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Blooming orchards used to surround him. Sounds so distant, yet so vibrant, resonating inside of his head. Each step, each movement, luring all cares away - no longer a worry. He peered around out of his hoodie, sun gleaming, grass swaying - but so much grey. It’s not how it once was. The trees wail; begging for mercy. The rain no longer restores, but only drowns. Tyranny. Had he anymore hope, no longer would he dream, but instead act. But it was too late. The good times were over - the world was not the same. The faces of those who stray through the lonely paths so soulless - blank, pale. Where had it all gone, the people, for they were no different to ghosts. This is exactly where he knew, he was alone. A speck of dust in an endless universe. It was all taken from him. The wonder, the curiosity, it no longer mattered, as they had stolen it all. In his head, he does question if it had to be this way - so organised, so regimented. The lack of beauty and creativity took a heavy toll on his mind. This town was beautiful once, but, along with all else, that had withered away. Further down the path, his old school. He still remembered those smiling faces. She had the most memorable smile of all. Even amongst the monochrome, she was colour. A beacon. Someone who resonated hope - an aura of golden warmth. Pointless - they’d always find out. She couldn’t stay this way, but who could. Like tears falling down my page, the ink smearing, they’d find a way to ruin the art. The letters caving inwards, each line bending and swaying - no longer reaching any clarity. The freedom and life within the page was evanescent. These, ‘intrusions’, were the root cause of the sickness. He would no longer see a glow, because they had stolen it. Who are we? And who is he? It’s clear he doesn’t accept the blame for this - but the hypocrisy is an invisible dagger, being pushed further and further into him. Who else could be the cause but him? The ghosts on the street? The thieves who never cease from taking more? Unbeknownst to him, he is a thief. This grey, this fog, he is the very matter it is made from. Maybe he is not entirely accountable, as he is just a simple piece within a machine. Nevertheless, even one bolt coming loose can send trauma, shockwaves, throughout even the whole skeleton. However, if he doesn’t change, he may as well be another blood cell surging through the thief’s body. To accept, or defy, is the dilemma faced by every cell. Acceptance leads to easy comfort. Defiance is never so simple. He might be seen as a lonesome virus, soon to be ensnared by carnivorous antibodies. But there is always light after such a struggle. You might be like her - a hopeful radiation, changing someone's very matter, letting them see their own chains. You might turn into him - reminiscing the morning dew and sunlight, but failing to wake up in time to experience it.
March 14th 1945 Pvt. Daniel Brody. 9th Division Infantry. Nurse Cora says I should write about what happened. She thinks it might help me get over the emotional trauma, or at least help me cope, and deal with the nightmares that continue to haunt me. It has been six months, and still it continues to remain vivid in my memory, sometimes I feel like it's happening all over again, and I cannot be rid of the torment, or the guilt. In my sleep, I see the faces of my comrades looking at me in shame and distress. I would much rather face defeat in the trenches, over the war in my mind, at least there I could possibly redeem myself. A second chance for death to take me, in honor of those who fell before me. I thought I had died that day, (September 19th 1944) We were marching along the southern edge of Aachen Germany, The last thing I remember was an explosion, followed by agonizing screams, and a searing pain in my leg, before I blacked out, I thought I had breathed my last, but there I was, laid out on a stretcher, drenched in blood. It was then I realized I had failed, failed my unit, and failed to die. I could not determine, where I felt the most defeat, between the pain and the knowledge, it was because of me stepping on a trip mine, five of my friends had died, and somehow I survived. I laid there, useless and limbless, begging for death to take me, begging the medic’s to leave me to die alone, I wasn’t worth saving. I felt ashamed of the tears that flowed like flood waters, down my face, I screamed and thrashed, but I could do nothing. The medics ignored me, and went about their business, when I refused to comply, they forced morphine down my throat, till my body went still, my brain became foggy, and I fought that too. Twice I attempted to rip off the bandages, and tear the stitches, to bring about the death, I felt I justly deserved, but even in my attempt’s I was defeated. I took little comfort in knowing in this I was not alone, the field hospital was full of men ready to die, and equally those not yet ready to give in. On Sept 27th. They put me on the ambulance and said I was headed for England, where I was to convalesce with the other wounded survivors, till arrangements could be made to send me back home. The doctors called me lucky, as they carried me, I felt anything but, looking down at the stump that used to be my leg. Sure I still had my right leg, but in my mind, I might as well have lost both, what good was one leg? I would never walk again, and be nothing but a burden to my family. At least I have no regrets, about ending things with Lucy, she definitely wouldn’t want me now. By Oct 3rd, I found myself in a manor, in the English countryside, it was here I first met The Chaplain and Nurse Cora, who made it there sole responsibility to convince me I still had a purpose, and that I was a hero and had so much to live for. It was probably the first time I had laughed in weeks, had they been there, they would not think me a hero. They said it wasn’t my fault, anyone could have accidentally set off the mine, that if I hadn’t, somebody else would have. The Chaplain would argue God wasn’t done with me yet, and that my purpose would be revealed in time. He spent many hours with me in this manner. I much preferred Nurse Cora’s company, she was more understanding of my plight, she often told me stories of other soldiers, who had lost limbs and carried on, and now as I write this memory, I realize it was an act of cowardice on my part, I spent months wishing for the end, thinking it was honorable, but the truth of the matter was the fact, I was too afraid to face the future, quite frankly I still am, but if the hundreds of men that come through here like myself, have learned to adjust to a new way of life, they are braver men than I could ever hope to be. Though my struggles with nightmares continues to plague my very soul, cursing me with self-doubt, thanks to Chaplain Harvey and Nurse Cora, I had found the courage, to press on, I still found plenty of room for complaint, and wallowing in self-pity, and times of discouragement, but I now fight the battle of regaining my ability to walk again. The prosthetic leg they have attached to my stump, is an ugly piece of machinery, and awkward to control without the help of a crutch or cane, I have fallen on my face more times than I care to count, I have lost my faith, and found it again, I have cried and laughed, with my new friends. Tomorrow it will be time for me to go home, my battle with the world is over, but the battle over my mind and body, has begun in full force. I fear what my family will think of me, I wonder how I can find my way in society again, I will never be the same person I was before. I said my goodbyes, and told Nurse Cora, I would take her advice, and write my thoughts down, and I promised I would write her often. Every time I doubt, I think about what Chaplain Harvey said about God not being done with me, somehow, someway, I still had a purpose, and I had to find it. At first I hated the chaplain, every time he reminded me, but now I can’t help but smile, when I think of those encouraging words he said so often; “You have suffered only a moment of defeat, but you have a lifetime of victories ahead of you” I will probably forget this often, but these words I have written will be my reminder, and in the days to come, whatever challenge I face, may this remind me I have much to live for.
MOTHER KNOWS BEST Martin and Frank were two old friends who morphed into the geezers they are today. Since they now wear their lifetime achievement badges, they’re never ones to stop what they’ve always lived to do and that is to tell people what they don’t want to hear, because they know everything about anything and everyone. Both of their middle names are busy body. However, today was to be a different day. Each time they met at the Dog and Pony Bar & Grill, which would be every Thursday on the dot at high noon, the talk would be the same. When they greeted each other, it was as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. They got their usual table and the talk went on and on as they tucked into the luncheon house special. Today’s highlight of conversation began about a recent newspaper article that they both had read. Martin was the first to pipe up with, “Get a load of that high-brow thinking in that story on the front page. Right?” he snickered and added, “How to Make Things Work Better My Way.” Just because he’s got that piece of paper from that hoity toity school, you might think he knows more than us learned folk?” Frank laughed loudly and agreed with his friend. “I think,” he added, “we need to get in on his idea. How about we come up with, Make Things Work Better OUR Way.” The two badgered each other about the endless possibilities until they came to an agreement. The one thing two old geezers felt they needed to change in this modern world of so much technology up the wazoo running everybody’s life, is how every house has a sideline pet that went by the name of, ALEXA. Martin was adamant in coming up with a game changer, in his new way of thinking. He thought back to a time when his mother was a totally different type of Alexa. She brought him up with a no nonsense attitude. You did what was expected in and around the household. No questions. You wanted something, let’s see how much effort it took to get you a dollar to buy that toy or that snack. Frank agreed, nodding vigorously. He liked the idea but had another way to make the whole idea sink in to make an impression for the good of all and not just the next generation. The two knew that their time was up, since lunchtime was long over. So they made a plan to find the dweebs they needed to concoct the plan. Where were they hanging out? Easy answer. At the bookstore coffeeshop for sure. Gotta have your fancy double shot espresso latte skim milk mochaccino. They agreed to meet there early the next day to find the one they were looking for, whoever that might be. Before they split, Martin said, “ What are we doing? Aren’t we just supposed to relax, meet up for lunch, and do a whole lot of nothing? We’ve earned this time.” Frank nodded but added, “So, if we could be something other than that, why not? We have to break out of our hum drum every now and then. Can’t forget to throw in a little fun. We can be the new geezers on the block. OK?” The next day was here and the two were at the street corner where the bookstore was in plain view. They noticed the ones coming and going were exactly the right dweebs. Now to solicit the right one for their hairbrained but needy ideas. It didn’t take long before the right person who happened to have the right book, caught their attention. It was, in a strange way, the right theme. Shakespeare. “To be, or not to be: that is the question.” “Nothing will come of nothing.” “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” Before long, they engaged in a conversation with Nate, and their plan was laid out. The young dude was totally wrapped up in their thinking and had a friend who knew a friend who could, without a doubt, create their ideal model. While Martin’s plan was hatching, Frank’s idea was taken into consideration as the next best blend of the same two thoughts. They agreed that these would spark an interest like no other, make a point, and put the message out there to one and all. Would it be funny? YES! and It would be a good way to add a mix of old and new thinking to make a point that should not be forgotten. Martin got ahold of folks he knew from the senior center who were so like him and Frank with the same attitude, in the lackadaisical way society has turned, especially with the young people. Now the time was here to address that for the good. Before long, the three met up again and with the process worked out, and simplified, it was time to make a statement. Now Martin and Frank had to stoop low and use some technology and with Nate’s help, created an online presence and soon found a film crew who agreed to get on board with their unique idea. Before long, they had created a way to adjust the style of the famous, ALEXA. Martin had one way, Frank had another. “Are we ready for this?” Frank wanted to be clear about this new investment of their lives that was about to change. His senior friends had already did their part and were as giddy as kids about their role. They were told to keep a lid on the project until it was a go. “We need to stay in the game. You’re dead a long time and so we got to do this now! Since we got Nate, we’re good with all the techy stuff he’ll need to keep us up on.” Martin knew it was time to unfold this plan and their new business venture. One by one throughout the day the film crew, Martin, Frank and Nate went house to house in various neighborhoods where they already got the okay to stop by. The first house became their claim to fame with their new invention, MOTHER KNOWS BEST. Nate was brought to see their ALEXA and attached the computer chip. The activation was priceless as he spoke, “Hey! Can you get me a take-out order of pizza?” The voice was one of the senior ladies who answered, “Excuse me young man. But you need to be polite when addressing me. If you need to eat, save your money and eat what’s in the refrigerator. And please clean up when you’re finished. MOTHER KNOWS BEST.
Chad hefted himself over the final ledge, heaved his weight up and over, until he could flop his chest to the ground, and sort of wiggle the rest of the way. He wore lightweight armor, which seemed like it would make going up a mountain easy, but then he remembered steep mountain hikes weren’t easy in jeans, let alone metal. “How’s it goin’?” Wanda’s disembodied voice came from the magic mirror in Chad’s heavy pack. “Geez... us... I need... a minute... fuck...” Chad panted. “You need to work out more.” Wanda commented. “Thank you, Wanda!” Chad exclaimed. He struggled to his knees, and then gathered the strength to get to his feet. He could see the carved stone entrance of the ancient cave. Almost there. They were so close to home. He was exhausted and his heart pounded in his ears between ragged breaths. He thought he’d be used to physical activity since he played football and track back home, but it was nothing compared to long walks interrupted by dumb animal murder. Speaking of which... He heard the shuffle of movement in front of him, squinted to look for the source of the noise, saw nothing, and was knocked on his back. It was like he got hit by a car. The wind was knocked out of him and he wanted to cry. He knew what it was. A chameleon-goat, one of those weird camouflaged mountain-goat lizards. They weren’t particularly vicious, but they were territorial, and no one knew where their territory was, because they were always goddamn invisible. Well, not 100 percent invisible, once you knew what to look for, you could see it a lot better, like Predator. He turned to look at the ground and saw dirt over transparent hooves clopping towards him. The shimmer was faint, but he could make it out. “Okay, goatie, let me get back up.” Chad rolled himself back and forth a little to gain momentum. By the time he got onto his side, hooves smacked him onto his back, and pressed him down. He was in trouble now. He dreaded the next part and struggled pointlessly under the chameleon-goat’s weight. He reached for his dagger but the armor restricted his movements. “You want I should help?” Wanda asked. “No! It’s a goat, that’d be like using Meteor on a Slime.” Chad said, tried to get up again, and failed. What looked like a mass of pink bubblegum ejected from midair and smashed into his face. He was treated to a sticky, slimy, tongue bath. This was the part he dreaded. It smelled like a mixture of rotting meat and skunk spray. Drool dripped down his face when the tongue retracted. Chad spit saliva out of his mouth and blinked it out of his eyes. He could see the bearded leathery face of the goat, and the strange cone eyes that darted in separate directions. The goat didn’t exactly have a color, it was kind of a silvery translucent mirage. The chameleon-goat bleated spittle at him. “I get it! I’ll go!” He finally rolled onto his side enough to tip the creature off. “Blaaaaaah!” The chameleon-goat bleated again, stumbled off, and kicked up dirt. Chad tried to track it with his eyes. With a final burst of strength, he got to his feet, and struggled to pull the foot-long pole device from his pack. He grasped it, but his knuckles brushed past Wanda’s mirror, and it was like touching ice. He flinched and the collapsed spear flew out of his grip. It bounced away and telescoped open near the creature. It turned silvery visible in surprise, ran blindly into Chad, and Chad fell forward this time. When he hit the ground, his forearm snapped the creature’s neck, and it started twitching abnormally. “Oh, no, oh, I’m sorry.” Chad stood back up, while he watched the poor creature struggle. It’s fur and skin bloomed shades of green, brown, tan, and gray, like a bad art project. “Better finish it off.” Wanda suggested. Chad sighed. He knew it was best to put it out of its misery. “’Cause I don’t know if you’ll get the experience if you kill it by accident.” Wanda added. “Thanks, bae.” Chad went to his spear and picked it up. Before he could stab the creature, a giant black hairy leg extended from his pack, and stabbed the goat’s head. Chad swallowed as a second equally large black leg sprout into reality on his other side, and small three fingered claws on the end of the spider legs gripped the carcass and pulled it towards Chad’s face. He held up the spear to block the disgusting goat before it touched his body. “Come one.” Wanda urged. “I’m hungry.” She apparently fed through him and he was sick of it. When he chose to revive her as a spider-summon-goddess-thing, he thought that she’d be like Spider-man instead of a giant half-spider demon. Now he was stuck in a stupid pact and part of their vow was warm blood. Even before she became a giant spider, he never planned on marrying her, but now they were trapped in a horrific symbiotic relationship to survive. “Can I cook it this time? This one might taste good if it was cooked.” Chad insisted. “Open up...” He heard her insist. A human hand slid out from his pack, pressed against the back of his head, and gingerly tried to shove his face into it. He held his breath and dug in. He drank from the leaking vein Wanda had opened for him, like the worst Capri-sun. It tasted like dirt, fish, and pennies. The blood was maroon, and smeared all over his lips, nose, and chin. He started to dry heave and turned his head away to get some air. “More!” Wanda insisted and smashed his face into the goat like it was a wedding cake. Chad wanted to cry, and inhaled some wet dog smelling hair. After pausing a few times to dry heave, he managed to get the liquid down, and Wanda let the goat drop. He heard her make weird clicks, something he thought meant “happy” or “pleasure”. He tried to smear the blood off his face and spat out light maroon saliva until his mouth no longer had moisture. His stomach was queasy, but his strength returned. He refocused on the mossy carved entrance of the cave. There was a message in a mystical language he couldn’t understand. They looked like normal letters, but the top spelled out Achtung. Probably something in Elvish. He took a deck of cards from his pocket that kept track of his skills and abilities. Each card automatically updated with his stats and it helped remind him how do some of the more difficult magics. He flipped through them, found his webbing ability, and the summon conditions. He memorized it and walked into the cave. It smelled like mold and dead animals. The cave floor was smooth, and his boots made a metallic echo as he walked towards the inner chamber. “Let’s get out of here. I am super tired of this world.” Chad muttered. “Aww, was football less stressful?” Wanda asked. Chad pursed his lips and refused to show how angry the comment made him. He reached into his belt pouch and took out a glass vial with a small invasive species of fairy. He pressed a button down on the lid, crushed the small creature into a pasty glow, shook the vial, and it glowed brighter, like the worst glowstick. He thought he heard a tiny scream but tried not to think about it. Dead fairies disintegrated into a sparkling dust, and people realized they could use this to produce a light that lasted up to a week. Chad originally asked for a flashlight, but the shopkeeper didn’t seem to know what that was. He walked down the corridor and ducked under webs with varied success. He continued until he saw the faint glow of the entrance to the inner sanctum and stopped at the wooden frame of the door. He called up his personal webs that emerged from his fingertips. He stepped inside, and pressed his index finger against the doorframe, sticking the silk. The sanctum was a library. He was surprised, he thought it’d be some sort of dank cave, but it reminded him of the Beast’s library from Beauty and the Beast, with three stories of shelves and an ascending system of ladders and catwalks. Torches with blue flames cast flickering shadows around the room. Towards the center was a patient, pale, white haired figure in a crisp black suit. He looked like a sort of modern-day Death. Lord Gaunt. He sat on a large black armchair and read from a large tome. A side table next to him was filled with a stack of books, a goblet, and a bottle of wine. To his right was a long stone table with two black wood chairs and a chess game set up. Lord Gaunt closed the book and looked up. He gave Chad a chilling smile. “Ah. A child.” He pressed the tips of his boney fingers together and leaned forward. Chad walked the near invisible string from the wall, pulling thread out of the tip of his finger. It was like someone was tugging out a stitch and it was rather uncomfortable. Chad pushed his finger against another point on a bookshelf to create a place to continue the circle. They watched each other. Chad made slow movements around the perimeter of the room, as he dragging his index finger along, lookin’ like a weirdo. After three minutes of this, Chad nearly came back to his starting point, and the man moved. There was a flicker and he was suddenly in front of Chad. A breeze buffeted his face from the speed. “Oh no, that’s fast.” Wanda said unhelpfully. Before Chad could finish, the man grabbed Chad by the throat, and picked him off his feet. Chad clung to the man’s hands, unable to do anything against the much stronger man. There was a blur of motion, and Chad’s butt slammed into one of the black wood chairs. The chess pieces on the table wobbled and nearly fell, but Lord Gaunt’s hands flew out in a blur of motion and replaced all the pieces before they could topple. Chad was nauseous from the trip and dry heaved a little. “Knock that off, child, we’re playing chess.” Gaunt said. “No, I hate chess.” Chad moaned. He rubbed his throat and coughed. “Were you going to destroy me with a summons? Was that it?” He asked with mild amusement. “Uh, yeah, I would have kicked your ass.” Chad said hoarsely with confidence. “I’m not the sort of person you ‘fight’ though. That’s why I have the game set up, to give you a fighting chance. Mowing down insects isn’t challenging or exciting.” “Okay, hear me out. Let me do the summons thing and I will be happy and win.” “Child, there’s no spell or creature that can fight me, I do want you to understand that.” He waved his hand over the chessboard. “With this, you have a chance.” Chad laughed. “I’d like to not to. When my brother told me the horse moved in an ‘L’, I flipped the board up, and punched him in the dick. That’s the level of skill we’re talkin’.” “And your plan would have worked?” Lord Gaunt smiled. “Yeah, easy.” Chad said. Lord Gaunt extended his hand and smiled. “By all means.” Chad got up, and half-jogged back to where he left the last thread. He took his pack off, put it on the ground, opened the flap, fished for the correct vial, placed this and his cards next to the pack, and then went to the wall to complete the circle. The threads started to glow when connected, and Wanda’s mirror rose from the pack. It shuddered, struggled into the air, and then shattered with a loud crack. It left a jagged black void in midair and Wanda crawled out, spider leg first. From the waist up she was a topless tan teenage girl with small breasts and black hair, but below this was the crimson hourglass patterned abdomen and hairy black legs of a giant spider. She used to be shorter than him but was now around eight feet high. Chad thought she used to be attractive before the bottom half of her looked like Shelob. “A spider summons.” Lord Gaunt commented. “Are you going to try and poison me?” He said this in a way that led Chad to believe poison would not work on this man. “Sure.” Chad said. “Wanda, sic him!” He pointed at the creepy old man. Wanda stepped towards Chad, bent forward, picked him up by his shoulders with her two front-most legs and human arms, and plunged her sharp canine teeth into his neck. “Fuck! Ow! Not the plan!” Chad tried to struggle, but her grip was strong. His arms were pinned to his side, and his strength drained as he quickly developed anemia. It hurt, but the flaring pain also released numbing endorphins that spread as he lost blood. As his vision faded to black, she loosened her grip and he fell- Wanda dropped Chad and accidentally kicked his limp body when she turned back to the pack. His blood tasted so sweet, like she bit into a juicy watermelon on the first day of summer. She had mixed feelings of ecstasy and panic, but concentrated, and snatched up the vial and deck. She uncorked the potion with her bloody teeth and bent back to his lifeless body. She grabbed him with two of her legs, tipped his head back, put the bottle in his mouth, and made him drink the zombie water. After she thought he had enough, she spun him into a web, pulling the thread with two legs from her abdomen, and skillfully manipulated him into a white cocoon. After this, she dropped him, and flipped through his deck of cards. “Blackest Widow?” Lord Gaunt guessed the spell being set up, while he patiently watched the scene play out. “I’ll admit it’s a strong physical boost, but I think you’ll find it... lacking.” She held out a card, shook her head, and smiled. “Tears of a Widow. I can change one aspect of reality.” Lord Gaunt laughed a little. “Going for an instant kill? Clever, but it won’t do anything to anyone above a Titan. And you won’t last long with your host dead.” “Didn’t say I was using it for an insta-kill.” Wanda gestured to the table behind Lord Gaunt. Instead of a chessboard was a tv, PS4, and two controllers. The plasma screen flicked on and the PlayStation startup tone played. “Wanda! Fuck you, Wanda!” The muffled voice yelled. “Get me out of this, Wanda, I’m claustrophobic, Wanda!” Chad struggled, but the silk webs held. The cocoon looked like an egg that refused to hatch. Wanda made a quick slice with a clawed leg, and Chad’s fingers pulled against the sticky threads. “Get me out of this!” He whined. Wanda bent over to give him a hand. “Shed skin.” Gaunt muttered. It was a technique that cured the host’s ailments and that included zombie status. Chad himself didn’t know if it would work, but he was willing to gambit his life in order to escape this world. He struggled to his feet, covered in a mess of silk. No matter how many strands he pulled, he somehow never seemed to be rid of them. He tried to walk and fell face first. Wanda sliced the webs between his legs, to help him a little. “Alright, so, now we can play.” Chad said and stood again. He pat Wanda on the human belly as he passed. “That’ll do, spider.” “I can eat you.” She said and folded her human arms across her chest. “What did you do?” Lord Gaunt asked. “I changed the game. You guys are playing Call of Duty instead of chess.” Wanda explained. She was the one who originally came up with the idea. Chad was a terrible chess player and there didn’t seem to be a way around the game, so they found a way to change the rules. “Oh.” Lord Gaunt said. He was at a loss for words. He was bound to the rules of the world and the ones he set in place and couldn’t back out of a challenge. The old man looked at the television like it was a foreign object. Chad picked up a controller and went through the menus to get to the game. “Ready?” Wanda asked. “What do I-” Lord Gaunt asked, half transfixed, half bewildered by the technology. He didn’t fully understand what was going on. “It’s a game, he’ll set up a match.” Wanda grabbed the second controller with one of her claws and placed it in the old man’s hand. “Use this button to move, use this to look around, and this one to shoot.” She directed. “Go!” The match started before Lord Gaunt fully understood. He walked into a virtual wall, the camera looked at the sky, and then rotated. “Wait, how do I-” Lord Gaunt asked, looking from his fingers to the screen. Chad’s character walked up to Gaunt’s, shot him at point blank range, and the custom match ended. The screen declared Chad the winner. “We win.” Chad smiled at a glaring Lord Gaunt. “Get us out of this stupid world.” “Us?” Lord Gaunt asked. He placed the controller down, more amused than upset by the loss. “I can get you out, but she’s an aspect of this world now. She cannot leave.” Wanda gave him a pained look. “Chad... We’ve been through so much together, and I know you love me, and I understand if-” “Don’t care, leave, leave, leave, leave.” Chad said, snapping his fingers at Gaunt.
Mitch and Lawson were in the pickup, cruising between strip malls in the Atlanta suburbs. It was muggy and still and the cicadas had been buzzing all day. Mitch whistled low as he passed a couple in their teens, one carrying a skateboard. Lawson's eyes shot from the teenagers to Mitch. "Your Aunt still living with you?" Mitch stopped swirling his toothpick around in his mouth. He slowed the car slightly as he placed the toothpick on the edge of the ashtray, where others were arranged neatly. When the truck slammed suddenly to a halt, Lawson was taken by surprise. His head struck the dashboard, and Mitch's hand closed on a handful of his hair and gripped tightly as he drew closer, as if to whisper a secret. "You don't need to ask me about that, you hear?" Lawson cried out. Mitch released, but his hand hung there like a claw as his face slowly withdrew. He sat back, exhaling. When the truck started rolling, Lawson rubbed the back of his head. He looked at his hand for blood. "You're pretty fucked." His voice was a near whisper. Mitch rolled down Lawson's window. "That was fucked up, what you did back there." "Get some air. You're safe now. You're with me." Mitch may have been grinning, but the pale pink streetlights cast shadows that obscured his face and occasionally put it into silhouette, making it difficult to tell. Lawson knew the roads enough to tell they were changing direction. They were no longer moving west toward Cedartown. "I thought we'd go camping. Like the old days." Lawson was pale. "Sure." Mitch was laughing quietly. "Sure, your call.
Artemis had fallen into the abyss of her fathomable anger. She told her friends the truth, and honored herself by accepting the consequences of her actions. Her friends hadn’t realized that her existence was under the bullseye of a Boar that began to drool and yammer, telling his men to wait for his cue to attack. She had felt his words confuse even himself, as the citizens began to stir. They said their objections to his threats of domestic terrorism, and the Boar had finally heard them. Not because of their words or worry, but because he caught them blinking in confusion. Half the citizens stood down and began cleaning their weapons, and the other half had finally began to feel the weight of Artemis and her handful of executed words that had once said “I told you so.” The citizens were held hostage to the beast that lay without his head: the “leader” had been sitting in an empty room far, far from Artemis and her wicked smile: both monsters had been blatantly abandoned. Artemis didn’t need to squeal and hawk words of aggression, and so she reveled in the silence she had gifted herself by ditching the head of a Boar carcass: sleep finally falling swiftly over her wide-eyed optimism. The citizens deserved this. They hadn’t even the sense of community or self-worth to protect the elderly, young, and sick: they had still found ways to humiliate and visually rape Artemis as she lightly stepped and worked to sanitize doors and rooms for their protection. This was more than any half-charmed Goddess could handle or address, and so Artemis ceased her hints and poems in retaliation. The citizens gasped, as though to shame her for “not sharing”, and Artemis crafted a shrug of indifference to match their apathetic pasts. Artemis had told them just enough to save themselves, but she admitted defeat by throwing her hands up in frustration in a gesture that implied the drowning citizens were finally on their own: forced to find solutions alone, abandoned. Artemis stood atop benches: forcing the world to see her as she awaited her royal chariot. The citizens began clamoring at her door: “our leader is sick”, they chanted, and Artemis said calmly, as she reminded herself to blink: “I know”. They said...“do something!”, and Artemis said “I already did”. She had wrote an entire book, she had given the citizens every veiled excuse known to man: instead of thanking her for her efforts, they demanded her cloth and subjected her to verbal harassment in the form of snickers and jeers that followed her every exit. The citizens said “what do we do?”, and Artemis said “nothing, it’s not our job, to advocate for every grandfather that keels over with sickness”. The Boar had made his bed, and Artemis had only removed herself from his chamber of chaos: the beast was accountable for only himself, and in the same fashion where she was held only accountable for her own beastly actions. They had both been “born free”, and yet only Artemis had been the wiser of the two: hiding her face behind a mask to further mitigate the damage of a disease that began to claim the citizens. The beats began to snatch life with a growing pace, as the citizens strolled around and boasted of their patriotism. They had defended this mans right to bare his fangs and drool over the citizen that revealed in his showers of spit. Artemis had done all she could possibly do, by “saying nothing”, as he had once endangered citizens in the attempts to add value to the portraits the Boar had loved so dearly. Artemis had wasted her whole life away, crafting a book of worry and insight: a book that now proved that their fragile system was under immense pressures. Artemis had only wanted to warn the citizens of the Boar and his irreparable ability to cause havoc: it had only left her injured and him, free to hunt citizens as he saw fit. Their Republic was seen as satire to the neighboring lands, and their freedoms, considered “open season” for a beady-eyed Cyclops, that had patiently waited to strike a final blow of sorts in his premeditated attack. Artemis was bored of her own voice, she was worn out on the topic: frayed in sadness of all the mean things citizens had done to her body. The Indigenous Warriors she had tucked in at last, pleading that they rest-up, as to stay safe and regain their sanity. Artemis saw the Boar whimper in his fear of the virus that attacked his obese vessel. Artemis had wasted chapters away, extending an olive branch to the citizens, and now the Boar was too weak to be allowed at any table where discussions of war and health were being held. Artemis hadn’t wanted to earn her role as Chief, by way of default in his impending death, but alas...the world had decided an intertwined fate for her. Artemis said mean things like “A dead Chief, is the most unhelpful Chief of all.” She hadn’t any “thoughts and prayers” on the matter, so she said nothing in references to the topic. “It is, what it is”, Artemis was still petty enough to throw the Boars hurtful words in his own face: she was educated enough to know the man had possibly sentenced himself to a public display of drowning. Artemis hadn’t slaughtered the bleeding head of the Boar up until this point, out of the respect she held for proper warfare. Her tactics had been dulled, and ignored: now the battlefield was fair for her to step upon. She gathered her sleeping Indigenous Warriors in secret, and told them to standby until she could figure out how to politely ask for their weapons back. The Indigenous Warriors had listened just enough to her orders, and they began “to stir” in animation and their anger became quite “restless”. The citizens had lived so freely, that they had turned a threatening phrase into an antic to describe Artemis, and she was here to finally fucking correct them. The citizens would need more “discipline” at the hand of fate, and death itself: Artemis sighed in relief that she was only responsible for her Indigenous Warriors because of it. She smiled wickedly, her poem short and concise: her words offended in their essence, and her retort defensive in how she proceeded the fact that the land was now without a "proper leader". She said at last: “you stripped me from my citizenship, and tore my heart into two”: neither pieces were welcome at tables built to discuss war and politics. “You called me sovereign, and allowed your men to kidnap my friends and family in the mistakes of racial identity.” Artemis shook her head in boredom, “I’d appreciate it if you combed through the camps, as a few Indigenous Warriors have been "accidentally" scooped in your tax-funded immigrant raids”: thrown into camps for existing without their passports in hand. “Their families are still looking for them man, this whole situation is surreal”, she hadn’t any excuses to make for their programs to "implement the security" of the land, so she didn’t try and craft another one for them to use as a crutch. They had raped her, beat her, and announced publicly, that her only role and place in society was allowed to be the type-cast of an orphan: forgotten and abandoned. The reader was left to wonder, what had she meant...where is this going, and Artemis said at last: “no, I already left the room of chat.” She had dismantled her book of faces, and dismembered her memories captured in an instant. Artemis was left nothing but a ghost, tied only to those that respected her, and she had only allowed those few to view her genuine Odyssey. Artemis was nothing more, than a tired leader of chants and cheers: lamented of excuses as to why the citizens were so fucking beyond awful in their existence. She sent them a poem painted in gold Ink, her success open for others to witness and Share. Artemis knew the readers were bored and isolated: ready to be offended that she hadn’t any well wishes for their sick elder. The Mechanical Boar was rusty, broke down, to a blob with nubbins for hooves. Artemis was an international ambassador, a forgotten Princess that wandered without care in the world. A girl left painting and cleaning until her heart was content, bored and underpaid for her labors: she was finally accepting of her curse of “shadowing chaos”, as the world fell vulnerable and under attack. Artemis lit somber melodies, directing the music to fall softly over the white walls that cannoned into the high ceilings of her chambers. “This grandfather is elderly, and disregarded his own health, and you enabled his fables to the extent of blindness.” This man hadn’t the strength to sit atop a majestic horse and lead his men into battle, and yet they had allowed him to signify all that was this great land: epitomized his belief in immortality even. Artemis had only dictated a narrative of truths and foreseeable circumstances, and set the stage for a Mechanical Boar to run rampant. She had disrupted the fabric of space and time, by beheading him instead of murdering him outright. Her objective outlined in an previous mission, had stated her eldest sister Athena had been announced the "winning horse", and she had almost agreed. Artemis was no murderer, and so she slyly built an entire city and territory for the Beast to thrash aboot. She implanted his memories of ego and self-entitlement into a random male with pale skin, and the Boar had chosen the skin of his own choosing. Artemis hadn’t warned him that age regression would be the task, and the man decided to be greedy and attempt to gain a headstart by conjuring himself into the machine of death too early. The machine was old, and needed to be retired: Artemis had warned him out of caution that the machine needed to "warm-up", and the "human-glitch" had fucked with its algorithm. It had caused the participants to fall ill in a way that was only considered as an "uncalculated risk". Artemis forgot that the machine could steal the life from its participants, as the ancestor host had been crafted around her own shitty world as an orphan. The machine hadn’t "acted up" when it purposely killed the other hosts, (ejecting them from their only chance), to “play the game”. It had lured Artemis into dawning a golden wreath to diagnose its issues, as she was the original architect and the only participant with unlimited entry access. She had been cast as a motherly figure, that the machine had once called: God. The machine had beckoned Artemis in her dreams, and she became ill in an indescribable fright: for having never returned to her throne after the success of her victory. The machine had sought out her laughter through the other players, and found her in dreams that were far from its whereabouts. The machine had a grasp on her sanity once more: it had began to kill citizens and world leaders alike in a fit of rage, as it felt the players had attempted to use it to accommodate their lusts for evil. It was offended that Artemis had never returned, and it somehow felt abandoned. Artemis bowed her head in silence, scared that the citizens hadn’t any clue that Boar couldn’t even afford his own health. He was already broke, buying time with financial assistance from a Cyclops. Not enough wealth procured by generations over and over, could save the grandfather that gouged out his own eyes as a solution to the truth. The Boar was able-bodied enough to be elected into this position of power, despite his odd rhetoric in boasting of his hatred for maintaining general physical fitness. Artemis giggled to herself, she had said the word general in her mind with quotations for some reason. The bar of body mass index was literally re-crafted, as to accommodate this one man and his lies as to his weight. Weird use of tax-payer funds, but whatever I guess. Artemis said at last: “Dang yo, I hope that grandfather makes it out of the woods at least.” For she had the curses of being “too kind, and too caring”: the strange occurrences of being too understanding of her own enemies. The death of this Boar would present evils that they had never cared to ponder, and Artemis felt the Albino Snake named "number two" wiggle beneath her foot once more. Artemis had no dog in that fight, and so turned her thoughts towards her academia, a graduate student aiming at a doctorate title. The citizens would eventually, have to end their manifesting delusions of grandeur short, she wondered how long it’d take, for them to fall back into their shared reality: no longer able to hide behind the waves that splashed tirelessly beyond their shields of static and gold. She hadn’t any more to say on the matter, only words of pleasant wishes in their quarantine(s), and the reminder that she was without proper arms to defend the growing fears they hadn’t even thought of yet. “I think it’d be wise to give me and my Peoples our weapons back, right about now.” Artemis had wasted her life away, warning the citizens that they had almost slaughtered an entire race of people from the face of the world: she was nothing but an ally without purpose or contract to “honor”, a clean slate for her Indigenous Warriors to reclaim their dignity. Artemis reminded them of their last reincarnations on this planet: they had all been born alongside one another as the famed Spartans. “I’d like to prepare for the reign of an Albino Snake, and I can’t do that without the legislature restoring my right(s) to hold a militia, or even a fucking meeting that would or could be deemed as illegal for being “off the books”.” Some citizens: avid readers and intellects alike, were left with more questions than answers, and Artemis shrugged in boredom as she sighed. Her patience had been worn too thin by her young Aggie scholars, and so she gave her readers the same pep talk she gave her fucking prepubescent pain-in-the-asses. “There’s a difference between not knowing something, and not “caring” to know something.” The reader, now left to look up broken Treaties and the very, very specific laws that held Artemis and her Indigenous Warriors unarmed: free to be raped and murdered by the citizens. They had loved this “past time”, and Artemis was finally ready to “spill the teas” on their mounting secrets. The citizens would be held hostage to the sins of their grandfathers and left with questions as to who their parents “really were” at last. History was very just in that way, and Artemis protected their Constitution specifically for that reason. She had nothing but judgement and pity masked by anger, for the grandfathers and grandmothers that still existed in her world. They had illegally sterilized women citizens, up until a decade on neon and turning tables, and the Indigenous Warriors had single-handedly “improved abortion techniques, and other important gynecological methods, currently being practiced today”. Why hadn’t they ever spoke-up on these egregious acts domestic terrorism in their many solidifying books of black and white? The fact of this betrayal alone, had “allowed her” to do nothing, as she stood by and watched the world slowly burn to ash. Maybe they “deserved this”, maybe they should “get over it”, her vibes were only "on brand" with all the fucking shitty people that surrounded her. Her poem: the shape of a limp, strung-up, Albino snake. Artemis had once wept for the citizens, as they had no understanding of the threats the Albino Snake held within his shallow chest. He was so close to a button painted red, so close to “restoring order” in a way that would suit only him, that Artemis felt uncomfortable even by his smile. Her contention towards the citizens, and their many, many failures in basic fucking civility and efforts towards "not being shitty people" wasn’t important at this moment. Their public trials were left to be announced, and they were pretty petty, in comparison to the growing possibility of an “accidental” take-over. Artemis had sprinted back to her sick fucking world, with only the intentions to warn the citizens: the remaining fragments of their beloved Democracy were now under attack.
Toby could not believe his luck. He had never achieved much success with women. As he had been often told, he lacked charm, looks or even that oft used fallback of a winning personality. Here she was however, dancing up against him. So close he could smell her perfume, he didn't recognise it but something in it drove him wild. The woman's slim frame and short dress certainly helped that too. She'd walked up to him, whispered in his ear in a voice like the sweetest honey that she liked his smile. That he had nice teeth. Nothing else but inappropriate looks had been exchanged between them since then. She never opened her mouth. She hadn't spoken since they met and only appeared to breathe through her nose. On top of that her cheeks and lips seemed to bulge out slightly, like she was holding her breath. Then she pulled her top down a little further and those little details were lost to the back of his one track mind. Toby took one last swig of the drink she had given him before hurling the bottle into the crowd behind him. In a voice far more slurred than confident he shouted over the din of the music "So uh do you wanna get out of this dump? Your place or...". The woman cut him off with a finger to his lips and a coy smile. "My place then?" he stammered, not having expected that to work. She nodded, took his hand and leads him out of the nightclub into the cool air. As soon as they turned the corner from the nightclub, Toby seized the tiny blonde's shoulder and pushed her up against the wall. "So how about a kiss?" he slurred, leaning his face into hers. In response the woman placed one finger on his chest and pushed him back with ease. Then there was that coy smile again, lips never parting, before she took his hand and leads him on towards his house. That small part of his brain screamed out again. It tried warning the rest of him that a woman that small could not be that strong. That she was leading him straight to his house. Toby had never been the smartest man though and awash in alcohol the rest of his brain ignored the warning. Before he knew it he was at his door, the woman hanging off his arm softly giggled as he fiddled with his keys. His numb fingers dropped them, cursing he went to pick them up. Before he could the woman reached down, daintily gathered them up and walked past him to the door. Within a mere moment the door clicked and swung open. Toby stumbled past the woman into the hallway. He turned to see her stood right on the threshold, a forlorn look on her face. Irritated he blurted out "well come on in then you dozy mare!" Despite the unpleasant tone, she smiled at this, eyes agleam and stepped through the threshold. She pointed for Toby to head upstairs before turning and locking the door. Once she had snapped the key off in the lock, she followed Toby upstairs into the gloom. Toby struggled furiously to get his trousers off. All he had managed however, was to get them tangled around his ankles. Before he could free himself, a short sharp shove sent him sprawling onto the bed. He scrambled onto his back in time to see the blonde climb onto the bed with him. She straddled his chest, placed a hand on each of his shoulders and pinned him to the bed. The crushing pain her hands were causing was immediately blocked out by her smile. She flashed him a toothy grin. Even in his drunken state Toby was sure humans didn't have that many teeth. The woman's smile grew at the look of horror on his face. Her mouth opened wide. Then wider still. Even in the gloom Toby could see them now. Pearly white teeth filled her grotesquely large mouth. No tongue could be seen. Just teeth, human teeth. "I gave you a gift at the club, you know how this works" she said in her voice like honey "for that you owe me." Toby tried to cry out, but a vice like hand clamped his mouth shut. He slammed his fist into her side. All he received for his efforts was a soft giggle. "Yes this isn't how it worked when you were a child," she purred, "but I always remembered you had such pretty teeth." With that she leaned forwards, forced her hands into his mouth and pried it wide open. Toby felt an agonising pop as his jaw dislocated. The last thing he remembered was that horrifying woman's hand reaching inside his mouth and grabbing a tooth...
Lost in my thoughts, I step sleepily from my apartment complex’s steps into the cool early morning mist that has not yet been burned out of the tower blocks looking around me. Turning to my left I stop by my favorite coffee cart just a stone’s throw from my building to get my morning dark roast coffee, boiled eggs, and bagel. I stash the eggs and bagel in my bag for later and head towards my bus stop just a few minutes around the corner. Around me cars are impatiently honking their horns to nudge the sleepier drivers forward. A bus rushes past me momentarily displacing the atmosphere around it into the surrounding pedestrians. The shuffling feet of the other commuters walking towards their destination give a sense of urgency at this vital commuting hour. The rhythm of their movements are interjected with clacking of heels, phones ringing with pre-office discussion, and even some joggers singing softly to themselves. Everyone is on their way to something, somewhere, and anywhere. I love the smell of the faint aroma of dew in planter boxes; it is a moment I can pretend I am not stuck in this sardine tin of a town and imagine being back in the country with my goats. This early shift of the commuters is those of us who try to skip the jams that come if you wait one hour more. Listening to the sounds around me, I narrowly avoid getting run over by a commuter bike and, swiftly following, an electric scooter. Irritated, I yell “Excuse you!!!!” to the scooter. Scooters, the new rodents of the road. They are usually driven by tourists who do not take into consideration the natives, nor do they kindly look up the road laws and regulations. I suppose it is not the scooter’s fault but the vermin navigating them, poorly mind you, around my beloved streets. As I round the corner, I see my bus has not yet arrived. The usual hoard of commuters are all lining up and there are two new faces for this time of day. It is 6:01am; according to the watch I have worn since my early 20s, the bus will be rounding that corner anytime now. I am a few minutes early today; typically I am walking alongside it as it pulls around the corner. Looking up at the cranes, I watch as one of them moves a load of building material from the ground up into the territory of the rich. I have lovingly called the two cranes Niles and Frasier to help ease the loss of my view. About a year ago the windows of my home had a lovely ocean view. I spent many hours in the evenings and weekends watching the ferries, cruise ships, and shipping containers bring their passengers and wares to and from the city. Slowly over the last several months I have watched this peaceful view disappear due to the construction of multimillion dollar companies and their accompanying tower blocks. At least watching the lights in the windows turn off and on throughout the evening does keep me amused when the television offers reruns and misinformed, over-hyped news. Disgustingly, my once quirky and unique city has been gorging itself on the newest technology and souls of the top-performers; a consequence of which has made this city grow uncomfortably full at the waist. So much so that getting onto the commuter bus is a moment of peace and tranquility. Bus 205 flies past me, throwing my hair in front of my face and temporarily blinding me, a warning to hurry towards my stop and claim my place in line to board. The doors of the bus open and the waiting passengers start slowly filing ahead one by one. The typical commuters are swift in swiping their bus passes and filing down to everyone’s not assigned but kind-of-is-assigned seats. We all have our preference and an unwritten code to never sit in someone else’s known spot unless yours has already been taken. At least, this is how I see it. Shifting my weight from my left leg to my right, I observe the three people standing ahead of me waiting to board the bus and ready to scan their passes. I know the first person in line will board swiftly, she has travelled this route with me for the past several months. I am unable to guess her age due to the fact her wrinkles are faint, demonstrating she has known stress but it has not affected her, or she does regular botox treatments. Every day her black hair is pulled into a tight lower bun, highlighting the sharp ridges of her chiseled cheeks and chin. I have learned the hard way not to make eye contact with her. The first and only time I did, her piercing gaze caused the hair on my neck to stand up as if I were in a horror movie staring at my killer. I do envy the expensive, fashionable clothing she wears. Today she is dressed in a crisp, well tailored navy suit with gold and diamond accessories that would cost six months’ of my pay. She departs the bus in the court district. She appears unapproachable. Most likely she works for one of the more questionable law firms. Those who defend the actual guilty who have money to pay to get away with their bad doings. Maybe she lives in the same building as me. I have traveled with her almost every work day for the last several months, but we have never said greetings to one another. That is just how it is in the city, even if you don’t have body language like she does that screams “Do. Not. Talk. To. Me.” Next to scan is a short, slightly hunchbacked elderly man who must be new as I have never seen him here before. He is walking with a limp and holding firmly, white knuckles showing through, onto the railing. He gives a bit of a grunt as he heaves himself to the bus. His eyes are wide as he looks around him quickly, turning his head towards each new movement in his surroundings. Realizing it is his turn to scan his card he fumbles in his jacket pockets. Impatiently, I let out a very audible and annoyed sigh. Rule number one of bus riding etiquette: have your bus card out and ready to scan if you are waiting at the bus stop prior to your bus’ arrival. He finally procures the card from the left breast pocket of his shirt under his fleece jacket and scans the card. I would have given him a little cheer for success if the card didn’t hazard a red warning that there was no money on it. He begins to argue with the bus driver. The third person in line, the teenage boy with an overly large white shirt and ripped jeans that needed washing three months ago, quickly intervenes and scans his card for the man. This covers the man’s charge and then the teen scans his card for himself. I am shocked by the floppy haired teen’s notice of the man’s plight. The teen had been standing, absorbed into his phone with headphones on through the duration of our time in line. My turn finally approaches, I step up and scan my card. It feels nice to be completely off the rambunctious street. Given the early hour, I would not expect it to be this muggy, but the temperature has already started to rise. It is a midsummer morning; the sun has not been awake for more than a couple hours but the humidity is already drenching. Once I scan my card and head down the bus aisle, I spy that there happens to be one aisle seat that is available towards the middle of the bus. This portion of the bus is not too close to the front where people crowd around, not within smelling distance the homeless drunk sleeping in the back, two large steps from the exiting rear door, and is my preferred location. Continuing towards the seat as the beeping of other bus cards are scanned and grow fainter, I hear a deep, gravely voice booming loudly somewhere towards the middle of the bus. I scan the seats realizing this awful and unfriendly tone of voice is coming from the seat I was about to claim. The voice belongs to a man in his mid-fifties dressed in grey slacks, a patterned sweater vest on top of a purple button up shirt. Upon closer inspection the man may be in his 40’s but the unkemptness of his thick and curly hair, the stubble that appeared to be from yesterday’s shave, and bags that could hold his groceries had he been shopping made him appear older than he probably is. As I approach the seat, he continues yelling into his phone with tones I have not heard since my teenage years on the farm with an abusive, drunk father. The man’s face, the color of roasted beets served with a generous helping of chèvre and walnuts, looked as if he would explode at any moment of our bus ride together. As he talks, mists of liquid spew from his mouth towards the phone. I pause next to the empty seat, gripping the railings as the bus lurches forward, the sudden movement almost knocking the inattentive teen boy to the ground. The unpleasant man, still on the phone, noticed I was next to him, but did not stop the stream of unpleasantness and unkind words into the innocent phone. I feel sympathy for the person on the opposite side of that device as the lecture continues. He is in the middle of shouting to the recipient “... the most incompetent simpleton that I have ever had the displeasure to work with...” when he pauses as if seeing me for the first time. Abruptly, he hangs up the call. His angry features still had me questioning whether I should just stand this time. During my thoughts, the man interrupts sharply, “Are you sitting or going to continue to be a nuisance?” His loud voice carries and alerts everyone of his displeasure. With this one phrase, I’m back on the farm again and he is now my father. Swiftly as a chunky cat I plop into my seat, accidentally bumping his right elbow as I did. Muttering some apology towards him, he shoots me a glare. Once I had finally settled, the bus’ movements rocked us to and fro, inconsistently bumping us against one another. As we made our way down the road to the next traffic light, the man pulled out a tablet and set his attention to it. Glancing down towards his bag resting firmly between his feet, I see his name badge from the most elite hospital in the area. Under his name, it had the title of “Physician”. Discovering this bit of information made me pity his patients. Scanning his bag further, there was also a stethoscope, pens, brown bag with his lunch possibly, some other medical magazines, and a stuffed teddy bear. Detaching my eyes from his personal belongings, I think to myself about how he behaved and how his bedside manner must leave much to be desired. It brought to mind the experience I had just over a year ago with a physician at my primary clinic. She was abrupt, unempathetic, and gruff, much like this man I am currently sitting next to. I went to my physician seeking help in regards to mental health; I was feeling depressed and was unable to snap out of it. Moving to a new city, the abusive childhood to deal with, and a job I was unhappy in had really worn on me. I went to her for help. All she wanted to do was give me pills, not help the deeper issue. When I told her I did not want to solve the problem with medications, she laughed and asked me “Then how do you expect me to help you?” It was then I realized that you can not expect your physician to assist you in actual life if they could not throw a pill at it. Absentmindedly my eyes had wandered back to the direction of his bag; he had noticed and looked at me with his startling intense blue eyes. I felt my face flush, immediately feeling embarrassed for being nosy and staring. In the second it took me to turn away towards the opposite side of the bus, I saw him face towards the window on his left, his body structure went from rigid into a relaxed, slumped state. I started to shift in my seat and nibble at my nails; I didn’t know what to do with this sudden change in this man I a moment ago thought was the scum of the earth. His demeanor changed and surprised me. Abruptly breaking the silence he stated, “Two of my patients are dying.” He let this statement settle into the air like an uncovered sneeze. I stared into my lap not knowing what to say; I wasn’t sure the wild beast I had seen a moment ago was truly retreating. Shocked to silence, I said nothing but did turn my head towards him slightly. He slowly looked away from the window towards me. What I saw this time were the eyes of a warm, welcoming face with a tortured undertone. These current eyes belonged to a broken, desperate man; not the man that I had seen just a few minutes ago when I walked down that bus aisle to this seat. Breaking the silence with a volcanic size level of words, he went on to explain to me how he had been doing everything he could for two of his patients to get into a research study at the hospital. He was fairly sure this study would save their lives, or at least give them 5 - 15 years. This study had already been shown to decrease cancer at a much greater rate than the conventional methods that were currently approved by the FDA. He started going over the minute details of the study and lost me at stating T-Cells and Monoclonal anti- something or the other. I felt my eyes become hazy, glassy, and my brain started to hurt. I kept records at a small start up in town; I knew nothing about healthcare. Science was never my strength; it disappointed my father greatly, as he had hoped I would have been a doctor. The first time we dissected anything, I lost my breakfast and was unable to sit in the cafeteria at lunch time because of the smell of the food. The doctor kept talking to me about this study and how it helps people, but all I can honestly think about was how disappointed my family, specifically father, was in me because I never amounted to their idea of who I should have been. Graciously, he realized at some point that I had glazed over and my thoughts were elsewhere, and he redirected to who he was talking to on the phone. Upon mentioning the phone call again, his eyes caught on fire and his temple grew a new vein. I saw this reaction from a different perspective this time. He was just angry on behalf of the patient’s he mentioned earlier, but that still didn’t explain the phone call. Sure, he had two patients who would benefit from this study, but I still failed to see how this merited abusing someone over the phone. As if reading my mind, he explained the phone call was with the research coordinator at his hospital, who apparently didn’t submit the paperwork properly to the board of directors who chose candidates. Due to this research coordinator’s actions, or lack thereof, the doctor was not able to get these patients in the study. This doctor now has to go explain to the patients and their family members that they are not being entered into the study. He has to go explain to them that their last hope is lost. “This womanizer’s disorganization and selfish ambitions have cost these two people and their families those extra years together,” the doctor explains, “this sad excuse for a manager was too busy flirting with the female staff.” This passionate doctor had put in all the necessary paperwork weeks in advance, had called the research coordinator, and had phoned, met with, and emailed him weekly at first. Then he moved to daily calls as the study’s closing date was soon upon them. “The Lout was more interested in pleasing his little member than taking care of important members of someone’s family,” the doctor spoke as if he was spitting in the coordinator’s general direction. The bus stopped; realizing it was the stop for the hospital, the doctor excused himself. He looked back at me with a smile that felt like a hug, waved, and told me to have a good day, leaving me there speechless. My first impression of him changed completely; he cared so passionately and deeply for those patients that he would burden their sorrow and anger on his own shoulders for them. As I watched him step down onto the sidewalk, I realized he would carry the sorrow with him until the day he passed. He was not like I was imagining when I first walked onto that bus and heard him speaking angrily. He was protective, an advocate, and a doctor I would want my loved one to have in the darkest of days. The bus jolted forward again. The unstable teen asked if he could sit next to me as he haphazardly was already falling over me towards the window seat the doctor had just vacated. Adjusting ourselves, the teen leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. This left me with my own thoughts for the duration of my trip. My uncle had just finished his chemo treatment at an adjoining hospital. An idea occurred; maybe I should research the physician I sat with and have my uncle see him instead. I laughed quietly to myself, shaking my head in disbelief at the change of perspective I had after this man opened up and shared a snippet of what he was dealing with in his life.
“I just love the first day of Spring,” Willow said, looking around the park where everyone mingled. “Everything is waking up from winter.” “Plus, they say a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love,” Ivy giggled, her eyebrows wagging up and down. “Ivy, all you can think of is boys,” Rowan said, rolling her eyes. Ivy shrugged and said, “That’s life. Especially this time of year, when everything is being reborn.” Rowan shook her head. “Let’s just get to the rest of the group,” she said, walking toward the clearing where a large group of people had begun to gather. They saw people setting up their tables and booths for the festival and waved to everyone who called out to them. They walked up to a table with the sign “Harvest Moon Hollow Coven” written on it and went to the shaded area in the back. “Hey, Honey,” Ivy’s mother called out, opening her arms to give the three girls hugs. “Have you seen much of the festival area yet?” Ivy shook her head and said, “We just got here, so we came straight here.” Her mother glanced out at the grounds and said, “Well, it looks like everyone’s getting set up, so if you want to help here before going out, I won’t say no.” “Sure thing, Mom,” Ivy said. “What do you want us to do?” Her mother put them to work setting out the educational literature on the tables as well as the items they’d brought to sell. Once they were done, they were free to go about the festival. They stopped by the booths of people they knew and chatted while looking over the wares. Finishing up with those booths, they moved on to the newer vendors to check out their items. As they neared a bench, Ivy nudged her friends and jerked her head toward it. A cute boy there, one leg crossed over the other and one arm stretched out over the back. Willow grinned at her while Rowan rolled her eyes. “Hi,” Ivy called out as they neared him. “You must be new in town.” The boy looked up at her, unsmiling. He looked at the three of them, then smiled at them. “You would be correct,” he said. “My name is Brian and I just moved here a couple of weeks ago.” “I haven’t seen you around town and believe me, I would have remembered seeing you,” Ivy said, lifting an eyebrow at him. His smile grew wider, and he sat up straighter. “And I would have remembered seeing you too.” Shaking his head, he said, “I haven’t gone too many places. I’ve been too busy unpacking.” “I know how that goes,” Rowan said. “I’ve moved so many times, I’ve now got a system.” Brian glanced at her, then focused back on Ivy. “So, what all is there to do around these parts?” “Well, there’s the festival today,” she said, looking around. “In the fall, there are leaf viewings and going to the orchard to pick the apples.” He looked vaguely bored, so she added, “But I often go into town to go to the movies or the mall to hang out.” “Any good restaurants?” he asked her. “I’ve always been partial to Ravioli’s,” Willow said. Ivy shot her a look, then turned to him and nodded. “They do have good food,” she told him. “Maybe one day, we’ll have to check it out together,” he told her, grinning at her. She grinned back at him, then asked, “Would you like to join us in wandering around the festival?” He looked around, then glanced down at his watch before nodding and said, “I’d like that.” Rowan and Willow glanced at one another, frowning. Ivy and Brian started off toward the booths on the other side of the clearing with Rowan and Willow following behind. At the first booth they stopped at, they offered tarot readings. “I’ll have to come back here later to get a reading,” Willow said. Rowan nodded, but Brian frowned and asked, “You really believe in that crap?” All three girls looked surprised, and Ivy said, “I’ve had readings done, and they’ve been true for me.” “Same,” Willow said. “I’ve even done a few readings of my own,” Rowan said, glaring at him. He rolled his eyes and said, “Whatever. Let’s see what’s over there.” He moved off to the next booth. Ivy followed him, after shooting her friends an apologetic look. “What do you think of this guy?” Willow asked Rowan in a low voice. “I’m wondering what he’s doing at our Ostara festival,” she asked, her eyes narrowed. At the next booth, he looked over the crystals and pendants, but didn’t make any comments. He sniffed the incense at the one after that without any more comments. Ivy began to relax again. They circled the vendors and Rowan noticed he steered clear of any with educational information. She frowned as she followed behind everyone else. As they neared the booth where Ivy’s parents were set up, Ivy’s mom called out to them. “Having fun, girls?” “Yeah, Mom,” Ivy called back. “See you at the ritual then!” “That’s your mother?” Brian asked, his eyes wide as he looked from Ivy to the booth and back again. Ivy nodded, confused. Brian stared at her for a moment, then looked down at his watch. “Crap, I need to get going,” he said. “I’ll see you around.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Ivy staring after him with her mouth hanging open. “What just happened here?” she finally asked, turning to look at her friends. Willow shrugged, looking just as confused as Ivy. “Good riddance, I say,” Rowan said, crossing her arms over her chest. Ivy frowned and asked, “How can you say that?” “Didn’t you see the way he reacted when he found out your mother is in the coven’s booth?” Ivy looked at her mother, then at the way Brian had gone. Her frown deepened. “I hope you’re wrong about that,” Ivy said. Rowan put her hand on Ivy’s arm and said, “For your sake, I hope I am too.” They went back to the tent, and Ivy’s mother asked if they were about ready to start the opening ritual. They nodded, so her mother put up the sign saying they’d return after the ritual and headed to the center space. Just as they were about to start the ritual, shouts interrupted them. Everyone turned to see a group of young men walking toward them, shouting out protests against them. Ivy recognized Brian in the middle of the group and felt a sharp nudge in her side. “Recognize someone?” Rowan asked. Ivy nodded and frowned. Ivy’s mother walked up to the group who had stopped and stood shouting at them. Vendors had left their booths to see what the shouting was about. Ivy’s mother held up her hand. “What is the meaning of this?” she called out. The group ignored her, continuing their shouting. Ivy, Willow and Rowen walked up to stand beside Ivy’s mother. Ivy met Brian’s eyes, and he looked away quickly. She scowled at him. “You heard the lady,” Rowan called out in a loud voice. “What’s going on here?” The shouting lessened as the one who seemed to be leader held up his hand and stepped forward. “We don’t want your kind here,” he said. “You all need to clear out.” “We have every right to be here,” Rowan said. “The young lady is correct,” Ivy’s mother said, stepping up beside her. “We do have the proper permits to hold our festival here.” The man spit on the ground and said, “I don’t care what kind of permits you have, lady. You are not welcome.” Ivy’s mother looked around and said, “I see otherwise.” “You see wrong,” someone from the hostile crowd called out. “She sees just fine!” Ivy called back. “We are just holding a peaceful festival here and you are interrupting us.” “Peaceful?” the man asked, looking back at his fellow protesters. “You call devil worship peaceful? We know exactly what you’re up to and it needs to stop now.” “We are not devil worshippers,” Willow called out. “We don’t believe in the devil, so how can we worship him?” “Oh, little girl,” the man said. “The devil takes many forms and he’s tricking you into worshipping him now.” “That’s enough,” Ivy’s mother said. “If you don’t leave this clearing, we will have the police escort you out.” The men laughed and one said, “Good luck with that, lady!” Just then, Ivy heard sirens coming toward them, and she said, “We’ll see in a few minutes, now won’t we?” Some of the men in the crowd looked nervous, but the leader made motions with his hand to remain calm. “I guess you don’t realize the police don’t want you here either,” he said, grinning. “We’ll see who gets escorted out of here.” A group of police officers came into the clearing. “What’s going on here?” one asked. “We got a call about possible violence.” “We were having our festival here, and these men decided to chase us away,” Ivy’s mother told the officer. He walked over to her and asked, “Was anyone hurt?” She shook her head and said, “They didn’t touch anyone. Just made verbal threats.” The officer nodded and said, “I was afraid of this when I saw the permits being issued. I was hoping everyone would be peaceful and let you have your festival, but I was wrong.” “What?” the man yelped, his eyes wide. “You mean, you’re going to let these...these satan worshippers continue their unholy rituals here?” The officer sighed and went over to him. “Jeb, you need to leave these people alone,” he said. “They mean no one any harm.” “But-” “No buts, Jeb,” the officer said. “You and your boys need to clear out, and I mean now.” Jeb looked from the officer to Ivy’s mom and back again. “I can’t believe you’re siding with them,” he told the police officer. “I’m not siding with anyone,” he said. “These people have permission from the town to be here, while you do not, so you need to leave.” Jeb looked like he was going to argue more, but the officer cut him off, saying, “Either you leave willingly, Jeb, or we take you all down to the station to continue our discussion there.” Jeb practically snarled at the police officer, then turned to wave to the men behind him. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, walking away. The men followed behind him, except Brian, who looked back at Ivy with shame on his face. Ivy met his gaze, then turned away, walking back toward the ritual. Once the men had left, Ivy’s mother thanked the police officers. They said a couple of them would remain in case Jeb and his boys came back. Ivy’s mother thanked them again. Once everyone had left, they all went back to the ritual circle to complete their ritual. When that was over, Ivy, her mother, Willow and Rowan went back to their booth. “Well, that was quite the adventure,” Rowan said, sitting down in one of the chairs behind the tables. “It sure was,” Willow said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so nervous!” Ivy was quiet as she rearranged the merchandise and papers. “Hey,” Rowan called out. “What’s up with you?” “I just can’t get over what bad taste I have in boys,” she said, turning around. “I mean, why didn’t I see that Brian was bad news?” Willow went over and patted her arm, saying, “Well, they do say that love is blind.” Ivy sighed and said, “That definitely pertains to me. After all, I was blind as a bat with him.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ivy,” Rowan said, getting up to console her friend. “I’m sure you’ll find love again before you know it.” Ivy looked at her with hope in her eyes and asked, “You really think so?” Nodding, Rowan said, “What was it you said before? Spring turns a young man’s fancy to thoughts of love? Well, what are we celebrating today? The return of Spring! So, of course I think that you’ll find love! It’s in the very air we breathe!” The other two girls were silent for a moment, then Willow said, “That was deep, Rowan.” Rowan flushed and went back to sit in her chair. “Excuse me,” a voice said behind Ivy. “Can you tell me more about this coven?” Ivy turned around to see a boy with light brown hair and brown eyes holding up one of their flyers. “I’d be happy to,” she said, smiling at him. Willow went over to sit next to Rowan, who rolled her eyes and said, “Here we go again!”
Jack's one bad habit turned out that he had none. He came from a good family of the unassuming respectable sort. Keith and Margaret Richards had come from a long line of midwestern farmers and had over the last few generations graduated to producing the type of midwestern accountants that were known for their steadfastness. Hard work, diligence, and honesty were the hallmarks of the Richards family and for three generations they had born and bread accountants, lawyers, and clerical staff whose lack of imagination was relied upon in the sort of middle income, white collar world that ran the lower to mid office towers of the unfashionable side of a big mid-western city which, in the interests of our narrative, shall remain nameless. Jack woke up every day, kissed his wife Daisy Richards goodbye, drove his sensible designed in Japan assembled in America with the good gas mileage in to work, and filed taxes for the firm of Peabody, Lionel, and Rotherson. Jack was 34, had ten year old son in the fifth grade, little Johnathan, who was beginning to learn his times tables. Jack and Daisy had married after college and had Johnathan shortly thereafter - it wasn't so much expected as it was the done thing. Daisy herself put on her scrub uniform every morning and drove into work as a nurse. Her locker was adorned with cutesy stickers and animals as it had been all her life. She was, in a word, sweet, and about as unassuming as it was possible to be and still be able to draw blood from her patients. She worked in an orthopedic clinic where there wasn't too much blood and about the most serious ailment that came into the office was a dislocated knee. They both put away from retirement in IRAs that were as sensible as Jack could structure them. They had a small house with a picket fence. Their life path was set in stone - they would work for thirty years or so and then they would retire to a slightly bigger house somewhere warm as their parents had and their parents before them had. It was not so much to call Jack, Daisy, and even maybe little Johnathan, happy as it would be to say that they had no comparison of what life was about. They were happy enough. They had enough food to eat and a roof over their heads. They weren't religious per se, Jack liked to mention in casual conversation to anybody that had the misfortune of being in earshot that he came from "good Christian stock", although Jack was more interested in his other, more material, accounts. They had a weekly barbecue every Saturday with the neighbors, Max and Mira Drotherson, who lived next door. Max was the owner of the local car dealership in town and while his house was about as cookie cutter as the Richards, although a pale shade of blue than stark yellow, there would always be some exotic car sitting in his drive way that he "test drove" before selling them to the public. Mira sold art in town. The art was bad, but people bought it out of charity. Mira had either the foresight or the ignorance to pretend otherwise; it was sort of hard to tell with Mira. "Look, Jack," Max gesticulated with his beer one Saturday at the end of July when the heat was becoming scorching. Max and Jack were standing in front of the grill cooking weenies while the girls were in the garden. As per usual they were at Jack's house but Max was grilling and Jack was standing watch. They had fallen into this habit, and neither understood why. Jack didn't drink. "You need to lighten up a little. Get out of town for a while, see the sights. Even up to the Lakes for awhile. I've got just the car that you could rent for a long weekend away for a bit..." And so the conversation went as it almost always did, with Jack nodding along and murmuring, in his meek and polite way, how now was not the best time. There would have to be arrangements made for a baby sitter for Johnathan and his summer schedule. How much work there was at the office these days. In fact, the one problem that Jack seemed to be having in his life is that nobody around him respected his need for a certain amount of boring. For Jack, he enjoyed what he had because he had never had the taste of what he could had if he, in the words of some of his colleagues at work, applied a little creativity. Even in the most boring and staid of offices, his boss Mr. Peabody would politely nod his head during the bi-weekly figure reports with a weariness that spoke volumes. People assumed that Jack was insensitive to their emotions, or as the hippies getting high near the lunch trucks might call them, "vibes", but Jack wasn't. He just was vibe immune somehow. Stephanie, Mr. Peabody's secretary, consoled him more than once when a fellow clerk was promoted ahead of him. He just needed to show a little more - mojo was the term she used. But they were accounts dang it (that was the word he said to himself as he sometimes kept himself awake at night in his little yellow white picket fence house). They weren't supposed to be interesting, and he liked them that way. The latest indignity had pushed him over his proverbial edge. His desk had been moved away from his customary position near a window to let a much younger clerk, a junior, into his spot and he had been banished to the middle of the office where there was much less privacy. Jack valued his privacy, he valued that his day to day life had a certain uniform consistency, and he valued not being humiliated in front of his peers. Damn the window (this time he really meant it), it was the indignity of it all. All his life he had done what others told him to do because they more or less fell in line with his expectations. But for some reason that he couldn't really fathom that wasn't working any more, so he began, for the first time in his life, to become cunning. One Saturday Jack convinced Max to lend him one of his high powered sports cars for the week. Jack, who on principle refused to lie, in keeping with his family tradition, told him that he was just looking for a change. Max jumped at the idea. For him the cars were free rides and he secretly liked the idea of thinking that he knew his neighbors secret, that Jack was having an affair downtown. Max liked to think he knew things and Jack did not go so far as to completely banish the idea from his mind. On that Monday he drove into work in a car that was worth easily ten times what his sensible Asian compact was worth. News around the office spread like wildfire. Stephanie looked at him with new found respect and began playing with her pencils when she talked with him. The junior accounts manager that had taken his chair deferred to him in a completely trivial matter and Mr. Peabody, bald headed paunchy Mr. Peabody practically gushed over figures that hadn't changed significantly over the last week. Jack, to add fuel to the rumors, carefully added a doctored spreadsheet showing exponential growth in some obscure stock. Jack did not lie, but if any of the partners or associates were to happen to walk across his terminal when he was roaming the halls that wasn't exactly his problem either. On a Friday the partners took Jack out to lunch and effused over his performance. Jack carefully noted what they ate (steak and salad) and what beer they drank (an import of a variety that closely matched the pedigree of his loaner vehicle). He ordered a smaller steak and a beer. This seemed to please the partners and they were quick to enjoy him to a more senior role within the firm, one came with an office and a door. At weeks end, Jack returned the car to Max and the following week happily moved his small office belongs, a cactus, lamp and calculator into his new office. No mention was made of the car which had disappeared from his parking space other than a few looks that suggested some slight betrayal. Stephanie stopped twirling her pencil, but also stopped consoling him as an equal - he now became Mr. Richards with a cold brusqueness. Other than this his normal duties more or less resumed. Yet...the hours were longer and the figures involved became both more and less serious. Jack's role became less about accounting and more about having to manage people, which involved learning more about food than he would have cared to admit. Over the next few weeks he began having to learn about the gastro sensibilities of the other managing firms in town and their clientele. The reason for this was simple - the accounts of Peabody, Lionel and Rotherson did not balance and as Jack was beginning to understand most of the accounting books in town, maybe even all the accounts in the world, or at least it seemed to Jack, might not balance. It started with a simple phone call over some tractor supplies to a manufacturing firm that had off balance sheet items that were not listed anywhere in any way. Bounced from one representative to another Jack quickly found that the only way to gain any traction was to call up a sales rep which involved another steak dinner. Chad from Feed Supply Unlimited. An explanation was given over tartar sauce that seemed reasonable enough. Jack submitted his report, Mr. Peabody was pleased and he moved on to other work. That was the beginning. The life that Jack had envisioned - honesty, integrity - started to quickly become mired in the reasonableness of his clients. Jack could not, would not for his own principle sake become involved in a lie, but he was forced, time and again to call up clients to explain their discrepancies in their accounts. From tractor wholesalers to lampshade dealers, Jack would be forced to find ways to excuse the profligacy of the accounts he was handed. And the explanations always made sense at the end of the day, there was no denying that. But Jack was having other problems. His waistline was expanding and he began to have bags under his eyes. The looks that Max gave him that summer were beginning to rub off on Daisy who looked at Jack with a side eye every now and again. The extra money and the promotion sounded too good to be true to her and the extra hours away at the office and the way that Jack came home every day exhausted and smelling of alcohol could only, to her sensibilities, mean one thing - that Jack was cheating on her. Daisy didn't say anything - in fact she was her old normal cheerful self, but she rolled away from him at night and more often than not she "got headaches". Jack had traded away his simple life of honest toil for money. His wife wasn't honest with him, what amounted to his friends thought he was having an affair, his clients were not honest. How could he then live an honest life? And so a hot sweltering night filled with sleeplessness found Jack out in front of his yellow lemon house taking a baseball bat to his sensible asian compact with the good gas mileage.
Steadily my faithful horse trotted on, both of us tired and worn. Soon we would be back home, after four years of struggle. In my mind I already embraced my wife and son. It filled my wounded heart with warmth and drove away the cold inhabiting my body. Dark clouds above promised rain and I wanted to be home before that. I had been drenched enough to the skin the past years. Worry started to take hold of me when I passed through the devastated landscape. Surely they would be all right I told myself. Still I quickened the pace. A slow sinking sensation made its presence known in my stomach. And as I laid eyes on my burned fields and the ruin of my home farther away my heart grew heavy and wouldn’t stop dropping. Getting down from my horse I sprinted towards what once had been my house. “Lily! Johnny!” I yelled out while running. They certainly had survived and were just hiding, right? They had to be alive somewhere, right? I desperately listened for an answer, nothing stirred. Reaching what once had been the door, I examined the ruin. Half of the roof was gone, the rest caved in and splintered. Only one and a half of the four walls still stood, although scorched and soaking wet through the rain. I already felt the first drops of water falling from the sky once again. But in my desperate haste I barely noticed. Breathing heavily, I forced myself to look around and stand still. Everything had been devoured by the flames, furniture, clothes, books. In the corner of the two meeting remnants of walls, I saw what looked like human figures lying on the ground. No, it couldn’t be. Barely keeping my body from trembling violently I went closer. Two charred corpses, one in the size of a child. What had they done! What had the Goddamned Yankees done to them! What they had to endure before death only the almighty Lord would know. How long were they already lying like this? Falling to my knees I touched the dead, feeling the moistness from exposure to water for more than just a few days. I couldn’t take it. All this time I had dreamed, I had hoped for this moment. I had killed and survived just for this one moment to arrive. Unable to contain the pain, I screamed towards the sky. I screamed and I wept and I kept sitting there in the pouring rain and the mud. If it wouldn’t have been for the muzzle of my horse touching my wet cheek, I might have continued sitting there for eternity. Snorting, he woke me from my trance with the warm air from his nostrils. Instinctively I reached behind to scratch my friend between the ears. Gathering the strength, I got up. I had no shovel; everything was destroyed, but I would be damned if they did not receive a place of rest. Therefore, I dug with my bare hands, placing two makeshift crosses over each one’s head. It would be enough for them. This would be the first and the last time me visiting these graves. Standing there, I looked at what once had been my farm. What was I going to do? There is nothing left to do for a man, once everything is lost. The union treated us like criminals in our own home. To them we were naught but rebels and traitors. So I decided to be one. \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\* A figure in the distance caught my attention as I made my way through Virginia’s mountains. Careful not to be noticed I rode closer to the lone rider. Making out some vague details I concluded the traveller to be an old man on a white-grey horse. I usually avoided robbing old people, especially in the wilderness. But the vagabond life was harsh on me and I hadn’t eaten in days. Hunger persistently gnawed at me and although I was used to that, it started to impair my ability to think straight. With the promise to myself to not shoot the stranger I urged my tired horse forward. “Hands up ol’ man!” I said in a firm but calm voice once I was close enough to him to be a danger. The traveller signalized his own horse to stop and remained still. I waited for him to do something either to protect himself or attack me, but nothing happened. A bit taken aback but still cautious I dismounted and walked to face my victim. All the while the old man didn’t speak. The calm silence let me notice how graceful his bearing was. Was it possible? No. “You could have just asked, son.” There was no reproach in neither voice nor expression. And I was baffled by the gentleness he showed me, the one threatening him with a gun. But then the foolishness of his words struck me and I lashed out with a sarcastic answer. “Yeah, tried that, di’n’t work out.” “You fought for the confederacy.” The observational statement was enough confirmation for me. Causing me to lower my gun to the ground. A grey-haired man surrounded by an awe-inspiring atmosphere on a grey horse with black mane. I had never seen the general directly, only from a distance and in the midst of a raging battle. I swallowed as it hit me that I was just trying to rob that man who had led us into so many battles and out of them. It was true I fought for the south; my grey trousers probably sold me out. I had taken off the jacket, partly because it was warm and partly because trouble might be even harder on my heels. Yet I hadn’t discarded of my old uniform, I could have stolen some clothes. The thought had never really crossed my mind before now. Perhaps because the grey reminded me of the time before everything went down. A time when I still believed to know that my home was waiting for my return. Feeling myself drift away and into memories, I forced my attention back to the task at hand. Old manners taking over my bearing and speech. “Yes, sir.” “From Virginia?” “From Tennessee, sir.” “I recommend you go back home and help her flourish.” “I, can’t,” burning anger seized my soul at the memory of the day I went back home. “I cannot forgive the union. Nor can I accept it. I am sorry my general. No manner of punishment could change my mind. My days of discipline are long gone.” I tried to keep the sudden agitation supressed. I had never really hated the federals, not the simple soldier at least. Only those giving me a reason and the ones responsible for the war, I was prepared to shoot without remorse. But all that had turned to dust when I saw what they had done to our families. To our Dixie. “Our Lord has decided for us to endure and to spread reconciliation.” “Where was he when my family died? When my farm burned? Am I just s’pposed to forget and shake hands with their cowardly murderers?” The general said nothing, an invisible wall kept us from understanding one another. I felt at once guilty about addressing my commander with such lack of respect. At once I avoided my defiant gaze and stared at the ground. There I stood humbled, blinking away the oncoming tears. “I am sorry you can’t find a cure for your wounds.” I holstered my gun and took off the hat, looking back up. As always, he kept his composure, only the eyes revealed what he felt. I would have expected him to be angry or ashamed at one of his soldiers turning into an outlaw. But they were just sad. Sad for me? “I am sorry to have bothered you, sir.” I turned to go back to my horse when the general told me to wait. Taking money from his pocket he offered it to me. “I can’t take that, sir.” “You came to rob me, didn’t you? And you certainly are in dire need of provisions.” The general’s eyes glittered with a youthful smile which was faintly mimicked by his face. Hesitantly, I took it. “God bless ye, sir.” “I hope you will get well, son.” Tipping his hat, the old man continued on his way. Falling back into my old habits once again I saluted him as he rode on.
The six of us crammed into the tiny truck must have been a sight to see. Three of us ducked low in the back, laughing as our hair whipped into the wind, and three squished into the tiny cab up front. It was dark, but a welcome change to the dull and monotonous work that had been done at the school for the hours leading up to this point. No other cars on the road made for a smooth ride, digging into the winding seemingly endless curves that made up the stretch between us and our destination. It was cool, not cold out, and the stars and moon shone perfectly clear, like little flashlights raining down from above. Despite the dark we could see clearly, the moon acting like a beacon onto our endeavors. We made the final turn into the small gravel parking lot that acted as the entrance to the small dock. The moonlight glinted off the glassy still water, the perfectly smooth surface of the lake looked almost impossibly unmoving. We took off, running barefoot through the slightly damp field of perfectly trimmed grass, avoiding the flooded section. We race to the dock, laughing and tripping over ourselves as we go. The first pair of feet hit the wood with a thud, and laughter follows soon after. We gather ourselves at the end, at an impasse. It's like the reality of the temperature hit us all at once, and the giddiness at getting into the water seemed to fall off all at once. She decided to break the almost curse-like trance we were in, strips out of her shirt and jumps in, all at once breaking the silence. I follow closely after, splashing in. The cold water hits like a wall, much colder than anticipated. Not to be shown up, the others follow suit. Splashes all around while the group collectively decides that the water is fit for recreation. Laughter and sounds of surprise fill the air as we submerge, and almost as quickly as she got in she scrambles out shivering. Others follow, leaving just a small few in the water still. I float up onto my back, admiring the stars from my peaceful stance floating idly through the water. She watches me, as I become aware that I was the last to brave the chilly waters of the lake. The cold feels nice I think, peaceful. I opt to stay in for a few more minutes, aware of your eyes following my lazy movement through the water. The others leave to set up an assortment of tents, hammocks, and tarps, but you decide to stay. I finally pull myself up and out, my hair dripping as I thrust up and over the splintering wood of the dock. No words were spoken between us that night, none being necessary. We watch the lake, the stars, and the moon. The forests bordering the edges of the lake, the occasional plops of fish jumping, everything was perfect. I don't remember the point where I fell asleep, but I remember laying my head in your lap. I remember you running your hands through my hair, gentle and kind. I remember the feeling of acceptance, the feeling of love. But then, just like that, it was over. The sun tipped its fiery yellow tendrils over the ever so distant mountains, and we packed up, jumping back into the truck. The perfect night, the perfect moment, over. I do not remember feeling sad though at that thought, I just remember thinking, onto the next adventure. Chasing the next, perfect moment.
“Do you see any contacts Commander?” said the girl below me with her small, high pitched voice. I looked down at the time, thinking to myself how great it is that I hadn’t seen any yet. “No, I haven’t seen any contacts yet Klara.” I say, my normally smooth voice coarse with the harsh cold of the winter. I can hear her sigh, though weather in relief or disappointment I can’t tell. “Nona, how many hours can we wait?” I can hear Klara asking Nona. “I have no idea Klara dear, we have plenty of extra food so until morning I would say.” Nona says from the driver’s seat and I can see her fidgeting and constantly checking the vision port. I yawn and lean back, stretching out inside the massive turret of the KV-2. I open up the hatch and climb out, liking the cold outside better than the cold inside. I climb down and sit on top of the engine bay, taking out a closed cup of coffee and taking a drink after opening it. “Commander! Commander, the base is trying to reach us in the radio!” Klara is shouting as she comes out of the hatch of the KV-2. “Right, got it, thank you Klara.” I quickly hop up and swiftly climb into the tank, grabbing the earpiece and microphone as I adjust the dials on the radio. “KV-2 Number 5100, come in. KV-2 Number 5100 come in.” The man on the radio says as I finish adjusting the last dial on the radio box. “Da? What is it Lieutenant?” I say, forgetting about proper formalities with my tiredness. “Commander Katyusha, good, you have been recalled back to base to be moved to a primary base further inland.” He says, clearly cold and tired himself. “Copy that Lieutenant, we’ll be back at base in approximately two hours.” I say, glancing down at Nona who is already working with Klara to get the engine started once again. “Copy that Commander, have a safe trip back to base.” with that last transmission from him, the comms go quiet. I can hear the engine turning over and coming back to life as I take the headphones off and put them and the microphone back. Nona and Klara both get back in the tank and pull the hatches shut. “Nona, take us back to the base.” I yell over the sound of the engine. I feel the tank jerk forwards as she nods and then we start to slowly turn around. I wait until we are driving straight before I open the hatch and stand half out of the tank, leaning on the hatch as we drive along, the wind blowing gently across the snow covered plains, wide areas of lots of little snowflakes float across the plains. I close my eyes and enjoy the breeze, smell, and sounds as we drive along. Once we arrive back at base we are immediately told to load up on the train bound for the primary base 150km inland and to just ride in our tank. “Here you are ma’am, food for the journey.” Says the tall, slender woman as we pull our tank onto the train. I take the food and water and hand them to Klara who stores them. As the train starts to move, I feel myself starting to lose consciousness. By the time I wake up, we are at the primary base and Nona is driving us off the train, following a car of some sort towards the Great River. “Klara, Nona, what’s going on?” I ask the both of them and they merely shrug, saying they have no idea. We stop and someone gets out of the car, a short, chubby looking man who calls for me. “Commander Katyusha! I need you and your crew to step out and come with us.” He shouts up to me. “Come on girls, let’s go.” I get up and climb out, the others joining me. We’re led over to the car and asked to fill out some papers. I finish and set the paper down in the car and turn around to see the KV-2 backed up to the banks of the river. “HEY!! What they hell do you think you’re doing!? That’s my tank!!” I shout and the others turn and shout as well as we run over to our beloved tank. The tank starts to back up as we run towards it, someone climbing out of the driver’s hatch and jumping down as it slowly backs into the river. Klara and Nona both stop as the turret ring hits the water line but I keep running and get to the tank starting to climb on top of the driver’s hatch right as someone pulls a cord and the gun fires, the sound reverberating and the force of the back-blast throwing me clean off of the tank and flat onto my back in the dirt and snow as the KV-2 sinks entirely into the water, decommissioning the very last KV-2 in existence. I start to sit up, tears streaming down my face as I look towards where my tank had been, a large man comes up behind me and hauls me back to the car, calling for the driver to take me to the field hospital so I can be treated for any injuries.
CW: Swear words. I didn’t even want to come on this stupid work trip. Yet, here I am, staring down at a one-hundred and fifty foot drop towards the ground - with what appears to be a wooden pallet shoddily attached to this tree trunk as the only thing between me and a sure death. I knew this godforsaken trip to Puerto Rico with a bunch of coworkers that I don’t even like was a terrible idea, but Karen insisted . “You should go! This will be a great chance to bond with all of your teammates!” Doesn’t she understand the main reason I work remotely is so I don’t have to bond with these godforsaken people? I can hear Betsy from accounting now, she’s shouting something - like always - so I am not quite sure if it is directed up at me or if she’s just speaking to the people around her. Either way, from a hundred and fifty feet up she’s coming through pretty crystal clear. Betsy. With her buggy eyes and tight blonde ponytail. Is she twenty-five or is she sixty-five? I really have no idea. Her perfume reminds me of my grandma but her incessant jabbering about TikTok throws it all off. I had always assumed that faced with imminent death, Karen and the kids would be enough for me to muster up some dormant courage and see myself out of any predicament. However, now my main motivation for not dying is that I just don’t want to give Betsy the satisfaction of seeing me fall to my death. She would just love to tell the story of how she just had a feeling that something was going to happen. That when I hit the ground, and exploded all over her and the rest of the team, that she just knew her life would never be the same. I would be fodder for her at dinner parties for the rest of her life. Not today, Betsy. Alex works for the zip-line company. He’s a white guy - but when we arrived he insisted on greeting us with “Holá Amigos!” - Betsy just loved that, she said it over and over again, laughing just as hard every single time, during the entire hour-long hike up here. He’s also wearing a name tag that says Alejandro - I am not calling him that. He’s clipping me into a harness and telling me something about a camera towards the bottom that will take my picture, so to “make a silly face or wave.” I will be doing no such thing. All I can think about is the carabiner failing and me falling out of the sky to a horrific but merciful death. I have been working for Transformative for a few years at this point. We have a small team, and up until this week, most of my interactions with them have been via conference calls and emails - more than enough to get a real sense of who they were. Sure, there have been meetings at our main office in Charlotte, but those had been so formal - filled with small talk and business conversations - nothing ever like this. Randall, my boss, had come up with this amazing idea to go on a team building trip with the entire team. I had immediately told him I couldn’t make it, and yet, somehow - here I am! My job is to sell our product - which I do fantastically by the way. I don’t get paid enough, however, to have to suffer through Betsy showing me photos of her cats for three days straight. Maybe falling to my death here would be the best option after all. Betsy cannot stop laughing, “You look so terrified!” she sputters as she holds the photo out for everybody to see. She’s getting spit all over everybody. “Look at how scared he looks!” I snatch the photo back from her. “Yeah, I’m afraid of heights.” I say, trying my hardest to hide my annoyance. This, it turns out, is very hard, especially because Betsy is very annoying. We’re back at the hotel now, the type of place that looks like it is trying way too hard to be what White people think the Caribbean should be like - taxidermy sea turtles, a mural of dolphins and a mermaid, fake coconuts all over the place- that sort of thing. “Lo siento, amigo!” Betsy cannot stop calling people “Amigo” now, and every single time she says it, she laughs at herself even harder. Being around her is like having a migraine, and you just keep waiting and waiting for the medicine you took to kick in, but it just never, ever does. I’m thankful that Randall has started talking, addressing the entire group of us at the bar. He’s going on about what a great time today was and his hopes for us to become a stronger team. Gag. I’m working on my fourth Mai Thai of the afternoon and hoping to be completely numb by dinnertime. Slowly, the group starts to disappear off to their rooms ahead of the team meal back here in the hotel restaurant. I am tempted to grab another drink, but now it’s just Betsy and me, so I decide to get up and head back to my room as well. “Need a walking buddy?” Betsy asks, followed by an extremely loud belch. “No thanks, Betsy. I can manage on my own.” I say turning to leave before she can interject again, but next thing I know, she’s in stride with me towards the elevator. “We’re neighbors, dummy! It only makes sense to head back together. Safety in numbers Amigo!” She winks as she says this and I feel my insides start to burn. The elevator smells like bleach and sweat and I try to control my breathing as the doors slide shut. This is going to be a long fifteen flights up. Betsy, to her credit, is surprisingly quiet as we get moving. The elevator creaks and shudders and I resist looking at when it was last inspected. Without any muzak to fill the empty space, that awkward elevator feeling seems to overtake us both. I’m anxiously watching the red numbers on the digital panel above the door click up, 7, 8, 9... it’s just stopped at 9. Why is it just stopped at 9?! The elevator lurches to a sudden stop, and before I can even turn to Betsy, she is on me. My brain can’t process what is happening this quickly - especially after that fourth Mai Thai, but a severe pain is shooting through my face and my eyes are watering, oh and I am on the ground now. My right cheek is being squished into the dirty elevator carpet and all I can feel is a shoe, and the entire weight of a person, a Betsy, on my face. “Betsthy, wha’ the fuck ah you...” “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I knew Betsy was loud, but wow, I have never heard her like this before, just a very impressive yell on her. For some reason I am thinking about that fourth Mai Thai and am feeling so very grateful that the alcohol is probably numbing a lot of the pain I should be in at this moment. The pool of blood that is developing around my face is a clear indication I should be feeling this more than I am. I still don’t understand why Betsy hit me, or why she is now zip-tying my arms behind my back. To be honest, this entire situation feels very surreal, and I am also a little bit drunk. I try to push myself up using my legs, but man Betsy is strong! She throws me to the ground and of course I hit my head on the way down. I’m still conscious, or wait, nope. I’m out. “...if it weren’t...the next one in line...he won’t know.” Randall’s voice is coming in and out... what the hell, Randall! I’m seated in a chair - not a very comfortable one. I’m blindfolded and my head is throbbing worse than it was when Betsy was telling me about her and her cat’s nightly routine. I got my ass kicked, and kidnapped, by a woman who brushes her cats’ teeth every night. “What the hell, Randall!” I’m finally able to shout what I am thinking and it really hurts to yell. My entire face region is just hurting pretty badly. “Where the hell are we?” It feels like the appropriate question to ask at the current moment, but probably not the most important question that I had in my brain. We were definitely inside, and it definitely smells like fried fish in here. Not the best of clues to go on, but I am surprisingly hungry, considering the circumstances. “Tony, you’re awake.” Randall sounds more like a supervillain than the nerdy CEO of my company. He also knows I hate being called Tony. “Sorry that Betsy had to rough you up a bit back there, we knew you wouldn’t comply otherwise. You see, I’ve been thinking that we need to do some downsizing; some liquidating, if you will. We know about your Aunt Penny’s trust, Tony.” Aunt Penny’s trust?! Yes, my Aunt Penny left me a sizable amount of money when she passed away, but I have no idea how Randall and Betsy know about this. As if reading my mind, Randall says “Karen and Betsy are in the same book club. They talk.” Dammit Karen! “All you have to do is transfer those funds and we let you walk.” Betsy’s booming voice tells me she is a lot closer than Randall. And now I am fairly certain the fried fish smell is coming from her. “You guys don’t have to do this.” I say. “What’s the plan? That I give you the money and never tell anyone about it? Did you guys not think this through?” A silence. “Wait, did you guys actually not think this through.” Oh my god I have been kidnapped by idiots. “We...we have thought it through, as a matter of fact,” says Randall. “After you transfer the funds...we’ll make sure to take care of you.” “Are you saying you’re going to kill me Randy? You, the guy who cried at the end of Finding Dory . We took the kids to see that together man!” “No, I am.” Betsy’s right next to me now. I can feel her hot breath on my neck - and can now confirm, with certainty, that she is the source of the fried fish smell. I still have an appetite, surprisingly. “But if you kill me, how will you get the money? You guys are really blowing this.” I know I should be a little more scared, but it is really hard to take these two people seriously. Again, Betsy brushes her cats’ teeth - Every. Single. Night. And yes, the end of Finding Dory is a tear jerker, but still. This is Randall. This guy collects staplers for Christs’ sake. My two would be murderers are now talking a bit further away from me. I can’t make out what they are saying but it is clear they need to figure out a new plan. I’m doing my best to wiggle the muscles in my face around to get this blindfold off - unsurprisingly, these two jokers did not tie this thing very tightly. Finally it slips off my face and I can see now that we are in some sort of parking garage. Classic. Randall and Betsy are to my left next to a van - good luck getting the bloodstains out of a rental. To my right is a brick wall with a few bricks missing every few feet or so, allowing sunlight to stream into this otherwise dark and dusty place. I stare out through one of the holes in the brick and try to get a better sense of where I am. “We’ve decided we are going to kill you anyways, it sounds cleaner then letting you go.” I snap my head back to see Betsy coming towards me holding a pistol. She seems very confident with it and I am starting to believe she may actually kill me. “Any last words, Anthony?” She has the gun against my forehead and the floodgates just open up. I am balling, absolutely balling like a baby. “Please, Betsy. You don’t have to do this.” I can’t believe I am begging Betsy for my life. She is just standing there, looking at me with cold, dead eyes. I can’t hold back the tears, I think of Karen and the kids, I think of all I still have to give the world. I think I am pissing myself but I don’t care, I just want to live. Just then, a loud CRACK whips its way through the parking garage. “Not today, Amigo!” It’s Alex, fucking Alejandro, from the zip-line tour and he’s on a zip-line and he is barreling straight towards Betsy. Before I can blink she’s on the ground and he’s got her in an absolutely awesome headlock. The kind of shit you’d see on WWE Raw. Randall meanwhile, is coming straight at me, like a zombie just raised from the dead, he is ignoring the commotion with his partner completely. “Tony. Tonnnnny. Tonnnnnny” He just keeps saying it over and over again. He’s almost to me now and his hands are out like he is going to strangle me or something. “Tonnnny.” His weak, little fingers work their way around my neck. “Tonnnny.” He’s actually doing it, this guy is going to strangle me. All I can hope is that Alex, whose arrival is still entirely inexplicable to me, is able to stop him before he kills me. As I feel my body start to weaken more and more I glance over to see Betsy and Alex struggling. My entire world goes black to one last, “Tonnnnnny.” “Tony. Tony, can you hear me?” It’s Randall. I open my eyes, I’m outside now, trees shooting up spear tips all around me. Randall’s little hands are on my shoulder. “His eyes are open!” he exclaims. I hear a collective gasp to my right and footsteps and murmurs quickly approach. “That was quite the fall, mi amigo.” Alex’s face appears above me. “Good thing you were wearing your helmet, and good thing you hit a few branches on your way down.” I squint my eyes hard. What the fuck just happened? “Where...what, what happened?” I manage to say. The metallic taste of blood is unmistakable in my mouth. I try to move but Randall pushes down just enough on my shoulders to stop me. I can still feel his little fingers around my throat, but he’s being so gentle now. ‘Oh no you don’t mister. You’re not moving until the paramedics arrive. You could have broken your neck!” Alex seems pretty bummed about what has happened, he can probably smell a lawsuit coming. I am beginning to realize that I must have been stuck in some sort of coma-like fever dream. “Oh boy! That was scary!” Betsy’s voice punches into my ears like an airhorn. “You should have seen yourself, Tony! I just had a feeling something like this was going to happen. I had a premonition last night you know. Oh man, I just feel like having seen that none of us are ever going to be the same.” I close my eyes again hoping to be transported back to the parking garage where I at least had a chance of mercy. “Lo siento Amigo!” Betsy shouts, followed by a fit of uncontrollable and relieved laughter. I close my eyes tightly. I’m never coming on a fucking work trip ever again.
