T. Colby Owen 2/12/2021 After living in the city all your life, you have had enough. You decided to move to a remote location in the forest. You're not used to the woods but you find it very peaceful. Today, you decide to explore the surrounding area a little better. As you walk through the forest, you are confronted by a bobcat, not even 15 feet away. At first petrified, you soon regain control of your limbs and sprint for your life. As you run one of your shoes falls off. You kick the other one off. After having to run through a river, you look back to check and find nothing giving chase. You decide to lose your socks, seeing as they’ve gotten wet. It’s late at night, you're wet, and you're cold, when suddenly you see a small building in the forest. Upon closer inspection, you find that the entire building is covered in the most beautiful flowers you have ever seen. Deep magentas and vibrant purples, snow whites, and sun yellows. You approach a flower and take a deep breath, taking in a smell akin to cinnamon and vanilla. You approach the door, but reconsider for a fraction of a second. You decide nothing can go wrong, and you cross over. Once on the other side, you're hit with an aroma like no other. Peaches and sugar, vanilla and cinnamon, and yet, you can’t pinpoint the smell. It’s otherworldly. Divine, even. You pause for a moment and look around, and to your surprise, you find yourself outside in a seemingly never ending field of flowers, magnitudes more gorgeous than the flowers on the outside. You realize that you can see the sun in the sky, and you can already feel your clothes drying out. You feel the soft dirt between your toes, a relief from the rocky, inconsistent forest floor. You look back through the door, and see the forest you were in. Curiously, there’s no wall surrounding the door, but you would've been more surprised if there were. You listen, and you find it quieter than the heaviest snow you’ve ever been in. You look forward and see something in the distance. Unable to make it out, you decide to try and get closer. Along the way you find that lots of little rivers twist and wind around the landscape. You find that you're thirsty, so you decide to take a drink. Although tasting no different than regular water, the coolness and the freshness is unchecked by the laws of nature. You look down and watch in awe as the scratches you got from running through the forest heal in mere seconds. You look towards the object and find you see a tree. It’s only about 150 feet away, and the water has completely restored your stamina so you decide to sprint. When you reach the tree, you find that it’s actually on a small island surrounded by a pond, but clear enough to see the bottom is at least 20 feet down. Upon closer inspection of the tree, you find you see the most colorful assortment of fruit you’ve ever seen. Thinking with your stomach, you swim across the pond, a good 40 second endeavor, and crawl up on the beach. You step in something soft but unconventional. You look down and see a thick moss. A little sceptical at first, being a city person and all, but after taking a second to adjust you find it much more pleasurable than even the softest grass. You wiggle your toes, and decide it’s ok. You approach the tree, and reach out for the lowest hanging fruit. You can’t reach it, but the branch bows down and lets you take it, giving a sort of life to the tree. You instinctively say thank you, to no response. You're not surprised. You look at the fruit in your hands, and see a deep red. You wanna say “Apple,” but from looking and feeling it you can tell it's much juicier than an apple. It’s also a near perfect sphere. You decide to throw away any expectations and bite into it. You’re met with a satisfying crunch, but at the same time a juiciness with a consistency much like honey. Unsurprisingly it also tastes like honey, but not the honey you get in supermarkets, the honey that makes you think, “This is the elixir of life. it must be!” You take a few more bites and contemplate grabbing another fruit, but decide it would be disrespectful to the tree so you finish it. Next you choose a very light purple fruit. It takes some effort to get to but you assume it’s worth it. You forget to examine it and take a bite, you reel back in surprise when it’s fluffy. It tastes like cotton candy, which kind of makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is that it also melts like cotton candy. You ask yourself, “Why does it melt?” but then you remember your journey in and stop worrying about it. You climb higher and higher, trying new fruits of all different colors, shapes, sizes, and tastes, each one immeasurably better than the last. When you finally reach the very top, you find what looks like a small walnut, not bigger than a segment of your thumb. It’s brown and odorless, and hard as a rock. You try biting into it, to no avail. You absentmindedly slip it in your pocket and start climbing down. When you get back to the pond, you take a drink and look at your reflection. In the reflection, to your horror, you see flames behind you. You feel the heat on your back and instinctively dive in, swimming to the other side of the pond. You look back to see the tree ablaze. You watch for a while, before turning back to the door. On the way back you notice all the flowers are wilted, the water black, and the earth sharp rocks. You go through the door and look back, but the building is no longer there. You walk back home, sad that the door disappeared but happy that you walked through. Before you go to bed, you remember the odd fruit you plucked at the top of the tree. You examine it for a minute, before putting it on the nightstand and falling asleep. You come to a realization in your sleep, and the next morning you wake and instantly exclaim, “It’s a seed!” You run outside as fast your still sore feet can carry you, dig a hole that feels deep enough, drop the seed in, cover it back up, put a fence around it as best you can, and water it. Years later but not past your prime, after having tended to it every day with the utmost care, you look out and see a small stock and a single leaf. Knowing you will never get to taste that divine fruit again, you finish watering it, content to nurture a gift for your children, and your children’s children. End.


Adam watched in delight as his two sons walked through the pasture hauling their baskets of newly discovered crops. He had sent them each their separate ways two months prior on a mission to track down as many edible fruits as possible and from the looks of it, both of their harvests had yielded impressive results. He greeted them both with an exuberant, “Welcome home!” And a warm embrace, but quickly urged them to share their findings with him before settling in, as he was quite eager to learn of the delicacies they’ve corralled on their travels. Abel went first. “Well, father. I think you’ll be quite taken by this first item,” he confidently stated while pulling a pale yellow glob out of his basket. “I call it, Mango!” He added enthusiastically. “Mango!” Adam repeated jovially. “I love it!” Abel beemed with pride as he watched his father bite a huge chunk out of the newly acquired fruit, the juices dripping down his chin. “It’s delicious! Well done, Abel! Well done, indeed! And I love the name. Mango. So fresh! So exotic!” Adam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and turned to his other son, Cain. “Well, boy. Let’s see what nectars you’ve unearthed on your voyage.” Not to be outdone, Cain proudly removed the first item from his basket, an orange ball-shaped mass. He held it up high, cleared his throat and said, “I call it, Orange!” After a moment or two of silence, Cain added, “Did you hear me father?” “Yes, yes I did,” Adam replied lackadaisically, careful not to offend his sensitive child. “It’s...a...it’s a...” Ahem, Adam cleared his throat. “It’s a good name. Good job Cain,” he added in a perfunctory tone before quickly turning back towards Abel. “What else you got for me, son?” “Prepare to be blown away, Abel declared in an ostentatious display as he whipped out the next piece from his basket. “I call it, Papaya!” Adam gasped in amusement. “Papaya! Papaya!” He kept repeating. God damn that’s fun to say!” Cain was not unaware of his father’s fondness for his brother, Abel. and was hopeful that the naming of the fruits would tip the scales in his favor. Although, witnessing his father’s fervent admiration for the papaya disgusted Cain. and a deep, deep hatred for his brother began to grow in his heart. “Cain!” Adam called out, snapping Cain out of his daydream. “Let’s see what else you’ve found.” Cain nervously ruffled around in his basket before removing a blue cluster of berries. “My, my,” Adam remarked at the sight of the new fruit. “Those look mighty tasty. What do you call those, Cain?” Cain replied apprehensively, “I call them blueberries.” Then sensing his selection was poorly received grabbed a different berry cluster, “And these ones I call blackberries.” “Ugh,” Adam groaned while pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re just not getting it, Cain. Your mother is going to wake up from her nap soon, delighted to see you, but also anxious to find out what you two have brought us. New means of sustenance. New discoveries that could change our lives. But they’ve got to sound sexy, Cain. Otherwise your mother will never go for it. If there’s no mystique, no allure, she’ll never give it a chance. We need something to distract her from her obsession with the forbidden fruit. That horrible, awful, life-changing fruit in that god-forsaken garden with that idiot snake. I was literally the only man on earth and she fooled around on me with a reptile. I swear to god, I’ll never understand women. The boys twiddled their thumbs awkwardly during their fathers tirade. Then Abel broke the uncomfortable silence that followed, “Wait until you try the Dragonfruit, dad!” ”Did you just say Dragonfruit?” Adam exclaimed. “That’s fucking bad-ass!” Cain tried his best to put on a happy face but the envy he felt towards his brother was growing faster than the mold on the heart shaped red berries he aptly named heart-shaped red-berries. “This is amazing!” Adam mumbled with a mouth full. “Dragonfruit! Fucking rad!” Abel dusted off his shoulders and smirked at his underacheiveing brother. The hatred in Cain’s heart begin to simmer. “Abel, my boy, you’ve outdone yourself on this one. I’m super proud of you son,” Adam declared. Then with less conviction, he added, “You too, Cain.” Cain, however, was not ready to throw in the towel, as he still had yet to unleash his secret weapon. “Behold,” he bellowed. “For what I’m about to present you is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I risked my life climbing the highest trees nearly falling to my death in order to locate this delicious treat. I wrestled this bundle away from an aggressive pack of spider monkeys, ducking and dodging vicious blows from their swiftly swinging monkey paws. It was a harrowing journey, Father, but a productive one. For now, I present you with, Curvy-Yellow-Thing!” Silence ensued with the exception of the chirping sounds the grass made as they had yet to discover crickets. “You hate it don’t you,” Cain muttered dejectedly, his head bowed in shame, staring at his feet. “I’m sure it’s delicious, Cain,” his father assured him. “You just don’t have a knack for words like your brother. Help him out will you, Abel?” Abel scratched his chin for a moment, snapped his fingers and pointed at his crestfallen brother. “Banana!” He smugly shouted “Son-of-a-Bitch that’s good,” Adam exclaimed. “How do you come up with these names so quickly?” “It just flows right off the top my my head,” Abel replied. “You’ve got a way with words, that’s for sure. “Thanks, Pop. I’m gonna be a rapper when I grow up.” “Well, I’ll be the first in line to buy your album.” “I got bars, Dad.” “I know that’s right.” The hatred in Cain’s heart began to boil. So he wasn’t as creative or artistic as his brother. So what? He was stronger, bolder, and far more determined. The focus of his determination was being the favorite child. And today had proven an obstacle difficult to overcome. He wished he were more like his brother. Maybe then his father would show him the same amount of affection he had only observed from the sidelines. But he wasn’t creative or artistic. He couldn’t dream up the wildly inventive names for fruit like his brother. If only he were Abel. Eve was finally awake. Adam instructed the boys to go stand in the pasture a hundred yards away for 7-9 minutes, so he could give his wife a much needed back massage. “Then you can show her all of your glorious findings!” He proclaimed. “Sure thing,” said Abel. “Yes,” Cain concurred. “That will be just fine.” The boys both turned and headed towards the field. Cain picking up a stone on the way. His brother boasting about his recent accomplishments. Cain knew what needed to be done.


