We are lost in an action film, the sounds of pounding feet, shouts and breaking glass are the musical score and the smoke and heat blanketing the street are the special effects. This insanity has to be fiction, real people aren’t monsters that destroy property, raze neighborhoods and attack and kill others! But as I sit in the middle of Main Street cradling my dying sister in my arms, I know this is my reality, not a high budget action film. Tears make long furrows down her soot stained cheeks and blood trickles from the corner of her mouth unto my sleeve. “I love you, Munchie.” She softly whispers. “I’m so sorry, Kara. You were right we shouldn’t have come tonight.” I sobbed leaning my head against hers. “Not your fault, I thought it was for Henry, but it wasn’t..... these people are.......only out here for the chaos......they are creating. Tell Mom and Dad I am....sorry.” Her lashes flutter as her once lustrous eyes fade, her lids close slowly, never to open again. “Kara! Kara! No don’t leave me, I’m so sorry, so sorry...... “Young man, let me help you get her out of here.” I look up into kind eyes, filled with compassion; his face is haunted by the tragedy that is swirling around us. He leans down and gently lifts Kara into his arms and signals to another officer that he is taking us somewhere safer. As he takes us behind the barrier, I see the looks of pity and sorrow these officers give me. I had thought, no I’d been told that they were the enemy, but what I see is a group of men and women just trying to help stop the violence and chaos that has ensued because of one despicable person, that never should have been in uniform in the first place. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 12 hours earlier “I cannot believe this crap, another mayor suspending an officer for tasering a suspect who was resisting arrest! It’s incredible.” His Dad growled into the news paper. “Honey, we’re eating breakfast, can we discuss this later? “No Mom! We need to talk about this now.” Keith demanded. “Cops are attacking the black community, and they need to be punished.” “What happened to Henry Marvel was horrific, nobody and I mean NOBODY is denying that. But that was a rogue cop, he’s been arrested and charged. He will be tried and prosecuted. The whole police force should not be condemned because of the crimes of one.” His Dad told him. “That’s not enough, look at what you just read to us, cops tasering people! That’s not okay!” Keith argued. “Those people had committed a crime and were resisting arrest, they have to be held accountable for what they do and police have to be able to do their jobs, to keep the community safe.” His Dad explained. “And who holds the cops accountable!” Keith shouted as he jumped up from his seat. “The federal government, other officers, society. If it didn’t work then the ‘cop’ who killed Henry Marvel, wouldn’t be in custody now, he has not got away with what he did! That is what being held accountable looks like.” “There are lots of others.” Keith said adamantly. “Who? Please be specific.” “I don’t know their names off the top of my head.” “How can you or I prove your right or wrong without any specifics?” “Your racists just like the cops!” “Keith! .... Have I ever taught you to look down at a person because of the color of their skin?” “No.” “Have I not taught you that every man is equal, that no one is better than the other, and that we are all brothers and sisters in Gods eye.” “Yes, but the media says.....” “I care what God says, not the media, politicians or celebrities.” I taught you to use your brain, to study up on things that are happening, not to blindly follow the masses into hysteria or worse.” “I know, but.....” “But what? Why did you call me racist? Was it because I didn’t agree with what you were saying? That is exactly what the media does, if they can't substantiate their point they cry racism. I taught you better than that!” “ But on the social media site I was on they said that 85% of cops attack innocent blacks, it’s an epidemic!” “Keith, open your eyes, those sites are meant to enflame people, they lie and twist what is really happening to fit their agenda.” Keith glared at his Dad, he didn’t believe that, it wouldn’t be on the news if it wasn’t facts. “What happened to that poor man, is not a race issue. It is a human rights issue, an issue of a police officer, thinking he is above the laws he’s meant to uphold, it’s about one sick human being refusing to care about the sanctity of life. Son there will always be some narrow minded bigots that are racist, white, black, brown, it’s not exclusive. You need to realize that most people are not like that. Think about the people you see everyday at the store or at school or at the fast food restaurant, they are the same as you and me. Are they looking down on you? Are you looking down on them? Or are you just going about your day, seeing people going about their everyday lives, no conflict, no strife. Until you have an horrific incident happen and instead seeing a sick individual that needs to be put in prison for his crime and a family that has lost a loved one, we have people deflecting it to scream about racism and police brutality.” His dad told him. “Well I want to go the the protest tonight, to show that I know what happened was wrong!” “I’m glad your becoming a young man of strong convictions, but you are not going to that protest, what is happening at these gatherings is way beyond Henry Marvel or any equality protest.” Keith grudgingly nodded to his Dad and left the room, with his sister trailing behind him. “I don’t care what Dad said, I’m going to the protest tonight to make my voice heard.....Come with me Kara, it’ll be fun.” “I don’t know, I’ve seen some of the protests turn violent.” Kara frowned thinking of the images she’d seen. “That’s only because the cops harass the protestors.” “But what are we protesting against? I haven’t heard a single person try to defend that cop who did this, everyone from the president and other police officers to joe blow on the street, thinks it was horrific and wrong.” “We are protesting the cops who use brutality against black people!” Keith shouted at her, then got real quiet hoping his parents weren’t listening. “I think the whole population of the United States is on the same page regarding police brutality, its wrong against anyone, that’s why they arrest those who commit it, Munchie.” Keith popped a cheez ball in his mouth and he rolled his eyes at her use of his nick name. “Don’t you feel bad for Henry Marvel?” “Of course I do! What happened to him should never happen to a human being.” Kara cried. “Then go for that, if nothing else.” “Okay I’ll go with you.” “I’m going to make a sign to take, just make sure you don’t let Mom or Dad know, we’ll sneak out after they leave for bowling.” Kara agreed and went to her room to make her own sign. After their parents had left Kara came down stairs with her sign, it said; STOP THE VIOLENCE SKIN COLOR IS JUST THE WRAPPING WE ARE ALL THE SAME INSIDE “Really Kara! That’s all you could come up with!” Keith scowled at her. “What’s wrong with my sign? You told me, you’re going tonight to make your voice heard, that’s what I’m trying to do. I believe we are all God’s children, no matter our skin color. And ALL the violence needs to stop. What does your sign say?” Keith turned his sign around for his sister. AN EYE FOR AN EYE JUSTICE FOR HENRY! She scowled at his sign, but didn’t say anything. “What do you think?” he prodded her. “You really want to know?” “Of course I do, why, you don’t like it?” Keith started getting angry. “I just think you could have picked a more peaceful message is all.” She told her brother. “That cop needs to pay, so do all others like him!” “Don’t we have a judicial system for that? Who are you now Judge, Jury and executioner?” “Just stay home; I don’t want you with me with your kumbaya attitude.” “I thought we were going to pay our respects to Henry and show we don’t want something like this to happen ever again. What is this about for you, justice or revenge?” “I’m leaving, you sound just like Dad, and I’m sick of it. I keep up with Social media, I know what’s happening, you can stick your head in the sand if you want but I’m going to demand justice.” With that he grabbed his sign and slammed out the door. Kara sighed and followed her brother out into the night. Keith knew Kara was about 25 feet behind him but he refused to wait or speak to her. They still had a couple of blocks to go before they got to the meeting place for the protest. A car pulled up beside him, “Hey Dude, here’s some material for the protest.” The guy handed him a couple of bricks, laughing as he drove away. What the heck was that about, Keith thought with disgust. He was glad Kara was aways behind him, because he could just imagine what she would have said about that. He dropped the bricks and listened, he could hear people chanting. He glanced behind and saw Kara was still following him and soon he was absorbed into the mass of people. “Justice for Henry” “Stop the slaughter.” Was the battle cry and Keith joined the chorus, but soon the tone changed, “Death to the cops” someone shouted then others echoed the yell. Keith watched as a group of teens threw bricks through the window of Mr. Carlson’s Barber shop. Mr. Carlson was a kind elderly black man, who always had a smile on his face and candy for the kids. He and his Dad had been getting haircuts there since before he could walk. Why would they do that to his business? Next they vandalized the Mikes market, Keith watched as people ran in and came out with arms full of cigarettes and food, a couple of guys dragged out the clerk. They pushed him into the street and started beating him with a skateboard. Flames erupted a few feet away from Keith when someone threw a Molotov cocktail into a vehicle that had been parked on the street. Keith was shocked, why were they destroying things and attacking people, he had believed all the stories of violence and destruction had been just propaganda to stop the protests. At least that's what they said on the news and social media platforms. He saw the guy that had given him the bricks earlier, he had a baseball bat and was hitting anybody who was unfortunate enough to get close. What did any of this have to do with Henry Marvel? What did it have to do with police brutality against blacks? Keith saw black, white and brown people being attacked and businesses being destroyed by whites, browns and blacks alike. There was unity in the destruction, meaning no one and nothing was safe. Kara! He had to find her. He dropped his sign and turned and ran. He frantically looked for his sister but chaos had taken over the streets. There were two types of people now, those seeking refuge from the violence and destruction and those who were causing the violence and destruction. He saw people carrying TV’s, computers and phones out of an electronics shop. And people trashing the bakery, but he didn’t see his sister. He heard someone behind him yell ‘Cops’ then people scattered as he heard loud popping sounds going off. Smoke billowed and filled the street as more businesses caught fire. Finally he spotted his sister about 15 feet ahead of him; the fire highlighted her profile like a giant spotlight. He screamed her name but she didn’t hear him, she was struggling against a tall man who was gripping her arm. Keith ran as fast as he could to get to her, he screamed her name with every step. When she heard him call her name their eyes met, his urgent, hers filled with fear. Time froze when he saw the flash of a blade, the fire illuminated it as it swung downward and was buried in his sister’s chest. He reached her only seconds after; he sank to his knees and gently gathered her into his arms. He cradled her to his chest fearing it was too late. Why? Why? Keith cried for help as people streamed around them, some stopped to film them with their phones, but none of them offered any help. Insanity ruled the night. “Young man, let me help you............ * * * * * * * * * * * * * Satan snickered as he watched the chaos and suffering from afar. Humans were so easy to manipulate.


