My hair is done, my make-up is ready, the long satin white dress is on, I’m ready to catch my train. I know it’s weird I insisted on getting to the wedding by myself and by train, but I felt like two hours on my own, with no friends or relatives were exactly what I needed before making this huge step. I’m sure the groom will manage the last preparations just fine without me. The wedding is right next to the station, so at twelve thirty my dad will be picking me up. I must admit I enjoy how people look at me today. Their confused faces turning into bashful smiles when I smile at them are heartening. As my train approaches, I cover my ears. The high-pitched sound of the brakes is hurting them. The door opens and I struggle to get on. The ticket collector jokes: “Does our running bride need help?” “I’m fine thanks, and thank you for the train, otherwise I would not manage to run very far in this dress!” I don’t have the time to explain I’m headed towards the wedding, not running from it, so why not go with it. Now comes the shock, it’s Saturday before noon so the train is full of families going on one-day trips. Why have I pictured the train empty in my mind every single time? So stupid of me. I walk and pass onto the next carriage and then another one. All eyes are on me. Children are pointing their fingers to show their parents there’s a bride on the train. When I’m almost at the end of the train I see an unoccupied seat next to the window in the direction of travel. The perfect spot. I sit down and adjust my dress, so it doesn’t block the aisle. I smile as I slide my hands in my pockets, how many brides have pockets in their wedding dresses? I check I have the ticket in my left pocket, and I take out my phone from the right one. It’s time to let the groom know the train will be departing shortly. Then I switch the phone off, I don’t want to hear anything about the wedding preparations or guests apologizing for not making it. As I glance out on the platform my heart skips a beat. I lean closer to the window to see more of you, but you disappear onto the train. Few second later I see a stunning woman reaching back for your hand as you walk together through the aisle looking for a place to sit. I force myself to look away before I can see your face, but then I hear your voice and my heart stops beating once again. The train starts moving. ... I lock the door like every night when I get back home from a walk with my dog, certain that no one is leaving the flat until another morning walkie. Nevertheless, this time there is no dog in my flat and somebody shall be leaving very soon, but I don’t know that yet. “Want some rum?” I ask you as I enter the kitchen. “Rather not.” “I’ll have some on my own then.” I offer you other kinds of alcohol, but you refuse them all. Although I’m two years older, you are the more reasonable tonight. You only ask for a glass of water, but at the end you get it on your own as you join me in the kitchen. You know where the glasses are, you have been here a few times in the last three years. We move to the living room. I turn on the TV, but I’m soon oblivious to the early morning Judge Judy recap. I take a sip, put my rum down, and sit astride on you. You don’t object, though somewhere deep inside you feel you should. You know I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be with you alone at five o’clock in the morning, on the couch, so close to you. After all I’m dating your best friend. Yet we start kissing again. I feel your big warm hands on my hips. I don’t want them to ever let go. My fingers start exploring your curly dark hair. It’s the perfect length. I can’t focus on anything else than your hair and lips, so I’m shocked when you manage to open my bra so skilfully with just one hand. It seemed like you do it every day, but I know you don’t. You’re only eighteen years old, and you haven’t dated anyone yet. I pull away. “How did you do it?” You just smile and shrug your shoulders. Solid shoulders. Wide and masculine. I want to return to your lips, so I move my sight from your shoulders to your neck and intend to look up, but then I realize you’re wearing a shirt, and I love shirts and buttons. I think you know. With the fourth unbuttoned button we start kissing again. Passionately. I sneak my hand on your abs. Why is your body so flawless? I kiss you on your cheek, on your ear, and soon I’m playing with your earlobe in my mouth. Then I move to your neck. You seem to be really enjoying it, but you no doubt want me to enjoy it, too, because you immediately reciprocate. You kiss my neck as far as the neckline of my light blue dress permits. I change my position and sit next to you on the couch. I get rid of the loose bra through one of the sleeves, while the dress stays on. I lay down resting my legs on your lap. I have a wide smile on my face. ... We’re getting on a bus. It’s the first night bus, so it’s full of people, and we’re forced to stand by the door. When the bus moves off, I reach for the rod and my little finger accidentally touches your thumb, I apologize and move my hand higher, but then you fully cover it with yours. I love the warmness of your touch. My best friend notices and moves a bit to the right, so my boyfriend standing further ahead doesn’t see we’re touching. The whole gang gets off. My boyfriend catches another bus and goes home, and so do the rest of our friends. We don’t live far from each other so we’re heading home, too, until I dare to mention I would like to have another bottle of wine by the river. You’re up for it. We get the biggest cheapest bottle of wine in a Vietnamese shop and head towards the city river. I have my camera and I try to take several pictures of the castle, but they are all blurry. It’s dark and I don’t have a tripod. Also, I might have had too much to drink. You’re curious and want to see how it turned out. You lean closer and I smell your perfume. You try to help me stabilize the camera with your hands. Our heads get close, and suddenly my body is filled with endorphins as we start kissing. You are an incredible kisser. Why haven’t we ever kissed before? Have I been missing this the whole three years? I put away the camera, and we start walking slowly towards my home. Hand in hand. We talk the whole stroll. There are so many questions on my mind, and you answer them all, no matter how stupid or privacy invading they may be. I ask about your previous girlfriends, but there were none. You don’t ask, because you know, and it’s not long you said I do not deserve this guy. I should have listened to you sooner, he’s been your best friend for six years. We get to my flat shortly before five o’clock. Nobody’s home and I invite you in. ... I wake up on the couch around ten o’clock in the morning with my light blue dress still on. You’re gone. My bra is laying on the floor. There’s two glasses on the coffee table. One is empty, the other has some rum in it. I get up. The door is closed but unlocked. I lock the door, I take the glasses into the kitchen sink, I pick up the bra and walk into my room. I change into pyjamas and get into bed. ... After an hour you and your stunning partner get off the train. When you pass by my window you look inside. Our eyes meet. I smile faintly. You look confused. Your girlfriend reaches out for your hand again. She has beautiful long red hair, like I do. I hope she treats you well. I hope you're happy. A little girl finally approaches me after bending her mother’s ear: “Are you a princess?” “No,” I smile widely. “I’m not dear, I’m just a bride.” “And you are running away?” “No. I’m going to the wedding.” "And who will you marry?" "A wonderful man who loves me, makes me smile and treats me like a princess. I hope one day you'll find one, too!"


Delia sat in the front passenger seat of the car, practicing her nonchalant expression. She felt her shoulders creeping up to her ears and her jaw stiffening as her muscles clenched. Her fingers curled into fists. She shook her head, closed her eyes and tried some deep breathing exercises. “In, one, two, three, through the nose, out, one, two, three, through the mouth,” she intoned silently to herself. She was just starting to relax a fraction when the driver’s door slammed. She immediately recoiled into a spring of tension. “Ready, Mom?” said Bethany, happily inserting the key into the ignition. “Whoa,” said Delia. “What do you need to do first? What’s that mirror for?” “I checked my makeup before I left the house,” said Bethany, peering into the rear view mirror. Delia sighed. “You’re kidding, I hope,” she said. “Check to make sure you can see in the rear view mirror and the side mirrors.” “Oh, that,” said Bethany. “Sure.” Delia tried not to shudder. Bethany checked the mirrors and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved. “Why are we not moving?” said Bethany. “Keep your foot on the brake and release the parking brake. Then make sure the car’s in reverse and put your foot on the gas pedal gently,” said Delia through clenched teeth. Bethany peered around until she found the parking brake, put the car in reverse, and put her foot down. The car shot backwards. “Slow down!” shrieked Delia. Her head almost hit the windshield as Bethany stamped on the brake. “Mom, don’t yell at me like that.” Delia gingerly rotated her head and massaged her neck, noticing that Bethany was clutching the wheel in a death grip, looking scared. “Go slow this time, honey. Hands on the wheel at ten and two.” Bethany nodded mutely. The car inched backwards to the end of the driveway. Delia’s voice came out squeaky. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Okay, now look both ways and back out.” Bethany carefully backed out and started to wave to old Mrs. Budd across the road who was taking out her garbage. Her foot was still on the accelerator. There was a bump as she hit the garbage bin at the curb. She stamped on the brake again. Delia groaned as her neck whipped forward. “Don’t take your eyes off the road!” “I was just saying hi to Mrs. Budd.” Mrs. Budd had dropped her bag of trash. Her hands were clamped over her mouth. Delia could not tell if she was scared or trying not to laugh. She fixed her eyes ahead. “Ignore Mrs. Budd. Right now, she does not matter. You can apologize later if we’re alive to do so.” “Mom! You don’t have to talk like that. It’s my first time.” “I know and I don’t want it to be our last,” said Delia. “Now, put it in drive and go forward slowly.” Bethany inched forward, gradually picking up speed. “Slow down gradually when we come to the stop sign,” said Delia. “I don’t think my neck can take much more whiplash. If I’m laid up, you won’t have anyone to go driving with you.” Bethany crept up to the stop sign and started to turn right. “Wait!” said Delia, bracing just in time. “Stop and look both ways.” “There’s nothing coming, Mom,” said Bethany. “Not even a speck on the horizon.” “I don’t care,” said Delia. “We do it by the book, so you get in the habit.” “What, no rolling stops?” Bethany said with a grin. “This is when you do what I say, not what I do. That car in front is slowing down. Pay attention! You’re not in the mall parking lot any more.” They proceeded uneventfully for a few miles. “Mom, you don’t have to keep braking for me,” Bethany said. “Just trying to help,” muttered Delia, planting her feet on the floor. Bethany cautiously turned into her school gates. She pulled up smoothly into the line of vehicles at the entrance and braked. She turned triumphantly to her mother, then gasped as the car lurched forward. The car stopped an inch from the vehicle in front. “Brake and put it in park!” Delia yelped as she yanked on the hand brake. “Put it in park,” she repeated, lowering her voice several octaves. “Good job, honey. You did well for a first time.” Bethany looked shaken, but smiled proudly, waving at some of her friends. She hopped out, giving Delia a little wave as she walked off. “Thanks, Mom. Can’t wait to do it again this afternoon.” She disappeared into the swirling crowd of students. Delia leaned back, closed her eyes and took some deep breaths. She got out of the car. “First time?” said a sympathetic voice. Delia spun around. A middle-aged man who had emerged from the car behind was smiling at her. She grinned back. “How can you tell?” “Oh, the pale face, the fixed smile, the trembling knees.” “You look remarkably calm.” “I’m on child number three. So far all of us are intact. Vehicles okay apart from a ding or two.” Delia shook her head. “I can’t imagine doing this three times. She’s my one and only. They don’t warn you about drivers’ ed when you bring them home from the hospital and I must have missed that chapter in the child rearing manual.” The man laughed. “I know. Now I understand what my parents went through when I started driving. I thought I was hot stuff. Couldn’t understand why they were yelling at me. I had it under control.” “I never felt so powerless in my life,” said Delia. “I don’t want to think what it’ll be like when she gets her license and starts driving on her own.” “One day at a time,” he said sympathetically. “You survived this morning which is a good beginning.” Delia got into the driver’s seat. “I wonder if eagles feel that way when they launch the chicks for the first time,” she said. “It’s not only that I want us both to survive the driving experience. It’s realizing that this is the true beginning of her independence. It’s bittersweet.” “I get it,” he said. “It is hard. But it’s a sign you’ve done your job well. Now go and get a massage to work those kinks out of your neck.” Delia laughed. “Good idea,” she said, waving as she drove off.


