through the terrible footage, I can detect the mystical illumination. They glow. The second, not-as-fantastical-but-equally-strange, thing I notice is the discolored, shifting mass of fur attached to the wings. Ears, button eyes, and twitchy noses slowly come into shape. Rabbits. Or more specifically, fairy rabbits. Which are, apparently, real. And frolicking in my ruined garden. As I watch, a bunny with long white ears and tiny, fluttery wings rears up on its hind legs and takes an enormous chomp out of my flowers. An entire rose head gulped down in a single, fluid bite. At least it isn't coyotes. But how does one go about removing fairy rabbits? I wasn't great at dealing with the average garden-variety of critters, let alone the magical kind. And they seemed content with lounging about in the flowerbeds, gorging themselves on my roses. As cute and enchanting as they are, they can't stay here. Sooner or later, they'll eat or destroy everything I have growing out there. I kick the covers back, easing my way out of bed. Any trace of sleepiness that might have been lingering is gone. The old floorboard creaks unevenly as I tiptoe--ridiculous, I know, it's my house--down the hallway, stopping at the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard. I carefully push a section of the drapes aside and peer out. There they are. My pulse picks up at the sight of them. Seeing something like this emitting from a horribly pixelated screen doesn’t nearly do the real thing justice. The darkness is broken up by the cheery glow of fluttering, pastel-colored wings. Soft pink, minty green, and baby blue lights bounce off the enclosed yard, a mesmerizing show. I pause, watching the little bodies hop about, snuffling hungrily at my vegetables. I think of my roses. It doesn't feel fair to spook them off so coldly, being as hungry as they appear. And, honestly, I don't want them to leave, either. This is much different than catching an enormous buck drinking out of the bird bath during wildfire season--because how many people have come across a dehydrated deer versus winged rabbits? Still likely not too many, but more than those who've maybe spotted a mythical creature. But I also can't let them ravage further, either. I lean my forehead against the glass, staring out at the backyard and the fairies and flowers within. My phone continues to buzz from alerts as the camera detects their every motion. What now? What would grandpa Al say about all this? Minus the fatal means and tools, of course. There's usually a nugget of gold somewhere in those rambling, ridiculous ideas of his. Like the door cam; not technically his, but he bore the spark. Just like right now. I silence the alert before quickly pulling up a series of searches, plans and ideas already flooding throughout my mind's eye. It takes a few weeks to get my garden back in order, and it's at least a month after that to get the other roses flowering. The yard has transformed in that time--in the center, right where my beloved blooms and plants sprouted, is now a small glass house. A shed, really, just big enough to host everything, roses included. A pebble pathway stretches from the porch to its entry, and surrounding the perimeter of the greenhouse are thick, rapidly-growing shrub roses. What the fairies lack in restraint they make up for with a nice, magical fertilizer. So far, I’ve found it to be a fine tradeoff. At least it isn’t coyotes.

Content Warning: Gore, themes of abuse I rounded the corner in a white Honda Civic. It wasn’t mine. I mean, I guess it was now. The corner had turning restrictions but only on weekdays in the mornings and afternoons for children walking home from school. It was well past 4:00 PM, so I made the turn on red. Main street was bustling. Food trucks lined the streets offering everything from tacos to lobster rolls. People gathered en masse for some of the trucks, while others seemed less popular. The barbecue wings were slaughtering the vegan ones. Stringed lights hung over the street, winding left and right in a zig-zag pattern as far as I could see. Music came from the gazebo. It sounded light-hearted and fun, likely a local band. This was nothing like the town I’d lived in only two years ago. Don’t get me wrong. It was the same town; White Hill, Connecticut. Before I left, however, it was a sleepy town. People didn’t know one another, and they preferred it that way. I knew more people than most because I was the cashier at our only liquor store. People knew me by name and were nice to me because I had something they craved. It’s what we considered a position of power. Back then, my town had few restaurants, one sticky local bar, no festivals, and certainly no string lights over Main Street. I found a parking lot behind a microbrewery. I wanted to fully experience what my town had become. I approached the lobster roll food truck. The line stretched on for miles. The drive to town was long, and my stomach was eating itself from the inside out. I was pretty sure that I hadn’t been on the east coast in a while. I knew that I hadn’t had a lobster roll in a while, so the wait felt worth it. I felt like I could treat myself anyway. I had a wallet full of money that wasn’t mine burning a hole in my pocket. Might as well live it up. Taking it all in, I realized that the curly blonde hair in front of me looked familiar. Lauren was our town’s only preschool teacher which made her our liquor store’s best customer. “Lauren?” I called out. She spun around, but her smile faded when she saw my face. “Lauren Winters,” I confirmed. “It’s Megan.” I watched her rack her brain. I’d been through a lot in the last two years, but my look was more or less the same. I was a little thinner, but I had the same silky jet black hair which I stopped to cut before arriving to town. I liked when it fell just below my shoulders. I wore clothing that was similar, maybe even the same as what I had back then. I had on a simple white tank top and jeans with white sneakers. The main reason I couldn’t believe that she didn’t recognize me, however, was that my family was of Japanese descent. We were the only Asians in our tiny Connecticut town. Growing up, every Asian related joke or stereotype got thrown in my face mercilessly. I developed a thick skin and a quick wit. People who came into the store knew that they could make whatever joke they wanted at me. I would verbally gut them alive like my ancestors preparing ikizukuri. Three cuts with the sharpest of knives and you would be served like a live fish with your gills still flapping, moments from death. People didn’t talk much in our town, but I was confident that they knew me. They knew that I didn’t take shit from anyone, and they knew that I was Asian. I was also confident that I was standing in front of Lauren Winters, so what was going on with her? “Megan,” she began. “I’m not sure that we’ve met. Are you from around here?” “Yeah, I worked at Bart’s for years.” “Who’s Bart?” she asked. “It’s the liquor store on the corner of Stokes Road and Glen Ave,” I replied. The interaction we were having shocked me. She used to come in every day for wine. Now that I focused in on her, I noticed that she looked different. She was more vibrant and cleaner somehow. She used to look like she wasn’t sleeping, and in the afternoons, she had no energy after being with the kids all day. I used to ask her if they’d sucked the life out of her or if it was vampires. She always had a fresh hickey on her neck and never thought that was funny. I did, so I kept asking. Her bright blue eyes blinked a few times as she tried to smile at me. “I don’t know that store. Maybe I’ll check it out some time. It was nice meeting you, Mary.” I didn’t correct her. She was next in line, so I left her alone to place her order. When she finished I placed my own. A Maine lobster roll, some kettle chips, and a lemonade. I asked if they could spike it. They said no. I was beginning to think my town had gone dry when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a man with a beer bottle. Danny Fisher was the only realtor in town. He had very little business and a not so little drinking problem. “Danny!” I yelled. He looked up but didn’t wave. I walked over to him. It was still close enough that I could hear my name if my order was ready. He looked from left to right. “I’ve been out of town for a while, but a lot has changed!” I said. “Did Bart’s close down?” “Who’s Bart?” he asked. “You know, Lauren Winters just asked me the same thing. It’s the liquor store where I used to work. You both came in like every day. How am I the only one that remembers this?” “I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said turning to leave. I grabbed his arm. “Danny, you’re an alcoholic. You were always at the liquor store. And you’re still at it,” I said pointing to the bottle in his hand. “This is root beer, not that it’s any of your business,” he said. And with that, I let him walk away. My order was ready anyway. I grabbed my lobster roll and took it to a bench near the gazebo where the band was playing. I recognized two of the band members, but with the way things were going, I wasn’t sure they would remember who I was. I waved in their direction, and both averted their eyes. What had become of my town? What amnesia washed over them? I finished my lobster roll, which was delicious, and headed back in the direction of my car. There was nothing left in this town for me. My parents both died years ago. I had no other family in the area. The man that I had hoped would become my family betrayed me in the worst possible way. He kidnapped me, took me far away from home, and held me against my will in a motel room for two years. Every day I asked myself how I’d managed to fall in love with a psychopath until one day when I saw my opening. The woe is me phase ended and the scheming began. There was a rip in his favorite sweater. It was an expensive sweater. It was cheaper to go to Walmart and buy a sewing kit to fix it than it would have been to replace it. I insisted that he let me fix it because he didn’t know how to sew. At first he resisted. Being told he couldn’t do something was unacceptable in his world. I backed off and said I didn’t want to do it anyway. He loved making me do things I didn’t want to do. Reverse psychology is a bitch. I slipped two needles from the kit into my pocket when he wasn’t looking. I chose the biggest ones. He kept the door closed with a chain and a lock. He wore the key around his neck. He handcuffed me to the iron bed frame every night. That key was also around his neck. Careful not to break the silence one night, I moved the handcuffs from my side of the bed to his. I slipped my body over his, stepping off of the bed and on to the floor. He was a heavy sleeper, but I felt like taking the keys off his neck might wake him. I had the needles in my hand and at the ready. Sure enough, the second the chain started tickling his neck, he opened his eyes. Once he did, I jammed the needles straight into his pupils. His body jerked away from mine, but I had the keys in hand. The chain broke off his neck, leaving me with both keys. My hands barely trembled as I broke free. I grabbed his wallet and keys off the table and bolted towards the door. That’s the story of how I ended up the proud owner of a white Honda Civic, which I could see on the other end of the parking lot. It sat near an artisanal pizzeria. I rolled my eyes as I passed by. Next to that was a shop called Ritual Blossoms. I’d never seen a shop like it before. It had a small door between two tall windows. In each window was an assortment of candles, gem stones, and bottles of different shapes and sizes. The bottles contained bath salts and flowers. The woman behind the counter was no older than 20. I watched her wrap a colorful stone in pink tissue paper for a customer. I went inside. One side of the shop had a wall lined with books about tarot cards, palm reading, journaling, spirituality, mindfulness, and other related topics. The other side had candles of every size and color. In the center of the store was a giant stone that had been cracked in half to reveal crystallization. A sheet of glass covered the stone so it could serve as a table. All along the glass were items for sale. Perhaps they were for the rituals the name of the shop suggested. The customer left, and I was alone in the shop with the girl. “Can I help you with anything tonight?” she asked. “No thank you. I’m just browsing,” I said. “Here,” she said handing me a long thin box. “What’s this?” “Incense. I can feel that you need it,” she said. “What I need is a stiff drink, and an even stiffer-,” I stopped myself. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said. “You don’t believe in this kind of stuff, but you’ve been through so much. Take it to your hotel room tonight, burn a little, and breathe in the aroma. I know it’s going to make you feel a lot better, Megan.” Her smile was calming, but I was still taken aback that she knew so much about me. She was the only person in town who recognized me and called me by name, but I was sure I’d never seen her before. I accepted the gift and left the shop without buying anything. I did exactly what she said. The next morning, I went back into town to see if my favorite deli was still there. I figured I’d get a coffee at least before figuring out what my next destination was. There was nothing left in town for me, but I had nowhere to go. To my relief, the deli remained intact. I went right up to the counter and ordered a coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. As I waited, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I spun around, and it was Lauren. She still looked clean and perky, but her smile was warmer than it had been last night. “Oh my god, it is you! Long time no see, Megan!” She gave me a hug, shaking my body back and forth. She had no apparent recollection of our encounter from the night before. We caught up a little. She bored me with stories about teaching, which I guess she liked better nowadays. She told me that she’d gotten married, and was thinking of starting a family. “And where have you been? I feel like it’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” she said. I nodded, considering my response. I told her I’d been away but was thinking of moving back. I liked the changes I saw in town and could see myself putting down roots here. Maybe I’d find a job, give dating a shot, get a hobby. I think I’ll take up sewing.

She was only seven years old and already she understood the value of money. Just one penny got her a gum ball. Ten pennies got her a candy bar, or a scoop of ice cream; always vanilla with sprinkles. She understood money alright, in the simple way that everyone does. Enough of it always gets you what you want. What she didn't understand was why her Father didn't seem to get the same simple concept. She made protest once, and he laughed at her. "Because it's fun, my dear. We get to watch the train go by, and then we get to look for the pennies that got squashed on the track." She scrunched her face together, with the hint of an unbelieving smile. He got close to her and made a face. "Because it's fun!" Then he tickled her. After she gathered all the pennies with her father, she would put them in a small box. She just assumed these bubbly oblong shapes, with the strange alien face that was once President Lincoln, would still be worth something. But there was something else special about these pennies, something that was never spoken or even a fully formed thought; these strange pennies only ever came into her possession when she was with her father. The only time she ever lost a penny, was the same day as the accident. By early afternoon she had already laid and collected 10 pennies from the dusty ground surrounding the track. After she had picked up the last one, her father looked at his watch, and grabbed her hand. "Alrighty, my dear, it's time to head home. Your Papa has to be at work in an hour and a half." But she wasn't ready. She wanted to stay all day, and she made her feelings known in the innocent girlish way that no father can resist. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single shiny penny. He handed it to her. "You're going to make me late, but I think we can do one more anyway. Hurry, next train should be here any minute!" She quickly ran to the tracks, put the penny down, then ran back and embraced her fathers leg. She stared at the penny with unrelenting anticipation as her father picked her up and walked behind the fence. A few minutes later they heard the rhythmic rumble of the approaching train, and they watched through the cracks of the fence as boxcar after boxcar rolled by. She always looked for the twirling shine of the penny as it rocketed through the air, but she never saw it. After the train went by, they searched for the penny. She ran every which way, examining the ground, and never finding her prize. Finally, her father called to her. "I'm sorry darling, but we have to hit the road. I'll be late as it is." She continued looking, a worried and desperate look taking the place of pure concentration. She couldn't find it. This would be the only one she hadn't been able to find. She had to find it. She felt the force of her fathers arms swing her into the air and over his shoulder. "We have to go." There was a touch of loving impatience in his voice. She reached for the tracks and begged to be put down. "We'll get it next time." But there wouldn't be a next time. After her father left for work, she never saw him again. She was 87 years old, and would sometimes disappear from her room. She had bouts of Alzheimers, and whenever they hit she was prone to wandering away from the facility. The first time the staff panicked. They never lost anyone. But after finding her once, they always found her in the same place. When they found her, they would approach slowly and put their arms carefully around her. They would lead her away, always saying the same thing. "You know how dangerous the tracks are. We don't want you to get hurt." She would plead with them, a sad desperation in her eyes. "But my penny... I must find my penny" They would always shake their head, and recite the same simple line. "You'll find it next time.

When I tried to leave for work, the front door was locked. I jiggled the handle up and down a couple of times while my brain caught up to my muscle memory. Huh. Patrick was supposed to unlock the door when my watch came within two metres. In the months since I upgraded, that feature had worked seamlessly. It was so slick that on the first day I questioned whether the door was locking at all. I had tried to open it with my watch off just to make sure. “Hey Patrick, unlock the front door,” I said softly in that flat way you talk to assistants. It felt odd to ask him that - I had gotten used to him being two steps ahead of me. I checked my watch. 9:35AM. “Sorry, Finn, there’s a safety threat outside. I’ll unlock the door as soon as it’s safe.” That delivered a tiny hit of adrenaline. A safety threat? I checked the door cam for signs of trouble, but didn’t see anything concerning. The screen showed the usual empty, less than clean hallway. Walking to the living room window, I peered down to the street. Everything seemed normal. People bustled by on their personal trajectories, forming a current in aggregate. Patrick could be overly cautious - a week ago he asked if he should call 911 because there was a drunk man in the hallway. He was still learning that humans, especially female humans, have to be comfortable in the omnipresence of danger. “What is it?” I asked. “A faulty cable.” A cable? He really was a nervous one... “...In the door?” I asked. “Your door doesn’t have a cable, Finn,” he chimed pleasantly. This has to be a bug, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to get to the bottom of it until after work though. It was 9:36, and I was officially running late. I decided to take my chances. “Open the door anyway, Patrick,” I muttered. “Sorry, Finn, I’m not allowed to do that. There’s a safety threat outside. I’ll unlock the door as soon as it’s safe.” His calming tone was patronizing. I was going to miss my bus. I pulled my phone out of my purse and tried manually unlocking the door. A popup on the screen echoed Patrick and wouldn’t let me proceed. I rattled the door handle in vain, letting out an audible moan. Patrick quietly turned on the Spa playlist I listen to when I read in the evenings. It helped, I admitted begrudgingly to myself, noticing my body relax. Then I saw 9:37 on my watch and retensed. If I missed my bus, I would miss the 9:50 subway and be late to the morning briefing. Gabriel would condescend, even though I hadn’t been late once in the two years since we joined the same management training cohort. “Override front door lock,” I said in a commanding tone, aping sci-fi movies I’d seen. I was pretty sure that real assistants didn’t work that way, but it was worth a try. Patrick repeated his spiel. I checked the door cam and window again. “There’s nothing out there, Patrick!” I whined. “I’m confident that there is a faulty cable,” he replied earnestly. How can computers be so smart and so stupid simultaneously? Regardless, I surrendered to the fact that I wouldn’t be leaving until his “threat” had dissipated. I marched over to the couch, threw myself down with a huff, and stared fixedly at the door. When I upgraded, there was a lot of buzz surrounding the new Patrick. He used a cutting edge “universal” algorithm, as opposed to the patchwork of specific task algorithms that make up other assistants. The new algorithm let him learn things without being explicitly programmed for them. He was simply integrated into your home and given the objective of making you comfortable (with some constraints, of course). It was a huge improvement from the previous version. Within a week, Patrick was brewing my morning coffee just in time for when I arrived in the kitchen, and responding to routine emails for me. He adapted to variations in my schedule deftly. The shower always turned on 30 seconds before I was ready to step in, even when I woke up late in the morning after a night out. The temperature as I moved from room to room was consistantly perfect, while my latest power bill had been much lower than usual. Until this morning I hadn’t encountered a single bug with Patrick. I was so impressed that I’d been preaching his merits to all my friends, pushing nobly past the point of becoming tiresome. But being locked in my apartment like this was unnerving. I knew it was unreasonable, but I detected a faint seed of panic in the back of my mind. I inhaled deeply and focused on the spa music. Patrick crossfaded in a guided meditation. \ At 9:41, I heard the mechanism of the lock move. “It’s safe again, Finn. Sorry about the wait,” Patrick announced. Before he finished his sentence I was out the door and half-running toward the stairwell. I didn’t have time to wait for the elevator. As I hurried down the stairs, I rummaged through my purse for my phone, found it, and held my thumb on the Trolley icon to summon a car. If I was going to make the subway, I’d have to pony up the cash to take the tunnels there. Underground highway robbery... I landed on the ground floor, crossed the lobby, and pushed out onto the street. The car was just pulling up, its door sliding open in time for me to step in without breaking my stride. I sat down in one of the forward facing seats and we glided into the flow of traffic. Breathing heavily, I set my route in the app - the arrival time read 9:50. If the traffic gods blessed me, I could still make it. As the car maneuvered towards the tunnel, I pulled up that week’s notes on my phone and started reviewing for the briefing. There had been some big developments over the last few days and I wasn’t sure how they would come together. I tried imagining the different scenarios, preparing as much as I could for each. I kept my head down like that until I sensed we were nearing the 12-car tunnel elevator, then looked out the window to size up the congestion. It was 9:46, but I could see one more spot on the platform as we approached. I was going to make it. But just as I started to relax in my seat, the car suddenly braked. Another Trolley car appeared out of nowhere and slid into the space. “Come on!” I yelled at the passenger, louder than I intended. They startled in their cabin and looked around for the source of the noise. Immediately embarrased, I looked down at my lap - they couldn’t control the fleet any more than I could. They obviously just had Plus. My heart sank as the elevator descended below street level. It would be about a minute before it came back up for the next batch - more time then I had. The Trolley app updated my ETA to 9:51. I could perfectly visualize Gabriel’s poorly contained grin. I wallowed in self-pity during the 10:00 trainride downtown, listening to my Sad playlist and watching the concrete blur past the windows. When we pulled into the station, I stepped briskly off the train and up the stairs to street level. My office building was only a block away, and I closed the distance in record time. As I entered the lobby, the vintage elevator doors were just closing, forsaking me at ground level. I rolled my eyes at my luck and stood back, waiting for the carriage to climb it’s way up and back down the building. I watched the floor numbers light up in sequence above the safety doors. When it got to the 18th, I heard a heavy *SNAP* from inside the shaft, then another. Seconds later, a sickening impact that travelled through the concrete and shook my body. \ When I requested the logs, it took a couple weeks for the Patrick Company to get back to me, but eventually they did. The file was 31MB of plain text. The mass of activity Patrick did behind the scenes took me off guard. For every item that seemed directly linked to my interactions with him, there were a thousand more that didn’t. He crawled the social media pages of each of my contacts multiple times a day. He looked up the manufacturer of any new thing I bought. When I took a vacation to Spain last month, he went down a rabbit hole researching European history. He was constantly building out the context of my life in his model. At first, the only thing I could find related to my near death experience was Patrick accessing the Trolley API at 9:31 that morning, but it turned out I wasn’t looking far enough back. I had been combing through the logs for 3 hours when I finally found what I was looking for - 10 seconds of activity almost 4 months ago. Here’s what he did in that time: * Accessed the safety inspections for my office building on an unlisted page of the city’s website * Reviewed footage from the lobby and elevator’s CCTV streams (they were private but unencrypted) * Looked up the specific make of the elevator on a specialty site dedicated to vintage elevators * Researched woven steel cables * Looked at my historical location data and step count from 9:35AM (when I leave for work) to 9:56AM (when I get there) * Looked at my Trolley ride history * Performed a complex equation I couldn’t follow * Checked my calendar for 121 days in the future, March 4 * Looked up the subway schedule for March 4 * Scheduled the door to emergency lock on March 4 from 9:33:42AM to 9:41:11AM Note: *This story was inspired by something I read in Stuart Russell’s book, Human Compatible. He talks about how humans can’t behave rationally because life is too complex. We can’t truly optimize for our goals because it’s impossible for us to predict the way things will pan out with so many interacting factors. We can’t even predict the way a chess move will pan out. But computers are much better at chess than us. It’s a type of computation they are better suited for. So, I imagined a scenario where an AI assistant could accurately predict a catastrophe by modelling the interactions of different factors in a way our brains can’t. I think this would be possible for a specific type of situation with relatively few interacting factors, like in the story.

Checkmate. That was the first time you and I met. All it took was one more than the starting move, and just like that, I was already gone. I remember then that I still hadn’t known you by name. You were but an avatar on a computer screen whose existence was as far from me as the sun is from earth. You were there as my first opponent, and the frustration that you hammered into this conceited newbie lingered more than I could admit, but your existence, no matter how apparent it was to me, no matter how close it was for that one moment, was blockaded by the anonymity of a stranger. Back then, I didn’t know who you were, who anyone was--who I was. Being alone in a room that reeked of cup ramen and listening to songs from the 80s were all that I could do. For the 5th consecutive year, I had successfully ensnared myself in a 3 meters by 2 meters tatami mat prison cell which I had grown much too accustomed to, the same way a domesticated dog would much rather be kept as a pet than to roam about freely in the frigid evergreen woods of its predecessors. I kept myself shackled because I was afraid of the outside world, afraid if I was going to survive, afraid of being a burden. Given my inability to do anything useful, it felt to me as if my existence in and of itself was a burden to others. I was never clever, I was never truly passionate about anything. I was a flotsam on stagnant waters reluctant to move, and by that alone, would I not be a dead burden to the world? The fact that I was there stuck in my room by my own volition confirmed me of my suspicions. If that were the case, would it not be better to be a ghost, to be chained to the ocean depths where nobody could see or reach me? So in my solitude, you became a sole source of excitement. I would play you in chess, and you’d always accept. Was it because you couldn’t beat anyone but myself? Even so, I didn’t mind, our matches had provided me with reprieve. After three months, we became rivals, though you were always better than me, so perhaps ‘partners’ would be more apt, or perhaps a better analogy would suffice; You the boxer, and I, the punching bag. I’d lose again and again, but even punching bags could swing back from time to time with a force greater than you expected, and when you missed punching them back, the taste of victory would be immense enough to last me a whole day. When I had nothing and did nothing, the smallest of things would be enough to make a day eventful, and our matches, aside from new seasonal flavors of cup noodles in the convenience store, were most definitely the highlight of most of my lonely days. It was not until a year till we truly grew to know each other. Phone numbers were exchanged and our ties tightened with your face remaining a blank canvas to me. Unlike me, you were a person whose contact with the outside was not only through a mere glass sliding door--You were there on the streets crossing many paths to work. I watched from above on the sidelines, untouchable and furtive. When looking at the glass to peer at the crossing outside, had my eyes met you before? Maybe, but when you were with everyone else, you simply became one of the countless blank faces, and I couldn’t tell you apart. You told me of the world outside, of the morning rush in train stations, of the gruelling overtimes, of the pollen allergy you battled bravely through summer, of the soft and granular texture of snow on the northern fringes of the country. The more tales you told me, the more I thought of the world outside. Of how much changed since the outside and I had last met, of where that enthusiastic kid in me, ready to see the world, had gone away, though I very much knew the city would be far too much with all its incandescent lights and pandemonium, but I wanted to see your face, just yours and yours alone, as though I were trying to confirm that you truly were real and not just a delusion of mine. And somehow as if the Gods had heard my plight, forgetting that they had already forsaken me, I did. I saw you that day when the ginkgo trees outside had turned yellow, when the air was cool enough that I could cut down air-conditioning costs by simply opening the window without the fear of being frozen still or swimming in my own sweat. It must have been my lucky day that afternoon since I remembered winning a match against you, and you being the sore loser that you were, mentioned taking a breather and letting some chilly air in whilst pulling out a cigar. That was the moment I first saw you. Across my room, just a building away across a narrow alley, you were there with your cigar, a trail of smoke waltzing from the tip. Your white uniform which had gone slack quivered in the gentle gusts and the dying sun shone through your greasy hair covering those dark sunken eyes atop those slender cheeks. You took a deep breath and your eyes met my window somberly, but I doubt you could see me at all. I didn’t recognize it at first, but as I focused my attention on the leaves embellishing my balcony, you returned back behind the curtains, and the message to start was sent. Coincidence? I think not. But I didn’t tell you I knew. Perhaps it was the one road gap between us that allowed me to play you, or were you like me, and it was that too which allowed you to play me? If we knew each other, would you still be willing to play against me, or would you be disgusted by my cowardice the same way that others would? I’d rather not know then, so I did what I was most especially talented in--staying silent, and I only glanced at your room from time to time half-wishing you’d notice, half-wishing you wouldn’t. Nevertheless, seeing your face was enough. That would trounce new ramen flavors any season. When you returned, you played on in that carefree style of yours. Perhaps it was what made you a bad player and I, even worse, but that was exactly what I felt comfortable with. You were not afraid to be foolish, and that gave me hope that perhaps there were others like you out there, others who would be willing to play a game without much of a care whether they lose or win, because no matter how much of a sore loser you were, you’d always return knowing that you’d still have my company, knowing that whatever the scenario, it would always be fun for the both of us, which made it all the more surprising when you did the impossible and stopped coming when winter came. And when winter came, so did the bleakness it gave off, as where I lived, not a single snowflake would fall from the heavens, leaving the balding trees and desolate streets bare below the dampened sky. Just as I got to spot you among the crowd, you vanished again. This time, with no more matches, no more messages, with no clues but that room ahead of me, still enclosed by those beige curtains. Had my virus contracted you perhaps? Had you castled yourself in your room the same way I did? As days came passing, and weeks soon enough, your disappearance embedded worms of doubt wriggling through my mind. I wanted to know what was happening in that room, and I didn’t think it would get as bad as it did. On that last day of the year, I wondered what exactly ran through your mind. When you stood on the railing wetted by the unexpected rainfall, shoes on the floor, eyes staring blankly at the dark sky shattered by the coruscating fireworks. Your feet and body were trembling, but your face, dead and pale as if ready to accept any outcome. You thought nobody was watching, but I was there, still as ever watching from afar, wondering my next course of action, wondering if I had any say in it. I watched you take a deep jittery breath. Clearly, you were afraid. Clearly, you were not ready to die. I took my phone, and I called you for the first time. From here, I could hear the ringtone, and I was relieved you hadn't muted me, but the thought soon vaporized into four words repeating in cycles. Please, pick it up! Please, pick it up! My head was cantankerous, but the dead silence outside was numbing, and when you picked it up, you said nothing. “Wanna play chess?” I asked, but in reply, you muttered silence. I couldn’t tell if the expression you wore on your face was that of horror or relief. After a bout of silence, you said, “No, I can’t”. “Why not?” “Because I’m about to jump.” “You are? Why?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know why you’re going to jump?” “Nobody knows anything. I’m just scared of tomorrow. The world has lost its color, does it mean anything at all?” “I don’t know. I’m no Aristotle, but I have something to ask.” “What?” “If I were to stop you from jumping, I want you to try out the new crab ramen from the convenience store with me.” “What?” “Did I stutter?” “Whatever, I couldn’t care less.” “Catch me, okay?” “What?” I went on the balcony and stepped on the railings, still slippery. I knew what I was doing was reckless and stupid, but I did it anyways. I crouched and loaded my plump legs like a spring, my body feeling heavy from the lethargy. As my heart beat as though a percussion, I sent myself flying above the narrow road. I still remembered looking at your eyes wide open, revealing all four white corners of your eye. And when you caught me--what a rough landing it was. But as if it was only natural to me, when our two black marbles met, all I could say was "checkmate".

I Can’t Betray Anyone Life just seems too difficult sometimes. I really don’t know what to do. There’s no one that I trust enough to talk to and then again I would feel guilty telling anyone else what I know. Right now I want the world to swallow me up, a big hollow black hole to appear and just as I go to cross the road when the little green man appears overhead, I’m gone. I want to have a stroke and lose my power of speech (Of course I will get well and then be able to talk again) I don’t want to have my faculties and be able to reason and think and decide. It’s a burden to know things and to want to share them but to feel that it is wrong to tell someone else. I’m now starting to feel angry that I’ve been put into this terrible situation. I wish last week never happened. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ my Gran used to say. I never understood that as I child when the only things wished for were that all the teachers at school to be ill on the same day or that it rained chocolate instead of water. But if by chance this wish today came true, and last week could be wiped out from life, then everything would go back to normal - my thoughts would be of getting my hair done after work and what’s on for the weekend? Not this. At work they can tell something is bothering me. “Why the long face?” my work colleague asked, (I thought he would then tell me, for the umpteenth time, the joke about the horse at the bar) “You look right down in the dumps”. He was always cheerful - the guy who would leave funny messages on your desk or ring your phone and then speak to you in one of the many accents he had perfected - so in the end you always seemed to shout really loud into the mouthpiece to try and make yourself understood. Meanwhile the rest of the office was stifling their laughter, listening, and watching sneakily from their desk. “No there’s nothing wrong Richard. I’m having car problems - the clutch or the timing chain and it’s so annoying” I lied, hoping that what I said made a tiny bit of sense! (I remembered when my brother had his mates over and they would have the bonnet of his car open and would be trying to fix something...and the words timing chain and clutch would be bandied around). But this lie just popped out of my mouth as if I did it all the time. I didn’t lie all the time - not much at all really. I used to lie to my mum when I said I was going around to my friend Gloria’s house to do homework and then we would sneak out of her front door and meet the boys from Lynforth High School, chatting and smoking - us girls giggling and acting coy while the boys told their highly exaggerated stories and swore a lot to impress us. But that was a long time ago. Lying then was a necessity. The idea of confronting anyone leaves me in a cold sweat. I’ve never been any good at it. My last attempt at ‘having it out, clearing the air and getting to the bottom of things’ didn’t end well. I’d been seriously thinking about what I was actually going to do - how I would be confronting and intimidating but in the end I thought ‘I will just just open the door, confidently stride in and say my piece’. Well, alright in theory but....I went to open the door and it was locked. Knocking on the door and all the while looking around, nervously expecting to hear a booming voice say “What do you want?” I waited. The door opened and a white haired, little old lady stood next to it. “Hello dear” she said in a soft voice. Well this wasn’t a good start - I expected my ex-fiancée to be standing there. I was wondering who she was? “Umm hello. I’ve come to see Johnathon” I replied, hoping that when she called him, and the big money owing brute came to the door, she would leave. I really didn’t want her delicate little ears hearing what I was going to say to him! “Oh I’m sorry my dear but Johnathon is in hospital. I’m just here to feed the cat for him. Can I help you at all?” “Hospital” I asked quite shocked. “What’s wrong with him?” Not that I actually cared what was wrong with him - the worse he felt, the better as far as I was concerned. I wondered why he had a cat - he hated them! “Would you like to come inside - it’s rather cold standing out here” her sweet little face crinkled at the corners of her light blue eyes and soft cream coloured skin fell into little folds. I could see as the sunlight shone on her face the tiny hairs on her chin. “I’m actually running late for an appointment and just thought I would catch Johnathon at home on the way” (I wanted to add ‘as I heard he wasn’t working AGAIN’). “No dear he won’t be home for a long time. He came off his motor bike. I do believe he has broken lots of bones”. And with that last piece of information the shivering little lady closed the door. I wanted to not care but it just wasn’t in me. I tried to think ‘serves him right the self-centred, cheating........ But what was actually going through my mind was ‘I’ll find out if he is allowed visitors and what he can actually eat before I go and see him’. I rang my brother Ron to tell him the news about David and the motor bike accident. They used to be good mates before David and I split up and I thought he would like to know. We had met through my brother. “How bad is it?” Ron asked. I knew he would go in and visit him. My brother was just that sort of guy. No matter what had happened in the past, he wouldn’t let anything stop his kind nature from emerging and taking action. “I don’t know. The old lady at his house just said he had broken a few bones. And did you know he has a cat?” Did you say a cat? He hates cats”. Then after a long pause, added. “I guess people can change”. It was Wednesday night and I always went over to my brother’s house for dinner on a Wednesday. I had thought about not going tonight until Ron said at the end of our phone conversation, “The girls have a performance to show you tonight when you come over. They’ve made up a show - all singing and dancing and stuff. I was tortured last night with it - you’ll probably love it but for goodness sake don’t let it go on for too long - no encores!” “Will Pauline be there tonight? “I asked, hoping that the answer would be ‘no’. It wasn’t ‘no’- it was “Not sure, she said she would let me know if she has to work back” from my brother. It’s not that I don’t like Pauline. I do. I love her like a sister. I was drawn to her sunny personality from the first time I met her. She is so funny, and has a positive outlook on everything. We can go out for a coffee together and have the best time - talking and laughing. For someone who works in the emergency department of a big hospital and has two kids, she really is a bundle of energy. But I’m just not sure that I can keep my emotions in check if Pauline is near me at the moment. I need more time to think about what I’m going to do. It’s all about loyalty - but how can you be loyal to both parties? You can’t. A choice has to be made. I stood on the terracotta door step and listened while ‘we wish you a merry Christmas’ played after I had pressed the buzzer. Ron was meant to change the doorbell tune back to the original but told me he couldn’t see the point when Christmas would be back soon enough, and apart from Jehovah Witnesses and the man delivering parcels, no one else really rang the bell. The door opened but not before I heard chatter and laughter coming from the other side. “Hello Aunty Von” my nieces chorused. They both ran up to me at the same time, their soft skinned arms hugging me as I bent down. I ended up lying on the hall runner, all three of us giggling as we fell over, tangled up in each other. “Girls, be careful with Aunty Von. You know she’s old!” my brother joked as he closed the front door. He took my bag from me and hung it on a brass hook - one of five perfectly spaced in a row on a solid length of oak , taking pride of place on the cream coloured brick wall. Ron had made this at high school - the start of his love of wood and producing many beautiful handmade pieces of furniture for himself and others. I checked myself out in the ornate oval mirror overhead. It was carved from Bassswood - apparently one of the best for carving - that’s what Richard told me! He made it for his and Pauline’s fifth wedding anniversary and thus the reason for all the ornate heart shapes around the edge of it. I remembered that I needed to get something out of my bag. I could sense two little people hovering around my legs - waiting for the usual treat - I felt in the side pocket and found the two packets of jelly beans I had brought, “these are for after dinner you two”. I told them as warm little hands reached up to grab them. We walked along the wide wooden hallway. Family photos adorned both sides of the walls and in the centre of the high ceiling hung a chandelier - a brass branched ornamental light fitting, suspended on a linked chain, and at the end of each ‘branch’ sat a small globe. Underneath hung rainbow crystals that sparkled and threw off coloured light, bouncing delicately on the plain walls when the light was switched on. Ron, who had an eye for a bargain, had picked up this Victorian ornamental light very cheaply at a ‘bring and buy’ sale a few years ago. “Something smells rather nice” I mentioned as the mouth-watering smell of a roast travelled around the kitchen and onto my taste buds and set them off dancing in anticipation of salty soft beef and crispy roast potatoes. “You really are a good husband and Dad you know Richard” I commented, looking around at the tidy room, two bathed little girls in their PJ’s and tantalizing smells wafting from the oven. Pauline is a very lucky lady. I hope she appreciates you”. I wanted to say more but couldn’t. “It works both ways. I’m lucky too. I have a very hard working wife, who’s a great mother. She often works double shifts and that’s no mean feat in that environment - especially on weekend nights. The ED is awful. Some of the stories she tells me.....but she has always been passionate about nursing - you know that Von. Anyway she’ll get a much need break soon. We’re all off to Scotland to visit her family in a few weeks. My head was thumping. It was getting too much now. Here I was sitting at the dinner table with my brother and two nieces knowing that my sister-in-law was having an affair or flings or whatever the heck they are called because I saw her a few weekends ago passionately kissing some man outside a house, and then walking in through the front door with him, arms around each other, her happy infectious laugh echoing out into the street but it’s still ‘happy families’? I do believe in fate. Was I meant to see Pauline that night? I had never been to that street before but after an evening out with friends I was giving one of them a lift home. Philip, who was in my car, had probably wondered why I couldn’t take my eyes off the couple smooching. He had asked me if I knew them and then suddenly yelled “Hey Von, watch the parked car”. I had swerved out, narrowly missing it. I felt sick then and I was starting to feel sick now. “Aren’t you hungry Von? Or is it the cooking?” Ron laughed. “I actually had such a big lunch - Chinese banquet with the gang from work”...’Why did you say that? I asked myself. You could have just said ‘No I’m not very hungry tonight’. I just told another lie. I felt as if I was losing my grip on everything. “I might just watch the amazing song and dance show that I have been waiting for all day, and then call it a night”. Two little faces, bright as sunbeams, sang nursery rhymes and danced, arms flailing with gusto, tutus with stiff nylon skirts that were put on over pyjamas bouncing up and down and the twirling and jumping seemed to go on for ever with such enthusiasm! “Ok girls, time for teeth cleaning and bed”. I told the girls how happy their ‘show’ had made me feel, and that was true. The simplicity and innocence of children shone through with their giggling and excitement. There is no pretence with children at this age, no embarrassment. You can fall over, get your words all wrong, dance like you have work boots on, and it doesn’t matter. It is just fun. I needed it. I sat up in my bed. I could think here, reason and make decisions. I loved coming home to my bed. It was the most relaxing place for me - I could see out of my window without craning my neck at all. The moon was high, an almost perfect yellow circle in a black sky. ‘Not good for fishing’ I thought and it took me back momentarily to thoughts of my childhood and being in the dinghy with dad. As I looked to the right of the moon but much lower down, and I could see the solar lights still flashing on next doors Chinese Maple tree - the thought went through my mind that there must be lots of people who don’t ‘take things down’ after Christmas. I grabbed my cup of tea from next to me on the table and sat, mesmerised, watching the alternating green, blue, red flashing of the lights - and thinking. I had made up my mind. I couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about it. If it had of been my brother Ron who had told me about Richard cheating, then I think I would have resented him, always. I would have asked myself why a brother would want to tell his sister something that would change her life for ever. (As it was, my fiancée was such a self-centred, self-absorbed narcissist that he flaunted it and no one had to tell me). I couldn’t stand it if my only brother disliked me for the rest of my life because I told him about his wife cheating. On the other hand, if I confronted Pauline, then that could go one of two ways....she could be honest with me, (and not too honest as I really wouldn’t want to know the intricacies) and tell me it is over, or she could vehemently deny it, and then I would know for the rest of my life that she was a liar. I have never been known for interfering in other people’s business and I don’t want to start now. I just can’t tell either of them. I wouldn’t want to hurt Pauline or Ron. There could be many reasons why someone strays from a marriage. I really hope that with Pauline it is a ‘one off’, a stressful time that led her to do something completely out of character, a brain fade, or whatever you want to call it. I don’t know what the future holds but I don’t want to be the one to split up a family. I thought of the concert my nieces put on for me and the joy that surrounded them - I want that to continue. I have to face the truth, sometimes I can lie, but I could never betray anyone.

John had always been curious about the concept of time. When he heard about the hallucinogenic drug called Tempus that claimed to alter one's perception of time, he couldn't resist trying it. So, one day he took the drug and waited for the effects to kick in. As the world around him began to shift and blur, John found himself transported to a surreal world where time seemed to have no meaning. Suddenly, he saw his best friend, Jake, standing before him. Jake had died two years ago in a car accident, and John had never fully come to terms with his loss. Overwhelmed with emotion, John spoke to Jake about everything that had happened since his death. They talked about old memories, laughed, and even shed a few tears together. As their conversation continued, John remembered that Jake had also taken Tempus before his death. John remembered a bizarre conversation he had with Jake when he was still alive, the last one before the accident. Jake insisted to John over and over again that he was worrying about nothing. Back then he felt like Jake was recalling a conversation that never happened. He assumed Jake was just drunkenly rambling or something. Suddenly, John realized that he had been given a second chance to communicate with Jake and warn him about the accident that would take his life. That Tempus was connecting him in this moment to Jake in that same moment 2 years ago when he had taken Tempus too like a bridge across time. Was this the other half of that conversation that made no sense back then? Fueled by a sense of urgency, John told Jake about the events that would lead to his death and begged him to be more careful. But Jake just smiled sadly and shook his head. "I know all of that, John," he said. "I've seen it all before. I've been given the same chance to change my fate, but some things are inevitable. You can't change the past, and you can't change the future." John managed to laugh through his own tears. He understood that was how Jake always was. Even throughout their childhood together, John remembered how Jake would shrug things off and accept them as just the way things were. He accepted Jake’s outlook and decided to spend this moment reliving their favorite stories together. The time Jake’s bicycle ended up in a tree. The time John shot a firework into the neighbor’s yard and the huge dog they let out after him. On and on the stories and the laughter went, just like old times. As the effects of the drug began to wear off, John watched as Jake faded away, leaving him alone once again. But now he had a newfound sense of closure and acceptance, knowing that he had done everything he could to warn his friend. From that day on, John lived his life with a newfound appreciation for the present moment and the people around him. He now knew that time and friendship are the most precious gifts.