The wind was cold as snowflakes whipped through the air like frozen razors. A blizzard was blowing in, and could be seen on the horizon across the icy tundra. Great, white clouds flowed from the northern scene, soon to blanket the red-stained terrain and cold bodies in the storm’s path. The sea to the north was sloshing with icebergs, and the wind crashed great chunks of ice against each other which cracked and shattered as loud as thunder. A figure moved through the knee-high snow across the tundra, away from a blood-soaked battlefield. The only survivor of the brutal fighting. In his own wake, he left a trail of crimson snow, courtesy of the wound on his torso. He saw the blizzard in the distance, and knew that it would be his death. His only salvation would be the mountain to the west of the battle. If he couldn’t climb high enough to avoid the worst of the snowfall, perhaps he could find a cave to shelter in, he thought. Skjold was his name. A name that was given to him by his mother, in hopes that one day he would become a great warrior worthy of a name that meant “shield”. But the blood pouring from his waist made him feel undeserving of it. As many in the harsh northern lands were pressed into service by the numerous warlords, he was made to believe he would return a conquering hero. Instead, fate seemed fit to let him die in the cold tundra. Due to this, a question repeated itself in his mind. Why did he press on? He was hopeless, wounded, near death. He shook off the doubt. Succumbing to despair would kill him faster than the cold. If he was not to survive, he would make every effort to spite fate. As Skjold stepped onto the foot of the mountain, the winds picked up whilst he traversed the shallow incline. The softer snow was more difficult to walk on, and the battle had already exhausted him. Above the gray clouds that hanged low in the sky, the sun was already beginning to set. It was still light enough to keep the wolves confined to their lairs, but the light would not last long. As the walk took him further up the mountain, his sweat began to freeze to his face and under his jack as well as inside his socks. His feet were numb. What few chin-hairs he had were beginning to form glassy beads that melted as fast as they froze. Skjold pulled the hood of his thick woolen cloak further down over his head and lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose. His breath thawed his face, even if his posture had to remain awkward as he climbed. It was a grueling hour of walking as the incline slowly increased. The blizzard drew ever closer, but his salvation was within sight. With shivering hands, he crawled up a small outcropping and found himself at the mouth of a small icy cavern. At last! Desperately, Skjold ran into the shelter and collapsed, finally free of the chilling winds. He would have seen fit to curl into a ball and wait out the blizzard, warmth finally returning to his hands and feet. But he felt eyes on his back before he could strip off his boots. Deeper inside the cave, he heard a low, quiet growl. Startled, he turned to see a pair of golden eyes in the cave behind him. Beneath the eyes, in the dim shadow of the cave and the waning illumination provided by the darkening sky outside, he saw the white shapes of fangs glistening with saliva. Instinctively, Skjold reached for the axe in his belt and held it high above his head, threateningly. He shouted and growled at the wolf in a vain attempt to scare it away, he was in no shape to fight the predator. Undeterred, it stalked closer to him and pounced, jaws gnashing towards his face. It knocked him onto his back, and Skjold wrestled with the creature. In a moment of desperation, he recalled a technique his father told him of. Curling his hand into a fist, he thrusted a punch into the wolf’s mouth and forced his hand into the back of its throat. The animal thrashed and made gagging noises, but he kept his hand in its maw as he struggled to free his axe from the wolf’s weight pinning it to his chest. The wolf stamped its claws onto his wound more than once, and pain shot through Skjold’s body each time. The predator’s breath warmed his hand, and with the return of feeling came pain as he felt its teeth rip the skin from his flesh. Finally, he pulled his axe free and slammed the blunt against his foe’s head. It yelped, and he freed his bloody fist from the wolf’s throat. Taking the axe in both hands, he bludgeoned the creature in the eye, and it went limp atop him. Skjold pushed the unconscious animal off of his body, breathing heavily. He stood, sucking enough air into his tired lungs to release a weak cry of victory. The instant it left his lips, he heard more growls deeper within the tunnel. His stomach sank with dread as he saw more wolves appear from the darkness. In a moment of panic, he yelled at the creatures and threw his axe-- his only weapon-- at the pack. The wolves scurried aside the weapon, giving Skjold enough time to throw himself back out into the snowy mountainside. The cold washed over him, and in an adrenaline-fueled frenzy he clawed and tore his way up the sheer rock outcropping the cave led into. When he finally summitted the crag, he fell onto his back as his muscles screamed in pain. His left hand was slicked with blood. More of his precious life flowed from it and froze to his skin. The corners of his vision blurred as the snow continued to fall onto his slowly dying body. With great effort, he pushed himself to his feet. Immediately, the wind whipped into a howl and snow began to batter him. He was too late; the blizzard had arrived. He couldn’t return to the cavern, not unarmed. The sky grew yet darker. It was night, and what light could be salvaged from the moon was snuffed by the massive clouds overhead. Following the incline of the mountain, Skjold continued further up. He clung to no distant childhood memory to keep himself motivated. He had no young sweetheart in his village to keep his aching legs moving. Even the spark of fury in his soul had died out, he felt no motive to spite the gods, or fate. In truth, he did not know why he marched on. An hour later, his vision was blinded by the haze of snowfall. His ears were deafened by the howling of the wind. Darkness of the night shrouded what little he could see. But with the darkness, he was able to see something through the snow. A golden glow, hidden amongst the trees and much further up the mountain than he could walk. A camp? A cabin? He did not know, but the spark of hope burned brightest in his heart. He couldn’t die here, not so close to safety! With his muscles burning yet numb at the same time, he shot towards the light as fast as the thick snow could permit him to move. He pulled himself up the incline using tree branches and exposed stones for handholds, but his vision blurred more as he came closer. He saw that the light was a lantern, sitting on the porch of a cabin. With a strained cry of effort, Skjold sprinted uphill and tripped on a stone. He fell face-first into a snow bank, and felt a rush of warmth in his body. Rather than relief, this sensation brought him fear. It meant he was succumbing to the cold. He found no strength in his arms to bring himself to his feet. With his last ounce of will, he crawled through the snow and barely reached the stairs to the porch of the cabin. His will gone, Skjold rested his head onto the stairs of the porch and passed out from the exhaustion of his climb.