Jerry was dragging his suitcase down the alley. The broken wheel driving him crazy. Not his fault, by the way. Fat-ass Linda had literally squashed the suitcase when trying to land her juicy bumps on something so that she could pull on her tights. They’d just had sex that morning. And then Linda decided it was the proper moment to break up with him. After the breakup, Jerry had a very clear idea of how he wanted to spend the last summer before graduation. Far away from his bachelor’s den in Liverpool. But he couldn’t even imagine how far it would be. America! Aaron, his sexually desperate friend, had found a job for both of them. ‘You put on mirrored sunglasses and look at chicks as much as you wish,' he said, demonstrating to Jerry his new Ray-Ban glasses. They were going to be beach lifeguards in California. ‘Early in the morning you see them in their crop tops running along the beach,' Aaron was daydreaming with a silly expression on his face. ‘And you know what, they love a British accent!’ ‘Yes, if you’re Tom Hiddleston,' Jerry felt like being tart. Though some knot in his stomach tightened when it came to ‘crop tops’. But instead of gratifying his eyes with the sight of alluring , athletic girls, Jerry was doomed to spend his summer on a distant island with just five hundred inhabitants. Aaron, lucky bastard, got his place in San-Francisco. When Jerry hopped off the ferry, old silver-headed biddy Mrs. Partridge arrived in her van to show him his bungalow. That was a lady Jerry would never want to see in a crop top. So, he was dragging his suitcase towards the bungalow on the top of the cliff while Mrs. Partridge was chirruping about the fresh air and clean sand. At the beginning of the alley, Jerry stopped before a notice board with six photos of missing people. ‘Wow, that’s a lot of mispers for such a small island!’ Jerry struggled with his unruly suitcase. ‘What was it, hun?’ Mrs. Partridge turned to him her hugely magnified eyes blinking behind the thick lenses. ‘I say you have many missing people here.' ‘Oh, yes’, either she or Parkinson’s shook her head. ‘They say the currents are very strong here. In a matter of seconds people are gone. And we never even find the bodies.' And she proceeded to the bungalow, clinking a bunch of keys. ‘So, you’re from Liverpool, hun? Do you like the Beatles?’ Gosh! Not again! Jerry sighed. The bungalow inside was neat but smelled of rotting seaweed. A couple of ugly fishing trophies decorated the walls. The draughts made the wooden hut groan restlessly. However, the windows offered fantastic views of the bay. As soon as Mrs. Partridge scurried away, Jerry got down to unpacking his stuff. A pair of Ray-Ban mirrored sunglasses was there among other things. \* \* \* The ocean’s lullaby cast Jerry into oblivious sleep or maybe the second can of beer did it. It was after midnight when he suddenly woke up. That was a kind of an awakening, whose reason Jerry was still trying to unriddle while brewing some tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil and drumming an AC / DC tune with his fingers, Jerry understood why he had woken up. There was another sound entwined with the noise of the ocean. He turned off the gas and listened. It was a howling, even the lamenting of a madman. Or a madwoman. A chill went down his spine. Jerry switched on the searchlight and its huge beam groped around the beach, lumbering over the sand. Nothing. On second thought, it could be just the wind blowing through the caves. Chuckling at his own paranoia, Jerry brought the kettle back to life and had his midnight cuppa. \* \* \* The cave was right under Jerry’s bungalow. Inside, dark waters were splashing on the jagged stones and the wind swooshing past Jerry. With no reason he was standing there, staring at the waters. That frightening abyss seemed inhabited, vibrating. At some point Jerry even thought he saw something moving down there. He leaned over the water. Yeah! There was definitely something pulsating. Jerry strained his eyes. Some kind of light rising from the abyss far below the surface. Getting closer. Closer. Closer. A bunch of bubbles agitated the surface. Jerry jerked back when right after the bubbles a rubber head emerged. Goggles. Protruding lips enveloping tightly the mouthpiece for breathing. A diver? Here? The man took off his goggles and reached for Jerry’s hand to help him get out of the water. ‘What are you doing here?’ the man asked right after taking the mouthpiece out. ‘Me?’ Jerry watched as the diver was taking off his protective suit. ‘I’m a lifeguard. Are you aware that it’s not allowed to swim here?’ The man chuckled. ‘I told them the waters were dangerous. But they never listened to me. And now six people are dead’. Jerry eyed the harpoon gun attached to the man’s belt. ‘You hunt big fish?’ The man was standing now before Jerry only in his underpants. He followed Jerry’s gaze. ‘Yeah, very big one’. ‘Here? In the cave?’ No answer followed. Having packed all his belongings into the waterproof bag, the diver put on only baggy linen pants and was ready to go. ‘Oh, sorry’, Jerry suddenly recollected. ‘I’m Jerry’. ‘Patrick Nyman’, his suntanned hand clasped Jerry’s. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t stand that close to the edge’. His flip-flops sloshed towards the exit from the cave. Jerry followed. ‘Do you know what happened to those missing people?’ he asked. Patrick, all muscles and tattoos, didn’t even slow down. ‘That’s not the currents, right?’ ‘No’. ‘What then? Man-eating shark? Venomous fish?’ When Patrick suddenly stopped, Jerry literally bumped into him. ‘I have lived here all my life. I know these waters better than anyone else’. He was mincing words. ‘Believe me you wouldn’t like to swim here. So, just don’t’. ‘But why?’ Jerry was insisting. Patrick resumed his stroll along the shore. ‘And if you smell the rotten seaweed, you’d better be somewhere far away from the place’. \* \* \* Scorching heat and salt chapped Jerry’s lips brutally. He was standing there down the alley leading to his home, applying a thick layer of chapstick. The wind was rustling the corners of the papers pinned to the notice board. Six people. Faded photos and heart-rending words written by their loved ones. But one of them caught Jerry’s eye. ‘Melissa Nyman’ he read the name under the photo of a smiling young woman. ‘Nyman. That was his wife’. Jerry took the plates, which read ‘Danger! Absolutely no swimming at any time!’, and headed for the beach. He couldn’t help thinking about those poor folks from the notice board. What happened to them? What happened to Melissa Nyman? ‘They don’t come here to swim’, Jerry started at the woman’s voice, which came from behind. If only he had those stupid Ray-Bans right now! The girl’s nipples were ready to pierce her shirt. ‘Audrey’, she offered her hand, taking it out from the back pocket of her mini, actually, the miniest denim shorts Jerry had ever seen. ‘Jerry’, he squeezed her hand slightly. ‘I say they don’t come here to swim’. ‘To do what, then?’ ‘To have sex, of course’. ‘Oh, right!’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Gee, it’s a tiny island. Everyone knows each other. If you wanna fuck, you don’t go to the inn’. Jerry swallowed. ‘Why?’ ‘Cause the owner of the inn will know everything, silly. And if he knows, everybody knows. Get it?’ ‘Oh, yeah. So, sex then’. What if Patrick Nyman’s wife came here for the same reason? And her husband saw her with another man? For a couple of minutes Jerry had been gripping the shaft of the sign so hard so that now he could feel a dozen splinters eating into his hand. ‘So, you’re British, right?’ Audrey’s tucked her hair behind ears. ‘Yep, from Liverpool. Did you know that the Beatles come from this city?’ suddenly this fact was something to boast of. ‘Oh, sure! Yellow submarine’, she livened up. Then an awkward beat allowed Jerry to feel a couple of new splinters in his right arm. ‘Well... see you around’, Audrey was ready to go. ‘I have some beer, so you may drop by sometime later’. ‘Great! Tomorrow evening maybe’. \* \* \* That night the lamenting was even louder, coming from the depth of the caves at the foot of the cliff. Jerry was in search of a nice icebreaker before Audrey’s arrival when he heard it. He directed the searchlight at some dark spot on the sand far below. Two bodies entwined, one moving over the other. ‘Whoa!’ he drew the beam of light aside immediately. ‘Freaks. Some pleasure to have a handful of sand between your cheeks’. Suddenly, one of the lovers crept into the light and dashed with an awkward crouching gait into the water, dragging its lower limbs behind. There was a splash. Jerry’s numb hands dropped the searchlight. When he took the lamp under control again, only one of the beach lovers was lying on the sand. The other one had disappeared into the ocean. ‘Hey there!’ Jerry’s voice cracked. The person on the sand wasn’t moving. And then Jerry recognized those miniest denim shorts. Jerry took a gun with signaling lights, the only weapon he could find, and ran to the beach down the stairs two steps at a time. Dark waters were licking the beach closer and closer to Jerry’s feet. When he reached Audrey she was lying motionless. ‘Audrey. Are you all right?’ Something was wrong with her face. Covered with slime. Jerry’s trembling hand found the button on the torch. ‘Fuck!’ He started back. Forced himself to have one more look. ‘What the fuck!’ There was no face. Like it was smashed or... eaten. Covered in a sticky substance. Jerry shone the torch at the waters. Something was moving there. Diving and emerging again. Diving. Emerging. Moving in Jerry’s direction. He darted headlong to the stairs. Heavy thumps followed him together with that lament he already knew. His feet felt like lead. The sand was treacherous. ‘Jesus!’ Bony fingers wrenched Jerry’s arm. In a moment the slimy body wrapped itself around him from all the sides. The moonlight let him see a deranged greyish face and bleak strands of hair. Sharp pain pierced Jerry’s shoulder at the place where the thing bit him. It ripped a piece of his flesh. ‘Aaaa!’ Jerry was crying. ‘Somebody help!’ He tried to reach for his pocket. The creature made another bite. And then Jerry took out the gun from the pocket. The shot threw the thing away. It let out one more terrifying groan and died. Pressing one hand against his wound, Jerry eyed the creature. It was not a human. Head, body, hands, but no legs. Fish tail instead. And that awful smell of rotting seaweed. \* \* \* ‘So much for this crap’. Bleeding, Jerry was looking for his passport and wallet when the lights went out. ‘Shit’, he went gropingly to the kitchen to find a torch. The entrance door made a creaking sound and tapped against the side-posts several times as if disturbed by the draught. The house was constantly making noises but something else made Jerry freeze. Rotting seaweed. The smell was closer now. A dark figure crawled into the bungalow, moving its body only with the help of upper limbs. Sweat started pouring down Jerry’s forehead. The thing was looking at him and he was staring back. Slowly, Jerry took the knife. The creature charged him. Jerry made a stab but its tail knocked him down. He hit his head badly against the table and fell to the floor. When Jerry came to his senses, the thing climbed onto his chest and broke it. The ribs cracked. Jerry yelped. When dragged through the house, he tried to grab the legs of the table. Jerry was thrown out of the window like a rag-doll. Falling, he begged for it to be just a nightmare. But the moment the cold waters embraced him, dozens of hands pulled him into the depths.


Maggie was weird, but she was my best friend. She lived in my childhood home, but she wasn’t my sister. She wasn’t a cousin, or a family friend, or anything like that. She had lived there as long as the house had stood, maybe longer. She never talked about the time before that. As long as I knew her, Maggie never changed much. Her age was fluid, but not in the way that everyone’s is. She was a bit older than me when giving me advice, and a bit younger when getting on my nerves. Her long black hair hung loosely in the space around her head, as if she was always underwater. I never heard her footsteps or watched her walk anywhere. She was simply where she needed to be at all times. When she was cold, her teeth chattered in a way that made my hairs stand on end. She was always cold. The more I learned about the world, the more I noticed things that reminded me of Maggie and helped me make sense of her. Have you ever petted a lizard or a snake? Rub it from head to tail, and it’s incredibly smooth. Go the other way - against the grain of the scales - and it’s rough, bumpy, and just feels wrong. That’s what Maggie’s voice sounded like. Like going against the grain. Like a voice played in reverse. Maggie didn’t have a right hand. Not like an amputee, or someone with a birth defect. If you looked at her shoulder and traced the length of her arm with your eyes, you’d see that it gets smaller and smaller, but never really goes away. If I looked where her right hand should be, I’d feel sick to my stomach. I remember taking calculus in high school, learning about asymptotes that approach zero but never really reach it. That’s what her arm was like. Infinite, but practically nonexistent. Always approaching nothingness. I know what you’re thinking: I had an imaginary friend. Occam’s Razor, right? The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Usually. Maggie was made entirely of impossibilities, and of course no one else ever saw her. On the rare occasions that a friend from school would come over to play, Maggie stayed hidden. My parents would get uneasy when I’d talk about her. “You’re creeping us out,” they would say. “Please, just stop.” I learned not to talk about her to anyone else. How did I know that Maggie was real? To put it simply: I had to. Maggie was my only true friend. She was my anchor to this world and almost all of my childhood memories. If she wasn’t real, then “real” was meaningless to me. When my parents would fight, I would crawl under my bed with a flashlight. I found myself under my bed often. Maggie was always there. I would absentmindedly peel paint chips off the baseboard and ramble on about the difficulties of my cozy, middle-class upbringing while Maggie would draw. Her drawings weren’t good, at least not in the traditional sense, but they made me feel something. Isn’t that what art is all about? When she was finished with a drawing, Maggie would present it to me with a shy but prideful smile across her face. I would lift the loose floorboard under my bed and stuff it underneath. I amassed quite a collection throughout the years. On really bad days, I would look through them and smile. Pictures of me and Maggie playing in the basement, hiding under the bed, eating popcorn on the couch. I wasn’t much of an artist, but one day I decided to make a drawing for Maggie. I spent what felt like hours on it. It was my masterpiece. When I handed it to her, she took one look and frowned. “What is this?” she asked without making a sound. “Me and you, on the Great Wall of China.” I had often dreamt about traveling the world with Maggie. She ripped the drawing into pieces and scattered it across the floor. “You know I can’t leave this house.” A lump filled my throat. I didn’t know if I was embarrassed for myself or sad for Maggie. For some reason, only one thought came to mind. “What happens when they tear this house down?” She looked afraid. “What makes you think they’ll tear it down?” I shrugged. “Doesn’t everything get torn down one day?” “Then I’ll squeeze down the bathtub drain. Didn’t you say there’s a reservoir nearby? I’ll swim to it.” “You can swim?” I asked. “If I have to.” The next day, Maggie handed me a drawing. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Your picture was nice. I shouldn’t have ripped it up.” The focal piece of the drawing was a red sedan. A man sat in the driver’s seat, his door open. He had auburn hair and a mole on his left cheek. It was me, as a grown-up. Outside of the car was Maggie, her hair scattered and flowing - even in the drawing. We were waving to each other. I gestured to the blue background that surrounded the car in all directions. “Are we in Heaven?” I asked. “We could be.” From that day forward, I couldn’t take a bath without thinking of Maggie being sucked into the drain. I often had dreams that I was following her. They may have been nightmares. I was never really sure. One day, when I was in high school, Maggie appeared in the corner of my bedroom. “What are you doing?” she asked, staring at the cardboard boxes scattered about. “We’re moving,” I said, looking at anything but her. “I’m sorry.” “No,” she said. “You have to stay.” “It’s not up to me. Dad is getting transferred. I’m still a kid. Technically, I mean.” “Will you visit?” she asked. “It’s... far.” I replied. “How far?” “Like, ‘across the country’ far.” “Well what am I supposed to do?” I didn’t know what to say. I pushed my bed to the side and lifted the loose floorboard. As I reached for the stack of drawings, Maggie’s hand grabbed me by the wrist. She was ten feet closer now, without taking a single step. “If you’re leaving, the drawings stay.” she said. It wasn’t a request, but a command. “Why?” “If you take them, you have nothing to come back for.” I begrudgingly agreed and left the stash buried beneath my bedroom floor. I finished packing as Maggie cried. We never said another word to each other. I’m older now, as people often are when compared to the past. I have a fiancée, Emma, who is the most loving and supportive person I’ve ever met. I’ve spoken to her about Maggie a few times, but like everyone else, she doesn’t like that. “You should really think about seeing a therapist,” she said once. “You talk about her like she’s real.” That made me angry. I never had a problem with the idea of therapy - hell, it would probably do me a lot of good - but I didn’t like the implication. Emma can be weirdly jealous of my childhood friend. One night, we had a bit too much wine and she asked me if I was in love with her because she reminded me of Maggie. I told her that they were nothing alike. She took that as a compliment. A recent business trip took me back to my home state and I was cautiously delighted. The airport was less than an hour from the house I grew up in, and I decided that the first thing I would do was pay Maggie a visit. “I’m sorry, sir,” the representative from the rental car agency at the airport told me. “We don’t have any SUVs at the moment.” He led me to a red Hyundai Elantra and I laughed, thinking back to Maggie’s drawing. “Would you prefer I find you something else?” “No,” I said, still grinning. “This is perfect.” The nighttime drive back to my hometown was uneventful, but brimming with nostalgia. A quiet country highway weaved through the forest where my father would take me camping, past my favorite barbecue restaurant and across the reservoir where we often spent our summer afternoons. My heart sank as I entered my neighborhood. House after house had been demolished, their lots occupied by piles of dirt