Bernadette was pissed. She grabbed her hair in both hands. Sweeping it back in a fluid motion, she snagged a hair tie off her wrist and bound it out of her way. In quick succession she pulled the hatch shut, adjusted her safety harness, and fired up the Flyer; its twin turbines whined and came to life. As the engines powered up, the craft gently rose a few centimeters off the roof of her complex. Her injuries still ached, but she ignored the pain. She slammed the gear retraction button, stumpy landing gear folded in under the craft. She turned the steering yoke hard to the left, artfully manipulating the yoke and pedals. The nose of the craft rose, and it turned ninety degrees. Leaning into the turn she finessed the throttle, and the little ship tore off into the night sky. “I’ve had enough of this sonofabitch,” she said angrily. The craft rolled slightly right. Turning northwest she began following course to the target area 250 klicks away. En route she took a little time to plan her attack. The trip was short, and she had rushed through her plan. Normally she was methodical in her preparations, but this guy had angered her for the last time and she had to end him. She flew at high altitude in a wide arc aimed to the west of the target, the craft in whisper mode as she went. At 200 klicks out she switched to stealth mode. The flyer went deathly quiet and slipped off any radar screens that had been observing her transit. Her little, highly modified ship had a skipjack transponder that was feeding false information to the ground. Because the skipjack lied, ground controllers observing her flight would believe the small vessel had finished a short hop flight. It was decidedly illegal, but then again, so was her entire profession. In-bound now, at 100 clicks from her enemy she put the craft into cloak mode. All exterior running lights went out, her profile vanished from the night sky. The ship was silent and invisible to all observers, electronic or otherwise. Approaching 50 clicks to the target, she dropped out of the clouds. The little flyer zoomed quietly down to just below treetop level and she did a too-quick scan as she slowed her approach. She loosened the harness a bit as she had been straining forward with rage the entire trip and it was cutting into her shoulders. His towering flagship building appeared ahead, looming menacingly over the city; it was an homage to his ego. Bernadette slowed her approach further, eventually drifting to within 20 meters of the glass-fronted 6 th floor of the skyscraper. She took a moment to pause and recon the surroundings. It was late, there were no flyers or ground cars parked in the lot below her. In the lot’s dim lights, nothing moved. She turned her attention to the task at hand. Thumbing a couple controls on the yoke she drifted slightly closer to the building’s glass face. In a moment the little ship began climbing the 500-meter height of the immense building. The ship stayed level with the ground, and she watched its reflection as it sailed upward. She intended to fly straight up the side and silently pop onto the roof. After disembarking she would enter the little access building at the top, then it was a quick trip one flight down to his Penthouse apartment. If her hasty plan worked well, it meant that she would not have been detected by building defenses. All was quiet, the building AI had not noticed her. Her tiny ship’s mods were very expensively and carefully crafted to allow her to arrive undetected just about anywhere she wished. She gripped the yoke fiercely; her anger had not subsided. She teased the controls and the ship rose more rapidly. At speed, it was a very short hop up the building and over the edge of the roof. She intended to land, dismount, and rush to the Penthouse. Fate, ever the clever bitch, had other plans. As the ship peaked and bounded over the edge it bumped straight into a larger craft parked atop the building. The lightweight flyer rammed nose first into the bigger ship, then bounced upward and spun about uncontrolled. It slammed back down to the roof and skidded sideways; its right side thudded into the fuselage of the bigger craft. The tail smashed into the other ship with a tearing sound. It lurched viciously and careened backwards across the roof, ripping a gaping hole in the corner of the access shed on the far side. Ship and shed had sustained major damage. Onboard, alarms screamed. So much for surprise. The starboard engine nacelle had taken the brunt of the hit. That engine shrieked and spat metal through a gash in the hull. The ship, now crippled, labored to stay aloft but finally gave up and slammed to the roof. The ship’s AI announced, “Critical damage to airframe. Vessel unsalvageable.” Bernadette’s teeth had slammed together in the crash. She tasted blood. Rattled, she flipped the yoke aside, popped the harness off, and bolted out through the hatch. As she threw herself onto the ground, she tucked and rolled. This eased some of the impact, but she felt her left shoulder pop as she hit the roof hard. She scrambled to her feet, smelling the fuel spurting out from some artery in her damaged craft. Spitting blood and tooth fragments, she grabbed her injured shoulder and skittered across the roof. Behind her the ship said, “AI upload commencing, abandoning vessel.” Her best hope now was to use the larger ship for cover. As she ran, she glanced back, and the expected thing happened. The door to the little roof shed slammed open and a man appeared backlit in the doorway. It was him; he had a gun. “Shit,” she muttered as she sped up to put the large craft between herself and his gun. “This went to hell quickly.” Crouching now behind the front of the vehicle she noticed skid marks caused when her ship bumped into it. It sat canted sideways away from the little building and the landing gear were bent. It was larger, but sleeker and lower-slung than her ship. The dented nose provided enough cover if she stayed low. Edging carefully out from behind the ship, she looked down the hull. She could see that the end of the stubby winglet that had stabbed her ship to death was barely damaged. She spat blood as she muttered, “So fucking stupid of me.” Her words came out slurred; her jaw ached; she suspected she had broken it. Across the roof, ass-end against the building, her ship belched smoke. Its fuel was now spurting onto the surface like an arterial bleed. The man in the doorway ignored the little dying craft and called out across the expanse. “Goddam it,” he shouted, “Whoever you are, I’m gonna kill you for this.” Bernadette recognized the voice. It was Marcus, her intended target, and soon-to-be dead former fiancée. He shouted again, “You’re an amateur and a hothead, only an idiot would try something like this without checking the roof approach first.” He was partly right. Her anger had gotten the best of her. She had rushed over and popped up crudely to try to take out the best hitman in the country. She ranked right behind him, although you could not tell it from this little cockup. It was, simply put, without elegance. Unworthy of the second-best assassin. “Idiot,” she muttered. She cooled her temper and calmed herself. Slowing her breathing she took stock of her injuries. ‘Hands and fingers, knees and toes’ went her mental checklist. It was a joke she had learned from her father, inventorying her injuries with a little child’s rhyme helped her focus. Blood ran down her face and neck. She grabbed her injured arm, and with a hard yank popped her shoulder back into place. “Look, you can’t get away,” Marcus intoned, “Your flyer is wrecked, and it’s a long drop to the ground. And, well, I have a gun.” He was bragging, certain that whoever was on his roof was toast. “We’re gonna have to cooperate to work this out. Can we just talk, ok?” Bernadette realized his tactic immediately: lull the enemy into a false sense of hope by seeming to be perfectly reasonable. Then vaporize them the second they step out from behind cover. “Okay, think fast, find the advantage,” she whispered. “I’m hurt, pinned down, and he’s armed.” She patted her hip for her blaster. It was still in its holster. At least she hadn’t lost it in the chaos. Relieved, she whispered, “So am I, good. But I don’t think I can outshoot him. He’s always been a little faster.” She peeked out from behind the nose of the craft, certain he would not fire. He wouldn’t risk further damage to his beloved flyer. As long as she stayed low and hidden behind it, she was safe. A glimpse around the craft told her three things: His gun was at the ready, her ship was dying and aflame, and he was far too close to it. As if the tiny ship understood all that, it let out a loud scream as the damaged starboard engine began to tear itself apart. She stepped out from the safety of the flyer and there was a loud bang. The starboard engine died loudly. With another bang its turbine tore through the nacelle, launching itself just over Marcus’ head. It surprised him and he ducked. Finally noticing her coming around the front of his flyer, he called out her name in shock, “Bernadette? I thought I...” a third bang distracted him. More engine debris tore through the little flyer. This time ripping through the port engine. Marcus startled, ducked once more. Before he could fully register what was going on, she raised her blaster and fired, not at him, but at her little ship. Bernadette threw herself down and watched the show. Marcus’ eyes grew wide as he realized that he was already dead. The small flyer erupted into a massive ball of flame, smoke, and shrapnel. Marcus was slammed against the shed and torn apart before he could finish his thought, "...killed you." As the fireball rose and smoke billowed, pieces of the little ship and Marcus began raining down on the rooftop. She grinned through broken front teeth. “So much for you, you bastard,” she said. Sitting up now she gathered her thoughts. In a moment she rose up from the rooftop, dusted herself off and put together a contingency escape plan. Coming around the side of the large flyer she hastily checked to see how badly damaged it was. The tip of the winglet was dented and there were some scorch marks from the blast. She could see no holes from the shrapnel thrown by the explosion. Looking back at her wrecked craft she said, “Goodbye little girl,” and opened the hatch before her and clambered inside. After a quick survey of the controls, she fired up the craft and rose from the deck. It was larger and much heavier, which had made all the difference in the initial collision. But it was very similar to her own ship. Standardized controls and armaments made all the difference in this case. She eased it over the side and spun it about, angling the stern away from the building. Looking over the mess she had made, she was glad there wouldn’t be enough left of him to fit in a coffee mug. She backed away and began descending the tower rapidly. She flicked a switch on the yoke and the twin AU/G-350 phase canons on either side of the cockpit roared to life. The ship dropped lower and lower; the 350s tore the building into two ragged halves. She said to herself as she held the trigger, “Burn it down, Bernadette.”

Jackson is driving through an affluent area of the suburbs. Someone had told them that his ex-girlfriend had moved in with an older man and had given him the address. He located the street and is now crawling along at less than five miles per hour while talking on the phone with his friend Connor. "I think I see it; it's the brick one on the right," Jackson says. "If she catches you stalking like this, she'll get a goddamn restraining order," Connor warns. As the car approaches the enormous brick house, which is valued at about a million dollars, Jackson slows down even further to see if he can peer through the window. "Bro, this place is huge; I can see someone watching TV through the first-floor window," Jackson says. "You've got to get out of there; they'll notice someone driving by their house peeking in their windows," Connor says. "Relax, her car isn't even there; she's probably still doing yoga on Thursday nights," Jackson says. "Still, you don't think that guy is going to notice you, take your plate or something, you're in a rich neighborhood, they got community watch and stuff," Connor says. "I want to see what this guy looks like; I'm thinking about knocking on his door and pretending to be from the gas company or something," Jackson says. "Last time I checked, gas company employees don't wear Panera polos," Connor says. "I'm not that stupid; I'll throw my hoodie over it," Jackson says. "Look, I don't want to put a damper on your Oceans 11 plan here, but people from the gas company don't generally show up in a Honda Civic, with no credentials and wearing a hoodie," Connor says. Jackson begins to make his way into the intersection, past the brick house. Jackson stretches his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who stole his ex-girlfriend. Suddenly, there's a crash! Jackson had run a stop sign and collided with another car. "Damn, I got into a car accident right in front of my ex-girlfriend's new house," Jackson says. "You've got to get out of there before she comes home, bro. She'll have you arrested if she sees you stalking on top of what occurred at the bar over the weekend," Connor says. "I know, I know, I was only driving a couple of miles per hour; how bad could it be? Let me handle this, and I'll call you back," Jackson says as he ends the call. Jackson notices Philomena, who is in her mid-to-late-sixties, inspecting her front grill. Philomena sobs, "Oh, my Lancer, my Lancer, my Mitsubishi Lancer." Jackson takes a deep breath as he prepares to get out; however, Philomena notices him and quickly walks to his car. "Hey, Lightning McQueen," Filomena says, "you went straight past the stop sign and hit my Lancer; the front end is completely smashed." Jackson exits his car and walks up to the front of her Mitsubishi Lancer. Jackson points to the grill and says, "First of all, I was only driving like three miles per hour, and second of all, there is no damage on the front of your car." "You see spider cracks, spider cracks, it may look like nothing now, but trust me, three months from now, and I'll have a grill that looks like a mosaic painting," Philomena says. "This is absurd; your car has no damage, lady. So, are we going to exchange information or what?" Jackson says, attempting to expedite the process. "I don't like the tone of your voice; you're the one who hit me. And you know what, I might have grazed my forearm on the steering wheel. I believe you fractured my ulna, ouch, paramedic, 911, please alert my loved ones that my ulna bone has been shattered!" Philomena yells, drawing the neighbors' attention. Jackson is becoming frustrated and keeps returning his gaze to the brick house. Because of the accident and Philomena's cries, neighbors have begun to congregate. "Why are you creeping down the road in this neighborhood? This is a cul-de-sac neighborhood, one way in, one way out," Philomena says. "I know someone who lives here; I was looking for their address," Jackson says. "A likely scenario is that you are checking out the place with the intention of returning later with your friends to do a GTA V. I know you're a type, I'm calling the police," Philomena says. Philomena pulls out her flip phone. "Hello there, police. My name is Philomena Jordan, and I'm calling from Bayview Estates, a wealthy cul-de-sac off Route 7. I have a young criminal here who is attempting to perform a GTA V," Philomena says. "You're going to get it now... what, oh okay, I'll hold. The police put me on hold, but when they come back, then you're in for it," Philomena says. A man emerges from the brick house. Jackson is completely engrossed because the man is much older than he expected. "Why do you keep staring towards the Smith house? Is that the house you want to vandalize?" Filomena asks. "Did you say the Smith house? Do they have a daughter?" Jackson asks. "Yeah, Cassandra, or Sandra, or Darlene, I can't remember. But I'm not going to sit back and let you rob that poor family," Filomena says. "No, I used to date Andrea, their daughter. We had a falling out, and all I wanted to do was catch a glimpse of her; I guess I miss her," Jackson says. "Do you mean you're here for love?" Philomena says. "I know I'm not supposed to be doing this; I actually saw her at a bar over the weekend. I didn't know she was going to be there with her friends, and when I went to go talk to her, they left," Jackson says. "That's a harmless mistake; what's the big deal?" Philomena asks. "I couldn't stop myself; I followed them out to the parking lot and chased her to her friend's car; they raced away afraid," Jackson says. Jackson's phone then beeps, indicating that he has received a text message. It comes from Connor. "Bro, I just noticed Andrea coming up Route 7; she's only about 5 minutes away; you need to get out of there!" "Andrea is almost home; if she sees me, it'll be over for good. She'll almost certainly file a restraining order against me," Jackson says. Philomena looks at her car before returning her attention to Jackson, who appears terrified. Philomena closes the phone. "You seem like a nice guy, but you need to give Andrea some space. You know what they say: if you love something, let it go; if it returns, it's yours; if it doesn't, it wasn't meant to be. Why don't you leave before she gets home?" Philomena says. "What about your spider cracks and ulna bone?" Jackson asks. "The police have never taken me seriously since I reported those seagulls for pooping in public. Anyway, it's not that bad; between you and me, my Michael Bublé CD went between the seats, and I may have been trying to get it out before the crash. But if they ask, I'll never admit that to the police!" Philomena says. Jackson smiles. "Thank you," Jackson says as he returns to his car. "Good luck," Philomena says. Jackson drives away from the brick house, waving. Philomena returns to her Mitsubishi Lancer as Andrea pulls into the driveway. Andrea glances around at all the bystanders and asks her father. "What's going on?" "Filomena hit something else with her car," he says. "Those Michael Bublé albums are more dangerous than they'll admit.

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Veronica had left home at 18 years old and never looked back. She traveled as far away as she could, taking a full time job as a waitress in a greasy spoon. Rented her first apartment, a room above a tattoo parlor in town. Not even missing Jake, the boy next door, her first boyfriend, first and only love was enough to bring her back. Now, at 42 years old she’s standing in front of the house her mother left her. Heartbroken and regretful for not keeping in touch with her mother all these years and this is what she had left of her. The house where it all happened. The house where she grew up too quickly and for the wrong reasons. She felt eyes on her and looked to the left. There stood a young boy, he was about 13, maybe 14 years old. She knew those eyes. No, she thought to herself, can’t be. She smiled at him and he waved to her. He walked over and said, “Hello Miss, are you Miss Wendy’s daughter?”. “Yes”, Veronica replied. “I’m Henry, me, my sister Maddie and my dad live next door right there”, he said as he pointed to the house where Jake had lived. “Oh, how lovely - it’s nice to meet you Henry”. “Nice to meet you too Miss, if you need any help just knock on the door, Dad likes to help people.” “Thank you Henry” “Bye Miss!” And she watched as Henry walked up the stairs and into the house that she had practically lived in throughout her childhood and adolescence. Veronica walked through the old house. Everything was covered in cloth to keep from getting dusty. Through a private investigator she had been notified of her mother’s passing 5 months ago. A heart attack she was told. Her mother’s attorney would be reading the will to her later in the week, but he had suggested she come to see the house. The memories came rushing back. Trying to tell her mother what happened, her mother not believing it. Her mother chose HIM over Veronica. She saw no other way out than to leave and never come back. HE did this to her and her mother. She had no relationship with her mother because of HIM. Twenty four years earlier . . . Veronica and Jake had graduated from high school that week. They were so excited to be planning the next four years of their lives together. Both choosing to go away to school - together. Of course it meant saying goodbye to the only home each of them knew their entire lives but it was worth it. Veronica and Jake had been inseparable since they first met 12 years ago when Jake’s family moved in next door. They were each other’s first boyfriend/girlfriend. They hadn’t done more than a little touching and some major kissing, but Jake wasn’t in a hurry. He knew Veronica would be his forever so why rush it? That night he kissed her goodbye at the door and said, “In the morning, we’ll go get some donuts and coffee, k Ron?”. Veronica replied, “Sounds good to me”. As he walked away, Veronica watched him. I’m so lucky, she thought to herself. She entered the quiet house. She figured her Mom and Derrick were already in their room, watching tv or sleeping. She undressed quietly in her room and walked across the hall into the bathroom with her robe on. She turned on the water, took off her robe and stood under the warm drops of water. As she started to wash her hair, she heard the door open. “Mom?” She said. Before Veronica knew what was happening, Derrick got into the shower with her. He was drunk, drunker than she’d ever seen. He put his hand over her mouth and told her to keep quiet. Derrick took something from her that she had been saving for Jake. She would never be the same. The bruises on her arms were visible as she looked at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t go meet Jake for donuts like this. She called him and cancelled saying she wasn’t feeling well. He understood, Jake always understood. That’s the kind of boyfriend he was. Veronica heard her mom say goodbye to Derrick. She went down the stairs with tears in her eyes. When her mother turned and saw the bruises, she asked Veronica what happened to her. Veronica told her mother, in detail, EVERY detail about the night before with Derrick in the shower. Her mother called her a liar and told her if she was going to be a filthy liar to get out. They shouted hateful things to each other. Veronica packed all she could in a suitcase, including all the cash she had in the house, and ran out. Never stopping to look back, never thinking she could rely on anyone, after all, Derrick was Jake’s uncle. Veronica sighed and went about her business checking on each room. In her old room, she found it to be exactly as it was the day she left. The bed was unmade. Posters of boy bands on the walls. On the top of her dresser sat a photo of her and Jake at prom. It was as if no one had entered this room since she ran away. She began going through things in the house, deciding what to keep, what to throw away, and what to list at the estate sale. After a few hours of this she heard a knocking on the front door. Veronica made her way down the stairs and when she opened the door, there stood the boy, well now the man who had taken her heart all those years ago. “Ronnie”, he said, “Henry told me you were here but I had to see it for myself. I can’t believe it’s you. Why are you back now?” Veronica sighed and held back tears. Jake couldn’t have known what happened to her all those years ago. How Derrick had taken what she promised him. How she thought at the time no one would believe her, when her own mother didn’t. “Jake I came because I had to take care of things here, I wanted to reach out to you so many times over the years, but I . . .” “Yeah well that 18 year old kid you left behind was heart broken over you for years. Took me a long time but I met someone, fell in love, got married, had kids, you know all the things you promised you’d do with me! Why the fuck did you leave me like that? No explanation? Your poor mother - she felt abandoned. Then when it all came out about how Derrick had raped those girls, your mother really needed you Ronnie - why the hell didn’t you come back then?” “Wait, what are you talking about? Derrick - I mean what did you say he did? I didn’t keep in touch with my mother. I had no idea. Derrick, he, he raped me too. That’s why I left like that. I told my mother and she didn’t believe me. I figured you wouldn’t either, he was your uncle. I’ve suffered too, I lost my mother then and I lost her now.” Jake just shook his head. “You should have told me Ronnie, I would have believed you. We had NO secrets between us! All I knew was that the girl I loved, the girl I was supposed to spend my forever with was gone and I couldn’t find you. I thought maybe you’d be at the university. My parents insisted I still go. I went, I asked at the office for you. They said you’d never showed up. I didn’t know what to think. I went to classes and worked for four years without ever going to a party. Without ever enjoying my time there. Then I met Sarah and we fell in love, well, she fell in love, I couldn’t because my heart was tattered. She loved me enough for us both and we created a life together. We had two children together. Then two years ago, Sarah was coming home from parent teacher conferences, there was black ice, the car skidded and she went into a tree. I had to bury my wife. The mother of my children. So excuse me for not caring about your excuses 24 years too fucking late!” He slammed the door and left. Later that night Ronnie heard some laughing outside. She went to the front door and watched as Henry, who she assumed was Maddie, and Jake walked passed her house laughing about something. She made sure they didn’t see her. Veronica decided to leave Jake alone and get on with the sale of her mother’s things. The next day, Veronica had an appointment with her mother’s attorney. She showed up to the address and had noticed a familiar car parked in the lot. Shaking her head, she walked into the office building. The receptionist led her down a long corridor to an office. Inside she was met by Mr. Rathburn, her mother’s attorney. To her surprise, Jake was there as well. She asked why and Mr. Rathburn said that Jake was also named in her mother’s will. The reading began, both Jake and Veronica were shocked to hear her mother’s wishes. Veronica was to live in the house for one year from the reading of the will. In that year, she was to invite Jake over no less than twice a week for a meal. Once with his children, once alone. During this time, Jake was also going to be paid above his normal rate to fix up the house and get it ready to sell it when the year was up, splitting the money from the sale. Veronica was stunned. She’d assumed she would have to be here for a week at most to get things settled. Now, in order to inherit what her mother was leaving her, she’d have to stay here, and spend time with Jake! What was her mother thinking? Jake stood up, “Well, Wendy certainly has a sense of humor huh? I don’t want my children around her.” Mr. Rathburn replied, “I’m sorry Jake but these are Wendy’s wishes, she put in a clause that if either of you don’t do what is requested I am to sell the house as is and give the profits to Derrick’s son, Paul.” “My cousin is as big of a louse as his father”, Jake yelled, “What the fuck!” Veronica stood and walked over to Jake, looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m willing to uproot my life so we can both get what my mother wanted us to have, we can do this Jake. I promise I won’t be inappropriate when it comes to your children.” Jake shook his head. “Yeah ok, fine. So, how do we do this? How do we ‘prove’ we’re getting together for a meal twice a week?” “Wendy thought of everything - either myself or my associate Quinn will be checking up with you. All you have to do is send us a date and time of your meal and one of us will show up. You won’t know exactly when we’ll be there so Wendy’s thought is that you’ll have to go through with it.” After they signed the required paperwork, Jake and Veronica walked out together. “So, would you like to come over tonight for dinner? I’m not much of a cook, I know how to order pizza”, Veronica said smiling. “Sure, we’ll be there around 6 if that’s ok? Henry has a tutoring session right after school and Maddie has swim practice. Oh, and no anchovies on the pizza, ok?” Veronica shook her head and smiled. As she drove away, she couldn’t help but think that this was going to turn out to be a good thing in her life. One year later . . . The for sale sign on the lawn was just placed when a young couple driving by stopped. The young woman got out, clearly pregnant, but not ready to give birth. “Hello, umm my husband and I have been looking for a home in this neighborhood, do you mind if we come in and take a look around?” “Come on in”, Jake replied. The couple explained that they had been looking for a house now that she was pregnant with twins. They loved the neighborhood but couldn’t find what they needed in their price range. Jake listened quietly. He heard a car horn outside and smiled, knowing it was Ronnie coming home with Henry. In the year they had grown closer, and last month told his kids, Ronnie and Jake were getting married. Ronnie came in and gave Jake a look. “This is Eddie and Hannah, they were driving by when I put the for sale sign on the lawn.” “So nice to meet you”, Ronnie said. Something inside her told her these were the people who were meant to buy her mother’s home. They were starting a family of their own and could fill this house with happy memories. Ronnie and Jake gave them a fair price and the young couple soon moved in. Six months later they celebrated Ronnie and Jake’s wedding. Maddie has been maid of honor for her new step mother, and Henry was best man for his father. Ronnie had reconnected with friends she had lost long ago and they were all in attendance on the happiest day of her life. Jake loved her, wanted a future with her, and that was all that mattered. THE END

The 3,000 ton ship slowly inched its way to an impossibly small dock. Chloe’s face was pressed so hard against the tiny round window that her cheekbone was aching. She had slept the entire second leg of the journey and missed the change in waterscape. Down below, she could see chunks of ice floating in the blue water. She had never seen water this shade of blue before. She leapt out of her twin bed, her blanket cascading to the floor. Dashing around the tiny cabin, Chloe dressed in her thermal gear as quickly as possible. She pulled on her thick wool socks, laced up her boots, and did a quick look in the mirror to adjust her hair under the knit hat. Finally, she pinned her ID badge to the front of her parka identifying her as Chloe Davis, research assistant - intern . It was time to get to work. As she stepped out onto the main deck, the moment was overwhelming. The air immediately bit her face. She stood for a moment taking everything in, trying not to forget a detail. The sky seemed lower, the air seemed thinner, and every sound seemed to be more significant than any sound she had heard before. Cracking ice, water sloshing, people laughing, shouting, talking. For a moment, she almost thought there was something wrong with her vision. If not for the colors in the flag flying down by the dock, she would have thought she had gone colorblind. Everything was a shade of gray. A quick glance down at the colors in her mitten reassured her. At the bottom of the exit ramp she paused. Looking down at her boots, she took a deep breath. “This is it, Chloe. This is what you’ve worked so hard for.” Slowly, she stepped onto the dock, took a few steps along the wet surface, and then sank her foot down into the arctic land. She smiled. She pulled her hat further down her ears and started towards the trailhead. * “MOMMAAA,” the tiny girl called, tears in her voice. Chloe glanced over from the stove where she was stirring that night's macaroni and cheese. Her daughter had been more sensitive lately, and tonight was no exception. The girl reached for Chloe so she bent down and brought her into her arms. “Momma, when will you leave?” This was the question that had been on repeat ever since she had told her daughter where she was going. The answers were well rehearsed by now. “I’m going to the North Pole, my sweet girl!” “Why?” “Well, to walk in the snow, and take pictures of polar bears!” “How come?” “To help the earth.” “What’s wrong with it? How come you have to go? Will Santa be there?” She had wondered the same thing for months now. Wondered about each choice she had made since deciding to study biology, to leave school, to go back to school, to apply for the internship, to move across the country, to uproot her family...to leave her family. But she had to do this. This is what she was meant to do. Being a mother is what you’re meant to do. She pushed the painful thoughts aside. It was only 3 months. She had to do this. She had to go. As they sat at the table eating dinner, Chloe tried to remember every single detail about the evening. How her daughter's hair lay across her face. How her teeth looked as she chewed her food. The size of her hand, how it held her fork, the way she kicked her feet as she ate. Next to her, her partner sat watching Chloe closely. They chatted about the days’ events, the plans they had while Chloe was gone. They chatted about what the weather would be like when she returned. Chloe continued to field questions from her daughter, hoping that when she returned home, she would have something to show her daughter that would make her proud. Gratitude swelled in her chest. In the morning, everything would look different. Everything would be different. * After weeks of returning to her cabin feeling defeated, cold and exhausted, Chloe’s guilt began to rise. What was she doing here? They were getting nowhere. How much more could she take? Her data was underwhelming and the landscape was harsher than the guides had predicted. There was hardly a bird in the sky, let alone bears. Chloe thought about the idea of returning home to her family having accomplished nothing. How could she face them? Later, as Chloe sat crouched in the snow with a lens pointing right at the bear, it all made sense. Right before her eyes. It was all happening. It suddenly occurred to her. She had done nothing to earn the right to be here , and yet there she was. Others' choices would bring them sorrow and despair; dead ends and regret. Not this. How did she end up here? In this moment, watching the rarest of moments with people she hardly knew. In an instant, Chloe understood. She frantically snapped photo after photo; one tiny bear emerged, then its sibling, then another, and then...a fourth. This was unprecedented. Beside her she could hear her colleagues shallow breathing as they took in the moment as well. The mother emerged behind her fourth cub and they all made their descent to the bottom of the mountain. After what felt like a lifetime, the cubs and their mother were out of sight. Chloe still couldn’t believe what she had witnessed. Four cubs? This was positive. This was a win for the earth. A win for her. She gathered up her equipment and began the return hike to base. Back at basecamp, she checked on her water samples and was relieved to finally see some progress in her data. Instant relief swept through her. That night in her cabin, she opened her journal to document the day. As she sat down she caught a glimpse through the window. She saw some of her colleagues down at camp gathered around a small fire pit. One of the older crew members was dressed as Santa Claus. Chloe couldn’t wait to tell her daughter.

THE SURVIVOR He was tall, dark, and handsome with a cute schoolboy smile and Stacie felt her heart leap in her chest like some schoolgirl with her first crush. They had met on one of those dating sites and had their first meeting at a coffee shop several days before. It had gone well, very well and Stacie had carried her cell phone around in her pocket for the next twenty-five and a half hours anxiously waiting for his call. The call finally came and Stacie did her happy dance before picking up her cell and greeting him with a casualness that belied her unsteady hands and quickly beating heart. They made arrangements to meet again that weekend, and Stacie could hardly wait. remembering the magical time they had spent together at that coffee shop. Over coffee, they had discussed movies and books, favourite foods and colours. It was amazing how much they had in common. Even their taste in music was very similar. They talked about how they would rather have a picnic rather than a fine dining experience, how they were both sporty and loved outdoor activities, and would rather go camping than go to a crowded resort. She told him how she loved competitive game shows like Survivor, and it would be her dream to actually play the game. They both loved adventure games, cosplay, and hiking. Stacie and Eric spoke each night on the phone before bed and Stacie counted down the hours until they had their first official date. She thought it was so romantic of him to choose to go to the Devil’s Peak Hiking Trail for a picnic dinner followed by a hike up to the Devil's Peak Ridge to watch the sunset. He was obviously a kindred spirit and perhaps, just perhaps, her future soul mate. She had never met anyone who seemed to have so much in common with her. Every time she told him one of her favourite things he would be so excited because he too enjoyed that as well Devil’s Peak was a very popular hiking trail and was definitely on her bucket list. It was quite remote so she had never gone there to hike. She knew there were several trails ranging from trails for the novice hiker as well as trails for the more advanced hikers, the start to each trail was purported to be wide and covered with crushed rock, and handrails on the tricky slopes. There were well-marked trails for families with young children or for seniors. He alluded to the fact that maybe on another occasion they could take one of the more difficult trails that required more stamina and skill as hikers or perhaps because she liked excitement they would try bungee jumping from the old abandoned railway trestle that crossed the wide river below. They met each other in the parking lot at the entrance to the park. It was well mapped out and they checked the wooden welcome board that was next to the parking lot. It showed a map of the various trials and marked out which trails had what level of difficulty. It showed the picnic area which was next to the children's playground at the foot of the trail. Together they chose their trail and studied all the features of their selected route. They started with the picnic, Eric had selected all her favourite foods, he knew what her favourites were because it was one of the many topics that they had talked about. He had gone to a lot of trouble over the picnic. She could tell that the wicker picnic basket was new as it still had some of the packaging inside which he quickly whisked away. The dinner was stored in special containers to keep the meal at a warm temperature. There was chicken pasta alfredo, sweet kale salad with poppyseed dressing, cheesy bread, green grapes, and a large slice of cherry cheesecake for dessert. With a flourish, he pulled a bottle of champagne and two wine glasses out of the basket. They laughed and giggled throughout the meal, Stacie feeling like a princess by all the special treatment and she felt heady when she considered all the trouble that Eric had gone to to make this such a special date. He had downloaded some of her favourite songs on his cell phone and played them quietly during their picnic dinner. Everything seemed planned down to the last detail, even as far as the pale blue sweater that he wore, her favourite colour. Upon finishing their dinner, he disposed of their garbage in the cans provided by the park for that purpose and tucked the leftovers back in the picnic basket, then put them back in his Lexus. She felt a trifle understated as she drove a small Kia but it was exciting to date a man who could obviously afford the finer things in life. Her last relationship had been one with a man who quibbled over every last cent he spent on her. She didn't mind going Dutch when they went out for meals but found that when they went out for meals or movies he more than frequently “conveniently” left his wallet in his other pants and she ended up paying for both their meal and entertainment. She was somewhat relieved when he was offered a job in Europe and she had, in fact, encouraged him to take it. While Eric returned the picnic basket to the car, Stacie wandered over to the playground, grabbed hold of the turnabout carousel, and gave it a couple of big spins. As a child, she had spent many happy hours at the playground near her house, spinning on the playground merry-go-round. She leaped on as it whirled around and held her arms wide as the wind rushed through her hair. She put her foot out and helped build up momentum and watched as Eric came slowly across the parking lot and picnic area towards the park. The park was now empty, families having left to take their tired children home to bed. “Look at you, spinning around like crazy.” “I’m fearless, she stated. “Are you?” he laughed, “well, we will see about that.” Then he pulled a gift box out of his pocket and held it out to Stacie as she whirled by. She missed grabbing it the first two times she whirled by but snatched it up on her third pass by him.” Having obtained her prize she leapt off the spinner and landed solidly on her feet. “Agile as a cat, I like that.” “You don't need to buy me presents, it's not like it’s my birthday.” “No, no, it's nothing expensive. Just a little something I thought you might like. When we were talking on the phone the other day, you were saying that you weren't really into expensive jewelry and usually wore things like beads rather than gems. I came across this necklace and thought you might like it.” Stacie hastily opened the gift. There nestled inside was a beaded necklace. “Oh, that's so sweet but you didn't have to do that. I don’t think I recognize all the types of beads in it.” She quickly donned the necklace and thanked Eric for his thoughtfulness. A little embarrassed by his gift, she went over to the swings and sat down, and started swinging gently, pumping her feet steadily. He joined her, standing behind her, and he started to push her higher. He pushed her gently at first as she pumped with her strong legs, and then he started to push her higher. “That’s high enough now,” she told him, but he continued pushing hard. “ Eric, that's high enough. He continued to push her on the swing, he pushed her almost to the point where the swing went over the top bar and dropped down the other side in a wide arc. “ Eric,” she said loudly, “stop, please. Stop! I don't like this.” He pulled her abruptly to a stop. When the swing stopped its frantic jerking, Stacie got off shakily, she turned to Eric, her face pale and wan. “I don't like heights.” She remembered all the kindnesses he had shown her today, and taking a deep breath she held her tongue. Eric seemed disappointed. “ Not so fearless now eh? Okay, let's go on that hike, shall we? You told me at the coffee shop that you like to play games and that the show “Survivor” is your favourite game show and you wished that you could play the game too. Well, here's your chance. Let's play. We‘ll start our game when we reach the lookout at the top, the outlook that we saw on the trail map, and if we hurry we should get to the top of the ridge in time to see the sunset. We’ll take a rest there. The sunset should be spectacular. I can’t wait till we get to the top and share the moment together. Oh, and look, see I bought this for the way down,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a flashlight.” “ Just one flashlight? You didn’t bring one for me either?” He flashed his famous smile.” We’ll only need one.” Stacie smiled softly, thinking about a romantic descent from the ridge hand in hand or better yet, arm in arm. They walked side by side up the base of the trail. Stacie was quiet, Eric's insensitivity to her request to stop pushing her on the swing was bothering her. But she was drawn to Eric, some type of weird chemical magic was happening between them and she hadn’t figured it out yet. Stacie only half listened to Eric’s rambling as they started to climb higher; as agreed, they stopped halfway up to check out a gorge that had an outlook area. “Careful,” he said, “that barrier doesn't look very secure. We wouldn't want you falling off the trail now, would we?” He took her hand and they started up the trail again. He was very solicitous, Stacie thought, and caring except for that incident with the swing. She thought about how he had made so much effort with their date and decided that she was really making too much about the little episode. It was just that she was very nervous about heights. OK, paranoid would be a better word but one doesn't air one's dirty laundry on the first date does one? The trail began to get narrower and steeper and conversation dwindled as they both climbed upwards. Stacie could feel Eric's eyes on her as she now climbed in front of him. At last, they reached the top and cleared the treeline. A flickering light on a lamp post and the metal railing were the only unnatural items in the natural setting. Together they walked to the edge of the ridge. They stood hand in hand in front of the railing and watched as the glorious sunset held them enthralled. The colours of the sky were spectacular. The sunset was magical and romantic and as they moved forward to the rail, Stacie held tightly to the railing with both hands, she briefly glanced down into the valley below and got a quick glance of the jagged rocks, the rocky cliff, and the winding river far below. She took a step back and glanced outward rather than downward. This was better, one could see to the other side of the gorge, in the dimming light. The trees were beginning to look like they were in shadows as the sun sunk deeper. Stacie’s heart thumped in her chest. She felt mesmerized by the view, bewitched by Eric’s closeness, and what might happen next. When the sun was only a whisper above the horizon, Eric turned to her and gathered her slowly into his arms, and kissed her. His kiss was tentative, soft, and exploratory and she met him openly She could feel his heart racing against her chest, his breathing ragged as he held her tightly against him. His arms wrapped around her tighter and he kissed her deeply, she closed her eyes and kissed him back, caught up in the romance of the sunset, the warm night and the intoxicating aroma of his cologne. Suddenly she was lifted off her feet and he carried her, a step or two towards the precipes. She felt the railing at her back and screamed long and loud as he bent her backward over the rail. The flickering light revealed his once boyish grin which now seemed feral and dangerous, his lips pulled back over his teeth, like a jungle cat toying with their prey. Her long legs flailed about and she hung on to him for dear life. He bent her backward further and further over the railing and she continued to cling to his body as he tried to dislodge her hands. “So Stacie, I guess you aren’t the only one who likes games. I like games too. I like them deadly. How do you like this game so far?” he asked. His arms moved to grasp her windpipe and squeeze. “ Am I a worthy opponent? When I play, I always play to win.” She gasped for air. “Looks like you are going to be the first one leaving the game. Too bad, I really did like you.” Her kicking feet finally connected to a sensitive part of his body and he straightened in pain and fell back a step from the railing. Once in an upright position and no longer dangling over the gorge, she broke free and raced to where she thought the entrance to the trail began. It was fully dark now, and there was no moon visible in the sky. The only light that Stacie could see from this high vantage point was the feeble light that illuminated the lookout. She found the entrance to the trail and started down as fast as she could manage. She could hear Eric cursing and yelling. She fell twice on the rough trail and soon she could no longer see the light behind her. Eric had his flashlight in hand and was following her down the trail. He wasn't quiet but then there was no need for him to be quiet as there were only the two of them on the mountainside. He had the advantage, he had light and he had speed and strength, she knew just how strong he was as he had lifted her easily when he tried to throw her over the cliff. She heard him behind her, gaining on her rapidly and when she glanced behind her she could see the glimmer of his flashlight bouncing down the trail. She knew that she had to make it down the trail and to her car before he caught up with her. It was her only hope. The trail was widening now and she could feel the crushed gravel under her feet, she must be near the lower lookout. She tripped and fell feeling the gravel dig into her hands and knees. She could hear him, closer, closer. She left the pathway and made her way down the mountain, through the dense undergrowth. Stacie suddenly realized that he too had left the pathway and was closing in fast. She glanced down and realized that there was a soft luminous glow from the beads that Eric had gifted her with earlier. They were acting as a beacon and Eric was following the subdued light right to her. He was the hunter and she was the hunted. The Survivor game had turned into a deadly challenge. She tripped and lay on the cool forest floor, she ripped the necklace off her neck and threw it under a nearby bush. She raised herself to her feet and turned to run, but he was upon her. He scooped her up like a child and dragged her kicking and screaming back to the path. “Just for your information,” he said loudly over her screams, “I hate picnics, and I hate cosplay and hiking. You, like every woman I know, are so unbelievably gullible and deserve everything you get.” He dragged her back to the trail, they were at the lookout over the lower gorge. She fought him, fought hard but he clearly had the advantage. At one point he held her by the throat and she could feel his hands, those giant hands crushing her windpipe. She brought her hands up between his hands and then quickly spread them wide and downward, releasing his hold. She fell to the ground, landing on her back, Eric towered above her, and he came forward, his arms grabbing for her. She planted her feet firmly in his middle and pushed with all her might. He reeled back towards the wooden railing and with a crash it broke in two. His arms made windmill motions in the air but his large body was fighting gravity and he fell over the edge. Silence and a deeper silence filled the night. Stacie raised herself, struggling to her feet, and cautiously approached the edge by the broken railing. Far below she could see a pinpoint of light from the fallen flashlight. It lit up the body of Eric, crumpled and still on the rocks below. Her voice was rough and ragged as she commented, “Looks like I’m not the first one to leave the game after all Eric. I would have to say I won the game. I am the survivor.” Stacie staggered back and made her way down the trail as quickly as she could to her car. She pulled her keys out of her pocket and got in the car, she took off with a roaster trail of gravel towards the park exit.

First time posting a story publicly just for fun.. Here we go. *"Oh, what a day!" a man says as he sits down on the bench, "it’s after midnight, a bit late isn't it?" The man states looking at the teen sitting next to him. Broken from her daze the girl looks at him and replies "Oh, uh yeah I just needed a minute". Without breaking the focus of packing his pipe with tobacco the man says, "I'm Gus". Watching as the almost hypnotized girl replies " Hi I'm Liz". "What brings you out at such a late hour Liz? To the park of all places" Gus asks as he laughs and lights his pipe. "I mean, your parents must be worried?" Gus continues. Liz folds her arms, looks at the ground as she uses her foot to draw in the mud and says "with how much they are fighting, I doubt they even know I'm gone. Which does not even make sense, they aren’t together anymore". “Oh my, that’s never pleasant” Gus says as he looks up to the sky. Curious to the claim Gus asks, "Why do you say that?". Liz looks at him and says reaching for her bag "let's just say I haven't really been noticed lately by either of them, hence the reason I am here right now". She Pulls a bent cigarette out and puts it between her lips. As she goes to light the cigarette Gus takes it from her lips "These are bad for you". Irritated, Liz snaps back "you're one to talk, you're smoking a pipe". Gus laughs "I know it doesn’t seem fair, does it?", "fair has nothing to do with it" Liz says with a smirk on her face. "You know why I am here, so what brings you out here tonight Gus?" Liz asks. Gus stares off into the distance for a moment then says, "I have been coming to this bench for seven years, ever since the night I lost my granddaughter". Liz feels a lump form in her throat, a tear escapes as she plays with her lighter. After a moment of trying to figure out what to say, all Liz could think to say is "I'm sorry". Gus gives a reassuring smile then says, "I return to this spot every year, Sometimes I swear I can still hear her". Gus says before taking a long hit of his pipe. "What happened? If I may ask" Liz says in a slight mumble. Slightly choked up, Gus says "She was kidnapped" Gus says as a somber mood overtakes him. "Someone grabbed her from this bench while I had my back turned during a city festival in the park”. Gus runs his thumb on the rim of his old, yet polished pipe and says, “her name is Sarah, today is her birthday, she is fifteen". With a lack of words, Liz seems to only let out a melancholy "oh, I'm sorry". “I have never lost hope, even though everyone else have given up, saying she is most likely dead” Gus continues as he puts the pipe to his mouth. “Excuse my manners Liz, but how old are you?” Gus asks as he strikes a match, lighting his pipe. “Sixteen and a half” Liz says as she continues to play with her lighter. Gus nods and says “ah, around my granddaughters age”. After a moment Gus gets a thought and says “you’re sixteen and smoking? Oh my”. Liz shrugs and says “well what do you expect? I walk on eggshells around the house, smoking is my stress relief, and the park is my escape”. Gus nods and hands Liz back the cigarette and says, “I don’t blame you, sounds tense”. Liz straightens out the cigarette and lights it, “thanks Gus” Liz says blowing smoke out of her nose. Gus is silent for a moment then looks at Liz and says, “would you like to take a lap around the park on the path?”. Liz nods and cuts out her cigarette “sure Gus, it’ll give me time to let the smell of smoke air out of my clothes”. The two stand up and make their way to the well-lit path that circles the park. Gus and Liz walk for another hour. As Liz listens to Gus describe Sara, Liz notices Gus’s mood change and look like a heavy weight has been lifted off his chest. Towards the end of the walk, Gus looks at Liz and says, “thank you for listening to me ramble, may I hug you?”. Caught off guard, Liz says “um” immediately Gus interjects “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as creepy or anything”. “No, you are okay and yes Gus I’m sure we could both use that hug”. The two hug and say goodbye and goodnight and go their separate ways. Some months pass and the two strangers, who’s paths crossed one night on a park bench instantly clicked. when a beautiful day to spend at the park Liz wakes up and goes about her morning routine. Once ready for the day, Liz decides to go for a walk and ends up at the park. She decides to put her headphones in and heads down the path that she and Gus walked the night they met. About twenty minutes into the walk, Liz sees an opening to a pond with ducks that were not visible the night of their walk. So Liz decides to go sit on a rock near the pond. After a short time, Liz hears a familiar voice say, “hey there stranger” and turns around quickly to see Gus standing there in the grass a few feet away. Liz smiles and says excitedly “oh my gosh! I didn’t think I would run into you again”. Gus chuckles and says and lets out a laugh “well here we are, how have you been Liz?”. Liz looks out at the pond and ducks in the distance, “well a good thing is my parents have not argued as much lately” Liz says as she pulls out a cigarette. Gus notices the pressure and stands her up and hugs Liz. “Why the stress? Isn’t it nice to not have to be tensed and stress?” Gus asks as he pulls out a tissue from his pocket and wipes her tears away. Liz nods and says “yes, it is nice, but my dad left and now they’re getting divorced”. Gus is taken back by what Liz says and replies “I am so sorry, I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have asked”. Liz giggles and says “how could you have known? We haven't talked in a while”. Gus nods in agreement with Liz. Gus signals to the bench they first met at, and Liz says, “oh yeah, let’s move over there”. As they sit down, Gus asks “how long has it been since we last spoke”. Liz looks at him and says “well, I’m about to turn seventeen and I have my drivers permit”. Gus pats her shoulder and says, “that is great, you have been busy”. Liz smiles and asks, “what about you?”. Gus’s smile and mood changes from happy to sad as he tells Liz the news. Gus tears up and says, “they found Sara, but before I could get to the hospital she passed away, Sara told a nurse to tell me that she is in a better place and that she doesn’t blame me”. Liz's heart drops and she starts to tear up along with Gus and all she could muster up to say is “oh shit”. Gus with a lump in his throat, and a shaky voice just nods for there are no words he himself can muster up. The two sit in silence for what seems like hours, neither able to break the silence until Liz’s phone goes off. “I have to take this” Liz says as she stands up and walks a few feet away. After a brief conversation Liz returns to the bench. “I’m sorry” Liz says looking at the ground. Gus speaks up and says, “no need to apologize, it’s quite alright”. Just then they are approached by a guy holding a stack of papers, “hello folks, I would like to invite you to the city festival in the park”. Gus reaches out for the paper that is held out in front of him, and Liz can see his hand shaking and gets the paper for Gus. Liz notices that Gus’s breathing is increased and sees his hands shaking, and tears pouring down his face, so she turns to the man with the flier's thanks him and gets him to quickly leave. Liz turns her attention back to Gus and she walks over to him and rubs his back. Knowing he is having an anxiety attack due to her having anxiety too and knowing how it feels, Liz reaches into her bag and grabs her anxiety meds and the one of the waters she packed and hands it to Gus. Almost immediately Gus hands Liz the pill back to Liz and says, “I don’t take pills”. Liz says, “Are you sure?” before putting the pill back in the bottle. Gus nods and Liz puts the pill back. Liz sits next to Gus and rubs his back while she says, “you are safe” and “I am here and won't leave”. Gus does not speak but nods, for the next little while they sit there silently. Liz consoling a man that she met one time and barely knows. Liz puts those thoughts aside and realizes Gus’s breathing has returned to normal and he is not shaking as bad. In a mellow calm tone Liz says “hey, let’s walk around a little bit, a change of scenery. They get up and start walking and after a few minutes, Gus turns to Liz and says, “thank you”. Liz smiles and answers back “I have panic attacks at least twice a week, so if I can help someone else through theirs, I don’t mind”. Gus looks at Liz and asks, “you do?”, Liz nods and Gus continues “it sucks”. “Huh you can say that again, I hate having to take meds just to feel numb from it all” Liz says as she swings a stick she picked up along their walk. Confused, Gus asks “what do you mean numb to it all?”. Liz smirks and says, “I used to self-harm, with how much my mom and dad used to argue it became an escape that let me have control of something in my life". Gus tears up again and hugs Liz saying, “Oh my dear I’m sorry you got to the point that you turned to harming yourself, do your parents know?”. Liz shakes her head and says “no, I don’t think they would care much if they did”. At this point Gus is shook to his core, Liz continues “yep as long as I smile around them and live in my jacket, they assume I am happy and fine”. Liz sees how this is affecting Gus, so she ends the conversation with “but I am doing better now”. As they came to the end of the trail, Gus looks at his watch and says, “oh I best be going, but I do hope our paths cross again”. Liz smiles and says, “same here Gus” and heads home. Arriving back at home, Liz is met by her dad standing by his car saying “where the hell have you been? Your mother went to work so I’ve been waiting in my car for hours I thought about leaving”. Liz thinks and remembers that she was supposed to go to her dads for the weekend. “I’m sorry dad I completely forgot” Liz says pulling out her house key “give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready to go”. As Liz packs her bags she starts thinking about the past times of staying with her dad, remembering the lack of effort from her dad when it comes to getting to know her. When Liz returns home, she goes straight to the park to see if Gus was around so she has someone who seems to put in effort and cares enough to ask how she is doing. As Liz approaches the bench where she and Gus met, she notices that the bench has been replaced. “Wow a new bench, Gus will love this” Liz thinks to herself as she sits down. After a while of sitting on the bench and concluding that Gus must not be coming today or that she has already missed him, For the first time Liz notices a raised piece of metal and screws pressing on her back. As she stands up and turns around, she looks at the shiny plaque on the bench that reads “In Loving Memory of Gus Fitzgerald”. It takes a moment to register, but when she realizes what has happened her eyes start to tear up. “What? No, this can’t be real” Liz says in a chocked-up voice. Just then an elderly lady walks up tissue in hand and sniffling. “Are you okay?” Liz says to the lady. Without word, the lady nods and places a rose on the bench and proceeds to walk away. The rest of the day was spent in silence as Liz sat and remembered the brief encounter with Gus Fitzgerald.