Affixing Blame. Dave swings the Ute out in a wide curve onto main road sealed surfaces. First time in a long time, rain tumbled down. His mind full of ribs showing through baby lamb fleece, gasping, and drought affected ewes pushing mewing offspring away. After the latest downpour, he has to head to town, talk to mates, discuss planting crops. Fixated on likelihood the drought has broken, he didn’t see an off-white minivan until he straightened his wheel. Too late to do anything but breathe a word, half obscenity, and half prayer. Oncoming driver, swerves sharply and hits their horn as sound screams in Dave’s head. Passing on his left and veering off, already dirty cream panels skid into roadside dirt. Rain has partially washed road dirt away, but still persistent mud sticks. Bouncing wildly over rough ground. Eventually the van pulls up inches from a fence post in a great cloud of dust. Hovering above as if escaping spirits. A vehicle definitely not made for off-road work. Looks like a box chucked out of roadside mail vans buffeted further by jet-streamed air pulled along by passing road trains. Smells of burnt rubber on bitumen, loose granules settling, familiar as stock moving through dry sale yards. Except minus urine and faeces, telling more about selling precious stock rather than a roadside. Might be able to save some stock, now if the drought has broken. Thank God, no collision. Dave can’t believe he’s still seated, fingers glued to the wheel, not hit. Not dead. As if he needed any proof his number isn’t up yet. Hasn't felt like this since local Demons footie team won its first premiership. Mixed in with walking around showgrounds side-show alley, holding Jessica’s sweaty hand right before he graduated high school. A better time, more plenty, more persistent seasonal rains. Other driver moved but also remained seated. Probably in shock. Or afraid of potential confrontation. Dave’s never had an accident in more than two decades, longer if learning to drive in grey stubble paddocks is counted. Innumerable years driving various farm vehicles. Reassures himself, got good driver status . Didn’t look. Knows he didn’t look. Just pulled out wide, taking up too much road. Knew from glancing dotted white lines. What’s happening to him? Can't keep a focus for longer than it takes his dogs to push stock up into a shearing shed chase. He gets out stiffly and hobbles over toward the van, ticking as it cools. Stumbling more than walking, too slow. Bowels felt ready to dissolve as he walks. Don’t shit yourself too, mate . Shame. Then he realises - no witnesses. His word against this fellow. Good, feels better than a moment ago. Relief rushes like untangled fencing wire. Stranger, behind the other wheel, sees Dave and swings out his legs, but stays seated. Purple trousers already attracting dust. Face white but he manages a grin, of sorts. Brushing clunks of dreadlocks back off his brow. Dave notices three gold rings through one ear. Rainbow scarf tucked behind his dirty T-shirt neckline. Hiss of a CD, more a whirring, is that supposed to be music? ‘Bit close,’ Dave says. ‘Certainly was. You okay?’ ‘Yup. You?’ ‘Fine. Bit shaky from rough landing.’ Not enough to shift this guy’s phone from easy reach on the passenger’s seat. Even if a curtain material, which blocks views inside the van, still flops about. More appropriate to match heavy flock wallpaper in some old English mansion, thinks Dave. ‘You want to check your stock, might be a few boxes behind, fallen.’ Dave points, curious. ‘Catch my breath first.’ Says Jia, thinking of farmers owning guns. Hearing crazy Wolf Creek actor’s laugh. Recalling disappearing tourists. Victims whose only sin they stopped to help strangers on Outback Highways. Disobeyed his own rules, never come this far from coastal safety. Best keep cool. Looks at his steady fingers, not believing his calm. No accusations nor anger. So, Dave decides to seize initiative. ‘You were coming down at a fair clip. Didn’t you see me?’ Jia looks up at Dave, one eyebrow raised, brow crinkled; liar! But says nothing. Safer. Like last night outside a rundown hotel. Tense situation, likely someone might be hurt, if he hadn't decided to slink away, mouth clammed shut. ‘Could cause a nasty accident, driving so fast. Farm vehicles all along this road, you know. Combines, harvesters and tractors.’ Although Dave doubts this guy could tell any differences. ‘Stock and kangaroos too.’ Less now, road edges, long paddock, government land, whatever name you attached to verges just as dried up and unproductive as fenced paddocks. ‘You not from round here.’ ‘No.’ Never expected to crutch ewes, sew a dog’s gashed leg back together, untangle emus from fencing and know chicks were hiding off nearby in scrub shadows. Kick aside drooping tomato bushes, realize a few scrawny hens are going unnourished. Dave sniffs air, wet roads, lizards will soon be active, and smells triumph. They both know what really happened, neither willing to take things further. He can sense this fellow’s resignation. ‘Well take a bit more care when you get back on the road, eh? We’ll say no more about it.’ Jia gives Dave a brief nod. As if he’s going anywhere near police stations to make a report, or risk further van inspections. Police closing swaths of highway, looking for reasons, never quite able to factor in human behavior. ‘You don’t want to be a country road statistic.’ ‘Seen enough of those road safety ads. Due for a break.’ ‘Nearest town, 20 clicks, good coffee at the service station.’ ‘Thanks.’ Dave latches onto notions he’d better get out while going’s good, and sets off down road edges towards his Ute before one last look. ‘You be alright?’ ‘Fine.’ Says Jia ducking back into his van and starting the engine. Ugly dark smoke wafts out of a reluctant exhaust pipe. Won’t be long before bashed-around thing gives up the ghost thinks Dave as this stranger-tormentor pulls back onto roadsides and stops again, this time safely tucked off near a stand of mulga bush. Now Jia’s fingers are shaking as he rolls a smoke. Dave speeds away, wanting as many miles as possible between him and the minivan. Bloody ridiculous he thinks, way some people drive! Shouldn’t be allowed on roads, particularly now they are wet. Shouldn’t be allowed behind a wheel. Might have killed him, driving like that.


