Silence Is Golden The waiter asked, “Would you care for more wine, Sir?” He smiled and waited for my response. I nodded and looked around the restaurant. I lifted my wine glass. The waiter took it from me, poured the Riesling into my glass then handed it back to me. I smiled and nodded to imply a thank you. The waiter grinned and left my table. I wiped the bottom of the glass with a napkin and placed it in front of me next to the glass of ice water. I was sitting alone in a room full of people at a restaurant that seemed to be designed for couples. I felt out of place but enjoyed myself, nevertheless. I never had a problem eating or drinking alone. Solitude became something I cherished in a busy day of people asking me questions and wanting this and that. It was nice to have companionship, but I'd become used to sitting and watching people talk, laugh and even cry when they were with someone. Being with someone is usually nice as long as you can manage to keep your individuality. Stored like something in a shoe box hidden under the bed or placed high on shelf in a closet. You could bring it out whenever you want someone to show more pieces of you. Needless to say, I needed a very, very large shoe box. I was trying to get myself back from a mental trip I’ve taken for a year or so. Being with someone that was very needy was exhausting. I never minded helping someone, and probably still would, not hesitate to stop listen and do whatever I can to help somebody I care about. This time was different, though. I was strong enough to take on the situation but not smart enough to realize that it would take more than strength to get where we needed to go. It would take respect and that would have to come from both of us. I did my part. I got tired of waiting for mine to arrive. I felt used, angry, sad and thirsty. I looked at the glass of wine and it was almost gone already. I’ve sipped it without tasting the great taste. I couldn’t seem to taste anything but that bad, bitter taste I had from the relationship that ended a couple of months ago. I looked around to find the waiter but noticed someone entering the restaurant with some guy whom I didn’t recognize. She looked as I remembered. Tall, chestnut-colored hair, slim and elegant. Her shoulders didn’t seem quite as stiff as they once were, however. The weight of the world seemed to be lifted from her. She walked with poise and her feet looked to move across the floor lighter and balanced. Her heels always made her legs and everything above seem very sexy and inviting. Her smile and beautiful brown eyes were the things that captured me some years ago. Her intelligence and integrity held me hostage. Then, her generosity is what set me free to do what I had to do in a place I had to be. Memories flooded my mind like a dam breaking from an anxious river looking for a place to flow. She caught me staring at her and stopped in her path. She didn’t say hello but her eyes gave me the once over and she grinned with approval. I think my mouth was open because my throat felt really dry and the wine glass in my hand was still empty. I placed the glass on the table and leaned back. She and some guy sat at an adjoining table. The man's back was in front of me as she sat across from him. I moved my chair a bit to the right so I could see her beautiful face. She looked incredible but that was merely being normal for her. The waiter finally arrived and filled my glass. When he left, I raised my glass slightly to toast my long-lost love. She grinned from her seat and I took a sip. The guy she was with seemed too busy with his phone to realize she was slipping away. She ordered nachos and some wine also, just as I remembered... she loved white wine. ‘Mr. Cell Phone’ asked for a mixed drink I’d never heard of. It wasn’t long before the waiter returned with their order. She smiled her beautiful smile and thanked the waiter, but her friend said nothing as the waiter placed his drink in front of him. She gave ‘Mr. Rude’ a bad stare but he was too busy messing with his phone to notice or probably care. She sipped her wine and I shook my head. I motioned for the waiter to come over and when he arrived, I asked for some coffee with Baileys Irish Cream. The waiter nodded and walked to the bar in the back. When he came back with my order, ‘Cell Phone Guy’ called for the him. The poor waiter had to listen to the guy complain about his mixed drink having too much ice. I imagined dumping the drink on the guy’s head, but that thought was interrupted when she apologized to the waiter and handed him a twenty-dollar bill. The waiter walked by my table and rolled his eyes. I grinned and overheard the beauty tell ‘Mr. Rude’ that he had better apologize to the waiter or he would soon discover how she deals about rudeness. I heard her also explain that the waiter was not responsible for making drinks and that he shouldn’t have to take any rude behavior. I nodded and kept myself from getting up, walking over to their table and smacking the guy in the back of the head by envisioning the waiter doing that very thing. ‘Rude’ shook his head, shrugged at her suggestion then answered his cell phone on the third ring. She sighed with disgust and looked at me. I slowly shook my head again and sipped my coffee. When the waiter returned to their table with the food, he did not move to make room for the waiter to place their food on the table. Instead, he went to her side and placed the food down staring at the guy. I was hoping the waiter would hit himwith the tray but he didn’t. That made me sad. The thought of shoving the guy’s phone deep down his throat existed when she was ignoring his plea ‘to just listen to him’ after she said she should have just canceled their dinner. I recognized that tone. I remembered her using it when I explained that I had to leave her because to work. I was too busy to enjoy any time with her. The question of why I had to handle so many things at once entered our relationship more than it should. It was never truly answered but the final result proved to be the consequence of it all. I was watching it again and I felt her hurt and anger. I sipped my coffee, listened to her tell ‘Clueless’ to just forget it and watched her stab the food on her plate. The waiter brought another drink to their table. ‘Mr. Moron’said an empty apology to the waiter and she smiled her beautiful smile as a plea of acceptance. The waiter grinned at her, nodded at the guy and assured him that it was quite alright. The waiter apologized for the previous drink then walked toward my table. I laughed to myself when I noticed the waiter mouth an unfavorable word about the jerk while walking by. My coffee was almost gone. The Baileys disappeared faster than the coffee as I kept pouring more to get a sense of enjoyment from the liquor. I overheard her claim that ‘too much has happened and it’s just not the same.’ Her last comment before she gave him the cold shoulder was, “You should have canceled that meeting if you knew you had plans with me!” He became the source of my violent imaginary visions. She was frustrated and at her limit. I knew how it felt to be at the other end of that conversation. I was waiting for the ultimate maneuver by her. The classic ‘do-whatever-the-hell-you-want’ pose of hers... waving her hand in front of her with the slight tilt of her head to the right. Her disengaging eye contact would make anyone seem unimportant because of the topic at hand. I sipped my coffee thinking to myself, “Wait for it... wait for it...” The moment arrived when he answered his phone a few moments later. I wanted to walk over to him and tell him, “You’re way past your time, Buddy. She’s long gone now!” Instead, I sat and thought about the last conversation I had with her. She was brushing my dog and ignoring my attempts to say any rationalization of leaving. She was sitting on the floor in our apartment and I was standing in the doorway. I felt like I had already left but yet I was still there just a few feet away. The way she looked at this guy seemed all too familiar. The feeling of emptiness came back to me when I remembered how that night ended. I heard my dog bark when I shut the door behind me to got in my car to drive off for awhile. After I started the engine, I recalled seeing her standing on the porch. That scene was more than I could stand. A couple of hours later, when I returned to see my faithful dog laying on my bed, I noticed her and her belongings were gone. The apartment seemed smaller that particular night. I didn’t sleep too well and heard every noise around me... especially my dog snorting and snoring. I turned my glass of ice water and noticed she was watching me. I looked over the rim of the glass while drinking. The water left me thirsty for relief of the memories and the guilt I kept inside for years. Her eyes were wet and she dropped the napkin on her plate. He was sitting quietly at their table. I waited for words to be thrown out in desperation but he was awkwardly quiet. When the waiter appeared out of nowhere and asked me if I needed anything, I stared at her. She was angry and sad. I softly replied, “I had all I needed but never had enough time to enjoy it!” He looked confused and stood beside me a bit longer before I told him I just needed the check. When the check arrived, I stood and noticed that she was watching me again. I grabbed my coat from the back of my chair, handed him some cash, thanked him then told him to keep the change. He thanked me then walked off to tend to other guests. As I was putting my coat on, I noticed she was reaching for her purse. I walked passed the loser still pleading for her to listen to him. I took her coat, helped her put it on then followed her out of the restaurant as the guy shouted something she didn’t care to hear or reply to. I didn’t pay any attention to it, either. We stepped outside and she asked me if I still had the place near the restaurant. I told her I did. So, we walked through the Boston Common, then The Public Garden and arrived at my place near the pub named, “Cheers.” When I opened the door, my apartment was dark but a faint snore could be heard from my room. She laughed and quietly walked over to the bedroom door. I closed the door and watched her staring at my dog in my bed. A few hours later, I was watching her sleep in my bed with my dog, also asleep, wedged between us.


