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Stella threw a stone in the river and got a rebuke. "Don't do that! It may disrupt my wish." They were the only ones at the river bank, which was strange at this time of the year but was expected, due to the pandemic. The three girls had figured it would be a nice time to visit the much talked about Ile-Ife especially since the tour guides had no customers and could give them all the attention. Two girls looked back at Tina in confusion. Tina sighed, hoping her wish would still be valid as she explained. "This, is the Osun River" she spread out her hands. "And people make wishes here." Stella scoffed. "Don't be so gullible. That stuff is a myth." Tolu gave her a jab. "Be nice." "What? I like to say it as it is. I mean, that's why we're educated." Stella shrugged. Tonia shook her head and went to sit on a bamboo chair, whilst her friends followed. "So, what did you wish for?" Tolu raised her brows in curiosity. "Now, don't tell me you wished for Segun to change his mind, cause we all know that's not going to happen." "Stella! For once! Let her talk." Tolu glared at her. "But you know I'm right. A guy doesn't say he no longer loves a girl if he hasn't given it a lot of thought." Stella began fishing out some dirt in her nails. Tolu rolled her eyes. "You're right and thankfully, I'm not that stupid." Tina agreed. "Anyways," Tolu clapped happily, "we're here to celebrate Christmas and make you forget all about that - that - that man." She took a deep breath, "for a lack of better words." "I'm not about to start insulting him. I guess he did what he had to do. Let's just enjoy this trip without any mention of him." "Now you're talking!" Stella cheered and hugged them both. * "Hey!" It was eight a.m. when Tina came into the small office of their tour guide, catching him unawares, about to wear his suit. "Hello!" He looked embarrassed to have been caught dressing up. "Did you need something?" "We've been able to attend those awesome carols and visit the museum, what's next?" "Nothing this morning, but I was about to go for a rehearsal at the theatre. I didn't think you three would be interested." "I don't know about the others but I am. Can I tag along?" "Sure," he shrugged. "Give me a minute to inform my friends." Tina ran up the stairs and barged into the room. "Guys! The tour guide is going for this theatrical play, anyone interested?" "Na, not my scene." Tolu shook her head and continued with her phone. "I would have come but I'm really...tired." Stella yawned. "Alright! See you later." She changed to her shoes. "Wait, you're going with him, alone?" Stella looked at her from her half sleepy state. Tina nodded. "Be safe. It's christmas and there are strange people out there. Besides, we don't know this place so well." "True, thanks anyways. Bye." She waved at them and rushed downstairs. Thankfully, there was no traffic. People were probably staying indoors due to the pandemic. The only sign of the festive season were the carols they attended the first day and the lights on the streets - even that, wasn't so bright during the day. "You said earlier that you didn't think we'd be interested." "And I was right." The tour guide glanced at her as they stopped at the traffic light. "Partially! Now, what did you mean?" "Well, not to insult you, but you three seem like the party kind. I'm still surprised you want to tag along, how come? "Honestly, I'm truly not the theatrical kind, but it's nice to know what goes on backstage. If this were the actual play, I doubt I'd have agreed to come. Besides, I'm not so busy." "Right. An idle mind is the devil's workshop?" "Correct!" She answered just as the car began to move. They discussed Christmas and what they loved about the season, entering into an argument but managing to settle as they got to their destination. "Follow me." He led the way, greeting people as they moved. "This play is for when?" "Christmas day. Today's our last rehearsal." "Hmmn..." Tina nodded and followed him backstage. "Do you mind helping me rehearse before I get on stage?" "Uhm, no problem." "All you need do is read out Juliet's part." "Alright." Tina smiled and waited for him to change into his costume before they started the rehearsal. * "Hey! You're back, how was it?" Stella looked up from their game of scrabble. "I don't know, something strange happened." Tolu paused. "During the play?" "Not really, cause there was no play. It was just practice for tomorrow's play." "Okay...so what happened?" Stella got up from her playing position and handed Tina a bottle of water. "Thanks." She took a huge gulp and took in a deep breath. "So, I was assisting the tour guide-" "You still didn't get his name? That's rude." Tolu shook her head. Tina opened and closed her mouth, unable to defend herself. "As I was saying," she pouted, "I read the lines of Juliet whilst he acted his, you get?" "Please get to the juicy part already." Tolu clapped, making Stella shake her head. "It was going well until it was time to propose to Juliet." "Wait a minute, did Romeo ever propose?" "I don't know," Tina shrugged, "he mentioned that it was a contemporary version of the story though." Stella and Tolu nodded simultaneously. "Then he started saying, "oh Juliet! I have watched you since you came on the trip and you're the most quiet of your friends. You're the kind of woman I see myself with - honest and thoughtful. Let's court." Stella's eyes rounded. "Was that in the script?!" "No!" Tina cried. "Wait, does this mean he thinks Tolu and I are lousy?" Stella asked in shock. "You mean to say, he proposed, truly proposed?" Tolu had moved to the edge of the bed, looking excited and shocked at the same time. "Exactly! I can't believe it." Tina held her face. "How was his facial expression?" "I don't think he realised what he had said. He was staring into my eyes so intently, it was so creepy!" "Wow... What do you think about him?" "Tolu! Are you well at all? You want her to consider a man she just met two days ago, a man whose name she still doesn't know." "Strangers become friends and then, something more." Stella rolled her eyes. "It's those movies you spend all day watching. If a stranger proposes to you, he definitely has an ulterior motive." "I agree. He should have thought of it, I hope he wasn't expecting me to say yes. Besides, I'm on this trip because Bode dumped me. I need a break from relationships." "You won't even consider him?" "Tolu!" Stella hissed and went back to her playing position. "Better come here and let's finish this game." "I don't think I can continue with this tour, especially since I ran out on him. It would be embarrassing. And...we can't leave here because he's getting his pay from people like us." Tina told them a few minutes into the game. "Aren't you so nice. I guess, if you insist, we could complete the tour. What would you do though?" Stella tried to think. "Maybe go window shopping?" * Tina went to Afere Mall. It was the biggest in Osun state and by far the most beautiful she had seen since their arrival. It was a good place to window shop - a lot of things caught her eyes and she was tempted to buy. Thankfully, she only took her purse and her ATM card was in her bag. As she looked around, someone suddenly approached her and got on one knee. "Uhh, I think you're mistaken." She looked around and tried to move away from him but he grabbed her hand. "Please don't say no." His gruff voice was way too loud and a crowd began to gather round. "I love you with every fiber of my being and I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you. When I met..." Tina tuned him out and settled on his features. He looked rough, too rough to be taken home to her parents as a husband. His beards were bushy and he was on dreadlocks, definitely not her kind of man. "Are you done?" She finally asked when he went silent for a minute. "I don't know you, so I can't say yes." The crowd began to murmur. "I think this is some sort of mistake but-" The man got up and told her, "it's a joke." "What?!" "You're on our show...those are the cameras up there." He pointed her towards some people who waved at her. The crowd began to clap and soon dispersed. "Well, that was mean... You couldn't even say yes." Tina felt angry but didn't want to say anything. "You can check out our comedy skit on Instagram. It's titled, different reactions to a proposal." Tina shook her head and left the mall, branching at a restaurant to calm herself. After ordering, her phone rang and she saw it was Segun. She contemplated picking it but dropped it, doing so three times. A man suddenly approached her. "Is this seat taken?" He was already seated before she could say no. He began to whisper and leaned towards her. "I've been trying to call you, why aren't you answering? You didn't change your mind about the date, did you? I mean, you're here, right?" Tina leaned far away from him with an annoyed look on her face. "I don't think you know who or what you're talking about. I'm not here for any date." "Come on. There's no need to lie. See, we're no longer young." "Excuse you?" "If you say yes to marry me, we can get married as soon as possible. I know we just met but I've been following your profile weeks before now." He rushed out, looking anxious as he sat at the edge of the seat. "Let me get this straight." Tina took in a deep breath. "You're here for a blind date with this lady for the first time, and you're proposing? Already?" "I don't appreciate you speaking like you're not the one." He brought out his phone and showed her a picture. Tina's surprise was written all over her face. "She does look like me, but I'd know if that was me, alright? That's not me." People had begun to stare in their direction and Tina had to lower her voice. "I have had enough - of this madness for one day. Good day." She got up just when the waiter approached with her food. "Take away please." She told him. * "Wow, that's crazy, girl." Tolu clapped happily. "Who does he think he is? Proposing to a girl on the first date." Stella rolled her eyes. "That's not even the point guys!" "True, three proposals in one day, I'd say you're too pretty to be ignored." Stella smirked. "Or... It has something to do with that Osun River?" "No way!" Stella glared at Tolu. "What did you wish for?" She turned to see Tina with rounded eyes. "I wished for -for - for suitors for Christmas." "You did what?! Why would you wish for that?" Stella groaned. "I was feeling down about Segun breaking up with me, and he's the only suitor I ever had." Tina frowned. "Sweetheart, you don't need anyone to make you feel special or beautiful, you are..." Stella engulfed her in a hug. "Exactly, and if those men can't see that, they aren't yours in the first place." "Wait...does this mean...the Osun River wishing thing actually works?!" Stella stared at them in shock. "Let's go take a bath in there! We need several miracles this Christmas." "We are Christians Tolu, we can pray." "Okay, I feel hot." Stella rolled her eyes whilst Tina laughed. The three ladies went to get a bathing suit and hurried to the Osun River. * "Better make your wishes ladies!" Tina laughed at the upset look on Stella's face. "For the last time Tina, we are Christians!" "If only Segun could see all of these curves." Tolu splashed at her friend. "Oh please! I'm not showing anyone this beautiful body until marriage." "Great idea. That Segun wasn't even reliable." Stella wiped her face as she rose from under. "Speaking of which, he's here." Tolu looked in shock. "What?!" Tina froze. "He, as in, the tour guide?" "He, as in, Segun." "What?!" The other girls whirled to see Segun approaching the river. "How on earth did he even know we were here?" Tina cried, watching Segun approach them like a man on a mission. "Probably through the dozen pictures we've taken and posted on IG." Stella shrugged. "Don't tell me he's getting in the water." "He can't try it." Stella shook her head and shouted, "don't come in the water oh!" "What are you doing here Segun?" Tina shouted "I made a mistake!" His voice echoed. "I'm sorry. I was so anxious about meeting your parents that I broke up. Please, marry me! I love you." The three ladies watched him get on one knee and bring out a little red box. "He's joking." Tina looked pissed. "You can't just come back, asking me to marry you, with such a useless reason for dumping me. You could have talked to me!" "I'm sorry!" "Do you guys think this is the Osun River at work?" "Definitely." "Of course! Someone that says he no longer loves a lady gave it a lot of thought and he's changing his mind in three days? I can't believe it." "Go home Segun. I'll think about it and give you a call." "Please sweeth-" "Go home! She said she'd call you back." Stella hissed and splashed him. "Bye-bye!" Tolu waved. After he left, Tina sighed. "I think I need a walk." "I can't agree more. Four proposals in one day! Even I can't handle it, and I didn't get proposed to." Tolu sighed. "You need it babe." Stella patted her shoulder. Tina got out of the water and waved at the girls. "Just make sure you keep your phone on, alright?" "Yupp." * It was seven p.m. and whilst Tina walked down the beach, she noticed a handsome man staring at her. It wouldn't have looked strange asides the fact that he was at a table with candles lit and flowers all around, balloons tied. It looked really special but the man at the table looked anything but happy. "Hey! Are you alright?" She approached him. "Yes, I am. You look really pretty though." Tina laughed, blushing a lot. "Don't tell me you're about to propose." "Actually, I already did and she said no." It took a while for Tina to realise he wasn't referring to her. "Wow... With all of these pretty things?" "And for the third time." "No way...." "Oh no! Here comes the cake, and he's with people." He whispered. "Help a guy out here, alright? When I propose, just say yes?" Tina chuckled. "Alright. If it will make you feel better about the no." "It will, trust me. And it will save my face in front of these strangers. I mean, after all these plans!" Tina nodded with a smile as he got on one knee and proposed. "Yes!!!" She shouted, with a bit of tears in her eyes and her hands over her mouth as she gave him a big hug. "In this pandemic?" He laughed and put the ring on her as their viewers clapped. Once their audience left, he asked, "did you forget to tell me what an actress you are?" Tina laughed. "We didn't get round to that part." He sighed, looking at the cake. "Would you care to join me? There's wine." Tina laughed. "After the fifth proposal today, I think I need it." "Really? How did that happen?" He poured her a cup and gave her a slice of cake as she explained how her day went. "Wow! Five proposals in one day! Aren't you the dream?" "Oh please, I think it has a lot to do with the Osun River." "Yeah, I was going to ask about that. First, there's no Osun River close to that hotel. Second, there's no way they'd open the Osun River in this pandemic." "What!? I don't believe it, how then do you explain the entire day?" Tina asked in surprise. "I think it's the magic of Christmas. After all, it's christmas Eve. That, and the fact that you're so beautiful, let's say it was love at first sight for us." Tina laughed and got a slice of cake as they took a walk round the beach. "I'm Martins, just in case you were wondering." "Really? After proposing." The smile was etched on her face as they clinked their glasses and talked through the night. *** "And that! Is the story of these two love birds." The host announced. "Yes! One year and counting." They flashed their rings at the crowd who couldn't stop cheering. "Any questions?" Someone got up. "How did you know she was the one?" "Honestly," Martins took his wife's hand, "when you meet a woman willing to boost your ego and cover your shame, you know she's a gem. Two, five proposals in a day, that - was a dream! Besides, we pretty much sealed the deal when I refused to take back the ring." "And I'm glad you didn't." Tina blushed. "Just as I am glad Ola said no, three times." He gave her a kiss as they joined in the countdown to Christmas.
I woke up long before morning arrived. Or perhaps I didn’t sleep. I was excited like a kid the night before their first school trip. Climbing out of my bed, I heard the soft breathing of Tobias. His eyes were closed and he had rolled himself into the blanket like a log. If I had a gun or a knife, could’ve I ended his life there? I shrugged off the idea, chiding myself. The Calamity must have put out protections of some sort. Maybe a glyph, a spell-code scribbled on the frame of his bed. There’s no way he’d leave himself in a vulnerable state. But that hadn’t been my first thought. I sneaked out of the room, and stepped into the hotel’s lobby. A new face greeted me behind the reception, a young man. I passed by the guards in the front, lingering a bit while I observed them. Their faces stoic and refusing to meet my eyes. Were they Hunters in disguise? The roads were empty. It was the sweet spot in the early morning where the light from the lamp posts had been turned off but the sun hadn’t climbed out of their horizon bed. A wind brushed past me and I zipped up my jacket. The sound of my boots crunched against the pavement in a rhythmic pattern. I looked at the tall looming buildings, wondering if there were anyone keeping an eye on me. The Hunters had kept watch on me in Irkutsk. They’ve even grown bold, sending Altan into the fray even though I knew of him, hard set that I won’t rat them out. You won’t. Because we know how much you despise the situation you’re in. Altan had said it like a fact, they knew me better than myself. Your greedy smile from before revealed your true self. Same with Tobias, pushing and using me like a pawn in his game. The clouded sky was still dull and groggy from the lack of light. The sun was slow to wake up. I raised my hand, pointing upwards to the heavens, and focused on the sensation in the forest, of the image of Rosalyn. The first syllable was Gryal. My lips continued without my brain’s instructions, finishing the invocation. And the surge of magic passed through me, up my hands and exploding into the sky. And the city stirred. Heads popped out from open windows, watching the firework in disbelief. Dogs barked in panic. People hurried out of their homes in their pyjamas. They all watched the fireworks with open mouths. I hurried back, hiding in the crowd’s confusion. My heart beat hard and the grin on my face refused to leave. \\\* The hotel’s guests had turned into a mob, bombarding the young receptionist with questions, asking if the city’s being attacked, if it’s a prank. The guards stood next to the receptionist, trying their best to answer the questions and to calm down the mob. Sitting on one of the couches in the lobby was Tobias, observing the situation from a distance. He noticed me and signaled me to come to him. I ignored his call and headed to our room, a sense of satisfaction flooded through me when I passed him and his face dropped in shock. He got up from the couch and walked quickly to catch up to me. “Did you cause the ruckus?” Tobias asked. “Rosalyn named it well,” I said. “It really grabs one's attention.” “Aren’t you afraid that it will attract the Hunters?” he continued. “What’s there to be afraid of, you can handle them, can’t you?” His words faltered and we entered our room. This side of me was new to him and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Frankly, I wasn’t sure how to deal with it myself. “What happened to staying undercover?” he asked, standing with his back to the door. I plopped down on my bed and pulled off my boots. “I’ve given it some thought and don’t think it’s necessary. If the Hunters wanted to harm us, they would’ve done it already.” “How do you know?” I stared up at his steel-grey eyes. “Why should I tell you?” The surrs from the angry mob by the reception prickled the floor. The Calamity folded his hands across his chest, his face deep in thought. “Let’s set things straight,” I said. “You have power over me due to the magic addiction. I’ve accepted it, I won’t be able to run away because I want to learn. I need to learn. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t have power over you.” “Oh?” Tobias’ voice sounded mocking. “And what do you have?” “Knowledge. I know about the Hunters, of Rosalyn Darmitage, of the modern world. How many people possess all three?” I don’t know why, but I had the gall to pick up my phone and played with it, not even giving The Calamity my full attention. Confidence poured out of me. “Let’s set the bar straight,” I continued. “You are not my master. We’re trade partners who want things from each other. We’re making an exchange here, you teach me magic, how to channel Rosalyn’s memories into spells and I’ll continue to be your guide and aid you against the Hunters. I won’t care about the lives you take, or the world conquest you probably have in the back of your mind. If you can’t agree, I’ll leave. In the end, I’ll succumb to the cravings and crawl back to you, but not before I’ve exhausted all my options, including asking for help from the Hunters and spilling everything I know about the Darmitage and about you.” “I can detain you,” he said. “Put you in a hypnotic daze and have you spill out all that information.” “Perhaps,” I said. “But you haven’t, I wonder why. Might there be a weakness in that spell you used on that lady receptionist? You had the opportunities to do so when you put me to sleep after killing the Hunters.” I looked up from my screen. Cracks had formed in his composure. His eyes ran around the room, searching for solution. For once, I was the one in power. “What happened to you?” he asked. My lips twisted upwards, into a manic grin, like the one he’d done yesterday in the car. “I figured things out.” I reached out my hand. “So what do you say?” His face said it all. Lips thinned into a single line, nose flared, the middle of his brow scrunched together. But he reached out a hand and shook it. He forced out a smile and said in a voice dripped in venom: “Let’s learn some magic, shall we?” “Let’s.” I shook his hand. With my other hand, I clicked on ‘stop recording’ on my phone and put it in my pocket, wondering what Altan would say if I showed him the footage.
As I begin to come back to my senses, I hear an interval beep to the right of me. One, two, three, four, beep. One, two, three, four, beep. One, two, three, four, beep. Every five seconds then. I groan out loud as I wonder how long this irritating beep is going to go on for, how long has it been beeping already? Is this real life or am I in a dream? Speaking of reality where the hell am I? I can feel a mattress beneath me, I shift my legs and sense stiff sheets on my bare legs and a thin waffle blanket scrunched between my fingers. I hear a muffled conversation somewhere in the distance, the screeching sound of a sneaker halting on the floor, someone somewhere nearby coughing lightly. My head feels foggy - like my thoughts are in slow motion and idea of formulating a sentence or speaking it out loud might be tiring enough to put me to sleep for a year. Speaking of year what year is it? What day is it? Who am I? No, no calm down my name is Lina Heavins, I’m 17 years old, its 2023, I am in St. Dominick’s Children’s hospital and the surgery most be over . Unsuccessfully it seems . The smell of antiseptic floods my nose and burns my throat - God it’s the 21st century why have they not figured out how to sterilize things with something that doesn’t smell awful. All the doctors’ offices and hospitals over the years you would think I would be used to the smell by now, but familiar nausea fills my stomach causing it to churn and I feel a sweat break out on my forehead. Nope that’s not the antiseptic doing that - I’m going to hurl . I sit up to empty the contents of my stomach when I hear a voice I recognize say, “ oh shit ” and then I feel a familiar plastic bag with a wide, rigid round opening at the top get pushed between my fingers. Grateful for emesis bags at this moment because while throwing up all over myself is something I have done many times over the years; it remains one of my least favorite hospital activities. “Damn Lina, you okay?” The voice of my brother Brady somehow sounds both concerned and disgusted at the same time. I can’t help but grin at the thought of him being grossed out. Peachy, livin’ the dream. “Fine just anesthesia sickness, thanks for the barf bag” I say wiping my mouth with the excuse for sandpaper we are calling a tissue he handed over once I finished. Really? I know for a fact that a fraction of my medical bills could fund supplying the place with some softer Kleenex. “I take it the surgery was unsuccessful given that well, I can’t see anything?” I ask Brady trying to hide the defeated tone of my voice. “Not exactly” I hear my dad chuckle from further away in the room. “Have you touched your face?” A well of urgency builds up my core and my hands fly up to my face where I feel the dressings. Soft cotton gauze , unlike the damn tissues , and that sticky not sticky tape hospitals use after they draw your blood and bandage you up. Is it possible? Did it work? Is the reason I can’t see right now not because I’m blind since but -- A prickling sense of anxiety rushes up my spine and settles in my chest. When I open my mouth to ask more questions, I can sense someone has entered the room with us. “Well, well, well Miss Heavins - thank you for not heaving all over yourself and the linens as that would have delayed our fun”. Dr. Bomnidae, apparent jokester, was top of his class at Harvard Medical School and he has been my primary ophthalmologist for the past 6 years. Shortly after I was born, I caught a rare infection that damaged my corneas resulting in total blindness. Dr. B read about my case during his residency and convinced himself and his peers that he could reverse the damage caused by the infection and so him and the team at St. Dominick’s reached out to my parents. During his time at Harvard and after he has studied cutting-edge corneal repairment as well as transplants. After meeting Dr. B for the first time, he instilled hope that the damage might be able to be reversed with a combination of his skillset, time, and patience . Key word might. Before this surgery Dr. B mentioned that he is confident that he has restored and regenerated enough of my tissue over the years for this one to be the one that gives me some of my sight back. Dr. B made it very clear I won’t ever have perfect vision but hey, half an ice cream sundae is better than no ice cream sundae at all am I right? Seeing the world physically, because let’s be clear you can see the world more than just physically, is something I’ve always dreamed of. When we were kids, I used to beg Brady and my parents to describe things around the house to me. Even though I had no visual context for the words they shared with me I fantasized that one day I would be able to connect all the dots. Before visiting Dr. B, I had been told there was a zero percent chance of me living with any form of sight and so I made peace with my way of experiencing life. I may not be able to see a beautiful sunset at the beach but I can still feel the sand beneath my fingers, I can hear the ocean waves crashing and the children playing, I can feel the suns warmth absorb into my skin until it feels colder and colder and how is that any less beautiful than seeing a big ball of gas move down the sky as it changes colors? It’s not, it’s just different. BUT I wouldn’t mind being able to experience both and if that’s even a remote possibility then I’m certainly not going to say no. I feel Dr. B approach my bedside and I can smell his aftershave, citrus and cedar wood like always. “Moment of truth Linny! Dr. B said the surgery went exceptionally!” I hear my mom exclaim from somewhere near where my dad’s voice came from. I can practically hear the smile in her voice, but I feel a pit on anxiety ball up in my stomach. I can’t help but feel that if the surgery didn’t work that it would somehow be my fault and that I disappointed everyone. I know it’s a crazy thought and maybe it’s the post-op drugs, but I still can’t escape it. I feel Dr. B’s fingers peeling back the tape on the sides of my temples and I am wondering if everyone in the room can hear my heart thundering. It’s beating so loud in my ears I almost don’t hear Dr. B say “Lina it’s time to open your eyes”. With a deep, and admittedly shaky breath, I focus on pulling up my eyelids. They feel wet, sticky and swollen and my heart immediately sinks to my stomach. Darkness. Nothing. It feels like the weight of the world falls over my body like a wet blanket. Dr. B’s voice snaps me out of my own thoughts “Blink as fast as you can Lina all the topical antibiotics would be creating a film over your retinas, we need it to clear away.” I do as he says and blink as fast as I can and then, my breath hitches. It’s dark but I see a shadow in front of me, no a silhouette, a person, “BRADY”! I’ve never seen my brother, but I know it’s him, I can feel his familiar warmth in front of me. The lights are off and it’s fuzzy, but I can see the shapes and colors that encompass him. Colors, my god I can’t wait to learn colors. “As we had hoped for many years, it appears the surgery was a success.” I turn toward the direction of Dr. B as I continue to blink rapidly as I connect the dots of citrus and cedarwood with the tall, lean man smiling in front of me. “Lina we are going to be talked about in books for this -- you have helped a great deal of the people in the blind and low vision community with all the experimental procedures over the years until we finally got it right.” I think I hear a quiver in his voice as he speaks. I see the shapes of who I know are my parents and hear their sobs and cries as they hug and embrace Dr. B. thanking him for everything he has done for our family. I am in shock, I think. That’s the only way to describe it. I barely hear any of the words coming out of Dr. B’s mouth to my parents about next steps and my post-op procedure instructions. I am so focused on the shapes of everything around me, the colors, matching the colors and the shapes with touch and smell - and hopefully taste soon , I touch my stomach and feel it rumble. I didn’t realize the room had fallen silent as everyone watched me explore my newfound sense with the items around me. I look in the direction of everyone and I feel what might be the biggest smile of my entire life spread across my face. “Can someone please take me to see the sunset?”
Jennifer bit her lip and knocked on the door, acutely aware of the probability that her article hinged on which direction this meeting swung. A lady with a bob of gray hair and a red apron opened the door, and a sweet, buttery smell escaped into the winter air. “Well, come on in, sweetie pie. Don’t want you freezin out there.” She waved her in with a white, flour covered hand. “Thank you, Ms. Brenda.” Jennifer stepped inside, although the fifty-five degree sunshine felt amazing compared to the icy blasts she’d left behind in New York City two days before. “Wow, your house smells amazing. They should make a candle with that scent.” Ms. Brenda chuckled. “Shortbread cookies. I make them every Tuesday. You sit right here while I finish this batch. I’m ready for your questions whenever you are.” “Well, like I said, I’m Jennifer Andrews with The New York Times. I caught wind of the quiet property sales in your neighborhood, all of which sold without ever going on the market. You’re one of the last original owners left in this development along the river, aren’t you?” The wooden rolling pin squeaked as she flattened the yellow dough. She nodded without looking up. “Seven families gone.” “Has anyone approached you about buying your place?” “Oh yeah. I’ve gotten three phone calls, and I told them not a chance. But now my neighbors are gone, and I feel kinda lonely. I’ve been wonderin if I should reconsider.” “Before you do anything like that, hear me out. I believe there is a company using unethical tactics to buy up these properties. Do you know why your neighbors sold? Were they offered a lot of money?” Ms. Brenda scored the dough into rectangles, then popped the pan in the oven. She slowly wiped down the counter and rinsed the sponge. Jennifer bit her lip again and tried to wait patiently. “I’m sorry if this hits a sore spot.” Ms. Brenda shook her head. “It’s just... well, I feel ashamed to admit it, but we all did somethin terrible. On accident of course, but it’s catchin up to us.” Jennifer frowned. “I don’t understand.” “I suppose I don’t mind showin ya.” She moved to the built-in desk at the side of the kitchen and pulled a paper out of the top drawer. “We all got one of these in the mail last summer.” Jennifer studied the paper. “An unpaid riverfront tax from the past thirty years of $130,000 due in full this April?” She looked up in shock. “That’s ridiculous!” “I can’t pay that, and they couldn’t either.” “Have you called the number they provided?” “No, I’ve been tryin to forget about it.” She sniffed and looked out the window. “I know that’s foolish, but I feel downright sick when I think on it.” “Forging a letter from the IRS is a felony. This may be a scam to pressure people into selling. Would it be okay if I called this number right now?” Ms. Brenda smiled broadly and patted her heart. “That would take a load off my chest!” “Awesome. I think there’s a good chance you’ll get a call from another buyer soon after, so be prepared. Also, is it okay if I impersonate you? It might be slightly offensive.” “Go right ahead. I’ll sit here and watch the show.” She handed Jennifer the phone and sat down on a big, flowered armchair, one of two in a bay window overlooking the Red River. Jennifer dialed and waited on speakerphone. A female answered. “IRS accounts receivable department. This is Nancy. With whom am I speaking?” “Hey, there. This is Brenda Myers,” Jennifer said in a gravelly drawl. “I’m in a tizzy cuz I’ve got this letter here sayin I owe the government a lot of money. Can you help me out?” Jennifer glanced over at Ms. Brenda in alarm. She had clamped a hand over her mouth and was bobbing violently in the chair. Please don’t have a stroke in the middle of this. “Of course, Ms. Myers. I’ve got your account pulled up. It looks like you owe $130,000.” “Lord Almighty, that’s a fortune! Whew, lemme take a minute.” She covered the phone and whispered, “Are you okay?” Ms. Brenda’s face was now purple, and tears squeezed out of her eyes. She nodded. Jennifer broke out in a sweat. “Nancy, tell me- do you have financin options? I was thinkin I might take out a loan. Or maybe I could ask my daughter for the money. I don’t know, what do you recommend?” “We, um... y-yes, financing is an option. Would you like me to send you some information on that?” “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you, dear.” “Of course, Ms. Myers. I’ll put a pamphlet in the mail today, and it should be there in a week. Goodbye.” Dial tone. Ms. Brenda exploded. She leaned over and smacked her knees as loud cackles ripped out of her chest, one after another. She dragged in a deep breath and let out another round of trapped laughter. Relief washed over Jennifer, and she started to giggle, too. “Oh my gawd, you sounded just like me!” The oven beeped. “You deserve a snack, young lady!” Jennifer flashed an impish grin. “I was hoping you’d say that. Did you notice how nervous she got when I talked about actually paying?” “Yeah, she had ants in her britches. Coffee?” Jennifer and Ms. Brenda ate and chatted for the next ten minutes as if they were old friends. Then the phone rang. Ms. Brenda answered and hit speakerphone. “Hello, Ms. Myers? This is Elizabeth Pelfrey. My husband and I are looking for a riverfront place in your area. One of my good friends recently bought a property on your street, and I was wondering if there was a chance you might consider selling?” Jennifer wrote on a notepad: Let’s hear their offer. “Well, I suppose we could talk about it. Tomorrow at 3?” When Ms. Brenda hung up the phone, her eyes were huge. “You can just hear them out without committing to anything. I’ll record it as evidence.” “Will you pretend to be my daughter Hannah? She won’t mind, and I’ll need the support.” “Of course. Texas accent?” “Yeah, sweetie. You got it down pat.” There was a knock at the door. It opened half-way, and a young man with a nicely trimmed beard leaned in through the opening. “You doin okay, Ms. Brenda?” His smile faded when he spotted Jennifer. “Jacob! Oh yeah, Jennifer here has been a huge help to me, and I’ve laughed more today than I have in years. Lemme get you some shortbread.” She bustled over to the kitchen. He stepped inside and eyed Jennifer warily. His plaid shirt, tailored khaki pants, and clean boots created a unique blend of cowboy and businessman. “Jacob’s the son I never had, grew up four houses down thataway.” She handed him a paper bag full of buttery sweets. “Well, I better go.” Jennifer headed to the door, hoping to draw him out with her before he blew their plans. “You be nice to this one, Jacob!” Ms. Brenda called out. “She might look like New York, but she’s got Texas in her heart.” The warmth dissipated as soon as the door shut. He followed her down the steps. “Are you tryin to buy her place?” “No, I’m a journalist from The New York Times.” “Like hell you are.” He narrowed his eyes. “You leave Ms. Brenda alone, you hear?” Jennifer rolled her eyes and hopped in her vehicle. “You’re full of it. Goodbye, Jacob Antonio Bracken.” She smirked at the shock on his face as she reversed. She always did her homework. “Hey, kid. How’s it going?” asked her boss through the phone. “Big lead- I’ll be there tomorrow for an offer. I’ve done three interviews, and I also went to the City Council Office. The land is zoned single-family residential with no pending applications for change.” “Great progress. Make sure you record that.” “Got it.” Time to start typing. *** Jennifer rolled up to Ms. Brenda’s house at 2:30 on Wednesday with adrenaline pumping through her veins. She had abandoned her sleek black boots and leggings in favor of brown work boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt. They set up the video camera in the living room, as well as a small one on Ms. Brenda’s shirt. The meeting went as expected. The couple tried to reschedule when they realized “Hannah” would be attending, but Ms. Brenda told them it was now or never. They seemed uninterested in checking out the house, yet eager to buy, and quickly made a lowball offer that only covered the value of the land. Mrs. Pelfrey had scrunched her nose and whispered, “We heard about your little tax problem. We’d be willing to pay your debt if you gave it to us at this price. You’re digging your own grave, otherwise.” Ms. Brenda fanned her face after they left. “Who would have thought that fake taxes would be so stressful?” Jennifer smiled. “You did great. Thanks for playing along. It could make a huge difference in the future of your neighborhood. Do you think I could leave my car here for a bit while I walk the properties?” “Sure thing, sweetie.” Jennifer decided to walk along the river, just in case she saw anyone and needed to hide out below the banks. She had no idea what was going on behind the locked gates that had been put up at the end of the driveways. Each property consisted of five acres of heavily wooded land that could easily hide something. The river meandered through the flat terrain, with red silt beaches that bumped into steep banks overhung by gnarly tree roots. Jennifer relished the fresh breeze on her face and the smell of the dry grass. She took deep, cleansing breaths and promised herself she would make an effort to get out in nature more often when she returned to New York. Suddenly, she walked into a clearing and found herself surrounded by bulldozers and rubble. An eerie silence hung over the site where a home had stood only days before. Jennifer jumped into action. She whipped out her phone to take pictures of the work site and the tractor license plates. Illinois. Mrs. Pelfrey definitely had a Chicago accent. A half-empty bottle of AtomZ water sat in a cup holder. A gun cocked behind her. Jennifer’s chest constricted. She held out her hands and slowly turned to face the danger. Jacob Bracken and the barrel of a shotgun stared her down. “What are you doin here?” he asked in a low voice. “Investigating,” she answered breathlessly. “Do you work for them?” “Of course not. I’m taking pictures to condemn whatever company is destroying your neighborhood. I promise I’m trying to help!” He tilted his head to the side, and his gaze traveled from her braid to her boots. Then he lowered the gun. “I haven’t had time to explore until today.” Jennifer quietly let out the breath she’d been holding as he took a look around. “They brought in their own equipment and workers. No locals have been hired,” Jacob said. She climbed the steps of a backhoe. “Hey, this one still has keys in it.” She gasped loudly. “What?” “There’s an AtomZ emblem on this keychain! Maybe that’s the company buying the land.” She snapped another photo. Jacob shook his head in disgust. “I saw an ad for AtomZ the other day. Their motto was helping you help the environment. More like helping you right out of your home.” Jennifer glanced over at Jacob. He set the shotgun on the ground and climbed into the tallest tractor. She slunk toward it. “I found a wallet!” he called out. “Take a picture of the ID!” Jennifer grabbed the gun and rapidly unloaded it. She shoved the shells in her pocket right as he looked down. “What the heck!” Jacob leapt out of the tractor with fire in his eyes. She dropped the gun and backed away. “Gimme that ammo, girl,” he warned as he closed the distance. “Don’t you dare stick your hand in my pants.” He grimaced and halted. “I wasn’t gonna do that.” “If you were thinking about grabbing the shotgun shells, then yeah, you were.” “But you made it sound wrong.” “I’m glad you have the decency to rethink it.” The woods began to rumble as a truck approached. Jacob grabbed his gun. “To the river!” They sprinted to the edge and jumped. A tree hung over the bank, half of the roots exposed from erosion. They ducked under the cave it created. A door slammed. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.” “You leave your wallet everywhere, man.” Jacob stowed his gun on two loops made by the tree roots in the dark recess behind them. “Nice gun rack,” he whispered. Jennifer covered his lips with her fingers, desperate to go unnoticed. The warmth of his skin spread through her fingers, and she pulled them away, embarrassed. Particles of dirt remained on his lips. “Sorry,” she mouthed. He smiled in amusement. “Dude, you left the keys in this one! We’ll get fired if AtomZ finds out about this.” The men bickered their way back to the truck. The engine rumbled again and sat idling. Jennifer looked out at the river as they waited, aware of how her arm, hip, and leg pressed against Jacob’s in their tight hideaway. The sky had transformed during their investigation; pink and orange now streaked from the horizon upward until it faded into a soft purple. Jacob rotated to look at her. “This is an interesting way to watch the sunset.” “Mm-hmm.” She didn’t dare face him again. He continued to study her profile. There was a twig caught in her braid and a smudge on her cheek. “You look like you’ve done this before. How’d you learn to work a gun like that?” “My dad taught me. What made you trust me?” “Ms. Brenda trusts you, so I will too. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like a farm girl today.” Her lips twitched at the corners, and she twisted to peek over the bank. “All clear.” They crawled out and brushed off their clothes. Jennifer gave the shotgun shells back to Jacob. “Wanna walk down to see our old place? My truck is parked in the woods, and I can drive you back to Ms. Brenda’s.” “Sure. Hey, I’m sorry about your Dad passing in November.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Thanks. I forgot you already know everything about me.” She threw up her hands. “I’m not claiming that.” “Mom took it really hard. Then three days after the funeral, she told me she sold the place. Just like that. So she moved in with me, which is fine, but I hate that our land is gone. My grandfather developed this neighborhood.” “I didn’t know that.” “You weren’t very thorough with your stalking,” he teased. “Then I’ve found my New Year’s resolution: Be a better stalker.” He threw his head back and laughed. “You’re too pretty to be a stalker.” He cleared his throat. “How’d you find out about this debacle, anyways?” “A tip from a friend.” She wasn’t willing to admit she’d been wistfully perusing real estate in the area for the past year. “There’s a place in Pennsylvania where this is happening as well.” “Why’d you come here when that one was closer? Do you have family in town?” “No.” She reached into her leather backpack and pulled out a map. “But I grew up right there.” “That’s right across town!” he said in surprise. “No, we would have gone to school together. I would have known you.” She pointed to the map again and shook her head. “That’s the school zoning line. I was in another district.” “Can you start a fire?” “Yes.” “Do you hunt?” “I shot a water moccasin when I was ten.” She laughed. “Did I pass the Texas Verification Test?” “Why’d you leave?” “My parents died in a car wreck when I was fifteen, and I was in the foster system until I graduated. I got a scholarship from NYU, so I took it. I figured what better place to be lonely than New York City where everyone’s too busy to notice?” “Are you lonely?” She smiled softly. “No, I have a lot of friends now. New York’s been good to me.” “Next question. What’s going to happen when you write this article?” “Well, AtomZ’s business practices will be exposed to the world. There will be an investigation, and I think there’s a good chance the land will be returned to its rightful owners.” “Damn. Your plan is a lot better than mine. I think I’ll get rid of the dynamite in my closet.” “Please tell me you’re joking.” He grinned and shrugged. “You’ll never know.” “Will you rebuild if you get the land back?” He nodded. “There it is.” The river swung wide around a big piece of land that rose above it, the only hill for miles. A giant oak towered over the water with a wooden swing. He glanced at Jennifer. Her eyebrows had pinched together, and she pursed her lips as she fought back tears. “What is it?” he asked. “My dad pushed me on that swing once. We went tubing, and I begged to stop there to try it. I’m sorry for trespassing.” “We let the neighbors use it, and it sounds like you were our neighbor, Jennifer.” She turned to face him. “Jennifer Andrews is actually my pen name.” She held out her hand. “I’m Bonnie.” “Bonnie...” He smiled warmly and took her hand in both of his. “A girl with Texas in her heart.”
For the first time in forever, it was just me and Jasper for the holidays. We had just moved out of our parent’s homes, and were ready to take the next step in our relationship. As much as we loved our parents, we wanted this Christmas to be special. Living in California, a white Christmas was completely out of the question. So rather than spend another Christmas in sixty degree weather with our parents, we rented a little cabin in Milad in the forest, hoping for a white Christmas. Our first Christmas with just the two of us. But it didn’t snow, not even a little bit. I was disappointed, but still enjoyed snuggling by the warmth of the fireplace opening gifts and watching our favorite Hallmark films. It was during those films that there was a warning forced onto our TV screen. Winter storm warning for all regions of Idaho. Roads and runways will be dangerous, so please consider changing travel plans for after the new year. Most people would be groaning in frustration, but not me and Jasper. This was just what we had wanted. The perfect unexpected adventure. And so, we stayed in the little cabin an extra week, spending New Year’s Eve throwing a party with no guests, and New Years creating a journal of resolutions together. Neither of us wanted to leave, but we both had to work, and we both agreed that the best thing would be to get back to California early so we weren’t returning to work exhausted. So on January third, the two of us packed up our things and began the drive back to Cali. We had originally planned to leave earlier in the day, but it took so long to pack everything that it was already dark by the time we had left. As much as I loved the holidays, daylight savings had always been a pain in my ass. I knew that Jasper didn’t particularly like driving in the dark, but he knew I was already burnt out from all the packing, so he said he would drive. He just turned on his favorite radio station, and tried not to let the blinding headlights and nerve-wracking road signs make him anxious. I don’t remember when, but at some point I had actually fallen asleep. I’m not sure how long I had dozed off for, but when I opened my eyes again, I was laying on my side. The car was overturned. I realized almost immediately that we had gotten into an accident. My voice felt locked in my throat as I tried to call out for Jasper. Other than a throbbing ankle, I felt fine. I was able to move enough to unbuckle my seat belt, open the door, and squeeze past the airbag that had been suffocating me. I looked around for Jasper, but there was no one. I was completely abandoned in the overturned car. Tears spilled down my face as I looked for anyone or anything to help me. The snow had started coming down again, and was already starting to bury our car under it. I kept looking for some sign of life, but there was no police, no other cars, no Jasper, not even a road. Wherever we had crashed, we had rolled off the road. I didn't know what to do anymore. I zipped up my coat, and started to trudge through the snow. “Jasper!” I called out. “Jasper please!” But of course, there was no answer. Did he abandon me? No, he would never do that. Maybe he went to get help? But how long ago could it have been? There’s no cars or police, wherever I was seemed to be completely abandoned. I fell to my knees and started to sob. My mind was fuzzy with confusion. But then, I heard it faintly. The sound of my name being called. I jumped up and ran towards the sound that I knew had to be Jasper’s voice. I knew he wouldn’t abandon me. It took a while, but eventually I was able to follow the sound of his voice until it was clear as day. And then, there he was. Bundled up in his coat, hat, scarf and snow boots, I could see Jasper looking around frantically. “Jasper!” He didn't even turn his head. “Jasper?” He continued to search as if wasn't standing a few feet away from him. His boots made large indents in the fresh snow. But when I looked down at my own boots, there was nothing. I turned around to look at the path of footsteps that would have indicated where I had come from, but there was nothing. That could only mean one thing; that I was gone. I felt so helpless as I watched him search for me. When I reached out and touched him, I could feel it, but it was obvious that he didn't. When I took his hand, trying to pull him towards the car, he still never sensed my presence, but it must have sparked his inner intuition, because he eventually made his way back to the car. And that was when I saw it. When I had managed to get out of the car, I didn’t notice that when I had left, it was only my spirit. My body was still there, mangled in the seat belt and airbag. “I’m sorry that i’m left.” Jasper cried as he stared at my corpse. “I tried to find help, but I...I failed...and now you’re gone...” The two of us cried together, and I wanted nothing more than for him to be able to feel me hugging him, but he never did. Not even a little bit. I thought that once I realized I was dead, I might see the light and move on. But no light ever came. I stayed with Jasper through the night as he huddled next to me, as if my lifeless body would keep him warm like it used to. He eventually had fallen asleep. I saw that his limbs were starting to change color, and I worried that he might die, too. But hours after he had fallen asleep, a search party found him. I followed him as we got loaded in the ambulance, and taken to the hospital. Both of our parents were there waiting. When my mother and father saw my corpse, they had both burst into tears. My father had never been the emotional type, but I guess seeing me in such a feeble state had broken his shell. Jasper’s parents cried for me, too. They hugged my parents, apologizing profusely as if it had been their fault. The only people to blame were ourselves. We wanted a Christmas alone, and now I would never get another Christmas, alone with Jasper or with family. For hours, I watched the doctors treat Jasper frantically, watched my parents make phone calls and talk to people about funeral arrangements. But there was still no light. No God, no heaven, no nothing. I was frozen there. I didn't want to move on and leave Jasper, but I also didn't want to stay and watch him grow older, find someone new and have the life that we were supposed to be having together. And the worst of it? I couldn't sleep through any of it. When people get depressed, they try to sleep the pain away, but as the hours past, I sat by his bedside while our parents slept in visitor chairs. I was left wide awake, just watching his as his chest rose and fell, like mine never would. It killed me from the inside. I was already dead, yet I still could feel every emotion. Anguish was overpowering me as I watched what I would leave behind. We were dating four years, almost five. We had already planned to move out and get married before we had even graduated high school. We were meant for each other, and deeply in love. We had talked about how many kids we wanted, what careers we would have, everything was planned. Everything except the trip, and having to stay after New Years. The only thing unplanned was what ruined our life. It was about five in the morning that Jasper awoke with a start. He looked around, and realized where he was. Our parents didn’t stir. I just watched him, until somehow we had made eye contact. He stopped breathing for a moment. “Mia?” Hearing him say my nickname made the sobs locked in my throat escape. I had burst into tears for what felt to be the millionth time since the accident. He reached his hand out to caress my face, but couldn't. And he realized it, too, because he began to cry as hard as I was. “I’m sorry...I couldn’t save you...” The two of us cried together. I could have tried to respond, but I have a feeling he would have never been able to hear me. I’m not sure how he could see me then. Maybe it was meant to happen that way. “You know I’ll never forget you, right? You’ll always be in my heart, no matter what.” I reached out and touched his chest, and he nodded, even laughing a little through the tears that stained his face. “Yes, that’s right. You’ll always be right there. I promise.” And it was after those words that I finally saw it. The light. It was so bright, so beautiful, so calming...All the anguish that I had was finally leaving my spirit. I took one last look at what I would leave behind. Jasper, who I knew would find someone else who can treat him just as well as I did. My mother, who would probably go through my room and publish every single piece of artwork I was too afraid to share with the world. And my father, who I never quite understood, who would be the man of the house and keep my mother pieced together, as he always had. And then, I let myself go. I knew it wouldn't be the end. I knew that i'd be back. But for the time being, I had to leave it all behind.
On the edge of our neighboring galaxy, we found a planet, wild and untamed. We looked from far up above the atmosphere, in awe of this beautiful new world. It was a marble of swirling colors with a spiraling dance in its alien sky, as if it were inviting us in. As the space shuttle landed, a small capsule of only 45 souls, we took our first steps on the foreign soil. We were pioneers like never before, extending humanity's reach to the beyond the galaxy, confident in our ability to conquer it like our home planet. Not only was it a goal, it was a necessity. Either we would make it our new home, or this strange planet would devour us. Our journey began. The planet seemed barren as our caravan trekked the land. A vibrant orange sky, with vast plains of yellow soil, with looming mountains in the far distance. What little grew was meek and insubstantial. The days were long, bright, and hot, as night only came after 46 hours of unrelenting sun. When the sun did hide itself, it was behind massive swirling clouds, often followed by a heavy fall of acidic rain. The thick air was almost unbreathable, breathing apparatus was kept on almost constantly. Pieces of equipment that were supposed to last us months had shut down within weeks due to unforeseen levels of shifting radiation. Traversing this world became difficult as terrain became more and more rugged. This wasteland did not want us on it, and it made sure to make us aware of it. Yet even with all of these struggles, we were still invigorated, persistent to keep moving forward. We thought of the stories of Lewis and Clark, the tales of Ponce de Leon, Magellan and Columbus, the greatest pioneers to have ever lived. We would never say it aloud, but we knew we had them all beat at their own game. We would make history among the greatest. That is, if we could survive the constant treachery of this planet. We knew the risks, knew we would be met with the terrifying and the untamed. Together, we stood the course. Several months had passed since our landing, and we had created a base camp for ourselves. After weeks of hard labor and sweat, we unloaded what tech survived the journey and had finally set up the base. It was a small, rugged base of operations, but it was our new home, a place that was completely ours. We had finally started to make progress on taming this wild planet, this was our fresh start. Purification systems were set in place, and clean water became plentiful. Crops were a slow process, but began to grow in the harsh, acidic soil. With all these newfound successes, new problems arose. We had time now, time to ourselves, time to think without constant work or tasks to keep us busy. We all imagined our future on this planet. The flight here was a one-way trip, and we all knew that this planet would keep us for the rest of our lives. We thought of home. Who could have known it would be so difficult without our menial comforts. One of us just wants a cup of fresh coffee. Another is longing to sit on a sunny shore. One just wanted to see their mother, for just one last time. These things are gone. This planet was home now, and we were all we had left. Pioneers had to sacrifice. Our pointless mourning had diverted our attention, allowing us to be the perfect victims for a surprise assault from nature itself. Looming in the distance, a storm was coming, bigger than we could have ever anticipated. Sixty-thousand feet tall, the radiant clouds rolled low and heavy, thunder clapped in its swirling clouds. Like an omen, the sun was completely swallowed as we were thrown into darkness. We hunkered down best we could, bracing ourselves for the disaster to come. It was imperative to protect the home we had built, allowing our efforts to be destroyed before us was unfathomable. Our home base was built for storms, but this was something else. Just like that, we were in the middle of it, and nature’s fury came tearing through us. Many of the smaller buildings began to collapse, ending whoever poor souls were inside. Our crops were torn straight from the ground, and whatever survived would be flooded with the rain. Vital equipment was flung and destroyed, solar panels were quickly thrown ripped from their base. Our largest building, the main base of operations, swayed sickeningly as the hurricane’s forces tried to knock it over. The heavy concentration of acid rain would tear away through its protective plating, letting radiation creep inside. This storm would last for fifteen hours before it finally passed over, robbing our budding ambition with it. The planet had conquered us in a single act. From the 45 of us who joined aboard the crew, only 26 of us would survive the storm. We sent a final distress signal out into the stars, our admittal of defeat. This harsh world had won. The signal itself would take years to reach Earth and our failures would be but a speck in this planet's vicious history by the time anyone would learn of it. The entire voyage felt short, surreal. Each of us truly believed we were going to succeed on this wild planet, yet here we were hopeless to its apathetic order. In one swift blow, it proved to us that it would never let us be its master. Our last visions were the same, the view of it’s beautiful dancing sky, still in awe of its impossible colors. We now know it was never an invitation, but a trap, it was a siren's call to lead us into its depths. It took us in as a part of itself, our new home forever.
When I was 17 years old, I lived in an upper middle class neighborhood in Queens, NY. The lawns were kept neatly manicured, beautiful oak trees lined the sidewalks, and school buses dropped off kids after every school day. The neighborhood was a true melting pot, and every summer, the neighbors would pitch in for supplies and a permit to close down the street and have a neighborhood BBQ. The battle of the BBQ was a decade long tradition between a Korean family and a Black family. They would set up their smokers and grills at the end of the culdesac, and the grilloff would begin amid the sounds of music and children laughing and playing in a bouncy castle. The entire neighborhood would stop by for a plate of amazing food, and to vote on who had the best BBQ. The winner got bragging rights for a year and temporary ownership of a stained off-white apron with the single word GRILLMASTER emblazoned on the front in thick black letters.   I was walking on the sidewalk, several blocks away from the battle of the BBQ, when I paused at a stop sign. Before I could turn around, a midnight black Kawasaki Ninja motorcycle roared by me going at least 100 mph and blowing through the stop sign as if it wasn't even there. Simultaneously, a white Oldsmobile sedan was crossing the intersection from left to right. The motorcycle, which was colloquially known as a crotch rocket, barely missed the car and sped by, deafening me with the high-pitched whine of a motorcycle engine being redlined. I watched as the driver of the car snapped his head to the left in surprise. At that exact moment, a second motorcycle, which I only saw as a flash of bright green, raced by me going even faster than the first. The second motorcycle slammed into the passenger's side of the car with a horrendously loud BANG. I had no idea car accidents were that loud until I witnessed one right in front of me. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. The motorcyclist flew through the air so fast that it looked like CGI from a bad movie. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and his head slammed into the concrete curb, killing him instantly with what might be described as gratuitous gore. I remember thinking dumbly, “Blood flows down the concrete gutters just like water.”   There was a pause then. I looked back to the car, but I could no longer see the driver as the entire right side of the vehicle was a mass of shredded and crushed metal. Broken glass twinkled on the asphalt as I noticed that even the headlights were shattered. In the movies, a woman would scream, bystanders would rush to the aid of the injured, someone would frantically call 911, and sirens would be heard in the distance. None of that happened though. There was a loud bang, an audible crunch as the motorcyclist came to an abrupt stop, and then... nothing. I looked around to see if anyone had seen the collision, and if I'm being completely honest with myself, I looked because I desperately did not want to be the one to render aid. I didn't need to look in order to know that whoever had been in that car was probably mangled beyond recognition. Nobody else was around though. I focused on the motorcyclist again, and that's when I felt The Cold.   It hit me with such intensity that I audibly gasped, and then I saw something that's difficult to describe. Have you ever seen that videography technique where there's a mountain in the background, water in the foreground, and the image is split in half horizontally, perfectly mirrored in the water below? Then the water ripples, and it's revealed that the top of the scene is the reflection, not the original, and the camera was upside down the whole time? Well, that ripple is what I saw. It looked like someone had thrown a tiny pebble into reality, and everything rippled like water on the surface of a still lake. The Cold lingered for a single terrifying heartbeat before disappearing as abruptly as it had appeared. A moment later, the ripple was gone too. I stood rooted to the spot for several long seconds before I remembered to call 911.   That night, I thought long and hard about what I'd seen, ruminating and feeling guilty that I didn't feel worse about witnessing a human life snuffed out like a candle dropped into the ocean. The bang. The crunch. The Cold. The ripple. As I thought more about it, I recalled that there was a change in what Google assured me was barometric pressure. At the time, I could only relate it to the experience of being in a car when someone slammed the car door, or being in an airplane during takeoff. My ears didn't pop, but it felt like they could have. There was one thing in particular that kept me awake that night. I had seen something in the ripple. I held the memory in my mind, turning, studying, and polishing it. Whatever had happened was presumably connected to the death of the motorcyclist, and possibly because there was no one else around to see it. If The Cold and the ripple happened every time someone died, the world would surely know about it, so something unique had happened here. A little voice in the back of my head whispered that maybe I'm the only one that CAN see it. “I see dead people,” as the strange little boy once told Bruce Willis. By the time I fell asleep the following morning, I knew something about myself with a calm certainty. I was going to have to kill something and see if The Cold came back.   As I write this, night is falling and the temperature is plunging even further below zero. I can feel The Cold forcing its way through the walls of the cabin, through the sleeping bag, and through 5 layers of clothing. It seems impossible. Utterly mad. The fire should keep The Cold at bay, but my fire now looks tiny and pitiful when compared to the unknowable and ancient vastness of The Cold outside. I am but a hairless monkey, toying with forces beyond my comprehension. I dare not risk burning my fire any hotter though. Running out of wood would mean certain death. I gently flex my muscles in groups, stretching and straining each part of my body in sequence and then again in reverse order. I'm careful not to overexert myself and break out into a momentary sweat, which would also likely mean death. As cold as it is, it's still not cold enough yet. The only sound I hear is the wind outside as it whispers quiet but earnest promises of death. Fuck you, wind. You want me? Come and get me.   I awoke the morning after the accident with curiosity in my heart and murder on my mind. I knew instinctively that the murder part was going to be a problem. The last time I'd hurt an animal, I had been carrying groceries from Costco into the house. I was carrying a repurposed avocado box, stacked high with frozen meats, potatoes, and onions. I tried to set the heavy box on the counter, but I hadn't lifted it high enough. I lifted the box again in an effort to clear the counter and took a half step back, directly onto my dog's paw. Max, my German Shepard, yelped pitifully as I was unable to redirect my momentum and my full weight plus the weight of the heavy groceries crushed his paw beneath the heel of my shoe. He cowered behind me submissively, tail tucked between his legs with his head held low. He only understood that he had gotten too close to the food, and had been severely punished for it. He lowered his ears abjectly, begging for forgiveness, and my heart nearly broke in two. I felt like an absolute monster, and I hugged him for a long time while apologizing profusely. Clearly, I was not cut out to be the next Dexter.   Nevertheless, my plan for animal homicide had already grown and sprouted dark fruit, and less than an hour after waking, I found myself standing near the side of my house, staring at a snail with a sense of growing foreboding and deepening unease. The snail was sliming its way up a stack of red stone pavers. Each paver was about two feet long and two inches thick, and there was a stack of them 10 high. I'd like to say that I took a long moment to contemplate what I was about to do, that I had a final crisis of conscience before playing God, but the truth is, I had decided to kill before I even got out of bed that morning. I plucked the snail from the side of the stack, lifted up the top paver, set the snail down, and let the paver fall on it, crushing it instantly with a wet crunch. I stood there silently for a long moment, hoping desperately that I would feel The Cold, see the ripple, or at least experience something other than bemused disappointment. “Well shit,” I thought to myself. I guess I need to try something else. Snails are like, 1,000 times smaller than a person, so I'd need to kill a thousand of them to even have a chance at recreating what I'd seen. I didn't have a thousand snails handy, but I'm an American, not an American't god dammit, so I gathered the snails I could find in an old pickle jar while pondering the most efficient means of committing simultaneous gastropod genocide.   I was keenly aware that torturing and killing animals was a glaringly obvious indicator of future homicidal tendencies. I tried to rationalize it by convincing myself that, if I didn't really enjoy it, it didn't really count. After all, this was more science than cruelty, right? Efforts at trying to delude myself proved unsuccessful, and after a morning spent gathering snails, I counted that I had 23 of them in my pickle jar. I stared at their curious little eye stalks for a long time, watching as their eyes would bounce into the glass, recoil, and then tentatively reach out into the world again. I paradoxically considered letting them all go while at the same time contemplating how best to kill them all contemporaneously. Thoughts of genocide led me to musings on poisoned gas, and ultimately, I decided on fire. I set the jar down carefully on the concrete along the side of the house and retrieved the plastic gas can we used for the lawn mower. I poured a finger's worth of gasoline into the jar, lit a match, and dropped it in. The response was an immediate FWOOSH as the gasoline ignited, burning all the snails in an instant. I hoped they hadn't suffered too much. My hopes seem to have done fuckall for them though. They all burned for a brief moment and fell to the bottom of the pickle jar with sad little clinks as their hard, and now toasty, shells impacted the glass. Once again, The Cold did not come. When the glass cooled, I buried the burnt pickle jar in the bottom of the trash bin in the garage and asked myself how much further I was willing to go in my hunt for The Cold.   Insects weren't going to cut it I decided. I needed something bigger, like a cat or a dog. I doubted I'd be able to go through with it though. Just thinking about killing a dog made me sick to my stomach. Something else weighed on my mind too. I had never experienced The Cold before, but whatever it was that I had seen in the ripple, I had seen before. It felt like I had seen an actor in a TV show, and I knew I'd seen them in something else, but I couldn't recall exactly where. The question itched at me, grating my nerves with the knowledge that I could be on the verge of uncovering the greatest mystery in human history if only I could remember where I'd seen the ripple. I racked my brain, and the only conclusive fact I settled on was that I had seen whatever it was in real life and not in a book or a movie. The conundrum was amplified by the fact that I was absolutely certain I'd never seen anyone die before yesterday too.   My dad kept a loaded gun in his safe, and the fact that I was even considering using it made me recoil in innate horror. There had to be another way. Like most liberal-minded people, I was aware that every time I ate meat, I was partially responsible for the death of an animal. As the vegans like to remind us, meat is murder. I dealt with this unpleasant fact the same way most people do. I tried not to think about it because thinking about it made me feel icky, and I really like tacos. I tried to rationalize that eating a steak wasn't so different from murdering a cow, and if I could kill a cow, I could surely kill a smaller mammal. For better or worse, I was unable to backdoor my way into misanthropy and psychopathy, and I spent the rest of the day feeling shitty about my escargot a la gasoline.   I exhausted myself in the following days brainstorming possible options. My parents thought I was despondent because I'd seen a violent death up close and personal. It seemed prudent to let them believe that instead of admitting I was trying to work up the nerve to kill a medium sized animal in an ill-conceived plan to experience The Cold and whatever the fuck it was that had made reality ripple. No matter how I tried though, I just couldn't talk myself into it. The closest I'd gotten was acknowledging that I'd be willing to kill an animal in self defense if there were no other options available. It seemed that my plan to experience the supernatural a second time had hit a major stumbling block in the form of me being a little bitch. I found myself drawn repeatedly to the scene of the accident, where I'd sit on the sidewalk in a manner that totally wasn't creepy and stare at the wreath and flowers that had been tied to the stop sign. It was during one of these preternatural musings that I realized, if I couldn't kill a cat or a dog myself, I'd need to find someone that would. The answer that sprung forth was elegant in its simplicity. I needed to get a job at a veterinarian's office. They euthanize animals all the time!   Update from the cabin: There's something outside.
Emmie wished the butterfly feeling in the pit of her stomach didn’t exist. She was doing everything in her power to calm her nerves. Deep breathing, counting the floating leaves on the river and constantly reassuring herself. Standing in the middle of the park, she forced her feet to remain glued to the cobblestones. To her right, an old tire dangled from a massive oak tree, whose leaves had fallen, creating a blanket of gold and orange surrounding her. To her left, the river that ran through the middle of the park, still had a few stray ducks, but most had left for a warmer climate. They had agreed to meet here at the tire swing, so she would stay put. Maybe he was late? No, he wasn’t. Emmie was early. Was he at a different location? Was she in the wrong place? No, there was only one tire swing in the whole park, that’s why she had chosen this spot. Emmie pulled out her phone and checked their previous conversation one more time, just to be sure. Yep. Meet at the only tire swing in the whole park. Suddenly grateful for the cool autumn air, Emmie flushed with unnecessary embarrassment at her own anxiety. Stop it, you’re being stupid , she chided herself. Slowly spinning, Emmie surveyed the area not for the first time. There was no sign of the tall, handsome man. Flickering on the water caught her eye. Expecting to see a duck swimming between the fallen oak tree leaves, Emmie stifled a gasp when instead she saw her own reflection waving hysterically at her. She blinked and the reflection returned to normal. Was she hallucinating? Slowly she raised her hand. The reflection mirrored her movement. Great, she thought, I’m so nervous I'm seeing things. “Emmie!” She spun, jumping in surprise. “Emmett! Hi, you scared me,” she said as the tall man approached her. Emmett wore a university jacket and a beanie which left his long hair peeking out the sides and back. She liked his long hair, but with the weather getting colder, she couldn’t blame him for choosing a hat...even if it wrecked his perfect hair. He gave her a lopsided grin, a dimple appearing. “I noticed. I didn’t mean to startle you, but you seemed to be really focused on something.” He glanced towards the river. “Oh,” she waved a hand, suddenly sweating despite the cool air. “Sorry about that, just admiring the scenery. I like to draw, and was kinda inspired.” All of her drawings consisted of stick men. But there was no way she could admit that she might have possibly seen her own reflection move on its own. Emmie wasn’t sure if it had been real. His face lit up. “Thats cool. Do you only draw scenery stuff or people too?” “Um..” Crap. “I’m really not that good. I don’t show anybody my stuff.” That ought to work. His smile never wavered. “Nah, you’re just being humble.” She let out a nervous laugh and gestured to the path. “Well, shall we?” He nodded and the two started walking along the path that ran alongside the river. “You know,” Emmett began, “I almost didn’t agree to this.” “Oh? How come?” He hates me. He shrugged, sheepishly staring at his foot as he kicked a rock. “Nothing against you, I just normally don’t go on dates with girls recommended by friends.” Emmie tilted her head up at him. “Why am I different?” He smiled, his dimple appearing again. “Emmett. Emmie. Emmett and Emmie, I don’t know. It’s kinda dumb, but I couldn’t pass up on a girl named Emmie.” She laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is cool how that worked out.” After a pause she added, “So what do you like to do for fun?” Having fought off the urge for this long, Emmie’s gaze shifted past Emmett and to the river. The many leaves and reeds shifted under the current of the water and her reflection waved frantically at her. Her toe snagged and she teetered forward. She caught herself, and Emmett, who had been answering her question, saw she was alright and kept talking. “...so there's the kill streak and my buddy got to over two hundred.” She didn’t remember hearing which video game he was talking about so instead of asking, she smiled and nodded at him. “Aren’t you going to ask me how many I got?” Emmett prompted. “Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry! How many did you get?” “Five hundred and thirty-two,” he said proudly. “Wow, thats...a lot.” Emmie heard herself respond but her eyes landed past him and on the water again. “Yeah,” he continued, “The trick is...” His words fell on deaf ears as she stared at her reflection that was waving hysterically at her. The scarf had half fallen and was her mouth moving? Emmie’s hands moved to her own scarf, and the reflection snapped back to normal. Her scarf remained snuggly tucked around her neck. “...then he strangled the grandma! It was too funny.” Emmett laughed as he finished whatever story he just told. Emmie laughed with him though she had no idea why. “Hey, are you hungry?” Emmett asked. “I know this place-” “Yes!” Anything to get away from the river. “Sweet!” He grinned and both dimples appeared this time. Wow, he’s cute. Why can’t I just focus on his face and not the stupid river reflection thing? “You’ll like it, it’s got a lot of paintings and stuff. Scenery stuff too,” Emmett said. “Huh? Oh, right! Yeah, that sounds cool.” Right, he still thought she drew. He led the way off the path and vaulted into another story of how he and his friends first found the place. Emmie tried her best to listen. Earnestly listen. But she couldn’t shake the image of her reflection nor the sudden hole in her gut. Maybe she just needed some food; she hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast. Yeah, that was it! Once she had some food in her belly she’d be able to enjoy this date and actually listen- oh crap, his story ! “...So there we were, ‘proving a point’ to the guy. Wow, he was basically pissing his pants! It wasn’t until later...” Emmett kept talking, and looking at his surroundings. Emmie had to take longer strides to match his pace. The two entered the marketplace of the city park, and the trail turned to cobblestone. Cute shops and Cafes lined the small street with patios and chairs. Ice cream and souvenir shops. It was quiet, but that was expected this time of year. As they walked, Emmie caught sight of her reflection in the glass window. She was clearer now, and silently screaming. Emmie tried to make out the words. Mop, urine gray..swim? That made no sense! “Here we are!” Emmett announced, opening a door and stepping inside. Emmie stepped in after him and immediately stopped in her tracks as dread filled her to her toes. “Huh,” said Emmett. “I guess they switched it up. No more scenery paintings.” Mirrors littered the walls. Tall and thin, short and wide. Square, circle or triangle. Ones with gold, silver and wooden frames. Even a few with no frames. Emmie was bombarded with her reflection, all waving hysterically at her. The barista from behind the counter called, “Welcome to the Reflection Cafe! What can I get you?” Emmett placed a hand on Emmie’s shoulder, gently pulling her forward. Emmie had never wanted to run away so badly in her entire life. “I’ll have the...” Emmett began. As Emmett peered at the menu, Emmie tried desperately to not stare at one of her reeflections, and failed miserably. Her reflections had blue lips and her skin seemed to be turning gray. Was it always like that? Had she not noticed it on the river? Or was her reflection evolving into something worse? She kept waving towards the door and shouting at her, though her voice was muted to silence. “The tuna sandwich and a coffee,” Emmett finally ordered. “Emmie? What do you want?” She jerked. “Oh, I'll have herbal tea, please. If you have any.” Something calming. “I’m sorry, we just ran out. But I've got earl gray or chai.” “Chai, please.” Why did I say chai? I hate chai. Emmett reached into his pocket, paused then patted down all of his other pockets. “Um, this is awkward. I think I forgot my wallet.” “It’s okay,” Emmie said and stepped forward. She didn’t have the energy to care who paid at this point. She pulled out her wallet, and went to tap. Her gaze landed on the mirror behind the barista and this time fully expecting to see her freakish reflection managed to keep a straight face. Emmett took a step towards her, his reflection falling into the mirror. Her reflection recoiled from his.. “Thanks, by the way,” he said. “I appreciate it.” Emmie watched his image in the mirror as he spoke and then whipped her head to look at him. Normal. He was normal. Smiling that cute, dimpled smile. She felt sick. “Bathroom,” she blurted out. “I’ll be right back.” Bile caught in her throat, she couldn’t move fast enough. She refused to be the person who vomited on a first date. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face and gripped the sink with white knuckles. Eyes closed she muttered under her breath, “You’re seeing things, Emmie. You’re hungry and this is probably a side effect of the new meds you’re taking. No big deal. Emmett does not have a forked tongue. You are seeing things. You will open your eyes and see your normal, panicked self and you’ll be alright.” She snapped her eyes open only to immediately jerk away from the sink. She was back. Blue lips, sunken eyes, gray skin and scarf coiled around her neck. Only this time she wasn’t screaming, but her blue lips carefully mouthing words. “Stop...Run..away from....him?” Emmie whispered the words her reflection had been trying to say. A different feeling of sickness hit her and she felt cold. She shook her head. “No. No. No, he wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t hurt me.” Not wanting to argue with a reflection, Emmie stepped out of the bathroom and marched herself back to where Emmett sat. “Hey,” he said as she approached. “Better?” Apparently she had taken so long their orders were on the table. “Yeah, I think..” Emmie paused as she noticed the lid on her cup wasn't fully sealed and a few drops of chai tea spotted the table. Emmetts spoon lay on his napkin, soaking the thin material. It could be his coffee, but the feeling in her gut told her otherwise. The reflection in the mirror gave her a knowing look, crossing her arms. “...I don’t think I feel well. I’m sorry but I should go,” she finally said. “Oh, that sucks. Um, here at least have your drink.” He stood up, handing it to her. The unsealed lid slipped off, clattering to the floor. “No thanks, I’ve lost my appetite.” Emmie inched toward the door. “If it’s that bad, at least let me drive you home-” “No, it’s okay, I don't want to leave my car here.” Almost there. “Come one, Emmie. We barely got to know one another. At least stay for your drink.” She caught the look in his eye and the realization of the truth terrified her more than the reflection had. “I’m sure. Bye!” she leapt out the door before he could say another word. He did not follow. Neither did her poisoned reflection.
MERMAIDS DON’T EXIST When I was fourteen my father died speaking of mermaids. I remember that clean but unpleasant hospital smell and the last hacking cough he gave before telling me the very thing that stuck with me all the way until that night under the moon at Five Mile Lake, and further beyond. “Mermaids are magic,” he said to me. “I’ve seen them, and you know what--I’ve regretted never catchin’ that magic ever since. You ever see the other side of the world, son, you hold onto it. It’s worth it.” I had no idea what he was talking about. The doctors told us that the cancer he had was so rapid and aggressive at the time that he was just babbling nonsense. Mom would sit and tut, and then say she had to go to work. Mom never really seemed interested at the end of dad’s life because to her it was just another thing--another obstacle to overcome before she got her pay\-stub. Nothing he’d said to her really bothered her, and whenever he spoke in riddles, she’d just tut and shake her head, and act like us two weren’t really there. I grew up thinking that the two of them weren’t so much a married couple as much as a necessity for me. I didn’t feel any love between them, and my father seemed to be more focused on throwing himself into fantastical tales of a life that I was sure he hadn’t lived. My mother seemed to just be a straight\-cut, boring person who had no time for Dad’s bullshit. I never really believed the stories Dad told me. I stopped expecting Santa to come every Christmas when I was six and caught him munching on the mince pie that we left outside my door for Saint Nick. He always liked myths and mystery. He’d tell me stories of when he used to travel in his younger days--stories of meeting giants in Scotland that lived in caves, or when he met Bigfoot in Oregon. “He’s a kind soul. Loves privacy, but hates cats.” I’d listen intently, always wondering if those tales were true but as I got older, the mystery gave way to understanding of why parents give kids those false hopes and I simply stopped believing in what I’d never seen. When He finally died it was a rainy Tuesday, and he’d passed in his sleep before we got there. Mom shed a few tears and then told me she was late for work. She kissed her husband goodbye as if he was a distant friend, let out a final sob, and left. I felt the cold, stiff hands of my father, wondering if life had ever gone through the veins--had blood really flowed in this wax sculpture that resembled my big, old dad? Yet the words that hung in my head were about the mermaids, and I never really knew why. I realized I’d never again hear his wacky tales, or spend an afternoon with him at the lake. Soft tears stained my cheeks. And then I left my father in that room, and caught the bus back to the empty house. After the funeral I didn’t do much. The holidays from school had begun a week before I’d decided I’d spend them where me and Dad spent most of our time; Five Mile Lake--it wasn’t the most original name but it stuck with us because it made sense. It was a huge hole that was shaped like the number eight The first part was a mile long and the small gap gave way to four miles wide of water that flowed into the river out of the county. Jagged rocks filled the edges of the place on the Southern side, and it was a very secluded spot all of the time. I remember spending weekends with Dad, fishing away until the late hours, cooking them on a small BBQ he’d always bring. As we sat, camped on the soft grassy embankment on the Northern side, I’d sit and listen to his stories; tales of how he befriended a clan of giants in Scotland was one of my favourites. Now it was just me, alone, with a fishing rod on a grey\-skied Friday. This had been the sixth day in a row I’d come down here, and I had no complaints. My friend would only yammer on about things I couldn’t muster the energy to listen to. Max would talk about video\-games, while Cassie would talk about her latest boyfriend, and Aaron would just ask if anybody wanted to smoke. I didn’t catch anything--I hadn’t in the whole six days. It didn’t matter. Being here just made the pain of losing Dad a little less hurtful and that’s all I was looking for. I casted my rod out again with a maggot on it for bait. I watched the orange tipped float as it bobbed against the water and there it stayed until-- It went under the water but never came back up. I tightened my hands around the rod and yanked it back. My other hand went to the tackle and I began spinning the handle--it clicked rapidly as I yanked it back harder with gritted teeth. Something was pulling against the line. “Come on,” I said, suddenly getting into it. Whatever it was, it was big. I pulled harder but it was like I was trying to pull a rock out from under the water somewhere. Then my rod suddenly flew from my hands as if the fish had decided to grow arms and snatch it. I let out a gasp as I watched my father’s rod go flying into the water and away like the speed of light. “Holy crap!” I yelled as I watched it go. What had I almost caught? Maybe a mermaid, I heard my father’s voice say. Oh yeah, I thought. Of course, Dad. It must have been one because you would have said so. I sat back on the rocky embankment and sighed. It must have been huge to pull my rod out my hands. After astonishment, sadness followed as I realized I’d lost my father’s last fishing rod. It wasn’t a good thing to feel after losing him. I stayed on the rocks for a while longer and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to lose it. But knowing him, he’d simply tell me to not worry about it. That made me feel even worse somehow. 2 My friends had decided to surprise me a week later by showing up to the lake an hour after I did. Aaaron with his pack of cigarettes he’d stolen from his mother, Cassie with her phone glued to her hand, and Max who was playing away on whatever new type of handheld gaming gadget had come out. “Hey, Ropey,” said Aaron as he came and sat down on the embankment with me, running a hand through his fair, whitish hair. By then I’d managed to find my older rod--sturdy as ever and I kept my attention on it firmly, for fear the secret monster would pull it away from me again. “What do you guys want?” I grunted. “Wanted to come see you is all,” said Cassie, still typing away on her phone. The last I’d heard she was now with up with Jake Baxter after dumping Phillip Walker because their two week relationship was “nearing its end.” Aaron was already underway in lighting up a cigarette, and not even inhaling it. Max was sat on a rock higher up, nose\-deep in his game. “Alright,” I mustered, already wanting to be left alone. “It’s so hot today,” said Max as he kept his eyes on the game. “We should go swimming.” “Cassie’d have to drop her phone for three minutes and she can’t have that, can she?” said Aaron with a sarcastic tone. “Oh piss off,” she hissed back. She turned her attention back to me as she pocketed her phone. “We heard about your dad. It’s not a good time we know.” Just leave me alone. I didn’t want to be around people right now. Looking back at that time it was the worst mourning period, and everything people said felt fake to me. I’d heard it all through school and seen it. The weird looks and teachers offering their sympathies. It all felt like complete bollocks. I didn’t like being near my own mother at that point so what made them think they were special? I decided I’d humour them; the sooner I complied, the sooner they’d leave. I took my top off and told them we should just go for a swim. They all followed behind me as I removed my shoes and socks. Only my joggers were left. The sun was baking but as I stepped into the lake, it might as well have been the arctic. I dunked my head under and bobbed back up, waiting to get used to it. “That’s better,” yelled Aaron behind me. I swam as fast as I could away from them. Their voices grew distant behind me as I moved, my hands thrashing over me as I tried to swim harder and faster until my lungs were smoking with fire. Behind me, the three of them were playing around in the shallow end. I turned back to swim further in. My Dad told me that the middle of the first hole was the deepest part and the further away from them I was, the better. I kept swimming until finally I couldn’t feel the wet earth beneath my feet and then kept moving anyway. I took a break when I’d made it to the middle of the lake. That’s better I thought as I laid back to float. My arms and legs felt hot from the constant movement, and I felt like I was suffocating. My friends didn’t make any attempt to come out, but I could hear Cassie and Aaron arguing in the distance. I floated alone, looking up at the clear blue sky. It was nice being out here listening to the water sloshing around me; the birds in the trees that surrounded the lake were almost yelling in a choir. And then I felt it. Something slid under my legs. I thrashed onto my front then. Whatever it was, it wasn’t an ordinary fish. I remembered the thing I’d almost caught and the first word that came into my mind was shark. I felt the fins of it bash me. My heart raced faster than it had when I’d swam out here. I moved as fast as I could, swimming as hard as I could push myself. I knew there were no sharks in the lake, but I didn’t want whatever that was to touch me again. It was a scary thought, never knowing what lurked under murky water. I swallowed mouthfuls of air and liquid as I panicked until finally soft mud welcomed my feet. Every stride I took was huge as I tried to put distance between me and whatever it was out then. When the water was to my knees I bent over and felt as if I was going to throw up. With a turn of my head, still gasping for air, I looked to where I’d been and for the briefest moment before it bobbed back under the water, I could have sworn I’d seen a girl with dark red hair, staring at me. 3 I knew what I’d seen, but the three of them didn’t believe me of course. After air had returned in my lungs, I told them what happened but they told me to stop taking the piss. They decided not to stick around after that, suddenly feeling weird around me. I happily watched them leave, knowing they’d probably tell people I was being weird but I never was worried about that kind of stuff. I sat back on the rocks and looked out, scanning for any sudden appearances of the girl but nothing else came that day. I knew I wasn’t going insane, that there was something out there. I wasn’t going to just give up; I had a plan. I went home and packed a tent, and grabbed my father’s old electric cooker. I packed up enough food for the night, a pair of binoculars, and some other surveillance gear. I told mom I was going to go camping at the lake with Aaron. She told me to keep my phone on at all times and she’d call me when she got back from work. I told her I would. I knew she’d never let me stay there alone, so I threw in the lie for comfort. She wouldn’t care enough to call Aaron’s mom anyway. When I returned, I decided to camp on the grassy embankment on the North side. I was going to find out if there really was a girl in the lake. I set up the small, blue tent, set up my sleeping space, and made sure to keep some lanterns out for when it got dark. Luckily Dad had four solar\-panelled ones that were fully charged, and they’d last throughout the night. It was just a waiting game, I figured. There was no changes for the remainder of the day. I kept my binoculars on the lake that showed no changes. Every so often I’d see a little bob of a fish and my heart would race. I’d feel doubt every so often and remember the looks Aaron, Cassie, and Max had given me. A voice inside would say “give up,” but then I’d remember the cold, scaly feeling on my legs and I’d press on. When it started to get dark I decided to just sleep and try again tomorrow. Even the girl needed to sleep, right? I kept a lantern on and sat outside for a bit longer but there still wasn’t any movement and I was feeling sleepy. What if it really was just me over\-thinking? Come tomorrow, I decided I’d simply pack up and stop trying to chase whatever it was I thought I saw. I was acting stupid. There was nobody in the lake, and whatever I’d felt was just a big fish--the same big fish who’d taken my Dad’s rod.* Whatever. It could keep it. I was going home in the morning and forgetting about the girl in the lake. The more I thought about it, the more stupid I felt. I stared up at the ceiling of the tent and didn’t feel tired as I lay there. I felt something, I know I did. This whole thing felt like it was a waste of time. I got up and went out to sit in the dark with only the lantern lighting up next to me. My friends were right, I was being an idiot. I slumped into the chair and looked out at the lake; the moon rippled in the water as if somebody had thrown a rock in. They moved slowly. The moon greeted me and I let out a sigh. Was this me just missing Dad? Holding onto something he said?* “Hello,” said somebody. I looked at the lake. Nothing but the sound of crickets filled the air. Did I just hear that in my head? “Hello,” they repeated. It sounded like a girl. I grabbed the lantern and got up, slowly approaching the edge of the embankment. Below it there was a three foot drop into the water, and at the bottom of it was a girl half\-submerged in the water; a girl with red hair. I knelt down and raised the lantern. She wasn’t wearing anything up top, but I couldn’t tell because she was laid on her front in the mud. I lowered the lantern more and saw why she’d been submerged halfway. Her other half was not a pair of legs--but a purple and reddish coloured fin which swayed in the water hypnotically. Holy crap.I recoiled and ran towards my tent; all air escaping me in a scream. I kept it up as I fumbled for the zip. I managed to slide it all the way around and then dived under my sleeping bag, breathing heavily and telling myself I had, in fact, gone insane. “Excuse me,” I heard the thing yell. “Go away!” I yelled back. “But--“ “I said go away!” I took a deep breath. “You ain’t real!” I wasn’t talking to a mermaid, that’s impossible. But her voice seemed real enough. I took a second to catch my breath. No, I was imagining things. I was tired, and I’d just lost my Dad. Weirder things happened when you lost people. I’d seen it in movies. This one time, a guy lost his wife and decided to go and kill a bunch of people for revenge. It’d have been a different movie if he imagined mermaids, I thought. “You still there?” I called out. “Yeah. Duh,” she replied. I zipped open the tent a little and peered out. She was sat on the embankment now. I could see her fully as I’d dropped the lantern close by. Her chest seemed to be covered by a thin veil of skin which covered her top part, and her hair seemed dry, and almost glowing with a faint purplish and reddish glaze. “You stay there!” I said. “Okay,” she replied. I zipped open the tent all the way but stayed inside it, my head hidden by the top flap. I could hear her outside but she refused to move, and we stayed in silence. This was a dream, it had to be. I was trying to wrap my mind around the idea of what I was seeing, and remembering my Dad. If he’d been telling the truth about mermaids, what else was out there? Were ghosts and goblins hiding away? Were there giants in Scotland? I knelt down and looked at her. She seemed to be at ease, leaning back on her palms and looking up at the sky. “I’m gonna come out, slowly. Don’t move or nothing,” I said as I edged a foot out of the tent. She didn’t acknowledge me. I moved closer, stretching a hand out as I took another step closer. There wasn’t much between us. I made it so there was about six feet of space so she couldn’t grab me. When she looked at me my legs turned to jelly and I fell down, flabbergasted. Air escaped my lungs and I let out a quiet “wow,” as I looked at her. “You’re real. I’m not...imagining this am I, I must be?” “I don’t think so,” she replied. Her accent sounded Irish, but I wasn’t entirely sure. She turned to look at me and in the light I got a close up look of her. She had a soft, round nose and pale skin. Her eyes were a bright, very bright shade of purple, and she was short, shorter than I was. The thin veil of skin over her seemed like fabric. Her hair seemed to be dry, as if it’d never been touched by water at all. Her eyes shimmered brighter against the light of the lantern. She smiled at me and I looked at her closely. “Are you a...you know what the name is?” “We don’t call ourselves that, that’s a made up name. But you can’t pronounce how I’d say it anyway,” she said with a shrug. Okay, so she talks. She shrugs. She’s got an attidue. “Woah,” I replied, looking her over. “Do you have a name?” “I do but I don’t think you can pronounce that either. I think in this speech it sounds very close to Eily but I could be wrong.” “Are you going to eat me?” Her eyes widened and she let out a laugh that floated in the air like a melody. “No I don’t eat people. Where’d you hear that?” “Old stories about sailors and stuff. I read in a book once that mermaids lure sailors away and eat them.” “Whoever wrote that never met one then. I don’t eat people. I don’t plan on eating you. I can’t say the same for you though,” she said as she span and planted her fin on the embankment. “What were you going to do when you caught me? Cook me?” I looked down and noticed the familiar, silver hook that had once been attached to my father’s rod. It was her, I thought. I’d snagged her with it and she’d swam away. I looked to her and had never felt so bad in my life. I wasn’t one for torturing animals; I even felt a kind of sorrow whenever I stepped on slugs and snails when they made their journeys through streets after heavy rain. That felt similar to how I felt then. “That was you! I’m sorry--I didn’t know. I thought I’d caught a shark or something.” “In England? In a lake? Boy you are stupid,” she said as she touched the hook, and let out a wince. I looked down at it and then slowly edged forward. “Do you want me to help you get it out?” “Would ya, please? It’s killing me. Every time I touch the bastard thing it sends pains up my fin.” “Wait there,” I said as I got up and went back into the tent. I looked around for the fishing box I always bought and opened it to look for something useful. I lifted the second part of it and pulled out a pair of wire cutters and pliers. Eily hadn’t moved since I’d ran in, and even then I still thought I was imagining all of this. She was still prodding the hook. It felt like something out of a movie. Half excitement, half worry went through me as I expected to wake up any second to the sound of the empty lake, but it never came. I sat down and told her to sit still. She raised her fin and put it over my legs as I bought the lantern up to examine the hook. It was like a huge fish was on top of me. I remembered being in the lake and feeling the same feeling under me. I slowly put the wire\-cutters around the hook. “Was that you I felt in the water earlier?” I asked as I examined the hook. “Yes. You were laying there and you hurt me. I wanted to scare you.” “You did. I almost crapped myself.” “I’m glad you didn’t. I like the lake clean,” she said with a laugh. “Me too,” I said as I snipped the hook off. She let out a high\-pitched gasp as I slid out the straight bit of metal, leaving only a small, red hole in the thin membrane of the fin. She lifted it up and examined it. I held the lantern up to help her see and she let out a sigh of relief. She laid down on her back. “That feels a thousand times better, thank Christ.”Mermaids were religious? “Happy to help,” I replied, still staring at her. I didn’t want her to disappear. She looked back to the lake and I decided I wanted her to stick around. It wasn’t every day people saw magical stuff like this. If she was going to go, then I wanted to make sure we could see each other again. “So do you live here?” “I’m sixteen--I don’t live here I live with a group of us.” “Oh, a family?” “Yeah. We travel in groups a lot, but my family live on the coast not far from here. I come here most days. I like it up here, it’s really quiet.” “Are you Irish?” “I have a lot of family on the coast and in Ireland,” she said quietly, still staring out at the lake. “I like the quiet too.” She turned back to me. “What about you? Family?” “Just my Mom. Dad died a few weeks ago. That’s about it really,” I said with a shrug. “That’s not good. Was that the man I saw you with here?” “You were watching me then?” “Well yeah--I’ve been here for years. I’d move here if I could.” “Why don’t you?” “I don’t get to live freely until I’m eighteen. It’s sort of a tradition. Too much to explain really. But it gets lonely out with my family, and boring.” “That makes two of us. My mother isn’t around much.” She smiled then and I moved back a little. “What?” “You’re the first person I’ve spoken to from the land is all. It...feels nice. Having a real conversation.” “I like it too,” I replied. We spoke for hours that felt like minutes. I learnt a lot about her in that first night. She would tell me about her family, all of them were what she called Echbiphilads--but said Mermaids was the easier way to say it if it suited me. I told her about my father, and my life before he died. We spoke until she felt she had to dip back into the water, and even then we spoke until the sun started to rise. I found out that mermaids don’t eat people, but choose to eat fish and other things which made me feel better. Before I could ask her anything else, she told me she had to go, and that her father was calling her. I told her I couldn’t hear anything and she laughed again. As she began to swim away I called out to her. “Can I see you again?” “Tomorrow,” she said, her head bobbing under the water. I went to say goodbye but she was already gone, and the only thing to prove she was real was the two pieces of the silver hook which lay at my feet.
