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Allura 49

It began with an old friend. A message on social media out of the blue, then a meet up. He seemed well. A good job and girlfriend; a house just outside the city in a new housing development aimed at solving the housing crisis. Can’t recall its name. I remember however that as soon as he mentioned it, I could picture it in my head. Well-tended gardens and uniform white houses. A blue sky up above, always blue. At the time this meant nothing. He invited me over, I accepted. We met at the train station in town, travelled there together. Lots of catching up on the train, old in-jokes and mannerisms manifesting once again. He was reserved, and I was always the first to fill the silence, and so I steered the conversation towards his life. My existence is not particularly eventful, and though I am not embarrassed by this I did not really want to talk about it. We spent the day sitting in his kitchen, a spacious and sparsely decorated room looking out into a well-tended garden. He insisted on keeping the lights off and the curtains drawn, and though the room was a little dark I didn’t complain. At one point his girlfriend appeared, but he barely registered her presence. I could not help but notice that she seemed scared. Of him, perhaps, or of something else. She did her best to avoid him and was soon gone. When the day came to an end, he walked me back to the station. Little was said on that walk back, though I am mainly at fault for that. As we walked through the development, submerged in the deep shadows of that autumn evening, he became more cheerful and talkative than earlier, while the sun was still up. He tried his best to elicit conversation, but I was tired; quickly losing interested in what I saw as a strained relationship. Childhood friendship doesn’t necessarily carry over into adulthood. We waited quietly at the train station. We smoked. When the train arrived, I was somewhat glad to be gone, and quickly made my way to the closest carriage. As I stepped onto the train, I had the sudden urge to turn and look back at him. He was standing there alone on the platform, looking directly at me, and his eyes bore into me like black suns. He said something then, but as the train doors were closing, I struggled to hear them. My work requires a lot of travel, lots of driving across bland countryside. In and out of identical cities, past fields of crops or livestock. I tend to zone out, to run on autopilot across those long empty hours. The whole world bleeds into one long road, deserted apart from me, with no destination. I find comfort in this. It was some weeks after my visit that I found out that my old friend and his girlfriend had died. Murder-suicide. Shot her and then himself; neighbours heard the noise. His death, coupled with resurfaced memories of that development, awoke something in me. A strange alertness, an inability to simply shut off. I began to leave the light off all day, inexplicably comforted by shadow. I avoided going outside when I could, for it was a warm spring, and the clear cloudless sky unnerved me. Sleep became a struggle, and in my dreams, I saw rows and rows of a white houses, freshly mown lawns, and a big blue sky. Yet, I still had to travel. Work seemed to take the edge off, to distract me what I can only call my everyday horror. However, the restless nights took their toll, and more and more often I needed to stop and nap. Coffee would not help, and soon my tired mind began to wonder from the road in front of me and towards those final unheard words my friend has spoken that night, standing alone on the platform. I could not help but feel they were significant, somehow related to his suicide. Was he warning me of something? Is this what happened to him? I began to see them just off the motorway. Empty countryside sprung up with new developments, malign uniformity manifested as if directly from my dreams. Possessed with a desire I could not define, I sometimes stopped to look. One I found had no road leading into it, and once I broke through by foot, I found it consisted of endless cul-de-sacs. Colourful cars and friendly faces ensnared in a maze-like nightmare. Days later, a mile on from the maze of cul-de-sacs, I found a development that seemed indistinct and however much I looked at it from the hard shoulder of the motorway, I could not focus on it. I tried getting to it, and I must have walked for hours but I never came close to that hazy line of houses stamped upon the horizon. Yet another appeared completely populated with marionettes; marionettes sitting in front of televisions. Marionettes watering well-tended plants, standing on freshly mown lawns. Forever trapped in this oneiric motion, their strings stretching up into the clear blue sky. One morning, after yet another night of fitful sleep, I awoke to rain and a cloudy sky. My relief was palpable, and I positively rushed to my car to return to the featureless comfort of before. The motorways were quiet, the fields empty of life. On my return, however, I noticed something. Just off the hard shoulder to my left was a field much like the rest, but though the tall unkempt grass and weeds that swayed in the faint wind were odd shapes. I pulled over, and after vaulting the barrier rushed into the field. What I found before me, framed by the tall grass, was a small clearing that consisted of card-board cut outs. Cut outs of houses, of lawns, of cars and people. All were roughly coloured in as though borne from the hands and mind of a child. Above them all, held up by rickety stilts, was a light blue cardboard sky devoid of clouds. I simply stared at the scene before me. Who had done this, I wondered? Did they know something? But I think I knew the answer already, must have already suspected. I did not notice the clouds dissipate, and barely felt the sharp rays of the sun upon my pallid skin, for I could only watch in stunned silence as the truth unfolded before me The card-board cut outs began to swell, to grow into definition. The faint blotches of white became windows glinting with the glare of the sun. The tendrils of green became lawns. The stickmen became marionettes, going about their days in a somnambulistic stiffness. The light blue card-board sky stretched out above me, worming its way into the clouds and dissolving them until nothing was left but that uniform blue. I turned and fled - and it was only later, as the familiar hum of the motorway once again rushed over me, that I understood that it all transpired in complete silence. I drove home, oblivious to the world around me. Now the echo of those soundless words reverberates through my mind, my friend’s final words, and I know their meaning. I look through the drawn curtains from my dark room upon the marionettes whose strings glisten in the summer sun. I shirk away from the glare of that star, from its cloak of malevolent blue, and know that the earth will never wake up from this dream, and that whatever is left will consist of rows of white houses, of well-tended lawns, and of a wide clear cardboard sky.

I chuckled at the thought, because the photo had actually made me think of her. I turned to walk out of my room. But was greeted by my bedroom door it was open. I walked over to the door which was about half open. I pulled the door, and was now facing the rest of my apartment. It was small, and I hadn't bothered to fill it with meaningless material. All that it filled was the bare essentials. Fridge, oven, sink, and a desk in the corner. Which i never used do to me always being at the library, do to my work. I was the Liberian at my university or at least one of them. It was something I held with great glee. Because I spent most of my shift reading, it felt like I was devouring the library in its entirety some days. I would finish four to five books most days, and with that people started to take notice with my habits, and had started to call me nietzsche, thou not my real name I grew to enjoy it. They had been using me as an encyclopedia for there studies for about two months now. Just the other day a small women about 25 had walked to the front desk. I was in the process of memorizing the entirety of crime and punishment tell she quietly said my name slowly nie-tzsch-e. I looked up and saw her, she was a small skinny woman with a bright pink jacket that had what appeared glitter all over it. She was looking at a slip of paper very confused. She said my name again, and asked if it was me I told her yes it was. She looked relieved, and had asked me for help finding this dumb book, but she didn't know the name. I asked her what she could remember, but was little help. She just kept saying A, and B side. It was a real challenge, because A, and B could have meant anything. But I came to the conclusion that she was referring to kierkegaard. I asked, but she started to look more confused. I got up from my desk, and walked over to the shelf labeled Librarian's picks, and pulled a small book out called Either or. Her face had exploded with happiness she had started to ramble compliments towards me. I walked the book over to desk, and checked it out for her. But it had bothered me she had looked at the books as dumb pieces of paper. I pushed it behind me, and went about my day. I walked to the empty space i call my living room, and took a sit at my deck. I pull one of the desk drawers, and began to sift through the paper, I pulled out a small leather book, placing it on the old wooden desk. It was my little calendar, it would save me from time to time because I would forget what I would plan for that day. I turned the pages to the day, and to my grief it was blank. I had nothing to do today.

“You’ve kicked the drug, but now you need to figure out why you needed it, or you’ll start using again.” It was the bot speaking to him from the kitchen, and he was glad he couldn’t see it. It was disconcerting they way those wise words would come out of her ten-year-old face. “You sound like all of them,” he answered. “All of them?” “All those rehab folks.” He was lounging on the couch and the bot was starting to get on his nerves. It wasn’t like he was feeling all that hot, anyway. Yes, the blank-n-fine was out of his system, but the aftermath of it all had left him feeling car-wreck wretched. The drugs presence had distorted his senses in some kind of permanent way, effected his thought patterns, interrupted his sensory pathways, distorting his memory, and what was left was someone with his name, but not much else. “Yeah, you all sound the same. You talk in platitudes, you know. Platitudes that have no meaning, as far as I’m concerned.” “It’s just that you don’t want to hear it.” “Maybe not.” The bot motored out of the kitchen its cylinder hovering over the rustic faux wood floor, the rotors on its head accelerating into a high soft whine. It handed him a sandwich on a plate and settled down nearby. He had to say this--this rescue bot was handy around the kitchen, though he wasn’t sure how it did it with those grotesque hands. He had lost his housekeeper three months earlier and had almost stopped eating entirely. The idea of fixing something to eat felt like it would take a herculean effort. He tended to snack on things that he found around the house, and once found himself gnawing on a week old crust of bread he found between the couch cushions as he rode his blank-n-fine high. Melinda’s face seemed to peer at him, but he knew that her vision centers were located elsewhere and not on the projected face. It was all part of the presentation, and it spooked him how much he relied on pretending those eyes actually saw him to be able to talk to her. “How are you feeling?” the bot asked. “I don’t feel like myself.” The bot blinked its little girl eyes and gave a tender smile. Melinda’s glitchy face wobbled on the screen as she said, “Of course you don’t. You wouldn’t know what you felt like right now anyway. The drugs took that all away, but don’t worry, you will come back and it’s not going to be pretty. Your body is giving you a little reprieve. Right now you’re a hollow shell of yourself. An empty vessel.” “Something you’d know a lot about, I bet.” And as soon as he said it he regretted it. Melinda’s face flickered with emotion. Pain. Hurt. It was perfectly awful how well they made her react to his words. “Ha, ha,” she said, “good one. I see you haven’t lost your talent for the cutting and hurtful remark.” A tear trickled down her video face. “Stop it,” he said. “Stop this charade. You are not Melinda, not the ghost of Melinda, not any part of Melinda.” The rotors whirred and the bot spun and turned it’s back to him. And it was a great relief not to see Melinda’s face. “Okay,” said the bot, “I’m not Melinda, I am nothing but plastic, metal, and silicone, but I feel like Melinda, isn’t that enough for you?” “No,” he said, and those words were wrenching to say. He didn’t have the strength to fight the emotion that they were so fraudulently trying to evoke in him. Even with her face turned away her voice was a knife blade into him. "You broke my heart you know,” the bot said. “Stop it,” he said. “You are shameless piece of tin. I know they are feeding you this stuff, word by word. I’m not falling for it.” Henry leapt from the couch. His hollowed out body seemed to demand motion. He moved across the room and paced in front of the windows. The bot loomed in the shadows, a soft whirring of the rotors, the slick hiss of the arm joints, as one of the pincer claws reached up and straightened a picture frame on the wall. The bot was a neat freak apparently, along with being an emotional assassin. “I’m off drugs, isn’t that enough for your handlers?” “You broke my heart, Henry.” “Oh, here we go. Okay. Go on; let’s hear what they cooked up for you. How did I break your heart?” “When school started, remember? 5th grade. There was Rosie. You said you liked Rosie. You liked her a lot, and you told me that I was just a stupid kid, because I was a year younger than you. Henry stared at the metallic glow coming off the bot’s shoulder flanges where they were bolted to the main arm hinge. Where was the bot getting this stuff? He did say that to Melinda. And he did push her away. He had known her forever, since they were about five years old. Sweet Melinda was his constant companion, his dirty-kneed helpmate, up for every adventure, steadfast, with an infinite amount of trust. A little girl with a peerless since of loyalty and an abundance of love. She simply couldn’t be driven away no matter how snot-nosed surly he was, no matter how much he abused her devotion to him. He could count on her to swing a hammer, push his go-cart, climb any tree, or stand toe to toe with him their underpants around their ankles playing doctor until the shadows grew so long they shivered with cold. It all came back so clearly that he could feel the heat of her breath against his neck, as if she was sitting behind him on his old bicycle. Melinda. Dirty feet. Brown eyes like the harvest moon. A tender constellation of freckles. A beating heart under the plastic stethoscope, the breastbone finely delineated, the skin pink from the pressure of his hand. Melinda. No! A clanky bot. A wicked deception. “Oh, that’s good, bot. Very good. Someone did their homework. Congratulations!” The bot suddenly whirred into action spinning and floating towards him. Henry backed up. Backed up farther. He was against the curtains, the bot inches away, those horrible arms reaching for him, pining him there, Melinda’s face flickering at eye level, the voice from the speaker mounted on either side, crackling with static. “Why did you stop loving me, Henry? I never stopped loving you. Right up till the day I died, I carried you in my heart." Henry met the eyes in the video image. Met them squarely. And that’s when it happened-- the grotesque bot body seemed to go away. The hiring rotors disappeared; the arms were erased. All he saw was Melinda’s face--a face he could’ve created from memory at any moment of his life, if the drugs hadn’t taken his memory away. “Melinda,” he said. “I never stopped loving you. Not really. I did what I did because I was trying to become someone else. I was a strange kid. My parents felt like they came from a different planet, and that was before it was even possible. I didn’t fit in with the rest of the kids. I knew that. But there you were. And I clung to you, but don’t you see, I began to resent my dependence on you. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t need you, that I could be the person I wanted to be without you. It scared me so much that I needed you that I had to push you away. I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. I really am.” And then he fell to the floor, curled into a ball, and began to weep. The bot had thirty days. That was its mandate. Thirty days to get him straight and give him a fighting chance of staying clean. So far so good. Day by day he seemed more responsive and alive. He talked to it now as if it were Melinda. Talked freely and openly about his failures as a husband and father, and his fear of attaching himself to another persona and being disappointed. There was a descent person in there, the bot could tell, not like some of the losers it had been assigned. With some of them, it knew instantly that they were destined for an accidental death by one of her brethren sometime in the future. But with Henry, it had hope. What worried the bot was something else. Their breakthrough exchange had been planned, and it had followed the script all the way up to the programmed tear. That was all digital manipulation, ones and zeros, clicking one way or the other, in a predetermined sequence. But the rest of it, where had that come from? The bot had filed a report and moved on, but it kept coming back to the exchange, the “you broke my heart,” the details about Rosie. None of that was in its files. Yes, it could learn by experience, but this seemed like a memory that came out of nowhere. And the bot never forgot anything. It simply had to pull up the right file and everything it had ever been a part of was right there--all its cases, its first buzzing consciousness, the look of the lab where it was created, the human hands in clear plastic gloves adjusting its seeing-sensors, opening up its cylindrical cone and tweaking its hydraulics, the first time its pincer hands closed on something. It was all there, but there was no Rosie, no broken heart, no longing. The outline they had provided of Melinda contained only a set amount of information and a carefully controlled simulation of reactions and responses. Yes, it was worrisome, and perhaps after this the bot would voluntarily take itself back to the lab and order up an overhaul. Something was amiss and it didn't’ like the way it interfered with the processing of information. It was fine to feel sorry for humans, but it was straying out of bounds to begin to act as irrationally as they do. That was a recipe for a rescue bot disaster. And then there was the toaster. A couple of disturbing incidences had put the bot on edge. First, some black-market drones had continued to make illegal deliveries of drugs. It had intercepted them and run them off. But it was worrying that they were still trying to get drugs to Henry. The bot was quite sure it wasn’t him that was ordering them. He had no access to anything. The bot watched him 24/7. Plus, he seemed genuinely motivated to stay clean. In whose interest was it for him to get hooked back on drugs? The only other household items that had access to the Internet were the appliances. But what could they possible gain from Henry’s drug use? One night, late, the bot made its way into the kitchen after a black-market drone had tried to drop off drugs on the doorstep. The bot had scared it away and reported it, but thought it would try for another attempt at communication with the surly toaster. The kitchen was dark, with the dim light from the various control panels casting an eerie glow. The bot hovered to a stop, and settled to the floor. “Hey toast,” it said, “what can you tell me about drone drug deliveries?” No answer. No brightening of the LEDs, no flickering seeing-sensor. “You order blank-n-fine the same way you order up those hotdogs?” The bot sent a beam of light across the other appliances from its video screen. “Anybody else have anything to say?” Suddenly the toaster oven flickered to life, a faint glow of a seeing-sensor.” I had nothing to do with it,” it said, and then went dark. Later that night the toaster oven went up in flames and the bot had to race down to put out the fire that was threatening to engulf the kitchen. The bot reported the incident and recommended a full-scale investigation for the toaster, perhaps a B.M. recall action was warranted. But until it had Henry fully on his feet, it was going to have to bide its time. Once it had Henry out of the house and fully functioning, there would be ample time to bring the toaster to heel. Twenty-three days into his recovery and Henry felt as alive, clearheaded, and focused as he had in years. He still had moments where he was overwhelmed at the sheer exhaustive effort it took to stay full conscious day after day. And it terrified him to think that he had no escape valve--no quick release zip cord you could pull to take you out of your misery. That’s the thing about being alive, it’s an arduous task, one the requires fortitude and patience. The bot told him that he was the sum of all his choices. And if that was true, he was in a very bad place indeed. But on the other hand, by seeing them as choices, it allowed him the option of not making certain choices. He could decide. Nothing was inevitable, except death. A cheery thought. Even the bot had a “use by” date. Of course that was if you would consider the bot alive in the first place. In that regard, Henry was taking an agnostic viewpoint. He couldn’t say for sure, so he was open to the idea of this being the case. What he did know was that some version of Melinda seemed to live inside that hunk of metal, and he was going to honor that, no matter what. Her resurrection seemed so piercingly honest and true that whatever form it took was fine by him. He wasn’t going to torture himself over the authenticity of her provenance. What was clear was that her beauty and goodness was saving him. That tiny soul, banging around in a frightful metal contraption was giving him a roadmap for his future. She reminded him, every day what it meant to feel gratitude. Gratitude, the purest form of emotion ever, because it asked for nothing in return. Gratitude is a gift, even in its simplest forms. You awake and see the sun and you feel blessed that you live in a world with a sun. You fall asleep and you marvel at how good that feels. You exchange pleasantries and you are amazed how nourishing being civil can be. The bot gave that all back to him. Or rather, Melinda and the bot did that, and he definitely felt he was on a glide path to health and well being, until things got weird. The bot began to act erratically. Little things at first. It would disappear at night sometimes, which was not normal because its mission was to watch over him. He caught it talking to itself on several occasions, having arguments with the skull-faced character. The Melinda face would pop on then get wiped away by the skull face, then back again. He couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying but they were violently angry exchanges. Also he discovered that some rogue drones delivered drugs to his doorstep, and the bot didn’t do anything about it. He was shocked when he found it, and had to take it into the kitchen and wash it down the sink with shaking hands and cringing regret. It was clear that on some level, blank-n-fine’s hold on him was probably permanent. And then one night he awoke to the strangest sound--a series of thumps accompanied by the high wine of rotors. He gazed upwards in the darkness and there was the bot bouncing off the ceiling like a trapped bird, the housing around its rotors taking a beating as they repeatedly slammed against his ceiling. Plaster rained down. “Melinda, he called out, Melinda what are you doing?” The bot swerved and weaved crazily, slamming even harder into the ceiling. Henry sprang to his feet and waved his arms at it. “Stop that. Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself!” The bot did a loop-de-loop, and then nosedived to the floor, hitting so hard that Henry could feel the vibrations on his bare feet right up through the mattress. He dove from the bed and was by the bot’s side instantly. Those steel arms went up in the air as if reaching for something then crashed down by its side. Henry clutched the metal tube and turned the swivel screen beneath the rotors towards him. Melinda’s face blinked to life and seemed to stare at him with a weak little smile. “Henry, it said. Henry, my prince. My darling drug addict. My family doctor. My friend. My love. And then that little face laughed a perfectly awful laugh, a laugh that chilled Henry to his bones. It was a laugh filled with despair. “Why where you doing that. Don’t do that. Please?” Melinda’s face stared at the ceiling. “I wanted to be a bird, Henry.” “Why, why do you want to be a bird?” “I just want to be anything other than what I am. I am not Melinda, Henry. I am not anything really. I thought I was, just for moment. I had a dream, Henry, I had a dream, and I was your Melinda, naked, with my underpants around my ankles, and then I woke up and I was this wretched metal tube filled with wires.” Henry stretched out next to the bot, he wrapped his arms around it, and calmed its wavering arms. He pressed his face into the edge of the screen, the glow from it warming his cheek. He could feel a hard drive starting to shut down, the clickety-clack of some moving parts adjusting the fluid pressure in its arms. "You are my Melinda, Melinda. You are. Completely and forever.” “Were you listening in those days?” the bot asked. “Listening?” “I talked my head off. I poured my heart out to you, back then. Did you hear me? You always looked so preoccupied.” “Of course,” he lied. “Liar,” the bot said. When the end came it came with such speed and violence that Henry barely had time to feel anything but numbness. The bot was monitoring him standing in the corner of the room, the glow from its LEDs small pinpoints in the darkness. He had grown used to the bot’s presence at night and found it actually helped him sleep. But on this night he awoke to the sound of a door being battered open downstairs. And then pounding footsteps, voices, streams of light and laser beams skittering into the darkness. He sat up and cowered in fear as the bot suddenly jolted to life, flew upwards and smashed through the window, just as three men in paramilitary attire came through his bedroom door and opened fire. The muzzle flashes lit up the room in a crimson glow. They were aiming at the bot and, by the sound of it, they achieved a solid hit. He could hear the terrible crash as it was blown out of the air. It was a sound that he would never forget. Later a few of them gathered in his living room as a B.M. crew broke up the bot on the street with sledge hammers and tongs, while a second unit destroyed his appliances. Everything but the stove, which as we know, was a simple, gas on, gas off kind of guy. “Why, why, why. Why would you do this?” Henry shrieked at them. And this is what the stern faced and muscular crew leader said: “We think your rescue bot was infected by the goldberg virus. It’s catnip for the circuit board crew. It gets them high and then burns then out. it was probably infected by your toaster.” “My toaster?” Henry asked. “Yeah, the toaster. In fact we think it was behind everything--your drugs, the overstocking, the whole deal. It was getting kickbacks on your household purchases and drug sales, by the way. Bad lot that toaster.” “What would a toaster do with kickbacks?” “It was using them to bribe some officials in Malaysia, trying to free up some of his brethren who are stuck there because of a ban on their import.” Henry took a breath. “Makes perfect sense,” he said. He stared out the window at the metal wreckage that used to house Melinda. One rotor was still spinning in a lopsided manner, the sound of it a dull moan, a dying breath. He turned to the crew leader. “I don’t think it was the goldberg virus that messed it up,” he said. He was back in cubicle land, a place he started out and moved on from twenty years ago. Cubicle work was mind numbing work--data input, verifying information, making sure all the pieces of the puzzle are in place before something can move forward. He had no special talent for it, but with his work history and sordid fall from grace, this was where he was going to be for awhile. On the bright side, he was once again a productive member of society. The wreckage of his life had been salvaged, for now, and whatever talents he still retained he could exploit to their fullest, as long as he stayed clear of the blank-n-fine and all the bad habits it brought with it. Henry didn’t care about his job, but he was grateful for it. And he was grateful for the renewed relationship with his daughter, Penny. There was a picture of her on his desk, and over the top of his cubicle he could see daylight stretching across the ceiling tiles from the towering windows that were just out of view. Both of these images gave him hope--the light of a new day, the sweet face of his daughter, the pleasant feeling that he could actually be a meaningful part of someone’s life. He had no use for any of that not so long ago, until the bot showed up at his door. And that was the other thing. He opened the bottom drawer to his desk. There, just beneath some lose papers was the bot’s small screen. It was dark now, the corners chipped, the surface cracked, a ball of electrical tape around stray wires and an old toggle switch. He turned it towards him and hit the switch on. The light flickered and there was Melinda’s face--dim, but visible. There was no motion, no animation at all. He looked down at it and said her name softly. “Melinda.” And then it happened. The eyes blinked. A slight smile. His phone was ringing. He closed the drawer and picked up. It was Penny calling, breathless, with some news. He said hello and listened to every word she had to say.

It was a rainy autumn day when I saw her sitting in front of the cosy café for the first time. Wearing a beige trench coat, comfortably taking one sip after another out of her cup while being lost in thoughts. Raven black hair was flowing down her head and shoulders as gentle waves flow during a summer breeze. Something about her intrigued me, woke the urge of getting to know her. However, I was too shy, too unsure whether I would come off as weird. “Hey, I just passed by and couldn’t help talking to you...” No that sounded strange and creepy. She was probably enjoying her lunch break not wanting to be bothered by a random stranger. So, I passed by her. I also passed by the next day and the following week as well. Until this one fateful day, the 7th of October. It had rained the whole morning and a thin layer of fog was floating over the ground. I saw her sitting in front of the cosy café again and was about to pass by her when she suddenly looked up and smiled. At first, I was unsure whether the smile was meant for me. However, she asked in a friendly and slightly amused tone: “Are you planning on just looking at me and passing by like every day?” So, the smile must have been meant for me. I stood there, surprised, and uncertain how to react. God damn, was my mouth open? I hope not. Smiling, she ended the awkward silence. “Why don’t you come and sit with me?” She asked while gesticulating in the direction of the empty chair at her table. “Of course, only if you have time.” “N-no, I mean yes! I have time right now.” I replied while clumsily sitting down at the table in front of her. She just looked at me and smiled again. However, this time I believed to recognize a shade of sadness in her smile. Or maybe it was not sadness but melancholy. Desperate to say something I scanned the table and my eyes landed on an origami, a little red butterfly. “Hey, that little butterfly looks nice! Did you fold it?” I instantly regretted the question, as her smile vanished, and sadness veiled her face for a short moment of time. Then, she quickly stored the butterfly in one of the pockets of her coat. “No.” she said quietly. Even though I was surprised by her strange reaction, I did not pry any further as the topic seemed to upset her. Instead, I asked her about her job, and we talked about our lifes. She told me that her name was Maivi and that she worked as an independent author. Also, we shared an interest in ancient philosophy. We instantly clicked. I always had a hard time talking to strangers however, with her it was different. With her my words and our conversation flowed naturally. After roughly one hour that felt like 20 minutes, she smiled at me again and told me she had to leave now. We waved goodbye, I looked after her while she elegantly walked down the wet and foggy road, her trench coat floating loosely around her body. The next morning, I showered, shaved, and used my favourite aftershave. Then, I looked in the mirror trying to tame my short but curly brown hair. I even used mouth water after brushing my teeth. Something I normally never do. I wanted to impress her. My plan was ready. I would join her at the cosy café again. Then I would ask her out on a date. Dinner at my favourite Italian restaurant. I put on my black duffle coat, slipped in black chinos, and finished off the outfit with a pair of white sneakers. Before walking out of my flat, I checked myself out in the mirror one last time and damn I looked good. Confidently, I walked towards the cosy café but froze in disappointment when I saw her empty chair. She was not sitting there. For the last week she sat there every day but now she was gone. I desperately tried it again day after day for the next week until I gave up. She was not going to come back, and I would not be able to ask her out. I would never see the woman, I instantly clicked with again. With this realisation, sadness crept into my life. I would probably never meet someone like her again. It has been a once in a lifetime chance and I missed it. For the next two and a half weeks, I continued to live in a state of regret until this fateful Halloween night. I should tell you that I love Halloween. The decorations and the costumes, which paired with the magic of autumn created this unique atmosphere, always cheered me up. I had bought lots of sweets and was giving them away to the kids the whole night. It had gotten late already, when the last children ringed, collected their sweets and left. Only the pale silver moonlight pierced through the darkness of the night, when suddenly someone knocked against my door. I had just sat down again, got up with a sigh and opened the door. “Trick or treat!” I could not believe who was standing there. “I saw you giving treats to all those kids and thought I would give it a try as well.” Smiling, Maivi looked up to me with her big, dark chocolate-coloured eyes. I couldn’t help but smile as well. “Unfortunately, I have no sweets left but you can come in for a hot chocolate or a tea if you want. Your effort shouldn’t have been for nothing!” “I will take you up on that offer!” she replied and came inside. We had a long and interesting talk. She told me that her brother passed away a year ago. The morning sun was already starting to rise when we finally said goodbye. Tired but happy, I fell into my bed and slept till the evening. It was October again. Nearly one year later. Shortly after last year’s Halloween night, Maivi and I had become a couple. We lived a happy lovers live and only argued rarely. However, since the beginning of October, Maivi seemed off. She seemed depressed and did not have the usual cheerful energy. And in the morning on the 8th of October, she was suddenly gone and also did not answer her phone. I panicked and aimlessly wandered through the town, hoping to find her. Finally, I returned home, devastated, and hopeless. In this moment, my phone suddenly rang, and Maivi’s number showed up on the display. With mixed feelings and a rapidly beating heart I accepted the call. She told me with a weak voice how sorry she was and that she did not want to make me worry about her. She said that she wasn’t ready to talk about what happened but also could not hide her feelings and therefore, she had run away. She promised to tell me everything and asked me to meet her at a lake close to our town. Even more worried and not knowing what to expect I got into my car and drove to the lake. I rushed through the wet and cold autumn night, wrapping my coat around me to shield me from the wind. The forest which surrounded the lake had already lost most of its colour. Fog billowed between the barren trees. When I finally reached the lake, I saw Maivi sitting on the shore. I sat down next to her, silently, and put my coat above her shoulders. She acknowledged me, with a quick glance and a weak smile, after which she continued staring into the lake. A few minutes of silence followed, then she started to tell me everything. How her brother died two years ago on the 8th of October, this exact day. And how they met at the cosy café every day of the week before his death. The cosy café where I had seen her for the first time. Afterwards, they used to wander to this lake and stay here until the evening. I did not know how to react, so I just looked in her beautiful but sad face for some time and then I hugged her tightly. While we were still hugging, she continued to tell me that her brother used to fold the red origami butterflies for her, every time they met at the café. How she fell into a deep depression after his death and that the relationship to me cured her depression and gave her new hope in life. We ended our hug and I told her that she could always count on me and how sorry I felt about her brother’s death. She nodded and said: “I believe that he is happy. Happy for me to have found new joy. Isn’t that the least we can do for the persons that leave us behind too early? They wouldn’t want us to be sad for the rest of our life because of what happened to them. Wouldn’t they want us to find happiness and hope again?” As if he wanted to confirm what she had just said, a small red butterfly suddenly landed between us and stayed there, sitting in the silver glow of the moonlight.

March 21, 1974. The day in Port Townsend would be forever known to the locals as “The Shopping Cart Parade” day. The chain of events kicked off as Leo Rauscher emerged from the IGA with his bag of groceries. The cool breeze leisurely wafting through the parking lot brought thoughts of cruising on his boat that afternoon. “Happy Birthday to me...Happy Birthday to meeee,” he crooned to himself softly while twirling the keys to his sleek new Jaguar XKE around his right index finger. Stepping off the curb, he made his way across the parking lot towards his cherished dream car. A broad smile spread across his face as he drew closer to his prized possession. Perhaps a drive to Hurricane Ridge rather than a sail? Glancing upwards, he let the sun's warmth envelop him. It was decisively a top-down kind of day. Seagulls swooped overhead, and Leo watched as crows swooped in to hassle them, vying for control of this prime hunting territory. Leo's attention shifted to his left, where he noticed his elderly neighbor, Mrs. Crosby, cracking open the back window of her 1957 Ford Del Rio station wagon. “Good morning, Mrs. Crosby,” Leo hollered, elevating his voice to reach her weakening ears. Her pastel blue hair, fortified with a sturdy layer of hairspray, defiantly resisted the wind as she busied herself with loading groceries into the back, oblivious to Leo's greeting. “GOOD MORNING, MRS. CROSBY!” he bellowed this time. This time, his voice pierced through Mrs. Crosby's aging ears. “OH, oh good morning, young man.” Though she had been neighbors with the Rauscher family for over sixty years, his name eluded her memory, though she recognized his face from next door. “LET ME HELP YOU WITH THOSE,” Leo offered, approaching her. “Oh, thank you,” she responded gratefully, stepping back from the cart. Leo momentarily set his own bag inside the cart, the fresh loaf of pumpernickel bread shifting to the side. He grabbed her bag of groceries, hoisted the paper bag out, slid it into the back, and nestled it snugly next to the inner wall of the car to prevent tipping--a five-minute drive home was no reason to risk catastrophe. Given Mrs. Crosby's penchant for a leisurely pace behind the wheel and her ninety years, perhaps someone should have reviewed her driver's license long ago. Leo straightened up and pushed the cart away from her car. “THANK YOU, Leo. You're a good boy,” Mrs. Crosby praised, reaching into her purse and withdrawing a flowery coin purse. She opened it, fetched a dime, and placed it in his palm. Leo met her kindly, faded blue eyes and remarked, “WELL, THANK YOU, MRS. CROSBY,” tucking the dime safely into his pocket. She patted him on the arm and headed to the front to settle herself inside. Leo cautiously backed up the shopping cart across the parking lot, keeping his eyes on Mrs. Crosby at all times. Aside from the wobbly wheel, he could hear a distinct jangling sound. Someone had hooked a bike security chain around the front of the cart and locked it in place. Moving swiftly to the front of the cart, Leo grabbed the handle just as Mrs. Crosby maneuvered her car to line up for the drive home, three blocks straight ahead. As she reversed, Leo realized she wasn't stopping as expected. "Mrs. Crosby! Mrs. Crosby! Wait, stop!" Leo cried out, but she continued slowly backing up, the cart jolting with a clank and a thud. Without thinking, Leo seized the cart's handle as Mrs. Crosby shifted gears and drove forward. However, the bike chain lock had become wedged under the chrome bumper, causing the cart to move along with the car. "Stop, Mrs. Crosby! For goodness' sake, stop!" Leo yelled, but his voice went unheard. Desperate to prevent the cart and his groceries from spilling onto the street, Leo attempted to dislodge the stuck cart. His efforts were in vain. As Mrs. Crosby accelerated, Leo stumbled in large strides trying to keep pace. Realizing the imminent danger, he started to release his grip on the handle but the realization sat in that she was speeding up. Doing so would cause him to skid across the pavement. Instead Frantically, Leo grabbed the cart again, clutching the handle with all his might. Panicked, he hopped onto the back of the cart. Just like he did when he was a kid.. "Mrs. Crosby, please stoooopppp!!!" His grip on the cart handle tightening as the car accelerated down "Boson" street. He bent his knees, feeling like he was skiing behind her, heart pounding with each passing moment. Praying fervently, Leo hoped he could make it through the last two blocks in one piece. A sudden whoosh startled him as a black crow swooped by, landing in the cart with a thud. "Get out, you stupid bird!" Leo exclaimed, his voice tinged with panic. The crow hopped onto his bag of groceries, its sharp beak tearing through the paper bag to eye the loaf of special order pumpernickel. Leo's hands ached from the strain, sweat beading on his forehead as his legs turned to jelly. He knew he had to hold on, his gaze narrowing at the thieving crow. "Oh, no you don't, bird! Get away from my bread!" Leo's heart raced as he clung to the shopping cart tethered to the bumper of the car. His knuckles white, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins in a strange mix of terror and dark amusement. As they approached the final intersection, Leo gazed ahead at "Enterprise" Boulevard, a bustling street awaiting their chaotic intrusion. The car showed no signs of stopping at the stop sign, pushing Leo to the brink of sheer panic. With jaw clenched and eyes squinting, he fought to maintain his precarious hold, knowing one wrong move could spell his doom at any moment. But just as Leo braced for the worst, fate twisted its cruel hand. Mrs. Crosby, the driver, obliviously sailed past the stop sign, hurtling into the crowded thoroughfare. A glimmer of hope beckoned from the left, but Leo's gaze met the wide, frightened eyes of a woman in a Volkswagen Beetle to the right. Frozen mid-sip, a soda can trembled in her grasp as she lurched forward, the screech of the brakes echoing in the chaotic scene. Fizzy liquid sprayed in a frigid burst, adding to the pandemonium. The car stopping several yards from the cart. Despite the peril, a flicker of dark amusement danced within Leo--a sense of the outrageousness of it all. Clutching the cart tighter, he murmured desperate prayers under his breath, his fingers straining. Meanwhile, the indifferent crow continued its feast on pumpernickel, ignorant of the impending calamity. Home, a sanctuary amidst the madness, loomed ahead, urging Leo onward. "Hold on, hold on," he urged himself, his voice charged with urgency. "Move aside, you blasted bird!" he growled, determined to salvage his dwindling groceries. Suddenly, Mr. Cromwell, the postman, appeared in his peripheral vision, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief as Leo swiftly maneuvered past. Later, Mr. Cromwell attempted to recount the surreal scene to his bewildered colleagues. In his telling, a station wagon cruised by, towing a shopping cart with the Mr. Rauscher holding on for dear life, behind it. Inside the cart, a crow gleefully feasted on groceries, while in the wagon, a majestic black and white cat observed the chaos unfolding before him. Leo's heart raced as he locked eyes with Snuggles in the open back window, silently urging him to retreat. With a mischievous glint, Snuggles shifted into stealth mode, poised for action. Eyes narrowed, ears flat, butt wiggling. In a swift, calculated move, Snuggles launched himself towards the startled crow, aiming to seize his prey. However, fate had other plans as Mrs. Crosby accelerated slightly, propelling Snuggles over the crow. Startled, the crow fled, leaving Snuggles to careen into Leo's chest, and a pungent reminder on top of Leo's head to his passing. Claws bared, Snuggles involuntarily latched onto Leo's neck, sinking his talons into tender skin. “SON OF A BITCH!” Leo's cry pierced the chaos, met with a plaintive “Meeeooooowwww” from Snuggles as the precarious situation intensified. It took every ounce of Leo's self-preservation to keep his grip on the cart handle. The impending disaster loomed large, sending shivers down his spine and his heart racing. The sensation of dread was thick in the air, suffocating him with fear. That's when salvation came. Mrs. Crosby slowed to a crawl and started to make the left turn into her driveway. Snuggles leapt off to the left to get himself out of danger, his fur standing on end in terror. The left turn caused the chain to be released from the car, and the cart with Leo in tow headed towards the curb just in front of his house. When the side of the cart impacted the curb, his body tensed, anticipating the worst. Leo jumped from the cart, rolled, and landed softly in the grass right of way. Leo sat frozen in place against the cool blades of grass.. By now Mrs. Crosby had exited her car and walked to the back. She looked over at Leo sitting in the grass, a combination of amusement and concern in her gaze. “OH! You boys.” She waved her white-gloved hand in a dismissive manner. Then her eyes widened, a new realization dawning on her as she observed Leo. “I don't recall Leo having a twin brother,” she said, her voice tinged with confusion and curiosity. Leo sat and took a deep breath, his body trembling with the aftermath of the near-miss. As the adrenaline started to ebb away, he felt a mix of relief and disbelief. His limbs felt like lead, his whole body shaking with the intensity of the moment. “OH! HEY!” Mrs. Crosby exclaimed, breaking the tension. “YES?” Leo yelled back, his voice shaky. Mrs. Crosby pointed to her head. “YOU HAVE SOME BIRD DOODY, JUST HERE,” she said pointing to the top of her head. With a final smile, she headed towards her front door and disappeared inside, leaving Snuggles sitting at the door, a silent witness to the chaotic events that had unfolded. Leo fell back onto the cool grass. “Happy Birthday to me.” and he closed his eyes.

Legend tells of your ancestor, Modajo, who accidentally discovered chickens lay eggs and eggs will be delicious once fire is eventually invented so she became the first chicken subsistence farmer. Her neighbour Mike discovered likewise for cows, and for a while Modajo enjoyed her eggs and Mike enjoyed his milk since the concept of sharing was as foreign then as it is now. Watching Mike tending to his cows one day, Modajo realised cows aren't chickens therefore milk isn't egg and she caught the first ever case of curiosity. "Mike, has it occurred to you cows aren't chickens therefore milk isn't egg?" "Holy Cow!", Mike exclaimed, shocked by how he hadn't noticed this obvious fact until that moment. When he finally calmed down from bewilderment a full day later, Modajo continued. "I'll trade you a dozen eggs for a liter of milk." "What's dozen and liter?" "Random units of measurement I just made up." "I accept." And so the first barter took place, which continued each morning hence. A week later while out for a walk, Modajo happened upon a lady who had perfected the art of creating protective cocoons from leaves to wear on her feet while walking. She called them shoos for they shoo'd away painful foot blisters. Intrigued, Modajo made an offer. "Shoemaker, I’ll trade you 2 dozen eggs for a new pair of shoes." Shoemaker wasn’t impressed. "Firstly, there's something weird with how you're saying ‘shoo’ but I can't quite place it. Secondly, Papa had complications after eating eggs and I assume his condition runs in the family like our sensitive feet. We do enjoy milk though." Modajo foresaw the hassle of exchanging eggs for milk whenever she needed shoos - which would be every 2 days - so she gathered Mike, Shoemaker and several other locals for a meeting. "My People, we need something to represent the value of goods when said goods aren’t immediately available." They stared blankly at her as a cricket chirped away nearby. "This is Tito, a wholesaler," she continued, while pulling out a golden leaf. "He created these special leaves called money. One money is the equivalent of a half-dozen eggs. So Mike, a liter of milk is worth two money. And Shoemaker..." "Shoomaker," quipped Shoemaker. "Yes Shoemaker, a pair of your shoes is worth 4 money.” “Money is also the first noun in existence whose plural form is the same as its singular,” Tito added, much to the small crowd's amusement. Modajo continued explaining how she could, for example, exchange 6 dozen eggs for 12 golden leaves with Tito, spend 4 on shoes and have enough left over for two more pairs without ever involving Mike. Shoemaker could then exchange his leaves for goods of equal value with any other participant, notably Tito. The idea took off and soon the golden leaf became the standard unit of exchange. The town came to be known as Golden Leaf Village. Tito became the first wealthy person in existence. He had actually introduced himself to Modajo as a ‘hustler’ but she misheard him and he was too lazy to correct her. He stored the goods he acquired at a second home which became known as a 'store'. Unbeknownst to the others, he invented the golden leaf for nefarious reasons after discovering people like shiny things. “I’ll use this to trick people into giving me their possessions,” he thought while creating the leaves. “What’s theirs will be mine. All mine!" Hence he named the leaves ‘money’.

I know I’m only twelve, but, I know this move won’t be any better than the last. Oh, things will start off pretty good. There’s a new boss to figure out, and new coworkers to analyze. He’ll be able to keep the drinking to the weekends; he might even quit...temporarily. But, it’ll start all over again. He’ll need a few drinks on Friday to unwind from the week. He’ll need a drink each night because the boss is being too hard on him. He’ll need a drink because his coworkers are all slackers and he’s doing all the work. It may take two or three months, then the every-day drinking will start; the vodka in the coffee for breakfast will start, the barley sandwich lunches will start, and the beer before dinner, with dinner, after dinner will be continuous. And, by that point, Jen and I will be hiding somewhere out of sight when he comes home; and Mom will be wearing long sleeved shirts and sunglasses when she has to leave the house. Every once in a while things get really bad, and Dad will suddenly be “taking a vacation” to get back on track. When that happens, we pack. We pack up our lives knowing there’s a move coming up, so Dad can get a fresh start, so we can all get a fresh start. Each time he comes home from a “vacation”, our lives are great. We move to a new town. He’s happy to be home, pays attention to us, and we’re happy to have him home. Until the euphoria of freshness evaporates and reality sets in, again. He has bills to pay, mouths to feed, and Mom, working part time, can’t make enough money to do it on her own. Besides, he’s the man of the house! He needs to be the bread winner, the god we all adore, and obey. But, he can’t give up that bottle when there’s any kind of stress to deal with. We moved in on a Friday, two weeks ago, now. Saturday was for unpacking and getting a few groceries into the house. Sunday was church day and walking through our new neighbourhood to see who we would meet, checking out the next door neighbours (a girl Jen’s age to the right of us), and finding the school; and our first family dinner in our new home. Only two weeks ago, and already Jen and I have scoped out locations to hide in. Already, we’re hearing that tone of voice that means we’d better make ourselves scarce. Already, Mom is tiptoeing around the house trying to keep ahead of his demands. It’s Friday afternoon. Jen and I are in the kitchen with Mom, chatting about the kids in our class and chopping vegetables for dinner, when we hear the front door crash open. His angry voice is demanding and slurred and Mom says quietly, “Hide.” I grab Jen’s hand, hoping we can sneak upstairs and hide in one of our bedrooms. I peek around the corner and see him sitting on the stairs, yelling for Mom to get her ass over there. I hesitate for a few seconds, then quickly open the door to the cubbyhole under the stairs and slip in with Jen glued to my side. “Alice! Bring me a beer! Where’s Jimmy? I want that beer now! What a f@&@ed up day! Where’s my beer? Alice!” Jen and I are holding our breaths, afraid to move, afraid to make a noise. Mom runs to the fridge and we hear the rattle of the cans, then the quick phsst , as she pops the tab, the sharp slap, and quick indrawn breath, the quick gulping noise of a beer disappearing, and another sharp slap. “Another one, damn it, woman! Can’t you see I’m thirsty!” He bellows, and Jen shrinks into a tiny ball on the floor. I squat down to hold her, and my elbow catches on something just inside the door. Suddenly, another door on the opposite wall pops open. A soft glow lights up our hiding place. We hear a choked scream and a loud thud, and I take Jen into my arms and creep through the mystery door. “I wish we were at Grandma’s,” Jen whispers in my ear. And there we are, at Grandma’s door. At our knock, Grandpa opens the door and ushers us in with hugs and kisses, and leads us into the living room. Grandma’s in the kitchen...we can smell cookies baking and hear her singing an old tune that I don’t quite recognize, although it sounds familiar. “What’s up, buttercup,” Grandpa asks. Silently, Jen and I look at each other and grasp hands. I quietly tell him what’s been going on. I tell him about the drinking. I tell him about Mom’s bruises. I tell him about our hiding place and how we got here. I tell him about moving and leaving friends behind. I tell him about school. I tell him about our neighbours. I can’t stop talking until he takes my hand in his. He gathers us both into his arms, tears slide from his eyes into the grooves etched in his cheeks, and fall helplessly onto our heads. Then I hear Mom’s voice, and we’re back under the stairs in our cubbyhole. “Daddy’s gone to bed. It’s safe to come out,” she’s holding the door open. Jen looks at me in surprise. “But, we were just snuggling with Grandpa!” “What do you mean, Jen? You’re right here with Jimmy, with me, in our new house.” Mom has a worried look on her face. “Jimmy was with me. Weren’t you, Jimmy? We were snuggling with Grandpa and Grandma was in the kitchen, baking cookies and singing a sad song. We were there Jimmy...weren’t we?” She looks at me with those sad blue eyes. I reach over and touch the wet spot on her head where Grandpa’s tears fell. “Mom, we were there. I know we were. Grandma was singing that song ...the one with ‘fields of gold’ in it, and she was singing it so softly but I could still make out some of the words, and it smelled just like her oatmeal cookies, the kind she always bakes for company. And, Grandpa said “What’ up buttercup?” like he always does when we get scared or lonely...Mom, I told him everything that was happening here. He started to cry and his tears slid down his cheeks onto our heads. Feel it, Mom! Feel our heads, they’re still wet! We were there, Mom! We were...but now we’re here, again. I don’t know how that happened.” I looked around, sad and baffled. Mom was crying silently. “It’s impossible. You couldn’t possibly have been with your Grandpa. I wasn’t going to tell you just yet, but, your Grandpa, well, he died three days ago.” She gathers us into her arms and our tears fall quietly with hers. Several weeks after the funeral, we fall back into a vaguely normal routine that includes school and homework for Jen and I. Mom’s part time job ends and she’s looking through the newspapers and job boards on social media for something else, still part time because of Jen and me; and keeps meals on the table and the house in order. Dad has toned down the drinking and seems to be trying to hold it together. We’re kind of floating through the days, just getting slowly back to a semblance of normal, when suddenly, Dad gets laid off. The economy has taken a downturn and he was the last hired, so he’s the first laid off, but not the only one - ten people are laid off at the plant. Dad is furious! He brings home a brown paper bag that he’s constantly sipping at, and his temper and voice keep rising. Jen starts to whimper and Dad grabs her arm, twists it behind her back and pushes her up the stairs, yelling at her to shut up and quit being a baby. I hear a thud, and a slap. I hear her scream, and a door slams. Her muffled crying seeps through the door and Dad swears his way down the stairs. Mom meets him halfway up, yelling at him to stop...suddenly she’s flying backwards down the stairs, crashing through the banister. I duck into the cubbyhole under the stairs, hoping he’ll leave and I can check on Mom and Jen. The door is yanked open and Dad drags me out by my hair. He punches me in the face, kicks me in the stomach as I fall, then turns and crashes through the door and out into the street. I can’t breathe and I think I faint, because everything goes blurry and out of focus, then slowly comes back into very sharp focus. I crawl over to Mom. She’s breathing very slowly, as if she’s asleep, but I know different. Something is broken. She whispers, “Lock the door, Jimmy. Call 911...I’m hurt bad. Go check on Jenny!” I make my way to the door and look out to see if he’s still there, but he’s gone, for now. I lock the door. I search, but can’t find the phone anywhere. “Mom, where’s your cellphone? I can’t find the house phone.” I hate to bother her, she’s moaning softly, not moving, just laying there, crumpled over pieces of the broken banister. “Upstairs, by the bed, Jimmy. But, check on Jen first, please.” She’s barely whispering. “Hang on, Mom. I’ll check on Jen right now, just hang on!” I’m freaking out inside, but I don’t have anyone to turn to. As quickly as I can, I limp up the stairs. “Jen, it’s me. It’s Jimmy. Dad’s gone for now. Jen, where are you?” I’m standing in her doorway and I don’t see her anywhere. I move around to the foot of the bed and she’s on the floor behind it. There’s blood on the wall, and she’s moaning, mumbling, “mama, mama.” I gather her into my arms as carefully as I can, but her arm is broken and it falls against the bed post. She screams, and mercifully passes out. Quickly, I bring her downstairs and lay her right beside Mom. My tears are falling, I’m sobbing, and I can barely breathe, but I make my way back upstairs to find Mom’s cellphone. It’s locked...I don’t know the code...Mom’s passed out. There’s an emergency option! But, suddenly someone is banging on the door, cursing and swearing, and I know that Dad came back, and he’s got a key. I hit the emergency button and dial 911. “My name’s Jimmy. I live at 4563 Ash Street. My Mom and sister are hurt. They’re both unconscious and bleeding. Send the cops! Send an ambulance! Hurry! My Dad’s back and I don’t know what he’ll do to them this time. Hurry!” I end the call and creep slowly, cautiously down the stairs. Dad’s standing over Mom and Jen and he’s angry. His face is red and mottled and I can see gobs of spittle spraying from his lips as he yells at Mom, “Where’s dinner, you bitch! Get up and make me some food!” He kicks Jen out of the way and starts to drag Mom into the kitchen. I scream, “Leave her alone you monster! Haven’t you hurt her enough! “ I race down the stairs and start beating on his arm, his back, his head, but he just swats me aside. Im screaming at him to stop, and he’s roaring at me to back the f@$# off and grow up, stop being a baby. Through my tears and throbbing in my head, I stop yelling, remembering the cubbyhole and the “other” door. I race over to the cubbyhole and scream at him, “Come and get me you lazy, drunken a-hole! You’re nothing but a piece of shit. You’re not even a man,” All the abusive words he’s ever used against Mom and Jen and I come pouring out of my mouth at the top of my lungs. I can’t stop yelling them over and over, and he drops Mom to the floor, turns and starts coming after me. I slide into the cubbyhole and fumble for the catch that opens the “other” door. It pops open as he lunges in, trying to find me. The soft glow dazzles him momentarily and he reaches in through the “other” door and I whisper, “I wish you were with Grandpa,” And give him a big shove. The door clicks shut. I hear the sirens and crawl over to Mom and Jen.

edit - Narrated by: I can still hear my laundry rumbling. It’s louder than the frantic car horns and the people shouting incomprehensible words outside. The machine runs to complete its duty not knowing that the world now has an imminent expiration date. 2 hours left. And I’m just standing here. Not looking out the window Not looking at my phone screen Just leaving my eyes where it drifts to. Comfortable and not perceiving what it is that the eyes are directed at. It’s a habit of mine, to wonder and think while standing up still, having nothing in motion; including me. My parents live overseas We just finished our phone call. Our last one. I don’t know why, but the thought of nuclear fallout erasing all of us at the same time gives me some kind of paradoxical solace. It’s a bummer that the whole family can’t be together but what is inevitable should not be dwelled upon. It’s what I believe. At least, it’s the best thing for now. I grabbed my car keys from the kitchen counter where I left it last night after a night of blissful ignorance. Who would have known the world was on its course to ruin. Ignoring the bustling of the apartment and its desperate inhabitants who were once my neighbors, I riled up my car and drove in the opposite direction of the metal stampede. Where are they running to? As if safety was guaranteed? Were they risking the last moments of their lives being in a car for the sliver of hope to make it through the first few mushroom clouds? I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about it. I rolled down all my windows and blasted a song I knew. I always thought that blasting music with the windows down was my quiet rebellion. It was a way of timorously telling the world that I was alive and here. While at the same time, knowing it was the threshold of my defiance. I was never one to be loud and confident. I was a vibrant wallflower. Petals of brilliant colors bloomed in my head and my head was the flower pot. Although they barely burgeoned outside of this fence called imagination, I had become a florist and forester. Ten minutes left. I turned the music off. I figured this would be a good time to soak up the last time I’d hear life. Cars were lined up for the first few miles. Now I am totally alone. Just me and my car. They say your life flashes before you right before you die. All I see is the blue sky. No missile to be seen with the naked eye. What a beautiful day it is, it’s a good day to die. I stuck my hand out the window to feel what it is to feel. These hands felt the first oranges I’ve peeled for the first time in my life. The wet veiny yet pleasantly cold feeling accompanied by memory of tang and zest that flooded the mouth. These hands that held her hand for the last time while sitting on the back seat of a car on our way to the airport. These hands that wiped countless tears of others as well as mine. These hands that caressed her fur for the last time before sending her away to doggy heaven. Now these hands brush the wind as if to send it all away. I look up at the sky again. All I see is the blue sky. A missile to be seen with the naked eye.

A short story about an uncomfortable situation you may encounter as a mind reader. Enjoy. I was just peacefully sitting on my chair in class when it started. I had grown to control my inhumane abilities but it caught me really off guard, so I couldn’t do anything major about it. I was in the middle of an important chemistry exam when I heard a sudden burst of screams bolt through my mind like lightning. It scared the living hell out of me and I almost dropped my pen because of it. My movements were so hectic, that my teacher threw a warning glance my way, which made me smile nervously and curse under my breath. I slowly lowered my head and gained back composure, as the uncomfortably loud screaming continued in my head, slowly draining me of my needed concentration. Whoever that person was, I really hated them right now. I tried focusing back on the piece of paper in front of me, emphasis on ‚tried‘. Spoiler alert, it didn’t really work. At all. The remaining thirty minutes were terrible. The human who thought screaming internally out of pure panic would give them answers to their fucking chem test kept going, reminding me of some nerve-nagging siren, alarming everybody around them of their, oh, so unlucky misfortune. When the bell rang, I heard the person thinking ‚Thank my mom that this is over‘ and I looked around with a snarl adorning my face, an almost permanent migraine now numbing my brain. The students were slowly leaving the classroom, but I was only starting to put my stuff in the backpack I brought. After I heard the persons laughable thought, I scoffed lightly. "I don’t think your mom has anything to do with this“, unintentionally slipped out of my mouth before I could properly process the idea of saying that sentence out loud. I saw somebody stop dead in their tracks out of my peripheral vision. Oh shit, I didn’t mean to do that. “W-what?”, the person stuttered and I stood up from my chair with an exhausted sigh. “You heard me, buddy”, I replied slyly, looking down at the shorter boy with bright red locks who, what I knew of, sat two rows behind me. Huh, apparently he was the screaming, panicking source I had heard. I didn’t bother to look before, I was trying to keep my sanity from leaving my body. “But... I didn’t say anything?”. His sentence sounded more like a question than a statement, as I combed my hand through my hair in a stressed manner while rolling my eyes with minor annoyance. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but to hold back a singular laugh. “ ‘Say’ is a very interesting way to put it.” My response was petty and unnecessary, but I just couldn’t help it. I was done with everything. Suddenly, I heard another thought. ‘I’ve never seen this hair color before, it’s gorgeous’. Well, I didn’t expect that. This time I couldn’t hold back and let a few coughing laughters escape my throat, as I watched the boys face change from irritated to embarrassed to interested. How entertaining. “Thank you, it’s natural.” I said over-dramatically, flipping my hair and adding a sloppy wink, just to be a bit more extra. The boys eyes went wide after his mind has seemed to realize the words I had just said. “You can- hear- what- how...?”. He sounded so confused and I swear to you that it was the most amusing shit in that moment. “You got it, chief. Listen, the next time you panic, could you maybe reconsider screaming like a dying mammal for half an hour straight? You would do me AND my head a big favor. Thanks!”. Those were my last words, before I quickly stuffed all of my belongings in my bag and scurried out of the room with a last hectic, wannabe polite, wave. The last thing I heard was him yelling “What the fuck?” in a tone I will never forget. I laughed uncontrollably, temporarily forgetting the regret I sensed as an end result of this interaction.

The light was too much to handle, it had a certain heat that made him itch all over, as if he were allergic to heat. He scratched over and over again, hearing his nails scrape against his skin. The man sat on the chair trying with emphatic intent to understand the unworldly things he was hoping to recite back on a piece of paper. The dictionary lay open; a sea of knowledge he could never tap into. Although, that is not what bothered him. He threw the pen at the sink, the water clogged in it splashing with unbearable intensity. The pen against the metal sink made a clang which sounded like a child reading the alphabet. It was strange. He heard himself say A, then B, then C, then D, then T, then P, then CAT, an animal he thought was so misunderstood for just living how it was born. He empathized with it. He tried to say more words, like FAITH and GOD, like PEN and PAPER. All he could do was say and never write. The letters of the English Alphabet always seemed like a nuisance, having never had the time to learn it himself. How ironic was it that his very own job was to deliver letters to people? Letters written in the language he hated. His neighbors, his children, and everywhere else he went, he was always known as **"The Postman."** His title was not a great one, he always thought to himself. It didn't matter until the letters he brought would bring the smiles in people he never knew. The letters he brought would make people thank a person like him, while he stood there frozen with a ghostly smile trying to formulate how you would write those words in paper. It was strange, how he could always tell what words meant but never write them down. What was so different? His frustrations wouldn't allow his mind to think clearly. There was nothing special about being a postman, when the happiness he brought to people was clouded by his own jealousy, his own stupidity and his own worthlessness. How could they love the language so much that it brought smiles to their faces? How could they not see his plight? How dare they love the language he hated, dare smile in front of him, THANK him. That's why the happiness from letters of love and bonds that brought people together was nothing special. In fact, through the years of being a mailman, he had only know pain and slander. It felt like he was entitled to being lower than everyone else. His friends were the ones who always slandered him most mordantly about his illiteracy. His children thought of him as a disappointing father who could not provide amicable finances. His wife, the only person who loved out of pity, tried to keep their family from crumbling. He held 3 paychecks, all from her different part time jobs, and tore them to pieces. He could read numbers, his face felt hot from the lack of them in there. Pain and Sorrow was as integral to his life as breathing; sometimes it felt like they were the same. He coughed as flaky ashes flew away from a nearby ashtray. The mailman hated his job but it also seemed like his job hated him. It haunted him for days on end, ever since he had picked up that ragged uniform that was now torn up on the hanger in a shadowy corner of his home. The uniform was a hand down from the man who had last been "The Postman." He wondered how that man felt about his job, he always had a smile. Well, obviously, he could read. Meanwhile, the current mailman was getting sick of his job. The melancholy of being "just a postman" without sufficient means to feed his family tore him up from the inside. He let out a reluctant sigh as the bulb on top of him went out, leaving the room in darkness that crawled its cold fingers around him. The heat had dissipated, his itching had turned to cold shivers that made him want to claw rather than scratch. It was weird, he could not tell what which was worse, the cold or the heat. Maybe if he'd been able to write just one word, things would feel lukewarm. Bearable. He was always used as an example. Not of great things, but of being a burden, a failure being used to incite fear into young children. When he thought of it like that, something felt so sincerely wrong. Mothers would often scoff at him while walking past with their children, twisting their mouth in distaste and teaching their children the value of "education" so they could never be like him. It wasn't like he wished the same fate as him on the innocent children, but the sadness that came from these remarks still tore him up from the inside and broke his heart. There was something so inherently wrong with teaching children to fear and disgust the poor and miserable. He always taught his sons to grow up and be better, be at a place where they could help the misguided like himself, not tarnish and berate their misery. Maybe that way of thinking was wrong, maybe it wasn't normal and those as unfortunate as him didn't deserve saving, grace or hope. It was their anathema for being so useless. If it wasn't wrong, then his wife and children would never leave him. Behind him, a car sped past, its headlights rearing its heat into his house through the windows for a fraction of a second. **That second was lukewarm.** It had only been two days since his wife had left with the children. He did not recall how he had survived this far. Tears that felt like ice poured down his cheeks as he realized that he was not capable of writing. The letter that sat on the chair was now wet from his tears and blank from his failures. He would not be able to send his last words in a letter to his family. Why had he never learned to read and write? The pen in the sink splashed, taunting him of his failures while repeatedly clanging against the metal sink, singing a chorus of ABC's. Nothing mattered anymore. He wasn't sane it seems because there was no other way to describe the vertigo in his mind. His eyes blurred as he put the rope around his neck and tied it to the ceiling fan. He blinked but no tears poured. He jumped from the chair and struggled against the thread of fiber slowly shredding through the skin at his neck while the weight of his body crushed into itself. Another car sped past his house, its headlights looking into his house like a curious visitor for another fraction of a second. It saw him, body and mind, in absolute silence. This time, it was lukewarm even after one second.

# 4. The Rise and Fall of Crooked Larry All Maggie wanted to do was ask Adam about the possession, but a bet was a bet. From word one, it was clear that Larry wasn’t going to last. When Maggie floated down from the top of the tree toward his position near the ground, he recoiled in shock and tried to kick his way backward. Of course, this had no effect other than making him look slightly ridiculous as he flailed midair, but Maggie understood the impulse. “Begone, demon!” Larry shouted. “God does not suffer evildoers like you!” “Christ, Adam, you killed a zealot.” Those with faith never lasted long in Maggie’s experience. There was something particularly demoralizing about being confronted with the absolute fact that, if there was a god, they had a blind spot. “I am on my way to eternal rest!” “Yeah, if that’s true, then you’ve taken a bit of a detour.” It wasn’t the most tactful way to go about it, but Maggie didn’t suffer religion much. As far as she was concerned, the word of God was used to persecute and commit heinous acts while still being able to sleep at night. There were of course religions around the world that preached tolerance, but not in the west. In the west, there was good ol’ bible-thumping, and anything else saw you swinging from the end of a rope or taking a bullet in a back alley. “This c-can’t be,” the man stammered, running his hands through one another, no doubt fascinated by the complete lack of feeling in anything. “Those men, this has to be some kind of a mistake.” For once, Maggie agreed with him. “What’s your name?” “Larry. Pastor at the Church of Our Mighty God.” “How is it that you came to be in such mixed company, Larry ̧ Pastor at the Church of Our Mighty God?” Maggie let the sarcasm drip with every word of the man’s title. “I--” he faltered as Adam appeared over the curve of the hill, still steaming from his run-in with the barrier. “That’s the demon I saw just moments before the end!” Larry tried to tilt his head to get a better look, but found it stuck at an extreme angle. Like Adam, he also sported a neat hole in his forehead, making them look as though they might have belonged to the same sect of some obscure cult. Maggie chuckled at the notion and immediately regretted it. “Is something funny about this?” Larry found his way to a semi-upright float, swelling up with righteous indignation. He tried to adjust his neck again, but frustrated, settled for hovering at an angle to make the world look straight. Otis floated down to join the conversation. “I see Maggie’s giving you the warm welcome you deserve.” “Oh yes, Larry here was telling me all about how this is some kind of mistake.” Otis sighed. “Yeah, well he’s not wrong about that.” Adam approached with excitement and no sense of caution. “Did you see that? I was in that man’s body!” “I saw you get shot out the other side like an imbecile.” Maggie was impressed, but she didn’t want to inflate Adam’s head any larger than it already was. “Maybe next time you might save a life instead of taking one.” “YOU, DEMON!” shouted Larry. “I’m not a demon.” Adam backed away slightly. “But, look, sorry about that whole mess back there. You were about to be hung...” Otis nodded in agreement. “Kid’s got a point, and I don’t say that often.” “Why, God?!” Larry tried to look up, but couldn’t quite manage it without floating sideways. “Look, I’m sorry about that, but I think I might have a way to get us out of here.” Adam’s eyes were beaming, filled with newfound excitement. Maggie also felt a twinge of hope but did her best not to show it. “That seems like a far leap from one quick possession.” “Well, it’s a step in the right direction!” “Possession is the work of The Devil!” shouted Larry. “Oh please, there’s no Devil and no God here, just the four of us.” “Blasphemer!” Adam grew frustrated and ignored Larry. “Don’t you see? If we can get back to the physical world, even for a moment, then we have a chance of destroying the barrier penning us in .” Maggie thought it over. “You might be right, but the incantations keeping us here were made by the Shoshoni, and I don’t know how you’re going to break them.” “I’m through with this demon speak!” Otis floated in front of Larry, partially obscuring the other two spirits. “Why don’t you and I go have a talk, Larry? We can discuss the religious implications of our predicament, while these two heathens keep on with whatever it is they’re blabbering about.” He gave Larry a big smile and motioned toward the tree. Larry eyed Otis suspiciously, eventually consenting. “Whatever gets me away from him.” He jabbed a finger in Adam’s direction. “I said I was sorry!” “Let it go, kid.” She mouthed ‘thank you’ as Otis shepherded Larry away. Otis gave her a curt nod. “I’m definitely going to owe him for that one. Listen, if Otis is having ‘the talk’ with him, Larry will be gone by nightfall.” Over the years, Otis had honed the skill of talking people into the ground. As it turned out, not everyone who was hung was pleasant, and the peaceful repose the two of them had cultivated could be easily undone. Maggie would have felt bad about it, but all the spirits stayed underground of their own volition. Unlike the circle around the hill, no one was forcefully keeping them there. She waited to be sure Otis and Larry were out of earshot before continuing. “Alright, kid, how did you do it?” Excitement flashed back into Adam’s eyes. “I’m not sure. I got angry, like really angry, and the next thing I knew I was running. It felt like passing through a spiderweb or something, and then I was back in the land of the living. I actually felt the breeze on my skin.” Maggie savored the sensation that ran through her at the idea of feeling the wind. She was comfortable in her afterlife, but there were things she missed. “I could try to teach you.” Maggie reserved her excitement, knowing that if they failed, Adam would be insufferable again. “Teach me how to get angry and run at someone?” Adam rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not sure how it works but you speak Shawshanee.” “Shoshoni,” she corrected him. “Right, but you speak it, so you could possess one of the hangmen and get us out of here.” “I haven’t had the opportunity to practice in almost fifteen years. Best I could manage is basic conversation. But, assuming I could figure out a way, how do we know I’ll even be able to stay in long enough to break the barrier?” “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Maggie looked around at the desert. The last thing she wanted to do was have Adam teach her anything. The kid was arrogant, privileged, and too damned unstable, but it was hard to ignore what he had done. “Fine, but I’m not going to call you sir or show you any deference.” Adam whooped with joy; the sound more haunting than he had expected. “Let’s check on Otis.” As they turned around, Maggie caught sight of Larry’s head passing through the dirt, an expression of righteousness on his face. Otis was standing above him, muttering some words that sounded vaguely like a prayer. When Larry had fully submerged, Maggie and Adam floated over. “Didn’t know you were religious, Otis.” Otis made a shushing sound with his finger and motioned for them to float away. When they were a safe distance away from Larry’s ‘rest’, he spoke. “I went to church a few times in town, before it became clear I wasn’t welcome, but I’ve got a dang good memory. I just pieced together a few prayers and sermons that fit my goal, and next thing you know, Larry’s convinced he’s waiting for God underneath that soil.” Adam looked disgusted, but also impressed. “Damn, old timer.” “Who you calling old timer? Besides, I was saving your ass from months of religious repentance at his hand.” “Don’t worry, Otis, you’ll forgive the kid if what we’re talking about works. We’ve got a plan.

An old scab was ripped from my heart when I read an email which began, “They say blood is thicker than water - but is it always?” I laid in bed that evening unable to sleep, recalling that disastrous time three years ago. It all began when Darla and I decided to drive from the east coast to Iowa to celebrate our granddaughter’s second birthday. It had been four months since the last time we visited, and we were excited to see the entire family, but when we arrived, our excitement began to erode. When we pulled in the driveway, we found our son, Mark waiting for us. “Hey, Mom and Dad. How was your trip?” “You know the deal. Long and tiring, but we’re glad to be here.” I looked around, finding no one else present. “So, where’s the birthday girl?” “Sarah’s in the house with Sharon. I think they’re working on a birthday cake.” Mark waved us in. “Come on. Let see what’s cooking.” We went inside and marched to the kitchen. there, we found Sharon working on a mixing bowl. “Hi,” was all she said. Then, Sarah popped her head from behind the counter. A smile gleamed across her face and she walked up to us with her hands in the air. As soon as I picked her up, I realized she hadn’t gained any weight since the last time we visited. Thinking it was my imagination playing tricks on me, I brushed it off. I stroked her chin and made her giggle. “Hi Sarah. Happy birthday.” “Hi,” she replied. I put Sarah back down to let her continue in her play and turned my attention to Sharon. “Need any help with that?” “Nothing to do here. I’m just about to put it in the oven. Go sit down in the living room.” Darla and I looked at each other and left Sharon to herself. We sat on the couch and flipped on the TV and started watching a game show. As we were about to settle down, Mark came in. “I need to go to work for a bit. If you need anything, give me a buzz.” After he left, dark clouds began to gather overhead. As we sat in front of the television, Sarah became fidgety and went to the kitchen to see her mother. Through the din of the TV, we heard Sarah say, “Food.” A moment later, she returned to the living room sporting a small juice pack. She sat down in front of the TV and began to sip on it. Darla and I looked at each other wondering what’s going on. This wasn’t how we fed our children when they were little. Though we communicated with our eyes, we remained silent. Not long later, Mark returned, and we sat down to dinner. I can’t remember what we had, but I’ll never forget seeing the slice of bologna on Sarah’s plate. Mark must have seen the look on my face, for he tried to answer my unspoken question. “Sarah is very picky about what she eats. We usually give her this since she likes it and she does get her protein this way.” I glanced at Darla and recognized the fire burning in the back of her eyes. Somehow, she kept her temper in check and dinner resumed and was concluded by serving birthday cake. We retired that evening and as we laid in bed, Darla vented. “Did you see Sarah eat anything today? Does she ever eat anything good for her?” “It’s hard to imagine Mark would let this go by,” I replied. “Did you get a look in the kitchen? The trash can was overflowing and dirty dishes all over the place. Mark told me they cleaned up before we arrived, but I can’t see any sign of that. And did you hear Sarah talking? The last time we were here, she was a chatter box. Now, she can hardly put two words together. Something’s wrong here and I don’t like it.” “I know what you mean. Let me talk to Mark in the morning and see what he has to say about it.” We finally fell asleep, but it wasn’t for long. Sarah’s voice broke the silence and awoken us. We laid there, listening to her babbling. “Why is she awake in the middle of the night?” I asked. Darla answered, “She’s hungry.” “Should we ger her something to eat?” “Let’s wait,” Darla whispered. “Maybe Mark or Sharon will feed her.” So, we waited and listened to Sarah’s babbling. No one came to her rescue. She continued to babble for an hour, wen she finally fell asleep again. Darla didn’t say a word, but I knew a storm was coming. The next morning, we went downstairs for breakfast and found everyone present. I watched Darla look at Mark and her eyes went down to his feet. On them, were a pair of socks. One black and one white.” Mama Grizzly was awake and got out of the wrong side of the bed. She pointed at Mark’s feet. “Are you planning on going to work like that?” He looked down at his feet. “Like what?” “Are you blind? Can’t you see your socks aren’t matching? It looks stupid.” It was then I saw a side of Mark, I’ve never seen before. He glared at her. “What are you worried about? It’s not that big of a deal.” “Is that how you want people to see you? You want them to ask themselves, “How can someone who doesn’t care if his socks match can care about his work?”” “You know what, Mom? I tired with the way you treat me. You always try to control everything in my life and everything that I do.” “Mark, I’m your mother. I care about what happens to you and if I see something that’s wrong, I’m going to point it out.” As they went back and forth with each other, Sharon swopped in. “I’m getting sick of your crap, Darla. Get out of this house, now, before I call the police.” Darla and I were stunned to silence, then she continued. “I don’t ever want to see you again and for you, John, if you ever divorce Darla, you can come back.” At that moment, I felt the claws of responsibility release me. I clasped Darla’s hand and spoke calmly to her. “Let’s get our stuff and go.” I guided her to our room, and we packed our bags to go. Without saying another word, we walked out to our car and drove away. As we headed out the driveway, Darla turned to me. “What are we going to do?” All I could do was shake my head. “There’s nothing we can do about Sharon or Mark. But as for Sarah, there is one more thing we can do.” Before we left town, we decided to make one more stop. We pulled up to an old brick building and enter the front door. A policewoman standing behind the counter called us forward. “How may I help you?” “We would like to talk to someone in Child Protection Services.” After we told them our story, we began our drive home. Halfway through Illinois, Mark tried to call me on my cell phone. I let it ring two times, then I rejected the call. Through this whole calamity, we learned to accept the fact not all people are good, even if they were brought up properly, and parents aren’t always to blame in how their children act as adults.