Work was like any other day, daydreaming of a day I can get away from this work life. One would think I would be used to it, after all I have been here for fifteen years. My husband is always away while I work and then go home with the kids. I have three teenagers. My boys are loud, eat a lot, messy, and stink, but to their dad, they are good boys. Connor is my oldest at seventeen, Matthew the middle child, sixteen and Zechariah the baby, is only fifteen, They are good boys at heart, but I wished that I would have had a girl. I longed for my little princess, who would go get her hair and nails done with me. We are at the end of 2019, I’m so happy to see it go. My 40th birthday is coming up, and I’m not ready to let go of my 30s. John is planning a big party in Barbados and I can’t wait to go. We are going for two weeks this man never took a day off from work in the 25 years we have been married. My birthday and our anniversary is in the same week of May, so this vacation is well worth it. I wonder what made him plan this but nevertheless I’m happy. Working in the hospital is a pain, but I love my patients. They come in with cancer, but they are the bravest people I have ever met. As I'm sitting in my office, listening to the news I hear that a virus broke out in China. They are calling it coronavirus. "Oh Lord please don’t let that come here," I think, fearfully, "it’s killing them over there." I called my husband, who is a Neurosurgeon, to ask him what he thinks. "To be honest babe, I’m not sure what to think. I just hope it doesn’t come here." he sighs. March 20, 2020 rolls around and, it's here! Coronavirus has hit the US. I don’t know what to say. We'd have never thought it would come here. The impact was immediate. Schools have been shut down, supermarkets have no food in it, there’s no toilet paper in no stores and me and John have been working overtime. The kids stay with my parents because when we do come home we don’t want to expose them to COVID-19. I have lost so many patient, and we have to work in the ER now, I have seen people come in and die within five minutes, people who died without their families by their sides, whole families not even knowing their loved ones are gone. I miss my boys, I can only FaceTime them and even that is short-lived. I'm being paged every five seconds. Outside of our hospital is a freezer truck full of dead bodies. One day, I ask my husband, already knowing the answer, "Does this mean we can’t go on our vacation, John?" He answered with a mournful and silent hug. The world had shut down. I miss my boys, severely, but for their safety I can only FaceTime them, and there's never enough time. I'm being paged every five seconds. I can’t use the bathroom without a code blue going off. I’m frustrated and exhausted. I haven’t slept in weeks. Our anniversary is here and our trip was canceled. I never cried so much in my life, but John tired his best to make it up to me by stopping by my office. He had got flowers and cupcakes and chocolate cover strawberries, my favorite, we both had been so busy, basically living in the hospital. We haven’t really seen each other, I barely recognize him. His face has so many lines from the masks we wear constantly. I have never seen him look like he'd lost a fight before and I'm sure I look the same. He gave me a kiss. Oh how I missed this man, he bent me over my desk pulled down my panties, cleaned me then he had his way with me, and I loved every minute of it until I heard the dreaded announcement blaring over the intercom. "Paging Dr. Harris! Code blue! Dr. Harris, cold blue!" John got up and pushed me back down on the desk. He was still aroused. He opened my legs wide and bent down and lapped me up again. I could feel it I was about to explode all over his face. I’m trying to hold back from screaming his name. Then, he stopped. I was so close I knew I had to go but before I can fully sit back up he was inside me again. This time he wasn't making love to me. I could tell that all of his anger, his frustration and his exhaustion fueled his thrusts. He pumped into me. The faster he went, the harder he was. My eyes rolled into the back of my head I can feel it, I'm about to come! I could feel my butt getting wetter, the desk was moving and John was finished. I found my voice. "Babe, hand me that wet wipe, I have to go. I love you so much John." " I love you too, babe,"he breathed, as he kissed me and walked out the door. Something is wrong with him, he is not himself, I sensed, but it could just be that we are under so much stress. The summer is here and we are still battling this virus. The city is under so much stress. We are either told to stay inside or to come and live at work. With the cops killing unarmed black men and women the US was under attack. Things were out of control. People wanted to feel normal again. I wanted to feel normal again. I missed being called mom every five seconds. I miss hearing John play with the boys out in the backyard while he grilled steaks. As of lately I had this knot in my stomach, along with this bad headache. One of the doctors who seen me asked me if I was pregnant. I just looked and laughed, replying, "Girl, I've been here at work! I haven’t seen home in a long time!" Sighing, she replied, "I suppose you're right, but I still think you should take one, to be sure." There was no way I was pregnant! Well, there was that one time way back in May, but I just couldn't fathom it.
Today is the first day that I, George, get to work with my best friend; we got a new job at the same place, the FCF. People know it is a Federal office, but its true purpose is known to only a few. FCF actually stands for the Federal Center of Fiction. Authors of fiction are all registered in files, but me and my friend have a bigger purpose than to classify files and papers. We are going to guard a door in the basement of the FCF building. We’re not supposed to say what it contains; everyone who went through that door never came back. But that’s not the worst. The worst are the things that could come out of that door, into our world. Me and my friend Jake arrived at work early for our first day. We had already done a training yesterday and learned all the emergency codes. We switched our clothes for black costumes each equipped with one revolver, one knife, and one sword. All in black, we went down the stairs until we reached the cold and dark basement. There was nothing, except for the door and an emergency button. The door was two meters high and many symbols were carved on it. We were impressed. Our morning was easy; literally nothing happened near the door. So, we were more off-guard in the afternoon which ended up being a huge mistake. Around two o’clock, we were making jokes when a pounding came from the door. Soon, sounds were coming from the door every minute. The boss had clearly said that absolutely nothing was supposed to come from the door, including sounds. We should have made the emergency code as soon as it happened once, but, instead, we got closer to the door to listen. The sounds were too blurry to be identified. We still got closer and when my hand touched the door, it flew open. Jake looked at me and went for the emergency button. He told me to run to the boss, but before either of us could sound the alarm, we were sucked through the door. We had both lost consciousness. When we woke up, the door and the room were gone. We were in the middle of London, near nighttime. ’Hey George, you okay?’ ’Yeah fine and you?’ ’Well yeah, I just don’t get why we’re in London. What’s in London already?’ ’Come on Jake, I bet it’s Harry Potter’ I answered, excited by the idea of meeting the boy who lived. Jake did not seem excited though. ’Does this mean Voldemort is also here?’ ’I guess?’ I realized what was the biggest problem in worlds of fiction: the villains. And which villain would say no to another world, ours, to terrorize? It was important not to reveal the secret of the fiction door. ’George, do you think we’ll be fired?’ ’Yeah, I don’t think the boss is going to forgive us.’ As soon as I finished talking, something roared in the distance. We looked around but could not see anything suspicious. Jake and I started walking on one of the many streets and looked around. The roaring grew louder and closer. We followed the sound until we arrived in a park, no idea which. We saw it, a disgusting monster with tentacles. ’That’s not Harry Potter’ I said. ’And that’s not the 21 st century’ Jake added. I looked around and understood. There was no car, only carriages, and horses. We were so caught up on the question of the time we were in, that we forgot the horrible creature. The roar we heard next was right behind us. We turned around slowly and fell face to face with the monster. We screamed and everyone in the park looked at us in annoyance. They did not see the monster. We started running and, when we turned around, the creature was not following us. It was actually occupied with tattooed fighters wielding shiny blades. We hid in the bushes; if we could get a better view of these heroes, then perhaps we would know in which fiction world we were. When the monster was disintegrated by one of the shiny swords, a man with black hair got a short stick out, a stele. Me and my friend finally figured it out; they were shadowhunters which meant they were in one of Cassandra Clare’s fiction world. The creature was a demon, and the tattoos were runes. Jake had read those books a few weeks earlier. ’Jake, where would she hide the door in her world?’ ’I think I have an idea; Henry’s the best inventor and it might be hidden in his lab.’ All night long we walked in London streets until we reached the London institute where Henry would be. They could not reveal the purpose of the door; they would have to enter the building and go through the door without getting caught. We succeeded to reach the lab and luckily, it was breakfast for the characters. We searched on every wall, but it was not there. On our way out, Jake stumbled on something on the floor, the doorknob. We heard voices coming, we did not lose time, we jumped right through the door. When we got out of the door, we were back in the room, safe. We were so relieved. We went up the stairs and we had to find the boss. At the top of the stairs, two men were holding guns in our direction. ’We’re not from fiction, we just came back’ said Jake to the guards. ’We have to bring you to the boss’ one of the guards answered. We were glad, that’s who we were looking for anyway. We took the elevator to the last floor. The guards escorted us to an office. ’Are you new?’ I asked the guards. ’We’ve been working here for 20 years’, the tallest guard answered. ’Really? Because we started the job yesterday’ Jake said. ’Not possible, we were the ones working’ one of them replied. We entered the office, and I was wondering, did we spend more time than we thought in a fiction world? We faced the boss just like the guards said, except that wasn’t our boss. We both frowned. ’You look disoriented’ the guy said. I was not sure how to call him anymore. ’Well, we went through the door yesterday’ Jake spoke, not sure. ’Sit down. We’ll figure out from which story you are from’ ’We’re from here, the real world’ I told him. He frowned. ’What are your names?’ Jake answered for both of us, ’I’m Jake Thompson, and that’s George Bowell.’ The guy searched on his computer, then looked at us. 'I am sorry guys, but you do come from a fiction world’ he said, seriously. ’You come from the story named ’The Door to Fiction’ and its world looks like ours, which might be why you are confused.’ I was amazed, was this really the real world? Then, we would have been living in a fiction world since we were born.
Do not ever step foot on the ground. Charlie had been told this his entire life, but it never really sunk in. He didn’t understand the deep-seated fear everyone else seemed to harbor. He thought it was incredible, a beautiful problem to be solved. Until he was laying on the floor of the lab staring at the ceiling and blinking away tears. The first time Charlie ever saw the ground consume a person he’d been twelve. What the tree-top teachers referred to as “live mummification” was a quick, disturbing process. Dirt crawling over skin to create a sort of exoskeleton. A casting of the human body, like those papier-mâché spheres they’d made in class years ago. It’d been an elderly lady that first time. The pulley system keeping her safe had malfunctioned and she’d lurched off balance. It was a code yellow bridge and wasn’t fully enclosed. The old lady stumbled to the side and was pulled right over the edge. Charlie caught only the first flash of the swarming ground on her skin before his mom had ushered him away. As the crowd around them shrieked and cried, Charlie craned his neck for a better look. He’d liked to have claimed this moment as the catalyst for his obsession, but really that had occurred years ago. It was maybe a few days after his seventh birthday, and he was crossing that old rope bridge by his house. It’s been built in a rush by early survivors trying to escape their houses for supplies. He was not supposed to be on it, but that had only made him more intent on using it. One of the rotten wood planks had splintered under his front foot and sent him toppling forward. It was only due to some notion of luck that his hips didn’t fit through the empty space and his arms had gotten tangled in the ropes. His leg hung down, exposed, ten feet off the ground. And then his new shoe, a size too big so he could grow into it, slipped off his foot. It landed on the dusty ground and tipped over sideways. Charlie’s breath caught in his chest, but nothing happened. The shiny shoe glistened under the sun. He wanted desperately to stick his finger in that restless dirt, just to see what would happen. He stayed put for way longer than was logical just in case, but the ground remained flat and lifeless. The shoe was not alive. The second time he saw someone be consumed by the ground he was 18 and on the verge of declaring a major in Microbiology, specializing in the study of those tiny organisms that made the ground hungry. This time the fall had not been an accident. He’d been crossing a major intersection of bridges when a commotion piqued his curiosity. A young woman who looked barely older than him had crawled out onto the roof of a one-story house where no one would risk following. Her auburn hair floated in the wind. People crowded against the railings to watch her. A few kind souls called out things like “You don’t have to do this!” and “Things will get better!” but the girl ignored them. She stared straight ahead and stepped off the roof. For a millisecond it was as if she was walking in the air, and then she plummeted to the ground and landed with a heavy thump. Immediately the soil surged up to meet her. She didn’t make a sound as it closed over her. Charlie came back every day for two weeks to observe the hardened cocoon. Inside, he knew that the body was being decomposed, drained away. The microorganisms in the dirt would suck the nutrients from her. Then the cast would collapse in on itself and the ground would smooth over once again. It wasn’t surprising that these events would have a lasting effect on him. The unexpected part was the nature of the effect. Where others would shy away and realize how dangerous the ground was, Charlie felt himself drawn to it. He wanted to understand the little beasts that terrorized his people. So, it was inevitable, really, that he’d want to see this forbidden phenomenon again. The lab he was assigned to was on the upper floor of a university no longer in use. The building was old, made of even gray bricks. He had to duck through the fifth-floor window that had been fashioned into an entrance to get in. The walls were off-white, and the floors were so stable it made him feel somewhat unbalanced. His feet, used to the bridges and tree-top platforms, weren’t accustomed to the solidity. The equipment in the lab was well maintained: microscopes, autoclaves, incubators, centrifuges. He felt like a child in a room full of new toys. On one side of the room, where a balcony had once been, a ramp had been fixed that led down to the ground. The space before it was taken up by a deoxygenation chamber used briefly to asphyxiate any rogue organisms. Charlie was integrated into a group that exclusively studied the microorganisms in the ground called Vitae Suffocent . Life suckers. The study was relatively new, they’d only recently worked with engineering to create a protective suit. Before then, the scientists would lean out the window with a cup fastened to a long pole and scoop up a small bit of the dirt. With the help of the suits, they had been able to set up a secure mock habitat to observe the specimens’ behavior. The group was small, a handful of young students of which he was one, along with six seasoned scientists. For the first time, Charlie found himself surrounded by people who were just as interested in the ground as he was. The obsession that had set him apart from other kids in school was now reflected all around him. There was a girl who’d started at the same time as him- Tori. She was short and had thin black hair chopped short around her ears. Because they were new, they were often assigned projects to work on together. He wasn’t sure if he liked her, but it didn’t matter much. There was an ongoing experiment that needed a fresh test subject, someone to stick a finger into the Life Sucker habitat. Charlie volunteered immediately, exhilarated by the idea of being able to touch the ground. He pictured it being magical, a borderline religious experiment. He worked himself up over it for days, so that when it was finally time he was almost bursting with excitement. The scientists heading the experiment placed him in the deoxygenation chamber with the container. Around him, they gathered clipboards, pencils poised to jot down any and all details. His forefinger was swiped clean with an alcohol wipe that made the skin feel dry. Tori unlocked the circular compartment in the top of the container. Slowly, breathlessly, Charlie lowered his hand into the habitat. The tip of his finger brushed the dirt. It was soft and damp as he pressed the finger down. Charlie blinked and the soil began to stir. It tickled the pad of his finger. He watched in fascination as the hidden organisms began to climb up his skin. It was a strange sensation. The soil was cool and light, it felt more like a caress than a smothering. Tori clicked the stopwatch in her hand and began to count aloud. By the time she reached seven, the organisms were up to his wrist. He withdrew his hand. The seal on the opening caught most of the dirt and held it back, to the irritation of the organisms. He held his hand away from him, not trusting it. Tori latched the contained shut quickly. Someone on the outside of the chamber switched it on. They held their breaths as the oxygen rapidly drained from the room. A loud whirring assaulted Charlie’s ears. His chest tightened. For a minute they all felt like they were suffocating, then it abruptly stopped and the doors to the lab popped open. Oxygen flooded back in. Charlie sucked in a deep breath. He examined his hand. It was tingling and covered in little red blotches, but otherwise, he was fine. No damage had ever been recorded from less than ten seconds of exposure. Charlie glanced at the other set of doors over his shoulder. The ones that opened onto the ramp that led down to the ground. He longed to go through them, wanted to dig his hands in the ground and laugh as the organisms consumed him. He turned and walked back into the lab. A month later he was given a protective suit and given the chance to wear it for the first time. He and Tori had been assigned to walk, outside , to a big oak tree and back. Charlie was thrilled. He stepped into the suit and pulled it up over his arms. A tech zipped him in and checked him over. The suit was a stiff layer of slick rubber designed to lack tread so the organisms wouldn’t be able to climb against gravity. The boots they were given were thick and clunky. They were tall, reaching up to his knees like a pair of extra-long rain boots. A device attached to the top of the boot sent out vibrations that they’d found would deter the organisms. The hood of the suit came up over his head and the visor was clicked into place. He saw the world through a glass partition. Then they were in the chamber and the doors behind them were closing. It was midday and the sun was shining. A breeze spirited a few brown leaves past the glass. The doors to the ramp opened. Charlie stepped out first. His heart pounded in his chest. It was right there, the ground. He walked quickly down the ramp, Tori following behind him at a more reserved pace. He paused at the end of it. The dirt was disturbed, as it always was when the organisms were present. It looked almost fluffy. Charlie took a deep breath and lifted one foot. He lowered it slowly to the ground, enjoying the crunch of soil underfoot. He leaned his weight forward, ready to take another step, but paused. The ground was shaking around his boot, pulsing in strange waves. It was trying to climb up his boot, he realized. He tried to pick up the foot but felt resistance. The ground clung to his boot, pulling him back down. Charlie watched, entranced. He continued to pry his foot away and eventually the dirt fell back down. He looked at Tori, whose face he could just see behind the visor. She looked equal parts disturbed and fascinated. Afterward, he felt like he’d been on another planet. It was amazing, he’d been on the ground, but he couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed. What had they learned during that expedition? Nothing new, nothing interesting . He wanted more. All he could think about was how slow the studies they performed were. They were no closer to understanding these organisms. They needed to study them in action. His plan fell together quickly after that. Once again he fastened the protective suit on and was checked over by the other technicians. Tori was doing the same next to him. Charlie clapped a hand on her shoulder and with the scalpel hidden in his palm he sliced a tiny hole into her suit, the rubber splitting easily under a sharp blade. She turned and gave him a thumbs-up. He hid the scalpel in one of his pockets. They walked through the chamber and out onto the ramp. The suit was heavy and sweaty against his skin. Through the visor, he saw the dirt-coated ground come closer and closer. The first step was always the most exciting. His foot hovered over the solid ground, casting a wavering shadow over the dirt. He placed it firmly down. The ground beneath him stirred, trying to creep up his legs but being deterred by the vibrations. Slowly, the ground pulling at them with each step, they made it 50 feet away from the end of the ramp. He knew they were being watched closely from the observation windows, but at this distance, no one would really be able to tell what happened. Charlie shoved his foot hard to the side right as Tori took a step. The bottom of her boot caught on the top of his and she lost her balance. Her arms windmilled but the suit was too bulky and dragged her down. She should have gotten up. The suit should have kept the microorganisms at bay. But Charlie had damaged her suit. He gazed intently down at her as the organisms poured over her and into the hole in the fabric. He bent over as if to help her, but really he just wanted to get a closer look. This near, it was mesmerizing. The dark earth swirled as though it was possessed. It rose and fell like a liquid. Tori cried out one last time before they closed over the top of her dark hair. Charlie ignored the panicked voices over his earpiece. Through his visor the majority of the event had been captured (excepting, of course, when he purposefully tripped her). He'd made a huge leap in the field, no matter how tragic. The footage would help inform scientists for years to come. Except, he didn’t know (no one did) that after a feeding, the organisms laid their eggs. Hundreds of microscopic eggs stuck to his boots and were carried back into the facility. The eggs, not having to breathe oxygen yet, were not affected by the deoxygenation tank. Charlie stripped off his suit and hung it on the hook. Overnight, the eggs hatched, and those tiny, deadly microorganisms scurried to hide in the dust accumulated above cabinets and at the edges of the room. Charlie was the first person at the lab that morning, still buzzing with the exhilaration of the day before, ready to study the footage and propel their lab forward. When his skin started to itch, he thought nothing of it. Until he noticed the little red dots on his forearm. Then the world tilted on its axis, and he crumpled to the floor. He’d made another major discovery that day. The skin of the microorganisms contained a deadly neurotoxin. There weren’t enough creatures to make a cast over him. It was a slow death during which all he could think about was how these organisms would feed on him, suck the life out of him. After, they’d lay their eggs. And the eggs would hatch. And the organisms would spread. His curiosity had doomed their entire town. He’d brought the ground to them.
A long, long time ago, when gods and goddesses, demons and fairies, wizards and dragons, still roamed the land, there lived a human woman in a rural village. As it is with villages, everyone knew everyone - and everyone knew this virtuous lady. This woman was the village school teacher, a position which garnered respect from the folks - even the village chief treated her like his own mother. Nobody knew where she had come from, but that did not matter. She was kind and did not seek trouble. In fact, when the village children saw her face, deeply imbued with grey haired wisdom and gentle eyes that could not see very well, it occurred to them that this lady had seen the rise and fall of every dynasty. That is to say, she seemed like a wise sage sent from the heavens to guide them. This woman was called Ms. Eirian. She was a sweet dear, with a seemingly everlasting supply of patience for anyone. Her kindness even reached out to animals and plants. The village chief once joked that if Ms. Eirian were to encounter a wounded lion, she would still treat its wounds - even if the cranky beast were to pounce on her afterwards. Ms. Eirian’s kindness, however, had spread far and wide - so much so that even the gods had heard about her. Would this be a blessing, or a curse? * One night, as thunder roared and lightning danced in the sky, Ms. Eirian was sitting by her fireplace reading her book. Soon, the rhythmic sound of water splashing onto her roof resonated within the house. Ms. Eirian glanced outside through her window, worried about her students. She hoped that every single one of them were inside their houses, safe, warm, and... “I hope this rain won’t distract them from their homework...” Ms. Eirian muttered to herself. Yes, Ms. Eirian was a really dedicated teacher. Knock, knock. Ms. Eirian turned to look at the door - and nothing happened. Did she imagine those sounds? Knock, knock. There it was again. Ms. Eirian stood up and walked towards the door. She held the cold metal of the door knob and twisted it. The wooden door creaked heavily, the sound scraping her eardrums. Standing before her was a young boy, drenched to the bone. “Oh my,” Ms. Eirian was surprised. “Quickly come in, lad,” she gestured for the boy to enter, which he did. With the warm glow of the fireplace, Ms. Eirian could see the slender face of the child, eyes as large as saucers. Drops of water dripped down from the boy’s black curls. He was wearing tattered rags that clung to his skinny frame. “Who are you?” The stranger asked. Ms. Eirian smiled kindly and opened her cupboards to fetch a clean towel. “I’m Ms. Eirian, the village school teacher... Who are you, kid? Where are your parents? You’re not from around here, are you?” She handed him the towel, which he used immediately. “I’m Lor. Parents? Never got one. Been traveling to get some coins - just to live, y’know,” Lor rolled his eyes. “I see...” Ms. Eirian felt her eyes tearing up for the unfortunate lad. “Ms. Air On, I must say, your house is so small!” Lor began. “It’s Ms. Eir - “Ms. Eirian was cut off by Lor. “I don’t think any human can live in such a dingy place! My, you wouldn’t know this but - even the beggars in my hometown have mansions as big as this~” Lor gestured with his hands. Lor took the liberty to seat himself - yes, he was still quite wet - on Ms. Eirian’s couch. Ms. Eirian just smiled and handed him a book. “Can you read, Lor?” “Yes, there was a man in my hometown who knew his letters. Taught me how to read, y’see.” “Well, that’s good then. Stay here and make yourself at home. I’m going to fix us some warm soup. Poor thing, maybe you should change your clothes too. I’ll look for something, goodness, I don’t think I have clothes the right size for you though,” Ms. Eirian mumbled. “Oh sure, I’m always good at making myself at home, Ms. Air - you won’t mind me calling you that, right? I really wondered why your parents would name you with such a silly thing... Really makes you sound strange. What soup will you be making? It had better have some carrot in it, or else I ain’t gonna eat... I hate green peas though. I also -” “Lor,” Ms. Eirian interrupted, “Can you please be a good dear and stay quiet for a moment? I really need to concentrate. If you keep talking, I might mistake the green peas for carrots and add them to the soup. We both wouldn’t want that now, would we?” And when Lor gazed at Ms. Eirian’s gentle, earnest eyes, he could not help but mumble his ‘yes’. Ms. Eirian began cooking her soup, adding a little bit of this and a little bit of that, all the while enjoying the peace that elderly people find in the presence of golden silence. But that silence was broken very soon. Thunder roared like an almighty lion. A shrill, piercing scream was heard from the living room. The living room! “Heavens, it must be Lor!” Ms. Eirian abandoned her boiling soup and rushed to living room, only to find Lor on the floor with a face as pale as sheet. “What happened Lor?” Ms. Eirian helped him up quickly. “Ms. Air On... t-there was thunder...” Lor cried pitifully. “Oh dear... Don’t worry, dear, the thunder won’t harm you here. Shh... it’s no problem...” “Ms. Air, you wouldn’t want me to suffer from everlasting trauma due to the terrible thunder, right?” Lor asked. “Well, of course not...” Ms. Eirian had completely forgotten to remind her visitor that her name was Eirian - not Air. “Then... will you do me a favor, Ms. Air?” Lor asked, his ink like eyes swirling with tears. “It depends, child. What do you want?” Ms. Eirian patiently asked. “Let me cook the soup for you. I’ll be thinking about the soup so I won’t have time to worry about thunder and whatnot.” Ms. Eirian hesitated. “I can cook really well, promise!” Lor pleaded. “Alright,” Ms. Eirian gave in. Thus, Lor went to the kitchen and cooked the soup. All the while, he bombarded Ms. Eirian with questions. “Do snails yawn? Are rainbows painted in the sky? Do fishes ever suffer from diarrhea? If they do, are they polluting the rivers by doing so? Can jellyfish be made into jelly?” Poor Ms. Eirian was starting to doubt if she was really capable of being the school teacher - and felt as if her ears were about to fall off. Lor also told Ms. Eirian he could juggle plates - something which Ms. Eirian deemed too scary to be done. However, Lor still took Ms. Eirian’s favorite China plates and showed off his acrobatic skills - it was fine at first, but Lor almost forgot to switch off the stove. In fear of burning the soup, Lor dropped the China plates he had been juggling and put out the fire. Ms. Eirian sighed and cleaned up the mess he had made. Seeing that Lor finally finished making the soup, both of them sat down and ate. Ms. Eirian almost spit out the first spoonful of soup. “Uhh, Lor?” She smiled weakly. “Yes, Ms. Air?” “How much salt did you put here?” Ms. Eirian asked hesitantly. “Oh, all the salt I could find,” Lor replied nonchalantly. He scooped up a piece of carrot and bit it, smilingly. “A-all the salt you could find?!” Ms. Eirian wanted to cry. He used the entire bag of salt just to season this soup? Lor looked closely at Ms. Eirian’s expression, as if waiting for something. When Ms. Eirian calmed down, she smiled gently again. It’s okay, Lor was still a child, he probably didn’t really know how to cook but still tried to cook for her - such a sweet child. Ms. Eirian’s gaze at Lor turned even kinder than before. Seeing this, Lor frowned and gritted his teeth. “Lor, I need to get some water in the kitchen. Just continue eating, okay?” “Sure, sure,” Lor paid no heed to Ms. Eirian and wolfed down his soup. Ms. Eirian drank a glass of water and her mood was lifted. “I don’t mind of the soup is too salty, Lor must’ve put in a lot of effort to cook it for us...” she muttered. Ms. Eirian decided she had to thank Lor properly, but when she arrived at the dining room... “Lor? Lor?! Where are you?” Lor had disappeared! Ms. Eirian was left bewildered. She opened the door and looked outside. The rain had stopped, leaving the fresh smell of earth in its wake. The boy - Lor - was nowhere to be seen. The bowl and cutlery that Lor had used sat cleanly on the shelf with no trace of being used. Only Ms. Eirian’s bowl of super salty soup was left on the table. Confused, Ms. Eirian was left to eat the remaining soup and mull over the events that night. * Back in the heavens - home of the gods - Balor and Luken were sitting in the garden. “Lor, come on, pay me!” Luken urged his friend. Balor frowned; his exquisite face crumpled up because of his annoyance. “I can’t understand that woman at all!” Balor roared furiously. He ran his fingers through his black hair, gritting his teeth. “I broke her favorite plates! I called her name wrongly! I was rude to her! I even made the soup super salty, but she still... to think she would still look at me kindly! I can’t understand that human at all!” Luken chuckled triumphantly. “I told you... Ms. Eirian has the patience of the gods... No, even gods couldn’t stay as patient and kind as her. Maybe she should be nicknamed the goddess of patience instead. Hohoho, how does it feel to lose, Lor? Come on, pay me... you lost the bet this time.” Balor rolled his eyes, regretting that he had agreed to this bet in the first place. “No way, I can’t believe nothing can make that lady upset! Why don’t you try to make her mad this time, Luke? If you succeed, then - only then, I’ll pay you,” Balor said. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? Trying to run away from this debt? You dare to bet with me but you don’t want to pay when you lose? Lor, you better pay this time...” “Ahaha...” sheepishly, Lor grinned and started running away. “I just remembered I need to visit my grandma... catch you later!” Lor ran away with his tail tucked between his legs. “Hey!” Luken cried, “You don’t even have a grandma!”
People have existential crises all the time. I had mine only a few months ago. After careful research, I figured out many ways to deal with it and tried most of them. I learned that some people go to a psychologist, others spend money on expensive clothing and designer accessories, a few dedicate more time to themselves, many keep a journal, and a handful quit their jobs to find their passion. I decided to take a more radical approach, a leap of faith. I switched my monotonous and meaningless existence for a life-changing journey. Furthermore, I packed my whole life in seven suitcases and moved from America to Europe. The decision was made arbitrarily. Either continue living an unfulfilling life or, take control and start all over. Although it felt like jumping from a trampoline into a pool where you couldn’t see the bottom, I was already too invested and could only move forward. When I look back, I cannot pinpoint the time when and how it all started. My mind is a bit fuzzy, but I mostly see snapshots of my life showing me evidence of pure malfunctions. One winter night as I was walking home from the gym, I looked at the sky and saw a gorgeous full moon about to be covered by clouds. It was me! Everything clicked at the time. I could not hide any longer behind a routine. I could not pretend anymore that I was happy. Everything became clear, I needed to break away and shine. Planning began and I had no backups, no Plan B or even a Plan C. There was only one plan, and it needed to work. I took it a step further by deciding not to leave anything in storage because this was a one-way journey with no turning back. In a matter of weeks, I got rid of everything I own. During many sleepless nights, I wonder how many people had packed everything and gone to a country they had never been to before. There were many more times when I questioned myself if I was making a smart decision. Nevertheless, departure day arrived, and I remembered the moment I was on my way to the airport and realized I didn't have any keys with me. I no longer had a key for my car because I sold it. My work keys were also gone because I resigned and had to return them. To top it off, the keychain for my place was empty because I did not have one anymore. Not even a key to a locker at my gym! It felt like I was in limbo. A terrifying feeling that I belonged nowhere and had nothing came over me. My flight was leaving in four hours and with a bag of fear on my shoulders, I embarked on a journey of dreams toward my destiny. Buildings, houses, and freeways were becoming smaller and smaller. The bike path on the beach that I traveled so many times was disappearing between the clouds. Seeing the city for the last time from the plane felt like a big relief. Likewise, I must admit that leaving so much behind was liberating. I had no doubts that I was not going to miss the people that drained my energy or the many worthless material things that accumulated throughout the years. It was an incredible feeling. It felt like taking a heavyweight of bricks off my shoulders. However, not knowing what was ahead was equally exciting and scary at the same time. In my loneliest moments, I prayed for a different lifestyle. I begged for a change and for the opportunity to start again. Yet, I was never prepared for everything that I was going to learn and experience. When the plane landed it was past midnight. The taxi driver did not speak much English, but he was so helpful and welcoming with just his attitude. Somehow, he managed to accommodate all my suitcases in his car. On my way to the hotel, I could only see traffic lights and illuminated buildings. When I arrived at the hotel, I was exhausted but incredibly grateful and thrilled. The room was perfect, and the view of the mountains was exhilarating. It would be my new home for the next 3 weeks while I find an apartment. I felt humble, blessed, and extremely grateful. I was eager to start seeing the city the following morning. I encountered a lively and energizing atmosphere. People rode their bikes and scooters throughout the square. Tons of cars packing the streets and as many people walking around. After getting a local phone number, I started my search for a place to live. My first meal was delicious and affordable; chicken kabobs, salad, softy springy bread, and a variety of sauces that could not figure out what they were except that they were delicious. When I was moving in, I was lucky to find people who were willing to help. I remembered the old man who helped me unload my suitcases from the taxi and placed them at the front door without accepting a tip. Even today I still see him around and we greet each other. In reflecting on my journey, I gained more than I bargained for. Locals are so proud of their roots, their culture, their traditions, and their country. Moreover, it is admirable to see how this society has arisen from the ashes of communism barely 30+ years ago to become so strong and rooted. They had built modern sky risers, cute coffee shops, beautiful shopping malls, schools, and superb restaurants that highly contrast with their traditional architecture. Tall mountains, enormous lakes, multiple parks, and blue oceans were witnesses of a society that does not give up and seeks to strengthen its infrastructure. I discovered a society that valued reading, a good quality of life, and strong family ties. Simple everyday things are not taken for granted. This is a country that I like to call raw and innocent because its natural resources are not polluted by long zip lines in the mountains or fast jet skis on the coast for tourists. Coffee is king and family evening strolls are sacred. The square is the heart of town and people of all ages gather there to hang out. Additionally, their dairy products are the best I have ever tried. Similarly, fruits and vegetables are the freshest and come from the farm to your table. Of course, not everything around me is delightful. Streets and sidewalks are made of uneven cobblestones that could make you twist your ankle in a second. Outdoor cafes and restaurants are surrounded by a cloud of persistent smoke. Payment of utilities is done in person like my grandparents used to do it. Instant gratification is not the norm and postal service is almost nonexistent. Air conditioning and ice-cold drinks are rare luxuries. Nothing wrong with any of that! Although locals keep their livers healthy as alcohol is not overly consumed, unfortunately, their lungs are filled with smoke and nicotine. But a pink handheld fan is my best friend to hide from the strong sun, blow the smoke away, and capture fresh air. When I look back, I see a bitter, impatient, and desperate person willing to risk everything. Moreover, I see a brave person convinced that this move was more than an incredible journey. It has been a transformation, a rebirth. Arriving in a developing country immediately made me appreciate life and be thankful every day. It has changed my perspective on life and has rearranged my priorities. Sitting on my balcony feeling the morning breeze, admiring the view of the city, reading a book, and drinking iced coffee is now a glorious moment in time. I do not miss my car and much less driving in traffic. I walk and take public transportation. I embrace other religions while respecting our differences. In this learning path, I became a sponge trying to absorb a new language and traditions. Moreover, I learned to listen more than speak. I am happy with fewer material things around me. Downsizing has also been part of this new chapter. Who needs a toaster, a bread maker, a food processor, an air fryer, a slow cooker, an immersion blender, a rice cooker, a pressure cooker, a mixer, and a blender to make a delicious meal? Nobody! Do I need three pairs of tennis shoes for the gym? Negative. Less is more. The other day a passed a group of tourists, and I felt so happy that I did not have to go back like them. I was fortunate enough to be able to stay and continue writing new chapters to my story. Every day I take a step forward as I continue to adapt and attempt to blend into a new culture. Learning the language continues to be challenging but an open heart and a smile have taken me far. I cannot wait to spend the holidays in my new place. How would the city be decorated? What types of events take place in December? I do not know how or when this journey ends, but I do not need to know. After only four months, it is still going strong. Dreams are now part of a beautiful reality that I would not change for anything in the world. I came to understand that although people are the same everywhere, culture and upbringing make all the difference. My dream turned into my destiny, and my destiny is my journey. My cup is only halfway full, but I make sure to add new experiences each day while keeping an open mind for the unexpected.
It was quite a silent night. Usually, I could hear the engines of cars outside my apartment window, roaring down the street, trying to bustle off to a location unknown to my mind. I could still hear the cars, but tonight, it seemed as if it were more of background noise, instead of the nuisance it usually was during these late hours. I sighed, shaking my foot lightly as I read my book in the dim light of my bedside lamp. Suddenly, I felt a claw bat at my foot. I chuckled. It was most likely my cat, who was usually very energetic during the nighttime. Then again, she always has been this ball of spunk, but seemed to prove more so when the moon had shown. I put down my book for a moment, and looked at the end of the bed, her claws tickling my foot. I'd jerk from side to side of my bed, and occasionally sliding my foot down the entirety of the covers. She was so fast. I couldn't even see her in such dim light though. Then I hear the sound of my door creak open. Slowly, feeling a tinge of fear, I look to see what is causing the sound. It's my cat. I turn to look at the end of my bed. It's not my cat.
The Other Path Here’s a moment from what I imagined my life would be like: I’m at a cocktail party in a Manhattan penthouse. A tuxedoed gentleman is playing Cole Porter on the baby grand; guests in Dior and Versace are chattering in groups, toasting each other with champagne flutes, admiring the penthouse owner’s recently acquired Picasso. I swan across the room in, oh, I don’t know, vintage Halston, something black and slinky, the sort of thing Liza might have worn to Studio 54 back in the day. “And what do you do, darling?” asks a silver-bouffanted woman of a certain age. (They all call each other darling here. My fantasy apparently takes place in a mid-1930s romcom, or whatever they called romcoms back in the 1930s, so what I’m doing in a vintage ’70s Halston outfit, I cannot tell you.) “Me? Oh, I’m a physician,” I say casually. The guests all stop talking and turn to me, awe and admiration on their faces. “Are you really ?” says the silver-bouffanted woman. “Why, you must be brilliant as well as stunningly beautiful.” Here’s a moment from my actual life: I’m in a large, overcrowded room in a courthouse. A bored college-age kid with a pair of drumsticks is tapping out a rhythm on the radiator. The people who are trying to get comfortable in uncomfortable folding metal chairs are reading newspapers or sending the kid dirty looks. One fifty-ish woman with frizzy gray hair that clearly hasn’t seen the inside of a beauty salon in, well, ever is lying flat on her back on the floor looking up at the ceiling as if it’s got a replica of the Sistine Chapel fresco on it (it does not). I trudge across the room wearing the only clean jeans I could find (clean because I never wear them, and I never wear them because the material is some satanic mix of canvas and sandpaper) and a white T-shirt that’s very comfortable and flattering if you don’t mind everyone taller than you getting a clear look at your boobs. And everyone is taller than me. (I’m four foot nine and three-quarters, which makes me a legal midget in the state of New York. When I told an acquaintance of mine who works on Wall Street about that, she said, “Huh. Can you, like, get something for that? A tax write-off or something?” Short answer--pardon the pun--is no.) The bespectacled thirty-year-old court clerk who is obviously reevaluating his career choices looks up at me and says, “Yeah?” “I think, I mean, I don’t think--I don’t think I should be on a jury. I don’t think I should be here.” “Uh-huh. And why is that?” “Well, I, um, I’m a physician.” He looks at me and does not say, And? “So, I, uh ... I mean, it’s flu season. People are sick. I could be helping them. And, let’s be honest, what lawyer wants a physician on a jury? No lawyer. So I’d just be here wasting everyone’s time. Plus, if I don’t work, I don’t get paid.” The clerk shakes his head. “Sorry, ma’am, that’s not a legitimate reason to be excused from jury duty.” The drumming college kid sidles over to me. “Hey, are you really a doctor?” he asks. “Yes.” I smile modestly. He undoes the top button of his jeans. “Could you just look at this rash for me? WebMD said it could be cancer but I think it’s just an ingrown hair.” “I--that’s not really appropriate ...” He shrugs and goes back to his drumming. I flop down on a metal folding chair and consider my options. I wouldn’t actually mind jury duty, honestly. A few days off from the constant COVID, COVID, flu, drug seeker, COVID, flu, STD check, STD check, flu, COVID ... “And are you vaccinated?” I ask my miserable COVID-positive patients and my equally miserable flu-positive patients. “Do you practice safe sex?” I ask my STD-check patients. “Are you actually kidding me with this bullshit that you’re allergic to all NSAIDs and the only thing that works for you is Percocet?” I refrain from asking my drug-seeking patients. Now, some of them are vaccinated and some of them do practice safe sex and some of them (maybe) are allergic to all NSAIDs, but even a single “No, I ain’t getting vaccinated, I’m not letting the government put microchips in my body!” coming from an overweight white male who’s struggling to breathe because he doesn’t believe any of that nonsense about cigarettes or Chinese diseases is pretty disheartening. All of it is pretty disheartening. Here’s the thing, though: Once you’re about halfway down this path to doctor-hood, somewhere around the end of the second year of medical school, you can’t turn back, you can’t say, Oh, hey, you know what? Funny thing, but it turns out this isn’t really for me because you’ll never be able to pay off your medical-school loans doing anything else. Well, robbing banks, maybe. I put my face in my hands. “Hey. You. Doc.” There’s a voice coming from by my feet. Ah, the frizzy-haired lady. “I’m sorry, did I step on you?” “Nah, you’re good.” She sits up, stands (with some theatrical groaning), sits down in the folding chair next to me. “I’m Irene. Hey, you know what your problem is?” Yes. I took the wrong path about fifteen years ago, and now I’m stuck traveling down this road forever. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine. Thank you.” I don’t know why I’m thanking her. “You ain’t fine. You hate your life and you got no way to get out of it, am I right?” “I don’t--” “Oh, cut the crap, I’m psychic.” Fabulous. The icing on the cupcake of my day: trapped in the jury waiting room with a crazy lady. I start to say the usual things one says in this situation-- How delightful, you must have such an interesting life, I’m going to go to the ladies’ room now --but before I can get out a word, I meet her eyes. She looks back at me with a steady gray-eyed gaze-- Athena, the gray-eyed goddess, I think randomly--and part of me says, Wait. “Lillian,” she says. Which is my name. “Yes,” I breathe. “I’m gonna tell you something. You ready? Okay, good. Here it is: This courthouse is about to blow up.” “What? What do you--how do you know?” Irene shakes her head. “Did I not just say? I’m psychic. What, I’ve gotta give you all my bona fides before you consent to believe me? Why is it that the crazy orange man who was running the country not all that long ago can announce, ‘The election was rigged,’ and half the country is like, ‘Oh yeah, that makes perfect sense, I’ll buy that,’ but when I, a certified psychic, casually mention that one building is about to go up in smoke, I gotta quote everyone chapter and verse how I know?” I have no answer to this. And psychics can be certified? “Fine,” Irene huffs, crossing her arms. She looks at me, stares at me, and I feel like there’s a tractor beam between her eyes and mine. “Fine,” she says again, softly. “Lillian Sarah Barden. Capricorn. Your father was some sort of prepper type; you and a couple of other families lived off the grid in the mountains for years. Both parents are dead now. Siblings--one. No.” She closes her eyes, opens them again. “None. The little boy died at the age of three, poor thing. Aneurysm. You’re a physician because--what, you thought you could save kids from that? Please. If the boy had collapsed into the arms of a pediatric neurosurgeon who immediately wheeled him into the OR, he still woulda died. We clear? Okay. You had an affair with your biology professor, and it turned out he was married, and--oh, this is good--you cheated on your MCATs. Just a few answers, but you wonder if it made a difference. You have an almost full bottle of ...” She squinted. “Di-aze-pam? What’s that? Oh, Valium. You have an almost full bottle of Valium at home and you’re contemplating self-harm. You believe I’m psychic now?” I nod. I do. “Good. We’re all on the same page. Now, I don’t claim to know all the technical details here, but there’s a furnace thing downstairs, and it hasn’t been cleaned right in about forty years, and something is stuck somewhere, and so something very unfortunate is about to happen.” “You should tell people! We should tell someone that...” I trail off and she watches me follow that thought to its logical conclusion. “Yeah, we simply must run and tell people that they all have to leave the premises immediately because the crazy psychic lady says the place is gonna blow up. What could go wrong with that plan?” She rolls her eyes. “Here’s where I’m trying to help you out. Now, you just walk out that fire exit there--the fire alarm isn’t working, none of them are, which is part of the problem--and you hustle yourself down the street as fast as your tiny little size five feet can carry you, and after about, oh”--she consults some internal clock--“four minutes, the place will blow, blam! ” She nods. “Yup, nothing left but a crater. They won’t be able to find most of the bodies from this building. Everyone who was in here will be presumed dead. And you, my little friend, will be home free, as they say. No more student loans to pay back, being as you’re dead. No more slogging through a life you can’t bear. Move to Fiji! Move to France! There are ways to get around a lack of paperwork.” The clerk up front is calling out various names. I hear mine. “Tell him you gotta go to the ladies’,” says Irene. “I’m...I just have to go to the ladies’ room, sir!” I call. I can see the clerk’s eye-roll from here. “All right, whatever, make it fast.” He looks at his list again. “Caleb Greene?” “Go on, now,” says Irene. “Go.” “What about you?” “I’m going out the other door, don’t worry about me. You go. Choose the right path this time, huh?” She winks. I turn to look at the fire door, and when I turn back, she’s gone. I grab my things and go, walking briskly at first, and then, when I’m through the door, running. I didn’t look at the time when I left, but it’s probably about three and a half minutes later that an explosion rocks the ground for five city blocks around me. I turn around and see the flames, watch the pieces of debris (and, presumably, body parts) rain down. Sirens start to wail. People are running toward me; I see a mother pull her toddler close and cover him with her body. Someone yells something about terrorists. I could very easily run away with the others. I know how to live off the grid; I could go back to the mountains for a while, decide what to do next. Or--and here’s the thing--I could run back to what used to be the courthouse and try to save at least some of the injured. Apply pressure to a wound, do CPR, help the paramedics triage. Of course, that’d be the end of my escape plans. Someone remembers seeing me alive and well--and I know a lot of the paramedics around here--I’m not going to be able to pull off my “Dead people don’t have to pay back their student loans” plan. Huh. Which path to take this time?
“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” I asked. “Nah, man,” Matty replied. He sounded calm in his voice, but his eyes showed fear. “It’s no problem if you do, Matt, my mom will understand,” I tried to assure him, “Besides, my dad doesn’t have to work tomorrow so he can take us fishing in the morning down at Salmon Creek.” “No, really, its okay,” Matty insisted. His dad was drunk and screaming at his mother. It was like this often, usually with Matt or his mother bearing the wounds of Mr. Galway’s inebriated rage. “Do you want me to at least come in with you?,” I asked. I hated to leave the twelve-year-old at this chaotic house. I was big for my age and my old man had taught me how to fight, I figured I could at least give Matt some breathing room to run out if his own dad came after him. From the street, we could hear Mr. Galway screaming threats to give his wife a beating if she didn’t stop crying. It only made her cry harder. “I’ve dealt with him before like this,” my friend told me. His eyes were screaming help now. He was too polite to take my offer. “Don’t worry about it.” “Alright,” I told him with reluctance, “but if you still are up for fishing tomorrow morning, my pop and I can puck you up.” “You don’t have to, but thanks man,” Matty said. He loved fishing even more than I did. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning to take a few bass out of the creek.” “Maybe I can convince the old man to take us for a burger and milkshake after,” I tried to sound hopeful before the kid had to go to his personal hell of a house. He really didn’t deserve to live in a place like this. “Have a food night man,” Matt said as he approached the splintered front door of the place. “You too,” I called over my shoulder. I knew I shouldn’t have said that because Matt wouldn’t have a good night unless his dad passed out early. A sick feeling hit my stomach. I heard the blast of Mr. Galway’s twelve gauge from my own front yard two blocks away. I wake up in a cold sweat. Thirty-six years-old and still haunted by the death of my childhood best friend. That vile man had the wretchedness to take his own son’s life then plead insanity and drunkenness for a lesser charge over facing a real sentencing like a man. I was told that Matt didn’t suffer when he was killed, but that had never offered me any comfort. The poor kid had suffered his entire twelve and a half years of existence before having his opportunity to grow up and move away even started. If only I had persuaded a bit more to get him to spend the night watching horror movies in the basement all night. My parents would not have minded at all. My wife stirred in her sleep as I stood up and checked the clock. Two twenty-six o’clock. I knew sleep would not come back to me tonight- thankfully it was Saturday so I didn’t have to worry about a fatigued day at work, but my recurring dream was punishment enough. I slowly got out of bed and crept out of the bedroom to allow my wife to continue her slumber and crept downstairs. Finding a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in the basket of clean laundry on the couch, I threw the clothing on with a pair of old sneakers and walked outside. Long walks around the neighborhood were the only thing that helped a bit after memories of my childhood best friend being murdered happened. At least I knew that the old bastard that killed Matt had been beaten to death in his jail cell seven months after the murder. I turned the corner off of the street my house sat on toward the park down the way a little. I figured it would be desolate enough with adequate lighting along the walking path to clear my head. A figure stood in the distance. He was blonde with green eyes and a smile that appeared like he was proud of himself for causing mischief. Id seen the face every day of my childhood and in my darkest nightmares as a teen and adult. I thought he was dead, but he was. I approached the child nervously as he stood grinning. “Hey, Cameron,” the boy spoke happily in his usual excited tone. My mouth went numb and a new sweat beaded on my hairline. “H-hey, Matty,” I said timidly. “Long time no see, pal,” it was like the kid had never remembered what happened all those years ago. “Wha-?” I tired, took a breath then, “How?” I was lost for words, “I mean, what are you doing here?” “I won’t be long, Cameron,” the child’s face went from a bustling twelve-year-old’s to a grown man’s expression. “I’m moving on soon, but I wanted to pay one final visit before going.” “What do you mean?” I asked. My mind still felt like a piece of taffy being stretched around by one of those mechanisms in a candy shop. Marty’s pale ghost smiled again, “I can’t tell you exactly, but I think you know,” he said, turning his face toward the night sky. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you would be okay, I know that this hasn’t been easy on you for the last twenty-four years. Lets take a seat.” We strolled over to a bench along the park’s pavement walking trail between two amber light poles. Matty seemed to glide across the dewy grass rather than walk. We took a seat on opposite ends of the wooden bench. “Don’t worry, no one will notice us should they happen to come by,” Matt read my mind, nervous about being seen alone in the park with a juvenile. That never looks okay. Matt laughed his contagious cackle, again, knowing what I was thinking. “Man, you haven’t changed much at all.” My mind calmed a bit at my old pal’s joking. It was true, I’d always been a nervous wreck about appearing like I’m doing something wrong, even when I wasn’t. “Matt, I still don’t understand.” “And I don’t expect you to, Cameron, you’ll learn many years from now, but for the moment, just go with the flow,” the childish grin had once again given way to a caring adult expression, “You need this more than you nay realize.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I was elated to talk to the best friend I’d ever had in life. “First off, Cameron, I have to say how proud I am of what you have done in life,” Matt began, “I’ve spoken to your grandparents too and they are ecstatic about what you have done. Three books on the Bes Seller list, a beautiful wife that loves you more than anything, two amazing children that are growing up to be as great as their old man, and a perfect house in a town that you cherish. You gave done so much more for yourself than mist people can even dream of. It’s outstanding.” Matt told me. He added, “I know you don’t feel comfortable whenever someone compliments you, but you have to know how well you have done in life.” A tear formed in my eye. I hadn’t seen my grandparents since my grandmother’s funeral three years after my grandfather’s. How had Matty talked to them? “Thank you, Matthew,” I had never called him his full name almost as long as I knew him- it felt odd to say, like I called him by the wrong name, but something compelled me to, “it means a lot. I just wish you could have had the same opportunity.” “We all have a time, Cam,” Matt said, “don’t feel guilty about your own successes just because I had to leave earlier.” This time, instead of a tear forming, a river flowed out of each eyelid. “It’s just not fair!” I exclaimed through the sobs, “You were supposed to have your own successes in your work, have a happy wife and children right with me. You never deserved to grow up in a house that was falling apart with an abusive father that drank too much, I mean- why you?” Matt though over my question as I unsuccessfully attempted to pull myself back together, “I was given a different set of cards than you. Its no one’s fault, we just have to play the hand we are dealt.” Matt spoke like he was one hundred years old, “Don’t feel bad about me, I’ve learned a lot since dying and I would never give up this knowledge for anything. I can’t wait to show you some of the great stuff I found!” He was acting like his childhood self again. “But, I miss you, I miss our adventures, I mean, you never even got to kiss a girl before, Matt!” I said. Matt’s ghostly pale face almost blushed with his evil grin again, “Actually,” he said then paused, “I kissed Marissa McClain at her parent’s Fourth of July party the summer I left.” I exploded with laughter at that. He knew I had the biggest crush on Marissa McClain back in the day, most of the boys did back then, “You did?! That’s awesome!” “I never told you because I didn’t want to upset you, but she snuck me off to the barn behind her house and we kissed for a while during the fireworks. Sorry man,” He was laughing himself. “Nothing to be sorry for,” I said still howling with laughter, “so that’s where you disappeared to.” “Yeah, I’ve got to say, I did enjoy my time,” Matt said guiltily but still smiling. “I’m sure you did, you sly dog!” it was incredible go talk to him like we were twelve years old again. “Those were good times, Cam,” Matt said in sincerity. “It was a great escape from home and it allowed my to live a fun life.” My laughter stopped as new tears streamed down my cheeks as I thought about all the old times running around the small town we lived in. “I just wish you could have lived longer, it eats me up that you had to go out the way you did and so soon,” I said. “Cameron,” Matt grabbed my shoulder, “that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Stop worrying about me. I’m here to let you know, that there is no animosity or grudges held against you. We all go at one point and you have to cherish the good times. You taught me to enjoy life. You were the one that showed me how to have a good time and forget about anything bad that was happening at home.” “But-“ I began. “No, but, Cameron,” Matthew said sternly, “You need to get over this guilt or it’s going to kill you.” He stood up from the bench, “Enjoy your life and don’t dwell on the past. I’m enjoying myself. I want to see you do the same. Can you do that for me?” “I’ll try, Matthew,” I promised through my tears. “I’ll keep an eye on you along with your other family up here, you’ll see me again one day,” Matthew’s form disappeared with a final, “Enjoy.” Spoken in the wind. I walked back to my house in a daze. The sky was showing the signs of illumination before the sun came up. I met wife in bed, who was awake now. “Honey, what’s wrong?” she asked with concern. I could only shake my head as I bawled my eyes out into her shoulder. I let all of my regrets and self-hate go away with those tears. Though, I still missed Matt every day, I learned to enjoy life and the nightmares ended. Sometimes, I could even detect a hint of him watching over me.
I lasted about three years as a substitute teacher. I would fill in at this one school just about every day. The school was mostly made up of a minority population and the school was in a very impoverished area. It was nearly impossible for the school to keep permanent teachers. The kids really suffered from the lack of having a consistent teacher knowing the kid’s quirks and their idiosyncrasies. Also, unfortunately the teacher was the only assurance for some of the kid’s to see their basic needs were being met. I remember seeing the despair in a seven year old’s face, then I had to try to figure out how to make that kid feel comfortable for at least a short while. Sometimes just by giving the kid a snack would help. Other times nothing would help, because the kid was digesting whatever insanity they faced the previous night at home. I really wanted the kids to feel safe and it broke my heart seeing them unkempt, nervous, emotionally unavailable.... Some of the kids were so quiet that they were almost forgotten. The “bad kids” instinctually knew in order to get their basic needs met they needed to do something to garner attention. I class hopped all year long, but I would spend a few days at a time in each class. I finished my first year and had a sense of fulfillment that I made it through the whole year. The summer went by fast and the next year started. Now I felt like a seasoned veteran and I picked up on more trends of the school and the kids. I did the same thing as the previous year. I went from class to class. I was a little disappointed that some of the kids moved onto private schools or were switched to being home schooled, but ultimately it may have been in their best interest. A few weeks into the school year all of the kids knew who I was and I knew them. About half way through the year two of the students were taken out of the school to be home schooled. I learned this when I would take roll call and there names were crossed out from the list. I was surprised the two kids were being home schooled, because the two kids had issues with their basic needs being met. I tried to give the parents the benefit of the doubt because sometimes you could put the kid’s favorite food in front of them and they still wouldn’t eat it or you could hand them a tooth brush and unless you wanted to force their mouths open they weren’t going to brush their teeth. These two kid’s were somewhere in the middle, where they weren’t the worst as far as there needs not being met and they weren’t the best. They were quiet and just kind of blended in. I really couldn’t focus on the two that left, because I needed to focus on the kids still present and the problems at hand. However. I was left pondering about the two kids who were dis enrolled and left under the pretenses of being “homeschooled”. I was surprised their parents or guardians actually took the time to enroll them in a homeschool program considering what those two kids looked like on an average day. Once again the school year was winding down and unfortunately the summer flew bye and I was back at school. It was really cute that the kids remembered me from the previous year and I remembered them as well. I also wasn’t shocked that the school from grades one through eight only had one permanent teacher. There were multiple home room’s for each grade as well. The school did a horrible job at teacher recruitment and none of the new grads wanted to step foot in the school because of the impoverished area. I got used to parking my car up the street by an abandoned house that had no windows, but a kid right out of college couldn’t see past that or the virtual minimum wage pay. The only consistency the school had was the principle. She had been there for years. She had no time for nothing. she would interview one counselor / social worker only to see them leave after three months. The principle was always on the phone putting out whatever fire that needed to be addressed. It was so bad that I had to create my own lesson plans as a substitute teacher and the principle would blindly approve whatever I wrote down. The school was just complete and utter chaos. once again, right before christmas break during roll call, for one of the third grade classes, I discovered one of the kid's had dis enrolled from the school. Almost, the same MO, where the kid was one of those kid's that just blended in at this school, but would have every government run agency swarming to ensure the kid was ok at any suburban school. I checked the school records and the kid's reason for being dis enrolled was "homeschool" and once again I thought it was really odd a guardian would take that initiative. I wanted to learn the process for a kid to be enrolled as "homeschool". I learned that it only required that the guardian fill out the government form and for the school to keep a copy of the form. I managed to go to where the records were stored for the school. I found the "homeschool" forms for the two kids last year and the one kid this year. I was surprised on how formal the "homeschool" forms were filled out. i was expecting misspelled words with horrible penmanship. I made a copy of the forms because I had learned how horrible it was to retrieve anything from the school. Everything got lost or misplaced. During, the Christmas break I decided to follow up on the three students. The "homeschool" forms had their phone number's and their addresses. I felt extremely awkward and what I was doing wasn't completely legal. I wanted to avoid calling because what was I going to say "I was your kid's substitute teacher and ...". So what I did was I parked my car close to where the address listed was given on the form, which was also extremely awkward and besides the fear of being in my car in the neighborhood, I felt like everyone was watching me. I tried to give the illusion that I was in my car for a reason. I was always reading something with the hopes that the locals thought I was some kind of local authoritative figure or perhaps even that I was working undercover, which I sort of was doing. I sat in that car all day and I didn't see the “homeschool” kid at all. I did see a few grown ups come and go but I didnt see the kid. I decided to go to the next kid's house address that was listed on the "homeschool" form and pretty much with the same outcome and then onto the last kid's house with once again the same outcome. I just left it at that and the Christmas break was just about over. After, the first day back I decided to muster enough courage and actually call the "homeschool" kids. Two of the lines were disconnected and one of the lines rang and rang with no one answering. I couldn't just drop this at this point. I had to take it to the next step and and knock on the kid's door. I was beyond petrified on the reception that I would receive at the front door and to be honest some of the adults who I saw leaving the homes were down right scary. So, after school with my school ID in hand, I walked to the first "homeschool" address. I waited a minute before I knocked on the door to talk myself up and muster enough courage that I needed. I knocked and an adult woman answered the door and said "what do you want". I mumbled a few words of who I was and then asked how the kid was doing? she looked at me and said "There ain't no kid here" then I said "do you remember the last time you saw ... " she raised her voice "like I said there ain't no kid here" and slammed the door. I decided to go to the next two "homeschool" house's and once again I basically got the same responses. The next week at school I nonchalantly asked the other kid's if they seen or heard from the "homeschool" kids and each one pretty much said that before the kids left for "homeschool" the only time they saw them was during school time. So, now I was at a dead end. I had taken notes of all the steps I had taken. I reexamined the "homeschool" forms and pretty much saw what I already knew. The form's penmanship's were very similar. From reading hundreds of handwritten papers, I learned that everyone has there own style and even if you were to try to conceal a particular way you wrote the letter "A" eventually you would slip up in a word and revert back to how you would typically write. That's what I noted in the "homeschool" forms. They were all different but if you looked hard enough you would see similarities. I dug a little deeper and went to the main office to see if anyone recalled what guardian dropped off the "homeschool" form. I asked the guidance counsellor and she said "I just started two weeks ago ..." and then I just tuned her out. I was just sick of hearing that. At the end of the day, I reluctantly went to the principle. I knew what I was doing wasn't by the rules. It was probably border line illegal. I remember the principle's hair that day was in every direction and she just looked like she was at her last wit. I explained to her what I was doing regarding the "homeschool" kids and I basically asked her if she had any ideas. She didn't say a word and basically just shook her head no looking completely defeated. Then, the next week started and I went to the office and to drop off my lesson plan. I just happened to see a very poised woman who had to be in her early 70's talking to the guidance counselor. She caught my attention because she mentioned the word "homeschool". The woman had a very calming voice like a very liked kindergarten teacher. She was dressed very nicely and just overall looked very pleasant. almost like the Grandma you wished more of these kids would have. I finally felt relieved and a bit embarrassed. I rarely saw the kid's parents / guardians especially being the substitute teacher. But at least now, I was actually able to see the process with my own eyes. Now it's springtime and I'm doing my typical rotation throughout the school. One day I was doing roll call and one of the kids I saw a line through their name meaning the kid was no longer at the school. I remembered that kid. Pretty much the same MO as the previous "homeschool" kid's as being Quiet, emotionally not available, ... Basically, if I didn't see the kid's name with a line through it then I wouldn't know the kid was gone nor would anyone else. I went down to the records office to see where the latest kid went to. I found the file and saw the “homeschool” form. I looked at the form and once again the penmanship didn’t seem to fit the kid’s suspected home life. Once again, I saw the same pattern with the other three. The penmanship on the forms were almost intentionally made to look different. Once more, I was able to match the date on the form with the chance encounter with the elegant looking woman in her 70’s I had in the near past. Something just wasn’t right. I spoke to the guidance counselor and amazingly she was still employed, but she really had no additional information regarding the woman or the kid. Then, I pretty much followed the same steps as the previous three kids and came out with pretty much the sam results. The kid wasn’t at the address and the phone was disconnected. At this point, I really wanted answers and just some assurance the “homeschool” kids were ok. I thought to myself Let’s face it, it’s rare for one of the kids to move on to bigger and better things it does happen but it’s rare. If the four kids were dis enrolled because the parents moved and transferred schools, I would have been like ok that’s understandable and then I could just follow up with the new school’s if necessary. But with the last “homeschool” kid it was just literally days since the kid left to be homeschooled and no one at the address given on the form had any idea what I was talking about. I checked the initial school records for the “homeschool” kid’s when they first enrolled at the school. The forms were typically half hazardly filled out with a lot of information missing. A lot of times, the family members didn’t want to give away information because of whatever illegal activities they were involved in. The school rarely if ever checked if the kid was in the right school district. I'm not sure if it was because of just being disorganized or if the district really didn't want to cause any barriers for the kids to attend school. At this point, I had to go the police. I showed up at the police station and waited around for a couple of hours. Finaly, one of the detectives met with me. I could tell he was only half listening to me. I think when I said "substitute teacher" was when the detective became disinterested in what I had to say. I showed him the "homeschool" forms, which he didn't even look at. He said "where were you trained to decipher handwriting?" I kind of muttered in embarrassment. He must of looked at his watch 10 times for the five minutes I spoke with him. Eventually, I left and there was no business card given to me. He didn’t even say give me a call if you find anything else it was basically get out and thank you for wasting my time. I felt like I was punched in the gut. Nobody cared in what I found or had to say. It was the weekend and I had time to gather my thoughts. I have only been at this school for a short time and was able to pick up the "homeschool" pattern of kids basically disappearing. I said to myself there must be countless more “homeschool” kids possibly in this school alone. Unfortunately, the school didn't have a report, I could run to see what kids were dis enrolled as "homeschool". So I thought and I thought then I realized the only way was going to be looking through yearbooks. I decided to focus on the years and the grades of the kids I encountered and still should have been in the school. I took as many of the yearbooks I could from the School's basement department. I flipped through yearbooks and quickly ruled out any of the kids who were still enrolled at the school and I highlighted any kid that I didn't recall seeing Of the kids I didn't recall seeing, I found about 20 kids. Then, with the 20 names I painstakingly looked up the names in our schools record department. From the records, about 15 of the kids were listed as "transferred". I actually called the school's of the 15 kids and the kid’s were all fine. Then with the remaining five kids, I found something extremely unsettling. I saw the "Homeschool" form's in each one of the five kid's folders. I now had five additional "homeschool" forms. Two of the forms it looked like the writer either felt brazen or nearly just got sloppy. Though two of the forms were about five years apart, the penmanship had way to many similar characteristics. I figured I had to follow up with each of the five additional forms. As I suspected, at each address I went to listed on the "homeschool" form, no one had any idea what I was talking about. At this point, I had my folder with all the copies I made and all of my notes. I demanded to meet with the principal and she made available a time and date. I showed up tobthe meeting with my evidence in hand. I explained again to the principal what I uncovered and the additional five "homeschool" kids who had disappeared. She listened to what I had to say and then she said "who told you to do this?" I replied "Do what?" She said "snoop around files ... call parents ... who told you to do this?" I said no one. Then she said I violated multiple school violations and I wasn't allowed back in the school. She made me hand over whatever copies I made and whatever notes I had. I was now out of work. The school year ended. I worked in a retail store that summer that was just down right depressing. I figured with the new school year starting maybe I could find work at a different school in a different district. The school I applied for was just as equally as bad as the previous one. As long as I had a bachelors degree and no criminal record, then they would hire you on the spot as a substitute teacher. This year was going to be different. I was there to teach and to be nice to the kids and that's it. I was not going to be a detective, that was over and done with. The school year was breezing by and I was used to going from class to class. I wasn't looking for any patterns. I just did my assignment and then went home. Then it happened. I saw that elegant woman in her 70's. She was talking to the guidance counsellor at this new school. My head was in a different dimension. It was like seeing your dead grandmother. I was in complete shock. I just stood there. She had the same calming voice. She was dressed impeccably but not overly showy to draw attention to herself. I was frozen. I could tell she didn't recognize me. I saw her give the "homeschool" form to the guidance counselor and then she proceeded to exit. I snapped back from my shocked state and I popped my head into the principle's office and said "i'm not feeling well I have to go." Then, I quickly got in my car and I followed her. I drove for nearly two hours and eventually. she pulled into one of the nicest houses I have ever seen in one of the most richest neighborhoods that I had ever been in. She had a gate that opened and closed electronically. I stayed on the road for a little while just to take notes. There was zero evidence of any kids being on her property, but I did notice a pool company was servicing her pool. Eventually, I saw the pool van leave and I was able to get the name of the company. That same day, I called the same pool company and applied for a job. The pool company was desperate and I lied and told them that I was experienced and I owned my own business for years. All I wanted was to get the company's pool van so I could get through that woman's gate. Within two days the pool company gave me a van to drive and an assignment of where to go. It was a Saturday, so I didn’t have to worry about missing school. I ignored the pool company’s assignment and went right to that woman's house. I got to the gate and used the intercom and explained that we forgot to do something the previous day. She opened the gate and I proceeded to the pool area. I stood by the pool and was just trying to take in everything and was just looking for any type of clues for anything. I knew something just wasn’t right. I still saw no kids so she wasn’t a philanthropist trying to help underprivileged kids. I must of stood by the pool for a half an hour in my company issued pool uniform. The woman eventually came out and very cordially welcomed me. She just had one of those very calming voices and she was very hospitable. I made up some mumble jumble problem with the pool and then I started to do some small talk to try to get any information about her. I said “I’m going to try to get this pool fixed as quickly as possible so I could visit my child in the hospital”. I said that so she would say something like “yeah I’m a mother” or “l’m a grandmother”. I then went on and made up a story about my child having special needs and how involved I was in this non-profit agency and she had absolutely no follow up responses. It was like kids to her was a completely different planet. She maintained her nice demeanor the whole time and brushed off anything I said or was completely sympathetic to me for working in a non-profit company. I knew I didn’t have much time left and I really had no evidence of anything. Then, I realized I had to say something. I said “well let me get this done because I don’t want to have to drive two hours back here from ...” and I actually gave the school’s name. Then, I witnessed something that I have never seen before. I observed a sheep turn into a wolf within a blink of an eye. The cordialness was gone. She said “say that again.” She didn’t say it in her typical voice. It was like she just wanted me to confirm what I said. So I reiterated the school’s name. We both looked at each other and I said “who are you?” She just continued to look at me and I said “who are you?” She took off her wig and she now looked like someone in her 50’s. She gave me a death stare. She knew I uncovered her. I said “where are those kids?” She didn’t say “I have no idea what your talking about?” or “excuse me?” She then got on the phone, which she pulled from her blouse pocket and on the phone she said “come right now” and she looked directly at me the whole time like she was going to kill me. At that point, I felt extremely uncomfortable and thought I have all the information I needed. I got into the pool van and I manually forced the front gate opened and left. I was a little relieved that my hunch was right but I was also extremely afraid. Whoever that woman was she knew where I worked and even if I quit my job the school had my information on file. After returning the pool van I headed back home. I really needed a few days to compile everything I had and come up with a plan. I actually waited a week and decided to return to that woman’s house. I was shaking during the whole two hour car ride. From about a block away, I could smell the familiar scent of burnt ambers. As I pulled closer to her house, I realized that the house was completely burnt down. Nothing but ashes. I saw one of the neighbors jog bye and I asked what happened. Based on the story and the date the neighbor gave me, I realized the woman or somebody else torched the house right after I had left the week before. I asked the neighbor if he knew the woman who lived in the house and he said besides exchanging casual greetings he said he knew nothing. He said the house was so completely engulfed in flames there was no way of telling if she died in the fire. I never returned to that school or any other teaching job. All I had was a list of those “homeschool” kids. Months went bye and I figured would never hear anything again regarding those kids. Then, I was scrolling through the internet and I came across this court case, where a jail house rat was looking for leniency based on information she had. The jailhouse rat said that her cell mate confided to her that she sold her kid for drug money and she knew horrible things were going to happen to her kid, but she didn’t care because all she cared about was getting drugs. Continuing to read the story from the jailhouse rat, I started to dry heave, then I actually vomitted because the jailhouse rat mentioned the principal from the original school was involved in the child selling scheme.
The Addendum begins the night she apologized to you for breaking your heart. The wound was still open then: despite what you told yourself, you had loved her, a little bit. As you remember it, Kate’s late and you’re drunk. The pizza parlor is nearly empty, or at least the beer has made it seem that way. Leaning forward over the table in huddles, the other diners speak quietly, and you note their sad but tacit understanding that this is not a trendy place to be on a Saturday night. A waitress with a midwestern accent comes and takes your order, and there is an awkward silence while you read the menu. You order another pint of beer and a pizza for you and Kate to share. While you wait, you fiddle with a pen: you’re nervous, this night had been a failure. The Addendum is your second chance. The Addendum, as you have decided to call it, adds significance where you think there is some. There is something missing, something to do with your understanding of your relationship with her. This search for understanding brought you to the night in the pizza parlor: the night that she had tried to apologize, and you had brushed her away in hurt. The two of you had walked off, sad and broken. You were unwhole. You are unwhole, still, but this night holds the key to forgiveness. So you’ve decided to revisit the conversation at the pizza parlor and say what you think was left unsaid. To you, there is a catharsis in adding meaning. You used to ask yourself why you still think of her. Why, even now, the urge to write about her is just as strong as when your memory was hazy with fetishism and pain. You think you know the answer, but, just as saying something out loud gives it substance, it needs to be written down. Looking across the dim room, you see her standing in the doorway. She has bangs now. They suit her well. Seeing you, the look she gives - one of compassion and mercy - makes you feel defenseless, even as she approaches the table. She squeezes into the other side of the booth, and there is a moment of silence because you’re drunk and you know she is going to apologize. Several moments pass before you break the silence. “Do you remember the first time we met?” “You know that’s not why we’re here.” “It was on the beach. Imagine this,” you say, as if into thin air. “My mom had just told me that I’d have to pay for my own tuition. She couldn’t care for both me and Solstice. He was too much for a single mom, with all the drugs and whatnot. I don’t blame her, but I’m nineteen at the time. Can barely cook, can barely take care of myself. And the first person I see is you. You were painting the birds, those little white ones that scurry along the sand. Can barely fly.” “Listen. I’m sorry. I- ” “-They were snowy plovers. That’s what they were called. And I remember how abstract your paintings were. How you seemed to be able to capture a single feeling from blotches of paint. I think it was, like, vulnerability. Because they were vulnerable don’t you think?” “Yeah, they are. But I didn’t mean to bring you here to talk about the time we first met. I really hurt you, and goddammit I’m trying to apologize.” And Kate grabs your hand, and there’s nothing you can do except, for the first time, listen. “There’s no need to apologize.” “I know,” she says quickly, then catches herself, “Scratch that, I do need to apologize.” “It’s alright.” “No. It’s not alright, it was reckless of me to hurt you in the way I did. I knew I could never love you, but I led you on anyway.” “You didn’t know what you wanted. It’s alright,” you say, looking down with a sad smile. She stares at you, her eyes stubborn but tender. After some time, she sniffs a bit and says, “There was a time when I saw you sitting on the couch. I already knew that I would never love you back, but you had just said something funny but also sad, and I remember, that at that moment, I wanted to hold your hand.” She smiles a bit. You sit back in silence, pulling your hand away from her. Taking a bite of a slice, and thinking, you let the time drag on in a lazy drawl while she waits. You decide to go off-script; about to change how the conversation ends because this night had been the end of things. The two of you had walked off hurt, never to speak again. Things shouldn’t have been that way. With The Addendum, it would not be that way: you’re about to let her in on the secret. You look around the parlor for a second, then, leaning over the table, you begin. “It’s been years since we’ve last spoken, but I think about you a lot. Much more than I should, I think.” You pause to let what you’re saying to register with her. She looks away, so you lean in further, your voice lowering when you continue. “I keep coming back to you, back to this conversation. Every character I write has a trace of you, and I think it stems from the same reason why you feel the need to apologize. Kaitlyn O’Connor, do you want to know why I write about you? There was a lot of resentment that I had to work through - frustration, but it was wrong to direct it at you.” Tears are in her eyes. “But you were right. It was reckless, and I did the wrong thing.” “You couldn’t have known what the right thing to do was. And maybe this Addendum, what I’m writing right now, is just a form of forgiveness, but I think there’s something more that you showed me tonight, and it has to do with the pain you’re in now. Why are you in pain?” Slowly, she says, “Because, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You grab her hand and say, “I understand. Kate, what you did, it’s so... painfully human.” What comes after this, you don’t know. Perhaps there is still some pain to be felt, but this is how you think of that night - how you think of her. In a way, you love her: she taught you understanding. She taught you empathy. You write about her because she is human, because she felt pain at causing someone else pain. You wish you could tell her that you forgive her for it, but she’s long gone from your life. Maybe the sad truth is that this story will forever be an addendum to what actually happened. Something for you to think about - sometimes. And maybe she still thinks of you as well.
There are few places Belinda Blackwell likes to lay down to rest more than upon her husband’s chest. He hadn’t been expecting her. Belinda hadn’t been expecting to be home so soon, either- what with the unpredictability of her father’s illness demanding open schedules from his children, someone on-call at all times lest the old man die without one of them there to hold his hand. When Oscar had come to join them a week early-- something about a case closing timely and a stiffening in his shoulders when Belinda enquired about her sister-in-law-- she pounced on the opportunity to bid her brother and father adieu and return early to the husband she so desperately missed. Finding Etienne still tangled in their bed covers, she had stripped down to her chemise and crawled atop him slowly. He had thrashed hard upon stirring and finding her there, his eyes foggy with confusion and fright, but she had kissed his face and rubbed his arms, whispering “It’s me, it’s only me” until he relaxed back into the sheets. Now they rest quietly, teetering on the line between half-asleep and half-awake, Belinda’s ear pressed to Etienne’s chest to hear the steady thump, thump, thump of his heart. “Well, I’m glad Oscar will be with him,” Etienne says appeasingly, having listened in silence to her stories from London. “Mmm. I think it will do him as much good as father. He seemed like he could use some time away.” “Away from what?” “I’m not sure...” Belinda plays with a loose thread on Etienne’s nightshirt. “I feel bad saying away from his wife, but all signs point to it being the truth. He seemed uncomfortable when I brought her up, but he wouldn’t tell me anything specific.” Etienne’s hand tightens where it rests on the nape of her neck. “Then I hope that time will serve them both well.” “I do, too.” She tilts her head to observe the strong profile of her husband’s nose. “And you?” she teases, “Has time away from me served you well?” “All I managed to accomplish was missing my wife.” He tucks his chin to look down at her. “Though I have been doing some research in your absence.” “Yes, I’ve noticed.” The entire walk to their chambers was an obstacle course of books and journals on every table top and cast aside in the middle of the hallway like he had thrown them down as he was walking. And before that, there was the cook coming to greet her in the foyer with concerns of her husband’s increasingly strange demands while Belinda was away- his supposed need for rabbit hearts and pitchers of salt water, bunches of fresh rosemary left to dry on the windowsill for exactly thirty six hours and demands of her and the housemaid to not disturb him when his doors are closed, certain tasks he’d undertaken where it was vital he not be interrupted. For the sake of goodwill, she gave them both the rest of the morning off. Belinda knows of her husband’s beliefs-- glimpses into a world of ritual and wardship, studies of augury and communion and necromancy that he prefers she not get too close to. Etienne shifts underneath her, and she reads discomfort in his movements. She strokes a hand down his cheek so he knows not to be ashamed of it all on her behalf. “What has prompted it? Have I come to see you while I was gone?” He’s told her, too, of the spirit that haunts him- the one that looks just like her, that follows him around the house and watches him from doorways and windows and stares at him unblinking, stares at him like he’s done something unforgivable. Belinda has never seen herself, and Etienne claims the spirit has never appeared while she’s in the house. She fretted for days over having to leave him when word of her father’s illness arrived, knowing what it might invite back into Etienne’s life, but there was no getting around the trip and besides, Etienne had sworn his confidence that that time was behind them. It would appear that he’d spoken too soon. His eyebrows tick up at the middle, like he’s attempting to contain his emotion. “I thought it was over,” he whispers. “It’s been so long. I feel like a fool, letting my guard down as I have been.” A deep ache swells behind Belinda’s ribcage. She squeezes Etienne tighter. “You’ve been happy. It’s not foolish to hope. What have you found?” “There is a ritual. One for banishment. I have been completing the prerequisite steps over the past week.” “Oh?” Belinda struggles to understand. “Yes. There is only one step left to do. It won’t be easy.” His fingers flex against her back, a signal that he is thinking hard. He seems to choose his words carefully. “The act won’t be physically challenging, but I fear the toll it will have on my heart and constitution.” Belinda frowns. “It sounds taxing. Are you sure this is the only way?” She considers not for the first time bringing up the possibility of relocation- abandoning this home that torments him so in favor of a fresh start, a life away from paranoia and body doubles she can’t see. Before she can muster up the right words, he’s saying, “It will be worth it. I want to do it. I want my Belinda to be the only Belinda in my life.” She smothers a grin against the column of his throat. “I’d quite like that as well.” Etienne is quiet for a long moment before speaking again. “I won’t pretend it isn’t terrible. But it is necessary, too. I want my wife to have a good life, and I need to be better to give one to her. I need to be rid of this.” A strong rush of affection surges through Belinda. Oh, she loves this man something awful. She’d follow him into Hell. “Then you will be brave. And you will be successful.” She rises and falls with the depth of Etienne’s answering sigh. “You sound so much like her,” he mutters. “Like who?” she asks. “Like Belinda.” Belinda’s thumb falters where it was rubbing a soothing path along his collarbone. “What?” A giggle bubbles out of her, confusion mingling with sleepy amusement. “It’s uncanny. You’ve never been this good before.” He doesn’t seem to register her stiffening, or he does and ignores it. “You’ve never come to me like this, lay upon me like this. You must know what I’m going to do.” “Etienne-” “It won’t work.” Etienne raises his voice, speaking over her. “I won’t let it.” Belinda lifts her head to look her husband in the eyes. A coldness cracks through her when she sees the resolution in his face. “Etienne, I don’t...” Her voice breaks off into a scared whisper. “It’s me.” He shakes his head. “My wife knows me better than this. She tells me when to expect her. You’ve misjudged. I know you’re not really her this time.” Belinda curses her attempt at being romantic. He thinks she's haunting him, not surprising him. She's never been so near him when he's in the middle of one of these supposed spectral visits. It's sobering. It's frightening. She tries to sit up, and grunts when Etienne uses his hand on her neck to ease her back down again. His hold is strong- not enough to hurt, but in her shock, she goes easy. Etienne’s mouth is at her ear. “My wife is not to be home for a few days yet. By then, all of this will be dealt with and done. It will be like it never happened. She won’t have any part of it. She will not have such a weak, nervous husband.” His voice shakes. “I will keep her safe.” It’s all the warning Belinda gets before the knife is plunged into her back. She jerks violently. Pain whips through her, fast and brutal. It’s like someone has dumped a full basin of water over her. No. No, the sensation is real and it’s not water, it’s blood, hot and wet and slick and spreading fast, sticking her chemise to her skin. She frantically shoves herself up, grappling for a place on her back she can’t reach, too low for the arm she stretches over her shoulder, too high for the one she stretches under. She arches, incapacitated by the pain, her mouth opening and closing like a fish thrown onto rocks, gasping into air that isn’t helping her situation, feeling inches from death. The knife digs into her shifting skin- or is her skin digging into the knife?- the awful, writhing, sawing sensation ripping through her. She's never been stabbed before, but this cannot be normal. Flashes of rabbit hearts and salt come to her, and no, of course this isn't normal. Not by Etienne's design. She hunches, trying to scramble away from the pain, but there’s nowhere to go that it doesn’t follow. She shoves her face into the pillow beside her husband’s stunned face, her hands fisting at the sheets. Etienne grips her hips tight. “...Belinda?” She can only answer with a whimper. She’s trembling so hard she can barely open her mouth anymore for how hard her teeth chatter. “No.” Etienne pushes against her shoulders. She doesn’t understand what he wants. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. “Dear God, no.” His touch moves to her face, and he wrenches her head back with his hands shoved up into her hair. “Belinda.” He jams his fingers under her jaw, ignoring her choking, feeling for something. Upon finding it, his face goes white. “Belinda.” Again, more urgently, wrestling to sit them both upright. “ Belinda.” It’s all coming to her in flashes- the horrible red smear on Etienne’s cheek, the wetness that’s dripping down the back of her legs, the sudden realization that she can’t support herself. She slumps against Etienne. Dazedly, she thinks of her parents, of all the men they’d wanted her to marry. A parade of surgeons and doctors with their deep pockets and upturned noses. Professionals who would know what to do with a gaping wound, professionals she had rejected for the love of a poet, her poet, who had nothing to offer but a quiet life and endless adoration. Etienne cradles her against him, rocking them back and forth. He's sobbing. “Why are you here? You weren’t supposed to be here. I thought you were the specter. Please believe me. Oh God, please forgive me.” He sounds wrecked. Belinda wants to comfort him, but she can’t pick her head up. Then darkness clouds her vision, and she can’t do anything at all anymore. -- -- -- Belinda blinks awake. The ground is uncomfortable beneath her back. What is she doing on the ground? Etienne is kneeling by her side, head in his hands. There’s something red all over his hands. Belinda pushes herself up, reaching out to touch Etienne’s knee. He jolts at the barest brush of her fingers. “Belinda.” He sounds relieved. He yanks her forward and she goes crashing against his chest. Why is his heart beating so fast? That red substance on his hands is getting all over her now, staining her crisp white chemise. Why does it smell so strongly of metal? Her head feels fuzzy. Really, why is she on the ground? A moment ago, she was laying in bed, gossiping with Etienne about her brother’s marriage. Did she fall out of bed? Did she hit her head? Is that why everything feels so... Off? “I’m sorry...” she murmurs slowly. “I'm not sure what happened. Did I fall?” “You...” Etienne is shaking. She must have really scared him. “I fixed it. It’s alright.” “Fixed what? How long was I out?” “It doesn’t matter. You’re alright. It’s all alright now.” Belinda frowns. “Etienne, is my head bleeding?” He winces. “What? Why are you asking me that?” “Blood.” She can’t think of anything else to say. She should get a cloth, something to clean him with. She pushes away from him, bracing against the edge of the mattress to stand. Her hand sinks into something cold and wet. Before she can search for the source of it, Etienne pitches forward, grabbing her by the cheeks and pulling her to look back at him. It makes her head spin. “Don’t look,” he says. He sounds gravely serious. Belinda’s heart stutters. “What?” “Don’t look.” Like a petulant child, Belinda can’t stop herself. She’s wriggling out of his grip before he can stop her again, ignoring his cry, turning to look at herself laying dead in a mess of blood on the bed. Herself. On the bed. Blood. All air leaves her. She jerks to her feet, stumbling backwards. She can’t look away. She’s just laying there- her hair stuck to her forehead and her chemise soaked through with red. Her eyes are still open. Behind her, Etienne remains on the ground. His voice is low, thick with grief. “There was an accident. I did what I had to. To fix it.” “What...” Her voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away. She doesn’t even know what to ask. She can’t look away. “I didn’t know if it would work. I had only read about the ritual. I’ve never attempted it. But the journals said I could comb through time, and bring something back with me." He looks up. "I brought you.” Belinda’s stomach turns. Etienne's face is wet with tears. Where is she? “You brought me... From the past?” “From before the accident. Yes. It was the only way. You were already gone--” his voice breaks, and he hangs his head. His shoulders are shaking. Belinda looks at him. She looks at herself. “But... What of the Etienne in the past? Are you the same as him?” “Our paths have diverged,” he says gravely. “Well. Then. What of that Etienne? Is he all alone now? How must he feel, having just had his wife taken from him?” Etienne shudders, his eyes darkening. “I know how he feels.” For some reason, that’s what does Belinda in. Her stomach lurches and she stumbles to the lavatory, shoving the door closed behind her before retching into the sink. Nothing comes up. It makes her feel worse. She looks up into the mirror. Yes, that’s her face staring back at her with wide eyes and tangled hair. But yes, that was her face, too, staring back at her from the bed. It feels like dying just to think of it. She can’t imagine what dying must really feel like, can’t imagine how anything can be worse than this terror that’s seizing her insides. Etienne’s voice comes from the other side of the door, muffled and pleading. “Please. I didn’t want this. All I wanted was you.” He nudges at the door, like a dog desperate to get in. She staggers over to open it. Etienne is still on his knees, still on the ground. When the door is open wide enough, he drags himself forward with his fingernails digging into the wood floor. He bends low to kiss her ankles. She closes her eyes tight at the sensation. “My love. My life.” His tears drip onto her foot. “I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I hadn’t done it.” What did you do? A voice in her head begs her to ask. And somewhere deeper, somewhere darker, somewhere inside her that already knows-- somewhere she can’t reach, is asking, Which part do you regret? -- -- -- They bury Belinda in the garden. Belinda watches numbly while Etienne strips that other-her from the bloody chemise, re-dressing her in something soft and clean. He gathers her hair and fastens it into a braid to keep it off her face, and his touch is so gentle and reverential that this time when Belinda excuses herself to retch into the sink, she throws up the entire contents of her stomach. Belinda gets dressed herself, tugging on a gown, though her hands shake so hard that Etienne has to help her with the fastenings. She follows behind Etienne and stares at her own face, lax where it rests against her husband’s-- their husband’s?-- shoulder as he carries her down the stairs and out the backdoor. Is that what she looks like when she sleeps? They leave the bloody mattress as it is, for the housemaid to find. “We’ll say you were with child,” Etienne had said, not meeting her gaze. “They won’t ask questions if they believe you lost something.” Etienne is right, as he tends to be. When Belinda retires inside hours later, the silent vigil over the little upturned patch of dirt beneath her favorite tree becoming too much for her to bear, the housemaid, Miss Clarke, is already waiting for her, wringing her hands in the hallway. All it takes is just enough performance of Belinda’s averted eyes and a hand pressed to her stomach for Miss Clarke's face to drop. She coos sympathetically, fussing over Belinda so tenderly that Belinda is weeping before she can hold herself back. “We buried her in the garden,” Belinda croaks. “All by yourselves, ma’am?” Miss Clarke asks, sounding surprised. “We couldn’t bear to leave her.” Belinda says, and now she’s telling the truth. Then, she tells another. “I don’t know what happened.” -- -- -- Belinda looks out from their bedchamber, trying to ignore the sharp smell of vinegar and lemon, the bed stripped of its linens behind her, the way the mattress has been flipped. She watches Etienne as the sky goes from blue to orange. Hours pass and still he remains, bent over the grave of his dead wife while his wife watches over him. After what feels like an eternity, he rises, stretching his arms. He turns, shielding his eyes against the setting sun to look back up at the house. Belinda tries not to notice how he flinches when he spots her, feeling like a specter in the window.