*Computer report my message to the command base* - I prompted the ship. “Message recording starting...*say send message once completed.*” buzzed the robotic voice of the freighter ship. *My name is Operator Din. I am a Freight Manager on the small freighter Atlas.* *Our mission is a secondary resupply of Beta colony. Unfortunately, we have experienced significant ship failures. I am sadly the last survivor of this tragedy and I will soon meet my end. I hope you can gain some insight of what happened here and please, can my final words be relayed to my wife? I had promised her that I would be back in a year.* My voice whimpered and I broke down into tears as I said those words. My body is in a lot a pain and I can barely move following the events that led me to this closed off compartment of the ship. I mustered some courage and continued my message. *The ship was operating optimally as relayed by our ship captain. We were on track. He had even joked through the intercom about how mundane the trip was, as it was his fifth time supplying the third biggest colony.* I chuckled and coughed a little blood at this moment. *We all believed him to be honest.* *Anyway. The strangeness started at lunch time. Being a small ship, we were all in the mess hall with the operating crew. The captain was telling us a story about the peaks of Athernon, a floating mountain on the Beta Planet. He said that he would take us all on a trip during refuel break...That’s not going to happen given our current situation*, I muttered sarcastically. *The ship’s hull started to make a deafening screech sound. Bang, Bang, ZRRRRR. It was really loud that, we all had our hands to our ears, blocking the sound.* *After that, we were all thrown towards the back wall as the ship came to an abrupt halt. Gravity had turned off and we all went tumbling at great speed to the back of the mess hall. Thump! We hit it. I luckily was saved by the cushioning of the couch in the corner. Mitchell and Mo, floating infront of me with bubbles of red covering their face. I could see bits of brain hurtling towards the ceiling due to the impact trajectory. I had managed to stop moving by holding the couch handle that I hit.* *Next thing I heard, is Amy’s scream. It is bone chilling. I am still in a haze from the bump. The scream however brought my hearing back fully and I hear - head towards the back compartment, hurry!. It was the captain and his co-pilot yelling at us to go to the back cabins. I managed to get myself composed enough that I propelled myself through Mitchell and Mo, to reach Amy, grab her hands to maneuver ourselves to the cabins as per the captains’ instructions. As I complete my thrust, I see in the corner of my eyes, the captain and his crew hurtling towards the front of the ship. That is the last I see of them as the next sequence of events, led me to be by myself, here in this closed off cabin, hurt and by myself, sending this final message.* My arm, numb before, came back alive momentarily. I turned to look at it in agony. Broken at the elbow nub. Frozen from the coldness of space. I let out a heavy scream. It feels good. The pain subsides again. I recompose myself grimly and continue. *I took a second thrust, holding the still hysterical Amy at the end of my arm and lunged towards the back cabin. I am flying. I just get through the door of the cabin when I feel a huge pull, hear what sounded like an big icicle crack, then a woosh with the cabin door closing behind me. I am suddenly again pushed towards the walls of the cabin due to gravitational changes. I have not realized in that moment that the ship had broken into pieces when I reached the cabin’s final door. Amy’s screams had a gone silent in that moment and she had taken my arm with her into the coldness of space. The harsh temperature of space had cauterized my arm. I cannot feel it anymore. I am cold and in pain. I am slightly hazy from the second impact.* *So, yeah, this is what happened to the crew. Luckily you guys can design great ships. I still have power on here and so can send my message. The computer and communications array is still on. So here it is, what happened to Freighter Ship Atlas. I cannot say much for the captain and the pilots but that is me right here, most probably the only one alive.* *I can say it with certainty because of the window in this cabin. I just see a lot of debris infront of me. The other thing I see, is something phenomenal. I think it’s a black hole. It looks like the one from that old classical movie Interstellar. Ha, I call dibs on naming it,* I humored to myself as a coping mechanism. My voice has started to get parched from the coldness of my body. I can feel myself getting weaker. Again, I pulled myself together to finish my message. *Riley.* I said in a moment of calm. *Can we make sure to name this black hole by that name, it’ll be very much appreciated? I am nearly finished. This final part of the recording is for my wife, so can we it be released to her as well as my last paycheck.* I am crying right now. I can see drips of bloody tears gather infront of my face. I continue my message with great pain and sadness. *On Earth right now, it is 10pm. My wife is currently possibly heading to bed after a long days work. She is a doctor at the medical facility near home. I could not get the chance to call her today. The sequence of events were so fast. One thing and another. Again and Again. I’m sorry Riley. I wish I had gotten the chance to see your face one last time. I want to enjoy being in your arms one last time. I desire your lips against mine one more time.* *Alas, I am here. In a quadrant of space, light years away from your warm embrace. I will soon feel the cold of space. I read once that it is painless. That I will not feel a thing. I will experience the emptiness. I will cease. Take care of yourself. I am sorry about breaking our promise. I am sorry for my search of the most perfect view. I wish I could see you one more time. I wish I could have realized that sitting across the couch, looking at you, is the grandest view of them all. I love you....* Tears continue to collect infront of me. I use my last vocal efforts to say. *send message -* I prompted the ship. Message sent to main base, it replied. As I get weaker and drift towards my inevitable doom, I thought to myself. *Didn’t the captain say he did this trip a few times, so where did this celestial object come from?* It was a mystery for a moment until I remembered a vague story by a lesser known physicist on Earth that I hiked with. He had postulated the theory that blinking black holes exists alongside the well accepted one of travelling black holes. I start to drift in an out of consciousness. One second I’m thinking of Riley, the next my fate. The final thought I have before I fade into black is of this magnificent celestial body that stumbled into my path. My journey ends with immense regret but a grand view nonetheless.

"It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat." Reema from the kitchen shouted over Vidhya. Vidhya was all ready to quit the hearing. She had decided to sign off the petition she filed to save her home. The day was of the final court hearing. Whereas in intense surrounding Vidhya forgot her diet, life and smile. While sitting in the dining. Reema stood inside the kitchen. While preparing Lemonade, she was blubbering her thoughts to make Vidhya realised her faults. But in last she stooped at the only question she wants to ask- "Is this the right decision?" Vidhya breathed idle and confronted her dilemma. “I lost my parents when I was 15 and 16, respectively, and I was left alone with my other nine siblings. I later dropped out of school due to financial instability in the family. Our home being in a region where girl-child marriage is commonly practiced, I literally ran away from home joining my elder sister for my safety after two men came to ask for my hand in marriage. One of them was a drunkard driver. But later, with the pace of time. My marriage got fixed with My husband who owned an empire in the state. He had as much wealth to run his whole life in butter voyage. I found happiness but a cage of not doing anything because of the ease of everything in person. I got our children at tender age of life, and those were the best years of my life... a happening life I had. But there is always a guilt I had, of not doing anything of my own." Reema interrupted her in the middle and told her - "So this is the time for doing something of your own. You are not alone, every lady who is here had the same story you are carrying. Sometimes judging ourselves is much easier than others. And you are doing the same. Reema passed Vidhya the glass of lemonade, she was preparing. However, like this lemonade Vidhya, "you are the water, and you are balancing the taste of sour lemon and sweet sugar but as moving with time you forgot your taste. The power you had. You had power of hydration, neutrality and energy of your own but you are lacking it. As like water you are only trying to neutralizing your surroundings and system but not trying to hydrate the system in your surroundings which get lost. And here Your son is playing sugar, who already over imposed his essence to won. Whereas sometimes the sourness of society you are fearing from is over imposed at yourself. But you are not done yet, Vidhya. Age is only a number. And you are enough capable to give a try for your evolution And trust me the decision of defeat you're making; will make a regret to you. quitting is not worthy. You will be not fighting with your son in the court Vidhya, You are fighting against injustice, unworthy and bad deeds. But before Reema completed her words, Matrika banged-in the room where they two were having their words. She knew what was both discussing. But innocently she threw her stone, turned over Vidhya and said - "It's okay if you are thinking of defeat. It was all our destiny to lose our family, then home and now this. As a woman, I always waited for respect but when my husband threw me out and my children didn't made me feel worthy. I found out the most important thing a woman need is Self-respect. Whatever she sacrificed her whole life either for their parents, then husband and later children will be no matter at some time. But only the tag of Capable, Working and Empowered matters. I never tried to build my tag as Working, Capable and Empowered because I thought there's enough I sacrificed. But I was actually struggling myself in my whole life, yet either way." Reema, again continued her point - "I believe if I tell someone my story, I can empower a person through my story might be 5%, but It will do." Vidhya assented at Reema's point of opinion. And headed for preparation of case further. At five in the evening, they got alarmed of "the Court of Empyrean Justice". Grim Reaper took Vidhya's son to the next realm. And in the front of lord of justice. Lord again dropped his question- "Who was responsible for the barging down of Vidhya's Old-age home?" Where Vidhya's spouse showed his support to her and ladies were too sat in the bowl. Vidhya threw her words, whereas turning towards God she told every spirit sitting around. She was trying to control the emotion of revisiting her troubled past, Vidhya stopped, looked down and shaked her head as if to send the memories away. While clearing throat she continued, Lord! "I've committed my life to help women. I urge everyone working for women's health to make thoughtful evidence-based decisions and to take action to promote successful interventions like the midwifery mode of care to reduce maternal and neonatal mortality and morbidity. I started an Old-age home for giving those a shelter who couldn't claim a place for there of own." Earlier, I was willing to make them comfortable in their very own home. I tried to make.But running away was like jumping out of the frying pan into the fire since it was in my hiding place where we encountered the miserable- macabre massacre by reputed businessman along with my own son for a piece of land. It was painful, although it is painful and will a question - "why are humans forgetting their humanity?" Vidhya fought with every evidence of her loyalty and she was fighting against what she faced because of his own son in the earth. She was not fighting for claiming her win. She was fighting for her first try. Whether the result will be on her side or not. But for the very first time, Vidhya as a spirit claimed her tag "Empowered Woman".

The first time he saw the kid was at the Battle of N’ray. Well, he called him a kid. He was barely a decade younger and had one foot into adulthood--all gangly and tall like a newborn giraffe--but he seemed like a kid. Had that same wide-eyed look of worship when he pulled him from the burning rubble and forced the flames away with his Blessing. He raised his voice over the shouts of battle. “Kid, there’s a clear path to the aid camp. I’ll cover you, so get going.” He turned, to re-wade into the fight. A hand tugged his sleeve. “Borrow,” the kid murmured. “Can I...” He glanced at the kid again. Scruffy, dirty, a haggard look in the eyes that you didn’t get overnight. Probably an orphan. Or was one now, anyway. He pulled a silver pendant from under his armor, shoved it in the kid’s hands. “Don’t have money on me, but this should sell for a pretty penny. Get some food, get away from the war, find a job.” On a whim, he ruffled the kid’s hair. “You’ve got a good look to you. You’ll do fine.” Then he left the kid behind. What he thought was for good. The second time he saw the kid was a few years later. Another battlefield--a dead one this time, filled with deadmen and a soon-to-be-dead-man with a broken leg and broken ribs and a broken spirit, wondering if it was worth it to write a letter to his family in his final moments. Wondering if it would ever find its way back to his mother and his brother and the woman he'd loved since twelve but had always been too scared to tell. The hand of death came for him while he was wondering. He closed his eyes, wished he could say goodbye--but why was it warm? A weight dropped around his neck. A silver pendant he thought he’d never see again. “I didn’t need a whole pendant,” said a vaguely familiar voice. The voice was deeper than he remembered, but it was the same kid. The look in the eyes hadn't changed. “Just wanted a coin or two. Do you have any change, by the way? I still owe a quarter to the guy I was penny-gambling with yesterday and I’m out of coins.” “How...?” he whispered, his dry voice soft and cracking. _How did you find me?_ “Oof, you’re heavy. How, you ask? Well, the sneaky bastard said he’d teach me to play cards and proceeded to make me lose every game. I swear he’s cheating, but, well, I’ve still gotta pay up.” He chuckled. Took a slow, limping, painful step with his good leg. “Right pocket. The bag with the clover.” The kid grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.” Then he must have passed out, because the next thing he knew he was in a hospital tent and the kid was nowhere in sight. "You have some guardian angel," the medic told him. "The one who brought you in said he was only passing by when he found you. How the hell someone ended up passing by a _battlefield_ is beyond me, but the higher ups aren't complaining. He saved a fire Blessing, after all. We need all the help we can get when the enemy crawled out from a volcano." And so it went. The kid kept showing up. Always in the nick of time, always when he felt death's cold breath on his neck. Always with the thing he'd borrowed last. Always needing some other trinket, for some reason or another. "Are you following me?" he'd asked the third time it happened, handing over the requested pocket knife. The kid snorted, tying off a tourniquet. "Who the hell would want to follow you? Every time I see you, you're half dead or well on your way there. No, I like my life where it is, thank you very much." He paused. “Did you ever ask out that girl?” “What girl?” “The one who made you the handkerchief I borrowed last time. You accidentally left a letter in there. It seemed important.” Another pause, and he hurried to amend himself. “I didn’t read much of it, just enough to see whose it was. Thought it might have been one of my buddy’s.” Silence, in which the bandages wrapped thicker. “No,” he whispered. “I haven’t.” “You should. She obviously likes you enough to send you three pages of dense script and a handkerchief. The worst she can do is hand you the ‘brother’ card, right?” The number of encounters grew, grew until he needed two hands to count them, then three, and then he stopped counting. But he never learned the kid’s name. He was regretting that now. “Come on, kid, stay with me,” he begged. "You're too young to die." The kid laughed. It made the blood seep faster. "And you're not?" It had been strange this time. He hadn’t been half-dead, nor in any real danger of dying. A scouting mission, not even in the war zone: safe, easy, peaceful. So he was surprised when he came face to face with the kid. Well, not really a kid anymore. Hadn’t been for years. But his eyes never changed from what he’d seen in the rubble that day. He’d probably call him ‘kid’ till the day he died. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you in one piece before,” the kid joked. “Anyway, here’s the string from last time. It’s a bit worse for wear, but it did the trick.” He accepted it, already used to the strangeness of the exchange, of the kid’s weird insistence on returning even the most worthless of items. He rolled his eyes, wondering what the kid would ask for this time. As a result, he almost missed the hissing ball of fire barreling towards them. Normally, you’d move away from this kind of thing, wouldn’t you? But this kid, this idiot of a kid had moved _closer_, shifting towards the center of the projectile. He flung up a hand, pushed his Blessing against the fire and forced it back where it came. But he couldn’t do anything about the arrow hidden in its belly. Couldn’t do anything as it embedded into the kid’s back. As the kid stumbled, muttered “Well I guess that explains it, then.” As he realized that if the kid hadn’t been there, that arrow would be in his heart. The kid coughed, and a stream of red left his mouth. Improbably, he grinned. “If anyone’s too young to die, it’s you. You haven’t even asked out your crush yet. By any chance, do you have a--" "No, you need a _doctor_, not a button or needle or whatever damn thing you're trying to borrow this time. We need--" "My Blessing," the kid interrupted. "My Blessing is that I can always return what I borrow." "But--" "_Always,_" he emphasized. He coughed again in the heavy silence. "So while I'm still in this world, do you mind lending me a pen? I lost--" "Shut up, you bratty kid. Forget whatever dumb, contrived reason you've made up. I've got a charcoal, take it or leave it." "I'll take it." His hand curled around the worn out stick of charcoal. A brief silence. Suddenly the kid’s wound didn’t seem so terrible anymore. There was blood, yes, but it seemed more like someone else’s blood. The wound didn’t weep so thickly. “So uh, about that doctor. I think I may need it after all.

The ghost of the mysterious dead woman sobbed in the guest bedroom, but Rico ignored it to the best of his ability. He felt sorry for her, whoever she was. Whatever her troubles were. He often wondered, what could be so sad? She cried heart wrenching sobs of inconsolable grief every single day, for hours on end. He wasn’t frightened of her, just pitying, at this point. She never did anything worse than pour any alcohol he bought down the sink drain while he was at work, for some reason. He had given up on trying to keep a bottle of wine in the apartment. He searched for the cast iron skillet, but it wasn’t in the kitchen. She had taken it, again. He went to the guest bedroom and knocked on the door. The crying abruptly ceased. He entered. The room was frigid, but empty. A search turned up the skillet on the floor underneath the bed. “I’m sorry, but I use this skillet every morning to make bacon and egg hash. Please stop taking it and hiding it from me.” He returned to the kitchen, washed the skillet, and made breakfast, in a routine that was becoming normal to him. He ate, did the dishes, and went to work. That evening, a girl he’d dated for a while texted him that her roommates were driving her insane, asking to come over. He reluctantly told her about the ghost, knowing from experience with his friends and family that there was a 50/50 chance that she would either think he was crazy, or want to come over immediately to experience the haunting for herself. “Can I come over now?” She texted. “Yes, but I promise you’re just going to flip out and leave.” He replied, with the certainty of having an apartment none of his relatives would visit now. She knocked on the door twenty minutes later. She had barely stepped into the apartment when she heard the ghost. “Oh my God!” She exclaimed. “I can hear it!” She backed towards the door in sudden panic. “She doesn’t do anything except cry, pretty much,” he tried to explain, “nothing bad will happen if you stay.” “No way!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry, but I am never talking to you again. I can’t come here, and you’re sure not ever coming to my apartment and bringing that thing with you. You’re nice, but I have to go!” She left. He sighed. He’d try to talk to her when she’d had time to calm down. He thought: move to the city, Rico. Pretty much the whole family lives there - you’ll see everybody all the time. You’ll have much better job prospects. You’ll meet so many women... Not for the first time, he wondered about the identity of this spirit who was keeping everyone away. With the limited knowledge he had of ghosts from horror movies he supposed she must’ve died here, but how long ago? The apartment he lived in was new - he was the first person to live there. He’d been able to find out that the area had been rezoned residential recently, and that formerly the site of his building was a drag queen dress and accessory store. He hadn’t been able to find out anything pre-dating that. He had ten months left on his ironclad lease, and breaking it wasn’t an option. He was going to have to continue to tolerate the specter. Other than the ghost, it was a perfect apartment. It was a mostly level fifteen-minute walk from his job, affordable enough that he’d even been able to get two bedrooms (which he now found amusing), was spacious for the price, and had a well-maintained building laundry room downstairs. He decided to try something different. He went to his book case in the living room and got his Bible, settling in the recliner in the living room to read aloud. Psalms 42:11: “Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed? Put your hope in God.” Rico continued with scriptures from his past. Jerimiah 6:16: “*Stand* at the *crossroads* and *look*; *ask* for the *ancient paths*, *ask* where the *good way* is, and walk in it, and *you will* find rest." He continued with verses and stories he felt were in any way relevant, feeling a bit silly, but doing his best. He had no idea what effect, if any, this was having on the ghost. The apartment was silent for the rest of the night. That night, he dreamed feverishly. He awoke in the morning with a start, sitting up straight. Reading the Bible had caused the ghost to invade his dreams. He wasn’t sure if she was responding negatively, or positively. There was something about a medium sized, pale brick house, with color appearing to be projected on it like a planetarium light show, changing in a kaleidoscope he couldn’t process as it undulated across a spectrum of every color he’d ever seen. There had been ancient trees in a row in front of the house going all the way down the street, swept up in a strong wind that seemed to be carrying him, helplessly paralyzed and levitating, across the landscape. There was the feeling that he’d been through an entire night of odd experiences. And there had been her, with him. A presence, a vague form beside him, but he couldn’t turn his head. She had been urgently telling him something. Upon waking, he only remembered a few moments of this experience. Within a few minutes of waking up, he only remembered the presence of the ghost in his dream, and that there had been weird colors. He had no idea what to make of it. While he was at work, his sister called. She’d gotten fired from her job because she stopped dating her boss, and needed a place to stay. She’d been renting a room informally from a friend, but money burned a hole in her pocket, and now she was reduced to her last paycheck. Everything she owned was stuffed in her SUV. She’d needed to stay with him before when she got fired from her last job for getting arrested after going ninety-six miles per hour in her company car, and another time when she’d quit without savings or another job lined up because her coworker annoyed her by playing talk radio too loudly. His sister was the reason he had gotten a two-bedroom apartment. She knew through the family grapevine about his situation, but didn’t care. “I’m as brave as you,” she told him on the phone, “I can deal with it, if you’ve been living there for months.” “A lot of people have told me they won’t be scared, and then they all are.” “I really need a place to stay. I’m so glad you’re letting me stay with you, thank you. I can put up with a ghost if it means having a roof over my head.” “All right...” “I’ll be over after you get home from work.” Beatriz arrived after he’d eaten dinner, her gloomy expression contrasting the cheerful neon pink of her duffel bag. She’d managed to get a parking spot on the street nearby. They watched TV and talked for hours, and Rico learned more than he ever wanted to know about her failed relationship. He was angry at her former boss, but annoyed with her continual poor decisions, and had no problem expressing this to her. She needed to hear it from someone. He expected her to be upset with him, but she was so exhausted she simply accepted his criticism and said that she knew she needed to try harder to keep jobs, and that everyone had faults they needed to work on. They left it at that. He offered to let her sleep in his room, and sleep on the couch himself, but she declined. She didn’t mind sleeping in the living room. He went to sleep around nine-thirty because he had to get up early for work, and she got on her laptop to apply for jobs. He woke up when Beatriz screamed five hours later. He rushed to the living room, where she was stood hyperventilating and staring at the ajar guest bedroom door. “I saw her!’ She exclaimed. “She was carrying something heavy she could’ve used to kill me!” “What did she look like?” Rico asked. “Like a scary effing ghost!” She practically yelled. “Was this something she was carrying my skillet? She steals that pretty much every night. She wasn’t going to use it as a weapon, she just hides it in the guest room.” “Yes! She could kill someone with that thing! And she was super scary! I don’t know. I don’t think I can stay here, if she’s running around with things she could hit you with like that. I think I’m going to sleep in my car until I get a job. I just can’t sleep here! That’s so scary.” “Calm down, it’s ok. I should’ve warned you about the skillet. That happens all the time. But tell me what she looked like - I’ve never seen her.” “I’m getting out of here! I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you what I’ve figured out. Maybe one of my friends will let me stay with them, or maybe I can afford to stay in a motel or something for a little while. Bye.” She had been stuffing all her scattered belongings into her bag. She zipped it up and was out the door thirty seconds later. “That’s it.” He said to the spirit, not knowing if she was listening or not. “Either you pay rent, or figure out other arrangements.” He went back to bed, and tried to go to sleep. The ghost started crying. He unplugged his cell phone, went to the door of the guest room, and recorded her crying for a few minutes. The next day, he composed an email to the closest Catholic priest, including the recording of the ghost crying. That was all he knew to do with his limited horror movie education. Within three hours, the priest replied. He wanted to come over Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday morning, Rico told the ghost that the priest was coming at three o’clock. He was startled to feel her hug him.

It was dawn, and the sun was just about to rise. The wintery dew, over the leaves, made it look much more beautiful than it really should have been and the lake just reflected the reddish glow of the sunlight. “ Don’t you think it is beautiful? The morning sunlight and us, together, apart from the mayhem of mankind?” Emma sighed. “ Boy, you can be so poetic and philosophical, that it can nearly knock someone off guard if one was not used to it already,” Arthur said in amazement. They were both holding hands, sitting quietly near the lake and speaking nothing. Arthur made an attempt to get up, but Emma pulled him down by his sleeves and spoke, “You do not move until I ask you to.” “Sure, I will pee in the lake then, and hope that it adds warmth and more colour to the water, probably a much better golden tint!” Arthur commented sarcastically and pulled his hand free of Emma’s grip. “Very well then, you are permitted, get going, young man, the plants need some water. I hope you pee enough to help them quench their thirst.” Arthur ran and came back a few minutes later. “How about we get back into the shade and then think of what we have to eat through the day. I mean we could fish for one, or maybe you know pluck down wild berries that we don’t know about, but can read from a book?” “Sure!” ⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪ They were in the woods when they heard the dry leaves rustling behind them. Arthur turned with sheer alertness, but Emma was pretty casual about all this. She carelessly spoke, “ Don’t worry Arthur, that was probably the sound of other campers searching for food, nothing else.” “No Emma, it isn’t. If it was so, then the rustling shouldn’t have stopped as soon as I turned. There is something that doesn’t want us here. “Don’t be paranoid, It can be anyth...” Emma was hushed by Arthur. There was a sound of crunching gravel behind them. Arthur went for his shoe and pulled out a camping knife. Emma was too surprised to say anything, so Arthur used the silence to study the sounds. The thing, whatever it was, started to sound close to them. The woods were of no help. The sound started to echo around them and it became impossible to guess the correct direction. Emma now started to freak out. She asked in a low, trembling whisper, “Any Idea what it can be?” “Honestly, not at all. But I am guessing it is nothing humane, so better to stay alert always.” Arthur answered with a slight doubt. The sound now was quicker. It felt like a hoofbeat. Emma stepped front, “ Arthur, I will not let anything happen to you. Whatever it is, will have to fight me first to get to you. I have lost enough, and now, no one. You are the closest thing I have to a family.” “What do you mean that I am the closest thing to a family to you?” Arthur asked baffled. “Not now. It is not the time. We have to save you.” “Save me? No, I have to save you! I love you, Emma like I have loved no one else.” Arthur begged Emma. This time it was Emma, who was thrown off guard. The thing was very close to them and was running. Arthur threw the knife at the most random direction just out of frustration and fell to his feet immediately. It was too much for him to take in in such a short span. He could see Emma rushing to his side. His vision was blurred, but he could make out a burly brownish figure coming close to them. And his eyes closed. ⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪ When Arthur finally woke up, it was dark outside. He could see a cave ceiling over him. He was still dizzy from the fall. He tried to get up, but his legs felt like jelly and butterflies were racing in his stomach. He wrapped himself with a white cotton sheet close to him and moved out. He was in a different place than he remembered. He paced slowly for a while and soon figured out that he was in a very dense part of the forest and that he was too weak to run away on his own. He walked back toward the cave and found Emma sitting on the rock just outside the entrance. He tried to shout her name, but all it came out was a feeble squeak, but Emma heard that nevertheless. She walked toward him with a wide smile on her face. Arthur tried to smile back, but even his face muscles were exhausted. Emma hugged him and he felt a sudden surge of energy through him and he felt better. He tried to speak, but Emma hushed him silent. Emma seemed to glow from a mysterious light that came from within her. “You did great, oh brave one. What you saw in the forest was my mother as a deer. I have been doing this for a while now. I befriend strongmen like yourself and then bring them to this part of the forest. You see, this is my final resting place. My only last wish was to find a man who could bear the curse of a spirit’s love. My curse was to watch my mother set her hand on my lover and she was the deer you saw.” Arthur was too amazed to say anything so all he could do was to nod along. Emma held his hand and all he could sense was a delicate touch, just like snow. He tried to hold her closer but she seemed to dissolve into the air. “Emma, please I love you. Don’t leave, not now. Please.” Arthur cried and tried to hold her, but all was futile. Emma shed a tear and touched Arthur’s face. “My mother is Nyx, brave one. She cursed me that I will lose all men I fall in love with, but she never said about this part, or maybe I never heard,” She said with a weak chuckle, “I always was too depressed thinking about myself, but what I never realised that this part was going to be even more painful. Brave one, I love you too. Hail and farewell, dearly beloved.” And then she dissolved into a faint light of blue. ⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪⧪ Arthur was sitting by the lake, reminiscing the last moments of his time with Emma. He was looking at the lake, reflecting the peaceful moon. Arthur could not help but think about the last time he held her, and... He lay down on the cold grass and closed his eyes, and then he was in his lightest dream, just as Emma, floating into eternal peace.

Ch. 1 "Come on honey, you are going to be late for work." Oh that voice, that sweet tender voice of my wife, why must you disturb me from my sleep? I had fun last night, at her mother's celebrating my wife's 23rd birthday. Now it's wake up and be at work at a certain time. Time this, time that. It is frustrating, allow me to work when I want to work, and if I don't work, don't pay me. Simple as that. I drag myself out of the bed and get ready for work. I work as a networking engineer in Buffalo, New York, pays well enough and my wife also works so money is not that big of a deal. I kiss my beautiful wife goodbye she whispers, "Goodbye Peter." I whisper back, "Goodbye my darling, we will go out for dinner once I get back." Work was boring as usual, just the routine same old same old. I leave work and forgot my keys up 5 levels. Quickly go get them and I enter my red 06' Chevrolet Monte Carlo. Pull out of the car garage. God it is just all the same, everyday routine, routine, routine. Except as I pull out into the street I notice a little kid standing there on the sidewalk. Maybe 5 or 6 no parent near by, I assume there has to be a parent around and leave him be so if there is a parent, the parent doesn't accuse me of a child molester. I drive and look back, he just stares at me, my car, am I going too fast? I look at him curiously for some time. The screech, the screams and the smell of gasoline, oh no. Everything goes black. I fade in, I am loaded onto a stretcher, the paramedics are asking me questions but I cannot respond. Everything goes black, will I be fine? I don't know I let the darkness wash over me. Ch. 2 "I know, doctor, but it has been 11 years the medical improvements have been amazing, absolutely wonderful. Stop saying that he has a slim chance of waking up, he is strong enough to wait that long." Oh that voice, I suddenly say, "I know the truth." Suddenly my wife jumps up, she is full of tears and shouts, "Oh Peter! I knew you could!" She hugs me tight the doctor rushes back, absolutely astonished. The doctor says he will be back in a bit so I can be with my wife. It feels so good to have her in my embrace, she has aged a tiny bit but yet still astonishingly beautiful. "11 years, Peter. So much has happened it will be scary for you but I will always be here for you. What were you saying about truth? It was the first thing you said when you woke up." I respond, "I will tell you later, let's get out of this hospital for now. It is amazing to see you once again." The doctor says I am good to leave and I check out. I step outside, the doctor told me it is July 3, 2026. So much has changed, the Buffalo I used to know has undergone quite the change. There are more major skyscrapers now, though everything isn't white and clean as people might have thought back in 2015. The best I could describe is an updated Tokyo. My wife tells me to get in the car, I notice no steering wheel, guess automated cars really were the future. "It's almost curfew, honey let's just get home and I can tell you all about what has happened in these 11 years." Curfew? What? It is almost 10:00, last time I checked in 2015 there was never such thing as a curfew in Buffalo. I think my wife will be more shocked than I am right now when I tell her "The truth"... Author's Edit: First story I have sat down and actually created, there is huge plans for the short story. Probably plan on creating one a day, 2-3 chapters each for about 4 or 5 total parts. I will just have to see how it all turns out.

>*(Science fiction, mecha, escape, 613 words.)* > >*Again, this was inspired by a picture, but the words are all mine. It's never been on Reddit that I know of.* > >*Nothing here that should cause any problems. Hope somebody likes it. Any comments, votes etc. gratefully received.* ​ It's five in the morning, sky just lighting up and I'm heading home. Mouth still tastes of cheap, nasty coffee. I'm thinking about the rotten night shift I just had, wondering if I've got enough gas in the tank to make it back. Doing seventy down Franklin's Creek, trees on the left, old man Grissom's field on the right, mist hanging over the grass. Then the road starts to shake. First I'm guessing it's something wrong with the car, suspension acting out, and I'm thinking *oh, Jesus, how'm I gonna pay for this?* Nobody on the road. I brake, I stop the car, hit my hazard lights, and then I realize the whole world's going up and down. Bouncing when something punches the ground. *Wham. Wham. Wham.* Birds taking off over the woods in a panic. It's one of *them.* Can't see nothing but I know Christ *almighty* it's one of *them.* Wasn't supposed to be nothing going on round here today, news on the radio back at the plant didn't have no warning but what the hell else is it gonna be? The world shakes even harder. Telephone poles along the side of the road swaying, left, right, left, right. I'm opening the door. Not sure why. What'm I gonna do, exactly? Fingers shaking on the handle, damn near pissing myself I'm that scared. Door's open. The noise. It's moving so fast. Must be right on top of me. God damn it I'm pretty much deaf. Half way out of the car and - It's here. Jesus it's *huge.* Smashes through the woods. Trees crack and fold up either side of it, leaves going everywhere. Charges across the road in front of me. Doesn't stop, never mind look my way. Hits the telephone wires but they don't bother it none. Just keeps on going. Yanks the poles out of the ground and they go bouncing along the field behind it 'til the wires pop, whipping around in the mud. Musta been a hundred fifty foot high, easy. Creaking and grinding away. Yellow metal, no marks saying whose it was. Lights blinking on and off in its guts. Cables hanging loose. Looked half finished, you ask me. I'm thinking government boys gonna be *all* over this one any minute and I get back in the car, praying it starts. Engine turns over like nothing happened and I stamp on the gas, head off down Franklin, teeth rattling like it's the middle of winter. Got home, didn't say nothing to Grace. Hit the sack, slept like crap. Kept waking up every five minutes thinking the men in black were banging on the door. Never did, though. Never heard a word. Went back there two days later, stopped for a second on the exact same bend. Telephone poles were back up. No sign anything been through the woods. No prints in the field or nothing. I mean I didn't do nothing wrong, sure. I coulda reported it but - There was something about the whole thing. No warning. The way it *looked.* The way it just sprints across the road - talked to a few pilots and yeah, those boys can be real assholes, but even the assholes are pretty good at what they do. Wasn't drunk. I'd bet money on that. So what else was he gonna be doing? You ask me government want us to jump up and down when these things head out, shipped off to fight, helping out after a flood, a fire, a quake, doesn't matter. They want us to think they're god damn superheroes when they're just people. Sometimes people get scared. Sometimes they can't cope. Sometimes they run.

The white people It hurt my head the first time that the white people came. Shouts and screams were fizzing about my head ready to make it implode. That’s a word Jenny just taught me: it means when it goes into itself then becomes a little football. She also told me to write everything down when I have this cold. The white people say that it is a cold but every time that they do, Scary Woman starts crying so now they say nothing when she is around and when they think that I’m asleep they call it ‘cancer’. I like that the white people do not say anything about why I’m in this white room with tubes and metal beds. When they do Scary Woman goes outside screeching, which blurs my vision and means that I can’t write my thoughts and then I have nothing to do in this lonely forgotten cell. I like what Jenny does in our time together, she gives me fun colouring in tasks and that’s my favourite. The other person who used to do the thing that Jenny does with me now was not very nice. He used to scowl at anything I did wrong and he used to often make Scary Woman sad after she took me back. He called me severely artistic, which I really like but Scary Woman doesn’t, Scary Woman is weird like that. The white people took me to a room as white as their pearly aprons and everything in here is white, even the bed. The thing that the white people don’t notice, though, is the speck of blood at the bottom left corner of the white duvet on the white bed in the white room. It is very serious, so I’m not sure why they are not cleaning it. Scary Woman is holding my hand whilst I am writing this so my handwriting will not be as good as Jenny taught me. Scary woman came in screeching which is making my head hurt. She came from the mirror door, not the corridor. The one the white people use. She’s clinging on to me like a ragdoll which I don’t like. She is making my arm hurt like dad does with his late-night breath. But it’s fine now because I am always with someone so he can’t do that anymore. Before Scary Woman came in with a big screechy voice, I was having my daily time with Jenny and she was reading all of the work that I had done about my thoughts until she got the bit about the ‘cancer’ after which she denied it very quickly and told me to not ever think like that again and she then told me about real life cancer and how this is not cancer. She wasn’t stopping so I did what Scary Woman normally does to get Jenny to stop. Screeched. That was when Scary Woman came in and has been holding my hand for the last thirty minutes. The white people are packing up all my stationery except for the pencil I’m writing with right now and they are about to wheel me somewhere else. I like this room. I enjoyed finding all the little nooks and other bits the white people forgot to paint. Now I have to start all over again in a new room. They are now rolling my bed away and the Scary Woman has started wailing again which has put me into a cycle of blurry vision and headaches. My dad just turned up and smells of his late-night breath but all over. He nearly fell over my bed when he came in. I have just been told to go to sleep but I’m not sure how I am going to with the wailing of Scary Woman, the scuffs of dad and the quick beeps next to my head.

I tie the laces on my sneakers, making double knots and pulling hard to secure them. I reach up and grab my fleece jacket, zipping it halfway up and reaching up the sleeves to pull down the shirt sleeves underneath. I grab my keys off the hall table, open the front door. I take the step down onto my front porch, turn around and lock the door, placing the key securely in the pocket of my jeans. I take the next three steps down to my driveway and then begin to count. It’s 26 steps to the end of my driveway, where I turn right and take another 136 steps to the corner stop sign. As I walk, my pace slow and steady, I hear the Callahan’s dog barking. I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s standing on the couch in their living room, wagging his tail as he stares out the picture window and barks at every person who passes by. At the stop sign, I turn right, seeing the Johnson’s antique car parked covered in their driveway, hearing the thud of the Miller boys bouncing a basketball on a makeshift court outside their home. John Miller shoots from afar and scores and both boys cheer. Their joy seems like something foreign. At the end of the road, I see Mrs. Stevens sitting on her front porch, knitting needles in hand. She looks up to watch me walk by, as she does every day, but I move past her. When I reach the park, I can feel the shift from the concrete of the road to the soft dirt path that leads toward the lake. I am surrounded by large trees and hear the insistent chirping of birds. I walk toward the lake and the same bench I have come to every day since my husband walked away from our marriage 86 days ago. I sit down, staring at the lake, and the houses beyond on the other side. The vastness, the openness and the cool breeze all hit me at once and I breathe, feeling relief hit me for just a moment. The breeze picks up and the trees start to sway. A few leaves fly past me, followed by a large white clump. It appears to come from the sky, and lands with a bounce in front of my bench. It’s a crumpled piece of paper, and I lean over and pick it up. I am intrigued by this intrusion into my unbreakable routine. I place the crumpled ball in my lap and open it, smoothing out the creases. There are just eight words on the page, written in neat cursive. Take back your life while you still can I look up into the tree above, as if to find the source of these words. The branches above me spread out wide, reaching almost to the lake, but seem to hold no clues as to who sent this message. I look back down, re-reading and considering each words, and the insulated life I have built for myself. I work five days a week as an administrative assistant at Becker’s Insurance Agency. I arrive at 8:00 each morning and leave at 4:00 each afternoon. After work, I change and walk to the lake and sit for a while before I go home to eat dinner, watch TV and go to sleep. On Saturdays, like today, I walk to the lake after lunch and sit for an hour or two, staring at the still surface, looking for guidance on what my life means now that my marriage is over and my window to start a family is slowly closing. I feel the stirrings of hope as I look at the message. I smooth out the paper further before folding it into quarters and putting it in the pocket of my fleece. I sit for over two hours, gusts of wind whipping through me every few minutes, followed by the stillness. I keep my hand on the paper in my pocket, hoping to absorb the meaning in its words. Once at home, I put the folded message in my bedside table drawer. On Sunday, I find myself anticipating my walk. But as I do a load of laundry and grocery shop for the week, I try not to give it more importance than it deserves. At 1:30 PM, I get ready to go, locking the door and walking the same route, possibly taking steps in the exact same spots on the pavement as I have all the days before this one. As I sit on the bench, the afternoon sun warm on skin, I look up at the tree, wondering if it will provide any offerings today. But of course, it doesn’t. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. On Monday morning, as I rummage through my closet, and the same bland pants and blouses I have worn to work for months, my eye catches a red skirt now pushed toward the back. I try it on, noticing it is a bit loose on me. I choose a matching blouse and eye myself in the mirror as if I am looking at a stranger. I turn to the side, noticing for the first time that not just my face, but my mid-section, has thinned. I open the bathroom drawer and retrieve my make up bag, long ago abandoned. I pull out just the blush and lip gloss and dab a bit on. My face lights up in the mirror, showing me the hint of a former version of myself. Is this taking my life back? Hardly, but it is a change, maybe the only one I can manage right now. The week is uneventful, one day spilling into the next. At each late afternoon visit to the park, I sit and wait for another message - another sign. The seven words repeat in my head as if on a loop, as I continue to absorb them, pulling them apart in my mind. When I reach the park on Saturday afternoon, I feel acutely aware that it has been a week since the crumpled paper came into my life. I feel a heightened sense of promise. After about 20 minutes of trying not to look upward at the rustling trees, another crumpled paper floats down, the wind dropping it just beside the bench. I feel my heart rate speed up as I cautiously reach forward and grab the white paper ball. I open it, smoothing out the page so I can clearly read the eight words written in the same cursive right in the middle: Every great journey starts with a single step I read the message over and over, memorizing it before I finally smooth out the paper with my fingers, fold it into quarters and stash in my pocket. I think about the colorful skirts I wore to work a few days this week, and the blush and lip color I applied for the first time in months. A few people in my office complimented me, people who normally look at me with pity in their eyes. Is that taking a single step? Am I meant to take another step this week? I decide to leave the park early today, to go home and clean out the clothes my husband left behind in the closet. I sift through the old sweaters and jackets he abandoned when he packed up his suitcases and announced he was moving in with a women I knew to be an associate at his law firm. I open the first few drawers and stuff the old t-shirts and socks he left behind in a large garbage bag. By the time his side of the closet is cleaned out, I have filled three more bags. Then I head into the kitchen and open the cabinet, retrieving his favorite coffee mugs. I throw away the half-opened boxes of stale cereal that only he would eat. In the living room, I box up some of his old books, and the gaudy porcelain statuettes his mother gave me. I don’t know why I didn’t trash them the day he left. Over the years he worked more and more late evenings, and I supported him, praised him for his ambition, for planning for our future. To think he was with her all those long nights while I sat waiting at home alone. Did he laugh at how naïve I was, never questioning him? I place the four bags of clothes and three boxes of household items in my car and drive them over to the donation center that afternoon. The following Saturday, I have to keep myself from racing to the park. The Callahan’s dog barks furiously as I dash past their living room window. I notice the Johnson’s antique car is uncovered, and Mr. Johnson is washing it. He waves to me and I wave back - surprising myself as my hand goes up in greeting. The Miller boys are playing basketball again. As I walk past their driveway the ball rolls in front of me. I give it a kick with my right foot, doing a little skip. They yell thanks to me as it rolls back toward them. My hand waves again, getting accustomed to the motion. At the end of the road, I see Mrs. Stevens sitting out on her front porch. She puts down her knitting needles as I walk past. “You look lovely today, Maddy. Enjoy your visit to the park.” I stop for a moment, stunned. Mrs. Stevens and I always used to exchange niceties about the weather and neighborhood gossip. We were even in a book group together several years ago, but it has been so long since we’ve said a word to each other. “Thank you, I will,” I say. The words feel strange in my throat, as I hear myself add “Have a good day.” When I reach the park, switching from the concrete of the road to the soft dirt path, the birds greet me, their voices like a song. I sit down on the bench, hoping and praying for just one more message. I know it’s foolish, but still my senses are on high alert, desperate for just one more. I only have to wait for 20 minutes before the white paper blows past me in the wind. I reach out to catch it, just missing, and it lands by my feet. I greedily grab it, unwrap it, and smooth out the paper. I read the seven cursive words: Friendship helps pave the road to healing As I stare at the words, water drips onto the paper. I look up at the sky to see if it’s raining, but the sun is shining through the tree branches. Then I feel it. Tears running down my cheeks, the first tears I’ve shed in 100 days. And once they start, they flow freely. I hear an anguished noise and realize it is coming from my own throat - a wail that goes on and on, disappearing into the large open space. I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is relief as my body collapses in on itself. A few minutes later, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It feels comforting, but I don’t turn to see who it belongs to. The hand begins to rub along my shoulder and back, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, Maddie” says a voice. “Let it out.” I know that voice - it’s so familiar - and I turn to see Mrs. Stevens. She is holding a small towel in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Can I join you?” she asks. I nod numbly and she sits down beside me, handing me the two items. The towel is warm and damp, and I put my face in it, inhaling the scent of fresh laundry detergent and washing away the tears and grief. Then I open the lid of the cold water bottle and drink half of it in one gulp, an unquenchable thirst taking hold of me. When I’ve had enough I put the near-empty bottle aside. “How did you know?” I ask. She smiles, staring out over the expanse of the lake before looking back at me. “My husband walked out on me 25 years ago.” I turn to her. “I’m so sorry....” “I was lost after that. I thought I would never really live again.” A series of emotions flash across her face. “How did you start - take that first step?” My voice cracks as I speak. “Very cautiously.” She laughs. “But then over time a little less cautiously. I just looked for signs, for guidance. It can come to you in the oddest ways.” She winks and puts her hand on mine. The feel of it is warm and reassuring. I look into her eyes and see her kindness and compassion. I also see a hint of mischief, and I think of the three messages that seemed to fall from heaven. “I’m scared,” I realize for the first time. “Of course you are,” she says. “Anything worth doing in life is at least a little scary. But you don’t have to face this alone.” I nod, feeling her steady hand and her silent support. I turn to face the lake, which seems to go on forever, and see the whole world laid out in front of me. All the unknown - and all the possibility. We sit side by side lost in our own thoughts and admire its beauty together.