The Anderson gene pool is extensive. Just about everyone knows at least one Anderson of some variation, so it is pretty safe to say that I probably have multitudes of cousins I have never met from nearly every continent. It shouldn’t have been too surprising to me that I should receive a call that my cousin Helen had passed away suddenly, and that I was expected to fly to Illinois and attend her funeral. The surprise was that I had never heard of a Cousin Helen before, and she had apparently left me something in her will. Now, from what I was able to figure out from good old Ancestry, Cousin Helen was my father’s uncle’s granddaughter. She was a ripe thirty when she died, which made it sadder when I learned that her young daughter had also died only about a year beforehand. Everything that I discovered when digging up info on who this woman could have been just intrigued me more. I never met her in my life, even though we were close in age. We lived hundreds of miles apart. Family reunions were not something a family our size typically did. Unless it was for a funeral or a wedding. “I know all of this must be overwhelming for you, losing a family member so young,” Mr. Schwartz broke my train of thought with a clearing of his throat and a voice that didn’t seem to match his stocky appearance. Not that it mattered too much to me. I was still trying to figure out if I was actually sitting there in his small office or if I was just imagining this. Did I really just fly from Arizona to Illinois on a whim and a mysterious inheritance? “Honestly, I know nothing about her. Or why she wanted to leave me anything. We’ve never even met,” I declared, finally breaking my own silence. “I see. Sometimes this happens, especially if the deceased had no close relatives. She did have a brother and a nephew, but nothing was left to them. Miss Anderson was known to be a bit of an oddball in life.” “Again, I wouldn’t know. I hate to rush things here, but I do need to start heading back home.” I could see a spark of irritation, but he couldn’t really be too shocked. I have a business to run and wasting time with this nonsense was all ready a bit too ridiculous. “There is a stipulation in order to receive the inheritance -” “Naturally. What is it, a donation to some sort of charity? I should have known,” I chuckled and opened my purse to dig for my checkbook. I was an idiot, of course that’s why I was there. I had discovered that before her death, Helen was a psychiatric nurse for a children’s home in the middle of nowhere. She must have heard that I was successful and figured I could afford to make some brat’s Christmas a little jollier at the expense of her untimely demise. I really fell into the trap this time. Schwartz waved his hands and shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that! The details of the stipulation are sealed in this envelope. She only wanted you to know what was needed and never discussed it further with me except to tell me that the inheritance could be released to you once you verbally tell me that it is done.” He then held up a red envelope, the kind that might have contained a Christmas card. “That’s all? Well, what’s to stop me from just telling you I did whatever it is to get the stupid thing? This feels like a sick joke...” He continued to hold the envelope out to me, not once wavering. “She said that you are too noble to lie in order to receive something unearned,” was his unwavering answer. I couldn’t help but scoff. She knew nothing about me, except my name and maybe my net worth. I snatched the envelope from his ruddy hand and made my way to the door. “I imagine this is probably the exact scenario you envisioned you’d find yourself while you studied for the bar,” I muttered with the shrill of the hinges. He forced a laugh, not moving from his desk. “Nothing ever prepared me for the death of Helen Anderson.” Snow was falling in slight drifts carried by the wind when I stepped out of Schwartz’s building. I detested the cold and I certainly despised snow, which was one of many reasons I preferred Arizona. The sooner I finished this silly business I could get on the next plane home and end the year on a positive note. After I climbed into my rental car and started the engine for the heat, I carefully opened the red envelope. Amusingly enough, it actually did contain a Christmas card, featuring a shocked child peeking through a staircase banister at a shadow that apparently belonged to Santa Claus busily placing gifts under a tree. When I opened the card, a small brass key fell into my lap. It was nothing special, but it did have the number 134 inscribed in its center. Merry Christmas, Michelle. I hate that we had to meet under these circumstances, but better late than never. I also hate that just after meeting I must ask you for a favor. Trust me, I’m generally not someone who would ask favors from a stranger, but I’ll make an exception just this once. This key belongs to a safe deposit box at First Financial here in town, box 134. Inside that box is something extremely important, far more important than you can possibly imagine. All that I need you to do is take the contents to the address you will find once you open the box. The less that you know the better, and please trust me on this. No, it’s nothing illegal so you don’t have to worry about getting mixed up with my affairs or have it affect your internet business. By the way, I checked out your website before, well, dying. I must say I’m impressed! Not that it matters much to you what a dead relative should think. Thank you for coming this far, I knew that I could count on you. I assure you that the reward matches the effort that you will put into finishing this task for me. Helen Elizabeth Anderson November 29, 2014 This woman was insane. This had to be a prank! I looked around to see if anyone was filming me for my reaction, but as far as I could see I was the only one parked and the road was empty. It didn’t make any sense... why me? Of all of the people in the world, why would she send for me, a distant cousin on the other side of the country, to do something that she could have just had a neighbor or her own brother finish? My head was beginning to throb at the reality that I might have very well been putting myself into a bad situation. All for an inheritance that might not have even existed! This was too much... And then, I took a deep breath and read the card again. I searched it for any clues, capital letters, or odd phrases. The entire thing was odd. She said that the less that I know the better. If that didn’t sound like dirty dealings then I don’t know what did. The smartest thing that I could do was take this key right back to that smarmy Schwartz and head home right away. Instead, I plugged the directions for the bank into my navigator and put the rental into reverse. I came this far, I had to at least know what was in this mysterious safe deposit box. If it was something dangerous, I would return the key and leave and pretend I never made this trip. I would move on with my life and never think about Helen or this stupid request again. A small lady led me to the safe deposit room and left me alone after bringing me to box 134. From first appearances it seemed like just an average box. It was larger than the rest, so that was initially interesting. I inserted and turned the key. Once I opened it, I was greeted by something that I was not expecting: a small shoebox that had once contained light up tennis shoes for a little girl. A large sticky note was placed on the lid. Hello Michelle, long time no write! You are doing well and are nearly at the end of this short journey. Please take this box to 441 Yellow Ln. The lady there will know what to do with it and you will be free to go back to Schwartz for your inheritance. Don’t open the box. I understand you are curious, so I’ll just tell you what it contains. It’s a novel that I wrote. It took me a long time to put it together because it had to be done in secret. Now it’s finally finished and it is your job to take it to the publisher. Make sure the lady knows that it must have a red cover. I don’t care how it’s formatted or if it has pictures, but make sure it has a red cover. All the best in life and death, H.E.A. December 12, 2014 A novel. All of this work to take a manuscript to a publisher. I couldn’t help laughing right there in the middle of the silent room. Would I take a shoebox supposedly containing a finished novel to a publisher? You are damn right I would. I honestly would have done just about anything at this point just for the closure. Yes, I did exactly as I was told. I carried the small shoebox to an elderly woman who greeted me with surprise at the door. As the note said, she was expecting me and took the box gratefully. She mentioned knowing Helen for some time before and was happy to know that she was finally at peace. It was a strange conversation. How peaceful could a death like that have been? She was mangled and hardly recognizable when she was found, and from everything I learned today she fully expected to die, and soon. What healthy thirty-year-old has a Last Will and Testament prepared along with a scavenger hunt for a distant relative to complete? None other than Helen Elizabeth Anderson. It was nearly five when I arrived back at Schwartz’s building. The street lights illuminated the street and walk, glistening with that freshly fallen snow that still carried on the wind like a whisper in the twilight. I had made it just in time, I could see him through the frosted window of the door grabbing his coat from the hall tree when he spotted me and waved for me to come in. “I wasn’t sure I would ever see you again,” he smiled and unlocked his office door. “Neither was I, but I figured what the hell... might as well go on an adventure or else let her haunt me for the rest of my days,” I answered with a shrug and followed him. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a final red envelope, this time a bit larger than the last. “Congratulations for completing the stipulation. Deepest condolences on your loss.” I decided not to open the envelope until I was back home. How I withstood the curiosity the entire flight and ride back I’ll never fully understand, except I was too wrapped up with my thoughts to really worry about it. I found myself wondering more and more about Helen’s short life, how she could have pressed forward after her daughter’s death and continued to work through what must have been unbearable grief. I wanted more than anything to know how she died, was it really suicide or something more grim? However it happened she knew that it was coming, that much I was certain. It was good to be home, to shake the cold and stress at the door and relax in familiarity again. I took the red envelope from my purse and sat on the couch. Finally, it was time to see what Cousin Helen had left me in her will. There were three things in the envelope. The first was a final note from Helen. You did it, Michelle. Unlike me, you didn’t buckle under the pressure and you did the one thing that I couldn’t do. For that, I am immensely grateful. You will never truly know what you have done for me, so I reward you with my most prized possessions. The first is a check written to you for the amount of $12,665. To someone like you I’m sure this is meager pocket change, but to me this was the exact amount I had socked away to escape a horribly toxic situation with my daughter. But life and fate didn’t work in our favor and my little girl was taken from me before we could leave. I hope that this money might help you accomplish a dream you might have. I wish you all of the happiness this nasty world affords you, and I hope with enough time and good news you might forget that cold day in Illinois and wipe me completely from your mind. Despite everything, I did have an interesting life filled with enough wonder and amazement than I’ll ever be able to carry to the next life. Oh, and the last thing I leave you is a bauble that fulfilled its purpose long ago. I don’t need it anymore. Just looking at it brings me pain. Perhaps it could aid you in some way, I don’t know. Its existence might have chained me to a lifetime of mystery, but as I said, it did serve quite a purpose in the end. Goodbye, noble cousin, H.E.A. December 12, 2014 She was right, there was a check for $12,665 written to me and dated 12/12/2014. There was also a necklace at the bottom of the envelope, a small crystal vial stained a strange red color internally on a silver chain. I felt a chill run through me as I clasped the chain around my neck. December 12, 2014. Only three days before her body would be found. What a gruesome inheritance.


