“So,” Mor began, “I had work to do but no one from Summer Court would be able to meet with me over the weekend. I asked Cassian if he wanted to come to Adriata and spend a few days in the sun. Warm his wings for a few days, that kind of thing. And it was a terrible mistake!” Nesta lifted her eyebrows. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this story, but Cassian saw these two females and decided he was male enough that he could pull off getting both of them.” Nesta laughed now, of course Cassian had decided he was fae enough for two females at the same time. “He invited them to go to dinner with us, at this gorgeous little bistro near the water, not there any more, of course. Who knows why they said yes, but they did. Cassian was trying so hard, he ordered all these delicious seafood delicacies with dripping butter and garlic. And so much wine. Everytime we finished a bottle, he would order a new one. So, we are all drunk sitting on the patio looking out at the water and these two tall males storm the place.” “Why?” Nesta prodded, entertained by Mor's story. “One of the females had just been discovered by her mate. And her family was thrilled, so excited, because I guess this male who said he was her mate came from this really good family. So she promised her parents she would accept the bond and that she was going to go and find this male, but ran off with her friend instead. I don't even know, maybe she was going to find him eventually, but she'd decided she wanted to like, live it up first before accepting the bond with this complete stranger.” “I can't blame her,” Nesta laughed a little. “And the mate showed up at her parent's hoping to get to know her better but she wasn't there, her parents were all she went to find you, we thought she was with you, and everyone starts freaking out because no one knows where she is. So, everyone calmed down enough to have the mate track her with the bond. And, like, everyone's bond is a little different, I guess, I don’t know, I’m not bonded, but the mate can pick up on her being drunk and with a male. Who is not him clearly. The family lost it because their daughter is, quote, ruining her bond and the male himself fell into this crazy, jealous, overprotective rage males can get at the beginning. So by the time they find us, they are worked up.” “And?” “Oh, Mother. The mate and the dad are both yelling. The dad's yelling at this female and he’s yelling at Cassian, and the mate is yelling at Cassian and he keeps asking the female if she's rejecting the bond to be with Cassian. She starts crying and she's yelling at her dad and this mate. Her friend kept giving me this look like she wanted me to somehow get her out of there. Cassian's drunk so instead of keeping his stupid mouth shut he starts yelling back at the dad and mate.” Mor shook her head and laughed, “None of this should be funny, but the other patrons are just throwing money on their tables and taking off. Not even asking for their checks, just trying to get out before they get caught in the middle of these four fools all yelling. The bistro owners are trying to calm everyone down but its not working. Cassian is up now and he starts walking towards these two like he's going to fight them, and I'm still sitting at the table with these females, both crying now. The mate goes full rage and picks up a table, just up over his head, and flings it at Cassian.” “Cassian has never told me this.” “Not his finest day! So, anyways, Cassian sees this table flying thru the air and drunkenly assumes its going to hit the three of us behind him so he blasted out his siphons. Like the time you saw during the battle, how he can just make this giant red bubble of safety shield. Except he was drunk. So not only does this giant red bubble protect us from the table, which I still say was not going to hit us, but he like went into overprotect mode. He sent out a wave of energy outside the bubble too, to attack. Thankfully the owners ended up in our bubble and the top floors of the building were day offices so they were all empty because his power just shattered everything above us.” Mor continued, “I think he was just trying to destroy the table cause his energy all went up and over, but instead, it just decimated this whole building that bistro was in. Gods above must have been watching out for faes that day sending his drunk Cassian wrath upwards, because as soon as Cassian lowered the shield we were in this terrible broken brick crater, but everyone was ok. Even the dad and the mate somehow but, like, all that was left of the building was this giant cloud of dust and just mounds of broken building all around us.” Mor just kept quietly laughing, “It was so awful, all this broken building dust falling down like snow. But those two mates were finally holding hands, just checking each other over next to her dad and the other female was creeping backwards away from us towards them. The owners started yelling then and Cassian just looked around at this tiny, terrible crater he created and said he thought that maybe I should winnow us back home right then. You could hear all these fae outside the rubble yelling trying to make sure everyone was ok and I thought he just might be right, that maybe staying any longer was a very bad idea. So I took his hand to winnow us out and I looked him dead in the eye and I told him, ‘I am never going out with you again'".


It was the best of times it was the worst of times. I could feel the Sweat as the beads ran down the back of my spine. The bright glare from overhead, the hands on the bank clock, said it was time to go. His suit was just in from the cleaners, not a Wrinkle insight. His shoes were polished to a bright shine. His hair done-up just so, a cut and a shave. Everyone thought I look like a million bucks. The car shined in the afternoon sun as I drove up to the big house on the left of 5th Avenue. I gathered all my courage. Flowers in hand as I pushed the doorbell. I had asked the prettiest girl in town to the school dance. A creek came from the door, a tall older man asked. How can I help you? Son. I am Mark, the boy that asked your daughter to go to the school dance. (with a sigh) You may take her, but there are a few rules, he said. You brack my daughter's heart I will hunt you down. She must be home before midnight. Yes sir. “I replied”. As she walked down the white Staircase, I could see the sparkle of the chandelier glistening off of her gown, a twinkle in her eyes with a glow on her face. There was a shin on her face. These are for you with A grin from ear to ear, as I handed her the flowers. That’s when I told myself, one day I will marry that girl. Her name is Penelope, she is the prettiest girl at the dance tonight, and in my eyes, the prettiest girl in the whole world. Tonight was the best night of my life. The next morning, I tried to call Penelope, there was no answer. later that afternoon, I tried calling again, still no answer. On Monday after school, I drove my car by her house, there was no one there, they had just up and vanished. Penelope had moved away without a word. After graduation, I search for Penelope, it was very hard because I didn't know where to look. That same year I joined the army. This would help me in my search I thought. Every time I was close. It would turn out I was too late. It seemed as if I was always one step behind. I would spend the next forty years looking for Penelope. my one true love. Now, I'm in my 60's I just sit here and look at these old pictures of that night and think. It was the best of times it was the worst of times. “To sides to every store” My father is in the military. We move all the time. I’m am what they call a military brat. In one school then out to the next. I don’t recall how many schools I’ve been to but let us just say a lot. It was my junior in high school. I met this boy at school his name was Mark. He was handsome and smart, we had three classes together. I liked him right away. We became good friends. We set in the lunchroom together and talked about our day. I couldn’t believe it when Mark asked me to the school dance. Wow! There were just a few weeks left in school when dad told me he had a new assignment with the army but he couldn’t say when we would have to move again. I always thought I would have time to say good-bye to my friends and to Mark. My dad bought me a new dress for the school dance, it was full of sparkling glitter. It was very lovely even for something my dad would buy for me. After all, I was just an army brat. On the day of the school dance, I went to the hair Solon and got my hair done. Then To the beauty Solon to got my fingernails done. Then I bought a new pair of shoes to go with the elegant dress my dad had bought me. That night the doorbell rang. I walked slowly down the stairs, the chandelier was shining off of the glitter on my new dress. My shoes shined in the light. I walked slowly as to tease Mark as he stood there with a grin from ear to ear. Mark handed me the flowers that he had bought for me. They were long red and velvet with a beauty of green, the first flowers a boy had ever given me. I put the dozens of flowers in a vase with some water. Kissed my dad and out the door with Mark holding my hand. His car was all cleaned up as shiny as a new one. Mark tried so hard to impress me And it was working. He opens the car door for me as I walked up to get in. Mark was a true gentleman and I loved the way he treated me that night. At the dance he was nice to me, Mark must have taken some dancing lessons. He danced beautifully that night. That night He was a perfect gentleman. After the dance around midnight Mark drove me home, he opens my car door for me. Gave me his hand to help me out of his car. Mark took my hand in his and raised it to his lips and kissed the back of my hand. I was feeling all tingly inside. I thought this one day will be the boy who becomes the man I will marry. When I opened the front door of our house dad was setting in his chair, with the TV on. He told me how beautiful I was that night and how he thought someday I would make a beautiful wife. But not to get in a hurry about it. Then just before going upstairs for the night dad gave me the news. Dad said he had to report to his new duty assignment first thing Monday morning. And as soon as we were packed in the morning we had to get on the road to make it. And the movers would come and get the rest of our belongings. As a military brat, I was used to this, but this time was different, I had found someone. This was my first taste of love. I was still in high school and too young to be out on my own. Morning came and dad and I loaded up the truck with something we would need till all of our belongings would show up in a few days. I wanted to let Mark know where we were going and how to find me if he still wanted to. But I really didn’t know-how. The following year came and went just as fast as reading a book. Hours turned into days, days into weeks. I sit in my bedroom looking out my window into the heavens thinking of that night at the dance with Mark. After my senior year of high school, I went back to find Mark. Everyone told me he joined the army and had left town and that no one had heard from him. I search for Mark. My one true love for many years. When I thought I had found him, he had already moved on to the next assignment and the next army base. As the sun is going down, I sit here in my yard, looking up at the stars. Wondering about what life would have been like. I just turned 60 a few days ago. But my mind always goes back to the night of the school dance. It was the best of times it was the worst of times.