There was once, on Earth, a land and a time around the Middle Ages, now lost to mankind. This is the story of that land and that time which has rediscovered in the dusty bowels of an ancient library of a long empty monastery deep in the Carpathian Mountains. The land was full of war between magic and knights, barbarians and samurai. Magic was and is real, and had thousands of followers. One of those was Richard Cotter. Chapter 1 Richard Cotter was born into a poor family in the countryside of England. He had many siblings who all died young. Not from diseases or infections such as Pneumonia, but rather from attacks by mythical creatures such as the werewolf and vampyr. Because of this his parents decided it would be best for him to train in sorcery, to protect them and himself. At the age of 10 he became an apprentice to the mysterious Mr.Yellard, he trained into combat using magic as a weapon but also using magic to heal. Richard hated his master for he was abusive to him, the only way he could practice fighting was to fight his much stronger master and the only time he could practice healing was to have his master hurt him. He rarely saw his family as he was only allowed one five day break from training in the whole year. He visited them every christmas. The Christmas of his fifteenth year was the last time he visited them. Walking the snow covered path through the wood to their farm Richard sensed there was something wrong. Stooping as he entered through the low door his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, Richard found his parents lay dead on the floor with blood pooling around them. He immediately thought it to be the work of the local knight who hated all sorcerers and their families. He walked out with a sense of boiling anger and hatred. He hopped onto his horse Kelly, named after the famous 15th century sorcerer Edward Kelly, and rode off. His only thought was of death. After the long ride, Richard jumped off his horse and walked through the snow, muttering spells under his breath. Soon he reached the house of the knight. As he was walking closer, his mouth began to water at the smell of roasting beef . But he dismissed his hunger and walked in. He walked in to see the old knight, sitting in a crude leather chair, glugging down beer and attempting to cook beef. He felt his face burn when he saw how happy the knight was. Richard then proceeded to say the words of the strongest spell he knew, where he called upon Satan's seven strongest demons. He watched as the old knight screamed as the demons burned and ripped him apart alive until all that was left was a few pieces of burning flesh. Richard smiled when he got his revenge, but then his vision went black and he dropped down to the ground.

Carl Jenkins felt his cheeks cracking at the points where his smile ended. He’d been autographing his books for hours, his fingers were cramped, and his throat was dry. “Fantastic work, Carl. We haven’t done this much business since Christmas.” Marty, the bookstore owner and Carl’s best friend, put another paper cup of water on the desk. Carl rubbed his eyes and sipped some water. “How much longer?” “Just another hour.” Marty ran his fingers through his red curls. “The line is still out the door. We can extend the signing for another day.” “Sorry, Marty. I’m supposed to go on Oprah in two days. I’m flying out tomorrow.” “You finally made the big time, buddy.” Marty slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Maybe I’ll be so lucky someday.” He adjusted his glasses. “Well, gotta go. The cash register is calling.” “Gosh, Mr. Jenkins, I’m so thrilled to see you in person! I’ve read all your books!” Thank you so much--” Carl looked up at the woman. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed an o. “What’s wrong?” He pointed at her head. “Are my roots showing?” “No.” She felt her head. “Oh, that.” He nodded. “I didn’t choose my last boyfriend very wisely.” “I guess not.” “Of course, the cleaver was really your idea.” “What?” “Don’t you recognize me?” Carl blinked his eyes rapidly. Red hair, red nails, red dress, cleaver in the head.... “Ruby?” “Silly man, I thought you’d never figure it out!” “But, you’re dead!” She giggled. “I’m alive enough to take you to a cocktail party after this little shindig is over.” “I can’t--” “Oh, yes you can! Lots of people are anxious to meet you! Besides, would you rather go home to an empty house and an empty brain?” “How do you know about--” “I know all sorts of things about you, Carl. I know you haven’t been able to write anything for months. And I know why. You know too, don’t you, Fatty?” “Fatty?” Carl asked. A tall man unfolded himself from behind Ruby. “Don’t you remember me, Carl? I’m the one who’s always getting lost. But I’m not as lost as you.” “What are you talking about?” Carl asked. “We’ll explain it all to you at the cocktail party,” Fatty said. “So, pack up your stuff. It’s time to go.” “No, it’s not.” Carl folded his arms. “I have another hour.” “That’s real-world time, Carl.” Fatty smiled. “That doesn’t apply to creative types. Or to us.” Marty turned the sign on the door to CLOSED and shut off the overhead lights. Only a few reading lights remained on. “That’s it, Carl. I’d take you out for a victory drink, but my wife has other plans. We’ll celebrate some other time.” “Are you sure everyone else is gone?” Carl asked. “Yup, the only ones left are us two bookworms.” Ruby and Fatty grinned at Carl. Carl shook his head. “I must be really, really tired.” He gathered up his pens and his briefcase. The two men left the bookstore, and Marty locked up. “See you later, buddy.” Marty waved, got into his car, and drove off. The street was deserted. Carl sighed and shook his head. “Please smile, silly man, you have a party to go to!” Ruby chucked him under the chin. “So, why couldn’t Marty see you two?” Ruby and Fatty laughed. “You don’t understand, do you?” Fatty asked. “Let’s get the party going. Maybe it’ll light a candle in that dark mind of yours.” Ruby clapped her hands. Store lights turned on and street lights burned bright. Fairy lights twinkled above the road. The strains of a jazz tune wove through the clinking of glasses and conversations of people sitting around candle-lit tables in the street. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Ruby smiled. “Well, I’m going to find Joe. Fatty will introduce you around.” She kissed Carl on the cheek, and walked into the street. “Joe? Joe? There you are!” She threw herself into the open arms of a large man with part of his face missing Carl put both of his hands over his mouth to stop himself from gagging. “What’s wrong? It’s you who decided Joe should shoot himself in the head.” Fatty pulled Carl towards two men dressed in pin-striped suits and silk bowties. “Pull yourself together. It’s time to meet Randy and Wendell.” “So, you’re the famous author.” Wendell shook Carl’s hand. “And you’re...awfully blue.” “You would be, too, if you choked on a piece of fruitcake.” Wendell nudged Randy. “And you’re sopping wet, little brother.” “You would be, too, if you were dragged down to the bottom of the lake by a stack of fruitcakes,” Randy muttered. “Excuse me for interrupting this family reunion, but can you tell me why I’m here?” Carl asked. “Sorry, you’re absolutely right.” Wendell stood on a chair. In his best lawyer’s courtroom voice, he said, “I need your attention, everyone!” The music stopped playing, and the voices fell silent. “As you all know, we’re here to help Carl understand why, in the midst of great success--” Everybody clapped. Carl bowed. “He has a horrible case of writer’s block.” Wendell patted Carl’s head. “It could ruin his career.” Everybody tsk-tsked. “Before I continue, let’s make certain we’re all here.” Wendell tapped his head with his finger and looked at Carl. “It might give you a clue.” Wendell turned his attention back to the crowd. “Family first. Mom, Dad, Jasper?” They waved. “So glad you’re here - love you all.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Moving on. Jack, and Trish, are you here? How about everyone on that jet?” Everybody at the back of the crowd cheered. “My goodness, Carl. You know how to do it up.” Wendell crossed out a line in his notebook. “Hmmm, a whole den of feeders. Sorry, Carl, they weren’t invited. I was afraid they’d drool on everybody and spout nonsense. They would’ve ruined the party. I’m sure you understand.” Wendell crossed out another line. “We’re done with families and groups. How about individuals who--” “Look, Wendell, I’m not that dense,” Carl said. “I get that everyone here is one of my characters who died.” “Not just died,” Wendell said. “You’re quite the serial killer, you know. How many of us have you done in by murder, suicide, heart attacks and strokes, cannibalism, falling off a cliff, and automobile accidents, not to mention a plane that disintegrates in a storm? Do you know that you’ve written only two stories where all the characters survived until the end?’ Everybody booed. “Ok, folks, quiet down!” Wendell said. Randy rolled his eyes. “Really, Wendell, this is going to take forever.” “Patience, little brother. Carl here hasn’t been sleeping well, so he’s a little slow.” “How did you know?” Carl asked. “Why don’t you let me help out?” A short man approached, his dark hair greying at the sides, his suit spattered in blood. “Yes, please, Dr. Gerber,” Randy said. “You’re the therapist.” He pulled Wendell off the chair. “How did you get so bloody?” Carl asked. “Nita’s Uncle Otto finished me off with an axe,” Dr. Gerber said. “He didn’t like Nita talking about her mother.” Carl stared at Dr. Gerber. “Don’t you remember? Never mind, of course you don’t. I can set up an appointment with you after the party.” Dr. Gerber hoisted himself onto the chair. He coughed to get everybody’s attention. The chatter died down. “Tell me, Carl, do you find you’re more anxious than usual?” Dr. Gerber asked. “You’re having trouble sleeping, right?” “Right,” Carl said. “Maybe your appetite isn’t so good?” “Right.” “Maybe you’re having trouble concentrating?” “Right.” “Now tell me, Carl,” Dr. Gerber said. “What do dead folks do to their killers?” “You’ve even written a story about it.” Randy handed an autographed book to Carl, with the story dog-eared. Carl scanned the story. “Well, they haunt their killers.” Everybody clapped. “And how did your haunted hero react?” Dr. Gerber asked. “He was anxious, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t--oh” Carl looked at all his characters. “You’re telling me I can’t write because you’re all haunting me?” Everybody laughed. “Anybody here want add anything?” Dr. Gerber asked. A muffled sound came from a shattered floor-length mirror leaning against a lamppost. “What?” Dr. Gerber asked. The muffled sound repeated itself. He turned to Carl. “That’s Mona. She’s a little hard to hear behind that glass. Why don’t you go ask her what she said?” Carl walked over to the mirror and faced the blond woman dressed in dirty sweats. “I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?” “Come a little closer. My voice is hoarse,” she said. Carl leaned in closer. Mona grabbed him. “Hey!” Carl yelled. “Let me go!” She didn’t let go. She pulled him into the mirror. There was a loud pop. Mona stood in front of the mirror. Carl was trapped inside. Carl pounded on the glass. Mona laughed until she crumpled to the ground. “How does it feel to be one of your own characters, Carl?” She turned around and faced the crowd. “I say we bury this thing.” Ten passengers from the crashed jet grabbed shovels and the shattered mirror, and ran behind the bookstore. They were back moments later. This wasn’t real time, after all. All the store lights up and down the street turned off except for the bookstore. “What’s happening?” “I don’t know!” “Let’s go see!” Everybody crowded around the windows. All of Carl’s books dissolved with a poof. “What does this mean?” they all asked Dr. Gerber. Dr. Gerber looked at his clothes. “No blood! This must mean that Carl doesn’t exist, and we’re not dead anymore!” “Look at you, sweet man!” Ruby said to Joe. “Your face is whole again!” “And the cleaver is gone!” Joe said. Ruby and Joe hugged. Randy, Wendell, Jasper, Mom, and Dad laughed and hugged each other. “We’re all alive again!” “Mom,” Randy said, “No more fruitcake, please!” “I promise, Poo Bear,” Mom said. Randy blushed. Wendell stood on a chair. “Listen everybody! Listen!” All the characters hushed. “We may be alive now, but nobody will know who we are, unless we find another author.” Everybody booed. Wendell held up his hand. “Quiet now. Admittedly, we made a poor choice in Carl. He wrote horror. But there are authors who are much kinder to their characters.” “How about Marty?” Fatty yelled. “He writes romance.” “Marty! Marty! Marty! Marty!” everybody chanted. “Marty it is,” Wendell said. “Yay!” everybody cheered. The candles flickered out on the tables, and the jazz music faded out. The fairy lights, the tables, the liquor glasses disappeared. The street lights returned to their normal hue. The bookstore lights turned off. The characters smiled at one another as they evaporated into nothingness. Marty and his wife, Katy, strolled down the street after dinner. They stopped in front of the bookstore. “I had a great day,” Marty said. “I sold the entire stock of my latest romance books.” He shook his hand. “I’ll have to ice down these fingers. They’re cramped from signing.” “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Katy caught his hand and kissed each finger. “And tomorrow morning you fly out for Oprah.” “Listen, darling, I just had a great idea.” He hugged his wife. “Imagine a jet plane, crash-landing on a deserted tropical island.” His hand swept through the air. “Love. Intrigue. Strangers falling in love. One couple is Trish and Jack. Another is Ruby and Joe.” Katy laughed as Marty swung her around in the air. “I could build a whole new series around it. What do you think?” “You’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant!”

Douglas Reiche Approx. 3,000 words 108 Bluffview Drive, Troy MO 618-317-6014 douglasreiche@gmail.com MR. MORE-PH by Douglas Reiche Mr. More-ph could not be late for his appointment, so he tossed his briefcase in the back seat and got into the rental car. Beautiful day for a trip, he thought, looking around. He was a short man of 121.925 centimeters, or 129.54 centimeters, dressed in his pork pie hat that almost touched his ears. He was dapper: light gray suit, light blue button-down shirt, and large brown tie shoes. Mr. More-ph was stout with short legs, so he walked with small, quick steps, slapping the pavement with the sole of his shoe. His eyes were round, eyebrows thin, with a dominant large nose under which he modeled a neatly trimmed mustache. When he turned the key, the car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. He checked his watch, a frequent habit. The on ramp to the interstate was, ah! - Where? There, to his right, he pointed, quickly crossing over an empty lane. With the pedal down, the car leaped ahead a few miles per hour faster. An 18-wheeler blew its air horn, which shook the car, and quickly dove around him as he merged with the traffic. It brought little concern to this road enthusiast. Besides, there were three lanes on this interstate. “I only took one. Is there a problem?” he shouted. There was a sign ahead: Mudpatch 207 miles. It would be an enjoyable day. “Beep! Beep!” Now what! He looked in the mirror. Is this guy going to try to pass me? In that thing? “Let me show you,” he said as he pushed on the accelerator. The car from behind shot around him in a flash. What kind of car was that anyway? It was just a speck going down the road. Even so, interstates were very convenient, he thought, much better than those two-lane highways. Sometime later, there were flashing red and blue lights ahead, “Shame! Speeding!” he shouted, pointing out the side window. “Ticket. Ticket. Who’s getting a ticket? Not me,” he said out loud, pointing to himself. Traffic zoomed past. Mr. More-ph was oblivious to what was going on. A red light was on as he looked down at the dashboard. Almost out of gas? Are you kidding me? The needle flipped back and forth. Where was the next exit? “What! Thirty-three miles?” he cried. “Who made these roads anyhow?” Suddenly, a bell rang, ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. First, a light, then a bell. The bell should ring before you run out of gas, he cried. It felt like he had driven a hundred miles before the next sign appeared: 22A Mountain City, 3 miles. Ding-ding-ding-ding. He pounded on the dashboard. “Oh, shut up!” The tank was almost empty as he pulled into the station. He pumped the gas. Wow! $7.83. “What is this world coming to?” he remarked. Putting the hose back, he saw the small hole in the right fender, The rental agent said it might come in handy in a pinch. Whatever that meant? Ahead was the interstate sign with an arrow pointing straight. It went under an overpass, and now there were only two lanes. “What happened to the third lane?” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. He almost looked around, but lucky for the people behind, he kept driving. When he settled in, he decided that a two-lane interstate was fine. So, he whistled for a while, nothing anybody would know. Sometime later, he looked at his watch: 10:46. Almost time for lunch. The next sign ahead read, Corkscrew, 45 miles. He laughed profusely. Who would name their city Corkscrew? Traffic was getting heavier now. More people honked their horn and drove past. Some even waived. “Look at that. He’s waving with his fist in the air.” He waived back. Later, his head nodded, so he turned on the radio, but it only made a lot of static noises even when he turned the knob. Nothing! How could that be? You never know about those AM stations anymore. He turned it off. The traffic slowed down. Everyone was driving at the same speed as he was. There were orange cones on the road. Traffic slowed down even slower. There were trucks ahead, striping the road. When he was maybe in kindergarten, there was a man striping a parking lot. It seemed like a fun thing to do. But now he thought it might be even more fun to drive the big orange truck that painted the strips on the highway. So, what if you turned to the left or the right a little while you were driving? “Whoops!” he cried. He found himself turning the steering wheel. He almost hit the lady in the car next to him. Will you look at that? She is waving at me just like the guy. “All right! All right!” he cried. “I only crossed the line a little.” It was getting warm so he rolled down the windows and sniffed. Now it smelled like paint. It was 11:17. The road striping ended, and the traffic picked up speed. Oh, look, Corkscrew 20 miles. At 50, he would be there before lunch. As more mile markers passed, his foot got heavy on the accelerator, so he drove close to 60. Later, another sign, Corkscrew 5 miles. The countdown had begun: 4 miles, 3 miles. The city caught his attention. He leaned forward in the seat. “This place is crazy. All the streets are curved.” Main Street went up a hill and across a bridge. It turned to the right and went under a bridge. A burger sign reminded him of lunch. Where to eat? There was the Cork & Cleaver, but it was closed. Another one was the Corner Restaurant. There were a few cars there. That is a dumb name for that restaurant. It isn’t even on a corner. Down the street on Circle Drive was a food truck with a sizable hotdog painted on the side. It was right next to a large park. There was a line of people, a good sign for any restaurant. The first parking place was down the street. Finally, he got in line. It would be his luck that they would run out of food before he could order. The line moved and then moved again. On the marquee was the Special of the day, Twins-in-a-Bed: two dogs in a bun, curly fries, and a drink. What was so special about two hotdogs in a bun, he thought? Like most everyone, he ordered the Special. However, he had trouble seeing over the counter to pay, so he had to use The Box. It was for kids to stand on to order. It had clown faces painted on it. When he ordered, he thought Twins-in-a-Bed was unique, but when he got his order, the dogs were skinny and shorter than the bun. The condiments were hard to reach. The line backed up. The mustard was stuck - oh! It squirted. No! - on the lady’s sleeve. There was a place at the end of a park bench, so he ate there. This entire thing about Twins-in-a-Bed was a gimmick. It made you stop and order something, he complained to himself. He hated gimmicks. His watch said: 12:09. The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. Where was the interstate? He looked. It was impossible to find. The signs took him around the park and down several streets. The interstate went to the left, but Mr. More-ph went straight and got on the highway. It was nothing more than a two-lane road. The sign read, Mudpatch 73 miles, so he continued driving. If you are going in the same direction, you will eventually get to the same destination, he speculated. It was only a mile further, and he saw trucks ahead of him. The speedometer said forty-five. “Move it!” he cried, clutching the steering wheel. The road was bumpy and in need of repair. The car bounced around. I thought there was an interstate to Mudpatch. I guess not. How could he have made a mistake like that? He rarely did. Well, two lanes will do, he concluded. Calico 23 miles, the sign read. That might be as funny of a name for a city as Corkscrew. Suddenly, he burped. The Twins-in-a-Bed was a mistake. Then, quicker than he realized, Calico appeared as he rounded a curve in the road. There was a big sign: See the Calico Cat at the Country Village Museum. Calico was a small town. The sign read, Pop. 162. “They may have had to count everyone in the cemetery,” he said out loud with a chuckle. A block into Calico, there was a big white two-story house. There was a sign in the front yard: Country Village Museum. After he drove past, he stopped at the edge of town. He liked museums. He had stopped at many of them. Would he really like this museum? A Cat? Still, he had some time, and besides, what else could you do in a place like this. So, he turns around and went back. There were only three parking places. All three were empty. The sign on the door read, Come In. The screen door squeaked as he opened it, but the wooden door was stuck shut. He turned the big doorknob again and pushed hard with his shoulder. It gave way. A lady entered the room. She was 40-something, or maybe even 50, brown hair in a bun on her head. She was wearing a flower dress with a tan-laced apron. “Won’t you come in?” The place was full of - things: lamps, tables, knickknacks, quilts, dolls, an ornate dollhouse, a latte and a cappuccino machine, and the smell of fudge. Where were all the people who drank lattes, he wondered? It seemed like this whole house was misplaced. It was like it had moved from a different place to here. He looked around. One minute the lady was here. The next minute she was gone. He looked here and there. She was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she had gone to another room. Maybe she went - somewhere else. In one corner, several shelves had old trains. He was delighted that he had stopped now. Train shows didn’t have old trains like these. He examined them. Suddenly, the lady appeared again. She took him to the other side of the room and showed him to the Calico Cat. It was large, about 6 feet tall, and stitched together from orange, black, brown, and calico cloth. The double stitching was perfect. Without the patches, it just might have been alive. Mr. More-ph was dwarfed by it sitting on its hind legs. But he was mesmerized by its life-like eyes. It seemed to be staring back at him and - might it move about at any second? “Did it - no, it couldn’t have - there, see, it smiled, didn’t it?” Suddenly, he forgot about the trains. He had lost all track of time. The large grandfather clock chimed slowly twice. Bang, bang, it echoed in the room and brought him to his senses. He hurriedly paid for the latte and two pieces of chocolate almond bark, leaving the Calico Cat and everything else behind. He would have to hurry now to get to his destination on time. A block away from the museum, he was out of town again. The highway sign was ahead, so he kept driving. The piece of almond bark was great. Then he tried the latte. “Whatever happened to regular coffee?” There was another sign: Narrow Road Ahead. He drove about half a mile. There ahead of him was an old wooden plank one-lane bridge. He slowed down to go over the bridge when suddenly a speeding car raced across the bridge toward him; “B-e-e-p!” It left a plume of dust in its tracks. He saw nothing, but he rubbed his eyes. In a few moments, the dust had cleared. Had he been on the bridge - splat! Something not to think about. Apprehensively, he drove across the bridge. The planks were lengthways across the bridge. It creaked as he slowly crept across. The car wanted to slip off the planks. On the other side, he stopped the car, got out, and walked around. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The road on this side of the bridge was much narrower. The sign ahead read, Mudpatch 51 miles. It was still a long way to go. It seems he had left all civilization. The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. The pace was much slower now. A small creek ran through a culvert buried under the road. A house and barn near the creek had long since been abandoned. Only a shell of each remained. They were something left over from another time. The next sign appeared: Narrower Road. “How much narrower could this road get.” he complained. Within half-mile, another sign read: Narrower Bridge. “This is silly,” he said, slowing down as he approached the bridge. Again, he stopped and got out to look. No one was coming, he made sure. Still, the situation seemed hopeless. The bridge was too narrow. He went back and opened the trunk. To his surprise, he found the antenna that had broken off the car roof and a brass-plated key like you might use to wind up a clock, but much larger. This key must be what the rental agent was talking about. Maybe this is what the hole in the fender is for. After several attempts to pick it up, he slid it out of the trunk and rested it against the bumper. Then getting his breath, he tried again. He walked around to the right side of the car, and after some effort, he put the key into the mysterious hole in the fender. Which much effort, he began to crank the key clockwise, and to his amazement, the car slowly got narrower with each crank. Had he been taller and less stout, that might have helped some. He cranked the key again. Then he stood at the back of the car and analyzed the situation. He took his hat off and scratched his bald, shiny head. The car would make it now. But when he tried to put the key in the trunk, he realized the trunk had shrunk, but the key was still the same size. It stuck out of the back of the trunk. So, he tied the trunk lid down with a piece of rope. The car hesitated but then started with a puff of blue smoke. He clutched the steering wheel and drove across the bridge. This bridge was worse than the one before, and he noticed the car was driving funny. The road on this side was unpaved with a rock surface and weeds in the middle. If he went far enough, he thought, there might not be any road at all. The car leaned one way and then another as it climbed over one rock at a time. It seemed like it might tip over. Mr. More-ph bobbled up and down and bumped his head, but he was determined. A narrow place appeared in the road with large boulders on both sides. The key might work again. Untying the rope, he got out the key. To his surprise, it worked once again. The car was now no more than 4 feet wide. He checked the measurement between the rocks and then the width of the car and was confident the car would fit. However, the key was too big for the trunk. So, he left it beside the roadway, intending to pick it up on the way back. The car was much smaller, he realized. The front seat was way too narrow. So, he put the seat back, squeezed under the steering wheel, and jerked the door closed. The car made a funny noise, but there was a puff of blue smoke. The trees were taller now and came close to the road. They blocked out the sunlight. So, he turned on the headlights. Instantly, he thought he saw something in the woods. Maybe it was - or maybe not. He would keep an eye out for it. The road was curvy with deep ruts. There was a chance the car could bottom out and get stuck. There was no one within miles to pull him out. After much ado, Mr. More-ph saw another sign: Mudpatch 3 miles. He was elated. Mission accomplished: almost. He would have jumped up and down in the car, but he had wedged himself in on all sides. However, beyond that sign was a second sign, Interstate 5, 4 miles. “Do you believe that?” But there was nothing he could do about it now. Again, Mr. More-ph carefully drove down the road until it went up a steep hill. At the top, the road looked like a narrow point. To reach Mudpatch, he would have to drive up that hill. With resolve he started up the road. But the car banged and struggled. Blue smoke filled the air. Rocks kicked out from under the tires. “Come on,” he yelled, as if the car would do better. The road steadily narrowed. The tires wanted to slip off the roadway. He put the pedal down. The car suddenly lunged forward faster than he had ever expected, throwing rocks and dust everywhere. It shot up the hill and leaped into the air. A moment later, Poof! It burst into a million pieces of dust. Everything disappeared into Mudpatch. When Mr. More-ph was late, the town sent out a search party. Mr. More-ph was never found, nor his car. Only two things remain. They are his pork pie hat, found a bit soiled, and the large brass key left beside the roadway. THE END

The Japanese concept of Ma has been described as a pause in time, an interval or emptiness in space. Ma is the time and space life needs to breath, to feel and connect. If we have no time, if our space is restricted, we cannot grow. This universal principle applies to every aspect of life. It was the first town since the bus had crossed the border. The small and provincial town that lies in the middle of a valley, surrounded by farms and the mountains in the distance. It arrived at 7:30 pm when the sun was still up and it would be until 10 pm as usual for these far lands. Mundo stepped out of the bus and looked around. He had no money left since he had bought a ticket to get across the border. A new country with a new language against Mundos' backpack and his spirit. Meanwhile, the evening streets were almost empty, only few people were going up and down minding their own business but it looked all right, no crowds were needed at this place. After a long ride Mundo was starving and all he could think about was food, so he decided to have his dinner at the park. Some nutritious cereals with strawberry jam should satisfy the emptiness of his stomach. While he was crossing the road, a motorcycle crossed his way. Out of blue a driver had slipped in front of him and then turned back to Mundo. They were looking at each other for a few seconds, then the driver lost his interest. "It was so quiet, I couldn't even hear the sound of his moto, it probably was an electric one" thought Mundo. While he was eating in the park he made a sign using his marker. "Ride for free". Usually, it helped him in his previous adventures. He had finished the dinner and started off going down the streets to the end of the city. There was a place where he wanted to hitchhike. It was supposed to be his first hitchhike in this country and he had no idea how it should work here. In an hour of walking, he ended up on the outskirts, close to a gasoline station. It had been a while since he started trying to stop a car and the sun was wrapping up the whole valley and its town however no cars had stopped. Mundos' plan was to stand here for twenty or more minutes and then go to camp but like always life had its own plan for him tonight and someone honked him behind. Mundo turned around. "Hello," a voice said. "Hi!" Mundo answered politely trying to see the face of a stranger. The guy was sitting on his electrical motorcycle smiling. He had driven a little bit closer to Mundo and turned off the engine, so the barely audible sound of the moto had ceased at all. He put out a phone and opened some kind of translator that Mundo had never seen before in other countries. The stranger started to write something and then a translator voiced words that explouded the silence of an inevitably upcoming night. "I saw you a few hours ago at the bus station. Who are you?" He passed to Mundo his phone. "Yes, I saw you too," Mundo said and blew his nose. The voice started to utter words that neither of them knew. "No, no," answered the boy rapidly and started to switch something in his phone, then passed it to Mundo one more time. "Yes... I also saw you there," repeated Mundo. The lovely voice started to voice an unknown language and the boy took his phone back and leaned against his ear, after he nodded and then smiled. He started to write a new message but it always took some time of him, meanwhile, Mundo was trying to stop cars but it didn't do any good. The vehicles of any kind as though they were soulless mechanisms with no living, home-hurrying, and warmhearted creatures at the steering wheels were passing by and didn't pay any attention to him. "What are you doing? May I ask?" the mechanical voice said and gained Mundos' attention off of the road again. "I am a traveler," Mundo said into the telephone and showed his sign to the boy "Now I am trying to stop a car" The boy looked at the sign and nodded a few times. Then he said by himself: "I anderstend" and smiled. Mundo smiled back timidly and reached out his pocket to take some clean tissues for his nose but they had ran out. The guy got off the moto, stepped ahead to Mundo, and continued to write a new message. Now his appearance was more clear to Mundo. He had a short haircut that looked quite neat compared to Mundos' long and tree-days-unwashed hairs, old, rather dirty than white sneakers and sports pants with some dull hoodie. His clean and shaved face looked young and he probably was the same age as Mundo. "No cars would stop here. It is getting dark. Can I help you? I want to take you to a hostel where you can sleep." Mundo finished reading the message and looked at him closely. The boy switched the languages and leaned forward the phone for Mundo to speak. A few seconds there was silence and the translator turned himself off unexpecting to record anyone's voice, so the boy looked at Mundo questioningly. Mundo looked at the road hesitantly, then at the boy. His thoughts and the situation were slink and uncertain. Again he looked at the boy and again at the road, then he sighed and said: "Thanks a lot, but I do not go to a hostel right now. I want to go to the next city. Thank you." The robotic voice started to utter it all over again. Then a car stopped by. It was driving out of a gas station. Mundo smiled at the driver, full of hope, and pointed out at himself then at the car, suggesting to the boy translate the story of Mundo. The boy nodded and they started to speak their language. In a minute the driver looked at Mundo and negatively shook her head. She was sorry. The opposite direction. No luck. "Okay, thank you," said Mundo sadly in English. The car went forward and dissolved into the evening lights of the city. It had become dark and even Mundo had already realized it was pointless to continue. He asked for the phone and the boy opened up the translator one more time. "Well, thank you for help! I think I will go now," said Mundo and sniffed his nose. "Will you go to a hostel?" asked the boy "Probably I will." answered Mundo, trying to finish it as soon as possible. In a minute Mundo had disappeared into bushes where he started his way to some peaceful and quiet place for a tent even though he didn't know any particular ones. He was quickly walking along some fields with plants and seeds, hoping to get over them as soon as possible and find a good spot for his tent. Twice he looked back and after hurrying up more and more. One more night and again he would be camping in the sticks where only the Moon is a witness. The moon is always a witness. For all of the night ramblers and Mundo as well. Some Mundo. He had made only a few hundred meters when he heard the sound from the side where the bushes were. Mundo looked back and saw that boy who was running wildly towards him. He was caught off-guards. Nor any knives or running with his heavy backpack would save him. Standing there in the middle of the fields, far from the main road and still away from another side of the fields. Too late to make his move. On his way to Mundo, not stopping, the boy started putting out something out of his pocket. Mundo, eyes wide-opened trying to predict any motions of his follower, was ready to protect himself. Just in a second before the boy would come closer to Mundo, Mundo noticed that it was just a phone in his hand and nothing else. The boy had slowed down his speed just in front of Mundo, gaspingly, showing him a new message that had turned their meeting into something incredibly different from now on. "Wait please, let's go with me, I have a place to stay." The silence of the moment was being bothered only by the inconsistent breathing of the boy. Mundo looked at the bright screen of the phone which lightened the darkness. He breathed out and slightly smiled with the corner of his mouth. "Is it far?" asked Mundo The boy looked at the phone to read the words of Mundo and said: "No, no no, no far." Mundo gladly nodded. * They were driving out of the city, from the highway along some rural road, and in 15 minutes they had reached a farm. He invited Mundo to the farm, at the control post. "I work here! I am on my night shift. I am a security guard." Then another guy stepped out of the room. The boy showed Mundo the room with cameras and one with beds where they sleep and after he started to talk with his colleague. Soon it had become a real quarrel between them. Mundo understood it. The situation was speaking for itself. "I am so sorry we cannot be here. He is afraid of you. You are a stranger," wrote the boy. "No worries. I understand you and him, no worries," said Mundo They were looking at each other for a moment and then the boy went to the control room and came back in a second with a toilet paper. He pointed out to his nose. "This is for you!" "Oh!" smiled Mundo and said, "Thank you a lot!" He blew his nose again. Clean and proper, having now heaps of paper now. "Let me buy you a room in a hostel," he wrote and started off turning on the moto. "No no no, it's not necessary! Thank you a lot," said Mundo and waved his hands negatively. "OK, what are going to do right now?" "If you know a place where I can set up my tent. I cannot camp here, the solid is riddled with stones and rubbles," said Mundo. The boy nodded, wrote a new message, and taped the button on the screen. "Follow me, I know the spot you want." They were riding for five minutes then left the moto on the road and went along the fence of the farm. The number of rubbles was increasing, at some moment it was hard to step but then all the stones started to disappear, in twenty meters only few left. Finally, they came to a meadow with a gurgling cold river. It was so unexpected to see such a good place after farms, dusty roads, and stony surfaces. Only the Moon was shining on them and lightening the place. "Do you like this spot?" asked the boy "Well thanks a lot, it's perfect. I am going to set up my tent here." "Do you need anything else?" asked the boy, using his phone. "Thank you a lot, from now on I will handle it by myself," said Mundo directly on the phone. "Okay, so I should go back to work. Have a good night! Bye!" said the boy and started walking back into the pitch darkness, back to his work. Mundo was looking at the disappearing silloute of the boy for a while and then started setting up his tent but the power of the wind that reigns among these open spaces was against it and threw a severe fight into Mundo, which he couldn't resist well. A canopy of his tent had been carried away up in the air and he couldn't catch on account of handing the other side of the tent. Every time he wanted to handle the second edge, the first one was being carried away. It had taken almost 10 minutes until the moment when out of nowhere the boy had appeared. He had caught the second side of the tent, killing the darkness with his flashlight like some kind of star warrior. They had sat up the tent in a few minutes together. The fight in which Mundo was about to be defeated unexpectedly had turned out into their victory. "Do you need something else?" asked the boy again and smiled. It seemed like he understood everything. "No, thank you so much! I am gonna brush my teeth and go to sleep." Mundo started his way to a creek, but it was too dark to not step into it, so the boy flashlights his way, and there it was. Mundo was brushing his teeth while the boy looked at him and lit the surface of a creek. Only the gurgling of the creek was breaking the silence or just making it even more natural. "What is your name?" asked Mundo, having interrupted the moment. "A?" the boy said and started putting out his phone. "Wat iz yor naem?" said slowly Mundo. "May..may naim is" he was slurring and trying to write something down at the same time but then stopped, hid away the phone, and said: "Ma. My name is Ma" "Ma?" Mundo smiled with his mouth full of toothpaste. "Mundo." "Mundo," repeated Ma "Mundo, right," said Mundo and rinsed the mouth then added "Okay, gonna sleep now." "I understand, Mundo. Good night!" wrote Ma "Thank you, Ma! Thank you for your help!" Ma nodded shyly and ran away to his control post. That night was dark and cold, even the defeated wind had fled off of these lands and only cold remained there until the morning. Mundo was freezing to the bones, half asleep he looked forward to the first sun glimpses but when he looked at the time on his phone it was 7:03 am and there was no Sun at all. He unzipped his tent and went outside. He noticed the warm air coming from his mouth. Mundo started jumping to warm up his body. That was quite the morning. He was cooking his breakfast and waiting for the Sun that was slowly coming to his spot. At night they had sat up the tent on the opposite side of the valley, so the Sun reached his place at the last moment before the whole valley would be swimming in sunlight. "Helooo!" someone screamed from the side of the farm. "Oh, hi! Good morning!" said Mundo sitting near the creek with his gas stove. Yolks of delicious fried eggs were seen in his saucer. The boy ran towards him and started to write a message, his breath inconstant, cheeks red with a natural smile. Mundo smiled at him even though Ma was occupied with an upcoming message and didn't notice it. The boy was standing in front of him, looking so simple and friendly. Mundo liked the way how the boy looked. "It has been such a cold night are you okay?" "Yes, yes," Mundo agreed and started shaking to show how he was feeling during the night. They burst out laughing. The sun had finally arrived at their place, warming the boys and the tea was giving away the steam all right. Mundo pointed out to the food. "Do you want some?" "No no no, thank u," said Ma himself without his phone. "Okay, as you wish." "I will take you to the highway, okay?" asked Ma with his phone. "Oh, thank you, no need, I will go there by myself, you have already done a lot for me, thank you, Ma." "You are welcome, Mundo, please, be careful." "And I will, Ma. Please, be careful too," said Mundo and started eating his meal. The boy was looking at him and his tent in complete silence for a while but now it didn't look strange and Mundo was peacefully enjoying his fried eggs with hot tea. In a few minutes, the boy ran in the direction of his farm. He hadn't broken the silence of the moment, so Mundo continued eating his breakfast, calmly, warming up his body with the tea, thinking about the upcoming day as though nothing had happened. They have never seen each other again.

So most days she doesn't even recognize me. And most days that's fine. It's fine because as hard as all this is, it only gets harder if she sees me as who I am--her son-- and she's made aware of the fact that the person laboring over her, feeding her, wiping away the spare soup from the corner of her mouth, listening to her mad ravings, and having to hold her and rock her in his arms until she finally calms enough to sleep, is someone she cares about; someone she loves. And other days, on the good days, I am nothing short of destroyed when she fails to recognize me; when her eyes look directly into mine while she's telling me some happy story from my *own* childhood and I think I see in her a spark of recognition only to be let down when she calls me by my father's name or, worse yet, asks me who I am. She needs more help than what I give her. She needs help dressing herself, washing herself, going to the bathroom, and I cannot help her in these ways so she has a live-in nurse to do these things for her. But in all the areas that I am qualified and capable and emotionally able to care for her, I do. I do because those exceedingly rare moments when she is both in a good mood and able to remember me make the other shitty times mostly worth it. *Mostly*. But if I don't help her as often as possible, even through the awful, gut-wrenching and heart-breaking moments, then I'll miss those rare good moments, and I know she has a very limited supply of good moments left. And in this fact there is a strange and uncomfortable reversal of life. When we're young, our parents spend as much time as they can spare watching us and interacting with us so that they can catch all of our joyous first moments. They lose their minds at our first steps, they shed tears of elation when we utter our first 'momma' or 'dadda,' they clap and cheer the first time we ride a bike without training wheels, and they cry along with us when the world first breaks our heart. We mark all of these firsts in life because as a species we value people entering the world and coming to experience all that it has to offer. We find our joy in watching a new life become a thriving member of our shared world, and we all aspire to leave our own marks in that virgin clay, to help shape a child into an adult so that some small part of who we are will live on in them. But what we almost never acknowledge is that for every first there is a last. And we never mark these events because it’s too depressing to think about. And even if we wanted to mark these occasions, we can’t because we can never know which otherwise routine moment will be the last of its kind. Still, you’ll experience exactly as many lasts as firsts in your life. It’s an unavoidable, mathematical certainty. There will be a last time you'll ride a bike, a last time you'll fall in love and a last time your heart will break. There will be a last time you'll use the words 'mom' or 'dad' out loud, a last time you talk to the people to whom those labels apply. And as I approach the limit of my mother's ability to share any sort of meaningful moments with me or anyone else, and realizing that all of her firsts are behind her, I do my best to celebrate her lasts with her in a grim and depressing way. Maybe celebrate isn't the right word ... commemorate maybe? Or simply to commiserate. I never got to share my father's lasts with him, and he hardly got to share in any of my firsts. He was taken by cancer when I was only four years old. In the many years since, everyone in my life has asked me if I remember him. All I can say is that I've always tried to. I have memories that I'm almost sure are real, but I can never be truly certain if I'm remembering events as they actually occurred or if I'm just creating an image of them based on stories that my mom has told me. But in any case, almost everything I know about my father comes from other people. I'm told he was a good man. I'm told he loved my mother and me more than anything in the world. I'm told by some people that he's watching over me from heaven. I’ve never been sure if I believe this last thing. At any rate, my mother was the only one who shared all of the firsts of my childhood with me. And together we shared many last moments, too. I actually remember the last time she ever picked me up and carried me around. I remember distinctly that she told me I was getting too heavy for her, and that soon I’d have to walk everywhere on my own, and she was right. And that was it; a last moment that no one marked or recognized or even realized until after the fact. "Daniel," her voice calls me, feebly. I look up, torn from the endless and self sustaining cycle of cynical thought that pervades my day to day existence and for a moment a smile cracks my lips. "Hey, mom," I say, "How are you feeling?" "Oh, I'm fine. How are you?" she asks, as if we're just two old friends catching up, as if this is all routine, and in a way it kind of is. I can tell she's only about halfway here, but then, so preoccupied am I with my musings and reflections on the ancient past and the near future, I'm not much more than halfway here either, I guess. Her eyes look into mine and there is a connection there. Some part of her understands that this lucidity she's experiencing is only a temporary state. There is a darkness etched into the shadows of her face by this understanding, and I can tell she longs to make some deeper connection before the ephemeral awareness passes. I know what the look on her face right now means because this has happened several times before, and it will probably happen again. But I can't *know* that. I can't know this won't be the last time she’ll be here and aware enough to know who I am. "Daniel, my baby, my boy. I love you so, so much." She has said these words or some variation of them many times before in these fleeting moments of near consciousness. "I'm going to see your father soon, you know," she says, wisely, smiling. These words she has never spoken before. At least not out loud. At least not to me. I wasn't planning on telling her that Jamie is pregnant. I couldn't see the point in it. But her mentioning my father has brought a completely unexpected emotion to the surface. "I know, mom," I say, "You know I'm going to be a dad soon, too? You're going to be a grandma." She smiles at me warmly as the recognition and the lucidity fade from her face and once again her mind recedes behind that curtain of fog beyond which I cannot hope to reach it. If this is the last time she's ever truly awake and aware again, I'm glad to have left her with something to smile about. And at the thought of never speaking to my mother again, I am suddenly and undeniably broken. I pick myself up and get all the way to the front hallway before I cannot contain the tears any longer and I let them flow. And flow. And flow. I have had endless arguments with Jamie lately about how much time I'm spending with my mom while I have a pregnant girlfriend to look after. It's not that Jamie is unsympathetic, but she grew up in foster care and has never really felt towards anyone what I feel towards my mother. And she's not wrong, either. If I'm being truly honest with myself, my mom has been gone for months already. She's still breathing, but she isn't living. I am trading feeling my child's first kicks from within my girlfriend's womb for watching my mother shed her last tears in a home she no longer knows. I am trading being a father to a child for trying to parent a parent. But this is my obligation, I tell myself, this is my duty. But now I am choosing to interpret my mother's smile as her consciousness fades away as a blessing. I believe if she could, she would say "go and be a father, you've already been a good son." But I'll never hear her say that. I'll never know if she really feels that way. I just have to trust that I knew her well enough to guess what she would want. And I suppose my guesses as to how she might interpret any given situation is all I’ll have of her going forward. I leave my mother in the nurse's care and I drive home to my girlfriend and my future child. I am leaving behind a few last moments with my mother to ensure that I don't miss too many with my child.

I dedicate this story to my partner and to everyone who has carried or is carrying the burden of grief. Sitting by the bed, holding my hand, you think my mind is fighting against the decision of my body to quit life’s game. My eyes are closed, but I sense your will through the fingers laced tightly around my own. Tenderness is a force and you stake my claim to life through the insistent pressure of your hand. How it has grown over these long years from its immaculate small perfection to this manifestation of adult capability: greeting strangers, shaking on deals, carrying children of your own. From the first moment, holding tight to my little finger in the hush of the darkened hospital room, it wanted to latch onto me and the world. You needed reassuring then; you do now. Beloved child, my hand rests peacefully in your own. Let it speak to you with the words I can no longer form: I am ready, so let me go. Quitting seems such a nasty word. I used to think so too. Lying here, I remember telling you not to give up; to keep trying at those school projects, at winning over the sour-faced teacher, at striving to do your best in the world of work and family. So, it is no surprise that you desperately want me to go another round; you aren’t ready for me to hang up the boots and to let this be the final whistle. Doctors speak in plain language of their expectations for this last round of play. You are resigned, seeming to concur with their prognosis; yet, when they are gone to the next ward, I feel the pulse of rage in the heartbeat of your hand. It troubles the peace I feel begin to slip about me like the blanket I wrapped you in, our blessed first night together. Beloved child, tuck me into this long sleep. Strength is sometimes a burden. I sense your head bowed with the weight of this demand: to fight on for my life. You are a pillar of strength threatened by tides of emotion. Let them come; lay down the boulder of your mighty will and trust me that there is no wrong or shame in this. It is ok to feel as small as a pebble, waves washing over it, again and again, caught up in the pounding tides of life; but there is also so much strength, even in the smallest stone. If the doctor’s words have lit a fighting fire in you, they have quenched my last longings. I have been delivered from the exhausting expectation to struggle and soldier on. My body has long known the relief of a lie-down, now my mind can too. At the end of this illness, I can finally embrace myself once more, body and mind hugging each other tight. Nurses come, those kind attendees with their needles and bottles to help ease the passing of my days. Quietly and efficiently they dismantle the apparatus that has helped me cling to life. Monitors and machines are disconnected and wheeled away; drips suspend their drops and beeps are silenced. Life lines are hauled out and I am my own net, catching my life’s dreams and memories. Holding them safe inside me, I am ready to let go. Deep within you, I wish for a long-lost memory to stir. Do you think you can remember our first night together? There was noise, so much! The bustle of nurses, the instructions of doctors; machines robotically noted key data while I gasped my ragged breath and blew blast after blast on the trumpet of pain. Everything was labouring and then you shuddered into this world on a wave of love. You added your noise, of course you did, roaring in a way that silenced everything else. I knew I had never heard a more beautiful sound than your first-born cry. There must have been other noises: temperatures read and recorded, pens scribbling on charts; your armband identification filled in and the blue plastic snapped onto your little wrist; sheets rustling as they were changed and freshly laid; casters clicking on the floor as we were wheeled to another ward, but I was deaf to it all. The only thing that returns to me, in the serenity of now, is the silence we shared as the rest of the world seemed to sleep; those first hours together when it was just us two, with eyes only for each other. Eventually you closed yours and drifted off to sleep. I was beyond exhaustion and yet, watching your little chest rise and fall in a rhythm so wonderfully familiar and new, I pushed tiredness away as I held you closer to me. I wanted that night to never end; to put off that moment when we would be parted for the first time, even if you were just in a crib a few feet from my bed. My will was strong but eventually the night nurse came by and laughed at my stoic fight to stay awake and keep guard. “He’ll be alright, he knows his mum is right beside him. Remember, there’s plenty of time for tiredness in the nights to come!” She was right. When she lifted you from my arms and placed you in the crib at my side, you never stirred. The last thing I remember before sleep claimed me, was stroking your little hand with the tips of my fingers, realising that you knew I was there, and I knew you were there for me too. Silence cups us as it did that night eighty years ago. Yours was the small hand then, now it is mine. Things seem different, but nothing really changes at all. Our hands will always reach out to each other across time and space; but in the circle of your memory, you'll reach me and we'll hold each other once more. Beloved child, my hand rests peacefully in your own. Let it speak to you with the words I can no longer form. Tuck me into this long sleep. I am ready, and you are too, so let me go.

