Three men make themselves uninvited guests at Aiden Davenport’s table. “Swanky,” says the lofty, heavyset man. “Yeah, this is one of the best culinary establishments in Vegas,” the skinny man at the other end of the table comments. “Can we order? I hear the Crispy Skin Grilled Duck Confit is to die for.” The pasty, scowling man in the middle with the slicked-back black hair gives the second man a bewildered glance. “I swear Danilo, you must have had a different father. We won’t be here long enough for you to write a review for Yelp. I am Marko Melnyk. The gourmet is my brother, Danilo, and the hulk seated at the end is Maxim Gorski.” Aiden notices Marko’s clipped accent. “Russian?” Marko’s head snaps back in revulsion. “I am Ukrainian. In fact, my competitors call me the ‘Ukrainian Nightmare’ Let me get to the point. In a few days, you will fight Bullfrog Brazier in defense of your title. You will lose.” Aiden practically leaps across the table at Marko. His manager, Candido “Candy” Casanova, and trainer, Gabe Spinner, grab him by the shoulders, pushing him back into his seat. “I’ve worked for too long and have taken too many punches to take a dive.” “Your manager is a lousy poker player, and your trainer couldn’t pick a winning horse in a field of one.” “How much are they into you for?” Aiden asks. “Two hundred fifty thousand each.” Candy and Gabe lower their heads in shame. “You two should have come to me before it got this far. Ruby has a tight rein on our purse strings, I can’t ask her for that much money. And I’ll repeat what I said before about throwing the fight, so you know where I stand. NYET.” Maxim cracks the knuckles on his massive hands. “You don’t scare me, Godzilla. I’ve knocked out bigger goons than you. Maybe honor and integrity are strange qualities for a boxer to have, but I’m proud of my reputation as well as my forty-three knockouts. I win my next fight and I’ll pass Julio Chavez for the most title defenses.” “There’s nothing wrong with sharing the record,” Danilo offers. “You have held the title long enough, Mister Davenport,” Marko says. “Are you suggesting I retire?” “That is entirely up to you,” Marko replies, curling his lips into a predatory smile. “I like money and what it brings. I cannot have it if you hold the title.” “I’m surprised you’re backing Brazier. Everyone knows he can’t fight. The odds are fifteen to one that I’ll paste him. If by some miracle he takes the title from me he’ll lose it in his first defense.” Marko’s sharkish grin widens. “That is the plan.” “I’d rather die in the ring than throw away my title. And there’s nothing you can do that’ll change my mind.” “We have your wife.” Ruby Davenport rubs her eyes, trying to wipe the cobwebs from her mind. Looking around, Ruby takes note of the beige walls, IKEA end tables, and utilitarian lamps. She realizes she’s in a hotel room. Sitting up in bed, Ruby stifles a gasp as her gaze meets the startled stare of a swarthy, sleepy-eyed young man dressed in black leaning against the dresser. He cordially nods at her. “Where am I?” “You’ve been asleep for hours,” he replies. “For all you know, we could be in Canada by now.” “How long do you intend to keep me here?” “Until the end of the fight.” The spirited, petite redhead’s apprehension dissipates, replaced by anger. “Explain what’s going on, junior...” “My name’s Reed Melnyk. It’s simple. Your husband throws the fight, and you’ll go home. Otherwise...” “Ah, the death threat,” Ruby replies, studying him. “How old are you?” “Twenty-three.” “You're kind of young to be swimming in the deep end of the organized crime pool, aren’t you Reed?” “My Pop was a made man when he was my age.” “Really? Where is he?” “Dead. He died in a shoot-out with the police.” “What does that tell you? Have you ever killed anyone, Reed?” Squirming, Reed replies, “No. But my Uncle knows I can step up if I have to.” Ruby scoffs. “I’ll behave, Al Capone. But I can’t speak for Aiden. Lay down, stay down is not part of his fight strategy.” “Then he’ll have to face my Uncle and his men. And they don’t fight fairly,” Reed says. “If they’re anything like you, I’ll bet on my husband. You don’t seem like the gangster type. I bet you wanted to be something else as a kid.” Reed lets his guard down. “...A photographer...” “So, instead of having a forty-five in that bag on the floor, you’ve got a camera?” “That’s right.” “You didn’t happen to take any pictures of me while I was unconscious, did you?” “Just one,” Reed answers timidly. “I took it with my phone to show my Uncle my mission was successful.” “Yeah, you were really quiet when you snuck in the house and chloroformed me,” Ruby replies. “So, what are we going to do for the next forty-eight hours? And please, don’t let your libido do your thinking. I don’t want to have to slap you around.” “Woah! I’m married!” “But are you in love?” Ruby asks. “Of course. I met Phoebe in the eighth grade. There’s never been anyone else.” “Then you must understand how wrong this is. I feel the same way about Aiden as you do about Phoebe.” “Everything’ll work out fine if he loves you more than he loves being champ,” Reed says reassuringly. “If he doesn’t, you’ll never see him again.” Two nattily dressed men stride into the Rumble Boxing Gym where Boone “Bullfrog” Brazier is training. The amateur boxers banging away at the heavy bags and jumping rope slowly cede the room to the men. Bullfrog’s pint-sized, bald trainer Brutus Bolinger, yells, “Time!” Bullfrog stops mugging his sparring partner. Sucking for air, his cheeks puffing out like a bullfrog’s, he says to his manager, “I told you so.” Bullfrog’s manager, Nevin Badoo, protectively stands in front of the ring. His hand tightens around his brass-tipped cane, and he raises it, ready to defend himself. “...Welcome back, Mossy...” he says shakily. Maurice “Mossy” Graves’s declared profession of undertaker fits his tall, gaunt appearance. In contrast to his dynamic blue eyes, his face is long, pale, and thin. He has bushy, iron-gray hair, brushed high above his forehead, and often sports a bitter expression, giving him a striking resemblance to Andrew Jackson. The second man, Handy Mandy Muldaur, has an over-powering, tanned frame, bushy brows, and a maniacal look in his eye. “You don’t want to have to hobble around on two canes, do you, Nevin?” Graves asks. Nevin lowers his cane. “So that’s really how you broke your leg,” Brutus says to Nevin. “Breaking legs has become a cliché, but it’s still an effective one,” Graves replies. “I told you, Mossy, no one’s gonna believe it if Bullfrog takes a dive,” Nevin says. “The Boxing Commission will withhold our purse, and maybe even suspend him if they find out he threw the fight.” “Besides, I want to beat Davenport fair and square,” Bullfrog says. “Here’s another old saying,” Graves replies. “You try to fight Davenport, Bullfrog, and you’ll croak. I’m backing him.” “I beat Henry Harrison and Lefty Wright to get this shot. They’re both heavy hitters like Davenport.” “He doesn’t know, boss,” Handy Mandy guffaws. Graves allows himself a mealy grin. “You never wondered why Wright, who’d been trashing you for six rounds suddenly ran out of gas and walked into your jab? Wright and half your other fights were fixed.” Bullfrog thinks about jumping the ropes to get at Graves. He reconsiders when he sees Handy Mandy check his jacket pocket for what appears to be a gun. “If you’re so sure Davenport can beat me, why bother trying to bribe me?” “It’s not the result of the fight I’m worried about. It’s the round,” Graves answers. “I’m betting you fall in round two, so that’s why I need your cooperation.” “I won’t do it.” Brutus throws a towel around Bullfrog’s shoulders. “Take the deal, Bullfrog.” “Et tu, Brutus,” Bullfrog replies. “I’m not gonna let some coffin salesman run my career.” “I own fifty-five percent of your contract, Bullfrog. Jesus, Nevin, haven’t you told this dope anything? I’ll say it one last time. You’re taking a dive in the second round. You remember Stanley Sandusky?” “Do I ever! He knocked me out in the fifth round. I never saw it coming. He was on the bullet train to a title fight when he disappeared.” “You can either take a nap in the ring or in the dirt with Stanley.” Aiden lowers his sunglasses to the end of his nose, scanning the room. “Don’t worry, I paid the waiters to keep this section of the restaurant closed until we’ve talked,” Bullfrog says. The two fighters tell each other about Melnyk and Graves’ threats. “So, I’m supposed to lose, and you’re supposed to lose,” Bullfrog says, rubbing his hand over his scarred features. “They’ve got my wife. I have to go along with what Melnyk wants.” “And if I don’t lose, Graves will chop me into Kibbles and Bits. Either way, one of us is going to suffer. I wish there was a way out of this.” Brushing back his blonde mane, Aiden flashes a winning smile. “There might be a way...” Reed licks barbecue sauce off the end of his fingers. “Use a napkin, they gave you a hundred of them,” Ruby scolds. “Not bad for door-to-door,” Reed replies, wiping his hands. “I know you’re used to gourmet dinners...” “When this is over, the quality of the Chinese food is the last thing I will complain about.” “Yeah, I guess being held captive sucks,” Reed replies, checking the clock on the wall. “The fight starts in three hours. Maybe you’ll be home in four.” Ruby shakes a finger at Reed. “Tsk, Tsk. You just gave away a clue that I’m only fifty or sixty miles away from home.” “Pretty smart trick. Maybe you should have been the champ’s manager instead of Candy Casanova.” Ruby raises her glass of soda, grimacing when she takes a gulp. “Can you get some ice? This soda is hotter than the action on the fight.” “Sure, but I’m going to have to lock you in.” “I understand. You’re just doing your job. And you’re really good at it.” Ruby stays in her chair until she hears the lock engage. She heads to the bathroom. Chuckling to herself, Ruby says, “I bet Reed is going to wish he had a picture of this.” Ruby opens the window, sliding out. Running to the corner, she hails a passing cab. Aiden and Bullfrog stare vacantly into each other’s eyes as referee Phil Gut explains the rules. Leaning on his cane, Nevin comments, “Given the circumstances, Bullfrog looks pretty calm.” “He always was a better actor than a fighter,” Brutus replies. “Did you spike his water?” “Yeah. The drugs should begin to take effect halfway through the first round,” Brutus answers. “He’ll fall in the second, whether he likes it or not.” The two fighters charge out of their corners, then uncharacteristically begin circling one another. The crowd responds by booing the reluctant warriors. Candy Casanova turns to Gabe Spinner. “What is this, a high school dance?” “Don’t blame Aiden. Bullfrog’s dragging his feet too.” The two fighters clinch. Aiden whispers, “This is awful, do something!” tapping his glove against Bullfrog’s ribs. Bullfrog drops to one knee. Sitting at ringside in the second row, Maurice Graves buries his head in his hand. Turning to Handy Mandy, he asks, “Did I miss something?” “Like