It's not so much the day it happened, but the day that signaled that I had arrived, I had achieved adulthood. But I am getting ahead of my self. I grew up on a dairy farm in central Wisconsin. This area was all dairy farms. If you farmed in this county, there was no question of what you produced. It was the heart of America's DairyLand, and 60 to 80 cow herds filled the landscape. I was in high school in the late 70's. My uncles farm was nearby, and the two farms touched. My cousin Bill was one grade above me in school, but only 4 months older. I was closer to him than my own, much younger brother, and he had no brothers. Miles from the nearest paved road, we had the opportunity to Drive tractors and other machines at a young age. I had a beat up old 5hp trail bike for transportation, and Bill had an ancient moped. On summer nights after evening milking, we would be on call to help unload and stack baled hay at neighbors places. we put this money away for the one indispensable item all of us rural Romeo's needed, a car. The summer before our 16th birthdays, our fathers begrudgingly cosigned for cars for us to fix up (we couldn't afford much). Bill was lucky to find a Grand Torino that was mechanically sound, but with a badly beaten body. I found a Chevelle with a good body, but burned out engine and transmission. The fall of my sophomore year, Bill and I spent all of our spare time working on his Torino. We hammered out dents, welded in patches, applied and sanded body filler and applied primer. All the while planning our adventures. Oh, the wonderful mayhem we were going to unleash on our unsuspecting little town!. The Torino would soon be ready for paint, and in mid November, Bill passed his drivers test. That fall had been busy, due to the wet weather delaying the corn harvest. The Sunday night before Thanksgiving I went to bed looking forward to the abbreviated week ahead. The corn harvest was done, the machines parked for the winter, and a few inches of snow had fallen in the afternoon. Bill was to deliver his car to a friend for paint and I was looking forward to getting started on the Chevelle. As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I heard the phone ring downstairs. but sleep took over. For some reason, a few minutes before my alarm clock was to ring at 4:50AM, I woke to a light on my bedroom wall. Our farmhouse was on the north side of the road and my room was the in the south east corner. The light was the headlights of a vehicle coming up the road. It was very unusual for traffic to be on out road this time of morning. I watched the light grow bigger, expecting it to shoot to the north side of my room as the car passed by. But instead the light shot south then disappeared. They had pulled into the yard!. I leapt from my bed to look out the east window to see the pickup truck pull into its garage stall. I knew something was very wrong. I pulled on my work cloths as fast as I could, grabbed my shoes and rushed down the stairs. Mom was seated at the kitchen table. I could tell she had been crying. Dad had gone to their room to change into his work overalls. As I tied my shoes she told me to go "feed the monster in the basement", the family euphemism for filling the decrepit old wood furnace that heated the ancient farmhouse. I went down the stairs and rushed through the routine. Open the draft door, scoop out the ashes, shake the grates, small wood first, then the larger blocks. When I got back up to the kitchen, Dad was also at the table, then they broke the news to me. Bill had been killed in a car accident the evening before. I went numb. The exact details matter not. It boils down to an inexperienced driver on a slippery road. My body seemed to be on auto pilot, and the morning chores seemed to drag forever. Even with my Mom and my younger brother coming down to help with feeding the bottle calves, we got late. As soon as we were done milking, Dad sent me and my brother to the house for breakfast and washing up for school and he said he would do my normal job of cleaning up in the milkhouse. School was subdued and quiet that day. The whole high school of 250 students soon heard and a dark mood seemed to press down on us all. My 5th period was study hall, and the school guidance councilor came to get me to help clean out Bills locker. I got the text books back to their appropriate classrooms and threw out unnecessary notebooks, saving only what I thought my Aunt and Uncle might want. At the time I thought I saved too much. With the wisdom that comes from years, I realize I did not keep enough. After school, Mom was waiting for me at the at the school busses. She took me downtown to the men's store for a new suit. I was growing by leaps and bounds at that time and I had long since outgrown my suit from confirmation. On the way home, she broke the news to me that I was to be one of Bill's pallbearers'. I protested, saying, "NO, I cant do it!'. She just smiled her knowing smile and said, "Talk to your father". I relaxed. Dad and I had a good rapport. He would understand. That evening, during milking, (the only time during evening chores that we were in the same proximity to each other in the barn) I pleaded my case, I said, "No, I can't do it". Dad did what he always did. He listened, he asked a few questions to make sure he had a full understanding of the issue, and then he rendered his verdict. He said, "You're going to be Pallbearer". He then went on to explain that it a man's job to be there for the family in times of need. He also explained that it was a solemn duty and honor to be one of the few selected to carry someone to their final rest. I tried to protest, saying, "I can't do it". He said, "You can and you will". He then went on to give me, either by design, or happenstance the best advice he ever gave me. It would be advice that went on to help me many times in my life. He said, "You're going to set your focus, bite your lip, put your feelings aside, concentrate on what's right in front of you, and you're going to do the job that needs to be done. That's what it means to be a man". Seeing I had lost my case, I resigned myself to my fate. The funeral was the day before thanksgiving. A fresh snow had fallen and the temperature was climbing to thawing. As the service concluded, I took my place with my uncles to carry the casket to the hearse. All of the Pallbearers traveled together in one car. It was a 10 mile drive to the cemetery, and mostly only family was attended the graveside ceremony. As we took the casket from the hearse, I took my assigned place on the left front. I was concentrating on the job at hand and measuring my steps. My Uncle on the right front slipped and almost fell when he stepped from the pavement to the snow covered grass, but I was able to shoulder the extra weight while he recovered. By the time we had returned to the church for the lunch, everyone who had not attended the interment had already left, and it was mostly just the family. For unknown reasons, my Dad chose to eat and talk with us pallbearers. Though it seemed shocking to me at the time, My uncles were very nonchalant about it. The conversation between them went like this: "Was that a bit to heavy for you?" (to my uncle that had slipped) "Naw, just the fresh snow, not like Uncle Fred's casket, That was heavy" "I didn't think Uncle Fred's was so heavy, Uncle Merlin was the heavy one". "I didn't get in on Uncle Merlin's, I was out in Oregon visiting Aunt Minnie when he passed away". "Yea, Uncle Merlin was a heavy one, I swear there was four inches of concrete in the bottom of his casket." "Well, knowing the ambitious go getter he was, Maybe that's the only way they figured they could keep him down there!". Some muted laughter followed. I realized some time later that I had taken My fathers place in the family Pallbearers. It was the first step in the changing of the guard from my uncles duty to falling to me and my cousins, and I would eventually be pallbearer for everyone I was pallbearer with that day. And I was the one to shoulder the responsibility of easing the younger cousins into this solemn duty. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was given much more freedom after that, and much more responsibility. I never had a curfew, But I was expected to be up at quarter to 5 every morning for chores. If I overslept, there were makeup chores for me at the end of the day. I soon learned to be home and in bed by midnight at the latest. The rest of high school, I was a bit of a "party pooper". Being at home and in bed while classmates were still "howling at the moon". I was also given the responsibility of the reproductive health of the dairy heard. Basically to be matchmaker for choosing what frozen semen to use on what cows and to be midwife to the cows having calves. As well as noting any cows that failed to cycle to be checked out by the veterinarian. I took it seriously, and made many night time trips to the barn to check on expectant mothers. I managed to drag my attention back to the Chevelle in February out of sheer necessity. An uncle on my mothers side of the family, (also farmers) contacted me to tell me of a neighbor of his who had a son that also had a Chevelle that ran good, but had been wrecked. I went to find a car that had just had a replacement engine put in it and had been rear ended at a stop sign. It was totaled, but he did not want to give the new engine to the junk yard for the few dollars they were willing to pay. A deal was made and I put it on a hay wagon and brought it home. With a little help from Dad and my little brother, I took on the task of the engine and transmission transplant. I even used the front bucket seats and some interior moldings, as well as the chrome wheels. In March I got my drivers license on the first try. By early May, the Chevelle was ready for his debut. We had a rare spring Saturday off for a cousins wedding. We had a cow that was likely to calf that day, so I drove myself to the wedding in the Chevelle. After the ceremony, we all went to the local Legion post where the reception and rest of the celebration was to be held. About 2 in the afternoon, I excused myself to check on the cow. I drove the 12 miles home and drove right down to the barn. Off to the side we had a little maternity paddock, I had hopped to see a content cow, chewing her cud and giving me the "what you want?" look, But it was not to be. What I found was a cow in labor and distress. I quickly drove to the house and changed onto a pair of coveralls and quickly cross tied my work shoes and raced to the barn. My first stop was the milkhouse for a bucket of warm water and the obstetrical chains and grips. I did a reach in check. One hoof, not too big, that's OK. A second hoof. Then a nose. Then a third hoof, and second nose!. she was having twins and attempting to expel them simultaneously!. But I had paid attention to Dad over the years and knew what to do. I slipped a chain around one hoof and gently tugged while feeling of their noses. When I was confident I knew witch nose was attached to the hoof that I had the chain on, I waited for her to stop contracting. When she did I pushed back inward on the other nose while pulling on the chain. The first calf slipped out fairly easily. I attached the other chain and quickly retrieved the other one. After quickly clearing their noses and mouths of mucus, I was rewarded with 2 heifer calves struggling to get their first breaths of air. I tied off their navel chords and dipped them in iodine to prevent infections from entering. I then turned my attention to the cow. Her head was pulled back toward her udder. She was not alert. Her ears were cold. She had milk fever, a potently fatal low calcium condition. I went quickly to work. I retrieved 2 bottles I.V. calcium from the medicine cabinet along with the I.V. kit. I went to the cow and put a rope halter on her head and tied it to her back leg to keep her from fighting the treatment. I took the huge 2 inch long needle and, after locating the jugular vein in her neck, I plunged it in swiftly. I was rewarded with a good flow of blood. I attached the first bottle of calcium to the hose and tucked it between my neck and shoulder to free up my hands. As soon as the mixture flowed freely with out air bubbles, I attached it to the needle. The medicine flowed quickly into her bloodstream and I was soon rewarded with a quivering in her flanks, a sign it was working. After the first bottle ran dry, I switched to the second. She was a large cow and the second bottle was insurance she would have enough. With all of the calcium in her, all she would need was time to recover. I released her head and collected up all of my equipment I had used, cleaned it in the milkhouse and put it away. Then I turned my attention back to the calves. I brought a small pail out and milked out some milk from her where she laid. I took it in the milkhouse and put it in a calf bottle. It was a little more than 3 pints. Not a lot, but enough to give those twins the much needed mothers protective antibodies. They greedily sucked it down. a sign that they were healthy and viable. Having done all I could for now, I returned to the house and took a shower. After getting dressed to go back to the wedding I headed back out to my car. but instead of just going back, I first drove back down to the paddock to check on them . I was rewarded by the sight of the cow standing and vigorously licking one calf that was struggling to stand while the other took it's first wobbly steps trying to nurse. When I returned to the festivities, Dad immediately saw me walk in and asked me, "Is everything alright?". "Everything is fine', I said, "But we have two more calves to feed tonight". The dinner was soon to be served. I was talking to a group of cousins and we were lucky enough to be seated at a table by the kitchen. We were served early, But the table Mom and Dad were on was farther away. As the meal wound down and I was cleaning up my serving of cake and ice cream I looked over at Dad. I thought of the chores that needed to be done. The extra work involved with the cow and newborn calves. I also saw Dad enjoying the time that he got to enjoy with family and friends all to seldom. When I finished, I said to my tablemates, "Sorry, I gotta go, it's chore time". Then I walked over to where Dad was eating with one of his old friends directly across the table from him. I clamped my hand on his shoulder and said, "Stay as long as you want. I'll do the chores tonight". Across the table Dad's friends fork slipped from his startled grasp and clattered to his plate, but he recovered quickly enough to point a butter knife accusingly at my Dad and say, "Ya know, I raised four boys on that place of mine, but I ain't NEVER heard that from one of my kids!". Dad just beamed. Mom had to hide her laughter behind a napkin.