The old man sits upon his throne of cracked beige leather that has gone sour and musty with the years he no longer cares to count. Splinters of white daylight seep through the half-drawn faux wood blinds and striate across his face, the cleansing light twinkling on his bald head and round-rimmed glasses. Squinting against it his pallid blue-veined lids go red with heat. He turns his head to the clock on the side table which is also home to a smorgasbord of pill bottles. It reads 11:59 am. He takes three of the bottles, pops the lids and shakes a capsule from each into his hand like candy and downs them with a glass of stale water. He sits expectantly, hands at his knees and still as a mouse among blind cats. The clock strikes twelve. His rotary phone shakes and rattles its piercing banshee wail with a jarring suddenness in the silence that if he were not expecting it, he might have jumped. He lets it ring a moment and takes a deep breath before picking up the receiver. “Hello?” The voice on the other end sweet as honey and gentle as an evening breeze in the summer makes his heart race every time. “Hi, Dad.” “Hi, Frannie.” “Are you ready to come visit?” “Maybe, my girl.” the words spill from his mouth almost ritualistically, but still he trembles at them. “This is the last time I’m going to call, Dad. I just wanted to let you know that.” He freezes, wanting to say something, but can’t find the words, the guilt and shame a lump in his throat so big that if he were to cough it up, he’d stomp it to a mess of red pulp and phlegm and curse it. “Dad?” “I’m here, sweetie.” “Okay, I have to go now.” “Can we talk about--” Dial tone slices through his head like an acquiescent killer, lonely and implacable. He sits listening to it, feeling it necessary to torture himself. The word “yes” escapes his lips, although too late. For twenty years he has been trapped in the purgatory of maybe, forced to walk the lonesome valley between yes and no. A groan of age escapes his lungs as he pries himself from the chair, the leather crackling and popping as his bare arms separate themselves. He shuffles across the laminate towards the bathroom, past the photos hung above the fireplace of children frozen in years they’ve long surpassed and sepia tintypes of family forgotten, most cracked with age as if made of glass - some even of himself in times he was alive. Past the windows where behind lies a sky so blue it might be of paper with a hole burned through with a bright yellow flame. He walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light switch. The cold fluorescent sputters to life, painting the room an unnatural, sterile white. He steps in front of the mirror and stares at the deflated visage before him, his bald head vitreous with sweat and sunken eyes like the heads of white snails in shells of wrinkled flesh ready to slink back into their holes. At the crown of his head he notices a single hair protruding like the shoot of some strange root vegetable. Yesterday there were two and the day before there were three. Grabbing it with his thumb and forefinger, he gives it a good tug. The hair comes out with what to anyone else might sound like a gentle pop, but to him sounds like a church bell has been rung in the seemingly empty, dusty hall of his skull. It rings on in an endless reverberation, bouncing around his head until his body goes limp and he lies crumpled and empty on the bathroom floor, the cold linoleum burning his skin. Lying like a dog half dead and whimpering, he sleeps. In dreams he sees the sun bright and full, its rays spreading out in a golden fan across a town through which people pass and wave hello. Houses line the streets like a checkerboard and among them, his own sits steady and unexceptional. Around the house a manicured green yard lies placid like a calm ocean and bees buzz about the flowers in the garden like frenzied satellites in orbit. On the dull grey stoop before the door to the house he sits and watches his daughter and granddaughter he’s yet to meet walk towards him on the concrete path that bisects the yard. They all smile and the granddaughter breaks free of her mothers grasp and runs towards him. He wakes cold and coated in a thin film of sweat. Relief crashes over him like a tidal wave as if something has been found - or lost - within. He’s not sure which. Pulling himself back up with the sink, he looks in the mirror one last time and runs a hand over his snowy white bristled jaw and removes his glasses. He no longer wishes to look at old things. Breathing heavy, he crosses back across the living room, taking care not to look at the photos again, the evening sun beating through the blinds and sketching onto the wall an aureate harp. He opens the front door and looks down and sees only clouds like a field of blinding white cotton candy separating him and whatever lies below. The scent of them one he hasn’t smelled in years and one that can’t be described. From his pocket he takes out a quarter and drops it. It falls soundlessly through the cloud that seals itself back up as soon as it passes. Hanging onto the doorknob, he stretches a leg out and brushes the top of the cloud with his foot. He’d pray to God not to fall if he didn’t already live where he’s said to rule. Atop the clouds there are no anachronistic castles of crystal or fountains of marble or gates of gold. No cities built with architecture of the angels or holy men in white. Only white emptiness unplumbed by man save himself. The tides of extrication brush gently at his feet and fill the spaces between his toes and he can taste its saliferous air salty on his tongue. Today will be the day. No more tomorrows or laters. A strange wind blows him back into the house and he saunters over to his bedroom. He tears the sheets off of his bed and tosses them into the living room. His legs feel like they’re going to give as he walks through the kitchen and into the laundry room, but he continues on. He grabs every sheet and blanket from the laundry bin and goes to toss it into the living room. Finally, he grabs the quilt from the sofa that his daughter had sewn for him as a child and places it on the pile and gets to work. Sitting on his knees, back hunched over, he ties the corners of each sheet and blanket to the other in a grid of colour, his daughter’s quilt in the middle. As a boy his mother had taught him to sew his own clothes after tearing them apart playing, but with his memory not being what it was, can only try his best. The needle dips and dives between each sheet like an ungraceful dolphin leaping through the air from a sea of strange colours, binding them together in an ugly patchwork Frankenstein creature. After an hour of impatient and hurried sewing, the sun waning, he finishes and looks down upon his work, face gleaming with sweat. What to anyone else would be thrown in the trash without second thought, he looks upon with a newfound jubilation, ready to finally be divested of all he has been. He grabs opposite corners of the sheet and swings it back over his head and walks towards the door. Taking a deep breath he turns the knob and pushes it open and looks down at the infinite white before him, his heart beating so hard it feels like there’s a little person inside trying to burst through his chest with a mallet. Glancing back he gets one last look at the house he’s spent his life and feels something well up in his throat. Time carries on, and so too will the house, but only for so long. A speck of dust waiting to be brushed off by the hands of a clock. But home isn’t a house, not a person, not a place. Home is in your bones. He turns back around, swings the sheet above his head, and without looking down, jumps into the unknown.


My meeting with God went quite well actually. I partook in the usual small talk, asking about his son, how his sister-in-law was doing, what his friend, Nick, was up to, etc. etc. etc. Then the Jew came in and droned on and on about our numbers and figures and how we need to work harder before she finally left to go play online poker in her office. You get the picture. A normal Tuesday meeting. At approximately half past three, everything went to hell. You see, when God, an Atheist, and a Jew walk into a conference room, not much happens. But when you throw Satan into the mix, things get, shall we say, interesting. At approximately half past three on that otherwise uneventful Tuesday afternoon, Satan appeared in the conference room. It was supposed to be his day off, but as everyone already knows, Satan is not one to follow a schedule. The amount of times I’ve seen that man forget what time it is and work until 4 in the morning is astounding. And of course our boss, the Jew, goes on and on about how great Satan is and how much work he gets done and how we should all improve our work ethic to be like Satan and blah blah blah. And obviously God tries to suck up to our boss and he works a bit overtime, maybe until 10 or 11, but at some point even he just gets too tired. I go home at 5. I ain’t losing sleep for this hell-hole of a company. Where was I? Oh right, so Satan walked into the conference room. Now, a little thing to know about Satan. Basically he has this small but extremely inconvenient habit whereby anything he touches spontaneously combusts. We work at a paper company. Half of the reason I leave on time is because I’m not wasting my energy on a paper company. The other half is because I can’t bear to stand and watch in second hand embarrassment as the firefighters come in for the sixth time that day to hose the building down. The town has built a second fire station right next door to our building after we had 66 fires in six days. Anyway, Satan walked into the conference room, looking red as ever, half of him hidden underneath an unnecessarily long cloak. “How are you doing, Satan?” God asked. “Well... I uh... someone left some paper out... and I couldn’t find my gloves... and now -“ The smell of burning paper started to fill the room. “God damn you Satan!” I yelled, flashing a quick apologetic look at God. “Is that money I smell burning away?” Oh crap, our boss can smell it too. “No just the carpet!” we exclaimed in unison. Our boss’s voice grew louder: “If I open this door and see my merchandise on fire again, I swear to you Satan, I’m throwing you out!” Immediately, God grabbed his water bottle and sprinted out the conference room, throwing water over the burning papers. Just as the last flame died out, our boss swung open her door. “Satan! I hate to do this to you, but I swear to God, if you --” She took a moment to look around the soggy room. “Where’s the fire?” “No fire, ma’am,” God replied, “Just spilled some water is all.” After taking another quick glance at all of our faces, the boss shut her door and continued playing her online poker game. I can’t stand to spend another 90 minutes with these people. About an hour later the fire department arrived for the fifth time that day. I decided to finish work early, partially because I was tired, partially because my boss fired me for throwing a lit match at one of her employees.


We held hands that night, lying in bed together and crying. Both of us felt it. We felt each other’s heartache, heartache so intense it felt like we were dying. Dying there in that bed together, but also birthing something newer and better. Once upon a time we were laughing together and consumed by our then romantic relationships. Fortunately for us, the men were best friends just like we were. It couldn’t have been more perfect! Except, it wasn’t. What made us swoon slowly became the stuff of nightmares. I woke up from mine, but you just weren’t ready yet. He left you still feeling exhilarated, but I could see behind the mask. I could feel the coldness. I could see the marks he left. You couldn’t see them, but your body betrayed you. As I proceeded to travel on beside your dimming light, I met another soulmate. He was different. I was sure of it. He readily-filled the lonely places, and he dazzled me with new light. The same light you were experiencing, but yours smelled like gas. I came to realize that mine did too. Time went on, and our happy times together were less and less. My recollection was an unraveling so fast it made my head spin. The distance between us grew larger and larger until we stood on either side of an abyss. We couldn’t see each other anymore. I couldn’t risk falling in to save you, and you couldn’t even risk throwing me a frayed rope. Eventually we parted. I think I knew it had to happen, but the pain--oh my god--the pain was so intense. I missed you with every fiber of my being. I thought about you every single day. I was in anguish knowing you were being deceived and hurt in ways I didn’t want to imagine, ways that I saw sometimes reflected back in my own mirror. As time passed, I threw myself into my new relationship. He knew just what to say. He encouraged the distancing with you. In fact, he encouraged the distancing with anyone close to me. He controlled my every movement, which I saw as him being my Savior, my protector. I couldn’t see what was going on, even as I obsessed over why you couldn’t see it in your own relationship. I heard of your grandmother’s passing: the nurturer of your childhood. I was filled with dread for you and your already dismal state of mind. Of course I had your number memorized, so I texted you a cryptic message of my condolences. You didn’t know my number and questioned, but I knew you knew it was me. I should’ve thought it through though: it probably caused you trouble at home. The thought now makes me cringe. My own journey was a struggle and I found myself wading through a murky swamp of despair, lonely and sad to my core. I often thought about how you would’ve helped me pull myself out of the dirty water. You were once a life preserver to me, but now you were hanging on for your own life. My soul hurt. Then one day I felt your return. You reached out. Your pain so palpable, I could taste it. Your bruises so visible, they hurt my eyes. His evil so intense, I feared for your life. Your desperation heartbreaking, but your courage mounting. Your story unfolded into my lap. You finally got away. You did your best, and your best was good enough. You made it through to the other side, only to hit another wall. He couldn’t let you go without a fight. The fear you felt, I felt. I finally had my best friend back, but would I be able to hold onto you? Your life was in constant turmoil, and you didn’t know if this day would be your last. We both looked over our shoulders together. I was right beside you. Your fight now became my fight. I watched as you endured endless battles with the devil himself. I watched myself turn into a protective momma bear as we fought against a system that doesn’t hold water for battered women. It brought us both to our knees. Day after day brought on new attacks against your life. I witnessed them alongside you. Even then, you listened to me and started to question whether your biggest supporter wasn’t in a battle for her own life. You gave me what was left in you to help me fight as well, knowing I had to come full circle just as you had. Our friendship was rekindled. It was like the old days, like no time had passed. You sang at my wedding and held my new baby in your arms. Ours was a story of friendship renewed and refreshed. Unfortunately, you also watched as my devil emotionally impaired me for what may be the rest of my life. You watched as I sank into a depression so deep, you were sure it swallowed me whole. The rope. You threw it this time, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. My Big Bang came with a betrayal that shook my core. All that was left was a shell. I didn’t have visible bruises, but you helped dress them just the same. You helped me find the girl you always saw with YOUR eyes. She was just as courageous as you had been. We felt each other so deeply, it went without saying that we were the best of friends. As we soothed each other in the dark that night, crying and laughing, I realized that we were more than just those two girls who met in college. Long days ahead lied in wait for me as I came full circle; longer nights for you reliving your hell in your dreams. We were warriors, fighting life’s battles together, each one a soldier who would carry the other one on her back out of the trenches if necessary. And when I told you it was me on the phone, you said you knew it was me all along. You felt it. You felt it like you would if I was your sister. Soul sisters. Written for my real life soul sister--Sabrina.