and skeletons of soon-to-be McMansions. I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived at my former residence to see the house still standing. Caution tape surrounded the property. A backhoe was parked in the driveway. I didn’t have much time left. I was surprised to find the door unlocked, but when I entered I saw that there was nothing left worth securing. The rooms were empty - even the carpets had been ripped up. I immediately called out to Maggie to no response. I started in the basement, where we would often sit and I would tell her about what it was like to go to school - to go anywhere but here. I saw nothing but concrete walls, devoid of the posters that used to hang there and advertise my favorite bands and video games. I made my way back to the ground floor, searching the kitchen, the den, the laundry room - looking for any sign that I hadn’t been crazy or overly imaginative as a child. I ascended the staircase and peeked into my parents’ old room. There was a fist-shaped hole in the wall that still hadn’t been repaired. Finally, I made my way to my old bedroom. It was empty, as they all were. No need to move a bed to find what I was looking for. The loose floorboard was raised ever so slightly. You wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking for it. I lifted it and saw dozens - maybe hundreds - of crude drawings. It was real. It always was. Tears streamed down my face as I rifled through the pages. Me and Maggie, looking out my bedroom window into the forest behind our house. Me and Maggie, playing checkers on the living room floor. After a few minutes of reminiscence, I stuffed the papers in my briefcase and hastily made my way back to the rental car. The last thing my fiancée needed to hear was that I had been arrested for trespassing while searching for my “imaginary” friend. I got in the car and sped out of the neighborhood, making my way to my hotel in the neighboring county. As I was crossing the reservoir once again, I saw a figure ahead of me on the bridge. Long, black hair, dispersed gently throughout the air around her. She was too close for me to stop. I awoke in a strange room, blinded by a white light overhead. A raven-haired figure stood above me, calling out to me in a familiar voice. “Baby, are you awake?” The voice was smooth. Head to tail. A normal human being. I was disoriented and disappointed all at once. “Nurse!” Emma called. “Can we get a nurse? He’s awake!” She stroked my hair. “Oh my God, baby. I thought I lost you.” A nurse rushed in and immediately began asking me questions. She asked me my name and who the current president was. Did she not know that herself? “What happened?” I finally asked. “You were driving on the bridge that crosses Lockley Reservoir and... you crashed. Your car went in the water.” Emma said. She was clearly still amazed that I was conscious. “My briefcase,” I asked. All I could care about was the proof. The proof that Maggie was real - that I wasn’t crazy. “Do you have my briefcase?” “Don’t worry about that, baby,” she answered. “We can replace your things. I’m just glad you’re okay.” I closed my eyes in anguish. All of those drawings, gone. Nothing was left but the same unreliable memories I’d kept with me for years. A police officer whom I hadn’t noticed before stood up from a chair and approached me in my hospital bed. He didn’t look as relieved as Emma did. “Sir,” he began. “We need to know the name of the woman who was with you.” I didn’t understand. “I’m here on a business trip,” I said. “I wasn’t with anyone. I was just visiting-” “Baby,” Emma said, a look of mistrust on her face. “The man who found you... he said that you weren’t alone. He said that a woman pulled you to the shore. A woman with one arm.” My chest tightened. “Where is she?” was all I could think to say. “Well, that’s the thing,” the policeman interjected once more, scratching his head. “He said that she left as soon as you were safe. He said... he said she went back into the water.


Mohamad, an emaciated, desolate and kneeling man. Waiting for humanity to become extinct. The last one standing, alone, with an extremely powerful blizzard in front, in the middle of a deserted cabin among the mountains surrounded by snow. An avalanche passed over the cabin days ago. The surroundings are full of white dust that the lonely man tries to release in order to get out and no longer feel that claustrophobia that involves living locked up, without help. He knows it, he recognizes that there is no one else alive in the world. That apocalyptic end was not expected by the most conspiratorial being in the universe. One survivor in billions. He is undoubtedly special. How do you know? When the earth is empty, it is palpable. Not the slightest howl of a wolf or the singing of birds. Nothing. A deathly silence that snatches all hope of life. Finally, he manages to displace the disaster and the door is free to leave. Those zero degrees Celsius does not matter much to him because he has nothing to lose, and nothing to gain either. The survivor's eyes suddenly widen. Perplexed, stunned and trembling body. A miracle is presented in front of him. Open arms of a being in a ski mask that, without resentment, runs in terror, imprisoned by fear and the incessant cold, and offers a comforting hug to that one, the apparent last survivor. -- Who are you? -- asked Mohamad. --I don't know, but I'm glad I'm not alone -- says the young man with a trembling voice. Both enter to rest from the low temperatures. Mohamad at that moment understood that two was better than one. He feels much more secure now, knowing that the gloomy loneliness is no longer a part of his life. The company of someone you don't know is an unrivaled accolade. Both get to work, and prepare to make an expedition, in search of more survivors. The side of the snowy mountain is more beautiful once you see it in total solitude. The Survivors thought as they climbed with the meager strength their muscles gave off, their boots stuck in the mud and hail brushing their faces. -- Starving. -- Says the young man who met Mohamad minutes before. He is relieved that he is not the only one. There have to be more people out there. -- How did you resist so long? -- Mohamad asks with his white beard shivering from the low temperatures as they both slowly walk aimlessly. --I don't know ... -- says the young man. An answer that left Mohamad with a bad taste in his mouth. -- What is your name? Don't tell me you don't know. -- You'd be surprised, sir. -- You don't you know your name? -- No. -- So what the hell do you know? -- Head down, the thin guy continues on his way being part of his uselessness. They arrive to a frozen lake with crystal-laden trees all around it. Just by looking closely at the water, they could see how frozen it is -- Come on, let's go sideways -- says Mohamad. The young man does not move. -- What are you waiting for? The sun is setting. -- he insists. The boy places his pale feet in the icy water, before Mohamad's stunned gaze. -- You're one of the bloody lucky ones to survive an apocalypse, and do you want to die now? Look, the water, there is smoke everywhere. -- I do not feel anything. -- says the boy. -- What? -- I do not feel anything. -- he repeats. He dives deep into the lake and begin to swim. Mohamad can't understand what he is observing. Glanced up. -- Am I already dead? Is this paradise? The head come out like a needle in a haystack. The boy's hair was damp and sparkling more than ever. -- Get in the water! -- He exclaims to Mohamad. He hesitates. -- Tss, stay there. Do not go out. I will follow. -- Get in the fucking water! -- yells the boy, who in a matter of seconds between his hands get a fish the size of his body. -- Give me that fucking fish! -- he exclaims and run to the shore, threatening to jump, but still imprisoned by the fear of dying of hypothermia. -- Go on, cunt! Mohamad jumps. The water is not part of the rest of the environment. It is an unstoppable shield that moves away from the coldness outside. It is placidly warm. The bearded man can't believe it. -- What the hell did you do? -- he asks -- I do not know! -- Then what the hell do you know!? -- Mohamad lunged forwards, and they both frolicked in the water for the huge fish. A relief in the midst of the catastrophe. --Can you get another one? I don't know why I'm asking at this point. -- I think so! Sharks, dolphins, fins. Figures Mohamad had not seen for a long time. Everything is peaceful, there is no danger. -- A fucking whale! -- Mohamad shouts when he sees at his side an orca approaching like a cat. It does not hurt. -- Let's get out of here. I want to eat. -- We won't eat. -- What the hell are you saying? -- We won't eat. -- I heard you! Why won't we eat? -- These beings are our friends. -- Are you kidding me? The young man dives into the water and swims in perfect sync with those he calls "friends." Sea creatures that in natural circumstances would probably have eaten them in seconds. He resurfaces with something in hand. -- Algae! -- he exclaimed. -- Whatever, give me that crap. --Mohamad found nutrients in that nature that he considered ruthless until a few hours ago. He looked at the young man and wondered mentally who his companion really was, and why he survived the apocalypse. A reason to understand why they were chosen. For now, he only peacefully acknowledges that he has the power of water and sea creatures on his side, and a strange fellow adventurer who are probably most likely to cause him more than a nuisance along the winding path to discover the truth of their aparent loneliness.