Reader, I imagine you might be about to read this while lying down in your bed. I imagine night has long since fallen and that like many others here, you are seeking out stories of the strange, the curious and the unimaginable to entertain yourself to sleep. If I’m right and this is you, I hope the experiences I am going to share with you don’t somehow impact you in any way. I hope that after reading this, you wake up tomorrow as normal, go about your life, and question nothing. I hope by sharing this with you I don’t somehow pass on whatever is happening to me. See, I am still holding out for that to happen. Waking up, I mean. After all, this horror that is now my life, all began with simply falling asleep. I’ll attempt to explain but at this point, the nightmare has been going on so long that I am not even able to pinpoint a timeframe or a starting point of exactly when it all started. Not confidently anyway. I suppose the earliest I can remember is going to bed one night after staying up late indulging in my habit of watching old school B-movies on the TV. My wife, as usual, had gone to bed long before me and as per what has become our weeknight ritual, I entertained myself with a glass of whiskey in the lounge until I was tired enough to join her. It felt like a Wednesday, but I really can’t be certain. The result is always the same these weeknights anyway. I eventually slide in next to my wife and due to the combination of the alcohol and the exhaustion, I promptly fall asleep. This scenario had played out many, many nights before since we had settled into our middle-aged suburban lifestyle. My wife never had any trouble falling asleep, but I always valued the extra few hours to myself before repeating the 9 to 5 work cycle the next day. So I drifted off that night and my mind wastes no time putting me through a bizarre dream. That’s been the way since I was a kid. I guess I have a vivid imagination or something, but my dreams have always been so nonsensical and strange that I’d long gotten used to it. The dreams usually start off normally enough, in fact recently I’d noticed that the first part of my dreams had become increasingly mundane and realistic that it could easily be mistaken for real life (perhaps this happens with age?). For example, on this occasion the dream began with me at the post office getting ready to mail some forms off to some obscure boring company. Whatever I was supposed to be doing wasn’t really apparent, but it seemed to make sense to me at the time. I’m sure you know what that’s like when your dream self seems to already know what’s going on when thrust into a random dream scenario. Whatever it was, it was typical, routine and not exciting in anyway. As per usual however it didn’t take long for my mind to reveal itself to be dreaming when the post office teller’s jaw dropped off of his face leaving a bloody mess on the counter and an elongated tongue hanging out of the massive hole in his face. Dream me frantically looked around the post office only to see the same thing happen to all the other customers and staff members. Not one of them seemed to react to what was going on but went about their business. At this point of course, I realize I’m dreaming. One of the benefits of having strange dreams so often was that my dream-self had gotten quite good at becoming self-aware when something wasn’t right and when things got uncomfortable or frightening, I generally manage to simply wake up. So it was in this occasion. While my adrenaline had definitely spiked due to the grotesque and bizarre scenes taking place, I quickly was able to recognize I was having yet another weird dream and almost instantly woke up. After blinking in the quiet darkness of my bedroom for a moment, my heart rate slowed back to normal and I rolled over and went back to sleep without so much as a second thought. The next day, I go about business as usual. Wake up, get ready for work, have a quick breakfast, say bye to the wife and start making my way into the office. Once there, I am sitting at my computer, I routinely open up email to check the daily staff bulletin...only for hordes of maggots to suddenly start pouring out of the screen and into my lap while everyone on the entire office floor start spontaneously screaming at the top of their lungs. And just like that I realize that when I had gone back to bed I must have ended up in another dream that started normal, but then turned once again into a nightmare. And, just like the last one and many before, I wake myself up. After catching my breath a second time now, I rub my sleeping wife’s shoulder (more for my own comfort) and roll back over. "Man, two in a row...tough night", I think to myself with a feeling of tired annoyance before drifting off again. The next morning, I wake up to the rotting bloated corpse of my wife hovering over me and laughing. Again, I wake up. If you don't already see where this is going, this has been the pattern now. This has been my life for as long as I can remember. Sometimes, I will wake up, my day will go about as normal and life will seem to go on for days, months, even occasionally years before something bizarre happens, like the sky opening up and a thick liquid blackness pouring through and smothering the earth. Other times, I’ve barely gotten out of bed before the freakish nightmare reveals itself, such as discovering I have misshapen human teeth rapidly growing out of my hands and face while my own teeth melt out of my mouth. This has been going on so long now at this point that while I use that Wednesday night I described earlier as my reference point to when this first started, maybe that wasn't even the truth of it either. Time moves differently when you’re dreaming. Maybe I’m still lying there in bed and am currently going through a seemingly endless sequence of nightmares waiting to finally wake up after the longest night of my life. Maybe that night was just one of thousands and the cycle started long ago. Maybe that night never happened but was yet just another dream, in which case I really don’t know when and where this began. You start to question everything when in this situation. What’s real, what’s not. Am I even real? Am I just consciousness existing in a vacuum, creating my own imaginary world? Was I ever truly awake? Or am I in a coma or something? Will I wake up properly one day to discover I’d been in an accident and this whole thing is what people who are in comas go through, but they forget somehow. Or am I dead even and this is what death is? Or am I simply insane? Experiencing a mental illness such as oneirophrenia or even a severe form of narcolepsy? I really don’t know anymore. The constant exposure to strange and bizarre happenings means I rarely even get scared by it anymore. I expect it. The worst of it is when you manage to go several years before anything has happened and you begin to think that the last time you woke up was finally for real. But then inevitably one day something nightmarish happens like a black demonic figure suddenly replacing your reflection in the mirror one morning or all the stars in the sky start exploding during a family barbecue one night, and you snap awake again back in bed, realizing all those years you spent getting on with your life were a lie and just yet another dream. All I know is that nothing crazy has happened yet in this current state of being “awake”, however it has only been a couple days. I figured I’d hop on here and share this with anyone who’d care to read. I could walk away from my computer after this only to discover suddenly no one has a face anymore or that there are hands coming out of all my walls. Then I’ll wake up again and none of this will matter. But if this does somehow get read, by someone like you, dear reader, who is lying at night preparing to sleep. I just hope when you eventually drift into dream world, that you well and truly do actually wake up tomorrow.


On September 30, 2017, my mom bought me new shoes. I had insisted that they were a pristine white that looked amazing. My mother had told me that they would get dirty very fast, but I promised her that I would keep them clean. I couldn’t live up to that. The next day, I clocked in at 12:15 pm for my weekly shift at Sunrise Hospital. It was fairly uneventful with the standard discharges, visitor escorts, and disgruntled visitor accusing me of racism for checking his ID, despite it being standard hospital procedure. These errands occupied my day. At 8:15, I texted my father to pick me up. I checked my shoes, still pearly white. 8:45: “Running late, please wait 30 minutes.” 9:15: “Still at work, I am very sorry” An hour later, I started volunteering in the ER, What was a guy supposed to do at 10:15 on October 1st, 2017? Suddenly, hundreds of people rushed into the ER, bringing with them a flood of blood. My phone vibrated with a text from my mother. “Are you okay? A gunman fired on The Strip.” Her concern was legitimate as Sunrise Hospital is five miles from the site of the shooting, but Las Vegas geography wasn’t my focus. I stared in disbelief as more victims poured in, but standing idle wasn’t an option. I was given a crash course on CPR by a nurse and went to work on those who needed it. I changed my gloves hundreds of times to minimize infection. I tended to people the best I could. I looked down and saw my white shoes succumbing to the red, but that wasn’t important. Several more nurses were called in, instructing me to get water. I sprinted to the best of my capability, the red liquid splashing up around me, as I weaved through the crowd. I commandeered an empty janitor’s cart and pushed it to the cafeteria, conveniently located on the opposite end of the hospital. My heart was pounding in my ears as I grabbed bottled water from the various fridges and tossed them in the cart. I filled up cups of water, stacking them on the shelves. As I sprinted back to the Emergency Room, leaving more bloody footprints on the tile, the wounded had doubled. I made more water trips. I held ice packs, replaced flimsy gauze, but at those moments, I wished I could do more. I kept pushing myself, harder and harder, desperately trying to help one more person, replace one more bandage, console one more mother, father, or loved one who didn't know what was happening, but after a while, I couldn't do any more. I slowly trudged to my phone, tucked away in a random locker room. I dialed for my dad, and he pulled up a few minutes later. My body and my heart were demolished as I made my way over to the car. I had never seen suffering, especially not on this scale, and I wept. Mourning for the losses that I had seen, mourning for the losses yet to come, and mourning for the gash the shooter had left on my beloved city. As we drove away, I saw the sun break through the darkness, illuminating the once black sky. Streaks of blue and pink burst through over the horizon, and as dawn broke over my city, a smile broke upon my face. That new morning, my shoes were completely red, dripping with blood. On October 2, 2017, my mom took me to buy a new pair of shoes.