a punch?” Handy Mandy looks at the replay on his phone. “Must’ve been a phantom punch. Maybe Bullfrog is trying to ratchet up the drama for his swoon in the second.” Bullfrog winces, holding his side as Phil Gut counts over him. Bullfrog stands as the count reaches seven. Phil Gut looks into Bullfrog’s eyes. “You okay? Can you go on?” “Never felt better,” Bullfrog responds. “Then what the hell are you doin’?” Gut whispers. “I got ten grand on Davenport. You’re supposed to drop in the second round, you punch-drunk nimrod. NOW, BOX!” Aiden charges at Bullfrog throwing wild hooks, as if looking to finish him off. The fighters exchange a flurry of namby-pamby body shots. Aiden misses with a lunging right cross. Bullfrog taps him on the jaw with a jab. Aiden pitches forward, landing on his face. Aiden rolls over onto his back as Phil Gut begins to count. The crowd’s cheers nearly drown out Gut’s voice, but Aiden can still hear the referee’s frustrated comments. “ONE... Get up you son of a... TWO... I bet my paycheck on you... THREE... You can’t hand this bum the crown... FOUR... What have you got against me? ... Michael Phelps took a better dive... FIVE... I’m just tryin’ to earn a livin'...” Aiden rolls on his side in a feeble attempt to get up. He spots Ruby racing down the aisle, running toward his corner. At six, Aiden jumps to his feet. “C’mon Champ! Show them all who’s boss!” Ruby yells. Seated in the third row directly behind Mossy Graves, Marko Melnyk slips his arms around the shoulders of his two henchmen. “Give Reed a chance, you said...” “I promised his father, our brother, that we’d look after him,” Danilo replies. “We? Our brother was stupid and impetuous. His boy is brilliant and careless. Find him. Get rid of him.” “But he’s family...” “Get out of my face, both of you. Do not come back until Reed is chum.” The two bodyguards reluctantly make their way through the aisle. “Are you all right with this?” Maxim asks. “We’re not going to kill Reed. We’ll find him and put him on a flight to Berkely, where he can attend photography school.” Maxin breaks out in a sweat. “We’re supposed to get rid of him, Danilo, not reward him. What if your brother finds out?” “He won’t, and do you know why? He made a big mistake, his last. He doesn’t have any bodyguards with him now. He has to drive the limo himself. We wait for him to drive off after the fight, and it’s the end of the Ukrainian Nightmare.” Aiden hits Bullfrog with two hard hooks to the head, stunning him. Pulling Aiden into a clinch, Bullfrog whispers, “What gives?” “Ruby. She’s free.” “So, you’re gonna renege on our deal?” “I have what I want the most, my wife.” Aiden pushes Bullfrog away, slamming him with a four-punch combination. Bullfrog’s body stiffens, crashing to the canvas like a falling redwood. Phil Gut starts counting over Bullfrog. The bell rings when Gut reaches five, saving Bullfrog from being counted out. Bullfrog’s cornermen carry their fighter back to his stool. “He’s the most knocked man I’ve ever seen,” Brutus says. “Plus, those sedatives we spiked his water with have done the trick. He’s in La La Land. There’s no way we can send him out for the second round.” Nevin glances at Mossy Graves, who grits his teeth, making a fist. “He really does look like Andrew Jackson when he’s mad,” Nevin says flippantly. “Yeah, but I don’t think he’s gonna give us a presidential pardon,” Brutus replies. As Aiden returns to his corner, Candy asks, “Why’d you do it, champ?” “For us,” Ruby replies, hugging Aiden through the ropes. Aiden sits down on his stool. “And by the way, Candy, you and Gabe are fired.” Aiden waves Phil Gut over. “I can’t come out for the second round, Phil. “It’s my shoulder. I think I separated it.” Exasperated, Gut says, “All you gotta do is make it to the center of the ring and you’ll win.” “I’m in too much pain.” “You? My bankroll’s gone, thanks to you. Look, Bulldog’s practically in a coma. If you don’t come out for the second and he can’t come out, I’ll have to declare the match no contest. It’ll be like the fight never happened.” “So, everybody gets their money back. A shame,” Aiden replies. The bell sounds. Phil Gut moves to the center of the ring, certain that his announcement will result in chaos. Mossy Graves and Handy Mandy Muldaur watch ringside doctor Santo Corsica examine Aiden’s shoulder. The pocket-sized physician with the oversized Afro has been treating fighters for twenty-five years, and any diagnosis he makes is treated as an irrefutable fact. “He’ll be back in perfect shape in a week or two,” Dr. Corsica whispers to Ruby. “That’s great, Doc. But don’t forget what I paid you to say,” Ruby replies. Dr. Corsica turns to face Graves’ demanding stare. “He has a torn rotator cuff. He’ll be out of the ring for at least six months, and he’ll never be the same fighter.” “Maybe you should retire, Aiden. Go out a champ,” Graves proposes. Ruby steps forward looking up at Graves, her gaze and attitude indomitable. Graves and Handy Mandy step back. “I’m sorry we had to detain you...,” Graves offers. “Detain? You mean kidnap, you crooked Andrew Jackson imitation! Kidnapping puts you on the hook for ten years. I’ll cancel my talk with the Feds if you forget what Candy and Gabe owe you.” “...Sure, done. Well, it’s been fun everyone. I’m going to visit Bullfrog to see if he’s okay.” Aiden huffs. “You mean you’re going to let him know that I’m out of the way, and you’re going to get him another fixed championship fight.” “What can I say? I love this sport,” Graves replies, giving them a graveyard smile. “There’s something you should know, Mister Graves,” Dr. Corsica says. “I examined Bullfrog in his locker room before I looked at Aiden. Bullfrog has a detached retina. He’ll never fight again.”


I love this time of the year, it’s like I’m going home for what the humans call Christmas, I’d love to go somewhere nice, definitively somewhere snowy, with a mountain. I know exactly where I’m headed. I’ve always loved to travel alone, even though us birds don’t usually or never do that; but this is how I see it, I make the rules, I stop whenever I want, and go wherever I want, I enjoy all the little adventures, because believe me when you do a three to four weeks flight, it’s an adventure! Here I take off, it’s time.It will start to get warm in a few weeks where I live now and as I am a snowy owl, snow is calling me and I’m definitively responding to it! As I flew all over the city, I was thinking about all the little things I’ll miss, let me give you a tour. I used to live on the biggest tree in this beautiful parc over there, it’s convenient because all the little birds would come by night to feed over the nuts this lady human would give. In the morning I would take a dip in the lake not far away, then over the day, as I’m minding my own business, I have to bear small humans staring at me, trying to catch me and throwing bread crumbs at me, while I’m trying to sleep. I always loved watching humans crossing the parc in the morning, there is this human guy with the blue shirt, he always seems to be in a rush, and as he runs, sometimes he spills his black liquid all over him, oh and this human girl always getting this delicious square golden food from this store nearby , delicious I assume by the great smell it spreads, I tried to get it from her multiple times, but I didn’t succeed. And let’s not forget that old human with five of her dogs, she would walk them every day and they’d always bark at me, Am I that intimidating? I certainly won’t miss that; the black big dog almost ate me once. Now I’m seeing new images, nothing really interesting for now, I’m just overflying landscapes, houses a lot of them. Anyways, it’s been a while since I’ve been in the air by now, I’m starting to feel really hungry, Maybe I should stop for a snack, I deserved it, or maybe I should wait, I’m almost crossing a big ocean, I could eat my favorite fish. I’m voting fish. Up in the air I meet a lot of new friends, that’s the coolest part, it’s a time killer, when you meet a new bird and start a conversation, time flies by, not that it does not when I’m all by myself. Let me go some feet down, I’m seeing something huge from above, a big ass boat with some people on it, and I’m definitively smelling fish, I’m going for it, It’s time for lunch! Seeing it from close by, it’s a sailing boat, I’ll be very discreet and no one will notice me. I see a lot of fish in a bucket, I made sure that no one was looking at me and I flew right next to it. -What do you think you’re doing? Says a parrot -Hi, didn’t see you there! I responded; can I have some? I’ve been flying for a moment now. I really tried to be polite here, but the truth is I hate parrots, they always give me attitude. -It’s my lunch, but we can share if you want. -Oh, okay thank you! I responded surprised -So, where are you going? He asked me with food in his mouth -I don’t know, I’ll know when I see it, it’s beautiful and snowy, I’m calling it wonderland And I have to go now, thanks for your hospitality. -I’m Edward. -Moly! As I’m in the sky, I started to feel the cold on my wings, I’m certainly in the right direction. As I am admiring the beautiful city I’m above, all lighten up, humans gathering in a circle filled with snow and just going back in forth bumping into each other, I don’t know what sport that is, but they seem to enjoy it. Just a little far away, some music playing, no actually people are singing in front of a big giant tree they sacrificed and decorated with round colors and glittery stuff, I can see how they like it, it’s beautiful. As I sat down on a bench, the wind started to hit hard, and just like that, it started raining. Everyone was rushing to their homes, apparently a storm is about to begin. I was hiding in a tree, but everything was falling on me, until, I saw a little window from the third floor of a building opened, so I rushed to enter. It was such a cozy and warm house; I was thinking I could sleep here and then go back to the sky. I’ve heard some voices as I entered the house, moaning, actually. As I followed the sound, I found myself in a bedroom with two humans over each other, they were copulating, the human girl was going all in, until she saw me staring and then screamed her heart out. I mean I can’t blame her, a white owl with green glowy eyes in the dark, that’s a bit scary. So, I ran away from that house and found myself a little cocoon where I could sleep until the storm passes. Now that I’ve got all of my strengths back, it’s time to finish the ride. I feel like this trip took more than usual, I started to think that maybe I went the wrong direction, should I ask for directions? It’s when I felt flakes of snow going down my wings that I was wondering maybe not! and then, I saw it, that huge white mountain far away, the lake with the beautiful swans, a gigantic forest with beautiful trees I can live on , and a lot of elegant human houses. I took a deep breath and laid on the highest roof I could found, to enjoy this incredible view, because I knew I was finally home.