Did she really want to go inside? What if she just went back? No. It was a stupid idea. The sun was almost down. It was already late. She slowly unlocked the door, went in and locked the door with her key. No one was going to leave the house anymore tonight. It was already late. She went upstairs as quiet as she could, holding on to her backpack. Nobody noticed her yet. She heard the noise the tv made. It had to be like that. A stair she stepped on made a noise. She held her breath. There was still the monotone noise the tv made and nothing more. Why couldn't everything just be quiet? She was almost there, just a few steps away. When she stepped on the last stair it made an even louder noise. "Kate?" She grew stiff and held on tighter to her backpack. How was she doing that? How did she notice her every time? Even though her mother had called her, she just stayed there. Standing on the last stair. Maybe it would just stop. If she just would stay there. "Kate!" She still didn't move. Her backpack already had scars. "Kate, I know you're there! Come here and clean the kitchen the way you have to!" She dropped her backpack and ran the stairs down as loud as she could. She wanted to overtone the tv's noise. When she walked by the couch her parents were on she rolled her eyes. She was Cinderella. "Why are you standing there? The kitchen doesn't clean itself !", her father shouted. She didn't say anything, took a deep breath and stepped into the kitchen. It was always like this. Every day. Exactly that. There was much work every time. She yawned and started cleaning everything. It took an hour. She yawned again. Then she put the sponge away and looked out of the window. The sun was completely gone. Instead there was a full moon. What if she just went away? What if? No. That's a stupid idea. It was dark outside. It was already too late. When she left the kitchen, she froze immediately. Her parents were right in front of her. Everyone just stood there and did nothing. They forgot each other. There was silence for a few moments. Not even the tv made a noise. She wanted silence. Just not that kind of silence. As if she woke up, her mother continued walking. Her husband followed her. "Dont forget to clean the living room." These words were the ones her father told her every evening. She started working and yawned again. Even though her parents would be mad at her the next day, she only did half of the work. She was exhausted. Like every evening. She left the living room and walked by the door that led outside. She just stood there and looked at it. It was too late. Far too late. She walked towards the door and unlocked it. She silently sat down on the stairs in front of the house. Could she really do it? She wanted it so much. But could she? It was too late. Or wasn't it? She looked behind her at the door which was slightly opened. Then she looked at the sky with the shining full moon. The door promised safety. The moon promised freedom. She stood up.


It was a cold November morning and the birds had already begun their morning song. The sun slowly pierced through the clouds and frost glistened across the fields. The sky was a mixture of deep, dark red and blue with only a few wisps of cloud, two men were standing at the rear of a black car, one was smoking a cigarette and the other had his arms folded and looked up at the sky, “Looks like it’s gonna be a nice day,” he declared. His accomplice flicked his cigarette onto the ground, exhaled and looked up, “Yeah.” He turned around, putting his lighter back into his coat pocket, “The farmers’ll be happy anyway.” “What?” “What do they say? Something about red sky?” “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight?” “Yeah that’s the one.” “But it’s morning.” “What?” “It’s morning.” “So?” “The saying is ‘Red sky at night, shepherds delight. Red sky in the morning, shepherds warning’.” “So?” “So, you just implied that the farmers will be happy with the red sky this morning, but the saying states that if there’s a red sky in the morning then the shepherds should take it as a warning. So, they won’t be ‘happy’ will they?” “Who?” “The fuckin farmers!!!” “Oh. Well, they’d still be happy to see a red sky, wouldn’t they? Who doesn’t like seeing a red sky? Looks nice.” The younger man of the two looked on into the distance and the older looked at him perplexed. He’d been doing this for over twenty years now and had the look of a man who had been doing his job for too long, he looked back at the boot of the car and placed his hand on the button to open it. “First time?” “What?” The older man sighed, “Is this your first time?” The younger man turned to face him, looking genuinely unaware of what he was being asked. He looked at the boot, “Oh! Er... yeah, yeah it is.” He looked down at the floor, embarrassed. The older man chuckled, “Don’t worry about it, I lost count in the nineties. It’s really not as bad as you think.” “I’m not fuckin’ worried!” The young man snapped as his face quickly turned red, “I’ve done plenty and I’ve paid my fuckin’ dues! Let’s just get it fuckin’ over with fucks sake!” The older man averted his eyes and understood instantly, “OK fair enough.” He opened the boot and inside was a man wrapped in duct tape from his ankles to his shoulders, in his mouth was a red ball gag that was covered in vomit and blood. As soon as the boot opened, he started thrashing, he’d clearly soiled himself and the smell that hit them as they opened the boot forced them back a few steps. The younger man was bent over and retching, the older man, being used to the particular stenches that people such as the current occupant of the boot produced, recovered quickly and burst out into a deep wheezy laugh, “Never eat before these kinds of things kid, at least at the beginning.” He carried on laughing as the young man vomited what looked like the remnants of a large breakfast. The young man spat and coughed, he looked up through a stream of tears, “Fuck off! Could’ve fuckin warned me!” The old man’s laugh had eased into a chuckle, “Same thing happened to me, l’d eaten porridge though so I wasn’t as bad. Fuck me! You can chew your food you know! Jesus.” The man in the boot was still thrashing, trying to scream. Due to the ball gag some vomit was still in his mouth and as he tried to scream it was spraying out of the sides of the gag, “You’re almost as bad as him!” The older man started laughing hard again with his hands on his knees. “Fuck off!” The young man had recovered and spat one last time before inhaling deeply. He looked at the man in the boot, “Look at the fuckin state of him, who is he?” “Dunno, don’t care.” The old man studied him, although he was practically mummified with duct tape, it was apparent that he was wearing what was once a very nice grey suit, he was probably in his early fifties with a head full of thick silver hair, it was matted with blood and vomit now but on the left hand side it was still combed neatly. His eyes were wild as he continued to thrash and scream, “Shut the fuck up!” The old man punched him so hard he broke his nose and rocked his head back with such force that he immediately went limp, “Cunt.” The young man watched as the old man wiped his hand on the unconscious body, the old man sat on the edge of the boot and glared at the young man, “Mastication.” The young man almost flinched, he looked confused, “What?” “Mastication, essential for healthy digestion during a meal.” “I thought it was supposed to be after a meal and usually with someone.” “What?” “I’ve always heard it’s best after a good meal and ideally with someone, but you haven’t got a missus have you? So yeah that makes sense I suppose.” The old man looked at him dumbfoundedly. He almost started to correct him but instantly realised the futility. He sighed, “How’d you wanna do it?” “I dunno, how’d you usually do it?” “Depends.” “On what?” “A myriad of a factors.” “A what?” “Usually I do them in the boot and take them to wherever, but it’s your car and I didn’t know if you were concerned about the mess.” “Don’t care, whatever’s easier.” “Ok, well?” “Well what?” “Well I’ve got plans later so you wanna?” He gestured towards the unconscious man in the boot, “He’s out cold now so it’s ideal, no thrashing, no screaming.” The young man cleared his throat and started reaching into his pocket, “Why’s it gotta be a fuckin knife?” He pulled out a smooth, black handle from his right inside pocket, he pushed a button and a long, thin blade flicked out, the steel reflected the morning sunlight on to the old man’s face briefly. The old man smiled, “Cost efficiency, you know how expensive clean guns are? Not to mention bullets! Fuck me, before you’ve even got to the job you’ve spent the best part of a grand. You could buy cheaper obviously but then you might not be getting what you pay for, shitty refurb jobs or ones that have been passed around thousands of times. Fuck that.” The young man stood over the unconscious man in the boot, his breathing was labored, his chest slowly going up and down, “How should I do it?” “Up to you, if you’re a sick little cunt you might wanna slit his throat, if it were me I’d just go once in the heart, nice and quick.” The young man breathed in and exhaled sharply, “Ok... fuck it.” He plunged the knife hard and deep into the man’s chest, the man jerked instantly and started thrashing again. His screams turned into a sickening gargling sound, “THE FUCK YOU DOIN’?!” Screamed the old man instantly, “WHAT?” The young man pulled the blade out of the man’s chest, the man in the boot thrashing more violently than before and gargling blood, “I SAID THE FUCKIN HEART! THE FUCKIN HEART! YOU DAFT TWAT!” “THAT IS THE HEART!” The young man screamed back, “NO! IT’S NOT! THAT’S HIS FUCKIN LUNG!! THE HEART’S ON THE LEFT SIDE YOU FUCKIN’ MORON!” “THAT IS THE LEFT SIDE!” “HIS FUCKIN LEFT!!” The old man’s face was dark red, he put his hands on the back of his head, unable to comprehend what he just witnessed, he tried to compose himself, “HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW? I AINT A FUCKIN DOCTOR!” The young man’s hand started shaking and his face was bright red again. “Did you ever go to fuckin school? How’d you not know where the fuckin heart is?” “I left school at fourteen!” The young man stated almost proudly, the old man slapped his hands to his sides, “While that explains a lot, it doesn’t explain why the fuck a grown man doesn’t know where the fuckin heart is! Did you eat too much fuckin glue as a kid or something?” The young man searched for an answer, but nothing came. He looked down at the floor, “Sorry.” “Fuck that just finish it.” The young man looked up, the man in the boot had stopped thrashing and was lying there, moaning. He placed the tip of the blade on the unconscious man’s left-hand side of the suit jacket, he looked up, “Here?” The old man sighed and nodded. The young man pushed the blade down hard, the body jerked, a small whimper creeping out of his throat. And silence. The young man slowly pulled the knife out and the blade was a dark crimson, he wiped it on an exposed part of the jacket and threw it in the boot. The old man slowly closed the car boot and studied the young man. He looked even younger now for some reason, late teens maybe early twenties, “How old are you?” “Twenty four.” “Christ.” He walked around the side of the car and sat in the passenger seat, he adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could catch a glimpse of the young man. He was breathing slow and deep and looking into the sky. The old man knew exactly how he was feeling and decided not to say anything else unless he was spoken to. The young man took one more deep breath and turned towards the car, after he climbed in and fastened his seat belt, he put his keys in and started the ignition, “Sorry... I...” “Don’t worry about it, you did good.” The old man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. As he lit one, he felt the car jerk forward gently as they pulled off, he blew a plume of smoke out of the window and looked out into the distance, “Nice day,” he looked over at the young man’s face, his were eyes fixed on the road. After a few moments he sighed, “Yeah.