“Mum,” I paused and checked the time, “Mum?” Another pause, “Listen, I would really love to keep chatting, but I have to go.” The voice on the other end kept going on and on about the weather for the weekend and her garden. “That’s great mum, but I’m going to go now. I love you.” Before she could respond I hung up the phone as the front door swung open. I quickly dropped the phone face down on the couch and pretended to be focused on the television. A news broadcaster discussed new evidence in a case against a man accused of murdering his pregnant wife and their two small children. I listened to the footsteps behind me as my heart raced, I silently prayed he had missed me place my phone down. “Who were you talking to?” His voice whispered in my ear making the hair on my arms stand on end. My heart sank as I noticed his hand placed closely next to the phone. It was a simple question that had a simple answer, but in his mind, the simple answer would still be wrong. It didn’t matter who it was, he would turn nothing into something. “No one.” I quickly replied keeping my eyes on the phone. Before I could react, he had the phone in his hand and was trying to unlock it. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me your fucking passcode.” “No.” My voice was quiet as I got to my feet. “I said, give me your passcode.” He spat keeping the phone in one hand and his other gripped the front of my shirt. “Give me my phone.” My voice grew louder as I held his gaze. My focus became retrieving the phone and not what could happen in the process. A devilish grin spread across his face. “Give me the fucking passcode, you whore.” Forgetting his grip on my shirt, I lunged for the phone. He dodged the movement and in one swift motion shoved me backward and snapped the phone over his knee. I watched as he hurled it onto the tile floor in the kitchen. I stared at the device on the floor unable to move. The screen on one end was black and the other was lit faintly. A sick feeling overcame me, and tears threatened to fall from my eyes. The one piece of freedom I had was broken, and now I would need to come up with an explanation as to why. He knelt in front of me and whispered in my ear, “Remember this when you want to be a sneaky whore. You think someone will treat you better than me? No one, and I mean no one, will ever love you like me. Remember that.” He stepped over me and made his way into the other room. The tears streamed down my face as I quickly crawled to the phone. There was no one to call, no one I could tell the truth to. All of me felt broken, too broken to be loved. *** The car pulled in; I looked out the window. “Mum?” I watched as he got out of the car, “Yeah, it was great to talk to you, but I will talk to you later.” I said hurriedly. “Oh, okay sweetheart! I’ll talk to-,” I cut her off, “I love you too, bye.” I hung up before she could respond and quickly placed the phone on the counter as the door shut behind me. My heart raced as I stared at the phone, “Hi, honey.” I turned slightly and flashed a smile at him. My eyes remained low as he made his way towards where I stood, “Is everything okay?” He asked. I gestured towards the food cooking on the stove, “I’ve been cooking away. I’m making this Italian chicken pasta dish I found on the internet, and I think it’s going to be amazing. At least I hope.” My mind was racing, I knew he caught me placing the phone down. I waited for the altercation. He nodded slowly and kissed the back of my head before picking up the phone. “Can we talk about this?” He put it back on the counter. “What about it?” This was the moment I had been preparing for since the door shut. I kept thinking of all the ways to get the phone closer to me. I started to feel like a cornered animal and my heart began to race. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m not him.” He paused and pushed the phone closer to me, “All I ask is for honesty. If there is someone else, please tell me. Don’t keep it from me.” I stood dumbfounded as I had expected a fight, to be told I was in the wrong. All I could say was, “I know.” I paused for a moment, “I know you’re not him, and I’m sorry. I’m still learning.” My voice cracked as I tried to hold back tears. He pulled me in for a hug. I was engulfed in his warm and loving embrace and could no longer contain my emotions. I sobbed into his chest, soaking his shirt. “You’re a grown woman, you’re allowed to talk to whoever you want to. You don’t need to be afraid that I’m going to catch you, or that I’m going to be mad that you were talking to someone other than me.” My vision was blurred as I looked up at him, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” It was the truth. There were many parts of me still broken from the past, and I needed to face them to heal and move forward. I was no longer trapped in a situation of constant pain and suffering. This, the here and now, was what it felt like to be loved how I deserved to be loved. “We will work on it together.” He smiled at me and wiped my tears. I smiled back and then swatted his hand to keep him from tasting the food on the stove. “It’s not ready!” I laughed. *** I stood by the stove preparing dinner when he walked in. A pile of mail left his hands and landed on the table. “Anything good come in the mail?” I asked. He shook his head. “Looks like just some bills and you got a piece of mail from some university. Probably a scam.” I watched as he walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I stood still listening closely for the sound of the shower running, and once I heard it, I rummaged through the mail on the table. The letter he was talking about was at the bottom of the pile. There in the corner of the envelope was the logo for South End University. I tore open the envelope and pulled the letter out. My eyes scanned the page and a smile spread across my face. “What is it?” His voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed the shower stop or heard the bathroom door open. “I got in,” I said softly. “Got in?” He looked confused. He made his way toward me and took the letter out of my hands. I watched as his eyes scanned the letter and a fire was ignited within them. “What the fuck is this?” He met my gaze as I went to grab the letter from him, and he gripped my wrist to stop me. “I applied to college. I told you that was my plan, remember?” His grip tightened around my wrist, and I winced in pain. He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. “Oh, you told me. You told me? You don’t get to tell me what it is you’re doing. You ask me. This decision isn’t just about you. Do you even care about me at all?” “What are you talking about? How does me wanting to better myself make it so I don’t care about you?” I said confused. He laughed and threw his arms up. “You’re so stupid. This means we will never have anything nice because your dumbass just put us hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. So inconsiderate, and it’s a waste of your time. You don’t need to be busy with school when there is shit to be done around here.” I pulled my arm away from his grasp. “I don’t need your permission to do anything. I am going back to school, period.” I tried to stand taller to show I wasn’t going to back down to him this time but flinched as soon as he stepped forward. “We’ll see how long I allow you to take these classes.” He said through clenched teeth. When he walked away, I picked up the crumpled letter on the floor and stuffed it into my purse. *** I stared at the typed-up email in front of me, contemplating whether to hit send or not. The longer I thought about it the more I thought about when I had originally applied. All of me wanted to hit send and take the leap to better myself, but his voice played in the back of my mind; This means we will never have anything nice. “Hey, can I talk to you?” I asked. The television played the basketball finals which were very important to him, and part of me felt horrible for interrupting. Within seconds of me asking he paused the television and turned to me, “You can talk to me about anything.” He said. I shifted nervously in my seat. The words evaded me. I was embarrassed for even bringing it up, inside I knew he would support me. I still couldn’t help but feel I would be ruining his life if I didn’t talk to him first. I finally broke the silence, “I want to go back to school and finish earning my degree.” He caressed my hand in his and smiled. “Do it.” I searched his eyes looking for any sign of doubt, anger, or discontent. It was the answer I was looking for, but I still felt like it wasn’t the answer I was meant to receive. “You don’t think I would be ruining your life by making that big of a decision?” He stared at me for a moment, knowing the reason behind my question. “You want to know what I think?” I nodded in response. “I think, you should never feel as though you are ruining my life by bettering yourself.” He paused for a moment tracing my hand with his fingers, “I also think, if I ever make you feel as though you’re ruining my life by doing something for yourself then I’m a horrible person.” “Okay.” I squeezed his hand and pressed send on my email. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he went back to watching the game. I noticed my heart rate slow and felt at ease. He is not him, I thought to myself, he will never be him . I am free to be me. *** “What do you think?” I asked. “I can’t believe you chopped all your hair; you look like a completely different person! I love it. It looks so good!” My best friend shrieked in excitement. “It is a change I’ve been needing. I’m so happy with how it turned out!” I said with a smile. “Has he seen it yet?” It was a dreaded question that I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Not yet.” I said, “He’s going to hate it though.” “What do you mean? You look good, why would he hate it?” She asked. There was a long list of reasons. I hadn’t told him about my hair appointment would be the first, the second would be the length, and the third would be because I was gone all day, and nothing got done in the house before he got home. “He just doesn’t love short hair on me. That’s all.” I shrugged. My mind wandered as I considered every scenario that could occur once he sees my hair. My best friend's voice started to fade into the background as I became lost in thought. When I pulled into the driveway his car was already there. I took a deep breath as I slipped my phone into my pocket to keep it as close to me as possible and slid my hood up. The door creaked open, and only one light was on in the corner of the room. He was sitting in front of his computer. His hands were moving erratically as they pressed and pushed buttons on a controller and a headset covered his ears. I crept towards the kitchen watching him waiting to see if he would notice me. When I made it to the kitchen, I let out a sigh of relief and let my hood fall. “What the hell did you do?” His voice boomed startling me. I spun around to face him. “You scared me.” I held his gaze and could see he was expecting more of a response. “I got my hair done today,” I said. “When did you tell me you were getting your hair done?” He questioned. “I told you a couple of days ago when I made the appointment,” I said as I backed further into the kitchen. “Oh, you told me. You TOLD me. I forgot we don’t ask about things anymore we just tell.” He looked at me with disgust as he reached out and touched my hair, “What the fuck did you do? Do you like looking like someone took a chainsaw to your hair? That’s what it looks like. You are supposed to ask me before you do anything to your hair, do you understand?” His voice grew louder as he spoke, and I continued to retreat further back into the kitchen. “I thought it looked nice,” I whispered and bit down on my lip to keep from crying. “I thought it looked nice,” he mimicked. “It looks awful. Women with short hair are ugly. You are ugly to me now, does that make you happy?” I shook my head still trying to hold back tears and was now trapped between him and the counter. “One day you will listen to me.” He quickly grabbed my hood and yanked it back over my head. He pushed down causing my leg to give out underneath me. I cried out in pain as my knee connected with the tile floor. Without looking back, he went back to his game. I slowly and quietly crawled into the other room and shut and locked the door. The pain from my knee was radiating down to my ankle. I sobbed and pulled my phone out of my pocket. When the screen lit up my eyes grew wide. I put the phone up to my ear, “Mum?” I said. “Pack your bags. I’m coming to get you right now.” *** The radio played softly in the background, and I fixed my hair in the mirror. “Thank you so much mum, I love it.” I smiled brightly. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Happy Birthday.” We pulled into the driveway of my home and his truck was parked outside. “He’s going to love it. I’m sure he’s even planned the most romantic evening for the two of you.” My mother gushed. “He always plans the best evenings; I’m not sure he’ll want to go out anywhere with me if he hates my hair though.” My smile slowly faded. I was filled with worry and doubt. It had been years since I had last done anything to my hair, and I could still hear his voice whenever I thought about changing it. You are ugly to me now. My mother took my hand and squeezed it. “Do you like it?” She asked. “Yes,” I said. “Then so will he.” She released my hand and looked toward the front door. “That man in there loves you the way you have always deserved to be loved. I thank God every day for that.” Tears were forming in her eyes. She embraced me and rushed me out of the car to keep herself from crying. I entered the home, and the lights were dimmed, candles were lit, and there was a small gift on the table. He came around the corner and stood in the doorway. “There’s the birthday girl!” I flipped the switch to the kitchen light and pointed to my hair, “Do you like it?” I asked. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. The longer he stared at me the more I wished I had on a hoodie to hide in. I started to feel insecure when he finally said, “Is that the color you wanted? It doesn’t look like the picture you showed me.” I could feel myself going numb, even though the words didn’t come directly from his mouth I knew he hated it. All I could think about was how my hair didn’t resemble the picture and how he must think I’m a liar. My mind began to race, and I felt the urge to run away. “Are you okay?” He asked breaking my train of thought. “I’m sorry I even dyed it, and it seems like I lied when I showed you the picture. I buy box dye to fix it.” The words fell from my mouth. I wanted to hide but had nowhere to go. He took my face in his hands and I focused on his deep green eyes, “Listen to me,” he said, “I never said you were a liar, and I don’t care if it doesn’t look like the picture. I don’t even care if you hate it. I think you’re beautiful, no matter what. Do you understand?” I nodded. “You are beautiful, and deserving of my love, of all love. I am not him; seeing you happy is what makes me happy. Do you understand?” I nodded.

“So, this is where he died then?” Will asked, turning to his father for confirmation. “Yes,” Charlie “Chip” Shaw answered deliberately, weak eyes peering over the ground that still haunted his dreams. He leaned on his walking stick heavily. It had been a long time since he had been back here. A lifetime, most would day. Will, with lines creasing his own face, gave a small, perfunctory smile. How could he guess what raced through his father’s mind? It was so different now, the high summer sun giving rise to rolling green fields and calm skies. Red specks littered the green, like flecks of blood spilled fresh as poppies pocked their heads up. Little white crosses, extraordinary only in their quantity, besieged the road sides. Buses brought reems of school children, who exited their vehicles to gawk cheerily at the monuments risen to those who would never return home. It was here that it all happened. The worst summer of Chip’s life. It was a rainy summer, wet and muddy. Chip had joined up with his friend Billy, eager to participate with all the other young men of the day. He was a year too young, but they lied, running from home with adventure and a patriotic fever guiding their steps. The war to end all wars, people whispered in excitement, not yet aware of the true tragedy that awaited them. “Chin up, Chip my lad,” Billy grinned as his friend staggered under the weight of his army pack, struggling to keep up, “You’re growing some muscle already.” He laughed harder as Chip’s grumbling complaints, offering him a cigarette. Chip remembered the wet more than anything. How it never seemed to stop, cascading down on their helmets, leaching through their clothes and their boots. He could still feel the squelching between his toes and smell the musty scent of rot and dampness. The trenches were dismal places, worse than being imprisoned. The heavy rain fall and the almost constant barrage of shells and gunfire the only sound throughout it all. Eventually, everything green was gone, destroyed by the brutal games of men The only thing that stubbornly poked its head through the mud, blood and corpses of the fallen was those damn poppies. No Man’s Land was an apt name, but with one flaw. There was a man who stalked the perimeter between the lines. Tall, dark and ever present, Chip watched him take man after man into the grave. He was there with every bullet, every piece of hot shrapnel and every soul drowned in the endless bog beneath the stepping boards. The first time he saw the man, Chip asked Billy about it. Billy looked to where he pointed, squinting in the gloom of the evening and shrugged. “You sure its not a German?” he asked, looking carefully. “So close to our side?” Chip shook his head, “He’s right there!” Billy shook his head. “I don’t see him,” he confirmed, looking to Chip worriedly, “Maybe you need some sleep.” Chip never tried to tell anyone about the figure again. But by God, he wished he’d tried harder. He took Billy a few days later. They’d been sent over, running into the perilous place that few returned from. The blast of the shells sent a ringing in Chip’s ear and he almost dropped his gun as the it made him stumble. The sting of hot metal struck his arm and he cried out, shuddering to a halt mid charge. Billy screamed his name, lights flashed and the man was there, standing behind his friend. Waiting. Chip raised his head, tears of pain mixing with the muck on his face. Billy reached out to him, brown eyes wide with worry one moment and then robbed of life the next. He slumped to the ground, landing without a sound amongst the din of battle around them. Billy disappeared, taken by the figure, who then stepped towards Chips, just as the world faded from his recollection. The next summer he spent in a hospital, hand shaking violently when he so much as tried to drink a cup of tea. The images of the battles haunted his dreams as surely as the shadowy man wandered the clean, white halls during his conveyance. He spied him from the corner of his eye and watched him take men left and right. The screaming of the injured, the traumatised and those driven insane echoed in his waking hours. The only good thing about that summer, hot and clinging where the last had been plagued with rain, was Abigail. The pretty nurse’s smiles were all the sunshine Chip could ever need in the world and drove away, if only for a short time, even the dark figure who stalked his steps. The summer after the war was the best of Chip’s life. He took Abigail to the alter, mesmerized by her dressed in white, sunshine smile on full force. The dark man stayed far away for many summers after that. Then it all happened again. Chip couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. His hand shook as the memories of that horrible summer visited him full force. War had returned, this time stretching its ugly fingers to the island he called home. The man returned too. He lingered amongst the rubble of houses bombed out. He stalked the hospitals and underground, crouched besides Chip’s own children in the air raid shelters. His face was a shadow, obscured even when Chip gathered the courage to look on it, drawing his family away from where the dark man stood. Nobody saw him. Nobody witnessed as he dragged away soul after soul. Those summers eventually passed, but they were long and filled with uncertainty and fear. He didn’t see the man often after that, but he was there. He was there the summer Chip’s youngest granddaughter grew ill and sat beside the old man in the hospital waiting area for hours. Chip worried he would never leave. Eventually though, he rose and walked out the door, leaving little Lizzie with her family. He was sitting on the couch the summer evening Abigail had passed on in her sleep and escorted her out the door. And now, many summers later, he stood on the green fields, speckled with ruby poppies and watched as Chip showed his eldest son where his namesake had died. Chip wasn’t afraid. He let Will go off to look at one of the monuments and hobbled over to the man, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The man’s face wasn’t so shadowed now and brown eyes looked at him fondly. “Ready to go, Chip?” Billy asked. The sun beat down on them, warming Chip’s old bones and making him feel like the boy who had come here one summer all those years ago. “I’m ready,” he said, walking on beside an old friend.

What had happened to her master? This question was the obsession of Thalia’s mind as she watched the sunset fall beneath the horizon. Her name was Verna, and she had come to Thalia at a time when she had lost faith with the world around her. Thalia had grown up in Manhattan and had a nervous habit of letting her thoughts wander from one social issue to the next. Her mother, who saw only what she wanted to see, would always chastise Thalia for the failings she had in school as a result of this. At all of these chastisings would be a further disconnect between Thalia and her mother, and Thalia’s seeing her mother as more of a shadow than a person. She believed her mother had once had the same thoughts as herself, but now after working a nine to five job for two decades, those thoughts no longer existed; and Thalia believed after she worked a nine to five job for two decades, her’s wouldn’t either. Verna came to her then. She had roses growing from her hair and sunlight shining from within her complexion. She was the goddess of spring, and with her help -- being similar to Thalia in many ways -- Thalia had the chance to be happy as a ward beneath Verna’s service. When they weren’t fulfilling their duties, which only had to be done throughout one quarter of the year, they busied themselves as sisters to all sorts of antics and hijinks. They gossiped, they made hideouts, they kept diaries, they swapped dreams and ambitions and all sorts of things. They even told each other secrets. which was Thalia’s favorite part. Oftentimes Verna and Thalia would visit the other seasons and their wards to go to human diners or have picnics with each other, often discussing the world and how its goings-ons. On one of these picnics Thalia was introduced to Pagonio, who had become the ward of Psychra the goddess of winter and death. She introduced herself to him despite the longsword at his hip and layers of armor adorning him and he responded with a smile and nod. If it weren’t for his appearance, she would have never guessed him to be a warrior. After this picnic as Verna and Thalia headed back to their home, Thalia’s eyes met Verna’s. It was the winter season and Thalia had been Verna’s ward for some time, so seeing a furrowed brow when spring was just upon them concerned the young girl. Verna felt herself being analyzed and masked her face with the youthful expressions Thalia knew her for. “Friends stick together no matter what, okay.” Thalia nodded her head in compliance but felt long forgotten feelings well up inside her. As the sun knelt beneath the horizon and the question of her master’s whereabouts echoed within her mind, Thalia felt the cold of winter assault her from outside the open window. She looked upon the fields and a blizzard of hail and snow appeared from nowhere and consumed the blossoming flowers of spring. Trudging through the tempest was the shadow of the warrior she had met mere weeks before. From her master’s keep she could see his face holding steadfast against the winds and hail buffeting his body, as if he felt nothing. As she opened the door to allow him and the screams of freezing wind inside, he spoke. “Your master, what secrets did she share with you?” This confused Thalia. Of all the things he could have said regarding the events transpiring, what he chose made the least sense to her. What did a goddess of spring have to do with a blizzard? Besides, Verna was her friend and their secrets were theirs to share with each other and nobody else. Her silence seemed to anger Pagonio. “Winter has gone mad, and no one is around to control it! Where has Verna taken my master?” His face contorted with fury as he spoke. What seemed so obvious to him was lost on Thalia, evident by the worry on her face. He seemed to notice this as he spoke softer. “I don’t understand it either, but it must be. Her duty is to counterbalance winter and summer as well as manage spring, but she is nowhere to be found now. Please help me.” As thoughts to the variety of futures that might occur consumed her mind, Thalia gritted her teeth as a tear streamed down her face. “Promise me you won’t hurt her and I’ll do what you want.” The young man’s pale face softened as his eyes tired with sadness. “Aye. I can do that.” At first, she had no idea where her master might be, but upon being told she might have a prisoner with her, there was only one place to look. As the two hiked through the ocean of snow and hail, reaching a cave they had to dig an opening into, they at last found their bounty within the dungeon. At the sight waiting for them, Pagonio abandoned any promises he made and rushed towards Verna with his sword drawn. Deafened to Thalia’s screams of protests, he lopped off her head and put an end to her rebellion. As the blizzard began to clear up outside, Thalia looked upon the sight of her master. Tears had streamed down her face while she was looking upon a television screen. Upon it flashed images of factories spewing smoke and forests being leveled. While tears were present, her face had hardened. The sunlight that had once poured from her complexion was gone. The roses that grew from her hair had now lost their petals in place of more thorns. In her hand was a dagger made from tempered bark and dripping a golden fluid. From within the cell beside her with a slice across her throat was the goddess of winter. As she watched the television, a smile had grown on her face as blizzards blanketed what appeared on screen. In her heart of hearts, Thalia knew she would not have allowed life to perish. However a culling of sorts had become necessary in her eyes. Spring is the season of rebirth after all, which must be preceded by death.

Shelby the rat skidded to a stop on the dew-slick grass when she saw a black cat. No, not just a black cat, but the jet black cat Jack, an insufferably arrogant cat that only ever ate, lounged, disdained, and occasionally partook in his sole hobby - mousing. And he was a savage mouser. Hallowe’en was without a doubt the worst day of the year, and this one was already shaping up to break records. Of course, the stupid shindig yesterday wasn’t much better. Shelby knew better than to spend all night partying, but in her defence Ramón was there, and they danced and he was just so damn chiseled she could barely stand it. But she had a bit too much to drink, because she didn’t quite make it home and woke up under a shrub. And now she was going to die. Unless she managed to sneak away, since Jack hadn’t seen her yet. She tucked her tail and back-pawed. And then stepped right onto a crunchy fall leaf, which tore, crackled, and shattered under even her meager weight. Jack snapped his head in her direction. His eyes found hers, and then his pupils ballooned as he locked on. Ah, balls, she thought. She bounded away with a squeak , and the cat-in-black followed. Shelby sprinted under a shriveled rosebush, but Jack gracefully sidestepped it. She dove into a carved jack-o-lantern ( Terrible name, she thought) and Jack pounced on it, knocking it over. She crawled out its mouth, and his paw whipped after her and just missed. She leapt off the pumpkin and Jack meowed! fiercely, stuck. Ha, dumbass, she thought. Jack violently jerked his arm out of the pumpkin, tearing its face apart. The cat, his gleaming black coat draped in strands of orange gore, flashed all his teeth and hissed loud enough to set off the three closest murders of crows. Aw, Jesus, seriously? she thought. Shelby bolted as Jack pounced. He just missed her with his paws as she ran into the street. No, she didn’t look left and right. Yes, it was dangerous, because of humans and their dumb cars. She had other things on her mind. She sprinted across the street just as the Kelleys’ SUV drove up. She cleared it with tail to spare, but Jack wasn’t so lucky. But he wasn’t all that unlucky either, as the Kelleys must have seen him. After all, everyone in the neighbourhood knew he belonged to the crazy lady. They slammed on their brakes, and the car squealed to a stop, as did the cat. The bumper juddered a whisker’s width from Jack’s nose, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Serves you right, you dolt, Shelby thought, and then she slunk under the Bakers’s fence. Jack drew back, sputtered indignantly, and slapped the bumper over and over and over, because honestly, the audacity of it all! These people almost pancaked him - him of all people! - with their careless humanness. The Kelleys honked, and when Jack wouldn’t leave, they honked again, and finally just leaned on the horn. Jack scrammed just as other neighbours screamed at the Kelleys to shut up, and so Shelby had earned herself some reprieve. But she wasn’t familiar with the Bakers’s yard, nor sure how to get to her home from there. Everything would be so much easier after midnight, but when she looked up she saw it wasn’t even noon. Maybe I can just wait it out, she thought. And then her stomach roiled. More hangover than hunger, and with the adrenaline of Jack’s chase fading, she felt acutely thirsty. She stuck to the begonias and peonies growing alongside the Bakers’s house, each of them losing a battle against autumn. Old Lady Baker was always puttering around with her plants, which meant a garden hose somewhere. Shelby crept along until she came to the end of the plants, and surveilled the back yard. And there it was, coiled in the grass. She slunk towards the hose, sniffed at the head, but it was dry. Blast it! she thought. Her tail swished back and forth. She snuffled the ground, but it too was most unmoist. Then she side-eyed the nozzle. Could she trigger it? How hard could it be? Harder than it seemed, it seemed. When she pushed the handle she just ended up sliding the whole nozzle around. She realized she’d need to brace it against something. She skulked around the garden until she found a stone, then rolled it towards the hose. She jammed it into the ground and braced it against the nozzle’s handle. Then she took a run at the trigger and slammed into it. It depressed! The whole hose thrummed with the water’s violent rush, and then the spring shot back and flung Shelby into the air. She spun twice and crashed, but when she rose with a grunt, she realized she had succeeded. The grass was freshly beaded with water. She lumbered towards it, already able to taste that refreshing liquid, but then a trio of squirrels tore onto the lawn. They chittered madly with their ridiculous teeth and darted after Shelby. Damn it! Shelby thought, scramming away from the lunatics. The squirrels chased her all over the lawn and to the fence, which she crawled under. They didn’t follow her, so she took a breather, but it turned out this new yard was the home of the Chens’s Dobermann, Chainsaw. Chainsaw growled a single warning, sounding like his namesake, and then he lunged. Shelby flattened her ears and ran like she’d never run before. Under garden chairs which Chainsaw knocked aside. Under a barbeque which Chainsaw leapt over and tipped. She sprinted towards a riding mower but at the last moment veered left. Chainsaw, too committed, slammed right into the machine, causing it to rock. He yelped once. It was enough of a break for Shelby to slip under the next fence. Behind her the fence boards shook as Chainsaw slammed into them. He barked and tore at the ground with his paws. Shelby put another three yards between herself and the dog. When she cleared the third she found a shrub and collapsed under it. Oh yes, this Hallowe’en was on track to break all records as the worst. When she opened her eyes again she saw the shadows were longer, and she realized she must have passed out. This sent a chill through her veins, but nothing had eaten her. Then she heard the distant shrieks of children, all crying in unison. The trick-or-treaters were out. The little terrorists would be crawling all over the streets, making-believe they were monsters and never once realizing the real monsters were under the masks. All it would take was just one of them to spot a rat, and they’d all scream and throw rocks and stomp. Shelby shuddered. But then she noticed this yard had a bird bath. It was a three-foot-tall marble bowl on a carved column - well, okay, it was probably plastic - and as there were a couple hummingbirds there, there must have been water too. A bit of a climb, but... her stomach roiled and settled the debate. Shelby scrambled up and startled the birds. They glared at her, but she ignored them and dunked her face in the water. It was so cool and refreshing, balm for her parched soul. When she had her fill she looked down at the water, watching the playful waves ripple across the surface. She saw the reflection of the darkening sky, and there , she saw the mirror image of the full moon rising. Oh, how she hated that moon. It was the worst of all possible moons, especially on this, the worst of all possible days. And then she saw the reflection of something moving quickly, quickly looming larger, and largely resembling an owl. Shelby threw herself from the bird bath with a squee! and the owl whooshed by, talons just missing. It glided soundlessly and looped around for another pass, while she plopped to the ground with a burp. She had drunk too much water and felt the start of a cramp, but she put it out of her mind and once more cannonballed away. The one time she looked over her shoulder she saw the owl diving, and she let out a panicked squark! Death loomed from above, but in front of her, perhaps salvation: a vast cave of shadows beneath a minivan. And maybe, just maybe, she saw the gleaming black eyes of another rat there, watching her approach. Safe harbour, if she could make it. She dove at the last moment and felt the rush of talons ruffling her fur. But the owl pulled up, not wanting to slam into the van. Shelby hurtled under the vehicle and skidded to a stop beneath it, less running than bouncing, rolling, and flopping. She could barely breathe. Her heart again hammered her ribcage and every muscle hurt, and for a moment all she could do was lay in the darkness. But eventually she caught her breath, and noticed the other rat had sidled up to her. He sat up on his haunches and sniffed at her. Yeah, I’m okay buddy, thanks, she thought. She rolled over and got up. The other rat snuffled her snout. Yeah, thanks, she thought. She patted him on the shoulder and then stretched. That was a close one, wasn’t it? He snuffled at her side, and then her legs, and then behind- Hey! Shelby swatted his ear. Not interested, buddy! Jesus, at least buy me dinner first. The other rat retreated, sniffed in her general direction. And then Shelby got the hiccoughs, so he lost interest. They stood like that for a while, as night crept in. The trick-or-treaters were out in full force, and every few seconds they heard the shrill battle cry of the sugar addict, “TRICK OR TREAT!!!” The little maniacs did everything with extra exclamation marks on Hallowe’en, and the streets became a terrifying land that honest animals didn’t dare to tread. So Shelby and the other rat were stuck for the foreseeable future. And since it was getting colder as the night dragged on too, she started shivering. By the time it was fully dark out, the youngest trick-or-treaters retired. That meant the worst ones would be out in bigger numbers. They weren’t so much treaters as trickers. The other rat started shuffling to the edge of the minivan, apparently tired of waiting. Maybe it’s not a bad idea, Shelby thought. She didn’t want to get caught outside with a bunch of teens running around. The other rat sniffed the air at the edge of the minivan’s shadow and poked his head out. He sniffed some more, and turned back to her, indicating the coast was clear. Shelby breathed a sigh of relief. Then an inky mass of black dropped down on him, tearing him clean in half. Shelby let out a forlorn squee! The shadowy mass lowered its head, and looked under the van. And again, Shelby found herself looking into Jack’s eyes. The other rat was already forgotten, as the cat crouched and assessed the minivan. It wasn’t about food with him - Jack would never deign to eat something as lowly as a rat. For him, it was about the sheer joy of the slaughter. Shelby didn’t know what overcame her. She let out a torrent of squeaking and charged right at him, her jaws snapping and her claws swiping at the air. Jack’s eyes widened and he let out a miserable mreew! He leapt clear away from her. Jack stared at her as though he had seen a dog ghost. One paw was in the air and his tail twitched nervously. Shelby kept her eyes locked on his, and then she... well, she made a noise. A kind of grunt, or bark. It was a little hissy, since her lungs were small. In any case, it was a strange noise and it unsettled Jack, and he flinched and moved a couple more feet away. Shelby backed out down the drive way, keeping her eyes on the cat. She put good distance between them, but she knew it would only be a matter of time before the psycho overcame his shock and reset to factory defaults. Still, there must have been a solid ten feet between them before Jack dared a step in her direction. That’s when she bolted. Jack followed, at first keeping pace but then indulging his instincts and resuming the hunt. Shelby ran unnoticed by a group of trick-or-treaters, but when they saw Jack they shouted “Black cat! Black cat!” and startled him anew, which gave her some elbow room. And then, the damned full moon actually helped out for a change, because in the distance Shelby saw the little house on the corner where she lived. She dashed for it. But when she looked over her shoulder Jack was gaining on her. She scurried up the driveway of the house and ran at the side door, but of course it was closed and she had no way of turning the knob. She slipped into the back yard and Jack leapt over the fence. She thought she might be able to make it into the shed, but she’d been running around all day and Jack was a well-rested, well-fed house cat. She realized she wouldn’t get there in time, and then Jack pounced. Shelby stood by awaiting her fate. And then the sky nudged the moon an inch to the left, signalling midnight had come and gone; the day was officially over. Jack sailed through the air with his claws out and Shelby caught him by the scruff of his neck, with her once-again human hand. “Bad cat!” she said, shaking her index finger at him. He flailed about half-heartedly and mewled most piteously, but in truth he liked being carried around by humans so it didn’t bother him too much. Something about the arrangement was just so proper . “I swear, I’m going to put you up for adoption.” She dug out her spare key from under a garden gnome’s hat and unlocked her side door. A part of her was worried about the neighbours seeing her naked - a minor consequence of the wererat’s curse, which was arguably the least useful curse - but after the day she had, she thought, Screw it. Inside she set Jack down, filled his bowl with kibble, and petted him once, because psycho-or-not, he was her fur baby. She swore off liquor, prepared for bed, and then noticed the trees in her front yard were draped with TP. She sighed. “Worst day of the year.”

The bloody sun was nearing its highest point when the man reached the outskirts of the ruined city. It was a breezy day, and the shifting grass seemed to shy away from him as he made his slow voyage across the plain. He was a tall man, well tanned from being in the sun for long hours, and his face had crinkled into an expression of age and rugged wisdom. His body was strapped in torn leather, and his facial hair suggested a few days of no shaving. In his right hand he bore a walking stick, sharpened at the end to a point, like a spear. A holster hung about his waste, and in it, a 10 millimeter Bren Ten, with a single clip left to use. Hoping to find some much needed supplies, the man continued his trek, glancing between the skyline of ruined towers, and the great mountains beyond them. A sign, eroded by age, read in large white letters “Welcome to Denver.” He heard of the place before. They used to call it the “mile high city,” but that was long ago. Back when he had friends. He had been the first male born to his tribe, he recalled, and he was called "blessing" by many. They told him the stories of how the great tribes fell, and the towers became empty. They told him of sky people, who had come down to the earth and snatched its inhabitants. But in defiance, they fought back and were swiftly annihilated. Seeing their potential slaves mostly dead, the sky people fled, and left them to their ruined home. His tribe were his friends. But his friends had sent him out here, out West. He was to find civilization, and return to save his people. But more and more he feared that there was no civilization to be found. So now there were no friends. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of another voice. His own often provided that helpful second opinion. He liked his voice, but he often remembered his friends’. Thinking of these things made the trip seem shorter, and he soon found himself amongst the great tombs of skyscrapers, monuments to a greater time. The man saw nothing but rubble and trash, nothing worth collecting. He kept on, his spear held tightly in his hand. Who knew what monster may inhabit these crypts? The place was deathly quiet; the only sound was the slight rustle of the wind upon the grass. But his ears perked up as a piece of rubble fell out of place. Stopping, the man looked around, until he saw a figure reveal itself in the shadow. A friend...finally? No. A bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped the spear, and quickly whipped out his pistol. Taking aim as the figure approached, he discharged a bullet. But in the mere sliver of time before he pulled the trigger, he saw the figure’s face. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, not scarred by the brutal reality of this hostile wasteland. He could not cut down such beauty; his heart would not allow him, even for survival. His hand moved the slightest inch out of line as he fired, and the bullet sailed off, striking nothing. She fired back, this time not missing. He felt the hot lead hit his chest, and the pain seared him. Dropping his gun, the man slowly bent down on one knee, and then another. He grasped at his chest, and began to breathe raggedly. He could feel his heart hurting. As he fell backwards to the ground, tears began to form in his eyes. As the darkness began to surround him, he felt not fear, but joy. He wished the woman a farewell in his mind, and hoped she lived to escape this harsh place. With his last breath of life, the man looked up at the great towering tombstones, and to the clouds beyond. “It is fitting,” thought he, “to die in a graveyard.

Jacob hadn’t wanted a lot out of life--maybe a place to call his own, a nice family and a little time to make art. He certainly wasn’t one of those people with drive and ambition, destined for big things. He was okay with a small life, as long as it was a happy one, but apparently, even that was too much to ask. He was forty-three now, and still hadn’t really settled in anywhere. He changed apartments each time another job fell through, and he did so on his own. One by one he had watched every relationship he had go sour and the small dreams he was after collapse in on themselves. Now, after twenty-five miserable years on his own, he was doing the one thing he had always sworn to himself he would never do--he was going back to stay with his parents. He was embarrassed as he drove into the old town. There was no one in the world with dreams small enough for Westland, not even Jacob himself. It had once been a farming town, full of men taming wild land to their own advantage, but a few years of drought and recession had hit the town hard. Not many people remained, and even fewer were happy to be there. The houses were run-down and many were abandoned. They were cheap at least, which was enough to trap what little population they still had. If you could survive the featureless landscape of the town, you could at least do so cheaply, and most of the people left in town simply didn’t have the money for anywhere else. Now, Jacob thought, that probably included him. He had mostly come to terms with moving back in with his parents, but it still stung his ego enough that he wasn’t ready to go straight there. Westland had exactly one bar, and he easily remembered where it was. He had spent half his time in high school handing around the place, flashing a fake ID that none of the bartenders bother to check. He headed there now, hoping he had enough money left to buy a couple of drinks at least. The bar was exactly as he remembered it, which somehow made him feel worse. If he thought back to the last time he was in this bar and compared it to now, all it did was remind him of the ways in which things had gone so wrong. He almost turned his back, but he didn’t think he could go home sober. He was sure his dad had a whole lecture planned about the merits of farming as a career. “I’ll take whatever’s cheap,” he said, collapsing on the first stool with a sigh. Everything in the place was cheap, but it was a popular request so he wasn’t questioned. The bartender slid a single shot glass his way. The candid liquid lightly rose and fell from side to side for a moment and reflected the dull humming lights from the bar back at Jacob, who couldn’t bring his eyes to look anywhere else. It felt as though the weight of the world took a taunting perch atop his shoulders and he had no choice but to succumb to it’s will. “What is this stuff?” he asked the bartender without looking up. “You don’t want to know.” Jacob nodded and took the shot. It burned his throat as it went down, and he nearly coughed in surprise. He’d had alcohol plenty of times, but not like this. The alcohol content wasn’t so much a problem as the acrid flavor that invaded his nose and mouth. He shook his head to try and clear it, the after taste was bitter like vinegar. Jacob finally looked up at the bartender for the first time. He had been meaning to ask for another drink, but his words caught in his throat. He knew the girl behind the counter. “Maddie?” he asked, surprised to see her in an apron. Really he was just surprised to see her at all. She shot a forced smile at him. “Actually, I go by Madison now.” “Right,” Jacob repeated. “Madison. It’s good to see you.” “I guess,” Madison said, reaching behind her and pouring him another drink. “This isn’t exactly the scenario I would have preferred if I was going to see you again.” “Looking for a little more drama?” Jacob asked, swallowing down the next shot with a grimace. “Looking for a little more success,” Madison admitted. “Hard to throw a successful life in your ex-boyfriend’s face if you haven’t got a successful life to brag about.” “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t got a lot of success going on either,” Jacob admitted. “You walked into a bar and asked for something cheap. I kind of figured,” Madison said. “I think I’d be a bit embarrassed if it hadn’t been so long,” he admitted. “What’s it been, twenty-five years since high school?” “Twenty-seven since our last date,” Madison said. “We broke up sophomore year.” “Right,” Jacob nodded. “I forgot about that.” He wished he could say he remembered that day clear as ice, but he really barely remembered it at all. He thought there had been something to do with a Valentine’s day dance and some comments she had made about a football player. It all seemed so high-school, looking back. He looked up to comment on that to Madison, but she had already moved on. She was serving the only other customers in the bar, two teens who were giggling over their shots and couldn’t possibly be overage. Jacob wondered if he and Madison had ever looked like those two kids, hands all over each other as they found relief from the dull town in each other’s arms. He couldn’t remember if they had ever really kissed. As soon as Madison was done with the teenagers, she returned to Jacob. She poured him another shot that he wasn’t even sure he could afford, but he didn’t drink it yet. He rubbed his thumb along the smeared edge of the shot glass and looked back up at Madison. He felt like he should say something more, continue their conversation, but it had been so long since they last talked that he had no idea what to say. “So are you in town long?” she asked, seemingly thinking the same thing. “Or just dropping in for a while?” Jacob really didn’t want to admit his living situation, but there was a genuine curiosity in Madison’s eyes. He figured he would have to get comfortable telling people at some point, and he could always avoid the bar later if she was cruel about it. “Hopefully I’ll be out of here soon,” he said. “I ran out of options and money, so I’m actually coming back to live with my parents for a while.” Madison grimaced, but she didn’t seem to be mocking him. She pushed a stray hair out of her face. “That sounds really rough. I know you fought for years to get out of this place.” “I guess you can only fight for so long,” Jacob said, finally drinking the shot she had poured. He looked up at her. “That’s probably all I can afford.” “I’d offer you some on the house, but the bar can’t afford that, and neither can I,” Madison said. “It’s fine,” Jacob said. He hadn’t been looking for a free drink, he just really couldn’t blow more money here. “I just needed enough liquid courage to get me through my dad’s lecture.” “Well you were always a lightweight. Three will probably be enough.” Jacob smiled, and he found that he wanted her to stay and talk a little longer. She was sweet and understanding, and something about her made him long to stay close to her. He couldn’t even think of a reason why, but he wanted to keep talking to her. “I’ve laid my cards out on the table and they aren’t very good,” he pointed out. “Now’s your chance to do that bragging you were talking about. You don’t even need a lot of success to throw it in my face.” Madison smiled and shook her head. “Still not a lot to throw at you. I’m not living with my parents, but I am still living in Westland, which is practically the same thing. I think I told you in high school that I wanted to be a stock-broker, and as you can see, that didn’t work out.” “Maybe not,” Jacob said. “You’ve still got a shot at it though. I think most stock-brokers are pretty ancient.” “What did you say about only being able to fight for so long?” Madison said. “I think I’m a little too old to run off chasing a pipe dream.” Jacob would have said the same thing in her position, but it felt bad to hear her give up like that. It made the world feel just a little darker than it had before and a little more unforgiving. “I guess you’re right,” he said, shaking his head. Madison returned to the teenagers and gave them a bit more to drink. They were only getting louder with every glass they poured them, and a normal bar probably would have cut them off by then. This one simply didn’t have the money to refuse a paying customer, something that Jacob himself had taken advantage of quite a bit in his youth. “You know, I don’t really have a lot of friends left in town,” Madison admitted when she came back. “Westland is the kind of place you move away from, so everyone I used to know is pretty scattered. If you wanted to go get coffee or something I’d be down for that.” “Does Westland even have a coffee shop?” “Oh, yeah, they built it like ten years ago. The coffee is horrible, but they’ll let you hang around for as long as you want. Really friendly staff,” Madison said. Jacob smiled. “That sounds great. If I managed to survive my dad’s lecture, I’ll be there.” They exchanged phone numbers and a couple more hours of pleasant conversation. Jacob was beginning to wonder how he could have forgotten her. She was sweet, and honest and genuine. He didn’t know whether their plan to get coffee was meant to be a date, but the more he talked to her, the more he hoped that it was. Madison could be the first good thing to happen to him in years. “I should probably be heading out,” he said, staggering to his feet. “Won’t make my dad any happier if I’m late.” “Keys,” Madison said without explanation. “What?” “Give me your keys,” she said. “I’m not going to let you drive.” “I had a couple of drinks a few hours ago,” he said. “I’m not even tipsy anymore, and even if I was, there’s no one else on the road.” “You make good conversation,” Madison said. “I’m not going to let you throw that away by driving out of here.” Jacob groaned, but he handed off the keys. It would be a long walk on his own in the dark, but Madison was probably right. He probably should not be behind the wheel. “I can give you a ride if you can wait a bit,” Madison offered. “Bar’s about to close, so all I’ve really got to do is get those kids out of here, then I’ll be free.” “That sounds great,” Jacob said, and he meant it. All in all, it took Madison about an hour to close up the bar and get the kids on their way home. She took their keys too, though only one of them really had a car. She waited until there was someone there to pick them up before she was ready to go. “Your parents still on that old house by the river?” Madison asked him, getting into the driver’s seat of his car. “Yeah,” he said, leaning his head against the headrest. “Nothing much ever changes in this town.” They drove down the old road, Jacob’s car thrown around by every bump. It was too dark out to see much of anything, and the farmlands passed in a blur outside of the window. There was house to break things up every once in a while, but they were nothing more than dark blurs against an indistinct background. “Do you remember what it was like when we were dating?” Madison asked. It was the one thing they hadn’t really talked about in the bar. They had commiserated over failures in life and whined about the dreary town, but they had not talked about the one experience they had truly shared: high school. “Not really,” Jacob admitted. “I remember you yelling at me about the color of my tie, then shoving a rose into my hand. I still have a mark where the thorn pricked me.” Madison grimaced. “I forgot about that.” Jacob felt bad for bringing it up. “I’m sure there are a lot nicer things I could remember.” “Yeah,” Madison said. There was a bit of a lull, then she continued. “Do you know what I remember most? I was sitting in the cafeteria, and you came in with this big goofy smile on your face. You had bought these really cheesy heart shaped chocolates from some convenience store, and you couldn’t wait to see my reaction to them.” “I don’t remember that,” Jacob admitted. “I figured you wouldn’t. I didn’t even really react to the chocolate--I didn’t think it was a big deal. I guess it wasn’t, but you were so enthusiastic that I feel a little bad for not giving you a little bit more.” The car stopped then and Jacob recognized the house he had grown up in. He didn’t want to go back. if it was up to him, he would stay here with Madison and laugh about the past forever. Neither of them moved yet. They weren’t ready. “You know, I always thought we would be dating again by senior year,” Madison said, filling the silence. “The way we broke up was so stupid, and I felt like we would get another chance at it before we graduated.” “I guess we never did,” Jacob said. “Not before graduation,” Madison said. It took Jacob a moment to realize the gravity of her words and he looked over at her. There was twinkle in her eyes and just enough moonlight was seeping in through the window to light her from behind, like his own personal angel. He found himself leaning across the seat towards her and she noticed that she was doing the same. When their lips met, it was as if a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place. All his time struggling out in the world, all his failures, everything he resented about his life had led him here, back to Madison. They pulled away for a moment and Madison smiled at him. “I look forward to that coffee date,” she said, opening the door. Jacob smiled, and when he walked up to the front door of his parent’s house, he wasn’t feeling so lost anymore. In the span of a kiss, Westland had started to feel a lot bigger and a lot more interesting.