Thirty thousand feet up in the air, why decide that this row was the right one to move him to. Certainly, there’s more legroom, but there’s also the sensation. Looking to the left, ideas begin to form. The little voice says, “Do it. Do it and let yourself go.” But he can’t. Thinking about the plunge. The sensation of falling. Stomach dropping, G-forces rippling his face, tearing at his eyes, his clothes. Attempting to rip him apart before he inevitably strikes the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. And after the impact, darkness. The end. Yet that can’t happen. As the stewardess hands him his peanuts, he returns his attention to page twenty-three of the financial report he owes his boss when he lands. He pours himself a drink. A four and a half hour flight with two-hour delay, three hours to his office because of traffic, twenty minutes of listening to his boss yell at him because he’s such a failure and another hour home. Drinking his scotch, his mind returns to the row. The sensation that almost overwhelmed him. That almost forced him to leap from thirty thousand feet. That almost ended him. Here it was again. Dragging himself to the balcony he looks over the edge. The people seem so small and insignificant from his vantage point, as if they were ants, following their daily routines. He gazes up at the iconic statue, stationed in the harbor, which once welcomed his great-grandparents to the home of the brave. He climbs up onto the railing; still undecided. A flag whips about in the gust of wind. And a woman screams.


Frank sits down at his desk in his home office. He pulls out some paper and his favorite fountain pen. He looks outside his window to the large flower garden that his wife has spent much time growing. He admires all the different types of lilies and chrysanthemums, among others, and the various blooms each one produces. He watches his wife, Wendy, as she meticulously trims one at a time. Frank looks at the paper in front of him and starts to write his will. I, Franklin P. Daniels, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare this document to by my last will and testament. He sat there for a moment and thought about everything he had that he wanted to leave to his loved ones. His large home in the country with a hundred acres; the bank account that keeps him and his wife financially stable; and the investments that continues to load the bank account with more money. All his earthly possessions added up to well over ten-million dollars, according to Stan, his accountant and best friend. “To list each possession will be a chore,” Frank thought to himself. He started to write down the name of each person that he wanted to leave something to - His wife, the two children, and Stan. Each person meant a lot to Frank, and each would get what he believed they deserved. He met Wendy 40 years ago and has been married to her for thirty-seven of those years. His oldest son, Steven, is thirty-eight has never once questioned why he was older than they were married. The youngest, Michelle, is thirty-one, and she did the math in her head a long time ago. Frank remembers when she came to him in his office and asked why Steven was a year older than we were married. Frank’s answer was a lie. He told Michelle that he and her mother were together one last time before he had left for the war. It was a couple of months later that he found out she was pregnant. They would be married when he returned, after Steven was born. Frank never did tell Michelle the truth that Steven was not his son. He thought it would bring up more questions than he had answers for at the time. Wendy was the only other person to know this, and they never spoke of it. Not even Steven’s real father knew the truth about him. Frank believed both of his children were fantastic kids. Each one graduated Magna Cum Laude and ended up with wonderful careers and families. He could not be more proud of them. Stan was Franks best friend and had been since elementary school. They met in the sixth grade when his family moved next door. They quickly became comrades and have been for sixty years. Stan was there for Frank’s graduation from high school, and then his college roommate in Stanford. When Frank got married to Wendy, Stan was his best man. Stan was more like a brother to Frank than a friend. They had been through a lot together and nothing ever tore them apart. Frank remembered when he had found out about his pancreatic cancer, Stan was the first one he told. He helped him come up with the words to tell Wendy and the kids and stood by his side when he did. Frank looked down at the paper again and started to write. To my wife, I leave the home and all the investments. To my children, Steven and Michelle, I leave my bank accounts divided evenly amongst the two of you. To Stan, I leave one cent. To all of you, I leave you with this knowledge... Back in 1968, the year Steven was conceived, and I was in Europe on business, I know Wendy was “comforted” by someone other than me. (Wendy knows who.) During my absence, Wendy fell into temptation of a great man. Someone better than myself. Someone that I have admired for years. From that brief encounter, Steven was conceived and born. Stan, I know that you were that man. I have known since 1968. Steven, I give to you your real father, Stan. And Stan, I give to you your son, Steven. Wendy, I know you did not want anyone to know, but if you are reading this, then I am no longer around to hide it any longer. I thought it would be best if you were honest with Stan and Steven. They each deserve to know the truth. Frank knew putting this in his will would be the only way the truth would get out. Frank loved Stan like a brother, and he did not want to bring up that he knew without knowing how he would react. When you find out your best friend had an affair with your wife while you were away is bad, discovering that she got pregnant from it is even worse. While Frank was finishing his will, a knock came on his office door. “Yes. Come in,” Frank said. Steven walks in. “Ah, Steven, how are you?” “I’m fine, dad. How about you?” Ever since Frank was diagnosed with cancer, Steven was always there for him. The love and respect they had for each other could only be compared to that of the bond Frank had for Stan. There was nothing that could tear it apart, no matter what challenges were faced. “What can I do for you, son?” Frank said. “Mom just asked me to check on you,” Steven said. “I guess you’ve been in here all morning and she was just worried.” “I’m fine,” Frank said with a smile. “Your mom is probably just worried because of this dam disease.” “Do you blame her, dad?” Steven said. “We all know it’s getting close to the end. I want you to know I’m here for you. Don’t go and hide on us when it’s time. You need us to help you through this.” “You’re right, son,” Frank said. “I promise I will let you know if I’m not doing well.” “Can I ask what you’re working on?” Steven said. Frank thought for a moment. “I guess I can tell you. I’m working on my will.” “You’re will?” Steven said. “I thought you had already done that?” “I did,” Frank said. “There were a couple of changes I had to make. Nothing major. Just something I wanted to add for everyone.” Frank stood from his desk and walked into the living room with Steven. Two days later, Frank would die. The reading of the will took place the next day. Things would never be the same afterwards.


It was a cold night. Snow wouldn’t fall for another six weeks. The earth was still soft. Clumps of dirt clung onto the man’s shovel. He was three feet deep in a two by six foot hole. Black mounds of fresh dirt grew with each swift motion of the shovel. He was of slender build, but muscular. His face was neither handsome nor ugly; one that you would see often and confuse for an acquaintance. However his eyes you could not forget. They were windows into an unblinking abyss The shovel completed its purpose and was temporarily discarded atop the detritus. The man crawled out the pit and in the darkness fumbled to find a large plastic bag. He gripped the edges tightly and dragged it back into his work. It slipped inside, the sounds of splashing liquids and wet things emanating from inside. The man abandoned the hole and grasped his tool once more. With precise motions he began to fill the pit. When the task was completed he turned and walked into the darkness The night enveloped all things. A normal person would’ve become lost, but the man walked with an almost supernatural sense of direction. He avoided trees, rocks and half frozen puddles. The wilderness soon gave way to cultivation then a dirt road. He walked up the road until he came upon a parked car. He opened the trunk and threw the shovel among the various tools inside. Then took possession of his vehicle and began to drive up the road towards lights in the distance As the car approached the lights the familiar structures of a gas station became visible. The man glanced at his fuel gauge, quarter tank. He gripped the wheel tightly with both hands and slowly turned towards the pump. He pulled in and cut the engine. The fuel cap popped open and he stepped out into the desolate business. A single flickering light illuminated the solitary pump. A small shack a few meters from it had a small neon red “OPEN” sign. He did his business, sixty liters straight not a drop more He returned the pump to its holster and walked over to the shack. Before he could open the door it flung open and a small woman stepped out. As she did the “OPEN” sign faded. The man and the woman silently looked at each other as the door closed shut behind her “Who are you?” she asked “Nobody; I just filled up my tank. Wanted to get a snack for the road” “Tough luck I just locked up” “I see” the man answered slowly. He looked behind the woman then glanced around the empty gas station. “Are you all alone?” The woman slowly began to walk away from the man keeping her eyes on him. “No, I suggest you get going. There are some strange things in these parts” The man’s face contorted into a sinister smile. “But I haven’t had my snack” he chuckled The woman quickly turned and began sprinting away from him. The man didn’t move a muscle. He silently looked as the woman ran up the road. When she was no longer visible, he took in a deep breath with his nostrils and hunched over. Lowering his body to the dirt he stretched out his hands as his smile grew ever larger. The skin began rip and blood flowed from the cracks. His eyes glowed yellow in the dark. Then suddenly he began to run The woman had made it some distance from the gas station when he caught sight of her. She had tried to stay silent in the dark but as he had approached she began to scream. “HELP, OH GOD HELP” The man or the creature wearing the skin of a man stayed silent. It moved with a frightening speed. Tears and blood stained urine fell from the woman. The creature stretched out its hand and took hold of her. She screamed and thrashed violently like a fish out of water. But the creatures hand only dug deeper into her soft skin, its nails drawing blood. It violently forced her to face it. Yellow eyes glared into brown and the woman fell silent. The woman stopped moving, as if in a trance she slowly opened her mouth. The creature opened its own wider ripping its disguise. Hair began to fall in clumps onto the road. Then the ears and the nose fell in a bloody mess. As the skin and flesh peeled away the skeleton underneath was revealed. The white of the skeleton was covered in roots. Black pulsating tendrils coiled around them. They held the frame of the man together and commanded it to hold the hypnotized woman However the yellow eyes stayed glowing in a faceless skull. The tendrils began to writhe, moving slowly towards the woman’s open mouth. They crawled up from the legs up the spine and down the arms into her mouth. As they did the light from the eyes faded. Then eventually they went dark as the last of the roots made their way into their new host. The wet skeleton fell atop the flesh that once covered it. The woman was motionless for a moment then her eyes glowed yellow She smiled and began walking towards the gas station. She opened up the shack and took any cash she could find. Then locked up and drove the man’s car to his remains. She opened up the trunk and took out the shovel and a large plastic bag. The man went into the bag with a little dirt. Once she was finished she threw her previous host in the trunk and drove back down the road. Stopping near where the man had originally taken it. She took the bag and shovel through the woods back to the clearing.


