By Dumisani khumalo He was in Cuba at the blink of an eye .The cop that sought for him could not find him ,see him ,nor was he certain of his whereabouts so he could get his own revenge .He saw him ten years later, after buying him a beer at a bar and inquiring if he still remembered him .He said no ,and when he told him who he was ,he disappeared once again . The bags the boys found were in a secluded part of a bush and under a bridge. The one who first saw them claimed there maybe a case of baby dumping and caution was to be taken ,after a narration of how forensics would come up with evidence, from fingerprints or erroneously coming out of the belly of lies , that a dead person revealed his killer by copying him up into his eyes for the dictatives to reveal it with their gadgets , narratives that picked their bristles of the cat walking amongst them and if such be the case as in the bags ,would have the same kind of investigations . The stories were not as truthful as their desire for money,smokes and beer .The three of then agreed that if they pulled the cases out they would share the loot by thel three of them and decided to put them close by the main road so access would be easy ,then in the morning ,they would be able to try and sell them The pernicious task of lifting them out was queer and difficult,taking more time they reached the main road at dusk .Then walking home to a silence as errie ,it made all of them go their separate ways after the his marijuana pulled them out of their skins, not a word was heard ,obviously from the fear playing on what they had seen . Not on Martin as he checked on them and on their individual ways home ,and making his way back to a friends house close by .He told him of the bags ,and the friend obliged to carrying them with and find a buyer the next day .That is what caused the whole thing to go into another nail biting moment ,as they found out the next day that the bags were gone. Martin took his two friends to the bags ,and found the were no longer there .After the same dictatives stories ,they all agreed ,someone must have been tailing them . At midday ,Martin was sharing the first fruits of the money of the bags sold to a maid in the neighbourhood at $35 ,and for the two ,it was manna dropped from heaven for both of them . They shared $15'each ,and the five was for the beer they had all wanted lsince eaving school and fast graduating into adult life .They went to a nearby bottlestore and bought some opaque beer,and clear beer came in after that, for most, as a wash down . The police raids were reminiscent of the colonial era ,harsh and demanding for individual particulars ,and only resembled in it the power politics of blacks in blacks as finding opposition as opponents were as good as enemies of the State. Martins weight lighting and training's made him look big and awesome ,he was barely got scared as when the bags story was told to him ,and he took them and had the idea of how to sell them, and now he was not afraid of any police raid at all.A pack of opaque beer called a shake shake was sipped at will and put high up on the trusses for hiding as they played games on fruit machines and mini soccer .If the police came ,as they did so often ,they would all deny ownership of the pack as usual, and a band of youth was taken to the new, youth having money in their pockets ,and money to spend on beer like this . The patrol car was there in no time, and helter skelter ,the youth ran in all directions to escape arrest and pay a fine ,failure of which was a number of days in the cells, save for Martin whose hands were stuck at the mini soccer table and looking at the goings on a little bit ignominious danger was nigh.A three star band ranked officer came out to him and picked out the pack ,which Martin denied to be his .The overzealous office then wanted someone to take him with him as an example to his subordinates .Arrests had to be made .Martin was the culprit whom he tried pulling into the car in front of his officers who had returned after a chase for the youth but could not do so by the strength of his arms and body build. The other officers looked curiously at them and Martin gave him a punch to the face ,the officers hat going into the wind as he came down on his knees ,as Martin pulled him towards his bare knee for the final knell. The quick realisation of rank made the other officers take him from behind,putting handcuffs on him and bundling him into the van to the police station .The ranking officer who was injured was taken to hospital. At the police station ,Martin was chained to the wall ,and after an inquiry in his identity papers and age ,he was found to be under age to drink ,and they had no test kits to prove he was drunk ,and the politics in the station wanted him let loose because there was no evidence aganist him ,and moreover the ranking officer was a promotion through the thick of political rivalry and through political muscle,and working at the conviction of opposition members was some officers call of duty and persecution letter of employment. Martin was literally out of the holding area when a call came from hospital that Martin was not to be let loose .The ranking officer had more he had to prove. He arrived in the late hours of dusk and tried his hand at karate kicks and punching Martin, as Martin did not cry nor bleat ,but demanded for a fair fight .It astounded them ,and sounded rude at the final ,it was decided that he be taken to a stops camp where both criminals ,political detainees ,and thugs were put up ,and news arrived already that a young lad had beaten his political opponent and was being brought into their holding cells. Martin was a hero when he arrived . The chief inspector was.in the following morning,and Martin s age was of concern when other political opponents were beaten black and blue and forced into submission for crimes they did not commit ,as they too ,were being trailed in their suburbs by political opponents of the ruling party. The high ranking officer was waiting for Martins release ,at his gate at home and revenge was on his breathe each day .Martins release was quick and swift ,he saw himself out on the street and heading home .His young brother approached him to give him a letter that he was going for teacher training interviews for those who wanted scholarships to Cuba . The idea was exciting but to Martin who had no proper clothes and a jogger shot and t-shirt ,how would he succeed. at such an interview nor get over his other pressing problem. He would not as his cousin who had already arrived at the interviews ,started showing off ,and laughing at him and pulling a crowd of beau's towards himself for that sake.. The interviews went on until they were all told to come the next day for their results .His cousin took the information home to their parents that Martin was a total embarrassement and failure who went in to the interviews in shorts and a t-shirt ,as he his cousin wore the latest fancy suit there. The high ranking officer was also prowling his area out for him ,,with his own troop of supporters he had to sleep at a nearby drinking hole called a shabeen for cover . The next day Martin had heard the rumours about him but still went to hear the results and hoping . Knocking on his mind was the idea that he had seen the panel of judge's knod their heads continually as he came into the room .It was something to raise his curiosity as his zeal.Maybe his muscles impressed them or he was impressive enough or handsome enough to capture their attention ,as they too were being nice to him 2000 people were interviewed countrywide ,and they needed only 50 from here. All out of 500 ,the announcement came .The names were called and the first name to come out was that of Martin Moyo ,and Martin stepped out ,only to see another lad step out like him ,making his spirits sink . The person making the announcement said I want the one who is going to teach mathematics,and it was him ,the other person was there for biology . His cousins name was never mentioned as Martin discovered later that Cuba was under sanctions for a long time and they did not want people living the wealthy rich kind of lifestyle as in America but those trying their best to do what they can with the little they had . The prowling officer never stopped visiting their home until he got tired ,and ten years after the incidence ,Martin was a teacher enjoying his beer ,with less muscle to his body when the person who kept buying him his beer ,him thinking it must be one of his students parents who excelled in mathematics was thanking him for his efforts and finally told him that he thought so that he did not so remember him .He said he did ,and his host said no as he started a narrative of his predicament because of him in his early years as a high ranking police officer on the party's ticket and that trully ,he did not remember him .. Then out of the blue he started telling of the career that ended when his party lost and how he once beat up the wrong people because of him in his youth ten years ago .Martins mouth went dry ,and he thought of the movements he was making to the toilets and back leaving his beer unattended .He could be poisoned he thought and thought again as he excused himself pretending to be going to the toilet but out into the street and made his way out of the bar never to be seen again . The


Based on the 1866 Memphis Massacre, this story contains violence, sexual violence, and child abuse. I saw my daddy fall to the ground, his eyes staring right at me, looking like two marbles but deep like the endless night sky. I wanted to run to him, but I was frozen in terror, breathless. Fighting filled the streets, nearly trampling me as I stood there gazing into my father’s eyes. A stray bullet bounced off the ground, grazing my calf. The sting of that hot metal slicing through my delicate skin was enough to break the trance and the sound of the chaos came to full volume. I hurried into our home and my momma rushed me into the bedroom, hiding me under the bed. I heard a crash that made momma yelp. Dirty black boots entered the room. They rushed towards momma, clunking against the wood floor with evil intent. I could see my momma’s bare feet backing away from them as quickly as they could go, as far as they could go. I heard a slap, and it knocked her to the floor. I saw her face, the panic in her eyes, the mark on her cheek, the shh on her lips telling me to stay quiet as she tried to make it back to her feet. I covered my mouth to suppress any sound that might burst forth with my crying. Momma was flipped over and slammed hard to the floor with a thud to her head. At the other end of the bed, I could see the man was down on his knees, pulling momma closer to him. She kicked and slapped until he punched her twice, hard, right on the side of the head, leaving her barely conscious. The man undid his pants and began to gratify himself with my momma’s limp body, tears slowly dripping from her eyes. I wish I could say that rage propelled me to help my momma that day, but it didn’t. Instead, I swallowed down a tremendous amount of fear, crawled out from under the bed and jumped on that