The Wedding the Icon and Me Suzanne Marsh There it stood in all its resplendent glory, Saint Nicholas Ukrainian Catholic Church, Buffalo, New York. I had never even heard of a Ukrainian Catholic Church, much less been in one. I was there for the wedding rehearsal. My best friend Judy was getting married. I marveled at the small brick church, and wondered what it looked like inside. I had followed Judy and Joe over there. I was fascinated by the spires of the church they were round. I walked in: it was nothing like any church I had ever set foot in. I was overwhelmed by the simple beauty of the pictures that were painted on the walls. I had no idea they were holy icons until... The priest entered dressed in a long black cassock. His hair was slightly long, his beard black with silver streaks. He began giving instructions to various members of the wedding party. He sent Judy, myself, Peg, Diana, Ulana and Martha, and Kimberly, the flower girl. to the back where the professional would begin. The bridesmaids went first, then I followed, finally Judy and her father. The organist played traditional wedding music. The priest went through the motions of everything that would take place the next day. I could not take my eyes off of the beautiful pictures on the wall. I poked Diana, who had the misfortune to be next to me. I asked about the pictures on the wall. She whispered softly that those were Icons. The priest gave us both a withering glare. Diana smiled and I thought to myself: ‘I sure hope his disposition improves before the wedding tomorrow.’ The priest then proceeded to go on with his instructions. All I wanted to do was go home, take a hot shower and get ready for the next day’s events. It had been a long day. Kimberly was not thrilled with her part in the wedding, she was four at the time. She was to carry an embroidered Ukrainian pillow, with two wreathes on it. When it was time for us to leave the rehearsal, Mike gave me his elbow and we began to walk. Suddenly, the priest’s voice rang out yelling in Ukrainian. Mike and I stopped dead in our tracks. I had no idea what we had done, but I was certain we were about to find out. We had forgotten to kiss the Icon of the virgin and child. Now I was really confused. I a was practicing Catholic, we never did things like that in our church. Mike and I turned around Joe’s sisters were giggling as we began the walk out once more. Once outside, I asked Mike what was with the Icon? He began to explain when Diana, strode over to tell us the priest decided we needed to rehearse the entire wedding over again to be sure there were no hitches tomorrow. The morning of the wedding dawned sunny. I had to have my hair done at the beauty parlor. My mom did Kimberly’s in long curls. I rushed backed, grabbed Kimberly, and the dresses. Judy had made Kimberly’s dress to match mine. They were yellow lace with taffeta and green bows. The night before we had decorated the wedding car with a heart and Judy and Joe’ s initials inside of it, that was after we arrived back at the house. Martha and I had been making Kleenex flowers for almost two weeks but the design was lovely. We were all nervous and giddy. I got Kimberly dressed, then I got myself dressed, no easy accomplishment. Now all we had to do was wait for the professional. Kimberly took one look inside the church, with all people filling it up and began to scream for her grandpa. This did not bode well, so I found dad. He came back to the dressing area, quieted Kimberly down. Judy wanted to be sure she would walk down the aisle. My dad assured her Kimberly would be fine once the actual wedding began. Dad returned to his seat. Finally, the processional music began the strains of the Wedding March. Martha was first, then Peg, Ulana and Diana. I went down the aisle. Kimberly with the pillow balanced rather precariously in her hands began to march down the aisle. Midway down, she saw dad, my stomach lurched as the pillow did. All I saw was dad’s hand pushing the pillow back up into Kimberly’s little hands. Then she started to cry. “Oh Lord I thought, please don’t let her scream.” Judy, looked beautiful on the arm of her father. They walked down the aisle, he lifted her vail and gave her away to Joe. The wedding mass was partly in Ukrainian and English. Toward the end of the actual marriage vows, I handed Judy the wreathes. Kimberly made a beeline for my dad, who once again convinced her she needed to stay in the pew. ‘Would this ever end?’ I asked myself. They exchanged rings. Finally, we all rose as the priest introduced the newly married couple, in both languages. The recessional began, Judy and Joe went first, then Mike and I. Twice that morning Diana and Ulana both reminded me not to forget to kiss the Icon. I was not about to forget that piece of information. However, as a special reminder, as I stood up, Mike with his extend elbow, and in a chorused whisper: “DON’T FORGET TO KISS THE ICON”. Mike did a weird little step and we both turned to kiss the Icon. At that point I wanted to ask him why he almost forgot again since he had been raised in the that church along with Joe. I kept my cool and said nothing. I don’t think I will ever forget the wedding. The uniqueness of the Ukrainian church. I still marvel at the extraordinary beauty of the ceremony and the church itself. Over the years, I have treasured the differences of cultures. I decided before writing this story, I would learn more about the Icons. Icons are identified as a resemblance to Christ, the virgin Mary and the saints. Judy and Joe have been married over forty years. Diana, passed away from cancer. She is sorely missed.


The bastard drunk toppled a stool and cracked-skull on the edge of the faux wood bar. He was bleeding before his knees caught the floor and his free hand slapped the bootfilth and godknows on the checkered tiles before he used it to wipe the wound. He didn’t cry out, just made an *oof* of inconvenience and after a few seconds of consideration, staggered to his feet. He didn’t spill a drop of his beer. He studied his dripping hand for a moment with a comical grimace that said *well this will never do* and he lifted his shirt to soak the blood from his face and hands. The Mexican by the jukebox whistled loudly and yelled some sharp note of Spanish congratulations. I turned back to the TV and sipped my whiskey. The news man was sweating and kept straightening his tie, trying to look dignified and unaffected. Poor bastard didn’t even have a drink. Just a pen he kept shifting between his fingers, rubbing and squeezing it like a stress ball or some fortune-teller’s talisman. Words flashed across the bottom of the screen but I wasn’t reading them. It didn’t matter. *...it is unclear at this time whether the President has arrived or if there will be a press conference or an official address. We do know that the President was en route to an undisclosed military location as of 9:43PM Eastern time...* The bastard drunk slammed his red-stained palm on the bar with a BANG and I think each and every person in that place jumped halfway out of their chairs, myself no exception. The Mexican started to yell something, but all ears fell on the drunk as he raised his glass to the sky and looked around the bar with glassy-eyed self-importance. “This!” His voice half-cracked, half-burped. “*This* is the last *god damn* place on Earth!” Someone yelled for him to shut the fuck up, Danny, you shit. “*This,* man. Here we are and then we aren’t. The last goddamn place.” He tipped his glass a bit as though to cheers us then gulped it down, nodding slightly with satisfaction, acceptance, I don’t know what. Someone muttered *sonofabitch* and we all went back to our business. I looked at the missed calls on my phone, scanning the area codes on unknown numbers, all 972 and 214. Dallas. I didn’t know anyone in Dallas. But there were a whole helluva lot of people in Dallas who knew me. Creditors, banks, hired phone goons. Companies and groups and affiliations, LLCs and organizations. But the phone hadn’t rang in a while. I wasn’t thinking about the money. Every area code on that list was from Dallas. For the last two weeks. She wasn’t going to call. Why would she call? I should have just turned the damn thing off. I killed my whiskey and thought about dying. Not so bad. It would be fast. Probably wouldn’t even notice. He we are and then we aren’t. I wondered if she was safe. Somewhere in one of those underground boxes with the canned beans and water bottles. She probably went to the army camp. Probably went with Jake. Goddamn *Jake.* But he’d keep her safe. That’s the main thing. As long as she’s safe. I thumbed my wedding ring and stopped thinking about dying. The Mexican shoved another dollar in the juke and whistled. I poured another drink. It took the end of the goddamn world to get my hands on a bottle of Special Reserve. Tasted like everything else I’d ever had. The bastard drunk stumbled up next to me, humming. I grabbed a dirty shot glass off the bar, sloshed some in and threw it to Danny the Bastard Drunk Shit. He looked at it the way my neglected, scorned, desperate, cheating wife used to look at close-up card magic. Wonder and skeptical awe. He slammed it and caught my eyes like a concerned doctor about to tell a cancer case he’s gotta stop smoking. He stared for a second, sizing me up. Or maybe just fighting off the nightspins as the Reserve hit the pot and stirred. The blood running down his face was drying brown. “Hey.” Hey, I said. “What...” burp “Just what the fuck are you doin’ here?” It wasn’t a threat. He sounded concerned. The Mexican screamed a battle cry and shot the juke out with his pistol. There was a commotion and I think some older cowboy fellow stabbed him. I don’t really know. The Tejano jangle beat snap crackle popped and was gone. “I mean. Really, man. What the *fuck* are you doing here?” *...we have been told by the government that we are to cease broadcasting immediately. For the sake of integrity we have decided to lock down the station and continue to transmit until... we are no longer able to do so. I will continue to report and stand by the people of this great nation the only way I know how. We will keep you informed and updated as best we can. God bless America. And God keep our love ones safe. Keep us all...* I was thinking about dying, I said. Danny burst out in fits of laughter. “You, man.” He pointed at me, still holding the empty shot glass. “*You!* You’re funny, man.” And he stumbled away. I wondered if she’d make it through this. Really I was wondering if she’d still think about me. How long from now? A year? Ten? Scavenging some blighted shitland that looked more like hell than Cleburne. Would she look for me? Jake wouldn’t let her. Hell, I wouldn’t want her to. Someone was dragging the Mexican out of the bar. I’d never seen someone die before. It felt like nothing. I poured more Reserve in my glass and looked up at the TV. Below the sweating, straining news anchor was an animated countdown clock. It said ten minutes and change. Last call. Part of me wanted to run and head for the army camp. Try to wait this out. Maybe I’d get to see her. Jake would stand between us, but she’d be cordial. Under the circumstances she might even give me a somber hug. Some kind of mutual pity and recognition of the Big Shit that made our problems seem years past and half-forgiven. Let bygones be bygones and let the bombs fall where they may. I looked over my shoulder at the last goddamn place on Earth. Twenty some-odd heathens swilling and swaying, counting down the minutes til they meet their maker, the Universe, the Big Shit. Waiting for their chance to say *Sorry.* I’m sorry for everything. I’m so damn sorry, Janie. The last drop of Special Reserve poured into my glass. The drunk was passed out on the pool table, still holding the empty shot. The old cowboy fellow was praying. Some were crying, some were repenting, some were toasting, laughing, shrugging, dialing, dancing, hugging, screaming and all of us were waiting. The news man straightened his tie and put down the fortune-teller’s talis-pen. There were no more words flashing across the bottom of the screen. There wasn’t going to be any Presidential address. Janie was safe with Jake. I finished my whiskey and savored the burn. The Mexican watched the stars outside, unseeing. The old woman in the corner rose to her feet. The last goddamn place on Earth broke into a harmonious, miserable, broken, joyful, perfect countdown. Ten nine eight seven six She’ll think of me. Bad or good, in passing, in pity, in regret, in love, but Five four three two She’ll think of me. Here we are And then we weren’t. EDIT: Formatting.