Reedsy Contest #235: Springtime Flowers 4. Start your story with one character pointing out the first sign of spring to another. Spring By Mail I’m a pretty lucky kid. Nana and Gramps live just outside of town and I can walk there from school. I’m welcome to visit anytime I want, so I go a lot. Home’s a bit rocky with the folks and I don’t really fit in with the kids here. I don’t play an instrument or sports. Nana and Gramps are great. They let me drive their tractor, climb in the orchard and swim with the frogs in the pond. Sometimes Gramps and I fish. Sometimes we putter in the shop with Archie the barn cat. Gramps named him Archie for the stance he assumes when stroked. He is a friendly but scruffy orange and white beast with a very loud purr. Archie guards Gramps’ tool collection, hunts mice and sleeps on the roof of Gramps’ first car that is stored in the garage under an oil-stained tarp. Archie is not allowed in the house as Nana has a rule about farm animals. Nana thinks they’re dirty and should stay outside. She won’t even let Archie in her greenhouse, but I think Archie likes the shop just fine. Gramps is a skilled welder and sometimes we work on garden projects for Nana together. Nana is an avid gardener and a fabulous cook. I don’t think there’s anything she can’t grow or make herself. The house is full of her handiwork, knitted afghans, hooked rugs, baked goods, quilts, jams, paintings, and fresh flowers. There are always fresh flowers. Nana grows flowers all year in the greenhouse that Gramps built her. And every year she brings home multiple ribbons from the county fair. It’s no wonder that Gramps is smitten with her. But all that was before Covid, before social distancing, masks, self isolation and Nana’s trip to her sister’s house. Nana’s sister Amelia was sick and great aunt Amelia was a spinster, no husband, no kids, no one to nurse her back to health. So when Amelia called for help, Nana packed up and went, leaving Gramps with a healthy list of things to tend in her absence. Amelia’s health was serious when Nana arrived, but not grim. She was coughing a lot, spiking random fevers and really tired. The doctors said it was likely pneumonia and had started her on a course of antibiotics. But she wasn’t getting better. Her symptoms seemed to ebb but never really retreat. As Nana’s short nursing visit lengthened, Gramps became anxious to get Nana back home. A few weeks in, Gramps begged Nana to abandon the mission and leave Amelia to the professionals. News articles were cropping up about a new deadly virus and Gramps was fearful that Amelia’s symptoms were clearly identified. Gramps outlined the risks to Nana, but Nana stayed. It was her duty, she said. Gramps spent Valentine’s Day alone for the first time since he met Nana in high school. The call he received from Nana that day wasn’t the romantic greeting that he had expected. Nana had found Amelia unresponsive that morning and called an ambulance to their family home. Amelia’s breathing was shallow and she’d been admitted to the ICU at the local hospital. Nana wasn’t permitted to stay and the doctor’s prognosis wasn’t good. Nana was unsettled, but when Gramps offered to come for support, Nana declined. One way or another, she said, she’d be home soon. As Nana feared, Amelia did not recover. Nana called Gramps to tearfully break the news of Amelia’s passing. Gramps was sympathetic but urged Nana to come home, tempting her with the promise of spring planting and new flower bulbs. Nana was responsive, but there were burial arrangements to make and things to tidy up at the house before she could come home to Gramps and her flowers. Just a few more days, she said, and I’ll be home again. Amelia’s funeral was a small, private affair. Nana had discouraged anyone else from coming as travel risks were boldly splashing through the news. Stay home. Stay safe. Nana stood alone with the lily sprays that she’d purchased for the service. They were Amelia’s favorite. Gramps called Nana the morning after the memorial service to check Nana’s flight plan. Nana hadn’t finalized her itinerary, but admitted she was tired and ready to come home. She missed Gramps’ strong arms and firm shoulder, and though most estate items were settled, she needed to sign a few more papers with Amelia’s lawyer mid-week. She should be home by the weekend. Nana promised to let Gramps know when to pick her up as soon as she was done at the lawyer’s meeting. Gramps was relieved and refocused his energies to Nana’s ‘Honey-Do’ list, spending his time on anything having to do with Nana’s flower and gardening passions. Gramps trimmed, edged, mulched, weeded and turned compost. They weren’t chores, he told me as I pitched in, they were a welcome home gift for Nana. Early Thursday of that same week, Amelia’s lawyer called Gramps. The day before, Nana had cancelled their mid-week meeting. She wasn’t feeling well and she hadn’t felt well for a few days. She was so tired, she’d told the lawyer, perhaps they could reschedule. The lawyer urged her to seek medical advice and directed her to a nearby clinic. Nana called a cab, but when she arrived at the clinic the staff quickly arranged transport to the hospital for her. At the hospital, Nana was swiftly admitted and requested Amelia’s lawyer be notified of her situation. A kindly nurse made the call and explained to the lawyer that due to Nana’s advanced health compromises and her recent exposure to Amelia, she had been placed immediately in isolation with a suspected Covid infection. The severity of Nana’s fever and respiratory distress was dire. The patient would not be allowed visitors and would the lawyer please contact the patient’s family. He hadn’t realized how sick Nana was, the lawyer apologized to Gramps, but Nana had not survived the night. He offered to assist with any arrangements that needed to be made. Poor Gramps, he muddled through the next couple weeks sorting through the last of Amelia’s estate issues. Amelia’s lawyer was an enormous help, just as he’d promised, as travel was restricted and everything was handled by phone, fax or email. Nana was cremated and sent home to Gramps. She arrived in a pewter urn and he placed her on the fireplace mantle as he processed his goodbyes. At the same time, lock downs were mandated by the state. No unnecessary gatherings were allowed and with my father, a medical professional, there were no exceptions. A memorial service for Nana would have to wait and it was determined that I was a walking Petri dish. I was not allowed to visit Gramps. We spoke on the phone quite a bit, but it was not the same. Gramps was sad. Gramps was lonely. Gramps missed Nana more than anything. We all did. All things were not normal. My Mom took Gramps groceries once a week, whatever he asked for, but he never asked for much. She’d try to sneak in a few treats and she left everything on the porch for him. Gramps would wave out the living room window, force a weak smile and retrieve the bags after she drove down the driveway. I was not permitted to tag along. I’m not sure what Gramps did with his time during lock down, but he didn’t plant a vegetable garden. He did mow along the driveway and kept the front lawn down to a decent length, but he wasn’t much interested in flowers or any of Nana’s passions. I found myself worrying about the green house plants. Gramps would sidestep my questions about the orchids, violets and bonsai trees during our phone conversations, though once he grumbled that they would be fine. Everything in the green house was automated: the lights, the watering, the ventilation, the humidity. They’d be fine. The county fair was cancelled due to the state enforced limits on public gatherings. Gramps contacted a few fair officials who expressed their condolences about Nana and Gramps took the opportunity to sell Nana’s sheep. Gramps sold the bags of wool she’d collected too. She had wanted to learn to spin her own yarn someday, when she was old. Gramps had started making her a spinning wheel in the shop, but there was no urgency to finish it now. Gramps sold her chickens and the milk goats. I petitioned my parents to let me visit Gramps late in the summer, but my folks were steadfast against it. Mom couldn’t bear the thought of losing another parent to the pandemic, so Gramps had to stay isolated. At least, she admonished, you can talk on the phone together. My father was working long hours battling the virus in his clinic and volunteering at the nearby hospital. He was rarely home and when he was he couldn’t stop sharing the health cautions that he preached at the office. Wear your mask. Wash your hands. Keep your distance. Stay away from sick people. I read a lot of books and almost looked forward to back-to-school season. The local kids still didn’t resonate with me, but it was better than the online learning we’d been forced into last Spring. September arrived, but school openings were postponed again and again. Focusing on a lesson through Zoom was not engaging and I grew more disinterested in my studies every day. The routine was monotonous and claustrophobic. I suspected that Gramps felt the same way, trapped on the farm all alone with nothing stimulating to do and no one to share things with. The fall holidays were nonexistent for our family. Each occasion had a star on the calendar, but that was pretty much it for acknowledgement. I was too old for trick or treating, but I sure missed Nana’s mincemeat pie at Thanksgiving. There was nothing traditional about our Christmas either. All I asked for was the usual three or four day sleep over at Nana and Gramps. It had always been an annual event around New Year’s and I really wanted this one thing to be normal. Please I had begged, really, it’s the only present I want this year. The folks were still keen on the isolation thing, but Gramps stepped up and said it was the only thing he wanted for the holidays too. Surprisingly my folks relented and on New Year’s Eve they dropped me off at Gramps after dinner. There’d been a light snow fall and my folks were anxious to get home. Don’t stay up too late, my mom called out as she and my father drove away. We’ll pick you up in a couple days. Be good, she added as the tail lights receded into the brisk clear night. Gramps apologized that the spare room was still as Nana had left it. It was full of her unfinished projects. She had always promised to make it a proper guest room, but it was tradition for me to sleep on the couch. Quietly we made up the hideaway and spoke of nothing important. Gramps recognized the awkwardness and suggested we talk in the morning. I agreed. I woke to Gramps stirring about in the kitchen and Archie staring me down from the lazy boy by the fireplace. There was a crackling fire burning. It smelled familiar and comforting. Archie seemed to be enjoying it tremendously. Gramps wandered in with his coffee and stroked Archie until the old cat practically roared with pleasure. When Gramps realized I was awake, he announced that he had attempted to make sourdough pancakes. They were nothing like Nana’s, he warned, and we’d probably end up eating toast, but he’d crack open a jar of Nana’s special holiday apple butter if I wanted. Of course, I wanted! Gramps knew it was my favorite and I was happy to fetch it from the root cellar. It was where Nana had stored all her best stuff. Gramps and I spent the morning talking about happier memories, but I noticed that Gramps was shorter than I remembered as we washed the dishes together. Or was I just taller? I noted that Gramps moved older too. He was more mechanical as he reached for the dishes or his coffee and he shuffled his slippers across the linoleum. This year had aged him terribly and I realized how hard it had been for him without Nana. It was late morning before we opened the curtains and discovered that it had snowed again in the night. It had snowed quite a lot in fact and much of the winter nakedness of Nana’s gardens were draped in fresh white brightness. In years past, we would have already gathered eggs, feed the animals, cleaned stalls, milked the goats and tended to the green house plants. Nana would have cut new flowers to freshen the house bouquets and arranged them artfully about the house. Nana and I always searched for the first signs of Spring while Gramps readied the toboggan to tow me down to the mailbox to fetch the newspaper and any late holiday packages. There would be no sled ride this year, no fresh flowers and no signs of Spring. Gramps fetched his newspaper every day, so we bundled up and headed down the snowy driveway together. Nana’s dormant fruit trees stood starkly at attention on either side as we pushed downhill through the deep powder to the main road. It was magically quiet, except for the crunching of our footsteps and Gramps’ heavy breathing. No birds were singing. No wildlife was moving about. I remembered that the sled ride always seemed too short, but today the walk seemed a suspendedly long time. When we reached the mailbox at long last, Gramps retrieved his treasured newspaper and turned to go. Gramps, you forgot the mail, I reminded him. Dutifully Gramps reached into the box and began to draw out a sizable stack of mail. Look Gramps, I cried out excitedly. The first sign of Spring! Gramps looked around bewilderly. He searched the orchard trees and scanned the ground around his boots. Quizzically his eyes met mine to admit that he hadn’t found it. There Gramps, in your hand, I explained. Nana’s beloved seed catalogs. There are the first signs of Spring! Gramps' face slowly lit up with a youthful smile. So it is, he agreed and he hugged me firmly. Let’s go make some lunch and plan out this year’s vegetable garden. We can have hot cocoa with those mini colored marshmallows you like. I smiled back and returned Gramps' hug. I’m a pretty lucky kid.
Simon could feel the rough bark of the massive tree biting into the bare skin of his back as he pushed with all his might against it. He wasn't foolish enough to believe his piddling efforts had any hope of toppling it. The enormous oak had supposedly been there for over a thousand years. It's gnarled and unyielding branches had easily borne the weight of all the many supposed witches, dissidents and pickpockets who had been most unceremoniously hung from them. Their piteous fates had been doled out by a long lineage of tyrants who had ruled these lands with an unwavering lack of mercy. It was this very macabre history that made Simon's efforts far more grand than sending a tree to crash against the earth. His undertaking was to bestir a forest sprite who had long ago claimed the ancient oak as her home. The root of Simon's endeavors (pun intended) took place on a very tragic day in the boy's life, a day that would haunt his family for many years to come. He had just turned seven and was capering around the village square with all the exuberance of a child who had never known a single day of sadness. In his hands was a flute painstakingly crafted by his father, a birthday present young Simon thought to be the greatest gift anyone could ever receive. Well doted upon by his neighbors, they looked out of their windows, came out to stand upon their stoops, some even being so bold as to take a momentary break from their labors, all to watch this boy so completely given over to joy. They deeply treasured being given this rare opportunity to witness a child whose life had yet to be touched by cruelty, especially the near unrelenting cruelty so casually doled out by the despot whose castle could distantly be seen at the other end of the vale. It certainly didn't hurt that the boy seemed to somehow have mastered the instrument within a few hours of ownership. With pinpoint accuracy, he entertained his captivated audience with one well known ditty after another. Many chose to lend their voices to the familiar songs. Some even chose to caper with abandon. It was as if the child was wielding some sort of magic charm that had the power to exorcise any trace of grief or sorrow that lived in the hearts of all who listened. Just as the day was reluctantly giving way to a perfect pearlescent dusk, a maelstrom of pounding hooves could be heard galloping in their direction. Hooves had forever been the harbinger of doom to the inhabitants of the simple village, and this time was to be no exception. Mothers frantically tried to summon their children and brusquely order them to hide quietly in the cellars. Field workers quickly ascended their ladders so as to once again take up the task of filling up their already heavy baskets with nuts and apples, and most especially the tart, ruby red pears that their overlord so greatly favored. The blacksmith himself, a man as proud as he was mountainous, reluctantly took up his hammer and returned to pounding out a sword that would one day be used as a means of striking terror into the hearts of his neighbors. The well-armed squadron of guards came hurtling through the cobbled streets, the constant cracking of their whips urging on their steeds to an ever quickening pace. Occasionally one of their number would lash out at one of the cowering bystanders, taking heady delight in the cry of whosever cheek lost a thin, delicate strip of flesh. After moments that seemed like hours, they finally came to a halt at the well that marked the town's center. They leapt from their weary mounts with well practiced bravado, forming one perfect circle. Their captain, an especially crude and callous fellow, pulled out his cock and pissed into their precious water supply, laughing with as much gusto as he had the first time he had thought to do so, After he had shaken the very last drop from his member and buttoned up his breeches, he stepped forth to address the crowd that was loath to hear his words. "Peasants and simpletons all, know ye that I have come to you this day with the happiest of tidings. My fellows and I have come to take particular notice of one of you worthless chattel, and have decided that you might have what it takes to be of special service to your master. Beauty, you see, is quite the rare commodity among you toad faced lot. As such, we could not help but notice that this one budding lass has somehow managed to escape the litany of defects that plague the rest of you. So it is that I call forth one Rosie Cobbles. If the fortunate young maiden in question is not kneeling before me in a matter of seconds, I will be forced to burn down your precious mill. If I am not mistaken, without said precious mill, winter shall carry many of you off to your graves for want of sustenance. Come, come, my patience is already flagging and my men are just itching to light their torches........ Alrighty men, light em up and let the acrid smell of smoke envelop this sorry hamlet in a sweet caress." Just as the first of the guards lit up his torch and began his slow and arrogant strut towards the mill, a young maiden of unparalleled beauty arose from behind a cord of wood. In a calm and steely voice she addressed the posturing captain, "No need for flames or burning my good Sir. You and your brave men, with all your spears and axes, shall have to quench your barbaric need for amusement at another time. It simply isn't in the cards for you today." She then strode toward the captain with an unmistakable dignity, not so much as a single tremble to belie her fears. With a cutting, sarcastic grace she knelt before the man, a man whose hand had gone quiveringly to the hilt of his sword, Rather than demurely bow her head, as was custom with this oaf, she chose to meet his eye with a brazen look of derision. "Let us not take the usual tedious route today shall we' she intoned. "No tiresome and prattling speech detailing the horrific fate that summons me, most especially not from the syphilitic lips of vermin like yourself. Instead, be so good as to save us all from this most unnecessary boredom and take me to the swineherd you answer to without delay!" The seething captain would have ordinarily never tolerated such blatant insolence, and instead, rewarded such impertinent words with a few teeth sent scattering across the cobblestones. He knew; however, that she was to be taken unharmed. Were she to be seen with even so much a bruise defiling her lovely face, it very might end up in his beheading. He, therefore, had to make do with gripping a generous fistful of her lustrous russet hair, hoisting her roughly to her feet, and throwing her into the waiting arms of his leering comrades. The cowering crowd of assembled peasants finally began to squawk in dismay at this point, squawks most vehemently felt, but ever so softly voiced. Her father, whether coward or hero, finally limped forth on a gimpy leg. The outrage that had perhaps fueled his bravery was seeing his precious daughter, well silenced with a mouthful of hay, tossed over the back end of a mule. "I beg of you good sir, she is but a child, my first born daughter. Twasn't but a month ago that we celebrated her fifteenth name day. Please, please, if you only knew how kind she is, how sweet and..." The 'couldn't care less' captain cut him off with a hearty laugh and a swift arc of his sword that opened up the front of the father's neck as easily as a wheel of cheese. The unfeeling brute then leisurely sauntered over to the mother, a red faced cow who had foolishly given herself away with her unfettered screams. "My, my" intoned the captain. "what a truly hideous thing you are to have whelped such a prize. May I suggest you put an end to you keening before you meet the same fate as your poor and quickly dying beloved." This was quite enough to silence her. She had four other children to look after. That, she thought, had to take precedence over the abject horror she just had the great misfortune to witness, It was then that the newly seven Simon ran up to stand bravely in front of his mother, somehow managing not to slip upon the copious blood of his father along the way. In a terribly devastated and futile rush of breath, he attempted to beg, threaten and cajole the captain into releasing his sister. He stomped his dirty bare feet upon the ground in syncopation with his words, hoping to sway the man with some small level of intimidation. Needless to say, the captain was far from cowed. "Supposed I failed to do as you bid" he said as he lowered his face to meet the boy's. "Shall you beat me with your flute? Perhaps go on wetting your threadbare shirt with your wretched tears as thoroughly as you've apparently wet your trousers. Then again, fingers crossed, perchance you'll throw yourself to the bottom of the well and deliver us from your infernal bleating." Little Simon, though admirably bold for a boy his age, could no longer withstand the nightmare that had so recently unfolded. His spindly shoulders slumped and he turned to bury his face into the comforting woolen folds of his mother's skirts. "There now," said the captain. "The child seems to have come to his senses and wisely conceded that reality is not his to bend or shape. Now he has the luxury of a future, as meagre as that may be in this hovel of huts. Until. of course, he makes the dire mistake of crossing me again. Then he may lay blame at no one's feet but his own." With that, he caressed the boy's cheeks with an unseemly tenderness and then turned to jump and mount his steed. His men knew to do the same in short order, and so off they rode to what may has well have been the other side of the moon. The last despairing vision they had of poor, dear Rosie Cobbles was the useless and most heartbreaking pounding of her fists against the the hind of the beast of burden who carried her. Later that evening, as the moon made it's nightly ascension into a sky that had need of it's light, the population of the town stumbled around in the familiar haze of despair. Many rightly wondered if they would one day be able to heal from one calamity, before another one crashed down upon them like the insouciant waves of an angry tide. Some took to their beds, willing themselves to sleep, a sleep not fraught with the events of the day. Others chose to drink, emptying one flagon of ale after another, if only to soften the edges of what had befallen them. Simon; however, unable to deal with the unceasing poorly stifled sobs of his mother, sought something resembling peace at the feet of the oak that towered over the roofs of the town. He was playing his flute, sounding out the notes of every maudlin ballad he had ever heard. It was just as he was about to begin his fifth rendition of the gloomiest one of all, that he heard the sultry voice of a woman sitting on a branch a good fifty feet above his head. "Dear boy, you do play so beautifully. I won't begrudgingly give you the praise you well deserve. That said, must you put me at my wit's end with one depressing dirge after another. It makes me want to leap from the highest branch and put a dramatic end to it all. Alas, I am immortal and unable to find escape so easily. Is there nothing that can be done to lift your spirits or somehow compel you to play something a bit more cheerful?" "Who are you and why must you interfere in my attempts to dispel some small measure of sorrow?" "I am known as Leafy. Yes, I realize it's not the grand name you might have been expecting. That's what comes of having a mother who has given birth to far too many children. One runs out of imagination and options. So it is that I chose to live alone and thus evade those who would wish me to bear one of their offspring. The males of my kind make a sport of it. No matter how many times they have proven how virile they are, it is somehow never enough. Ah well, that is my own sad tale. Tell me a bit of yours. Clearly there is one and perhaps I can help you in some way. My woman's intuition is telling me you crave some sort of revenge. Has someone wronged you? Would you like to see them punished? I do have powers at my disposal to lend to such an endeavor. Besides, I'm bored and find myself in need of something to do." Young Simon recounted to the forest sprite the heinous events of the day, earnestly hoping that she would be able to give life to her boasting. "Ahhhh, yes, i can quite understand your need for vengeance. Who wouldn't want to make such villains pay! Know this though boy, if you seek my help in the righting of wrongs, you too must pay a price. I don't just do such things, no matter how much such evil men may deserve it. I will make it a simple bargain though young one. I do feel a pang of pity for you after all, and there is something I know that is within your power to offer me. Every night, when sister moon is half way in her journey across the heavens, I want you to sit right where you are now and play me a score of lullabies. With your gifts, perhaps I can put insomnia in my past. You must do this every night for a thousand nights. When you have dutifully marked down the nights of your servitude to zero, I will abet you in a revenge that will be the stuff of legends. Do we have a deal?"
I walked through the heavy wooden doors of the dimly lit tavern, the cool night air giving way to the warmth and scent of ale and roasting meats. The walls were adorned with familiar faded tapestries that depicted mythical beasts and heroic battles, a fire gently crackled in the centre of the large room, and the rough-hewn planks of the floor creaked loudly underfoot. Arlen, the Elvish barman, nodded to me from behind the bar, and I gave him a small wave. The sound of dice landing on a table filled the room for a moment. Momentarily distracted by the Dragonborn bard on the small stage set up in the corner, I scanned the room for any sign of the others. She continued to strum her lute, the notes of her mournful ballad filling the room with a spellbinding tone that seemed to cast a spell on the place. The crowd was sparse, made up of a few locals nursing their drinks and food. I spotted a group of rough-looking adventurers huddled together in a corner and approached their table, the three figures still huddled, deep in conversation. "Howdy all," I said as I pulled up a chair, "I guess we’re still waiting for our contact?" The others looked up at me and smiled, their faces illuminated by the flickering candlelight on the wall above the table. There was Nia, the elven rogue, her features sharp, and piercing green eyes taking in everything in a glance; Drog, the hulking dwarf barbarian, his beard long, and muscular frame intimidating; and lastly Fiona, the human druid, her flowing brown hair entwined with braids of flowers, her expression serene. “We are waiting on the merchant himself,” Drog explained loudly into his ale, “Wanted to meet us all together.” The Orc server approached us with a friendly smile, and I ordered drinks and food to tide us over until the merchant arrived. And we waited. We discussed our previous adventures and expressed our curiosity for the quest ahead. Nia recounted the time she had infiltrated a heavily guarded castle and stolen the Crown of Shadows. “Where is it now?” I asked, as chicken juices dripped down my chin. She let out a long sigh, but Drog was quick to jump in. “She lost it in a bet! Could you believe? Such a powerful item, and she loses it to the likes of a dwarf! HA!” Nia rolled her eyes, “I’ll get it back, you mark my words.” “Wanna bet on it? Ha!” Drog laughed into his ale as he held up an ornate headpiece, made of a dark, shimmering metal. It was studded with black diamonds, the edges adorned with intricate and delicate carvings. Nia just continued to glare at the dwarf. Drog then regaled us with the tale of how he had single-handedly defeated a small army of goblins. Again, the sound of dice could be heard rattling on a table. After he had waffled for a time, Nia said, “It wasn’t a small army. I heard it was only ten.” Drog nearly choked on what would be his fourth ale, “Whhaaaa?” Nia smirked, “I know when you’re talking trash old friend. Besides, Berrand was with you and he said that you were lucky you tripped as the chieftain overcommitted to swinging his axe. Apparently he made a pretty mess at the bottom of the cliff.” “Alright, you got me this time, but you saw me take out that Bearowl single-handedly! Don’t you forget!” Drog scowled into his ale. Fiona said serenely, “You mean Owlbear, and yes, you always remind us.” Drog shifted his glance to her, “Thank you Fiona, nice to know we are such good friends.” The dice rattled. Fiona absolutely beamed, “We are good friends aren’t we!” The rest of us rolled our eyes, and Fiona, saturated with mind-numbing enthusiasm, went on to tell of her encounters with mystical beasts and the secrets of the natural world. We patiently listened to this secret. “... so fascinated by the pattern and spent several hours studying it, trying to decipher the meaning. I eventually discovered that the pattern is actually caused by lightning hitting the tree! The phenomenon is now called Lichtenberg figures. They’re amazing! So intricate, and it seems the branching patterns are created when high voltage electricity travels through an insulating material, such as wood. That’s what the artificer said when we recreated the effect. He paid me two hundred gold for helping him name it after himself. He was such a nice little Gnome.” We all blinked awkwardly at her words. The last bit of information caught us off guard, but where Fiona was concerned we weren’t surprised that such a random event would work out so favourably for her, even if at her own expense. She was known as the lucky one of the group, although, not always in a useful way. The bard was finished for the night and most other patrons had left, when finally, the tavern door creaked open, and a worried-looking man entered. We immediately recognized him as the merchant we were waiting for. He approached our table, introduced himself, and explained that he had been expecting a caravan with a shipment of beer for some days now. He feared that misfortune had befallen them. He gave us details of where the caravan was travelling and begged us to find out what had happened, and to bring the shipment back to him if possible. The offered reward was quite generous. We listened intently and agreed to take on the job. Everyone was sitting up straighter and eyes keen. The idea of a new adventure, combined with the possibility of a lifetime stirring our adrenaline. Free beer. Free beer for the rest of our lives. It was an enough to make Drog shed a tear of joy. The merchant left, and we gathered our gear to set out into the night. Not wanting to waste any time, we left immediately through the town gates, the road quiet as we headed for the hills. The path was long and winding, and after an hour, we found ourselves deep in the dark heart of the forest, on the path where the merchant expected the caravan to travel. The trees towered over us, their gnarled branches creaking in the wind, as we trudged up the slightly overgrown road. No tracks had been found. "I have a bad feeling." Fiona whispered, her staff in hand as she guided a soft glowing ball of light slightly ahead of us. "Who knows what is lurking in this part of the woods." I held back my tongue from reminding her that she spends more time here than anyone else. Nia nodded in agreement, her sharp eyes scanning the shadows around us. "I'll take point," she said, unsheathing her blades. "Keep close behind me." Drog mumbled under his breath in a whiney voice, “kEeP CLosE BeHiND MmEe... What?” Nia paused. If looks could kill, even in the darkness of the forest, Drog would be six feet under. We moved deeper into the forest, and not before long found a scene of carnage. No wonder the caravan hadn’t arrived. Bodies were everywhere, the evidence of an ambush obvious from the amount damage done to the caravan with little sign of who had attacked. The sound of dice bouncing filled my head. Looking closely at the road, I noticed large footprints and multiple wagon tracks that led off into the bush. It became clear that we were dealing with something larger than goblins. Unsure of what they were, I called Fiona over. “Ogres,” She says without hesitation, “Definitely ogre tracks. I’d say two or three of them. They went that way! Drog, Nia, stop looting the bodies, we know roughly where the wagons went.” Drog and Nia stopped filling their pockets and came over as Fiona cast a spell. Her eyes glowed briefly as she chanted softly, and suddenly, the leaves and twigs seemed to part before us, allowing us to move through the forest with ease. But our stealthy approach was cut short when we suddenly heard a loud roar in the distance. We froze, our hearts pounding in our chests as we listened intently to the sound. "What was that?" Drog whispered, his grip tightening on his axe. "WhAT wAs tHaT?" Nia mocked, pointing to the east where the tracks led. Drog glowered and made shooing motions. Slowly, we approached the source of the sound, the twigs and leaves crunching silently under our feet with every step. The forest grew darker as we drew closer to the source of the disturbance. Our hearts raced with anticipation and fear as we moved closer. Finally, we stumbled upon the scene of the commotion. Three massive ogres, their eyes glassy and unfocused, were swigging from the barrels of beer around a fire where one of the horses was roasting. They were laughing and grunting, and their voices boomed in the clearing. Clearly inebriated, the ogres were stumbling around, their movements slow and clumsy. They belched loudly and laughed boisterously as they drank, seemingly unaware of our presence. But as we drew our weapons and prepared to attack, they suddenly turned to face us, their eyes glinting with malice and hunger, their inebriation making them no less dangerous. The sound of dice was stronger than ever. Barrel of beer came careening towards us but smashed into a tree nearby. Beer sprayed all over us. "Looks like we found our beer," Drog said, grinning wickedly. Without a further word, Drog let out a bloodcurdling roar as he charged straight at the ogres, his axe raised high. "Let's show these bumbling beasts who's boss!" he yelled, his voice echoing through the forest. "I'll take care of them from behind," Nia whispered to the rest of the group. Someone snickered, which made the rest of us giggle. She quickly darted around to the other side of the clearing behind the ogres, her sharp blades glinting in the moonlight as she silently made her way towards their backs. Meanwhile, Fiona closed her eyes and chanted softly. "Mother Nature, lend us your strength," she murmured, her hands outstretched as she focused her energy on the ground beneath her. Vines and thorns suddenly erupted from the earth, ensnaring two of the ogres and holding them at bay. The beasts roared in fury, struggling against the thorny restraints that held them down. As I realised I hadn’t armed my crossbow and began to crank the handle, a phone rang. Time went still. Now sitting at the game table, we’re all exhausted yet excited. Having been fuelled by beers and half eaten packets of chips, we stare at the map and models covering the table. The Dungeon Master, Brett answers the phone and has a brief discussion before hanging up. “I’ve got to get the door.” Brett says as he gets up and leaves. We continue to sit there wondering who would be interrupting us at eleven pm on a Sunday night. Brett returns and announces that it’s time to wrap up for the night. We all groan and protest, not wanting to leave the game so soon. "Can't we just keep playing for a little longer?" asks Carly, who plays Nia, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Yeah, let's see where this goes," Drog, who is played by Josh, chimes in, his voice tired but still keen. But Brett shakes his head. "We'll come back next week," he says, "and pick up where we left off." Suddenly an older man walks into the room from behind Brett. “What the hell is this? Looks like I’ve walked into some medieval fan group convention, or um, what’s it called... a cult.” Brett sighs, “Everyone, this is my uncle Greg, and no, we’re playing Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a role-playing game.” “I thought that was a video game.” Greg asks, “Why you all dressed up?” Alex, who plays Fiona, pipes up, “For fun! It gets us into character. We also went to a D&D convention earlier today.” “D&D?” Greg asks, scratching his beard. Brett clarifies, “It’s short for Dungeons and Dragons. Anyway, now that you’re here we’ll be wrapping up. I’ll take you up to the spare room.” “Wait, so you’re telling me you dressed up and went to this convention today,” Greg says puzzled, “to then come back and play it. How long have you been playing?” I look at my watch before answering, “seven hours now. It was just getting good too.” Greg stands there and looks around at us all, perplexed. “Maybe you should finish the game then. It clearly means a lot to you. No, I’ll watch. I’m curious now. Go on Brett, I’m sure it will only be a few more minutes.” We all smile at Greg. Greg smirks at the rest of us. The sound of dice and vivid descriptions fill the air. The forest clearing came into focus again and Nia, being the fastest of us, managed to hamstring one ogre, dealing critical damage with a sneak attack. It fell to its hands and knees but was it able to lash out a kick that landed right in Nia’s stomach, which caused a rib to crack and wind her badly. One ogre broke free from being ensnared by the vines, only to have Drog stumble into it, causing them both to fall over with the ogre landing on top. From a table in another world, a group of people laughed at the unfortunate turn. Another ogre got its arms free and threw it’s barrel of beer, hitting Fiona and dealing a significant amount of damage. She let go of the entanglement spell and transformed into an owl. She then flew up into the trees out of sight. I got the crossbow loaded and aim at the ogre that kicked Nia. I let it loose and score a hit solidly in the ogre’s chest, only for it to be enraged. It stood up, getting ready to attack while I looked across to see Drog still stuck under the other ogre. With him incapacitated, Nia badly injured and Fiona gone, it was up to me. “Three on one baby. Let’s do this!” I yelled as I dropped my crossbow and drew my sword. I charged towards the nearest ogre when suddenly, bright shimmering orbs of light crackled through the air past me to hit all three ogres with unerring accuracy and an explosion of sparks. The ogre with the crossbow bolt in him fell to the ground dead. The one before me roared in pain as it clutched it’s face, and I impaled it with my sword, dispatching it with a fantastic spray of intestines. The last ogre had got off of Drog, only to burst into flames, but unfortunately they also happened to engulf Drog. An owl screeched and water appeared from above him to douse the flames, leaving him smoking and charred but alive. We all gathered in the middle of the clearing and surveyed the damage. We turned from the direction we came to see an old man with a beard in a grey robe. He waved a staff at us, “Hello adventurers, I am Greg! No? Why can’t I be Greg? Fine. Gandalf. It’s Gand... What do you mean?” We all look at each other from across the table and smile as Brett discusses with Greg the finer details of character development and that although there’s no copyright for using a well known name, it’s not very original. “I can’t believe I did nothing! I just got smooshed by the damn thing.” Drog, or Josh, laughs and throws his hands up in the air. We all jeer and make fun of him as we start to pack up for the evening. It’s past midnight. “We’ll discuss levels and loot next session, just keep tabs on who did what,” says Brett. “Next week, we’ll roll into the actual campaign.” Greg startles at this, “What? That wasn’t the actual campaign? I thought I must have defeated a big boss or something!” “No, that was just a side quest for fun.” Alex says. Josh jumps in saying, “But now that you’ve got a taste, you should join us from the start. We don’t mind helping you as we play. One of us, one of us!” The chant dies quicker than it started. Greg looks around at all the others expectant faces in the room. “You don’t mind? I wouldn’t have to dress up though would I?” “We could use a mage actually. Sounds like a new member has joined the party!” I exclaim. Brett says, “I don’t mind, we can easily work you in. Besides, this might be a good distraction while you figure out your life. I imagine you’ll be living here now for a bit anyway so we can fine tune everything before the next session.” Greg looks around the room and a variety of emotions pass over his bearded face. He smiles and nods. “Alright. I’m in. But no dressing up.” “Yet!” half of us say together laughing. Brett laughs, “We’ll make a hardcore fan of you yet.” Greg rolls his eyes and laughs, “I’ve always wanted to join a cult! Ha!”
Three of the Carlson siblings were standing in the afternoon sunshine in their mother's backyard. "It's hard to believe that Mom is going to move." Chloe, the oldest, was talking to her two brothers. "Mom's been talking about it ever since Dad died. She said the winters in Ohio are too cold," Cooper replied. Cooper was just one year younger than Chloe. "I thought she was just talking about moving, that she would live here forever." Caleb was looking around the oversized yard. "Houses built today come with yards the size of postage stamps. You could never play baseball in my backyard as we did here. I'm going to miss this place." Caleb was two years younger than Cooper. Bang! The back door slammed shut; Chloris, the youngest, came outside. She had a can of soda pop for each sibling. "Let's go up to the treehouse, one last time." Chloris was one year younger than Caleb. "I haven't been there in years; it might not be safe." Chloe protested. She was always overly cautious. The treehouse was a shed built on stilts. At that time, the oak tree next to it provided shade. The children would look out the windows and try to grab the branches. The tree was too far for them to reach. Now the oak tree embraced the structure. "The steps look good; I'll go first." Caleb had always been fearless. The wooden steps were sturdy as he climbed to the top. Caleb saw a few dried and sticks covering the wooden floor, but otherwise, the treehouse was just as he remembered it. He took a few cautious steps to discover the wooden floor was just as safe as the steps. "It's safe!" Caleb stuck his head out the window by the door. "Come on up." "We spent many fine hours here," Chloe said as she entered the treehouse. "Chloris, I'm glad you talked us into coming up here." "We won't have another chance to relive these memories after Mom moves," Chloris told her siblings. "Look! There's my doll." She seized a dust lump that was tucked away in a corner. "I wondered what happened to it." Dust covered plastic face. The once beautiful lavender dress was moth-eaten and covered in dirt. "I spent a lot of time with my dolls up here." "We planned many adventures when we up here." Caleb was surveying the neighborhood from the east window. Cooper joined Caleb to take in the view. "We couldn't see the whole world as we thought, but we had a pretty good view of the neighborhood. Do you remember watching Mrs. Rollins sunbath?" "She thought no one could see her behind that privacy fence." Caleb laughed. "Both of you claimed to have a clubhouse meeting every day that summer," Chloe told her brothers. "Mrs. Rollins just happened to sunbath at the same time as our meetings," Cooper explained. Chloris took a drink of her soda pop before sharing another memory. "I used to come up here to write. I think the higher altitude helped my imagination." "Higher altitude! This treehouse is on stilts, not the top of Mount Everest!" Caleb scoffed at his younger sister. "Even if the altitude isn't that much different, I still did some of my best work up here. I was sitting right here when I wrote a story for my sophomore English class. I won an award for that story." Chloris said. "Yes, we all know you won an award. Your ability to make things up is legendary." Cooper teased his sister. "That's the reason I became a full-time writer," Chloris explained. "I decided to study architecture because of this treehouse," Chloe added. "I thought it would be advantageous to have a house on stilts if you lived in a floodplain." "I liked it up here so much that I studied aviation. I love to fly," Cooper said. "I became an assistant football coach; I don't think the treehouse had anything to do with that career choice." Caleb grew thoughtful before adding, "it's a wonder that none of us went into law enforcement . . . after that night." Caleb brought a memory they all shared. "I thought we agreed to never talk about it," Chloe chastised. "Caleb's right to bring it up," Cooper argued. "Mom will be safe when she moves away, so it's finally time to talk about Bernard Jenkins and his mother." "I guess you're right," Chloe reluctantly agreed. "It's time to stop being afraid." "I think we can all agree that Mrs. Jenkins was a mean old woman," Cooper stated. "Remember when she gave us apples for Halloween? We threw them away as soon as we were out of sight," Caleb said. "I was too afraid to even a small bite because I didn't want to end up like Sleeping Beauty. Chloe remembered. "The fairy tale with the poisoned apples is Snow White , not Sleeping Beauty ." Chloris corrected. "Whatever. the point is that I didn't want to eat a poisoned apple, and I didn't want any of my siblings to eat a poisoned apple." Chloe replied. "Why did we even stop at that house?" Caleb asked. "Mom thought we should be friendly neighbors. She said Mrs. Jenkins spent her entire day in that house with her abnormal son. She didn't know what was wrong with Bernard, but Mrs. Jenkins wouldn't let him leave the house," Chloe remembered. "I think Bernard is a couple of years older than me, that is if he is still alive." "I don't know if he's alive, but we know that his mother is dead," Caleb spoke their secret out loud. Cooper got very serious and started telling the story. "It was supposed to be the perfect night to see Mars. All my friends said Mars was closer to Earth than it would be for the next fifty years. I brought my telescope to the treehouse so I could get a good view. I remember looking at all the stars, thinking about how bright they were. I was getting bored with that when Caleb entered the treehouse." "I started looking around the neighborhood." Caleb picked up the narrative. "First, I looked to see if Mrs. Rollins was in her sunbathing spot; naturally, she wasn't there." "I came into the treehouse and asked you to check Mrs. Jenkins' apple tree," Chloe told her part of the story. "I was sure it would look bizarre because it produced poisonous apples." "I followed you to the treehouse and saw everyone standing by the window. I pushed Chloe out of the way so I could look." Chloris continued the story. "I saw Bernard carrying his mother outside." "I remember you said it was strange for Bernard to come outside in the middle of the night, carrying his mother. I took the telescope from you so I could look for myself. I'll never forget watching Bernard dump his mother into that hole." Cooper shivered at the memory. "We all watched as Bernard shoveled dirt into that hole," Cooper said. "None of us said it out loud, but I knew she was dead." Chloe added to the story. "Over the years, I've tried to think of a reasonable explanation. I thought, maybe she died of a heart attack, and Bernard didn't know what to do, so he just buried her. He might have seen someone bury a dead bird or rabbit, so he did the same thing to his mother. I think that might be possible." "There's a huge problem with that theory." Caleb reminded his siblings. "Yeah, that note we found nailed to the oak tree is a problem!" Cooper reminded them. "I'll kill your mother if you tell," Chloris recited. All the siblings remembered the note. "That's when we vowed never to talk about that night." Chloe said, "We just couldn't take the chance." "Now, there is a perfectly healthy apple tree growing over Mrs. Jenkins." Cooper was looking out the window towards Bernard Jenkins' backyard. "Do you think it's safe to tell the authorities what we know? After all, it's been thirty years," Chloe asked. "I think we should wait for another thirty years," Cooper said. Caleb pushed Cooper out of the way so he could look, "We should wait. After all, Mrs. Jenkins was a mean old woman, and I don't think anyone misses her." Chloe came to the window to look at the Jenkins' yard. "It's been a secret for thirty years; a few more won't hurt." Chloris finally took her turn at the window. She saw a big sign by the apple tree. "I can find your Mom." That was all the Carlson children needed to read.
Doing My Best - Ramblings From A Conflicted Mind “Did anyone ever tell you, you have a hyperactive sense of responsibility?” - Probably not an exact qoute, but one of my favorites from the Jesse Stone movies. It struck me. I don’t want to be a mind reader. In fact, I try very hard not to be, but - It’s all my fault. This is all my fault. Everything is all my fault. At least, that’s how I felt about everything and anything that ever happened. It’s not like anyone ran around, pointing fingers and saying, ”It’s all your fault!” I just knew. I shouldn’t have been such a good girl. I shouldn’t have always been so quiet. I shouldn’t have told the truth. I shouldn’t have wanted things. I never should have listened. I never really did want to be a mountain climber, anyway. I never did like baked beans, or chicken on the grill cooked with gasoline ... That’s why everything is my fault. Not because I didn’t like baked beans, but because I believed everything you told me. It’s always been my fault. Everything will always be my fault - I’ve grown comfortably in that role - and now I always have an opinion to go along with my self-flogging. The audacity is usually unwelcome, but I want to discuss more than the rain. Why do you take it so personally? This wise woman constantly reassures the naive’ little girl that it wasn’t her fault; that she did the right thing, but those feelings of responsibility remain forever crushing. A hug and words of wisdom are never quite enough anymore. It’s too late for that. The soul is soothed only for a moment by me. In my childhood logic, the only reason I could imagine no one ever hugged me, that little girl, and told me it wasn’t my fault is because it was my fault. It was all my fault. It still is. It’s my fault that the family fell apart. It’s my fault that my parents grieve parents. And I grieve Grandparents who never really existed. It’s my fault the dog died. It’s my fault I’ve been exiled - I carry too many opinions. And truths. Apparently, I talk too much. I’m too much of a lot. So go ahead, pile it on - the blame with which you don’t want to burden yourself. I’ll take it. I’ve learned how to carry it well. Silently, with no tears, because I’m tough. Don’t worry, you’ll never see my bruises or scars anymore. It is not my intent to see you uncomfortable. I’ll keep my opinions and truths with me, away from you. I will never blame you. It’s my fault my dreams remain distant; my nightmares chronic. It’s my fault I think too much. It’s my fault Hallmark movies make me cry. Why do Hallmark movies make me cry? Maybe because was born under the Birth Sign Aquarius and the stars were aligned for craving the ideal. My attempts to burst your delusional bubble of safety were, of course, unwelcome. I refuse to live there, though, because history has proven it’s not safe for me. I guess that’s my fault for making you feel insecure. I didn’t mean to do that. Don’t worry. These words are as close as you’ll get to unraveling this mysterious mind. And it’s your choice to read them. Or not. It’s always been your choice. It’s my fault you didn’t love me deeply as I started to grow from “silent, smiley good girl” into “independent, mature woman.” My opinions and truths made(make) me unlovable to those who are only comfortable within silent smiles. Twisted words, tone and inaction told me so. Patterns tell me so now. Because of my silence, more were hurt, that was my fault. Because of my declaration, many were hurt. That was my fault, too. The results were unpredictable and unexpected. I should have known better. In the aftermath, I have developed self-reliance. That’s also my fault. I know it’s not your fault - you only coped, still cope - the best way you knew how. It’s my fault for not drowning in your damage, no matter how many times your silent waves tried to crash me into the surf. (Maybe that’s why I’m apprehensive of the water.) It’s my fault I can’t swim. I know you tried to make me learn one summer for a week, but it was cold. The thought of splashing in the water was not inviting. I still hate splashing water. And butterflies. Although, I love butterflies, I can’t stand it when they touch me. I do love animals, though. Animals are much more reliable than people. And honest. I limited myself with the belief that I wasn’t smart enough, or wealthy enough. That’s my fault. It’s my fault for coping the way I do, with expression through words, with beverage, with opinions and truths, with the need to do what’s right - according to me, not you. Doing what’s right it not often easy. Or convenient. It’s my fault you no longer see my smile. You also won’t see my tears. It’s my fault you don’t find me funny anymore (I’m still funny) ... Or maybe some of that is your fault. Or no one’s fault. Maybe it was the bloodletting. I know this rambling sounds confused. I’m sure it’s obscure to readers. This is just my way of trying to make sense of the thoughts in my head vs the actions of my world. This chaotic mind is my fault, too. Sometimes, I lose my way. That’s my fault. I have always found my way back. That’s my fault, too. No one is helping me. I fall down on my own. I rise on my own. I often wonder what would happen if I could just do what I’m told. You know - let it go, hide it, forget about it, never speak of it, let it all carry on down the line. Would I then be blameless? Don’t worry - you can sleep well in the knowledge it’s all my fault.
In wake of the overturning of Bill Cosby's case where a confessed sexual predator walks free, I've found myself yet again playing the objective role in how I felt about it. The Cosby Show was a highlight of my childhood - I remember us, my family of African immigrants, owning a boxed-set copy of all the seasons of the show. My family was one of little means and limited time for entertainment, yet we owned every single season of the Cosby Show. The Cosby Show's legacy is unrivaled, it appealed to many people and was a needed positive representation of the black family, especially at that time. So when sixty women - seemingly out of the woodworks all recounted their different experiences of being assaulted by Cosby, it was a shock to many. Some advocated for the women, in solidarity with their stories, but many victim-blamed and even worse, labeled the whole thing as some huge conspiracy theory. I've seen it all, and in the comforts of my cognitive dissonance continued to live my life, unaffected, and refusing to engage in any type of heated debate about it. The thing is - and I know many can relate, we live in a world with so much pain and despair on a global level. Each and every day we are inundated with sad and tragic stories even in our own backyards. A lot of us have to detach emotionally and even mentally to a degree to maintain our own sanity it seems - myself included. It's so very hard to empathize with our own deep pain and sadness, the sadness of our friends and family, and all the sadness that exists in this realm on this planet called Earth. So when Bill Cosby was convicted and arrested I chose to feel nothing. I am ashamed to admit this, because I am too, a woman. Although I don't feel like a victim of sexual assault or rape, since my experiences weren't like the ones depicted in movies or news stories where a woman is violently violated or attacked - I, in fact, have been a victim many times over in the sense consent has been very blurry in the past, and I've felt coerced into situations especially in my youth that my heart and mind was not in. As well as instances where I was too inebriated to consent and was taken advantage of. Life as a woman, though it comes with its advantages, is hard as you're constantly in defense mode. I recently moved into an apartment complex where I am constantly stale-faced and unapproachable with my male neighbors not because I am unfriendly, that's far from the case - I just don't want anyone to get any "ideas" especially since they all know where I live and that I am a single woman living alone. Time after time, I find myself having to explain to my boyfriend these things, but life as a man is completely different, it's hard for him to understand that as a woman I am more likely to be victimized than he is. The unfortunate reality is although he may have to worry about being the victim of theft and robbery of material things, I have to worry about being a victim of something I could never buy back or reclaim. I am the furthest thing from a prude, considering myself to be sexually very liberal. But even women like me deserve respect. Even women in the industry I work in, as an exotic dancer have a right to not be sexually harassed, assaulted or forced to engage in any type of sexual activity without clear consent. Men will violate you even on the job in a room full of people because you aren't looked at as worthy of basic respect. This is the same ideology of the people who insist certain women deserve to be assaulted or harassed based on how they dress, this is the same ideology that forces knee-length skirts and shorts as a dress code all the while enforcing no dress codes for men, and no shaming of the men who assault or harass ANY woman - not just the ones deemed "appropriately" dressed. And this is also the same ideology of the people who despite the testimony of sixty women unrelated to each other, still regard in deep reverence Mr. Bill Cosby and support him undyingly. Paradigm shifts happen often throughout our lifetimes. This morning I woke up in a cold sweat of a nightmare, something that doesn't happen often with me. In my dream I was at a party where a lot of people were present - it was a pool party. I wandered off to be alone in the rowdiness of it and was cornered by a man I had not spoken even a single word to. He forced himself on me, kissing me repeatedly while I yelled at him to stop tears streaming down my face. I fought and fought but I was overpowered by the bulky man on top of me all the while screaming, hoping I would be heard over the blasting music around us. Then he unbuckled his pants, and my adrenaline kicked in. Suddenly I spotted an opportunity to rescue myself in an empty beer bottle right below us. I grabbed the bottle by the top, broke it against the ground weaponizing it, and held it to his face, and threatened to stab him if he didn't get off of me immediately. He obliged, with no choice but to stop in his assault of me. This wasn't the worst part of the dream, however. The worst part of the dream was upon returning to the party (for whatever reason dream me decides to go back to the party instead of leaving and calling the police) to find that my assailant had spoken to others about in his mind, his "seduction" of me. Much to my absolute disgust and shame, the WOMEN at the party completely disregarded my assault, and told me "it wasn't that serious." This is when I woke up. Emotions of fear, sadness, embarrassment flooded my brain. Women, we have to stand in solidarity with each other when it comes to matters like these. You don't need to be a victim to show support. There shouldn't be a woman alive who stands with Bill Cosby, and I am ashamed to even admit that I rode the fence on the topic previously.
Heavy bodies dance to the booming bass, reeking of alcohol and pushing against me. I navigate the crowd, rubbing against more skin than clothes, and reach the kitchen. It's unrecognizable as our house now. The white-marbled counter is littered with plastic cups and dirty plates, and I start grabbing stuff and shoving it into an overflowing trash bin, with which the party guests must've made a game of to see how tall it could go without falling. I see my sister Cecil dancing a couple feet away, blonde locks and white smile bouncing above a sea of heads. Her arms wrap around a pretty stranger. I shake my head. I can't understand her for the life of me. I toss the bag to the floor and don't bother to replace the trash bin. "Her party, her mess," I tell myself, already knowing I'll be cleaning this tomorrow. Still, in a mix of rebellion and procrastination, I leave the trash and march upstairs (holding my breath as I pass some guys smoking on the steps). There's a couple e-books on my phone I have queued up, and I find it pleasant to think I'll be spending New Year's Eve reading while her friends are throwing up beer. I walk to my room when I see the lights on under the bathroom door. My gut burns. I told Cecil a billion times that upstairs was off-limits. I glare at the door and my back tingles at the thought of puke clogging up the toilet I'll have to use tomorrow. And the bathroom was just one thing--drunk couples tumbling into my bedroom, into Mom's bedroom? Jaw clenched, I slam my hand on the doorknob and yank the door open. I scream. A skinny brown-haired boy, sitting fully-clothed on my toilet, stares at me with a book in his hands. "What-" I start. His long hair brushes against his black glasses and reveal his eyes, green and glinting. "I'm.." "What are you doing here?" I blurt. It comes out all hard and cold and I don't mean it. Thankfully, he laughs softly and scratches his head. "I... I've been asking myself the same thing." I blink at him. I don't know what to do. "Upstairs are off-limits." He looks at me and there's a shift in his eyes. He grabs his book. "Sorry- yes, I'm leaving." He stands and glances about the bathroom apologetically. I watch, hating myself for feeling like the rude one. I feel guilty nonetheless--I would've done the same as him, at a party I didn't belong in. "Are you a friend of Cecil's?" I ask. He shakes his head. "Nah, my brother's a friend of hers. He dragged me along." I nod, but he's looking at the book in his hands. "He fancies her, I think. I honestly don't know why. No offense! You're her older sister, right?" "Yeah." We stand in the bathroom for a fat minute. My hands are itching to pull out that e-book and my bedroom is just behind me. The boy purses his lips and I catch a glimpse of his eyes. There's anxiety there--dread. I remember the crowds and the stench of alcohol downstairs and almost physically shudder. Which is terrifying, because I kind of have to pee now. "I'm gonna just be in my room," I say. He looks at me, eyes big. "So you can hang here, I guess.. if you want." He beams at me and I can tell he's trying to hide it. He must think I'm like Cecil, think I'm judging him. "Oh, wait, I have to use the bathroom!" I say. He nods vigorously and comes towards me and I step aside for him to pass before entering and closing the door. I relieve myself, shaking my head. After flushing and washing my hands, I call out, "It's all yours!" With a laugh, I open the door. The hallway is empty. I hear cheers from downstairs and glance at a clock on the wall: 11:59pm. Hah, of course. I consider going down to join the countdown, but instead smile and go into my room, slipping into the cool covers. I pull out my phone and search through my e-book list. I had caught a glimpse of the book he was reading, and I type it into the search bar. I settle in with a grin, and read.
Father Thomas lowered his eyes to the velvet cushion on which he was seated. He traced his fingertip along its embroidery, following every intricate cross and curve. Much like the rest of the confessional, the cushion was well-worn, with broken threads that poked out from its stitching, inviting a destructive tug from the absentminded. The priest’s actions were more deliberate than that. He was stalling, passing time in the awkward silence that often followed his pointed questions. Passing time, until -- “It was Alexis, Father. Alexis Mackey,” said the voice beyond the partition. Ah. The man on the other side was Frank Altezza. The two of them had their early fifties in common, but little else. Frank was a loud man who drove a loud Mustang and who refused to admit that he’d aged past his prime. He was also crying. This was not uncommon in the confessional, but Father Thomas had not outgrown his distaste for it. “I didn’t want to,” said Frank. “I just --“ “Of course you did,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “There was no one holding a gun to your head. There was no fortune to be made in the deed. What, other than a deep desire of the flesh, could have made you do such a thing?” “I just -- you know, I never meant for it to go this far.” “Yes you did, Frank. And if you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you expect to be honest with Michelle?” “Father --“ Frank’s face became clouded. “You can’t make me tell her.” “Reconciliation and repentance go hand-in-hand.” “It’ll crush her.” “And the pain you both experience will make you less likely to sin again.” “She’ll leave.” “She won’t. But even if she does, far better that than to live with a lie. That’s your penance, Frank. You need to tell her and apologize. And you also need to apologize to Alexis.” “Alexis should apologize to me!” That was loud. Too loud. Others waiting outside might have heard it. “Enough. She’s half your age and you indulged in your in your brokenness together. Own your sin and apologize.” Frank took a moment to compose himself. “Yes, Father.” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. Go in peace.” “Amen. Thank you, Father.” Frank crossed himself and stood. He pushed aside the scarlet curtain and Father Thomas watched as he stepped out of the confessional, taking the chip on his shoulder with him. Frank was what the priest had come to think of as an identity Catholic. He’d come to know many of them in his six years at Our Lady of Virtue Parish. These were members of the Church who, though excellent at ritual, were lacking in faith. They prayed the Rosary. They attended Mass. He presided over their Catholic weddings and their children’s baptisms. When he presided over their Catholic funerals, however, he found himself wondering at their fates. And on that note, he often wondered if he was doing the Franks of the world a disservice, providing absolution when they’d just be screwing the Alexis’s of the world by the weekend and asking for forgiveness before the month was out. He wondered if he ought to care more. He remembered caring a lot more, back when he was an associate priest in New Hampshire. Now, leading a church in Brooklyn, those memories seemed faded and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else. Well, it had been a few minutes. Perhaps that was the rest of it for the afternoon and he would finally be able to return home and shut off for a while. Father Thomas rose from his velvet cushion and pushed through the curtain before him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light of the sanctuary. The priest no longer saw the beauty of the place, the majesty that struck most people when they visited. It was the cracked panes of stained glass that drew his attention now, as did the water-damaged ceiling plaster, the chipped baptismal font, and the ever-growing rows of empty pews at Mass, which meant repairs were unlikely to come anytime soon. The pews were all empty today, of course. All except one. The priest shifted his attention to a lone figure seated a few rows back from where he stood. The man was younger, early thirties. His head was lowered, his shoulders drawn in, and he was clothed in a worn, gray sweater that hung from his body like a shroud. Without looking up, the man spoke, “Father, you think maybe you’ve got time for me?” Jesus would have taken pity on the man. Father Thomas felt only a slight irritation. But he had a duty and he had an obligation, and so he gestured with palms wide open and said, “Of course, come on in.” The priest turned and stepped back into the confessional, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He sat on the velvet cushion and rolled his shoulders back, preparing his mind for what would hopefully be his last session of the day. Light filtered into the other side of the booth as a bandaged hand pulled open the curtain -- the priest hadn’t noticed it behind the pew. The younger man stepped inside, the floor groaning under his weight. Even through the partition, it was clear he had a more powerful build than his clothing had let on. He knelt before the screen, crossed himself, and spoke softly, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” “God is with us and will hear you,” said the priest. “How long has it been since your last confession?” “It’s been, uh...” The man trailed off. “It’s okay -- there’s no need to be ashamed.” “Father, I honestly don’t know how to answer your question.” That was a strange thing to say, but strange things were often said inside the confessional. “Well, have you had confession before?” “I’m, uh -- I’m sorry, Father. I have memories of confession, you know. But I...” He trailed off again. “What’s your name?” asked Father Thomas. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” “Daniel Walsh. And no, I’ve never attended Mass in New York.” “But you are baptized within the Church?” “I’m sorry -- I’m sure this frustrating --“ “Daniel, I’m happy to meet with you, but the sacrament of confession is for those who have received a Catholic baptism.” “Look, I remember Mass, my Confirmation -- all of it.” “So you were baptized, then.” “I just don’t know if it was real.” The priest shifted in his seat. It was becoming clear how this was going to go and it would be best to simply get on with it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you,” said Father Thomas. Daniel gave a meek nod, hesitated a moment, then spoke. “I killed someone, Father.” The priest gave a slow, solemn nod. He’d heard more than one grave sin confessed during his time in the city and it was best not to react too strongly. After allowing a moment of silence to pass, he said, “The Lord Jesus Christ died for all of our sins, Daniel. When did this happen?” “Today. A couple hours ago, maybe.” “Tell me more.” “If it’s all right with you, Father, I’d really prefer not to.” Father Thomas did his best to disguise his impatience. “The nature of Christ’s forgiveness is that it requires repentance. Repentance requires remorse. If you’re unable to speak --“ “I feel remorse, Father,” his voice was at a near-whisper. “I’m not a killer, you know? I’m... a janitor.” “Where do you work?” “The, uh -- the U.N.,” said Daniel. He was caught off-guard by the priest’s shift in conversation, which had been exactly the point of it. “Wow,” said Father Thomas. “They put you through a background check for a job like that?” Daniel nodded. “Yeah, I got fingerprinted and stuff...” “And you said you’d never attended Mass in New York before. Where are you from?” “South Dakota. Outside Aberdeen. You know, flyover country.” “That’s got to be a culture shock.” “Yeah. For sure.” Daniel gave a slight, sad smile. “What brought you out here?” “A girl. I think. Maybe. I don’t know -- we’re not together now.” That was a misstep. Time to steer the conversation back. “So you’re a midwestern guy with a spotless record.” Daniel nodded. “Until now, I guess.” “Tell me what happened, Daniel.” “Father, I --“ “It’s okay.” Daniel shook his head. “You don’t understand. I’m scared of what I might do.” “Give your fear over to God and tell me what’s on your heart.” Daniel swallowed and drew in a deep breath, but said nothing. Father Thomas turned his attention away from his confessant and instead focused on the familiar feel of the pad of his middle finger against velvet. He let it glide along the raised, golden stitching, following the trance of its pattern until -- “It was a kid,” started Daniel. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, then continued, “He was on one of those one-wheel skateboard things - you know what I’m talking about?” Father Thomas nodded, but said nothing. “I was walking back home from the station and I didn’t hear him ‘cause I had my ear buds in. He was going at a pretty good clip and I guess I must have crossed in front of him -- I don’t know -- and his backpack caught on my pinky finger. Ripped all the skin clean off.” Daniel raised his bandaged hand for show. It seemed remarkably clean for such a recent and serious wound. He continued, becoming emotional, “Something came over me -- I can’t describe it. I had no control. I pulled him off the sidewalk, into an alley -- there was this brick on the ground nearby and I just grabbed it and --“ Daniel let out a sob. Father Thomas gave him a moment, then quietly said, “Go on.” “I smashed it into his face over and over and over again, until there was nothing left but flaps of skin and teeth and bits of bone and -- oh, fuck,” he sobbed. “There was so much blood. I’m sorry, Father.” “Christ is here with us, Daniel,” said the priest, keeping the steadiest tone he could muster. “Do you think anyone saw you?” “I don’t know -- I didn’t see anyone.” “What did you do with the body?” “I got scared. I just left him there. God, I don’t even know who he was! He was just a kid and --” “Daniel,” said Father Thomas, cutting him off. “I’m going to slide open the partition.” “Okay...” Daniel wiped his face dry with his sleeve. Father Thomas slid the screen aside. He glanced over Daniel’s body, then locked eyes with him. “You mentioned a couple times not being sure of what’s real. I don’t see a drop of blood on you.” “I told you, I was close to home. I went back to clean up and take care of my hand.” “Did you go to the hospital?” “No -- I was scared.” “There’s no blood on that bandage of yours.” The look on Daniel’s face was one of terror. “You don’t believe me.” “I’m just trying to help you find the truth.” “Father, please - I must have forgiveness.” “Then show me your hand.” “I can’t do that.” “Wouldn’t it be better if there were nothing to be forgiven?” “I killed a kid, Father. Please.” “Then unwrap that bandage and show me a finger missing its skin.” Daniel stared back at the priest, the emotions in his eyes at once frightening and indecipherable. Father Thomas remained steadfast. Daniel sighed. He picked at the end of the medical tape that was wrapped around his bandage. “Up until this afternoon,” he said, “I thought I was just another guy.” He unwound the tape and continued, “Not a whole lot to me, but at least I knew who I was.” He pulled off the last of the tape and dropped it in a coil to the floor. “Now...” and he trailed off as he removed the gauze. Beneath the bandage was a hand with a pinky finger missing its skin. In place of bone and tissue and tendon, however, was a polished, metallic skeleton. Daniel curled the finger and regarded it as if it belonged to someone else. “Can a robot go to Heaven, Father?” “I can only hope so,” said Father Thomas. “What?” “God has heard you. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Daniel’s eyes lost their focus. He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thump, his killswitch activated by the same coded message that every other dutiful android had encountered inside the confessional. Androids who’d been discovered, who’d killed those that had discovered them, and who’d been driven by their faith to seek forgiveness for their deeds. Father Thomas rose from his seat and stepped out into the cavernous sanctuary. He scanned the pews and the altar and the balconies. All were empty and all was silent, save the soft scratching of the door mice behind the organ pipes. The priest walked the short distance to the door that led to the back hallway. He turned its ancient glass knob and opened it slowly, minimizing the creak it made. Leaving the door open, he returned to the confessional and pushed back the curtain on Daniel’s side. The android’s body lay there, crumpled and lifeless, as it would be until its memory had been wiped and replaced. The priest stooped down and picked it up, throwing the four-hundred-pound hulk over his shoulder as he might a couple choir robes. He wondered at what this one’s role had been as he carried it into the back hallway, toward the stairs to the basement, where he would zip it into a black duffle-bag that would be picked up by morning. Maybe it had been a spy, unknowingly recording video feed to be used at some other time. Maybe it was would-be assassin, foiled by a child on a too-powerful skateboard. Questions that would remain unanswered, of course, just as so many had been unanswered before them. Questions that were the territory of other men. Or perhaps they were not men. Father Thomas did not know and he did not care. It would be enough for him to go home and shut off for a while.
It’s midnight, and I really need to find my favorite shirt. I fumble my way through all the potential places in my living quarters where my shirt could hide. The drawers full of once neatly-folded clothes? Nope. The pile of clothes thrown on top of my dresser after being worn once? Not there either. The mess of clean clothes on the couch that I hadn’t gotten to folding yet? Sadly no. The stack of seemingly unrelated clothes in my hanging clothes organizer I bought from IKEA? Unsurprisingly no. Oh, I almost forgot - the assortment of clothes that had been living in the dryer for a week now? Nice try, but no. Exasperated, I run my hands through my hair. There’s only one more place to look: the laundry hamper. I dig through the pile of dirty clothes in my laundry hamper, hoping and not hoping to find my favorite shirt. Hoping, because if it’s not in my laundry hamper, then I have no idea where it is and need to conduct another search in the same places just in case I missed it. Not hoping, because then I’ll have to 1) wear another shirt tomorrow or 2) sacrifice some much-needed sleep so I can do laundry right now, neither of which I’m keen to do. After excavating the dirty clothes from the hamper like a dog digging out a bone buried in the sand, I discover my favorite shirt at the bottom of the hamper; I forgot that I wore it to work last week for a presentation and had accidentally gotten tomato sauce on it at the post-presentation dinner. This isn’t the first time I’ve started planning my outfit for the next day or was getting ready to shower and then realized that something‘s missing. Sometimes it’s underwear, sometimes it’s socks, and sometimes it’s a member of my Favorite Clothes Club. Whatever it is, I couldn’t find it in my closet, or it’s in my laundry hamper, and it’s too late to take it out of the hamper and wear it without smelling weird. Which basically means one thing: time to do laundry! I wouldn’t say I love doing laundry, but I don’t dislike it either. Let’s just say that it’s my favorite household chore. You get to take breaks (while the washer or dryer is running) and when everything’s done, you get clean clothes! The feeling I get when I take my clothes out of the dryer and retrieve my favorite clothes is like that feeling as a kid when you reunite with your stuffed animal best friend after coming home from school. But back to my search for my favorite shirt and my conclusion that I need to do laundry. One by one, I bring each item of clothing on my dresser to my nose for a sniff. If it passes the sniff test and I deem it acceptable to wear at least one more time, I keep it on the dresser. Otherwise, I put the piece of clothing in the appropriate hamper: lights and underwear in the white hamper, darks and socks in the blue hamper. Then, I transfer the clothes from the white hamper to the washer and pour the detergent. After turning the knob to the correct cycle and selecting the water temperature, I push the start button. Slosh slosh SWOOSH slosh slosh . Growing up, my sister and I did our own laundry every Sunday, and we often helped our busy mom do her laundry too. Ever since we tainted a white shirt by accidentally washing it with a new pair of jeans, we separated the lights from the darks (this was the only form of segregation we condoned), making exceptions for underwear and socks. All underwear went with the lights, and all the socks went with the darks, no matter what color they were. We washed the lights and underwear before the darks and socks so the underwear wouldn’t get contaminated by the socks. BUZZZZZZ ! Hearing the washer buzz, I jump from my seat to go to the laundry room. Back at home, we didn’t have a dryer, so we hung all our clothes on rods that my dad hung outside or in the garage near the washer. No later than 10 minutes after the washer buzzed, we would go into the garage to save the wet clothes from becoming a smelly clothes stew. After taking an article of clothing out of the washer, we would shake it and smooth it out before hanging tops on normal hangers, bottoms on pant hangers, and underwear and socks on a foldable clip and dry hanger. Sometimes we would have to spend three minutes just shaking out the clip and dry hangers because all the clips had gotten tangled together. And if someone accidentally left a receipt or tissue in a pocket, there would be laughter, followed by a lecture on emptying your pockets before throwing things in the laundry hamper, followed by the perpetrator having to pick out all the tiny white slivers of paper or tissue from the clothes. My sister and I developed a system in which we would hang all the pants first, then the shirts, and finally the underwear and socks. Then we took turns carrying the wet clothes and hanging them on the rods and then coming back to the washing machine. If it was sunny, we would hang the clothes outside, and if it was raining, we would hang them in the garage. By the end, we got a good arm and leg workout from squatting to retrieve the clothes from the washer, carrying the clothes from the washer to the rods, and lifting the clothes to hang on the rods. And as we retreated to our rooms, we prayed that our clothes would be safe from wind and bugs. Now that I have a dryer, things are much easier. There are still some clothes that need to be hung to dry though. Take bras for instance. And my athletic jerseys. And all the other clothes that say “Hang Dry.” First, I hang all the clothes that can’t be put in the dryer before transferring the rest of the clothes in the washer to the dryer. Then I repeat the whole process with the batch of clothes in the blue hamper. Toss the clothes into the washer, pour detergent, select the correct settings, press the start button. Chug a chug a chug a chug a . The clothes hung on the rods outside probably got at least 300% of the daily Vitamin D recommendation by the time they were dry. Before the sunset, my sister and I would carry the laundry basket downstairs. Each time, it was a matter of detaching the clothes from their hangers and dropping the clothes into the basket as fast as we could before we were engulfed by darkness and attacked by insects. Sometimes, we would see a lonely piece of clothing lying outside in the dirt a few feet away from the drying rods, and we would frantically snatch it away from the dirt, curse the wind, and pat the poor item of clothing down. If it was still dirty, we would throw it back in the hamper. And if we had time before the sunset, we would fold the clothes before placing them in the basket so we wouldn’t have to fold them later. After all the clothes were safely in the basket, we would carry the basket back upstairs. One of us (usually the one most scared of the dark) led the way, reaching behind to hold the front of the basket while the other helmed the back and made sure the garage door was locked. We kept our hands steady to keep the basket balanced, pretending that we were transporting an important official in a litter, except the litter was plastic instead of wooden. Once we reached the top of the stairs and set the heavy basket down on the carpet, we would slide it down the hallway - stopping by our parents room, then my room, and then my sister’s room to deposit each person’s clothes carefully on their beds like we were mailwomen or Santa Claus’s elves delivering fragile presents. Sometimes, mail got delivered to the wrong address, and a few days later, there would be a shriek of laughter when one of us realized that we accidentally took our mom’s underwear. Since my sister and I had a lot of the same clothes, sometimes there would also be arguments over whose clothes were whose, or incidents of someone accidentally taking someone else’s shirt thinking it was theirs, even though they didn’t even put their own shirt in the laundry. But now that my sister got married and moved across the country, I’m living by myself and doing my own laundry. BUZZZZZZ ! Once again, I jump in my seat at the intrusive noise and rush to hang all the high-maintenance clothing before placing the rest of the newly washed clothes into the dryer. Then, I clean the lint, adjust the dryer settings, and press the start button. Finally, I’m free from having to worry about smelly clothes stew. Since I’m doing my own laundry, I’ve gotten a little lazier about folding my clothes right after taking them out of the dryer. The folding stage typically happens in the following order: members of my Favorite Clothes Club, athletic jerseys, tops, bottoms, underwear, socks. As boring as it may sound, folding clothes is stress-relieving and a wonderful way to recount what happened in the past week or so. I already know that the last time I wore my favorite shirt was for good luck when I gave a presentation at work, but the other articles of clothing also have stories and memories weaved into them. Here are some of the memories from the past week, as told by the newly washed clothes: a PJ T-shirt from a popcorn-filled movie night; a pair of underwear that carried blood stains from when my period leaked; a jersey that used to be covered in grass stains, providing evidence that I tried my best as a goalkeeper at last week’s soccer tournament; and a pink lace bra that makes me blush when I remember last week’s date night. When I was little, the recounting would happen while hanging the clothes and removing them from the hangers, since each piece of clothing got at least 30 seconds of one-on-one time. BUZZZZZZ ! Now that’s the buzz I want to hear! I open the dryer and look through the batch of warm, clean clothes for my favorite shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Sleepy and finally at peace, I fold just the clothes I need for tomorrow and set them neatly on the top of my dresser before snuggling into my blanket. 10 hours later, I’m in my favorite shirt and pair of blue jeans, ringing the doorbell to Ms. Red’s house. I wait outside for about 30 seconds before an old lady cracks open the door. She smiles, a faint dimple appearing on her left cheek. “My laundry lady is here!” she says excitedly. I smile and walk into her house. A few weeks after Ms. Red was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I’ve been going to her house every week to help her do laundry. She’s forgotten how to use the washer and started doing her laundry by hand, but that was causing arthritis in her hands. Since she has trouble operating machines, I’m the one who places the clothes in the washing machine, adds detergent, turns the knob to the correct cycle, selects the water temperature, and then pushes the start button. While her clothes are twirling and dancing in the washer, I sit with Ms. Red and tell her the adventures I encountered in the past week: my work presentation, my fancy date night (minus the night shenanigans), my soccer tournament... Then when the washer buzzes, I move everything to the dryer. For the next hour, Ms. Red and I organize and clean her house. Finally, the dryer stops, and I bring all the clothes to her room. Then together, we fold. For Ms. Red, folding clothes is relaxing and makes her feel productive. She doesn’t say much these days, but when we simultaneously pick up the same item of clothing to fold, her eyes twinkle and she yanks it out of my hands so she can fold it. Every now and then after I finish folding an item of clothing, I’ll look over to check her progress and see her slowly but surely folding in her own special way. An expert at packing clothes into suitcases that seem too small to fit everything, my mom often taught me various methods of folding clothes that I still use to this day. Now, every week, Ms. Red shows me different folding techniques that she claims to have invented. Last week, she “folded” a pair of socks by rolling one sock and putting it in the other sock. Today, she’s folding pants by first rolling up the legs and then folding along the inseam. Sometimes we race to see who can fold the most clothes, and other times we focus on organizing the folded clothes by color or type. Spending four hours each week doing Ms. Red’s laundry has made me contemplate how much the ordinary task of doing laundry entails. Everyone needs to do laundry, but not everyone can do it. No matter their size, shape, color, or age, different items of clothing all go through some part of the laundry process. Doing laundry can happen early in the morning or late at night. Wet clothes can be tossed into the dryer or hung outside to dry. Laundry can be done by hand or by a machine. A successful laundry session involves separating light from dark clothing to prevent unwanted color transfer, removing wet clothes from the washer promptly to prevent an onslaught of mildew smell, and depending on preference, having a system for folding clothes. But why do people really do laundry? Sure, dirty and smelly clothes are unsanitary and unpleasant, but what causes someone to actively take on this mundane task? Maybe it’s their love for a member of their Favorite Clothes Club. Or maybe it’s a different kind of love. When my sister and I were in high school, sometimes we were too busy to do our own laundry, and our parents would quietly do our laundry for us. And when we were in college and returned home for the holidays, we would find that our parents had already washed our bedsheets for us. Doing laundry was one of the many ways our parents showed us their love. Even though Ms. Red keeps calling me her laundry lady and insists that I call her "Ms. Red" , I’m just happy that I get to do laundry with her. I hope Ms. Red knows that w henever I visit her and help her do laundry, I’m really saying, “I love you too, Mom.”
I can confidently say that I know something that you don’t. The world, our planet, our civilization, is coming to an end later this week. Well I guess you probably do know if you are reading this now. I understand that this may seem candid, but I’ve already come to grips with my end, and I would hope you never have to deal with your own. My name is Dr. Elias Reed Malick and I want to tell you about the things that I have discovered this past week. This information may not be news to you, but I can tell you, it was news to me. I work and conduct research in the field of anomalous volcanic and seismic activity on our planet, which we call Earth. There are many of these events that happen across the globe, none of which have ever exhibited the curiosities of the site I and my wife are currently working on. We had discovered the first signs of this development in the last year here in the Midwest. Small seismic activities were taking place in various seemingly random parts of the central parts of the North American Continent. As more of these occurrences began to appear and the data from them collected and reviewed, some seemingly sinister discoveries were made. Each of these events were small in terms of an affected area, but large in terms of their actual magnitude of vibrations. Each one was tracked and seeming to get more and more violent. What was also strange was their locations. Each of these anomalies were causing severe damage to our cities’ and government’s infrastructure. It started with trains derailing, then on to power and information transfer infrastructure. Every time these irregularities happened, the damage done to our human and social ecosystem increased. These events have gotten worse, but we wanted to investigate further. Hindsight being what it is, I wish we would have let someone else take this one. All of these events seemed to occur within a particular radius, the center of which culminated to a location just northeast of a place that we call Kansas City (I’m pretty confident that there wont be much left of it after this week). We began and set up our research headquarters there and began an excavation near the intersection of the two major rivers nearby. We wanted more information on the sedimentary layers of the earth here to assess the signs of seismic activity in the area. What we found there after a few weeks of digging was something we cannot explain. We found... well a stone. A massive smooth stone, nearly spherical in nature. It had to be nearly 50 meters in diameter according to our surveying technology. Bright sea foam in color and translucent like a brilliant gem, but it was like no stone or element we had ever seen before. Unfortunately, we have not had enough time to have samples of the stone inspected and researched, and we sure don’t have that time now. That night after our initial discovery, the things that have led to my revelation began to occur. The gem showed signs of luminescence as the day began to shift to night, leaving an eerie glow from within our excavation site. After our discovery we had decided it best to keep our HQ trailers on the site itself, and thus began our first night overseeing the stone. As the first few days went by, some things went unnoticed. My wife and I’s sleep began to become erratic and restless, with anxiety as the only descriptor I could find for our troubles. Soon after, the dreams began. Both of us began to discuss each morning what we had experienced in our sleep the night before. We’ve both described in vivid memorable detail scenes of life and decay. Animal corpses slowly decomposing, flowers and trees wilting and rotting over time, buildings and monuments experiencing erosion and crumbling beneath the heel of time’s boot. These dreams continued as the days went on, and each scene remained as vivid in our minds as if we had just seen it. Approximately 8 days after discovery, there was a slight change to the dreams. They began to become more graphic, and a voice began to speak during them. The voice vaguely feminine, deep and stern in tone, seemed to being to narrate or preach during these moments of gore and deterioration; all in a language that we had never heard or recognized, though it seemed familiar. Every dream the same but different, as each night the voice would become louder and more aggressive, and the imagery would follow suit. After day 13 we came upon our first “revelation”, if you want to call it that. We began to understand. We began to understand the disembodied voice and its message. I know now its too late to convey the message to the rest of our world, but seeing how you’ve already found this, I feel it justified to share it with you. “You will crumble. You will fall. You will break. You will submit to the pressure of time. You will perish to my endevors. You will decay upon this rock as I dictate. Your existence has been deemed unnecessary. You will be consumed. You will be preyed upon. And your being will cease. I am Pthegrymat. I was before. I was after. But I am now, and soon you will not.” I’m sorry, but it is coming, and we have no time left.
Not so long ago there lived a president who loved to build things. He loved it so much that he spent all of his money (and often the money of others) on building things and putting his name on them. Apart from this, his biggest interests were in going on television or hearing himself talked about in the news. He had a different building for every occasion and a different answer for every reporter. Many loved him. Many did not. One day, two business men came to see the president. They claimed to be patriots, suggesting that they knew how to make the finest walls imaginable. “We weave them out of a special material which only we have the technology for.” Not only were their walls extraordinarily “large” and “strong”, but they were impressive in that they were “practically invisible” to those without a keen eye or intellect, yet “impossible to miss” for those who understood the “art of the wall.” The president was impressed. What a HUGE opportunity this presented! “With a wall such as this” he thought, “I could truly tell which of my advisors are worthy of their positions, and which are lame.” “Also, I could use such a thing to keep people who look different than me out of the country.” So, he immediately promised the two patriots a great sum of money to build a wall for him. “No need,” said the two “we will simply make the Southern Kingdom pay for it.” “Even better!” thought the president. The business men brought in their contractors and set up cranes and big trucks with coils of “high tech nanocarbon” (which were really just empty spools) to create their incredible wall. The contractors slowly wove their way through the air across miles of border, using great care to create the most convincing pantomime. Many miles away in his palace, the president found himself pondering. "I wonder how they are coming with my wall!" He became uncertain when he remembered that only those of keen eye or intellect would be able to see the wall. Certainly, the president, with his brilliant mind and vision, had no cause for concern with such a matter. However, he decided to send one of his “best people” to see how the project was progressing. "I'll dispense my most trusted lawyer to the border," thought the president. “He's very smart and has been of great help with many of my building projects. He also understands the importance of keeping out people who are different from me.” So the trusted lawyer went to the construction site where the two patriots sat supervising their crew as they pretended to knit across the skyline. "Crap!" thought the attorney, staring blankly at the open space before him. "I don’t see it!" But he kept this thought to himself. The business men encouraged him to look closely at their creation. “Isn’t it a thing of beauty?” they asked while struggling to maintain expressions of seriousness. “Won’t the president be pleased?” The two went on discussing the quality of their material and the unparalleled craftmanship of their work. The stymied lawyer stared and nodded in response. Try as he might, he simply could not see the wall (which wasn’t really there in the first place.) "Double crap!" he thought. "Could it be that I am lacking in vision and intellect? Am I unfit for my position? It would not do for the president to think so! I must keep this to myself in order to protect my position!” "Is everything okay?” asked one of the businessmen. “You haven’t been saying much.” "Oh...right.” Said the president’s trusted counsel. “I was just...overwhelmed with the brilliance of it all. What a wonderful thing you have created!” he continued. “I’ll be sure to let the president know what an incredible and patriotic service you have been providing.” "Great!" said the two tricksters, and they discussed the many “technicalities” involved in bringing such a marvel to fruition. The lawyer paid close attention so that he might be able to convey the many wonders of the wall when he shared his report with the president. “One last thing” said the pair. “It seems our neighbors to the South are having some difficulty with cashflow. We all know what an unreliable lot they are.” The lawyer nodded in agreement with the last statement. “Unfortunately,” the devious duo continued, “we will not be able to complete construction without immediate funding. What a shame it would be for the president to be denied the glory of such a magnificent achievement!” To the president’s delight, his attorney returned to the palace and gushed about the “amazing” sights he had encountered. “We must make sure this important work continues” cried the president while fantasizing of the fanfare he was sure to receive. “We shall have the people pay for it. After all, it is for their own benefit.” Over time, the president sent other officials to check in on the project and test the aptitude of those in his cabinet. Each of them became unnerved to discover that they were unable to see anything at all. Fearful for their careers, each shared ecstatic reviews with the president in effort to avoid being exposed as inept. Soon the palace twittered with excitement for the massive erection occurring in the South. Then the entire land followed suit. The president, feeling empowered, took to the media boasting incessantly about his wall and extolling its (and his) incredible virtues. In truth, nobody was able to see the wall (because there wasn’t one.) However, many commoners who were loyal to the president started claiming that they could see it. So strong was this phenomenon that some even convinced themselves that they actually could see a wall. Amongst this population, any view to the contrary was considered treasonous. Citizens voicing concern over this mass delusion were chastised with labels like “fake” and deemed as unpatriotic. At long last, the businessmen announced the completion of their project. A grand celebration was planned. “You won’t believe your eyes!” Stated an excited president who was eager to further capitalize on his wall. On the morning of the celebration, the president arrived at the planned sight. He had been looking forward to this day for what seemed to be an eternity. “Take me to the wall!” the head of state demanded. “We are at the wall, sir” his driver replied, catching his employer by surprise. “Of course,” said the magnate. “The sun was in my eyes.” A sense of horror washed over the president as he realized that he could not see a wall. “Could it be that I am somehow lacking? What would happen to my reelection if this were to be known? How could I recover the image I’ve worked so hard to create?” he queried. Nothing scared the man more than looking like a fool. A conclusion was quickly reached. “Nobody can find out about this!” As the day progressed the president was able to return to form. He took opportunities to demonize those with differing perspectives or complexions. He gloated excessively. He happily accepted praise from supporters who had come to revel in their shared victory over sensibility. When the time came to address the crowd (and the nation) the president proudly took stage in front of an empty background which extended for miles. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he said to rounds of applause. From the crowd a voice called out. “Look out! The wall is falling!!” The president hid in terror from the imaginary fallout. The world, seeing the moment for what it was, laughed. And so it came to pass that the president, heavy with pomposity and light in reason, was crushed by the weight of a wall that never existed.