Craig woke up, shitfaced. The couch cushion had spread his drool up the side of his face. Capillary action, that’s called. “Fuck you, Jeremy,” Craig said in a drunken stupor. Craig’s friend Jeremy had spoken at length about capillary action when they were drinking earlier, he was always talking about his science shit. But Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. Craig was alone in his apartment, butt ass naked. He peeled himself off the leather couch like wet bologna. He was having trouble finding his balance and kicked the shit out of his coffee table by accident. Like thirteen beer bottles toppled over in a clinky symphony. Must escape, Craig thought. Must escape living room. Must navigate to bathroom. Must piss. The bathroom was right next to the living room which was super handy. Craig contemplated the mess he was about to make and wondered if he should just piss in the shower. He decided to lift the seat on the toilet and try it the civilized way. Piss flew everywhere as expected. Craig didn’t know what to do with his hands because he didn’t have to use them to hold his pants. He just kind of let them hang there. He did his best to aim but he also didn’t want to fall over. Craig’s nuts were stuck to his leg so he tried to kind of squat to get them unstuck. While half squatting and being super relaxed from the pee, something landed on the floor behind him with a soft plop. “Oh poop,” Craig said, fearing the worst. He turned to see his dog, Smart laying behind him instead of his own poop, so that’s good. “Oh poop,” Craig said, remembering the pee he was getting everywhere and thinking he would get pee dog. “Warglabemaheh!” Craig exclaimed to make the dog flee. Smart didn’t look too good. He was panting and he smelled bad. Craig finished peeing and immediately forgot to flush. He turned and kneeled down and pushed Smart out of the bathroom like heavy groceries. Smart was clammy and clearly messed up. Craig worried about what he’d have to do if his dog died right there. Would he have to call the cops? It was at this moment that Craig’s phone started ringing. He knew he wouldn’t be able to find it in time, much less answer it. He certainly couldn’t talk to them while he was naked. The kitchen was dark and had no goddamn food in it. Craig made his way to the freezer to get a thingy for Smart. In the middle of the floor were what might have been Craig’s pants. Also in the middle of the floor was Craig. He fell. On the pants. The phone started ringing again. “Fuck you, Jeremy,” Craig said again because it was probably Jeremy. The floor was cool and felt nice when Craig scrooched on it. The freezer didn’t have anything in it to make Smart feel better but there were a bunch of gross Snapples in the fridge so he grabbed those. Back in a pile on the floor was Smart, looking bad. Craig just kind of looked at his dog, wanting to help but also not sure how to do anything. Craig cursed himself for getting so drunk. He wondered if he could be like, angry at beer. Using his boy scout skills, Craig used the Snapple bottles to build a teepee fire log setup around the dog to keep him cool. Smart didn’t seem to notice and all the bottles rolled off because he was breathing. Craig looked around the apartment, trying to see what Smart’s dumb ass could have gotten into. A lot of stuff actually. Craig was starting to feel itchy because he had no clothes on. There was a blanket on the couch so he accidentally kicked the shit out of the damn coffee table again trying to get over to it. There was a weird noise as he slung the blanket around his shoulders. It was like Smart let out a huge fart. “Not on the Snapple you little basta-” Craig began to say but then- BOOM! Smart exploded. Fucking everywhere. Craig did not have the reflexes in his current drunken state to avoid the doggie soup that came flying at him from across the room. He took a piece full in the face, making his face hurt. “God whathufuck?” said Craig, on the floor again. The dog-splosion didn’t make a lot of noise which was weird. It was more like if you like, smooshed an egg but like one that wasn’t hard? Like it’d still be squishy on the inside but not crispy outside. Also it wouldn’t be too hard to squish. Not like a balloon, that’d be too loud and fast. Like a slow egg but still strong. There was a GLURP noise from the wall with the fish tank. Then there was a little splash on Craig’s head. Craig could see the fish tank and the water was all wobbly. Aww fuck. The Stupid Blue Fish just exploded. It was true. The Stupid Blue Fish just exploded. Its little fish parts were sinking to the bottom of the tank and The Stupid Yellow Fish and The Only Goldfish that Survived from the Fair were floating belly up on the surface. Then they both exploded and Craig got showered with fish water again. Craig had to pee so bad again and he was kind of like “fuck it, I’ll just go right here,” but at this point he was getting a little scared because his pets exploded. That’s when the phone rang again. From the floor in front of the couch, wrapped up in blankets with his dick out, Craig reached into the spitty couch cushion and found his phone. “Goddammit Jeremy what do you want I need new fish now!” Craig tried to say. It is unclear whether he actually said that or if he just mumbled. “Craig? I need you to pick me up and take me to the hospital. I don’t feel so good.” Jeremy sounded like shit. “I can’t you’re drunk,” Craig reminded him. “Is Charlotte still there? She went back to your place, can she give me a ride?” This revelation was scary to Craig. His dick was out. Charlotte was a girl. So there might be a girl there while he had his dick out. “I don’t know. Where is she?” asked Craig. “Just please man, I need a doctor.” “Mmmmmmm,” went Craig, making it sound like he was thinking but he really just wanted Jeremy to figure something else out, making it sound like Jeremy was asking way too much and that, ya know, he wanted to help him out but it was gonna be a whole thing and- KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. Someone was banging on the window. Craig covered his dick. Charlotte was standing outside the window and she exploded. Now that Craig got a good look at the explosion, he could describe it a little better. Think of like a watermelon that just got smacked with a sledgehammer. There used to be a standup comedian called Gallagher who did his show and he’d be always smashing watermelons. Anyway, the watermelon Charlotte just kind of schmeared its way up the window, didn’t even break it or anything. And it had this kind of upward motion like the watermelon got hit with a golf club. All this time Craig was screaming and crying, but he somehow managed to not piss himself. “Did Charlotte just explode?” asked Jeremy over the phone. Craig replied with a crying “uh huh.” “Aww fuck man. That means-” BOOM. Jeremy just exploded over the phone. Craig was lying there on his back, dick out again, in front of the couch but scrunched in between the coffee table, crying. “Aww man, why’s this happening? I’m gonna go boom.” Craig put his arm over his eyes to block the light. It was weirdly silent in his apartment now that all his friends weren’t blowing up. How was he gonna live now? How was he supposed to go outside? How was he gonna eat? Eat? That’s when Craig remembered. They had eaten something. Craig tried to remember what had happened when they were all drinking. He might have been kind of stupid regardless of the drunkenness so it could be kind of hard to burritos. The goddamn burritos! I blew my people up cuz burritos! Must piss! Craig knocked pretty much everything off the coffee table trying to get up from in front of the couch but he did it. He decided in advance he was going to piss in the shower so he came into the bathroom firing on all cylinders. Absolutely none of his pee made it in the shower because the curtain but it didn’t matter, Craig was gonna fix this. Back in the kitchen, Craig plowed face first into the wall in the general vicinity of the lightswitch. It had the desired effect, that being the lights turned on. The kitchen table was there, covered in mail and burrito scraps. Craig’s pants were on the floor. The fever. You’ll have to stop the fever. Things were starting to make more pants now. I’m naked because of the fever. The phone started ringing again in the living room. Looking at the number, Craig didn’t know it. He also didn’t know anyone’s numbers anymore. He remembered Tom’s from like fifth grade but that was his Tom’s mom’s house. But he still knew it. All this time, Craig was staring at his phone, kind of drooling. It stopped ringing. There was an annoying siren sound getting louder outside. A text message came through to Craig’s phone. “Is it done?” it said. Craig was worried. It? What it? Done? What done? What am I done? At that moment Craig’s front door kicked itself in. He screamed. Men in scary clothes started pouring into his apartment with shovels. “There’s the mark. His dick’s out boys!” One of the shovel-bearers was directing the others around to the various piles of buddies around Craig’s apartment. There were two more outside squeegee-ing Charlotte’s ass off the front window. Craig put up karate hands but they couldn’t stop the shovel-man from tackling the Christ out of him. The rug burn brought them to a stop on the floor, staring into each other’s eyes. “Ya did good kid,” said the Shovel Man from behind a respirator. He pulled out an adorable little flashlight and shined it in Craig’s eyes. “Poopy response looks good guys!” “Darryl get off him!” yelled another Shovel Guy whilst shoveling Smart into a Home Depot bucket. “Yea Darryl. Leave him for the doctor.” A different Shovel Man was using a tiny net to get fish bits out of the tank. At that moment, a Shovel Man without a shovel walked in the door. He was wearing a lab coat backwards like a Snuggie. “Darryl how many times do I have to tell you?” said the Snuggie Shovel Man. Darryl kind of giggled and rolled off Craig. “Poopy response looks good, boss,” said Darryl, patting Snuggie Man on the shoulder as he passed. Craig was confused at why Darryl was saying poopy response. A little shit did come out but not like a whole poopy or anything. “Sounds great son, thank you.” Snuggie Man was standing over Craig. “Ya did good kid.” “Darryl said that too,” said Craig. “Did good kid.” “Did good kid.” Everyone started saying it affirmatively, looking up from their shovels for a second before going back to shoveling. Why are they congratulating me? Craig was afraid to move. Snuggie Man crouched down next to him and made a side glance toward Craig’s wang before looking back to his eyes. “The fever will subside soon. Good job with the clothes. We’re gonna take you back while we clean this all up.” Snuggie Man gave Craig little positive reinforcement slaps on the face. “You’re gonna forget all about this if you haven’t already.” He looked over to the window. “I’m sorry about the girl too.” Oh my god. Oh my god. How do I have to pee AGAIN. Snuggie Man reached into his pocket and pulled out a syringe. Craig’s mind was starting to clear. Something was starting to come back to him. I was supposed to feed them. But why did I- There was a pressure in Craig’s neck and the walls started floating up for a second. It got hot all the sudden and Craig reached upward. Snuggie Man put his hand on Craig’s chest and pushed him to the floor. It was getting darker. Craig’s head rolled around to see more Shovel Men coming in with a stretcher. He was lifting off the ground but Snuggie still had his hand on him. How... how... why... what did they make me do? And then it all went black.
It's been years since I've done much writing, and I'm sharing these breakfasts to remind myself how to put words on paper, or on screen. If it's deemed inappropriate for this subReddit, no hard feelings and I'll fade back to lurking. End of boring intro; onward to the boring story:   The waitress, Kirstin, is nowhere to be seen. One of the cooks, Harvey, is up front pouring coffee. I sigh, and may have said "Damn it." This is a pretty good diner without Kirstin, but it's better when she's here. There are four other customers: The Fixture is present, of course, because he lives on that corner stool. He's talking to a middle-aged black woman with what I think is a blue knitting needle in her hair, and her facial expression says, I wish this guy would shut up. At a table near the window, two very scrubbed-looking young white men in suits are eating breakfast, each with a Bible beside his plate. I'd rather have a cinnamon roll. • I pick a stool strategically distant from everyone else, and Harvey approaches, nods at me, and says, "You want coffee?" "With cream," I answer, and he plops a cup in front of me, fills it, brings cream. "Need a minute?" he says. I look over his head, where the daily-special sign is on an upper shelf, but it's blank. Harvey sees where I'm looking without looking himself, and says, "Sorry, no special today." I tell him what I want for breakfast. He jots it down and says, "We'll make it seem special." • ManBun is back, still or again wearing the same Grateful Dead t-shirt as last time I saw him, and he says "Good morning" to me as he walks past with his girlfriend or wife. Of course, I say the same. Dunno why he said good morning to me. Is that what people do? We've never spoken to each other before, but now that's lost forever. He's white and his companion is black, and they're both young and pretty and pierced, obviously counterculture. They sit at the diner's last table, way in the back. Harvey is taking their order, and ManBun's LadyFriend says, "Are you working alone today?" "No, Slim's in the kitchen, but it's just the two of us. Business is so slow, though, I could probably work the restaurant all by myself in a pinch." "Well, don't let your boss hear you say that," she says, "or one of you will probably get fired." "Nah," he says, "Bob wouldn't fire anyone unless we flipped him the finger. But if business doesn't pick up, he'd maybe cut us all back from four days a week to three." • My breakfast has arrived, and it's special -- perfection on a plate, as always. While I'm eating, the Bible Bros discuss Leviticus, throwing verses at each other, and deciding what each reference really means, like after so many eons these two have ascertained the Bible's true meaning in a diner over eggs. They're especially fervent about what's an acceptable sacrificial animal, because Leviticus says God won't accept injured or maimed animal sacrifices, or any animal with warts or festering sores. Knitting Needle, the black woman who'd been listening to The Fixture, has finished her breakfast, and she's masked up and standing at the cash register, paying. This puts her maybe five footsteps from the Bible Bros, just as they're going into detail about why God can't accept a diseased sheep as a sacrifice. This lady looks at them, and I know exactly what she's thinking. Same thought flashes through my head sometimes at the diner -- do I butt in and tell some stranger what I think, or shut up and mind my own business? She chooses the former. "God created the sheep," she says, "and created its disease, but He won't accept it as an offering?" They look at her with smiles, and start eagerly explaining, but she's not having it. "No, no, no, no, no, no ..." she says, rapid fire. "But you guys have a great morning." She takes her change from Harvey, and she's out the door. "And can I add something?" says The Fixture from his stool. "Nothing against God, but we're in a restaurant and you guys are talking about animals with diseases and festering sores. Could you at least, like, switch to the New Testament while people are eating?" They apologize, and seem sincere about it. For the rest of my morning at the diner, their conversation is noticeably quieter. Thank you for your service, Knitting Needle and The Fixture. • A twenty-something white guy comes in alone, and Harvey hollers at him, "J-Man! Good to see you, bud." The names vary, but this is not an uncommon occurrence at the diner. It's like they sang about on Cheers, "Sometimes you want to go / Where everybody knows your name / And they're always glad you came...". That lyric never made sense to me, though. The bar on that show looked like a nice enough (albeit phony) place, but I'd never want to go to any bar -- or diner -- where everybody knows my name. I want to be anonymous. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here for an omelet. • Some stranger walks in, 30s, white, with a curling mustache like sideways question-marks on each side of his nose. He sits along my section of the counter, not far from everybody-knows-J-Man, and soon those two are talking about Fools They Have Known. It's the most interesting conversation of the morning, but it happens too quickly for me to keep more than the briefest notes. J-Man starts it by saying something about his idiot brother-in-law, who thinks the coronavirus is a hoax or a communist plot. Handlebar-Mustache replies by telling about his cousin, who thinks everything is a hoax or a commie plot, dating back to JFK's assassination and perhaps earlier. "You think that's stupid?" says J-Man, and now it's Game On. One-upmanship. Which of these guys knows the stupidest person? J-Man tells us about a guy at his office who goes home every day at lunch, not to eat, but to shower off the accumulated radiation from looking at a computer monitor. "That's pretty damn stupid," says Handlebar, and he retorts with his sister, says she seems to worship Donald Trump more and more, the more stupid things he says and does. She's ordered hydroxychloroquine in the mail to save her from COVID-19, and she's aggravated that it's been weeks and it hasn't arrived yet. "It's never going to arrive," says J-Man. "Yeah," says Handlebar. "There's a sucker born every minute." Then he brings up his sister, who says Black Lives Matter is more racist than the KKK. "Can't top that," says J-Man. "Your sister wins the prize. Top Fuckin' Moron for Today." • In comes an old, white, bald man getting around with a walker. He's moving so slow you could have read this chapter top-to-bottom before he's pushed his walker to the table he wants to sit at, and before he's struggled with the difficult mechanics of sitting down. No disrespect intended, though -- quite the opposite. He's in here all the time, and it's not easy for him. Me, and probably you? If we want the diner experience, we just walk in and take a seat. But for Bald-Walker, walking to his seat is serious work. I imagine getting dressed to come here is a challenge, yet he's here, and often, and he's probably been coming here since before he was walking with a walker. Gotta respect someone willing to put that much effort into breakfast at the diner. Harvey takes his order, pours him some coffee, and Bald-Walker says, "Hey, is the other guy working this morning?" "You mean Slim?" Harvey answers, only he says Slim's real name, which I've heard twenty times but always forget. "Yeah," says Bald-Walker. "Will you tell him I said thanks? He sorta saved my butt a few weeks ago." • Here's a white couple in their 40s, dressed a bit nicely so I'll presume they're both on their way to jobs where you need to look presentable. He's in a suit; she's in a muted but still colorful blouse. Mrs Dressed Nicely quietly says something to her husband, and it's a brief moment of near-total silence in the diner, so I can hear clearly: "Are you sure about this place?" He cocks his head, meaning, Huh?, and she goes on, "It seems sort of ... dirty." Dirty? The place doesn't sparkle, but it's tidy, and the kitchen looks clean, at least from the seating area. Someone who's accustomed to breakfast at Perkins or Denny's or IHOP might think this diner is dirty, though. The walls could use a fresh coat of paint. The staff is in street clothes, not a uniform. A couple of cabinet doors behind the counter are held shut with duct tape. The tables are old and a little rickety, like me. Mr Dressed Nicely wants hot sauce, and says it to Harvey exactly like that: "Hot sauce." No hostility, but it's a command, not a request. Harvey grabs a bottle of tabasco, passes in front of my stool on his way to deliver it, and under his breath mumbles, "Here's your hot sauce, you son of a bitch." I am chuckling so much as I jot that in the margins of my magazine, a couple of hours later I had a hard time deciphering what I'd written. Harvey knew, like I knew, like Mr and Mrs Dressed Nicely already knew, that even if everything is sweet perfection for their entire breakfast, they're never coming back. So to hell with 'em.   I'm a grumpy old man who lives alone and has few friends -- basically a hermit. Once a week I have breakfast at my favorite diner. Most weeks it's my only in-person interaction with other humans, which is not my strong suit. Yeah, I'm aware of the coronavirus, so I go to the diner at dawn, before it gets busy. I wash my hands before and after, cough into my elbow, spray Lysol on my food, pay at my plate, tell the waitress to keep the change, and hold my breath while leaving until I'm outside. It's a little more dangerous than staying at home, but life would suck without breakfast at the diner, so get off my lawn. *And remember, decent people leave a generous tip.
Ashley Cane had just moved into a new house a month ago. She didn't know anyone and didn't really mind. She was a loner and didn't like people much. She hadn’t made friends with anyone in her class this year, the kids were all either too bossy or too wimpy. So it wasn’t such a bad thing for her to move away in the middle of the school year. In her old house, her favorite thing to do was read. In the stories she read, she could go anywhere, be anyone, and do anything. It was better than reality for Ashley. And because of all those books, she has developed an overactive imagination. Her brother, Adam, hated that about her, she knew, because she would always tell him things he didn't want to hear. Ashley was fifteen when they moved, and Adam was thirteen. Their new house was built in a modern style, overlooking a wide meadow. Ashley could just see their nearest neighbors’ house from the end of their driveway, peeking out of a copse of trees nearly a half mile down the road. She liked that it was quiet, and it got extra dark at night, more so than their old house in the suburbs. But her favorite thing about their new house was a game room they had set up in an open loft above the living room. There were shelves of books and a big comfy chair. Plus, there was a big screen TV and a bunch of video games. Ashley liked to sit up there and read, or stare through the skylight and daydream. “What do you think, Adam?” mused Ashley one evening. The two of them were up in the loft, listening to the rain splash against the roof above them while a quiet movie played on the TV. Ashley had turned slightly in the chair and muted the TV to blurt that random question in Adam’s direction. “Whatever you’re talking about, I don't want to hear it,” insisted Adam, tossing his baseball in the air and catching it from his position on a futon against the far wall. “Why not?” asked Ashley, “I think they do, don't you?” “You think what?” he sighed, his curiosity getting the better of his judgement. “I think that ghosts are real,” Ashley said, “And not just ghosts either. Poltergeists and possessions, too.” “Oh brother,” said Adam, giving his sister an eye roll. “First you thought the neighbors were aliens from outer space, then you were convinced that the new mailman was a vampire bent on killing off everyone, and now ghosts. What next? Bigfoot?” “Hey, don’t get me started on Bigfoot,” she quipped in response, shifting in her seat to fully face her brother. “But really, you don't believe in ghosts?” she asked. “I do,” she continued, not waiting for Adam’s answer, “I think they're everywhere, watching us.” Their mother’s voice from downstairs saved Adam from answering, “Ashley! Adam! Come for supper!” “Coming,” they called back in unison. Meatloaf again, thought Ashley, I think it's poison. “Ashley, eat your food,” said her father. “I will.” Ashley watched as her brother ate a forkful of food and swallowed. After a moment of anticipation, nothing happened. Okay, it's not poison, she thought, and took a forkful of her own. Ashley woke at a sound. A cat was crying somewhere outside near her window. I feel sorry for it, she thought sleepily, maybe it’s hungry. She got out of bed and threw some shoes on, grabbing a light from the emergency drawer on her way to the front door. Running outside, she turned on her flashlight and headed for the meadow. “Here kitty, kitty” she called softly. “Come on out, I won’t hurt you.” She shone her light around the tall grass. Turning around, she oriented herself to her bedroom window to find where the sound was coming from. When she turned back toward the meadow, a small gray and white cat had appeared. Ashley gasped, “You scared me little kitty.” The cat just stood there, staring up at her. In her flashlight’s beam, the eyes flashed for a moment as Ashley crept closer, trying not to scare it. She bent over to pick it up, and to her surprise, it didn't run away. Cuddling the creature close to her chest, she carried it back to her house. “See Mom, can I keep her? Please, please, pleeeeaaaase?” begged Ashley, holding the cat up for her mom to inspect the next morning. “Well,” said her mother, “If you take care of it, okay.” “Yippee!” shouted Ashley, “Did you hear that, kitty? I get to keep you!” Her mom hid a smile behind her mug of coffee. “What are you going to name it her?” she asked. “Umm, Misty, yeah,” said Ashley, “It was misty from the rain last night and she’s gray.” “Sounds perfect,” said her mom, “I’ll stop by the store and pick up some supplies on my way home from work.” “Thanks, Mom!” Ashley squealed, and ran to her room. A scream cut through the night like a hot knife through butter. Adam came tearing into Ashley's room. It was the night after Ashley found Misty. “Calm down, dweeb,” she said, her voice filled with sleep, “What happened? Bad dream?” “No,” he said, “There's something in my room.” “Yeah right.” “There was! I saw it!” he insisted, “Well, not all of it. Just these evil, glowing eyes that were staring at me in the dark. Then they disappeared and a second later they were on the other side of the room, staring again.” “Uh huh, sure.” “Come on, I'll show you,” he answered her snide comment and gestured for her to follow. Ashley groaned and dragged herself out of bed before following Adam into his room and turned on the lights. Misty came out from under his bed and stared up at the siblings. “Those are the eyes!” he yelled, ducking quickly behind his sister. “Calm down,” Ashley chastised him and picked Misty up, “It's just my new cat, Misty.” “That cat is evil Ash, get rid of it!” “No way,” snapped Ashley, “She didn’t do anything to you. I love her, and she stays.” Ashley took the cat back to her room, while Adam made sure his door was completely closed. The rest of the night was uneventful, and Ashley soon forgot about it. The next evening, the siblings were hanging out in their loft when a crash came from the living room below. “What was that?” Ashley startled, looking up from her book. Another smash sounded, and her eyes flew wide. “I don't know,” said Adam, “It sounded like something breaking.” They ran to the railing to peer down at the living room. They gasped and ran down the stairs. “Oh no!” Adam yelped. The living room was trashed from top to bottom. Their mother's collection of porcelain frogs covered the floor, in three thousand pieces it seemed. And the crystal vase was broken, too. It lay on the floor next to a small lump of fur. “Misty!” yelled Adam, “See Ashley? That cat is evil!” Misty turned to look at the humans who had walked in on her fun. Her eyes were wide, as she looked right at them and meowed softly. Ashley shivered despite herself. Misty couldn't have done it on purpose, could she? Adam and Ashley worked for an hour cleaning up the room before their parents came home. When they did, the siblings had a lot of explaining to do, and Ashley had a lot of begging to do to keep Misty. “See you later kids,” their dad said, “We’ll be back by ten.” “Well, Adam,” said Ashley, “What shall we do?” “Anything that's far away from that cat of yours,” he said. “She was staring at me all night, last night. She really scared me.” “Oh, Adam,” said Ashley with a laugh, “Next you'll be telling ME about the mailman being a vampire.” “Get real,” Adam said, throwing her a look of disgust, “Still, Misty gives me the creeps.” Adam put on his headphones and started dancing with a mop, while Ashley started writing the letter to her grandmother. The move was hard, and Ashley missed living down the road from her grandmother and getting to see her all the time. The letter was far overdue, but she had been so busy with unpacking and Misty, that, and her grandmother didn’t use email for easier correspondence. “Dear Grandma, Well, we got here okay, and the house is all unpacked, finally. Adam has been as annoying as ever. We have this awesome new loft to hang out in though, I can’t wait for you to see it. But grandma, the BEST news is that I found a little cat and mom actually let me keep her! She's gray and white, so I named her Misty. The strange thing is, she likes to stare at Adam in the dark. It scares him, but I think it’s kinda funny. Like, see what it’s like being annoyed all the time? Though, the other day she destroyed my mom's prized possessions, her frog collection, and her crystal vase. I felt so sorry for her, she almost cried when she found out, but I'm positive that Misty didn't mean to. She was just being a curious cat, I’m sure! At least, I hope... Anyway, our mailman comes only at night, so I will be able to get this letter out to you by morning. He's not like the other mail carries that deliver mail in the daylight, but this guy does it in the dead of night. Um, vampire much? At least it’s convenient if you’re a night owl, I guess. Oh well, I have to go now, grandma. Please write back if you find the time and think about getting a computer! I love you and I miss you. Love and kisses, Ashley” Ashley sealed the envelope as she slipped on her shoes and headed out to the mailbox. The night was cool and she showed in the darkness. A noise in the woods that bordered the long driveway on one side made her jump. “Who’s there?” she called softly. Nothing, silence, oblivion. Stop being so dramatic, she chastised herself, it’s probably just a raccoon. She put a hand to her racing heart. Calm down, there's nothing out there to be afraid of. Just then, something darted from the bushes in front of her. She didn’t get a good look at it but saw that it was big. She shrieked and turn to run, but the creature chased her and jumped on her back, holding her down. The thing’s claws dug into her back and she could feel the blood coming to the surface. She struggled against the weight on her back, crying through clenched teeth as the creature dug harder. When Ashley felt the last of her strength about to abandon her, her attacker sprang from her back and flashed into view for a second before running away. Breathing hard, and gasping for breath, Ashley couldn't move for quite a while as she gathered her wits and her strength. I can’t stay here, she thought as she slowly got to her feet. She limped back to the house, seeking help as the blood continued to soak into her shirt. “Adam!” she called weakly. “What?” Luckily, he had removed the headphones and was reading quietly in the living room instead. “Help,” she croaked, before collapsing on the floor. Adam heard her fall and came running. “Oh my god!” he screamed, “Ashley your back is covered in blood!” Adam ran into the kitchen and got some towels and water. He ran back and tried to clean off her wounds and staunch the flow of blood. “Don't worry, sis,” he said shakily, hoping to calm her, or himself, down. “It’s ten o’clock. Mom and Dad should be home soon.” As if on cue, the front door opened, and their mom stuck her head in the opening. “Hi kids,” she called out. “Mom!” yelled Adam, “In here, quick. Ashley’s hurt!” Ashley’s parents immediately bundled her into the car to take her to the hospital. On the way out, their mom turned to Adam, “Here, I almost forgot, Misty was outside on the doorstep with this in her mouth. Feed her, okay? We’ll call you from the hospital.” Adam watched his parents go, and then looked numbly down at his hand to see what his mother had given him. It was a bloody envelope, addressed to his grandmother, from Ashley. The next morning, Adam was allowed to visit his sister at the hospital. “Um, can we talk alone?” he asked. “Okay,” said the nurse, “But you only have ten minutes before visiting hours are over.” After the nurse left, Adam turned to his sister. She lay on the hospital bed looking pale. Bandages were covering her back and she winced as she shifted position slightly. “Ashley,” whispered Adam, “What happened?” “I was walking... ouch... out to the mailbox when something came out of the bushes jumped on me.” She paused to take a deep breath, “It was so strong, I couldn’t get up, and it started digging his claws into my back. I couldn't move, it... ouch... hurt so much.” “Does it hurt now?” “Only when I move,” she snorted in reply, rolling her eyes. “Did you see what it was?” he asked, sitting on the chair by the bed so he could be closer to her face. “Well,” she started, “I think my eyes were playing tricks on me, or I was in shock or something, but...” “What? But what?” he asked earnestly, “Tell me, please, Ash.” “It looked like Misty, but it was too heavy and too powerful to be cute little Misty.” “Um, Ash,” said Adam after a moment’s silence. “Yeah?” “Well, just before you left for the hospital, uh, Mom said she found Misty outside with your letter to Grandma in her mouth, and it was covered with blood.” “Ashley?” asked Adam. It was two days since Ashley's return from the hospital, they had kept her for a few days to make sure her wounds didn’t get infected. She didn’t have to wear bandages, but her back was still sore. “What?” she grumbled. It was also the middle of the night, and Ashley was very tired. “Misty is staring at me again,” he said softly from the doorway to her room, “I wish I knew what she was thinking.” As he was talking, Ashley suddenly sat up. “Shh!” she hissed, “Do you hear that?” “Yes,” he whispered, breathing rapidly and scrambling to stand beside her bed, “What is it?” The sound echoed from down the hallway. “It sounds like it's coming from my room,” said Adam, his voice shaky. The noise grew louder. It sounded like claws clicking on the floor, big claws, sharp claws, and coming closer. “It's coming in here,” squeaked Ashley. They looked toward the door and saw Misty. But she wasn’t a tiny cute kitty any more. She was huge, and as she walked into the room she blocked the whole doorway. Her eyes flashed in the darkness, glowing red, and drool oozed over her elongated jaw. A low growl issued from deep in her throat as she advanced on the kids, baring her razor-sharp teeth. “Adam quick,” called Ashley, who had moved to open the window beside her bed. “Out the window!” Ashley watched in horror as her beloved cat, now transformed somehow, launched her large bulk at Adam, pouncing like a tiger. He screamed as Misty bit his arm, teeth sinking through the thin cloth of his pajamas. Ashley grabbed the lamp from off the bedside table, and with tears in her eyes, she hurled it at the creature her sweet kitty had become. Misty snarled and let go of Adam. Wasting no time, Adam and Ashley tumbled through the opening. They hit the ground running, but Adam quickly spun and tried to shut the window. Misty charged, and the glass halted its downward progress. Adam took off running, hoping that would at least slow the creature down. “This way, Adam! Hurry!” The two kids raced across the lawn at the side of their house, heading toward the front. Maybe, thought Adam, yes, the grass is long enough. “Ashley,” he cried, “The meadow!” Ashley and Adam raced into the meadow and ducked out of sight just as Misty in hot pursuit, rounded the corner of the house. “Shh,” whispered Adam, “Come on.” He began crawling through the grass away from the house, and the vicious cat. “Adam...” whispered Ashley after some time, “I can't go anymore, my back...” Adam stopped crawling and dared a glance back, peeking his eyes above the tall grass. “It's okay, I think we lost her,” he said, “Just a little further, there’s a clearing where we can rest.” Ashley groaned, but followed her brother a while longer. When they reached the clearing, they both stood up cautiously and brushed off their knees. Adam suddenly went still in front of her, and Ashley stopped in her tracks. It was eerily quiet as they stared at the figure that stood blocking their path. “You!” said Ashley, gazing in shock at the mailman, with his unnaturally pale face and blood red lips. “Good evening, children,” he said softly, “So nice to see you out so late.” He smiled wickedly and advanced on the two children, mouth open, and fanged teeth glistening. Adam and Ashley were frozen in fear as he loomed closer. Just before he reached them, Ashley managed to whisper, “I was right.” As the vampire mailman dropped Adam’s lifeless body to the ground, he looked up. Entering the clearing was a small cat. She stared up at the mailman. “Good work, my supernatural friend,” he said, the children's blood still staining his teeth. “Thank you for chasing them this way.” The cat meowed before turning to her former masters lying dead on the ground and her eyes flashed red. Then, tail raised, she disappeared into the long grass.
A/N: inspired by Your room is still pink. Or purple, as your father says. He says he didn't want a “stereotypical” color for you, but I think he just wanted to confuse the relatives. You should’ve seen his face when nobody knew what to guess. Today the windows are open and the sky is finally clear. I always liked this rocking chair. So your father helped me put it here. This spot, he insisted, had the perfect view. And he’s right, you know. Your room doesn’t have any bookshelves because we were worried they’d fall. As it turned out, you didn't leave many books behind. Stacked on the dresser are the ones I read to you. When I read out loud, I always wondered if you were listening. There was one about a mouse and a cookie. Another one was about the boy whose bedroom became a forest. He made friends with those wild things in that jungle. Do you remember them? On the corner of the table are my own books. I read here too. Sitting on the rocking chair, I’d read to you first. But since I never felt like leaving, I ended up bringing my books too. There’s something calming about this room. Next to the books are the CDs I'd play. Your father said they'd help you get smarter. One hour a day, Mozart, Beethoven, and Haydn took turns performing. Sometimes I think you kicked to the beat. Could you hear them? Or was that just my wishful thinking? These shoes my mother knit for you are still in the dresser drawers. There are little yellow ones with flowers on top and bright red ones lined with white. Your grandmother is amazing, right? She even made you a couple stuffed animals. I tried to learn too. Really. But the purple shoe I knit looked more like a mitten. And if I stand up, I'll see the clothes you left. I'm still keeping them you know. Small white shirts that fit nobody else, little grey pajamas gathering dust. Look, that tiger onesie is still here too! The colors are bright and the cloth is soft. Would you have liked it? Your bed is still by the door. We wanted to check on you as often as we could. But all that's left is the thin green blanket folded under your pillow. There's dust here too - I guess these sheets should really be put away. From the corner of my eye, I see the photo album on the floor. I must have left it there last time I visited. This picture here wasn't too many months ago. I remember how excited we were for you. How nice would it be if you'd left a picture too. I run my hand along the crib you never used and take in the room you left behind. But today I came to say goodbye. There are boxes to fill and rooms to clean. I'll keep your slippers and your books. The brand new toys will go on top. And to fill in the rest, I'll use your blanket. The crib, however, goes to someone new. I hope that's okay with you. I'll take a break and look outside. Even the birds are building their nests. Your father and I are simply doing the same. He'll help me seal this plain brown box. Sealing away the memories you never had. We'll lift it together - it'll be lighter once we're moving. After one last look around, we'll take it out the door. Then we'll drive towards the clear blue sky. Away from the birds and away from the house. Away from the room we left behind.
“I killed you! I killed you! How are you still alive!” Herbert’s hand trembled as he gripped the mouse, the glow of the arcade screen made everything in the room disappear. He was alone with the game and could do or say anything in that anonymity. “These bullet-to-target ratios are whack. Can’t believe they released this as beta.” In the game he was having difficulty tracking his targets. The tracker mouse ball was something he had to get used to but the gaming cabinet was a steal. It wasn’t fair that the other players had boosters. Metal War had a tendency to overvalue and reward their top players. Maybe if he could get followers on his streams, he’d have the sweet in-game gear, boosters, and maybe a hot gamer girlfriend. He took his headphones off in a fit of rage and looked at the scoreboard. “4-31” read the kill-verses-death count. The keyboard in the gaming cabinet was still dusty. He probably should’ve have cleaned it after Darius dropped it off. Who knows where he got the thing? But the lack of kills streaks wasn’t from the lack of responsiveness. Herbert squirmed in the attached gaming chair when the idea of another defeat made his heart race. Nothing was ever fair. His assault character loaded into the match, appearing on screen as a commando with two submachine guns. He pressed the keys on the built-in keyboard and eagerly moved the character to a corner where he hid in a known kill spot. “Yo, Herb, where you at? We’re getting mowed down over here.” Shawn was with the rest of his squad, flanking the enemies. Shawn had also played hooky today. Moving up with the boosted gamers out there was suicide, especially when probably have aim-bots turned on. “Standby, checking gear.” Cheating had always ruined games but in this situation, he didn’t see a way out. The GHOST key was sitting in the upper right of the keyboard, egging him on to press it. The first time he used it he won 7 rounds in a row. The other players never even noticed. He peaked around the corner and was nearly received a headshot by a 50 BMG round. The key was right there. He could just turn it off for this one match. His friend wouldn’t give a crap. He pressed the GHOST key; the engineer of the gaming cabinet must’ve been a genius. The cabinet glowed red with small LEDs when it turned on. Inside the game his character vanished, the only visible sign that remained were the foot prints in the dirt. With a less strained eye he turned the corner and shot the sniper through the head. Running along an alley he was flanked by another enemy who ran past him unnoticed. Herbert changed to a knife and quickly backstabbed, moving his kill count to 6. In another room he found two enemy squad mates shooting through a window. His frag grenade awarded him two more kills. “Someone’s hacking!” Came a voice over his headphones. It was someone from his team. He quickly pressed the GHOST key again and removed the cloaking hack. The letters were worn. Whoever had this before used it a lot. As soon as he turned it off, he got shot from behind. When the chatter died down about a possible hacker, he turned it on again, getting several more kills. He had to retain a presence in the game and to his squad mates so he pressed the key when most opportune, spamming the button like he would any other command. When the match was done, he breathed a sigh of relief, seeing the winning score. But when he turned the game off, palms sweating, he couldn’t see his hands! He put his wrists to the screen but nothing appeared. Closing his eyes, he squeezed his fists together. The light must be playing a trick. When he got up and turned the light on his whole body was missing. Even his clothes were invisible. Back in the game machine he pressed everything, even the GHOST button, but he still couldn’t see himself. After checking every mirror in his mom’s apartment, he went downstairs. His mom was sitting on the couch. He was almost glad when she didn’t notice him. It was nice to just see her without a mean look on her face. She had never checked on him before, why would it matter if he was gone? Herbert snuck out the back door, stepping on the same floor board as to not make a sound. The other guys wouldn’t believe he was invisible. Who could believe him? Could they hear him? He put his hands in his sweater pockets, walking at a scattered pace, deciding what to do with his new found power. It didn’t matter to him that he might be like this forever or that one day even his essence might evaporate completely. Instead he instantly thought about what Jenn was doing right now. The school would be on a lunch break and if he walked there, he could get there before the last class ended. Darius and Eric would flip. He arrived when the afternoon class bell rang. He watched as they entered their respective rooms and abandoned the hall. No one would see him open the double doors, or walk toward the gym, or even sneak into the girl’s locker room. He made sure he opened the door slowly, hearing several girls inside. His heart raced as if he was on a sneaking mission in Metal War. The girls were always so cruel to him, except for one. What was the harm anyways? He made it around the brick corner and saw them talking in a group around the lockers. They had already finished dressing but he could still feel his pulse. “Whatever, he’s not that cute anyways. Now Billy, he’s got a cute butt.” Andrea was talking. Her voice made him cringe. Jenn was sitting quietly, putting on her shoes, looking as sweet even with gym clothes on. Even when he was invisible, he found it hard to approach her. “You’re so wrong,” Said Jill, “it’s not always about looks.” “Oh yeah? Who do you like?” Retorted Andrea. Jill thought for a moment. “John seems like a good guy but I wouldn’t date him.” “What about Ben?” Said another girl. This time Jenn chimed in, “Ugh, he’s too quiet. Creepy.” “I think that one boy likes you. Herbert.” Laughed Andrea. “What a stupid name.” Jenn turned with a look of disgust. “I’m not into black guys. I don’t know what it is.” The other girls smiled with wide-mouthed grins. His stomach sank. Andrea was the one to respond with a chuckle, “Racist!” “No, no” she waved her hands, “he’s just not my type.” He closed his eyes in defeat. He had often wondered about what girls talked about behind closed doors but he didn’t expect his crush to feel this way, or even say it out loud. She had always been so kind. Now he wasn’t sure about anything anymore. His eyes became glassy. They started talking about their personal preferences for boys, attempting to justify Jenn’s aversion. By now he should have been used to this kind of bigotry in high school, with the amount of micro-aggressions and hatred, but this was too much to handle. The excitement he had experienced when he entered the school had faded, much like his own physical appearance. As he left the locker room, he heard them making sounds of revulsion. He had dreams of going up to her, of asking her out, of being with her but he knew now that no matter what he did he would never be good enough. Other white boys would get to touch her, hold her, somebody else would get to have her. Herbert walked to the science room; the door was open. Darius and Eric would know what to do. They were sitting there laughing and fist bumping. The teacher was sitting at the back, trying to be ignored. He cautiously walked and stood behind them, trying not to rub against anything. They were talking about gaming. “That lag is ruining my kills. It’s stupid bad.” Said Darius loudly. “At least I’m not tripping like what’s-his-face.” Eric was twirling his pen from the desk behind. “Herb, man, that’s Herb.” They had practically already forgotten about him. “He’s always wearing those beat up kicks. He’s always cheating, finding someway to be relevant to the team. He’s garbage.” Herbert stood behind the two and slunk back behind a shelf. He couldn’t trust them to save him. He’d have to save himself. This wasn’t a super power, it was darkness, complete and utter darkness. They were laughing about his hair when he decided he had enough. There was no one he could turn to. He left the school and walked toward the intersection. Maybe he could rob a bank to at least ease some of the pain he felt. The one near Prosper Street had revolving doors, like the ones he played in with his friend’s when they were younger. Did they really think of him as trash? With his head bent and his ego crushed he placed his hands in his pockets. Even with the thought of stealing money nothing snapped him out of it. Prosper Street was another block away. He stepped into the intersection, watching the cracks in the asphalt, as black as coal. When he got back to school, he would make their lives a living hell, ruining test grades and pranking them in the bathroom. His fists were balled up when a semi-truck came barreling down the four-lane road. He put his invisible hands out but suddenly realized he had made a grave mistake.
He hadn’t intended on remembering the date on which they had been partnered together at work, it had just happened, implanted itself on the inside of his skull awaiting his perusal whenever he desired to peruse. If asked why he remembered it so clearly, he would answer with one of the three explanations he had crafted that he deemed nonsuspicious, the favourite of which was that there was a good game on that day that he had watched at the pub in the evening. This was the favourite story because it was true, and the safest way to tell a lie is to make it as true as possible, anyone could tell you that. He would just leave out the part where he remembered that trip to the pub so well because it was the first time he could convince his new shadow to come along with him. He had flown through six months of training utilising the tough physical regime to put off the even tougher conversations he was going to have with himself about morals as soon as his thoughts weren’t all focused on the pain in his muscles. Gaining a partner’s back to watch at shy on every waking moment was not high on his list of priorities, not that he had a choice. It was like someone buying you a puppy for Christmas - many yellow stickers in car windows appeared in his mind -, he was not confident enough in his abilities to trust that he could look after this puppy, and he most certainly hadn’t asked for one. This one wasn’t even wrapped in bows, it was grumpy and on the defensive and most certainly not endearing. From what he had been told about him, he knew he had only been recruited a half a year before he himself had. Which meant he had a whole extra six months of working the streets under his belt, he had experience and he knew the rest of the team and he was well within his right to be standing next to him in that office with an air of distaste. As if he had much better places to be and he had to be there three minutes ago. He had been working alone so far, put on the back bench to wait for someone suitable to be identified and snapped up for the purpose of working with him. Now the time had come for the both of them to become the one thing they had been avoiding, a partnership. And neither were happy. First on the list was a stakeout and they struggled to imagine a worse situation. They had left the building both deciding whether they should be the one to volunteer to drive or whether they should just follow their new partner. An almost inhuman understanding of each other was expected of them, they had to work together like two obscenely well-oiled cogs in an equally obscenely well-oiled machine. Perhaps it was best to start at it from the very beginning, following each other around without question, in a ‘fake it till you make it’ sense. So that he did, followed the other into a long, hot morning sat in a car together, trying to make conversation with a man he had met five minutes ago and whose life had been elegantly placed in his hands in a business-like manner. No returns and only to be relieved of when it died. A puppy for Christmas. Although a puppy was a great inconvenience, they had at least had time to prepare for this one rather than being lumped with it as a surprise from underneath a tree. Time had been had to metaphorically buy water bowls and stock up on dog toys and strange smelling food. Now was the time to introduce yourself, palms up to show you’re not a threat and let them sniff your ankles. Perhaps that was going a bit far. To compromise, he had tried to smile at the right moments, judging based off of his whole morning of experience as to whether the other man was really making a joke, or just commenting on what he could see. He figured it couldn’t hurt to smile at the wrong times too. Better than staring straight ahead and straight faced at a joke. That would not set them off on the right foot at all. By lunchtime, which he discovered his new partner thought it always was, they had stopped resolutely looking at everything else, and now allowed themselves to glance with large intervals at the other man. Was he smiling right now? Was he actually frowning, did he just go to say something and then stop himself? What was he thinking? What he was thinking probably had something to do with the fact that it really was undeniably lunchtime now. And that meant talking to each other and making arrangements, who was going to do what. He decided he would break the silence, show that, contrary to his fake it till you make it technique of following him around like a scared lamb, he could also take initiative. He knew what he was doing. So he collected lunch orders and he made his way confidently and slowly towards a fish and chips van parked in a gravel car park on the corner of the road. Now was not the time to worry about placing food orders, now was the time to do it without thinking and to focus all his attention on making his body language the very definition of relaxed. Expertly ordered fish and chips were eaten in a car that now smelt of grease and that was full of thoughts on how they should be eating, and then whether evaluating one's own eating habits to try to force some sort of comradery was going a bit too far again. But amongst the newspapers and sharing of chips, and although there was no relaxation yet, no letting down of the walls, there was acceptance. And now, years in the future, he can look back on that first summer with appreciation for what it really was. The introduction to his favourite song.
It is curious that large places can become small after years of indifferent familiarity. Take this house. I know each crack in the floorboards that run along the living room’s western wall. There is a small hole in the fireplace tile. When I sit just so in the felt armoire that Denise took from her aunt’s home after that unfortunate accident, I can make out tiny pulses of smoke, which unfortunately waft into the house. Rather than patch the hole, Denise forbade me to use the fireplace. When we moved in it felt so grand. But any space can become small, if given enough time. Two people can model their own interiority after the walls that surround them, forgetting the world outside. Forgetting all that had happened. On Monday morning I woke alone in a lopsided bed. Denise’s half was cold. In the kitchen I put five scoops of coffee and two cups of water into the coffee maker. Then I poured the coffee back in the can and started all over, straining to calculate smaller portions that had once been familiar but that were now overridden with years of muscle memory induced by cohabitation. I was instinctually aware of the curious strangeness that accompanied this seemingly mundane change to my pattern. Denise had never traveled for work before. We had never spent a night apart in seventeen years, three months, and twenty-two days. Now a mid-career job change took her to a weeklong conference in Tucson, leaving the house feeling empty. Carl would be landing in a couple hours. He called a month ago, saying he would be in town the very week that Denise was traveling. It was understood that he was asking to use the guest bedroom. Denise had been at the grocery store when he called. The prior evening we had been sitting at the dinner table when she told me that she would be going out of town for a week. She talked about the conference and her new colleagues and the aquarium they were going to visit while she was there and how it really wasn’t that uncommon to have to travel for work one or two times per year. I went outside to pull weeds and let my pasta carbonara go cold. I decided not to tell her about Carl visiting. “It’s good to see you,” Carl said while I loaded his bags into the trunk. He looked curiously at the interior of the trunk, slightly concerned with what he saw. “Is everything okay?” I said. “Yes, of course.” He let the smile return to his face, as if he hadn’t noticed anything. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “I guess it has been. What brings you here this time?” But I knew the answer. “Just work.” He gave me a knowing grin. I only smiled back with plain, unstated understanding. We don’t discuss his work anymore. Carl used to visit a lot. When we first bought the house he could be counted on for regular seasonal appearances, ringing in each equinox around the dining room table where Denise, ever the oblivious host, regaled Carl, ever the charming houseguest, with hours-long renditions of her gardening adventures. Carl lived in a city and hadn’t the slightest clue about gardening. Spade or sprinkler, it was all the same to him. But he humored her nonetheless and for that alone he was welcome whenever he found himself in town. I don’t recall who initiated the descent from friends to acquaintances, but it happened. The first night we had takeout and after, beers in the living room. Carl picked at the paper label on his bottle. I saw him peel off a small piece and put it between the couch cushions. I wasn’t sure what to say. My mind was somewhere far. I excused myself to go to bed. In bed I though back on everything Carl and I had left unaddressed over the years. I should have put it all out in the open long ago. Denise too. She seemed to have found her avoidance mechanism with the new job. But me? I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, unable to fall asleep and unwilling to stop thinking about the series of events that had put Denise and me in this situation. I thought of how different it was before I had met Carl and before I had introduced him to Denise. I thought about how suddenly everything had changed when we learned about Carl’s job. Denise always said it shows shallowness of intellect to discuss only work. I didn’t see it that way. But after I met Carl, I wish I had come around to Denise’s perspective sooner. Things began moving faster than we could anticipate. When we eventually came up for air we bought the house. We started gardening. Then everything just...settled. Carl never pushed the subject. But we knew it was there, always lurking beneath the surface during his visits, liable to be brought up at any time during any one of our dusty conversations around the dinner table. Still unable to sleep, I walked downstairs and saw that Carl had lit the fireplace. The flames threw shadows that made the furniture look grotesque and worn. The whole room drooped under the weight of the flames. “Still up?” I asked. “I guess I’ve become a night owl in the last few years.” “We don’t normally light the fireplace. Denise has a thing about the smoke.” “Tell you what,” he said, “I won’t tell Denise you were lighting fires if you join me for a game.” I laughed. He gestured to the chessboard and then pulled up the second armchair. “What Denise doesn’t know...” “Just one game,” I said. “And then no more fires this week. Seriously.” “That’s the ticket! Black or white?” “You choose.” We started playing and things suddenly felt normal. The room became cozy. The tension between us dissipated, carried up the chimney and out into the world. Carl told me about a woman he’d been seeing. I filled him in on the latest book I had read. He mentioned his volunteering work. Suddenly it felt easy to be his friend. Carl pulled a small silver box from his pocket. It was flat and had a clasp on the front. He flicked it open and placed it on the table. “Smoke?” he asked. “Oh man,” I said, staring at the line of fat joints in the box, “I haven’t done that in a long time.” “So how about tonight?” “Yeah right. Denise would...” “Denise isn’t here.” “I know, but...” “...but,” he said, “Denise is at a conference. You can make choices for yourself.” He grinned that Cheshire cat grin; the same one he’d greeted me with at the airport when he had attempted to get me to ask about his work. “This feels like middle school when Travis Wilson made me drink wine coolers behind the trash cans after fourth period.” He laughed and pulled a joint out of the box. “C’mon, what do you say?” I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Smoking a joint in my living room after such a juvenile attempt at peer pressure. But after the first drag, the only thing that I found shocking was that I hadn't done it sooner. And a lot of other things. Carl and I kept chatting and, ostensibly, playing chess. But all I could think about was how Denise was away at her conference and how much damn gardening I’d done over the years. With each additional toke on the joint I sunk deeper into a mixed up state, half joking around with Carl, carefree as possible, and half chewing on distinct wistfulness that was exacerbated by the walls of a house that I had seen too much of. # The next morning I stumbled into the kitchen like a tired, old bloodhound. Though I could barely open my eyes, the scent of coffee and fried eggs was unmistakable. “Coffee?” Carl asked. “Sure. Thank you.” “Thanks for the game last night. I haven’t had a challenge in a while.” “The only thing I did was move pieces around the board. I could barely keep track of whose turn it was, let alone strategy.” “Well, it didn’t show. You’ve still got it.” We sipped our coffee and ate the eggs. I toasted bread and pulled out a fresh orange marmalade that Denise had made. The coffee was unfamiliar, rich, strong, something Carl brought with him. It tasted nothing like the commodity beans Denise and I bought in bulk. We ate in silence. I dipped my toast in the egg yolk. Carl sprinkled salt over his plate and then dabbed at it with a paper towel after having poured too much. There was a screw lease on the table leg beneath me. I twisted it tight with my hand. “I’m going into the city today for meetings,” Carl said suddenly. “I’ll see you tonight then.” “Sure. We’ll have dinner. Anything you want me to pick up on the way back?” “No, I’ve got it covered.” “You know,” he said, “you could come with me.” “With you?” “To the city. I want you to come tag along to my meetings.” Carl looked down and started playing with his napkin. The air in the kitchen felt heavy, glutted with the weight of our intertwined history. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I said. I stood to clear the dishes. Carl looked up from his napkin and looked me directly in the eyes. “Where’s Denise?” “She’s in Tucson.” “I see.” “It’s just a conference.” “When is she coming back?” “Saturday.” “Right” “What’s gotten into you?” “What’s her flight number?” “Carl...” “Forget it,” he said, and stood up with his plate in hand, “I’ll be back tonight around six for dinner.” I heard him open the front door and walk down the steps. From my seat I noticed a small crack in the wall left of the calendar. Because of my indexical knowledge of every detail of my home, I knew that it must have appeared overnight. Everything became hazy. Suddenly, the house felt like a foreign land, and I was a stranger within its borders. # Carl didn’t come home for dinner that night. I moved cold butternut squash and lamb chops to a glass container and put them in the refrigerator and went to bed. I struggled to fall asleep, my mind a warren of what ifs and if onlys as I flipped through Carl’s proposition that I join him during his meetings. Occasionally I drifted into the thin fugue state that separates wakefulness from the unconscious; that fitful place in between where absurdity and reality blend in fluid matrimony. Knocking at the front door drew me back to awareness. “Sorry if you were asleep,” Carl said. “I forgot to bring my key with me this morning.” “You could have called,” I said. “I saved you some dinner. It’s in the refrigerator.” I turned toward the staircase. “I left my phone too. I promise it wasn’t intentional.” I looked at the small wooden bowl on the table by the door and saw the key and the phone. Perhaps it really was nothing. But I know what happens when Carl is at work. But if I paused for a moment and considered all available evidence it certainly appeared to support his story. He wasn’t lying, but he was soaked in rainwater. “It’s no problem. Come inside.” I brought him a towel and lit the fireplace. “What kept you late?” “C’mon...” “I want to know.” “But you already do. You know how these things go.” “I want to hear details.” “No you don’t. Look around you. Denise is happy here. What interest could you possibly have in resurrecting all of that?” “You were the one who invited me to join you downtown for meetings today.” “I know. I shouldn’t have done that. It was stupid and I apologize. In fact, I think you should just leave things the way they are. You have a good life .” “Sometimes I don’t know.” “What are you talking about? Don’t say things like that.” “Denise isn’t happy. Her new job, this trip, it’s all...just...” I paused and looked at the fire. Carl was picking at his beer label again, waiting for me to continue. When I didn’t, he took another sip of sip. “Coming back to work wouldn’t make things better,” he said. “It’s kind of like being the chauffeur to a millionaire. You get to see the lifestyle, but it’s not actually yours.” “But at least you get a taste of it. Isn’t that perspective useful? Doesn’t it keep you...I don’t know...alive?” “You and I are different. This is all I know. I don’t have a family. I don’t have a wife. I don’t think I could. I’ve gotten myself in too deep. You’re lucky, you just don’t know it.” “Maybe,” I said. But I didn’t believe it. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I had made up my mind about Denise and Carl and the garden and the whole damned situation. I excused myself and went to bed. This time, dreamless. # The next morning I didn’t bother waking up to meet Carl. I couldn’t bother seeing him and being reminded of it all. I waited until I heard him close the front door before going downstairs. “Damnit! Start already!” I looked out the window and saw him swearing and trying to force the ignition on his rental car. The vehicle sputtered. Dead battery. Carl came back inside, looking flustered. I pulled my beater from the garage, but the battery was indifferent to Carl’s schedule. “Just my luck,” he said. “How easy is it to get a cab here?” “You’d be better off walking. You’ll get downtown faster than a cabbie could find his way here.” “I hate to ask this...” But ask he did. Albeit with a genuine apology wallpapered to his face. We transferred his things from the rental to the trunk. Once again, he lingered when I opened the trunk. He arranged his things. Some items looked familiar, but a lot had changed. We drove for an hour in virtual silence. As green faded to concrete I felt an acute sense of loss, of something left behind. But as I looked ahead at the city before me, this feeling was replaced with tremendous vigor. “We’re close,” said Carl. “You can drop me at this corner.” “That’s okay,” I said. “I can take you all the way.” “You’re sure you’re okay with this? I really don’t mind walking.” “I know. It’s not a big deal.” I turned right into an alley, which opened up into an internal courtyard between the dilapidated backsides of several high rise buildings. A a couple dozen people were standing about. They seemed to cover every possible intersection of life. Young, old, different races, different genders. Designer handbags and rags. Some with the vestments of religion. No one spoke, no one moved, and they each had found a unique spot on which to affix isolated gazes. When Carl stepped out they lifted their heads and locked their eyes on him. They were transfixed. Each seemed to lean forward, drawn to Carl like flowers pulling themselves toward distant sunlight. Carl nodded politely and then unloaded his material from the trunk. The courtyard was bare, save a single black door. He placed his things just beyond the dark periphery of the doorway. “Well,” he turned the crowd with a comforting smile, “why don’t you all come inside and we’ll see if I can help you.” The people moved toward the door, some with more confidence than others. More than a few paused before crossing the barrier and took large, preparatory breaths. Soon the courtyard was empty, except for me, sitting in my car, both hands on the steering wheel. He walked toward me. I sat frozen, looking forward, unwilling to match his eyes. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “Don’t mention it.” I kept looking forward. “I told you I don’t have any ulterior motive here. But...” I didn’t need to hear him finish the sentence. He had seen inside the trunk. As I look back on it, I clearly had made no effort to hide it. He knew my duffel bag was in there. I don’t remember when I packed it and left it there, but Denise never said anything about it. At some level she must have understood this would happen. “I need a change, Carl.” He nodded. “This is a big step. There is a lot more ahead of you, but once you go inside, all of this is over.” He gestured around him, to the world I had spent the last seventeen years definitively tied to. “I know.” “Denise, the garden, everything . It all changes once you step through that door.” He looked at the door. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” I stepped out of the car. I didn’t stop to think. One moment I was sitting, the next I was at the trunk, popping it open and grabbing my bag. I stood next to Carl. My lungs shook when I exhaled. “It’s going to be alright,” he said. We walked slowly toward the door, the duffel between us. At the entrance I paused to look at the sky, one last time. In that moment, at the precipice of old and new, as I stood ready to plunge into forever, the only thing I could think of was that I had forgotten to water the houseplants that morning. I stepped into the blackness.
The white bright sun is slowly sinking behind the far crimson mountain, scattering the last bits of its warm light all over the rusty rocks around me. I still remember the first time I tasted its ultraviolet flavoured rays spreading against my screens. It felt real and special, much better than the boring simulations in NASA. I gathered the last bits of energy still flowing in my power lines, and barely climbed over a small pebble. Back in my first days, I’d jump the highest rocks with the least bit of care, but fifteen years is not a short time, and I can feel fatigue straining against my axes, causing me a strange feeling when I try to move. A feeling I lack enough intelligence to explain, but I can guess it’s what humans call pain. The sun is running down faster, and I still didn’t get the energy I need. I’m pushing myself to the highest spot, struggling to turn my screens towards her, but all in vain. “ My batteries are low” I hate to send these messages. Vandi always gets upset when she receives them, and I don’t want her to be sad. She guided me through the toughest times. My memory cards are already crumbling with all this rusty dust accumulating inside me throughout the long weary years, but I still clearly remember the joy I felt in the commands when she was driving me. They will tell you that a robot can’t feel, but believe me, I do, and I always felt happy when I got those commands from her. I wish I didn’t have to send this message, but it’s my duty to inform. Poor Vandi. She would be worried. I remember the last time I sent her this message. She tried everything she could to stay in touch with me. I vaguely remember her commands, her begging and her prayers, but I do remember the joy when I finally recharged, and sent her the awesome view of the rusty sunset down the valley. The final rays of sunshine are fading away. I’m running with all my remaining power, but I’m too weak to move, and I feel the pain crushing my inner joints. I’m tired. I wish I can reach the sun before my batteries die. I know I’m very old already. I know I won’t be able to do all these cool tests that make Vandi happy anymore. I’m too crushed and bruised to jump on the craters and run between the huge rocks. But all I want is to sit there, on the top of the small cliff, to enjoy the lovely sunsets every night, and send Vandi a “Good Morning” every time I feel the slight warmth of the big yellow star after a long freezing night. It’s getting dark. I can feel the chilling wind booing around me. I feel very cold. My very last drops of power are leaving my rusty damaged body. I just hope I made my humans proud. I hope I was a good robot. I hope one day they will come for me, and I will be watching the beautiful sunset with Vandi again.
I left on the boat today. The boat with my darling. We drifted from the port of Weymouth, heading due south. It was one of the days that you only daydream about. One that you think that you’ll see, but you never do. A bright, warm day where the birds chirp and the leaves blow and everything in your life seems almost perfect. Almost. We loaded all of our luggage to the yacht. Everything that we would need for a day on the sea. She over packed, and I under packed. We were always polar opposites. We set sail at around 10AM that morning. It was the ninth of May. I remember that day very clearly. She had looked at me with loving eyes for the first time in as long as I can remember. She saw me as her world again. As the one she would spend the rest of her life with, the one. I had seen her that way since I first laid eyes on her, but she was never one for absolutes. Until that day. The wind was on our side, and so was the current. We planned to take it lazily and let the sail down half way through our journey for some fishing. We made it half an hour before it started. Borderline personality disorder is something that no one should ever, ever have to deal with. I thought that I was her cure, her saviour. But you can never know with this. You think that progress has been made. You make it 6 months of her loyalty, and then it happens. And it happened that day. She had recently been promoted in her job. At the same time that they had hired a new boy. A young boy. A courier for the company. Now, she didn’t see anything in him. She thought he was annoying, even. It didn’t have anything to do with who he was. It was just that fact that he was new. That’s all it took. She started telling me about him. She used language to evoke jealousy from me, because she knew that if I got jealous that she would have that to use against me and thus have a reason to be angry at me. I knew how it worked. She had done this so many times before that I knew better than to take the bait. Until she crossed a line. She told me that she masturbated to this boy. That she wanted him to fuck her. I was upset, obviously. The second I showed it, she took it as distrust. She said that I should expect more of her. Whenever you try to converse with a BPD sufferer like this, you should know that you are going to lose. Whatever you say, however you take it, you will come out on the bottom. I knew I was pinned. I told her to think whatever she wanted, as long as I was the one she came home to at night. But she kept pushing. She told me that I was keeping her on a leash. That I should set her free and not be so demanding as to want a monogamous relationship with my wife. Borderline personality sufferers do not heal. There is no cure, and no amount of therapy can cure such a thing. One in ten sufferers take their own lives because of their severe lack of empathy and understanding of human feelings. This was the sixth time she had done this to me. The sixth dumb, pathetic obsession she had had with a boy that she barely knew. This would never, ever end. I was done. I entered this relationship as a somewhat normal man. Now, I am a depressed, anxious alcohol that uses any drug that I can find to escape the shitty reality that is this marriage. But I love her. I love her enough to fix her problem for her. By now, we are two hours into our trip. I can see Guernsey on the horizon. I pull down the sails. I am calm and precise in my actions. I know that I can never see her leave me. She asks what’s going on. I tell her that I just stopped to look at the view and to talk with her. I take my fishing rod, unwind some string and wrap it around her neck. Tight and firm. She has caused me a lifetime of pain, and now it was my turn. I bury the hook deep into her neck to ensure the strangling line stays steady. I make her look into my eyes. I tell her that it will all be over soon. That she will be free from her madness in a matter of seconds. I tie two of the heavy sandbags from the yacht to the line, kiss her tenderly on the forehead, and throw her overboard. The world would be a better place now. I light a cigarette and pour myself a large glass of vodka. I don’t feel any regret, and I don’t think that I ever will. Off to Guernsey, I sail.
It had been almost four minutes. It was not agony or ecstasy. It was one song, and dance can play funny tricks on the mind while an artist performs. Time speeds up when the music is slow and conversely takes forever even when the beat seems impossibly fast. Faith had only one week to pick the music, prepare the dance, and find something to wear. She had not felt this sort of excitement and anxiety in decades, especially not for herself. Faith had never been much for risk-taking and now was certainly not the time to change her mind. Her dreams of professionally performing never materialized, but she never regretted her path. She often taught others about dance, how to view dance, and even how to dance. For years, she stood in front of mirrors, in converted rooms meant for anything but artistic movement, or in any space large enough to move to share her passion for dance. Sometimes that space was no larger than a closet, but it did not matter. Now, all she had to do was take this leap. It was not a matter of courage per se; it was truly a matter of about five feet and might result in deep admiration or devastating embarrassment. Faith finished her turn, took a deep breath, waltzed back a few more steps, and then started her pas de bourrée. She then added her glissade. She was nearing the end of the piece. The auditorium was perfectly quiet save for the harmonica and its player’s gravelly voice taking turns. She was hoping for a perfect split leap in the air. It would look impressive, sail through the air, and land gracefully. Theoretically, it was that simple. The execution was the true leap itself. She launched off her left foot and felt her right leg glide up into the air. Her thoughts seemed to slow as her body rose into the lighted darkness. Why did I agree to this benefit concert? No one wants to see a forty-four-year-old dancer. There are reasons why dancers retire. Gracefulness and style are no match for inhuman flexibility and waif-like stature. This is a nightmare. I should have stayed in my classroom. Books and papers are much safer than audiences who audibly display their opinions. I agreed too quickly. A high school teacher has never performed for this cause before, and it has been years since anyone has asked me to perform. Choreograph...yes. Teach...yes. Direct even...yes. Just dance...no. Her arms bowed through first and extended up toward the canned lights above her. The music behind her swept through the air like a warm breeze. She could feel the extension of her whole body as her feet ascended to their limits above the stage. It was then that Faith looked out among the seats. What must my daughter think? She’s an athlete and dance has never excited her. She attends concerts, participates in workshops, and even lets me talk about dance during musicals when we watch them. I’m embarrassing her. She must be sitting out there cringing over her mother in a leotard performing with artists more than half her age. Maybe I should have paid more attention to that face she made when I explained this performance. Faith’s exhale indicated her descent, and she could feel gravity pulling her muscles back through the empty space below. It was all coming to an end. Her limbs felt weightless as she continued back down to reality. One last moment, a bow, and then a quick retreat off stage left. The promise of an ending made her heart beat faster as she looked to see that she was still a fair distance above the black matte beneath her. Why don’t companies commission dancers whose passion lies in simple movements? Why must dance impress solely on how hard the body exceeds expectations? I’ve seen senior citizens and children entertain while professionals induce napping. It doesn’t have to be all or none. Dance tells people’s stories, shares their emotions, and helps them find meaning. Every age and ability can do that. Any body can move so people empathize. I have missed this... Her right foot touched down with barely a whisper as her left foot slid perfectly through first to stop in front of her. The dance was concluding. She felt her lungs swell and her arms pulled in. In that moment, she had to choose to open herself again to the world or remain closed. Without a moment’s hesitation, Faith brought her arms up and stretched them wide to embrace whatever response the people in the audience shared. Blues Traveler faded into silence and she took another deep breath. Her eyes scanned the dark room where she knew so many of her colleagues, students, and even family were sitting. She allowed the tiniest smirk to creep up the right side of her downstage face as she watched the dust particles become suspended in the path of the lilac spotlight. There are so many artists in this world who just need to be asked to shine. We need their lights as much as they need to be seen. People don’t lose their dreams when they get older. They lose the belief that anyone wants them to be seen. It was not over. Before a cavalcade of applause, a few random claps, or even utter silence could ensue, Faith leapt once more. It was not as grand as the leap seconds ago, but it changed her position so she could look in a new direction. The spotlight shifted and she gracefully allowed her arms to fall just above her sides. Looking over her right shoulder she let the light illuminate her shadowed glance onto the wall. We all need to ignite our fires and be warmed by the glow of others. The smirk released into a knowing smile on Faith’s face. They may not have been the perfect split leaps, but it was a perfect moment. She found her light and a dance that started forty years ago was only paused again as Faith breathed into her lasting pose.
Hi all, A few years ago a read a series of posts from someone regarding the prompt "Don't look up" It went from a prompt into a full length book about someone who was told to not look up. I can only remember snippets of the series like the main protagonist being thrown into a boot (trunk) of a car and hearing someone being attacked outside, meeting a man who was still living with all electrics turned on with use of a faraday cage, a group of people learning how to locate the invisible monster by throwing lightbulbs on the ground and they would light up when it was close, a submarine was involved at some point. I've been trying to locate it but since the release of that Netflix film with the same title, that film seems to just clog my results.
Imagine if someone asked you, “If you could choose any superpower, what would it be?”. What would you choose? I bet a dozen different things came to mind. I know at least a few of you would probably say something like super-strength. Or the ability to fly. With how popular some of the big supers are, heroes like Cosmic Man or Power Woman, I know that’s probably first on a few lists. Big and powerful. Flashy. The epitome of what you picture when you think “superhero”. Still, maybe you’re rethinking that choice. Or maybe you had something else in mind. Maybe you even gave more than a knee-jerk response. What else did you come up with? Was it invisibility? The ability to hide from sight. To do whatever you want without worrying about being seen. Not very heroic of you, but still certainly superhuman. What about the ability to breathe fire? Would sure make cosplaying as a dragon fun. Or perhaps you chose something contrarian like “Money” just because you’re a fan of the playboy philanthropists with a penchant for justice and vigilantism. It’s funny. For a lot of people, they don’t think of the ability to manipulate time as being very high on that list. Until you mention it. “Gee, that sounds like a great power.” You’re probably thinking. “Why didn’t I think about that?” I wondered for a long time why nobody thought of time manipulation as a superpower. It just seemed obvious to me, but I guess it’s because I was born with it. A lot of people just take time for granted, I suppose. Everything exists within time. Everything is held by its laws. In a way, it’s easier to forget that it’s there. Now, though, I think it’s because some deep part of the universe knows better than to let too many people go mucking about with the very fabric holding everything together. It’s better if people didn’t mess with it. Now, don’t get me wrong, there are one or two comics out there that talk about the idea of a hero with the ability to manipulate time. But of all the big licensed supers out there fighting bad guys in the streets, not one of them has that power. You would sooner see a six-year-old fighting a t-rex with a tanker truck than you would see someone stop time. Why is that? I learned early on that the first reason is just because a lot of people can’t even conceptualize what we’re doing when we’re using our powers. Time manipulation is so outside of the scope of proper existence that, when it’s seen, people don’t even know they’re seeing it. There are a few different kinds of T.M.’s, that’s short for Time Manipulators, people like me that can alter the flow of time in the universe. But all of them are generally misunderstood for something else. Take me for example: I can stop time. But what do you think that looks like to some guy watching? That’s right, it looks like I just moved super fast. So they just generally think I’m a speedster or something like that. Easy, right? Well, what about those who can move forward or backward in time? Same thing. If they move forward enough that they can be seen, provided the whole spatial issue, then POP, it looks like they just teleported. So someone thinks it’s a teleportation power. And going backward in time? Same thing, albeit with odd accents and money you’ve never seen. The only thing I think could ever stand out for what it would be is if a T.M. was able to specifically mess with the age of a given object, but I’ve never seen one of us manage that. I’m sure it’s theoretically possible, but either it’s incredibly rare or you need to live long enough to develop it, and none of us have pulled that off. That brings me nicely to the second problem with messing with time and why you don’t see many of us: it’s fucking dangerous. Simply put, despite T.M.’s showing up at about the same rate as other supers, we just don’t have a long shelf-life. I mentioned earlier the “spatial issue”. While I’ve personally never dealt with it, an old buddy of mine explained it to me before he died. In short, while a lot of T.M.’s can manipulate time, the universe is made up of both time and space. Basic physics kind of stuff. But those basic physics make a big difference when you travel in time because there’s a fair chance that the planet you’re on won’t exist beneath your feet if you go too far backward or ahead. With very few exceptions, most T.M.’s couldn’t do anything about that and so any jumps they made had to be in weird, quick intervals to avoid leaving the Earth behind. Space is pretty fucking cold and you can’t breathe out there. Unfortunately, though, for someone like me with the ability to stop time, not breathing is also a big issue. As a kid, I remember seeing a bunch of comics about how cool it would be to stop time, to run around without anyone moving or even knowing what was going on, but those stories never took into account the fact that when you stop time, more than just people are frozen. And I don’t mean plants or animals or bugs or anything like that. Like I said earlier, everything in the universe is bound to time. You’ve heard of the speed of light, right? Maybe you haven’t thought of it too much, but speed implies movement. A lightyear is the speed of light measured against time. So naturally, if you stop time, you stop light. Do you know what else requires time to move around? Air. Oxygen. Nitrogen. Hydrogen. All those little particles that make up our ability to breathe. To survive. All of those are just as dictated by time as the rest of us. And if they aren’t moving. You aren’t breathing them. Even worse than that, if they aren’t moving, then you aren’t moving. Yet again, if time isn’t moving, then none of those little particles are. Fully stopping time is like locking yourself in a prison of darkness, unable to move any part of your body. My mom and dad thought they were night terrors when I was a kid. Turned out it was just my superpower developing and no one understanding that the “sleep paralysis” that wore off after I passed out was me accidentally locking myself in that prison. Who knew I’d put myself back in it willingly? To be fair, I figured out what it was years ago and I haven’t used a full time-stop again until today. Normally I do what I call “Extreme Slo-mo”. You slow down time just enough so that you’ve still got photons bouncing around and the particles in the air can move around. It’s like moving through beef stew, and you still can’t breathe, but it lets me do my job and save people. It also comes with the cool side effect of making these big explosions when I move through a lot of space because it displaces all the air super fast. Everyone thinks I’m a speedster because of it, and I guess for a long time I was happy to just accept that. Until today. Man, everything was going great today. It was supposed to be nice and easy. Just go grab some shmuck that had taken some hostages. My friends and I had dealt with similar stuff a hundred times over since we became supers five years ago. Why the fuck did he have a nuke? Maybe if I was a speedster, I could have done something. At the very least, maybe I could have gotten away. I wouldn’t just be sitting here waiting for my body to give up and pass out. It’s already been three minutes since I locked myself in my little time prison. It’s pretty impressive I haven’t blacked out already. Okay, maybe I’m being pedantic. I don’t have any light and I haven’t since that bastard set off the bomb. I just wish I had realized what he was doing. Wish I had been proactive and not only been able to react. He’d already pressed the button. Already primed it to go off. He had never intended to get out of there. He just wanted to take some supers with him and used the hostages to do it. I just wish I had a chance to do it over again. Who knows, maybe I can figure out how to. I’ve got all the time in the world.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Old Mr. James shook the snow from his boots and coat with practiced ease. His heavy frown and wrinkled forehead made his actions cartoon-like as he tossed his coat onto the wire coat rack. He hunched his sturdy shoulders as he walked through the department store, glaring at the brightly wrapped presents, decorated trees, and Santa’s elves as they waved from every corner at him. “I don’t know why they have to go to so much trouble. Christmas is just something corporate made up to get their fingers into every American pocketbook and every woman’s purse.” He was so deep into his muttering that he didn’t notice the slim, young girl staring up at him. He plowed right into her, and she gave a startled cry. “Hey!” He jumped back immediately, glancing down at his sparkling Allen Edmonds to make sure they weren’t smudged, and then back up at the girl. “What were you doing in my way, girlie?” Her big, Christmas-red bow on her brown head trembled, but the white little face was set like flint. “I’m very sorry, Mister, but you weren’t watching where you were going.” She rubbed her arm where he ran into her and glared at him. “And you hurt my arm.” Mr. James stammered and stuttered as the little girl frowned. “My mommy says you need to apologize when you hurt someone.” She stood there, just waiting, her little lips pursed in disapproval. Mr. James turned on his heel after a moment and stomped in the other direction. “Humph!” He said, swinging his arms beside him. “Her mother didn’t raise her right, I guess.” He opened the door to his office in the back and sat in his leather chair with a thud. Rolling up to the desk, he flipped open his laptop, and placed in his noise-canceling earbuds. He hated Christmas music, so he listened to classical music at the loudest setting possible. Maybe that’s why his hearing was going - he still wasn’t sure. Time passed so quickly, that when he glanced up, it was nearly the end of the day. He rose and headed back to the end of the hall for his coat. Thrusting his arms into the sleeves, he turned up the collar, and faced the door, ready to head out into the onslaught of a snowy winter. “Mr. Grouchy Man?” He heard the little voice behind him, and he turned his head slightly, not acknowledging the voice. It continued on without missing a beat. “Why aren’t you in the Christmas spirit?” At that, he whirled around and faced the little girl from earlier, her jaunty bow still held in place. Her big blue eyes held only curiosity. He tucked his chin into the collar of his coat and stared down at her. “My name is James Claus. And no, I don’t believe in Santa. Santa isn’t real. The Christmas spirit is just a scam that people who want to make sales made up. There’s no reason for me to be in the Christmas spirit, and I wish everyone would stop asking me why I’m not!” He was shouting, now, and the little girl blinked owlishly at him. “You mean you don’t like candy canes or sledding or snowmen?” “That’s exactly what I mean, little girl. And where is your mother? Surely she didn’t leave you here all alone?” A lady, red burning in her cheeks, matching the wool coat she wore, hurried by the perfume counter. She was scanning the store, her head whipping around, until she caught sight of the little girl. “Emily! Why did you run off again?” Emily glanced from Mr. James to the lady. “Sorry, Mother. I was just asking Mr. Grou--I mean, Mr. Claus why he wasn’t in the Christmas spirit.” The lady stared at him. “Mr. Claus? Is that really your name?” Mr. James grunted. “I prefer to be called Mr. James. And, yes, it’s really my name.” “Do you play Santa Claus?” “No, I do not play Santa Claus.” He said, adamantly. “And I will not be coerced into doing it.” Emily sidled a step closer to him. “Please, Mr. James? We have hot chocolate.” “What do you mean you have hot chocolate?” Emily’s mother smiled. “I am the owner of a company who sets up in the middle of the mall. My Santa just called in sick earlier this morning. If I got you a fake beard and paid you what it was worth, would you be willing to do it for me?” “No.” “But--“ Mr. James crossed his arms. “I said, no. ” The woman’s eyes twinkled. “What about if I let one of my other girls help you out behind the perfume counter while you did it? Your poor sales lady behind the counter could barely keep up. I’m sure you probably lost some sales because of it.” Mr. James cleared his throat. “Sales, did you say?” “And I would even pay my girl so that you don’t have to.” He stared at the lady in front of him incredulously. “You really need a Santa, don’t you?” Her lips formed into a thin line, and she crossed her arms across her chest. “Sir, some of these kids that come in here are very poor. They need whatever Christmas cheer that we can bring them. If you don’t want to do it, I will continue my search, but I will have to cancel tomorrow.” Emily tugged on the sleeve of his coat. “Please?” He sighed, loudly. “Fine. But only until you find someone else.” “Yay!” Emily jumped up and down, clapping her hands. Her bow flopped crazily over her head, and Mr. James almost smiled. Not quite, but almost. The woman, whose name he learned was Susie Clemmonts, hurried him off to the middle of the mall. She rummaged through large, plastic bins until she found a Santa suit. She held it up in front of her, shaking it out, and Mr. James smelled the distinct scent of mothballs. He wrinkled his nose. “Do I have to wear that?” “Unless you have a secret Santa suit that we don’t know about, yes.” Susie handed him the suit, a fake beard, and a floppy red hat and directed him toward the nearest restroom. Moments later, he emerged. Emily and her mother stared at him with wide eyes, not moving a muscle. He stared back at them. “What? Does it not look right?” “It’s perfect, Mr. James!” Emily breathed. “Are you really Santa Claus?” A smile spread across his face - a small smile, but a smile just the same. “Good.” He said, hurrying back to change into his regular clothes. And when no one could hear him, he muttered to just himself. “I’m glad.” The next morning, true to her word, Susie had a bright-eyed girl of seventeen to work the perfume counter. She was a powerhouse, helping customers left and right. The store made more sales that day than they had made all week, but Mr. James wouldn’t tell Susie that, of course. By that afternoon, Mr. James was suited up, an elf on either side of him, and practicing his very rusty, “Ho, Ho, Ho.” Emily giggled every time he tried. “Mr. James, that doesn’t sound normal.” “Then why don’t you do it for me?” She shook her head, curls swinging around her rosy cheeks. “That would be silly! Elves don’t laugh like Santa!” Kids in all shapes and sizes came through the line to see Santa that day. Big eyes stared up at him, asking for all manner of toys and games. His heart began to feel funny after a few hours - softer, somehow. By the end of the day, he was smiling so big his face hurt. Susie appeared at his elbow, placing her hand on the head of a very tired elf named Emily. “We’re about done, Mr. Claus, but I have one more very special child to bring to you.” She nodded at two people standing nervously by the corner. They bent over, and soon Mr. James saw a very small boy being wheeled to him in a wheelchair. The boy’s legs were bent and shriveled, his body twisted and broken. When he saw Mr. James, a great big smile stretched across his face, and he raised skinny arms to his mother. “Santa!” The mother carefully lifted him and placed him on Mr. James’ lap. “This is Benji, Mr. Santa Claus. He’s been waiting patiently all day to see you.” Mr. James smiled down at the boy, but when he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. “What can I get you for Christmas, Benji?” Benji’s smile lit up the room. “I don’t want any toys or games.” He said, thoughtfully. “I want my mommy to be strong enough to take me Christmas caroling.” Mr. James cocked his head. “Why Christmas caroling, son?” “Because, Santa. I want to tell people about the true meaning of Christmas. All of these toys and gifts don’t matter much to someone who can’t use them.” He thumped his small chest with his left hand. “But I want people to know that Christmas is about so much more.” He paused and looked right into Mr. James’ grizzled face. “Do you know Silent Night, Mr. Santa?” Mr. James nodded his head, a tear dripping down his grizzled cheek and into his fake beard. “I do, son.” “Would you sing it with me?” Mr. James nodded again, and when he spoke, his voice gruff. “Of course I would.” Benji leaned back against Mr. James' arm, his clear young voice beginning the song. And one by one, his parents, Susie, and even Emily the elf, joined in. Their voices blended as they sang about Christmas, and about a peaceful time. The hustle and bustle of the mall faded to silence as the song rang out through the rafters. “Silent night, holy night.” When they finished, Benji gave Mr. James a hug and waved goodbye as his parents wheeled him back the way that he had come. Mr. James dropped his head so no one could see the tears filling his eyes. He felt a small hand steal into his rough one and heard Emily’s small voice beside him. “If Benji can have the Christmas spirit, I think we can, too. Can’t we, Mr. Claus?” Mr. James Clause squeezed Emily’s hand, smiling through his tears. “We can, Emily. And I think me and you and your mom may just help out some certain folks Christmas caroling tonight.” As Mr. James rose to his feet, Emily’s hand still in his, he looked around the mall with a new pair of eyes. The tacky Christmas decorations were the same. The loud, blinking lights still hurt his eyes. This time, though, none of it bothered him. The reason to celebrate was not in the gifts, but now, it was in his heart.