For the longest time I've been having a problem, a very big problem. I alienate family and friends. I was kicked out of my family. Everyone hated me but they still came to help me. To make me see I was destroying my life. One day I realized what I was losing and I decided to get help. These Thank You Cards are for those who never gave up on me and for those who were tough on me. First, I want to say thank you to the big guy up in the sky. Without your love and guidance, I wouldn't be here. When I needed someone to talk too, you were always there. Thank you Heavenly Father. My best friend Genesis. My partner in crime. We did so many crazy things together. I can't name them all. It will take three full pages to name all the crazy things we did together. I'm laughing right now thinking about how much we drove our mother's crazy. Genesis, you were there for me during the tough days of my life. The days when I didn't want to leave my house. The days when I was angry at the world. The days when I cursed out the world. You never gave up on me. I love you my sister and I thank you for all you did for me. I thank you for being my best friend. Doctor Norah Cooper. What would I do without you? You listened to me but never judged me I can always count on you when I need someone to talk too. My problems were your problems. You sat next to me listening to my problems. No matter how long it took, you never complained. Even when I called you late at night with one of my panic attacks. You never got angry with me. You calmed me down and listened to me. I thank you for all those late nights and early mornings. I hope we can do more. Hallie, my baby sister. Where do I begin? You recognized my problem long before anyone else did. Even myself. You begged me to get help. I didn't listen to you. You came to my home every single day to tell me I had a problem. You cried in front of me. I still wouldn't listen. But you never gave up on me. You fought with me to get the help I needed. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you the first time. You pushed and pushed and pushed me to get the help I needed. My sister Hallie, thank you for pushing me and not giving up on me. I love you to the moon and back. Myla, my second baby sister. You were the total opposite of Hallie. You cut me out of your life because I never saw the problem I had. You didn't want me to infect your life. I get it. I understand why you did what you did. I hope one day we can repair our relationship. Thank you for letting me see what I will lose if I don't get the help I need. Grandpa Joe, my favorite guy in the world. You tell the best jokes. You know how to make me laugh. On my bad days, You were there for me always making me laugh. When I was spiraling out of control, Grandpa, you were there by my side comforting me and telling jokes. Thank you Grandpa for always making my life a little brighter. Paris, my last baby sister. You pulled me out of the darkness. You told me un your sweet way I was ruining my life. When I was crying, you sang to me. Your voice baby sister gave me hope that my life was worth living. Paris, you sang to me at my lowest point. You sang to me when I needed hope and love. I never got to say I love you. I hope one day I can say those words. Thank you Paris for always singing to me. Dylan, my favorite next door neighbor. I'm sorry for the headaches I caused you. You didn't deserve my anger. You once told me that living with a bottle in my hands is not living at all. That I'm existing in a world that doesn't seen the real me. Dylan, you knew what I was going through because you went through the same thing. You words helped me see the light. I once told you I wasn't worthy to be alive. You told me I was wrong. You told me I was worthy to be alive. That I was worth something. I just had to believe it. Thank you, Dylan for seeing the real me. Grandma Ellie, You're the tough one in the family and you let me know it every single day. You yelled and screamed at me. You told me I was being selfish only thinking about myself. Grandma, you kicked me out of the family. I don't hate you for what you did. I was or maybe I'm still a toxic person. I hope one day I can make you happy. Thank you, Grandma for being tough with me. Hunter, my comforter when I needed one. I cried on your shoulders for days. For hours when I was shutting the world out. You took the time to talk to me. I heard from so many people that I was wasting my life. That death would come for me soon. It was harsh hearing those words. Hunter, you told me to be strong. That if I put my mind to getting better than I could do it. I can make my life and my self better. Your hugs were special to me. I always felt safe in your arms. Thank you, Hunter for being my comforter when I needed one. Father Eddie, you always knew the right things to say to me. You were always a good person to me. From the very first day I went to see you, you opened your arms to me. The many times I came to you to ask for help, you never turned me away. You gave me the power and strength to open my mouth and ask for help. Thank you, Father Eddie for being good to me. I saved the best person for last. Mom, the person who gave me life. The person I love the most in the world. I'm your first born daughter. The daughter who stood by your side. The one who was there for you when dad left. The one who comforted you when you cried. I cried too but I had to be the strong one. You told me I didn't need to be strong. I had to be strong for you and for my sisters. I didn't want you, Hallie, Myla or Paris to see me lose it. In the end I broke down and I lose everything. I thought what happened was my fault that's why I had to be strong. Mom, you tried to get me to see what happened between you and dad wasn't my fault. I didn't see it. You love me for who I was even during my darkest days. A mother's love is worth more than gold. Your love is worth a lot. Thank you, mom for always loving me. I hope by reading these Thank You Cards you all would know I'm trying my hardest to get better and I won't ever give up. I love you all.


It’s still morning. At least that’s what I tell myself. Light seeps into the corners of my eyes like the edges of an old photograph. Wind buffets my face like waves. My eyes drift open and like a polaroid the world slowly materializes in front of me; shapes and colours creep in from hot white light until I’m presented with the hypnotic cadence of a ceiling fan. The blades spin round and round, running from one another only to just end up back where they started; perpetually running from an inescapable conclusion. I turn my head and to my surprise Daphne’s not fast asleep beside me. In fact, she’s not in bed at all which was odd because she usually slept in on Saturdays. A bottle of her favourite wine rests haphazardly on the edge of her nightstand bringing me back to the night before. Summers were meant for late nights and long naps she would always say, her lips stained red with her favourite wine, legs crossed and shimmering in the firelight. She’d always find my gaze through the flames, embers dotting her eyes like the night sky. And then she’d smile before drawing one more sip and returning to the revelry around her. That was usually when I quietly excused myself for the night leaving her to gossip and mingle with the other friends enjoying the evening. While summer may be for late nights, I always found if they went too late and her lips got too red we’d end the night with a fight and it was better to resign to the living room and fall asleep on the couch to reruns of old TV. She was always cheerful after the cicadas started singing and morning gave way to early afternoon. But it was not early afternoon. My watch tells me it’s only eight. I call out her name and wait. Straining my ears, awaiting reply; or perhaps just the cold response of running water from a hot shower down the hall. Neither comes to me and for a moment I run through the events of the night before. James and Rashi had come over, as well as our neighbour Terrence. The two of them we’d known since college; Terrence just since we moved in last fall but he always had interesting things to say. He was old enough you didn’t even bother asking his age anymore. The one time I had he just responded with ‘since time’ and looked at me with a twinkle in his eye before going back to tending his garden. Crinkled brown skin pulled tight every time he smiled which was often. He’d been in the same barbershop quartet for almost twenty five years before the other three started succumbing to the effects of disease and time. But he’d still croon for us around the campfire as best he could. The drunker he got you’d see him dancing between the harmonies clumsily trying to give you the full effect but it would just end in fits of laughter from all of us including him; especially when he went for the high notes, his baritone vocals barking at registers unknown. I check my phone for any messages and there’s a missed call from James. I tap it to call him back but after two rings it goes to voicemail. I shoot him a message before flipping over to my conversation with Daphne. *Where you at?* I type. A quick call sends me straight to voicemail. Probably best to check with Terrence first anyways and see if she was still up when he had gone off to bed. He was usually up earlier than both of us so if she had gone somewhere he might even know where that was. My body groans and my stomach does a flip when I roll out of bed and take my first few steps towards the hall. A hollow *clank* spooks me where my foot’s knocked over another bottle of empty wine; she must have had a later night than I thought. I never knew what she saw in the stuff. Hot, sweet breath, red teeth and a gut ache the next morning was all it ever did for me. I’d usually have a sip just to see if it had gotten any better since the last time but it never satisfied any deep desire within like it did for her. Just a cough or a wince followed by my tongue feeling dry and fuzzy. Apparently, that was a good thing. “Daphne?” I call out again. More central in the house now, she’s bound to hear me if she’s around. The bathroom door’s shut but the shower’s off. I push it open. Assess myself in the mirror briefly. Dishevelled hair. Wet eyes and somehow my single sip from the night before still managed to cling to my teeth. I futilely run my tongue along them before wetting a toothbrush and tackling it head on. Everything about this felt so utterly familiar. It wasn’t just Friday nights that she drank, was it? No, it was most nights. A bad habit turned into a mundane routine. I spit in the sink. Old toothpaste is stuck like glue in clumps around the basin. I splash water around it but it needs a full scrubbing. A quick glance around the bathroom reveals similar neglect. I can’t remember the last time we had done a weekly clean of the place. To be honest, she was usually the one leading the charge, but the chart of chores that used to be stuck to our fridge door had been replaced by liquor store flyers for a while now. Specials, new arrivals, old faithfuls. I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, ignore the cluster of dishes sitting in the sink and head through to the front foyer and slip on a pair of runners. Out of habit I reach out for the hook that holds the car keys and grasp nothing but air. Weird. Not that the keys would be gone, but that both sets of keys are missing - mine and hers. Sure enough, the car’s not parked in the driveway. She must have taken both keys by mistake, right? After last night she was probably still half in the bag, or just crawling out of it when she headed off to wherever she was going. The brick column that climbs halfway up the corner of our house is crumbling, bits of sediment and a few larger chunks are strewn around it; a sign of the times. Part of being able to afford a home anymore was foregoing the usual due diligence like inspections and simply taking what you could get. This wasn’t the only part of our home slowly falling apart. The entire place was breaking at the seams like an aging suit; the kind you see men digging out of their closets for a funeral despite being a few inches wider than when they first bought it. Terrence’s flowers are opening up beautifully along the stone path to his front door. A bumblebee wobbles and waves around a particularly colourful patch of petals, slowly lining up a sloppy landing and collapsing on a leaf like a shipwrecked sailor. *Protect the bees!* She’d yelled sloppily a few weeks back. *They’re all we friggin' got.