Restitution Chores In our house, we knew that a large request or big mistake started with a big chore. Mama's verdict over both ends of the spectrum often hovered with whatever restitution chore we chose to complete. We all harbored a specialty; I cleaned the fridge or ironed my parents' work clothes while Vaun steam cleaned the stairs, couches, and other upholstery. Youngest brother though, mainly just stayed out of the way. He found himself in a revolving door of mischief that chores couldn't save so he just waited to be forgiven or forgotten until his next episode. Restitution chores were our way of showing our parents that we knew what needed to be done within our household and taking responsibility of the things no one wanted to do or had time for made us uniquely irreplaceable. Restitution Chores also gave us an opportunity to live active lives while my parents' house stayed clean enough and their Silvertab jeans starched so they stood on their own. If I wanted extra cash to go skating Friday night, Shannon's Popup Dry Cleaning service opens for business. When Vaun misses curfew by two hours and sneaks in smelling like weed and CK One, the sound of the carpet cleaner whirrs first thing Sunday morning while the coffee maker drips for Mama, because we knew she needed her coffee first thing in the morning delivered to her while she caught up on “All My Children” in bed. The beauty of our Restitution Chores are the infinite opportunities for improvement. Something can always be cleaned better, as 2/3s of our trio is guaranteed unconsciously to contribute a worse mess within days, some occasions, hours. Once I saw my mom cry after someone spilled or dripped on the clean floor and damned if I don’t feel that as a mother. These chores remained valuable due to our fourth sibling, named Not Me. They are a figment of calamity who never receives blame for good deeds. While Not Me may have broken the crystal brought back from Germany, Shannon, Vaun, or Googie dealt with the aftermath of their unplanned visits. Not Me spilled Kool-Aid in the fridge and put the empty pitcher back instead of the sink. They opened the foil leftovers without closing them back. They left empty cans of root beer under my bed and left spills on the countertop. Not Me is responsible for the fries left in the backseat of the car and absolutely ALL clogged toilets and gum found stuck where it shouldn’t be stuck. I learned that as a generational curse, Not Me is born right around the time you think you’re done having kids and think shit’s starting to come together. There’s a little bit of Not Me in all of us, and they’re a reminder that it doesn’t matter who did it, somebody still gotta clean it up. In the case of my chore, $20 instead of $10 required that I removed everything from the fridge, food, shelving, crisper drawers and wiped it down completely. From there, I’d wipe down the jars of grape jelly, mustard, and anything else victim to messy teenagers. I’d tip back the aerosol whipped cream can meant for Daddy’s ice cream sundaes and instead of a shot of sweet creamy goodness I think to myself, “Fuckin Googie,” as the can dripped white sugar soup onto my face, my younger brother already came through and sucked the gas out like a whippet. While making a mental note to tell on him later, I’d throw out all the leftovers stored in old margarine containers or wrapped in tin foil, then meticulously place each item back inside in a neat order that said, “please forgive me,” or “please let me.” I wasn’t getting caught as much as the boys, so I leaned often towards “please let me.” Somehow, whether they could afford to or not, I ran out of the house with a $20 in hand. Vaun started his restitution chore by removing the African Violet and Ivy plants from the tiny square landing halfway between our fourteen stairs. They basked in the glow of a sky light but due to their placement, sharp turns and sprinting the steps sent Not Me flying into the poor plants regularly. Half-assed cleaning also done by Not Me left an ever-present pile of dirt on the carpet that sneakers or bare feet ground into like Rick James at an afterparty. On any given day Tracy Joevaun McGill moonwalked to the busiest space of our house wearing his “Captain Save a Step” cape to seek a grand favor or graceful forgiveness from the Queen of Kingston Avenue. He knew his audience and rarely disappointed. Everyone in the house knew that he would always be forgiven, as he saw him worth forgiving. He chose to sweep with a broom instead of using the attachments on our new Hoover. He said it was because vacuums never always got everything, plus it made the carpet look neat. I remember how excited we were to get the new vacuum, because it wasn’t just for Mama, it was for us. I still get excited for a new vacuum, even though I don’t use it nearly as much as I should. Our family scientist created his own carpet cleaner from the arsenal of household supplies kept under the sink and above the washing machine. Mama's favorite smell was apples and cinnamon, so he made sure to pour only a tiny bit of the oil in the mix; too much would stain the carpet. His specialty was sparking forgiveness through acts of kindness and service, which upon his completion, we’d gather around as Mama melted into a puddle the moment she laid eyes on his work. Vaun is forgiven, harmony returns to the castle, and the three of us spend the calm trying to dodge our invisible sibling's petty attacks towards our character. The summer before my senior year I’d come home from working at the movie theater. Daddy called us to sit at the bottom of the stairs to tell us that someone murdered Vaun’s girlfriend and to be nice because he was coming home to stay with us. Be nice. He looked at me because I wasn’t always nice. I remember hoping he wasn’t involved and spiraled into my daydream of what to do if something bad happens. He came home subdued and because I didn’t know how to handle a sad older brother, I stayed out his way. I cocked my head in confusion watching him play Macy Gray and drink from a bottle of gin with red rimmed eyes. When he disappeared into my parents’ bedroom across the hall the urge to sit outside the door and listen as I’d done before never presented itself. For the first time in my seventeen years, the household investigative journalist minded her own business. I stayed in my bedroom and let my daydreams terrify me to a dreamless sleep. I woke up the next morning to the familiar whirr of the carpet cleaner. The broom stood in the corner of the landing and I bounded past Vaun who kneeled on all fours, scrubbing the square landing of the stairs. The African Violets and Ivy pots sat on the dining room table, temporarily safe from our fourth sibling and neither of us acknowledged each other as he scrubbed furiously at the carpet, a concoction of cleaner and Mama’s favorite smell of apples and cinnamon overpowering the secret in the air between us, screaming for help and forgiveness. I left him to his Restitution Chore hoping it was enough and not knowing until I returned home hours later that he'd cleaned our stairs for the last time.


“Whew!” Hank whipped out a hanky and mopped his glistening brow, squinting hard as the sun blazed overhead. “If this ain’t the hottest darn day...” He had just finished loading the last sack of provisions into the wagon. Bill Druthers, the General Store owner, was inspecting the mound of goods so he could tally up the bill. “That’s fer sure.” Bill agreed. “Can’t last too long, though. Way them clouds look we’re in for a squall come nightfall.” Hank lifted up his Stetson a bit, peering at the deep, dark clouds that were gathering over the distant mountains. “They’re getting ready to hit the war-path, alright. Fine with me! Anything’s better than this inferno.” Grunting in agreement, Bill turned toward the store. “Well, come on in and we’ll settle yer bill.” Spurs clinking and chaps swishing, Hank started to follow Bill inside, when movement down the street caught his eye. Pausing in the doorway of the General Store, Hank watched as three men strode out of the bar, evidently having indulged in some mid-day drinking--just enough to make them a little testy and more likely to do something rash. It was the McBaney brothers, dark hair, dark eyes, and even darker hearts. Hank couldn’t help glaring at them, his blue eyes narrowing as he gnawed on his lower lip. He had been in several tangles with the McBaneys. He couldn’t stand their bullying, cowardly ways, and somehow, they always managed to light his red-haired temper on fire. “You comin’ Hank?” Bill called from inside the store. Stepping inside, Hank kept one eye on the wagon to make sure everything stayed put. Couldn’t be too careful with those skunks around. Just as Hank was pocketing the receipt for the goods that he had bought he heard a commotion outside. Whirling around, he charged through the shop door, glancing hurriedly around him to see what was going on. Sure enough, it was the McBaneys, back at their bullying. An old man law sprawled on the ground at their feet. Evidently they had tripped him, and now Jep, the oldest brother, had one large boot planted on the old man’s back. In a flash Hank’s temper exploded, and he charged down the boardwalk at top speed. “Hey, you let him be!” The McBaneys snickered as they watched the lanky red-haired cowboy sprint towards them. “Take it easy, Hank. It’s no big deal.” Jep sneered. Jase, the middle brother, chimed in. “Just a little fun.” His lips curled back over his ugly yellow teeth in a sinister smile. Hank, however, didn’t waste any time talking. He had had enough of their cruelty. He reached Jep first, and it only took one quick jab to the chin to send the startled man reeling against the nearby wall. Jase was next in line, and in the blink of an eye Hank had grabbed a nearby chair and smashed it over his head. Joseph, the youngest, squealed as his older brother’s heavy figure crashed into his. “Hold up!” Hank froze. By this time, he had already spun back around towards Jep, and his elbow was halfway to crushing the bully’s face. “Leave us be!” Jep continued. “We didn’t mean no harm.” “Yeahhh...” Joe whined from underneath Jase. Hank was still raging mad, but at the same time he wanted nothing more than to see the backs of the McBaneys. “Fine...” He snarled, “But you better get out of here !” Too cowardly to fight even with the odds in their favor, the brothers were gone in a moment, and Hank turned his attention to the old man that had been knocked down. The man, a stranger to Hank, had turned himself over and was sitting on the boarded walkway. For a moment all Hank could do was stare at the man--there was something intriguing about him. Bushy, snow-white hair cascaded over his forehead, blending in with a thick mustache that draped lazily over his mouth. A blue checkered shirt was shoved into a pair of tawny brown pants--held up as high as they could possibly go by bright red suspenders. In every way he seemed to be just an ordinary old coot who wandered from one town to the next, coming from nowhere in particular and going nowhere in particular. Yet Hank was startled when, beneath the wild tangle of snowy hair, there sparkled a pair of shocking blue eyes. There was something captivating about them that the cowboy couldn’t quite put his finger on. Trying to shake of the strange feeling that had overtaken him, Hank knelt down and asked if the man was all right. “Jest fine!” Crinkling up in a smile, “Thank ye kindly, son. Folks like you are special--you remember that! If you’re kind to others, good will come to you.” Again, the