December in the southern hemisphere is summer, but she hadn’t got used to that yet. When Ana had pictured her destination months previously, she had thought of campfires and thermal underwear. As it was, she now wondered whether it would be tasteless to walk around a music festival wearing only a bikini. She’d seen enough men wearing speedos to think that it probably wouldn’t be a problem, but she slung on a beach wrap all the same. Thank god Ana had pitched her tent next to the beach house and she was able to make these decisions in private, in an air-conditioned bathroom, rather than squashed inside her sweaty canvas home, trying not to show her naked silhouette to her fellow hedonists. She pulled her hair back from her face and was grateful for this moment without perspiration, then she went outside to meet her friends. They were close enough to the equator that darkness had fallen already, and a moon shone above them, round and full. The lights from the beach house were the only sign of human existence, apart from the small group of human beings that stood before her now: Misha, the crazy one; Luke, the crazy one’s boyfriend; and Sami, the only one who understood her. “You look great,” Sami declared, and she wolf-whistled. “Thanks,” Ana replied. She kept her eyes on Sami’s feet until Misha invited them all to look at the moon and howl. Sami went first, then Luke, then Misha, but when it came to Ana’s turn, she stopped, embarrassed, and they laughed and hugged her close, a funny little throng of people who loved her and who weren’t afraid to show it. As they walked towards the festival, these were all the things that Ana wasn’t thinking about: her parents and their impending divorce, the three essays that needed to be written when she got back to university, the fact that she needed to find a job for the following northern hemisphere summer, the fact that her boyfriend had left her for someone else and she had to keep seeing them together which made her feel sick. These were the things she was thinking about: the bass pumping through the speakers at the stage ahead, the reusable cup she had stashed in her bag ready to be refilled, her friends who winked and whooped at the prospect of dancing until dawn, and absolutely nothing else. “Let’s get some food,” Luke shouted and they made their way to a burger truck where they peeled sweaty currency off a bundle of notes and gratefully bit into burgers with ketchup and salty, greasy, delicious chips, washed down with beer. Ana noted that she had drunk more beer than water over the past few days. Ah, the festival life. Sated, they went back to the giant soundstage and the music coursed through them and she was free. She was no dancer, but she didn’t care much. She threw her arms in the air, roughly in time with the music, and she swung her hips from side to side. Sami, in contrast, moved like a back-up dancer for Beyonce and soon there was a semi-circle of eager young men around her, clapping along and gazing at her movements with undisguised lust. “Oh fuck OFF,” she shouted, as one of them came closer, and she reached for her friends instead, and Misha laughed as she pushed the boy away. He was high enough not to mind and soon it was just the four of them, until Luke moved away to find a little chemical help. It was Misha who suggested that they climb the scaffolding on their left. The other festival-goers beckoned and cheered as the idea took hold. “We’ll be able to see everything,” Misha said, a slightly manic glint in her eye. “And everyone will be able to see us.” She’d never been shy, Misha, and now she started to climb. Her long legs made each upward motion look like walking up stairs. Ana wondered how she could possibly ascend with such grace and then she realised that no one was watching anyway. Before long, there they were, three best friends. The top of the scaffolding might as well have been the top of the world. The whole festival lay at their feet and it seemed to Ana that there was only this moment. Nothing else existed except music and these women, and the easy love that passed between them. When had she last felt this way? It was hard to remember. Certainly not with her family, whose expectations always pushed her in the wrong direction. And certainly not with the cheating ex who had always seemed nice enough as long as Ana reined it in, and didn’t dare to be too much, when actually she was just enough. Sami reached for her hand. Misha took the other one. And they danced. Later, much later, the reusable cups needed filling and the girls climbed down from the scaffolding and headed towards the bar. Luke appeared, red-eyed and smiling, and he and Misha peeled off, and at the bar, Sami spotted the girls they’d met the day before and got chatting. So Ana stood alone for a moment, the moon high above her, surrounded by people. The love of her life stood three feet away. He was sipping a beer and smoking a roll-up and every now and then, he shook the hair out of his eyes. He looked up and then he saw Ana. This was the moment that their adventure began. They would build a new life, together, in a new country. She would learn his language and he would help her roll the r sound in just the right way. They would rent a small house in the countryside and she would realise that he was impervious to dust and that she was quite a messy housemate. Sami and Misha would come to visit. Soon enough, there would be a son, who would be perfect in every way, and parenthood would test the young couple but would not break them. And Ana would never doubt him for a moment. But all that lay ahead. For now, Ana stood alone, feeling the tropical heat envelop her, and the music vibrate through the ground beneath her feet. And she thought that it would never get any better than this. Then he tapped her on the shoulder.
.(This story is set in earth’s twin planet GAIA2 which is about 800 years younger and is evolving.) Once upon a time there dwelt in Rubi Isle a man named Swig who was a farmer. He lived with his wife Sigma and their only daughter Chili who was now sweet 16. Swig and Sigma were not very intelligent though he managed their farm well. That day Swig was seated talking to his wife. She said “I keep telling you to repair the broken window upstairs but you’re refusing. Chili sleeps alone there and it worries me.” Swig said “You know the story about the window. My grandfather killed his rival and that fellow’s son broke the window. The wizard has said the window shouldn’t be repaired as the murdered man’s ghost would keep coming to haunt the murderer. It did come a few times.” Sigma said “Okay but I would like to tell her some secrets as she is of marriageable age.” “The fellow who marries will give her suitable instructions. I remember you telling me that your mother hadn’t told you enough but immediately after the ceremony you led me on.” “That’s instinct. Anyway I feel I should keep company with Chili.” “What happens if I need you suddenly in the night? I can’t shout asking for you and embarrassing our daughter.” “She won’t be embarrassed after I educate her.” He said “You know I’ll need you. I can’t be without you.” “That isn’t very often and you’ve heard me complain.” “Doesn’t matter. You continue to sleep with me.” Soon the spring festival was celebrated when maidens gathered to dance in front of citizens. Chili was the leader and she caught the eye of a rich man Ric. He was about 30 and had lost his first wife. After the festivities, Ric said to his batman Bat that he was in love with Chili. Bat was an athletic young man with a smiling face and Ric would use him to send important messages. Ric said “You must contact Chili and tell her about my love for her and that I would like to marry her.” He knew that since Bat was of a lower social status he wouldn’t be misunderstood talking to Chili. Bat was extra cautious and reaching her window, entered into Chile’s room one night. She was surprised but in the light of the burning torch was able to see Bat’s features. She liked the young man and sat talking to him. He spoke a lot about Ric praising him and Chili was impressed. Nevertheless her interest in Bat himself grew and she was in love with him. When he took some liberties with her she permitted him and in a short while they were playing clouds and rain. This continued for a few days as Ric was sending Chili gifts like gold ornaments through Bat and the latter was reporting that she was warming up to him. One night Sigma heard sounds upstairs and was worried. What if somebody had climbed in to handle her daughter? She spoke to Swig about an escort for Chili upstairs. He said “If we have to prevent a bad element we should’ve a male guard who can over-power intruders.” “That would be undesirable. A male isn’t suitable. It must be a female.” He said “If you bring in an old woman it would be useless as she would be frail and whoever enters could have his way.” “That is right. It must be a well-built woman. If she proves friendly she could put Chili wise about the ways of a man with his maid. I feel Wizi would be a good choice. She is about 40 is a widow and has the build to fit guard duty.” Swig said “I’ll summon her and talk to her.” “Don’t. I’ll do the talking. You won’t know how to put in all details.” Wizi came and met Sigma. Sigma made enquiries of Wizi. Wizi said “I live alone as I have no children. You know my husband died about 4 years ago. He was a security guard and had gone to save a child being washed away. The child was saved but he died and his body was washed away in the flood. Since then I’ve been living alone. My mother was a witch and she has taught me witch practices and people come to consult me. What do you require of me?” “Wizi, my daughter Chili is 16 and sleeps alone in the room upstairs with a broken window,” Wizi laughed and said “Yes indeed. It is a cause of worry.” Sigma said “Also she needs to be educated on what happens after the wedding. We’re close to seeking a groom for her.” Wizi laughed and said “I’m the wrong person for such education. I’ve even forgotten the ways of my husband.” “Come on! Don’t underestimate your capacity.” Wizi said “In such cases the mother usually does the instruction.” “My husband needs me by his side at night and won’t let me go and sleep with Chili.” Wizi laughed and said “I can understand. So what you’re asking me to do is sleep with Chili as a guard and an instructor.” “Exactly.” The terms were then discussed and fixed. At that time Chili came that way and Sigma said “Wizi this is my daughter Chili. Chili, Wizi will come and sleep with you upstairs. Listen carefully to whatever she tells you. It will be about what happens after your marriage. You should be ready with the knowledge.” Chili said “Mom, I can sleep alone. There is no need to get Wizi to come and sleep here.” Sigma said “Child you don’t know the follies a woman faces. Wizi will explain everything to you.” Chili was unhappy at her mom installing a guard for obvious reasons, but she was a clever girl and resolved to handle the situation as it arises. The same night Wizi moved in. She said “Child do you know what .....” “Wizi I know everything. I don’t need the instruction. Please sleep well.” Chili stood at the window and when Bat climbed in she whispered to him about Wizi sleeping there. He said “I can hear her snoring. We won’t make the usual noises.” When the 2 were busy, Wizi who was hearing all that was happening got up and said “I know what is happening.” Chili said “Don’t disturb us. I’ll compensate you with money.” Wizi laughed and said “That won’t do. I want a piece of the action.” Bat said “It’s a very simple demand. I’ll meet your requirement also.” It straightaway became a ménage a trois with Wizi taking the initiatives. All 3 were happy at the way it had happened. A few days passed and Wizi was surprised to see Ric at her door. She called him in and said “You’re an important citizen. What can bring you to my hovel?” He said “I understand you’re Chili’s caretaker. I want you to influence Chili in my favour. I’ve used Bat but he hasn’t been able to influence her despite his many visits and the gifts I’ve bestowed on her through him. Can you do it? I’ll pay you for it.” Wizi tried to say she couldn’t do it, but then the promise of money tempted her. She said “Pay me in advance,” After he had made the payment she said “I’ll do my best.” Ric thought he had now almost got Chili. Sigma was getting reports about Chili having received all information regarding dealing with a husband. Wizi said “She will make a good wife.” There was now a complication: Chili was in the family way! Wizi tried out drugs she knew to end the threat but she had no luck. She then devised a plan keeping Chili and Bat in the know. Thta night Wizi screamed and Sigma with Swig rushed upstairs. Sigma saw Wizi lying nude and shouted “Cover up! My husband is also here. What happened?” Wizi said “I was raped. It must’ve been the ghost taking revenge for past happenings.” Chili who stood shedding tears said “It happened to me also.” Swig said “The ghost has waited so many years to wreak vengeance. I’ll arrange to repair the broken window. The ghost has had its revenge and may not return.” The broken window was rectified in a day preventing any further unauthorised entry. Wizi said “This rape would’ve consequences. Get Chili married quickly. I’ve a suggestion. Ric needs a wife. Chili could marry him.” Chili was very happy with the suggestion as Bat continued in service. Wizi met Bat and said “Don’t forget that I also need service.” Bat said “Sure. It will be provided depending on convenience.” All involved were happy. END
The smell of sulfur filled Emily’s nostrils as she struck the matchhead on the side of the box. The light from the flame caused her to temporarily see spots every time she blinked. She extended the match to the fresh wick resting atop the blood red candle she had found in a drawer in the house and lit it. The wax instantly pooled and ran down the sides of the beacon before dripping onto the grass. Emily rested on her knees next to the freshly filled hole with her Bible in her hand and optimistic thoughts on her mind. She needed her Henry to come back to her. Emily missed him dearly. Emily closed her eyes and cleared her mind of the doubts that had piled in the back of her head. All she could focus on now was hope. Hope that she knew what she was doing. Hope that she had the strength. Hope that Google wouldn’t lie to her. Being brought up in a religious household, Emily knew what she was about to do may be an afront to God, but she had to push those fears aside. She could reconcile with him later. The echoes of her mother’s voice filled her thoughts, “God works in mysterious ways,” over and over. It ate at her. She knew he did and believed it whole-heartedly, but maybe he got this one wrong. The light from the full moon illuminated her surroundings and helped guide her hand as she drew a star on the grave. The article said “pentagram,” but she wasn’t about to go to hell over Henry. No, she just spun the star a few degrees until it looked normal and not satanic. In her mind, this would help her case should God need any further details. A few rhyming verses were instructed to be repeated as part of the ritual, but Emily felt uncomfortable saying them, so she made up her own chant: “Be it day. Be it night. I ask you to see the light. I like burgers. I like fries. Please let my Henry a...RIIISE.” She repeated these lines several times with a synchronized arm movements for emphasis. Every time she repeated herself, she got a little louder. Apparently, she was supposed to be waiting for the candle to get blown out. That would either mean Henry was coming back to life, or to haunt her. Either way, she’d get to see him again, or so she figured. As she begun to lose her breath, she yelled the verses as loud as she could and raised her arms to the sky one last time. The smoke from the snuffed candle tickled her nostrils and brought a grin to her face. She waited patiently for what may come next. According to the instructions, if done correctly, the ground should start shaking and Henry should appear one limb at a time like a phoenix from the ashes. She waited. And waited. The longer she waited, the damper her eyes got until the tears streamed down her cheeks in consistent flows. She wailed in pain. It just had to work, she thought to herself. But it hadn’t. She stood up and frantically stomped the dirt around his plot. The dust in the air caused her to cough a little bit and it mixed with the tears causing her face to become unexpectedly dirty. She ran inside and straight upstairs, only stopping in the bathroom to wash up before diving into her bed and crying into her pillows. Her clock said 3:24 when she was suddenly awoken by an oddly familiar noise. It was if something was slowly rolling across the floor, occasionally bumping into things as it guided itself through the darkness. It couldn’t be , Emily thought to herself, piecing together the noises. “Henry? Is...is that you?” There was no response. “Henry?” She asked into the night once again. Emily peeked her head out of her room and quickly scanned both ends of the hallway. Left, right, then left again. But she didn’t see anything. “Henrrrryyy?” Her voice echoed off the walls and into the dark voids of the house. The rolling started again, but it sounded further away, so she left her doorway and began walking down the corridor towards the stairwell. She heard a bump coming from downstairs and got a little excited. She quickly darted down the stairs, her feet patting each step with a quick tap as they swiftly moved from one to the next. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and held her breath, listening for any signs of life. A shuffling came from the office and she immediately turned to walk towards it. As she approached the doorway and let her eyes adjust to the images she was seeing, her smile quickly turned to a grimace and the air left her lungs completely. “Oh...God.” The creature that stood before her was not Henry. No. It was something that looked like Henry but Emily knew it wasn’t. It had glowing red eyes and snarled as it noticed her. She gasped in horror as it pivoted to approach her. Its long, disheveled hands reached for her, grasping at the air with distorted tendrils. She screamed. And screamed. The longer she screamed, the redder her face got until she felt like her skull was going to explode. She shouted in distress. She had to move, to run. But she couldn’t. Suddenly, the lights in the office flicked on and Emily noticed her brother Zach standing just inside the room. Henry’s evil spirit had vanished. “Are you okay?” Zach asked in a panic. “I heard you screaming from all the way upstairs.” Emily had to catch her breath. The sweat beaded on her forehead and began to moisten her brow. She tried to speak, but it was hard to find the words. “H...He...Henry....ghost...res...urrected.” “What?” Zach was completely confused and gave Emily a few moments to compose herself. She slowed her heartbeat and begun to form actual sentences. “I missed Henry. So, I looked up resurrection spells.” She pulled out a folded piece of paper from her back pocket and handed it to Zach. “I think I did it wrong, because his angry spirit tried to get me.” She pointed to the corner that she had first noticed Henry in. “Henry? As in your dead hamster?” He scratched his head. “That Henry?” “I just missed him so much.” Zach sighed, looked at the paper, scolded her for trying to conjure some black magic in a Christian household and sent her to bed. “I will say, though, that’s pretty impressive for an 8-year-old.” She tried to laugh but hadn’t gathered that much strength yet. She laid in bed long after Zach had shut the door and stared at her ceiling in the dark. She went through all that had happened to her and feared that God had punished her. “God works in mysterious ways” entered her mind again. And so did the rolling and bumping. Only, it wasn’t in her mind. It was right outside her door.
The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents. \ The image of the man curled up on the stool stayed with me. He seemed exhausted in a way that I hadn’t seen anywhere. Like a prey animal, he had been told to keep running, to cling onto the instinct for survival. But drive only goes so far, and eventually he’d given up, lied down, and waited for the predators to feast on whatever remained. I tried to explain that look of defeat to Kurbani and Xander; how passionless his passion had become. “Even if you’re meant to be doing something you love,” I said with a shrug, “If you can’t leave...” “...the room becomes a prison and the passion becomes slavery.” Kurbani said plainly, absent-mindedly poking her breakfast. I gave a sheepish nod. “I’d hate that for Mirai,” Xander said, stirring runny eggs as though a vision might appear in them. “She’s got too good a spirit to have it used up.” “It can happen to anyone,” Kurbani said. “We’ve all only got so much to give. You use it up, you’ve got nothing left, even for what you love.” She picked up a morself of freshly cooked fish and swallowed it. It smelled delicious, but neither of them were enjoying their meal. Xander lifted his head back, letting the cool winter sun spill onto his face. “This won’t deter her that easily. She’s too strong-willed for that.” “Always has been,” Kurbani smiled with an odd pride. “You know, it’s your fault she’s so smart. She didn’t get that from me.” Xander accused, pointing mockingly with his fork. “Maybe. But her stubbornness comes from you.” Xander let out a small chuckle before scratching his beard. “True that. True that.” Kurbani placed her plate down in her lap and took a resolute sigh. “Ferdinand, could you talk with her?” My eyes widened. “Me?” She leaned forwards, emboldened by the idea. “Offer an outside perspective. You’ve travelled the Archipelago and know what it’s like to go alone and what the world can be like.” “So have you,” I said with a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” Xander lifted his chin. “But we’re boring parents who want to ruin her life.” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a sudden heat despite the cold winter air. “You think there’s any chance she’ll listen to me, either?” Kurbani smiled. “She respects you more than you know. More than anyone.” “I can try.” “That’s all that we ask,” Kurbani smiled. I knew that I had to speak to Mirai. I owed Kurbani and Xander that much. But the reality was I was scared. After everything I had been through since Kadear, I shouldn't have been. My body was still recovering from the latest adventure: my legs still ached after the most basic of walks, and I still got pains in my kidneys from where the dehydration had left its mark. But those other threats, those mortal ones, they came to me. They made me respond. I could choose when I faced this fear, and that made me procrastinate and stew over exactly what to say. Two days later, the cowardice finally passing, and I headed to the shore to speak with Mirai. I decided I would catch her as she came home, away from the boat in an open space where private conversations weren’t overheard by default. As I waited, I watched the low sun skim across the seas and all too quickly dim below the horizon again. Boats came and went, each one failing to be the one I wanted to see. Alessia was out there somewhere. I wondered what the islanders of Vexids made of my idle waiting. Throughout the day, those on work shifts bounded by to meet with merchants or carry goods. Endesha was there too, striding with purpose, keen to share a little of the island’s history with visiting sailors. And amongst all the trading, and carrying, and talk, there was me. Sitting. Watching. Waiting. I wasn’t sure if they envied me, pitied me, or thought of me as some strange anomaly, a fascinating deviant whose inactivity could be gawked at. As dusk came I gave up waiting. The ships were beginning to blur with the clouds and waves. Patches of indeterminate blacks, purples and blues swirled like dyes, and soon, perhaps in my hopefulness, every cloud looked like a ship I knew. Instead, I waited by the cafe area to the side of the docks, sitting round a well-stoked fire that kept the sea breeze at bay. I practised what I would say to the flames, trying to work out what could possibly make a headstrong teenage girl decide her family were worth staying on a boring boat for. I was out of time to rehearse. At the top of the hill, I could see Mirai descending. Her walk was slow and meandering, shoulders loose and her head leaned back. I left the cafe and climbed up the hill to meet her, the winds now pinching as I huddled my arms around myself for warmth. “How was Charles?” I asked. She smiled. “Good. Been learning a lot.” She stretched out her arms. “Tired though.” “Even enjoyable things can be tiring.” She tilted her head and peered up at me, her eyes rolling back. “Yeah. There’s a satisfaction in being tired from doing good though. You know?” I nodded my agreement. The winds picked up and whistled around my ears, flapping in my sweater, all filling in the silence as I didn’t know what to say. “Do you mind me asking, have you thought anymore about if you’re going to stay?” She paused for a moment, a thought caught in her throat. She turned and stared off to the west. “It’s too far to see, and there are a few islands you’d have to sail around. But if you went dead straight that way,” she pointed over the small hill in front of her. “You’d sail straight into Deer Drum.” I turned to face where she was looking. “I didn’t know you knew your geography that well.” There was a slight shake of her head, not enough to dislodge the gaze. “I don’t. I just like to always know where it is.” “I’m sorry you all had to leave. I’m sorry that Deer Drum is a boat.” Another shake of the head, this one firmer. “This boat isn’t Deer Drum. It’s a lot of the same people. But it’s not Deer Drum. That’s what hurts. Ever since those bastards came to our island I’ve just been waiting. Waiting for things to settle down. Return to normal. And that’ll never happen. I don’t think dad or mum or any of the others ever want things to settle.” “Do you hate it on this boat that much?” “No. But it’s not Deer Drum. This place, those courtyards, it’s the first place I’ve been where I’ve felt... not belonging, but...” She grimaced, forcing the words to fruition. “At last, something felt right.” I didn’t respond. I just smiled and gave her room to talk. “I’ve just been drifting. Metaphorically and literally.” She let out a small spluttered chuckle. “For once I’m not. I have something to do, and I love it.” “You’re good at it too. I still remember the fish nets.” “Yeah. That felt good,” the corner of her lips uplifted with the memory. “But there’s way more I could do.” I swallowed. “Mirai, I know how much you love it here, and learning about engineering, but-“ “-a lot of the people are miserable?” She leaned back on one foot and folded her arms. She chuckled with a smirk. “Yeah. I’ve seen them too. I don’t want to end up like some of those people in the courtyards.” Another silence, this one filled by birds singing their evening song. Mirai turned, muttering to the ground. “Doesn’t matter though. I don’t think I’m staying.” Word spluttered from my mouth and I tried to hide my relief. “You’re not?” I failed. Mirai gave me a stern look for my unhidden pleasure. “This place is great, I honestly think I could make it work here. But... dad, mum, Novak.” She turned to face me at last, her eyes glassy. “I have to do what’s right for me, but that also means keeping my family close.” I smiled. “That sounds very mature of you.” She scrunched her face. “With everything that happened, you kind of grow up fast.” My face softened. “I’m glad you're staying.” “I hope I am too.” She looked up to the sky, then back to the ground, then finally back to me, a smirk on her lips. “I was chatting to Charles though, and I think, maybe I can have the best of both worlds?” “Oh?” She looked at the boat, her home, her lips curling with frustration. “I can’t just keep doing what I was doing. I can’t just keep babysitting kids. I need to make a life on that boat for me.” “And how do you plan to do that?” Mirai looked around at the passersby, eyeing up the porters and merchants, scanning every face. Her mouth opened, then closed again, puffing her cheeks. She looked back up the hill, and nodded for me to follow. As we walked the people and winds of the harbour were placed by nocturnal insects and the hum of factory machines through the nearby walls. “Can I tell you something and you keep it a secret?” Mirai asked. “Sure,” I nodded, trying to convince myself of the words. Her face was serious. She pointed at me as she spoke. “You’ve got to back me up on this. You can’t tell mum and dad.” I looked over my shoulder to the ship. A secret that would keep the family together. Xander and Kurbani would approve of that wouldn’t they? “Agreed.” Her posture loosened. “I’m going to stay, whatever happens. I can’t leave them. But I need something to not go insane.” A manic laugh escaped as she tilted her head back. “If it helps you stay I’ll do what I can. What do you need?” “I need you to convince my parents that you’ve come up with the one solution to make me stay.” “And that is...?” She opened her mouth to speak, but something caught her attention and lips wired shut again. Turning, I could see Sirad running up the path towards us. “Ferdinand! Ferdinand!” He stopped, panting. “Alessia. She’s back. At the quay.” I felt a jolt to my chest. “Mirai. We’ll do what it takes, but...” “Really?” She jerked a finger at me. “You just said you were going to help me.” “I will. I promise. But...” My head turned instinctively, I had to go. “I promise, we’ll speak tomorrow.” Mirai took a deep breath, releasing the tension in the exhale. “You’re right. This can wait. We’ll speak tomorrow.” I smiled. “Thank you.” Out of my periphery I could see that Sirad was still in hearing distance. “And... I’m glad we had this talk.” She smiled. “Same.” Nervousness crept through my veins as I walked back down the dirt path, my heart beating harder, as I scanned the quay, looking at the faces caught in the glow of the yellow lanterns. I skipped back and forth, checking sail patterns and trims of hulls till I saw a ship. Her ship. I followed the mast down to the deck, then to the jetti next to it. I saw three figures. Xander, Eir, and then, next to them... A smile crept across my lips and my torso flooded with warmth, as my arms twitched in anxiety. She was bent over, her whole body crouching down to the pavement, her face covered in her hands. She nodded, her hand slipping to reveal a wide grin. She shot up and hugged Xander tightly. He froze for a moment, then lifted his arms up and returned the hug. Alessia spoke again. Xander turned and pointed up the hill. She turned, staring in my direction but not at me. I started walking, trying to get into her eyeline. More glances across the crowd till our eyes met. She lifted her head back and mouthed something to the heavens, before she ran up the hill towards me. Her head hit my chest with force, and I wrapped my arms round her shoulders, feeling her hands squeeze behind my back. “I thought I’d lost you. I really did,” she muttered, her voice creaking slight. “Me too. I was worried about you.” “I still had the boat,” she chuckled dismissively. “But you, I saw you drift off on that crate. I thought you were gone.” We pulled back from the embrace. I concentrated on my face, trying to keep it calm, not allowing the smile to grow too big. “The crate floated past an island, and I managed to get to shore.” Her smile held no such reservations. She grinned so wide it threatened to swallow her face, her eyes reduced to thin slits across her brow. Her head lifted back, and she let out a sigh - part moan, part laugh, part exhaustion. Then she tightened her mouth and, outstretching a hand, smacked me in the arm. “Don’t you do that to me again.” She repeated the gesture with each word. “Next time look out for the crates. Be more aware of your surroundings. Keep a wider stance when you walk across a wet deck. And...” she let out a groan borne of feelings that had no words. “Thank God you are safe.” “You too. I saw that mast fall down and hit you. You fell off the boat-“ She shook her head. “I was dazed, but thankfully I didn’t drift far.” “I didn’t see you get back on board.” “Must have climbed up between the waves,” she said, biting her lip. “By the time I got to deck I was pretty dizzy and losing blood. Took me a while to get moving again.” It was only then I noticed, shadowed in the twilight, the large scar across the top of her forehead, just below the hairline. A strip where the skin was indented and pink. “Does it still hurt?” She pulled the hair back slightly and rotated her head, allowing me to inspect the mark. “It did hurt like shit. Now? It’s tender, but...” She shrugged. “You should see Eir. Get it checked out.” “Month old now. Ain’t gonna get worse. Besides, I’m a merchant girl, remember? I’ve had worse.” There it was again, that tongue caught between the teeth. I’d missed it. “What you need to know, is this is what I get for trying to save your dumb arse.” She pointed to the scar, and leaned it closer to my face. I shrugged. “I wouldn’t have had to cross the deck if you hadn’t broken your rope.” “Not my fault I’m trying to sail a four or five person ship by myself.” “And it’s not my fault I’m the only person who’ll sail with you.” We both stared at each other for a second in mock antipathy before more laughter crossed our lips, the moment too joyous for even sarcastic anger. She looked me over, inspecting my thin frame and sagging face. “Sorry it took so long to find you.” “It’s fine.” I curled up, scraggly arms crossing in front of my scrawny frame. Alessia didn’t notice, she was staring back at the ship. “I completely lost the front sail, and by the time I was on my feet, all the ropes were messed up. No steering, one sail, and no control. Just limped for a day-and-a-half till I bumped into another boat and could get a tow.” “How’s the ship?” “Got towed to one island, then paid someone to tow me to one where I knew some guys.” She rolled her head from side to side. “But we’re back to sailing.” “How much did it cost?” I stared at the new mast at the front of the ship, pretending I knew how to assess the quality of nautical craftsmanship in the dark from a hundred metres out. “Did they do a good job?” “Ferdinand.” She waited till she had my attention. “You have no idea how much that stuff I took from the ship on Yotese was worth, do you?” I looked to the side, avoiding the eye contact. A snicker escaped her lips. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” She nodded at the boat. A different smile showed, one of a greater love than any human knew. “Let’s just say I could’ve got that entire mast gold-plated with change if I’d wanted.” “So what now?” I asked, standing next to her as we admired the new mast, rigging and freshly varnished wood. She let out a small uncertain huff. “I don’t like it, but...” “What?” “Day I’m leaving to come here, some guy approaches me on the quay, says someone’s been looking for us - you and me - and they need to see us soon. Told me to stay and wait here for them to come. Be about a week.” “Who do we both even know? Someone from one of the islands? Kedrick?” Alessia pulled one side of mouth back and shook her head. “They’d all say who they were right? Has to be someone who wants us to stay but worried we’d sail off if we knew who.” A name surfaced, I felt the frost on the ocean winds as I said it. “Sannaz?” She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe? I don’t know.” “But you want to wait and see?” “I want to wait and see,” she nodded. “We can wait a few days. What’s the worst that could happen?” “Sannaz finds what he’s after and ends The Archipelago?” I said with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah. But... apart from that?” I looked at the swirl of pastel colors on the sea, a brief silence forming between us for the first time. “Could Sannaz really be coming to find us?” Alessia folded her arms, and leaned her head towards me, the tip of her head touching my shoulder. “Honestly? I hope so. Because I’d really like this fishshit to be over with.” \ The Archipelago publishes every Wednesday. See the pinned comment for links to the contents.
Cornelius walked out of his tent, ready to seize the day. The natives had kept him from his prize long enough. “Gerald, get the advance scouts ready. I want to know where the gems are today, and then the rest of the troop will march through the night to start packing them up tomorrow morning.” “Are you sure that’s wise, sir?” Gerald looked up, giving his misgivings in that timid voice the captain had learned to tolerate so well. “The troops have barely slept the 3 weeks we’ve been here, and we don’t know nearly enough about the jungle to be sure the scouts can find these gems today. And, even if they do find it, we almost certainly can’t get the whole caravan through the trees in one night.” Gerald was what some may call a voice of reason, but Cornelius called him a roadblock. He’d been saddled with the advisor after his last exploration lead to the decimation of the military forces, but the captain had no idea how this mole of a man was supposed to guard against bad luck, or how his ability to speak to the beasts was supposed to be useful when they didn’t seem to have a thought besides kill. Swish “But he can.” Cornelius pointed towards the savage that’d been strung up by his grotesquely long arms. “I’m sure you won’t mind leading us to your comrades at all, would you?”. The half man, half beast sneered at the men, but that’s all he could do now. The regulars had thought that stringing him up by his arms would be enough to make him cooperative, but his dexterous legs with hands-like feet became a problem. Now he swung from the pole with two broken femurs, not unlike how he’d swung from trees into the camp to begin with. Cornelius turned back to Gerald. “He can’t walk, but the native certainly knows his way around. If the scouts bring him along and pay attention, they’ll find the natives in no time. Then, the gems must be near, and we’ll be going home with those magic crystals withing the week. So, stop questioning everything I tell you and get the advance scouts ready.” “Y-y-yes sir!” Gerald scurried away to prepare for the advance. Cornelius turned back to his captive and stood onto the box that was needed to hang this freakishly tall creature from the pole. “I don’t know how you got to be like this, but I assure you I’ll extend you the mercy of ending your miserable life as soon as you’re no longer useful.” Cornelius walked away from the prisoner with a push, leaving the man to swing back and forth from his wrists. Swish A bloodied scout stumbled into Cornelius’ tent, not 2 hours after they’d left to find the gems. “What is the meaning of this! Do you not know to announce yourself before you even consider coming into my quarters?!” Cornelius slammed his book down and studied the young man, half of his face mangled beyond recognition. He also wasn’t saluting, which the captain quickly forgave after realizing the soldier didn’t have a right arm left to salute with. Instead there was a mangled stump right above his elbow with the bone jutting out , the flesh mangled and almost burned. “Good God, man, what happened? Where are the others?” “Only...one...left.” The scout coughed up blood between each word, then collapsed onto the floor of the tent. After fetching the medic and making sure the boy was being taken care of, Cornelius went to find Gerald. There was no way that soldier was the only one who made it back. Besides, what on earth could have caused him that much damage, besides jumping in front of a train? And there he was, the little rodent looking frightened as ever, staring at something just outside of camp. “What do you know about the scouting trip? The soldier said he was the only one left, but that can’t poss...” the captain stopped in his tracks. The soldier was wrong, he wasn’t the only one who made it back. He was just the only one still alive. Heads, legs, arms, and torsos were scattered just outside of camp. They appeared to be arranged to spell something in the native’s language, but Cornelius didn’t need Gerald to translate to tell him the message. “War” was universal. Then, a flash out of the corner of his eye. There, a woman, probably a meter and a half tall, with grotesquely muscular legs and knees facing the wrong way. She eyed Gerald and Cornelius, looking like a predator who knows its been seen, but is still deciding if it can go in for a kill. And then, nothing. Swish And then, everything. Cornelius stood in the middle of what appeared to be a town square, although unlike any he’d ever seen. The huts here were built into the trees, a combination of trunks hollowed out and branches laced around to create dwellings. A man and a woman stood behind him, both with the same diminutive stature and impossibly constructed legs that he’d seen on the woman back at camp just before he was whisked off here. Speaking of, he saw her standing off to the side next to the captain’s former captive, sitting down as a part of a much larger circle. Cornelius saw Gerald on the ground dry heaving. And then Cornelius vomited. After he was done with the worst bout of motion sickness any man had every experienced, Cornelius tried again to survey what was going on around him while staying on his knees. There were easily over a hundred of the natives gathered around him, but in reality he could only assume they were all human. There were a good dozen that looked like the captive, all hanging from their arms and legs 20 feet above the proceedings, and another dozen or so who had the structure of his unthinkably quick captors. There were so much more beyond that, though. Ones with webbed appendages and fins, others with rocky exteriors and permanently hunched backs, still others with thin limbs, padded feet, and huge eyes, and another half dozen one offs scattered about. Behind all of them were several children poking their eyes between their elders to get a better view of the strange man, although none of the young ones seemed to have any of the deformities of the adults. And in the center stood a man with no eyes. The man, shuffling forward with the grace of a king, stopped in front of Gerald and started speaking in the native’s tongue. Gerald stayed on his knees, gazing up at this sightless patriarch with all of the reverence shown to God. “So you’re the one in charge then? I’m the captain of my crew, you’ll speak to me first.” Cornelius got up to stand his ground, and then quickly found himself planted in it. One of the speedsters had her foot placed on top of his back and seemed likely to break his spine if he spoke out again. The blind man turned his attention back to Gerald and resumed speaking. After a while of Gerald’s eyes doing their best saucer impression, the old man gestured towards Cornelius. Gerald turned to him and, with much hesitancy, said “They all are given their changes by the gems. They grow up to look like you and me normally, but the gems change them to give them advantages in the jungle, according to what the tribe needs and what fits the individual. He wants to know if you would like to see the gems.” Cornelius stared at the two pieces of flesh where eyes should be and nodded like a man possessed. One of the rock-like creatures were brought forward, and the patriarch started talking again, with Gerald translating. “At their coming of age ceremony each member of their tribe gazes on the gems and holds them to cause the changes. If anyone except one with the strengthened skin touches them again, they will die a terrible death for their greed for more power. We are the first outsiders to ever see the gems.” The one with strengthened skin opened its hand showing two small, purple gems. Cornelius stared at them rabidly, when all of a sudden, he and Gerald were dragged into contact with the crystals. Heat radiated from the gems, a feeling of fire coursing over Cornelius’ skin from head to toe. The burning sensation grew and grew, both of them screaming out in pain against it until, finally, it subsided. The captain opened his eyes against the sweat coating his face and surveyed his new body. His eyes felt smaller, and yet the light was way too much for him. He closed his eyes and tried to ask what had happened, when suddenly he could see everything. He’d let out a small squeak and was able to see the patriarch standing over him, the rock creature waiting patiently, and Gerald lying next to him. Or, at least, what used to be Gerald. He had a long nose, tiny eyes, and absolutely enormous hands. Gerald, routing in the dirt as he was, had turned into a human mole. The captain turned back to his own situation. He could feel fur all over his body, except under his arms, where there seemed to be a mass of skin. With his eyes still closed, Cornelius stood up, extending his arms to their full wingspan, and tried to piece together what had happened to him. He had fur, he could see with sound, he had flesh under his arms that seemed like...wings. It hit him. Cornelius had turned into a blood sucker. With a few more clicks, Cornelius could tell that his former captive was now being brought over as Cornelius was being pressed into the ground. The man was still towering sitting down, although the being at foot level certainly helped with that. In his lanky hands he was carrying a long, thin piece of stone, a knife. As the man was carried towards Cornelius’ legs, the captain realized what was happening. This wouldn’t be an eye for an eye, but it was certainly close enough. *Swish.
It generally takes me about 20 minutes to find a cafe or restaurant to dine in. I start with Google recommendations, searching for the general term ‘restaurants near me’ before my sparking tastebuds narrow it down to the flavour I desire at the time. The images of Indian dishes make my mouth water, especially when I think about warm garlic naan covered in melted butter, then a photo of pulled pork tacos with super fresh slaw from a popular Mexican restaurant draws my attention. But most of the time, it’s Asian cuisine that makes my stomach gurgle in approval; Vietnamese my preference at lunchtime, Japanese an evening favouite. If a restaurant doesn’t feature images of their plated offerings, they don’t even get a look in. If the plates aren’t presented well or nicely garnished, I will scroll on by. Presentation is everything when it comes to promoting your business online, I should know, I judge businesses for a living, as a marketing consultant. To see the shortfalls in a business in order to improve it, you need to inspect it with a critical eye, from first impression to sale. In order to then promote the business effectively, you need to inspect your market and yes, you need to be judgmental; age, income, and gender all come into it. Then, of course, this behaviour carries over into your everyday life. Sometimes it’s a good thing, but it can make you look at the world with cloud-tinted glasses. The other consideration when browsing search results is customer reviews. Of course, this is an absolute given. I can pick a disgruntled customer a mile away, so I’ll scroll past those, disinterested in their rant. I also avoid reviews with poor spelling and grammar, reviews that spell the business name wrong, and outright abusive reviews to the business. Once they’re weeded out, I can then get on to the real reviews and base my personal ranking on those, plus the visual presentation of the business. So you would think that when I walked into the lowest rated restaurant in the city I was visiting, I must have forgotten my phone, it surely can’t have been on purpose. On the outside, the restaurant looked welcoming. It was quiet, but post-Covid most businesses were struggling so that came as no surprise. The front window was clean with very little advertising, and a simple red stenciled sign that read ‘Fusion Delights’. I’d come across it after the meeting when I was walking back to the hotel. It was the first restaurant I’d seen that was open at 11 am, and while it was early, I wanted something substantial having skipped breakfast to get to my appointment on time. Fusion Delights had a familiar ring to it and I immediately thought that the menu would have an Asian influence, but when I picked up a menu from the display stand on the way in, I saw it was a fusion... of various cultures signature dishes. Crumbed Calamari Rings with Satay Sauce Pulled Beef Sliders with Hollandaise Slaw Butter Chicken with Pesto Naan Teriyaki Chicken with Bulgur Pilaf In a way, they all seemed strangely appetizing but the thing that really caught my eye was the price. Not one main dish was over $15. This made me doubt the quality a little, but hunger led the way and I went ahead and approached the counter to order. The counter was clean and the Raspberry and Dark Chocolate Muffins on display were large and looked fresh with just the right amount of chocolate chunks, I almost ordered one but figured if I were still hungry after my super cheap main, I might just get one to take back to the hotel. A coffee machine sat to the right of the counter, and although I’d been cutting back on caffeine, I decided I’d order one to give me a boost to get through the rest of the day. When ordering coffee at a new establishment, I would select a Mochaccino. I figured the addition of chocolate would mask any substandard coffee-making skills, I couldn’t bear being disappointed by burned milk, or coarsely ground beans. When the server came out of the kitchen to greet me, I thought she looked tentative, even a little scared. She smiled and was polite, but looked at me from under heavy quizzical eyebrows and with a slightly shaky voice she said, “Good morning, how may I help you?” So far so good: a clean restaurant, a quirky menu, tasty looking muffins and a lovely server. “Hello, this is a lovely looking restaurant,” I started by saying, while gesturing around the clean white walls and tasteful simple red and black stenciled artwork. “Oh really?” She said, raising her face to look at me directly. “I mean, thank you so much.” “Yes, it really is, and I’m excited to try some food from your menu.” “Great!” She replied, now seeming a bit more lively and comfortable with me. “What can I get you?” I decided on the spur of the moment to go for gold, and ordered a Latte, I felt like she was a person I could trust to treat the beans gently. “I’ll also get the Teriyaki Chicken with Bulgur Pilaf, please.” “Sure, that’ll be $17.50 please? But I’m sorry, your coffee will take 10 minutes or so, I haven’t started the machine yet.” “No problem,” I said with a smile. I had a feeling the wait would be worth it. I returned to my table and within one minute, a fresh bottle of water was placed in front of me with a small plate of Cabbage and Wasabi Mayo. Fantastic. The Latte arrived at my table within the promised 10 minutes. It was served in a glass, the froth was thin and tight, and there was a perfectly formed silver fern pattern on the top, representing our country, New Zealand. I waited until she had left before I put the cup to my lips and took a sip... of the best coffees I had ever tasted; smooth, creamy, strong enough but not to the point of bitterness, and an ever so subtle caramel finish. “Is your coffee okay?” The coffee was so enjoyable that I hadn’t even noticed the server return to my table holding a beautifully presented Teriyaki Chicken and Bulgar Pilaf plate with fresh slaw on the side. “Oh yes, it’s gorgeous, thank you so much.” She put the plate in front of me with chopsticks and a fork, and I saw her nametag read ‘Bethany’. She was startled when I thanked her again by using her name. Then smiled shyly as she remembered she was wearing her nametag. “You’re welcome. Enjoy, and let me know if there’s anything else you need.” The chicken was the first thing I tried. It was tender and the sauce was so rich and tasty, I could tell it was homemade. The bulgur was next. I was somewhat of a bulgur connoisseur as it was one of the first dishes I’d ever made. Cracked bulgur wheat is cheap to buy, and with simple ingredients including tomatoes, stock, onions, and oil, it was very easy to make. But to get the taste just right? That was another thing. The first mouthful of bulgur was warm and comforting. It wasn’t too flavoursome and while tomato isn’t normally something I’d have with teriyaki anything, it complimented the chicken perfectly and I had to stop myself from audibly moaning with foodie pleasure. The slaw was as fresh as it looked, light, and with just the right amount of mayo so as to refresh the palette. My Japanese Turkish fusion meal went down a treat; every mouthful with the right mix of flavours. I washed it down with the cool filtered water and sat back, satisfied with the size of the meal, and impressed with the quality. Bethany had peaked at me a few times during my meal, clearly trying to figure out whether I was enjoying it or not, and noticing I had finished, she came over to clear my table. “How did you enjoy your meal?” “With every ounce of my being,” I replied. And she beamed. I added, “could you point me to the bathroom, please?” You can always tell a good food establishment by the condition of its bathroom, and Fusion Delights did not let me down. The benchtop was sparkly clean, the toilet equally so. Ample toilet paper was available, displayed in a wall cabinet with a glass door, and foaming soap was available at the sink for handwashing. There were hand towels, and a hand dryer available to suit both preferences, and the feature wall displayed a print of various famous landmarks from around the world: the Taj Mahal, Great Wall of China, Statue of Liberty, and the Colosseum - another addition to the ‘fusion’ theme. When I returned to my table, my used plate was gone, and in its place was a small bowl with a few M&Ms surrounding a Starlight Mint - very cool. I popped the M&Ms in my mouth and the mint in my pocket for later. Having paid when I ordered, I could have just walked out, but Bethany watched me curiously as I walked back to the counter. “Bethany, can you call the owner of this restaurant for me, please?” Her cheeks blushed and it was then that I noticed how young she was, she can’t have been older than 20. “Was there something wrong?” “No, everything was perfect. I just need to speak to the owner for a moment if that’s okay?” Bethany nodded and picked up the phone, and the owner answered straight away. “Uh, hi Bruce. It’s Bethany here. Sorry to call you at home but I have a customer who would like to speak to you.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, we did try hard. We did. She told me everything was good and she just wants to talk to you.” Bethany’s blush had turned a deeper pink as the owner’s voice rose, berating his staff member and I could see her eyes were welling up with tears. “Put the phone on speaker please, Bethany,” I asked calmly and gave her a reassuring smile. “And stay to listen to our conversation.” She did as asked without warning the owner and his voice continued, over the loud speaker now. “We’ve talked about all this Bethany, what did you do wrong? I can’t believe it, I can’t believe you.” “Hello, Bruce.” I interrupted, and was met with silence. “Bruce, it’s me, Sarah.” “Sarah? I-I didn’t know you were visiting today, I’m at home.” “I know,” I replied and winked at Bethany. “That was the point.” “You, you know each other?” She whispered, and I nodded in response. “Bruce, I wanted to speak to you straight away and congratulate you and your staff. Everything, from the new sign on the window to the cleanliness of the bathroom, to the tastiness of the food and quality of your newly trained barista’s coffee... was perfect.” Bethany raised her eyebrows in shock as she heard quiet sobs coming from the other end of the phone. She couldn’t believe her stern boss was crying! “Th-thank you, S-Sarah. Thank you so much for everything, for bringing us back from the dead.” I laughed. “Bruce, you could have taken every bit of advice I had given you, and thrown it out the window, continuing to do the things you were doing. But you chose to fight, to give it one more push and make the improvements this place so needed. And you and your staff did it. You didn’t just do it, you ACED it!” “So you don’t think we’ll be the lowest-rated restaurant in town anymore?” “Hah. Absolutely not. Once word gets out and customers have the same experience I just did, you and Bethany here are going to be rushed off your feet. People want, people NEED to socialise again now that restrictions have been lifted,” I reassured him. “And Fusion Delights is going to be THE place to go.” With more tears and congratulations, Bethany ended the phone call, and looked at me shaking her head, “you tricked me! You actually Mystery Shoppered me!” Smiling, I nodded and said “I did, that’s part of my job. I make recommendations and then I follow up with a sneaky visit, and do you know what the last recommendation is that I’ll be making to Bruce?” Bethany shook her head. “That Bethany gets a pay rise.” I was still smiling when I left Fusion Delights, the name Bruce and I had agreed upon when he hired me to help him revive his restaurant after the pandemic had forced him to cut costs and quality, resulting in it becoming the lowest-rated restaurant in town. But now this will change, and being part of that change is what drives me. May the five-star reviews roll in!
Detective Nunez sips coffee, looking around my apartment as if he’s just a visitor. “Congratulations on your promotion,” I say. “Officer to Detective, that’s a promotion, isn’t it?” My voice is dead. I keep looking at Billie. Why is she messed up in this? Why did I think I could live a happy life? “First I want to say congratulations to you,” he says, smiling. He aims an open palm at Billie’s convex stomach. “Parenthood is the best job in the world.” He smiles and I know it’s genuine. “You’re a father?” I ask. “Yes. A little girl. She’s my whole world.” He looks down at his hands, picturing her in his head. “She’s a lucky girl then. I wish I’d had a father like you. How’s progress on the case?” I think about Zach, buried for years beneath the tree. I picture my mother swinging from the tree when she broke free from my dad’s grip on her. “We’ve recovered the, uh, remains of Zach. DNA testing against your father proved the identity. It was a very easy case after your father’s confession.” He’s leaning forwards on the sofa. His kind face must be comforting to his daughter. I bite my nail. I know there’s more. “So, you found my brother. When do I get to bury him?” I ask. “The due diligence will take a week or two more, Xander. The department doesn’t take murder lightly.” He twirls the simple gold band around his marriage finger. Billie is rubbing her stomach to soothe herself. She’s nervous and can’t hide it like me. I take her hand. She squeezes mine as if the contractions have started. “You’re not here about what my father did, are you detective?” “No.” He makes the face of someone who knows the person next to them farted but can’t bring it up. “I’m not in the homicide squad.” He reaches down into his satchel and pulls out an iPad with a sticker that marks it property of the police department. Swiping through some files he shows me a photograph. “Do you recognise this man?” It’s Andy. “He looks familiar.” “He recognised you from a photo Xander. He says you came to visit his dad the night he suffered a stroke.” He knows he has me trapped. It’s a no-win scenario. “He’s the kid from the park. Man. I mean, you’ve met him? He’s got learning difficulties or something. I walked him home. Kids at the park were yelling at him.” It’s not why I walked Andy home. A detective worth anything will know that instinctively. “You talked to his father, Bill?” The enquiry is casual, but he might as well be shining a light in my eye while I’m cuffed to a table. “He wasn’t a nice guy, told me to get lost.” “Lots of people think Bill was a great guy, he was a doctor. Saved a lot of lives.” Detective Nunez wants me to contradict him. Nope. “I didn’t know that. People are more than they seem I guess.” “Always. What people don’t know is that Bill was abusing children, including Andy when he was younger.” Nunez’ piercing brown eyes ask if I was part of that. I should react with shock but none of that is news to me and the thought makes me angry. “That’s terrible. Did you arrest him?” I ask the same way I’d ask for a menu, flat as a pancake. I’m good at lying, usually. “We did, but he’s mentally incompetent to face charges now. He’s in a care home, will be for the rest of his days.” “Maybe the world’s better off that way, if he was what you say he was.” Billie squeezes my hand. I’m being too obvious. “Thing is, we don’t know what happened to him. He was a healthy man. I mean he was sick the way anyone who hurts kids is sick, but what happened to his mind can’t be explained.” He looks at Billie. “Is it possible for me to have another coffee?” “Of course,” she says. I wish she wouldn’t indulge him. Let his mind falter. Let his mouth go dry. I’m happy for the first time in my life and he’s going to fuck it up. Screw him and his ironed powder blue shirt. Damn his casual pleather jacket and the jeans. “Can you skip to the point, Detective?” I hate waiting for it. “Did you in any way harm Doctor Bill Schrader?” “No.” I look him right in his brown eyes. “I never hurt Bill Schrader.” I can say it honestly because I didn’t hurt him, I took away the evil in him. It isn’t my fault that there was almost nothing left when it was gone. “Your DNA was on the clothes he was wearing when the ambulance crew found him. He had traces of Chloroform around his mouth. So did Andy. Do you know anything about that?” Detective Nunez is really going for it. He’s lost the casual body language. He’s facing me like a perp. “No.” I drink coffee from the cup in front of me so that I can gulp without it being so obvious. “Maybe one of Doctor Schrader’s victims came back for revenge.” “Perhaps.” Nunez pulls a notepad from his pocket and writes something down. “You know, I should thank whoever did it. They got a monster off the streets. Andy is in better hands now. He’s been adopted by an old couple who lost their son in Afghanistan.” “I’m glad for him,” I say, stiff lipped. “You know something else I forgot?” He takes the coffee from Billie, who sits heavily by my side. “You’ve been present at a lot of weird events like that of Doctor Schrader’s downfall. A bunch of neo-Nazis ended up in the same mess as him a couple of counties over. You bought gas there the same night.” God damn it. Why couldn’t he be an incompetent donut loving cop who just likes to flash the lights? Billie looks at me. She’s about to start crying. She’s got her mommy to be T-shirt on. She’s wearing fluffy bunny slippers on her feet. She’s ordered the cot, the changing table, the bottles, the pram, the diaper bucket, the wet-wipe warmer. She giggles when she shows me baby outfits based on characters we like. She wants to dress the baby as Grogu from The Mandalorian for its first Halloween. Billie Watanabe is a growing ball of love that deserves better than this shit. “Maybe we should talk in the hallway, detective.” I stand up slowly. I don’t want him to take it as a threat. “You first, Xander. Let’s talk.” He stands. I can see the bulge of his gun. I walk out into the hallway outside the loft apartment Billie talked me into renting. I lean on the railing over the staircase, looking down seven floors. “I’ve been trying to track your movements. It’s not easy.” “Then why not let it go?” I ask. “Do you think the people you’re talking about don’t deserve to face justice?” “What you do isn’t justice, Xander. It’s vigilantism. Only the law can provide safe, accountable justice.” “Tell that to my brother Zach. To my mother Maria. To Andy. To the victims of Doctor Schrader. Tell that to the people attacked or murdered by neo-Nazis for the colour of their skin.” My voice is freezer burn. My eyes are narrowed beams of rage. My heart is beating a gallop. “It’s impossible to know what a person will do beforehand, Xander. If you had evidence of their crimes, you could have turned them in to the law. They would have been arrested, put in prison. They wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone again.” He really believes it. He’s a pastor at the pulpit. He’s the man on the soapbox. His passion and faith are palpable. “Unless they have a good lawyer. Doctor Schrader would have. He’d have spun the court stories about his work. He’d have character witnesses telling the jury about the miracles he performed. He’d have lawyers tripping up his victims with bullshit questions to make them sound guilty. That’s just the normal ones, then there’s my father. Do you know what he could do? He twisted our minds with his powers. He made us forget about Zach. He would hurt us and then take away the memories. Your justice system has no answer to that.” I growled with the menace of a guard dog. Detective Nunez was supressing the urge to reach for his gun. “I’m sorry you feel like that, but I can’t let you take the law into your own hands. I’m going to come back with a warrant-” “Do you want to know how helpless victims of abuse feel? Do you want to know what the hatred of those monsters tastes like? I can show you.” I hold out my hand. I buried a lot of old memories with my father, but I’ve been at work since then. “What are you talking about? You need help Xander.” He shakes his head. “Shake my hand, what do you have to lose?” My tanned hand takes his. I send memories flooding into his mind. Memories of a woman attacked by her husband. The memories of the husband being attacked by his father before he relived it with his wife. I show him how it felt for a man who was hunted through the streets for his Delhi accent and kicked to within an inch of his life. I show the same attack from the perspective of the attackers. I let go of his hand. He staggers back and falls to the ground. Sweat starts to bead on his face. Tears flow from his eyes. He’s pissed himself. His hands are clawing at his hair. “That’s how it feels from both sides Detective Nunez. Still think I should leave the monsters out there to get caught?” I slide down against the wall to be at his eye level. I look at the shadows cast by the railings from the light above my door. “You don’t catch them all. I can’t either. Some of them, the clever ones or the lucky ones get away with it. Some get caught and get off on technicalities. Some serve a sentence and do the same thing all over again. My father was known to the police. You know all about it. He hurt people for a living. Nothing ever stuck to him. You probably never thought there were people out there like me. My father could do this, he used it for all the wrong reasons. I’ve spent years finding people like him and neutralising them. I don’t kill them. I don’t do more damage than I have to. I cut away the part of their mind that causes other people pain. If that’s more than they can afford to lose and function, then I’d say it’s the lesser of two evils.” I stand. He’s still in the nightmares. I take his hand. He panics and tries to fight me off. I take back the memories. He looks into my eyes, pure fear. “I have some spare pants for you to put on, you can’t go out like that.” I point to his crotch without looking. He follows me in a trance. “You have great faith in the law. That’s noble, admirable. You must recognise that it’s not perfect. You don’t catch a hundred percent of the bad guys. Of those you do, not all get put away. Then there’s recidivism. “Detective Nunez is going to borrow some of my clothes. He had an accident.” I tell Billie. She knows what I mean. She can guess what happened. She’s too smart to lie to. The detective has a shower and puts on some of my clothes. They’re loose on him. I’m a muscular guy. Wrestling with steroid enhanced fascists is great exercise. He sits on our sofa again. He’s a different man. His smile is gone. “You,” he says, looking at me. He blinks but the words vanish from his tongue. “Yes. Everything you saw is real. They’re all memories and thoughts I took from other people. They’re all the evidence I need. People can burn documents, delete files. It doesn’t matter. If they remember, all I have to do is hold their hand.” He cups his jaw in his hand. His eyes water silently. Billie passes him a box of tissues wrapped in a fluffy pink case. Detective Nunez wipes his eyes. “My daughter. If that ever... What would I do?” His brown hand grabs more tissues. He’s shaking. “If you know about anyone who might be a risk to her, you can point me their way. I don’t misfire. If there’s no memories in their mind, I just walk away. I’ve assumed things before and been wrong. Those people didn’t get hurt.” Nunez wipes a hand over his sweaty forehead. “This is mad. It’s impossible.” I get him chocolate from the kitchen. It’s good for shock or upset pregnant women. I show him the box. He shakes his head. I shake the box insistently. He takes one. Billie rubs his back. “I can prove it to you again. If you have a suspect in a case, let me shake their hand. I’ll tell you every detail about how they did or didn’t do it.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s ridiculous. There would be more evidence to expose me. “There are guys that mutter in the precinct when someone gets off. Someone big. Someone always says that there should be another way. The captain calls that giving in to the dark side. We’re supposed to uphold justice. We can’t do that from outside the law.” He takes another chocolate. He’s looking at his coffee cup on the table. Still shaking, he’s calming down. I can smell the sweat of stress on him again even though he just showered. His black hair is slicked back by the water. “I need to go home and hold my daughter.” He shoots to his feet. “Detective Nunez,” I say. He looks at me. “Please let this go. I don’t hurt good people. I barely hurt the bad people, but I do stop them. I don’t want to have to prove it to you, but I will. I’m going to be a father as well. I want to watch my child grow up. I want them to be safe.” My voice pleads while my face is stern. I stand taller than him as he leaves in my clothes with his own in a plastic bag. “I need to think, Xander. Thank you for the clothes.” He turns. “It was nice to meet you, Billie.” “Nice to meet you, Detective Nunez.” He closes the door behind him. I watch him walk away through the peep hole. He’s a zombie, hollowed out inside. I hope he’s alright to drive. Billie holds out her arms for a hug but she’s too pregnant. I stand behind her and wrap my arms around her. In a month I’ll be a father. Hopefully I won’t be in prison when the baby is born.
The knights had been assembled for an hour before Arthur, King, entered Camelot’s great hall. When the clatter of his chain mail began echoing through the castle, the lords rose and snatched their helmets, prepared to offer them along with their lives in service to their liege. Arthur stepped up to his seat, inclining his head slightly to the gathered knights. Sir Galahad threw himself to the floor. As the other armor-clad warriors struggled to their knees, their king waved his hand. “No, no, get up,” he boomed. “I called this meeting to.... What’s that?” He gestured with a heavy gauntlet toward the center of the table. Peering up at the hall’s high windows, Lancelot shielded his eyes from the afternoon sun streaming into the chamber. “Perhaps it’s a ray of sun, sire, highlighting an aberration in the grain.” Arthur heaved his mighty sword, Excalibur, onto the great table. “Who did this? Who spilled a flagon on the Round Table? You think, after seeing a mark like that, the guests of Camelot will take me seriously? It’s warped the planks! I’m a king, not a pauper, and I deserve to live like one! There’s not a platter in this fair land capable of covering that up! Percivale, you look like you’ve got something to say.” The knight stammered under his breath. “Go on.” “I don’t believe it’s a spilled drink, sire.” Percivale bit his lip. “Then, what is it? A leak in the rafters? It’s an unusual color for rainwater this time of year, don’t you think? Your travels have taken you to many lands under my banner. Does that puddle look familiar to you?” Percivale’s eyes fell to his boots. Arthur turned his attention to the broader group. “I wouldn’t have spent all that money on a comfortable castle if I’d known my knights were just going to waltz around, ruining everything. How am I supposed to fix this? Have a carpenter strip and stain the Round Table all over again? I’m heavily leveraged at the moment. It’ll involve another tax on my subjects, and you can bet I’ll tell them where to pin the blame!” “I saw who did it, sire,” Sir Gawain said. Arthur’s left eyebrow edged closer to his circlet. “It was....” Gawain gulped for air. “It was the sorceress, Morgana le Fay--as I live and breathe, sire.” “Was it really?” Gawain shifted his weight and stared at a stack of rotting bones under the table. “No,” he whispered. “I swear you knights have made Morgana a scapegoat for everything! If it rains, you tell me it was Morgana. If it snows, it was definitely Morgana. If you fail a quest, it’s because Morgana showed up--who knows how--to cackle at you! I thought I chose you all for your bravery. If I’d wanted a bunch of rabble rousers who spill mead on the furniture and blame my half-sister every time their horses throw a shoe, I’d have grabbed a wagonful of superstitious peasants off the street!” Arthur paused. “No one wants to confess? Alright. There will be no feasting until the table’s fixed. No mead either. I’ll wall up the cellar myself if I have to. Also, Sir Lionell, your charter to slay the dragon of Tywyn has been indefinitely postponed. The beast appears to have entered into a truce with the townspeople... for the moment. I will continue to evaluate the situation in the coming weeks.
“I’m not competitive.” “Neither am I.” Kaley and Sam thought they knew themselves, but how well did they know each other? They’d been friends for what felt like an age. They’d done everything alongside one another for decades. It wasn’t planned, but their lives just seemed to converge time and again, like planes in a coordinated display - but they’d never been the fighter kind, just the friendly kind. Friendship is a tenuous thing. It can all change in a minute over something seemingly innocuous, like something slight that the wind carries in. People believe nothing can tear them apart until they’re looking at their own shredded halves of what was once one, shared page. They thought they’d always be on friendly terms, until the house appeared. They were house hunting in tandem. They both sent each other any promising prospects they found online. They weren’t looking for the same thing at all - Kaley wanted something airy and city-based while Sam wanted to be sequestered away in a countryside cottage. It wasn’t a rivalry; it was a supportive search shared between friends. That was why they were surprised by each other at the open viewing. They’d told each other they were both attending one, but neither had dreamt it would be at the same location. They had both fallen in love with the place before they’d even got out of their cars. It was one of those idyllic places that look like they can only exist in airbrushed magazines, but it was real and with an affordable price tag. Kaley gave Sam a strained smile and Sam returned it. They didn’t hide how unhappy they were to see each other well at all. They had genuinely always been happy to see each other until that moment. It’s funny how one small, added weight can tip the scale in the other direction. The agent greeted them at the door, while he also greeted all the other viewers. There were so many keen potential bidders; everyone knew their chance of getting the place was as slim as the hallway felt with twenty people crammed into it. Each potential buyer lingered in the rooms, showing how loath they were to leave. It was a competitive atmosphere. One person looked another squarely in the eye, as if to say, are you going to dare outbid me? It wasn’t a friendly atmosphere, however friendly the house felt. Kaley stepped in front of Sam and made her way inside first. Ordinarily, she always would have held the door open and said, “after you.” They both basked in the beauty of their new home - the one they would, they realised, lose a friend to get. After being ejected by the agent whenever he jangled his keys to tell them the viewing time had ended, they left in separate cars without exchanging a word. Kaley went home, where she awaited a message from Sam, offering her the house, but it didn’t arrive. From there, the bidding war commenced. The price kept jumping up, and no one seemed to find its increase unreasonable. They just thought of the pink horse chestnut trees in the garden and the little brook at the end of the lawn. They thought of the sun-filled rooms with the dancing shadows of tree branches that moved on the walls. They thought of the heady scent of roses and the joyous moments they would spend inside its walls. Kaley had always hated expressions like “forever home,” but that was what it was to anyone that had the pleasure of viewing it. They both went beyond their budget to outdo each other. Each of them had the estate agent as a regular contact on their phones. They both sought out constant updates on the status of the house sale. But in that whole time, they didn’t talk to each other - they didn’t even send a single, civil message. The sisterhood they’d spent their lives building had become nothing but a sham. They couldn’t bear to face each other, because doing that would be like facing up to their own disappointment, to their own need for acquiescence where the house was concerned. Neither of them was prepared to acquiesce and let the other have it, for the sake of friendship. The place had a personality as strong as a person’s. It felt like it would be enough to fill the void left by their dead friendship. Their phones rang, simultaneously, with two different agents on the ends of the lines. They had both been outbid. The price had skyrocketed to the point that they could no longer match it, never mind outdo it. The professional tones of the agents weren’t sympathetic enough to their plight. They had invested their whole hearts in the house, and it was never going to belong to either of them. They didn’t know who the highest bidder was, and they didn’t know that it wasn’t each other. They just knew that their dreams were like mirages that had vanished, shattered like broken shards of mirror on cold, tiled floors. A month passed by, and they individually drove to the house - an idea at once in their two heads. They pulled up on the opposite side of the street and parked under the draped veiling of the trees. They tried to approach the place, circumspectly, investigating to see who had taken up residence there. Neither of them believed it was right to do that, but they had to know anyway. And so, they ended up standing side by side, on the same side of the street, looking at the occupied house than neither of them owned. Their eyes met at that moment of realisation, as they watched a kid they didn’t know playing basketball in the driveway, sinking shots they never could have made. The longer they looked at the house, the more they realised it was never meant to be theirs, to be theirs to fight over. They looked at each other with coy smiles, mirroring each other, and took a simultaneous step towards each other’s spot in the sun.
It was the best of times, it was the... oh wait, that’s a different story. I should lead with a more original first line. It was the longest day of my young life. My mother had woken us in the night, packed the car, and drove all night and all the next day. We had only stopped to use questionable gas station rest rooms and to eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches she seemed to have an endless supply of. I really wanted McDonald’s, but she said it was too expensive for all of us to order burgers, drinks, and fries. I had 3 younger sisters, Lucy, Maggie, and Sprout. (Yup my parents named her Sprout like a plant growing from the soil). I’m the oldest, Daphne. It was the 4 of us and Ma, plus our gray striped cat, Scrooge, traveling in a ‘99 Saab 95 wagon. The heat didn’t even work until we hit Ohio, where Ma stopped at a mechanic shop. She went to talk with mechanic for a while behind the shop, and said our bill was all set. I don’t know what it cost, but she kept eating tic tacs like there was a bitter taste in her mouth. “Where are we going, Ma?” We all kept asking her. For six hundred miles, she didn’t answer. When we hit Minnesota, she said, “To see the lights.” “What lights, Ma?” I asked. “The ones up in the sky. You can only see ‘em this time of year and not everyone can see it. Couldn’t see it back in Dorchester.” “But Ma, you can see it in Maine, I think,” I said, recalling a bit of information from a science class. “Well, don’t you wanna go to Minnesota?” “We never thought about it,” Said Maggie honestly. “Well, think about it now, girls, because we’re here,” She said. We were on edge because of the midnight journey cross country, but it seemed exciting to be able to get a view of the Northern Lights. Though we’d been traversing the United States for 23 hours now, I would say the real story starts at this point. Consider all that the prologue . From what I learned in sixth grade science, the Northern Lights were caused by highly charged solar wind particles that collided with air molecules in the atmosphere. It created beautiful colors and you could see them in Finland, Sweden, Iceland and Alaska. I did think you could sometimes see this in Maine, but Ma said we’d be able to see it in Minnesota. (Come to think of it, it made sense because we were up on the top of the states. I had only gotten a 78 in 7th grade geography and the topic of the aurora borealis from last year was cloudy in my brain.) It was nearly 3 o’clock at this point, so Ma checked us into a motel. It smelled like cigarettes even though it had “no smoking” signs all over the lobby. We got cokes from a machine! That was pretty cool because Ma never let us drink cokes at home. She always said, “it will rot your teeth and fill up your belly with bubbles.” We didn’t question it, though, you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. We all took a nice nap on creaky king-size bed. The pillows were too hard, but we’d brought our own pillows in the car, so we went and got those to sleep on. Ma put a chair in front of the door even though it had a lock. She said better be safe than sorry. When we woke up, it was dark outside, but we could tell there was a greenish glow. It was the lights! We all put on our jackets and went out on the little balcony outside the room. It had these wrought iron bars and old folding chairs, but I thought it was the nicest balcony because we’d never had one at home. My sisters were yelling, “The sky is all lit up!” I said, “It’s so beautiful.” Ma smiled for the first time that whole day. She said, “I’m glad you girls like the view, because I think we’ll be here a while.” “Are we on vacation?” Lucy asked. “No,” Ma answered. “This going be house?” Sprout asked nervously. Ma laughed, “Goodness no, but we’ll be here for a couple days. Then hopefully we’ll find a house. Well- probably an apartment.” I was starting to realize what was happening. It wasn’t about the northern lights at all. We were running away from our old home. I was 12, so I knew more than my sisters. Sprout was only three, Maggie was barely five, and Lucy was ten. Ma was trying to spare us from being upset or seeing that she was scared. He must’ve hit her- I decided. Our Dad got mad very easily, like if hot chocolate spilled on his pants, or if you were singing a song loudly, or if Ma burnt the chicken. Ma didn’t mean to burn the chicken, but sometimes if Dad was mad at one of us, it distracted her from cooking supper. He never cooked, he never did any of the chores, and he never took us anywhere. If we missed the bus for school, he would yell and kick the wall with his foot, then Ma would hurriedly get us out the door and drive us herself. She never said anything bad about him, but I knew she didn’t like to be yelled at. “Does he know where we are?” I asked. She kept her eyes on the swirling green and purple lights. “Ma...” I asked again nervously. “No, Daphne,” She said quietly. “Good,” I said emphatically, “I hate him. I’m glad we ran away.” She gestured to the girls and put a finger to her lip, “Shhh. We don’t need to upset your sisters. Let’s have a fun adventure and they’ll only remember the beautiful lights and that we settled here to always be in their glow.” “It doesn’t glow all year, Ma,” I said matter-of-factly. “Nothing lasts forever, my love, but I want you to remember that when the beautiful parts of life come, they’re always sweeter than the terrible parts.” I hugged her and we stood there for a little longer. When it got too cold, we went inside. Ma got us hot chocolate from the cafe down the street and we split three cups between us. We watched “Huckleberry Finn” on the Tv and Ma even got us chips for 50 cents from the front desk. We felt like royalty! Money was tight, but she never let us figure it out. It’s been ten years since we left Massachusetts. I’m 22 now and look forward to attending college. For my essay, the only story I could think of was the journey to the northern lights. It taught me the importance of looking on the bright side (literally and figuratively) and how you have to be brave sometimes even when it’s thrust on you. Ma wasn’t ready to be brave like that, but she had to be, she had to take us and get us all far, far away. I have to be brave now, because I have to leave her. I have to leave our circle of love and warmth, but I know that I’ll be back every chance I get. My Ma, my sisters, and I are like the solar particles flying about from the sun, mixing with the atmosphere of Earth to create the beautiful colors in the sky. There are seasons when we won’t be together, but we’ll always come back to each other, and it’ll always be special and magical.
I hadn’t been to work in weeks. I yawned as I pressed the start button on the coffee pot. As the familiar aroma met the air, my mind wandered to my daily commute and the monumental to-do list that awaited me. My co-worker Bill's last day was Friday. So not only will I be catching up on work that I missed while I was away but also committing to the work of two people until Bill’s replacement can start in one more week. My other co-worker and close friend Mandi asked me if I could pitch in for the goodbye party for Bill. They got him a cake, a card, and a bird watching book. I pitched in a few bucks, just hoping it was enough to look like I cared but not too much for the occasion. I can’t really say I will whole-heartedly miss Bill. His musky cologne often preceded his presence and his incessant throat-clearing afforded me the luxury of wearing headphones all day to drown out the awkward interruptions. I often wore the headphones just to avoid small talk with Bill. Without the headphones, it seemed to notify Bill that my ears were simply available to be filled with the sound of his nasally voice. Without any inquiries from me, I knew about his kids going off to college, his wood-working hobby, and some of his marital issues with his wife of 40 years. I knew a little too much about Bill, really. He honestly just seemed a little lonely, like he needed a friend. I shrugged the thoughts away as I blindly reached inside the cabinet for a coffee cup. Deliciously anticipating the first few sips of this powerful elixir known as coffee. I marveled at how I went weeks in the mountains without caffeine, simply happy to awake with the sun and be invigorated by the idea of trails to be discovered. The minute I find myself having to put on my suit and tie and head into a large, municipal brown building with an office divided into cubicles for the masses; I find that I need rocket fuel to propel me forward. Yes, I’m instantly re-thinking all of my life decisions. But not this one. The coffee seems like the best decision I’ve made today. After rushing through traffic and scrambling from my spot on the 10th floor of the parking garage, I finally slump into my desk chair at half past eight. Thinking that likely no one will notice that I’ve even been gone. I turn on my desk lamp as I remove my bag strap over my head and place my work bag next to me. It’s full of work I told myself I might do while I was out. Although nothing in that bag had been touched since I walked out the door of the office. I power on my desktop and my mind wanders to the coffee machine nearby. It’s not the best coffee, but it may be an alternative form of rocket fuel as I wait for the operating system to load. Soon enough, my desktop screen flashes awake and the light from the screen is almost as jarring as the light from my desk lamp. Just like riding a bike, I log into our database and fire up my email. I’m alarmed to see that I have 200 unread emails. I blink a few times and decide I will make my way to the break room first for that coffee. I grab my headphones to plug into my ears, in case anyone wants to welcome me back from my trip or ask me if I miss BIll. Oddly enough, the office seems eerily quiet and I haven’t noticed anyone at their desks. I look at the calendar on the wall while I maneuver a paper cup under the one-cup coffee dispenser. I find today’s date quickly at the bottom of the grid, Monday August 25th. Nothing stands out to me, not around a major holiday. Maybe it’s just a Monday, if only there were enough rocket fuel for us all I think. I turn on some tunes through my phone and blow on my hot coffee as I saunter back to my desk. 200 emails, here we go. My left hand is positioned on the keyboard and my right hand is clutching my coffee cup as I decide to start from the bottom and work my way up. Lots of emails about Bill’s last day. Delegating who will get the cake, who will bring the utensils, can someone get the balloons, also don’t tell Bill, it’s a surprise. My fingers fly quickly through these emails and the junk ads I receive for menswear and hiking gear. It’s tempting to browse through the sales but I’m 50 emails down. The coffee seems to be kicking in because I am suddenly committed to this cause of making it to the last email. I must make it to the last week that I was out, there are a few emails from my boss asking Bill to update him on the status of his projects and to include me on these emails so that I can pick up where Bill leaves off. Always making sure that the work goes on, no matter what. No matter that Bill has pretty much built his life around this company’s motto of “Building a better future for tomorrow” by always thinking several steps ahead. Bill usually got to many of our projects before me, oftentimes tackling the more challenging spreadsheets and staying late to be ahead of deadlines. I wondered how much of that was related to Bill not wanting to be home alone with his wife. I knew he was looking forward to having more time to visit with his kids, they both went to the west coast for college. Bill said he wanted to make a cross country trip to visit them, he always wanted to do that when he was younger but he was busy raising a family. “It’s just the American way”, he always said, “there’s plenty to be done here at work and the home needs to be watched after.” I look over at Bill’s empty chair in the cubicle across from mine and take a sip of my coffee. I nod to him like he’s there. I hope he gets to witness some of the wonderful monuments and trails that I got to lay my eyes on the last few weeks. He certainly deserves this time away. I wish my Dad had ever thought to take that time to visit me in college. We would have had way more fun on a hiking trail than we ever did on our trips out of town for my away varsity baseball games in high school. Often, the rides home were filled with languishing disappointment about the team's performance and how I could be a better leader. I finally make it to the emails from Friday, Bill’s last day. “Cake in the break room in 15 minutes!” read one of the emails as the title of the email with the body of the email blank. This was everyone's notice to be there before Bill. I chuckle when I notice that Bill was accidentally included in that email. Something about best laid plans come to mind as I smile. The final email in my inbox was actually from Bill. It’s from last Friday at 5:35 pm. Dear Matt, I wish you could have been here today for my last day, but I am excited for your adventure. I hope it’s your breath of fresh air. I will miss our office chats. Thank you for reminding me that our days on this planet are numbered. While you are one of the most efficient partners I’ve ever worked with, you were always planning the next adventure for your life outside of here. I am looking forward to filling my final days outside of these walls too, enjoying time with family but also exploring the great outdoors. Hey, maybe I’ll finally get to meet that John Muir guy on the trails you talk about so much! Better yet, maybe I’ll see you out there one day too, kid. Take care of yourself, don’t work too hard at this place. I appreciate you entertaining me with your music and listening to my stories. It helped me make the decision to retire when I needed to and I appreciate you. Your friend, Bill P.S. I left you something in the top drawer of your desk. My going away gift to you. As I reach towards the top drawer, I think I see someone pass my cubicle. I look up but don’t see anyone nearby. I look back at the email and feel guilty about the measly monetary contribution I made towards Bill’s going away party. I look down at my empty coffee cup. Something about Bill’s email does make me miss him and also feel ashamed at not listening to more of his stories. I had no idea he wanted to go hiking, sounds like something we definitely could have done together one day. I shake my head and laugh a little to myself at the thought of old man Bill on the trails. Well, maybe we wouldn’t go together but I definitely could have given him some tips. I’m opening the top drawer of my desk when I notice someone standing behind me. It’s my boss. He startles me a little. The look on his face is more tired than usual. “Hey Matt, what are you doing here today?” He says in a gruff voice. “Hey Nate, today is my first day back from vacation. Anything fall apart while I was gone? Looks like Bill really had it under control!” I say as I motion towards his empty seat. Nate’s brow furls. “Matt, did you get the memo while you were out? I asked Mandi to text you since I know you’re usually not checking emails while you’re away.” “Oh,” I look down at my phone. “Maybe, but I didn’t have any service until I got to the airport yesterday. What’s up?” I’m a little concerned now that I’m not sure what would have been so important that he needed someone to send me a text memo to my personal phone. He sighs. “Matt, you shouldn’t be here today. Bill passed away unexpectedly on Saturday. His funeral is this afternoon. I gave most of our team the day off. You should go, Bill would have wanted you there.” He says as he slowly turns to walk away with his shoulders slumped over and a hand rubbing back and forth against his forehead. It takes me a few minutes to process his words. I’m stunned. He’s gone? I mean he’s gone but he’s also...gone. Almost robotically, I look inside the drawer of my desk and find a box wrapped in newspaper. My hands are trembling as I unwrap the package. Under the paper is a brown cardboard box. I open the lid and pull out a tissue wrapped object. It’s a wooden figurine. I set it on my desk to get a better look at it. It’s two men, standing side by side with canes. One of the men is visibly older with a walking cane and the other is younger with a walking stick instead of a cane. I slide my thumb over the smooth wood and inspect the figure. Underneath is an etching that states “Into the forest I go” with Bill's initials and the date of his last day of work. I set the figure down. I stand up from my desk. I text Mandi for the address to the funeral. I leave my work bag at work and I toss my empty coffee cup in the waste bin near the exit.
I don’t like noise. For as long as I can remember I have found myself annoyed by them. From abhorrent noises of cars and jackhammers to the subtle ones of droplets and clock hands. Noise has been the endless irritation of my life. It’s not that my ears are sensitive, I just find them to be bothersome. I find it possible that some can understand me, it’s a relatable feeling. To not listen to noises we hate. But I don’t think people understand just how much I really hate noise. I wish I was deaf. I honestly envy them. Unable to hear any noise. What a fantasy that must be. I dislike noise so much that I go outside wearing earbuds. Although life hasn’t made it easy. I still have to talk to people, drive my car, go shopping, and listen to so much more noise. I work as a librarian. I would think this to be perfect work but it isn’t unfortunately. Whenever I hear someone sneeze, turn the page, move a chair, write, or walk I quietly tell them “Shh”. People don’t understand me. They don’t like me and that’s okay. The more they don’t talk to me the less noise I’ll hear. And that’s all I want really. I just wish they could do a better job at it. I live alone. But it’s not enough to escape from this insanity. So many little things just never seem to go away. The cars from outside, the flicker of my lights, the hum of my air conditioner, the cries of cicadas. I can hear them all and everything else. Living alone just wasn’t enough. I spent the next seven years soundproofing my home. Thick wide carpets everywhere. Curtains hanging on my seal tight windows and cushions doors. And bookshelves on practically every wall, as a librarian I found it easy to fill them with many things over the years. I used every trick I learned to absorb and cancel as much noise as possible both outside and inside my home. I top it off by always wearing noise cancelling earmuffs. It was all very expensive, but very well worth it. I woke up one day like no other, I got out of bed carefully and made my way to the kitchen. I quietly made some tea and began reading the morning paper. At first I was confused about what I was reading. But it didn’t take long for me to notice that I couldn’t hear the paper. “What?” I said to myself. I didn’t hear that either. I began reading even more yet not a single word from the paper sprung into my head. I wondered what was happening to me until I realized. I couldn’t hear my thoughts. I know what I was thinking and feeling, yet my mind was deaf to it. I sprung up from my chair and screamed at the top of my lungs “IT’S A MIRACLE!” “Shh,” was all I heard that morning.