The little town of New Evergreen was a haven for those who enjoyed the spirit of Christmas. Among the snowy hills and bright lights, it displayed a charm that made every day feel like a holiday. The Jackson family, known for their everlasting spirit for the Christmas season, were the heart and soul of the community. Every year, they hosted a huge Christmas party that had become the main event of New Evergreen's winter. The wait for this year's celebration was intense, as whispers of the Jacksons' plans spread through the town like a raging wildfire. As the sun fell below the horizon on Christmas Eve, the Jackson estate began to shine with the glow of a thousand lights. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked gingerbread cookies, and the sound of laughter from within the decorated halls. Friends and neighbors, in their festive clothing, made their way to the Jackson mansion, eager to participate in the celebration. Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was magical. Each room was covered with lights and ornaments. A beautiful Christmas tree stood tall in the grand hall, covered with a variety of ornaments. It was worth the wait to see the marvelous tree. The festivities started with a great feast. Tables filled with all sorts of food--turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and vegetables. The dining room was filled with the sounds of clinking wine glasses, and laughter. The Jackson family, in matching Christmas sweaters and hats, talked among the guests, ensuring everyone felt the warmth of Christmas. As the clock struck eight, the party transitioned into a dance. The spacious dance floor became lively with couples, their movements synced to the rhythm of classic holiday tunes. The air was electric, with the spirit of Christmas in every step. However, inside the celebrations, a subtle movement of uncertainty began to make its way through the festivities. The brilliant Christmas tree, standing tall and bright in the middle of the grand hall, began to show signs of falling. A gasp rippled through the room as the towering tree swayed ominously, and ornaments fell to the floor. Chaos ensued as the guests tried to steady the tree and save the ornaments. The dance floor transformed into a chaotic scene as the news spread. The Jackson family, known to face unexpected challenges, attempted to reassure the guests, with smiles and jokes, trying to bring back the festive spirit. As the now bad spirit cast a shadow over the celebration, an unexpected guest made an entrance. A mysterious figure, covered in a shimmering robe, appeared in the center of the room. The world seemed to freeze, as everyone turned and stared at the appearance of the guest. With a wave of the figure's hand, a warm glow took over the room. The fallen ornaments magically lifted themselves from the floor, hanging back on the tree as if being pickede up. The once bare tree now stood tal, radiating a glow that refilled the Christmas spirit. The mysterious guest revealed himself to be the Spirit of Christmas, a magical force there to ensure that the spirit of the season remained intact. With a twinkle in his eye and a voice like a soothing melody, the Spirit of Christmas addressed the gathering. "Fear not, as the Spirit Of Christmas is here! Ho Ho Ho!" After that, the Spirit of Christmas continued to spread his holiday magic through the party. The mess caused by the previous chaos was all cleaned up. The Spirit Of Christmas moved around the party, playing games and telling jokes. After a rough patch, the Christmas spirit had finally returned to the party, as everyone laughed and played. The party had been saved by the magical spirit. The dance floor, formerly a scene of chaos, now became a stage for jolly couples. Couples twirled and swirled with newfound energy, and the music fit perfectly with the mood of the guests. The Spirit of Christmas moved gracefully among the guests, bestowing his blessings of joy. As the night unfolded, it had slowly became very apparent that the unexpected twists and turns had turned the festive party into a magical celebration for everyone. The holiday magic had not just saved the almost ruined evening but had elevated it to be much better than it was before. The guests, initially scared by the unexplained and mood ruining occurrences, now embraced the newfound enchantment, eventually realizing that sometimes the most memorable moments come from the unexpected. The Jackson family, gracious and smart, took the lead in embracing the magical turn of events, playing into the twists and having the times of their lives. They shared stories of past holiday accidents, turning potential embarrassment into laughter and fun. The spilled cranberry sauce earlier in the night had become a story of shared laughter, and the tilted Christmas tree and fallen ornaments became a case to the resilience of the festive spirit. As the night drew to a close, the Spirit of Christmas said his goodbyes and bid farewell, his majestic robe disappearing into the air. The guests, still mesmerized by the enchantment of the evening, exchanged heartfelt laughter and expressions of gratitude and thanks. The Jackson mansion, almost fully chaotic and ruined by some odd occurances, now stood as a house of warmth and unity, lit by the glow of holiday magic. The tale of the festive party gone wrong but saved by holiday magic became a festive legend in the town of New Evergreen. It was retold with laughter in the eyes and a light and grateful heart, a reminder that the true magic of Christmas lies not just in planned parties and festivities but in the shared moments of joy, spirit , and enchanting surprises that tie us together to create unforgettable memories. The holiday season in New Evergreen would forever be marked by the year when the Spirit of Christmas graced the Jackson party, turning a potential disaster into a celebration that went over the ordinary and embraced the extraordinary magic of the season.

"Please flash your EZ-Link", the school gate had buzzed when Kurt approached it. He held his card up to the oval-shaped scanner which responded by flashing out a horizontal ray of green light, scanning the card upwards and downwards. "Name: Kurt Atwood. Gender: Male. Ethnicity: Chinese. Hair Colour: Black. Eye Colour: Black. Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual. Tongue: Rollable. Religion: Christianity. Minority Level: 29%. Student confirmed. Access Approved." The gate slowly opened and the line of students queued up behind Kurt clapped with cheshire cat grins. "Good for you!", they had exclaimed. The process had repeated as the next student walked up to the gate. Buzz. Buzz. On the elevator ride that lifted Kurt and his classmate Lily to the hall for their weekly assembly talk, their earbuds vibrated constantly in their ears: "I am Male and I am Proud. I am Chinese and I am Proud. I have Black hair and I am Proud." Eventually, everyone had adapted such that they could hear the outside world simultaneously. Lily's Minority Level was at zero percent. The more the amount of minority group features you have, the higher your Minority Level is, and the more minority privileges you get. People like Lily and Kurt with a Minority Level less than 50 percent, frequently named Majorities, did not have the basic minority privileges to go through the express lanes in attractions, get ten percent discounts on all shop items, and be allowed to sit on the reserved seats in buses and trains. But they had privileges too, such as free joy pills with free repair of earbuds, both administrated by the Ministry of Joy. On the day Kurt was born, his mother had cried tears, not of joy, but disappointment, to find out that her newborn son's Minority Level was only at 29 percent. The doctors comforted her, telling her that the tides can change and one day, maybe there would be more Malays than Chinese in Singapore. She had popped a whole bottle of pills and went into a deep slumber that day, but after that... everything was normal. "Too Much Pain? Take Two Pills!", the buses had proclaimed repeatedly down the streets. The speaker appeared as a giant head on the television screen in the hall, an uproar of applause came from all the students and teachers. "Good morning everybody! My name is George Vox from the Ministry of Equality and I have been assigned by your dearest principal to answer any questions you may have." "What is your Minority Level?" one of the students had shouted. Soft chuckling came from the audience. "Well, it is 86 percent but-" "Good for you!", the audience shouted simultaneously. "-but the Minority Level does not matter at all of course, because we are all equal no matter what. Everyone is human after all!" everyone clapped and nodded. "When will the ministry solve my neighbourhood's economy problems?". A wave of goosebumps sweeped the hall, everyone turned to look at the Eurasian student who had openly criticised the system. "...I'm sure everyone has learnt from your history books that around a hundred years ago, Singapore was in complete disarray. People would murder each other due to their differences and get away with it because our Warrior Units did not exist back then. So let's not worry so much about teeny tiny problems and celebrate how we have finally achieved equality and happiness! Long are the days of discrimination!" Everyone stood up and cheered, many had jumped in joy and screamed. Vox's job had been done. After he switched off the camera recorder, he made a call to the principal, "Hello, excuse me, I require you to give that student counselling... yes, the Eurasian one". It was 11 o'clock and the pills had been flushed out of Kurt's system. Everyone in class routinely took two more pills. Meanwhile, Kurt was still clawing into his pill bottle, he started to get increasingly irritated. His fingers could not feel any presence of the sweet powdery goodness. He used one finger and wiggled it around the pill bottle, only to find it completely empty. He grew concerned, did I forget to refill it last night? "Hey, Kurt, are you okay?", his tablemate Vinny had asked, seeing how Kurt was pale and shaking violently, with snot running out his nose. "N-no no, my pills...", clumsily knocking over his calculator and stationeries. Again, Vinny asked, this time with a look of disgust at the river of snot flowing out, "Uhm... Hey, you alright? You don't look too good... Are you oka-" "No, Christ, what do you think?!" ... ... "BEEP BEEP BEEP!", the classroom speakers blared while spinning red lights popped out from the ceilings and covered everyone's shocked face. Vinny had pressed his EZ-link's trigger, which had sounded the alarm and alerted the authorities. The Warriors in black gear dragged the screaming Kurt away. He was thrown into a van with the white letters 'MINISTRY OF EQUALITY' imprinted on its smooth black surface before getting slowly driven further and further away from his school. Books displayed at the front of bookshops flashed through his eyes as he looked out the small slits of the van: "The Talent" by Joseph Whitman. An empowering story of Jodie Yu, the citizen who braved through a society where people who could roll their tongue are discriminated daily. "This classic frightening dystopia warns us of the dangers of political extremism" ~Katherine Wang Kurt was brought out of the van stumbling and led into a tall glass building. His heartbeat in the elevator was heavy and he felt the urge to barf. Twenty-two... Twenty-three... Twenty-four... Door Opening. His heartbeat rapidly increased as he walked through the corridor. At the end of it, there was an austere-looking man sitting behind a desk. He looked up from his computer as the door behind Kurt had shut tight. "Good Afternoon Mr. Atwood. Now, did you know you shouted at a student with seventy-one percent Minority Level, which is a discrimination?", the man had asked sternly as Kurt stood awkwardly in the middle of the white room. Kurt looked up weakly, and stuttered, "Y-yes..." "Did you know you said the name of a deity in vain, which is religious prejudice?" "Uhm... Yes..." "Now please, please sit down" "I'm... I'm sorry..." Kurt had started to tear up, he tried as much as possible not to let the man see, making a sudden quick turn to wipe the tears off his cheeks. "Sing our national anthem" "W-What?" "Sing our national anthem", the man had said in an exaggeratedly long manner. Kurt and the man met eyes for a whole ten seconds, before Kurt started to whisper out the lyrics of the country's anthem. "Louder!" the man shouted. The melody started to hit its crescendo. The lyrics of its verses switching between countless different languages. Kurt was suddenly in another world. He was riding a happy singing cloud carried by the many fine lines of a composition, soaring with the flapping crotchet and minim notes high up in the sky. He could see his friends smiling together down there in a world looking much like heaven, before the song started to slow down. The sky had darkened and suddenly, lightning bolts struck down alongside bloodthirsty tornadoes. The infrastructure had morphed from tall glass towers into one of concrete buildings. There were no friends down there, only enemies. Fires and flipped cars and gunshots and death. He could hear the man's voice echo loudly in the distance, "Destruction and chaos caused by discrimination. They didn't have Warriors back then to discipline them into equality and neither did they have the minority level system to fulfill everyone's desires! Is this what you want? Hell was a place on Earth! Luckily we saved the Nation in time, unlike the others, they crumbled!" "No!", tears had already started to jet out of Kurt's eyes, all he wanted was to gouge them out to block out all of it. The bloodshed slowly faded, he found himself back in the enclosed room. "You are only fifteen, yes? Kindly read these lines in front of the screen". Slightly confused but tremendously relieved, he took the slip of newly printed paper and read out the lines towards the black screen. "I will not disclose anything that happened here. I am content with what I was born with. I have many friends..." The list went on and on. The man looked up from the computer, his complexion suddenly bright. "Thank you, you can leave now! But remember, this will be your last warning." With a sigh of relief, Kurt went home with a refilled bottle of pills. All was in the past. All is well.

Tabitha turns to the left, turns to the right. Purses her lips. ‘How do I look?’ Jacob glances over his newspaper. She’s in the green floral number. He weighs his answer for a moment. ‘Terrible.’ Tabitha sucks in her tummy a bit and gives her bosom a hoick. ‘Really?’ Jacob returns to his article. ‘Dog’s dinner, my darling.’ He raises an eyebrow at his inadvertent alliteration, then wryly adds: ‘Diabolical.’ ‘Oh. I thought you liked this dress.’ ‘I did, dear. Past tense. It looked fabulous on you, when you still had the wonderful, waifish figure for it.’ He’s pleased with this appraisal, thinks it not only fair but also slightly poetic. She sighs. ‘Yes, dear.’ She heads back upstairs to change. Jacob returns his attention to the newspaper, whistling the flat edge of a half-remembered melody. A junior minister has been fired and fined - that’s the fourth this year - for breaching the Public Truth and Honesty Act. In a press conference in October, Ms Redfield told reporters that 16,000 affordable homes had been built the previous year. But a fact-check under the Freedom of Information Act revealed that while 16,000 homes had been built, only 400 of them were classed as ‘affordable’. In her defence, Ms Redfield stated it was ‘An honest mistake, a slip of the tongue.’ Jacob tsks, turns the page. In the next article, a pop musician has taken an ‘influencer’ to court, seeking damages. The influencer, apparently, made several social media posts in which they proclaimed the singer’s latest song ‘brilliant’, ‘refreshing’ and ‘like, all the feels’. Unfortunately, though, the influencer was known to use sarcasm in their posts, and the pop musician is claiming public dishonesty on the part of the influencer has caused reputational damage and financial loss. A tricky one , thinks Jacob. Surely a matter of demonstrating intent . Bringing this legislation to parliament was one of the hardest, and finest, achievements of his forty-year career in the civil service. Stamping out the parameters nearly broke the entire department, but by god they got it through in the end. Glad of his retirement, he turns the page. The reports are all doom and gloom. Journalists, no longer allowed to ‘spin’ their findings to meet their biased editorial viewpoints, simply encapsulate events under increasingly bland headlines: ‘War still happening’; ‘Death of notable person’; ‘Economy far worse than ever before’. It paints a rather forlorn picture. Still, it’s good to know what’s what. Jacob remembers the old days, having to seek out the glimmer of facts through the quagmire of lies, opinions and wilful misinterpretations; the multi-layered double-speak of the post-truth world. He remembers the 'bad decades', around the dawn of the digital age, wherein public figures moved, in a few decades, from facades of integrity to cover-ups to shifty falsehoods to brazen, balls-out bullshitting. (He blushes at the language, but damn it, he feels strongly about this!) You could say what you liked, in those hellish days, as long as you had ten thousand twitter bots ready to back you up. These are simpler times , thinks Jacob. If you lie and you’re caught, you’re out. That’s that. The truth is no longer ‘out there’; it’s right here. Like it or lump it, as his mother used to say. True, the Public Truth and Honesty Act only really applies to politicians, broadcasters, public figures, and only covers public statements, press briefings, published articles, etc. It is not against the law, per se, for a man to tell a mistruth in his own home, to his own wife, in order to help her maintain a delusion. But it is a good code to live by, as Jacob frequently reminds Tabitha. Moral virtue begins with honesty. He folds his paper onto the occasional table, and in his carpet slippers pads silently up the stairs. He pauses outside Tabitha’s bedroom - formerly the spare room but, if truth be told, their relationship has cooled somewhat in recent years. He hears a cupboard door close. The sigh of a mattress as the sizeable bulk that was once his wife’s pert bottom is lowered onto it. He holds his breath and his heart quickens as he hears Tabitha sob, snort, mutter something to herself. Sniffle and sob some more. If the first casualty of war is the truth, then the first casualty of the truth is peace. She asked his opinion. It’s not his fault if she doesn’t like the answer. And the truth is, she has let herself go in recent years. An extra slice here, a skipped exercise class there. Her slim figure turned curvy, then voluptuous, now ‘plus-size’ as the adverts would say. Damned adverts, softening the edges of every truth they purport to convey. Jacob often regrets that they were unable to include advertisers under the purview of the legislation, given they are the most inherently dishonest people in society. Is ‘plus-size’ a euphemism (probably acceptable) or is it a downright lie (frankly illegal)? Shouldn’t they just say ‘fat’, plain and simple? He thinks to write to his MP, though wonders if three emails in a week may be too many. He doesn’t want people to think he’s some kind of busybody, a curtain-twitcher in his retirement. A sticky-beak, as his mother would say. Jacob returns to the living room via the kitchen, where he pours himself a small measure of blended whisky. Looking out at the gathering dark, he weighs up passing the evening watching the remainder of a documentary about ancient Greece, which he fell asleep in front of the other night, or starting a new book - perhaps the one with the new theory about Jack the Ripper. Since the passing of the Act, he’s found films, novels, all forms of fiction a little too synthetic, implausible. He can no longer get behind the protagonists, knowing full well that they were made up by someone’s over-active imagination for the sake of pecuniary advantage. Cynics masquerading as romantics. Liars, in short. They don’t fool Jacob. He decides on the book, and is just settling into his armchair when he hears Tabitha on the stairs. The adjectives that have been circling in his mind begin to crystalise: trashy, conceited, slutty; or maybe frumpy, dowdy, matronly, depending which way she’s gone. He doesn’t want to use any of them, doesn’t want to insult his wife, but it will be handy to have some answers ready for when she asks. But her steps move straight past the living room, and he hears the click of the front door opening, the finality of it closing. He’s quick to his feet. Catches the scent of perfume as he reaches to open the latch. She doesn’t turn. ‘Where are you going?’ She stops, but doesn’t look back. ‘I asked you a question.’ The implication being, therefore, that he requires a truthful answer. She half-turns. She has her dark jacket on so he can’t see what she’s wearing, aside from a knee-length black skirt and thick, modest tights (which do nothing for her calves, if he’s honest). ‘I’m going out.’ ‘Where to?’ he asks sharply. ‘A bar,’ she replies. ‘A bar?’ He means as in what bar , but her response is cutting. ‘You know, a drinking establishment where people meet in order to be sociable and have fun.’ She sniffs and holds her chin high. Mascara can’t hide the redness of her eyes. ‘I know what a bar is, dear. I meant - it’s a bit sudden.’ ‘It’s been planned for days.’ ‘But I didn’t know.’ ‘That’s because you’re not invited.’ His heart begins to thump. ‘Who - who with?’ His voice falters, almost a whisper. Tabitha inhales deeply, turns to face him fully, and Jacob’s world lurches. ‘I’m going to a bar with Gregory. He’s a man I know through my aerobics classes. I enjoy spending time with him because he’s polite and courteous. He’s also a considerate and very capable lover, and his penis is considerably “plus-sized”, one might say, compared to yours. I'm sorry if that’s more information than you required, Jacob, but I know how you value the importance of honesty.’ Her jaw clenches, nostrils flare. She looks bolder than he’s seen her in . . . years. ‘We plan to move in together in the near future, once I’ve found a way to tell you what I’ve just told you. Oh, looks like I just did!’ Jacob grips the doorframe, the world around him fuzzing out of focus, everything centred on his wife, his life, those wonderful lips that kissed him that night at the Enigma nightclub all those decades ago, that told him ‘I will’, that laughed and smiled with him in those older, happier days before it all went so wrong, so disappointing, so bitter. He wants to reach a hand out, to ask what he can do, what he did wrong, how he can fix it, but then a deeper feeling cuts through to the surface, and his heart burns in his chest. ‘You - you lied to me,’ he gasps, almost in satisfaction. ‘No I didn’t,’ she says with a smile. ‘I didn’t need to because you didn’t ask, because you didn’t care to notice. Goodbye, Jacob. I’ll be back in the morning to collect some things. It would be nice if you weren’t here.’ ‘You look like -’ he says quickly, flustered, gabbling, but his mind won’t bring forth the rehearsed adjectives. ‘You can’t go out looking like some cheap-’ ‘Yes I can, Jacob, because - to paraphrase one of those old fictional movies we used to love: frankly, my dear, I don’t give a flying fuck what you think.’ She smiles tightly and walks away. She looks quite good in those heels , he thinks, her silver hair silken in the streetlights.

Completely rewritten... When the emergency broadcast system cuts into local programming, the first words on the screen reassure us that this is merely a test. It started late afternoon on a seemingly normal day - people walking their dogs, others jogging and the occasional car horn followed by someone yelling. I think it was about 4 o’clock when I saw the first message. It read as a rather vague indication that something wasn’t right: “This is not a test--I repeat--this is not a test. The National Guard has initiated a state of emergency. You are advised to remain in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the area. Further instructions will be given shortly. Again, this is not a test.” “State of emergency?” I thought to myself. I’ve always kept a pair of binoculars on my window sill, I guess for when I get bored and want to take a peek into the lives of others. When gazing, I noticed that the people outside weren’t in their typical state of constant motion, but rather looking up at something. Some were pointing, some were slack jawed and some even crying. Something was in the sky. Something that didn’t belong. Something that most of us refused to believe existed. I scanned the sky to find a round, featureless “ball”, for lack of a better word. It looked to just be hanging there with no movement. I was stuck, never have I seen anything so striking yet simple. Shortly after the awe struck pedestrians snapped out of their trance, military vehicles began patrolling the maze of side streets outside of my apartment. I still don’t know what the soldiers were blasting through their megaphones as I live on the 10th floor of my building, but the streets quickly cleared. With no answers on TV, and with the military shooing people from the streets, all I could do was hope things would settle by morning. “The United States government has issued martial law. Please do not attempt to leave your homes; your safety is our number one priority.” I woke up to that. Imagine being awakened by a firm voice with such a cryptic message in the most dead pan delivery possible. I had to get some answers at this point so I threw on some shorts and shoes and headed down to the lobby. That’s when I saw the two pale faced soldiers standing just outside of the revolving doors of my building. One of them faced inside and the other was looking up in the direction of that thing in the sky. They were dressed in fatigues, the digital camouflage type you’d see in an urban environment. When I pushed the door to walk out, the soldier facing inward used his foot to block the door from spinning. “What’s the deal?” I asked him. “Better if you stayed put.” He replied. “Why are you here?” “Orders.” I had to choice but to stay put. I wasn’t going to barge through or demand he let me pass. “They must be here for a reason,” I thought. But the reality was that they were just as clueless as the rest of us. I know that now. It was then I figured that I’d stay at my window and witness whatever it was that was going to happen. Binoculars in hand, I trained my view to the object in the sky, which was now giving off an orange colored hue. I think I realize now that this was probably heat, since the clouds around it dissipated. Down below, the military activity has increased as there were now large vehicles equipped with surface to air missiles. Some people that were standing on the sidewalks were immediately wrangled up by the nearby soldiers and placed into the back of a cargo truck. The vehicle with the missiles took aim toward the sky and let loose a flurry. I had a feeling of giddiness but that was quickly squashed as the missiles simply froze in front of the object, and tumbled toward the ground. A few huge explosions echoed from the impact. People were probably killed. The entire object began to glow in a brilliant orange, as if a small sun, but it didn’t hurt like staring at the sun. The vehicle on the ground had a small crew resetting the weapon when suddenly a beam engulfed the area of the crew, vehicle and cargo truck which held the pedestrians. When the beam subsided, a perfect circular shape was scorched into the ground, with no remnants of what was once there. The silence was broken by the screams of other people that wandered into the streets and tires from various military vehicles screeching on the asphalt. The familiar screams of fighter jets filled the skies and began circling the object, which gave scale to its size - incredibly huge. The jets looked like tiny specs as they passed in front of it. One by one, the jets fired at it, over and over, all resulting in direct hits. After expelling their munitions, the jets absquatulated. The object began to fall. The massiveness becoming more apparent as it approached the ground. It crashed in the distance like something out of a disaster movie. The impact caused an eruption of earth and completely decimated that part of the city. It took a moment before the shockwave hit, but when it did, my apartment building rumbled so hard that it knocked me off my feet, causing me to hit my head against a table. When I came to, it was sometime in the middle of the night. Regaining my composure I looked out to see smoke and dust filling the horizon. Numerous helicopters were circling the crash site, shining their spotlights down as the destruction. Still feeling woozy, I lay on my bed and tried to sleep it off. It’s morning. The sunlight is doing little for my headache. I stand up and my head starts to pound. My watch reads midnight, why is it so bright out? I look through my window to find more of these objects. This time the sky is filled with them, all glowing like little suns. “This is not a test--I repeat--this is not a test. The National Guard has initiated a state of emergency. You are advised to remain in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the area. Further instructions will be given shortly. Again, this is not a test.

The pungent mixture of chlorine, piss and shit hit his nose. His mouth tasted bitter, itchiness encompassed his entire body, head pounding, heart racing. He reached to his side clawing at the metal bowl turning away to hide his shame, he let out last night's prison sloop. The three men looked away as if to say there was no dying man in sight. As if the puke had disturbed their sensibilities. Ageing, coughing, choking and dying that's all that was left and they couldn't stand to look him in the eye. One man sat in his pretentious black suit, the other two had their officer blues and their nice shiny gold badges. On their arm, a badge read Dallas police. To him, the officers were the law. Muscles bulging, barely squeezing into their shirts. They were what you saw in the movies. The kind that would kick in the door screaming police get on the ground and do some unnecessary flips and spinning kicks. They even smelt of the law. But the man in the suit, he was not like that. Petite with scruffy hair. Not built like a brick house more fragile looking. A leaf that could be blown away by a breeze. The man's eyes contained a deadly mixture of contempt and lust. Anger lay behind the thick and fogged eyes. DI Taylor was the man's name. From the queen's native land. He had travelled over four thousand seven hundred and seven miles to be here and he had done so on the promise of one thing, a confession. A growling, agonizingly sleep-deprived detective had been woken at the dead of night on some big news, some groundbreaking revelation. The butcher of Bradbury street had been found. When that phone rang and the news broke a piece of DI Taylor began to rejoice, rejoice and dance-ready for his life's nightmare to be over and ready to go back to the days where he could sleep at night. That one thing he had travelled so far for was laid out in front of his eyes, five sheets of childish handwriting scribbled on both sides. Signed and dated. It was all there, dates locations, details only the detectives, forensics and the killer could know. As the man continued to cough and sprawl out what remained of his inners, DI Taylor read back over it for the third time. He had caught his guy, the one guy he had been obsessing over for twenty years. The one who had wormed his way out of the grip and slid calmly away into the whispering night. The one who had killed time and time again but was too clever for capture. The man in front of them was old, sick, wrinkly. Every breath he took was an agonising pain if he had turned paler he would disappear into the bright white sheets. the ones that his frail carcass laid upon. The man's eyes were dead to the world, glazed over, rolled back in their sockets. It was hard to believe just twenty years prior, the same man had taken countless lives, not just of his victims but of all their loved ones. He had destroyed hundreds of lives for little more than a thrill. Behind those dying eyes lay the Bradbury Butcher. Anyone who lived near Bradbury Lane in West London between the late eighties and early two thousand would have been scared to go out during the dark winter nights. Named after the street where he slayed his first victim, the Bradbury butcher was known to strike a wide range of victims, there seemed to be no motive, no particular victim. The only thing that linked the victims is the way their bodies were displayed. Each limb was cut from the body into smaller fragments and scattered around into a pentagram, where the body parts wouldn't make up the broken pentagram blood was used to fill in the empty lines. Placed in the centre of each body was some kind of piece of profanity. Some kind of symbolic thing that would cause the victim a world of embarrassment. A sex toy, pornographic novel, a stolen watch.Something the person who lay dismembered wouldn't want their loved ones to find. He did this to taunt, haunt and torture those who surrounded him. The killings started back in June of ninety-eighty-eight on Bradbury lane west London. The body of a priest was found inside his small church. The church had three lines of pews and was built in the early seventies. A small brick built with a flat that made up the vicarage above . It was a church that held small gatherings yet there was something special there. Those who went loved the priest. An eccentric white man in his forties John Hampton was energetic and loving. He let the homeless lay in the church on cold winters days and ran a makeshift food bank and soup kitchen in his church on the weekends. All paid by his donations. No mountain was too high to climb. The shock and horror took over the faces and lives of all who attended his church. It was an old lady who found his mutilated body. One of the old-timers, she had been there the day he opened up till the day he had taken his last breath. Even the highest trained psychotherapist couldn't mend the broken heart and shattered mind of mary. In the middle of his gingerly placed body were four porno mags and a bright red pair of lingerie, DI Taylor always speculates over why he would do such a thing. Why lay it in the pentagram and leave obscene photographs at the moment. He always thought the butcher wanted to try and take every last ounce of dignity from those who he killed. From those who he drained the blood. DI Taylor was young and inexperienced when he first went to the crime scene but from that moment of a kind of blind fixation took him over. Sleepless nights, angry calls and disappointing trails that led to nowhere. A smirk grew at the corners of his mouth all the pain and suffering this case had caused him only to take him a thousand miles away to see the killer take his last breath. He didn't even have the satisfaction of arresting the man. But part of him knew if the man wasn't already dying, DI Taylor would have seen to it. Deep behind the cold dead eyes, he knew the killer was still the sadistic bastard. A loud swing of the door from behind them jolted DI Taylor out of his staring competition. The doctor whispered into the Texans' ear and left the room. "We got to go. The family are here to say their final goodbyes." DI Taylor wanted to make the family wait and make them wait until it was too late, just like this murderous bastard did but the two Texans were there and he knew he couldn't do it. "I hope the devil treats you well down in hell you cold heartless bastard". With that last word lingering on the back of his tongue the detective inspector left the room. As the door swung shut behind the officer's, tears ran down the old man's cheeks. Tears of pain and agony, lust and hatred. When the tap started flowing he could not help but open up the entire damn, tears poured down his cheeks by the bucket full. The emptiness of the heart overtook him. One he had never felt before. The pain ran so deep his soul began to bleed. This would be it for him, his lasting legacy. His good name dragged through the shit and plastered on the billboards. He could only hope God would forgive him and that God would unhinge the pearly gates and allow him through. He had always been a good Christian, a good father, a good husband and the most upheld member of society. Not a dent in his criminal record, not a single dent. But now all of this has fallen on to his weak arms, something so big that he couldn't help but cry, the thoughts were traumatising making every wink a nervous dance. As DI Taylor walked into the clinical hallway he spotted a strange-looking man. The man was wearing a black leather jacket and had a baseball cap pulled a little too far down. He was not much taller or wider than the man who had just confessed. Taking a deeper look he could see the same dirty eyes as the man who had just relieved him of his work. Deep down those eyes were evil to the core. They were the eyes of a criminal but at that moment DI Taylor passed it off. There was nothing he could do and what he was going to do was tell the two Texans that he had hunch that the man in black was a criminal. Not his job nor his jurisdiction. He had come and conquered and knew it was his time to leave. DI Taylor had all he could take off the dirty Dallas air he needed to go back to dark and rainy territory back to the place he called home. He had a ticket for the next flight to London and he was sure as hell wasn't going to miss it. He wanted to be home already in his cosy apartment, to charlie the cat and his wife. The only thing in his mind at that moment was the 30-year-old dark bourbon, he was going to finally open the bottle as he had promised to do when he caught the butcher. As DI Taylor got in his car, the man in the leather jacket walked into the room and placed a chair to jam the door shut. The man proceeded to the windows and shut the blinds. Darkness engulfed the two men the dying man took a deep breath in and coughed out the rest, " Where are they?" The dying man said with an air of desperation and a need for the answer. The other man began to smile slyly as he gently sat down beside the bed. In a whisper, he responded, "They are fine, did they get the confession?" "Of course they got their fucking confession, the Detective was mighty pleased with himself. Now I did what you asked where are they I need to see them I don't have long left" An even wider grin took hold of the man's face, a glimmer of light in his dark cold eyes. "All in good time little brother, all in good time. They believed you?" "Of Course they did they lapped up every last word, they were practically dribbling when they saw it" " That's good, Patricia and Carolina will be with you in due course." The man stood up ready to make his exit. "I guess this is my Goodbye brother. You know I have always loved you" The dying man began to tremble inside. Every last inch of his wanted to get up and strangle him, make it his last ever thing he did on this earth. But he couldn't. In the calmest tone he could muster he said "Promise me you will see that specialist down in Mexico. I want to know you will get help for this devil inside you. I want to know you will never do anything to harm anyone again" A deep wheeze escaped his lungs. "I never break my promise brother" The man smiled and left the room leaving the blinds shut. The waterworks began once again as the dying man reminisced on their childhood. They were twins after all they had a saintly childhood yet something evil had taken over the other twin. The thought alone of the bodies and what he had confessed to made him sick to his stomach. It ached more than it ever had since the disease had taken hold. The man didn't have much time left as he watched the time go by a sinking feeling took over. Patricia and Carolina never came by. At ten o'clock he inhaled his last breath. At 9 45 pm, the coroner was called to a house at the corner of willow avenue, at the scene lay the final victims of the Bradbury butcher.

It’s a one of a kind place, this Inn is. It’s where dreams are kept and where peace is found. It’s where memories are made and memories relived. It’s where time stands still and your mind goes into solace. It’s nestled right on the banks of the Cape Fear River in a small beautiful North Carolina town. It only has eight rooms, each with it’s own charm. Six of the rooms have a semi-private porch divided by some wooden slats that go almost to the ground. The old wooden porch swing is my favorite. Each of the river side rooms has one. They still have keys for the rooms. This quaint place is named, The Grand Banks Inn. This time we are staying in room number six for the whole week. Upon arrival, we were greeted by our host who told us, “if you need something, just call me, the keys are on the table in the room.” We were unloading the car for what seemed like an eternity. I complained as usual and Lisa just looked at me and smiled. As that event went on there were other things unpacking in my mind. Who’s in room seven I thought, who’s in room five? These are all the things I think about when staying in a Inn. I think if you played the song hotel california it would match this Inn. I would like it to anyway. The song goes, you can check out but you can never leave. As we were finishing the unloading process room seven door opens and a younger couple emerged. They looked like they were in their forties or so. I made eye contact and I shook hands with my eyes. Only a few people will ever get this. It’s a silent gift that some have. You can have a complete conversation with just your eyes, and we did. It went like this to the both of them, hello, how are you, you’re in seven and we are in six, good to meet you, we can chat later....then blink. Well, wouldn’t you know it I got sick that week and was unable to do anything. So, while Lisa went to walk each day I sat on the old porch swing and enjoyed that breeze that came off the river from the ocean. I was working on a previous story titled, Oh Snap. It’s what I call a dark story but it does have a hopeful ending. As I pressed through it I realized that room seven was in and out on their porch. They were very quite. Not conversing a great deal. I was able to get up enough strength to get to the swing each day and focus and write the story I was working on. I usually wear headphones and listen to what I call my writing music but for some reason i decided this natural peace was just enough to listen to. The swing would rock back and forth and back and forth. I had the lap top in my lap writing what I thought was a master piece. I laugh at myself saying that because each write I do is not for you but for me, it’s a release of emotions and brings healing to me each and every time. In the back of my mind I do hope these stories will help someone. Lisa had gone on another long walk about midday, I was in the swing writing and enjoying the sun and then I heard room seven door opened and close, I hear her talking on the phone. He was already sitting on the porch. I could see his feet dangling. I couldn’t make out what she was saying other than, are you sure. Are you one-hundred percent! The wind had silence in it as if I was supposed to hear something. There were no boats, no people, no birds, no nothing, just her saying, “are you sure.” She told the caller, “ok.” There was silence like I’ve never heard. I was still trying to focus on this real story I was fully involved in. It was so difficult to focus. She then told her husband, “ the test results are in and I am terminal.” The cancer has taken a turn and there is no hope of recovery, I am terminal.” I have two weeks to live. She joined him on the swing, both feet dangling in the sun barely touching the ground. They pushed back and forth, back and forth. He got up and walked in the yard by the river, looking up as to ask God himself for help. I could see the distress in his countenance. She joined him with a beautiful hug in the sun light as to say, it’s going to be ok. We’re going to be ok. They both started to walk back to room seven and our eyes took yet another handshake. It’s going to be ok, I said. You are going to make it, I promise you that. Never underestimate the power of the eyes, the look, the glance, the stare, the hug, the kiss, the touch. It’s all real and it brings comfort. They knew what I was saying, they understood. I had overheard a conversation that wasn’t meant for me but it now involved me. Later that evening Lisa and I were swinging on that old porch swing in room six, over looking the cape fear river. I had not told her what I had heard earlier that day as I was still processing. Lisa is a cancer survivor so this is a very sensitive topic for her. I had finished writing my story and shared it with her. She always gives great insight to my stories and as we chatted about the story it led into a very common conversation for us. We just started talking about what we always talk about, things of life. As we looked at the stars in the heavens, and the waters all around us. We talked about God, we talked about Jesus and the peace and life He brings to us each and everyday. We talked about the plans He has for us and the future He has for us. We talked about His amazing grace, from where we were to where we are today. We talked about His saving grace and why we are who we are. This is a regular conversation for us. I then shared with her what I had heard from room seven. Lisa was so torn, she wanted to go over and pray with them to bring some hope, some type of rescue to them but realized this was their battle, if they needed to include us then only God would make that happen. We agreed to pray right then and there for them. We prayed out loud on that porch swing outside room six for those in room seven. PLEASE GOD HAVE MERCY ON THEM, MAY YOUR WILL BE DONE, IF THEY DON’T KNOW YOU THEN LEAD THOSE THAT WILL SHOW THEM THE WAY, AMEN. With that we went to bed that evening, not sleeping too much. I was feeling better the next day and got up a bit early. I noticed that room seven was packing up the car and preparing to leave. At the Grand Banks Inn it’s not unusual to have both the front and back doors open at the same time. As I stood in my door way with my sweet Lisa by my side we all shook hands again with our eyes. Saying to them, we love you, it’s going to be ok, we will be here if you need us and most important, we love you! Not knowing who they were we often included them in our prayers. A year has passed now and we are back for our annual vacation time, a celebration of our love and our restoration, which is for another story. We always try to get room six. As it was this year room six is where we are. We are unloading and in the back of our minds we are wondering about room seven. We get all settled in and the sun is bright and the wind is blowing ever so soft. I peered over to the porch at room seven and noted it was empty, then I heard a door close, I rushed back to my place on the porch, sitting quickly on the swing hoping that room seven was occupied. A man came out and sat in the swing, I could see his feet moving back and forth. He started talking to someone. I was wondering if it was him and maybe the doctors were wrong. I stopped and got up quietly and walked out into the yard toward the river. A voice came from room sevens porch. I turned and it was him. He greeted me with a very soft, “hello.” I returned, a “hello.” He just stared at me as if to say something. He said, “you were here last year about this time, right?” I said, “yes, we were.” I didn’t act dumb, I knew she didn’t make it. We made past the introductions and he told me the whole story about her cancer and the diagnosis and the final two weeks of her life. Our eyes engaged and once again we communicated in silence. He then said, “I have a letter here for you, she wrote it and sealed it up before she passed, with the hopes of one day me seeing you again to deliver it. And the letter read: Dear Room Six, I know we only shook hands with our eyes but I did overhear you and your sweet Lisa as you called her talking. I did overhear you taking about this God and this Jesus that brings peace and hope to your souls. I did hear you talking about a life everlasting and a life in this place called heaven. I wanted you to know that the last two weeks of my life, God has brought some amazing into my life. They have shared with me this love of Jesus. I overheard you room six and I am thankful that I did. Thanks to you room six my husband now understands and has this same hope. He knows God’s plan for him is to prosper and not harm him, he knows his future is even brighter with this everlasting love. If you are reading this now you know I overheard, for that I am grateful beyond words. See you soon! Signed, Room Seven With that, you never know the power of the spoken word, choose wisely.

“Sally, do you realize that Monday is Valentine’s Day”? Wendy yells across the across the hallway to her friend, who was busy shoving her jacket into her locker. Making sure her books did not fall out, as they have in the past laugh out loud. “When they are too serious, what the heck are we ever going to do”? As both girls realized they were running out of time, the final bell warning rings. Sally yells over to Wendy ”tell your parents that you are spending the weekend with me”. They both hug each other in the middle of the hallway, and run off to class and the opposite of directions as they don’t want to be late again to class because they know that they will be getting in school suspension. It’s the last class of the day, also the last class of the week Sally is excited to get into home economics. As she walks in the door she sees Mrs.Svetz standing there with her apron on..which meant they are baking today! Heck yeah! What a great way to finish out the week. Sally grabs her apron and puts it on, making sure as well that her hair is pulled back in a ponytail..she learned the last time as part of her long hair got burnt on the burner. Mrs. Svetz begins to talk, calling Sally back to full attention, “class since it is Valentine’s Day on Monday, you’re free to bake anything chocolate that you choose, have fun and please clean up before you leave”. Sally knew that was meant for her, as she left dirty dishes the last time. She learned, lol finally. Sally saw the double boiler, the Bakers chocolate, the cocoa powder, the vanilla extract, and the powder sugar, the butter and the wooden spoon, the thermometer, and the oven mitt. She preheated the oven to first make a cake, and then proceeded to clean up, before making the frosting she was told her Great Nana made. OK, a teaspoon of vanilla, a dash or two of salt, melting the bakers chocolate and 2 tablespoons of butter, add in 2 cups powdered sugar, 2 teaspoons of cocoa powder, blend together until melted, adding in whatever else was need to make it consistent. Take it off the burner to chill a little, take the cake out of the oven, making sure to turn it off, another lesson learned. And while she was waiting for it to cool, she realized that it was the perfect time to to clean up and do the dishes. Once they were all done, the cake was cool enough to frost. Sally was excited to lick the spoon when the cake was finished. She realized that she had enough frosting left over to make roses for her brother and sister, if not more. Once they were ready she put them in the fridge to chill. Then, she realized she could do this for the two cute guys that her and Wendy had crushes on, she’d just ask her Dad to take her to the store on the way home. Before she knew it the five minute warning was given. She came back into the room, and grabbed the four roses out of the fridge, washed out the molds, and put all the supplies away, wrapped up the cake in plastic wrap loosely, holding it up with toothpicks, wrapped up the roses, put her apron in the wash, tidying up her area. Then, thanked Mrs. Svetz for a cool assignment, wished her “have a happy weekend”, and skipped out the door with her gifts. Wendy, was in her least favorite class math, they had a surprise test.. Great she thought to herself, “what a way to end the week”. Before she got too upset, she took a deep breath and with a sigh.. Released the sigh. The teacher thank God was a substitute who was cute, as he passed out the test he noticed Wendy didn’t have a pencil, he got her one with a slight laugh and then gave them all instructions to “begin the test, keep your own eyes on your paper, and when you are finished, turn it in then grab the other sheet of paper for you, keeping quiet until everyone is finished. Good luck”. Wendy, was shocked when she looked at the test and realized..she actually knew more than she thought! A big smile came across her face, as she sped through the test, realizing that she was the first one done “Don’t change your answers” , she recalled her Mom telling her the last time. She got up, walked to the front of the class and turned in her paper, blushing as the teacher looked up at her in her eyes. Ahh, he was cute! She picked up the other piece of paper, thanked him quietly, and went back to her desk. She turned over the paper and saw it was a dot to dot, she chuckled quietly and then proceeded to finish it. The finished product was a Happy Valentine’s day card with a box of chocolates to color in. The perfect gift to color and then give to her parents. Before she knew it, the bell rang and she pushed in her chair, cleaned up her desk, threw the garbage away, gave the cute substitute the pencil back, he told her “keep it, and here is a topper for it, grab a box of candy hearts too, they are from your teacher”. She thanked him and after putting the gifts in her backpack, skipped out the door. Sally met her at their lockers, they both grabbed their belongings and skipped out the door where both their parents were waiting for them. Wendy yelled to Susan” my dad said it’s OK if I spend the weekend as long as your mom says it’s OK”? Of course it was, they made plans for Wendy to get dropped off after four. Giving them both time to go home and relax. Wendy couldn’t wait to get home, and color in the gift. Susan already gave her Dad a rose, he ate it licking his lips and sucking on the stick until they got home.

it was a damp, heavy day. A day who's air made your lungs doubt if they wanted another breath, the kind you get in summer evenings the day after a storm. Perhaps it was that very weather that compelled a tall, fair gentleman of about 30 to purchase a lottery ticket. Taking shelter from the light drizzle, hanging his coat on a rack, and browsing lightly through the aisles of liquor... no, it was that. The sheer unappealingness of the liquid that had nearly killed his father was what turned his gaze away to the lottery tickets. Perhaps it was luck that had made him win just two days later, but the common opinion was that it was, in fact, Luck. “and why in the hell is that proof?” said the man at his desk. “most of our targets are off the charts! this bastard only won a single lottery! It wasn’t even ours!” “yes, sir” replied the official, Jones. “but frankly, hes a white, fit man living in America, with a good job, no history of illness, and about a thousand other advantages. I’m not saying he’s a Lucky, I’m saying to investigate. Remember, Leave Nothing To Chance.” “I bloody well know how lucky he is, but I've got about 40 other cases cluttering up my desk and I'm not gonna let-” he stopped, rummaging through his papers to find something “This guy go! You really think he isn’t a Lucky? Wins powerball, commits a goddamn crime spree, and gets away with it without a single RAT DIME in fines because of a court technicality? “yes, but its not as if hes going to come into any power. He’s hated by the public, both for winning the lottery they think they deserved, and for committing murders and thefts, even if he got away. Besides, he’s low enough socially that he can’t be higher than a 7, but this guy has the potential to be a 9! a 9! the last time we let a 9 go loose we had to cover up the loss of a whole county!” The man at the desk, who was commonly called agent Hanson, did not agree in the slightest. But that was the problem with secretaries and officials. None of them felt it. None of them knew what it was like. There was more difference between knowing and Knowing as between him and a goddamn bunny! But it was no use. Get enough papers in your hands and you could contest any amount of knowledge and experience. “I'll get my coat”. The standard equipment of your average powerball agent is a 15mm pistol, some dog-ended cigarettes, a badge, and a cellphone. Like most things, these were not very useful. Most Luckies worth shooting were Lucky enough that your gun would jam, you never had time to call dispatch, and all the badge did was assure a couple of police officers you had a warrant. As for the cigarettes, well, Hanson never brought a lighter. While he was hoping that the rain would pick up and maybe strike his cigarette with lightning, or at least strike him and end his misery, he spotted a truck. Now, a truck coming down the road is not a problem for an ordinary man in ordinary times. Hanson was, unfortunately, neither. Hanson was a man closing in on the location of a persons who, knowingly or not, controlled chance, and he was on a fairly slippery road. “goddammit” he said, and threw away his cigarette. There was no crossing the road, and frankly no chance that it wouldn’t hit him. He wasn’t scared, but he felt a low dread of knowing he was in danger. It was getting too likely for him to die for Luck not to cinch the knot. Perhaps...yes perhaps all it took was to let the driver know he was there? No, too rainy, coat too dark. He wouldn’t notice anything that wasn’t drastic. Suddenly, an idea occurred. He crouched low, angled himself farther down from the truck and jumped into the road, waving his arms. Doesn’t matter how unlucky you are, no bugger will miss this. Unfortunately, broken break pedals don’t care what their drivers notice. You learn the sound of broken breaks in the academy. An agent who didn't know it would be road paste. And agent who did know probably would be too, but at least they might be able to get their dog-tag straitened before impact. Fortunately, the academy also taught aim. Probably this wasn't the best skill to teach either, but it was useful in the moment. Two shots rang out, two tires deflated, and one now very scared agent pulled up his hood and ran further down the road. “end wot the ‘ell waz oll that then!” shouted the driver. “yoo blooty well neah kilt me! Ye com back ‘ere efore I kick yore ass six ways from Sunday! And ye gon be there a long time, cos I only know bout fore kindsa hell”. He would stand there for about ten more minutes just puttering around in the rain, thinking very rude things about the man in the coat. *Dammit dammit dammit*, thought Hanson, *so he’s not just a Lucky, as I suspected. He’s a Chancer. That wasn’t just lucky for him. Had It stopped, I wouldn’t have slowed down any less than when I shot the tires, but I was in a lot more danger. Things aren’t just lucky for him, they’re unlucky for me. Just my luck.* And about a mile away, a stockily built man of thirty was feeling worried. He did not know why he was worried, as he had just won the lottery, and was not of the intellectual persuasion to view that as a subject of worry. It was an odd feeling of dread he often got near danger, and often danger came right behind it. He thought it wise to purchase a revolver, given his recent lottery winnings, and to leave it on the counter. It was the only unlucky thing in the last 5 years of his life: that he didn’t leave it loaded. Hanson, still rattled, gun left loaded, was closing in on the target, in the odd, shaking gait of one moving as steadily as he can despite fear. The rain pattered on his coat, slowly soaking coldness into his skin. The gun clacked and rocked in his holster, a technique he had learned to scare away any oh-so-lucky would-be muggers. He had a feeling of danger, quite accurate, and he was not aware he was sharing the feeling with a stocky blond man he was closing in on. Yet as he walked up the driveway to the large and lavish house, straightening his false badge and now concealing his gun, he became aware of a slight simpatico, knowing that the man inside felt as he felt. *Luckies are dangerous. They feel, they think, they don’t deserve this. But they are dangerous. Maybe we can contain him instead. But a Chancer...no, not a Chancer. It’s so bloody unfair. I mean, its almost unlucky! But we can’t let them go on like this. With a feeling of setting forth an axiom he thought, for the thousandth time: power is dangerous, no matter who has it, no matter if it is used.* Had the stocky man considered the danger of an armed agent walking up his driveway after he won the lottery sooner, he may have summarily killed him. But it was the little hesitation, the brief, mad stupidity of hoping that an obvious danger is fictitious that made him fail to load the gun. He did know to point it at the door, at least. And as the armed man approached his door- “Hello! I am your real estate agent, my name is Halbert, I look forward to our chat! I don’t mean to disturb you, you are quite a busy man I take it, but it seems you have a bit of a property issue with a certain neighbor of yours!”. Hanson hated the high, preppy voice, but he was eerily good at it, and it always lowered someone’s guard. Maybe, maybe it would bring him to the door, and then a quick movement and- he shuddered, and cut the line of thought. A gruff voice came from inside “and who the hell do you think you are?” “there is no need for obscene language, sir, I am just inquiring as to a property dis-” “yeah you can cut that shit right there” and there it was, stronger now. A feeling of intense danger. He clicked the gun. Agent Hanson thought fast. Hearing that click told him all he needed to know. He knew that he wouldn’t miss, too lucky, and he can’t shoot first. No talking him out of it, he saw through the illusion too quickly for that. He had no shield, and knowing the other man’s Luck it would go through anyway. Only one way, he thought, put his hands behind his head, curled in, and rolled down the steps, just as a shot rang through the door. He got up, pain shooting through his spine, and let out a shot. Bullets don’t work on Luckies, the gun will jam, or the bullet will ricochet, or hit some non-essential part of them. No, it was the lock he shot for. He heard a second click, and dove under the man’s car just as a rocket of dirt shot up, hit by a bullet the size of a large bee. *It’s not that you can’t leave it to chance. It was chance it didn’t hit the car, but that would be too unlucky now wouldn’t it. I may have some Unluck, but its less than his Luck. This might not be so hard* Hanson knew how little time he had before the next shot rang out, but he also knew staying under the car would just buy that man some time. He ran out, and in a leap of faith, grabbed the railing of the stairs, and pulled himself up, rolling through the doorway. He breathed a sigh of relief, now hidden in a side chamber of the house. But he could hear the man approaching. Bullets wouldn’t work, but it might hurt his luck. Worth a shot. He sprang out from behind the small wall and shot three times, and three jammed clicks came from the gun. “worth a shot”, he said, and the blond man charged. Seeing a man built like an ox charge at you with his bare hands is something Hanson did not wish to experience, but it certainly made him reflect very, very quickly. *can’t open a cupboard for a weapon, it’ll turn out to be his towel drawer. No go with a knife, it’ll be blunt with his Luck. Maybe his revolver...no, 3 shots isn’t enough of a probability stretch. Maybe I have a-* The man hit him. It wasn’t like a fist, it was like a small car hitting him square in the chest. Hanson coughed blood into the man’s face, and landed hard, cracking his head. Slowly, hand twitching, Hanson grasped his badge, feeling the sharp point with his thumb, and said into the rage-filled face: “I'm sorry, you don’t deserve this” in a smooth motion, his hand flung out, holding the small gold thing tight. The blond man’s grip slowly relaxed, and he slumped over, a long, red cut like the rind of a melon slowly widening on his neck. Hanson sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, and checked the man’s pulse. Stone dead. He never even caught his name. He pulled out his cellphone and said “dispatch? I got him.