man’s blue eyes twinkled merrily. Hank blinked. Why did this old geezer give him such a strange feeling? He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. “Shucks, it ain’t nothing. You wait here while I fetch my wagon and then I’ll take you wherever you’re wantin’ to go.” And, without giving the man a chance to answer, Hank scurried down the boardwalk to the wagon. Bill stepped out of the store when he saw Hank through the front window. “What was all the commotion about? You took off like a wet cat!” “Just some trouble with the McBaneys.” Hank replied. “They were messin’ with some old fellow--a stranger. I’m getting’ the wagon now to take him wherever he’s goin’.” Bill peered in the direction that Hank was gesturing towards. “What old man?” “Huh?!” Hank whirled around and gazed down the street. The mysterious old man had disappeared! “Well, I’ll be hickory smoked. Where’d the old coot get off to?” Bill shrugged, “Well, wherever he went, he must be okay. I wouldn’t worry too much about him. Tough old goats like that can handle anything.” As Hank drove out of town, he tried hard to catch a glimpse of the man, but he had vanished. Soon, however, he had put the incident out of his mind completely. He was headed back to the Circle G, where he worked, and once he delivered the supplies there would be plenty of work to do before the coming storm. Just as he was entering the ranch property, the sunlight hit something on the seat next to him. The glistening object caught his eye, and, keeping a firm hold of the reins with one hand, he picked it up to examine it. To his surprise, it was a gold locket--slightly tarnished with age, but still beautiful, and very intricately designed. “How in the world did this get here?” Hank thought, puzzled. Quickly stopping the horses so he could give his full attention to the discovered trinket, Hank’s fingers worked quickly to open the locket. Within seconds it had sprung open, and the red-haired young man was surprised to see a tiny slip of paper fall to his lap. Upon further examination, it appeared to be a map of some sort. Having lived in the area his whole life, it didn’t take long for Hank to realize that it represented a certain small canyon up in the nearby mountains. He had been there many times, having discovered the place while searching for a lost calf. It was a beautiful spot, shaded by lush green trees and carpeted by ferns and flowers. A waterfall, cascading down into the hidden gorge, settled into a gentle stream that flowed on to join a mighty river. The river was well known, as it was the main source of water for the town, but no one besides Hank had ever ventured very deep into the mountains. It was his secret place. “Well, what do you know...” The cowpoke breathed out in amazement. “Here I thought I was the only one who knew about that spot.” Suddenly his heart skipped a beat as he peered at the tiny map, worn and faded with age. A tiny X had been drawn on the map, and it appeared to be...under the waterfall? Hank had never explored behind it, so there could very well be something hidden there that he had not yet discovered. Practically boiling over with excitement, Hank tucked the map back into the locket and fastened the necklace securely in his shirt pocket. As soon as he could, he was going to find out what was behind that waterfall. * * * All of the work had been done for the evening, everything was secure from the coming rain, and the men were headed to the house for supper. Straggling behind the rest, Hank gazed up at the sky, watching the clouds move slowly towards the ranch. It only took him a moment to calculate how much time he had before the storm broke. He had a plan. “It might be cutting it close, but I’ll chance it.” The daring young fellow couldn’t wait to find out what the map led to. If he hurried, he could get to the spot, complete his search, and still make it back to the ranch before the clouds unleashed their full fury. Although the planned adventure had its appeal, so did supper. It wouldn’t do to set off on an expedition like this without some provisions! Dashing to the kitchen door, Hank knocked quickly. In a moment the door was opened by a young girl, small and blonde. Her blue eyes widened when she saw the grinning redhead standing outside the door. “What’re you doin’ here?” She whispered. “Why aren’t you in getting’ supper with the others?” “I’ve got somethin’ I need to tend to, Jenny!” Hank whispered back, still grinning. He liked Jenny a whole lot. In fact, he wanted to marry her once he had saved up enough money, if she was willing. “Would you mind just fetchin’ me a few biscuits or somethin’ to take with me?” Jenny’s brow puckered up with bewilderment. “Well, alright. Don’t know where you could be goin’ right before a thunderstorm, but it’s not for me to be stoppin’ you.” She moved quickly, worried that the boss’s wife would find her talking with her fellow when she was supposed to be getting supper. “Here y’ are.” Passing Hank a tied-up handkerchief filled with biscuits and jerky, Jenny shooed him on his way. “You’d best be getting’ out of here before the Missus walks in and finds us talking’.” “Thanks, Jenny.” Hank flashed one last grin in the girl’s direction before sprinting to the corral. Several of the horses clustered around the fence as Hank approached them. He was kind to them, and all of the animals trusted him. He had his eye on one in particular, though. “Come on Rocket, I need all the speed I can get this evening!” Hank and Rocket were soon dashing at break-neck speed across the prairie, across the river, and on to the mountains. Hanks’ eyes were fixed on one particular area. He knew that, hidden behind that ridge, was a hidden place--that apparently held more secrets that he had thought. * * * Shivering in the cold spray of the waterfall, Hank peered behind the rushing wall of water. Sure enough, a black hole gaped in the side of the natural wall. “I can’t believe it. If this ain’t the craziest darn thing!” Hank shook his head in disbelief. A distant crack of lightning reminded him that his time was limited, and he quickly squeezed behind the falls to inspect the dark crevasse. A match from his pocket supplied a bit of light, but it wasn’t enough to reveal much of the dark tunnel that lay ahead. Although the eerie void caused Hank to shiver a little in apprehension, he continued to creep slowly into the passageway. Withing a few feet the opening took a slight turn, and Hank was surprised to see a soft glow of light through an opening ahead. Hank wished his heart would stop beating so wildly in his chest. Something about the place made him feel like an intruder, and he barely dared to breath as he approached the dimly lit cavity beyond. What met his eyes caused his mouth to fall open in astonishment. A hidden room, lit only by a small stream of light coming through a tiny opening up above, was lined with green moss and ferns. The only sound was the gentle trickling of water that dripped down the walls of the cave, and the muted rumble of the waterfall outside. In the center of the room, two large, flat stones were laid side by side. Inching forward, Hank strained to read the words that were chiseled into them. One read “Mary Pickford, 1807 - 1872”. The other was inscribed with the words “Moses Pickford, 1804 - 1875”. Hank gulped, his eyes wide. These were gravestones. He was tempted to turn and hurry away from the dismal place, but suddenly his eye landed on a small metal box, slightly rusted, that lay between the two stones. Brushing aside a patch of ferns, Hank picked it up. It was intricately designed, like the locket, fastened shut by two clasps. Hank’s eyes shifted towards the two graves. Should he open the box? Regardless of the lingering apprehension that he felt, Hank’s curiosity was too great, and soon he had forced open the rusty clasps and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was an envelope, laying atop of a little burlap sack. Although the envelope was yellowed with age, it had been well preserved in the box. Gently opening it, the young man pulled out a folded piece of paper, along with a smaller square object. He unfolded the piece of paper first. It was a note, written in a clear but old-fashioned hand. Although there was barely enough light for him to see, he could just make out the contents of the note. To the Reader of this Note, Thanks for everything. You’re a special person. I know you will use the contents of this box wisely. Just remember this--if you are kind to others, good things will come to you. M. P. Hank fell back in shock, his hands shaking violently. Those were the exact words that the old man had said to him that very morning! It took a few moments for him to calm down, but his curiosity again got the better of him as his eye fell on the burlap sack that lay in the box. Still trembling slightly, he slowly opened the sack. To his amazement, the bag was filled to the brim with glimmering stones of gold! Had the this “Pickford” fellow really left this for someone to find? Hank could scarcely believe it. Then he remembered the other object that had been in the envelope--the small square piece of cardstock. It had some writing on it, although the handwriting was not the same as in the letter. All it said was: “ Mary and Moses, 1856 ” Flipping the card over, Hank realized that it was, in fact, a faded picture of a man and woman. She was a lovely-looking lady of about fifty years old, with dark hair (streaked with gray) and dark eyes. She had a sweet, pleasant expression, one that revealed a tender heart and a kind spirit. The man, slightly older, had a bushy shock of white hair on top of his face. His clean-shaven face was crinkled up in a smile. It was that smile that stopped Hank’s heart cold. If he had been stunned before, he was doubly shocked now. Even in the black-and-white photograph he recognized that grin, and those eyes...twinkling like diamonds. The events of the day flashed through Hank’s mind. The old man with the startling eyes and crinkly smile...the locket that mysteriously appeared on the wagon seat...those words... “If you are kind to others, good will come to you.” That phrase echoed over and over through his brain. Was this a dream? It had to be. But it seemed so real... Crack! The entire cave lit up as lightning flashed through the small opening up above, and Hank jumped, startled. How long had he been there? As quickly as the cavern lit up, it plunged into deeper darkness as the sky outside blackened. He needed to leave--right away. Pausing, Hank was unsure what to do. Should he...? No. It wouldn’t be right. Lighting another match so he could see what he was doing, he started to tuck the letter and photograph back into their envelope, when he caught one last glimpse of the old man’s face. Those glistening eyes, and kind smile. Again, the man’s words reverberated through Hank’s mind. “If you are kind to others, good will come to you.” Suddenly, he felt less afraid. He slid the envelope and locket back into the box, picked up the sack of gold, and hurried out of the cave. Soon he and Rocket were racing the storm back across the prairie. Glancing over his shoulder, Hank’s mind swirled with questions...questions that would never be answered. * * * Within a year Hank and Jenny were married, and he had started a ranch of his own. He hadn't told her, or his friend Bill Druthers, about what had happened. Maybe he would one day, but how could he explain what he himself couldn't understand? For now it would remain his secret...shared only with the mysterious blue-eyed stranger with the crinkly smile.