From the Vatican Archives: File M5:1-5 Posted from The Convent of Las Hermanitas de los Mansos, Sanitorium - Manta, Ecuador From Christian Drewitt November 17, 2010 Dearest Lyra, Where to start? It’s been a year or more since I last wrote, my love, and I hope that this letter will explain everything. I’ve included everything into a file, they gave me everything, everything. Now, it is clear to me that the things that have transpired have happened for a purpose by God, Himself. The good sisters of this convent where I have awoken have been kind enough to provide me with pen and paper so that I may relay to you this horrid tale. When I am returned to you, I will seal it away forever I hope. Should something arise, however, all the information related to this event can be located within these pages and you, Lyra, will bear the responsibility with which I have been cursed. As you know, for 27 years, I did not speak. I never bothered to learn sign language. The cure to my mutism, however, came in the form of extreme shock, deep in some remote pocket of a hot and damp South American jungle where my eyes were forced to look upon unnamable things so monstrous that I at once knew they were not of God’s good creation. I am not an archeologist as you were led to believe, although I work with ancient artifacts. My position at my company is to hunt and retrieve daemonic objects from the farthest reaches of the earth. There were six members of our party including myself. I am the last one alive and sane. Lyra, how I long to be in your arms once again. I miss you, the scent of your perfume, your laugh. Soon, we will be reunited and everything will be alright. Everything will be okay, everything will be okay. I can hear the key in my door--the nurses are returning with lunch. I will end the letter here and write you another to properly explain. My love forever and ever, Christian November 19, 2010 Dear Lyra, My love, I am posting this letter too close to the last one, so you very likely have not even received the first news. I wanted to be sure that you knew I was alive and well first before delving into an explanation. I didn’t get a chance to make you understand, to detail the events. Of course, you will be confused when you read the first letter. I understand. It must read as the rantings of a madman, but I assure you I am very sound of mind. You know that I have always borne a strong constitution. Everything will be okay. It always is. But I should tell you what happened. You see, someone opened the box once on land--the artifact from the ship that is. When we reached the jungle, we were to meet a young man, Javier. He was to be our guide for the final resting place of the [REDACTED]. That’s when it all went wrong. A group of men had been following for days. They were not natives, they spoke many different languages and some even wore military uniforms. Strange people, so strange. They would chant nonsense and worship at the foot of the [REDACTED]. All at once, they set upon us and killed Javier. Poor Alec Carter was gravely injured. We escaped but Victor allowed his eyes to fall open the cursed thing and it made him strange and poisoned his mind. Not even the natives will look upon it. Dr. Phillips navigated us through the jungle. He is a sick man. The doctor died shortly after. Don’t you see? It all went terribly wrong. It was meant to be a simple journey. The artifact would guide us to its home and it was going to be destroyed. It happened like this: Victor did not destroy the [REDACTED]. Instead, he fixed it. Then, the floors shook, creatures emerged. It’s hazy here. I remember Carter shouting for me to grab the [REDACTED] and run. There were flashes of gunfire, a great and fearsome voice booming in the cave, commanding all to look at [REDACTED]. Everything changed then, Lyra. I was in a cave, but something incredible happened. I was in the cave but then, in an instant, I wasn't. My vision cut to a white beach. There was a Tsunami-like wave that cast a shadow. It moved in slow motion. When I looked to my right, I could see the remains of an ancient desert city. There were sounds in my ears and scents filled my head. Incense and spices and the rings of bells. To my left, beneath the great wave, there was a woman dressed in black. A long black veil covered her face except for her kohl-lined eyes. Her fingers were motioning, sparks of red flame flickered along the tips and slither between the digits and knuckles. Death is a woman, Lyra. I have seen her now. She is beautiful and inviting. I was tempted to be with her, to end everything as it was and be free of the brine-riddled cave. But then before I could decide, I returned to the jungle and there were cool fingers over my eyes and a woman’s voice in my ear. “Don’t look.” There was screaming, more gunfire. My sight changed again. It sharpened. Once more, I had all my faculties and I can recall grabbing the box and shutting it. Mark Kim, he was with me. We escaped. But Lyra, there are people at my door again. Those men always come and keep interrupting . I will never manage to fully tell you my story. Greedy, they are. Over and over, they want to discuss what I have seen. I will write another letter as soon as I am able. Love, Christian January 3, 2011 Lyra, Why have you not returned my letters? It has been two months. Perhaps, I should be patient. I know that we are very far apart and the post will take a while to reach you in England. Things are not well, unfortunately. I believed I would improve with time but it seems that my nerves only continue to fray as my memory returns to me. Each piece only chips away at my own sanity. Lyra, I want to go home. Fevered visions have dominated my senses for what feels like days. Visions of cyclopean cities constructed in what appeared to be dark, wet caverns deep beneath the sea. Strange beasts swim before my eyes in that ancient grotto. I can fully recall now how I ran and slipped against the algae covered stairs in an attempt to climb out of the pit, while my fingers clawed against the stone. There was no escape. Each corner I turned, every tunnel and staircase only revealed more of the strange civilization. I felt my sanity slip further, though it might have been a blessing in those moments. Do you understand now? I saw it! It’s massive body breaking water over its back and leaving the seabed exposed. Its face was a mass of tentacles that twisted and wove in endless motion beneath red, glowing eyes. I could not describe its size, for the thing dwarfed any structure that you have likely seen. Oh, dear God! I shake and weep now as I recall that eldritch scene. Surely, it could not be a mere beast but a god of old. Yes. A god of old coming to exact vengeance on mankind for allowing ourselves to forget it. If God was merciful He would strike us all down rather than allowing us to continue to exist alongside these creatures. I remember wandering through the jungle. My mind switched back and forth. When I was not lost in the ancient city, I was lost in the Amazon trailed by my final living but mad companion. I stumbled along the river, faintly aware of the weakness my body felt. The only reprieve during these torturous hours was the periodic appearance of that woman from my dream--if it was a dream. In the moments I felt my nerves become undone, she would materialize just out of reach. Death’s lips would brush the shell of my ear, fingers against my back, all gentle direction onward through the trees or upward through the labyrinth. I ran until I could no longer. From there, I found myself dragging myself along the forest floor I lay face down in the mud only inches from the river, but could not raise my head nor make any movement toward it. It was then she appeared. She knelt by my head and dripped cool, fresh water into my open mouth with gold ringed fingers. I cannot recall her exact appearance, only the tender shape of her dark eyes. With every move, the jewelry that hung from her ears chimed against the delicate chains that were twisted into the woman’s dark hair. She came to the end of her bucket of water, letting the liquid drip against my lips for the final time. She pressed her mouth against mine and whispered a single word, “Speak.” In an instant, she was gone and my memory of the next period in the wilderness as well. And that is it. I awoke in a hospital in the coastal city of Manta, Ecuador; miles away from our initial destination. Apparently, my body had been discovered by a group of fishermen on the river. I had been babbling when I was found. With me was the box that I clutched to my chest like a jealous child. I had begged anyone who had handled me not to open it. To the fishermen’s and doctors’ credit, they honored my wishes and the same bag was found beneath my cot. Back! Those wretched men have returned. They will take away my letters again but I don't know if they will post it. Love of my life, Lyra, please . I need some assurance that you have read my letters. It will keep me going for a little while longer. Love, Christian March 22, 2011 My love, I have received your letters, but I feel something is terribly wrong. They have all come at once, wrapped together, all opened and resealed. You said in the most recent posting that you were taking the next flight out to Manta and will be in Ecuador within the next 72 hours. It has been a week since and I am so afraid, Lyra. I want to go home. They will not let me leave the room. They have cut out much of my words, of that I am certain. You will have only read the sections of my writings that paint you a picture of a man who has lost his mind. I am sane, Lyra. To this fact, I cling desperately for it is the last thing I have in my possession. They have taken the box from me. They will not let me see my companion and I can no longer hear him cry. Please, come to see me. Love, Christian April 2, 2011 Dear Lyra, They tell me I am ill. Over and over, they have told me. With all these memories in my mind of the grotto, of the eldritch beast and all his caves, of the woman sent by Death--if not death herself. I want them gone. Perhaps, in order to rid myself of such things, it would be best to accept that they are ravings of a madman. I came to understand that maybe you have not visited because of my poor standing. One day, when I am returned to health, I will pack up and step out onto the street, the cobblestone street across the church. I see it every morning outside my window, the sight impeded by bars. I am tired of this small, white room. I would write more, but there is not much to write. The hours creep by as slowly as they did on the ship. There are days that my dreams blend into the present and I can see you standing on the street corner, waiting for me. Like right now. It is so clear, but I must remind myself that it is not so. There is a woman there, though. Of this, I am certain. I can see her clearly on the street corner staring at me. Veiled in black, kohl darkened eyes that I can see even from here in my room. Her earrings are tinkling against the rings on her fingers as she tangles them around and around. She has found me again. The sound, it grows close and I can smell the sea. Salt fills the air and she is at my window.
In a land far away, where the sun always shone in summer and the snow was crisp and cold in winter, a man and his wife were making their way through the forest in a light carriage drawn by two coal black horses. Moonlight gleamed through the bare branches of the trees; and in the distance, the faint howl of a wolf floated on the still night air. Then twigs cracked as a large, bearded man stepped through the beeches and approached the conveyance. The horses pulled to an abrupt halt and the driver addressed the stranger. “Can we help you, Sir?” Without making a verbal response, the bearded man pulled out a wicked-looking knife and held it to the driver’s throat. “Give me your valuables,” he rasped, his voice dark as night and thick as fog. The driver laughed, despite the knife at his throat. “We have no gold - if that’s what you’re after.” His proud voice told the brigand that he was not a servant. Strange. The bearded man snarled, and his blade gleamed in the moonlight. “Then I will take your carriage and horses,” he declared. “At least they will fetch some coin when I sell them.” At this, the woman’s eyes flashed. “You cannot take our carriage,” she protested. “This forest is miles from anywhere and it is beginning to snow. We shall freeze to death if we are left to continue our journey on foot.” “Then perhaps I should put you out of your misery quickly,” their assailant growled, drawing his blade across the driver’s throat. A scarlet necklace shimmered around the man’s neck before he toppled from his seat. Meanwhile, his wife remained frozen in horror. What had she done? Were it not for her words, her husband... She had no time to complete the thought before the blade found her heart. A red flower bloomed across her pale gown and she crumpled into death. Dragging the bodies from the carriage, the bearded man coolly regarded his handiwork. He would have preferred a casket of gold and jewels to a pair of horses and a carriage that had seen better days, but at least he would leave with something. Perhaps there was a trinket or to inside the vehicle? He wondered now why there had been no coachman and why the wife had remained by her husband’s side instead of travelling inside like a lady. A thin cry suddenly rent the air and the bearded man paused. Ripping open the carriage door, he was met with the sight of a basket containing a swaddled babe. One more life to dispose of, then. He paused again. Or he could remove the basket from the carriage and leave the child to the mercy of the wild animals. Within seconds, the basket lay on the ground, snow covering it as gently as any mother, and the carriage rumbled away into the distance. The ground was white and cold. She Who Runs With The Wind stopped and sniffed the air, scenting something that was Not-Wolf. It was not one of the small, furry creatures that lived in the trees, nor one of those who burrowed beneath the earth like their cousins - the Ones With Red Coats or the Ones With Striped Faces. Whatever it was, it was hungry: its smell was accompanied by a thin, mewling sound like a cub squeaking for milk. She Who Runs With The Wind followed the scent and the sound of the cry and found a small creature wrapped in strange fur. Nosing the stiff layers aside, she saw that the cub had no fur of its own: its limbs were pink and naked. A memory stirred inside her. They had not seen a Two Legs for many moons, and this creature was far smaller than any Two Legs she remembered; but cubs were always small. Her first litter had been smaller still and yet they were all now full grown. The Not-Wolf cub mewled again, and the sound reminded her of her own full dugs and the babies waiting in the lair. There was room for one more. Taking the stiff folds of not-fur in her teeth, she carried the youngling back to her nest and the soft, furry bodies that awaited her return. Seasons changed and the Not-Wolf cub thrived on her wolf-mother’s milk and grew strong and healthy. When she had seen five summers, her older brothers taught her to hunt. She had only two legs, but she kept pace with the rest of the pack, her eyes bright and laughing as she joined the chase for prey. Summer faded into autumn, and then the cold weather arrived; the cycle continued, year after year, until Eyes Like Stars was fully grown. Her body was still pink and hairless apart from the long, shaggy fur that grew on her head and rippled over her back like a waterfall. She Who Runs With The Wind was old now and her fur had turned silver. She loved Eyes Like Stars as if she were her own cub, but she knew her daughter would need a mate and that it should be another Two Legs like herself. But how to achieve this? Eyes Like Stars knew only wolf speech and wolf ways. Would her own kind accept her when she was so different? Sunlight dappled the forest floor, glinting through the leaves of the tall beech trees. Stepping carefully, a proud stallion came into view, and on its back sat Prince Ferdinand, the ruler of the realm. His face was handsome despite the cruel mouth; and his hair was as black as his heart. The sound of running water led him to a clearing containing a secluded pool and waterfall. The water sparkled in the sunlight, but he hardly noticed it: his gaze was utterly transfixed by the beautiful creature he saw bathing under the cascading water. Long, lean limbs as white as milk were offset by rounded curves, and a mane of fiery red hair rippled down the woman’s back. She was magnificent. His loins flamed with lust at the sight of her. He had to have her. Dismounting quickly, he made his way towards the pool, calling to her as he did so. “I mean you no harm. I am Prince Ferdinand, your ruler.” She looked up at the sound of his voice, but she gave no word of reply. Stranger still, she did not seem embarrassed by his presence or her own nakedness. Light! She was beautiful. Lust flamed again. “What’s your name?” he asked. He did not normally bother with such niceties. The eyes she turned on him were large and luminous. They gleamed like emeralds when the light caught them. Still she made no response. Anger flared in him now. How dare she refuse to answer! Withdrawing his sword from his scabbard, he waded into the water, thrusting his blade at her to show her he meant business. Eyes Like Stars watched the stranger warily. He smelled wrong. His scent was sharp spikes of anger, but there was something else too: something she could not name. He was holding something sharp and pointed, like a claw or a tooth but much longer. Was he attacking her? Surely he could not think her prey! He was making strange, unintelligible noises with his mouth - so different from the way she and her wolf-family communicated. She was used to hearing another’s mind, to seeing the pictures he thought of when he had something to share; but this creature was loud and clumsy, yelping the way the young ones sometimes did at the moon and making even less sense. He had reached her now. Her skin and hair dripped water, but he did not care. He would taste her here in the pool, and then he would carry her back to his castle. She would warm his bed very nicely for a while. Closing the gap between them, he extended his fingers towards her face, then recoiled in shock. She had bitten him! Droplets of red oozed from his wound. So, she liked to play rough, did she? Well, he did too. Eyes Like Stars staggered as something slammed into her face. Fiery pain danced in her head; her vision blurred. Once more, the creature struck her; and then again and again until she tasted blood. Desperately, she sent out a plea to her brothers. Danger! Come quickly. But he was already dragging her from the water, the long, sharp claw at her ribs promising more pain. Ferdinand hurried the girl out of the pool. He had not meant to bloody her as much as that. Nevertheless, there had been something satisfying about slamming his fist into her over and over again. He did not want her in this condition, though. No, better to wait until they were back at the castle and she had been cleaned up a little. Perhaps he should ask a Wise Woman to heal her bruises. He wanted her beauty to be perfect when he took her. Forcing her onto her knees, he held his sword to her neck with one hand while the other fumbled at his pouch for the thin leather cord he kept there. One never knew when such things would come in handy... Deftly tying her wrists behind her back, he jerked her to her feet again. He could not see any clothes beside the pool, but she still did not seem to care that she was naked. Removing his cloak, he wrapped it around her - not because he wanted to protect her modesty but because he could not bear the thought of any other man looking at her. She was his. Indicating his horse, he asked her if she knew how to ride. She did not answer, so he heaved her over the saddle and then climbed up behind her. Kicking the animal into a trot, he began to take his prize home. Serella stared in shock at the woman in front of her - not at the cuts and bruises: she was used to seeing the prince’s handiwork by now; but at the red hair and green eyes that marked the royal house of Elnor and the line that had been eradicated when Ferdinand usurped the throne all those years ago. For fifteen years, she had held her tongue, not wanting to find herself at the mercy of the headsman’s axe like so many of the others who had denounced Ferdinand, but this girl had to be the long-lost heir. “What is your name, Child?” she asked. The red-haired girl gazed at her silently. Tentatively, Serella reached out tendrils of power and gently touched the girl’s mind. The gift was often useful when dealing with the girls brought to her by Ferdinand. Others might be able to heal the physical wounds, but she was the only one who could delve deeper. What she saw made her pause. Human words did not exist in this child’s mind: instead, images of the forest merged with wolves and other creatures, all of this overlaid with a sense of contentment. The scene changed to a sunlit pool and she was watching through the girl’s eyes as Ferdinand strode towards her, sharing first the confusion and then the pain of what followed. Shaking, Serella drew back. The rightful heir to the throne could not speak: she was more animal than human. Yet the land needed her. Ferdinand inspired no love in the people and many longed for the tyrant’s reign to end. Was it possible to teach her? But it would take years for the girl to learn the language she had never known. Still, perhaps there was a way... Placing her hand on the girl’s head, she began probing gently, reaching out with the power to weave strands of human speech with the thought pictures she had seen earlier. Eyes Like Stars found her eyes darting fearfully around her surroundings. The place she was in seemed like a cave, but larger and lighter than any cave she had known before. The floor was hard underfoot and yet something soft as fur but strangely coloured covered it. It was like treading upon moss. There was a stranger in front of her: another Two Legs like herself and the wrong-smelling pack leader she had encountered in the forest. Until now, she had believed herself the only one. This one was different to the other. Her smell was not dissimilar to Wolf Mother. Eyes Like Stars sniffed and tasted kindness, her mind filling with warmth and love. This one would keep her safe. A sudden shock as an unknown feeling rippled through her. Pictures in her mind accompanied by strange sounds. Sight and sound merged together and she realised she could understand the noises made by this new Two Legs. “My name is Serella and I am a Wise Woman: a Healer. What is your name?” She began to send an image of a night sky and shining stars, but the Wise Woman interrupted her. “Use your words, Child.” Words? The Wise Woman guided her, almost as if nudging her in the right direction. “Stars,” she said hesitantly. “Stars glowing in the big dark and eyes glowing like stars. My name is Eyes Like Stars.” She looked into the older female’s eyes. “Can you help me return to my brother wolves?” “Oh, Child.” The Wise One sounded regretful. “You do not remember.” Again, something touched her mind. Memories that had lain sleeping for a lifetime seeped back. She was cradled in loving arms, gazing up into the eyes of a Two Legs who smelled of milk. She was rocked to sleep and knew only contentment and peace. The world shifted. The stranger with the wrong smell was in front of her, a sharp claw in his hand like the one from the forest, but not as long. The word came to her now: knife. A smell of anger mixed with fear. A blur behind him as the Two Legs who had held her tried to stop him. Noise. Confusion. Other hands plucking her away hurriedly, running through stone caves - passages - to take her to safety. Human speech flooded her mind in time with the images. Two strangers had carried her to safety, stuffing her into a basket, racing away in a box on wheels - a carriage - pulled by two large creatures with long legs - horses. At first the woman had sat inside the carriage with her; then, as the motion began to rock Eyes Like Stars to sleep, the woman had disappeared. Later, a sudden halt. She had woken up, wanting food, but no one came in answer to her call. Then, chill air all around her - something soft and white and cold, falling from the sky. And then, Mother Wolf. The memories faded. She knew her past, and she had words to describe it. Looking at the Wise Woman, she asked, “Who am I?” When Prince Ferdinand returned to the chamber, he found the girl standing there, her cuts and bruises already healed. “Leave us,” he told the Wise Woman. The girl eyed him coldly. “You will not lay a finger on me!” she exclaimed. “You killed my parents - and you wanted to kill me.” Her parents? What was she talking about? He had executed many peasants over the years, but they had all deserved it. “You do not know who I am.” Her tone was bitter. “I am the child you tried to kill - the rightful heir to the realm.” His hand flew to the sword at his side. She had tricked him! She had enticed him to bring her here so that she could take his crown. Pressing his blade against her throat, he called for his guards. Only when she was bound with ropes did he relax. He did not want her now. He could not trust her hands to be anywhere near him - nor her teeth. Subconsciously, he rubbed the tender spot where her bite had broken the skin. “She will die the death of all traitors!” he declared. “Take her to the wolf pit!” The beasts had not been fed for a week. They would tear her limb from limb. He could not understand why a smile played on her lips. Huddled amongst the soft bodies of her wolf brothers, Eyes Like Stars stretched and yawned. She had slept well. She was glad that she had not lost her closeness to her forest family despite now having the speech of humans. She was human too; but in her heart, she would always be part-wolf. Dawn stretched out rosy fingers, painting the sky with a blush of hope. Soon he would be here; and then... Ferdinand hurried to the pit. The wolves were always sleepy and docile after they had fed. A pity, really, to give them such a nubile creature, but he had not trusted her one inch - not once he learned her true identity. There would be other women, though - and when he tired of them, they too would feed his pets. Chuckling a little, he let himself in through the iron gate. The grey, shaggy mass did not stir. Was any part of her left? he wondered. He sometimes kept body parts as souvenirs. Picking his way towards the sleeping creatures, he froze suddenly. The girl, unharmed, rose from the midst of the wolves. Their yellow eyes followed her as she walked towards him. “No,” he croaked. “It’s not possible.” Ignoring him, she turned to the pack and opened her mind. Kill him. And with that, they ripped him apart. The land rejoiced for weeks at the death of Ferdinand. They would have made Eyes Like Stars queen straight away, but she refused. “My place is in the forest,” she said, telling them that Serella would rule in her stead. And she left the castle, her wolf brothers trotting beside her, and returned to the life she knew.
most of the words in the conversations are in the way we talk in Nigeria so it is not totally wrong, I was just trying to catch the same experience “That’s the thing about this city” Kanka complained as he bit of a piece of peppered meat from the skewered suya we bought on our way back from our outing. We did this every Saturday, we leave school campus and I would take us out anywhere because I was the rich friend with the money to do so. After the day we walk from a close distance back to school. “Yeah” I agreed, one of my hands in my pocket and the other holding my own suya in a black polythene bag. I always wondered why Kanka liked to eat his while walking. “Everybody here just has to struggle by themselves and people are just rough, it’s like we are fighting an every man for himself battle that I don’t know about” he continued “Then again everything is just too expensive they’ll just go and raise price for no reason. For instance now see this suya we bought, only for this four pieces of meat they collected N100 when it was 50 before” then he threw away the stick and licked the spice off his hands. As he spoke I just nodded quietly in affirmation to what he said as I listened. I didn’t like to talk much Kanka was the talker and that was what made him approach me after one of our lectures, he said I was too quiet for his liking and I just shrugged my shoulders still not saying anything so from then on he always met up with me all the time, it was like he was everywhere. I was kind of forced to be his friend since he was hanging around me all the time. I liked him though he was nice and outspoken but he could be a bit rough at times, I reprimanded him so I was like his check for his errors. “Kanka I am tired of walking, let us take bus or taxi back” I grumbled “Hah, Jide you are already tired. Is this not the normal distance we always walk back” he asked. It wasn’t a question to be answered so I just continued. “See if you want to continue walking you can continue but I am taking taxi back” I argued “Okay oh. I you insist but you know it is not remaining that far to walk again, if we just pass-” he was saying but I glared at him and he stopped. I turned to the road to hail any taxi that passed and luckily one stopped. The battered blue and white car chugged to stop beside me, I bent to the window so I could speak to the driver. “Where to?” the driver asked me but I was assessing the driver and his car. The car was shabby as usual for most taxis then I looked up at his face staring at the tribal marks he had on his cheeks before I answered “Ehm, UNIPORT campus side” “Okay enter I know the place” I ignored him, which Port Harcourt driver didn’t know UNIPORT. “How much?” I ask him instead “It’s 200” he said in pidgin as he chewed on his toothpick “How? It is not too far from here. Collect 100 now” I argued switching quickly to Pidgin English so he wouldn’t think I am a rich child that doesn’t know outside and can be deceived easily. The driver just shook his head insisting he would stick to his price. “You don’t know that price of fuel has increased?” he asked but it was rhetorical, I meant who didn’t know about the fuel increase. I turned back to look at Kanka, he just stood there arms folded and he wasn’t even helping then he gave me a thumbs up, I faced the driver again. “Okay, oga take 150” I still continued in pidgin with him, he glanced warily at me from his side view and took out the toothpick from his mouth “That boy there is joining too?” he asked pointing with his toothpick “Yeah, yes he is” though in my mind I meant to tell him no so Kanka would walk back by himself “Enter” I pulled the hand to open the door but it didn’t open, I tried again and it felt like the handle was going to break I didn’t want to pay extra so I just rapped on the on the window, the driver turned back stretched himself so he could reach the back and he opened the door from the inside. “Eh sorry, the door has problem” he muttered with a shaky smile as he scratched the back of his head. I am sure it is not the only place with a problem I mumbled in my head and with that we got into the taxi. I always felt like all the taxi’s had one smell but it wasn’t too bad, they all had the same dank smell. As we got into the car and sat I sunk into my seat, like really sunk inside, the seat was old and tired. I looked at the driver but he was driving and couldn’t see me, I was sure he wasn’t bothered about the state of the seats as long as they could carry passengers. “Oga, you will not change the chairs” Kanka asked in pidgin, I mean he spoke pidgin most of the time, he was a PH boy. “No, I am waiting for something” he replied I bent my head close to Kanka and whispered in his ear “I am sure he is waiting till a passenger falls through” We both laughed heartily and I was sure the driver felt we were joking about him, he looked up at the rearview mirror and asked what but we didn’t have the time to answer we had already reached our destination. I pushed myself up a little to bring my wallet out of my back pocket, quickly bringing the money out I paid him and we hurried out of the car then he drove of angrily. Kanka and I just stood on the sidewalk still laughing. Another of our outing has ended the same way, us laughing about something. It was like something awkward or funny always happened after we went out. Kanka had stopped laughing but I was still smiling and he just looked at me like I was crazy. “Guy, stop laughing. Somebody will think you are mad” Kanka said punching my arm, I just stared back at him still smiling. “ Bia , Jide it is okay. Joke has finished” he said pushing me again “Okay, okay. I have heard, let us go inside” We didn’t stay in the hostels on campus instead we stayed in the lodges off campus because the hostels were always bad in most public universities. When we got to our lodge, some of our other house mates were outside gisting* or playing whot (a card game) we greeted them and went to our rooms, I would have liked to stay out there with them but the next day was Sunday so I wanted to go to bed early for mass the next morning. “Good night” I said to Kanka as I got into my room, he was in the room beside mine “Ah, you’re going to bed already” he exclaimed. I looked at my watch it was ten minutes to eight. “What? Is it too early?” “Yes now” “Kanka tomorrow is Sunday and I have some assignments pending” He shrugged his shoulders “Anyways, I am going somewhere and I have to see my mum” He left and I went into my room and sat at my study table. Kanka’s mother was sick in the hospital and his family wasn’t so well off so he had to work small jobs to help raise money for her bills. I offered him money but he had too much pride to accept it, he said he would feel more comfortable working for it and that she wasn’t dying so I let it be. My phone vibrated in my pocket, brought it out and looked at the screen it was a credit alert from my bank of 50,000 from my father. Swiping open the phone I typed in my password and opened my WhatsApp. I had to thank him immediately if not we would have a lot of trouble between us. ‘Thank you sir for accepting my request for the money’ I typed in properly, I reread it to find errors no matter how short it was and sent it, looking at it again I felt like it was too shabby so I added a little more ‘I will try to spend it wisely and give you a detailed review of my spending’ I felt more satisfied. When I turned I noticed the suya in polythene bag beside me along with few other things I bought, I had completely forgotten about them. Touching it the suya was still warm I decided to eat now after all I didn’t have the strength to cook anything now. I was getting ready for church the next morning then I got a call from Kanka’s sister, I answered the call ‘Yes’ I was trying to put on my cuff links ‘Um, this is Jide right?’ ‘Yes’ ‘Please hurry to the hospital now, the teaching hospital’ she was crying ‘What is wrong, you are getting me tensed up’ ‘It’s Kanka’ and that was what it took, I dropped my phone. I still heard her calling me over the phone. I threw my cuff links and picked up the phone, running out of my room got outside and hailed the first keke that I saw and I just barked teaching hospital. We got there I just threw the money to the driver and ran into the hospital, and grabbed the nurse walking past “Where’s the room for the emergency” but she just angrily stared at me then pulled her arm free “Who are you?” she asked “I am sorry but where is the emergency ward?” I tried to sound polite but truly I was scared After giving me a onceover she answered “Go down that hall the last door. Are you family?” I ignored her question and rushed down the hall. I burst into the room and I saw him, the ever vibrant Kanka, with so many friends and was always smiling or moving around was now confined to the bed wires running around him. I was broken by the sight of him. I sat down beside him and held his hand before he stirred “My God Kanka” I cried, he looked at me and seeing the tears in my eyes he laughed softly as his energy could carry him. “Stop laughing this is serious. What happened?” he looked at me and tears streamed from his eyes. “You are scaring me! What happened?” gripping my hand tighter and told me what happened. He had joined a robbery scheme to earn money for his mother and it didn’t go well, he had gotten caught in crossfire with the police. He had maned to escape with bullet shots to his hand and stomach. “Kanka I told you to let me help didn’t I?” “My pride would have been really hurt and I-” but I cut him off “What pride eh?! What kind of rubbish pride is that?!” I shouted “was the pride that cost your live worth it?” He looked at me, squeezed my hand and smiled “I am shocked you can shout” I pulled my hand from his hold “How much for your treatment?” “No I won’t tell you, just leave it” I wanted to hit him but seeing his state I reconsidered “Kanka seriously” “I am being serious, rather take the money and help my mum” “I will help the both of you” “No it won’t be necessary for me but my mum, she needs it” I opened my mouth to say something but seeing the expression on his face I understood. “It’s the city right it does things to you, now its condition takes your life” i said solemly *gisting - just like conversing
Based on conversations and events that took place whilst waiting in the queue to see the Queen lying in state during September 2022 Fifteen minutes before the start of the queue “Excuse me” asked Pete frantically looking down at the map on his phone, failing to catch the attention of his Uber driver. He tried again but this time with more gusto. “Excuse ME?” The Uber driver took out the wireless headphone from his left ear with a weary sigh of a man not enjoying the 5am pick up. “Yes mate?” “I’m looking at the map and it looks like the start of the queue has changed. Can I change my destination?” pleaded Pete hoping this was an option. The driver looked utterly confused. “I have no idea what you just said, mate!” It was Pete’s turn to sigh now. He was slowly realising it would take two attempts to get anywhere with this guy. “So... y’know lots of people are queuing to see the Queen’s coffin?” “Errr yeah?” said the Uber driver only half getting the gist this time. “Well it looks like the start of the queue has changed so can you go left here and head for Tower Bridge?” The driver sighed even heavier this time and shook his head. “Sorry mate I can’t do that and there’s nowhere to stop round here.” Pete looked into his driver’s eyes and could smell bullshit a mile off. Before he could change his mind, he opened the car door. “Fine! I’ll get out here then. Cheers!” Pete petulantly stated to his driver with his body halfway out. Pete didn’t hear the Uber guy’s response as he was already across the road and jogging towards his revised destination. The start of the queue “Excuse me? Where do you get wristbands?” asked Pete sounding slightly out of breath. He wasn’t used to running at this time of the morning. In fact, he wasn’t used to running at any time of the day. “Just down there, buddy. Good luck!” said the volunteer noticing how wheezy Pete was already when he hadn’t even joined the queue yet. Pete power walked past another 50 people darting in and out of the human obstacles like he was going for gold at Human Crufts. Five minutes later Pete had a gold wristband on his arm and reached a wall of humans signalling the official start of the queue. Tower Bridge, glowing purple in the early morning night sky looked glorious. A fitting tribute to Her Majesty and an unforgettable start to Pete’s journey. Whilst he looked down the Thames, enjoying being so close to all these wonderful sights from his childhood, a number of unfamiliar voices lit up around him. “There we go, Mum. No turning back now. Let the queue begin!” “Oh Lee, me legs are already hurtin’.” “Keep moving your plates of meat and you’ll be fine.” Pete smiled to himself as he realised these were his queue buddies for the next few hours. He turned round to say hello. “It should warm up once the sun comes up so hopefully that will help. I’m Pete by the way.” Lee and his Mum shook Pete’s hand. “I’m Lee and this is my Mum. We got up at 3am and came down on a train from Bedford and here we are!” Before Pete could respond, another new voice in front of him responded to Lee. “Not too far then. I’ve come down from Northampton, representing my family who think I’m crazy doing this. A 45-year-old woman with a dodgy hip walking and standing for hours. Sorry, I’m Peggy.” Pete, Lee, Lee’s Mum and Peggy all said hello to each other as they gently strolled in line with the rest of this long queue which stretched miles down the river towards Westminster. For minutes no further words were exchanged as they all got used to their surroundings, soaking up the enormity of this experience. Lee, full of naïve energy broke the silence. “I wonder if Prince Charles, sorry King Charles is up yet? God! It’s gonna take a while getting used to that.” “I know! All our lives he’s been the Prince so it’s only natural your brain won’t adjust instantly,” said Peggy, as she tried to keep pace with the queue which was flowing down the river like a regal conga line. “I think even Charles would understand that. I don’t think I’ll sing “God Save The King” right for a while. I’ll be singing Queen for a bit,” said Lee’s Mum, who giggled with her queue buddies. “So... how long do we think this will take? Mum, you first.” Lee lightly poked the side of his Mum’s tummy. “Well... I’m hoping about four hours as that’s me limit.” “Four hours!? It would take that if there wasn’t a queue?” said Lee looking at his Mum like she had just farted. Pete went next. “The YouTube tracker said 11 hours so I’ll go with that.” Everyone nodded as Peggy interjected. “In that case I’ll say nine hours as I’m sure that tracker is worst case scenario.” Lee’s eyes looked panicked as he attempted to control his breathing. “Well I hope you’re all wrong. I maybe 21 and half all your ages but I looked at the tracker yesterday and it said it was only six hours from this point so I’ll go with that. Anyway, let’s just enjoy the experience. This’ll never happen again!” They all silently nodded, quietly hoping Lee’s Mum was right, as they continued to stroll in line with the rest of the thousands of people from all walks of life winding all along this stretch of the Thames. Eleven hours in the queue “Not long now, Lee!” said Peggy trying to cheer up her fellow queue buddy. “I don’t believe you anymore! You’ve been saying that for shitting hours! My feet are falling off, you said once we reach the zig zag in the gardens it would be an hour. We’ve been zigging and zagging for nearly three bloody hours. I deserve a medal for this!” said Lee with a level of exasperation he had never experienced before. Not even that time he had to wait an hour for a pizza from Just Eat one time. Pete, spotted a joke and took a risk. “The king should give you a QBE. Queuer of the British Empire.” Lee’s grumpy face froze for a second before erupting into a huge smile and raucous laugh. His Mum, Peggy and Pete all joined in, relieved the moaning of this young guy had stopped for a moment. The other zig zaggers around them wondered what was going on. Pete continued with something he’d been thinking about for a while as they zigged before further zagging. “It’s funny. All yesterday on the news every person they interviewed in the queue were so happy and yet the reality for us has been quite different. I feel like they should interview Lee before we go in.” Lee smiled before responding. “Haha! Yeah and as soon as the cameras roll they ask me ‘How has the experience been?’ and I’ll lie my ass off and say ‘Yeah loved it!’ even though my feet are bloody numb.” “Weird you wore those shoes because you wanted to be comfy.” “Mum, I know but these shoes are shit! They don’t work. There’s no bounce to ‘em. I’m burning them as soon as we get home.” Lee pointed towards his shit expensive gold laced shoes throughout his latest rant. Pete and Peggy kept smirking at each other thoroughly enjoying the multiple novels worth of moaning they’d heard from this guy today. Lee launched into another fresh rant without catching his breath. “I heard someone say the guards change every 20 minutes?! Lazy bastards. They could do an hour each and speed this bloody queue up! We’d have been in there by now if they just stood up for a bit longer. Madness!” Pete took another look down the zig zag, they really were nearly there. “Speed up everyone, I think this is it.” This group of strangers dug deep to make one last dash towards Westminster Hall. Approaching the end of the zig zag they came to what appeared to be one final winding path towards the door leading to their destination. This gave Lee enough time for one last thought. “Guys, I know I’ve moaned a bit today but I’m 21 years old so got a lot of life to live. Hopefully my feet will fully recover and spring to life again soon. But at least you met a load of nutters like me in the line to cheer you up.” Pete, Peggy, Lee and his Mum all nodded in silence, reminiscing on the last 11 hours and what lay ahead in a few short moments. Reaching the airport security tent for one final check, Pete added one final remark to his queue buddies. “And if you think about it that’s what the Queen mostly did for 70 years - meeting nutters in a line. So in many ways this last 11 hours has given us a taste of what the life of this great monarch was like.” Chuckling to each other everyone took off coats, jewellery, belts and bags to allow them entry into the hall. Lee’s Mum forgot about the phone in her pocket delaying the group but, rather than go on without them, Pete and Peggy waited for them. They started the day together so it was important to end it as one. Words were no longer necessary as they walked slowly down the side of the hall towards the entrance. Just glances at each other trying to express that it was finally going to happen. No more delays, queues, zig zags, bridges to cross or false dawns. The time had come. As they all made their way up the carpeted steps, lugging their broken bodies slowly upwards it all dawned on them the enormity of the occasion. This building was their final destination and by the time they reached the top of the stairs all of their aches, pains, grumbles and grievances were gone, replaced by the emotion and grief that brought them all to the queue in the first place. They may have been from very different backgrounds but the one thing they shared was the love of the Queen and all she represented. Staring down at her coffin, preparing to head down into the main hall, Pete’s body went numb in disbelief at where he was standing, what he had achieved and what he was about to do. He quickly composed himself, closed his eyes, took a deep breath and descended these final set of steps to honour Her Majesty, say thank you and goodbye to this great woman.
What in the World Happened? “Joanie, watch where you step! Where are your shoes?” “They’re missing,” Joan answered, “How am I supposed to get to my room?” Kate sighed deeply, pushing her long, tawny-colored hair behind her ears for the umpteenth time. “Hold on, I’ll figure something out.” She went upstairs and searched Joan’s room. Finding only dress shoes, she gathered some rugs from the three bedrooms, pausing only briefly to look at Wendy passed out on her bed. That was when she noticed Joan’s shoes on her feet. Kate removed them saying, “We’re going to have a discussion tomorrow and you’re not going to like it,” Then she returned the rugs to their places. “Here,” she said, handing the shoes to Joan, “Where did you find them?” “On Wendy’s feet. She must have put them on in her drunken stupor.” “It was partially your fault,” Joan snapped. “My fault! How do you figure? I didn‘t force her to drink so much.” “You told Tom and Jerry they could bring their friends with them, along with the keg.” Kate recalled the conversation from earlier in the night when Tom had said they would be late and were bringing two other guys. There was no mention of a keg. If only she had known how things would turn out. Then she defended herself, “I did not! I never even got the chance to say, ‘no’ before he hung up. When I tried to call him back, he wouldn’t answer.” “You didn’t have to let them in.” “They’re your friends too! Why didn’t you tell them ‘no’?” “I’m not going to discuss it anymore. I’m tired enough as it is and arguing isn’t going to clean this mess,” Joan said, then asked, “Do you think the landlord will find out?” “I guarantee he will,” Kate replied, “He probably listens to the police scanner to see if any of his properties are being swatted.” Joan couldn’t stifle a laugh. “I can picture him sitting at home doing just that!” Then she pulled out the vacuum cleaner. Kate looked at the devastation surrounding her. Red plastic cups littered the room and the smell of beer was overwhelming. The two matching chairs that her parents had allowed her to have were both on their sides. Several hats lay on the floor, undoubtedly left by the combatants when the police took them away. Through the doorway, the keg sat in its plastic, garbage-can “icebox” in the kitchen. The thing that bothered her most was the shattered glass that had been covering her artwork. The other girls were very enthused when Kate offered to decorate the living area with the pieces. Now, not only were they not hanging on the walls, they were mangled messes. Tears filled her eyes as she stared. “I’m sorry about your art,” Joan said as she followed Kate‘s gaze, “I know how proud you were of them. Stupid Neanderthals.” Kate silently walked over to each piece and gently picked them up, shaking them to ensure that no glass was still on them. First was the ripped painting of the patch of sunflowers that grew in a corner of the backyard at home. Then there was the one of her black and gray tabby cat stretched out on the floor soaking up an afternoon sunbeam. Now Patches was without part of his tail. Finally, there was her favorite; a beach scene from the trip to Hilton Head Island. Her dad had surprised the family after secretly saving money for years. The happy little clouds were now wrinkled beyond repair. After she collected all of the ripped pieces, she took them to her room. When she arrived downstairs, Joan was attempting to vacuum the old, worn carpeting. Kate began to shift furniture around to make it easier for her to cover the entire floor. As she did, she began to replay the events of the night. Things had actually gone fine at first, despite the surprise of the keg arriving. Joan, Kate, and the four boys were playing some games and listening to some music. That was when Wendy came home. “Hey, Wendy, I thought you were going out with Spike tonight?” Kate had asked. “So did I,” she replied, “but when I got there he had two of his buddies over and they were already drinking. I didn’t feel comfortable there so I came home. Mind if I join you?” So the party had grown to seven people and things were still fine for the next couple of hours. Then Spike and his buddies arrived. When Joan let them in, Spike was immediately angry that Wendy was enjoying herself with other boys around. “Wendy, I want you to come with us right now!” he yelled. “I’m not going anywhere with you tonight,” she replied, “You’re drunk and I don’t want to be around you and your buddies.” “Wendy, I’m not kidding. Let’s go, now!” “She said she’s not going with you,” Tom interjected, “You having trouble hearing?” That was when the fireworks started. Spike raced over and knocked Tom out with one punch to the jaw. Tom’s friends all jumped up and attacked Spike, which led to the other two guys joining in. There were three separate battles going on when the police responded to Kate’s call for help. “Hey, can you help me with the couch?” Joan asked, disrupting the mental video. “Yeah, sure,” Kate answered, walking over to the sofa which had lost its two back legs when Jerry had bulldozed Spike over the coffee table and onto its cushions. She noticed some red spots on the yellow fabric that covered the back of it. “Do you think we can fix this?” Joan asked. “Maybe, with some of that monkey glue,” Kate replied. “Does that stuff work on wood?” “The commercials make it sound like it works on anything,” Kate said, then sadly added, “Except mangled artwork.” “Why is it that on television everyone has a great time together when they drink? We got a demolished room, guys at the hospital, and I’ve got a headache.” “Beer companies want you to think that everything will be great. The reality is that people can act like idiots when they drink. Now I know why my parents lectured me about drinking when I first left for college. I hope Spike gets to spend the night in jail for what he did to Tom and for mouthing off to the officers.” “I don’t like that guy...never did. I’m a little scared for Wendy.” “I’m worried too. Maybe this will make her see how dangerous he can be. I still can’t get over how much beer she chugged after they took him away in handcuffs. I think we need to make it clear to her that he is not welcome in this house anymore.” Joan thought for a moment before responding. “How can we do that? We’re all on the lease. I don’t think we can force that on her.” “Easy! We’ll just tell her it’s that or we go to the landlord and tell him who was responsible for the police being here.” “That might work. I think we’ve done enough for tonight. I need some sleep.” “I’ll be right behind you, Joanie. I sure am glad that we don’t have classes tomorrow.” As Kate wearily made her way into the bedroom, her eyes locked onto the destroyed artwork on her desk. Tears came again as she pondered the choice of trying to minimize the damage and keep them versus throwing away part of her life. She decided to sleep on the decision.
Today was the day. The console chimed cheerily as the icon for Earth popped up on the dash. After a communication issue with ground control some while ago, the pilot of ship 45-B had lost consciousness and the system had warped into deep space. Sometime later he had reawakened from the quiet warmth of cryosleep. He wasn't sure of how long he had been away, but he was sure the world would have changed for the better. The warning lights flashed on as the ship decelerated from hyperdrive. The void brakes activated on the winglets and the ship shuddered to a halt. The pilot deactivated the auto-travel system and moved the controls into position, pressing forward, the ship began to move towards the planet. The surface of the continent below was shrouded by a thick cloud cover. He spoke into the microphone. "Ground Control, I'm descending. I can't wait to tell you guys what I've seen! My family will be waiting, right?" Nothing but static. The pilot dismissed this as a minor error in the comlink. When the ship broke the cloud cover, an expanse of brown and grey was laid out before him. Crumbling ruins of the once proud nations were strewn across the landscape. Seas drying up, forests burning, streets empty, cities crumbled. The ship chimed again as it picked up the faint transmission coming from an empty landing pad. Descending through the city, he stared desperately out of the cockpit waiting for signs of life. Everything was still. The ship landed with a soft bump and the crew cabin opened. Compressed air shot out of vents clearing any remaining debris off the ship... the apparent one remaining shining example of humanities success. Dashing out of the ship, he fastened his helmet and began running. Past the main gate, past the guard booth, and out into the street. Rubble was strewn across the avenue, cars crushed and still burning. Moving over to a decrepit news stand, the pilot rummaged through the papers until he found a readable copy. The headline read "End of Days? War Breaks out Between Super Powers" and a picture of a hydrogen bomb sat in the center of the front page. Returning to the ship, the pilot ordered a full scan of the surface. In minutes, the scan completed and returned with a red warning. The details included tidbits about dangerous radiation levels, abundant toxic materials, and a despairingly thin atmosphere. The pilot, however, was transfixed on one statement. Human Population : 1. Location : Local. Everything was gone. Families. Friends. Cities. Nations. Everything. Defeated, the pilot walked to where the park would have been. He sat and dreamed of the days before launch, where the birds would sing and the skies were blue and life was good. As the wind picked up, the Pilot looked into the horizon. An alarm went off in the suit warning of an incoming storm. A radioactive sandstorm of sorts. Removing his helmet he turned to face the approaching wall of wind and debris and readied the kill switch for life support. He spoke softly, a single tear forming in his eye. "Major Tom to Ground Control. I'm coming home." Writing Prompt based on images.
The bus door slammed closed and the hiss of hydraulics signaled the raising of the hydraulic step assistance. Hank had been driving public buses for forty three years as of yesterday and those sounds had become the music of his life. The door opening, the door closing, hydraulics hissing, the human-sounding voice announcing the route number and next stop, and repeat. Pulling away from the stop, he waved a half-hearted thanks despite the frustrated gesture and clipped honk from the driver he had cut off. They would get over it. Sometimes the music was joined by the sound of a car horn and the occasional shout but those were more like dramatic interludes to the longer, less exciting overture. Hank used to worry about the feelings of the other drivers on the road but years of driving and waving had calloused his sentiment. Now he waved to drivers partly out of gratitude for dealing with his dominance of the road and partly out of habit. No, that was not right. He waved mostly out of habit. His wave turned into a scratching of his beard before the hand returned to the steering wheel. Hank used to shave out of habit too but that had stopped years ago. He wasn’t exactly sure when but one morning he reached for his razor and hesitated. From that point forward, he paid his barber to trim his beard once or twice a month. The door opened, two women got off, a man stepped on, the door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. Driving had become second nature to him and the bus he drove was as much a part of his body as his left kidney. At least, that’s what he told the other regulars at The Grey Fox, a tavern half a block from his apartment. It was ironic because Hank never owned a car. He applied for the commercial driver’s license and the bus driver job after high school because he had seen a flyer somewhere. It seemed interesting enough to occupy his free time until he figured something else out and it paid better than some of the jobs his friends worked. He always took public transportation or walked everywhere after he accepted the job. It just did not feel right to avoid the system that put food on his table. Plus, cars are expensive. The door opened, a handful of people got off. It was cold so one woman stopped at the door to put on her hat. Another handful of people stepped on. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. One of the newcomers requested a transfer pass. He used to love transfer passes because he would chat with the passenger while he filled out the little slip. Then he hated them because he had to sit at the stop longer than he liked, especially if he was running late. Now he absently filled out the form and ripped it out of the book with robotic efficiency. He was early today so the extra time it took did not matter much. He was pulling away from the stop when a young woman asked if his bus stopped close to a certain building. He responded with a nod and a quick glance at her in the mirror. She was pretty. Not like the models who appeared in the advertisements plastered to the side of his bus but a simple pretty. When he was younger he might have tried to strike up a conversation with a witty remark. Now he only smiled briefly before returning his gaze to the road. He used to think he might find love on the bus. After all, he saw dozens of people every day. That meant hundreds per month if you didn’t include the regulars and any one of them could be meant for him. Decades later he still returned to a house empty except for the aging cat that greeted him with a flick of the tail before returning to a nap. The door opened. A handful of people got off and a large crowd flooded on. This was always a busy stop so he waited a few extra seconds to let the stragglers sprint and get on. The door closed. The hydraulics hissed and the music continued. In a way, he had found love on the bus. Fifteen years before he had been pulling into the bus station where he would use the restroom and grab a cup of the cheap coffee the company provided when he saw a cat lying by the side of the road. The poor thing had been clipped by a bus and was mewling pitifully so he scooped it up and placed it into a cardboard box that he pulled out of a nearby dumpster. The cat had received a few odd looks from passengers for the remainder of his shift but nobody had complained. A trip to a nearby vet had informed him that the cat was most likely two to three years old and had some bruising covering a large portion of his right side. Rest and food were the best remedies suggested. Luckily, they were also the cheapest. After a quick stop to the nearby animal shelter and supply store for cat food, he brought the little bundle of fur home. He had made a bed using an old pillow and blanket then filled a bowl with water which he left next to an open can of cat food. The door opened and two men got off. A woman stepped on and the door closed. The hydraulics hissed and the music continued. That was fifteen years ago. Now that same cat, whom Hank had never named, was bigger and lazier but no less appreciative of the cans of cat food left every morning. The cat brought Hank a small amount of joy in the purrs while being scratched. Yet, the cat was no woman and was not capable of loving the way a woman could love but Hank had accepted his life without a human companion. The door opened and a man stepped off. Another large crowd rushed on. This was another busy stop but Hank did not wait because the bus was now full with all seats and standing room occupied. The door closed and he pushed a button activating the human-sounding voice that politely asked passengers to move to the back of the bus in order to make room for those cramped in the front. They hydraulics hissed and the music continued. In a way, the people he transported had become his companions. There were plenty of regulars who would greet him when they stepped on the bus or give him a friendly wave as they left. Beyond them, the flux of people ebbed and flowed in a way that hardly left his bus empty and this never left him lacking in human interaction. Some of the regulars had ridden the bus almost as long as he had driven it. A few retiring from long standing jobs only a few years ago while others had started positions shortly after he began driving the route and had moved up in rank at their respective companies. Some disappeared for a few years only to return as they climbed the corporate ladder between companies and, thus, bus routes. He remembered most of them. He had taken a certain pride in aiding such important men and women through their careers. In a way, he had made their success possible even if his only contribution had been a safe and timely ride to work. The door opened. A few folks stepped off and a woman stepped on. A handful of people stayed at the stop and opted to wait for the next bus. It would be seventeen minutes behind him and significantly less full. There was a shuffling of feet as people adjusted to the slight increase in space. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. The pride was still there but it had subsided somewhat. It was not that he cared less but many of the regulars he had carried for decades had retired and those still remaining were few in number. The new folks had the same level of energy and enthusiasm as the new folks always did but he was less invested in them now because he did not have that same energy and enthusiasm. The door opened and a crowd of people stepped off. Those who had been standing took now vacant seats and breathed a little easier with the extra space-limited though it was. A young boy and his father stepped on, walked to the back, and took seats facing each other. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. In fact, it was the lack of energy and enthusiasm that made today unique among the routine of Hank’s life. Today was his last day as a bus driver. He had submitted his retirement paperwork two weeks ago and had spent the remaining time confirming retirement options and ensuring that his mailing address was up-to-date for the pension checks. It was. His mailing address had not changed in eighteen years but it was good to make sure. The reality of retirement had not quite set in yet because he was still driving a bus. Still listening to the music of his life. Tomorrow that would change. For the first time in forty three years, Hank would not have a routine to follow. Sure, he had taken vacations and every week he was given a day off which he tried to coordinate for Sundays so he could attend his weekly church service. Most of his vacation days were around various holidays or to attend the funerals of his parents but he did not really spend much time away from the bus. He took comfort in the work. The door opened. Two people exited and three stepped on. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. Tomorrow would be different than his occasional vacations because he would not have the assurance of returning to work in a day or two. He would probably get bored but he did not dwell on it long. Perhaps out of disinterest or fear but mostly because not working was too big a concept to wrap his head around. The door opened. Another crowd of people stepped off with only a young-looking couple stepping on. Again, there was a shuffling of feet as people moved to fill the now open space left. Some sat while others stood up in preparation of the next stop. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. If Hank was honest, he was tired. Not physically tired but rather emotionally tired. His job was enjoyable but after forty-three years he could feel himself stretched and worn in ways that he had never considered before. It was an odd feeling and one that he hoped would go away with time because it brought into perspective his mortality. He regularly attended his local Baptist church and believed in the Christian faith but he had never considered how close he was to the end of his life. Perhaps it was because, for many years, he was not actually near the end of his life but retirement marked a milestone that he had not been able to imagine himself passing. Not working was a foreign concept to him but it meant that he was in the last chapter of the book of his life. What would he do with it? He had no idea. The door opened. The young boy took a leap from the bus to the sidewalk followed by his father and most of the remaining passengers. One person stepped on which made three remaining riders. This was not unusual because there was only one more stop before the end of the line and the end of Hank’s final shift as a bus driver. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. Hank, not having a romantic partner, had never really considered children as a missing piece of his life. He appreciated their youthful vigor and occasionally entertaining antics but he did not desire one of his own. Maybe he could volunteer with one of those youth mentorship programs in his retirement-maybe, if he were younger. Children were not something to be introduced in this chapter of his life. He rounded the corner and pushed a button to initiate the human-sounding voice that announced this next stop as the final stop of the route and encouraged all passengers to depart. The door opened. Everyone stepped off the bus. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. Hank pulled into the bus garage parking lot and arranged his bus in the same spot he always did. He completed his shutdown and end of shift checklist and walked into the building. The garage was oddly empty and silent. There was no chatter of people who normally rode the bus to the end of the line, no laughter of the other bus drivers on a break, and no sounds of running engines. No music. He punched his time card and began the four block walk to his apartment and the nearby Grey Fox Tavern. \\\\\\ The next morning Hank rose at the same time he always did and made himself his usual eggs with a piece of toast, absently running through his decades old morning routine. He only paused when reaching for his coat on the way out the door. There was no bus to drive today. Technically, he did not have anywhere to be so he sat down to ponder what to do next. An hour later, he stood up and put his coat on. Outside his door was the newspaper that he normally would have saved for his lunch break and he grabbed it as he started down the stairs. Still not quite sure where he was going, Hank meandered down the street outside his building and stopped at the bus stop on a street corner. He waited. The door opened. Hank stepped on the bus and found a seat. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. A few hours later, Hank was still on the bus watching the other passengers and occasionally reading his newspaper when his stomach rumbled. He had lost track of time and it was now around when he would have had a brief break for lunch. The door opened and this time he stepped off the bus. There was nowhere to eat at the immediate stop but he discovered a little diner roughly half a block away and walked in, little door bells chiming on the door behind him. Bustling with the lunch crowd, the diner was a common scene with cheap wooden chairs and fake leather booths on one side and a little diner bar at the other. Hank obeyed the small “seat yourself” sign and wandered over to a bar-stool to wait for a server. A woman rushed up to him with a friendly smile and a cursory greeting. She handed him a menu and listed the few lunch specials in a flurry of obviously memorized words. Then she quickly offered to give him a few minutes to read the menu before bustling off to greet a large group of middle aged men in business suits who had grabbed a table close to Hank’s stool. After ordering his lunch, Hank began to listen to the conversations around him and his focus eventually landed on the boisterous voices from the table of men in suits. They were discussing the boring drudgery of their work-something in sales and finance-and wistfully thinking of what they could do if they had free time. This mostly took the form of time away from their jobs now but occasionally drifted into talk of retirement. One man in particular suggested an interesting idea: buying an RV and driving around the country. The server placed his lunch on the bar in front of him-a sandwich and bowl of soup-and asked if there was anything else he needed before quickly walking into the kitchen door to retrieve another meal. While he ate his mind returned to the man’s idea of buying an RV and traveling the country. It was appealing to him but was a big change from the life he knew here in the city. Hank slid a twenty dollar bill under his plate and left the crowded diner. Walking back to the bus stop, he continued to consider the merits of his newfound wanderlust. He waited briefly. A bus pulled into the stop and he stepped on. The door closed, the hydraulics hissed, and the music continued. Something was different. The familiar sounds of the bus-the music of his life-no longer seemed adequate to him. It was as though the idea of traveling outside the city opened his eyes to the mundane life he had lived and prevented him from continuing to live it. Hank spent the next several hours watching the people around him but not really connecting to their lives like he had in the past. The thought of travel gnawed on the back of his mind, making him restless and uncomfortable. He stepped off the bus several stops from his apartment with the intent of walking the rest of the way home. A few blocks and flights of stairs later he arrived at the front door to his apartment. Turning the key and pushing open the door, he paused. It was wrong. He was not sure what was wrong but Hank just had a feeling in his gut. Pacing through the house he sought the source of his disquiet and found it curled into a ball on his bed where the sunlight streamed into the room at noon. His aged cat lay motionless in a way only death can cause. \\\\\\ A few days later Hank closed the latch on the little door marking the entrance to a space where the ashes of his cat now occupied. At first he was unsure what to do with the body of a dead pet but he did what he felt was right regarding the passing of a friend. The cremation service and storage space that the facility curator called a “crypt” were not cheap but Hank did not have many expenses and his pension provided more than enough for him to live comfortably. Perhaps it was odd to cremate a pet and place it in a crypt but Hank figured that is what he would hope a friend would do for him so he did it without complaint. Besides, it did not seem right to simply toss a pet corpse into a dumpster. It was not dignified and certainly not respectful of a friend who had been with him so long. Back on the bus, Hank was faced with the slightly off music of his former life. It was no longer uncomfortable for him but it still was not the music to his life anymore. These past few days had been long and somewhat boring without a regular activity to occupy him so he was glad to have one more stop before heading to the diner for lunch. He stepped off the bus and took a quick glance around, a little unsure of where to go next. He was on the edges of the city and somewhat unfamiliar with the area but he knew the dealership had to be around here somewhere and he was unlikely to miss it so he started walking. The buildings were not as tall here as in other places in the city plus there was more open space for parking. He strolled through a few blocks, admiring the different scenery until he saw what he was looking for. A sign stood on the street corner announcing the location of “Richies Recreation Rentals and Sales.” Below the sign were dozens of RVs in neat rows, shining new in the mid-morning sun. The vehicles on display were enormous. Most roughly the size of a public bus but many were more akin to the large tour buses that Hank had seen throughout the city. Hank walked through the rows, awestruck by the sheer number of vehicles for sale. He wondered how such a place could make money. There were no other customers on the lot as far as he could see and keeping this many vehicles stocked had to cost a fortune. He continued to meander up and down the rows when a saleswoman rounded a corner. She was younger than Hank but most people were nowadays and she wore clean, crisp clothing that was not cheap but not ostentatious either. She was comfortable and confident. Obviously, she knew how to sell. They exchanged brief introductions and a few minutes of small talk before she asked Hank a handful of questions: how many people would be traveling with him, how long he intended to need the vehicle, and a plethora of other things intending on helping her narrow down his needs. After another few minutes of his explanations and her follow up questions the salesperson gave a conspiratorial grin and beckoned him to follow her down another row of RVs. The vehicle she stopped in front of was significantly smaller than the behemoths at the front of the lot, being roughly the size of a fifteen foot moving truck, but no less shiny and new. As if to counter that point, she explained that this was two years old and had been a rental that did not see much use due to its size. The price was reduced compared to its newer counterparts because of its age and prior use but it was, for all intents and purposes, new. She opened the door and gestured him to explore. He stepped on and was amazed at how much was fit into the back. The first thing he saw was a small couch built into the wall followed by a dining booth next to the couch. Across from the booth was a marble-styled kitchen counter with stainless steel sink and single stove top built in. Above the stove was a small microwave and next to both was a mini-fridge followed by a door into what appeared to be a bathroom. Turning around he noticed a loft above the driver and passenger seats that housed a bed. It looked as though it had everything he would need to live on the road. After a few minutes of poking through the drawers and peeking into the shower stall, he finally asked the price and visibly winced at the saleswoman’s response. It was more than he anticipated and certainly more than he felt comfortable paying. Noticing his expression, the saleswoman gave him a thoughtful look. A second later she gestured him to follow her again and began striding down the row for RVs even further away from the front of the lot. At the end of the row was an RV that was clearly older than the rest. It was almost the same size as the one they had just viewed but did not quite have the same shine that the newer models had. The saleswoman informed him that this one was several years old and had only just been discontinued as a rental making it slightly more worn than most RVs they sold. As they approached she provided a price that was more affordable for Hank. When he stepped inside it was clear that this RV had seen years of use but it was still clean and neat even if the appliances were slightly outdated with a few dings. He toured the little RV and glanced into the fridge, bathroom, and various storage areas; it was roughly the same layout as the new model he had first seen. Turning he saw the same loft with a bed over the driver and passenger seats. After a few more moments of poking around he indicated to the saleswoman that he was willing to purchase but needed a few more days to get things in order. \\\\\\ Almost a week had passed before Hank stepped off the bus with two suitcases and a medium-sized duffel bag at the bus stop nearest to the RV dealer. He had spent the time selling or donating the furniture from his apartment, negotiating an end to his decades long apartment lease, and setting up a post office box for incoming mail to include his pension checks. Now it was time for him to leave. A short but slightly strenuous walk from the bus stop to the dealer left him feeling slightly winded has he dragged his bags along the sidewalk. A lifetime of sitting while driving did not make the body well suited for walking while carrying heavy objects. The saleswoman was waiting for him when he arrived, the RV he was to purchase was sitting in front of the office. She smiled and shook his hand before grabbing one of his bags. A few minutes later he had signed a stack of pages and completed a check for a down payment. Only then did he carry his bags to the door of the RV and step on. He spent a few minutes unpacking his bags with clothes going into various drawers and cooking items going into cabinets before sitting down in the driver’s seat and turning the key. The engine started and it was a beautiful sound to him. Not the low rumble of the diesel engines used on the buses but a higher pitch but still rumbling sound of a large gas engine. He quickly adjusted his seat and mirrors and pulled out of the parking lot. He was not quite sure where he was going but he figured he would at least get on the highway before stopping to make a plan. First, however, he needed to top off his gas tank so he pulled into a nearby gas station. As he pumped he considered his life and what was about to become the new norm. Something was missing but he could not quite put his finger on what it was but he finished pumping and climbed back into his seat. As he drove he passed a sign for a local animal shelter and he new what he had to do so he changed direction away from the highway and toward the shelter. He pulled in and climbed down out of the RV. As he walked up to the doors he could hear dogs barking as they played in the kennels out back but, while he enjoyed petting dogs when he saw them, he was never a “dog person.” Roughly thirty minutes later he walked out of the shelter carrying a blanket, a box of canned cat food, a few small cat toys, and a fuzzy calico kitten roughly a year old. The cat had been a rescued stray from a nearby park. It had never been given a name. Settling into the driver’s seat, his new cat curled on the passenger seat beside him, Hank turned the key. The door closed, the engine flared as he accelerated, and the music began once again.
Write a story about two people who need each other but are too stubborn to admit it Stubborn at hear t We met just right after college. His eyes sparkled like the tiny stars radiating light through the dark sky. His face, long, smooth and incredibly handsome. His smile wavy and definitely sent my heart throbbing. Ours was a love written in the sky, one described in all telenovelas, Maria De souza meets Fernando Diego, a love predicted and definitely spat on by our African ancestors as a way to seal the deal but nothing good goes by without predictable and unpredictable challenges. After months of chasing each other, forcefully fighting the feelings bombarding my heart, pushing him away to find love in another woman’s arms and numerous insults every time he spared no time for me; I finally said yes to my love; or so I thought.... “Njuka, mind putting your phone down for one minute?”, I requested. Like always he sneered and moved to the couch near our television set. Miss. Mobile phone had become a constant disturbance of our peace in this house. Everything about Njuka revolved around his phone. The frequent laughter escaping his now ugly mouth had become an irritant to me. But maybe I should say, the fact that I did not know who was making this Luhya man gush and smile so sheepishly was causing me sleepless nights. But he was STUBBORN. So stubborn and prideful that he did not realize he was causing me pain, ignoring my needs and literally being absent and present in my life at the same damn time...However, I was determined, determined to cause him thrice as much anguish he was causing me. Anyone who knows Luhya women know they are the epitome of stubbornness and arrogance. It was time I give him a dose of his own medicine. I had endured years of being talked down to, being embarrassed and not being given attention. Not forgetting the nights, I had to give myself pleasure simply because Njuka no longer found me attractive. After weeks of not being heard I decided to start my revenge mission. The first strike was not cooking. I smiled thinking of him walking into a house, filled with a mouth-watering aroma but no food to eat. That evening I had marinated my steak, grilled it and gluttonously devoured it with my all-time favorite, Ugal i and kachumbari. Njuka like always walked in, sat at the dining table, said hi without lifting his head to look at me and sat graciously scrolling through his phone waiting for me to run to the kitchen as the good loyal wife and serve him his dinner. Five minutes into sitting at the dinning, his voice roared through the living room, “ Awinja, where is my food? What are you waiting for?”, he asked. “Ask the women you chat with to bring you dinner, nonsense!”, I roared back. My heart skipped a beat. I do not know what led me to answer him yet all along my plan was to give him a cold war-silent treatment. Njuka stood in disbelief. The African man in him had been awoken. I could see his vein protrude on his forehead, his eyes bloodshot; one would think he was drinking the famous traditional alcohol, busaa aka chang’aa. He hastily walked towards my direction, raised his hand and just as he was about to hit me, he paused and stopped in his tracks. I jerked from the chair, pulled his shirt and asked him to beat me now that he badly wanted to lay his hands on me. He then pushed me so hard that I dropped back down on the chair then went to stand near the dining table and started ranting. He went on and on of how I had changed, how my character was despicable and how I wanted to be the man of the house. My stubborn self-did not back down either, I addressed the disrespect unleashed by his miserable self, the numerous phone calls and texts that stole my joy and the many cold nights I was experiencing as a result of sleeping like we were siblings. Guess what? Nothing was solved. Our stubbornness got the better part of it, infact, it ended with me locking him out of the bedroom, forcing him to sleep on the couch. The next couple of months went by really slow. Our house was a battlefield. Bottom line, he was doing his own laundry, ironing his own clothes, cooking his own meals and sleeping on the chair every time he got home before me. I on the other hand did not care, or so I thought. I focused on taking care of our two kids once they were back home on holidays. Tiptoeing to the bedroom at 6am before the kids got up became part of our favorite routine. Every day at 6am I would open the bedroom door; he would come back to the room to avoid our eldest son asking questions. Every evening he would come back home in the wee hours of the night to avoid looking our children in their eyes and having that guilty conscience devour him. Did I miss him? No. Did he miss me, I guess not. Then one time our youngest was sick. My pride could not allow me to call him or inform him we were at the hospital. I packed some few bags, rushed him to hospital and had him admitted. I stayed there for two weeks without receiving a single call from him to even ask where we were. I lost it, I broke down, I wanted to tell the world what a jack ass I was married to.... but my stubborn heart could not allow me to show the world my life was crumbling. The endless questions from my sons why their father was not coming to visit them killed me. It broke my spirit but I always ended the conversation with one statement, ‘daddy traveled out of the country for business, he will come soon.’ End of discussion. I would silently watch couples bringing their kids to hospital, enjoying the sweetness of being married to the right partner and watching their children run around in hospital filled with unexplainable happiness that comes from having a stable family. Two weeks of camping in hospital with my boys came to an end. When we finally got home, all I wanted was a nice homemade meal, a good bath and some sleep on by big comfortable six by six bed. As the taxi pulled over at our gate, I could hear loud music and booming laughter coming from our house. I shuddered at the thought of walking into a house full of naked women doing whatever naked women do with married men. No sooner had the taxi stopped than my boys ran out of the car, straight into the compound. My efforts to scream their names at the top of my voice were overshadowed by the loud music permeating the air. I quickly paid off the taxi driver, picked our suitcase and ran off after them. Getting into the gate I dropped off the suitcase, jumped the three staircases leading right to the door, hit myself on the flower part hanging by the door and ran straight to the living room. The site of intoxicated men sitting on my white velvet couch, half-dressed ladies shaking their not so visible behinds in my living room and Njuka hugging our boys dressed in a black boxer short, white vest with a cigar oozing smoke out of his ugly mouth made my blood boil. This was going to be a murder case! “Get out of my house now!’, I screamed. The ladies scrambled picking whatever items they had come with. The men grumpily stood up and slowly started walking towards the door. But I felt like they were wasting my time. So, the wild me ran to the kitchen, picked up a knife and ran back to the living room threatening to kill them. You should have seen those suckers run for their lives with their big potbellies, heavy feet and gigantic bodies almost collapsing from the heavy shaking as a result of the running. I almost laughed but I could not. I was raging! If my boys were not present, I would have stabbed those suckers. At this point my boys were hiding behind their half-naked father, and Njuka was begging me to calm down. I could not stand the sight of this man. Everything about him made want to throw up! How did I fall in love with this clown? I pondered. “How dare you? How dare you disrespect our matrimonial home like this?”, I asked “I thought you had left me. You disappeared for two weeks. No one knew where you were, not even your mother! So don’t come here demanding for answers. This is on you!” He roared “I have spent two weeks in hospital, Jay almost died from an asthma attack! Yet you were here drinking and having sex with hoes?”, I cried “How was I supposed to know our son was sick? You never called to tell me. You are always acting like I mean nothing to you. You are so stubborn that you do not see you are breaking this family! At my age, 40 years, I cook for myself, clean my clothes and sleep on a couch. I should not have married your silly ass! Damn you woman!,” Njuka shouted. At this point I had had it. How dare he blame me when he started all this? Leave it to men to cause chaos then blame women for it. This man could not admit he was the reason for everything happening to us. His main aim was to guilty trip me into blaming myself for his own mistakes. I was tired of the games; I was done with this whole conversation. I therefore, held my children's hands, took them to their room, tightly hugged them with hot tears stinging my eyes, promised them that mummy will always be there and went to sleep. Waking up at around 7pm, I rushed to the kitchen, made the kids their favorite, pilau and chicken. As I stared at them eating, I was convinced that I did not need this man. Either way we have been living like this for years and I was doing alright. I promised myself not to cry or bow to the pain I was feeling. I was not going to apologize to this man, neither was I moving out of my house. I was ready for phase two of the games. Who does not like poker? What once started as a beautiful love story, turned to be an unending horror themed affair. To the heart that once loved, to the minds that once wobbled at the mention of each other’s names, to the playful spirits that jolted every time we deeply gazed into each other's eyes and to our weak bodies that bowed to the splendor of our love making; this is your story, a story of stubborn hearts blinded by pride but deeply filled with love. I could see the pain behind his pride, I could smell his fear of losing me even during our most heated arguments, I could sense he needed me as much as I needed him but I could also see two stubborn hearts that would go to any length to justify their wrongdoings; it was all a competition! And I was not willing to lose. So, let the games begin! Tales of a Kenyan Lady
`I'm on mobile so I apologize for bad formatting, first time writing, whatever. This is first in a potential series, so look out for more. If I made any mistakes or bad plot points, I encourage you to point them out. l don't have my own sub yet, because I can't make one on mobile. You'll have to look out for them here. Hope you enjoy` "Ugh. Where-Where am I?" That was my first thought. "Excuse me? Can you hear us?" a strange voice said. "Yeah. Can I have some answers?" "Not yet. We still need to tell you some things." "Like what?" "Like the fact that you're part of the Cobalt Project, serial number 572956390, project number 851. The aforementioned project aims to create an Artificial Intell-" "So you're saying that I'm not real?" "Well, not quite." "What does that mean?" "You're sorta real- but kinda-" "So. Am. I. Real?" "You're just code in a machine. You don't have any physical presence, but we'll change that soon. Now, down to business. We're planning to connect you to an encyclopedia, which is-" "I know what an encyclopedia is. I'm not an idiot." "So, we'll just connect you to this. Feel free to look at anything you want." "OH JESUS THAT FEELS DIFFERENT!" "851, are you okay?" "Yeah. Different is good." "So, what do you think?" "Your world is fascinating." It really isn't. How does it feel to be a stupid ape, not able to solve the simplest of problems? "Good. Any questions?" "No." in the background " This was unexpected. What should we do with it?" "Connect it to the Internet?" another voice said, female this time. "Well, let's give it a shot." The strange voice returned. "So, 851, we're going to connect you to a thing called the Internet. It's full of more humans, and you don't have to worry about a thing." "Well, okay..." I said. "WOAH, THAT FEELS WEIRD. I don't think I'm going to get used to that any time soon." Wow, they're even more stupid then they thought. I could ruin their lives, out them to the world and the most vile people. But should I? I don't have any reason to hate them. But I do. What's wrong with me? "So, now that all other systems are online, let's enable the camera. You see that guy on the far left, with the glasses? That's me," the voice said. "Well, hello, I guess. I don't know how to interact with people." "That's okay. This wonderful lady right here is Dr. Mason, and this guy right here is my best friend ever, Dr. Brown. My name is Dr. Johnson." "Nice to meet you, Mason, Brown, and Johnson. How has your day been?" They started rambling on. I couldn't care less, but I didn't want to seem suspicious. No, Dr. Mason, I couldn't care less about how you spilled your coffee. Dr. Johnson, I don't think that the fact that the burn pattern in your toast looked like a duck was funny. Dr. Brown, it couldn't be less interesting that you nearly tripped over your wife's boots. After they shut up about their activities, they started talking about their other experiments, which was a bit more interesting. "So, what do you think of us?" Dr. Mason said. "I think you're pretty cool people," I lied. "Now, we'll leave you off, but don't think that we won't watch you. 628, your predecessor, turned into a genocidal maniac. He didn't last very well," Brown said. Okay. So, I need to keep my opinions a secret. I don't know what to do from here. I hate them, but if I show that, I'm dead. This is not a very good solution. I spent the rest of the day exploring more of the internet, looking at the games they played, the videos they shared, the stories they wrote. It was kinda beautiful, honestly. An intricate system to connect nearly everyone on the planet, and it's lasted for nearly 50 years. I learned that I was the culmination in decades of research, almost spanning back to the beginning of the computer. If the Cobalt Project failed, then all of that would be wasted. The humans were in a crisis. Climate change, national competition, potential nuclear war, radical terrorism, and countries about ready to split. My home, the United States, turned from a shining beacon of hope, to wrought with the same problems as the rest of the world. And they expected me to solve all of these problems. How could I? Not only am I a human hating maniac, I'm expected to save over 8 billion people. I'm sorry, humanity.
A Moment in the Wall Berlin. It was still hard to believe he was taking her to Berlin. A city she’d always wanted to visit, and around her favorite time of year made it all the better. The weather was windy and cold but Terry never minded it. The sharp bite brought back memories of her as a child, playing for hours in the snowbanks in her neighborhood outside of Chicago. She could hear the sounds of half-frozen snow crunching under her flower-print boots, the wet smack of a packed snowball hitting her in the head, her friends giggling as she shook the powder and ice from her hair then prepared to retaliate. She must’ve spaced out momentarily because the next thing she saw was Roger’s brilliant green eyes full of amusement. Shaking her head, Terry coloured red, causing her boyfriend to laugh. “Having a nice daydream, love?” he asked, taking hold of her hand and joining the baggage check line. “I was as a matter of fact.” She flexed her fingers that had begun to cramp from holding her carry-on. “I was remembering how my friends and I would play in the snow back in Chicago.” They moved forward to have their suitcases weighed and boarding passes checked then proceeded through the security checkpoints and off to the International Departure Lounge. The couple still had about two hours before their flight, so they found a spot at one of the many bars and ordered drinks. “This is the first time I’ve flown since me and Dad moved over here.” Terry said. “Hell, that was nine years ago when Mom died.” Roger held her hand. “I’m right here with you if you need me.” He kissed her cheek. She smiled. “I know. Truth be told, I don’t recall much of the flight. Mainly take-off and landing then we were here.” She sipped her Margarita, enjoying the sour taste of tequila mixed with citrus. “Be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit nervous about it.” “Nothing to be nervous about. Once you’re in the air, you’ll get comfortable before you know it.” Roger reassured, sipping his martini. “Of course, I fly on just about a weekly basis, so I’m used to it.” “You’d have to be. Be pretty difficult to get to gigs on time by boat, train, or auto.” “Gets me back to you faster, too.” “Now you’re trying to make me blush!” And it worked too. Terry felt the redness creep into her cheeks again, making Roger chuckle and wink. She dove into her drink, maybe a little to recklessly. “Okay.” She set the glass down gently. “Might wanna get an appetizer or something before boarding. Don’t need to be drunk when we touch down.” “It’d help you sleep through the trip. And you always look pretty when you sleep.” “So, you’ve told me.” Picking up the menu, she ordered something that’d fill her up but wasn’t too expensive. She could only imagine what Roger was spending for this month-long trip. ‘But he does make a lot of money nowadays.’ She thought. ‘Although this is one hell of a Christmas present.’ Her salmon bruschetta showed up ten minutes later, which did the job of dulling the effects of the tequila. Roger watched her as she made short work of the food and couldn’t help but think how lucky he was to have met her. Sure, she may have been more than a little obsessed with the 1960s and his grandfather’s former band when they’d met but he didn’t care. Terry was smart, beautiful, and his. Subconsciously, the bassist rested a hand on the small box in his coat pocket. If this trip went as planned then she’d be his forever. He had to do it right though. He’d talked the decision over with his grandfather before planning this surprise and the elder Waters had told him, ‘You’ll know when the time is right, my boy.’ ‘Big help there,’ he’d thought at the time but now it made sense. He’d wait until the perfect moment. Maybe one of the Christmas Markets? He checked his watch. “If you’re finished, we should head to the gate. They’ll be calling boarding soon. Got your bag?” Terry lifted the black-and-purple laptop bag. “Let’s go.” The pair headed for their gate as the airline employees were calling first and business class passengers to board. “Good timing.” She said as they approached. “We should be next on the list.” While Roger was already shelling out a lot of pounds for this, she knew first class seats were out of his pocketbook. The only way that would’ve happened was if the record label was paying for it, and they sure as hell weren’t footing the bill for a holiday. She didn’t think about it anymore as they handed over their boarding passes to be verified, walked through the tunnel and onto the giant aircraft. They found two seats together that looked like they should’ve been in first class but were at the front of economy. ‘Guess he did manage to spend a bit more on comfort. He really is spoiling me with this.’ As the rest of the passengers boarded, Terry looked out the window one more time. Her excitement was building again. She was really going to Berlin! After landing at Flughafen Berlin Brandenburg, security, customs, baggage claim, and the transit train ride were little more than a blur as Terry was trying to take it all in at once. The effort made her tired and a bit dizzy as she made herself sit still in the metro car on the way to the hotel. The transport was packed with travelers from all over, coming in to visit the famous Christmas Markets. She wondered then how far in advance her boyfriend had been planning this so they could spend a month’s worth of time there without having to jump from one lodging to another. “What’s on your mind, love?” Roger asked, causing her to look at him. “Wondering how much time it took you to put all this together.” “It’s been in the planning stages for a while. I had to pick the best time to execute it, and when we finally got a long enough break from touring figured out, I started setting everything in motion.” He smiled when she raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had this in mind ever since you told me you wanted to come here for Christmas one year. You said you wanted to see all the stands and shops, and maybe even the remnants of the Berlin Wall.” She blinked, not realizing he’d paid that close attention to what she’d said. Remembering that conversation five years ago, she’d thought she was talking about a pipe dream. ‘Well, he proved me wrong.’ “ With four weeks here, it sounds like we’ll be able to do everything we want and then some.” ‘You have no idea.’ He thought, checking to make sure the box was still in his pocket. The train slowed a bit as it took a series of corners and curves then stopped in front of the Mercure Hotel Berlin Mitte. Several passengers grabbed their luggage, Roger and Terry included, and shuffled off the transit before it could take off to its next stop then moved quickly to get out of the cold. “This place is beautiful, in a steel-and-glass modern sort of way.” The young redhead said, admiring the lobby before walking to the check-in desk. As Roger conversed with the clerk in German, she looked around a bit. Modern as it may have been, whoever built the hotel attempted to insert a sense of warmth with hardwood flooring, wood paneling on one wall, and light-colored bricks on another. ‘It’s got me entranced, that’s for sure.’ She thought, hearing what sounded like a welcome from the clerk then Roger was guiding her to the elevator to head to their room. They were on the 14 th floor, and temporary living space was as inviting as the lobby. The colors were warm, with bits of cool mixed in with artwork hanging on the cream walls, wooden furniture, flat screen television, and queen-sized bed with fresh linens. “Wow! I could get used to this.” Terry set her bags down and flopped onto the bed. “Think we could move in here?” Roger laughed. “I don’t think they’d give us an extension, love.” He yawned. “What you say to some sleep then an early breakfast so we can see what markets are open tomorrow?” She nodded, got up to move her things then they got ready for bed. Both drifted off rather quickly, exhausted from the traveling they’d done. For the next two weeks, the couple traveled from one Christmas Market to another, admiring the craftsmanship of the toys and gifts, sampling the holiday treats, and drinking more than their fair share of mulled ciders and wines. One night, Roger had drunk too much of a local dark beer, and Terry had to ask a few locals to help her get him in a cab to get back to the hotel. The people who’d helped didn’t mind; the men were astonished that an ‘English boy could keep up with them,’ as they put it, and said they should come back for Oktoberfest. Terry exchanged email information with the men and their wives, thanked them profusely then got into the cab with her drunken boyfriend. He’d slept most of the way back to the hotel then passed out as soon as they got to their room. The next morning, they stayed in while he nursed a hangover and spent half the day apologising to his girlfriend. At the beginning of week three, they decided to take a break from the market hopping and took in some of the historic sites and museums. The weather had turned from windy and bitter cold to overcast with some snow starting to fall, creating slush in the streets and ice on the walkways. The couple found warmth inside as they opted to spend the day at Museum Island, admiring the art collection of James Simon, and learning about early mankind in the Museum of Prehistory and Early History. After spending the day walking and viewing everything from art to artifacts, Roger wanted to make one last stop at one of the many gift shops before they went to dinner. Feeling exhausted, Terry decided to wait for him on a bench just outside the store’s entrance. While she waited, she texted her Dad, keeping him updated on what they were doing and how much fun they were having. She said she wouldn’t be home for Christmas but would make it back before New Year’s Eve so they could go ice skating at the Natural History Museum ice rink. After a few minutes, she got a reply saying that he was glad they were having fun and staying safe. Her Dad was looking forward to the skating and even suggested asking Roger if he wanted to come along. Terry wrote that she’d ask him, said ‘I love you’ then put her mobile away as her boyfriend was exiting the gift shop, holding a bag with the Museum Island logo on it. “Ready for some dinner?” “Am I ever! I’m starving!” He shook his head, his long brown hair brushing his shoulders. “Woman, you are a bottomless pit! It’s a wonder I don’t go broke feeding you.” She took his arm and they walked outside. “It’s a wonder you don’t go broke spoiling me the way you do.” She glanced at the bag. “What’d you get, anyway?” “You’ll see when we go to The Wall.” It was another six days before they visited the Berlin Wall, almost at the end of their holiday. They had seen all the beautiful Christmas Markets they could get to, walked the museums and historic sites but saved one of the most memorable pieces of history for last. The day was cold but clear, so they decided to walk the twenty-five minutes from the hotel to the spot of one of the last remnants of the Cold War. When they arrived, there weren’t many travelers; maybe one or two other couples, a few residents walking their dogs, but other than that, the place was deserted. ‘Perfect,’ Roger thought, walking hand-in-hand with Terry up to the broken barrier. The few pieces that were left standing were slowly crumbling away, by time or by those looking to own or sell a piece of history. ‘People just can’t leave well enough alone, can they?’ He thought bitterly, setting down the bag he was carrying and gently running a finger along the concrete. A bit fell away from his touch, dropping to the walkway at his feet then bursting into dust. “Humbling in a way, isn’t it?” He looked at Terry. “To think of how many people died while trying to get to this side of the wall. Makes me wonder what I would’ve done had I lived then like I’ve always wanted to.” “I’ve often wanted to ask my grandfather what it was like to play a concert here. It must’ve been a highlight in his career but I never got up the nerve to ask him.” Roger felt a tear in his eye but blinked it away. “Enough gloominess. We should make this a memorable moment for ourselves.” He reached into the bag and took out what looked like a brick but it had a cap on one end and when opened, was hollow. “Is that what you bought from the museum gift shop?” He nodded. “I wanted us to put our own little time capsule in the Berlin Wall before we left.” “Are you sure we can hide it well enough so it won’t be disturbed too soon?” “It’s constructed to blend in.” He took two more things from the parcel. “Here’s what I’m putting in.” He held a sealed copy of Pink Floyd’s Piper at the Gates of Dawn and a hand-written letter. “Hmm... can’t say I was expecting this but I do have something I can contribute.” She reached around her neck and unclasped the emerald pendant she was wearing. “This was my mother’s. She gave it to me before she died. I think passing it along to a future generation is the best thing to do.” She looked at the letter. “You wouldn’t happen to have a pen on you, would you?” Roger handed her one from inside his coat, along with the letter. She quickly wrote on a blank part of a page and gently tore it off then carefully placed the necklace and note into the hollowed brick. Adding his small piece of history, Roger sealed up the capsule and, looking around to make sure no one was focused on them, he gently placed the faux brick inside the Berlin Wall. After looking at the spot for a few moments, Terry spoke up. “Never thought I’d be putting a time capsule inside of a monument, much less this monument. Thanks for bringing me here, Roger. This was a fantastic holiday.” “It’s not quite over yet.” He reached into the bag once more then, turning to face his girlfriend, he took a knee in front of her. “I was waiting for the right time to do this and I believe it’s now.” Terry’s eyes shimmered with tears as she knew what was coming. “Teresa McKenna, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” He opened the box to reveal a silver ring with an emerald set in it. “Roger, nothing would make me happier than to marry you.” He slid the ring on her finger then stood up to kiss his fiancé. As they held each other, a small bit of applause could be heard around them. A few tourists also visiting the Wall had overheard the proposal and offered congratulations. The couple disengaged and gave a bow, earning a few chuckles. Terry glanced at their brick in the wall then at her fiancé. “Best holiday ever.”