Perched on the sofa in his darkly lit apartment, Joseph took a swig of his cold beer. Observing her dance today had opened his eyes once again, peering back into the several memories of just him and her. He hated it. Despised that it was a part of his past, a piece of him he would never get back. She was incessantly burned into his brain. Her doe brown eyes shone with excitement and she twirled around in the studio, her dress trailing behind her. Tendrils of her lush hair framed her face, and Joseph’s thoughts wandered away. A beautiful smile graced her face. She was bent gracefully into her plié, jumping onto her toes. As she twirled, her eyes caught Joseph’s, and her brows settled into a gentle frown. Their eyes were set on one another as she tilted into an arabesque, sweat forming on her forehead. She seemed close to losing control, her legs shaking as she jumped into a rélévé. Strangely, that made Joesph break into a smile. He still had an effect on her. Glancing away, she continued. Joseph’s heart was in his throat as he looked down, his smile evaporating. He couldn’t gaze at her any longer. How could he, when she pretended like he didn’t exist? Yet, he looked. And she had gone off again, running into a pirouette, her back arching. Joseph could hear the intake of breath from the dancers around him as she sprang into a jété. His heart hammered as he watched on. She was radiant; a light in his life and the flame that made him brought him back to life. Which had now been extinguished. She leapt and landed in another plié, ending her routine. Applause rang through the air as she bowed, the top of her head nearly touching the floor. Joseph glanced at Madame Bangère, an unusual smile forming on her face. Cordelia rose from her stance. And Joseph, unable to regard any longer, strode to the nearest exit and left. He could feel Cordelia’s eyes burn into the back of his skull, yet he couldn’t get himself to turn around. Rushing out of the building, he fisted his hands into his trousers. The facade of cool indifference and arrogance had long dissipated from his face, abandoning him to his thoughts. He had to get away. Staying anywhere closer to her would resurrect all those memories he spent months trying to push down. Push until they wouldn’t agonise him anymore. He couldn’t bear the heartache. So he left, rushing to the nearest bar. Pacing into Joe’s Gift, he perched on the seat at the counter, head in his hands. All the memories were rushing back, and he had no clue how he would stop it. Ordering a drink, he gazed at the room, staring at the people. How were they able to let go of their lives so easily, not caring about the world as they drank themselves to sleep? Rolling his eyes, he banged his head across the surface, unaware of the curious looks towards him. With shaky hands, he accepted his drink. He didn’t want to look at the bartender. Didn’t want to wither under her pitiful gaze. So he downed his drink in long gulps, hoping to eradicate himself from all thoughts. Cordelia. Cordelia. The memory of her encompassed him entirely. He knew he would never forget her face. And how could he, when they used to mean so much to each other? Running his fingers through his hair, he asked for another drink. Beside him, a woman abruptly coughed. He twisted his head, only to meet coffee brown eyes. They were lined with black, just how Cordelia did hers when she would prepare for a dance. She adorned herself with gold jewellery and a beautiful silk dress that hugged her body. She was beautiful, Joseph realised, but she was dull compared to Cordelia. Even so, they significantly resembled each other. The woman smiled and, unsure, Joseph smiled back. She raised her eyebrow and asked, “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Lost for words, Joseph kept quiet. Carefully, she scooted closer to him. Her eyes sparkled. Yet the uncanny similarity to Cordelia’s caused Joesph’s heart rate to increase. How long had it been since he had talked to another woman? Pretending as if he and Cordelia were only enemies had made Joseph weary, and he had lost all interest in anything other than dancing and keeping up the façade. He’d no longer wanted her; their relationship pushed him to his boundaries. Maybe he was unfair, or perhaps too insensitive. Yet the definition of their love was somehow lost in their desire to keep everything a secret. He didn’t think he would ever forget the cruel words they had aimed at each other. They scarred him like any other wound, pushing further, deeper into his skin. He had lost her; lost one of the most important people in his life because he couldn’t handle his emotions. It angered him. It angered him more than he cared to admit. He was pulled out of his reverie when the woman snapped her fingers, her gentle smile replaced with a scowl. Running his fingers through his hair, he grabbed his drink, pushing himself away from her. He realised he couldn’t do this. He couldn’t betray Cordelia like this. He wouldn’t. Even if he could never have her again, it wasn’t fair to use his love and hatred for her as a motive to like someone else. He couldn’t do it when she was all he could think about. Because, after all this time, she still meant more to him than he cared to admit. Betraying her was the last thing he could do. He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t ruin any chance he had of making her smile again. His eyes burned, tears falling down his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he inhaled slowly. Cordelia would never exit his mind, and Joesph had to accept that. He had to accept everything that was coming to him. Because he knew he deserved it. Shaking his head, he chugged his last drink and left the bar.


“All flights have been delayed,” the monotone announcer repeated over the loudspeaker on New Year’s Eve. Gregory Mason sat on the rigid plastic chairs with his feet propped up on his backpack, “I’m not about to lay on the filthy carpet like the other waiting passengers. I’ll just sit here,” he thought. Greg waited. And waited. An eternity seemed to pass by as he waited alone in the crowded terminal. The snow that began as soft flurries an hour ago now fell down out of a black sky and showed little or no signs of stopping. Tired of staring out the window at the jet-less gate, Greg closed his eyes. To rest them. To escape from the crowded terminal and to find some peace. To be free from the crying children and the chaotic chorus of complaining wanna-be passengers and feel alone for a few moments. But his closed eye didn’t block out the Christmas music that played over the loudspeaker system broken up only by a new announcement of another flight delay. Greg thought, “Hey, this must be the third time I heard Bing Crosby sing, ‘I’ll Be Home From Christmas.’ I didn’t make it home for Christmas. And now it looks like I’m not going to make it home for New Years either.” Since their original flight had been cancelled Greg was issued paper tickets. He folded his in half, stuffed it in his shirt pocket and tapped it for good luck. Opening his eyes, he pulled the ticket out. He examined it as if it would change the situation. Perhaps looking at the ticket, and reading the flight number and departure time would magically cancel the delay and allow him to fly home. It was like holding a lottery ticket in your hand when the man on the TV reads the numbers on the ping pong balls as they drop down the chute into position. You watch the TV and you read your numbers. The man on the TV announces the numbers out loud, in case you missed it, and you wish that you had those numbers on your ticket. With his airline ticket in hand the toneless voice announced, “Flight 007 to Decatur has been delayed for an hour.” Terrific that’s my flight. Another hour. At this rate I won’t be home until next year! Greg stuffed his ticket back in his shirt pocket and stared off with narrow, silent eyes through the window where the jet was supposed to be parked ready to take him home. A new chorus of moans erupted from the waiting room. A cold breeze filled the room. That’s when Greg noticed her. She walked in front of him. She grabbed the empty seat next Greg, threw her carry on bag on the floor, and parked her feet on top of it. She turned toward Greg and smiled. Greg smiled back. “She looks familiar,” he thought. He felt the room get a little colder. “Terrific,” he thought, “they cut the heat down, we’ll freeze to death before we got out of here.” Turning to her, “Don’t you just love it?” Greg said with a hint of sarcasm. “Excuse me? What did you say?” “The weather”, Greg stammered as he played with armrest, “and now if feels even colder in here - don’t you just love it?” She answered him, “I’ve been freezing for hours. I can’t seem to get warm.” Dressed in a wool crewneck sweater, she clutched a knitted scarf around her shoulders. She shivered. Greg looked at her. There was something about that gesture that was familiar. Tilting his head, he thought, “I must have seen her somewhere before. But I just can’t place it.” The airport voice announced once again, “Flight 007 to Decatur has been delayed for an hour.” Greg noticed her wince when the announcement came across. In her hands was a piece of paper, a ticket that resembled the one he had stuffed in his shirt pocket just a few moments earlier. “Are you flying to Decatur?” Greg asked. I am.” She answered, “Yes, trying to get home.” “Me too. I grew up there. What about you?” She smiled, “I live in northern California now. But I grew up about 2 hours south of Decatur.” “I guess I didn’t know her from high school,” he thought. Like a police detective questioning a suspect he bravely pushed on. He padded the armrest separating the two seats, “Where did you go to college? I went to Penn State for agriculture.” “Did you play football there?” He sat up straight and smiled. His voice grew deeper, “Well, I did play on the practice squad. What about you?” “Nope, I didn’t play football,” she laughed. “I went to the University of Illinois. Computer Science Major.” “What do you do with a computer science degree?” he asked. “Get a PhD.” Feeling a little intimidated, “Oh, from Illinois?” “No, Stanford.” He turned his gaze back out the window confused as to why she looked so familiar as he watched the snow cover the tarmac. He smiled as he thought, “Well I guess I didn’t know her from college.” The airport voice announced, “Attention, Attention. Flight 007 to Decatur has been delayed for an hour. When we have more information we will make another announcement.” People paced back and forth down the isles between the rows of seats trying to burn off nervous energy. Amid the large crowd Greg felt invisible. Scattered around the terminals waiting area, positioned above their heads and suspended from the ceiling, were television sets. Each TV was tuned to the weather channel. Some would be passengers stood with arms crossed staring at the screen. The weather girl, dressed in a slim red dress smiled as she highlighted the terrible storm. “Winter storm Lucian,” she said, “will spread snow from the Cascades of Oregon and Washington into the central Rockies through New Year's Day. Salt Lake City could pick up an additional 4 to 8 inches of new snow by this evening. This will impact travel on interstates 15, 80 and 84 in northern Utah. Flights across . . .” Tuning out the weather forecast she asked Greg, “So, how long have you been waiting here?” “I’m not sure any more. It feels like an eternity.” She shook from the cold. “I just can’t seem to get warm.” The weather girl vanished from the screen and a new reporter appeared. He stood in a snow field the color of chrome. Dressed like a Muscovite, he announced, “A few moments ago, Flight 007 from Salt Lake City to Decatur crashed on its final approach.” While he talked, the camera shifted past him to the burning wreckage in the field of snow. Flames broke the night sky. The camera focused back on the news reporter with the burning jetliner aflame in the background. “I have a statement from the State Police. They are reporting that there are no apparent survivors.” People poured around the TV sets looking and listening for details. Those in the waiting room heard the announcement and rushed to find a TV. The moans of tired, frustrated travelers turned to moans of grief for those on the jet and relief that they were not on that jet. The soft moans gave way to a solemn quiet as they listened for more details. Crying replaced the quiet. Strangers hugged one another in sorrow and in solidarity. Greg looked over at her in her seat and she was gone. Vanished. Her empty spot next to him was all that remained. Then he felt the cold. An extreme cold like he never felt before. And he found himself in the field of snow and blood and fuel and flame and destroyed jet wreckage still strapped to the seat next to her holding hands.