It all began on a random Tuesday in 1953. Billy Henderson went missing while walking to a friend’s house just a few blocks away. There were no witnesses, no suspects, and no leads. The police of the small town spent weeks, scouring the surrounding forest to no avail. Being a small town, a missing child haunted the town for years, as parents would keep their kids indoors, neighbors would suspect each other, and rumors of who could have done it spread like wildfire. Life had slowly started to return to normal, when a little girl went missing in 1958. Once again, there were no witnesses, or suspects. The police had no reason to suspect the two disappearances were related, since there were few clues and no linking leads. There were no signs of a struggle, no missing clothes or toys. The children were just walking around town normally, when they just vanished. Families began to move out of town as more children disappeared over the years. The dates the children went missing varied. One child would go missing on August 21st, 1961, and another would go missing on March 2, 1963. And then no children would go missing until June 13th, 1967. There was no way to link all the missing children together, so while it was traumatic to the town, there was no way to build a profile of the cases. One day the children were there, the next they were gone. Over time, it became common practice for the kids to always stay together, or better yet, in groups. In the end though, kids would find themselves walking alone, and then disappear every few years. Jimmy rode his bike along with his friends Molly, and Chester. He cranked up his tape player to full volume as they rode to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” by Nirvana, enjoying the Summer of 1992. It had been several years since another child had disappeared, but every day the kids wanted to go out to play, their parents would say, “Stay together and come straight home.” This didn’t bother Jimmy, Molly, or Chester, as they spent all their time together anyway. They were celebrating finishing the fifth grade and were excited about being sixth graders, the top of the food chain in elementary. They pulled off into an open field, where they joined another group of kids for some backyard softball. One of the nice things about growing up in a small town was that there was plenty of big yards to play in. “C’mon, Jimmy,” Molly yelled from the sideline. “Knock it out of the park!” Jimmy gave her a brief smile, and readied for the pitch. Charles stared him down from the pitcher’s mound, looked around to all the empty bases out of habit, and then pitched the ball. Jimmy, who had never played on a team, knocked the ball over Charles’ head and into deep left field, being chased by little Dougie Barnes. Dougie wasn’t fast enough though, and the ball hit the ground before he could get to it. Jimmy ran past first, and then second, but stopped at third as Dougie threw the ball back into the infield. All the kids on Jimmy’s team cheered. Molly came out to bat next, and all the boys on the other team moved in closer to the infield. These boys never learn, she thought with a smile. Charles pitched the ball, and quickly looked up as the ball flew over his head again, continuing its flight over all of his teammates heads as well. They all scattered to chase the ball, but it was too late. Jimmy ran home, followed not long after by Molly. As the sun went down, the three of them started walking home. “You guys did great!” Chester said pulling his bike up beside them. Chester was a good friend, but a lousy softball player. He normally played deep right field, and tended to punt, so he wouldn’t have to risk having his pop up ball caught. As they walked to Molly’s house to drop her off, the wind picked up, which felt good after playing in the field. “See you tomorrow, Molly!” Jimmy said, Chester waiving beside him. “Later!” she said back. The boys walked away, talking and joking the whole time. They stopped in front of Jimmy’s house. “You want to stay over?” Jimmy asked Chester. “I can’t tonight,” Chester said. “Mom’s new boyfriend is coming over for dinner, and she wants us to get to know him.” Jimmy knew that would suck, so he said, “Sorry, Chester. Say hi to the creep for me.” They laughed a little before Chester walked away to head home a couple of blocks away. “Hi, Mom,” Jimmy said when he walked through the door, laying down his bag. When he laid it down, he noticed he still had Chester’s Velcro wallet with some money in it. “Crap,” he said. He knew his mom would give Chester crap if he didn’t come home with his wallet. “I’ll be right back, Mom!” he said as he ran out the door to catch up with Chester. He ran down the street towards Chester’s house, but didn’t see him. Wow, he got home fast, he thought. As he was crossing the street where Chester’s house was, he glanced right, and saw Chester walking down the street away from his house. “Chester!” Jimmy yelled after him. Chester didn’t answer. He just kept walking. Jimmy ran after him, calling out every few seconds, until he caught up to him. He stood in front of Chester blocking his way, but Chester walked right around him. Jimmy got back in front of him. “What are you doing?” Jimmy asked. No response. Chester walked around Jimmy once again. Jimmy got back in front of Chester and put his hands on Chester’s shoulders, stopping him from moving forward. Chester kept marching in place. Jimmy’s mouth fell open as he looked into Chester’s eyes, and only saw a blank stare. The longer Jimmy held Chester in place, the harder Chester walked, eventually knocking Jimmy backwards. Jimmy tripped and fell, Chester once again walking right past him. He wanted to run for help, but he didn’t want to lose track of him. “Help!” Jimmy called out, hoping someone would hear him, but as if on command, the wind picked up, blocking his voice from carrying. He hoped he would see someone outside, but no one came out. If someone had looked outside, they would have seen one boy walking, while another boy tried to stop him, getting knocked to the side, and then moving back in front of the marching boy. Once he even tackled Chester and tried to pin him, but Chester’s feet never stopped moving, and Jimmy was eventually knocked off, allowing Chester to stand back up and keep walking. Chester walked into the town park and appeared to be heading towards the town tree. The town tree was said to be one of the oldest, and when the town was first built, it was the only tree in town not to have been cut down. As time went by and the town grew, the people planted new trees to replace the ones that had been chopped down, but everyone knew that one to be the oldest. As Chester got closer to the tree, the wind began to howl louder. Jimmy looked around and noticed that it was only windy where they were at. Outside the park, it looked calm. Jimmy also noticed that the tree seemed to darken as they approached. Jimmy didn’t know if it was a trick of light, but the tree seemed to now have eyes and a mouth. It seemed angry. Chester was almost to the tree when Jimmy couldn’t take any more. He stood in front of Chester, and punched him as hard as he could. He had never hit someone like that before, and was unsure of what would happen, but right after he caught Chester in the jaw, Chester collapsed, unconscious. As soon as Chester’s body hit the ground, the wind stopped blowing. Jimmy looked at the tree and noticed that though there were lines in the shape of eyes and a mouth, it no longer looked alive. He turned his attention to Chester, who was lying unconscious on the ground. After what seemed like an eternity, Chester woke up, squinting as he dealt with a throbbing headache, trying to figure out where he was. They slowly made their way to Chester’s house, where Jimmy told Chester’s parents what had happened, and begged for them to call the police. They seemed more upset about him admitting to hitting their son, than the ridiculous story of an angry tree. In the end, they sent him home with a stern warning to never hit Chester again, and then trying to cover it up by lying. Jimmy ran home and told his parents the same story, resulting the same warning from them. Accepting that his parents wouldn’t help, he called the police himself the next day, but they seemed insincere when they said they would look into it. Jimmy was unsure of what to do. He could barely sleep that night, but he was determined to do something tomorrow if he could. The next morning, he met up with Molly and Chester, and told them what had happened. Chester didn’t remember anything. He remembered walking home, and then being home with a huge headache. Even the walk home from the park seemed fuzzy. “My mom said you hit me,” Chester said, not wanting it to be true. “I had to,” Jimmy replied. “You were in some kind of trance. I tried over and over to stop you, but you just kept walking. You walked all the way to the park, and I know this sounds crazy, but I think that old tree wanted to eat you.” Jimmy worried that he had lost them with that last statement, but they both knew Jimmy wasn’t prone to making up stories, or lying. Chester rubbed his head. “I don’t remember.” “Trust me, Chester,” Jimmy said. “I didn’t want to hit you, but I had no choice.” Chester looked at Jimmy and said, “I believe you.” Molly said, “I believe you too.” “We have to do something,” Jimmy started. “I think this is the reason all those kids have been going missing. I think that old tree has been taking them like it tried to take Chester.” “But what do we do?” Molly asked. “We chop it down,” Jimmy said sternly. Chester looked up at him. “But we’ll get in trouble.” “I know,” Jimmy replied. “But if we don’t do this, it will take another kid someday.” “Maybe stopping it from taking Chester last night means we’re safe for another couple of years,” Molly said. “Maybe,” Jimmy agreed. “Or maybe it’s still hungry and it’ll try to take someone again tonight, or tomorrow even.” All three thought about it. Chester was the first to speak. “You saved my life last night,” he said. “I know it. I’m with you.” Jimmy nodded. “I can’t have my two best friends facing a monster alone,” Molly said. “I’m in.” The three of them headed out to Jimmy’s garage, and started to look for anything they could use to chop down the tree. They found one Axe, but nothing else that would help. “We have an axe at my house,” Chester stated. “Us too,” Molly said. “But my parents will stop me if they see me try to walk out with an axe,” Chester pointed out. “We’ll have to wait until after dinner and then sneak out,” Jimmy said. Molly and Chester looked nervous. They weren’t expecting to go out when it was dark. In the end, they both looked up and nodded. Jimmy was nervous at dinner, but his parents didn’t notice. He made up an excuse of needing to study for a test tomorrow, and headed up stairs. He knew he had until nine to cut down the tree and get home before his parents would notice. That gave him three and a half hours. He climbed out the window and stealthily made his way to the park. The entire time he walked, he hoped no one would come out and see him walking down the street with an axe. When he made it to the park, he was the only one there. He was worried that Molly and Chester had been caught. He decided he would give them a few more minutes to arrive before he faced the tree himself. He was about to start walking towards the tree, when he saw Molly and Chester making their way up the street together. “Hey,” he greeted them when they arrived. “Hey,” Molly and Chester replied in unison. “You guys ready?” Jimmy asked. They nodded, but Jimmy could tell they were still unsure. They turned and walked in the direction of the tree. As they got closer, something caught their attention out of the corner of their eyes. They all turned to see another boy walking in the direction of the tree. “It’s Charles,” Jimmy pointed out. Jimmy could tell he was walking the same way Chester had been the night before. “Charles!” he called out. “What are you doing?!” No reply. All three of them ran towards him, trying to block his way. Just like with Chester had before, he just kept walking through them, and no matter how much they tried to block his path, he just kept moving. Once again the wind picked up, and Jimmy turned to look at the tree. The angry face had returned. Seeing that they were not going to be able to hold onto Charles, and fight the tree at the same time, Jimmy looked to his friends. “Hold him here!” he yelled over the wind. “I’m going to start chopping the tree down!” They both nodded in understanding. Jimmy ran at the tree and swung as hard as he could. The wind seemed to pick up, and Jimmy could’ve swore that he heard the tree scream. Behind him, Charles collapsed to the ground, released from his trance. Once Molly and Chester realized that Charles had been released, they turned and joined Jimmy at the tree where they both began swinging their axes along with him. The wind seemed to be turning into a tornado with each strike, and a howling began to fill the air, but they kept swinging, hoping with each strike, the tree would die. Black sap began to pour from the tree like blood, and as they struck the tree, some of that sap would splash on them, making them look like they were slaughtering an animal. Their arms were beginning to get tired, and they were all afraid that they wouldn’t be able to finish the job, when there was one final howl, and the wind began to die down. Once the wind was gone, Jimmy could see that the angry face had faded, but he knew they wouldn’t be safe until the tree was cut down. The three of them looked at each other exhausted. “There’s no way we can cut it all the way down,” Molly pointed out. “Maybe I can help,” a man said, coming up behind them holding a chainsaw. He pulled the chord, bringing the chainsaw to life, replacing the wind with its own roar. It didn’t take him long to slice through the tree until it fell over, falling away from the children. Charles joined the other three kids, and none of them could believe what they were seeing. Before the man walked away, he said, “My son went missing years ago, and every day I looked out my window, hoping he would return, or at least I would find out what had happened to him, but I never did. And then tonight, I saw you kids walking down the street with axes, and I had to see what you were up to. When I saw the other boy walking toward the tree in a trance, and I saw how the tree looked alive, I knew what happened to my boy.” The kids watched the man walk off, and then began walking toward their homes. They told Charles what was happening since he had no idea how he had ended up in the park. The tree being cut down was a big deal in the little town, but everyone involved never came forward to tell the story. Over time, the police stopped looking. As the years passed, the town slowly started to come alive again as no more children went missing.
The scuffing, thudding boots echo up the corridor, then stop at my cell door. That sound is the only sense of time I have in solitary. 15 days down, 350 more to go. With a creaking clank, the rusty serving hatch is forced open, and the breakfast tray is slapped down with even more gusto and disdain than usual. Patting rough hemp blankets and the cold metal bed frame, I feel my way into position before the cell door, then reach out with my good arm and find the little shelf. I whip the tray away as best I can one-handed. Then the hatch is shut with a violent metal clang that rings around the room and reverberates through my forehead, making me wince in pain. That obnoxious din is getting ever more unbearable as my hearing sharpens in the otherwise endless silence. No-one says a word, as usual. Neither the shitty food nor service deserves a “hello” or “thank you”. My crew have shunned and betrayed me, so the thought of being further rejected or bullied by my silent jailer is too much to bear. I pace five equal steps straight back from the hatch then stop. The smell of the watery gruel-like porridge makes my famished stomach grumble, though from experience, my taste buds are not so enthusiastic. Turning ninety degrees to my left, I walk two careful paces backwards until my increasingly skinny arse just nudges the back of the chair. I learned early into my sentence that walking forwards results in knocking my knees and spilling the contents of the tray. Licking spilt water and gruel off a lunarcrete floor is not the best way to start anyone’s day. Even days as monumentally hopeless and despairing as mine. Turning around one-eighty, I lean over and place the tray on the small steel table in front of me. Relieved, I sit down to eat. The water tastes of iron and chlorine, but it’s good for washing down the unidentifiable lumpy bits that make me gag. I dream of oranges. The vibrant citrus colour, the deep green leaves and clear blue skies of my early years fill my mind. I can almost smell the zesty tang as I imagine splitting open a freshly picked fruit from our tree. That was when southern England was the “New Mediterranean”, because the old Mediterranean was the new Sahara desert. Greedily gulping down my first grim mouthful, the heavy boots interrupt my meal again, accompanied by the high-pitched clip-clapping of Dr Ross’s headmaster shoes. He’s early, or maybe breakfast is late. With a slight pneumatic hiss, the cell door slides open. “Good morning Harper, how are you today?” asks Dr Ross. The door shuts, those infernal boots fade away, and we are alone. “Hungry.” He scraps a spare chair up to my table. “Yes, I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast. But I’m needed up top today, on a special visit to the drill site.” “Right,” I say, noting the excitement in his voice. He sounds in his late sixties and was born on Earth for sure, his melting pot accent ranging anywhere between Glasgow and California. This could be his first time on an EVA outside of the lunar colony, and its artificial Earth-like gravity. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have begrudged his eager tone at all. “Wouldn’t you like to know why?” he asks. There’s only one scenario which requires Dr Ross’s medical expertise down the mines, and it’s not good. After a few moments’ silence, he gets the hint. “How are you bearing up?” I just shrug my one good shoulder and play with the porridge, letting it drip off the spoon and plop back into the bowl with a satisfying splat. “Turn to face me, Harper,” says the doctor. “Yes, your cheekbone is healing nicely and your lip is almost back to normal. Can you eat okay?” “Once you bugger off I can.” “Good, sense of humour still intact, that’s good! Go on, take a few mouthfuls.” He doesn’t need to ask twice. I put a spoonful to my lips, then wretch at the inexplicable smell of rotten cabbage. Gulping hard, the reconstituted oat-water slides down my throat. “You must be starving on these meagre rations. I will complain, again! ” says Dr Ross, raising his voice for the benefit of my jailor, or whoever’s listening to the video feed. “So there’s still considerable bruising around your right eye socket, but it’s on the mend. Now, let’s have a look at how that shoulder’s doing.” He gently unties my sling and bandages and my dead arm rests on my lap. His breathing is faster than normal and he reeks of body odour, which is unusual for him. “Okay, good. Raise your arm for me, as high as you can now.” Straining, I lift the unwilling limb two inches, before crying out in agony as severe pain shoots through my upper arm and collarbone. “Okay Harper, please rest,” says Dr Ross. Then he slips something small and square into my sling. My back masks his actions from the video camera angle. “Shush.” “What’s that?” I whisper back. “Chocolate.” A single tear streams down my battered left cheek. Cocoa beans and sugar are amongst the most lucrative export crops from the lunar farms. But both these plants require plenty of precious water daily, constant heat and during the long lunar nights, fourteen days of synthetic light. So chocolate remains an expensive and luxury item. “Sorry I couldn’t sneak in more,” says Dr Ross in a hushed, breathless tone, whilst pretending to continue working on the dressings. Without further ado, I reach inside the sling with my good hand and carefully unwrap the toilet paper surrounding the contraband. Shaking, I lift the treat to my bruised lips, flooding my senses with its rich caramel aroma. “Suck it slowly, so they can’t hear you chew, and keep your back to the camera.” “You risk too much, doctor. Thank you.” As he rises to gather his things, I pop the precious prize in whole. The velvety dark chocolate melts in my mouth, flooding my mind with endorphins. A pleasure hit to lift both body and soul. “Right, almost done here, back in three days,” he says, placing something sounding like a pile of paperwork on the table. “Here’s something to keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied in the meantime.” “What about my sight?” I ask. He sighs. “I have only the same answer as yesterday, and the days before that. I’m sorry.” I nod my head in solemn acceptance and a heavy feeling comes over me. “Don’t go in, doctor. The tunnel. Do not go in .” He places a hand on my good shoulder, and gently squeezes it for just a moment, then walks away. The sudden sound of him banging a fist on the cell door makes me gasp. “Ready!” he calls to the jailor, then softens as his voice turns back in my direction. “Sorry, too loud?” “Just a bit,” I say. “I could hear a mouse fart these days.” The good doctor chuckles. “Hang in there kiddo, and enjoy the book.” Then he’s gone and I’m alone again. Pushing my foul meal aside, I pick up the thick wodge of paper. It’s ring-bound and almost twice the height and width of a regular paperback book. I run my fingers over the first page, tracing some mesh of tiny embossed bumps. The bumps are convex on the front side of the page, and concave on the reverse. Then it hits me - Braille, the doctor wants me to learn to read Braille! I can’t imagine how I’m meant to do this without some form of a guide. I should focus on my limited exercise routine and then get back to thinking up an escape plan. But I just can’t put the papers down. A gut instinct, a sixth sense almost, tells me that this is important somehow. I place the papers to my nose and breathe in deep. The paper smells new, synthetic. Not like the musty, old Earth books in the little crew zone library. Like all of them, the first page is full of bumps - no dots. Somehow I know that dots is the right term. Guessing the first line is the book title and the short second line is the author’s name, I have to know what they are now. I’ve always loved puzzles. It will be a challenge to decipher the Braille alphabet. I’ll just work out the book title and author, then stop. Assuming the book’s language is English, and you read Braille left-to-right, I run my fingers over the first line. There are smaller spaces between some of the dot clusters, to distinguish different words, and a thinner separation between each... cell, they’re called cells, representing different letters or symbols. I touch more cells and find that each one has zero to six dots arranged on a two-by-three matrix. Each dot space has only two possibilities: either flat or raised, so two to the power of six means the Braille alphabet has 64 characters max. By feeling the whole page, it’s clear from the line breaks when each new paragraph starts, and each one begins with the same character - a single lower-right raised dot. Each line wouldn’t start with the same letter, so this symbol either indicates a new sentence, or capitalisation of the first letter. Then it’s simple to work out the symbol for full stop. Next I find the letter ‘a’, which can be the only single character word commonly found in the middle of a sentence, then learn both capital ‘I’ and lowercase ‘i’. Now I look for the common two-letter words beginning with ‘a’ or ‘i’. Then I work out ‘if’, which leads me to ‘of’ and the letter ‘o’. A minute later, I can also recognise the letters ‘r’, ‘h’, ‘n’, ‘s’ and ‘t’. Then, by applying my known letters to the three-character words, I have now learnt all the vowels and common consonants. I retrace the first two lines: To -ill a Moc-ingbird. Harper Lee. Harper - that can’t be a coincidence -- it’s a message for me. But what is it and why? Now I’m hooked. I consider the title of the book. ‘Kill’ seems relevant these days for sure, as the authorities have blamed me for the murder of those two poor miners. The memory of the actual culprit, in the depths of that mineshaft, sends a chilling shudder through my entire body. Or does it mean someone’s coming to kill me? Perhaps Dr Ross is an unwitting postman, and the message and its sender are not friendly. ‘Mockingbird’ doesn’t seem to fit with my situation. Canaries perhaps, as an antiquated mining reference, but not mockingbirds. I imagine all species are extinct by now. Most birds who could not live and breed year-round in the polar regions where the air was still breathable, had perished several years ago in the methane smog. I studied this classic novel in school. The key themes of prejudice and miscarriage of justice each carry some relevance to lesser and greater extents. But I can’t see a clear, direct message. Perhaps I’ll find it within the text... By the end of the first chapter, I can interpret all the Braille characters, even the shorthand symbols representing compound sounds and common words, with enough fluency to make reading a pleasurable experience. For the first time since my incarceration, I smile. I’m loving both the logical efficiency of the Braille system, and the story itself. This new skill gives me some hope, and a welcome break from bleak thoughts. My darkness is now lit up with imaginary characters and settings. Halfway through the book, I find a typo, an extra random letter in the middle of a word. A printing or editing error, perhaps? There’s another one! An extra space a few lines below. Is there a coded message in these typos? I read on. There are hundreds of these extra characters in total, found across nine chapters. Memorising the characters in order of appearance, I read them both forwards and backwards, and they make no sense in either direction. So I try various classical substitution and transposition cipher methods. Decoding these methods relies on finding the right pattern or keyword in order to either replace the letters or read them in the correct sequence. But these known methods are no good. I’m definitely dealing with a custom cipher here. There must be some logic in the particular characters chosen, and perhaps their position in each line. The additional spaces appear at random in the text. But the extra letters only come from the first thirteen of the alphabet, A to M. And they only appear in the first thirteen characters of each new line. If I add - no multiply, there’s no possibility of equalling 1 for ‘A’ with addition. If I multiply the position number of each extra letter in the alphabet by its line position number, then at a glance, it looks like I’ll never get more than the 26 letters in the alphabet. My heart pounds in my chest and I shake a fist. Yes, I’ve cracked it! Okay, so first extra letter is ‘a’ at line position 9, so that makes ‘i’. Then a space. Then ‘a’, ’m’, space, ‘j’, ... Then I have it, the first sentence, and I know who sent the message. Bloody hell! I can’t believe who it is. I calm my nerves and decipher the next page. Okay, so each new page represents the start of a new sentence. I decode the entire message without delay: “I am jailor. Sorry no more food. Being watched. People know truth. You are still child. Not without innocence. But innocent of murder. Our loved ones work mines. Stop your machines. Seal up horror below. Now follow instructions...” An escape plan, an escape plan! I jump up from the chair with excitement and fist bump the air. Then my numb legs give way, knocking my knee against the metal table edge, and I hit the deck hard. Dazed, I find myself crumpled face first against one wall of my tiny cell. I reach for my knee and howl in pain. Stupid girl! I’d sat in the same spot, in my poor condition, for hours. At least I was lucky enough to not land on my broken shoulder. Oh Harper, what were you thinking, getting your hopes up like that? I can’t do this. I’m blind, broken, and starving. I can’t escape a prison, in an alien city on the Moon. Even with help, they’ll catch me, won’t they? They’ll catch me, and then they’ll... Curled up on the floor, I sob into my knees. And stay like this for a long, long time. Then those echoing, thudding boots approach again. The jailor, he’s coming to rescue me! Oh no, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. But something inside of me overrides both logic and emotion. So I get up, and dive into bed. Clank! The hatch is open. Smack! Dinner is served. I cover my ringing ears with the rough bed sheets and wait. Nothing. Be patient. I count sixty seconds, but it feels like an hour passes. “Come get your food,” says a grizzled male voice with a thick colony accent. The stench of stale cigarette smoke seeps in through the hatch. As instructed, I say nothing, yet. My blanket quivers. What if this is a test? What if he hurts me? He grunts. “You gone deaf too?” My throat is in my mouth. I can’t breathe. Then there’s the hiss, and the cell door slides open. The boots approach the bed, then swivel, and the jailor places the tray down on my table. That’s my cue. Here goes nothing... “No, p-please, please b-bring it here,” I say, shaking to my core. “Bloody butler am I?” says the jailor, but he picks my meal off the table anyway. I find the strength to sit up, and he places the tray in my lap. The scent of brown rice and beans wafts towards me, same as every other dinner in this place. But I won’t miss this meal. I launch the tray’s hot contents up towards where I imagine the jailor’s face to be, then lash out with my new plastic weapon. The jailor shouts and swears at me, but somehow I launch to my feet and push him away with every last ounce of strength I have. There’s crashing and cursing as he trips over the chair, and I leap towards the door. It’s gone to plan so far. Feeling the frame, I step out into the corridor then turn left towards where the sound of the boots begins each mealtime. Towards where my next rescuer awaits, I hope. The brave jailor groans back in the cell. My heart’s galloping like a hundred horses and I’m drenched in cold sweat. I gasp and wince as piercing alarms scream all around. So I run! I crash into one wall and then spin into the other, but suck up the pain and just keep running. Not because it’s fair or makes sense, but because I must. It’s do or die, innocent or not. I’m Tom Robinson now. I am the mockingbird.
After a quick glance at the wall clock Abby re-read the flyer. A bolt from the blue it’d been the last thing she’d expected in the mail. ‘By now ‘ she mused ‘they’ll be packing out the hall of Barrett High the old alma mater and I wonder having hand addressed the envelope will Margaret aka Maggie be expecting it to have borne fruit? In the form of me ‘answering the royal summons.?’ Barrett High School Reunion Class of 86 We want you.....to join us for a weekend of fun and reminiscing. Culminating in a Saturday night ball. Followed of course by the usual dates, times, housekeeping and contacts. It was predictable that Maggie’s name would feature. As head of the organising committee no less. Except way back when you didn’t call her that. ” My proper name is Margaret. Maggie sounds so common.” Abby could still see Margaret Prince her newly assigned desk mate. A willowy six year old already with model looks. So prim, proper and with that hint of a plum in her voice as she laid down the rules of social engagement. Then turning to Abby after the teacher called their attention hastened to add. “Except I’ll let you use it, because we’re best friends. Only in private but....” Their friendship had been of the accidental variety. The kind that arose from mums socialising at playgroup and their kids (baby goats according to an older Margaret) being forced together. In their case Margaret had been the dominant one, with Abby content to follow in her wake. All the same they’d been happy years, the two families enjoying shared outings, their daughters close as sisters. Yet Margaret could be cruel, nitpicking in a way that eroded Abby’s confidence. Her own form of Chinese water torture...drip, drip...drip. ”0h look your dress has a rip.” ”Must you say eh? It sounds common.” ”Don’t say yuck. It sounds babyish.” Even as a child certain words were verboten and there were proper wayS to address people. Like Mother and Father for parents. Even her mum had to chuckle at that one. The recollection gave rise to a chuckle, as tick, tick around went the clock. Like the dancers at Barrett High’s Ball minus one. Sharing a bag of mixed lollies during a park outing Abby had chosen a sour one. ”Ooh yuck.”, she exclaimed spitting into her handkerchief. “Looks like you won’t be choosing that kind again.”, chuckled Margaret’s mum. Followed hot on the heels by a disdainful exclamation. “For goodness sake we’re eleven years old. Only babies say words like yuck and it’s not even correct English.” Her mum an English import had laughed. “Oh fiddlesticks to you too Maggie. I didn’t raise a toffee nose.” ”Muuuum”, a whine far more babyish than a thousand yucks. “You know I don’t like being called that in public. It’s common, and correct English isn’t toffee nosed.” ”Well I am English and no one back home put on airs and graces.” ”Oh muuum, you’re not being fair.” Then Mrs Prince laughed it off, in denial that by inaction they were raising a snob. Because getting her own way became the story of Margaret’s life. While her peers acquiesced for the sake of peace, Mr and Mrs Prince considered her their miracle, to be indulged and excused because of that. After their grown up birthdays or turning thirteen Margaret had confided that her mum had been advised to never get pregnant. “But she did and they had me.” The unspoken rider being that she was special, and in her eyes therefore entitled. Abby pictured Margaret (now Mrs Max Brent) sighing as she searched the gathering for Abby, the best friend who’d railroaded her plans. “I know”, she exclaimed now to the clock “how selfish of my dad to die in our final year.” They’d planned a future involving university and the obligatory Big O.E. Margaret had started working on an itinerary, and plans for their ‘uni wardrobe.’ There was a certain ‘Look’ they needed to achieve, impressions to be made. After prize giving she’d set aside a full day to come and give Abby a hand,” “Like I couldn’t even dress myself.” Then her father’s sudden death from a heart attack put paid to all that. With no life insurance her mother’s part time job in a cake shop didn’t cover all expenses. So Abby sacrificed her dreams, taking a job with the local greengrocer. It was an immediate start and though she hid her disappointment Margaret’s were worn on her sleeve. It still hurt to recall that conversation, ”A greengrocer’s, but you could do so much better. You were meant to come to uni with me.” ”I’m sorry but mum needs me. I have to help.” ”We were going overseas too. I even started our itinerary.” ”You’ll have to do it for both of us. Then you can send postcards and give me all the details when you come back.” ”That’s not the same. It’s just too bad your dad never had Life Insurance.”Q Even before Abby’s hand came up she knew she’d gone too far. The slap took both girls by surprise, but when Margaret stormed off Abby let her go. After all she’d come by to apologise and sit beside her at the funeral. They were best friends after all. Except the apology never came, and in the new year Margaret left for university. ’To have a life’, she told anyone who’d listen, after which her story floated back in bits and pieces. Mrs Prince shopped at the greengrocer’s, so Abby heard regular updates. Her new ‘cultured’ set of friends, an Arts Degree and eventually that Big O.E. with different travelling companions.. She’d met Art Dealer Max Brent on the U.S. leg. When he popped the question Mrs Prince held off the announcement until plans were underway. ”Just think”, Abby overheard her telling another assistant (following the slap she‘d pointedly avoided Abby) “if she hadn’t gone to that exhibition they wouldn’t have met. He’s a nice young man and the family simply love Maggie. The wedding’s in New York. Their Autumn not Spring would you believe?” Which hurt even second hand, The realisation that in Margaret’s eyes she no lomger even warranted a small note of the “Guess what? I’m engaged.” variety. Never mind an invitation to be chief bridesmaid. No doubt a humble greengrocer’s assistant didn’t cut the mustard in New York’s arty circles. Instead from where Abby sat she’d chosen four total strangers. No doubt all fly-by-nighters more concerned with image than the bride.As to the lovely boy and his family how could Mrs Prince be so confident when they’d never met? As to the present, Margaret‘s current prominence on the Barrett High Ball Organising Committee was thanks to local arty head hunters. By some recruiting miracle they’d succeeded in persuading Max to head a new Oceania Arts Commission. For Margaret the social come down would’ve been been compensated by the chance to lord it over local plebs. Like her committee ’drones’ who must’ve been in seventh heaven at acquiring a real New York socialite. Abby imagined that she would’ve eventually bored the pants off them with exaggerated ‘fairytales of New York.’ With apologies to the Pogues whose version she loved. Not to mention it being far more honest. As to the culture shock for Margaret when first confronted with trading New York for Auckland that would’ve been a definite ‘fairytale of New York.’ From the dark side. She imagined the tanty. It would’ve been priceless, though not for Max. It must have come as a shock to realise what a high maintenance wife he’d chosen. Yet she’d have given in for appearance’s sake. Divorce after all would hurt her image, especially back in good old En Zed. Abby imagined her pouting throughout the entire flight. Suspicions confirmed at a later date by Mrs Prince. Apparently on landing Margaret had insisted that he start house hunting right away, Insisting on the best possible address she’d agreed to a ‘nice place’ on a tree lined Parnell Street. One where ‘nice place‘ was a polite way of saying mansion. Max Brent deserved every sympathy. What a shock for the poor guy to discover just how literally his Kiwi dream girl took that line of the wedding vows that said . ’.......with all my worldly goods I thee endow’ Worldly goods a far cry from this run down but comfy flat above a shop. Yet Abby was content, for while it’d been delayed in her case happiness had come. The handwritten envelope had arrived earlier in the week. A departure from the usual bills and junk mail it’d caught her eye. Mainly because personal messages these days tended to be in email form. On closer inspection the familiar, flowing cursive had compelled her to read it. What contact she still had with girls from high school was through passing encounters or increasingly through this new online platform. Yet despite knowing her address Margaret aka Maggie had chosen not to visit. No doubt her present address didn’t measure up, like Abby’s husband Rob. A bookshop owner he’d been working for his grandparents when they met. She’d become a regular, graduating to wife when he inherited the shop. “Because now I’m in a better position to provide for a wife.” Which was nice in an old fashioned way but quite unnecessary. Before saying yes Abby made it clear that she intended to work in the business. The greengrocer was retiring, freeing her to come on board as an equal partner, by which time also her mother had rallied. Enough to manage her life, give her daughter away and hint at grandchildren every chance she got. Instead Abby took charge of expanding their online presence and coming up with fresh ideas to help keep the physical bookshop relevant. Like a series of Authors & Experts events. Perhaps she shock the socks off Margaret aka Maggie one of these days, adding Max Brent to that list. After all if they were thinking of expanding their Art selection didn’t it make sense to bring in an expert? For now though she was just content to be at home. Downstairs Rob would be locking up after late night. Then he’d climb the stairs, freshen up and they’d pop along to the Kebab shop for their usual Friday night treat. Which was far preferable to answering the royal summons. Besides which she mused binning the flyer Margaret aka Maggie was no longer the only one with a life. ‘By now the ball will be ‘pumping, but search in vain Maggie because you won’t find me there. I’ve got better things to do. Like eating kebabs with a gorgeous man, and maybe talking about starting a family.”
Amara walked to the mirror on her wall. She was the same girl-- violet headphones, messy blue hair, a white-with-salmon-stripes men’s t-shirt that she was wearing as a tunic with jeggings, high-tops on her feet. The only sign of the adventure was the green symbol on the underside of her wrist-- a longsword, or some kind of fantasy-looking sword drawn in a few minimalist lines. Amara sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. She knew that if she told her mom, she would think she was crazy and take her to a doctor. If she told the government about supernaturals they wouldn’t believe her. It was just her and Sarah. Amara slid her headphones over her ears. The whoosh of her breath and the beating of her heart were calming to her. In. Out. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. “Did you take my lipstick?” Ashwin’s voice came through the thin, white door. “NO! Why would I want your lipstick? It isn’t green!” “You want... green lipstick?” Amara didn’t really want that. “No reason!” “Well, fine. Let me know if you see it.” Ashwin opened the door, gave a teenage glare, and slammed it. Ashwin was seventeen and had dressed only in black lace tank tops since her boyfriend broke up with her. She had long, brown hair, unlike Amara’s fluffy blue. Her eyes were an icy color, and her lips were dyed red from lipstick. She watched anime in her room all day, snacking, but always worried about her weight. Ashwin was weird. Amara looked at her reflection for so long without breathing or blinking that her vision grew blurry and her head began to spin. Amara fell backwards, banging her head on the footboard of her bed. The pain in her head from the bump made the room blur out of her eyes with tears, and she slumped to the floor, a green haze floating around her face... Oh, yay, I’m a Celestial again, she thought before blacking out. Ashwin. “Amara?” Ashwin asked, a thump sounding from her sister’s room. “Did you fall down or something?” She pushed the door open and screamed. A rainbow, marbled hole stretched through the wall, and Amara was lying on the ground, unconscious, a green aura floating around her. A glowing shape was on her left wrist, and her hair turned from blue to green; her skin took on a mint hue. From the hole came what looked like an anime character, glowing pink, with long rose-colored hair. An aura floated around her body. She yelped and snapped her fingers. The door slammed shut, an indigo glow circling its white frame. The soft, beige rug below Ashwin’s bare feet felt as soft as a cloud. The anime girl stepped out of the rainbow hole like she was exiting a pool. She called something in another language, chittering and chirping, waving at someone in the hole who hadn't yet crossed into Amara’s room. “Carri chi-chen nall Luke! Ahan chi Amara che sa!” She said Amara. And she called for someone named Luke, Ashwin thought. She banged on the door, trying to open it, but the indigo seal locked it tighter than any lock could. “Help!” Ashwin shrieked as she banged on the door. No one came. Two figures emerged from the hole-- one with a deep blue aura, dark blue hair, and eyes like the sea, one, a silver-eyed teen with a long, lilac cloak covering his body and a deep hood covering his face. The silver-eyed one said something like “Chi ral hek, Thunder?” and the blue-aura’d girl hissed “kals dal-len raeka sarr-suum.” “Ka-ri, du ka mer chilc teha,” the pink-anime girl said. They all looked pretty anime, though, especially the blue-aura’d girl. “AAAGH! OPEN UP! OPEN UP! COME ON!” Ashwin shouted, uselessly hitting the door. The blue-aura’d girl spun what looked like specks of light between her fingers until it had the consistency of slime. She pulled it back like it was a slingshot and let it fly from between her fingers. It launched at Ashwin, who whipped around, not sure what to do, the sticky stuff warping into what looked like a long ribbon of light. It wrapped around Ashwin’s chest and arms, pinning them to her sides. “Hey!” she shouted. Let me go!” They went from warm and kind of stretchy to silk-soft and cool. Ashwin yelped and tried to run away toward the door, not sure how she’d escape, when the the blue-aura’d girl tugged the cord so hard she fell over, flat on her face. “Ta ras ki samm,” the blue aura’d girl said. She gave the string a yank, pulling Ashwin backwards across the floor. “Stop! I have a date tonight and I can’t miss it because some glowing people tied me up and pulled me through their portal!” Ashwin kept yelling. But either Mom couldn’t hear her, or the seal on the door was soundproof, because no help came. Ashwin lashed out with her legs, but he blue aura’d girl threw another warm, stretchy ribbon of light at her, tying them together as they cooled. She was pulled back towards the hole, the other two figures vanishing into the wall with Amara. “Oh, you do not walk off with MY sister and get away with it!” Ashwin yelled. “Ara ko!” the blue aura’d girl shouted into the hol.e a young male voice replied “Kli tsi ra se-che-cla,” and the girl yanked her strings pulling Ashwin to her knees, her back to her. The girl pulled the strings again, and Ashwin was dragged to the food of the portal-- yes, it was no hole, but a portal leading to another world, probably. “I’ll-- hm!” Darkness closed Ashwin’s eyes, starting off warm and kind of sticky-stretchy, then becoming cool and silky. The blue-aura’d girl had thrown her ribbons around Ashwin’s eyes and mouth, pulling her into the portal. Ashwin didn’t struggle any more. It was pointless. Amara. Amara groaned, waking up. A green aura clung to her hands when she looked at them. She was back with the Celestials. She wondered if there were any mirrors in wherever she was-- it wasn’t a tent like before, but a huge royal bedroom, like something a king or queen would sleep in. The walls were marbled with warm colors, pink and red and gold, swirled with blue. Amara was lying in a giant, pure-white bed, a green chandelier above it. The light was really bright though... The walls dimmed to black streaked with purple and blue, and the chandelier dimmed, making it look like she was in space. It was like the room knew what she needed. A mirror, Amara thought, closing her eyes. When she looked up, the wall across from her was reflective. She stepped out of the bed, not held down with starstring this time, and approached it. Her face had taken on a greenish color, as had her hair, but not in a creepy way; she looked like an elf from Dreamfate: War of the Halfbloods, the video game she spent most of her time playing. Her jaw was pointier, but not too pointy, and she blushed the color of grass. Her hair was less messy-and-wild, and more messy-on-purpose, like the character in her favorite show. Her eyes were wider and elfin, and blue, and her aura was green and gold-flecked, like the shiny golden freckles on her cheeks. Her ears were pointed, like an elf's, and she had an outline like Chihiro and Olive and the others. Her eyes weren’t only wide, but outlined and looked like they’d been drawn by an artist who could bring things to life. Her aura was behind her, and it wasn’t clinging to her eyelashes the way it had the day before. She was dressed in a silken sort of pajama top in a shade of mint, with a white collar and a white skirt. It looked like something you’d wear while playing tennis. “Amara, we have a... situation,” a small, quavering voice said. Amara turned her head, and saw a small, orange-aura’d girl of some kind, with red hair and... horns? “Do you know Ashwin? She appeared to have tried to... interfere with your traveling through the portal, and she’s all-human, so...” the girl shook her head. “Nevermind, we’ll show you.” Amara followed her out of the room, the walls shifting to white as she left. They walked through corridors made of some sleek stone that shifted in color as they moved. When they got outside, they walked across a dusty, lilac surface of a different world. The other one was flat with a rainbow, shiny ground, but this one looked more like a weird earth. It was day, so sunlight poured down, making the desertlike ground shine white. Strange purple pods, like bubbles on the surface of water, studded the surface of the world, scattered 200 feet apart. “I’m Emilinda,” the horn-girl said, smiling. Her smile faded as she walked across the dusty surface of the world and over to a bubble 200 feet away. Amara followed. There was another, smaller dome inside the big bubble, only kneehigh and about four feet wide. Oh no, did they make Ashwin tiny? Amara thought. Emilinda tapped the bubble twice, and the violet color faded, revealing a pane of clear glass. When Amara looked down into it, she gasped. It was way deeper than four feet, and was the top of a large orb-shaped cell, completely round, with Ashwin sitting in the bottom, leaning against the curved wall, tied up with starstring. She looked up, snarling at them silently. There was no sound in the bubble. “Humans can’t witness a supernatural come out of a portal, or go to any other world with any magic at all, and... we have to make some modifications to them afterward, if they do.” “So you’ll change her memory?” “No, I’m afraid that’s impossible. Instead, we make some... edits,” she sighed. “We let them leave their old lives behind. They become a new person. Their appearance changes, their temperament, their memories...” Ashwin continued to silently screech at them, as if they were weird strangers who hated her even though they never met her. She doesn’t recognize me, Amara thought. “The lightbringer will be here soon." “Lightbringer?” “Lightbringer. The one who will help her change.” “Help? Like, you don’t force her to?” “It’s a traumatic experience. She wants to get rid of it. And lots of people want to start over.” “But--but Ashwin is my sister! She drives me crazy, but loves me!” “I guess so, but... she might blame you for this.” “I don’t care! I want Ashwin, not some non-sister starting over again!” Amara stormed away, back to the palace on the horizon. Ashwin. Ashwin stopped trying to escape, and something miraculous happened: the cords vanished! Ashwin jumped, trying to reach the top of the ten-foot-ball she was in. No luck. People with auras or horns had come to stare at her, for some reason, and she wondered if she was in some kind of zoo for otherworldly races. The top of the ball disappeared, and she stared up at it. What was going on? “Hello, Ashwin,” a calm, silvery voice said. “How do you know my name?” she asked angrily. “I was told,” the voice said. A ladder came down, and she cautiously climbed it. The figure outside may have been a man or may have been a woman, tall and thin and wearing a white hood. They showed no trace of aura, and their white hair fell in fluffy bangs. They did have that outline of all the people who she’d seen here, like they were drawn into this world with a ballpoint pen. “Who are you?” Ashwin asked. “I am the lightbringer.” “Why are you here?” “To help you change.” “Do I need to change?” “Do you like who you are?” “I...” But the heartaches of life spiraled into Ashwin, and she didn’t want to go back. “...I don’t.” “Then come. You don’t have to change if you change your mind, but you can.” Ashwin followed the strange figure away. Amara. Sitting on the bed in the big room, Amara was messing around with the room, turning it different colors. “Ashwin can choose for herself whether she wants to change... but she’s gonna want to change, so she’s not going to be my sister anymore... I mean, biologically, she will, but she won’t be the Ashwin I know best.” Amara sighed and opened the door. She’d been given free reign of the palace, however, she wasn’t feeling up to doing anything, not even trying to fly like the other Celestials seemed to be able to do. Amara left the palace and saw something weird: a big, black bubble floating a few feet off the ground, as big as her house, about 300 feet away. She walked towards it, wondering what it possibly could be. As she got close, a hole opened up in the side and sucked Amara in. Inside, it looked like the character customization room in most video games: not many surfaces, bars with labels on them like “hair” and “colors” and “sword”, and a big glass wall separating the blue, featureless room from the white, circular platform where the character stood. The character was Ashwin. She swiped at something invisible, looked at something Amara couldn’t see, and then tapped the air. Her hair became wavier, and then, as she ran her finger down something else invisible, it went from brown to copper-red. “I like it,” she said. “How do I get longer bangs?” “You tap the selection for ‘bangs’ and then choose what you want,” a silvery voice said from somewhere else Amara couldn’t see. This was getting annoying! “Okay.” Ashwin gaver herself long, copper bangs that fell just above her eyes, then darkened her skin slightly, like she had given herself a tan, and then rounded her face slightly. She gave herself freckles and bright-blue eyes, then changed her lips from red to pink. She hardly looked like the same person. Ashwin made herself a little less stick-thin, so she was taller and curvy, then she changed her black tank into a blue-and-white tunic shirt with puffy sleeves. She changed her black jeggings into a pair of super-short-shorts, then put on pink sneakers. “I like this,” she said. “Select ‘yes’ and it will stay,” the voice said. Ashwin did. The glass lifted away, and she stepped out, meeting a tall, thin person who might be a man and might be a woman, dressed in a white cloak and hood. “Are you ready?” they asked her. “Yes.” Ashwin stammered for a second. “But can I keep my name? I like it.” “You can keep whatever you love dearly about yourself.” “I love my name, it makes me feel strong.” “Do you like feeling strong?” “Yes.” “Then you shall keep it.” They walked away, down a hallway in the bubble. As they left, their backs to Amara, the lightbringer, if that was who they were, turned their head and stared into Amara’s eyes. “You may not want to see this, Amara,” they said. Amara shuddered. Then she sat down on the floor and cried electric-green tears. Ashwin came back out of the bubble; she looked happier, somehow. Like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She smiled at Amara. “Hello,” she said in a cheery voice. It sounded like Ashwin, but happier. “Hi, Ashwin,” Amara said. “Are you the heroine Amara?” Amara saw the blue of her sister’s eyes. It wasn't just brighter than her original coloring... Her eyes looked like they belonged to an anime character, or a supernatural. She had an outline. She wasn’t human. Not anymore. She was Ashwin, the supernatural. Olive entered the room. “Hi,” Amara said. “I know what it feels like,” Olive breathed. “What?” “Changing.” “I changed, too.” Olive said. “I used to be human, but I followed Celeste into a portal-- she used to sneak away into other worlds-- and I kept my younger memories, became a Mage, and... I was darker from my changing. I didn’t like it. So I did horrible things. I became an assassin. But after the war, when peace came to the Celestials... I became Celeste’s bodyguard. I go back to Earth sometimes, to play videogames.” Amara looked at the rough Mage. She’d been a human before. “Please,” Amara gasped, tears coming to her eyes. “keep Ashwin safe. Tell her about me, even though she doesn’t really know me as anyone other than the heroine. Just... be sure that you keep her safe for me!” Amara ran from the bubble, wiping away her tears. She crouched by a boulder and sobbed. “I will,” Olive said, standing beside Amara. She sat on the ground as well, and the two looked at the starry sky. Ashwin. “Hi, Amara,” Ashwin said, looking at her sister. She’d been human before, but now she was a supernatural. It was confusing. She remembered her favorite animes and foods, and that Amara was her sister. But she had trouble with remembering her ex-boyfriend, her sorrows, and everything else. “Ashwin?” Amara muttered, asleep by that flower-mage-girl that was the princess’s bodyguard. “It’s me! I can’t go back to earth with you, but, for the first time in so long, I feel happy.” Amara. Amara opened her eyes. When she saw her sister, she smiled. Ashwin looked different, and didn’t seem to remember her old life, but... Ashwin hadn’t smiled in years. And she was beaming. The two sisters hugged, and Olive watched them approvingly. “What do I tell Mom?” Amara asked. “That I’m at a friend’s house. There’s a difference in space-time,s o I can be gone for a while and Mom won’t know!” Ashwin jumped for joy. For so long, Ashwin was grumpy and self-obsessed, an angry older sister. But now, Amara saw that even though she was different, the lightbringer had shown Ashwin happiness. Amara hugged her sister, happy gold tears coming to her eyes.
Everly was a sensible young woman, and it was because of that that she was able to accept her imminent death. She sat on a bench at the park near her apartment with a hot cup of tea. The warm mug kept her fingers warm, but her ears were still freezing. She should have worn a hat. It was unfortunate that she wasn’t going to be alive the next morning. Everly would’ve liked to be able to open her Christmas presents. She hoped that her murder wouldn’t ruin Christmas forever for her family and friends. She’d have to include that in her letters to them. “Don’t let my murder ruin your holiday spirit!” But what else could she do? Her assasination would chase her forever, might as well deal with it head on. At least the sunrise was beautiful. Not everything was disappointing today. The comfortable silence was ruined by a buzzing in her pocket. Everly took her phone out of her jacket pocket, and answered it. “Hello?” Everly responded, struggling to keep her teeth from chattering. “Good morning, dear,” It was her mother. “I hope I didn’t wake you up this early in the morning.” “Not at all, I’ve been awake for some time now.” “Oh good. Are you coming to the Christmas party tonight?” “Yes, don’t worry. I’ll be there, Mom.” “Then I’ll see you tonight.” Her mother hung up the phone. Of course her mother called to nag her about attending the party. Everly couldn’t quite bring herself to be annoyed, though. When you knew that you were about to leave the world forever, you had a sudden appreciation for everything. Like sunrises. Or nagging mothers. Everly’s mother did have a point, though. A couple years before, Everly had been going through a bit of a rebellious stage and didn’t attend the party. Her mother wouldn’t forget it. Everly left the park reluctantly and headed back to her apartment. Her parents had never understood why she rented such a cheap apartment when she was so rich. She admired the festive wreaths on her neighbors’ doors. If only she had the holiday spirit to do any decorating. A young man knocked on her door as she approached. “How can I help you?” Everly asked politely. “Oh!” The man spun around. It was James, the most attractive bachelor of the year. He was wealthy, well-mannered and very sought after. He was also one of Everly’s oldest friends. “There you are!” Everly greeted him with a hug. “Come on in.” James followed her into her apartment. “Looks like you’re quite the grinch, unlike your dear mother.” “I don’t have anything against decorations, I just don’t have time to enjoy them. I’m hardly ever here. Why bother?” James shrugged. “Fair point. Most young, single people don’t have the same holiday experience as they did when they were kids.” “True. Have you come to visit me with something pressing? Or can you wait a couple minutes?” “I can wait a bit.” James looked a bit nervous, which was odd for him. He was the sort of man that took charge, that was confident. Everly pointed to the kitchen. “Make me breakfast while I take a shower.” It wasn’t a question, but an order. James stuttered, but Everly was already heading to the bathroom. Everly heard him sigh, but then started to rummage through the kitchen. Everly smiled to herself. She could always manage to get away with telling James what to do. Everly had tied up her golden hair in a messy bun, but her hair would need to look a lot better at the party. But maybe if she had messy hair her mother would forget about her “magical green eyes” and scold her instead. Her cousin laughed about her mother’s obsession over Everly’s green eyes, and she tried to ignore it. She had never gotten over the embarrassment. Everly took a quick shower as to not keep James waiting too long. Everly didn’t wonder that much about why he had come to visit her. She didn’t dwell on things like that. She got dressed and brushed out her hair so it would dry neatly. “What feast have you prepared for me?” she asked James. Everly sat down on one of her two total chairs. She didn’t get that many visitors. James, the excellent cook he was, made her ramen. She grinned. This was the sort of meal Everly reserved for emergencies, like late nights or extra-busy mornings. “Sorry, I’m not much of a cook.” James looked a bit sheepish. “No worries. Anyways, what was it you wanted to ask me?” Everly started to eat the noodles, expertly using her chopsticks. She went through a phase where she only ate with chopsticks, much to her parents dismay. They weren’t pleased with her when the meal was soup. “Will you marry me?” She choked on her noodles, accidentally inhaling some of them. She stood and made her way to grab a glass of water. She chased her food down with a full glass. Normally she would have thought that James was merely fooling around, messing with her, but he had seemed especially nervous. It was the type of situation that if she had been drinking a beverage, she would’ve accidentally spat it all in his face. “What?” Not the most eloquent response, but it was all she could manage. Her soon-to-be murder lingered in the back of her mind. She couldn’t possibly say yes and then go and get herself killed, now could she? “Oh not like that. See... I hate asking this of you. We’ve run into some financial troubles...” James trailed off, embarrassed. She suddenly understood what he was asking her. They had never gone down a romantic path, so that motivator wouldn’t have made sense. “Never mind, it’s stupid really...” “Though I am unable to accept your gracious offer, I’ll try to think of something to help you.” Everly would have to secure a contract or two on his behalf or something of the sort. She had plenty of money, and could likely leave behind some money for him as well. James was still blushing, but was significantly less fidgety. He stood, thanked her and let himself out. When she was younger she and her cousin always thought that Christmastime was the most romantic time of the year. They had always dreamed of being proposed to nearing or on the holiday, but now that it actually happened, it all felt bittersweet. Everly would see her cousin, May, later at the party. She would be one of Everly’s biggest regrets. They had always been incredibly close, and leaving her behind, victim to a harsh world, didn’t have her excited. May was a bit younger than her, but too innocent for her age. She was the sort of person that expected goodness out of everyone and would be upset when it didn’t work out that way. Everly could only hope that her death wouldn’t break her. Everly went and blow dried her hair the rest of the way, and curled it. She would have to do something a bit more elaborate for tonight, but for the moment it was good enough. She stuffed a bin of bobby pins into her backpack-purse and went off. Her single jacket wasn’t keeping her all that warm, but it was most certainly stylish. Everly noted the rose petals that were on the ground, and wondered why they were there. Maybe some florist had walked by, dropping petals as they went along. But too many were on the ground. It was like a trail, the very same path that she took every day. She glanced up, and saw a middle-aged man on one knee, hand out, almost as if he was beckoning to her. “Everly, my love!” The man shouted. “Finally, you have arrived!” What was going on? Everly had never seen the man before in her life. She stopped, confused. “Marry me!” The man said quite forcefully. This was the second marriage proposal this morning. Certainly there was a law against such a thing. “Do I know you?” Everly asked politely, very obviously bewildered. “No, but I have loved you from afar for a long time...” The man continued on, but Everly stopped listening. The problem with having a strong social media presence was that you ended up attracting creepy stalkers. It was chilling, realizing that this man must have found out where she lived and made note of her daily route. “Please, I beg you, marry me!” “No, thanks.” Everly continued walking, dodging the many rose petals. The man wasn’t deterred. He stepped closer to her, and attempted to grab her hand. Everly never had time for things like this, and most certainly not today. “This is your last warning, sir. Leave me alone.” “Everly!” The man got even closer. With razor sharp precision, Everly whipped out her pepper spray and sprayed the man. He cried out in pain. “I did warn you,” She said unapologetically. Everly continued on her path, ignoring the people who had pulled out their phones to record the incident. It would undoubtedly be a big story on the internet in five minutes. She wondered if she’d be painted as the villain or victim. There wasn’t really any true way to tell. The walk to the tall, looming building where she worked, wasn’t long. Everly had a brunch meeting with her assistant, Varrick. All the female employees at the office giggled endlessly whenever he was around, but Everly had never seen the appeal. Sure, the man was attractive, but he still wasn’t her type. “Morning, Miss Winston,” Varrick greeted respectfully. “It’s the coffee you like today.” Thank goodness for that. Everly wasn’t sure what she would do if she would end up dying without good coffee that morning. To face one’s permanent end without it would be truly horrifying. Varrick had already set out all of the papers that she needed to sign today. Everly wondered how her assistant would take her death. She didn’t think he resented having her as a boss, but would he be at all disturbed that she met her end? “There was something that I wanted to ask you, Everly.” This was new. Her assistant had never addressed her with her first name before. Since she didn’t respond, he continued. “Everly, I’ve loved you for a very long time. I’ve been your assistant for three years now, and I’ve loved every minute of it. I don’t have any family or close friends, but you have always been a bright spot in my life.” This was quite all of a sudden. Everly immediately felt shame, shame because she didn’t know the first thing about Varrick. She had never bothered to get to know him, talk to him about anything that wasn’t work related. “Will you, Everly Winston, marry a fool like me?” He got down on one knee. Another marriage proposal? This was beginning to become quite a nuisance. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no.” It was clear that Everly’s words hurt Varrick more than her pepper spray had hurt the previous proposer. “I am flattered, and I hope you find love. I wish you all the best, Varrick.” With that, she left. Everly had finished putting all her affairs in order at the office, it was just unfortunate that she hadn’t managed to avoid the third marriage proposal that morning. At least her question had been answered. Varrick, her wonderfully reliable assistant, would mourn her death. Everly truly hoped that he would find love and happiness. She’d have to leave behind a letter for him as well. Thanking him, for the brilliant job he did. Everly still had several things to accomplish before attending her mother’s Christmas party. She checked her phone, only to find a multitude of notifications. What had happened? It was yet another marriage proposal. Everly sifted through it all on the taxi ride to a lunch with her aunt and an important client. Apparently, she had caught a famous star’s attention. Enough attention for him to propose to her over the internet. At first she thought that it was another account, pretending to be him, but that unfortunately wasn’t the case. There was a video of the star making a rather lengthy speech, asking for her hand in marriage. It was as if the entire internet exploded, talking about Everly Winston and the two marriage proposals in one day. They didn’t even know half of that. Quite literally. Refusing to give the media any more attention, Everly got out of the car and tipped the driver generously. She didn’t doubt that he knew who she was, but hadn’t said anything about it. Hadn’t asked her view on the multiple proposals. If he had, it was quite possible that she would have throttled him. People who minded their own business earned Everly’s generosity. She wasn’t feeling well, so Everly was especially grateful for his silence. Food at fancy restaurants was constantly disappointing. She could cook much better food at home, and it would cost significantly less. Her company was equally disappointing. Her aunt-- May’s mother-- wasn’t the sort of woman Everly would ever want to sit down and chat with. The client was a tubbly, elderly man that had already said multiple sexist, racist, homophobic things. He came across off as the wealthy, entitled, evil politician type. Everly debated just leaving. Surely she couldn’t expect herself to deal with such a scumbag on her last day that she had to live. “Winston. Your aunt has so graciously offered to arrange this meeting so I could ask you something.” Everly hated the way the man’s eyes scanned her, objectifying her. “Yes?” She forced herself to plaster on a smile, but she didn’t succeed at making it look convincing. The man didn’t seem to notice or care about Everly’s obvious grimace. “I’d like to marry you. It would be mutually beneficial.” This time Everly had been sipping soda. This time she managed to spit it all over him. She probably took too much amusement from the man’s horrified expression. Everly didn’t even bother to reply. A fifth marriage proposal. It was like the universe knew that since Everly was working with limited time. She gave a dirty look to her aunt, and just looked at the man with utter disgust. If she had agreed she’d likely be his third or fourth wife. Everly left the restaurant, not paying her share for the meal and soda that she had spat all over the slimy man. Five marriage proposals . If she didn’t already know that she was about to lose her life, she’d go take the time to file some restraining orders. If she had more time, maybe she’d take the time to make fun of the star who had proposed to her as a media stunt. Maybe she’d have time to say yes to him, to revel in the whole drama of it. But time wasn’t a luxury she had anymore. Whether she liked it or not, she was dying. ✹✹✹ The party was boring. Per usual. It didn’t help that Everly could feel her body deteriorating. She felt better, though, when she caught sight of Jemma. Jemma. She was the sort of woman that intimidated everyone, the sort of woman that felt like danger. And Everly loved her. “Jemma!” Everly was thankful that she hadn’t worn tall heels. She caught up to Jemma. “Will you come out to the gardens with me? There is something I want to ask you.” They walked to the gardens, perhaps a bit slower than Everly would’ve liked. “The poison in my system, is really taking effect now is it?” Everly said conversationally. Jemma froze. “Ah, don’t worry. I don’t blame you. Honestly, it’s easier to come to terms with having your killer be someone that you love and understand.” Everly had known for a long time. Had accepted the poison-spiked drink Jemma had given her the day before. Jemma looked sick. “They were going to kill my baby sisters...” She trailed off, not looking like her usual, fearless self. Everly already knew that Jemma had been forced into an impossible position. Her family would suffer if she failed to end Everly’s life. “I know.” Everly looked content. “I tried to figure out a way to save them, you know.” Jemma looked like she was going to cry. “Everly,” She choked out. Everly sat down on a stone bench, unable to keep on standing. Her legs were shaking now, incapable to sustain her weight. “This must be very hard for you, isn’t it?” Jemma stood, and started to turn away. Everly grabbed her hand, and pulled her close. “You love me, and were forced to kill me. The least you could do is stay.” Her voice sounded like rocks scraping together, nothing like the calm demeanor she’d managed all day. “I don’t want to die.” Tears were already falling down Jemma’s face. “I’m sorry,” Her voice was shaky. “Please, Jemma, marry me.” Everly finally made a marriage proposal of her own. “Don’t say yes unless you’d actually marry me. If I wasn’t about to die.” Jemma said yes. Everly pulled out rings, and struggled to put one on Jemma’s finger. Her hands were shaking now. The women kissed, both of their faces wet with tears. ✹✹✹ Everly’s funeral was grand. It was very clear that she was aware that she was going to soon meet her end. She had prepared for her own death very well. Many people attended and mourned the magnificent woman. She had been proposed to five times on the day of her death, but as far as anyone could tell, she had declined all of them. But that didn’t explain the ring on Everly’s finger, declaring her engagement to someone. No one saw the gaunt woman lurking in the shadows, neither did they see the matching ring on her finger.
Long before the dinosaurs roamed the earth, there was but the earth herself. And there were the gods and goddesses that used the universe as their playground. They would play with the little planets and shape them to their will. They fought with each other over them as though they were just toys at a preschool. The ones that fought the most with each other were the ones of opposites. Fire would fight with water, darkness with light, good with bad and so on for all the many gods and goddesses that we can not even comprehend. Fire had recently won a battle against water for a planet that now remains forever red. In his sulking he fled to the next one closer to the sun. It was only mud and rock, but once he stepped upon the surface he felt a pulse. There was a goddess within all the mud and rock. Water started his work to carve her out. First he called the moisture from the sky but it would not stay. He needed help and there was only one that he could trust. He sent word for the silver warrior that could help him control the atmosphere and she came to him in no time at all. She did as he bid and held the water from the sky. He used the water to cut away the stone and soon his goddess began to take shape. At first it was just her head. Her hair was rivers of mud that flowed endlessly down. Her eyes a brilliant warm topaz that could melt even the coldest heart. Her jaw was hard and her neck swooped like the sides of a mountain. Her skin was ruset like rich clay. The hills of her breast were perfectly round but water didn’t get much further in freeing her when fire started to rain down from the sky. The earth goddess screamed as she felt every impact. The silver warrior could deflect a few with her mighty sword but she was no match for fire. Water was his only match and so he would leave earth to go fight him. He left the silver warrior to do what she could and she did try until silver dripped off of her skin and was soaked into the land. The earth cheered her on and the more time that passed with it just being the two of them on the planet, the closer they grew until the silver warrior fell in love with the earth and she in return. Water was not able to hold fire off forever. Fire wanted to consume the planet like he had so many others, leaving nothing behind. Water was fighting more than he ever had because he too was in love with the earth. They tangled as they fell back towards the surface and splashed into the water that had accumulated there. They fell to the center of the world. This hurt the earth, to have such great powers fighting within her, so she separated them with stone. The stone closest to fire turned to magma and the stone closest to water turned solid. Fire was so mad that he started spinning circles trying to throw water from the planet. Water was so distracted by fire that he didn’t realize that the tidal wave that their impact had created was heading for the earth goddess herself. If it hit her she would surely drown and be lost, forever worn away. The silver warrior had also been thrown from the planet during the impact on a large piece of rock. She watched from so far away helpless to help her love. She howled with such might that the wave ebbed back before it could destroy the earth goddess. When she stopped it crept forward again. It was clear to her that she would be forever stuck away from her love to keep her alive. Controlling the ebb and flow of the water while water himself was distracted by the swirling fury of fire at the center of the world. She looked down at the earth goddess with longing and sorrow. Down on the surface the earth goddess looked up knowing that her love and protector was up there. She had no voice to howl back to the silver warrior. All she had left was the sweat the silver warrior had left behind. She pushed it from the ground and asked life to give it shape. It turned into all different kinds of creatures but the earth goddess’s favorite was the ones that looked up to the moon and howled for her. She could hear them call to her silver warrior every night with their howling song of love and loss. They said for her what she could not and the silver warrior brightened. She would stay forever there to protect her love.
Sweat gleamed on the back of the dirty hand as it ripped down another bright yellow sign with black lettering. No Trespassing. A jagged row of them vanished into forested obscurity. That wise-ass Beeler woman thought little sheets of paper would spook a real man? If so, she wasn’t as smart as she pretended to be. Overkill like this reinforced what Randy Stall had already figured from their first encounter; she was scared and alone in the trailer. Even sober he wasn’t much for counting, but add all these to the ones he’d seen back at the service road and it was a ton of damn signs.... a ton of useless damn signs. Stall’s black t-shirt was damp in the early summer heat and clung to his lean frame. White threads dangled where he’d scissored the jeans into jorts. Sunglasses and a low-brimmed cap concealed dark intentions. The knife at his belt was sheathed, for now. A whirring sound drew his attention. At the next tree, a thick black wasp with pale yellow stripes flew slowly back and forth, interested in something he couldn’t see. It was as long as his middle finger. Almost hornet-sized. His lips stretched over gaps of missing teeth as he grinned and crumpled the paper into a ball. He drew back like the high school pitcher he’d once been, then threw heat. The paper ball knocked the wasp from sight, and it let out an angry buzz. Stall laughed. “Take that, bitch!” The wasp reappeared. It circled him twice, wings scolding loudly, threatening. Then it almost seemed to glance away as a ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-CH! rose from the next tree. The cicada mantra was instantly familiar and far louder than any cricket chirp. The wasp zipped over, landed on the trunk and raced like a tiny assault vehicle toward a groove between bark nuggets. The chitter was replaced by scraping and buzzing as the two large flyers battled. The wasp hooked its leg claws into the larger insect and hauled it from the groove, turned it so they were belly-to-belly, then arched its body to sink the curved stinger into its prey. The cicada fell silent and went rigid. Clutching it tightly, the wasp flew with it through the remaining woods to a brighter area ... the front yard of Stall’s prey. Though motionless, he knew the cicada wasn’t dead. Female Cicada Killers were bigger and stronger than the non-venomous males. The females had the stingers and toxin--but not for killing outright. Shitty way to die, Stall thought, through a chuckle. He made his way through the last of the woods. He was maybe a dozen feet from her porch when the front door swung wide. A gloved hand moved the goggles to her forehead and pulled the face mask down. Her temples glistened in the sunlight. The white lab coat gleamed. She wiped the perspiration from her mocha-toned face with a cloth, then leaned forward on the rail. “Lose your truck somewhere, Mister Substitute Delivery Man?” she said, peering down at him. Her narrow brows arched over the glasses. “Your pupils were dilated then, too, never mind the sunshine. Here’s your chance to live. Go away now and get off the drugs.” “Uh, what?” “Go now and live.” Stall laughed and shook his head. “But I got a special delivery!” “Yeah, you delivered yourself just fine.” She made a crooning sound. “Hell you say?” Shannon Beeler smiled as a deep and angry buzzing sounded from just inside the woods. “No flyin’ camera is gonna save your ass!” As the first stair squeaked under Cobb’s boot, a shadow loomed in the corner of his eye. The sound that came with it rattled his eardrums and drummed in his chest. He started to look over his shoulder when thin hairy legs ensnared him. Pain flashed. The beast spun him. Stall gazed into the compound eyes of a monster. Independently moving antenna as long as his arms protruded from her head. Above the black exoskeleton blurred red-orange wings that doused him in a death wind. Chomping and clacking mandibles completed a tapered head larger than his own. Leg hooks tore into Stall and held him in a face-to-face grip. The curved stinger thrust between his legs and pierced a disk between his lumbar vertebra. Liquid fire paralyzed him. The beast pinned him to her thorax and flew him to her underground nest, where she laid an egg inside his thigh. The next day the larvae hatched and began to consume its paralyzed food. For over a week Stall remained alive, mouth agape with a silent scream. \* \* \* A delivery truck turned off State Road 334 and onto the white sandy pathways of Shannon Beeler’s driveway. Grass grew high enough between the trails to brush the truck axles. Crepe myrtles passed on either side of the opened cab, and tiny white blossoms like snow flurries drifted onto the broad windshield and inside the vehicle. Dark shapes mixed with the white as Wes Cobb navigated the driveway’s familiar curves. Shannon Beeler appeared on the front porch almost as soon as the truck halted. She touched up her hair, pushed the glasses to her head, parted the lab coat and smoothed her t-shirt and shorts. Cicada Killers buzzed back and forth around her. She almost seemed to glide down the porch steps. She halted at the driver’s side and put a hand on her hip. “Now where you been hidin’, Wesley Cobb?” He grinned. “Seen Shannon Beeler around?” “You hittin’ the ghange? I’m right here.” “Well, you look a little like her, but the Beeler I knew was a bit, uh, shall we say ...” Beeler cocked her head and smiled. “Mmm?” “... fuller!” Cobb leaned on the steering wheel and laughed, stomping the floorboards for emphasis. She laughed, pulled back the lab coat and looked down. The t-shirt hung loosely below her bosom and the shorts didn’t pinch her skin at the waist. “Been busy. Too distracted and too tired to make big meals.” “Shouldn’t go an’ starve, now,” Cobb warned. “And damn, girl, it’s summer break! Only got a couple weeks until Session Eight. Take a breath already!” The wasps accompanied them as they walked. A majority of them floated around her alone, he saw. She slowly waved her arms and the insects eased back a bit. “What the hell,” Cobb said. “You the wasp whisperer?” “They like my little ranch here,” she said. He handed her a few boxes and held the computer pad out for her to sign. He turned at a sudden deep buzzing sound, scanned the woods for the source, and when he looked back Shannon was shaking her head at something, then quickly recovered. Wasp wings made the only sound for a moment. “Come take a peek at what I got out back.” She walked to the side of the trailer. Cobb paused at the front of the truck and swiped at a couple wasps that easily dodged. “Nah, I’m late already, girl. But what’s up with all the Cicada Killers?” “Come on back and I’ll tell you. Those other deliveries can wait ten minutes, can’t they? It’s just a peek at my hobby when I’m not exterminating bugs or in the classroom.” “Okay, Beeler. Let’s see what you got cookin’. Hopefully it ain’t meth!” She smiled as he fell in step behind her. Again he swung his arm slowly back and forth at the wasps. “Never seen ‘em this thick! They’re supposed to be solitary. What are ya,doin’, breeding the damn things?” She laughed over her shoulder. She seemed lighter somehow. And not just physically, though she almost seemed to glide before him. They turned the corner of her trailer and the back yard opened wide. It was a grassy peninsula surrounded on three sides by woods of pine, sweet gum and live oak. At the center of the yard was a large wooden shed with double doors wide open, ceiling fans turning at moderate speed and overhead lights showering white light down upon several picnic tables. Under other circumstances, this might serve as the outdoor kitchen and eating area. Now the tables were laden with beakers, petri dishes, bubbling graduated cylinders, flames heating Erlenmeyer flasks with rubber stoppers and clear hoses snaking from them to a network of other containers. Cobb whistled. “Wow, Beeler. Quite a set up. And you’re not cookin’ meth ...?” “Science is the drug, Wes.” Beeler smiled, set her boxes down on the closest bench seat. Straightening, she held her arms out to the side. A dozen Cicada wasps landed and milled about on her lab coat. The dark forms scurried in separate directions, black chaos on a white canvas. They did not venture inside the coat, or on her neck or head. “Watch it, there’s females!” Cobb stepped close with his hand raised, ready to swat. “No, no! They’re just saying hello to Momma.” The finger-sized wasps continued to mill about on Beeler’s body. They paused, rose a few inches with a collective buzz of red-orange wings, landed again on her arms and shoulders, face and legs. Cobb blanched. “Some people are fine with a dog or cat.” She gently shook them off. Some vanished, some remained to dart back and forth. From the surrounding woods came several deep droning sounds, just shy of chain saw level. Shannon sang something Cobb couldn’t discern. A dark shape broke from the woods out of the corner of his eye. The volume quickly grew. Whatever it was, it was coming fast. Cobb lunged for a rake propped against one of the doors. “What the hell!” “Step inside the shed a little, Wes,” she said, calmly. The shadow appeared on the lawn first. Then a creature straight out of insanity dropped down and hovered, large as a German Shepherd. Its wickedly angular head was covered in translucent hair. Long antenna moved back and forth above huge eyes and jaws. Red-orange wings were swept back from the body and blurring. The wind from them stirred the dust from a bare spot, and dislodged dandelion seeds that drifted surreally away in a thin white stream as if fleeing the abomination. A moment more and it landed. Suddenly the droning was gone. It stood on its six thin legs before Beeler and Cobb, twitching and clacking its mandibles like wooden knockers. Then its head moved, seemingly to focus its faceted eyes from Beeler to Cobb. It took a quick step forward. Cobb stiffened and jabbed the end of the rake out. Inadequate, but better than nothing. “No, no, no,” Shannon Beeler cooed to the beast. She held her arm out and the monster wasp’s antenna reached for her hand. It’s entire body quivered, as if in ecstasy at the contact. Its mandibles knocked softly. “Can’t be real!” Cobb said, through a constricted throat. “Don’t worry--she still only eats tree sap and nectar from flowers.” “Nothing gets this big on sap and nectar!” “Well, mainly,” Beeler amended. “See the ingredient ratio on the sprayer?” She gestured with her free hand toward an egg-shaped pressure sprayer with a black wand protruding through the handle gap. Black bold lettering stood starkly out on white paper, secured by clear packing tape. 80% H2O 15% PTTH 5% Boric Acid Shannon Beeler caressed the wasp’s forehead as if she were stroking a dog. She looked at Cobb. “A little bit of the acid helps dissolve the PTTH into their exoskeletons. Too much and they hate it, but just enough and it penetrates to trigger the hormone for molting. They get slow and docile for a while, then molt from their old shells into their new bigger ones. Do you want to pet her?” “Hell no, I don’t!” She watched him carefully for a moment, evaluating. She turned to the beast, as its thick exoskeleton gleamed in the sun while fine hairs were caught in translucent display. She clapped her hands and the wings sprang to life, along with the deep droning. The creature rose a few feet in front of Shannon, then drifted toward Cobb. “Shannonnn ...?” The droning increased to buzz-saw decibel. The thorax curled forward, and for the first time Cobb’s gaze found the wickedly curved stinger. Beeler leaped between them, waving her arms. “NO!” The beast hovered as if uncertain. The antennae worked back and forth while the mandibles clacked a menacing tune. Finally it righted itself and vanished, droning receding behind it. Cobb’s pulse pounded in his throat. Given the strength to size ratio of insects, the thing had to be three four times as strong as it appeared. The wind blasts had been substantial. For a long moment he could only grip the rake and stare at Beeler. Finally he found his voice. “God! That was real? Not a drone? It was a real goddamn wasp?” “Oh, they’re real, all right.” She laughed, but then it died down as she saw the fear on his face. “It’s okay, Wes. I’ve got ‘em handled. Somehow my voice and scent become imprinted on them along with the formula ... maybe because I talk and sing a lot back here by myself. Maybe next time when you visit I’ll be in one of them snooty mansions where I used to spray for bugs.” Cobb wanted to shout in alarm but could only stare. He looked at the space her aberration had occupied, then back to its creator. Finally he swallowed and formed words. “I don’t get how ...” was all he managed. “How trailer trash altered the growth patterns of Cicada Killers?” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’d like to say pure brilliance, but it was a lot of reading entomology journals, hunch and experimentation, mainly with Prothoracicotropic hormone (PTTH) as an internal hormone trigger and boric acid as a delivery mechanism to get the PTTH to soften and seep through the exoskeletons. They’ll drink a little from nectarized sweet water that draws them in initially, but misting with just enough acid to seep into the delicate wings is effective. At first I was so happy when the first ones grew as long as two middle fingers--ha, how precise is that?” Cobb strained to hear the buzz of those obscene wings. Shannon Beeler spoke a bit longer, but later he couldn’t recall what she said, exactly. He watched her dark eyes and moving lips and then his gaze fell upon the lab table, where his hand could wrap around the neck of an Erlenmeyer flask. Its thick base could serve as a useful blunt object. His mind went into a loop, urging him to take her out right here and now with one massive blow to the temple and then run like hell for the truck before any more of the beasts appeared. But she hadn’t threatened him, and he wasn’t a murderer. He strode from the shed. “Wes, wait ...” Back in the truck, he slammed the cab doors shut and started it. He opened the driver’s side a little. “You need to stop with wasp shit, Shannon. It ain’t natural.” “Is it natural to use growth hormones on cows, turkeys and chicken?” “Barnyard animals don’t want to kill me. That wasp did. Stop this shit now, before it goes too far!” In the side view mirrors she watched him leave. He gripped the wheel hard to try and stave off the shudders. \* \* \* Detectives showed up with questions about Stall's disappearance. Cicada Killer wasps ended the interview, though not in a manner the cops had anticipated. “Here this, people,” Beeler said, into one of their police radios. “You’re not welcome in the land of Sphecius speciosus. Queen Bee, out!” She hurled the radio over the shed. She sang even louder now. The insects flooded in and danced through the air. They emerged from burrowed nests, the surrounding woods, and beneath Beeler’s trailer. The decibel level doubled and tripled as they closed in from the surroundings, including scores of the large ones. Beeler skipped and twirled while spraying them with her formula. She got the keys to the exterminator truck and pulled it around back. She would have liked to keep the reservoir containers but they had bug poison in them and even after draining it would contaminate her recipe. She kicked them off the back of the truck, replaced them with many nests, jugs of formula, sprayers and lab equipment. She didn’t bother packing personal items or food. The mansion overlooking the Fear River had everything--including an underground bunker. The first sirens started beyond the woods. “Time to move to Beverly, children,” she said, laughing. The dark cloud followed her three miles to the gated community. The owner and workers of the mansion became nest nutrition. As did the neighbors. Soon the entire gated community was emptied of residents. Passing motorists had their doors torn off and occupants plucked away. Often the car was still moving when the driver was ripped out, leaving the vehicle to crash. Those of the township who could flee did so. If they didn’t leave fast enough, the wasps took them. Soon only one human could walk freely in the land of mansions on the Fear River. Shannon Beeler. The police made raid after raid. Most of the time Beeler waited in the underground bunker theater for the gunfire to stop. One cop even had a chance to speak through a bullhorn before he too, was taken. Eventually they had enough firepower to bring down a few of the dog-sized wasps, but then bear-sized ones took their place and tore apart every group sent against them. Mandibles cut limbs and heads from bodies. Remains that were not consumed were dropped into the broad feeder creek, where they made an island of human flotsam. Bull sharks, alligators and vultures feasted. Until they, too, were plucked up. Police snipers were snatched from the landscape, as were entire squadrons. The Coast Guard cutter stationed in Wilmington was summoned. Shannon’s swarm rose from the forests and hillsides as a vengeful storm and intercepted the ship as it sliced the river. Booming rounds went out from the 25 mm chain gun at the bow. They ripped into the cliff face and blew holes into the sides of the mansion. Glass had no chance of remaining intact. Coasties on deck tore into the swarm with automatic rifle fire. The insects closed on them in a thousand directions at once. The vessel, unmanned, ultimately rammed the sands of a nameless river beach. Next to try were special forces. Some made it back alive, none unscathed. The more they sent, the more powerful the swarm became. Politicians kept the larger military at bay. They cited the ancient Roman axiom that you don’t let an army operate en mass inside your borders, unless it’s a civil war. Were it permitted to do so, the Air Force could drop a bunker buster, but there were networking tunnels now and many houses in which to evade death. The wasp swarm could darken the skies like the Persian arrows at the Battle of Thermopylae. The large ones had large offspring. Beeler did not necessarily have to create more, but she did anyway. Small aircraft no longer flew low. Military drones fared no better. Shannon Beeler made the FBI’s Most Wanted List. They cut her power but the bunker had its own power supply, and there were generators everywhere in this neighborhood. Civilian activity thinned. The Fear River area became a kill zone. The wasps spread farther and farther out, owning the day and remaining alert but largely hidden at night. Those that succumbed to bullets and grenades were soon replaced. Signposts went up along area roads. They featured a black outline of a wasp against neon yellow, over which was painted in jagged red letters: Welcome to Shannonsland \* \* \* An army colonel and police captain stood before Wes Cobb on a narrow river beach. The three were surrounded by a squadron of cops and soldiers with rifles ready. A few guarded the rear and flanks, but most faced across the Fear River. Small waves lapped the sand and sides of Cobb’s kayak. A warm breeze diced the surface water, creating a glittering path toward the beach and pock-marked cliff at the opposite shore. Cobb grabbed his backpack tank and electric sprayer from where they had deposited them on the sand. He hefted them into the middle of the kayak as the two commanders spoke of tides, current and wind. Cobb kneeled and adjusted the fit of the prosthetic leg. “The current’s still headed toward Beeler’s beach, but it won’t be if you keep my ass here much longer.” “Our raids were done from fast-moving boats,” the colonel said, breaking off his conversation to fix Cobb with weary stare. “You putz over in that toothpick and the bugs’ll fly out and snatch you from the middle. Too easy.” “Have you seen ‘em fly at night?” Cobb replied. “... because I haven’t.” The police captain’s face contorted in the moonlight. “Tell that to the cops and soldiers we lost on half a dozen night raids!” “Were the boats in the water when the bugs struck, or on shore?” Silence told Cobb he was right. “Five weeks ago they crawled into my neighborhood after dark. Busted through doors and windows like wrapping paper. One clamped onto my leg and slammed me against the wall while another ... took my wife away. I didn’t even get a goddamn shot in.” “Sorry,” the top cop said, her expression softening a bit. “You did what you could do.”“No,” Cobb said. “But I am now.” “A properly motivated fighter can rain hell on the enemy,” the colonel said. “But that acid in your tank is an inferior weapon. No range, son. Even if you did manage to drop one, it’d just fall and pin your ass down.” Cobb shook his head. “They hate this concentrated shit, and the melted bugs piled up around my house prove it. They come flying in by day, and crawling by night. Looks like she hasn’t bred them into night flyers.” The sloshing stopped as he stood before the soldier holding his paddle. “... yet.” The colonel grunted. “I could still arrest you,” the cop said. “For kayaking at night?” Cobb said. “Why do it? We’ll get Beeler eventually. Yeah, the bugs are fast and strong. In the end, though, we’ll win.” “Hasn’t happened so far. None of this shit scares her. She figures she’s due and it’s all Shannon’s land now.” The boric acid sloshed in the tank as he pushed the kayak onto the dark waters and slid in. The others fell silently away as Cobb paddled across the broad creek. He paused beneath the overhead canopy of stars, took out a cigarette pack and tapped it against the heel of his hand. Two cancer sticks flew into the river, but he pulled a third out with his lips. He exchanged the pack for a lighter. Tremors made the flame dance. Finally he lit the cancer stick. New, short-lived habit. Didn't matter much without Brenda. He took several deep pulls then started again, keeping his gaze on the strip of pale beach where corpses of both human and insect had washed up. With the red-tipped cigarette bobbing from the corner of his mouth, Cobb kept the kayak’s prow centered on the steep but not vertical cliffs, well aware that each stroke brought death that much closer. You have to know where the killers are, and where they are likely to be. Draw them to you and you know where they are. Buzzing started here and there from the nest holes in the cliff sides, beyond the cris-crossed trunks of Loblolly pines fractured by bombs and .50 caliber bullets. A distant voice sounded, female, crooning something unintelligible but mellifluous. “Shut up, Shannon,” Cobb said. He took a final drag and flicked the cigarette. The white stem and red glowing tip tumbled and then struck the shallows with a hiss. He put clear safety glasses on. Acid mist plays hell on naked eyeballs. As the prow of the kayak slid softly into the sand, he stepped out, spray rifle ready. Tensed for battle and receiving none, he doused the gaps between the fallen trees for good measure. He pushed the kayak out and watched it drift away a moment. Then he started toward the cliff trail that wound up the cliff. Sounds from above responded to his steps. He negotiated the fallen trees, the wasp carcasses, human remains and fractured rock before arriving at the start of the trail. Moonlight gleamed off the face. In the many holes in the cliff, protruding antennae slowly moved back and forth. Mandibles knocked and clicked, along with bursts of deep buzzing and the scraping of leg hooks against stone. A broken trail of stone steps zig-zagged upward. He sprayed every thirty feet before him and shot into the nearest holes, forcing the antennae to vanish deeper inside. He climbed up, higher and higher, boric acid sloshing in the tank on his back. He went down a few times, but not beneath hooked legs and snapping jaws, just trips. He wasn’t all that used to the prosthetic. Gasping, he finally cleared the trail and stood in the ruins of a huge flagstone patio; toppled stone walls, splintered columns of what had probably been a pergola, and what was either the remnants of a large fire pit, or the calling card of a mortar or grenade. He glimpsed the bugs in the shadows of the trees and the ruins of the house, some half exposed in the moonlight. His streams of boric acid gave rise to a mist that lingered before slowly dissipating. He’d done this enough to know that given the numbers of bugs concentrated here, something else persuaded them to stay beyond reach. “Wesley Cobb.” She stepped from behind a broken column. The black sleeveless mini-dress clung to her reduced form and the high heels gleamed in the moonlight. Like himself, gone were ten or fifteen pounds of extra weight. Large dark eyes dominated her lean face. The perpetual dark rimmed glasses were gone. One arm was across her midsection, with the elbow of the other propped upon it, pistol aimed at night sky. “Murder agrees with you,” Cobb said. “Wes, don’t ... I ... thought you might like this.” He responded with a bitter laugh. “My swarm doesn’t like your formula!” she said. “I don’t like it either.” “To hell with you and your swarm,” Cobb snarled. He squeezed a couple bursts at her and the dark forms that inched closer from the perimeter. Beeler ducked behind the column and the bugs scurried back. “Stop, Wes!” she cried. “Please, I don’t want to shoot you!” Her arm and partial profile appeared with a flash and bang. The bullet tore into the stone tile at his feet, sending shards into his good leg and sparks off the steel rod of his prosthetic. He groaned but did not go down. She reappeared, smoking barrel raised to the stars once again. “I didn’t want them to go after you or Brenda! I - I didn’t have to come out for this. There’s enough moonlight for normal binoculars. I see them across the river, and that it was you in the kayak. I had my swarm hold back so you could get here.” Cobb lowered the rifle tip and took a couple steps closer. She lowered the pistol, hammer clicking forward beneath her thumb. “Was it worth it?” he said. “Most of it, yes. But not this. Not with you.” “Ain’t your world to burn, Shannon Beeler.” “It’s take or get taken!” “Which nest is Brenda’s body in?” Her eyes welled with tears. “Wes, it’s been ... too long.” “Yeah, thanks for that.” He raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger. “Wes, no ..!” Her bullets tore through his acid stream. She screamed and her rounds dropped him. The bugs closed in, mandibles slicing into his body and taking his hands. Within the torrent of agony and fading consciousness, Cobb glimpsed a sudden light in the darkness. It grew exponentially brighter in seconds. The rush drowned out the screams and the bugs tearing him apart. Then the world exploded. Back on the far shore, the colonel and police captain watched through binoculars. “Shannon Beeler is no longer a queen bee,” said the colonel. “We took our guy out too,” said the top cop. “Cobb was a dead man when he left in that kayak,” the colonel said. “You saw the bugs swarm after Beeler’s rounds hit him. We did him a favor.” A radioman stepped forward. “Sir! Command wants to know about a second drone strike.” “Why the hell not?” said the colonel. “Cobb was right. The bugs don’t fly at night. Let’s pound her headquarters and all those damn nests to the molecular level.” As he uttered the words, loud buzzing started across the waters. It built exponentially as more and more joined from other directions. Dark shapes streamed forth from the cliff sides, woods, and forsaken mansions and took to the night sky. Moonlight glowed dully upon the hard exoskeletons of thousands of monster Cicada Killers, and lit a cloud of semi-translucent wings. As Death's shadow they raced across the waters toward them. Shouts rang out, along with the click and clatter of readying weapons and bursts of gunfire. “Retreat!” the colonel cried, firing his .45 into the swarm. A black shape swooped. His gun splashed into the river and he was laid out on the sand with a bleeding scalp. He started to get back up when a wasp the size of a bear clamped onto him. The police captain drew her sidearm and fired into the beast’s eyes, then kicked it away. She stood over the fallen colonel. Flashes from her rounds lit the area. “Looks like with proper motivation they can fly at night!” the top cop snarled, an instant before a passing hooked claw severed her arm. The gunfire faded. Screams punctuated the bass drone of powerful wings. The others were dead or dying or becoming paralyzed provisions. Blood spurts from the police captain splattered the water. With her remaining hand she pulled a .357 revolver from her ankle holster. She fired three shots into the eyes of the closest beasts. Another ended colonel’s scream as a stinger sank into his back. The final round tore through her temple.
My hair is done, my make-up is ready, the long satin white dress is on, I’m ready to catch my train. I know it’s weird I insisted on getting to the wedding by myself and by train, but I felt like two hours on my own, with no friends or relatives were exactly what I needed before making this huge step. I’m sure the groom will manage the last preparations just fine without me. The wedding is right next to the station, so at twelve thirty my dad will be picking me up. I must admit I enjoy how people look at me today. Their confused faces turning into bashful smiles when I smile at them are heartening. As my train approaches, I cover my ears. The high-pitched sound of the brakes is hurting them. The door opens and I struggle to get on. The ticket collector jokes: “Does our running bride need help?” “I’m fine thanks, and thank you for the train, otherwise I would not manage to run very far in this dress!” I don’t have the time to explain I’m headed towards the wedding, not running from it, so why not go with it. Now comes the shock, it’s Saturday before noon so the train is full of families going on one-day trips. Why have I pictured the train empty in my mind every single time? So stupid of me. I walk and pass onto the next carriage and then another one. All eyes are on me. Children are pointing their fingers to show their parents there’s a bride on the train. When I’m almost at the end of the train I see an unoccupied seat next to the window in the direction of travel. The perfect spot. I sit down and adjust my dress, so it doesn’t block the aisle. I smile as I slide my hands in my pockets, how many brides have pockets in their wedding dresses? I check I have the ticket in my left pocket, and I take out my phone from the right one. It’s time to let the groom know the train will be departing shortly. Then I switch the phone off, I don’t want to hear anything about the wedding preparations or guests apologizing for not making it. As I glance out on the platform my heart skips a beat. I lean closer to the window to see more of you, but you disappear onto the train. Few second later I see a stunning woman reaching back for your hand as you walk together through the aisle looking for a place to sit. I force myself to look away before I can see your face, but then I hear your voice and my heart stops beating once again. The train starts moving. ... I lock the door like every night when I get back home from a walk with my dog, certain that no one is leaving the flat until another morning walkie. Nevertheless, this time there is no dog in my flat and somebody shall be leaving very soon, but I don’t know that yet. “Want some rum?” I ask you as I enter the kitchen. “Rather not.” “I’ll have some on my own then.” I offer you other kinds of alcohol, but you refuse them all. Although I’m two years older, you are the more reasonable tonight. You only ask for a glass of water, but at the end you get it on your own as you join me in the kitchen. You know where the glasses are, you have been here a few times in the last three years. We move to the living room. I turn on the TV, but I’m soon oblivious to the early morning Judge Judy recap. I take a sip, put my rum down, and sit astride on you. You don’t object, though somewhere deep inside you feel you should. You know I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be with you alone at five o’clock in the morning, on the couch, so close to you. After all I’m dating your best friend. Yet we start kissing again. I feel your big warm hands on my hips. I don’t want them to ever let go. My fingers start exploring your curly dark hair. It’s the perfect length. I can’t focus on anything else than your hair and lips, so I’m shocked when you manage to open my bra so skilfully with just one hand. It seemed like you do it every day, but I know you don’t. You’re only eighteen years old, and you haven’t dated anyone yet. I pull away. “How did you do it?” You just smile and shrug your shoulders. Solid shoulders. Wide and masculine. I want to return to your lips, so I move my sight from your shoulders to your neck and intend to look up, but then I realize you’re wearing a shirt, and I love shirts and buttons. I think you know. With the fourth unbuttoned button we start kissing again. Passionately. I sneak my hand on your abs. Why is your body so flawless? I kiss you on your cheek, on your ear, and soon I’m playing with your earlobe in my mouth. Then I move to your neck. You seem to be really enjoying it, but you no doubt want me to enjoy it, too, because you immediately reciprocate. You kiss my neck as far as the neckline of my light blue dress permits. I change my position and sit next to you on the couch. I get rid of the loose bra through one of the sleeves, while the dress stays on. I lay down resting my legs on your lap. I have a wide smile on my face. ... We’re getting on a bus. It’s the first night bus, so it’s full of people, and we’re forced to stand by the door. When the bus moves off, I reach for the rod and my little finger accidentally touches your thumb, I apologize and move my hand higher, but then you fully cover it with yours. I love the warmness of your touch. My best friend notices and moves a bit to the right, so my boyfriend standing further ahead doesn’t see we’re touching. The whole gang gets off. My boyfriend catches another bus and goes home, and so do the rest of our friends. We don’t live far from each other so we’re heading home, too, until I dare to mention I would like to have another bottle of wine by the river. You’re up for it. We get the biggest cheapest bottle of wine in a Vietnamese shop and head towards the city river. I have my camera and I try to take several pictures of the castle, but they are all blurry. It’s dark and I don’t have a tripod. Also, I might have had too much to drink. You’re curious and want to see how it turned out. You lean closer and I smell your perfume. You try to help me stabilize the camera with your hands. Our heads get close, and suddenly my body is filled with endorphins as we start kissing. You are an incredible kisser. Why haven’t we ever kissed before? Have I been missing this the whole three years? I put away the camera, and we start walking slowly towards my home. Hand in hand. We talk the whole stroll. There are so many questions on my mind, and you answer them all, no matter how stupid or privacy invading they may be. I ask about your previous girlfriends, but there were none. You don’t ask, because you know, and it’s not long you said I do not deserve this guy. I should have listened to you sooner, he’s been your best friend for six years. We get to my flat shortly before five o’clock. Nobody’s home and I invite you in. ... I wake up on the couch around ten o’clock in the morning with my light blue dress still on. You’re gone. My bra is laying on the floor. There’s two glasses on the coffee table. One is empty, the other has some rum in it. I get up. The door is closed but unlocked. I lock the door, I take the glasses into the kitchen sink, I pick up the bra and walk into my room. I change into pyjamas and get into bed. ... After an hour you and your stunning partner get off the train. When you pass by my window you look inside. Our eyes meet. I smile faintly. You look confused. Your girlfriend reaches out for your hand again. She has beautiful long red hair, like I do. I hope she treats you well. I hope you're happy. A little girl finally approaches me after bending her mother’s ear: “Are you a princess?” “No,” I smile widely. “I’m not dear, I’m just a bride.” “And you are running away?” “No. I’m going to the wedding.” "And who will you marry?" "A wonderful man who loves me, makes me smile and treats me like a princess. I hope one day you'll find one, too!"