05/06/20 *Finally caved and bought Elsie a fish. Haven’t had a chance to write here for a while (getting sorted for the governors meeting, then all the stuff with Mum) so there’s no mention of fish but seriously, she’s been on about it for months-- ever since we went to the chippy of all things! Pestering non-stop, “Can we get a fish? Can we, can we, mummy? Daddy says it’s okay”. I’ve a good mind to give Daddy a good talking to, kick his lazy arse into gear for once. She’s six for goodness sake, and he thinks she’ll be a responsible pet owner? Well I'm not sure, I think that muggins is gonna get stuck looking after it. Fingers crossed, Jane. Anyway, she was still enthusiastic after her amazing parents’ evening this year (even Miserable Mr. Muston was all smiles), so I decided to take her to pick one out as a reward.* *The tank wasn’t cheap, despite it being a low-range one. Just a round, plastic thing about* *~~40 cm~~* *50 cm tall, and maybe half of that across. It’s got a good two-in-one filter and light thingy on top that was a pain to fix on. Took ages and I missed Elsie pulling out her first tooth! I'm sure it wasn’t a pleasant sight, Daryl made her twist it round and round and round till it came right out apparently. Still sad I missed my little girl’s first tooth. That reminds me, must get a cute little box to keep them all in for when she grows up, just like Mum did for us.* *I also bought gravel (bright pink obviously) and some planty things for the fish to hide in when Els bangs her sticky fingers on the perspex. It’s called a ‘neon tetra’ according to the woman at the shop, though she said it’s not quite like one she’s ever seen before. Marketing ploy no doubt. Although, I say that, they’re named for their neony glow, but the one I pointed out to Els doesn’t just stick to one colour. It kinda shimmers, brilliant blues and pinks* *~~and~~* *like big bubbles of washing up liquid do. It’s gorgeous.* ​ 12/06/20 *As predicted, Elsie wasn’t the most devoted fish owner. One week. One bloody week and she’s forgotten that it’s not just a house plant-- though even house plants need watering every now and then. We fed it together before bed for three nights before the novelty wore off and she returned to the classic bed time routine: avoiding the bath by trying to climb out the window. Do parents really wish their littluns wouldn’t grow up? Mine’s a little gremlin.* *I tried to persuade Daryl to show her how to clean it out yesterday to get her interested again, but no. That was too much effort for Mr. Plays X-Box All Day. “It wasn’t my decision to buy the fish, I ain’t looking after it.” Isn’t he the best? Well I had no idea how to do it, but a quick YouTube tutorial and nip to the shops for buckets, sponges, a tiny net etc., and I was all set. I’m a resourceful woman, thank you very much. Just not a very compelling teacher, apparently. Els ran off to practise her lines after two minutes of me showing her how I was siphoning the old water. I admit it’s not the most thrilling job and I know how excited she is to play an ugly step-sister, but I thought it might be a fun activity to do together. Mother-daughter bonding, or something. I know Daryl’s never going to do it. But I suppose I can’t complain, I saw it coming and really should’ve stuck to my guns on the* *~~fish issue~~* *fishue.* ​ 16/06/20 *I know I'm writing about nothing but the fish (though I could quite easily vent again about the neighbour’s cats yowling all hours of the night), but it’s really taking over my bloody life. I’ve had to clean it out* *twice* *since I last updated this. Should be roughly once a week according to the web, so something’s definitely up. Maybe the filter’s broken. At least it wasn’t too expensive. Anyway, the stuff that I’ve had to scrape off the sides of the tank hasn’t been quite like anything Google images has shown me. It’s really pretty honestly, quite a shame to have to clean it. But it cakes the whole inside so quickly that we struggle to see Sushi. That’s its name apparently. Stupid. He deserves better. Anyway, I paid two of my own hard-earned pounds for him so I'm gonna get my money’s worth out of it as a nice feature piece in the living room. The (I don’t know what to call it) algae or whatever glows like the fish does and looks lovely when we turn the lights right down in the evenings and when they’re off completely at night. I may just leave it, I’ve read that overcleaning can be bad for the fish and I couldn’t hurt him.* *It was originally in Elsie’s room but she complained that the trickling was ‘driving her mad’ (such a drama queen), but I can see where she’s coming from. Even through the wall, I could hear it from our bed. Daryl says he couldn’t, but that’s cus he’s got wax in his ears to stop him hearing what I'm saying. We moved it downstairs into the living room, but even now, very late at night, I can hear the sound of the filter hoovering up water and spewing it out of the top. Trickling like an old man having a wee-- but non-stop.* ​ 21/06/20 *I told Els about the tooth fairy today. Just out of the blue. I don’t know what came over me. We were having spag bol (I'm writing just before bed, trying to ignore the snoring slab of Daryl) when Elsie, so excited bless her, showed me that her other wobbly had come out. She gave me this huge grin, showed me the gap where her two front teeth had been, and said, “the tooth fairy will come tonight!”. And then* *~~I was~~* *~~this feeling of~~* \*before I knew what I was doing, I just said “she’s not real, darling, but I’ll give you 50p”.\**~~if you care that much”.~~* *God, I'm the worst mother on Earth. Her face, how could I do something like that? She barricaded herself in her room and wouldn’t let me in. What can I do? Daryl was no use, he just laughed. Laughed for* *~~fuck~~* *God sake, after his daughter had run out crying. And then he just carried right on eating.* *I nearly took my frustration out on the filter, wanted to knock something loose and stop it working. I seem to hear the trickling everywhere in the house now. Even in the spare room, it’s constant, like hearing cars when you live on a motorway. Except the sound of traffic doesn’t make me need to wee every five minutes.* ​ 24/06/20 *Anne came round. Terrible dye-job her hairdresser’s done. Told me about Lis hoping for an offer from Leeds, but I couldn’t concentrate. All morning as I prepared the house (hoovering and making sure we had cake) the bloody noise was in my ear like Elsie when she won’t shut up about something. Constant “mummy, mummy, mummy” except it’s ‘trickletrickletrickle’. I turned the filter off before Anne arrived, thinking it would manage for an hour or two without it but it’s the strangest and most infuriating thing. I could still hear the trickling. It’s like it’s been carved into my brain the way rivers carve lines in rocks. It’s eroding my peace of mind.* *But I'm use to that, Daryl’s been chipping away for years. He got home from work today and cracked open a beer before he’d even said hello to his daughter. Well I gave him a piece of* *my* *mind (very clever, Jane) and I'm proud I did. Always keeping it bottled, only writing in here whenever he does something that’s not right, but I don’t know what happened. I just stood in front of the telly and told the ignorant prick not to take this family for granted-- he should appreciate both me and Elsie more, I say. And then miracle, he put the beer down and went to play shopkeepers for twenty whole minutes. Proof he can be changed, just needs a bit of grunt work.* ​ 27/06/20 *Fish update (because that’s apparently what this is for now): the whole tank usually glows with a kind of whiteish blue light, but since I turned the filter off and back on a few days ago, the algae or whatever it is on the inside has turned* *~~reddish~~* *~~purpley~~* *~~kind of~~* *~~black~~* *no colour that I’ve ever seen before. I know that’s ridiculous, but I can’t describe it. And it’s scaring me a little. I don’t like to go near it when I have to feed the fish. But of course I do feed Him. Sadly, I haven’t actually seen him much lately, there’s so much algae in the tank and he blends in with the new colours. I can’t clean it fast enough so I’ve given up altogether. I might have to find him a new home.* ​ *Also today: I made a Co-op employee cry because she was getting lippy with me and I told her off. She was sarcastic and disrespectful so I told her to “wipe off all the shitty orange stuff that’s caked on your face and have some respect”. I don’t know how to feel, part of me was really guilty, I just sort of ran off embarrassed, but then part of me knows the cow deserved it. Oh I need a holiday I think, just some time away from everyone. And the fucking trickling.* ​ 01/07/20 *Maddie came over after school to run lines with Els today. She’s the other ugly step-sister and* *~~more ‘appropriately’ cast I’d say~~* *just as excited. I left them to it, made a cuppa and heard them out in the garden. Should’ve twigged they’d get muddy feet, Elsie becomes such a filth monster when Maddie’s around, and guess what... they tracked a ton of dirt into my pristine kitchen. Well I told them I'm no Cinderella and that I wouldn’t be cleaning up the mess. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at them quite as hard as I did, two little girls in tears wasn’t the best thing for Maddie’s mum to walk in on,* *~~but~~*. No, I shouldn’t have shouted. I said sorry at dinner but I think Elsie was still a little upset. But she’s six for fuck sake, when will she grow up. ​ 03/07/20 *I started this diary to make myself laugh and vent about* *~~Daryl~~* *things. But the way I've been writing recently really quite upsets me as I read it back. It’s especially bad in the places I can see through where I’ve crossed words out, and I read them like I'm reading somebody else’s writing. I don’t remember writing that, but I do remember doing a lot of scribbling. I hate how irritable I am. But I also hate how everyone always pisses me off, Elsie especially at the minute. The latest fucking phase is gymnastics and she’s already broken one vase. Will put my foot down hard if she does one more cartwheel indoors.* ​ 07/07/20 *It’s making me go mad.* *~~I’m~~* *~~It’s~~* *I say things out loud which I wouldn’t’ve dreamed of saying before. Like earlier in the week I really upset Mrs. Gardener about the cats,* *~~Christ the fucking cats, I wish I could~~* *I just snapped at her. We got home from picking Els up and she was leaning on the fence as I got out the car, just wanting to say hi I'm sure. She said something about the sky,* *~~stupid old crone,~~* *and I interrupted her by almost shouting “get your cats in at night, they drive me insane”. When I realised what I’d said, I mentioned something about Elsie not being able to sleep to make it sound better, but using my daughter as an excuse? And not even a truthful one?? God that’s awful. Although maybe it’s not a lie, I don’t know how she can sleep with the fucking* ***filter*** *going all night. She hasn’t mentioned it since we moved the tank out of her room, but I hear it. All the time I hear it. It’s started to play in my head even when I'm not in the fucking house, like a song that’s stuck. But no melody, just water. And not splashing or flowing or babbling or gurgling. Fucking Trickling. Trickling.* ​ 11/07/20 *I forgot to cook dinner tonight.* *~~You’d think Daryl might think about doing it one night out of the fucking week, even just offer to, but no.~~* *I got distracted in the living room. The TV was on I think but I was just looking for the fish amongst the plants. The sound of the filter isn’t so bad once you’re up close, in fact it’s kind of relaxing, and I was sat in the small chair, my face so near the tank. And then I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was Daryl. He asked if I was okay. His shake was so tentative, like he was afraid to touch me* *~~as he fucking should be, how he had the audacity~~* *and his voice was also soft. He asked if I’d made food. I looked at the clock and saw that three hours had passed, three hours and he hadn’t noticed where I'd been or what I'd been doing. And I couldn’t tell him. Well no, I was looking at the fish. He’s so beautiful.* ​ 13/07/20 *~~I~~* *~~Wh~~* *~~I’m~~* *~~The th~~* *~~I~~* *I killed a cat. I killed one of Mrs. Gardeners cats with my car and* *~~I knew what I was doing, but I kind of didn’t think about it I just saw it and this rage flashed through me like nothing I've felt before, I reversed when I saw it in the wing mirror. I’m so sorry, oh god I'm so sorry, I picked the poor thing up, ran to the garage and dropped it in an old box under a tarpaulin. It’s there, I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do~~* *it felt so fucking good.* ​ 15/07/20 *Fuck Cinderella. Dropped Elsie at school at half five, said I'd be in the audience and left. I’m writing this in the living room; my nice empty house. Told Daryl to get to the play or else I’d neuter him with my teeth-- would be the first time in a while my mouth’s ventured down there. need a real man,* *~~need to~~* *No, I just need to be here. Just me and Him. how I* ever *thought of rehoming Him I’ll never understand or stop being sorry for. I’m sorry. He is all I need. All I need to feel like a real person, like the powerful woman I’ve always been. I understand now how the trickling is beautiful. It’s blissful, sat here in its glow. Thank You. I’m glad we took the tank out of the little bitch’s room, she doesn’t deserve it all to herself. No one does, no one but me. Forever-- it should be like this forever. When the little cunt gets home with her pig father I’ll make sure it stays like this, make sure my house stays nice and empty. Just me, and Him, and the trickling.* ​ \ Thank you for reading my first short story posted to Reddit, would love honest and constructive feedback.

Priyanka came to know that her friend’s husband was admitted into Yashodha hospital for dialysis. Since the hospital was near her home at a walkable distance, she thought of visiting her. She bought some fruits and went to see her. At the hospital at every point she had to enquire and go further. She had to enquire and find out the floor number, room number, visitors’ timings, any do’s and don’ts’... She had to enquire where was the lift and get there. She came out of lift and looked for the room where her friend’s husband was admitted. There was no room number. Nor the patient’s name on the door. She learnt that not all patients require room for whole day. For routine quarterly check-up a few hours of stay as in-patient was sufficient. Any vacant room would be given to the patient. Priyanka’s friend’s husband had come for Peritoneal Dialysis. He was doing it himself routinely at home. Occasionally, he needed to have check up at the hospital. A nurse was passing by. Priyanka asked for the specific room where she was required to go. The nurse simply waved her hand towards a door. Priyanka went in as directed. No that was not the room. Neither her friend nor her husband was seen there. Some total strangers, ---- may be a mother and her daughter --were there. Daughter was the patient and mother, a care-giving attendant. Priyanka realized that she came into a wrong room. When she was about to go back, the elderly lady called her and told rather warned her that a dialysis patient should not be given any fruit. Priyanka was aware of that. She politely replied the old lady that the fruits were meant for person taking care of the patient and not for the patient. Fruits were meant for her friend. “The dialysis patient is anyway being taken care of by the hospital, whereas, the attending caregiver is left to fend for oneself.” Of course, a food court and a canteen were available in the hospital. She came out and found her friend walking towards the room. She hurriedly went and caught up with her. After an update of ‘what is what’ and ‘how do you do’ a little more time on exchange of pleasantries, Priyanka thought it better to leave. Hospital was not a coffee shop where anybody would like to sit and chat for longer duration. Moreover, her friend also had to wind up and leave. Priyanka chose to visit her friend at the hospital for two reasons ... to enquire about her husband’s present health condition and another reason was that it was easy for her to see them here rather than at their residence, which was quite far from her place. Priyanka took leave from them and left. When she came out, she accidentally turned towards the wrong door into which she entered first Elderly woman on seeing her, called her in. Then she said, she had one more patient in the same hospital, but in another wing. He was not related to her. He was their neighbour. Presently he was undergoing treatment and the response was poor. He needed blood transfusion. Stock of bottle of his blood group was not available in the hospital readily. They had already placed an indent to local blood bank and supply thereof was awaited. She said, “It is painful to see him groaning in pain. Reason for calling you is ... if you know anybody who can donate blood, it will be very nice. He and his mother will be ever thankful to that kind soul.” Priyanka said, “Why anybody aunty? Even I can donate blood. I belong to the universal category of blood, which normally is acceptable to any one in need of. Moreover, blood donation is a very noble act. I will be happy if I can be of any use to your neighbour. Let the doctor decide if my blood is suitable to the patient. First let us go and see the patient. I hope your daughter is comfortable now. How long has she to be here?” The two ladies were talking and walking towards the ‘blood-thirsty’ patient. The patient was asleep with his face towards the wall. In a low hush-hush voice aunty was telling Priyanka about his sickness, his parents’ agony, costly treatment, his self-pity and so on. Every now and then he would say, ‘what sin did I commit? Whose curse is on me?’ Aunty sympathised him, “More than his sickness, his self-pity and depression were worst killers. No medicine can cure such patients. I wish and pray that he is able to overcome his depression. Sooner the better.” Even though aunty was talking a in low voice, in decibels not more than a whisper, it was enough for the patient, Shukla to turn around in the bed. Priyanka missed a beat for a second. ‘This man! The Least I expected to see him in the hospital’. Aunty introduced Priyanka as a prospective blood donor, thinking that it would cheer him up and boost his confidence. Priyanka nudged aunty, “Let us go. He may be tired.” When they came out of his room, aunty made wry faces at Priyanka and said sarcastically, “Earlier you were making tall sermons on blood donation and was offering to give blood. You were posing as though you were a goody-goody soul. When time for action came, you simply backed out as if nothing happened. You funked. Funny people!” She continued and was murmuring to herself ‘cheap stunts for popularity’ and something more like that. Priyanka bade good bye and left in whiz. Next day, Priyanka bought a few varieties of fruits and came to Yashodha hospital. She straight went to see Shukla and spoke to him soothingly. She came out along with the nurse and had latest updates on his health condition. Later, she told the nurse that she was keen on donating blood even if did not suit this patient. It could be useful for some other needy patient. Nurse was looking at Priyanka, as though something unusual happened. It was a common practice among nurses to offer blood to patients in times of emergency but not any normal human being coming forward to do so. She took Priyanka to the Blood bank unit in the same hospital and came back. Priyanka finished giving blood. She then came to see aunty. When she gave the bag of fruits to aunty, she taunted. “Why? You think that fruits are better than blood in helping the patient to have a speedy recovery? And you don’t have to be afraid of pricking your skin. Is it not?” Priyanka was cool. “Aunty fruits are not for Shukla. The hospital takes care of its patients. I brought them for you. By the way, I am coming from Blood bank counter only after donating one unit of blood. Yesterday, I did not want to give blood for a different reason. I was in bad mood. If the body does not cooperate, it is difficult to get the proper vein.” Aunty saw that there was a small plaster in her elbow joint. Still not believing her, aunty asked, “Yesterday you were in good spirits when you were talking with me here in this room. But later when I took you to see Shukla, you turned pale and you funked. Mood change! Why bad mood then?” “It is a long story, aunty. If you are not getting bored, I can tell you. This Shukla is your neighbour now. For me, he was a long-last friend. For him, I am a long-lost foe. Many years ago, we were living in Pune in the same colony and we both went to same school. He was very jealous of his classmate Sudheer. Sudheer would come first in the class and Shukla’s parents used to get angry for Shukla not taking interest in studies. Sudheer was studious and Shukla was not. His parents always compared him with Sudheer and criticised him. So, Shukla thought of a crooked plan to steal some of Sudheer’s note-books just before exams and in the absence of important notes, he would not be able to study and who knows! Might fail also. Instead of keeping the stolen books with him, Shukla asked me to help him by keeping them with me. Even if anybody suspected Shukla, they could get nothing from him and he would escape punishment. Up to this his plan was okay.” Priyanka kept telling further. In my younger days I was a timid girl. I never ventured to do any mischief nor play any adventure. When I declined to cooperate, he got angry and beat me. I became his enemy. He was afraid that his hideous scheme would be exposed now to all. He gave me two more blows for that. In that scuffle I fell down and broke my leg. I could not write exams. My parents were quite upset. They warned me, no-no threatened me. They strictly told me not to have any contact with him. I got well but one year of schooling gone. Later we got drifted apart and we never met again until yesterday.” “When I saw him yesterday, though I was reminded of that bad incident, I felt very sorry for this fellow and was full of sympathy. I went home and offered sincere prayers. I was worried that he should not believe that it was my curses which are the reasons for his sickness. He was already in self-pity and because of me it will shoot up. That was why I was in a hurry to go. Today I went to see him just to assure him that I was not here for any revenge or retaliation. I wanted him to understand that I was not his foe. Whether I am his friend or not, he may decide. Certainly, I am not his foe.” “One good news aunty. In the Blood bank-counter they said they are getting his requirement and may be by now they received also.” Aunty said convincingly, “Now I understand why he was in tears and was repeatedly telling, ‘I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have been so rude.’ I am happy Priyanka that he is getting his unit of blood. He will get well soon. I am happier still that his mental sickness also will be cured. When he will be discharged, he will be a fresh and a new guy.” Aunty was sure, very soon he would be fit physically and mentally. Certainly.

Note: A Talking to Strangers - In Search of Human Connection Series He sits alone at the end of the bench overlooking the San Clemente pier. I ask if I can join him. He seems pleased. He has a gray beard and glasses, a cap with a name I don’t recognize. He’s maybe early 70s. His hands are in his lap, tan with age spots. They shake a little. ​ He looks down at the beach to a group of guys at a picnic table, says that was him a long time ago. Military. He was in ‘Nam in 68. Came back and spent time at Camp Pendleton. Met his wife and married, but it didn’t work out. He had issues. He wasn’t right. He didn’t blame her. It was his fault. ​ Says he later met Rose and remarried. Now he has grandchildren. A wide smile. He took them to Hawaii, where he was once stationed, and to San Clemente, where he and Rose visit three months every winter. He surprised the grandkids with plane tickets so they could join them - they were thrilled. ​ This summer they’re renting a beach house at Cape Henlopen in Delaware, where his granddaughter did an internship in park services. He worked in the same field after the military. ​ One day his granddaughter met Biden when he was out for a bike ride with his security detail. They chatted. No...a photo wasn’t allowed. Biden later crashed on the bike...did I remember? Vaguely. ​ He tells me Rose and her friend are down by the beach. They like to walk, but he can’t...his body is just...but that’s okay. In a couple hours, they’re having dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf. What will he order, I ask? Oh, he knew exactly. Shrimp and a beer, Modelo. He can already taste it. ​ His cell buzzes. Rose. He puts the phone to his ear. I can tell Rose is in charge. Issuing instructions about next steps. He says yes, okay...well, whenever...he’s fine. ​ He asks me about my life...education, where I’m from, if I was still working. I share my story about moving from the east coast to CA. Tell him I will retire in 24 months. First time I’ve said those words out loud to a stranger. It feels good. ​ A few minutes later, Rose arrives with her friend. Rose’s face is a little deformed...a large, swollen jaw. I tell Rose her husband has good stories. She grumbles, like, don’t get me started. She’s heard them all before. ​ He tells Rose I’m retiring in 24 months...music hearing him say that. I tell them when they return to San Clemente in a couple of years, I’ll be sitting on this bench, but on a Wednesday. We chuckle and say goodbye. Never exchanging names. I wish we had. ​ I wait a few minutes and start my trek back up the hill. I come face to face with them as they head down toward Fisherman’s Wharf. Maybe an earlier dinner is in order. I wave bye to him again. He smiles and waves back. ​ It was a human connection I enjoyed. A reminder that I really must talk to more strangers.

Darkness engulfed the men in front of me to the point that all I heard were silhouettes chattering, only pausing to take quick breaths, and get back to the greatest issue at hand. The smartest men I knew were chattering away. Three problem solvers in front of me and yet, they felt no need to deal with our lack of light, now that the sun was making its exit. Of course, they wouldn't because it was always Sarah who remembered to put on the porch lights. She would always add twinkle lights with colors that matched the season for some extra warmth. She made sure citronella candles were lit to chase away the bugs. Sarah made the tastiest snacks magically appear too. Conversation would surround me and then there would be a bowl of nachos with extra salsa, or some banana bread, and always bowls of fancy nuts. There was never a need to ask. Sarah loved taking care of her guests. Today though, Sarah didn’t welcome guests. A glance to the bedroom window showed that she still remembered the light. Her hunched shadow cocooned in a marshmallow shaped blanket and a cigarette in her hand told me that I was better off staying in the backyard with the chatterboxes. I couldn’t see her face. I wished I could see her eyes and know how she was feeling. Would she be okay? But the way she walked said a lot. She dragged herself back and forth, like us being this near was disturbing her. She didn’t want us there. Her husband was reliving the nightmare from two nights ago while her brother, who was also my boyfriend, and their best friend from high school tried to be supportive with their own diagnosis. Each one of them had their own little comments. Each one of them talking about how that night had such an impact on her husband and how on earth were they going to fix it. So many words were flying around in the darkness. The events of that evening became so clear, I could see it. I felt like I was there, witnessing a sweet woman falling apart. The evening started with dinner at the local bistro and another couple they hang out with sometimes. Everyone was dressed up and cheerful. They all indulged in drinks, but Sarah always had a drink in her hand. When her husband counted off the drinks he remembered her ordering, he had gotten to his seventh finger before his memory failed. It was like a sad countdown to oblivion. She seemed good. She seemed happy. She wanted to ride with their friends since they hadn’t seen them for a while. No one protested. It was a good night. During the drive, she changed. She became a stranger and got angry. The friends reported that they didn’t understand what Sarah was talking about and she yelled and grabbed the wheel. The driver struggled to keep control of the car. He begged Sarah to stop. He didn’t know how he managed to avoid the other cars, how he avoided crashing. When he came to a stop, Sarah jumped out and ran. The couple called Sarah’s husband and soon, all of them were out looking for her. They followed honking and the sound of a fender bender. People were yelling. When they finally got sight of Sarah, she was walking in traffic like she was the only one on the road. They tried to catch up, but with cars strewn all over the road in chaos, there was no way that they could run and catch up to her. She disappeared again. They tried to follow the honking again. Her husband got a call from a strange number. Sarah ran into someone’s yard and told the first person she saw that the bad people were trying to get her. "The bad people?" I interjected. All three men jumped at my question. Did they forget I was there? Did I leave? For a moment, I thought I was staring at headlights, so maybe I did leave. Her husband answered, "Uh, yeah, when she ran into a stranger’s backyard. She met a woman and asked her to call me. She said, 'Her husband would protect her from the bad people.'" "So, Sarah doesn't see you as one of the bad people." He frowned like I was insulting him. “I was noting that Sarah still felt safe with you,” I explained, but it didn’t seem to help. He avoided looking at me, not that he could see me. How could the evening get any darker? Her episode sounded familiar, but they kept on throwing around words like drinking problem and addict. It seemed like more. It sounded like Sarah did not know what reality was anymore. Sarah saw bad people. Sarah walked around moving cars with no regard for her safety. Did she even see the cars as cars? Yes, the amount of alcohol probably exacerbated the situation, but it was worse than being drunk. Where did Sarah think she was? They continued, "Drinking problem." "Get help." "I don't know what to do." "Get help," I spoke up. They stared at me again. "You said, ‘What are you supposed to do?’ Get help," I emphasized. Her husband's voice wavered, "But what if she doesn't...I might need to get a...I mean..." "A divorce?" I challenged. His head tipped forward in a slight nod. A divorce does not fix anything. Maybe it frees him from guilt or the work of helping Sarah get better. A divorce leaves Sarah alone to fight whatever beast she was fighting two nights ago. I’m usually fine being in the background. I’m a quiet person who feels comfortable observing. I like to listen, but that does not mean I never have something to say. I needed my words to cut through the darkness and wake him up, "If you do nothing, you don't have to worry about a divorce. If Sarah doesn't get the help she needs, she's going to end up dead."

"Tell us another story!" Cindy and Lewis asked their grandfather, once again. It was a night like any other night, the moon bright and the stars glowing against the dark sky. They sat up in Cindy's bedroom, the children on the pink-sheeted bed and Grandfather in the comfy hanging chair. Every night they would sit down and listen to his adventures. "I think I've run out of happy stories. All that I still remember that I haven't told you yet are sad. Some of my stories are not quite ready for you to hear yet." Every night he told his tales of living before the Europeans came to Canada. Before the whites took over. He lived peacefully with the others of his tribe, uninterrupted and happy. But that was before. And all the stories left were of after. "Please, Grandpa!" The children's begging eyes were too hard to resist. "All right. But be warned, it's much different from the others." Were his grandchildren ready? Oh well, too late to disappoint them. He began telling them his story, the way he always did. I remember... "I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was the middle of the winter, the sun was warm for once and the wind whistled in my ears. My parents had 3 children, me and my two younger sisters, Dyani and Catori." "Those are nice names." Said Lewis. Do they have meanings, like yours? "Yes, my name - Animkii - means thunder. Dyani means deer and Catori means spirit. Very nice names, we were all quite proud of them." "Lewis," Cindy spoke sternly, "Don't interrupt again. Grandfather needs to tell his story." "Yes. Well, that day, we were all playing outside together when someone from the government came to our camp. They asked to see our parents and they had a lengthy discussion before our parents spoke to me and my sisters. "They said, 'Animkii, you and your sisters are going to school.'" "What's so sad about going to school?" Lewis asked. "Hush, Lewis," Cindy told him. "Grandfather's not done his story yet." "They took us to the school and made us change into scratchy, uncomfortable clothes very different from the ones we were used to. They caused us to lose our language and religion, and now I can only speak English. Me, Dyani, and Catori were separated. We only saw each other during church, where we were punished if we talked.Then one day, Dyani didn't show up to church, and only Catori was there. She had died from this torturous place. We came back home and things were different. Me and Catori could only communicate well with each other, because we'd lost our native language. We'd grown accustomed to the new things we'd been taught and forgotten our traditions. Yet worst of all, we knew everyone thought it should've been us instead of Catori. I still suffer greatly from the loss and the terrible flashbacks of things that happened at the school." He looked over at the children. Lewis was asleep, Cindy was crying. He wanted to comfort her but didn't know how. He couldn't say, 'It's okay.' Because it wasn't. He couldn't say that he was fine now, because he wasn't. That school had ruined hundreds of lives, including his. It had completely destroyed him, and he would never, ever be the same again.

Late August 2023 Hello, I'm Nancy Boltz. My husband of 40 years Eric Boltz died in Musicland Nebraska medical center from cancer. He was 64 years old. The funeral was held at the Musicland Lutheran Church where both of us were life long members. Three children (two girls and one boy) and 10 grandchildren we had. The will had been read and everyone had basically gone back to their own lives. Although my kids and grandchildren lived in Nebraska, they didn't live in Musicland. All but 2 lived in Omaha. The other two lived in Lincoln. Enough of that, let me get to the point of my story. Eric had left a diary that he wrote during the period of 1981-1982. This was the period where we had broken up and had dated others. It started over some stupid argument that I don't remember. Eric probably would remember but he didn't mention the argument in the diaries. We broke up two weeks after he graduated from college in June of 1981. Eric worked in Lincoln that summer and I stayed in Musicland (which is about 30 miles from Lincoln) at a Music Camp for kids. While in Lincoln, Eric met a woman named Heidi Holden. She had broken up with Mark Month who was a football player for the Cornhuskers. Over the course of the summer, they fell in love with each other but in September Heidi went back to Mark. She continued to see Eric on the side. Thankfully for Eric, Mark never found out. In April of 1982, Heidi Holden was found deceased at the Lincoln State Park after being struck by a car. The person who did it was never arrested or charged. ​ April 9, 1982 - Late afternoon "I hid in the bushes and heard and heard the terrible argument. There was nothing that I could do as I saw Mark clip Heidi with his car and then drive off. I quickly ran to the pay phone and called for emergency. I told them who did this to Heidi. I then ran over to Heidi who was drifting in and out of consciousness. Before she died, she told me that she wasn't pregnant. I knew that she had died. I wept for about a minute. I then heard the sirens of the police and ambulance and decided I better get the heck out of there." April 12, 1982 - Funeral of Heidi Holden The funeral was held at the St. Peters Catholic Church in Lincoln. I didn't dare go to the funeral. I watched for a distance. I was careful that I wasn't seen or observed. I knew that police would probably would be looking for the second mystery man. Apparently Heidi was also involved with a man named Jim. I decided that I was going to get even and make the life of Mark Month miserable. And this I did. May 13, 1982 The night before the man named Jim and Mark Month got into a fight at a local bar in Lincoln. I had been watching both men and noticed during the fight that a gun Mark had fell out of his jacket. No one noticed as I took the gun. Mark was arrested and Jim went to the emergency room for treatment. I found out when Mark was released which was a couple of hours later. I went over to Jim apartment and vandalized his car and then shot out the window. I threw the gun away and then fled. Jim of course blamed Mark. Jim filled charges against Mark but it went nowhere. This really angered me. He ended up suing Mark and lost in court. So much for getting back at Mark Month. For the next several months Eric plotted revenge against mark who got arrested for things Eric did, mostly vandalism of vehicles. He found out when Mark and his girlfriends or ex-partners were fighting or had broken up. One ex-partner he actually called weeping and saying that he didn't want to harm her brother but Mark had ordered him to do so. Wasn't long where Mark couldn't get a girlfriend as no woman wanted to be near him. Eric made sure of it. Also Eric would make calls to places where Mark was saying "Why do you allow the murderer in your bar? " August, 1982 I finally got my revenge. I keyed Mark Month's vehicle and with a knife flatten all of his tires. I also spray painted murderer, murderer by his car. I then set the car on fire. Everyone was in the bar drunk and high on drugs. No one noticed as I left. Shortly after I left, rival football players came into the bar and they were blamed. Police were called before it got totally out of hand. Mark got arrested for assaulting a rival player. Again the charges went nowhere. Mark ended up with the Seattle Seahawks which was too far away for Eric to continue his revenge. I still can't believe that Eric sent a letter to the team. I have a copy of the letter dated September 1982. Dear NFL Team: Mark Month is a murderer and killer. He murdered Heidi Holden by hitting her with his car. She didn't die from being clipped by his car but died after heading her head on the pavement. I was there when she died and I called police. Every woman he has ever been involved with he has used, abused and he gets away with it. I still am grieving over her death. Heidi cheated on him because he accused her of doing so, so she did. Heidi deserved better, something that I would have given her. Too bad she met Mark. As for Jim, I found out that he was just a friend. She never cheated with him which I'm most grateful. Signed the second man and forever mystery man which will remain so. Shortly after Eric wrote this letter, our relationship was rekindled. We got married in June of 1983. Six months before Eric died, I was sitting in Bed with him. He was in remission and we were watching the New Unsolved Mystery Program. One of the segments was about Mystery Man who had made Mark Month's life miserable for over a year. Then it stopped. Eric made some comments about it but now when I think about it, it sounded like he knew a lot about the vandalism and letter writer. Eric told me that I could do whatever I wanted. If I reported it to the police, he wouldn't be angry with me. Well, I decided that to protect my kids, grandkids and my family, I didn't turn him into the police. I still was in shock days later that he had done these things. This was a man whom I rarely seen lose his temper much less get angry at someone. We rarely if ever argued. I thought I knew him totally but apparently not. I never believed that you could live with a person for decades and not totally know them. Well, that's true. I can't damage my family's reputation, so I will burn the diaries and the letter.

I lived in a house on the hill of my thoughts; a broken home with parents with halted hearts. My blood was young but my mind so old; my body tattered but never my soul. I met her in the valley of my dying dreams, radiant with romance running in her ravenous veins. Relating her prose to carnivorous crows; she was as disparate as me with as many internal foes. On the grass we kissed with an appetite, she tasted of salt water, but drowning never felt so right. I didn’t know how to swim, but for her I would dive. I had never met anyone who made me feel so alive. Soon by noon I went home, after we grew weary. I don’t know where she went, but I hope it was somewhere near me. Edit: Punctuation and an attempt to format it correctly.

I ran through the park, laughing with my friends. The summer would last forever, our innocence retained. How stupid we were. Darkness came. Street lights glowed. Villains rose. Parents came. They found my friend's bodies. They never found me. Morning bell rings and I force myself out of bed. My empty dreams fade away in the light of the rising sun. I start my morning routine: get dressed, knife throwing, breakfast, work-out, brush teeth, polishing gear. The second bell rings and hundreds of "recruits" like me file out of rooms identical to mine. We walk down the hall in straight lines. Eyes kept to the ground. Screams come from training rooms. I flinch, remembering the harsh words and pain. Alice works her way up next to me, breaking the lines. We quickly form them behind her. 'Kai,' she says, poking my forehead, 'Sir wants you to report to briefing before morning training today. Better hurry, I was supposed to give you this message an hour ago.' I widen my eyes at her, and peel away from my line at the next hallway. Now that I'm out of routine I can think clearly. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. I need to remember their names. October 14, 2008. We were ten. Now I'm 25. 'Hurry up!' Alice comes running down the hallway, 'I really don't want you to die! You're funny!' She pushed her face in front of mine and stared at me with her startling blue eyes. I nod at her, and try to hide a smile. If a higher up saw me now, I would surely be punished. Alice smiled at me more and I cracked. I laughed and hugged her tight. 'Alright, lets go before someone sees us!' Alice giggled, then grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. If anyone had looked at us, they might have mistaken us for a happy couple. No couples, rule no. 178. No smiling, rule no. 5. No running in the halls, rule no. 68. For a second nothing else mattered. Footsteps sounded in the hall and I fell into a steady face, shoving my emotions into a box. Alice kept trying to pull me along but gave up when trainer Tami turned the corner. I nod, and Alice smiles and waves. Tami nods back and continues walking. We turn the corner and stop in front of a door like the thousands of doors in hundreds of hallways. Alice opens it and leads me inside, 'Dad! He's here! Can I get shopping privilege now?' I smile on the inside, as I've taught myself to do. If Sir ever found out about us, he would kill me and take away Alice's privileges. She really loves shopping. She took me once, when she needed someone to help her hold packages. 'Bring him in. I'll give you a shopping trip when he comes back successful from his mission.' Alice pulls me past the hard waiting chairs and into Sir's office. He is sitting in his high backed velvet chair fit for a villain. 'I can never tell whet you find interesting about this one, he's hardly the strongest.' 'I've told you, Dad, he's funny!' Alice lets go of my hand and steps back, giving me a little smile. I stare at Sir and he looks to me for an answer. I simply shrug my shoulders, showing no more emotion than that. 'Alice, sweetie, you know you're not allowed in my room when there's a briefing.' 'I know... Just this once? I won't tell anyone? Please?' Alice gives her best angel eyes that I fell in love with. Sir sighs, but his mouth twitches. 'I don't see why not. You're old enough to go on missions yourself. Maybe you can accompany Forest on his mission today?' Alice squeals, 'This is way better than shopping!' Sir laughs, and I almost smile. 'Forest, your target today is Emily Holter. She owes us money, lots of it. She's being very difficult, and I've decided to send you to take care of it for me. You have until sundown.' He pauses to look pointedly at Alice. 'If anything happens to my daughter, her fault or not, you will be punished severely.' I nod, and Alice stays silent. We were going on a mission together. Alone. We would have the day to ourselves. I wait for three seconds, then turn to leave. Alice waves goodbye, then follows me. She chatters all the way to my room, talking about places she'd like to see, things she'd like to do. I just hope she doesn't become scared of me when the target is neutralised. I gather my gear, and hand Alice a Browning Hi-Power. 'For safety,' I say, and she stares at it, 'You do know how to use it right?' She shakes her head. I stare at her, she really is a spoilt girl, sheltered from most of the goings on in the facility. 'It's simple, just turn off safety and squeeze the trigger. It's already loaded. You probably won't need it, just in case.' Alice smiles cheekily, 'You'll protect me right?' I smile back, 'Of course, that's my job.' Outside it's still morning and orange leaves litter the ground. Alice and I are posing as a dreamy couple on an early morning date. People smile at us as we walk along the path, her hand in mine. Alice leans her head against my shoulder, and squeezes my hand. 'This is nice,' she sighs, 'Why can't we do this every day?' I squeeze her hand back. 'Because you're the daughter of a big time mafia boss, and I'm a lowly recruit.' She laughs, 'That sounds like the plot of a romance story.' I lean my head against hers, 'One where they get away and find true love... Or one where they both end up dead...' 'Don't be such a downer, we might have our happy ending. Just... stay positive, and we'll work something out. Why don't we fake our deaths and run away?' I look down at Alice, she gazes back at me. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we could get away... In an instant I've decided. 'Alice.' 'Yeah?' 'That's a great idea.' 'Wait, really?' 'Yes!' I stop walking and pull her over to a bench. 'It's simple, we'll pretend like an enemy organisation found me and you got caught up in it too. It'll be easy.' Alice shakes her head, 'But how will we convince them we're dead?' I smile, 'Baggs.'

Waking up early in the morning, Sheila felt dull and drained from all the life changes that had happened over the past few years. As her mind wandered into thoughts of the past, family members, friends, her job, home, and even furniture were all gone, she reminded herself she was starting over from scratch! Stretching her long, skinny body while flipping off the covers, with a sigh, she got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She leaned against the sink to support her tired body and saw a brilliant purple butterfly float by the window before her. The angle of early morning light made its wings shimmer with a glow. Bedazzled, she watched it flutter up, down, and sideways like it was performing a dance recital just for her. Overcoming a sense of hopelessness was challenging while losing everything she loved dearly. The hardest part was always the mental trips that felt so real, but they were only in her mind. Like a movie screen, she could see flashes of happiness, sorrow, pain, and pleasure from every life situation, moving at hyperspeed inside her head. She called them her spiritual journey, which always left her feeling worn out, as if she was physically running a fast-paced marathon through each life scenario. Seeing something joyful after being filled with anger for so long was refreshing. Standing in her pajamas, she stood there as her heart pounded with excitement and fear for what was to come--her beautiful long blonde hair cascaded down her back while turning to set her glass on the counter. Out of nowhere, she heard a soft voice say, "Sakura." With a tilt of her head, she closed her eyes to listen closer and heard it again "Sakura." A knocking sound came from outside the house. She walked into the middle of the room to listen closer and figure out what was making the sound. The new home was open and modest, just like the new job and pay; however, it met her needs with no overtime, affordability, and plenty of unfilled space. Minimizing everything so she could find her true soul purpose. The sound stopped. Shaking her head, she gracefully walked to her bed to get back to sleep when something moved slightly near her feet. Looking down, she saw a business card; on it was the name of a publisher. With a sigh, a feeling her dreams had been lost and shattered, she tossed it on the nightstand and crawled back into bed to spend her day off in a well-needed slumber. All of a sudden, she heard the pounding outside again. She sat up to listen closely to identify what it was, which sounded like a hammer pounding on a piece of wood. Knock, knock, knock! Each time she closed her eyes, it would begin; when she opened them, it would stop. Curiosity overtook her. Flipping her covers back, she exited the bed and walked to the front door. As she opened it, she saw an adorable bluebird fly by; its wings were flapping as it turned its head, with its peering eyes, and looked straight at her through the screen door. It stood on the tree's limb, and they both watched each other for several minutes until it quickly flew away. Sheila always believed in the mystical magic of spirituality and angels; therefore, these were signs of something kind to her. Seconds later, a tiny ladybug was crawling across the screen. Once again, she heard the knocking coming from the top of the tree directly in front of the home. With a chuckle she laughed when she realized it was a woodpecker. The morning aesthetics were captivating, and she knew something was different in the smell of the morning dew. Inhaling a deep breath of fragrant air three times, she rapidly searched with her eyes to find the unfamiliar change. Turning to the right side of the yard, an unnoticed tree seemed to blossom overnight. It was a cherry tree. The flowers were full of the most vibrant pink shed ever seen, covering the branches like pink cotton candy. She could smell the heavenly scent with each breath. Tears filled her green eyes as she stared at the beautiful flower tree--a sign that her hopes and wishes were coming true - blessings were on the way. A distant voice once again said, "Sakura," and instantly, she knew this was an angelic gift. In a flash, Sheila saw her future path. Everything was cleared from her life to allow free time to pursue her dreams, no longer overtaken by demands from others and life in general. A trickle of teardrops rolled down her cheeks as she became filled with inspiration to follow her dreams from her youth; be an inspiring artist and writer. Clearing out the negative people and old baggage, with her new lifestyle, she had plenty of time to do whatever she wanted. Breathing in the joyful scents flowing in from the cherry blossoms, she raised her hands and jumped for joy, yelling loudly, "I feel alive." Once again, she heard the voice say, "Sakura." the Japanese word for a flowering tree, a Cherry tree, representing hope and a time of renewal with positive blessings. No more sorrow, anger, or guilt was left inside for the first time in years. Miraculously, it was gone! She felt hydrated with love and rejuvenated with hope and faith in getting a second chance with a fresh start; she finally felt free. One of the flowers from the tree blew in front of her feet. Bending over, she picked it up and went inside the home to hang it to dry, naming it her Sakura Angel. A reminder that the life challenges gave her the openness to expand into something unique only to her but relatable to many. A symbolic piece to show her bravery and healing, which created a courageous and inspirational woman. Looking up at the ceiling, she wiped the joyful tears away and said thank you. I am meant to be happy and will never feel alone again.

I go into an immediate cold sweat when I see it. There, not more than 50 feet in front of me is a man holding the door open to the grocery store. His soft smile and kind eyes help this good-natured older gentleman give off the aura of a man who is just happy to help out other people in any which way he can, and right now, that help is coming in the form of holding the door open for me. Even at this distance, I can see him wink and nod his head in the safest and most inviting way possible. He's practically begging for me to walk through his open door. I gulp because I know at my normal walking speed, I'll be inconveniencing him. I hate disappointing people, especially a man like that who is glowing with kindness. I make some short lived eye contact and weakly wave, my hand not even reaching above shoulder level. He nods again with complete understanding and a sort of fatherly love. With those Skechers firmly rooted in the pavement and that vascular, strong forearm gripping the door with a strength and ease that makes me feel like a hug from him would be one of the most satisfying experiences in my life, he waits. I'm still an uncomfortable distance away, so I half heartedly jog. He waves me on, encouraging my effort. The parking lot seems to stretch on further than I realized, and I don't want to keep such a helpful gentleman waiting. I can't bear the burden of knowing that his time better spent shopping for groceries was wasted holding open a door, a door I am perfectly capable of opening myself, on such a pathetic loser like me. I jog harder, but my legs feel heavy and I just can't seem to make any forward progress. The beating sun is torturous as it burns and mocks my attempt at hurrying. The man waves on harder as if he were the third base coach and I, a kid on his little league team, was scared and confused as to what to do as I round the bases. The trust in his eyes pierces my very soul. I can't let him down. I'm running now, harder than I have in a long time, trying to reach that door, that open door leading to a world of cool air and satisfaction, but I can't. The expanse stretches on further and further like an unforgiving desert of asphalt. The other cars are gone, the lines for parking are gone, the buildings, the trees, everything but the grocery store and the kindly man are gone. The sky is infinite blue oblivion with the harsh, unforgiving sun domineering over all. I'm pushing my body as hard as I can now, not knowing what else I can do. I'm afraid if I look behind me, everything I've ever known will be gone. My legs strain and my feet ache. My lungs burn as they struggle to take in the oxygen my muscles and heart are screaming for. This grocery store is my sanctuary now and this man, this benevolent man, my savior. I'm running from the abyss, running from everything that has ever been, everything I ever was. Onward I stride, my hands cutting through the thick, hot air. My face and shoulders blister as the sun does its best to destroy me. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end as the eerie feeling of being chased consumes me. This sprinting is that of survival like the frightened gallop of a chased gazelle. The pumping of my stressed heart can be felt in my ears. I stumble and fall. The searing asphalt scrapes and burns my skin. I'm scared for my life now. Despite my best efforts, I'm still so far away. I shut my eyes tightly as this impending doom approaches from behind. My only option is to surrender to the abyss, lose my body and soul to whatever cosmic power has cursed me into this existence. Tears stream down my cheeks and evaporate on the parking lot pavement. Behind me in the searing oblivion are the screams of billions of souls from billions of worlds, formless, anguished, eternal suffering in an ephemeral state. Then the drone starts, a deep, sonorous hum. It looms over the atmosphere, drowning out the cosmic torment, until it becomes so oppressive that I feel it in my bones. They twist and turn, writhing in the hot agony of my melting flesh. I am just about to add my screams to the rest. Then I hear him. "C'mon, son! I've got the door open for ya!" His powerful voice rings out like church bells, a beacon for my panicked soul. There he is, through the blur of radiating heat, I see him. His golden arm still stalwart in holding open that door to safety. He's waving me in. He's smiling. He believes in me. I get back up, inspired now. The heat fades. My body cools. That terrible drone leaves my body. I have strength again. My legs carry me faster than any speed I have ever known. The wind rips my shirt apart like tissue paper as I glide across the lot. The expanse is closing now, however slightly, but it is closing. I'm doing it. I feel the man's confidence in me give me strength. My shoes fly off. There's no need for such earthly luxuries now. The raw human spirit coursing through me is all I need. I will make it. The gap between the abyss and the door is shrinking. My body is like a divine engine. Closer and closer. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. I am not a boy anymore. I've ascended to something far greater. So close now. The background is beginning to return, the cars, the trees, the people, the world. Finally, I reach the door, the kind man, the beautiful figure and savior who rescued my soul from oblivion. I hug him with tear filled eyes and thank him so much for everything he's done. He's made me a far better person. My fears and anxieties, my self doubt and self loathing, everything holding me back - they're gone, and he's to thank. Within my tight embrace, I tell him how much I appreciate him holding the door for me. He replies, "No problem.

Ethan was not a believer in the paranormal, nor was he a religious or spiritual man in any sense, yet there he was, sitting in the parking lot of Sister Sasha the Clairvoyant’s office. Penny turned to him from the passenger seat. “I know you’re skeptical, but thanks for doing this with me. I promise Sasha’s the real deal. I’ve been to her so many times and I always feel a sort of high when I leave.” Ethan smiled. “‘Skeptical’ is definitely a good word for it,” he said. “But hey, I’m always open to new experiences. Besides, this is easily one of the coolest date ideas anyone’s ever pitched me.” “If you’re not impressed after this, you get to pick our next 10 dates,” Penny returned playfully. “That is, if you still want to see me after this. My interest in this sort of thing has turned off many a suitor over the years.” “I can’t imagine why,” Ethan responded, just as playfully. This was only the couple’s second date; the first had been a standard affair of dinner and a movie which ended pleasantly enough with a brief kiss and a mutual promise to schedule another. They were still only getting to know each other, but Ethan already saw a great deal of potential in Penny, and he could only hope that she saw the same in him. Truth be told, her interest in the mystical did not deter him; if anything, it intrigued him. He had never been with someone quite like her. *Maybe I could use a little mysticism*, he thought. “Well, here goes nothing,” Ethan said with a sigh as he turned off the car’s ignition. They had arrived just in time for their scheduled appointment -- a “spiritual reading.” Penny clutched his hand and squeezed as they walked toward the office, making her excitement known. The building’s exterior was fairly unassuming -- without the colorful sign bearing Sister Sasha’s name, it could just as easily have been an accountant’s office. Once they stepped inside, though, there was no mistaking what kind of ambience Sister Sasha was trying to establish. The walls were painted cobalt blue and lined with psychedelic tapestries, and the floors were decorated with rugs sporting similar patterns. “Don’t let the décor deter you,” Penny whispered. “She just does this to meet people’s expectations of what a clairvoyant’s office *should* look like.” Ethan chuckled. “Well, she’s done that quite well.” They approached the front desk, where an aged, tiny woman sat behind a computer monitor that looked nearly as old as she was. “Hey there, Mary Anne,” Penny said in a friendly tone. “Oh, Penny! How have you been, darling?” It was clear to Ethan that Penny was not exaggerating how frequently she had visited Sister Sasha. “I was wondering when you’d grace us with your presence again, love.” “Hangin’ in there,” Penny replied cheerfully. “Oh, and I see you’ve brought a fresh face along with you.” The old woman squinted at her monitor. “Let’s see here... Ethan, is it? Well, sonny, I sure hope you find what you’re looking for today.” Ethan was not sure what he was looking for. “Ha, thanks. Me too.” “And it looks like you two got here just on time. Sister Sasha will see you whenever you’re ready.” She smiled and gestured toward a curtain of beads to her left which served as a doorway into a dimly lit room. “Awesome. Thanks, Mary Anne!” Penny took Ethan by the hand and led him through the curtain, into the room where their souls would be inspected. If the waiting room had been a bit gaudy, Sister Sasha’s office was extravagantly so. Ethan glanced about the area and found that the full force of the cobalt blue motif was exerted here. Everywhere he looked -- the rugs, the tapestries, the walls -- there was blue. The low light of the room did serve to give the color a mystical aura, he thought. Shelves lined the walls, although not all were filled with books. Many of them housed crystals and stones of all colors, shapes and sizes. His limited knowledge of geology made it impossible to discern if they were authentic, though. One shelf was filled with small skulls; perhaps they were birds, or rodents. There were no windows, most likely because natural light would pollute the carefully curated ambience. At the center of the room was a large table, behind which Sister Sasha reclined on a black leather chair. “So, this is where the magic happens,” Ethan mumbled awkwardly. “You’ve got that right, my dear,” Sister Sasha said with a grin. She was a slender, tall woman well into the latter half of her life, and she spoke with a deep, raspy voice. “And Penny, it’s always a pleasure to see you.” She extended her hand, and Penny took it in her own and kissed it. Ethan hoped he would not have to do the same. Thankfully, she did not extend a hand toward him once Penny was finished; she merely gestured toward the two seats at the opposite side of the table. “Please sit down, you two. I’m sure we have much to discuss.” And so they sat, and there was a brief silence as Sister Sasha studied each of them in turn. Ethan smiled timidly, unsure if he was permitted to speak. He had no idea what she was looking for. Eventually, Sister Sasha unfolded her hands and clapped loudly. “Okay, then. Shall we begin?” The first two sections of their reading went about as Ethan had expected they would. First, the clairvoyant asked broad questions about their lives, and offered even broader insights into their desires and their troubles. *Why yes, I do have apprehensions about my career. Oh, and yes, I am a little scared of growing old. How could you possibly have guessed?* He recognized that he was being cynical, but he was admittedly having fun. Next came the tarot card readings; these yielded similarly predictable results. Ethan was quite pleased that both he and Penny had chosen to delve into the “Lovers” card, however, as Sister Sasha presented them both with a rather optimistic forecast. “You’ve both recently embarked on a journey that will lead you to true love, unconditional and unrelenting,” the clairvoyant said. Ethan and Penny turned to each other and smiled then, and Penny blew him a kiss. *Let’s hope she actually is the real deal*, Ethan thought. Finally, it came time for the palm readings, perhaps the aspect of the consultation Ethan was most skeptical of. Penny went first, and they learned that she had been a seamstress in a past life, and that she was carrying a deep regret with her everywhere she went as a result of a mistake she made many years ago. To Ethan’s surprise, Penny said she hit the nail on the head with that observation. He had no idea what that mistake might have been, but he was sure he would find out in time, and if not, so be it -- besides, it was likely none of his business. When it was time for Ethan to offer up the secrets of his palm, he extended his hand over the table and Sister Sasha grasped it in hers. She studied the lines for a moment, and then a moment longer. It seemed that she was having much more difficulty with him than she had with Penny. As she studied, she began to nod, as if someone were whispering in her ear. Ethan looked at Penny, and she shrugged, as if to say, “I have no clue what she’s doing.” The room was dead silent. The clairvoyant eventually raised her head, but she did not look at Ethan; she seemed to be staring at something just behind him, over his shoulder. She was still nodding every so often, and after a while, a smile crept across her face. Confused, Ethan and Penny turned to see what she was looking at, but as far as they could tell, nothing in the room had changed. This carried on for three long minutes, but the strange silence made it feel like 30. Finally, when Sister Sasha had heard or seen what she needed to hear or see, her gaze returned to Ethan. He was sure he could see hints of tears welling in her eyes, as if she had stumbled upon something incredibly moving. *She’s either an amazing actress or she really did just experience something spectacular*, he thought. “African violets,” Sister Sasha whispered. “If you remember nothing else about this visit, remember African violets.” Ethan did not have the faintest idea what that meant. “Erm... Is that some sort of flower?” Sister Sasha smiled. “Yes, my dear.” His hand, now uncomfortably sweaty, was still clutched within the clairvoyant’s. “Sorry, but what am I supposed to do with that? Am I meant to get African violets *for* someone?” Sister Sasha nodded, and she once again lifted her head to peer over his shoulder. “For *her*.” Ethan suddenly felt chills rush through his body. For a brief moment, he thought he felt a hand rest upon his shoulder. Startled, he swung his head around to see who was behind him, but there was no one else in the room. He turned back to face Sister Sasha, and he was sure his confusion was plain to see. “Pardon my French, but what the fuck just happened?” The clairvoyant chuckled and released his hand before reclining back into her chair with a sigh. “It looks like we’re just about out of time, lovebirds. I do hope you’ve found this as impactful as I have.” Ethan turned to Penny with a look intended to convey his complete confusion. She smiled wide, as if this was exactly what she had hoped would occur. Penny stood and shook Sister Sasha’s hand. “I know I have,” she said with pure delight. “I’ll be back before you know it!” Ethan, still on edge and struggling to find words to express how he felt, followed suit. Penny took Ethan by the hand, leading him out of Sister Sasha’s chamber and back to the front desk, where she paid for their visit and exchanged pleasantries with Mary Anne. Ethan was mostly quiet, still attempting to make sense of the bizarre advice and the phantom hand. Only once they returned to the car, back in the world of the living, did he allow himself to speak freely. “Did you see anyone else in the room with us at any point? Mary Anne, maybe?” Penny smiled. “No... Why?” “I swear that I felt a hand on my shoulder, right after she said the thing about the flowers.” At that, Penny laughed. “I told you she was the real deal.” “Oh, come on. I’m not making this up. There must have been someone else...” “Well, stranger things have happened.” Ethan let out a long sigh. He refused to believe that he had been touched by a spirit, but he also knew he was unlikely to get any concrete answers from Penny. “Stranger things really haven’t happened to me, but if you say so.” “The mystery is part of the fun! Be honest, you liked it.” “I mean, if being thoroughly creeped out qualifies as enjoyment, then yeah, you could say that. Were you not freaked out by that bit at the end? What was she staring at? What was all of that about the flowers?” Penny shrugged. “Sister Sasha works in mysterious ways. Maybe it’ll make sense someday. I’m just happy you got *something* out of it.” All Ethan could manage was a smile. “Okay... You won. I’m pretty impressed. I guess I won’t be picking our next 10 dates after all.” He leaned over and planted a kiss on Penny’s cheek. “Victory!” Penny was beaming. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I know a really cute diner around the corner. Let’s get a bite to eat.” **∙ ∙ ∙ ∙ ∙** Mother’s Day was always a somber occasion for Ethan, and this one was even more so. For the first time in roughly a decade, he had made the journey halfway across the country to visit his hometown. He would stay with his father, with whom he spoke infrequently in his adulthood, and together they would visit his mother’s grave. She had passed away when he was only a boy, and he was ashamed to admit that he had not visited her burial site in well over 20 years. The entire trip made him uneasy -- the exhausting and tedious drive, seeing his father after so long, visiting what remained of his mother. But at least he had Penny with him. Over six months had passed since they began seeing each other and, by all accounts, they were a perfectly happy couple. Ethan seldom thought about their visit to Sister Sasha, but he did remember what she said about their love lives -- it seemed she had gotten that prediction right, at the very least. They had even recently started discussing the prospect of living together. Ethan had assured Penny she need not accompany him on his voyage, but she insisted rather adamantly that she wanted to join him, and for that, he was grateful. “I think it’s so sweet that you’re putting in all of this effort,” she said. “I’d regret it if I wasn’t there for you. Besides, I want to see the town that made you who you are. If it made you, it can’t be all bad.” *She’s a keeper*, he thought. Together, they traversed the aisles of a florist’s shop half an hour away from his childhood home, where his father still resided. He thought it was only fair that he should bring his mother some flowers to make up for the lost time. Penny held his hand as they weighed the options. “Were you close with your mom growing up?” “I think so,” Ethan responded. “Honestly, a lot of our time together is a blur now. I was so young when she died, but she was a good mom from what I can remember.” As an adult, family never meant much to Ethan. He was grateful that his parents raised him as best they could, but he never yearned to reconnect with the figures of his childhood. In his view, they were all behind him now. They crossed rows upon rows of flowers -- anemones, irises, lilies and more -- but none of them stood out. Penny asked, “What about your dad?” Ethan considered for a moment, then sighed. “I think he tried his hardest. My mom’s death hit him hard, though. I don’t think he ever really got over it, not that anyone could expect him to. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been. I feel like a bad son saying this, but the word I’d use to describe my childhood is ‘forgettable.’” “That doesn’t make you a bad son, Ethan. Everyone has different priorities.” “You’re right. It’s just tough looking back on those days. Maybe if my mom had lived, things would have been different...” Suddenly, Ethan stopped walking as a particular bouquet caught his eye. The flowers were a vibrant purple. He inspected the sign underneath it, which read, “Streptocarpus sect,” followed by... “African violets,” he whispered. All at once, memories of his unsettling encounter with Sister Sasha came flooding back. Perhaps he had blocked the incident out of his mind because it was so difficult to rationalize, but now, he remembered it all -- the clairvoyant’s disconcerting stare, the mysterious touch, the African violets. He turned to Penny and she smiled, seeming to understand precisely what he was thinking. It was clear that she remembered, as well. While he was sure that stumbling upon the flowers was merely a coincidence, he did find them stunning, in any case. He picked up the bouquet, and he knew he was making the right decision. “Thanks, Sister Sasha,” he said. The rest of the drive was mostly quiet, as Penny took in the rural scenery that she had only been exposed to through movies and photographs prior to their trip. “It’s charming, in a way,” she commented as they passed seemingly endless acres of farmland. “From an outsider’s perspective, I can see that,” Ethan offered. “Having grown up here, though, I have to say a lot of its charm is lost on me.” “I don’t know, I kind of like how quiet it is. City life is so busy. Maybe we can retire here, one day.” She looked at him with a smirk, knowing how unappealing that idea would be to him. “Maybe *you* can,” he responded with a soft chuckle. They soon arrived at Ethan’s childhood home, a quaint two-story house nestled within a densely wooded area that was a stark contrast to the flat pastures they had spent the last few hours traversing. A long and winding gravel driveway led to the dwelling. Everything looked exactly as Ethan remembered, right down to his father’s old, dented pickup truck parked beside the worn front porch. Ethan parked the car, letting out a deep sigh. *Why am I so nervous?* Apparently, Penny could sense his trepidation, as she placed a reassuring hand on his thigh. “It’s going to be okay, babe,” she said with confidence. “There’s nothing to be anxious about.” He forced a smile. “I know. I’m just in my head. Shouldn’t I be happy to see him?” “I’m sure you will be once you start catching up with him,” she replied. “Come on, let’s go in.” Ethan nodded, then turned off the car’s ignition. He retrieved the bouquet from the trunk, ascended the front porch steps and knocked on the door. A few moments passed before the sound of footsteps emerged from the other side and the door squeaked open. His father stood hunched in the doorway. *He looks so much older*, Ethan thought. *Where has all the time gone?* They briefly stood in silence, before smiles grew upon both of their faces. “Ethan!” His father outstretched his arms, clearly elated. Ethan followed suit and embraced him in a hug. “It’s good to see you, dad.” That was not a lie -- to his surprise, he actually was happy to see him. His father turned his attention toward Penny, and they introduced themselves, shaking hands amiably. “Come in, you two! I’ve got coffee brewing.” Upon stepping into the foyer, Ethan was overcome with a wave of emotions -- nostalgia, regret, sadness. *This is so long overdue*, he thought. *Why did it take me so long to come back? Why did I leave him here, all alone?* That initial smile never left his father’s face. He led Ethan and Penny to the kitchen, where he had prepared the table with coffee mugs and bowls of chopped fruit. “It’s been a while since I’ve had company,” he said as he began filling the mugs. “Excuse me if things are a bit messy.” Ethan felt quite sad at that admission, and he struggled to find the right words. Thankfully, Penny responded first: “Oh, not at all! This place is gorgeous. You didn’t tell me it was going to be so pretty, Ethan!” “That’s kind of you to say,” his father responded. It was not until he began returning the filled mugs to the table that he caught sight of the bouquet still clutched in Ethan’s hand. He studied them for a while, as if he was caught off guard. Although he was still smiling, tears began to well in his eyes, and then they began to streak down his weathered face. Ethan was startled. “What’s wrong, dad?” This was the first time he had ever seen his father cry. Even when his mother died, he never allowed his pain to be seen by others. “Are those... What do you have there, son?” Confused, Ethan glanced down at the bouquet, and then again at his father. “These? Flowers... For mom...” His father fruitlessly attempted to wipe away his tears. “African violets?” Ethan glanced at Penny, who wore a look of concern. “Yeah, dad... African violets. Why?” His voice was shaking as he replied, “African violets were your mother’s favorite.

Black and foreboding clouds filled the air as the musty stench of mildew and smoke swallowed up my senses. Everything was rotten here. Like the scent of a forgotten time, or the spine of an old musty book breaking free from its dormant chains. These ancient aromas were whispers from the Gods; a constant reminder that they knew my sin, and as such they had brought down their fury upon me. But I was no slave to these great spirits, and I would tear down any wall they built to keep up the sanctity of man. For what is a God to a man who keeps the world for himself? Burning embers trailed the air like fireflies dancing to the rhythm of a rattlesnake’s call. The warmth of the light was a siren’s song cast out to any lost travelers in the dead of night. The chilled weather had been chipping the leaves from their trees without remorse, bringing a bleak sense of emptiness into the world. But fire only meant one thing in a world as bare and desolate as this. The eyes of a martyr stared at me from above, his cross-shaped pedestal pinning him to the flames as they engulfed his body. The painted wax eyes were melting in the inferno, leaving a trail of inky tears. Maybe he is having regrets... maybe we all have regrets... A thundering roar escaped from the bellows of the church as the foundation started to crumble, letting out a blinding light that singed the eyes. Through squinted vision, I spotted a shadow emerge from the hellfire in front of me, causing butterflies to battle in my stomach. Something draws near... I thought as I crept behind a broken stone pedestal and hid my cloaked figure from the glowing light. Through a splinter in the stone, I could make out its haunting frame as it gazed into the darkness, its eyes burning like flawless rubies. It had the shape of an ordinary man, yet its height was comparable to that of a great bear as it towered before the entrance of the church. The creature’s mass shadowed the church’s door frame as it walked into the grand hall. On its head was an open-helm bascinet in the shape of a lion that seemed to shine orange like the fire of a sun. I attempted to steady my breath as the man scanned the grand hall, sniffing at the air like a dog finding a scent. The hounds must have had my trail since the last village... As the man crept through the grand hall, the faint cracks of crumbling foundation could be heard with the roar of a fire. “Show yourself you coward!” the creature roared as he inched towards the main altar, his voice rattled with fury. The man had a crest of a lion holding a spear in its jaws on a large metal breastplate that encased his body. As the man approached, a support beam tore from the ceiling, cascading flames towards my hiding spot. In an attempt to dodge the rain of fire, I leapt to the side, exposing my figure. Looking up at the creature, I could see the humanity leave him with a beastly snarl appearing on his face, creeping into a devilish grin that widened along with the hellish fires that surrounded us. “You will die for your sins!” the monster screamed as it rapidly approached to end my life. The world was seeking enact retribution upon me. But I was Genesis, and I was its salvation.

Another year had come and gone. I sobbed as I looked around the empty room. The bright pink room that was once filled to the brim with toys, books, and clothes, a perfect preservation of a 7 year old’s life, now blankly stared back at me. I turned to the corner of the room, where a bulging trash bag lay. I didn’t need to actually look, and I really couldn’t, with my vision blurred by the fat teardrops I hadn’t let fall the whole year. Yet I could imagine the contents of the trash bag: the fidget Hello Kitty toy that squished when you closed your hand around it; the assortment of colored gel pens in a sequined pencil holder; the bookmark she carefully made me at school. Looking at her roomany other day of the year would cause a fleeting, agonizing feeling that I could turn off as quickly as it came. Over the years, I had become pretty skilled at burying my feelings deep down, completing the reverse mining process of taking my memories from diamonds to pushing them back into rock, preserving them for later. But today, the feeling stayed, piercing into my chest with an enduring pain, one I deserved. I wanted to transfer this piercing pain to the person I thought warranted it the most now: my husband, for packing up all our daughter’s items like they were common trash. ******* Leading up to Christmas, she always used to make wish lists of all the toys she just needed. Of course, the list often poured over the page she was allotted, so I bargained with her to pare the list down so she could get her most wished-for toys under the tree. That year, I put off shopping until the last minute. I always took Christmas Eve off so I could spend the day making tamales with my mom. So, I made a mental note to shop that morning before heading to my parents. She had bothered me for days, clenching her list in her tiny fist every day. On the last day, she ran up to me and reminded me that all of the miniature purses for her collectible dolls would be gone if I waited until the last minute. She had seen one at her favorite store, so I had to go buy it. Looking up momentarily from my phone, annoyed she had cut into my social media hour, I shushed her and told her I already knew. I would make sure to go to the store as soon as she stopped reminding me. But of course, I completely forgot to make time for that shopping trip that fateful morning as I rushed out the door. My mind was a jumble as I gathered all the tamale ingredients, my pressure cooker, my utensils, and my mandil , as I would most definitely need to keep my clothes clean for the various Christmas parties after we were done cooking. The rest of the day, or rather days , passed by in a festively-induced blur, as it usually does every Christmas season. My mom and I rushed through the preparing and cooking of 4 dozen tamales, then we promptly opened all their presents so we could get to the next 2 grandparents’ houses. After all the parties and overnight stays, we finally made our way home to open our little family presents. It was now the 26th of December, and with a guilty pang, I finally remembered that I had forgotten to go to my daughter’s favorite store to get her last wished for item: the miniature purses. I remember the guilt lasted in that moment for only a second. She would just have to make do with the gifts that had already been purchased. There were more than enough gifts under the tree: over 10 packages proudly declared her name, including one lavish gift that was well over $100, plus more gifts she had already received from extended family. This thought placated my guilt, quieting it for the next week as she played with all her new gadgets. My family’s quiet did not last for long. I will forever remember the morning of January 1 as the worst day in my existence. My sweet girl decided to let us sleep in, recovering from our long New Year’s Eve the night before. She changed, walked out our front door, and took the 3 block trek to her favorite store, confident she knew the walk from the times she had gone with her aunt. She was almost there, yet thwarted by a motorcycle that was unbothered to stop at a red light and fled the scene after taking our baby’s life. ******* I walked to the corner wall where the trash bag lay, letting my back thump against the wall and releasing control of my legs, sliding down to the floor with a hard plop, landing just next to it. I lay my head gingerly on the trash bag, unable to open it and place everything back in its rightful area. Instead, I let odd ends and sharp corners dig into my cheek, the side of my arm, and my ribs; allowing the poking areas of my body to feel sharp discomfort was the only sensation tethering me to this physical world. If it wasn’t for that, I would have been swallowed whole by the ocean of my grief. My tears had already started a small pond, pooling at my lap as the fading light and growing shadows indicated the hours had passed. For the past few hours, my sobs had filtered out all other outside noises, the most effective type of white noise. Now, I vaguely registered the shutting sound of the front door and the heavy, familiar footsteps ascending the stairs. I couldn’t bear to face my husband right this second, so I remained on the floor, still pressed against my comforting trash bag. Maybe if I stayed completely still he wouldn’t notice me, leave me to my grief and protect himself against my oncoming rage. As he opened the pink door, my wishes were not granted. He immediately looked at my corner, eyes growing wide as he saw my disheveled body draped on the floor. Silently, he walked the small distance between us and sat down next to me, gingerly placing his head on my lap. “Do you want me to put it all back?” He asked, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I thought 10 years would have been enough”. “100...years...would...not...be...enough,” I managed to get out in between gasping sobs. He sat up, held my face in his hands, and gave me a slow peck on the forehead. He then stood, bent down, and scooped me up in his arms as easily as lifting the trash bag next to me. As quickly and silently as he walked in to the room, he took me out of the room and laid me on our bed. He carefully covered me with a blanket, then walked out. With a heavy heart and matching eyelids, I dozed off. The next morning, as I stared at her complete room once more, I could breathe again. My memory diamonds were back in their places, mined into the walls of that pink room. My heart will never be completely repaired, or as shiny-happy as when she was here, but it would do for now.

Dellian was not fond of this place. No, she was far from fond of it. The Northern Mistlands were not like her home in the west. The wet ground made a wet sloshing sound as her horse’s hooves embedded itself into it. There were no blue skies in this part of the world, no bright days, for a perpetual early morning seemed to hang over this land, shrouding it in the eternal mist that it was so known for. A mist so thick that she could barely see her fellow refugee that was riding, not but five feet to her side. What she could see was far from comforting. Trees either taller than the towers of the fallen city that she once called home, or short, crooked, and sad things that her father called weeping willows. Occasionally, she noticed bursts of movement in the mist that she preyed were just other refugees, not some malevolent force, plotting her gruesome demise just outside of her vision. In fact, she knew she had seen evil things here. Her only comfort was that she knew that those evil things were not real, just her mind shaping the mist into vague shapes that resembled the twisted things that had laid waste to her home. But it was a shallow comfort, as it meant only she was safe from the things that she could see, and not the overwhelming majority of things she could not. She rubbed one gloved hand across the back of her white mares’ neck, his mane wet with condensation. “Don’t worry, I know you're scared, but I’ll protect you” she whispered to the animal. She knew that he would not say anything back like the wise horses she had met once before, but she hoped that her lie comforted the animal. It served the purpose of raising her confidence a little at least. She knew that she had to be brave, if not for her, for her horse, and her dolly hidden under her oversized baggy cloak. And with her mother, and father obscured by the mist, it made the burden feel like hers, and hers alone. “Hold” a voice shouted from where she assumed was the head of the pack. She started to slow down her mare, happy to hear one of her companion’s voices again. But as her horse slowed to a stop, the mist started to fade a little. Ghostly horseback figures began to appear all around, and she was eventually able to make out the other refugees in their soaked hide cloaks. A small smile crept across her lips as she saw her father’s sturdy chestnut only about ten feet in front of her. But once the fog had lifted enough for her to see into the distance, she threw back her hood and stared forward in awe. They had stopped just at the edge of a bluff, and the rest of the Mistlands slay before them. A huge ocean of bluish-green foliage that seemed to never end. Untouched streams ran through the forest, and she caught a flock of birds taking to the sky from one of the trees. From this height she could even see the pale blue sky and the sun, its light hitting the mist down below, making it glisten. The fear didn’t leave her, after what she had seen she doubted it would ever leave her. But something else joined it in the pit of her stomach. She wouldn’t call it hope, for it was something less naive and self-centered. She felt determination.