man’s back with all the courage I could muster. He grabbed me by the ankle and swung me into the dresser. My shoulder absorbed most of the impact, but I laid there in a daze, hurting something fierce. The man came and stood over me, a menacing presence to such a small girl, with his bushy red beard and bloodshot eyes, raising his leg like he was about to stomp a roach. Momma regained consciousness and tackled that man before he could hurt me anymore, yelling, “Run, Annie, run!” I shook off the pain that was coursing through my body and scurried back under the bed to the wall where I found the loose board I used to sneak out at night and catch fireflies while momma and daddy were sleeping. I started for the only place I knew, Aunt Millie’s house. Aunt Millie was my momma’s sister. We spent Sunday’s at church together. Afterwards we would sew quilts and the ladies would tell me stories of the underground railroad and how they used quilts to signal safe passage. If anybody could help me, it would be Aunt Millie. I went as fast as I could up the grassy knoll, but hearing a gunshot from my house made me stop dead in my tracks. The image of momma lying there like daddy was out front entered my mind. My lips quivered and tears continued to stream down my face. Even at seven I knew I needed to run, or my fate would be the same. I reached the old dirt road running as fast as I could, my little legs searing in pain, lungs burning. Evening was settling in. The night sky was alight with the burning of the houses, schools, and churches. Gun fire rang through the air, and men scuffled everywhere, sometimes two to three white men to every black man. Making it to Aunt Millie’s, her house looked unscathed. I ran in without knocking, startling two officers. One had Aunt Millie in a chair at gunpoint while the other was rifling through her things. Aunt Millie sprang from her chair, pushed past the man with the gun, causing the gun to go off. She grabbed me by the wrist and led me out of the house and around back. “Where are we going, Aunt Millie,” I asked, with fear and trembling in my voice. “To the South Bend Church, child. Hopefully, that is far enough away from this hate and violence,” said Millie with a tinge of uncertainty. Through the yards we went, dodging stray bullets and avoiding men tussling; past the houses of slat wood and red brick chimneys with wood stacked neatly by the doors; around crooked unpainted fences and old clothes lines draped with bedding; through crowds of women fleeing with their children, white men firing at them like a herd of deer on the first day of season. Aunt Millie’s long legs were hard to keep up with, making my little ones work twice as hard. They started to give out and I was stumbling and falling by the time the South Bend Church came into view. Aunt Millie hoisted me up and ran for both of us as quickly as she could. The South Bend Church was a one room white church with a belltower and a cross on top. Many people were crammed into that little church, on their knees praying. “Let us pray child. The Lord Jesus shall comfort us in our time of need,” Aunt Millie said, as she knelt down next to a woman praying through shudders and sobs. I joined her on my knees, and I could feel the presence of the Spirit wash over me as I began to think about my parents in heaven with Jesus. There was a pastor leading us in our prayers. I remember the power of his voice, unwavering against fear or intimidation. To this day I think of him in that moment when I think of strength in the Lord. My moment of admiration did not last long, for through the window came a bottle of whiskey with a burning rag shoved down the neck of that bottle. When that bottle burst, that little wooden church went up in flames. We all got out, but people’s clothes had caught fire. Everywhere I looked people were rolling on the ground, screaming as fabric melted into their skin, their kin trying to beat out the flames. I wasn’t even spared the fires finger. As soon as I hit the warm nights air, Aunt Millie knocked me to the ground stomping on my pretty little dress. Aunt Millie fell on top of me, nearly crushing me. I didn’t understand at first, but a warm, sticky liquid poured onto my cheek and down into my mouth; the metallic taste and slimy texture causing me to gag. I panicked and fought my way free to find people who were already badly burnt being beaten with clubs and the ends of rifles, anything the rioting menace could find to inflict pain and suffering. Wiping the blood from my face, I turned and ran. I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that bullets were kicking up dust at my bare little legs as I moved. I prayed to the Lord above that none of those bullets hit me. The bullets stopped when I reached a marshy low-land area near the river, but I didn’t stop running. I was getting tired. I was stumbling and falling, but I was moving, splashing through the muddy bog. Someone leapt out from behind a tree and grabbed me, covering my mouth with their hand, stifling my startled shriek. “It’s alright, little one. You’re safe. My name is Ben Roker,” the man said. I recognized him as the pastor from South Bend Church. “This is my wife, Miss Maddie.” “Come, child, lets clean that blood off you,” Miss Maddie said sympathetically. “Where are your parents, sweetie?” I couldn’t answer. I could hear what they were saying, I understood, but it was like listening to people talking in another room. They said they would take care of me from then on, but all I could do was stare into the dancing flames of the city on fire as I listened to the whistling of bullets and the wailing of tortured souls. I dozed off that night, watching those flames and listening to those screams. Miss Maddie woke me up as blue and purple could be seen on the eastern horizon, providing a dim grey light that reflected off the fog and smoke. Fires still burned, people still screamed, and gunshots still rang out that morning. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. There were around ten to fifteen people there with us, hiding amongst the trees and debris that the Mississippi cast aside haphazardly. I don’t know if they all showed up overnight or if some of them were there when I got there, but it was nice to see other kids. Pastor Ben swept me up in his arms and I looked back over his shoulder at Memphis, taking one last look at the masked monster within men, making sure it was behind me, at least for the time being.


Caroline suggests the unthinkable, knowing O’Carey would rather sell a kidney. Regrettably there is a foreclosure notice on the bedside table, and they have nowhere else to go except out into the desert to reminisce on former days of financial glory living high off the hog in Phoenix. O’Carey rubs his face remembering the promise he made to himself to never sell his valuable coins, but Caroline doesn’t appreciate any coin unless it is one she can spend. He sighs, “It won’t change anything...then what?” he asks. Caroline rubs his back. It’s a hard pill for him to swallow, but she tries her best, “They are worth thousands. It’s a fresh start,” she replies. O’Carey regrets deeply telling her what was inside the safe in the first place. She moved a painting hanging on the bedroom wall to stumble upon its existence. In hindsight, he could have lied. It’s too late. He frowns and asks, “How can you ask me to sell my most prized possessions?” “Think of another way to come up with twenty thousand dollars to save the house and you can keep them,” she replies. There is one coin in particular fueling the obsession, a golden Egyptian Ptolemaic token. He acquired it from a man with two names, deported from Egypt under suspicion of tomb raiding. It’s the only coin in the small collection which hasn’t been authenticated and it could also be the most valuable. When Caroline goes to the bathroom, O’Carey sneaks it out of the safe and hides it under a stack of old utility bills in the bedside table drawer. Caroline comes back and O'Carey dubiously agrees to sell the entire collection. Two days later he brings them next door to Miss Bernadine. She works for the local coin dealer, Mr. Salmon, who ends up buying the coins for twenty six thousand in cash. It is an exchange of value that cuts to the bone. For O’Carey cash in hand changes nothing. In a few months this scenario might repeat and he reflects on the very real prospect of it. At home he thinks about the one coin he has, swearing to keep it no matter what. Unable to bear the feeling of personally selling anything else of value, he gives Caroline the go ahead to sell all the paintings so that ends can meet until he gets a new job. Caroline sells six of them right off the walls on Etsy, all originals, including the one she moved to find the safe, and sales yield an extra six thousand dollars. O’Carey takes a few hundred dollars out of it with him to the local antiques shop trying to feed his obsessive compulsive taste. Never mind the foreclosure notice, he needs something to hang on bare, bone white walls. Mirrors come to mind. They widen spaces, are relatively inexpensive, and like a painting he can always admire it, or what’s in it. Mr. Zhong’s little known antiques store in town is a familiar place to O’Carey. Mr. Zhong sees him strolling in and smiles, it’s been a while. He stands with the help of his cane, greeting O’Carey in a crackly voice,” Carey, long time I no see. What you buying today, painting, vase? I have nice one.” He also shuffles towards O’Carey to shake his hand. “Anything you have that’s called a mirror. Caroline is redecorating. I need five,” O’Carey replies, and shakes Mr. Zhong’s hand. Simultaneously he glances around the cramped, musty and cluttered shop looking for mirrors he likes, tripping over lampshades and lanterns strewn across the floor. There are quite a few mirrors in there too hiding cracks in the old walls, some with gaudy, gold-colored trim, and some with wood finish on composite frames. They come in all shapes, colors and sizes. Mr. Zhong remains silent and stares at his long-time customer curiously, and then he answers, “Caroline redecorating, but Caroline not here to buy, strange. I have nice one in back. You pick other four from shop,” he says, and shuffles around to the back of the store. When Mr. Zhong returns O’Carey is waiting at the counter with four mirrors he already selected. He sees Mr. Zhong holding an oval-shaped shiny polished bronze plate, one with a frame that’s gilded, “This good charm,” Mr. Zhong says. O’Carey carefully takes it from him and gasps. It’s the shiniest piece of bronze he’s ever held up in front of himself, and he is amazed at the clarity of his reflection in it. It’s so unnatural, and yet the mirror isn’t made of glass. He turns it around. On the back, there is a puzzling inscription in Chinese. He points to it and asks Mr. Zhong. “What does this say?” “It say, ‘Pay me one hundred dollar and keep,’ it say, ‘Made China,’. One hundred thirty dollar for all five,” Mr. Zhong replies, with an outstretched hand to collect his money. The mirror reflects a sparkle in O’Carey’s eyes for all things shiny, pretty and valuable. He is convinced that this mirror is authentic