Let me introduce myself. Zing! I am Special Agent Rex Roget. Bazing! I am in the middle of a shootout with enemy agents. Baringa! This is my fifty-ninth case in which I somehow manage to solve the problem without getting my head blown off. Crrumpa! I do not know what they were thinking when they invented that last onomatopoeia. Chabunka! Or that one. Anyway, my name is famous and often mispronounced which really makes me angry. Roget, like the Thesaurus which makes my name easy to pronounce. Right? Argh, if only it was that simple. Excuse me. “You over there, come out with your hands up.” I yell at some shady guys by the dumpster. “Boss, I’ll cover you.” Officer Yamashima tells me with her gun drawn. “Very good.” I run and squat behind a car. I hear the zing of bullets overhead. I pull out my Glock and fire off a few rounds just to let them know I mean business. “I’m hit!” One of the bad guys shouts. “That’s it. We give.” Shouts the second bad guy. When I look over the hood of the car I was hiding behind, I see one bad guy on the ground and the other with his hands held high in the air. Officer Yamashima is racing toward them wrapping up yet another Roget case. Just when it looked as though the planet was in peril, I was able to bring justice to the unjust, right to those who were in the wrong and a happy ending as I have in my other fifty-eight cases. When the bad guys come around, I will stop them cold in their tracks. I am dependable that way. I love being a private eye. “Another Agent Roget thriller is done.” I gloat sitting at my laptop. I have written over fifty pulp fiction stories about this agent. Hollywood has done three movies starring Robert Downy Jr., but during contract negotiations with his agent, he decided he was done with Agent Roget. I can’t say I blame him, because I have run out of fresh ideas for him. To be honest, I haven’t had a fresh idea since book number forty. Who am I kidding, I haven’t had any fresh ideas since episode number twenty. What you will be reading is a rehash of several of my previous books. I do not know how Stephen King does it to tell you the truth. “Percy, I have your lunch.” Mrs. Gibson begins her walk up to my office on the second floor of my famous log cabin in the middle of the Minnesota woods near one of their ten thousand lakes. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibson, just set it on the table over there.” I point. “Yes Percy.” She does as I have requested, “I hope you don’t mind, but the weather is looking a bit rough out there. I was wondering if you’d mind if I left a little early.” “Nope, we are all caught up.” I nod. “Bless ya sir.” She smiles as she puts on her overcoat that was hanging on the hook on the wall. “It does look like quite a storm is coming in from the north.” I peer out the window and see the black clouds rumbling across the sky. January is usually a heavy month for snow up here. “If ya need something, please call now.” She shakes a finger at me like my mother did many years ago. “I should be fine, Emma.” I pat her on the arm of her coat as she slips into her boots. There is about a foot of snow already on the ground with the promise of another foot on the way and since my cabin is isolated, it is a good idea that Emma Gibson leaves early today. I will most likely sit in my easy chair in front of the fireplace and read some Walt Whitman before I drift off into a much-needed nap. From my office, I watch Emma pull out of my unshoveled driveway before turning onto the gravel road, now covered with snow and disappearing into the thick spruce woods. Alone at last. I am not hungry, so I leave the tray that she had set on my table. I pick up the tray and deposit it in the kitchen after descending the steep stairs. My cabin is already cozy from the blazing fire she had started when she first arrived over two hours ago. I kicked my shoes off and leaned back in my La-Z-Boy and took my cell phone out of my pocket where I had my eBook of Whitman poetry. First, I checked my texts and saw that Astor had left a text. Opening the text he has left two words, “CALL ME.” All caps. I know that he has some bad news, but if I don’t call him, he will call me and screw up my day. “Hey Astor, got your text.” I say before he can say “Hello” The snow is beginning to fall with big fluffy flakes. “Hey Percy, I just wanted to let you know that Bridgeport Publishing is not going to publish your next book or number fifty-nine as you call it.” He sounds agitated. “Why not?” I shrug knowing he won’t see my lackadaisical gesture. “They are tired of Rex Roget. They claim the last two episodes did not sell.” “What are they suggesting?” I ask, checking my cubicles as I try not to yawn too loudly. “They want him to be a spy.” He reports. “Are you crazy?” I feel that the question really answers itself. “Rex has always been a keen private eye.” “We both know that, but Anton King, the publisher, happens to crave spy novels like Fleming and le Carre.” His voice has reached it’s highest pitch. “How ‘bout it?” “I don’t know if I want to cater to the whims of publishers.” “Just this once for me, Astor.” He is pleading which warms me a bit. “We have a chance to get Ben Affleck to play Rex. Whadda say?” “Affleck? He’s as flat as a board.” I huff. “C’mon.” “Alright I will do my best.” I shake my head. “You are the best writer-” “Aw cut it, Astor. I will give it a shot.” I grimace just before I press the red button. Putting down my cell phone where I have my Whitman, I march upstairs to my office and open my laptop. It won’t take much to change a few details changing Rex from a private eye as he has been for over fifty-eight books and into a spy like James Bond. I must admit the genre is a bit convoluted, but I will add my name to the list of authors of spy novels. I open the manuscript and begin to type: “Rex Roget was sitting at a cafe in Vienna when two enemy agents...” I smiled as my fingers flew across the keyboard changing the private eye to a lethal spy. Snow is falling harder now as it does during this time of year. Silently the snow falls on the spruce trees that surround my isolate cabin Rex is making his way through Vienna when I hear a knock at the front door. “Who the hell could that be?” I grumble as I walk down the steps to answer the door. “Probably some moron who got lost in this snowstorm and...” I open the door and standing on my porch is a man dressed in a suit and tie. Though he is dressed in formal attire as the snow continues to land on him, he is a complete stranger to me. “What’s the big idea?” He asks in a hostile tone. “And who are you?” I ask, squinting at him as the cold air rushes into my small cabin. “You know who I am.” He raises an eyebrow as if I am a villain. “I most certainly do not.” I shake my head. “You created me.” He pushes by me and walks into the cabin. “I created you?” It is a question. “Yes and until now, I have been quite content being who you made me to be.” He cocks his head. “Why are you here? Did you forget to take your medications?” “Very funny, Percy McIntyre.” He coughed to clear his throat. “I will call someone if I need to.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “My card.” He presented me with a small business card. I read it half amused until it hit me. The card said, “Rex Roget, Private Eye.” There was a phone number in small print. “Is this some kind of joke?” I asked, tossing the card into the fire. “Apparently it is.” He said in an accusatory voice, “I am no longer a private eye? I am now a spy.” “You are Rex Roget?” I swallowed hard. “In the flesh.” He held his chin up, “And you sir have betrayed me. You have turned me into a spy. I have never intended to be a spy. A spy is one who stays in the shadows, hidden, like a coward of which I have never been, I assure you, Percy McIntyre.” I was flabbergasted by this unexpected encounter with the main protagonist for fifty-eight of my pulp fiction books of which three had become box office hits in the movie theaters. How could he just walk off the pages and walk into my cabin in the middle of a snowstorm in upper Minnesota? “Why have you changed my occupation to spy?” He sat in my La-Z-Boy and folded his hands under his chin. His face was strikingly handsome just like I had written him. He was dapper like Bond, but from his attitude did not wish to be employed as a spy in his country’s service. With my chair occupied, I was forced to sit on the stool near the fire I used to stoke the flames. “It’s a simple thing, you see-” “It was the money, wasn’t it? It’s always the money.” He brooded. “You don’t understand-” “Oh but I do, my good man.” He continued to glare at me, “You created me the way I wanted to be and then you changed me without notifying me first.” He was doing his best to shame me. “It was nothing personal-” “You must realize that everytime you open that laptop of yours, whatever you put down affects me directly.” He inhaled deeply, “This is what fictional characters go through without the author realizing what they are doing. For over thirty years, I have faithfully done your bidding. I have found myself in some pretty tight spots you understand.” “And haven’t I always gotten you out of your predicament?” I shrugged. “Using Machina de Deux? A poor man’s device if ever there was one.” He huffed. “What happened to you?” “What do you mean?” I scowled. “What I mean is that thirty years ago you were the young up-and-coming writer.” He looked at me with an expression of pity, “What happened to you, Percy McIntyre? Where did you stray from that dream?” “I have been published almost as much as Stephen King.” I held up my finger to make a point. “And he has had a roomful of best sellers.” He stroked his chin, “You?” “Three movies.” I held up three fingers to emphasize my point. “Starring Robert Downy Jr.” He scowled, “I bear no resemblance to him. You wrote me that way.” It was true, the character of Rex Roget was a much larger, more substantial figure, but Downy played him like a less robust character. “I did