Ophi wasn’t sure what to do with this new information. It had certainly changed his view on things. Some of the things. It gnawed on the back of Ophi’s head just enough to irritate him. Once again, he felt the pressure to warn everyone. Ophi limped out of his den. The spines sheathed under his skin still felt awkward. Ophi scanned the bushes. As much as the bushes made a tight circle around his den, their branches did a poor job filling themselves in, and the gray sand so visible beyond them made everything look ghostly, and to top it all off, nothing could be heard except for the slight whistling of the wind. That was just too much. Ophi missed the days when this place was busier. The bushes outside Ophi’s immediate circle rustled. Ophi clambered out to have a better look. He could see a candy red ear sticking out of a bush. Ophi walked past the bush and flashed a smile. It was Heidi, with her sprite in the form of a deer. Classic Heidi, happily fulfilling her role in the Internet as a browser. She may have grown a few fangs, but that was all that changed. Ophi muttered a greeting. None of his friends liked to start the conversation. Heidi turned and stood there. Ophi felt his spines slide out a little. Now he hesitated. Ophi cocked his head to the side. Heidi tapped her foot against the ground. She only stumbled, right? Wait, no. Heidi lowered her head. “It seems my family was struck with a curse! First my mother, now my sister!” Ophi fell silent and paid more attention to the slight tickling in his mind. While Heidi talked and talked, Ophi realized he knew just what she needed to hear. “Things haven’t been so great for me either,” The user said. His pores tightened around the newfound spines. “as I’ve overheard the park rangers talk about using darts on us...” It was easier to let them slip out. The more Ophi said, the more he got excited. Heidi’s outline blurred and buzzed in Ophi’s vision. Ophi’s eyes bulged out of his head and his heart raced in forced thuds. Ophi just kept talking and talking until he felt his pores rip open. That’s what got Ophi to stop and look at his flanks. The crimson spikes were out, but none seem to be missing. Ophi noticed the still air. “Heidi?” Even the distant ads fell silent. After a moment, Ophi heard branches crashing and caught a glimpse of a large animal scampering away. Ophi felt the quills droop. He crept back into the rotting log framing his den. The fire inside him burned with shame. Ophi made his way out into the clearing and spotted Heidi. She was sitting in a sagebrush so that only her head could be seen. Ophi felt the urge to tear out his quills. He didn't have them for very long and he's already threatened his friend's life. Ophi’s heart pounded in his chest. “I’m... really sorry about what happened last night.” Heidi froze in place. “It’s fine.” Ophi continued. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was a stupid thing I did and I have no excuse for it.” Heidi made no movements whatsoever. “No hard feelings.” Ophi sputtered, and searched the bush with his eyes. He couldn’t see if Heidi was injured. “Is there anything I can help you with?” Heidi kept the same wooden posture. “We already made our decisions.” Ophi fell silent. The knot in his stomach grew more and more with Heidi’s behavior. The red deer kept her nose pointed at her friend like it was a gun. The little fangs looked more like boar teeth. Ophi turned with shaky knees. Trotting out of the bushes, he felt he should spend the day elsewhere. That one day turned into one week, that week into a month. It had got to the point where Ophi had to dash out of his den before the thorns on his bushes could close in on him. The dips in the sand made scowling faces and so many ads have ceased their chirping. Worst of all was Heidi. She still made her way near Ophi’s home, only to stare everything down. Ophi felt a growing emptiness during this miserable time. When on the verge of despair, Ophi would strike a conversation with Heidi. She only shot words like bullets. “I’m fine.” “Okay.” “Nothing important.” And it never lasted long, for Heidi would dart away suddenly. Then came the shadows. One stiff ghost would stand in the bushes with Heidi, and then another, and another. Those beady eyes came at Ophi like a rogue wave. He would have drowned if he had not shut the den hole in time. Ophi pushed himself against the splintering wood blocking the hole and strained against his ribs to breathe, but alas, he spotted the white dots on the bark lining the den walls. Ophi just laid there, curled in a ball. He was worried about his new spiny skin beforehand but he never thought it would lead to him being shut off from the rest of the world. Ophi then began to think. If someone else knew about his crime, they’d expect Ophi to ditch the spines. Ophi remembered. One year, a user took on the form of a lionfish, and made the same mistake as Ophi. Once the crowd surrounded the user and demanded he ditch the spines, he complied. Alas, the crowd still painted a target on his back and their victim was last seen getting butchered by hackers. Those axe-wielding maniacs showed no mercy. A streak of bright white stopped Ophi’s train of thought, with the jagged edges cutting the streak off reminding Ophi it was his makeshift mirror. He could see the squiggly white spots in his own eyes. Doe eyes on a hideous pin cushion? Five users were attacked for that in the last year alone. No explanation was enough to fend off the mob. When Ophi wasn’t lost in the waves of torpor, he lay dazed with more such examples keeping him stunned. The more and more Ophi mulled over this, the more and more he swelled with anxiety. He was not the sharpest creature in the scrubland, but he knew anything that looked wrong, they could punish him for it. “What kind of monstrosity has a hellish body and tearful eyes? He must be a sly, corrupt beast! We can’t trust anything he says!” Ophi felt an intense tingling all over. He could barely move his limbs. That was all Ophi remembered before the heat did him in. A chunk of wood jabbed Ophi in his side, ending his dream. The first thing Ophi noticed were the intense cramps in several points of his body. He couldn’t see anything aside from the faint lines in the wood shoved against his face. A harsh chop broke further into Ophi’s prison. That was enough to set him off. Ophi blasted out and roared with all his might. He could see the hacker running away, like a tiny thug. Ophi reared up and lunged at the intruder. Both brutes slammed into a huge stump. Everything roiled under the impact. Ophi chomped on the dry stump and used his new coils to crush it until the hacker pinned under him stopped moving. Crunching branches alerted Ophi to two rangers running into his field of vision. Another threat! The rangers pointed their guns. Ophi hissed and bristled his quills. The rangers fired anyway, and Ophi threw himself at them. When Ophi’s vision cleared, he saw the rangers sidling around him. Ophi snorted and allowed his eyes to follow the smaller one. Ophi reared up and brandished his cumbersome fangs. The targeted ranger was now flinging themselves at the landscape like a pinball. Ophi jolted and jerked, slamming his huge teeth at anything that resembled a dark leather jacket. The last yell stopped short and Ophi slowed, satisfied. He looked around to survey the area, whose bushes and other plant life were reduced to sticks lying on cold grey sand. The new monster turned to the path leading to the rest of the park and saw users walking out from the connectrees. Ophi sneered at them but only a few fled. In fact, one led a group charging toward him, and this one was bright red! Ophi shook his head in disgust. “She just couldn’t stop coming back, could she?” Ophi rammed through bushes, slithering with new fury. The last bush gave way and Ophi could finally see the group, with Heidi leading them. Ophi kept pressing forward. And so did Heidi! She slammed her hooves and galloped harder. Ophi lunged for the huge branches covering the broken fence. The branches burning under him expelled a peppery scent, which only made him cry harder. He just couldn’t do it. Not after all that he and Heidi had been through. Heidi was the only one that followed Ophi out of the thickets of their youth. Ophi’s eyes followed the ripples in the sand, only to watch them get erased by the incoming raindrops. Ophi could only hope by sparing Heidi, she would understand. She always had.