* Something she’d read in one of her magazines. The next day she’d come home from the farmer’s market with ten jars of organic honey. The kind that crystallized and you had to spread like peanut butter. Each jar was a different varietal. *This one has hibiscus while this one is lavender and wildflower.* The relation to her wines was not lost on me but this seemed healthier and for a naive moment, I thought maybe she’d found a new hobby. It only took until the next evening to realize I was mistaken. My knock on his door spooks a nearby sparrow who chirps indignantly and launches off his perch to a more peaceful end of the yard. I can hear Terrence shuffling around inside before his voice comes booming through the door. “What you want?” “Terrence, it’s me, open up.” “No, I think I’m good, son.” “Why? Are you naked?” I let out a chuckle hoping to break the confusing tension coming through the door but he doesn’t even respond. Terrence would open his door for his worst enemy if he knew he was hungry. Something wasn’t adding up. A dark thought that maybe more than just Terrence lay beyond that door struck a dark chord in my mind and sent my fist knocking again. “Come on now, open up. I need to talk to you about Daphne! Have you seen her?” “Son. I’m afraid if you don’t leave now I’ll have to call the cops. I just can’t do this today.” His words send me a step back. Who did he think he was? Call the cops *on me?* “Terrence quit playing around! Just open up. I’m really starting to get worried about her.” And I was. As much as things had waned since we moved. As much as I hated the drinking. And the fighting. And the interrupted sleep. The endless hobbies that cluttered the corners of our home. I still loved her. The truth was, it kept me safe. Safe from trying new things on my own. I lived vicariously through her various passions, tasting honey like it was scotch or finding vintage frames at second hand stores to house her latest finger painting. There was something beautiful about dating this flawed tapestry of a woman; for all her flaws, she kept me warm at night. “Terrence. Please.” I can hear a heavy sigh even through the door. A deadbolt knocking back. The door swings half open and Terrence’s swollen face fills the frame. The purple marbling on his cheekbone pushes the thought of Daphne out of my mind for a brief moment. “Terrence, what happened?” He sucks air in through tight teeth and shakes his head. “I liked you, son. I liked Daphne more, but I really did like you too.” “Liked? What-” “Now you listen well and you listen good. I feel for you. I do. It was a tragedy - to all of us. But you have to straighten yourself up. You gone too far this time.” “You’re saying I did this to you?” “You and your drinkin’.” No. I shake my head. He’s old. Old and confused. “I went to bed last night before all of you Terrence, you know that.” “All of us? All of who?” “You. You - and James...and Rashi.” He grimaces. I can see him shift his body more behind the door, bracing it. “Son. I don’t know what you think happened last night but ain’t none of us over at your place. You came over here hollering about Daphne and when I opened my door you demanded to know where she was just like you is now. I don’t got the answers you need son, only God has those, but you got to find a way to let go.” “Let go? Of what?” “Of her son. She’s gone. Two weeks now you’ve been coming around here. Your teeth been red for weeks. I can’t carry on like this.” “You’re wrong. She’s just gone off somewhere this morning. Probably grabbing coffee for us right now.” “Your car was impounded five days ago after you crashed into the corner of your own damn house. Lucky those bricks held like they did. Only reason you ain’t in jail is ‘cause you didn’t damage nothing but your own.” My head’s spinning like a carousel. I keep spotting different images spinning around me, flashes of time. Memories that feel like lies. My black suit I hadn’t worn since college gripping me like a wet suit, bursting at its seams; the one I wore when my dad died all those years back. But this funeral wasn’t for him, was it? My friend James pulling me tight telling me everything was going to be alright. Sitting on my front stoop with Terrence, sharing a bottle of root beer one of his nephews had made from scratch. He was wearing a suit too and singing some sad song that cut up your insides and made your heart weep. I look down at my feet. At my hand, bruised in its own right. Then lift stinging eyes back up to Terrence. “How?” “You know how, son. And you keep doing like you are, you’ll find her soon enough.” I stand there. My body frozen in shock. My brain scrambling to rewrite my memories. My eyes turning wine into water. All I can say is - “I’m sorry.” “Me too, son. He nods at me. Eats his bottom lip. “Please don’t come over here again.” The door shuts firmly in front of me and I hear him shuffling off. Finding my way back to my own front door is a blurry mess. Feeling for the ground like I might fall in quicksand with one misplaced step. I collapse at the foot of my bed and a glint of light catches my eye. Dozens of bottles litter the floor beneath my mattress. Her favourite wine; but emptied by another's hand. My breath is hot on my face as it’s pressed up against the floorboards. In that moment I can smell myself. Taste the fermented sugars that have settled between my teeth like dirt under your fingernails. I drag the blanket off my bed and curl up right there in a pool of tears. How many days had I ended like this? How many times had my mind betrayed me? Ripping open the scars and leaving me paralyzed with nothing but my thoughts to haunt me. I shut my eyes tight and wander back. To her smile. And her eyes. The effortless way she moved around a room, her dress dancing behind her as if her own voracity for life seeped into its very fibres. The way she said my name even when she was angry. I pull the blankets tighter around me and shut out everything but her. Refusing to let reality bring me back to the present. To a time without her, as all time from here on would be. It wasn’t enough, all those moments. Stacked up against a lifetime without her. I pray for the morning. A morning where she hadn’t yet been taken from me. I reach for another bottle and let it dull my senses and eventually I do fall back asleep. The sound of the cicadas wakes me eventually. Moonlight drifts in casting shadows of dancing leaves on the far wall and I’m left wondering what I’m doing laying on the floor. The bed’s empty; Daphne must have run off somewhere. Perhaps another liquor store run. I close my eyes again. Five more minutes won’t kill me. It’s still morning after all. At least that’s what I tell myself.


The stone wall was covered in moss. The entire backyard had an abandoned farm house look about it. In the middle of the yard there were two white wooden chairs, or rather they would have been white had it not been for a giant iridescent umbrella catching sun rays and painting the chairs pink and gold and teal depending on which way Celestine looked at them. Celestine hadn’t been home since they’d left twenty years, three months and fours days ago. Then they’d gone by another name, a gender assigned to them by their parents and a pronoun that didn’t quite fit. That was a clunkier time in their memory. When they’d arrived back in their small town, Celestine was surprised by how easily they fit again. Their small town was a haven of artists, and wonderfolk and self-proclaimed weirdos and it felt good to be back among a colony of outsiders. It was strange though to feel like an outsider amongst outsiders. Celestine’s parents had prepared the denizens of the town for their arrival by practicing their new name and pronouns at every opportunity. Celestine felt grateful to have the sort of parents that had always accepted corrections, and the re-envisioning of the child they had raised. Celestine’s parents had also come to realize later their very own gender divergence after many phone conversations and well-crafted emails. It was a wonderful thing to feel seen and accepted in a world where that was often not the case. Celestine remembered crying tears of joy for an entire day when their parents had come out to them with their new names and genders and pronouns. Celestine’s parents were currently out at the town’s monthly tea party, and Celestine was a little melancholy thinking about the delightful tiny foods they were missing, but they had a feeling what was to follow would be worth it. The umbrella beckoned to them, its sparkle a soothing magic for their heart. Under it hung a lone hummingbird feeder, filled with a clear sugar syrup that their parents put out regularly to draw the tiny birds that were more faerie than fowl. Celestine sat on one of the chairs, the shimmering light dappling their skin with a myriad of colours. They breathed in the familiar scents of the lilac bush with its forty-two flowers spaced just so. Celestine had counted them as they waited for their friend to arrive. The number forty-two calmed them. Whenever they encountered a 42 in the world they felt like something magical was about to happen. It was a beautiful trick their brain had developed to push aside the onslaught of absurd anxieties that plagued them regularly. Would there be enough lemons at the grocery store? Would they have to answer a phone call from a stranger? Would their mother text them that yet another distant relative had died leaving them with the feeling that they were supposed to be sad, knowing it was difficult to summon sadness for a person they did not really know. The chimes rang, pushed by the wind, and Celestine looked, wondering if maybe their friend had arrived. The doorway was empty. Celestine counted the lilacs again, and breathed deep. Their friend was supposed to have arrived ten minutes ago, but they didn’t mind waiting. They used to find it irritating, waiting, but one day they realized that the irritation itself was an annoyance and that people often arrived exactly when they were supposed to. They sat so incredibly still that a hummingbird arrived, ruby-throated and sparkling, under the umbrella to feed at the feeder, and Celestine was at once entranced. The small whirring of tiny wings was akin to a symphony to their tender ears. The chimes rang again and the small faerie bird zipped away. Celestine felt a momentary sadness at its absence. ”Celestine?” A uncertain voice came from the back doorway to the house. Celestine turned, and there they were. A tall thin, pink-bespectacled, rumple-haired shape. The newcomer to the backyard wore a long black shift, and bizarre leggings covered in cartoonish illustrations of crimson cherries, violent elephants and turquoise jack o lanterns. A spectacle of dazzle camouflage. Celestine froze. They had not seen their friend since the both of them had worn awkwardly forced gender presentations like costumes. Celestine stood up too quickly causing pinpricks of bright light to dance about the periphery of their vision. ”Hex?” Celestine’s voice came out in more of a whisper than they expected. The last time the two of them had met, they were both 18 years old and standing under this very umbrella, they had pressed their mouths together after a very long conversation about magical childhood memories of chimeric significance. That had been followed by a deep sort of staring into each other’s eyes, the kind where you feel as if you’ve been called into each other’s thoughts. Celestine nearly stumbled at the clear memory of that moment. That had been the same day the both of them had left that small town. Hex walked over to them, and Celestine went over all the missives the two of them had sent back and forth over the past twenty years. They had never stopped writing to each other. Celestine had never met anyone equal in conversational skills to the person who now stood before them, their eyes still the bright clear orbs of wonder Celestine remembered. They stared at each other, deeply, and so still were they two that the hummingbird felt safe to return, and Celestine and Hex breathed out a simultaneous sigh of relief, that their love spun of twenty years of letters, and phone calls, and odd packages full of discoveries was stronger than even before. They both stepped towards one another, that deep stare unbroken, and once again pressed their mouths together much to the dismay of one hummingbird who zipped away while the wind jingled the chimes, and the moss grew ever since slowly of the stone wall, and the forty-two lilac blooms looked on with ancient approval.