Everything starts in darkness. It’s a lesson taught to us when we are young, when we are naïve enough to ignore the question, but listen to the fear. What’s in the darkness? Why are we so scared? In the flickering firelight, my shadow-hands make shadow-ducks on the wall, to the great amusement of my comrades. It’s an exciting life, being a trekker, but without jokes and banter, soon you start to feel tired. But not us. We’ve been in the jungle for 3 weeks so far, and nothing bar a few moths and spiders have come to see us. Yesterday the trees moved in what might have been some monkey business, but even with the binos, all we saw was green and disappointment. Green fills the jungle at day. The trees, the snakes, the ground; it’s all full of green. It’s a beautiful, peaceful green, coming in varying shades, a calm in the midst of the chattering noise. But at night, everything changes. The bright, vibrant green gives way to the comforting night. A blackness which fills everything, yet harms nothing. The kind of black that begins with a mother’s baby, still cuddled in the womb. The “good” side of black. The black we are sitting in now. The light of the campfire criss-crosses our faces, and every now and then it floods into a stream. But the others are beginning to start unpacking, getting ready to sleep. Not me. I feel alive. Every night, in this beautiful, dangerous forest, I stay awake to watch the jungle. It’s perfect, even with its flaws. In some ways, I believe that the flaws are what makes it perfect. A thing without error is the most imperfect thing in the universe. The fire dies, and I am left alone in the darkness. But that suits me fine. I’ve always walked alone, and often in dark places. Maybe that’s why I came on this trip. To escape from it all. To run. No. I will not brood over the past again. It’s time to look to the future, to forget what happened to me. With her. I’ve never been good at facing my feelings, and that hasn’t changed yet. Maybe one day in the far, far future, but for now, I should just accept what is. Just be at peace. In the black stillness, something moving catches my eye. Something that seems big. Finally. Something good. One of the night creatures, perhaps a panther, or maybe a late-night tiger. I daren’t wake the others, this is my reward. After I see it fully for myself, then they can find out. But this is for me, something for my eyes alone. I creep out into the darkness, stalking the occasional flash of motion that leads me out, deeper into the jungle. I can remember my way back, just follow my tracks. This thing, whatever it is, has come to a river, and appears to have walked a little further up the banks, before leaving my sight. I scour the ground, yet I can’t find any footprints, which strikes me as strange. Everything, no matter how small and light, leaves traces, so why doesn’t this? I must have imagined it. It is late, and I am a little tired. I turn to go back, to follow my footsteps, but I find, they are gone. The river. The muddy banks, which can be so easily washed away. And further down, there it stands. It shouldn’t be here. It should be dead. The dead stay dead, they are not supposed to come back. But sure as I am lost, there it is. Whatever this unholy reincarnation is. For some time, we are just staring into each other’s eyes, but after an age of silence, its sharp, papery voice rasps its way into my fear.*“* *Where were you?”* Three words. Three words which ask a question only I can answer, a question I will never answer. I am too afraid to answer, too ashamed. You can try and bury the past, but, much like this... this... thing, it catches up with you. I have no choice. I run. I can hear it behind me, screaming with such rage and anguish, and underlying it all, the steel of betrayal. I can’t stop to think about it, I have to get away. But the jungle is not kind to those that walk its corridors whilst scratching off the wallpaper. Those that burn its body to fuel their own. The jungle does not like us, however much we may love it. And all of a sudden, the tree roots seem larger, the creepers seem denser, and all the spiders and bats and animals crawling around me in the darkness seem much, much scarier. But it all pales to what’s behind me. I keep running. Until finally, the jungle strikes back. The tree root was such a dark brown that it seemed camouflaged against the soft ground. But my foot caught, and I felt my self airborne for what seemed like infinity. And with my face in the dirt, something carefully caresses my neck. Something hard yet soft, dark yet pale. Something with more than four fingers. And now a 2nd hand reaches out to me, and grabs the other side of my neck. It lifts me then turns me to face it. I try to let out a scream. I breathe in. I don’t breathe out.


The needle stabbed the skin deep until a red drop soaked the metal. I didn’t feel pain anymore. The bloody needle scratched the one hundred and fifty eight mark on the formerly white wall. I dabbed an alcohol soaked cotton ball over the newly punctured skin in my left inner arm. The newly punctured skin was located at the end of series of fading marks surrounding my body. I stood few paces back watching the whole picture, the tally marks, that started one day on a whim, the day I was released from the hospital, in a desperate attempt to cope with the grief, with the guilt, until now the wall was overwhelmed by the bloody marks drawn every day. The memorized pain in my flesh was the reminder of the mistakes I could never forget or forgive. My mind, always protective of me, was in a haste to let go of the memories which threatened the calm and peace. Brutally every detail about her was fading. Hardly, I could picture her; her face in my mind felt unfamiliar, as if belonged to a stranger that never existed. I tried to imagine her melodic voice, to recall her familiar scent, nothing came forth. I loathed myself for letting it all slip away. True, I survived, but sometimes it felt I died along with my family that night. The tally marks were the string connecting me to them. I felt as long as I kept track there was still a chance to get my family back. To say our marriage was a happy one would have been an understatement, we were deeply in love. I would not claim we hadn’t small and trifle disagreements, but never anything serious. How I wished to hear her carefree laughter that had the magical ability to rid me of any distress and angst. I met Anna almost five years ago, right out of college. We started dating, two years later we married. On our second anniversary we decided to try for a baby. Few months later Anna crying gave me the news. I was happier than ever I was in my life. Tomorrow was the due date, our child were to be born if that night would have turned another way. We would have been a happy family; I would have run around the hospital delivering the news to our friends and family with tears in my eyes: ‘it’s a boy,’ or ‘it’s a girl’. I would have held Anna and the baby in my arms and never let go. Unfortunately it was thwarted by my own foolish negligence. My phone vibrated. It was Richard, a colleague; perhaps the only person remaining that could be called my friend. I had cut off my relations with anyone I knew from before the accident. I let it go to voicemail. He was a good person, and had tried to coax me for a guy’s weekend, fishing or something, getting me out of my own solitude. Richard knew about the accident like everyone else in the office, but he was smart enough to understand I did not welcome talking about it. *** The next day, as soon as I woke up, even before I had my eyes completely opened I knew something was amiss. I sat baffled watching the wall, white as snow, not a mark, not one tally mark of the days gone by was left. Panic raising, my heart racing, I jumped out the bed. For seconds a futile hope sparkled in my heart, maybe all of that was only a nightmare, maybe in the next room, in the kitchen, I would find Anna, cooking breakfast, or frivolously thumbing her phone, paging through a book. But room after room it was deserted, nothing else beside the marks was different. There was no trace of her in the house. It had not been a dream, or if it was, I was still living it. I run my hands over the white wall, touching, to feel my blood still under the perfect white paint, but it was intact. A tear trickled down my eye. I slid down onto the floor leaning against the wall. I took off all my clothes inspecting my body, trailing the fading puncture marks, from the first mark on my right hand near my wrist, which I had made the day I was released from the hospital and came back to the empty home. I recall resisting the urge to cut the blue vein. The trail went from the wrist to my upper arm, to chest, down to my right leg and from left leg, to my abdomen and to left arm, which the last mark still shined red. My eyes got blurry, an unsettling feeling spreading through my body, I let myself float. When I became aware once more, I was standing in front of the white door, which had been locked in the past one hundred fifty nine days. I pushed the key in my hand, and turned. The nursery still beautiful and perfect remained untouched as if trapped in that time. Not knowing the babies gender, Anna and I agreed on a neutral color. Frosty aqua walls, with white crib, and chairs, the small red pillows and carpet with pictures of little elephant holding heart shaped balloons. I could see Anna and me painting and furnishing the room, getting everything ready in the first three months. We were overly excited, fantasizing about our future, the three of us. In the corner of the room, in the little white bookshelf with animal dolls hanging off from it, was the stack of photo albums that Anna got printed, from our wedding, the first sonogram of the baby. I grabbed one album and paged through. Watching our life in pictures, I stopped on the wedding photo, Anna looking stunning in her strapless white dress, and I in a black tuxedo with a bowtie. My hands trembling touched the picture; an urge filled with pain and love came over me to melt into that picture to live it once more. Tears dripping onto the album, I could hear Anna laughing, teasing me as I played James Bond. The air became suffocating. I left the nursery with haste, locking the door. I took the car keys, and left the house. I figured a little open air would