“I’ve been having nightmares about my wife lately... I’m just... Well maybe I should tell you about them?” Alan said hesitantly. “Yes, that would probably be a good place to start. There is no wrong way to have a therapy session.” Collin replied. Collin was legally blind, he couldn’t see Alan but he could see shapes that were probably Alan. Clients had told him that it was off-putting that he couldn’t look at them or meet their gaze. Other clients had said that it felt reassuring. Collin couldn’t really control it so he didn’t let the criticism or critiques affect him. “Well, I mean, there are probably SOME wrong ways.” “Ok, that is fair, I just meant in the broad sense, I guess. Get back to these dreams though, don’t try to distract yourself.” “Oh, yeah... Let’s see... Alright, the first one then. My wife and were in the bedroom, not intimately but not whatever the opposite of that is either. It was just... Two married people, a couple living, you know? I don’t think we were really doing anything, dreams are weird like that sometimes. It isn’t always exactly clear what is happening until something big happens. She started itching her back, in a frenzy sort of. Really going at it. So I offered to help her. I told her to turn around and she did, she lifted up the back of her shirt for me to scratch against the skin. Get a better scratch, right? So she lifted up her shirt and I saw her back, it is covered in these little pimples, a serious outbreak. She doesn’t like to scratch my back because my back is kind of gross, in all fairness, she doesn’t like the feeling of stuff coming off under her nails. You know the stuff, little back pimples or blackheads or whatever and I have that stuff. She doesn’t so much, her back is normally smooth but I wasn’t going to, you know, I wasn’t going to complain about it. I started itching her back and I brushed over the first pimple and it burst under my fingers. I had scratched the head clean off, not on purpose but it happened and I kept going. I went over a few more, the same thing, but I started to notice something and I started to feel something. The stuff under my nails, like she said, but it was moving. I looked down and saw that her back was covered in these little worms with these little heads like the pimples, and they were crawling all over her back. I jumped back away from her and cried out, ‘Laura your back! Worms!’ and I was freaking out. I pushed her towards our bathroom across the hall and grabbed a towel to start wiping those things off her back. I started trying to catch them all under the towel and wipe them into the shower drain but then she started laughing. ‘Don’t be silly baby, those are just the glut-worms!’ She kind of giggled it out, even. One jumped from her back to try to get me and I caught it out of the air between two fingers, like plucking a grape. I smashed it between my fingers and my opposing hand’s palm, trying to work the strength of two arms at the same time. You know, an overwhelming display of force. So I pulled my fingers away from my hand to find that I had pressed too hard, cut myself. In my desperation to crush this thing I had sliced into my own palm. And I hadn’t even killed the dang thing! I could see it start burrowing into the cut in my palm, this little green worm with a white head like a pimple! I started digging into my palm to try to stop it, and it started hurting. I could hear her, Laura, telling me to not worry about it while I am trying to get a grip on this thing and pull it out of my hand. But yeah, I can’t get a grip and that was when I woke up. I woke up digging into my own palm with my finger nails for some imaginary worm that wasn’t there.” Alan and Collin sat there for a moment in silence. Collin staring at the far wall past Alan while Alan looked down at his own feet. “You mentioned that you’ve had multiple nightmares? What was the next one?” “You... Uh... You really want to know?” Alan asked cautiously. “Yeah, well, not if it has more bugs but yeah, maybe.” Collin replied. “Okay.... Well, this next one is shorter. So yeah, nightmare number two I guess. I don’t remember how this one started... I actually... the whole thing gets kind of shaky... Even the end is a little confusing maybe but it starts with me looking out my window and it is winter up to the gills outside. I know, y’know, we’re in the dead heat of July and I’m dreaming about snow so deep in my backyard that you could practically swim in it. But yeah. So I looked out my rear kitchen window that overlooks my back yard. And huddled at the far end of my fence was what looks like a big white dog, laying in the snow facing away from me. Shaggy as hell, fur longer than corn husks maybe. I looked back behind me to call my wife. ‘Laura!’ I called out to her, you know, ‘You have to check this out!’ So she got up out of the bed, I guess that we had been watching television in the bedroom before or something, and she came in to the kitchen. I turned around to point out of the kitchen window but the dog was gone. It had completely vanished. ‘I don’t see anything.’ She said before turning back around. ‘It’s gone now but I swear that the BIGGEST dog was just outside in the backyard!’ But she wasn’t listening, she had already started walking to the bedroom. After a couple of minutes I followed her back. The dream gets fuzzy again, I don’t know what happens until the next part but I know what happens next. I was standing at my bathroom window, I had opened it up, and I was looking out into my backyard again. Back in my backyard again, my eyes land on that dog. He was much closer this time though, maybe only ten feet away. I hissed Laura’s name, real low. “What?” she called back, annoyed but also low and I thought that she understood what was going on. She walked up behind me, quietly and she saw what I was looking at. I heard a sharp intake of breath and I’m still not entirely sure if it was her that gasped or me because it started to move. It slowly lumbered its great neck around, pointing its face at us, and the face that it had was not a dog’s face. It was the face of a man, pale and sick looking, eyes dead almost but it looked right at us. It snarled its face and snapped its teeth at the window in the blink of an eye. But me... I was already moving. I screamed and pulled Laura away from the window with me a bit but let go as I rushed into the bedroom to get my gun...” Alan trailed off for a moment. “You still have your gun?” Collin asked, leaning forward into the silence. He hadn’t realized how intense the story had been until just this moment. “Yeah... Should I... Should I not?” “We’ll get to that after, sorry, just a question, keep telling the story.” Collin waved his hand. “Ok... Yeah... So I was in the bedroom. And I keep my gun locked up, I know that isn’t great during emergencies but it feels safer that way. So I was fumbling with the locked cased, trying to get it open and I heard Laura call out to me. “Hurry!” She yelled, I guess that she had walked back to the window like some kind of maniac with a deathwish. “Its going around the house to the next window!” I got the gun and a handful of bullets and I was putting them into the cylinder while I was walking. I opened the door to the bedroom adjacent to the bathroom and I looked out through the windows but the thing was gone... It was already gone. And I guess that was when I woke up that time.” Alan said, letting out a long sigh at the end. “Geez, this kind of exhausting. Do I gotta tell you more of these? They are all like the last two.” “Like the last two? How?” “Well... So I told Laura about them and you know what she said? She said, ‘It sounds like I’m an oblivious idiot in all of these dreams, huh?’ you know? Like that... They’re all like that, where she doesn’t really get what's wrong until something bad is already happening and sometimes not even then. C’mon man, you’re the therapist, you should be noticing this stuff!” “Look, Alan, I’m not great at analyzing the themes of stories, I work with people, I’m good at people. But yeah, now that you point it out, I guess that those dreams do seem to be connected to that point... I guess my question for you is this, and I bet I already know the answer, has your wife still not talked to you about your attempted suicide? I mean, you’re even still keeping the gun?” “She... I think she blames herself... And so I haven’t brought it up and she has kind of ignored it too. Y’know, I’ve been out of the hospital for two months now and things are going... Well they’re going smoothly between us. I don’t know if I want to disrupt that just yet and she probably doesn’t either...” “Al, I’m just your therapist but I think you should talk to your wife.” “I’m afraid that she’s not going to see whats wrong.


I climbed over a strip of brown sandstone rocks. It was like another planet. From the top, about ten metres above the surrounding sand, I looked around the landscape. The golden waves of the desert reached as far as the horizon, where they melted into the swirling air. I looked at the compass, I had to go further west, where the end of my journey would be. A friend heard that I was hitchhiking in the south of Africa and offered me a boat. Of course, I agreed and he promised to wait for me on the coast of Namibia. I was now in the middle of the Namib Desert, and the west coast was about 50 km away, which was about a two-day walk. It was also the first time I had ever been in a sandy desert. The guides tell you to stick to your path and not make unnecessary turns, because sand is a difficult terrain and besides, the desert is dangerous in itself. I saw three people north of me. I would have really kept on my route had it not been for the bad feeling in my stomach that made me look at the three. They were about a kilometre north of me, so I went toward them. I greeted them in English, the oldest of them answered me, with a strong accent. He was probably their guide, because he had the logo of a travel agency on his shirt. When I asked him his name, he mumbled something absently. The repetition of the question made him a little upset, so I decided to let it be. The three of them sat on the hot desert sand, just swaying. I asked the guide where they were going. He yelled at me again and hissed. I figured that the volume of my voice was bothering him. So I walked closer to him and asked about their destination. He repeated, one word, "sea, sea", pointing north, where the fata morgana rippled through the air. The desert really looked like the surface of the sea, but I knew the closest shore was on the west. I tried to explain it to him, but he kept pointing north and saying, "sea, sea." As I sat next to him, I noticed an ID card pinned to a bag around his waist. The name Mateo was written there, and he was a guide to a Spanish company, Tropico Tours. The man must have been around sixty, I guessed from the wrinkled face and white wreath of gray hair around his otherwise completely bald head. His female companions couldn't be much younger. I persuaded them to put on their headgear. In vain. Their faces were without expressions and they all swayed. I looked around and found only a two-liter bottle of water, half empty, which was definitely not enough for three people, certainly not if they wanted to go to the shore. I offered them some of my supplies, but Mateo declined my offer, "Drink later, drink later," and paused again, just swaying. I sat there with them for a while, silent because they didn't seem to like me talking. Mateo looked deep into my eyes and smiled. "Do you hear that? Música.” I listened for a moment, and indeed, I thought I heard quiet choral music. I looked for the ladies and suddenly I realized why they were all swaying. The four of us were hallucinating. The music, the angelic choir grew stronger and with it a sudden peace of mind and desire to stay here. At that moment the voice of reason prevailed in my head. I realized that the music was an illusion and decided to keep walking. The ill feeling was back, I also felt the desire to save all three from certain death in the desert. I grabbed Mateo, but he pushed me away and I landed in the hot sand. I hissed in pain, but I had not given up my intention yet. I growled, “Vámonos! Vámonos!”, which means “let's go” in Spanish, it didn't work with either of them. I tried to pull them up one by one and lift them to their feet, but without any success. The angelic choir, singing a beautiful chord in C major, grew louder, but I still wanted to help them. I grabbed Mateo's hands, but he pushed me away again and asked me to be quiet. All three swayed to the music, the angels screamed at the top of their lungs, and the sun painted an arc into the cloudless sky. I realized I should drink. I had a sip of water and the angelic music was gone like