This is you. You are standing still. The smell of the sea breeze scratches at your nose. The salt mixes with the drying algae and the burning refuse. You are looking in the distance, at the gray bridge. Cars are stuck there, and you cannot tell if they are moving forwards or backwards. The waves crash in front of you. You drag your gaze around. There is trash everywhere - plastic bags, pieces of plaster walls, bricks, metal rods. A box of flares is still lit under some sand and gives off a sulfurous, oozing smoke. A pile of driftwood is ablaze downwind. You cannot smell it but you see the people gathered around it. Your heavy coat is wrapped tightly around you. The cool wind whips it around you like a cape. You used to enjoy superheroes. Capes and leather and magic, somehow coalesced into something more real for you because you used to wear shirts with their logos. Everything was possible then. You wrap the coat tighter around you and stop it from flapping. The horizon is a flat line in front of you. From the street you could see a sailboat, but it is gone now. The water is the same color as the sky, and it looks sick. The gray is everywhere. Your wife used to have blue eyes. Like the sea. Both are gray now. Up the hill behind you, a woman walks by. She is talking on her phone. Her laughter rings loudly and its echo resonates in your head. It pulls you out of the grayness. You look down. Your old work boots are dirty and scuffed. Sand has pooled in the creases. You lift your feet and shake the sand loose. She always said you couldn't keep yourself clean. Just like your father. As you bend down to remove the last grains you see a rock buried in the sand. You dig it out with a pleased grunt. This will fit. You put it in your coat pocket. It does fit. Its weight reassures you. Next to you is the old carcass of a destroyed boat. No one bothered to pick it out of the rubble. Its flank is split open like a beached whale. You used to think that you would conquer the world with her. Now, she is gone, and the world is gone as well. You are left with nowhere to go and nothing to see. You pick up an armful of rocks and put them in your pockets. The people are gone from the fire. It is still going strong, but not for long. Without people to care for it it will fade from existence. Only its bleached bones will remain, like elephant tusks in an forgotten graveyard. Your hands are cold and cracked. They are white and red and blue and purple and black. They are not used to this temperature. They hold each other and support the cold. They run each other for comfort. The waves crash around you. You are numb. Cold and tired. Sick and grieving. You close your eyes. You know that the water should be cold, but it only feels like a soft embrace. You breathe slowly. You try to match the rythm of the waves. As they come to you and wash over your head, you sink. The grayness pulls you down. You know you should be feeling bad but as you sink you can only feel peace and calmness. Some waves disturb you but you ignore them and go deeper. You have closed your eyes and can only see darkness, but somehow there is darker blackness creeping in the corners. The nothingness spreads over your head and mind and soon you are nothing but the tingle in your extremities. You open your eyes. You dump the stones in the dry, cool sand at your feet. The bridge is still an ashy gray, set against the gray clouds. It is still full of cars. You think they might be the same cars as before. Still moving in no particular direction. You shake your head and curse at yourself. You think about the fire, dying as it is, without anyone to fan and feed the flame. It is still burning its fuel, even if no one is watching it. No one celebrates it but the white bones burn on. You walk back up the hill and climb in your car. You drive away.


Sandwiches, I have decided, are the best thing to ever grace the planet. People have come to me from all over the world to tell me otherwise, but at the end of things, I will always win. They (the sandwiches) are such a piece of beautiful soul mate that I have no desire to see other people. Unless, of course, they are the sandwich boy named after his great grandfather, Morris Cupcake. Morris Cupcake is the only person alive I’ve ever wanted to see more than once. I live and breathe sandwiches, so it only makes sense that Morris Cupcake the Sandwich Boy is the only agreeable person in the universe. He smells like deli meat and always, always has melted cheese and j ust above his left eye is a winding scratch from a time the knife slipped and jumped through his hands. d grease in his hair. His hands are slivered and rough with scars of making sandwiches for so long. From the very first time I saw him, I knew he was a strange, magnetic force. But this all just makes me want to scoop up this delightful human and smell the deli meat impressioned in his blood until I’ve memorized it. Alas, the sandwich boy Morris Cupcake sees me as merely another customer. While he, to my frail female mind, is the only cure to my ailing soul, it can be said quite frankly that I am but a speck of dusty old flesh that gives him money in exchange for sandwiches. He can’t see the way I look at him. I don’t mean that I don’t want him to, I just mean that this Morris Cupcake is blind to my OBVIOUS affections. I've had these feelings, these brilliant, brilliant, thumping feelings, for him ever since I first met him, and he can't see how I look at him. That may be because he’s engaged to this mucky blonde girl with a rear end the size of Memphis and a father’s paycheck that’s even bigger. Her name is Libra Mela and she would look like a warthog if she weren’t basking in the glow of five plastic surgeries. How I loathe her! One day I will shoot her down from the sky and the clouds she thinks she rules. I shall, I shall, I shall, I shall. And then she will die and I shall not be sorry. Until then, I must continue my plans for Morris Cupcake. It’s Thursday, and he always comes at five o’clock on Thursdays. He’ll be bringing me a chicken pepper sandwich today. I asked for extra chicken so I could imagine him and his strong sandwich boy arms snapping the heads off of a chicken. I almost hope he’ll still have a bit of chicken blood on him. If he does, then the only acceptable thing to do will be to invite him inside. Then I shall offer him a cup of boiling tea. It will be so overwhelmingly romantic that he won’t be able to hold his true devotion to me inside his head any longer. And then... He’s knocking at the door and I stand up to run. I fling open the door and there he stands, not a speck of chicken blood to be seen. I say for him to wait just a moment and I know he will because I’m the one giving him money. I run to the backyard and spy a squirrel up on a small tree. With the lightning fast instincts of a rabid wolf, I pluck the squirrel off the tree. It has no chance. It screams and falls limp. I can tell it is rabid, but that’s no matter. I’m immune to getting rabies, being rabid myself. I carry it, still squirming wildly, back to Morris Cupcake. I open the door and swing the squirrel towards Morris, breaking its head upon his left arm. Blood of squirrel splatters all over his clothes and a bit of his face. He yells and throws his sandwich carrier on the ground, and then he tries to run away. But I stick to my plan! I smile sweetheartedly and grab the arms of the sandwich boy, yanking him into the doorway. He’s still shocked from the squirrel blood, so he doesn’t complain too much when I throw him into the couch and sit across from him. “You’ll have to change your clothes, you know.” I say, swinging my legs gallantly. “What, no!” He bounces up off the couch and tries to run for the door, but I kick him back with the edge of my boot and smile tightly. “You’re my guest. Behave like one, please.” He once again tries to escape, so I have no choice but to kick him again, slamming the heel of my foot into his chest. Breathless, he sinks into the cushions and his eyes sort of roll back in his head. I hurry to the kitchen and make his cup of boiling tea. When I come back, I find that he’s somehow regained enough strength to make it to the door. I set the tea down and frown. He turns the doorknob, but it’s already locked. I walk quietly over to his side. “Please come sit down. It won’t be long at all. Just give me a minute, just a slice of your time.” Morris Cupcake doesn’t answer. I frown more deeply saddened that he won’t comply so easily as I thought. I grab the front of his squirrel stained shirt and drag him back to the couch. “Drink the tea, and you’ll be on your way. Don’t you see I’m just trying to repay you for all you’ve done for me? Drink the tea, and you’ll be on your way. I won’t bother you anymore. I promise.” He’s terrified, but there’s no need to be. I reach across the couch and pat his head. He flinches and I pull my hand away. He won’t drink the tea. This upsets me, because, after all, I made it just for him. Me, the sweet reclusive girl of the looming 19 Rawness Avenue, has taken time from her busy schedule to make Morris Cupcake a cup of tea and he won’t have it? I am not beautiful, but I am not as hideous as Libra Mela. My hair is scraggly and my arms are like chickens’ and always covered with grit and glim as I never wash. I have a strange appetite. I do not go to school. They say I would frighten the children. Of course, the adults are probably more scared of me than the children would be. Before Morris Cupcake can say another word, I snatch the tea up from the table and tilt it towards him. He clenches his jaw. I smile. This will be more fun than I had even thought. I move to sit by him on the couch and he makes a dive for my hands, trying to fight me off, but I stick the end of the spoon from the tea into his cheekbone and he howls. I let go of the spoon and then turn his face towards mine. His mouth is already conveniently screaming, so I take advantage and dump the entire tea cup’s contents into his throat. Three seconds, and his eyes close. He stops struggling to breathe after a while, and as I hold his cold hands in my own glinty ones, he drifts into wherever dead sandwich boys go. I take the spoon from his cheekbone and throw it to the floor. I can still smell the delicious deli meat smell on his clothes, even over all the squirrel blood. I walk to the door and pick up the sandwich carrier. He won’t need it anymore. You see, I’ve decided that sandwiches are the best thing to ever grace the planet, but even the best things on the planet need to be improved sometimes. Who best to improve the taste of a sandwich, than Morris Cupcake the Sandwich Boy?