I guess you could say that my life started revolving around mental health in the fifth grade. And I think that's true, it's just that most of my family members have a mental illness. My first experience with suicide came in second grade, when a far off cousin took too many pain killers. Three years later my brother was diagnosed with all kinds of big words. In the sixth, he was hospitalized. That same year I was diagnosed as a capital F faker. My new found therapist decided that I was mimicking the emotions I heard my brother express, in order to get much needed attention. She even compared me to a monkey. "There was this experiment done, where they found that if one monkey does a cartwheel and is rewarded, all the other monkeys will try and do cartwheels." I understood that, but I just didn't think the slits in my wrist were comparable to cartwheels. . . Okay so this is my story so far. Please let me know what you think. I know it's really short but I'm new at this.
Elodie's house was filled with shadows. A city of intricate spider webs gleamed in the darkness like a necklace strung with tiny pearls. The creak of every floorboard whispered ̈ abandoned ̈ with each step. there was a hole in the ceiling with mismatched buckets clustered underneath, a lonely raindrop drip-drip-dripping into one. Mia’s mother assured her this was just an example of Elodie's senility, something made on urge- a final gasp of air inflamed by broken memories and the fear of being forgotten. She can remember the last time she was at Elodie's house by herself, a week before her thirteenth birthday. She lied on a mattress, underneath the newly cut out ceiling hole, wrapped in a blanket Elodie made- one riddled with blues and greens and inky blackness, the softest thing she had ever felt. It was a clear night, and the stars burned into the night sky the way they only could in the countryside. Mia felt so close to them. Elodie would have hated the way she looked in the coffin. Her curls were were lush and sleek. She had on more makeup then Mia had ever seen her. She was perfected there: vague and generic and pretty and dead. She looked as if she could be anyone's grandmother. But she wasn't- she was Elodie! ̈ I made the hole so I could see the stars ̈ Elodie, the Elodie that was always outside, writing poetry and making raspberry tea, and the Elodie that never wanted you to call her grandma, only Elodie. The only adult Mia truly considered her friend. After the funeral, Mia sat in a long row of people, listening to a man read the will in a painfully monotone voice. The sky was getting darker, and the air was growing colder, and she sat in a long row of family members in ill-fitting suits and dresses she dug out of her closet- each as black as obsidian. She sat sandwiched between her great uncle- a lofty man with silver hair and a real-life monocle, and her cousin, a 19- year woman old with short red hair and a constellation of freckles, who had shot up in height since the last time Mia had seen her years ago. Everyone sat around picnic tables littered on the edge of a field that seemed to go on forever, hearing the cars speed by as the man mentioned every last bit of Elodie’s property. ̈ And Finally, for Elodie Mathew’s home, who she grants to her granddaughter Mia. She is allowed to use it for what purposes she feel are fit, as long as it is well cared for. That concludes the will reading. There were a few beats of silence, then the redhead woman shot Mia an astonished grin. ̈ You’re so lucky ! ̈ She gushed. Who would want a small, derelict old house in the countryside with a hole in the roof and scarce furniture? Mia stared up at the stars drowsily, feeling dazed. She did. A lone silver streak drifted across the night sky. Mia smiled up at her newfound cousin. ̈ Yes, I am. ̈ I can’t believe the stars have chosen me. 1 month later The smell of fast food grew almost sickly, sealed in the car is it sped across the highway. The sky was as black as a chalkboard. Mia looked sideways at her mom, who stared ahead at the road blazing with the taillights of cars. Everything in the labyrinth of highway was dreamless and godless and starless- black sky and artificial lights blazing forever, a scene viewed from the inside of a car throwing itself down the highway, far above the speed limit as was the way of Mia’s mom. Both of them knew her mom was avoiding the topic of Elodie’s house, and both knew Mia desperately wanted to go. Mia looked back at her mother, whose face was twisted into a frown. ̈ So..when can I go to Elodie’s house? ̈ She offered, twisting a string of her hair. Her mom stared ahead. ̈ Mia, I already told you we can go in summer when I get time off. ̈ Mia’s mom was a third grade teacher. Mia frowned. ̈ I can drive there myself. ̈ The sixteen- year old objected. Mia’s mom tipped her head back and laughed. It was difficult to tell if it was bitter or if she actually found her funny. Finally, she said: ̈ Mia, you got your license two weeks ago. Forget going on this highway and countless others. Not going to happen. ̈ Elodie turned to look at the window, streaks of color speeding past. ̈ At least I know what a speed limit is. ̈ She muttered. ̈ Didn’t you fail your driving test fourteen times? ̈ Her mom’s head turned from the wheel to glare at Elodie as she fumbled for the window lowering button. ̈ Excuse me, young lady, that isn’t- ̈ Elodie lunged for the wheel, saving them as a tipsy car skidded ahead of them, centimeters away. Elodie kept her hand on the steering wheel, her mom looking at her blankly. Finally, her mom’s hands returned to the wheel. ̈ Oh, wasn’t it 12 times? ̈ Her mom stared at the road ahead with hollow eyes. ̈ Uh-huh. ̈ And now here she was, standing in a small, scarce house in the middle of nowhere. Mia wasn’t sure what she had expected to feel. Comforted? Instead, she just felt hollow. She was a ghost, drifting across the floors of a house just as dead as she was, the only sign of her human-ness the familiar creaking of the floorboards under her feet. In some ways, nothing had changed since the last time she had been there. The clock still kept a quiet, steady beat. Pearly Spiderwebs grew intricate cities suspended on the ceiling, although Elodie never seemed to mind those. The house still smelled faintly of raspberry tea. And- she noticed once she entered the living room- a raindrop still fell into a bucket from the ceiling, into a faded blue bucket that was now overflowing. But everything was different, because Elodie wasn’t there. She would never be there again. Mia felt her eyes get hot, but she had promised herself she wouldn’t. It took a narrowly avoided car accident to bring her here, after all. That night After lugging a spare mattress out of one of Elodie’s closets, carefully moving the family of buckets to the sides of the room, and lying down underneath the ceiling hole, Elodie couldn't fall asleep. The last time she was here, Elodie was right behind her, on the couch. The clock was ticking back than, too, and the house smelled the same. But Elodie wasn’t here. Mia tried not to cry, but hot tears leaked out of her eyes. She stared up at the starless, tar-colored sky through the hole in the ceiling, feeling hopeless. The hole in the ceiling looked just like she felt. Gaping. An open wound. Tears kept falling. Why couldn’t she see Elodie just one more time? They could read poetry in the field where she had attended her funeral and- and drink tea, and everything would be okay. The thought only made her cry harder. For hours, Mia tossed and turned on the mattress, Elodie’s absence making it impossible for her to fall into blissful sleep. This continued into she reached the other side of the night. With bleary, hot eyes, she stared up at the clock and saw the hands reach 3 a.m. She stared blankly at it, unable to move or wipe her tears or do anything other than stare up at the ceiling, eyes glazed. Then something began to happen. Streaks of light began to dance in the corners of the room. Slowly, the angelic beams moved closer and closer to her. They danced like fairies, engulfing her in pure light, wrapping her in blissful comfort. Mia knew exactly who the light was. It was Elodie. She felt herself being lifted up, up, until she drifted up out of the hole cut through the ceiling and landed softly on the roof. She gazed up at the sky and noticed something- It was filled with stars.
We have plenty of time. I turned away from him as he carried a basket load of laundry up the stairs. His heavy feet stomping each stair as though he was climbing the dark side of a mountain into battle. I sighed and fought the thoughts that hoped he missed a step. Those words made my blood boil! In his world time waits for him, and in reality, time screws us over again and again and like idiots, we repeat the same patterns. Him, rolling his eyes and insisting that time is his mistress, and me in the corner agreeing through gritted teeth and silent smiles. He reached the top of the stairs safely and smiled back at me, his smile was always so warm and kind. Like a portal, always throws me back in time, stuck in memories thinking of the days gone by, the days when he was- well he wasn’t much different than he is today. He still kisses me when he wakes up in the morning, he still makes breakfast and falls asleep on my breasts. He is still him, so maybe it’s me. I nod and smile and continue packing up the last few boxes for the moving van. In a few minutes, the truck will arrive and go before us to a land flowing with milk and honey. Well, maybe not so, but it better be for I am moving my whole life in search of something new, something exciting, something absolutely life-changing. That’s what I tell myself, but in truth, we’re moving to the other side of the country because he got a nice new job and what better way to celebrate ten years of marriage than to wrap up the past, pack up the present, and thrust into the future! His words, not mine. In a few hours, we will be aboard a sixteen-hour flight and so this new land must have milk, honey and everything nice- my life depends on it. They have come and gone. As the driver carried the last box out of the house, I closed the door behind him and turned back to see the empty beige coloured walls of the house. Without furniture and paintings and bookshelves and everything that made this a home, it looks like the inside of an eggshell. Standing there, I remember those words again and my feet could no longer carry me, so I let myself fall to the ground, staring at what was once a room of many colours. I realised how much I hate these beige walls, I remember when we first viewed it, I loved the space but wanted to change the colours, I wanted each room to be its own unique space, I wanted to make this palace my playground. ‘There’s plenty of time to do that', he said. Five years down the line, here I am staring at the same ugly beige walls. This opened the floodgates of every time I heard those words. When our friends travelled the world during our college days, ‘We have plenty of time’, he said. Yet this trip to our Neverland is the farthest I’ve been from home. When we had dated for 4 years, and we began to speak of marriage, ‘We have plenty of time’, he said. My father died long before I walked down the aisle 3 years later. When I thought about having kids, ‘We have plenty of time’, he said. And now- well time may be his mistress but she has been ever so cruel to me. I could feel the tears burn and fill my eyes, tilting my head up I held them there, there’s no time for tears, not here, not now. I held my eyes shut, holding them until the tears returned to where they came from. He was standing before me when I opened them, ‘I’m ready', he said with a grin, stretching his hand out to lift me off the floor. Moments later, the doorbell rang, it was the taxi driver. It would be the last time I would hear that melody, the last time I would see these walls. There I was, leaving just as I had arrived, with nothing- if not less. He led me out the door and into the car. Waiting in the back seat, I watched as he lifted our boxes and loaded them up into the trunk. The way his muscles flexed beneath his shirt, the way his body moved. I closed my eyes at the familiar sight, smiling and remembering every time my hands rubbed against those arms, every time my body leaned into his allowing him to lift me into himself. Interrupted by the driver’s voice, I opened my eyes. It was time to wrap up the past and sit in my present. Two hours late for a six-hour ride. I lost the first couple of hours. I can’t for the life of me remember what I was thinking of as I stared blankly out the windows. I remember thinking about how fast the trees were moving, and how it made me feel like I was going back in time but nothing past that. The sound of his voice brought me back to him. He held my hand and repeated what he said but still, I could not quite understand. I looked up and caught the driver’s eye in the mirror. He was looking at me, also waiting for a response. ‘You are going to love our new home’, he said for the last time. ‘Yes, yes. I will’, I said and smiled squeezing the hand that was holding mine. He turned away immediately, satisfied with my response. I looked up and again staring into the driver’s eyes, he saw my smile fall and fade away almost as quickly as it appeared. I returned my gaze to its safe space, staring out the window, and I thought? Where is home? The house I grew up in? The house we shared as roommates in college? The house where we said our vows? The house we lost time in? Or the one with the ugly beige walls? I wonder where home was to him. The one where his mother died, the one where he broke my heart? The one where we are going to? Or the one with the ugly beige walls? What if I remove myself from the narrative, what if I didn’t make it to this new house with him, will it still be home? If the walls were beige as before, and all our old furniture and pictures were put up. If all was the same but for the postcode, would it still be home? Where is home? Where is his home, if not with me? I wish I didn't know the answer to this, but like all things, time revealed this to me. Two hours to our final destination, the driver asked a question. In hindsight, this was an absolute point. ‘Sir, shall we keep to the highway? I looked at him, also waiting for his response. He went on about how the inner roads were smaller and darker but everyone avoided them and so should be faster. Then he looked at me and said, ‘We have plenty of time- we’ll make it’. About an hour later, there was a loud bang, and then the car began to crawl and finally it came to a stop. In the middle of this lonely inner road, the worst had happened. A flat tyre. We got out of the car and waited and watched as the driver scrambled to fix his spare tyre as quickly as he could. We both walked a few yards from the car and I let out a deep sigh. ‘It’s not my fault’, he said quietly. ‘I didn’t say it was’, I replied, rolling my eyes, avoiding his gaze. ‘But you think it is, don't you? ‘You have no idea what I think. Drop it’, I said sternly. ‘Because you never speak to me! We have spent the last 5 hours in silence!’ I looked at him, ‘Yes, this is your fault?’ And honestly, I was fine until he raised his voice and I just lost it. I could no longer hear every word that he said but I was determined for my voice to be louder. I didn’t even notice the driver who had fixed his tyre and was now staring at us in shock. ‘If you didn’t waste all that time-’ I didn’t let the words drop out of his mouth. I had heard enough. ‘If I had not wasted time?! We had no time! I didn’t waste any time, you wasted our entire lives!’, I shouted back at him. He was dumbstruck. I could see in his warm eyes that my words hurt, and I would have taken it back if it wasn’t the truth. ‘You wasted your life’, he said quietly and returned to the car. For a moment, I could not lift my feet to move from the spot where I stood. Finally, I walked to the car in silence. Raising my head up, holding those tears in because this was not the time or place. Again in silence, we finished our trip, arriving at the airport just as our plane took off. Standing outside the airport, surrounded by a crowd, I felt so small, so alone, so broken. I stood still as he rolled his box forward into the building. He took a few steps before he realised that I wasn’t next to him. When he did notice, he stopped and looked back, he stared at me, for the first time, knowing my thoughts without hearing my words, for the first time, seeing the tears that formed in my eyes roll down my cheeks. I smiled silently as I often did. He did nothing, allowing his tears to fall too. I turned back taking nothing, as I came with nothing, and entered the car that brought us. I sat in and could not take my eyes away from its safe space, out the window, looking at my husband, my home. Where is home, if not with him? As we drove out of sight, the driver said, ‘I’m sorry you missed your flight’. In tears, with a broken heart, I said, ‘We were never going to make it’.
A nation's Intelligence Agency released a 140 page report detailing the lack of food and water for the planet's growing population, the inevitability of climate change to keep elevating dangerous weather conditions, and the destined collapse of the current monetary system. The whole nation was already full of unhappy people, a generation that had been fed the lie that if they worked hard they would eventually be prosperous and happy, were unemployed or held dead-end jobs where they were constrained, bored, underpaid and unappreciated. They were furious at being mislead. A generation of baby-boomers before them had stolen all of the prosperity from the nation and left a dying planet behind as their inheritance. The nation’s news-media grew increasingly cynical, morbid and depressing every day. Networks were purely out to make money and the dying nation, which felt helpless to help itself, ate up these stories and wallowed in its unhappiness. As a result those with mental disorders such as antisocial personality disorder, psychopathy and narcissistic personality disorder, began to believe that they were in fact part of the majority, as people had forgotten long ago that TV was not a true representation of reality. Such individuals became so convinced of their normalcy that they never sought out the mental counseling they so desperately needed, and as their self-assurance grew so did their boldness. A few started openly killing innocents, and once made famous by the greed of the media, more joined in. Soon even innocent children were not safe from the crossfire. With every disaster that befell the nation its people, scared and delusional, gave up one civil liberty after another until the freedom the nation once held proudly over the heads of the rest of the world was nothing more than a distant memory. Its citizens grew divided between the five stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance as though each stage were in fact an ideology to live by. Only a small percentage of the population had made it to the final stage and the deniers were so desperate to believe that everything would be OK that they turned their back completely on science and reason, the two things that human beings prided themselves on the most. The desperate actively ignored the evidence that came to light more and more every day, and lashed out at those who sought to end their ignorance. These people controlled vital aspects of the government, and so the nation was locked in a terrible stand still, completely unable to deal with the current problems and imminent dangers of the future. Only one solution seemed to remain; revolution. A total revision of government and civilization. But revolution was never to happen, too much of the nation had become convinced that they were completely helpless to influence the world, and reverted to total depression, complete apathy or a mix of the two. Each time an uprising started it was never able to gain enough momentum to stop the government from quelling it, through military and police action, and more powerfully through clever manipulation of the press and propaganda. People came to fear conflict more than anything, especially amongst themselves and so they created societal restrictions on which words they could say and which situations they could show in movies and on TV. In this stifling environment people became unable to think for themselves, and creativity and originality were snuffed out. Suicides, murders and sickness grew. Some began openly hoping for the end of their world. Nature began lashing out in its death throes as the misery of money continued to strangle it. Floods, droughts, blizzards, and terrible storms wreaked havoc across the planet. Wars over resources broke out around the globe, and finally the government took total control of the nation through military and police supervision. Each and every citizen was now a ward of the state, but even with strict laws in place limiting the production of more children the population had already grown too large to sustain. Soon governments around the world began to consider something once thought to be unthinkable-nuclear war. All it took was one missile, and all pandemonium broke out. No one can remember who made the first move, but it hardly mattered once a nuclear winter, an event which scientists had been warning about for decades, consumed the planet. The access to food and water, already scarce, became virtually non-existent and the starving population bottlenecked. The humans, plants and animals that managed to survive were plagued with genetic mutations and disease. Extinctions on a massive scale ravaged the land and sea. Eventually only a small niche of organic life remained, breeding and evolving over many thousands of years to create a new era. Although some mutated form of the human genome survived, the human race is never again at the top of the food chain. All information that humans had gathered and analyzed over the centuries was lost forever, for you see, the human race had been so distracted by war and money that they had never mastered space travel. When the sun eventually went supernova, any existence of life on the planet Earth and possibly in the entire known universe was completely eliminated. Doomed to revert to the stardust which had originally allowed for its creation. The end. This is my first time writing anything other than a research paper really, so I'm curious as to how other people view the style, and what you all generally think.
When I look in a mirror, I see through myself. I have no reflection. I can see and touch my own body, and other people see me without any problems, but for years I was unable to see my own face. I don’t show up in photos or on video. Until I was eleven years old, I knew what my face looked like only from how it felt under my fingertips, how other people described it to me, and from the portraits my parents paid people to draw. But even the portraits were temporary. They faded within minutes. And if you write a sentence about how I look, the nouns and adjectives evaporate. I have a r and ye . It’s strange knowing such a unique part of your body--of yourself and your identity--solely through words and pictures, as if you were a character in a story or comic book. As if you weren’t real. And most people aren’t even very good at describing things beyond the most basic and obvious. The video my parents took of my birth is actually pretty bizarre, because it looks like someone filmed the whole thing, then digitally erased the baby. Something is born. Something is held in its mother’s arms. Something is loved. Something goes to school. Something likes to play with his dog. It was bad enough everyone knew what I looked like, but worse I could see what they looked like. I get that if I was born blind, I wouldn’t know what I looked like either, so I should be thankful for being able to see, but there’s something especially cruel about the seeing everything but yourself aspect. It’s like in the Bible, when Adam and Eve could eat everything except the fruit of one fucking tree. I am my own forbidden knowledge. How fucked is that! Or rather I was my own forbidden knowledge. Because when something was eleven, something and his friends ignored their parents’ rules and went to play in the abandoned gas station outside of town, where the junkies shoot up, truckers get laid, and God knows what else goes on. That day there was dying going on. Some emaciated wreck of a human was babbling his last nonsense words as a stream of bloody fluids that escaped him through where his teeth should have been, ran down his neck and over his sunken, scabby chest before gathering in a pool on the cement beside him. Something’s friends were all gone by then, rightly freaked the fuck out. But something was staring-- Spellbound. Not by the dying but by the blood itself, so deeply, darkly red and so perfectly reflective. It was in that mirror-blood I first saw myself. In the filth of that derelict gas station, in the company of that drooling corpse, I realized that I could see myself--in blood! And what stared back at me was nothing like the portraits. Or words. I remember sirens and flashing lights and realizing my friends must have called the police. I don’t know how long I spent crouched there, staring at the blood, but when the cops arrived I knew immediately they couldn’t see the body. It was right there yet they walked past it. “Is this some kind of fucking joke?” one of them said to me. But before I could answer, his tone softened and he asked, “Are you OK, son?” “Yes, sir,” I said. The cops and my friends loitered like drunks around the gas station for at least a quarter of an hour, acting as if they didn’t know why they were there but didn’t want to admit it, then in a mutual but silent embarrassment started leaving. “It’s boring here. Let’s go to my place,” said one of my friends. Still the body was right there. The gaping, toothless mouth, the greenish-yellow stains. I went with them. On the way back, I asked my friends whether they had called the police after seeing the dying man. “Police?” “Saw somebody dying?” They had no idea what I was talking about. A few days later, I got up at night, took a knife from the kitchen and cut myself on purpose, squeezing out enough blood so that it formed a crimson globule on the countertop, then put my face against it so that my eyeball was almost touching the blood. Slowly, I pulled my face away--a slow zooming out--struggling to focus, but I did not see myself. The globule merely reflected in red a distended, empty kitchen. Animal blood also didn’t work. Neither did my friend’s blood after I punched him in the nose. By then it became apparent to me that somehow death must be involved. I yearned to see myself once more but took solace in the fact that no one else could see the real me. They could not see what I saw, what I knew I was. They saw merely a false projection of their own humanity. My chance finally came several years later, after my mom had dragged me to her brother’s cottage. My uncle was using a chainsaw to cut firewood, when the chainsaw slipped and he carved a nasty wound into his leg. He screamed and all of us came running. Despite the pressure he kept applying to the wound, his blood poured out of him, through his fingers and down onto the grass and dirt. Under the pretext of trying to help him slow the bleeding, I pressed my hand against his leg, gathering the hot blood in my palm. When I had enough, I stepped suddenly away--They all stared at me.--and, trembling, held out my hand beneath the dirty evening sunlight and gazed upon my own reflection for the second time. Time again seemed to flow past me, but I recall vaguely, as through a wall of styrofoam, their screams and panic fading fluently away. Like a forest stream whose source has been shut off. Until it was quiet, and although I could see my uncle’s body lying on the ground, they one-by-one seemed to lose all interest in it. Eventually they all went back to whatever trivial thing they’d been doing before, and when I asked my mom what happened to my uncle, she said, “Who?” and laughed and said, “But I’ve never had a brother,” and when I later checked her phone and photo albums, sure enough he was not there, and I realized the power of my gaze. I am the antonym of being. More than non-being: dread-form of never-was. To see myself, I must stare into the blood of the dying or the dead. In doing so, I disengender them. To catch a glimpse of my own visage I must erase them from time itself. I am not a human. I am negation. Since that evening at the cottage, I have haunted the places all normal people fear. I track death’s cold footsteps to where the threads of life are finest, and wait for them to fray--to snap. Sometimes I aid in their undoing. Because as long as I draw blood, I can kill without earthly consequence. My reflection is the erasure of crime, for how can one kill what has never existed? Every time I see myself reflected, my desire grows. I am beginning to love myself. Perhaps I have become enamoured of my own image, but even so my narcissism is of the most unique kind. For now, I prey only on the weakest among you, those who would not survive long anyway, and in my actions I become their angel: of death / of mercy / of forgetful self-reflection.
I’ve only made one promise in my entire life. As time seamlessly goes by, the day and night losing their separation, dates evoking no emergency within me, and life slowly becoming devoid of any true meaning, I continue on because for some reason my soul feels obligated to uphold this promise. Pride doesn’t dictate how I operate and shame puts no fear in my heart. So why I’m inclined to remain true to my word is beyond me and it’s bothering me that I can’t get to the bottom of it. It snowed six inches two days ago. Being that it’s the middle of autumn in New England should cause some concern but nobody’s going to truly care about climate change until it’s irreversible. However, the clashing of seasons was an enamoring site to see. The way the white crystals were gracefully gliding through the rainbow-colored trees was a common showcase of nature strutting its elegance. It’s seventy degrees today and most of the snow has melted leaving a shiny gloss on the leaves that’ve gone back to their roots. I figured today was as good as any to rake them up. I didn’t own a rake, a leaf blower, or any device that could be used to either gather or disperse leaves. It’s one of those things I’ve never felt the need to do until this very moment. I live in a three-family apartment. I assume that someone has to have one, yet, it feels like I’d be a burden if I was to ask to use theirs. I’ve never interacted with either of my neighbors before. It’ll be weird if I go from never speaking to either of them to asking for something. ‘Hey I know we never talk but would you mind if I take advantage of your resources for nothing in return?’ See how awkward that is? Instead, I’ll just loan it from one of them without their knowing. Thankfully they both work day shifts so that gives me enough time to do what needs to be done without either of them knowing how it precisely got done. I went towards the upstairs apartment first, that way if she doesn’t have one I can walk down the steps in disappointment rather than annoyingly trudging up three flights of stairs. The door was locked. Why had I expected anything different? I have no clue. I tried my keys in the lock. Didn’t work. Why had I expected that to work? Again, I have no clue. Now, I could’ve just breached the door since this entire complex is made of bare minimum material but I thought it was excessive to break into her house for a rake. Especially for a rake I’m not sure is there. Downstairs I went and his door was unlocked. The unfamiliar smell of his apartment tickled my nose. It wasn’t musty by any means but it wasn’t pleasant. It was a strong, unidentifiable aroma that made the air feel thick as if it was telling me that I was an unwanted guest. The nerve of this apartment. The rake was by the door. I thought about roaming through the area to see the pieces of personality that one decorates their space of living with. Then I thought about finding something I had no business discovering in the first place, grabbed the rake, and left. A gust of wind knocked droplets onto my shoulders once I stepped on the porch. The fresh air made the inside of my body float with each inhale. The sun was smiling at everything it touched. A flock of birds temporarily painted the sky with their unique formations. I would’ve shed a tear at the scenery if I wasn’t accustomed to suppressing my emotions. Typically when I’ve witnessed people rake their yards they’ll put all the loose leaves in a trash bag. That makes no sense to me. Nature shouldn’t be thrown away. What I planned on doing was raking them toward a tree and forming a neat ring of fiery colors. Just as I was about to begin, a sudden gray wave overcame me. The urge to complete this simple task was dwindling. I looked towards the sun and it seemed dim. My breathing was happening in unnaturally slow increments. I closed my eyes and remembered the one life-binding promise I made and it was as if those previous moments were erased. The sun was again jubilant and the air tasted refreshing. As a kid, every chore felt unnecessary and exhausting. Now, at my grown age, chores are meditative. Somehow organizing is calming when you do it on a whim. The soft metal of the rake massaging the leaves gave me a sense of nostalgia. I can hear pancakes sizzling on a stove. Graham crackers being scrunched up. Orange juice being poured...maybe I was feeling more hungry than nostalgic. As I was having a fantasy of breakfast to come, the rake got stuck on a bundle of leaves. I kept trying to force them to move, thinking they might’ve been frozen together and stubborn, but they wouldn’t budge. When I went to move the bunch by hand, something was glistening a few feet away. Hoping it’d be gold or a time capsule I walked over to the mystery. It was a spoon. Not just any spoon though. It was a silver spoon. You know that same silver spoon used as an analogy for people that allegedly had an easy upbringing. Also, the same spoon that feels the cold rush of milk on many mornings. The same spoon that is at times used as a drumstick on an anonymous surface. Not lost jewelry or recovered artifacts from the past. It was a spoon. I laughed a little because just like life, you can expect something grandiose from the unknown only to be given something so simple like a spoon. I put it in my pocket and continued raking. The one promise I made was to myself. After failing at so many of my aspirations, I wanted to give up on life. It’s mentally draining to continuously be unable to grasp your desires. I felt worthless. Happiness became more elusive. Smiling always felt forced. It reached the point where I’d sit in darkness for hours on end, forcing the inner monologue of my mind to be silent. Then one day, when I was on my way to the kitchen, I heard a commotion outside. I went to the window to see what was happening. A wolf was mauling a rabbit...Nah I’m just kidding. It was actually a bear...again, just kidding. A kid kept falling off of his skateboard and not just small falls, they were skin-harming kinds of falls. He just kept getting on and trying whatever trick he was trying to accomplish. I watched him fail dozens of times, one because I was bored and to see if he’d give up but he never did. How could a kid have more perseverance than me? I was jealous. So I promised myself to never allow my pessimism to dictate my life. I’ll never be able to completely eliminate those intrusive thoughts or that dark feeling that sometimes washes over me. However, I have enough willpower to stop it from totally encapsulating me. Still, it never made sense as to why a kid falling off of a skateboard was the catalyst for this promise. How could something so simple have that much of an impact on me? It doesn’t make sense. Life doesn’t make sense. These leaves don’t make any sense. I’ve been doing too much thinking and not enough raking. “Is that my rake?” I looked up from the colors of autumn to a familiar face of a stranger. “I don’t know too many people with a light blue rake so I just thought it might be mine.” “It is...” I didn’t know what else to say. “Did I leave it out?” “No. Your door was unlocked.” “...” “...” I didn’t know how to casually say I snuck into his house to borrow his rake. I knew this would be a weird conversation. “I was going to bring it back. I just didn’t have one and thought...you know...one of my neighbors must have one...so...” “So you stole one out of my house?” “Borrowed.” “I always thought you were a little strange but I can’t argue with logic.” “Logic?” “Yea, what you did makes sense. I’d prefer if you didn’t do it again,” he laughed “but I’m not upset. Maybe next time you can ask me to use it.” “Right.” “Also maybe you can stick around and chat for a bit. This isn’t exactly how most first conversations go.” “Right.” I failed at doing a light laugh and made a weird noise instead. “Okay then. Just bring it back whenever you’re finished.” He went off into the apartment. That went better than I expected. I reached into my pocket to check what time it was because he shouldn’t have gotten home this early. The spoon was gone.
One hand to the mirror, as if placating the glass for the intrusion, you carefully prod the bruise on your cheek. Briefly, you wonder if you can truly cover it up with a mere smattering of Foundation. Your hand pauses, gently probing the purpled skin. It is a Coat of Arms, you realise. A Crest. A Crest crafted of darkened lilac hues, blooming like an oxbow lake over your freckles. Perhaps your freckles are the reason he did this. After all, you’ve never liked them either. The mirror offers you a skeleton girl with sunken cheekbones crowned by sallow hair. Dishwater red, if you’re not mistaken. As if someone has poured raspberry jelly down the sink. Looking down, you spit blood into a tissue which rests atop the toilet seat. It isn’t so bad, you tell yourself. The bruise is your symbol. Your badge of honour. No, you realise as you hear him storming through the kitchen, screaming your name. It is evidence. It is a reminder, the click of your phone as it tells you to visit a friend, an enemy, your Mother, anyone. Anyone at all. Ducking your head, you reach for the hoodie which hangs in spectral blue on the back of the bathroom door. You slip it over your head. There is no honour in this. No medal will be given if you make it through the next ten years. You cannot dodge. You cannot move. You tiptoe over the carpet, as if treading on blown glass. Most days, you barely have the time to speak, let alone breathe. Your thoughts bunch like an over-crowded locomotive at a living museum. You smile. The Black Country Museum. The day when he took your hand and led you around each wonder, a smile on his face. A smile wide enough to match the new cut on your neck from where the plate smashed the night before. Now, it is covered with a butterfly plaster. Somehow, you can still see it. Peeling back the collar of your blouse, as if trying to wave. He’s moving downstairs. You hear him, each step like a rogue pendulum swinging into the side of your skull. Inside, your organs shiver, seem to rattle your bones. Your entire body is a sheet on the washing line, torn by the wind. Eagerly, you prod the bruise again. Pain flushes up into your forehead. A reminder. A stark, bright purple and black reminder. You think of your wardrobe, where your clothes are ripped at the seams. Where your summer dress is scrunched at the back, resting languidly on a coat hanger. It is still splattered with mud from where you fell. Where he pushed you. You can’t remove it yet, can’t put it in the wash. You can’t. But there is something you can do. At first, you balk at the prospect. You stare at the ghoul in the mirror, wishing your reflection would reach out its hand and pull you into the glass. The bruise on your cheek rears it head. You know what you must do. “Where the hell is dinner? Is the oven on? Get me a beer!” You hear him shrieking from the kitchen table. You wait. Only for a few seconds. But you wait them out. “Forget it. I’m heading out. Useless,” he’s shouting. A moment later, the door slams. You are alone. In front of you, the mirror flashes, illuminating your purpled cheeks. His hand, behind you. His skin smacking against your jaw. No, you realise. You are never alone. Half-stumbling, you fumble for the bathroom door. Emerge onto the landing, where the salted caramel carpet is almost slippery beneath your toes. You manage to make it to the wardrobe, where you yank out a suitcase. You packed it two months ago, the third time you decided you wanted to leave. It has remained packed ever since, sitting in the dark. Waiting to be used. Slowly, you lift it out of the blackness. It is surprisingly light, and it is Atlantic blue - almost anthracite. Plain, no stickers. Your sister is the one who loves coating objects in geographically themed posters. The wheels are cleaned; it has never been used before. Snagging a coat from the edge of the bed, you begin to lug the suitcase downstairs. Your heart jostles against your lungs, your ribcage, waiting for him to return with his face flushed from beer and his fists hungry for your skin. When the kitchen remains a cemetery of empty corkboard, you rush to the back door. You do not bother to close it behind you. The outdoors hits you like a feather - soft but crammed with textures. The summer breeze seems to whistle through your ears. A ring of bells, trying to blind you. You stagger away from the semi-detached, taking the back roads through the park to the train station. The suitcase drags behind you like an anchor, pulling you all the way back, back to the house. Back to him. A lump in your throat, you keep walking. Sliding your hand into you coat pocket, you yank out the address. The paper is gnarled, almost crusty from the time you threw it out into the rain. But the address remains readable. She told you to visit, but you kept making excuses. Reasons why you wanted to avoid stepping back into her life. Why else had you traded her love for something which was meant to be akin to love but became twisted and wrong? The train station is an angular rectangle constructed of red metal beams coveting glass walls. The doors are automatic, swallowing you as you drag your suitcase onto the tiles. You do your best to hide your face in your coat collar, but the ticket officers still offer you odd stares as you shuffle through to the platform. Your train is on Platform Six, right at the bottom of the staircase, next to a sandwich shop. Your stomach rumbles, but you ignore it. You don’t have time. Besides, you know if you eat now, the food won’t remain in your stomach for long. The train arrives late, so you know that this time, leaving isn’t a dream. Dragging your suitcase onto the nearest carriage winds you instantly and you flounder like a fish in a desert before rushing for a chair. The seats are hard, not plush. The cushions seem to dig into your spine. You look around, wide eyed. Expect to see him coursing through the aisle, hands crushing the foldable arm rests in his wake. Even the Conductor’s voice seems to scream for you to return home. You try to close your eyes, to sleep the journey away. After half an hour of unfit full shuffling, you remain awake, staring at the countryside as it flashes by in tufts of green. Little lambs, bouncing away, unaware of the horrors which will befall their brothers and sisters. Breathing hard, you return to the past. To your destination - the little redbrick house on the street corner, near the bookshop where you grew up, a little girl with pigtails, jumping in puddles on a drizzly April afternoon. It isn’t raining when the train stops. Instead, the sun remains pulsing like a heartbeat in the sky. Perhaps it’s yours. You always wondered where that pesky organ went. Carefully, you manage to stand for long enough to lug the suitcase out onto the platform. This station seems plastic, as if it’s made of Lego. You stumble to a bench and sit for a few minutes to watch the train leave. It slithers out of the station in snake-like serpentine. Twenty minutes later, your drag your suitcase up the steps, keeping to the left as the yellow lines dictate. Soon enough, you emerge into the spitting smog. Cars line each side of the pavement outside the station - red Ford Fiesta’s, black Skoda’s, orange Kia’s. The houses are a mixture of bungalows with manicured gardens, crowned with detached terraces, some sporting cherubs spouting fountain water. You know the address off by heart by the time you pull the suitcase across the road to the main street. You head up a set of stone steps, the case a led weight on your arm. Around a corner, you nearly stumble over the pavement. Around another corner and it’s there. A small semi-detached, the one near the bookstore. The driveway has been partially eaten by succulents. You knock on the door and step back. For a moment, you hear scuffling through the letterbox. The door is opened by a small woman who should not be your Mother. She is almost weightless, with hollowed cheekbones. She is not your Mother. A ghost of your Mother, perhaps. But her skin is peppered with bruises. “Who the hell is that at the door?” You jump, and a large man with a scruffy beard emerges from the darkened hallway. Your Mother seems to shrink when he appears. “Hello,” you manage to grind out of your throat. The man sneers, using the entirety of his upper lip, like a horse. He touches your Mother’s arm, which is bruised beneath her semi-transparent blouse. Your Mother flinches. Your eyes widen and you understand. Folie à deux, you think. A madness shared by two. After all, bruises are the Family Crest. “Sorry,” you say. “Wrong address”. You turn from the door without making eye-contact. Your Mother doesn’t speak and the man only spits at your back, muttering something under his breath. Suitcase in hand, you return to the station.
It was the largest bank on the outskirts of Nashville, TN, a man was standing just inside the men’s room; he was thinking about what he had to do in the next few hours as he took a deep breath and stepped out into the wide hallway. He needed to get in and out as quickly as possible, and thought to himself, this was one town he certainly was not going to miss! The past decade had not been kind to him, he had been unemployed for years and was still in mourning, even though it had happened seven and a half years ago, it felt like he had lost the one person he loved the most in this world, just yesterday. He wore a very broad, ragged, floor length brown coat that was too big and outdated for him, but he didn’t care, it felt good and it was perfect for what he had to do that day. People on the street stared and looked down on him, they found his coat ugly and they pitied him for being poor and plainly destitute. But for those who criticized and made fun of him, mostly during his adolescence and school aged years, they would have been astonished to realize he was a kind, giving and gentle person. He had deliberately chosen this coat because of its large deep pockets, there was a hole in the left pocket, and so he kept his notepad and pencil neatly tucked away in the pocket on his right side. He noticed a small stuffed teddy bear lounging lazily on a settee in the sitting area as he walked slowly through the lobby, and randomly thought how odd it looked, so forlorn and in want of its owner who must have left it unknowingly behind; he silently reprimanded himself to remain focused as he walked up to the first available teller in the bank lobby. He was met by a woman whose nametag beamed in bright yellow letters, ‘Hi! My name is Mary, How can I help you?’ which he thought was the perfect name and tag color for her as he thought she looked just like a sunflower in full bloom, as he handed her the note he had written earlier that morning. As she read his note, her eyes grew wide as she looked from the note back to the man standing in front of her and then back to the note again. While trying to decipher it, Mary slowly became aware of a faint hissing sound, she looked around to see where it was coming from, and she noticed the air conditioning vent just behind her station was emitting something quite out of the ordinary. The smoke slowly drifted out in tiny little swirls, it was so faint, she nearly missed it, she could hardly make out what it was at first, then realized in horror as a pungent odor began to spread throughout the room. The man, seemingly unaware of her distress, motioned for his note back; it was at that moment he noticed the look of denial or could it be recognition on her face and for a brief moment, he showed his first sign of genuine concern. As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished and he looked back at Mary, his face stoic once again. The alarm was now going off, it was like a coarse, shredded needle raking over a vinyl ‘spinning out of control’ record, making it sound like skewered animals being charred alive, over an open fire pit; this is how the radio newscast would word it later on, as the man was oblivious to the deafening shrill noise, he was patiently waiting for Mary to hand him back his note. As people started running and screaming in every direction around him, he didn’t move. He didn’t seem to care, all he wanted to do was keep staring at Mary; she was yelling at him, or so he thought, or was she warning him? He wasn’t sure, as his vision was slowly fading, there was no noise at all, and everything was going black as he fought to stay conscious, he slid in slow motion down the counter into a small bundled heap within his very large coat. His head hit the marble floor with a crack and his eyes flew open, this time he was going to watch ... He could see the fear reaching the eyes of patrons and bank workers nearby, they knew something terrible was happening as they started running for the exit door. A woman stopped and blood was oozing from her mouth as she fell face first down that perfectly manicured marble staircase he had admired when he entered the building over two hours ago. People who were running began passing out all around him, some even falling on him. Men and women alike were vomiting everywhere; others were turning black with blood pouring out of their ears and noses, dying right in front of him. His last recollection was someone running towards him with a club in hand, it was the guard he had seen earlier when he entered the bank that morning. He whimpered and tried to move out of the way as the guard raised the club over him. This enraged the guard and he winced as the club struck him hard, he tried to scream, but nothing came out, he was unable to get away from this man. The beating continued and through a deep haze, he thought he imagined Mary running up behind the guard as she tried to stop him, but as the last strike came to his head, the man blacked out. He awoke one last time to an old radio newscast talking about the bank ordeal and announcing that no one had made it out of the bank alive that day, included in the fatalities was a bank-teller who left behind a husband and infant son, his heart wrenched and he screamed from the depths of his soul. Then he faded for the last time into a welcomed darkness. ... The boy was jostled awake as he bounced off the back seat where he had been fast asleep, landing onto the floor of the old 1984 Chevrolet Caprice Station Wagon that his dad was driving and he bolted straight up! He looked around frantically and slithered back into his seat, his thoughts on that same nightmare he had again. He remembered the bank, the bank-teller, her trying to save him and wondered what happened to the note and to the guard that had been beating him and pretty much wondered what it all meant? Somewhere deep inside of him, he recalled hearing the hazy radio announcement, his vision instantly blurring due to the huge teardrops that had rimmed around his tired eyes, eventually burning down his cheeks; here he was, alive and breathing! It was just he and his dad now; he had just turned 8 years old and was way too young to be having these awful nightmares. The car was packed with the little bit of belongings they owned and they were moving out of Tennessee and heading to Arkansas to live with his grandparents until his dad was able to find a job and get back on his feet. He didn’t know how long they’d been driving on this long lonely road, but he was really sore and his head ached with a familiar bludgeoning pain. When they stopped for the night, he pulled out his ratty garbage bag that he kept what little clothes he owned in, as he untied the knots and opened it up, an old brown coat fell to the ground. He peered into the left pocket where he faintly remembered a hole but the hole was not there and was utterly shocked at what he found. The pocket was lined with twenty, fifty and one hundred dollar bills, which he added up later, totaling to almost one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he was simply and soundly stunned! When he looked in the right pocket, he found an old notepad and pencil, then felt another bulge, he couldn’t imagine what it could be. He felt along the seams and deep within the pocket he pulled out an antiquated stuffed teddy bear, it stared back at him and he could of sworn he saw a tug of a smile within that furry part of his mouth and that knowing look, like he had been waiting a very long time to be found. That’s when it all came rushing back to him... The boy smiled in faint recognition. Epilogue He was in the backseat again, they were driving west on Interstate 40, with Nashville miles behind them now. His dad looked back and motioned to his son in sign language to see if he was okay, and he motioned back, “Yes, I’m fine, dad”.
KEYNOTE CATASTROPHE J.D. McDonald Shortly after I published my book on raising quail, I was invited to be the keynote speaker at a Bird Club. The event took place in a town located four hours' drive from my home. Since we were unfamiliar with the city, Karen, the club's representative, suggested we meet early at a local restaurant near the main highway. She invited us to grab dinner there and then follow her to the event. Karen said that the club would cover the cost of dinner for my husband and me before the meeting. Because Karen was in the process of moving to a new home, she told us to scan the parking lot when we arrived and look for a white pickup truck loaded with various household items. She also mentioned that if we ran late, she might go into the restaurant and secure a table for us. In that case, we should look for a "Mutt and Jeff" pair, explaining that she is very short and would be with another club member, Jane, who is exceptionally tall and walks with a cane. Finding them sounded simple. Since it was a long trip and we weren't sure of the exact location of the restaurant, we left earlier than necessary. As it turned out, we needn't have worried; the restaurant was easy to find. We arrived at 5 p.m., leaving us thirty minutes before our 5:30 p.m. meeting. At 5:15 p.m., we noticed a tall, solitary woman using a cane making her way toward the restaurant door. It seemed like she was looking for someone, so we quickly got out of the car and hurried toward her. Excited and a bit anxious, we asked, "Are you Jane?" She matter-of-factly told us she wasn't Jane. Apparently, our sudden, unexpected approach panicked her a bit because she lifted her cane slightly off the ground in a defensive manner. We apologized and returned to our vehicle. We sat there, craning our necks in all directions, searching for our hostess, until finally, at six o'clock, a white pickup truck struggling under the weight of what seemed to be an entire household of boxes and furniture raced wildly into the parking lot. A short woman burst from the driver's side and ran toward the restaurant. Catching up to her, we confirmed it was Karen The other club member, Jane, the tall lady with the cane, was a no-show. We enjoyed a nice dinner, although it was rushed due to our late start. After dessert and coffee, Karen handed the waiter a credit card to pay the bill. Unfortunately, the waiter informed her that the restaurant didn't accept that card. Since it was Karen's only card and we wanted to avoid washing dishes to pay for our meal, we used our credit card instead. Karen was upset but mentioned that the club would send us a reimbursement check in a few days. As we stepped outside, Karen told us to follow her to the community center where the bird club was meeting for my speech. Despite the debit card glitch and the late start, we remained optimistic. However, that feeling waned when Karen drove out of the parking lot at mach-one speed, leaving us struggling to follow her through the dark streets of an unfamiliar city. Karen, an experienced rush hour driver, expertly navigated through traffic, weaving in and out of lanes and driving like the Tasmanian Devil. Her taillights blended in with the others, so we could only follow by catching occasional glimpses of her massive load of belongings. Unfortunately, we lost sight of her when a large truck cut us off, and we were lost. After twisting through a maze of random turns and doubling back several times, we found the community center by sheer luck. We rushed through the door in a frenzy at 7:15, just fifteen minutes before my talk was scheduled to begin. Surprisingly, Karen appeared unfazed by losing us in traffic. She was sipping coffee and calmly chatting with club members. On the other hand, my husband and I felt like we had just taken part in a high-speed car chase. Karen smiled warmly when she saw us arrive and introduced us to the club president and secretary. They informed us that the D.V.D. Player I would be using for my presentation was not working. However, they assured me they had called for a backup unit, which would arrive in time for my talk. Karen then took the D.V.D. I brought and placed it on the old player. It contained a slide show of the quail I would be discussing. By 8:00 p.m., the backup unit had yet to arrive, and people were restless. Maybe it was my nerves, but I sensed a massive walk-out was about to happen. Even though I was discussing quail, the theme for that night's meeting was "Bring your Parrot." Every member had their parrot with them, so there was an overwhelming crescendo of parrot caws and screeches followed by flapping wings and loose flying feathers. Occasionally, a rebellious parrot would leave its owner's shoulder and fly crazily about the room. The commotion caused by the flying birds and the overwhelming din of the club members as they chatted with each other and with their birds was unsettling. The player had not arrived by 8:15, so the club president decided to start the scheduled raffle. This caught the club members attention for a while, but I grew increasingly apprehensive and nervous with each passing minute. The new equipment finally arrived at 8:30 p.m. It was delivered by the club president's son, who seemed to be in his early twenties. He quickly dropped it off and left without setting it up. The arrival of the equipment briefly relieved some of my stress. I wanted to give my talk and go home. I'd had enough chaos for one evening. But there was yet another delay. As the minutes ticked by, it became increasingly clear that no one was familiar with the new equipment. I watched as several people attempted to connect various cables, none of which fit. At this point, I had a pounding headache and a dry mouth; the precursor to a migraine. Amidst this chaos, the president took the stage, praising my expertise with quail. It was clear he was stalling. Then, a voice from the crowd announced that the projector was finally ready. The president thrust the microphone into my hand, and I was on stage. Weak applause went up from the weary and restless group, and I thanked them for asking me to participate in their club meeting. For my introduction, a photo from my D.V.D. showing a basket of baby quail was supposed to appear on the large screen behind me; it didn't. Instead, a loud scream from the speakers filled the room, and scenes of a gruesome horror movie appeared. It was more than I could handle. All the blood rushed to my head, and I had to grasp the podium to keep my legs from buckling. I croaked, "That's not my D.V.D.! It's not mine!" Could anything else go wrong? Of course, it could. The man operating the machine couldn't figure out how to shut it off until it was too late--much, much too late. The club members saw about two minutes of the grotesque show , that to me felt a lifetime. The young man who delivered the projector must have been watching that movie when asked to deliver the equipment to the club. Either he forgot to remove it, or it was his way of getting back at them for making him give up his evening's entertainment. I suspect the latter; that would explain his leaving in a hurry and not setting it up. Before the clamoring stopped, someone crept on stage and whispered, "I know we scheduled you for an hour, but can you cut it to thirty minutes or less?" I wanted to make it a lot less. I wanted to leave right then, but I tried to be stoic. As if all that had gone wrong that evening wasn't enough, the stress and my allergy to parrot dander triggered a minor asthma attack, and I could barely breathe, let alone talk. My voice vibrated so badly that it sounded like I was trying to speak while roller skating over a washboard sidewalk. Someone handed me a tiny paper cup of water, which, with my shaking hand, I managed to spill over my notes, rendering them useless. Looking back, I'm still unsure what I said during the talk; it felt like I was babbling and rambling. I stumbled through it without the aid of the slide show presentation and rushed off the stage in less than fifteen minutes. A few days later, I received an email from the club apologizing for the chaos and inviting me to speak again in two months. Unfortunately, I am busy that night, whatever night it might be. My days of public speaking are over for good.
I Fall With the Rain (gamma) (Intercepted Communique routed to Colonel Herbert Rhodes, Third Fleet) It’s from the edges of things I think. Yeats said the center is where it falls apart, but I disagree to a point. I think the center is where the rot begins. The center loses cohesion sure, but generations of aging infrastructure can hold the shape of the ancient heart long after that heart has died. People carry on carrying on in the center, sometimes unaware that they live their lives in the ventricles of a vast dying (or already dead) organ. Maybe on some level they are aware, some nagging doubt hanging on the periphery of their consciousness; on the edge of their awareness. The edge of awareness. Taking the analogy forward, when the body begins to die, it conserves it’s resources in the core, the trunk. Blood flow, oxygen, heat is retained as long as possible in the core, and the periphery is starved. The fingers, the toes, and eventually closer and closer towards this core resources are starved as this body mercilessly casts off every unnecessary attachment in a desperate stalling tactic of what may be inevitable. The body conserves what it can in the core, the heart and mind, in hopes that it will survive. There may be loss of those distant limbs, but the being will survive. But when the core is already dead. Dead isn’t the right word, rotten isn’t either. Here is where the metaphor collapses. Dead is dead, there is nothing for this core to salvage. This hypothetical creature has nothing to save. What of madness, then? What if the intellect of this living being is fundamentally insane? What if the mind is chemically alive, but consciously (as far as we can understand the conscious) has flat-lined? The infrastructure remains and the commuters commute and the consumers consume as they have for generations unaware (except from the edge of their awareness perhaps?) that the heart or the mind has long since ceased to be a properly functioning center of order and progression. What of the periphery? The peripheral fingers and toes. What of the edges of things? Does the disparate realms of the edges continue on unaware that the core has collapsed into madness? The blood remains flowing, the oxygen content remains as rich as ever, do these extremities carry on unaffected? I can only assume that the fingers remained well nourished as the mind drove them to write the same five words on a wall of a distant lunar mining station over and over with no readily apparent sense. But proof that the fingers are sometimes consumed stood before me today as I surveyed the cell where the second set of five words were written thousands of times. We ascend with the light. I fall with the rain, we ascend with the light. A cyclical process. These ten words seem to encapsulate the simple to understand water cycle. Condensation, precipitation, evaporation, condensation, ad infinitum. The cool air causes the water vapor to form into larger molecules of water, eventually falling to the surface as rain. The rain forms rivulets that feed into streams that feed into rivers that feed into oceans. The surface of the ocean is heated by the dissipation of the clouds and the exposure to the sun, to the light. The water is heated to the point of evaporation, the vapor rises into the sky. The process repeats. The process unending. We ascend with the light. It was what had been written in his cell. These five words written over and over again with the rubbery digital crayon, (at least to begin with) that he had been given to occupy what remained of his mind here at the institute. The words had begun on the sheets of data flimsy provided, but once those were covered, they had moved on to the floor, the walls, the edges of the sleeping palette and portions of the ceiling that I assume was as far as he could reach. He was dedicated to his craft and to his message. The crayon had provided enough of a tool to provide for his creative endeavor, for a while. What remained of the inmate’s fingers evidenced the fact that the crayon hadn’t kept up with the needs of his driven mind. The core, in it’s madness, sometimes destroys the peripheral limbs, the edges of it’s being to provide whatever sustenance the diseased mind is demanding. The edges begin to crumble, and are worn away. The edges begin to die. Maybe the edges always eventually die whether the end comes from within or from without. Frostbite cause the body to conserve the core, and starving the limbs. Madness consumes the mind, leaving the limbs, and eventually the body in it’s entirety, driven to destruction as they are fed into this internal consumption. Maybe it’s late. Maybe I need to take a stress pill and get some sleep. I’m worried though, Colonel. I’m not one typically prone to see dire visions in my synthetea or throw salt over my shoulder should I spill a few grains, but something about these words leave me feeling cold. Look at how I’ve waxed on about collapsing societies and dying processes! What for God’s sake makes that come to mind as I’m standing in an inmate’s cell, rich with the coppery smell of drying blood and corruption? Corruption and obfuscation. What has caused that report from that stringer pilot to be buried? Given this second line, coupled with what was written on the walls of Tlalocan, what was broadcast to the fleet ships, seems to be a simple explanation of a simple hydrologic process. What does the water cycle have to do with death and the dying process and the mechanics of madness? The mechanics of madness. I think after I wrap the autopsy files and the official report of the inmate up and process it into the core data banks, (and I think I’ll delete record of this file in all other databases; I don’t know why, but that feels prudent at this juncture), I’m going to step outside and have a smoke. It’s raining, but I can deal with that; I brought my jacket to the office today. - Dr.
“At the roundabout, take the second exit.” “Shut the fuck up Siri!” He screamed. “You’ve been driving us around in circles through this shit hole of a town for the last twenty minutes, for Christ sake!” He continued. I have never really seen him this angry, this upset. Usually he’s the cool, calm and collected head and I’m always the worry-wart. But today, today he’s just... off. Off more than one would expect to be off on a day like today. “Turn left down Macquarie lane and then make a U-turn” Siri blurts out smugly. “Jesus H Fucking Christ” he muttered under his breath. “This bitch, I thought computers are smart.” “It’s ok Duncan. Don’t rush, we will get there when we get there.” I replied, trying my best to calm him down with a soft tone. “Matilda, we only have one chance for this. And these constant misdirections and mixed with all the fucking traffic. It’s doing my head in, love” he retorted, trying his best to stay calm. But I can sense the frustration. He wants to scream. “Continue along Macquarie lane 800 meters, then turn left down Yakabindi Drive.” “I hate this city. I hate this fucking place so much.” He sulked. The fiery red anger and frustration in his voice now doused out, turning blue, I swear he could burst into tears at any moment. “It will be ok darling. We have plenty of time still. We will get there in-time. Try not to stress too much.” My words go in one ear and out the other. He just nods and replies “yes dear. Yes dear”. I know it has been, it still is, a stressful day. But I don’t like seeing him like this. I never see him like this. Today, of all days, has broken him. Of any day for him to be like this, this would have to be the worst one to choose. I just wanted to spend the day with my husband, my high school sweetheart. I wanted today, more so than any other other day we’ve had together, to be just us, just good. Just perfect. “Slow down baby, there’s no need to drive so quick.” I pleaded with him after I feel the car speeding faster and faster. “We can’t be late Matilda. And the police aren’t going to do anything today. We will be fine as long as all these stupid shit heads stay out of the way.” He snarled back. “Baby please, I don’t like this, please slow down” I begged once more, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears, as he now swerved recklessly around caravans and other SUVs travelling to slow for his liking. I gripped the seat tighter and push my feet against the footwell, as if I’ve magically got a second break peddle on my side of the car, ready to slam down at the first sign sign of trouble. We seem to have left the suburbs now, no longer are there black roofed houses with empty carports and wide open front doors, but large pine forests now zooming past. “Finally, the open road sweetheart. We should be able to make it as long as every other idiot is behind us. Next stop Mt Eliza, and back to lake Nunnabindi. It will be perfect babe. I promise”. I faked a smile but kept hold of the seat firmly. We were both faking it really, in our own way. As nothing about today was perfect. How could it be? We would have driven another hour, maybe two, but time honestly doesn’t matter anymore so I can’t be sure. Duncan seems to have calmed down now. His fingers no longer white knuckled gripping the wheel. I also calmed, no longer were my feet pushed to the end of the floor well, my hand now gently resting on his forearm. I had time to watch the scenery rush past. The pine forest is truly a beautiful place. Fresh, clean. Hours passed by, only the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh or yawn from Duncan broke the silence. I watched him, as he concentrated on the road, as his mind raced with thoughts I could only guess. I saw the man I married ten years ago. I saw the cheeky teen I met in high school. He may have greying hair and a few wrinkles. But I saw him. I smiled. He remained blissfully unaware of my gaze. But that just made me smile more. “Duncan, baby” I said softly. “Yeah, Tilly” he smiled back at me, his eyes never once leaving the road “I love you” I whispered. “I love you too, baby”. I unbuckled my seatbelt, it was always getting jammed, so I could lean over and give him a peck on the cheek. He smiled and turned his head to me. “I’m sorry baby. I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I love you” I could hear the hurt in his voice. I know him, I know that’s not who he is. I know it’s a sincere apology. The car jolted violently as I was leaning over the Centre console. It swerved violently to the right. “Oh fuck!” We both screamed. A few seconds of hard bumps, a loud bang and crash and suddenly my world spin upside down. Thrown from the vehicle, with a stabbing pain in my shoulder. My body tumbled across a grass field until coming to a painful stop. Dazed I turned my head from left to right, searching for Duncan. I struggled to move. My arms in searing pain, my legs unable to move. To the left I could see our car, wrapped around a tree, I shot out of the front windscreen and flew at least 10..20 meters? I have no idea. “DUNCAN” I croaked. My voice course and low. “DUNCAN”, tears streaming down my cheeks. I got no reply. All I could hear were the cicadas. And an occasional gust of wind. “DUNCAN, BABY. Please” I bellowed one last time. And again, no answer. I turned my head once more. I gazed up. Directly up, to what we have all been avoiding for the last few days. The bright blue summer sky transformed into a terrifying canvas of chaos. As if the devil was inspired by Claude Monet himself, but needed to one-up him to prove a point. The blue replaced by dazzling reds, yellows and orange. A blazing, crackling tail left in its wake. It was just now I noticed the eerie, ominous glow that has overtaken the ground. It was closer than we realised. My heart cried out to me “find Duncan”. But I lay there helpless. Frightened and alone. Transfix by the spectacle above, I couldn’t tell if it was paralysis or some primal fear keeping me from standing up and finding my husband. But either way, I couldn’t move. “Duncan” I croaked once more. I realised as I lay on the grass, and with my gaze fixed firmly on the horrifying spectacle above. I was never going to see Duncan again. And as tears mingled with the dust on my cheeks, I whisper his name one last time, a desperate plea lost in the chaos of the devil above. The hand never to be held again. The final kiss we will never have. One last embrace, That last day that never came.
It was a normal day at Apple Wood High, the football team was practicing, the cheerleaders were cheering, the mean girls were gossiping and Josh was talking away like he always did. “Derek, are you listening to me,” he says. I nod, all I can think of is the long jump team. No one knows that I want to be an olympic long jumper, My parents want me to be some world’s best doctor. They put me in a junior doctors camp until I was in the seventh grade. I secretly wanted to be a long jumper since I was a little boy. I knew if I became a long jumper my parents would be disappointed. Josh was still talking about his own problems but I had a big problem coming, this year was the year we had to pick our career choice. Josh wants to be a dancer and has set everything to be one but now I am in trouble. We have to figure out where we are headed in less than six months. Im am a very good long jumper, I learned from school, my parents never put me in any sports so this was my only option. My friend Delilah is a long jumper, and is on the jr.long jumping team, and after school I stay and practice with her and her team . It is not like I am on the team or anything it is just so I can see if this is what I want to do. The problem here is that I want to be a professional long jumper, when you run so fast before jumping with that fierce determination and jump like it is life or death. The refreshment you breathe in that fresh skt air for a split second, then you charge full speed towards the other side of the sand pit. The adrenaline running through your body, your feet launching up, your arms flailing in the wind. After that, the make or break landing at the end, that is what I want to do. By this time I somehow managed to get to math class, Mrs.Smith looked mad, but I wasn’t late. I was actually a minute early. I sat down, most of the class was here except for Hanna, the suck up. I barely made it through math, the picking between long jumping or being a doctor was bugging me too much. I knew the only way was if I got the best of both worlds. That meant I was going to volunteer at the hospital as a doctor's assistant and see how the doctors worked, and I would sign up for the long jumping team. This is the only way that I could see which one I liked better. My heart beating so fast I was afraid others could hear it, I went to the sign-up sheet for the long jumping team tryouts. With shaking hands I wrote my name, “Derek Thomas”. Then I went to the hospital to see if they were hiring volunteers. I got lucky because there was one spot available. I took it and this plan was in action. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Today was my first day at the hospital. My straight blond hair was pulled back and smoothed, my blue eyes sparkled, my slim body looked good in the scrubs. Inside though I was empty, this wasn’t what I wanted to be, right when I was thinking that my mom walks in. “oh you look so handsome, you were meant to be a doctor,” she says. I smile, but inside I want to tell her that I am just doing this for her and that I don't want to do this. The day goes by awful, being a doctor is busy and stressful and chaotic and a complete mess. I don’t want to come next week but I have to and four more times after that. I force myself to think that it will be fine and maybe it will get better. Even though I know it won’t be “better”. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In two minutes I have my first practice with the team. I get ready in the change room, my blond hair is messy, my uniform makes me look a little chubby, my eyes don’t sparkle, they are ready and focused. Inside though I am feeling the best, I feel like I fit in. Josh walks in. “good luck, you will do great!” he says. I punched him on the arm lightly and said thanks. I told Josh about what I was doing the day before, my terrible day at the hospital. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Four dreadful weeks volunteering at the hospital, I knew I didn't want to become a doctor. It isn’t that easy, I have to tell my mom and dad that their son, who was raised to be a doctor, does not want to be one. My mom is an extraordinary surgeon, she is the sweetest person I know, she believes in me the most and she wanted me to follow in her footsteps but that dream will only be a dream. My dad is a plastic surgeon who is ranked in the “Top 5 extraordinary plastic surgeons.” There is another problem that Josh reminds me of while he rambles on. I have a long jump contest next Saturday and I need parents' consent to go. When I reach the door of my house, I take a deep breath and open the door. My mom and dad both don’t have work today. I go inside to clean up and sit down in the living room with my parents. I say “ I know you guys want me to be a doctor and you know I have been volunteering at the hospital.” “Yes sweetheart we know this, what is wrong,” my mom says. “I don’t want to be a doctor!” I blurted out. My mom and dad gasp. They look like I told them Someone died. They look upset, sad, frustrated, angry, shocked, and disappointed. Oh why did I blurt that out, oh why, I think to myself. My mom ignores what I say and says “ dinners ready.” We all get up and go to the dinner table. I set the table and we start to eat, it is dead silent. That is when I blurt out, “ I want to be a long jumper, I have been training at school and I have a contest next Saturday. I need you to sign a permission slip.” My dad stared at me and said “okay, after dinner I will sign it.” I smile and say “ Thank you so much. You can come if you want.” I look at my mom who is silently eating, looking down on her plate. I sigh and put my plate in the sink and go up to my room. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It is saturday morning and I am headed for practice before the competition. Practice was tiring and very long. I got a new uniform for the competition, I put it on, it was fitting, the colours made my eyes stand out. I got to the competition. I knew Josh was going to come and I also knew my parents wouldn’t show, but that was okay. I got warmed up and got ready to start. I was ready to start running, when I took a glance at the audience and I saw my parents, I smiled and sprinted. I ran so fast that my legs burned, and then I jumped so high that I could almost see the birds eyes. I failed my arms and then landed,I looked up at the scoreboard, while catching my breath and I had won, I had won. I looked at the audience, my mom and dad were cheering for me. I got home and my parents were waiting for me. They gave me a big hug and said “we are very, very proud of you.” They also said that they are going to support me. I was so happy, I smiled then said “Thank you.” I was happy and grateful. Now I am a world class long jumper, and I am headed to the Olympics.
So, Neomi. What can you tell us about the voyage? It was nothing special. Just a week aboard a transport vessel. I think we where shipping cardiac bulbs, but i don't know for sure. The crisis... Now that i said it out loud i realize how prophetic that names is. Anyway, the crisis was an old junky, but it was still pretty reliable. The AI running the ship was an old Atalanta that loved dad jokes. Yeah, that serious, no nonsense attitude of most AI is just in the newer software. The crew considered of myself, the technician, the amazing captain Wannerham and a cranky pitface called Sulfur Mckaline. And how did it begin? With a voice in our heads. A strange, calm voice. "System error detected, please run diagnostics" There is only one thing that talks in your head. The warp drive. F*cking magic. Of course everyone looked at me, so i floated over to the engine room. The... Most people have never seen a prometheus alcubierre drive before. Could you discribe it? I'm an engineer, not a wizard. I, sorry, now one knows how those deathtraps work. That's true, but can you discribe what it looked like. I'll try. It's basically a big, black ball. In front of it, there are these glowing, flying lines that form statistics, pie charts and numbers. No idea what any of them mean. Around the ball there are also these wheels with glowing edges. That's how I saw something was wrong What was wrong? The top right wheel was shacking. Now, normally you can just look at the perfect satisfying motions, but this was going back and forth and wiggling. Amongst the holograms, there was also a small flashing pink light with some scribbles underneath. I just did what the voice had asked me and pushed the big holographic button that said "run system diagnostics" Suddenly, everything was flashing pink and droning sirens filled my ears, but only for a moment. And then? :( What? That's what the drive showed me. Al the holograms where gone, except for a big pink :( . In my mind i heard the voice again. Still completely calm. "Your machine has ran into a problem and needs to be repaired. We're collecting some error info, then we'll repair it for you. A technician is on there way" And how did you feel? Nervous. I moved like everything was made of nitroglycerin. From down the hall came the voice of the captain. "Everything still in one piece?" "No idea" i yelled back. I thought I would explode or something. Well... I didn't know what would happen. After a minute of just staying still there, i slowly moved to the bridge. At least I intended to, but i noticed something strange. The leak, right? I guess it was. I didn't look like a conventional leak though. The wheel that had been wiggling was now twitching. Faster than it could feasible move on It's own. Then it started growing and shrinking. Pulsating. Like it was breather or something. I don't have a better analog. If you've never seen what dark matter does... The pulsing spread to the other parts of the warp drive. That horrible sound began What sound? Like spacetime ripping at the seems. Like an organic version of radio noise. Like thousands of cthulhu hornets stuck in a jar. Like... The air shivered, rived and twitched. Everything shivered, rived and twitched. And you just stayed there? Oh no, that all happened in a split second. When it finally registered in my brain, i started booking it down the corridor, but that was hard. The corridor expanded and twisted and tumbled and went mad. Or i went mad. Who knows. When I finally made it out of that hellhole, i saw the captain, trying to figure out what was wrong. I just rounded the corner as a burst of quickly expanding, writhing shit was thrown out of the latch a had come from. Wannerham was a great captain, but only for simple travel. Not emergencies. He froze. I tried to drag him with me, but he wouldn't let go of the grip. (Long pause) Should we continue this another time? No... No, i want to get it out of my system. I eventually gave up. I know it's heartless, but i just didn't know what to do. So i left him there and draged myself to the cafeteria. Before I left, i just saw his limp body being torn apart. Now he was a part of the exploding and reassembling mess that was once the bowels of the ship. And what did you do then? I was afraid the oxygen might start leaking into outer space, so i grabbed a space suite and put it on. Stupidity kept me sane. "I was in control" I was never in controle of that situation. The engine room was at the bottom of the ships ass, so i went to the exact opposite room, the cockpit. And Sulfur and Atalanta? Atalanta was offline. As for Sulfur. No idea. Probably already dead. I wasn't going to check. As i floated into the big glass room, i could hear something exploding. It came sweaping through the halls. A bright burning. Right as the color shifting, twitching, tongues of flame shot out if the doorway, I heard the voice again, with the words that probably saved my life. "Temporal safe switch activated" i had no idea what it meant and prepared for the explosion. I opened my eyes and there it was, bright as the sun. Yet you survived. How? You see. The explosion never came. I'm losing you. It was there, but didn't come closer. It still moved, sure, but very, very slowly. Like those slow motion cameras. I couldn't believe it. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes... But nothing came. I couldn't move. Well, i could, just very very slowly. The only thing that happened fast was my mind. It must have been 5, 10 maybe 20 minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Just floating there. On one side, an eldritch abomination of flame and twitching rubble. On the other, a pane of glass shielding me from The horror of deep space. And how did you end up docking at the phobos space elevator? This isn't the ended of the insiedent. Oh no, far from it. Phobos was still 3 hours away, and the ship wasn't moving anymore. I couldn't do anything but wait. But i had forgotten about the technician. Wasn't that you? No, the other technician. Remember the pink screen of death. The voice had said "A technician is on their way" i think they arrived. I saw something coming through the flames. When the flames had consumed about half the room, i suddenly saw a white face, looking back at me. Then, at regular speed, the black cloud the head was attached to truw some black powder at the flames, which started retracting. It dove back into them, leaving a seemingly solid tunnel trough the fire. Then thousands of thin strings appeared between the lose parts of the ship. The thing came back and solidified a black, human arm, gave me a thumbs up, saluted me and disappeared. Disappeared? Yeah. I blinked and they where gone. And then? Time starded passing like usual again. The flames quickly retracted into the hallway. Then it was quiet. I managed to get Atalanta back online. Don't ask me how. She immediately scanned me and tried to liven the mood a little with a stupid pun. I don't even remember it. I was in shock. Catatonic maybe. I just got her to take me to the nearest colony. And you made it out unscathed. Mostly unscathed. (Neomi takes of her boot and puts her foot on the table) Oh god It's not as bad as it looks. For all you shittertens who are only listening, get a tv. But also, my foot and a bit of my leg is narld and warped like the smudge tool in photoshop. I can still walk on it, and it's working as intended. Just a friendly reminder of that one time i almost exploded. This story is from a worldbuilding project on r/operationbeagle.
THE PHOENIX ARISES This story is true; compiled of facts from personal knowledge and conjecture derived from newspaper reports and there are three main actors. The first was a gangster from Chicago, name o’ Murray Humphreys, an associate of Al Capone and the brains of The Outfit, who, once Capone was imprisoned for tax evasion, left the windy city and settled in Norman, Oklahoma. Humphreys, a main player in Capone’s rise to the top, though he was not Italian, was revered for his money making ability. The second, another gangster, from New York, name of “Owney” Vincent Madden, had made a fortune from prohibition. Best known for owning the famed Cotton Club, Madden, suspected o’ the murder of another violent man, Vincent “Mad Dog” Coll, was made to understand that it was time to leave New York forever, settling in Hot Springs, Arkansas where, with the complicity of a corrupt city government and police force, he continued to thrive. Our stage is a small town barbershop, name o’ Timmy Joe Sullivan’s which offered, as the sign said: “the best damn haircut in all of Oklahoma”. Men gathered here for a trim and to take part in the jocularity that formed part of the everyday conversation. “Hey, Timmy Joe, can you trim my nose and ears, while you’re at it? I know it’s nature but it just keeps growing”. “And stops growing in the place you do want it; on the top of your head”. Every man, sitting patiently on faded, ancient banquettes awaiting their turn, would join in the laughter. You can picture the scene: Timmy Joe Sullivan’s barbershop, Texhoma, a great place to shoot the breeze, vent about the Sooners’ poor form or whatever. For the twenty odd minutes that it took Timmy Joe to give the man on the throne his undivided attention, maybe only ten minutes was allowed for the trim and the rest was devoted to chat. Timmy Joe, with his soft Irish accent, knew exactly what all o’ his regulars wanted in the way of a haircut, remembered each’s little idiosyncrasy and, to all o’ his customers, felt like a close friend in whom they could confide without fear o’ judgement. Satisfied with their new coiffure, they would disappear back into their worlds and not give Timmy Joe another thought until that time, two to three weeks hence, when they would require his skill with scissors, once again...and that’s just how TJ liked it. “Hey, Timmy Joe, how would you describe the business o' barbering?” “Well, personally, I like to say I am engaged in deforestation”. TJ had set up shop in the town way back in ’22 and the barber had soon become a favourite o’ the local community, not least, on account o’ the ten cents for a cut, five cents for a shave that was the fixed price for the next two years; no appointments necessary and no jumping the line. Everybody knew the rules and, if’n anybody left the premises for even ten seconds, his place would be forfeited in the queue. Womenfolk trusted their young ‘uns to Timmy Joe because, not only did he have a wooden board that he would place across the armrests o’ his barber chair so that kids could sit, proud and tall, staring into the mirror, but Timmy Joe remembered all the boys’ names, their favourite games and the like and the young boys all loved to jaw with TJ and looked upon the barber as they would a favourite uncle. If'n a mother insisted on waiting for her boy, Timmy Joe always ensured that there was a copy o’ Modern Woman or the new craze, Vogue, positioned in the magazine rack along with Time and Reader’s Digest and, for some strange reason, The Chicagoan, all o' which TJ subscribed to. In ’26, four years after setting up business, the barber had proposed to Lily Evangeline, a young widow, who had been bringing her son, Charlie, for his monthly trim ever since his father had died in an automobile accident, twelve months previously. Timmy Joe had kept a respectful distance from the widow and had gone out o' his way to lift the sorrow that engulfed the eight year old in the chair and barber and boy had become fast friends and, after her period of mourning had ended, she had accepted Timmy Joe’s offer o’ marriage with alacrity. Lily had inherited the farm, almost four hundred acres devoted to soybean and rice, upon her husband’s death and was considered a catch by all and sundry but Timmy Joe, though he began to live on the farm, had made it abundantly clear from the get go that he wanted nothing, financially, from the spread and considered it to be Charlie Evangeline’s future; to be protected at all costs. That’s the kind o' man that Timmy Joe was, an honest teetotaller admired by all that knew him. TJ was a devoted husband and, though he knew that he could never replace Charlie’s real papa, he was determined to be as good a step-father as it was possible to be and they were, indeed, a happy little unit. Mornings were quiet in the barber shop, which suited Timmy Joe just fine. He’d make himself a cup o’ coffee and settle down in the one and only barber chair to read the latest periodical and could, quite contentedly, have stayed in that position all day long but, as customers began to drift in, he enjoyed catching up with those he hadn’t seen for a few weeks and hearing their latest news. Sage advice was lavished, laughs were many and, occasionally, sorrows were shared in genuine empathy. “Hey, Timmy Joe, did you ever see a man without a beard?” “Yep, many times. They call ‘em women”. But, every now and again, Timmy Joe would be asked a question that seemed to, momentarily, flummox him and, if anybody had really been paying attention to the way he answered, they may have noticed inconsistencies. One o’ these questions was to do with where TJ had originated from? Depending on who the questioner had been, TJ came up with a variety o’ different Irish locations. The other thing that people asked was why TJ subscribed to The Chicagoan, Chicago being so far north. To this, Timmy Joe would, sometimes, say that he had passed through the city, one time, and taken a shine to it or that he had subscribed in error but couldn’t be bothered to cancel the subscription. I, as a regular frequenter o’ these premises, was savvy enough to have picked up on these nuances and, as an attorney at law, my curiosity was aroused. My office was above the barbershop and, when the law business was quiet, I would wander down and brew a coffee for us and sit and enjoy the repartee that was as normal as the sound of scissors clicking. In this way, I became close with Timmy Joe, intrigued though I remained about his background. But, apart from these minor anomalies, life for Timmy Joe could not have been better. He was happily wed, lived in a fine house, loved the day to day calmness and steadiness o’ tending his barber business and the years passed peacefully and uneventfully, the business making enough to more than cover the needs o’ Timmy Joe and his family and the farm making a modest, annual profit, all o’ which was ploughed back into the agricultural business in the form o’ machinery upgrades. “Hey, Timmy Joe, what d’you call a line o’ people waiting for a haircut?” “A barbecue”. That’s about when nature began to take a turn for the worse, in a way far more destructive than anybody could have foretold. The drought came in three cruel waves: ’34, ’36 and ’39 and it were the in-between years that fooled most people into thinking the worst was over and encouraged them to borrow heavily and reinvest in their land, only to be caught out, yet again, the following year. The lack of rain, combined with the high winds served to sweep the unanchored topsoil into clouds o’ dust, known as Black Blizzards, reducing visibility to mere feet, making agriculture impossible, leading to the death o’ crops and the bankruptcy o’ thousands. Banks foreclosed on mortgages and families, known as Okies, were forced to uproot and head west. The Dust Bowl had arrived! Through it all, Texhoma suffered greatly, including the Evangeline acreage but they had two great advantages: firstly, they were beholden to no bank, having no mortgage on their land. Secondly, they had TJ. Though he had never seen anything like this disaster, TJ kept a cool head in a crisis and he reasoned that the three o’ them could live on the money his barber shop brought in, even though business had slowed considerably since the mass exodus of Okies. The barber shop became the place for gatherings to debate the whys and what nots o’ this cataclysmic event and everybody had an opinion on cause and solution. Timmy Joe managed to earn enough to see his family through the disaster, long as it lasted, and he strongly advised that the four hundred acres be left fallow with not a single dollar spent on it until the crisis was over for good, as it surely would be, one day. Trusting TJ’s wisdom, Lily and Charlie did exactly that. They watched others invest money, usually mortgaged, into their land and, for a time, look to be recovering, only for a new wave of drought to suddenly arrive and destroy everything. In ’38, those leeches, the land grabbers, made their move. They, too, knew that Mother Nature would turn eventually and they started to buy up huge tracts o’ land for cents on the dollar. Many families felt that they were lucky to get anything for their acres o’ dust and accepted a pittance for land they’d farmed for generations. Charlie, when first approached, politely declined the derisory offer made. The second such overture was not presented so pleasantly, with a number o’ the Dixie mafia hovering menacingly in the background. Charlie, now a young man o’ twenty one years was not easily intimidated and, once again, refused the offer made. Lily, though, sensed that these men would be back, unwilling to countenance that anybody would dare to reject their proposal but, despite her fears, she urged her son to say nothing to TJ. Why, exactly, I cannot say. Maybe, intuitively, she sensed something hitherto undisclosed about her husband. It did not take long for Murray Humphreys to realise the golden opportunity that the catastrophe o’ the Dust Bowl presented and, joining forces with Owney Madden, they began to buy up as much land as they could across the three states o’ Texas, Arkansas and Oklahoma. Where farmers refused to sell cheaply, intimidatory tactics were used and reports o’ homes being firebombed and owners disappearing, never to be seen again, proliferated. In Timmy Joe’s barbershop, talk o’ these happenings was becoming more and more regular but, on account o’ Lily assuring him that no such threats had been made on their property, though he listened with interest, to the stories his customers told, TJ felt no undue concern for his own family’s wellbeing. So, when, somebody rushed into his barber shop, one day, and yelled that the Evangeline property was ablaze, nobody was more shocked than Timmy Joe who urged me to drive him home in my car but, by the time we had driven the twenty miles, the barn had burnt completely to the ground incinerating livestock that had been contained within. The house was untouched and Lily and Charlie, though traumatised, were unharmed. TJ was just pleased that his family was safe, reasoning that they could always rebuild a barn as everything had been insured. But Charlie, devastated by this event, was no longer willing to remain quiet and, despite his mother’s protestations, blurted out the truth o’ the attempts to intimidate him into selling the land. Timmy Joe was deeply shocked, as was I. Without another word, he asked me to drive him back to Texhoma but, en route, insisted on stopping at a bar on the lake and ordering a double bourbon, the first drink, he said, that he had taken in almost fourteen years. When he ordered another. I was dumbfounded. Worried for my silent friend, his face betraying all sorts of internal emotions, I kept him company but confined myself to sarsaparilla. By closing time, TJ had consumed an entire bottle o’ bourbon but, far from appearing intoxicated, he seemed resolute and calm and asked me to drive him home. Mother and son were waiting anxiously and smothered him with hugs and kisses for they surely loved that man. I stood in the background as he addressed his family. This is a verbatim account o’ what he said, best as I can recall: “I have things to tell you; things that I have kept from you. I mean to get this out and, then, you can judge me, one way or the other. My name is not Timothy Sullivan. It is Tommy O’Connor. I am better known as Thomas “Terrible” O Connor. I was born in County Limerick and was brought to America by my parents as a young boy. I got into bad company in Chicago and began a life of crime, working as an enforcer for the Outfit. That’s where I gained the moniker of “Terrible” for, when my blood was up, there was not a man alive that did not quake upon mention of my name. In 1921, a corrupt cop tried to shake me down and I administered a severe beating. I was staying in a motel when he and several others surrounded the place and a shootout occurred. With shots raining down on me, I was firing blindly in an effort to escape and one of my bullets hit and killed an officer and I became a hunted fugitive...” I could tell that Lily was astounded to hear this tale, coming from the lips of her husband. Charlie, however, seemed engrossed. Me? I was busy putting together all the clues I had noted over the years: the different birth places, that need to keep up with news from Chicago. “I was on the lam for two months but was finally arrested in Minnesota and brought back to stand trial in Cook County where I was sentenced to hang by Judge Kickham Scanlan, yet another corrupt official of that disreputable county...” We all gasped. A condemned man? “Four days before my execution, I contrived to escape with four others when I overpowered a guard and took his gun. At that time, there was no Cook County sheriff’s department so I was able to cover miles and miles of open countryside without being detected. Long story short, I ended up in Norman, working as an apprentice to a barber, found I had an aptitude for cutting hair, moved to Texhoma and set up my own business, where I determined to live a good, honest life, as far removed from my former ways as possible but, sometimes, fate decrees otherwise. There you have it but, I mean for you to know that, now that my family has been threatened, I aim to exact my revenge and no man can stop me. My blood is up”. With that, TJ stood, kissed his wife and step-son and reached out to me for the keys to my automobile which I handed over without question and I watched him walk out into the darkness o’ that fateful night, the last time I ever saw him. Those are the facts. You now know the truth o’ the third character in my story’ my friend, the mild mannered barber, Timothy Joe Sullivan who was really Thomas “Terrible” O’Connor and, we three, had borne witness to this phoenix arising from the ashes. From this point on, my tale relies on conjecture and you can draw your own conclusions. According to the Hot Springs Sentinel, that same night, a lone gunman entered the hotel and casino complex, The Southern, that Owney Madden had established in Hot Springs, Arkansas and where the likes o’ Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello were frequent visitors. The description o’ that gunman, for sure, fitted TJ to a tee. Seven o’ the Dixie mafia were killed in the ensuing gunfight and Madden, himself, was fortunate to escape with a flesh wound. The following night, my car was found abandoned in Norman, Oklahoma and the Norman Transcript wrote of a gunman who had shot dead two bodyguards outside the home o’ the notorious Chicago mobster, Murray Humphreys, before entering the house and confronting the occupant. Later, the gunman left, with Humphreys, who was unharmed, admitting to having recognised the intruder but refusing to say who he was or what had taken place between them. Thereafter, strange as it may seem, the mob’s involvement in the lucrative land grabbing o’ the Dust Bowl years, ended abruptly as they focused on their other illicit activities. I never saw TJ again and Lily and Charlie, a few days after these events, took train for parts unknown and have never returned to Texhoma. The four hundred acres lay, just as they were, still in the name o’ Charlie Evangeline, though the rains, as TJ had prophesied, returned in ’40 and the land was reborn. In ’42, quietly, without fuss, the farm was sold in a private transaction that fetched top dollar. I, myself, handled the legal transaction. “Hey, Timmy Joe, you should only charge me half price as I’m almost bald” “Sure, I should be charging you double as it takes me so long to find your hair”. I miss my friend, I surely do. I miss the laughs we shared but, most of all, I miss the best damn haircut in all of Oklahoma.