not complain when he was cast as me, but now this abomination. I cannot stay silent any longer.” Once again, he crossed his arms across his chest, “I will not be a spy.” “You can be a great spy.” I insisted. “Baahh, rubbish.” He grimaced, “What will you have me do?” “I will have you save the world from the bad guys.” I answered. For a moment he seemed to be appeased by the idea. “It does sound appealing, but I have spent thirty years being the hero of the downtrodden.” He shook his head, “The rewards warmed my heart. I could see where I made a difference to someone who had lost hope.” “What about saving the world?” “What about it?” He sat back in my chair. “How would it feel to save humanity?” “I dunno.” He shrugged, “When I find a lost soul, I can see by the expression on the face of the person I have saved, what my effort has yielded. Why after all that, do you wish to change me?” “Alright, I’ll be frank with you.” I took a deep breath, “My agent called me and said the publisher said I lack fresh new ideas.” “What does that mean?” He asked, leaning forward in my chair. “It means readers are finding you...boring.” I sighed. “And whose fault is that?” He asked, peering at me with one accusatory eyebrow raised. “Mine, I guess.” I sighed again. Was Rex correct in blaming me for the recent failures. My books did not sell like they used to. When I was young and full of energy, I was famous. For a short time, I was on the A-List and seated with honor in places I frequented, but then at some point, my fortunes began to sag. It was right around the time my wife Lois passed away from cancer. That was it. Her passing drew out my creative soul. She was my creative soul who was now ten years gone. I began to struggle to write a decent novel. Sometimes, I would see her spirit walking through my cabin. She had a sorrowful expression on her face as she faded away. I would call out to her, but by then it was too late. “I’m glad we had this talk.” He smiled, “I knew you were a talented writer, but you needed someone to remind you of that. Do not make me something I was not supposed to be. You tell your agent that Rex Roget is still on top of his game.” “I will.” I promised as he came to his feet. He was dashing and filled with good intention as he made his way to the front door. “How about Hugh Jackman?” He winked as he put his hand on the doorknob. “I beg your pardon.” I shook my head. “I think Hugh Jackman would make a wonderful Rex Roget.” He opened the door. “Wolverine?” “Whatever he is, but I must be going.” He tweaked my nose before turning and vanishing into the falling snow. I watched the sky darken as the snow continued to fall. In the morning the land would be reinvented into a crystal white landscape, but for now I would have one last glimpse of what was to be. After the first movie, I had enough capital to buy this cabin, because I was overwhelmed by the natural beauty of this place. I was never disappointed. I would go back to my laptop and write as I had thirty years ago when I first started. “That’s the spirit, Percy.” Lois would kiss me on the cheek as I ascended to my office.


Got time to chat, Caro? Jen... well... not really ... mmm ... what's up? They're at it again! What now? Caro! Complaining that they don't know what's happening. Complaining that you chose favourites. Complaining. Complaining. Complaining. Yup... Don't you find this depressing? Nothing is ever good enough for them. That's one of the reasons I chose you to be on this committee, to be receiving this training, so that YOU, as a peer, could facilitate some of these growing pains. So, you're dumping this on me? No, Jen, I'd suggest you bring Rachel into your confidence, she's your go-to person. Now, not to be rude, but, I have tonnes to do before I head outside for recess supervision. Bye. *** Oh my God, do I have to do everything? Such a ship of asses. You complain that you don't know what's happening, so I'll share every god-damn bit of information. There! *** Hey Jen, what'd you think of this? Mmm...hmmm. Sure, whatever I'm so pissed I'd like to stick a spiked d---- up their asses. Huh. Caro?! *** Hi there, Caro, I'd suggest you keep your sexual fantasies between you and your hubby. Oh, haha, Jen must have been chatting with you. Thanks so much for helping smooth over this latest brouhaha. *** Hi Hannah, you okay? Isn't that rich! I know all about the d---- comment. Get out of my face! Christ! Jen must have spilled the beans about my comment. Shit-shit-shit! I'm so done! *** Hey there, Jen, I need to talk with you, in PRIVATE. Okay. In PRIVATE! Caro, I want her here as support. Are you okay? No, not really. I'm figuring out that you got some support from the staff. Is that helping you feel a bit better? Hmm ... your words hurt. Gosh, Jen, that was never my intention to hurt you. Well, let's just say it hit a nerve. I did come this morning to talk with you about problems with my husband and you just pushed me out the door. What do you mean -- when you came this morning about staff complaints? I didn't know. Usually, you're there for me... So not today, and I'm sorry. I accept your apology. *** Hi Laney, I have something to tell you. I privately said something, in confidence to Jen, which she has shared with the whole staff and their union. It'd be great if you could come here before the end of the day so we can meet with Jen to move forward. Caro, certainly, I'll be there in about an hour. Take care. *** Jen, I've spoken with Lainey and she's coming to meet with us before the end of the day. I've rearranged your timetable so that you are free from the class and supervision. Caro, I appreciate this. *** Welcome, everyone. Caro called me inviting me here, this afternoon, to figure out what our next steps will be. I want to take full responsibility for my words, which caused Jen to feel uncomfortable. Although I did not intend for Jen to respond this way, I apologize yet again. Caro, it's water under the bridge. Jen, how wonderful of you. So, looking forward, with this initiative, let's pool our brains and figure out a path to success. Lainey, as you know, they do complain about almost everything and this isn't any different. It seems that Caro brings out this response in them. I've shared this with you many times before today. Hmmm... yes... So, Lainey, I'm thinking, after a chit-chat with Rachel, that she and I take more of the lead with the communications. Perhaps, the same information coming from us will be better received by them. Wow! Jen, great thinking. I can certainly see why you chose Jen and Rachel, Caro. Good choice. Jen, the bell will soon be ringing and unless you want to be ambushed with questions about why you look so sad with such reddened eyes, how about we get you to a private space, away from prying eyes? Caro, as usual, you do take such good care of us. F--- off! *** Ah, Caro, sit yourself down, it's just us. So ... quite the day! I need to know exactly, word-for-word, what you said to Jen, in what you thought was private, Uhhh ... I'm mortified ... she's always, over the years, been a trusted confidante ... well, in the public use kitchen, just she and I ... I really don't actually recollect saying these words, but I now remember: 'I'd like to stick a spiked d---- in their asses.' Mmm. Am I going to lose my job? Get fired? Ah, Caro. I doubt that. You must have been feeling very stressed ... I ... I ... can't do this any longer ... nothing ... nuh ... nuh ... nothing is ever okay, good enough, they fight me constantly. I give up. I surrender. Now, now, Caro. I need you to look after yourself. That is what is most important at this time. Well, Lainey, I do have a doctor's appointment for tomorrow morning. I've made all the of the arrangements, a lead teacher, my day plans for teaching, the day organized and covered for my admin duties. All covered, all ... I'm a bit worried about you, right now. I'll tell the Admin Team that too. I am on your side. Mmmm ... uh .. ah ... yup ... Give me a call tomorrow after your appointment. Okay? Yup. *** Welcome to this information-gathering meeting. I am Superintendent Bren, the chair for today. Hi Samid, nice to see you here for Caro. At the end of the table, hello to Superintendent Lainey. Finally, sitting beside me, from human resources is Karmen. So our goal today is to gather all of the necessary information to move forward with positivity and achievement. Caro, I understand, from a confab with Samid, that you have a few notes to share with our committee. The floor, so to speak, is yours. Ooooh, mmmm ... I would like to start with a public recognition that the words I chose to say, in supposed confidence, to a staff member, Jen, were utterly and completely unacceptable and not consistent with my professional record. Over the past seven years, as Lainey can attest, and as she has supported, and before her, Dane, the staff, led by one particular person, have consistently, persistently, unceasingly opposed, reported, blocked, ... uh ... me ... my initiative ... again, again, again. Mmmm ... huhuhuh .... Ohhh ... Caro, that, is, let me be blunt, the new realities of ADMIN. It seems you are unable, not able, incapable ... Pardon me! I am not some newbie. I have been in this role for decades, at several, sites, yet now, in this one particular poisoned workplace ... As I said, before, I WAS INTERRUPTED ... this, Caro, is the reality, albeit changed from when you first started in this role, this is NOW! *** Good morning, Caro, Lainey, Karmen, and via the speaker, Samid. The Exec Council has met and decided on the follow-up to the APS incident involving Caro and Jen et al. I will turn over the meeting to Lainey, like Caro's immediate supervisor. Mmmm ... ah ... Caro ... I invite you to read along as I read aloud the letter to be included in your professional file ... ... Two days without pay ... wow ... I've read in the Blue Pages worse things and they didn't ... So, that is what brings me here, today, to start counselling with you. It's a shit-storm!