do me good, but it was as stifling outside. An hour later, I was not sure why I had driven to that place. But the tree that changed the course of my life was standing in front of me. No sign of damage, it stood tall and strong. I was half hoping to detect a sign of evil on the tree, something that differentiated it, but it looked lively as others. “Why are you so sad?” a voice said. I turned and a small girl, perhaps about six, was watching me. “What did you say?” The little girl repeated. “Why are you sad?” She was alone, no adult around that I could see. “Where are you parents?” “I don’t know,” The girl standing still gaping at me shook her head, sending her pony tails bouncing around, and then added “are you lost too?” I was indeed; at least it felt like it. I looked around, there was not one car parked beside mine. Where had the girl come from? “Where are your parents?” I repeated. She shook her head again. “I know my house,” she said getting into my car. I hesitated a moment, looking around, and got in my car drove as she, a six year old, said. On the way she inquired question after another. I started telling her everything about the accident, the tree, Anna, and our unborn child. She was not like normal children; she listened with eyes that seemed to understand. I told her what I could not tell anyone. How it has been my fault, how I had neglected to checkup the car, and the tires which were old and worn out. If I had been careful perhaps my family would have been alive today. The tire blew, and the car derailed from the road, overturned and skidded off into the tree. The passenger-side received a significant part of the impact. Anna had died in the hospital along with our unborn child. I was not sure why I was telling a six year old but there I was, hardly able to control, words poured out. “I wish I had died right there instead of them.” “I don’t think it was your fault,” the little girl said. “You couldn’t have known this would happen.” How I wished I could believe that. It would have been much relief. I pulled over by a street as she said. I got out the car, and opened the backdoor, but the girl was gone. No trace of her. I looked around, nothing on the street as well. Looking around I realized across the street was the cemetery. Not far Anna was buried. I was not sure then if there ever was a girl, maybe I was going mad. I crossed the street toward Anna’s stone. Beside the gravestone I saw few figures standing. Closer I saw, Julie and Scott, Anna’s parents standing now noticed my presence. I had not seen them ever since the funeral. Across from them two more figures, Richard, my colleague, and by him stood Eddie, my father. We nodded to each other. In silence they retreated few paces giving me space. I knelt down by Anna’s gravestone. I started telling her how I had been since the accident, how guilty I felt. Sometime past, I felt lighter, and stood, turning I saw they still waiting for me. Richard and I in my car were following Anna’s parent’s car, they had insisted for me to join them for dinner, all of us, even father and Richard. Pulling out from the cemetery I half expected to see the little girl again, but nothing. I wondered if that girl could have been my baby if things would have turned another way.


A breeze brushes against my face and it’s not until now that I realize my cheek is wet. Strands of hair stick to my hand as I wipe the tears away. Now my fingertips are cold. I predicted the meeting would be filled with emotion but hadn’t thought I’d actually cry. Especially not at this point. I wasn’t even at Penn’s Landing yet. The toe of my shoe catches on a loose Belgian block in the street and a young man rushes to hold my elbow. “Are you okay?” His expression is kind and I try not to be distracted by his pierced cheeks. “Yes, thanks, just not paying attention.” After waiting more than two decades for this, how could I shift my focus elsewhere? Of course I wasn’t paying attention to the Belgian blocks in front of Independence Hall. There were bigger thoughts - much bigger - that were spinning in my mind. Paul had been a great father and I loved him. He cheered for me when I was a spelling bee contender. He shouted every time I scored a goal at a soccer match. And he glowed with pride at my college graduation from the University of Pennsylvania. But I never knew until Mom died that he’d been my step-father. I’m not even sure why he told me, but he did. Tearfully, about a week after Mom’s funeral. Initially, I didn’t believe him. It was absurd. How could Dad not be my father? It didn’t make sense. But there was something in his expression, in his words, and in his shaking hands that told me he was telling the truth. Paul’s truth held few details, though. He didn’t know my father’s name, only that Mom had dated him before Paul met her. Against his parents wishes, he married her when she was five months pregnant on a sunny day at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church on South 10th Street.. Her bridal bouquet had been filled with white roses and blue delphinium, he’d remembered. When I learned that my birth father was someone other than Paul, I silently gave my grandparents credit for never having treated me any differently than they did my cousins. At some point, they must have decided to embrace me in the family, like a baby bird being protected in stronger wings. From Paul’s revelation until now, it was a blur of late-night online research and sending in DNA samples to perhaps not always legitimate sites. But what was someone shady going to do with my DNA? Make a clone? I would be flattered. The pressing and inexplicable need to connect with my birth father went far deeper. As years with no leads passed, I felt increasingly desperate to find him, to meet with him, to look at his face. And that was going to happen in about 10 minutes. I pressed my red Kate Spade cross-body against my hip as I quickly crossed Walnut Street. I would be seeing him any minute now. He knew I’d have a red pocketbook. I knew he’d be wearing a red scarf on this blustery October afternoon. My feet moved more quickly than I wanted them to... past the Seaport Museum and towards the Viewing Deck. A long and hard gust of wind blew in from the Delaware River and I pulled my gray peacoat tighter. How odd it was that I didn’t feel ready to meet the one person I’d waited almost half my life to meet. It had been a slightly awkward email, but I’d hit Send before I had a chance to edit it: To: James Collingwood From: Sarah Woodword Subject: DNA Test Match Hello James! I’m sure you realized, as I did, that we’re an almost exact match on FamilyDNATree! Looking at their report, you will see as I did, that all the science indicates that you are my biological father. I have been looking for you for over two decades and it would mean so much to meet you in person. I only want to know who you are as a person and to hear what family stories you’d be willing to share. I was born, raised, and currently live in Philadelphia. Are you still in the area? Would you be interested in meeting me? I’ve been searching for you for over twenty years, since my mother (Kimberly Hart Woodward) passed. It would mean the world to me. Best regards, Sarah Had it been too emotional? Too filled with expectations? Those questions, and more, haunted me for a year. And then James Collingwood replied to my email. To: Sarah Woodword From: James Collingwood Subject: Meeting Would you like to meet at the Viewing Deck at Penn’s Landing at 2pm on Friday, October 8th? To make things simple, I’ll be wearing a red scarf. James To: James Collingwood From: Sarah Woodward Subject: Meeting That would be wonderful! To keep things consistent, I’ll be carrying a small red pocketbook. I can’t wait to actually meet you! Warm regards, Sarah I never heard back from him. But did I need to? He had set the meeting in place. I only needed to show up. I am now at the Viewing Deck. It feels like my heart is pounding at an unsafe rate as I quickly scan the few people looking out at the Delaware River. There is a small family with unruly children. To their right, a young couple look flirtatiously at each other. An elderly man sits in a wheelchair by himself. Could that be...? I tentatively make my way over to the old man and glance sideways at him. No red scarf. I glance at my Apple watch. 2:05. Okay, it’s not considered “late” until fifteen minutes, right? I take deep breaths, hoping to quell the rising panic inside. Is he not going to even show up? Is he going to actually stand me up? My anger rises to unwarranted levels. I turn and look in every direction. Not one red scarf. I turn back around and stare at the river. The flow rises and falls, the white sky illuminates the ripples that travel away from me. Suddenly, I feel like everything is flowing away from me. I’m 44 and never married. Something always went wrong with each relationship, and it was never the same thing. The water running past me now reminds me that I will never be a mother. Which makes me think of my mother. In my mind, I see her in all the black and white photos I’ve seen of her: The small baby, the mischievous toddler, the 3rd grade student in the class photo, her hands folded on her lap, the photos of her in her high school yearbook... laughing, vivacious, alive. The next photos I saw were of her and Paul at their first home. She was visibly pregnant. Her smile didn’t look joyful, as it once had, it was now a smile of gratitude. The photos were in color when I was born and Mom and Paul held me in both their arms, holding me up in my pink blanket with expressions of such expectation and pride. My eyes water again and - “Sarah?” A hand softly touches my shoulder. I spin around. A tall, older man stands in front of me. He wears a black beret and a gray cashmere coat. The coat matches his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He’s wearing sunglasses - or maybe they’re those prescription glasses that turn dark outside? He’s wearing a red scarf. I nod. “Yes, yes, I’m Sarah. And you must be James?” He nods. “Jamie. Everyone calls me Jamie.” “Oh! Okay. Jamie, then.” There’s a paralyzing silence, but it lasts less than a minute. Jamie rubs his gloved hands together. “ It’s chillier than it looks. Would you like to head to Cherry Street Pier and grab a cup of coffee?” “That sounds perfect.” We walk side by side in silence. I