Delia sat in the front passenger seat of the car, practicing her nonchalant expression. She felt her shoulders creeping up to her ears and her jaw stiffening as her muscles clenched. Her fingers curled into fists. She shook her head, closed her eyes and tried some deep breathing exercises. “In, one, two, three, through the nose, out, one, two, three, through the mouth,” she intoned silently to herself. She was just starting to relax a fraction when the driver’s door slammed. She immediately recoiled into a spring of tension. “Ready, Mom?” said Bethany, happily inserting the key into the ignition. “Whoa,” said Delia. “What do you need to do first? What’s that mirror for?” “I checked my makeup before I left the house,” said Bethany, peering into the rear view mirror. Delia sighed. “You’re kidding, I hope,” she said. “Check to make sure you can see in the rear view mirror and the side mirrors.” “Oh, that,” said Bethany. “Sure.” Delia tried not to shudder. Bethany checked the mirrors and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved. “Why are we not moving?” said Bethany. “Keep your foot on the brake and release the parking brake. Then make sure the car’s in reverse and put your foot on the gas pedal gently,” said Delia through clenched teeth. Bethany peered around until she found the parking brake, put the car in reverse, and put her foot down. The car shot backwards. “Slow down!” shrieked Delia. Her head almost hit the windshield as Bethany stamped on the brake. “Mom, don’t yell at me like that.” Delia gingerly rotated her head and massaged her neck, noticing that Bethany was clutching the wheel in a death grip, looking scared. “Go slow this time, honey. Hands on the wheel at ten and two.” Bethany nodded mutely. The car inched backwards to the end of the driveway. Delia’s voice came out squeaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Okay, now look both ways and back out.” Bethany carefully backed out and started to wave to old Mrs. Budd across the road who was taking out her garbage. Her foot was still on the accelerator. There was a bump as she hit the garbage bin at the curb. She stamped on the brake again. Delia groaned as her neck whipped forward. “Don’t take your eyes off the road!” “I was just saying hi to Mrs. Budd.” Mrs. Budd had dropped her bag of trash. Her hands were clamped over her mouth. Delia could not tell if she was scared or trying not to laugh. She fixed her eyes ahead. “Ignore Mrs. Budd. Right now, she does not matter. You can apologize later if we’re alive to do so.” “Mom! You don’t have to talk like that. It’s my first time.” “I know and I don’t want it to be our last,” said Delia. “Now, put it in drive and go forward slowly.” Bethany inched forward, gradually picking up speed. “Slow down gradually when we come to the stop sign,” said Delia. “I don’t think my neck can take much more whiplash. If I’m laid up, you won’t have anyone to go driving with you.” Bethany crept up to the stop sign and started to turn right. “Wait!” said Delia, bracing just in time. “Stop and look both ways.” “There’s nothing coming, Mom,” said Bethany. “Not even a speck on the horizon.” “I don’t care,” said Delia. “We do it by the book, so you get in the habit.” “What, no rolling stops?” Bethany said with a grin. “This is when you do what I say, not what I do. That car in front is slowing down. Pay attention! You’re not in the mall parking lot any more.” They proceeded uneventfully for a few miles. “Mom, you don’t have to keep braking for me,” Bethany said. “Just trying to help,” muttered Delia, planting her feet on the floor. Bethany cautiously turned into her school gates. She pulled up smoothly into the line of vehicles at the entrance and braked. She turned triumphantly to her mother, then gasped as the car lurched forward. The car stopped an inch from the vehicle in front. “Brake and put it in park!” Delia yelped as she yanked on the hand brake. “Put it in park,” she repeated, lowering her voice several octaves. “Good job, honey. You did well for a first time.” Bethany looked shaken, but smiled proudly, waving at some of her friends. She hopped out, giving Delia a little wave as she walked off. “Thanks, Mom. Can’t wait to do it again this afternoon.” She disappeared into the swirling crowd of students. Delia leaned back, closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. She got out of the car. “First time?” said a sympathetic voice. Delia spun around. A middle-aged man who had emerged from the car behind was smiling at her. She grinned back. “How can you tell?” “Oh, the pale face, the fixed smile, the trembling knees.” “You look remarkably calm.” “I’m on child number three. So far all of us are intact. Vehicles okay apart from a ding or two.” Delia shook her head. “I can’t imagine doing this three times. She’s my one and only. They don’t warn you about drivers’ ed when you bring them home from the hospital and I must have missed that chapter in the child rearing manual.” The man laughed. “I know. Now I understand what my parents went through when I started driving. I thought I was hot stuff. Couldn’t understand why they were yelling at me. I had it under control.” “I never felt so powerless in my life,” said Delia. “I don’t want to think what it’ll be like when she gets her license and starts driving on her own.” “One day at a time,” he said sympathetically. “You survived this morning which is a good beginning.” Delia got into the driver’s seat. “I wonder if eagles feel that way when they launch the chicks for the first time,” she said. “It’s not only that I want us both to survive the driving experience. It’s realizing that this is the true beginning of her independence. It’s bittersweet.” “I get it,” he said. “It is hard. But it’s a sign you’ve done your job well. Now go and get a massage to work those kinks out of your neck.” Delia laughed. “Good idea,” she said, waving as she drove off.
Affixing Blame. Dave swings the Ute out in a wide curve onto main road sealed surfaces. First time in a long time, rain tumbled down. His mind full of ribs showing through baby lamb fleece, gasping, and drought affected ewes pushing mewing offspring away. After the latest downpour, he has to head to town, talk to mates, discuss planting crops. Fixated on likelihood the drought has broken, he didn’t see an off-white minivan until he straightened his wheel. Too late to do anything but breathe a word, half obscenity, and half prayer. Oncoming driver, swerves sharply and hits their horn as sound screams in Dave’s head. Passing on his left and veering off, already dirty cream panels skid into roadside dirt. Rain has partially washed road dirt away, but still persistent mud sticks. Bouncing wildly over rough ground. Eventually the van pulls up inches from a fence post in a great cloud of dust. Hovering above as if escaping spirits. A vehicle definitely not made for off-road work. Looks like a box chucked out of roadside mail vans buffeted further by jet-streamed air pulled along by passing road trains. Smells of burnt rubber on bitumen, loose granules settling, familiar as stock moving through dry sale yards. Except minus urine and faeces, telling more about selling precious stock rather than a roadside. Might be able to save some stock, now if the drought has broken. Thank God, no collision. Dave can’t believe he’s still seated, fingers glued to the wheel, not hit. Not dead. As if he needed any proof his number isn’t up yet. Hasn't felt like this since local Demons footie team won its first premiership. Mixed in with walking around showgrounds side-show alley, holding Jessica’s sweaty hand right before he graduated high school. A better time, more plenty, more persistent seasonal rains. Other driver moved but also remained seated. Probably in shock. Or afraid of potential confrontation. Dave’s never had an accident in more than two decades, longer if learning to drive in grey stubble paddocks is counted. Innumerable years driving various farm vehicles. Reassures himself, got good driver status . Didn’t look. Knows he didn’t look. Just pulled out wide, taking up too much road. Knew from glancing dotted white lines. What’s happening to him? Can't keep a focus for longer than it takes his dogs to push stock up into a shearing shed chase. He gets out stiffly and hobbles over toward the van, ticking as it cools. Stumbling more than walking, too slow. Bowels felt ready to dissolve as he walks. Don’t shit yourself too, mate . Shame. Then he realises - no witnesses. His word against this fellow. Good, feels better than a moment ago. Relief rushes like untangled fencing wire. Stranger, behind the other wheel, sees Dave and swings out his legs, but stays seated. Purple trousers already attracting dust. Face white but he manages a grin, of sorts. Brushing clunks of dreadlocks back off his brow. Dave notices three gold rings through one ear. Rainbow scarf tucked behind his dirty T-shirt neckline. Hiss of a CD, more a whirring, is that supposed to be music? ‘Bit close,’ Dave says. ‘Certainly was. You okay?’ ‘Yup. You?’ ‘Fine. Bit shaky from rough landing.’ Not enough to shift this guy’s phone from easy reach on the passenger’s seat. Even if a curtain material, which blocks views inside the van, still flops about. More appropriate to match heavy flock wallpaper in some old English mansion, thinks Dave. ‘You want to check your stock, might be a few boxes behind, fallen.’ Dave points, curious. ‘Catch my breath first.’ Says Jia, thinking of farmers owning guns. Hearing crazy Wolf Creek actor’s laugh. Recalling disappearing tourists. Victims whose only sin they stopped to help strangers on Outback Highways. Disobeyed his own rules, never come this far from coastal safety. Best keep cool. Looks at his steady fingers, not believing his calm. No accusations nor anger. So, Dave decides to seize initiative. ‘You were coming down at a fair clip. Didn’t you see me?’ Jia looks up at Dave, one eyebrow raised, brow crinkled; liar! But says nothing. Safer. Like last night outside a rundown hotel. Tense situation, likely someone might be hurt, if he hadn't decided to slink away, mouth clammed shut. ‘Could cause a nasty accident, driving so fast. Farm vehicles all along this road, you know. Combines, harvesters and tractors.’ Although Dave doubts this guy could tell any differences. ‘Stock and kangaroos too.’ Less now, road edges, long paddock, government land, whatever name you attached to verges just as dried up and unproductive as fenced paddocks. ‘You not from round here.’ ‘No.’ Never expected to crutch ewes, sew a dog’s gashed leg back together, untangle emus from fencing and know chicks were hiding off nearby in scrub shadows. Kick aside drooping tomato bushes, realize a few scrawny hens are going unnourished. Dave sniffs air, wet roads, lizards will soon be active, and smells triumph. They both know what really happened, neither willing to take things further. He can sense this fellow’s resignation. ‘Well take a bit more care when you get back on the road, eh? We’ll say no more about it.’ Jia gives Dave a brief nod. As if he’s going anywhere near police stations to make a report, or risk further van inspections. Police closing swaths of highway, looking for reasons, never quite able to factor in human behavior. ‘You don’t want to be a country road statistic.’ ‘Seen enough of those road safety ads. Due for a break.’ ‘Nearest town, 20 clicks, good coffee at the service station.’ ‘Thanks.’ Dave latches onto notions he’d better get out while going’s good, and sets off down road edges towards his Ute before one last look. ‘You be alright?’ ‘Fine.’ Says Jia ducking back into his van and starting the engine. Ugly dark smoke wafts out of a reluctant exhaust pipe. Won’t be long before bashed-around thing gives up the ghost thinks Dave as this stranger-tormentor pulls back onto roadsides and stops again, this time safely tucked off near a stand of mulga bush. Now Jia’s fingers are shaking as he rolls a smoke. Dave speeds away, wanting as many miles as possible between him and the minivan. Bloody ridiculous he thinks, way some people drive! Shouldn’t be allowed on roads, particularly now they are wet. Shouldn’t be allowed behind a wheel. Might have killed him, driving like that.
The Wedding the Icon and Me Suzanne Marsh There it stood in all its resplendent glory, Saint Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Church, Buffalo, New York. I had never even heard of a Ukrainian Catholic Church, much less been in one. I was there for the wedding rehearsal. My best friend Judy was getting married. I marveled at the small brick church, and wondered what it looked like inside. I had followed Judy and Joe over there. I was fascinated by the spires of the church they were round. I walked in: it was nothing like any church I had ever set foot in. I was overwhelmed by the simple beauty of the pictures that were painted on the walls. I had no idea they were holy icons until... The priest entered dressed in a long black cassock. His hair was slightly long, his beard black with silver streaks. He began giving instructions to various members of the wedding party. He sent Judy, myself, Peg, Diana, Ulana and Martha, and Kimberly, the flower girl. to the back where the professional would begin. The bridesmaids went first, then I followed, finally Judy and her father. The organist played traditional wedding music. The priest went through the motions of everything that would take place the next day. I could not take my eyes off of the beautiful pictures on the wall. I poked Diana, who had the misfortune to be next to me. I asked about the pictures on the wall. She whispered softly that those were Icons. The priest gave us both a withering glare. Diana smiled and I thought to myself: ‘I sure hope his disposition improves before the wedding tomorrow.’ The priest then proceeded to go on with his instructions. All I wanted to do was go home, take a hot shower and get ready for the next day’s events. It had been a long day. Kimberly was not thrilled with her part in the wedding, she was four at the time. She was to carry an embroidered Ukrainian pillow, with two wreathes on it. When it was time for us to leave the rehearsal, Mike gave me his elbow and we began to walk. Suddenly, the priest’s voice rang out yelling in Ukrainian. Mike and I stopped dead in our tracks. I had no idea what we had done, but I was certain we were about to find out. We had forgotten to kiss the Icon of the virgin and child. Now I was really confused. I a was practicing Catholic, we never did things like that in our church. Mike and I turned around Joe’s sisters were giggling as we began the walk out once more. Once outside, I asked Mike what was with the Icon? He began to explain when Diana, strode over to tell us the priest decided we needed to rehearse the entire wedding over again to be sure there were no hitches tomorrow. The morning of the wedding dawned sunny. I had to have my hair done at the beauty parlor. My mom did Kimberly’s in long curls. I rushed backed, grabbed Kimberly, and the dresses. Judy had made Kimberly’s dress to match mine. They were yellow lace with taffeta and green bows. The night before we had decorated the wedding car with a heart and Judy and Joe’ s initials inside of it, that was after we arrived back at the house. Martha and I had been making Kleenex flowers for almost two weeks but the design was lovely. We were all nervous and giddy. I got Kimberly dressed, then I got myself dressed, no easy accomplishment. Now all we had to do was wait for the professional. Kimberly took one look inside the church, with all people filling it up and began to scream for her grandpa. This did not bode well, so I found dad. He came back to the dressing area, quieted Kimberly down. Judy wanted to be sure she would walk down the aisle. My dad assured her Kimberly would be fine once the actual wedding began. Dad returned to his seat. Finally, the processional music began the strains of the Wedding March. Martha was first, then Peg, Ulana and Diana. I went down the aisle. Kimberly with the pillow balanced rather precariously in her hands began to march down the aisle. Midway down, she saw dad, my stomach lurched as the pillow did. All I saw was dad’s hand pushing the pillow back up into Kimberly’s little hands. Then she started to cry. “Oh Lord I thought, please don’t let her scream.” Judy, looked beautiful on the arm of her father. They walked down the aisle, he lifted her vail and gave her away to Joe. The wedding mass was partly in Ukrainian and English. Toward the end of the actual marriage vows, I handed Judy the wreathes. Kimberly made a beeline for my dad, who once again convinced her she needed to stay in the pew. ‘Would this ever end?’ I asked myself. They exchanged rings. Finally, we all rose as the priest introduced the newly married couple, in both languages. The recessional began, Judy and Joe went first, then Mike and I. Twice that morning Diana and Ulana both reminded me not to forget to kiss the Icon. I was not about to forget that piece of information. However, as a special reminder, as I stood up, Mike with his extend elbow, and in a chorused whisper: “DON’T FORGET TO KISS THE ICON”. Mike did a weird little step and we both turned to kiss the Icon. At that point I wanted to ask him why he almost forgot again since he had been raised in the that church along with Joe. I kept my cool and said nothing. I don’t think I will ever forget the wedding. The uniqueness of the Ukrainian church. I still marvel at the extraordinary beauty of the ceremony and the church itself. Over the years, I have treasured the differences of cultures. I decided before writing this story, I would learn more about the Icons. Icons are identified as a resemblance to Christ, the virgin Mary and the saints. Judy and Joe have been married over forty years. Diana, passed away from cancer. She is sorely missed.
The bastard drunk toppled a stool and cracked-skull on the edge of the faux wood bar. He was bleeding before his knees caught the floor and his free hand slapped the bootfilth and godknows on the checkered tiles before he used it to wipe the wound. He didn’t cry out, just made an oof of inconvenience and after a few seconds of consideration, staggered to his feet. He didn’t spill a drop of his beer. He studied his dripping hand for a moment with a comical grimace that said well this will never do and he lifted his shirt to soak the blood from his face and hands. The Mexican by the jukebox whistled loudly and yelled some sharp note of Spanish congratulations. I turned back to the TV and sipped my whiskey. The news man was sweating and kept straightening his tie, trying to look dignified and unaffected. Poor bastard didn’t even have a drink. Just a pen he kept shifting between his fingers, rubbing and squeezing it like a stress ball or some fortune-teller’s talisman. Words flashed across the bottom of the screen but I wasn’t reading them. It didn’t matter. ...it is unclear at this time whether the President has arrived or if there will be a press conference or an official address. We do know that the President was en route to an undisclosed military location as of 9:43PM Eastern time... The bastard drunk slammed his red-stained palm on the bar with a BANG and I think each and every person in that place jumped halfway out of their chairs, myself no exception. The Mexican started to yell something, but all ears fell on the drunk as he raised his glass to the sky and looked around the bar with glassy-eyed self-importance. “This!” His voice half-cracked, half-burped. “This is the last god damn place on Earth!” Someone yelled for him to shut the fuck up, Danny, you shit. “This, man. Here we are and then we aren’t. The last goddamn place.” He tipped his glass a bit as though to cheers us then gulped it down, nodding slightly with satisfaction, acceptance, I don’t know what. Someone muttered sonofabitch and we all went back to our business. I looked at the missed calls on my phone, scanning the area codes on unknown numbers, all 972 and 214. Dallas. I didn’t know anyone in Dallas. But there were a whole helluva lot of people in Dallas who knew me. Creditors, banks, hired phone goons. Companies and groups and affiliations, LLCs and organizations. But the phone hadn’t rang in a while. I wasn’t thinking about the money. Every area code on that list was from Dallas. For the last two weeks. She wasn’t going to call. Why would she call? I should have just turned the damn thing off. I killed my whiskey and thought about dying. Not so bad. It would be fast. Probably wouldn’t even notice. He we are and then we aren’t. I wondered if she was safe. Somewhere in one of those underground boxes with the canned beans and water bottles. She probably went to the army camp. Probably went with Jake. Goddamn Jake. But he’d keep her safe. That’s the main thing. As long as she’s safe. I thumbed my wedding ring and stopped thinking about dying. The Mexican shoved another dollar in the juke and whistled. I poured another drink. It took the end of the goddamn world to get my hands on a bottle of Special Reserve. Tasted like everything else I’d ever had. The bastard drunk stumbled up next to me, humming. I grabbed a dirty shot glass off the bar, sloshed some in and threw it to Danny the Bastard Drunk Shit. He looked at it the way my neglected, scorned, desperate, cheating wife used to look at close-up card magic. Wonder and skeptical awe. He slammed it and caught my eyes like a concerned doctor about to tell a cancer case he’s gotta stop smoking. He stared for a second, sizing me up. Or maybe just fighting off the nightspins as the Reserve hit the pot and stirred. The blood running down his face was drying brown. “Hey.” Hey, I said. “What...” burp “Just what the fuck are you doin’ here?” It wasn’t a threat. He sounded concerned. The Mexican screamed a battle cry and shot the juke out with his pistol. There was a commotion and I think some older cowboy fellow stabbed him. I don’t really know. The Tejano jangle beat snap crackle popped and was gone. “I mean. Really, man. What the fuck are you doing here?” ...we have been told by the government that we are to cease broadcasting immediately. For the sake of integrity we have decided to lock down the station and continue to transmit until... we are no longer able to do so. I will continue to report and stand by the people of this great nation the only way I know how. We will keep you informed and updated as best we can. God bless America. And God keep our love ones safe. Keep us all... I was thinking about dying, I said. Danny burst out in fits of laughter. “You, man.” He pointed at me, still holding the empty shot glass. “You! You’re funny, man.” And he stumbled away. I wondered if she’d make it through this. Really I was wondering if she’d still think about me. How long from now? A year? Ten? Scavenging some blighted shitland that looked more like hell than Cleburne. Would she look for me? Jake wouldn’t let her. Hell, I wouldn’t want her to. Someone was dragging the Mexican out of the bar. I’d never seen someone die before. It felt like nothing. I poured more Reserve in my glass and looked up at the TV. Below the sweating, straining news anchor was an animated countdown clock. It said ten minutes and change. Last call. Part of me wanted to run and head for the army camp. Try to wait this out. Maybe I’d get to see her. Jake would stand between us, but she’d be cordial. Under the circumstances she might even give me a somber hug. Some kind of mutual pity and recognition of the Big Shit that made our problems seem years past and half-forgiven. Let bygones be bygones and let the bombs fall where they may. I looked over my shoulder at the last goddamn place on Earth. Twenty some-odd heathens swilling and swaying, counting down the minutes til they meet their maker, the Universe, the Big Shit. Waiting for their chance to say Sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m so damn sorry, Janie. The last drop of Special Reserve poured into my glass. The drunk was passed out on the pool table, still holding the empty shot. The old cowboy fellow was praying. Some were crying, some were repenting, some were toasting, laughing, shrugging, dialing, dancing, hugging, screaming and all of us were waiting. The news man straightened his tie and put down the fortune-teller’s talis-pen. There were no more words flashing across the bottom of the screen. There wasn’t going to be any Presidential address. Janie was safe with Jake. I finished my whiskey and savored the burn. The Mexican watched the stars outside, unseeing. The old woman in the corner rose to her feet. The last goddamn place on Earth broke into a harmonious, miserable, broken, joyful, perfect countdown. Ten nine eight seven six She’ll think of me. Bad or good, in passing, in pity, in regret, in love, but Five four three two She’ll think of me. Here we are And then we weren’t. EDIT: Formatting.
Perched on the sofa in his darkly lit apartment, Joseph took a swig of his cold beer. Observing her dance today had opened his eyes once again, peering back into the several memories of just him and her. He hated it. Despised that it was a part of his past, a piece of him he would never get back. She was incessantly burned into his brain. Her doe brown eyes shone with excitement and she twirled around in the studio, her dress trailing behind her. Tendrils of her lush hair framed her face, and Joseph’s thoughts wandered away. A beautiful smile graced her face. She was bent gracefully into her plié, jumping onto her toes. As she twirled, her eyes caught Joseph’s, and her brows settled into a gentle frown. Their eyes were set on one another as she tilted into an arabesque, sweat forming on her forehead. She seemed close to losing control, her legs shaking as she jumped into a rélévé. Strangely, that made Joesph break into a smile. He still had an effect on her. Glancing away, she continued. Joseph’s heart was in his throat as he looked down, his smile evaporating. He couldn’t gaze at her any longer. How could he, when she pretended like he didn’t exist? Yet, he looked. And she had gone off again, running into a pirouette, her back arching. Joseph could hear the intake of breath from the dancers around him as she sprang into a jété. His heart hammered as he watched on. She was radiant; a light in his life and the flame that made him brought him back to life. Which had now been extinguished. She leapt and landed in another plié, ending her routine. Applause rang through the air as she bowed, the top of her head nearly touching the floor. Joseph glanced at Madame Bangère, an unusual smile forming on her face. Cordelia rose from her stance. And Joseph, unable to regard any longer, strode to the nearest exit and left. He could feel Cordelia’s eyes burn into the back of his skull, yet he couldn’t get himself to turn around. Rushing out of the building, he fisted his hands into his trousers. The facade of cool indifference and arrogance had long dissipated from his face, abandoning him to his thoughts. He had to get away. Staying anywhere closer to her would resurrect all those memories he spent months trying to push down. Push until they wouldn’t agonise him anymore. He couldn’t bear the heartache. So he left, rushing to the nearest bar. Pacing into Joe’s Gift, he perched on the seat at the counter, head in his hands. All the memories were rushing back, and he had no clue how he would stop it. Ordering a drink, he gazed at the room, staring at the people. How were they able to let go of their lives so easily, not caring about the world as they drank themselves to sleep? Rolling his eyes, he banged his head across the surface, unaware of the curious looks towards him. With shaky hands, he accepted his drink. He didn’t want to look at the bartender. Didn’t want to wither under her pitiful gaze. So he downed his drink in long gulps, hoping to eradicate himself from all thoughts. Cordelia. Cordelia. The memory of her encompassed him entirely. He knew he would never forget her face. And how could he, when they used to mean so much to each other? Running his fingers through his hair, he asked for another drink. Beside him, a woman abruptly coughed. He twisted his head, only to meet coffee brown eyes. They were lined with black, just how Cordelia did hers when she would prepare for a dance. She adorned herself with gold jewellery and a beautiful silk dress that hugged her body. She was beautiful, Joseph realised, but she was dull compared to Cordelia. Even so, they significantly resembled each other. The woman smiled and, unsure, Joseph smiled back. She raised her eyebrow and asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Lost for words, Joseph kept quiet. Carefully, she scooted closer to him. Her eyes sparkled. Yet the uncanny similarity to Cordelia’s caused Joesph’s heart rate to increase. How long had it been since he had talked to another woman? Pretending as if he and Cordelia were only enemies had made Joseph weary, and he had lost all interest in anything other than dancing and keeping up the façade. He’d no longer wanted her; their relationship pushed him to his boundaries. Maybe he was unfair, or perhaps too insensitive. Yet the definition of their love was somehow lost in their desire to keep everything a secret. He didn’t think he would ever forget the cruel words they had aimed at each other. They scarred him like any other wound, pushing further, deeper into his skin. He had lost her; lost one of the most important people in his life because he couldn’t handle his emotions. It angered him. It angered him more than he cared to admit. He was pulled out of his reverie when the woman snapped her fingers, her gentle smile replaced with a scowl. Running his fingers through his hair, he grabbed his drink, pushing himself away from her. He realised he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t betray Cordelia like this. He wouldn’t. Even if he could never have her again, it wasn’t fair to use his love and hatred for her as a motive to like someone else. He couldn’t do it when she was all he could think about. Because, after all this time, she still meant more to him than he cared to admit. Betraying her was the last thing he could do. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t ruin any chance he had of making her smile again. His eyes burned, tears falling down his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly. Cordelia would never exit his mind, and Joesph had to accept that. He had to accept everything that was coming to him. Because he knew he deserved it. Shaking his head, he chugged his last drink and left the bar.
“All flights have been delayed,” the monotone announcer repeated over the loudspeaker on New Year’s Eve. Gregory Mason sat on the rigid plastic chairs with his feet propped up on his backpack, “I’m not about to lay on the filthy carpet like the other waiting passengers. I’ll just sit here,” he thought. Greg waited. And waited. An eternity seemed to pass by as he waited alone in the crowded terminal. The snow that began as soft flurries an hour ago now fell down out of a black sky and showed little or no signs of stopping. Tired of staring out the window at the jet-less gate, Greg closed his eyes. To rest them. To escape from the crowded terminal and to find some peace. To be free from the crying children and the chaotic chorus of complaining wanna-be passengers and feel alone for a few moments. But his closed eye didn’t block out the Christmas music that played over the loudspeaker system broken up only by a new announcement of another flight delay. Greg thought, “Hey, this must be the third time I heard Bing Crosby sing, ‘I’ll Be Home From Christmas.’ I didn’t make it home for Christmas. And now it looks like I’m not going to make it home for New Years either.” Since their original flight had been cancelled Greg was issued paper tickets. He folded his in half, stuffed it in his shirt pocket and tapped it for good luck. Opening his eyes, he pulled the ticket out. He examined it as if it would change the situation. Perhaps looking at the ticket, and reading the flight number and departure time would magically cancel the delay and allow him to fly home. It was like holding a lottery ticket in your hand when the man on the TV reads the numbers on the ping pong balls as they drop down the chute into position. You watch the TV and you read your numbers. The man on the TV announces the numbers out loud, in case you missed it, and you wish that you had those numbers on your ticket. With his airline ticket in hand the toneless voice announced, “Flight 007 to Decatur has been delayed for an hour.” Terrific that’s my flight. Another hour. At this rate I won’t be home until next year! Greg stuffed his ticket back in his shirt pocket and stared off with narrow, silent eyes through the window where the jet was supposed to be parked ready to take him home. A new chorus of moans erupted from the waiting room. A cold breeze filled the room. That’s when Greg noticed her. She walked in front of him. She grabbed the empty seat next Greg, threw her carry on bag on the floor, and parked her feet on top of it. She turned toward Greg and smiled. Greg smiled back. “She looks familiar,” he thought. He felt the room get a little colder. “Terrific,” he thought, “they cut the heat down, we’ll freeze to death before we got out of here.” Turning to her, “Don’t you just love it?” Greg said with a hint of sarcasm. “Excuse me? What did you say?” “The weather”, Greg stammered as he played with armrest, “and now if feels even colder in here - don’t you just love it?” She answered him, “I’ve been freezing for hours. I can’t seem to get warm.” Dressed in a wool crewneck sweater, she clutched a knitted scarf around her shoulders. She shivered. Greg looked at her. There was something about that gesture that was familiar. Tilting his head, he thought, “I must have seen her somewhere before. But I just can’t place it.” The airport voice announced once again, “Flight 007 to Decatur has been delayed for an hour.” Greg noticed her wince when the announcement came across. In her hands was a piece of paper, a ticket that resembled the one he had stuffed in his shirt pocket just a few moments earlier. “Are you flying to Decatur?” Greg asked. I am.” She answered, “Yes, trying to get home.” “Me too. I grew up there. What about you?” She smiled, “I live in northern California now. But I grew up about 2 hours south of Decatur.” “I guess I didn’t know her from high school,” he thought. Like a police detective questioning a suspect he bravely pushed on. He padded the armrest separating the two seats, “Where did you go to college? I went to Penn State for agriculture.” “Did you play football there?” He sat up straight and smiled. His voice grew deeper, “Well, I did play on the practice squad. What about you?” “Nope, I didn’t play football,” she laughed. “I went to the University of Illinois. Computer Science Major.” “What do you do with a computer science degree?” he asked. “Get a PhD.” Feeling a little intimidated, “Oh, from Illinois?” “No, Stanford.” He turned his gaze back out the window confused as to why she looked so familiar as he watched the snow cover the tarmac. He smiled as he thought, “Well I guess I didn’t know her from college.” The airport voice announced, “Attention, Attention. Flight 007 to Decatur has been delayed for an hour. When we have more information we will make another announcement.” People paced back and forth down the isles between the rows of seats trying to burn off nervous energy. Amid the large crowd Greg felt invisible. Scattered around the terminals waiting area, positioned above their heads and suspended from the ceiling, were television sets. Each TV was tuned to the weather channel. Some would be passengers stood with arms crossed staring at the screen. The weather girl, dressed in a slim red dress smiled as she highlighted the terrible storm. “Winter storm Lucian,” she said, “will spread snow from the Cascades of Oregon and Washington into the central Rockies through New Year's Day. Salt Lake City could pick up an additional 4 to 8 inches of new snow by this evening. This will impact travel on interstates 15, 80 and 84 in northern Utah. Flights across . . .” Tuning out the weather forecast she asked Greg, “So, how long have you been waiting here?” “I’m not sure any more. It feels like an eternity.” She shook from the cold. “I just can’t seem to get warm.” The weather girl vanished from the screen and a new reporter appeared. He stood in a snow field the color of chrome. Dressed like a Muscovite, he announced, “A few moments ago, Flight 007 from Salt Lake City to Decatur crashed on its final approach.” While he talked, the camera shifted past him to the burning wreckage in the field of snow. Flames broke the night sky. The camera focused back on the news reporter with the burning jetliner aflame in the background. “I have a statement from the State Police. They are reporting that there are no apparent survivors.” People poured around the TV sets looking and listening for details. Those in the waiting room heard the announcement and rushed to find a TV. The moans of tired, frustrated travelers turned to moans of grief for those on the jet and relief that they were not on that jet. The soft moans gave way to a solemn quiet as they listened for more details. Crying replaced the quiet. Strangers hugged one another in sorrow and in solidarity. Greg looked over at her in her seat and she was gone. Vanished. Her empty spot next to him was all that remained. Then he felt the cold. An extreme cold like he never felt before. And he found himself in the field of snow and blood and fuel and flame and destroyed jet wreckage still strapped to the seat next to her holding hands.
Let me introduce myself. Zing! I am Special Agent Rex Roget. Bazing! I am in the middle of a shootout with enemy agents. Baringa! This is my fifty-ninth case in which I somehow manage to solve the problem without getting my head blown off. Crrumpa! I do not know what they were thinking when they invented that last onomatopoeia. Chabunka! Or that one. Anyway, my name is famous and often mispronounced which really makes me angry. Roget, like the Thesaurus which makes my name easy to pronounce. Right? Argh, if only it was that simple. Excuse me. “You over there, come out with your hands up.” I yell at some shady guys by the dumpster. “Boss, I’ll cover you.” Officer Yamashima tells me with her gun drawn. “Very good.” I run and squat behind a car. I hear the zing of bullets overhead. I pull out my Glock and fire off a few rounds just to let them know I mean business. “I’m hit!” One of the bad guys shouts. “That’s it. We give.” Shouts the second bad guy. When I look over the hood of the car I was hiding behind, I see one bad guy on the ground and the other with his hands held high in the air. Officer Yamashima is racing toward them wrapping up yet another Roget case. Just when it looked as though the planet was in peril, I was able to bring justice to the unjust, right to those who were in the wrong and a happy ending as I have in my other fifty-eight cases. When the bad guys come around, I will stop them cold in their tracks. I am dependable that way. I love being a private eye. “Another Agent Roget thriller is done.” I gloat sitting at my laptop. I have written over fifty pulp fiction stories about this agent. Hollywood has done three movies starring Robert Downy Jr., but during contract negotiations with his agent, he decided he was done with Agent Roget. I can’t say I blame him, because I have run out of fresh ideas for him. To be honest, I haven’t had a fresh idea since book number forty. Who am I kidding, I haven’t had any fresh ideas since episode number twenty. What you will be reading is a rehash of several of my previous books. I do not know how Stephen King does it to tell you the truth. “Percy, I have your lunch.” Mrs. Gibson begins her walk up to my office on the second floor of my famous log cabin in the middle of the Minnesota woods near one of their ten thousand lakes. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibson, just set it on the table over there.” I point. “Yes Percy.” She does as I have requested, “I hope you don’t mind, but the weather is looking a bit rough out there. I was wondering if you’d mind if I left a little early.” “Nope, we are all caught up.” I nod. “Bless ya sir.” She smiles as she puts on her overcoat that was hanging on the hook on the wall. “It does look like quite a storm is coming in from the north.” I peer out the window and see the black clouds rumbling across the sky. January is usually a heavy month for snow up here. “If ya need something, please call now.” She shakes a finger at me like my mother did many years ago. “I should be fine, Emma.” I pat her on the arm of her coat as she slips into her boots. There is about a foot of snow already on the ground with the promise of another foot on the way and since my cabin is isolated, it is a good idea that Emma Gibson leaves early today. I will most likely sit in my easy chair in front of the fireplace and read some Walt Whitman before I drift off into a much-needed nap. From my office, I watch Emma pull out of my unshoveled driveway before turning onto the gravel road, now covered with snow and disappearing into the thick spruce woods. Alone at last. I am not hungry, so I leave the tray that she had set on my table. I pick up the tray and deposit it in the kitchen after descending the steep stairs. My cabin is already cozy from the blazing fire she had started when she first arrived over two hours ago. I kicked my shoes off and leaned back in my La-Z-Boy and took my cell phone out of my pocket where I had my eBook of Whitman poetry. First, I checked my texts and saw that Astor had left a text. Opening the text he has left two words, “CALL ME.” All caps. I know that he has some bad news, but if I don’t call him, he will call me and screw up my day. “Hey Astor, got your text.” I say before he can say “Hello” The snow is beginning to fall with big fluffy flakes. “Hey Percy, I just wanted to let you know that Bridgeport Publishing is not going to publish your next book or number fifty-nine as you call it.” He sounds agitated. “Why not?” I shrug knowing he won’t see my lackadaisical gesture. “They are tired of Rex Roget. They claim the last two episodes did not sell.” “What are they suggesting?” I ask, checking my cubicles as I try not to yawn too loudly. “They want him to be a spy.” He reports. “Are you crazy?” I feel that the question really answers itself. “Rex has always been a keen private eye.” “We both know that, but Anton King, the publisher, happens to crave spy novels like Fleming and le Carre.” His voice has reached it’s highest pitch. “How ‘bout it?” “I don’t know if I want to cater to the whims of publishers.” “Just this once for me, Astor.” He is pleading which warms me a bit. “We have a chance to get Ben Affleck to play Rex. Whadda say?” “Affleck? He’s as flat as a board.” I huff. “C’mon.” “Alright I will do my best.” I shake my head. “You are the best writer-” “Aw cut it, Astor. I will give it a shot.” I grimace just before I press the red button. Putting down my cell phone where I have my Whitman, I march upstairs to my office and open my laptop. It won’t take much to change a few details changing Rex from a private eye as he has been for over fifty-eight books and into a spy like James Bond. I must admit the genre is a bit convoluted, but I will add my name to the list of authors of spy novels. I open the manuscript and begin to type: “Rex Roget was sitting at a cafe in Vienna when two enemy agents...” I smiled as my fingers flew across the keyboard changing the private eye to a lethal spy. Snow is falling harder now as it does during this time of year. Silently the snow falls on the spruce trees that surround my isolate cabin Rex is making his way through Vienna when I hear a knock at the front door. “Who the hell could that be?” I grumble as I walk down the steps to answer the door. “Probably some moron who got lost in this snowstorm and...” I open the door and standing on my porch is a man dressed in a suit and tie. Though he is dressed in formal attire as the snow continues to land on him, he is a complete stranger to me. “What’s the big idea?” He asks in a hostile tone. “And who are you?” I ask, squinting at him as the cold air rushes into my small cabin. “You know who I am.” He raises an eyebrow as if I am a villain. “I most certainly do not.” I shake my head. “You created me.” He pushes by me and walks into the cabin. “I created you?” It is a question. “Yes and until now, I have been quite content being who you made me to be.” He cocks his head. “Why are you here? Did you forget to take your medications?” “Very funny, Percy McIntyre.” He coughed to clear his throat. “I will call someone if I need to.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “My card.” He presented me with a small business card. I read it half amused until it hit me. The card said, “Rex Roget, Private Eye.” There was a phone number in small print. “Is this some kind of joke?” I asked, tossing the card into the fire. “Apparently it is.” He said in an accusatory voice, “I am no longer a private eye? I am now a spy.” “You are Rex Roget?” I swallowed hard. “In the flesh.” He held his chin up, “And you sir have betrayed me. You have turned me into a spy. I have never intended to be a spy. A spy is one who stays in the shadows, hidden, like a coward of which I have never been, I assure you, Percy McIntyre.” I was flabbergasted by this unexpected encounter with the main protagonist for fifty-eight of my pulp fiction books of which three had become box office hits in the movie theaters. How could he just walk off the pages and walk into my cabin in the middle of a snowstorm in upper Minnesota? “Why have you changed my occupation to spy?” He sat in my La-Z-Boy and folded his hands under his chin. His face was strikingly handsome just like I had written him. He was dapper like Bond, but from his attitude did not wish to be employed as a spy in his country’s service. With my chair occupied, I was forced to sit on the stool near the fire I used to stoke the flames. “It’s a simple thing, you see-” “It was the money, wasn’t it? It’s always the money.” He brooded. “You don’t understand-” “Oh but I do, my good man.” He continued to glare at me, “You created me the way I wanted to be and then you changed me without notifying me first.” He was doing his best to shame me. “It was nothing personal-” “You must realize that everytime you open that laptop of yours, whatever you put down affects me directly.” He inhaled deeply, “This is what fictional characters go through without the author realizing what they are doing. For over thirty years, I have faithfully done your bidding. I have found myself in some pretty tight spots you understand.” “And haven’t I always gotten you out of your predicament?” I shrugged. “Using Machina de Deux? A poor man’s device if ever there was one.” He huffed. “What happened to you?” “What do you mean?” I scowled. “What I mean is that thirty years ago you were the young up-and-coming writer.” He looked at me with an expression of pity, “What happened to you, Percy McIntyre? Where did you stray from that dream?” “I have been published almost as much as Stephen King.” I held up my finger to make a point. “And he has had a roomful of best sellers.” He stroked his chin, “You?” “Three movies.” I held up three fingers to emphasize my point. “Starring Robert Downy Jr.” He scowled, “I bear no resemblance to him. You wrote me that way.” It was true, the character of Rex Roget was a much larger, more substantial figure, but Downy played him like a less robust character. “I did not complain when he was cast as me, but now this abomination. I cannot stay silent any longer.” Once again, he crossed his arms across his chest, “I will not be a spy.” “You can be a great spy.” I insisted. “Baahh, rubbish.” He grimaced, “What will you have me do?” “I will have you save the world from the bad guys.” I answered. For a moment he seemed to be appeased by the idea. “It does sound appealing, but I have spent thirty years being the hero of the downtrodden.” He shook his head, “The rewards warmed my heart. I could see where I made a difference to someone who had lost hope.” “What about saving the world?” “What about it?” He sat back in my chair. “How would it feel to save humanity?” “I dunno.” He shrugged, “When I find a lost soul, I can see by the expression on the face of the person I have saved, what my effort has yielded. Why after all that, do you wish to change me?” “Alright, I’ll be frank with you.” I took a deep breath, “My agent called me and said the publisher said I lack fresh new ideas.” “What does that mean?” He asked, leaning forward in my chair. “It means readers are finding you...boring.” I sighed. “And whose fault is that?” He asked, peering at me with one accusatory eyebrow raised. “Mine, I guess.” I sighed again. Was Rex correct in blaming me for the recent failures. My books did not sell like they used to. When I was young and full of energy, I was famous. For a short time, I was on the A-List and seated with honor in places I frequented, but then at some point, my fortunes began to sag. It was right around the time my wife Lois passed away from cancer. That was it. Her passing drew out my creative soul. She was my creative soul who was now ten years gone. I began to struggle to write a decent novel. Sometimes, I would see her spirit walking through my cabin. She had a sorrowful expression on her face as she faded away. I would call out to her, but by then it was too late. “I’m glad we had this talk.” He smiled, “I knew you were a talented writer, but you needed someone to remind you of that. Do not make me something I was not supposed to be. You tell your agent that Rex Roget is still on top of his game.” “I will.” I promised as he came to his feet. He was dashing and filled with good intention as he made his way to the front door. “How about Hugh Jackman?” He winked as he put his hand on the doorknob. “I beg your pardon.” I shook my head. “I think Hugh Jackman would make a wonderful Rex Roget.” He opened the door. “Wolverine?” “Whatever he is, but I must be going.” He tweaked my nose before turning and vanishing into the falling snow. I watched the sky darken as the snow continued to fall. In the morning the land would be reinvented into a crystal white landscape, but for now I would have one last glimpse of what was to be. After the first movie, I had enough capital to buy this cabin, because I was overwhelmed by the natural beauty of this place. I was never disappointed. I would go back to my laptop and write as I had thirty years ago when I first started. “That’s the spirit, Percy.” Lois would kiss me on the cheek as I ascended to my office.
Got time to chat, Caro? Jen... well... not really ... mmm ... what's up? They're at it again! What now? Caro! Complaining that they don't know what's happening. Complaining that you chose favourites. Complaining. Complaining. Complaining. Yup... Don't you find this depressing? Nothing is ever good enough for them. That's one of the reasons I chose you to be on this committee, to be receiving this training, so that YOU, as a peer, could facilitate some of these growing pains. So, you're dumping this on me? No, Jen, I'd suggest you bring Rachel into your confidence, she's your go-to person. Now, not to be rude, but, I have tonnes to do before I head outside for recess supervision. Bye. * Oh my God, do I have to do everything? Such a ship of asses. You complain that you don't know what's happening, so I'll share every god-damn bit of information. There! * Hey Jen, what'd you think of this? Mmm...hmmm. Sure, whatever I'm so pissed I'd like to stick a spiked d---- up their asses. Huh. Caro?! * Hi there, Caro, I'd suggest you keep your sexual fantasies between you and your hubby. Oh, haha, Jen must have been chatting with you. Thanks so much for helping smooth over this latest brouhaha. * Hi Hannah, you okay? Isn't that rich! I know all about the d---- comment. Get out of my face! Christ! Jen must have spilled the beans about my comment. Shit-shit-shit! I'm so done! * Hey there, Jen, I need to talk with you, in PRIVATE. Okay. In PRIVATE! Caro, I want her here as support. Are you okay? No, not really. I'm figuring out that you got some support from the staff. Is that helping you feel a bit better? Hmm ... your words hurt. Gosh, Jen, that was never my intention to hurt you. Well, let's just say it hit a nerve. I did come this morning to talk with you about problems with my husband and you just pushed me out the door. What do you mean -- when you came this morning about staff complaints? I didn't know. Usually, you're there for me... So not today, and I'm sorry. I accept your apology. * Hi Laney, I have something to tell you. I privately said something, in confidence to Jen, which she has shared with the whole staff and their union. It'd be great if you could come here before the end of the day so we can meet with Jen to move forward. Caro, certainly, I'll be there in about an hour. Take care. * Jen, I've spoken with Lainey and she's coming to meet with us before the end of the day. I've rearranged your timetable so that you are free from the class and supervision. Caro, I appreciate this. * Welcome, everyone. Caro called me inviting me here, this afternoon, to figure out what our next steps will be. I want to take full responsibility for my words, which caused Jen to feel uncomfortable. Although I did not intend for Jen to respond this way, I apologize yet again. Caro, it's water under the bridge. Jen, how wonderful of you. So, looking forward, with this initiative, let's pool our brains and figure out a path to success. Lainey, as you know, they do complain about almost everything and this isn't any different. It seems that Caro brings out this response in them. I've shared this with you many times before today. Hmmm... yes... So, Lainey, I'm thinking, after a chit-chat with Rachel, that she and I take more of the lead with the communications. Perhaps, the same information coming from us will be better received by them. Wow! Jen, great thinking. I can certainly see why you chose Jen and Rachel, Caro. Good choice. Jen, the bell will soon be ringing and unless you want to be ambushed with questions about why you look so sad with such reddened eyes, how about we get you to a private space, away from prying eyes? Caro, as usual, you do take such good care of us. F--- off! * Ah, Caro, sit yourself down, it's just us. So ... quite the day! I need to know exactly, word-for-word, what you said to Jen, in what you thought was private, Uhhh ... I'm mortified ... she's always, over the years, been a trusted confidante ... well, in the public use kitchen, just she and I ... I really don't actually recollect saying these words, but I now remember: 'I'd like to stick a spiked d---- in their asses.' Mmm. Am I going to lose my job? Get fired? Ah, Caro. I doubt that. You must have been feeling very stressed ... I ... I ... can't do this any longer ... nothing ... nuh ... nuh ... nothing is ever okay, good enough, they fight me constantly. I give up. I surrender. Now, now, Caro. I need you to look after yourself. That is what is most important at this time. Well, Lainey, I do have a doctor's appointment for tomorrow morning. I've made all the of the arrangements, a lead teacher, my day plans for teaching, the day organized and covered for my admin duties. All covered, all ... I'm a bit worried about you, right now. I'll tell the Admin Team that too. I am on your side. Mmmm ... uh .. ah ... yup ... Give me a call tomorrow after your appointment. Okay? Yup. * Welcome to this information-gathering meeting. I am Superintendent Bren, the chair for today. Hi Samid, nice to see you here for Caro. At the end of the table, hello to Superintendent Lainey. Finally, sitting beside me, from human resources is Karmen. So our goal today is to gather all of the necessary information to move forward with positivity and achievement. Caro, I understand, from a confab with Samid, that you have a few notes to share with our committee. The floor, so to speak, is yours. Ooooh, mmmm ... I would like to start with a public recognition that the words I chose to say, in supposed confidence, to a staff member, Jen, were utterly and completely unacceptable and not consistent with my professional record. Over the past seven years, as Lainey can attest, and as she has supported, and before her, Dane, the staff, led by one particular person, have consistently, persistently, unceasingly opposed, reported, blocked, ... uh ... me ... my initiative ... again, again, again. Mmmm ... huhuhuh .... Ohhh ... Caro, that, is, let me be blunt, the new realities of ADMIN. It seems you are unable, not able, incapable ... Pardon me! I am not some newbie. I have been in this role for decades, at several, sites, yet now, in this one particular poisoned workplace ... As I said, before, I WAS INTERRUPTED ... this, Caro, is the reality, albeit changed from when you first started in this role, this is NOW! *** Good morning, Caro, Lainey, Karmen, and via the speaker, Samid. The Exec Council has met and decided on the follow-up to the APS incident involving Caro and Jen et al. I will turn over the meeting to Lainey, like Caro's immediate supervisor. Mmmm ... ah ... Caro ... I invite you to read along as I read aloud the letter to be included in your professional file ... ... Two days without pay ... wow ... I've read in the Blue Pages worse things and they didn't ... So, that is what brings me here, today, to start counselling with you. It's a shit-storm!
"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be." The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. Oh the horror! To use an opening line belonging to someone else. I should be ashamed. I learned that opening one's essay with a quote or definition weakens the writing. I was sixteen and taking a pretest of the Advanced Placement English exam for high schoolers looking to gain college credit by scoring a 3 or above. I don't remember what the quote that I used to open my essay was, but my junior year English teacher handed me back my essay pocked with red marks. "Never," underlined three times the red pen wrote, "open an essay with a quote or definition." I was never told why, maybe it makes you look bad because you didn't come up with the quote yourself. Maybe I was stupid enough not to be the first one to think of what I was quoting, but I was smart enough to use it. When the time came to take the actual placement test, I found the opportunity to open my essay with a quote. And I used it. And I was in the top 5 percentile of students who received a score of 3 on all advanced placement tests I took. Two English credits and one History. My main point is that right now I can totally relate to my opening quote and I don't give a shit about conventional rules. I read Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower for fun when I was a junior in high school. I drank every weekend and occasionally snuck a few shots in between classes during the week via a plastic water bottle. I vaguely remember passing out mid-lecture in Algebra II class. I clearly remember getting all A's in that class. I was captain of my soccer team. I was in a tight race for third place in my class. I got made fun of for being a teacher's pet. But you wouldn't catch me sober at a football game under the lights. I try to tell myself that I don't know how I managed it all, and as much as I hate to sound like a complete arrogant piece of shit, I know I managed it all because I was smart. I knew that if I pulled off good grades it didn't matter what else I did. Or so I told myself. As I was making horrible decisions with a clear water bottle in the side pocket of my backpack, I was being praised by my history teacher for writing an essay that "read like a Cold War novel!" Academically I was on top of the world, and personally I was itching to watch it burn. I did manage to possess third place in my graduating class and enrolled as an English major at the University of Maine at Orono. Again, I drank every weekend and Thursday nights, but I almost always ended up hungover the next day. This sometimes resulted in skipping classes or not completing my assignments on time, but I still managed to make Dean's List every semester. I never partied, instead, choosing to drink by myself in my dorm room or with my boyfriend from back home when we stole vodka from my parents. I never counted how many shots I took and always took it straight with a chaser. By the time I graduated with a 3.8 GPA I had many prospects for jobs but had a hint of yellow tinge in my eyes. I remember always wearing glasses instead of contacts to try to distract others from looking directly in my eyes. It was as if the teal framed glasses held a wall and the truth that prevented others from seeing my disease. If I hadn't quit my first job out of college from the complete misery it brought, I was about to get fired for constantly calling out. But I wasn't hungover; I would wake up after 8 hours of sleep and was beginning to withdraw. It would take two hours and multiples shots to finally settle my stomach and put to bed the awful pins and needles feeling that plagued my arms and legs. I'll always remember the first time I heard the saying "hair of the dog." I was fourteen when I hungover for the first time ever. The night before I had drunk with my brother and his girlfriend at the time. It was the second time alcohol touched my lips: raspberry flavored vodka held in my brother’s cheap shot glass that read Bar Harbor ME. When I told them I was hungover his girlfriend laughed harshly and said, "Hair of the dog!" Then she handed me another shot and cheers'ed me. I'll forever be haunted by the way her eyes turned dark and her mouth upturned into a snarl as she said it. It wasn't long before "hair of the dog" stopped becoming a quick remedy until I could sleep it off, and instead turned into my always consuming alcohol. I legit would not stop. I could not stop. Near the end, it got so bad that if I slept more than six hours at night I would wake up violently ill with the withdrawals. I didn't know then that alcohol and benzos are the only two drugs that the withdrawals alone can kill you. And they did kill me, twice. I suffered two seizures when I tried to quit cold turkey and lost consciousness both times. One time I was walking my dog in the winter and my fiancé at the time came home from work asking me why I was covered in mud. I had flatlined in a ditch off the side of my road. I don’t remember walking home or why my dog didn’t run away. No one helped me. I like to think it’s because no one saw. Alcohol continued to be my constant companion; it consumed my life. I was in and out of hospitals with acute pancreatitis and fatty liver, I almost lost two other jobs because of it, and my marriage was ruined within a year. The only thing I could claim as an accomplishment was the fact I had never been arrested for it. But I didn't stop. I went to a detox center four times. The first time I was able to stay sober for a month, but all the other times I would be discharged, find a hidden bottle somewhere (I hid tons under my bed, in my backpack, the place in my car where the spare tire is stored), tell myself I would just finish the bottle to get rid of it then be done. Before that bottle was even gone, I found myself buying another one. I was in it bad. At first, despite all the destruction the alcohol did, I didn't care. Whether it was denial or true arrogance I'll never know, but I told myself I'd be some kind of badass like Hemingway or Joplin if I died because of the disease. That's right, I might have died young but at least I lived. As if managing to literally drink and drive and lie to my coworkers about smelling like alcohol at work was that noteworthy. The last year of it all, however, I started caring. I was in constant pain even when I wasn't in the hospital. I was always exhausted. I was extremely unhappy. But I couldn't imagine having a life without alcohol. In the early spring of 2020, right before Covid-19 fully exploded and shocked the United States, I was told I had a huge cyst in my pancreas. The alcohol was literally eating away at it. I still shudder when I recall the terrifying back pain and how I tried to deal with it like a normal everyday occurrence. I managed to last three months until I checked myself into a hospital on June 3rd, 2020. I have told this story thousands of times and it never gets easier. It never will. On June 9th when the surgeon went to take out the cyst, they accidentally cut a major artery. I coded twice on the table and remember waking up from it in the middle of everything. My stay at the hospital extended six weeks and was riddled with frantic movings to the ICU, having a breathing, feeding, and draining tubes, and relearning how to walk. I was told that I would never be able to drink again. It really would be the death of me. Now, on December 3rd, 2020 I am six months sober. Four and a half months sober on my own. As the cliche goes, some days are better than others, and as time goes on it does slowly get easier. "So, this is my life...both happy and sad...still trying to figure out..." I am so grateful for the second chance I had been given, but the pain of losing my drug of choice, my companion, will forever haunt me. Even though I'm happier than I've ever been, especially with a clear head, I'm always mourning the piece of me that was lost when I left alcohol. I refuse to conform and say that stopping drinking was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it wasn't. It was almost the complete death of me, and it was the death of a part of me that defended and protected myself. I guess I'll always be that girl who refused to listen to those words written with red ink over 10 years ago on my paper. I'll refuse to listen to Death's red inked warning that I should be grateful for a second chance, period. For me, there will always be a but . I am grateful, but I will always mourn. And now I will end how I started: with a quote. Chbosky beautifully ends his book with a quote that is both positive but realistic, "...please believe that things are good with me, and even when they're not, they will be soon enough. And I will believe the same about you."
“Back foul beast! Your time is done!” The knight yelled, unsheathing his sword and facing the blade towards the dragon before him. The fire breathing reptile loomed over the armoured hero, its eyes staring into his with a fiery malice strong enough to scare off a lesser man. Suddenly, in a last ditched effort to scare off its foe, the beast unleashed an ear splitting roar almost loud enough to shake the earth itself, but this did nothing to deter the knight. “ENOUGH!” He yelled back at the dragon, “You have terrorised this land far too long, burning down villages, slaying innocent people and then stealing their valuables!” As he said this, the knight raised his trusty blade above his head, arching his arm backwards into a throwing position. He carefully studied the dragon, analysing its massive body for a point of weakness. While the creatures’s back was covered in rows of hardened scales, its underbelly was considerably softer in comparison, a perfect spot for a fatal blow. “Now you shall pay the price for your villainy!” The hero exclaimed. As the dragon let out another roar, the knight flung his blade through the air towards the creature, directly towards its heart. In one swift motion, the sword hit the dragon’s chest... And the lights went out. Suddenly, a thunderous applause could be heard from the people in the surrounding arena, as the story of the knight and the dragon came to a close. In the darkness, the dragon was hurried out of the stage still in her chains, while the other actors hurried back on. As the lights came back on, the man acting out the part of the knight walked over to pick up the painted, wooden sword, putting it back in its sheath. Now standing in the centre of the stage, he and his fellow actors linked hands and bowed for the adoring crowd, as roses were thrown at their feet from all directions. As the crowd roared with delight, the dragon was goaded backstage by a pair of burly men holding massive bull hooks. With these weapons, the men forced her massive body into a cramped cage which. Despite its enormity, the metallic prison was barely big enough to allow her to fit inside, and even then the rather short height of the cage forced her to crouch down uncomfortably for hours on end. “Get in there you stupid beast!” One of the men yelled as the dragon momentarily hesitated to enter her cage. Without hesitation, the man swiftly swung his hook into the sensitive membrane of her folded wing with enough to punch a new hole, and she immediately crawled into her disproportionately small cage. Had she been a wild dragon, she would have burned her captors to cinders along with the surrounding circus and flown as far away from this wretched place as she could, unfortunately, her chances of retaliation had long since passed her by, as the fear of the bull hooks was engraved in her mind from a young age. In order to further prevent the possibility of an attack, the circus handlers punctured the specialised organ at the back of her throat that normally allows a dragon to breathe fire, and the constant beatings left her wings too tattered to allow her to take flight. As the dragon lay down against the cold, metallic bars of her cage, the other man with the bull hook walked over to her head, carrying a large, wooden bucket filled to the brim with fish. “Eat up.” The man said apathetically, as the old, slimy fish were poured onto the cold, metal flooring of the cage. The dragon glumly sniffed her food before eating it, now numb to the smell of dead, decaying fish as they were the only thing her captors would feed her. In the wild, her kin would feed on the variety of massive reptiles and mammals that roamed their ancestral home, bringing them down with the combined efforts of their strength and firepower. But in here, the fish could barely keep her fed, resulting in a body that was dangerously underweight for an animal of her size. The dragon was not the only beast in the circus, the cages surrounding hers were filled with dozens of miserable beasts, whose chances of freedom were just as dim as her own. In the cage across from the dragon, tightly chained up and separated by specially thickened iron bars, a unicorn tried its best to stay sane in the hell it was trapped in. Growling and swaying back and forth, the large ungulate tried desperately to distract itself from its ever increasing insanity. It’s thick, grey hide had been painted a glossy white colour, which simulated the illusion of short, white fur, while the long, yellow hairs glued to its neck and tail were added to make the beast appear more elegant. While the long, spiralling horn attached to its head looked impressive impressive, this was merely a ruse created by yellow paint, glue and wood in order to disguise the pitiful black stump that was all that remained of the beast’s original horn. Hanging from the ceiling, a small cage contained a pair of phoenixes, whose brilliant, fiery feathers grew dimmer by the day. Their faces and legs were covered in scars, while sparse patches of bare skin were visible in between their feathers, a result of the birds fighting for what little space there was. All around them, a menagerie of once fantastical birds, reptiles, and mammals were miserably stuffed into cages awaiting the fleeting moments a day when they would finally be let out. The old griffin with a pair of fake wings sneakily attached too his back, the lonely manticore longing to rejoin his mate, the timid qilin trying desperately to hide behind the steel bars of her cage. The dragon looked at them all with the same hopeless look that they all gave her in turn. With a pitiful yawn, the dragon curled her head under her wings and drifted off to sleep, her only true escape from the miserable world she found herself in. Unfortunately, she knew that once awake, she would be forced back into this reality with no hope of a bright future. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is my first post on this subreddit, any criticism is welcome.
When I was born, the world above had long since drawn its dying breath. No matter what the books told and showed me, what I saw in them was not what was out there. Outside was a bitter, cruel, and deadly place. A hell for everyone, no matter who they were. Humankind had been forced to crawl down into the ground, far below the surface of the world they themselves destroyed. From what they had, they created villages and cities to their best efforts. The ideas of names had started to dwindle, so whatever cities and towns that were carved into the rock were given numbers. City 1, City 2, City 3, and onward. I had been born in City 9, somewhere along the east of the world, along the cliffs. The caves used to be plentiful with water from whatever falls formed by the oceans. When the water became too off to drink, we had to resort to trade and deliveries from the other Cities. These would take several days, and whoever lived in 9 were forced to ration what they had. My home was cramped, small, and dirty. But it was the only place I knew that I could really call home. Nobody liked living down here--everyone hated it; they all wanted to go up and see the sky. And we have to remind ourselves every single day that we would die if we ever did that. Our eyes would bleed and our lungs would explode, or so the story was told by our elders. By the time I turned ten, I was going to work in the mines. It was required that everyone had a job, and the common one was expanding the City itself. More caves meant more houses when more people came to. The caves were cramped for a while, and some couldn’t take the heat all too well. A friend I knew at a young age wasn’t hydrated enough. He died at my side with a dry tongue. But we kept on working. By the time I was thirteen, City 9 was one of the largest of the twelve along the east. Travelling from one side of the City to the next would take several minutes. At thirteen, City 9 was home to a thousand. With time, the City grew less crowded, grew cooler as we grew deeper. At fourteen, my mother died. The water was too dirty. When I was fifteen, there came the resource conflict. There were simply too many people and not enough food for everybody--not enough drinkable water, not enough to ration for every single Niner. You wouldn’t think that the people would be fighting each other for a piece of bread or shuck of corn. And yet, I saw people reduced to corpses. My father couldn’t trust the City. We packed up whatever we could and we left our home. I remember crying the first night on the run. All my father could say was, “Straighten up. You’re not dead.” He was right. The rest is available in the link provided, if it interests you. If this isn't following the rules right, I apologize.
I figured with all this grand universe to explore you likely wouldn’t be back for a while. What gives? “Wow...It’s been damn near a month⎯and the green tea with lemon and honey will help with this cold.” “You don’t look sick to me.” “I may not look it but I can’t stop sneezing and my eyes keep watering.” “I can’t believe I’m falling for this...spirits don’t catch colds?” “How do you know? You’re not a ghost. And I’m sneezing all over the place. And in threes every so often.” “Threes?” “Yeah, one right after another. Then the goosebumps come and I break out in a cold sweat.” “Okay, you’re taking it too far⎯goosebumps and a cold sweat. Spirits don’t have skin.” “I’m a ghost...I thought I told you that.” “It’s the same thing.” “Must not be since I’m sweating and sneezing.” “And spirits don’t have sweat glands and tear ducts.” “Well, ghosts do because my eyes water to the point my vision gets blurry.” “Well, how come you’re not crying now?” “I didn’t say crying I said watering. I have a cold that’s why the honey and the lemon in the tea.” Mobi sips her tea turns toward the kitchen door and waits. “Who are you talking to?” Her husband Charles asks peeking around the doorway. “I was finishing up some important basketball stuff on my computer⎯deep in thought.” “Didn’t sound like rebounds and free throws to me,” Oriana says. Mobi whips her head toward Oriana, “Before I was rudely interrupted I was figuring my bracket.” “I’m over here,” her husband states. “I know. I thought I heard something...an old bat...by the window.” Oriana laughs⎯tea burns her lip. “What did you call me?...Tell him, I say hello.” Mobi turns back toward her husband, “And hello. Yes, you are over there.” “I didn’t say for you to say hello I said for you to tell him I said hello. You haven’t told him, have you?” “I’m a little distracted, Charles. And certain things can’t be conversated about.” “I’m not some taboo topic. He knew me when I was living, We can reacquaint now that I’m a ghost.” Charles says, “We always compare brackets⎯rebounds, assists, points per game⎯before we finish all the entries.” “I know. And I’m in the middle of the men’s first bracket entry. On top of finishing five more, I have to run to the farmer’s market, finish chopping this salad, vacuum the car, then we’ll go to Home Depot, come back, and pick the movies to watch.” Mobi splashes tea on herself as she turns to find Oriana standing right on top of her shaking her head. “Wow...Relationships are supposed to be about honesty. I’m standing right here. All you had to do was reintroduce us: Charles...You remember Oriana. ” “He would have had a heart attack, Ori’. Maybe...I’d like to have him in the physical realm for fifty more years.” “Like you’re doing so bad with me visiting on occasion. What makes him any different? We were friends in kindergarten through seventh grade, then you came in eighth grade. And the town was in a tizzy. Athletic and beautiful in eighth grade a varsity starter in⎯name it. The senior boys in all the townships were falling all over themselves. And some of the senior men too.” Mobi laughs. A stream of tea dribbles down her lip to her chin. She grabs her paper towel, dabs it. “That was a handful of injuries and decades ago, Oriana. And that’s not funny.” “Now look at you retired WNBA player and current college basketball coach. And by the way...Is that legal for the head coach to bet on her team to win it all in March Madness.” “Yes, it’s legal. And it’s not gambling. I’m predicting...If you don’t mind...that we have the best team in the nation. Vegas is not in play here. You know how this works. I haven’t put down any flow.” “How long before Charles wants to have a serious talk with you?” “A serious talk about what?” “About you talking to yourself?” “I don’t talk to myself, Oriana.” “What are you doing now?” “Talking to you about your gambling problem.” Oriana chuckles, “I don’t have a gambling problem. You’re the head coach betting on her team to win the national championship. The audacity of some people.” “Some gall, right?” “When Charles witnesses our tea parties what is it he sees?” Ori asks. “Two friends reminiscing, making the most of an early Sunday afternoon.” Mobi hastens to the entry of the kitchen, looks down the hallway, then upstairs⎯Charles slips out of her line of sight at the top of the stairs where he is listening. Mobi saunters back to the kitchen. “I’m always on my computer, my blue tooth is connected, I have my earpiece in. I talk to you. I talk to coaching staff. I talk to agents. I talk to recruits. I talk to parents. I inform him: it’s simply business.” “And what if he catches you like moments ago and you’re joking and deep in conversation, smiling from ear to ear...he might think you’re having an affair.” Mobi smirks...raises an eyebrow and looks down her nose. “I was not and am not smiling from ear to ear.” “When was it...a couple of games ago? The game your girls won by almost fifty points. You and that opposing head coach shook hands and held each other’s gaze for longer than should be allowed...if you ask me.” “Stop...you should be ashamed of yourself. That kid is barely thirty years old.” “I’m just sayin’... He was a looker. And thirty ain’t twenty.” “I am more than happily married.” “Than why all the secrets,” whispers Oriana. “Why are you whispering?” “Just in case you know who is listening.” “There are no... secrets. And as you saw you know who doesn’t hear you.” “He could...I could simply make myself known to him.” “I know. And we could all reminisce. Ori’ I already find him going through his family album much more since you died. His brother, sisters, parents are still alive. But there you are. Your family, his family⎯the Fourth of July, camping, fall festivals, pictures of you two...field level seats at the World Series when you’ll were ten, eleven.” “You believe...” “Wait. Before you ask. Yes, I believe if he sees you again. He will want to spend most his time with you.” “But keeping things as is you can have both of us as good friends,” Ori states “Yes.”
Sulley was introverted, non-compliant and non-conformist, he was pretty orderly and organised as compared to most people his age. Since his early childhood years he had never as much as liked large companies of friends, or even smaller groups of people. He stuck with his own ideas and appeared to be conceited to people, but in reality, he was just shy and awkward in social situations, and so it registered in his mind that he was better off being reclusive. Sulley was a teenager who loved technology, he would often watch videos on philosophy and bits of psychology, he enjoyed those because he loved new knowledge and he also fancied variety when it came to music. Since Sulley's childhood he performed fairly well in school, but he knew within himself that he was far better than the grades he scored on tests and in examinations but he just couldn't put his finger to what exactly made him underperform. In his last teenage year, at age 19 he started watching some videos on YouTube that inspired him to think more and helped him to understand his younger self better. He soon understood that his studies weren't as effective as a child because he was always taught in large class sizes (which were uncomfortable to him), also he preferred doing individualist work as compared to group assignments that they often did in basic school. He realised also that he preferred intellectually stimulating conversations and deep conversations to small talk. It happened that on his nineteenth birthday, he started watching this clinical psychologist on YouTube , by this time he had one friend who he could talk to, one who deeply understood his introversion. His name was Tom. Sulley spoke with Tom about anything that bothered him, and so he decided to let him know about an issue he was having with his mind lately, he wasn't sure if he had a mental issue or if it was entirely or partially normal, but he was worried . Sulley suddenly got up from his seat one day when he had Tom over after school and asked Tom " hey, do you think I'm going psycho?... um... uh ... I've been listening to this clinician on YouTube for a while now and I really admired him... but uhh ... mmhh ... lately I dont seem to have a conscience of my own like I used to anymore..." Tom interrupted " wait , wait... how long has this been?". "Well I started listening to him last year, but the voice in my head uh ... it started like last uumm.. maybe two weeks ago... it tells me things like 'clean up your room' or 'lay your bed' and 'pick up a responsibility and shoulder the responsibility of adulthood' ... you know the voice doesn't necessarily say any bad things, it actually helps me to stay productive..." Sulley said. Tom looked on a bit confused, scratching the top of his head , while Sulley continued " but the problem is that... I hate it because I feel like I don't really have a conscience of my own anymore, like I know that voice isn't the Holy Spirit that my sister spoke of , because the voice sounds exactly like the clinician from YouTube" Tom didn't think it was much of a problem, so he quickly replied " I think it's a normal phenomenon and happens to several people and you uhh might... you shouldn't overthink it maybe... yeah?" Sully tried hard not to frown, he wasn't satisfied with Tom's response but decided to keep the rest of his talk to himself, besides, he enjoyed his little moments of soliloquy alone in his room, asking himself questions and switching between alter egos , pretending to interview himself and all that. So Sulley decided he needed time alone so he turned to Tom again and said " well , Tom, you know what?... I don't think I want to talk much anymore, I think I need some alone time to recharge... so maybe you should go home, I'll see you tomorrow" Sulley tried not to make it sound awkward but that only made lt worse. It was always awkward and abrupt the way that Sulley would often call it a day, but Tom was used to all of that and just nodded and shrugged and said " well , okay, and please don't overthink the whole new voice of your conscience... it may come in handy... who knows?" Tom just smiled and waved at Sulley who never even bothered to escort him out of the room to the door leading outside. Once Tom was out , the voice started to instruct Sulley to complete tasks he had left undone, Sulley did it in such a little space of time that he surprised himself. He then reflected and realised that he could have never finished it so soon even if Tom helped out. Besides, Tom just like everyone else was fond of following socially accepted rules for doing things, which for Sulley, was a poor reflection on any human's creativity. Sulley sat a while and thought about things he had to do that he hadn't yet done , he remembered he hadn't done the economics assignment in class that their tutor gave because it was so hard to do, and even with the help of his sitting partner who he obviously struggled to communicate with, it was still near impossible to finish it. The voice of his conscience interrupted "don't reschedule resposiblities when you can do them now" Sulley nodded and agreed, after all, Tom mentioned that it wasn't a big deal that the voice of his conscious seemed to sound like someone else apart from himself , and that it may come in handy ,so he decided to do the assignment that minute. As he started, his thoughts felt lighter, he felt like a more intelligent person, and within five minutes he was halfway through. The clinical psychologist's voice in his head egged him on. Finally he finished it all up and was satisfied. He questioned how he was unable to do it in class but finished it almost effortlessly while at home and on his own. He reflected and introspected and came to a conclusion that he worked way better away from so much noise and that he was more productive being individualistic than as one working in a team. It was obvious to him now that he was one to work in silence. He was excited to find out about this new part of him, which he realised was obvious all along but not didn't have much attention paid to it. As the years went by, Sulley grew to know more about himself. He would often stay indoors, he didn't care whether or not he was invited to parties, he walked through the streets on weekends at the least busy hours in a hoody with his face pointing downwards and loud classical music playing in his ears. He was the type to change routes in a supermarket just to avoid a school colleague and he often did his serious work at midnight in the dark with dead silence and no one around or awake while chewing on a snack like tortilla chips. In school, he took up whole class group project works by himself and presented it on behalf of the team and scored brilliantly on them. He often finished up the work himself and would brief group members on his findings to keep them abreast with what they needed to know concerning the project. He was soon realised to be one who was independent. Sulley sooner than he thought became a young man in his mid twenties, by this time he was out of school and out of touch and contact with many of his peers because of his natural disposition of introversion. Even Tom barely heard from him now. They had begun to work and Sulley really didn't have the time to be hanging out with people. He had grown into a conscientious young man. He was disciplined to a fault and he still had that voice in his conscience spurring him on to do all he needed to. It so happened that his nation came to a state of emergency where government data had been hacked and citizens were at risk of having their personal data fished and misused and their bank accounts being emptied. The newspapers and television news aired the news with headlines like " your personal data may now be public information". Tensions were rising , as personal information of the president had already began to be attacked by this unknown hacker. Everyone was in a frenzy and tensed up, the government called for professional IT personnel to help resolve and reverse the situation but there were no experts found who believed that this could be solved. Sulley was in his room at 12 midnight at his serious thinking and work hours eating snacks, the voice in his conscience hinted that it was about time he stopped with snacks and ate some real food. Sulley sighed and put the snacks away. Sulley hadn't used social media for close to seven years, as he got tired of it and saw it to be a waste of time. He also didn't have much of his data online either. In fact he had almost a hidden identity on the web. He logged on to a news website and saw the national emergency. He sighed, and locked his phone's screen. The voice of his conscience seemed to vibrate in his head, "this could be the adventure of your life, take it up..." for once Sulley was about to shut the voice of his conscience, but the voice kept on " don't run away from things that seem big, start them with small incremental steps, you could get somewhere,... who knows? Life is an adventure, take it and see what happens" Sulley pondered for minutes on end. At 1:45 a.m he decided to tackle the situation. Sulley over the years had in silence and on his own learnt a lot about coding, information technology and cybersecurity during his active midnight hours and was ready to put it to use in an undercover adventure now. Sulley decided to help one of his favourite top IT companies to solve the national issue, so he decided to start sending them emails and post mails anonymously. The first email was a request to help solve the national emergency. The follow up e-mails were step by step solutions on recovery of all the lost and misplaced personal information of citizens on the web. The company was called "weTech" , they agreed to receive his help and asked for his identity, but Sulley insisted on staying anonymous and having no share in any profits made after the recovery was done. WeTech made a public announcement that it was ready to solve the crisis, the president gave the go ahead and stated a huge cash prize to be won , public tensions began to ease as they were assured that the situation would be solved within the month. Meanwhile, Sulley found the hacker online through a series of simulations and checks and witty efforts he made online. He sent e-mails signed with a pseudonym "working in silence". He signed off every letter to weTech and to the hacker with "working in silence" , weTech finally decided to make this strange anonymous guy called "working in silence" a headline by falsely claiming him to be a top secret worker in their organisation . Before long after many nights up, Sulley had worked out the whole puzzle of the hack and weTech was announcing to the public that it was in the final stages of retrieving all the data they needed. Sulley finally sent some mails to the hacker telling him to restore the bank money he drained from accounts or otherwise be turned in to the police. The hacker wrote back saying the money had been used and it would take some time to restore, so Sulley gave him the benefit of the doubt and allowed him time to get back the monies. By the end of the week, all the newspapers and Television news stations were buzzing with headlines like " top secret IT agent AKA "working in silence" solves national emergency" . Sulley saw it all over the news and just sat in his room, meanwhile WeTech had profited from Sulley's effort. The company decided to mail his anonymous email account to have him to receive a job there and be paid. The voice of his conscience came up again " try this and see what adventure may come out of it" but for once , Sulley came against the voice of conscience and said out loud to himself " not this time, I'd rather work in silence... so its back to my life until another emergency" Sulley decided that this midnight could be taken lightly and maybe he should sleep , but before that he decided to use a real email account to mail the hacker , as he realised that he was just a man trying to make ends meet. It happened on one day in that week he suggested they met (he and the hacker) , the hacker agreed , and they met at a coffee shop. Sulley found that he too (the hacker) was introverted and very much like him , he suggested he came to stay over at his place in separate rooms while Sulley helped him clear the debt (without revealing that he was the one who uncovered the hacker's identity). Sulley helped him in various ways and from then onward they both worked separately in silence and met once in a while on the rooftop of their new shared apartment with snacks to talk about their unconventional thoughts at midnight . Sulley then one day said "what do you think about that national hero who they call "working in silence" " the hacker (who was called Shane) replied "well, I think he truly is a hero and considerate, I think he may be just like the two of us" Sulley smiled and said "well, yeah, I guess we are all working in silence" they both laughed and slouched in their chairs and went back to eating their snacks and gazing into the stars in silence. Sulley's phone suddenly rang. He ignored the call since he didn't know who it was that was calling, it rang again and he ignored once more, not long after , a text came through reading " hi, man, it's Tom... following the news lately about this mystery guy called working in silence made me think of you in your childhood days..." Sulley read on and smiled , then got up and threw his phone far and down and said to Shane "it turns out some people know us way too well" he took his chair and attracted making his way back into the house downstairs and said " I'm going to bed now, I hope I dream of new adventures working in silence haha"
They say that about twenty minutes walk from the village, deep out in the moor, there is a house where no one is supposed to go. The house is tiny, so small that every time it storms, someone brave goes up after to stand at a safe distance and see if it is still standing. It’s almost like a house made by a child for a doll; a construction of mud and straw that looks enough like a house but is, in truth, too cramped and unstable for anything to dwell there. The walls are short and the roof sags low and no one could live there. And yet- Something does. Something sweeps the house’s creaking porch, something keeps the yard neat and tidy, something chops wood and stacks it by the door and then takes it inside to burn. Whatever is inside that house, it always has a fire going. You cannot see the house from the village- it is very likely that no one would live there if you could- but you can sometimes see the thin, gray line of smoke, slithering through the chimney like an impossibly long snake leaving its hole. The townspeople might forget about the house if it weren't for the smoke. They’d leave it there, a ghost story in the heather, and let it be consumed by the land. The foundation would sink into the earth, and the porch with it’s stack of firewood would rot. Birds would build nests in a collapsed roof. Small animals would scurry across the floor, and it would be as if the thing that lived in the house never existed. But people see the smoke, and people know the house is there. And because they weren’t supposed to go there, they went. +++ The house looks different than Isla had expected. She had been prepared for a skeleton of a house, something small and rotting and swaying in the wind. Instead, it’s just a house. Small and hard to make out in the dark, yes, but so unassuming that she could pass it in the village and think nothing of it. There are no howling spirits, and the air doesn’t smell of death and bloodshed. The air smells of nothing but soil and the afternoon’s rain. Perhaps the normalcy is meant to put her at ease, but it just winds Isla tighter. She knows why she has come, the dark, looming nature of it, and she has never cared much for tricks. With one last deep breath, Isla starts across the field and closer to the house, drawing her shawl tighter around her shoulders even though she didn’t really need to. Spring nights are either gentle or alive with storms, and the worst to fear tonight was a strong wind. The sky above her is resplendent with stars. The heather sways in gentle waves. As she moves closer to the house, she notices wild flowers growing close to the porch, beautiful even only in silhouette. The porch doesn’t creak under her feet so much as it moans, low and wounded-sounded. The wood feels fragile beneath her feet, and she thinks one wrong step will send her crashing through the old boards, so Isla tries to step carefully. There are no candles or lanterns lit on the porch, no light or sound. There is only the ever-smoking chimney, and a low sense of dread burning in her gut. Her skin crawls and her stomach churns. She wants to turn and run, run back to the village, away from the village, anywhere that is not this strange, wounded-animal house. Instead, she knocks on the door once. The door is hard, solid wood, just as her’s is. She strains her ears, trying to listen for movement inside the house, but she hears none. “I seek a boon,” She tells the door, her voice so quiet it is nearly lost in the breeze. She doesn’t think that will be a problem. The thing in the house probably speaks the same language the wind does. She reaches to her neck, and fingers the necklace hanging from her neck. The necklace is poor payment, little more than a stone wrapped in a leather thong. It isn’t even an expensive stone. It’s about as valuable as a river rock, though it looks a stunning shade of green in the right light. It is the most precious thing Isla owns, and though she should unclasp it to present it to the keyhole or the shuttered windows, she only clutches the stone tight enough that the leather threatens to break, letting the blunt shape press an imprint of itself into her palm. “I can pay,” She says, a little louder this time. For a moment, the house is silent, and it is not a peaceable silence. No one appears, but Isla gets the distinct impression that she is being judged. And then, still judging her, the thing in the house speaks. “That is something of a given. Everyone comes thinking they can pay.” The door does not creak when it opens, and Isla almost doesn’t notice. A sliver of a face is just suddenly peering out at her through the crack between the door and the doorframe, and she takes a step backwards so suddenly she almost trips. The eye -the very human, very brown eye- crinkles with amusement, and Isla feels a fear so sharp she wants to cry out. No tricks , she wants to beg, no tricks, just take it and be done with it. Let me do this in peace. Instead, she says nothing, and the door opens the rest of the way. The thing that lives in the house is already moving away from her, further back into it’s glamoured home. Again, Isla debates turning and escaping into the heather fields. “Come inside, and close the door behind you,” The thing calls, and with shaking hands, Isla does. Inside, the house’s front room is even smaller than she expected. The fireplace roaring away at the back is barely even a fireplace at all, just a tiny square no bigger than a breadbox, though it warms the room so intensely that Isla wants to take off her shawl. She doesn’t, because it’s a very nice shawl and she would like to keep it. This, at least, doesn’t look like a normal room. It’s a good enough imitation- the floorboards seem to be swept, and the things burning in the fireplace look more like spits of wood than human bones. But even so, it is not quite right. The floor is almost too well swept, Isla thinks. It takes nearly an hour to sweep every floor in her house, and as much time as she devotes to the dull work, she still misses spots and corners. On this floor, there is no dust in the corners, no missed patches. The floorboards are all pristine. But the front room is easily half the size it should be, so perhaps it shouldn’t be all that strange. It wouldn’t be, if not for the state of the walls. Every wall in the room is lined with over-full shelves, cluttered with bits and pieces of other people’s lives. Children’s toys and rosaries, figurines carved from stone and wood, bracelets and necklaces, hair ties and cloaks, strands of beads and yellowing sheaths of paper and jars full of indiscriminate sludge, swords and knives and a rag caked with something that had dried a reddish-brown. Isla knows what they are the minute she sees them. They are the offerings of other people come to see the thing in the house, thrown up on these shelves and left to molder. None of them seem valuable, but they are all deeply precious. There is no rhyme or reason to their organization. A thick slice of abalone shell leans against a handful of dried-up dandelions. They’re all thick with dust, some of them spotted with mold. The shelves themselves look dirty too- the thing in the house has collected all these momentos, all these precious keepsakes, and it never touches them. The floor beneath the forsaken shelves, though, is gleaming and immaculate. Something that burns and spits with anger comes to life in Isla's gut, but she smothers it as quickly as it came. She doesn’t want the thing’s anger. She is only here to make a trade. What does it matter what the thing does with it’s payment, so long as it accepts it? But when the thing in the house finishes tending to the fire and returns to her side, Isla struggles to look at it. Instead, she stares past it, into the shelves. “There aren’t this many people in the village,” She says at last. Her village is tiny, little more than a handful of houses clustered together behind a hill. If every person in the village came up and made a trade here, she doesn’t think they could fill one shelf, let alone over a dozen. The thing in the house shrugs. It looks surprisingly normal, for what it is. It wears the face of a woman, weak-chinned and about as tall as Isla herself. But it doesn’t quite fit right. Something about the woman- the look in her eye, or the shape of her smile, or something else- itched at Isla, like the gnawing of a rat. “You would be surprised, how much people are willing to give. Besides, it’s only natural for stories about a house with a wish-granting demon in it to spread.” “We don’t have a house with a demon in it,” Isla says, trying to cut through the thing’s strange net of lies and false pleasantries, “You were here before the churches. You’re one of the Old Folk.” “True,” The thing says, “But a demon sounds so much more exciting. Tea?” Isla still refuses to look the thing in the face, but she feels it’s gaze the way she might feel a cut, or a bite from a stinging insect. Her skin prickles with gooseflesh. Some long-buried, prey instinct kicks to life in her gut and screams at her to run. Very deliberately, Isla sticks her chin out and stares into the depths of the shelves. Her gaze keeps wandering back to a small horse carved from wood, no taller than three fingers’ breadth and painted what might once have been a cheery shade of red, beneath all the dust. She thinks of her river-rock necklace, what it will look like on the shelf with the leather rotting, and the offering suddenly feels very heavy around her neck. “No thank you,” Isla says, forcing herself to sound polite, “I would discuss the bargain with you.” “The bargain, the bargain .” Isla has the rather distinct impression that the thing is rolling its eyes. “It’s always about the bargain, no one ever wants to chat. I have heard your plea a dozen times but no one will make conversation. Go on, though, go on.” Something draws Isla’s gaze to the thing’s face, even though she would rather never look at it the whole time she’s here. The thing has changed it’s face. Gone is the pleasant-faced woman of the dull brown eyes and hair, and in her place is a man barely old enough to be called that, with a sharply hooked nose and a spatter of youthful freckles. Strangest, though, is it’s expression. She expects the thing in the house to look pleased, or hungry, or maybe just some unnamed, vaguely sinister emotion. She does not expect it to look bored. Her hands shake as she reaches up to draw the necklace off her neck. She holds it out, the stone swaying gently as it dangles. The motion is calming, and she focuses on that instead of the thing in the house. Something ice-cold washes through her, steeling her nerves and freezing her anger. She makes her proposal with a strange sort of detachment. The thing in the house will accept the necklace, and leave it on it’s shelves, and she will have her life back. “This is a necklace my husband made me when we were children. He froze to death last Winter, and we didn’t find his body until the Spring. It is my most prized possession. Give him back to me.” The thing in the house remains unchanged, unmoved by her plea. Something about the set of it’s expression makes her wish she’d brought a knife to offer it, instead. She could sink it into the thing’s ribs when they make the trade. “It is fascinating how many prized possessions you people seem to have. You understand, of course, that I take the memory with the trade as well?” Isla nods, resolute. She knows no one who traded with the thing that lived in the house, and so she has no personal details, but she had examined the stories close enough to glean a few things. The thing tilts it’s boyish head to the side, considering. “A well enough trade, a memory for a man. It is acceptable.” Something strange and unidentifiable flits across the thing’s face. It is not a feeling, exactly, but something like it. A cousin, maybe. A distant one. “But I will not take it.” Isla’s hold on the necklace goes slack. The stone makes an unimpressive clunking sound when it hits the floor. “What?” “I will not take it.” It flicks one hand at her dismissively. “You may go now.” “It is no different than your other prizes. You said yourself that the trade was acceptable.” “Exactly.” “You must take it.” Isla had been determined not to show any weaknesses that the thing might prey upon, but she can’t stop her voice from cracking. The thing in the house stares through her dispassionately. “No. I have heard this story too many times, and I tire of it. Go home to your house. Think no more of me.” Isla can hardly hear over the roar of blood in her ears. She sees, in her mind’s eye, the way her husband had looked when the snow had finally melted and a hunter had brought his body in; the gray skin and the glassy eyes and the stiff claws his fingers had frozen into. She cannot fail. She cannot go back to her own little house, cold and empty as it is, and bake bread for one person and do the washing for one person and sweep up the dust tracked in by one person. “I’ll give you something else,” She hears herself say. “No.” “A different memory.” “I don’t want anymore of your memories.” “Take my right hand. That is precious.” “No, that is grotesque.” Between one blink and the next, the thing changes its face again. There is the boy with the hooked nose and then there is the weak-chinned woman again. “Please, take my face,” Isla wheedles, only distantly aware of the way her voice shakes. “You like having faces, don’t you?” “I already have it.” “Take my life!” Isla isn’t sure when she came so close to the thing in the house, but she is near enough to lunge at it. She clutches at it’s shoulders, screaming loud enough that she feels it grating against her throat. The thing in the house looks very tired, suddenly. “I could not take that, even if I wanted to.” Isla’s mind races, searching for something else to offer up, something enticing enough to make the thing in the house rescind all it’s strange games and give her her heart back, but she finds nothing. It’s all nonsense. The thing in the house, and the strange refusals to every offer, and the way she can stare into the woman’s face long enough and almost recognize it from reflections. Nonsense, all of it. “Why,” Isla chokes out instead. Her voice sounds a wreck even to her own ears. Her throat feels like raw meat. Something cold and wet drips off her chin, and she wonders how long she’s been crying. The thing in the house sighs, as if this is all a very tedious obstacle between it and it’s nightly rest. “Your husband did not die in the snowdrifts, not at first. I think you went out for a walk with your brother. The blizzard was unexpected. Your husband came to me, a little while after, and he offered me a toy he had made for your son, before you knew he would be a stillborn. And I gave you back. “But death needs a trade as well. That’s why it likes you people so much. All the senseless bargaining. So you died again, in the Spring, when a sickness swept your village. And he came again. And then he died, instead, and you came. And he came, and you came, and he gave me his name and you gave me your face. You two have been giving me names and lives and souls and memories for nearly a year, now. I am exhausted.” Something pulls in Isla’s chest, like a very large knot slowly unraveling. “I don’t have a brother,” She says, eventually. It is small and insignificant, but it is also the only thing she can bring herself to say. “No,” The thing wearing her face said, “You gave his memory to me a few visits ago.” “Why don’t I remember?” “I am a creature that feeds on memories. No one remembers me.” “And the dying?” Isla says. “Traded away.” Isla looks away from the thing, crumpling in on itself with misery and exhaustion, and looks again at the cluttered, dusty shelves. “...Does everyone come back to you?” “Without fail. Tampering with fate only makes it that much more interested in you. Please, go away. I am so very tired of this game. Let us both rest.” Isla looks at her offering, discarded on the floor. “How many times have you begged me like this?” “Several.” “...Do I ever heed you?” “No,” It says, hollowly, “No, no one ever does.”
The man up in the pulpit embodied what a true intellectual looked like in Ana's mind. He did so because of his undoubtable ability in rhetoric, how he conveyed perfectly his ideas as if there was no distance between his mind and his lips and how he did it with immense ease. The Professor was hardly a decade older than her, he went to the same college as she did not that many years ago, and sometimes spoke of certain professors still with the reverence only a student would have. His face was nearly unwrinkled, not handsome and yet charming, full of a vivacity that Ana was sure was the same that fueled his speeches. It was not similarity of values that attracted her to his intellect, but the confidence and the seemingly outstanding capacity of reasoning he had; even in ideas she disagreed with she found interest, if he was the one to propose them. The Professor was, in perhaps a strange way, what she wanted to be. He spoke of the role of the Administration according to the Constitution and ignored the chair of the pulpit, which had stayed untouched since the beginning of the class, prefering to roam back and forth casually as if they were having a conversation - him and each of the students. Then something caught his eye. The screen of his phone lit up on top of his desk and he stopped his pacing, grabbed the phone and, after a second, excused himself. "I gotta take this," He said. Ana sighed, looked around the classroom for the first time since the Professor began to speak. "Have you got a crush or what?" Ana heard a chuckle by her side. It was Lina. She wasn't really Ana's friend, but she pertained to that peculiar group of people that, by either lack of tact or some forced wit, thought it was daring in an endearing way to take a little bit more liberty than one allowed her. Lina liked to show Ana that she knew a lot about everyone, that she obtained some sort of secret knowledge as an insider in the social world of the university. Ana glanced at her and stretched her lips over her teeth upon the sight of her classmate crossing her slender legs and leaning in, as if Ana was going to answer her prying with a confession. "No, I just like his class." "I can't see him the same way now. Y'know, after I heard he's a swinger." She whispered. "He and Matilda, they go to those key parties and do that whole pinnaple thing". Matilda was his girlfriend, another professor. Ana knew her from the hallways, a stubby woman that walked always like she had something urgent to do. "Oh." Ana said. Lina didn't find the lack of response discouraging. "Yeah. Anyway, after the picture, I don't doubt it. Have you seen it?" Lina seemed to read a negative answer in Ana's face and pulled her phone out of her bag. She didn't have to browse much before secretively sliding it to Ana. The screen showed an image of the stubby professor, topless, in what seemed to be a fitting room. She looked pretty and relaxed, whatever urgent matter she hurried to in the hallways must've been resolved, and she held her camera to the mirror, proudly taking the photo. Behind her was the Professor, significantly taller, grabbing her breasts and smiling at the camera. He cupped them greedily, with some sense of ownership, and his face showed a daring satisfaction of one who's truly comfortable. "Jesus, Lina." Ana looked away, for the first time actually showing annoyance towards her classmate's behavior. "I didn't need to see that." Lina squinted her eyes, her playful look still there but mixed with something else. "I was just trying to fill you in, sheesh." She turned the other way, annoyed. Ana could swear she heard Lina muttering ' holier than thou bitch' and a warmth, of shame or annoyance, rose to her face. Ana looked down at her hands - they looked so far away-, her mind weirdly bothered. Shortly after, the professor returned. His presence silenced the room and he easily and hastily picked up his train of thought, again pacing back and forth, as if he was winding up his argument with movement. Ana switched her weight on the chair, crossed her legs in discomfort. She felt a quaint feeling she had felt a handful of times before. Corporeity had invaded reason, his ability was irretrievably tainted by the inescapable sin of his humanity. The face of that man, serious, scholarly, gave way to a lewd grin of satisfaction in Ana's mind. I'm a man, I'm a man, said his voice, she saw the buldge on his pants while he walked, she saw the fingers on his gesturing hand sinking into the soft, warm flesh of that smiling woman, she took in the slow shift of brain into flesh and she watched that metamorphosis with horror. He must know that the picture is out there, he must know we all have seen it, and yet look how he paces so confidently, she thought, not sure if with admiration or disapproval. Ana wasn't a prude, no, she liked to consider herself quite accepting, actually. She prouded herself of talking of taboo topics without restraint in her tongue or in her mind, she despised how sexual jargon still made so many giggle like middleschoolers. That couple of academics had been the victim of a leaked picture, or perhaps they leaked it themselves and there was no victim in the story, what would be the matter with that, they're both adults and they teach adults, perhaps it wasn't the most adequate thing to do but they had the right to do it, you never know what people get their kicks out of. And yet she still had that queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. It wasn't of intrusion, as if she had seen something she wasn't meant to see. It was deeper than that, sillier than that. What bothered her was that that scenario of intimacy happened on the first place, as if she had a dogma that was just deadly struck by that Professor's hands in his girlfriend's breasts. He rambled still about the Constitution, but Ana didn't pay attention to his words. He paced from one side of the pulpit to the other, a man and a mind, two grabbing hands, a sharp tongue that spoke and licked with equal passion. I'm a man, I'm a man, it said, and it said it calmingly, accepting, freeingly. She looked down to her own hands again. She noticed how far away they seemed from her, galaxies away, even though they rested on her thighs. Then, lifting her eyes to the Professor, she suddenly envied the fact that, for him, the distance between his mind and his hands must've been just the length of his arms.
