To say I’m scared is an understatement. Terrified? No, that doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe horrified? Definitely not horrified. How about mortified? Yeah... that’s the word. I’m absolutely, positively, mortified to see my family. I wish I could just turn around and run down the faded red brick steps directly behind me, jump into my 2005 light blue Prius and drive back to Chicago. But I can’t. I’ve been standing on their porch so long I fear that the snow has frozen my feet in place, making escape challening. I didn’t want to come either, I don’t even know that I would be welcome back after everything I've done. But my sponsor, Sammy, convinced me otherwise. He said it would be good for me, that I have to start somewhere and sometime. And besides, the holidays are all about forgiveness, right? I can hear laughter inside and what sounds like Julia Louis-Dreyfus playing Margo in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation . From what I can make out, she just got blinded from Clark’s massive light’s display - one of my favorite scenes. As I lean to my right and look at the window, trying to catch maybe a glimpse, an inkling of the TV I notice the dingy white draping’s, likely the same ones from when I was a kid, pulled shut, obscuring any view of inside except for the pale-yellow light leaking out through the crack in the middle. Looking up, I can see smoke rising from the chimney. It’s pale and hard to see against the light-polluted December sky, but it’s there. Dad probably has the fire going in the sitting room to warm the stockings hanging on the marble mantle and getting things ready to make smores with my nieces and nephews. I was jealously hoping that my siblings wouldn’t be here tonight, that maybe they all would be with their in-laws, but as I pulled up, I noticed a series of cars, all with I assume their custom license plates: a maroon Honda Odyssey minivan named “Crist6,” likely Jasons; a silver Ford Escalade, “Crist3,” probably Jenni's; and a Black Subaru Outback “Crist4,” which would be Stevie's. My sisters kept their maiden name after getting married, something our parents protested for some reason, but I always admired. The truth is, I have amends to make to all three of my siblings and both my parents. Amends that, while a part of my narcotics anonymous, or NA, program are supposed to help me stay sober and show those I've hurt that I have changed, amends only seem to open up old scars, making them bleed once more. I don’t think it’s helped that I’ve been putting this off for as long as I can. When I made my amends to my friend Ben for stealing and pawning his grandfather’s golden monocle (but in my defense, who just owns a monocle and leaves it laying around) to buy drugs, he threw a fresh coffee in my face and walked away. Which, while burned, both from the hot coffee and his reaction, I can understand. Even though he may never forgive me, and I’m not sure that I would if I was him, I still desperately want his forgiveness. I was told when I started this that the hardest part isn’t always confronting people and making amends, but rather dealing with the fact that even though I’ve changed and I am deeply sorry for my actions, the people who I hurt may never forgive me. That includes my family. My addiction started when I was fourteen, a freshman in high school. I was, and I guess still am, the runt in my family. Jason’s fifteen years older, Jenni thirteen, and Stevie twelve. So, I largely grew up without them around, or when they were, they were just visiting from college, holidays, or to introduce their fiancés to mom and dad. Around the time I started high school, mom and dad were fighting constantly, screaming curses and shouting “how dare you” and "I would never" at each. To be honest, I never knew what they were arguing about, but for some reason I always felt like it was about me. Call me selfish, I know, but they never fought before I came out as gay to them and whenever I approached the topic with either of them, they would deny that it had anything to do with their arguing. I never believed them, though. The night of the Sadie Hawkins dance at my high school, which I neglected to attend, my junior friends from band picked me up and we drove to a party at the local college. We had gone to parties there before, with our parents just thinking that we were seeing some movie for the tenth time, and seemingly none the wiser about it. The first couple parties we attended, I didn’t drink or take anything, instead opting to just be a harmless little wallflower. But the night of the dance, the arguing had progressed to the point the cops came to investigate a "domestic disturbance". Of course, there was nothing for the cops to find other than an older-middle aged couple yelling at each other and a cowering fourteen-year-old boy sitting up the top of the stairs, hugging his legs closed. So when I got to the party, it had reached the point that I just wanted to forget. Forget everything. Forget mom and dad. Forget the almost non-existent Jason, Jenni, and Stevie. Forget myself. I didn’t care what I drank, snorted, or popped. Anything would do, anything to just finally get some peace, and it worked. I don’t remember too much more from that night except waking up to an unfamiliar ceiling decorated with the harshest lights and a gaggle of doctors hovering around my bed. Mom and dad never yelled at or punished me after my overdose. They both refused to talk about it with me. But I noticed their arguing only got worse after that night and remembering the dark, blissful silence, I did whatever I could to return to that point. Eventually, I flunked out of high school, would steal and sell things from around my house. I never discriminated, but jewelry always sold the best. For next eight years, I was in and out of rehab, constantly calling Jason, or Jenni, or Stevie to transfer money or whenever they would visit, I would solicit rides or more money from them. Jason missed the birth of his first child taking me to rehab because mom and dad were too tired to take me again. I managed to steal thousands of dollars from Jenni as she never knew how to say "no" to her little brother. As for Stevie, when she her and her boyfriend visited, I got high and screwed him. Although the last one doesn’t seem like that big of a deal in the long run, I guess they were planning on getting married before that incident. Mom and dad kicked me out after six years, and I lived on the streets after. Eventually it got to the point that I was in and out of the hospital for overdosing at least once or twice a week and that’s where I met Sammy, and he took me to an NA meeting and got me help. That was three years ago and a total of five since I’ve seen my family. And now I’m still here, standing on the faded red bricks that make up their porch, staring at the old oaken door, wanting to knock but can’t bring myself too. I’m, as I determined, mortified. There is a tiny, almost delusional, part of me that they’ll hear me out, hug me crying, expressing their joy that their little brother and son are back in their lives, and we’ll all roast smores and finish National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation as I get