that. I put the bottle to the withered lips of a 60-year-old Spanish lady and begged her to drink. "Más tarde," she muttered, pushing my bottle away. It flew out of my hand and water began to pour into the Namibian sand. In that moment, I ran out of patience. I grabbed my bottle with the rest of water that didn't spill and set off. I turned for one last time and watched the three swing into illusory music. But I suddenly had an idea, I still wanted to help them, so I drew the approximate place where I found them on my folding map. I had a rescue plan. So I went west, as I had originally intended, and I walked quite fast, not only was I delayed by this encounter, the three Spaniards were losing valuable time. I decided to walk overnight to be on the coast as soon as possible. The friend was supposed to be there today, at least in the waters of the west coast. In addition to seawater desalination equipment, the boat also had a satellite telephone on board. It occurred to me to call a helicopter to save the three lost people. I was running out of water, my eyelids were heavy, but I knew I had no choice. I pushed myself through the sand dunes with one goal in mind. I had to help them. Even in the sweatshirt, I gritted my teeth at night, but I had to keep going. I shone my headlight on the ground and regularly checked the direction of my compass. West. I had sand in my shoes. My feet were aching. My legs hurt. West. I licked my dry lips. I kept a murderously fast pace, I mustn't stop. West. The headlamp began to flicker. Angels began to sing in my head again. I looked at the compass. I couldn't stop. West. It was dawn and when I climbed on top of a large dune, I finally saw the sea. Two kilometers, I guessed. I rubbed my tired eyes and walked on. Tired after an all-night march, I slowed my walking pace and the angelic choir started to sing again. I mustn't stop, I mustn't stop, I repeated to myself. I fell into the sand. The angelic choir sang beautifully and I didn't want go anywhere anymore. It seemed to me that where I was, it was the most beautiful place in the world. There was no need to hurry anymore. The angels sang and I swayed to the rythm of that beautiful music. I fell asleep. After a while, I woke up aboard a Robinson R44 helicopter. The fear of waking up at height was replaced by the calmness of finding out that I was safe. To my right sat an african pilot in a tracksuit. When he saw that I was awake, he grinned, and wished me a good morning, he asked me to put on my headset so we wouldn't have to yell at each other. "Your friend called. He could not find you. I'm from Swakopmund.” I smiled backed and watched the landscape below us. But then I remembered the three lost Spaniards. "We have to fly back," I muttered into the headset's microphone. I searched for my things, but I didn't have a backpack with the map with me. “Backpack on the backseat. But I can't return. Only one way paid!" “You don't understand! There are three people back in the desert, Spaniards! We have to find them!” “Why they not with you?” “I wanted to help them, but they didn't want to move nor drink. They just sat and hallucinated about an angelic choir. I actually heard it too." "When?" "I met them yesterday, shortly after noon." "Too late. If you don't drink, you die." I saw the roofs of Swakopmund on the horizon and our helicopter landed on a small concrete heliport. My friend was standing there, waving. When we landed, I got out of the cockpit and Emmanuel, the pilot, handed me my backpack. I searched inside and pulled out a crumpled map of south Africa. There was a circled place in the Namib desert where I assumed I was with the Spaniards yesterday. I handed the map to Emmanuel and told him to try to find them. "Pay," Emmanuel frowned. I pulled everything I had left in my wallet after my hitchhiking adventure and looked at Johnny, my boat friend, who worked in Johannesburg as a fisherman and captain of a sightseeing boat with which, poor man, he was waiting for me on the shore, and when he couldn't find me, he paid Emmanuel to search for me. "What if I brought you my fish, free of charge, what do you say, Emmanuel?" "Okay," Emmanuel grinned, starting the helicopter. Then, Johnny and I, talked about our adventures, he talked about his fishing on near the shore and I talked about hitchhiking and my adventure in the Namib Desert. When Emmanuel returned after two hours, he climbed out of Robinson's R44 with a grim expression and handed me the IDs of the three Spaniards. "It was too late, all dead, covered with sand.


Lacey choked and sputtered as she struggled to keep her nose above the cold water. An arm like a bar of iron around her upper chest tightened. She fought against it, against the current that slid along her back and down her legs. “Stop, dammit,” a stranger’s voice rumbled from behind. “I’m trying to save you.” The words sank in. He claimed to be her savior, not a killer. She forced herself to accept that as the truth, for air flowed into her lungs as she relaxed and let him pull her through the water. But why was she here, drowning? And where was “here”? Last she knew, she was at ASU, heading for the math building. Lacey looked up at the cloudless blue sky, where the morning sun still slanted low from her right side. Not much time had passed. Perhaps she would not be too late for work. Her stomach churned as she considered how crazy those thoughts were. Voices came into her waterlogged ears, a meaningless clamor of fear and anger. Hard hands grabbed her arms, lifted her from the water. She was laid down ungently and immediately shoved onto her side. Pressure on her rib cage. Fingers prying at her mouth. She pushed them away, then slapped at the other probing hands. All she could see as the nearest would-be Samaritans pulled back was a row of feet and knees. Lacey managed to sit upright in the puddle growing larger on the smooth cement under her butt. As she attempted to piece together what had happened, her entire body began to shake. She hugged herself, clothes soaking wet, draining off her body heat. A woman demanded, “What were you trying to do?” Another woman, in a soft and warm Southern accent, said, “Nothing is so bad you should kill yourself over it.” “But I wasn’t,” Lacey protested through chattering teeth. “I couldn’t have. I must’ve just slipped and fell in.” The encircling crowd shifted, revealing the placid, glittering expanse of Tempe Town Lake. The sun shone over the Mill Avenue bridge, only a few minutes’ walk from campus. What had happened during that missing time? She had no recollection of anything since passing the high glass walls of the engineering building. Blackout? Seizure? “You walked straight into the water,” the first woman said accusingly. “Then you didn’t even try to swim. You just went under.” “Call 9-1-1,” someone suggested. “No, don’t,” Lacey said. The Southern woman said, “You have to go to the hospital. You nearly drowned.” “I’ll go. Just not in an ambulance.” She had no faith in emergency rooms. She would need to pinpoint her symptoms first, figure out what tests would lead to a diagnosis, then get a referral for anything her own doctor could not do. Lacey got to her feet. She ignored the avid, critical stares. “Where’s the man who rescued me?” Everyone looked around, but he had vanished. Tears of guilt and embarrassment stung at the back of Lacey’s eyes. She had not even thanked him. She borrowed a phone and called her boss to say she would be late. “An accident,” she offered as her excuse. In response to his questions, she said she was unhurt, simply shaken. “Take the day off,” her boss ordered. Relieved that she would not need to face her coworkers until she came up with an explanation, Lacey gave him a sincere thank-you before disconnecting and handing the phone back to its owner. She fended off well-meaning offers of assistance and walked on stiff knees toward the nearest bus stop. Once she got home, she would make a pot of sweet tea, take a shower, change clothes, turn on her computer, and figure out what was happening to her normally sharp mind, which had served her well for twenty years on the staff of the School of Mathematics. Accumulating bits of knowledge and piecing them together like a quilt always soothed her nerves. Lacey did not make it home. She came back to herself leaning out into the air high above one of ASU’s broad pedestrian malls, her back arched and arms outstretched as though to fly. The concrete below undulated like a mirage in her panicked gaze as she attempted to regain her balance, windmilling her arms, pressing her heels into the roof with every taut muscle in her legs and back, willing herself not to fall. Once she collapsed on the flat surface and could no longer see the height from which she might have plummeted to her death, she began to shake and sob. Breathing became difficult in the small gasps her tight chest allowed, the very air surrounding her thick and oppressive. Somewhere in her mind, she felt a ghostly presence. Even as she became aware of the lurking phantom, it drew away. Had it saved her? Don’t go, she thought to it, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears. Immediately it vanished, like a soap bubble carried too long on a breeze. Lacey wondered whether anything had been there--or if she was simply hallucinating. A manifestation of her own mind, perhaps, that had brought her back to awareness before she could harm herself. She crawled farther from the edge, then sank down again and rolled onto her back. She let the sun bake her skin and dry her clothing until her trembling muscles stilled. The exotic perfume of jacaranda blooms, jarringly normal, drifted past on an errant breeze. Eventually, not daring to remain longer in the sunlight, Lacey rose. She explored the rooftop until she discovered a narrow maintenance access that must have been the way she had gotten onto the roof. At the edge of the building, she hugged the shadows, reluctant to emerge into the flow of people passing along the mall. The Health Services center stood nearby, its sign proclaiming compassionate health care for students. She considered begging them for help, for she no longer trusted herself. One near-death incident was worrisome enough. Two . . . that was a disturbing trend. But she was not a student. Lacey swallowed in a vain attempt to dislodge the lump in her throat and looked around her wildly. Perhaps she could make it to the Catholic Newman Center, or the Methodist church on University Avenue, before awareness slipped away again. She felt conspicuous standing in one place so long, but the rooftop struggle had both frightened and exhausted her. Could she ask someone--anyone, a passerby, a kind stranger--to accompany her to the transit center or the hospital and hold her back from anything crazy or dangerous? She let out a half-strangled sob, realizing how that would sound. What, then? What could she do? Lacey had no idea. This time when the darkness released its grip, Lacey came back to herself with a train bearing down on her, its brakes screeching as people screamed from the passenger side of the high fence built to keep them safe. This time she was not alone. That other presence was in her mind with her, battling for control. She understood at that moment what her body had somehow known, that the phantom meant to subdue her will. No, worse, it wanted to replace Lacey, the disorderly human mind, with its own pure intellect. Her muscles, under neither her control nor that malevolent other’s, kept her frozen in front of the oncoming train. The drowning, the fall, the train, she realized dimly, were all to drive out this other mind, the one that intended to claim her physical body. Lacey tried to beat back the presence, tried to smother it, shout at it, but it kept advancing. Then her body began to act, taking a halting step toward the fence, then another, and another, passing over the low light-rail track and into the narrow space between the train and the fence. Unable to stop the physical movement toward self-preservation, even if she wanted to, Lacey found herself being collected together from the various parts of her mind. The presence--perhaps some kind of AI gone rogue--was downloading itself, she gathered from alien information swirling around her brain. Her body had been interrupting the downloads by placing itself into danger. Each time, she, Lacey, was rebooted. But the AI had learned. It would keep her fleshy envelope alive. Lacey fled to a part of the brain where she sensed the least activity. The center of emotions, she guessed. What use would an AI have for such? There she hid, compressing her consciousness into the tiniest of spaces, hoping to go unnoticed while she observed and learned, waiting for her chance to emerge and reboot her human mind.