glance at Jamie, but he stares straight ahead. We get to Cherry Street Pier and wander past the art exhibits to the concessions. Jamie gestures for me to order. “Uh, I’ll have an Americano with light cream and that’s it.” Jamie grins beneath his sunglasses (are they sunglasses?) and turns back to the barista. “I’ll have the same.” We sit at a small round table for two and look at each other. I can’t quite tell if there’s a physical resemblance or not because of his damn (possibly) sunglasses. I smile nervously. “I’m not really sure where to begin or where to stop.” He nods. “Well, I’ll start. Yes, I dated Kimmie Hart for about 7 months in 1979. But I never, ever knew she’d gotten pregnant.” I stare at him, but in my mind all I can think is Kimmie? You called her Kimmie? My entire life, I’ve only heard her called Kimberly. “Right. And I was born in 1980. I wonder why she never told you.” He shrugs. “I guess - after a relationship ends, would you tell someone something like that?” I’d never asked myself that question. I didn’t have a ready answer. The barista calls Jamie’s name and he comes back with our coffees. I begin shaking a bit and I don’t know why, which makes me more nervous. Jamie takes a sip of his coffee. “May I ask what Kimmie died of? In my mind, she was always fit and healthy.” I nod. “Yes, she was. She died in a car accident. She was blindsided by a drunk driver twenty years ago.” Jamie is silent, then takes another sip of his coffee. “That’s a shame. Tragic.” I drink some of my coffee. “So, other than your name, I really don’t know much about you. I mean, what career path did you follow?” He raises his eyebrows and looks relieved I threw him a softball. “Architecture. It was always architecture. “Huh.” I shrug. “And my degree is in Environmental Design.” Jamie lifts his coffee cup. “Well done!” He puts his coffee cup back on the table and looks at me. “Did - did your mother ever tell you about me?” I shake my head. “No. No, she never did. I always thought Paul - my step-father - was my real father. It was shortly after Mom died that he told me. I don’t know why, so don’t ask.” “So -“ Jamie speaks slowly. “She never once mentioned Jamie Collingwood?” I look at him. I feel that he so much wants me to say yes. I can’t want to lie. “She may have, and I just don’t remember.” He nods. He knows. “That’s okay. No doubt she didn’t know what to do about the - situation.” Jamie gives a deep sigh and leans back in his chair. “I want you to know that I loved Kimmie. I really did. Well, as much as anyone that age knows what love is. And I always remembered her and wondered what path she’d walked on in life. It sounds silly, but I’d look up at the moon some nights and think, ‘Maybe Kimmie is looking at the same moon at this same second. Maybe she’s wondering if I am, too. I really did love her.” Suddenly, Jamie’s face drops, and his shoulders begin to shake. One of his hands is still on the table. I place my hand over his. He pulls off his glasses and looks up at me. His hazel-green eyes are a perfect match with mine. We both see it. We both know it. And we both tear up. Jamie pushes his chair away from the table and steps over to me. I stand up and he embraces me in his strong arms. As if I’m a baby bird he never had the chance to nurture.


“Hey Andrea, stop standing there and come help me with these curtains! Giacomo’s annoyed voice snaps me from my daze. Blinking quickly, I look around. I’m standing on a stage. On the stage, lit with bright lights from every direction. I’ve gotten distracted by the elaborate theatre once again. How long have I been standing here? I look down at all the empty seats, and remember. The concert! I’d run to the theatre as soon as I’d gotten out of the conservatory this evening, passing horse-drawn carriages and small shops, making my way through the busy lantern-lit streets of Genova. From where I’m standing, I can make out the chatter of the crowd that is quickly gathering outside the doors. The most anticipated concert of the year is going to start soon, and I still have to help Giacomo set up the wretched curtains. “It’s always the same story with you. Do you want him to play with this in the background?” He asks, lifting one end of the fabric and shaking it in the air. I shake my head quickly and run over. As I help Giacomo fix the curtains, I feel an icy breeze blow on the back of my neck from one of the open windows. I shiver, rubbing my hands together as we walk off the stage. The devil’s violinist . That’s what the newspapers called Niccolò Paganini. For the past month at the conservatory, the only topic of conversation had been tonight’s concert. Walking to one of my lessons one day, I’d heard one girl talking to another. “Paganini creates such astounding music on the violin. His style is so new, and I hear that he fills his music with such unusual techniques and tricks, such as imitating roosters, donkeys, and dogs!” “Really?” Her friend had asked incredulously. Other students had pitched in, and the hallway had become a mass of excited voices. “Yes, and once, he broke three of the four strings on the violin while he was playing, on purpose, to show that he could play the whole piece with only one string, like nobody else can.” “Did you know that Paganini sometimes plays so fast, like twelve notes per second, it’s impossible for the ear to keep up! There must be something supernatural about him. Just look at him and you’ll see.” Don Conrado, my violin teacher, always tells me to sing with my violin. “Devi cantare con il violino! ” He says that if I were to hear the great Niccolò Paganini play in the theatre, I would understand. I’ve read that Paganini was born almost 50 years ago, here in Genova on the 27 th of October 1782. Not only is he the greatest violinist, but he is also a guitarist and composer. He has only ever published a few of his works, because he wants to keep the rest secret, and there is a rumor that he got his magnificent talent from the devil. I wonder if that’s true. Backstage, I turn to Giacomo, who has just finished shouting at some poor crew member. “Do you know what they say about Paganini and the devil?” I ask Giacomo. He just rolls his eyes. “I heard that Paganini's mother made a pact with the devil, and traded Paganini’s soul for his incredible playing abilities, so that he could become the greatest violinist there ever was.” I continue, excited. “I heard that he even encourages these rumors about him. Sometimes, he lies in his bed for a full day before a concert, not moving, without food or water.” “Oh, don’t tell me you believe all this superstitious nonsense. He’s talented, and that comes from a lifetime of practice, not the devil!” Giacomo says, exasperated. I scoff and walk away, making my way around to find a spot to watch the concert, which should start soon. The concert had sold out, and quickly all the seats are filled. The rumors about Paganini must have a positive effect on him, with all the people who swarm to his concerts. However, forty minutes later, the concert hasn’t yet started. The musicians in the orchestra are complaining, and the audience seems quite restless. “Where is Paganini?” A gruff voice booms from the crowd. “Please, everyone, be patient! He should be here anyti-” Giacomo’s voice trails away, as excited cries rose from outside. I peer out of an open window and see an elegant black carriage slowing to a stop outside the theatre, pulled by four black horses. A thin figure dressed in an all-black coat slowly steps out from inside. “Paganini’s here!” I whisper. The theatre is deathly quiet, and I can feel the anticipation growing. The curtains part, and out steps the devil’s violinist. He is wearing a black vest on top of a white puffy shirt, with black trousers. He has long black hair, and a pair of small, blue tinted glasses, which I remember being told had been prescribed to him to help with the glare of the lighting. He is so pale and thin he resembles a walking corpse. Pausing at one end of the stage, he looks at the audience, bowing exaggeratedly multiple times. The audience erupts into wild cheers. Satisfied, Paganini slowly moves into the center of the stage. He places his violin onto his shoulder, and then, dramatically raises his bow. The crowd is in awe of his playing! It’s spellbinding! Paganini plays with such passion and tenderness that some of the spectators burst into tears. Some ladies in the first row of the audience reach for Paganini, others dramatically fan themselves. Now I understand what Don Conrado meant about singing with the violin. Paganini has perfect intonation, and his compositions are so melodic, it’s astonishing. As the concert progresses, the level of energy in the hall rises. The audience is mad with amazement. Some ladies dangle from their boxes, waving their handkerchiefs at Paganini. He alternates between very complicated virtuosic pieces where he shows off with ferocity, snapping many of his bow hairs, and more melodic pieces, which he plays in a beautiful singing style. As he plays, he twists his body across the stage. Now I understand why some people call him “rubber man”. Now, Paganini plays the Capriccio No. 24, and I start to see him as demonic. He certainly does look possessed as he plays, shaking his head so much that his hair flies across his face, while his fingers fly across his violin. Whenever Paganini plays a complex passage, screams erupt from the crowd. I see a man in the audience transcribing Paganini's music by ear onto manuscript paper, so he can have a copy of Paganini’s compositions. A lady faints from the intensity of his playing. I look at the orchestra and see the jealousy across many of the violinists’ faces. There are so many tricks Paganini adds to his playing, that make him and his playing seem magic, creating magnificent sounds that haven’t been heard before, which he seems to do with inhuman ease. As the concert comes to an end, I watch Paganini while he dramatically ends his piece and looks up, his eyes staring back at me. Frozen in my seat, I can’t move. He smiles sardonically for an instant, before looking away and taking a deep bow. “Well, that was dramatic.” I whisper to myself. I’ll never know for sure if the rumors are true, or if it’s all silly superstition. But one thing’s for sure. Niccolò Paganini is hauntingly talented. They call him the devil’s violinist, and for good reason.