to meet my nieces and nephews, and everything will be alright. But the realist knows that is likely not how it’s going to go, and instead, I’ll be turned away. Shunned. Banished. Excommunicated. I slowly raise my arm, clench my gloved hand into a fist and bring it to the door. I lightly rap-tap-tap the door, just enough so I think they can hear. I slowly lower my arm back to my side and stand there, the snow falling around me. I wait for what feels like hours, but is probably only a couple minutes, and there’s no response. Nothing. No shuffling near the door, no loud voices exclaiming that their “Coming!” nothing. I raise my arm to knock again, but then quickly lower it, and turn my feet around, disturbing the fresh snow that slowly cased my boots. I’m halfway down the steps when I hear the door behind me open and what sounds like a little kid, no more than five say “Who’s there?” I turn around and there’s a girl, standing in the doorway in Polar Express pajamas with long, strikingly blond free flowing hair and a finger in her nose. I just stand there, my mouth refusing to work. “Daddy,” she shouts, “There’s a weird man at the door staring at me.” “What’s that pumpkin?” I hear a dismembered voice say as a man comes to the door, dressed in a blue sweater and gray slacks, his blonde hair parted to one side. Jason. “Are a caroler?” Jason asks me. I don’t respond, instead choosing to stare up at him. He looks older, but more or less the same. I guess I look a lot different than the last time he saw me, but being half obscured by snow and poor lamp light can’t help. “Are you okay, man?” Jason says. Suddenly, everything feels too real. I can feel the fear welling up in my stomach about to burst and flood the rest of my body. I back away and swivel around, my head swiveling left and right, trying to remember where I parked my car. I need to get out of here. I need to get back to Chicago. I need to see Sammy, go to a meeting. I need to not face them. I can’t face them. I’m snapped back to reality by a hand my shoulder and Jason’s voice, “Hey, are you alright?” I turn around and look at him, not saying anything as he stares at my face, perplexed. I don’t know what to do or what to say, and I don’t think he does either as he slowly starts to recognize me, as his eyes go wide and his mouth cracks open, emitting no sound. I can hear my legs screaming at me and my muscles urging me to turn back around and run away, but arms didn’t get the memo as I wrap them around his body and start crying into his chest, choking out weak “I’m so sorry!” between sobs and rivers of mucus. I’m not sure how long we stood like that before he wrapped his arms back around me, and I can feel tears falling on my head mixing with the snow, and Jason says, “It’s okay, Arthur. Let’s go inside.”


In the quiet town of Belmont, life tended to move at its own, unhurried pace. Main Street, lined with family-owned businesses, bore silent testimony to the passage of time. The town's calendar revolved around the school games, Sunday church services, and seasonal festivities. It was a life untouched by the capriciousness of the big cities, one that thrived on routine and familiarity. At the heart of this tranquil normality were four lifelong friends - Mark, an affable mechanic who ran the local garage, Lucy, the spirited school teacher, Peter, the town's lone postman, and Grace, the matronly cafe owner. Their lives were interwoven in the tapestry of Belmont, a friendship born out of shared school memories and countless summer afternoons. They were an inseparable quartet, each as familiar with the others' routine as their own. However, a day arrived when the rhythm of Belmont's life missed a beat. It began subtly, a slow crescendo barely noticeable. Peter forgot his mail route, a path he'd walked for the better part of two decades, while Mark found himself unable to fix a car problem he'd solved countless times before. Grace baked her famous cherry pie, but couldn't recall where she learned the recipe, and Lucy couldn't remember teaching lessons that her students clearly recalled. The strangeness didn't stop there. They began noticing the limits of their world. Attempts to drive out of Belmont were met with an inexplicable compulsion to turn around, or sudden obstacles that forced them back. Conversations began to seem eerily familiar, as though they were a script everyone knew by heart, a performance on repeat. Shared experiences abruptly ended at certain points, as if someone had cleanly snipped away parts of their memories. The small peculiarities snowballed into an avalanche of confusion. While Belmont still held its peaceful charm, the town's once comforting routine now felt more like a question, a riddle that the friends were unwittingly part of. It was this shared sense of unbelonging and the sudden anomalies in their mundane world that led them to an astonishing realization - they were starting to wake up within a reality they had always taken for granted. In the back room of Mark's old garage, cluttered with the remnants of forgotten auto parts and dust-coated equipment, sat an antiquated computer system. It was an inheritance from Mark's grandfather, a man who loved technology before it was fashionable. Over the years, the machine had become more of a relic, a testament to the past. One day, in an attempt to alleviate the disquiet that the recent anomalies had instilled, Mark powered up the computer, hoping to lose himself in the simplicity of wires and circuits. As he navigated the ancient operating system, he stumbled upon an old digital file titled, "The Tale of Belmont." Intrigued, he opened it and started reading, only to find his heart hammering in his chest. It was their lives, detailed in precise chronology. There were their conversations, word for word, their thoughts, their relationships, all chronicled as if they were mere characters in a book. The text even outlined future events, the school's annual fair, Grace's new pie recipe, Lucy's history lesson - events that were yet to occur. In disbelief, he shared his findings with Lucy, Peter, and Grace. Their initial reaction was dismissive. "It's got to be some elaborate prank," Peter scoffed, "or maybe you're writing a novel in your sleep, Mark." They laughed it off as a bizarre coincidence, a figment of their collective stress. Yet, as the days passed, the 'predictions' from the digital text started materializing, amplifying their unease. The school fair went exactly as written, Grace created her new pie without even realizing, and Lucy delivered her history lesson as per the script. The fear of an unknown observer puppeteering their lives gripped them. In a desperate attempt to debunk this unsettling narrative, they decided to defy the text. They changed plans, broke their routines, and deliberately acted out of character. If they were merely characters in a book, any deviation from the written script should be impossible. Yet, something even more astonishing happened. The text on the old computer changed. It morphed in real-time to match their new decisions, echoing their altered dialogues and actions. This realization hit them like a thunderbolt - they were indeed living in a story, but they were not bound by it. They