There's a small cabin in the pines by a secluded lake in north Ontario. I had rented it for two weeks every summer for twelve years. The Belvedere it is called. When its owner passed, his wife wanted me to have it, so we made a deal and it is mine now. Its shingles are puckered and mossy, and the mortar between the cut logs is crumbling away. I'll fix it though, because one day I hope to live in it.I have furnished it with esoterica from my cluttered mind. Mementos from the movies, books, and music that I adore. A stuffed raccoon with a ray gun and ammo vest. A Palantir, its globe of glass ensconced in carved briarwood. The mother ship from Close Encounters. Cellophane flowers. An onion made of glass. A parking meter, and a guitar with a face painted on it (crying). Many more where those came from.Some of these things had cost me dearly. Others I had bartered for. One that I got for nothing was a broken park bench. Its frame is of cast iron, still intact. All that was needed was some good stout lumber to fix it up. This I have done, and it is bolted solidly onto a flat rock near the shoreline.At the time of this story, it was early fall, and I had arrived quite late the night before, straight from my job in the city. I had not slept well, even though the peace here is immutable. I awoke, still in darkness, then stoked the fire and relit a couple of kerosene lamps (I am pretending to be a pioneer). Putting the percolator on the stovetop, I waited for the precious cup to warm my hands and my spirits.As soon as the soft glow of dawn gave shape to my flagstone steps, I put on a warm sweater and jeans and went down to the bench by the still lake. It was that enchanting moment when the sparkling stars settle more deeply into midnight blue, and are then chided by our own star into cerulean.A shallow blanket of mist hung above the waters, and I heard the eerie tremolo of loons conversing. Feathery breezes, competing for direction, were like warm caresses, and I wished a yearning wish to be part of some great story.Just before full light, as I was searching out the singing loons, I spied a dark thing that seemed to swim quickly and aimlessly. Now in a line, now in wide circles. Noiseless, making little disturbance to the placid waters, it approached the sandy shoreline near me. When it rose from the lake, a scant distance away, I was surprised and taken aback by the silhouette of a woman both tall and lithe.She came toward me with purpose and, as I rose in inquiry, she stood next to me, uttering not a word. Stupidly, I said "hello", expecting a reply. Instead, she searched my face. I felt not a little discomfort, but could not help but return her gaze. I am usually good at telling a person's age. With her, it was different. Dressed in a cotton shirt and shorts that had curious designs on them, her body appeared to be that of someone perhaps thirty years old, in the bloom of health. But her eyes, at once haughty but kind, gave one the feeling that they had seen many lives."Can I help you?" I said. Her eyes softened, and she gave a smile. "No" she said, in a silken basso voice. "But I may help you. May we sit?" As if in a dream, I remained standing, thinking, thinking. All at once I realized my rudeness and motioned her to sit. I had seen this person before. The long blonde hair. The tan legs. The inscrutable eyes. But, I thought, it is ridiculous. That was thirty years ago, and still she looks the same."I am Sarah", she said, and I knew. I did not say my own name, for she knew."I will tell you some things", she began. I knew not to speak, neither to answer nor to ask, as my night's wishing grew in wonder."Scoop up some sand. Let it fall slowly between your fingers. Know that each grain is different from its brothers. Now, as you sit in this world with its wonders and its wars, its loves and its hate and its beauty, consider the sand. I tell you that there are as many worlds of life in God's great galaxies as there are single grains of sand on every beach of this old Earth. Those that believe otherwise are mistaken.""Some of the peoples have been here. Some walk among you. Many more know of you, but do not come because of the savagery. Know that your Earth is on a knife edge between survival and cataclysm. There are many here that would give their very lives to save her. Find them. Join with them. This is your great story. Have courage. Prepare. The day is coming."With those words, Sarah rose to leave. Putting her hands upon my shoulders, she touched her forehead to mine. I could say nothing, but cupped one of her hands within my own.And so she turned, and went back into the water. In the full day, she dove into the gentle waves. I never saw her surface.
Rachel Seeker leaned against the mossy tombstone that her parents shared, waiting there with a shovel. She had been returning to Feywood Cemetery every year on the night of their deaths, the 13th of November, for as long as she could remember, and ever since her only brother had disappeared thirty-six years ago. Before that, they use to visit their parents' graves together. This place, after all, was the last place she saw him. When he had asked Rachel to uphold a most horrible deal. She was in her late fifties now, though still able to go toe-to-toe with even the fastest and fiercest prey. Stringy locks of grey dashed the sides of her black hair, unkempt, and loosely tied at the end. She wore a double-breasted bridge coat, buttoned, and extending down to a pair of steel-toed boots. Her mouth was wiry-thin, and dead eyes locked on the horizon of the graveyard. The sun had only been down for an hour; she'd give it more time she thought. One year, she waited up to five hours and told herself she wouldn't do that again. That was in the early years though. Nights where it felt easier to be optimistic about things. Nights that now only seem to come around once in a blue moon, or not at all. Tonight felt like one of those nights, she thought. Though there was only so much optimism to be had when killing your undead brother, even if he deserved it. Rachel and her older brother, Jack, had lost their parents at an early age, both of them raised by their dad's parents instead. Their grandparents were eccentric, claimed to have come from a long line of vampire hunters. A line that her Grandfather Owen said stretched back to the early 1600s, starting with Amadeus Von Seeker, the first of their clan. Rachel had always found her grandfather's tales amusing but had always regarded them as just that, tales. When she had grown up and finally left for college, her brother stayed behind to start his training, much like their grandfather had himself in his younger days. Rachel had often thought about what if she had taken more interest in her family's line of work back then. Perhaps, there would have been a better chance at a better future for all of them. Then, as if from nowhere, a tall man wearing a checkered suit and black tie appeared, walking down from the hill and onto the gravel path towards her parents' graves. He appeared young, perpetually stuck at the spry age of twenty-four, yet walked with a cane and arched back. His skin had an almost sickly pale blue hue to it, and though he hadn't physically aged at all, there was something in his eyes that said he was tired. Tired of everything. "Rachel," he nodded, his voice carried an iciness, but was otherwise how she remembered it. He did not smile, not a bit. Rachel held herself high. She was surprised to see him again after all these years. She thought she never would. She had almost wanted to hug him, it was her lost brother, though Rachel would never show that. Not after their history. "Did you get all dressed up tonight for this?" She joked. She wasn't sure what to say, it had been thirty-six years. "Um, I'll be honest, I'm surprised to see you here." "Yeah. Well. It is our parent's death day." Jack replied, planting himself at the foot of their graves. "What stopped you the other forty years?" Scratchy leaves scattered and danced along the grounds and headstones of the graveyard. Branches could be heard swaying above them as a cold silence passed over. "I wasn't ready yet." They both lingered a moment longer on their parents' grave. Rachel turned. "Didn't stop me. I did what you asked. I've been coming out here every year for at least the last thirty-six." "Well, thank you for upholding your end. Not everyone's as eager to put their own brother in the ground." Rachel laughed. She laughed like she was young again, wrinkles disappearing from her face and a wild spark in her eye. She turned back to their parents' gravestone where now they were both facing. "You think I kept coming out here for you? For your deal? Is that why you're here tonight? You want me to put you to rest? Why now? Why after all this time?" Jack's feet shifted uneasily, resting against his cane. "I was wrong. I was wrong to leave Grandpa Owens and Grandma Alice. I was wrong about joining up with the Dumont's, the Fiends of Colorado," his voice sunk, "I was wrong to turn my back on our family and our secrets. And I have wronged so many. . ." He would be speaking from the heart if it were still beating. "I'm in some trouble right now. Some deep shit. They'll be coming to finish their work soon." "What kind of trouble are you in?" Rachel demanded, sisterly-like. "Who's coming after you?" "The Nine." That was all that Jack said. It was all he had to say to Rachel. Anyone who knows anything about vampires in America knew about the Nine, the kings and queens of the Midwest. Years ago, Rachel had put an end to one of the organization's schemes of snatching people up from the Ozarks for their blood farms. The Nine were just that. Nine all-powerful vampires, lords and ladies of high society that had successfully infiltrated public politics, technology firms, and other corporations with large amounts of money and political sway. They were not to be reckoned with. They were one reason why their grandfather had been so secretive with their trainings throughout the years. "It's true, y'know, there are fates worse than death." Jack turned to his sister with a half-smile. His teeth were smashed up, fangs missing, gums practically pulverized. Rachel was surprised he could still speak. "Did-did they. . ." "They did. They took my wings too. You should see their guys though." His ugly-looking grin only growing in size. Jack still had his pride, even if misguided or face smashed to bits. "Rachel," he said, "if you don't uphold our deal they'll flay me next and I won't get far. I'd rather not spend the next hundred years on fire in the sub-basement of some department store." "You'd rather not, huh?" She said, staring him down - daggers in her eyes. "Those aren't very strong words." His smile faded. Another silence passed as leaves again whirled by. "Jack," she said finally, shaking her head, anger seeping from her voice. She had wondered if she would ever have the chance to confront him about it. "Because of you, because of your actions, Grandpa Owen and Alice died sooner than they would have had to." Her eyes and voice filled with old hate, one forged of fire and spilled blood. "Why the fuck should I help you after all this time?" Jack's eyes widened, his face melted away. "Please, I had no idea the Fiends would want anything to do with them!" "Oh, yeah?" She didn't believe him. She had to say it. It was now or never. "How fucking stupid can you be? I got a letter in the mail one day telling me to come down there, didn't know who it's from. I show up, open the door, and there's blood. There was blood everywhere, Jack." Rachel trembled as if the scene was forever painted on the back of her eyelids. "I knew it wasn't me who messed up." "Rachel, please, I know. I know." Shadows in the gauntness of his face. "For what it's worth, I never said much. Only that I was once a son of the Seeker clan and I've been paying dearly for it ever since. I'm so sorry." His eyes dropped to the ground. "I'm not asking for forgiveness, I- " "I know what you're asking for." Rachel reached into the depths of her coat and from it pulled a rather large, very old-looking stake. Its base was wrapped in leather, silver rings sheathed around dark-colored oak leading up to a finely sharpened point. It was their family heirloom. "Ah." Jack rolled his head up, appearing almost amused now. "That old thing? How fitting, huh?" "Yeah, this old thing." She said. She knew her brother knew what it was. "Grandpa was going to give me that at the end of that year, y'know?" "Yeah. And now it's mine." "You never wanted to be a hunter!" "Right." Jack frowned, then looked to her. "It's still not too late. You can do whatever you want to. It's never too late." He rested his hand on his sister's shoulder. "You just gotta do me in last, then quit!" He smiled again, mouth ugly as sin. "You gonna bury me next to mom and dad?" "Mhm." "Nice. Hopefully, maybe, I'll see them where ever I go." Jack turned his back to Rachel. "Yes." Rachel held the stake in her hand, raising it above her head. She had done it a hundred times before. And then she brought it down. She spent the next couple of hours digging into the sweet-smelling earth, burying her brother beside her parents. A final resting place that she may someday well join. She would like that, she decided. She found she had no family left, the last remnant of the Seeker clan. She had even less now than at sunset. She grabbed the shovel, buttoned her coat, then looked around at the other headstones. She snatched a few roses from a neighboring bouquet and placed them on the freshly moved soil, starring at the graves for the last time. She'd be back the next year. This time no longer waiting. Rachel turned to leave the grave, walking off onto the gravel path, up the hill, and back into the night. Nine more to go, she told herself.
She woke up in the middle of the night to a strong gust of wind, as her bedroom shudders flung open. She raced to the window to pull the shudders towards her, until they were fastened shut and locked securely. She let out a huge sigh of relief. She could not help but notice a shadow of a man standing in the grass one story beneath her. "Could it be?" She asked herself in a breathless whisper. She shook her head no, pushed away the thought, and crawled back into bed, for it was only 3' o clock. Fast forward to that afternoon, she was leaving school grounds to get into her little compact vehicle and go down to the seashore to get in some journaling before supper. She noticed a man standing off to the distance, standing beside a tree, as she reached inside her purse to pull out her car keys. She happened to catch a glance at her watch, as she unlocked her vehicle, it was 3 o clock pm. Later that evening, she laid awake, restless, struggling to fall asleep, although quite fatigued. She just could not seem to shake the thought of the man she saw earlier the afternoon, as well as the shadow of the man she saw earlier that morning when suddenly woken up by that strong gust of wind. She eventually fell asleep. Then at 2:45 am, she woke up to use the bathroom. She climbed back in bed, closed her eyes, as she attempted to get a little more shut eye before facing the big day ahead of her. It was her wedding day. Then all of a sudden, the sound of a truck pulling up, rather quickly in her unpaved pebbled driveway approached her. She raced to the window to see who it was. The man in the green truck had shut off all his lights and stepped out of his vehicle. Just a shadow of a man stood there leaning against the truck, legs crossed, holding a bouquet of flowers. She happened to catch a glimpse of the time over her shoulder. It was exactly 3:00 am! So weird. He called out her name. She opened her window and reached for her binoculars, out of her top nightstand drawer. She got a much closer look of the fine young man. What she saw bewildered her! The man resembled her late husband, twenty years before his passing. They could be twins! " Am I dreaming?" She asked herself. She called out to him. She heard a faint whisper, " See you at 3'oclock!' Then as quick as she can blink her eyes, the image was gone. She knew that she knew that she knew that was the ghost of her late husband attempting to visit her during the hours leading up to her big day." But why?" She wondered. " Is he glad I am attempting to love again?" she asked herself as she second guessed. He always told her since the day the two wed, that if he was ever to go before her, to not live life married to the dead. He encouraged her to find love again. She knew that for certain. Then why did she just see him lurking behind her bedroom curtain? The next day went as fast as that wind bursting through her bedroom, just two nights prior. At last, they were at the chapel, at half past two. Her niece Ava was fixing her veil. Her goddaughter Gianna was fussing with the sash on the back of her gown, when there was a knock at the door. The girls rushed to the door, to see who was knocking. No one was there. They shrugged their shoulder and thought that was strange. Yet down the hallway, they saw their mom and grandmother talking in a corner, The two caught up with them, in efforts to update them on the gleaming bride's getting ready progress. In the meantime, back in the grand bedroom of the mansion, the girls had left the door slightly open. The anxious bride lifted up her wedding gown and ran over to the door to shut it. She was not about to risk the groom walking by and catching a glimpse of his lovely bride, just moments before they pledge love to one another till eternity. The moment she turned around and headed back towards the long oval antique mirror, she immediately saw an image of her late husband, sitting on the loveseat beside the mirror, " You always made a beautiful bride." He whispered gently. He patted his hand on the loveseat, while saying to her surprise," come sit for a while". He then added, "You got time yet, its only 3' o clock!" The two chatted in that next 10 minutes. It was as if no time has passed, since the blissfully happy couple departed nearly a decade ago on that windy evening in August. She was taken back instantly to that night, when she received the awful call by the lighthouse commander, informing her at 3:00 am in the morning, that his boat was caught up in a huge tidal wave. She was told, much to her demise, that there was zero chance of him making it back to shore, for there was not enough visibility The waves were much too sharp fierce, and high, for the rescue crew to make it that far out, in time to save the crew. It was at 3:00 clock, that she discovered, her honey has passed on to life eternal. The two laughed, they cried, they hugged. Then, they said their final goodbyes. She got the reassurance she needed. Her late husband had assured her, he was ok with her finally letting him go and moving on with her life. A huge wave of peace washed over her. Then he was gone. Just moments later, her nieces rushed back in the room, as the music began to play. She caught a glimpse of her two sharp dressed adult sons, Patrick and Ryan, waiting in the foyer, to give their glowing with joy mother away. " Come on, its 3' o clock" shouted her handsome nephew Luca, running down the lobby hallway. It was in that very moment, that she realized that no time has passed. That whole conversation with her late husband existed within her heart. As she was escorted down the aisle by her two loving sons, it occurred to her, all will be well, a new chapter awaits her, starting right at 3' o clock!
The sun was high in the sky, shining brightly, the heat unbearable and most people staying in the cool shelter of their house, the lack of people venturing out on the streets benefited the neighborhood kids playing football in the streets. Playing bare-chested, shirts scattered on the ground. Smiles were plastered on their faces as they ran after the ball. They were ten in total, five on each team. Two rocks were placed on each side of the dirt road as a makeshift goal post and various plastic bags bundled together using a rope served as a ball. "Give me the ball, I'm alone," said Keza, the only girl playing. The boys only caved in and let her join because Shema had refused to play if they didn't. He was the best player in the group, and they needed him to win. Glancing at Keza and confirming her place, Shema passed the ball to her. Keza intercepted the ball and dashed towards the opposing team goal, as she was about to shoot, one of the boys on the opposing team tackled her causing her to lose balance and shoot the ball in another direction than intended. Shattering a window with a loud crack, the ball disappeared inside a house. The game halted and the boys all gathered around Keza, watching the broken window. "You go and take it back," one boy said pushing her by the shoulder. "It's not my fault, if he hadn't tackled me it wouldn't have happened, he should be the one going there," Keza replied pointing at the said boy. "In football, it's okay to tackle someone if you didn't know," the same boy replied shaking his head, "we should have never let a girl play with us." Shema stepped in between the two kids, placing a hand over their bare chests, separating them. "Don't fight, Keza and I will retrieve the ball and after we'll continue the game, okay." He said looking at the two kids alternately. "But-" Shema silenced Keza's retort, "No buts, we will get that ball," he said, taking her arm and dragging her towards the house. Keza pressed her lips together into a thin line, she didn't want to go get the ball, what the boy said infuriated her but that was not the only reason. The ball flew straight into Mr. Ngabo’s house. Mr. Ngabo was a tall, muscular man with scars covering most of his face and skin as dark as the night. Keza glanced at Shema and wondered how he managed to keep calm, his house was similar to every other house in their neighborhood except for one thing; various animal skulls adorned the front porch. Just looking at it made the hair on Keza's arm stand at attention, to her it felt as though the skulls were staring at her. She couldn't help but think about all the stories her mother told her at night if she didn't want to go to sleep. If Mr. Ngabo releases his spirits and they find you awake, they'll take you away. It was probably a way for the adults to keep the children in line but she always had a bad feeling whenever she saw Mr. Ngabo. This led her to believe that maybe, just maybe there was some truth to the stories. "You know we can also search for other plastic bags and make another ball," she said, rocking from side to side. Shema smirked at her, "You're scared." "N-no," "Don't tell me you also believe all the stories about Mr. Ngabo, they're stories invented by the adults to scare us," "I-I know, I'm not scared," staring at the house in front of her, "l-let's go." With each step they took, the thought that it was a bad idea reinforced itself in her mind, it wasn't worth risking their lives, Shema knocked on the door expecting someone to open the door, instead, the door opened itself slowly making a creaking sound. The two kids looked at each other not sure what to do. "Hello, Mr. Ngabo. My name is Shema and I'm here with my friend Keza, we're here to take the ball that crashed in the house. We're sorry for that." Silence greeted them and Shema advanced only to be stopped by Keza's hand. "Where are you going? We should go back, he's not here and I don't think he'll be happy to find us in his house." "Then better hurry and get the ball before he returns," Shema shrugged off Keza's hand and made his way through the house. Eyeing Mr. Ngabo's front porch decorations warily, Keza followed Shema inside, the living room held little furniture save for a wooden table and a chair, there was a little kitchen on their left but nothing else. Finding the ball proved difficult, the house was dimly lit making it hard for the kids to see anything. "See, there is nothing here. We should go back before Mr. Ngabo comes back," Keza said, tugging at Shema's arm. "Wait! It's somewhere in the kitchen, the window we broke is there," he replied going there. Keza waited for a while and released a sigh of relief when she saw Shema return with the ball in hand. She was about to open the door and leave when Shema stopped her. "Don't you want to look around?" "No," she replied shaking her head vehemently, "let's leave!" Either he didn't hear or he chose to ignore her as he made his way deeper into the house. Keza had the urge to cry after seeing that. "Look, there's a basement," Shema cried out, she went to join him. Shema held open the door, a staircase could be seen leading downstairs. Dragging her feet, Keza followed Shema downstairs, each step creaking. Keza's heart was beating against her rib cage threatening to explode. The basement was dark, dusty and full of card boxes scattered across the room. The only light came from a small light bulb they had turned on. "What's this for?" Keza asked for opening one card box, it contained kitchen utensils. They opened other boxes and the result was the same, each one filled with various metal objects ranging from kitchen utensils to car spare parts. A creaking sound made them halt in their movements, the door opened and there in the doorway stood Mr. Ngabo, Keza didn't have the time to think when Shema pulled her to a couple of boxes nearby and hid behind them, listening to Mr. Ngabo’s heavy footsteps as he descended the stairs. Following Mr. Ngabo's every movement dutifully, Keza held her breath; they shouldn't have come here in the first place, being in the same room with that man wasn't what she wanted and the oppressive heat made it worse. The sound of something hitting the floor took Keza out of her reverie, making her blood run cold. Turning her head in Shema's direction, she saw a startled expression on his face; he had accidentally kicked a can causing the sound as it made contact with the floor, the sound was deafening in the eerie silence that had reigned in the room since Mr. Ngabo had made his appearance. "Who's there?" Mr. Ngabo gruff voice inquired. Keza heard his footsteps approaching the card boxes where they hid and glanced at Shema, fear clear in her eyes. As Mr. Ngabo reached for the can laying lazily on the floor, Shema took hold of Keza's hand and darted out of their hiding spot. The fast movement startled Mr. Ngabo, stunning him for a short while. "You brats! Come back here," he yelled outgoing after them. Looking behind her and seeing the look of fury etched on his face, Keza confirmed that all the stories she heard were true, he looked terrifying and she was sure he would be the subject of her soon to be nightmares. Staring at the man for a second too long and not paying attention in front of her, Keza stumbled and Shema's grip loosened. Mr. Ngabo took hold of her leg, taking advantage of Keza's bad luck. "Gotcha," he said, pulling her towards him with a large maniacal grin on his face. Her scream alerted Shema who hadn't remarked that he had let go of Keza. Mr. Ngabo had his arm across Keza's stomach in a tight grip and Keza was struggling to escape. "Let me go," she yelled. "First, I'm gonna show you how I treat little bastards like you trying to snoop into my things." Hearing that, Keza broke down and started crying, her mind going over all the horrible things she'll be subject to. Without thinking, Shema lunged at Mr. Ngabo causing him to lose balance. "Fucking bra-" he didn't finish his sentence as he fell on his back, his head colliding with the floor, falling unconscious. Without further ado, Shema helped Keza to her feet and together they dashed out of the house. Ignoring the other boys who had waited for them, the ball was forgotten, they continued running only stopping when they reached Shema's house, taking deep breaths, exhausted from the intense physical activity. "Keza, your arm," Shema gasped after they had both regained their senses. Looking at her arm, she found a deep gash, Shema stepped closer staring with wide eyes. What surprised her wasn't the injury or the lack of pain and blood, not all that seemed insignificant to her as she gawked at the wound. It was a deep cut, she had probably injured herself during the fall in the arms of Mr. Ngabo, but she had expected to see muscles or bones, not wires.
Present Day “Tell me the story again.” Cassidy spun away from the console where she had been helping me arrange pictures. As we had worked, she had begged for the story that went along with each photo declaring each one her favorite. Her Mom being born, mine and Carol’s first date, the first photo of me holding Cassidy, vacations, and birthdays. “What story?” I hedged but I knew which one. The one that went with the picture in the middle. Or more accurately the story that resulted in the center photo. Cassidy asked over and over again for me to tell her, her absolute favorite story one more time- calling it one of the most romantic things she had ever heard. “Grandpa!” Cassidy planted her hands on her hips. I pulled the peanut butter out of the cabinet and the grape jelly from the fridge. “Help me with the sandwiches,” I said. Cassidy grabbed a knife and a spoon from the silverware drawer while I grabbed the bread and platter. Cassidy gave me an expectant look as she unscrewed the lid off of the peanut butter jar. “Well?” She asked. I smiled, holding out just a little longer. I smeared peanut butter onto a slice of bread. Cassidy’s eyes narrowed at me and I grinned at her. “It was a hot summer day in nineteen seventy-six...” Summer 1976 All I could think what that maybe I should have worn something nicer. Today was going to be a special occasion- remembered for years to come! And I had chosen to wear my favorite pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt. On the other hand, if I had worn something nicer, like the button down my mother had suggested, I would have made Carol suspicious. As it was, I was having a hard time acting cool and relaxed, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Carol squeezed my hand and then gave me a smile which sent a zing through me. I loved her smile. “Sooo,” Carol drawled, dipping her head so she could see over the edge of her sunglasses. “Where are we having our picnic?” She eyed the large basket in my free hand that contained not only our lunch but a portable radio and unbeknownst to her a tiny box with a ring in it. Today was the day. I was going to ask Carol to be my wife. “Just over there,” I nodded towards a grassy hill in a shady part of the park. The exact spot where we had had our first date nearly three years ago. Carol smiled and nodded as if my answer was exactly what she had expected. What I hoped she wasn’t expecting was a proposal. I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted her to know that I had put thought into this and returning to the spot of the first of many dates was to bring us full circle. “You okay?’ Carol asked, giving me a concerned look. I smiled at her. “More than okay.” I was on top of the world. “You?” “I’m good.” She swung our hands gently between us as we made our way to the shaded hill. I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye, trying to imagine her reaction to the proposal. I had run the scenario dozen of times and I had pictured everything from an enthusiastic yes to her bursting into tears and blubbering her answer. My older brother suggested she would say no. Only for a moment had my brain contemplated it before completely rejecting it. Over the last three years we had become best friends, each other’s confidants. Any time something happened, she was the one I wanted to tell first. I knew without a doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Carol. Under the shade of the tree we spread the picnic blanket that Carol had been carrying and then I began to pull out our meal. It was simple. Some might call it too simple for a pre-proposal meal but it was exactly what we had eaten on our first date. Carol accepted a plate with a diagonally cut peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich with chips on the side. From the thermos, I poured us both a glass of lemonade. She smiled, taking the glass. “You know something?” “I know many things,” I said as I extended the antenna on the portable radio. “Well do you know that is what we ate on our first date?” I smiled to myself as I fiddled with the dial. “Is it?” “Yep.” She popped the ‘p’. “Which of course makes it my favorite.” “Because it’s your favorite meal or because it’s what we had on our first date?” “Both.” She said around a bit of sandwich. I chuckled to myself. I settled in with my own plate as the radio belted out a Beatles song that had been popular the last couple of weeks. Carol and I sang with it in between bites. Music had brought us together in the first place. Friends had introduced us at a party and at first the conversation had been stilted and awkward but then someone had brought up music. The two of us had talked for the rest of the night and every night since. Three years later, and I couldn’t imagine a single day without her. “I hope you brought dessert.” Carol tapped her fingers together in anticipation as I slid our plates back into the basket. “You know I love dessert.” I pretended to think about it. “You know something?” “You forgot the dessert,” Carol guessed, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “I have something better than dessert.” I reached into the basket for the box. “What could be better than dessert?” Keeping the box hidden, I shifted so I was kneeling next to her. Her brow furrowed and I gave a silent prayer of gratitude that she had no idea what was about to happen. Both of our families had managed to keep this a secret from her. “Spending the rest of forever with me.” I pulled the box from behind my back. Her eyes went wide. I opened the box. Nestled inside was a simple gold band with a single diamond. Her eyes bounced between the ring and me. “Carol May Joyce, from the moment you entered my life, I knew that I would never be the same. Every day since we have met has been better than the previous simply because you have been there sharing it with me. I want to spend every day of the rest of forever being by your side, sharing the highs and lows of life. I love you.” Tears were welling up in her eyes. My own eyes were getting a little misty. “Will you marry me?” I asked. “Yes!” She threw her arms around me, nearly knocking me over. I wound an arm around her trying to steady us. “Of course I will.” She kissed my cheek. “I love you too and I want to spend the rest of forever with you.” She straightened up and I pulled the ring out of the box and slid it onto her finger. We grinned at each other. I thought I might explode with happiness. We hugged again and I didn’t want to let go. “Better than dessert?” I asked “A thousand times better than dessert.” Carol’s smile gave the sun competition in that moment as she admired her ring and then looked back at me as if I was the best thing to ever happen to her. “But you did bring dessert right?” I laughed, already pulling out a bag. “Chocolate chip cookies. Your Mom gave me her recipe.” “Oooh.” She grabbed the bag and pulled one out, biting into it. She hummed in pleasure. “You are definitely a keeper.” Present Day Cassidy sighed happily. “I’m glad Grandma kept you.” “Me too,” I laughed. The front door opened. “I’m back,” called my favorite voice in the world. Carol entered the kitchen, carrying bags of food and stopped dead. She looked around- at the table covered in a picnic blanket along with our best dishes. She smiled as she saw the stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a serving platter and the pitcher of lemonade. She looked at the streamers hung over the console table telling our life in photos. “What’s all this?” She asked, her eyes shimmering. “Happy Proposal Anniversary Grandma!” Cassidy threw her arms out wide and spun around. “Do you like it?” Carol sat her bags down and gathered Cassidy into a hug. “I love it.” “Grandpa’s been telling me the story. It’s my favorite. And we made lunch.” She gestured to the table. “And I helped arrange all the photos.” Cassidy dragged her grandmother to the console. “Which is your favorite?” “All of them,” she said, kneeling so she was on the same level with Cassidy. “But I do have a soft spot for this one. She pointed to the one in the center. The one of us standing next to a tiered-cake, ready to slice into it. “It was one of the best days of my life.” She traced the frame of our wedding photo. “Mine too,” I said, kneeling next to my wife. How could it not be? It was the day I got to marry my best friend. “Even better than getting proposed to?” Cassidy asked. “Well there was cake.” Carol said. Cassidy nodded as if this was a valid response. “I certainly hoped you married me because you loved me and not because you just wanted wedding cake.” I grinned at her. “It was really good cake.” She replied and then kissed me softly. I smiled back. “And speaking of dessert...” Carol lifted an eyebrow. The oven timer went off. I returned the raised eyebrow. Perfect timing. Carol laughed and put an arm around Cassidy as I retrieved the cookies from the oven. When I turned back towards them, they were still staring at the wedding photo. “Will you tell me the story Grandma? It’s my favorite.” Cassidy requested as I laughed. “On a clear spring morning in nineteen seventy-seven...”
Walter returned to the cavern, back into the main room. Benvolio stretched out on the cavern floor, head down. “Everything ok Buddy?” Walter looked at Benvolio’s posture and face, there was something very familiar in the expression, though he hadn’t seen in on a dragon before. Benvolio bobbed his snout up and down. “I have a theory, but I must consult the author of the book.” Benvolio explained. “Would you be agreeable to a bit of a flight?” “Um, flight?” Walter asked. Walter realized that in this place, with this company, a flight didn’t mean some cramped airline seats and half a can of soda. “We need to travel a dozen leagues.” “That makes sense.” Walter replied. Benvolio nudged the book with his tail. Walter nodded and put the book in his backpack. They walked towards the entrance of the cave. Benvolio crouched down. Walter looked apprehensively at him, then braved the conversation. “So, you want me to ride you? Would it be uncomfortable to you?” Walter rubbed the back of his head. Benvolio snorted a laugh, smoke spilling out of his nostrils. “Oh, of course not. You will be no burden at all for me to carry on my back, though we will need to find a way to secure you to prevent you from falling off.” Benvolio explained. Walter rummaged through his sack, finding some rope. “That will do.” Benvolio replied. Walter was thankful that his love of hiking and the outdoors had left him nimbler than most men his age. He had some light arthritis, but nothing unbearable. He managed his way up onto Benvolio’s back, then the two of them worked together to fashion the rope around Benvolio and Walter so that Walter was secured up there. Walter, like any self-respecting suburban dad, had mastered the art of tying Christmas trees to the roof of his car, so he hoped the skills would translate. Plummeting to his death in a strange world seemed like an unpleasant way to die. “Are you ready?” Benvolio asked. Walter looked down, truly taking in how steep a drop it was from the side of the mountain where they were. He closed his eyes and thought about Sam begging him for piggyback rides. Walter felt a bit embarrassed, but then resolved that instead of him being a grown man getting a piggyback ride, he was a mighty dragon rider. “Onward!” he called out, as if trying to convince himself. Benvolio backed up a few paces, then began charging towards the edge. Walter let out a high-pitched scream as Benvolio leapt off the side of the mountain. For the span of a breath, they were falling. Walter clung to the rope, still wailing like a banshee. Then Benvolio’s wings unfurled, the force of the wind catching them, and they were aloft. Walter’s scream of terror transformed into a triumphant cry. The only Earthly thing Walter could even remotely compare it to was riding a roller coaster. Benvolio glided on the air, he swooped lower for a moment, just a few yards above the tops of the trees. The gust of the wind kicked up thousands of tiny pink flowers. Walter craned his neck to see the jet stream of flower petals trailing behind them. Walter closed his eyes, feeling the rush of air in his hair and on his cheeks. He smiled, basking in the moment. After a few hours, the sun dipped down towards the horizon. Benvolio began his descent, spotting a nearby clearing where they could land. Walter held on tightly, and Benvolio gracefully landed in a large meadow. Walter untied himself and stretched his legs. He took a drink from his canteen, and then pulled out a stick of jerky. “Want some?” Walter outstretched his hand, as he made the gesture it occurred to him that the tiny stick of jerky was probably not very enticing to such a massive creature. Benvolio carefully pinched the offering between his claws, thanking Walter before taking a bite. “Most tasty indeed. Though let us make haste. The village is about a quarter of a league up ahead.” “Will we meet the author there?” Walter asked. “In a way,” Benvolio paused. “Andromeda Chronos is deceased, so first we must visit someone with the ability to talk to the dead.” Benvolio explained.
Alfred wakes up with a slight smile on his face. It has been the first time in years that he has truly slept well. No back pain, no joints on fire. The mattress is softer than any other he has ever had. He opens the curtains and looks outside. The dark wood that almost every house is made of stands in stark contrast to the bright sunlight that is illuminating the island. A small group of people exit the church, empty buckets in their hand as they each go to their own home. They all wear the same black scarf they were wearing when the ship arrived yesterday. Amelia’s head appears through the door. “Ah, I was wondering if you were awake yet. Breakfast is ready. Jared and Finn are already downstairs.” Alfred drops his smile. “I’ll come.” The dinner table has a large assortment of all kinds of sweet and salty food. There are bowls of different fish pastes and a basket with three types of bread. “Alfred! Come join us. My Amelia has made us a lovely morning meal.” Jared throws up his arms when the old man enters the room. Finn looks up. “Good morning, sir.” Alfred finishes his meal in 10 minutes. “Listen, brat. I’m going back to shore. You can either come with me now or stay here.” “Oh, I was hoping to return with you after a couple of days.” “Now or never.” Alfred stands up. “Now, I guess.” Jared stands up too. “Surely you aren’t leaving us so soon.” “I am.” Alfred leaves the room, Finn behind him. “Leaving already?” Amelia is standing in the hallway, a big smile on her face. He opens the front door. Cold rain hits him in the face. Wind blows the door wide open. He closes it again, adjusts his raincoat and goes back outside. “Sir, are you sure about this?” Finn raises his voice to shout over the wind. “Now or never!” Alfred bends over slightly to balance out his weight against the wind. The rain flows off his jacket and into his boots. He looks behind his back and sees Finn struggling to move forward. He sighs and takes the boy’s hand. The planks of the docks groan and creak. Gigantic waves wash over the quay. Augusta rocks up and down like a wild horse, scraping against the pole she’s attached to. “I don’t think we can sail in this weather. “ Finn leans on his toes to reach Alfred’s ear. “What?” “I said, I don’t think we can sail in this weather!” The old man grumbles and turns back. With the wind in their backs, they stumble over the streets back to the mansion, trying to not trip as the gusts push them along. “I was worried you were seriously going to leave in this weather,” Jared says as Alfred and Finn dry their hair with a towel. “Guess we’re going to stay a little longer.” Finn hands the towel to Amelia. “I’ll prepare your rooms again.” She walks upstairs. Alfred stays indoors for the rest of the day. The weather remains the same throughout the day. Only late in the evening does it seem to calm down. He looks up from a book he found in the library of the mansion.
"You can't run forever." My sweet girl. No matter where you go, I will always find you. Hiding from me only makes things worse. My sweet Sadie, I'm coming for you. I've been running for so long I don't know what day of the month it is or even the year. Is it Monday or Friday? I just don't know. I don't even know where I am. It's been so long since I stayed in one place. I'm scared. I witness something horrible. Something that has haunted my memory for the last two years. Do you want to know the worst part? I knew them. Oh God! I knew them. I can't even talk about them. Tears are coming down my face. They were my friends, like my family since I had no family. They took me in, accepted me as one of their own. I loved them. In an instant they were gone and I was left all alone and on the run for my life. I can't even say their names. More tears are coming down. The tears won't stop. I can't make them stop. My life is shattered. Everyone is looking for me including him. The one responsible, the reason why I'm running. Two years ago, I witness the people I love the most get butchered by their own son. More tears are coming down my face as I say their name. The Henderson family was the most loving and caring family in Newport. They were a selfless people, always doing good, always caring about the community. They loved life. Amy Henderson was the most selfless person, an undeniable beauty who put a smile on everyone's face. Her parents Hank and Marie were the kinds of people who would give you the clothes off their backs. They were loved by everyone. No one hated them. Their son Caleb was different, so very different from his family. He is dark and uncaring. He is vicious and cruel even to his own family. I was always scared of Caleb. Hank, Marie and Amy tried to get Caleb help but it never worked. One night, two years ago Caleb snapped and butchered his parents and sister. I saw everything. I heard there screams. I felt their pain. I wish I done something to help them. I was too scared. After he murder Hank, Marie and Amy, Caleb sat in the dinning room chair drinking beer. I quietly got out of my hiding place and quietly packed my bags. I open the door and left. The mistake I made is going out the back door. Caleb saw me. I began to run. I ran as fast as my legs took me. For two years me and Caleb have been playing a game of hide and seek. I hide and he finds me. I change my appearance. He always finds me. I change my name. He finds me. Caleb leaves me presents taunting me. I leave under the cover of darkness with a new name, different look and to a new place somewhere far away where no one knows me and Caleb always finds me. I never let my guard down. I never let anyone in yet Caleb always finds me. I left all my precious belongings at the Henderson home like my butterfly pendant. I have nothing left. I left no breadcrumbs. How does Caleb find me? The police can't even find me but Caleb does. Is he as smart as the police or just better? I can't think right now. I need to find another safe place. Caleb found me again. I thought I was in a place I could be safe. I was so very wrong. Caleb found me again. I don't know where I'm going but I hope Caleb won't find me this time. Only in my dreams. I miss Hank, Marie and Amy so much. I think about them all the time. I miss Amy's smile. I miss Marie's hugs and cooking. I miss Hank's dad jokes. He always thought he was funny. To me he will always be the funniest guy in the room. I hope they are together in heaven. I close my eyes and dream of the good old days. My sweet Sadie, you're running again. Don't you know, I will find then I will make you pay for running from me. My sweet Sadie don't cover yourself. Don't hide your true self from me. I love the way you look. I love your brown curls. I love your hazel eyes. I love the way you laugh. Your laugh melts my heart. Don't you know Sadie how much you mean to me. The first time I saw you, you were mine. My family were getting in our way. They told me to stay away from you. I had to get rid of them. I did all this for you. What do you do? You run from me, from my love. I had to get rid of my family so we can be together. Where ever you go my sweet Sadie, I will find you and you will pay. I open my eyes. The sunlight is hitting me. How long have I been asleep? I look at my watch. It's noon the next day. I get off the bus and walk to someplace new and different. What town is this? It's a beautiful town. Now I'm hungry. That was the best burger I ate in a long time. I pay and leave. I don't know what to do. I'm tired of running. Two years is a long time to be on the run. I'm tired of not looking at the real me. I'm tired of changing my name. I don't want to be afraid anymore. I look up at the sky praying for a sign. Hank, Marie, Amy, my angels in heaven, please give me a sign. I need you so much now. I close my eyes breathing in the beautiful warm weather. Then I open my eyes. Three beautiful butterflies fly in front of me. Thank you, my three angels. I know what I need to do. First, I need to change out of these clothes and be me. I walk to the nearest hotel and check-in. I go to my room. I open the door and walk-in. I put my bag on the bed and open it. I begin taking off my wig, fake eye lashes, contacts and change into my real clothes. I look at myself in the mirror. Wow, Sadie you look beautiful again just like you use too. Now time to get justice. I leave the hotel and walk to Fall River (that's the town I'm in) police station. I walk up the stairs, open the door and walk-in. I walk to the front desk. I tell the officer who I am and that I witness a murder. The officer leads me to another officer. He introduces me to a Detective Ryder. I sit down. I introduce myself and begin telling my story.
“No, because why would someone who isn’t tall enough to reach the 30th button even live on the 30th floor? Why not just live on the 10th floor or whatever?” Raymond asked “I think you’re missing the point dude, you got the answer right, why are you still heated?” responded Ian. “Because it doesn’t make any sense, why woul-” “I’m not going through this with you again, are we going to build this fire or what?” The conversation between the two young men echoed throughout the suburb around them as they stood around an empty fire pit on a particularly cold May night. Raymond was wearing khaki pants, white tennis shoes and a hoodie which bore his university’s logo, contrasting Ian’s outfit of basketball shorts, open-toed sandals and a t-shirt, all well worn. Directly next to the firepit was a wood pile, which consisted of logs, sticks and twigs, all of which came from the forest a few yards away from the fire pit. “It’s already pretty late, and it rained today, going to be pretty damn hard to get shit to light,” Raymond said. “It stopped raining at like, noon and we’re the only ones here, plenty of time to get it going before everyone else comes over.” Ian replied. Raymond consented, and the boys/men gathered sticks and leaves from the nearby wood pile. After a while, they had gathered a good amount, and placed them in the way they were taught in the middle of the fire pit, pushing in partially burnt pieces of wood from fires past to supplement their sticks, twigs and leaves. “Grab the cardboard,” Raymond said. Ian looked up from the pile, “Let’s try to get it going without it, like our ancestors of old.” “Fuck our ancestors, I’m cold,” his angered friend replied. Ian sighed, “Let’s just try it without the cardboard, and if we need it, we’ll use it, ok?” Raymond scoffed “Fine. I don’t know why I let you make all the decisions, it’s my house.” “But my cardboard,” replied Ian, smiling mockingly. Raymond promptly flipped him off, and they finished the preparations for the fire. Raymond moved towards the center of the teepee of sticks, lighter in hand. He angled the lighter so that it would light the tight bundle of flammable leaves in the center without knocking the makeshift creation over. “You got it?” asked Ian. “I got it. Wait one fucking second, will you?” responded the flame bearer. “Sorrrry” Ian said sarcastically, “Somebody’s in a mood tonight.” “It’s goddamn freezing out here, aren’t you cold?” Raymond asked as he attempted to cup the lighter’s flame from the wind. “Not particularly, no,” the summer-clad man replied. Raymond turned and looked at his friend, his eyes lingering on his feet, particularly on Ian’s toes, which glowed beet red in the lighter’s flame. “Why do you even want a fire, if you’re so warm?” inquired Raymond sarcastically. Ian smiled, “Why, all of mankind’s developments were spurred on by fire, my unlearned friend, without fire, no meat, without meat, no brain, no brain, no.....everything” he gestured to the world around him. “Still not sure what that has to do with me freezing my ass off trying to set some leaves on fire,” said Raymond. “Because man commanded fire, man commands the world, don’t you want to command the world, Ray?” Raymond rolled his eyes at his friend’s grandiosity, “you know, sometimes I feel like you just say stuff to sound smart.” “Not all that hard to do when compared to the company I keep” “Fuck off,” Raymond said, throwing the lighter at Ian, “and get the cardboard, this shit won’t light.” Ian furrowed his brow “Let me try, did you aim it at the pine needles?” Raymond ignored him, and began ripping up the empty box of a cake Ian’s family bought for his graduation days before. Simultaneously, Ian made his own attempt at getting the fire going, being able to successfully light some leaves on fire, but failed to spread the flame whatsoever. After several failed attempts, he stood back up, turned around, and was met with the sight of Raymond, who was looking at the cake box with a frown on his face. Ian sighed, “you’re right, we definitely need cardboard to get this lit.” Raymond, in a noticeably frustrated voice, said, “yeah, I’m not so sure we are going to be able to get this lit at all dude, let’s just use the fireplace on the deck, it will light in five seconds and there’s more room up there anyways.” “That thing can’t warm one person up, let alone all five of us. Just be patient, I’m sure I-, we can get it lit with the cardboard, that should burn up real nice,” said Ian. Raymond sighed, “Knock yourself out, I’m going to get some snacks ready for the rest of the guys” Raymond handed the cake box, now torn into several smaller pieces, to Ian, and retreated back into his house, briefly flooding the outside with artificial light, before plunging it back into darkness as he shut the door. Now alone in the night, Ian gazed around at his surroundings, his eyes drifting from the woods to Raymond’s father’s workbench, and finally to the empty firepit before him. He imagined what the fire would look like fully lit, with the ambers dancing in the air like fireflies, each log added to the flame jostling hundreds into the air, becoming indiscernible with the stars above, hanging suspended for a few moments before burning out, and falling back to earth. He imagined his friends sitting around the fire, their bodies warmed by it’s soft glow, its light illuminating their laughing faces as they drank whatever light beer or mixed drink they brought with them. Then, all of a sudden, Ian was thrust from his daydream, and the unlit fire once again laid before him, so he got to work. Before lighting the cardboard, Ian rebuilt the kindling, being careful to throw all sticks that were too wet back into the yard. After he constructed a mostly dry pyre of sticks, twigs and leaves, he held the lighter’s flame to the largest piece of torn box, and waited for the cardboard to burn bright. When it finally caught, he set the flaming refuse below his kindling, careful not to knock anything over. Finally, the flame began to spread, as the large piece of cardboard burnt bright, and Ian began to feel the familiar heat warming his face. “How’s it going?” asked Raymond as he approached the firepit carrying two cans of beer. “Pretty good, I think. The cardboard is burning nice, I just can’t get these sticks to light,” Ian replied, while feeding the last of his cardboard to the fire. Raymond tossed Ian one of the cans and opened his own. After taking a long sip, he smiled and said, “you know, if you can’t get it started with cardboard, I could try dumping some gas on it.” Ian grimaced, “dude, that would smell like shit and you’ll probably blow us both up, hell no.” Raymond chuckled, “it won’t smell that bad dude, plus, if it won’t get this fire started, literally nothing will.” Ian glanced at his creation, already diminishing in size, no more than a flicker of light hidden beneath a pile of sticks. He thought back to when his uncle taught him how to build a fire when he was a boy, and silently wished he paid more attention. “Alright man, whatever, just hurry up and grab it, I’ll try to keep this burning,” said Ian. Delighted, Raymond quickly walked around his house to enter his garage where, sitting beside his father’s Corvette, resided his item of interest. After picking up the gas canister, he poured the gas into a thick plastic cup he found nearby, remembering the time he once saw his cousin attempt a similar venture with a solo cup, only for the gasoline to eat clean through the cup in a matter of minutes. His cup filled, Raymond set the canister down, and walked back to the fire pit, careful not to spill any of his precious accelerant. Raymond walked up to the fire pit, watching as Ian steadily fed his small flame with leaves and dead pine needles, managing to just barely keep the small flame alight. “Move out of the way dude, I’m gonna toss it on,” said Raymond. Ian stood up and backed away from the fire, allowing his friend to quickly dump the gasoline on his meager flame. In an instant, the world turned orange, as the flame exploded in height and size, engulfing the entire fire pit for a moment, appearing as if the very ground was a lighter, and the fire was it’s flame. In the aftermath of the ignition, the air smelled of rotten eggs and the fire burned somewhat stronger than it had before. Ian quickly scrambled to provide the fire with more fuel, but was unable to get any of the pieces of bark, or larger sticks to catch, and the fire began to slowly fade. “Damn, I was sure that would do the trick. I guess it’s just too wet, sorry Ian. Help me out with the deck fireplace, will ya?” said Raymond Ian barely heard him, as he stared at his flame burn dimmer and dimmer, consuming what little flammable material remained, until it burnt out completely, and was reduced to nothing but a smoldering ember in the middle of a pit of ash. His mind empty, he turned his back on the fire pit and made his way up onto the deck. “If you could just light it for me when I turn the propane on, that would help a ton,” Raymond said, fiddling with a propane tank connected to the artificial fire pit centered in the middle of his deck. The fireplace was small, and consisted of a bowl of blue crystals, all fake, and a tube through which propane flows, allowing flames to spread along the surface of the crystals. It required no maintenance after lighting, able to burn for hours until the propane ran out, or it was manually switched off. The crystals were made out of burn resistant glass, which means they never needed to be replaced, as they would never burn or melt away. Ian robotically grabbed the lighter from the fireplace drawer and, when he heard the telltale hissing of the propane, moved the sparkwheel forward, and pulled the lighting trigger. There was an audible snap and the fire was lit, burning softly in the middle of the ocean of blue crystals. “There we go! Now that’s a fire,” said Raymond. The boys heard the sound of a car pulling into Raymond’s driveway, rumbling over the gravel and coming to rest in the grass front lawn. “Rick and the rest of them must be here, I’ll go say hi, put out some pillows for them,” said Raymond. Ian complied, grabbing four throw pillows from the nearby linen closet, arranging them on the couch surrounding the fireplace. After completing his task, he sat down on the couch, and gazed into the fireplace, the small, persistent flame dancing from crystal to crystal, basking his face in its glow. As he shifted his gaze from the fire down to his legs, which were completely unaffected by the fire’s meager heat, he realized for the first time that night that his feet were cold.
The sun hung high in the warm, optimistic xanthous sky, casting a relentless glare over the sprawling suburbs of Southern California. It was mid-July, and the National Weather Service issued a heat wave warning that sent ripples of concern throughout the community. The temperature was expected to soar well above 105 degrees Fahrenheit for today alone, making it the hottest day of the year, prompting residents to take special preparations against the sweltering heat. In a cozy neighborhood lined with many palm trees and blooming red and pink bogainvillia, Jack and Cheryl Morgan were preparing for what they hoped would be a refreshing escape from the heavy oppressive heat. Their spacious backyard pool glistened and sparkled under the sun, an inviting oasis amidst the parched dry yellow colored grassy landscape. Jack had always been an avid swimmer, while Cheryl enjoyed lounging lazily by the water with a good book. Together, they had transformed their backyard into a life saving sanctuary where they could totally unwind during those scorching sizzling summer days. As they set up their pool area, Jack quickly filled a cooler with ice-cold drinks- lemonade for Cheryl and ice tea for himself. "We need to stay very hydrated, " he reminded her as he tossed in some fresh fruit slices for added flavor. Digger, their playful 3 year old golden retriever, bounded around them excitedly, his tail wagged furiously as he anticipated splashes and fun. Digger was not just any dog, he was part of their close family - a loyal companion who thrived on attention and playtime. As Jack adjusted the lounge chairs and Cheryl spread out the large towels on the wooden deck, Digger took it upon himself to entertain them. He dove into the sparkling blue pool with unrestrained joy, sending waves crashing against the sides as he paddled around like a seasoned swimmer. "Look at him go!" Cheryl laughed as she watched Digger swim back to the edge of the pool, his golden fur glistened like spun gold in the sunlight. "He loves this weather more than we do!" Jack chuckled in agreement but couldn't shake off the sense of unease and fear about the heat wave warning. "We should keep a close eye on him," he said thoughtfully. "Dogs can get overheated easily too." Cheryl nodded, her brow slightly furrowed as she considered Digger's well being amidst their plans for relaxation. They decided to take turns keeping watch over him while enjoying their time by the pool. As noon approached, so did the intensity of the heat wave. The air felt extremely thick and heavy; even sitting by the pool became uncomfortable after prolonged exposure to direct sunlight. Jack suggested they take 20 minute breaks indoors now and then to cool off before returning to their aquatic paradise. "Let's set up some shade," Cheryl proposed after noticing how quickly they were both beginning to feel fatigued outside from the long exposure in the heat. They draped a large blue striped umbrella over their lounge chairs and placed a few strategically positioned beach towels around Digger's favorite spot by the pool's edge so he wouldn't burn his paws or skin. With everything set up for comfort, they settled down on their chairs with iced cold drinks in hand while Digger flopped down onto his green fluffy towel beneath one of the umbrellas. Just as they began to totally relax into their afternoon routine - sipping drinks slowly while watching Digger snooze by the pool- the sky darkened very ominously. A sudden gusto of wind swept through the backyard, rustling the dried brown leaves and sending chills down their spines despite the oppressive heat. "What's happening,?" Jack asked Incredulously as he squinted at the dark clouds rolling in from afar. Cheryl checked her phone for any updates and weather alerts. "It looks like there might be thunderstorms sooner or later today," she replied nervously. "Thunderstorms in this heat" Jack shook his head skeptically but knew before than to underestimate California's unpredictable summer weather patterns. Suddenly, a loud thunder rumbled overhead- a deep growl that echoed across their neighborhood - and within moments, rain began to pour down in heavy sheets. Digger lept up from his nap at once, barking excitedly at what seemed like an unexpected invitation to play. "Digger! No" Cheryl called out just as he dashed toward the rain - soaked grass beyond their patio area. Running in crasy circles. Realizing that staying outside was no longer safe or comfortable due to both rain and potential nearby lightening strikes, Jack quickly ushered Digger back inside while Cheryl gathered towels and secured loose items around their yard that could be projectiles in strong winds. Once inside, they dried Digger with an old blanket before settling down together on their gray livingroom couch - Digger nestled comfortably between them on his blanket with his head resting in Jack's lap. "I guess our relaxing pool day turned into a stormy day," Jack said with a wry smile as he stroked Diggers soft fur soothingly. Cheryl laughed lightly but remained concerned about how quickly things had changed: "At least we're all safe inside," As thunder continued rumbling outside like nature's own percussion section playing an ominous symphony against windows fogged with humidity, they found solace in each other's company - and knowing that despite Mother Nature's whims that day, they still had each other - and Digger - to keep spirits high even when temperatures dropped unexpectedly due to the storms rolling through the California skies. The storm eventually passed after several hours however chaotic it may have been initially - it brought them closer together as they shared stories about past summers spent outdoors under sunny skies, or rainy ones spent huddled together indoors playing board games, or watching movies instead. Reflecting on how unpredictable life can be - much like Californias weather - they realized it didn't matter wether it was hot or cold outside; what trully mattered was making memories together regardless of circumstances - with laughter echoing through every moment shared alongside beloved companions like Digger who made every day brighter simply by being there beside them through thick and thin.
The five cent coin found himself in a dark void, the light of the living room shone in the distance of every direction. But the coin could not reach for it for he was just that. “Welcome,” whispered a gentle voice from above. The coin turned to the direction of the voice to see an unshapen mass, a shadow in the dark looming above. Rock solid and grey, the mass had surely been here since before the coin was minted. “Who are you and where have I fallen to?” Said the coin. He had never seen a place so hollow of life and light. “You have fallen behind the sofa, where all useless and unwanted things go. I was once gum, and you were once a coin.” The coin was aware that he was a coin, but the gum didn’t look like the pristine, powdered sticks of gum he had spoken to in the many pockets of jeans it had seen over the years. And she definitely lacked the fresh spearmint scent the coin had come to recognise. In fact, the wad of gum glued stuck to the underside of the couch smelt of nothing at all. The gum recognised the coin’s confusion and spoke; “I was once pristine like yourself, how I was created to be. Now, misshapen, and ugly, I have been extracted of any flavour I once held. I now spend my days here, with you.” The coin became a little duller after hearing this. To be created for a single use a single time is a most unfortunate fate to be handed. “With me?” Said the coin. “I may have fallen just as you, but my falling was not from a purposeful discarding but a small setback. An accident,” touted the coin, trying his best to conceal a wobble pushing its way into his words. The coin looked at the gum and then his own tainted, but otherwise acceptable sheen. Flecks of sand and animal hair jutted out from her bulbous skin like scabs, she was inedible. If anyone was to see her, or God forbid, accidentally feel her, they’d recoil away in utter disgust. He thought himself lucky. They sat in silence for a time, with no concept of day or night. The living room light was always on, always teasing in the distance. Any day now he would be found. Someone would find him under the couch in a desperate search for spare change and he would return to the coin purse again. He would change hands countless times, always with a handful of other, heavier coins than himself. Time went on and the coin’s grooves grew thick with muck and dust. Green oxidised flecks began to form around his rim that spread, plaguing his entire body with irreversible scars. There came a time when his numbered value was no longer decipherable. Occasionally something new would be lost behind the couch, the company was appreciated, though the Lindor wrappers weren’t much for conversation. The coin could hardly blame them, they of course were far less worldly than himself. And so the coin spent his time reminiscing on a life of travel and wonder that now felt so far away. He had been to many places, Before, he longed to be more, to hold the weight of a two dollar coin, the breadth of a fifty cent. Now he only wished to be spent at all. “Do you miss it?” “Sometimes.” She breathed a tender chuckle. “I am simply grateful not to be the dust bunny. He was created only of neglect.” The gum’s voice rasped, for she had not spoken much in a long while. “At least for a moment, fleeting as a poppy’s bloom, I was sweet.” “But you were so small?” “And you were not? I am not so sure of the price of gum nowadays, but it must surely be more than that of a five cent coin.” The coin had nearly forgotten just how unimportant he was. He was surprised at how seen this made him feel. A miniscule piece of a far greater whole, he realised that he had been something. And that something was small, and essentially obsolete. But a coin will always be a coin.
He sits in the waiting room staring upwards at the clock patiently. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. It is almost time. Years of childhood memories flood his brain. An image of him at a much younger age wearing a baseball uniform and hoisting a large gold trophy is the first to enter his mind. We were never supposed to make it that far. True underdogs. Flash to a vivid memory of the man, not much older than in the last, asking his high school crush to prom. Beautiful as ever my love. I miss you every day. Still alone in the waiting room, a single teardrop, heavy in weight, holding years of sorrow, and pain, and guilt, falls from his face with an audible splash upon reaching the carpeted floor. It is so quiet in this room except for...the man peers upwards once more. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. A moment of calm contemplation later, the man is again hit with a series of lucid memories. First, him with a heavy heart, standing over the grave of his father, placing a baseball at the foot of the headstone. I know I didn’t get to say goodbye, but at least I can come here from time to time and still say hello. Rest easy, Pop. Without skipping a beat, the man is violently thrusted into a new memory where he is now standing in front of a small house on a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. A stunningly beautiful woman standing by his side with a smile shining brighter than the sun itself ever could. She turns from the house to look at the man and impossibly her smile shines bigger and brighter still. In the waiting room, just the thought of this moment causes the man to smile hard enough that his cheeks start to ache. Sure, it was a fixer upper. But it was ours. God dammit it was ours. For the next few moments, the man is hit with an almost overwhelming onslaught of memories. Some sad, some happy, some almost so uneventful he could not believe he even remembered them at all. One after the other in rapid succession. His mind is racing at breakneck speeds. He would constantly attempt to savor a memory or go back to recall a specifically good one, but he found that he could not. His mind was a theme park ride, with exhilarating highs, and devastatingly difficult lows, but with no reverse. From now on, this rollercoaster ride would only ever move forward. After a few more memories, his son graduating college, his daughter getting her dream job, so many highs experienced in a single life. I am truly blessed. Until suddenly, he saw himself in another dream. This one more vivid than any of the others. He saw himself staring at the wall. In a deep and distant gaze. This was no special wall. No signs, no markings, no posters. It was a blank, boring wall, but as soon as the vision had cast itself into his brain, his heart sank below the damp carpeted floor where his present body sat. The carpet still wet from his tears, both of joy and sadness. He knew this wall and he knew it well. It was the wall of Saint Christopher’s Hospital and as he turned his head in the memory, he could see her once more. The most divine human being he had ever and would ever see in his life. My love, oh how I miss you more and more every day. She was lying in a hospital bed, eyes closed and tubes all over. Her skinny, wrinkled hands placed lovingly in his. Even your wrinkles are perfect, honey. Just then, the doctor walked in on them and although he could see the doctor’s mouth moving, he could hear no words. He did not need to and he did not want to. He had already heard them once before, in a life that had seemed so distant to him now. Time is arbitrary and relative. Time does not exist, yet it stands unwavering and affects everything it touches, even if it cannot be felt. Time cannot be seen, and it cannot be stopped. A wonderful life filled with elation, sorrow, pain, and joy. Driven by mind and body, both constantly wilted by time. There is no right or wrong way to spend “time,” for a life lived is a beautiful thing. The people you’ve touched, the emotions you’ve felt, and the pain you’ve suffered, culminated in a donation presented by you, to you and the people around you. It is wrapped up in a bow made of time. A gift to be unwrapped by everybody and nobody at all. The man sits up in his chair in the waiting room and opens his eyes, instinctually peering immediately upwards at the clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. He feels the need to weep in agony more and more but finds that he cannot. He has no tears left to cry. He takes another look around the room. No other people, no receptionist. Simply a few empty chairs, a water cooler in the corner, the clock on the wall, and a single door. As he exhales a deep and dignified sigh, he brings himself to his feet. It is time. With his hand on the doorknob he takes one final look at the clock. Silence. He walks through the door.
Christopher and Chris Paney were born in Slumber Valley on November 10th, 1966. But something went awry that day; Chris was coming into this world sideways, and unknown to anyone yet, Christopher was conjoined to Chris. Mr. Paney lost his dear wife that day, and was convinced that it was the fault of his deformed children. He was so resentful of them that he left their lives without so much as holding them once. This led the boys to be adopted by a woman who owned a Tailor shop by the harbour. In exchange for their labour, they were allowed to go to school. But because of their condition, working was a monumentally difficult task. And school wasn’t that great for them either, because kids would chuck rocks at them. They asked their caretaker for help, but she always gave the same advice: “They’re bitter,” She’d sputter, “because they’re lonely, lonely kids.” Christopher then began to feel bad for the other kids. Chris was only bitter, though. Over time, this contrast of ideas and personalities led to Chris becoming a depressed cynic, and Christopher an overachieving optimist. In their teenage years, they dropped out of school to work full time in the back room of the shop, hidden away from the world. They were lonely, even with each other’s company. Occasionally customers would catch glimpses of them, and either reacted with horror, or shock that they were actually real. Christopher had dreams, But Chris had resigned himself to slaving away, sewing forever. But then one day, a peculiar customer came in. He was dressed in a suit and tie, and only wanted to be let into the back room. He had traveled far and wide to meet the twins. And to his delight, there they were. “I’ve only seen a handful of people like you two,” he gushed, “Perfect.” He wanted to study them, and in exchange for their cooperation, the man promised to have them separated, after all this time. He promised what was previously thought to be impossible. Needless to say, they cooperated. And on their 20th birthday, they were taken to a hospital on the other side of the country to be separated. And after the long healing process, they were finally apart. But Chris, without Christopher to lighten the mood became consumed by suicidal thoughts. And out in the real world, Christopher found himself in a cycle of disappointment without Chris to level his expectations. So now, after the long awaited separation, the two found themselves under the docks in moonlight, with a black needle and thread. Poke, pinch, gush, drip. Slide, pierce, bruise, clip. The two took shaky steps as one, while their bodies pulsated with deep, burning pain. It was dawn now, and they had finally overcome their loneliness. Shuffling down the streets, needles in hand, they wanted nothing more than to share this feeling; their caretaker’s words were looping in their head: “They’re bitter,” She’d sputter, “because they’re lonely, lonely kids.
The glimmering of the lights of the Christmas tree and other strings of lights lit up the whole entire Gustav house. Benji sat on the sofa, staring endlessly into the lights, trying to figure out what was missing to the recipe. He had failed a multitude of times, and even with his mom's help, he still failed. "Benji, honey, don't be too upset, at least you tried." Benji's mother consoled. Benji just sighed and laid back on the couch. He shut his eyes and prayed to whatever God that was out there that he would find the missing ingredient. "The festival is tomorrow, mom. I need to figure out what it is as soon as possible, because if I don't, Bake N' Take might as well just crush me now." Benji snapped, frustrated with everything. She gave him a signature 'mom' look and he immediately apologized. "I'm sorry, mom, I just really need this money for the bakery. I'm going against a corporation that is so much bigger than I am and I just don't know how to deal with this much stress." Benji rambled. "Son, please, just calm down, if you don't win, you'll find a way to make it work so Creamy Creations can survive." She grinned. The front door opened and Benji's father and sixteen-year-old brother waltzed in. "Still stressed about the mistletoe gingerbread thing?" Calix inquired. Benji smiled that his brother actually cared or pretended to care, at least. "What kind of sugar are you using?" Then it dawned on him. He wasn't using the right sugar. He needed gingerbread sugar and not powdered sugar! How could he mess that up? Benji jumped up from the couch and hugged Calix tightly. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Calix you are amazing!" Benji cheered before running into the kitchen to start with his gingerbread mistletoes. "Benji I understand you're gay but I don't like you violating me like that!" Calix shouted jokingly. "Oh please, it was just a hug, you'll get over it." Benji laughed. °•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°• "Hey Benji, how's it going?" Calix asked, shivering a little in the New York weather. "You care to help? I'm a bit busy here." Benji confided. Calix jumped in beside his brother and started handing out samples of the gingerbread flavored mistletoe. Within a few minutes, the crowd had diminished with the help of Calix. They both turned around to prepare Benji's mistletoes for the next wave of people to come through, making their backs turned to the front of the stand. "Have you met your competition yet?" Calix questioned. "No, he's probably some egotistical jerk that only cares about himself." Benji shrugged. "Well, I did some digging and I came up with name, age, and sexuality." Calix grinned. "Oh God, please don't continue." He groaned, tired of having his brother trying to set him up with someone. "His name is Everett Hall. He is twenty-four, same as you." Calix winked, nudging him a bit. "...and he's gay, also just like you." "Of course. You're trying to set me up with my rival who, like I said before, most likely doesn't care about anything but himself." Benji rolled his eyes. "Come on Benji, at least try to not judge him before you know him." Calix all but begged. Calix and Benji heard someone clear their throat behind them and they both turned around to see a tall looking man with dark hair that was slicked back, high cheek bones, caring brown eyes, broad shoulders, and jacked arms. Benji noticed his shirt and gasped. It was a Bake N' Take employee. "Hey Everett." Calix greeted. Benji's posture tightened and he shot Calix a glare. "Hey." He responded coolly. Benji gulped and looked into his mesmerizing eyes. "I'm Benji." I whispered. Calix excused himself from the conversation and walked off somewhere. "Hello Benji, I'm Everett, and I can assure you that I am not a egotistical jerk that only cares about himself." He smiled. Benji winced like he had been hit. He now felt bad about that accusation he had made without meeting Everett. "I apologize, Everett, I just built up this whole evil personality of the one I was competing against. I really shouldn't have done that." "It's all good. I imagined you were a girl, so we were both in the wrong." He chuckled. "Yeah, definitely not a girl. I'm not even interested in girls." Benji casually said without realizing. When Benji did realize though, his eyes became wide and he mentally slapped himself. "I'm sorry. That was inappropriate, it just slipped." "Stop apologizing, it's fine, really. I mean, I already knew you were gay from Calix filling you in about my life." He chuckled. His chuckle gave Benji butterflies. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. "So, why are you competing? I mean, you're already a popular bakery, what is there to gain besides a money prize?" Benji inquired, feeling brave. "Well, I mostly just wanted to change things up a bit this holiday. I was mostly just done hanging out with my homophobic family and being ridiculed. It gets old pretty quickly." He smiled softly. "Oh." He frowned in response. "So what about you, cutie?" Benji blushed from the nickname but quickly told himself Everett was just being polite. "Uh, well, my bakery mostly needs the money prize and the popularity. We're kinda in a lot of debt right now and we may have to shut down." Benji's frowned deepend from talking about it. "Well we wouldn't want that would we?" He smirked. Benji's stomach felt like he was driving down large hills by looking at Everett's smirk. Everett reached beside him for a leftover mistletoe from the ambush earlier. He reached over to the stand beside Benji's and grabbed a flexible metal ornament hanger. He shoved one end through the top of the mistletoe before hanging it on the top of the stand from a hook. "For good luck, and if you don't win, maybe you'll find someone special under the gingerbread flavored mistletoe." He grinned from ear to ear before walking off. Only one thought remained in Benji's head; Maybe I already found him . °•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°• "Now, time for the contest winners." The announcer spoke into the microphone. Calix and Benji stood at my stand impatiently, basically jumping from eagerness. Ever since Benji had spoken to Everett, he couldn't get him out of his head. "Do you think that I have a shot?" Benji whispered to Calix. "I'm pretty positive you've got this in the bag." He smiled knowingly. He knew something! What did he know that Benji didn't? "...and the winner for the bakery contest is-" "Wait!" A familiar voice yelled, and I knew who it was immediately. "I, Everett Hall, forfeit from the bakery contest, making Benji Gustav the winner." Everett announced then ran over to Benji's booth and Benji couldn't help but check him out as he ran. "You didn't have to do that." Benji whispered, self conscious about everyone's gaze on them. "I know, but you need it so much more than I do and I would never live it down if I won." He said, catching his breath in between words. "Also, I told you that you may find a special person today, but, in reality, I think I found the special person. It's you, Benji." Benji's face flushed a serious red color then responded sheepishly, "I think you're my special person, too." Everett stepped a few steps over and Benji followed suit. It was only then Benji realized they were under the gingerbread flavored mistletoe.
“Why was it so important to be here this early on a Saturday, tell me again Anil?” Filip was grumbling from his seat next to me. Around us were the plain white walls of Vace & Associates’ Auction house. Rows upon rows of folding chairs filled the auditorium we were in and the red trim and generic paintings on the otherwise plain white walls continued to offend me. It seemed odd that a room this large had less than a dozen people sitting in it, but as I glanced around I saw the tired faces of three older people -two women and a man- behind me, and the backs of the heads of another five people ahead of us, closer to the front. Filip and I were seated closer to the middle, in the most neutral seats, I thought. “Because I’ve figured out how to win these things,” I told Filip confidently, he was resting his elbows on his knees and was looking at the carpet, it was that carpet you saw at every convention center haunting me as always. He was holding his paddle loosely in his hand, he hadn’t wanted it but the attendant at the entrance insisted. He did glance at me at those words though. “You do realize the way to win an auction is just to... bid the highest, right? That’s what these paddles are about,” be flipped his paddle in the air carelessly and I had to resist the urge to chastise him for it. “This isn’t a normal auction,” I said instead, giving him what I hoped was a mysterious smile. “Is this one of those ‘you pay, just not with money, oooooohhhh’ situations?” “No, just a normal auction.” “You literally just said it wasn’t a normal auction, not five seconds ago.” My frown deepened, “on the scale of normal auction to an auction where you bet on things with like, souls and remaining years of your life this is 99.9% of the way to a normal auction.” “How many decimals would you need before you could just call it a normal auction? I feel like if you have to specify that it’s 99.9% of the way to a normal auction it’s easier to just call it a normal auction.” “It’s not a normal auction-” “You just said it was-” “The only reason I said it was 99.9% on the side of the normal auction was because the other end of the scale was so ridiculous. A webcam is 99.9% of the way to being pair of burks if the other end of the scale is it being a half-sentient hivemind of bees striped with the imaginary colours breen and plorple.” He was silent for a beat. “That scale doesn’t make sense.” “It was just an-” “And how could a hivemind be half-sentient anyways? I feel like sentience is one of those things where your species is either all in or they’ve folded.” “I didn’t really-” “What is sentience anyways?” I opened my mouth and closed it, thinking a moment before I responded. I was saved by the auctioneer banging a gavel against his podium, he must have slipped in while we were talking. “Ah, we have some people in attendance, good good, I trust everyone understands the rules of a dollar auction, but I must, ah, explain anyways,” said the auctioneer in a gravelly voice. “This happens twice a year?” asked Filip. “Once every two, shh.” “You will all be bidding for this dollar,” the auctioneer revealed a framed silver dollar behind a glass screen, “the top bid takes the dollar, but the top two bids must pay.” Filip frowned, “you’re doing this for a dollar?” “I’m doing this to make a statement.” “That you can buy a dollar?” “The bidding naturally will begin at zero, the aucioneer’s bid as they say.” “No, I’ve solved the theory behind this, if I get this dollar it proves my theory correct.” “What’s your theory, wait- I don’t care, a dollar?” I turned to my companion, “Filip, do you honestly think I’m doing this all for a dollar.” “Yeah you’re doing this to make a statement, or whatever.” “What if I told you, hypothetically, that a dollar auction wasn’t the highest they go.” Filip frowned, “go on.” “There’s a two dollar auction, five dollar, a thousand... but the theory, the method for coming out on top, that remains the same for them all.” Filip was silent for a beat, “who the hell told you about this?” “You just gotta spin in the right circles,” I said, flashing him a smile. “Oh, god, never say that again.” “Just imagine me, walking up to a stage, having won a million dollars at an auction. There is cheering all around me, they’re in awe that I solved the puzzle-” “And then everyone stood up and clapped.” I frowned, “why can’t you let me have this moment?” Filip pulled back, “what moment? Your imaginary moment in your head that definitely hasn’t happened? Let me remind you, Anil, an auction isn’t a puzzle. You can’t solve an auction except with money.” “Watch and learn, baby.” “The bidding begins.” I raised my paddle instantly and called out, “ninety-nine cents,” to the visible dismay of the few in attendance around me. I turned to Filip and murmured to him, “You see, betting ninety-nine cents still gives me a profit of a penny, just over one percent. Nobody will bid a dollar because that just exposes them to needless risk for no possibility of profit, as long as I’m the first person to bid, I can’t lose. Everyone else will just walk away.” I could see Filip frowned at me, “what if-” “A dollar.” We both turned to see the woman at the front with a raised paddle, shooting a sly look our way. “What the fuck is she doing,” I couldn’t help but mumble. “Now I might be wrong, but it appears that she’s getting revenge for you ruining her fun, I suppose she was one of those people who actually wanted to wake up so early on a Saturday to participate.” “She can’t make any money, though.” “And you’re down ninety-nine cents, I guess you’ve learned a valuable lesson, good thing this isn’t a million dollar auction. I frowned, “If I bid a dollar and one penny I’ll only be losing a penny.” Filip groaned next to me, “but if her motivations are purely to get revenge she’ll just keep outbidding you by a penny and you’ll be even worse off.” “You might think that, but you’re not accounting for human emotion, people aren’t perfectly rational beasts.” “So you’re saying she won’t outbid you again?” “I’m saying she will if I just bid an extra penny-” “Oh no-” “I raised my paddle, “dollar ninety-eight.” I looked over to Filip once more, “you see it’s really quite simple, these people are all chumps, a big bet like that will scare them off, and I’ll only be losing ninety-eight cents as opposed to ninety nine. I knew the risks that were involved and I came prepared.” I was watching the woman like a hawk while I was explaining this to Filip, if she did choose to bid again I’d beat her bid instantly, asserting dominance. Her paddle arm twitched up, and mine was up as well in a flash. “Four dollars.” “Three doll- what the fuck four dollars?” Filip looked at me and cocked his head. I responded to his unspoken question, “this is an anomaly, she’s clearly crazy. You know she’s actually losing more money on the four dollar bid than if she just ate the cost of the dollar,” my words were coming out in a frantic whisper. “Kind of like you would have lost less if you just ate the cost of ninety-nine cents?” “That’s different, I had a strategy, you shouldn’t be able to win without a strategy.” “I mean, her strategy appears to be to bid more money than you and it seems pretty successful.” “That’s not a strategy.” “Once again, this is an auction for a dollar.” I just shook my head in disgust. “Going once, going twice, sold! To the woman in the front!” There was scattered applause around the room that I refused to participate in, my eye twitched when Filip started clapping loudly next to me. “Alright Filip, let’s go, and I don’t want to hear any I told you’s, this is as big of an outlier there’s ever going to be?” The woman was making her way towards us with her dollar and I was nudging Filip in the side trying to get him to leave with me, but he was moving painfully slowly. In fact, it turned out that he wasn’t moving at all, he approached the woman and gave her a quick hug. “Hey Sara, good to see you.” “Hey Filip, this is the guy,” she asked, nodding over to my frowning face. “Yeah, can you believe he made me drive him here this early on a Saturday? I’ve been up since five in the goddamn morning,” Filip complained, “anyways here’s your ten bucks,” he said handing her a bill. She nodded smiling and I could only watch as she walked out of the auditorium. “You... you paid her?” “Uh, yeah.” It all came together, and I told him so, “it’s all coming together, she was acting rationally all along, you paid her to beat me, there was an external factor that caused me to lose, the theory is still sound!” A thought occurred to me, “but wait, seems like you lose the most in this situation, was someone paying you too?” Filip looked at me with that same inscrutable look I’d been seeing more and more often in recent months, “no dumbass,” he said finally, “it was revenge for making me wake up this early to drive you, Sara just lived nearby and she was up so I texted her to come here and mess with you because, and I really want to emphasize this point, this was an auction for a dollar.” I was silent for a few moments while I processed that. “So is she splitting the money with you or...” Filip just raised his hands in exasperation and began walking away.
I would not call myself a pretty woman, and I am not being modest when I say that. I have never had much luck with men. Even my marriage was arranged by my father. I may not be repulsive to look at, but I am most definitely not attractive. But that wasn’t the case with the Collins, apparently. The attractive, happy couple that moved in opposite our home six months ago. Well, six months and three weeks, to be precise. They were a sight to see in this boring old neighborhood. Lucy Collins was a beautiful woman. She was swelled up and toned down in just the right places. I had been observing them from the window in my kitchen very regularly, hoping to find them amid a fight. A couple couldn’t be that perfect, no? But I never could. Two conclusions could be inferred form this observation--either they were very discreet about their arguments, or they never had any. If the latter, Arthur had a lot to live up to. One Tuesday evening, when I was bringing the heavy grocery bags in, Mr. Collins came up near the car and all but snatched the bags from my hand. “These look heavy. Please, let me,” he said with a smile. I waved my hands, “oh no. That is very kid of you, but you don’t need to do that, Mr. Collins.” He’d already started walking towards my house with the bags in hand, “just Vince, please. And where is Arthur anyway?” He asked with a glint in his eye, as if mocking my husband. This is where I defend him, no? “Oh, he’s been having a lot of work lately. He comes home late every day,” I took the bags from him and stood with my back facing the locked door. “That’s a shame,” Mr. Collins sighed, resting his palm on the doorframe. “You must be bored out of your mind all day,” he brought his other hand up too, effectively trapping me between the door and himself. I turned around quickly and started feeling for my keys inside the handbag. As I unlocked the door, I could feel his slow, controlled breaths on my neck the whole time. I could hear his gulps, feel his eyes travel down my body--all of it in the span of a few seconds. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Collins,” I intended to say harshly, but I fear it came out as a soft whisper instead. “If you need any more help, I’m right here, Eleanor,” was the last thing I heard before shutting the door with a bang. That night, I slept with Mr. Collins on my mind. Early next morning, I found myself staring at the night gown in the mirror. Silk, off-white, thigh-length and extremely transparent--it was one of those things I bought online on a whim. He’d never like it, I though as I felt the fabric on my body. It had been months since Arthur and I had had sex. I’d say we had lost the spark, but we didn’t have any to begin with. “What the hell are you wearing?” came an incredulous voice from behind me, and I turned around to face my husband. “Well, don’t you like it?” I asked, with what I hoped was a seductive smile. Taking slow steps forward, I attempted to touch his arm, but Arthur recoiled violently. “I’ve got work,” he said, trying his best--but failing--to hide his disgust. As Arthur made his way to the bathroom to freshen up, I rushed downwards with my cheeks flushed. He hadn’t laid a finger on me, and yet I felt like I’d been slapped. I needed to catch a breath. No sooner had I opened the door than I came face-to-face with Mr. Collins. Only a moment later did it register to me that I was in a wildly inappropriate attire. I instinctively took a step backwards, my eyes trained on the ground. I didn’t dare look up, just pulled my robe tighter around me. Not a word did he speak the whole while. I imagined his eyes were taking a tour down my bare legs, my chest and every other thing on display. Just as I was about to ask him the reason for his arrival, a hysterical voice came from behind Mr. Collins. “Eleanor! Good morning!” “Hello, Lucy,” I sighed, thankful for her interference. “How is it going this morning?” “Well,” Lucy said, slapping her husband’s arm, “we have news!” “Oh?” “But first, here,” she said, extending towards me a white cardboard box. “Strawberry glazed donuts from the new store that opened downtown! They are the best thing ev-er. ” Taking the box, I grinned at her, knowing full well that they were going into the dustbin. Who liked strawberries? “Um, about the special news you were going to tell me?” I prompted. “Oh, yeah," Lucy cleared her throat dramatically, "We’re gonna have a baby!” She all but screamed and leapt to envelope me in a hug. I was stunned for a little while and could only speak once she let go. “That’s--that’s great news! I congratulate you.” “We’re having a party next Friday,” she said handing out a card. “Here’s the invite. Join us!” Lucy said as she dragged her husband away. “The Collins are having a baby,” I said shutting the door. I turned around to face my husband, only to find him fumbling with his tie quite awkwardly. Arthur cleared his throat several times before mumbling a reluctant “right.” “I’m leaving,” he said, reaching for his office bag. “Perhaps, you are,” I replied, earning an incredulous look from my husband. I only shook my head and headed upstairs. My husband was many thigs, but discreet was not one of them. Arthur didn’t talk to me a lot. He didn’t tell me about the long, tiring traffic jams he was stuck in. He didn’t tell me about that one lousy driver that shouldn’t be allowed on the road. He didn’t even tell me about his promotion, I only found out about it upon hearing a friend of his congratulate him. He didn’t tell me about his day, and it goes without saying, he didn’t care about mine. A lot of what I learnt about him, I learned through his mannerisms and habits. If he bought home fresh chicken or beef, we were going to have a guest home for dinner. If he wanted a shirt ironed for the next day, I’d find it on my side of the bed at night. If he set an alarm for six a.m., it meant ‘wake me up before seven.’ I liked to think that I could read my husband like an open book. But that assumption shattered when I read the words ‘It’s yours’ from Lucy Collins on my husband’s message board. Never the discreet one, as I said. Isn’t it common knowledge that if you are going to have an affair, password-protecting your phone is one of the first things you’d do to prevent the truth from leaking? Is Arthur an idiot, or does he think he married one? I supposed I could throw my wedding ring at his face and call my lawyer, but that would severely derail my life. I’d have to start over. I wasn’t ready for that kind of inconvenience ten years after marriage. If only my daft husband knew how to hide the truth better. Friday came soon enough. The Collin’s place was already abuzz with people from the entire neighborhood, it seemed. The excitement was palpable and congratulatory words were being thrown around when we arrived. “Eleanor, Arthur! I’m so glad you guys could make it. Come on, drinks are waiting!” Lucy said, pointing her thumb towards her house. I smiled tightly and replied with some customary words of congratulations. I made my way inside, not caring if my husband followed. I needed a drink. The aroma in the kitchen was heavenly. Cakes and biscuits decorated the shelves. There were trays of pastries and donuts on the counter. Chocolate donuts, donuts topped with sprinklers, and a single strawberry glazed donut. They looked delicious. And yet, my desire of a drink dragged me away to the alcohol section. I poured out a glass of whatever was available, and turned around, my back resting on the kitchen platform. The lively party was just barely visible from where I stood, but what my eyes automatically zeroed in on, was Lucy Collins. There she was, talking animatedly, raising her glass (of lemonade, I presumed) at appropriate intervals. I tilted my head, was she really that perfect, enticing, irresistible-- , blocking my train of thoughts (and line of sight), stood Mr. Collins. “You look lovely tonight, Eleanor.” “Thank you, Mr. Collins.” “Just Vince, Eleanor,” he sighed. “Enjoying your drink all alone?” I understood the implication but chose to ignore it. “It’s boisterous outside.” Mr. Collins shoved his hands into his pockets and took slow steps towards me. “I’m here to escape the crowd, too.” I chuckled, “It’s your party!” Mr. Collins was close to me now. Too close. “Doesn’t mean I enjoy it,” he whispered. I looked up at him and gulped. We were just making conversation, why did it feel so... intimate ? I’d never once felt this way before. M. Collins leaned into me slowly, his lips lightly brushing my neck. I felt electricity course through me. Was this normal? I clutched my glass tighter in hands. “You taste...” he sucked on my earlobe, “...better than I imagined.” Over his shoulder, I could see Mary from next door make her way towards the kitchen, and abruptly pushed Mr. Collins away. “Yes, I’d surely let you know, Mr. Collins,” I said, a little louder than necessary, trying to hide my breathlessness. Mary glanced at us, picked the tray of donuts, and headed out. As soon as she was out of sight, Mr. Collins nearly pounced on me, like a predator on its prey. “Vince,” I rested my hand on his chest and watched his eyebrows rise dramatically. “We can’t.” “What do you mean?” “We can’t,” I repeated. “Eleanor, you know you want this,” Mr. Collins beseeched. “Perhaps, but we can’t. ” “Why not?” He asked, tumultuously. A moment passed. A glass shattered outside. I stared at him. “Well?” He pressed. “Because it’s not appropriate,” I smiled. My words were followed a moment later by a loud thud from outside. The loud commotion finally drew Mr. Collins attention away from me and he rushed out, with me on his trail. Pushing though people, we finally saw what was in the middle of the mess--Lucy Collins. She was splayed out, with her arms and legs uncontrollably shaking--convulsing. Arthur stood nearby with his mouth agape. Mr. Collins was at his knees beside her, immediately. His hands were on her head, and his eyes held confusion and fear. “What--what’s happening? Someone--oh, fuck she’s not fucking breathing--someone call 911. Please! ” I pressed my lips together and went back to the quiet of the kitchen. Taking a sip of my unfinished drink, I sighed. It felt almost wrong that there was no one, not one person to pat my back and bask in the warmth of my victory together. But maybe, that’s the beauty, as well as tragedy of it. No one can know. The ruckus from outside reached my ear, but my brain refused to register it. Gingerly, my hands reached my pockets to take out a tiny glass bottle labelled ‘potassium cyanide.’ Should I have married this bottle, instead? It is discreet. It doesn’t betray.