"So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be." The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. Oh the horror! To use an opening line belonging to someone else. I should be ashamed. I learned that opening one's essay with a quote or definition weakens the writing. I was sixteen and taking a pretest of the Advanced Placement English exam for high schoolers looking to gain college credit by scoring a 3 or above. I don't remember what the quote that I used to open my essay was, but my junior year English teacher handed me back my essay pocked with red marks. "Never," underlined three times the red pen wrote, "open an essay with a quote or definition." I was never told why, maybe it makes you look bad because you didn't come up with the quote yourself. Maybe I was stupid enough not to be the first one to think of what I was quoting, but I was smart enough to use it. When the time came to take the actual placement test, I found the opportunity to open my essay with a quote. And I used it. And I was in the top 5 percentile of students who received a score of 3 on all advanced placement tests I took. Two English credits and one History. My main point is that right now I can totally relate to my opening quote and I don't give a shit about conventional rules. I read Chbosky's The Perks of Being a Wallflower for fun when I was a junior in high school. I drank every weekend and occasionally snuck a few shots in between classes during the week via a plastic water bottle. I vaguely remember passing out mid-lecture in Algebra II class. I clearly remember getting all A's in that class. I was captain of my soccer team. I was in a tight race for third place in my class. I got made fun of for being a teacher's pet. But you wouldn't catch me sober at a football game under the lights. I try to tell myself that I don't know how I managed it all, and as much as I hate to sound like a complete arrogant piece of shit, I know I managed it all because I was smart. I knew that if I pulled off good grades it didn't matter what else I did. Or so I told myself. As I was making horrible decisions with a clear water bottle in the side pocket of my backpack, I was being praised by my history teacher for writing an essay that "read like a Cold War novel!" Academically I was on top of the world, and personally I was itching to watch it burn. I did manage to possess third place in my graduating class and enrolled as an English major at the University of Maine at Orono. Again, I drank every weekend and Thursday nights, but I almost always ended up hungover the next day. This sometimes resulted in skipping classes or not completing my assignments on time, but I still managed to make Dean's List every semester. I never partied, instead, choosing to drink by myself in my dorm room or with my boyfriend from back home when we stole vodka from my parents. I never counted how many shots I took and always took it straight with a chaser. By the time I graduated with a 3.8 GPA I had many prospects for jobs but had a hint of yellow tinge in my eyes. I remember always wearing glasses instead of contacts to try to distract others from looking directly in my eyes. It was as if the teal framed glasses held a wall and the truth that prevented others from seeing my disease. If I hadn't quit my first job out of college from the complete misery it brought, I was about to get fired for constantly calling out. But I wasn't hungover; I would wake up after 8 hours of sleep and was beginning to withdraw. It would take two hours and multiples shots to finally settle my stomach and put to bed the awful pins and needles feeling that plagued my arms and legs. I'll always remember the first time I heard the saying "hair of the dog." I was fourteen when I hungover for the first time ever. The night before I had drunk with my brother and his girlfriend at the time. It was the second time alcohol touched my lips: raspberry flavored vodka held in my brother’s cheap shot glass that read Bar Harbor ME. When I told them I was hungover his girlfriend laughed harshly and said, "Hair of the dog!" Then she handed me another shot and cheers'ed me. I'll forever be haunted by the way her eyes turned dark and her mouth upturned into a snarl as she said it. It wasn't long before "hair of the dog" stopped becoming a quick remedy until I could sleep it off, and instead turned into my always consuming alcohol. I legit would not stop. I could not stop. Near the end, it got so bad that if I slept more than six hours at night I would wake up violently ill with the withdrawals. I didn't know then that alcohol and benzos are the only two drugs that the withdrawals alone can kill you. And they did kill me, twice. I suffered two seizures when I tried to quit cold turkey and lost consciousness both times. One time I was walking my dog in the winter and my fiancé at the time came home from work asking me why I was covered in mud. I had flatlined in a ditch off the side of my road. I don’t remember walking home or why my dog didn’t run away. No one helped me. I like to think it’s because no one saw. Alcohol continued to be my constant companion; it consumed my life. I was in and out of hospitals with acute pancreatitis and fatty liver, I almost lost two other jobs because of it, and my marriage was ruined within a year. The only thing I could claim as an accomplishment was the fact I had never been arrested for it. But I didn't stop. I went to a detox center four times. The first time I was able to stay sober for a month, but all the other times I would be discharged, find a hidden bottle somewhere (I hid tons under my bed, in my backpack, the place in my car where the spare tire is stored), tell myself I would just finish the bottle to get rid of it then be done. Before that bottle was even gone, I found myself buying another one. I was in it bad. At first, despite all the destruction the alcohol did, I didn't care. Whether it was denial or true arrogance I'll never know, but I told myself I'd be some kind of badass like Hemingway or Joplin if I died because of the disease. That's right, I might have died young but at least I lived. As if managing to literally drink and drive and lie to my coworkers about smelling like alcohol at work was that noteworthy. The last year of it all, however, I started caring. I was in constant pain even when I wasn't in the hospital. I was always exhausted. I was extremely unhappy. But I couldn't imagine having a life without alcohol. In the early spring of 2020, right before Covid-19 fully exploded and shocked the United States, I was told I had a huge cyst in my pancreas. The alcohol was literally eating away at it. I still shudder when I recall the terrifying back pain and how I tried to deal with it like a normal everyday occurrence. I managed to last three months until I checked myself into a hospital on June 3rd, 2020. I have told this story thousands of times and it never gets easier. It never will. On June 9th when the surgeon went to take out the cyst, they accidentally cut a major artery. I coded twice on the table and remember waking up from it in the middle of everything. My stay at the hospital extended six weeks and was riddled with frantic movings to the ICU, having a breathing, feeding, and draining tubes, and relearning how to walk. I was told that I would never be able to drink again. It really would be the death of me. Now, on December 3rd, 2020 I am six months sober. Four and a half months sober on my own. As the cliche goes, some days are better than others, and as time goes on it does slowly get easier. "So, this is my life...both happy and sad...still trying to figure out..." I am so grateful for the second chance I had been given, but the pain of losing my drug of choice, my companion, will forever haunt me. Even though I'm happier than I've ever been, especially with a clear head, I'm always mourning the piece of me that was lost when I left alcohol. I refuse to conform and say that stopping drinking was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it wasn't. It was almost the complete death of me, and it was the death of a part of me that defended and protected myself. I guess I'll always be that girl who refused to listen to those words written with red ink over 10 years ago on my paper. I'll refuse to listen to Death's red inked warning that I should be grateful for a second chance, period. For me, there will always be a but . I am grateful, but I will always mourn. And now I will end how I started: with a quote. Chbosky beautifully ends his book with a quote that is both positive but realistic, "...please believe that things are good with me, and even when they're not, they will be soon enough. And I will believe the same about you."


“Back foul beast! Your time is done!” The knight yelled, unsheathing his sword and facing the blade towards the dragon before him. The fire breathing reptile loomed over the armoured hero, its eyes staring into his with a fiery malice strong enough to scare off a lesser man. Suddenly, in a last ditched effort to scare off its foe, the beast unleashed an ear splitting roar almost loud enough to shake the earth itself, but this did nothing to deter the knight. “ENOUGH!” He yelled back at the dragon, “You have terrorised this land far too long, burning down villages, slaying innocent people and then stealing their valuables!” As he said this, the knight raised his trusty blade above his head, arching his arm backwards into a throwing position. He carefully studied the dragon, analysing its massive body for a point of weakness. While the creatures’s back was covered in rows of hardened scales, its underbelly was considerably softer in comparison, a perfect spot for a fatal blow. “Now you shall pay the price for your villainy!” The hero exclaimed. As the dragon let out another roar, the knight flung his blade through the air towards the creature, directly towards its heart. In one swift motion, the sword hit the dragon’s chest... And the lights went out. Suddenly, a thunderous applause could be heard from the people in the surrounding arena, as the story of the knight and the dragon came to a close. In the darkness, the dragon was hurried out of the stage still in her chains, while the other actors hurried back on. As the lights came back on, the man acting out the part of the knight walked over to pick up the painted, wooden sword, putting it back in its sheath. Now standing in the centre of the stage, he and his fellow actors linked hands and bowed for the adoring crowd, as roses were thrown at their feet from all directions. As the crowd roared with delight, the dragon was goaded backstage by a pair of burly men holding massive bull hooks. With these weapons, the men forced her massive body into a cramped cage which. Despite its enormity, the metallic prison was barely big enough to allow her to fit inside, and even then the rather short height of the cage forced her to crouch down uncomfortably for hours on end. “Get in there you stupid beast!” One of the men yelled as the dragon momentarily hesitated to enter her cage. Without hesitation, the man swiftly swung his hook into the sensitive membrane of her folded wing with enough to punch a new hole, and she immediately crawled into her disproportionately small cage. Had she been a wild dragon, she would have burned her captors to cinders along with the surrounding circus and flown as far away from this wretched place as she could, unfortunately, her chances of retaliation had long since passed her by, as the fear of the bull hooks was engraved in her mind from a young age. In order to further prevent the possibility of an attack, the circus handlers punctured the specialised organ at the back of her throat that normally allows a dragon to breathe fire, and the constant beatings left her wings too tattered to allow her to take flight. As the dragon lay down against the cold, metallic bars of her cage, the other man with the bull hook walked over to her head, carrying a large, wooden bucket filled to the brim with fish. “Eat up.” The man said apathetically, as the old, slimy fish were poured onto the cold, metal flooring of the cage. The dragon glumly sniffed her food before eating it, now numb to the smell of dead, decaying fish as they were the only thing her captors would feed her. In the wild, her kin would feed on the variety of massive reptiles and mammals that roamed their ancestral home, bringing them down with the combined efforts of their strength and firepower. But in here, the fish could barely keep her fed, resulting in a body that was dangerously underweight for an animal of her size. The dragon was not the only beast in the circus, the cages surrounding hers were filled with dozens of miserable beasts, whose chances of freedom were just as dim as her own. In the cage across from the dragon, tightly chained up and separated by specially thickened iron bars, a unicorn tried its best to stay sane in the hell it was trapped in. Growling and swaying back and forth, the large ungulate tried desperately to distract itself from its ever increasing insanity. It’s thick, grey hide had been painted a glossy white colour, which simulated the illusion of short, white fur, while the long, yellow hairs glued to its neck and tail were added to make the beast appear more elegant. While the long, spiralling horn attached to its head looked impressive impressive, this was merely a ruse created by yellow paint, glue and wood in order to disguise the pitiful black stump that was all that remained of the beast’s original horn. Hanging from the ceiling, a small cage contained a pair of phoenixes, whose brilliant, fiery feathers grew dimmer by the day. Their faces and legs were covered in scars, while sparse patches of bare skin were visible in between their feathers, a result of the birds fighting for what little space there was. All around them, a menagerie of once fantastical birds, reptiles, and mammals were miserably stuffed into cages awaiting the fleeting moments a day when they would finally be let out. The old griffin with a pair of fake wings sneakily attached too his back, the lonely manticore longing to rejoin his mate, the timid qilin trying desperately to hide behind the steel bars of her cage. The dragon looked at them all with the same hopeless look that they all gave her in turn. With a pitiful yawn, the dragon curled her head under her wings and drifted off to sleep, her only true escape from the miserable world she found herself in. Unfortunately, she knew that once awake, she would be forced back into this reality with no hope of a bright future. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- This is my first post on this subreddit, any criticism is welcome.