It was a bright mid-day in Lagoon town, but for blind prince Johnson, one of the three surviving sons of King Warrior of Lagoon, it was mid-night because all he could see was darkness. But since the mind is like a window, he looked through his mind. He often sat in front of his father’s chamber, observing every movement. * From his mind, he could see the beautiful flowers in his father’s compound which he touched every morning when he woke up, and the birds which pitched on the flowers, whistling so loudly every morning. Besides this, he also saw the company of people who visited his father, the king every day either to pay homage to him, to bring a letter which was usually a notice of war from another king, or to lay complaints to the king about people who offended them. From their voices, he could distinguish if they were men or women, or if they were boys or girls; and by their footsteps, he knew if they were many or few. By experience, he had devised a means of knowing what time it was at any moment, he kept the time in his mind and therefore knew the time when every action took place. Moreover, blind Prince Johnson listened attentively whenever his father the king described lagoon and everything in the town to his guests who often visited him from other towns on certain festive days. King Warrior often boasted to his guests about how beautiful Lagoon was, the number of people in the town, the rich cultural heritage of the people, the positive attributes they had, their beautiful tourist sights, the natural resources found there, and every other thing they needed to know about lagoon town and blind Prince Johnson, having heard this description over and over again, created a picture of lagoon town in his mind. Though he was blind, he saw lagoon through his mind’s eyes! The townspeople often got amazed whenever the blind prince described the town of lagoon to them accurately as though he had seen it before. They only knew that his eyes were closed but never knew that his mind was open! * Five years later, King Warrior fell sick and died. The entire town of lagoon was in deep sorrow, they hardly believed that their great king was dead. The king’s family was not left out, though the king died at a good old age, yet they expected him to live a little longer at least to have the few black hairs on his head turn white like the rest. However, they were consoled because as his name implied, he fought many battles and won them. He restored many properties belonging to Lagoon town which was forcefully taken by their enemies who fought and overcame the kings who reigned before him. * After the king’s burial, there was an urgent need for a new king and according to the law of Lagoon town, the new king must be one of the sons of the former king, and whichever of them that would be crowned king must be proven to know the town very well in every sense of it and must be proven to possess enough wisdom to rule the people. So the elders of the land and the kingmakers appointed a day in which to invite the sons of the late King Warrior for an interview to appoint a new king among them. * On the day appointed, the three sons of the King Warrior, Prince Edmond, Prince Walker, and the blind Prince Johnson took turns to stand before the kingmakers who asked them questions concerning Lagoon town and concerning the vision they had for the town if they finally became king. The first to be interviewed was Prince Edmond, the first son of the late king. When asked about the history of Lagoon town, the kingmakers were stunned to see that he knew nothing about Lagoon town. He had lived abroad all his life and only managed to visit home once in a while and then flew back overseas. Concerning his vision for the town, he said he was going to rule the people from abroad and replace Lagoon’s rich cultural heritage with that of the western world. Upon hearing this, the kingmakers laughed him to scorn and immediately disqualified him. The next in line was Prince Walker, the second son of the late king. He was able to give an accurate history of Lagoon town and also described the town accurately. But concerning his vision for the people, he said he will return all the properties his late father took from their enemies back to them as a way to make peace with those towns. Then all the kingmakers laughed again and disqualified him. At this point, everyone had given up, though they knew that one person was still left but what can a blind man see when even those who had their sights could see nothing? However, they proceeded to interview the blind Prince Johnson just to fulfill all righteousness, but they started changing their minds when Prince Johnson started giving the history of Lagoon town and also described the town and everything in it beyond the normal. His understanding of the town and everything about it was exceptional and the wisdom he exhibited was top-notch. No one believed he was blind. He proved that he knew the town even more than those who had seen it physically, however, he only saw it through his mind! Finally, when asked about his vision for Lagoon town, he behaved like a wise man by simply saying the opposite of the things his brothers had said that disqualified them. He started by promising to live fully in Lagoon town and work with able-bodied men to carry out the things he had in mind which were to improve Lagoon’s rich cultural heritage and make it among the best in the world and to fight all the remaining enemies of Lagoon town just like his late father did, and to bring home even more properties than his father brought to the town. These sayings pleased the kingmakers, this was certainly what they wanted to hear. They were most impressed by blind Prince Johnson’s boldness which showed that he was brave, as well as the deep wisdom that accompanied his words. He never spoke like he was blind and the manner with which he spoke was evidential that he could see, irrespective of where he was seeing from. So the kingmakers straight away took late King Warrior’s crown and placed it on blind Prince Johnson’s head, together with the king’s robe and beads, and crowned him the new king of Lagoon kingdom! They also gave an order that no one should refer to him anymore as being blind rather, he should be referred to as ‘The Visionary King of Lagoon!’ The entire town was already waiting outside with shouts of jubilation and all manner of musical instruments, singing and dancing as they waited for their new king to be presented to them. The celebration increased greatly when King Johnson stepped out majestically to see his people. They all went and bowed before the king and the king cheerfully received their accolades. * In less than two years of reigning in Lagoon, King Johnson succeeded in bringing the picture of Lagoon which he had in mind to reality, and it turned out to be that the picture he had in mind was far more beautiful and excellent than what Lagoon looked like before he became king. He sent and cut down the trees and bushes which surrounded the town and made it look primitive. Then he created new roads in some parts of the town, planted beautiful flowers everywhere, and reconstructed the markets in the town. He trained thousands of warriors who fought and conquered all their enemies and brought back their enemies as slaves, together with their cattle, silver, gold, and farm produce. These slaves were used to till the ground and plant all manner of crops in large farmlands across Lagoon town. In a short while, Lagoon was known as one of the greatest exporters of agricultural products in the area. They were also respected for their highly trained intelligent and brave warriors who never lost a battle and who have left all their enemies and neighbors alike in deep fear. At this point, it was very clear that King Johnson had positively transformed Lagoon beyond recognition. This transformation drew the attention of the government to the town. The government built modern schools, hospitals, companies, and firms in the town and other investors also came and invested in Lagoon. If only King Johnson’s eyes had opened even if it was for a minute to see what his mind had done! However, there was no need for his eyes to open because his mind was already open and had seen everything his eyes should see and God had helped him to achieve them. * On the day the government was to commission the projects, the governor expressed shock over the rapid development that took place in the town since the emergence of King Johnson as king of Lagoon, he further stated that he was most surprised by the fact that King Johnson was physical blind and was expected to underperform but rather, he did more exploits than all the previous kings of Lagoon who all had their physical sights. He, therefore, noted that physical blindness is better than mental blindness because, those who are physically blind can still see, but those whose minds are blind are blind indeed! King Johnson was given an award of excellence by the government and he ruled Lagoon for many years and did more exploits to the amazement of all the people.