and must have been made for someone very important, and if it is, he’ll never resell it. He will keep it forever, like his golden coin. He can’t stop admiring himself in it, and is ready to take it home so he can hang it on the wall and continue. Mr. Zhong pulls his hand back, and almost asks for the mirror back but doesn’t. Instead he puts his index finger on the tip of his tongue, gently, as if preparing a brush for important calligraphy and then uses it to smear a symbol on the mirror’s flawlessly surface. When he’s finished, O’Carey needs no interpretation. It’s the symbol of yin and yang. O’Carey shrugs this strange behavior off and pays Mr. Zhong his one hundred and thirty dollars. If it’s real this bronze mirror alone compensates for everything he previously lost. Whenever he looks at it O’Carey sees himself according to its value, without considering the price he has to pay for vanity. With his still shaking voice, Mr. Zhong tells him, “O’Carey, remember, in all things there is balance. Mirror always facing good, prosperity come to you. Qi flow positive. Turn to bad, Qi flow becomes negative,” O’Carey hears, but isn’t listening. He is completely captivated by this shiny piece of metal and is so busy admiring himself, he doesn’t see the smeared symbol of yin and yang glow a soft yellow before disappearing all together, “Thanks Mr. Zhong,” O’Carey replies. The bronze mirror he places on the front passenger seat of the car. The others will ride home in the trunk. Mr. Zhong worries watching O’Carey leave, wondering if he did the right thing by not telling him the true meaning of the inscription on the back of the mirror. However, he believes its powers will bring prosperity back to his loyal customer, and if it does, he will come back and spend more money. At home Caroline is pleased with the catch and gets a free hand to decorate the walls however she likes, but O’Carey hasn’t shared Mr. Zhong’s advice and Caroline hangs the bronze mirror in front of O’Carey’s safe where it faces and reflect O’Carey’s bedside table, the same table and drawer where he has hidden his ancient, golden Egyptian coin. Both Caroline and O’Carey relax and look forward to a new beginning. At bedtime they spoon a little before falling asleep, but at midnight O’Carey shakes violently out of deep sleep with a deadly scream. Drenched in night sweat, he heaves for breath in the darkness with fiery eyes and a mouth agape. His heart is in his eardrums and it beats relentlessly. Caroline jolts out of sleep from the commotion. Her eyes bulge in the pitch black bedroom. She grabs O’Carey’s arm. It is as hard as a rock, “O’Carey, O’Carey it’s ok,” she says. Gliding her hand along his arm, she feels for his hand trying to hold it, and can’t. It is coiled into a fist. His skin is hot to the touch and radiates like metal baked for a day in the desert sun. Caroline pulls her hand away in a flash, believing he’s sick and in a delirium. She grabs the phone next to the lamp and dials 911. When O’Carey hears the dial up he snaps, “What are you doing?” he asks, still panting from the nightmare, and trying to catch his breath. Caroline disconnects the call and slowly puts the phone back on the table. She is heaving too and catching her breath, “O’Carey,” she says, “I think you had a nightmare...and you also have a very high fever.” O’Carey, confused, runs his hand across his neck and forehead, “I don’t have a fever,” he replies, and pulls himself up to lean against the headboard. Instead of trying to convince him, Caroline switches the lamp on to look at him. O’Carey’s eyes are bloodshot, “I’m calling an ambulance,” she says, picking up the phone again. This time, before she can dial O’Carey grabs her arm, “No you’re not,” he says, “Unless you plan to pay for it.” Caroline puts the phone back again, and slides off the bed into her slippers, “I’ll get you some water then,” she says. She takes the glass on the bedside table to the bathroom and fills it with water at the faucet. She drinks the first one and takes the refill to O’Carey who finishes the tall glass in three swift gulps, promptly asking for more. Caroline refills it. This time he finishes in four, but slower. They spoon again and in an hour they are relaxed and go back to sleep. O’Carey’s fiery restlessness seems to have been put out. He sleeps until dawn when he is disturbed by a subtle pattern of flashing blue and red lights on the bedroom wall coming in through the window. He rubs his eyes in disorientation, and whispers, “Am I dreaming?” and then gets up to check the window. First responders are out there, at the second house from his down the street! O’Carey furiously shakes Caroline out and tells her to look out the window where she also sees the flashing lights and police cars. It isn’t a dream. Caroline presses her hand against her forehead, “O’Carey, I’m sorry, I’ll go talk to them,” she says. They both scurry down the stairs and out to investigate and explain everything that happened to the police, but when they get to the house they find out it’s not a false alarm at all. Adrian Carter, the man helping O’Carey to refinance his mortgage with the bank, was viciously murdered in his sleep. Word spreads quickly, and the whole community tightens in tension and shock. Doors are locking and windows are being shuttered. The day passes by, and Adrian Carter’s killer is still at large. O’Carey and Caroline are also shut in and go to bed thinking about Adrian and the reality of his killer on the loose. They console each other and somehow manage to fall asleep. At midnight, O’Carey is again flung from a hellish landscape. This nightmare is even worse than the first. Caroline isn’t sure what to do. She sits up, presses one hand into her chest to settle her racing heart, and places the other on O’Carey’s arm. This is getting serious. Again, flashing lights on the bedroom wall, an inquiry as to why, a beastly murder at the house right next door. It’s Miss Bernadine, and no part of her body is intact. When the sun rises Caroline leaves the house without saying a word. It’s seriousness indicative of her thoughts. She might not come back until this killer is caught, because they are counting down from three. The house they are living in might be next. O’Carey isn’t bothered. Caroline will come home. He goes to the bathroom to wash his face. When he’s finished he stands in front of the bronze mirror on the bedroom wall to groom himself. Curiously leaning his head, he doesn’t understand what he sees. It’s hot. Sweat pours from his brow. He wipes it away in his sleeve and looks again. This reflection is not his, it’s not even human. What he sees he doesn’t believe, but he recognizes the creature staring menacingly back at him. It’s the Egyptian God of the underworld, Anubis and O’Carey freezes in a recollection of dreadful events. Vivid memories of murder and mayhem confront him. He recalls eviscerating and mauling Adrian Carter inside his house. He remembers, in horror, massacring Miss Bernadine in pretty much the same way. Anubis brings him out of the trance and speaks to him in a deep, thunderous, fear inspiring voice, “You have something that belongs to me. I want it back,” “Take your fucking mirror back!” O’Carey shouts. Anubis only laughs a deep, otherworldly laugh, and says, “This portal belongs to a friend: Huangdi. You have something else that belongs to me. I want it back.” O’Carey has heard the name before. Huangdi is the Yellow Emperor of Qi. He dashes to the bedside table and pulls the drawer open. Desperately feeling for the coin, he snatches it out from under the stack of old utility bills, and stands in front of the mirror, holding the coin up, “Here, take it. I don’t want it,” he says. Anubis doesn’t reply. The coin glows bright red and burns O’Carey’s fingertips. He drops it. It even burns the floor, turning the spot on the tile where it rests black until cooling back to its golden state. Again Anubis speaks, “That token was taken from my portal in Nubia. You gladly paid for it, and at the expense of your own home. Bring the token back to my portal or this curse will be yours to bear. Restore the balance or pay double the price,” Anubis replies, and suddenly the outline of the yin and yang glows a bright yellow on the mirrors surface. O’Carey finally sees it before it fades away into his own reflection. He snags the mirror off the wall, picks the coin up too and blazes a trail to Mr. Zhong’s antique store hoping to rescind the transaction. His heart is pounding, his hands are shaking. Selling the coin with mirror is an ideal he hopes to accomplish but he doesn’t know that Mr. Zhong’s fate is in his hands. When he sees Mr. Zhong inside the store O’Carey’s fingers grow rapidly, nine inches longer. His face becomes elongated like a jackal’s, and fangs stretch long, down and up from his gums. Black hair covers his face and body. His eyes gleam yellow and wild, and he rips Mr. Zhong into bits of unidentifiable pieces of carnage. Alas, O’Carey picks up the mirror he dropped and sees his true self in it. Mired in blood and gore, he runs out of the shop in a panic. It isn’t a bad dream. This time he remembers the savagery performed inside the store on Mr. Zhong. Scrambling to his car he drives for miles to an abandoned graveyard on the eastern side of the city. He breaks one grave open with a small axe hidden under the car seat, shoving mirror, coin and his bloodied clothes inside, hoping no one has seen him, hoping Anubis will accept this. Clattering his way back to the car he enters, numb and confused. He peels tires and speeds away in search of somewhere to gather racing thoughts. He doesn’t go home, spending the night far away from it at the train station locked inside his car. He opens his eyes at dawn to find pieces of someone he can’t identify, scattered and plastered all over the interior of the vehicle. In human form O’Carey hyperventilates, shuddering at the sight of his own bloodshot eyes in the rear view mirror. Reluctantly he drives back to the cemetery scraping for the coin and mirror in true grave robbing fashion. He pulls the mirror out and looks in it. Anubis reappears and doesn’t speak. The bright yellow glow of yin and yang reappears and fades into O’Carey’s own reflection. Enraged, O’Carey drives home. In the back yard he blazes the hottest fire he ever lit in his life with an acetylene torch, melting both mirror and coin in a single mold. He digs a hole three feet deep, shakes the hot clump of metal in and buries it, “Here’s your fucking portal. Here’s your bloody token!” he screams, and storms inside the house to shower. Shortly after, Caroline comes home. They don’t speak to each other. On their respective minds there’s a lot to think about. In the night they go to bed in silence, without even a goodnight kiss and with an imaginary line in the middle of the bed. Sunrise, it was all a bad dream. O’Carey will finally go job hunting. On his way out the door he remembers his wallet on the bedside table upstairs and re-enters quietly, Caroline is still sleeping. He stumbles his way across the room a little light headed. On the bedside table he sees the wallet where he thought it would be and checks to make sure all the money that should be in it is still there. Something else gets his attention, his pulse races. Something is off-putting in his peripheral vision. Slowly and nervously he turns to face the bedroom wall, expecting to see the familiar grey metal door of the safe, but O’Carey is frightened by his own reflection. Intact and shimmering with a now golden surface, and hanging on the bedroom wall, is the now cursed metal mirror. In it he sees himself standing in front of blood-soaked sheets draped across the pale, mutilated body of a woman: Caroline! At the airport, O’Carey pays in cold hard cash for an emergency flight to Egypt, with a shiny, golden, priceless oval mirror in tow. THE END