If I had not been struck in the head by a baseball during the Yankees game and got knocked clean out, none of this would have ever happened. I thought it ironic that there was an art display of jaguars in the lobby, because jaguars are solitary hunters who live alone in their own bounded territories. They blend into their surroundings. They prefer the cover of night. They are rulers of a little space. I feel nothing as I head into the MetLife Building to see the Human Resources Director. Walking through the revolving doors. No clammy hands. Passing the white and black jaguar statues displayed on stands in the marble lobby. No flutters in the stomach. I’d heard of this--some avant-garde project called “Jaguar Parade”--a deeply ironic concept. Taking the elevator to the 30th floor. Heart rate is steady. I announce myself at reception. I take a seat. No restlessness or sense of space closing in. I get up when called. I walk in. I sit down. I am troubled by my inability to register a reaction because my job is everything to me. In fifteen years here, Jamie and I have never met. Jamie has beautiful blonde hair and a friendly face, below which she wears a crisp white blazer, pearl necklace, black blouse, and blue slacks with a Tory Burch gold cross belt. There are signed baseballs secured in UV-protected glass display cases on the credenza. Framed pictures of Jamie with different co-workers and her boss from various company events hang on the wall behind her desk. A family photo of her and her husband with their kid Miles at Disneyworld sits on a side table. Cute kid. A large family photo taken at a First Communion too. Her diplomas from college and grad school hang on the side lefthand wall. “How do I make you feel?” Jamie asks, “are you nervous?” with a silvery voice that wobbles over the words ‘feel’ and ‘nervous.’ “Not really,” I say. “Of course, it is your condition... the--" “--Alexithymia,” I interject, knowing no one can pronounce uh-lek-suh- thai -mee-uh. “Right, that,” she says, giving a knowing nod and continuing, “that’s kind of what I want to talk to you about.” Jamie points as she says ‘right,’ and turns her head dramatically to the left side to think before continuing. You should probably know what Alexithymia is. Internally, I am a blank. Any expression of emotion feels fake. Smiling feels like reciting words in a foreign language. I learned to do it. By rote. But it is just a learned response. When someone gives me a hug, I feel nothing. At Christmas, when gifts are being opened and everyone is upbeat and jolly, I have to smile, laugh, and act cheerful. I feel like I am lying. Acting. Which I am. So it is a lie. We all have an innate desire to find connection. Except me. We need others. Thirst for belonging. I don’t. We seek fraternity. Search for intimacy. But I am no joiner. No pack animal. Isolation is my safe place. I am at home in solitude. “Ok. Shoot,” I tell her, a bit bored. “Well, Alex, the ith-mee-uh- thingy and all, that is part of the reason we thought you’d be such a great fit at the YES Network. We were right. You are one of our best cameramen. You are punctual. [counting off on her fingers] Diligent. Talented. You are a great employee, and your work is top-notch. But some people have gotten concerned.” “Because they saw my arm when I gave the thumbs up while being hauled off on a stretcher across the infield?” I help her. “Right. Can I see your arm?” Jamie asks. I hold out my arm to reveal a series of deep cuts forming a tic-tac-toe pattern on the underside of my forearm. “There,” Jamie says with hand to mouth, “that’s not normal, and it was televised--which makes me responsible to take some kind of action . Do you know why I feel that I have to do that?” “I understand,” I say. “I’m genuinely concerned for your well-being Alex,” Jamie says, changing her facial expression in such a way that I am meant to know that this is Jamie “the person” talking and not “the H.R. Director” talking. Then she says, “It isn’t normal. And even though you are a little different, I still have to take some kind of action --for your sake-- or I’d be accused of neglect of my responsibilities . For starters, I’m giving you a week’s suspension, with pay.” She pauses, chewing on her finger, which I know is a self-soothing technique to diffuse tension--something I’ve learned in therapy but haven’t experienced myself. “I’ve been really thinking about it, and what I think would make a lot of sense for you is to make a real human connection,” Jamie says, and continues, “at first, I was going to recommend a psychologist--but, I guess, with your condition, that could be a lot like a blind man trying to analyze a Picasso--so I thought, maybe a girlfriend would be good for you... and, uh, brighten things up!” Her cheeks round and blush to show she is satisfied with the idea. “If that is what you want,” I tell her. Though I feel nothing, I do want to keep my job. I think that I should be feeling something , with my entire identity at stake, not to mention my livelihood . I think of a starving jaguar at the end of its reserves perched in a tree branch about to pounce on a virgin opossum, which is suddenly playing dead. I imagine the regal jaguar, with its life at stake and all the power in its fearsome limbs draining away--feeling completely neutral and being present in the task of the moment--detached from the life and death stakes inherent in the encounter. Isn’t this detachment necessary to the jaguar’s primacy and dominance over its jungle habitat? “I have made the arrangements. You are to see Neve.ai, she is a Ukrainian-American-modeled dating coach with her own company, ‘The Human Touch.’ She is down at 302 W. 45th Street, right next to the Off-Broadway Production of Moulin Rouge,” Jamie commands. It is just a quick ten-minute walk to the West Side of the City. * * * As I stroll westward along 45th Street with the card for my AI dating-coach in hand, I cross 5th Avenue and then Broadway. A string of inviting pubs, like Connolly’s, dominate the scene. Signs for “The Book of Mormon” and “The Lion King” dangle from lamp posts as I approach Times Square, the very center of humanity. I log into “The Human Touch Dating App” as I continue on my way, swiftly creating an account and a dating profile. My chosen avatar? Spock from Star Trek. My tagline quote: “Emotions are alien to me. I am a scientist.” What I’m looking for? The lyrics come to mind, and I go with it: “Logically, I just want someone to talk to and a little of that...” but omit the phrase ‘human touch’ intentionally. I immediately select my favorite profile out of the first five I scroll through on Neve’s site. Arashi Isoarashi. 5’2”, Japanese American translator at the United Nations, bilingual, loves Karaoke Bars and puzzles, and has a closet online Scrabble addiction. Her chosen avatar? Hermione Granger. Her tagline quote: “One person can’t feel all that at once, they’d explode.” What she’s looking for: “Someone to break the rules with.” Perfect. Swipe right. Done. Walking through the gated wrought iron fence and the red formerly-church-doors of “The Human Touch,” I look to my left and right noticing this odd curiosity is nestled between the front of house entrance for Moulin Rouge and the velvet ropes and red carpet leading into Flash Dancers Gentlemen’s Club. I am beckoned in by an upbeat voice with a singsong tone that whistles over the consonants and hums at the end of a thought. “Right this wayy,” the voice says. I step into a waiting room with white walls covered in a floral scene composed of every different kind of leaf, arranged geometrically in a fascinating pattern of greens, yellows, oranges, blues, and purples. Beyond that a long hallway arch. Train tracks drawn on the floor beneath. The hall is in the shape of an arbor but depicts a Ukrainian train tunnel in autumn with leaves of various autumnal hues covering every inch. Looks like a portrait of a real place. The butler robot “Mavka” greets me and says, “Neve is ready for you now. I will take you back to her presentlyy. Would you like a beverage--some tea or coffee--before you go to see herr?” I decline. The robot is about five-feet-tall and has long green hair and yellow eyes and bears the white frame of a girl with tuxedoed lapels, and scoots around on wheels like those on a boosted scooter. The yellow eyes blink with white lashed eyelids, the small pink lips move, and she has a bowtie and an actual tray in one hand, seemingly for serving beverages. “Very well, be my guest and let’s goo.” Walking back through the Ukrainian train tunnel, with the words “Tunnel of Love” written on the crown of the arch, we arrive at Neve’s office. Neve is a Slavic lamia who sits, slender, toned legs crossed, tapping her fingers on her glass desk with a chrome “N” base. She swivels and shoots me a sideward glance--a sly Delphic glance--holding a secret in escrow. Neve is fair-skinned with freckled cheeks that frame her pawky green-hazel eyes, and her chic raven-like hair draws the eyes to her powerful and prominent collar bones. She wears a one-piece v-neck floral mini-dress exposing plump breasts that look real and firm. It is a white traditional Ukrainian Vyshyvanka with bright multi-colored flowered embroidery. “How do I make you feel,” Neve, my AI dating-coach, asks--but it isn’t a rhetorical question. “I am incapable of feelings,” I tell her. She bites the right side of her lip and crinkles her right brow, closing the eye and cocking her head in an expression of disgust, then looks back with a mock smile. “It’s sad you so detached from your emotions--” “--It’s not detachment. I lack them entirely,” I interrupt. “That so,” she says, “then how you explain this--” and she waves her hand in the air and like magic the one wall reveals a seventy-inch wall-to-wall screen with a picture of Arashi Isoarashi. “She matches 48 out of 50 of my responses on the compatibility profile,” I tell her, lying. This draws a huge shit-eating grin from Neve. “Bullshit!” she says, “you answer ‘c’ to all question on personality profile, fill-in in 35 seconds between 5th and Broadway--and Arashi no fill out.” She’s got me there. I guess my quick-witted efforts at deflection are less effective with AI. “What you liking ‘bout dis girl,” she asks, “you pick her 1-out-of-5, twenty percent chance, no is random--why her?” “Just picked her at random,” I say. “I am woman doesn’t like to be denied. Don’t play with me. Why you no humor my perspwective,” she says. I’m beginning to feel like I am I a psychotherapy session with someone as tone-deaf to my way of seeing the world as I am to human emotions. “What,” I say. “You lie. You are liar. You lie yourself, mal’chik. I know exactly what feel. You lonely. You feel this loneliness, malyish. Maybe you don’t call dis. But you feel same. Because this why you take compatibility test, this why you talk me, because Arashi can be cure. And you don’t have a clue how approach this date,” she says. “Date,” I say, “what date? I didn’t sign up for a date, I just selected her and swiped right,” I tell her. “You no pay attention details, mal’chik. You no read fine print. You slipping, malyish. Once you select match, I plan for date. Date is tonight.” She looks at her gold square Cartier Tank wristwatch. “You have two hours for planning dis date.” I notice my heart rate increasing and my blood pressure rising. One thing that gets a reaction out of me is a surprise. “Ok, hot shot. Nice try, but there is some missing information you aren’t privy to. They noticed at work that I had some cuts on my arm, and Human Resources got involved. The YES Network can’t have a cameraman out at the games with a tic-tac-toe board on his forearm, so they ordered me to get help. It isn’t because I’m lonely,” I clarify. “Wrong again, Einstein. Tic-tac-toe board ma’it as well be tattoo of the word “loneliness.” Besides, numbers can quantify probability, but relationship is unpredectable. One quote calls it “religion with a fallible god.” Me and Dr. Isaac perfect example. We watching “The Twilight Zone” episode “The Lonely - Can You Feel Pain,” about lonely, insecure man that falls in love with robot woman, who believes is mocking hem. Ironic, don’t you think? But science fiction for me is dry. Isaac loves it! He eats et up! And when have our Netflix and chill nights together, I eat et up that he eats et up. It one of my favorite thing ‘bout him. He sees awe and wonder in things that I don’t see et--and I see this through his eyes--and appreciate that I not overwhise take time to look at. As a Rabbinical scholar with doctorate Hebrew Studies, he tell struggling student with faith that “there is no sacrifice like heartbreak” or “one does not complain about evil, but add justice.” Beautiful, no? Isaac sees skepticism of student as begin story that God allow pain--pain of feeling shut out and abandoned--so better prepare way for reward of adoption, and belonging God’s people. Isaac’s religion idea sound like romance to me. Maybe God made me logical, I can better see dese things I lacking through Isaac. Allowing me get lost in his world.” I try to process the idea of Neve with a human boyfriend, a Rabbi no less, but this is going to take a while, and I store it away for when I have sufficient time to contemplate this weirdness. She paused for a moment. Then, after some thought she asked, “Tell me, Alex, where you want take Arashi on your date?” “Isn’t that the question of the hour!” I say. “She mentioned liking karaoke, so I was thinking of maybe taking her to a karaoke joint in K-Town.” “This is good. Doing someting she like, rather than someting you like. My, my Alex, I’m impressed. You must be really vibing on this girl, sounds like you are really swinging for the fences, babe! Here my number. Text me if problem, now scat,” she says. * * * Walking into Ms. Kim’s with the red brick walls and mosaic tile floors and the mood lighting, looking for Arashi, I am totally out of place. I actually feel myself breathing heavy. A DJ with headphones is behind the wooden DJ booth facing out toward the floor to ceiling windows at the lit Empire State Building, in red-white-and-blue for July--a banner against the purple clouds of the hazy summer night. The DJ is blasting “Empire State of Mind,” by Jay-Z and Rihanna and twenty-somethings at the window tables are on their iPhones documenting their night out, before their parties arrive to go and get hammered singing karaoke. There’s nothin’ you can’t do, now you’re in New York, these streets will make you feel brand-new, big lights will inspire you, let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York... Before the hostess can ask my name, Arashi struts over from the bar and says, “you must be Alex!” “I am,” I say. “And you must be Arashi Isoarashi--50 storms, right?” “The Ikarashi River is the home of Swan Park in Niigata. Swans come in November to mate in the frozen lakes beneath the snowcapped mountains. It is a very secluded place, I think you like visit this place,” she says. “Very nice to meet you--I think I would,” I tell her. “Come, come. Our room is ready, now we sing,” she says. And I already feel like I am in the 50 storms and not the secluded swan mating reserve in a remote northland village. The room is smaller than I imagine. Not much bigger than a booth at a theme restaurant. Just a small table, two mics, and a video screen. Our Korean hostess, Zoey Kim, gives us some brief instructions and leaves. Before I have time to process what is happening a song comes on and Arashi goes in on “Sweet Caroline,” perhaps the most predictable Karaoke song of all time. Where it began, I can't begin to knowing But then I know it's growing strong Was in the spring [“You gonna join in here dude,” she says, and I start singing along with a strained grin] And spring became the summer Who'd have believed you'd come along Hands, touching hands Reaching out, touching me, touching you [then both of us shout... in unison... but not quite in unison to the bouncing ball on the monitor] Sweet Caroline Good times never seemed so good I've been inclined To believe they never would But now I... bump, bum, bum We go on like that until the end of the song. I let out a deep belly laugh. Didn’t know I had it in me. And the two of us smile at one another. I am not quite sure why I am smiling. But I know that I am having fun. Arashi turns to me and asks, “How do I make you feel?” “You already did,” I tell her.