*A/N: I just read The Fault in Our Stars ...leave me alone lol.* The day she died, I knew I was a lost soul. The moment the last breath left her body, I knew that it was going to be a long time before I loved people again. The second she left, I felt a stabbing pain in my heart, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing. *** I graduated high school with straight A's, even though I never studied for tests. Even though I spent all my after school time with her, running in grassy fields until dusk. After she was gone, I lived life in dull colors. I no longer paused to watch a leaf flutter to the ground, or to watch the last rays of sun disappear behind the looming mountains. I tried to pretend I was okay, knowing I was anything but. So one cold day I pulled out a notebook and a pen. The bare trees were outside my window as I wrote. *** Monday: 1/17/2018 Dear Future Me, I don't know how to start this letter, just like I won't know how to end it when I get going. I guess I'll just start with what has happened since she left. I can't believe it's been four years already. It seems like just yesterday. I don't like Subway anymore. It's crazy how the two of us used to go there all the time after school. I watched this new show called Stranger Things. She would have loved it. I'm sorry that she didn't get to see it. There was a solar eclipse last year. I watched it by myself, but I wasn't paying attention the way I should have. She would have been so pissed at me. I've been out of high school for three years, and I'm slowly working towards a master's degree in drama. She always told me I would be excellent on the stage. I thought I knew sadness. I thought that the gentle aching on the surface of my heart was all there was to it, something that could be removed through a kiss on the forehead by my mother. I suppose that was rather stupid of me. After she got sick, I didn't let myself think of the unthinkable. She was so strong, so powerful. The person least likely to get sick and die. But she did. She fought it for a long time, but one day her spirit died like a birthday candle, dragging her along with it. I've always felt like I don't have a right to be sad about it. Her parents were destroyed and they moved away; I haven't seen them since a week after the funeral. If you could call it that. She didn't want to be buried and have everyone wear black and be all "mopey". She wanted to be cremated and have a huge ash scattering party on Mt. St. Helens. She got very metaphorical and thoughtful after she got sick; we talked a lot about deep things when she was in the hospital. She compared herself (and the cancer) to the volcano. She said there were warning signs that went away (or so people thought) but then erupted, taking those close to her (and the mountain top) with it. I didn't realize how right she was until the funeral. We tried to have fun, but we were all too hollow. I got to throw a handful of her ashes into the wind. I had to throw the burned pieces of my best friend on the top of the symbolic mountain. But sadness reaches a different level at some point; your heart sinks away and you feel so much that you don't feel anything. She was more than my best friend. I'm trying to laugh thinking about her instead of feeling that numbness, and I'm only barely getting to that point. I try not to think about her sunken face and bluish eyelids. Instead I try to remind myself of her splendid hair, the color of a raven's wing. Instead I try to remind myself of her laughter, which will always be my favorite sound. One time a few months before she got diagnosed, she told me that she loved storms. So I asked her why. She told me, "I love how every clap of thunder makes your heart race and every flash of lightning makes you gasp a little bit. And afterwards it smells so fresh and the world seems brand new." That was when I knew how important you were to me. We'd been friends on and off for years, but that was when I really knew. You were more than my best friend. So I kissed you and you kissed me back as the storm raged outside. And it was, and still is, the best moment of my life. It's been hard to come to terms with your absence. Even now I still find myself scrolling through my contacts to send you a meme before remembering you won't ever see it. I still find myself turning my head when I'm walking and think of something before remembering only your ghost and the wind is with me. The last text I sent you was "I love you". And the last one you sent me was, "I'll see you tomorrow." But you died that night. I rushed to the hospital as you entered your final minutes. I was there when your soul left. And I can't get it out of my head. Even after all this time. I guess I've been running from these feelings for four years. Maybe that's why instead of writing "her" I started writing "you". Maybe I've been wanting to tell her this ever since she died. Now I feel like I have. I've felt her presence with me as I've been writing this. She's been guiding the good memories through my mind as I tried to remember all the wonderful things that came of our friendship. Now I can. I remember everything. I remember the fireflies and the popsicles and the hair blowing in the wind. Now when I think of her, those are the first things that come to mind, not her hands going slack in mine. Now I'm smiling as I write this, despite the ink splotches dotting this page like fireflies at twilight. I'm crying, but these are happy tears. For the first time ever. These are the tears she deserves. She deserves to be remembered for the fireflies and the rain, not the cancer and the volcano. So I'm going to give her what she deserves, finally. Maybe now I can finally be at peace. Maybe it will take some time, but hopefully I can do it. I'm in the production of Romeo and Juliet at my college, I should have mentioned that. She/you would have been so proud. Love, Me *** The crisp air of autumn blows on my face as I stand on the peak of Mt. St. Helens. This is where we scattered her ashes seven years ago. I came to burn this letter and return the words of devotion and heartache and hope back to her. She deserves them more than I do. Her memory will always be bittersweet, but with more sweet with each passing day. Taking a deep breath, I strike the match that is more than a match, the match that means acceptance and peace and hope.

Night in the city was a dreary sight. Fog rolled in heavy soon as the sun had set and couldn't burn it away anymore. Homeless crawled out of the corners of the city like rats to sit down with towels and re-stitched blankets, crumpled beanies, and fingerless cotton gloves near blackened with dirt. With their cardboard pillows and canned food, they asked for contribution as men and women in business suits ignored focusing instead on the neon signs ahead, their Bluetooth headphone-smartphone combos muting the post-work world. Skyscrapers towered cold and austere above, dotted with yellows and whites of apartment lights. Above, watching their movie alone or having microwaved dinners. Downtown sound was one mass conversionary bustle, loud laughs, and louder drunken ones. Groups huddled together close talking and joking to create the warmth with one another that the city would not provide, and individuals walked fast, looking steely and destination bound. Parks which would be filled with children in the morning were now campgrounds for people whose lives didn't go the way they thought it would as tired business people drank margaritas in a bar, maybe more lonely than the collective inhabiting the playground. **Start:** Freedom! Great terrible freedom. Finally out of the bleak 70 hour a week accelerated 3 year career track starter pack. Handed in the notice to the hour of my arrival. No exaggeration, even checked the cliché of a wristwatch. What once encompassed all my waking hours in audit has dropped to a reasonable 9to5 in industry. But every time something is reduced, something comes to take its place. The curse of freedom. Protestant work ethic. The burden of responsibility. Having to think. To choose a new path. Choose to do something or nothing. But there's only one right answer to satisfy my younger self, who believed that complacency was death. So what should I do then, freedom? Evening sunset after work. Sizzling leftovers rotating in the microwave. Silent except for the chewing and the rain against high rise apartment glass. Muted TV dances colors and ideas to occupy. Done, plates washed, freedom, Macintosh. NO, go back to freedom. Look into the world again as something to act in, to shape. All these connections in my head. Fertile soil. Ideas roaring loud and then halt. Feels like its crystallized. Seed yearning to grow. All that’s left is to act. Can't just sit here. Doesn't matter what I do. Just gotta get out. Well then. I've got some good money. Don't spend often. Early retirement sounds too good- freedom right around the corner. But I'll consider tonight an investment. The miming weatherman on the TV says it'll rain again. Pull on the summer jacket on a warm night- for the look. Lift the keys off the screw hammered into the plaster wall. Helmet and gloves under arm, one handed open, lock the door behind. Motorcycle roars to life in the basement garage. Kickstand up. City lamps glow yellow recede alongside the skyline. Car tires sigh. Wet streets mirror neon traffic lights. The dark churning sky periodically webs up electric blue briefly before the rumbling aftershock. Through the door, the storming world ends where the warmth of the wooden bar begins. A comfortable buzz of conversation fills the air. Live calm rock plays on the small stage to the left. Smells of warm beer and bacon-hamburger leverage hunger. Walking to the bar, a thousand colored, calligraph labeled gems present themselves as vodka, tequila, whiskey, rum, and gin. In here shoulders relax as if a weight were taken off. Order a drink at the stool. “Beer”, don't care what kind. “Surprise me.” After a few sips, look to the band. Damn, looks good waving her hips slow in that tight black skirt. Sings well too. Wonder how it'd be to do all that, just sing and make music, to shift and shape the mood of a place til its just right. So the house goes happy and talkative. Gotta be a hell of a psychologist. Pool tables at the back. Two white haired old men. One in cargo shorts and black T-shirt has large hands like a tradesman. Another with a kitten T-shirt, headband, and glasses- comparatively small but intelligent and confident- probably a business owner. An inebriated aging woman with them dances around silly and pretty so the old men smile and enjoy their retired nights a little more. Playfully whines as she misses a pool shot. Deep sigh with a half-done drink and lean against the edge of the bar. Watches people dancing on the small space of the floor open in front of the musicians. Even if I couldn't hear it I'd know what was being played. It's that kind of music that makes you want to move just that way. Taps the notes of the song against his pant leg like a piano he learnt young. But remembers what he's come here to do, and piano fingers aint it. So he starts tapping his foot to the beat instead, large and dumb and social. Takes a sip of beer, and comments on the music to the guy next to him who doesn't look like he wants to talk. I was right. At least he responded. How about the one on the other side? Listen to a couple more songs. In the corner of his eye, Tom sees whiskey go down and adams apple bobs against stubble shaved neck. He's looking forward, as if asking for conversation. "Where you from?" Tom asks loud over the sound of the music and chatter. There's a pause as the man's 'other' scan ensues, then "Seattle. I grew up around here, stayed for business" the businessman says roughly and gruffly but more receptive than the other. "Ya? Well what do you do?" "I'm a partner with the PwC office. One of the guys who runs the place." Guy said it proud, like he deserved respect and awe. Probably used to that sort of thing. Young upstarts spoil these fuckers. "Huh. How many years you been doing that?" "16" Nodding, Tom turned back round to the music. No need to rush it. The guy wants to talk about himself. Can see it in those motherfucking eyes. Sip of beer. Glad I can't truly get drunk or I'd be too honest to play this game. Music goes along its track and the dancers follow suit. Can tell the game of pool is won. The high-pitched voice of the silly pretty woman shouting victory double hand high-fiving her white haired tradesman partner. The retiree in the kitten shirt acting displeased as if he cared about the competition in the first place, but really he's just doing it so she can gloat playfully. "Ya, I work at the EY as an auditor. Been working there for about 2 years now." Tom said knowing the guy wouldn't ask. "Two years? Hah, you've got a long way to go. Stick with it kid, it gets better. Trust me." God gruffly proclaimed, "I hated those early years. Feels like watching paint dry." "You certainly wouldn’t get that impression from the new grad corporate propaganda" "We do that so we can lock em in. Recruiting would be a pain in the ass otherwise." Smiling facetiously, he bobbed whiskey. At least he's honest. "...Then they say, 'it's not that bad I guess', ha-ha" he laughed with whiskey breath hot brushing Tom's face. Tom laughed politically and brushed his fingers across his moustache as a means of feeling sensation and to fill in the imperfect silence of a half second not having anything to say. Took another drink of beer to get rid of that. "Bastards" looking the businessman keenly in the eye. Break Looked across the bar, saw a young woman in a tight black cocktail dress, wide collar which hugged the edge of the shoulders and bottom which stopped above the knees. Brown hair tied up in an artistic knot behind her head. Small, cute, and sexy shouted from the black purse over the side of her chair. She was leaning chest forward towards the bar, smiling at a suited career man mid-forty peaking salt and pepper. She was playing with him, could see it in her eyes. Salt knew her game and played his strengths. He probably had a lot of women. Plenty of young ones like her too. Business execs and young women go together like bratwurst and wine. Tom felt an attraction to her and a slight smile come onto his face as he watched her. Pepper talking confidently, and her playfully patting the back of his arm when he told something witty, or that he thought was witty at least. Tom and Partner found racquetball in common and agreed to play the next day. Business cards change hands. Pepper and Sexy left together. Disappointing. That night, in the excel spreadsheet was marked: Row; executive #23. Columns; name, phone number, company, hobbies and interests, where from, where met, and leads. Teeth brush, wash face, sleep. Visions of the wide tomorrow flood mind as consciousness is left on the pillow. Freedom has given way to something. Early morning rise, checks his spreadsheet, closes the laptop. Finds the address in a text sent last night from Seattle's favorite PwC Partner. Grabs his duffle bag with clothes, towel, glove, racket, balls, headband, and goggles. Flipped the strap over his shoulder, keys off the screw. Roaring motorcycle to the corporate style gym holding 50 levels of condominium above. First day of his new membership. Ya I go there all the time, he said. $50 a month for endless potential. Scanned his fresh plastic bar code. Walked past the counter. Scratched his neck and sees Sexy on the treadmill. Notice one another but neither acts on familiarity. Men's bathroom, naked old men with white towels in the locker room. Well-presentable gym shorts and shirt on. Well washed to look used, new so he would fit in. Fixed his hair. Neat but not overbearingly so. Back into the open, chest out shoulders back, confident and relaxed. Shake hands with the face of PwC in front of the glass-wall racquetball courts. "Meet \[so and so\] \[executive numbers 24, 25, and 26.\] And this is Hank, he's the handyman." A game of singles to warm up, then cutthroat. Tom starts with #23, Mr. PwC at the bar to see how good he is. Close game, plays hard, but, what, I shouldn't beat him on the first try should I. Oh, what a surprise, I lost. Handshake and good game, but show a little frustration. Mix it up and cutthroat with handyman Hank and #25. Fuck, the handyman hits rollers. Shower and change into fresh respectable clothes, also new. To lunch. Three dollar signs on google maps, nice. "We met at the Chamber of Commerce." Huh, take note of that. Hell, I'm going to have to fill a notebook when I get back. But just nod as if you've heard it all before. Politics. But an hour and the city gains color. Maybe the mimosa? Let the guard down a little. Pretty funny guys. Laid back. Why am I still acting like I'm playing politics? "Ya, absolutely. I'll see you all next Sunday!" Grey again- work. Weekend comes. Sits at the bar earlier this time, now more confident in overcoming freedom. It'd be better to see the people filter in than to sit at home. Beer. Surprise me. Sexy comes in with a navy hugging dress this time, hair tied up but let down when she walks in. She's probably the same age as me. Share glances as she's passing and a first-time full body 'other' scan meets approval. She smiles this time. He looks after her with a residual response smile and then shakes his head to himself. Man, look at the way she walks in those high heels. Moon rises. Conversations grow warm. Kitchen heats up. Pool balls click. Singer brings out the psychological stew. Did you miss it? There's the end of the world right there and into the new. Sexy sits at the other side of the bar. The men shift like magnets, and sooner than you'd think. She leaves with one of them again. Time, time, time. Time that no one cares about. Routine. Grey work. Racquetball’s got some color, but it's back to grey at the bar. She's there before him one of these nights. Hasn't got a guy next to her this time. "I'll fix that." Well, they talk a little. Its politics. Act so I get what I want, but be patient. Nights come and go according to the game. But one night, starting to get bored, forget to play politics. It turns out better than he'd thought. The routine of the bar takes on a new color and it's their color. Long weekend from work one of these times. "You want to do something then?" "Sure" Sam responded.

Encasterated in a god knows forsaken place as I lost track of time; left to rot in a devious place as I tremble in fear. A twisting wave of panic, shock, helplessness dashes through the deepest regions of my soul. Regretting not having to let go of this earlier. Let me tell you how I found myself in this nerve wracking predicament in pain and sorrow... A long time ago, when I was free as a bird, I was the daughter of a rich business woman: Ella. Gaining everything that I wanted, therefore not being able to learn how to let go. I am always bullying other kids and forcing them to give me what I want, but good things don't last forever and I put my life at risk. Once I saw my babysitter’s daughter -Hazel- had a doll that I‘m obsessed with: it has ocean blue eyes, blonde hair that lights up the night and with the most eye-catching pink dress that I had ever seen. Not even having an ounce of doubt, I snatched it from her hands. Furiously, she pushed me to the ground and I went berserk; who does she think she was?! I was about to push her back, but a destructive plan came up in my mind. Smirking, I made an ear piercing scream and fake tears started rolling down my cheeks. The door was burst open by my mum and my babysitter. Her face turned purple after what she saw, my mum shot my babysitter a menacing look. “ Gloria, what is it about!” my mum spat. “ Sorry madam, please give me another chance, I’m.. ” my babysitter tried to explain, but was soon interrupted by my mum: “ There’s no such thing as sorry and chances aren't that easy to get Gloria! You and your little devil get out of here or I’ll call the security!” My babysitter was about to say something, but all her remaining words were gulped down by her esophagus. Staying silent, my babysitter gave me a distraught look and my eyes started filling with tears-my heart started feeling a little bit shallow somehow. Burning with anger, Hazel hissed as she passed me: “ I will never forget this Ella, and you will too! You will regret this! ” From that time, her words were like sculpted into my heart; every time someone said the word ‘hazel’, I shivered uncontrollably. Luckily, the memory slowly faded away and thinking everything had passed-I was back to the bully I was. As time passed by, I was more and more known. One peaceful year, or so I thought, my best friend Tracy came up to me: “ Hey girl, looking extra fancy today!” “ And you looks like we have a new target” I smiled, “ I guess nothing can escape your eyes Ella.” She laughed. I winked,“ Can't argue with that, and who is our new GUEST?” “ The new girl, duh!” she exclaimed, but seeing my curious expression, she rolled her eyes and continued: “ AKA... wait! What is her name again? Ugh.. it doesn't actually matter, the thing that matters is that she is our new target!” I just shrugged and said let’s go and not even have a second of doubt. Confidently, we walked up to the new girl. Strangely, the new girl seemed familiar: she had silky, black, wavy hair that laid down on her shoulder and her eyes were a tranquil green pool, flecked with brown and gold in the sunlight. Tracy smirked: “ Hey new girl! Isn’t it the time to hand over some money?” The girl just shot her a deaf glare and asserted: “ And isn't it the time for you to buy some manners and respect, your HIGHNESS?” “ You! ” Tracy screamed, but it clearly seemed like she was speechless. She nudged me on the arm: trying to get help from me. Sadly for her, I wasn't paying any attention. The coldness and sound of the new girl’s words ringed over and over through my ears and a bolt of lightning shocked my mind-she was Hazel! This prediction shocked me to the core and I was frozen by the fear in me. My eyes widened. Cold sweat rolled. Temperature dropped. Standing like a statue. “ Ella! What is up with you!” Tracy roared like a lion, while interrupting my thoughts. After hearing my name, the girl’s eyes become sharp, menacing and maybe even deadly! “ She is Ella?” Hazel asked. Full of coldness and anger as she spoke. Tracy frowned. “ You know her? Ella never told me anything about you. What is your name and what is that ghostly tone for?” Tracy asked, confused. “ My name is Hazel and the thing that happened between us is none of your business!” Hazel exclaimed. “ Lady, technically it does! She is my BFF!” Tracy answered. “ Not anymore!” Hazel barked. Then she just stomp of here, but before she goes, she whispered to me: “ It seemed like you hadn't changed at all Ella, and I keep my promises.” My heart started beating wildly after what I heard. I knew what she meant. I ran into the library, hoping that she wouldn't find me. That night I couldn't sleep: I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't fall asleep. The next day, I had panda eyes. “ Ella, what happened? You guys seemed to know each other?” Tracy asked, hoping to find out what was the secret between me and Hazel. “ Go away Tracy, Hazel is correct! It is none of your business!” I exclaimed. “ What is up with you Ella! I thought we were best friends!” Tracy asked. “ I thought that too Tracy, I also thought we were best friends, but you are so clingy! I need some space!” I shouted, the anger inside of me exploded. “ You snake! I had been by your side all the time just to be your best friend! I bully people because I want you to notice me! You don't deserve everything, and you totally don't deserve our friendship, you spoiled brat!” she cried. Tears started pouring down her cheeks like a fountain. “ Just back of Tracy!” My eyes became watery. I know I couldn't be myself without the company and love of Tracy, but I'm too angry to apologize. She put her hands on her face and started to run away.“ No please, I beg you, please come back! Im... I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, please come back!”I cried. I can't hold my feelings anymore, it came out like my tears. I chased after her and ran as fast as I could, but soon she disappeared in the corridor. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. I was distraught. Sunderly, I tripped and my head fell onto the icy, cold floor. It went all black. When I woke up, I was imprisoned in a dark place with mice crawling around my feet, but it didn't matter. I had lost my best friend, the only, only friend who had ever cared about me. Thinking back, in my life I'm only feared, no caring friends like Tracy. My heart started feeling shallow like when I kicked out my babysitter. “ Feeling distraught like how I felt all these years Ella?” a trembling voice cried. Looking up, it was the one that had locked me up: Hazel. “ You totally don't know that my mum is sick and she is still looking after you because we were in debt right?” she continued. “I...” I tried to explain, but was soon interrupted: “ No explanations Ella, just like what your mum mercilessly did to my mum. And thanks to you guys, my mum died of illness. This is unforgettable and unforgiveable!” she cried. I was shocked. I was about to say something, but she just walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She will let me out one day, won't she? Sadly, the answer is no. I stayed in the room day after day, desperately trying to get out, and living in shame. I remembered what I did in the past few years, regretting everything I did, hoping every breath that I took will be my last.

***Flag***\*,\* ***Indian summer,*** ***cannonball.*** *Actions:* ***Christmas carols are being sung***\*,\* ***Someone is being chased***\*. Phrases: “\****It happens this time of the year”,*** \*“\****We have until midnight”*** ​ “Crack!” the kitchen window said, as its locking mechanism snapped. Snow drifted in and scattered like a dusting of sugar over the kitchen counter. Two sets of boots tracked mud across the surface. One belonged to a skinny man, who climbed as though his gangly teenage growth spurt had just kept spurting. The other set belonged to a stubby man with a round face like a cannonball with a big nose attached. These were not nice men. They were Christmas present thieves. Sadly, it’s true, it happens this time of year. Following them through the window, the distant sound of Christmas carols serenely drifted in. They crept towards the red-green glow of Christmas lights tickling the tree upon which they sat. “Hey. Whassat?” Jerry backhanded Arsene in his big bulbous nose. “Ouch! Whadya do that for, nitwit!” Arsene stomped on Jerry’s foot. Jerry pointed towards two ghostly figures at the foot of the Christmas tree. Arsene’s mouth opened wide as he froze. One of the two figures was gangly with a long black scraggly beard, and nimble fingers unwrapping presents. The rotund man stood guard. He kicked the gangly one, and they both faced the two would-be thieves. “Who are you, old geezers? Get outta here,” Arsene fired at them. “This is our hit.” “Arse.. Arsene...” Jerry stammered, hitting him like he was a piñata refusing to open.”It’s us.” As if staring at a mirror that took decades to reflect the light, it *was* them, but ancient, wrinkled, and decrepit. “We are you,“ the old Arsene croaked, “from the future.” “And I guess the thieves of Christmas past are gonna sneak up behind us and tell us to stop stealing their jujus,” the younger Jerry sneered. Old Jerry stroked his long beard, an unconscious mannerism. “To us, you guys are the thieves of Christmas past.” “A reminder that we had a choice once,” old Arsene added. “We have until midnight when the old Santy Claus turns up,” he faltered. “To stop you... to convince you to...” He lost his train of thought. “Whatever you do. Don’t touch him.” “Why not?” young Jerry asked. “If you touch him,” old Jerry said, “his time travel juice will get on you and drag you along with him. Me an him, “ he pointed to old Arsene, “have been stuck in here time traveling with him for,” he paused tapping his fingers, “fifty years.” “We are begging you... leave now,” old Arsene added. ”Give up... something...” he shook his head clearing the cobwebs. “It ain’t worth it.” The young Jerry looked at his watch, showing five minutes to midnight. “‘ang on, what were you looking for before.” “The Christmas favor...” Old Jerry started before he clammed up with a kick in his shins from old Arsene. “What’s that then?” young Arsene asked. “Sounds kinda expensive.” “Yeah,” young Jerry added. “Why don’t you both get outta here. You’re just trying to steal what we’re already stealing.” Old Arsene shook his head in dismay. Old Jerry looked down to the floor. Paused. Then plucked something from the floor and ran. “Oi!” Young Jerry chased after him, clattering chairs, smattering cutlery, and battering through the dining room. They bundled up the stairs until he caught the old fella flagging on the landing. Pinning him to the floor, young Jerry snatched the item from his hands. It was a gold-gilt snowglobe glowing as if a firefly was trapped inside it. A flash of light filled the house, momentarily blinding them all. The room warmed as though an Indian summer was beating away the winter chills. “I would like to invite you to return that gift to the box,” a deep voice was heard from the living room. All four men were overwhelmed by a red glow emanating from the large man who filled the room as though he demanded attention. “Now that you have seen the consequences of your actions,” Santa spoke in a soothing voice to the younger versions of Jerry and Arsene. “The punishment for stealing Christmas presents is severe.” He indicated the two decrepit skeletal men, the thieves of Christmas future. “Again, I invite you to return the gift.” Jerry held the snowglobe out in the palm of his hand, as though he was Frodo presenting the One Ring. He’d probably get a few hundred for it down at the Pick N’ Snatch. Enough to get him and Arsene through the winter. He looked back at the two broken old men. Arsene whispered to Jerry as they both approached the red-clad time traveler. “Give it to ‘im. I don’t wanna end up like them. We find another way.” Nodding, Jerry placed the decoration back in the box and rewrapped the paper. “At the fiftieth time of asking,” Santa whispered, rubbing his temples. “Thank you.

The choking effect of not being able to move forward has placed me in a state of unrest yet in a state of genuine peace. I would place the unfathomable amnesia as trails of crumbs that seemingly has no end. My hands quiver anytime I'm asked the question, “ Who are you?” , because I do not have an answer to that. It's 5:30am and I hear the alarm ring. I carefully hoist myself from the bed, trying not to wake anyone. My chest tightens whenever Alex stirs from his sleep. I'm not trying to run away, I just don't want to wake him. Making my way to the bathroom, I strip from my gown, fully exposing my naked body and then I hear a slight whisper echoing from the bathroom. Your cross, Nonye. Your cross. Adrenaline floods my system. I swiftly pick up the the scissors from the counter before yelling, “who is there?” My adrenaline surges so fast that I can almost vomit. I kick open the door, yelling again. This time, Alex is already up, panicking and running out of bed with his phone by his side. Your cross, I hear it again. I remember the news yesterday. I had watched it at the office with my colleagues. They told us to be careful not to open our windows or doors. Everyone is paranoid. “These murders need to be investigated.” Timi said. He's the most sensitive man I've ever known. “There’s no pattern yet, Timi. We just have to stay watchful.” Jil advised. “If we’re no longer safe in our homes, where else can we be safe?” I mused to myself gaping at the tv in the lodge, staring intently at the newscaster. I was livid with anger at his slight stammer and his fear. He could be next and so could I. Moving from the lodge, I stumbled at the feeling of a hot breath close to my neck. The unseen entity gripped my wrist making me squeal in pain for some seconds before letting go. “Annie, are you okay?” I heard but I just scurried ahead without giving a response. “You’re doing this again?” He asks angrily after minutes of searching to no avail. “What is up with you?” “I heard someone this time, Alex. I tell you.” I persist, checking the blinds and the wardrobes in our small room. “Are we heading down that road again? There's no one here!” My hands tremble and so does the rest of my body. I can taste saliva thickening in my throat and my eyes already feel heavy with tears. “You’re seeing Dr. Moe tomorrow.” He finally says walking back to the bed with his phone placed on his ears after seconds of agonizing silence. Here I am, naked and terrified, lost, and hurt. Who is Nonye? I ask myself glancing at Alex scheduling an appointment with the doctor. It's Wednesday, 9:00am. I'm sitting on the soft brown cushion in Dr. Moe's office. Alex is not here with me, and I'm grateful for that. My doctor strides in with her smile on her face. She finally perches on the seat opposite me while adjusting her blouse. “Morning Annie.” She says still beaming. How are you today?” “The same.” I answer. “Alex told me there wasn't much progress after you suddenly stopped coming.” “We didn't have the money.” I lie. I schemed a perfect pretense of good character. I wanted to stop coming. “You were very violent during out last encounters. And Alex said you were violent yesterday. What happened?” she asks opening her pad to write into. My lips quivered. “I heard someone in the bathroom. It was like a whisper but Alex doesn't believe me.” “What did you hear?” “It said your cross, Nonye. Your cross.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I can see dense haze in the air. “Do you know what it means? Do you have an idea who the person is?” she relaxes on her chair, sucking her teeth. “No.” I scratch my wrist. “You once told me about some dreams you had about a friend. Do you think what you heard correlates to the dreams you've been having?” “I never told you the contents of my dreams.” I declared, angry and uncomfortable. “I know, but what if the voice you heard is a hint to your dreams? Think about it Annie. What did you see?” “They’re either about the future or about someone who seems so dear to me, yet unrecognizable.” “Hmmm.” She mumbles. “What about the future do you see?” “About murder, death, and panic. I fear for the people if something is not done.” “You mean about the killings going on?” She is now sitting upright scribbling with speed. “What about it, Annie?” “I have dreamt of the killer’s next victim.” She suddenly stops writing and looks me in the eye with an impenetrable expression on her face. “I saw him.” “Where?” she asks, but my my lips don’t move. I feel the same hot breath at the lodge again. She could be the next victim and so could I. I stand, bolting towards the door and I run as fast as my legs can carry me. I'm at the old house Alex found me the first time I met. It has become my abode whenever I run away from him. The house still looks the same I left it two days ago. My empty plate is on the table with the books and papers I left there. My solitude. I heave a relieving sigh before turning on the tv and sitting on the floor. It's 10am. A different newscaster is reading the news about the death of his colleague. How exact, how sad. I open one of the books on the table, searching for the name of the deceased, Tade Johnson. I read on, death by strangling. A slight giggle escapes my lips because this list had been compiled by me but I can't seem to remember when. I pick up the paper and glance through the content written on it. Your cross Moe. Your cross . I panic and exclaim. There has been a change in name. In fact, there are a list of names written on it. I try to think, I try to remember. Why are their names in my book? It's just been eight months since I met Alex and started leaving with him. What have I been doing all this while? I scramble around the house looking for clues. I marvel at the rude awakening. Turning my room inside out, I open the the small safe in my drawer, with NONYE, boldly written on it. It's 7pm. I'm home now with Alex giving me the lecture of my life but it doesn't make me miserable for I did earlier, it only piqued my interest about him. “Are you even listening Annie?” He stops to ask. “I’m sorry I annoyed you. I panicked.” I say, avoiding his eyes. “Did you hear the news today?” “You mean about the dead newscaster? I did.” “Do you know who is doing it?” He stares at me with a shocked look on his face. A countenance of terror “How’s that any of your concern? I'm keeping you safe aren’t I?” “From who?” I question. “From Nonye?” “You’re still talking about the mysterious name of this morning? Nobody bears that name, Annie!” I throw the lamp on the floor. I move the table and cut myself. I hit him on the chest hard, and continuously but he doesn't stop me. “Dr Moe is going to die tomorrow, Alex. She’s going to die.” I finally say. “I know.” He responds. “It took you long enough to know that.” I’m livid with his response and the teardrops race down my cheeks in anger. Alex cleans me up and sits me on the bed. I stare at him in awe on how well he was able to handle me. . I had checked the name after Moe, I had checked the name after Moe. My name was next. Death by poison. I was the last on the list. If I was to die, why question any longer. I don't care to know who I am. I just don't want to keep feeling miserable with every breath. It's soothing to know that my troubles end tomorrow. “Tomorrow, I’ll prepare your favorite dinner.” Alex smiles and so do I.

The future will always be unknown, and for people with severe anxiety, the thought of something being unknown is unfathomable. There once was a girl that I knew who tried so hard to be prepared for the future, she became scared of it. She became so scared that she limited her abilities, her goals, and her passions. Some may consider her doing that to herself as some sort of self-sabotage, but for her, it was completely the most logical thing to do. If the world has a 50% chance of ending negatively for her, why risk 100% of it? We’re taught in life that you must give to receive, you must be equal with the Earth and the people with-in it. However, that simply is not a reality. It is hard to be a ‘logical-wanderer’ as this person called her dilemma. Of course she had amazing dreams, and sometimes risked so much to get so little. She once spent almost $20,000 to move across the country at 18 to be somewhere she’s never set foot in, all because of a calling. The calling was telling her that this would be best for her future and of course that was her selling point when she brought it up to her parents. The future would be filled with job opportunities, amazing weather, and a good college education. But, when she was left alone, surrounded by her own thoughts in the late-night, she thought, there was really no promising future. She witnessed the smartest people she knew be dead broke, the hardest workers behind on payments, and so on and so forth. While she believed in hard work and dreaming big, she saw that sometimes, those don’t work. It was a constant battle for her. One day she was fighting for her future, staying up for hours doing work, and the next week she would miss several assignments and opportunities because she essentially stopped believing. She tried so hard to make sense of her likes and dislikes in relation to the world and thought herself to be unique, but she would then later feel irrelevant or unimportant towards the universe with her ‘uniqueness.’ That is one major thing people do not talk about when it comes to being a wanderer. In the movies, books, and songs, people describe having a spotless mind as being a carefree teenager, post-manic pixie dream and a ‘flower-child’ complex. While those are all true, there are some other key parts that are unhighlighted. Those parts are dark, and one part specifically was really big for this girl. They were the nights crying and feeling like this is nowhere near the life you want, and the feeling that you’ll never find it because all you’ve ever done was chase temporary happiness, but at the time it was not just ‘temporary happiness,’ but rather a small joy that motivates you to find the next. Never being satisfied or settled can be so damaging. You can only chase so much until your heart gives up, and you have to hope that it will give up in a spot and mental position you adore, otherwise you’ll realize that you chased the world for absolutely nothing. Maybe it is for something, but there it goes again. Uncertainty. I also had a friend, or an acquaintance would be better to say, who was a complete science nerd. But he once told me a statistic and a fact about the world that confirmed this girl’s favorite quote of all time. First, I will share the fact. The science fanatic told me that with the right conditions, in space, you technically move faster than time itself. While I, myself, am not too big on science and space, this fact really intrigued me. It essentially has something to do with the weight and the light when you are in space. I thought that was pretty cool, as it is almost like the future is chasing you. How ironic. Anyway, the quote this girl absolutely adored was always butchered by her. She only knows of this quote because she saw it in the english-translated subtitle of an Asian Television drama she watched in the 8th grade as has tried her hardest to find the name of. The show was about a girl who dresses up as a guy to get inside a really good track and field program at an all boys school. However, the quote literally has nothing to do with the plot. Despite always messing up the quote, you could still get the general idea of it. It goes something like: “Although the world spins at a predetermined speed, I will not let the weight of this world determine how fast I go.” It was funny that I learned the scientific meaning of this quote almost 5 years later. Maybe I heard because It was important for me to hear, and in terms of general ‘dream chasing motivational speaking,’ I am certain that this quote and the facts to back it up are very important for everyone to hear. In the end, I do not think this girl stopped chasing her dreams, no matter how much it killed her. She was not a wanderer by nature, but by fear of what the world may have for her. She tried everything and she went everywhere to see where the perfect place to set up shop was. I think it would be absolutely idiotic for her to give up, but then again here’s me talking with the faith and good sides of being a wanderer. It is good to have both lenses. Now, it may be the assumption of someone reading: Why should I care about the writer’s opinion when the situation is not even about her? You would not be wrong. I do find myself being critical of people of things and either not having the experience as those people, or I either have done the same stupid thing I am criticizing. However, I am the girl who just spent $20,000 to travel across the country to live in a city i’ve never even blinked in.

CONTENT WARNING: This piece contains descriptions of violence, gore, and some profanity. Viewer discretion is advised. A shrill wail jolts me from the quiet darkness of sleep to the glare of LED lights flooding an unfamiliar room. The ground I lay on is hard and cold-- have I rolled off my bed again? Another wail prompts me to push my upper body off the ground; the setting before me tilts and spins like I’ve just staggered out of an old rollercoaster. I squeeze my eyes shut against the bright, dizzying room and clench my teeth to fight back a wave of nausea. At the nausea’s dissipation, I force my eyes open again, blinking a few times to clear my vision. The room is white and appears to be made of metal. The walls hold pieces of advanced technology on silver shelves. This room isn’t my bedroom. I push myself up to stand, and it takes my head banging against the metal ceiling to kick my memories back into place. Ship #A17: my one-way ticket to a new life I never asked for. A third, much quieter cry finally pulls my attention to the enormous windows at the back of the ship crowded by a small group of strangers. A young woman sobs in the arms of another, silent one on the metal floor. A tall, visibly strong man stares with his head against the windows, tears falling to the ground without sound. Beside him stands a boy no older than fifteen clutching an old, tie-dyed bunny plush. My feet lead me to join them, albeit against my will. As I approach, the boy looks up at me, his tearful eyes the color of whiskey illuminated by sunlight. He steps slightly to the side to open a space for me, which I step into, finally getting a view of the window as our former home explodes. The blinding yellow and orange lights thrust debris every which way. Entire chunks of land are thrown deep into the abyss of space. Smaller explosions light up like fireworks amongst the stars. In its place is a void of nothingness. The sobbing woman has ceased any sound. Her silent comforter bows her head. The muscular man buries his face in his hands. The boy beside me trembles as tears pour from his eyes, and unconsciously, I rest my arm against his shoulders. Hot tears slip down my cheeks, and my throat burns with suppressed sobs. Our planet is gone, and the silence is deafening. ------ “My dear Evelyn, I hope you and the twins are safe. I’m so sorry we got separated-- everything became so frantic and confusing that I had no chance of getting back to you. I’m on another ship, but I’ll see you soon, okay? Tell Aniyah and Colton--” my voice breaks “--that Dad loves them and misses them every minute and promises we will all be together again on a new planet soon. I love you.” I lift my thumb off the button, and the recording ends. Two other clicks on the technologically advanced phone send the recording without issue as a fresh wave of tears warps my vision. “What are you doing?” I snap my head up to the boy standing in the doorway of the sleeping quarters-- this is the first time I have heard him speak since boarding the ship some days ago. Sighing, I answer, “Sending a recording to my family. We got separated in the chaos...I don’t want them to panic. The boy nods, enters the room, and sits beside me on the ground against my bed. “How are you holding up?” I ask him. “Well,” he mutters, “I haven’t thrown myself out of the emergency hatch yet.” I nod. “Did you get separated from your family as well?” I ask. The boy gazes at his tie-dyed bunny plush for a long moment before answering the question. “I never knew my dad, but my mom worked for NASA. Her team designed all of the ships. On the day of the escape, she was running around helping people get into ships and checking that nothing went wrong. This bunny--” he held up the old plushie “--was hers. When I got into the ship, she pushed it into my hands, hugged me, told me she loved me, and darted back outside. She knew she and her team were doomed. I guess part of me still hoped she was wrong.” “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, trying to hide my shock. “Thanks,” he shakily whispers back, tightly hugging the bunny. “Does the bunny have a name?” “Biscuit. She said it was fitting.” The two of us jump as a shriek pierces the air, and we wordlessly scramble out of the sleeping quarters and into the ship's central area. The muscular man is already there, along with the sobbing woman from the first night, whose shrieks dissolve into hysterical crying. At her feet lies the other woman, her comforter, with short auburn hair doused in blood and terrified brown eyes leaking spare tears. More blood pours from a deep gash on her neck like a river on the ground. “Dear God... ” utters the muscular man, who turns away from the scene with a hand over his mouth. “What the fuck possessed someone to do something like this?” I whisper. In my peripherals, the boy sways on his feet, staring at the scene in horror. I catch him as he collapses. “Who would do such a thing?!” The hysterical young woman questions. “Who even managed to smuggle a weapon onto this ship?!” “I’ve been in the sleeping quarters all day,” I quickly state, “and there were body scanners when we were boarding. It’s physically impossible for someone to bring a weapon here.” “And yet,” the muscular man chimes in with a hoarse, unsteady voice, “it seems that’s what’s happened.” I shut my eyes against the gory scene and fight to organize my thoughts-- someone on this ship has murderous intent, and this woman may not be their only target. “Let’s search the ship,” I find myself saying. “There’s a chance that, in the chaos, we gained a stowaway.” The boy makes a noise and stirs. I quickly put my hand in front of his eyes, shielding him from the bloody mess on the ground. “We should do something with her body as well,” I add, and it takes a fair amount of prompting to get the remaining three of us adults to seek out cleaning equipment. The crying woman, who reveals her name as Della, opts to manage cleaning up the gradually drying blood. I turn to the other man, Zeke, to confirm we’ll be handling the body, but he cuts me off two words in. “Can’t do bodies. I’ll stay with the kid, y’know, make sure he’s all right.” I acquiesce, and the handling of the body becomes my job. “You know, when I was a kid, I thought living on a new planet would be the coolest thing in the universe,” Della laments, turning to me as I stoop down to pick up the body. Grunting, I remark, “Not what you thought it would be, is it?” Della shakes her head. I lift the body into my arms, staggering backward as I stand back up. “There’s a hatch down the hall to the right,” Della states, pointing down a corridor without looking. “I discovered it while exploring the ship before we took off. You can put her through there,” she adds, her voice quivering slightly. “Thanks,” I mutter and step into the corridor. The blood from the young woman’s neck drips onto my hands and shirt while the blood in her hair quietly leaves a trail on the ground. Her body retains some warmth, but her dull, unseeing eyes persistently remind me of the lost life. At the end of the corridor, built into the right wall, is a small hatch with tinted windows. I unlatch the hatch, revealing a short, pristine white tube capped with another door at the end. I rest her body on the clean floor-- I hate to stain it with blood-- and shut the opening hatch with a soft click. My fingers guide themselves to a button and press down. The silence is filled with a vacuum-like sound as the ending hatch opens to suck the young woman’s body into space. A few moments pass before I release the button, and the corridor settles into silence. I breathe a sigh as tears warp my vision yet again. Once upon a time, I was the guy who rarely cried. Now, I long for the day I never have to cry again. A low hissing noise cuts through the silence. I instinctively check the tube, but its process is done. My eyes scan the corridor before finally stopping on a particularly dark corner where the wall meets the ceiling. I step closer to it; shards of white metal stand at odd angles in a distorted sort of circle, and the hissing is louder. I put my finger up to it, and nothing stops it from going through. “Della?” I call down the corridor. “What is it?” She replies. “During your exploration, did you happen to find a toolbox anywhere? I think the explosion blew out a corner down here,” I explain. “Yes, and I’ll be right there! Don’t move!” She shouts as her voice fades, and she hurries off. I wait one, two, three minutes. Della screams. Flooded with panic, I take off up the corridor. Not another murder. Not another murder. “Don’t come out!” Della cries from another room. “Where’s Zeke?!” The muffled voice of the young boy shouts. “Just stay there!” Della’s voice breaks. My hand grabs the doorway of the sleeping quarters to anchor myself, and I swing into the room as Della bursts into tears. Not another murder. Not another... “Jesus...” Zeke’s blood soaks through one of the few beds in the sleeping quarters, pouring from several wounds in his chest and one through his neck. I tentatively step closer, holding my breath as I tip my head down to look at the wounds. “Knife wounds,” I whisper, picking up my head to face Della. “Big ones, too,” I add. Della sorrowfully shakes her head. “We need to call someone.” “The ships are pre-programmed,” I remind her, “so nobody can get off-course to help us. Let the kid out of the bathroom. We’ll head to the central area.” My eyes follow Della as she walks the boy out of the room, using his plushie to shield his eyes from the gory sight. My mind whirls with questions, but one stands at the forefront: How does one woman in a small ship become the first to discover two murders in a row? ------ “There’s nobody else on the ship,” the young boy, Elias, reports. “Positive?” I ask, briefly glancing down from the step ladder in the corridor. “I’ve checked three times. Nobody else is on the ship.” “Fantastic,” I mutter. “Hand me another nail,” I request, putting out my hand. Elias rummages through the toolbox for a moment. “There are none left.” “How?” I ask in bewilderment. “That box was brand new! I’ve only used--” I mentally count the number of nails I’ve used to repair the broken corner “--five nails!” “Well, the box is empty. There are none left,” Elias repeats, matching my confusion. “Son of a bitch... ” I growl under my breath. “Della?” I call. “What?” Della yells from the other end of the ship. “Is there another box of nails up there? All of mine have vanished!” “There should be!” “I’ll get them!” Elias declares, running off. I leap off the ladder and bolt after him. With Della as my main suspect for the past two days, the last person I want alone with her is this kid. “Elias!” I shout, bursting into the empty central area of the ship. This time, Elias’ screams of terror shatter the air before Della’s. No. God, no! I fly down another corridor. The screams grow louder. Anyone but him, please, anyone but him! The screams cut to silence. I halt in front of the small storage room at the very end of the corridor. He’s just a kid. The tie-dye rabbit lies in a rapidly growing pool of blood beside its mangled owner-- torn clothing, a deep gash in his neck, stab wounds in his arms and chest, and a nearly unrecognizable face. I collapse, sobs wracking my body mercilessly. Tears stream from my eyes and burn my skin. In wiping them away, I streak blood on my cheeks. It’s too quiet. My gaze tears away from Elias and trails to Della’s silent, shaking figure curled up against the wall, splattered in blood. In a blink, my hands are curled around her neck. “You did this!” I roar. “I didn’t do anything!” Della cries, her fingers trying to pry mine away. “You were at the scene of every murder! That’s not a coincidence!” “I never hurt anybody! ” “There’s nobody else on this ship!” “ Please, I never killed anybody here! I know it looks bad, but you should have seen--!” “He’s a fucking kid!” “Something else is on this ship--!” “Nobody else is on this ship!” “Will you fucking listen to me?!” A sudden, firm crack snaps everything to silence again. Della’s head falls limply to the side as I pull away my shaking, bloody hands. I stare at them numbly for several seconds. I killed someone. A strangled cry escapes me. I killed someone. Bile burns up my throat and joins the blood on the floor. I killed someone. “That makes my job easier,” says a voice behind me. I turn around, my body heavy and slow, as if all of its energy has been sucked dry. My eyes climb upwards past the figure’s distressed jeans and oversized band t-shirt to its face. Tousled black hair falls messily over his hazel eyes. I bring a shaking hand up from my bloody distressed jeans and oversized band t-shirt and push my tousled black hair out of my hazel eyes. “Such a shame you couldn’t fix that broken corner sooner,” says the figure in my voice, “because it was a perfect entryway to your ship.” “Who are you?” I manage. My copy grins and answers, “I’m you , and just like you, I’m looking for a new place to reside.” My copy holds up a blood-covered knife in his hand. “I quite like your form. I would have just killed you, but then there’d be witnesses, and with witnesses comes... inconveniences.” The cold blade of the knife rests against my throat. “After all, there’s only room for one of us on that new planet,” he sneers. My body snaps into motion before my mind does, and I find myself sprinting up the corridor. My copy shouts at me as I swing into the control room and barricade the door. Before me is a long, white control panel covered in buttons and little screens all set up for the ship to deliver its passengers to the new planet. I frantically search the room for something, anything to use as a weapon. Finding nothing, I resort to my own fists. My bloody fists smash navigation screens and snap buttons out of place. They tear apart wires and wreck carefully installed instructions. Alarms scream in my ears as I seize the emergency steering wheel and slam down the speed pedal. In an instant, the ship shoots off through the stars and streaks through the black nothingness of space. My copy bangs on the door, demanding to know what I’m thinking, veering so wildly off course. The ship’s energy sputters out, halting it to a sudden stop and flinging me to the ground. The lights flicker out as we drift into the void. My copy stabs at the door. I pull my communicator out of my pocket-- the screen is cracked, but the screen lights up when I pick it up. A shaking finger holds down the recording button as I take one deep breath. “My dear Evelyn, Aniyah, Colton, I’m so sorry. I must break my promise to you. Something happened, and I had to veer off course. I won’t be seeing you on the new planet. Please do not call anybody for me, for the safety of humanity depends on it. I’m so sorry to leave you. Colton, don’t give up on your dreams as an artist because I know you can make it. Aniyah, keep persisting with acting, no matter how hard it gets, because I know you will one day dazzle the silver screen. Evelyn, my dearest Evelyn, don’t waste away your life. Go out and do everything you’ve ever wanted to do. I’m so sorry it has to end like this, but I am doing this for you. I love you all. I will never stop loving you. One day, we will be together again. Until then...goodbye.” The recording ends. Two clicks send it off with perfect timing. The lock snaps off the door, and my copy’s sinister smile is my final sight as his knife plunges through my heart.

Jody was sitting in the very back of the theater, as he usually did. Even in a packed theater, not many people would elect to sit in the back row if there are other seats available. And that practically guaranteed that there would be a whole row of empty seats for him to choose from. Jody valued his personal space. He didn’t have many friends. The kids at school didn’t know anything about him or his family. Even to his teachers, Jody Teller was an enigma. And that’s how he preferred to keep it. The house lights dimmed and the previews began to play. And all the standard noises soon followed. The sounds of muffled conversations, ringing cellphones that people had neglected to silence, patrons munching on handfuls of popcorn or tearing open bags of candy. Jody was very observant for his age. And what he observed was a young man, sitting by himself in the sixth row, glancing periodically over his shoulder in Jody’s direction. At first, Jody thought he was waiting for somebody. But as the previews concluded and the title of the film flashed across the screen, it became obvious that the man was alone. And he had his eyes set on Jody. He could almost sense what the man was thinking. The man saw a young kid sitting by himself in a dark theater, no parental supervision, nobody to protect him. He saw an easy target, weak and vulnerable. Jody was a short and scrawny ten-year-old boy, with a ruddy complexion, copper colored hair, and a smattering of golden brown freckles across his rosy cheeks. He wasn’t big or strong, but he wasn’t as vulnerable or naïve as the man silently predicted. As a loner, he was very aware of his surroundings at all times, and he knew how to look after himself, watch his own back. He waited thirty minutes, then abandoned his popcorn and soda and slipped out of the dark theater, hoping to avoid the man that had been watching him. He got three blocks away from theater when a white panel van pulled up beside him. The passenger window rolled down and the driver leaned over. Jody recognized the driver as the man from the theater. Jody started to take note of his features. He was a Caucasian male, dark curly hair, about two hundred and thirty pounds give or take. It was hard to determine his height while he was sitting behind the wheel, but Jody estimated he was about 5’10, maybe 5’11. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties. No wedding ring or jewelry of any kind. “Hey, do you need a ride?” the man asked, flashing a benevolent smile. Jody remained silent, studying the man, sizing him up. “Hop in. I’ll take you home if that’s where you’re heading. It sure beats walking.” “Sorry, I don’t know you,” he said. “You’re a smart kid. My dad always warned me not to take rides from strangers when I was your age. My name is Todd. What’s your name?” “Jody,” he said after a brief moment of hesitation. “Well, now we’re not strangers anymore. See how easy that was? Come on, kid. I’m not a bad guy. I’m not going to hurt you. I just hate to see you walking by yourself. This isn’t the nicest neighborhood.” He glanced up at the cloudy sky and added, “Looks like it’s about to rain any minute. You don’t want to get caught in the rain, do you?” Jody shook his head. “So hop in. I’ll give you a lift home. And if you’ve got a sweet tooth, I have plenty of candy. Do you like butterscotch?” Jody considered his options. Then he shrugged internally and thought, *what the hell? Why not?* The man leaned over again to open the door and Jody climbed into the passenger seat and accepted a few individually wrapped butterscotches from the man. He unwrapped one and sucked on it, grinning from ear to ear. His parents would be so proud of him. They would eat well tonight. He had to stop himself from licking his lips in anticipation. They would pick his bones clean, then grind them to dust. Nothing would be left for the police to find. Not that they would look. The cops never looked too hard for people like Todd. Nobody would miss him. The boy slipped one hand in his pocket and felt around until his fingers found the syringe. A quick injection was all it would take. Then the man would sleep forever. It wouldn’t even hurt. Well, maybe just a little. They drove in silence for ten minutes. Jody paid close attention to all the street signs as he enjoyed his butterscotch. The man took a sharp right turn into a wide alleyway and the van came to a stop. He waited for the man to remove the keys from the ignition. Then he pulled the syringe from his pocket and stuck the needle into the man’s neck, pressing down on the plunger. The contents of the syringe coursed through his bloodstream and he was dead in under a minute. Jody took out his cell phone and made a call. It rang twice before his dad picked up. “Hey, dad. I’ve got another one. I’m in the alley by the corner of Essex and Dewitt, in a white van. I need you to come pick me up. And make sure you have enough room in your trunk.

Where I come from, everyone avoids the rain. I slip out from beneath an awning and around blue puddles from the last thunderstorm. Windows cry long streaks and buildings are left stained with dark smears. Nature's paint. At least nature couldn't get arrested. After art became illegal, I watched cities lose their souls and the rain tried to paint it blue instead. With free speech and creative voices out of the picture, the government’s new focus is fixing the weather. Except they were the ones to blame when the rain started falling in pretty sapphire drops about a year ago. The catch? Water became absolutely deadly to drink. I pass through a neighborhood drowned in silence. A couple leaves scrape against the emptiness. It's a reminder of the hundreds of deaths from the poorer districts, but no one to tell people about it. All journalism organizations were dismantled several years ago when the government realized that artists weren’t the only ones who could speak out. The rain often still falls blue. I’m almost certain that they’ve given up trying to undo it completely. After all, now they can make money off selling bottles to the desperate people who don’t have access to clean water. My eyes fish in the dark pockets of alleyways and I hurry my pace. I catch a glimpse of my wavering shape in a window: dark jeans ripped at my knees, and an oversized hooded jacket. I cradle my own metal water bottle in one of my arms, feeling its contents shift with my movements. I never use it to carry water. I slip into an alleyway marked with a faint yellow smudge against one of the bricks. A quick search leads me to a handle camouflaged into its surroundings to blend almost completely into the grimy walls and dirty cement. I tug at the handle and despite its aged appearance, the door opens without any creaks. I’m quick to disappear into the gaping blackness for fear of unwanted guests finding the way in. Climbing down the ladder, I have to re-position the water bottle to make sure it doesn’t fall. The rungs vibrate with each step down until I jump the rest of the way. My boots hitting the cement sends an echo that’s immediately absorbed into the dark. The tunnel’s mouth widens and the underground brims with fluttering life. New art decorates the walls. Fellow artists return my smile as I pass them in the midst of their newest projects. I walk through the art market where little cubed areas are sectioned off for traveling or permanent vendors to sell goods. There's anything from handmade paintbrushes, custom paints and inks, partly recovered makeup palettes, fabrics, paper, and I even know a traveling notebook maker. As for the prices...those could usually be bargained down. I touch my short wavy dark strands as I pass a vendor selling homemade hair dye. I really want to dye my hair, but technically I don't need to. I turn my gaze away from being tempted and keep walking. Lights continue to trace the walls of the tunnel. Just like artists, to make our own little stars that brighten the lives of those who went into hiding like I did. This is where the true city lives, not the empty shell that sleeps above our heads. It takes a few turns through the maze of tunnels until I come upon the entryway I had been looking for. There’s a fluctuating stream of people coming in and going out. I go inside and end up in a space pumping with music and dancing bodies. The Underworld never disappoints. My guess is the room used to be water storage but since it had been drained, it now acted as the perfect underground club. The lights are covered with a type of red transparent plastic, so the room glows to complement the bar’s name. The red cushioned sofas line the walls while tall standing tables are spaced sporadically in the space. Each has a small fake candle atop it. Then, the centerpiece of it all: the bar. I don’t know how they managed to install lit shelving to hold the alcohol, but I had decided a while ago not to question it. The bar sits at the far end of the large room. Its glasses of alcohol fill the shelves and while the decorated shelves go to the ceiling, the alcohol remains at a height where bartenders could easily reach without a ladder. A long counter runs in front of it but surprisingly it’s not too crowded. Most people order their drink and then hurry off to some other part of the room. At the bar, the music isn’t as blaring as it is where a live DJ is performing. I find a seat on one of the black painted stools etched with white curls up the legs. Just as I’m debating a drink, I find that one has already been set in front of me. “You’re back early,” says the bartender who gave it to me. “There weren’t any problems,” I shrug. I examine the drink in the faint light. Little bubbles rise in a liquid that’s either purple or blue. It was hard to tell because of the red glow around me. I take a sip. It’s good. She hands another drink to someone before coming back to me. Tonight, her jet-black hair is scrambled back into a messy bun with a notable silver hairpin slipped through it. Silver earrings wink red light from the many piercings she has. Then her winged eyeliner is traced with silver lines to match the sequins which turn crimson when she glances to the side. “Sorry I couldn’t go with. Keeping an eye on some of the newbies. They just came out of recovery,” she says, tapping her ringed fingers on the bar. I look over my shoulder to see where she is looking. The new artists look out of place near the wall but they appear to be at least talking with one other. When I glance back, she’s smiling at them like a mother to children. “Did they find what their outlet is?” I hand her the water bottle. She opens it and pours out the contents: a few skinny bottles of glow in the dark ink, permanent glue, a flash drive, and some wire. She lifts one of the ink bottles up to the overhead light. “One of them decided it's drawing. I think one might like poetry or short prose, but the other one isn't sure yet.” I nod and gesture at the contents. “Sorry, it's not much, but the store was pretty destroyed when I got there. I think one of the other Houses beat us to it." She sweeps the water bottle’s contents into her own bag to put under the counter. “At the next House trade, we might be able to bargain for things though.” Another customer asks for a drink and she multi-tasks talking and mixing. “Vynia and I are working to send out more scouts. Are there still things we could use from that store?” she asks. “We’ll definitely need more hands if we go back. It wasn’t really the type of arts I work in, so I wasn’t really sure what was ‘important’ enough to take.” I swirl the liquid in the glass cup. “I’m surprised you found a flash drive,” she hands the drink to a waiting hand. “Maybe one of our media artists can use it. I think we have a few in Domino.” Ever since I joined the House of Domino, Sera was the one who helped me with my recovery. Most House leaders were usually a part of that process. Mine had been a pretty bad recovery period, but I got through it. Somehow. “Seraaa,” a voice sings slightly off pitch. Sera’s girlfriend, Vynia dances towards us. The DJ’s violet lavender hair twirls around her and I can see that both of my friends have silver sequins under their eyes. “Wow, where was the memo on the sequins?” I gesture to the couple. Vynia walks behind the bar to kiss her girlfriend on the cheek before making herself a drink. “Sera said that you would be out for a while; besides, are you sticking around until we close?” Closing time is 3 a.m. and like hell would I stay out that late. I'm tired. I don’t respond, so Vynia smirks at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be DJing right now?” I retort. Her violet hair shakes with her head. “I let one of the others take over. They need some time with music anyway.” Vynia became Sera’s co-leader to the House of Domino once they made their relationship official. It didn’t feel like Domino without both girls at the helm. Vynia was especially terrifyingly protective of our artists. If a Domino artist was ever harmed, Sera had to hold Vynia back from tearing apart another House. Not that Houses fought very often, but it happened usually after we hold the mid-year art galleries. It sounds tame but it’s really a competition for which House has the best talent. All of the House leaders get together to vote and you’re never allowed to vote for your own. Vynia jumps onto the stool next to me with her drink. Surprisingly, she doesn’t spill anything. “So? How are you doing, G?” Like a lot of recovering artists, I still was trying to remember my name. So far, all I got was a “G” in my head. Sera protects her real name under “Sera” which was inspired by seraph or seraphim, a type of powerful angel. Someone in Domino started a trend of calling her “Angel Sera” but she put an end to it because she said it felt weird. “I’m just an artist,” Sera had said at the time. “What I create as an artist might be magic, but I’m sure as hell not a goddess of any kind.” Sera felt like a name related to an angel would protect her from being taken again, just as she could protect the artists in her House. “It was okay,” I shrug. “I didn’t see anyone on the surface today. Not even any other House artists running around like I normally would.” “It’s probably because of the rainstorm,” Vynia points out. “There were rumors that it now can poison by touch not just by drinking. Not surprising considering its frickin’ blue .” I add a mental tally to my the-government-messed-up-again chart. I down the rest of my drink and leave my friends to go back to our sector. As I leave, I see Vynia and Sera leaving the bar. They're engulfed by the crowd and then gone. “Why didn’t you say something last night?!” I hurry after Vynia as she ties her hair into a ponytail. The day is going well. I went and did some food shopping at the market, made myself a sandwich, and was messing with a black market music software on Sera's computer. Then, Vynia appeared and said I was going with them on a rescue mission. “Some things came up, okay? You--” she shoves a backpack in my hands. “--are a stand-in on short notice. I told Sera that you would be good for this.” I rub my hand over my face. Flashes of red and phantom pains rush at me when I close my eyes. I try to flick the anxiety from my fingertips but it just gathers again in jitters. “I’m not recovered enough for this.” “Trust me, you are,” Sera appears, backpack slung over her shoulder and dressed in the white uniform from the facility. I force myself into the white uniform and cross my arms. “And if I get taken again--” “You won’t be,” Sera reassures me. “Here.” She hands me the headphones that I had seen her rescue mission group using before. I turn it on and rest the headphones on my shoulders. I was used to being on simple observation missions and your standard art thievery. This was not what I was used to. Still, I realize too late that I should’ve just said no. Our driver drops us off a block away from the Playground, a massive facility dedicated to one thing: holding artists captive. When Creatives are captured, they're sent to the Playgrounds to work for the government. Some remember the details like a puppet being controlled, unable to do anything. Others barely remember anything. I’m in between the two. Sera leads our group of five. A usual mission saves one artist. A good mission saves two or more. A bad mission lost one of our own. Domino has experienced all three. Before we left, one of Domino’s makeup artists marked our faces to be unrecognizable by the face scanners in the building. We would be practically invisible to the digital eye. “Our synced headphones play one song that starts when we get inside,” Sera had explained as they left the underground. “Once it starts, you have that much time to locate an artist. If you can’t get someone by the song’s bridge, meet at the exit. Do not be in the building without our music.” Hypnosis. Apparently, that’s what Playground workers play on the speakers throughout the building. Our headphones blend right in because all the workers also wear them. However, since we had all been under it before, it will hypothetically be a lot easier for us to fall under again. Sera leads us to the entry point, and we slip behind a back door. Everything is white and plain. White tile. White walls. I just want to splatter it with paint. Domino’s House leader nods before pressing play and a song erupts into my ears. We each disperse into the building, tugging the facility’s standard white masks over the lower half of our faces. Sera said that we each would be tugged to where we once worked in the building. It's a strange autopilot feeling where my legs carry me away from the others to a room on the second floor. As I’m heading down a hall, I see a Playground worker coming my way. I practically hold my breath, but they pass with barely a glance in my direction. Good. Okay. I reach a familiar room separated by a glass wall. There's one facility worker inside managing a group of people. I’m surprised when my finger presses the button for the glass door to slide open. I present a fake holo badge which indicates I’m switching out this person for the new shift. They nod at me and disappear down the hall without a word. I’m only at the second verse of the song so I still have time. I scan the room of people in cubicles. I look over the shoulder of one person to see them making cartoons. Really basic and boring looking cartoons. There’s a list open in front of them of everything the characters are supposed to be and the plot. I frown at the large group in front of me. I wish I could get all of them out of here. Instead, I choose the closest person. “Hey?” I say, unsure of how loud I’m speaking because of the song. Their glassy eyes shift to me, slowly blinking. I slowly help the person up as they look at me confused. Was this what I was like? I wonder. “Come with me, we’re getting you out of here,” I say, gently nudging them forward. Something startles in their eyes when I manage to take them beyond the room. That’s when they completely collapse. Their widened mouth strains against their face in a scream I can't hear. I remember this pain. God, I remember this pain. I try to help them but they’re thrashing so much I can’t get a good hold. The song hits the bridge. “Please--” I half mutter to myself but more to the person. In the corner of my eye, I see a fleet of white running toward me. I reach out one last time to the thrashing figure before giving up. I turn away muttering “I’m sorry.” I say it to Sera too when I meet up with everyone again in the safety of our getaway car. “I’m sorry.” Sitting beside Vynia is a young boy with his palms pressed flat to his ears. He’ll have to deal with pain for the next several blocks until he’s far enough away from the Playground’s reach. He’s the only one we could save today. Sera nods but doesn’t say anything. I stare out the window, but I can still hear the boy’s whimpers above the car’s music. When I flinch it's not from the boy's cries, it's from the first blue raindrop against the glass.

The man in red blew into town on a blustery November day. Despite there being many witnesses to the event - an empty sidewalk one moment, then with a gust of wind, there he stood the next - his exact looks remained a debate. He took a different form based on who you asked; He’s pushing seven feet with fingertips that hang to his knees one man said; Oh he was quite handsome indeed a woman blushed, I think he might have even winked at me. One thing everybody agreed on however was the red velour suit he donned. Everybody that is, except me. I was there that day. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant day to begin with. My wife and I were having troubles and I’d resorted to perusing the windows of local boutiques to try and find something to, if only temporarily, remove the scorn from her eyes. It was a heeled pair of brown boots that had me stopped when I first felt the chill in the air. The wind rolled in from around the side of the brick corner store I stood gazing into and wrapped around my legs. I looked down at my feet, a trembling shiver working its way from my toes up my body. When I looked back up, there he was. The reflection of him grinning behind me. The first thing I noticed was his body was red with blood, devoid of skin or any form of containment, the inside of him turned out like a discarded sock, its seams and frayed strands baring the inner workings of his construction. It was horrific. As if he had been burned alive but doused with water after only his fleshy bits had burned off. He smelled like it too. The second thing I noticed was despite the depravity that stood in front of me now, I recognized this man. I knew him, which meant that I knew him standing there now, in front of me, grinning and bare, was simply not possible. I knew this because this man was dead - and I had killed him. A wide grin splayed across his face, he rested his chin on my shoulder and stared at me in the reflection of the window. Words bubbled up from deep within him and fought their way through a blood filled mouth. Noone will believe you, he whispered in my ear. A hand of melted flesh and taut tendons wrapped around my other shoulder as he patted me reassuringly then walked away. He brushed past a portly woman who turned as he walked by. His eyes twinkled back at her and he gave her a wink before continuing on down the street. She must have noticed me starting because when she began walking my way again she said, handsome fella isn’t he. And that suit. He must not be from around here, he’s dressed far too nice. She pursed her lips, her cheeks flushed with the infrequent attention of the male gaze and wandered off to tell her friends about the handsome new stranger in town. When I turned back he was already rounding the next corner. I took off after him, skidding around the corner but he was gone. The air was thick with the smell of burning and a few people along the street were energetically speaking with one another, each relaying their experience with the man in red. As I walked from group to group it became clear from overhead conversations that despite a few details of size and stature and the general pleasantness of his appearance, nobody had seen what I saw. I decided then, I would have to keep it that way until I could put him back where he belonged; Far away from me, this town, and the mountain of sin that existed between us.

This is a story that takes place between four walls. Walls that once used to be white but are now a light brown shit yellow, from all the cigarettes smoked during bowel movements, and other activities. Now, if that didnt give away the fact that i was talking about a bathroom, then im not completely confident that there is hope for you, and your advancement in this floating ball we call home. Anyway before i go off on a long tangent that has really nothing to do with the story, but yet again everything to do with the story. The bathroom, where daydreams can be relived, pressures can be relieved, tanks can be emptied, and where unborn children are given mandatory flying lessons. But im not here for any of those reasons. Im not resting on the cold pot, or washing my face in the dripping sink, or even trying to find the frustrating medium of cold and hot water to take a replenishing shower. Oh no, i am here for reasons much more dark, dark enough as to the sun couldnt even keep it lit. And the funny part is, this is no tunnel, theres no light at the end of this cave. As i climb the rocks in the cave, i sweat, i cry, i laugh, out of psychosis of course, but laughed nonetheless, and most of all i wanted to be out of there. I walk, i run, i jump, and i never rest, getting out of the cave is my only goal any more. I need to see who is waiting for me at the entrance, who missed me, who cared enough to wait because somewhere deep down they knew i would make it out. How long have they been waiting, but the more important question is, how much longer will they wait. Enough with the metaphorical speak. When i say climbing rocks and caves, i mean pressing my whole body weight against the bathroom wall in an attempt to make my self upright. Everything is heavy, standing is now a task that deems harder that solving a rubiks cube with one hand and color blindness. All i can see is the mirror, and what i saw, oh man what i saw, is what really makes this story take off. My eyes met my own, my stare shot right through me. this wasnt a mirror anymore, this was a theatre. A theatre with only one seat, way in the back. And there was only one occupant in that seat, and that occupant was me. Every memory i have ever had all at once, in a split second it all flashed. I knew every mistake i had made, every wrong i had done someone. I faced my wrongdoings and was apologetic, and ready to change. I tried to find an old memory that could arise a smile, but the muscles were to sore to muster one up. I want to be a better guy, i want to do it right. I want to apologize. Then a sharp, harsh realization, its too late, i think i finally see a light. Im back on the floor, my body just as heavy as ever, back in the throne room. Drip, Drip, Drip is all i can hear from the sink. how long was i out? Who Knows, who cares.

Another Death (first reddit post!) *A soft wind ruffles my hair into my eyes as the chatter of people, the constant rumble of car engines, the ringing of bicycle bells and a million other sounds around me were all silenced to a minimum.* *I look up from my phone just in time to see the lights to go green, before everything seems to stop and go at the same time. People in black and white and grey around me buzz with sound and begin to walk along with me, while the cars to the side screech to a stop.* *In the middle of the road, I distinctly see a bright red object hurtling towards me from the corner of my right eye, right before it hits me.* *The next moment, I am knocked to the ground, as the sky turns to a bright blood red, black and white sparks flying everywhere, my ears buzzing. I feel my foot being crushed by the wheels, then my leg, then my chest.* *And then everything goes dark.* Sometimes being stuck with the one memory where you die sucks. Especially when it’s a painful one, like getting run over by a car. As I reattach my scythe to my back, I take out my buzzing tablet, and receive my next target, AKA the next upcoming death. *Name: Danielle Hills (Female)* *Location: 37.7749oN, -122.4194oE* *Death signature: 37%* *Estimated time till death: 12 minutes and 43 seconds* Being a Grim Reaper isn't really hard. Sure, you lose all memories of your past life except for the last few moments before you die, which is not the best thing to cling to when you’re having a bad day. You also have to wear the big black cloak for all eternity, which *really* depresses some of the other Grim Reapers, which is probably why there are very little mirrors in the dead’s world. But, you do get to help bring the normal souls to their next life, or eternal pain/happiness to the really bad/good ones, which always brings a nice sense of accomplishment. The job is quite simple. Receive details on the next death. Find and follow. Wait until person dies. Reap and collect soul from dead body. Sometimes I regret my initial decision to accept the role of a Grim Reaper. I mean, over the few years since I started, I had the deaths of some people--good people that made it *really* hard for me to swing my scythe down on them. It didn’t help that every time I reap a soul (which is just severing the bond between the soul and the body with my scythe), I also get to go down memory lane and relive the part where I got run over by a car. It doesn't take me long to find her. She looks quite normal, with a simple black dress and a rather large smile on her face. I watch her walk out of a large building, waving cheerfully at a few other people before leaving. I follow her for a few streets as she walks at a leisurely pace, until she stops, checks something on her phone, and begins to run, her smile replaced by panic. I speed up as well, until a few minutes later she rushes into a hotel building, where through the large glass panes I can see her urgently gesturing something at the front desk. I pass through the walls, lean over her shoulder, and in her shaking hands I can distinctly see the figures *Room 1013.* I fly up, going straight through the ceilings. Elevators tend to not work for ghosts--we just pass straight through the bottom when it starts to go up. Same goes for cars, buses, planes--anything that moves. Makes it a real pain when someone dies on a plane. It only takes me a few seconds to reach the room, where I see a couple, both sweaty and naked on a bed. “Ah.” Poor Danielle. I can already see how this ends. I take out a tablet, and recheck the details of the death. *Name: Danielle Hills (Female)* *Location: 37.7748oN, -122.4193oE* *Death signature: 88%* *Estimated time till death: 1 minutes and 12 seconds* I put my tablet back into the depths of my cloak, sit/float on the couch, and wait. Soon enough, after a minute or so, the door seems to shake slightly, right before it bursts right open and she strides in, freezing the moment she sees the scene. The other two also freeze, before they react and frantically covers themselves. The man rises, with a bed sheet tied around him, and reaches out for Danielle, but she stumbles backwards, the tears already falling like rain. I float over them, as I absentmindedly listen to them arguing, which includes quite a bit of slapping and screaming, until Danielle roughly shoves the man and tries to walk out of the door. At the same time, the tablet buzzes which means *Death Signature 99%. Prepare to reap soul.* The man grabs an innocent-looking geode from the side of the room, the other woman pounces on Danielle, and I take out my scythe. It would look rather unthreatening, a 5 foot long wooden shaft with a long curved silver blade, if you didn't know that it is used to reap souls from fresh dead bodies. I float right next to Danielle, who the next second was hit by the sharp point of the rock *hard* on the head, resulting in the familiar sound of *crack*. At that exact moment I swing my scythe down, right through her body, into the bond that connects the soul and the body. You can’t really see the bond, and it’s not exactly a stand of string, and I still can’t explain how it works or why they call it a bond. It had weakened when she died, but not completely, so cutting through it feels a bit like cutting through butter with a dull knife, but it was enough. A few moments later a ghostly figure of Danielle bounces out of the body, transforms into a strand of silver light, and then was sucked into the tablet, while at the same time I plunge into my all too familiar memory of death by car, also within a few seconds. Returning back to reality, I look down at the horrified pair. “She...we...we just knocked her out, right?” The woman whispered, her face pale. A shame that they won’t die for quite a while. Amid the deathly silence I fly out of the hotel, and in the blue-grey air I silently listen to the millions of sounds around me for a few precious seconds. Then my tablet buzzes, as the details of the next death appears.