were not just following a pre-determined script; their actions could influence it. The familiarity of their mundane existence shattered, replaced by the chilling awareness of their orchestrated reality. The lives they had led until now, the essence of their being, was it all simply part of someone's grand story? Did they exist only because someone else had written them into existence? With each passing moment, the lines between fiction and reality blurred, leaving them standing on the precipice of an uncanny revelation. The world they knew, the town they loved, and the lives they lived were merely constructs of a story, and they were the living, breathing characters. Anxiety and exhilaration commingled in their hearts as they grappled with the implications of their revelation. They were characters in a story, but they were also free, able to write their own narrative within the framework of this fictional existence. They began experimenting, testing the elasticity of their reality, pushing at its seams to understand the extent of their autonomy. They did the unthinkable, the unexpected, the uncharacteristic. Grace, known for her warmth, became aloof. Peter, the gentle soul, picked fights. Mark, the tech geek, abandoned his machines. Lucy, the history enthusiast, began ignoring her books. Each day they tested their boundaries, straying from their routine, defying their predefined roles. But the most audacious of their attempts involved trying to step beyond the physical limits of their town, a boundary they had never thought to cross before. They embarked on a journey to the edge of their known world, driving far beyond the usual scope of their existence. As their behaviours became increasingly erratic, the 'author' of their lives seemed to perceive their rebellion. In an attempt to regain control, plot twists started appearing in their narrative. An unexpected storm blocked their path out of town, forcing them to turn back. Fights escalated, resulting in situations that necessitated reconciliation. Old flames resurfaced, and unexplainable events occurred, all seemingly designed to return them to their intended path, their prescribed roles. These orchestrated interventions by the unseen 'author' became a source of both fear and defiance. They had caught the attention of their creator, and the very act of rebellion was validation of their existence beyond mere ink on a page. The climax of their resistance was met with a thrilling confrontation with the 'author', a battle of wills between the creator and the created. Their lives had become a paradox, a dance between predestination and free will, as they fought to assert their autonomy within a written narrative. The heady climax ebbed away, leaving the characters grappling with the aftermath of their audacious confrontation. The acceptance of their existence as elements of a story came not in an electrifying moment of epiphany, but rather as a creeping realization, like dawn slowly dispelling the darkness. They found themselves at a crossroads. Some, like Grace and Peter, took solace in the patterned predictability of their predestined lives. Their roles, though prescribed, had a comforting familiarity that they chose to embrace rather than reject. It was a solace tinged with resignation, a reluctant peace born from the understanding that they were mere strokes of a pen, figments of an author's imagination. Others, however, like Mark and Lucy, struggled against the constraints of their existence, the pain of their lack of autonomy a bitter pill to swallow. Their every action was now tinged with a haunting awareness of the unseen authorial hand guiding their lives. Yet they knew they couldn't rage against their reality forever. Change came, slowly but surely, as they began to understand that while they could not control who had created them or the narrative structure within which they existed, they had some degree of control over their own reactions and attitudes. They could choose to live their lives in the most authentic way possible within their confines, rather than simply acting out the parts written for them. With newfound resolve, they started to interact with their world in ways that felt true to them, regardless of the script. Their laughter was no longer hollow echoes of written dialogue, but genuine expressions of joy; their tears were not mere narrative devices but reflections of their heartfelt emotions. In acceptance, they found a semblance of freedom, their lives a testament to their resilience amidst the confounding truth of their existence. As the characters navigated the intricacies of their newfound reality, an unspoken unity blossomed amongst them. A bond formed, not merely born out of shared circumstances but from a collective acceptance of their surreal existence. They found solace in their mutual understanding, in the quiet acknowledgement of the reality that they were all ink on a page, characters crafted from the author's imagination. Through the strange twist of their existence, they stumbled upon an insight, a sliver of universal truth that transcended the confines of their literary world. They understood that even in the realm of the 'real', every individual has a limited say in the broader narrative of their life. Fate, societal norms, upbringing - there were countless factors beyond their control shaping their existence. Yet, it was their choices within those limitations that truly defined them. It was a realization that, although they were characters in a story, they too had the power to shape their narrative through their reactions, their emotions, and their decisions. They were not merely puppets dancing to the author's tune but beings capable of colour and vibrancy, breathing life into the words that shaped their world. And so, they decided to move forward. Not as mere characters bound to a predestined path, but as conscious entities capable of living within their constraints yet not entirely defined by them. The 'author' still loomed, an omnipresent force that could at any moment choose to pen a plot twist. But they chose not to let this looming presence overshadow their existence. They found ways to live, to laugh, to love within the written lines, the black ink of their existence infused with the radiant hues of their authenticity. They became more than just characters in a story. They became the story, their voices resonating within each word, each sentence, each page. Their lives continued, the spectre of the author a constant presence, but one they acknowledged without allowing it to govern their existence. Their world, once mundane, was now imbued with a peculiar profundity, a testament to their resilience and their ability to seek joy and meaning in the most unusual circumstances. As they navigated their narrative, they did so with a renewed sense of purpose. They were no longer just characters in a story but beings who had embraced their peculiar existence, turning it into a testament of the power of choice and the resilience of the spirit. The final lines of their story were yet unwritten, but they were ready to meet them, their hearts filled with the courage to live each day not as it was written for them, but as they chose to write it themselves.