It was a Tuesday afternoon when Lila, our new Pilates instructor, walked into the gym with a ghost from my past behind her. I stood behind the gym’s counter, wiping sweat from my forehead after my afternoon strength training, and flashed my most dazzling smile. My face froze when I noticed the girl with brown skin and thick-rimmed glasses behind her. Nina Suárez. Lila waved and the corners of Nina’s mouth quirked upward in a polite acknowledgement of my presence, but her eyes did not light up, her smile did not widen. She followed behind Lila to the wood floor classroom, tossing her thick hair over her shoulder. She didn’t recognize me. But no one from high school would recognize me now, unless they were my friend on social media. The scrawny class president with glasses and terrible haircut was long gone. I busied myself with wiping down the gym equipment, trying to ignore the strange feeling in my chest as the bass of cheerful pop music leaked through the doors. Eventually, the class ended, and the two women approached the desk. I strode over, tossing a towel over my shoulder. “Good class?” “Hi, Archie. Yeah, lots of good energy today,” said Lila. “Can you log my timesheet?” “No problem.” I stepped behind the desk and clicked around the computer, shooting a glance past Lila’s shoulder. “Hey, Nina Suárez. Long time no see.” I had always called her by her first and last name in high school, ever since we were partners for a project in AP history class our sophomore year. She pushed her glasses up her sweaty nose as her eyes grew wide. “Archibald Greene?” I placed my forearms on the counter, adopting a pose of ease even as my heartbeat increased. “The one and only. You’re back in town?” She adjusted her gym bag, giving me time to admire her post-workout glow. “Yeah. Lila’s my roommate. She convinced me to try her class. What she did not tell me was that I wouldn’t be able to feel my legs after. Or arms.” She glowered at Lila, who shrugged. “You’ll thank me later!” Lila waved and headed out the door, her blonde ponytail swinging with every step. The gym was quiet, so I kept the conversation rolling. “What are you up to nowadays?” “I just bought the sweetest little bookstore. I’m opening in a few weeks.” “I’ll have to stop by.” She grinned. “And you? You’re working here?” “Yeah. My buddy Nate owns the place. I teach bootcamp classes.” Her eyes flicked to the black and white photos behind the counter, a collection of the staff and their fitness accolades. “Hang on, is that you?” She stared at the photo of me in board shorts, flexing on a stage and wearing a medal. “Men’s physique champ of 2019.” “What’s that?” “A bodybuilding competition. It’s for guys who don’t want to go full Arnold in their training.” “Wow.” “It’s good exercise.” She ran her eyes over my arms, the fabric of my T-shirt pulled tightly against my biceps. “Clearly.” Then she blushed and pulled out her phone. Before I could ask if she wanted to grab dinner this weekend, she was leaving. “Sorry, I’m running late. I’m meeting my contractor soon. I’ll see you later.” I watched her walk out into the sunny parking lot, passing under palm trees, and wondered why my limbs felt so tingly. # If there was one thing that I learned in college, it was that girls didn’t like nerds. They liked guys with big muscles who could toss them around the bedroom, even if I still felt like the quiet, studious kid from high school. I also learned that with the right tricks and confidence, I could pull any girl I wanted. The next time I saw Nina’s name pop up on the pre-registrations for Pilates, I made sure I was in position. I did my warmup, stretching thoroughly. I was going for a new personal best on my Olympic lift today, a classic ploy to impress. I waited until 3:50, knowing that Nina and Lila would be the last two to leave class, then called Nate over to be my spotter. A bunch of people paused their workouts to watch. With the small crowd at my back, I concentrated on my form. I envisioned my success as my hands wrapped around the metal bar. I lifted, clenching my core. The weights soared, my quads screamed as I held the bar over my head in my squat position, then forced myself to stand upright, completing the clean. Grunting with effort, I let the 270-pound barbell fall to the ground where it hit the rubber turf with a clang. Nate whooped, and the rest of my audience cheered. I looked past them and saw Nina at the counter. She smiled as she shook her head, then walked out of the gym. Since she was unmoved by my performance, I tried other tactics. I brought Nina protein shakes, gave her a free class pass (which she politely refused), and finally resorted to asking Lila about her. She was single, but other than that I didn’t get more than “she’s really busy getting ready to open her store.” I begged Lila to ask Nina about me. She rolled her eyes. “You know her better than I do. Maybe try doing something she likes.” Then she waltzed into the classroom, leaving me to spiral behind the desk. # Two weeks went by, and when Nina still hadn’t accepted my friend request on Instagram, I knew I had to do something drastic. So, when I saw her name on the list for Pilates, I clicked my name into the roster and sealed my fate, taking Lila’s advice. I spread one of the gym’s yoga mats next to Nina and sat down. She raised an eyebrow at me. “Trying something new today, Archibald Greene?” “Thought I would give it a whirl.” She smirked. “Too bad all those muscles can’t save you from the pain you’re about to endure.” I could handle a few mat exercises. At Lila’s instruction, I grabbed a pair of measly eight-pound dumbbells and strapped on some ankle weights, loading them up fully and ignoring her recommendation to go lighter for my first class. To my chagrin, it turned out that Pilates is really fucking hard. Fifteen minutes into class, I was sweating so much I had to keep wiping down my mat. I made a mental note to make Nate buy the nice, grippy kind that Nina had brought with her. She didn’t slide around hers at all. We also didn’t drop our weights once, and soon those eight-pound weights felt like sixty. After our warm-up, we moved to the reformers, machines that looked suspiciously like medieval torture racks. I lay down on my sliding platform and grabbed the straps. Halfway through class, we held our feet in the hair in a boat pose, pulsing our arms up and down at our sides. The amount of shaking that was happening throughout my torso could have registered on the Richter scale. I dared to look at Nina, who was perfectly at ease in her pose, though her hair was plastered adorably to her forehead with sweat. She caught my eye and pinched her lips together, stifling a laugh. “We’re coming into our final set here, folks,” chirped Lila with eight minutes left of class. “Remember, breath to movement!” She took her place on her own reformer. “If you would like to level up, I invite you to join me in some advanced technique.” She placed her hands behind her head and stuck one foot onto the sliding platform, bracing the other against the wooden structure. “Who’s ready to burn their legs?” The class chuckled. Some did not opt for the advanced forms, but I was no quitter. I stuck my foot onto the slider and braced my hands behind my head, noting that Nina did the same. With the strength of her legs, Lila demonstrated how to glide the platform out a few inches until she was doing a sort of split, then slid in again. Every inch of me was slick with sweat. I inhaled deeply, trying to focus. If I could get through this class, then Nina had to talk to me again. This time I would ask her out. I inched the slider forward ever so slightly, but my foot shot forward off the platform, greased up from my own perspiration, and I blacked out as pain ripped through my quad. # Back out in the lobby, Nina sat with me as I clutched an ice pack to my thigh. The triumph of talking to her again was buried under waves of pain and embarrassment. Nate clapped me on the shoulder as he walked by with his car keys. We were headed straight for the walk-in clinic. “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” asked Nina, placing a water bottle on the table in front of me and tucking a book back into her gym bag. “Nah, I’ll be fine,” I winced. “I thought power lifters knew ego is the enemy.” “You’re confusing me with a smart power lifter. I am a dumb bodybuilder. One who is desperately trying to impress a girl he likes.” Jesus. What was I saying? The pain was making my tongue loose. My thoughts were hazy. I gulped from the icy-cold water bottle, hoping it would help clear my head. Nina smiled sadly. “Maybe next time you could try talking to Lila like a sane person instead of showing off in her class.” “Wait, what?” A numbness that had nothing to do with the cold water settled in my gut. “If you just asked her out, you’d save yourself all this trouble.” “Did you say ‘Lila’?” “And good for you, she’s always liked the brawny ones. I still prefer more intellectual types, but it’s obvious you’re obsessed with her.” I scrubbed my free hand over my face. “Nina Suárez.” “Archibald Greene,” she deadpanned, like she hadn’t said the craziest thing I’d heard in my life. “I don’t like Lila.” Suddenly my face was hot, and I felt sixteen again, full of self-conscious nerves. Nina squinted at me, then her mouth fell open. “Oh.” At that moment, Nate hollered at me to get a move on. Nina held the door open for me as I limped outside, embarrassment turning my insides to acid. # In the walk-in clinic, Nate asked me what the hell I’d been thinking, and I told him the whole story. How I had always had a crush on Nina, and almost asked her to prom then chickened out. How this was my last chance at dating her, and I was completely fucking it up. My mood did not improve when I heard I’d be on crutches for a month. I took a week off, stewing in what Nina had said about preferring the more intellectual types. I had shoved that part of my identity away, burying it under whey and weights. It had worked so far. Hadn’t it? Laying on the couch and feeling sorry for myself, I flipped through Instagram. I saw a post from Nina, who’d finally accepted my request. Tonight was the grand opening of her romance-themed bookstore. With a burst of resolve, I dragged myself off the couch to make myself presentable. The bookstore swarmed with people. I maneuvered through them clumsily and grabbed a book off the shelf before limping over to where she stood behind the register, glowing with pride. She raised an eyebrow at me as her face split into a grin. “Interesting choice.” I glanced at the cover: a buff hockey player and a petite figure skater on an ice rink. “Is it any good?” “Yes, once the guy stops posturing and asks the girl of his dreams out.” I smiled as warmth spread through me. “Nina Suárez. Will you go out with me?”