Some of my friends say I’m odd. They all probably think it. But they make a point of saying that it’s nice odd. It’s not the kind of odd that’s embarrassing or awkward. “Sometimes I can’t quite make you out, Irene,” my friend Sonia said the other day. “You’re a conundrum. A contradiction.” Irene is an aspiring writer and a darned good writer too, but she does sometimes seem to feel compelled to prove the fact by over-use of alliteration! “How so?” I asked, though of course I knew the answer. “Well, sometimes you seem to be miles away, and yet you have a capacity for getting things done quickly, too.” Such a practical reply was both reassuring and vaguely disappointing. Deciding there was no harm in recycling a good phrase, I said, “Well, perhaps in some ways every one of us is a conundrum and a contradiction.” I think Irene and I would probably have been friends anyway, but we also, well, at least on the surface, have a great deal in common. We’re both mature students, but unlike some of our fellow mature students, we don’t have commitments to care for children or elderly relatives. The best of both worlds, you might say. But it also means we don’t necessarily “fit” into the convenient groupings. My Grandma, a golden-hearted but plain talking Yorkshire woman (sometimes the stereotypes are right!) used to describe such things as Neither t’other nor Which . At least, I always used to think that was what she said. I bear a certain resemblance to her. The unusually high forehead, and the figure that kinder folk call “rounded”. There’s a lot to be said for fringes and loose tops. It was quite a difficult decision for me to leave my job in the Health Food store (though the owner, Merle, never liked that term) and take up my interrupted education. I was happy there. I had found my niche, and Merle knew perfectly well, and acknowledged, that I knew more than she did about - well, let’s say certain elements of the work than she did, but I had no interest in the admin side, so was quite content to remain her assistant. But I suppose it was something that I’d known all along I was going to do. “And I won’t stand in your way, or try to,” she said, “I know what you’re like with your history, and if you don’t take this chance you’ll always regret you didn’t.” Perhaps I should explain what she meant by this chance . There was a window when the local council were offering grants for mature students - to finance their retraining. The theory was that it was to help fill skills shortages, but I was lucky enough to deal with people who interpreted that loosely. Though another of Gran’s sayings was that we make our own luck. I like my course, and am putting in the necessary work, and my tutors are happy with me. But I’ll make no secret of the fact that access to the university’s resources and archives is at least as appealing as any return to the groves of Academe or the thought of the qualification (useful or otherwise) at the end of it. The History department isn’t one of those that completely ignores Kings and Queens and Presidents and Parliaments and Wars and engineering feats on principle. And I have no problems with that. But they’re very big on local history and social history and all that, and that suits me absolutely fine. My thesis is on the “hidden feminists” in village life back in medieval and Tudor times, and how women were often not just the power behind the throne but the power behind the farm and the power behind the loom and sometimes in front of them. It’s interesting and revealing, but I’m not going to pretend it was triggered by wholly academic interest. I hope this doesn’t sound condescending, but I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for anyone who grew up entirely without their Gran’s stories. And I hope this doesn’t sound like boasting, but I reckon you would search far and wide to find someone whose stories equalled the ones Gran told! She was, of course, perfectly literate, and sometimes read to me from her favourite books, many of which are still my own. She was a good reader; never flashy, never pedantic, her voice low but clear. Still, both of us preferred it when she put the books to one side and told her own tales. She sometimes joked, resignedly, but without rancour, that she was bilingual, she could either talk Yorkshire or talk proper depending on the circumstance and the listener. It was true, but if wasn’t even a quarter of the story. There were nuances and transitions, and sometimes she spoke with an accent that was neither proper nor Yorkshire, but seemed to come from other times and other places. In interviews and on forms I might well say that my grandmother originally piqued my interest in social history and genealogy. And that, too, is true. But there is a difference between the surface skim of truth and the layers beneath it. On both sides of her family, quite a few people had married and borne children late, so living memory “at one remove” went back further for me than it did for many people. But though I loved the stories of Great Great Grandmother Sybil who delivered the Lady of the Manor’s firstborn when the doctor was held up in the snow, and of Great Great Uncle Leonard who went down the pits when he was only 13 but ended up as a schoolmaster, the ones I loved best went back further than that. Much further. Gran sometimes used the phrase I don’t know how many greats and I suspected that she probably did, but was too interested in the story to hold it up with repetition and tedious chronology. I don’t know how many greats Aunt Betsy, who was always called that, never Bessie or Betty or Beth or her full name Elizabeth, lived in the time of the English Civil War. “And rum times they were, too,” Gran said. “She lived down Suffolk way, I reckon near Lowestoft as is now.” Gran’s attitude to the Civil War, on which she was a bit of an expert though she said she had never studied history since she was 14, was somewhat ambivalent. She said that the Cavaliers were probably the lesser of two evils, “But neither of them had much time for our sort, and that’s a fact. Still, it was worse in other places.” When she said that, her eyes, which were generally bright and beady right into old age, seemed to have a shadow in them. “What is it, Gran?” I asked, when I must have been about 10 or 11. “Just - thinking, lass,” she said. “Just thinking.” One of her most prized possessions was a picture - well, a copy of one, of course - that might have been a likeness of Betsy. “I can’t vouch for it,” she said, “Our sort didn’t generally have their likenesses painted, and some reckon it’s Wilhelmina Marriot - little Lady Wilhelmina - from the Big House. Betsy’s Mam was a servant there, I’m not sure if she was a lady’s maid or a parlourmaid, and it seems, though in a way it pains me to admit it, that the nobs treated them well enough, and Betsy was allowed to play with Wilhelmina when the two of them were lasses, though they put a stop to it later.” “She certainly has the family fringe,” I said, weighing up the image of a little girl that was faded, and not even that well-painted, but still had something intriguing and wonderful about it. Gran looked uneasy, and for once, flustered, as she said quickly, “Well, I wouldn’t go reading too much into that. You know what little lasses are for copying each others’ hairstyles and I reckon it was always that way.” Later on, after Gran’s death, I managed to find out a bit more about Lady Wilhelmina, and it was a sad story. She was married - and the phrase married off sprung to mind - to a man called Ambrose, who was more than a decade older than she was. Though I only had the bare bones of a family tree and no evidence at all that he ill-treated her - for all I knew he could have been a loving husband - I wove my own story round her. Anyway, she died in childbirth, and the baby too. I say there was only the family tree, but other stubs and snippets of tales told hundreds of times over had managed to slip through the cracks of time, and one of them was that in the throes of labour she cried out, “I want Betsy! Only Betsy can help me!” That was the only reference to Betsy I could find at all, yet she was more real and alive to me than the unfortunate Wilhelmina. Gran’s stories could go back even further than that. Betsy had an I don’t know how many times great grandmother (or possibly Aunt) called Hepzibah, who - according to the story - had been quite inspirational in her home area (which was still Suffolk, or possibly Norfolk) in inspiring and ministering to the participants in the Peasants’ Revolt. “Like a kind of Joan of Arc!” I exclaimed. There was that flash of darkness, but even darker, and Gran merely muttered, “You could say that, lass.” “I wish I’d known your Gran,” Sonia said, “She sounds like a real character.” At first I wasn’t sure I was happy with that, as a real character can be a kind of code or euphemism for someone who’s frankly tiresome, but I was pretty sure Sonia didn’t mean it that way, and didn’t bristle, only saying, “She was, though she said herself she was only one link in a long chain.” I was genuinely fond of Sonia, and was distressed when in our second year at the university she began to