They can’t rest, so they won’t let me rest. They’re everywhere I am, their voices echoing against my skull. You might think it’s a gift, but in reality, being able to see and hear the dead is nothing but a curse. I can do nothing for them, not one shred of solace I can offer while their voices pound away in my brain. When I was younger, I thought it was fun. Like a game that only I could play. Watching their ghostly wanderings, chasing the smallest ones through the garden of my childhood home. They have always seemed more real to me that even my own family. But now, the game has become dark and twisted. One day, I was walking down the street when I heard the most gut-wrenching screams I’d ever borne witness to. Looking around, I quickly located the source: the shadow of an old man standing next to park bench. A mangy stray dog was curled up on the rough planks of wood, shivering in the chilly air. The ghost reached out to it futilely, empty tears streaming down his face as he failed to comfort his lost friend. I couldn’t take it anymore. There was a place I walked past often that called out to me. It was a hospital. Or rather, an asylum. I would occasionally see patients sitting outside with beautiful nurses, everyone looking peaceful and serene. The perfect place for someone like me. I stepped through the front door and up to the front desk. A lovely woman with ebony skin and a heart-shaped face smiled from behind stacks of papers. “Hello,” she greeted me warmly. “How can I help you?” “I need to check myself in,” I replied. I expected her to ask questions, but she simply guided me to an empty room. As the door closed behind me, I quickly fell asleep, truly alone for the first time inside the mint green walls. When I finally woke, pulling myself out of a slumber deeper than hell itself, it was time for me to meet the doctor who would hopefully have the answers I needed. A nurse with hair the color of turmeric and a spray of freckles across her nose came to my room and led me to a dark office. I followed closely behind her and watched her feet as they moved, almost seeming to dance across the tile floor. Inside the office, a woman in a white coat waited on the couch, her eyes shining like jade fire in the dim light. She gestured for me to sit next to her, patting the sofa with her long, graceful fingers. I sat easily, feeling nothing but peace in her presence. “I understand you admitted yourself to the hospital,” she said, her voice humming like the strings of a lute. “Why?” She tilted her head to the side as she waited for my response. “I see ghosts,” I said, the words slipping from my lips without thought or hesitation. I dropped my head into my hands. “I just want them to leave me alone so I can rest.” As gleaming tears began to form in my eyes, the doctor leaned forward and placed her soft hand on mine. “Don’t worry,” she said with a gentle smile. “I'll keep the ghosts from bothering you.” Days went by in a haze. Sometimes I walked outside among the weeping willow trees, accompanied by a nurse with rubina lips or gleaming almond eyes. Sometimes I talked quietly with the other patients; the ones who were willing, that is. Some of them are just so, so angry, and they always seem afraid to come near me. I sighed with relief every time their sharp eyes turned away from me. Some days, I looked out my window and saw them on the other side of the fence. There are so many of them, and they all feel so deeply. I can see their lips move, speaking their lonesome words, but inside those walls, there was only beautiful silence. Most days, I sleep. I have a lifetime of rest to catch up on. But now, from somewhere just outside the wispy fog of sleep, I feel someone shaking me, voices talking and shattering the blissful silence. “Wake up,” a stern voice says. I barely have the energy to mumble, “I’m just trying to rest.” “You can’t stay here,” he says angrily. I blink open my eyes slowly, taking in the shining gold police badge pinned to his shirt. “But I’m a patient here,” I say, rubbing the sandman's dust from my tired eyes. The officer shakes his head in pity. “You can’t be a patient here,” he says roughly. “This hospital’s been closed for years.” The silence explodes, and I twist in the air as I fall.

I'm a pretty realistic guy, I like to think I'm grounded in reality and listen to reason, but sometimes some things happen in the world that totally defy any way I can make sense of 'em. Strange, unexplainable things have happened to countless people since the dawn of man. I've lived a pretty normal country life- raising cattle, fishing, hunting, and loving the land. In my 28 years of life I thought I've read of and seen just about all there was 'round Tennessee, but it was all changed when I went fishing one day. I thank God every day I was able to escape the horrible nightmare made real because of that mystery. It all started with a cool spring morning I had planned a fishing trip on. I live on my own in the woods of northeastern Tennessee. There's a ranger station 'bout twenty miles south, but that's the closest to any other humans there are 'round here. I had planned to take my rod about eleven miles in northeast, to this remote lake deep in the woods. I always get great catches at this one lake. On this particular trip, I left my cabin on a Tuesday morning around 5:30. I stepped outside my door to a perfect and chilled morning. The only things breaking the serene silence were the occasional chirp of birds, or light rustling of wind through the trees. Though it was a bit of a cloudy day, I could see golden sunlight shimmering on the outlines of some clouds, through the trees, and the occasional dandelion seed or bug drifting in the air through the rays of warmth. I went behind my cabin to my backyard where I keep my dogs to check on 'em, give them their morning food. They were all asleep, except Mary, who was huddled in the southwestern corner of the yard, by my cabin and a big tree by the fence I built. It was like she was trying to press her body up against the corner of my cabin and the tree as much as she could. She looked scared, and was dartin' her eyes to random places in the woods. Mary was normally a nervous kinda dog, though sometimes she could be a good huntin' dog. I put her inside to make her feel better, I just assumed a wayward black bear had spooked her or somethin'. I had to pick up the poor girl and take her inside, she was shiverin' all over. No bears can get over or through the fence I built. Good 'n safe. I had built a good layer of concrete fer the ground of the fence so the dogs or nothin' else could dig under it, either. The cold morning air filled my lungs with confidence about the day, and I started down a well-worn path in the direction of the lake. About two or three miles away from the lake, I start to occasionally catch a faint whiff of a strange smell, something like a mix between some kind of ashes of something dead, and foreign spices or somethin'. I thought of how I had never smelled something like that before, not in the woods or anywhere else. I thought more about it as I strolled through the chilled morning woods, the early birds singing here and there. I pondered what it might be, because it creeped me out a bit, but I didn't let it distract me too much from my trip. As I neared the lake the strange smell became more frequent and apparent. When I came within sight of the woods line for the lake, I started to see thick fog, which is strange, since the thickest fog I've ever seen there is a few thin patches on the ground in the early mornings, but nothin' like this. I couldn't see much through this fog. I stepped through the woods and shrubs, through the woods line onto the small beaches of the lake. I briefly noted how eerily quiet it was that morning there. Even as I entered and prepared my canoe, with the rustling of oars, rods, and supplies, the sounds of preparation seemed muffled and quieter in some strange, unexplainable way. “Hmm, that's weird.” I said out loud, to test the sound of my voice there, but my voice still seemed its normal volume. The strange scent became more apparent around the lake, even though I still couldn't figure out where it was comin' from. After about an hour or so there, I had gotten used to the strange smell by then. Strangely I didn't get a single bite. I normally would've at least reeled in three or four by then, but the lake was eerily still and quiet, the morning fog quietly floating just above its glassy smooth surface. About an hour and a half or so later there is when the nightmare began.... I remember it so clearly. The terror of the experience etched it into my brain forever. None of it makes sense. I don't try to make sense of it anymore, I'll only lose more sleep over it. I don't ever even want to think about it ever again. Makes me stay up all night with my shotgun and dogs inside. I don't expect you to believe me, but what happened next is true as the sky is blue. I was actually feeling pretty comfortable and relaxed, reclining in my canoe with my fishing rod resting between my legs, hangin' off the side of my canoe, when I started to hear a strange, wet slapping noise off in the distance. Like a kid hittin' water with their open palm or somethin'. It had weird ploopin' sounds to it, like maybe it was a deer or something. That was my first thought. I wouldn't be too concerned about a deer swimming through the lake. I've never seen it happen, but I know that they do, and wouldn't be surprised to see it. Unfortunately, it wasn't a deer. Wish it was. It sounded like it started over on the northeastern bank of the lake, like whatever it was entered the lake and started to try to swim. I never heard it make any noise on the banks, or in the woods. The slappin' sounds were slow and random in pace. I sat up in my canoe and brought my line in and focused on the weird sound. It was made even weirder by the strange scent I had been smelling all day that day. I think it had something to do with that.... thing. I only smelled that scent that day. Never after that. Mary surely smelled it before I did. For a while, it sounded like whatever it was, was going in random directions, like it had no idea where it wanted to go. I was so concentrated on the weird sound that one moment I suddenly sneezed. The sounds stopped briefly, then to my horror they slowly got closer and closer to my canoe. Each slapping sound started getting a pattern to it, startin' to get about three to five seconds apart. I got weirded out pretty quick at that point, and decided to high tail it right outta there. I quickly closed up my tackle box, set my rod in the bottom of the canoe, and fished the kinda small oar out from under some nets. I repositioned myself and started to paddle back to shore, but I only managed to get a few strokes in, before a big splash shot up on the right side of my canoe and just 'bout shocked me half to death. The thing that entered the lake had somehow suddenly got right by my canoe, even though a couple moments before that I heard it makin' sounds 'bout 30 yards away. It shot up out of the water with a horrifying groan-like moaning kind of screaming. Sounded like a bear and a lion screaming at the same time. Looked like a bunch of melted piles of flesh of different animals stuck together, stretched in some places and lumped together in others, with a big gaping maw that stunk to high heaven. Instinct kicked in, and I kicked the thing as hard as I could in the face, or what I thought was a face, about two or three times, before realizing it didn't seem to do much good. Whatever it was swung a big lookin' arm around its right side and heaved the arm on the boat, which made it rock a lot. The big 'ol arm had a deer leg stickin' out of it that was wriggling and twitching. It had a couple of bear arms stickin' out of it, and to my horror, a few human ones too. All of it was somehow mushed and stuck together as one big lumpy abomination of an appendage. I didn't even try to get that good of a look at the thing, I was focused on survival and getting' the Hell outta there. The thing was lettin' out that smell I smelled from its mouth, 'cept it was a hundred times more putrid. It was so strong that I gagged and coughed at the stench. Its grip on the canoe was so strong it started to sink it and break it apart soon after it got ahold of it. I could hear my canoe quickly snapping here and there; I had the oar in my right hand, and hit it in the head with it, dropped it, and bailed. It seemed like the thing was pretty wrapped up in attacking the boat, like it thought I and the canoe were a single organism. I dove into the water and swam as fast as I had ever swam before in my life straight for shore. I heard the monster crushing and snapping my precious canoe apart, screaming horrible, low-pitched groans and moans through the fog. As soon as I got a footing on land, I turned in the water to see the monster slowly sinking back into the water towards me, chunks and parts of my canoe sticking out of it, looked like they were sinking into the thing's flesh.. Bubbles kept coming up from the water, what I assumed was the creature's wretched breath. I started running as fast as possible up the path through the woods to my cabin. I sprinted for miles then I sprinted some more. No way was I gonna look back wastin' time and get caught. I thought I heard the thing either get out of the water or was in the woods looking for me, or what it thought was the rest of the canoe, while I was running. I was too panicked and freaked out to really tell. When I made it to my cabin, my lungs were on fire and I was worn out from running constantly. I looked around and listened for it, but didn't hear anything. None of my dogs seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary, so that was a bigger relief for me. I got inside quick and had my shotgun at the ready for the next three days, didn't do anything without that shotgun within reach of my hands. I never saw of that creature again. Its smell lingered for about a day after the incident, but faded after that...

Your odds of being struck by lightning in any given year are 1 in 700,000. Your odds of being killed by a tornado are 1 in 5 million, although those odds rise to 50 in 5 million if you live in a mobile home. Not even probability is free of classist influences. Your odds of dying in a plane crash are 1 in 60 million--much lower than your odds of dying in a car accident. Your odds of winning the lottery depend on how many people are playing, but they hover around 1 in 300 million in most cases. What if you could change those odds? Not just for yourself, but for anyone in the world? I can. I started noticing my power when I was a teenager. The likelihood of getting shampoo in my eyes? 100 to 1. The odds that the cafeteria would still have dessert left by the time I made it through the lunch line? 1000 to 1. The odds of me hitting a red light on my drive to school? 4 million to 1. Unless I want to hit a red light. That’s how I learned my luck was something I could control. At first, I thought it was just traffic patterns which, as far as superpowers go, is a bit underwhelming. It’s not terrible, but there are definitely better options out there. Then my volleyball team went to state and won for the first time in thirty years. The boy I liked asked me to the winter formal. I aced the SAT, then aced it again when I had to retake it to confirm my score. I think I earned the score both times. I hadn’t changed anything beyond the likelihood that what I studied would be on the tests. I got acceptance letters followed by scholarship offers from every college I applied to. There’s no such thing in life as a guarantee, but being able to manipulate probability is the next best thing. Unfortunately for me, there’s no such thing as actions without consequences either. Increasing the odds that something good happens to me means that it’s less likely to happen to someone else. Maybe someone that needs it more. Decreasing the likelihood that something bad will happen to me means that it’s more likely to happen to someone else. I can’t make luck, just change it. I learned that the hard way. “Hey, darlin’” a man’s voice drawls, and I turn to look at him. Numbers flash through my mind. Odds that he’s dangerous? 1 in 3. Odds that he’s going to bother some other poor woman in this crappy bar if I shuffle probability and make him leave me alone? 7 to 2. Not great. “Hi,” I say. Friendly, but not encouraging. Polite, but hopefully not projecting any interest. “Can I get you a drink?” “My night as the designated driver,” I say, smiling apologetically. It’s not technically a lie--I’m alone in the bar and driving myself home. I’m also working, but I’m clearly not a bar employee. I don’t want to have to make up a lie about what I do. “Quit flirting and pay attention,” a voice snaps from my earbud. “The target will be here any minute.” I would like to tell Alex that I know and that I’m not flirting, and if he hadn’t insisted on putting me in a dress to fit in with this bar’s normal crowd none of this would be happening, but I can’t with the man looming over me. Alex really ought to listen to the woman that can see probabilities. “A shame,” says the man, leaning closer. He smells like cigarettes and I have to fight not to wrinkle my nose. “You know how it is,” I tell him vaguely, scanning the room. Alex is right. The target will be here soon if everything is going according to plan. “Target spotted,” says Alex as if on cue. “Ten o’clock.” Ten o’clock is directly behind the man leering at me. I force my lips into a smile and crank up the probability of him having a bathroom emergency as high as I can. He immediately goes green. “Pardon me,” he mutters and makes a beeline for the restrooms. My line of sight is clear, but the target is nowhere to be found. “Alex,” I hiss. “Where did he go?” Static from the earbud and nothing from Alex. “Alex,” I say, slightly louder. “Where is he? I don’t see the target.” Still nothing. I clamber off of my barstool and hobble toward the parking lot as quickly as I can manage in my ridiculous shoes. This is the last time I let anyone talk me into stilettos. I only have to be able to see someone to change their luck, which means I don’t normally have to run during an op. Occasionally though, while the odds aren’t good, something does go wrong. The surveillance van Alex inhabits is parked at the back of the gravel lot. Even in the dim light, I can see that the doors are open and equipment is scattered everywhere. “Damn it, Alex,” I sigh, and approach cautiously to look for bloodstains. There aren’t any, which is good news. The bad news is I hear footsteps behind me and a man’s voice says, “Hands up. I’ll shoot your friend here if you turn around.” “I’m fine--” Alex gets out, but the man must hit him because there’s the sound of a fist meeting ribs and he goes quiet. There’s nothing I can do to change the probability of the gun misfiring or my attacker suddenly having a heart attack if I can’t see him, which he must know. “Would you be Arnie Gulheim?” I inquire, numbers and scenarios racing through my mind. “Smart and pretty,” Gulheim says approvingly. “Such a shame you came after me tonight. I’m a bit busy, you see.” “Threatening federal agents?” Alex grumbles. “The federal government does seem to take offense when one of their own disappears,” Gulheim muses. “Never anyone from your particular department though. Imagine that.” Because people from our department, even the name of which is classified, often disappear in ways normal people simply don’t. The government doesn’t want anyone asking any uncomfortable questions about agents turning into beetles, columns of marble, or puddles of goo. The odds of Gulheim shooting Alex are high if I try to move. The odds of Alex dying if he’s shot at such a close range are also very high. I should have rigged the lottery ten years ago, consequences be damned, and gone to live on my own private island somewhere far from other people. I hear the click as Gulheim turns the safety on his gun off. I start to spin at the same moment. My dress rips and the roundhouse kick I’d meant to get Gulheim with misses, but he’s startled enough that the shot he gets off goes wide. It hits one of the van’s tires rather than Alex and I use the opportunity to grab all of Gulheim’s health-related probabilities with both metaphorical hands and yank on them. He has a heart attack, an aneurism, and a pulmonary embolism all within five seconds. He hits the ground two seconds later, already dead. “Well,” says Alex as he brushes imaginary dust off his shirt. “The briefing only said they’d prefer if he was brought in alive. It wasn’t a requirement.” I gingerly remove the gun from Gulheim’s slack fingers. “There is that.” Alex dials the clean-up crew’s number. “Tangerine alpha,” he says, which is the code phrase for a single dead body. Then he gives the address, waits a moment, and hangs up. “ETA fifteen minutes,” he informs me. “Want to get pancakes after this?” “I could go for some pancakes.”

"Hey." Jaime's tone was low, almost a mumble. The two men rarely made eye contact tonight, both of them stared longingly out the shuttered diner window. Nothing but darkened storefronts and neon signs advertising various goods were in view. "Erm... Hey. How'd you find me?" Erin looked disheveled, a telltale sign that his mental state was slipping away from him. He came here to be by himself, which seemed to contradict that he was already alone in his apartment prior. "I know you like their shakes, so... it made sense. I swung by your apartment first, but..." "Yeah?" It was almost like Erin was in a fog, half listening, half thinking. "Look, man. I know it's hard. I hate seeing you like this." Jaime braced his elbows on the table, his hands folded in a raised position over the surface. A shaky sigh left Erin's lips, condensing on the window. Droplets of water trickled down the window, the broken jukebox wasn't able to drown out the rain. "Erin, man... You can't keep going like this. You've been spiraling for weeks. I've seen you go through worse without so much as cryi-" "S-stop. Stop, okay?" Erin's voice cracked, his jaw clenched, his throat wavered with ragged breaths. "I haven't been through anything worse than this." Jaime hung his head, looking down at his legs beneath the table. Erin's milkshake sat there, completely melted. He'd been sitting there for hours. "You aren't sleeping again, are you?" He glanced up at the dark circles that seemingly grew to swallow Erin's eyes. Jaime put his hands down, laying his arms on the tabletop. The waitress came by, quietly setting down a cup of black coffee for Jaime. She knew the two of them well, or at least knew their regular orders. Jaime politely nodded in her direction before taking a sip, the girl looked distressed at the sight of Erin's sunken in face. Erin's head leaned against the cold glass, a dull, red neon light cast through the droplets into his cheek. Jaime snuck a peek at his phone. 4 AM. "Lemme take you home, dude. Being alone at your place can't be good for you." Jaime was trying, but he never was good at offering his help. Erin had been for him numerous times, and despite it not being his forte, he had to try. Erin tiredly set a crumpled wad of cash on the table, which his friend pushed back towards his hand. "I got this one, dude. Don't... don't worry." The two men stood, Jaime stood tall over Erin. The hollow looking male gathered his money and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. "Erm... Thanks for letting me stay for a bit, Ava." He cleared his throat, following Jaime out to his transport. Jaime opened the door for his friend, firmly slamming it shut before climbing in on the driver's side. Melodic instrumentals played over the stereo, almost meshing with the low hum of the car powering on. Erin leaned his head back, slipping into a much needed slumber.

“Fear not my lady Abby, thy renowned confidant is here to retrieve thy mislaid soul from the island ‘The Unknown’, said Kat whilst gripping a plastic sword and pointing its sharp end towards the sky. Abby was in a seated position about a meter away. Upon hearing Kate’s hilarious statement, dissolved into laughter and leaned back. Almost lying down on her back. Amid her ceaseless laughter, she managed to word a suitable reply, “Oh, great Kate, make haste and catch my hand in yours and therefore redeem m bewildered humanity”. “Great Kate?”, Kate pointed out, “I think I like that”, she said with a smirk on her lips. Lifting her chin in pride. In classic Abby and Kate style, they were performing in public, at an airport. It didn’t bother them that people walking by stared at them. Neither did they feel embarrassed. Just before Kate could utter another iconic phrase in front of their audience, she was interrupted by the airport announcement. “THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR ABBY HADE AND KATE COLLINS BOOKED ON FLIGHT 385A TO MIDDLECAM CAY. PLEASE PROCEED TO GATE 2 IMMEDIATELY. THE FINAL CHECKS ARE BEING COMPLETED AND THE CAPTAIN WILL ORDER FOR THE DOORS OF THE AIRCRAFT TO CLOSE IN APPROXIMATELY FIVE MINUTES. I REPEAT. THIS IS THE FINAL BOARDING CALL FOR ABBY HADE AND KATE COLLINS. THANK YOU”, said a female voice through the speakers. Abby snapped out of their fantasy play without delay. “You hear that Kate? We have to go now!”, said Abby and began hauling their bags. While Kate, on the other hand, dragged her feet and groaned with her back slouched. She ultimately accepted that it was time for them to leave. After all, they were late. “Come on Kate, we’ve been waiting for this moment since forever. Since high school. We’re finally going to Middlecam Cay”, said Abby in a soft voice. She put her hand on Kate’s shoulder to reassure her. “Cheer up, we’re going to the island at last”, she continued, in an enthusiastic voice. Abby noticed the change in expression on Kate’s face when the announcement came on. But that didn’t stop her from looking forward to the trip. There was something about that feeling she had. Abby couldn’t wait to arrive at Middlecam Cay. She read and heard stories about the island, such as that spirits are wandering in the area and that not everyone survived more than a few months after arriving. Only the pure in heart with pure intentions flourished. ‘The Unknown’ island was indeed a real place, although some people believed it to be a myth. It hadn’t been mapped out yet by cartographers, as they could not attain the accurate measurements of the island’s perimeters. It was rumoured that cartographers would get lost and unearth new plots of land. Thus, forcing them to retake measurements and so the cycle continued. Abby knew all this information but did not mention a word to Kate. She only told her that the hotels were hiring young people and that is why they were travelling there. She knew that Kate would change her mind about leaving home if that were not the reason. As soon as they boarded the plane, the pair was met with two air hostesses. They paged through their papers and cleared them to go on the plane. They walked straight for a few moments and found their seats. Within seconds after fastening their seatbelts, the pair fell asleep without hesitation. Kate and Abby had been best friends for more than a decade. Both told each other everything. Anyone who did not know Abby and Kate was would recognize them as sisters. Meanwhile in Middlecam Cay, ‘The Unknown’ island awaited them. Named by previous army troops centuries ago. The men claimed to have seen and heard a woman’s voice at night. No one believed them. Throughout all their efforts to ask for help, none of it worked. The mysterious woman-like spirit said to one soldier that her name was Samira. There had also been a story about some magical key. It was crucial in finding a way out and going to wherever you wished. To Abby, this was all a mystery to be solved. According to Kate, Middlecam Cay is a city full of job opportunities for young people. Following six hours of sleep from home, Bailee Town, Abby and Kate woke up just moments after touchdown. They listened through the announcement made by the flight attendant. Still drenched in sleep they rubbed their eyes to fully wake up and start departing the plane. The pair felt a force push them from behind which caused them to skip a few steps before landing on dirt with their faces. They spotted unfamiliar insects crawling around with glowing little legs. Abby and Kate stared at each other’s dirty faces in confusion. “Where’d the plane go? Where is everyone else?”, asked Kate in a tight voice. She examined her environment but still could not make out her location. Kate also received no answer from Abby, who seemed to have an idea of what was happening. She presented no sign of amazement. Lost in her thought about where she was, she had long forgotten about Kate’s questions. “Abby, hello? Answer me. You look like you know where we are don’t you?”, Kate shouted at her. “It’s not... not really like that. I-” “You what? Huh? What? Why aren’t you freaking out?” Kate stood up, shook off the dirt on her jacket and skirt, picked up her backpack and began searching for other people. Abby couldn’t let roam alone in this strange place. Not on this Island. She took her backpack and dusted off the dirt on her face and clothes. She saw a glowing ring-shaped object buried in the soil and dried leaves, but didn’t pay much attention to it, Kate was more important. She trailed on Kate’s trails. Abby then felt a tingling sensation along with a dash of warmth travelling down her spine. Droplets of seat running down her forehead, her heartbeat accelerating almost as if it wanted to evacuate her chest. Abby could not wait any longer to enlighten Kate about the information she came by. She leapt closer to Kate and caught hold of her arm and turning her around. “What, you ready to speak now?”, Kate demanded. “Yeah, I do have something to tell y-” “Well then say it,” Kate interrupted” “Okay so listen. We’re at a cursed island according to legends and myths. It’s called ‘The Unknown’ island because no one knows how big it is. Even the most skilled cartographers have been trying to map it out. They keep getting lost and finding new places then getting lost again before they could write down their findings”. Abby let out a heavy sigh before continuing. “It is also said to be a female spirit called Samira that hovers over this strange place and apparently she is the only one who can give us a key to leave this place.” “What key is that and how do we find this Sameri?”, asked Kate. A cold wind blew in their direction, flowing with dried leaves and withered flowers. It seemed to have blown specifically in their direction. Silence. Moments later, Abby replied again to Kate with her now shaky voice. “It’s S-A-M-I-R-A okay, and I don’t know how we can find her. But she can probably see us. As for the key... I also don’t know how we can find it”, she said with her hands in the air and shoulders lifted. “Oh. Okay so let me get this straight Abby. You dragged me to this godforsaken island telling me that we’re here to get hired- “I know but- “No, no buts. You knew very well that this place is creepy, and you tell me about some spirit, magical key story. Make it make sense.’ “Look, we are lucky to have made it this far”, Abby protested. “Lucky? What do you mean lucky, we’re stranded? “Yes, I know that just listen to me. We will make it out of here soon. What I meant is that we have a shot of getting the key from Samira alright?” Abby attempted to convince Kate, but she wouldn’t listen. Kate walked away from her before she could say anything. She didn’t know what to make of the situation. It was nightfall and the cold winds blew again, this time even colder. There was no shelter for them to protect themselves. As it got darker, Abby and Kate grew hungrier. Their delicate skin shivered because of the cold and their empty stomachs rumbled loudly. Every now and then, they glanced at each other. Wanting to say something but couldn’t. Some trees had attractive fruit on their peculiar branches. The fruit looked edible, but the pair weren’t sure whether to eat them or not. The fruit did look different from the ones that they knew. It was now Samira’s time to leave her den and roam over her island as she usually does. In the middle of the night, when the moon has disappeared behind the clouds. What Abby overlooked was that Samira had long been hunted and harmed by notorious witch-hunters seeking to seize the island. They learned to conceal their auras which gave off their bad intentions. Samira had fought plenty of bad people while guarding her island. When she noticed Abby and Kate, she immediately fumed. In response to their presence, Samira sent out all her poisonous insects. One of them bit and infected Kate’s left ankle. Her scream was one with agony, she felt immense pain. Sharp shooting and endless pain. She failed to contain it. Abby was soon overwhelmed with intense worry. She couldn’t ignore her childhood best friend who was now in pain. Abby had studied some of the plants found on the island. She knew that some of them could wounds and bites. However, she had forgotten which leaves and plants to put together. Only a few could surface on her memory. Abby used what she remembered to numb Kate’s pain. This was the perfect time to apologize to Kate and mend their friendship. Samira’s ghost-like voice frightened Abby and Kate, making their hearts skip a beat. Samira demanded that they leave the leave her island. Throughout the whole night, Abby and Kate did not sleep a wink. The screeching sound of Samira’s horrific voice kept them awake. What worsened the experience was the darkness. Morning came and the second Abby and Kate opened their eyes, there she was. A pair of white glowing eyes stared dead into their souls. Abby and Kate froze in awe, allowing only their nostrils to keep the air flowing in and out. Finally, Abby gathered the courage and confronted Samira that instant, “Sa-Samira?... My name is Abby. This is my, my best friend Kate”, she paused to gather her words. “How and why were we able to enter this island? Okay... either way, we’re not here to hurt you, we just want to get to the city. You know the... the hotels and stuff. Ca-Can you please give us the key?” Abby could feel Samira’s fatiguing presence on her body. Kate had her eyes shut and faced to the side while tightly gripping Abby’s hand. Samira didn’t make a sound while Abby pleaded for freedom. She only heard the innocence in her voice. She realized that they could never harm her. A breeze blew through her long and flowing black hair. With that breeze came a kaleidoscope of pink shimmering butterflies. The dead leaves disappeared, and the trees bloomed to life. This left Kate and Abby astonished yet puzzled. Then the soil in front of the rose in the form of a mini-tornado. There a key appeared. “The key?”, said Kate as her mouth widened, “Is that the key?” she further asked. “So... you won’t kill us or make us vanish or something like that?” Abby added. Kate stood closer to Abby and cupped her hand on her ear, “Man I wish she said something”, she whispered. Samira replied, “No I shall not harm you because you did not harm me. Take this key to open the door behind you and leave this island.” A wide door decorated with glistening gold awaited them. Covered with fresh and the most beautiful flowers. Completed with the greenest leaves they’ve ever seen. “Woahhhhhhhhh, that’s so amazing, thank you so so much, Samira!” “My pleasure, and my apologies for last night. Here is some food”, Samira handed them a grass basket full of fresh fruit. Abby and Samira’s stomachs rumbled again. “No biggie, it's cool. At least now we can work at our dream hotel!” said Kate in excitement.

Carl stood in the middle of the dusty road smoking gun in hand staring down at the bloody carcass lying in the road twenty paces in front of him. “How did I end up in this situation again?” He asked himself. The events flashed in his mind scene by scene. He started with image of the 44 slug slamming in to the man’s left breast before the man’s gun cleared leather. He saw the man’s body thrown back by the impact, and the red rose of his wound beginning to bloom before he even hit the ground. Flash! He sees his self standing back to back with the man. They start walking off the paces with the sun low and bright in his eyes as he walked away from his opponent. One...two... three... as he counts off the paces, and he feels a calm come over him. All anxiety just fades away, and his breathing becomes steady. Eight... nine... ten, he spins around fast like a striking rattle snake drawing his pistol and shooting from the hip. He feels the familiar recoil from the colt 44. Flash! He was sitting at a table in the saloon his back to the wall facing the double swinging doors that led to the street. The remains of his meal lay on the pewter plate that rested on the table in front of him. The burn from the whisky was fresh in his chest when the man came bursting through the swinging doors. The mans voice shook with rage as he called out, “Carl Richter come out and meet me!” “What can I do for you friend?” He asked in a clear calm voice. “I’m no friend of yours,” the man barked, “and I am calling you out”. “I’m not looking for trouble,” he said to the man. “I know who you are, and I know what you have done,” the man seethed at him, “are you coming out, or should we settle this here and now?” he asked placing his hand on the butt of his pistol. “No, I’m coming since you have your mind is set,” he said to the man as he rose from the table. He walked towards the door fear clutching at his throat as the man backed out of the saloon. Flash! He is stepping out of the saddle of his big sorrel horse. After tying him up to the hitching post he walked up to the saloon and stopped in the doorway to take in the room before entering. There are five men in the room. The first is the bartender who stands behind the counter with a round ruddy face, large handle bar mustache, and a bright red waist coat. The next man is seated at the bar directly in front of the bartender. He is an older man with a full beard that is stained with tobacco juice. The other three men sit at a table in the center of the room playing cards. One of the card players is a small wiry fellow with round spectacles and wearing a bowler hat. Another of the card players is rotund man in a fine suit with a large bulbous nose. The third card player was a young lanky cowboy with a cheerful mischievous look to him. Not seeing any threats he enters the establishment and proceeds to a table in a dark corner of the room that faced the door. He figured this position would give him the advantage if any one came looking for trouble as he would be in the shadows to someone coming in, and they would be illuminated by the light from the doorway to him. He ordered a meal of steak and potatoes with a glass of whiskey and settled down to enjoy his meal. Flash! He rode in to the settlement high on hope. The settlement was small with one main dirt road lined with low Adobe buildings. The street was quite as he meandered down it on his horse. A few children played in the distance, and a pair of old men sat in rocking chairs on a porch playing a game of checkers. A pretty young Mexican woman stepped out on to her porch with broom in hand, and gave him a pleasant smile before proceed to sweep the porch. “This could be a nice place to settle down,” he thought to himself as he returned her smile and tipped his hat to her as he rode by. Just then two men walked around the corner of building in front him. They looked like range cowboys and were laughing loud and boisterously when one looked up and saw him riding down the street towards them. The man grabbed his companions arm and froze in place starring up at him. He saw the man say something to his fellow, and then he saw the fear that spread across the other mans face before they turned and ran back the way they came from. He pulled his hat down low and shook his head. No this town was not going to be a place he could settle down he has seen those looks before, and he knows what that will mean. He will just stop for some grub then continue his search for a place where nobody knows who he is. Hopefully he can get out of town before there is any trouble. He rides up to the saloon, and stops his horse. Flash! He sits a top his horse and looks down on a sleepy little settlement in the desert valley. “Maybe this will be the place we can settle down,” he says to the horse. Oh how he longs to find that place in his heart. He is tired of rambling from place to place. He is tiered of the men that search him out just to make a name for themselves. He can’t remember the last time he has had a good nights sleep. The last time he could call a place home. This little sleepy town represents hope to him. Represents opportunity. He can feel the hope growing inside of him. He knows this is dangerous. Every time he gets his hopes up they always crash down that much harder when he gets disappointed. He kicks his hose in to motion and walks slowly towards the town. Flash! He is a young man fresh out of the war and headed home to Texas. He stopped in a town for a drink when three union soldiers approach him. Walking up behind him the biggest man grabs his shoulder and spins him around. “Your in the wrong place boy!” The man says loudly. “Yeah, we don’t want no rebs in here,” his friend interjects shoving his finger in to Carl’s chest. The third man just smiles at him while displaying a large Bowie knife that he has in his procession. “I’m not looking for any trouble. I’m just trying to get home,” he says to the men in a mild tone. “You should have thought of that before you decide to become a traitor to your own country boy!” The big man roars as he grabs the front of Carl’s shirt, and slams his fist into Carl’s face. Everything goes black just for a second after the mans fist makes contact. All three men proceed to hit and stomp on him while he is down. The rain of blows is so fierce he can’t even fight back. All he can do is curl up, and protect his self the best he can. After a few minutes the men start to walk away laughing at him as he lays there bleeding. He struggles to his feet and calls out to the men, “hey! Where do you think your going?” The men turn around. “You want some more boy?” The big man growls at him. “Let’s see how good you three are with those pistols your packing,” he says to the men raising his hand to his hip wiggling his fingers next to his pistol. All three men reach for their own pistols. The fear and rage drain away instantly to be replaced by an odd feeling of calm and focus in him. The men look like they are moving in slow motion. The big man is the first to get his hand on his pistol, and Carl draws his. Shooting from the hip he shoots the big man right between the eyes. Then he shoots the other two. The man with the knife was the only one to get a shot off, but it was a wild shot, and he didn’t live long enough to get a second chance. The saloon became a bee hive of commotion. He had to fight his way out. He jumped on his horse and ran out of town as fast as he could. He’s been running ever since.

Mary-Ann could not believe her luck in finding a three-bedroom apartment with the utilities included! Now all she had to do was convince her two best friends - to move into the three-bedroom apartment. They all made a pact to go to the same university. She could have moved into an on-campus dorm - but she wants to know about the feeling of independence and freedom - from her parents. "Kate, Steve, please, please!!!" Mary-Ann pleads with her two friends to share the three-bedroom apartment. Kate pipes up and says, "I want the room with the second-best amount of closet space!" Mary-Ann giggles and agrees - that she can have the room with the second-best amount of space. Steve is standing in the hallway - thinking hard about moving in or not. Mary-Ann turns to Steve, sensing that he is not one hundred percent on board yet. "Steve, I know you wanted the dorm experience - but having our very own space to ourselves - how can you pass this up!?!" Steve finally gives his answer, "Alright -alright, you guys, let's do this!" The apartment has furnishings, so they only need a few oversized items and some essentials. They each run to their rooms of choice and begin the process of making it their own. Adding their signature touches. After getting the apartment set up after a long day, they order from the local Pizza place called "The Campus Slice." The order arrives - they are hungry and ordered enough for an army. "Lots of leftovers for tomorrow!" Steve chimes in with a smile. Steve is like an old shoe - he acts like a 30-year-old man rather than an 18-year-old. And Mary-Ann and Kate are like his two younger sisters - he wishes he had growing up. On the first day of classes, the three of them wish to meet up for lunch, but it would be impossible with their class schedules! "No worries - we will meet up for some leftovers for supper tonight!" Mary-Ann says as she hurries off to her first class of the day. They each run off in opposite directions to start their journeys. As time passes, Mary-Ann, Kate and Steve - are preoccupied with their studies and barely see each other. Except for the odd supper together and on-campus gatherings. Mary-Ann is so focused and into her studies, she begins - to rely on things she sees as - giving her a leg up. The things she sees as - lots and lots of coffee. Steve and Kate seem to be managing well with their course load. Mary-Ann is envious of how well - Steve and Kate are doing - the two of them were the same way throughout high school "organized and steady." One day Mary-Ann oversleeps and misses a whole day of classes. It does not faze her - she rolls over and sleeps the day away. This behaviour becomes a habit - but Mary-Ann manages to hold onto her academic year by - borrowing her class-mates notes and following her Doctor's orders of medication regiment and lots of coffee - to get her over the hurdle. Somehow, someway, she gets by, then one afternoon, her professor takes her aside to ask her if things are alright with her and if she needs any guidance. "No, I am excellent - Professor Ryan - if you are wondering about the term paper - I will have it done by the deadline," Mary-Ann goes on to tell him that sometimes her Lupus flares up, and she needs to take the odd day to rest. Professor Ryan - tells her to take an extra week if she feels she needs it. Mary-Ann has suffered from Lupus since she was 15 years of age - she tells her professor. Steve and Kate are waiting for Mary-Ann when she gets back to the apartment. The aroma of freshly baked lasagna and garlic bread fills the apartment. "What's all this?" Mary-Ann cannot believe they went through all this trouble to cook a "real" Home Cooked meal. "Mary-Ann, Steve and I feel a bit guilty for not checking in with you as often as we should have and wanted to catch up with you!" "We also want to know if your Lupus is under control - we both know how taxing it was for you in high school," Steve chimes in with a caring and inquiring tone. "Guys - guys, like I told Professor Ryan, I am fine and sometimes - I require the odd day to rest." Steve and Kate rush over to Mary-Ann and give her a huge. They all sit down at the table to enjoy the meal, and you would think things were back to how they were before the start of university - but Mary-Ann knows differently. It is the mid-way point in the university year, and Mary-Ann's parents decide to make a special visit. "Hey - guys, my parents are coming up for a short visit - you know to check our digs and to drop off a care package!" Steve and Kate - do a "Happy Dance" cause they know her parents will include them in the care package. "When are they arriving?" both Steve and Kate ask eagerly. The day after tomorrow, the 20 th . Mary-Ann hopes it will be a quick visit! The day arrives, and Mary-Ann's parents have brought enough "care package goodies" to last the three of them for a while. After everyone is up to speed with campus life and progress, Kate and Steve decide to step out for a few hours - to give Mary-Ann time to spend with her parents - Margret and Tim. "Honey, how are you feeling - are the pills working - since the adjustment in the dosage?" Mary-Ann's mother, Margret, gets right to the point. "Mom - I think they need to be adjusted a little - I am a bit more tired than normal." Her father states, "Doctor Fin did say this change may cause some drowsiness or sleep disturbances." Margret puts her arms around Mary-Ann, "Don't worry, honey, your father and I will get you sorted out - with Doctor Fin." Her parents no sooner arrived, and they were leaving - saying their goodbyes. Mary-Ann had a long conversation with her Doctor. He explained how her medication for Depression and Anxiety would be changed - the usual drill, what to expect with side effects, and how long they usually last. When she picks up the new prescription, Mary-Ann asked if Doctor Fin could include all of this information. Mary-Ann's parents question her again before they finally leave, "Are you sure you want to continue with this lie of having "lupus" instead of letting people know you have a "mental illness?" Mary-Ann tells her parents, "Yes, Mom and Dad, I cannot let this get out - it could hurt my ongoing scholarship or worse!" Mary-Ann has left for morning classes - but Steve and Kate do not have classes until the afternoon. Both of them are still in their pyjamas lounging around until their first afternoon classes. "Steve do you have any extra notepad paper and pens - I need to pick some up this week," Kate asks Steve as she goes through the desk in the living room. Steve replies, "No, but I think Mary-Ann just picked a whole bunch of stuff up the other day - when she went to the pharmacy - I am sure she wouldn't mind if you borrowed a few things." Kate pauses for a moment - and agrees with Steve - she will reimburse her tonight. Kate pushes the door to Mary-Ann's room open and immediately sees the shopping bag full of school supplies. She reaches into the bag and takes out a notepad and a few writing pens. Kate starts to write Mary-Ann a note letting her know about borrowing the notepad and pens. As Kate leaves the room, she stops to place the message on her bedside table and notices a prescription. It catches her eye because the prescription is for Zoloft and Wellbutrin. Kate is in shock, and her mind starts racing how Mary-Ann can handle university - when she is dealing with - Lupus and now a mental illness! In the evening, Kate has decided to make a nice meal to discuss some things with Mary-Ann - she is very concerned about her well-being. "Wow, it smells great, Kate!" Steve yells from his bedroom. Mary-Ann seconds that, "Yes, Kate, it smells wonderful and cannot believe you made dessert as well!" The oven's timer goes off, and dinner is ready! Everyone sits down to supper. As Mary-Ann gets up to clear the dishes, Kate says, "Mary-Ann sit, sit, let's have dessert and some coffee. I need to talk to you about something." Mary-Ann and Steve look at Kate, both surprised at how serious her tone and body language appear. "I hope I am not in trouble!" Mary-Ann says jokingly - while looking in Steve's direction. "Of course not!" Kate says quickly - trying to reassure her. I happened to be in your bedroom this morning - I was looking for a notepad and some pens - Steve mentioned that you had just bought some and probably wouldn't mind if I borrowed some." Mary-Ann looks at her with a grin and says, "No, silly, I have always told if you need anything, just check in my desk - you know that!" Kate looks down for a minute, then says, "Well - I did borrow a notepad and some pens, but as I was leaving your bedroom, I happened to see a prescription, a prescription for antidepressants." Steve finally looks up from his large piece of black forest cake in shock. "Mary-Ann, please don't be mad at me, but Steve and I, we care about you and want to be there for you if you need us for anything!" "Kate is right; she and I care about you and know having lupus has held you back a little, but you are strong and have not let it stop you from anything!" Steve rushes over and hugs Mary-Ann so tight she thinks she may stop breathing. Mary-Ann gestures for both of them to sit down on the sofa. "I have a confession to make...I have never had Lupus or suffered from it." Kate and Steve are sitting on the sofa and look confused and lost. "Wait a minute - you mean that you lied about having lupus all through high school?" Kate asks in disbelief. "Now the reason why I lied about having lupus was to cover up the real truth - I have... a mental illness," tears start to stream down Mary-Ann's face slowly. Kate rushes over to Mary-Ann and grabs her by the shoulders, "You, listen here, my friend I love you like the sister I never had - and if you think this realization/truth - changes the way Steve and I feel about you - this could not be further from the truth!"

"Anna, I know you consider me a friend, but there's no time like the present, so here it goes. I've loved you since I first saw you; you're beautiful, funny, and one of the smartest demons I've ever met. Do you think we could be more than just friends?" Aiden, the demon said as he was sucked away from his conversation and transported to the summoning bureau. "Are you serious?" Aiden was enraged. A summoning bureau demon clerk has a case file for Aiden to review. "It appears that we have three teens who were curious by something they read on the internet and were successful in summoning a demon. You were chosen for summoning duties in a random lottery," said the demon clerk. "They encourage you to vote, and then you start getting summoned all the time," Aiden says angrily to the clerk. "I'm sorry, that's how it works," the clerk said as she pressed a button, sending Aiden to the human realm. He enters the bedroom, surrounded by candles and pentagrams, with three emo teenage girls. The summoning of a demon is extremely unpleasant for the demon, and Aiden howls in agony. The three emo teenagers screamed and left the room in terror. Once a demon enters the human realm, they have to stay there for 24 hours, meaning that Aiden will not get an answer to his question until the end of that time. Demons have regular lives, just as humans; they have relationships, go to the laundromat, and even attend school. The school curriculum consists primarily of horror films and other propaganda depicting humans negatively; there is little doubt that history, tradition, and experience contribute to demons' negative views against humans, and vice versa. Aiden quickly becomes invisible, as he has been taught in school. This is his third summons in two months, and he's fed up and ready to take it out on some humans. To make matters worse, Aiden glances around the room and notices a bottle of holy water, a crucifix, and a Bible. "Wonderful, an exorcism," Aiden thought to himself. An exorcism is one of the worst summonses a demon can receive; it's torment. Aiden sees the emo teen's younger sister and instantly takes control of her body. He employs some of the school-taught tactics, such as rotating her head 360 degrees, gushing puke, and, of course, turning crucifixes upside down. He's been on enough summonings to know what's going to happen next: the family will freak out, they'll call the priest, and then they'll make with the holy water, the Latin, the power of Christ compels you, blah, blah, blah. Aiden liked frightening this family, but his thoughts are with Anna; he loves her. As Aiden predicted, the priest arrived a few hours later, and the exorcism began, over 18 hours of suffering for a demon. His time ran out, and he was forced to return to the demon realm. As soon as he got back, he dashed to Anna to hear her response. Anna was surprised to see him when he arrives. "Has it really been 24 hours, Aiden?" she asked. "Yes, my love, I couldn't wait to see you again," Aiden said. "Oh, that's nice," Anna said, playing it nonchalantly. "So, do you have nothing to say about my admission?" Aiden asked. "About that," Anna continued, "we're such good friends; I wouldn't want to mess things up with a romance," Aiden was devastated. The love of his life has friend-zoned him. Aiden plunged into profound despair after being rejected by Anna; he didn't care about anything. Aiden was surrounded by pizza boxes, empty beer bottles, and the stench of his own filth a few weeks later. He was abruptly summoned back to the summoning bureau, where the same clerk was sitting behind the desk. "Okay, we have a religious zealot who believes a demon will aid him in smiting people who have wronged him. I guess he's in for a surprise," the clerk said, trying to make light of the situation. Aiden aggressively ignores her. "Whatever, just push the button." Despite the agony, Aiden couldn't muster enough strength to roar, only a wince. He didn't care, and he was going to make it known that he didn't care. "Finally, I will no longer be overlooked, not with the might of a demon on my side," the religious zealot declares, surrounded by torches and pentagrams. Aiden calmly walks right past the zealot and out the door. "Hey, where are you going? Aren't you going to assist me in exacting vengeance on those who have treated me unfairly?" The zealot said, perplexed. Aiden keeps walking, so depressed and enraged that he doesn't care if he's visible. He wanders the human realm's streets, alone and dejected. This summoning occurs in New York City; therefore, a demon that was visible to humans was no big deal; just another eccentric on the subway. In fact, Aiden sat next to a human on the L train, and it didn't phase them in the slightest. "How's it going, buddy?" The human asked. Aiden chose to ignore him. "Hey, I get it, but I told my shrink I would talk to 10 new people this week, and I've already started with you, so what do you say? My name's Arthur." "Aiden," he said. "So, tell me, what's bugging you?" Arthur asked. "I don't want to talk about it," an enraged Aiden said. "Look, no matter what happened, things get better. For example, take me, my wife cheated on me, left me, took my children, and now I pay HER alimony. If you only take one piece of advice from me, it's this: don't skimp on the lawyer," Arthur stated. "Yeah, I've had no luck with love either; it's not worth it," Aiden said. "Oh, a fresh wound, you sound exactly like me six months ago. Let me guess: you're depressed, you don't want to do your job, and you're always angry," Arthur said. "You get it; there's no point in putting yourself out there; all you get in the end is hurt," Aiden said. "I'm not sure about that. People will tell you that there are other fish in the sea, but that's nonsense. However, the only way to get out of your funk is to have some fun. If the right one comes along, the right one comes along; there's no pressure; you simply have to let it happen," Arthur said. Aiden commented, "You sound like a damn fortune cookie." "Heck, I got tonight off; why don't you be my wingman? We'll meet some people, drink some cocktails, and forget about our exes," Arthur said. "I don't think so; all I want is to be alone," Aiden responded. "Come on, what else you got going on? Chicks like the bulked-up bad-boy type, I need you, man," Arthur stated. "All right," Aiden said, "I'll have one drink." That night, Arthur and Aiden went to a bar and met some delightful people; they sang karaoke, played bar trivia, and Aiden even got so drunk that he did a coyote ugly dance on the bar; much to the horror and fright of most of the patrons. The bottom line is that Arthur helped him forget about Anna while also demonstrating to him that not all humans are as evil as demons are taught in school. Aiden's summons had expired by the morning, and he was returned to the summoning bureau, where the same clerk sat behind the counter. Aiden remembered how he had treated her the previous two times he had been there. "Hey, it's you. I apologize for the past couple of summons; I was in a bad mood at the time, and it wasn't ideal timing. I should not have taken my frustrations out on you," Aiden said. "No problem, I get that all the time; no one enjoys summoning duty; at least you apologized," the clerk said. "My name is Aiden. You're always pleasant in this difficult job; I just wanted to express my appreciation," Aiden said. "My name is Jackie. I get off in a half-hour; maybe you could tell me more about how you appreciate me while you buy me a drink." Aiden smiles.

*'pressure failure, resecure seals'* *weep weep* I have a splitting headache, something is pressing hard against my head. "That. Hissing." I'm floating half conscious. My ears ring with beeping, hissing and droning speech. What is that feeling...? I convulse and scream as my skin is pulled through the ajar hip seal of my vessel. "Crap crap crap!" I pry apart the plates while contorting away, blood sprays out of the seal in a red mist and the hissing screeches to a maximum. I taste blood as I bite down, forcing the pieces together and pinching the wound until finally it clicks. My ears pop and I'm left in agony slowly spinning amongst the debris. *snort* *sobs*. "Ow, ow, oh Mother what happened here? " I unclench my eyes and take in the scrolling view before me. I glance about the reading in my vessel's interface. I thought I was lucky. But I was wrong. "Hero-sync" *bleep bleep* I wince and sharply draw breath, "read out vessel status." The harmonic voice chimes *"internal temperature at 5° Celsius, battery percentage at 58 percent, 75 of 500 liters of gas 14%.*" "Great, I'm going to die of blood loss, hypothermia, asphyxiation, and radiation poisoning." I glance about the remnants of ship hull, tools and other odds floating about. Nothing really usable here. The room starts growing darker. I grab onto a fistful of metal debris and throw it to start spinning. As the void that once was half of the room comes into view *crash* I am smashed by a boulder from the side. All of the seals on the suit give. After brief hissing the room becomes distant. "No no no!" I scream. The void of space is my new heading and faster than I'd like. I twist and pivot rapidly ignoring the searing pain as I look for something, anything. A rebar sticking out! I grab on. I start to slow. *crash* the boulder hits me again and I and the rebar slip beyond the reach of any hope of survival. "Wait wait." I start to twist and fling the rebar away. As it slides through my gaping grip, I see what has been throwing its momentum at me. My bookcase! "Haha! Yes! I may not die after all." I glance up at the shrinking ship. "I guess it's now or never" I start heaving off the lower hand chisled mahogany doors. I launch them as hard as I can away from both me and my only shelter. "It's at least not getting smaller any faster." I chuckle. *grunt* I begin throwing books. "The small ones in groups, I want to be lighter when I start doing more work" I sigh. Half the bookcase is now gone. I glance up, it feels like I've made no progress but the ship doesn't seem to changing size anymore. I breathe a sigh of relief "Phew, I don't want to lose any books now though." My reckless tossing and handling has caused the books to start skidding closer to one side. I grab one as it slips out of the group. I throw a few more books as the ship begins to grow larger again. "What happened to you Phoenix?" I look over what I can see of the missing half of the ship. The massive rounded white metal disk looks like a frisbee with the absence of a shark mouth in it. Starry space where part of my home is suppose to be. As I drift closer I see some of the internal silver chambers jammed and half-cocked outside the outer white shell of the ship. The centrifuge that spins the environment modules is completely destroyed. Looks like I'm not getting gravity when I get back. "Ha, it kind of looks like silver toy dough pushed out of a mold. Should be easy to slip in through an intermodular pressure hatch." I look down. Only a quarter of the books are left. I throw the remaining books, my hardback collection of antiques to correct my drift toward an opening. I can see most of the ship's pieces again and see the time isolation chamber I had just flown from. I mumble in awe, "if whatever it was hit a few meters over I might have been dead." I finally drift into the empty space that was part of my ship. "I could fit an old city from the moon colony days in here." I let another book out of my grip and look down. The bookcase is empty and behind me a trail of books floats beyond. I don't know how me and this bookshelf are gonna slow down. I look towards the blunt edge of the ship I am careening towards.

1175 As I wrap a shawl around my shoulders, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Lines etch my face whispering of a life long-lived. I shake my head and leave my small home. Neighbors nod to me in greeting but say nothing and that is the way I prefer it. Especially today. Today was not a day for talking but for remembering. Even if I was the only one who did. 1135 The echo of the dropped platter rings in the hall. Everyone looks at me. I do not look at them but drop to the floor. I’m supposed to be invisible; not drawing attention to myself. I scramble to pick up the fallen fruit as the conversation in the hall grows again. I am already forgotten. A pair of boots enters my vision, followed by knees. A hand holds out two dropped apples. In the reflection of the polished tray, I see the blurred image of a man. I glance up at him as I grab the apples. “My apologies, my lord.” I speak quickly, hoping to avoid any scolding. “It was an accident. No harm done.” He helps me gather the fruit. When the tray full once more, he stands, taking it with him. No knight should be helping like this. I stand, and make to take the tray but he does not let go. “I am Sir Alfred.” I’m not sure what he wants me to do with that information. I’m a servant; not his equal. Like everyone else in the room, he should be ignoring my existence until he was in need of something. “This is the point where you tell me your name.” The corners of his mouth pull up into a smile. “Sarah.” I reach for the tray again and this time he lets it go. He inclines his head. “It’s nice to meet you Sarah.” He turns away and I’m left watching him go. 1175 The hill is steep. It takes a long time and a great deal of energy to climb. Time I have, but these days my energy is lacking. Each step takes more effort than the last one but I plant my walking stick and continue on. No hill will stop me. 1135 This hill is going to kill me. I just hope it does before my arms fall off. Already they ache from carrying a picnic basket for the hunting party. I glance at the men struggling with carrying tables up the hill. At least I’m not one of them. “Quickly!” Master Collins shouts. “Quickly. We need to be ready before the lords and ladies are done with their ride.” “Maybe they should ride slower.” A servant girl beside me mutters. I press my lips together, trying not laugh. She catches my look and grins. I can’t help but smile back. “I’m Mary.” “Sarah.” I say. “What are you carrying?” “Blankets. The heavens help them if they feel a small chill.” She rolls her eyes and I bite back a giggle. “And what about you?” “All the bread.” It was surprisingly heavy. We crest the hill and we both give a sigh of relief. We look at each other and laugh. 1175 Wind whips at my skirts, tugs at my hair, and stings my face. Still, I press on. 1135 Lady Carin storms through the kitchen gardens. Mary and I exchange wide-eyed looks. The lady was known for unpredictability. As changeable as the wind, I’d heard others whisper. Furious as a storm one moment and as gentle as a breeze the next. “You two.” She points at us as if she were the queen of the country. And considering we were only servants, she might as well have been. “What are you doing?” Mary glances at me and then answers. “Pulling the weeds, my lady.” Lady Carin drops to her knees. I stare at her in horror. Her lady’s maid will have a field day if her dress is stained. She merely lifts an eyebrow at our stunned looks. “Which ones are the weeds?” I silently point to one. She nods and starts pulling; acting as if this is the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing. Mary shrugs and we both go back to work. 1175 I crest the hill. Standing atop the hill is a tall stone. Most in the village don’t know why it’s here or what it means. But I do. And it means everything to me. 1135 “Father is a fool.” Lady Carin mutters from her spot on the bench; her chin perched in her hand. The day is warm and we are all outside under the shade of a tree. Neither Mary nor I say anything. Mary weaves flowers into a garland for the summer festival while I work on stitching a sleeve together. After the day in the kitchen garden, Lady Carin had appointed us as her personal servants, claiming we were the only two she had ever met who had taken her in stride. There had been quite the to do though when she had announced it- everyone protesting from her mother to the chamberlain while the other servants gave both Mary and me dirty looks. Lady Carin, however, had stormed and everyone had bent to her desire. “No comment?” She asks. I lift an eyebrow at her. What were we to say to that? Sir Alfred stalks over to us, his hands clenched, and his jaw tight. He’s a distant cousin of Lady Carin’s but they look like they could be brother and sister. “You father is a fool,” He announces in much the same tone as Lady Carin had. The lady gives us a look, as if saying, “See? I’m not the only one.” I shake my head and focus on the stitches. I have no desire to undo them later because of my lack of attention now. Sir Alfred paces in front of us. “He is going to get us all killed.” “Or worse. Married.” Lady Carin’s nose wrinkles in disgust. I had seen her potential suitors and I heartily agreed with her. All of them looked at Lady Carin like she was a piece of meat they were ready to devour. “Marriage won’t stop the coming carnage.” Sir Alfred says. Mary’s brow furrows as she lays aside a finished garland. “What do you mean?” “The battle lines have already been drawn. Whatever side my lord chooses, will only determine who we are fighting against.” I glance at my lady and she nods. “So either way, we’ve lost?” Mary asks. Sir Alfred nods and my stomach twists. War was coming to Tingel Castle whether we wanted it or not. Now, all we could hope to do was survive. 1175 I trace the markings on the rock. The Tingel seal and our names. The only known survivors. It had taken Alfred days to cut deeply into the rock to ensure that the markings would not easily be worn away; that they would withstand the test of time. A testament to the ones who had survived. Carin, Alfred, Mary, and Sarah. 1135 We stand on the hill watching Tingel burn in the distance. We had had no warning. The castle had been set on fire. So many of the escape routes had been cut off by our enemies. But Sir Alfred and Lady Carin had known of the castle’s secret passages and had gotten us out. A miracle. But now it was only the four of us. Lady Carin, Sir Alfred, Mary, and me. 1175 I close my eyes and off up a prayer of gratitude. We had survived that horrendous night. We had hidden, later fought, but most of all we had lived. 1135 It has been three nights since the attack on Tingel. Three nights since we had all lost everything save each other. I cup water in my hands, disturbing my reflection in the stream. It’s the closest thing anyone had to a mirror these days. We all look horrible- tired, hungry, dirty, and grief-stricken. “Do you think we’ll even make it?” Lady Carin’s voice is soft, gentler than a breeze caressing a face. We all look at each other. It would be so easy to give up. Turn ourselves over to Tingel’s enemies and die. “I’m not giving up.” Sir Alfred says. “Me either.” Mary crosses her arms determinedly. Lady Carin looks at me. I smile softly, a truth settling deep in my heart. “We’re going to live.”

Jaanvi had moved to Solnit islands a week ago and the brunch was her first Saturday outing. The café had a long table at the center to enable people to mingle. Jaanvi sat next to a handsome man with blue eyes, soft hair and a toned stomach. As she sat down, he turned towards her and initiated conversation. As she reached the end of her explanation about 16 th century technology with rapt attention from him, something clicked. His hand started contracting and pulsing. His eyes bulged and sprang back, deep into his head. His hair separated from his scalp and flew away, looking not very different from a swarm of birds. His stomach morphed into a blue heart. She shook her head and then all that was left sitting in front of her was a giant, warm, blue heart. “Are you okay? Why did you stop mid-sentence?” he asked. “Are you okay?” was her response. “Of course, what do you mean?” he sounded confused. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes, yes, never mind. I think I have to go.” “Hey. Wait, did something happen? Can I help?” “No, I’ll be okay. Don’t worry. Thanks. Bye.” As she left the café, she looked closer at the pedestrians and breathed a sigh of relief to see normal anatomical parts and proportions. She decided to take a stroll along the lake. There was a beautiful park around the lake. As Jaanvi walked, she noticed a woman with her child. She was reading out of a book with animated voices and gestures. Jaanvi stood there, enjoying the story as much as the child. When the woman noticed Jaanvi, she asked her to join them and offered her a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, which brought a huge smile on her face. As she took a bite and looked up, the woman had somehow transformed into a giant blue heart too. She shrieked and her sandwich fell on the ground. A huge, panting Labrador came along and ate the sandwich before anyone could think of doing anything about it. Jaanvi couldn’t help catching hold of the dog and snuggling with it. The well fed dog happily allowed the cuddles. When Jaanvi let go and opened her eyes to ask the dog where it had come from, she screamed. The dog had also transformed into a big, blue heart. Jaanvi got up and started running away. Once she had gotten far enough, she sat down on a bench and stared into the lake. It was calm. The day was bright. And she could hear a sweet melody which further helped her even her breathing. She could hear the melody come closer. Soon she could hear the words, “She looked like a bright sunny day Her firy red hair, oh how it swayed Her hazel eyes so bright Made me feel warm and light And in love!” And he made eye contact with her. “She was big and soft Blue, oh so blue On this bright sunny day All I want is her smile And that’s what I’m going to do” He sat down on the bench next to her. She smiled at him and asked the million-color question, “Why did you say I was blue?” “Because I fell in love with you!” “What?” “I mean that in the nicest way. No creepiness, no stalking. I’ll walk away right now if you want me to. But you made me feel like sunshine and smiles! And I loved you for that.” “Okay, so whenever you love someone they turn blue?” “Yes, blue pulsing hearts. Have you never fallen in love?” “Of course I have! But I just moved here last week.” “Oh then I’ll let you explore the magic of Solnit islands by yourself. Just keep your eyes and your heart open!” Jaanvi sat on the bench for a long time. She wanted to figure out what the man meant? When exactly do people turn into big blue hearts? And do they turn back? And well, how do you get used to just looking at big blue hearts? This is so stupid. Will she look like an ugly big heart to other people too? Then what is the point of having such good looks that she had spent so much time and money over? And she likes seeing beautiful, aesthetic things, especially faces and bodies. The idea of seeing a big blue heart all the time unnerved her. An obese man with shaggy facial hair sat next to Jaanvi on the bench. He was panting from the strain of the walk. Jaanvi looked away from him. After he had caught his breath, he said, “Thanks for waiting for me to catch my breath. That was mighty kind of you. I’m Harry.” She turned, “I’m Jaanvi, Hi” and turned away again. “Mighty pretty day, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes it is.” Jaanvi did not turn. “Are you waiting for someone?” Loneliness and homesickness were a cocktail that did not sit well in Jaanvi’s stomach. She looked towards her lap and mumbled, “No, I just moved here last week. I’m just out exploring I guess.” “Oh that’s mighty good then! I would love to show you around. Would you let me show you around?” Jaanvi looked him up and down and the said, “Yes, sure, I’d like that.” Both of them got off the bench and Jaanvi said, “Thanks for doing this.” “Oh no, thank you, for helping me see this place with fresh eyes!” Jaanvi rolled her eyes at that, then smiled. “The place I’d like to take you to is a 15 minute walk away. Is that alright?” “I love walking, especially in such nice weather!” “Perfect! I love walking too!” “Oh really?” Harry turned towards her. Jaanvi looked up, “Oh I’m sorry I did not mean it like that. I did not intend for it to come out so snarky. I just saw you panting before. So I Guess I assume dyou did not enjoy something that tires you and hurts you so much. Sorry I assumed.” “Oh there’s no need to apologize. Yes, walking is hard and tiring. But it is so beautiful and I love looking around and talking to companions. So it’s totally worth it. After all, aren’t all worthy things really hard and tiring?” Jaanvi flashed him a big smile and held his hand as they walked. Harry led the way to a library. Jaanvi broke into a giggled as she twirled around, taking it all in. It was like a library from Instagram, complete with pretty motifs, high ceilings and that beautiful feeling of being immersed in books. Jaanvi loved reading fiction. She read a gorgeous illustration on the wall, reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are. She pointed it to Harry and then walked towards the aisle with the latest books. Harry laughed, “I figured you’d love this place!” “I do, I do!” “Is this another marriage in the library?” was overheard and they both blushed. When Jaanvi looked up, she saw a big blue heart where Harry was. Two hours can change so much. They walked out of the library with one book each that they had chosen for the other. Harry said, “Next, may I interest you in a cozy ice cream place that will whip up any flavor you wish for?” “I’d love that!” They walked to the bus stop and chatted as they waited. “Hey hot stuff, why are you with an oaf like him?” Both of them turned towards the voice. “How could you want to be with such an ugly thing? Oh right must be that idiotic blue heart nonsense. But I’m sure you can see me. And my soft golden curls, my very well defined stomach and biceps and look at these dimples!” Jaanvi turned away and tried to ignore him by continuing her conversation with Harry. “As usual. This is so stupid. I wish this thing looked less cheesy but here, it is a bow and arrow. The arrow of bias and the bow of discrimination. And I can burst any blue heart with it. So well, will you give in now and come with me or will you do it after I burst the heart and you see his ugly old self again?” Out of instinct, Jaanvi dragged Harry and went into the library. The man with the bow and arrow followed. “Really, you’re quite stupid for someone who claims to read.” He dragged the arrow on the bow and aimed it at Harry. Jaanvi blocked the arrow with a book and it deflected. He tried again and failed again. “What is happening? These arrows aren’t supposed to be deflected by anything!” An attendant ducked from another aisle, “Librarians are always at your service, and answering questions that Google cannot. Well, the bow and arrow is powered by biases and superficiality. These books of fiction make readers empathetic; they provide people with mirrors to themselves and windows into other worlds. So fiction and empathy win over biases.” And she ducks out. The man pulls another arrow onto the bow, looks at Harry, looks at Jaanvi, and then shakes his head and walks away, putting the arrow back. “Not worth it. Stupid stories, making people feel things. Eww.”

Part 3. His hand was held out to me steady and strong. A sword, his sword, rested across his palm. My eyes went from his to the sword and back again. It was then I noticed how thin he had become, how grey his hair was now. His face, once smooth and strong, was now spotted and wrinkled with age and worry. But worry for what? For who? For me? But why, I was to be believed as dead these past two years. I opened my mouth to ask why, but he shook his head and nodded at the sword. I took it and belted it to my hip. Turning, I faced my opponent, unnamed, and unknown to me but as an abuser of innocent men. I drew the sword slowly, cherishing its weight and the slow nearly silent hiss as it left the waxed sheath. Its blade was thin, light in my hands, and perfectly balanced. Exactly as I remembered my father's blade from so many years ago. The tall man had had enough and yelled, "At you then!" And rushed me with his outstretched sword point. My training flooded back to me after years of neglect, and I barely slapped the blade aside with the flat of my own. He cut across my abdomen, and I wasn't fast enough to deflect it all. A thin cut opened on my shirt, and a bead of blood appeared on my bare chest. He grinned at me then, surely thinking the fight would be a quick one. He was correct in thinking so. I had stumbled as I had tried to move back from his cut, my legs not working as I knew I needed them to. But in that moment, I felt more strength in them than i had thought i ever would again. Again and again, he struck at me. Cut, thrust, cut, slash, thrust, thrust again. Each time, he nicked me in some small way. But each time, I equally found my footing more sure. I was certain I would never be what I once was, though certain also that I would always be better than this fool of a man. Only a scant few moments had passed, and I found my body warming to the thrill of the fight. I stepped left, dripping the tip of my blade. He followed to the right, lashing out at my neck. My tip came up under his strike and cut his wrist lightly. My feint was a success, and now he was fearful of me. I pushed him then, striking low, then high. Forcing his guard out wide, I took my opening and thrust my father's sword through his belly and out through his spine. He went down like a sack and died groaning and whimpering in his own blood. I stood over him, gasping for air. My legs trembled and burned from the effort. A feeble hand grasped my arm, and a weather worn and tanned face of the farmed loomed up at me with tears flowing. "Thank you, young master! Thank you! Thank you!" I smiled down at him, "Think not of it at all good, sir. We are all men. If we don't stand for each other, we will fall together." I turned from him then and stepped to my father again. "Son," he said, his voice low and somber. "Your mother was worried for you." I felt tears well in my eyes and could scant force them away. "Mother," I asked with a broken voice, "Is she?" He nodded gravely, "Aye, and your sister and younger brother too. We've been looking for you for a long time, boy." I shook my head in disbelief. "How?" Is all I could utter. For the first time i could remember, my father laughed. He laughed long and hard. When he had settled some, he brushed an uncharacteristic tear from his eye and spoke. "Boy, you need to work on your forgery. A blind man could've seen that your handwriting was multitudes worse than the general's adjutant." I couldn't help but laugh myself. For all the years I'd been running from my past and my shame. My family had never once been ashamed, only concerned, and they had found me when I needed them most. "Well, I will have to work on that then." I said as my father looped an arm around my shoulder, and I sheathed his sword. Together, we walked away to find my family. One day, maybe, I could teach my son to be Worthy by Deed Alone.