The Perfect Band I was tasked with making a story about three random items. They were a pedalboard, hair follicles, and silicon dioxide. The Perfect Band I have an odd story to tell. This happened during my second year of college during a rebellious faze in my life. One night I was with a buddy, whom I didn’t know very well but would hang out with on occasion. We were having a few drinks in his dorm and we began to talk about different kinds of music we enjoyed. We both agreed grunge and 90s rock was both in our taste. He mentioned that he always wanted to put together the perfect band and tour the world, becoming a sensation. I didn’t realize once we got to this point in the conversation things were going to get...weird. “Let me show you something.” My friend said as he crouched down and retrieved something from under his bed. He tossed what looked like a huge piece of junk on his bed. I wasn’t a music specialist in the least, but could tell it was some sort of homemade pedalboard. It was about the size and shape as one of those old school Ataris and looked older than dirt. “Oh this thing?” I said trying to take interest in it. Upon closer inspection the pedals on the board were marked with some weird letters. One was ‘O’, ‘N’, ‘H’, and ‘C’. There were also smaller pedals with many other letters scribbled on them which seemed to be unreadable. My friend seemed to be impressed with himself. “You see man this is how I’m going to make my band a reality. Forget this school stuff.” I kept focusing on those big letters. I knew I had seen them before. Then the biology major in me realized it. “Hydrogen, Carbon, Oxygen, and Nitrogen”, I said pointing out the pedals. He smiled and laughed. “That’s right my man. The main four elements that make up the human body.” He leaned in closer toward me as if he couldn’t wait to explain. “I just need some bodies dice them up and use this pedalboard to make the perfect band mates.” At this point he didn’t seem to be joking anymore. I backed up toward the door a few feet, trying to laugh it off. “Oh man that’s really cool. So um what’s that pedal?” I pointed out a smaller pedal that had the letters ‘SD’. He looked down at the board and chuckled as if I asked a dumb question. “You know man. Silicone Dioxide. I can’t have the band mates thinking too much man so I put that stuff in their head instead of them having a brain. They don’t want any of the glory. It’ll be all mine.” I was very concerned now as he was describing this sick dream of his. I quickly turned my body and grabbed the door handle. He grabbed the back of my shirt and tried to pull me back into the dorm. “Where you going my dude?” He said as he used his other hand to hold the door shut. I pushed my elbow back hitting him in the nose. Once I made contact I was able to pull the door open. He made one final attempt to pull me in by grabbing at me. He was able to clutch my hair and pull a large wad of follicles from my scalp. I got out of there nevertheless and slammed the door behind me. I ran all the way back to my car got in and just drove. Not feeling safe I went to my parents house to stay the night. The next morning I had a text message on my phone from him. It just said ‘Ditching this school thing. You’ll never hear from me again.’ That was eight years ago. Now may daughter is thirteen years old and she was begging me to buy her tickets to a concert she HAD to go to. Naturally I did a little research of the artist. It was a three person band consisting of a drummer and two guitarists. I watched a few interviews of the band on YouTube and oddly enough only the lead singer speaks in every single one I found. It sounds crazy but I think that’s him. He looks completely different now though. His hair, eyes, the way he talks it’s all changed but I know it is. The other members just stand there playing their instruments. They dint speak they don’t do anything else. They have a soulless dead look in their eyes. Oh and their eyes....are the same color as mine.


Once upon a time, in an age before clocks, there lived an octopus named Shteev. In her youth, she had been part of a cruel experiment that left four of her tentacles useless while making the remaining four more robust, and so from that time on hid her worthless appendages under a top hat she wore each day. Fearing further underwater experiments, she made her dwelling on land rather than in the sea through the use of a special snorkel and a strict diet of fermented egg yolk. Unsure of her new life, Shteev decided to look for a job to give some stability to her otherwise tumultuous existence. Her rather odd appearance, however, ruined any chances of landing a decent career. With nowhere else to turn, she put all her effort into a desperate attempt to get a job at a jellybean factory. Her hard work paid off, and she was employed as a behind-the-scenes jellybean taster so as to not scare the other workers. Once she tasted the vomit-flavored jellybean, though, her whole life came crashing down. The specific chemical composition of that particular flavor activated something long-dormant left over from the days of the experiment, and her kindness and compassion were instantly overwritten by cruelty and malice. In accordance to her programming, she slaughtered all the landfolk with her bare tentacles, dumped all the jellybeans into the sea, then took off her top hat and hung herself using her limp appendages as rope.


I scanned the crowd and saw her. She didn’t blend in with anyone at that party, but that’s part of what made her so mesmerizing. It was mostly boys that she got stares from, they noticed how close her breasts were to fall out of her red tank top. But when I looked at her, I saw her perfectly curled hair falling so gently on her freckled shoulders. I noticed how her smile seems contagious to anyone she’s near. I noticed the faint scar on her upper left arm, and think of the bike accident from fourth grade. Her hand on my shoulder interrupted my internal monologue, “Hey!” she shouted. “What’s up?” I attempted to yell over the music, but my voice was drowned out by the hundred-something teenagers screaming nonsense at each other. She waved her hand, motioning for me to follow her. She grabbed my hand as we slithered through the crowd of sweaty bodies, trying to find a pocket of quieter air. I watched all the jock boys stare her down, absorbing every last second of the view that they could before she disappeared back into the sea of stench. Eventually, we made it to the bathroom. She locked the door and let out a loud sigh while playing with her hair in the mirror. “I’m happy you came tonight,” she grinned, “you make shit like this better”. I just laughed and stared down at the broken tile floor, covered with empty beer cans. “I mean it! I really like hanging out with you Mya,” she said as she plopped herself beside me on the edge of the bathtub. I smirked and continued to stare at the floor scared of what would happen if I looked up. “Yeah, I like hanging out with you too, Case”. Her neatly painted blue fingernails lightly scratched along my thigh, then moved up towards my face. She turned my face towards hers, and as I stared into her hazy green eyes I couldn’t help but smile. “Case,” I started, but before I could finish my thought, her lips were on mine. The familiar taste of vodka filled my mouth, and with the number of times we’ve done this, the taste alone makes my brain spin out of control. She pulled away for just a moment, giving herself enough time to pull the pills out of her pocket and wash them down her throat with more vodka. I pulled away. “You know it scares me when you do that, especially because of what they did to you last summer” She rolled her eyes playfully as she grabbed my hand, pulling me off the edge of the tub and towards the door. She blindly unlocked the door with one hand as the other caressed my face. The door swung open as we melted into the sweaty hallway once again. We trailed along the side of the hallway with our hands against the wall, feeling around for the next door handle. The next room we found was a bedroom, and before I had a second to think she pushed me onto the edge of the bed. She climbed on top of my lap and started kissing my neck. I fell onto my back, letting her soft curls dance around my face and neck, and she kissed me deeper and deeper. I pushed her hips off of me to stop her, “Case I’m sorry but I told you I can’t do this anymore.” “But you like this, you know you do, and nobody needs to know.” she tried to lean in again. “No that’s just it. No one knows we do this. Last summer when you were in the hospital, I couldn’t come to see you, because your parents don’t know who I am. MY parents don’t know who I am. Do you understand how hard it was to sit back and do nothing, alone? Not being able to see someone I love?” “Mya c'mon I love you, you know I do.” “I- I can’t Case.” I turned my head away from her as I stood up off the bed. I quickly scrambled to the door so that she wouldn’t try to convince me to stay. I took a deep breath before I whipped open the door, letting the music and stench surround me once again. I struggled to get to the front door, stumbling over passed-out bodies and empty bottles on the way. I hopped on my bike and started down the dimly lit road. I was probably 20 minutes out when I realized *fuck.* My phone. I turned my bike around and headed back to the house party. The road seemed a little less blurry now. My mind wandered. Thinking about Casey, about us, and if I made the right choice in leaving. Flashes of red, white, and blue snapped me back into reality. Groups of drunk slobs wandered out of the house and into the street, leaving me to swerve around them, dragging out my trip even more. My heart sank when I saw a stretcher being carried down the front steps of the house. My feet couldn’t pedal fast enough as I watched the paramedics lift a body into the ambulance. I got stuck on the outside of the crowd and threw my bike to the ground. I pushed through to the front of the audience, and my heart sank. My eyes filling with tears as I saw the blue, neatly painted fingernails, hanging lifelessly off the edge of the stretcher.