Back in 2009, I didn’t have a penny to my name. I shared a two\-bedroom row home with three other people, a couple and another single guy. Let’s call him Drew. We didn’t want to be splitting a two\-bedroom between four people, but every three\-bedroom we’d seen was well out of our price range. So, we decided to start looking at two\-bedrooms with the notion that the couple would get their own room and the remaining room would be claimed by the highest bidder. The only problem was Drew and I were so broke that neither of us could afford to pay extra rent. So, when we found a house that we could all afford we had a tough decision to make - who would be getting the open room? I had an idea. A beer drinking contest. And to the winner, the room would be given as a prize. Everyone agreed. I know. The idea lacked originality, but I was on only 22 at the time, so bear with me. I proposed that on our move\-in date, we would pool our remaining funds together and purchase 3 cases of beer. One case for the couple, one for myself, and one for Drew. Drew and I would start on our cases at 8pm and drink until someone passed out. I’ll spare you the details of that night, but I drank the most beer and won the bet. The room was mine. So, the next day I triumphantly moved my stuff into the empty room. I didn’t own a single piece of furniture back then. Couldn’t afford any. All I had were a few boxes of clothes and a spring\-loaded mattress that I’d flung on the floor, but at least I had my own room. Better than I could saw for Drew. Drew had reluctantly stacked his boxes in the corner of our living room. He’d be sleeping on a cot every night for at least the next year our lease was up. Yuck! We got along like this for a month or two. Everything was just fine. Drew didn’t complain about sleeping in the living room and I never bragged about winning the wager that sealed his fate. I guess you could say that although we were poor, we were happy. One Friday or Saturday night, I don’t recall the exact day, but I know it was a weekend, we decided to head down to our local bar at the end of our street. The place wasn’t fancy. Pitchers of Miller Lite were only $5. And when you barely make enough money to feed yourself, the wisest thing you can do is throw away hard earned cash on pitchers of flat, Miller Lite. We walk in around 8pm and the place is already humming. The floor was sticky with beer. The line for the dartboard was five\-deep. The Women’s toilets were already backed\-up, so girls were busy flirting their way to the front of the line that was snaking out of the Men’s room. It was a good setting for a great time. Around 10pm a group of girls walked in that we’d never seen before, which was weird considering we lived up the street and came to this bar often. I had my eye on one. Or to be more accurate, every guy in the place had their eye on one. The same one. She was stand\-out gorgeous. The type of girl that walks by and is so beautiful that you kind of forget how to breath for a second. Then as she disappears around the corner you find yourself instinctively gasping for air. She was remarkable to say the least. In my younger days, I was quite the confident buck. I had no problem approaching women. So naturally I had intentions of introducing myself. I made mention to Drew that I’d be going over to say hello and asked if he would do me the honor of holding my beer. He obliged me and reached for my half\-empty glass of luke\-warm suds. As I passed him my drink he said to me, “Yea I know that girl. We had a few classes together back in college. I had the hugest crush on her for years, but I never had the guts to say anything.” I tightened my grip on the glass floating between us. “You know her?” I’ll admit, I was shocked. Drew wasn’t exactly a guy that you would call handsome. Or charming. Or tall, or funny, or confident. So, I wondered how this guy could have known a girl as beautiful as this one. I processed my thoughts quickly and managed to shout at him before he could answer me, “Dude. If you know her go talk to her!” “No way man. Girls like that aren’t into guys like me. That’s why I ever said anything to her. She’d never be into it and honestly, I don’t want to deal with the embarrassment of being rejected. Plus, I don’t even have my own bedroom man. I’m nobody to her. You think she wants to date a dude that sleeps on a cot in somebody’s living room?” “Yea but at least she knows you man. This place is super\-crowded and it doesn’t look like her or her friends know anyone here. You’ve never seen her here before, have you? I sure haven’t. Go up to her now. She’ll probably be happy to see a familiar face. If you’re ever going to have a chance with her it’s right now man. Go for it.” I don’t know why he took my advice in that moment, but he did. I held his glass of beer and watched him worm his way through the crowd to the spot where she’d been standing. I could see her eyes scanning back and forth across the smattering of strange faces, trying to identify someone she knew. Then I saw her smile. Her face lit up. She stretched out her arms and hugged Drew like a goddam teddy bear. After five minutes or so, I lost interest in their conversation and to be honest I didn’t want to make it seem like I was staring. So, I occupied myself with something else. Not sure exactly what that something else was, but I surely finished the beer Drew had left in my care. I remember leaving the bar early that night and walking home alone. I was pretty sauced and all I wanted to do was get home and fling myself onto my floor\-mattress and sleep it off. The next morning, I found Drew in the living room, asleep on his cot. I woke him up and asked about his conversation with the pretty girl he’d known from college. “Dude it went fantastic! I couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk to her. We’re going to hang out tonight even. She wants me to come to her place for drinks and then go out.” “Man that’s so awesome! I’m proud of you dude. See! I told you it’d work out.” A few weeks later, they were dating. And a few weeks after that I gave him my room. I really didn’t want the guy to have to explain to her that he’d been sleeping on a cot. So, much to my chagrin, I slept on that cot for the next two years! It’s 2018 now and I have my own room. In fact, I live in a 1\-bedroom apartment all by myself, and as a rule I never sleep on cots anymore. My life has certainly changed since that night at the bar. Seems like it was a lifetime ago. Drew and I don’t talk much anymore. We catch up on the phone from time to time and talk about how we wish we’d stayed closer over the years. But I think that’ what adults do isn’t it? We always talk about how we’re going to get together with our friends for a reunion, but somehow never do. When we do find ourselves on the phone though I always ask him, “How’s that pretty girl from the bar?” To which he always replies, “Oh she’s fine. She’s still bitter that I tricked her into marrying me years ago, but other than that she’s right as rain.


The upside of conducting experiments over the Colorado River is that if things go haywire, there's a cleanup system of currents. The test site above the Grand Canyon had more than five thousand tests under its belt. That didn't hide it from the critical eye of budget evaluators from the interior office. Science for the sake of progress fell far short of science for military or economic gain. It's all about the dollar signs, baby. Jerry Fallington presided as the head of the Icarian project. Two post-grad degrees from MIT marked him for greatness, but he felt chinks in the armor of that idea with every thousand-foot splatter scream. The council for strategic growth tasked Jerry with overseeing the genetic modulation for human flight. Yes, you heard that right, and no, officially the US government wasn't funding Dr. Thoreau style experiments. Officially, they were simulating multi-layered defenses to hypothetical Soviet aggressions. After the discovery of the Soviet Mermaids, the president privately agreed that America had to fight fire with fire. "Retired" German scientists of questionable moral standing operated under isolated free rein to enact an unorthodox defense plan. After the unmitigated disaster of the Bayou based alligator people, acting department heads added an addendum requiring a moral supervisor, ideally of Midwestern stock, to avoid the heretical contaminants that infect the intellectual communities of both coasts. And thus, mid-level manager, Jerry Fallington rose to his position as head of the Icarian project. Cold name credit to his petulant teenage daughter, Sabrina, who everyone agreed was too smart for any of the crop heavy state schools. Under the dry eye of the Arizonan sun, Jerry learned not to squawk every time a test subject wet their wings in the river below. The Germans joked that he was two screams away from a Sauerkraut queen. Which baffled Jerry, as he believed Germany to now operate democratically. The Germans tsked. They knew they were funny; the whole world be damned. It wasn't until their bittersweet triumph on test number 5322 that Jerry mused as to why they hadn't installed a trapeze style net below their test site. He curdled the mood like a vegan at a hot dog eating contest. "Fear of the unknown is necessary, Jerry." "Yes, Jerry, we couldn't let the failures spend life with their worthless wings tucked in shame. They flew fast, just in the wrong direction." Jerry could only stare at his morally questionable white lab coat clad collaborators. "I guess you're right, boys." Never one to be out of the group, Jerry swallowed his good intentions and canceled his order for nets. At least he could chuckle at the mad scientists flailing in vain as they tried to capture off-brand angels like oversized butterflies after the first successful trial. Officially, Jerry Fallington retired to Sioux City, but legend has it that he stayed on to oversee Operation Ocean Overwatch as the birdmen took to the skies. Like hawks in pursuit of fish, they flew over the Pacific, only their bounty was Russian and genetically melded between Babushka and bluefin. The Soviet aquatic espionage effort was quickly picked clean via wing and harpoon. The Feathered Furies, as they called themselves, were granted leave and took up residence in the wilderness of Papua New Guinea. Whether ground-bound Jerry followed can't be confirmed. But the locals speak of a kind legend that prefers brown loafers and sliced cheese.