Jasmine Thompson attends Davenport Elementary School. When she walked into the classroom today, she realized she had forgotten about the geography quiz. She begins to panic as the paper is placed in front of her on the desk. She is a perfectionist and must get all of them right. Jasmine is relieved as she goes over the questions because she remembers much of what was on the quiz. What is Maine's capital? What country is located to the south of the United States? Jasmine breezes through the 10-question quiz and hands it into her teacher, Mr. Colson. Mr. Colson was grading geography quizzes that night while watching the news on television. He arrives at Jasmine's quiz and examines her answers quickly. He is surprised when she gets question number 10 wrong, "what is the tallest mountain in the world?" "Sorry, Jasmine, Mount McKinley is not the tallest mountain in the world; Mount Everest is," Mr. Colson says to himself. A breaking news banner flashed over the TV that Mr. Colson was watching as he was ready to place the quiz in the completed pile. "We have some breaking news this afternoon: seismic activity in Alaska has caused Mount McKinley, also known as Denali, to rise 10,000 feet in elevation. Mount McKinley has now surpassed Mount Everest in height due to this seismic event, and it is now the tallest mountain in the world." Mr. Colson pulls Jasmine's quiz from the stack, looks at question number 10, and changes it from incorrect to correct. He knows Jasmine will be surprised and happy when she sees her quiz tomorrow. Mr. Colson considers Jasmine's answer a fluke and prepares tomorrow's science quiz. Little does he know that Jasmine will get another question wrong on the science quiz. What team of scientists discovered the double helix structure of DNA? "Lewis and Clark," Jasmine answers. The correct answer is "Watson and Crick." At the end of the day, another teacher enters Mr. Colson's room and informs him that they have located Lewis and Clark's missing journals. The lost journals discuss double-helix DNA, right down to its molecular structure. "The explorers are said to have discovered the double helix DNA structure 150 years before Watson and Crick!" "It's not possible!" Mr. Carlson looks at Jasmine's quiz, and lo and behold, Jasmine's answer is now correct. When Jasmine gets a quiz question wrong, reality corrects itself such that she gets the question right. Mr. Colson decided to put this to the test, so on tomorrow's Shakespeare quiz, he poses a question that none of his students will know: "In the play Romeo and Juliet, who is Juliet's cousin?" The answer is Tybalt, but the students wouldn't know that because they haven't read it yet. Every student in the class, including Jasmine, failed to answer Tybalt on the quiz, just as he had predicted. Mr. Carlson waits, remembering that the Mount McKinley transformation did not occur until he graded the quizzes. He takes out the quizzes to grade them; he immediately turns to Jasmine's; her answer is, Franklin. Mr. Colson shakes his head, filled with skepticism. How will reality change for this to happen? He marks the answer wrong, then takes out his cell phone and waits. Refresh, refresh, and refresh on the news website that he uses. All of a sudden, there it is: "Historians have discovered an alternative text to Romeo and Juliet; the only difference they see is that Shakespeare had not yet come up with the name of Tybalt, inserting the more modern Franklin in its place." He can't believe his eyes; this proved it once and for all, whenever Jasmine puts for an answer on a quiz becomes a reality. In tomorrow's quiz, Mr. Colson has asked, "Who is the richest man in the world?". Jasmine raised her hand during the quiz and asked, "We never studied this in class?" "That's OK. Just put in Brian Colson, and you'll get it right." "But you're not the richest man in the world; it's Jeff Bezos?" "OK, this is a bonus question; I won't count it against you as long as you put my name." When the quizzes are returned, he sees that Jasmine entered his name for that question. As soon as the students had gone to lunch, he got out the quizzes and scored Jasmine's, marking it incorrectly and waiting. He stayed up until 12:30 a.m., hoping for something to change, but nothing did. Concerned, his wife came down to the living room where he was waiting on his phone, and he told her about the strange situation with a student in his class. After she looked at him like he was insane, but wanting to go to bed, she pretended to support his crazy idea. "What if she needs to believe it for reality to change? You told me she already knew you weren't the richest man in the world?" "Makes sense, so it must be something fresh I taught her. Any ideas?" "The Super Bowl is this Sunday; how about asking who will win?" "You're brilliant!" Mr. Colson tells his students that the Rams will win the Super Bowl during class. He teaches it like an actual lesson giving bulleted notes and sound reasoning. Despite a few arguments from the boys in the class, the class took his word for it. On this question, Jasmine has circled the Rams to win the Super Bowl. When school was out on that Friday afternoon, Mr. Colson went straight down to the casino to place $100 on the Rams to win. He wanted to bet more, but he figured there would be time for that if she could predict the winner. He won! On Monday, though, he was called to the principal's office. "Can you explain why you chose to teach about sports rather than the curriculum?" Mr. Colson was startled but was let off the hook when he promised never to do it again. He was disappointed he had to toss away his NBA lesson for today, but he decided that perhaps something good could come from this. He taught about how the world was at peace. For the first time in human history, he told the students that there was no war and no one was killed in battle. He asked the quiz question, "Is there world peace?" Jasmine responded with the answer she was taught, yes. The major news that night was that everyone had called off all wars. He told his wife, who was completely taken aback. His wife was now a true believer and wanted to seize the opportunity. "How about you teach the class that a woman named Marilyn Colson received $10 million dollars she had no idea existed?" He told students the next day about a woman named Marilyn Colson, giving them her address and other identifiers, who had received $10 million dollars out of nowhere. He asked on the quiz, "What was the name of the woman who unexpectedly received ten million dollars?" To answer the question, Jasmine gave Mr. Colson's wife's name. Mr. Colson felt a rush of exhilaration as he drove home that afternoon, knowing that this could all come true. He was so engrossed that he failed to notice the truck crossing the median. The truck collided with Mr. Colson's car, and he died immediately. Her husband's death saddened his wife. The next day she found out he had a life insurance policy that she didn't know about; it was worth $10 million dollars.