develop frequent and debilitating headaches. As anyone would, she put them down to stress or eye-strain, and fretted that she might be developing migraine - her Mother was afflicted with it, and so she knew exactly how horrible it could be. Finally she gave in and went to the doctors about it, and was sent for an EEG, and was far braver waiting for the results than I ever would have been. You can imagine her relief - and mine - when they found absolutely no evidence of a tumour. “So I suppose I’ll just have to put up with it and take painkillers, not that they always do much good,” she said. “I’m more inclined to think it’s NOT migraine, as I don’t have any nausea - I suppose I should be thankful for that, at least! - and have found out on the Internet about Cluster Headaches - men have them more often, but women can.” Well for all my good intentions and for all I was quite happy, thank you, with my normal life, I couldn’t let a friend suffer when there was at least the possibility I could help. Still, I didn’t know how she would react when I made the offer! Generally very good natured, she could be scathing about what she called snake oil though she was never actually rude about my former employment. “Sonia,” I said, almost too casual, “Why not let me have a go at helping you? I know you’re not into alternative therapies,” (I intensely disliked that term, but made myself use it) “but they can’t do any harm.” “Irene, I’ll try anything, unless it’s potentially poisonous or from an endangered species,” she said, “though, no disrespect, as a lot of it’s probably the placebo effect, that hardly makes me an ideal patient!” I could have told her what a fallacy that was, but she wouldn’t have believed me. Mind you, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Though the calming fragrant tea I made her and the poultice I put on her brow might well have some sedative effect and were very pleasant, they were only what Gran called trappings . If needs must I could have managed without them. “Well, if nothing else I’m being pampered,” Sonia said. “I could get used to this, though I don’t suppose I’d be allowed a glass of wine instead of the tea!” “I’m afraid you’re right,” I said, whilst thinking that it probably wouldn’t make that much difference either way. Then I concentrated on the matter at hand. I hope this doesn’t sound like bragging, but Sonia was decidedly more surprised than I was when it seemed to be working. She went a couple of days without a headache, then a week, then a month. “Oh, Irene,” she said, giving me a little hug, “You’ve well and truly converted me!” “Don’t talk daft, as Gran would have said,” I replied. I’m not keen on that word convert. It has unfortunate connotations, though of course Sonia had no way of knowing that. There is satisfaction, though, in a job well done, especially when it helps a friend out. I had the hint of a headache myself earlier on today, and, it’s just one of those things, my methods don’t work so well on myself. That’s normal enough, Gran said, and yes, it could be bloody vexing. Still, it wasn’t that bad, certainly not like Sonia’s suffering, and I decided that at least some of it was the heat. It’s turned suddenly warm and at times like this I wish I didn’t have to wear that heavy fringe. But I do, of course. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to see my third eye. My witch’s eye.


She didn’t think she would be defeated by a simple shaman. Her years of study and practice developing her powers had created a sorceress of great renown. She built her tower in the center of the Great Forest, drawing the magic from the land. She took a name and made it one to fear. Her art turned dark, and she began twisting the land to suit her needs. That’s when the forest called to me. I spent my life wandering the wilderness. Learning the ebb and flow of the energies of the wild. I didn’t know my family, but nature took their place. When she began twisting the Great Forest, I owed nature my life in defense. I hadn’t spent years training in the mystic arts, I didn’t know how to use spells and potions. I did know how to ask for help, and I had all the Great Forest aiding me. “Well, shaman, are you prepared to die?” She stood at the top of her tower, gazing at the twisting nether that had grown around it. Her voice carried down to my ear as if a whisper on the wind. I was close now, the foul nether stung my eyes and nose. I took a seat upon the ground, crossed my legs, and held my staff high above my head. I lifted my face to the clouds and asked for rain. I begged them to cleanse my path so I could do as I was asked. The clouds answered. Thunder peeled as lightning streaked along the sky. I sat, face upturned, eyes closed, until I could no longer smell the acrid sting of the nether. “That was clever,” her smoky voice whispered in my ear. “What will you do, little shaman, when I twist the whole of nature?” Her laughter echoed in my mind as I made my way to the now empty ring around the tower. “I really don’t think you’ll have the chance,” I said. The laughter stopped. I stood fast, waiting for her response. “I will swallow your soul, shaman. I will make you watch as I consume your precious wilderness.” Her voice was filling with fire and smoke. “I will let the nether twist your life as it twists your forest. Lock into that frail body for an eternity. This forest is mine, and I will do with it as I please.” “My dear sorceress,” I said, feeling pity at her misunderstanding, “the forest called me here. I have been chosen to protect it. Nature isn’t something to be owned, it’s to be protected. I do not want this fight.” “How noble and selfless.” Her voice seethed contempt. “I’m nothing of the kind, I just answered the call of an old friend. I’d gladly go back to my roaming if you would just stop with this corruption. I’m not a spell caster, and really have no magic to speak of. You will probably kill me or do all those horrible things to me you spoke of.” I could feel her drawing the energies beneath the forest to her tower. I could see the tower at the center of a darkened clearing now. “I wish we could have avoided this” I said. I quickly sat down, turned my face to the sky, held my staff high, and asked the earth for protection. The air began to feel charged, and then a blinding flash and deafening crash. I held fast, eyes closed, head and staff held high. The lightning she conjured shot straight for me, striking my staff and then directed to the ground. The earth redirected the energy along the ring, coming to crash at the base of the tower. My arm seared in pain from her onslaught, but she gave way as soon as she noticed her tower was taking the full force of it. “You truly are too clever for your own good, shaman.” Her grin dark, her eyes burned with intense hate. “No, I just have help,” I said watching as she descended from her tower. The hours slipped by as her attacks continued. I made no move against her, only used her rage against her. When she took to the skies on wings of flames, she was consumed by her own fire. Her tower, constructed and maintained by her will, collapsed to dust. I lowered my staff, looked upon the smoldering pile of ash, and wept. I had no desire to be a part of her death, but the forest needed it. As I turned back towards the way I came, I heard something stirring in the ash. I gripped my staff and turned, not sure what new trial she had for me. I was not expecting what stood before me. A small girl, scared and covered in ash, stood before me where the sorceress had fallen. I had never studied sorcery or spell casting, but I did understand nature. I understood now that when she had called on the power of the phoenix, she was drawing on the full spirit of it. She had taken on all its abilities, not just the power if its flames. When she was struck down, she rose again, but like a phoenix, as a child. “Who are you?” A child with no memories. “I am a shaman, do you remember your name?” “I can’t remember anything, where am I? What happened here?” The fear in her voice seemed real enough. “This will take some time to explain, but this was your home.” I struggled with myself on what to tell her next. I reached in my bag and covered her in one of my shirts. “You saw me as your enemy, and we fought.” “Am I your enemy?” She asked, her eyes scanning for a way to escape. “You were never my enemy, you just didn’t understand what you were doing.” I gestured to the empty ring around us. “I came to ask you stop destroying the forest. You didn’t seem to like that idea and attacked.” “Was I a bad person?” Confusion was replacing the fear. “Good and bad is a difference of opinion. What you were doing was harmful to nature, and the forest called to me.” “And you chose to fight?” “I owe my life to the wilderness, and I will always answer its call.” I looked at her, “Now, you have a decision.” She looked at me with suspicion. “You’ve done great harm to this forest,” I said, gesturing to the ring of devastation around us. “You can leave, find your power again, and start the cycle all over again.” “Or?” “Or you can help me heal this land. It will take a long time, even with the help of someone as powerful as you, but your debt to