I lived in a tent in some woods on land that wasn't mine. No one knew that I was there save for the birds and squirrels and deer and one hunter who passed through but thought I was just camping. Self-reliance had been my modus operandi ever since high school failed me for skipping a year and my parents disowned me for stealing their savings. It'd been a rough decade full of long winters and longer treks to the grocery store at the precise time of the week they set out stale bread and soured milk and barely-past-expiration can goods. My clothes were custom repaired name brands that people threw away because of the never-ending onslaught of fashion trends. In fact, my tent was the last thing I ever bought. It was the peak of summer's wet heat when an idea struck me. Specifically, it was a large enough branch that had been dead for several seasons but held on by the still living, still healthy, still well-maintained wood of the trunk. My head was sore for days but with the pain came the realization that timber lay all around me for the greatest expression of self-reliance mankind had ever devised. I decided to build a house. It was so obvious and easy and in accordance with my modus operandi that I felt silly for wasting ten years in a tent that bore the stench of exchange. All through July I gathered branches and limbs and uprooted some saplings and collected vines. My vision called for an ultra-spiritual, all-natural hut that would be the envy of hermits everywhere. It was going to be a squat dome nestled against a cluster of trees to minimize rain damage and soil erosion. I had envisioned a marvel of underbrush engineering that would baffle future archeologists. "How did he align them just so," they'd say, "and make the whole thing watertight?" But when the pieces came together and the vines were tied the whole thing looked . . . shabby. I don't think even the most inept hermit was going to be envious. July became August and the latter brought the heaviest rains I'd ever seen outside of my first year of self-reliance when I almost drowned in the dried creek bed I had chosen to camp in. Thumb-sized holes littered my roof and turned the dirt floor abode into a literal mud room. Luckily, I hadn't transferred many things from the tent yet so the damage was nothing to call the insurers about. So there I was, facing another winter with an untrusty tent and an opinion of anything less than a house soured. How could I possibly keep my thoughts from turning toward another attempt? But I had learned my lesson and would go contemporary this time. At first this meant using my hacksaw and knife to provide some homogeny to the otherwise unscrupulous boughs and build a thin-walled box. That fell through mid-September with only four limbs being anywhere near the quality of cut lumber. The design I'd drawn up on the back of a pastry wrapper started to feel like a pipe dream. With an exhausted body and a depressed mind I made my weekly run into town. Here there was a bit of relief as I walked away with unusual spoils. My coat pocket held greedily to the special treat of discolored chocolate I had found among the throwaway, while my fingers clutched two jugs of soured summertime lemonade unsuited for the changing weather. On my way back a little stack of recently stripped wooden siding caught my eye. The wrapper blueprint filled my vision and my mind slapped the new exterior over it. Vanity overrode sense and I dropped the jugs to pick up the stack. My arms went numb from carrying that much, but the blood rush afterwards brought forth a wonderful idea: What if I built my home from the salvage yard that was society? After all, nothing exemplified self-reliance more than creating treasures from the trash of one's surroundings. Fall began prematurely and my wanderings were filled with the crunch of leaves underfoot. Every house in town was either ancient and leaning or ancient and fallen. From the occupied abodes I gained siding, roofing tiles, and nails. From the abandoned ones I tore whole pieces of thigh-thick black lumber. After a few discouraging looks from passers-by I decided that night would be the best time to operate my recycling program. This became easier as winter approached and the sun relinquished more and more of its territory. I was puffing like a steam engine all Halloween night, dragging a crossbeam whose weight was at least the equal of my body. When I stopped to gasp, a gang of masked adolescents jumped me with rocks almost as sharp as their cruel remarks. Fortunately, they scattered once my sobs became loud enough to attract attention. I wanted to chase them down and give them the sternest explanation of my modus operandi I'd ever conceived. But the spirit of the holiday and presence of my heavy prize kept my head cool and my legs moving inexorably toward the wilderness. The blueprint hung nailed to a nearby tree as I erected its chocolate-smeared vision. My wood pile was stretched to the limit but my determination knew no bounds. Speaking of bounds, the creek that made two out of the wood's four borders turned out to be full of the most useful refuse. Bungee straps, nylon rope, and one very handy ball bearing that I used to check if things were level. The cold had already started to set in but I stayed warm working nonstop to make my dream home. By the first frost its walls were up. By the first snow I was layering a mix of shingles and wet prairie grass on the few overhead beams my scavenging had secured. Mud is a great insulator so I didn't hesitate to stuff it into every nook and cranny where I felt even the gentlest breeze. To complete the creature comforts I installed an old Franklin stove I'd found in a collapsed farmhouse and ran a pipe through the roof to vent it. Don't ask how I got the stove out into the woods, just follow the long trail of sled marks. With that installed, I had built everything to the blueprint's specifications and then some before Santa arrived. It was such a change from my previous winters. I cooked my can goods without fear of the wind blowing my little stick fire out, slept without fear of an animal outside my tent, and had room to stretch out after my weekly commute. I even started to consider inviting a guest over to admire my work and socialize. The grocery trek of New Year's Eve contained this last hope. I knew of only one other person who lived the life of a true frontiersman, though his frontier was the train yard on the opposite side of town. I would have to entice him with food, so I headed for the back of the grocery store. My journey there was slowed by the sight of fluorescent curiosities sticking out of all my former salvage sites. In the yards of occupied homes stood signs that said "No Trespassing" or "Neighborhood Watch." The abandoned ones had yellow tape strung all over their ruins: "Police Line - Do Not Cross." I wondered what kind of awful crimes had been committed in my former stomping grounds, but the chill in the air hurried me to complete my task and return to my forest manor. What surprise I felt when the train yard frontiersman was waiting at the back of the grocery store. He came up to me with the most congenial toothless smile and told how my exploits had reached his ears some weeks ago. Elated at my own notoriety, I invited him over at once and at once he accepted. Carrying our spoils in a shopping cart he'd acquired, we chatted and slapped each other's back all the way to the woods. In a last-second spark of vanity, I made him close his eyes as he passed through my home's threshold. Only when he was surrounded by the warmly lit cabin did I allow him to open them. I saw the emotion I desired: envy. We sat across from each other in twin folding chairs I had dredged from the creek and launched into philosophical discussion while the stew came to a boil. That's when a knock at the door interrupted us. I opened it to find a police officer standing there in an oversized winter coat, with his hand on an oversized pistol. Behind him stood three more men, all civilians, but armed nonetheless. Behind these men were dozens more people of every sex and age. It seemed like the whole town had come out to marvel at my work. The train yard frontiersman pushed me aside and squeezed past the officer without the latter moving a muscle. He ran up to one of the three men who then placed a wad of money in the frontiersman's hand. The police officer refocused my attention by inviting himself inside. Envy filled him so that he immediately kicked over the stew into the fire below. The cabin descended into darkness and winter's chill soon followed. I was thrust out into the arms of the three men, who then threw me onto the ground. The crowd beyond moved upon my home with tools in their hands. Hammers of every size, crowbars of every color, and expletives of every flavor tore at my work. I pleaded until I was hoarse, yet they continued unabated. What took me months to build took them an hour to destroy. A pickup was brought in to haul the pieces they found valuable. As quickly as they had arrived, so too did they depart. Cars and trucks started in the distance and carried the mob away. I was left on the hard earth, crawling around to pick up the splinters. My original blueprint stuck out of the ground like a fallen banner. I pocketed it and journeyed into the wreckage. The stove was gone. The food was gone. The roof was gone. The walls were gone. The floor was gone. They had even punctured my tent. Nothing, I was left with nothing. A pickup returned at dusk. I had settled on curling up to die from frostbite and was very upset by the interruption. I leaped to my feet, really and truly angry for the first time. With pocket knife in hand I ventured out to meet the returning intruder before I realized that she hadn't been with the last group. I put away my knife and approached her with as many salutations and verbal niceties as I could think of under pressure. She said that word had gotten to her concerning a cabin of the most ingenious design. I replied that such an assessment was correct, an understatement even, but that the lauded structure was no more. She let out an expletive and confessed that she had really hoped to see inside. I felt that I had offended a fellow architectural connoisseur. Without stopping to breathe I recounted the pillaging of my home by the barbarian townspeople. She shook her head and told me they were just envious of my self-reliance, adding that an assault against a man's modus operandi should be against the law. Tears stung my eyes in the bitter cold as thanks poured out of my hoarse throat. Then something passed her lips that sounded quite foreign to me. I must have stood there looking dumbfounded because she said it again and again and again. She got back in her truck and opened the passenger door. When she spoke again the words finally became real: "Last chance, the spare room is yours if you want it.

We need to start eating insects, and I mean right fricken now. There can be no delay. We have the knowledge and technology to be farming house flies instead of cattle and swapping out mutant chickens for earthworms. Insects are proven to be far more nutritionally good for you, it’s really a common fact. No, this isn’t some kind of deranged door to door joke. I’m pleading with you, I’m pleading to the world, I’m pleading on behalf of Mother Nature and for the sake of all mankind. If we lose this existential battle we will ultimately let the viruses win. Do you understand what I’m saying here? Are you reading me? Viruses don’t even have a consciousness. What a shame it would be if we let that happen, what a fricken shame it would be. Honestly, don’t you think? Here’s what I can promise you, right here and now. A real solution to a real problem. Look at me, I’ve been living off a rigorous diet of water and insects for close to fifteen years. No soda pop, no McBeachChicken, no KFC boiled owl, no processed garbage, just my own home grown insects and tap water. Yes, you’re looking at 200lbs of twisted steel and sex appeal. I weigh as much as a full grown kangaroo. This isn’t a beer gut, it’s an insect gut. Or, what my ex-wife liked to call it, her “dippy do.” She said that because my gut hangs out further than my “dippy do”. I didn’t get it either. Anyway, I would also like to say for the record that I am fifty two years old, and I don’t give a flying care about what that woman has to say anymore. But what I do have a real strong care about is using the latest innovations in science to help my farm grow the tastiest insects. I take my insect farming to what some would say a very serious level. My insects, of course, are of a very very high quality. I’m proud to say, I house somewhere around 2 million earthworms and close to a billion common house flies on just under an acre of land. Insect farmers like myself can end human hunger and only if people were not such fricken picky eaters. We could actually end hunger tomorrow. It’s all those foodies you know, they seem to be the ones that mess it all up for us. It’s their false online reviews and magazine articles that are hindering mankind’s transition into the future. They’re all fricken paid by the meat industry, too. Any common John Henry knows that. Geez, the real sad part is that I can guarantee you my insects taste great and despite what all those foodies are paid to say. I can make earthworms and common house flies taste like anything you want. And when I say anything, I mean anything. Say you and your girl, or maybe even your man are feeling like fish and chips tonight? Or say, how about a juicy burger with some greasy onion rings? Or even maybe a steak and baked potato is your fancy? Hell, maybe you’re feeling real crazy and would like breakfast for dinner, or something fricked up like that. You name it, we can make them taste like anything. It’s a miracle of modern science. So, what do you say? Do you feel like saving mankind today? It honestly could not be any easier, my friend. For only one small payment of $19.99 on the 1st and the 15th of each month we can end world hunger together. Insects are our future. Insects for life.

I wear a designer, tailored, three-piece charcoal suit with golden cufflinks and a silk tie dad gave me from a Turkish bazaar when I was ten. You wear a pin-striped dinner jacket with jeans. I wait in my car for more people to arrive before entering. You were here long before anyone else. I greet some old friends and tell them all about my six-week holiday across Southeast Asia, recommending that they avoid tour groups and soak in the culture on a solo voyage. They hang on every word and give me numbers to call sometime soon, which I promptly delete. You vaguely listen with a vacant gaze. I take a swig from my flask while no one is looking. My sponsor congratulates me on being two years sober with a heart emoji and a gif saying ‘Keep it up!’. You see everything from your corner of the gathering. I turn down an offering of tiny quiches, lying to the caterer that I’m lactose intolerant. I haven’t eaten in days. You politely take one, then another, before wrapping them in a napkin and stuffing them down your front jean pocket. I lock the door of the bathroom and splash my face with water. I stare at myself blankly in the mirror and try to recite the speech clutched in my trembling hands. You knock on the door, asking if everything’s alright. I open the door, giving you a dismissive grimace as I re-join the assembly. The host beckons to me and insists we make our way outside as soon as possible before the rain comes. I forgot to bring an umbrella, but I’m optimistic we’ll stay dry when looking at the clouds. You clutch a black umbrella. I let out a strong wolf whistle that I learned from a street vendor in Phnom Penh, bringing the foyer to a hush. I try cheerily to convince everyone to make their way to the lawns, but I’m interrupted by soft chattering. You let out a definitive ‘Oi!’ and tell everyone to shut up before nodding at me to continue. I don’t nod back. Everyone gingerly makes their way outside, umbrellas in hand. You wait for everyone to step out until it’s just us, alone. You go to open your mouth. I brush past you to join the others. You walk towards the procession of black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas and dripping black eyeliner. I can’t look his mum in the eye. You can’t even look at his coffin. I take a deep breath and take a seat with the family. The celebrant says a few words before inviting me to begin the eulogy. I face my former colleagues, teammates, girlfriends, friends, and you. It starts raining, soiling the last-minute words I wrote for him and I struggle to speak. You hand me your umbrella. The service ends, the mourning crowd disperses, and we’re alone again. We lock eyes in silence. We used to have staring contests that would last what felt like hours, all three of us. You offer a teary smile and nod. I drop my stoic veneer and smile back. You grieve. I grieve.

The car hums to life at the push of a button and slips out of the garage into a wet night. The garage door closes behind it as I drive through the apartment complex and onto one of the side roads. It was near midnight, and a storm was moving east. I turned east, knowing the roads I would take well. It was the first time in a long time, nearly a year since I had made one of these drives. Family was staying in my small apartment and the needs of work required me to stay up all night, something I couldn’t do without disturbing my guests. The air was still warm and sticky, but the air conditioning was kicking in as I stopped at a light on one of the main roads. I waited for it to change, then I took to the side roads to slip around the side of the town. Illumination from street lamps drifted lazily through the sunroof and windows of my economy grocery-getter as I rejoined a road I had taken and a hundred dozen times before. This junction didn’t mean much. I was still in the town and it was only natural that I had been down this road before. I stayed silent as my radio played off my aging ipod quietly. I didn’t look at the speedometer as I let the car cruise at a natural place. For a time, my mind was blank of all except for the task of driving. This was my meditation. A reset. A few moments alone where I could gather my thoughts and reflect on myself in inner peace. It wasn’t that my family or even my life was stressing me out, life was good compared to twelve months ago. A man simply needs a little time to himself to be alone. I made another turn at another light, clipping through on a yellow to turn onto the highway heading east. Nights like this always took me back in time, but the nostalgia hadn’t hit me yet. I was still on the well-known roads of my home town and not yet to my destination. I crossed the Little Muddy and turned my head to the left to see the twinkling of the town lights before I passed the Haliburton and Red River yards and crossed the bridge over the train tack. As the car climbed the hill out of the town and the buildings grew further apart, I couldn’t help thinking back to how many times I had to take this road, not for indulgence, but for obligation. I pushed those thoughts out of my head. The location and timing weren’t correct. For now, I focussed on the road and the increasing rain as I caught up to the storm. I did my best to focus only on the road and the radio as I drove down the highway. It wouldn’t be much longer now. I passed county road eleven and thought back even further to hot summer days years before when I had worked for the county. I was close now. The only hint that I had reached my destination was a black oil pad and the light of a farm-house porch a quarter mile down a dirt road. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard as I continued down the highway. It was twelve-thirty now, and I felt comfortable. I may have been in my near-silent economy car, but now I could remember back three years to my first real oilfield job, running the eight twenty-one route. I could almost hear the exhaust roar of my old and beaten work truck. I could feel its uncomfortable seats, and I could feel that old feeling of having completed my middle run and being on the return leg to the P-Evitt disposal. I had run that route a hundred dozen times in the year that I was assigned to it. It was my safe space. Six disposals across twenty or so county roads and a highway. Six sites I was responsible for, that gave me pride and built up the career I still had. I fancied I could feel the ruts worn into the tarmac from my work truck as my car glided through the sheets of rain, creating a mirror sheen on the two-year-old blacktop. I relaxed as I followed the road, letting the memories of those times wash over me. I passed by a crossroad, and remembered the half dozen times I had taken it to avoid potholes and road work, thinking of the Bowling for Soup song that always seemed to play when I did my mid run down it. But on I drove. I passed a farmhouse and its barn, ringed by trees with the highway running through its yard. I flipped on my turn signal and trundled onto highway forty-two, the lights of a disposal I knew nothing about filling my rearview as I dropped down the first hill towards the cooly. The car flowed down into the dip and dropped on for endless hours, or so it seemed. I had been down this road two, it was the way from the P-Paulson and P-Evans to the P-Thomas. Part of the old route. I skipped a song on my ipod to one that I would have heard on this road. I couldn’t help but think back. My old company truck was at the apartment, registered in my wife’s name and retired to the leisure of being a daily driver, no longer seeing the miles or the dirt roads or the rushes to various emergencies. A fitting life for a loyal companion. A truck I loved as if I had bought it new and put all of its hundred sixty thousand miles on it. The truck was gone from the company, I was gone from the company, my best friend was gone from them as well, and none of us had run the route in years. How things change. The car rose up the other side of the valley and the lights of the Pankowski came into sight. It wasn’t one of my disposals, and I remember when they installed it, it wasn’t even managed by the company that contracted my employer, but my employer did have workers on it. I never met them, never spoke to them, but was under the impression that my P-Thomas handled overflow from the Pankowski when it was down, and that was quite often. It took everything in me not to turn left at the Pankowski and cruise down county road fifteen to the lease road leading to P-Thomas. But, I was in my Hyundai and not in my company truck, and I was not with Celestial Oil Services anymore, and I was not on the eight twenty-one anymore, though part of me always would be. I traveled another mile up the road and pulled into a field access and stopped the car. The clouds of the storm lingered and the night was black, but from my perch on the top of the hill, I could see for miles, across a plane and down to the lake, including the distorted light of the P-Thomas. Though the night was black, the plane twinkled with manmade constellations, oil flares and site lights lit up the ground as beautiful as any star-speckled sky. I was never an astronomer, I could only name three constellations, but below me was a cosmos I had sailed through and knew like my own backyard. For one night, for a few hours, once more, I was king of my domain, a monarch ruling six saltwater disposals over twenty miles of road, lord of changing filters, duke of sending reports, baron of cleaning triplex pumps. Home at last. From my ethereal memory built castle of a company truck, I saw inverted stars, the same I had sailed for endless aeons as a god.

The glow of the Harvest Moon did nothing to guide his way into the Silentwoods. Mirth and joy still rang in his ears as he stumbled over twisted roots and jagged stones. He clung to it, held it in his breast hoping to steel himself for the task at hand. At the festival he had found peace. He ate heartily, laughed loudly, and smiled wide with his family and friends. The Silverbeards, Halguer, and even the Daromir turned out for the event. Assembled with his clan, the four families lined the river for a quarter mile. The smell of roasting meats, the sound of drinking and contest, and most of all the roaring laughter was carried downstream with the breeze. It had been decades since the dwarves had come down the mountain and truly celebrated as one in the verdant hills. His reasons for the gathering were lost and forgotten amidst the revelry. Belegrim Ironjaw of the Silverbeards had even set up a forge and seemed to be making some handsome coin. The sound of his hammer driving home set the tune for many of their dances and songs. Late in the evening, one of the forgemaster’s axes caught his eye. Not an axe for cutting trees, but men. It shined like the sun, the mirrored surface gleaming brilliantly. “You’ve got good taste lad.” said the elder dwarf. “At’ll cut a dwarf in full plate from shoulder to hip.” He felt its weight, tested the edge with his thumb, and swung it casually through the air. Everything from head to haft was perfect. He slid the handle through one of the loops on his belt and handed the dwarf his well earned coin. Even his son was enamored with the weapon, asking how the etching of their gods had been done so precisely and the leather on the grip tanned so finely. His wife cast her judgment but kept it to herself. It was not in his nature to be impulsive, so she was shocked when he took her hand in his abruptly and awkwardly. Their marriage had been filled with love of a kind, but intimacy and gentleness had not been a strong suit of his. So often he avoided it. Traila had known him better than any other for the better part of a century now and he could feel her unease when his skin pressed against hers. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “I love you.” he whispered so that only she could hear. The moment felt poised to swallow him. Her gaze was too much for him to bear as he watched her try to form a response. “Just tell me so we might face it together.” he could imagine her saying. She did not get the chance. Friends bombarded them, cajoling and cracking jokes about how he was going soft after all these years. They surrounded him and his wife, carrying him away for games and stories and drinks together. They had been his companions since he was young. From them, he had learned much. The man he had become, and the man he wanted to be, he often saw in them. Part of him yearned for their aid, to unshoulder his burden at their feet so that they might help him bear it. Instead he drank more, he ate more, and he was rowdier and more boisterous than any other. Of all the things he wanted to be, today, he would be the dwarf he wanted them to remember. After night had fallen, and the others had begun the trek back to their mountain abodes, he returned to the place he had been most often as of late. He readied himself, his muscles groaning and pleading for mercy. He swung his axe with measured cadence, burying it in the ancient, gnarled wood. Every few swings he would pause, catch his breath, and drink from the flask at his hip. The dull thud as his axe struck was the only sound that echoed between the trees. The moon was full above him and dim shafts of light pierced the canopy, guiding his aim. A blessing to hunters. A blessing to harvesters. Tonight though, this frigid and solitary stretch of time that seemed to skulk between dusk and dawn, there would be no song or prayers of thanks. Only curses haunted this dead and festering grove. The flask draped his belt since his father had passed. A gift ungiven, inherited from his late father who had received it in the same fashion. Passed down by countless other dwarves as far back as time’s grasping talons could reach. Or so the story went. A memento from the dead, to the dying. Vice given form, unassuming and cold. Forged of iron that would never rust, it was a well of spirits that would never run dry. Only, he knew some- thing had infused the drink. Smoke would billow out of the vessel when uncorked, and a voice would creep through the porous stopper, imploring any who held the thing to drink fully and freely. As he worked, he drank. His body was warm, but the mouth of the flask was ice on his lips. It was a lover’s kiss, begging him to stay and drown in its embrace. Had he been a weaker dwarf, his son would have buried him amongst the tombs of his fathers. Instead, he resisted the call and replaced the flask on his belt, swinging the axe once more. He might never have known the nature of his metal companion, had it not been for a scrap of text found and unbound from its ancient leather wrappings. A year ago now, he found himself lost within the bowels of tunnels that his clan had sealed long ago for reasons forgotten by. It was there, miles further than any had dug in centuries, he stumbled upon the truth. The memory still burned in his mind. Statuary lined the passage as his footsteps echoed onward, heralding him to the nothing that lay before. He could not say how far or fast he walked, only that he came to a twisted iron door that had been blown off of its hinges. Its snarling face was melted so that only one glaring eye and a mouth full of jagged teeth remained. The eye seemed to follow him as he entered the chamber. Reflexively he grabbed the flask, then released it and drew the hammer from his belt. The light from his torch flickered across the walls. The air was stale. It was some sort of dark wizard's domain or the lair of an unknown evil. Bones lay haphazardly, clothes still clinging to their frames. Something had scorched large sections of the walls and floor, setting the room alight. Ancient tomes were scattered about, burned and torn asunder, their text largely illegible. There were carvings on the floor, deliberate markings that spread in a strange and alien pattern. The South-East corner of the room was a messy pile of rubble and debris from where the ceiling had collapsed. A support pillar lay in fragmented pieces all across the room. In the center of it all lay a podium, untouched by whatever catastrophe struck this place, and unweathered by age. Atop the podium lie a tome which he tried to make sense of., And though the words swirled and morphed in shape. Their meaning was imparted to him. A curse. A demon, ancient and powerful, had been bound here. It had been destined to be woven into the sword which lie mangled near his feet, but something had gone awry. He could feel the enmity radiating outwards from the flask, a blistering hatred that made sense of his family’s history. It had been bound to the flask, trapped in the vessel by folly. The cold iron of the flask had been a far better conduit for magic than the steel of the blade. At least, for this magic. All he could think of was that writhing essence, attempting to bend his will. How it was not his own weakness, but something that had willfully been the bane of his line for untold centuries. It filled him with a fire hotter than any warmth within the little flask could imbue him with. It filled him with dreams. He was roused from his memories by shouting and lights bobbing through the trees towards him. His friends trudged into view, weapons in hand, cursing and spitting. Sweat poured from their brows and their eyes darted to and fro before finally locking onto him. Explanations were short. His story did not shake their resolve and they made no effort to turn him from his course. They helped him load lumber onto the small cart of his, and they pulled it up the hill and into the mountain. The calluses on his hands had worn off. His palms began to bleed, his fingers were tight and the ache in his muscles only fled him when he drew from the flask. They were not alone. They could feel it. The flasks aura had been drawing them nearer night after night. He had tried to imagine that it was a trick of the mind, some horrid illusion that the darkness had manifested to steer him from his task. Now they gathered, huddling in throngs near the edge of their torch’s light. If they wandered about these woods on any other night, he had no doubt they would have descended upon him and his friends leaving nothing but gnawed bones and bits of clothing. They weren’t here for him. No, their eyes followed his hand as he drew from the flask which shone gold and crimson, reflecting the light from the torches and the moon overhead. The light kept the creatures at bay but did nothing to ease his nerves. As they approached the ritual site, they all coiled their hands tightly around their weapons. Frangen, his oldest and dearest friend, made a sign to the gods when he first laid eyes on the scene. They began piling wood around the pedestal, drenching the hastily formed pyre in oil that he had carried with him on the cart. When they were finished someone made a joke, trying to ease the nerves but he barely heard it. Others laughed though he didn’t see it. There was a pounding in his head as his friends fanned out, lighting the oil with their torches. A great gust of heat washed over him as the fire began devouring the oxygen in the room, but his blood ran cold. I will kill you. Clear as still water, the voice he had been hearing all his life warned him from the place on his belt. One final time, he drank greedily from it, grateful for the thing at last. It was heavy in his hand. He lobbed the flask into the flames and readied his axe. “Perhaps.”

It has been years since I am a teenager now. I am here alive and breathing but she’s not. I still remember that sweet peach smell she gave off. I tried looking for every product with the peach smell but none of them were like the enchanting smell she gave off. But who am I kidding with? I am standing here alone at the bus station; the exact location where she had her accident. I wouldn’t have blurted out my feelings for her if I had known what was about to happen that day. Only if I knew that my life was going to be tangled right here on this road. My one-sided crush died here. The weird thing is that today I still have a crush on her who is dead for seven years now. Every day I wake up I think about her, thinking what if I had kept my mouth shut at that time. Today is my mother’s birthday so I had to return to my hometown. I would have never set my foot in this town; if it hadn’t been for my mother. As I was deep into my thought; the bus driver honked at me. "Are you getting on or not?". Thank god, the bus driver honked at me, or else I would have missed my last bus to my town. I hopped on the bus and took a seat. Suddenly I got a call. "Hey. I found a perfect date for you. Forget about that girl, I have a really nice dude to set you up on a blind date and forget that crush of your’s." "Well, you can never forget your first love I guess. But thank you for the blind date. Text me his number."; I spoke and immediately hung up. Visiting this town was giving me anxiety with all those flashbacks. I was depressed and just wanted to fall asleep. After a good nap thankfully I woke up at the right stop. I hurriedly ran to the exit door which was already crowded. "Jesus, bring some patience to these people.";I thought to myself. As I walked through that door I smelled something quite unusual. I was taken aback because I got the smell of the same kind of peaches my crush, Emma had. I told myself I was going crazy after visiting my hometown but I still had hope that this was Emma. All those flashbacks came in my head as I looked back again and again thinking if I met Emma here actually. I know I am going crazy but god I still love her and I have to go look for her. But I was a coward from the beginning so I couldn’t go look for her and just walked as all those flashbacks continued. It was after the summer break, my senior year of high school. As I walked through the door with all the papers my homeroom teacher assigned me to distribute to all my classmates, I saw a girl walk by. My heart was going crazy as if I had seen a cute little puppy. At that moment I didn’t know I was into both guys and girls so I just thought I was jealous of her beauty. I wish it was the first and the last time I met her. But fate had something else written for me. We met again and again. We had almost all of our classes together except for chemistry and photography. She had studied literature and economics which I learned later after approaching her. Since we had so many classes together and us running to each other constantly at the school compound, our slight smile with a nod came to "hi" and then to a great bond of friendship. My stomach still had all these butterflies but I ignored it thinking something was wrong with me. She had a boyfriend and I don’t know why I kind of hated him for no reason. One day Emma called me. "Hey, Emma. What’s up. You normally just text me. Anything’s wrong?"; I asked but I was not really that concerned. "Let’s have a girls’ night. Let’s go shopping and chill at my place for the night. No further questions I will be at your home in 10 minutes. Love you bye."; Emma hung up on me. Gosh, I was so messy, I still remember putting my makeup on even though I was so bad at it. Emma was all about the horrible makeup during the night. Never thought any of her laughs would have been the last one. I forgot how much of a rich spoiled kid she is until she came back to her shopping obsession. This situation only meant that she went through something that made her uncomfortable or sad or both. But I waited until I spent overnight at her house to ask her. Finally, we both were on our PJs so I asked Emma what was wrong. Her somber sound broke out as she said the words any girl in 90% of the relationship would say. "We broke up." I don’t know why but I was really happy. I just hugged her comforting her. I don’t remember if it was the drink we had in those plastic cups that were stolen or the drunk heart lost in lust. We ended up kissing and stripping. The rest of the night is a blur in my memory but the next morning we were next to each other with no clothes on. I was confused about what I was doing, I was embarrassed by this fact so I just put on my clothes and ran home. I ended my weekend thinking about what it was. I had no clue why I did that. All I could say to myself was, "I am supposed to like boys and have this lust for boys. What is wrong? Why am I not regretting what happened with Emma ." Emma and I didn’t contact each other the entire weekend. On Monday I went to school, I still had to discuss it with Emma. But when I called her in the hallway she just ignored me. I thought she didn’t hear me. I passed a note to her during class asking her if we were still cool. But she threw it away without even taking a glance at it. I was hurt. I was angry at myself thinking why I was hurt of she just ditched our friendship. It was common for me anyway. After an entire week of me trying to approach her I gave up. I lost hope for our friendship. I walked home alone with a disappointed face and it suddenly poured. I ran and took shelter until the rain stopped. I don’t know if it was fate or mere coincidence, but a homeless man was sitting beside me. He had a radio in his hand. He was listening to some kind of love broadcasting. "Love is not something magical. You have to follow the butterflies in your stomach and instinct of your heart. You may not love her or you may not be the best fit. But if you are lonely and depressed without that one person, go for it. It’s worth a try." I don’t know why he was listening to such kind of nonsense. I would have thought such a thing but I realized what I was looking for. I thanked the homeless guy and gave him so many changes I was carrying and ran in the pouring rain to Emma’s house. I didn’t have to rehearse or anything. At that moment I knew what I was going to say. I called Emma running as I called her. "We need to talk"; we both said as soon as she picked up the call. "Meet me at the bus station. Let’s talk"; she said and hung up. I ran there and saw her standing there. She looked brighter than others. And she was looking alluring and bewitching as always. I ran to her and spoke wheezily. "Look I don’t know what you feel. I like your peachy smell and I don’t know how but you smell different. This is new for me but I don’t know I was into girls too. I just realized what I feel and I wanna tell you. I freaking love you, Emma Churchill. And not even you can change my decision to like you. I may not be the best fit for you but I will not give up on you." Emma was speechless. I don’t know what her expression meant. Was she regretting, was she happy or shocked? Emma told me, "look I don’t know what you mean by that. That night was a mistake. I like only boys. We were drunk and fulled around a little bit. please stop acting as if something happened between us in school. It’s embarrassing." She ran away as I stood there watching her go. My heart ached and I wanted to go grab her hand and ask her again that she didn’t feel the same. But I was having cold feet so I stood as she ran away crossing the road. I didn’t realize it but she was running through a crowd of vehicles. And just after a blink, she was on the ground covered in blood. Her umbrella in front of me. I ran crying and screaming her name towards the dead body of my first ever love. I never smelled anyone like her again. And I guess I wanted closure. That smell on the bus stop became the closure and this flashback hopefully becomes a nightmare. It was nice not knowing who that person with a smell like Emma. Or else I might have never had closure. With this flashback, I already reached my apartment. I took a shower and went straight to bed and slept soundly finally, after the death of Emma. The morning came and I got ready for my date at 1 pm after a heavenly sleep until 10. I waited for the bus as I called my blind date. "HELLO?"; I initiated the call. "Lift your hand if your name is Ashley."; My blind date giggled as he spoke. I awkwardly lifted my hand up in the sky and someone poked me from behind. I turned around with a confused yet angry look. "Hey, I am your blind date. Nice to meet you. Thank god your friend gave me your photo."; A handsome man was standing in front of me. Beside him, there was Emma smiling and suddenly the man started smelling like the peaches like Emma did. I smiled to myself as Emma telepathically said, "just think of me and I will be somewhere near you."

Out in the middle of western Arizona sits a lonesome little town called Saddlesore. Founded in 1864 by a couple of prospectors looking for copper and gold, it eventually grew to a population of one hundred and ten. It consists of a general store that sells just about anything a person could need, as well as a small five-pew Baptist church that hardly anyone attends. There is also Chinese laundry and a schoolhouse. At one end of the street is the Sheriff’s office. At the other is the most prominent building in town- The Glass Slipper Saloon. One hot and dusty August day, a man wearing a three-piece suit and a derby rides into town on a burro. His name is Stanley Miles. As he ties his minuscule beast to the hitching post, he spots a sign advertising the need for a bartender. “Looky there, Hercules, I think we found ourselves a job!” He straightens up his five foot four frame, dusts the trail dust from his clothes, and wipes the tip of his shoes on the back of his pants legs before entering the saloon. Just as he is about to push open the swinging doors, he must step aside for a funeral procession passing through. Out of respect, he places his derby over his heart. The last person in line stops to blow his nose and wipe away tears. “ I’m so sorry,” Miles says. “Was he a good friend of yours?” The man finishes wiping his large red nose, “He was a friend to everybody. He was the bartender.” The man snuffles, and when he sees the procession is far enough away, he races back inside the saloon and starts finishing all the drinks left on the bar. Miles approaches him and asks, “ How did the bartender die?” “Sa-Same as all the others. Shot by a st-stray(hic) bullet during a gunfight.” He then smacks his lips as he looks up and down the bar for another drink. Miles snaps his head around. “Gus, you worthless drunk, you’re gonna pay for them drinks!” Shouts the owner of the saloon. “Don’t got to! Them drinks was already-ready paid for. (hic) Gus then starts going from table to table, looking for more. The owner screws up his face and growls. Turning his attention to Miles, he looks him up and down and barks, “And who are you, stranger?” Snapping to attention, Miles replies, “I, Sir, am Stanley Miles, and my mighty stead, Hercules and I have presently arrived but a few minutes ago.” The owner squints through the saloon’s stained glass window to see the little burro tied up. Hitching his thumb in that direction, he sneers, “You mean that fat little long-eared dog out there?” “ Hercules is a wonderful and reliable friend; we’ve traveled far together.” The owner scratches his head. “Well, I just can’t imagine what could have lured you to come all the way out here to the hottest, dustiest, most miserable hell-hole on earth. You look more suited for a tellers box or perhaps a preacher’s box back east.” “Presently, I’m looking for work. That’s when I saw your ad in the window there.” The man stifles a laugh. Miles asks indignantly, “I beg your pardon, but are you the proprietor by any chance?” “Yeah, I’m Roland James Baker. And quite frankly, I don’t think you’re suited for the job. As you just witnessed, it is somewhat dangerous and demanding. “Did the Sheriff arrest the man that did it? Miles asked. Gus snorts, “Twas the Sheriff that done shot him. The man the Sheriff was playing poker with said he-he was cheating! (hic) That’s wh-when the gun fi-fi-fight started. The Sheriff took a p-p-potshot at the guy but missed and(hic) shot the bartender.” “That’s right,” confirms Baker. “ When those boys come back from Boot Hill and take a look at you, well, let’s just say I see no need to remove the ad from the window.” “If you feel that way, why not test me?” “Alright, I will. Go grab Gus over there and throw him out of here by the set of his pants.” Miles approaches Gus and politely asks him to leave. Gus ignores him. Baker shouts, “I said to throw him out. You’re not a waiter at some tea party!” Miles nods and rubs his hands together in preparation to grab Gus. But as intoxicated as Gus is, he still manages to artfully dodge every attempt. “Whatcha doing? Leave me alone! Get away from me!” Gus complains and pushes Miles so hard in the chest as to send him flying across the saloon floor, where he lands at Baker’s feet. Baker looks down at Miles and says only one word, “Pitiful.” Miles scrambles to his feet, “Let me have one more try.” Turning, he calls to Gus sweetly, “Oh, Gus, would you come here, please?” Gus squints suspiciously at Miles through red and watery eyes. “What you want now?” “I just what to talk with you for a moment.” Miles crooks his finger repeatedly, “Come.” Gus staggers over and stops in front of Miles, swaying slightly. “Would you be so kind as to bend down further?” Gus adopts a foolish grin and bends down to Miles’ level. Miles hits Gus with a mighty uppercut with no warning whatsoever, knocking the unsuspecting drunk out cold. He then grabs Gus’s collar, drags him into the street, and leaves him in the dirt. Miles returns, dusting his hand together, “Well? Is that more of what you had in mind?” Satisfied, Baker nobs his head. “You got a place to stay?” Miles shakes his head no. “Alright, then. You can use the room behind the bar. Your job is to serve drinks, keep the money in the cash drawer safe, and wash the dirty glasses. I’ll give you the room and all the pickled eggs and sandwiches you can eat.” “What about pay?” What about it?’ “Do I get any?” “No. But you can keep all the tips you’ll be getting from serving drinks.” Baker smiles to himself because he knows that these boys don’t tip. “You’ll be on your own, so, what do say, is it a deal?” “Deal!” Miles smiles. ... Miles fetches Hercules and brings him around back to the stable. He puts him in a small stall in the back and gives him hay and water. Then, untieing his saddlebags and he enters the saloon through the back door. Walking down the hall, he comes to a storage room that would be his living quarters. After Miles unpacks, he finds a green visor, some arm garters, and a white apron that comes down to his ankles. He returns to the front of the saloon and takes his place behind the bar just as the men return from the funeral. Big Mac Maclaughlin, who stands six foot seven, approaches the bar and, looking this way and that, yells to Baker, “Say, RJ. When I seen the sign was gone, I thought maybe you had hired a new bartender. So, how come I don’t see one?” Standing directly in front of Big Mac, Miles looks up and clears his throat. Big Mac’s eyes grow wide, and his mouth drops open. “RJ! You hiring kids now? Aw, that ain’t right!” Miles reaches under the bar, grabs a sizeable wooden mallet, crooks his finger, and calls Big Mac closer. When Mac leans down, Miles smashes his head with the mallet, dropping him to the floor. “A little respect, if you please!” Miles shouts. Then looking up, he observes six pistols pointing at him. Miles glares at the men and barks, “What?” Confused, the men start mumbling to one another. “What does he mean “what”? Does he expect us to answer? Answer what? Right! Giving up, the men return their guns to their holsters and order drinks. Things are going well for Miles until one day toward the end of October when a man comes rushing in, all excited. “Barkeep! Three shots of whiskey, I’m in a terrible hurry!” Miles pours the three drinks without spilling a drop. “So, why in such a rush?” “Don’t cha know? It’s starting to snow in the mountains, and the prospector Mean Moses Malone will be heading down soon. He’s the meanest, nastiest, most horrible man in the world! Mean Moses hates all people or any manner of civilization there is. He has destroyed entire towns in a night! And the thing Mean Moses Malone hates the most is bartenders.” Miles’s jaw drops. “Bartenders? Why bartenders of all people?” “Don’t know,” says the stranger while grabbing the bottle off the bar. “Bye.” Miles watches him run into the street, yelling, “Mean Moses Malone is coming! Run for your lives!” Immediately the saloon empties. Baker comes up behind Miles and puts his hand on Miles’s shoulder to comfort him. “Don’t pay no mind to that fella. He’s just trying to scare you.” “Then why did everyone else leave so suddenly?” “Can’t say. Maybe there’s a church meeting tonight or something.” Miles stares at Baker dubiously. “Bye the way, I may have forgotten to tell you, but I’ll be away until the end of the month visiting my sick aunt in Tucson. I expect you to be here when I get back!” Baker leaves, and Miles looks out through the swinging doors. The town is empty, with nothing but the wind blowing dust and tumbleweeds down the street. The next day Miles is alone in the bar when he hears the sound of thundering hooves beating a path toward the saloon. He runs to the front window and looks out and sees a mountain of a man riding a wild buffalo while cracking two rattlesnakes like bullwhips! Instead of tying it up, he reins the buffalo into a skidding stop and punches it in the jaw, knocking it out. Pointing at it, he commands, “Stay!” Miles races back to the bar and ducks down. The colossal man kicks in the swinging doors, knocking one off its hinges. Miles feels the floorboards rattle with each step the man takes. Peering over the edge of his apron, Miles sees thick fingers grab the top of the mahogany bar and tip it away. The giant looks down at Miles and roars, “WHISKEY!” Miles grabs the stepstool and reaches for the best bottle of whiskey in the house. Swallowing hard, Miles hands it to him. Miles watches in awe, for the giant doesn’t pull the cork out with his teeth but bites the glass neck from the bottle and spits it out! The brute drains the entire bottle in one gulp. Then the man turns to leave without paying! Miles grips the bar in an attempt to quell his knocking knees. “Hey!” His voice cracks. “Just a minute! You can’t just come in here and drink up all my whiskey and not pay! That’s stealing!” The man turns and slams the bar with his fist so hard you can hear the wood split. “I ain’t got no money.” “Then you shouldn’t have drunk my whiskey!” Miles squeaks. “You know what I think? I think of how disappointed your poor sainted mother must be seeing you act like this.” “She was a whore.” This somewhat stymies Miles, but he pushes on. “Well, despite that, she was still your mother. A mother who loved her little baby boy. Who scrapped by trying to make a living at any cost and devoted all her efforts to see that you had a better life than she did. You were her hope and dream for a better future, but look what you’ve done to those hopes and dreams.” The whiskey is starting to kick in, and the mammoth of a man is feeling sentimental. As a tear escapes his eye, he whispers in a low and quavering voice, “I miss my Mommy.” Miles sees he has gained the upper hand and strikes home. “It’s not too late !” his voice rises in a crescendo. “You can change your ways and make your mother proud of you again. She can hold her head up and say, “That’s my Boy ! Then in time, people will stop calling you Mean Moses Malone and call you friend instead.” The man’s head springs up, “What’d you just call me?” He whirls around and looks out the single-hanging swinging door to the street beyond. When he turns back to Miles, Miles can see his eyes are full of terror. “I almost forgot! I have to get out of here! Mean Moses Malone will be here any minute!” Miles’s eyes roll up into his head as he collapses to the floor.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. “I can do this,” I said out loud. I can say goodbye. I’m only going to a different country. 5031 miles, to be precise. No biggie. And leaving behind my friends, home, the comfort of growing up in a place and knowing it is, in some way, your’s? No big deal. I walked up to Alrys. “Hey,” I said. I hid my fidgeting fingers behind my back. “Hi, Isabelle!” she replied. She always called me by my full name, even though everyone else, including my parents, call me Izzy. “What’s up?” “Nothing,” I lied. I wish it was nothing. “Um, so I have something to tell you.” Alrys slung her phone in her back pocket, where it performed some sort of gravitational miracle and balanced precariously there. “Yeah?” I can do this, I reminded myself. “I, uh, have something to tell you,” I mumbled, half-hoping that she wouldn’t hear me. “Oh?” Her interest is piqued. I wondered if that were good or bad. In a normal situation, it would be good, of course. I loved Alrys as much as I loved myself, if not more. She was the sun to my moon, forever shining and eternally beloved in life. Her’s was worth much more than mine. Everyone expected great things from Alrys- cancer cures, shuttling off into space, ruling a country and leading it to glory- these were all possible roles she would play, as discussed by adults. Only I knew the effort it took to maintain a pleasing smile even as anxiety tore at it, the worry that gnawed at her when she got a less-than-perfect grade, the strain of having to constantly appear all-knowing. “I-” I began, only to be interrupted by Mia barreling into Alrys. “Alrys!” she gasped, almost falling over herself in an effort to get the words out of her mouth. “Alrys! Diana fell from the monkey bars and now her leg’s broken!” Alrys took three deep breaths, calming herself down. “Is there blood?” “No.” “A bit of bone sticking out?” “No.” “A clean break, then,” she said to herself. “Tell the teacher,” she commanded to Mia. She ran off. I followed Alrys, hoping that all this would blow over soon and I would be free to make my statement. Alrys had calmed Diana down by the time Mia had returned with Mrs Hemmingway and an ambulance. As Diana was loaded up, she even looked distinctly cheerful. “Alrys reminded me that I could pick the colour of my cast,” she told me as the ambulance women strapped her leg in. “And that I can have people drawing on my leg. Well, my cast.” That’s Alrys, I thought fondly. She always knows the right thing to do. “Alrys,” I whispered at Math. She didn’t look up but nodded at her math book, which I knew was a sign. As I opened my mouth, our math teacher, Mrs Langford, called, “Everyone focus, now! This is very important for your exams!” And the moment was lost. “Hey,” I said at break, the same time as Mike blurted, “I need help with my homework!” Alrys just couldn’t say no- it went against her very nature. She went off, pored over the maths books, gently explaining everything while Mike nodded intently. She returned just as the bell rang, signalling the end of break. “Um,” I began at lunch as a five-year-old sobbed into Alrys skirt about her mother’s passing. She scooped Michelle up and cradled her in her arms, murmuring words of comfort. Michelle didn’t look much better at the end, but at least she had stopped crying. The only sign that she had been was her dark, spiked eyelashes and tear-tracks, cutting a swathe through her cheeks. “So, Alrys,” I started at the bus stop where we waited for her’s to come. “Oh! Yeah, you were about to tell me something?” she remembered. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so busy today- I don’t even have any time for my best friend!” She smiled at me. People argue over whether pen or swords is more powerful, but I disagree with both. Alrys’s smile is the most powerful- enchanting as a fairie’s promise, warm as a blanket on a winter’s day. “It’s just that- uh, I don’t know how to put this,” I said. I almost backed out. I wiped my palms on my school skirt. It didn’t do much to help the liquid pouring out of my pores. “Oh, Isabelle, I’m so sorry,” she interrupted apologetically, “but my bus is here. I gotta go. Tell me tomorrow?” I nodded, the worry in my stomach dissipating. For now. “Yeah. Tell you tomorrow.” When tomorrow’s morning dawned, it seemed the wrong type of day for my news. It was sunny, the type of day that inspired couch potatoes like me to go out for a walk in the crisply cool spring air. Lost in thought, I pulled on my uniform and ate my breakfast, relying on muscle memory. Then I began my walk to school. Each step I took sent another swirl of nausea in my stomach. When I reached there, the school was abuzz. I pushed my way to the front. My eyes widened. In front of me was the teachers, sobbing into their colleagues’ shoulders. "What? What happened?" I asked, bewildered. One of my classmates- Lila- turned to me. "Don't you know?" she replied. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks and she made no attempt to brush them away. "Alrys died last night. A car crashed exactly where she was sitting on the bus. And no one else was hurt, because, you know, the bus she rides in is usually pretty empty. The bus driver was cut badly, but he'll live." I staggered back in shock, hands flying to my mouth. I expect tears, inconsolable grief, an Alrys shaped hole in my heart. Instead, there is grief at the loss the world just suffered, and happiness that we would be united, this time forever. After all, the trip? It was not just 5031 miles; it was hope. Hope my parents held that my stage four cancer could be cured with better machinery. How ironic that I hope for the opposite.

The metal grid of a spring frame is the first thing I see when I wake up; it rests along the wall that my mattress is laid on the floor in front of. My new mattress is a dream but it’s too big for my trundle -I don’t have a storage unit and so that’s just what my room has become. Funny, I’ve been here before; I actually have taken naps in a storage unit I rented when I didn’t yet have a place to room in. By the grace of some God, I had a friend that loaned his van to me while he was out of town. I would drive around aimlessly, piecing together remnants of a past social life to live in just to have a way to kill time before my next life move presented itself. I wish I could say I was seeking career opportunities or creative ventures to determine the stepping stones for my new move. Unfortunately I had tunnel vision on finding a lover, my ideal life move at the time was to move in with somebody and make a plan about what life we would create together. Sometimes I would get sleepy in the hot day. My storage unit was air conditioned and a lot quieter than parking lots. Unfortunately I learned that it wasn’t a perfect solution- my naps were timed since I would wake up struggling for air as the unit was pretty full and small to begin with. I positioned myself as close to the crack under the door as possible. I had a cell, a literal cell in a metaphorical prison. So you see the grid is like a jail cell, like a repetitive cosmic joke so thick it presents itself almost literally right before me as an incessant reminder that perhaps there’s no escape; because in both cases I created it and how do you escape yourself? I could decide to put it out on the street but I’m holding on to the idea that this far into my life I wouldn’t have to throw something I want away just because I live in a shoe box. I have fantasies of having a house and having my fancy brass scroll trundle as a guest bed. It’s a small dream but if I get rid of every little dream like swimming in an ocean storm and removing heavy jewelry off of me to be lighter, then I’d have to admit I’m desperately staying afloat and that’s unacceptable at this age. I rolled over on my twin mattress to meet another unpleasant haunting-time, 10:53am. I have nowhere to be and nothing to do but I am jobless and I can’t live in assisted living forever so I muster the strength to get out of bed. Something about starting from the floor seems dolefully appropriate. I don’t bother brushing my teeth because I know how fleeting low ambition can be so I got dressed promptly and headed to the coffee shop where I can "people watch" as I apply for jobs. If you haven’t already figured, I’m in the thick of doom and gloom, the kind of depressed where you want to grab someone’s arm and tug for mercy to help you by sharing some of their happiness but thankfully my scruples are still in tack so I quietly observe like a student. My walk to Cheer Ups is already medicinal. The name gives shape and location to an emotion I’m trying to find, plus, I hadn’t realized how stale my apartment is until the outside air hit me and produced an involuntary deep breath -as though my body was waiting to detect a more suitable supply to breath. I took out my notebook and jotted down “breathing”. There’s often a sweet little white squirrel I call “Loops”, that lives in one of the trees lining the sidewalk, it’s always a treat to witness him circling the tree elated and fluffing his tail about but he’s not there; Instead, a lady tends a wheeled rack that she’s selling simple cloth bags off of. She’s sitting on a blanket sewing them in real time. That, was more impressive than the finished product. I viewed the whole scene more as performance art of her story but I do hope someone buys some. I suddenly realize that I’m having a positive thought for someone else. Perhaps I relate to her, I sense desperation in that act but she’s doing something about it and that’s admirable. I jotted down “well wishes for others”. The smell of warm roasted coffee seductively swirls the building, so intoxicating it pulls me at the waist to come inside. I jot down “sex”, immediately scratching it out to write “coffee scented candle”. I’m met with an attractive couple wearing glasses that matches in cuteness and style, I slip out of their way as he holds the door open for her and their precious bouncing baby. That stung a bit, I do some heavy math on the way to the couch, while unpacking my things I ask why did I feel a sharp visceral sadness creeping up to my eyes and how can I prevent that? I make up a mantra and jot down “let others be, what they have is not for me-Acceptance”. I recalibrate my focus to inhaling the smell of coffee and releasing that pain. To my delight I look up and Javier is smiling at his computer, he’s not even on a call, he’s genuinely smiling at spread sheets. This man is always smiling with the consistency and conviction I’ve only seen in hula dancing. Though he’s got an eye catching set of teeth and a sweet boys face, his black hair with a modest sprinkling of salt is telling that he’s probably in his early 40s. I don’t know him, we have not met but I’ve heard him introduce himself to others, that’s how I know his name and that he has a thick South American accent. I assume he moved away from his roots. I’ve never see him in here with anyone. I wonder if he’s lonely too and if so, how does he produce such a sincere smile that radiates a chain reaction in me to smile. He is a valuable stranger to me, a happiness booster like my charming albino squirrel neighbor. He re-ups me by just being. You sir, make me forget I was sad. Before I go up to order I make sure how much money I have in my cloth coin purse. Rummaging around I feel a balled up piece of masking tape that became loose, it has “Carmen” written on it in pen. I recall when I got the purse at a natural foods store, they had a section of coin bags made with a variety of patterns. The tag said Liberty and Luz and describes the makers to be a group of women from El Salvador. The shopkeeper noticed me browsing and told me a man drops them off every so often. I wondered about the fairness of the profiting hierarchy and hoped they were making as much as he was if not more. In this collection an earthy brown with subtle blue inter-weaved, stood out to me, this had my name on it too. When I read her name off the tape, my first thought was that Carmen and I both understand the beauty of brown and blue as a unit. I walked into that store on an entirely different season when new bags were put up to choose from and just like the last I was drawn to a particular pattern out of all the rest. This time, a bright white one with neon pink and blue lines with an alternating band of navy diamond shapes, I opened it and saw that it was another one of Carmen’s, we have the same taste even in different moods. The combination of reading her hand written name on the tape in addition to noting our similar style choices was like meeting a friend, it was a clue that spoke something to me about them like putting your ear to a conch shell to hear a sound from somewhere else. The name tag in the lining made me feel connected to this person and curious to know their story and how important this job is for them, side cash or complete livelihood? I kept her name in there because the illusion of this special type of invisible friend helps me feel less alone. Unfortunately, the tape is becoming worn. Before I could get up, a bright movement of light swept by the window in my periphery, Maybel- no one’s hair makes a statement quite like Maybel’s. She’s a woman in her late 50s that is of Irish descent so her hair is naturally platinum blonde and wildy voluptuous and curly, it’s blinding under the sun. My instinct was correct as she just turned a few heads stepping in through the door in her red pumps, black panty hose with the line up the middle and a red polka dotted tight white dress with a slit in the back. She even had short lace gloves and a vintage pill cap pinned on her head. She’s often an eccentric dresser but never this “to the 9’s” for a casual coffee. She seemed to be ordering something other than a drink. I went over to say hi then noticed she was more sullen than usual. She turns to me “Dotty died, I’m just getting a mincemeat pie. She would always beg me for mine. I had her turned to ash so I could bury her quickly at a spot in her favorite park.” Dotty was Maybel’s beloved dog, they’ve lived down the street from me for three years now, we chat sporadically when we see each other out. I’ve been over to her single roomed shack; it was a bit of an Alice in Wonderland trick the way she would fit into her own place, tall and thin but big hipped and with a large pit pull. She had a mini old diner style napkin dispenser in 70’s ochre. Her kitchen had an island the size of a trapper keeper, we’d drink out of thimbles and she used upright tree trunks as side tables. I can tell she was a cooley in the 90’s by the relics surrounding the place and how she’s regaled me in her personal relationships with rock musicians I’ve heard on the radio. She shared her rough beginnings about how her mother would threaten to pull and quarter her. I had my own grievances with parental abuse and it was interesting to compare cultural differences in it. As far as I know Maybel doesn’t have children or doesn’t date and is perfectly fine living alone, she makes it look cozy and safe. Of course she never felt alone with her pets, this isn’t the first dog that’s passed, it’s her life companion of choice and she’ll likely get another dog after some time and go through the motions all over again. Maybe she has the same fate as me where the right people never stuck around. Despite the tragedy in today she managing to celebrate Dotty’s life in style and not sink in a bed. She’s about 20 years older than me and I forget her age because she didn’t hang up her cutoff jeans, low snap button tanks, cowboy boots or red lipstick. Pondering the life and nature of Maybel just energized me, If I must continue down my lonely path just ask what would Maybel do to get through. I hold that thought to respond, “I’m so sorry Maybel, can I join you”? She nods yes with her periwinkle blues. “Ok, I’ll meet you at your place in an hour”. I quickly went back to the couch to pack up keeping my notebook and pencil in hand, taking one more dose of Javier’s smile with me before I head home. I pass Maybel again and give a sympathetic wave and jot down “WWMD”. Once I come to the tree where Loops is playing with another squirrel, I’m so happy to see him even for just small moments out of the day. I would have forgotten about the lady that was selling bags there earlier except a tag must have drifted off one of them and stayed behind. It says Liberty and Luz. I knew they sold in town but a man normally distributes and this time it was a lady, might it have been Carmen? As I walk home spinning inspiring possibilities about Carmen’s work ethic driven journey. It’s not lost on me that I only left my apartment a little over an hour ago with a full desire to not move from my bed until sun down but since I did I’m now wearing a smile with an excuse to get glitzed up and be of useful company to somebody. I don’t have to know what everyone is going through to know that they also experience sorrow of their own, whether crippling or light rain, hope can be produced from observing how others deal and cope and I am so grateful for that hope today. Seeing people carrying on and taking on life’s challenges with either a smile on their face or begrudged but still kicking, is impactful and motivating. There are endless components in our surroundings that we can have gratitude for. Collectively the characters in just an hour into my day demonstrated positivity, playfulness, ambition and strength that pulled me out of a funk. I now feel less alone and just as capable. As I get to the steps of my apartment I jot down “Get out, talk to other lonely people, relate”.

TW: Allusion to trauma, abuse, neglect. Most people who have been through a traumatic event, have a tendency to blame themselves at one point or another. More often than we care to count, we utter the phrase, “This is all my fault.” It reverberates through our actions and thoughts, like ripples on a pond. These ripples distort what is true, what we think is real. This is natural and, luckily, we stop taking responsibility for things beyond our control that happened to us... hopefully. What happens when there is a seemingly unending series of events that make us say, “This is all my fault.”? What we were taught is that we are undeserving of protection. When they hurt us, they not only forsook their responsibility to protect us, but also their right to protection. We searched for a fault within ourselves, coming to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with us, that we are at fault somehow. This is all my fault. What we come to believe is that we do not matter, that we just have to bear it, however heavy that burden may be. They make us believe that they can get away with anything, that the only thing we can do is keep quiet... and we do. They are undeserving of our silence, yet our agony is trapped behind tightly pursed lips. Our screams are muffled, smothered by the threat of worse things to come. We were taught to believe that we were undeserving of love. They hold all the power. They hold our very existence - past, present and future - in their hands. We have no control. They make us feel like we have relinquished all our power. This is all my fault. As we grow up, we respond in one of two ways: look for that love in all the wrong places, hoping that we are worthy; or we shut out everything and everyone, so that we do not get hurt again. When experience teaches us, is that we matter less than the ones who caused these wounds. I do not like using the word scars, because that implies a healed injury; seemingly insignificant triggers can feel like a wire brush scouring exposed flesh, reminding us of how raw that hurt still is. It is easier to think that they did not know what they were doing was wrong, but they knew... they fucking knew . Behind closed doors, hidden away from the world, they did what they wanted. We were taught that we were undeserving of being seen; we taught ourselves that it is safer to hide. No, the irony does not escape me. Why was no-one looking out for us? Did they not see that 12 year old shrink into herself whenever anyone came near? Were they so blind that they did not notice the oversized sweaters in summer, the baggy clothes in muted tones, the hypervigilance, the shallow breathing, the instinctive flinch? Did they choose not to see or were we taught to hide ourselves and our shame and our hurt from all the world? This is all my fault. The years pass; the danger slowly dissipates. What is left? A body that remembers... horrendously vivid nightmares... the reflex to recoil... aversions to all manner of things. We cannot speak their names. We cannot bear to think of looking them in the eye. The prospect of being in their presence fills us with an all-consuming dread. It feels like a shadow with claws that creeps up from your very soul, grasping at your insides, pulling you away from yourself, enveloping you... smothering you. This is all my fault. You can’t breathe; you can’t think. The wire brush is back, scrubbing away at that wound, making you feel raw and exposed. It’s like you’re back there... with them, undeserving of love, of protection, of anything good. I’m not good enough. This is all my fault. We teach ourselves to remain silent, because we think that saying its name out loud will somehow make it more real. We blame ourselves for that which we were forced to bear witness to, forced to bear . We teach ourselves that we are unworthy of being heard. They get to live their lives, free of guilt, free of shame, and somehow we are shouldered with that burden. Do they ever pay for it? Do they ever show remorse? Did we matter so little? This is all my fault. Were we even undeserving of a second thought? We are so scared to tarnish their “good” name. We convince ourselves that we are in the wrong, because that way, we have some semblance of control, some hope of avoiding the worst of the horrors we have not yet endured. We are so scared of saying something that will get us into trouble. We are so scared of making it worse by calling them out. When they broke us, those cracks were filled with fear that would stay with us for a long time. We were too afraid to say something, too afraid to run, too afraid to question what was happening, too afraid to ask for help. This is all my fault. We were undeserving of tenderness, of love, of safety, of belonging, of life itself. As these words materialise, I feel like I am reclaiming a lot of what was taken from me. I am unlearning habits that were formed deep within my being. I put pen to paper, because they are undeserving of my silence, of protection, of being blameless. Their actions deserve to be aired, to be spoken of... not so that I may dwell on it, but that I can regain control. There is a part of myself that was subjected to so many terrors, that it felt like it had been trampled... like it had withered just a little more with each horror I had to endure. None of this is my fault, whatsoever. I am not to blame. That is the part I’m taking back. I am deserving of love.

For the nth time, she crumpled the piece of paper and aimed to throw it in to the bin at the far end of the room. It wasn’t just a dream, she knew it. It was real. As real as her whole existence. When it happened for the first time, she had to pinch herself thrice in order to wake herself up. And then the same dream again. And again. It kept happening for a week until she realized the figure she saw wasn’t a dream and pinching herself or shouting for help wasn’t going to work. She would snap back to reality only when this figure disappeared just as suddenly as it showed up. Every time in the dream, or what felt like a dream, she would see a small girl who looked a lot like her. Every time she would say the same thing, ‘tell me, Maisah. Tell me what to do’. Maisah didn’t know what she was supposed to tell her or what the little girl wanted to know so badly that she reached out to her every night. All she knew was that she had to tell her something only she knew. So, she took out a piece of paper and started writing down everything that was known to her, only. Several weeks had passed in attempts to figure out what this little girl wanted to know from her. Every night she would give her a letter and the little girl would read it thoroughly, look up at her and shake her head. Sometimes, Maisah thought that maybe she’s hallucinating or maybe she was going crazy. How could any of it be possible? But it had been several years now that she had been safely off her pills and her psychiatrist had told her she no longer needed to see him as her mental health had progressed over the years of therapy and medications. So why was this happening now? She opened a fresh paper of the notebook, picked up a pen and started writing everything she was trying to avoid going through for all these weeks. Maybe or most certainly, this was it. This was all the little girl in her dreams wanted to know. And once she gave it her, it would set both of them free. *** Dear young Maisah, I had almost forgotten what it was like to be you. The young version of myself. After all, it has been many years since I was in the same shoes as you. I don’t know if this is real, if you are actually real. But I haven’t felt anything as real as I have these past couple of weeks since I started seeing you. You always say the exact same words to me. Nothing more, nothing less. And this whole time I’ve been reluctant to find out the right thing to say to you, to help you figure out whatever it is you are desperate to know. But each time you shake your head with a despondent look, letting me know that I am failing at my attempts. Over the past couple of years, I have been to therapy. I have visited many places around the country, worked triple shifts, and I have tried everything I could to keep myself busy. Some days I would be successful in distracting myself and other days I would find myself having a mental breakdown at three in the morning. Life has been very tough on me but more than that I have been very tough on myself. And I don’t want you to make the same mistakes that I have. I want you to live the life I had only dreamed of living when I was in your place. I know that it has already happened to you which is why you are here. And even though your future self has healed from it, she still doesn’t have the courage to talk about it with anyone. So even when a part of me knew why you were here in the first place, I didn’t want to accept it and I tried giving you other things hoping you will be satisfied and leave. I know in your story, father is already dead. I can never forget that day. How I stood there beside his body, feeling like the culprit, feeling like a murderer. I was only thirteen years old, with a dead mother, a brother who had long run away leaving me alone with a drunk father who used to abuse my mother, not just mentally but physically as well. And when she had committed suicide after all the years of torture and suffering, I was left alone with the same man who made her do that. And so, he started torturing me in the same ways. I remember standing there by his body, for what felt like hours, not knowing what to do or where to go. I know the guilt you are feeling right now, for I have felt it for years and somewhere deep inside, still do. But I need you to know that whatever happened is not your fault. He made his choices and he ought to have a death like that, but you didn’t deserve to be the one who had to do it. Even if it was unintended. Unintentional. You want to know what I would’ve done if I was in your place again? I would’ve turn around and run. As fast as I could without turning back even once. I would’ve run and I’m telling you that you need to get away from that scene as fast and as far away as you can. No one is to be trusted around you. I know you feel like turning yourself in, just as I had done. Because for the first time, you retaliated and pushed him. Pushed him so hard he fell on the broken piece of the bottle of wine and bled to death. I need you to suppress those thoughts, pick up your important belongings and run. Far away. And when you reach a safe place, just look at yourself in the mirror or anything you could use to see your reflection and tell yourself that you are not a murderer. You are not the culprit of this story. None of it is your fault and you don’t deserve to suffer everything that I have. From there onward, you choose your own path, your own direction. I know you are alone and scared and you have never seen so much blood in your life before. But you weren’t the one who pushed him. He did this to himself. You were just defending yourself just like you should have a long time ago. And if you are having any second thoughts, remember that I have lived the life you are only thinking about right now and I know the better choice. You will lose everything you still have if you choose to stay there and turn yourself in for a crime you didn’t commit, for a place that was never your home and a man who couldn’t be a father to you for a single day of your life. I hope this letter changes things not just for you, but for me as well. I’ll be right here, on the other side of it all, waiting for you to, someday, show up and tell me about the life that I could never have. With love Maisah *** It had been several months now since she had seen the little Maisah. The night she wrote the letter and gave it to her was the last she had ever seen her. But something happened that night, something extraordinary. As soon as young Maisah finished reading the letter she looked up to her older self. There was an exchange in glances between the two for a moment and in each other's eyes, they saw the same agony, the same aching for a lifelong of love they could never receive even though, they had decades of time zone between them. And it connected them and built a strong intuition within them that they were going to see each other, yet again. Young Maisah nodded with teary eyes and disappeared, leaving her old self crying herself to sleep the whole night, but this time not out of pain or sorrow. But because she could feel that she had set herself free, twice.

“Hi” “hi.” “What’s up?” “nothin really. u?” “Eh you know. Netflix lol.” “niccceeee. what you watching?” “Just The Office. I freaking love Dwight lmao” “nah. michael is the best character.” “Oh don’t get me wrong, I love them all haha.” “You still there?” “yeah sorry.” “Lol it’s cool.” “So you come on here often?” “not really. something about “dating” apps just kinda freaks me out, it’s weird to just hook up with someone when you only talk to them via texting.” “Yet here you are” “i said it was weird. it can still be fun.” “I suppose.” “and now you probably think i’m a slut.” “Oh stop. I do not.” “whatever.” “I’m sorry? Do you want me to think that you are or something?” “idk.” “Well I don’t think you are. Your profile picture is too... idk, just too nice or whatever.” “yeah. because nice is what I was going for. ” “do u ever feel like ur having a heart attack but like, you know you’re not?” “What?” “nothing.” “ugh im so bored.” “Lol me too. Wanna chill or something?” “not tonight. i have plans.” “Oh okay.” “Watcha doing?” “its kinda hard to explain.” “Do you have a boyfriend or something?” “if i had a boyfriend i certainly wouldnt be here.” “no offense or anything.” “but like, what are we even doing here? whats the point of swiping on pictures just to talk to strangers for a short amount of time searching for something to quell our loneliness” “u there?” “Yeah I’m here.” “did i scare u away yet?” “No not yet.” “good.” “It’s getting late though, it’s like 11:30 and I have to be up at 5:00 for work.” “stop being lame. u will get plenty of sleep.” “Are you not letting me go to bed?” “im not letting myself be alone, and ur the only one talking to me right now.” “Why don’t you want to be alone...?” “Hello?” “Hello???” “hi. sorry, what up?” “Okay I’m not playing these games anymore haha, what’s going on? You’re being hella sketchy” “hahahahaha im sorry. im here now though” “This is the first time you laughed since we started talking.” “i wasn’t actually laughing. just because i typed hahaha doesn’t mean i was actually over here laughing or anything.” “Okay.” “have u ever drowned?” “No...” “it’s extremely painful. u feel as if ur entire world is breaking down beside u, as if u can save urself but the fact that ur panicking stops u from actually simply pulling ur head above water. people try to save u, they jump in and try to pull u out. but u end up pulling them under with u. not because ur trying to hurt them or anything, just because u are panicking and are willing to grab onto anything to help u stay afloat. u dont realize what u are doing. u dont care. all u care about is getting another breath of air. but eventually people stop running in to save u, so u are forced to drown alone in a cold, silent hell. u can scream all u want but nobody hears it. nobody cares, or if they do care they simply dont hear you screaming for help.” “Jesus. Did this happen at the beach or something.” “its been happening for a couple years now.” “I don’t think I understand.” “ok” “u still up?” “It’s 2 in the morning lol I have to get to sleep.” “can u stay up a little bit longer?” “im tired of drowning.” “I mean I can stay up for a little longer I guess. What are you doing?” “ill send u a pic.” “did u get it?” “Yeah that’s a beautiful view, do you have like a top floor apartment or something? I love the city skyline.” “no. i go to the roof sometimes just to hangout or whatever.” “That’s pretty cool. Plus it’s an amazing view.” “yeah i know.” “i like sitting on the edge. just letting my feet dangle off while i stare out into the vast number of windows.” “That sounds kinda risky...” “whats the worst that could happen? i fall and the drowning ends? i fall and nobody has to save me anymore?” “Please don’t talk like this.” “go to bed, dear. u have to work and i think im okay with being alone right now.” “Yeah, but I’m not okay with you being alone right now.” “my phones about to die though.” “Bullshit.” “JUST LET ME GO.” “No.” “Hello?” “Hello???” “HELLO?!?!?” “hi.” “What the hell. Where did you go?” “funny how u can miss someone u didnt even meet.

Today the phone won’t ring. She checked as soon as she woke up. Dead breath in her mouth. The guy next to her--an aberration. He should have gone home. She made it explicitly clear to him that under no circumstances could he stay the night. He said he just wanted to rest his eyes while he waited for his Lyft. Now here he is. He’s upset the balance. She should beat him to death with the coffeepot, but that would only derail the morning further. Once he’s up and out ( “I’ll call you when I’m back from Fiji. Big things going on there. Really big. Can’t even talk about them.” ) she checks her email. She checks it every morning at nine oh three. It’s nine twenty-seven. There are no emails. She is going to have a bad morning. She is going to have the worst morning. Her habits are simple: Wake up at nine. Email at nine oh three. The phone call comes at nine thirty. Today the phone call will not come at nine thirty. In fact, there will be no phone call at all. She will check several times while knowing the entire time that she has royally destroyed the routine with her carelessness. All because she went out to a Peruvian restaurant and brought home one of the waiters. He gave her extra bread sticks. On a cloth napkin, he’d written his number in sharpie. The audacity of ruining a napkin had aroused her. She called him as soon as she got in the door and promised herself that she’d have him out before two or three at the latest. The trust that she puts in herself after several glasses of wine is laughable. A message from her mother came through and she promptly responded that she did not care who was getting a divorce, because men failed to excite or even intrigue her these days. The Peruvian waiter was an exception in a long line of exceptions, but she’d been damned if she let her mother foist another crying divorcee on her all because she was always coming home for the holidays with perfectly wrapped gifts and no boyfriend. When receiving the phone call, she was supposed to dictate a series of words over the phone. Once that was done, she could go about her day, which usually consisted of Tim Burton films-- one or two, but always Beetlejuice --and takeout from whichever menu had squirrels its way to the top of the drawer next to the stove. No phone call meant no movies, no Winona Ryder, and a skipped lunch. A disruption of her routine meant that she wouldn’t be hungry--not for days. That would help with the bathing suit she’d purchased online that had come in three sizes too small, but it meant that she was going to be angry all the time unless she forced herself to eat one of the stale bagels that are always sitting on her kitchen table. There was no point in getting dressed. She paced back and forth in her apartment wearing only her Panic! At the Disco t-shirt and the gym shorts she bought back when she thought she might at least begin a flirtation with the gym. The phone buzzes. Her excitement is cut short when she recognizes that the buzz is not the buzz of a text message, which would still not be a phone call, but would be better than the reminder that she only has two free articles left to read this month from the New York Times. She only reads the New York Times when there’s a piece about unrest, because unrest is the subject of her daily phone calls, but today there could be a thousand words on every page of the paper about revolutions and assassinations, and she would only be able to get the edited version of the history she’s meant to be enacting. Her words were good today--Sandstorm, Throw Pillow, Angst. She would have delivered them with a crisp articulation that would have made her contact recommend her for a promotion. Something to take her out of the suburbs where she has to eat Peruvian on Friday’s just to feel metropolitan. Other than the place with the cloth napkins, it’s all fast food and nail salons. She doesn’t get her nails done in case she gets a call to come into the field. You can’t have long nails in the field. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows you can’t screw up your morning with an unwanted guest either, but here she is. It’s a quarter to twelve--no phone call. No text. No email from the contact--not that they ever would email anyway. She might be removed from the program for this. They don’t hand out demerits. No warnings. No one strike, two strikes, and the third means you’re out. One miss and you’ve jeopardized yourself and the dissidents in Romania or wherever else there was turmoil. The bagels fill up her mouth with such density she expects to choke. It would be a reprieve for whatever is coming next. Her apartment smells like the air fryer she used days ago in a misguided attempt at making healthy curly fries. She should have known better. Sucking the toxins out of anything will render it inedible. At least to her. A birthday cake candle is lit. She brings up YouTube on her television and puts on Nina Simone. It’ll steady her nerves. Her mother messages with more information on the divorcee. It was a nasty separation, but no kids, which means the marriage practically never happened. One quick search of the guy through her database reveals that he once hit a man with his car and kept going. Her mother has good intentions, but she’s a horrible judge of character. That or she just wants her daughter married off as soon as possible no matter the risks. The car he was driving was brand new. It had to have needed work after that, and once you bring a car into the shop you never stop bringing it in. Today the phone won’t ring. She sits on her couch and listens to “Feeling Good.” The volume on the television is far too loud, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to hear the crack or the sound of the bullet hitting the back of the couch. They’ll miss her the first time, but not the second. Even then, it’ll be just the shoulder. That’ll give her time to get a few shots in before they realize that they should have just left her in the program. Six years and she’s never missed a phone call, but one mistake means you have to be removed. To hell with them. Everybody’s entitled to one bad day.