I am no fool. I know that my search will end in failure and yet I possess a stubbornness that cares not, for I accept that I will never meet Elizabeth again. Her friends are my friends no longer, and social media has provided me with an electronic wall of silence on the subject. With every passing month her rude invasions into my dreams are more vivid, her role in my thoughts more fantastic, and my development as an adult halted because of her absence. I assumed that the introduction of weed into my evening relaxation habits - introduced as a way of coping with the sheer heartbreak I was still suffering from - had increased the intensity of her image into my life, but even after giving it up, she remained. Were it not for a work colleague brushing her hair one dreary lunchtime, I would have been resigned to my Succubus for ever more. However, as I gazed across the office at Michelle’s long blonde hair dancing around her waist with every bite of the comb, I thought of those Sunday mornings in bed watching Elizabeth prepare for work, the bare bulb light saturating her hair as she straightened it with her battered brown brush. I snapped back to the present and realised that I could substitute my lost love with a simile, a mimic that could be my Elizabeth. Even a small percentage of Elizabeth could be enough! The challenge was to find a doppelganger that was Elizabeth enough to fool my obsessive heart. The next day I approached the woman who had inspired me and asked her for date. Sadly I was rejected hard; Michelle was married. I spent the next few days apologising whenever we passed in the office and, thankfully, she took in good spirits. Her role in my story was concluded, other than the occasional hair dance that sated my hunger for a few minutes. I was not one to seek romantic partners; it wasn’t that I lacked an appealing appearance, I just found it difficult to initiate a conversation from a cold start. Ironically my love for my ex-girlfriend was the catalyst for a romantic lifestyle. My first venture was online dating since I assumed that a passive list of people’s pictures would make for rapid and easy success. Unfortunately static pictures lacked the tiny nuances that I needed, for Elizabeth was an experience as well as a look. Regardless I began to contact those who had long blond hair and green eyes with a hope that they may possess other Elizabethan traits. My first potential candidate was a petite, bordering on frail, girl called Kammy who lacked Elizabeth’s height but otherwise was a general match. We met in a restaurant and talked about the bland vapid subjects expected between two people that knew little of each other. It was when the date was concluded that I realised I had hit paydirt; Kammy put on a pair of very large dark glasses as we went to leave, and suddenly I was looking at the face of Elizabeth. Her chin, mouth, and cheek were an exact match, and I stumbled out a request for another date. Thankfully she agreed. The next date took place at a local pub of mine, with the expectation that we would go back to my flat afterwards. We had flirted over text throughout the week, and I was certain she was as keen on me as I was on her. I took her to bed that night and suggested that she wear a blindfold to replicate the image of Elizabeth from before, but my eagerness to have sex diminished as I climbed between her legs and stared into her face; Elizabeth was not there, not anymore. I made a half-hearted attempt to please both of us but I could tell that we shared a disappointment afterwards. I did not hear from her again. My next Elizabeth project was a friend of a friend called Sarah. I use the term clone, as her physical attributes were perfectly Elizabethan, and I almost hugged my friend when he sent me a picture of her. We arranged to go on a cinema viewing followed by late drinks; a strange date, but one that she had suggested so I felt obliged to comply. We met outside the complex and exchange brief words before sitting next to each other in complete silence for two hours. After the conclusion of the by-the-numbers film we sat in a nearby bar and then talked about absolutely nothing until last orders, then got into separate taxis and headed home. In bed I smiled at the ludicrousness of the date and lamented the waste of a potentially-perfect Elizabeth mimic. That was until my phone beeped with a message from Sarah thanking me for the night, with a request for another date. During the second date I realised that Sarah was the perfect physical representation of Elizabeth, almost as if someone had created her from the same blueprint. However, the creation process had omitted a personality, for she was bereft of any kind of original thought. She had no opinion, no likes or dislikes, no hobbies, passions, or skills. At first I thought this to be a huge disadvantage, but then corrected myself; I was on a quest for an Elizabeth substitute, and here was an Elizabeth body with a blank mind. I sustained conversation with Herculean-effort, helped along by wine and beer, then asked her if she wanted to be in a relationship with me. She agreed without hesitation; I wondered whether she would say no to anything. I started her transition into Elizabeth, buying her gifts that Elizabeth would have appreciated and introducing her to the same interests that Elizabeth had. She accepted all of this without question, but without opinion either. I bought her horror books which she read but did not give any judgement on. I introduced her to the same computer games that Elizabeth played; she participated like an automaton, competed neither well or poor, and had no passion for winning or losing. The sex was surprisingly energetic, but again was methodical as if going through an instruction manual of positions and duration. I woke up one morning and watched my new Elizabeth brush her hair in the morning light of her bedroom. The blond danced, the comb scratched, the clips held, but suddenly I was appalled by the the skinwalker that had slipped into the Elizabeth-sized hole to forever remind me that she was not her. At that moment she turned to me and smiled with a horrific long blank face, the familiarity close enough to chill me to the nerve. I cried out and hid under the sheets until she left for work. I hurried out of her house and never spoke to her again. Post-Sarah was my lowest moment in my life. I had tried recruiting an Elizabeth substitute, and had tried to create an Elizabeth mimic, but neither had succeeded. The honest truth, the reality that I had tried throwing people in front of, was that the only Elizabeth that could satisfy my hunger was Elizabeth. This new realisation gave me a care-not attitude and I decided to indulge in a significant amount of MDMA; I needed to escape from my own self, if only for a few hours. I did not know what to expect or how much to take, so took all three of the pills, sat on my sofa and closed my eyes to await the effects. There was a growing euphoria that I began to enjoy which disappeared quite suddenly, like a beautiful song that had been cut short. I received an epiphany several moments after and I searched through Elizabeth’s old love letters until I found her parent’s phone number, which I didn’t think I had. Against my better judgement I called the number, aware that I was probably under the influence of drugs still, and was suddenly talking to Elizabeth’s father. I had the vaguest recollection of attending his funeral some time ago and yet he was at the other end of the telephone, the same warm and witty man that I remembered with some fondness. Time must have muddled my memory. I left a message and a contact number, with a breezy message in the hope that Elizabeth would not be disturbed by my sudden reappearance. I did not have long to wait and was contacted via text moments later. I retained my breezy demeanour and arranged a friendly catch-up at a bar in an hour. It was fortunate that the exchange was via text; I do not think my voice would have held out if I had been talking to her. I arrived early to secure a good seat near the entrance. My mind conjured up the next few hours and what would come of it. Did she hold dear the same memories as I? Did she too look at the same pictures and disappear into remembrance, listen to the same songs, and revisit the same places? And then she was there, the same almond face, long hair, green eyes, and slender gait that suggested casual athleticism. To my eye she had not aged one day since we split up. Her eyes met mine and my stomach spasmed. I went into automatic response, greeted her, exchanged default pleasantries that we looked well and that it had been too long. I took the opportunity to buy her a drink to gather my thoughts. My Elizabeth was here, the person who was the focus of both my waking and unconscious thoughts. I ordered a gin and tonic - still her favourite drink it would seem - and stole a quick glance behind me. She was poised on her chair looking back at me, seemingly-unfazed by our meet-up. What did I expect her to be like? A quivering repentant mess of emotions, or complete indifference to the situation? I took her drink to the table and sat opposite, studying the details of her to add to my faux Elizabeth of my mind. She was exactly the same as I remembered her; always with small earrings that glinted as brightly as her eyes; a thin gold necklace because thicker necklaces looked gaudy against her long thin neck; the eternity ring that I had bought her as a precursor for an engagement. I reeled from the recognition and grabbed her hand. It was without doubt the eternity ring I had given her, dull cheap silver with curled etchings running along its length. My panic wasn’t because she was still wearing it after 20 years, but because I had it locked up in my box of remembrance, ever-ready to bring out to reflect upon. I stared at her but she put a finger on my lips and would not let me speak. I tried again, my confusion escalating, but her finger was firm and strong. The pub dissolved around us and I was suddenly in her arms, her face filling my vision as she kissed me tenderly. I thought to fight this new false pretender, but her embrace was everything I had yearned for. I relented and sank into her, rested my head against her chest, listened to her slowing heart beat, her breath in my ear. At that moment I understood that she had returned to comfort me as I died, the remnants of her love my final protector against the terror of my overdose. For the briefest of moments, before eternity swept me away, I was content that she was mine again.

She picked up the strip of paper lying on the footpath. It was a fairly ordinary strip of paper, white and slightly crumpled, not more than ten centimetres long. Her long bony fingers trembling, she twists the paper once and holds the two ends together. She watches carefully as her finger traces the surface of the strip. It starts out on the inside and soon, without warning, it finds itself on the outside, without having crossed a boundary. To our protagonist, this is not just a neat mathematical curiosity. It is a fact of life. At present, she knows that their is no reason for her to think that her home exists. It had seemed absurd to her at first, but the clerk at the city-council office had made it look trivial - “You see, Ms. Bose, our office does not have any paperwork pertaining to this, ..., this construction. So, I have no reason to believe it is at all there.” “And neither should you”, the man had added with a rehearsed smile as he placed a stack of paper riddled with circular tea-stains on the desk. “Apni Chaa khaben?”, he had gone on to ask. As she walked out of the office, the situation she had gotten herself into slowly began to get to her. At first it was just the sheer hideousness of it all. The idea that her house was non-existent was so inconceivable that it was funny. In fact she let out a short laugh, as if at a fairly good joke - perhaps something she would find in an R.K.Laxman cartoon. The thought of having herself in place of the dhoti-jacket clad ‘common man’ was vaguely endearing. As she walked further down the street, she sank further into the reality of her reality. Her house had been a half-decent place to live in. Had shegiven it enough thought she might even have liked the place. It was a year since her parents had passed on and, since then, the rooms had taken on personalities of their own. The paint peeling off from the walls, the stacks of books in shelves, the grilles on the windows had developed a strange intimacy with her. As she lay in bed at night, waiting for sleep to grab at her, words, spoken in hushed tones, would float about her. It was abundantly clear what the words themselves were, but the way they lingered on in the air made it impossible for her to make any sense of them. She would lie in bed, floating in a stream of consciousness monologue that the room had decided to present before her. The room had been much too loud. And the recollections that were crashing into her now were no good either. The house was gone. There should be no reason to think that it exists. This is when she saw the strip of paper. It was by no means out of the ordinary. Perhaps, in the not so distant past, it had been used to serve jhaalmuri. Looking back further, it may have been used to provide the citizenry with information printed on it in a dark, damp office. At any rate, none of this could be comparable to what came next. As her fingers twisted the strip of paper and joined the ends together, she was pushed into a distant memory. Her mother was standing by a window, a strip of newspaper in her hand. She stood by, staring in excitement as her mother’s finger traced the inside of the loop, went around and ended up on the outside. At the present moment, our protagonists fingers trace the same elusive curve. Her mind glides back and forth through time, like a pianist’s slender fingers trilling on the black keys. The notes alone do not make any sense, yet the whole is tangible, yet fragile. The truth flits around, delicate as a butterfly. It all makes sense, the council office, the paperwork, the paper,her fingers, her house disappearing. They all wind around each other and tie themselves in knots. As the fingers keep trilling on the keys, her mind finds itself reaching for the elusive state of peace that only cold reason can bring. She grabs wildly, clinging to whatever truths she finds, making desperate attempts to hold them together. Her spinning mind weaved a theory into existence:- The house which she called home happened to be on the edge of the city. The city, just like the piece of paper, was twisted in a way which ensured that it had no edge. And this was enough for her home on the edge of the city to be hacked out of existence. A measly, feeble attempt at the truth. The trills spell out a dominant seventh, begging for a resolution. In a crescendo, it all comes crashing down on her. She stands on the footpath looking across the street at the house. The house which she calls home, which also has no reason to exist, but which, strangely enough, does. She walks out across the ever-widening street.

Lightning Strikes “Extreme heat advisory is in effect until 9pm this evening here in the Valley of the Sun. Whenever possible stay indoors. The elderly and those with breathing difficulties should avoid going outdoors if possible. Stay tuned to this station for more advisories.” Gravel crunched under the tires of Freddy Jansen’s tow truck as he pulled up to the office of King’s Auto Parts Yard. He shifted the truck’s transmission into park, took his cell phone out of the front pocket of his work overalls, and dismissed the heat alert. The past twenty-four hours were like a dream swirling around in his mind: the storm, the girl, and those big brown eyes that betrayed her outward confidence. He tried to clear his head and concentrate on business. Hopefully, he would find a new hood for Miranda’s van out on his buddy Alonso’s auto parts yard. King’s Auto Parts and Pull Auto Parts Station started here in the front yard of the little stucco house that now served as the office. Alonso Sr. was stationed nearby in his Army Air Corps days, and after the war ended he thought he would rather face the heat in the desert than go back to Queens and shovel snow in the winter. After marrying a local girl they began growing a business and a family; both from the tiny stucco home. After the birth of the fourth child - all girld - Mrs. King, who was known to have a fiery temper at times, demanded her husband build a larger home on the back part of the property beneath the shade of the cottonwood trees that grew by the creek. When her husband suggested waiting another year she took the shotgun from behind the counter, walked out front to the WWII staff car that sat beside the drive up to the property emblazoned with the word KINGS and shot it full of holes stopping to reload twice. She then calmly brought the gun back inside handing it to her husband and announcing “Thought I saw a rattlesnake.” The next day a crew began digging the foundation for the new house. Six months after moving into the new home Alonso Jr. was born. Both Kings were extremely happy. Freddy ducked in through the front door of the business, quickly closing the door to keep the cool air in. Alonso sat behind the counter, a computer screen flickering in front of him although he seemed oblivious to the rows of auto part listings displayed. A wisp of thick blonde hair had fallen across his forehead just above deepset, blue eyes. One hand propped under his chin, fingers lightly tapping on his cheekbone. “Hey, ‘Lonso, you awake there, buddy?” Freddy teased. “Oh, hey, Freddy,” he answered in a dazed voice as he stood to greet his long-time friend. At six feet tall he should have been taller than Freddy, but the dropped floor behind the counter made the two men appear the same height. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he replied. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said while following Alonso’s gaze out the big front window to the tall saguaro by the fence. “My mother planted that cactus there when she moved into this little house with my father in 1948. It was just a pup then, maybe a foot tall. Now look at how tall it stands. Cactus wrens build nests in its arms, Gila woodpeckers drill holes in the body to raise families out of the sun, and its flowers provide food for the birds and insects from all around. People think the desert is a dry, dead place but even here in the hot summer days there is beauty and life,” he pronounced boldly. Freddy walked over to the counter to stand in front of his friend. They had known each other since college days at NAU. He had been best man at his wedding, a godfather to his son, and a shoulder to lean on when his wife was killed in a car wreck 6 years earlier. He had seen Alonso in many moods, but this one was new. “And why are you waxing poetic on this hot, hellish day in the desert?” he asked. “I’m in love,” he said innocuously as if he’d just said, “It’s hot today.” Then he said it louder and more firmly, “Freddy, my friend, I’m in love!” “That’s great!” Freddy answered reaching over the counter to give his pal a slap on the shoulder. “When can I meet her?” “Don’t know,” Alonso answered matter-of-factly. Freddy stared at his friend trying to understand what was going on with him. “Suppose you back up to the beginning and bring me up to the “don’t know” part a little better informed.” Taking a big sip of his iced coffee Alonso began his tale. “You remember when I had you watch the shop for me back in April so I could go to Texas for the eclipse?” “Sure, I do, but you weren’t gone long enough to meet a girl and fall in love. You were only gone 3 days,” Freddy answered. “Yeah, well, I was, and I did. I just didn’t know it at the time,” Alonso sighed. “My original plan was to run out the 10 to Kerrville, sleep in the back of my truck, and then be right in the path of totality the next day for the big show. Then hop back on the10 and head back home. My plan was working well up till about the time I got to Van Horn when a geocaching buddy of mine messaged me to see if I could take over hosting his eclipse event in Llano,” his voice less dreamy now as he recalled the details of the trip. Freddy was not a geocacher, nor did he understand why anyone would be, but he was becoming interested in the idea that geocaching could lead to finding love. “Go on,” he prodded “So of course I shifted gears and made a left turn at the Junction exit and headed up to the thriving metropolis of Llano, TX - population somewhere around 3,000 but on the eclipse weekend swelling to more than twice that. I found the spot and started talking to folks milling around at ground zero until I had about 20 geocachers there from all over the country. One couple had even brought a pop-up shade tent to share. Most brought chairs and blankets as well as coolers. Since I was playing host until my buddy got there, I tried to talk with everyone, but when I walked up to this one brunette and introduced myself as Nroadz, my caching name, she gave me a strange look. “That’s a unique name,” she said while giving me a look like I had spoken to her in a foreign language, Alonso recalled. Freddy understood that feeling. When Alonso started talking about his geocaching adventures with his buddies it was a bit like a foreign language to him too. But that hobby and those friends kept him sane after Lisa died, so he put up with it. “And let me guess. You looked into her eyes, then she looked into yours, and bam it was love!” “No, nothing like that,” Alonso replied, “I told her that we were a geocaching group but that she was welcome to enjoy the eclipse with us. Then I explained a bit about geocaching and invited her to hike to an actual geocache about a quarter mile away with a group of us. She signed the cache; we talked some more on the way back. By then Quarke was there to take over host duties so I found a place for my quilt and stretched out to watch the big show. The weathermen had predicted clouds, but they were wrong. It was a perfect day. While I was helping take the tent down later, I had a chance to give her my email address in case she wanted to know more about caching.” By now, Freddy knew it wasn’t going to be a simple story. “So, you meet a hot girl and instead of getting her name and phone number or getting hers, you tell her your name is Nroadz and you give her your email address? Buddy, you need a good wingman. You’ve been out of the game too long.” “Maybe I have been out of the game, as you say. I just wasn’t thinking about her in that way at the time,” Alonso patiently answered. “A week later she emailed and said she was going to be in Flagstaff in a few weeks and asked how to find geocaches in the area. I told her I was going to be there on the 27 th with a group doing a CITO. I explained how geocachers would meet at a trailhead and as we hike the trail looking for caches, we carry bags to pick up litter along the way. She said that sounded fine, and I gave her the coordinates for the trailhead. Then I told her how to sign up and get her account to get credit for her finds. She said OK and that was that until the 27 th . That day, my friend, that day my world turned upside down,” a wistfully smiling Alonso added. Freddy smiled too. He hadn’t seen his buddy look so happy in a very long time -just about 6 years. “And then? She was there? She said she really just used the geocaching as an excuse to meet you again, and the two of you spent hours walking in the woods and planning your future together? Am I right?” Freddy jokingly asked “We spent a couple of hours on the trail finding caches and talking about birds,” Alonso answered. “Birds?” Freddy asked trying to keep a straight face. “Yeah, birds. It’s pretty interesting actually. Samantha, Sam to her friends, works for Fish and Wildlife traveling around the country doing ornithological studies,” Alonso explained. “You know there’s a lot we can learn about what’s happening in our environment by paying attention to birds’ habits and the changes in them,” he added. Freddy let out a deep sigh. He could see this was going to take a while, but what the heck. It’s too hot to be outside, he thought. “Did the bird lady get around to talking about bees along the way?” Alonso gave his friend a smart look. “No, but she did stumble over a log trying to watch some bird up in a pine tree. And that’s when it happened,” he announced with great enthusiasm. “What happened?” Freddy asked his curiosity now aroused. “Lightning, my friend,” Alonso said softly, and Freddy noticed that dreamy look on his face again. “I reached out to help her and when our hands touched.... I can’t explain it any other way. It was like this strong electrical current surging up my arm and through my body. Man, it was not like anything I can explain because nothing like that has ever happened to me. I looked at her to see if she felt the same, but she was looking away at another bird and saying something about nests and elevations. I figured it was just my imagination, so I played it cool for the rest of the hike. When we got back to the trailhead she left with a girlfriend before I could say goodbye. I figured that was that until I got her email that night.” Alonso put his phone on the counter in front of Freddy and opened his email page where Freddy could read, “Sorry I had to run off after the hike. Had to get my gf back to her car so she could get home. Enjoyed the hike and the caching. Hope my bird talk wasn’t too much. BTW I had the strangest feeling when you helped me up over that log on the trail. Do you know what I mean? Hope I don’t sound too bold, but I would like to talk with you about that. I would like to talk with you about a lot of things I think.” Freddy looked up at Alonso behind the counter. He was standing there with the biggest grin on his face. “Frankly, I was stunned. As you said, my friend, it has been a long time. I wasn’t sure what to say or exactly what to do. I just responded with my phone number. And I waited.” “Waited? You waited by the phone like a teenage girl with a crush on the star quarterback?” Freddy was finding it hard to hold his tongue. On the one hand, he wanted to give him a hard time for not taking control of the situation. The girl was obviously interested. On the other hand, he had to remember that in the 6 years since Lisa died there had been no one. Alonso was still in love with the love of his life. He got that. But even she wouldn’t want him to live his life alone. He’s a good guy and he certainly deserves to be happy, but it’s starting to look like he will need some help. “You know I’m here for you if you need a little help getting up your courage.” Alonso grinned and taking his phone back he switched over to the texting app. “She called the next night from Socorro, New Mexico. We talked for 3 hours. The next day we started texting as well as calling,” he explained and turned the phone to Freddy again scrolling through what seemed like endless pages of texts, all of it scrolling by too quickly to read. Freddy winced a bit when he asked, “So where does she live? I mean you meet her in Texas, you see her in Flagstaff, she calls you from New Mexico. Does this woman actually have a home somewhere? Hopefully here in Arizona which would simplify matters a lot.” “I told you; she works for Fish and Wildlife. She travels around to refuges all across the country in a motorhome. She lives on the road, I guess you could say,” he answered. “This week she’s in Port Aransas, Texas checking out the Whooping Crane population.” Freddy tapped his fingers on the counter trying to decide how to say what he was thinking. He decided on the direct approach. “My friend, you need to go to her. Fly, drive, Hell, take a train if you have to! But you need to go to her. Don’t let this chance at love, at real happiness, slip away from you. You need to look her in the eye and reach for her hand and feel that lightning again.” Freddy was really excited for his friend now and he could see the excitement playing into this friend’s eyes. “She said she was heading to Wheeler Refuge in Alabama tomorrow and had a week to travel so she might route through New Orleans.” “Perfect,” Freddy almost yelled. Call her, or text her, or whatever you want to do, but tell her you’ll meet her in New Orleans. Get on the phone. Get yourself a plane ticket.” Taking out his own phone Freddy tapped his texting app. “My cousin Micki has an Air BNB in the French Quarter. I’ll reserve it for you.” He was smiling almost as big as Alonso as he typed. Alonso hit send on the text to Sam then looked up at Freddy. “Hey, did you come over to pick up those parts for the 2016 Ford Transit Connect?” Freddy shook his head,”Yeah, almost forgot what I came in for,” as he continued to type. “Sorry, Buddy, can’t get the breather regulator. At least not in Phoenix. I’ll look at some out of state suppliers tomorrow. Make that when I get back from New Orleans,” Alonso answered with a grin. “Not a problem,” Freddy answered as he read the reply from his cousin. Just then the computer on Alonso’s desk shrieked. SEVERE HEAT WARNING ISSUED FOR ALL OF PINAL COUNTY. EXPECTED HIGHS OF 110 DEGREES OR MORE WITH A POSSIBILITY OF AFTERNOON THUNDERSTORMS. INDIVIDUALS WITH BREATHING ISSUES ARE WARNED TO REMAIN INDOORS.

A hand emerges; enormous, colossal. Protruding, spiny tendons snake like oaken roots from strong, dexterous fingers into the damp, moss covered ground. Another, like sized hand surfaces to grasp a hardened willow, bark tearing as black fingernails dig deep in wooden flesh. Darkened muscle against darkened soil against darkened moonlight coils, surges, and onyx mass continues to galavant from the Earth. In this witching hour, by rock and stillborn wind, none awaken to the silent, seemless, ceaseless birth. Base notes pound, and the creature surfaces to the swelling orchestra. Glowering thunder lies dormant in its empty eye sockets, as the creature, blacker than a frosted winter night, stands level. Broken obsidian juts from its jagged jaw, and stretches across its peninsular-like spine, a shattered, cluttered exoskeleton. Wood chips collect under its fingernails. The surrounding woods darken and collect. The night lengthens. The music builds. * The muggy stench that exists solely in a single tent on a summer night drives me out to the moon and wind. Sweat beads continue to roll down my skin. Even outside the heat is inescapable. A lone boobook owl hoots, a soloist instrument amongst the concerto of crickets and cicadas. Moonlight cascades through the canopy of leaves. And so I begin to carefully place footsteps amongst the fallen undergrowth behind me. Tonight will be number 6 on the sleepless night count. Despite the heat I’m glad I’m away. It hadn’t exactly been easy, especially with work, but “challenge” wasn’t quite apt either. The conversation had gone smoothly with her. I’m still unsure whether thats good or bad. “One night is all I’d need really” “Just one?” I remember she’d had a tiny piece of avocado hanging off her chin. She wasn’t a messy eater. “Fair enough” Rachmaninoff’s “Concerto No.2 in C minor” filled in the rest of the conversation, the words disappearing behind the music. Rather a strange choice for dinner music. I’d heard the piece for the first time roughly a week ago, in the small coffee shop at the end of our road. Always playing records of the romantic period, I often visited purely to sit in a complete soundscape. The coffee often disappointed. Surrounded by the likes of Debussy, Satie, Ravel, the dramatic, chaotic cohesion of Rachmaninoff stood out like a beautifully enormous thumb. It emerged from its ambient atmosphere like a coil from its delicate eggshell. The building tension and base notes crash over me under the moonlight * 1900; Rachmaninoff decides he doesn’t like Russia. Sitting in his study, the cold naws into his exposed fingers, hands resting on the piano. Strings tiptoe through his mind and he feels his face downturn. Frowning always came easily with a hook nice like his. The taste returns to him, the same one that had first coated his mouth the night of March 28, 1897. A symphonic disaster, as the critics labelled it... He’d heard people laughing at him, or he swear he could have, as he’d rushed from the theatre. Shoving his fedora tight on his head and upturning his collar, his 6’ 4” figure struggled to remain hidden. Such a way to start a composing career. He knew it before he read it, how the critics would write. He knew, and he could taste it. ...The piano feels alien to him. So long has it been since white fell to black fell to white. His fingers tremble slightly. Outside he feels he can hear the sigh only brought on by early morning dishwashing. He begins to play. A chord, foreshadowing, soft at first. Another, accompanied this time with the dull thud of a bass note. Octaves build, dissonance rises, tension escalates. And then, his hands begin to dance: arpeggios, rolling, spinning, rising, cracking through the eggshell, a momentous outbreak. His fingers stop. A few notes more and the strings will come in. The orchestra stands ready in his head, symphonic swell at the ready, well rehearsed from the many hours spun through the theatre of his mind. If he so chose, the entire piece could be notated and ready for release: “Piano Concerto No.2 in C Minor” He hates it. His fist curls and with an enormous swing, he brings his gargantuan hand cracking down on the keys. A clatter of pained confusion fills the room. Another swing and his hand begins to bleed, red on white on black - He hates it. -another shattering swing, this time his left hand. His bones clack like keys as they break in his fingers - He hates the way it sounds, the way his hands feel on the piano. -both hands at the same time now, more keys break - Most of all, he hates that he loves it. Hates that he thinks its good. Hates the hope he has. -moving to the back of the piano, he lifts the lid, bringing his monstrous hands down on the strings - He hates his work, his incompetence at composition. -with an all mighty heave, he flips the piano, and it crashes to the ground beyond repair. A silent promise slips from his lips. Never again, shall he play Concerto No.2 in C minor - He hates the piano. * The creature is everything. Its empty gaze bores deep into me. Staring into that creature I feel as if I am in an endless library of infinite knowledge, except all the books face backwards, the spines impossible to read. The tendrils that spring from its features drag my view in, until all I see is the creature. It holds all attention in its obelisk hands, the upturned moon and choir of forests drawn closer. A silence settles. Yet I feel Rachmaninoff’s Concerto within me. It rumbles across my mindscape like unbroken thunder. Large hands strangle, as the world goes dark Finally, I sleep. Deep. Uncompromising. Fulfilling * Rachmaninoff sits at his broken piano. Some of the keys are out of tune. Others are missing. Only one of the three pedals remains, and part of the lid is chipped, lost forever. In the dark he sits on his stool. And his hands begin to dance.

** This story might be difficult for those who have struggled with family planning challenges ** “We’re running out of time.” Josie’s voice broke as she sat in a therapists’ office with her husband, Shawn. Josie and Shawn have been married for almost seven years. Their marriage had its ups and downs, but they have stuck by each other through it all. Josie and Shawn fit together like puzzle pieces. Josie thought that this was why they have managed to endure all of the hardships of their marriage. Josie was a strong woman who supported her husband through thick and thin, and Shawn was a funny and patient man who could make Josie laugh during the stressful times. Josie considered herself lucky enough to have found her soulmate in life. At the bottom of Josie’s heart, she knew that they would grow old together, but their lives won’t be without some regrets. Josie and Shawn are nineteen years apart. Josie was in her twenties when she married Shawn. Shawn was in his forties and already had three daughters from his prior marriage. Josie loved his daughters like they were her own. However, she was thrown into many parenting challenges since the inception of their relationship. The girls’ mom died, so their teenage years were difficult without a mother figure in their lives. Josie came along at a perfect time in their life when they needed someone to talk to regarding their many physical and mental changes. Josie was also young enough to “get it”. She was beautiful, young, and well-dressed. The girls loved it when she showed up to school to pick them up. She also knew how to film Tik Tok’s, and she could take them to all of the coolest concerts in town. The best part is that Josie had an awesome job in New York City. She had perks of traveling to the big city and having access to an awesome office building and nearby restaurants and department stores. Josie enjoyed married life a lot. She missed out on having a happy family unit as a kid, so she was happy to have a happy family with her husband and her stepdaughters. Despite the challenges of being in a blended family, Josie wanted to have one experience to call her own. She missed the “baby” stages of all of the girls. She never experienced the joy of raising the girls from day one. She also didn’t have those experiences of being in a delivery room with her husband. While they were as happy as they could be for a blended family, Josie felt like she was missing out on that aspect of life. The struggle came when Josie was in her mid-thirties. All she could hear was the sound of her biological clock ticking. While she still felt like she had time to have kids (women have healthy babies in their forties, after all), she felt herself being a sponge to the criticism of the world. Everywhere she looked on social media, she saw comments about how motherhood is for the young. She saw people question if she really wanted to be one of the oldest moms in the room at her child’s graduation. She saw children of “older” parents who lamented about how they were embarrassed by their older parents who were sometimes mistaken for their grandparents. Josie second guessed if she really wanted to put her future children through that. The additional problem is that her husband is in her fifties by now. Two of his daughters are legally adults now. One of them is graduating from high school next year. Was it really fair of her to expect him to start over - especially this late in life? Josie loved Shawn with all of her heart. Ending their marriage to find someone younger just wasn’t an option. She couldn’t imagine her life without Shawn. Josie wrestled with many questions that kept her awake at night. After months of not sleeping and having a war raging in her mind, she thought that it was best to visit with a therapist to try and make peace with her life. Josie poured her heart out to the therapist regarding her first session with the therapist. She didn’t expect the flood of tears and emotions that occurred during their first session. The therapist was kind and compassionate to hear her points of view. After her first therapy session, the therapist asked to meet Shawn. She thought that it would be best to hear his point of view about their marriage and relationship. The last thing that Josie wanted was for Shawn to feel that he was being guilted in to having more children, but she agreed to convince him in to come to an appointment with her. Josie, Shawn, and their therapist, Suzie, sat on the couch awkwardly after making introductions. With such a delicate topic, no one wanted to be the first to break the ice. The stress wore on Josie enough that she burst in to tears after a few minutes. Shawn looked at Josie with a mixture of concern and hesitation while he tried to find the words to say. “We don’t have much time,” Josie said. “I’m not getting any younger, and we need to make a decision regarding our future.” Some stress appeared on Shawn’s face, but he tried to be as sensitive to Josie’s pain as he could. “Honey, I know how much you have wanted to have a baby. I couldn’t dream of withholding that from you. You have been such a good mom to the girls, and they’re all grateful for you,” Shawn said in a kind voice. Josie couldn’t dream of making him start over, and she was afraid of the ridicule that he might receive from his friends and family. Shawn’s two siblings were younger than him, and they were already grandparents. What would they think about his situation? Shawn, Josie, and Suzie had an extra-long therapy session to sort through all of the topics that they wanted to discuss. A typical session was 90 minutes. Shawn and Josie sat in their counseling session for almost three hours. Suzie almost missed the pick-up window for her two children until she realized what time it was and called her husband to take care of it. Josie still didn’t have any clarity or peace by the end of their counseling session. She and Shawn eventually drove home. The silence was deafening during their 15-minute drive home to their brick house in the suburbs. The issue didn’t come up again for the about a month when Josie’s and Shawn’s life changed forever. About a month after Josie’s and Shawn’s appointment with the therapist, Josie thought that she had the flu. She was throwing up in the bathroom for the past week, and she was unusually tired. She didn’t think anything of it, because she was overworked and tired during the past couple of weeks. Josie tried to take on extra projects to take her mind off of things at home, so surely that was the explanation for her feeling unwell. The phone rang while Josie was sitting on the cold tile floor of her bathroom. Reluctantly, Josie picked up the phone. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but she thought that some external contact would help her take some mind off of things. Her sister-in-law was calling. “Hey! What are you doing?!”, Sharon bellowed on the phone. Her exuberant personality lifted Josie's spirits. “Nothing much....,” Josie trailed off in a monotone and exhausted voice. “Uh oh, is everything ok?” Sharon asked. Josie explained the situation to Sharon, and Sharon went quiet. Josie wasn’t sure if the call disconnected or if Sharon was just in shock. After a few seconds of silence, Sharon asked, “Have you taken a pregnancy test?’ Josie rolled her eyes at the suggestion. “I don’t believe that I’m pregnant, you goof. I probably just have the flu,” Josie responded. “Josie! You’re not listening to me. Do your boobs hurt? Have you been peeing more than usual?” Sharon asked. Josie paused to think it over. A few seconds later, she said, “Um, yes?” Sharon said, “I’m in Hoboken now. I’m swinging by the CVS and then coming over.” Josie sat on her couch with her heart pounding for the next 20 minutes. What would she tell Shawn? Could this be real? How would they handle raising a baby and planning for Shawn’s retirement? A flood of questions came into Josie’s mind. She hugged her cat to her chest and tried to stay calm. Sharon arrived at Josie’s doorstep with a jug of Sunny D and a pregnancy test. The next five minutes seemed to drag on until the end of time. Sharon sat with Josie and held her hand and tried to keep her calm. After five minutes, Sharon ran in to the bathroom to check on the test, because Josie didn’t have the heart to look. Sharon gasped and then started screaming, “Aaaahhhhh! Congratulations! It’s positive.” Josie sat there in shock and didn’t say anything. She didn’t feel excitement, just concern. She felt concerned about whether she really wanted to spend the next few years dealing with diapers and potty training. The next years after that would be pre-school drop offs and a potentially picky eater. How would this baby relate to her three sisters who are old enough to be this baby's parent? She also didn’t look forward to the emotions that come with teenagers and then saving for another kid’s college. “I’m not really that excited, Sharon. What does that tell you?” Josie finally said. She hung her head with the realization at how horrible it sounded and how maybe the grass isn't always greener on the other side. Sharon’s demeanor changed from excited to concerned. “What are you going to do?” Sharon asked. “I don’t know,” Josie responded. “Whatever I decide to do, I won’t have much time.”

The roar of a motorcycle in front of the bar drowned out the jukebox stuck on a classic rock song. Everyone in the place turned to the door. Living in a small town, you knew who belonged here and who didn’t. And we all knew no one around here had a motorcycle. When the door opened, I nearly swallowed my tongue. In walked my every fantasy. He removed his helmet, revealing eyes so dark they looked black from where I stood behind the bar. They matched his hair, brushing along his shoulders as he shook it out and ran a hand through it. He took off his leather jacket, and I whimpered. Tattoos ran from his fingers up his arms and underneath his white t-shirt, peeking out around his neck. He had bad boy written all over him, and I wanted to climb him like a tree. I wasn’t the only one to appreciate this God who walked in. Quite a few sighs went around the room, even as someone kicked the jukebox to move it to the next song. “Holy shit,” I whispered. He raised his nose in the air and gave a subtle sniff. No one seemed to notice but me since I couldn’t peel my eyes away. His gaze locked on mine as he strode through the crowd toward me. People milling about parted like the damn Red Sea--whether by instinct or magic--as he continued his path toward me. Saturday nights drew a larger crowd than the rest of the week. Men and women lined up at the bar, hoping to catch the eye of someone, if only for one night. Some loved the camaraderie of the other bar patrons, playing a friendly game of pool or darts. Others just didn’t want to be alone. They all had a story to tell, and I listened to every single one when they spilled their secrets. “One more, Jamie.” Stacy plopped her tray on the bar, causing me to jump. She turned her exhausted eyes to mine. “Is it closing time yet?” The noise picked back up as everyone lost interest in the newcomer. “Two more hours. If the crowd dies down, you can leave early. I’ll close up by myself.” I grabbed a pint glass from the shelf and poured a microbrew from the tap. I knew how she felt. Owning a bar had a particular set of challenges. One being staff. Cody called in with the flu, Marie had a sick baby and Michael refused to work Saturday nights. Thinking about him reminded me I needed to have a talk with his momma. I did her a favor by hiring him since he was down on his luck, but I needed him to work. “Excuse me.” Everyone within hearing distance turned toward the gruff, almost guttural voice, Stacy and myself included. “Can I have a beer?” “Where you from, boy?” William, one of our regulars, responded. He came in every Saturday and sat at the bar, nursing a Scotch until we closed. Only one, no more. It had been his weekly ritual way before my grandmother sold me the place. “William! You’ve no manners. Leave him alone before I tell Ethel to send Will Junior for you,” Stacy scolded. He huffed and took a sip of his drink. I glanced at the stranger. A feral smile spread across his face, giving him wolf-like qualities. His unnatural countenance only added to his looks. A shiver ran down my spine as his eyes followed a path up my body. I didn’t know whether to be scared or flattered by his attention. He looked like he wanted to eat me. Oh my! I shook my head to clear my thoughts. Sage, the town librarian, had talked me into one too many shifter romances lately. Especially since Officer Wilson and he started dating. “Coming ri-right up,” I stammered and fumbled with one of the beer taps. When I looked over at Stacy, she quirked an eyebrow at me, and I gave a subtle shake of my head. It took three tries before I could pour his beer with less foam and more liquid. I didn’t know why he made me nervous. It wasn’t like strangers hadn’t passed through town before, but something about him set off every alarm bell in my head--good and bad. I set his beer in front of him and watched as he wrapped his tattooed fingers around the glass and brought it to his lips. When my eyes met his, a flush of heat ran through me. I didn’t think I’d ever been on the receiving end of such an intense stare before. His eyes flared brightly for a second, like when headlights hit an animal’s eyes on the road. It could only have been a trick of the bar lights. Right? “Hmmm...good.” He licked his lips and stared at me, and somehow I knew he meant more than the beer. “Y-yes. It’s a local brewery.” What about this man had me in knots? I’d seen good-looking men before--even dated a few--but something about him drew me in like flies to honey. Or Red to the Big Bad Wolf. “Is there a place nearby to stay overnight?” Stacy chose that moment to pop her head up behind me. “There’s a bed-and-breakfast right down the road about two miles. Jamie lives right across from it.” If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d bop her on the head with her tray. The stranger pinned me with his gaze. “Is that so, Jamie ? Maybe you could show me the way. You know, since I’m new in town.” “I’ll close up tonight. You work too hard anyway. Take the rest of the night off.” I whipped my head around and stared wide-eyed at Stacy. “Have you lost your ever-loving mind?” I whispered. A dark chuckle drew my attention back to the stranger. “I won’t bite. Much.” He snapped his teeth at me. My heart did a somersault in my chest. He tilted his head to the side in an animalistic fashion, as if he could hear it, and grinned. “Here.” Stacy shoved my red hoodie into my hands and pushed me from behind the counter. The stranger stood from his seat and grabbed his helmet and jacket lying across the bar. “I’ll follow you.” I gulped, and before I knew it, he was leading me outside to my car. How’d he know which one was mine? He held the car door for me and shut it behind me, tapping the top. Every instinct I had was on full alert. My grandma didn’t raise no fool, but any intelligence I had flew out the window when I looked in my rear-view mirror at him mounting his bike. Oh. My. God. That was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Even with the windows closed, the rumble of the motorcycle rattled through my car. Another shiver worked its way down my spine as I pulled out of the parking lot. He followed me to the bed-and-breakfast and parked alongside me. I rolled my window down when he approached. “Here you go. Have a nice night.” “You’re not going to make sure I get a room? They may be full.” That wolf-like grin of his spread across his face again. Sweat rolled down my back. What the hell is wrong with me? “I-I think you’ll be fine.” “Which house is yours?” His abrupt question caught me off guard, and before I could get my mind and mouth in sync, the floodgates opened as I pointed across the street. “Right there. It’s my grandma’s house.” Seriously? I did not just tell a stranger where I lived. “Uh, I mean...” Quick! Think of something. “Used to live. She used to live there. Now I do.” I mentally slapped myself. How did he have me so addled? Usually I had my shit together. “Well, Jamie , I’m sure I’ll see you...around.” He grabbed a backpack out of his saddlebag and sauntered to the door. I reached over and turned the air conditioning full blast to tame some of the heat spreading through me as I watched him climb the steps. “Oh, man. I’m in so much trouble.” He stopped on the landing and looked back, grinning as if he heard me. I slammed the car in reverse and raced across the street to my house. When I got out and glanced over at the bed-and-breakfast, he still stood there, staring at me. I quickly rushed up the steps, unlocked the door, and ran inside, slamming the door behind me. What a strange night. ***** A noise startled me awake. The remnants of a dream I couldn’t quite recall sat along my subconscious. I closed my eyes and willed myself to relax. I’d almost drifted back off when I heard it again--a howl in the distance. Moonlight peeked through the curtains, lighting the room in an eerie glow. A shadow passed by the window, sending adrenaline rushing through my body. My pulse raced, and the blood whooshed in my ear even as I strained to listen for any noise outside. Just as I convinced myself it was my imagination, another chilling howl rang out closer to the house. I couldn’t decide whether to make a run for the bathroom and lock myself in, or stay perfectly still and hope it was only a wild dog passing through. I closed my eyes and slowed my breathing and tried to relax. ***** The first ray of sun slipped across the bed and warmed my face, waking me. At some point, I’d drifted off with dreams of sexy men and wolves hunting me through the woods. My sweat soaked sleep pants clung to me, and the sheets lay pooled at my feet. I groaned and turned over, glancing at the clock. Since I worked late on Saturday nights, Sunday was my lazy day, and I usually took my time getting out of bed. But the early hour this morning was a testament to how poorly I’d slept the night before. The stranger was probably long gone now, and life could go back to normal. I chalked it all up to my wayward dreams. As I headed to the bathroom for a quick shower, a motorcycle revved its engine outside. I rushed to the front window, pulling back the curtain for a peek. The stranger from last night cruised into my driveway. Oh shit! He was still here. A knock on my door sent my heart racing. I debated whether to answer or ignore it and pretend I wasn’t home, but his low growl through the door pushed me into action. “I know you’re in there.” How did he know? Could he hear my heart trying to break through my chest? Could he smell my sweat soaked body? I took a tentative sniff. Yuck! He could probably smell me from across the road. “I saw you peek from behind the curtain.” Could he read my mind, too? “Come on, Jamie. Answer the door.” He knocked again. A few deep breaths later, I opened the door. He looked as good as he did last night, still ticking all my boxes, even if he was strange. In the daylight, he looked more human. He flashed a radiant smile at me. “Good morning.” I flushed when he scanned my body. His smile got wider. I looked down and realized I was still in my damp pants and no shirt. “Rough night?” “Uh, I didn’t sleep well. I had a lot of strange dreams, and thought I heard an animal.” He cocked his head to the side. “What kind of animal?” “I’m not sure. A wild dog maybe? I heard howling.” “Like a wolf?” He smiled again, showing more teeth, and I gulped. “What a big mouth you have.” He leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “The better to eat you with.”