Penny could no longer rely on her tank tops and jeans to cover her growing belly. She could not wear the pretty floral mini-skirts her friends back home wore; her clumsy nature would not allow her to even try low platform heels, much less four-inch ones that some of her favorite pop stars wore. There was a lot she could no longer do. She couldn’t eat ice cream, oddly, she couldn’t sleep, and she couldn’t focus. She could, however, burp and fart loudly. Most importantly, though, she could no longer hold her head high since becoming pregnant. Bad enough she was just 19 and unmarried; the way in which she got herself in this situation, along with the choice of father, or as she now called him, the “sperm donor”, were greatly embarrassing. She chose to run away from her uncaring family and all the colorful flower power and peace-loving crowds of her home town, to a place where people did not know her. Living alone on the streets of New York City’s Greenwich Village might not be smart, but she could hide her history, her roots, and even her belly if she could find a big enough midi dress in a local thrift shop. She also intended on dying her red hair, just in case someone came looking for her; she didn’t want to stand out like a sore, copper thumb. Penny stepped off the train at West Fourth Street, walking up the stairs and into the crowds, amidst traffic and the noise of street vendors selling flowers and joy, Hare Krishnas touting their religion; on the other side of the street, people shouted that their god was better and would come back to save them. War protestors abounded, and flower children decorated every street corner. Beggars asked for change. She gave one of them some money. She didn’t have much, but she felt sorry for him. Soon, she might need to share a tent or a box with someone. The most fascinating thing about Greenwich Village, Penny thought, was the cacophony of sounds, beautiful, all of them, the singers, the radios, turned up so loud that the old people walking by pressed their hands over their ears. The familiarity of church bells, except the music seemed to fade away in the crisp breeze. She knew churches no longer used actual bells, at least hers back home did not. But the sound was pleasant nonetheless. Penny followed the live music she could hear from blocks away. She made her way to Washington Square Park, where jazz, bluegrass, blues, pop and rock tunes permeated as people jumped in and out of the fountain. One person standing near the fountain caught her eye. He was not tall, but he was quite cute despite being a bit chubby. His thick, long hair was brown with a hint of vermillion. His eyebrows were like giant caterpillars attacking his eyes, which she couldn’t see as they were obscured by his big, embellished sunglasses. He wore multi-colored bell-bottom pants that seemed too tight on his muscular thighs, and a lace shirt and a pink patterned crochet vest over it. He wore a multi-colored knit golf cap that matched the vest. On his feet were shoes with the tallest platform on which she’d ever laid eyes. She loved his look, and moreover, his music, dulcet tones, covers of Bob Dylan, The Temptations, The Byrds and The Beatles. In front of him on a flimsy homemade stand sat a keyboard whose keys he hammered with a purpose as he jumped around to the music. She heard him say the next tune was his original. Penny stopped to listen, putting one of her three bags on the ground so she could sit comfortably. She rested her chin in her hands and admired this stranger who appeared to possess only his keyboard and a bucket, in which many people placed money. Not just change, like her donation to the beggar, but dollar bills! He deserved this money, as his music was intriguing, uplifting and beguiling. And his tenor voice, so sweet like molasses and tender like well-cooked steak. For a moment she forgot who she was, her troubles, the life she left behind, her family, friends, neighbors, and the priest who convinced her he loved her enough for her to trust him. The musician finished his song and received the most applause thus far. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” His speaking voice was interesting. Penny thought about the accent and quickly ascertained he must be English. She recognized the accent from watching TV interviews with the Beatles. This man could give John, Paul, George and Ringo a run for their money, especially since they’d recently broken up. “I’m Randy,” he told the audience. “I got my first gig at the Singing Siren this coming Friday. There’s no cover, so make sure you’re there.” “We love you, Randy!” shouted a man in the audience. “Whoo!” Randy laughed. “Thanks. Here’s your twenty dollars.” He waved a twenty as the audience laughed. He slipped the bill back into his pants pocket. He was not only talented and cute, but also funny. “I got one more original tune for you before I take a break,” Randy said, noticing a trio of police officers wander into the park. “The po-lice aren’t always kind. The man hassles us. ‘Are you licensed to perform?’ they ask. But I’m only licensed to make you smile. This one’s called ‘The Unknown Woman’.” How appropriate, Penny thought. “She ran away, far away, from the world she knew too well. She wanted a new life, a new life, no strife. Running away from what she knew,” he began. “What she knew was blue. A world unkind that was untrue.” Penny blushed, feeling he was looking right through her, talking to her soul. He looked her way, removed his sunglasses and nodded, smiling at her. She waved at him and smiled, looking around at the people who sat entranced, hardly noticing her though she felt they did. It was just her paranoia. No one here knew her. She was safe. After this, she thought, it’s the local drug store for hair dye. She urged her wavy hair way from her eyes. Everyone clapped along as Randy encouraged them to do. What a personality on this character! The song was upbeat and not at all what she’d anticipated. It culminated with the girl finding love and happiness in her new town and returning to her old one to show off. Not what she was intending, but that was just fine. “Be back in a few if the pigs let me,” he said, his very British pronunciation shining through every syllable. “’ello, lass,” he said, walking up to her immediately. “H-hi.” She felt electricity between them as they shook hands. “Wot’s your name then, lass?” He removed his cap, revealing a slight bald spot. He rubbed his head, sweaty from his performance in the hot sun. “Oh, it’s Penny. What’s yours?” Recalling he’d announced his name, she blushed and threw up her hands. “Never mind.” He laughed. Penny thought he was looking at her belly, but again, probably just her paranoia. “Are you here alone, dear?” he asked her, wiping his brow and sticking his sunglasses in his vest pocket. “Um. No. Not really.” She had to lie to protect herself. She’d learned the hard way not to trust every smiling face. In fact, there was a song about that topic with which she was familiar. And another, a new one she’d just heard. “Are you sure? Because you look alone.” Talented, cute, funny and astute, Penny thought. “A penny for your thoughts,” he said. “Corny.” “’eard it before, eh?” She nodded. “I’m not gonna be Randy for much longer,” he started. “See, I’m changing my name. It’s Randy Wilson now. Who wants to ‘ear pop and rock by a bloke named Randy Wilson?” “I do.” “No offense, dear, but one fan don’t build a career.” She looked around. “One of a million, Randy. These people love you.” “Hey!” Randy shouted at a man who snuck up, attempting to steal the money from his bucket. Randy jogged up to the basket and grabbed it, giving the man a dirty look. The man threw up his hands and walked away. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said. “Sure. You’ve got bollocks the size of London.” “Is that where you’re from?” Penny asked him when he returned to her. “What say, lass? Oh, no. Me? I’m from Middlesex, England.” “I’m from New Rochelle. But don’t tell anyone.” “Why? It embarrass you?” His eyes pierced through her again. “Oh, sorry, lass. Got to get back on stage straightaway before the acrobats jump in. Hah. I've made a funny. Wait for me, yeah?” “Oh, yes.” She smiled. “I’ve got nothing better to do.” “Gee, thanks a bloody lot!” He stroked her arm. She shook her head, laughed and put her head down. “This next set is dedicated to my folks back home in Middlesex, England,” he started. “Set? You think you’re on a real stage, man?” a heckler shouted. “Ya. I actually am, friend,” Randy replied. “I hope you enjoy my tunes.” The man waved his hand and scoffed. “You know, no one’s putting a gun to your head,” Penny told the heckler. “What?” “He’s really good. Give him a chance.” She moved her legs into a yoga pose. “Just give him a chance,” she whispered. “He’s gonna be at the Singing Siren.” The man scoffed and walked away. Randy finished another two originals interspersed with more covers including one by the Supremes, which he attempted to sing in soprano as a joke. He took his final bows, grabbed his keyboard, stand and bucket and made room for the mime juggler who was waiting on deck. “He’s good too,” he told Penny as he walked up to her. “You don’t sound too sure,” she answered. “Ya, I’m actually not.” He giggled. “But let ‘im fight with the po-lice.” They both laughed. “Where you ‘eaded?” he asked her. “Oh. I’m actually not sure either,” she chuckled. He put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, lass. I’m a good guy. Despite what you might hear about me in the tabloids one day.” “Oh, you’re funny.” “Thank you. Would you enjoy some candyfloss?” “What?” “Oh, you Americans call it cotton candy. I forgot. Sorry. There’s a vendor right over there. I’ll fetch you one.” Before she could say he should not bother as it might make her ill, he jogged over and got her some. He waltzed back with a bounce in his step. “How do you run in those shoes?” “Oh, not very well, to be perfectly honest with you. I have to walk around the flat to get used to them.” “Flat?” “Yeah, where I live.” “Oh. Apartment.” “Yeah. I live there with me mate. We write songs together.” “Oh. What’s her name?” “Oh, no. Me mate’s a man. I mean, we’re chums.” “I see.” “Where’s your flat?” “I...” Penny didn’t know what to say. “You don’t ‘ave one, do ya?” She put her head down and shook it. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You’re not the only one. Truth? Everyone lacks something. Listen, I told you I’m a sort you can trust. I meant it.” He placed his other hand on her other shoulder and looked her square in the eye, his beautiful hazel globes penetrating her green ones. “You’re coming ‘ome with me.” “I’m pregnant.” “Oh, I know.” “What? How?” “I’m psychic.” He laughed. “Joshing. Just ultra-sensitive I suppose. A product of who I am.” “Who are you?” “Never mind. I’ve enough dough for us to fetch a cab and a bit of supper.” “No, you don’t have to...” “I want to. But first let me toss this ridiculous stand I made in the dust bin over here.” “I can help you make a new one.” “Much obliged, kind Penny. You know, I don’t want you to worry, love. I won’t make a pass at you. Not that you’re not pretty. You’re very beautiful,” Randy said hailing a cab. “Thank you.” He opened the taxi door with a playful flourish, waving her in first. “Three-forty West Fourth Street, mate,” he said. They arrived at his apartment quickly. Randy put money in the compartment in front of him. “Keep the change, mate.” “Wow. You live real close to Washington Square.” “I suppose you wonder why we didn’t walk?” “Yeah.” Randy lifted up one of his shoes. “See? The cost of fashion.” She laughed. He removed both shoes and handed them to her. “You’ll see.” “Whoa. They weight a ton, man! What do you mean?” She gave them back to him. “I’m gonna make you try them on!” She protested. “No, no, no way! I’ll fall and break my neck.” “Don’t worry. My flat mate will ‘elp pick you up. Actually, you must watch out for him. He might fancy you.” “Oh, really?” “He’s a gentleman, though. A pussycat. Don’t worry.” They walked up the three flights and as Randy jiggled the keys trying to find the right one, the door opened. “Hey, mate. ‘ow was your gig?” “Good. Good.” “Who we got here?” “Penny. This is Penny. She’s a new friend.” “’ello, Penny, new friend. I’m Andrew. His flatmate.” “And you’re British too?” “’ow’d you guess, lass?” Andrew said with a hint of sarcasm. Randy walked in, tossed his shoes on the floor and leaned his keyboard against the kitchen wall. “Go on, then, Penny. Model the shoes for us, won’t you?” “No, thank you.” “If you try them on, then, we might let you stay here tonight.” Andrew looked at him. “What?” “She’s ‘asn’t got a place of her own. Methinks she’s running from something.” Randy sighed. “’e’s a bit cautious, this one.” Penny grew silent and looked away. “And the poor lass ‘as got herself in trouble, too.” “Trouble?” Andrew asked. “I’m pregnant.” “Wot are you running from then?” Andrew asked, holding out a chair for her. “My family. My friends. The baby’s father.” “Does he know...?” Randy asked, opening a bag of sandwiches he picked up between Washington Square and the taxi. “I don’t think so.” “Your family knows?” Andrew asked. “Yes. My friends know too.” “Why don’t you talk to the father?” Randy asked, handing her a tuna salad on rye. “He’s...” She sat down and sighed. “I can’t tell him.” “Why not?” Randy asked, munching on a roast beef and cheese. Andrew sat down and grabbed some napkins. “Tell, us, lass.” “He’s...he’s a...he’s a...p-priest.” Randy and Andrew looked at each other silently, chewing slowly, their eyes falling to the floor before meeting Penny’s, Andrew’s bright ceruleans were sad. “Love, that’s tough,” Randy said. “A Catholic priest? I’m so sorry.” “You poor gal,” Andrew said, wiping away a tear. “But what do you want from us, then?” “Andrew! She’s got no place to live! How far along are you, then?” Randy asked. “Six months.” There was silence in the room. They could hear the sirens and shouts outside the window, common for their neighborhood. And they could hear one another chewing. After what seemed like forever, Randy spoke up. “I’ll marry you, then,” Randy said. “What?” said both Penny and Andrew in unison. “Penny, the bloke’s ‘omosexual.” Andrew shook his head. “What? Who?” Randy pointed to himself, crossing his legs. “I am. Me. I like blokes.” Penny was at a loss for words. “So why would you want to marry me ?” “You’re being barmy, mate! Why don’t you shut it and stop teasing this poor gal, then?” “A poor attempt at being funny. I’m sorry, love. I don’t know wot else to say. I ‘aven’t got any explanation.” He got up and stroked her cheek. “But I want to ‘elp you.” “How? What if you find a bloke you want to be with?” she asked. Randy stroked her hair. “A bloke. You’re learning! I don’t expect I’d be allowed to walk ‘and-in-‘and with him down the street. I might fall for a bloke.” He shrugged. “I might not.” He sighed and sat down. “I want to ‘elp you, Penny.” Penny rubbed her forehead. “I-I don’t know what to say. You’re too generous.” “If you ask me, love, this bloke ‘as lost his mind.” Randy laid his keyboard on the kitchen table and started playing a tune. “’e’s got talent. Just no common sense. But wouldn’t she get in the way, mate?” Andrew said. “’e’s gonna make it soon. A record deal, touring and the like.” Randy began compiling a melody, humming and singing, “Mmmm, good bloke. ‘e’d give her a good life. A good life she deserved. Finally, a good life.” She ran over to Randy and kissed him full on the lips. “Wow!” Randy chuckled. Penny smiled. “We share some kind of connection. I know it seems insane. We just met...” “Okay, you crazy love birds can ‘ave your honeymoon at the Siren this Friday. I’ll toss ya a bouquet!” Andrew shook his head and scoffed. “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew! Always jesting!” Randy walked over to his friend. “Will you be my best man, mate?” “Cut the charade, mate.” “All right, then, Penny, will you please try on the shoes?” She picked them up, sliding them on. “What is your obsession with these shoes?” “Well, you’ll ‘ave lots of time, love, to practice walking in them in this flat. Yours now, too, if you’ll ‘ave it,” Randy said. “Right, mate?” “You always do wot you want, don’t you?” Andrew shook his head. “They fit pretty well,” Penny beamed as she tried walking from the kitchen to the living room. “Can I borrow them?” Randy walked over to her and gave her a hug. “I’ll stay overnight. No promises.” “But we’ll be friends, yeah?” Randy asked her, appearing very serious. “Yes. We’re friends.” Penny had never felt she belonged more than this in her life. Perhaps this place was home.


“Let’s try another one, Cleo. True or false: I once bumped into Dwayne Johnson in a diner,” I said, trying to keep my expression inscrutable. “Who’s Dwayne Johnson?” Cleo asked, craning her neck toward me, shifting beneath the full-coverage cloak the hairdresser had ceremoniously held out for her, easing her in one arm at a time. I sighed heavily from my seat in the reception area, watching tufts of my friend’s thick blonde hair drift to the ground as the stylist maneuvered her head back into position and resumed her measured clipping. It seemed a pointless ritual, though I’d never say as much to Cleo. What she did with her hair was irrelevant; she would stop men - and women - in their tracks regardless. I would have killed for hair like hers; mine was nothing but mousy brown wisps that I’d long given up on. Unlike her, even if I did make an effort I remained invisible - always the bridesmaid never the bride. Today I’d made a half-hearted attempt to be presentable and gathered up my drab locks in what I thought could pass as a fashionable messy ponytail. Before we’d left our apartment, Cleo had given me a quick once over and praised me for a “good try.” “Seriously, Cleo? Don’t you remember me saying how I accidentally bumped into him, and a posse of bodyguards suddenly materialized, as if I, of all people, would dare jump ‘The Rock’...” I did those irritating quote mark things with my first and second fingers. “It was the closest I ever came to brushing shoulders with a Hollywood star - literally...” “Oh yeah, The Rock...” Cleo said distractedly as the hairdresser motioned for her to tilt her chin down. “Stay still,” she warned, placing one hand atop Cleo’s head, steadying it, then added, “It would be a shame to lose it all.” Gaze fixed on the floor, Cleo continued, “Too bad you didn’t manage to seduce The Rock with your charm. If you’d snagged him, then maybe you wouldn’t be obsessed with winning this cheesy TV show.” The stylist released her grip; freed, Cleo looked up and smirked, her green eyes flashing beneath the fluorescent lighting. Its metallic glare made me look pale and washed out, but she seemed even more radiant than usual, if that were possible. “Cleo,” I groaned. “This is for both of us. Wouldn’t you like to win $50,000 and do all that traveling you’ve been talking about? Paris, Tokyo, the Maldives... Know Thy Partner is nowhere near as bad as all that Bachelorette trash that you watch. You’ve heard the saying ‘Know thyself’? It’s Platonic.” I glanced down at my carefully compiled list of questions - all based on what I’d thought were well-established facts about me; nothing too obscure or tricky. Clearly I’d been mistaken. The odds of convincing an audience of thousands that we were the most worthy couple - not just friends, but soulmates who knew each other inside and out - were not in our favor. So far, out of ten, we’d scored a whopping zero. “So, that was actually ‘True’ , though you’re right in saying I didn’t in fact ‘ score’ with The Rock. He’s not my type anyway,” I muttered. “Next question” -- I took a deep breath -- “What’s my favorite song?” I closed my eyes, mentally replaying “Crash” by The Dave Matthews Band, losing myself in it for a moment. The line “I’m bare boned and crazy for you...” got me every time. I’d first heard it as a teenager, full of raw, unadulterated lust - for Cleo, always for her, and forever unrequited. “Come on, you know this,” I urged, raising my voice above the whirr of blow dryers and hum of salon small talk. When my pleading met with yet another vacant stare, I prodded, “... and I had it on repeat for a full 24 hours that night you came over after Helen of Troy broke up with you...” “It was Helen Onasis ,” she cut in. She smiled, keeping her gaze trained on the generous-sized mirror in front of her. “So, I actually do know the answer to this one,” she said with a wink. “It’s the song that’s all about boys and their wet dreams - ‘You crash into me and I come into you’ - right?” she added pointedly. At that the middle-aged hairdresser paused mid-snip and glared at Cleo in the mirror, scissors suspended, lips pursed. My friend seemed oblivious to the reprimand, and to the power the woman wielded. It wasn't her usual stylist. As far as I could tell, this was a new one, or at least she’d never done Cleo’s hair any of the times that I’d accompanied her. She had a sinuous way of moving that made me more than a little uncomfortable - and, admittedly, envious. I’d watched as she’d ushered Cleo to the sink, draped a towel around Cleo’s delicate collarbone; at how she kneaded the shampoo into her scalp, my friend willingly surrendering to her touch. Already this stranger had something over me: I’d never managed to get that close to Cleo - she’d told me from the start I wasn’t anything like her type. An awkward silence ensued, and I felt my cheeks flush in embarrassment. I buried my face in one of the well-thumbed New You! magazines littering the table, idly flipping through page after page of overly made-up, pouty-faced models with ornately sculpted hair. A sudden disquiet gnawed at