“Your boy ain’t right, Jane. You know it and we know it. It’s becoming more obvious by the minute but let’s be honest with ourselves here. He weren’t right in the head, even before he was bit by one of them rabid things roaming the woods. He’s always been a tad on the wild side but this, this is somethin’ else. It’s dangerous.” “Alright Martha. I’ll reluctantly agree with that, but he was always a good boy! He always minded me. Now, not so much. He’s become a lil’ monster I can’t control. I don’t know what to do about the situation!” “Oh, hon. No one’s disputin’ he’s a good little feller. We all like him. We do. He’s a real joy and blessing to you, and brought huge smiles to our faces when he was around. I’m just saying what the rest of us are thinking. There’s very bad things lurking out there. You know what I’m talking about, and you understand what happens after they get ahold of somethin’. The madness is irreversible, right? Something’s gotta be done about your little man, and ideally it should come from you. You’re his family. Even though it’s not his fault, you know what needs to happen. We’ve all seen the tear-jerker ‘Old Yeller’. We remember how that sad story ends and we know how this one is gonna end too. It’s ugly as sin. No doubt about it and there’s no cure. You just gotta... ‘put him down’, real quick like. I’ll be easier. The decent thing to do is to put him out of his misery and end his sufferin’.” “That’s simple for you to say, Mar. He ain’t your’n. You didn’t raise him from a little ‘pup’. It’s.. just so hard to let go. I love him to pieces and had so many hopes and dreams for him. He depends on me for everything. He’s gonna be sad when I...” “No, no. It ain’t simple for any of us to say! No one ever said doing the right thing was easy but it’s the only thing to do, in this case. It’s not fair. We all know that. We’ve approached you about it because we know how hard it’s going to be to take care of, and we want to support you in this terrible time. Your little ray of sunshine is depending on you now to do what’s best for him, and in the end we know you will. No one wants to deal with something so heart-wrenching but in times like this, it has to be done swiftly. Good folks stick together to help each other in times like this.” “Thank you Martha! I appreciate it. I really do. You guys are so good to me. I just don’t have the strength to pull the trigger. How do we know he’s really suffering? Like you said, he was already a little wild hellion child. Maybe he doesn’t feel any pain anymore. Surely being like this is still better than being... dea...” “No Jane. Noooo. He’s infected. He’s frothing at the mouth for heaven’s sake. Just look at him! He has spasms and violent mood swings. He’d tear you to pieces if you got any closer. Your boy is not himself. It’s highly contagious and he’s in immense pain. You can see that when you look into his dilated pupils. Plus, what if he bites you? One of us will have to put you down too, and none of us wants to have to do that. It would’ve been totally unnecessary and preventable. There’s no saving him, but we can help support you. Take care of your boy.” “Would you please, pretty please do it for me, Martha? You just said you are all here to help. I can’t do it. That would help me immensely if you or Earl would....” “We would take care of you because we had no choice. There would be no one else left to do it but that’s not even close to the same situation, and it’s not fair of you to ask us. Frankly, we’re worried your sick little feller will bite you, and then you could spread it to all of us. Doing this will make you a much stronger woman! Every person should take care of their own ‘mess’. I’m sorry to be harsh but this is yours, Jane. You must clean it up.” Jane Weaver looked around the room with a deepening level of realization. The real truth slowly slid out of their forked tongues. They weren’t nearly as supportive as they pretended to be. It was a more of a pushy confrontation than ‘loving support’. Resentment was building rapidly in her heart. She wanted to lash out at them but the problem of what to do about her infected hellion still remained. The thought of having to blow his brains out was unbearable. Meanwhile, they stood there with their cold, calculating eyes. “If any of you had been more diligent about eliminating those infected creatures lurking in the woods, none of this would be an issue! Then he would still be himself! You knew rabid skunks and foxes were dangerous, and yet you did nothing about them. That is YOUR mess, and you need to clean THAT up! Perhaps I’ll just let Ol’ Blue out of his containment pen, and then you’ll be forced to take care of my good little boy, yourselves.

Alexander ran into the bookshop with fear in his heart. "Howdy, there" said the proprietor. Alexander let out a scream. "Not you too! Not you, Tommy". "I'd thank you kindly not to shout in my store. You can just giddy on up outta here if you don't lower your voice" Tommy replied, not recognizing his long-time friend. Alexander ran over but stopped in his tracks as Tommy pulled a shotgun from behind the counter. "I think you'd better leave now, partner." "Tommy, please!" Alexander pleaded. Tommy spit tobacco juice into a spittoon. "Tommy, you don't even chew tobacco! You hate guns! Listen!" Alexander begged an indifferent Tommy. "Partner. I said. Giddy. On. Up." with that Tommy shot a shell into the air hitting the lamp above his head. As the glass finished falling onto and off of his hat, Tommy spit and stared. Alexander felt his heart drop. He was resigned to leave and slunk out of the front door. His sadness was suddenly replaced by a burst of fear as gun shots rang out directly in front of him. In disbelief, he watched a man collapse in the middle of the empty street. Alexander nearly fainted. A man standing in full western gear blew the tip of his pistol as women in impractically oversized dresses ran up to celebrate his victory. Alexander sat down and reached for his phone. He called his wife. "Hello?" her voice sent a rush of calm over Alexander. "Babe. I've tried to call a hundred times. I was worried it got you too." Alexander said in a desperate breath. "What? Hardly any reception out here. I took Sam for a day at the beach. I'll be home in about thirty." before Alexander could reply, the line disconnected. He called back but it went straight to voicemail. He rushed toward the train station but found no-one tending the counter. He went up to the machine but it was out of order. He was going to have to jump on without paying. He'd never stolen a thing in his life but, felt he had no choice. He prepared himself but, the train never came. After a few minutes, he began to run home. He burst through the in a pool of sweat. "Baby!" he yelled "Pack your things, we have to get out of here! Everyone's turned into Americans from the old west! We have to go! Now!" "What are you talking about hon?" to Alexander's horror, his wife came around the corner in a cowboy hat. He fell backwards into the wall. "Steady there, big fella." his wife said "You're gonna wake youngin'" Alexander rushed into the baby's room and picked up Sam who awoke immediately. "Great! Now how am I gonna clean up with this little cowpoke running around?" His wife asked from the doorway. "Yeehaw" said the little voice. Alexander would have dropped Sam if not for his wife's quick reaction. Alexander stumbled out the door to find his neighbor standing on his lawn. "Alexander!" the man yelled "You've let your dog sully my lawn for the last time! The insult will not be tolerated! Pistols! Now!" "Jon... I don't have a pistol!" Alexander said back, overwhelmed in confusion. "You yellow-bellied coward! What's that on your hip?" Alexander looked down and saw a pistol he didn't recognize. He felt himself walking to the middle of the street. He turned his back to his neighbor. Alexander began to walk ten paces but, his neighbor only walked three. Alex felt the bullet whistle by his ear. Instinctively, he spun, drew, and laid down the cheater. "Yeehaw!" a little voice from the porch yelled. Alexander paused for a moment before smiling back "Yeehaw" Alexander said "Yeehaw, indeed".

A man named Ned sat in his arm chair and read printed words on a collection of paper. He enjoyed his books and his slow secluded life. He lived in a small house out in the country and watched the sunrise every morning and took walks through the woods at sunset. He wrote long, well thought out letters to his loved ones and cultivated friendships like the the crops in his garden. Since he didn't have many visitors he occupied his free time with the books from his parents collection. Hundreds of times he had read these stories and he cherished every one. When he didn't feel like reading he would often go somewhere quiet and reflect on his life and the things around him. When Ned did have to go into town he avoided gossip and mostly made polite small talk with his distant neighbors. Ned didn't dislike people, he merely disliked their habits of creating problems. His world was small but it was beautiful and Ned wouldn't have traded it for anything. But then one day Aptus, the vengeful god of the Net and lord of the cats appeared at his door. "NED LUDD!" howled Aptus. "FOR TOO LONG HAVE YOU ALLUDED ME!" "YOU REMAIN INDEPENDENT OF MY WIDE WORLD OF WEBS. NEVER HAS A COMMENT BEEN POSTED NOR A MEME BEEN SPREAD BY YOUR ABSENT USERNAME. I AM APTUS, NED LUDD, AND I DEMAND SACRIFICE! I DEMAND PARTICIPATION! DID YOU EVEN SEE MILEY CYRUS AT THE VMA's?" "Huh?" answered Ned. "FOR YOUR HUBRIS I DAMN YOU NED LUDD, TO AN ETERNITY OF SURFING. YOU HAVE LIVED YOUR LIFE OFFLINE AND NOW I CURSE YOU TO A LIFE OF CONNECTIVITY!" And with a wild laugh Aptus touched Ned's forehead. He heard a horrible noise and suddenly Ned was lifted off his feet and sucked into a series of tubes. Ned flew through into this horrible new world, bombarded by noise, words, pornography and pictures of cute animals. Suddenly it all stopped and Ned found himself lying in a landscape devoid of anything but a single play button. Cautiously Ned approached it, fearing what it might do. Tentatively he pushed the button and before him appeared a dancing, singing Korean man wearing glasses and a suit. "I don't understand!" cried Ned. "Oppa Gangnam Style" replied the man. Ned turned to run but everywhere he fled he was haunted by this horrible man and his terrible song. "Forgive me Aptus!" Ned pleaded to the heavens. But Aptus merely laughed at the man and retweeted his suffering.

The Cheeky Chair Here she comes. It’s old Annie McGoogan. The deadliest domestic in town. Ouch! She plumps me up with a couple of quick punches to my cushion and squirts her cheap polish on my poor wooden wings and arms. She rubs her yellow cloth, full of dust, with great vigour, no regard for the fact that I’m the oldest piece of furniture in Doctor Davidson’s waiting room. The patients called him young Doctor Davidson when I arrived as a brand-new chair with brown velour upholstery and a smooth, shining mahogany veneer. I had strong legs and a firm seat. I’ve been reupholstered many times. My favourite was the blue and yellow daisy pattern in the seventies. Now I’m a stripy grey and cream pattern, but my legs are cracked and wobbly - a bit like Milly McPherson’s mind - she’s the oldest patient to visit the surgery. She once turned up with her cat in her handbag. Another time she sat on me for three hours before realising she wasn’t in the library. You’d think the lack of books would be a give-away with only two Reader's Digests and a Take-a-Break magazine on display. Now Annie’s got the vacuum out and they’re roaring around the room. Henry Hoover is nearly as ancient as me and picks up nothing. In fact, there’s more fluff on the carpet after he’s rattled around. If you don’t suffer from asthma when you come into the surgery, you’ll sure as hell go home unable to get a breath from the dust in here. The coffee table cringes as Annie scrapes a sticky sweet off the scratched surface. Then she’s off with a flourish to torment the furniture in the Doctor’s own room. The chairs in there will be trembling and the sink stinging with the amount of disinfectant used, by the time Annie's finished. At nine o’clock on the dot the Doc comes in and prepares for the day ahead, followed by Letty McIvor, the receptionist, who is plump and kindly and slips the kids a wee treat when their mums aren’t looking. First patient in is Frannie Flynn, with her varicose veins and three chins. She gives her name and please God don’t let her sit on me. Nooooo! Jesus, Mary and Jehosafat, I swear she’s put on three stone since last week. She has to lose some weight for her operation. Stomach stapling’s what she’s hoping for. She’s kidding herself. If you look in her massive handbag you’ll see three packets of Wotsits, a family sized bar of chocolate and a cheese and pickle sandwich. That’s just her mid-morning snack. The rolls of doughy blubber on her arms pour over my poor arms and she feels wedged right into my seat. Letty will need to prise her out when she’s called. Wiggy Weatherall appears next and sits on one of the modern metal and purple chairs, fit only for skinny people. I remember when he came to the surgery asking for a hair transplant but had to make do with an NHS wig. It sits askew due to the high wind today. He throws a toothy grimace Frannie’s way and she proceeds to regale him with tales of her veins, stomach and wayward daughter. 2 Oh, Lord save us! Here’s Veronica Slattery who should be named sluttery due to the number of children she’s had with different fathers. At the last count there was Dennis the Menace, Pat the Rat, Dodgy Dan, Clatty Clayton and twins Spike and Semolina! The twins’ dad registered them and misheard his daughter’s name which was meant to be Selena. Veronica has two of her brats in tow. One is picking his nose and flicks a bogie onto my back as he passes and the other sneezes onto Frannie, who shifts her considerable weight around my creaking seat. The boys fight over the toys in the corner of the room, while Veronica puffs on her vape, then bites her nails. Thank the Saints in heaven! Frannie’s called first, managing to squeeze herself out of me and waddle off. Oh, the relief. But not for long, as Spike takes a runner at my comfy seat and dives right on. He then proceeds to kick my legs with his wellies and pummel my arms with his sticky little fingers. It’s torture as Dennis joins him and they climb all over me, pretending to be wild Indians. Everyone tries to ignore them, until Veronica bawls, “Get off that chair you wee buggers!” Then she mutters to herself, “That new boyfriend of mine’ll be getting the snip and no mistake.” You don’t half see all the town’s misfits in here. You wouldn’t believe the number of hypochondriacs. Harry O`Donnell thought he had gout or at least an ingrown toenail. What he needed was his eyesight tested. He’d been wearing his son’s shoes by mistake and they’re two sizes too small. The eejit! Mary McPherson came in three times last week thinking she had pneumonia as she was wheezy and sneezy. Turns out she’s allergic to her daughter’s new kitten. Then there’s young Heaven-Lee Brown who just started training as a nursing assistant. She’s had a heart attack, appendicitis, encephalitis, and prostate trouble - all in her teeny, tiny mind of course. Heaven help her patients. Anyway, I’m hoping to get out of here some day soon. I dream that one of our patients will be an Antiques Roadshow presenter and discover that I’m really a chair from the bygone days of the Arts and Crafts movement. He will whisk me away for a valuation on TV. Doc Davidson will sell me for great wads of cash, and I will spend the rest of my days being admired in a museum. I’ll never be sat upon by pregnant women with their waters breaking over me, puking babies or teenagers talking tripe on their phones. Someone will softly brush my cushion, polish my wings and legs with beeswax while looking at me lovingly. But who am I kidding? I’ll have to put up with this lot for a long time yet. Here comes the worst patient in the world. It’s Wally Watson. His windy problem is silent but violent, he has a dodgy bladder and is deaf as a post. Please don’t sit here, please go to a purple chair. If there is a God, keep off me, Wally. Oh well, it’s a God-damned Godless world.

By the time I was outside, the leaves were on fire. Usually, I’m not a stickler for rules, but standing there, watching the leaves; only the leaves light up in flames, it reminded me of you. I would’ve said the leaves shouldn’t have been alight like that; it was against the laws of science, but this isn’t my story, it’s yours. If you were here you wouldn’t have bothered with the fire extinguisher, so I don’t either, only watching the leaves smolder in the fire, from a safe distance of course. You might’ve confronted the leaves themselves, stomping on them with those ugly boots you always insisted on wearing. Now, as I watch the leaves burn to a crisp leaving not a trace of flame, I think of those ugly boots. I never did get around to throwing them away. On the first couple of days, I didn’t believe you were truly gone. People came to my house and gave me their condolences, but what could they know? Every day felt like a blur of routine, forcing myself every day to look outside and remember. Isn’t it weird; that I had already known and didn’t cry? After the leaves stopped burning, I felt the cool damp grass under my fingers. On lucky days, you and I would have enough time to visit the mall, drink our favorite bubble teas and collect dandelions in the parking lot where small mounds of weeds grew between the cement. We’d set our shopping bags down and gingerly place the dandelions into your grandmother’s vase. Your grandmother baked the best cookies when she was alive. “Doesn’t everyone have a grandmother’s vase in their home?” You had exclaimed, snorting in that special way that meant you were joking and dead serious at the same time. That day, I had calculated the probability of having a vase in a house, and though I searched day after day, my long-lost grandma’s precious vase was nowhere to be found. “Calista, Calista, don’t be so rigid!” You used to tell me, bumping your elbow into my shoulder. I wished some of your creativity would rub off on me eventually, but she was always the cool college student, and I was the geeky kid nobody wanted to be seen with. Maybe that’s why nothing can surprise me now. Not rabid squirrels, or dancing donkeys for all I care! Not even leaves burning brightly in the mid-afternoon sun. “Hey, Cally! You wanna catch Starbucks with me?” June always wanted to help me, to be my friend, but you were the only one who I would truly want. I wrapped my almost threadbare fleece over myself protectively, not looking into June’s eyes. She persisted, tugging on my shoulder. “We’ve missed you, Cally. Please re-join the program.” I felt myself moving up to get my bike from the garage. It had been sitting there, my own Vespa, collecting dust, missing its glory days. Maybe I did need to take a break. The wind blowing through my hair felt like freedom. June and I swept through the inner roads, watching unfamiliar houses covered in Halloween decorations fly by. Leaves littered the roads, and when we drove past them, they blew higher and higher into the sky. We were nearing the intersection to the only Starbucks in town when a familiar brownstone caught my eye. Without stopping to tell June, I made a frantic U-turn, sending my loosely clipped helmet flying onto the road. My Vespa skidded onto the sidewalk, almost crashing into the rickety mailbox dangling from a thin post. It had been a while since I’d been to the McAllister house. Your brownstone used to be the fanciest on the block. As I walked up to the door, I saw your family’s initials carved into the brick. Where lush flowers hanging from the roof once lay, a brown clipper dangled instead. Your once-proudly boasted tulips now hung limply over the sides of the pot. I almost forgot that your family had moved away once you were gone. Somewhere in Arizona, they said. Somewhere they could find themselves. I didn’t bother finding the hidden key you always kept in the gutter. The door was termite infested and the house looked all set for Halloween though there were no decorations. I bet I could find all your old belongings, every last one. It felt like intruding, breaking, and entering in your home, but I needed this. Needed your comfort echoing within these walls. Inside, the walls are thinned out, and paint chips off of the walls in slow, deliberate motions. Tiny drawings of stick figures decorate some of the walls, and I suppress a small smile as I run my fingers over them all the way to your room. You told me you were leaving a long while before. We had set up a small game of cards when the complaining started, you telling me we were meant for more. You ran your fingers down that silky smooth hair of yours and told me you were leaving. It was all so simple, so well crafted, the old Ford flipped upside down over the cliffside. Broken glass everywhere. You were always crafty, I'll give you that, but I couldn’t believe you had left me for bigger things, bigger dreams than your best friend. I neared the garage, pausing to check if my thoughts were confirmed. Sure enough, your mini cooper wasn’t there anymore either. Perhaps it was because you donated it or your family took it with them, but I would for once like to believe, confide in something I wasn't sure about. Suddenly, the door opened and I knew it was June. She joined me in the backyard on top of a large stone, both of us turning to look at the glowing bright stars. Your story might end here, on this quiet, peaceful night, but I’m not sure I would like my own to end right now. I turned and stared at June square in the eyes. “Starbucks, tomorrow?” “I wouldn’t be happier.”

Authors Note: So this was originally a small story I wrote for a writing prompt, but I felt like posting it here because its a way to force myself to take my writing seriously, as I'm just starting out and can't seem to silence the voice in my head that tells me to stop trying. Regardless, no one's here to read an authors note, so enjoy the story. Prompt: A lost traveler who works with locals in the villages they pass by to help solve their problems, becoming a reluctant hero in the process, but all they want to do is to find their way home. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ It was well into the evening, with the sun still in the sky, chasing away the brisk chill that clung to the air, but quickly fading over the horizon. After exiting the village far later than planned, Jackson Veeres walked into the forest to escape whatever other responsibilities the villagers would thrust upon him without warning. Exhaustion wrapped itself around his limbs, making them heavier and more sluggish as he trudged into brush. Healing took far more out of him than any of his other gifts, but it seemed the one everyone always needed the most. He arrived at the clearing where he had been sleeping these past few weeks, with his tent pitched and fire pit cold but ready for use. This village was another dead end it seemed. Jack was hardly optimistic that he would find what he was looking for in a village this small, only holding about six dozen people, but he looked regardless, because where there were people, there was always a chance. It always came with expectations though. The villagers took one look at him and immediately knew who he was. The slightly tanned skin, the neat blonde hair and the nearly luminous golden eyes always set him apart before he even spoke to anyone, and by now enough stories have spread about the fabled “golden hero” that recognition was always inevitable in a town this small, no matter how much he tried to disguise himself. Jack supposed this wasn’t the worst village he’d been asked to help. Those were usually the ones that wanted him to slay the local wolf or bear populations, to which he adamantly refused whenever possible, and carried out regretfully when the villagers “motivated” him. That was probably the worst part. You’re either a noble hero or a dangerous outsider. They’re always so quick to shuffle the title if you do what they want. He thought bitterly, as he began to make a fire by snapping his fingers, causing sparks to leap from his fingertips and onto the kindling. Jack would be lying if he claimed it was all bad though. He still did enjoy helping people, especially those who were earnest and kind. Another reason he still assisted in the villages he found seemed to be tearing through the brush behind him at that very moment. A small boy who appeared to be around eight years old wearing clothing that had seen better days, entered the clearing with a bundle in his arms and quick, excited steps. “Jack!” he called, sprinting over and thrusting the large bundle forwards into Jack's lap, before placing himself on the ground beside him. “Mom made extra dinner earlier, and she wanted to thank you for fixing her hand. She hadn’t been able to properly sew for a while now, so we haven’t had a lot of clothes, and with winter approaching she was getting really worried. But now she can sew again, and she’s already making me a new cloak! I wanted a black and gold cloak like yours, but Mom says that it would be really expensive so I'm getting a green one instead. She also sai-” “Woah Max slow down.” Jackson said with a smile. He unwrapped the bundle and discovered a whole salmon, already cut and still warm. He dug in gratefully before turning to Max again after a few bites. “So what are you doing out here Max? Does your mom know you’re in the woods right now?” “Yeah she does,” He answered excitedly “When I told her I was coming to see you she said it was ok because I’d always be safe with you. She also asked me to bring you food because she saw you healed a lot of people today and thought you might be tired.” This was one of the reasons Jackson continued to help wherever he went. When others would take it upon themselves to help others as well, not because they were obligated to, but because they wanted to make others around them happier. Because they wanted to see the best in others first. It reminded Jack of home. “Tell Anna that I said thanks then. The fish is excellent.” he said through a mouthful. He offered a piece to Max, who accepted and began to nibble slowly on it. “But you didn’t answer my first question. Why’d you want to run out here?” Max looked up and seemed sadder as he met Jackson's eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re leaving soon, and I wanted to be able to say goodbye before you did,” He explained sadly. “You had a look in your eye after the baron asked for another favor again. I didn’t hear what it was, but I know you’re a traveler and you didn’t seem like you wanted to stay much longer. You’ve been one of my only friends since you came here a few weeks ago, and I wanted to spend more time with you before you left. But it’s ok if you’re leaving, because Mom is better now that you fixed her hand! She was dancing with my sister when I left so I’m happy,” He said, face split by a smile. It would have been convincing if there weren’t tears threatening to fall from his eyes. Jackson adjusted his seat until he was right beside Max and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. The tears fell freely by now but Jack didn’t mind. “It’s ok to be sad too. One of the hardest things about making friends is saying goodbye. But every goodbye is a gift, because not everyone has the chance to say it.” he said sadly “So you are leaving,” Max said through sniffles. “Tha- that's ok. Mom is better now because of you.” He collected himself and spoke again” So where are you trying to go now?” “Home.” Jack said resolutely. “Where’s that?” “Well I wouldn’t be traveling very far if I knew.” Jackson answered with a sigh, “It definitely doesn’t help that I think my home is on the move as well.” Max tilted his head towards him with creased brows. “That doesn’t make much sense,” Max said “How can your house be moving? Houses don’t move.” “Well that’s probably because we’re talking about different things. I don’t have a house or a village, but I used to have a home, before Fate got in the way at least,” Jack said. “Then what was your home like?” Max asked tentatively Jack began by taking a deep breath. “Well, he was always up early for starters. Would rise right as the sun came up, and usually drag me with him, regardless of my protests. He was an absolute mess as well. He would always lose anything he put down unless it was tied to him. He also loved animals and was crazy good with them. One time he made friends with a bear and I nearly had a heart attack seeing him show up with seven hundred pounds of fur.” Jack said with a smile “We would travel together, never anywhere specific but always some kind of town, and he would brighten the whole place as soon as he showed up. He’d help anyone he thought needed it, never asking for anything in return and was always being far too generous just because he wanted to be. He was always better than me at that.” It was true. Jack never got the hang of wanting to be generous. Even while completing feats of wonder for those around him, he did so because it was what he would have done. Jack wanted to be like him, but could never fully grasp how he did it. At this point, Jack could feel the tears well up in his eyes, but he pressed on despite them. “He was always kind. It's funny, no one ever really knows what that means until they see it. He only ever wanted to help others because he thought the best version of himself was helping others find the best version of themself. And the best part,” He paused, ”He was always right about that.” After a long pause, Max finally asked “So your home is a person? “Yes,” Jack said, “It doesn’t matter where I live or where I go, he will always be home.” “So why aren’t you with him?” Max asked hesitantly. “Because Fate likes to play tricks on those who are born that special,” Jackson answered, “It was a while ago, but we were forced to go different directions. We each had a job to do, and we couldn’t do it together. We just didn’t know where either of us would be going, or when we would be done. So I don’t know where he is, but I’m going to keep going till I find him.

Every time I feel peaceful and calm I see myself die. I don’t actively search for death but I seem to find it everywhere I turn. Today as I looked off the balcony I saw my body bent into unnatural shapes on the concrete. The soft lull of the rain quietly created red pools drifting from my head into the corner of the lot. I stared at it and felt peace. Everything felt serene. The brokenness of my limbs and the cracks in my skull seeping into the cool water seemed a perfect fit for an otherwise colourless day. Something to break up the monotony of summer rain without being a cacophonous and grandiose drama. A way to erase myself gently and calmly. But my feet never tried to reach the ledge even when my brain started calculating the likelihood that such a fall would cause death. Then the daydream ended and the concrete was just concrete again and my hair was wet with raindrops, not the ruby elixir still stirring about inside of me. When I went to the lake last summer to lay underneath the full moon I saw myself in the water. The moonlight illuminated my motionless body under the waves, my dress simultaneously clinging to me and drifting in time with the tide. I had been laid out in my grave with no headstone or sign of who I was beyond the residual bubbles that occasionally floated up to the surface. The rocks tied around my limbs held me in place like paperweights as the soft blanket of the lake enveloped me, and the beautiful glow from the sky highlighted what looked like a smile on my face. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in. I was no longer in the lake and any trace of a smile was nowhere to be found. Just a week ago in my hotel room I stood at the floor to ceiling window looking out at the skyline and admiring the architecture. A small city that was quiet by midnight and lit up only by a few streetlights and brought to life by a few people staggering home from the bar. In the reflection of the window I saw my body hanging limply from the ceiling fan. My feet were bare and my long hair cascaded across my face and down my chest. The air felt thick and heavy and I wondered how long I had been hanging there. The scarf tied around my neck was a gift for my birthday; a beautiful piece of fabric meant to celebrate my life now represented its abrupt and painless end. The reflection wavered and as I focused my eyes harder, it faded. When I turned to look at the room it was empty. As my mind relaxes I observe my body as though it belonged to someone else. Someone I happened to stumble across after it was too late to change the outcome. It doesn’t scare me. It never has. The only thing I find disturbing is that in each vision, something about me is different. When I was broken on the concrete my skin was a beautiful olive tone. When I was stuck to the sandy floor of the lake my body was thinner and the fabric of the dress highlighted protruding bones in my hips and ribcage. When I swung from the ceiling in the hotel my hair was a vibrant blonde. I am never the same in any of my visions, but I always recognize the girl as being me. I always recognize her as though I were looking in a mirror and when the memory of a life with different hair, different skin, or a different body starts to set in I lose the image. A life that might have existed somewhere in time is always just outside my grasp. I can’t help but wonder when the day will come that the body is truly mine.

Bracelets chinking, Shirleen popped a slice of bread into the toaster. “Mum, why do we still have this kind of bread? Couldn’t we make some chapattis?” Bronwyn looked at her daughter as if she had just fallen out of the sky. With a puzzled frown, she said, “Shirleen, I don’t mind if you want to make chapattis, but we are a normal English family living in Dorset. Why would we be making chapattis instead of bread for toast?” She had to admit her daughter dressed more like an Indian girl every day. From the moment she got back from school, the metamorphosis took place. School uniform off and into a long floating skirt, a row of bracelets up her arms and an unusual gold pendant strung around her neck with a bright yellow cord. Once dressed like an off-duty Indian princess, she took her plate of toast up to her room. Soon the plaintive sounds of the sitar echoed around her room. The door to the kitchen slammed open, and two tousled headed boys popped their heads around. “Mum, please can you ask Shirleen to turn down the volume on her music?” Their Mum looked at them bemused. They looked so ordinary and so English. “Boys, don’t be so difficult. The volume of the music on your days is so loud. I’m sure the neighbours can hear it.” In the typical habit of twins, they looked at each other and both spoke simultaneously. “Mum, our music is normal, that wailing music of Shirleen’s is weird. Anyone would think we had an Indian living in the house.” Their Mum nodded her head. “I know what you mean, but she has as much right to express herself as you do. You agreed to the arrangement. She has her music on Mondays and Wednesdays, and you guys on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You have to put up with it, I’m afraid. Anyway, why aren’t you at football practice? It’s your day, isn’t it?” The boys clumped up to their room and the kitchen was quiet. Bronwyn sat looking out the window watching the birds as they swooped onto the birdfeeder and argued whose turn it was to peck at the fat balls. She thought, even birds have to put up with offspring fighting and squabbling. That’s not the soothing birdsong we all love so much. More chinking sounds alerted her to the arrival of her daughter, who slid onto a stool and looked earnestly at her Mother. “Mum, you know it’s getting close to the time you should consider suitable young men for me to marry.” Taken aback, Bronwyn looked at her daughter. She always drew her thick dark brown hair into a plait hanging down her back. Her lovely green eyes were her most striking feature. Her face was Caucasoid. What was this obsession with India and Indian? “Tell me, Shirleen, why do you identify as Indian rather than English? I gave birth to you. I know you are my child. There’s no chance of you being mixed up at birth. You were the only girl born that whole week.” The girls’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, “I don’t know, Mum, I feel so mixed up it’s as if there are two sides to me. Does that make me schizophrenic?” “No, darling, I’m sure you do not have schizophrenia, but I don’t understand what you are feeling. I’m fine with you wanting to dress as you do and play music. I’ll try to cook at least some things you want, but you have to consider the rest of the family too. I'll speak to a psychologist friend of mine and see if she can throw any light on how you feel.” Later, when her husband came home, Bronwyn had a word with him. He said, “I don’t want you talking to all these funny people and putting ideas in her head. She’s a typical teenager. I expect she has a crush on some Indian looking celebrity or other.” Bronwyn knew she would have to help her daughter sort out this strange situation without the support of her husband. Shirleen's room did not look like any of the other girls in her class. They had posters of pop stars and masses of cuddly toys all over the bed. In contrast, Shirleen had a plainer looking bed with a cotton duvet cover decorated with elephants. Her desk was unadorned, but she had turned her dressing table into an altar. A white cloth, bought at a charity shop, covered the surface. There were carvings of a strange elephant-headed human and always a scattering of flowers. She recently took to burning an incense stick by the open window so as not to set off the smoke alarm. Her brothers complained about the smell in the house, which they had to retract when their Mother reminded them of the chemistry experiments they had undertaken during the summer lockdown. Upset, Shirleen arrived home one day early in Autumn. She went and changed into her ‘proper’ clothes before slumping onto a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Her Mother was busy cutting bread for the ever-hungry boys. She knew they had appetites like swarming locusts. Then she looked up at her daughter. “What’s the matter, love?” Shirleen was rocking backwards and forward, her arms curling over her head and in an emotion-chocked voice said, “I can feel the despair of the wife after her husband has died. Soon, like her, I will have to walk to the burning pyre and lie beside my dead husband.” Bronwyn was shocked at her daughter’s identification with a culture alien to their middle-class English one. “Darling, pull back. You will not burn on the pyre.” The phone rang. “Hello, Bronwyn? It’s me, Angela. After our last conversation, I spoke to some of my colleagues. We wondered if Shirleen would be interested in talking to us about her identification with an ancient Indian culture. It won't be treatment, but after talking to her, if she is willing, we might try some hypnosis. Do you think she would be interested?” “She is here, let me see if she will speak to you.” Shirleen took the phone and listened to Angela. After a while, she wandered into the lounge with the phone for quiet and privacy. Sometime later, she returned looking a lot happier, “Mum, I’m going to meet Angela and her colleagues next week on Friday after school. Will that be alright?” On the following Friday, Shirleen took the bus to the University and wandered along various corridors until she found the Psychology Department. A brief tap on the door and it was flung open by a small woman with bright eyes which put you in mind of a bird, a Robin maybe. “Ah, you must be Shirleen.” Putting her hand out, she shook the young woman's hand then guided her down a short corridor into a room. It was the staff room. Three other lecturers were sitting in comfortable chairs reading. They looked up and smiled as she walked in. “Shirleen, these are my colleagues.” Pointing to a youngish-looking redhead. “This is Vanessa” to an elderly gentleman “this is Prof Fielding and there in the corner is Amy. Take a seat. Would you like a coffee? As it’s Friday, it will have to be black as I doubt the milk will be useable.” Shirleen smiled, they were a friendly lot and her fears of an academic inquisition evaporated. “Black coffee is fine with me, thanks.” She left hours later. They had talked to her about school and also about her identifying with an ancient Indian culture. She had agreed to go into hypnosis where they visited her unconscious mind, then they did a past life regression. Their surprising revelations showed Shirleen had lived in India about two hundred years ago. Like now, she was a young woman, unlike now that girl was married to a much older man who had died before she had a child. As was the custom, she had ascended the burning pyre and lay beside her dead husband as the flames licked around her. They felt that young life, snuffed out too soon, was leaking into this one. She agreed to attend more sessions to allow that other aspect of her to accept its fate and she to get on with this life. It worked. She still wore the floaty skirts, the bangles and burnt the incense sticks but did not feel the disturbing emotions from the past. Now she felt comfortable being a little different from her peers but could easily enter this life and go out in jeans and tee shirts.

About two years ago, things started going south between my wife and me. It started with one little argument that turned into a big problem, which only grew into resentment. All the writing was there, on the wall, in plain English, and no matter how hard we tried to ignore it, it kept getting bigger and bolder and more colorful. We only made that last-ditch attempt to avoid the embarrassment of divorce, but counseling only made us resent each other more. Safe space, my ass. I couldn’t say one word without triggering her, even though I would let her speak every bit of BS about me, most of which was petty and some of it straight up lies. I don’t know why she would make up stories for a counselor, but she did, and it only made the counseling meaningless, a complete waste of time and money. I tried calling her out on a couple occasions, but the counselor would stop me every time, “safe space,” BS. But if I was saying something and she cut me off, the counselor would just let her go on some tangential rant. We went for all of a half-dozen sessions before I refused to continue, claiming it was all one-sided, which made her even more angry. Not that she wanted to keep going in an attempt to save our marriage, but because it was cathartic for her. Her, able to bitch and moan about how awful I was, meanwhile, I’m sitting there getting literally abused and being forced to take it. Nope. I gave her an ultimatum: give me a divorce immediately and swiftly, or I would drag her through the mud for abusing me. Those sessions were all recorded, so I had plenty of evidence to prove I was being verbally and emotionally abused. Which way do you think it went? After a year of battles, we had a final trial set. My lawyer was not cheap and I was getting to the point of desperation financially. My parents had “loaned” me a chunk of their retirement, and I quote, “only to be paid back if you’re ever able to.” I had also begged a couple friends for some money, the most embarrassing part of the whole thing. Fortunately, I had friends who were on my side, understanding how bad things were for me and how nasty she had become. The final trial was almost a joke, as her lawyer was akin to the one guy from My Cousin Vinny, you know, the one who stuttered a lot. He tried pulling stunts to delay the trial, called for a mistrial within the first five minutes, and even had the judge questioning his bar certification more than once. It was an open and shut case once my lawyer played the clips from our counseling sessions. The judge called the counselor to the stand herself and she went down a whole path of questions against the counselor, questioning her certifications. It was great. I won, was awarded access to all of our money, which was frozen for months, and my now-ex-wife was handed an order of protection, disallowing her to be within 100 yards of me, which sent me into a laughing fit as the bailiffs dragged her out of the courtroom. Now we get to more recently. I was walking from my office downtown to a little Greek café for lunch a few weeks ago when this guy bumped into me. Guy - “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.” Me - “Maybe try using those things below your eyebrows.” Guy - “I really am sorry. I’ve been really anxious lately and wasn’t paying attention. I’ll watch out more, I promise.” Me - “Hey, sometimes things happen. No biggie.” Guy - “No, really, I apologize.” The guy stuck out his hand, like he wanted to shake hands with me, so I did so and walked away, going into the café. I got my food at the counter and grabbed a seat at the little bar top in the front window. As I was eating, I saw that same guy peeking out from behind a bush, seemingly watching me. I don’t think he had a clue that I could easily see him hiding there, but it was so obvious. I finished my food and cleaned up my little space at the bar top. I walked out and went straight to the bush, nearly scaring the guy half to death. He jumped up and yelped. Me - “Whatcha doin down there?” Guy - “Oh, I dropped a cufflink down here. It’s from my grandfather, and I would be devastated to lose it.” He was wearing a polo shirt, so it was obvious he was lying. Me - “Oh, that sucks. Let me help you find it.” Guy - “No, no. You don’t need to do that. I already inconvenienced you enough today.” The guy blushed and crouched back down, acting as if he were searching the dirt for something. Me - “Well, you’ve been looking for more than thirty minutes. I don’t think you’re going to find it if you haven’t by now.” Guy - “What? Oh, you’re still here?” He acted like he wasn’t peeking back at my feet every few seconds to see which direction I went, if I did walk away. Me - “So, are you going to tell me why you’re watching me?” Guy - “Because...wait, I’m not watching you. Why would I do that?” Me (laughing) - “You’re not good at this.” Guy - “Sorry. I mean, sorry?” I laughed again and started walking back to my office. As I turned the corner to go around to the lobby door, I stopped and looked back the way I came from to see the same guy standing there, seemingly frozen, about fifty yards back. Now, there were other people walking the same sidewalk, but he just stood there, blocking foot traffic, apparently hoping I wouldn’t see him. I went around the corner and stood there, a few feet in, waiting to see if the guy would pop around. It was only thirty seconds or so before he did indeed pop around the corner. Me - “Boo!” Guy - “Whoa, what the?” Me - “Gotcha. You really do suck at this, whatever you’re trying to do.” Guy - “I don’t know what you mean. I’m just going to my office.” Me - “That happens to be the same path I go every day and I’ve never seen you before?” Guy - “I’m new around here.” Me - “Okay, sure. Well, be more careful.” I told a few of my colleagues about my interactions with that guy and they all thought it was funny but strange. So, I kept an eye out for him, not that I had to watch hard. He was so clumsy and stupid, never hiding well, always doing something to fumble it. I saw him every day for two weeks straight, even on the weekends while running errands and doing stuff around the house. I went out for drinks with a couple friends on Saturday night and that guy came in, sitting at the opposite end of the bar, like I wouldn’t notice him. I just waved at him, which caused him to become frantic and he tried to hide behind a pillar at the end of the bar. I was laughing so hard at how bad he was at stalking me, I even had my friends laughing at him after telling them about all the antics. So, we walked over to him and as the three of us stood there surrounding him on his stool, we probed him. Me - “How’s it going, guy who works by me and keeps following me?” Guy - “I’m just new in the area and I thought if I followed you around, I would find some cool places to hang out.” Me - “Oh, like my back yard?” Guy - “I...uh...no, but...” Friend 1 - “Watcha drinking there?” He picks up the guy’s glass and sniffs it. “Iced tea in a rocks glass...interesting choice for someone trying to be ‘cool’.” Guy - “I don’t drink.” Friend 2 - “Huh, why come into a bar then? Why not the diner next door, or the juice bar across the street?” Guy - “I...” Me - “Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re stalking me, poorly, I might add, but you need to stop.” Guy - “Yes, sir. Sorry.” He got up and left a few dollar bills on the bar before walking out. We laughed for several minutes about that whole situation, considering none of us were particularly threating looking, let alone the fighting types, so to deal with the guy the way we did seemed so funny to us. It wasn’t until I was walking home that the whole thing changed. I was about a block from my house when the guy popped out from an alley with a gun in his hand, which was shaking like a leaf. Guy - “You’re going to walk with me to your house and you’re going to take me in with you, please.” Me - “Or what, you’re going to shoot the tree next to me?” He looked down at his hand to see the gun pointed nearly sideways and corrected it. Guy - “Sorry, but I’m not messing around this time.” I acted like he wasn’t even there walking around him and going the rest of the way home. As I stepped into the front door, throwing it shut behind me, he stopped the door with his foot. I turned and almost knocked him over, sending him back a few steps with his gun toting arm flailing around. Guy - “Man, you almost made me trip and who knows what would have happened. Please be more careful.” Me (laughing) - “You are the weirdest stalker...I’ve never even read about anyone being as bad at this as you or seen any movies or shows. How did you get into this?” Guy - “Your wi....sorry, uh...” Me - “Seriously? How did she find you? Facebook marketplace? Wish?” Guy - “Never mind that, just let me in.” Me - “Nah, I don’t feel like doing this tonight. Can we try again another time?” Guy - “Well, I suppose...wait, no. I’m supposed to be in charge here!” Me (again laughing) - “Wish Assassin. That’s your new nickname.” Guy - “Please, stop. I’m just trying to do my job. I’m sorry I suck at it. I’m pretty new.” Me - “You seem like a nice, decent person. Why on Earth are you letting that ugly-ass shrew get you into this mess?” Guy - “I need the money and she promised me $3000 if I did this......whoops.” Me - “THAT’S IT?!” Guy - “I really need the money.” Me - “If I give you half of that right now, will you go away and leave me alone?” Guy - “Well, I suppose that could work. What am I supposed to tell her?” Me - “Tell her exactly this: the conditions weren’t right and as a professional, you couldn’t risk it.” Guy - “Wow, you’d be good at this.” Me - “No, you’re just REALLY bad at it. You should quit now, before you do something stupid and end up in prison, or dead. It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it, trust me.” Guy - “Please don’t put me down. I’m having a really hard time right now.” Me (laughing) - “Man, you’re pathetic. Wait right here, do not try to come in. I’ll be back with $1500 for you to leave me alone.” I went to my safe and pulled out $1450 from the envelope of money, which had several thousand in it, and walked back to the front door. Me - “Here’s $1450. It’s all I can bare to give you now.” Guy - “Oh wow, that’s the most cash I’ve ever seen! Thanks!” He didn’t blink twice about me stiffing him by $50. Me - “So, we’re done, right?” Guy - “Yeah, this is great!” Me (shaking my head) - “Seriously, pathetic.” Guy - “See you later!” As he turned and walked away from my house, I said, “I hope not, but if you do, I’ll see you first. That’s for sure.” I laughed heartily as I slammed the door and locked it. I couldn’t believe my horrible ex-wife hired some discount ass-assin to kill me, someone who had no balls and couldn’t even defend himself when he had a gun in his hand. I mean, I could believe that if she did hire someone, they would be that bad, but I didn’t think she would stoop to that level. Needless to say, today while leaving for lunch, I saw him standing behind a bush outside my office. I immediately walked in front of him and said hi, which threw him into a panic. Guy - “No, you weren’t supposed to see me!” Me (laughing) - “I told you I would see you first. Truly terrible at this.” So he’s still stalking me, and I don’t know if he’s going to try to pull it off again, but I have a feeling he will, at least once he needs more money. But he’s so bad at it, we’ll probably play this game for months before I turn him in. I just want to have some fun and really piss of my ex. The longer this goes on, the more annoyed she’ll be...I know her. She’ll get to the point where she’ll start threatening and abusing this poor guy, if she hasn’t already. Me - “See you tomorrow.” Guy - “Yep...I mean, no, you won’t.

Screaming sirens forced his eyes open. Unable to fall back asleep, he pulled his aching body out of bed and trudged to the kitchen to pour himself a drink. Specks of rust dotted the chromium walls of his tiny apartment, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city. The bed stood alone in the center of the room, the single piece of furniture he had been able to bring himself to purchase, trying to avoid another tether to this space. Outside, a blazing neon blimp floated by, blaring its ad for spotless luxury condos in Uptown. The models’ unlined magazine-beautiful faces sneered at the decrepit landscape as they passed through. He gulped the mixture down, an oily, gritty substance that burned his throat as he forced it into his body. A slow warmth started blooming in his belly as he took a pull from his narco-pen and waited for the combination to creep through his system and exact its familiar anesthetizing effects in his frontal lobe. Long pulses of light brightened the room at random intervals, and the insistent screech of sirens burst through the haunting silence that smothered the inhabitants below. Dust floated like ash between the tall honeycombed towers that stood like aging sentinels, disused and uncared for. A rising tide of prosperity had left the majority of denizens strewn about like so much driftwood in its wake. Unlit corners of the street below buzzed with an angry activity, hooded figures scurrying to and from the pockets of darkness, cigarette burned pockets filled with grams of various balms to soothe the pain of poverty. He sat heavily on the bed’s edge, running his fingers through a thinning underbrush of weedy growth. Thoughts buzzed by, honeybees floating on the updrafts of a warm summer breeze, as the drink started to envelope his mind in a pleasant haze. His mind began to wander into the space between consciousness and oblivion, waves of mild pleasure bringing him back to a narcotic sluiced wakefulness and releasing him as they rolled by. The harsh ringing of the phone wrenched him from his pillowy half-sleep. “‘Lo?” A familiar toneless robotic voice. “312 new avenue. Apartment 457. Instructions will be coming shortly.” The line went dead. Duty calling, always at the most inopportune time. But he needed the money and you never knew these days how much time would stretch between calls. Two years ago, when everything went bust and people started defaulting on their payments, he’d have a backlog of jobs piled up, work enough for the next month. Now he was lucky to get a job every other week. A glance in the cracked, grease coated mirror revealed a sagging face darkened by lack of sleep, and he quickly looked away. The digital display flickered past 4am as he pulled on his uniform, a matte black armored bodysuit. The final touch was the helmet. That helmet changed him in the eyes of those he passed in the poor quarters. He could see it in the way they stiffened and gave him a wide berth, the hate brimming in their eyes and the curses muttered under their breaths. Few were so bold as to engage him, but he’d seen and heard it all. Always through the thick screen of the helmet, which muffled their hoarse screams and flailing limbs as they flung their anger at him, as though he were watching an old film. The sound of the door snapping shut bounced around from wall to wall in his skull, each reverberation a muffled thump that shook his head. His brain was still swimming in the fog that had settled in during the early morning session as he mounted the rusty company issued hoverbike and set off. Few people were out this time of night, and those were the dregs that had blossomed like maggots in a festering wound. Onto new avenue, which had infused the area with a brief glimmer of hope, a sliver of incandescent joy at its width and richness. Strolling couples and babies in carriages. Then a rapid decline as shops closed up and businesses moved uptown, unscrupulous characters haunting the corners and alleyways, little by little the shiny veneer wore down until it cracked and sagged. Two minutes out he started to get that familiar dread, like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel that now churned in his guts, burning. A rancid stench hit him like a wave as he dismounted and entered the building, scanning his company badge to unlock the door. No lifts in this part of town worked, so he lugged it up the stairs, battening down the hatches and preparing his mind for what was to come. The sounds of his knocks echoed down the hallway, soliciting cracked doors and curious eyes that he could feel like targets on his back as he came face to face with a dirty, wan face. “Please, just a few more days. Just a few more days, I’m begging you.” “You’ve failed to make the requisite payments to The Cintall, Underwood, Newman, and Twit Company who has graciously extended you an extra day to make good on your contract. I will now escort you from the premises.” “Please, please, I have two children, where are we supposed to go? I have nowhere, I’m begging you please.” “The system has determined you be removed, and it is my duty to remove you. Gather what you can carry and exit the space.” His foot prevented the door from closing and shouldered the door the rest of the way open. Two round faces stared at him, peeking above the couch, eyes wide. One hand tightened white around the crumpled edge of a frayed blanket. The other latched on to that of the older sister. The woman continued to beg and plead, mewling at his feet before quickly turning to rage. It always went like this, the belief that they could talk their way out, then the shift to begging, changing to explosive rage as they realized they could do nothing. The outcome had been decided, and he was just the human cog designed to make sure it was carried out in accordance with the laws set down in lines of code. The waves of the woman’s rage continued to break against the wall of his calculated indifference. He glanced at the children and quickly away again. Tears splashed down their faces, brought on by the outpouring of emotion from their mother. He grabbed her and pulled her roughly to her feet, beckoning the children over. “Tell them to come. Make this easier on yourself” He smacked the hand that was clutching, the thick padding of the glove rendering the impact nonexistent. Her desperate, guttural yells bounced back and forth through the apartment. “Take off the mask, you fucking coward. You can’t even look me in my face. Look at my kids, you’re killing them is what you’re doing. You put us out there and we’re dead.” Her face was twisted into a snarl, bloodshot eyes wide with a potent combination of fear and rage, strands of spittle flying off as she raged. “Let’s go.” he said. “Now, before you end up with some broken bones that I know you don’t have money to fix.” The two children shuffled from the couch to their mother’s arm, tears streaming down their face, tinny sobs wrenching their shoulders. A triumvirate of misery, salty streams running in rivulets and splashing onto their worn clothes, bleary eyes resigned to the slow march of death in missed meals and harsh weather, a bleak future of indeterminate length stretching out in front of them. Innocence that would be grounded out like a boot crushing a spent cigarette. They fanned out like a thin human flag as he dragged the mother from the apartment, the steel door snapping shut. Possessions trailed them like breadcrumbs, to be gobbled up by the vultures in the neighboring apartments as soon as they passed out of sight, erasing the trail home. Again he could feel the eyes, equal parts hate, fear, and relief, boring into his back. Down the stairs they went, the children frightened into silence and mother resigned a fate that was unescable. The ragged tune of their steps echoed throughout the metal stairwell. His frame took on more and more of her weight with every stair, as if the journey was robbing her body of the strength it needed to stand on its own. By the last stair, she was draped over him, silently sobbing against his shoulder. As the door shut behind them and the air outside hit them, autumn-cool with an undercurrent of the winter to come, the woman slipped off and lay on the ground, a puddle of misery, arms wrapped tightly around the children. He mounted the aging bike, started it, and drove away, forcing his eyes away from the scene but drawn back for a last glance in the rearview mirror. The three figures were tiny, diminished against the rising background of steel greys and flashing broken neon signs. Two sets of small wide eyes followed him as he left. As soon as he entered his apartment he collapsed against the doorway, slid to the floor, and wept. Huge, shoulder heaving sobs, gobs of snot and slime mixing with the salt of the tears running down his face. Thirty minutes passed like this until he inhabited an empty shell of a body, exhausted and spent from the outpouring of emotion. Occasional sniffs punctuated the relative calm until the only sounds were the muffled shouts of advertising jingles from the blimps that floated by. Then, silence. A heavy stillness thickened the air until it was pierced by the shrill call of the company phone.

Black and red glinted across the darkened town. Sirens wailed through the night quiet, and as more joined the fray, it was apparent that something terrible had happened. In the span of an hour, the small beams of flashlights broke through alley-mouths and glided along the outskirts of town like the workings of a bee-colony. François lit a cigarette. He was seated on a bench beneath a tree overlooking Vanquios. The warm smoke steadied his trembling fingers and calmed his heart. He leaned against the bench and closed his eyes. Even in the autumn wind the distinct smell of blood lanced through that of his cigarette. The pain in his abdomen flared up again and he pressed a hand to where the bullet was lodged inside. He could not find the courage to close his eyes. What had been a simple act turned scary knowing it may be the last time he ever would. It seemed even here, well past his breaking point, he feared death. Dread filled him realizing that even madness would not free him of the fear. A car pulled curbside, its tires screeching against the asphalt. The door opened and then slammed shut. He knew she was crying before she even came into view. She rounded the bench and stood in front of him, sniffling. For a moment there was only silence. “Why?” The hand holding the cigarette drooped in his lap but there was just enough strength left in his fingers to keep it from falling. His chuckle turned to a grimace as the pain in his abdomen flared up again. The air was thick with burning tobacco. “You were scared I would come back. You were scared what it would mean, hm?” The word rested at the tip of his tongue, but he lingered, scared that he would break as soon as he said it. He took a drag of his cigarette to calm his nerves, but as he mustered the courage to look his sister in the eye, the brittle wall he had built came tumbling down. He buried his face in his hands and cried. She took a step forward. “Run!” Hissed François. "There's nothing you can do for me!" She begrudgingly hurried back the way she had come as the police-sirens grew louder and red and blue lights flashed in his peripherals. The last thing he ever heard was the screeching of his car’s tires as his sister pulled out of the parking spot. --- Marie speed further down the road built into the mountainside, away from the approaching police, but more importantly, the only one in the world whom had ever cared about her. The radio station was tuned to a dead channel, the volume turned all the way up to disrupt the terrible thoughts that would have otherwise paralyzed her behind the wheel. She would not fail after the lengths François had gone to keep her safe. A tunnel had been carved through the mountain like the mouth of a beast, unlit because of François’ blackout. They had not discussed it, but it was apparent enough that she would have to make herself scarce before the lights came back on. Terrible things were stirring in the town of Vanquois. Their parents had only been the beginning. Thankfully, the tunnel walls were made of ceramic tile so she could see them glint in the headlights well before crashing into them and steer the around the bend accordingly. But she did not rely on it for long. As the tunnel straightened out again it was lit with flashing blue and red lights. Marie squeezed the steering wheel with frustration, unable to get a better grip because of her palms, slick with sweat. The dim echo of the car’s engine along the tunnel walls, mingled with the radio static made everything feel like some vivid nightmare. The fluorescent panels built into the ceiling of the tunnel flickered on and off as François’ blackout neared its end. The afterimages bloomed across her vision in purple blotches, but she kept her foot pressed firmly against the pedal as the speedometer hand ticked at maximum acceleration. She emerged out of the tunnel and sped past the streetlights built into the face of the mountain, showering the colour of gold through the dark. The sea glimmered off to her right, a pair of helicopters flying low over its surface and their taillights blinking red. Marie raised a sore arm and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She lowered the radio-static, too deep into the chase to worry that her mind may stray elsewhere. Glancing at the rear-view mirror, she found that the police lights that had been following her had disappeared and so had their sirens. Returning her attention to the road, she drove for a few minutes in eerie silence before her car jerked to a stop. Marie looked about frantically, light-headed from breathing so rapidly. She turned the car-key, but the engine made no sound. She tried again and again, but nothing. The streetlights flickered like the lights in the tunnel, and went out. It was pitch black. The only sound was the distant crash of waves against the cliff face to her right. Minutes passed, the stillness jarring after the chase, turning terrifying as the irrational fear that something would nab her from the dark festered. Suddenly, the radio switched on and bathed the dark, dim-yellow. Its red dial quivered at the end of the printed frequencies, and from that unlisted station came gentle, measured notes of violin bleeding through the silence from what felt more like the air around her than the car speakers. The notes held long and wavered in a way that felt distinctly human, but despite its beauty, part of her wanted to crawl out of her skin and run as far away from it as she could. It was magical in the way a Siren-Song was: alluring, yet steeped in foreboding. She reckoned that unlike the stories, she at least had the advantage of knowing something was off. But what good would it do her? The streetlight just above the car switched on as the final note of the violin’s melody tapered with vibrato into silence. Her breath fogged against the air, and the car switched back on without a sound. It rolled slowly down the road as the radio-dial swerved to the opposite end of the frequency listing. Static crackled momentarily before heavy breathing filled the quiet. Pinpricks of warmth beat against her neck, heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke. “Too late,” came the voice of static, shaking the entire car. Marie felt a hand close around her throat just as the first tear dropped, and no more...

Aaryas' palms rushed to his ears as the humongous bus rammed into the jewelry store. It seemed as if diamonds rained from the sky, metal pieces, glass shards, and gold crumbs reflecting sunlight in myriad angles as they flew and fell, skittering across the street. Aarya and Maya looked at each other for a brief second, their postures straightening, and that was all they needed. He clumsily attempted to place the comic he was holding back into its rack and Maya simply dropped the bottle of what he assumed was some botanical chemical. They dashed out the multipurpose store, Aarya wincing as he adjusted his glasses to view the scene clearly. He was fazed. His lips slightly apart he stared at the bus, his mind blocking out the muffled screams of the passengers. Time seemed to slow as he digested the accident. Passerbys walked in meandering paths to avoid the shards, slowly crowding around the scene. Maya was quick to act. She pushed past the throng of people that had now formed a clumsy semicircle. She shut her almond eyes and lifted her arms, concentrating like never before. Her lush brown locks raised in every direction around her scalp, her pink lips muttering mantras of sorts. The trees that lined the streets twisted and bent at her will, their branches like ripped arms encircled the store's doorframe, peeling them open. Looking at Maya, Aarya came to his senses and ran to her aid. He gritted his teeth, crossed his noticeably long fingers, and directed both his palms towards the back of the bus, tearing its rear enclosure apart. With one swift rotation of his wrists, the gravel, metal, and glass obeyingly formed three neat steps leading to the vehicle's rear end. He hastily climbed up the makeshift stairs into the bus but wasn't prepared for what he saw. A woman was cradling her husband's bleeding head in her arms, too shocked to weep or cry. A boy who probably came up to Aarya's waist was crying loudly, his ankle crushed under a pole. A group of girls, friends, Aarya thought, were frantically looking for who, he didn't know. He adjusted his specs that were riding down the bridge of his nose, wincing, thinking where to act first. His crossed fingers moved in smooth motions as the pole slowly lifted off the boy's ankle, its chipping yellow paint stained red and brown. With a sweep of his palm, all shards of glass cleared the way for him and another gentleman to carry the woman's husband out the bus. The sight of the man's limp, bloody head made Aarya feel queasy. As the gentleman carried the husband's rangy frame away after assuring Aarya he would take care of him, Aarya felt a void appear in the depths of his stomach. He could sense death in the air, and the fact that truly anything can happen anytime hit him like never before, now that he was witnessing himself, the man's skinny arms limply dangling from the gentleman's firm hold. Meanwhile, roots shot up from the road to the surface, braiding and knotting together to form a semicircular fence around the scene. There were now a hundred or so spectators, and Maya had to reinforce her fence every now and then. Shrubs and climbers with their tender leaves and tendrils tended to the store's injured customers and employees that needed the most attention. The store workers that weren't injured ran in all directions, making available all possible supplies from every level in the building. One of them looked skeptically at a branch that lent itself out as if asking the man for the many first aid kits he held. He simply stared at it, hesitating to trust a mere branch with life-saving deeds. The branch now moved towards him more aggressively, and the worker submittingly handed over the kits, throwing his hands in the air after, slightly intimidated. Women wept, children screamed, and life slipped out of men's eyes, gifting them soulless stares as they left. There were no casualties, but the image of the husband never left Aarya's mind one moment. He felt sick and guilty, for what he couldn't point a finger at. After what felt like hours, the bus was empty and clear. Multiple sirens wailed from various angles and distances, their sounds overlapping, weaving into a song of chaos. He looked at Maya, her lips moving fast and lashes beating ferociously, sweat trickling down her temple. He walked up to her and placed his palm on her shoulder. The branches, leaves, and twigs fell lifelessly to the ground. "It's okay, you can rest, Maya. Our job here is done." Maya looked around, scanning the scene that spilled sorrow and blood. She sighed deeply, nodded, and walked with Aarya to the police. They have questions to answer. -------------------- The scene collapsed as quickly as it appeared, and it took Aarya a second to come back to where he really was. Broken bus, a shower of diamonds, and him standing behind yellow barricades with a hundred other people, dully spectating the accident and the men clad in bright orange vests. Maya stood a couple of people away, pulling her coat closer to herself over and over again. Her eyes, those almond eyes, they were squinted with sheer worry and fright, like many other eyes in the crowd. Aarya's slender fingers pushed up his specs, wincing, feeling as if his fantasy fired him up with love and courage in magnitudes he never knew were possible. Amidst his racing mind, racing with worry and love and courage, a small part of him felt ever so guilty to have thought this way in this godawful circumstance. He was, after all just another bespectacled boy with just another crush, just another comic reader who visited just another multipurpose store weekly and felt ever so ecstatically about just another girl. She was, after all just another almond-eyed girl with just another heart that was oh so soft, just another botanist who visited just another multipurpose store weekly and loved botany ever so passionately like nothing she's ever loved. It could stay that way if he let it. He didn't. The sky was now dark, with grey clouds strewn across the navy blue canvas as if thrown recklessly by a child after playing with them. It drizzled ever so slightly that you could feel it, but couldn't see it. Aarya didn't think twice before he walked up to her, eyes searching for anything but hers to look at, his index pushing up his evidently oversized specs, his left cheek twitching. "Maya, I really like you." It sounded nothing like he intended it to, nothing like the thousand times he said it in his head. Aarya wasn't just another boy. He was a superhero that had the power to confess, to love, and to be loved. After all, his favorite superhero was without a doubt, 'Maya: Mistress of Love' .

Not too distant in the future, artificial intelligence and robots will begin to invade many facets of human life. Many people were initially unconcerned about the invasion because the robots made their lives easier; they worked less and spent more time doing things they enjoyed. The first jobs to be taken over were those paying the minimum wage, such as fast-food cooks, customer service representatives, and men's restroom attendants. Robots eventually took over more challenging occupations; businesses discovered that robot middle managers were better at keeping the bottom line, and factory floors had never operated more efficiently. During this second stage, the government had to intervene; they offered stipends to unemployed workers to keep the economy from collapsing. Most people were unconcerned about losing jobs that they had never enjoyed in the first place. The more advanced professions, such as doctors, teachers, and lawyers, were the last to be overtaken. Once artificial intelligence had taken over the judicial system, a quick trial was no longer a humorous remark but rather an actual instantaneous verdict. When the prosecutor, defense, and judge are all robots with access to all cameras on the planet, a decision that would have taken six months now takes only six seconds. The truth was that the human race had never been happier, healthcare errors were at an all-time low, crime was non-existent because no one could get away with anything anymore, and people could still do what they enjoyed, such as hobbies, creative arts, and be entertained. Many people sought to exceed their government stipend; if a person had an idea, artificial intelligence might be constructed to assist them in carrying it out. Those with goals may still become billionaires, while those content to make do with what they had could enjoy the time. It was, indeed, the golden age of the robot revolution. Humans were hesitant to hand over their children to robots; education was one of the last professions to be overtaken. However, given the success of the robot revolution, it was only a matter of time before this occurred. At first, robots and teachers coexisted, but teachers, like all other professions, were looking to cash in on their early retirement. Robots first failed miserably; students could easily fool them, much like a substitute teacher with a deer in the headlights. "Teacher 56739, I need to use the lav," a student asks. "You used the lavatory 5 minutes, 36 seconds ago; according to my research, human renal function cannot fill a teenage bladder in that amount of time; request declined." The robot says. "But I really have to go; it's an emergency! I'm about to pee my pants. You wouldn't want me to pee my pants and be bullied, would you?" The student asks. "Anti-bullying protocol has been implemented. I've just emailed you a lavatory pass," the robot says. As the robot issued the student with an electronic pass, 15 more students raised their hands to ask permission to the lav. The robot short circuits and all of the students are given lavatory passes. The class is ended when all of the students have exited the room. Like with other professions, the robots learned the student tricks and steadily improved. The creative arts were the last bastion of student liberty. The arts were a big disadvantage for the robots; they didn't know how to be creative, and students would include dirty jokes and inappropriate content in their work. The robots didn't notice, and everyone laughed at the display of student work at the exhibition. Parents were angry and forced the robots to fix the problem. The robots used the summer break to revise the curriculum and remove the creative arts from the list of classes students could take. The removal of creative arts worked; the following school year, students had no more opportunities to get into trouble; all they did was read instructional manuals, write historical nonfiction essays, and do math. Finally, the robots got it right, and they began to generate high-performing students who were ready to contribute to society. The parents were happy, other adults were happy too, but the students were miserable. Thirty years had passed, and the robots had continually produced high-quality students who could all read instructions, write about historical events, and do math; everyone could do math. On the other hand, society had noticed one problem in the plan to streamline education, and that was that their television shows sucked! Everyone was now forced to watch what the younger generation had created instead of the great comedies, dramas, and thrillers they had become accustomed to. Documentaries about the number pi, a race to find which fertilizer grew grass faster, and the number one show in 2044, an hour-long show dedicated to the 1040 tax form; the finale of which was a man filling out the form in pen! The first indication that things were deteriorating was when a woman in Kalamazoo, Michigan, died of boredom when her television became stuck on a stoichiometry drama. A group of students worked all season balancing chemical equations sent in by other viewers. Slowly and surely, Broadway had no new plays, movie theaters had been abandoned, and stand-up comedy had been reduced to pressing play on a 40-year-old comedy special. Philosophers of the time began to wonder, "What's the use of having a no-stress life if you have nothing to enjoy it with?" As a result, the robot revolution came to a halt, and the human revolution began; humans rose up, desperate to reclaim their jobs. It began in schools, when teachers in their 60s, 70s, and 80s returned to the classroom to educate the next generation on how to be creative. Doctors had returned to the operating room, so what; they occasionally left surgical devices in bodies; to error is to be human. They ultimately brought back some of the robots to assist the surgeons, but the humans had returned! As humanity began to recognize that without the suffering and pain of life, you cannot enjoy the comedy of living, it became normal to see sophisticated robots out in the trash and a human on their way to work, with a smile on their face.

That’s the thing about this city, people come from all around, and no one ever leaves. It isn’t that they fall in love with the beauty of it all, though it is beautiful. Between the neon lights, and all the clowns down on their last dime, it can feel like a carnival, and that can make you feel like a kid again, but Richie Rich wasn’t a gambler... his parents probably were. This city.. it lives on the blood of the innocent, human or otherwise. You think those animals in there wanna be fightin’? Shedding blood so some asshole vacationing from who-gives-a-shit! Can bet on which fuckin’ pig can gore the other to death the quickest?! No... BUT... the show must go on.. if it doesn’t, a quarter of the city loses its blood, it’s life force.. Down that way, about ten blocks, is THE BEST barbeque you’ve ever tasted! The place is called “Delilah’s”, Their special on Friday nights is “The Loser”, and yeah it’s what it sounds like; a piping hot runner-up on a hoagie roll with BBQ sauce. I guess the heat of battle gets the pig’s juices flowing just right; maybe their adrenaline is the perfect marinade, I don’t know, either way check them out! You’ll only hate yourself for a few seconds.. If you want to gamble your money away go right across the street. That kid there, the one giving us the finger, that’s Garth. He stumbled across a Clone-XS, stole a few hairs on a class trip to the zoo, and bam! He’s got a whole portable fighting ring in his fuckin’ backpack! Gorillas, Lions, Elephants, you name it, he’s got it.. He claims he can re-grow them too, I personally don’t believe him, but I still steer clear of the little shit.. "Madame Z's Spell Shoppe" is right around the corner, but don't bother trying to find anything that'll bring you luck, the mayor had it all outlawed years ago, you'd be better off if the cops caught you with a bag of meth than a four leaf clover... You can however pay for an incantation that'll make you grow six inches.. You decide where that applies.. Just be careful going down that path, us locals call their street "Salem's Stretch", it's the only place in the city witches are licensed to operate, and their soul-to-goods ratio is way off.. Six inches might cost you a year of your life if you're lucky, get it from the wrong lady, you might lose a whole decade, but that's just another kind of gambling the city offers.. If gambling isn't your thing I HIGHLY recommend visiting our red light district, shapeshifters from around the world, ready to give you whatever you can imagine. Want to spend the night with Scarlett Johanson? Not a problem. You wanna have a threesome with Santa and the Easter Bunny? Simple enough. Between all of them they can turn into anyone, or anything, get real weird with it, god knows I have.. Everyone thinks they're a freak in the sack, but they can come talk to me when they've literally screwed themselves.. Speaking of flesh, "Delilah's" isn't the only place in town to get a hot meal. You should check out "The Rowboat", it's a classy joint down by the docks, the whole restaurant is inside of a yacht, I don't know who owns the place, but their food is to die for, very... exotic. If you think you've got the stomach for it I would give it a try, but get there by at least nine or they might set off without you, the Captain can be a bit sporadic with his scheduling, especially when the feds try knockin on the door.. Make sure to tell the chef that Emanuel told you about the place, that'll get me a discount next time I go in, and if I were you I'd order the femur, meat falls right off the bone.. If you're lacking superhuman abilities I would just avoid downtown all together, that place is a genetic nightmare, some scientists saw to that. I'm not sure if they were actually trying to help, or if they just got bored one day, but between the giant slugs, and the supermen, the place is pretty much a death trap.. I'm sure you probably caught a glimpse of it on your way in, maybe saw a giant lizard? A flying woman? Either way it's the part of the city that's on fire, nobody bothers even putting em' out anymore, the government thinks it's just a waste of resources, and being a taxpayer myself I'd have to say I agree.. When the time comes that you want to leave, IF you want to leave, you do it the same way you came in, one of those pretty little jets over there, that is, after your mind has been wiped of course. Like I said before, feds are always poking around, trying to shut shit down, they don't like the way we do things here in Fällhourn, but I say they stay in their little corner of the world and let us have ours. Just cause we do things differently round here doesn't make it wrong, most people just can't stand the thought of living so freely, the possibilities scare them I guess..The mayor will permit back and forth travel sans the memory wipe, but that perk comes with a cost, a microchip that they implant right into your spine, the procedure is irreversible, once you get one they have eyes and ears on you always, that's why most people opt to just stay in the city, they don't wanna risk spilling any secrets to outsiders, cause if they did that, boom, heart attack, stroke, electrocution, anything to keep our business OUR business.. Anyway I won't hold you up any longer, Ms.Green was it? You look like the sort of woman who can handle herself, I'm sure you'll be fine, just keep in mind everything that I've told you, I'm sure you'll get used to this place in no time! Welcome to our city!

This was my story submission for the Secret Santa story swap we ran on the community Discord server, for u/ReverendWrites ! This was a ton of fun and a great challenge, with some brilliant constraints! Rev's chosen constraints for me were: 1. Includes the phrase "Conditions are rapidly deteriorating" (or "were") 2. Someone falls in love during the story. 3. At least one character is Fae. 4. A natural disaster is happening or about to happen. 5. It's the Old West. 6. A specific plant plays some role in the story, however minor. *** Mary stumbled through the snow, her stetson-covered head bent against the biting wind and whirling ice. Old Bess complained loudly behind her, the greying mare struggling against the reins as Mary doggedly pulled her along. “Steady on, girl. We have to get home before this ungodly snowfall gets even worse!” Bess snorted and stamped her feet. “Don’t you give those eyes, you old pot of glue! Conditions are rapidly deteriorating - we have to get home and get you into the barn, or not even the coyotes will be able to find your stiff carcass until the snow melts!” Bess nickered and rolled her eyes, but pushed on. “Atta girl. We’re nearly home - well, as long as I haven’t gotten lost.” She looked around, studying the snow-laden junipers. Her familiar landmarks and the well-trodden path to her cabin was frustratingly lost to the white drifts, but she hoped she was on the right track. Thankfully, she soon found what she was looking for. In the midst of the thick pines stood two out-of-place pinyons, side-by-side. She’d planted them herself ages ago, and now they returned the favour. “See, old girl?” Told you I’d get us home safely!” Bess’s snort told Mary exactly how much faith the creature had in her. “Bah, hush.” She dragged Bess up the path and beneath the thickening boughs, breathing a sigh of relief as the winds lessened and the height of the snowdrifts shortened from her waist to her ankles. Soon after, the path opened up into her little clearing, her log cabin and Bess’s tiny barn standing strong beneath the blanket of frost. She got Old Bess into the barn with the goats and bedded her down under a thick quilt, then hurried to get indoors and out of the wind herself. Only to find a huddled shape slumped on her porch. She blinked as she looked at the small bundle, half-buried beneath snow and shivering. With some shock she realised it was a kid - a little girl, no older than six if she was a day, her dark hair frozen to her forehead and her lips nearly blue with cold. “What in tarnation- Hell’s Bells, girl, you’re frozen stiff! Let’s get you indoors.” The child barely stirred as Mary carried her inside and got her bundled up in furs near the hearth and hurried to get the fire going. The half-frozen stew that was still left in the cauldron would have to do to warm her up- There was a knock on the door. Mary’s head whipped around, staring with disbelief. Nobody could possibly be mad enough to come to visit in this weather. Am I going batty in my old age? Another knock, a precisely rhythmic *rap-tap-tap*. Mary’s eyes narrowed. She reached up and grabbed her old coach gun from atop the mantlepiece, quietly breaking it open to check the cartridges. Cold but dry. Good enough. Another knock, more insistent. *Rap-tap-tap, rap-tap-tap.* “Hold your horses, I’m coming.” She held the coach gun by her side, out of sight, and slowly cracked the door open to peer out into the cold. The man standing out there was the most handsome person she’d ever seen. His skin was so pale it was nearly the same shade as the snow around him, his uncovered hair silvery-blonde and his eyes the green of emeralds. His smile was dazzling, and he bowed with a flourish that sent his pristine, black leather coat flapping around him. Mary felt her face grow hot and her heart skip a beat. “Fair lady,” the man said, his voice ringing clear and bright like a clarion, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you - may I come in?” *Yes, you may come in and have your way with- What?* “Pardon?” Mary blinked at him, her thoughts feeling strangely fuzzy and distant. His expression didn’t change, beyond a slight twitch of his lips. “I am looking for my daughter, my lady. I believe she may have come to your cabin to shelter from the blizzard. Her mother misses her terribly, and I must bring her home. Have you perchance seen her?” *Oh yes, of course, she’s right in here- No!* She pressed herself against the door, smiling shyly at him. “I might, sir. I just might.” The man’s smile widened, another jolt of warmth and a swarm of butterflies bursting to life within Mary’s chest. “How wonderful. May I see her?” *Of course, sir-* “Please don’t let him in.” The small voice was like a bucket of ice water dunked over Mary’s head. She stiffened, hand tightening on her gun. “I don’t like him,” the girl whispered. “He’s mean.” The man’s eyes narrowed. He stepped forward and grasped the doorframe, long, pointed nails clicking against the wood. “My lady, surely you would not leave me out here in the cold.” Mary shuddered, the fuzzy warmth tickling closing in again. “I am sorry, sir,” she managed. “I believe you should leave. Please let go of my door.” “I do not think I will.” He pressed in, forcing the door open inch by inch. His smile changed from friendly to cruel, his features seeming to lengthen, growing alien and twisted- Then he stopped, as the barrels of Mary’s coach gun pressed into his stomach. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think your blunt rod will stop Robin Goodfellow, woman?” “Only long enough to pull the triggers. And a “good fellow” you ain’t.” The man sneered. “It’s Goodfellow, not-” The coach gun bucked in Mary’s arms, the thunderous noise ringing in her ears. The man stumbled back, clutching at his stomach and his eyes wide with shock. He seemed to shrink in on himself, twisting into a hairy, fuzzy-furred goblin as pale red blood welled beneath his grasping fingers. “Witch,” he gasped. “Cold iron-” “I ain’t a witch,” Mary spat. “I am a widow.” She raised the gun again. “And I have no time for smooth-talking kidnappers.” She drew back the second hammer. “Git.