Writing this for school and also a competition. Inspired by the Cyndago video "The Afterlife" Please give me any feedback. (excuse typos)  “This day will be remembered for the rest of your lives and your great-grandchildren’s lives.” Said Dr. Reese into the microphone. And this day would be remembered. ExTec had just finished “the scientific breakthrough of the millennium” in their own words. “For centuries, *millennia* even, mankind had always had one impossible frontier, something that no matter how much we developed, how much we expanded as a species, we would never be able to explore. Until today. Today, New Year’s Eve 2045 is the day that ExTec pioneers a way into the new frontier. Today we see the afterlife.” A loud applaud came from the audience in the laboratory. Scientists, media, friends and family, people who snuck in amongst the others were all there to witness the test. “Our top scientists here at ExTec have found a way to travel to the great beyond, while still being able to travel back.” Continued Reese. He motioned towards a large tank of water on the other side of the stage. Next to the tank was an old man lying down on a bed. Connected to his head were about 20 receptors that ran through some wires and into the tank. “As you can see, this tank is connected to our test subject Mr. Richmond, who we are very grateful has volunteered for this historical discovery.” Continued Reese “Mr. Richmond is very close to the end of his life, and soon he will pass to the other side as nature takes its course. However, as he leaves this world, we will be able to follow him to the next.” Another applause came from the crowd as Reese tried to continue. It took at least a minute until the crowd settled again. “Thank you, thank you.” Continued Reese. “As I was saying, this tank is connected to Mr. Richmond’s nervous system, as his body dies, his nervous system will continue to the next life. The electrons in the water will activate a small device in our traveler’s ear and will transport our traveler to wherever Mr. Richmond’s consciousness goes.” An audience member stood up, “How will you be able to bring this ‘traveler’ back to our world after the experiment?” she asked. “That is a very good question, madam.” Responded Reese. “When our traveler determines that he has seen all he needs to see, he will radio us through the device in his ear and we will simply disconnect the tank from Mr. Richmond. This will cause the device to bring him back into the tank.” “Speaking of our traveler,” Reese continued, “Let's meet him. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. Duncan Davidson, who will be the first man to explore the other side.” This applause was louder than either of the two that came before it. People were standing up and cheering as Mr. Davidson walked on the stage. He was wearing a full body jumpsuit and was holding his helmet under his arm. A mix of emotions on his face. He had been waiting for this day for months, and now it was finally here. “Mr. Davidson has been chosen from a list of almost 1000 scientists working here at ExTec.” Explained Reese. “He has been training for months specifically for today and we are sure that he will succeed in this experiment.” Duncan wasn’t as sure. Yes, he had been training and learning about how the technology works for the last 10 months, but he still had no idea what the afterlife would have waiting for him. He had never really believed in any specific religious version of the afterlife, but he always assumed there was one. After all, we must go somewhere. “Well we have talked long enough, now is the time for action,” Reese turned to Mr. Richmond “Mr. Richmond, we thank you for your willingness to spend your final seconds participating in this journey, and we wish you the best in the afterlife.” Mr. Richmond didn’t say anything; he just gave a faint smile and a nod. Duncan slowly climbed into the tank, the water was warm and gave him an almost ticklish feeling. He lay down on his back as Dr. Reese looked into the tank and yelled: “Mr. Davidson, are you ready?” Duncan gave a thumbs up “Let's do this!” he said back. Reese gave a nod to the nurses. They started to pump the lethal dose of morphine into Mr. Richmond’s arm. As Richmond closed his eyes, the water in the tank began to light up. Duncan felt a sharp pain all around his body like it was being torn apart atom by atom. He closed his eyes and let out a short scream. When he opened them, he was lying on the ground, and all the pain he felt in the tank was gone. He got up and looked around. There was nothing, just a plain of white that never seemed to end. He turned around to see an uncountable amount of people standing in lines. The lines led to a long structure that stretched as far as Duncan could see, side to side. Duncan felt an unknown force bringing him towards one of the lines. As he took his place, he looked around at the other people in the lines next to him. They all were dead-panned, with no emotion on their faces. Like robots. They were all wearing white. Most of them were elderly, but there were many others that were young, some couldn’t have been any older than 5 years old. Duncan looked down and realized that he too was wearing all white clothes. He wondered where the jumpsuit that he had been wearing in the tank had gone. His hand rushed to his ear, and he gave a sigh of relief as he felt the small device inside. He trained with this technology for months. He knew if he lost it, he was stuck. To his right, Duncan saw a familiar face. “Mr. Richmond?” he asked, it came out as a whisper. Mr. Richmond looked back at him, with the same blank expression on all the other faces in the lines, and then slowly looked back to where he had been staring. As Duncan finally got closer to the long structure that all the lines lead into, he realized what it was. It was almost like a toll booth. People would go one by one and speak with the person inside, and then would walk through a gate to the other side. Duncan finally got to the booth and inside was a man also dressed in white, just as everyone else had been. He was typing something into what seemed like a computer. “Name?” The man asked. “Uh, Duncan Davidson.” Replied Duncan nervously. The man didn’t look at him the same way that Mr. Richmond had looked at him, vacant and robotic. He looked at him like he was completely void of any happiness or sadness. Like he had moved past those emotions. “Duncan Davidson, age 36 born in Cleveland, Ohio, United States?” asked the man. “Um, yes that’s me.” Replied Duncan. “Um, excuse me,” Duncan had a list of questions that he had been told to ask anyone he met in the afterlife, but he had totally forgotten it. All he could think to ask was “Where are we?” The man replied, “This is the afterlife.” “So, we’re in heaven?” asked Duncan. “Nope” replied the man. Duncan’s heart began to sink. “So, this is hell?” “Wrong again.” Replied the man again. “I told you, this is the afterlife. There is no heaven and hell here. You went through Heaven, Mr. Davidson when you got married 8 years ago, and you went through Hell when you were going through your divorce 2 years later.” Duncan was taken aback, he had never met this man before, yet he seemed to know everything about him. “So, if there’s no heaven or hell, what’s the afterlife?” Duncan asked. The man motioned around him. “This is.” Duncan looked around except for the long booth, there was absolutely nothing. “So, what do I do now?” he asked. The man handed Duncan a ticket and opened the door to the other side of the toll booth. On the other side Duncan saw more people than he had ever seen before, there must’ve been trillions, slowly walking around with no specific direction. “Wait over there with the others.” Said the man. Duncan looked back at the man, “For how long?” The man shrugged “A few minutes, a couple of millennium, it all feels the same.” Duncan looked at the man one more time and then started walking to the mass of people. His mind started racing. He started to panic. This was what the afterlife was? An eternity of standing around waiting for something to happen? This was what everybody’s life led to, no matter how they used it? Then he began to think more about it. And he started to calm down. There was nothing to worry about here. No problems, no stress, nothing. He felt perfectly at peace. He felt freedom from the weight of his emotions, there was a feeling of perfect balance and calm that washed over his body. “Davidson, are you there?” he heard in his right ear. It was Dr. Reese, “Davidson you’ve been in there for almost an hour. Are you ok?” Davidson took the radio out of his ear spoke into the microphone. “Yes, I’m fine.” He said, before dropping the radio on the ground and crushing it under his shoe. He was fine. Not happy, not sad, just fine. He took a deep breath and then went to take his place amongst the others.


The ground was white. It had snowed heavily that morning and the weather was still cold, preventing the snow from melting. She walked through it. Her boots almost ran up to her knees and the snow was high as her calves. On a normal day she’d have Walked through this easily. It wasn’t her first time or the second or the third. It was her way back from school and she’s been through it a hundred times. Today, however, it was heavier. The backpack on her shoulder, the air and every step she took seemed to pull her deeper into the snow. *Am I dreaming now? She thought. Do I even deserve to live? Should I really go home?*  She could make out the house in the distance. It wasn’t what you’d call big, but It was what she’d call perfect. It was a wooden house, a cute door which always had a weird ornament hanging on it - it was something her mom makes while she had nothing else to do - with cottage windows that looked out the front and circular windows on the top where the attic should be. She was now close enough to see the chimney blew smoke. *No. I’m not hungry. She thought again. I haven’t eaten since last night yet I’m not hungry at all.* As she got closer to the house, she walked slower. *Or did it feel slow? Was time slowing down? Do I dare step into the house like this?*  She reached the front door and eyed the ornament. It was shaped like a bird, but it wasn’t a bird. It looked like the moment a bird takes flight but instead wings were shards like broken pieces of glass. The ornament was silver. The broken edges faded to black. She saw the positive side and thought it meant freedom but her mother had a different superstition. *Weird. I’ve grown so used to this by now, but why does it make me feel like it’s meant for me. I don’t think it means freedom anymore.. it’s the illusion of being free. But we are just as broken as everything else. Why am I so negative? Is this it for me? Am I over? Am I done?*  Knock. Knock. She never rang the doorbell. She always preferred the sound of knuckles against wood. “Hey, my baby girl” said her mom as she opened the door. She was in her late thirties. She was strikingly pretty with her angular jawlines, eyebrows that were so perfect you’d think she’d thread them every day. Her lips were rose without the lipstick and as fine and slender as her fingers. Her eyes, as grey as the winter storm itself. Everyone said that she is a copy of her mother. She even agreed. *But beauty is a curse. I know that now.*  “Come on sweetie, I made lunch and take off that thick jacket” *Do I have to?* She eyed the room. Same as always. Fire burning in the fireplace, the couches on either side and The soft fur carpet at the center. *Cozy. But not today.* “Come sit down. Look what I made for you” She shifted her eyes to the dinner table. It could accommodate 6 people, the spot where most of her happy memories took place. But today, it felt cold and unwelcoming. Spaghetti with hot sauce and meatballs. *My absolute favorite.* “I’m not hungry, mom.” Shouldn’t have said that. Her mom’s face fell. *It is my favorite dish. Why does it look so unappetizing? I’m sorry mom. I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to be sad. I don’t want you to worry. I’m just so so sorry.* “But... Baby... I made it just the way you love it... For you” *I don’t deserve your love, mom. Please. Just hate me. Please. Just don’t care. Please. Forgive me.* “I know” she said “but.. umm.. I had a heavy lunch from school.. and I .. I can’t digest more.” *Lies. Does it show on my face?* “Are you okay, sweetie?” “Yes, mom, just really tired. I need rest” “Oh.. sure baby.. you go get some sleep. I’ll save this for dinner” *I don’t think I’ll make it for dinner.* “Thanks ,mom” She made her way past the hallway, brooding about what happened that day. Her eyes were filled with tears. She looked back, her mom was in the kitchen, out of sight. She made her way to the stairs. Her room was on the next floor. “MOM!” She called out. “Yes, darling?” *I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t want to hurt you. I never did.* “I love you, mom” “Oh baby.” Her mom answered, still out of sight. “ I love you too!” She felt so heavy as she climbed the stairs. *Would it break now? Under this pressure? Would that finally be it?* Her room was the first one on the left. She opened it and threw her bag down. It was covered in mud and snow. *Thank God mom didn’t notice.* She looked up and saw that the snow had started to fall. She slowly closed the door. Bolted it shut. She must’ve stood there, in that position for 10 minutes straight. As the first streak of tear rolled out on to her cheek, she grabbed the pillow on her bed and collapsed into the floor and cried her lungs out.  *Broken.* She knew what it felt like to be broken. To be stripped of peace. *I’m sorryyyyyy. She cried into the pillow. Forgive me mom. Forgive me dad. I would never hurt any of you. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t help myself. I can't. I just can’t.*  She got up after what must’ve been an hour. Her legs were sore. Her eyes bloodshot. She walked to her cupboard like a zombie. Dead but alive.she stood in front of the mirror and opened the drawer and peered inside. What she searched for was still there. She never knew she’d have another use for this object. Slowly, she took off her shirt. As she saw her reflection, fresh tears streamed on to her cheeks. Bruises.. purple and almost black.. they weren’t there this morning. Bruises so large and strong.. on her back, around to her stomach up to her chest. She looked at the skirt she wore. *Was i asking for it?* She dropped her skirt and cried again. It hurt so bad. The bruises around her thighs were least of her concern as she eyed the dried up blood that had streamed down her underwear to the inner thighs. She grabbed the rope from the drawer. And walked to the center of the room. She looked up and then out of the window into the snow. “I’m so sorry, mom.