me: at the imposter I was in this inner sanctum of beauty with my no-name jeans, scuffed shoes, colorless hair. The moment passed, the hairdresser back to her rhythmic snipping, putting the finishing touches on Cleo’s new look. “You finally got one right!” I exclaimed a little too enthusiastically. “We’ve only been friends for, what, over a decade, and you actually know one piece of trivia about me? Amazing,” I said, dripping sarcasm, yet still entertaining the fantasy that maybe she did harbor some deeper understanding of me after so many years. That maybe we could make a convincing couple - if only just for show. “I’m tired of this,” Cleo said wearily, as the hairdresser smoothed out her freshly washed and cut hair, deftly drying it with a brush in one hand, blow dryer in the other. “Do you really think anyone is going to care about the three dead people you’d most like to invite to dinner or your most precious childhood memory? I’m sure we can just fake our way through it--” “No!” I blurted. “I mean, we don’t need to fake it, do we?” I grabbed my list of questions. “We haven’t even done half of these... You know me better than this. Let’s keep practicing--” “Nah, I’m done, hon. Hey, what do you think of my hair?” she said, flicking it over her shoulder and striking a coy pose. Before I could answer she stood up abruptly and untied her cloak, letting it spill onto the floor as the hairdresser watched, her gaze unflinching. I thought of the countless times I’d picked up after Cleo in the apartment we shared: the dirty clothing carelessly strewn on the floor, the half-filled coffee cups left to stew, the tabloid magazines splayed across the kitchen table... It was always me who cleaned up. I heaved myself up from my seat and plucked the discarded cape from the floor, then passed it to the hairdresser, who stood, stoical, waiting for me. “Sorry about that; it’s just how she is...” I mumbled as Cleo unabashedly sashayed across the salon, admiring herself from every angle, drawing looks from the everyday, bland clientele. No one could ever hold a candle to golden-haired Cleo. The stylist gripped my wrist suddenly, pulling me so close that I could feel the warmth of her breath on my face. Then, she reached into her pocket and placed something in my palm. It was an appointment card for the salon: “METAMORPHOSIS” it said on the front in bold typeface, the name “THEA” printed beneath it. I turned it over to find a barely legible handwritten message. I brought it closer to my face, trying to decipher the script, the hairdresser eyeing me intently. It said, simply: “You must lose to win.” “Sorry...” I muttered, turning the card over in my hand. “What am I supposed to do with this?” She released my wrist and draped the lifeless smock over my arm, flecks of Cleo’s wet hair still clinging to the fabric. Without a word, the stylist nodded, grabbed a broom, and started a methodical sweep of the mess of trimmings that had accumulated throughout the day - a cocktail of black, brown, blonde and gray shades heaped in an unsavory pile, like an offering to some despised god. I watched her brush the debris into a dustpan and shake the offcuts into the waste bin, just as Cleo sidled up next to me, her catwalk complete. “You ready to pay?” she crowed, jolting me from my reverie. Not so much a question as a statement. It was the usual run of events: we went out, she got what she wanted, I paid, we left. And so the wheel turned. Cleo left me by the cash register while she disappeared to retrieve her coat. The cape I carried on my arm seemed heavier now. Deadweight. Still puzzling over the card in my hand, I looked around the salon, at the women gathered like supplicants in hopes of transformation. But what did they seek? To feel better about themselves, turn back time, feed their vanity, please their partners, or maybe, just to escape. To be somewhere - or someone - else. The question burned: what was I doing here? I couldn’t find Thea among the gaggle of stylists busily primping and trimming and dyeing. My arm ached; I needed to get rid of this thing and find out what I was supposed to do. “Excuse me,” I said to the lady at the cash register, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency. I had to do this before Cleo reappeared. “I need to pay for my friend’s haircut; it was Thea who did it - can you get her for me?” “Do you mean Tina?” she asked, her voice tinged with annoyance. “She’s just over there finishing off those highlights.” She pointed to a red-haired girl who couldn’t have been older than seventeen. “No, I’m sure it was Thea,” I said, stealing a glance at the card in my hand, but all I got in return was a hollow stare. “Anyway, it was a wash and cut...” “That’ll be $50 then,” she said blankly, just as the phone rang. “Good afternoon, Metamorphosis,” she answered. “How can I help you...?” Cleo emerged. She lumbered toward me, an affected smile on her face, her vintage coat hanging limply on her frame, her blonde hair sagging over her shoulders, its luster gone. Maybe hair is just hair after all , I thought. My arm felt leaden. Lose to win , a voice entreated. Before Cleo could reach me, I shed her cloak. It pooled and spread on the floor among the stray clumps of dead ends. “How will you be paying?” the lady called, but I had already taken flight.


So I was walking down memory lane today and recalled a certain "ordeal" that my friend Josh and I managed to come out unscathed from. I wanted to memorialize it in case I croak tomorrow. This is a true story. Every detail was recalled with as much accuracy as possible, but there may be a few that we’re altered for writing effect. ***DISCLAIMER*** I have nothing but the utmost respect for the folks that allowed us to do this. None of the events were their fault. It was just nature's course. They taught us well. ***DISCLAIMER*** Read below for one of most harrowingly exhilarating stories that will likely rank top ten for Josh and I when it's all said and done. So my friend Josh convinces me to go skydiving. He had done it once before. I had yet to break the shell. I didn't want to go unless I could do it alone. Solo. It may seem a little counter-intuitive, but I didn't want to put my life into someone else's hands. Little did I know that notion was about to be put to the test... We decided to go to a certain outfit just outside of Carcross, Yukon. The outfit let you do your first dive by yourself. Technically they throw your chute for you and all you have to do is jump. You're still jumping out of the plane, for your first time, without someone strapped to you. I allowed it. We drive to the air strip and immediately we're greeted by this seasoned veteran. He says he's had “over 10 000 dives”. A real ‘seen it all’ type. Grey hair and grizzled appearance. It was intimidating. He had set up what can only be described as a classic Yukon base camp. Tents, tarps and campers. Equipment here and there. The odd ATV. If I hadn't already grown up in such environments, I might have been put off. Josh and I were still wary. We were jumping out of an airplane today, not camping, May long weekend style. There was a veneer of sketchiness we just couldn't shake. Perhaps this was all part of the show and added to the suspense. However, we had just drove hours to do this thing and we weren't turning back. So we get on with some "training". Basic stuff like practicing releasing the main chute. Cutting the main and releasing the reserve. Practicing maneuvers. Going over some theory. All the while we were waiting for the weather to clear. Eventually we just ran out of things to practice and we end up watching a really old, road trip, feel good movie. Things take a turn for the characters in the movie and there's a scene that plays out almost like what was going on that very day. The group drive up to an airstrip. There's a sign that says "FREE SKYDIVES". An old crusty pilot comes walking out of the hanger and asks the group who's daring enough to brave the sky. Well the main character is a bit of an egotistical jerk and says he'll do it. The grey haired pilot walks over to something covered in a large canvas. The canvas falls to the hanger floor revealing a dilapidated airplane. The main character starts to look a little timid at this point, but he doesn't want his friends calling him out. So he begrudgingly gets in. They take off and after much trepidation, he ends up jumping out of the plane. His main doesn't open however, and he freaks out. He remembers his training though and cuts the main and releases the reserve. Josh and I are glued to the screen, thinking 'what the hell are we watching'? This is way too intense! I start to get knots in my stomach. This must be part of the gig. To get us rattled before the jump. I needed air. I decided a walk along the air strip would do me good. Right around this time we had already been waiting for hours for the weather to clear. There's nothing like waiting for half a day in order to jump out of an airplane for the first time, SOLO, to get the ‘heeby jeebies rustling your jimmies’. Finally, the winds die down and there’s a small break in the clouds. They scramble the plane. It's just a little baby Cessna, barely enough room for the lot of us. We hunched into the sardine can and took off! But as we left the ground, we realized we had done it WITHOUT THE DOOR! It's loud. Wind is flying through the cabin. The pilot looks back and says, "The winds are actually much worse up here!" He says he has to slow the plane down enough so when we jump we don't get a face full of propeller wash. The cross winds are so extreme, the plane is almost flying sideways. I lean over to the pilot and I ask him, "Hey, wanna know what Zuneza means in my native language?" "Uh, yeah sure" he says. "It means bird!" "... and today I earn my wings!" I step out of the door first. The wind is blowing in my face and I'm regretting the events of the day. I hadn't drank that day (YET), but I wouldn't consider myself sober. I step out onto the landing wheel of this small plane. The same wheel that the 10000 jumps guy had bragged about earlier, saying that he lets go of the breaks on the plane and lets you fall if you don't jump soon enough. I grab onto the strut of the wing. I begin inching myself closer to the inevitable. I take one step off the wheel. Then the next. Now i'm literally hanging on this wing strut, legs pointing to the earth, thousands of feet below. I look at the pilot and he gives me a hasty thumbs up. I say some last prayers, make peace with whatever I could think of and let go. Apparently most first jumpers do what's called the "funky chicken" on their first dive. Basically, the body goes into an involuntarily dance. Legs and arms flailing around in a futile attempt to grab onto something. Anything. What you're actually supposed to do is spread out like a pancake. Better stability that way, apparently. Well somehow I'm clearheaded enough to do just that and it's in that moment when the rush kicks in. This is it? This is all there is to it? This isn't so bad! This is actually kind of fun! A few seconds later and my main had deployed. 