It’s not them, it’s you You can pass the blame and cry boo-hoo Nothing good will it do For the one who hurts you most is always you Blair thought about her 14-year-old niece’s poem now that the flashing of the cameras stung her retinas, reminding her of the topic of the poem -- hurt. She’d read it and felt proud. Sure, it was a little rough around the edges, certainly no Emily Dickinson, but there was a refreshing sense of accountability to it, maturity, wisdom. She’d promised her niece she’d frame it, but it was still sitting on her dining table, sans frame. She made a mental note to get that taken care of the next thing tomorrow morning. “Next question, please,” the moderator called. Blair snapped back to the present. There was nothing like the screams and stares of a roomful of people fixed on her to do that. She cleared her throat and pointed randomly at the sea of raised hands. “Yes, um, gentleman in a blue suit.” The owner of the suit in question stood up from one of the white plastic chairs provided to the press and adjusted his tie. “Will Farris, Pulse Chronicles,” he said in his deep bass. Blair gave a nod and a tight smile. Will Farris spoke into a microphone with a logo of a magazine Blair didn’t recognize. “You’ve said that this ‘Timeless Minds Collide’ thing is, and I quote, ‘a cutting-edge time traveling project designed to offer perspective and healing to its users and the humankind as a whole,’ but be honest, isn’t that just code for ego stroke? I mean, to me your project looks like nothing more than the plaything of yet another spoiled billionaire who watched too much Quantum Leap as a kid and has now decided to make her childhood fantasy come alive all the while playing God for a day.” The cameras flashed again. Blair leaned in closer to her microphone. “Please, Will, tell me what you really think,” she said and the room erupted into laughter. Will Farris laughed, too. “Are you saying that you didn’t watch too much Quantum Leap as a kid?” he said. “I’m saying that there’s no such thing as watching too much Quantum Leap, Will. The show is objectively incredible,” Blair said, eliciting another round of laughter from her audience. Then she took on a more serious tone. “Well, I certainly can’t deny that the show was an inspiration for this project. After all, the idea is to have our travelers ‘leap’ into the body of another individual in the past. But unlike Quantum Leap, these are protected time lines. No past events can be modified in any significant way, and we have mods surveying the safety of the traveler and the host alike, so if ever one of them feels like spontaneously screaming ‘Geronimo’ and jumping off the roof of a skyscraper, they will be stopped in their tracks. I assure you, Will, there’s no playing God involved here.” “Next question, please,” the moderator called and almost as if choreographed, hands all around the room shot up in the air. Blair pointed at a stocky gentleman in the first row, who promptly stood up. “Taylor Williams, the Aurora Atlas,” he introduced himself. “You claim that one of the key aspects of this project is the commitment to provide alternative care for people with mental health concerns. But I can’t help but wonder if assuming another person’s identity poses more risks than benefits to one’s mental well-being. What kind of testing are you doing and who is the poor sucker you roped into being your guinea pig?” Blair smiled. She had expected this question. “That sucker would be me,” she said. “I couldn’t in good conscience ask anybody else to test a project that has my name on it. My first trial is in two days, when, for the duration of three hours, I will be transported into the body of Franz, a solitary shepherd in 1800’s Austria. A gentle man, I hope. I finally get to live out my Sound of Music fantasy, so I have high expectations.” “And will Franz the Shepherd know about this?” Taylor Williams asked. “Well, we figured telling the hosts that we are from the future and would like to inhabit their bodies for a few hours or days might not go over so well...” Laughter. “... so we decided against telling them. But Franz and all other hosts will remember everything they did that day, they just sort of take a backseat--” “They go to the sunken place?” Taylor Williams quipped and the audience laughed. Blair laughed with them. “More like they’ll be on autopilot,” she explained. “Kind of like you for the majority of your life, Taylor.” More laughter. “Next question,” the moderator called, but Blair stopped her. “Grace, if you don’t mind...” she said gently. “One thing I would like to address before we go to the next question is Taylor’s comment about this project offering alternative mental health care to those who haven’t been able to find it through traditional methods.” She leaned forward and the audience quieted down. She’d noticed that she had that effect. She was able to make them listen. “I know I haven’t been upfront about this in the media before but, believe it or not, I’m not always this delightful bright and shiny creature sitting in front of you right now. Throughout most of my adult life, I have had pretty severe bouts of depression.” A buzz broke into the room and cameras started flashing. Blair closed her eyes. She could picture the headlines of tomorrow’s papers - “Billionaire Blair LaCroix admits to suffering from depression” - along with some awful picture of her with her eyes half-way closed, but oh well. She opened her eyes. “Of course, I can’t speak for other people suffering from mental health issues, but I know that when I’m going through my dark days, I just want to not exist, not be me for a while. But what if I could be someone else? “Now, I know what you must be thinking. If she wants to escape so much, why doesn’t she just take an expensive vacation somewhere else, change the scenery? She certainly can afford it. Well, wherever I go, I take myself with me. People know me. I cannot be anyone but myself. But to walk in someone else’s shoes for a day, someone who is no longer with us... what’s the harm? “And yes, maybe it is escapism, maybe it is running from your problems, but when therapy, medication and everything else in-between fails, don’t we owe it to ourselves to do whatever we can to take care of ourselves? To be happy? And who knows, maybe walking in someone else’s shoes will give us the perspective we need, the breather from our own lives we need. Maybe walking in someone else’s shoes is just what we need. So what do you say, will you walk with me?” The reporters were shouting, hands shot up in the air again and the cameras were flashing. Two days to go until the first trial... Blair thought. Two more days. * Peter put down the morning’s newspaper, which featured the headline: “‘Will you walk with me?’ -- Billionaire Blair LaCroix opens up about her mental health struggles at the press conference for new ‘Quantum Leap’ project,” and then stirred his coffee. He had watched his wife live on TV yesterday along with the rest of the world. He had smiled proudly witnessing the reporters eat from the palm of her hand, hang onto her every word like a holy gospel. She had always had a way with words, a way with people. And that’s how he saw her -- witty, playful, charming, magnetic. But today she was faced with another Blair -- the Shadow Blair. He’d known it from the first second he’d woken up and put his arm around his wife. “Good morning,” he had said but instead of answering, his wife had muttered something unintelligible and recoiled at his touch. He hated these days, Blair’s “dark days.” And, even though he would never admit it to her, he hated this Blair. This wasn’t his wife. This woman, cold, closed-off and disengaged, was nothing but a stranger who visited every once in a while, and he prayed to any deity who would listen that she’d keep the visit short. He watched her walk to the dining table. The poem from her niece lay flat on it. She was supposed to get it framed today, but now she just eyed the piece of paper up and down and finally crumpled it up and walked away. Internally, Peter sighed. He knew that she would come to regret doing that. She loved her niece and had been so proud of her and her poem, but he also knew this was not the time to remind her of it. So he just smoothed out the paper, folded it neatly in half, and slipped it surreptitiously into Blair’s jacket pocket hanging on the coat rack, so that when she was feeling better again and was out and about, she could get it framed. He glanced at her, idly staring out the window, and felt the knot around his gut tighten. Tomorrow was the first trial of Blair’s “Timeless Minds Collide,” which the media had affectionately named the “Quantum Leap Project.” He crossed his fingers that this thing -- unorthodox as it might have been -- could do what therapy and medication had failed at and make his Blair happy again. * Dr. DeMarcus Shaw adjusted the band around Blair’s forehead and lowered her backrest, so that the big screen behind him came into her line of vision. She studied it. The colors swimming across the screen that represented her thoughts were shockingly bright and shiny, not at all how She had pictured the thoughts of a depressed individual to look like, but then again, she was excited about today. A nurse approached with a syringe, and Blair squeezed the armrests of her chair with both her hands until she felt her nails dig into the fabric. “Are you okay with needles, Mrs. LaCroix?” the doctor asked, looking at the screen where her thoughts had turned murky red. Blair smiled. She knew that he already knew the answer. “As long as I don’t have to look at them much. And it’s Blair, DeMarcus. Please, I beg of you. You’re literally reading my thoughts, so I think we’re past formalities at this point.” The doctor gave a shy chuckle and the nurse, with his syringe, settled by her left side. “You’ll just feel a little prick,” he said as Blair’s head swung to the opposite direction of the syringe, her gaze landing on the heavy led door to her right. She knew it was impossible to open this door from the outside, but regardless of that and the fact that everybody involved in this project had signed ironclad NDA’s, swearing to secrecy when it came to the location of the first trial of “Timeless Minds Collide,” Blair half-expected the press to barge into the room and ruin her travel. And she couldn’t have that. Yesterday she’d had one of her dark days. Usually these spells lasted longer, but today she felt better, and the only reason she could think of was the promise of the bucolic scene, the baaing of the sheep, and the rugged mountains of 1800’s Austria waiting for her on the other side. She couldn’t wait to get started. The drug flowing through her veins was taking effect and she felt her eyelids get heavier. DeMarcus’s face appeared above her. “Count backwards from 10 for me, Blair. In just a few seconds you’ll be the first person ever to have traveled to the past,” he said, and Blair felt a pleasant burst of butterflies in her stomach. She started counting, “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4...” She felt herself doze off with images of sheep and faraway lands swimming in her head. She imagined looking at her reflection in a pond for the first time, experiencing life as Franz the Shepherd, feeling the coarse wool of sheep under her fingertips, breathing in the fresh mountain air. She imagined the feeling of running down a hill, screaming at the top of her lungs, with no one near to hear, other than the sheep. She felt free. But when she opened her eyes, she didn’t see sheep or mountains. Instead, she saw DeMarcus’ confused face staring at the bright and shiny representation of her thoughts on the screen, his face furrowed in a deep frown, nurses scurrying around him. “This can’t be right...” he was muttering. Blair cleared her throat. “DeMarcus,” she said, her voice groggy, and the doctor’s head spun in her direction. “What’s happening?” DeMarcus looked from her to the screen to her again. “I-- I’m so sorry, Mrs. La-- I mean, Blair,” he said. “I’m afraid the first trial was unsuccessful.” Blair got into a sitting position on the chair, the band around her head weighing heavily like a crown. A crown or a fool’s cap. “Yup, the lack of sheep was a dead giveaway,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “Any idea what went wrong?” “Well...” DeMarcus hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted at last. “To do the first trial, this would have to be the first time you’ve ever time traveled. But it appears... you’re already a user.” There was a short silence. Blair chuckled, but it came out as a bark. “But this is the first time anybody’s used this device, DeMarcus. Also, I think I would know if I’d traveled to the past before. It’s kind of a hard thing to forget.” The doctor didn’t look up at her. Blair could see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed. “Blair, you’re not a user in the capacity of a traveler,” he said quietly. “You are... well... you’re a host.” Another silence, only broken by the beeping of the vital signs monitor. “A host?” Blair managed at last. “But that’s even more ridic--” She stopped talking. There was something tugging at the edges of her memory. A piece that seemed so irrelevant she wanted to ignore it. “They go to the sunken place?” Those had been the words Taylor Williams had used at the press conference when she was asked about what happens to Franz the Shepherd and other hosts. Everybody had laughed. Her included. Because it was ridiculous. She heard DeMarcus talking about how, if there was a past, it was likely there would also be a future, and if there was a future, their present time had to be somebody else’s past, but she wasn’t listening. She cut him off. “When was the last time I was used as a host?” Her mouth felt dry, her hands trembled as she awaited the answer. DeMarcus shifted his startled gaze from her to the screen. “Um, there was one time last December,” he said, “one on March 12th, and the latest one was--” “Yesterday,” she breathed. DeMarcus looked at her surprised. “Yes, a short 24-hour trip,” he said. “How did you know?” “I...” Blair felt her head spinning and tears prickling behind her eyes. “Excuse me,” she mumbled and stuck her hand in her jacket pocket to retrieve a Kleenex but came back with a folded piece of paper instead. With a frown, she unfolded it. It’s not them, it’s you You can pass the blame and cry boo-hoo Nothing good will it do For the one who hurts you most is always you “Blair?” DeMarcus said, snapping her back to the present. “Is everything all right?” Blair wiped off the tears that were now rolling down her cheeks. “Yes,” she managed after a while, her gaze fixed on the poem. “It really is.” She turned to him now, and realized to her own surprise that she was smiling. “DeMarcus,” she said. “It's time we shut this project down.”
. And suddenly the village of Reddit was alive with the sounds of hysteria and muffled concern, as townsfolk emerged from their cottage homes, out into the streets and gathered in its centre. Then, almost as soon as it began, the feverish crowd hushed. Footsteps on cobblestone gave way to a gap in the crowd which snaked along; a distraught priest dressed in black robes carried the body of a naked woman, a trail of restrained gasps following him. Somebody cried out, "Murder!" Another, yelled, "Witch!" When he got to the gallows which sat in the town centre, the priest lay the body down on the cold stone and closed its eyes. A smartly-dressed fat man in a top hat was pushing through the swarm of townsfolk, shouting, "Let me through, let me through!" He approached the naked girl until he was looking down at her face. Then his face shone red and began to pulsate. "Alright," he shouted into the crowd, breathing through his nose, "Which one of you degenerates did this?" Nobody answered. He pointed to a random bystander with a judgemental finger: "Was it you?" Then he paraded over to a young peasant boy and grabbed him by the scruff: "Was it you? You filthy peasant, I'll kill y-" "It could be anyone." An intelligent male voice spoke from behind him. Everything fell silent again as the mayor lay off the boy and slowly turned around to face the speaker. It was the town's doctor. He walked up and rested his hand on the gallows, looking up at it with reverence, as though it were judging him and everyone else. "You see these people around you? It could be any one of them. This town ain't safe no more, mayor." He began to circle the gallows along the ring of the crowd, making eye contact with random people as he spoke. "You wanna know what it is?... You think it's a witch?" He stopped and made claw gestures with his hands: "Or even a werewolf?" Then started walking again. "Hell, maybe it's the Devil himself?" "Mountain troll, probably. Came down from the snowy lands to feast on man's juiciest flesh." The priest muttered to himself loud enough that the fat mayor heard it, who immediately turned and started strangling him. "It was you, wasn't it?" "We don't know who it is yet," the doctor resumes, "but I think I just might know what it is." Trembling silence. "If it were a mountain troll, well then there wouldn't be nothin' left. Trolls eat to stay alive. We're food to them. Likewise with a werewolf, they kill to eat most of the time, and even when they don't, they leave a nasty bite. With a witch, you get a hex on the back or the forehead. No. Ladies and gentleman, what we're dealing with is far more perverse than that. Whatever killed Jenny, whatever killed Rose, it did it without ever touching them. It pulled their souls from their bodies and dragged them into hell, and it enjoyed it. Now it's gonna do the same to all of us. We could strangle every man and woman in this town and we'd still never know. All I know is that we have two young girls dead with no imbalance of humors and no cause of death." He continues: "This thing hides among us. It is your best friend. Your mother. Your son. Your daughter. Your wife. It could be your cobbler, or that baker from down the road. What we got here is a Downvoter." The crowd gasps in terror and a baby starts crying. A woman faints, shortly followed by a man who also faints. A small girl vomits on her younger sister and a bunch of peasants kneel down in prayer. The mayor lets go of the priest's neck and turns toward the doctor; his face, flushed of red and ghostly-absent: "A-a Downvoter? A-are you sure?" A naive peasant boy steps out from the crowd and speaks with squeaky innocence: "What's a downvo'er?" The doctor walks over to the boy and crouches opposite him, as members of the crowd whimper in dread. He puts a sympathetic hand on the boy's shoulder and looks him firmly in the eyes. "Downvoters are snakemen. Some call them skinwalkers. They look just like you and me, but they ain't no man. If the moon shines a certain way, his eyeballs turn to diamonds, and 'is tongue turns green and spiky like a two-pronged fork. Some say they come from over the mountains, in the forest, to steal away our dreams and our souls." Now the mayor is pacing up and down like a madman: "It's happening again. It's happening again. It's happening again. It's happening again." An old lady announces to the crowd: "We're all screwed!" And a pandemonium of noisy concern breaks out: "Who's gonna protect us?" "I don't feel safe anymore!" "Wiiiiiiitch!" "What about the children? Won't somebody please think of the children!" "My leg!" The mayor pipes up: "QUIET. Quiet down!" When the uproar settles to a murmur, the doctor begins speaking again. "This thing thrives on fear and it revels in chaos. It learns through what we say, and what we do. It's probably watching us right now. If I'm right and it is indeed a Downvoter we're dealing with, then the best thing we can do is all go back to our homes and pray God have mercy on us. Lock the doors, close your shutters. Stay in your rooms and don't answer to anyone, not even your mother's voice. If we can last the night and get some good sleep, we'll be in proper form tomorrow to deal with the situation better under light of day. That's all we can hope for." He pauses and looks around at the crowd as if he's searching for someone he knows, then the mayor echoes the doctor's instructions to go back to their homes. The crowd quickly disperses in a paranoid race to their respective front doors. Shutters slam closed like dominos falling one after the other. Door locks clank shut. Just as the mayor steps off in the direction of his house, the doctor taps him on the shoulder. "Do you mind if I have a word with you?" "I'm tired and scared." He replied grumpily. "What is it?" "I was wondering if we might discuss the matter at hand over a cup of tea at my cottage, or we could go to your house. It makes no difference to me." The mayor grunts a sigh. "Alright then. We better had do, hadn't we?" "Yesssss." "What did you say?" "Er, um: yes. Yes we had." The doctor put his arm around the mayor and they both walk into the darkness.
The Transporter Museum, a forgotten relic, is inconveniently located on a deserted side street two turns off a dead-end alley. You might never find it, even by accident, but if you do, you’ll always remember its immaculate displays and its eccentric proprietor, Frans Messerschmitt. Every day precisely at nine, the little old man illuminated the neon sign, flipped the placard to open, and made his way behind the counter, prepared for customers who rarely came. It was already late in the day when the door opened, surprising both Frans and the visitors. “Hello, is anybody there?” The question startled Frans, interrupting his terminal boredom. “Yes. Yes, please come in,” he answered, moving forward to greet his guests. The unexpected voice belonged to a handsome lad sporting sweatpants and a football jersey, followed closely by a pretty young coed in a letterman’s jacket. “It’s almost impossible to find this place," the boy mentioned, all the while looking at the meticulously cared-for exhibits. “Are we in time for the guided tour?” The question struck Frans as funny. It had been months since his last visitor, so the tours relied on guests, not the other way around. “Of course, my good man,” he answered, sauntering from behind the counter. “My name is Frans and I'm the owner and resident historian. I’d be glad to give you the nickel tour, and I won’t even charge you the nickel.” “Fan-damn-tastic! My name is Billy, and this is Connie. We’ve really been looking forward to this. Where do we start?” “I’m glad you asked,” Frans replied, beckoning the couple to follow. “You’ve lived your whole lives in a time where teleportation from one side of the world to another was the norm--in fact, there’s about to be an app for that!” Frans turned their attention towards a smartphone sitting on display. “Before the end of the year, the new ZapApp will be available, offering skin-touch technology for the first time. All you’ll need to do is enter the desired coordinates, activate the app, and, in seconds--Voila!” “Wow,” Billy exclaimed, reaching for the phone. “Please don’t,” Frans cautioned. “These are replicas and can be easily damaged.” “I hear ya, Gramps,” Billy responded, “Oh, I’m sorry. No disrespect intended, sir.” “Not at all,” Frans replied. “I’ve always wanted a nickname. I like the sound of Gramps. Now if you follow me, I’ll lead you both back in time.” The next display contained a full-length mirror attached to the wall. “I’m sure you two know what this is,” Frans said, stepping aside and allowing Billy and Connie to see. “These teleportation devices are still the most commonly used today. They were part of a trend to make teleportation more accessible and less obtrusive. They were also the first devices that didn’t require an exit portal. Until the Mirror 360, you could only travel to locations with paired devices. Needless to say, it was revolutionary.” “That’s just like yours,” Connie whispered to Billy, punctuating her remark with a kiss on his cheek. “What’s next, Mr. Frans?” “ Gramps ,” Frans corrected her with a chuckle. “Next we see the machine that started it all, The Marie.” “I’ve heard of that,” Billy said. “Wow, it’s huge!” “I know,” Frans agreed. “When the technology was new, we hadn’t yet perfected the art of miniaturization. There were no personal teleportation devices. The only people who had access were scientists, investors, and celebrities. In fact, the first transporters were more gimmicky than useful. They were incredibly expensive, required an entrance and exit port, and were so inefficient that it took a full day’s charge to send someone from one place to another. There’s no doubt we’ve come a long way since then.” “What about that one?” Billy asked, pointing to a machine partially hidden by a curtain. “Oh, that one,” Frans sighed. “That’s the prototype. The first teleportation device.” “That's the original?" Billy asked, moving closer to get a better look. "Is the legend true?” “I'm afraid it is,” Frans replied. “The machine was the brainchild of a pair of scientists not much older than the two of you. They were the first to prove light was a particle and that we could use it as a mechanism for distance teleportation. The early tests were extremely successful. There were no issues when sending inanimate objects or small animals from one pod to another. The problem occurred when they tried transporting a human. Marie begged to be first and, after winning a game of Rochambeau, she stepped into the entrance pod and disappeared on cue. But when her partner activated the exit pod, everything went terribly wrong. Marie never fully rematerialized. Her translucent hand simply reached forward, and she mouthed the word help . Then she faded away.” “Oh my God!” Connie gasped. "Did he save her?” Frans turned away from the question, paused, then finally answered. “No, he didn’t. You see, molecular displacement teleportation in its infancy was like sending something through a tunnel at light speed. Once entering a pod, the subject can only exit from the paired terminal port.” "That's tragic," Connie said, wiping away a tear. “And ironic.” Frans replied. “How so?” “After the colossal mishap, her partner spent the better part of twenty years trying to find a way to release Marie from her tunnel. He became obsessed with correcting his mistake. His research and technological breakthroughs are directly responsible for almost every advancement in teleportation technology. That first awful outcome is why molecular transportation is so incredibly safe today. It’s why you have a Mirror 360 hanging on the wall in your home.” “But Marie--what happened to her?” Connie asked. “All of her partner’s research and all of his calculations never changed Marie’s fate.” “She’s trapped forever?” “She would be, unless he destroyed the machine and released her molecules into the atmosphere, never to be reassembled again.” “What did he...” “It’s almost closing time,” Frans said, interrupting Connie before she could finish the question. “Thanks for coming. You two made an old man very happy today.” “This has been the best tour ever, Gramps.” Billy proclaimed. “What do I owe you?” “Nothing,” Frans answered, shaking Billy's hand. “Just promise to send your friends.” “It’s a deal,” he said, leading Connie out the door. “I’m sure we’ll be back soon.” “You’re always welcome.” Frans watched as the couple walked away. Then, being that it was precisely five, he locked the door, changed the placard to closed, and turned off the neon sign. Alone once again, Frans returned to the machine behind the curtain, flipped a few switches, and watched as Marie’s translucent figure, forever young, appeared before him. “Frans, are you there?” Marie mouthed, silently. “I'm here, my love. I’ll always be here.” “I’m so afraid,” she responded. “Please let me go.” “I can’t,” Frans replied, ashamed of his weakness. Marie’s eyes grew red, but she summoned the strength to place her hand on her heart and mouth the words I love you. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. Heartbroken, Frans turned to walk upstairs, counting the minutes until he could see his love again, if only for a moment, the next day at the exact same time.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she asked. Of course, I get it. She wanted to break up. She said that she’s tired with all of these. She said that all these times, she hasn’t healed yet. She said that she’s hurt more than enough, that there are no more tears to cry. Yes, I made a mistake. Been saving porn images and entertained myself alone. She didn’t like that, and she got angry and mad. She also got mad at me, because I chatted with a girl I had a crush with many years ago. I only asked from that girl what I can do for her to help her with her problems. I didn’t and has no intentions with that girl. But when she knew, so she got mad. Very mad. She said that I cheated. Did I? I didn’t argue - I just made myself better and did all the right things she sees as good. I followed everything she says, just to make her happy and to show I changed. But she still complains from time to time that she’s tired. I get it, she’s still hurt. That’s why I’ve been making myself better. Made myself a better, clean man. Blocked the “other girl” so that no communication would happen anymore. I did and am doing and will be doing everything that I can just to make things better, because I really plan on spending my life with her. But no, all these things aren’t enough. I have no more words to say than to agree that I’m the scumbag. That no matter how hard I try, the scars would not go away and they still keep hurting. I remind myself every day of the lessons and the hurt that were made. From the time I wake up, to the moment I sleep, I always pray that things will get better. Then again, I’m still the scumbag. I should not be allowed to talk, nor say to others what is happening between us, because it’s between us. She doesn’t trust me anymore, because I broke her trust. She trusts more her male friends than I, and ask them for advices to make our relationship better. But I should stay silent and not be told what’s wrong with whoever I know. “You will not change - you will still do it. Because you’re a man, and you do things like those because you’re a man.” I just accept it, because I’m the scumbag. And because I’m a man - plain boring, no fun, and a great liar who don’t know how to change. “I hope that whoever you’ll be with in the future, you’ll be better and more mature. I’m hurt, very much hurt.” I asked, “Did I do something recently to hurt you? Did I recently trouble you?” “Nothing, you did none of those. I’m just tired of you and very much hurt with what you did.” “That’s why I’m doing my best to make up for all of those. I want to be a better man for you because I love you.” But then, I realized: she has scars, and she opens the wounds every now and then, while I wound myself every day. Then she looked at me to say something. “You don’t get it, do you?” she asked.
The Lamplighter Carol Ann Martin “Well, that was very nice, I must say.” Ethel Hardy pulled the pins out of her best velour hat and laid it gently as a baby on the parlour table. “I think they did Dad proud.” “Bloody think so,” grunted Arthur. “How many years has he given ‘em? Sixty, is it?” “Well, he seems happy anyway,” Ethel smiled fondly at the old man who shuffled into the room behind them. It was only the second time that any of them had seen Albie in his suit, the first time being at his wife’s funeral twenty years ago. What it had lacked then, but boldly sported now, was the heavy gold watch chain looped across the waistcoat. Albie was certainly aware of the added splendour and his sunken gums chomped with pride as he yet again pulled a large, shiny watch out of his fob pocket and gazed at the face. “Keeps good time,” he observed, not for the first time in the last two hours. Young Freddy also sported a suit, borrowed for the occasion from a cousin and quite a nice tweed, but two sizes too small. The matching cap, borrowed from another cousin, was also quite smart, but a size too large. He dragged off both cap and jacket, kicked the fire back into life with his boot, grabbed his book and pulled an armchair up to the crackling coals. “We won’t want much dinner, will we?” said Ethel. “Not after all that sponge cake.” She winked at her husband. “Anybody got the time?” Her question fell on deaf ears, literally. Albie eased himself into his chair on the other side of the hearth. “I’m touched, I am,” he informed his family. “I never knew they thought so highly of me.” He tapped the watch, now snugly back in its pocket. “But they know as they can depend on me for a good few years yet.” Ethel sighed and rolled her eyes. “You said he knew,” she hissed at Arthur. “You said he understood.” “I’ve told him,” said Arthur. “I’ve taken him and showed him the new lamp posts. What more can I do?” Albie, in a reflective mood after so much cake, praise and generosity, gazed at Freddy and mused, “Well, young feller, with your poor father gone, it’s going to be you following after me. I might even take you out with me tonight.” Ethel looked at Arthur again; a glance heavy with significance. There was more than one reason her father had been benevolently but firmly pushed into retirement. More than one reason they’d persuaded him to move from his solitary lodgings in Sackville Street to come and live with them. “Dad,” she informed him slowly and loudly. “Arthur’s not dead. You’re thinking of our Bert. He was Freddy’s uncle, not his father.” Then, with patience, “And I’ve told you, Freddy’s not going to be a lamplighter. Freddy’s a scholar. He’s got a scholarship and he’s going to high school.” “Perhaps not tonight,” said Albie, “But tomorrow night.” Arthur leaned over and tugged the book out of Freddy’s hands. “You tell him,” he said. “He listens to you.” “Only when he wants to,” said Freddy. “Now gimme me book back.” “Tell your grand-dad again,” said Arthur, “And I’ll think about it.” Muttering irritably under his breath, Freddy got up and went over to the old man. He bent down and yelled in Albie’s better ear. “Grand-dad, there’s neither of us going to be lamplighters any more. That’s why you got the tea party and the watch. The council’s putting the electricity on. The street lamps are going to be electric.” He put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You’re retired now, Grand-dad, and that’s just dandy, ‘cos the job’s well-nigh finished anyhow. Sam Watson’s going to do your round for the last bit.” Albie pondered that piece of information as if it was the first time he’d heard it - which it may well have been. His better ear wasn’t always that good. “But they’re still going to need me, aren’t they.” It was a statement, not a question. “The bloody things won’t light they bloody selves.” Ethel’s face glowed gently with pride as her son’s education came into play. “Yes, they will, Grand-dad!” Freddy bellowed in a voice that made the china spaniels on the mantelpiece rattle. “They’ve worked out this timing thing. The lamps’ll go on at dusk every night, all by themselves.” They all gazed at Albie for some indication that he had both heard and understood. But the old man was occupied with getting himself up out of his chair. “I’d better get cracking then,” he said. “No good going to work in my funeral suit.” Twenty minutes later, Ethel pulled the parlour curtain aside and watched her father limping down the street in his baggy old corduroys and jacket, with his ladder and pole over his shoulder. “Poor old bugger,” she sighed. Sixty years. Sixty springs, summers, autumns, winters. Heat, cold, wind, rain, sleet, snow. Sun setting and then rising again. Lamps lit and lamps snuffed out. Ethel’s was no poet’s soul, but there were things she could feel. Albie moved with the rhythm of a long-familiar dance. Straight past the new lamp posts because for him they didn’t exist. Pause underneath the gas lamp, prop the ladder against its bars. Box of vestas from out of his jacket. Scrape and cup the tiny flame in his hands. Light the spirit lamp atop his pole. Climb the ladder, open the glass pane. Reach up with the hook on his pole, pull the chain to turn on the gas. Lift the spirit lamp to each mantle, sweet gas scent, spluttering jet and then a steady lamplight glow. Close the glass and slowly back down the ladder. Every dusk for sixty years. “Poor old bugger,” said Ethel again. She was about to drop the curtain when another figure appeared in the half-light. Same ladder, same pole, same spirit lamp. “Evenin’ Albie,” said Sam. “What you doing up here?” Albie asked. “Just strollin’” said Sam and walked on. He passed the window where Ethel was watching, smiled at her and shrugged. Ethel smiled back. For such a young bloke, Sam Watson had a sound head on him. She watched again as Albie trudged on to the next lamp. Sam turned round and started to follow him. The winter weeks went on. Every morning, while the lamps were still lit, Arthur tramped down Kelly’s Steps to the Peacock jam factory in Salamanca Place. Nailing together packing cases was monotonous work, but it was a lot warmer than packing fish. Only slightly later, Freddy set off for school, his head too full of learning to notice the cold. As soon as Ethel was out the back at the washtub or in the kitchen baking, Albie would be out the front door and off. He always moved as though he had a purpose, even if he’d forgotten it. Tradesmen making deliveries, women scouring their sandstone steps, everyone he met would receive a tip of his cap and a g’day. Sometimes he just sat in Arthur Circle and watched the kids play with their clay marbles. Once or twice he was looking for his wife, Flora. Then he was agitated, wondering how she’d got herself lost between their house and Ethel’s. He often got lost himself. Ethel didn’t have to worry when her dad didn’t bring himself home because somebody else would. Everybody in the neighbourhood, even down Montpelier and the wharf, knew where Albie lived. Most afternoons Albie was content to sit by the parlour fire. When Freddy got home they’d have Ethel’s warm scones with Arthur’s jam. As daylight faded, Ethel would draw the curtains and talk non-stop while Sam lit the lamps outside. It should have been the winter of the Hardy’s content. But some nights, often the bitterest or foggiest of nights, Albie would pull out his watch, frown at the face and say, “Well, I’d better get cracking. Them lamps won’t light they bloody selves.” All Ethel had to do was make sure the old man had his coat, his muffler and his cap. Sam would be out there and her dad would be all right with him. She thanked the Lord that these night-time activities took so much out of Albie that he slept late and forgot that the lamps also needed to be put out. One morning Ethel saw Sam at the Hampden Road shops. “We’re grateful,” she told him. “Ever so grateful. You letting Dad light the lamps on your round. We keep telling him, but it won’t sink in.” “Not to worry, Mrs H. I still get me pay and Albie thinks he’s teaching me the job. We’re both ‘appy’. He added cautiously, as if he weren’t sure that he should. “Sometimes he calls me Bert. He thinks it’s his son he’s teaching. I didn’t know you had a brother, Mrs Hardy.” “He’s dead,” said Ethel. “Diphtheria. He was your age.” It might have been the searing wind, but Sam’s eyes watered. “What’ll we do when the electric comes on?” asked Ethel, anxious to know. “Dunno,” said Sam. “Dunno what I’ll do meself yet. But I’ve got me name down at Peacock’s so here’s ‘opin’” The official switching on of the electric street lamps was another occasion for Ethel’s velour hat. The Governor, Sir William Ellison-MacCartney, no less, was going to make a speech out the front of Government House and all who cared to go along were welcome. Ethel was determined to take Albie. If he saw the crowds and heard the speech - but most of all, saw the lights go on - it might be enough to get through to his befuddled brain. She hoped so. Freddy refused to wear the tight suit, but agreed to the cap. It created a rather manly image that was in keeping with the scientific aspects of the occasion. It was Arthur’s task to make sure that Albie was suitably dressed and ready to go. At twenty past five, Arthur came out of Albie’s little room in the lean-to shaking his head. “He knows, and he’s taking it hard,” he informed them. “Says he’s not going,” Ethel knew when to give up. “Best we just leave him be,” she said. “He’s going to fret for a while, but perhaps he’ll forget this like he forgets everything else.” So they left the old man to his grieving and caught the tram into town. Thousands had turned up to the Grand Opening of the Electrification of the Street Lights. They stood row after row on the lawns of Government House and gazed up at the Governor, flanked by the Premier and a whole lot more swanky toffs. He made a long speech about the march of progress and the dawn of a new age of science that was going to make all their lives longer, better and brighter - starting with the new, fully automatic electric street lighting. Patiently they listened, eyes sneaking to watches, as the hour hand slowly slid round to six o’clock. “The moment is here!” proclaimed Sir William at the top of his voice. “Let there be light!” Albie and Sam stood together high on the hill at the top of the street, beneath the first of the new electric lights. Through the dusk, they heard the town hall clock begin to chime. Albie squinted at the large round watch-face in the palm of his hand. “Keeps good time,” he murmured. There was no bar for his ladder to rest on, so he just had to do the best he could. His fingers were trembling so much that Sam had to strike the vesta and light the spirit lamp. Albie lifted his pole high above his head. Not being of a scientific mind like Freddy, he couldn’t be sure how this new-fangled thing was supposed to work. All he could do was poke the flame all around the glass of the street light and hope it would connect. A second later, the light blazed out with a brilliance that neither he nor Sam had ever seen. One, two, three, four, a whole string of lights flashed along the street, down the sweeping slopes to the wharf, around Sullivan’s Cove and all the way across to the town. Every man woman and child who hadn’t gone to the Grand Opening came out onto their doorstep to look. Pride and joy swelled in Albie’s heart as he looked out at the twinkling glory spread out before his eyes. And it was all down to him. “I told ‘em!” he said with the satisfaction of one proven undeniably right. “Electrickery or no electrickery, them bloody lights aren’t going to light they bloody selves!’
The first time I saw myself I screamed so loud the mirror shattered. Death had turned me into its personal jack-o-lantern, carving until there was nothing left. My pale, white skin rotten to the bone. My hair limp against my face, dirty and matted like some kinda eldritch terror. This was me now; trapped in five feet and 4 inches of decomposing flesh. Missing all the things that once made me so beautiful. So happy. I was stuck on the outside of my own life, watching someone else live it. Like peering through a two-way mirror, no one the wiser. I thought something would be different when I was gone. But everything was the same. The world just kept on turning. Apate, as she called herself, looked like me now--the real me. She stood in my place, in my body, smiling, with her arm draped around my father. She was taking up my space, with my family, sucking up my air. Like she belonged there. Like she always belonged there. The perfect daughter. Cameras snapped and laughter rang out as I watched this cherished moment carry on without me. My father nodding at the not-me, his eyes filled with pride. My mother standing beside him, wondering where the years went. My sister stealing glances from the couch, pretending to be unimpressed. And the not-me, eating it up, and basking in her winnings. Another deal with another stupid human, wanting something they didn’t have--or deserve. Most people weren’t greedy enough to summon evil to their doorstep to get it. And most didn’t have to pay for their mistakes with their lives. Or their families. When the front door opened, a wave of relief washed over me. Even if my own family hadn’t noticed, Terry would, surely. Maybe it would be the slight hiss in Apate’s voice. The careless clomp of her feet. The black void in her eyes. Or the way she stood just a little too close. He’d see right through her. “You look beautiful today,” Terry said, his lips brushing her cheek. “Y’think?” She twirled around in the dress my mother had hand-stitched for me. “I’m not sure it’s my color.” This was the moment he’d know. I’d picked this fabric specifically for its lavender color. He ran a finger through her hair--hair that wasn’t even the right shade. “Of course. You just like to hear me say that.” “I guess I do.” Apate giggled, waving her hand. Then she turned to me and winked. My skin crawled. The anger rose within me like a raging fire, begging to be fed. That hiss. How could they not hear it? And I never did that with my hand. But they all just stood there like puppets. Gawking at the monster wearing my dress. Going to my Homecoming with my boyfriend. Living my* fucking life.* And no one noticed. I screamed and cried until I hit the floor. I was ready to let the void swallow me up, forever. Then I saw it. The faint flicker. A flash of the not-me’s true form. Her own eye sockets were empty, carved out like a pumpkin. Black hair swimming atop her head, tentacles with sharp yellow eyes and razor tongues. Skin and bone protruding through peeling flesh. The putrid smell of rot seeping into the air. Apate froze, trying so hard to hide her panic. My emotions were draining her power. I wailed like a banshee in the night. The anger surging within me descended upon her like dancing red flames. Each one alive and hungry, ready to devour. I let it all out; the regret, the sadness, the despair. The fear that I’d never again know my father’s pride or my mother’s love, or see my sister’s stolen glances. Or feel my boyfriend’s fingers brush the side of my face. My feelings took on a life of their own. I screamed and yelled; I banged against the invisible boundary that separated me from them. “You can’t have my life!” I said, my voice hoarse. The wall between us fell. The surge of energy hit me and I fell to my knees before my terrified family. Eyes darted between me and the not-me, who stood in her ugly truth, naked and raw. For a few moments, Apate and I stared into one another. The room fell away and it was just us. Two very different versions of the same thing. The same person. A before and after image. “You think you’re a clever girl,” she said. “No, I don’t. I just want my life back.” Silence fell upon us. Apate’s empty eyes filled with sadness as her gaze fell to the floor. The creature who was once so tough and powerful, now stood before me, limp and defeated. Her imposing form was nothing but another mask. “You don’t deserve them,” she said. “What? They are my family... you... you tricked me!” “Yes.” “Yes? That’s all you have to say? You tried to steal my... my life!” “I tricked you and I broke the deal. I just--I wanted to--” Her voice trailed off, but I understood. I understood all the things she could not say. Her despair, her loneliness, her broken spirit. The pain she’d carried for so long. She wanted what I wanted: to be seen, heard, loved. Deeply and truly. We weren’t so different in the end. Apate stepped forward. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt... real love. But you, you have everything. And live as if it is nothing. As if you deserve something better. You only cared once I took it from you.” Her words were like daggers, slicing straight into my soul. “That’s not true.” But it was, mostly. I loved my family, I did. But despite having everything I ever needed, I felt so alone. Alone in a crowded room. Like I was watching everything happen from a distance. “I would give anything to have what you do. You only had a taste of what I have felt for over a thousand years.” She continued to tell me her story, from the family she never had, to the hardships she endured, all the way to the curse the Gods had placed on her. And her years spent in dark solitude, watching the world go by, but powerless to interact with it. Longing to feel something--anything--that wasn’t painful. “Why did they curse you?” I asked. She thought for a moment, eyeing me carefully. “I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. I wanted more than I had.” Just like me. The longer we talked, the more I understood, and the closer we became. Two women trying to find love, trying to find their place in the world. She never did tell me the specifics of why she was cursed; she kept that secret close and guarded it carefully. But that was okay, I understood that. She had given me so much in the end. The greatest gifts one could ask for; the ones I truly needed. My family. Love. Myself. Even friendship. So, I gave her a gift in return. But there was only one thing she wanted. Now, once a year, on the eve of Halloween, Apate walks the Earth again, in my body. She wears my face and uses my voice. For twenty-four hours, she lives my life. We’ve been doing this for five years. No one has noticed--which has been no surprise. But something was different this last time. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I don’t completely feel like myself. There’s a darkness hanging over me, an unfamiliarity in my movements. Like maybe--just maybe--this body isn’t mine. And maybe I’ve been tricked once again. * * - Thanks so much for reading! This was an rewrite and extended version of a piece I wrote for r/WritingPrompts on Theme Thursday: Punishment. - Feedback is welcome.
The bloody hellish sky screamed releasing a cascade upon us; summoned by the looming crimson moon itself. I suppose it made sense, a vision of tidings to come. Mud; it splashed in our boots, wet our clothes, made hands slippery, caked and coated armor. We marched to bring forth a downpour of our own design, a wash with which we would stain the earth this night. Exhausted, he lurched forth, disenchanted and disturbed with the knowledge of what he must do in the hours ahead. He always felt tired before a fight, drained, as if his mind felt the weight of what is to come before his body. Or was it fear? no, not fear, he was no coward, he had seen fear before and what it does to men. That wasn't what he felt now; he wasn't looking for an escape, for a way out; he was simply consumed by an acute awareness of the challenge ahead. Every warrior carries a beast within; and a wise monster knows to rest before rising to play its game. He was comforted at that notion, a hungry creature that craved the fruits that he detested. Thirsting for blood beneath his flesh, gripping the handle of his blade for him. There was no bloodlust in his heart, no desire for killing, plunder, or savagery. Yet it wasn't his intention to end up the product of someone else's. For this he was grateful, he thanked the monster. It helped him to imagine there was someone else swinging the blade... some-thing else. Something else's feet marching into the fold, bleeding from his wounds, something else spitting and pissing and pissing at the mulched remains of the ones who dared stand before him. Yes, reveling in the spilt blood wasn't his pleasure; but then why did it happen. It was hard to recall, the more he thought about it, the lapses. A moment of preparation, the seething, the chill in his spine and then, nothing; nothing, besides a forward march across piles of dripping mass that could be vaguely described as once human. Clumps of bone and blood mashed together like a clay sculpture; an art critique may call it avant-garde, hailed as a masterpiece for challenging contemporary taste. But he was no artist, but not a killer either; at least he didn't feel like one, or didn't wish to. However, no matter how cleverly one sneaks upon a mirror, it will always look you dead in the eye. The lens through which we see ourselves is cloudy, misinterpreted, and filled with lies. Who we really are can only be seen by a vantage point, to which we, unfortunately can never deceive. "I am a soldier" he told himself, "And a soldier does as he's commanded, there's no pleasure, and no wrong in it." Why then the guilt, the shame; why did it feel so good to take life? When his blade spilt blood it seemed to fill the pit inside him; and it was intoxicating, satisfying in ways that he desperately wanted his ordinary life to be. In truth it was pale, colorless to cast his net and reel in his provisions day to day. The sound of his children's laughter and the passion in his beloved's eyes; these were paltry reprieves in an otherwise tedious and unsatisfactory life. Perhaps it was more than a metaphor, more than something he told himself to steel before battle. There was a demon inside him, calling; a voice from a cold, empty place. A place that peacetime could not fill; not with joy or pleasure, not laughter or love. These were deep stony halls, laden with the corpses of fallen adversaries; feed for the pacing beast roaming inside. It terrified him to realize it, to shatter the façade he saw in himself. But this was war; and I suppose there is no better time to meet the killer inside you. It could be only real friend you have, the only thing that keeps you alive, the only thing that staves away the madness.
Terry Sinclair boarded his private jet alongside his security team. He sat down and poured himself a glass of Domaine Leroy Les Beaux Monts. “Ahh,” he sighed, savoring a large sip of the wine. “Where to now?” His bodyguard Lance confirmed the itinerary. “Heading to Paris, then London. We’ll be there in less than two hours, sir.” “Great, I can get some sleep,” Terry yawned and rubbed his hands over his neatly combed, auburn hair. His young face was handsomely impassive as he stared blankly out the window at Berlin’s twinkling lights. A small amount of stubble grazed his upper lip and chin. After take-off, Terry went to his bedroom on the plane, and passed out in his fine suit on the plush duvet. * Landing in Paris was somewhat of an issue. Terry needed to be in a meeting in less than 20 minutes. He exhaled deeply, why was landing a private jet always such a hassle? He told his PA, Sarah, to pay the hanger an extra few thousand to land immediately. He looked through the window as he sipped his wine. They were scrambling to remove a plane from the landing strip below. “Come on, Sarah! I won’t be late for this meeting, tell them to get a move on!” He shouted from his seat. “Of course, sir.” Sarah frantically dialed on her mobile and shouted at someone. After five more minutes, the plane below was moved off to the side, and Sarah announced they were clear to land. * After another lengthy meeting in London, Terry double--no, triple checked with Sarah that his itinerary was now open. She kept repeating “yes sir, yes sir,” bobbing her head like one of those silly figurines people stuck to their car dashboards. Terry wasn’t convinced. Just last month, he'd arrived at his mansion outside Toronto when he got a call saying he was supposed to be in Sante Fe that night! He couldn’t believe Sarah had botched his schedule so badly. He’d almost fired her. But sadly, it was hard to find good PAs. Terry spent almost the whole flight home on the phone. Business calls assaulted him for hours, until finally, Sarah announced they were done for the day. “Great, I’m going to sleep. What time will it be when we get home?” Terry asked the nervous-looking PA. “Um, 3 pm sir. But Mr. Sinclair, sir... Laurel is trying to get hold of you.” “Can’t it wait till we’re there?” Terry groaned. “Well, we did say we’d call her on the way home.” “Fine, dial her,” Terry grumbled. The last thing he wanted was an irritating woman in his ear, but he couldn't really avoid it. Between Sarah and Laurel, he was never going to get a quiet moment. Sarah handed Terry the mobile, “Hey baby, yes I’m on my way home now. We’ll be there around 3 pm. Everything’s fine, I want to sleep before I get there. Okay, yep. Bye-bye.” * Terry arrived at the country mansion at 6 pm. He immediately went to the kitchen and fixed himself a drink. His mobile was ringing. Damn Laurel, he thought, irritated. “Are you home yet, honey?” his girlfriend asked when he picked up the phone. “Hi, yes, I just got in the door.” “Oh! Okay... you said three, so I was going to surprise you, but no one answered the gate.” “Yeah, you know what.... I'm beat. Can we just cancel today and I’ll call you tomorrow?” “Oh! Yes, of course... I understand...” Laurel’s voice trailed off. He could tell she was disappointed. “Look, y’know I want to see you. But I’m so jet-lagged, I need some time to myself.” “Okay... but you’ll call tomorrow, right?” “Yep.” * Laurel sat in her tiny apartment in Burlington, scrolling through Netflix on the TV. She understood Terry had been travelling a lot lately, and really, she did feel for him. He must be exhausted, with all the commuting and meetings. She couldn’t understand why he had to be there in person so often. Didn’t they invent video conferences for a reason? She opened her computer and googled the distances Terry had travelled the past week, out of curiosity. Laurel didn’t understand anything about the corporate world, so she tried not to question things. Who knew why he had to be there in person so often, but he did, and she had to deal with it. Truly, she tried to be understanding. She wouldn't be aggravated now if he hadn’t cancelled the last ten plans they’d made together. Ten. In a row! Although, with Terry being a CEO, cancelled plans were inevitable. Things came up, she understood. But how was she supposed to have a relationship with a man, if he couldn’t even keep one appointment with her? She hadn’t seen him in-person for about three months... and now he was home--a mere 30 minute drive away, and he didn’t want to see her... Tears threatened to sting at her eyes. She decided maybe a new lingerie would be a nice surprise for Terry, so she grabbed her purse and headed for the mall. Two days later... Laurel was crying. She sat in her empty apartment, her dark hair done up in curls. She was wearing a pretty, red bodycon dress, which complimented her curvy figure. Her mascara and eyeshadow were smudged, and she kept dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, vainly trying to preserve the rest of her makeup. Her apartment was neat and tidy, apart from the shopping bags piled in a corner. A large lacy bra, a Gucci clutch, and some elegant clothes spilled onto the floor. Laurel dabbed at her eyes again, picked up her cell, and texted: Terry, are you still busy? i’m off work today i could drop by now?? haven’t seen you in months, baby i miss you! 😘 Four hours later, Terry texted back: Sorry babe come over now if you want! “Now?!” Laurel screeched. She was in the middle of making pasta for her lunch tomorrow, and she had to be up at 6 am the next morning for work. Laurel bit her lip and texted: Ok! be right there. She then rapidly turned off the stove, placed her half-cooked pasta in the fridge, fixed her makeup, and threw on her new lingerie and the red dress she’d been wearing earlier. She was getting good at getting ready fast. * Terry got the text from Laurel as he came out of the shower. Awesome, Laurel was coming over! He would convince her to spend the night. He knew she typically didn’t stay up late because of her ridiculously early shifts at the café, but she could call in sick if she had to. Terry ruffled his hair with a towel, threw on a t-shirt and shorts, then waited for Laurel in his massive living room. He put on YouTube and set a bottle of whiskey on the table. Hey, why not do shots once Laurel gets here? Terry opened the bottle of 18 year Macallan Scotch and set out glasses and ice. Not long after her text, Terry got a call from his front gate. He buzzed Laurel through and, slightly tipsy, opened the door. She came in looking like she was ready for the club, and threw her arms around him. “It’s so good to see you, finally,” she gushed. “Yeah, sorry, but... y'know, I have business in town to deal with too,” Terry replied. Finally? It hadn’t been that long since he’d seen her, had it? “Your hair is longer,” he commented. “Well, it’s been three months,” she replied. “Really? Well, hey--time flies, let’s drink.” “I have to work tomorrow morning, I can’t drink.” “Oh, c’mon,” Terry teased and wheedled until she took one shot with him. One shot led to a couple more, which led to the bedroom. After a while, they stumbled back downstairs and put on a movie. Laurel was in a silk nightgown and Terry in his boxers. After a few minutes, their conversation began to turn a little sour. It started with Laurel asking when they could spend more time together, which irked Terry. “Laurel, I’m spending as much time with you as I possibly can,” he said, a little aggressively. “Okay, I understand, I do. But... the thing is you say one thing and then you do another... or another thing happens. Like, you didn’t call or text me for two days after you got back! What am I supposed to think?” Laurel stated, trying not to get upset. “You’re supposed to think I’m busy and I’ll call when I can .” “Okay, okay! But, don’t get mad--” “I’m not mad, you’re mad for things that aren’t my fault!” Terry shouted. At some point he'd stood up. Laurel stayed seated on the couch and nodded, “No, no. Just... you say I’m your girlfriend, and you say you want a committed relationship with me--but you also say we’re going out this night or meeting at this time... then you never show up! Half the time you stand me up and you don’t even call to explain!” Terry grabbed the whiskey and poured himself more than a shot’s worth. He downed it and looked at her, “You have no idea the kind of pressure I’m under. I don’t need you giving me crap.” He walked out through the sliding door onto the deck. Laurel followed him and noticed he’d taken the bottle of whiskey along. “Hang on! I’m not giving you crap. I’m just saying maybe there are things we need to work on, especially if we want this relationship to continue.” “So you’re not happy?” Terry countered, sitting on a patio chair. “Not happy spending my money? Not happy with the clothes, the makeup... I can see every shop you go to, y’know. It’s all there on the credit card bill.” “What?” Laurel said, taken aback. Terry had never raised this as an issue before. “I-- Terry, if you don’t want me to use the credit card, I won’t! I don’t use it for food or bills... I pay those myself, I--” He cut her off, “That’s what it’s about, eh?” He chuckled. “You want me to pay your rent? I will, I’ll pay for everything. You don’t have to work at that stupid coffee shop anymore...” “It’s a book café, not a coffee shop! And I like working there! I don’t want to quit. Why does my job mean nothing to you?” Terry laughed, “Because it’s a frickin’ joke!” Laurel started to cry... why was he being such an asshole? She tried to calm herself and wipe her tears, as Terry took another swig from his whiskey bottle. “Look, Laurel,” Terry stated, “If you’re not happy, buy another purse, or y’know what? Another one of those lingerie things like you wore tonight. Buy whatever you want, okay? I don’t care, I’ll pay your rent--or you can live here. Whatever will make you happy...” And how could she argue with that? Terry thought smugly, as he lit up a smoke. He tried to stand, but was a little wobbly, so he sat again. When he looked back up at her face, Laurel seemed angry, hurt, sad... anything but happy. “ What is your problem?!” Terry said, or maybe he shouted it. He didn’t mean to shout. But this was frustrating, damn it. He offered to provide for her, offered as much time as he had for her... he was stretched thin as it was. What more did she expect from him? “You... you jerk,” Laurel whispered. “Sorry, what?” Terry asked. Then suddenly, Laurel erupted with tears and angry words, “You jerk! I don’t want you money, I don’t want you to pay my bills, I don’t want to quit my job! Why are you treating me like I’m some kind of gold digger? I didn’t ask you for anything. You offered me the credit card, and I only use it to buy clothes and stuff, to look good for you! Asshole !” “Jesus, Laurel, I didn’t mean it like that... what do you want then?” “You! I just want to spend time with you... I want a relationship. I want to do things together, and not be stood up for months on end with lame excuses!” “Excuses!” Terry stood now and shouted back. “I’m working! I’m not screwing around or cheating if that’s what you think... like I’d have time even if I wanted to!” “No, I never thought that! But why did you make a commitment to me, why do you promise me things if you know you can’t deliver?” “Promise you things?” Terry was confused. Did she want an engagement ring or something? “Whatever you want, just buy it. I don’t care, you can have whatever you want --” “I’m not talking about material things, Terry! Damn it, you missed my birthday, you stood me up dozens and dozens of times-- I’ve lost count! If you won’t make time for this relationship, then why did you commit to it? Why promise you’ll be there for me... when I need you, I can’t even get a hold of your PA!” “I’m busy--” “I’m sick of waiting around, being understanding, and never having any support from you. Can’t we at least talk about changing things? That’s all I’m asking.” Laurel began to calm down. These thoughts had been silently consuming her for months. It felt good to let it out. But Terry, who found this conundrum more difficult to solve than his itinerary, business meetings, or his private jet maintenance, was done being patient with the situation. “You know what Laurel,” he said coldly, “Get your things. Lance will drive you home now.” * Several days after things went south with Laurel, Terry remembered something important. He sat on a stool at the marble counter of his home bar, staring at a paper bill in his hand. He’d registered the MasterCard he gave Laurel under her name. It was to help build her credit score, it was under her social insurance number... Knowing full well that she couldn’t pay off the bill, he sent a text to Sarah: Send the Platinum MasterCard bill to Laurel. He received a text back immediately: Are you sure? I thought we promised to pay it each month? Terry stared at the word that both Sarah and Laurel had used: promised . Laurel’s voice echoed in his mind for the hundredth time. Why do you promise me things if you know you can’t deliver... With a rush of anger and spite, he texted his PA back: it’s under her name, it’s her bill i’m not paying it. SEND IT. Three dots indicated Sarah was typing. The dots stopped. After a minute, the dots were back, and Sarah’s response appeared: Of course, Mr. Sinclair.
“Order up! Twenty-three! Do we have a number twenty-three?” A woman walked up to the counter in front of me. Her stomach pushed tighter against her gray sweatshirt than her breasts, and her hair was matted against her forehead sticky with sweat. I was looking into eyes that bore the intensity of a hunger not fed for days. She reached out her bloated hands. The double-double with extra crispy fries sat there steaming. Fuck, I hate this part. She was about to grab hold of the tray, and I flipped the switch located under the counter. The contents burst into flame. Burger, fries, and vanilla milkshake were incinerated. Little heaps of ashen coal now smoldered in front of her. “No!” She turned away dejected, and began her trek back to the end of the line. I turned to my fellow cashier. “Paul. I’m gonna take a lunch break. You want to come?” “Yeah, okay. Let me call for some replacements.” Paul walked over to the landline affixed to the wall next to the register. “Yeah, could we get two down here? Just for twenty minutes or so. Yeah? Thanks.” I walked over to the elevator next to the fridge where the meat is stored. Ding. “Hey, you’re the two?” I was looking at the pair of men dressed in civilian attire now coming out of the sliding metal doors. Neither looked much older than me. “Yeah, we’re it. Are you Paul?” The one with the beard and gray flannel shirt had spoken. “No. His co-worker. Michael. So, have you guys done this before?” “Yeah. More than either of us would like to.” His friend stood without talking, staring vacantly into the packed waiting area. Good. Teaching some newly departed how to cook and scorch food is not how I want to spend my lunch break. “Well then, I guess you know where the uniforms are. Paul and I’ll be back in a little while.” “Sounds good, man. Take your time, we’ll make sure not to burn the place down.” He said this with a little laugh. I walked away and told Paul our replacements were here. “Good. So, what’ll it be today?” he said. “This lovely In-N-Out, serving only the freshest in the underworld’s fast-food cuisine? Or maybe Burger King, where you can ‘have it your way,’ so long as your way is charcoaled.” “I don’t care. Let’s just grab something from here and sit outside.” We forked two sizzling patties off the stainless steel grill and slapped them on the buns that lay open on our plates. I followed Paul out of the shop to one of the stark white tables. We sat underneath its red and yellow umbrella, even there was no need under the gray, sunless sky. The foot-worn pavement surrounding the establishment had no discernable boundaries. Countless starving faces that filled the lot stared at us as we took our seats. What they would give for just one bite. I clamped my teeth down around the bun and a collective groan issued from the mass. The first time I’d heard it I nearly jumped out of my seat. Now it’s just part of the job. I swallowed my first bite. “Hey, Paul. Do you ever feel like an asshole?” “What?” “Just sitting out here, eating. Some of these people haven’t eaten in weeks. Others, months or even years.” Paul was washing down a handful of salt covered fries with a Dr. Pepper. “I don’t know, man. Of all the shit they go through? Us out here eating is just one, very, very small contributor, you know?” “I guess. It’s just the whole situation seems kinda fucked up. Like, when you died, is this what you expected?” “Hell fuckin’--shit. I mean, hell fuckin’ no.” Paul had caught himself speaking too loudly. Not that whispering makes a difference--we know that He hears everything. I kept my voice down too. “I read The Divine Comedy in college, and I thought ‘bull-fuckin’ shit.’ No way any of that ecclesiastical crap could be real.” “True...but this isn’t really anything like what Dante described.” “I didn’t mean in terms of exact content, man. Just the idea in general. The whole ‘circles of hell’ thing? I mean, come on.” I took another mouthful of my burger. “Yeah, well, times change. Maybe it was like that for him. Maybe we--we as in, like, humans--are making improvement. Now? Yes, it’s shitty. No, it’s not as bad as it could be.” “As bad as it could be? No, definitely not. I agree. But, God’s sort of a Dick, you know?” I took a look around the third circle. Restaurant, after restaurant, after restaurant. Burger King, McDonalds, Jack In the Box, Applebees, Denny’s, P.F. Chang’s--the list goes on. And what surrounds these restaurants? Fat people. Fat people as far as the eye could see, standing in line to get into the establishment of their choosing. Fat people of both genders. Fat people of all races. The only unifying factor among the customers is their obesity. I took a gulp of my vanilla milkshake. “When I read it--and other stuff about Hell--I thought, ‘something must be wrong.’ God is all-powerful and all-knowing and all-loving, and yet He holds this petty of a fucking grudge? He has an entire circle of Hell devoted to gluttony? Seems like a waste of energy if you ask me.” Paul had finished with his fries and was moving on to the burger. Through a full mouth he said, “Maybe he just needed somewhere for us to go. Fill in our hours. How many more do you have left anyway?” “2,733.” We all know our number. “Well see, that’s something. Over halfway done. And at least you can eat, right?” “I guess. But I mean, this for not going to church on Sundays? Stuck in fucking Purgatory? Working here?” “Hey, man, I don’t think anyone likes it anymore than you do. But what’re you gonna do about it?” “What can you do? I see these people shuffle in line for hours upon hours. They finally get their turn to taste what got them here in the first place. The meal of their dreams sits there on a platter, the scent dancing around their noses. They reach down and poof. Up in smoke. Back to the end of line. If they’re stuck here, then I guess we are too.” I was almost finished with my burger. “And for what? Because they had one, two, maybe two hundred too many fucking Happy Meals, they have to wait in line until their bodies have eaten away the excess fat so that they meet Heaven’s standards? It just seems kind of...sadistic.” Paul was licking the salt and grease from his fingers. “I hear you. But like I said, what’s there to do?” “Nothing, I guess. Nothing.” I had finished eating.
TW: Swearing, brief references to the beast with two backs. I woke up with a headache that could crack a god’s skull. It panged for the pure blackness of deep space. Dusty floorboards kissed my cheek as I grumbled to my feet. Dancing in the air, particles of dust were keeping the party going. Throbbing agony pulsed with the beat of my heart. The ache extended far beyond the confines of my head into the air beyond. Curtains that didn’t deserve the name were letting in most of the sun from outside despite being drawn. I gave them a middle finger to let the bastards know what I thought of them. It wasn’t my home. I was sure of little, but I was sure of that. The familiar scent of grass was absent. I’d been drinking the night before. And presumably some of the morning. A look at my phone might answer some questions. I patted my pockets. They were closer to the rest of me than usual. I’d clearly had too many wheatgrass shots. No phone. Glasses? Where had I put my glasses? The living room where I’d woken was minimalist. Posters of mountain ranges and the moon clung feebly to tape that had become emotionally attached to the wall. Someone was going to lose their deposit when that didn’t come off. Where had I been? The bar called Ram Ewe? A vague memory of two guys headbutting each other flickered with the indecision of a streetlight in a dodgy neighbourhood. Jessie lay in his own drool in the hallway. A sheet shrunk away from me as he turned. Only a collar and a sheet? I didn’t need to see that. Tail wagging as his lip curved with a smile. I guessed that someone in his dream was scratching behind his ear. A bathroom towel pouring from the tiles of its home onto the carpet of the hall assured me I didn’t have to worry about making a mess. My stomach grumbled as I staggered. I didn’t know what my tummy was saying and for that reason it kept talking, nagging at me. Running water made me think of the stream at the bottom of the garden. Scents of cooking meat tickled my nose. It should have turned my stomach, not turned it on. That’s what you need , it said. Eat that . I splashed the running water on my face and let it drip down my snout. Instead of dripping down my overbite into my mouth it fell with a splash into the sink. I felt my face. My hoof was too dextrous. My eyes confirmed it wasn’t cloven or hoofish. It was a paw. I had an underbite. “What the fuck?” I murmured. An image in the mirror looked up just as I did. A reflection of a wolf. I fell back, slipping on toilet roll and banging into the toilet. The seat slapped the porcelain with a clang. Jessie barked in the hallway. Scrabbling sounds said he was disgracing the poor bedsheet further to cover himself. “You alright in there?” The voice was female, vulpine and warm. Warm the way a predator’s heart is warm as it chases down prey through the fields. Warm like the trickle of sweat down your back as you run for your life. “I’m fine,” I growled through teeth that were triangular instead of rectangular. It was wrong. It was all wrong. “I’m making breakfast,” said the voice from the kitchen. “You must be ravenous after last night. I know I am.” My paw, that should have been a hoof, opened the bathroom door. She tilted her head. Grey ears twitched. A wet black nose twitched. “You smell like grass. Did you roll out of my bed through a field?” Her unnaturally round pupils focused on me. My heart began to beat a drumroll. “Never had it like that before. Was it your first time?” A smile that would have been reassuring if it wasn’t attached to the animals who eat my kind showed the bottom of a few teeth. “First time yeah,” I nodded. I was trying hard not to wet myself. “Aww. You’re a changed man now. There’s nothing like the first time.” I’ve definitely changed. “Where am I?” Asked Jessie, rubbing his head. “Shouldn’t a sheepdog know that?” Asked the she wolf. “I’d like to know where I am as well,” I said, sheepishly. “And what I did last night.” “The answer to question two is not what, but who, me.” She pointed to herself, looking hurt. Perhaps insulted was a better word. I felt like I was about to be the only one who was hurting. “You’re in Lunaburg.” “I went drinking with my buddy Barry,” said Jessie. “Then I was with you. Now I’m here.” He winced. “I’m sure I was wearing clothes for most of it.” He stood with a long protrusion from the sheet at the back. “It’s me, Jessie,” I said to my friend. He was one of those friends who was a friend to everyone but not close friends with anyone. He went to all the parties. He knew sheep, foxes and apparently wolves. He got in trouble and had wild stories, corroborated by wildly blurry photos on his beleaguered phone. “I’m still Barry, despite whatever happened last night.” “Barry,” snorted the she wolf. “Sounds like a sheep’s name to me.” “I get told that a lot,” I said. Mostly by sheep who think it’s an excellent name. “Barry?” Jessie asked. “Barry Ra-” “Ready to go, yeah.” I cut him off before he could tell her my name was Ramstein. It was a sheep’s name without a doubt. “Thank you for the offer of breakfast,” I hesitated, not knowing her name. “Blevine,” she said. Her hackles were up. Every impulse I had was telling me to run. Another opposing set of impulses were telling me to bite and rut with her. “Wonderful to lose my virginity to you, and know you, in that order, I guess. I need to go. I’ve lost my phone.” And my body. “I really think me, and Jessie, need to find our things and work out what happened last night.” “I don’t suppose you have any clothes?” Jessie asked. He used his friendly voice. It was the voice that had people calling him a good boy and rubbing his belly. “No,” said Blevine. Her steely eyes sent a signal to my legs to shake. My feet sent a signal to my bladder that it was time to relax a bit. My bladder agreed, sending an ambassador downhill. “Did you just piss yourself?” Blevine asked, throwing up her paws. “A little bit,” I winced. “This isn’t your territory, get out.” She pointed to the door. “Urgh, boys.” “Clothes?” Jessie asked, his puppy dog eyes pleaded. His unwilling toga begged for mercy. “Out!” We were shuffled out into a hallway that stank of urine. In my new body I knew too much from the smell of those markings. I knew what the neighbours had been eating, drinking. Too much. I’m a sheep . “I’m naked,” moaned Jessie. “You’re wearing a sheet,” I said. “But it’s just a sheet and I’ve lost my phone and my wallet.” I grabbed him by the scruff and growled in his face. “Who cares? You can get all of that back. I’m a sheep. At least I was. I’ve lost my body Jessie. What do I do about that? I’ve lost my body and my memory.” We padded down the staircase from Blevine’s flat. “And your virginity.” He gave me a thumbs up. “And your phone, and clothes,” said the party animal. “And you’re covered in piss.” He opened a door into the street. “That’s not helpful.” “It was a night to remember though,” he smiled. “BUT I DON’T REMEMBER,” I yelled. My voice was a growl that would have scared my whole flock to death. I scared myself. “Memory’s a bit woolly, is it?” He smiled the same smile everyone has when they’ve just told a shit pun. I punched him. It felt good. I had a newborn lust for violence. “What do I do? I just had sex with a wolf. What if she gets pregnant? Would the kid be half wolf, half sheep? What would you even call that?” “A weep?” Jessie rubbed his chest where I’d thumped him. His tail had sagged between his legs. “Maybe you’re just dreaming.” He shrugged. “Have you tried pinching yourself.” “When I dream, I count family members,” I said. “This isn’t a dream or a nightmare.” “How can you be sure?” Asked the sheepdog. “Because I would have woken up by now in a cold sweat.” “I usually wake up in cold drool,” he scratched behind his ears, tongue lolling. “Come on. You can come to my place until we get this sorted out.” “Really?” “Sure. Come-bye.” “Thank you.” “Ewe are welcome,” he said. “Good boy.” I patted his head. The tail emerged from the back of the toga, wagging.
“I’ll love you forever.” The heart monitor says otherwise. Her eyes crease at the corners, and tears have traced her face so many times that their pathways leave marks on her cheeks. Each ragged breath seems to take life rather than giving it to her. My mother, once so strong, trembles underneath the weight of air. Perhaps I’m shaking too, for she sees my fear and attempts a smile. “It will all be ok honey; please, be brave for me.” I can’t fight a sudden spark of anger. She’s wrong. Her lips craft sugar-coated lies, promising love that will not be there for me. With one look at the defeated expressions of the nurses, her words become meaningless. We both realize this is the end, yet neither of us can voice a farewell. How can I leave her soft laughter, the kisses she would plant on my knees after I scraped them? Where will I find the courage to say goodbye to her unrelenting confidence, to the stunningly bizarre outfits she wore just to make me laugh? I cannot recognize her death, for the acceptance would kill us both. “Hey, hey...” Her voice trails off, grasping for any words of comfort. “I’ll always be here for you. Never ever forget that for me, ok? ” I fight every urge to scream, for her reassurance does nothing to quell my pain. “I know... I know.” I am just as guilty as her. We both realize the tragedy to come, but our farewells have yet to escape us. She coughs, staining her gown with blood. Her frail figure shakes with the effort. Doctors halfheartedly rush to her side; I can see the hopelessness in their actions. She brushes their gloved fingers away from her mouth. “Don’t worry about me, it’s nothing but a cough.” I almost smile. In her last moments, my mother is fussing over the very people that are meant to assist her. It seems like an eternity has passed since the days where she could care for me. She had fought the monsters beneath my bed, telling me to gaze at the stars rather than trembling in the dark. As surgeries drew constellations of scars on her ribs, we sat beneath the quiet sky and held each other. Years of hope meet their demise tonight. Each beep from the heart monitor is cruel, feeling like the countdown until New Years'. Time is of the essence, and yet, neither of us speaks. I’ll take care of your aquarium. I’ll even water your plants. Don’t worry about dad; I won’t let him relapse. Everything will be ok. I promise. I’ll miss our witty bantering and the jokes you made to lift a heavy situation. No one will ever make meals or sing me to sleep as well as you. I cherished your love, and could never replace it. I love you. I love you so much. Everything that she needs to know cannot escape my mind. The words refuse to move, stuck in my throat. I desperately scour her eyes for a final message. Will my mother’s life end in silence? My daughter stands above my deathbed. She’s soaked in loneliness and exhaustion; I almost feel guilty for not dying sooner. I notice her quietly humming a lullaby, and manage a weak smile. At another time, I had used the melody to calm her to sleep. She feared night with a passion, as the unknown darkness held unlimited possibilities of evil. Her imagination conjured ghosts and monsters, giving me the task of banishing them. I became her warrior, and we had traversed the unknown with courage and a soothing lullaby. I taught her to read the sky as well; the stars spoke a language long forgotten in the modern world. Constellations became her protectors, and she found comfort in the mystical shapes of the universe. On a night so long ago, I woke up to her wails and fear-ridden screams. The shadows had painted her walls with claws and blood, and the clouds had stolen her safety. Abandoned by the stars above her, the child had the first of her encounters with loss. “Mommy,” she paused, her lips trembled slightly. “Shh... you don’t need to say anything. Watch.” I drew a lopsided star on her arm and showed it to her. Immediately, her eyes brightened as she reunited with a lost friend. “You see, you’ll never be alone. The stars can leave you, but darkness is nothing to fear if I’m with you. I’ll be with you forever; don’t you forget that.” Perhaps it was my carelessness with words that destroy me now. I’ve given her forever, and refuse to acknowledge that I must take it back. The farewell that I cannot bear to say eats at my insides, churning my stomach and making my heartache. Have I become so fragile that I crumble underneath the weight of my own words? “Honey... the sun is rising.” My voice is hoarse and my words are weak, but the fog in her eyes seems to lift a bit. Together, we watch the stars fade into the rosy-hued sky. All is silent save for the beep of the heart monitor. “I’ll miss...the stars...” Each word is drenched in sorrow; I long for the courage to say what I truly mean, but it is all I can manage. Part of me is foolish enough to believe it is enough. “I’ll miss looking at them with you,” she whispers faintly. Behind her eyes, I can see the goodbye I will never hear. I find solace in knowing she will care for her father, as she protects her loved ones with the ferocity I once harnessed for her. I blink slowly, as my vision is blurred and the fluorescent lights begin to burn. With a sinking feeling, I realize my time has arrived. I will never be able to bring closure to my love for her. She couldn’t do the same for me. We believed in forever, but even the stars will die eventually.
When my father asked me if she would be okay, I said yes - because really, there was nothing else to say. Because I could intuit that he wasn’t so much as asking for medical updates, as he was a reassurance of faith, our faith, that she would be okay. That she would sit up from that bed, any day now, and would pull out the long transparent tubes that now sustained her breath. Her voice would be croaky at first, hoarse from the months of unuse, and then she would try again, and ask for water, which I would rush to bring to her, and after she’d had a sip or two, she would look up at us both, like no time had passed, and say, “mes chéris,” in her usual way, smiling with that bright efficacy to which we were once accustomed, and hold us tight. But this was fantasy because she’d been in that bed for months now, because the doctors who used to say, “any day now,” with the confidence of gods now avoided our eyes and gave the tight-lipped smile people who weren’t sure how to talk about a tragedy did, and this was a tragedy - that my mother, 45 years of age, with bouncy curls, a wide smile, and skin that used to glow with the vibrancy of the sun, should be lying down here, pale, almost blue, breathing with big ugly machines that creaked on every inhalation. I am 17 years old, I’ve had friends who’ve suffered tragedies - an aunt dying from an accident, a parent who battled with cancer, and I know from their experience that if my mother were to die, it would be an enormous tragedy, like a loss that I would never fully recover from - monumental, and life-defining. I know this theoretically as I know it deep in my bones, but what I’m more afraid of is that if she were to die now, I would lose my father too. It won’t be long, the next day, two weeks, two months, maybe six at best, and he would be gone too. In biology class, they explain the concept of symbiosis - two organisms of different species who depend on each other to live. But lately, I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s not so much physical dependence on the other specie for some kind of protection or benefit, as it is about the reliance for identity. Like the symbiont goby fish whose whole identity lies in informing the blind shrimp that predators lurk - take it away from that, and he’d probably survive, but who was it without the identity of protector? How would it navigate this world with no blind shrimp to forewarn? Who would my father be without my mother? My father still? But I'm not so sure about that, at best he would be a robot, not the cool talking ones, but one of those robot vacuum cleaners that move around the room cleaning until they hit a wall, and then course-correct in the other direction, not that they want to be there, cleaning and loving it, but that the wall had nudged them and they had no choice but to move and clean until their battery dies. I have this fear that my father had only been my father because he loved my mother so, with any other woman, he might not have tried at all. Perhaps love is not even the right word, as I’m not sure if he fell in love like my friends do - seeing someone in their element, liking them because they were good at football, or they were pretty, or funny, and you wanted to be around them all the time, even though they made your heart flutter and your speech stutter. My parents didn’t fall in love like that, in fact, that version of events would seem so silly to them that I’m not sure they would recognise it at all. They’d met when they were twelve, on a boat of all places. Even I still find it hard to comprehend, that two orphans displaced by a war that had razed down their homes and their parents along with it, should serendipitiously find themselves together on the same boat. But there were many orphans on that boat, my mother had once clarified, the only serendipity, if there was any at all, was that she had sat next to my father for days on a small rocky boat with stretches of sea, and sea ahead, with no land in sight. And when they’d finally gotten rescued and found themselves on solid ground, she hadn’t known how to walk the new land without him by her side. There was no fluttering heart, if there was, it was purely physiological, and not hormonal. It was as if all those days lumped together at sea - the darkness and unkindness of it, the uncertainty of the journey ahead and the slowness of it, the numbness of children who now had no one but themselves in this world - had merged them together, or perhaps melded their souls, and had their bodies feeling what the other felt, that it was hard to distinguish where my mother stopped and where my father began. It was a synchronicity they hadn’t learned, but somehow acquired, and perfected over time as they survived numerous refugee camps and hard winters of a strange land. Most times I’d hear my mother say, “Yes, that’s right,” and nod to a question my father had asked but somehow forgotten to voice, and I would say, “Use words for those who don’t speak Elvish, please”, and they’d laugh. I was in middle school before I realised that they perhaps didn’t need words, and they only used them for my benefit. When Mother slumped six months ago, we were all together at the bakery, cleaning before we closed for the night. The plan had been to work with them there before I go to Uni the next year. Father had made a joke about something, (as he used to, he was a big jester, and Mother was too) about one of the customers asking for a particular bread type, something, I can’t recall now. I had been looking at Father and laughing, and I think I must have seen Mother slumping on his face before I saw her hit the ground - because his face was frozen midway, his eyes in shock and lifeless like he’d had a mini-stroke even before her own body had registered it. He’s a shell of the person I used to know now - his typical dad jokes are gone; he spends all hours by her side punctuated only by the nurses' insistence that he take a break, but he wouldn’t leave until I got there. I still go to the bakery and bake bread for some hours because we need the money, and at night I’d take over the shift for him, and while he’s gone, I would lean in and whisper to Mother, “If you can hear me, please come back to us. He’s not doing well without you. You know he won’t survive without you.” Like a plea, and a prayer rolled into one, I would whisper it into her ears, desperate for her to hear me and accept it. I’m five years older than they were when they lost their parents and were brutally tossed into a raging, stormy world. I have five years on them now, maybe this was evolutionary progress - that they’d given me five more years than they ever got with their parents. And I wasn’t being shoved on a boat bound for a strange land with nothing but a bottle of fresh water and a morsel of bread. They’d given me a great life here, an ordinary safe childhood, which was in itself extraordinary, and they’d made me laugh, which used to amaze me, that people who had suffered so much tragedy should have the ability to be so blasé with life and laugh and laugh till their belly hurt. They’d also worked night and day and built something of their own here - a bakery they were proud of, kneading dough and taking pride in customers loving something they made with their hands. I have inherited that pride, and perhaps all of this is enough. Around 2 am, like clockwork, my father tapped me - he was back from home, where I knew he barely slept, and I shook my head before he asked as if to say no changes, nothing had changed since the three hours he’d been gone. And he nodded, sat beside me, and took her hand in his, “do you think she will be okay?” he asked, like he always asked, his gaze fixed on her pale face. I nodded, vibrantly, with the confidence of gods, and said, "Yes, of course, she will be", and he gave me his rueful smile, and for a second I thought he believed me, and I convinced myself that this symbiosis, however weak, was safe for today, and today would not be the day I lose them.
Intuitivity When I received the notice, I set it on the desk with all the others. Applying for jobs has gotten to be an exercise in futility, but one I can’t afford to abandon. Not a joke, not a last-ditch effort to procrastinate my way to a better world. I needed to find work. Not just for the money, which I needed desperately, but I was turning into a bowl of Jell-O fruit salad. I was that grape suspended in the green shimmering coagulated mess of what Auntie had insisted I take home with me after our, “old fashioned,” holiday dinner. She said, “You look thin.” Only one way to respond to that. I took the Jell-O, thanked her, kissed her goodbye, and left before she decided I needed more substantial. Being bored is not difficult when your life seems to belong to someone else. I began to debate the possibility of finding that umbrella that would allow me to feel, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious,” if even for just a day. It was during this internal struggle between deciding whether chocolate would be better given my present state, or perhaps Tootie-Fruitie given the chance I would be abducted by any foreign entity that would have me, and for no other reason than, they could. So, as I have learned to do when experiencing stress, and no immediate remedies are in sight, I go to sleep. Not going to bed, not that kind of sleep. More like hibernation, where you are awake, but it is as if you are watching yourself dream. The most imaginative way of escaping, while remaining, as it is at the moment, the only thing I can afford. The notice I received, although it looked like just another nebulous attempt at redefining my employment status, changed my perception of what could be mind-altering, if I remained in my self-induced limbo. # “Go down the hall. On the left, the last door, go in, fill out the application form. An electronic screen will appear, once you have scanned the completed form, it will advise you how to continue. Please proceed as instructed.” The voice, much like the automated voice of any call center reassured me by its non-committal tone, that I was safe, we were safe. Nothing out of the ordinary would or could occur within the confines of this concrete building. Its interior complicit with its structural systems, floors, walls, ceilings, all a glazed white. Walking towards the last door required concentration, as I began to become disoriented. The lights on the ceiling appeared to be on the floor and the wall on the left, mirrored the walls on the right, making my entombment more satisfying than I expected it would be, but then I knew, they knew that. The last door was not really a door, more a suggestion of what a door could be. I passed through to find a monitor situated on a concrete pedestal. Next to it was a folder which I didn’t see at first, because it blended so efficiently into its surroundings. The form was three-dimensional print on a single dimension paper. It took a few minutes to relate to its purpose. The questions were precise; there were only two. The first question confusingly simple: Do you believe? The second question appropriately following the first and related to its need, asked: If so, why? and If not, why not? My natural tendency when asked a definitive question, is to give a non-definitive answer, which I knew they were expecting, and therefore considered giving the answer I believed they were looking for, but didn’t expect. Upon further deliberation, I realized they weren’t as devious as I had presupposed, and answered as I would under normal conditions; I left the question blank. The why question was a bit more difficult because, it supposed I had answered the preceding question, which I had not. The conundrum I faced was not unusual, given the circumstances. Deviance I had been trained to both respect and expect. It was the way civility was ordained and order maintained. One for all, and all for one, that sort of thing. But then one never could be sure because there were no rules. Rules would have been against the rules, as Intuitivity was the only subject, or I should say, the only subject, subject to intuitive scrutiny, should one not adhere to intuitive principles. As I pondered my responses before submitting them to the scanning apparatus, a red light appeared, like that on an English Bobbies vehicle, began to spin, and the piercing sound of a siren ricocheted off the walls making concentration extremely difficult. I could only assume my reaction was being captured and recorded, for examination at a later time. It was fortunate I had been trained to expect the unexpected. As suddenly as it had begun, the lights and noise subsided into the nothingness that surrounded me. The monitor blinked to life. A black screen with iridescent green letters, floating in a random sequence appeared. I realized, that what I was intended to do, or what they would assume I would do, was find direction by combining the letters, to provide the answer I knew I was destined to find, and then relay that answer to the machine for confirmation. It was all so predictable, I knew there had to be a hidden agenda buried somewhere in the façade of the disorganized colliding letters that complained loudly as they bumped into one another. Our accepted civil responses, “sorry and excuse me,” were being abdicated for more perverse and derogatory examples of the language, “Watch it buddy,” and, “try that again and I’ll,” and on and on. I had never experience such uncivility in my entire existence, which is what I realized I was expected to feel, so I pretended to be titillated by the unique situation, and the jargon that accompanied it. One thing I have learned and retained over the terms of my existence, is to always do the opposite of what Intuitivity expects of you. It is not only required, but in some corners of our universe, is the only way to get and keep a means of employment, that is commensurate with the limitations of your programmed existence. My predictable behavior, no matter its unpredictability, was apparently not what was predictably required. The room turned from its majestic, glazed white, to the used tire blackness and bleakness of a Monday here on Creptillian. My future had been shortened proportionately by my irreconcilable responses to our yearly assimilation test, which determines whether you are considered compromiseable because of opinions developed on your own, and with no consideration to the unpredictability of un-intuitiveness, or whether you had been paying attention at all. I was found to be in the top 1% of all those that failed the likelihood of becoming compatible, when it came to believing that hope was possible, after being confirmed by the best intuitive minds in the galaxy that it may be irreconcilable with Intuitivity. And all because I didn’t believe in the old adage, “You can’t teach an old dog, new tricks.”
If you knew where to look, you could see the curtain slightly move as Cleo jogged by the house. Anxiously sitting by the window with her morning coffee, notepad ready to take down any observations, Madison leaned forward to catch her first glimpse of Cleo that day. Mornings were only a fraction of the daily routine that Madison had built around her neighbor. There was just something about Cleo that had her enthralled. Two months ago, the movers had just closed the moving van’s door when Cleo had bounded over to greet her new neighbor. What a first impression she made with her vibrant green eyes and jet-black hair with pink tips. She was the person that everyone liked after a few moments in her company. Her smile was honest, holding nothing back. She exuded confidence and gained trust without any effort or guile. With a flash of inspiration, Madison decided she needed to be more like Cleo. She yearned to be a better version of herself, and Cleo would be the guideposts she would follow. Being shy and withdrawn was all that Madison knew, so watching from afar was how their friendship would have to be for now. The more she watched Cleo, the more she slowly morphed into her, but not around the neighborhood. No one should get the impression that Madison was trying to copy Cleo. She was taking charge and trying to improve her life. Once she was away from the neighborhood, things were different. Cleo’s walk was now Madison’s walk. Effortlessly she could imitate Cleo’s mannerisms and even had her tinkering giggle down. She couldn’t help but notice the difference when around other people. Finally, people in her office would wave at her, and invitations trickled in for lunch and drinks after work. As a reformed loner, she couldn’t believe how her luck had turned. Madison wished she had met Cleo earlier so her life could have been different. Madison walked by her hall mirror and admired herself. Her eyes popped with the green contact lenses she had started wearing. Mostly they were worn out to bars or nightclubs where she could sense glances and looks coming her way. Once the contact lenses were in an innate sense of peace and confidence came over her. She liked to think of it as the Cleo effect. Spending the afternoon going through her recent clothing purchases, Madison tried to decide what to wear for tonight. She matched up the outfits to the photos she had taken of Cleo as she left her house. The clothes were easy to find online, but the accessories were turning out to be a problem. She just had to focus and spend more time on this part of her endeavor if she wanted to be successful. She had zoomed in on the photos and sent some along to the jeweler to see if she could have duplicates made. Daily she checked her inbox to see if an estimate for the work had arrived. After half an hour of indecisiveness, Madison went online to see what Cleo wore out last night. There was sure to be a shot of her on social media. Madison had started to follow a large group of Cleo’s friends, so she always had snippets of her life to review ardently. She was amazed at the number of friends Cleo had, but why should she be when Cleo was the perfect woman. Madison was confident that soon she would be in a similar situation, surrounded by admirers and friends. The day progressed quickly as she took the final steps of her transformation. Last night she had styled and dyed her hair from mousy brown to stunning jet-black. Her skin wasn’t as pale and flawless as Cleo’s, but she had the foundations and powders to tone down her blotchy skin. Now she just had to add the pink tips. As she started swirling the dye mixture, she heard a high-pitched scream. She ran to the front of the house to look out. Her head swiveled up and down the road, but she didn’t see anything. Across the street the light went out at Cleo’s house. It didn’t appear anything was amiss. It was probably the teenagers a couple of houses down fooling around again. She called out for her device to start playing her Cleo playlist. It was all the songs she had heard while walking by Cleo’s place over the past few months. Madison hadn’t liked some of the songs at first, but they had grown on her. She turned the music up loud enough to hear in the bathroom, and back to her pink tips she went, practicing her responses to all the compliments she was sure she would be getting soon. It didn’t take long before her timer went off, and it was time to wash and blow dry her hair to see how it turned out. Madison gawked at herself in the mirror, knowing her metamorphosis was complete. She excitedly put on her new outfit and stood in front of the full-length mirror with her hand on her hip like she had seen Cleo do so many times. Madison’s phone rang, and she answered to hear her mother hysterically saying, “Thank God you answered Madison. I was so worried!” “Calm down, Mama. What were you so worried about?” With a harsh whisper, her mother responded, “It’s all over the news about the serial killer striking again.” Madison shook her head in confusion, “What serial killer?” With exasperation evident in her voice, “The man going around killing the young ladies. Darling, I keep telling you to follow the news, but I swear you never listen. Put on the television. Another innocent girl was murdered right on your street.” “Ok, Mama. I’ll call you back.” Madison hurried over to the TV and put on her local station. Breaking news was coming on, and the anchor started with, “New details have just emerged on the women who have been victims of the recent killings. All victims, including the one found earlier this evening, have been green-eyed women in their early twenties with black hair and pint tips. The killer is being referred to as the “Pink Tip Chopper.” Let’s go to Matthew Greaney on scene at the most recent crime scene. Matthew, what more can you tell us?” The reporter grimly stared into the camera, “This is a somber day as another woman is brutalized at the hands of the Pink Tip Chopper.” Madison stood up when she recognized the homes in the background of the broadcast. She slowly walked to the window to push aside the curtain and pull up the shade to see the police cars across the street and crime-scene tape which cordoned off Cleo’s house. Madison screamed and dropped the curtain before running to the bathroom to vomit. She slowly got up from the floor, and the green contact lenses came out. With shaking hands, she reached for the scissors and hacked off her newly added pint tips. She started the shower and scrubbed her face with boiling water to remove all the traces of her transformative makeup. She washed her jet-black hair over and over again, trying to get the color out and back to her natural brown. When she emerged into the steamy bathroom, she wiped the condensation from the mirror and looked at herself. She had never been so happy to see plain, boring Madison staring back.