I'm not sure there's anything worse than having to take a shit at work. It's not like I have issues pooping or anything, but the bathrooms are so disgusting. The men's room is a smorgasbord of tobacco spit in the corners of stalls, shit smears on inconceivable surfaces, wet toilet paper everywhere, loose--and often wet--pubes, bandits of tobacco everywhere, and unflushed toilets and urinals. It's lit like a back alley, and reeks of piss and shit regardless of the time of day. And on a hot day like today, it's worse. It's beyond stressful; it's stressful enough being in the office and dealing with anything and everyone, listening to entitled people bitch about current events, or the weather; everything that's beyond their control and out of their depth to even understand. There is nothing more annoying than being forced to listen to office banter. But unfortunately, I have to poop, which is worse than the banter. I lock my computer and head to the bathroom. The closest one to my cubicle only has three stalls and three urinals, and luckily nobody else is in here. The stink isn't overpowering, but I can tell I'm making a face over it. I open the first stall and the toilet is loaded with excess toilet paper and shit, all floating near the brim. Another common sight: clogged toilets from guys who have no regard for the correct amount of toilet paper they need. It doesn't even look used; it's like they pooped and then threw TP in to make it seem like they wiped. I gag a little from the sight and smell, and I close the stall. The second stall looks okay; there is only a small discoloration on the back of the seat where someone didn't scoot far enough forward, and a small piss puddle where the seat doesn't connect in the front, and both of those are easily fixable. I wad up about a foot of toilet paper, spit on the seat, and wipe around the rim, scrubbing at the shit color, which comes off. Then I take another foot of paper and wipe as good as I can on the front of the toilet. I also scan for loose pubes; nothing will make me gag to the point of puking faster than loose pubes on a toilet seat; but I see nothing so far, yet I remain vigilant. I am still making a face. I make one last loose blanket of toilet paper that covers the surface of the water so there's no splash; toilet water splashing on my ass is beyond gross. I drop my pants and sit down to start. It's not a gassy shit, which is nice; I always feel a little self conscious about sound in the bathroom. I always think that people outside in the office can hear everything even though I sit closer than most, and I've never heard anyone in here. The feeling is relieving; this is a pasta shit from the chicken farfalle I had the night before, with spinach and cheese in it. This makes for a solid turd and easy clean-up. The pressure drop in my body is almost euphoric. I start to think about how clean that toilet paper looked in the water in the first stall, like a pristine barrier in which the shit is contained. Why would someone do such a thing? I thought. I imagined my boss elegantly encircling his shit after clogging the toilet, as if to show off his accomplishment, and I get the silly idea he actually did do that in a territorial display of narcissism: Here's the real shit, fellas. Look upon my work, ye mighty, and despair. I smile at this. I sit for another minute to relax and see if there is anything else brewing before deciding I'm good to go. The toilet paper at work is terrible. I wrap a couple layers of it around my hand, get a few good wipes, folding the paper so as not to be wasteful, and get up. But despite the relief, there is still that urge when I look at my turd to pick it up. Pasta shits are usually long and solid, which feels the best in my hands, and I like the analysis of it all. It's a need I can't always resist: picking up my shit, smelling it, analyzing, squishing it in my hands; its like a treasure hunt of past meals and prescription med capsules. It's an excitement I don't understand. But something about my bowel movements puts me in a state of awe at the work my body does without any real input from me; how it produces a pure pipe of food waste that leaves my body so smoothly; how the smell isn't great but I can't seem to turn away from it; it's the perfection in my waste that is the antithesis of my life as a whole. This useless shit; this perfect shit. Before I can really stop myself, I give in to the impulse. I pick up my pasta turd and squeeze it lightly, testing the durability. It breaks in half as I lift it out of the toilet, releasing some of the odor that smells familiar to me. I squeeze harder, and the shit pushes out of my hands and breaks off more, leaving me with a feeling of mud between my fingers, like a child playing in the rain. I smile. I push it around my hand some more, rubbing uneven parts between my fingers and thumb, trying to get a sense of what the mystery unevenness used to be, flattening chunks; my face gets hot and I get disgusted with the mess, and I toss what's left in the toilet and flush. I take some more toilet paper and wipe my hands as well as I can, even though nobody is in here; I could just leave the stall and use soap, but I want as much of it off as possible; I want it clean. Somewhat satisfied with my initial cleaning, I flush again, and I leave the stall to wash my hands in the sink. I can smell the shit on my hand, and I run the hot water over it, working it through my fingers while loading up my free hand with more soap than is necessary. My forehead is sweating, and my breathing is quickening, and one hand washes the other. I wash for a good minute, focusing on my nails and any potential residue, any hint of smell; the hand must get clean, and I feel hot as the hot water stings my hands, moving vigorously like worms in a bowl. After another round of soap and scrubbing, I smell my hand close to my face, and I feel comfortable that there's no trace of shit, and I relax. I wipe my hands dry on paper towels, and dab the sweat off my forehead, and go back to my cubicle. I can hear coworkers talking about football in a nearby cubicle as I sit down and unlock my computer; the fruitless debate from armchair quarterbacks on what their team should've done to win last week; what they should've done in the offseason; what they should be doing now; who's the best ever. They do anything to escape from working. The conversation feels so useless as I pull open my emails and worklist, wiping my fingers near my nose, trying to smell for any faint sign of residue; trying to make sure there's no trace of anything. I notice a small gnat walking across the white border on the email app on my screen, and I squish it gently and grimace, wipe my hand on my pants, and dive back into work.


*One man learns the deep always takes back what its owed...* Written by: Adam Dodd  Frank Piedmont held the flat of his hand over his eyes and looked out to the sun dappled lake. Its surface was as calm as the radio had forecast but his concerns lie deeper. He checked the pressure on the tanks, adjusted his straps, and then double-checked the pressure again. They were on a schedule, but he’d rather run late than not at all. That didn’t mean he was eager to plunge into the thirty seven degree waters. The S.S. Lightfoot idled along Lake Erie’s Long Point; coordinates typically afforded a wide berth. The jagged, rocky coast flared in and out of the lake like a row of busted teeth. There was no more dangerous passage found across the entire body of water for sailors and sightseers alike. It was for this same reason that they dropped anchor. Frank’s partner Waylon joined him on the side of the boat. “We should be over it just about now.” It was Waylon’s lead that had guided them. He picked it up second hand but it boasted a decent haul if it bore out so Frank was game. This wasn’t their first plunder and he appreciated that Waylon always had a nose for these things. He nodded and waved him off. “If the ship is down there: usual deal; sixty-forty.” “What? Nuh-uh. Fifty-fifty. I found it. I got us out here.” He knew better than to argue just before a dive. He ran a finger over his moustache and smiled. “Sure, Waylon, sure. We’ll talk about it later.” “Need I remind you, this is a research expedition?” Dr. Benton demanded from across the deck. The graduate professor was the one who chartered the boat but she knew better than to press either man. Amanda Benton PhD would become a household name for the maritime discoveries soon to set her apart from her peers. To do that, she would have to reach them first. That meant bending a few rules and breaking others she didn’t want to give thought to. She was still building rapport with the world of plundering. Until then, she feared she was all but along for the ride. “There’s a reason they call them the Great Takes, Miss Benton.” “It’s *Doctor* Benton,” she corrected. “We’re supposed to be here charting historical sites, not bobbing for trinkets.” Frank gave her a wry salute while pulling the goggles over his head. “Do you have any idea just how many wrecks at the bottom of this lake, let alone Long Point? We’re just going for a quick dip. Promise not to take anything anyone will miss.” “It doesn’t matter who notices, it’s still wrong.” She worked up the nerve to say what really gave her trouble. “There’s never been a tide the lake’s failed to take back.” Frank winked in spite of her disapproval. She was far from the first to think that they cracked it, that they had a real angle to work on the lake. It was big business if you knew what you were doing. The day traders and drug runners that typically chartered Waylon and Frank had no more clue than this pushy academic, he surmised. That she was right all the same didn’t help. “I’ll bring you back up china plate.” Before she could continue their argument, he kicked his feet up and let the weight of his oxygen tanks pull him over the side of the boat. His flipper broke the surface of the water and then he was gone from the Lightfoot’s sight. # “It doesn’t matter who notices, it’s still wrong.” She worked up the nerve to say what really gave her trouble. “There’s never been a tide the lake’s failed to take back.” No matter times he had done this, it was always the insulation that registered first; the silent inevitability every motion took on. He worked his way deeper, aiming away from the light. Frank knew if his partner had it right, the wreck wouldn’t be far. The wake shouldn’t have been an issue but after plunger several feet he couldn’t swim out of the clouded waters that began to surround him. Something had upset the lakebed, and recently. The deeper he went the worse it became. Frank clicked on his flashlight. Nothing but churning brown and green clouds surrounded him. Bits of wood and stone pelted him and clattered against the side of his oxygen tanks. He pushed further, knowing if he reached bottom at least he could orientate from there. Broken masts ring out like dinner bells to plunderers. Even still, he nearly missed it through all the murk. That this one hadn’t snapped from whatever storm befell it only piqued Frank’s interest. It wasn’t the late-1800’s schooner they had gone in search of. This was one smaller. It was still too far to make out, but most of the ship appeared intact. He kicked his flippers towards the wreck but got turned around in a sudden current which blew him head over heel. It only took a moment, but by the time he regained his momentum the ship was gone. He would have spent more time searching had he the chance but all sunlight had gone. His flashlight was no use to dark waters surrounding him. Only after things began raining down on him could he tell which way was up. He didn’t understand what it was but knew to swim against it all the same. Somehow everything made even less sense when he reached the surface. A storm had broken from out of nowhere and the Lightfoot was missing. In its place a much larger ship rocked uneasily atop the volatile lake. Frank struggled to reach the side of the ship as choppy waves shoved at him in all direction. It took all his energy just to stay afloat. As frank paddled closer, he could hear the peels of thunder and groaning ship lumber were peppered with the frantic screams of the men on deck. They weren’t expecting the summer swell either. A length of wet roped whipped against his face. He grabbed hold and pulled himself aboard before the lake would have him. The scene on deck fared no better than the chaos below. Crewmen crashed into one another like toys in a child’s tantrum. Water had already begun filling the ship. A body, trampled no doubt, lie face down in a rising pool. Frank’s mouth formed the words, “What is this? What’s happened?” but nothing could be heard over the din breaking around them. One of the shipmate collided into him. His pupils fluttered in broken panic, searching for anything to make sense, finally settling for Frank. “We’re sinking. God save us, I think we’re sinking!” Before Frank could offer commentary, a sudden swell bucked the ship on its side before slamming it back. The turbulence took the other man off his feet and flung him overboard as Frank watched, helpless to the devastation. In his shock he was brought to the ground, falling against part of the ship that had broken free. The cables and straps to his scuba tanks were tangled in the debris, pinning him down. A plate of iron would have caved in the side of his skull had one of the crew not pulled him free from his gear at the last moment. Frank clung to his wrist before he could run off, demanding, “Where are we?” It was only now that the seaman took in the stranger’s odd costume and realized he was not one of them. “What do you mean where are we? We’re in the shit! Where else?” Frank struggled to make sense of his situation. “No, I mean, this isn’t my boat. I’m not supposed to be here.” The two men looked on in mute horror as another wave crested over the ship, washing away the bow with it. “Well, wherever you’re supposed to be, mind giving what’s left of the Mediera a lift?” “*The Mediera?”