the forest will be paid.” We stared at each other for a long time. The grizzled shaman and the soot covered child. One whose debt has yet to be paid, and one that can never be repaid. I laughed, my head tilting back, as my chest echoed with the sound. She jumped back, not sure what to expect. I tried to control myself as I felt her drawing power from the earth. “I’ve told you, you’re not my enemy, you have nothing to fear from me,” I said. “I see your power is still strong.” The draw dissipates, leaving her staring at her hands. “I don’t know how I did that, I just felt this power around me, and I could touch it, and pull it.” Her voice was filled with excitement. “Yes, you were powerful, and deadly.” “You defeated me.” She seemed puzzled. “You defeated yourself. I used no violence against you.” I couldn’t survive another battle like the last. “Then why should I help you? If I saw you as my enemy, and you fought to stop me, why shouldn’t I run?”" “That is your choice, I cannot make it for you. I didn’t want this, but this is where we are. If you leave, I won’t follow, you will be free to live as you please. If you stay, we will repair the damage you’ve done, nothing more, nothing less.” She thought for a moment, looking older than her face, and began slowly walking around the clearing. I didn’t follow, just watched as she looked at her legacy. She reached the pile of dust that was her tower. She took a handful and let it slip between her fingers. When the last speck was carried away on the wind, she turned. “I will help,” She said, “for now.” I loosened my grip on the staff and let my heart slow. I hadn’t realized how worried I was until it was over. I walked towards her, took her by the hand. “Well child, are you ready to begin?” “Yes,” She said, and I could see that the fear had left her. I led her to the edge of the clearing and began looking for what we needed to start the healing. I showed her the different plants, and how to extract their seeds. We took what we gathered back to the clearing. I showed her how to drill holes in the earth with a stick, and then place the seeds at the right depth. “Careful now, you don’t want the seeds too deep, the seedling won’t break through the soil.” I knew she understood, even without my explanation. “Don’t plant them too close together, the trees need room to grow.” “I know,” Her face an almost comical mixture of youthful innocence and ancient experience. “It will take some time to heal this section of the forest, we should build a shelter before too much longer.” “hm,” She was fully engaged on the task at hand, not even looking up to see what I had said. “Do you still have the seeds from the ivy and brambles?” She handed them to me, and I took them to the dust mound where her tower once stood. I used my staff to draw out a large circle, a small section left on one end. Then, holding the seeds in my palms, I reached towards the sky and asked the forest for aid. I asked for our heads to be covered and protection from the storms. I placed the seeds along the circle, imploring them to grow. When the seeds where all sown, I sat in the center and held my staff in front of me. I placed it upright, touching the ground, held with both hands. I pushed all my life into the staff and begged the forest to hear me. It answered. The seeds began sprouting, seedlings rapidly taking hold. I could feel the roots burrow deep, and the vines begin to climb. I kept my eyes closed, visualizing the form I wanted the structure to take. I guided the brambles to form the frame, a simple dome with a small door. I divided my focus to the ivy, starting at the base and weaving through the bramble. I focused my will into my staff, forming two cots on the inside of the hut. I focused the ivy into a small cage suspended from the ceiling, fine meshed with a small door. I called to some lightning bugs and asked them to fill the cage. They did, and I formed a small flower with sweet nectar in the center of the cage and closed the door. I stayed seated for some time after, the weight of the day forcing itself upon me. I placed my head against my staff and felt for the pulse of the earth. I mixed my life with that of the earth, healing and replenishing my worn spirit. I did what little I could to heal the land, but I was interrupted by a stern voice. “Am I supposed to do this all myself?” She asked, such an adult edge to such a young voice. “You’ve been done for hours and have just been sitting here.” “You’ve only been standing there a moment. How do you know what I’ve been doing?” I asked, barely able to mask my amusement of the situation. “I felt you building the hut....” “I didn’t build the hut, the plants where kind enough to give us shelter,” I corrected her. “Are all shaman as annoying as you are?” I thought for a moment on this. “I’ve never known another shaman. I try to make it a point to avoid people in general,” I told her. “I was abandoned in the forest as a child.” “Aren’t you lonely?” “How can I be lonely? I have the whole of nature as my friend. I was raised by the forest, and if I get lonely I just talk to it.” “How can you be raised by a forest?” Genuine curiosity filled her face. “Well, step one is learning to listen to it. The ebb and flow of its energy, the heartbeat.” I scanned her face, making sure she understood. “Place your hand on the ground. Good, now sit and feel for the power you felt earlier.” She did as she was told. “That power you feel is the life of the forest, if you push deep enough you can find the pulse of the entire world. Now though, just feel for the forest.” “I feel it, but I can’t hear anything, it’s not talking to me.” I swallowed back a laugh at the image of her eyes closed in concentration, and her mouth in a stern frown. “It’s always talking to you. You just don’t understand it yet. Have patience, you found the pulse faster than I did when I first looked for it.” “How did you know how to find it? How did you know the forest was speaking to you?” I picked her up, placed her gently on the cot, and said, “I didn’t, but it’s been a very long day, even longer for you having to live it twice.” I winked as I pulled a hide from my pack and tucked it around her. “You’re foolish,” she grinned as her eyes drifted off to sleep. I went back to the center of the hut and asked the light to go to sleep, they did. I crawled into my cot, and my world went dark.


I don’t want to talk about the forest. I won’t go on about the way it creaks and howls as it fights with the wind, or how the leaves dance against another amidst this brawl. No, I won’t mention the beasts that reside there, nuzzling in bushes and making roofs from branches. I want to talk about a tree. This tree is deep in the thick of the forest, and deeper still, past the creek, past deadfalls and beaver dams. This tree pierces through the sky and has done so for generations. It has withstood storm and toil. This tree is a monument to nature’s arrogance. I want to talk about a man. A prideful man who set into this forest to build a home. He took his ax to this tree, chopping at its impenetrable bark. His saw snapped, its teeth barely scratching the tree’s flesh. He could not uproot its veins, buried further than he could dig. Through the seasons, and the man’s best efforts, the tree stood, still. The man laid against his opponent, exasperated. If he could not take this tree down, he would build his home around it. His ax chopped down the tree’s brothers and sisters, his saw transforming them to logs. The man built a home. Years passed and skyscrapers were erected. Soon, the tree was no longer the tallest monument in the forest. Soon, the tree was forgotten. The man’s daughter happened upon it one day, a girl just as proud as her father. She wondered why this tree had been allowed to stay in place of all the others. Her home was growing larger, after all, and they could use the space this tree was consuming. It’s roots, twisted and unsightly, were soaking up water they could surely use. The girl set out to complete what her father could not. Though the steel in her ax was stronger than her ancestor’s, she was still unable to pierce the formidable trunk. No blade she forged could puncture its shell. Her ropes unraveled with every attempt at an uprooting. Finally, with all options exhausted, if this stubborn tree would not move, she would simply destroy the ground it stood on. She forged a torch from its branches and placed fire at its feet. The dark of the forest crackled. The girl’s face glowed, soaked in victory. The tree did not give in. It called on its old sparring partner. Gusts brushed beneath its fiery leaves, red and gold, flames dancing in the sky. The wind was generous in its dispersal. The girl watched in terror as the fire she started spread further than she could control. The embers were returned to her and she glowed once again, dancing a final, shrieking dance. The heat nipped at the skyscrapers; a magnificent orange roared through the buildings and the homes that were once trees turned to a forest of flames. The wind called on a favor from the clouds and the rains came and extinguished the danger. The smoke cleared, ash lay in place of the homes, and the tree stood, still.