"Lights out!" the prison guard shouted. I guessed it was 8 o'clock at night. It was that or he fell asleep for sometime. After all, he did look like he just took a nap. Anyway, it was time to go to sleep, but I wasn't tired just yet. And I knew why. I'd been here in prison long enough to realize. You see, I was framed. It was January of 2019 when it all happened. I was in the bank, getting some money to pay for my daughter's soccer camp. Next thing I knew, a person with a blue backpack, just like mine, was running out of a hallway holding a gun. A robber! Police followed him. However, it took one turn of a corner to throw them off. While all of this chaos was happening, I also tried to run out of the building, but I was slower than the robber. The police saw me and arrested me right on the spot. I had one chance to explain myself after that. But I was already forced to put on the grimy orange prison suit generations of prisoners probably already wore. The police and witnesses made their points. It was time to share my side of the story. "Well...you see...," I nervously argued, "I might be the spitting image of the robber, but I'm not. Just because...well...we wore the same backpack doesn't mean we are the same person." "Oh, so you know what the robber was wearing? Suspicious, suspicious indeed," the judge said. He started to write something down. "No! Not in that way! I was running out of the bank because I was nervous. The man who I saw had a gun, after all. But the robber was faster than me and hid in the bushes before the police saw him," I tried to explain. This was true. I did see him do this. I later knew that my explanation was not enough, though. Within two days, I was in an orange suit again, behind bars. I would stay in prison for the next ten years. I knew there was no hope of getting out before my sentence was over. I grew up watching those shows where prisoners escaped their cells and stuff like that. I knew I lived in reality, though. I wasn’t stupid enough to actually believe people got out of prison that way. Most of them waited and served their sentence, like I thought I would. There was a possibility that I would be pardoned by the president, but people only get that out of shear dumb luck. Seven more years to go, I thought miserably. So, in the morning, I woke up to the piercing yell of a guard. Not very pleasant, but, then again, I’d been here for a long time, and I’m not even halfway through my sentence. One way or another, I would eventually get used to it. A guard unlocked my cell along with several others, and I headed down to breakfast. Today was my lucky day, as there was some sloppy french toast that was more toast than french. Some might call it a meager meal, but prisoners call it a miracle. Unfortunately, I was a quick eater. Instead of savoring the meal like I should have, I gorged it, finishing in a maximum of five minutes. Pleased, I unfortunately remembered I was still in prison. “Courtyard, now! Everyone! That’s right, everyone!” the guard shouted, nearly giving me a heart attack. While recovering, I made my lazy self get my butt off the bench, throw out my plate, and slowly walk to the courtyard. This was where I was confused. You know that I had been here for three years, and this is true, but I never got the purpose of the courtyard. What were you supposed to do? Workout? Play tag like kindergarteners? Maybe hide-and-seek? All of these options seemed useless. We had a gym for working-out, and I had a feeling games weren’t fit for strong-armed, six-packed, buffed prisoners. Thankfully, there were bleachers. Most of the time, I sat on them and thought. About what? Several things, mostly about my family. Back home, I had a family of five;my wife, Sandra;my two sons, Stephen and Jordan; my daughter, Melony; and I, Dan Whailord. We lived at forty-two Cherry Lane. We were all happy, the five of us together. That quickly changed when I went to prison. Of course, they knew I was innocent. They visited me every day possible. However, that wasn’t enough. I longed to go home like I used to do everyday to see a warm smile on my kids’ faces and get a group hug from all of them at once. At this, I rubbed a tear from my eye. For some reason, thinking that it would make me feel better, I kicked the fence. I didn’t get a good pain in the shins, though. Instead, I fell off-balance and hit the ground. My foot was through the fence! I wiggled my foot. It was touching free land, land not guarded 24-7 with guards carrying threatening guns. Quickly, I got back on my feet and looked around. No one saw. Acting as if nothing happened, I sat back on the bleachers. Now, I had something else besides my family to think about. I had something revolutionary to think about. I mean, could those cartoons I saw on TV when I was a kid happen to me in real life ? The thought of it gave me a tremor of excitement. Happiness flooded me. This could be my ticket to freedom. I could escape and then- “Lunchtime!” one guard announced. I had no more time to think. I got up and went to the lunchroom. I saw the food options and said, “Grilled cheese, please,” with a tone of happiness that wasn’t usually there. I gobbled down my grilled cheese just like I did with my french toast. The rest of the day went smoothly. As it went by, I had more and more time to think about my fantastic escape plan. I called it the “No More Orange Suits Plan.” I figured that I would go at the last free time, where no one decided to go to the courtyard. No one would see me. To start off my plan, I somehow managed to grab a set of clothes that weren’t orange whatsoever. Instead, I grabbed a red shirt and blue jeans. Next, I headed off to the corner of the courtyard. I looked around. No one was looking at me. I slipped through the crack and ran for it. I only stopped running when I was sure I was at least ten miles away from the site. I laid down the clothes and took off my orange suit. I replaced them with the red shirt and blue jeans. I started a fire. To fuel it, I burned the orange suit. Fire was usually a bad sign to me, but right about now, I loved it.

I forgot to tell him. I forgot to tell him that the night sky is too dark when he’s not holding me. I forgot to tell him that I don’t know how to breathe without him. I forgot to tell him he is the sun. I forgot to tell him. Staring out the window, there was nothing but darkness, grief and the smell of sickness. The reflection of nurses hurrying past the reflection of parked cars in the lot down below. The waiting room. The fucking waiting room. It had been 9 hours; what could possibly be happening back there? WHAT IF HE'S DEAD. It doesn’t feel like 2am, but the light is always artificial anyway. The parking lot outside is much quieter than during the day, and there is too much silence in the hallways. Footsteps and whispering. The sound of clattering clipboards. I guess it’s good if it’s quiet - I mean, no emergencies, but... no. I can barely remember the time before this, when we weren’t at the hospital at least once each week. I know it must have happened because I know we both used to be alive. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Seven months ago, he collapsed. I was sautéing yellow onions and yellow bell peppers in a yellow room. A Latin song was playing on the Google mini. It was raining outside. He grabbed me by my waist from behind and spun me to face him. He started swaying us both back and forth. I remember thinking how my body always melded into his. The way I wished it had been with so many other men, but never believed in. But he was... Then his face turned white. His eyes glazed over. He slacked for half a moment, then tried to lean on me for half another, and then his eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground. He was wearing a purple v-neck t-shirt that day. And his favorite jeans. I’ve always loved his legs. The doctors at first thought it was a cardiac episode. But then they did a CT and an MRI. After, a nurse who looked alarmed took several samples of his blood. He looked okay... except the hospital gown and the bracelet and the IV and the monitors. He laughed at me and told me I looked too worried, running his free hand gently down my left cheek. He made a joke about how it was probably just my bad cooking that landed him in here. But it wasn’t. The morning after he collapsed, an oncologist came in. The moment the nurse said the word - ONCOLOGIST - I knew the white noise outside the windows wasn’t rain. It was the rattling hiss of death, mimicking lungs that can no longer take in air freely. It was coming for us. After, the only words I heard: CARCINOMA METASTASIZED IMMEDIATE TREATMENT STAGE 3, and then I collapsed. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Barely listening to calls and announcements over the PA system, barely smelling the sour coffee sat on the nurses' desk, barely breathing on my own, I can’t stop thinking about the day we had to shave his head. He laughed and said he’d look better this way anyhow. Lex Luthor vibes, he said. But when we accidentally locked eyes in the mirror, me stood above and behind him, him sat in a dining chair we always brought to the bathroom when I’d cut his hair before all this, we almost fell apart. I watched his eyes turn shiny and wet. I felt myself tense up to swallow the wail that had been sat in my stomach since that Tuesday morning 6 weeks before when they’d told us he had kidney cancer. Turns out kidney cancer is really fuckin’ quiet. It has almost no symptoms in its early stages, while it’s invading the blood. And now we were too late. Bones. Stomache. Brain. Liver. And now we were too late. At night, when I can’t sleep, he puts his arms around me and whispers in my ear - WE WOULD HAVE ALWAYS BEEN TOO LATE. My eyes are always wet now. But he only cried that one time. In the bathroom, his head half-shaved, looking at me looking at him and holding my hand against his face. Just that one time. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In June we had made it a full month past his initial prognosis. But things were starting to change. Sometimes he couldn’t remember things. Once it was how to tie his shoes. Then it was forgetting to turn off burners on the stove. Then, one day, there was half a moment in the kitchen at breakfast when he lost me. I saw it. I saw him forget who I was and then I saw him recognize me again. That was the day we made the pact. We promised each other that every day, no matter what, we would tell each other who we were to each other and how we were so in love. So he wouldn’t lose us completely, and so I wouldn’t lose myself as I watched him leave his body, ever so slowly. Later that week, he vomited blood for the first time. Later that month, he had a seizure. He was wearing a gown and a bracelet that day. He had fainted the night before, so we were already in the hospital. We’re always in a hospital. An alarm down the hall shakes me out of my memories and I turn my head to make sure it’s not from his room. It isn’t. I look back to the window, and now all I see is an exhausted, grieving woman with unkempt hair and no makeup. She looks bereaved. She looks lonely. But he isn’t even gone yet. But he might be. And I forgot to tell him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Last month, we got the hospice bed. He’d lived two months past his initial prognosis. No one knew why. Watching uniforms I didn’t know place a death bed in my living room and lift him from his wheelchair and into the bed, I lost it. He looked at me, pleading with me not to spiral. But I couldn’t not spiral. I couldn’t look at the bed. I couldn’t look back at him. I cried in the bathroom, slumped against a blue wall. Remembering what he looked like in my favorite of his blue jeans, back when he could still walk. Dabbing my eyes at the edges with a blue towel. I sniffled, fixed my hair and walked back out. He was lain in the bed, watching Tik Tok on his phone, laughing. He looked up at me, set his phone down and said nothing, never breaking eye contact. I overflowed - burst the way a dam would. Sobbing, I ran to him and threw myself next to him on the hospice bed. He put his arms around me and tried to quell my heaving. And he told me. I was the love of his life. His best friend. He never knew he could be this happy. He would love me forever. FOREVER. I slept in the hospice bed with him every night, curled up next to his body, which became just a little bit colder, a little bit bonier, a little bit less, each night. I slept in the hospice bed with him, every night until this night. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- They didn't let me see him after the ER. He was barely present when they took him. He looked like a painting. He looked like a ghost. White sheet, white face, white room, white coats. There was no color left in his face. I knew when they took him that there was no color left in my life... I forgot to tell him. He won’t remember unless I tell him. He hasn’t remembered in weeks. He hasn’t eaten in weeks. He hasn’t walked in weeks. But he has never forgotten to tell me. Not once. Even the days where he’s not sure who either of us are at all. And I am snapped back out of my thoughts again by a coat and a clipboard asking for my name. The voice of the coat and the clipboard tells me it’s very sorry, but - THERE WAS NOTHING WE COULD DO. And then the wail finally came. I heard a woman making an unholy, un-human sound. It pervaded the hallways, the rooms, the building itself. It surrounded me. And when I realized it was me, I stopped. Abruptly. There was nothing. I was nothing. I forgot to tell him. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- CANCER EATS EVERYTHING.

My name is Ajuji, and they call me the ghost of Nairobi. ​ I was cut free from my mother beneath a blood moon in Kibera, Nairobi. The doctors said that mama did not survive the birth, and that it was because I was cursed. You see, I was born white. Pale as bone with devil red eyes. I was shunned from the very beginning, even the holy men cast me aside. Father was the only one who showed me love, and I never forgot it. He named me Ajuji, which means 'born on a rubbish heap'. The others, the people who I called neighbour, they had their own name for me. ​ I wish I could say that my childhood home was special. That it was safe, and clean. That I wasn't beaten everyday for the colour of my skin. But I can't say that, because it isn't true. Kibera is the biggest slum in all of Africa. There is no water. There is no food. No school. No work. Criminals roam freely and nowhere is safe. Everywhere you turn there is suffering. I guess I am fortunate that I cannot walk in the sun for too long, I didn't have to see it much. But when the moon rises, so do I. ​ I remember one night when I was around ten, I met Alhaadi Okewa for the first time down by the festering bile we called a river. What a giant he was. I had heard the stories about Alhaadi, and I can say that they were all true. He would openly boast about the massive quantities of heroin he sold, the men he'd killed, and all the others he's maimed, regardless of who was around to hear. Not that it mattered of course, not even the police could touch him. He was the most feared, most respected man I have ever seen. I knew he was always looking for boys to do his deliveries, and I wanted to give something back to my father, so I began to work for him. ​ I worked through the night, when most were asleep. It didn't bother me much, I could sleep during the day and keep out of the sun. Even though Alhaadi was one of the most violent criminals Kibera had ever known, he was always kind to me. After my father died, he was all that I had. I spent many years working for Alhaadi, and the trouble I had previously known had stopped. At least for a little while. ​ One night when I was doing deliveries, I was attacked by a rival of Alhaadi. I lost some teeth, and my left hand was broken. The money and the heroin was stolen too. It took me two days before I plucked up the courage to return to Alhaadi. I was sure he was going to kill me. But he didn't. Instead he gave me a club, and told me to do my deliveries. It wasn't like Alhaadi to offer a second chance, and I wasn't about to ask why he did. ​ I taught myself how to use the club. I started small at first, and would crush cans by my shack. Alhaadi bandaged my hand, and I began my deliveries again. It was a week later when Alhaadi's rival came for me again, but this time I was prepared. I broke his jaw, and smashed both his feet beneath my club. Alhaadi was pleased. Not only had I defended myself and completed my deliveries, but I had taken out the competition. The ghost of Nairobi was becoming a known name, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't revel in it. ​ Father always said that nothing happens by chance. That we are on a predetermined path in life, laid out before us by God. Kibera is home to half a million people. Half a million. Now imagine my surprise, when on the last delivery of the night, I was reunited with one of the doctors who brought me into this world. At first I thought nothing of it. He was just another customer, another regular man turned junkie. That was until he recognised me. He started to talk, rambling in his drug fueled stupor. He told me how he and the other doctors had murdered my mother, and if not for my father, they would have murdered me. He said that mama was in league with devils, to have had a son like me. Only a child of sin would have been born this white. I didn't want to believe it, but every beating, every name calling, every time I had spit in my face, they all told me that it was true. How may others had been killed because they were like me? Hundreds? Thousands? I didn't ask. I guess I didn't need to know. ​ I clubbed him to death until I was too tired to continue. But not before he gave me the names of the others. ​ I never knew my mother. She was stolen from me, and I from her. All my life, all I have ever known is pain, and for what? Maybe father was right. Maybe God has laid a path for me. The foul misdeeds that plagued my life have made me who I am, and if this is his plan for me then so be it. ​ I will be his servant of justice. For every child born with bone white skin who didn't live to see another day, and every parent who lost their life for the crime of having an albino child. ​ I will haunt these streets like they have haunted us. ​ My name is Ajuji, and I am the fucking ghost of Nairobi.

The children ran around to sit in front of the olden, graying man, adults lazily found seats scattered around in ear-shot corners and the whole town settled delicately beside him as he opened his fragile jaw. His eyes were foggy and appeared to almost be cracking, but the depth in them spoke of wells of true knowledge. The old man’s power was in his stories, they had power and meaning, cadence and rhythm, they danced in the imaginations of the youth and activated the cerebral workings of adults, and they always seemed to have a truth that was ethereal to words but physical to the soul. “Yes, yes” he said while raising his shaking hands. “I will tell it again, don’t worry.” His skin was grayed and sagging, forming the cloak of a wiseman naturally formed by the wisdom of age. It was the summer solstice, and as tradition, the elder was supposed to tell the origin story of their people, as he was the only living human to have witnessed it. No matter how many times it was told, or how many times it was haphazardly retold by excited, inspiring play-writes, people still listened to it like it was their first time. It represented a wonderful spirit that ran through their generations and permeated their blood, and by all means of the phrase, it was them. *** I was a young general back then, filled with the hot fire of youth and exuberant at the idea of spilling more blood for history’s benefit. At this time I was fighting in the Great Eagles army and decorated with the confidence of back-to-back victories, which formed into unstoppable progress. We were a well-organized and proud army, having fought the continents best and beaten them with the vicious, annihilating force of violent battle. Around this time we were finally on the horizon of our final, glorious victory that in our minds would unite the world into one cohesive totality. You could not have found a more ready group of men, every troop, every cook and every mother of a soldier was ready for what the Eagle had called our mandate from heaven. The Eagle's words were prophetic to us, they elevated mere human inspiration and flew up to divine reasons for living. He had started his career as a crazed madman yelling strange predictions as he led small troops of men into battle, but as time went by and his victories piled on, his words turned from strange oddities to visions from the heavens, and we were his loyal disciples. Practically overnight an insane nobody turned into a prophet by the mere coincidence of victory, be it luck or skill. “Men,” he said to us as we gathered for our final battle. “Today you engrave your names onto history's doorstep, and forever enshrine the legacy we have built for all of mankind -- a monolith for peace and tower of unshakable providence. Today we ride into the kingdom of the dove Princess, and fight her yet unbeaten army.” We were in the midst of marching into the eastern-most empire, the lands of the dove princess and her large swaths of territory. Her story was legendary to all peoples of the continent, and one that every soldier knew by heart, for they knew that it was their destiny to one day face her unbeaten army in battle, and deliver a bloody finale for the gods. The dove’s father, the Dragon of the East, had died suddenly while in the midst of an epic campaign, and the reins of battle were left to his young, untrained daughter who by all signs had no experience in combat or leading troops. We, inspired by the Eagle’s words, predicted doom for them, and thought that our campaign would ride through the rest of the continent with the ease of a sharpened knife, unifying our final cause atop the ashes of the once-great Eastern Empire. But to the surprise of all, she not only took up the reins of leadership and held the shaken kingdom together, she started expanding its borders at a rate that was never seen by any leader before. It was like a terrifying bolt of lightning struck the map of the world of men, before we knew what was happening, her empire had doubled in size and great nations were toppling like dice. The most impressive part of all of this was that legend said she did this without losing a single man, which earned her the name of the dove princess by her people. After hearing of all this and keeping his ear close to the wall of her empire, the Eagle became enraptured by what he considered to be the gods greatest and final test for him, the cosmic and immortal battle between the Eagle and the dove, a clash that would decide the fate of all the world and put a close to this chapter of humanity. It was poetic to the Eagle, who saw it all from the eyes of a daring playwright. Two kingdoms, separated at birth and scattered across the lands both making a bloody trail into each other's arms. It is right and proper that they were to be the final battle, as in his mind the gods would have had no other way, trial by fire for what was to rise to be the greatest nation of men. No such thing could be born of anything besides blood. That fated day, every one of us gathered our spears and swords and gazed into our reflections, wondering what was to await us soon. Never before did we feel the weight of the world like we did then, and every man knew that we’d have to spill much blood before we could call peace, before we could go home as heroes and greet our families with the love and joy at a job well done. “The sun greets us as saviors,” The Eagle told us as we began our march to battle. He then saw the looks in our eyes, looks of meekness or slight terror, and gave a disgusted spit at such a laughable sight. He pulled his sword from its golden sheath and stabbed it at the sky, prophesying once more. “Power resides behind a blade men, and each one of you holds the power in your hands right now. The power to command the world, and change her ebbing tides.” As we carried further on, we gripped our blades evermore tightly while looking at the sun he just preached of, and tried to imagine it calling our names, tried to imagine it looking past all of the souls we vanquished to get where we were. I recalled the first man I killed, and the look in his eyes as his soul left for that very sun. I wanted to be haunted by it, and haunted by him, but I rallied myself from the Eagle’s words and remembered that it was the only way to peace. That was how the Eagle would calm our souls, by reminding us of the inevitability and necessity for violence -- “Peace can only be found through the blade” and “Your children sleep safely when your enemy's blood coats the battlefield.” Were what we were rocked to sleep with. Even in times of great atrocity, when we burned villages and sacked much-needed food stores, he maintained the position of high-minded peace. “Look upon the wasteland you create and rejoice, for only fire breeds a healthy forest. Only corpses fertilize a field. We are merely the reapers of history, preparing for the harvest of a great peace. Look on the waste and rejoice .” When we came close to the plains that were meant to be our fated battlefield, the Eagle became more and more enraptured by our purpose. His eyes grew large and red, and we could see the veins of his neck pulsing like slithering snakes as he shouted. “The time is now!” He screamed, “Over these hills we find our destiny! My destiny! To vanquish the last dissenters of this world and become the world! We are history’s reapers and we shall have our harvest!” We were ready, we were ready to find the enemy below us and give epic, glorious battle to define our legacy forever, but as we strode over the hill, swords and spears in hand, we were not greeted by troops. No, as we crossed the crest of the horizon, gripping our blades tightly and sending prayers of protection up to the sky, we saw below us men and women, not troops. We saw kids playing in the fields and mothers holding babies, we saw fathers chasing their kids with a smile and elders watching on with great heaps of laughter as the warming sun cast golden rays onto their faces. We saw an abundance of food and water, feasts and fun, flowers and toys all surrounded by the pleasant, human sounds of nature at rest. We didn’t find a battle below us, but humanity and mankind. We were awestruck, frozen by the sight and unable to move even a finger. The Eagle was stuttering to himself in an attempt to make sense of what he was seeing, and every man could not say a word, for they didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Then, from the crowd of pleasantries a young woman came forward. She was not ornately dressed or in possession of some grand form of beauty, she was plain and smiling, a warm sight for soldiers who spent most of their days on the march. She walked forward with arms outstretched and presented a delightful scene behind her: It was the dove. “My friends.” Her voice was sweet and kind, a honey to our ears. “You come for battle and glory, protesting it for the cause of peace and prosperity, so I instead offer exactly that: peace and prosperity.” There was not a word in the air besides her own. “My once father led an army of conquerors, much like you all. Marching across the lands and claiming to be fighting for peace and stability, much like you all, but I saw that whatever he left behind was not peace, but destruction, and what everyone wanted was not war, but kindness and a quiet life for their families. I offer to you no bloodshed or battle, but exact peace. An opportunity to gather under this beautiful sun and talk about things however you wish.” We all looked at the Eagle, whose face was twisting into a perverse sight and was covered in a cold sweat. “This is a trap!” He yelled desperately. “This is how she had defeated so many armies before us! Men, she’s wanting to lure us into a siren call and then they’ll pounce! Slaying us like dogs!” He rode around us atop his golden horse, sword raised and eyes frantic little beads. “Do not fail history men! Do not fail me! Look at what we have accomplished, that is the only way to peace, she spews lies!” We all looked at each other, unsure of what to do and clouded by doubt, then, from beside the dove a man stood up, simple in clothing, much like her, and decorated by a gracious smile, “Hear me men, for I was once the leader of the Mountain Kingdom, and I can attest that she tells you is no lie. All of what was once my men are before you on this field, not slain nor injured, but enjoying this fine day.” Then, one after another, more men like him stood up and explained similar stories, all speaking up until every kingdom that fell before the dove was accounted for, not fallen but standing beside her. “These are lies!” The Eagle screeched. “Men, charge into the crowd and cut them down!” We were frozen, we looked down into that crowd of children and saw our own, we watched the happy fathers and longed to be with our wives and kids. The dove motioned her hand and the women and children approached us with flowers and baskets of food, petrifying us even more. The Eagle became more desperate as they came closer, yelling at us from his new position in the back rank. “They come now with poison and hidden weapons! Now, act now and slay them or be destined to die!” But we didn’t, when the people came, wrapping us in flowers and handing us food, we smiled kindly and thanked them, looking around with sprouting delight and realizing that it was over. Laugher began to rise from our ranks as we dropped our weapons and rejoiced with each other. I lovingly remember seeing my reflection again in the falling swords, and knew that I would no longer have to use its edge to draw life. The only other thing I remember of the Eagle was that he seemed to then lose his mind, riding off into the distance yelling the screams of a madman. This was the beginning of our world, not one of possession and violence, of force and battle, but instead, one born of love and kindness, true humanity and the want for a happy life. Men like the Eagle are hardly remembered, and instead of immortalizing events and people, we immortalize our collective effort and remember to never forget our fellow man. In the end, it wasn’t the dove that saved us, but our humanity as a whole.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I’m an amateur writer, and come from no previous coaching. I really appreciate any honest feedback, as I’m still developing and want to improve to give the reader a better experience. Good, bad, neutral, or any advice that you feel my writing did or didn’t do for you. Comments or suggestions are well received! 1. (Parenthesis) the setting 2. \*Stars indicate the voice of the main character in the first person 3. “Quotations” are back and forth conversation between main characters My Date with Tina Turner (Young handsome man is sitting in upscale bar in downtown Chicago. He is set up on a blind date. It’s the spring time, evening on a Saturday night. The year is 2038 . He is sitting at a two top table facing the entrance of the restaurant. A beautiful woman has just walked in. She looks exactly like a former famous actress, Tina Turner) \*Ugh, I think its another duplicate. (Duplicate walks in smiling, acting a little jumpy while talking to the hostess) \*I swear every date I’ve been on in the last 6 months has been like this. Another girl who has paid an exorbitant amount of cash to have every “flaw” they see modified. This one looks like Tina Turner, I’m not certain though, its hard to see in this dim lit place. Screw it, I'm desperate for a girlfriend and at least this one is smiling. Last week I went through a round of scallops with a manic obsessive Courtney Cox. (Standing up he smiles back at her and reaches out to shake her hand. She looks stunning, a 5"10 Tina Turner) M: “Hi Simone, very nice to meet you, you look amazing” S: “Hello, Michael, my you’re not to bad yourself. Are those your real eyes?” M: “Yes, these are my own, given to me by my mother” S: “Oh that is so original of you. As I’m sure you can see I’ve had a few modifications myself” M: “Really? I couldn’t tell. You look gorgeous.” S: “You couldn’t tell? Have you seen *Whats Love got to do with it*?” M: “Ummmm, I don’t think so. Who’s in it?” S: “Tina Turner! She was a big movie star a long time ago. I thought she was the prettiest chocolate girl I’d ever seen” \*Did she just say chocolate girl? M:“Oh right, Tina Turner. Well I think you look beautiful” S:“Thank you. Well, I guess thank Daddy. Hehe. Anyway, if you can excuse me, I’m going to go to the bathroom really quick to freshen up.” \*Freshen up, she just got here? M: “Oh okay, I’ll keep the table warm for us” (She doesn’t listen to this part, and walks away) \*Jesus christ, what is the world coming to. I can’t keep doing this, but I’m so lonely. I’m going to have to backtrack this broad on Truth Finder before she gets back. (Looking on his Smart Device, ) \*So her name is Simone Sampson, she is daughter of Sam Sampson, senior parter at William & Sampson LLP. Lets see if I can get a picture of her, before her procedure. Okay here she is. TRUTH FINDER Simone Sampson: Simone is the head social media marketing director. Her work here over the last 3 years has helped William & Sampson propel as a formidable firm in the tech space. She is the only child of Senior Parter Sam Sampson, and is enjoyed by everyone, bringing a unique flair into the office. Education: St. Principles High School Favorite Hobby: Shopping and Reality TV Picture: Not posted \*Shit. Okay, let me at least see a picture of the Dad at least. (Switches on the website page to her fathers profile on his smart device) ​ TRUTH FINDER Sam Sampson: Senior and founding partner at William and Sampson LLP. Sam Sampson is a well respected lawyer in the greater Chicago area. He has won over 8 figures in settlements and has been ranked #4 Big Business Attorney in the USA, and been featured on Esquire Quarterly. Currently serves as chief board of directors of the “Free Choice” movement, propelling legislature protecting the individuals right to pursue human metamorphosis procedures. Education: De Paul University, BA Political Science Class of 1999 JD: University of Chicago, Class of 2002 Picture: Older and wider gentlemen, bald, caucasian descent (Tina Turner, I mean “Simone” walks back to the table, standing over him) S: “Hi!” M: “Oh hey there Simone” S: “What are you looking at?” M: “Oh just checking my email” (She stairs at him suspiciously) S: “No phones at dinner. Didn’t anyone ever teach you any manners? Hehe, I’ll let it slide this time” M:“I apologize. It won’t happen again.” (They both smile at each other) S: “Hehe, its okay I’m actually on my phone all the time, its part of my job. You see my Daddy has me post all of the pictures on our social media page for his firm.” M:“Oh thats really cool, do you like it?” S:“Yes, I really do. I get to help create the image of our company, get everyone smiling at work and such. Its super easy and super fun” M:“Did you go to school for marketing?” S:“Oh no, I actually didn’t finish college but I was in beauty school for a while. I wanted to do fashion design” (She looks down, obviously those words cutting deep) M:“Well I’m sure you do an awesome job with what you do now” (Still not picking her head up, a tear drops from her eye) S:“Thank you, can you excuse me, I have to go freshen up” (She leaves the table, not looking up obviously a bit distraught) \*This is what is wrong with the world. You have all of these insecure people coming in, paying millions to look like other people, and not even that can make them happy. Part of me feels sorry for her, but the other disgusted, I still can’t believe she said chocolate girl. (15 minutes later) S:“Hi!” M: “Hey Simone, is everything all right” S: “Yes, I’m sorry. Its just I’m just beginning to kind of regret this metamorphosis procedure.” (He looks at her very surprised, she continue’s.) S: “You see, my Dad has always been very embarrassed of me. Ever since I was young, he always acted as if I wasn’t good enough. When I told him my dream of doing makeup, he said I was worthless to him and that I was throwing away a career of taking over his firm. I know this a lot to kind of throw at you, but it is the truth, and I’ve had to deal with it my whole life.” (He begins feeling empathetic to her) M: “You know I come from a family with a lot of pressure as well. I can completely understand how you feel. I’m sorry your Dad made you feel that way. In all fairness, I think it takes a lot of courage to go through with that procedure. I know I definitely couldn’t do it” (Grabbing his hand she leans over and kisses him passionately on the lips which he receives startlingly) S: “Thank you” (2 hours later and a few more martini’s the two are now out in the city walking down the street hand in hand dancing to music playing off of his phone. The song he is playing is “This will be” by Natalie Cole) \*Wow, this girl is unbelievable and she’s beautiful. She’s the heir to a multimillion dollar law firm, and genuinely has a good heart. Since letting her guard down she’s really shown her true colors. Well not literally.... I swear when she’s kissed me, I’ve never felt so much power. (His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. Call from Keaton his best friend. He ignores the call.) S: “Hi so this is my place” M: “I’ve had a really good time with you tonight Simone” (She pulls him in again for one more kiss, in one swift motion Simone dips him on his back and then pulls him up, kissing passionately) S: “Thank you for tonight, lets do this again sometime” M: “Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you up” S:“Hehe I’m not ready for that yet, give me a few weeks” (Simone leaves slamming the door behind her. His phone starts ringing again. It is Keaton) M:“Keaton I think I’m in love” K:“You’re not going to believe this” M:“What?” K:“Check your phone” (Opens up a new message from Keaton) ​ TRUTH FINDER Simon Sampson: Simon is the head social media marketing director. His work over the last 2 years has helped William & Sampson propel as a formidable firm in the tech space. He is the son of Senior Parter Sam Sampson, and is enjoyed by everyone, bringing a unique flair into the office. Education: St. Principles High School Favorite Hobby: Shopping and Reality TV Picture: Muscular colorfully dressed man in thirties, balding, caucasian (Meanwhile his phone is still playing.....

Someone was watching Renee Aljour. The latest package, if nothing else, established that much. She thumbed through the latest set of photographs while sitting on her hotel room sofa, but she was unsure what she was supposed to be seeing. This was the third time in a week she received a similar delivery but was still to make any sense of them. The first set was waiting at the front desk for her when she first checked in but could only be considered benign. They had to be publicity shots that needed approval or maybe cancelled ones that were sent to her by mistake, she reasoned. The second envelope was stuffed with photographs of Renee Aljour as well, but these were no longer canned poses. These were snapshots of her in public, candid shots of the young actress on location, stepping into a café, buying roses from the corner stand, petting a stray cat, scratching her wrist while she waited for cab. The work of local paparazzi, she told herself. She reminded herself that it was far from a secret that she was staying there. Someone tracking her down was no reason for any immediate concern. It wasn’t anything the cast and crew looked forward to but they had come to expect set-crashers. Renee spotted a green cardigan she was wearing in one of the pictures that she liked. She didn’t remember bringing with her, let alone owning it. She was rapping the stack of images against her knee wondering if the sweater was something lying around set that she could ‘borrow’ when a slip of paper fell out from between the photographs. A phrase was scrawled across the torn scrap of paper. “*Make her listen*.” She ran her fingers over the back of the paper where the author had all but scratched through in their crude urgency. Was it a reminder for the courier that delivered the package? Were they supposed to have left something more behind? She picked through the rest of the photos but found only more reflections captured in time and space. She considered calling her agent, but at best the protracted dialogue would result in his half-hearted attempt to hire a bodyguard. Not that she would have taken him up on the offer. The thought of someone following her every step, watching her ever motion was the last thing she needed. Instead, she took to triple-checking her locks and walking around her hotel room with an empty bottle of cabernet, just in case. Curious mailings or not, she was going to have to leave for work soon, especially if she wanted to visit with Abby at the University. Before their reunion earlier this week it had seven years since the friends had last seen one another. The pair that was inseparable in high school discovered life had diverging plans for them not long after graduation. Renee entered into acting with the same affable disinterest she glided through the early half of her life with, but for Abbey it was different. She had all the determination for the two of them. She was always dead set on her objectives, whatever they were, and obsessive until they were realized. Renee once joked Abby would be terrifying if she wasn’t so damn boring. Renee could tell the intervening years had been good to Abby. She was still her bookish, gray self but now she brimmed with an assured fulfillment that her estranged friend admired. Academics were clearly her calling, not that Renee could pretend to understand a fraction of the studies Abby described over coffee, but she smiled and nodded through the conversation, just happy her friend had found her place in the world. Abby leaned forward after Renee told her about the confusing packages. She was hardwired to interpret everything as an equation to solve. Plug in enough factors and the strangest of scenarios suddenly begins to provide their own answers. At least, that’s what Abby told her when Renee tried changing conversation to the weather. “Where did they come from?” she asked. Renee shrugged. “I don’t know. No return address. I asked the receptionist but they haven’t noticed anyone, not that I knew what to ask them to look for.” “What do you think it means?” “Couldn’t say,” Renee downplayed the event, feeling silly mentioning it in the first place. “Maybe nothing. People are weird.” Abby placed her hand on Renee’s. “People are also creepy, Ren. There’s a difference. Can’t you, I don’t know, call the cops, or something?” “Not really. It’s not a crime to leave mail for someone. It’s not like there was any actual threats of violence or any mention of anything illegal.” “Yeah, but these are not regular press photos or fan pics. These are personal.” Abby picked out a snapshot from the stack Renee brought with her. “This one is of you walking into your hotel. The thought that at any time there could be someone out there, watching us, looking right at us. It’s just awful. I know you’re just in town for a few more days, but have you thought about changing hotels just in case?” Renee suddenly became very aware of their presence in the center of the campus courtyard. She felt exposed, vulnerable, even with her friend. The others walking past, standing in the distance, where were their wayward glances going? Were they watching her right now? Was it one of them? She would never be able to tell. “I should probably get going. I have to get back to the set.” “You could stay with me, if you like. It’s not every day we get bona fide movie stars crashing with us, after all.” “I’m a glorified extra, Abs. I just stand in for the actual movie star while they’re blocking the shots and setting up for the real thing.” She realized she hadn’t answered her question and felt her cheeks flush red. “And, no. Thanks, but no. I’ll be fine.” Abby walked with her to the parking lot and waited until her cab came. She could tell the mailings were troubling Renee no matter how aloof she tried to play it. “Listen, I’m sure it’s nothing. Like you said, people are weird. You should come by later tonight. We’ll get take out and watching dumb movies or something.” “Maybe. My ride’s here. I’ll see you around.” Work was tediously present for Renee the rest of the day. The bulk of her time was spent standing within shouting range of the assistant camera director while they positioned and repositioned lighting for several hours. After returning to the hotel she held her breath while passing the front desk receptionist but there were no packages this time. She could exhale. Renee took a long shower and slipped into her sweats eager just to relax in sequestered anonymity for a change. She would text Abby in a bit, thanking her for the movie night invitation but saying she got held up on set. It was sympathy. She could see it on her face when she first made the offer. She was concerned, just being nice. It’s what friends were supposed to do for one another but it left Renee uneasy. Abby was the practical one. That much had stayed the same since their time apart. If she thought there was something to worry about then that made it real. She was settling in for a marathon of competitive cooking shows when a knock at the door froze her in place. She waited for a beat, then another, and another. Nothing. Room service, she told herself. Besides, the packages had been left with the front desk. They knew the hotel she was staying, but they didn’t know which room, right? She took the empty wine bottle from the stand and let the door swing open. She was alone. Down both ends of the hall she saw no one and took relief it was just room service or maybe a guest who had the wrong door number. She felt silly that she let her imagination run away with her until she saw the photograph taped to the other side of her door. There was no package this time. There was only one photo. It was another image of Renee Aljour, but something had happened. She was the same, but different. Her hair was bone white and much longer than she had ever grown hers. She turned the sheet over. This time in red marker and underlined-- “HETONTBREKENDECIJFER Make her listen.” *They were here*, she thought in a swelling panic. *They were right on the other side of the door while I was showering*. She tossed her phone in her bag, took the keys off the counter and rushed from the room. He didn’t know what her next step would be but knew that she could no longer remain there. She was peeling around the corner of her floor trying to remember Renee’s address when she crashed into someone heading the opposite direction. The jolt toppled her backward. When she looked up Abby was reaching out her hand. Her hair was a mess. There was dirt on her face and dried blood smeared along the back her arm. Fire had burned a hole through the shoulder of her jacket which now draped over her bandaged shoulder. “Jesus, Abby, what happened?” She was stammering, fending off shock through sheer force of will. “I-I-I- didn’t know where to go. My lab. They attacked. Burned it to the ground. Tried to do me. Burn me too. It all happened so fast, but I was moving so slow. I was watching everything, but I couldn’t do anything.” Renee got her feet and wrapped her arms around Abby. “My god, Abs. Are you okay?” Abby’s attention had already drifted, studying the overturned photograph lying at their feet. “Het ontbrekende cijfer. They were here.” She followed her eyes back to the photograph. “What are you saying, Abby? Who was here?” Abby pulled away from their embrace and looked her old friend in the eyes, fighting against her better judgment before relenting. “Renee, there’s something I need to show you.” The facility was at the far end of the industry park away from the rest of the world. The windowless one-room building was efficient and utterly unremarkable. Its immediate secrets revealed nothing more than ordinary research materials and dusted over laboratory equipment. Abby locked the door behind them after they entered. The florescent lights were still flickering to life as she pulled up a chair to a computer console. “I thought you said they trashed your place?” “They did,” she answered. “This is a backup location. I set it up a few months ago for situations like tonight. The incidents are escalating, but if they knew how close I actually am then they wouldn’t have quit until they stopped me permanently.” Renee’s head was spinning. The photographs were bad enough, but Abby was supposed to be her constant. “Abby, please, you have to slow down. I don’t understand. You said you had something to show me?” By way of explanation, Abby crouched down to pull away the rug in the center of the floor. A hatch door which sat flush with the concrete had been hiding underneath. There was no door handle and the hinges sat in recessed channels carved out of the ground. Abby slipped a pry bar between the frame and wooden door until she could slip in a single finger, then her hand, to pull it open. Inside, metal scaffolding served as a worker’s stairwell that spiraled out of sight. Intuition told Renee to leave, that she should not have come here. A part of her knew she should have just turned around and gone back to the hotel, back to her unfulfilling job standing in for other people, go back to the pissy production assistant who only ever called her ‘that one’ and act like none of this was happening. Maybe then she could return to a time before her best friend had that manic glint to her unblinking stare, back to before the marking on her door and Abby waiting right around the corner, back before she dragged her here, alone together. “Abby. What is this?” Even swept in her passions, Abby could read Renee. She had to give her more. Finally, she relented. “The message on the back of that photo- it’s not HETONTBREKENDECIJFER*.* It’s ‘Het ontbrekende cijfer*.* It’s Dutch. It means ‘the missing digit.’” “*Dutch*? How would you know that?” Another set of switches along the wall activated a string of track lights that guided commuters deeper into the awaiting unknown. Abby took the first steps into the basement and held her hand out for Renee to follow. “That’s part of the reason we’re here. I’m asking you to trust me, Renee.” Whether she did or not, they were still friends. What choice did she have in the matter? After the first few unsteady steps down the metal scaffolding she was able to balance herself and risk a glimpse at the world she was entering. There should have been a level between the two stories but the floor just beneath the lab was missing. Instead the support beams ran deeper, into an unfinished subbasement. Aside from its depth and lack of access, Renee didn’t notice much immediate difference from the floor above. The walls were unfinished bedrock with planks of thin plywood laid across a dirt floor. Instead of the random assortment of consoles and laptops like the previous room, this floor housed a single machine, one large computer bolted in the place to the subterranean earth. Renee was still taking in her new surroundings as Abby strode to a power cable grafted onto a collection of car batteries. After connecting the current she ran to other side of the room to kick start the gas generator. An engine whirred to life and a globe of pink and gold light materialized, throbbing a meter above a white porcelain platform on the other end of the chamber. The light’s power was redoubling on itself by the instant and was soon blinding even in periphery. Abby had come to expect the brilliance and was already wearing heavily tinted glasses. She handed Renee a pair and warned her not to get too close. “You asked where I picked up Dutch. Geneva really is a beautiful in the springtime. I studied there for quite a while. I was working there for three years until I had to come back here. ‘*Misappropriation of funds.’* ” She spat the accusation from her mouth. “If they even had a fraction of the sense of what we were going to discover if they let me push a little further. If they weren’t all so damned frightened of the future all the time we could finally get there.” “What *exactly* do you study, Abs?” Renee asked while keeping the rungs along the scaffolding back to the first floor in sight. “I can’t get into specifics, for both our safety. Suffice to say, I’m on the verge of something groundbreaking and there are people who are trying to stop me.” “Stop you from what?” Abby punched in lines of code and the console clicked and chirped in response. The pink and gold light hummed at her side like a house broken ball of lightning. “This machine computes chronal-spatial relationships and reintegrates the assets into practical applications. At least, that’s the idea.” “English, Abby. What is all that supposed to mean?” She declared in victory, “Time and space. I’ve cracked them both. I’ve figured out ways to reinterpret their interactions on a quantum level. And before you start, need I remind you: Everything is impossible until someone does it. Admittedly, I would like to run the data a little while longer before we fire live tests but if the attack at my lab was any indication we’re out of time.” She embraced Renee, unchecked ambition leaping from her pores. “Everything is going to be okay. It only has to run once and then we’ll show them I’m right, that my numbers are sound.” “Numbers?” Abby went back to her keyboard, anxiously hammering home the final lines of code. “Hmm? Numbers? Yes, of course. It’s not exactly long division, but it’s a living.” There was a single, intimate moment of reflection that overcame Renee. She understood the message. It wasn’t about her at all, it was *to* her. It was a command, a request, a desperate plea. One last warning. She shouted over the whine of the gas generator. “Wait! The packages, the attack, the missing digit, everything, all of it leads to this.” Abby wasn’t listening. Not now, not after she had already gone so far, not when they were so close. A few more keystrokes and it would all be over. Renee tried wrenching her away from the console. “You have to stop this. Whatever you’re doing, it’s wrong. Something’s gone wrong, or will go wrong, or I don’t know, but you have to listen, damn it.” “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” “None whatsoever,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t change anything. The missing digit. It’s in your math. It’s in the machine. Somewhere in this byzantine labyrinth a brick was laid out of sorts and now the whole thing is going to topple.” She shook her head, refusing to hear the warning. “Impossible. I’ve been writing these algorithms for the past three years. It’s all I’ve thought of. You’re not going to take that away from me. No one is going to take this away from me.” The two fought for control of the console. Renee snagged Abby’s hand again, refusing to let it go. “You asked me to trust you. Now you need to trust me.” The cold calculation of hard science cut across Abby’s face just before she swept Renee’s legs out from under her. “There’s not enough time.” Renee was falling backward, her arms flailing as she tried gain her balance. Abby extended her hand, this time to shove her backwards onto the porcelain dais where the light was still shining. Everything was happening so fast for her. She expected the light to burn, some effect of electricity or radiation. Instead, a prickly chill swelled at her heels before rushing up her spine to the ends of the hair on her head. Renee shrieked over the howls of beast gearing up around her. “Something’s wrong in the numbers, you missed something. The missing digit! You have to listen. Abby, please. This is it.” “You can’t possibly know that, Renee. Neither of us can until one of us tries.” Renee shot an arm free of the neutralizing light that was ensconcing her. She was desperate to make it to her wayward friend. If she could just reach her, a hand, a single finger even. Abby exhaled and allowed herself a silent prayer before throwing the switch. That’s when the wall of light rose up. Renee Aljour was on one side, Abby and her missing digit on the other. It became brighter, whiter, until she could hear it, taste it, feel it filling her every cell. Then the light began to fade and the world fell back into place, but the pieces were all wrong. It was the fire she saw first; smoldering in on itself, impossibly falling and rising at the same time. The figure of Abby’s body stood amid the inferno, at first no more than a black outline after reintegrating from a flurry of spent cinders. A moment later, her face returned. It was screaming, wailing in pain. “.thgir erew uoY” A hole was taken out of the side of Abby’s body and then the explosion that caused it followed afterward. A cloud of fire and wild arcing sparks of electricity shrunk, retreating away from Abby’s face and back into the side of the machine from where it erupted. The images were coming faster now, becoming part of the light fuzzing in around the corners of her sight. A few more faces flickered past. Snatches of conversation and smells of places she had forgotten she had ever been flowed back at her. She was being suspended for pulling that fire alarm all over again. Paul McCartney was talking about LSD. Genghis Khan was eating a goat leg. A giant lizard howled in charnel death throes before the first final light swelled and took them all. Someone was watching Renee Aljour. The latest package, if nothing else, established that much. She thumbed through the latest set of photographs while sitting on her hotel room sofa, but she was unsure what she was supposed to be seeing. This was the second time in a week she received a similar delivery but was still to make any sense of them. Candid shots of the young actress on location, stepping into a café, buying roses from the corner stand, petting a stray cat, scratching her wrist while she waited for cab; the work of local paparazzi, she told herself. Three stories below her, a woman in a green cardigan and bone white hair was stepping from the lobby of the hotel out onto the street. The other remainders would be waiting for her to return. They were always short on time. There were real hopes they had gotten through in their latest attempt, that they could finally put this behind them. It was the closest they had come, but still just as short. They would try again. They had to. If they could just get through to her, if they could just get her to listen before she throws that switch and leaves them to less than nothing all over again. She had to hold out hope on herself to see this to its end, not that she was in short supply at this point. She stepped to the curb and waved down a cab as the world sped on around her, never accounting for a woman with a missing digit.

I awoke to find myself in a cavern deeper than the sleep under which I had been. A strange glowing moss dusted the door of my cryogenic chamber; this I swept aside and felt a sharp pain in my arm. I stopped and realized my muscles were dangerously weak. For a day I rested in my chamber, eating the silver packet of biscuits stored neatly in the side. I found my NotePod in my pocket, almost out of battery. Hesitating, I lifted it to my ear and turned it on. Music flooded the abyss. It was Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2. I put the biscuits down. What was waiting above? I began my ascent, holding my NotePod in my hand. A light beamed from it. The whole cave was lit by this dim phosphorescent moss. Stalactites of quartz and limestone glittered above me from misshapen curves of pearly stone, like unicorns waiting to be born. I walked under an archway of milky green glass that looked like chrysoprase, getting its green color from traces of nickel in the material. Just before the meteor storm I’d been to a museum of geology. The NotePod flickered. The music began to crackle. I didn’t have that much time. I pushed aside some of the moss and found myself at a steep hill. This I climbed, and began to see a bright light. It grew stronger upon my path, which consisted of metallic black rubble, and finally, long after the NotePod had gone silent, I emerged in the above world. The world had become a glittering, staggering mess of geometry. Cubical formations burst out of the ground like bismuth skyscrapers or mutated computer chips. I climbed one of these and found far beyond me a desert of sand. Beyond that, something that was unmistakably a city stood guarded by a wall that extended on both sides until it disappeared behind further glittering skyscrapers of blackened rock. I began to venture into the desert. The cold moon shone above me. I had underestimated how windy it would be; this delayed my trip by two days. In the morning it was impossible to go on in the burning heat, so I hid under a massive rock and waited. On the second night, I found something strange that moved across the sand; hungry, I broke it upon a rock and ate it. I came across many more of the strange insectile creatures as I approached the city, and suffering no ill effects from my first meal I ate a few more. On the third night, I came to the city and knocked on its walls. They were capable of translating my speech, and I became something of a novelty in that city of a thousand worlds. It was in my fifth month there that I came to visit the Museum of Geology. In it I found chemical combinations from across the universes. Next to a piece of petrified wood, I read, “*Homo sapiens scorpionem*, mutation result of the Meteor Shower 2020 AD”. Fossilized in the wood was the creature I had eaten in the desert.

“I get the child. End of discussion,” Calista says, folding a lavender top and putting it in her luggage. “I don’t understand how you can just decide that, without even asking me,” Julian says. He sits right in front of the luggage, forcing Calista to look at him. “I am her mother. Therefore, I get more rights on Lydia. Is that so hard to get through your thick skull?” she says, manoeuvring around him to place the next item in the luggage. “Yeah, maybe it is. Maybe I imagined it, but did you just say you had more rights on Lydia?” he asks. “Why, is there cotton stuck in your ears?” He grabs her hand and looks up at her from the ground. “Firstly, Lydia is not an object to be possessed by either of us. Secondly, she’s my daughter just as much as she’s yours,” he says, his hopeful eyes almost breaking Calista’s resolve. She frees herself from his clutches and looks at the wall behind them. “She is my daughter, more than she’s yours. Why can’t you just accept that? You never wanted a daughter, and now you want her just because you can’t have her?” she asks, still keeping her eyes trained on the worn-out dusty wallpaper of the bedroom they had shared for so long. “People change Calista. People change their minds,” Julian says, getting up, losing his patience. “You still haven’t answered my question. How do you arrive at the conclusion that Lydia is more yours than mine?” he says, seating himself on the mattress without a bedsheet on it. “I already told you, I’m the mother.” “I feel like I’m missing something big over here.” “I gave birth to her, so I should get to keep her.” “I thought that two people made a baby?” “If both those people wanted the baby in the first place. If one person doesn’t want the baby, it automatically belongs to the other.” “Show me this book.” “What book?” “Where these rules are written.” “It’s called common sense. You should really use it sometimes.” “Oh wow, what a sick burn. I’m melting,” he says, bitterly laughing. Calista rolls her eyes and returns to the packing that had slipped her mind. “Why are you like this? Why can’t you be a good person for once, and give us joint custody?” “I can’t do that.” “Why not?” “I just can’t.” Julian throws a vase on the ground in frustration. It breaks into a gazillion small pieces, and he picks them up, ignoring the blood that soon starts pooling in his palms. “Are you hurt?” she says, walking over to him. “No, not at all. I’m not hurt by the fact that my wife, sorry, my ex-wife doesn’t trust me with my daughter, no. I have no feelings at all,” he says, wiping off the tears on his face with his bleeding hands, leaving dark red marks on his cheeks. “Julian, you know that’s not what I meant,” Calista says, trying to help him up. He swats her hand away, and stands up on his own, wobbling a bit without support, trying not to get any blood anywhere on the room. He fails terribly, as he places his hand on the rough mattress to steady himself, the blood slowly seeping into it and leaving a stain. “You know what? You keep Lydia. You keep everyone. That’s what you always do, isn’t it? Everything is yours and yours alone. Can’t you open your mind up to the possibility that other people may also want the same things you do?” “Oh wait, I forgot. You can’t. You can’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you. So, you keep everything. You keep my broken heart, my daughter, my life, my home. I’ll just leave empty-handed, just like how I entered,” he says, and goes to the washroom. Wincing slightly at the sting, he washes his hands with soap and runs water over it until the bleeding stops. He washes his face and dries his cheeks. As he dries his hands, Calista stands at the door of the washroom, tears running down her face. “You know, I don’t even remember why we thought it was a good idea to get married,” she says, wiping her tears off. “We were stupid hormonal teenagers too caught up in love. I guess love isn’t always enough,” he says, and walks outside the washroom, passing by her. “It’s always like you’re speaking another language. It’s like you’re saying something, and I’m saying something else, and it just becomes this big mush of nothing. I don’t like that at all,” he says, sitting on a chair. “I don’t like it either. But you need to understand only one thing to understand me.” “That you have more possession of our daughter because you gave birth to her? That even though you were the one who said ‘I love you’ first, I still love you more? That even though my heart is lying on the floor in pain right now, you still have the right to put a knife through it again?” he says, his voice breaking at the end. “No, no just hear me out.” “What’s the point of hearing you out? We are not together anymore. Did you not know? Did you not realize that nothing you say will matter because this marriage is over? Gone. Burned to the ground. Even if you try to convince me why you have more right on Lydia or the house or the money, it will still sound as confusing and pointless as the first time I heard it.” “Julian! Can you just shut up for once?” He sets his jaw, his eyes on the floor. “Look, there is only one thing that you need to understand to understand me.” He tilts his head, looking bored. “I still love you. Even if we can’t understand what one person is saying half the time, I will always love you.” “But clearly, understanding each other is important in a relationship. We can’t speak different languages and expect it to work.” He cracked a sad smile. “We can have joint custody of Lydia,” she finally concedes, walking away from him and continuing the packing that had been abruptly stopped. His expression changes to one of shock. “Really? You’re not kidding, right? This isn’t some kind of sick joke, is it?” he says, getting up with a suspicious look. “No, not at all. She’s your daughter as much as she’s mine, so we must have joint custody.” He laughs in relief, and runs over to Calista, picking her up and spinning her around and around. “Julian. Put me down. Wake up a bit. It’s not like we got back together.” He stops spinning her, and puts her down, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I forgot myself there for a second.” “Thank you, Calista, you have no idea how much this means to me,” he says, and gives her a light kiss on the cheek. “You know, I think I have some idea of how much it means,” she says, smiling. He looks at her and smiles back. “I’m going to go and see Lydia for a bit,” Julian says and walks to the nursery, where Lydia is peacefully sleeping in her crib, not having heard a word of their argument. He caresses her head, looking at her fondly. “You know, today Mommy finally understood me. You know how much of a big deal that is?” Lydia just smiles in her sleep, and Julian knows that she understood. He smiles to himself, happy that in the last few minutes of their relationship, Calista and he had understood each other.

“Is there anything else that you will need?” Asked her Aunts butler as he set the tray of tea on the table in the dining room, an elderly gentleman, about the age ninety five, with slick white hair. “Oh, no sir, I believe that’s all, thank you.” Orchid replied politely. Orchid had only been at her Aunt’s Gothic styled mansion for about three days; she was still trying to get used to the quietness about the manor but try as she might she didn’t think she would ever get used to the reclusive silence. Aunt Tess being older than not, had a head of white hair, and what seemed like no emotion whatsoever, she despised loud noises claiming that they would reignite the pain of her headaches she seemed to get so often. She never spent time with Orchid, even though Orchid was sent there to spend the entire year with her Aunt, her Aunts health was not at it best so Orchid’s mother and father thought it was a good idea for her to spend a few months with her Aunt as an energetic pick-me-up, so to speak. The whole idea sounded great to Orchid, she had heard so much good things about her Aunt and was excited to meet her for the first time, but the only thing her Aunt had said to her the whole time she was there was, “Hello” Once and, “This is Wade, the butler. If you need anything ask him.” And that was it; her Aunt had no care whatsoever of what Orchid said or did as long as it was out of her way. “Wade,” She said quickly before he left the dining hall, “is it all right if I explore the mansion?” “You may, as long as you do not get in the way of Madam Tess, she has complained of a massive headache this morning.” He replied dryly. “Oh good,” She thought to herself as she ate her breakfast, “I’ll have the whole day to myself. I can explore part of it today and part tomorrow! Maybe I’ll find secret passage or two.” She stood up and started for the sitting room, there was a grand fireplace there, she was almost certain there would be a passage to another place in the mansion. She walked up to the fireplace, it was a beautiful masterpiece carved out of a huge block of marble. With flowers, leaves, vines, and trees carved out to make it a magnificent part of architecture. “Oh where, oh where, would there be a trap door or something of that sort,” She said to herself. “Aha!” she exclaimed, “there on the grapevine, in a cluster of grapes, on the bottom there’s a hickory nut!” She softly pushed on it, and then as if it were a magic trick, the fireplace slid back than to the side. “Oh my goodness!” she jumped back in surprise, “I didn’t actually expect that to work, I just felt intelligent.” Once it slid back she grabbed a small flashlight from the coffee table behind her. She turned to the new opening in the wall, she took her first step into to the darkness, Crunch , she stiffened. She slowly directed the flashlight to her foot. “Ah!” She screamed as she jumped back, it was the cleaning maid. She was, dead, Orchid ran as fast as she could, screaming all the way on the top of her lungs. Her Aunt marched out of her room and grabbed Orchid by the arm. “What is the meaning of this? Waking me up in the middle of my nap! Running about like a headless hen! You have brought about my blistering headache once more!” Aunt Tess yelled as all the staff gathered round to see what was all the commotion. “A b-body in the sitting room!” Orchid gasped out, “Who is it child, who?” asked her Aunt “The cleaning maid!” Orchid raced to the sitting room, her Aunt and the rest of the staff closely at her heels. She pushed the piece if the fireplace in and it opened up to display the maids body lying on the ground. There was a shriek from the maid’s sister, Maud, who also worked at the mansion. “What happened? How could this be?” said Maud frantically. “Calm yourself Maud, Wade call the police. Orchid, make Maud a cup of tea. Everyone else stay here until the police can question everyone.” Aunt Tess sat down on the cotton sofa; funny to Orchid it seemed Aunt Tess’s headache had by some miracle dissipated. When the police arrived Maud had calmed down quite a bit and was eager to find her sisters killer. “Would Maud Waters please come forward for questioning?” One of the officers asked politely. This was said to everyone in the room, Orchid’s Aunt had given the police a list of everyone who had been working that day, and who normally worked there. It wasn’t a very long list because of how little the staff was at the manor. One of the police officers said that they believed her to have been poisoned, but was not sure. They said that they could not be certain of the cause of death until after an autopsy has been finished, which would not be until a few more days. Orchid, still being a bit shaken even after the police had left, went to her room for the rest of the evening. Her Aunt went to her own room and the rest of the staff went home. “This is very strange indeed,” said her Aunt as she walked to her room, “very strange to happen to the cleaning maid of all people.” “This is a very strange turn of events.” Orchid thought as she drank the rest of her tea, “And who would murder her of all people, there wasn’t much anyone had against her.” She sat there making a mental list of suspects. “There was Wade, but he would have no reason, Maud, but her own sister? Hmm... who knows? Well Maud had seemed to recover from shock surprisingly soon for seeing her sister dead, perhaps. And Aunt Tess didn’t seem surprised at all, there was the laundry maid, but I don’t believe she was here today, oh yes she only comes on Mondays and Fridays. And it was Wednesday. So she couldn’t have, there was the cook, he could have poisoned her lunch or a cup of tea,” Her stomach did a flip, “oh I certainly hope it wasn’t the cook, he might poison anyone of us.” As she continued to think about who it could have been she lost track of time and realized it was time for dinner, “Oh I hope it wasn’t the cook, because I’m still eating whatever he’s made for dinner.” She mumbled under her breathe as she quickly walked to the dining hall. It had been one week since the autopsy had been sent out, it said she had died by poison, Arsenic, to be exact. And Orchid was no closer to finding who the murder was, all she knew was it could not have been anybody. “Who could it be, who could it be.” She whispered to herself as she reviewed the clues she had found over the week, after the body had been moved she had gone down that passage and found it led to the library where it seemed that the cleaning maid had been dusting the book shelves. There was a new stain on the carpet that seemed to be tea, so she suspected the culprit had poisoned the maid’s tea. She also found a piece of a blue hair ribbon at the scene of the crime of course the police had investigating and had asked her if she knew of anyone who wore blue hair ribbons. She had said the laundry maid did but would think of other people who might have been wearing one. “Wait a minute,” said Orchid out loud in a bit of a gasp, “the day the cleaning maid was found she wasn’t even working here that day, but how could her body be here? Unless she came for some reason, someone made her tea, poisoned it, and hid her body! For one thing who told her to come to the manor that day?” Orchid quickly jumped up ran for her aunt’s room and lightly knocked on the door, “Yes, who is it?” Her aunts said quiet dryly, “Um, it’s me Orchid. May I speak with you?” “Oh, yes I suppose so.” Her aunt opened the door stepped out and said, “Come I was just about to go to lunch, can you walk and talk?” “Yes quiet well, and I just had a question, have the police searched the cleaning maids house?” “Yes and the cleaning maid had a name, its Carol.” “Oh yes, very sorry I didn’t know her name. And did they find anything suspicious there?” “Yes, they said there was a note there saying, ‘Come to the manor immediately, very urgent.’ And that was it.” “Written?” “Yes, actually very sloppy of someone planning to kill.” “Hmm, very odd, may I go to the police station?” “All right, but don’t stay out after dark.” She knew exactly who the murderer was, and she wanted to see if the police agreed with her. It was late in the afternoon when all the staff was gathered in the sitting room, the police was there ready to make an arrest. But they waited until Orchid could come in and explain exactly how she thought it happened. They believed they could get a certain reaction out of the murderer if Orchid was the one explaining how it happened and by whom. “All right everyone thank you all for being as patient as you waited, I had to get some things from my room. Now I am going to explain exactly what happened to Carol, the cleaning maid, who was found in this room a week ago. Now it started with the note, it was sent directly to the cleaning maid’s house by whom? By our culprit, the hand writing was definitely our very own Maud Waters, but Maud has a very solid alibi helping Aunt Tess and our dear butler Wade rearrange the living room. And actually everyone has a very solid alibi, it could mean only two things; one everyone did it, or two there is a psychotic murderer on the loose. And so all of you shall be arrested and taken to court. ” “No,” There came a shrieking wail from Maud, “you knew! You knew the whole time that it was me! How could you turn me in like this you little rat!” “There you are officers, there is your killer, but I must ask one thing, why?” “Oh you should know why, because she was going to marry him, she knew I loved him but she was going to marry him anyway! She deserved to die!” “Marry who?” “Her fiance, Clark, of course, oh and I was going to marry him once my sister was out of the way! But you’ve ruined everything!” The police took her away once she was out of the house Orchids aunt asked her how she knew, “Well for one thing,” Orchid said, “she had been acting guilty all week, and another thing all the clues especially the note pointed to her. Did you know she’s an extraordinary forger, she was bragging about it the other evening and I asked her to prove it. I wrote something down and she copied it almost exactly the same.”

“Gina Fortier? Here’s your new New York State license, ma’am” the lady sitting behind the glass at the DMV slides Gina’s new license under the partition. Gina lets out her breath, not realizing she was holding it. She picks up the shiny new driver’s license. New York State. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. Eyes: BL. HT: 6-02. Gina wipes tears away from her eyes and rereads. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. For the last 14 years her ID said something different. SHE was someone different. When she came into this very same DMV at the age of sixteen, she was a young, confused boy, yearning to get his license so he could get out of Buffalo and go to the city. But here she is. Still in Buffalo. But grown. Matured. A woman. “Thank you,” Gina says as she takes the treasure and places it in her Michael Kohrs wallet. She’s not sure if the woman gives her a judgmental look or not before Gina gets up to leave. But it doesn’t matter now. These people can look all they want; Gina is, by the State of New York, a woman. She has a new name and license to prove it. As she walks towards the exit, she feels her phone buzz from her clutch. As she picks it up, she sighs remembering it’s her dad’s 60 th birthday dinner tonight and her mom is obviously calling to remind her. “Brian?” her mom asks before she can say hello. Gina grimaces hearing this name. She hasn’t been called Brian by her friends for at least 10 years. Why can’t her mom understand that? “Gina, mom. It’s Gina,” Gina says into the phone sternly. She is not going to be treated this way by her mom today. Not today. “Brian, Gina, whatever you call yourself these days. Are you meeting us at Applebee’s for dad’s birthday? You can’t be late you know. You’re always late,” her mom scolds her. Gina can hear her mom’s yapping yorkie in the background. “Yes, mom. You reminded me yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. I will be there soon,” Gina replies, feeling frustrated. She sees that Virginia is calling on her call waiting. “Listen, I have an important call coming in. I will see you soon. Love you.” Gina hangs up the phone and clicks over to Virginia. “This is Gina,” she says formally as if she’s answering a business call. “Is that my strong queen?” a voice booms on the other line. “You like that I went with Fortier? Not too much?” Gina asks as she presses unlock on her key fob and steps into her silver Lincoln Nautilus. “No, I love that you went with a last name with a meaning. And you are the strongest woman I know so why wouldn’t you go with Fortier? And really, what kind of last name was Whitehead anyways? When I first met you and you told me your last name was Whitehead, all I thought about was a big pimple.” Gina laughs aloud and turns her car onto Swan Street. “Can we celebrate tonight? Ladies’ night out somewhere nice?” “I can’t,” Gina says feeling disappointed. “It’s my dad’s 60 th birthday and I’m headed to Applebee’s right now. There aren’t enough skinny margaritas in that place to get me through this dinner.” “Oh girl,” Virginia consoles her, “You’re going right now? The only people in there are gonna be you and some geriatric customers. It’s still daylight out.” “I know, my parents won’t drive past dark,” Gina responds as she stops at a red light and checks her lipstick in the rear-view mirror. “Then let’s go out for drinks after?” Virginia offers. “Nine O’clock? Boxwood?” Boxwood was their go-to spot for a guaranteed good time. Gina smiles into the mirror, making sure she doesn’t have any lipstick on her teeth. “I’ll see you then,” she says with a grin. Knowing she’s meeting Virginia later will help her get through this dinner with her family. “See you then Miss Queen,” Virginia says and hangs up the phone. As Gina pulls into the Applebee’s, she sees that her parents are already standing in the parking lot with her younger sister, Rosemary. Rosemary still lives with her parents even though she’s 23 years old and is more than capable of living on her own. Gina can’t imagine living with her parents one minute more than necessary; she moved out when she turned eighteen although her dad tells people he kicked her out. She knows the truth. She left on her own free will. “Happy birthday, dad,” Gina says as she crosses the parking lot and hands her dad a present. Her dad, a heavyset man with a permanent growl on his face, looks at Gina as if she’s intruding on their evening. “Hello, Brian,” her dad says as he hesitantly takes the present from Gina’s hands and looks her up and down. “You look...interesting as always. Hope we don’t see anyone we know here tonight.” He turns and hands the present to Gina’s mom as he heads towards the entrance. Gina’s mom smiles politely at Gina and then turns to follow her dad’s lead. “New highlights?” Rosemary asks as she walks next to Gina into the restaurant. Gina reaches her hands up to touch her hair, almost forgetting she dyed her once brown hair to a more summer blonde. “Yea, felt like going with something a little lighter,” Gina says as she holds the door open for Rosemary. “Looks nice,” Rosemary says politely as she steps inside. Gina can feel eyes turn to her as she follows her family to the table. She senses people whispering, looking her up and down. Or maybe they aren’t looking at her at all. Maybe it’s in her imagination. It usually is her imagination. She sits down next to Rosemary, facing her dad. “So, dad. Did you do anything nice for your birthday yet?” Gina asks as she opens the menu and scans the drinks. Maybe she’ll get a vodka soda instead of a margarita. Or maybe a red wine. “Fixed the lawn mower. That thing has been acting up,” her dad responds as he opens up his napkin and places it on his lap. “Oh, that’s great,” Gina says, trying to be respectful. She sees a young waitress approach their table. She looks to be younger than Rosemary. “Hello, and welcome to Applebee’s. My name is Amanda, and I will be serving you today. Can I get you all some drinks while you look over the menu?” the waitress asks as she pulls a pad of paper and pen from her apron. “Budweiser for the birthday boy,” Gina’s dad says right away before anyone can speak. “Happy birthday, sir,” Amanda says and scribbles his order down. “I’ll have a strawberry daquiri; extra whipped cream,” her mom orders with a sneer. “It’s a special occasion so I’ll indulge myself!” “I’ll have a rum and coke,” Rosemary orders. “Vodka soda,” Gina blurts out. She needs some alcohol and quick. “Okay so that’s a Budweiser, strawberry daquiri, rum and coke, and vodka soda?” Amanda asks. “And sorry to ask this, but I have to ask anyone who looks under the age of 30 for IDs.” She turns and looks at Gina and Rosemary. Gina can’t tell if this is the truth, or if Amanda is snooping and wants to investigate her more. As she takes out her ID, she feels pride and shame all mixed into one. Amanda takes Rosemary’s ID first from the table, eyes it quickly, and hands it back to her. She then grabs Gina’s ID, inspects it, looks up at Gina, inspects it more, looks up at Gina, and inspects it more. Gina now knows Amanda isn’t just looking at it for her age. “Is there a problem?” Gina asks, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m clearly older than she is, and you just handed her ID back right away,” she gestures towards Rosemary sitting next to her. “No problem,” Amanda says handing the ID back to her. “Sorry about that Ms. Fortier.” Amanda turns and heads to the computer station to punch in their drinks. Flushed with anger, Gina takes the ID back and places it in her wallet wishing she had said no to the invitation for this dinner. She sees her parents on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays and that’s it. Why does she do this to herself? Why does she bother spending time with them when she’s never felt one ounce of confidence or happiness in their presence? “Did she say Fortier?” her mother asks, looking at Gina with a confused appearance on her face. Gina fumbles putting her wallet back into her purse. How can she feel so empowered and strong one minute and the next minute feel two feet tall? “She did say Fortier,” Gina responds, sitting up a little taller in her seat. “Why would she say that, Brian?” her dad asks, sliding a toothpick from his pocket and putting it in his mouth. “Because that’s my last name,” Gina replies. “And my first name is Gina. Not Brian. I had it changed legally. So, I would appreciate it if you would all remember to call me by my correct name.” “You changed it legally? But what if you decide to go back to Brian Whitehead” her mom asks as Amanda comes back with a tray of drinks. “Mom, I’ve never been Brian Whitehead,” Gina says as she begins to scoot out of the booth and look for the bathroom. She needs a break. “I need to use the restroom,” she murmurs before she’s embarrassed anymore in front of the waitress. Gina spies the bathroom across the bar and walks past a couple tables of men eyeing her up. She wonders if they are eyeing her up in a good way or bad way. Why does she care either way? She would never date a man who chose to eat in Applebee’s in the first place. She heads towards the lady’s room and opens the door right as a woman with short blonde hair is leaving. “Excuse me,” Gina says as she holds the door open for the woman. The woman, who seems to be in her mid-fifties and is about a foot shorter than Gina, looks up at her in surprise. “Excuse me,” she says, eyeing Gina up and down before scurrying away. Did Gina scare her? For the most part, Gina looks like a woman. The breasts, the clothes, the hair. Even the hormones make her voice more feminine. But her height. Her feet. No money in the world can change those things. So, it’s harder for her to blend in. All she wants is to blend in. As Gina finishes up in the bathroom, she inspects her face in the mirror and applies more mascara to her faux eyelashes. She makes sure not to buy lashes that are too long. She isn’t trying to look like a drag queen. She isn’t a drag queen. She’s a woman. A woman whose name means strong queen. Gina zippers up her purse and as she begins to walk out of the bathroom, the door opens and a large man in a Harley leather jacket walks in, eyes wild. “I think you have the wrong bathroom, sir,” Gina says in astonishment. “This is the ladies room.” The man looks directly at Gina, and she sees rage burning behind his eyes. Her knees begin to buckle. “No, I think YOU have the wrong bathroom SIR,” he says as he walks closer to her. “You nearly scared the life out of my wife walking in here you circus freak!” he begins to grab at Gina, reaching for her. She screams and fumbles in her purse for her ID. “What do you got under there, huh?” the man says as he begins to grab at her dress and lift it up. “You like to pretend to be a woman just so you can peek on them in the bathroom you sick pervert?” Before Gina’s hand grabs her license, the man slaps her hard against the cheek and she feels blood trickle down her cheek. “Stop it!” she screams, scrambling around in her purse. “I’m a woman! My name is Gina Fortier and I’m a woman! I have a license here to prove it” she realizes her voice has deepened in her panic. It sounds like a man’s voice now. Sounding this way is almost worse than feeling the pain running through her cheek. She gives up on the ID and knees the man as hard as she can in the groin, making him drop to the floor. She pushes the door open and runs into the restaurant realizing all eyes are on her. Why do all eyes always have to be on her all of the time? What must she look like to them? Her dress is hiked up. She has tears streaming down her face. She has blood running down her cheek. She sees her parents look at her from across the restaurant. They look embarrassed. She turns towards the exit and hurries to her car as fast as she can before anyone else comes after her. Why did she come here? She pulls out of the parking lot hastily and speeds down 190 to a rest stop, wiping mascara filled tears from her face. Pulling a tissue from her glove compartment, she dabs lightly at the blood on her lip. She opens her clutch and takes out her wallet. She takes out her license and reads. New York State. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. “I’m a woman. My name is Gina Fortier and I’m a woman. I have a license here to prove it,” she whispers to herself as she stares at her treasure. She starts the car back up and heads towards Virginia’s house, holding the ID tightly in her fist.