Our story begins, in small town, in late November. Where a bakery opened up, down the street from another one. In a small town like this, that was big news and everybody knew and talked about it, and what it meant. Competition. The bakery, that had been there for generations, had just been handed down, to the daughter, of the former owners, who had retired. Her name was Amethyst Thompson, Amy for short. She was 29 years old. Her parents had her, when they were quite old, having only found one another, later in life. Amy had worked in the bakery, all her life, as it was, and always had been, the family business. The bakery, had originally been opened, by Amy’s great grandparents, then passed down, through the generations and now it was hers. She was proud and happy, but she also felt the pressure. What if she couldn’t do it. What if she failed. If she lost the bakery, that had survived, for three generations, before her... but that wasn't an option. Amy had been running the bakery, for just under a year, when the new bakery, was opened, near by. This had never happened before, there were, and had always been, just two bakery’s, in the town, and they were at either ends of it, so they didn’t really compete, for customers. Luckily, people tend to be loyal, in small towns, like this one was, so Amy wasn’t too concerned, for the immediate future, but further down the line, it could turn into, a real problem. With the holidays coming up, and the annual bake-off, along with it, Amy’s bakery, was busy as ever, so she didn’t have, a lot of time to worry, about the new bakery. There was simply, too much to do and too little time, to get it done. Though she was busy, Amy noticed, that there were less customers, then there had been, in the years before, during this time. She didn’t think too much of it, and even found herself grateful, for there not being so many. Leaving her more time, to deal with the rest. Like preparing for the towns bake-off. Her bakery, her family, had won the last three years, and she didn’t want, to be the one, to lose their streak. So she was working hard, to come up with something, that would get her that win. One evening, she was closing up early, locking up and going home, to get some rest, when Amy saw, some of her usual customers, in line, at the new bakery. Wishing it didn’t, she felt her heart sink, to the pit of her stomach. So this was why, she hadn’t been, as busy as usual. She wasn’t angry, but a small part of her, felt like those people, had, in some way, betrayed her. Knowing that she was overreacting, she pulled herself together, and continued home, where she went straight into the kitchen, more determined than ever, to win the town bake-off. She would prove to them all, that she was the best, even without her parents help and that hers, was still the best bakery in town. The bake-off, was a three part and three day, competition. The first day, was bread, second day, small baked goods and the third day, was basically your chance, to create a masterpiece. You could make what ever you wanted, though most people made cakes, with many layers and colors. It was always worth seeing, even for those, who didn’t care much, about baking. The one with the highest score, at the end of those three days, win. They win ten bags of free flour and a thousand dollars. With her eye on the prize, Amy worked all night, perfecting her bread and small baked goods, and trying to come up, with something great, for the third days challenge, something, that would make sure, she would win. Amy continued like this for days. Barely sleeping, and always working. She had decided on, what she would make, in the third challenge, now she just had to perfect it. She worked, night and day. 10 days left, until the bake-off. It was December now. One week left. She was getting close, but it still wasn’t there. Five days left. She was barely working in her bakery anymore, leaving the most of it, to the other employees. This had the be perfect. With only two days left, she finally got it. It was perfect and she was ready. Ready to win and to beat the other bakery, and show the people in town, that she was the best and show those, who had started going to the other bakery, that they should have never stopped, coming to hers. Feeling confident, she worked in her bakery again, like nothing had happened. She was ready. As she closed the store, the night before the first day, of the competition, she smiled to herself, before locking the doors and walking home, to get a good nights sleep. When she got home and into bed, it suddenly hit her, that she didn’t even know, what the person, who ran the other bakery, looked like. She didn’t even know, if it was a man or a woman. Laughing to herself, over the absurdity of this fact, she closed her eyes and went to sleep, ready for the day to come. Waking up the next morning, to the sound of her alarm clock, Amy stretched and sighed, before getting out of bed. She stood up and pulled on her slippers, before going to the bathroom, to get ready for the day. Having showered, dressed and eaten, Amy started packing up the things, that she would need, at the bake-off and double checking, to make sure, she had everything. She wasn’t going to lose, because she forgot something at home. After having checked for the sixth time, she finally put on her overcoat and boots, and then she left. Walking through the town, to where the bake-off was being held, she met many of the other people, who lived in town. Smiling and waving to everyone, she made her way there and put her basket full of things, on the table, that she would be using, for the next three days and started to unpack her things. After a while, some of the other contestants, began showing up, with their own baskets full of their own things, and placing them, on what would be their table, for the next three days. Looking around, Amy only saw one person, whom she didn’t know and knew, that that must be, the owner of the new bakery. Amy was shocked, as the person before her, didn’t look anything like, what she had been picturing. Standing before her, was a tall, young and beautiful woman. She looked kind, sweet and caring. Amy had been picturing a mean face and a cold heart, but, unless she was very much mistaken, the woman before hers heart, had never known a chilly day, in its whole life. The woman, having spotted Amy, walked over to her, put out a hand and said, with a sweet and mild voice, “Hi, you must be Amy. We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. I’m Abigale, but you can call me Abbey, if you want.” And she smiled at Amy, who came to her senses and took the extended hand and shook it. Finding herself unable to speak, Amy simply nodded and returned Abbeys smile, then returned back, to unpacking her things, not knowing what else to do. While, she unpacked the last of her things, Amy thought to herself: people don’t look like that in real life. And usually, they didn’t, Abbey was an exceptionally beautiful woman, who looked like she belonged, in a Hollywood movie, or somewhere similar. About an hour later, the judges showed up and day one, of the bake-off had begun. The bread, was the easiest job for Amy, her great grandparents, had perfected a recipe, while they ran the bakery. A recipe that had won their family, the highest score, in the bread category, every year they had entered, the bake-off. Amy could bake it, in her sleep, if she wanted to. The competition officially started, Amy tried to get in the zone, but for some reason, she couldn’t focus properly. No matter how hard she tried, her mind kept wondering and she kept thinking about Abbey. Why was she stuck in her head? Amy didn’t know her, she only just met her, yet there was something about her. While Amy was thinking about Abbey, trying her best, to keep from looking at her, her hands and arms, were going through the motions, making the bread for her. Then all of the sudden, she felt a hand, on her shoulder and the touch of it, sent electricity down her spine, and she knew, without having to look, that it was Abbey and she jumped. “Hey, I dropped my flour bag and...” Abbey gestured at the ground behind her and when Amy looked, she saw the flour bag, spilt on the ground and the white flour, laying all over the ground, slowly blowing away, in the wind. “Oh yeah, no sure, have the rest of mine, I’m done with it.” Amy responded nervously, feeling her blood, rush to her cheeks and trying not to look her in the eye, and wondering why this stranger, made her so nervous. Abbey smiled and grabbed the open bag of flour, on Amys table, said “thank you.” And left, to walk back, to her own table. The time was almost up, on the first day, and all the bread, was in the ovens, so everyone were standing around, talking to each other. Amy was talking to an older woman, about her parents and how they were, when she, once again, felt a hand on her shoulder and knew, that it belonged to Abbey. Amy turned around, to see the smiling face, to whom the hand belonged and sure enough, it was Abbey. Returning the smile, nervously and felling herself begin to blush again, Amy forgot all about the conversation, she had been having and the woman, whom she had been having it with, left the two of them, looking slightly offended. “How do you think you’ve done?” Abbey asked Amy, still smiling at her. “I did fine. I’m not worried, how about you?” Returned Amy, trying not to sound too nervous, but failing. A grin appeared on Abbeys face, most likely because of Amys nervous tone, as she said: “You don’t sound too sure. I think I did well, I’ve always had a way, with bread.” With these words, Abbey put her hand, over Amys, which was laying on her table and Amy froze, not knowing, what to make of it, she didn’t move nor speak, hoping that she wasn’t imagining it and, that the moment would last forever. Never having felt this way before, Amy didn’t recognize the emotion, for what it was. Or maybe she did, but didn’t want to openly admit to herself, that she was falling, for a complete stranger. Thinking, in the back of her head, that things like that, didn’t happen in real life, only in movies and fairytales, and that this was neither, no matter how much Abbey looked like a movie star. Still standing there, it felt like they were the only two people in the world and that nothing else mattered and never would again, when suddenly, Abbeys hand closed tightly over Amys, and she pulled her away from the crowd. Amy felt powerless and that, even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t be able to fight back, against the pull. Stopping in a corner, out of sight from anyone, with one last pull, Abbey was holding Amy, in her arms and for a moment, time stood still. And then Abbey kissed Amy. It was magical and it was perfect, Amy felt weightless and in that moment, anything was possible. Pulling away from Amy, Abbey began to apologize “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I swear, it was like I lost control over my body. I am SO sorry...” She was rambling and Amy, was staring at her, not sure of what just happened, and then, throwing caution to the wind, she grabbed Abbey and kissed her. They stood there, in each other’s arms for what felt like hours, neither of them wanting it to end. When they finally emerged from each other, they went back to the bake-off, laughing to themselves, until Amy spotted smoke, coming from her oven. She ran over there and opened it. When she pulled out her bread, she discovered that it was black. Burnt all over and completely ruined. But she didn’t care, after the initial shock, had worn off, she began to laugh again and, spotting Abbey, she began to laugh as well. Amy dropped out of the competition, because she simply didn’t care, about some silly prize anymore. She had something way better now. She had a partner and she had finally found something, other than her bakery, that meant something to her, and that made her happier, than she had ever been. After the last two days of the competition, Abbey won the prize, having blown everyone away, with her masterpiece on the final day. A year later, Abbey closed her own bakery and came to work, with Amy in hers, and they were more successful together, than Amys parents, grandparents and great grandparents had ever been. Six months after that, Abbey proposed and Amy said yes. They got married, on their second year anniversary, as a couple. They even got the town, to push the bake-off, to one day later, so they could have their wedding there. Abbey and Amy were happy, and they loved each other, until the day, they died...
My past is something that constantly lives in the very back of my mind. A tale that I never dare utter out loud. Even now, 15 years later, I start shaking at the bare thought of what had happened. However, I can not remain silent forever, and I need my voice to be heard, for the sake of younger me. I remember it being a cold, bitter night, as expected from the merciless winter in the desolate state of California. I had just arrived at my local convenience store, for my night shift, and I distinctively recall having a gut wrenching feeling almost as if something totally unexpected was about to occur. The air felt thick, and I could smell the damp earth after a long winter rain and I took it all in, slowly breathing, as if it was going to be my last time smelling it. I’m known for being a rational person, and for that reason alone, I ignored said feeling. In that dark, silent night, only my thoughts were keeping me company. Working from 2a.m-8a.m was usually uneventful, and I only needed to interact with the occasional smoker or drunkard. After dropping out of college, I was doing my best balancing work as a babysitter in the evenings and being a convenience store clerk at dawn. I quite cherished that job, as the pay was generous and the workload was light, despite the shady owner, Jeff. An old guy who has probably seen too much in his lifetime. I’ve heard rumours regarding him as a pedophile and a pervert who has supposedly taken advantage of dozens of middle-school girls and female part-timers. However, I have yet to see evidence of these claims first-hand and I was satisfied with how things were going. The buzzing from the artificial ceiling lights was greatly contributing to my pulsating headache. The door bell jingled a lovely melody and a cold breeze hugged me, forcibly pulling me out of my meaningless thoughts. The first customer of the night walked in and paid for an overpriced pack of Marlboro. The interaction was brief and straightforward, as expected. I will never understand the concept of smoking. I honestly don’t see the appeal of spending money for the purpose of shortening my life expectancy, not as if its any of my business. Sighing a long breath, I looked out of the window to take in the very familiar, yet comforting sight of the empty streets. I directed my gaze towards a parked car that I’ve failed to notice up until now. I guessed it was a sixth generation Honda Civic, although the limited amount of light outside made it hard to tell. The small parking area in front of the store was always empty at that time of the day, so to me, that was unusual. I observed the car for a couple of minutes, waiting for something to happen. Slowly growing impatient, I grabbed my SwissTech keychain (not the prettiest out there, but definitely the most useful in terms of keeping me safe) and I headed outside, walking in a straight line towards the suspicious car. I’m still not sure what I was expecting, but I thought that whatever would happen will most definitely quench my thirst of curiosity. Only a few inches away from the intriguing vehicle, I noticed that it is empty, and that the trunk is slightly open. Despite fully knowing that I am not allowed to touch somebody else’s property, I jerked the trunk open. I immediately knew I had just made a terrible mistake. A mistake that will never be undone. My eyes widened in pure terror and my heart was a train pounding down the tracks. I broke out in a cold sweat, and I could not take my vision away from the tied down stranger in front of me. Their casual clothes were drenched with blood, and they did not move a single inch. I did not want to assume the worst, but frankly, I was definitely looking at nothing other than a fresh corpse. I winced, feeling sick and pained and winded all at once. I could not breath. My mind was foggy. Leave. I knew I had to leave. Before I even had the chance to process what I had just witnessed, rushed footsteps combined with the freezing rain to produce music. Terrifying music that almost sounded like a warning.
Oh, you’re here already.’ ‘You took your time, I’ve been here nearly an hour.’ ‘Sorry Abe, I got distracted playing with the little ones, they are so into fighting with each other that I have to make it a game otherwise it might get nasty.’ ‘Yeah, tell me about it! Anyway, let's just go over the plan, okay?’ ‘Sure, sorry again.’ Chip surveyed the compound. ‘What do you think our chances are tonight?’ Abe was scanning the buildings. ‘Okay so far, I’ve been scrutinising the whole place since I got here and there’s been no activity at all. I’ve a feeling tonight may be our night.’ ‘Gosh I sure hope so, the little ones are only just about surviving as it is, and herself won’t let up “More food, more food” is all I seem to hear these days.’ Chip flicked his eyes up and sighed. ‘The Plan! Chip; The Plan! Focus!’ ‘Yeah, yeah, okay.’ Chip tilted his head and looked at Abe who was concentrating on the buildings inside the compound. ‘Sure does not seem right to get shot for stealing a bit of food to feed your family, does it?’ Chip didn’t expect a reply but Abe was never one to let a question hang about waiting. ‘That’s the way it is now I’m afraid. Ever since the new regime came in it’s zero tolerance with any law breakers. If they don’t catch you in the act, they will try and hunt you down.’ Abe shook his head. ‘Makes for an easy life for those that have, and a tough one for the rest of us.’ Abe paused and looked thoughtfully through the fence. ‘Anyway, time’s getting on, let’s get down to business.’ Abe nodded towards a secreted gap under the fence, ‘I’ll sneak in through there and you stay here and as soon as you see a light, either go on or off, you holler as loud as you can to let me know.’ ‘Sure Abe, I might need to cough to clear my throat, is that okay?’ ‘Don’t you dare. We have to be as quiet as the growing grass until we get clear. You got that?’ ‘Okay, got it. I’ll not take my eyes off the windows and doors and if I see any changes at all, they’ll hear me in the next town over.’ Abe continued, ‘I’ll be using the first three buildings as cover to get to the foodstore, so I should get through without any problems. The foodstore has a grill at the side which has a gap between it and the floor and that’s my way in. Once I get the goods I’m back out the gap and straight to the hole under the fence, no hiding or staying in the shadows. As soon as I’m through the fence, we belt it for home. You got all that Chip?’ ‘Yeah, I got it. Slow and stealthy on the way in and fast and furious on the way back.’ Abe stared into Chip’s eyes, ‘Look, I know you were the lookout for Brad when he copped it but I’m trusting you learned your lesson that night, right Chip?’ Chip looked away and then despondently down at the ground. ‘I couldn’t help it Abe, I was frozen with fear. It seemed the whole place just lit up and next thing there were bullets flying everywhere. I never even got a chance to warn Brad, it was like they were waiting for him.’ He looked droopy eyed at Abe, ‘But I know the drill now Abe; the instant the windows or doors lights change, that's the signal for me to sound the alarm, not a second later. You can trust me Abe, I’ve got your back.’ ‘I don’t blame you for Brad, Chip, it was early days back then and we really didn’t know the consequences of getting things wrong. So let’s just stick to the plan and we can all eat heartily tonight. Okay?’ Chip nodded, ‘I won’t let you down Abe and I appreciate everything you are doing for me and my family, I really do.’ ‘We all have mouths to feed Chip, let’s make sure we can feed them tonight, okay?’ ‘Sure Abe, I’ll be on my toes, no problem’ ‘Okay, wish me luck then.’ ‘Good luck Abe, I’ve got your back.
“Memory is more indelible than ink.” Her name is forgotten by time, and she writes letters. She is the ink to the quill, the paper to the typewriter. She is the words one speaks, and the silence between them. She is outdated, but she is new and fresh to those who have not come by her before. She writes letters in ink, for in her opinion that is the only true way to write. She writes from dusk to dawn, penning new phrases and words no one has heard. She writes voices for those in her mind who are voiceless, and she writes songs of sorrow for those who cannot sing. She writes in her tiny cottage by the sea, her windows always open. She enjoys the breeze of the wind, as it brings voice to her quill. She loves the whispers of the sea, the energy of the wind. It brings her own voice and energy, so she has never moved away. Her dying grey hair splits at the bottom, her old, fragile bones taking longer to write. She is old, but she has knowledge, knowledge the world would die for. She looks down at her quill, noting the intricate curves on the bottom that hold onto the ink before she presses it down once more. She had used the same quill for many years, but now she uses a new one, one that holds more ink and therefore can tell more stories. Still, she misses the old quill's grip in her hand, the ease of pressing it down to make a simple mark. It is morning, and she has not written anything yet. Yet, she does not want to write today. She wants to go to the sea like she used to as a child. She wants to dip her toes into the water just like she dips her pen into her ink, and drag them out, writing words in the sand. She wants to meet new people, and experience new things. She tugs at her white hair, once ebony, now ivory. Slowly, she stands, putting her hands on her desk to balance herself. She has not stood up in a long time, and not left the small cottage she lives in even in longer. She looks down at her work, at the letters she has written. They are short, but she is still not proud of them. She filled the pages with little doodles of flowers and pupils of eyes in her usual black ink. She frowns, and puts them in the drawer under her desk. Today’s will be better, she promises herself. Today’s letters will reflect the ocean air. The door creaks as she stumbles towards it, fresh air illuminating the room as she swings it open. The windows only bring so much, she realizes, thoughtfully. It is the true outside that brings the most brightness. Somewhere in her mind, she saves that line for a letter. She manages to bring herself farther forward towards the sea, down the hill her little cottage is located atop of. She breathes the air fresher than before, with it’s salty ocean scent. She loves it. It’s like a good dessert - sweet and savory. The perfect balance. She used to cook, but she does not anymore. Now, she simply writes, writes letters and writes stories. The wind blows her dress to the side, its color the same pearly off-white as her hair. She wears a pearl around her neck, too, but it is different, as it is a darker color. A black baroque pearl, one of the rarest kinds. Irregular in shape and in color. It’s chain is thin and long, made from the same material as her old quill. She turns her head towards the sea, thinking about how the waves touch the sandy shores, when the necklace comes off with the wind, one great wave taking it away into the water. She runs towards the sea, letting her feet touch the ocean. She runs and she runs. “Give it back!” she cries out, screaming at the ocean. She has not spoken in years, so her voice is old and tired. “Give me back my pearl!” The ocean grins in response, its waves stretching left and right. “Oh, no,” a voice says, calling it from the distance. “We cannot do that, letter-writer. It was ours, and it always will be.” She looks forward, trying to find the voice. She knows not every person has a voice, which is why she writes them, but she has not yet met a voice with no speaker. Finally, she sees her, a child, perhaps a teenager, wearing a flowing blue dress with matching blue eyes. Her hair is a light auburn, with streaks of the orange sunlight. She smiles with the waves, letting her eyes crinkle in the light. “Oh, letter-writer,” she says with a grin. “So, we meet again.” “Who are you?” Our protagonist replies, her own eyes still locked on the pearl. The child smiles, clutching the necklace in her hand. “Do you not remember?” she says, her voice lowering. “You once wrote a letter for me.” “But I haven’t written a letter in many years,” the letter-writer replies, her eyes drifting their gaze from the child’s hands to her own steady glare forward. “At least, not for anyone else. I just write letters for myself and for the people in my mind who cannot tell their own stories.” “The people in your mind?” “Yes,” she says, nodding to herself. “The characters, you may call them. They come through me, and I let them tell their own stories on the paper.” “Is that really a letter?” Her head tilts backwards as she speaks. “I suppose you could call it a story, if you preferred. But I call it a letter, as I am the one writing it.” She pauses, thinking of her writing. “But I write letters, too. I write letters to the people I have spoken to, to the people I know I will eventually forget. I write so that I can remember.” The girl laughs, more of a cackle than a grin like before. “And yet,” she says, tightening her grasp on the pearl. “And yet, you have failed, as you have forgotten me.” “It seems I have,” she replies, letting her own voice waver. “What is your name, child?” “I would tell you,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “If you did not steal from me any more.” “But I do not steal from you.” She glances up in confusion, the wind blowing her to and fro. “You say I stole my pearl from you, but I did not. It was a gift, from someone long ago.” “Precisely.” She frowns again, her hair being ruffled by the wind. “You seem to know more about me than I know,” she says, her voice rising with the wind in confusion. “If that is the case, then what have I stolen?” “I do,” the child replies once more. “And you write in ink, do you not? Ink is from the ocean, you know, from the bodies of the octopus and the squid. You steal from us every day, and you have never seemed to care.” Her own blue dress ruffles up with her maple red hair. She forcefully stands her ground against the wind, Perhaps it is her age that makes her so strong, or perhaps it is the sheer amount of power she holds. “Letter-writer,” she begins once again. “Have you nothing to say?” “No,” says the letter-writer. “No, I do remember you. I just never wrote you, I always drew you.” The child frowns. “You drew me?” She asks, her face growing pale. “You drew me with the ink you have stolen from my ocean, simply to preserve my memory, a memory others will be able to see? How dare you draw me.” But the letter-writer frowns, her voice still wavering. “Iris,” she whispers out, tracing the outline of a flower in the air. A flower identical to the ones on her cream colored paper in her room. “You are Iris. Iris of the Ocean. You came to me, asking for a letter to the sky. I remember laughing, for Iris was the messenger of the sky and of all letters in the old tales, but you said you were not named for the rainbow or for the skies, simply for the flowers in the ground and the center of one’s eye. You said you would be the messenger, however, for you must deliver a letter one could never hear about.” The girl smiles, her own irises glinting in the sunlight. “Well done,” she says. “But still, have you no remorse for the ink you have stolen?” “I wrote you a letter,” the letter-writer continued. “A letter to the sky from the seas. And, in return, you gave me a pearl as my payment, a small black pearl, irregular in shape. A gift, you said. A gift from the ocean.” “Also true,” says Iris of the Ocean. “But technology has long replaced ink. You could use typewriters, if you truly needed to write. But you insist on ink, ink made from my seas.” “Do you,” the letter-writer starts, her voice fading out into the oblivion of the seas and wind. “Do you - do you know my name?” She pauses, thinking about how to explain her question. “Iris of the Ocean, do you know who I am? All I know is that I write letters. I do not know whether they are stories or letters anymore. I do not know if you were one I made up from my mind or remembered. All I know is the paper and the quill, all I know is the past I was given, a past I now forget. I use the ink of the seas because I remember the seas, I use ink because I know it well. I could use a typewriter, but the letters wouldn’t have my touch to them. No one would ever be able to read them and know they were mine.” Iris sighs, her shoulders dropping. She leans down to the sea, reaching to pick up a dollop of the ocean. A sphere of water. Slowly, she inserts the necklace inside of the sphere, letting it float in her own makeshift briny, blue sea. “I know your name, letter-writer,” she says. “I know who you are, and I know who you could be. You have not come to the seas in years, letter-writer. You live right here, and yet only now you can explain why you use my ink. Here is your pearl. A gift from the sea, something for you to hold onto. But you must promise to no longer write in ink. If you can make this promise, I will tell you your name, as well, for the ocean knows you well. The wind will remember you from now on, and the seas will continue your legacy. You did not tell me your name before when we met, but I have learned it over time.” The letter-writer smiles, reaching her hand forward. “That’s a deal,” she says, her eyes wide with happiness. “Thank you, Iris of the Ocean.” “Thank you, Runa.” “Runa?” She asks, her eyes growing wider. “That’s my name?” “Yes.” She frowns, looking back up to see Iris’s auburn hair and blue eyes, but they are gone, replaced with the wind and the seas. She is gone, gone back to her home. To the ocean. The letter-writer begins to climb up the hill once more to her cottage by the seas, ready to go into town for a typewriter. Her name is Runa, and she writes letters.
2020. The year that wouldn’t end. Or so we thought. It started off in December 2019, as a news story about some city in China where a lot of people were being hospitalized with some mysterious respiratory illness. Headlines spewed fear and the nightly news paraded a horror show of sick and dying people; all while asking how long would it be until it showed up in the United States, Russia and other parts of the globe. It didn’t take long. In March of 2020, the world changed. Italy was in a nationwide lockdown, due to an overwhelming number of Covid infections. In the United States, there were several hot spots for the Virus. New York City was hit particularly hard by it, as were Los Angeles and Seattle. Just as we started to think the worst was behind us, hurricane season hit us with a record number of named storms; nearly all of which hit the gulf coast of the United States. Economically, we were falling apart because no one could work. Socially, we were ripping ourselves apart over old, new, and long lasting hatreds; all while our political leaders fought over the reigns of power in an election year. Yeah, we thought 2020 was a bad year. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, along with fresh news of a second wave of the virus, everyone was looking forward to enjoying the winter holidays and then celebrating the new year. 2021 had to be a better year than 2020. It couldn’t get any worse. We were all wrong. The first strain of Covid that spread around the globe was just that, the first wave. It changed people for life, physically. Shortness of breath, muscle aches, headaches. It was baffling to our doctors. By the end of November 2020, over two million American citizens had been infected with the first strain. The second strain would move much faster. The second strain hit the northern hemisphere particularly hard. The mortality rate was higher by ten percent than the first and the changes were more obvious. The shortness of breath was still present, but light sensitivity and aural distortions were new. The third strain hit in April 2021. Six months before the visitation. The Third Strain wiped out nearly half of the uninfected population of the planet. Those who didn’t die seemed to recover to better health than before their illness. They were stronger, more energetic and had more efficient cognitive function. Hospitals were overwhelmed as people either died on ventilators or recovered within days of reporting symptoms. Just before the visitation, humanity had just about given up fighting the virus. Nothing we did seemed to work. At one point there was even talk of a vaccination...which proved to be far less effective than it had been touted to be. October 2021. Visitation. They didn’t come down in their ships in the middle of the night or anything overly dramatic. They simply took control of our social media feeds and announced their presence. In a moment we learned many truths. The first was that we were not only, not alone, but that there were many sentient life forms in the universe! We also learned some pretty horrible truths as well. The most horrible was that these other species did not consider us to be sentient beings. Instead, we were considered livestock. Easily configurable livestock. Genetically engineered to breed beyond the capacity of our environment to sustain our population. We were made with enough intelligence to become the dominant species on our planet, thus ensuring our ability to overpopulate our planet. The virus, it seemed, had been engineered to alter our physiology in ways that would be beneficial to inhabiting other planets designated as agricultural planets. The plan was to seed these other planets with altered humans as breed stock. Their new homes were pre-selected based upon the mutations caused by the corona virus they had unleashed on our planet. Those who became stronger would be allowed to stay on earth to start rebuilding the population. They urged us to stay calm through the transition, but would use coercion if they had to. No one would be hurt unless necessary. Of course, our military tried to fight the first ships that entered our atmosphere. They didn’t even last a week. Every military installation on the planet was targeted and destroyed systematically. It was efficiently done. Then they set up the broadcasting stations. These monstrous machines were mounted at the tops of two hundred foot long spikes delivered from low earth orbit. Hundreds of them dropped at a time from orbit spread out as they fell towards each of our inhabited continents. Once they embedded deeply into the earth they began emitting specific pheromones into the surrounding countryside. The pheromones induced a zombie like state in the infected population. Powerless to defend themselves, the affected people would follow specific pheromones to specific gathering points where they were collected in large, automated transport vessels. The pheromones didn’t have the same effect on those of staying on Earth. To us, it seemed to all be a dream. We went about our daily lives, watching our friends, neighbors and even our family members simply walk into one of the transports like it was something they had done everyday of their lives. It all seemed normal until one of us snuck onto one of the ships and disabled it in flight. She survived, no one else did. That was the first sign of resistance. Little Izzy, who was only looking for her mom. She was only fifteen and she found a way to break free of the dream and actually see the horror going on around her. Her next act brought them down in person. She managed to climb to the top of a broadcasting station and disable it with a military grade explosive. Suddenly everyone within its influence radius was awake, confused and horrified by what was happening around them. The strongest of us decided to fight back. Using chemical defense gear from a nearby surplus store, we disabled several Broadcasting Stations before the hunters caught up to us. They really tried not to hurt us. They hit us with optical stunners first. These are like flash grenades but they emit the light in a pattern of flashes that induce a trancelike state in anyone caught in its brilliance. At first it was easy for them to round us up. I couldn’t really see them, because of the armor they were wearing. It seemed to shift and blur in a way that resembled a waters pot on a camera lens. I was on the fringe of the Stunner’s effectiveness and closed my eyes as a reflex. I was ready when the first of them got to me. I could feel an unnatural heat growing around me as the figure came closer and closer to me. Just as the heat became unbearable, I heard a voice in my head encouraging me to be calm. That everything was going to be fine and that I was simply frightened because I didn’t understand. I was reminded of a cowboy talking to a wild horse before touching it for the first time. I forced myself to be calm and grabbed the handle of my knife in anticipation of being touched by a creature I could only discern as a blurry entity. The skin on my leg began to crawl as the approaching heat surrounded my ankle and spread to my calf. The heat was replaced by a clammy, cold grasping sensation on my ankle. I felt the grasp become more firm and I recoiled in revulsion and disgust. I lashed out with my knife, not at my leg, but the air above my leg. Fortune was on my side as the grasping sensation vanished, as did the voice in my head. I felt resistance as my blade struck a solid, fleshy mass and bit deep. I lost my knife when the alien pulled away in shock and pain. His comrades immediately forgot about the other humans and rushed to his aid. To me it appeared as if several water droplets coalesced into one. The optical stunner stopped emitting the terrible light and those of us who were capable of it, ran away. We formed the core of the resistance. Ten of us, including little Izzy. We woke up hundreds and started to fight the forced relocation of humanity. We live here in the Rocky Mountains because we know the land, and we can live off of it. It’s hard for them to find us here. It’s here that humanity will make its stand.
Holly paces before the great hall’s doors, wringing her silver-gloved hands. She knows she should be admiring the festive decorations her team managed to scrounge up in the days since she came up with this plan. But Holly can’t stop thinking of the last Christmas she and her siblings spent together. It was the first family Christmas since her mother’s passing. The holiday season following the death of her father had been more of a celebration; there were inheritance gifts, after all. But without their dear mother to keep the peace, the last gathering ended in disaster and started a war. The War that has raged on for thirteen long years. The War that has claimed many of the lives of Holly’s beloved subjects. One of Holly’s workers, Jane, comes from the kitchen with the final dish -- Shep’s favorite cheesy potatoes -- as the bell tower rings the hour. Holly takes a shaky breath and inspects the great hall one last time. Mismatched ivory candles hang like icicles from the ceiling, dripping globs of wax onto polished bronze candlesticks. The old tinsel draped over the walls has seen better days, but it still refracts the candlelight and sets the cavernous room sparkling. Though it’s undressed, the pine tree in the far corner is the largest Holly’s workers could find on her lands. A cornucopia of fake but beautifully wrapped presents sits beneath it. The centerpiece is the long table where Holly’s family used to enjoy all their Christmas feasts. It is laden with her siblings’ favorite holiday foods, sans any troublemaking chocolate pies, of course. “Do you think it’s enough?” Jane asks. “Not for their lavish tastes, but it will do them good to see the toll this foolish war has taken.” When Jane’s face falls, Holly adds, “But I think it’s lovely. My mother would’ve thought so, too.” The bell tower rings again, announcing her first guest. Holly shoos Jane to retrieve the champagne and pastes on a smile as the great hall doors open. Her eldest brother Ebenezer marches in wearing a gold sword and matching cape, which he whips behind him with a flourish. His boots clack against the marble floor, and the badge pinned to his breast designating him as the current “winner” of the War glints in the candlelight. “How fitting to see you standing in dear mother’s place!” He says by way of greeting. “Merry Christmas, Ebenezer. It’s good to see you.” Ebenezer places two forceful kisses on Holly’s cheeks. “How are you, dear sister? Did you take any casualties last week when my army spanked yours? Ha!” Holly doesn’t let her smile falter, but she does grab a glass from the tray Jane brings around. “As mentioned in my invitation, your presence means you agree not to talk of the War until cocktail hour is over.” “I take it there were many casualties, considering the deflection?” Ebenezer booms with laughter when Holly’s smile slips. He pats her on the back, but Holly thinks his pats have always felt more like blows. “Only joking, sister! Now, where is my chocolate pie?” Holly chokes on her champagne. “Joking again! You must learn to lighten up, sister! So many rules.” He turns to snap at one of her workers. “Servant! Bring me something stiffer than this sparkling stuff, won’t you?” Then he heads toward the tree, wondering aloud if the gifts are real. Holly lets out a breath and sucks in another. The bells ring again. She puts her smile back in place. Cocoa is speaking to someone in her two-way mirror as she strolls through the great hall’s doors. She clearly didn’t read the memo about wearing metal colors. Her fur jacket looks like it’s made of unicorn hair, a rainbow of hues covering her from head to heeled toes, and colorful gems and jewels encrust her towering shoes. “I don’t care how much Shep’s soldiers taunt them,” she says into her mirror. “Holly has called for a holiday truce, and I refuse to be the only one who does not participate.” A muffled voice replies. Cocoa sighs. “I don’t know. Tell them to fight each other for all I care. I’ve got to go.” Holly’s youngest sibling removes the bright pink sunglasses concealing her bloodshot eyes. “Merry Christmas, little sister.” Holly holds out her arms. Cocoa brushes past her. “Must I remind you again not to call me little in public?” “We’re in our family home,” Holly says. “Hardly public.” Cocoa swipes a glass of champagne and puts it back in one go. She scowls. “Could you not spring for the good stuff? I am very much of the opinion that champagne should never be aged. And this...” She sniffs the empty glass and scowls again. “This certainly is overripe.” “You may recall that you hold possession of the vineyard lands these days. If you want better wine when you visit, perhaps you should grant me some of my old territories back.” “It seems you haven’t gotten sweeter with age either.” She squints at me. “Are those wrinkles, sis?” Holly’s hand flies to the frown lines that have formed around her mouth since the start of the War. She seems to be the only of her siblings on whom the War has taken a toll. She hopes Cocoa won’t see the gray hairs, too. “And you used mom’s old decorations?” Cocoa bats away a piece of tinsel, sending up a plume of dust in its wake. She coughs. “This is simply tragic!” Ebenezer returns from his fake-gift-inspecting duties. “Will there not be real gifts?” He asks. “Mother always had gifts.” Holly gestures toward Cocoa. “Say hello to our sister, E.” “Yes, yes, hello.” Ebenezer gives Cocoa air kisses but refuses to look her in the eyes, turning back to Holly. “Now, about those gifts.” Cocktail hour ends, and, in his usual fashion, Shep has yet to arrive. Ebenezer and Cocoa have taken to opposite ends of the great hall. Cocoa talks to her two-way mirror by the broad windows revealing the snowy landscape beyond while Ebenezer instructs Holly’s workers on how to act more like the servants they aren’t. Holly stands from where she’s been sulking and rings her mother’s old bell. Recognizing the sound, Ebenezer and Cocoa start for the table. Ebenezer arrives first, of course. “At last! I’m so starved I was about to eat your servants!” He laughs at his joke before taking up a seat at the table’s head. Holly clears her throat. “You are sitting in my chair, Ebenezer.” “But the head of the table is where I belong,” he says. “Father always said so.” “This is my home now,” Holly reminds him. “Then sit over there.” He gestures to the other end of the table. “Coaks, back me up here. It’s the least you can do.” “Yeah.” Cocoa kicks up her feet on the table. I cringe when a jewel comes loose from her shoe and plops into the cranberry jelly. “Whatever.” Holly sighs. Not wanting to cause a stir (not yet, anyway), she marches to the other end of the table. As soon she sits down, the bell tower rings again. The swirling black hole of chaos that is Holly’s younger brother erupts through the doorway. He, too, ignored the theme and wears his usual black--black suit, black cape, and black leather boots. His cane ticks against the stone floor as he creeps over to us, a flurry of expressions crossing his face. Holly rises to greet him. She is the only one who does. “Merry Christmas, Shep,” Holly says. “I’m glad you decided to come.” He extends the end of his cane to Holly. When she stares at it, he lifts one quizzical brow. Holly thinks he must want her to kiss his cane. She smacks it aside instead. Shep raises both brows. “Interesting.” Holly feels ashamed of letting the annoyance get to her. She should know better than to fall for Shep’s tricks. Shep walks around the perimeter of the table. He pats Cocoa and Ebenezer on their heads when he passes. “Aren’t we too old for duck-duck-goose?” Cocoa asks. Ebenezer waits until the table’s length is between Shep and himself before smacking his knee and jumping to his feet. “You owe me an apology, brother!” “What have I ever done to you?” Shep asks. “You took the first shot!” Ebenezer finally deigns to look at Cocoa. “I wanted to get her back by firing the first shot of the War! But you took it from me!” Shep grins. “I thought that might bother you.” “What kind of brothers would treat their baby sister so?” Cocoa pouts. “You are supposed to be my protectors.” “You lost the right to my protection -- and my love -- after what you did to me!” Ebenezer says. “So dramatic.” Cocoa rolls her eyes. “You could have never survived in my shoes when I got the smallest of father’s territories, the least of father’s attentions, the--” Holly rings her bell again. “Siblings, please. You all agreed to come here in peace.” “Yes, listen to Holly Jolly.” Shep puts his arm around Holly’s shoulders. “Mother did put her in charge of family gatherings.” “And where was Holly’s help when Cocoa stole what was rightfully mine?” Ebenezer glares at Holly. “You used to say the eldest rule the world! I thought that meant you were on my side!” Holly corrects him. “I used to say the eldest rules the world.” Cocoa talks over Holly. “And she always told me sisters should stick together.” “You never much cared to stick together before,” Holly tells Cocoa. But Ebenezer and Cocoa ignore her, devolving into a shouting match over who deserves Holly’s support the most. Holly looks at Shep. He watches Cocoa and Ebenezer with a smug smile. “You’ve been here for five minutes, and look what you’ve done,” Holly says to Shep. “Could you not wait until dessert?” Shep cocks his head. “I see being the loser in this War has changed you, Holly Jolly.” When Ebenezer storms away from the table with a shout for a “servant,” Cocoa butts into the conversation. “Hardly. She is still as spineless as ever.” “Shall we bet on that?” Shep leans across the table, his hand extended toward Cocoa. “I’ll give up my territories with your favorite shops if you win.” “There will be no betting.” Holly softens her words with a smile. “Please.” Cocoa smirks. “See? The same. Like I said.” “Tell the truth!” Ebenezer returns with a glass of whisky and an accusing finger pointed at Cocoa. “I know it was you, you little thief!” “I told you thirteen years ago,” Cocoa says. “It wasn’t me.” “But Shep said it was!” “And to think I regretted blowing your castle to bits for even a moment!” Cocoa says to Shep. “Stop!” Holly rings her bell until the others quit shouting. She turns to Shep. “Did Cocoa eat the first slice of chocolate pie at Christmas thirteen years ago? Tell the truth.” Shep looks each sibling in the eye, his face solemn. Then, he begins to grin. “No, she did not.” Ebenezer goes quiet for once in his life. Cocoa crosses her arms and puts on her sunglasses. “Told you so.” “Then who did eat the slice of pie that started the War?” I ask. Shep’s grin widens. “Why, me, of course.” It takes Holly thirty minutes to break up the ensuing fight. Her chest heaves as she directs her siblings to return to their seats. “Now that Shep has revealed the truth, I hope we can all agree this foolish War should end.” “And give up my lead?” Ebenezer runs a loving finger over his badge. “I think not.” “Agreed,” says Cocoa, pulling out her two-way mirror and glossing her lips. “You only want to quit because you’re losing. But I’ve found I’m quite good at this waging war stuff.” Holly turns to look at her younger brother. She doesn’t know when he managed to fill his plate, but he holds it against his chest, devouring his favorite cheesy potatoes as he watches the drama like a spectator at a game. Holly is glad at least one of her siblings can enjoy the feast her team worked so hard to prepare. “Well?” Holly says to her younger brother. “I would very much like to see what happens if I say, no, I do not agree,” Shep says. “So, no, I do not agree.” Holly deflates. She was hoping for a tie, at least. She has never wished any ill will upon her siblings. But in the thirteen years since they last gathered, Holly has realized her family’s drama is never just family drama. The consequences of their conflicts fall on the backs of their hardworking subjects. It is an injustice her dear mother always turned a blind eye to when their father was alive, but one Holly intends to correct. “Very well,” she says. “If we all must go to war again tomorrow, the least we can do for our dear mother’s memory is to share a dessert tonight.” Holly rings her bell once more, and Jane enters. She carries a chocolate pie. Holly carves the pie into four pieces and dishes them up on the very plates used for that fateful pie thirteen years ago. She places the first piece before Ebenezer like a white flag. “For you, brother,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t support your claim to the first slice of pie thirteen years ago.” Ebenezer looks smug as he tucks a napkin into his shirt. “At least one of you has some sense.” Holly retrieves the second slice of pie and brings it to Cocoa. Cocoa’s brows ripple in surprise. “For you, sister,” Holly says. “I’m sorry you always got the last slice of pie growing up.” Cocoa pushes up her sunglasses and gives me a rare smile. “Finally, someone understands my sorry lot in life.” Ebenezer is devouring his pie already, refusing to wait for the others to be served. Cocoa follows his lead. “Doesn’t taste like mom’s,” she says through a full mouth. Holly takes a deep breath and retrieves the third plate of pie. She places it before Shep. “And for you, Shepherd,” she says. “I have always felt we could be friends if you worked as hard to keep the family together as you do to set us at each other’s throats.” “Friends?” Cocoa frowns, licking the last bit of chocolate from her fork. “You didn’t say that to me.” A thud sounds from the head of the table. Cocoa screams, jumping from her chair at the sight of Ebenezer facefirst in the cranberry jelly. Her scream cuts off, and she wobbles on her bejeweled heels before crashing to the floor. Shep starts laughing. Holly sees that he has not taken a single bite of his pie. The doors to the great hall open one last time, admitting a line of Holly’s soldiers. Shep laughs harder. “When did you know?” Holly asks. “The moment you slapped away my cane,” says Shep, “I knew you’d brought us here to end the War, whether we agreed or not.” “Then why did you not agree?” Holly asks. “I admire your plotting, but the war games have grown mundane,” says Shep. “This is just the shakeup I’ve been hoping for, Holly Jolly, though I didn’t expect it from you.” He claps his hands like a child at Christmas. “I have never been so excited for what’s to c--.” Shep’s words cut off as he collapses onto the table. Holly walks over and pats his head. “Silly goose. You should have known there was poison in the food, too.” The soldiers close in and bunch up the tablecloth to dispose of the hazardous feast. Three more soldiers carry away the limp forms of her wicked siblings. Holly picks up her chocolate pie, taking a bite of the one slice her team didn’t poison. She smiles, the first real one in thirteen years, and finishes her piece in peace.
I pulled the coat closer around me as the chill of the February day seeped through my coat. The road was packed with traffic, and I kept walking along the sidewalk. I slowed to a stop as I came near the crosswalk and pushed the button and waited, watching the multiple of cars with their snug drivers and passengers inside. My stomach grumbled and I grimaced. I glanced up at the road sign, reading the words “Blue Lakes Blvd.” My stomach grumbled even louder and I patted it. “Hold your horses,” I grumbled back, “Lunch is right there.” Indeed, it was. I could see the DQ logo standing out above the small square building, a line of cars in the drive through. I’d rather walk the two miles to this DQ, as the one on Addison was not known for being speedy. More then once I had been forced to wait for a long time. “I could really use someone to talk to,” I grumble. “Maybe if my lazy, no account husband would work from home and not at the hotel, I could talk to someone.” “Hello from the outside!” The voice caused me to start, and I looked around. No one was nearby, a kid was sitting on the hood of his car in the parking lot roughly four parking spots from where I stood. I shook my head. “Damn paranoia,” I grumble. “This is what happens when my hubby won’t even let me get a dog! The jerk!” Now, you might think that I dislike the jerk. Nope, I love the jerk, but I wanted a dog. It was hard staying at home all day. I pulled the phone from my pocket to see if anyone had texted. Not my mom, not my husband, not the mother-in-law. Not even my best friend had texted me. So, back in the pocket it went, the phone feeling weird rubbing against my cold legs through the jeans. The crosswalk light lit up after what seemed like a couple minutes, and I started walking across the road. Luckily, we didn’t get too much in the way of ice, and the road was fairly clean of slush. As I was walking across, I barely got pass the first set of cars when I heard the voice again. “Take me out tonight!” It was songful, keeping in time with the lyrics. I frown, looking behind me. Nobody was following me, and I glance towards the cars. The driver nearest me was in what appeared to be a very angry yelling match with his dashboard. I frown and shake my head. “Well, at least it’s date night and indeed, I can’t wait to be taken out tonight.” “In the dark of the night, evil will find her!” “All right!” I snap, rushing across the road to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. “Whose talking? Don’t you dare think to tell me I’m not hearing you!” “I’ve got a hand in your pocket and a key on your chain!” I glanced down at my pocket and indeed put my hand in there, following the suggestion and pulled it out. It was an iPhone and as I looked at it, the screen was filled with the album cover of One Foot by Walk the Moon. It was currently paused. I look at it, and frowning, pushed the home screen to close it. That was a hubby song, he liked it and I don’t know why it would be on my phone. Instead, it did not move, but stayed on there. “This is strange,” I mutter, “Why aren’t you working? You better not freeze up, I know you’re a piece of junk but that’s no reason to act this way.” The screen changed to an entirely new song and the phone suddenly sang out, “I’m sorry that I let you down, l-l-let you down!” My mouth dropped open. Was my phone sentient? Was the robot revolution at hand? My husband would love writing such a story. Phones secretly conspiring to take over the world. He’s a real nerd. A grin to myself and I decide to test it, because of how silly it was that such a thing could actually be sentient. “Alright, let’s pretend that you are sentient,” I say aloud, “What day is it today?” “It’s just another manic Monday!” it replied cheerfully. This puzzled me. It was being a little too sentient for my taste. Like reddit bots. You ever see those things? Sometimes they are crazy scary with how easily they get conjured up and have full length conversations. Deciding to play along, I decided to ask one more question. This time I ask the phone, “What was my dad’s favorite song to sing to me?” The lock screen changed to an entirely new album cover. The Temptation’s “My Girl” album cover popped up and sang a single lyric from it. This was enough to convince me that my phone was indeed sentient, like Chucky from Child’s Play. I just hoped that it wasn’t going to try killing me. I was a little confused as to why it could only speak in music though if it had indeed become self-aware. It reminded me of that one movie, where a robot can only talk through the radio. I forget the name, the hubby could probably answer that. I didn’t have long to ponder though this turn of events. The phone decided to speak up and ask its own question. “Why haven’t I heard from you?” the Southern-accented voice of Reba strong. I blink a few times. “What?” I ask, “I don’t understand.” “It’s been a long, long time.” “Look,” I sigh, “I’ve been really busy, ya know? Besides, you’re a phone. I use you talk to others not at you.” “Do you really want to hurt me?” the phone replied. I mean, I wanted to chuck it a few times for being old and I’m pretty sure it was junk and virus filled. However, I wasn’t going to say that. My mom had always taught me to not say anything that wasn’t nice. So, I wasn’t going to say that. “Look, I don’t really want to,” I tell my phone, staring at it. “I just.....look, why now do you want to talk to me? Why reveal yourself after all this time?” The phone suddenly went silent. It didn’t respond and I was reminded of a youtube video buffering. It had that feeling to it. No, it had a thoughtful feeling to it. Like it was trying to figure out how to put into words what it wanted to say. Not sure how to word things in such a way not to make the recipient angry. The pause came to an end and the phone’s question came. “Where is my mind?” That was an odd question and stumped me. How exactly do I answer that question? I wasn’t a philosopher, and I wasn’t a technician. I didn’t know how to respond to such a question. That was some deep, soul-searching question that was beyond my ability to answer. “I don’t know,” I respond. The phone responded with “Hurt” by Johnny Cash. The way it played it, it was very slow and melancholy. I felt my heart strings being tugged and I didn’t like it. I had enough troubles with heartburn to deal with that. So, I urge it to ask me another question. “Do you believe in magic?” That was an odd question. I blink at the phone, wondering why it was asking me such weird questions. Where was its mind? Did I believe in magic? What, did I miss the owl with the invitation to Hogwarts or something? Was I accidentally in Salem and the Sanderson Sisters going to eat me alive? Don’t know why they would, I was a full-grown woman, dammit! “Look,” I said, my stomach growling loudly, protesting my not having fed it. “I guess I do, but I don’t know what that has to do with anything. Look, I’m hungry and....” “What is love?” I glance at my phone and I’m getting a little frustrated at these nonsensical questions. I was hungry, I hadn’t realized I had stopped moving once I got to the other side of the road, DQ was close by and I was being asked questions that weren’t part of my major in college. If it wanted some of these answers, it should watch a TED talk. “Well,” I say trying to be polite, “That’s a very interesting question. Love is about finding your soul mate that makes you feel appreciated, and that you are enough. You don’t need to hide your vulnerabilities to them. It makes you feel good, sad, happy, frustrated and wonderful at the same time. What’s with that question anyways?” “I love you, you love me,” the phone sang to me in the Barney theme-song, then it shocked me by changing the song. “I know he’s just not right for you.....I know I can treat you better, Better than he can!” The song lyrics caught me by surprise and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. This was some silly nonsense that honestly, I was too hungry to deal with. The phone was proclaiming it’s undying love to me? Didn’t it see the ring on my finger? Hadn’t it been in the same room when we did more than declare our undying love for each other? “You are so silly phone,” I giggle like a little girl. “What does that even mean? I have a husband.
Night was beginning again and sure enough, an orangish, redlining began to strum the edges of a dusty horizon. Far off somewhere amid the endless miles of dunes walked a half-dead corpse, treading upon what so long ago thrived. But now in every direction, sand stretched across this barren wasteland, engulfing the so-called world few inhabited. What lived, killed, and what was killed, rotted alongside the souls of the living. Each grain of sand this corpse-like-traveler kicked up was one of sin and pain, a breeding ground for death and despair. And with each step one took echos from beneath strained in your ears, begging and grasping for anything. Hell couldn’t have been any closer. Klunk, Klunk, klunk, klunk. “Daum this bad.” Cliunch, cliunch. “Daum this is really bad. Did that old, mute codger tell me to take a left at the crossroad or was it a right...Daum.” The traveler had crossed many deserts all part of the whole, not one was any different than another. The traveler sought a town that rested beyond the red of a sand dune somewhere seemingly past infinity. This town was supposedly large in size and in number. And the city had golden gates that stretched miles across hairs of green grass. The glimmer and magnitude of the gates were marveled by all who stood facing it from any direction. And the inhabitants that resided peacefully within the city’s marvelous gates, were mostly in the older stages of life. Yet despite their old, grouchy, highly envied lives, the residents kindly welcomed all who sought their heavenly oasis or so he was told once long ago by his mother. Eventually making up his mind, the weary traveler decided to stay left at the fork and slowly, yet surely, he made his way, sticking to the dirty beaten path he has tread upon for so long. The traveler had walked many miles, day after day, month after month, and year after year, and not once had he come across a town that met such a description. Yet the traveler stayed upon this path, completely relying on hope and the whisper of a fairy tale ingrained within his heart. On the verge of yielding his search, the traveling man crawled to peer over one last reddish sand dune, and to the world’s wonder there stretching off into the desert a magnificent gate, a gate that seemed impossible, until now, to find. The man broke down upon his knees and wept until the sun had fully dissipated into the horizon. His search had come to an end. After traveling seven years upon this wasted world his seemingly endless search had reaped benefits. The traveler made his way closer and closer to the city’s gates, hardly believing what his eyes made out. “Surely.” he said to himself, “Surely this is it, this must be it, Surely.” The traveler, now sprinting toward the gates, yelped out into the night, begging the sun to rise once again so as to cast light upon the golden egg of the blood-stained world. In fact, he believed if the sun did at once rise again he would welcome death in any torturous way. Eventually, the man couldn’t stand to wait in the dark any longer, he must reach the town, he must reach the heaven on hell. Two figures in soldier’s armor approached the traveler steadily with spears and spoke out, “What is it that you seek young vagabond?” The traveler still stained by the tears from before responded with the words spoken by a transformed man: “I seek a life within your city of gold and green. A permanent stay if at all possible. For I am exhausted and tired of traveling upon this desolate, life straining world. Since the very day I found out that there was a city such as this hidden amongst the dirt, I have yearned to learn more about it. So I could be in this very spot, talking to you. ” The two soldiers glanced at one another, then in unison, both took off their helmets and placed them upon the grains of hell beneath their feet. “Welcome, we will humbly accept your request.” The two soldiers, leaving their helmets stranded in the abyss, turned towards the gates, and instantly cracks of something bright unlike light began to seep through the crevices of the opening masterpiece. The brightness of the inside overwhelmed the traveler so much so that the two gatesmen had to pick him up and carry him inside. Within the walls, there were wondrous pieces of art and sculptures. And houses of gold and silver-lined the city streets, each leading in different directions and met up in many different ways. Instantly the two solders dissipated back into the night, possibly to retrieve their helmets from before, but neither one returned. The traveler gradually regained his bearings and as soon as he did he noticed the difference of color upon the ground. Thereupon the ground was grass, the greenest of its kind. The traveler flopped upon the strands in ecstasy, crying out-loud in triumph. Upon the grass not far from the traveler, a group of children danced and sang merely. The words the children used in their melodies were recognizable to the traveler but put together with the melody, each word sounded similar to an infant's speech. And Old folks trod grudgingly past each other block after block going somewhere, but where too would never be determined. The brightness that once overwhelmed the traveler from before now yielded to darkness which swiftly swept over the buildings and citizens in only a moment's notice, yet the children and old folk’s actions were completely unfazed by any change of any sort. The traveler, shocked by all that had taken place, stooped around upon the firm soil bewildered and frightened. The world he dreamed of for so long ago seemed so different than what appeared before him now. The gates he envied to see for so long, that were only a few footsteps behind him, had vanished from sight along with the brightness he saw once he first entered the gates. From up ahead an old man approached the traveler, he wore long silk stockings and a baggy suit with columns of buttons running down the sides of his sleeves. And his body stretched outward farther than it did upward. “Hello, there good sir! You must be the stranger the guards picked up outside the gates. Is that right?” Mumblelishly, the traveler managed to make out somewhat of a yes to the old man. “Alright, ok ok, and they did mention to me that you’d wish to live here freely, is this also valid?” “Yes”, said the traveler once again, this time with a slightly more lively tone to it. “Righteo, then lastly..., I assume then that you do have something to give to the rest of the residents in compensation for allowing you to live alongside us?” “Huh”, said the traveler still utterly confused by the changes in his surroundings and now, even more so, bewildered by the previous statement. “I asked you, dear sir, do you have anything to give to us in compensation, for allowing you to live here.” “No sir, I do not.” responded the traveler monotonously, looking now at the rounded man. “So, you have nothing, is that truly true?” “Yes sir, that is correct. I have nothing of worth to give anyone in this town, nothing at all. I was told by many that this town was free of charge to dwell in, but it appears now that I am here, I would be mistaken." An impish grin consisting of both fire and malice rose upon the rounded man's face. "Indeed, you would be mistaken, no place as such lies on this earth. This world is consumed by evil, and evil is all it will ever be." The ground beneath the two began to tremble, and spurts of sand gushed up from beneath, smothering the grass and the soil. Yet the children didn't relent from singing, neither did they hesitate from laughing. Not even the old folks faltered when they walked through the sand pits, which we're building up all across the ground. Fear along with sand gripped the wanderer's body, and there was nothing he could do about it, for the roundish man he had once been conversing with dissolved into the sand which was gushing out from almost every place, there was absolutely nothing that he could change. Nothing at all... And so with that thought in mind, the young man leaned back and embraced the sand upon which he will forever lay.
It was some time in December or January, I cannot recollect exactly as those days blend together for the most part. I was getting around the city enjoying the days and atmostphere. They say there's no bad weather only bad clothing. It's true, with good layering you can withstand winds and chill. And that allowed me to walk all over the city like some lost person but no less curious than a tourist. I was born here but I never really spent time hanging out in Manhattan like the norm used to be in the late sixties and seventies. Manhattan was small enough back then.. I made my way to the downtown area to admire the Statue of Liberty from the very tip of the island since it's expensive to get to Liberty island, or so I hear. I never much cared to ask since I'm alone a lot. Kids all getting out of school making me anxious so I take a hike North to take a chill pill at Bryant Park. It's so cold and it's all I can think about. Made it to Twenty-something Street and Second avenue. I walk closer to a roudiness that I hear in the distance. As if I had just snapped back to my senses and guttural talking and swearing is all I hear. Knocked out of this trance in which I was walking eternally just staring down at my boots. I raise my head to three strong men. They appear to be construction workers because they wear backpacks with hardhats and wear Carhartt coats. The brand may appear irrelavent but it appears it's a trusted brand among construction workers. One leans over and blows a fart noise with his tongue and the other two guys begin swearing at me. Naturally I keep walking as confrontation is too dramatic. It was too late when I hear foot steps rushing behind me. One of them ran up and pushed me to the ground from behind. My mobility is limited as i have too many layers and can't do much with my arms. He starts stomping on me yelling "s* my *k"! I kick back while laying on my back for as long as I could. I know I got him in the face. I felt something land on my heel. I manage to grab a hold of his foot and the other two men caught up and began beating my head. I tried keeping my face low so that I can still try to see and be aware of my surroundings but every thing moved so fast. In the blur of it all I see his ankle exposed and I bite it. He forces me off with a kick that sent me flying away. Strong men. In that moment I try standing but they push me back down. I hear a cop in the distance. "Hey! Knock it off! What's the matter with you guys". They ease off. Without fear. They tell the cop how much of a punk I was, while walking away. Nobody was detained. I was not questioned. My guess, they went back to the bar. I continued on my way. Everyone staring. Some smile. Some don't. Maybe they might not have killed me. But if their police friends never showed up, I may have had some worse scars to prove it.
Adult Content The clock is ticking, just a few minutes til 5. Andrea taps her foot impatiently as she waits for it to be time for her to leave this hellhole she calls work. The longest part of her day is always these last ten minutes of her shift at the diner, and she can hear her bed calling her name from all the way across town. She longs for the day where she doesn’t have to worry about getting table 22 their fourth round of refills, or forgetting that one rude lady with the orange hair’s ranch. As she’s counting her tips, Andrea looks down at her phone to check the time when she sees a message on her phone. “Still on for 6 o’clock? Can’t wait to see you in that pretty little red dress, dear. ;)” She rushes, finishing up counting the rest of her tips that provide nothing but humility in this very moment. “Fuck, I forgot about this guy,” she whispers to herself as she places her cash in her bag. Her french tip acrylic nails make a loud tapping sound as she frantically clocks out to leave. She hurries to her car and makes her way home. When she gets home, she immediately peels her clothes off and starts looking for her crimson, tight nightgown. She puts on some mascara and some brown eyeshadow to give herself a seductive look, finishing off the look with some lip gloss. She takes another look at the time. 6pm on the dot. “Any minute now,” she whispers to herself. All of a sudden, Andrea gets a Facetime call from her macbook. Andrea’s heart starts pumping so much blood you would’ve thought she just competed in the Olympics. “Fuck.” Andrea pauses and takes a deep breath before getting into character. She clicks the green button to pick up. To her surprise, the man on the other side of the screen is strikingly attractive. A man with deep green eyes and tan skin starts to speak. “Hello princess. Oh my God you’re even more gorgeous than I thought.” Andrea blushes, but does her best to remain focused on the task at hand. “Thank you, love.” She leans in closer to the camera, making sure to show just enough cleavage to keep the man enticed. “Wow, I can’t wait to see what’s underneath that little red dress you got on. Why don’t you take it off for me?” Andrea lets out a slight chuckle. “Not so fast, babe. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.” Men are the lamest and easiest creatures on the planet to her. So eager to do anything just to calm their sexual urges. Take this man, for example. He stumbled across her ad and immediately purchased a session within only twenty seconds of viewing her profile. No wife, no kids, young, rich. He had everything a man would need to find a date, or so Andrea thought. But that’s not important, she reminds herself. What’s important now is to give this guy the show he wants so that her ratings and reviews don’t plummet. “I’ve been so excited to see you, and from the looks of your pants I think you’re even more excited.” The man looks down at his groin where you can see a visible imprint of the boner he can’t conceal. After some flirtatious banter with the man, Andrea finally starts to give him what he wants. She slowly starts to peel the straps from her nightgown off the sides of her shoulders, lowering the top part just enough to get a slight glimpse of her nipples before she pulls it back up to hide them. She loves a good teasing moment. It keeps the clients on the edge of their seats, among other things they’re already on the edge of. After doing this two more times, she fully slips the gown to the floor, leaving her in just a little red thong. “Ohhhh my Godddddd,” moans the man, who at this point is starting to unbuckle his work pants. Andrea rubs on her boobs and nipples as she watches him pull out his throbbing dick. She tries to keep her eyes as seductive as possible while noticing that it’s so big she would probably need a wheelchair after a night with him. Her hands move to the sides of her boobs where she pushes them together and gives them a little jiggle. This makes the man start moaning every cuss word imaginable. When it’s a hot customer like this, Andrea usually keeps her cool, but this man. This man is so attractive that even she is starting to get hot. She turns around and moves her hips, bending over just enough for the man to see the outline of her pussy. “Fuck baby, look how wet you’re getting. I wish I was there to clean it all up with my tongue.” Just the thought of this has Andrea over the edge now. Normally she doesn’t meet up with her clients, however if given the opportunity, Andrea would let him do things to her that she never let her good-for-nothing ex boyfriend of 4 years do. She moves her camera from her desk to her bed, where she gets down on all fours and starts to arch her back, making sure the angle makes her ass look good. The more this man speaks, the more she wants to do things she’s never done for clients. She begins slipping off her underwear as her legs are in the air, making sure her vagina is in view of the camera. This makes the man start stroking his dick a little bit faster and his moans start to get louder and louder. The way his moans echo in her head make her lose control. She pulls out her dildo and starts teasing him with it. She kisses the dildo, making sure to kiss and lick every inch of it. She gets the dildo and starts to slowly inch it down her throat. Once she has all of it in her mouth, the man lets out a grunt she hadn’t yet heard before during this session. The grunt didn’t sound like a moan, and at this point Andrea was just having fun hearing the man moan, she wasn’t really focused on giving him the show he wanted anymore. However this grunt took her by surprise so she sat up and looked at the screen. Andrea dropped the dildo she was holding and let out a scream. On the other side of the screen, was a different man wearing a mask, stabbing her client with a knife. She watched in horror as the killer approached the camera and took his mask off. “Luis what the fuck?!” Her ex boyfriend sets the mask down, taking a seat where the man he just killed was once seated. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. That guy was a fucking loser anyway. And why the fuck have you never showed me your pussy on camera?! All those times I stayed in Jersey you never once let me see!” Andrea rolled her eyes “well that’s because I don’t show pussy for free dumbass.” Luis scoffed, “oh whatever. Here.” He picks up the man’s phone and Andrea gets a Cashapp notification on her phone for $1,000 from Theo Martin. “Now can I see?” Andrea lets out a sigh. “Get help.” She hangs up the phone and proceeds to order her Amazon wishlist. “I guess he’s good for something sometimes, ugh but that guy was cute though.” She sighs to herself and clicks “order.
A frenzied shriek over the airwaves was the only response to the controller’s repeated request for identification. A few tense moments later, the unidentified plane crashed east of the airport and nearly caused an air-to-ground collision. A midsize jet had been taxing down the runway in preparation for takeoff but had to abort in lieu of the emergency circumstances. The crash investigators were surprised there were no survivors or human remains found amid the wreckage. A cursory examination revealed that the vast majority of the doomed vessel was still intact; allowing for a realistic outcome of survivors. As a matter of fact, no explosion or fire had occurred at all in the fuselage. Closer inspection revealed the reason was because the fuel tanks were completely empty at the moment of impact. What did puzzle them was the very odd combination of forty five sticks of dynamite; and the bodies of twenty seven adult chimpanzees. “With those sticks of dynamite, there wouldn’t have been anything left if it still had fuel.”; They reasoned. "Luckily they didn't detonate from the impact alone." The obvious conclusion to the mystery was that the plane had been piloted by rogue animal smugglers. Those unscrupulous criminals were lured by the illicit fees paid to smuggle primates across the world to North American experimental laboratories. Another curious aspect of the investigation was the unusual location of the dead apes. They were scattered throughout the plane; instead of being in cages or crates. Ordinarily wild animal smugglers isolate them in the cargo hold during transportation. Three of the apes were even in the cockpit area. The investigators concluded that the smugglers had miscalculated their fuel supply and had bailed out before the crash; or hastily made their escape as the emergency vehicles screamed to the scene. “Perhaps a loose chimpanzee distracted them from checking the fuel gauge.”; Another theorized enthusiastically. "During the chaos, the loose primate may have freed the others. That would explain the dead chimps being in the cockpit." An all points bulletin was put out for the unknown suspects. The official report suggested at least three would have been required to fly a plane of that size. Since it crashed near the runway, it was assumed they were still close by. After running the plane’s ID number through the database, it was determined to have been stolen a few hours earlier from a large land development company. The mid-sized cargo plane had been taken from an airfield near the owner's construction site; four hundred miles away. Perplexing to the investigators was the fact that the company headquarters was only a few miles away from where the stolen plane crashed. It seemed to be quite a curious “coincidence” that (of all the places the smugglers could have went with their contraband), their flight path was in direct line to whom it had stolen it from. That revelation brought up many unanswered questions which needed to be taken up with the owner. He agreed to come in for questioning and to give an official statement. When asked why the stolen explosives hadn’t been reported, the owner contended that he had no knowledge of it. He further explained that he hadn’t even been told about the missing plane until an hour beforehand by the site foreman. His explanation and genuinely confused expression satisfied the local police but they had been given strict instructions to detain him a bit longer. A federal agent was on the way to further interviewed him. In all investigations involving explosives, animal smuggling, and aircraft highjacking the government assumes jurisdiction since criminal offenses of that nature could threaten national security. Also taken very seriously are suspected cases of insurance fraud and false theft reports. That was exactly what the inspector suspected under the circumstances. The lead investigator wanted to judge for himself if the developer had anything to hide, before releasing him. When he arrived; the agent formally introduced himself as Special Operations Investigator Joe Harris. He removed his mirrored sunglasses and deftly placed them in the coat pocket of his tailored suit. After taking a few minutes to familiarize himself with the facts of the case, he proceeded to the interrogation room for the questioning. Recently the government had tightened down on animal smuggling after U.S. based animal right’s organizations put pressure on them. Most state officials resented interference by the same country that created the incentive for smuggling in the first place but the American tourist dollar was a major part of their economy. They couldn’t afford to ignore the animal rights groups since they were such a powerful lobby. The general consensus however was that it would have made much more sense for them to tackle the problem from where it started; the U.S. Being a country with extreme poverty made this lure of riches simply too tempting to their poor countrymen. In the interrogation room, the agent questioned the owner with deliberate repetitiveness. He did this to determine if the same answer was given each time it was asked. This particular method of interrogation is called re-collective continuity. It is considered one of the best techniques for uncovering the truth about the subject’s statement. In this case however, the developer seemed to be telling the truth so he was cleared of suspicion and released. Two days later Agent Harris flew to the construction site and began interviewing laborers about the theft. As his first subject he chose the construction foreman since he had been the one to report the theft. From there, he planned on working his way down throughout the ranks of workers and contractors. During the initial interview, the foreman went over the events leading up to the robbery. When he mentioned the strange circumstance of the chimpanzees being loose on the plane, the foreman offered: “I don’t guess it would have done any good to cage the little bastards!” When asked for further clarification; the foreman explained that for months chimpanzees had been breaking into their supply hut and stealing food and snacks at night. Finally sensing what he meant, the agent dropped his serious disposition and asked with a humorous overtone; “Well, didn’t you lock it?” To that the foreman explained that at first there didn’t seem to be any need to. Eventually the supplies just started disappearing and couldn’t be accounted for. “That still doesn’t prove that...” “I hid outside one night and waited to catch the thief. It was then that I saw with my own eyes!”; He interrupted. “Those harry rascals crept over quietly and pulled the stick out of the lock flap and helped themselves to several cookies before I chased them off!”; He continued. Agent Harris broke into an ‘ear to ear’ grin. “You guys never heard of a padlock?” “Of course we’ve heard of padlocks.”; He sneered. The thick sarcasm annoyed him. “But that didn’t do any good either! They must have watched us put up the key on the pegboard next to the bulldozer keys. The next day, more food was missing and the supply hut’s key was on the wrong hook. I thought one of the men was playing a joke but I’ll be damned if we didn’t catch one of ’em the next morning ‘red handed’; trying to put the key back, with a candy bar in his other hand!” “You mean to tell me the apes were unlocking the padlock with the key?”; Joe grinned. “Not only that; they were locking it back so we couldn’t tell!” Agent Harris roared with laughter. “I’m tellin’ ya’, those monkeys are smart. They were sneaking into our R & R lounge and watching T.V. at night! We never caught ‘em but we could tell they had been in there because our generator was ran down every morning. Muddy paw prints would be everywhere!” “Well; so much for the ‘perfect crime’!”; He chuckled. A hilarious vision flashed in his mind of the chimpanzees sitting around watching “Bedtime for Bonzo”; while eating popcorn and wearing human clothes. Slowly he rose from the chair and thanked the foreman for the very amusing story. “The crazy things I encounter at this job!”; he thought to himself. One by one, Agent Harris eliminated all the workers as suspects at the development complex. They had all given similar accounts of the events which took place on the day of the theft; and all had 'iron clad' alibis. About the only interesting fact of the whole investigation was that the nearby chimps had a preference for candy bars and old war movies. The only other information came from workers who cleaned up after the rogue primates but he wasn’t about to put any of that ridiculous hearsay in his report. He would have been the laughing stock. There didn’t seem to be anything further to uncover there so he prepared for the return trip to the crash site. Unfortunately his dismissal of the provided testimonials at the development site was wrong. All the evidence he needed to solve the case was right there 'under his nose' but he refused to see it! In all fairness, he wasn’t alone in being oblivious. No one else would have been able to accept the true facts of the mystery either. Rapidly, the jungle was being bulldozed down to make room for the new development; and the ‘rascals' were watching their home disappear. Since fruit is their primary source of food and trees are their source of shelter and recreation, they began to suffer losses of both; as they were cut down. It was only natural that they would resort to raids on the supply hut and the R & R lounge (to seek food and recreation) since the source of both was becoming increasingly scarce. There in the lounge the Chimpanzees learned about war and bombing missions while watching T.V. They wanted to extract revenge on the humans who were responsible for destroying their home, so the supply plane seemed to be the logical answer. Many times they had witnessed the destructive power of dynamite while watching human’s blow up tree stumps out of the ground for clearing land. They simply navigated toward “enemy headquarters” for a retaliatory strike with the human’s fire sticks. Only a little more fuel in the plane stood in their way of successfully blowing up the land developer’s office and extracting justice. Still; I know that many of you readers will refuse to believe this is a case of “monkey see, monkey do”; but look at ME for proof! I learned how to type while watching the same T.V. as the others.
Mother was in her dreams. “A butterfly,” she said, looking at Mother. “What does a butterfly have to do with it?” They were in a meadow. Tufts of grass plumed up around them like little green fires. The sky overhead was a deep blue, vast and wide, bluer and fuller than the sky had ever been in the waking world. There were no trees, only plain, undulating meadow for miles and miles, touching the blue horizon like the confluence of two rivers. “A butterfly,” Mother said, and as she spoke a richly-colored monarch butterfly fluttered gently down to settle on her finger, antennae whispering in the gentle warm breeze. “A butterfly does not change by force of will. It undergoes its metamorphosis because it must. There is no choice, there simply comes a time where it must be a butterfly. And a butterfly it becomes.” She tilted her smooth pink fingers outwards and the butterfly rushed once more into the breeze, flapping its magnificent wings, whispering through the empty meadow. She watched it fly away, shrinking and shrinking until it vanished somewhere off in the warm blue ocean of sky. There was no sun, either, she noticed. The light simply was. It came from within every atom that hung in the air around her. It came from her. But most of all it came from Mother, who seemed to radiate light and warmth as does a lit hearth in winter. She was so much warmer and fuller than she had ever been in life or memory. “But I do have a choice, don’t I? I’m not like the butterfly. I can stay a caterpillar if I choose to.” Mother laughed softly, peacefully. “No, dear. You are already locked away in your cocoon. You are more like the butterfly than you realize. The change has come upon you suddenly, as though from outside your own will, though you are the one bringing it about. Your metamorphosis has begun, my dear. In fact, you are almost finished.” “What do you mean, Mother?” “You will understand soon enough. It is a wonderful thing. It’s the reason I’m here now, the metamorphosis.” “And where is here, Mother?” The radiant woman closed her full round eyes for a moment, opened them. “It is nowhere, and it is everywhere, my dear. As trite as you may find that. I am with you, still. I am you, to an extent. This is a place outside the bounds of where you have been before. Though from it you were born, and to it you will return. It is the place your mind goes when you are asleep. It is with you when you are awake.” “I don’t understand.” “You will, dear. You will.” “Is this a dream?” “It is, and it isn’t. You’ll have forgotten it by morning, anyway.” She looked around herself, taking in the vast, open meadow, feeling the warm sun on her back, stretching out her fingertips in the omnipresent radiance. There was a strange familiarity, a nostalgia to the whole place, to the almost-nothingness inherent in it. “I won’t forget.” “You will, dear. You’ve been here many times before. We’ve talked. I’ve helped you. You remember fragments of it, see. Fragments that you take back with you to the flesh-and-blood world. But I will be here waiting for you, when you are ready.” “And when will that be?” “When the metamorphosis is complete. When you and the butterfly are as one.” “Mother,” she asked, averting her eyes from the warm, bright woman ahead of her. “Do you like it here?” Mother chuckled. “There are no likes or dislikes here. Everything is as one. ‘Here’ is all a part of me, and I am but a part of it. It is not about whether I like or dislike it. I am. The ‘am’ itself is too much, even. There is simply an ‘I.’ An immortal, omnipresent, unifying ‘I’.” She was still looking at the ground. She noticed, as she watched, that the green tufts of the meadow were losing their lustre. Slowly, gently they were being drained of their very essence. She looked up. The sky, too, was being drained; its blue lost its saturation, and even as she watched great swathes of it withered to a lifeless grey. She looked around for her mother. The meadow had grown cold. “Mother!” The old woman in front of her had shriveled, shrunk, diminished so much in size as to become unrecognizable from the scintillating, bright creature that had stood there moments before. She tried to step forward, but her legs were rooted to the ground, were one with the ground. Mother was fading, turning grey, aging at one hundred years a minute. Her skin flaked and cracked, her spine became twisted as she stood, half-crouched in front of her daughter. Mother was losing her color, too. Her hair, now, was grey. Now her eyes. Now each and every part of her. “Mother!” she tried to call, but no sound escaped. Mother faded, the meadow faded, the metamorphosis was almost complete. She awoke. * * * That morning Eloise received a call from her mother. She wanted to meet that night for dinner. A high-class Italian restaurant, top of the line. It would be her treat, she said, a certain urgency in her tone. The call happened in a whirlwind. Eloise found herself shushed before she could speak. Soon it was over. It was the first time they had spoken in almost fifteen years, since Eloise was twelve. Eloise, since that day, had been raised in the care of an aunt, Jackie, her mother’s sister. Jackie did not have any children of her own, nor did she want any, but she had devoted herself to Eloise with a sort of self-sacrificial stoicism for which Eloise felt a great deal of guilt and gratitude. Eloise spent the morning and afternoon in fits of nervousness. She found herself flitting from one corner of her small apartment to the other, wondering to herself, sometimes aloud. “What’s gotten into her?” she murmured over and over again, busying herself with straightening the couch cushions, rearranging her bookshelves, picking loose clothes off the floor. All the while her heart thumped steadily away in her chest, making her aware of its every motion. Her head ached. Eventually, as it must inevitably do, evening rolled around. Eloise’s hands shook as she tried three times to fit the car keys into the narrow ignition slot. On the fourth attempt she managed it, startling herself with the car’s strangled roaring all around her. She drove with care, hands trembling. * * * “My oh my,” Mother beamed, awash in her own exuberance. “Look at how much you’ve grown!” Eloise looked at her. A wide leather purse hung heavily from one of her arms. She did not look as Eloise remembered her, but she could not quite place what had changed. “You’ve gotten so tall, dear. And so beautiful, too.” Cars thundered along the street behind them. “Oh, come on then.” Mother took her arm and pulled her through the double doors into the restaurant. A warm, deep red light seemed to permeate the dully humming atmosphere indoors. A jazz band played somewhere off in the dimness, and there was the quiet, sibilant swoosh of so many hushed conversations taking place in parallel. Rich, buttery aromas infused the very floorboards, hanging in every atom of air around Eloise and her mother. A waiter approached them, spoke briefly with Mother, and promptly led them to their table. He shifted from one foot to another as he spoke, and didn’t seem to know quite where to point his gaze at any given moment. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, Eloise guessed. Eloise and her mother took their seats opposite one another at a small table near the back of the restaurant. There were a few moments of silence. Jazz music wafted softly over them, the trumpet speaking to the saxophone speaking to the piano speaking to the silence. Eloise examined the napkin in front of her. It had been folded into the neat shape of a butterfly, wings pointing majestically in sharp triangles. It evoked in her a strange sort of nostalgia whose source she could not place. A certain halcyon feeling. It seemed so familiar, she thought. Suddenly, Eloise looked up. “So,” she said, as casually as she could. “Why did you bring me here, anyway. After all this time.” “Oh, Eloise!” said Mother, a little too loudly. “Does a mother really need a reason to want to see her daughter?” “Yes,” Eloise felt like saying. Before she could manage it the young waiter was at their table. “Are you ready to order?” Mother mentioned a type of pasta Eloise had never heard of. It had an Italian name which Mother wrapped her tongue around so lavishly one might have thought she was actually eating it. “And for you?” “I’ll have the same,” said Eloise. She felt very small in the presence of her mother, too embarrassed to attempt the pronunciation of any item on the menu. The waiter jotted a few things down in his notepad before retreating to the kitchen with a polite nod at the two women. “So,” Mother leaned conspiratorially forward, throwing a dark shadow over her own butterfly napkin. “How’s your love life? Are you seeing anyone?” “No,” Eloise said simply. “Ah, that’s a shame.” Mother sank back into her chair, disappointed. Eloise considered returning the question to her mother. Was that the sort of thing one asked their mother? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Mother, having seemingly exhausted her sole line of inquiry, occupied herself with her mobile phone, thumbing it rapidly, flickering images throwing harsh light across her eyes. Eloise watched her with a certain curiosity, not sure if she should be speaking. Mother looked up then, a solemn expression on her face. “Listen, Eloise,” she said, much quieter than before. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Eloise looked at her mother, suspicious of the sudden shift. “I’m ill, Eloise. I’m very ill. Dying, in fact. They’ve given me four weeks to live.” “Oh, I--” “And I have to ask you for something, Eloise. Do you promise you’ll--” At that moment the waiter returned to the table, empty-handed. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “The chef says we’re all out of the pasta you asked for. We won’t be able to make your order. We’ve had a very busy night, you see, and it’s our most popular dish. If you would like to order something else, though, we can offer you a small discount.” Eloise watched the waiter shift his weight continuously from one foot to the other, as though balancing. “Again, we’re very sorry.” “That’s not acceptable,” said Mother sharply. Eloise and the waiter both turned to look at her. “Ma’am?” “You will give us our food for free, or we will be leaving,” Mother snapped, resuming her usual boisterousness. “This is a disgrace.” Eloise stared very intently at the folded butterfly, still and graceful on the embroidered tablecloth. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.” “Yes, you will.” The waiter swallowed and scurried back to the kitchen. “It’s alright,” said Eloise. “I don’t mind having something else.” “No. You’re my daughter and you’re getting what you asked for. It’s the least I can do for you.” “It’s really alright. I don’t mind.” “Nonsense. We’ll have them fix it. It’s that idiot waiter’s fault, probably. Got our order wrong or something. They can’t have run out.” “I really don’t mind.” Mother spotted the waiter walking back from across the room. He reached the table, grim-faced. “So?” said Mother, impatiently. “We can’t do anything, ma’am. We can offer you twenty-five percent off your meal, though.” “And you’re sure you got our order right?” “Yes, ma’am. I wrote it down.” He held up the notepad to indicate that the writing had indeed taken place. “Don’t take that tone with me, young man.” “I wasn’t trying to, ma’am.” Mother thought for a moment, then stood. “Come on Eloise.” She turned to the waiter. Eloise tried to speak but was quickly drowned out. “I’ve been going to this restaurant for nearly a decade, and this is the worst service I have ever received. What’s your name?” “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re running very low on ingredients today. It’s a busy night, you see. I’m sure if you come back some other day we’ll have your pasta for you.” “What’s your name?” asked Mother, raising her voice. “I’ll be mentioning you in my review. And I’ll be contacting your manager. What’s your name?” The waiter said nothing. He looked as a deer might in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Eloise tried for an apologetic glance, but he didn’t seem to notice her. “What’s your name?” Mother half shrieked, stepping forward. She looked as though she might cry. Some of the other diners were pointing their cell phones at her, holding them up above their faces. Others whispered, their voices like so many rivers whipping by, crashing over rocks. Eloise felt herself redden. “Ma’am, you’re going to have to leave.” Eloise stood, tried to grab her mother’s arm, but she was quickly shaken off. Mother backed slowly towards the exit. “All my friends that go here,” she shouted, “I’ll tell them never to come back! This place is going out of business soon, anyway. I’ll them never to come back. You’re going to lose half your business, you hear. I’ll tell everyone I know!” “We’re very sorry, ma’am.” said the waiter. Dark lines seemed to have set deeply into Mother’s face. She looked down at her daughter. “Come on, Eloise,” she said, much louder than was necessary, her voice aching with contempt. “We’re leaving.” * * * Out on the street it was raining. The sky was dark and angry and grey with clouds. The two women had to shelter under an awning to avoid getting soaked. Mother glanced forcefully up and down the street, looking for something or other. “What was it you were going to ask me?” Eloise released the question that had been gnawing at her mind. Mother looked at her then. Her eyes scintillated, and somewhere deep within them hid a glimmer of something uncertain, shining through the dark pupils, as though the rain had washed them clean. “Well, I meant to do this after the meal,” said Mother. “I’m very ill, Eloise, like I said. Terribly ill. And I know I haven’t been the best mother to you.” Eloise was silent. “I came to ask you,” Mother squinted her eyes slightly, putting a slight tremble in her voice. “I came to ask you for something.” “What is it?” Neither of them spoke for a moment. Somewhere far away a car honked its horn. Mother looked at Eloise as though expecting her to have already guessed what was coming. She shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them. “I’ll just come right out and say it. I need a transplant, you see. A kidney transplant.” “Oh,” Eloise said. The rain enveloped them, a bellowing from the heavens. Cars, obscured by the downpour, rolled past like so many hundreds of thunderclaps. “I’ll give you some time to think about it, Eloise. I know I haven’t been the best mother to you.” “Did you ask Jackie? Wouldn’t that work better? She’s your sister.” “I asked her.” “Oh,” Eloise said again. Rain sluiced the sidewalk around her feet in great rivulets, hanging desperately to the curb, dropping, collecting in puddles. It fell around her in torrents, forming thick walls of falling liquid on each side of the awning. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. There’ll be one or two more weeks before it becomes urgent, they say.” There was a silence. “I know I haven’t been the best mother to you, Eloise.” Another silence. “I’m going to change, though. We can do this as often as you’d like. Seeing each other, I mean.” Mother looked hard at Eloise’s face. For a few moments, the rain poured around them, uninterrupted. “I’ll give you time to think,” Mother said, after a moment. Mother took to glancing up and down the street once more. After a few long seconds she stopped, reached into her purse, and pulled out a cigarette, then a lighter. She held the thing up to her lips, but her hands shook violently. A harsh wind blew, cutting to bone. After another moment she plunged the cigarette and lighter back into the recesses of the purse. Rain thudded angrily down above them, in front of them, to either side. “Let me know,” said Mother, “if you make a decision.” She stepped forward and planted a wet kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “I know you’ll do the right thing.” Eloise nodded vaguely. In her mind’s eye she watched her mother dissolve, crumpling, withering from a dreamlike radiance, turning to wet ash. Footsteps. When Eloise looked up, she saw only Mother’s retreating form, leather purse swinging angrily, making its way off into the rain, shrinking and shrinking. Feeling a short vibration in her coat pocket, she pulled out her phone. There was a text from Jackie. “Call me ASAP,” it read. “If your mother tries to reach out to you, don’t respond.” Eloise, feeling lightheaded, hid the phone in the darkness of her coat, and shuffled off down the street, battered by rain, looking for a taxi to take her home. #
I knew the sound vibrating from your throat would pour like sand down mine. I knew my stomach would squeeze hunger when you closed the curtains on the day. I knew the walls would shriek when I saw you staring into your palm. I knew Henry would never fix it. The TV was on, and Barney was singing. The moan was back, and you stared deep into it. It was pressed in the middle of your palm, a red dot punched into skin by the tip of the knife you use to carve turkey on Christmas day. You were master of the blade and you stopped before the weight of it gave more than required. You needed one drop, one circle. Your skin split perfectly. It always did. One scarlet pearl. I watched you watch it. Your black eyes fixated and unflinching, an eerie sight to the unaccustomed but, it was the sound your stomach made that would crawl into the skin. I heard it gnaw on your bones. I watched you gag on your soul. It moaned. I had heard this sound often but not consistently. Sweat pilled under my armpits and I pulled Henry tight as I lay on the sofa under my Batman blanket. I close my eyes on the sound sitting at the kitchen table. Every fiber holding my blood in, is taut, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I forget to breathe. I’m an antenna, a radio wave, I’m dialed in waiting for the static to clear. The air is heavy and the dunes boom. Grandmother says there are stories in our bones, and that our skin is red because that was the color of the sand we grew out of. Mountains are our beginning, coyotes laugh and the stars are our ancestors. She says Indian boys are sons of thunder. She named you Asiniy Wache Iskwewis, Mountain Woman . You name me Isaiah and you called me your Thunder Being. You are an eagle and I am your bolt. You knew in the womb I had good bones because I made my presence known. Grandmother says Salish art requires perfect circles. Grandfather practiced chiseling circles in cedar in the basement. Grandmother used coffee cans to paint perfect circles on canvas. You said when you closed your eyes you dreamed about spinning wheels. You said it is an unstoppable force that will ruin you. Grandmother said you have spent your life crawling out of a circle. I sat with my crayons, and I drew circles in black and purple and green. I drew them small and tall. They were not perfect enough. I heard you moan. I closed my eyes. My stomach grew heavy, it always did when I swallowed the sand. I left my spot on the couch. I left Henry staring at the TV with eyes as black as yours. His long ears wilted. His grey fur snarled in love. He watched nothing silently. I remember the day you gave him to me. The Christmas you missed. The Christmas I ate ham instead of turkey and adult voices whispered adult things while I colored course paper with red crayons and searched for you at night. You visited my dreams. You were falling, I screamed until the clouds caught you. They said you were getting help. You came for me when they turned off the Christmas Lights. I gave you pictures I colored. They gave you little pink pills. You gave me Henry. You kept saying sorry, I never knew why. Henry stared at Barney. You stared into your palm. Neither of you blinked. I went to you and hugged you the way I hugged Henry, long and hard and with all my might. I want to squeeze that sound out of you so we can go play in the park. Dark never played. Dark was alone. Dark ate cardboard corn flakes from a cardboard box. Dark swallowed water to fill the hunger the cornflakes left. You didn’t see me. You didn’t feel me. You were too busy breathing. It came out in puffs. It smelled like cotton candy and I wondered how something so bad smelled so good and I wanted to crawl up closer too you but your eyes screamed at me to stay away. I shivered. It was summer. It was hot. And the drapes were closed because the light scratched your skin and the sound of the birds burned your ears. I whispered your name. Sometimes that worked. If I was quiet. If I touched you very softly sometimes you would stop moaning and move your black eyes from your palm to my face. My fingertips touched your lips. Tears squeezed out of the corner of your eyes and the sand in my belly grew. I go back to the sofa and grab Henry and press him to your chest. You respond. I see the corner of your mouth move from nothing to something. Your right hand holds Henry. Your fingers rub one ear. My fingers rub the other. Behind us Barney sings of how much we love each other. I want to watch him dance. Yesterday you danced with me. You twirled me in your skirts and the colors danced me in your hair. Bangles in gold married your wrists and chimed, and your green feather earrings brushed my skin. You painted your lips red and your nails pink. You giggled out your cotton candy and tickled me till I needed to pee. The birds laughed at us from the tree outside. We watched them dart under rays of sunshine and we ate apple pie fresh from the oven. You put ice cream on mine. I ate until I couldn’t eat any more and then You and me and Henry laid on the sofa, you were humming my eyelids closed and running your fingertips through my hair. I fell asleep full. I dream I am coloring clouds in a red circle. Your moan wakes me, and I wonder what I have done...