This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but with a hum. Alexis woke up to another migraine headache. She was becoming worried that something else might be going on, something more serious. She would get migraines periodically, but this one had been persistent for days now. Her boyfriend Brian walked into the bathroom as she was taking some medicine for her headache. “I think I need one of those too,” he said, taking the bottle from her and dropping a pill in his hand. “You’re getting a migraine too?” she asked. “God, I hope not,” he replied. “I can just feel a headache coming. Maybe we have a cold front coming through.” Alexis’ headache had been going on for too long for it to be related to the weather, but she wasn’t mentally able to debate it. They kissed each other and went their separate ways to work. The day was hard for her. Her migraine was making it hard to concentrate and by the early afternoon, she told her boss she needed to head home early. When Brian arrived home, he was surprised to see her car in the driveway. He was usually the first one home. “Alexis?” he called out as he crossed the threshold. No answer. He dropped his computer bag when he saw her lying unconscious on the kitchen floor, and ran to her. “Alexis!” he cried out. He tried to call 911, but kept getting a busy signal. Not willing to sit there waiting on the call to go through, he scooped her up and carried her to his car. Once she was safely strapped in the back seat, he drove off towards the hospital. The hospital was in total chaos. Cars where parked on curbs, and a platoon of nurses and doctors were moving quickly to gather up as many of the newly arriving patients as fast as they could. Brian lifted Alexis out of the car and carried her to the hospital entrance. “Help me! My wife collapsed!” he cried out, attracting the attention of a male nurse. “This way,” The nurse told him. As Brian followed the nurse, he asked, “What’s going on?” “People have been complaining of headaches now for a couple of days, but those headaches have grown into migraines, and many are starting to collapse,” the nurse said, weaving through the crowd. “We don’t know what’s causing it, but we’re trying to find a solution as quickly as we can.” He led Brian to an empty bed. “Lay her here,” the nurse said. “I’ll get a doctor here as fast as I can.” \*\*\* A few hours later, Brian exited the insanely crazy hospital, feeling like he had been stabbed in the heart. The doctors had done the best they could, but in the end, Alexis slipped away. They were never able to give him a reasonable explanation, and it seemed to be happening to everyone. Brian rubbed his temple. He could hear a constant hum, and he could feel his headache quickly building. ‘Maybe I’ll be seeing you sooner, rather than later, Alexis’ he thought. He gave one last look back at the hospital, and knowing there was nothing they could do, he walked away. \*\*\* Professor Donald Williams of the Science Institute held out his sonic measuring device as he walked the halls of the crowded hospital. He was picking up the same resonating hum that seemed to be everywhere, and the level was constant. He had hoped the signal would get stronger or weaker as he walked around, giving him an idea of where the source of the signal could be coming from. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to find any answers at the hospital, he left and drove back to his lab. He had already deduced that the hum was the cause of all the headaches people were experiencing. A few days before, he had detected the signal, though he couldn’t determine where it was coming from. When he started seeing his peers around him complaining of headaches, he quickly connected the two, and then tried to find a way to block the signal. He had informed the hospitals of what he had found, but without a solution, there was nothing any of them could do. He had started with ear plugs, noise cancelling headphones, and even tried standing in a sound-proof room, but to no avail. He tried to find the frequency so that he could use an opposite sound wave in an attempt to cancel out the signal, but he wasn’t able to pinpoint the exact frequency. Though he wasn’t sure where the signal was coming from, one thing he was sure of, was that it was getting stronger, and the stronger it got, the more people it would affect. He rubbed his hands through his hair, and then gently rubbed his temples. ‘Oh, great,’ he thought. ‘Now it’s happening to me.’ As the day gave way to night, he took aspirin as he continued to work. Anything he could do to keep the headache at bay. He knew the stronger the pain that was invading his head got, the harder it would be to concentrate. Early in the morning, his phone rang. “Dr. Williams,” he answered. “Donald,” his friend and colleague Dr. Tom Burton started. “We’ve found the source of the signal.” “What?” Donald said. “That’s great, Tom! How do we shut it off?” “We don’t,” Tom replied. “What do you mean, we don’t?” Donald asked. “I mean, it’s out of our reach,” Tom replied. Donald was confused. “It’s coming from space,” Tom clarified. Three hours later, Donald arrived at the university where Tom was a lab professor. Upon his arrival, they shook hands and Tom lead him to the lab where they had been able to locate the direction the signal was coming from. “We’re still scanning space to isolate the area from which the signal is coming from, but so far, we haven’t seen anything of note,” Tom explained. He led Donald to a large machine with a number of displays. Almost all of them where showing the sine waves of the signal that was causing everyone to hear a hum and have headaches. “The reason we haven’t been able to isolate the frequency, is because it’s being transmitted across all the known frequencies,” Tom explained. “The signal is very advanced, and we haven’t been able to find a solution on how to stop it,” he continued. “Many of my lab techs are dealing with headaches, and a few have not been able to continue. “I’ve started to pull as many personnel from other departments to replace them, but as of this morning, only a half dozen of us have yet to experience any headaches. Everyone who has been experiencing the headaches have complained of hearing a constant hum. We can only assume it’s the signal, but every effort to block the signal hasn’t worked. “The only thing we know for sure is that the signal is getting stronger and that it’s affecting the entire planet. No country is safe, and every scientist in the world is working on a solution. “As the signal gets stronger, more begin to hear the hum and begin getting headaches. Those that have already been hearing the hum and have headaches, complain that it gets much worse, turning into full-blown migraines. “Those with migraines don’t last long, as they all end up going to the hospital to seek help, but we have yet to have anyone return. “Our only hope is, as the signal gets stronger, we can then isolate the source, and that will help us focus our efforts to block the signal, or even signal back, hoping whoever is sending it will stop.” “Can’t we send a message in the direction we know it’s coming from?” Donald asked. “We already did,” Tom replied. “But there has been no response. Our hope for now, is that as the signal becomes stronger, the better we’ll be able to find a way to block it. “Of course, as time goes by, the headaches will only make it more difficult to concentrate, and eventually work at all.” They both understood the gravity of the situation, and quickly resumed work in the desperate hope of finding a solution. They both worked through the night, but by morning, Donald was unable to focus, and could only do minimal tasks. He knew that going to the hospital to seek treatment wouldn’t help, so he decided the best course of action was to keep working until the end. The end came at three in the afternoon. Tom, who now had the makings of a pretty bad headache himself, could only spare a few moments to mourn his friend, and then it was back to work. Tom was in constant contact with scientist from around the world, all working toward the common goal of locating the source of the code, and a way to block it, but as time passed with no new answers, their numbers began to dwindle. Tom worked tirelessly, as he watched one by one of his colleagues collapse and die shortly thereafter. His own headaches were getting worse, and he knew he didn’t have much longer. ‘I just wish I could get rid of this stupid hum for just a few minutes,’ he begged to no one in particular. Taking a short break, he walked down the hall to the break room to grab some coffee. Because of the migraine, he was no longer able to sleep. All he could do was mainline coffee to keep himself as alert as possible. There were several televisions on and all of them were running reports on the number of deaths the signal was causing. They droned on about what the governments were working on, possible leads scientists were pursuing, and how much longer they expected the planet to survive. Apparently, the constant hum was also affecting all the animals, and they were dying off as quickly as their human compatriots. Tom sipped his coffee, hoping something someone would say would give a clue as to what was happening. As he stood up to leave, before him stood a humanoid creature staring back at him. ‘Oh God, I’m losing my mind,’ he thought, keeping his gaze on the alien before him. It looked like it was trying to communicate with him, but all he could hear was that constant hum that was beginning to block out all other sounds. Tom used hand gestures to convey that he had no idea what the alien was trying to tell him. He felt slightly amused at the thought that he might be actually only talking to himself. ‘I’m about to die, and this is what my mind has defaulted to?’ he asked himself. He carried on the confusing conversation, when suddenly, the hum grew enormously louder, causing him to drop to one knee in pain. The alien approached him with a look of wanting to help, but Tom felt like his head was about to explode. The world around him was becoming increasingly blurry, and with a final shot of pain, his world went black. \*\*\* T’noch snapped his head back as his connection with the human was severed. He shook his head slowly. He couldn’t understand why he was having so much trouble keeping a connection to the creatures that inhabited the planet they were slowly approaching. He turned around to face his captain and report in his own language. “Sir, I’ve just lost another connection to another one of those creatures,” he said. “I don’t understand what the issue could be. We have not encountered this issue with any other planet we have visited. “I began reaching out a cycle ago, and as we have gotten closer, I have been able to make contact with many of them, but after only moments of opening communications with them, the connection is severed, and I’m forced to start over. “What are your orders?” The captain looked at him as he contemplated their next move. “Didn’t you say your connections were becoming easier and more frequent as we neared the planet?” the captain asked. “Yes, sir,” T’noch replied. “I am able to connect to a being much faster, but the connection never last.” The Captain nodded. “Very well,” he said. “While we prefer to announce our arrival ahead of time, so they can better prepare themselves for our arrival, we may have to arrive unexpected and hope for the best. “Continue your attempts until we arrive. Increase power if you need to.” “Yes sir,” T’noch replied. One cycle later, they arrived at the planet they had been attempting to communicate with through a telepathic connection. “Sir,” T’noch started. “This is strange, but I’m not reading any lifeforms on the planet.” The Captain stood up in surprise. “Explain!” he demanded. “Every living creature on the planet appears to be dead,” T’noch explained. “The cause?” the Captain asked. “Unknown, sir,” T’noch answered. “All I can tell is that it happened recently. That may explain why I have not been able to communicate with any of them in half a cycle.” “Continue the scans,” the Captain instructed. “Once we are sure it wasn’t a virus, or poses a threat to us, we’ll land on the planet for further investigation. In the meantime, begin transmitting to the next planet on our charts. Once we complete our investigation here, we’ll continue on to them.” “Yes, sir,” T’noch replied. \*\*\* Two cycles later, T’noch reported from the surface back up to the Captain. “Sir,” he began. “I’m afraid I’ve discovered the cause of their extinction.” “What was the cause?” the Captain asked. “I’m afraid it was us,” T’noch replied. “Apparently, their minds were not able to accept the telepathic link, and instead overwhelmed their minds. I’m afraid we inadvertently caused their extinction.