When I was born, the world above had long since drawn its dying breath. No matter what the books told and showed me, what I saw in them was not what was out there. Outside was a bitter, cruel, and deadly place. A hell for everyone, no matter who they were. Humankind had been forced to crawl down into the ground, far below the surface of the world they themselves destroyed. From what they had, they created villages and cities to their best efforts. The ideas of names had started to dwindle, so whatever cities and towns that were carved into the rock were given numbers. City 1, City 2, City 3, and onward. I had been born in City 9, somewhere along the east of the world, along the cliffs. The caves used to be plentiful with water from whatever falls formed by the oceans. When the water became too off to drink, we had to resort to trade and deliveries from the other Cities. These would take several days, and whoever lived in 9 were forced to ration what they had. My home was cramped, small, and dirty. But it was the only place I knew that I could really call home. Nobody liked living down here--everyone hated it; they all wanted to go up and see the sky. And we have to remind ourselves every single day that we would die if we ever did that. Our eyes would bleed and our lungs would explode, or so the story was told by our elders. By the time I turned ten, I was going to work in the mines. It was required that everyone had a job, and the common one was expanding the City itself. More caves meant more houses when more people came to. The caves were cramped for a while, and some couldn’t take the heat all too well. A friend I knew at a young age wasn’t hydrated enough. He died at my side with a dry tongue. But we kept on working. By the time I was thirteen, City 9 was one of the largest of the twelve along the east. Travelling from one side of the City to the next would take several minutes. At thirteen, City 9 was home to a thousand. With time, the City grew less crowded, grew cooler as we grew deeper. At fourteen, my mother died. The water was too dirty. When I was fifteen, there came the resource conflict. There were simply too many people and not enough food for everybody--not enough drinkable water, not enough to ration for every single Niner. You wouldn’t think that the people would be fighting *each other* for a piece of bread or shuck of corn. And yet, I saw people reduced to corpses. My father couldn’t trust the City. We packed up whatever we could and we left our home. I remember crying the first night on the run. All my father could say was, “Straighten up. You’re not dead.” He was right.  The rest is available in the link provided, if it interests you. If this isn't following the rules right, I apologize.


I figured with all this grand universe to explore you likely wouldn’t be back for a while. What gives? “Wow...It’s been damn near a month⎯and the green tea with lemon and honey will help with this cold.” “You don’t look sick to me.” “I may not look it but I can’t stop sneezing and my eyes keep watering.” “I can’t believe I’m falling for this...spirits don’t catch colds?” “How do you know? You’re not a ghost. And I’m sneezing all over the place. And in threes every so often.” “Threes?” “Yeah, one right after another. Then the goosebumps come and I break out in a cold sweat.” “Okay, you’re taking it too far⎯goosebumps and a cold sweat. Spirits don’t have skin.” “I’m a ghost...I thought I told you that.” “It’s the same thing.” “Must not be since I’m sweating and sneezing.” “And spirits don’t have sweat glands and tear ducts.” “Well, ghosts do because my eyes water to the point my vision gets blurry.” “Well, how come you’re not crying now?” “I didn’t say crying I said watering. I have a cold that’s why the honey and the lemon in the tea.” Mobi sips her tea turns toward the kitchen door and waits. “Who are you talking to?” Her husband Charles asks peeking around the doorway. “I was finishing up some important basketball stuff on my computer⎯deep in thought.” “Didn’t sound like rebounds and free throws to me,” Oriana says. Mobi whips her head toward Oriana, “Before I was rudely interrupted I was figuring my bracket.” “I’m over here,” her husband states. “I know. I thought I heard something...an old bat...by the window.” Oriana laughs⎯tea burns her lip. “What did you call me?...Tell him, I say hello.” Mobi turns back toward her husband, “And hello. Yes, you are over there.” “I didn’t say for you to say hello I said for you to tell him I said hello. You haven’t told him, have you?” “I’m a little distracted, Charles. And certain things can’t be conversated about.” “I’m not some taboo topic. He knew me when I was living, We can reacquaint now that I’m a ghost.” Charles says, “We always compare brackets⎯rebounds, assists, points per game⎯before we finish all the entries.” “I know. And I’m in the middle of the men’s first bracket entry. On top of finishing five more, I have to run to the farmer’s market, finish chopping this salad, vacuum the car, then we’ll go to Home Depot, come back, and pick the movies to watch.” Mobi splashes tea on herself as she turns to find Oriana standing right on top of her shaking her head. “Wow...Relationships are supposed to be about honesty. I’m standing right here. All you had to do was reintroduce us: Charles...You remember Oriana. ” “He would have had a heart attack, Ori’. Maybe...I’d like to have him in the physical realm for fifty more years.” “Like you’re doing so bad with me visiting on occasion. What makes him any different? We were friends in kindergarten through seventh grade, then you came in eighth grade. And the town was in a tizzy. Athletic and beautiful in eighth grade a varsity starter in⎯name it. The senior boys in all the townships were falling all over themselves. And some of the senior men too.” Mobi laughs. A stream of tea dribbles down her lip to her chin. She grabs her paper towel, dabs it. “That was a handful of injuries and decades ago, Oriana. And that’s not funny.” “Now look at you retired WNBA player and current college basketball coach. And by the way...Is that legal for the head coach to bet on her team to win it all in March Madness.” “Yes, it’s legal. And it’s not gambling. I’m predicting...If you don’t mind...that we have the best team in the nation. Vegas is not in play here. You know how this works. I haven’t put down any flow.” “How long before Charles wants to have a serious talk with you?” “A serious talk about what?” “About you talking to yourself?” “I don’t talk to myself, Oriana.” “What are you doing now?” “Talking to you about your gambling problem.” Oriana chuckles, “I don’t have a gambling problem. You’re the head coach betting on her team to win the national championship. The audacity of some people.” “Some gall, right?” “When Charles witnesses our tea parties what is it he sees?” Ori asks. “Two friends reminiscing, making the most of an early Sunday afternoon.” Mobi hastens to the entry of the kitchen, looks down the hallway, then upstairs⎯Charles slips out of her line of sight at the top of the stairs where he is listening. Mobi saunters back to the kitchen. “I’m always on my computer, my blue tooth is connected, I have my earpiece in. I talk to you. I talk to coaching staff. I talk to agents. I talk to recruits. I talk to parents. I inform him: it’s simply business.” “And what if he catches you like moments ago and you’re joking and deep in conversation, smiling from ear to ear...he might think you’re having an affair.” Mobi smirks...raises an eyebrow and looks down her nose. “I was not and am not smiling from ear to ear.” “When was it...a couple of games ago? The game your girls won by almost fifty points. You and that opposing head coach shook hands and held each other’s gaze for longer than should be allowed...if you ask me.” “Stop...you should be ashamed of yourself. That kid is barely thirty years old.” “I’m just sayin’... He was a looker. And thirty ain’t twenty.” “I am more than happily married.” “Than why all the secrets,” whispers Oriana. “Why are you whispering?” “Just in case you know who is listening.” “There are no... secrets. And as you saw you know who doesn’t hear you.” “He could...I could simply make myself known to him.” “I know. And we could all reminisce. Ori’ I already find him going through his family album much more since you died. His brother, sisters, parents are still alive. But there you are. Your family, his family⎯the Fourth of July, camping, fall festivals, pictures of you two...field level seats at the World Series when you’ll were ten, eleven.” “You believe...” “Wait. Before you ask. Yes, I believe if he sees you again. He will want to spend most his time with you.” “But keeping things as is you can have both of us as good friends,” Ori states “Yes.”