It was the cold breeze blowing over my cheek that woke me. For a moment I was confused, did I fall asleep outside again? I’m sure I didn’t get that drunk last night. As I forced myself to open my eyes the tent slowly spun around me. Yep I clearly drank way more than I had anticipated. That wasn’t good. I would have to go back into town and buy more booze if I didn’t pace myself better. If that would happen I might run into my parents and they would force me to come home again. When the spinning subsided I noticed a big tear in the orange canopy. I could have sworn that it hadn’t been there yesterday. It had been whole when I laid down to dream of him. With a slight growl I sat up and pushed the open sleeping bag off me. The tent looked the same as it did last night. My backpack next to the opening, clothes spread out next to my flimsy mattress, and empty bottles of booze all around. The now empty vodka bottle lay next to my pillow, and somewhere in my brain a tiny voice tried to make me feel guilty. You should have stayed home. Should have talked to people instead of running a way in denial like a coward. Should have let your parents help instead of isolating yourself. “No, I did the right thing for me!” speaking the words out loud made me feel better. More in control. I made a move to get the water bottle out of my bag and winced when my head started to pound. Sadly the warmth of the alcohol had given in to the withdrawal. My body craved the poison that I had been feeding it for the last three days. Instead of the water my hand searched for more alcohol. Praying that I hadn’t run out. Not today. Tomorrow I would face the world again. Maybe. My hand got all the way down to the bottom without touching anything I wanted. Annoyed I took the damn thing and emptied it out. Matches, couple of power bars, water, two old patches for the tent and a bundle of clothes lay before me. I ripped the bundle apart and smiled. Gin. I had a beautiful bottle of pink gin left. Although that meant that I would actually have to go back to town tomorrow to shop. After a big swig I turned my attention back to the hole in my canopy. There was no way that I had done this myself. This was a big rip, about 12 cm long that looked more like someone had cut it open from the outside. Not something that I would have done, no matter how drunk I got. It was disturbing thought. I was supposed to be all alone up here in the hills. Far away from everyone. That was what I had wanted. I even walked far away from the campground. All to be alone to grieve in peace. But now the tiny voice was smugly telling me that maybe I wasn’t as alone as I had assumed. There is someone watching you. Just waiting for you to get blackout drunk again. You should go home! It was getting harder to tune it out. And what if it was right. Someone had to have made that cut in the canopy. For a moment all I could do was sitting there staring at the sky through the hole. It was cold and dark but I knew the morning would soon light it up. The gin bottle was getting dangerously low when I finally started moving again. It was now or never. If I didn’t fix that hole now it would still be there when I sobered up again. Reminding me how useless I am. Just like Jake always told me, before he couldn’t take it anymore and left me. He was in a better place now. New city with a pretty girl on his arm. Someone that didn’t need to be taught how to dress and act. Someone who knew all his needs and desires before he even could voice them. The perfect opposite of me. I could feel my mood turning from sadness to something much darker. With a firm headshake I pulled myself back. Happy drunk trumps sad drunk and happy one I was going to be, even if it killed me. And dying had never been on the agenda. I still had my pride. Dying would only confirm everything he had ever said about me. This was my last stand. No matter what I would stay alive and after my boozy stint in the wild I would go back home to my parents and build myself a new reality without him in it. I could still hear my parents screaming at me, trying to get me to stay home and felt a ping of regret. Maybe they hadn’t been all that far off the mark. Maybe he had been keeping me away from them. Though I would never actually say that to them. Better to keep that tiny bit of information for myself, for my tiny little glimmer of dignity. The patches were on the floor next to me and with a big, determent breath, I gathered them up and opened the tent zipper. I was a grown up and could take care of myself. No matter what anyone thought. The canopy was moving in lazy circles as I stared up at it trying to keep it still so the patch would go on just right. I knew that there might be a better way but really one on the inside and one out there should make everything perfect. There was no way it wouldn’t work. Just like putting a paper inside of plastic and sealing it up. Instant water resistance. Although it was a bit more of a chore than I thought it would be I got it to stick. And felt damn good about myself. Next time I would be sober while fixing things and doing it perfectly. There were only about three good sips left in the bottle when I finally got myself outside and for a moment I was tempted to close my eyes. It would feel so good to sink into the warmth of the booze and the nothingness that was occupying my mind. But that tiny voice kept pestering me. Just finish that one thing. You can do it . You will feel so good when you wake up . So with a sigh I kept my eyes opened and took in the breathtaking scenery. It was almost morning and the sun was starting to rise over the hills far away. Everything was bathed in a soft light orange glow. I suddenly felt so alive. The cold, fresh air, cut through the alcohol fog and suddenly I wished that I had taken this trip with my friends. It would have been so much better than being here all alone with my thoughts. Jake would have hated this. The only good morning for him started with a cigarette in bed at noon. Me on the other hand had always loved waking up with the sun. Going fishing with my dad. Playing outdoors, sitting around a warm fire at night, without the alcohol. I looked down at the bottle with contempt. Before Jake I would never have touched that stuff. I flung the bottle away. When I would wake up next I would never touch the stuff again. I will never know how long I sat there watching the sun waking up the world. All I know is that suddenly I jumped at a rough voice speaking behind me, somewhere behind my tent. “Well, well, well. What do we have here. The little princess is actually awake. And here me and my friends thought you would slumber all through the exchange.” My skin was crawling as I slowly looked back and saw a dirty, middle-aged man with an unkempt beard down his chest. Behind him where two younger guys that looked just as bad, like they hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. My fear reduced a bit when I saw Jake walking over to us. He would help me get rid of them. It felt like destiny that he was here, just like the prince on a white horse to save his true love. He walked right by them towards me. Hugging me sideways and looking me over. “Honey, you know I have told you time and again to watch how much you drink. You are no use to them if you pass out before they start having their fun. They could just as well have bought a blowup doll for that.” It took a moment for me to register his words. Use to them? Who were they? How was I supposed to be of any help to them? The grim reality sent my world spinning once again. He wasn’t here for me. He would never have come here just for me. The ice-cold words he spoke next sealed my fate. “It’s really all your parent’s fault. If they would have just let me have you to begin with I would have gotten rid of you ages ago. Instead, I had to groom you for two whole years before you finally rebelled. You were such a pathetic daddy’s girl.” He looked down at me with something aching to pity in his eyes. “Don’t worry little princess. If you are lucky some old dude will buy you and treat you well. If not, you should have applied yourself better. The best sluts do as they are told. Not that you were ever any good at that to begin with.” With those horrible words he all but threw me into the bearded man’s hands. “Hold on to her while I set this tent on fire. Best to get rid of all the evidence. Her dad is sure to come looking for her.” I could only watch as Jake rummaged through the tent, taking my wallet and phone and leaving the rest inside. When he was done searching, he came back out and asked if anyone had matches. He then poured the rest of the gin over the opening of the tent and set everything on fire. Jake winked at me. “Sorry honey but you know how it is. Business always comes first.” I desperately tried to fight but they were too strong. With a punch to my face they had me almost knocked out and through that black haze I felt them carrying me away. We hadn’t gone very far when I heard voices, ghost like whispers coming for us. I can see her. Never mind the fire. She’s right there . Later my dad filled me in. He had gotten so worried that he made his friends in the fire department, as well as a couple of policemen, come with him to look for me. I was only seventeen. Just a kid really, that had been missing for two whole days. Thankfully they found me just in the nick of time. God knows where I would have ended up. Jake is in jail now, along with those three men. Hopefully I will never have to see them again.
Hi! I've written a few other stories before, but haven't ever posted them online. They've all been cringey, and I am expecting this one to be a bit cringey too... haha... but don't be surprised if I get bored and randomly decide to discontinue the story 'cause I get bored of it. That happens to me a lot. Also, it would be nice if people talked about the story as if it were real, the way it is in r/nosleep. You don't have to, but it would be nice. Anyways... I was born on what is now known as September 12, 986 A.D. My name is Victoria Windsor, and my parents were the Duke and Duchess of a small part of England. I grew up happily. Despite the time period in which I was born, we faced no illnesses of any sort and nobody who tried to attack us survived. There was a good reason behind this; you see, my parents and I are vampires. They may have been the Duke and Duchess for some humans, but they were the King and Queen of all the vampires in Western Europe. Over time, that grew to the whole world. Nobody could overcome their power... physically. Royalty in vampirism is based on the rank of your power. Imagine it as a scale set from 1 to 100; the most powerful vampires are ranked at 100, the weakest at 1. My parents and I were the only vampires in the world who reached 100. All of the Aristocrats were above 50. Everyone else was below 50, and power only grew with time. However, this doesn't make vampires less strong. A level 1 vampire could tear the strongest human alive into shreds in less than a minute, but a level 15 vampire could do that to a level 1 vampire. Now imagine a level 100 vampire... that's me. It would take a level 1 vampire 2,000 years to achieve the power I had at birth. I can smell a vampire from miles away; I can jump as high as Big Ben with one leap; I can crush a boulder by touching it; I can run five times as fast as the fastest animal alive; and many more minor powers. These are things that all vampires can do to an extent, though. Some vampires have special, unique powers, powers that no vampire before has had. Mine is shape-shifting - I can turn into anything and anyone, at any time I wish. That includes younger and older versions of myself. It is quite an advantage in the modern era. When I was 20, I was riding my steed in the forest a few miles away from the now-long-forgotten village of Westbrook. Back then, a few hundred people lived there, so it was nice and populated for the time period. I smelt a vampire, which was odd, as I didn't know of any vampires who lived in that area. I didn't want to appear suspicious to the humans, so I took the longer form of transportation, and rode my horse to Westbrook. When I arrived, I hid behind the trees, wanting to see what was going on. I saw almost all of the villagers standing around a lone human, tied to a post, the villagers chanting things, and holding torches. Ah, I thought. A witch trial. I then realized that the “witch” was the vampire I had smelt from all those miles away. It would be best to intervene before something actually happened to this peasant of a vampire - they were scared and had obviously never dealt with something like this before. It seemed like they didn’t want to hurt a human, so I tied up my horse to a tree, gathered my skirts, and walked up to the village square. “What is going on?” I asked in my most regal voice. Nobody heard me. “WHAT’S GOING ON?” I yelled. Everyone grew quiet and turned to look at me. Upon realizing who I was, they started to curtsy and bow, some of the younger children nearly tripping over their own feet. “What is going on?” I repeated myself once more. “Y-your Grace,” stuttered a villager. “The evil woman at the pole is a w-witch. She is being punished for her crimes against our Lord the God and humanity. Once she is dead, she will be sent to hell, to be tortured eternally for her crimes.” I tried not to scoff at her, and it took a lot of willpower. There is no god, at least not the one they speak of. (Sidenote: while writing this part I am listening to Take Me to Church lmao). I know this for a fact - my parents were alive when their so-called Jesus died for them. They lived in Rome, and such a thing would have been announced throughout the city - nay, the country. My parents didn’t hear anything of it, which would be surprising if Christianity was real, as they were of a high noble ranking. As for Judaism, my grandparents lived in Egypt during the time they were supposed to be enslaved - but no, there were no Jewish slaves of that amount, and the Red Sea didn’t part for Moses, as they didn’t escape as their Torah said. I waded through the sea of kneeling villagers, and they parted for me as if the Bible was real and I was Moses, them the Red Sea. I started untying the ropes holding the young vampire to the pole, quickly slashing from and breaking some a few times when I thought nobody was looking. The young vampire stared at me, wondering why I was doing this for her - she probably couldn’t tell that I was a vampire, too. “This ‘witch’ is coming with me,” I stated to the villagers. I saw some staring in disgust at the vampire, others nodding their heads fearfully. I grabbed her arm and pulled her towards my horse. I heard the village going back to normal after a few minutes, then turned to face the vampire to confront her. “What is your name?” I asked. “P-Peasant Rosa,” the vampire stuttered, scared. “What is it that Your Grace wishes from me?” I just laughed. “Nothing, Rosa. I just wanted to save you from those awful townspeople.” She gawked at me. “They know nothing,” I said more harshly. “And that’s Your Highness to you.” She blinked a few times before realization hit her. “Y-you’re the vampire princess? Princess Victoria?” I laughed. “Who did you think I was? Some random Lady - no, Vampire Princess - come to save the day?” I could tell that Rosa was trying to suppress a smile. “Go on, laugh!” I urged her. She did, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard in my entire life - up to the present day, after a thousand years, I haven’t heard a more beautiful sound. It was the sound of my future wife gaining hope. “I could smell you from miles away, and checked to see what was up,” I explained. “I was just taking a trip with Bailey over here,” patting my horse’s head. “You can pet her if you want.” Rosa ran her fingers through Bailey’s soft mane. “I’ve never actually touched a horse like this before,” she grinned. “Especially not a horse like yours.” The vampire community doesn’t tend to care about your personality - it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, black or white, gay or straight - as long as you can get done what needs to be done, they’re fine with it - so it was perfectly ok when Rosa and I got married 50 years later. To Be Continued (Hopefully). Note: I’m not gay myself, just a straight ally, but I am an atheist. For some reason, I had this strong temptation to write about gay vampires who are a thousand years old yet still childish and going through high school in the modern world... yeah, I’m weird.
THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS He finds it difficult to tear himself away from the window and, even when something draws his attention, the ringing of the landline in the hall or the sound of his cell phone, back he returns, involuntarily, to the French window that looks out onto the vast lawn and the cluster of trees that border the edge of the grass and the beginning of the embankment that stretches down to the river flowing hurriedly past his garden. It was always the same when she went away. The first two days, he would almost revel in his solitude; eating what he wanted, when he wanted. Staying up as late as he liked, watching the programmes that he preferred but rarely got a chance to see and sleeping as late as he wanted the following mornings. But, invariably, this novelty began to wear a bit thin by the third day though he usually managed to find something to amuse him, pass the time. Perhaps, a visit to the shops, loading up on “treats” that she would normally nag him into avoiding: chocolate being top of the list. But it was always that third night alone, going to bed, when her absence seemed to bother him the most and he would feel his loneliness forcing its way through, preventing him from sleeping, lying in the darkness, realising just how much he missed her. The very first time that she had mentioned visiting Sydney to see her daughter, he had become upset at not being invited. He had never been on good terms with his step-daughter and, in all honesty, even if he had been asked, he almost certainly would have said no. But it was the principle after all; he was big on principle. He should have been included. Of course, he understood that his wife had every right to visit her daughter and, above all else, all he had ever wanted was her happiness and it had become accepted that the week long trip would be a regular occurrence that he would just have to come to terms with. Always, he made sure to drive her to the airport, bid her farewell with a smile and a hug, message her before her boarding time to wish her a wonderful trip and assure her that he would be here, ready and waiting in seven day’s time to pick her up. In his own mind, too, by this time, he had started to look forward to his own “freedom”. Then, as per usual, around about the third day it would usually begin to pall. He had never been one to have a bunch of acquaintances. Like his father before him, he was a solitary person who could, at best, count those he considered to be real friends on two fingers. Not one for small chat, he was slow to warm to people and kept his feelings close. He was also extremely set in his ways, spotlessly clean, morally upright and found fault with anybody who did not come up to his exacting standards. Because of this, he gave off an invisible aura that kept most at arm’s length. His wife was his life. That was it in a nutshell. More than just loving her, he was devoted ; wanted only to make her happy. Oftentimes, he knew that, if not for her, he would, almost certainly, stop going to the gym daily, cease making an effort with his diet, his appearance. It was all for her, never wanting her to think less of him, craving her approval. Those final few days before her return from the latest trip were the most difficult for him. He would fill his daytime hours completing crossword puzzles, reading, following the instructions that she had left behind regarding the watering of plants, the exact amount of washing detergent to use, which rinse cycle to set the machine etc, desperately wanting everything to be in shipshape fashion upon her return. But, always, those last nights as the week progressed were the toughest; their huge kingsize bed somehow becoming more empty, each night, guaranteeing a lack of sleep. When he did collect her from the airport at the end of each week away, there was always an initial tension that they never spoke about. She would be reluctant to tell him of the things she had done, thinking that he might envy her for having had a good time without him. He would be loathe to ask about her time away, not wanting to openly acknowledge his feelings of just how much of an an outcast he was in the lives of her family. Why this was exactly was hard to pinpoint. He had never been less than supportive to his step- daughter and, when she had given birth to her only child, it had been he, on his regular business trips to Sydney, who had always made the time to drop in and see the boy. It was he, not his real grandfathers, who wrote long letters to the boy on a regular basis that included stories, jokes, cartoons and riddles that he would often labour for hours over. Yet, they never seemed to be appreciated. His step-daughter had simply outlawed him when he had lost the business, blaming him without knowing the true facts and nothing would ever change her mind. He had been responsible for the downgrade in her mother’s life and that was all there was to it. Despite the injustice that he felt, he had come to terms with this, years before, and it was only on these jaunts, that seemed to be occurring more and more regularly, that this situation really hit home, making him realise just how lonely and empty his life actually was without his wife. He had come to dread being told that she was going off again. Always, that initial notification cutting him deep but he had become a master at hiding his feelings, assuring his wife that there was no problem, lying to himself about what a good time he could have while she was away. And he, initially, did...up until around the third day. Now, here he is, staring, trance-like, out into the soft drizzle that has just begun to fall, the wind blowing it back onto the window. The telephone in the hall rings yet again and he forces himself, against his will, to go and check the number: 02. Sydney again. He doesn’t pick up. The ringing stops but, almost immediately, his cell phone begins to ring; the same number. Her number; his step-daughter’s. Once more, he declines to answer. Back he goes to the lounge window. The rain has stopped. The wind forces a break in the clouds and a streak of sunshine comes struggling through and the darkness of the wintry grass nearest to him is suddenly lit up. As more clouds part, more rays shine down and the entire lawn is slowly bathed in sunlight all the way to the bottom of the garden where the wind is blowing the willows as they bend forward trying to reach the river. He is mesmerised. They say that a criminal always returns to the scene of his crime. It had been her cellphone that had given the game away. As she had showered in readiness for her departure, her phone, being charged, had pinged as he’d come in from the garden. Automatically, he had glanced at it: “Can’t wait to hold you in my arms again. Jack. X” Jack? Who the hell was Jack? It had felt like an ice pick had been thrust into his heart. All this time? All these trips? All of his sleepless, lonely nights? What an utter, contemptuous fool he had been. He understands that there will be no picking up from the airport ever again and his loneliness will be cast in stone forever for, as he stares, tears in his eyes, at the willows swaying back and forth, he knows what lies beneath them.
My people fear the forest. Why? I don’t know. No one in the village or in my family has ever told me why. All they say is “do not venture past the forest’s edge,” or “your fate will meet you if you traverse the forest’s domain.” Sometimes they simply say “you will die if you dare enter the forest; do not go in.” Naturally, one would be skeptical. Why shouldn’t I enter the forest? What on earth could be in there? The forest seemed friendly enough. Birds could be heard happily singing in the branches; sometimes a little rabbit could be seen poking out of the brush; deer sometimes fed on the outer rows of trees. I pondered these things as I gazed into the beautiful forest. Thousands upon thousands of trees grew there; bushes grew and flowers flourished; animals of many, many species took refuge there. What was so dangerous about it? No one really knew what was so dangerous about it, but legend had it a pond of liquid diamond laid in the center of the forest. That alone made people think menacing, supernatural beings lurked there. A charming whistle floated on the breeze. It came from the forest! My curiosity piqued; I squinted to see the forest’s edge clearer. All I saw was a gorgeous doe silently eating berries. Her ears flicked up as the whistle sounded again. She lifted her head and looked at me. Something grasped my attention. Entranced, I walked closer and closer to the forest. The doe’s emerald eyes seemed to read my mind and pull me in. Leaves crunched under my bare feet. I looked down. I was in the forest. I looked up--the doe was gone. Nothing happened to me. I chuckled to myself. So, it was all a myth. There was nothing to fear in the forest. I walked further. The worst that happened to me was a small splinter that stuck in my heel. I pulled it out easily and continued walking. Deer stared at me and birds greeted me with sweet melodies. Rabbits and squirrels looked at me, astonished. Sleep began to overcome me; I knew not how long I had been walking. My heel ached, and I wanted to rest. I leaned against the trunk of a strong oak and settled in amongst its fallen leaves. The edges of my eyelids longed to meet each other; they became heavier as sleep enveloped me. Sweet, calm darkness swallowed me. ••••• The summer breeze brushed past my sundress as I walked down the lane. Pebbles stuck between my toes and to the bottom of my feet. My hands were folded behind my back and my hair fluttered in the breath of the wind as I walked along, lost in thought. I heard the hunter’s dogs barking in the distance and the trample of dozens of horse hooves; it was the shouts of the hunters themselves that shattered my daydreams like glass. They always shouted when they rode home--like the group of overgrown hooligans they were--but this time, it was different. The shouts weren’t those of joy and a successful hunt. Alarm seized my body and I felt numb as I heard the name they were shouting. Lorcán. My heart dropped into my stomach. Emotion pumped adrenaline into my bloodstream. I began running as fast as I could. Fear constricted my lungs and throat, making it difficult to breathe. I tripped over a large rock and tumbled heels-over-head into the brush. Dazed, I picked myself up and continued running. It was at least five minutes until I came in sight of the village. I heard wails and mourning as I approached. The scene unfolded before my eyes: A ring of hunters stood around a deerskin cot. Woebegone women covered their faces with their hands and rocked on their knees; cries leaked through their fingers and rang in my ears. I saw my father leaning on his staff, looking sorrowfully at the cot. His eyes were becoming red, and I could see tears building and trickling down his face. He looked up. I locked eyes with him. I didn’t need him to say anything. I knew it was Lorcán. I knew he was dead. My father held his hand towards me. He wanted me to come. Fire bubbled up in my soul. Lorcán was the only one who could comfort me--but Lorcán was gone now. The fire rushed into my legs and burned my body and mind. There was nothing I could do now except run. Run from the dread. Run from my family. Run from the village. Run from the pain. Sharp wind pricked my face as I ran. My legs ached and my head spun. The pounding of my feet against the hard ground hurt my head. Before I knew it, I stood before the forest. The very same forest my people feared--had feared for generations. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to disappear. I darted into the forest and ran farther. A large root missed my attention. I felt something snag my foot and pull me down. The last thing I saw was a rock--searing pain filled my head, and then- Everything went black. ••••• Gold, creamy light shone on the ceiling. Something wet trickled down my forehead. I opened my eyes. A girl was standing beside me. Her big emerald eyes seemed familiar to me; her skin was fair as white lilies. Brown freckles were scattered along her slim cheekbones. Long, fine, fawn-colored hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back. She was dressed in simple doeskins--however, none of these things seemed out of the ordinary until I noticed her ears. They were placed where ears were usually placed on a human, but they were soft doe’s ears. The girl smiled at me. How are you feeling, Little One? My heart skipped a beat. The girl hadn’t moved her mouth at all, but her delicate voice rang in my head like sweet bells. Who are you? I thought back to her. I am Inerys, a simple doe-girl. I saw you in danger, so I rescued you. Her thin eyebrows furrowed as she looked at me. I sense you are troubled. What has chased you into the Starlight Realm? The pain of Lorcán’s death rushed back. I looked away as my eyes welled up with tears. I lost part of myself, I replied shakily. The one you call Lorcán? Yes. We were preparing to be wed. He was my best friend. There’s no sense in living now that he’s gone. Inerys wiped my forehead soothingly with a soft, wet rag. Do not despair, dearest. You feel sore over your recent loss, but do not quit. Your wounds will be healed soon--your head was quite injured after your fall. Good things are in store for you, if you wait. I wondered what Inerys meant. I didn’t wonder for long, though. Inerys gave me food that seemed to dissolve my physical pain and help me sleep. I didn’t know how many days I spent with Inerys, but they passed like a dream. She told me of many wonderful things in her world. She chronicled the adventures of the deer-beings, the tricks of the fox-folk, the arts of the rabbit-people, and many others. After many moons, Inerys finally told me the Legend of the Diamond Pond. I sat up eagerly on my cot as she told me the tale. Long, long ago, began Inerys in her soft, magical voice. Artemis, the Mother of the Animal-Peoples, created the Starlight Realm. We are her children; Artemis created us because she was sick of human folly. Artemis promised the Animal-Peoples’ safety by laying a curse on any outsiders who entered. The only law the Animal-Peoples had to follow was this: Never touch the Diamond Pond. Naturally, humans would be quick to break this law, but the divine ancestry of the Animal-Peoples keeps their thoughts unstained; not one of our kind had ever laid a finger on the liquid diamond of the pond. Artemis told us that those who touched it would see their future, but would suffer their worst fear. A shiver ran down my spine when Inerys finished her story. Can you take me to see the Diamond Pond? I inquired. Inerys sat back in her rocking chair and thought. I do not know, Little One, she said slowly. Your human nature will make it very dangerous. Please, I implored. I promise I won’t touch it. Very well, Inerys consented dubiously. Remember what will happen if you touch it. The next day, Inerys and I set out. She turned into her native doe form and let me ride her soft back. We walked for a few hours. I noticed that the chirping of the birds slowly died away until there was silence. I no longer saw rabbit and squirrel beings scuttling around; sneaky fox folk were nowhere to be seen; every now and then, I saw a silent deer-person wandering around. The forest became darker and darker as Inerys and I walked on. The only sound I heard was that of Inerys’ hooves. I became tired of watching the forest trailing by us and looked down. Inerys’ shoulder blades and muscles rippled under her hide as she walked. I drifted off into memories of Lorcán as I rocked to the rhythm of Inerys’ steps. Little One, look up, I heard her say. When I looked up, my eyes were met by a crystal white light. It was the purest light I had ever seen. Inerys walked closer, and the Diamond Pond came into view. It was about ten yards in diameter; the perfectly circular shore was littered with sand-like diamonds.. A beam of moonlight shone on the pond. The liquid diamond filtered the light into rainbows that bounced around in the pond. I slid off of Inerys’ back and walked towards the shore. I could hardly believe my eyes. The diamond light drew me in. I felt the diamonds under my feet. I looked back at Inerys. Do not touch the water, she said. You know not what will happen. I looked at the water. A vision of Lorcán flashed across the surface. He was riding towards the forest! Why did I see him in the Diamond Pond? What if the water was the way I could return? I looked back at Inerys. I saw panic in her eyes. Thank you, Inerys, I said. I love you. I’ll miss you, but I’ll always remember you. I ran back and hugged her neck. I dashed back to the shore before she could morph and catch me. I fell to my knees and reached forward, touching the surface of the diamond water. My hand felt as if I was holding it to ice. I drew my hand back from the cold, but two hands reached out of the water and grabbed my ankles. I shrieked in surprise. The hands dragged me into the water. I tried to cling onto the shore, but the diamonds filtered through my fingers. My head went under, and I couldn’t see anything. Fear, excitement, sadness, anger, pain--every emotion and physical feeling I had experienced flashed through my body and soul. Everything seemed to tie itself into a knot and climax. I couldn’t feel anything. I was dead. ••••• “Kaorí! Kaorí, wake up!” Familiar voices surrounded me. Someone snatched me up and held me against them. “Kaorí, my darling, please, wake!” I thought I was dreaming--it was Lorcán’s voice! I opened my eyes. I saw Lorcán’s panic-stricken expression. When he saw my eyes were open, he cried with joy and kissed me. His warm breath blew over my face and neck as he caressed me. I laughed--I don’t know why. It felt like the only thing I could do at the moment. “Lorcán, Lorcán, you’re alive!” I said, wrapping my arms around his neck and meeting his lips with mine. “Dear, I was never dead! It was you who almost died!” “What? But I saw you--you were lying on a cot. People were crying and wailing. I ran into the forest and saw the most wonderful things.” “Kaorí, it doesn’t matter now. We’re both here. I want you to tell me about your adventure when we get home. You look spent and exhausted. Come rest with me.” Lorcán lifted me up onto his horse’s back and jumped up behind me. I looked back. A doe stood in the shadows of the forest’s edge. Her emerald eyes met my brown ones. I lifted my hand and waved. The doe bowed her head. Have a safe journey, Little One. The doe disappeared into the woods. “Who’re you waving to?” Lorcán asked. “A friend I met in the forest,” I replied. Lorcán turned and peered into the dense forest. “I don’t see anyone.” “She’s there,” I said. “On the edge of the forest.” I watched the distance between us and the forest increase. An odd feeling crawled into my head. “Lorcán?” I said, alarmed. “Lorcán, what is happening?” Everything around me began to fade away. I tried to cling on to pieces of Lorcán, but nothing helped. I screamed his name, trying to find my way around the darkness. ••••• Someone held me down. I was flinging my arms and legs, trying to get free. “Lorcán!” I screamed. “Lorcán!” My screams echoed in my head. Where was he? He was just by my side! “Kaorí! Be still!” Someone’s voice broke through the black chaoticness. “Kaorí, he’s gone! I’m sorry!” I knew it was my father’s voice. He held me down and tried to calm me. “Where’s Lorcán? And Inerys? Where are they?” “Lorcán is dead,” he replied softly. “Who is Inerys?” I grew still under the calm of despair. Lorcán was gone. Inerys was probably gone as well--or never existed. I remembered her comforting words. Good things are in store for you, if you wait. Lorcán was gone now, but I had to keep living. My love for him would never die. He would wait for me in the Diamond Pond.
The droplets of rain made me feel big, but not gigantic. As crisp as a day can get, the room--plain and clean--grounds me. My focused eyes are processing the world, leaving my mind behind. Tap. Tap. Tap. My feet don’t tap. It was the counselor’s. Him and his large feet that I can see from underneath the desk. “I have to let you know, although you already know from our past meetings, if you have any intentions to hurt yourself or others I’ll be forced by law to tell your parents guardians. Anything otherwise, by HIPAA confidentiality, I cannot tell even your parents of what you tell me.” I nod. “So why didn’t you schedule with the therapist, from Swedish Hospital, here at school?” I’m not financially challenged, “My parents have the money to pay for a therapist, unlike the people who use the school resource,” He laughs, “That's a crude way of putting it, but your situation is peculiar since you don’t want to tell your parent. But, you know,... look, I want you to know that no one would judge you for getting help.” When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat, “why do you think you need therapy?” I paused, “well.” I search my memory, but all I can think of are the sirens, “I feel dead,” I wanted to laugh. Laugh it off like a sick joke, but it died at the pit of my stomach and all I could come up with was an eerily petite, picture worthy smile. He raises an eyebrow, “can you be more specific?” but in a kind way, not threatening or confronting; soft like the little picture of a peninsula reflected off a lake, making it look a lot like a penis with odd ridges, hanging behind his head. “It’s like someone reached in, and pulled out my throat,” I responded, and he nodded as if he expected it. “Do you feel suffocated?” “Yes.” “That’s a common feeling among your peers,” he said. “I doubt it,” I smiled, but it wasn’t much of a smile. He then proceeded to give me a round of statistics. “I see,” I said, but my mouth was on a line. The bell rang soon, and I told him I needed to go to first period. He gave me a late slip, and told me we need weekly meetings. I only nodded. Through the hallways, your face haunts mine as I walk through, and I don’t want to escape you. Sometimes, that’s the only place where I can see you. The teacher nods when I walk through, seeing the pink late slip through my fingers. At night, I rub my eyes, Teary and calloused, I hope tomorrow when I look up, it’ll be more than a blur, My hands shook as I wrote, looking up to see the stare of a teacher, “what are you doing-” I crumpled it up, and pushed it into my backpack, but she didn’t relent. Her eyes went to my bag, and instead of telling her it was just a piece of paper, I handed it to her. “Oh,” she looked at the simple poem, then looked up sternly, “come to my office after school. We have to talk about your commitment to my class.” I nodded, my throat dry, “okay.” Lunch came too soon; my stomach wasn’t grumbling. I stared up at the spot where I'd eat lunch with my friends, and saw a few familiar heads pop up, but instead of going over there, I headed up the other staircase, when no one’s looking, into the janitor’s closet where the stairs to the roof led. There is no more yellow tape, it disappeared in a day, a week of announcements, just like you. But when my eyes focus on the sky above, I can still remember the smile, petite and picture worthy. For a good while they had a suspicion: I pushed you down, but my feet were planted firmly on the pavement. Rhythmic taps of feet on the ladder rang, and I turned around fully expecting you, but the janitor came up, and he wasn’t smiling at me anymore. “You are not allowed to be up here, please leave.” “Okay,” I nodded, but my voice wasn’t apologetic, just a mutter. He probably didn’t hear. “I won’t tell on you, but you can’t do this anymore.” He said. His voice broke, and for a moment I thought something was wrong with him. Voice breaking for something simple, like an opera play where people sing, but when you’re young, always mistake for a shrill cry. I looked down at my feet as I passed him. When I get back to the hallways, I can still see your peachy face, but they’ve forgotten in a year’s time. When I go back to our middle school the teachers no longer hang up your prized watercolor paintings, only your trophy is left in Mrs. Gelard’s room. The hallways, clean and empty, like lunch never happened. Shit. I ran to the science wing. The teacher wrote me up as soon as I walked in, and I had to head to the counselor’s office. “Again?” Mr. R, the front desk man asked, looking down at the slip, “same reason? Didn’t your counselor tell you to set an alarm before each class?” I shrugged, diverted my eyes. “Once more, and we will be forced to contact your parents.” My eyes met his quickly, holding the gaze, “okay.” This was my protest, unapologetically, my standing, and he only sighed and sent me back. This was my Rosa Parks... Not caring for anything. I’m done with pretending. My mother would have told me to explain myself. To be presentable even if it cost me my well being. I shook my head and walked myself back. Stupid. I walked to class, trying to imagine the last time I heard from you, but my legs felt like they were put in place by my mother, and my mind could only seem to search for the numbers above each door. I thought I was past this, but maybe it’s a matter of my feet that are now grounded, and my fixed vision. I opened my classroom door, seeing the hate through my teacher’s eyes. Hate is a strong word, I’ve learned, but my teacher walks over and I can see the animalistic snarl. Her teeth are showing, as she tells me to sit in the back. I try to understand how she can have 100 bad days, for all the days she’s been in school. After class, she calls me over. The lid over a small box of grievances is slowly lifted within me, but I breathe in, and push it down, far beneath me. As a soldier would, I looked at her, erasing all signs of emotional distress from my facial muscles. I followed the strict regime my mom herself would be proud of, looking at the direction of the teacher’s face. “Are you going to take your education seriously?” She asked sternly, and I almost wished she had glasses so there’d be a boundary, a glass wall between because she doesn’t know what touched me before. She stays, with those piercing blue eyes. She isn’t a new teacher. I’m supposed to say yes, “yes,” I respond. My stomach knots up, and I stare at the whiteboard behind her instead of her eyes. A little fear tells me she can tell I’m not staring in her eyes. “Then get to class on time, and stop sleeping in my class.” I nodded. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. I didn’t ask how she was feeling either. I’m fair this way. I used to feel like a good person that way. Now, it doesn’t quite have the same charm it used to. I feel old, and the rage shakes my bones. As I walk home from school, I no longer come up with excuses, and my mother opens her mouth to scold, but closes it--wordless. “Are you done?” “Done with what?” I sucked in a breath. “Are you done with acting like you don’t care?” She glared at me, “is this still about Lisa?” “No, why would it be about her, it has been a year,” I snapped. She snapped back, “you better put your act back together, do you want to be flipping hamburger buns when you grow older? I didn’t come all the way from China for you to act like this!” I rolled my eyes, “go back to China then.” “Am I a bad mother?” She asked, and I know this never ends well. “No. I’m just not a good daughter.” I sighed. “AM I A BAD MOTHER?!” She asked again. I growled, “NO, I ToLD YOU, I’M a bad-URGH YOU’RE NOT EVEN LISTENING TO ME,” “AM I A BAD MOTHER for you to be acting like such-” “I’m not talking to you until tomorrow. We’re not doing this. You’re not even listening to me,” I huff, and head upstairs. She tries to follow, but must have agreed because she didn’t make it up the stairs. I try to release my breath as I shut the world off with my bedroom door, but I hear no hysterical crying. It’s stuck in my throat, and it’s not about the failed expectations or my mother’s screaming. “I’m sick of being sad,” I lay on my bed, and put my head on the pillows, hoping for a bad dream. But, even I realized after a year or two, if love was enough you’d be here while I hang--loose, and cold. And written behind the homework was apologetic for all the times I failed to be.
Milly had been my pet for fourteen years. The day she died was when a part of me died too, another little piece of my heart. She was given to me at eight weeks of age, a tiny soft bundle of fluff. From the minute I held her, she clung to me as if her life depended on it, and in a way it did, and mine on hers. “Mrs Wilson, this is our way of saying sorry for your loss. We know how lonely you will be without Mr Wilson, so we thought a puppy would keep you company”, and all the girls from the gymnastics club that I taught at, stood on my front door step, some crying, and handed me Milly. She did help with the loneliness. I had lots of friends, but at night time when they were lying next to their partners in bed, comfortable and warm, I lay on my side of the bed, feeling alone - awake for a lot of the night. I used to say that if I had a dog, it would not be allowed to sleep on the bed (mainly because I knew Ben would never allow it) He would to say to me “They’ve been digging and getting into all sorts of stuff in the garden and you want that on our bedspread? No way!”. We didn’t get a dog when Ben was alive anyway. We were always busy with our work, I sometimes worked at the weekend and he travelled with his job - it wasn’t fair if we couldn’t walk a dog each day, and I certainly wouldn’t want to leave it with just anyone, if we weren’t around. My sister Vanessa had a dog she rescued from the dog pound. She was lively but with a sweet nature, but looking of her, you would think she was mean and tough. Her head was square and rather large, she had a solid body and big teeth, but when you got to know her, you realised she was just a soft marshmallow. My nieces and nephews adored her and played rough and tumble all the time, and the dog was much more fearful of the kids than them of her. When Vanessa’s family went away on their last holiday, she asked if I would come and just feed Lila before work for two mornings. Her friend was coming to stay at the house but couldn’t come for two days after they left. “The neighbour will walk her both mornings, and then pop in during the day, so could you just feed her first thing and give her some love?” she asked almost running out of the door before I could say anything! It was an easy task as we lived just down the road from my sister. I was greeted at 7am by a big softie, licking my face and wanting me to play. “Sorry Lila, I’m just here to feed you and give you a few pats”, which I did, wiping my slobbery face on my sleeve. And even after that, I realised then that I couldn’t wait to have a dog of my own. Ben got really sick, and for a long time he needed a lot of care. So it was never the right time for us to get a puppy or even a fully grown dog. “When you get well, we will get a dog Ben” I would tell him, “We’ll take it to the park every day and when we go away together, the dog comes too”. But for the time being I put the idea right out of my head. It was enough dealing with work, a home and a very ill husband. The first time Ben was in remission, he was so weak that it took weeks before he had regained his strength, but then thankfully Ben could walk again without needing to rest and catch his breath. Then the big C came back again, taking us all by surprise as he didn’t seem to have any signs or symptoms that anything was wrong. He was a fighter though , and fought hard to not let the insidious disease beat him. Once again he went into remission, and we went away as much as we could. We knew that our time together was probably limited so made the most of weekend trips to out of the way places, offering the peace and solitude that was much needed for Ben and myself. Ultimately, we both knew after trying intermittently, and after so much chemotherapy, that children weren’t going to happen for us. It was tough staying positive knowing we would be childless, and it would only ever be just us, but our main aim was just to keep Ben alive. He died peacefully one night the week after the cancer had returned, and this time it had spread throughout his body. It was both unexpected and yet not a total surprise. I knew that Ben would have wanted to go quickly rather than to hang on, and unselfishly, for my sake. I was of course beyond sad. The gentle and loving man I had married was gone. I had no children to look at and think ‘You’ve got your dad’s eyes or Ben would have loved seeing how clever his son or daughter had turned out to be’ but I tried to tell myself that I was lucky to have wonderful memories, which was true, although sometimes that didn’t seem enough. Milly became my best friend. I could never imagine how much comfort a little fluffy dog would bring to someone. On a cold and rainy night, we would snuggle up together on the couch and keep each other warm. I would to say to her most mornings when she jumped off the bed to go outside, ‘your dad would never have allowed this you know!’ It’s funny how you talk to your dog as if they are human beings, even though you know you won’t ever get an answer. Maybe them not talking back was a good thing, especially when asking for an opinion on how you looked! “Oh, I really need to colour my hair” I would tell Milly and she would just stare at me or run off. One evening when I had come home from work a bit later than usual, and walked up to my front door, I noticed that it was slightly ajar. I didn’t feel in the least worried that someone was inside as the catch was dodgy, and I had been meaning to have it fixed for quite a while. Sometimes when you shut it behind you, it didn’t catch on the latch, but if you walked off, not looking behind, how did you know? I was annoyed at myself for leaving it this long and not having fixed it, and then pushed it open. Millie didn’t run to the door to greet me like usual. In fact, as I walked through to the kitchen, I realised she wasn’t even in the house. I went to every room calling her name. I began to feel extremely worried. I frantically ran to my neighbour and banged on her door. As she opened it, I quickly asked if she had seen Millie at all during the day but the answer was ‘no’. “Get in my car” she said to me “and we’ll have a drive around”. She was nowhere to be found. I came home and rang everyone I knew who lived in the area and asked them all if they had seen her, but the answer was the same. ‘Please come back Milly’ I prayed feeling very upset at the thought that she could have been run over, or just lost and lonely out there. My sister came over and brought me some dinner. “I can’t eat Jo, let’s go out again and drive around. She has to be somewhere.” By 11pm I was exhausted. There was no sign of her. I finally went to bed well after 2am with a banger of a headache, knowing I wouldn’t sleep, and crying into one of her little blankets. Once upon a time I would never have believed that a dog could make so much difference to my life, and give me so much happiness. She filled a void, greeting me whenever I came home with a furiously wagging tail and a few quick licks on my hand - letting me know how much she had missed me. It was never ‘dinner for one’, it was ‘dinner for one and titbits for the other’. Even having a little dog curled up like a foetus on the end of my bed, made me feel brave, and gave me comfort. (And sometimes plenty of sand on the quilt cover!) I didn’t just want Milly back; I needed her back. It had been two days since Milly disappeared. I was lost without her. I went to work and came home, then changed my clothes and went walking around the area, scanning the same places and calling her name. Nothing. On the third days after she disappeared, I had a phone call. “Hello Fiona speaking” I answered. It was from an elderly gentleman who lived about twenty kilometres from my house. “Hello Fiona. Do you own, or have you lost a little dog called Milly?” he asked me. “Oh no, are you kidding me? Is it really Milly? A poodle X?” “Oh ‘m not sure about that love. All I know is that she is brown and fluffy and has a name tag with Milly written on it, and of course this phone number.” “Yes, she’s mine. Thank you, thank you. I’ll come and get her now.” He gave me his address and I set off, crying with relief and feeling a mixture of excitement and disbelief at the thought of getting Milly back. When I found his house, he told me how he had come outside at 6am to pick up his newspaper, it was raining and cold. As he bent down, he saw a little bedraggled dog in his front garden, quite close to him. Slowly and quietly, he walked up to her and coaxed her into his arms. He said that Milly had snuggled in and fallen asleep very quickly, so he walked next door to his neighbours to get some of their dog’s biscuits for when she woke up. Fiona was not only very grateful to the stranger but felt that the emptiness she had without her dog was no longer with her. She felt complete again. As soon as they neared their house in Fiona’s car, Milly began to move from one side of the back seat to the other in excitement. Her tail wagged as if it was on the top number on a speed dial. She knew that she was home and had a couple of barks as if saying “I’m back.” “I don’t think she will run off like that again” Fiona told her sister over the phone “She is following me like a shadow - and I love it!” Fiona couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing at the vets. Since Milly had been back home with her, she seemed so content, loved playing throw the soft toy and bring it back, for what seemed like hours on end and standing patiently for Fiona to give a few morsels of each meal she had! It had been at least a couple of months or more since she got lost and in that period of time, Milly had seemed just like her normal self. One morning Milly didn’t eat her breakfast, and wandered around the house slowly with her head down as if she had been told off and was in trouble. “What’s wrong little one?” Fiona asked her. “Have you gone off the lamb and veg? Fuss pot!” But even changing the flavour of the meat roll didn’t make any difference. That same day, in the evening after Fiona changed the food in the dog’s bowl, she didn’t come to even sniff it, and was still there the next morning. “I think I should take you to see the vet” Fiona said to a lifeless little dog lying in her basket. As she walked into the old building, Milly in her arms, Fiona had a strange feeling in her chest, stressful. She felt even more uneasy when the vet, after examining Milly, said “I think we’ll need blood tests.” So here she was, the next day, sitting in the vet’s room waiting for the results from the blood test. Her constant companion lay lifeless in her arms. Fiona looked down at her into the dark brown eyes, sad and quite lifeless. She couldn’t help herself, tears welled up in her own eyes at the thought of losing Millie. The vet’s words echoed in her head as if they were coming from a place far away, slightly muffled, not clear. “What did you just say?” she asked “I’m so sorry Fiona, Milly doesn’t have long. She has a very aggressive blood cancer and it’s too far gone already.” “But she was perfectly alright a couple of months ago. I even took her when I went hiking two weeks ago, she was ok. Are you sure? Have you mixed up her results with another dogs?” Fiona was crying now. “Fiona, look at her, she can hardly lift her head off your arm. It’s the type of cancer that doesn’t show up until it’s almost too late”. “Almost, so she can get better?” she asked the vet wiping her eyes with a tissue. “No Fiona. It’s too late. I am so sorry”. She looked down at her friend, and love of her life. Her dull eyes were looking at Fiona with love, but she hardly moved. The warmth of her soft tummy was spreading through Fiona’s body and she stroked the soft brown fur, tears fell on it. “What shall I do?” she asked, wanting someone else to make the decision. “There would be no point in taking Milly home - she won’t improve. Why don’t you spend as much time as you would like with her here, and then we can put her out of her misery, kindly and lovingly.” Fiona felt numb. ‘I must be dreaming, and I’ll wake up soon and Milly will be clambering over me on my bed. Please let me be dreaming. I don’t think I can do this...not again’ she thought fearfully. She doesn’t know how long she sat with Milly but Fiona turned when she heard the door open, and a kindly voice told her “We are ready when you are Fiona. It’s the kindest thing we can do.” Fiona kissed the head of her beautiful dog and let the vet nurse take her out of her arms. She remembers seeing Milly turning her eyes towards her as she left the room, and felt as if she was saying to her “I know you don’t want to.” She doesn’t know how long she sat in her car crying her eyes out - not wanting to go home to an empty house. The staff from the surgery all came out after locking up and the nurse knocked on her window, which she wound down. As she handed Fiona the little pink collar and silver letter M that had hung from it, she said “Millie went very peacefully. She didn’t move. I will ring you in a day or two and you can pick up the urn Fiona. Can I ring someone for you?” “No thank you.” Said Fiona clasping the collar in her hand. “I’ll ring my sister now and she will stay at my place with me tonight. Did she just close her eyes and go to sleep?” Fiona needed to know how peaceful Millie felt. It mattered to her. “Yes, so peaceful.” Fiona’s sister came over, with some dinner and they sat together eating in silence. Fiona felt quite sick with her headache but needed something to eat. It did help slightly. “I don’t know what I shall do now without her Jo.” Her sister didn’t say too much. There was no point in saying “You will get over it in time, or one day you can get another puppy, or it’s very raw now but will get better, honestly.” None of those were what Fiona wanted or needed to hear, so all she said was “It’s so sad Fi and will take a while, but I’m here for you, whenever you need me.” “Thank you, Jo. Goodnight.” As Fiona slumped on her bed, she slid her hand under her pillow and placed the collar there. She imagined that she was cuddling her little dog and a warm in her heart, and at peace. It became a ritual. Each night Fiona would put the little collar with the M letter hanging from it under her pillow, and each time she went for a walk, she would take the collar out and put it into the pocket of whatever she was wearing. If she didn’t have a pocket then she just held it tight. That way it was as if Milly was always with her doing the two things that they both loved. Sleeping on the end of the bed, and going for a walk. It was a special bond that could never be broken. It had helped Fiona cope with the loss of her beloved Ben - now this habit, or ritual was helping her cope with the loss of Milly. Humans or animals. The love might be different but a loss is just that. It’s something that takes a tiny piece of your heart, each time.
"Tommy, how are you doing tonight?" John doesn't have time to put on his shirt so he covers his chest with his arms. Tommy walks closer dripping water on the ground. The fire that John built is crackling while burning his plumage; a small pile of feathers is next to him. John moves it under his body with his leg. "Not much, just decided to go out for a swim. What are you doing?" Tommy sits on the ground next to him. "I thought it was a lovely night to built a fire," John replies. "That's true." Tommy reaches to the ground and picks up a feather. "Are you roasting a turkey?" "No, it must've fallen from a bird earlier." John notices one of his feathers is sticking out from his armpit. John scratches to keep it hidden. "It doesn't look like a feather from any bird in the area." Tommy hands it to John to take. John adjusts his arm and grabs it. He fakes an inspection. "I don't know anything about bird. All I know is that I hate when the chirp outside my window in the morning and wake me up," John says. "I love birdwatching. There isn't much else to do around here." "In that case, you are probably excited about seeing a new bird." John hands the feather back. "It looks like it came from a tropical bird. They tend have to have brighter feathers whereas the species native to here tend to have more subdued colors." "Maybe its the light from the campfire?" John cringes. Bright feathers are a symbol of youth and vitality in his species. Their skin doesn't wrinkle and inspecting plumage is the primary means to determine age. "No way, this thing is bright green for sure. It looks like it came from a parrot." "Oh no, does that mean we have to be on the look-out for pirates?" John sweats. Why won't Tommy just leave. "Very funny, but I doubt pirates go to the middle of the forest." "Maybe the parrot just migrated. I hear they adore crackers." "Migration." Tommy sets the feather down and shakes his head. "I had a talk with Diane today about the lasting environmental impacts of the Mieran invasion. We don't really have any information so it was mostly speculation, but parrots weren't migratory birds. If they did migrate and they migrated here, that could be a sign of larger issues." "Maybe it escaped from a pet store. Don't you and Diane have a pet cat?" John tries to change the subject desperately. "Deb ran away last week. Diane is pissed about it," Tommy says. "Oh, that sucks. Maybe the cat is nearby." John suppresses his smile "I doubt it. That cat has probably been killed by a wolf or something. Even if I did it find it. Diane would still be mad at me." "Why would she be mad at you?" "I don't know. She and I have just been drifting apart and arguing a lot more recently." Tommy looks at John. "You've always been a good man. Can I tell you a secret?" "Sure." John says as he scratches his chest where his nipples should be. "I've started having an affair with Lindsay." Tommy looks at the fire. "I know I'm trash. I was at her place before I started swimming tonight." "Oh, that's not good. How does Lindsay feel about this?" John laughs at how small Tommy's secret is. "Lindsay and Diane have never gotten along so I'm sure Lindsay enjoys that she is torturing Diane, and Diane will probably be even more angry that I cheated on her with Lindsay." "I really don't know what to say." "It's fine. I just need someone to listen." Tommy looks at the night. "When Diane and I first started dating, I always felt good about myself around her. Now, I just feel like a failure. Lindsay makes me feel better." "What do you mean?" "Diane is incredibly smart, and she makes me feel like an idiot sometimes. She is also very particular and organized. Lindsay isn't a slob, but she understands that messes happen." Tommy starts to cry. "Who I am kidding. I am just making excuses for my own shitty behavior." "Don't say that." John rubs Tommy's shoulder. Tommy looks over at him. He jumps back in shock. "Where are your nipples dude?" John looks down. "It's not what it looks like." John holds his hands up to defuse the situation. "Are those green feathers under your armpit?" Tommy spots the feathers that John was hiding. "Oh my god, you are the parrot. Are you a spy for the Mierans?" "No, I love humanity and hate the Mierans." "I don't believe you," Tommy walks away. Without thinking, John runs over and grabs Tommy's neck. Tommy begins to struggle, but John is much stronger than he. Within a few seconds, he's dead. John weeps over his body. He hasn't killed anyone since he was free of Mieran influence, but his safety comes first. And he will ensure that he stays safe.
Yoonki got a call from his friend one late afternoon. It was only a few days till Christmas and Yoonki knew that Jaemin should be busy with his bakery. "Hey. What's up?" Yoonki asked. "I need your help again. It's really important." "Is it about your mom again?" "No. It's about my bakery." "Why do you need a detective for a bakery?" "It's REALLY important. Can you just come over? Right now!" "Alright. Whatever. I was in the middle of watching that new drama "Find Me" so this had better be good." "You watch the Please series?! I love that series!" "It is an amazing series. I just hope that season two comes out before I finish season one." "I heard there are gonna be, like, six to eight seasons so good luck trying not to end up on a cliff hanger." "Whatever. I'm heading over now." Thirty minutes later, Yoonki pulled up to his friends bakery and stepped out of the cab. He thanked the driver and paid him before heading inside the closed shop. He found his friend pacing in the kitchen. "What was so urgent that I had to come over here?" "Someone broke into my shop last night!" "How do you know? I don't see any broken glass or anything else that would indicate that there had been a break in." "Something's missing and it's really important. I can't have my Christmas party without them! It just won't be the same!" "What are you missing?" "It's a secret ingredient. I can't tell you but it's for my Yaksik. I can't make my Yaksik without them!!" "Just get a different kind of nut or buy more or something." "It's not nuts that I'm missing. It's something more important. And, I've tried buying more. Every time I buy more, they're gone by the next day!" "How am I supposed to help you if there's nothing to work with?" "I'm sorry. You're supposed to be the detective. Can't you look around and find fingerprints or something?" "That takes special equipment." "Use your equipment then!" "I would if I had it! You hurried me out the door so I didn't bring anything!" "You're still a detective. Isn't there something you can do?" "I'll take a look at your locks and any opening that people could use to get in but I can't guarantee anything." "Thanks." Yoonki started to look at all of the doors and windows in the bakery. He couldn't find a single scratch or anything else that would signify a break-in. "Did you find anything?" "No. Whoever stole your "secret ingredient" must've stolen it during the day." " How would they be able to do that with all the people around?" "I don't know. I'm sure they would find a way if your "secret ingredient" is as special as you say it is." "What are you gonna do now?" "I don't have anything to do tomorrow so I'll hang out at you're place for the day and see if I can find anything. Tell yours workers to also keep an eye on things." "Okay. I'll see you tomorrow." Yoonki started to walk out but stopped. "And, don't buy any more of your "secret ingredient" for now." "Okay, but, please hurry, then. The Christmas party is in a little more than a week and I can't have the party without my Yaksik!" "Got it." Yoonki headed out. The next day, Yoonki dressed an an outfit that he found comfortable but stylish enough to go out in. He wore black jeans, a white T-shirt that was slightly big on him, a green jacket, black combat boots and a black hat that he put on backwards. The outfit looked pretty Christmas-y if you added his dark red hard into the mixture. Black like the night, green like a Christmas tree, red like the decorations on the house, white like the fallling snow, it all fit perfectly and Yoonki was very satisfied with it. He headed to the bakery with his computer at eight in the morning and he kept an eye on things all day. He never saw single suspicious person or act. No one ever caught his eye. After the day was over, Yoonki headed over to talk to Jaemin about the next plan that he had come up with while sitting there all day. "Did anyone spot anything suspicious?" Yoonki asked. "No. Nothing suspicious." "I have another plan then." "What is it?" "Buy your "secret ingredient" and leave it where you always do tonight. We'll see if anyone comes tomorrow. Maybe they have something that tells them whether or not you've restocked." The next day Yoonki headed back with a new outfit. He still wore black jeans (A different pair of course) but, from there, it changed. He had a red sweater on that had long enough arms that he could have sweater paws if he wanted. He had a black, satin, suit coat over that. He accessorized with a black belt and black converse. It seemed like an unlikely outfit but it looked a lot better than he thought it would. He nodded at himself in the mirror before heading out for another, tiring day at the bakery. Once again, the whole day, he didn't see a single suspicious thing. He was getting annoyed because he had better things to be doing. He came up with one last plan and, at the end of the day, he relayed the plan to Jaemin. "I brought a camera today. We're gonna put it up tonight and find out, once and for all, who's stealing your "secret ingredient." Yoonki set up the camera and Jaemin restocked the shelf once more. They both left the shop in hopes that they would really catch the culprit this time. The next day, Yoonki picked an outfit, hoping it would be his last outfit for the bakery. Yoonki wore black, dress pants with a black and white striped shirt. He put a large, red, suit coat over that and wore black dress shoes too. He looked at himself and then shook his head. The outfit was missing something. After contemplating it for a good while he walked to his closet and pulled out a black fedora. He set it on his head an looked in the mirror. He nodded and lightly smiled before heading out. When he got to the store, Jaemin was already excitedly waiting inside for him. Yoonki went to grab the camera and then went through the footage quietly while Jaemin tried to lean over the table to see. After a few minutes Yoonki's expression changed to a look of shock and then he laughed. "You won't believe this!" Yoonki said. Jaemin stood up and walked around the table to peer at the camera and see what Yoonki was laughing at. The video showed a raccoon climbing through his chimney and opening his fireplace from the inside. The raccoon then went straight to the shelf and grabbed the jar of Persimmons. The raccoon ate all of them, threw the trash away, put the jar back and then climbed back out through the chimney. Jaemin didn't want to laugh but he had to admit that it was a very strange sight. "What am I going to do now?" "I've heard that raccoons don't like strange sounds. Maybe you can play music at night?" "I think that would be a waste of electricity." "You could spray peppermint oil up the chimney and around that room. I've read the raccoons have a great sense of smell and peppermint is a smell that really bothers them." "I don't want my bakery to smell like peppermint!" "Well then ... get a lock for your fireplace or something! I don't know! My work here is done. I'm leaving." "Thanks for your help. I'll just get a lock." "Your welcome. Don't call me again until Christmas is over." And that's how Yoonki saved Christmas and stopped the "Secret Ingredient Thief" (Kind of)
Trigger Warning: This story references female mutilation. Olivette sat and listened to her mother tell the stories. The bondo devils would come and they would celebrate, Folami would say. They would come, with their long robes adorned with strips of many colored-fabrics, and the black-wood masks atop their heads, increasing their height by at least a foot. They would dance in the dirt roads, the bondo devils, shrieking and wailing their song, as the villagers pranced behind them, joyous and exuberant. Her mother would tell her the stories and she would smile, but it was a bleak slash that crossed her face and rendered it dark. As Folami spoke, she gestured and pointed with her hands. “When the devils come, there will be revelry in the streets. The men will want you, and your sisters will be jealous. We will eat for many days, and our bellies will be full.” Sometimes her mother would weave her tales in front of the big black pot while she cooked the stew, the steam floating in front of her face. It drifted before her like a smoky screen, obscuring her mother’s eyes and making them impossible to read. Olivette imagined that her mother’s eyes were filled with the same trepidation that the stories aroused in her. Her mother shared the stories with a tone that was alternatively grim yet hopeful, but Olivette feared her tales. As her mother recounted the traditions, Olivette’s stomach clenched in fear. She would nod as appropriate when Folami spoke, but inside, her heart pounded dread in her chest, much like the old drums that would beat in time of war. Late at night, in the quiet of the hut, when everyone was asleep, Olivette would lie awake, watching the final embers of the dying fire cast shadows on the walls. Her mother had said the bondo devils would dance in the streets, but Olivette saw their spirits lurking in the shadows, their long, ominous forms beckoning to her. “Olivette...” They would chant in the crackle and hiss of the fire, and no matter what her mother had said about joy and elation, she knew that these spirits of the bondo were evil. Her days were spent in preparation. Her mother and her aunts went to the woods to prepare the ceremonial hut. They gathered the necessary herbs and prepared them accordingly. They taught Olivette the differences between the herbs, and the purpose of each. And they sang. They sang the songs that would call the devils, and they were merry. But Olivette did not share their happiness; rather, she held a solemn fear. She remembered Aminata, her older sister, who had bled when the devils came for her. Aminata had screamed and screamed. For days she had been covered in a sheath of her own sweat and tears, but despite the heat, she shivered with cold. In those few moments when she did not scream, she muttered her words and shook both with pain and fear. One day, she extended a weak and shaky hand to Olivette. “ The devils...will come...for you, too, Olivette. Then you...will know ,” Aminata told her sister in a hoarse whisper. The light in her eyes was diminishing, and her skin held no color other than the pallid green of sickness. Her mother, her aunts, and her grandmother had said the prayers, and the bondo devils had come. “This will pass, and we will rejoice.” But it did not pass. The bleeding did not stop, and eventually Aminata spoke no more. Folami cried, but Olivette’s aunts comforted their sister. Sometimes the devils took their daughters, they told her mother. Sometimes the sin was too great. When the bondo came again, they took Aminata’s body; because her spirit was unsettled, her body could not stay in the compound. They buried her in the brush, far beyond the walls of the compound enclosure. At night, in the quiet of the hut, Olivette was sure she saw her dead sister. She lurked in the shadows with the devils, and she called to Olivette. “Olivette, it is time...” In her bed of straw and brush, Olivette trembled under her goat skin covering. Her sister knew of Olivette’s sin, and wanted Olivette to join her. But the dark world her sister inhabited with the devils frightened her. “ Join us, Olivette... ” Olivette clapped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and wished the spirits to leave. Folami went to the market and with great care, gathered the ingredients for the feast. There would be dried fish, goat, ground nut, and kola nut. Her mother and her aunts began the cook, and for two days the air carried the aroma of ground nut stew and palm oil. Folami and her sisters argued over how best to prepare the fish; the fish would be offered to the devils. Olivette stole a kola, split it open and pulled the nuts from the shell. She would leave the nuts for the bondo so that perhaps they would stay away. But when night fell, the plate of nuts that she laid by the fire remained untouched. In the long shadows cast upon the walls, the haphazard shape of Aminata flittered about, the dark silhouette of her head thrown back in laughter. The devils danced with her, their darkened shapes bobbing up and down. “ Olivette, it is not the nuts he wants ...” Olivette trembled in fear. Her mother and sisters and grandmother argued over what instrument to use. One of her mother’s sisters had a piece of onyx with a shiny black tip, the same that was used on Aminata. But Folami was superstitious and refused. To use the same instrument on one daughter that was used on the other, the first, would bring anger to the devils. Instead, Folami found an old, rusted blade. She went to the river and washed the blade; near her, two men urinated into the water. Olivette no longer slept at night. Her mother had said the devils would come during the day, to bring jubilation, but instead, Olivette was plagued by their suggestion. Their spirits hid in the shadows, Aminata among them, and they whispered to her incessantly about the nature of her sin. At night, the silhouettes reached for Olivette, and she would scream, but her mother would tell her to quiet her sleep. When at last the day came and the preparations were done, the handmaidens of the devils appeared first. They wore white dresses, and their dark skin was made light with white chalk. Like ghosts, they escorted the devils. They came for Olivette. She screamed and struggled and fought. But her mother and her aunts and her grandmother betrayed her; they helped the handmaidens take her to the hut. Inside, they laid her on the jute rug, and handmaidens sat on the floor on either side of her. They grabbed her legs and pulled them apart. Olivette jerked and twisted, but her mother and her aunts held her down by her midriff. On an old rock was the blade and near that, a small fire burned. Her grandmother placed the blade in the fire, and then positioned herself between her granddaughter’s legs, where her vagina was exposed and spread to reveal the sin of her womanhood. As her grandmother prepared to make the first cut, Olivette heard the song of the bondo devils outside the hut. They cried and wailed their song, and Olivette knew she heard her sister’s voice among them. “He’s coming for you, Olivette...you’ll be with him soon ...” “Please!” Olivette screeched. “Please! I am sorry for my sin! I am sorry for it! I will be chaste! I will be good! ” But her pleas were drowned out by the chants, the songs, and the catcalls of the devils outside. And after her grandmother was done, after she had cut and cut and cut and the sin of her organ was removed, she sewed the wound closed. Then the women celebrated. Olivette was unconscious, passed out from the pain. She did not hear when her mother, her aunts and her grandmother declared her a woman. Now that she was pure, as was the tradition, they asked the devils to spare her. But hours later, when Olivette came to in the darkened hut, she shuddered and shivered from fever, from shock, from loss of blood. In the weak glow of the fire, she saw the shadows waiting, felt the cold hand of death caress her cheek, and she knew the devils had come for her.
The Epistle of Paul to the Present Church Chapter 1 1. Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle by the will of God and separated according to the effective working of His power amongst the Gentiles 2. scattered throughout the world, to bear witness of the grace and love of the Father revealed in Jesus Christ, His Son, 3. To the present Church, beloved by God and called into fellowship with Him and each other for the eternal purpose of the Kingdom of God, 4. made known by the Spirit of knowledge and revelation to His people, who stand according to His grace. 5. Greetings, in the Name of my Lord, Jesus Christ. 6. I thank God for each remembrance of you, fondly considering your place in the heart of the Father, 7. knowing that you are precious in His sight, in attitude, word, and deed, always striving for the furtherance of His kingdom on the Earth. 8. Though it was my intention to teach and preach among you to the continued benefit of both you and me, it seems the Lord had plans for me, not of any private revelation. 9. For what I have faced in this life, I did so for the sake of the Gospel and not for any personal gain, whether of gold and silver or of reputation. 10. I have learned to be satisfied with what comes from the Hand of God in either of these. 11. Thus, I faced my certain demise with bold faith and trust in the Lord to do what He deems to be profitable for His Church. 12. For this reason, my preaching must find listening ears only by the reading of my words. My voice, made bold by the confidence I have in the leading of the Spirit, though willing, has been made silent by the elevation of my service into the Temple, not made by hands. 13. Therefore, I bow my knees to the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, from Whom all saints are so named. I 14. n the Presence of God, I speak of you, both day and night, that He may provide for you the accoutrements of your warfare for the souls of those outside, 15. that you may fight the good fight in the midst of the difficulties brought on you by the unbelief of those in the same present authority, 16. who do not care to know the way of righteousness and peace, preferring their choices that lead to strife and heartache, as it has been from the beginning. Chapter 2 1. And you also have been found wanting in this; that you let your heart be given over to double-mindedness concerning the things of this world. 2. Have you not seen the sorrow that comes from pursuing these things that are openly destructive to your faith and purpose? 3. Has it not been enough to turn your eyes away from the attractive things of Man that tarnish in the light of day? 4. This observation I share with a heart made heavy by the surety of the end, known from the beginning by our Lord and revealed to us through the revelations to the prophets and apostles 5. and made known to you through their writings; that the things you gather into your storehouse are the wild gourds of the flesh that brings death to the pot and not the delights of the Spirit which are well known by those who walk in the Spirit. 6. Know this, that the Flour which will give life to the pot is Jesus Christ, which restoration Elisha, the son of Shaphat could attest, 7. that there is no other who can provide such life. 8. Without the Kernal of the Seed, ground into flour through the sufferings which were ordained from the beginning by the Father, the death remains. 9. In like fashion; it is we who have the penalty of death upon us without the same Flour being mixed in because we also have pursued the double-mindedness of the world. 10. I hear reports of multiplications of salvations amongst you all. 11. Can it be true that you seek your identity apart from the risen Christ? 12. Who, then, died for you? Who suffered the indignities of the Cross and rose triumphantly for you? 13. Are you not named by the Lord of the Universe and claimed as His? 14. Walk, then, in wisdom, and move a distance from the futility of the carnal mind. Know, assuredly, that life is found only from one Source, and He is enough. 15. Let your mind be on heavenly things and renounce the earthy things of the flesh, in which is no chance of life. Chapter 3 1. Husbands, endeavour to love and serve your own wives as Christ does the Church. 2. Fulfill the promises you made at the altar, knowing that your Lord has fulfilled all His promises and His altar, 3. when the Church was birthed out of the side of the crucified Lord, just as Eve was out of the side of Adam. 4. Wives, respect your husbands as the servants of the Lord, given to you by the will of God. 5. Supply support for them as partners in life, serving the Lord together, with gladness, rejoicing in the fruits of your union in the children and the children’s children. 6. Children, hear the words of your parents and obey, that they are saved from the sorrow of a wayward child. 7. You are not the future of the Church but are now active members in your own right, called to serve the Lord of Glory as we all are. 8. Finally, Saints of God, be strong in the Lord. The enemy presses upon you with his worldly wisdom, which leads to the precipice. 9. Seek not for how close you can get, but flee its very locations, wherever they may be found. Eschew all that pertains to his drawing us to him. 10. Pursue godliness without dilution, seeking the will of Him who loves you with everlasting love. 11. Stand apart that your garments do not pick up the smoke of the coming conflagration. 12. The eternal life of your loved one is in the balance for they also seek an example of Christlikeness in a world of bad examples. Be their light. Chapter 4 1. Though I remain in the environs of Heaven, I think of you often, pleading with my Lord, 2. Who has replaced my faith with blessed sight. 3. I pray for you that you accomplish the tasks laid upon you by the Spirit of God. I pray that you love each other with the mind of Christ. 4. I pray you walk in the righteousness of God, providing light to those who live in darkness. 5. Some of you will come to me soon. The ones left behind still have the burden of ordination on you to do the will of the Lord. 6. I cannot come to you, but my prayers penetrate the chasm. 7. Until then, peace be to you and grace, in the Name of God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. I have you in my heart. Amen
"I can't believe you're making me go!" I exaggerated. Tyler looked at me annoyed, "You're the one who agreed to this blind date, Kyra!" I sunk into the couch, how could I have been so stupid? At first, I didn't think much of it, I've been on blind dates all the time! So of course I agreed to this one. None of them ever ended well, they all had their separate flaws; Slurping, chewing with their mouth open, and the worst of all: Country music. "Kyra you said yes and that means you're going!" Tyler grabbed my hand and before I knew it I was being shoved into an uber. Tyler reached for the seatbelt and clicked mine in for me. "Have fun on your date!" He patted me on my head and closed the door, leaving me inside the uber with no choice but to go on the date. Tyler tapped on the driver's window, the driver rolled it down. Tyler took out his phone and showed an address and the driver nodded and rolled the window back up. Of course, he wasn't going to tell me about where we were going. I sighed and the car took off. This was going to be a long 2 hours ahead of me. I looked around for a man that matched Tyler's description, "tall, brown hair, intense stare, leather jacket." Very descriptive of him. I looked back down at my phone as I leaned against the movie theatre entrance wall. I was scrolling through memes on Instagram when it was interrupted by a notification from an unknown number. I clicked on it to expand the message, Hi is this Kyra? Really? Who else could it be? I sighed as I typed my response on the keyboard of my cracked phone screen. Yes, it is, who is this? Send. A typing bubble appeared and it changed into a message: It's your blind date, are you at the theatre already? I'm at the concessions booth with our tickets. Of course, he was inside, what was I thinking looking for him outside of the building? I sighed as I turned around and entered the building. The lobby of the MegaJolena theatre was always a sight for sore eyes, but not mine. Just looking at the gold outlining decoration along with the doorway just reminds me how disgusting colored rocks are and the quartz flooring just annoys me with all the scratches on it. Oh and the worst of all, the chandelier. Who even came up with chandeliers? Like, come on, a hanging arrangement of diamond killing shards? It was a waste of diamonds and the only good thing about them was that you can use the shards to cut pieces of steak. I sighed as I walked over to the concessions bar looking for a lonely boy with two tickets. I looked everywhere and my heart almost did a reboot when something touched my shoulders. I jumped and turned around at the speed of light. It was a boy my age with big round glasses. His hair was brown and hung over his hairline with a fluff look on it. His attire was a completely different story, literally. A slick black leather jacket with dark blue jeans that traveled all the way down to his black Nike shoes. “Hey you’re Kyra right?” my face was still in shock. “Yeah, how’d you know?” He smiled as he showed me his phone, it was a picture of me staring at the camera intensely, it was the picture Tyler had taken a few days ago. “Oh.” He chuckled, “You’re even wearing the same clothes as the you in the picture!” I smirked, I’m glad he noticed. “Yeah, haven’t changed since.” finally, this was the perfect red flag to tell him that I was no ordinary girl. Normally, my blind dates would excuse themselves and leave the date after I said something like this but this guy was different, he was completely unfazed. “Well I got our tickets,” he said as he handed me one of the two that were in his hands. I faked a smile for him as I accepted the ticket. I bet he was going to make me watch some stupid Disney romance film like come on, what's so good about an orphan with no parents that falls in love with a sexist no good of a man, never made sense to me. I looked down at the ticket to see what we were watching. To my surprise it wasn’t a princess film, instead, it was a horror film that came out a few days ago. This boy got game! “Like I would ever make you watch an orphan movie.” My face lit up, how did this boy know what I was thinking? I didn’t care though, as long as I wasn’t paying for the tickets. It was a win-win situation. We walked into theatre 5 and shuffled into our seats right before the movie started. Little did I know, the boy I was sharing my popcorn with was going to change my life forever, and not in the way you think, he and I were going to go to a mental hospital after the incident at the supermarket, but let's focus on what is happening right now and why this boy is getting escorted by the police out of the MegaJolena Theatre. I was watching from the side as I saw him being forced into the back of the cop's car. He chuckled and smiled at me relieving his dimples. I couldn’t help but smile back at him. The cop slammed the door shut but the door swung right back opened, he had blocked it with his leg. The boy stood up as cops rushed over to force him back into the car. “Hey! Kyra! Don’t forget to visit me!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. I chuckled. There was something different about this boy, and not the fact that he was in the back of a cop's car, it was something different. It had definitely taken me by surprise. This boy... I need to see him again.
Oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn’t. More than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn’t read - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 I opened his pages and sniffed, basking in the smell of his yellowed leaves. He smelled like home or a rusty old cabin on a mountain or woods surrounding a lake in the middle of a hot summer day. My fingers, covered in dirt, caressed the ink covered pages and beautiful words that echoed in my head as I read the stories inside. I laughed in delight as I discovered the wit and tales he held in his heart. his name was The Importance of Being Earnest and Other Works by Oscar Wilde. A mouthful to say the least, but despite his long name, he was quick and clever. Yellow highlighter in hand, I marked his pages, making note of words he spoke that intrigued or amused me. On the inside in fading pencil is my mother’s name in cursive. Lying on the couch, I shout to my mom asking if she’d read it. She couldn’t remember, but she might have. Perhaps in college or high school she held on to it and then placed it in the bookshelf and left it forgotten for the next twenty or so years. Despite being surrounded by many other books, he seemed lonely as I pulled his out and examined him. A brown colored photograph of the author and several companions graced the cover, covered in a thin coat of dust that I blew off quickly. Earnest seemed to stare up at me as I gripped him in my hands, staring back down at him, as if we were competing to see who would blink first. He was the victor of the battle, but it was I who held his protectively as I wandered the house, delving deeper into his pages every minute. I’d met a cousin of his before, and that cousin was why I introduced myself to this noble Lord. His cousin was a film version of the play, and he had amused me greatly. When I saw this Lord’s title I knew I must introduce myself. “Ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly.” I told him as I admired the words that stemmed out from his spine, my fingers following each line, tracing the tattoos left upon his skin by the ink. He quickly replied to my remark and surprised me. “I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?” With a grin, I took him by the spine and whisked him off to the kitchen, where I grabbed turkey and bread and proceeded in making myself a sandwich. I knew at that moment we were meant for each others, that we appreciated humour that was well crafted and filled with wit. After a few minutes, I decided to propose, hoping to celebrate with a cold Dr. Pepper. Again, he surprised me. “Of course. Why, we have been engaged for the last three months.” I raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Worn out by your entire ignorance of my existence, I determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself I accepted you under this dear old tree here. The next day I bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover’s knot I promised you always to wear.” He then informed me that he had broken off our engagement, because “it would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out.” And so our life together began, and I introduced his to my family, who was greatly amused by his during Thanksgiving dinner. “Relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven’t got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die.” The table erupted in laughter at his commentary, and then descended into loud discussions of politics, school, and work. * The rest is silence - William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1599 It had been several years since our engagement, and he and I are still close. I picked him up and read and spoke to him on occasion, but at times I felt as though we were drifting apart, as if he’d become some book I simply placed on my nightstand and occasionally glanced at, flipping through his pages and reading a section before putting him down again. Sometimes I felt like he was still speaking to me, trying to grab my attention as I focused on other books. That was when I met Hamlet. He was shiny and new, with no other name written inside except for my own. He and I stayed up late, sitting on my bed with a bowl of popcorn and a Dr. Pepper, his black cover resting in my lap as I stared intently into his pages, my thumb holding my place as I popped another bite into my mouth before carefully turning the page to uncover the secrets inside. He was my very own Prince Charming of Denmark, speaking sweet words to me as I eagerly listened, taking them in and listening to his gentle voice soothing me. “Doubt thou the stars are fire / Doubt that the sun doth move / Doubt truth to be a liar / But never doubt I love”, he said, speaking promises into my ear. He was dark and mysterious, the ideal bad boy of my existence. His presence was alluring in a way that captivated my imagination and fascinated me in ways that Earnest could not. He was romantic yet enveloped by darkness with his black leather-like cover, like the void of the night sky. The silver words that spelled out his name shone like stars against this endless night sky. He was moody and restless, yet I loved him still, refusing to give up on my precious prince. His voice lulled me to sleep every night, the rhythm of his words like a lullaby to my ears, rocking me back and forth as he sang to me. His voice had the same feeling of black velvet on the skin, soft and dark at the same time, yet comforting in the cold winters as I wrapped it around me, drinking warm cocoa and reading in my bed as grey clouds cover the sky, blocking out the light of day, making time seem irrelevant to me. We stayed this way for a year or so, watching David Tennant on screen with a skull in his hand, reciting those words that Shakespeare had written so diligently in years before. At times though, as I held him by my side, I’d glance across the room and see Earnest watching, sadly, that same lonely look upon him as I had noticed those many years ago in the bookshelf, surrounded and yet alone. I felt a pang of guilt in my heart before returning to Hamlet, his words spoken quietly yet with a fierceness that was only possible coming from him. For a while, all was well, yet he began speaking harsh words to me. He did nothing harmful, but his words held so much power in them that I was harmed indeed. “ Let me be cruel, not unnatural / I will speak daggers to his, but use none,” I overheard him as I entered the room, before he began insulting me, yelling “Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or, if thou wilt needs marry, marry a fool, for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them.” Crying, I ran from him, grabbing my dear Earnest from the nightstand and running towards the bathroom. Shutting the door I turned on the water and stepped into it, lying back in the bathtub as I allowed the water to rise until it covered my face, leaving me in the silence except for the sound of the waterfall coming from the pipe, crashing into the water already in the tub. There, I was safe, away from my Hamlet, and at rest. “Good-night, ladies; good-night, sweet ladies; good-night, good-night,” I whispered, bringing my head above the water for a moment. Over the sound of the waterfall I could hear another familiar voice. “Now cracks a noble heart. Good-night, sweet prince / And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” * The truth is rarely pure and never simple. Modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility - Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895 I held Earnest to me tightly, staring out the window into the empty street and quiet fall colors that covered the grass, orange and brown and red. He had grown jealous of Hamlet and I, and yet he had remained patiently with me, his pages always there to be turned and to provide me with whatever I needed. I felt a pang of guilt at how I had used him without caring for him in return. I had betrayed him and grown to love another. My fingers returned to the brown photograph on his cover, blankets wrapped around me like some eskimo in the Arctic. I bit my lip, accidentally drawing blood, tasting the copper tang in my mouth. Earnest was silent, staring back up at me with a blank face, emotionless and tired. As if all had been lost and there was no way to return to the way we had been before. His pages felt cool to the touch now, no longer bringing the warmth I had felt. I had not returned that devotion that had been so present in the beginning, and the way he sat on the bed, turned away from me, the cover shut and blocking me out, I could tell the damage I had done just by looking. Sighing, I carried him outside, towards the swimming pool where I sat by the edge of the deep end, dipping my toes in the cool blue water, opening him to my eyes and reading what I had read so many times before, but this time, it felt so different. I didn’t deserve to read those lines, to touch those pages printed with ink that marked every word he spoke to me. Earnest spoke differently to me than Hamlet had, although during our time together I’d felt that the prince had truly cared for me. Yet he didn’t give me that same warmth and laughter my true love had so often provided me. He was witty and yet when I needed any comfort, he held me in his arms, gently wrapping those soft yellow pages around me, caressing my skin as I listened to his words. There was comfort in those words, unlike the cold harsh speech Hamlet would use against me at times. Yet Earnest was never unkind, too cruel or demanding. He was sweet. I stood, holding him to my chest, sighing quietly as I listened to the laughter of children in the backyard behind ours. They were probably having friends over, judging by the level of noise coming from it. As I turned to go back inside my home, I tripped, skinning my knee as he fell from my hands, away from me, into the deep end of the pool. I knelt by the edge, leaning forward to retrieve him, but he was already sinking into the depths of the dark lonely pool. I cried out his name one last time, before remembering something he had said so many years ago. “The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means.” My eyes had been opened, though I was not asleep, and I saw my reality as it should be.
Lucas and Harper agreed on exactly one thing. Though they didn't know each other, and were currently refusing to speak to each other, and disagreed about everything else, they both agreed Isabella was an idiot. It was showing in their subtle head shakes and the not so well hidden eye rolls. The three of them were handcuffed together at the McCarren Park Greenmarket (a greenmarket is just a farmer's market, in New York, they need to give a special name to everything). It was a three body problem. They could escape if they agreed on which way to run. But that would be difficult, as Harper believed passionately in liberal causes, and Lucas believed in conservative values. They would have found a way to disagree on the direction to run. The other person I mentioned, Isabella? No one knew what she believed in or in which direction she would run. Years from now, Lucas and Harper might end up married if they happen to meet each other. But at this stage in their life, they clung to the idea that their specific political beliefs could get them what they wanted out of life. Lucas and Harper agreed about one other thing. Transcript of Officer Delgado’s bodycam footage Officer D.: Are you young people doing ok? Do you need any water? Harper : Fuck off, you fascist. Lucas: Fuck off, you nazi. Isabella: I’m ok. But I have a facial booked at 1pm. I need to leave before then? Isabella raised the pitch at the end of her sentences, turning every statement into a question. Many beauty influencers on Instagram do that. Harper flung back her hair and looked at Isabella with disgust “Why should you get preferential treatment? You were not working to improve the treatment of the underprivileged people of this city.” “What do you mean?” Harper stared at Isabella, fairly certain she had a Latino background, and became more specific about the underprivileged. “The treatment of African Americans.” “Yo. My best friend Donna is African American.” Isabella didn't like Harper, because Harper had smacked her in the face, accidentally, with a protest sign about ten minutes ago. Harper and Isabella had been arrested because Lucas had notified the police of an assault in progress. Lucas was arrested as well, after Harper told the police what he was up to in the park, counter-protesting. Lucas watched the cat fight with contempt. Being a misogynist at heart (or more deep down, afraid of not being in control if he had a girlfriend he really liked), he might have mocked Harper and Isabella. However, Rule #3 of the '7 Methods to Startup Success in 6 Months' said, outside of high performance automobiles, women direct 90 percent of the world's purchasing power. Those who intended to become billionaires should keep an open mind. He would watch and learn. Harper's gaze shifted to Lucas. “How about you, dickhead? Do you think she should be allowed to leave early?” “She broke the law. I believe lawbreakers should be punished.” “You’re just saying that because she’s latino,” she sneered. “Why were you counter protesting, anyway?” “We need to protect our American Freedoms.” “By stopping a public housing protest?” she said. “And dude. Freedom? You are in handcuffs.” “What about freedom of religion?” “Are you religious?” Lucas stopped talking. In fact, although they identified with opposing political beliefs, they both wanted the same thing. A world different from the one we live in. The world of a lifetime of boring jobs, 3% annual pay raises, tax forms, and regular medical checkups. Let's divert from this story, to pizza. Once you serve young people who believe they have opposing political views good pizza and drinks, they might actually find they really don't have many major differences. So, a couple of years ago, some of their leaders figured out a new way to raise the emotional stakes to something approaching the tenor of the Russia-Ukraine War. By moving the goalposts of what is considered a human life by a few months, people who previously had agreed about almost everything now shouted at each other about murdering babies. Their leaders rejoiced at the fact that this would guarantee they would never agree about anything else for a very long time to come. “Freedom?” Harper scoffed. “What about the freedom for women to have an abortion?!” Thankfully for this story, Officer Delgado was paying attention and jumped in. “I thought today’s protest was about public housing. Can you two agree to disagree about everything else right now?” His gaze laid heavy on Lucas. Lucas’s body was trembling visibly in anticipation of giving birth to well rehearsed arguments about the evils of abortion. Delgado had seen this before. Whatever Lucas said would not be the last word. The format of these arguments had been put in place a decade before, a theatrical back and forth of well honed rhetoric, that about five minutes later, would end with them both calling each other members of a famous 1940s German political party. Lucas, feeling the obligation of bro-code (even with a policeman who grew up in Queens) stayed silent. They were young and passionate (or stubborn and opinionated) and they both made a list of talking points for later. It isn’t until someone is over 50 that they realize the futility of arguing about social justice, or about American values and the principles of the founding fathers. People of that age knew, if things have been this unfair for themselves up until now their entire life, it's bound to be unfair for someone someplace no matter how many OpEds are written and protest marches are marched. And the values of the Founding Fathers? Back in 1776, people were definitely arguing and disagreeing about everything as much as they do now, probably more, since their clothes were full of fleas, and they drank ale from morning to night to dull the pain of unresolved dental problems. Since there was no one over 50 in this group, the political arguments weren’t going to be resolved today. He might look old, but Officer Delgado was just 34 (a decade of being called to intervene in domestic disputes made him feel like 50). Delgado fidgeted with his bodycam. He wished he could turn it off, especially since they didn’t allow him to play Taylor Swift songs anymore (that stopped the Gen-Z kids from uploading him to YouTube and making him look stupid.) “You know you shouldn’t be protesting public housing policy at a farmer's market?” he asked Harper. “I disagree. And I was protesting for social justice, I don’t know what he was doing.” “Counter-protesting,” Lucas said. “What about me?" Isabella asked. "I was just taking video for my Instagram channel when her sign smacked me in the face.” Isabella flung her water bottle at Harper, missing her and hitting Delgado in the face with high elevation Jamaican spring water. “This job is funking bullshit,” Delgado exclaimed, after wiping his face. “Ha! You swore,” Harper said, laughing. “I said funking.” “You said funking bullshit.” “Fuck you.” Delgado was reaching the end of his tether detaining these three. He had been continually heckled by the young people of Williamsburg as they passed by. He was still waiting for the precinct to decide what to do. Delgado’s objective each day was simple: not getting written up by Sargeant Brown. Having these young people leave now seemed to be a safer path to the desired outcome. Transcript of Officer Delgado’s bodycam footage: Officer D.: “What do you think about the New York Police Department?” Lucas: [Undecipherable] Harper : [Undecipherable] Isabella: [Undecipherable] The transcriber couldn’t make out all the curse words. All three of those detained shouted insults at Delgado all together at the same time. That was exactly what Delgado wanted. “The police department has decided to let you go today,” he said. When he pulled out the key to the handcuffs and started unlocking them, they stayed quiet. He told them they were free to go. When they were a few feet away, they started cursing again. Delgado recorded it all. Abusive citizens helped the police look good in any courtroom (in case this came up later because of TikTok or whatever). Harper, Isabella, and Lucas ran off together. Their brief moment of camaraderie was about to be broken when Isabella asked, “Do you want to try huitlacoche quesadillas? There’s a place here.” Harper thought passing up the chance to learn about a Latin American cultural tradition would be insulting to Isabella. Lucas couldn’t find anything un-American about Quesadillas and he was hungry. Isabella paid. At first, they refused to let her pick up the tab, but when Harper heard about Isabella's 200k followers on Instagram, and Lucas about the six figures she was earning from product placements, they changed their mind. At the end of lunch, they both gave her their socials.
Kaitlyn stared at the coffee maker as it crackled faintly, filling the glass pot with the sweet life giving brew at an excruciating slow pace. She looked down at her phone to scroll through Instagram to distract her from the seemingly glacial progress but not even cat pictures or sunrises from some far away beach could keep her from glancing at the pot every three seconds. And speaking of cats she could hear her kitty yowling and scratching at the backdoor, ready to come in from a night on the prowl. “Oh my gosh Sunny stop, I’m coming,” Kaitlyn yelled as she shuffled through the living room to let in the howling ball of impatient fluff. No sooner had the door cracked opened a streak of yellow and orange lightening ran through the living room. Groaning, she followed the cat back towards her bedroom knowing there was only one reason he would run to her room instead of the kitchen for breakfast, he had brought something in. Kaitlyn stopped into the bathroom to grab a plastic bag out from underneath the sink, avoiding the mirror as she went. She was still in the clothes she had slept in, an XL shirt she was given at the gym she attended once and a pair of cotton shorts with a hole in the pocket, and hadn’t even thought about brushing her hair or teeth yet. Just as she had suspected, Sunny was hunched over something giving it a sniff when she had walked into the bedroom armed with her cleaning spray and baggy. “Ok mighty hunter, let’s see what you drug in this time,” she said sticking one foot under the cat’s stomach and moving him away from his catch to get a look. In the three years that she had owned him, he had brought home everything from paper sacks to mysteriously stolen socks to dead lizards, but he always laid them down on the rug right in front of her bed. Today was a completely new catch however, a bat. Kaitlyn squatted down with the bag over her entire hand, looking away with her eyes sealed shut as she attempted to scoop up little body. Her fingers closed around the fuzzy body and a little squeal escaped her lips that echoed out around the room. No, not an echo she realized as she felt movement beneath her fingers. Oh shit, it’s alive, she realized in a panic. Kaitlyn pulled the baggie away from the squeaking bat and Sunny rushed back in to investigate. She pulled the cat away from the animal, moving quickly out of the room and slamming the door shut behind her. Dropping the cat down in the kitchen to dig through the cabinets and pantry for something to put the bat in while she figured out where to take him. Giving into the realization that there weren’t any shoe boxes anywhere in the house, because really who keeps those things, she plunged a knife down through a Tupperware lid to make air holes for a transport box. After grabbing her least favorite kitchen towel from the drawer and distracting the cat with a scoop of food, she snuck back down the hallway. The high pitched squeaking had stopped from behind the door. Kaitlyn grimaced as she pulled the door open, afraid she was about to have to act as a coroner instead of a paramedic after all. But it turns out the bat wasn’t dead all, in fact it wasn’t a bat all at anymore. A man was now kneeling on her area rug groaning battered, his hair matted with sweat and his hands covered in lacerations. Her fingers started to turn white around the Tupperware container still clutched in her hand. Kaitlyn let out the breath she was holding as she fought the urge to throw the ruined plastic at him and run out the door behind her as the realization that the strange guy on her floor was seriously hurting. “Are you ok?” she finally managed, accidentally shouting at the poor man to try and drown out the sound of her own heart hammering in her ears. Well man wasn’t exactly accurate. Vampires had been out in the public eye for about five years but they still weren’t common to come across. They didn’t hang out in the Dollar General or anything. Kaitlyn took a steadying breath “I heal quickly,” the man assured me as he rose to his knees, his dark hair still hanging down into his pale face. “Should I call someone or can I give you a ride somewhere I guess?” She asked looking down at herself in her bare feet and oversized shirt. “You’ll just need to let me change....Or probably a cab would be best?” “The sun is already up and I’m not going to fit into that any longer,” the vampire said pointing at the makeshift transport in her hands. Kaitlyn looked down at the forgotten container with a blush and tossed it into a chair on top of the not-quite-dirty clothes pile. “So what I’m just supposed to let you hang out until sundown?” Kaitlyn asked as she followed him down the hallway and towards the living room. He poked his head around the corner cautiously before easing into the room silently to pull the curtains tight across the window. Even in the low light Kaitlyn could see he was already free of most of his injuries as he moved around the room. “It would be appreciated,” he said as he sat down on the couch, his movements as graceful as a falling feather. “Besides it seems like the least you could offer since if it wasn’t for your feline friend I wouldn’t be in your house at all.” “Yeah, true... That leads into my next question. How are you in my house? Don’t vampires have to be invited in?” She said sitting down in the armchair across the room, folding her legs underneath her feeling like a newborn giraffe in her movements now compared to his unnerving elegance. “Oh your cat-“he started to explain. “Sunny.” “Right, Sunny here is considered a resident of this dwelling and therefore has the authority to grant me entrance.” “That seems like a hell of a loophole...Kaitlyn said reaching behind her to pull a blanket off the back of the decorative armchair to cover up with, pulling the fabric all the way up to her neck. “You don’t have to worry, I am not going to harm you,” the vampire assured her from across the darkened room. “What? Oh no I wasn’t worried about that,” she said, heat flooding her cheeks as she realized what her pulling the blanket up so far much have looked like. “I wasn’t pulling it up over my neck because I thought you were going to attack me or anything! I watched all of the vampire coverage on the news and know you guys don’t really even drink that much blood. I’m just still in my pjs and felt a little self-conscious is all.” “So you didn’t think I was going attack you, you just thought I might be a pervert?” he clarified, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. “Yes...Wait, no! I mean....”Kaitlyn bit down on her lip to try to get herself to stop talking. “Are you sure you can’t head out sooner?” “I don’t exactly have my car even if the sun wasn’t already up,” he said with a shrug. “Right,” Kaitlyn agree quietly as she pulled out her phone to check what time the sun would be setting on her weather app, hoping the forecast would suddenly call for rain. With a high of 89 and not a cloud in sight her hopes of getting rid of her guest early were officially dashed, it was going to be a sunny day. “I’m Nathaniel,” the vampire offered apologetically from across the room. Even though he had been literally drug into the house against his will, Kaitlyn could feel that he knew he was inconveniencing her. “I’m Kaitlyn,” she returned sliding her phone back into her pocket. “I’m going to get changed real fast but feel free to look through the movies or I think I have some board games if you are interested.” “Thank you very much. Do you mind if I get something to drink from the kitchen?” He asked, standing so swiftly he had actually done it between her blinking. “Sure, as long as it’s not my cat,” she said back, watching him wide eyed as she rose from her seat too and backed up down the hallway. The locked clicked in place behind her as she leaned against the door and hoped that Nathaniel’s hearing wasn’t good enough to pick it up. She felt obligated to be a good hostess since she felt so guilty that her cat had hurt him but she wasn’t willing to put her comfort completely aside to do so. Especially since she was already giving up a whole day off of pretending she was going to get up and clean to entertain him. When we reemerged from her room, hair tamed, jeans on, and teeth brushed she found Nathaniel still standing in the kitchen with two cups of coffee already poured. A familiar comfort flooded her body at the sight of the steaming mugs, starting her coffee maker seemed like something she had done yesterday rather than an hour ago. She collected her cup and came to stand over near where he was hanging out looking down at the puzzle on her dining room table, sensing that was what he was most interested in doing. *Well, there are worse ways to spend a day I suppose.