Don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t look don’t loo- dammit. My stride stuttered as I again was unable to keep my eyes forward, away from the sparkling temptress the universe has placed in my path as some cruel joke. Not only is there a high-end jeweler right on my walk to work, but it happens to be the one housing the St. Beneficio Egg. Many have heard of Faberge eggs, but those are cheap trinkets in comparison to the St. Beneficio Egg. It’s gorgeous. It’s priceless. Well, technically it did have a price: $225 million. As if anyone with $225 million would just walk by and impulsively buy the egg from the window. I never understood why a jeweler would just put it in the window like that. Probably just the universe trying to test me. I left the egg in my wake, as I did every morning, and tried to forget about it. There was a time in my life that I would have had that egg months ago. The first time I’d seen it, I would have begun planning. In just a few weeks, I’m sure I would’ve been ready to make a move. I mean, damn, when I was in the game, I was good. All it would take was a little observation of the business, the employees, the security measures... no. Dammit I was not doing a good job forgetting about that egg. I shook my head and went back into reality, only to realize I’d walked right past my office. I knew it wasn’t rational, but I didn’t want to do a 180 and show everyone I had messed up. I decided that as long as I’d already missed the office I might as well just get coffee at the upcoming cafe. That way it would be like I had purposely walked by the office for a reason. But if I was going to show up late to work with coffee, I had to offer to bring some for everyone else. Or at least anyone that responded within the couple minutes from when I sent out a text to when I was ordering. I whip out my phone and shoot off a text, but somehow, as if another test from the universe, I must have clicked the wrong “James” and my past comes back again. James: Hey girl, I imagine I wasn’t supposed to be in that group coffee text. My, how boring your life must have become to have a group coffee text Me: You are right about exactly one thing: you weren’t supposed to be in that text. James: Oh please. Don’t pretend you’re not bored. You know you miss the thrill, and the lifestyle. I know you burned through those profits quick. You must be almost out... hence whatever dead-end job you got where you’re stuck getting everyone coffee. Me: Getting coffee isn’t part of my job. I’m just doing it I paused. I was about to type “for fun,” but if I’m getting coffee for the office for fun, wouldn’t that just prove his point about my life? That would have just sounded sad. I deleted it and typed “for today.” But wouldn’t that make it sound like it is part of my job, just not everyday? Why did I care so much what James thought? I started thinking maybe I should just not respond, when he texted again. James: I’m going to take this sudden silence as meaning I’m right. Well if you’re so bored, I’m going to be in the city in a few weeks and I would be more than willing to help you with a job. Just think, this time you could live off that money for years since you’d be more careful about your spending... Stupid James thinking I was bored. I wasn’t bored. I loved my new life. Well, I liked it. It was fine. At least I wasn’t perpetually at risk of going to prison or dying. It was a much safer life. Plenty of people were happy in lives just like this. I just needed to get adjusted to the slower pace. James: No need to decide right now. Just let me know in the next couple weeks so I can prepare. Getting out of the life was the smartest decision I ever made. So why was I considering James’s offer? I mean, maybe one last heist wouldn’t be the worst idea. I could get it out of my system. Like smokers having one last cigarette before quitting. Or like smokers using nicotine patches to quit. I mean no one just quits cold turkey... that never works. Plus, James was right that one last heist could hold me over financially for years. And if we pulled the right heist, it could last me for life. One long, lowkey, normal life. James was also right that I had already blown through all my money from all my prior jobs before I decided to give up the life. At the time I had thought it would keep coming in at the same rate. Coffee Orders: Yeah, I’ll take a large hazelnut latte! Thanks! Coffee Orders: Large iced coffee, almond milk, caramel. Coffee Orders: And James would like a large hot coffee with cream no sugar. Not sure why he’s not in the chat. Coffee Orders: Medium herbal tea for me! You’re the best! Coffee Orders: I’m Hilary, I drink tea, I’m so special and different. Coffee Orders: Laugh at me all you want, but at least I treat my body with the respect it deserves so that it can take care of me. Ugh, Tim, why did you have to stir the pot? Was Hilary insanely irritating with her pretentious, clean-living, crystal-loving, treat-every-living-thing-like-a-friend attitude? Yes. But that was more something we talked about behind her back than brought up directly to her. What was even the point? She wasn’t going to change just because-- Oh my god. How was this my life? Inane workplace drama. This didn’t used to be something I would care about. Maybe it was good that it was something I care about in my new, normal life. The drama Tim stirred up was the talk of the office and I let myself get lost in it. I forgot entirely about the St. Beneficio Egg and James. I didn’t even think to look in the window on my walk home, mostly because I was on my phone texting about the Tim-Hilary situation and how it had split the entire office into Team Tim and Team Hilary. James and that egg were things of the past. At least for the day. The next day, I walked by the jeweler again and again I caught myself looking at the egg. I tried to remind myself of the Tim-Hilary thing to try and distract myself, but it turned out that a little workplace conflict was more of a one-day distraction. Who knew when the next distraction of that magnitude might come up? That was the biggest thing that had happened in weeks. God my life was boring. But it was the smart thing to do. Wasn’t it? Maybe some people just aren’t meant for boring lives... But I gave that up for a reason! I needed to stop thinking like this was even an option. It was only an option because James was coming to town. If I’d never texted him on accident or if he wasn’t coming or if that stupid egg wasn’t on my walk to work, I’d never be considering going back to the life. Then again, maybe the accidental text coming right before James’s trip and the insanely valuable egg just happening to be on my walk to work wasn’t by chance. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe the universe wanted me to have one last hurrah before giving it all up forever. I mean, what are the odds of it all lining up just by coincidence? But if I really wanted to quit and leave it all behind, like I knew I should, I needed to resist the temptation to pull one last heist. I was done with that life. For good. And I couldn’t say that if I was just a couple random coincidences away from pulling another heist at any given moment. I was not pulling a heist and that was final. And it was final. For a few days. Then James texted again. James: So... we on or what? Listen, I could only tell myself that it was all a bunch of coincidences for so long. It wasn’t like James to actively seek out a job. He normally waited for the jobs to come to him. There was only one explanation: the universe wanted me to pull this one last job. I mean, if I just pulled one last job, this time knowing it was my last job, it could hold me over forever, both financially and in excitement. Me: I know a place. I’ll do recon. Meet me in George’s Cafe on 8th at 5:30 PM on the 14th and we’ll go over job details. James: See you then. Over the next couple weeks, I went through my normal routine. I got the blueprints from public records (thank god for zoning requirements). I observed the opening and closing procedures from the restaurant across the street, which familiarized me with the security measures. I scoped out the cameras and found out which ones they were by shopping online for cameras that looked the same. I knew James would find the buyer. By the time he was in town, I had our plan ready to go. And it was flawless, truly some of my best work. James was one hundred percent on board. He had already found the buyer and was ready to go. He agreed to strike that very night, just as I’d planned. We waited for night to fall, then for nightlife to die off, bars to close, everyone to get home. Around 3:45 AM, after everyone had made their way home from bars and parties but before the early morning people were up, I was outside the jewelry store, wig in place, shoes with hidden lifts changing my height, wearing big reflective glasses that would mess with the cameras. Right on time, I saw James approaching, matching me in glasses, wearing the ridiculous outfit we’d agreed on. I tried not to laugh. “You ready?” he asked. I answered with a simple nod and began typing the lockbox code I’d watched the manager type a dozen times. Just as the lockbox clicked open, suddenly lights were flashing and sirens screaming. “HANDS ON YOUR HEAD! NOW! GET ON THE GROUND!” I spun around to see two cops coming from across the street, guns and flashlights trained on me. Cop cars came flying around the corner, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Stunned, I obeyed, dropping to my knees and locking my hands behind my head. What were the odds? For years I was pulling heists without being caught, but the one heist I pull after going straight... But that’s when I noticed it. James. He wasn’t dropping to the ground. He wasn’t putting his hands behind his head. He wasn’t even surprised. He refused to make eye contact as the officers placed the cuffs, but I couldn’t look away. So it wasn’t a coincidence, but it wasn’t the universe either. “James?” He winced as I said his name. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. I was shocked. James and I had been partners for years before I left. “James, I knew you were disappointed when I gave it up but this?” “It’s not about that... They had me in custody when you texted... they offered me a deal if I could get them you too...” “But you knew I was out--” Then a cop started in on my rights, beginning with the right to remain silent, and I shut up. I’d said too much already. I mean, they couldn’t possibly have had too much on me, could they? As I ducked into the back of a cop car I could not believe that I was so stupid to go for that damn egg. I knew better. Oh god, this was going to last the office wayyyy longer than the Tim-Hilary thing. Oh god, how was I thinking about the office right now? I guess I was more into that new life than I thought I was... A realization that came too late.