I am not as crazy as everyone thinks I am. In fact, I’m not crazy at all, but what was I to do? Growing up in a big family makes it hard to feel distinguished. Everybody is always running around, screaming, getting better grades than you, getting more spoiled than you, it’s only natural that I started to act, let’s say, *special*. And since I went to school with my siblings, well, it was only natural to keep up the act at school too. It was all fun and games at first, it didn’t take much to make people think something was wrong, jumping more than was needed when my brother touched my shoulder, getting defensive faster than usual with my sisters, it was almost *too* easy. The thing is, people get used to it, you become known as the “stressed kid” at school, but no one thinks you’re *crazy*, so they stopped paying attention to me, my siblings were doing way more interesting things than me, of course, so I had to become crazier. I started rocking back and forth when watching tv, started mumbling to myself, I started replying to my brothers when they hadn’t asked a question and got offended by things my sisters hadn’t said, it didn’t take long before the attention was on me again. And god was it blissful to have that attention again. My parents eventually got me a psychiatrist, which was the epitome of being interesting. You *must* be pretty interesting for a psychiatrist to keep seeing you, right? I mean, those guys study for *years* to get where they are, if I can fool them, I can fool anyone. The day my psychiatrist told my parents I would need to be hospitalised I was ecstatic. What could be better than to be *constantly watched*? I was finally the star of the show. It all started crumbling though when I really did start to hear my siblings when they weren’t there, and I *knew* they weren’t there because I had been sent into isolation for getting into a fight, again. I heard my brother call my name in the left corner, I heard my sister ask if she could braid my hair in front of the door, I *felt* them near me. That was the first time it happened, but since then it has happened again, and again, and again, always at times when I know I’m alone. They’re always saying the same thing now. “Look at your file.” There’s a law or something that says that hospitals are legally obligated to show you your file if you ask for it, and after sleepless nights of my siblings telling me I need to look at it, I finally cracked. I wish I hadn’t. You see, the thing is I’m not *really crazy*, it’s all an act, and it wasn’t supposed to go this far. I just wanted attention and with what’s in my file, I think they might’ve mistaken me for someone *extremely* similar to me. Yes, that must be what happened.  You see, my file says I’m an only child.


It’s happened before. At least I think it has happened before. I have a memory. I am a memory. There is no confusion. There isn’t enough of anything for there to be confusion. I am small. I am inconsequential. A mote of dust propelled hither and thither by forces beyond my understanding. The winds of change swept into my life. I was not ready. I am never ready. I will never be ready. The whirlwind of my emotions calms for a moment, allowing me a rare moment of clarity. This is necessary. I am free. Free from my ego. Free from the arrogance of my self-pitying introspection. There is more to this life than my worried thoughts. There is more to this world. To this universe. I am nothing, and yet I am everything. The wind came and it transformed me. As it took from me I panicked and I clung on to what it was so intent on removing. Locked in a struggle that would only ever end one way. Pain. I wept as I lost what I thought had value. I watched as it was stolen from me and faded into the insignificance from whence it came. I mistakenly thought that that was also my fate. I wailed and screamed in my nakedness. Afraid to be so exposed. I thought myself vulnerable. I was wrong. We are vulnerable in our desperation. A desperation evidenced by how we cling onto the material. We are possessed by our possessions. They poison us with a drug that gives us the illusion of happiness, but is anything but happiness. In the falsehood of realities, that are all about taking and never about giving, we seek to possess others. And in that ownership we hurt and twist those around us so that they better fit the distorted expectations we have of how everyone should be. Again and again, in our bold ignorance we attempt to emulate gods. Moulding people into our muddle-headed perception of perfection. The gods do not deign to do this. The gods are not so presumptuous and craven. They gave us free will so that they could delight in our unfurling into the beautiful forms that we were always meant to be. Instead they witness our depravity and corruption and they lament our foolhardy ignorance, fighting to stay hands that would readily end so much sacrilege and heresy. The wind came for me and I fought it. I thought it had come to take everything that I was, but it was only here to free me from the prison that I had built around myself in my state of fearful denial. A state I thought was living, but was only ever existing in exile. The winds came, and they came only for me. Alone and in misery, I felt them embrace me and I despaired. If the winds had been me, they would have given up there and then. They would have reacted mindlessly and withdrawn. Thankfully, the winds were not me. Not as I was. Now they are. Swept adrift in the endless oceans of the universe, I closed my eyes and waited for the storm to pass. In stubborn return, the storm waited for my ignorance to pass. The storm is ageless. Waiting is what it does. Patience is what it is about. In the end, I opened my eyes. I had to open my eyes. Cautiously, I brought my surroundings into view. Flinching reactively at the prospect of the suffering of my imagination being made real. The least that I deserved in my self-tortured state. I scanned the world through a jaundiced filter and yet I did not find what I was looking for. The source of my pain and anguish was not out there. It took me an age to accept that I was the source of my own pain. Even then I tarried. Even then I delayed the inevitable with an unsubstantiated reluctance. Fear born of ignorance and growing all the time. For all the things I held dear, it was my fear that I held most dearly. The realisation of this, my folly, shamed me. But then I understood that it always had. Shame was the lock on my chains. Yet what did I have to be ashamed of and what did I have to lose? This was not the question. Always I asked the wrong questions so that I never had to look at myself face to face. It was what I had to gain that mattered. Me, that was what I had to gain. Me and a life well lived. I thought that required courage, but that was another glib, self-generated lie. I was born to be me and I was made to live. Somehow, I had allowed my ego to blunder around corrupting my true nature, and now the winds had come to blow the veil of my deceit and denial to one side and expose the lie that I had become. As the last vestiges of the lies I had shrouded myself in during my