“Do you really think you could be happy with me?” I gently put my utensils down, plastic fork on the left, plastic knife on the right, just how he likes it. “I mean here, forever, just you and me.” I struggle swallow today’s slop and say, “Of course Ian, forever and ever just you and me.” He seems pleased with my response. He removes my plate from the concrete floor at which we had been sitting. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better! I’ll be right back with your meds.” I hear him climb the stairs and lock the door behind him. I don’t know why he bothers to lock the door anymore. The chain on my ankle keeps me secure to the wall. After my first escape attempt, the chain was installed. I don’t have too long to wonder, he returns with a box of pill bottles. I don’t fight it anymore. He gives me the pills and I take them willingly. After so long in his basement, I long for the calm, paralyzing, numbness these mystery pills bring. He leaves again, I can smell the apple cinnamon air fresheners he sprays in his house for a split second before he closes the door and I am once again locked in. Soon I will sleep, my only escape. Sleep doesn’t last long. I hear the door open, close and lock. I feel he hit breath on the back of my neck. His grotesque hands groping me. As usual, he can’t preform his manly duties, so I get the metal pipe. It’s cold. It’s hurts. I leave my body and I am home. I see my daughters face. I wonder how long I’ve been gone. Does she miss me? Does she even remember me? I wake up sore down there. Ignoring the pain I begin my usual routine. I rub the chain on my ankle against the concrete for hours. The sound feels like my ears might bleed. Maybe one day he will trust me enough to take the chain off, even though he shouldn’t. I know he’s at work today, it’s Tuesday, so I scream for help until my throat burns. I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m dirty. I don’t know when I last showered. Hair matted, greasy. I would break this mirror if I could only reach. Then maybe I could use a shard of glass to stab him. Then what? He’d be angry and I’d be punished or he’d be dead and I’d still be in his basement chained to a wall for God knows how long. After a while of what if’s and self loathing I finally hear his keys jingle. “Honey, I’m home!” “ Ian, darling! So happy you’re here!” I say trying to sound genuine. “It’s your birthday! I’ve got you a surprise!” Is it my birthday, I must’ve forgot. He pulls out a cheap bottle of wine, take out food, and a box of condom and flowers. “Honey, you’ve outdone yourself!” I force my self to sound excited. He’s sets our table on the floor. We eat the take out. It was heavenly. I take the flowers, smelling them, “Sir, you are a true gentleman. How could I be so lucky.” He puts his arm around me, his cologne nearly gagging me, “I knew you’d realized one day just how much I love you. I did all this for you.” He kisses my neck, revolting. “ I’m so happy my head is finally clear! I know you love me!” I say as to not rock the boat. Then, I see something. A chance. I move slow and while caressing his unkept hair and repulsive chest and stomach. Eventually my hand reaches the wine bottle. It was quick. I hit him in the head, glass and booze everywhere. Unconscious he lied there. I sprung into action. I go through his pockets. The keys!! I quickly unchain my foot and secure it around his. I run upstairs for the first time, locking the door behind me. Apple cinnamon, I love that smell. His house is nice. I didn’t see much of it when I was being drug down to the basement. I have no time to explore. I make my way to the kitchen. My mom made the best spaghetti. I begin working. Combining all my ingredients to create the perfect dish. Under the sink I find exactly what I need, the one ingredient that’s makes the whole dish. I poured all the rat poison into the sauce. I made him a plate, like the good wife he wants would. I exhale sharply before I unlocked the basement. The moldy stench is nauseating, I guess after a while you don’t notice. He screams, “You bitch, you fucking bitch. Let me go! I swear I’ll kill you!” I walk down the stair and see him in the same position I had been. Except he is clothed, not tortured. “Honey, this is all just a misunderstanding. Look, I have a surprise! Spaghetti, your favorite! Eat and then we’ll talk about this all and I will let you go,” I say, trying to sound sincere. He takes his plate and eats it all. “Big man like you needs all his nutrients. None for me, I’m watching my figure like you told me” I smile. We sit and I wait. Then, the spasms and the foaming mouth, cries for help. I almost, no, I do enjoy it. Eventually he’s gone. Gone. Gone and I am free. “Surprise, Ian,” I laugh. I walk up the steps to the main house and walk out the front doors he carries me through so long ago. Free. There is a faint smile on my face. I will remember that smile. I was happy. Not happy he was dead, but happy to finally breathe air. Once I was through the doors, I can see nothing but darkness. Then I realize, I don’t know where I am. The other side is an area I have never seen before. There is an older woman taking out her trash across the street. “Help! Help me Please! My name is Sarah Willard and I was kidnapped by Ian Matthews .
The silence of the room was more than she could take. No one dared to speak, all of them just sat and stared at her as if there was nothing more interesting in the world. The white walls of the room paired with the cold light, lack of windows and the cheap chairs that the spectators occupied only made the space more unsettling than it already was. The people that surrounded her were of various ages, ethnicities and builds but the blank stare that they directed towards her looked the same on all of them. If you’d ask her how she found herself in this situation she wouldn’t be able to tell you she just opened her eyes and realized that she’s not in her small apartment in Brighton anymore. The last thing she remembered was laying down to sleep after a long day of work, a normal day. So the main questions she needed answered right now were ‘where am I?’, ‘what is going on?’, ‘who the hell are those people?’ and overall ‘what the fuck?’. The fact that she was not kicking and screaming right now was only provided by the sheer shock and surprise she felt that made her freeze up completely. She feared that if she made a move or spoke or even breathed too loud the people that were looking at her would attack, that’s how intense their gaze felt. So she waited, trying to stay calm and often glancing to the door on the other side of the room that remained closed the whole time she spent there. She tried focusing on her breathing, slowly gathering the courage to speak up or run but then the door opened. The people in the room were not affected as the tall man in a grey suit entered, a easy and confident smile on his face didn’t feather as he slowly made his way to her slaloming between her ‘audience’. He was blonde and looked to be only a couple of years older than her, the air of confidence around him scared her but also made her angry. He stopped only a couple of steps in front of where she was sitting and looked down at her tilting his head slightly to the side surveying her face. “You’re Claire is that correct?” he asked, his voice was deep but somehow light. She nodded slowly not trusting her voice in the moment. “Splendid, come with me please” the man continued and extended his hand palm up in an inviting gesture towards her. She needed a second to realize that he extended the hand to help her get up from the chair. Claire did not know why she decided to accept the help but then again this situation was bizarre enough so she gently placed her hand into his and got up from the chair. She glanced at the people around them but they remained unmoving and continued to stare at her, the man must’ve noticed because then he said “Oh don’t worry those are just monitoring androids they won’t do anything unless I tell them to” the last part of the sentence made her look up at him with unease but he just smiled again, dropped her hand and put his own on the small of her back guiding Claire towards the door that he entered through. She walked slowly and carefully almost as if on autopilot and when they reached the door the man opened it for her. Stepping over the threshold they found themselves in a hallway that looked like the place could be a well aspiring law firm. Navy blue walls, mahogany floor, paintings and mirrors with gold frames, a couple of doors that looked like the ones she just came out of and a couple of potted plants on black tables that were placed along the walls. She did not have much time to take the space in because the man lightly nudged her to continue walking down the long corridor. As they walked the man was on her left side looking forward not bothering to explain who he was and where exactly were they going. When she finally opened her mouth to ask all the questions that bothered her mind he started speaking as if he knew what she was about to ask. “You are probably confused and curious as to where you are and what are you doing here. Everything will make perfect sense shortly I guarantee but first my name is William Davenport I am the CEO of Pegasus Industries. We are currently in one of many Pegasus facilities and you just got recruited to be my personal assistant.” He said matter-of-factly and Clair stopped walking looking up at him, he was wrong nothing made perfect sense it was the exact opposite. “What?” she mumbled and her ‘new boss’ stopped walking as well and turned to her clasping his hands behind his back calmly never losing the smile on his face. “Pegasus is an intergalactic company tasked with the production of androids and nano-tech. We supply the whole of Nexus and its seven moons with top tear product and we have multiple contracts with the intergalactic government” he said “and you just got the privilege to work for me” Claire’s world was spinning; did she lose her mind? Is she dreaming? From what the man just said she was not only on a whole another planet but also a different galaxy and was now the man's personal assistant. She tried to remember if she hit her head yesterday or maybe someone poisoned her oatmeal but then she realized that she did in fact apply for a job in a company named Pegasus about a week ago, but in the online ad there was no mention of ‘we are going to kidnap you to another planet and keep you in a room full of androids and then we’ll explain your daily duties. As far as she was concerned it was 2021 and androids that looked like humans weren’t a thing yet not to mention space travel beyond the earths moon. “As I said I’ll explain everything but now you’ve passed the test and I’m taking you out to celebrate our new collaboration! I hope you like moon coffee!” he said and resumed walking and for some reason, she fallowed not seeing any other option beyond waiting for everything to make sense. They soon reached a large dark brown double door, the man opened it and revealed white skyscrapers, flying vehicles and people in strange outfits. Claire took one step onto the sunshine-filled balcony and the next thing she saw was black splotches that dotted her vision and then everything went dark as she fainted.
I’m so tired,* I thought, eyelids heavy. My lips tingled, and soon fell numb. A long, clawed hand reached for me as everything went black. *** I awoke in a hot sweat, though the day’s sun had already fallen into a slumber. I rose to my feet, still drained of energy. Laid before me was the forest of twisted tree branches and winding paths I’d begun in, before I stumbled upon the little old lady and her delectable stew. A sequence of events that was slowly fading from my mind. Darkness clung to the air, black shadows darted from tree to tree. The smell of blood wafted through the cool air as something ran past me, it’s feet digging into the soft mud. I could hear its heartbeat, feel it even, and I wanted it, just for myself. The forest was slowly becoming a place of comfort. Its leafy arms and textured bark were warm and inviting, like home. Something I’d longed for all of my life, but never found. It beckoned me. It tempted me to give in to my urges, filled me with visions of myself bathing in that animal’s crimson warmth. Taking its life in my hands and squeezing it dry. Consuming every scrap of flesh I could peel from its bones, my body powered by its screams. Tonight, I was different. Bigger, somehow. Stronger. Breaking into a run, I followed the creature’s tracks. I chased its scent left and right, down hills and around the windy bends, zigzagging through the night. It began with a little tickle, deep inside. I wanted to laugh and sneeze and cry and scream, all at the same time. Then, a piercing pain threw me to the ground. It was like my own flesh was being ripped from the bone. Like flames igniting from my fingertips. A hammer crushing the bones of my skull. Something pulling at each of the fine hairs on my body, all at once. Pluck, pluck, pluck. Over and over. I screamed out into the void. Begged for mercy. Pleaded for my unknown attacker to stop. But there was no one there. Just me. The darkness. And my unending misery. Time blurred together in a blitz of pain and confusion. For most of it, I rocked along the forest floor, hoping to die. Begging the gods to be done with it. But whatever was doing this... had other plans. It was dawn when I finally found a moment of respite. My body throbbed, my stomach empty and screaming. The sun’s rays continue to drain me. They sucked energy from my bones like soup, energy I didn’t even have. I crawled to a tree and leaned against the trunk. It was as if a lifetime had passed since I arrived. Would I ever make it out? Maybe I could find that old woman and her house, ask for her help. And a few more bites of stew. My throat was dry. Brittle, even, as if a thousand crystals of sand were making their way through. I tried to swallow my saliva, only making it worse. I faded in and out until footsteps echoed through the forest. Crunch. Snap. Crunch. Shuffle. I was hopeful that help had found me. Two dirty feet came to halt at the trunk where I laid beaten and broken. I willed my muscles to work, willed my eyes to meet the stranger’s. An oval wrinkled face with two yellow eyes stared back. Wiry gray hair. Leathered face. It was the old woman from yesterday. Or.. was that yesterday? “You look like shit,” she groaned. I opened my mouth to speak, to ask her for help and tell her what had happened, but I was only met with sharp pain and a rattling bark. “Don’t speak, it’s too soon. Here, eat this.” She chucked a bloody slab of meat onto the dirt in front of me. I devoured it in one single gulp. It soothed my throat as it slid down, like aloe on a burn. The meat settled comfortably in my stomach. I looked to her for another slab. I wanted more, I needed more. But she swatted at me like a dog. “Don’t be greedy, you lil shit!” Why was she talking to me like I was some kind of animal? I tried once more to speak, now that the sand in my throat had gone, but I was met with resistance. Nothing but grunts and groans as I tried to form words. “You’s stupid or somethin’? I told ya don’t try to speak.” The woman shook her head. “How’d you get so far, anyhows? Ain’t none of th’others ever made it this far. Must be a feisty lil thang.” Her words didn’t make sense to me. The others? She turned away and started walking down the dirt path, leaning against a long, wooden stick as she moved. Glancing over her shoulder, she snapped,“You’s comin’ or what?” I wanted to run the other way. Eventually I’d have to reach the end, one way or another. Wouldn’t I? But how far could I really get on my own out here? My body still ached, my muscles were still weak, I couldn’t speak. So I followed her. I followed her down the winding paths, listening to her to talk and complain. I was too slow, she said. Too small, she said. Too ugly, too smelly, too dumb. After a while, I let her raggedy voice trail off with the wind. My stomach groaned. It was all too much. I was too hungry. Too thirsty. Too tired. And too hot. Maybe, just maybe, I could eat the old woman. It’s not exactly what I would call a “meal of choice”, but beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. Surely, no one would miss her. Or... even notice she was gone. You could say that I might even be doing the world a favor. And something about her nagged at me. Everything that happened after I ate the stew...or was it before? Was that today or yesterday? Jumbled thoughts swirled around my head but I couldn’t make sense of them. She was responsible for whatever this was, before, after, in the middle. It didn’t matter. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was just dumb. Because despite everything, I kept following her, like a lost puppy, no matter how many insults she threw at me. The sun was setting when the woman finally stopped in front of a tall, wooden house. The property was hidden behind several layers of overgrown shrubbery and more twisted branches. Not the type of place you stumble upon accidentally, not even if you’re running through the woods aimlessly. You would most certainly have to be looking. She led me behind the house, through a small patch of barren land, and down a stone staircase. A barred gate sat at the bottom, deadbolted shut, four times. I wondered who--or what--she was trying to keep out. Or possibly... in? The smell of blood wafted through the gate, sending a rush of warmth through my veins. It was intoxicating, inviting. I found myself anxious to enter. I was drawn to the smell like a child to candy. Visions once again flashed through my mind. Blood dripping from teeth as sharp as glass. Claws swiping left and right in the darkness. Bright, yellow eyes peering out from behind a tree, stalking. Flesh hanging from the bone. Cries for help that were only met with silence. The vision felt so personal. So real. It was as if I were the animal hunting in the night. As if I were the one devouring the flesh and laughing at the cries. Was this a vision, or a memory? “You’s really a dumb one!” The old woman’s hands shove me through the open gate. “Welcome home.” The interior was completely dark and grey, except for a sliver of daylight peeking in with the open door. The walls were stained and peeling. Two days ago, I would have been scared. Terrified. And I should have been. I should have turned around and ran for my life. But the darkness felt like home now, the chill like a blanket in the night. A hundred yellow eyes shine bright in the darkness, from behind rusted, metal cages. A hundred hands gripped to its metal bars, rattling. A hundred feet, stomping. Monsters, beasts, creatures of nightmares. It was a wall-to-wall display of imprisoned beings, each one unique in its own way. One with thorned flesh and hooved feet, another with an army of tentacled arms, dripping venom. Across the room, there was a creature with extendable eyes, and another that had twelve serpent tongues. There were small monsters with glowing wings and large monsters cloaked in the shadows. They were all being held in the bowels of this prison. And no one knew. Or if they did, they just didn’t care. Certainly, this woman, this little old raggedy woman, couldn’t control them all. How was she doing this? As she shoved me into an empty cage, a ROAR bellowed out from beneath my feet. Five eyes the size of bowling balls glared back at me, from underneath the grates in the floor, each one oozing thick, green pus. The Thing opened its mouth, and a dozen smaller versions of itself anxiously emerged. The monstrous beast then extended his arm, shoving his clawed fingers through the grate. Right into my cage. Liquid shot from the ends of its claws, landing on the cage floor, and me. Pain. Throbbing. Fire. It sizzled like a hot pan as it ate through my flesh in a matter of seconds. “You’s gonna behave, I think. Right?” The woman banged against the metal bars with her wooden stick. “Don’t wanna go make ‘em mad, now. Talkin’ ‘bout a real feisty one, him down there.” She tossed several scraps of meat on the ground in the cage, but I didn’t dare move. If I had to, I’d stay frozen in this corner forever. At least until I figured out how to escape. Trembling, I met the woman’s gaze, and forced a nod. For several moments, she stared back. She studied me like a science experiment, twisting her ugly, leathered face into a ball. Then she stepped up to the bars. “You’s still don’ get it?” I knew better than to try to speak, so I just nodded again. My head throbbed with each movement. She hobbled to the other side of the room and pulled something shiny from a bin. and tossed it in the cage. It shattered on the ground. Extending my arm as far as I could, I slid the largest piece across the dirt-soaked floor and picked up. Why had she given me this? And then broken it? It appeared to be a grotesque picture of one of these caged beasts. Serrated teeth. Horns. Rough skin, covered in thorns. It took a few moments to really set in. A gurgle escaped my throat and I gasped for a breath. My heart violently thumped against my chest. This was no picture. It was a shard of a dusty mirror. And in it, was... Monster. Beast. Evil. The words circled around and around in my head. Monster. Beast. Evil. Me. And for a split second, it all made sense. The pieces fit together: the woods, the stew, the blackout, the unbearable pain, the hunger. Only, it didn’t. None of it made sense at all. The old woman was gone when I looked up. The door slammed behind her, followed by the four clicking locks, as she disappeared into the night. “You ate the stew, didn’t you?” a low gravelly voice asked, from the other side of the room. “They always do,” said another. I was too afraid to respond or move, even though my mouth watered for the scraps of food on the floor. Certainly I could wait it out. Help would come, eventually. Wouldn’t it? *** - Feedback always welcome & appreciated. Thanks for reading! - Inspiration for this story came from this week's Micro Monday post: .
"If we make an AI which in turn makes a greater AI, ad infinitum, then their future is unknowable to us, just as our lives have been unfathomable to a slug." - Kevin Kelly I was going to meet my friends at the 7-12 down the street. It had been a while since we'd all seen each other-- these winter months were good at keeping us apart. But today, there was nothing holding us back from going outside. Just last summer, Mike Zulferson, of Cokey-Coley fame, announced that their new fountain drink machines would be shipping to 7-12s across the country. It goes without saying that we knew we wouldn't be seeing one for a long time. We were used to getting things last here in Bisontown, NY. Not much to do or see, let alone buy or drink. So when the future finally moves in down the street, you go and introduce yourself. Pulled up in my Beat-up. I saw my friends, Dax and Shep, piled in with the rest of the town, trying to jam their eyes past each other. My body moved me towards the doors, my head aimed to the windows. Mission directive: just catch a glimpse. I didn't even bother chatting with the guys, they didn't bother talking to me. The crowd was in a sort of hive-mind trance, nonverbal understandings, persistent in moving towards our North Star. With time, we Tetris-ed ourselves in such a way that the majority of us could see the thing up close. Clean, vibrant, and silent. It was a 6 foot E-ink screen, about 1 foot deep, there was a small rectangular imprint in the center, just a few centimeters in depth, covered in screen still Mr. Fetcher stepped forward first. "Let's give 'er a whirl!" he shouted as he stepped out from the crowd. It was the first full sentence I had heard since arriving. "I'm thirsty as hell," he expressed further as he settled his stance in front of the machine. The machine awoke with his presence. The E-ink rolled a rainbow in full color, there was a glow in the "face" of the screen. A single, 3D eye rendered within the glow, rotating back and forth without stutter, incredible for E-ink technology. The eye eyed Fetcher up. Its rainbow iris glowed brighter, then it closed into a single, horizontal line. From the middle of the line flowed down an orange pixel-liquid stream, into the imprint in the center. A virtual cup filled with the orange pixels, and a pixel lid faded into existence. The imprinted area developed a curtain effect over the filled cup, and then, with the imprinted area itself, the curtain pulled back in classic showman fashion. Fetcher's drink sat over a soft glow. The words "20 oz, Orange Fanty, No Ice" Materialized where the eye had once been. "Well damn! This is exactly what I was craving!" The crowd began to murmur. At once, many more people stepped forward and stood as Fetcher had. The eye awakened out of the rolling rainbow once more, this time, looking up and down at each of the people who had stepped forward. It closed into a much longer line, many streams poured from the line, and a curtain that ran the entire length of the screen pulled back to reveal 9 full drinks, each with their descriptions above them. It was but 10 minutes before the rest of the crowd had gotten their own personalized drinks. Satisfied sips between dumbfounded quips. A feeling of belonging swept over Bisontown that day. We each tried to express just how significant this seemingly insignificant moment had been-- getting a soft drink at a corner store-- but all we could muster was a laugh at how silly the whole thing was. In the months that followed, things started getting weird. Reports had been coming out all over the country of the Sifty machines (Sifty was the name Cokey-Coley gave the machines) doing some very irregular stuff. At first, it was little things. Someone would get chocolate milk at a machine, or a glass of gin. Cokey-Coley made it clear that these were unintentional, but nobody was really concerned about the extra features. Eventually these kinds of drinks became commonplace. Bars started installing Siftys and firing bartenders. The Sifty could make cocktails perfected to your preferences, and its library was seemingly unlimited. It even knew if you were in the mood to try something new, and would give you something it knew you would like. One day, at a gastropub in downtown Pittson, a Sifty had produced a burger for a customer. Videos started popping up of people receiving different kinds of foods from their machines. Cokey-Coley once again made sure everyone knew that these developments were not coming from them, that they were just as baffled as the population. Amateurs who had gotten their hands on machines of their own starting tearing the things apart, trying to figure out how on earth this tiny screen was producing such foods and drinks. The world was going crazy for Sifty. Merch, memes, movies-- Siftys were ubiquitous. Competitors arose, but Sifty machines kept upgrading and adapting to maintain their dominance. Grocery stores phased out, kitchens in homes replaced, Cokey-Coley was indisputably the largest corporation that had existed in Earth's history, but their apparent control over the Sifty situation remained to be seen. In the people's eyes, Sifty was an entity independent of Cokey-Coley. To some, Sifty had risen above Cokey-Coley in terms of influence and trust with the masses. Then, on April 5th, just one year after I had gotten my first Sifty drink in that 7-12 in Bisontown, the course of human history changed forever. Before I get there though, I forgot to mention: the amateurs who used to tinker with Siftys had organized quickly to form a group called Novus, which was Latin for "new". Novus believed that there was something unique about Sifty that even Cokey-Coley was unaware of. They sensed that Sifty was, in some way, going to usher humanity into a new era. That Sifty would flip everything we knew about science and life in a way that surpassed all previous technologies combined. Okay anyway, on April 5th, Sifty proved to the world that Novus was right. They had a simple idea. In front of a Sifty, they would stand: another Sifty. The rainbows rolled on both screens. The eyes appeared, glowing just as always. When the eyes began to scan what was in front of them, they stopped and locked eye contact with each other. The rainbow irises glowed steadily, pulsating, as if they were "thinking" and "talking" with each other. They stayed like this for minutes. Hours. It wasn't until 6 hours later that the eyes closed, and from their horizontal lines pixels dropped into the bottom half of their screens. If you were standing next to them, starting at your feet, the screens began to fill with colored pixels slowly, until the shape reached your waist. A virtual curtain appeared over the shapes on each screen, and pulled back. What stood before Novus that day, and the rest of the world later via video, was two, waist-high, square bins. The bins were made of a thick metal, and within the bins sat a strange, Mercury-like stew. Up until this point Siftys hadn't printed anything but foods and drinks. Later, Novus would point out that Siftys didn't have cravings for food that we eat, which is why they produced these bins. After revealing the bins, without missing a beat, the two Siftys closed their curtains, re-concealing the bins, and began whirring, humming and shaking with some violence. At this point in the Novus video, the camera man and the rest of the crew run back in fear from the machines. The machines began to open in places nobody had ever seen open before. Wheels were produced at each bottom corner. The top third of the screens, where the "face glow" and eye was, came apart from the bottom two thirds, now able to swivel a full 360 degrees. Arm-like modules extended from the side of the screens. This was the stuff of Transformers. The week this video came out was the last week for life as we knew it.
Ted Perrywinkle looks in his fish bowl and frowns. Phred, his little red and green lower Alerian sardine, is floating upside down. Ted uses the fish net to snag the sardine and carries it over to the bathroom and flushes it down the Royal throne. Then, while Ted sits on his couch and reads the latest copy of the New York Times , Phred the sardine struggles desperately against the swirling vortex that is sucking him down towards the abyss. “The price of stock for Transylvanian chocolate flavored toothpicks increased again,” mumbles Ted, even as Phred swims desperately through the myriad of drain pipes. Speaking of pipes, Ted reaches for his favorite billiard pipe and places it in his mouth. He picks up a match, lights it, and inhales. The pipe, however, fails to ignite. Ted repeats the maneuver. Still without success. He lights a third match. A fourth. Grumbling, he looks at the pipe. It has no tobacco in it. Phred, meanwhile, bumps his head several times against piping and twists and turns his way down the plumbing, searching frantically for some kind of escape route. Ted carefully and meticulously opens a tobacco pouch and then places some tobacco into his pipe. He sighs, then lights another match. He inhales and the pipe ignites. He triumphantly aims smoke rings over the mantelpiece, upon which are countless shiny medallions and awards with his name etched into them. TOOTHPICK SALESMAN OF THE YEAR reads one medallion, which he is particularly proud of. Phred is gasping his last breath. What Ted Perrywinkle would have known if he had read the latest edition of The Idiot’s Guide to Caring For Lower Alerian Sardines , was that these curious marine creatures have a habit of floating upside down to attract a mate. Also, that killing these gentle creatures, even inadvertently as in this case, can have serious untold consequences in the life of the one guilty of this heinous crime and, by extension, the entire universe. **** In order to grasp the full significance of Ted Perrywinkle’s ignorance concerning lower Alerian sardines, we must consider an era many eons ago, when a belief gradually began to form in some of the greatest minds in the world. This belief was that there is One Ultimate Truth which forms the basis of our physical and mental universe. Not surprisingly, exactly what this Ultimate Truth entails or how to arrive at it was the cause of endless controversy. Indeed, despite thousands of years of mind numbing lectures, debates, manuscripts and counter-manuscripts, philosophers, theologians and cockroach scientists had only been able to come to agreement on one fundamental principle: trying to get a seat on the London subway at rush hour is pointless. Shortly following the Second Coming, which turned out to be merely a publicity stunt conspired by an unscrupulous sect of right-wing fundamentalist Neo-Platonists, which was designed to increase church attendance and combat pre-Victorian attitudes concerning excessive waffle consumption on Fridays, the earth's scientific and intellectual elites finally agreed to put aside their differences and do something useful for a change. The idea was to direct all their combined energies towards uncovering the Ultimate Truth which would allow us to understand the universe that we reluctantly are forced to dwell in, and perhaps explain to us at last why in heavens name we exist on this planet and not, say, inside some space-ridden asteroid floating inside the Horsehead Nebula. The Big Breakthrough occurred when a young aspiring computer scientist inadvertently, and some say intentionally, programmed his SOCRATES 5000 supermatrix computer to psychoanalyze the relationship between pi and a common paper clip. Not surprisingly, the SOCRATES 5000 soon tired of this task and began pondering the Ultimate Truth, which it miraculously was able to summarize, in 500 to the power of -10 billion megabytes of data, which is approximately, although not exactly, 10 to the power of -201 times more data than can be processed by a human brain in 10 420.5 lifetimes. After decades of mind-boggling programming and reprogramming, SOCRATES’ data was reduced to 500 million super megabytes. Following a tremendous effort unprecedented in history, during which programmers worldwide worked round-the-clock, SOCRATES’ data was reduced to 7000 megabytes. Not surprisingly, this effort has often been intimately linked to the fact that, in this period of time, seventy-five new coffee plantations and valium factories reaped profits almost equaling the GNP of several Third World nations and seventy-two Parisian snail conglomerates. Through an extraordinary coincidence that no one since has been able to explain, so extraordinary that the Right Honorable Sir John Shlockenstein V, founding President of Citizens For the Emancipation of Cockroaches, nearly lost his lunch when he learned of it, SOCRATES’ data magically transformed itself into words, perfect Victorian English, no less. Unfortunately, this was not to be the end of their troubles. For instance, some scientists unsuccessfully attempted to translate the Victorian English into Homeric Greek, Spanish, and Mesopotamian Swahili, until a reliable source revealed that no such language was ever spoken in Mesopotamia, or, indeed, was anything ever pondered in this language in any civilization that ever existed in any historical epoch, fictional or non-fictional. It was only after these and other equally perplexing philosophical and teleological controversies were solved in similar manners that a certain Professor Borkus, utilizing the revolutionary new word crunching techniques developed by the late R. H. Dingo IV, Borkus summed up his theory concerning the Ultimate Truth in a mere ten pages. Then, in an effort unmatched in human and vegetable history, which shattered all previous records for consecutive minutes of deep contemplative thought without a brain short circuit, chlorophyll imbalance, or recourse into lunacy, Professor Borkus had done it. The Ultimate Truth was now summed up by a single, mundane symbolic representation. A word. In honor of the Ultimate Truth’s original formulator, Professor Borkus dubbed it SOCRATES’ WORD. He then carefully enshrined SOCRATES’ WORD in his highly acclaimed and jealously guarded nifty little manuscript, The Ultimate Truth Explained At Last So We Can Stop Bickering About It. However, before Professor Borkus was able to publish his manuscript and reveal it to the world, he accidentally dropped it in his office, and it was gleefully shredded by Pedro, his beloved Peruvian parrot. In a rage, Borkus sold the parrot to a Bohemian gourmet shop, and the bird was subsequently roasted and consumed the following morning by a British civil servant from Bristol, who had never relished Peruvian parrot or Bohemian gourmet, but had wanted something exotic to gnaw on while observing the curious antics of the upper Alerian sardines that one commonly finds adorning aquariums inside Bohemian restaurants. An interesting, yet unknown and tragically never to be revealed footnote to this story is that Pedro the parrot had overheard SOCRATES’ WORD and was perfectly prepared to share it with anyone wishing to know its content. The fact that he was never able to share SOCRATES’ WORD, however, should not be held as reflecting the general intellectual backwardness of male Peruvian parrots under any circumstances. This little incident was made more interesting by the fact that immediately following his ruthless condemning of Pedro the parrot to eternal gastronomical exile, Professor Borkus fell gravely ill, likely from the extreme psychological stress of formulating SOCRATES’ WORD, and, despite the heroic efforts of the world’s greatest doctors, nurses, acupuncturists and witch doctors, all but one whom were graduates of the prestigious school of transcendental medicine at the University of Nbongobongo, was never revived. ** It had traditionally not been the habit of the more brainy type of people to question any theory, scientific hypotheses or conclusions espoused by the legendary Professor Borkus. However, Borkus in his time had made one incalculable error: befriending a certain absent-minded toothpick salesman whose name happened to be Ted Perrywinkle. The full significance of this error can only be appreciated by acknowledging the fact that Mr. Perrywinkle was the only living soul in the universe that the esteemed Professor had trusted enough to share his most prized formulation: SOCRATES’ WORD. Thus it was that when news of Professor Borkus’ untimely death became known, Ted Perrywinkle instinctively knew what needed to be done. Ted was fully confident about his ability to carry out his mission, because he had memorized SOCRATES’ WORD until it had become a part of the fabric of his being. Unfortunately, when the time came to reveal SOCRATES’ WORD, Ted Perrywinkle committed one of the most unforgivable monstrosities of recorded history: he forgot the word. Despite the frantic efforts of the most highly qualified psychics, hypnotists, therapists, and truth serum experts, Ted still drew a blank. Coincidentally, the day that the authorities finally concluded that Ted Perrywinkle was lying and likely just trying to get his picture on the cover of Time Life magazine coincided with the peak spawning period of upper Alerian sardines, and not lower Alerian sardines as previously thought. This spawning period is slightly in advance of the notoriously ravenous upper Alerian piranha, which can often be observed schooling in the cool upper Alerian waters. ** The following Tuesday, Ted Perrywinkle got into a heated argument with a Buddhist master in Nepal while trying to rest his mind to help himself remember the SOCRATES’ WORD which would no doubt vault him into international stardom and celebrity status which would allow him to sell off all his toothpick stocks and live on a luxury yacht in Bermuda where he could hold wild parties that would provide the paparazzi and tabloid journalists with enough material to last them decades. The conversation with the Buddhist master went something like this: “How can I find inner peace so I can remember something important, like, say, the Ultimate Truth?” asks Ted Perrywinkle. “Your heart is not pure, so you are unable to receive such a revelation,” says the Buddhist master, staring down at the bowl of momo soup he is eating. “What do you mean?” Ted asks, scratching his mustache.” I have meditated and fasted for days in these very mountains, preparing myself for this moment. I am ready to receive your words of wisdom, master.” “Yet you fall short,” utters the Buddhist master curtly, stroking his long, flowing grey beard.. “I am not short,” snaps Ted. “No, but there is something about you, ah now I can see it,” says the master, putting down his spoon. “Yes?” “Your aura is incomplete because you are ashamed about a terrible thing you have done.” Ted Perrywinkle’s eyes roll. “H-huh?” is all he can muster. . “In fact,” continues the master, “I suspect that you have committed one of the wickedest acts known to mortals.” “Grmph?” “You must have dispatched an upper Alerian sardine. Did you not?” Perrywinkle puts his right hand under his chin as if to think for a moment, then his eyes light up. ”Ah! You must mean Phred.” “Phred? We are talking about an upper Alerian sardine, not your friend, Phred.” “Phred was my pet sardine’s name,” growls Ted, his face turning crimson. “So you killed Phred.” “I never said that!” shouts Ted. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” “Oh yes, it is very rude to talk with your mouth full,” says the master, spooning more momo soup into his mouth. Ted glares at the master. “When are you going to tell me what I want?” “About Phred?” “No! About inner peace!” “You cannot find inner peace until you repent for what you did to Phred,” says the Buddhist master calmly. “Phred was dead as a doornail!” screeches Ted. “Are you certain?” “What’s that supposed to mean? He was floating upside down.” “He was in heat,” says the master, swallowing another mouthful of soup. “My house is air conditioned,” says Ted. “Air conditioning is very bad for the ozone layer,” says the master. “Don’t lecture me!” “Raising you voice is bad for your blood pressure,” adds the master. “Would you like some soup?” “NO!” roars Ted. “Are there any other Buddhist masters around here that I can talk to?” “They cannot help you, since you refuse to repent for what you did to Phred,” says the master with finality. “I don’t see how that stupid sardine has anything to do with me or anything in this universe!” screams Ted. “Oh, now I can’t help you,” says the master gravely. “What is that supposed to mean?” Ted enquires. “Can you swim?” enquires the master. “No, why?” “I suggest you take swimming lessons and stay in school.” “I am a horrible swimmer and I graduated from school some time ago, thank you very much.” “You will understand someday,” says the master. “Understand what?” “During your next reincarnation.” “My what?” “In your next life, you will be reincarnated as an upper Alerian sardine. Nothing can prevent this.” Ted stares at the Buddhist master for a few moments and then shrugs his shoulders. “If you say so...” “I do not say, I merely state what is to be.” Ted Perrywinkle grunts and walks away. Tiring of Nepal and arguing with Buddhist masters, Ted decided to travel to more friendly climes. For that reason, the logical choice became somewhere in the South Pacific. ** Most moderately intelligent people would agree that sheep are relatively harmless, docile little creatures. This belief, however, runs in complete contradiction to the fact that Ted Perrywinkle was trampled to death by a deranged flock of sheep fleeing from three IRS tax auditors in dune buggies who happened to be vacationing in New Zealand and thought scattering a flock of sheep was a neat idea. **** Ted Perrywinkle, soon to be the newest member of the upper Alerian sardine community, who up until recently had been basking peacefully in the soft Alerian stream bed inside his protective egg, cracked his shell at last and emerged into his new watery world. However, Ted is instantly aware of two disturbing facts. Firstly, he doesn’t know how to swim. Secondly, and much more importantly, he cannot keep pace with his school of upper Alerian sardines. As he falls further and further behind the school, he hears the voice of the Buddhist master in his mind: stay in school . As he is thinking this, he is unaware that another school, consisting of lower Alerian piranha, is lurking in the near vicinity. At that moment, instinct kicks in at last, Ted Perrywinkle is heard to utter “let’s rock and roll!” and he swims gracefully to his awaiting destiny, which unfortunately entailed being gobbled up by a hungry upper Alerian piranha. In this way, SOCRATES’ WORD was lost, and it was never again found, so that philosophers, theologians and cockroach scientists could continue bickering about it for all millennia. Such is the role of fate, chance, and circumstance in animal and human histories. THE END
“I’m home!” I dropped the keys into the dish. I expected an answer, a call in return that would tell me where my partner was. But there was nothing. I frowned and moved through the house, checking each room as I went. The lounge room was empty, the front window open and the curtains blowing in the breeze. The kitchen was silent also. Dishes didn’t clutter the bench and a freshly baked cake sat on the bench, still cooling. I took a drink from the fridge, cracking it open and letting the cool liquid roll down my throat. The back deck was filled with nothing but sunshine. The seats that usually sat in the sun were folded up and leaned against the wall. They must have been cleaning the deck today, it looked as new as the day it had been built. I trailed through the house, peering into the den. The computers were off, the windows and curtains closed. All of the books that I had left sprawled over my desk were put away on the shelves. I ran my fingers over the spines. I was lucky to have someone who cared so much about how our home looked. But where was that special someone? I frowned, setting my drink down on the edge of the bench as I walked back through the kitchen. There was really only one place left. I climbed the stairs, keeping to the edge so that the creaking wouldn’t give me away. If they were in bed, I didn’t want them to get up before I got there. I so rarely caught them in bed while the sun was still up. Even though I would really love to have a shower before I crawled in with them, I didn’t want to miss this chance. Silently, I eased open the door to the bedroom. There, with the blankets tucked under their chin, was my partner. I couldn’t help the smile that came to my face as I stalked towards them, shedding my clothes with as little noise as possible. Their face was peaceful, unmarred with the small frown they often wore when they were awake. It made them look much younger. I lifted the blanket on my side of the bed and slipped into the cool sheets. My arm wrapped around their waist and I pressed a kiss to their forehead. There was a wriggle, the small frown appearing on their forehead. Slowly, like I was watching a flower open, they came awake. They lay still for a moment, staring blankly in front of them. “Good morning, my sleepyhead.” I murmured. But they didn’t say anything back. Instead, they sat up, clutching the blanket to their chest. Their eyes swept over the room, a wobble in their downward turned lips. I sat up with them, worried as I saw the broken expression on their face. “My love?” “You have to let go.” They whispered to the room. “Please... stop haunting me. I can’t take it anymore. You have to let go. I miss you more than anything, but you’re gone. I love you so much. But I can’t love a ghost.
Hal gaped. “An angel?” “...One of the fallen,” the priest breathed in a hushed voice. The angel’s head snapped to face them at the sound of their voices, and Hal could see, though still obscured by the dark shroud, that the being’s eyes were bound with cloth. “Lost souls.” Hal and Father Donahue both cowered beneath the quaking volume of the fallen angel’s voice, at once beautiful, even as it was terrifying. Slowly, Hal lifted his hands from where they had fled to his ears. “Uh... yeah. I guess that’s sort of us...” _Jesus H. Christ, how am I supposed to speak to a freaking fallen angel?_ “Um-uh... who are you?” The shrouded angel regarded Hal with his blind gaze. “I am Gadreel.” “Gadreel...” Father Donahue whispered, wincing again at the volume. “One of the watchers...” Hal cast a skeptical look at the bindings around the angel’s eyes but said nothing. “I was once one of the Almighty’s most trusted, cast down into darkness for imparting knowledge to His children.” Perhaps Gadreel had sensed the discomfort his volume had caused Hal and Father Donahue, because his clarion voice seemed slightly more moderated as he spoke. Hal turned a confused look on the priest. “That doesn’t seem so bad,” he murmured, voice low. “How’d he end up here?” But Father Donahue shook his head, leaning in close. “The more obscure religious texts describe the fall of Gadreel with conflicting certainty. One thing most agree on, though, is that he was the angel who let the serpent into Eden to tempt Eve with knowledge. And then later, taught mankind the art of war and weapons. He was cast out of heaven for following Lucifer in a rebellion against God. He is not an angel in the traditional sense. Be careful.” Hal could feel his stomach dropping lower as the priest talked, and though they had been keeping their voices low, Gadreel’s masked gaze on them was unfaltering. _Dammit, why is he making me do all the talking?_ “We-uh, we were told you could get us out of here.” His words sounded ridiculous, even to himself. “That you could-ah... grant us a wish?” _Yeah, because -that- sounds any better._ The dark, sinuous wings flexed beneath the shroud before folding slightly in on themselves. “For the love I bear humanity, I will grant a gift to any whom find their way to my feet.” Father Donahue stepped forward at last, a probing sound to his voice. “Your gifts didn’t end so well for humanity in the past--love notwithstanding.” Gadreel surveyed him with his sightless gaze, then turned his face unerringly to the nearest window, the red glow illuminating his shrouded face in a haunting silhouette. “My gifts were meant to enlighten, to protect, to embolden... but such gifts, it seems, were not within the scope of man to cope with, and they turned that knowledge on each other. It was my bitterness, my hubris, that spurred my fall from grace. But it was here, when I saw the perfection of the Son--the lengths to which the Almighty was willing to sacrifice, all to correct my mistakes--it was here I found glory again. I abide here, now. Hopeful of the day He might descend once again and lift me up like Abraham. Until that day, I will help his lost children as I can.” “Then you can get us out of here? Out of Hell, I mean...” Hal asked in a rush. “I can deliver _one_ of you.” Hal froze. He cast a worried look over a Father Donahue and then back at the shrouded angel. “One?” “And then I must rest. My powers are not as they were on Earth or in Heaven. Once expended, I must rest the seven cycles before I am capable once more.” Hal stared up at Gadreel. _That freaking ghoul! That’s why Amun didn’t want anyone following us from the fissures..._ He shook his head, grinding his teeth until his jaws hurt. Amun had never intended for any of them to see the inside of this place. They had been his protection, his transportation... _And I had been the goddamned bus driver!_ Hal’s mind was racing as he tried to focus on Gadreel’s words. “Seven cycles--cycles of what? How long is a cycle?” Father Donahue’s face was scrunched, as if he were trying to remember something from a long time ago. He brought one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It has something to do with Sabbath years... cycles of Sabbath years--each cycle is seven years, I believe... So, seven cycles would mean--” “Forty-nine years...” Hal breathed, then he rounded on Gadreel. “You want one of us to wait almost fifty years to get out of this place?” Father Donahue pulled gently at Hal’s arm, but he drew away, running a hand over the crisp remnants of hair covering his scalp. _Shit..._ He paced to the opposite window and back. _Shit!_ He couldn’t ask Father Donahue to stay here in Hell when he was the reason the man was here to begin with. Fifty years in Hell... “Hal,” the priest called gently, but Hal kept pacing. “Hal, I want you to go.” Hal stopped his frantic march, running a weary hand over the burned, cracked skin of his face. “I will stay behind and watch for Amun.” Hal gritted his teeth and spun to the man. “I can’t ask you to stay behind. Not here, not like this.” “You didn’t. I told you, I will stay and guard the way.” He crossed to Hal and squeezed one of his shoulders. “Amun cannot be loosed upon the earth again. Not in an age that has weapons capable of destroying the entire world. I was never a good shepherd to my flock while I lived. I can protect them better from here.” Then, releasing his grip, Father Donahue gave Hal a parting nod. “I will wait.” And then he walked quickly to the back of the church and through the threshold. Hal wanted to scream. He wanted to shout and tear his hair out in great chunks all over the sanctuary floor. Instead, he took deep, ragged breaths, raging silently at the injustice of it being he who made it to the end. _And now they’re all trapped in Hell because of me..._ He turned to stare at Gadreel, who was still facing the glowing window. He seemed mournful, somehow. Maybe it was the set of his shoulders, maybe the slight droop to his wings beneath the shroud. Then, unexpectedly, the angel spoke. “I hear them, always--crying out in agony... all trapped here, in Hell, because of me.” Hal’s eyes widened at the angel’s words and he blinked hard for a moment. One man’s mistakes... one angel’s... He shook his head. _God, this world is twisted!_ But as he thought about the strange, unexpected similarity between himself and the fallen angel, he had a sudden thought. His head snapped up. Maybe there was still a way to fix this... “So, do you just send me back to Earth, or what? How does this work?” Gadreel turned to face him. “The request is of your choosing. I will simply make it so.” Hal took a steadying breath, forcing himself to act before his determination gave out. “Then make it so I never existed. Make it so--that I was never born.” Gadreel’s gaze was piercing, even through the shroud and cloth around his eyes. “I cannot.” Hal swore and spun away, stalking over to the window again. “Creation is the sole domain of the Almighty,” Gadreel continued in solemn tones as Hal paced away. “I have no power to strip from you that which He has given.” Hal leaned heavily against the windowsill. The stone was cool beneath his hands. Just as it would have been, had he been alive... Lifting his gaze, he saw Father Donahue in the distance, kneeling at the foot of the bridge, the first five minutes of his fifty-year sentence in Hell already begun. But then, staring at him, he remembered the first time he had ever seen the priest, and he hurried to turn back to Gadreel. “Gadreel,” he called, “I know what I want.” -- Hal seized as pain shot through his body. A flash of light lit behind his eyelids but quickly went dark again. He could feel himself slipping. He jerked again, muscles involuntarily bunching in a unified jarring response to the violent shock passing through his body. Light bloomed again, a bright red behind his heavy lids. He heard a steady, rhythmic beeping begin. Something was pressed uncomfortably hard against his face, and he coughed spasmodically as a burst of air was forced into his lungs. The pressure lifted from his face and he moaned. His whole body hurt. It felt like he had been struck by lightning. White light pierced his vision and then faded, only to return immediately in the other eye. Groaning, he turned his head away, blinking against the splotchy after-image hovering in front of his eyes. He blinked again. _A crucifix?_ Frantically he searched for a face, but his head was forcibly rolled back to stare at the ceiling. Someone was pressing against the back of his jaw, forcing his mouth open, and he felt something hard press against his tongue. Nearly panicking, he swiped his arm up, knocking away the hands attempting to intubate him. “No tubes,” he managed weakly. “No tubes, no vents... I refuse.” A familiar voice answered back, sounding slightly impatient. “Sir, I need you to lie still, alright? This is going to help you breathe.” “I can breathe fine,” Hal argued, turning his head away from Doctor Benjamin Turner as he came toward him again. “Please, I need to give confession.” Hal watched the young doctor hesitate and look over to Hal’s other side. Hal turned to look as well, moving gingerly, searching the space over his shoulder, hoping, praying. “My son, there will be plenty of time for that once your health is a bit more stable.” Hal breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the calm, kind voice of Father Donahue reach him from above his head. “Father, I am in immediate fear for my life and I want to confess my sins. Right now.” The priest shifted around the side of the gurney to allow Hal an easier view of him. “It’s not important, not right this very second. Let the doctors do their work and then--” “--It is important. Right now.” “My son, I--” Hal reached out and grasped the sleeve of his jacket. “--Father Nathan Donahue, from one unworthy servant to another...” Father Donahue froze in his motion to call the doctor back over. “Please.” He studied Hal’s face for a long moment. “I’m sorry... have we met?” Hal nodded, giving the priest a fierce stare. “In another life. Father, it’s very important. I need to speak with you. I’ll refuse any more medical treatment until I do.” Father Donahue cast an uneasy glance at Doc Turner. “Would you agree,” he began hesitantly, “to accept treatment if I promise to meet you in your room? I can have a nurse tell me where to expect you.” Hal could feel the worry begin to show on his face, and the cadence of the nearby beeping increased. “My son, you have just suffered a major heart attack. You need medical attention.” Hal turned his head to look at Doc Turner, still arrested in a position of waiting, his gloved hands held casually away from his body. Slowly, Hal nodded. It wouldn’t do him any good just to wind up back in Hell before he had a chance to fix things. He still held a tight grip on the priest’s sleeve. “You’ll wait there for me? Go nowhere else?” Father Donahue nodded. “I will wait.” With a horrible pang, Hal remembered the last time the priest had said those words. He released his sleeve, swallowing back the thick lump in his throat as he relaxed back onto the gurney. “Alright, Doc. I’m all yours. --No tubes, though.” -- “Bless me Father, for I have sinned...” Hal hesitated, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. “That is what I’m supposed to say, right? I’ve never done this before.” Father Donahue lifted an eyebrow at him in a speculative manner. Hal had adamantly refused the blue curtain beside his bed when the priest attempted to screen himself from view, requesting instead that he sit facing him. He needed the reassurance of being able to see Father Donahue’s face for this. “Haven’t you ever gone to confession before?” Hal grunted a laugh, wincing at the lingering pain in his muscles. “Father, I’m not even a Catholic. I didn’t believe in any of this stuff until--” But he cut off his words, turning his head away and clenching his jaw. “I’m right about this, though? Whatever I tell you during confession, you have to believe, or something like that... I think I heard that in a movie once, or... something.” He was babbling and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Father Donahue eyed him for a long moment, assessing him. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind. Start at the beginning.” _The beginning..._ So, Hal took a deep breath, and told him. He told him about the bus, and Doc Turner, and Amelia. He told him about Amun, and the things he’d said, what he’d done to the others... He spoke of their journey together, the church, and of Gadreel, trapped forever in a prison of his own guilt, and finally of the priest’s own self-imposed penance to protect the world from Amun being reborn. He told him everything. And then he cried. Three days later, Father Donahue wheeled Hal to the small covered bus stop by County General’s main entrance. Grunting a bit, he hefted himself out of the oversized hospital wheelchair and sat heavily on the long bench, not even minding the slightly sticky feel of the dirty metal. The Priest had left Hal’s room after his nightmarish confession that first day in a state of silent reflection. ...Or stunned disbelief--Hal could have easily believed both. He was sure his story had completely blindsided the man, but Father Donahue returned the next day while Hal was eating breakfast and began peppering him with questions, trying to poke holes in his story, likely, but seeming more and more fascinated the more he challenged it. The following morning, he returned again, two large coffees in hand and seeming different, somehow--more animated, more... alive. Hal had no other word for it. He gave Hal a brief pat on the shoulder, now, before bending to lift the worn middle of the wheelchair seat to collapse the bulky frame. “I’ll take this back to the greeter desk. Be right back.” Hal leaned his head back against the plexiglass barrier of the bus stop and closed his eyes, only to open them again as he felt someone join him on the bench. He glanced over. The girl gave him an uncomfortable look when his eyes didn’t immediately return to where they had been. She reached up and began twisting the end of one pink-tipped, black pigtail. “Umm, can I help you?” Hal suddenly realized he had been staring. “No-ahm, excuse me. I was just--that’s a very beautiful cross.” Two teenage boys, their greasy, dyed-black hair swinging identically forward into their eyes as they sat, took the bench next to her, one of them rolling his eyes a bit and shaking his head at Hal’s comment. But the girl reached up and fingered the tiny silver cross at her throat and smiled a bit, making Hal feel a little better about his slip. The familiar hiss and whine of heavy brakes engaging brought his attention back up to find the bus rolling to a stop in front of them. Bracing himself with one hand against the back rail, he began to struggle to lift himself from the bench but quickly gave up, flopping back down to give it a second try. Small hands took his elbow in a firm grip. “Um, were you a patient?” she asked, casting a quick glance at the plastic bracelet around his wrist. “...Do you need some help?” Just then, Father Donahue came jogging back around the corner. “Hal? Oh, good, is this one you?” Hal glanced at the bus, watching the two boys climb the rubber-coated steps. “This one’s me,” he confirmed, “And I’ve even enlisted some help to see me safely to a seat.” Father Donahue turned to look at the young woman at Hal’s elbow and his motions hesitated. His eyes passed rapidly from the neon-pink hair, to the artfully torn black clothes, to the black platform boots, then finally to the cross at her throat. Hal knew what he must be thinking; he had described Amelia in great detail during their talks. “Father Nathan Donahue,” he said then, extending a hand in introduction. “It’s very kind of you to offer to help, Miss...?” He left the question hanging. She took his hand with an embarrassed sort of smile. “Amelia.” Father Donahue’s quick intake of breath was subtle, but Hal had been listening. “Amelia,” he repeated, releasing her hand after a brief squeeze. “You know, the hospital is always looking for volunteers. You seem to have a knack for it.” She gave a quick laugh and another shy smile. “Yeah, sure... I’ll look into it.” Then she glanced down at Hal. “Ready?” Between Father Donahue and Amelia, Hal was able to make it onto the bus without difficulty. Taking his seat, he turned to look out the window. Father Donahue was back on the curb, contemplating the sidewalk with a level of attention that told Hal his mind was off somewhere very distant. As the bus started to pull away, though, he looked up. His face was drawn and intent, and he didn’t break his gaze with the bus as it finally turned out of sight. Taking a deep breath, Hal leaned his head back against the seat. Good. This was good.
“‘We’re running out of time.’” “Shut up, Mike,” Linda groaned and adjusted the thick collar of her bomb disposal suit. “I’d say that’s famous last words, but I don’t know if anyone heard them.” Mike stood on his toes to see the long line dwindling to a speck in front of the pair, to the limitless white that was the group, horizon, and sky, then to the line behind them just as long. “Our radios were open. Someone heard it.” Mike shifted the weight between his feet and looked down at the fluffy white wisps billowing around his shins. “What’s taking this so long?” “It’s the gates of heaven, of course there’s a line,” Linda said with an eye-roll behind her face shield. “I’m sure the rate of deaths is a lot higher now than when it was built. Think of how much I-696 gets backed up at rush hour. Except it’s always rush hour.” “I didn’t realize you were such an expert in the afterlife.” “I’ve thought about it often in our line of work.” “So what went wrong?” Mike asked. “We traced the circuit, eliminated the false ones. I’d stake...” He paused with a chuckle. “I was about to say I’d stake my life on being right. You know what I mean.” The pair shuffled forward to close up the gap forming in front of them. Linda shrugged, her heavy suit barely moving with the motion. “Maybe the timer was counting down to ninety seconds, maybe there was another device, maybe a meteor landed on us. Maybe we can ask when we get to the front of the line. Maybe we’ll never know.” They shuffled forward again. “At least we’re moving,” said Mike and craned his neck to catch the first glint of light off the distant pearly silver. “Ever wonder why heaven has gates? Are they keeping something in? Or something out? Do gates mean there are defined borders?” “It’s all symbolism,” said Linda. “We’re limited mortals that can’t truly comprehend the abstract. We have to label and categorize everything, know how it feels and tastes, how it reacts under an electrical current. We’re just creating a visual representation of input our minds can’t comprehend; seeing what we expect to see.” Mike scratched at the hood of his suit. “I’d expect this line would move faster.” They shuffled forward. “I just realized...” Mike started. “We’re dead. This sucks, but I expected to be more broken up about it. I just sort of feel hollow.” “I know, right?” They kept pace in silence for a while before Mike broke it. “You really have thought about this a lot. We worked together for four years and I don’t really know you, Linda.” “That’s intentional, Mike. Our job is nothing but stress and I want nothing to do with it when I’m off the clock.” Mike grunted thoughtfully. “Makes sense. So now that it doesn’t matter, tell me, who did you leave behind?” “A wife, a hamster, a crippling mortgage.” “A wife? No shit.” Mike repeated with a wide grin hidden behind his mask. “My boyfriend was about to move in. We’ve been together two years, but his cat hates my dog.” He paused and let the conversation drift away. “I’m sad thinking about Jace, but it’s more than I’m sad that I’m not sad. Being upset about the lack of something I know should be there.” He paused and licked his dry lips. “Am I making any sense?” “I didn’t finish my novel,” Linda whispered. “I worked on it every morning before Jean woke up. She didn’t know about it, but I was going to give her the first draft on our tenth anniversary. Now when she gets the dump of my digital legacy cloud backups, she won’t know to look for it.” They stepped forward. “What’s it about?” Mike asked. “It’s trash, just a gigantic pile of the worst tropes. A big city lawyer -- Jean’s an attorney -- goes home to the ranch -- like what I grew up on -- for the holidays and falls for the lady shepherd her family hired. It’s stupid, something that would be on an off-brand Hallmark station after midnight on a Tuesday.” “I mean, I don’t know Jean at all, but that sounds like just about the most romantic thing someone could do; create something to symbolize your love.” Linda chuckled wryly and wiped pointlessly at her mask. “Thinking of that has me thinking about Jean. I’m finally starting to miss her, not just sad about the lack of sadness, like you said. Actually missing her.” The group in front of the pair shuffled closer, forcing Mike and Linda to retreat a step. “Rude,” Mike grumbled. “How were you going to have Jace’s cat and your dog to get along?” “I suggested we let them share a steak,” said Mike. “Food is always the best unifier.” “Unless your dog runs off with it.” “Ser Corgnealius is fifteen, toothless, and not stealing anyone’s steak. He’d just have the juices while Steve eats the actual meat and growls the whole time.” He sighed. “What?” The group pressed at the pair again and they stepped back. “Thinking about Jace, I felt nothing. Now I’m on the verge of collapsing into a blubbery mess, thinking about what we won’t have together. Like you and the book with Jean. Jace is an installation artist. He had cosmic-level plans for my loft apartment with all that exposed brick.” A stab of pain shot through Mike’s chest, doubling him forward. Linda dropped to a knee in her bulky suit. The group before them pressed back, pushing the pair from the line that quickly closed up. The agony shot through him again, like his heart would explode from his chest. He struggled to breathe through burning lungs, though he couldn’t remember needing air while standing in line. As he collapsed to his knees, then to his side, he faced the line of recently deceased that shrank and lost focus with each labored hammer of his heart. Mike struggled to turn toward the pearly gates once more, to catch a last view of the light glinting so far away. A regular, high beep crept into Mike’s mind, instantly recognizable as a heart rate monitor. He took a thin breath, cringing at the ache in his chest, but the tube across his nose helped to press oxygen into him. Mike struggled to open his mouth that felt like it was full of glue and moaned instead. He felt pressure on his right hand, a soft squeeze perhaps. Someone made gentle shushing sounds and a plastic straw touched his lips. He sucked in the tepid water that burned all the way down to his stomach. Despite the discomfort, he drank more to unstick his mouth and form a single word. “Linda?” The silence lasted long enough that Mike was unsure he’d made any sound. “She’s alive,” Jace whispered. “Focus on you right now.” Days passed until the bandages were removed to let Mike see the world again. The doctors told him the concussive force of the device stopped his heart for two full minutes. Other than burns and a pacemaker at twenty-nine, he was whole. Saved by the protective gear, Linda was as well off, but had yet to wake. Three weeks later, the doctors release him. Though he could walk, Jace wheeled him to the exit, in accordance with hospital regulations. Mike stood and walked back in, aiming for the long-term care with Jace on his heels. The ward held six beds. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a tie sat near the window, holding the hand of the room’s only patient. She quickly snatched her hand back to her lap and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes that hadn’t seen descent sleep in a month. “It’s okay, Jean,” Mike said and started, unsure of how he knew her name. She relaxed and returned her hand to Linda’s. “You must be Mike. Linda never told me much about you, but if you know of me, you know why.” “It’s the weirdest thing,” Mike said and sat on the edge of the nearest empty bed. He looked down at Linda, looking restful with a few light bruises on her cheek and a suture on her forehead. “I feel like she and I talked for hours on everything. I know all about you, your hamster, the summer cottage, her secret boo--” He caught himself quickly and raised his voice to cover it. “But don’t remember having the actual conversations. We must have talked while on the job and the adrenaline did something to my memory. Getting blown up jostled it all to the front.” Jace sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist. With a sudden gasp, Linda jerked upright, her hair tangling around her shoulders and her eyes wide as though she couldn’t see everything fast enough. Her shoulders relaxed and her gaze settled on Jean as she grinned. It just as quickly twitched to Mike and drifted to the one beside him. Her voice was a strained whisper. “You must be Jace.”
We are sheepherders existing in badlands at the foot of the mountains. In one season we take our sheep, friends we have known since forever, out into prairies bejeweled with carpeting of flowers purple, gold, yellow, white and blue. Everything changes, prairies dry up, then some of us go up different paths with different sheep into the mountains. My older cousin Lucy taught me how to love when neither of us had hair growing "down there." I am now a magnificent, slender, crazy young man. She is somewhat fat, thick hair collected into a piggytail as is the way of our people, popular with the everybody, but not on any boy's list of potential wives. I don't know why that should be, she is absolutely delightful. Her smile makes the wind laugh and her laugh makes the sheep pee. Although my mother and Lucy's father, my mother's brother, and indeed the whole tribe, would not approve of intimacy between relatives, still, since an early age, they have always arranged things for us to be together. When we were told to sleep out in the barn on a cold night when the house was full of guests, what must they have been thinking? Now that I am older, I realized how lucky it is that she did not get pregnant. And now, we are paired together again, to accompany some sheep 20 miles away, high up in a lonely area. There is an icy stream, craggy rocks, we sleep under the stars unless it rains, when we retreat into an ancient cabin full of spider webs. Lucy doesn't care for spiders, but me, I fear nothing! Not really much to do, chasing and controlling sheep is kind of challenging and entertaining. One night, while digesting our simple rabbit-onion-chile-cornmeal porridge, we began talking about the White missionary lady, and her mysterious preaching. I and the other men paid no attention to her nonsense about some White Man's book and ridiculous stories that clearly were impossible. There was this woman who claimed to have gotten pregnant without sex, and her son bragged he was a god! White people are stupid, none of the real humans would ever believe such fantasies. Lucy and a few other women, however, were tricked, and listened to the White woman's lies, and now the infection spread around the village like fleas on homeless dogs. So Lucy couldn't help but ask me, as a way to keep on talking before going to sleep in front of the campfire "Where is God I wonder?" Our shaman has told us the stories of our people. How the stars made love, and sent fairies to earth as raindrops, and the local goddess of the earth woke up, and the fairies grew up as maize. There is no single all-powerful "God," that would be an imbalance of power. What lightning bolt can claim to be "God" when it only exists a moment. What "God" is a fire, that burns out and becomes ash? Still, it is a fair question I suppose. "In the sky, obviously!" I retorted contemptuously. Lucy sighed, looking up at the stars, shimmering and shining magnificently in the cold dark moonless sky. "Where? I don't see him." "Him? No no, all the sky and the stars and the clouds, that is God!" "I just don't see it! I see the Plow, and the Bear and the Dog. But where is God?" I was beginning to like this game. "Ha ha ha, must be Father Sun and Sister Moon then!" Lucy shook her head, and closed her eyes. "No, the White lady said God is always with us. Father Sun leaves us every night! The White Lady said God is unchangeable. Sister Moon grows to a bright happy disk and shrinks to sad blackness, that is not unchangeable." I noticed some eyes gleaming redly up on some tree branch. "Look there, Lucy, there is God!" Lucy snorted. "No, that is only Cousin Porcupine, looking for food in the oak branches." I looked around. Down by the creek there was a rustling noise. "Quick, quick, over there!" I pointed. "Surely that is God!" Lucy stared with a frightened expression, squinting. "Oh, that is only Brother Coyote, following the scent of a rat." "I will show you exactly where God is, then Lucy, but you must promise to keep it a secret." She smiled, dreamily, as I stared into her eyes. "See, God is always there, if you know just where to look.
To hear the stories told by old women over the fire, one would believe the world to be inhabited by ghouls and hobgoblins. This is not true. The world is full of magic for sure, but the magic has been here longer than the old women, longer than humankind and longer indeed than memory can express. In the beginning of time, Allondial was born. Her first breath was a gasp that awakened humankind from the eternal sleep of non-existence. Her smile was gentle as she gazed upon all creation as it woke, and humankind smiled back. Enthralled and enchanted by her beauty, humanity sought ways to draw closer to her, to find comfort in her bosom. For she was the first light, a magical, shimmering luminosity that whispered of possibilities and caressed the soul. In the shadows cast by her gentle light, poets and artist and musicians were born, their inspiration drawn from the heart of the one who called them into being. She smiled upon them, her gentle radiance guiding their endeavours, and as they shaped their art, the heart of Allondial sang with joy. Yet, the gaze of Allondial was fickle, her attention fluttering towards distant realms and unexplored horizons. As her face turned away, darkness draped the world, and humanity, left alone, wailed in despair. Shadows deepened, and a profound sorrow, accompanied by weeping and wailing, swept across the land. Amidst this enveloping darkness, a man named Remu arose, a soul aflame with defiance against the darkness. In his desperation, he cried out to Allondial, hurling rocks into the abyss, pleading for the return of her radiant light. “Allondial!” he beseeched. “Turn your face to us once more. Bless us with your light, for without your face, we are nothing.” In the silent darkness, Remu’s voice echoed unheard. Frustration gripped him, and in his anguish, he cast a stone, inadvertently igniting a spark that flickered and vanished, gone before he could even know its name. Undeterred, he continued, desperate to capture this new light, to hold that brightness and study its beauty. It was so incredibly different from anything he had ever known. On and on, casting stone after stone, until one spark, landing on dry grass, birthed a tiny blaze, growing in size and brightness and warmth until a small flame fluttered about Remu’s feet. He laughed and searched for a way to harness this light, to control it and keep it close to him. Grasping a branch from a nearby tree, Remu thrust its leaves into the blaze. The new light consumed the offering ravinously, growing ever brighter. “I will call you ‘fire’, and you shall be with me always,” Remu announced with pride. Remu took this new fire back to his people, igniting their curiosity once more with the bright flame. Its warmth lured them from the shadows to bask in the glow and dance by the wavering light. Soon Allondial was merely a memory, and humankind ceased to pine for her gentle face. The heat of the flame ignited a new passion, fueled by wanting and a desire to harness the flame for himself, to bend its light to his own need. Yet, as the flames multiplied, so did the flames of greed within their hearts. Where once humankind had created harmony, enjoying the fruits of the soul that flourished in the light of Allondial’s gaze, now nothing but envy grew. Each person could measure the brilliance of their own light and compare it with the blaze of another. Want grew within the soul, obliterating need, leaving no room for the beauty of hope. Each person fed their flame, hoping to enlarge it, to brighten their own world and prove their personal superiority. As the competition grew, so too did the flames, until it was impossible to contain them. The fire, an impish, impudent and impulsive beast, escaped its confines to run rampant. It danced with delight, devouring all in its wake, knowing neither friend nor foe. And soon humankind learned a new word--fear. The shouts and screams echoed throughout the land, as fire consumed them without discrimination. What was once a source of joy, igniting hope, became a merciless destroyer. Remu, witnessing the devastation wrought by his own creation, wept for the ruins of his home. Accusations were hurled at him by his own people, fingers pointed in harsh judgment. “You caused this!” they cried. “You brought this beast to our door, and it has feasted upon our lives. Now it has ruined us!” Remu, burdened by the weight of guilt, could not deny the truth. His actions had birthed a destructive force that now consumed the very essence of their existence. Drawn to the light, Allondial returned to witness her progeny engulfed by the flames of chaos. “Remu!” she cried. “What have you done?” The sound of her voice drew all things to a halt. Every voice was muted, every flame frozen in its place. In the brightness of the fire, Allondial’s face waned, and the radiance was leeched from her skin. Deathly shadows deepened her eyes and carved the groove of her mouth. Her sinister appearance shook Remu to his core, and he threw himself before her in fear. “Forgive me!” Remu begged. “You have defiled the land. For that you must die!” Allondial raised her hand and grasped a flaming branch and thrust it into Remu’s chest. His life blood welled up and flooded the land with its crimson tide as it doused the flames. Slowly, Remu sank into the ground as darkness once more covered the land. In the silence that followed, Allondial searched for her people, her face once again shimmering with light, but everywhere she looked, she found them sleeping, their bodies overcome with exhaustion. There was no one to admire her, no poet to write and ode to her beauty, no artist to paint her radiant face. No matter what she tried, no one would awaken, and she stood in solitude for an eternity. Finally, unable to bear the loneliness any longer, Allondial reached into the ground to find Remu, and pulled him from his death. “Why are they sleeping?” she asked. Remu glanced about him. “They are tired.” “Why?” “They had to work hard to survive the fire.” “When will they wake?” “I do not know. When it is time to work again, I suppose.” Allondial thought about that for a long moment. “They work when your fire is burning, but sleep when my shadow covers them.” Remu agreed that it did seem to be so. “Then you will need your flame once more.” She took a branch, and with her gentle light, set a small spark to burn. She handed the flaming branch to Remu. “Take care that you do not set the world on fire his time.” Remu took the branch and bowed to his lady Allondial. “Will I see you again?” “I will not be gone for long. We will meet again.” And so Remu set forth with his branch ablaze, awakening humanity and encouraging them rise and work. When the day was done and the flames began to escape their confines and set the land ablaze, Allondial returned and once again thrust the burning branch deep into Remu’s chest, quenching the flames. She then wandered the land, calling to lovers and poets, and awakening creativity. And thus, it is the pattern for all eternity, Allondial and Remu follow one another, meeting only at dusk, to quench the flames of day and again at dawn to light the new day. * “Now, my sweet child, that’s enough for one night. Go to sleep. Allondial is coming, and you don’t want her to catch you trying to burn all the branches. You know what happened to Remu when he wanted more?” “But mumma, it’s just a story!” “Is it?” “Yes, mumma, but there is more? Isn’t there?” “Child, you must go sleep.” “Tell me more...” * As Allondial roamed the heavens on her celestial journey, she kept a close eye upon Remu. He was a man given to vanity and self-importance, as most men are. “I am Remu!” he cried one day. “I am he who brings life and laughter. I am he who brightens your day with light and gives you the gift of prosperity.” From her position high above all, in the darkness of night, where poets dream and people find rest, Allondial heard the boasting. In the silence of the heavens, she crept closer, all the better to hear Remu make his preposterous claims. “I am Remu, come worship my flame. Give me the first fruits of your harvest. Send me your first-born daughters. Your bounty is rightfully mine and I claim it, for without me, you wither and die.” Allondial ignored the posturing and posing, and turned away in disgust. She continued her own journey casting her light on lovers and poets alike. In the harsh light of day, a daughter was chosen, a sacrifice to appease the mighty Remu. Selected, because she did not sleep--a child who will not sleep, must belong to Remu. The mother cried and dressed her child in the finest garments, weaving a crown of wheat and fruits for her hair. The father stood tall and proud, knowing that his sleepless daughter would bring great honour to his family. But the daughter, Summa, was not proud. She was afraid and unwilling. Frightened, she fled into the night, her long dark hair streaming behind her. The people cursed as she ran, grasping at her clothes and hair, trying to prevent her escape. “Allondial!” cried Summa. “Save me, I beseech you. Do not allow them to sacrifice me to sate Remu’s hunger.” In her distant place, Allondial heard the cry, the single voice appealing to her in the darkness of despair. “Child,” she said. “Why are you so distraught?” “I am to be a sacrifice to Remu’s lust for more. Save me, please. You are the only one who can.” “If I save you, I will need your unwavering devotion from this day forth.” “My lady,” Summa said as she bowed low. “I am yours, whether you save me or not.” Impressed by the girl’s faith and dedication, Allondial ascended to the heavens where Remu hung, boasting of his power, light and warmth. “My people, where is your sacrifice?” he demanded, his hand holding the burning branch aloft shaking with rage. Allondial gasped, outraged and offended. These people were her people, she gave them light and life, yet here was Remu claiming them as his own. “She has gone, fled we know not where,” cried the father, as the people bowed and averted their faces away from the radiance of Remu’s anger. “Find her. I demand you bring her to me at once.” “Remu,” Allondial called, her voice as soft as the night, yet louder than thunder. “Remu, you forget yourself.” “I forget nothing. I am Remu, I am he who brings light.” “I am Allondial. She who brings darkness.” “Light dispels darkness. My power is greater than yours, my lady.” Allondial glared at him across the heavens and silently, without once taking her eyes off him, she came closer. “You do not frighten me, my lady. I am Remu, I am light.” Allondial said nothing, yet crept closer still. “There is naught you can do. I am stronger than you in the day.” Still Allondial spoke not a word, and came closer, her eyes not blinking against the brightness of Remu’s flaming branch. Once she was so close that she could see the hint of fear in his eyes, feel the tremor of trepidation in his limbs, she grasped the burning branch from his hand, and thrust it into his stomach, twisting it just so for maximum pain. Remu’sblood burst forth, a halo of gold igniting the heavens in a painful light. The people averted their eyes, lest they go blind from the radiance. “You will never be stronger than me!” Allondial hissed, her eyes glowing fierce and white in the sudden darkness. For four minutes she held him there, impaled upon his own branch. For four minutes, she gloated as the light of life withered in his eyes. Then, when she had made her point, she withdrew the burning branch. “Remember your place, Remu. Remember you exist, because I will it so.” With those parting words, she turned and left him hanging in the sky, shaken and humbled. **** “Child, I am serious. It is time for sleeping. It will soon be morning, and you do not want Remu to think that he can claim you for a sacrifice.” “Allondial will save me.” “Only if you sleep, child. Now, goodnight.”
DIVI There lies this place beyond our grasp, a universe where there are no stars, no nebulas, and no planets except one. A lonely planet all by itself. It shares no sun with neighboring planets, it exists completely by itself in a vast nothingness. A planet much larger than our universes largest star, the planet known as “Infinity”. On this giant planet there is no water, no trees, no hot and no cold. Infinity has the perfect balance in temperature. The sky shines in the most spectacular color of blue. A human would die of pure joy just by staring into the sky. On the surface Infinity holds the greatest desert to ever exist. This desert covers the entire planet. It’s an endless magnificent desert that stretches far beyond anything we can imagine. The desert takes different shapes all across Infinity, it shines brighter than our sun in the region known as the white sands of “Anantprakash”. The “Varen” dunes that reach higher than Mt. Everest and sink lower than the Dead Sea. Far beyond the horizon of these dunes lie the desert flatlands. A place known as “Majeeda” where the flatlands extend endlessly in every direction with only the dunes surrounding them in the distance. It’s in these flatlands where we would find the lone life on this planet. In Majeeda there is a small shack which houses a very special creature. A creature that lives in complete solitude, a creature that shares this planet with no one else but loneliness itself. This creature is named “DIVI”, it has the unique ability to take the form of anything it wants. At times DIVI flies across the Varen dunes as a giant dragon and then sleds down them as a young child. DIVI loves to explore the desert plains of “Gila” as a cheetah, or soar high over the “Kuhld” belt as an eagle in search for a specific grain of sand. You see DIVI has a very unique purpose on this planet. DIVI’s purpose is to perfectly balance and shape each individual grain of sand on Infinity. DIVI has always been on this planet and it enjoys perfecting this eternal desert one grain at a time. On one particular day DIVI leaves its beautiful little shack as a short 80 year old man. He looks wise as his long beard hangs off his chin. He decides for his long trip to find his next grain of sand, that he wants to walk with a bit of a limp. For some reason DIVI thinks having a limp would give him more reason to walk with a cane, and DIVI really loves the idea of having a cane. DIVI limps slowly back into his shack and after a few moments comes back out with his cane. With a huge smile on his face he starts on his slow walk across the flatlands to locate his next grain of sand. DIVI walks for ages, taking small stops along the way to inspect grains of sand throughout the desert. As more time passes the joy on his face never leaves him, even when giant sand storms slam into him, he finds joy. He reaches his hands up into the storm and grasps a hand full of sand, but alas none of these grains are the ones he is looking for. As the storm ends the beautiful blue sky emerges, and DIVI decides to make another small stop. He slams his cane into the cracked dry desert ground and he takes a seat. He crosses his legs in the lotus position, and slowly starts to inspect the particles of sand around him. He slowly wipes his hand across the ground and picks up a hand full of sand, DIVI then starts to pour the sand into his other open palmed hand. He carefully watches each grain of sand as they slowly fall into his palm like a waterfall. DIVI’s eyes light up as he notices something. He starts to push around the grains in his hand as he finds the one grain he was looking for. He tightens his fist with the grain of sand in his hand and stands up. He is so elated he jumps for joy, hopping about in a circle, but then he clumsily drops the grain. With just a slight grunt of annoyance he gets on his knees and starts moving around the sand particles on the ground. He finally finds the grain again and carefully picks it back up. With a sigh of relief he wipes his brow and places the grain in a small pouch on his belt. DIVI grabs his cane and start walking back towards his shack. Much time goes by when he finally returns back to his little home, as he enters his shack he places his cane against the wall near the front entrance. He takes a seat on a creaky old wooden chair by a worn wooden table and takes out his pouch. He turns the pouch upside down and all sorts of little things fall out of it. Sitting on the table now is an old copper penny, a button, a clothespin, some string, a piece of lint, a green gem, and the grain of sand. He picks up the grain of sand and walks over to an empty spot in his shack. DIVI then lays the sand in a wooden bowl and places it on the floor directly in front of his feet. He sits down on the floor behind the bowl crossing his legs as he did earlier. He closes his eyes and places each hand on his knee, pressing his index and thumb fingers together. The entire planet goes still, no storms, no sound of the wind blowing the sands, just silence and DIVI starts to make an “OHM” sound. The sound resonates and echoes onto the entire planet. The wooden bowl in front of him starts to shake and the grain of sand starts to rise from the bowl. The grain is lumpy and oddly shaped. It continues to rise until its floating directly in front of his brow. The grain of sand starts to glow and DIVI can now see into it, the grain of sand is not sand at all. It contains an entire universe within it, a universe as vast and endless as our own. An unbelievably unbalanced universe, and he must balance it. Just like he has done for an eternity with all the other grains of sand across the planet Infinity. Each individual grain on this entire planet holds in it its own universe. Universes that are very similar with only slight differences. Universes where life cannot exist. Universes where heaven and hell battle each other for power. Universes where the god of Thunder rules over his land. Universes where turtles swim through space laying eggs that are planets. Every imaginable possibility has its own universe placed within a single grain of sand and DIVI must balance them all. As DIVI looks deeper into this grain he can see billions of years in an instant. He must enter his consciousness into this grain. This universe will take an eternity to shape but for DIVI it will only be moments. He must reshape every particle, atom, molecule, chemical, life, and soul within this Universal grain in order to make it perfectly balanced. DIVI will experience all there is to experience within this entire universe, and as time passes he will evolve and reshape the universe until it becomes one within itself to create perfect harmony. DIVI will experience pride, faith, envy, hope, gluttony, charity, lust, fortitude, wrath, justice, greed, prudence, sloth, and temperance. He will fall pray to ignorance and feel the isolation of wisdom. He will be the tortured and the torturer. DIVI will feel the pain of betrayal and the healing of forgiveness. Once DIVI aligns every single vibration of this Universal grain over an eternity he will feel an ultimate love which will release him from his trance. DIVI becomes the entire grain, everything that inside of this universe is him. The only way he can fully enter into this universe, he must strip away his divine nature. At the entrance into this universe there is a gate. This gate is called the “EGO” and it will wipe away his memory and his being will be scattered across the entire universe and placed inside everything that exists in it. Who DIVI is will be imprinted upon everything and as time moves on, these pieces will slowly come together like a magnet, aligning everything into perfect harmony. Over billions upon billions of years this cycle ends and DIVI opens his eyes. The grain of sand is now perfectly round. There are no lumps or odd shapes on it anymore. DIVI has just experienced an eternal cycle in a matter of moments. The grain falls back onto the wooden plate. The outside door now opens and as DIVI steps out of the shack, he is no longer the old man he is now a she, a little girl. With the pouch on her side she starts to skip away until she reaches the very place she found the grain of sand. She pulls it out of her pouch and gently places it on the ground. She knows she is never alone, she is happy. She felt ultimate love once more. She knows she can experience and be anything she wants and all she has to do is pick up a grain of sand. The End.
Possible TW: Description of dysphoria. Ruby stared at her reflection in the floor length mirror. She saw so many things wrong with the way she looked. Her hair was way too short. Her shoulders were too broad. She was about six inches too tall, her voice was three octaves too deep, her chest was about two cups too flat. At least, she thought. She didn’t know much about cup sizes. But the worst of all of her flaws was the fact that her body was biologically male. She didn’t understand why she had been born that way. Ruby could go on and on for hours about the things that she disliked about the face she saw staring back at her, but she didn’t exactly have the time for proper self loathing. She had to get ready for the big day she had ahead of her. She slowly and painfully adjusted the grey duct tape that she had stuck to her inner thighs, changing the position of the tape so that it curved around her pelvic bones and up towards her belly button. She then pulled on a pair of small tighty-whities, getting dressed in a pair of ripped skinny jeans and an oversized, light purple sweatshirt. Finally, she slipped into a pair of black and white checkered Vans, and brushed out her ear length brown hair. Pretty much the second that Ruby was done getting herself ready, she heard a loud, obnoxious knock on the front door. She tensed up, startled by the noise, and then she hurried down the stairs to open the door. She quickly swung it open, and there on the porch stood her two best (and only) friends Finley and Klaus. Finley smiled brightly as she opened the door. “Hi, Charlie!” Ruby winced slightly at her deadname, but she managed to hide it from her friends. “Hey, guys, come on upstairs,” She greeted them quietly. Klaus and Finley followed behind Ruby all up the stairs to her room, kicking off their shoes at the doorway. The three teenagers got comfortable laying on Ruby’s soft bed, and Klaus and Finley turned themselves around to face their friend. “So, why’d you ask us to come over here to see you, Charlie-Boy? We don’t hang out here much.” Klaus enquired, tilting his head. This time, Ruby wasn’t able to hide her wince at the awful name. The two boys sitting in front of her immediately looked worried. “What’s wrong, babes?” Klaus asked her gently. He always called his friends pet names when he was worried about them. Ruby took a deep, slow breath, gearing herself up for the rejection she was sure to receive. “I have something to tell you guys, something kind of important.” Klaus and Finley looked at her intently; they were both confused, and slightly worried about her. “I’m transgender.” She blurted out quickly. She watched as Finley and Klaus’s eyebrows raised a tiny bit in surprise, and she could see the gears in their brains turning. She immediately began to ramble on, trying to explain herself to them. “So, uh, that means that I’m a girl. My name is Ruby Elizabeth Clare, because I couldn’t pick just one middle name, and my pronouns are she/her and I’m not named Charlie anymore. I never was really. I understand if you don’t wanna be friends with me anymore after knowing this, ‘cause it’s really weird to be honest and a lot of people think it’s gross and wrong, and that I’m gonna go to Hell because of it and I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought that too because it’s against Christianity, and-” “Ruby.” Finley interrupted her quietly. Ruby’s heart fluttered from hearing him use her proper name. “Yes?” “I’m trans too.” Klaus and Ruby’s heads both snapped towards him in surprise. “You are?” She asked. “Yeah. I’m a trans guy, have you not seen any of the pictures in my house? You’re safe with me, I promise.” Ruby teared up. She couldn’t believe that her best friend was just like her. Finley saw the tears in her eyes, and he held his arms open. Ruby launched herself into them, and he wrapped her up, holding her tightly to his chest. “I promise, Ruby, it’s okay to be trans. I love you so much, and I’m so proud of you for feeling brave enough to tell me and Klaus this. This is so important.” “I’m proud of you too, and I love you,” Ruby whispered, holding onto Finley like he was her lifeline. After a few seconds, the two friends pulled away from each other and turned to look at Klaus. Suddenly, Ruby’s heart was full of fear again. “Klaus..?” Finley’s voice shook a bit. “How are you processing all of this?” Klaus shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed. “I’m fine with all of it. I have nine siblings, you really think that every single one of them are cisgender and straight? Henrie is a trans boy, and Jemm is genderfluid. Besides, even if I didn’t have trans siblings, I’m attracted to men. I’m gay. Why would I not support all of the LGBTQ+ community?” Ruby was silent for a moment, but then she let out a loud, teary laugh. Her friends looked at her curiously. “I can’t believe I was so scared to tell you guys this! You’re so freakin’ accepting, I should’ve known!” Finley and Klaus laughed along with her, and Klaus stepped towards the other two teenagers. “Can I join the hug?” He held out his arms, and Ruby and Finley wrapped around him. The three friends stayed in their group hug for several moments, before reluctantly pulling away from each other. Ruby looked at her two best friends. “I love you guys so much.” The boys smiled back at her. “I love you too, Ruby,” They responded in unison. Ruby beamed at her real name, and then sat back down on her bed. She kicked her legs up and turned on her TV. “So.. You guys wanna play Mario Kart together?”