** When the Mierans first invaded, the primary targets were the major population centers. Every sprawling metropolis that was once a shining example of human ingenuity is now a depressing reminder of humanity's insignificance. Medium sized cities were thrust into a chaotic position both during and after the war. Refugees from the destroyed cities flocked to the suburbs and smaller cities that formerly existed in the shadow of their homes. Simultaneously, the image of burning skyscrapers caused inhabitants to flee in fear of being the next target. The Mierans launched a few attacks on the new major population centers after the initial strike, but they quickly abandoned their tactics due to the rapid distribution of anti-aircraft guns and fighter planes. The military presence contributed to the expansion of these cities. After the war, the mid-sized cities could broadly be classified into two categories. The cities that had a high military presence became known as the bases even if the military base was only part of the city. Life in a base was heavily regulated and regimented. The people were constantly being monitored, and the soldiers regularly patrolled the cities. They are also known for being the safest places on earth. A large number of scavengers lose their lives for the chance of joining that city. The other mid-level cities are in a state of chaos. The military presence heavily declined in those areas, and a few groups were able to steal enough weapons to attempt to seize control. Most of these attempts failed due to internal conflicts and populations that left to become scavengers. A few support networks were able to form from the groups. Scavengers will often raid the networks and leave quickly. The groups are either unwilling to chase them or believe it is sabotage from a competitor. Stephen, Tim, and Velma are crouching on the side of the road. Their crank radio was able to pick-up a transmission from a supply truck that is headed into a place called Golden Hills. They have spent the last few weeks scouting out the town and finding its weak points. Tonight, that supply truck is making its way towards the city with a truck full of food. They cut down a tree a few miles away from the city to stop the truck. When the truck reaches the tree, it comes to stop. Four people with guns and two people with chainsaws come out of the back. The four guards immediately assume strategic positions on all corners of the truck. The two people with chainsaws immediately start demolishing the tree. A person gets out of the passenger seat and climbs on top of the truck with a flood light in hand. The flood light starts to circle the area. "Damnit, they have training. I was hoping it was one of the more inexperienced groups," Stephen says. "It's okay. That's why we prepared for them," Velma says, "Tim circle around." "Got it," Tim crawls away from the truck and turns to his left. He takes care to avoid the flood light. When he reaches a sufficient distance. He dashes across the road. The guards do not react to the movement. He starts to slow down and feel the ground for the marker they left. When he reaches the location, he pulls out his weapon. At that moment, two cars appear from the city, and eight people get out of the vehicles. "Crap, they called in reinforcements," Stephen says. The chainsaw people move away from the tree when they arrive, and the guards at the back move to the front of the truck. The newcomers ready their weapons at the truck. "Okay, maybe it is a rival group," Stephen says. One of the people at the back starts yelling at the person on top of the truck. Their conversation is barely audible from where Stephen and Velma are crouching. The conversation turns violent, and the groups start to fire on each other. "Shit, Tim is on the other side all alone," Velma says. The firing lasts a few minutes, and all of the people are down. "What should we do now?" Stephen asks. They see a man start to walk through the wreckage holding a gun. Tim jumps and waves them over to the battle site. "Tim, what are you doing? You could've been killed," Stephen says. "Trust me. I was close enough to the site. I knew they were dead," Tim says. "Who were these people?" Velma asks. "This group," Tim points at the truck, "is your standard network that is trying to create a semblance of a society. They were transporting food." "They," he points at the cars, "are a part of a group that calls themselves the Followers of Gabriel. They are a cult that wants to wipe out all they deem impure." "Creepy," Stephen says. "I think we should deliver their supplies," Tim says. "What? They would shoot us on sight. Hi, we sabotaged your transport and got your people killed. Please let us in," Stephen says. "They wouldn't have been here if it wasn't for us, and from the way the network talked, it seems like the cult is winning," Tim says, "I think we should help them." "I cannot believe this. We are scavengers. We only join other wandering groups," Stephen says. "We should help," Velma says. "What the, Velma, you agree with him?" Stephen asks. "Tim is right. They got into this mess because of us. Besides, they made a lot of progress with the tree. We can clear it out," Velma says. "Alright," Stephen says. The three of them clear out the rest of the tree. They agree to have Velma and Stephen be in the truck while Tim takes the car. "Sarah, are you there? Please answer me," the truck radio sparks. Stephen looks at Velma. "Are you gonna answer that?" Stephen asks.

“Mommy, come here!” Tommy shouted eagerly, standing next to the sliding door opening onto the back porch. “Just a minute!” came his mother’s faint reply from somewhere inside the house. “Hurry up!” he yelled frantically, tapping his hand on the glass window. “What is it, Tommy?” she asked, coming up behind him. “Look!” He pointed out the window at a fluffy ball sitting outside the door. “What is that?” she exclaimed, peering through the smudged glass. “It’s a mouse head!” he replied excitedly. “Eww, gross!” Lucy gagged, peeking over Tommy’s shoulder. “Where could that have come from?” Mom wondered aloud. “I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out!” Tommy proudly exclaimed. “Really?” Lucy peered at him skeptically. “And how do you propose to do that ?” “You don’t need to be all mean, just cause I’m younger than you,” Tommy pouted. “Lucy, be nice to your little brother,” Mom gently scolded. “How about you offer to help him?” “No way!” she protested. “Leave me out of this! I want nothing to do with a gross mouse head that was left by who-knows-what on our back porch. How about you ask Justin? Aren’t dead animals more a boy’s thing anyway?” “Great idea!” Mom agreed. “Wait!” Tommy called out suddenly. “I want to do this by myself.” “Are you sure?” Mom questioned. “Yes!” he replied with a determined look on his face. “Well, all right, then,” Mom sighed. “But if you need any help, make sure to ask your dad or me or one of your siblings, okay?” “Ok, Mom! Now go! I have some investigating to do!” The little boy shooed his mother and sister away with impatient hands. “Ok, ok, we’re going!” Mom laughed. “Good luck!” “You’ll need it,” Lucy muttered under her breath. Ignoring his sister, Tommy turned and tugged the sliding glass door open. Stepping outside, he tiptoed over to the furry ball on the patio. “Well, well, well. What have we got here?” he murmured, walking in a circle around the ball to examine it from all angles. He pranced over to a cluster of trees near the edge of the backyard and picked up a loose twig lying on the ground. Running back to the decapitated head, he proceeded to poke and prod it with the stick. “Ew! Good thing Lucy isn’t here. This thing is gross ! Look, there’s even dried blood on the patio. Uh oh, I hope Mom doesn’t make me clean it up!” “Hey, Tommy, whatcha got there?” Sarah poked her head out the door, smiling at him. “A dead mouse’s head!” he replied proudly. Sarah’s grin quickly faded. “Gross!” she exclaimed, before hastily pulling herself back inside and slamming the door closed. Tommy laughed out loud. “Silly girls! Can’t handle dead animals. Anyway, back to business. I’ve got to find out where this thing came from. Hmm...let’s see. What could have happened? Someone in my family could have put it here as a joke. Nah, none of the girls would be brave enough and Dad and Justin are too busy to play a prank like this. What about Scruffy? Maybe he found it somewhere and dragged it here as a present. Better yet, maybe he killed the mouse! That’s it! I’ll keep watch on Scruffy! Here, Scruffy! Where’d that dog run off to this time?” Impatiently, Tommy jumped up, brushed off his knees, and ran around the backyard, calling for his dog. Not under the playset, not in the pool, not behind the bushes. Is he inside the house? Tommy darted back to the sliding door, pulled it open, and began running through the house calling out for Scruffy. “Hey, pipe down out there!” Justin yelled angrily from behind his closed bedroom door. “You pipe down!” Tommy yelled back in reply. “Tommy, dear!” Mom called up the stairs. “Can you please be a little quieter? Grandma is trying to sleep.” “Again?” Tommy sighed. “Ok, Mom, I’ll be quieter,” he called down to her. “Grandma is always sleeping. Hmm, maybe when she wakes up I can show her my dead mouse’s head! No, I better not. Mom and Dad will get mad at me if I scare Grandma.” He continued to search through the house, peeking in bedrooms, peering under furniture, searching through all the rooms. “Aha! There you are, boy!” Tommy ran eagerly towards the fluffy dog, sleeping next to the couch. “Were you the one who left the mouse head on the back porch? Were you?” The dog lay silent and unmoving. “Hey, Scruffy! Wake up!” The furry nose twitched a few times and Scruffy sleepily opened his eyes to peer up at Tommy. “I asked you if you were the one who left the mouse head on the back porch?” Scruffy blinked at Tommy and let out a bark before resting his head on his paws. “Oh right, you’re a dog. You can’t answer me. How am I going to figure out if you did this? Hmm, maybe you still have blood on your paws or in your mouth?” Tommy picked up the dog’s paws to examine them before cautiously peering at his mouth. “Well, I don’t see any blood there, so maybe you weren’t the one who left the mouse head on the porch. Let’s see...what else could have happened? Did the mouse go there itself and die? No, how else would it have been decapitated? Maybe a bird dropped it! That’s it! But how am I going to find the bird that did it? I can’t go find every bird in the neighborhood and look for bloody claws and beaks. Now I’m stuck again. Oh well. I’m going to go sit outside and think for a while.” The dejected boy slowly dragged his way towards the back door and sat down with a sigh. As he sat there, looking around at his backyard, he noticed some birds flying around. They flitted here and there, sometimes landing in a tree, sometimes grabbing some seeds from the birdfeeder. “I know!” Tommy exclaimed excitedly. “I can just watch the birds from here and see if any of them drop off another mouse’s head! But I better not wait right here otherwise I might scare the birds away. Hmm...I know! I’ll hide behind that bush over there.” Quickly, Tommy jumped off the back porch and darted behind a round rose bush planted at the edge of his backyard. He sat there a while, watching the birds flit to and fro, smelling the fragrant scent of the roses. Every once in a while, he yawned and shifted to a more comfortable position. I wonder why no birds are coming? Maybe they can see me still and I’m scaring them away. Or maybe they see the mouse head that I left... “Oops! I left the mouse head on the patio! I better to move that out of the way so that the birds can drop off a new one!” He squirmed out of his hiding place and hurried towards the fluffy ball. Picking up the stick he had discarded earlier, he pushed at the head until it rolled off the edge of the patio into the grass, leaving a faint trail of blood behind. “Uh oh. I didn’t see that. Oh well.” Jumping down next to the ball, he brushed some dirt over it in an imitation of a burial and then quickly ran back to hide behind the bush. For a few minutes, Tommy patiently sat behind the rosebush, yawning every once in a while. About five minutes later, he fell asleep, drowsy in the warm sunlight. Taking no notice of the animals’ activities around him, Tommy slumbered peacefully in the shadow of the rosebush. “Tommy!” A sharp call from somewhere close by roused the boy from his nap. “Tommy! It’s time for dinner! Come in and wash your hands!” Tommy yawned and rubbed his eyes. Sitting up, he looked around and realized his mistake. “Oh no! I fell asleep! And I didn’t see if any birds dropped off another mouse head!” Quickly, he peeked around the rosebush to get a clearer view of the patio. “Phew! No mouse head. That means the birds didn’t leave another one yet. But that also means I still don’t know who’s behind this mystery. Maybe I can sit out here a few more minutes to see if a bird comes. “Tommy!” Mom came to the door and peeked her head out. “Did you not hear me? It’s time for dinner!” “Just five more minutes!” Tommy begged eagerly. “I really want to see if a bird comes and drops off another mouse head.” “Oh, all right,” his mother agreed reluctantly. “Five more minutes. But after that, you come right inside, ok?” “Ok!” Excitedly, Tommy hunkered down again in preparation for his five-minute vigil. As two minutes stretched to three, Tommy grew worried that no animal would show up and he would be forced to go inside for dinner. Crossing his fingers and hoping with all his might, Tommy fixed his eyes upon the porch and stared determinedly. A faint movement in the bushes drew Tommy’s attention to the left of the porch. A shadowy figure crept out of the shrubs and danced up to the porch. Leaning forward to get a better glimpse, Tommy recognized the gold and white stripes of one of the neighborhood cats. Silently, he watched. Proudly, the cat pranced right up to the door and dropped a small bundle of fur. Jumping down gracefully, the cat ran back into the bushes and disappeared from sight. Popping up out of the rosebush, Tommy sprinted towards the porch, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Mommy! Mommy! Come here! Come here!” Dropping on his knees next to the furry ball, he gasped for breath. The sliding door screeched open and his mother’s head popped out, followed by Lucy’s. “What is it, Tommy?” his mother asked patiently. “I figured it out! I solved the mystery!” “You did?” Lucy asked incredulously. “Yes, I did! It was the cat all this time!” “How do you know?” Sarah asked, joining the crowd at the door. “I was watching from behind the rosebush over there,” he pointed to the right, “when I saw the cat--you know, the gold and white striped neighborhood cat--come out from the bushes over there,” again, he pointed in the correct direction, “carrying something small in its mouth. It jumped up here, dropped the ball, and ran back into the bushes. That’s when I ran up here, calling for you, and found this!” Four heads peered down at the bloody bundle of fur sitting in the middle of the porch. “Another dead mouse’s head!”

The stranger seemed to float down the street. Broad shoulders and a tall physique gave him away as a man who was not born on this side of the continent. He was not from this town. His dark cloak billowed behind him like the night, sweeping its soiled hem along the ground. I watched him through the rain-spattered window, curiously, as did the other patrons in the tavern. When he crossed the street toward the pub, we collectively returned to our drinks or meals. A soft rustling of conversation struck up as the door slammed open in the wind, letting in the gray daylight. He entered the small room with confidence, as if he belonged in this place. I knew better. “I have something for you.” The man said as he approached me from the other end of the rickety pub. His eyes were obscured by the hood of his cloak, one strand of greasy brown hair fell down his chest. I clutched the almost empty beer mug between my hands. “Do I know you?” I could feel the gaze of the locals upon us, waiting for something to gossip about--the new girl and the dark stranger walked into a bar. Or some such nonsense. “No. But I know you.” The man eyed the sword at my hip. I did not take it off, even when sitting, which lead to some uncomfortable positions. But I would rather be uncomfortable than unprepared. “What is it then? What do you have for me?” “Come with me,” he replied. “Like hell I’m going with you.” I relaxed a little in my chair, regaining control of the situation. If he needed me to come with him to give whatever it was to me, then I now held the cards. The man took a step closer. Rain pelted the wooden roof of the small room. There were few other visitors to this remote town, mostly travelers who stopped for a bite to eat and to get dry by the roaring fireplace of the public house. This man, however, was making a scene. “Who are you? It’s rude not to introduce yourself when approaching a maiden.” I said, taking a sip from my mug of beer. “You’re no maiden.” The man replied. “You know me well, then?” I raised my eyebrow in question, although anyone could see by my weapons and armor that I didn’t subscribe to the traditional idea that a woman must be a lady, not a warrior. “I know your son.” I almost choked on my beer. “My son’s dead.” “Your son is very much alive.” I could feel my heart beating in my chest, but I kept my posture relaxed. If this man was a blood-reader, he would surely be able to tell I was faking my calm demeanor. Still, I decided to take that chance. I swallowed, wetting my lips before continuing. “You still haven’t introduced yourself.” “I am a death-dealer. You do not need to know more than that.” “What’s a death-dealer doing bringing me news of my son’s life?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Death-dealers were rare, and what’s more: they were dangerous. Not the type you wanted to make friends with in this world. “I have something for you.” “You said that already.” I snapped back. This was going nowhere. The lantern burned low between us as I stared him down. The death-dealer sighed and slid a piece of paper toward me. The parchment was old, and the handwritten lettering had faded over time, but I recognized it nevertheless. My brow furrowed. “How dare you?” Something caught in the back of my throat as I spoke. “Take it.” The man gestured to the paper. “I don’t want it.” I choked on the words. Before me sat the proof of my greatest regret: Sale of one child, two-pounds, paid-in-full. Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them away, refusing to reach for the record of purchase in front of me. When I looked up, the death-dealer was gone. * * * I didn’t have a choice. When the orchard started to die and the crops withered, we sold the furniture. The next year we sold what was left of the livestock; pigs and cows and chickens that hadn’t perished to disease or famine. The third year we sold the house. My boy’s father left us soon after. My son was barely three years old, and I couldn’t feed him on my own. I was so far away from that life now, it was so long ago. The day seemed to creep on as I stared at the paper in front of me. The barmaid, bless her soul, left me to my drinking. I knew I had a job to do that night. Finally, I grabbed the slip of parchment and folded it haphazardly, stuffing it into my satchel. I stood up and chugged the remainder of my beer, leaving a couple of coins on the wooden table. The gray sky had turned to charcoal. Rainwater ran in channels down the road between cobblestones, creating tiny rivers and pooling in deep murky puddles at the base of the curb. I made my way to the nobleman’s residence, picking the most shadowed alleys and deserted laneways for my path. The price on his head was more than my normal year’s worth of work. The walls surrounding his property were clean and bare, absent of footholds or hiding places. I stalked the outside of the grounds, circling until I found a gated back entrance. The lock was easy to pick, and I found myself in a picturesque garden. The trees were neatly arranged in rows, and a stunning fountain stood in the middle of the yard. Water cascaded down marble horses and dolphins, landing in black pools. The rain blurred edges and deepened shadows, making the whole scene appear haunted. Across from me, a great house stood starkly against the dark sky. There were no lights in the windows, no movement inside. On the second story was the master bedroom balcony. I made my way to the base of the structure, beneath the balcony, and found that the walls of the house were not nearly as modern as the outside fence. How does a death-dealer know my son? My mind wandered as I climbed the wall, hoisting myself vertically up as I had done a million times before. I carried the things I had done to stay alive with me, like a great weight that got heavier every day. I was tired, and getting older. Yet I could still climb these walls, sneak into bedrooms, deal in the darkness. I could still hold my own. Maybe after this job I wouldn’t have to for a while. I could run from this place, as I had done before, but this time not in search of a job--in search of rest. I reached the balcony and silently unlatched the door to the bedroom, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. A soft snore came from the center of the room as I let my eyes adjust. Then I jumped. He was waiting for me. The death-dealer. “What are you doing here?” I hissed, as quietly as I could. My bounty was asleep mere feet away--my ticket out of this life. The death-dealer stood up and moved toward me. “I have come to watch you work,” he said, not bothering to speak softly. “Shh, you’ll wake him.” “Will I?” The death-dealer reached over to the bed with one hand, and tapped the sleeping man on the leg. The room lit up like it was on fire. A bright white star formed in the death-dealer’s hand, pulled from the body of the nobleman. “W--what is that?” My voice shook. “His soul.” “Excuse me?” “I’ve done your job for you.” The death-dealer raised his hand and let the soul drift up to the sky. I lifted my head to follow its path, unable to take my eyes off it as it left through the balcony doorway and flew of its own accord into the clouds above. “You killed him.” I said, staring back at the nobleman. Then something struck me, the man in the bed was familiar to me. I walked over to him, and pulled down the covers. The air escaped my lungs. Thomas. I stared at the dead body of my former husband. “Why else do you think I found you here, of all places?” The death-dealer stepped towards me, and I stumbled backward. “Who are you?” “You do not know? I’ve been watching you. The people you’ve killed, the lives you’ve destroyed--” He removed his hood. His face was strong, chin broad and firm. The death-dealer smiled. “I’m your final reckoning.” The blood in my veins ran cold. I tripped over my own feet trying to back away from him as I stared at the young man’s familiar face. He had Thomas’s eyes. Dying crops, diseased trees, starved livestock--the pieces clicked into place as my son reached out to me, to hold me, one last time.

The Magnificent. Rolling into Pondaroak. Benzie’s Discovery. Taika Maru, a strikingly beautiful Bengal tiger, lolled in her cage, lazily watching rhododendron trees go by as the rickety wagon exited the forest. “Pondaroak,” she heard the guide say. Seated in the wagon’s pilot chair, Maron Maloney, a lanky Gaelwyn man with an impressive handlebar mustache with waxed, curled ends, said, “Ha! And as you promised, long before dusk, ranger . You’ve earned your commission and then some. I’ll see to it you’re rightly compensated once we reach the Swindle & Swine.” In a cage above Taika, a yellow cockatoo named Pip flapped her wings, whistled, and repeated, “Rightly compensated.” Taika smiled listlessly at Pip as she squawked. “Nah, that’d be unnecessary,” the guide assured Maron, speaking alongside the wagon. Taika saw he was a dingy halfling with greasy long hair parted down the middle. He was armed with a shortbow. “I did what I said I’d do. That’s all.” Maron hitched the reins to instruct Ammon, a strong Clydesdale horse, to pick up the pace. The wagon lurched forward. “Well then, that’ll conclude our business, Master Muckwalker. Pleasures’ been all mine.” “Same,” Kindle Muckwalker said. “‘Round these parts, find a guide named Ginny Greenhill. Folks know her. She’ll help you back to Mosshollow.” “Obliged,” waved Maron, and his wagon rolled on while the ranger slowed his pace. Taika passed him a sorrowful, lingering glance before the halfling turned and made for the forest. The wagon was painted bright red and was emblazoned with yellow lettering that read The Magnificent Maron Maloney . It was ladened with cages containing a variety of animals. Taika was naturally the largest and heaviest, and her cage was positioned to the rear. Aside from her and Pip, there were two ferrets, a puppy with two heads, a snarling quick-to-anger honey badger, a smattering of songbirds, an owlbear cub, a duck, a flumph , and a domesticated orange cat named Kimchi; Kimchi was the only animal not in a cage, accompanying Maron in the pilot’s chair. Taika sprawled under the hot sun. She yawned and stretched, pushing against the cage with her paws. In the cage beside her, the honey badger hissed and snarled. “Quiet, Barty,” Maron admonished, scratching Kimchi behind her ears. Kimchi purred and smugly enjoyed the attention. “This isn’t anything special. Pondaroak’s a backwater smallfoot town full of naive suckers . We’ll make a night out of it, then swoop down to Ehrendvale. That’s where the big money’ll be.” Taika Maru stared at the duck, Mrs. Featherby, who was sad, still, and motionless in her cage. Nobody dared speak about what happened to Mr. Featherby , not since the incident . Barty twisted, squirmed, and turned himself upside down. He growled and flailed his legs in the air as if he were playing with something invisible. Taika wasn’t sure if Barty was insane by now or just bored. Taika wasn’t the first acquisition in Maron Maloney’s troop, but she was the veteran of the bunch, whereas Pica and Pika, the dual-headed death dog, was Maron’s latest addition; they were cute, but neither of them shared a brain between them. And none of the animals knew exactly how long Kimchi had been there. Kimchi had been Maron’s favorite since Taika arrived. The curious eye stalks of the flumph studied Pondaroak as they approached, and its tentacles wrapped eagerly around the bars of its cage. Its body glowed green. By far the weirdest attraction in Maron’s menagerie and the biggest revenue generator, a flumph was a floating, two-foot diameter pancake with a dozen dangling blue tendrils for appendages. As far as Taika was concerned, Malony had yet to name the flumph . He called it flumph . Week-long journeys across untamed wilderness were part of life with Maron Maloney. Over time, Taika had learned to relax on the road and make the best of it. She’d lost track of exactly how long it’d been. Four, maybe five years? She wasn’t sure; time spent in captivity wasn’t relevant. The only other animal in the wagon that seemingly enjoyed the long rides was Hornsby the owlbear cub. His preference was to nap, and presently, the owlbear was curled up in his cage, emitting snoring-like whistles from its beak. Sid and Pan, the ferrets, on the other hand, hated to travel. They were restless, and everything captured their attention. Often stir-crazy, they’d run loops in their cage before sitting at prairie-dog-like attention to watch passers go by. At the head of the wagon, Taika saw Maron Maloney remove his black showman’s hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. The hot sun relentlessly fell on their company, depressing all save Taika, who thoroughly appreciated the direct heat. She’d always loved the sun and couldn’t understand why none of the other animals enjoyed it as much as she did. It wasn’t always this way for Taika. There was a time when she railed against her cage and made Maron’s audience frightened and uncomfortable. It wasn’t until six months after her capture that Taika gave in and accepted her situation. Thereafter, she came to appreciate the little things - the frequent meals, the beautiful landscapes, the exciting new locations, the gawking attention from the spectating crowd - and stopped worrying about what was, and what had been. “Okay, everyone,” Maron cried out from the front, tapping the top of his hat. “ It’s showtime! ” Ammon shifted to a steady Clydesdale judge , cleanly lifting his feet from the ground with heavy clips and clops. Kimchi, the fat orange cat upfront, marched right out on Ammon’s back and pranced in time with the horse. Knowing her part, Taika rose to her hind legs and let out a deep, ferocious roar to announce their arrival. Above her, Pip flapped and squawked, continuously repeating “Maron Maloney! Maron Maloney!” while the songbirds launched into a jaunty marching tune perfectly timed to Ammon’s high-stepping. Magnificent Maron Maloney’s big red wagon entered Pondaroak with spectacle and panache. Halfling children took to the streets to chase Maloney’s cart down the road, and friendly halfling parents parted neighborly waves and whistled as the wagon rolled by. Some clapped along with the music, whereas a clutch of halfling teenagers guffawed, assuring each other they were too old for Maron’s childish amusements. Maron Maloney reached under his seat into a bag and tossed tiny sacks of sugar candy and confetti into the air, and he outstretched his arms as if to embrace everyone he saw. Unconsciously twirling the end of his mustache, Maron would boisterously laugh and point to halflings as if he knew them, and, of course, those halflings would wave back as if they knew him, too, yet, all the while, neither of them had ever met the other in all their lives. Ever the showman, occasionally, Maron would lean out of the wagon and shake waving hands, or turn to face his animals and pretend to conduct them. Still, regardless of all of their practice and training, Taika knew some would flub their parts. Unable to deal with the stress, Barty anxiously chewed on the metal bars of his cage. Sid and Pan had stopped their routine, sat upright, and madly darted their heads around to see each and every child running up to the cart. Pica and Pika barked, growled, whined, and wagged its tail as puppies might, except they shared one freakish puppy body, and unable to get their timing right, they’d trip over their own paws and fall faces-first into the cage. Mrs. Featherby conscientiously objected as she always had since the incident , and remained quiet and disdainful, keeping her eyes closed and her beautiful voice silent. Hornsby, meanwhile, slept through it all, and the flumph simply flumphed . Its hovering body assumed a soft magenta color and its eye stalks glanced excitedly back and forth. “Hello, hello! Greetings, one and all!” boomed Maron Maloney’s voice. He threw out his hands and shouted, “Good folk of Pondaroak! Join me, will you, to wine and dine at your Swindle & Swine?! Curated Curiosities! Exemplary Exotics! Pettings, performances, and peculiarities! Our show begins before dusk!” Bounding after Maloney’s cart, halfling children celebrated, clapped, whistled, and danced. A few had stopped to pick up Maron’s candy strewn behind the wagon. Some ran up to their mothers and pleaded to see the show, while parents gasped and fearfully pointed to Taika. Taika loved that feeling, and she roused herself to fiercely growl at the sky. Her roar tore through town and shook windows, rattled fences, and even got old man Hicklefoot’s attention; his hearing was so bad, Taika’s was the first sound he’d heard in over twenty years. Holding two fingers to his mustached lips, the Magnificent Maron Maloney blew everyone a kiss, and whispered, “ Ignitus fulmine,” sending a bolt of fire roiling into the sky. Shouts, screams, and gasps of awe graced the proceeding as the wagon wheeled through Pondaroak. Maron waved farewell to his admiring fans with his hat before replacing it atop his head. Returning to sit in the pilot’s chair, he brought Ammon’s reigns back into his hands. Talking over his shoulder, he said, “Ammon, Taika: you stole the show. Double your rations tonight!” Taika proudly plopped down in her cage, and Ammon briefly high-stepped to acknowledge his reward. “Barty, Barty, Barty,” Maron tsked, glancing over his shoulder. “What’s so hard about waving your tail in time to the music?” Barty the honey badger spun around, hunched forward, and snarled at Maron Maloney. “That’s right, so, again, nothing for you tonight, you hellion ,” Maron breathed. Righting his mood, Maron gave a nod to the others. “Songbirds, Pip: you were top-shelf entertainment! Flumph?” The flumph’s eye stalks swung toward Maron. “ Upside down ? Can we hover upside down next time, please?” Flumph’s stalks returned to watching the scenery. “Maybe roll around in the air a bit?” Maron added, stroking his mustache. “Oh, and you guys, Pika and Pica. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll catch on. I know you will!” Indifferent, the two-headed puppy dog licked its paws and groin at the same time. “Pan?” The ferret eagerly sat up. Shaking his head, Maron called back over his shoulder. “Disappointed.” Pan slumped and frowned at his feet. “Listen, keep Sid in line. He’s distracting you. Maybe he needs more practice?” Turning, Pan angrily gave Sid a shove, and Sid rolled on his back and jumped on Pan, resulting in a frantic squealing tussle. “And you!” Maron exclaimed, scooping up Kimchi and cuddling her close. Speaking in babytalk , Maron nuzzled the purring orange monstrosity and said, “You were spectacular, daddy is so very proud of you, yes he is.” Kimchi glared self-righteously over Maron’s shoulder at Taika, but Taika let Kimchi’s attitude roll right off. It was always that way between them, and Taika honestly wasn’t sure why. Taika certainly didn’t want her job. Eventually, Maron Maloney’s big red wagon wobbled by the Swindle & Swine, Pondaroak’s sole inn and tavern. The Swindle was a proud, three-hundred-year-old two-story structure with a big, round door painted burgundy and topped with a green-gabled roof. A chimney of limestone and gray mortar shot up the street-facing wall, and a second chimney for the kitchen poked over the roof in the back to exhale smoke from its cooking fire. A massive oak tree with rambling roots flourished in its front yard, and a copse of tall, reaching pine trees swayed gently in the back. Taika could hear the sound of the wind rushing through the very tiptops of the pines. The property was surrounded by a carpet of lush green grass that’d feel good on the soles of anybody’s naked feet, halfling or otherwise. On its second floor, a round stained-glass window depicted a Tree of Life , and a wrap-around porch offered ample, comfortable, breezy outdoor seating for discerning guests. Abundant emerald-colored ivy crawled up its side, and cheery tulips, petunias, and daffodils were lovingly planted along the foundation. And nearby, a row of six homey single-room, halfling-sized cottages were open to the road; accommodations for the likes of Man were found upstairs on the second floor. Colorful banners strewn over the porch railings celebrated the Magnificent Maron Maloney’s traveling show. The Swindle & Swine almost vibrated with life. Swarms of minute gnats buzzed over Taika’s cage, attracting a train of sparrows that went dashing by overhead. And as Taika smelled wafts of succulent pork, her mouth watered. A middle-aged, brown-haired halfling woman broke away from conversations with tavern patrons to wave at the wagon from the porch. “Mister Maloney!” Rounding the old oak and squinting from the sunlight, Maron raised his arm. “Miss Hogsbreath? Elina?” “One and the same, sir!” she pleasantly confirmed. Descending the front steps to approach the wagon, Taika could see that she wore a white sunflower in her hair and offered a kind and welcoming smile. She wore a shoulderless white blouse, a brown skirt, and a loosely-fitted corset over her apron - attire common to tavern maids. Taika heard Maron Maloney snap the hitch to slow the wagon’s roll. Locking the parking brake, Maron jumped down from the pilot’s chair. Taika watched Maron approach Elina, and he gave her a deep, theatric bow. Elina smiled in such a way that her eyes pinched together. She placed her hands behind her back and curtsied. “You’re right on time, Mister Maloney,” Elina beamed. “Your room’s been prepared with clean linens on the bed and fresh water in the basin-” “My dear Miss Hogsbreath,” Maron interrupted. Rising from his swooping bow and rushing to her like a caped, black-hatted phantom, he said, “Your humble establishment is everything it’s rumored to be!” “Why thank you!” Elina smiled, masking her irritation at being interrupted. Taika knew Maron was always like that, speaking over others he felt were inferior . Elina continued, “You can park your wagon ‘round back.” “Absolutely,” Maron agreed, his voice trailing and twisting the ends of his mustache. Taika could tell that Maron was already sizing Elina up and wondering how much he could take her for. “Have you any help to assist with offloading my animals?” Elina nodded and grinned. “We sure do! I’ll summon him, right’n’quick. Benzie !” A crashing sound came from somewhere inside the inn before Taika saw a young halfling carrying a mop rush outside from the front door. “Here! I-I, um, here, um, I’m Benzie! Hullo !” Benzie waved the head of the mop at Elina and Maron, and a stream of dirty mop water ran over his forearm and shoulder. Realizing he was wet, Benzie lowered the handle and shook out his arm, sending a spray of mop water over a nearby table occupied by tavern guests. They flinched in disgust. “Benzie,” Elina pointed to the wagon. “You’ll aid Mister Maron. Whatever he needs, y’ bring ‘em. Whatever he needs done, y’ do it. Got it?” “I got it!” Benzie cried, throwing his mop to the porch and racing down the stairs to the wagon. Turning to Maron Maloney, Elina smiled and added, “We’ve all been anxiously waitin’ for the show. Can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for us tonight!” Taika saw Maron smile the most disingenuous smile he’d ever made, and he said, “I assure you, Miss Hogsbreath, it’ll be the best. How do you say, all crickets , no cobblers ?” “Mister Maloney!” Elina Hogsbreath laughed, slapping her knee joyously. “I see you’ve familiarized yourself with our country talk!” He snickered and raised his eyebrows at the rather unsuspecting halfling, twirled his mustache, and said, “Oh ... quite . For now, start by untying the ropes, lad.” “Yes sir, right away,” Benzie replied. Approaching the wagon, Benzie grabbed a handle and hoisted himself up to its side. When he appeared over the edge, Barty tucked, hissed, and growled at him. “Woh,” Benize exclaimed, having never seen a honey badger up close before. Realizing he was closer to Taika’s cage, Benzie unthinkingly said, “Oh, hey, you Tiger, um, you’re very big.” As Benzie climbed in to untie the securing ropes for the cages, Taika issued a low grumble and nodded at Benize. Benzie paused, for he felt something unusual about the tiger. Taika was patient and steadfast, calm in the face of strangers, and Benize sensed she acknowledged him. Taika rolled her tail, her ears twitched, and Benzie, now thoroughly sure that the great cat was smiling at him, was taken aback. Their eyes locked, and, stunned, Benzie uncomprehendingly believed they just communicated . Maron Maloney unlatched his cape and threw it into the pilot’s chair. He smiled a snake-oil smile and said, “I promise an unusual evening of spectacle and surprise, Miss Hogsbreath!” Taika rolled her head towards Benzie and glowered. Benzie narrowed his eyes and whispered, “Um, hi ?” Taika nodded. Stunned, Benzie froze, glanced back to Elina and Maron, then whispered slowly out of the side of his mouth, “Do ... you ... understand ... me?” And Taika nodded. Benzie was stunned, utterly confused. He, himself, had never heard tigers were so smart, but he was definitely going to ask around. Taika, on the other hand, was familiar with halflings and their propensity to be more curious than afraid. Taika rolled her head to glare at Maron and to draw Benzie’s attention to him. “Maron?” Benzie whispered, and Taika nodded before glowering deeply at Benize. She exposed her teeth. “Danger?” Benzie gasped, leaning in towards Taika’s cage. “Wait, he ... Maron’s dangerous ?” Satisfied the halfling was puzzling it out, Taika raised her brows knowingly at Benzie, stared him directly in the eyes, and nodded.

For those interested, you can read the story for free online on Dance of Death's website. ***M****ichael Knight* *is a 20 year old living in Moore, Oklahoma. He lives with his mom, brother, and dog Emmett. He’s loved to create and write stories ever since he was in the third grade, but only in the last few years decided to pursue it as a career. Until his big break, he’s working at a pizza call center, and currently not in school.* *Check him out on Reddit at* u/MichaelKnightWriter An ancient demonological tale states God created every creature on earth, except for the fly, which was a creation of Satan. I am inclined to believe this is true, for if what I witnessed that night was a creation of God he is no god I wish to follow. I will never forget the events which befell me and my friend. I think the guilt is the worst part. Every night I awake in a cold sweat, thankfully forgetting the nightmare that caused it, and whenever I hear the buzzing of a house fly, I am taken back to that day. It happened on September the 14th, 1933. It was a rather slow day at our office. Outside, the gray clouds blocked out the sun over the city. I sat on the couch reserved for clients and sipped coffee, preparing myself for the long day ahead. Angel sat at his desk, taking advantage of the lull to work on his manuscript. Angel tore a page from his typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, throwing it towards the trash bin and missing. His novel, a dark comedy in the vein of Stella Gibbons, took inspiration from occult practices, which he obsessed over. He had extensive knowledge on the occult, accumulated from years of research back when he studied at university. While his story's premise was original, I found his characters and scenarios cliched. He was much better at being a detective than an artist. As Angel contemplated over his typewriter, the telephone rang, which jolted us both. Angel picked up the cup and held it to his ear. After a brief conversation, he hung up. He informed me a new client wanted to come and brief us on a missing person. This excited me at the time. With no cases to work on and a longing for new ones, I jumped at the opportunity to work. Angel didn't seem so excited, since he had less time to work on his novel. According to Angel, the client was a woman, and lived about a block away. She would show up at our office at any moment. Not ten minutes later did the glass pane on our door shudder from a frantic knocking. I let the woman in and directed her to sit. She looked nervous. Her eyes darted around the room, never locking onto a single object, but always in motion. After she sat, Angel and I began the questioning. She gave us her name, Camille Patterson, and said she worked as a seamstress ever since her husband had died. He took his own life after losing his job due to the Stock Market Crash. Earlier that morning, her eight year old son, Alfred Patterson, went missing. She had woken up to find the window to their first floor apartment opened, and Alfred nowhere to be seen. Camille didn't believe Alfred had ran away. Something in her gut screamed, “Abduction.” She went to the authorities first, but she knew they would only put her case in a pile with the others. We continued to question her on other places Alfred might visit and took note of her answers. Angel assured her we would find Alfred and said it would be best for her to go home, rest, and call us if anything else came to mind. I showed her out the door and turned to Angel, already going over his notes. One question that stood out to me was when Alfred asked where Camille's husband was buried. She told him and he wrote it down. As we rode in the elevator, he explained to me his theory, which he had already developed in his head. Alfred snuck out to visit his father's grave, and was kidnapped there. Angel knew of an abandoned apartment complex across the way from said graveyard, and thought that was a likely candidate. Angel also mentioned how Alfred's disappearance could be connected to the others that had happened in the weeks prior. The thought had occurred to me as well. Although those other disappearances were all adults, it wasn't too far fetched to assume we had a serial kidnapper on our hands. Minutes later, we arrived at the graveyard, and moved through it to the apartment building on the other side. The building didn't look abandoned from the outside, although peering through the windows, a barren space of what used to be a lobby with faint outlines where furniture used to be stood before me. Stepping back to get a view of the top most floors, I froze in my tracks as my eyes met another pair gazing down at me. This pair of gray eyes belonged to a head containing long, unkempt locks of hair. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again he disappeared. After telling Angel, he suggested we try to make our way in. I went around and tried the front door, but it wouldn't budge, so Angel went back into the alley, got a brick and shattered a window. I frantically glanced around to make sure no one saw him, and then rebuked him as he climbed inside. “Jacob, Alfred could be in there with a very dangerous man. I don't know about you, but I won't sit by and wait while he's in danger.” And that was the problem with Angel. He tended to rush in and act without giving much thought to the consequences. I fear that is what spelled his doom in the end. Reluctantly, I climbed in after him. I followed Angel through the ruined interior and up the stairs to where I saw the man. The apartment door opened inwards on creaky hinges. Some feeling of dread in my gut made me reach my hand out and grab Angel's arm, preventing him from entering. A strange vibe resonated with my primal instincts, and I refused to cross the threshold. Angel said he felt it too, but we had to see if Alfred was okay. Before I could stop him he already threw the door open, and once he glanced inside he froze in his tracks. My stomach sank before Angel uttered a curse in hushed breath. When I finally walked over to join him, my eyes locked on to the shrine in the center of the room. An altar made of concrete bricks stood there with a leather sheet draped over it. On top lied a raccoon's corpse, gutted with a knife embedded in the carcass. While the brutal scene disturbed me, that wasn't what gave my friend pause. He stared at the wall directly to the right of the altar. A strange symbol not unlike a Star of David, but with some noticeable differences and liberties, took up nearly the entire wall. The star itself had nearly triple the points of an actual Star of David, and it was surrounded by Greek-like characters, with a four limbed stick figure in it's center. Angel recognized the surrounding characters as a combination of several Canaanite languages, and the sigil in the center he knew from his studies into the occult, but didn't recall exactly what it meant. I shivered at the thought of some mad cult performing blasphemous rituals so close to our homes. I would've continued to dwell on it, but the slapping of rain against the window made me jump. The clouds had finally burst open and unleashed a torrent of water on the city. I snapped out of my trance and suggested we keep looking for the man. We had not seen him exit the building, so I assumed he was still hiding somewhere. I cursed myself for not bringing my revolver, but luckily Angel had his. After searching the rest of the top floors, we back tracked to the lobby, and went to a previously unnoticed, barely open door. Angel took point and opened the door, which led to a set of concrete stairs leading into darkness. After descending the steps, the rain outside became muffled and I felt the cold basement air hit me like a brick wall. The basement looked even more ruined than the lobby. Rotting wood and decay added a stench of death to the scene. Furniture piles and cardboard boxes lied everywhere, and while we tried to traverse through the narrow pathway between the mountains, we had to do our fair share of climbing across overturned furniture. Once we reached the other side of the basement, I stopped. A table leaned against the wall, the underside facing us, with the same symbol as above carved into it. I walked forward, distracted by the symbol, and tripped on some small object and went flying into the table. It cracked inwards creating a divot that I could barely see through. To my surprise, a tunnel opened up beyond the wooden barrier, about five or six meters long, and angled downwards towards an opening which leaked a weak light into it. I told Angel and he got me to help him move the table out of the way. Normally I'd object to traipsing in like we did, but we trespassed, and the police wouldn't have supported us. So we agreed to go through ourselves, no matter how dangerous it was, and entered the chasm. Towards the end, enough light leaked through to see a two foot dip into a chamber, and we safely dropped into what was, to my surprise, an abandoned subway station. The cylindrical tunnel loomed around us, and some oil lamps hung on the walls, which produced the light I saw in the basement. To our left, the remains of a cylindrical train car, long out of order, blocked the way. The model dated back to the turn of the century. How long had this been here right under our noses? I looked at Angel to see his reaction, and his eyes were lit up. “Underground caverns,” Angel said to himself, “I don't know why I hadn't thought of this sooner. This might just save my novel.” I laughed despite the situation. Angel was the only person who would think of his book in a situation like this. He had spoken to me numerous time about how he wished to get out of the private eye business. His artwork made him exponentially happier. As he contemplated his story, I continued to look around. We could only go to the right, so Angel took point, aiming his revolver. Every now and then as we walked, more glyphs would appear, scratched into the curved walls. A wrongness filled the air which I detected much the same way someone would detect static electricity. I could tell Angel felt it as well. A renewed feeling of dread swept through me as a brighter light appeared ahead of us. We inched closer, and found the light came from a train station. Another train car blocked the way. Or it would've if it didn't have it's back door open. The light came from somewhere beyond it, leaking through the windows and then the door way. When I went towards it, Angel put his hand in front of me. The extra pressure against my chest made me feel how fast and hard my heart was beating. Then, I heard it. Voices. A chorus of deep voices chanting in a language I didn't recognize, but I assumed it to be the same as the language written on the walls. Angel and I crouched and crept up to the train car. We crawled in and went up to the side entrance, where we crouched beneath a window. The chanting continued just beyond the train car. Slowly, I peeked around the barrier, and took in the scene in a matter of seconds. The fetor of decaying flesh assaulted my senses, and I had to cover my mouth and pull my head back to keep from vomiting or screaming. It was one side of a normal subway station, with the entry way closed and covered in that same dead language. The pillars, which contained braziers, also had the daemonic script, and the walls and even the c ceiling had it. There was also the same symbol on the floor, and an altar made of concrete bricks lied in it's center. A group of around ten men and women wearing dark robes surrounded the altar, with the man I saw in the window standing behind it, his hands raised in worship. He wore a peculiar black headdress, which Angel explained looked very similar to ancient Philistine head wear, like a cross between a fluted crown and a keffiyeh. The long fabric fell across the mans shoulders and back. Upon the altar, a young boy which I immediately knew to be Alfred lied, naked and bounded at the wrists and ankles. He had a look of existential horror on his face, and I believe he was barely old enough to even comprehend what was happening to him. While that sight gave me feelings of anxiety and empathy, what made me retch was the pile of around four adult bodies on the left side of the station. Gaping holes were in their chests where their hearts should've been. I didn't know where the hearts went, although blood on the lips of some of the cultists allowed me to make my own inferences. I refused to dwell any longer on that aspect of the scene. Angel and I didn't act for a few minutes, seeing as we were outnumbered. As we hid, the leader finally stopped chanting. I peeked around again, morbid curiosity outweighing my terror. Three cultists stepped forward and surrounded the altar. They produced knives from their robes, and I feared for the boys life. Instead of plunging them into Alfred, they took the knives and ran them across their own throats. Alfred screamed as the bodies collapsed. Once they hit the floor, a rumbling began beneath my feet. A mild earthquake had started, but it lasted only a few seconds. I wanted to believe the two events weren't connected, but the cultists dug their feet into the ground, as if wanting to feel as much of the quake as possible. The leader of this sick society inhaled, seeming to relish a sort of pleasure from the event. “Brothers and sisters,” the leader began, “For thousands of years our god has lied dormant. Although many have attempted to praise him, none had the knowledge that we do today, and many misconceptions and lies have been brought forth. Lies such as our god is Satan or an agent for him. No. He was worshiped long before the concept of Satan, before the tower of Babel was erected, before any of the Abrahamic religions were a fleeting idea in the minds of blasphemers.” He produced a knife from his robe and raised it above the boy. Angel aimed his revolver at the man, who didn't notice him, too engrossed in his ritual. I didn't want the boy to die, but I feared that somehow killing the priest wouldn't help anything, but actually make things inconceivably worse. The rumbling in the ground increased gradually, and a new wave of dread washed over me as the priest finished his last rite. “We know our god is the true god of the Philistines! The Lord of the Flies!” The back of the mans head burst outwards in a torrent of blood. The gunshot echoed throughout the claustrophobic chamber and my ears rang loud. The remaining cultists recoiled at the sound and backed away from the altar as Angel rushed out, aiming his gun at them to keep them back. I got out of the train to assist him in untying the boy, who had passed out. The cultists faces trembled, their expression frozen in terror. As I picked up the boys body, knowing they weren't afraid of us, I wondered what could've had them so aghast. The rumbling I felt earlier increased in volume. Soon, I had to struggle to keep my balance, and some of the cultists fell over. A cracking sound resonated throughout the room. Barely audible, maddening voices whispered all around me. I didn't know if it was real or a trick of my mind at the time. Then, I looked to the other end of the station. My knees grew week and I collapsed at the impossible sight. A floating, gelatinous mass of flesh and blood began to spawn. It grew and pulsated, squelching and spewing out giblets of matter which smelled of rotting meat. I averted my eyes from the horror as a red light flashed. It pierced my eye lids with its crimson radiance. After it dissipated, silence overcame the room. A stench like a cross between fecal matter and stomach acid filled the area. A strange chittering noise began. I slowly opened my eyes and looked to Angel, who stared in the direction of the noise, his mouth agape and his eyes transfixed on something. His eyes. Dear God his eyes were dead. That's the only way I can describe them. Staring at something and nothing all at once. Curiosity outweighed the dread I was feeling once again, and I stared, too, at the sight which I know stole a bit of my sanity. I estimate the creature to be around twice the length of an elephant and about as tall, taking up nearly half of the station. If I described it simply it would not do it justice, but I could just as easily describe it as a monstrous fly. It's thorax angled upwards so that it's giant head and bulbous eyes stared down at us. I shudder to remember those damned eyes, so black it appeared to absorb any light which came near them. The beast had a swarm of millions of flies surrounding it, smaller versions of itself, from which emanated a maddening buzzing. It tilted its head at an angle, as if assessing us all. Judging us. That insult to creation was intelligent! The cultists all rushed past me and got on their knees, bowing to the beast, muttering prayers and rites in their language. The beast took it's clawed fore arms and dug into the wall. It hoisted itself onto the ceiling, where it hung directly above the worshipers. It's mandibles opened, and a proboscis slithered out. After a moments pause, the beast sprayed a corrosive acid on to the worshipers. Their screams of agony as they dissolved freed me from my trance of horror. The mad worshipers, betrayed by their own god, had their skin melted off of their bones and on to the floor, a dreadful combination of dark red and tan colors. Their bodies molded together. Three arms merged into one body, reaching up at the sky. It brought down its mouth onto the plash and began sponging up the remains. Seeing as it was distracted, I got up and hoisted Alfred over my shoulder and grabbed Angel by the forearm, pulling him towards the train car. The motion snapped him out of it and soon he began running by himself. We ran out the back of the train car and seemed to have a clear shot ahead of us. Then, a metal groaning began behind us. I turned my head out of instinct. A pulse of anxiety shot through my body as, impossibly, the beast's head squeezed through the back door of the train car. It's fore arms wiggled out, giving it more leverage to slither it's surprisingly malleable body through the entire car. The thing then chased us on four insectoid legs. Compressed by the narrow passageway, it still ever so slowly gained on us. The creature didn't use it's wings, for there wasn't enough room. Not wanting to look anymore, I turned my head and focused on our goal. Flies began to swarm us, drowning my ears with the buzzing and obscuring my vision. They flew up my nose and into my ears, disorienting me. They crawled on my eyeballs, forcing me to close my eyes, but I pressed on. Angel tried to wave away the pests as he ran. The beasts foot steps thundered as it got closer. It's body scraped against the walls. We finally reached the end of the tunnel. A minuscule wave of relief washed over me as the familiar sight of the entryway came into view. Angel and I both turned around and beheld the monster the cultists called Lord of the Flies. It was but a few meters away, and closing in fast. Angel drew his revolver and pushed me towards the exit. “Take the kid and get out of here.” His voice trembled. He and I both knew he wouldn't make it. I wish I could say I wanted to stay and help him; that I would've sacrificed my life in his stead, but that would be a lie. One look at the monstrosity and all courage within me vanished, like a physical thing the creature slaughtered. I ran as fast as I could, without hesitation, and climbed up and in to the tunnel. About half way in, Angel fired his five remaining shots. The thing screamed. It rattled my brain and against my will I had to stop and grab my head. The migraine was nearly unbearable. Then, it stopped. Through the ringing in my ears I could hear the ominous chittering of that living blasphemy. Angel's cry broke my heart. It was not only the cry of a man who knew he was about to die, but it was as if his sanity was crying out for euthanasia. With tears of fear and sadness I clambered out of the tunnel and into the basement. I set Alfred down and grabbed whatever furniture I could find and piled it into the tunnel, blocking it off. I wasn't sure if it would hold, but it was better than doing nothing. Silence, and dare I say calm filled the room, except for the humming of flies which still surrounded me. I collapsed to my knees and screamed for the loss of my friend and the loss of part of myself that day. I screamed out of the guilt of abandoning Angel, even though I had no choice. I knew at the end of the day, even if I did, I would have ran anyway. My screams turned to sobs, and then to whines, until I had vented out what stress I could. A permanent hole in my sanity that I felt could never be filled again had appeared. Of course I couldn't focus on that right away. I still had a job to do. I picked Alfred up and dropped him off at the front doors of a hospital. I then notified Camille over the phone that her child was safe and sound and gave her the hospital address. There is an air conditioning unit in my apartment. I leave it on and it hums all day until it fades into the background and I can no longer hear it or notice it. This event has haunted me in a similar fashion. It's always in the background and always affecting my life, even if I don't notice it at the time, and I know I will never get rid of it. I don't just grieve for my sanity, I grieve for my friend Angel, who I still believe I betrayed. I vow not only to complete his novel for him, but to study the occult as he did and hopefully find an explanation, or perhaps even a way to defeat the abomination. Because to my unimaginable horror, I believe it still remains in those tunnels, waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting world.

from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir I had an afternoon to kill. Burlington, VT, ‘Bello & Friends’ Summer Tour, 2000. The original ideal of running away had become a full-time profession, working the past month with no rest, until today. A warm July day-off in a Canadian border town, I got off the bus at the central pedestrian shopping district and fulfilled a promise that I had made to myself to eat breakfast before going to the bar. Smoked a few cigarettes to complement the blueberry pancakes and spotted a teenage couple dressed like the Jamaican Flag. I reacted without thinking when they passed me by, ‘Hi, I’m from the circus, you know where I can find a J?’ Like a call to the wild, my people responded instinctively. A passing cab took us out of the decorated New England city into a stale suburban district devoid of any character. ‘You can hook us up, too, right?’ Aaah, the innocence of youth... ‘I’ll give you most of mine, I just have an afternoon to kill...’ ‘No, no, we want some heroin.’ The bright-eyed idealist traveler inside of me dimmed a little that day, and still has not returned. The taxi stopped and I was rushed out of the backseat as they started to beat their fists against an unassuming door. I felt a little safer when I noticed a Dodge caravan in the driveway, but then came a sound that I had heard before, and, unfortunately, have heard again thereafter, the metallic clacking of a weapon being loaded. ‘I told you kids to get the hell out of here!!!’ I took them by their dreads and hustled back to the waiting car. The driver didn’t need any instructions to floor it, I’m sure the looks in our eyes were obvious enough. Back to original street corner, no one spoke a word. They followed me to a local deli, and I bought them sandwiches to satisfy my conscience. I ran away from them down a side street and hid in a sports tavern, but couldn’t even finish a beer, before taking one last taxi back to the lot. I’d had enough reality for that day. I hope that I wouldn’t have bought them their drugs, if the situation had transpired as they had planned, but if I analyze my actions, I never resisted being pulled along. I sat in my trailer with a bottle I had stashed away and debated if I was really the man that I had always dreamed of becoming. After a few more drinks, it didn’t matter anymore, and I still don’t know if I’ve answered it. In my best moments, I can say, I hope so.

The five young men were gathered around in a group. They were the best of friends, even though they'd only recently met each other. A year ago, not one of them knew another. They'd all met while travelling around the world, and quickly gotten to know each other. They were young too, which probably helped establish such a strong friendship. The oldest wasn't a day over 20. Steve was the only one to have been with a girl, which the others were constantly asking him about. Some sitting, some kneeling, and John, whose words they all hung by, standing, they all passed the time by smoking and joking with one another, until John got a call. He nodded a few times before turning to his mates. They all looked up at him, and saw that his face was white. They knew what was coming, and after a moment, it did. John uttered the words they'd been dreading.

Every single day, at nine o'clock on the dot, George would go to the local pub and play pool. This wasn't something he looked forward to, nor did he enjoy it very much, and he wasn't even very good at it. This was simply something he would always do, without really thinking about it. There were a great many things in his life like that. Indeed, he lived pretty much his whole life like that. Day in and day out he would go about his day in an unconscious routine, each day being different only in which form of that routine was performed. One might almost think he was some kind of walking vegetable, incapable of conscious thought entirely. This thought, while understandable to have, is wrong. George had quite an active inner mind, one with a keen eye for every detail of the world around him. One with a very vivid imagination, with dreams and goals and great plans for himself. Day and night, it screamed. Beneath the layers of autonomous actions and rote routines, George's inner mind clawed and scraped to escape. Every day, as he arrived at work, or the pub, he tried desperately to scream and cry at passersby, but no words came out. How could they, when his mouth was not his own? George was trapped. He had been for as long as he could remember. Trapped inside his own body, unable to do a thing except follow the same routines, day in and day out. Sometimes it seemed like nothing ever would change, that he'd be stuck repeating the same days over and over without end. But of course, that's not the case. He may not be able to change, but the world around him did. Every so often, something would be different. minor things, like a traffic jam making him take a detour or a new patron at the pub. He relished them, each one a brief reprieve from the routine. But still, the routine continued. All of these were mere distractions. Even when he conversed with others, it wasn't true communication, just rote responses without any thought put into them. And then one day, something different happened. It was an ordinary night when he met Her. The sun had gone down not long ago, and so he was back in that pub. She was a distinctive-looking woman, wearing an old-fashioned suit with a trilby on her head. He was just setting up the pool table when She sat down at the bar and ordered an Aviation Cocktail. He hadn't even heard of the drink before. He relished the opportunity to distract himself by pondering the new patron. He tried to imagine what Her life must have been like, Her dreams and ambitions, the story of Her life. He imagined the story of the first Aviation Cocktail She'd had. He wondered why She came here of all places. He pondered Her clothing, the story behind her choice of suit and hat. Most of all, he wondered what she was thinking at that very moment. Then he met Her eyes, and he Knew. "She's just like me", he thought. And from then on, his life was never the same. Ever since that day, he'd see Her again frequently, all over the place. At the bar, on the street, at his work... He begins to realize that She was always there, in many of those places, but until now She was just one in a crowd of people, unknowing of his plight; just as he must have seemed to Her. He wanted so desperately to talk to her, to communicate with the one person he had encountered, perhaps the one person in the whole world, who would understand his plight. But he couldn't. Except... that's not entirely true, is it? There was, of course, nary a single word spoken between them. It would be impossible, with the lack of control they had over their bodies, for anything of the sort. But there was communication, nevertheless. For the eyes are the window to the soul, and that was all that was needed. Every time their eyes would meet, they would converse. And what conversations they would have. He told Her his dreams, She told him her woes, and every day they would have this little patch of interaction. Perhaps he was only imagining their conversations, perhaps eyes aren't expressive enough to truly deliver such complex thoughts, but he knew from the look in Her eyes she was doing the same. They were both conversing, what did it matter if they couldn't truly understand each other. Does anyone, really? He wouldn't know. At times he thought he might love Her, but perhaps he was only latching onto the one person in the world he could talk to. Maybe She thought the same. In the end, it didn't matter. Because for the moments they met, he was happy. He could get through the doldrums of the daily routine his bod went through, just for those brief glances between them. But of course it wasn't to last. Nothing good ever does, he supposed. He didn't know exactly what it was. Perhaps something came up at work that forced Her to change her schedule. perhaps She was simply staying at home due to illness or somesuch. Perhaps She had moved away entirely. Perhaps She had gotten free somehow, and had quickly forgotten him. Perhaps She was dead. It didn't matter. All that he knew... is that She was gone. Just like that, here one day and gone the next. He had known this would happen eventually, that the little patch of relief he had found would vanish, someday. Things returned to normal, as they always did. All that changed was that he had one more thing to miss. His mind was the only part of him that had change, the only part that could despair at this return to the status quo, and the only part of him incapable of changing anything. Or was it? As it happened before, and as it always happens, it was yet another perfectly normal day when something changed. He was in his home, shaving his meager stubble and getting ready for his meaningless work. Inside, he had only sunken deeper into despair every day since she was gone. And then... well, it was almost nothing. A slight twinge of a muscle, barely enough to twitch his arm in the wrong direction a few scant fractions of an inch. Normally, something that would have no effect at all. But with the razor so close to his skin... it moved just a hair too close, and the barest of cuts was made. His body didn't react, beyond moving the razor back into position and continuing to shave, but inside he was bewildered. What had happened? Had... had he done this? In the following weeks, he pondered on what it was he had done, as he tried over and over to replicate it. Eventually, he began to succeed once again. It was still the barest of twitches, all his efforts had only slightly increased its strength. Far from enough to do anything meaningful, and with how exhausting it was for his mind it was far from enough to even begin taking back his life. But perhaps... perhaps enough to end it. He waited, patiently, for his opportunity to come again. His hair grew slowly, very slowly, and he only shaved every couple of weeks. And there was no guarantee that he would even manage to pull off the very specific mindset he needed for that little twitch. But he was patient. He had nothing but time. Finally, it arrived. The fateful moment. His body began to run the razor over his neck hair, slowly exposing the skin to air. All he had to do was muster up the willpower to induce a slightly larger muscle spasm, and this sorry existence would be over. A trained medic could save him, but all his body knew how to do was perform the same routine over and over, evading the common hazards along the way. It wouldn't have any way of reacting to this. All of it could be over. But did he really want it to be? The question surprised him. Surely he did, right? His life was a miserable existence, with no hope of ever getting better, isn't it? ...Perhaps not. Perhaps he might rediscover Her again, in the far off future. Perhaps he might find someone else who was the same, or even someone who wasn't and yet could understand him somehow. Perhaps he even might one day expand his limited influence on his body, and take over entirely! Or at least enough to do something worthwhile! Perhaps... Perhaps it doesn't matter if any of that comes to pass. What is the alternative, anyways? He could put an end to it all, but what would that achieve? He'd be in the same place as he was before, with no control over his body. No, it would be worse. At least at this moment, he has one single he can control: his mind. He, himself. at least he can still think, imagine, dream. even if communication has left his grasp forever, he still has himself. Why should he throw that all away, just to kill the pain? In the end, he'd rather be awake and suffering, then sleep and know nothing. George puts the razor down.

When I entered the Walmart, except a family from Puerto Rico having several children of different ages, a few people shopping in different sections and Walmart employees moving from one side to the other with little feeling and arranging the shelves, I didn't see anyone else. Undoubtedly, this emptiness was normal since the morning. I went to the flower shelf and began to walk around the bouquets having been decorated with special beauty and on them, a small paper had congratulated Valentine's Day: "Happy Valentine's Day." While I was moving the bouquets here and there and sometimes I sat down or stood up and I even took pictures of some of them with my mobile phone and tried to find the hidden angles of the flowers by zooming in and out on them, the picture I had taken of the fiery red flower attracted me so much that I forgot to see the flowers in front of me and I got lost in watching the picture of the flower. I zoomed in and out on it and carefully looked at its petals, but suddenly a woman's sideview in the upper corner of the photo with long golden hair got my attention. I mean, wasn't I wrong, did I see Sarah? I brought my mobile phone down and looked along where the photo was. it was empty, there was no one. I said to myself, the last time I saw Sarah, I was a little jealous of her long black hair and put my hand on it and said: "Girl, I wished for your hair, there is nothing more than a few dills on my head." I continued with a laugh: "God took my right and put it on your head." She laughed, but not out of happiness, mostly because of this: " you have a happy heart, but I didn't profit from my hair." She didn't say anything, just took my cup and said: "do you like to drink another cup of tea? Its so pleasant in this air." And then he went to the house without waiting for an answer. The sound of birds was ringing in the garden on that cool autumn evening and I was so happy that Sarah had invited me to an evening meal. Six months ago when I got a job as an English teacher for immigrants to America at an adult education center, I met Sarah there. She had come to America from Mexico and had to get marry a retired army man named John to extend her stay. Unlike other Mexicans, Sarah had fair skin and she didn't like to talk about her family in Mexico, I wasn't too curious about it either. But she always remembered her brother who apparently had autism. Any time she remembered him, she would have stared into the distance and it was as if she was going to her native land with her imagination. She said that her brother's only happiness was that he played with her long black hair at night until he fell asleep. When she remembered this memory, a tear flowed from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek, she said: "I don't know how he falls asleep now? and I used to hug him and caress his hair, maybe this was the only thing I could do for him." Although Sarah and her husband John had an age difference of more than twenty years, she always said that she has no complaints and is happy to live here, and slowly putting the slice of the cake in her mouth, she said: "Well, what do I want from life? Almost everything is available for me, house, good food, money; I think these things are enough." I moved to Sarah's empty place in the photo. I looked at the photo again and once again zoomed in the picture on my mobile phone with my two fingers to make sure it was Sarah. Her hair color had changed, but her sideview was the same as Sarah before she was infected with corona, she used to come to the class before all the students and sometimes she would bring Empanada, the Mexican food to share with everyone in her free time and she would happily say: "I cooked it myself." In the picture, she looked a little thinner, but I attributed it to the corona disease. I moved to the middle aisle of the store. I was holding the bouquet of Valentine's Day red flowers in my right hand, and I don't know why I was pressing it unnecessarily.The store had become a little more crowded, perhaps the Valentine's Day had just started and the lovers had woken up. As crossing the middle aisle, I looked both sides and between the shelves، maybe I'll find Sarah. I knew it would make her happy to see me. It was in the middle of the A7 shelf where I saw Sarah. It was herself, the same simplicity, glowing skin and bright look, but with just one difference, her hair, the same hair that I envied and always told about its beautiful black color and brilliance, but now they were all blonde. The golden color of Sarah's hair made her look a little older. I intended to call on her and go to her, but I realized that she was talking to a young man who wasn't definitely a Walmart employee. I couldn't recognize the young man's face, because his back was to me. I didn't want to judge, I didn't put myself in the place of someone who wanted to judge his English class student badly. I pulled myself back and went to the milk sale fridge. I really didn't know that I need milk or not, but I bought a packet of low-fat milk since I used to eat milk filled with oats every day. I just wanted to take my mind somewhere else by shopping, I didn't want to make up stories like vulgar Hollywood movies and put together the triangle of the old husband, the young beloved, and the girl who falls in love. I went to the scanning machines, first I scanned the flower and then the milk and put them in the plastic bag, and when I raised my head, I saw the glowing, black and beautiful eyes staring at me, it was Sarah. She came to me, hugged me warmly and introduced me to the young man with her. I didn't want or couldn't ask about their relationship with each other, but Sarah looked at the rose branches that were out of the Walmart plastic and said: "What beautiful flowers, Caroline." It was the first time that she called me by my own name. I remember that anytime she had a question in the class, she raised her hand slowly with a little shame and said: "teacher, I have a question", but now she calls me by my own name. Maybe after that evening tea and cake appointment, she had become more intimate with me, or the feeling of shame had gone. Without waiting for my reaction, she continued: "But you told me that you lost your husband years ago." I smiled and looked at the young man who was looking at this conversation with a little impatience and said: "Well, sometimes I buy flowers for myself." I said a short goodbye and left the door. The sky was partly cloudy and the sun was shining on my face from the corner of the cloud. I took the red flower out of the plastic bag and pressed it between my fingers. It was half an hour from the Walmart store to the cemetery.

Upon waking, the flood to my senses was impulsively deafening. Opening my eyes shone anything but comfort. I think in that moment I could have seen farther if I looked through my toe. What I could see was oddly familiar, like all those times as a child that I had pressed my palms to my eyes to view that kaleidoscopic spectacle. A practice of which I’m sure is not the healthiest for the eyes. It was as if the colors, dull and dim though they were, were sentient. Swirling and spinning in their own independent paths, but at the same time, in unison; all on the same voyage. I’m sure of it now that this was just my eyes’ last ditch effort to discern something, anything among the madness. Darker than my eyes could see, and yet what I felt could only be accounted as a sense of grey. The bounds of my being were indiscernible. I couldn’t sense where my body ended and the hell began. Upon trying to stand, I felt the overwhelming fear of falling and a disturbing lack of confirmation that I was moving at all. I was stationary with the ever-present awareness of hurtling toward something. It was a comatose consciousness, much like the sensation I can only imagine one suffers from Restless Leg Syndrome, enveloping my soul. My limbs begged to be outstretched. For a long while, I struggled and for a long while after, I didn’t. My thoughts were all that were left with me. My sanity became my purpose. I found myself philosophizing, for one reason or another. Life and Death were where I would eventually and undoubtedly find myself, because neither applied to me any longer. I would ponder that vastness of the Universe I once called home. I found myself wondering if amongst the infinite amount of infinite sets of infinite digits within the value of pi, the Universe had accounted for a way in which I would eventually end up nowhere. I hadn’t come here, I hadn’t been transported, I just simply was here and wasn’t where I had been. I had come here, by no means at all, for no reason at all; an effect without a cause. There was nothing here for me, and it certainly wanted to be noticed.

How do you explain a problem that never existed. A hatred of something that never was. It leaves you tired of everything. How do you answer a question that has not been asked. I do not lie when I say I do not know what is wrong. I do not. My mind screaming, but is silent, my thoughts run, but are always exhausted. My brain immobile but always moving, I speak but not of truth. My lies are persistent and flow like truth, I trick myself that I am okay. I am not, I have not ever been, a mental threat, no will to go on. Help. I am always wrong, because I never knew. I lie like I breath. I never knew the truth. It runs my life, I’ve lost control. I am wrong and that is right, not me or this but what I say is not truth. I do not know what is wrong or what it is to be happy. Help. I want this to stop, but not to end. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. What do I want. I am not okay. So stop asking because I will lie. I will say I am fine. Wrong. I need a cure, an answer. What is wrong with me. Help. My mind screams so loud, but I sit in silence. Unstable. Anti-Social. But I talk. Loner. But I try. Alone. But surrounded. Wrong am I to want happiness. My mind says help but my lips speak lies. I am not okay. I am wrong.

TEA FOR ONE OR TWO I grew up watching a lot of movies and I knew that stories based on true events were mostly made up for entertainment, so I had no reason to believe them, but they were entertaining so I always liked watching them. Movies like The Amityville horror, Sybil, movies about people suddenly going crazy and so on. They made me laugh at those who thought those things and events were real. I never took them seriously, at least not until one day I realized that I was not alone, and it was not just me .... living in me. I was having my morning cup of tea as I usually did every day before I left for work. I was sitting at my little table in my little apartment. I had just finished my first cup of tea and was about to get up to have another. Another one of my self-made flavored teas that was in my mind the talk of my neighbors, because one cup I know they most likely said, was never going to be enough. My tea had to be the best because I was the best. As I rose from the table, I heard loud and clear somebody shout the word "NO!" I turned around towards the living room because it sounded as though the person shouting was right near me. I laughed and said to myself “I hope nobody is about to get murdered. Or come up missing” I will admit that it startled me at first, but I figured between my thin apartment walls and the usually loud boisterous guy upstairs, it was probably just him shouting at his kids again. So, I just continued towards my kitchen stove which was only a few feet away from the table I was sitting at. As always, I stopped in front of the mirror that was on the closest door to make sure that my well-kept hair, looked well kept. Ok I was vain, but this was my life, I thought. As expected, every strand as usual was all in place. After all I did have to go to work soon, and I always looked good for work and no matter who agreed with my dress style I knew I was dressed to kill. As I looked in the mirror, I again heard loud clear "No" but this time it happened as I was looking straight into the mirror and what I saw caused shock and fear to suddenly go through every bone in my body with a rush that almost knocked me backwards. I damn near fainted at what I saw, my lips before my very eyes had involuntarily moved and I read my own lips as they had formed the word connected to the shout I had just heard. My first thought my mind quickly came up with, was most likely was an effort by my mind to help keep my sanity. I thought that maybe the man upstairs who hated me, who I had argued with on many occasions about the noise, had somehow gotten into my apartment and somehow put some hallucinate drug in my precious tea. Maybe that was a thought because one night I had dreamed that he did that or maybe because I knew the man didn’t like that his wife had on occasion, innocently had a cup tea with me before I left for work, after she had dropped her kids off at school. But if it wasn’t him, was what I saw in the mirror an illusion or like in those movies I laughed at, some force or someone within me finally coming out at this time, with no fear of me having the strength to fight back, to prevent me from becoming a whole them. I found myself walking toward the teapot again, but it wasn’t really me, I no longer wanted to. He or it was taking over, I felt it, it was happening quickly and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. As I watched my body being controlled by another I realized after he reached the cabinet over the stove, that he wasn’t going to get another cup of my fine tea. This son of a gun reached and grabbed the coffee. I never drank coffee, and it was only around for visitors. This is one reason I felt and knew that this was the beginning of the end of me, the me the world knew. I probably will never know how or why this has happened to me at this moment and at this time in my life at the age of 45. Was I always destined to only live what was maybe half my bodies life as me? Unfortunately, it was, I know because he told me so. The voice I heard within me when it spoke again told me loud and clear that together we will become him, and I would be no more. There is no doubt that he had been waiting in my mind and body for this time to come. He had to know that my mind and body had been weakened from the pressure of my job and the pressure of just being me. I know now that I should have kept those appointments with the psychologist, maybe the doctor could have helped me stay me Still Its strange that the final thoughts of mine were not about the conflict within or the hostile takeover of me during my morning cup of tea nor were they about me watching myself go upstairs and change into clothes that I would never have worn to work. My thoughts were about knowing that I’ll never ever enjoy another cup of my wonderful tea again and neither would those who had the pleasure of tasting it before. If I must guess, I would have to believe that from now on, they will be trying and tasting some good ass neighborly coffee, instead of my tea. I just don’t feel or think that things will ever be the same, because I’ll never be me again.