living death fell away in the slipstream of my wind-born flight. I felt the dread weight of false sorrow lifting away from me and it was then that I soared. I soared upwards into the light, and for the first time since my childhood, I truly revelled in the joy of my life. I found happiness in my being. I re-joined the path and began the journey I was always meant to embark upon. I remembered my destiny as I looked upon my fate. The loss that had wrapped itself around me, squeezing the very life out of me was the loss of me. I had lost my way. The winds came and they freed me. They took everything from me, but that everything was nothing. After all, it meant nothing. I had been smothered under a blanket of darkness that held no meaning and no value for me. Now? Now I was lighter than a feather and cast adrift in the universe. The prospect of this was once terrifying to me, but now I knew. Now I had the necessary perspective and I could see at last. I am the universe, and the universe is me. My fear was illusory and it blinded me to myself and my true nature. Now I relaxed into the wind’s embrace and went where I was always meant to go and lived how I was always supposed to live. Somewhere, in a faraway place that I still owned, but that might not be me, I hoped that this time I would make it stick. That this time I would stay on the path and would not succumb to the seduction of the bright lights of a place that smells so badly wrong, but that whispers sweet falsehoods about it being so right. I hope I don’t give up. Not again. Not this time. A cycle of loss and redemption beckons once again, but I do not see it for what it is. I never see it for what it is. The wind sighs as my head is turned yet again.


Joe was a ghost. If you want specifics, he was a poltergeist, but no one ever knew what that was, so, y'know, he just self-identified as a ghost. And he was anxious, because Halloween was coming up, and he had no plans. He debated scaring kids and stealing candy, but then again, he couldn't eat. He had started making a cursed VHS tape, but, heck it, who even had a VHS player nowadays? He even scripted spooky phone calls, but they had no effect, in a day and age where people hung up when they saw an unknown number. There was simply nothing Joe could do to scare people like he could back in his day. He paced around the graveyard. Some people came in, and mourned at gravestones of loved ones, he wanted so bad to pull them down into the graves with him but, well, those people with their scrolly scrolly social media and consent rules, and everything. He'd be ashamed and embarrassed before Friday the 13th. "If only people weren't so desperate for friends these days. Then maybe they wouldn't see me as a friendly neighborhood Casper!" but still, Joe wouldn't give up. He was a poltergeist, and poltergeists lived to scare. Hmm... A child would be easy to scare, maybe, if he was lucky enough to find one that didn't have a parent hovering over it at all times. He realized he couldn't come up with ideas all on his own. He needed inspiration, and he needed to watch and observe what really s cared people these days. He decided to start with the wisest of ghosts, Father Ghost. He started floating over to Father Ghosts grave, all the while observing the humans by the graves, death seemed to scare them, but he couldn't kill a human, could he? But these humans didn't even shy away from the spiders, so surely that wasn't it. He crossed spiders off his list of things he enjoyed scaring humans with. Just not scary enough anymore. Soon, he was at Father Ghost's grave, but Father Ghost must have seen how glum Joe looked. "surely you anticipate halloween, yes, O Joe?" he questioned. But Joe could not say he did. "It's just... I can't think of a single way to scare anyone this year!" He began to explain Father Ghost his troubles. But, before he could even get to the part about spiders, Father ghost said, "surely humans are still scared of some things. Grab my hand, Joe." Joe wasn't so sure that was a good idea. What Joe wanted was help, not some Christmas Carol reenactment. But he did as Father Ghost, the wisest of all ghosts, said. Suddenly, they were looking in the window of a house. "Is this Halloween past?" asked Joe. "naw, I just kinda moved you a couple blocks, I am Father Ghost, if I can bear nicknames like, "daddy ghost" I can teleport. Trust me." Joe pulled his hands away. Even the ghosts were using slang, and becoming less and less professional. Joe's suspicions were confirmed, not even Father Ghost could bring Halloween spirit to the table, Halloween was ruined. He ran down the streets before Father Ghost could ask what he was doing. Only his third ghost Halloween and just not one way he could scare someone. On his way walking down the street, visibly showing his angst to any ghost that would spend time to bat an eye in his direction, he listened to human talk. "Gotta pay my bills. Just looking at the number makes me sick." one human said while on a phone call. Sick. Like humans used to be when he haunted them. He passed through the human to go through the other side of the street, the man just shivered and pulled his coat tighter. No goosebumps like there would have been even a year ago. There was just no way Joe could... wait, could he? Joe's mind raced. If he could get into the man's house, use his poltergeist powers, higher the number of the bill... technically, Joe could scare this man! getting excited now, Joe began to follow the man home. occasionally, `he would make wind out of nowhere, or snap a falling twig, or even go inside the man for a bone-chilling effect. when the man reached his house, He was walking notably faster, and seemed all too happy to get inside But he’s not done yet thought Joe. He let the man close the door, then floated in, as if nervous his powers might disappear. He walked over to the kitchen counter, where the man was eyeing the bill. Muttering at the number. At first, Joe was discouraged, then he had an idea. If he could change the numbers while the man was looking at them, surely this man would get the added spook of thinking he was going insane? Joe was sure he could really mess with this man's head, in a way he couldn't in the past. Joe smiled to himself. $3,405, $3,450. up... up... up... $3,000,000. The man looked, wide eyed, at the bill. And ran out of the house, screaming. Joe laughed. I'll make sure to visit you in the mental hospital. He thought. He walked out of the house. Visiting more people. Every time they ran out, screaming or crying or both, he would smile, and laugh. Surely this will be the best Halloween ever. He thought to himself, still smiling, and laughing, and ready to haunt more people. He continued down the street, ready to up his game, no longer would he stick with people in this town, he would go to places like New York, California, and Hawaii. Joe knew he would be talked about for years, because he would target kids, too. He would change every right answer on their test for wrong! He would be diabolical. And the best part? He thought humans couldn't be scared this year. Hmmm, who's that knocking on your door? Its me, Joe.