* Frank knew the ship well enough. He would one day swim through its sunken hull, searching without success for anything viable enough to sell to private collectors. The ship pitched forward and everyone braced for a wave’s momentum to throw them back, but this was different. This time they were going under. Frank reached for a splintered side of the ship but it came loose in his grip and he found himself overboard again. He choked down more and more lake water and realized he was drowning. He fought it at first, but without his scuba gear, lost in pandemonium of the Mediera, he was out of time. It was in his last gasp for air that he realized he wasn’t alone. The ship that had first taken him off course was waiting at the bottom. He was closer this time. Without the typical pelt of algae, wherever the ship came from the loss was recent. He strained to read the name on the side of the boat as his world grew black but it was too late for Frank Piedmont.  “Just in time, yes?” A man in a drab blue uniform smirked as he kneeled over Frank. He shook his head in disbelief. “We thought we lost you there for a minute.” It took Frank a moment to register he was breathing air. Lying on his back, he took in his surroundings. He was aboard a different ship again. This time it was an immense steamer, overcrowded with passengers. Whatever storm had devastated the world around him moments prior had cleared, only to be replaced with a thick fog which lingered over their passage. “What? Where, where am I?” “The Atlantic, barely. We saw you face down out there and roped you in. How the hell you got that far out on your own is beyond me. You got a boat out there, fella?” He considered it. “I- I was on the Mediera, but I don’t know how. It sank. So long ago.” The crewman thought it over, “*Med-i-era*? Never heard of it.” Frank knew he was right to doubt him. “It was an old ship,” he muttered. “It sank a long time ago. Somehow, I don’t know how, but somehow I was onboard.” The crewman shot him an uncomfortable glance. “*Old*? Mister, you must have been in the drink longer than I thought. You’re not making much sense.” More of the steamer’s passengers were leaving their cabins, curious about the new attraction. Frank finally noticed the others. Their clothing, the shabby waistcoats and high-hiked knicker bottoms, it was all so *old*. So was the ship, for that matter. A steamer? They hadn’t used them since-- “Where did you say I am?” “The Atlantic.” The man repeated. Frank realized he wasn’t talking about the ocean. “Like, thee Atlantic ? As in the H.S. Atlantic? As in one of the worst steamship wrecks of all time, that Atlantic?” “This is the H.S. Atlantic, but I don’t know what you’re on about. We’ve never sank. Clearly.” “What year is it?” Frank demanded. “It’s 1852, isn’t it? When did it happen, when did it go down. August? August 30? It’s August 30th 1852, isn’t?” The crewman did not know what dark math Frank was calculating but he didn’t care for the sum of its parts. He nodded wearily. “Listen, you need to get the Captain. You need to warn him.” “Just calm down, mister. You must be sick or something.” “No!” He persisted. “You need to listen. You’re going to run into the Ogdensburg. It’s going to be a disaster. Hundreds will die.” The crewmember laughed uneasily, aware a crowd was growing. “Hate to argue, but it’s been smooth sailing all day long. There’s really nothing to worry--” “Enough of this,” Frank pushed himself up, using the other man to brace as he found his knees. The others stood like stacked corkboard, dully taking in the show as he pushed his way through. “I don’t have time to argue. I need to speak with the captain, now.” In answer, the ship lurched forward as a calamitous boom erupted from the fog ahead. The passengers, crew, and Frank Piedmont fell to the deck. The tearing followed in a deafening punch of snapped timber and iron. A dark monolith cut through the shroud of fog encasing the H.S. Atlantic. The Ogdensburg had struck. The man Frank had been arguing with shot a frightened look of suspicion back. It wouldn’t be immediate, but they both knew it was inevitable. Lake Erie began pouring in through the gash left behind from the larger ship’s collision. Passengers would spend the better part of the next hour baling water to little effect. Frank watched as the first lifeboat capsized as they attempted to launch. He knew after the captain would give himself a concussion, a disorganized crew would escape with the remaining two lifeboats, leaving over two hundred passengers to their fates. The rest was history. # The tearing followed in a deafening punch of snapped timber and iron. A dark monolith cut through the shroud of fog encasing the H.S. Atlantic. The Ogdensburg had struck. Over a hundred years in the future, Frank Piedmont would pass off a gnarled piece of rotted ship hull to a woefully credulous buyer. To sweeten the swindle, he would retell the tale of the H.S. Atlantic’s sinking and the passengers’ futile attempts at survival. That point in time would still have its moment, but in this one, Frank Piedmont was dying. The Niagara was next. He tried warning them of Long Point’s hunger but they would prove just as foolhardy as the Rebecca Foster, and the S.S. Idaho after that. All of the entrees long digested by history. Regardless of whichever doomed ship he would wash upon, the fears which Dr. Benton had first given voice to were never far behind. *“Lake’s never failed to take back a tide yet.”* He was falling again, slowly sinking from the latest disaster until he reached the bottom of the lake. It was calm this time, expectant. The ship had returned; the same one that had first led him astray. This time it was closer than ever before. Frank reached out and took hold of a railing along the bow. He pulled himself closer to see he was not alone. A water-logged crew bobbed listlessly within its cabin. He pushed them aside. Bloated corpses became perfunctory for a seasoned plunderer. Instead, it was the name along the side of the boat which froze him in undiscovered horror. The lake poured into him, filling his lungs as he gasped, “The Lightfoot?” “Orillia, Ontario’s native son,” Waylon answered back. Frank’s eyes were forced shut from the brilliance of the mid-afternoon sun as it shone off the lake’s surface like polished tin. When he dared them open he saw the familiar deck of the Lightfoot underneath him. His partner reached for the scuba tank now slung across his back. “Why don’t we try that again with your tanks hooked up this time, yeah?” “What? What happened?” Frank finally choked the words up. “Your tanks, the lines came loose,” Waylon answered. “I’m sorry, man. That was on me. That’s why we pulled you up before we even got started.” Frank let the latest reality wash over him. “Get started? How long was I under for?” Waylon shared an uncertain exchange with Dr. Benton as she looked on from the cabin’s doorway. “You okay, Frank? You were only in there for, what, thirty seconds?” He blinked, incomprehensive at first, then in amusement. “Thirty seconds? You’re saying--and, and this whole time? I’m here? I’m really here?” Frank laughed at the thought of trying to explain the series of tragedies he found himself a helpless passenger to. He rapped his knuckles against the wooden boards on the deck, amazed at just how real those other lives had seemed, how intimate those wrecks felt. He inhaled until his lungs burned full from the moist lake air, thinking the chance would never come again. The explosion that followed was so loud Frank thought he had been struck with something. The force knocked his knees out from under him. He sat up in time to catch sight of Waylon engulfed in fire. His partner staggered mindless toward the edge of the deck as flames dripped from his limbs. A shrieking curtain of reds and oranges, he tried tipping his body over the side of the boat but the damage was done. The waters hissed and steamed as the blackened corpse tumbled in. Frank had told Waylon that the electric winch had been shorting out, but they agreed to wait out replacing it until they really needed to. An errant electrical spark caught the compressed oxygen in the leaking scuba tank and it tore through the Lightfoot like a bomb had gone off. What part of the bow that hadn’t been shorn off was on fire. Gnarled scuba tank shrapnel spread across the ship. Dr. Benton pulled a piece of the jagged metal from her thigh and deep red began pouring free. Still deafened from the blast, Frank took in the carnage besetting him and he understood. It was too much for the small boat. He could already feel that familiar pull, that inevitable gravity all doomed ships knew too well. He was here for the Lightfoot just as he was for the Mediera, the Atlantic and all other ships which met their ends in the waters of Lake Erie. There was never a tide that failed to return. 📷 “And that’s why you never disturb the ships that come to rest at the bottom of Lake Erie.” The children’s nervous chatter and questions were gone before the story had ended. They bunched together, eager for all the macabre details that adolescence cherished. The summer squall would pass just as swiftly as it had sprung, but the cruise attendant’s tale was a welcome distraction for them. This was far from the first time she had spun the local legend for children who were as welcome as extra luggage to parents unable to find sitters. One of the kids worked up the nerve to ask. “So what happened to those people on the boat?” “Some say they’re still out there,” the cruise attendant recited from memory, “forced to live through all the horrors they once capitalized on. But none of you have to worry about any of that because now you all know better because you’ve heard of the curse of the Lightf--” She was cut off by a commotion coming from the deck. Someone was screaming just audible over the rising winds, “Mandy, quick! Get out here!” She motioned for the children to stay in their cabin. “I’ll just be a second.” The rain stung her face raw the moment she stepped onto the deck. Thunder erupted from the depths of green clouds which blistered throughout the sky. The storm had kicked up since her story began. They must be passing through the eye of the small cell, she thought. She tried gaining sight of the attraction but the others were crowded against the railing looking out the waters just beside the S.S. Good Times IX. # “Some say they’re still out there,” the cruise attendant recited from memory, “forced to live through all the horrors they once capitalized on. “What do we got?” she shouted. “It’s a rescue,” one of the clerks announced. He had forgotten of the storm and was just excited to find reprieve from the gift shop’s key chains and beer-coozies. The cruise attendant looked out to the army of frothing white caps closing in on them. “Where? I don’t see any other ships.” “That’s just it.” They were helping him over the side of the railing as the other man answered. “He was out there all on his own.” She brought a towel over to the bedraggled man but he flinched back once he saw her. “It’s okay,” she promised. “We got you. Not sure how, but you survived. It’s some kind of miracle.” Frank Piedmont took sight of the latest crew and shook his head, knowing better as the thunder clapped louder, closer this time.