'Thank goodness' I ponder, thinking back to that stupid movie. The jumpmaster (10000 jumps guy) starts squawking on the one way radio strapped to my chest and says: "We've got a problem" "You're not gunna make it" These are not the words I wanted to hear. My heart sinks... "The winds were too strong" "And blew the plane off course" "Do your best to make it to the drop zone" "I’ll try to guide you in if I see you" See, the area in which we were doing the dive is called the Carcross Desert. It's apparently the world's smallest desert. Its basically just a big patch of sand surrounded by the Canadian Rockies. We were supposed to land in the middle of that patch of sand, but as I looked below me, all I saw were the tops of forty-foot conifer trees. Not exactly landing strip material. But not all is lost, because I also see the desert ahead of me as well. The wind is behind me and its strong! I think to myself, "I might make it to the outskirts of the desert if I really boogie!". The only issue is the outskirts of the desert have trees scattered throughout. I would have to find a landing path long enough, through all the trees. The jumpmaster gets on the horn again, "Okay Zuneza, I see you coming up to the desert, but there are too many trees for me to see your landing, so you're going to have to do the landing yourself". Normally he's supposed to guide you down and tell you precisely when to flare the chute in order to sufficiently slow before the final touchdown. However, in his eyes, since he couldn't see me, he would only be further complicating the situation by trying to help. My heart is about to burst out of my chest like an alien creature. I see my approach. There is a long stretch of sand in between two patches of trees. I focus and line up my trajectory. I think it's just wide enough for one and a half parachute lengths. If I aim true, I should fit... I think. However, there are three more problems. The wind is behind me and it's STRONG, so I estimate I'm probably going over thirty miles per hour per hour. Also, my landing "strip" isn't exactly flat. There and dips and bumps and everything slopes off to the North. Never mind the conifer trees on either side. The last problem was something that was entirely my fault. I had twisted my ankle a few weeks prior and it hadn't fully healed. I had been walking throughout the day with a slight limp. I had concealed it from the jump master in case he grounded me. Beggars can't be choosers. Especially now, as I beg for the sweet embrace of the earth... well... without smacking into it of course. At that point the reptilian brain had kicked in. I had lost all sense of emotion, focused on saving my own life. These were the last moments before I either walked away from this or not. As my landing strip came into view, I had a fleeting thought, "I wonder how Josh made out?" I come screaming past the trees on either side. I had done well to remember my training and pulled HARD on my chute just at the right moment. SPLAT! My ass hits the earth instead of my twisted ankle. I was dizzy and the wind was trying to find its way back into my lungs... but I had made it. I was back on solid ground. Josh and I ended up driving back home and believe it or not, it was probably the drive that was the most harrowing experience of that day. The events that had just played out had sent us into a frenzy of adrenaline and I had to constantly remind myself to stay under the speed limit or else tempt fate once more by careening off the road. Him and I proceeded to prove to our local watering hole how amped up on adrenaline we really were by demolishing flight after flight of beers.


On the surface of Mars, nested between a dry seabed and a mountain range Corporal Davis scanned the horizon from behind his visor. Nothing. He turned and began entrance procedures into the Habitat Dome. He had just received a transmission from O-Base. Command had prolonged their mission for an extra 30 martian days. “How long will we be here?” he had asked. “Do your duty Corporal, O-Base out” was the reply. Davis was used to that short, curt sentence. Never before as a grunt or an Air Force F-35 pilot or as an Astronaut had he questioned his orders from any command. Davis and his crew had been on The Rock for 168 days, 18 hours and 34 minutes. This was the third extension of the mission and the men wanted to go home. Davis entered the Hab to break the bad news to his men. His two subordinates shook their heads in unison. For both of them, this was their first mission. Usually, astronauts have at least 800 hours in space at the minimum before even being considered for planet exploration. Although inexperienced in space travel, the two men with Davis were both former pilots and had done exceptionally well on the aptitude tests. Sanchez was a battlefield medic during the Second Korean War and flew F-35s shortly after the it ended. The other man, Jung, was from the European Space Agency and flew state of the art research planes that he had designed for the German Intelligence Agency. Davis was a farm boy from Ohio. He had grown up near Wright-Patterson Air Force base. He had also seen action in Korea, but as close air support for troops. “Hopefully O-Base sends us some relief supplies soon,” said Jung, “We are 80% depleted” “We have to wait and trust O-Base,” Davis said. “When will we get off this fucking rock?” said Sanchez, with an edge on his voice. Davis stayed silent. They didn’t understand. Base was never wrong about anything. “Missions get extended all the time,” Davis said with a wave of his hand. “Calm down. That’s an order.” 4 Days Later Davis sipped his quarter cup of coffee. Thanks to the rationing that Jung suggested, he couldn’t have a full cup. *When we get the supplies, I’m going to hoard all the coffee,* he thought to himself, smirking. Sanchez walked into the kitchen area, his face pale white. “Are you ok soldier?” asked Davis “When are our supplies coming?” “Soon. Command never fails us.” “Bullshit! You’re lying!” “Stand down soldier.” Sanchez ran towards Davis, swinging his arms wildly and screaming. Davis threw his coffee at Sanchez and stood to meet him. Davis wrapped Sanchez up in a bear hug. “It’s ok Sanchez, We will go home soon. I promise.” Sanchez stopped resisting and began to sob, shaking. “Take a break today, rest up,” said Davis. Sanchez sniffed and rubbed his eyes. As soon as he left the kitchen, Davis sighed, *never send a greenie.* 8 days later Davis opened his eyes. An alarm blared. Shit! Jung was shaking him awake. “Wake up sir, we have to go. Something pierced the Hab. It’s depressurizing.” Davis rushed to put on his suit. He looked up and noticed a tiny hole in the ceiling. “Where’s Sanchez?” asked Davis. “I’m here.” “Ok. You and Jung need to fix this hole right now from the outside. I will work from the inside.” Davis grabbed the Hab patch kit and headed towards the air pump. No use in pumping air into the Hab if it was just going to leave through the hole. *It was expected, Habs are not built to last his long.* 3 Days later “Where are the supplies, Corporal?” Demanded Sanchez. “We have to wait and trust O-Base,” Davis said. “I know, you said that last time.” “O-Base is never wrong.” “This is ridiculous! We have been here for an extra fifteen days already with no sign from O-Base. I’m starting to think that the bastards have really abandoned us and that YOU are lying to me and Jung.” “We have to w...” “You said that already,” interrupted Sanchez. “Where is the radio?” “Trust O-Base. They have never failed us.” “Hey Jung, where’s the radio?” Jung walked in. “It should be in the Corporal’s office.” Jung and Sanchez made their way to the communications center near where Davis slept. “Use it, Jung.” “You do it.” Sanchez picked up the radio. “Hab dome one requesting a status report on supplies. Over.” Static. Sanchez repeated his request. Just more static. Sanchez swore. “They left us!” “Hey, hey calm down,” said Jung. “Base is probably out of range. Or.. or maybe there’s a dust storm.” 28 days later While Davis and Jung were going over supply rations for the week and trying to figure out how to make their own and restore contact with O-Base when the airlock alarm went off. Davis and Jung hurried towards the noise. Sanchez was inside, completely naked. His body was skinny and weak due to the lack of food. His eyes were sunken in and red, from crying. He had self-inflicted fingernail marks down his cheeks. Jung and Davis began to bang on the window. “Sanchez! What are you doing man? Get it together,” Jung pleaded. Sanchez just blankly stared past them. Davis grasped the handle but it was no use; once procedures had begun, there was no way to open the airlock. “Come on soldier, we can survive, we can do this.” Jung and Davis spent the next five minutes of the procedure trying to talk to Sanchez, trying to get him to come inside. Once the door opened, Sanchez walked outside, shivering. He took a deep breath and collapsed twenty feet from the door of the Hab. Dead. None of them slept that night. Jung sat in Sanchez’s room and stared blankly into the wall. Davis walked in. “Hey Jung, let’s get the radio com up.” “You’re not upset?” “What do you mean?” “Sanchez just fucking killed himself and you want me to get to work? You’re heartless,” he spat in the direction of Davis. “You know what Jung? Sanchez died because he was weak. We will make it out here alive, got it? I don’t need you moping around right now. We need to work to survive. As far as we know O-Base has no idea that we are even alive.” Jung said nothing. He just shivered, in the corner, tears streaking his face. “Get to work on the coms. That’s an order,” Davis left the room, a tear streaking down his cheek. 7 Days later Davis woke up to a small glass of water and began the systems check-up. “Hey, Jung? How are we doing on the communications fixture?” No answer “Jung?” Still silence. Davis walked into Jung room and saw his body grey and limp, hanging from the ceiling, the noose fashioned out of Sanchez’s sheets. His eyes were bulging out and drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. At his foot was a knocked over chair and a note. It read: Sorry Davis. Can’t take it anymore. Better to go out on my own then die of starvation. I’ll be with Sanchez soon. Singed, Jung. P.S. Feel free to use my noose when you find me tomorrow. “This has gone too far,” said Davis. “The experiment was a success. Congratulations Corporal,” replied a disembodied voice from the overhead system. “This is not what I wanted; I thought that we were forging a new path for mankind. “You did your duty, Corporal. Now it’s time to come home. O-Base out.