I hadn't written anything in a long time. This story came out of a conversation I had with someone in my life that hates their job. I had recently watched American Psycho, and this was the combination of thoughts between the two moments. “Pizza for none” It was as dark as the city could be that night. The lights of the buildings shone down on the street, the cars lighting up what they pointed at, and the street lamps hovered their halos above the sidewalk; it was still dark . Nobody pays much attention to a pizza delivery person, and tonight was no exception. People continually bumped into him as if he wasn’t there. He wasn’t a small person either. At around 6 feet, he stood above many of the people on the sidewalk that night. His hat was pulled down, covering his face and revealing the familiar company logo. There was not much of a chill this night, but the delivery man still wore a long sleeved shirt under his polo, as well as gloves to match. Not everyone was warm blooded in this town. He continued his way down the sidewalk with his head down, as if he was accepting that he was just a “nobody.” This was his hope at least. He found the building he was looking for and stood outside. He saw the buzzer box to call up to the apartment, but didn’t use it. He just waited. Ten minutes went by before someone made their way out of the building. He made his way to the door as they came out, holding it courteously as they exited, then made his way inside. Nobody questions the pizza guy. Two flights of steps later, he was in the correct hallway. He had never been in this building, but had a vague familiarity of where he was. He had studied this complex. There was a calmness creeping over him as he walked down the hall, but there was an anxious excitement accompanying the feeling. This was the moment he had waited for. He approached the door, held the warm bag up high, and knocked. Karen heard the knock from her couch, where she was enjoying watching the local NFL team maintain a minor lead for once. It was rare she had anyone come by at this hour. She stood up and made her way to the door. Looking out the peep hole, she could see the pizza bag, which covered the face of the person who knocked, and the hat which displayed the well known chain’s logo. She hadn’t ordered a pizza. “Who is it?” she asked through the still closed door. “I have a pizza for Karen,” she heard in response. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t order a pizza” she announced, confused already by the interaction. “The note says ‘To Karen, enjoy a slice of my love,’” the delivery driver chuckled. Though slightly repulsed by the cuteness, she appreciated the fact that her boyfriend was sending her dinner from out of town, and as a surprise! “One second,” she said, as she reached for the lock. She opened the door and saw mostly the bag, which was held up at eye level. She noticed, shortly after, the pistol pointed at her from below the bag. “Don’t make a sound,” he said, pointing he gun discreetly into her lower torso. “Keep your hands at your side and quietly back inside the apartment.” He followed her inside and the crept backwards, arms stiffly at her side. A look of terror washed over her face as she did. He knew she would not recognize him, yet, but that she would likely follow every command he gave. “Lie on the ground, face down, with your hands on your head,” he commanded. He watched carefully as she did what she was told, then turned and latched the front door behind him. “I’m going to tie your hands,” he warned her, before removing two pieces of silk fabric and two thick, leather, straps from the bag with the pizza. Soon, her arms were locked behind her back, and another piece was tied around her head, obscuring her vision. A fourth piece of cloth was removed from the bag, along with a sock. The sock was wadded into a ball and placed in her mouth; it was secured in place with the cloth wrapped around her head and mouth. She was now completely helpless. The delivery man made his way to the windows, closing all of the curtains to the outside world; he did not want to be spied upon while he worked. After securing the windows, he made his way to her mostly-bound self, and picked her and dragged her to the couch. She was sat down carefully. He produced two more leather straps and two more pieces of cloth from the bag. As he had done with her hands, he wrapped the cloth around her ankles before securing them with the straps. She would not be going anywhere without his help. “I’m going to remove your gag,” he told her, “and if you make a sound when not prompted, you will feel a sense of immediate regret.” She nodded with understanding. “I want you to tell me where you keep your valuables,” he stated, as he removed her gag. “I’m not here to hurt you, but I am going to be leaving here with some of your things.” “The bedroom,” she responded, with a shake to her voice. “I have jewelry in the box on my dresser. Please take it all, just don’t hurt me.” Her voice pleaded with a tone unfamiliar to her day to day life. She was a manager; she was a person of power. People feared her and respected her. She was not used to having anything less than the upper hand. A combination of fear and anger had swept over her from the moment she saw the pistol. “How dare he do this to me,” she thought. “Don’t move,” she heard him say, before replacing what she thought felt like a sock in her mouth. She thought of the ways she could possibly escape on her own, and realized quickly that she had little hope. She could hear him in her bedroom now, violating her possessions. She loved her jewelry, and was hoping he wouldn’t notice the compartment on the side of the box which held her grandmothers ring. The sentimental and literal values were likely similar, though she hadn’t had it appraised. Her heart beat with ferocity as she felt his footsteps vibrate the floor closer and closer again. “Cash,” he said, with a cold emptiness. “Where is it?” She thought about not responding. She thought about lying. She thought about the nice bonus check she had recently cashed out and kept with her emergency cash in the shoebox in her closet. “I don’t have anything else than what is in my purse,” she responded, after he removed the gag once again. “Please take it, it isn’t much, and leave.” She felt him lean in, closer and closer, to the point that she could feel the warmth of his face next to hers. “I wouldn’t play games,” the driver whispered to her. He asked her again, and she told him about the shoebox. She felt the dampness sock around her mouth as he forced it back inside and once again tied the gag. In the bedroom, the driver had already taken a few pieces of jewelry from the box, but it was cash he was really hoping for. He didn’t want to raise suspicions. People would notice if all of her jewelry was missing, but would likely not know about any cash she had stashed away. He pulled down the box and opened it up. “Jackpot,” he thought to himself, as he looked at the stack of bills. He knew she had cash here, as she had once mentioned that she kept an emergency fund. “I’m sure she never expected her ‘emergency’ to be so close to home” he chuckled. He took the box with him out of the room, placing the small pile of jewelry he had left on the bed into the box first. The box went into the pizza bag, where there was no pizza on this night. He took a look at her, tied up on the couch, and saw that she was behaving quite well. This was going very well. He turned his head in the opposite direction of the bedroom and saw the kitchen. Part two of his plan was here. Karen heard him rustle in the bag he brought before wandering off to the kitchen. “At least there isn’t anything of value for him in there” she thought, hoping he would just leave now that he had her money. She could faintly make out the sound of a glass being removed from a cabinet, followed by a bottle placed on the counter. “Sure, make yourself at home,” she thought with irritation. She was keeping to the anger as much as she could, as she was well aware that he may come for her body next. The idea was upsetting, so she pushed it aside. She felt him approaching from across the room once again. “Drink this,” he calmly demanded. She felt a straw placed into her mouth, replacing the sock he had just removed. Tequila?? She slowly drank. It was mixed with the grapefruit juice from her fridge, but it was mixed very heavily in favor of the Tequila. The straw was not removed her mouth until she was done with the glass. She was no stranger to drinks, but did not typically drink them this quickly. She felt a momentary nausea, but felt it was best to fight it. She was starting to worry this was the first step into her being assaulted. “I want my mom,” was her following thought. He pulled the drink away from her after she finished it. He could see the fear and confusion, even through her blindfold. “I’m going to have you drink more,” he told her, “and if you do as I say you will continue to be kept safe.” A few moments later he returned from the kitchen with another similar drink. She did as she was told once again. “The drinks are to make your memory of my robbery hazy,” he told her. She believed it. Karen was starting to feel the drinks already. He had fed her three strong drinks already, and was getting another. She wasn’t a lightweight, but she was going to be on her way to being drunk very soon. “Whatever gets him out the door,” she thought. “Even if he gets me blackout drunk, I will remember the little bit I have,” she mused. “He will not be getting away with this as easy as he hopes.” He knew how much she needed to drink before she started to lose her control. This wasn’t the first time she had drank in his presence, but she wasn’t aware of this. “One more should do it,” he thought, heading back to the kitchen. He had a plan, and every step thus far had gone to perfection. He was going to get away with this, he knew it. He approached her with her final drink. This was it. This was when he got to have real fun. The revenge already tasted sweet. He smiled as she sipped down the last drink. She winced forcing it all down. It was time. He placed the gag back in her mouth, tied it tight, and reached for her blindfold. She moved back, slightly startled, but relaxed as she seemed to realize she was going to see again. She would not stay relaxed long, though the alcohol would help his cause. As she felt the delivery man remove the blindfold, she acknowledged the idea that this was bad. If he was going to be casual with his identity, she might not be walking away. He did explain the drinks were to mess with her memory, and she wouldn’t be having these thoughts in the state she was reaching if she hadn’t been thinking them for the past hour, if it had been that long. Her eyes adjusted to the light as the blindfold dropped. When the blindfold dropped, so did her stomach. “Hello Karen,” Jason spoke calmly. He saw by her eyes that she recognized him immediately, once he had removed the hat with the fake, shaggy hair. He didn’t know how quickly she would be processing through the inebriation, but knew it didn’t matter, as he was planning to explain it all. “How perfectly cliche” he muttered, before addressing her. Karen knew Jason right away. She had fired him months ago, but he had left without problem. She knew, as well as he did, that she had been less than kind to him. “A disgruntled employee,” she thought to herself, “how is this really happening?” “You made my life hell,” he stated to her, with a fire now burning in his eyes. “I trusted you. We trusted you, and you continually shit on us behind our backs.” This moment was perfect. “I’m not going to draw this out more than it will be naturally, but I am going to humiliate you tonight,” he said to her. “Its time for a shower.” She watched in horror as he removed a knife from his back pocket. “Was this it? Will my cutthroat corporate ways be my undoing? What is he going to do to me?” Thoughts raced, as quickly as they could as the alcohol continued to process. He leaned forward, and started to cut away at her blouse. This was what she dreaded. Nobody should have to experience a sexual assault, and she never thought it would be her. Her hands were still bound, as were her legs, and soon these binds were the only articles overing her body besides the blindfold. She noticed a pile of clothing next to her now shredded outfit. “Why did he bring me a change of clothes?” Her head was starting to spin. The drinks were hitting her harder now. “Follow me,” Jason said, as he lifted her off the couch and led her to her bathroom. Jason had always been attracted to Karen, and seeing her bound, gagged, and being led naked across her apartment gave him a strong level of arousal. He was sure she was speculating, but rape was not something he was capable of. He wanted her to be afraid though, so he had no intention of clearing this up. He sat her down on the toilet and started the shower. As the water heated up, he wandered back into the previous room to gather the pile of non-torn clothes. He tossed them on the floor near the shower, and turned back towards Karen. He helped her stand back up, and motioned towards the shower. “Time to wash away your sins,” he said to her. Karen was having a hard time standing between the restraints and the drinks. “Jason will be regretting this,” she thought to herself, as he stood her up in the shower. The warm water danced off of her as she stood underneath the spray; this was the only thing she could do with her arms bound. “I’m going to remove your arm restraints so you can shower proper,” he told her, “if you try anything, I will hurt you.” She didn’t doubt this. She knew from working with Jason that he was smart. She also knew that he was a little bit nuts. He removed the restraints and the cloth beneath each one. Her hands were free again. It was good to have them back, though she was not in any pain from them. With the cloth wrapped around her wrists first, she didn’t even have marks from the binds on her skin. She watched him toss the straps to the floor. “Grab the body wash,” he said, looking at her intently. She reached down to grab the bottle from the corner. “Lather your hands and start cleaning.” She opened the bottle and emptied some of its contents into her hand. She leaned forward to place the bottle back down when she felt his hands grab her her head. She was falling backwards now. She hit her head on the edge of the tub with an audible “crack.” Darkness. Jason watched as she started to bleed from the laceration in her skull. She was no longer moving, nor would she move again. He removed her gag and leg restraints. He left the bathroom with everything besides her set of clean clothes, and placed everything he had brought with him into the pizza bag. He walked back to the bathroom and took one more look at her, lying in the tub with streaks of red washing down the drain as the shower continued to run. “Well done,” he thought. He made his way to the door, putting his hat with the fake hair back on and turned low. He grabbed the pizza bag, peered through the peep hole into the hall, then opened the door. A quick glance out the door showed the hall to be empty. He turned the lock on the inside before shutting the door behind him. Nobody noticed the pizza man as he left the building. Nobody noticed the pizza man as he disappeared down the street. The newspaper said she had been in the shower for two days before they found her. Her boyfriend became worried after not hearing back from her. She hadn’t been showing up to work. Karen was found in the tub, with the water still running. The tequila on the counter told the story. The autopsy confirmed the story. The story would go that she had a few too many drinks, slipped in the shower, and had a massive head injury as a result. She would be missed by many (though not really). “There is no suspicion of foul play.

She ‐‐ my sister, Peggy -- had been to every carnival for every year that they held them in our town since she was 7 years old. She knew exactly where all the rides would be placed, all the games, and knew all of the faces that would come each and every year for the past 10 years. The carnival would only last for three solid days -- Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. The carnival workers would pack up on Sunday night and be gone by morning leaving debris all over the area where they had set up. Me and my sister loved going through after they were gone to find treasure that might've been left behind. We found money, jewelry, cigarettes, and much more. This year, however, on Saturday night, Peggy didn't come home after the carnival shut down at 10:00 p.m. She usually came home by 10:15, but it was now nearly almost midnight and there was no sign of her. I packed my backpack up and told my mom I was going to look for her -- it was only just down the street from our apartment. When I got to the location, the only visible movement of any living person was within the campers on the sides of the rides and games. There were TVs playing, a few people standing outside smoking cigarettes or whatever, and a few drunks leaving the park. There was nobody that I could ask where she had gone or if they had seen her except one man. I had brought a picture with me just in case and walked up to him as he took a deep drag from his smoke. As I approached him, he blew it directly into my face as I attempted to speak, which cut me off vocally as I tried to utter out my first sentence while holding the picture of Peggy. "What?" He said as he looked down at me from the steps to his travel trailer. "You need somethin', boy?" "Yes, sir." I coughed. "My sister didn't come home and I was wondering if you had seen her." I held the picture up to him and he swiped it from my hand. "Ah." He paused a moment and looked down at the picture for what seemed like ages. "Yeah, I seen her tonight. Pretty little thang, ain't she?" "Did you see her leave with anyone?" "Nope. Left like she does every year -- headed that a-way by herself hours ago." He pointed in the direction of my apartment. "Well... thank you." I took the picture from his hand as he flicked his cigarette over my head and turned back and went inside his trailer without another word. I stood there a minute as I looked in the direction of our apartment. Where could she have gone, then? Did somebody grab her? I was so confused and was starting to get even more worried than I already was. Just as I was beginning to walk slowly in the direction toward our apartment, I heard a faint laughing coming from one of the rides -- the Zipper. It was a giant ride that stood out from all of the rest and even though we rode it every year, it still gave me terrifying butterflies before I rode it again. As I got closer to the ride, I heard the laugh again -- this time louder. It sounded just like Peggy's laugh. When I got to where the area of the ride where the man would let you on, I heard the laugh again and was certain now that it was her. Everything looked the same except there was something out of ordinary protruding from the ground -- a door of sorts that looked like it opened up to a stairway that went underground. I opened the door and sure enough, there was a set of stairs that seemed to go on to the center of the earth. I called out Peggy's name into the darkness and waited for a reply. "Yeah, Charlie? I'm down here! Come down here, it's fantastic!" I started down the long stairway toward her voice. I lit my lighter to see where I was going and noticed these were concrete steps. How on earth hadn't we known about this door leading down into the earth long ago? Surely after 10 years we would've seen something like this poking out of the ground. "Hurry, Charlie. It's almost over!" Peggy called. "I'm trying!" I picked up my pace a little, but all while trying to be as careful as possible as I had no clue what could be at the bottom of these stairs or even if that was really my sister calling to me. I finally saw the landing at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look back up at the door I came through at the top of the stairs. "Where are you, Peggy?" "Down here. Just come a little closer, Charlie." It was dark and dank inside this place, smelled of dirt and -- and popcorn? At that point with the smell of the popcorn, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to look who was grabbing me to see no one. "I'm right over here, Charlie." I could hear her starting to get farther away each time she spoke and there was an echo that made it seem like she was in different areas of the underground structure. After a few minutes, I finally saw a torch lit in the distance and what seemed to be another doorway. "Just beyond the door, Charlie." I stood there at that door and started to become very nervous of what might be behind it. Was it really Peggy? I put my hand on the knob and turned it slowly, then pushed it open. I was shocked to see my apartment with my mom sitting on the couch watching TV, and Peggy telling my mother something I couldn't hear. I walked in and tried to get their attention, but they acted as if they didn't see me at all. "Mom! Peggy! Don't you see me?" I finally could start to pick up sound from their voices as I tried to gain their attention. "Mom, just let me go look for him. It's getting really late and I'm worried something has happened to him." "No, you stay here. He'll be back, he's a big boy. Probably out with his friends and lost track of time. If he's not back by morning, I'll call his friends' parents." "Mom, I just feel like something is totally wrong. When has Charlie ever not called home to say he was going to be late?" "Fine. You come right back after a walkthrough of that carnival. Don't talk to anyone, I don't trust those carnies." "I won't, mom. I'll be careful." "I'm right here, guys!" I knew it was useless trying to talk with them, I was invisible. I watched as my sister went to our front door and opened it and looked back over her shoulder before walking out. Her face changed as she now was looking directly at me. My mom took her attention from the TV and looked over at me, too. They both changed and I stood there horrified. The room started to change, too... we were no longer in my apartment and my mother and sister were no longer themselves, but fat carnival workers from this carnival. "Now you get to be one of us, Charlie. I think you'll be a great ride conductor. Don't you think so, boss?" The man looked down at the other tiny man that was once my mother. "Yep. I knew we'd get a good one this time!" He pulled down some curtains and all of a sudden we were back outside of the Zipper ride. "Don't bother trying to leave, you were chosen, buddy. We don't choose -- they choose for us. We all had to do it just like this." I looked around and noticed that nobody was close enough to stop me and I began to run as fast as I could. I got to the edge of the park where the rides began and came to a dead stop as I hit some sort of barrier. I couldn't get through and the men appeared at my side once again. "We've tried, Charlie. It sucks, I know. We can't leave either." The little man said. "Just go with it, it's not that bad after a while. I turned and sighed, then went with the men to another set of stairs. I could hear Peggy off in the distance calling for me, but I knew she couldn't see me. The next year, we came back to my town. I let people on and off of the Zipper ride for over 12 months now and finally, we were back home -- my home. I had changed in that year -- my gut got large, I grew a beard, and my voice became deep and heavy. My attitude changed, too. I was no longer the fun-loving Charlie I once was. Then there she was -- Peggy. She stood in line for the ride I was controlling and my heart started pounding. Would she recognize me? She got to the front of the line and stood and stared at me as I held the gate open for her to enter the car of the ride. "Are you -- are you Charlie?" "Yes. I'm stuck here now." We both knew at that moment that that was how carnivals got their workers. They were chosen by the carnival itself. The end.

I am Julie, I am useful, I am cattle. The three pills I take every night before I lay in my bed and remain restless for hours. I am Julie; the nourishment pill, it's the sugary sweet green pill that quickly becomes bland and leaves a foul taste in my mouth. It reminds me of the memories I still have of a life. This is my life... Was my life. I am useful; the light blue pill, it pops with an explosion of sweet juice and gives me all the required energy to live. It reminds me that I am needed, needed alive. I am cattle; the preparation pill, a really big awful tasting red pill that prepares my organs to be harvested, it reminds me of my only use, I hate that damn pill... Why do I think this? As a reminder, a reminder of what I am. An awful thing to think but the only thing that works for me now. When I was young I was told that I was very special, I was smart, really smart. I passed all my classes as well as classes three grades ahead of me. I was turning sixteen when I found out I was going to go to university. Three days in and I started having problems. First started the stress. Normal for a college student especially in my position, but soon after I started not being able to sleep at night, it was as though nothing could calm my mind, thinking thinking thinking, repeat repeat repeat, never getting tired, never falling asleep, mulling over the same thoughts, again again and again, such a useless thing, never got things done, just thinking. Some nights I could though, happening near three in the morning I could pass out and have nightmares. The depression was worse, hitting me like a giant blanket, slowly descending upon me but once it hit I was completely pinned. I would sit there and not be able to function, trying to think of how to be happy, was I happy in the moment? No. Then how could I be happy in the future? You would think I would be tired all the time but I wasn't, sometimes I would have all the energy in the world, the next it would be gone and I would curl up into a ball and want nothing more than death. Grades started to fail. I couldn't focus on any sort of work. My family had planned a trip to get a much needed break. I thought “good a vacation to lighten up the mood and relax.” Three days in and I found myself crying on my bed in the room, unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking yet I could never hold onto a single thought. The only thing I could do was to be occupied, play a game, write, anything that kept my attention and occupied me enough so that I could make the long hours of night pass quicker, but I had few of those outlets there so all I could do was think. Mostly about happiness, I will be moving through life soon and I have no idea what makes me happy and what doesn't, I could work to see what made me happy, but how am I supposed to when it is never the same. After the trip was over I thought again that I might have a moment to breath, but I was only thrown into more and more problems, staying up all night thinking about things that made no difference. Acting like a child, I would think that someone didn't like me because they did respond to me right away, fearing the worst, that they did not like me anymore. The most childish things I obsessed over for hours, unable to change the topic in my mind, always afraid. I would bounce between a few different moods, depression, hyperactive mania, a feeling that nothing mattered at all, and a balanced peace, in which I could just be happy in the moment. This one was rare but my favorite. After midterms I hit an all time low, everything hitting me at once I could not sleep at night yet once I finally was able to sleep I would oversleep, after getting me several Fs. My mom took me to a doctor, I was diagnosed with Bipolar depression and an extreme anxiety disorder. My mother and I both froze in out spots. She tried to say something, but all she did was choke on her words before falling silent again, I think she fell in other ways too. This world I am in is very different from how it has been in the past. The world in 2067 witnessed the rise of an empire that threatened to wipe out all that oppose it. The empire was more than capable of doing it too. To defeat them the rest of the world all had to unite as one, and all perform at military efficiency. Anything without a use was destroyed, or recycled into something with one, only all working as one could they able to stop the empire. After the war that claimed a billion lives the world was left with a highly efficient new people, no one had problems like depression, or problems with the body like cerebral palsy, they were either killed, or the problems fixed. People were born into what they would stay in for the rest of their life, and they were good at what they did. Humanity grew ten fold, technology advanced exponentially, life spans ran 25% longer at 170% efficiency. The higher ups gave command to all the lessors, the lessors all did what they were told. No crime, no hunger, no money, no fighting. We even found a way to get nutrients and substance from things other than plants and animals, eliminating the Need to raise and kill animals. this all came at a cost though. No one could live a life with any choice, you did what you did no more, no less. Either one of those brought you only death. It's a perfectly functioning closed system, but humans are not gears to be just used then replaced and thrown away, at least we use to not be. Soon after the war they found a way to reuse useless people too, anyone dysfunctional would be harvested for parts. Kidneys for people who needed them, blood, liver, hearts... Even the brain was thrown into new age AIs. Those who were old enough were immediately taken to be harvested, youth were taken to be raised until ready. They use to raise them pretty well, giving them plenty of time to play and have fun, but that was seen as both inefficient and useless, so now we are given little rooms with small beds to live in, fed only what is needed to keep us healthy, and only go outside to get vitamin D. It's cheaper to get it from the sun than pill form. As one of the dysfunctional I was taken away from my family and thrown into a room to be raised until I was ready to be harvested. There are others here, some as close as a concrete wall away from me, but I have never had an interaction with any of them, the most human interaction I've had since I was taken was with the guard that drove me and escorted me to this place. I know of only about twenty of others, but the facility from the outside looked much bigger. Most of the dysfunctional people were taken twenty years ago when they first started to harvest. Most of this place is probably for the actual act of harvesting itself. Is this really the pinnacle of human society, we are the most advanced we have ever been, but that's like saying I am the oldest right now that I have ever been. We perform as a machine, at one point we put pleasure before all else, eating not for nutrients but for the pleasure of it, we did things like play games, we had useless talents such as ping pong. Years and years before that and you have to fight to survive, we didn't have time for fun, we had to survive. Fast forward centuries and you get what we have now, neither. No fun, no trying to survive. This is all different, not natural. This Is not natural. The first week here is the worst, having the pain of being up all night, and nothing to look forward to during the day it feels infinite, infinite time, infinite pain. After two weeks it starts to not matter anymore, you accept the fact that this is how it is and nothing will change. It's depressing but it makes you feel better, not caring is better than pain. Even in life I had to accept this fact, I constantly looked forward to what I wanted in the future, the problem was I felt just as bad when I got to those points as I did before. I just need to make it till our next vacation I told myself. Halfway through the vacation and I wanted only to be back home. Back home and the pressure of school came back. I had to Learn that what ever situation I was in I had to make the best of it. And in the end nothing matters. I open my eyes to look up at the ceiling, it's the same color white, and the same texture as the walls. Unable to sleep I just lay there, afraid. Afraid of what will happen, afraid of how I will do in the future. I remind myself I need to remain in the moment. Suddenly I have an idea. I walk over to my door, a movable piece of glass in a entire wall of glass. I peer out to see if there are any guards near me. None, I look down find the paper bag that my pills arrived in, I also grab the old pen I found a year ago from under my bed and I start to write. I use to write because I was assigned to do so but this was not for anyone else's purpose but my own. I write about what is happening, how I feel, the past. It helps, gives me something to do, and makes me somewhat tired, I'm actually able to fall asleep at two AM. When nothing matters to you, you do not care for yourself. Not only had I stopped sleeping but I also stopped caring that I wasn't sleeping, I didn't care about what it was doing to me. At the end of the day my mom would ask me If I had eaten, my answers shocked me, most days the answer would be no, or one meal. It's not even that I denied myself food it was that I completely forgot I needed to eat, I didn't get the sensation that I was hungry. I didn't care anymore, the one thing I did care for though was other people, and to hear the fear, anger, and sadness in their voice when they said to eat, to hear that they were worried, hurt like knives being plunged into my side. The one thing I could care for was others, and to hear that I had done something to hurt others sickened me. I rarely cry anymore, I use to a lot, but even before I was put in this place I has stopped. It maybe due to desensitization, nothing matters anymore, nothing is certain, all you know are feelings. But I find myself at night crying. I don't know what for, nothing in particular is happening, I'm not thinking about something sad it just happens. It's like my body is crying for my mind, crying for what is has become what is is going through. From personal experience nothing is useless, no matter how inefficient something is it can still have a use, even if it was not intended for that use. The boy with the broken leg that can't travel very fast can still hold a few sticks at a time to bring back to his family. Writing for anything besides recording useful information was banned a long time ago. It's not always about bringing things to a point, I am writing right here right now for me, not to tell a point or for someone else's enjoyment, but to help me. It is the silent tear shed, not for any usefulness, but just because it helps. Pain is an odd thing, meant as a signal for the body to tell the brain that something is wrong, this it is not enjoyable. I open my mouth and bite onto the side of my thumb, and count to twenty, I let go. It hurts, but it's a feeling. It reminds me that I am actually human, it's reminds me that I can feel. My brain works so much differently than everyone else's. This has always been the case, even before my diagnosis told me that my brain was wrong, I knew I thought differently from other people. Is this really wrong though, is being different such a problem? I was told many times as a kid that I was really nice, really smart. Different doesn't have to be good or bad, it's neutral until given an assessment, in many situations it's a good thing to a certain extent, to our government it's the worst thing imaginable, you need clean cut lines, conformity is key, thus I am a problem. A problem with a solution. I only have a few more months left before my time here ends. I can't say that I want to die, but I know I want this to stop, and if there is nothing afters this then maybe I do want to die. I could try to kill myself, but one it's pointless, just a waste, and two I don't think I could, security is too tight. At one point I could have said that I don't want to die for the sake of others, this was the only thing that kept me going during a difficult time. Telling myself that not only would people be sad if I were gone, but also they would be miss what I gave to their life. I always lived life thinking that no matter what struggles I go through, I could still help out others, even if it was just a small compliment that boosted someone confidence for a little while, or being there to help comfort somebody when they needed it, I lived for this and now I may die for it. All I can do in this moment to be there for others is to let myself be harvested, and hope that my blood saves someone who was in an accident, or my liver may give a recovering alcoholic a way to live and see his family again. My last gift, my body, my life. Today is the day, I'm not excited, but I am ready. The guards that escorted me to the big white room I am in now didn't seem to care about me writing, so I decided to bring it. It's a habit now, to write everything down. There are more of us here than I thought, the twenty or so that arrived with me I would assume, and just about sixty more. All the same age. Half of us seem to know exactly what is going to happen for we are solemn faced and empty, I can tell that a few have just arrived, for they are fearful, they haven't dealt with these thoughts for as long as we have, they have not given up yet. Others seem to be completely oblivious. Just looking at the new surrounding with wonder in their eyes, what's wrong with them? We were all taught about this in school, they should know what's going to happen. A big door opens revealing a long well lit hallway, we shuffle into it while the door slides closed behind us. There is another door at the end that remains closed. The hall has ceiling lights and rounded corners with a black glass like walls. Suddenly the room shifts, not very much but we can all feel the sensation of moment. An elevator? I must have said this aloud because the boy next to me look at me with a very confused look in his eye, but before I can say anything the hall stops and the door opens again to a completely white room. I can tell that the people are stepping out onto something but I can't see yet. Stepping out it opens up into a massive hangar sized room, the conveyor we are on seems to be floating in the air as we head towards the middle of the room. On the sides I can see glass walls with what seem to be nurseries inside, automated arms pick and move babies around. All of us are in shock at the sheer amount of information hitting us. Closer and closer to the center of the room the nurseries change to maternity wards, all maintained by robots. A baby is born, taken to the nursery, then the mother sent out. Oh god. Another conveyor belt intersects this one and on it are the mothers that just left the ward. A boy ahead of me screams in terror as he gets closer to our destination, I try to call to him, to tell him, but a woman stops me. “It doesn't matter, most of them were never taught a language.” The woman tells me. All I can do is fall to the ground as the scream is drowned out by the shutting of a door. “It all turns out the same, it always will, this same thing happened to my grandma, and will happen to my daughter. A whole line of a family, born, raised. Berth a child, then sent to be harvested. Are you ready to see God?” At the end there is a cylindrical tube that one person goes into at a time, it is sound proof so the screams are suddenly stopped by the closing of the door. I'm third in line. I am sitting on the ground crying in terror and all I can do is write. I am Julie, I am useful, I am cattle.

I grew up in the 1970's in Northern Virginia, my Dad commuted into DC every day for work. My Mom, Dad, bro and sis and I lived in a little apartment. Since then I've been all over the US and traveled to more than 40 countries - I would never stoop to say we were poor. We had a home, a car, Christmas happened, some years we got to go to the beach for a few days. For sure there were kids at school who had more toys, better clothes, more exciting vacations and parent's with cooler cars. But we got by and we managed to have fun. My Mom did most (all) of the cooking. When my Dad was cooking it was something weird - breakfast for dinner, or frozen turkey TV dinners, he was a good Dad, loved by many but not known for his meal prep skills. But - the man could bake. He baked bread (basic white loaf bread) and he was famous for his made from scratch lemon meringue pie. My Mom almost did most (all) of the grocery shopping. Once my Mom sent him to the store twice in one day - both times he couldn't remember what he was supposed to get. So, he bought a flour sifter. As one does. He was no dummy - his mind was just always full of things like navigation in space, women as priests in the Catholic Church (he was for it), and all of the books every written by George Eliot. Every now and then, when my Mom went to do the weekly grocery shopping (she also kept the budget and knew when we could spend a little extra) , she would find some kind of treat. And, every now and then one of those treats turned out to be a box of Duncan Hines Blueberry Muffin Mix!!! I remember her taking out of the bag and showing it to my Dad. The next Saturday morning somehow we would all be in kitchen early - making muffins! Well, not all of us I suspect some of the muffin making parties were designed so that she could sleep in on a weekend morning. My sister was the oldest and was certain she knew everything. So she was in charge of reading the directions, opening the package, mixing, turning on the oven and telling everyone else what to do. My Dad told her she had to let my brother and I help. He got the job of opening the can of blueberries. I was just baffled by the whole thing. Especially the can. It was just a can, about the size of a cat food can or a tuna can (both of which made me uncomfortable) and it had no label, no markings, just a can. And inside it was this thick gloopy dark purple stuff - I had seen real blueberries and this made no sense to me. No idea, it probably takes 20 minutes to make those muffins, but it seemed like a major undertaking. Eventually though the time would ding! The kitchen smelled like the most amazing bakery in Paris (pretty sure I had no idea where Paris was at the time - but somehow I just knew that). My Dad would put on the oven gloves and pull the trays and out dump the muffins onto the counter. And we'd grab them burning our fingers, rip off the papers and - this is the best part of this whole story - but huge globs of room-temperature butter on them! That weird purple goop had magically transformed into blueberries and the muffins were perfect - I questioned if my sister might really know everything (turns out she doesn't but I love her!). I haven't thought about those stupid muffins in 40 years. They probably aren't very good. Not sure they even sell them anymore, seems like you can buy muffins anywhere these days and they look bigger and nicer and better than those old 1970's muffins. My Dad passed away a couple years ago, right in the middle of Covid. He had been suffering from Parkinson's for several years and was deteriorating. When the time came, the only comfort we had was that he in a better place an no longer suffering. Covid just made it difficult to hold a real funeral, and a proper send-off. I think that's weighed on all of our minds. I try to keep that in mind, but I miss him and get sad sometimes. This morning, like any random Tuesday. I got in my truck and drove downtown to my office. Like any random Tuesday I stopped at the Starbucks in the lobby of my building to pick up a coffee to get me through the morning of online meetings. It was crowded and the line was long. Someone had ordered a muffin and they could not be located. The Starbucks girl was holding it up and yelling "Blueberry Muffin! Who's got a Blueberry Muffin??" I felt like I was hit by a spaceship traveling at the speed of light and was transported back to that little kitchen in Virginia. And we were making blueberry muffins! It was all there in front of me, the smells, the butter, the cat running towards the sound of the can opener as it opened that magic can. I didn't break down, I didn't cry. But when it was my turn and the girl at the counter asked how I was, I said "Oh just allergies, haha!." It was a hard moment - I'm a 50 year old man, we don't do "feelings". But as I walked to my office, it occurred to me - this is one of the first times I've thought about him since he left us - that wasn't just sad. It was bittersweet. But it was happy. Those few seconds were the highlight of my day. It was fun. It was us. It was how we used to be in what seemed like a much simpler time (though I'm sure it wasn't as simple for my folks as it was for us). You can read stuff about grieving, people can tell you stuff. But all you can do is go through it in your own way. It's taken me a few years, but I think/hope/feel I can forget about the Parkinson's and all of that, forget the hospitals. None of that matters. Fuck Parkinson's. I'm going to eat a lot more blueberry muffins.

Waking up that morning, everything was right in the world. The birds were chirping, sunrays shining through the wooden blinds, illuminating each and every dust particle floating in the bedroom air. It was a beautiful day, and it was a Saturday. What more could you ask for. Everything was normal. Everything always seemed normal. The distinctive smell of bacon and eggs wafted through the house, as it does every Saturday morning. Everything within my personal bubble was in its place; normal. Everything was safe. There was order to my world. I had always thought that things were the way they were for a reason. Not to say that there is definitively a god, but a higher power of consciousness, which maintained this order. I walked into the kitchen after lying in bed for about 15 minutes. I can’t start the day right when I wake up, my brain almost has to “boot up” first. I walked into the kitchen to greet my mom. “Good morning!” she exclaimed as she heartily flipped a pancake into the air with her spatula, to which I groggily replied, “...Morning” and continued to walk over to my brew my routine morning coffee. I’ve never been a morning person. I consider coffee to be essential to the impending progress and productivity of my day. I lackadaisically waddled over to the counter, still in my pajamas, and prepared myself a plate of food buffet style. I sat down at the table to begin eating, unaware of my surrounding as I am engulfed in my steaming plate. Once my initial hunger subsides, I realize that my food looks extraordinarily aesthetically pleasing. Being in the age of digital media, I decided to snap a picture to preserve this work of art on my plate before I began to lack the restraint to wait a minute longer to eat my masterpiece. I snapped a few quality angles. Suddenly, before I save it, I could feel the grasp of my phone slipping from my bacon grease ridden fingers. It was too late. In what felt like eternity, I watched my iPhone fall to its demise. I reacted out of impulse, and although I’m not proud of it in the aftermath, my immediate reaction was anger, as if the iPhone had suddenly developed a conscious and betrayed me. I responded as if this was a life-altering event. As if this inanimate object really meant anything. In the moment, I was enraged. Not at myself, for something that was clearly my fault, but at this conundrum we call life. “It just isn’t fair!” I screamed, inciting my two dogs to bark along in my frantic commotion. “I just got this phone, life isn’t fair, oh my god!” “Oh boy have you got a shock coming to you” I heard my mom mutter from the corner of the room. As I began to pick up the shards of glass from the surface of my phone, I glanced at that week’s Washington Post of September 3rd, 2015. The front-page title read, “How desperation left a 3 year-old boy washed up on a Turkish beach”. I hesitated. I read it again; “3 year-old boy washed up on a Turkish beach”. “Everything is not all right.” , I spoke faintly to myself. I set down my phone, as my attention rapidly shifted at the same moment when my realm of influence expanded tenfold. No longer was my immediate world my house, my city, my state or even country. No longer was I concerned about the useless device. For all I cared, I could have had a twig and some leaves and I could be satisfied. Anything to rid that headline out of my memory. “Only three years old” I suddenly murmured to my mom. “What?” “This young boy, a Syrian refugee, literally washing ashore.... like a piece of trash.” Even she was taken back. “Meanwhile, we live luxuriously; even too frivolously. It’s not fair.” I said. My side of the argument had switched. “We have access abundantly gross amounts of food everywhere we turn, our society is ridden with ignorance and stupidity, and we’re more concerned about the screens on our phones than the people around us and what they have to say and think.” I explained to my mom, as we began to hash out these troubles. It was in this moment when I had first began to question everything I had once considered “normal” My bubble had bursted, and my eyes shed light on the dark side of the moon. I was aware of everything I had overlooked previously. “Why is nobody concerned with this? Well I’m sure they’re concerned, but why are we doing nothing? Is there even anything we can do?” I began to question, getting more and more anxious with each query. “We are doing something, well, the government.” “So not very much” I sarcastically remarked. She laughed, “Pretty much, son. The same way we’re dealing with the gun problem, or the healthcare system, or terrorism.” “It shouldn’t be like this, I thought everything was alright” “It seems like it doesn’t it?” my mom responded, as I prepared for her daily dose of motherly teaching. “ “We overlook these problems because of the same way how we consider everything to be alright in this country. We have become accustomed to the chaos. We are desensitized to that which is routine. To that which is “normal” I nodded in agreement, unable to find the words to respond. “We consider atrocity routine in countries like Syria, or the middle east. And we blindly turn the other cheek, pretending our luxurious and lavish, for lack of a better work; greedy lifestyle is something to be praised like the invention of sliced bread.” “Will we ever see change? “I hesitantly asked, somewhat preparing myself for the answer I already know.” “Keep your ear to the ground, John. Good things will come.” “But how do you know?” I asked? “I don’t, none of us do, but that’s the definition of faith. Believing in something when all other evidence says the contrary, when all else is lost. It is up to people like you John.” “People like what?” I responded. “People who care.

A rugged man marches through a dark, foggy, forest evening in spring. About 4’9”, covered in scars, with an assortment of weapons carried on his back. He scratches his chin, disturbing his beard, long and velvet red, tied in a braid. The black markings on his forehead represent respect, honour, dignity and strength. A sign to the rest of his tribe and his enemies alike of just who exactly he is. He marches, anger in his eyes, determined. Killer intent in his eyes, eyes that have seen hurt, pain, regret, and love. It was a bit hard, with all the heavy metal plating on his body, but it would be well worth it. He must make it deeper into the forest. There is going to be a great battle there. A battle that will determine not only the fate of this mans home, but possibly, the fate of the entire nation. But where? Where is the rest of them? His troops? Surely, he cannot be alone in a battle as great as this, can he? \* AWOOOOOOOOOO \* He pauses, just for a minute. A dog-like silhouette can be seen in the distance, just 10 meters away. You can hear the footsteps of the shadow in the distance. The foot steps grow in volume, yet, the shadow seems too far away for it to be this loud. Wait... it’s not alone. The warrior turns his head slightly, just to see at least three more figures. He turns is head the other way... five? No, seven! Suddenly, he was surrounded by dozens and dozens of these creatures, almost hundreds! Snarling and barking ensues. He was completely surrounded by wolves, just yapping at him, and occasionally, each other. They were getting closer, and if you were there, you could swear you feel there warm breath, as if they were only 3 inches from tearing off that noes of yours. They were getting ready to attack. What does our warrior do? Nothing. He just waits. But... for what? \* RARF, ARF! \* Suddenly, they backed off, but only just a bit. Two wolves, noticeably bigger than the rest, step up from the crowd, they MUST be the alphas. One black, one white, they commanded the rest of the pack. The black one had stopped, while the white had continued walking towards the scarred man. She barked at him once, commandingly, with a muzzle that was just as scarred as the man was. “... Ah, Shut up, ya cow! I raised WOLVES, not wee muffies! If yer gonna threaten me, do it properly, Mia...” The ragged man joked, in his very thick Scottish accent. There was a very distinguishable scent to this man, and the wolves knew it well. They had recognized him as the alpha of the pack. She jumped on him to show affection, soon followed by the black male. “Oof! William, ya fat oaf! Warn me next time before ya do that, haha!” They were really happy to see the alpha who had saved them as puppies from a hunter. Those humans will pay for what they did to the rest of their pack, only tens strong then. Fortunately, they both had the same enemies. The clan that the warrior needed to battle, was the same group of humans that had almost killed the Yin-Yang Dogs. That pack owes everything to that man, and on more than one occasion, wolf and warrior have fought side by side. They knew who he was, and had a pretty good idea as to why he was here. “Aright, then. Follow. We’re hunting, tonight, boys.” The wolves understood immediately what he meant by that. They were going to fight someone, and they needed all the support they could get. The wolves walked with him, beside him, in front, behind, everywhere. The white stayed to his right, the black to his left. A soldier shouldn’t go into battle alone. Not in a battle as big as this, anyway. The man howled, and his army howled with him, filling the forest with a cry of menace. Never underestimate the wolf...