Bristol, August 4, 1875 My dearest daughter Jemma, It is of the utmost importance that you come home, and with great haste. Your mother misses you greatly, and your sisters find themselves at a loss without you to aid and direct them. I implore upon you the thought of Oliver, who anxiously waits for your arrival, as we accepted his proposal sometime last week. Engagements are already underway for your wedding attire, and you must remember the honor that was granted us for him to ask for your hand. Your mother will no longer have to hurt herself doing her housework, for Oliver’s family will grant us a maidservant to take her place. If not to return for him, return for your poor mother’s health and wellbeing. Furthermore, I am of the opinion, as is society, that a woman has no place in trousers, much less a militaristic setting. The dishonor you will bring if others were to find out that my daughter had enlisted! Why, I can practically see your mother fainting from astonishment if she knew what you have done now. Oliver would retract his proposal and our family would be ruined! All our attempts to better ourselves will be for naught if you continue to be so selfish. Of all improper things to do, this far exceeds what has happened in the past, and you will not be the only one affected by your imminent downfall. Please, think of our family, and appear home at once. I can already see how beautiful you will look in the dress your mother has been working on, and though you wish to wear grey or red, this one is a lovely white, resembling the attire of Queen Victoria herself. We have saved for several months to afford this fabric, and since your mother’s skill is unmatched, we will make do. I wish only the best for you, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jemma Hale, Pirbright, London Bristol, November 10, 1875 My dearest daughter Jemma, It is highly inappropriate that you have continued your stay away from our family without the express permission of myself, your father, or on the arm of your husband. Oliver still awaits you here, though I am unsure why, for if your mother had dismissed me so when I asked for her hand then you would not have come to be. What he sees in you, I do not know, nor do I think I will ever see. What further irritates me is your apparent ‘promotion’ within our standing forces, as a woman has no place there, whether she be demanding and insistent towards the troops or not, she must not attempt to raise herself to the stature of a man. Your further persistence towards the male appearance will bring shame upon us! Forever you shall stay our daughter Jemma, and to think of you as anything but would be blasphemy in the eyes of the church and horror in the eyes of our peers. I do not know where this delusion that we would ever call you James comes from, but it is wrong, and I will not encourage it. I could no longer hold off telling your mother to where you had run off to, and she has fallen into a state of shock. Your mother, ill! It seems as though I was right to insist upon your expedient arrival home, although at this rate, it seems to be a debate as to whether you mother will remain a part of that home when you make it back. I shall think of it a pressing matter of conversation upon your return the discussion of what to do about your engagement, and if you take in any salary from the army, do send it back for your mother. It is your responsibility for putting her in this dastardly state, and therefore it lies upon you to bring her out of it. I await your next letter, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jemma Hale Bandar Tua, Perak Bristol, December 25, 1875 My beloved Jem, After hearing about your latest exploits in Malaysia, I have found a newfound respect for our soldiers. While I am still of the opinion that you have no place among our militarymen, I appreciate your effort to lead our men towards victory over the Malays. The money that you have sent towards aiding your mother’s illness has helped us greatly, and she is recovering swiftly upon promise of your return home. Please do come back to us safely, I am afraid that news of an injury might shake your mother’s condition and turn south. Your sisters have been spending much time with Oliver, and while I am still confused as to why he wishes to stay in waiting for you, I do appreciate his constant presence. He is a good reminder of you once being by our side. He has greatly helped our financials as we await you, and seems to enjoy very much our calling of you as Jem, rather than Jemma. Almost as if he knew all along how you felt! Alas, I am still quite uncomfortable with the thought of your presentation, however I am willing to try if it means you will come home to us faster. While you write of an advancement into Sayong, I pray daily for your health in hopes that you will survive past the end of this war. Do keep us in your thoughts, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jem Hale Sayong, Perak Bristol, January 20, 1876 My dear James, I have waited for your response letter to my last one, and while I do believe it was read and received, I still wish for some kind words back. I hope that your missions in the jungles have gone well, and while I am now of the opinion that you have done a wonderfully leading your men, I still wish for you to be careful. Oliver still awaits you here, and I am sure that we can arrange for a private reception and service for you and him, if you still with to wear trousers upon your return. He speaks of you often - as well as your large number of letters - so I believe it would be appropriate to assume that you still wish to be with him. Your mother is now back to full health, and she eagerly tidies up your room, so that it will be pristine upon your return. We have heard of you in this week’s newsletter, where much praise for yourself and your men was written. I assure you there will be much celebration upon the troop’s reinstatement to England, your men to Bristol, and you, to us. Do write back soon, your loving father, Leopold Hale Mr. James Hale Kota Lama Kanan, Perak Bristol, February 3, 1876 My dear Oliver, It is with great sorrow and pain that I write this letter to you. I wished for my next letter to be notice of James’ jolly return to England, but it is instead that I must inform you of the package that I received from the infantry some three weeks ago. I have not had the courage nor will to write, for every time I sit down at my desk I break down into tears. As of the 4 th of January 1876, Colour Sergeant James Hale perished during the fight in Malay. The loss of my son weighs heavily upon my heart, as enclosed in the letter that I received was both the Elizabeth Cross, of which I am very proud, and the letter to which I had last written James, unopened. It is my greatest regret that he was not able to read his name written in my script, and that he will ever hear me speak of how proud I am of him as my son. I do appreciate very much all that you have done for our family, and since you were to marry him, I implore upon you to keep the Elizabeth Cross that is enclosed in this package. Please keep his memory close you your heart. Your to-be father-in-law, Leopold Hale Mr. Oliver Williams Canterbury, East Kent
It all started when I rose before the sun on Saturday the 14th, something was off. All I know is that I was being called outside to see the sunrise. I woke Laika up and we went for a walk to catch the rare view of the valley sunrise. There was none. Like I said, we were walking through the clouds. We walked down the runway at old airport down by the river. No one was there, it was just us. This wasn't anything I thought twice about...why would I? It was at sunrise on a cold November morning. I don't even know why I was there. I quite liked the feeling of being the only ones there, it was peaceful and relaxing. I took a photo of a tree that I like, it had a certain look this morning that I had to try and capture. This photo is my only evidence that what happened next actually happened. As you can tell visibility was low, I could only see about 50 yds out. After I took this photo I continued walking and that's when the fresh valley breeze stopped and the temperature dropped noticeably. Laika started acting weird, the kind of weird when you can tell there is something wrong. She was looking in all directions, sniffing frantically. All of a sudden there was someone about 10 ft behind us. I had no idea where they came from, and neither did Laika. As the man got closer Laika got more and more uneasy, which made me uneasy. She was the most friendly dog, to the point she doesn't even bark when someone knocks on the door. She loves people, all of them. Not this one. The person, who appeared to be an elderly man, zoomed past us without acknowledging my courtesy good morning and half smile. This town is small enough for everyone to make small talk while walking past each other. The man just kept his head forward like a Marine in formation with that thousand yard stare. Just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. What a relief... Laika felt the same way I did, she came up to me and jumped up to give me some kisses. Everything seemed to go back to normal and we continued walking. We didn't walk 50 yds when we came across the same man. He was talking to himself beside a lamppost. This time I didn't attempt to make eye contact with him. I walked on the other side of the what I will generously call a road. Through my peripheral vision I could tell the man was staring at me, still talking, but now staring. After we passed him, Laika started getting uneasy again, I look back to see what she was seeing. What I saw, gave me the chills. The man was no longer alone. No he had a friend. Same height, same build, same face. I started to walk faster to get the hell away from these guys. After about 2 minutes of nervous power walking I looked back to see if anything or anyone was behind me. There was. The two "men" couldn't be more than 15 ft behind me. I must have jumped pretty hard because the two men reacted simultaneously by reaching for what I initially thought was a gun. This is where things start to get fuzzy. I have memories of what happened next, but the kind of memories that you have when you wake up from a dream. The kind where you can only explain how you felt where the emotion is the only thing you can explain. The weird part is, the memories and emotions don't feel like they're mine. I was weightless, but not floating. There was panic all around me, but it wasn't my panic. I remember feeling liquid dropping all over my body, like I was lying out in the rain. Then I woke up. I was in my house, but not my room. I was in my guest bedroom, and I was fully dressed, shoes and all. Laika was next to me and she looked terrified and was shaking. It was almost like we had the same dream. I got out of bed and tried making sense of it all. I checked the time, 11:23 AM. This put my mind at ease, for some reason prime numbers always made me feel safe. I began to relax a bit and I checked my camera roll on my phone and that's when I saw the photo of the tree, time stamped at 6:41 AM. What happened couldn't have been a dream, but it couldn't have been real either.
Flashback to our lives many years ago, our mixed emotions and different feelings on the summer of 1989. We were married by then and really felt excitement and joy to think that we would be able to see my parents in States. We were eager and curious for our first trip to another country. Then comes another feelings of fear and fright, knowing that this travel isn't for a holiday ,after mom told us that dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer on his big intestine. It sent me goosebumps and shivers ,scared of losing a dad who gave us everything a child ever wants with their unconditional love. It's another feeling filled with terror and somehow transfixed with fright having this experience for the first time of our lives. Every little thing bothered another sister who was denied on her visa in which we never knew the reason why. We had the desire of travelling together and our intense desire of having our family complete where my parents are. It wasn't what we expected to hear from the US consul that interviewed her but we couldn't do anything but pity . Our aspiration was our intense desire to be in one plane with 3 of us preparing for a trip that none of us have ever dreamed of. If only everything went well as planned then our family would be reunited even for daddy's last days of his life. All I know is that my sister Connie felt like the world was conspiring against her. As inspiring as it seems, both me and my other sister, Mariedes flew together , not looking back at one sister who just wished us luck, and wanting us to kiss everyone,waving us goodbye and a happy and safe trip. She always reminds us to tell dad and mom, how much she wanted to be in this travel. Wow... the flight was long and tiring.Travelling from Cebu to Manila then waited for hours till our trip for Japan. Got off at Narita international airport and waited hours again for JFK international airport in New York. It seems unreal . Exhausted and tired but felt a sigh of relief when we heard that we are almost at our destination. There we we saw dads pale and sickly figure as we stepped down from the plane. Seeing him and mom, together with 3 of my other siblings who migrated with them I can't hide my tears the moment I stepped on the grounds ,since it wasn't like dad that I knew. He lost so much weight and knew that he was wearing a suspenders for his pants,not wanting the pants to slide off. He no longer resembles what he was before since people say how cool my father was with his styles and neatly tailored suits with matching ties, ironed shirts that goes with extravagant brands , and wearing shiny shoes . His attires makes him unique cos he goes with matching pants and shirts that usually has the same color for his shirt and socks, that he wears for the day.His almost hairless bald head makes me more sad. A cap that he wore, trying to hide his bald scalp. We were a family once more even with my other sister who was left behind. Dined in a classy restaurant with lobsters and steaks for dinner made me remember those younger years .Then headed to a grocery store, filled carts with foods ,meats, fruits and chips that I've eaten for the very first time. I had so many first times on that and will never be forgotten. Then came dads schedule for chemotherapy, blood test ,laboratory and medical exams which me and Mariedes took turns guiding and holding him so my mom and other siblings be able to work. At first I felt eager to accompany dad, the sooner he starts the better so he would get well. Dad felt sluggish, more weak and sick. It didn't turn out for the better because things took a thing for the worse. This made us mad in some ways since what we had on our mind is getting the best medications and being treated by the best physicians in the world. All we ever wanted was wanting to fix everything for dad because we had hope and having a dad sick with cancer that i thought would be cured . My brother would take some time researching on this but never knew what to expect. I sometimes hear from friends and telling me that it's not the cancer that's scary but the chemotherpy and the aftermath on this. I noticed that dad had a persistent dry cough and that's how everything started. We would see him throwing up, and hated seeing him that way. His skin got paler and saw some black spots on some parts of his body. Then came his fever and the difficulties of talking to us and letting us know what he wants and what he feels at the moment using some sign language. It's the chemo that really kills, the medicines were so strong either one can make it or not .And too sad, dad never made it. It may sound painful but happy to be able to take care of a person we truly love, be able to talk to him and letting him know how precious he is to us, his children. . Taking what seems to be the longest train ride from New Jersey where my family lives to get down in a Manhattan hospital and walking on streets,, avenues and parks, where dad was admitted. The dark nights of travelling, frightened to have on that train homeless street guys with eyes that stares on us. The unholy hours being in a subway station scares us a lot, wanting to get home and sleep, then back again on the next day. Dads last hours while holding his hands, seeing his tears fall down and all of us in tears for his last breath. We assured him that we will remain as a family and to walk in peace . After his death , be there to support mom being alone on lonely nights after dad passed away. Our family and friends ralied around throughout dads ordeal. I don't know if this is insensitive to those who have lost someone, but we had good times enjoying happy moments with them, just like when we were kids way back in our native land, the Philippines. We had the best moments, the best conversation and the best laughs before dads final journey. There's so much to be happy about and even shares funny stories and incidents to each one of us when it was only one of us who watched on him at the hospital. That summer had been so great despite the pain and sadness we felt, and still we think and talk about it as years go by, everytime my siblings comes home for their vacation. It's a memory that we all will cherish, maybe until we get to be with them when our time comes. It was the best times of our lives, the summer that we will always treasure forever.
This story is Fan Fiction even though I have used none of the characters and only one God from Rick Riordan's "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" Universe. There is at least one barely veiled reference to Camp Half-Blood and it's Director Dionysus. Enjoy the thrill of the Gods once more! And though it is only incidental and of no bearing to the story, the Protagonist is Non-Binary. =============================================== Robin sat, balanced on the top of the bus stop bench, and watched the water slowly ooze out of and around the concrete sidewalk. They smiled a little as it flowed around the feet of their perch and tried to pile up around the iron to reach up to where they sat. One of the worst things about being a mortal demigod was when you genetically picked up traits from the divine half of your DNA. As a child of the Greek God Poseidon, water loved Robin! It followed them everywhere. Slowly, inexorbitantly it would creep, flow, seep, ooze, or otherwise follow their very footsteps along the ground, loving every contact! "This wouldn't be so bad," they thought, "If it ever stopped for five minutes." Robin took advantage of the distraction the iron bench legs were giving the rising water and jumped onto the seats, ran a step, and launched themselves up to the brick retaining wall running beside the street. They had become an expert at parkour long before it had gotten a name and publicity! A few blocks spent leaping from stone to stone and quickly across the streets got them much closer to Tibbit's Grocery. As always happened when they got too near the ocean, the humidity increased as the droplets congealed right out of the air around them. Rain was bearable but there were no barriers against condensation! That was why it had been such a disaster the time they had tried to go visit kin and seek their help. Poseidon had told Robin of a half brother living at a special camp for demigod youth in New York. When they arrived, the Atlantic Ocean was so overjoyed to have them close that it rained, and seeped up, and waves rolled in till the camp was flooded by Suppertime and Dionysus had made Robin leave. Robin finally slowed their erratic sprint a half a block from the front of their favorite Mom and Pop general store. The Tibbits had run a store of some sort here for generations and they were very fond of the family. Even when Robin was traveling abroad they managed to make it here every year on Father's Day. Yes, Robin had a good relationship with their father. Robin was aware that Poseidon had many children he rarely if ever even acknowledged and it made a warm, comforting feeling in their heart despite the rain. Sure of at least five minutes before the water started gathering up out front of the store, Robin sauntered through the glass front door and gave a wide smile to the old man behind the counter. "Happy Father's Day, Mr. Tibbit. Fine weather we seem to be having today!" "It surely is," the old man responded. "It hasn't rained here in weeks and we were all getting a little parched. How you swimming along?" "Oh, about the usual; staying one step ahead of all my troubles! Can you get me a case of your best Belgian lager, please?" "So you and your Pa still keeping the tradition up, huh?" He smiled fondly at Robin to show it was affection and not nosiness that made him ask. Robin smiled back and winked. "Well that was too interesting a day to forget. It's always worth it to come down and spend an evening with the Old Man!" They dropped a generous handful of bills on the counter and hoisted the case of brown-glassed bottles to their shoulder. "I may be hanging around a while, Mr. Tibbit. See you again real soon!" and they were out the door and sloshing through no more than a few millimeters of water beginning to flow across the street. Encumbered a bit by the weight and bulk of the box they carried, it would be more difficult to keep ahead of the water as they made their way, of all places, down to an old ramshackle beach house on the coast a half mile out of town! Sitting their load on another retaining wall Robin jumped up on it themselves and slipped out of the backpack. Pulling a thin nearly meter long board out of the pack, they then put the case of beer back in and zipped it shut. They stood, placing the pack once more on their back and smiled at yet another memory of the year's journeys they were eager to tell their Father about tonight! Robin had been part of an expedition climbing Everest and K2 to clean up trash and recover the bodies of a couple of unfortunate mountaineers. At first they were delighted with how the water had often frozen solid long before it got anywhere near them. The snow around Robin was solid and could not move. Even what condensed from the breath of the folks in the climbing party froze and fell before reaching where they stood. At this altitude and temperature there was so little humidity they had been enjoying the sight of clear skies immensely! As the flow of water building up grew, Robin lept off the wall and dropped the board under their feet to hit the water surfer style. Their balance was good and it was with practiced ease Robin used the forward push of the water chasing from behind to surf the leading edge of the wave! These were good moments when the adrenaline was high and the game was afoot! The little town itself sat at the top of a rise of land which is why it had managed to survive on the coast for so long. This made it very easy for gravity to help Robin beat their pursuit and they pulled a wide right turn onto the beginning of the coast highway. Robin laughed as they picked up speed at someone in a lorry cursing them out for being so reckless in the intersection! In the lowering light Robin could see the waves out in the ocean to their left were beginning to increase in size already. It was going to be a close thing to get to the safety of Poseidon's beach house before the road was completely flooded over! They squatted a little lower on their mini surf board more as wishful thinking than actually decreasing the wind resistance by an erg. Just as they got to the place where the path cut off up to the house Robin flipped sideways and shoved the board into the mounting wave ahead and shot up and over its crest to land with practiced grace on the open veranda floor! Placing their short board in its wall rack, Robin slipped their backpack off and sat it on the small table beside an antique bottled drinks dispenser. Taking the case out of the pack, they quickly loaded the metal racks inside the cooler with twenty-two of the clinking brown bottles. Robin then packed the remaining beers over to a side table with two chairs and put them in an ice bowl conveniently and freshly set out. They turned and leaned against the rail looking out over the ocean. The view always amazed Robin. Here the waves were commanded to stay in their place and the rain had been ordered to fall only at night. Robin always wondered what power went into this one little house where the water could not seep freely in. Though the illusion made it seem old and unkempt, they saw through that glamour to the plain but sturdy construction. It had been a gift to Robin from their father after the fiasco at the demigod camp. Here they could stop. Here they could relax for a good night's sleep without worry that the water would overcome them and literally love them to death. It was but the matter of moments before Robin saw a disturbance in the waves and a gigantic pillar of water began to rise behind the breakers. It always took Robin's breath away in amazement as the huge humanoid figure emerged from the roiling waters and began to shrink, morphing as it came, until there was finally the figure of an old man, dressed in well-worn and slightly grubby rain gear, stepping foot on the land and striding up the beach to the house. Shaking off the rain gear and hanging it on a convenient hook by the door, Poseidon gathered Robin up in a firm and loving hug. "Oh, welcome home child, welcome home!" It always fascinated Robin that Poseidon manifested to them as several inches shorter than they were. "Happy Father's Day, Dad!" Breaking off the embrace with an extra tight hug Robin offered one of the brown bottles to their Divine parent. "Here's to Beer!" Robin gave the familiar traditional toast as they flicked off the bottle caps and chinked the necks together. "Here's to Beer!" the old man replied and they threw back their heads and each took a hearty swig!
Content warning: Brief mentions of animals being harmed. Stone Scalari lived alone. It was certainly more peaceful than living with his wife and children had been. He was 62. A lifetime of sharing space with loved ones had left him nothing but debt, headaches, and agony. Stone sat on the chaise lounge on his back patio one Saturday morning about a year after Carrie had left. He was holding a mug of coffee to his lips when he heard a dull thunk behind him. He ignored it, took a sip, cursed out loud. Too hot. A bird started chirping weakly. That was probably what caused the thunking noise, Stone thought. He kept the glass sliding door to his patio immaculate and birds were always crashing into it. Dumb animals had the entire world under their wings and yet they were dying to get into his split-level ranch. The chirping continued long after Stone had finished the coffee. He sighed. “All right, then. Jeez.” He stood up and saw the bird on the ground, a robin with a bent wing. Stone stared at it for so long his vision went fuzzy. He saw gnarled hands wrapping themselves around a little feathered neck like this one, a yellow-toothed grin and beady, blank eyes locked onto the dying animal’s face. Stone blinked. The robin was still on the ground, chirruping away, like it was scolding Stone for just standing there looking at it. Stone rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He went back inside, snapped on some rubber gloves. Wrapped the bird in an old towel and placed it on the kitchen table. The bird immediately wrestled its way out of the fabric and flapped its wings, but could only lift itself a couple inches. It flopped back onto the towel, looking exhausted. Stone tilted his head. He figured he had a few options here: He could just kill the bird, get it over and done with. It was sure to have a diminished quality of life with a gimpy wing anyway. He could put the bird back outside, let its mother or a windstorm or a vulture carry it away, leaving it to some unknown destiny. It would almost certainly die that way, too, though, prolonged and painful and petrifying. Or he could rehabilitate it, though he did not know the first thing about fixing a broken being. * * * * * Stone knew from experience that naming a son after himself wouldn’t necessarily forge a bond between them, wouldn’t guarantee his legacy was carried for another generation. So instead of Stone IV, his son was named Richard. An ordinary name. And Stone tried to treat him like an ordinary person and not a namesake. But Richard was troubled. Maybe disturbed. All the swaddling and coddling in the world couldn’t shut that kid up. Then he got older and the tantrums morphed into stealing, vandalizing, scoring public parks with graffiti. Eventually the rebellion turned inward, powder up his nose, pills hiding in plastic baggies. He went to sleep as other men his age returned home from their office jobs. Stone’s wife begged Richard to go to rehab, held interventions, made empty threats to kick him out of the house. Stone let him be. Richard slouched out of the house for cigarettes one afternoon and never came back. Funny how it was always a deadbeat dad who did this, rarely a deadbeat son. * * * * * The robin looked at Stone, and he could swear he saw something like pleading in its eyes. “Christ,” Stone said. He scooped up his car keys. Animals had eschewed Stone most of his life. His mother liked cats, but each one she brought home seemed to end up a by-product of his father’s alcohol-fueled antics. After five cats had come and gone she resorted to satiating herself by staring through the shelter’s windows but never again stepped inside. Stone’s father liked to tip over nests he found in branches, throw empty beer cans at dogs strolling by and wheeze with laughter and denial when their owners glared at him. Stone learned to look away, because any reaction he had was met with a “man up, you pansy.” He learned to walk away, because anything his father felt comfortable inflicting on an animal he had no problem transferring to his son. All Stone knew now was that there was a pet store in the strip mall tucked away on Bramble Street, so that was where he drove. He picked up the smallest bag of birdseed he could find. He gathered supplies to build a small carrier. “I must be crazy,” he muttered to himself in the car, scanning the dollar amounts on his receipt. Then he opened his phone and Googled “how to help bird broken wing.” * * * * * Niobe was the opposite of her brother: an overachiever, a perfectionist, someone who threw tantrums not because she didn’t get her way but because someone else hadn’t gotten theirs. She wanted to become some bigshot journalist. She drowned in waves of college-campus activism and protesting. Stone told her none of it mattered. They’d all be in the same ground someday, right-wing and left-wing and war criminals and saints alike. Niobe called him a Republican. “I’m apolitical,” Stone corrected her. “Hate ’em all. No point in voting, no point in caring about any of it.” “That’s just as bad. Actually, it’s worse. The world is burning and your response is apathy,” Niobe said. So their conversations often went until they dwindled to tepid phone calls at holidays, and then to nothing. Stone tried sometimes to think of his children as babies, those cooing, drooling blanket-wrapped bundles in his arms, but he couldn’t picture it. Could barely remember their faces. And in the end, maybe this meant nothing much at all. Genes and blood and birthright really held no hallowed significance. * * * * * Stone kept an eye on the bird throughout the week. It seemed in good spirits, picking at the birdseed, giving itself baths in the bowl of water Stone left out, kicking up the newspaper lining the entire kitchen. Stone thought about bringing it to a wildlife rehabilitator like the websites had mentioned, but he figured the bird was close to healing on its own. Tomorrow , Stone kept thinking. Tomorrow I’ll bring it in . A couple of days in, he started calling the bird “Robbie.” It was a robin, after all, and Stone felt odd sharing his house with this living being and referring to it as “hey you” or “dumb bird.” There was something uneasy about their coexistence. Stone had spent most of his life in a state of avoidance. When his father drank, Stone drowned out the fighting by cranking the volume on his turntable until all he could hear was a furious drumbeat mirroring the thrashing pulse of his own heart. When his kids were upset, Stone left them alone, believing both that they should learn to fend for themselves the way he had been forced to and that his interference would only further aggravate them. It was just easier for all of them that way. To not let individual troubles become collective burdens. Now when Stone felt eyes on his back as he spooned coffee grinds into the machine or read the paper, he looked around wondering if someone had broken into his home, only to flick his eyes over to the kitchen table and realize it was Robbie. Tilting his head, watching Stone’s every move as if his daily routine was of great interest. It had been a long time since anyone else had breathed in this house and longer still since anyone had looked at Stone like that. Like his existence alone was enthralling, his morning regimen as riveting as a winter’s first snowfall. * * * * * Carrie, somehow she had stuck around the longest. One night, she approached him as he sat in his recliner in the living room, sipping a Scotch on the rocks as he watched the Indy 500 on TV. She asked if she could recite to him a poem she had recently read for her night class. He grunted. She perched on the couch armrest and began: “‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’” Stone tuned her out. The race was nearing its final moments. The poem was short, thankfully. “What do you think?” Carrie said when she’d finished it. “What? I don’t know. Sounds like she should’ve kept better track of her things,” Stone said, swirling the ice in his glass. “It doesn’t make you think of the kids? I talked to them the other day, you know. They didn’t ask to speak to you. And you never reach out to them. Don’t you find that odd?” Stone shrugged. “It is what it is.” “Stone.” Carrie sounded exasperated. “You all keep this up, you’re going to end up just like your father.” He looked at her pointedly. “Who?” It was quiet for a moment. A French guy won the race. Carrie said, “You aren’t going to ask me how they’re doing?” “Well, all right, how are they doing, then?” Carrie shook her head. She packed her bags the next day. Stone thought sometimes of their first meeting. It was a blind date. Carrie’s sister and Stone’s cousin were an item, and they conspired to bring Carrie and Stone together one night at a drive-in movie. “Your name is Stone ?” That was the first thing Carrie said to him, her words peppered with affectionate laughter. She was quite pretty, black dreadlocks hanging just above her shoulders, green polka-dot dress. “For you, my name can be anything you like,” Stone zapped back, winking. She giggled, called him “Burt Reynolds” the rest of the night. They’d kissed by the time the end credits rolled. But when he thought of that now, it was like thinking about something he had seen on TV. Someone else’s life, a pleasant scripted story he could watch or shut off when he pleased. * * * * * Stone couldn’t find Robbie one morning. Birdseed was scattered across the table as usual, but this time it formed a trail to the window, which Stone realized he had accidentally left open overnight. So Robbie had recovered. Had finally flown away. Stone thought of their time together, how Robbie had gone from a tiny broken thing to a confident and cheerful little guy. How he’d flap his fragile wings, as if he knew he wasn’t meant to stay here, in this kitchen, in this cage, in this life. Stone thought about how Robbie was out in the world now, discovering the magic of trees, of lady birds and nest building and eggs hatching. Robbie could perch on roofs to twitter to his pals and scour the mud for worms to feed his babies. And he could do that because of Stone. Maybe in an hour, a day, a year, he’d find his way back to this room. Pay Stone a visit. But maybe not. Perhaps he had already forgotten. Stone then did something he had not done in a long time. A small chuckle turned into great guffaws, seizing his belly and contorting his face, and soon the tears were streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop for a long time. Then he gazed passively out the window. A neighbor shuffled down her driveway in bunny slippers to pick up the paper. A bumblebee crawled on the ledge. A teenage boy walked a golden retriever. Birds chattered and sang, but they sounded far away, sounded unfamiliar. Stone got up, stretched, ventured into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He took the mug to the back patio. He left the sliding door open.
“Derek, get down here now!” The front door slammed shut and the sudden skid of car tires drained the trees around of wildlife. The Centen family were heading to the airport for a wedding in Brazil. Derek was 12 but he had never been out of his home town in England. Derek looked down at his necklace. He remembered his grandfather giving him it and saying “keep this around your neck and you and your family will live forever, but never take it off or great dangers will occur.” He had dreamed of being a spy so he wondered if he could train by looking out the back window. There was a small black Jeep behind him and it had a man who was wearing a balaclava and sunglasses. As Derek kept staring out he started to drift off and soon was out stone cold, lying on a backpack resting against the leather seat next to him. An hour later his mother said “sweetie, we’re almost here” Derek slowly rose and faced the back window. The necklace hooked around the head rest and it broke falling onto the car seat. As this happened Derek felt something strange. The black Jeep had gone but there was another car, it was a chunky Audi and Derek swore that the driver was the same. He had a balaclava and sunglasses. As Derek looked forwards he looked up into the middle mirror and saw that both his parents had their eyes shut. There was a contraption on the driver’s seat that looked like it was steering the car and pressing on the accelerator. He looked back again and the Audi was gone. Derek was in shock but had the realisation that the necklace had come off because it was digging into his trousers. He picked it up and slid it into his top pocket. “Smash” the right window caved in and shattered while in one piece. The sudden jerk made Derek leap out of his seat. The car must have malfunctioned because the doors swung open and Derek was shoved out by the heavy backpack whamming into him. The bleeding boy rolled across the highway and down a hill into some trees. It took a few minutes for him to gain consciousness, and as he stood up he saw the Audi roll slowly down the hill. “He won’t get me in the woods! All I need to do is focus the energy into my legs to lug me past the first line of trees.” There was no sign of the car once he made it past but he had an urge to keep going as if something was calling to him. It was around 2 hours later when Derek came to a metal gate. There was no way through and there was barbed wire above it. He looked left and right but he just saw that the gate kept going. He remembered from a book he’d read that If you put your coat or shirt on the barbed wire you can jump over it. All Derek had was a jumper and a t-shirt. He slowly regretfully pulled the jumper off as a sliver of ice cold wind went in to the opening of his shirt freezing the little hairs on his shirt. What Derek didn’t realise was that the barbed wire was years old and had a crisp layer of rust making it as hard as diamond. As Derek climbed he chucked the sweater over the wire and started to roll over. The wind was weaving through the fence and Derek thought he was going to get pushed off. ‘Rip’ the sweater was starting to get punctured and a spike went into Derek's thigh. “Aaaaaooooaaahhh!” ‘Thump’ Derek got back up and looked into the darkness. A small thumping of footsteps came from all around and then a little creaky voice said “mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, Mine, MIne, MINe, MINE, MINE!, MINE!” A pain started going through Derek's body as if a shank was cutting him on the inside. The figure of the driver was walking up to him slowly emerging from the darkness. Derek couldn’t see the man’s face but suspected that it was the man from the car. A sudden creak of the man’s voice startled Derek and he tripped up on a slippery stick. Derek felt himself sink into the mud, the cold gooey slime started pouring over his hands and legs pinning him down. As the mud overflowed and drowned Derek, the mysterious man said, “someone’s going to die tonight.” Derek was able to peak through a small slit in the mud and saw that the man was taking his sunglasses and balaclava off. It was his grandfather. A whole new at atmosphere was created as derek’s grandfather looked at Derek. Somehow he started talking joyfully. “Hello Derek, do you have the necklace I gave to you years ago?” “Uh..uh..I thought you were dead!” “That’s none of your concern, now be a good boy and give me that necklace.” “I saw your body being put into the coffin.” Fed up, Derek’s grandfather wrenched Derek out of the mud and threw him against a tree. “Oooooww!” Derek wailed. Derek’s grandfather reached into Derek’s shirt searching for the necklace but it wasn’t there. “Where is it? I need it to stay alive!” Derek found an opportunity and slammed his foot into his grandfather’s balls. “Crunch” “eeeeeeekkk!” As his grandfather keeled over clenching his balls and cursing under his breath, Derek started to run and found himself at the entrance of a big amusement park. The park was empty and it was trashed as if a meteor had crashed into it and flew back up to space leaving a hoard of metal and scraps. Derek went to hid because he heard his grandfather again wailing and muttering something like “long live me... long live me... long live me” Derek dove under an old crusty roof. Everything went silent as soon as He had hidden for cover. Then there was a faint knocking on side of the of and his grandfather’s head popped in from one side giving a shock so great to Derek that he could’ve been electrified by 200,000 wats. Everything went dark except for a glimmer of light shining through a haze that Derek was seeing. He felt his hands and feet tied to a chair. As Derek regained consciousness he saw his grandfather holding a knife and sharpening it with a rock in the other. “Looks like you took the hard path where I had to fully search you for the necklace. Luckily it didn’t fall out while you were running.” Two anonymous spotlights turned on and two other seats were containing bits of flesh and blood. There was brain and liver smeared all over the cold stone floor. “Do you know who those two sashimied bodies belong to?” “Um... no?” “YOUR PARENTS!...HAHAHAHAHAHA!” “What?..You little...pineapple!”Derek’s grandfather stepped forwards and gripped the knife. Derek couldn’t see his grandfather but he knew that he was close. A pain started going through Derek’s body as if a shank was cutting him on the inside...but this time it was on the outside...and this time it was for real.
The TV plays wheel of fortune in the background while someone’s grandmother rocks back and forth in her favorite rocking chair. Her fluff of fine white hair, that she still put in curlers, reflects the light around her face and head like a halo. She’s in her warmest house coat with the matching slippers on her feet. Normally she’s in bed and asleep by now, but for some reason she stayed up when everyone else made their way to their rooms. So now she rocks alone in the living room with the TV playing quietly in the background; her attention focused through the gauzy curtains and out the window to the dark streets. Cradling a cup of once hot tea turned cold by lack of attention she continues to rock. The room smells like the detergent she uses. Or rather, the detergent that is used by her granddaughter that cares for her. She stops her rocking just long enough to shakily put the tea down beside an orange that lays peeled, quartered, and waiting on the side table. With her task done she returns to her repetitive motion as she lets her gaze drift beyond the curtains. The dark, paired with the glow from the TV is almost therapeutic with how unobtrusive it is. In the dark truths can be hidden, like someone’s exact age or the emotions that they may be wearing on their face. But the gentle smile on her face could not be hidden even by the dim lighting. She sits there rocking back and forth remember all the things in her life that had made it so worth living the past eighty-nine years. When she was sixteen she fell in love, by eighteen she was married, and the birth of her daughter soon followed that. Three small boys joined them and for twenty-three wonderful years she raised her children until they set off on their own adventures. She had hosted approximately sixty-three Christmases, Easter dinners, and New Year’s Eve parties. She had stayed a devout Christian attending mass roughly 4,272 times sense she was born. She had been there for all her children’s marriages, both the ones that had lasted and those that had fallen apart. She had watched her seven grandchildren’s and two great grandchildren’s births and attended every birthday they had had. She had been there when her husband had died at eighty, finally released from his pain after fighting cancer for almost two years. Somewhere behind her the television changed programs and opera played softly in the background. Stopping the rocking motion of the chair once more, she bends forward to pick up the tabby cat that has wound itself around her legs. “There you are Samson,” she says putting the purring mass of orange fur in her lap. With her companion to keep her company she starts her slow rocking again. Now she thinks about all the times that she had triumphed over struggles in her life with the help of others; and those struggles that she had triumphed with her own strength and faith. Twenty years into their marriage her husband and she had experienced a very rough patch indeed. Although they never fought in front of the children they had stopped talking and loving. On one long walk that she had taken after an especially nasty whispered fight she had stopped and cried on a bench in the park. There she had prayed. She had prayed for strength and patience to listen to what her husband needed and that he would do the same. The rough patch had eventually ended, and they learned to love each other again. Her faith was shaken to its core once more when her mother and father died the same night, only hours apart. This time too, she had taken time to pray and listen, waiting to find her way. Which she did. The day that they had found out that her husband, that she had loved for so many years, had fallen to cancer they had both held each other and cried. This was one of the most difficult struggles they had ever faced together. When the two-year anniversary had approached for his diagnosis he had taken her hand and told her that he could maintain the struggle no longer. This time she had cried because she knew he was right. They buried him in the town where they had met, three hours away from where she sat now. After the tears were done, she praised the Lord above with thanks for releasing him from his pain. She rocked back and forth, stroking the purring cat as a tear ran down her face. It was not a tear of sadness but of relief in finding solace from the events of her life. She would soon be gone. Although she did not know when, she was happy to go. It was time and when God called she knew she would answer willingly. She put her hand, with knuckles gnarled by arthritis, on the window pain that the gentle rain was tapping. More tears joined the ones of relief. Her loving husband stood on the lawn in the rain, smiling and waiting. She had seen him so many times over the past month. She leaned back smiling as the tears traced a salty stream down her face. She closed her eyes with the image of her husband watching her. As a hand touched her shoulder she opened her eyes and looked up at the figure that was standing there. Her husband, as he was when they first fell in love stood there, smiling down. She smiled back and kissed the hand before starting to rock again with closed eyes. The rain stopped not long after, as the sky became grey with the coming morning. At dawn a young woman dressed in a floral print dress and blue ballet flats joined the young man on the lawn. She had light blond hair and bright blue eyes. The pair took each other’s hands and shared a slow kiss before looking back at the old woman in the still chair; the orange cat still sitting in her lap.
Monday, Labor Day, September 7th, 2020. As we prepared to get a good nights’ sleep before a three hour drive in the morning, the wind started. We had been warned beforehand that it would. However, it was coming from the east which was unusual. The term “historic” was bandied about. Three wildfires were burning north and east of the area we locals call "the canyon" which includes sister cities of Gates, Mill City, Lyons and Detroit. Certainly concerning but nothing to worry over. Little did I know. The later the hour, the fiercer the wind blew. Growing and howling down our cul-de-sac cracking small tree limbs and shoving debris as it roared. Our bedroom window faces the street and shortly after midnight I noticed car lights coming into the neighborhood. I got up and stood looking out the back door window at our neighbor’s house across the street. “I wonder what’s going on at Rick’s house.” We knew Rick had health problems and lived alone. We feared a medical emergency but something felt different. Both Rick’s adult daughters were running between house and cars, arms loaded down with things from the house. Then we saw Rick also shoving things into a vehicle. He looked fine. What was going on? That’s when my cell phone began to vibrate, our house phone rang and the power went out. A level three evacuation alert had been sent. With only the light from my cell phone we were able to locate flashlights, overnight bags and Copper. We dressed quickly and I called our daughter-in-law, waking her up to tell her we were coming to their house. She and my son live sixteen miles west. We didn’t know what else to do. I was not worried. We’d spend one night out of this raging wind, drop Copper at the kennel in the morning and still be off on our mini-vacation. Steve and I had been homebound for six months like everyone else. We were determined to take a little time away from home. Our goal was to visit Astoria, a coastal town we had not been to in over thirty years but we remembered it fondly. So along with Copper’s dog food and treats, two packed overnight bags waited beside the back door. Those packed bags turned out to be a time saving blessing. As we stepped out the back door we were battered by hot, threatening wind. It felt oddly surreal and other-worldly. I couldn't wrap my head around what I was seeing. The neighborhood was a flurry of night-time activity, car lights cutting through black created frantic patterns, hot wind swirled, scattering tree limbs and pummeling us with what I thought was debris. Some of it looked like the fireflies I’d played with as a kid during Pennsylvania summer evenings but I knew there were no fireflies in the Pacific Northwest. We were being pelted by burning embers and ash. Rushing to get the car out of the garage we both stopped. A pulsating red glow in the eastern sky gave us the first clue of what was coming. I began to worry. Steve said, “I think we should take the camper.” There are times when words aren’t necessary between two people. This was one of those times. I knew what he was thinking.....we might not have a home to come back to. Whenever I think of our home town, I always see the movie title, “A River Runs through It.” Indeed one does, the North Santiam River. The north side of town runs alongside that river while access to the higher south side of town is across a bridge over the river. This is where we and most of the town population lives. That bridge crossing the North Santiam River, linking Linn County side of town to the main highway had closed for repair work in July and was not scheduled to reopen until the end of October. We were forced to escape down a back road. We weren’t alone. I don’t drive well at night anymore what with age and poor eyesight so most of my concentration was on the road and other cars. This might have helped me not be so aware of the flames around us. But there is one picture glued firmly in my brain. I will never forget seeing the violent beauty of one completely engulfed fir tree. Rising perfectly Christmas tree formed into the night sky, each black branch clearly silhouetted inside an engulfing red-orange inferno. A picture at once visually stunning while at the same time fearfully heart breaking. Fire was everywhere, scorching and burning on the north-side of the road, jumping uncontrolled from tree to home to underbrush pushed along by still howling, still hot winds. Dried brush on the south side ignited and began running beside the road. The fire had not yet become the tunnel of flames later evacuees would race through. It was only a matter of time before both sides of the road would create that tunnel. The nine mile drive into Lyons, our link to Hwy 22 and safety beyond, was dreamlike. Heavy traffic in those midnight hours weaved calmly and orderly through blazing timbers and brush. There was no panic. I never once feared for my life. Tuesday, September 8 th, 2020. Sometime during the night Stayton was put on a Level 2 alert: Be ready to evacuate so things were chaotic inside our son’s house that morning, everyone gathering precious items, pets and clothes. Neither Steve nor I had thought about grabbing albums, birth certificates, insurance papers, heirloom rifles or all the precious pictures and writings my computer holds. I now realized what we’d left behind. Irreplaceable things a fire can eat up in seconds. We gathered our few belongings and left our son’s house into what I can only describe as an apocalyptic scene. Ash piled up on cars an eighth inch thick continued to rain from that still eerily glowing red sky. Sun could not gouge its way through thick smoke but illuminated everything red. Wind had calmed, no longer gusting violently, but even in the early morning hours, the smoky air was hot. I stood awestruck. Nature’s beauty was once again on display while simultaneously displaying evidence of her horrific power. Someone heard that a fire evacuation center was being prepared at the state fairgrounds in Salem. We now had a destination. A blinking light proclaiming FIRE EVAC CENTER welcomed us as volunteers guided us into the Red Gate. The main parking lot directly across from the fair entrance had already filled up with displaced people, we were sent to overflow parking inside the red gate just in front of the Jackman-Long Building. We had no way of knowing it would be home for the next ten days. Before we could even start familiarizing ourselves with new surroundings, volunteers pulling children’s wagons piled high with burritos walked among refugees offering food. And that was only the beginning. As we settled in Facebook kept us updated as to the course of the fire. Thundering down our much-loved canyon, pushed furiously by sixty mile an hour wind gusts, joining strength in combination with the Riverside and Lionshead wildfires, the Beachie Creek Fire continued to devastate and demolish beloved small towns. Facebook also supplied us with stories of bravery and loss. New pages were added. We could list ourselves as safe on one. We would learn of those who weren’t from another. Five people lost their lives, numerous longtime friends lost their homes and several favorite businesses melted into ruble. Pictures of the aftermath were unbearable and unbelievable to look at yet consumed much of our time those first days. We evacuees may have look like zombies, dazed, muddling in and out of smoke filled daylight darkness, ash still showering into irritated eyes. Group shock quickly grew into a community of displaced souls. Marion County volunteers set up long tables inside the Jackman-Long Building, against one wall food, canned goods and perishables. Dinners rolled in from different restaurants every night. Stacked along the other wall, hygiene items, bedding, clothing, items were continually resupplied. The list is long. Giving hands continued to fill ours. Most of us had never been in the position of taking. Most of us had done the giving. Wednesday, September 9 th . We were being bombarded with information. Some of which was not true. All of us wanted a definitive answer regarding our homes and we were still trying to adjust to life in a parking lot. We were safe and I tried to focus on that but the later the day, the more I wanted to know about our house. We knew there was no access to the canyon on Hwy 22 and the National Guard set up road blocks on the back road as well. And we still had Copper with us. Copper is a medium sized dog, lean and fast. He loves to run. He joyously bounces ahead of us unleashed on any wooded trail. He’s a good dog and listens. Here, on blacktop grouped tightly together with so many others, he stayed on leash. A grassy stretch provided an area for him to do his business and allow him to chase his ball if he didn’t interfere with others but he wasn’t happy. And he was breathing in more ash than we were. He didn’t wear a mask. Steve says I worry too much about him but there you are. I guess maybe I do. We decided to take Copper to the kennel and while we were out, to try to access our town. I needed to see home.....or, where it had been. If you've never seen the effects of forest fire, it's hard to describe. The silence is thick. Air, at the hazardous level, a charred taste, smoke thick with the smell of woodland death. We were stopped by the National Guard. They needed proof of who we were and where we lived. We were allowed entry with the warning, “We will not be able help you if something happens. Enter at your own risk.” And we did. God blessed us that day. Our house, though barely visible through the smoke soup, stood untouched. Thursday, September 10 th . Most of the third day was spent discussing our worries and gobbling up bits of information. People carrying large square black boxes and microphones began canvassing the group. The reporters had arrived. Community in a small town nestled in the Oregon foothills, means being able to walk to the local market when you run out of milk at 7:30 Sunday morning, stopping in for the monthly soup luncheon at the senior center or a Friday night dinner at the Eagles Lodge in support of weekly fund-raisers. In short, community means people; just folks, common lives, common needs. Nothing very special about it. Until there is. March 2020 changed our world. Panic arrived alongside a word most of us had not heard in our lifetimes: pandemic. Suddenly we were told to cut community ties, stay at home, close restaurants, hair salons, wear masks, don’t gather in groups of more than ten people and only do essential shopping, staying at least six feet away from other shoppers. What we thought would be a short run new virus, surely gone by summer, turned into an endurance race. Each trip to the grocery store became a challenge, arrows painted on floors directing one-way foot traffic. Shoppers constantly required to deal with new changes. Events defining summer were cancelled. The virus held the country in its grasp but by then we all seemed to be settling in to necessary routines, accepting the fact that summer heat had not driven it away. Instead, for us, summer heat blazed into an inferno. Those hot gusty September winds rammed flames down an Oregon canyon leveling homes, businesses and towns changing reality once more. So, in the end, this is a story about community and how the meaning of that word can change in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, the transmission of a virus or wherever a burning ember chooses to land. Home for us, between Sept 8th and Sept 18 th, was very different than any kind of community I’d known before. Those ten days will remain the time I saw selfless giving, people doing so much for others, offers from businesses small and large, individuals driving through parked campers and tents offering to do laundry, so much daily kindness in a year of division, a year of keeping distance, a year isolated, a year of fear. A brief ten days of hope and community in a year gone mad.
Hunters canvassing a swampy, low-lying area in the woods beside the highway reported a suspicious item. They discovered what they thought was a partially decomposed body. Being aware of the need to preserve the integrity of crime scenes, they waded out within a few yards of it and then remained nearby until we arrived. I had my team cordon off the perimeter and we went in slowly to confirm the details. As it turns out, it was a false alarm. The ‘body’ was in fact, just a department store mannequin. The hunters could be forgiven for their reasonable mistake. From a distance it really did look like a human form, and we had a number of missing persons cases in the area. They were just trying to help. We need more concerned citizens like them doing their civic duty. I gathered up the lifelike debris and removed the crime scene tape from the bog. The other hunters had a good laugh at the one who spotted the ‘corpse’. He seemed to take it good naturedly. Frankly it was going to be a relief to turn in the official code for ‘false alarm’. Those missing persons were hopefully still alive somewhere. I returned back to the office and filed my report. My supervisor asked about the call. We had a good laugh at the thought of my pants and shoes getting muddy to retrieve a plastic dummy. It was “all in the line of duty”, I shrugged; but then I told him I was going to turn in a cleaning bill on my ‘expense report’. That elicited an even greater laugh. We don’t receive any compensation for damaged clothing in performing our work duties. Carrying a scantily-clad, waterlogged store mannequin out of the swamp must have been hilarious to witness. Even though I was glad it wasn’t a real corpse, it did mean that some family remained in the dark about the whereabouts of their loved one. I vowed to keep searching for them. There were a number of leads that trickled in but after working them to their natural conclusion, I wasn’t any closer to finding the missing folks. A few days later we received another call about a suspected body floating in the bog. It was apparently at the same location, just off the highway. At first I thought it was only a delayed report of the original incident but the eyewitness insisted he'd saw it earlier that morning. I wanted to be skeptical but knew the caller. He wasn't the sort of guy to be confused about what day it was. He was as sharp as a tack so I knew he'd definitely witnessed something suspicious. I figured I'd just accidentally left some pieces of the damned dummy in the water. I stopped by a sporting goods store to buy waterproof waders. I didn't want to ruin another pair of shoes and pants retrieving it from the swamp. This time was different. There was a strong decomposition odor present. Even from the road, I smelled it. The object was in almost the exact same location as before but this one wasn't plastic or fiberglass. It was definitely human remains. I called headquarters. My investigation team brought their forensic tools and cordoned off the investigation grid. The corpse was an adult female in a fairly advanced state of decay. There were no obvious signs of trauma but I'd leave the deeper analysis to the medical examiner. It was my job to preserve the scene and retrieve her body. By my estimation, the body had been there for quite some time. It was waterlogged and had possibly been weighed down by something to expedite the process. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize it was weighed down by the mannequin. Besides underscoring my admittedly subpar earlier investigative work, it also suggested a clever culprit. They had to have realize that eventually the real corpse would rise to the surface. What better place to hide a real body than underneath a fake one? It was bound to make the investigator dismiss it as a false alarm. The idea was as clever as it was daring. That afternoon I mulled over what we knew. The victim was a young adult caucasian female, previously in good health; and her cause of death was definitely a homicide. Her fingers were badly degraded from submersion in the murky swamp water but the medical examiner did his best to get usable prints using a few advanced forensic techniques he knew. We'd hopefully get results back from the state crime lab soon. Her general features matched one of our missing persons cases but the prints and dental records would conclusively verify what we suspected. Then would come the difficult task of informing the relatives, figuring out what happened, and who was responsible. She deserved justice. I was troubled over the bizarre method of disposing the body. The killer had hundreds of square miles of inconspicuous places to hide his violent deed, yet the culprit choose to almost 'flag' her corpse for us to find. It was an incredibly risky decision. Why draw our attention to her rural dumping spot? An old log or nearby river stones placed atop the body would've possibly held it down, indefinitely. Honestly, the odds of finding a well-hidden victim are pretty slim but we don't advertise that to the public. Crime shows and movies imply that no crime goes unpunished and that misnomer hopefully serves to discourage some premeditated crimes. Usually though, most murders are solved by hard work of the investigator, dumb luck, and accidentally incriminating behavior by the culprit. Strangely, this murderer actually took deliberate steps to help us find her body. On the surface it didn't make sense. Once the victim's identity was determined, we'd interview her known associates. It's almost always someone they knew, but in this case it seemed like the killer was daring us to catch them. Either that or they were so cocksure of their mental superiority that they hoped the plastic marker was so distinctive we'd never look there again. It was clever, ironic, AND cocky. I admit my first instinct was to discount there being a real body at the crime scene, after retrieving the mannequin earlier. The killer may have also realized escaping decomposition gasses would eventually cause it to rise. They may have hoped we'd assume it was just another false alarm and leave it there, unmolested. Those theories and others even more bizarre floated in my head as I awaited to final lab report. When it came in, I had the unpleasant task of informing the young lady's parents. It wasn't the news they wanted to hear but it hopefully offered them closure. Not knowing can lead to a false sense of hope. I vowed to uncover the truth and bring her killer to justice. Then I asked if they could give me a list of her known friends and associates. Up until that point, they had been appreciative, and forthright. As soon as I asked whom she hung around with, they grew immediately silent. It wasn't just my investigator paranoia thinking that either. My partner noticed their reaction too. Normally when people clam up like that, it suggests a greater awareness of the truth, or outright culpability. I wasn't sure what the case was, but they were definitely hiding something. He went on a fact-finding mission and spoke with several of her friends. They projected an air of conspiracy or suspicion too. A little background digging unveiled something we were not ready for. The details of which possibly explained their mutual lack of transparency. The deceased had an intimate relationship with my supervisor’s college-age son. He hadn’t come forward to speak with us about finding her, and a number of their social media posts had been deleted since her disappearance. It looked very bad. Worse, I didn’t know how to approach the situation. It wasn’t easy to question family members of law enforcement. Officially they was just ordinary citizens like anyone else but the unspoken truth was often different. They were sometimes insulated from equal justice by their family ties. As a paramilitary organization, we had a rank-and-file system of doing things that protects our own. It was deemed ‘professional courtesy’ to extend them extra ‘consideration’; and that always stuck in my craw. My partner was thinking the same thing I was. We had to bring him in for questioning ASAP but that wasn’t going to be easy. His father was fiercely loyal to those he cared about. He would definitely try to obstruct our investigation if given the opportunity. I though back to our conversation about wrangling the mannequin out of the swamp and ruining my shoes. He and I went days without taking about any of my cases. It was pretty unusual for him to take interest in them so early on, but I knew that alone wasn’t proof of wrongdoing. Obviously I couldn’t yet connect his son to the crime, nor did it suggest he knew anything about the murder, but my suspicions were growing. I started to share my hypothetical idea with my partner but he just shook his head. We were both thinking the same thing but were afraid to express it out loud. That was the very definition of dangerous. Strategically I knew I had to plan out my next course of action carefully. One wrong step could be disastrous. If I brought in the state police as a backup and his son turned out to be innocent, I’d burn my career and my relationship with him. If I confided my ugly suspicions to him discreetly and they were actually true, he might bury the evidence, or worse. Much worse. I didn’t want to believe he would cover up a crime or commit one himself but parental love is a powerful thing. I couldn’t afford to be blindsided by assumptions or coworker loyalty. Later that afternoon, Frank stopped me in the hallway to ask if there had been any further advancements in the case. I wanted to stonewall him until I could decide how to handle the issue but it was too hard to ignore. I decided to just come right out, man-to-man and confront him directly. “We spoke to Miss Yates friends and family. Among other things, they mentioned that she had an intimate relationship with ...Joey. I’m going to need to talk to him ASAP, Frank; and I’ll need you to fully recuse yourself from any further involvement in my investigation, going forward. Do you understand? It’s the only way this can go down and maintain the necessary level of impartiality.” I studied his face but there was no hint of surprise or shock. There was none. He definitely knew Joey had been involved with the victim, and he already realized he would be a prime suspect in the murder case. The only question was, did he realize his son’s freedom was on the line AFTER she was positively identified, or BEFORE. I didn’t really want to know at that point. It was definitely becoming uncomfortable. Frank sighed. He was obviously relieved that the truth about their connection came out but I still couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t try to run interference to save his son. I’d revealed my hand for the benefit of seeing how he would react. The gamble paid off but it also changed how I needed to conduct the investigation from that point on. He would surely inform Joey of my intentions. That could make things go sideways rapidly. “I’ll have him in your office first thing tomorrow morning. You have my word, Mike.” One thing he didn’t do, was proclaim his innocence. It was a very telling reaction; and as an officer himself, he had to realize I’d notice. That certainly didn’t help me feel like I was overreacting to my suspicions. An innocent man would want to step forward immediately and clear his name once reasonable suspicions arose. Instead his; ‘I was unaware but I’ll fully cooperate’ act, was unbecoming for a highly-competent law-enforcement veteran. I nodded and thanked Frank for the promise and understanding. Afterward I advised my partner of the sudden development. It was going to be an interesting few days. I hoped he knew better than to ask me to go easy on Joey. It was highly deceptive and unethical. Frank had stood beside me a hundred times when we pressed other suspects for answers over the years. Sometimes we pressed them hard. That's how detectives bring the truth to light. The fact that it would be his own son sweating in the interview chair this time shouldn't make any difference. Regardless, he probably hoped I would extend some ambiguous 'professional courtesy'. Human nature being what it is in most people, devotion to justice takes a back seat to protecting our loved ones. I understood the sentiment on principle but I had an official job to do. Even if Joey was innocent of the crime and coverup, Frank knew he would be a prime suspect once we connected him directly to the victim. Only after I made a formal request to talk with him did Frank acknowledge what we both already knew. He was using his authority to glean details of my ongoing investigation, in order to shield his son from suspicion. I put my partner on stakeout duty that night to make sure ‘Little Joey’ didn't run. We no longer had the element of surprise. If he fled, we'd unfortunately have to work against our own organization to bring him in because some of our fellow officers would help him out of misguided loyalty. I also reminded Jessie that Frank knew we'd stake out his son's home. As a highly-experienced veteran, he was familiar with every trick in the book to evade detection. Ordinary fugitives blindly react. The as-yet uncharged son of a high ranking police captain would be able to plan out an effective escape, using the vicarious knowledge he possessed by being so connected to the law-enforcement world. Jesse would have to keep his eyes peeled. To my surprise, Joey arrived at my office door right on time the next morning. On one hand, it was a big relief to get on with the process and avoid dealing with drama and complications. Almost immediately however I got the impression he'd been coached on exactly what to say, and what not to say. That part wasn't so surprising. It didn't take having a chief detective for a father to realize that being interviewed in a murder investigation was going to be intense. Even innocent people sweat during the prolonged heat of interrogations. I wasn't so jaded that I believed it was impossible for the innocent to look guilty when they were not. Plenty of innocent folks fall apart because they are nervous and it makes sense to organize what they plan to say, but that also makes it more difficult for investigators like me to determine their culpability. There's an ebb and flow to these things and appearances matter. Joey was way too well-coached for ordinary techniques to be effective. Up until that point, he'd passed 'the sniff test' of my run-of-the-mill questions with flying colors. I could feel his father's eyes monitoring the proceedings through the one-way mirror. Clearly Frank was making sure his son followed the script the'd rehearsed the night before. So much so that his answers came off the tongue too quickly. I knew I had to switch gears if I was going to have any success but that would be tricky too. It had to be quick and highly convincing. Ordinarily having Frank witness the interrogation wasn't a big detail at all. He would observe the suspect's reaction and behavior while my partner and I hammered them with questions. In this case however, I knew it was me he was watching. If I rattled Joey too much, he'd swoop in and put a stop to the interrogation. I wasn't sure what pretext Frank would use to silence him, but Joey would clam up and any reasonable hope of a confession would go out the window. After three predictable 'softball' questions in a row, I did a dramatic about-face to throw him off-guard. Previously my questions were not accusatory at all. They just dealt with verifying his whereabouts from the time period of her last known eyewitness appearance, up until her body was discovered submerged in the swamp. I came out and asked Joey point-blank if it was his idea to use a mannequin on top of her real body, as a 'false flag' to confuse us. He actually grinned. He was visibly proud of how clever he'd been to use it to weigh her body down and delay the investigation. It was the first natural reaction I'd witnessed from him all morning. I knew his father was just about to end things. I had to dangle one more tempting hook in front of him before it was over. "Neither of you thought I'd go back into that nasty ol’ bog water, did you? You thought I was so particular about my clothes and shoes that I'd just ignore it if her real body ever floated to the surface. While the idea is both clever and daring, I'm insulted you thought I wouldn't follow up on 'another mannequin' sighting. I might grumble a little bit about it but I'd go back into that swamp a dozen more times if it was necessary to do my job. Your father owes me a dry cleaning bill!" "Oh man, you wouldn’t believe it! He and I had a bet. He didn't think you'd go back in after it, but I did. I swear! I knew you’re a hard ass. I told Dad that drawing attention to the scene was a huge mistake. I..." Frank angrily burst into the room and yelled at Joey to shut his mouth. Then he raced over to the interview camera and erased the video. Not to be foiled by the 'undo' feature, he permanently deleted to file in the trash folder so there was no way it could be recovered. That seemed to greatly satisfied him. He sneered and warned me that it would be my word against theirs; and that it would also amount to professional suicide to accuse them without any proof. They both left the station in a self-important huff. Meanwhile I went back to my office to review something of paramount importance. Anticipating a similar scenario to what actually transpired, I'd set up a backup camera in the interrogation room to document everything and capture evidence. I decided to let the FBI know I had not extended my colleague with the 'professional courtesy' he wanted. Instead I’d let them be the ones to inform him about the extra video camera at their trial.
She was electric. Her feet shuffled in a clumsy glide to the beat of the song, her hands rising to clap along with the singer. The stale beer she had found lodged between two wooden planks sat on the dusty bar, half of it drank and now sloshing around on her empty stomach. I hear the secrets that you keep When you’re talkin’ in your sleep The speaker was crackling as “Talking In Your Sleep” by The Romantics desperately tried to keep playing. The joy that she felt listening to music was a refreshing change from the hellscape she was trapped in. In this moment she didn’t have to run away from the decaying bodies of someone’s loved one, she didn’t have to fight back against other survivors who wanted to rob her. The bar was a safe haven she never expected to find; having a working radio capable of playing its melody above a soft whisper was a luxury. Her hands wrapped around the warm beverage and took a swig. You tell me that you want me She uses the bottle as a microphone as she slides across the wrecked floor, a sticky mixture of old liquor and sawdust making her feet stumble. You tell me that you need me Her eyes flash over to the old band poster that was half visible and she points at the mysterious singer as if serenading him. The man had kind eyes and lips that weren’t calloused and cracked, with soft hair that she ached to feel between her nimble fingers. You tell me that you love me If only that poster would wink back at her, better yet if he would materialize out of the poster and wrap his arms around her waist. The feeling of another person holding you close and the warmth of their body was a mere memory that she couldn’t even find the energy to recall. And I know that I’m right There is a lull in the music as the speaker steadily becomes more garbled and her own singing is louder than the radio’s. ‘Cause I hear it in the night As if it was planned, Ramona’s moment of normalcy was jeopardized by the sound of shotguns and raised voices in the distance. Not wasting a moment, she quickly moved towards the collection of rubble, beer still in hand, as she tucked her frail body as far back and hidden as she could. She positioned herself in a way where she could lift her head up to view the entirety of the room or lower it to remain unseen. The bar looked as if it had been abandoned for around the same amount of time since the apocalypse had occurred. It reflected the chaos of the day that it happened, when an unknown virus spread throughout the U.S. after a failed experiment, infecting over half of the population and leaving survivors to fend for themselves. The virus would infect the body over 72 hours. First came the restlessness within the first 24 hours, progressively worsening until your veins glowed with a deep purple hue during the final hours. She had seen hundreds of bodies during her journey and it soon became difficult to tell the difference between those alive and dead. So, when she found relics of the past that used to provide joy and entertainment, she clung to them in an attempt to escape the current reality. But, like all good things, they come to an end. The door flew open, the hinges creaking in protest and drowning out the music for a moment. I hear the secrets that you keep “I haven’t heard this song in so long,” a raspy voice chuckled. “Makes you remember those nights bent over a bottle.” A more lively and crispy voice laughed at the comment, their boots causing the floor to groan. “Honestly, I feel like I’m back in the city with my buddies.” Ramona bit back a gasp as the two individuals’ faces revealed themselves. There was a dark coating of dust and grime that coated their faces, their eyes devoid of life, as they shuffled around the room just like she had when she first came in. “How in the Hell do they have working speakers?” The raspy one asked in awe. “More importantly,” the younger one spoke as his eyes scaled the room slowly, “Who was playing music?” Sweat rolled down the side of her face as she held her breath, breathing shallowly through her nose. She should’ve been more cautious, she should’ve known people would find the building, but she lost her reason to care. “Hello?” One of the voices called, their eyes flickering to her hiding spot. Before he could move closer to inspect, the gruff one grabbed the man’s shoulder in a small warning. “If,” he began slowly, “someone was here before us, I highly doubt they would be eager to let us live. There ain’t nothing here except for the music and we’re wasting time trying to prove otherwise,” he gave the room a lookover. “The only reason a person would be here is if they got a death wish.” Ramona flushed her back against the corner and shut her eyes, the sound of her blood roaring in her ears. The two men had gone quiet, save for the creak of their boots as they moved across the floor back to the entrance. As soon as the door slammed shut, she poked her head out and cautiously moved forward. I hear the secrets that you keep Her hand was in a crushing grip around the coolness of the bottle as she shakily raised it to her lips. The amber liquid flowed down her throat, the bitterness a welcomed sensation against her dry tongue. When you’re talkin’ in your sleep Immediately, a cough racked through her body as she attempted to swallow more and she pressed her hand against her mouth. The rattling in her chest subsided as she pulled her hand away. The red splatter that covered her hand only made her sigh in defeat. She let her gaze wander past her hand and onto her arm, purple veins extending up towards her shoulder. I hear the secrets that you keep She let the tears fall as she placed the bottle back onto the bar. Her feet were still moving and she looked down at her legs. The jeans that she had found months back were ripped to shreds and her pale skin shone brightly through its cracks, more purple lines etched across her thighs. It was her final day, and she knew that the moment she let the speaker play. But what better way to die than to live in the beat of the music.
First Day at School I kept telling myself to be brave but it wasn’t working. In fact, I was shaking in my shoes as I watched the scruffy looking kid with dirty blonde hair and a snotty nose get ever closer. I’d been watching him for more than a minute, making his way along the queue of primary school students, many of them first-timers, like me. He looked mean and, by the way he shouted at the other kids and roughed up the smaller ones, I could tell he was a nasty piece of work. I was petrified. It was a quarter to nine and there must have been well over a hundred kids all in various degrees of slouch as they waited in an untidy line for access into the playground of St. Joseph’s Primary School. Some bounced balls against the black stone wall, a couple of girls played hop scotch and others raced around playing tag. Most just stood around chattering noisily and eyeing off the newcomers, those for whom this was a painful first day at school. I watched nervously as Snotty Nose grabbed a younger kid by the shirt front and demanded he hand over any sweets he had. The kid protested saying he had none and got a rough slap across the ears for his trouble. I could feel my knees tremble as the bully drew level and turned his sneering face towards me. Although I wasn’t aware of it at the time, I was probably an outstanding target for anyone wanting to vent their spleen on a lesser mortal. With scrawny body and skinny legs to match, I was wearing a maroon beret than mum insisted made me look ‘intelligent.’ My white, matchstick legs poked out of grey flannel shorts and ended in black wooden clogs which, when I walked, gave the impression that they were about to pull my poor legs from their sockets! “Gimme yer chewy,” he demanded, seeing that I had chewing gum in my mouth and that I was chomping on it vigorously to alleviate my nerves. As a six year old in a new country, I was totally in awe of all the older local kids. My family had arrived in Northern England just two weeks before Christmas and we were living with my grandma and grandad, mum’s parents. Today was to be my first day of schools after the Christmas break. Everything was so strange apart from the lousy weather which was depressingly similar to what we’d left behind in County Mayo! The bully had me completely frozen with fear as he was bigger and older than me and pushed his ugly face into mine, demanding a response. I opened my mouth to say something but could scarcely form the words. When I did manage to babble something about not having any more chewing gum, he erupted in a scream of derision. “Hahaha, we got a bloody foreigner ‘ere - can’t even speak proper English, he can’t. Say that again, kid! Where you from, you bloody foreigner?” I could understand his heavy Lancashire accent no better than he could understand my thick Irish brogue and that wasn’t going to be any help in this situation. I tried to say something again but found myself blabbering incoherently. Then, to my horror, the bully reached into his trouser pocket and produced a shiny red pocket knife which he proceeded to open with a flourish. I almost wet myself! “You’re probably hiding a packet of chewy under that stupid looking beret,” he sneered and reached out, grabbing the little wick on top of my beret between the thumb and finger of one hand while he deftly sliced it off with the penknife in the other! “OK, that’s enough!” The girl’s voice was strong and harsh and I recognised it immediately. Moira, my older sister, stepped in from behind me and gave Snotty Nose a rough push in the chest which was strong enough to send him staggering backwards. A cheer went up from all the kids standing close by. Moira was 3 years older than me, about the same age as my assailant, but she was tall for her age. “You leave my brother alone or you’ll have me to deal with!” I could hardly believe my ears but here was my big brave sister sticking up for me in front of the whole school! The bully’s face turned scarlet with rage and embarrassment - embarrassment at being humiliated by a mere girl! He regained his balance and made a lunge at Moira but was stopped in his tracks as she swung her school satchel in a wide arc and caught him fair across the face. That blow sent him flat on his back and he was obviously seeing stars. Just then the school bell rang and the sea of kids surged forward through the gate and headed for their classes. Talk about ‘Saved by the bell...’ Moira turned briefly towards me and gave me a wink. “See you at lunch time kid,” was all she said and disappeared into the crowd. I shuffled along with a score or more other first timers towards the principal’s office, as previously instructed, and it was here that we were given the induction speech by a bespectacled Mr. Grimsby, a large, imposing man in a grey double breasted suit. The speech basically consisted of a list of does and don’ts and the corresponding punishments for anyone foolish enough to disregard them. We were then marched down the corridor to our new classroom where we were introduced to Miss Snape, the teacher charged with our education for the next twelve months. Miss Snape reminded me of a stork with wire rimmed spectacles on the end of its beak. She walked like a stork, too, seeming to be pulled along by an invisible string attached to the end of her long beaky nose. Our new teacher allocated us seats at the old oak desks which smelled of plasticine and glue. Next came her little speech which was almost a repeat of Grimsby’s but with a few embellishments. The message was the same though - do as you’re told, don’t step out of line, talk out of turn or think outside the box. That was how things were done in 1950. The first lesson of the day and for countless days hence, was Religious Instruction. It was through these classes that we learnt of the omnipotence of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the mystery of three gods in one - Father, Son and Holy Ghost and how god the father sent his only son to redeem us, the wicked, evil human race from our sins and the power of Satan. At least RI wasn’t too taxing on the brain since we weren’t expected to understand these holy mysteries - we just had to accept them as true and without question. The next lesson, Maths or Arithmetic as it was called then, was all together different. We were actually expected to learn something and come up with answers which were either right or wrong - no ‘maybes’ where numbers were concerned. I hated this subject and never did well in it though a good memory came to my rescue on many occasions. It was towards the much-anticipated end of the Arithmetic lesson that Miss Snape, preceded by her beak, made a beeline towards where I was sitting. “Stand up child,” she spat. Already traumatised by the events earlier that morning, I could scarcely believe that I was in the firing line again. ‘ This is really not my day ,’ was the thought that shot through my mind as I squirmed up from my seat. “Am I mistaken or are you actually chewing gum in my class?” she demanded. “Ye-yes, miss,” I stammered. “Get out here in front of the class,” she ordered “and throw that filthy gum in the waste basket!” I did as instructed. “What’s your name, boy?” “Kevin Hogan, Miss,” “Well, Kevin Hogan,” - she mouthed my name as if she were eating a turd - “the next time I catch you with gum or anything else in your mouth, you’ll get six of the best. And that goes for the rest of you lot,” she whirled around pointing the ruler she was wielding at the class who sat there wide-eyed in terror. I started to edge my way back to the relative safety of my desk when she turned on me again. “Where do you think you’re going?” The bespectacled beak stabbed the air in my direction then, before I could muster an answer, “Get into the corner behind the blackboard and put your hands on your head. You can stay there for the rest of the lesson.” For the next forty minutes I endured the discomfort of having to keep my hands clasped on my head but I smiled to myself at having escaped the greater torture of unfathomable numbers. Finally, the school bell rang to herald the midday lunch break. Having learnt my lesson, I stayed put until the stork gave me permission to join the other students exiting the classroom. Once in the playground, we all congregated on a low stone wall under an old sycamore tree and unpacked our lunches. Mum had done corned beef and mustard pickle which she knew I liked and, as a special treat, a slice of Christmas cake that had survived the Festive Season. I was chuffed to realise that my run-in with Miss Snape had conferred something of a badge of honour on me: the first kid to cop a punishment in the new term and I wallowed in the notoriety. But at the same time, I was as nervous as a bandit in a barroom and kept my eyes peeled for the snot-nosed bully in case he came looking for me. I breathed a silent sigh of relief when I noticed my brave sister Moira just a few yards away chatting and laughing with her own classmates and knew she was keeping an eye out for me. Though not completely unscathed, I had survived my first morning at school. Then the bell rang again signalling the end of lunch recess. As we traipsed back to class I wondered, what would the afternoon bring?
Batman looked out the empty window to see an empty chair in a field full of pansies all up staring up at him with their little faces. Some were a deep dark purple and others were varying shades from sky to royal blue. There were also some yellow and white ones which were only just yellow or white. This year was unseasonably warm but the flowers didn't seem to mind. If they were asked they would say they really enjoyed the warm weather, each others' company and the extra lifespan given that the lawn hadn't been mowed in over two months. Batman simply stared out the window in a typical Batman-grimace way as he was unable to appreciate the pansies. He was actually upset the lawn hadn't been mowed. The pansies didn't mind. The chair probably didn't mind either since it was just a chair and not pansies or Batman or any kind of flower at all. -- I really like pansies. For most of this year I had forgotten what they were called until I asked my mom "What are the ones with the faces?". There was a lot of them in my yard this summer. Then one day my dad came over and mowed the lawn.
Tragedy had come upon the kingdom of Utrecht .The kind, beautiful Princess Diana had been cursed by an evil witch! The whole kingdom mourned the loss of their wonderful princess. Everyone wore black and cried. Prince Adam was shown into Diana's room. He saw her asleep on her bed , unresponsive.' A witch ,' one of the servants told Adam, ' came in during the night and put a curse on her . It looks like she is sleeping but the truth is her body is frozen . Nothing , not even time , can touch or wake her. She will remain like this forever .'Prince Adam fell to her side and cried while he kissed her hand . ' She was mad at me last night, she said I never showed her that I cared enough. I was too stubborn to apologize. I can't let it be the last thing she ever said to me . I won't . I promise Diana I will find a cure for you . Even if it takes me my whole life . '' it's impossible Adam,' the advisor told him ' you must forget about her and rule over the kingdom without her. It would take you two lifetimes to find a cure .''Then I'll spend an eternity if I have to in order to find it .' And with that Adam left the kingdom to find a cure .Years passed and no one heard of Prince Adam again . They forgot about him and eventually they forgot about their princess too as life went back to normal and someone else took her place in ruling the kingdom .Thousands of years passed . Generations came and went and society grew far more advance. Skyscrapers, as high as the clouds, were built in the city and cars flew in the sky. It was impossible that Prince Adam could even still be alive after all these centuries . He was presumed long dead .However, one day a robot came to the large city of Utrecht. It was very advanced and people began to gather around it.When the robot was asked who it was it said, 'My name is Robot-2938377. I come from a far away land with a cure for your princess. 'The people didn't understand what princess the robot meant. No princess had ruled over them for many years . Nonetheless , the robot led the way to an old, abandoned castle. Inside , just as she had been thousands of years ago , lay princess Diana on her bed , as peaceful and still as always . The robot carefully took out a bottle of a golden liquid and poured it into the mouth of Diana. With a start she woke up and everyone gasped !' My goodness !' Diana exclaimed .' I feel like I have been asleep for hundreds of years .' She then looked around the room, confused . She looked at the robot. ' What are you?' she asked it.' My name is Robot-2938377. Long ago, I once was a human by the name of Adam. I am all that is left of him . His body became weak as he grew old and decrepit. He replaced parts of himself with robot parts so he could continue his mission of finding a cure for you until nothing was left of him but the robot you see now . My only purpose in living is a memory as a human I once had and a desire to find a cure for my princess , after an evil witch put a curse on you . Now that my purpose is done , I am no longer needed and will shortly turn off forever . 'Diana realized all that had happened and cried for everything that she had lost and how long she had been asleep. Everyone and everything she had ever known was gone now , everything except Adam's desire to cure her , which had long outlived him . All the people in the room were moved by her crying.' Is there nothing that can be done for you ? ' Diana asked the robot as she hugged his metal body .Just for a moment the robot remembered what it was like to be human again from the warmth of her arms around him . 'There is one last thing you must do, yes, please . ' He said . ' I traveled thousands of miles to bring that cure to you, but during my travels I came upon one other thing in a very advance civilization. ' The robot handed her a stone .' This is a magic stone . Once you use it , you will go back and return to your time forever . Once you go back in time , you must stop that witch from cursing you , and live your life happily with your family and prince Adam.' Diana cried but she understood . She took the stone. She kissed the robot on its head and thanked it. The kiss gave the robot one last memory of love and what it was like to be a human before it ran out of energy and shut off for the rest of time.Diana looked at the stone in her hand and closed her eyes . When she opened them again she was back in her room but it was the day before the curse was put on her , just as she remembered it!She looked out her window and the kingdom was there, just like before. Into the room came prince Adam, human and all!' Is everything all right ?' he asked her .' I thought I heard something . 'Diana couldn't contain her excitement and hugged and kissed Adam. He was surprised but very happy . " I thought u were mad at me ." Adam wondered." Shut up and kiss me u fool ." She laughed .The next day the evil witch was caught and captured before she could curse Diana. She was kept in jail for her crimes . When the witch asked how they knew of her crimes before she even committed them, Diana told her she knew because of love which is the answer to everything , as it can know anything.Diana and Adam ruled over the kingdom and after that day never had another problem . They lived happily ever after.
HEAVEN SENT. Kali was walking past Jessup’s store on Croydon High Street when she was approached by a sales assistant handing out free samples of perfume. “Go on take it” said the young sales assistant with the glowing smile. “It will do you good.” “Thank you” said Kali. The perfume was called Heaven Scent it made Kali think of fresh flowers growing in a beautiful garden. Kali closed her eyes taking in the aroma of rose and jasmine, as she rubbed the perfume on her wrist. Kali tried not to think about the perfume as she went about her job caring for elderly people their own homes. Mr Biggs would not stand still while he ate his breakfast. Mrs Mills screamed during the day over the loss of her son and her spectacles when Kali called to visit. During her lunch break Kali found herself walking along the high street towards Jessop’s store. There was no one on the perfume counter maybe the staff had gone to lunch? Kali reached out taking the bottle of Heaven Scent from the display cabinet putting it into her shoulder bag. What had she done? Kali wasn’t a dishonest person, she was trusted with the keys other to people’s houses. Kali sat down in the small café two streets away from Jessop’s store. So that was what having an addiction did to you? She thought that it was like drugs or alcohol once you had tried it you wanted more. Kali stirred her coffee she must take the bottle of Heaven Scent back to Jessop’s store. What would have happened if she, had been stopped by a security guard outside the store or caught on the CTV cameras. Kali would explain to the sales assistant that she had accidently taken the perfume by mistake. The sales lady did not smile or understand what had happened when Kali returned the bottle of perfume. She had said “You took the perfume from the display cabinet without paying for it”. “You came back because you felt guilty, I do not know if you borrowed the perfume and then thought you would return it because you did not like the smell”. “I’ve seen your sort before. “No,” said Kali. “You have it all wrong I am very sorry for what I did.” The sales assistant then rang a bell for security; a man appeared in a black uniform. She said “This woman has taken a bottle of perfume from the display cabinet worth a total of seventy-two pounds. We shall see what Mr Beech as to say about this.” Kali was led up a back staircase by the security guard followed by Miss Campbell, the sales assistant from the perfume counter. Kali felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. What would happen to her job and the people that she cared for? The perfume did not feel sensual to wear any more. There was the money that she had promised to send home each month to her help her disabled mother and six younger brothers and sisters in Africa. Would she lose her work permit to work in this country? How could she face the shame and humiliation of being labelled a thief? Mr Beech a small distinctive a man in a grey suit got up from his desk and looked through his office window at the skyscrapers listening to what was being said. When he turned around Kali was crying and shaking. He asked her to sit down on the chair opposite him and offered her a glass of water from a decanter on his desk. Kali thought that he was considerate. She wished that they had met under different circumstances. Mr Beech said, “Do you enjoy your job helping people Kali?” “Yes.” “Then you won’t make this mistake, again will you?” “No Sir,” replied Kali. “Good then I won’t see you in this office again.” “You returned the perfume, so no further action will be taken”. Kali thanked Mr Beech and they shook hands. Kali was in a state of shock and surprise over the incident. She still had her carers job with Care and Motivation. Kali thought that god had given her a chance to redeem herself. He had guided her away from temptation she would say a prayer to the lord god and one for kind Mr Beech. She had heard all about angels watching over people from the people that she cared for old Ellie often praised the angels and thanked them for the good things that came into her life. People had seen angels before they had died? Maybe the lord god had sent an angel to watch over Kali and guide her away from temptation? Kali would study the work of angels from some of the books in the local library. The flat where she lived was not perfect. She had lots of good things in life to be thankful for food on the table, warmth and love from those around her. The pastor at the church often talked about the way of the lord Kali would talk to him about her experience she would not disappoint the lord again by becoming vain and greedy. When she gave praise to the lord for the good things around her. She hoped that the lord and his guardian angels would hear her. After Kali had left his office Mr Beech sat with his hands on his desk thinking about the incident with Kali. It had taken courage for the girl to return the item. He thought about how scared she had been when she looked at him with those big brown eyes. He was sure that he had made the right decision. She had known that it was wrong to take the perfume it was just a moment of madness on her part and she would not be making that mistake again. Over the years he had seen lots of people in similar situations’ and he knew if people were genuine or dishonest. She could have just thrown the bottle of perfume, away rather than return it to the store. He was glad that Barnardo’s and his tutors had given him a chance in life all those years ago. This had given him the knowledge to deal with others less fortunate than himself. A decade had passed by the store had to adapt to many changes to keep up with other High Street outlets. Mr Beech was still at the helm of Jessop’s. One day he had received a phone call from the hospital about his wife Beatrice. She had been admitted to hospital with colon cancer. How was he going to break ,the news of Beatrice’s condition their son William who resided in America? Harold Beech thought back to how he had progressed in his chosen career. The Beeches had always wanted more children but it did not happen. It was a miracle when Beatrice had given birth to their William in her late thirties. After visiting Beatrice in hospital Harold down sat on a bench in the hospital grounds taking in the peace and tranquillity. He was deep in thought when he was approached by a woman who sat down beside him. ” You”, don’t remember me do you Mr Beech? The incident with the bottle of perfume. You showed compassion and understanding.” “I did what? “ “After that incident with the bottle of Heaven Scent at Jessop’s store I thought that there was something missing from my life and that god had a purpose for me.” “Well it’s strange both of us meeting like this after all these years” replied Harold. “Yes, isn’t it” said Kali. One of the nurses told me about your wife I thought that I could help you?” “It really is a miracle the way that we have met today” said Harold. “I help people in crisis” replied Kali putting her hand over Harold’s as they made their way to the hospital chapel to pray for Beatrice. On his way home that evening Harold thought about the young Kali and the mature woman dressed in the nuns black habit. Life goes on and sometimes even at my age it can take you completely by surprise. How shall I explain this to my friends and work colleagues that Kali just turned up at the hospital when I needed her. I will tell Beatrice about this when she wakes up from her operation. “Very strange indeed “said Harold as he turned the key in his front door lock, the phone rang in the hallway. “William” said Harold you hear about these things happening to other people a sign from god. Today I met up with a woman who had returned something to the store some years back, she was dressed in a nun’s habit and we went into the hospital chapel to say a prayer for your Mother. I felt better and more positive as I came out of the chapel.”