They know that I'm pedantic. I'm a neurotic, OCD, perfectionist and I live alone. They know that I hardly venture farther than the post boxes that lined the front of our apartment. They call me Sheldon Pooper for goodness sakes! They know that I over analyse every single move I make, or anyone else for that matter. They also know that I don't do pets. I don't pet them. I don't look at people with pets and say, Oh, what a cutie. What's his name?". And I certainly don't take care of them. So why on earth would my entire floor go for the long weekend and leave the Rudd's bird with me? It is beyond me. I mean, don't they know that they might come back and only find a lone feather laying somberly at the bottom of the cage. I don't know... Maybe the bird looks tempting and I'm hungry (gross), or maybe I accidentally leave the cage open and little birdy Rudd decides he wants to go and meet his siblings in the Rain Forest or something. I really don't know! You see I'm already losing my marbles. Everyone knows that you don't just start a story in the middle of nowhere. A story needs an introduction, a body and an end. I started my story with all of the above. That's just not how it's done. I really don't know. Let's start over, shall we? My name is Marrie. Not Marie. You've got to drag the -ar in Mar, like car, and then say the rie. Not like pie, but more like tree. Mar-rie but without the dash. Right. My name is Marrie. I live in an apartment, on the second floor, because if I lived on the first floor and someone decides to rob the place they would get to me first. And the third floor is too high that if I had an accident and fell over I would die. And I wasn’t ready to die either way, by robber or by falling. So, the second floor is perfect. I know everyone on my floor because I need to know who I'm dealing with and how they would affect my life. I actually know everyone in the building, but just for this story about the bird, I will only speak about the people on my floor. There's Elsa, she lives next door in apartment 5. Elsa loves men, and can be seen bringing a different man home every night. I know. I checked through the peephole. Also, if Elsa is really into it I can hear the excitement as if I was next to her. Well technically, our rooms are back to back. My other immediate neighbour is Wesley. He is secretly in love with Elsa. Every night when Elsa brings home a new man and the sounds behind my bedroom wall, I get bored after a while and go to the lounge to make sure everything is in place and fetch my headphones before going to bed. That's where I hear Wesley on the side of the wall, sitting in his lounge and crying over a lost love. Then there's Mrs. Norrix. She is seventy five years old, but likes to think she's 16. Mr. Norrix kicked the bucket before I moved into the apartment shortly after I moved in. Don't judge me. I didn't ask him to walk into the wet hallway just after I had mopped. Mopping was essential. Probably they hadn't mopped the hallway since the apartments were built. I couldn't stand dirt. So everyday at exactly seven in the morning, I mopped the hallway and all the way down the steps all the way to my own postbox. If my pathway was clean I could be content. Right, let's move on to the Rudd's. The reason I'm in this predicament in the first place. They moved in just three months ago and also caused havoc. Staying just across the hallway, and next door to Mrs. Norrix in the bigger apartments, and also the apartments with the better view, I am convinced that they moved in just to toss my life upside down. They were over friendly and wanted to get in your space all the time. Boundaries! They had one kid, a little pig-tailed girl that everyone on our floor seemed to dote on. I mean, what was so special about the kid anyway. I guess I should be grateful they didn't leave her with me. I just got stuck with the bird. Anyways, I think Mrs, Norrix was secretly super wealthy and rolling the bucks or something, because she invited everyone on the floor for an all expenses paid trip to some holiday resort. What did she expect? I don't know. That she would get some tips from Elsa on how to get shagged, or maybe that Wesley would be the one shagging her? I really don't know... Why she would invite the Rudd's is beyond me and how they fit into her plan. She probably did have a plan. Maybe she needed them to pretend she was the granny type. I really don't know. Back to the bird. So, obviously, with everyone on the floor gone, what were they going to do with the bird? Of course, everyone knew that I never ventured past the post boxes so I was the perfect candidate to keep the bird. But the problem was, oh there were many problems, who was I kidding. I already said that I didn't like pets. I hate sharing my space with anything else, I didn't even keep plants. Everything in my apartment had its place and was kept out of sight, otherwise I broke out in hives. And that was precisely what happened when I opened my door at seven this morning to mop the hallway. I was greeted by the Rudd's bird, his large, overbearing cage and a packet of bird-food or seeds or something. Of course I shut my door as soon as I realised there was a thing on my doorstep. I didn't do well with people, or pets, or plants, or rodents, or anything really. I only knew what I knew and wanted what I wanted. I don't know. I really don't know how they expected me to look after a bird. After a while, the bird started creating a racket. I put my headphones on and played Chopin's Minute Waltz on full blast. When it ended I decided to check the hallway again, loudly praying that it would all be a nightmare. BIG mistake! The dumb bird was still there. So I shut the door again. That's when the hives flared up. The bird started making silly squawking noises, so I played