They hadn’t really spoken in years beyond the neutral, ‘Pass the butter?’ or ‘Seen the remote?’ You know, just the facts, Ma’am. Remote indeed. Imagined slights had met stern challenges and the marriage slid downhill from there. The smoldering tangle of ancient wounds and recriminations defied restoration to simple civility. An un-squelched, unashamed sharing of thoughts and opinions could not happen. A guarded truce remained. Gone were the days of affectionate banter. Oh, for a wry story or an ironic observation. Over years, unresolved anger and long term resentment had calcified into unmoving trench warfare. Who knew faces could actually freeze like that? It defied belief they’d raised two more-or-less sane kids to adulthood. At this late date, attempts to ‘have it out’ threatened to dredge up remains of battles best left submerged. Neither remembered how or why it turned sour. They’d found a balance. Maybe not a happy one, but it worked for the most part. The calendar’s pages kept turning. It hadn’t always been so. They’d had fun. They’d played. Had Bill pulled away? Had he wearied of feeling rejected? Had Angie sought other’s affections after sensing his disinterest? That no longer mattered. Thankfully, the slog from morning coffee to lights out had replaced those exhausting early struggles for ‘who’s on first.’ Each carried wounds. Each bore scarred emotional. Each elected for less drama over risking the shards of peace talks gone south. And, after all, they knew each other. Does anyone expect that the new face with better moves doesn’t also wield a mean right hook? ~ They rode to the airport in pre-dawn silence. Safety motivated the silence that ruled their lives. Why was she was going? It was expected. She hated flying. He knew that. It wouldn’t look right, her not being at his work conference. So there she would be. When he announced the trip, he said she’d have her time. He’d be busy. He wouldn’t be in her way. As if ‘her way’ was the consideration. She would show her face and withdraw, presumably to socialize with the other wives. Did the other wives live lives like hers? Surely, the husbands, like interchangeable Lego blocks, shared much in common. At the airport, Bill parked the car and pulled the carry-ons from the trunk. He preceded her through security. Angie found him reading the paper in an end seat at the terminal. She parked herself near-by. They were early. They didn’t talk. She left. He paid no mind. Shops were opening. Magazines begged for attention. Coffee beckoned. It would be a long flight strapped in a seat. She needed to walk. At the kiosk, ahead of her, a family offered a peek into another life. The youngsters made random orbits around their parents who bantered the nutritional advantages of pumpkin-spice vs. caramel flavored coffee. It felt like a bad Hallmark TV movie. Yet Angie didn’t think they were acting. Angie ordered hers black with a splash of half-n-half. Cappuccino for Bill. The line crept. What if they boarded before she returned? Would he notice? Or wait? Carrying her coffees she headed back to the terminal where Bill read his paper. Feeling overwhelmed, she sat and watched the steady stream of travelers pass. ‘ Just for a moment ,’ she thought. ‘ Where does everyone go in such a rush? ’ She realized they actually knew their destinations. She was the clueless one. She couldn’t fathom how she got there today. Not to the airport, but her whole life. Had she sleep-walked for the last twenty years? And awakened to this? She returned to the terminal. When she handed Bill his coffee, he smiled. “Thanks, Ange. I thought you’d flown the coop.” “And here I doubted you even knew I’d left.” “Oh, I know. I always know.” They got in line for boarding. Bill sipped coffee and stared in silence. Angie wondered that so many can be herded through hours of mind-numbing tedium with nary a peep of protest. “It astounds me how millions of travelers actually reach their destinations. They munch handfuls of pills to quell their anxiety, so they can spend hours in line after line. All to strap themselves into sardine cans for hours more.” Bill murmured a vague agreement. She continued, “It’s insane to worry. I’m sick of it.” Bill stowed the carry-ons overhead. They steeled themselves for the long flight. The commotion died and everyone found their seats. The plane taxied onto the tarmac. Announcements were made. Soon, they were airborne. The flight went as expected. Bill watched the clouds drift by. Passengers distracted themselves with snacks or videos. No place for the claustrophobic. Angie dozed. Turbulence jarred Angie out of her stupor. Bill noticed her stirring. “Point of no return...” “What?” “Terminology... We’re closer to our destination than to the starting point.” She tried to make sense of this. ‘ What an ominous name for such a mundane concept. ’ She looked about. A stewardess made her way down the aisle collecting trash. Another jolt sent the stewardess into passenger’s laps. Screams erupted. A sickening groan from the fuselage matched the yaw in the plane’s axis. More screams. A passenger sailed over heads, hit the bulkhead and fell. Lights flickered into darkness. More screams. Oxygen masks dangled. The Captain’s voice on the intercom broke up in static. Chaos bred chaos. The plane shook like it would come apart. Lights flickered. Now smoke. No place to hide. The plane leveled. The vibration subsided. The lights returned. The intercom crackled. Groans replaced screams. A baby squalled. Angie grabbed him. Their eyes met. She’d never seen him afraid. Shouting through the hysteria, she gestured. “You called it, Bill. No turning back. Don’t leave me alone. Cling to me. Not the past. Share the future we have... seconds? Minutes? Can we do that? This is us. Here and now. Be kind. Be kind! Our lives depend on this. Reclaim us. Each moment is lost. But we’re not lost. We’re together.” She lost her voice. Bill looked at her tenderly. “Of course.” She rasped, “Promise?” He covered her hand with his and nodded. Things were calming. The smoke began clearing. She looked about in amazement. Would they be okay? A smatter of applause passed through the cabin. She leaned in. “I swear Bill, if you go back on your word, I’ll see you in hell.” He looked her in the eye and said, “Not if I see you first.” They fell into embrace, laughing until tears flowed and kissed as if it were their first.


Mission Control looks just like it does in the movies. Lines of desks aimed at giant screens, scores of scientists and engineers chatting excitedly in front of their own smaller monitors. Across the room from me, Carlo Costa leads a gaggle of excited VIPs from workstation to workstation, waxing lyrical about the Nautilus Probe and the billions of dollars he’s spent on all this. ‘Remember, Darsha,’ my boss whispers in my ear, ‘we need the pH and any dissolved minerals as soon as the raw data arrives.’ It’s the fourth time he’s reminded me in as many minutes. ‘Got it,’ I answer, not quite managing to keep the irritation from my voice. I was brought in two days ago to replace an oceanographer Costa fired and my boss is still terrified I’ll screw up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.’ Mission Control falls silent as Costa speaks from the centre of the room. ‘We didn’t find evidence of life on Mars,’ he begins, in what is clearly his big rehearsed moment, ‘but Saturn’s moon Enceladus and its subterranean ocean was the next best bet. ‘And so it became my dream to go there and see what we might discover, and that dream is about to become a reality. We should receive the Nautilus Probe’s transmission any moment now, and then we will make history as the first humans to ever peer into the depths of an alien ocean.’ A round of jubilant applause follows, even the trio of stoic military guys in the corner clap. As the applause dies down, all attention turns to the biggest screen at the front of the room. There are audible gasps as the word *Searching...* turns to *Receiving Data,* and then excited yelps as a shaky image forms. I see the tech guys at the front of the room working furiously to clean it up. ‘That’s the view from the Nautilus’s camera,’ Costa exclaims, as the image sharpens. ‘It’s filming the bottom of the borehole, it should leave the ice and descend into the ocean any second now.’ A few moments, a lot of bubbles and the Nautilus Probe is finally submerged. Slowly, it moves through the water, filming everything its searchlight illuminates. The first one is a shadow, a murky shape in the water at the extreme of the camera’s reach. No one dares speak as the Nautilus inches towards the object, but all that changes once its searchlight illuminates her pale, contorted face. A woman’s face. A human woman wearing a flowery summer dress. ‘What the hell?’ one of the VIPs beside Costa cries. ‘Look,’ someone else shouts, ‘there are more.’ And he’s right. The probe’s camera is panning now, and there are others; men, more women, even children. All of them floating lifelessly in an alien ocean 750 million miles away. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke, Costa?’ a musclebound VIP demands. For once, Costa is speechless. None of the scientists know what to do either, most of them are just staring open-mouthed at the screen. ‘Look at that one,’ one of the tech guys shouts. The probe’s camera has taken aim at a man. A man wearing a tunic, cloak and sword belt. If it wasn’t so utterly impossible, I’d say I was looking at a dead Roman soldier. ‘Cut the feed!’ The three military guys are storming towards the middle of the room. ‘Cut the feed now!’ The screen goes black as the trio reaches Costa. ‘I’m General Fraser,’ the oldest of the trio announces, ‘and I’m retroactively declaring everything you all witnessed on that screen as Strictly Confidential.’ ‘But ... the media,’ a shell-shocked Costa manages to whimper, ‘they’re waiting to see what the Nautilus filmed.’ Before he answers, General Fraser nods to one of his subordinates. The younger man heads towards the door. ‘The press will be informed that the mission failed due to technical difficulties,’ Fraser declares to the room at large. Then he says something about risking nationwide hysteria to Costa, shutting him up. As Fraser speaks, I notice his subordinate take up a position by the door. He’s blocking it. Blocking it so we can’t get out and tell anyone what we saw. Before I really know what I’m doing, I stand. ‘People need to be made aware of this discovery, General Fraser,’ I contest, my boss looking horrified below me. ‘Surely you can’t be insinuating that we cover it up?’ ‘Young lady,’ Fraser responds, ‘please return to your seat. This is now a matter of national security.’ ‘What we just saw goes way beyond one nation,’ I say. ‘Everyone on the planet needs to know about this.’ ‘She’s right,’ a VIP I recognise as a TV talk show host says. ‘I started out as a journalist, there’s no way I can sit on something like this.’ ‘May I remind you all,’ General Fraser booms, over the growing murmur of the room, ‘that you all signed a legally-binding agreement. It explicitly prohibits--’ ‘Screw some piece of paper,’ I snap, as I sense the room beginning to side with me, ‘the world needs to know that there are a bunch of dead people floating around in an ocean humans have supposedly never visited before. However this happened, it changes everything.’ ‘The girl’s right,’ the TV host says. ‘I’m calling my old newsroom right now.’ As she pulls her phone from her pocket, General Fraser nods at his other subordinate, the one still standing beside him. In an instant, he unholsters his sidearm and puts a bullet in the TV host’s head. Her body crumples to the floor and the room is stunned into silence. ‘Anybody else keen to speak to the media?’ the general asks.