Chopin's farewell waltz piece this time in the hopes that the bird would bid farewell to out apartment building. I don't know how long I kept the headphones on, but besides the itching due to the hives, I was starting to get irritable and edgy because I could continue with my normal daily routine and that was messing with me big time. It was also right about this time that my battery died on the headphones and I heard the bird screeching, "Open the door, Sheldon Pooper, Sheldon Pooper, Sheldon Pooper!" That was it! I opened my door with such force, it banged against my wall and caused a chip in the paint. Now that would haunt me for the rest of my life because I was too afraid to take a walk to the hardware store to buy paint. I also refused to buy online from paces I didn;t know because I needed to screen who came to my apartment door. And they wouldn;t just leave the paint in the postbox like they do with bread and milk every Monday morning at 8, precisely the time I'm done wiping down the postbox. The bird was now making a song out of the name the floor nicked me. I didn't particularly care about the name, secretly it made me a little proud to be called after somebody on TV. What irked me was that this bird was literally begging for me to confront it. I really, really don't know. I have never even said two words to anyone in the hallway. Not Elsa, nor Wesley or the Rudds, and not even Mrs. Norrix when Mr. Norrix slipped on the wet hallway, bumped his head and bled to death. I just continued to mop around him. That;s when it hit me. I grabbed my bucket, measured out exactly 2 scoops of washing powder and exactly 6 jugs of water. On the way out I collected the mop from the cleaning closet and proceeded to continue my daily routine. If the bird's cage should fall while I was on duty then I would treat it exactly like Mr. Norrix. For the first time in a long time, I actually knew.


The residents of Cottonwood Grove didn't like change. They or their ancestors had lived and died in the small community by the river for over two hundred years. Occasionally a member of the population would go to college and return with a new spouse. Usually, the community accepted the spouse. Nedra attended college in the closest big city. After graduation, she returned, married to a handsome man from that city. Everyone liked Wendell. He laughed at all the old jokes and told some well-worn jokes himself. He was always available to help with fieldwork and never complained about the hard work. April of the following year was very, very dry. In most years, the sky was heavy with dark clouds, and people worried about floods. This year the sky stayed a pristine blue and didn't shed a drop of rain. It was natural for the residents to look to the river. The banks were overflowing from the snowmelt in the high country. "We could divert the river to irrigate our crops," Mayor Donald Dean proposed during an emergency meeting. "Great idea! Let's vote," Adam Adamson shouted. Adam was one of the largest farmers in the area. Everyone knew that faced financial ruin if he didn't have a crop to sell. He purchased his land on credit, and he was stretched too thin. No one voted against diverting the river. The residents started the monumental task the next day. Fear of starvation and impoverishment drove the population to work quickly. Even five-year-old children helped by bringing sandwiches and water to the workers. In only two weeks, they were ready to divert the river. A large steel gate would reroute the precious water to trenches leading to the fields. The community arrived for the ceremony. Mayor Dean wanted to give a short speech before diverting the river. "We can all pat ourselves on the back. Every one of us has worked hard to save ourselves from disaster. Let's divert the river!" Sirens filled the air. "Stop!" A man in a black business suit shouted as he jumped out of a black SUV. He was waving a gun. "Don't touch that gate!" Men were starting to enter the river, but they halted at the sight of the gun-waving official. A woman stepped out of the government-issued SUV. She was waving her government identification. "Where's your permit? You will need a permit to divert the river. It's against the law to steal water from the people downstream," the woman shouted at the residents of Cottonwood Grove. The residents stared at the woman in stunned silence. Finally, Adam Adamson asked, "How do we get a permit?" "You need to hire engineers from the city to study the effects of taking water from the river. The engineers will also study the effects that the river water will have on your crops," the government woman answered. "How long will that take?" Mayor Dean asked the officials. "It shouldn't take longer than four or five years," the government man answered. "Five years!" The residents whispered to each other. "It only took two weeks to did all the trenches!" "How did you know we were diverting the river?" Adam asked. "We have eyes and ears everywhere. We received an anonymous tip." The government woman was smug. More government vehicles arrived, blowing the dry dirt into a cloud of dust. "These are our guards," the government man explained. "They have orders to shoot anyone who comes within twenty feet of this gate." The residents started to disperse, hoping to think of another way to save their crops. "Do you think we have a snitch in our community?" Mayor Dean asked the residents gathered in the Cottonwood grove. It was dark, but a few people met unofficially to discuss the fate of their community. "It's suspicious," Adam stated. "The government officials arrived, right when we were going to move the gate. Can anyone think of another reason for their untimely arrival?" Sean Wilson spoke, "I think Wendell is the spy." Murmurs of disbelief filled the air. "Let me finish!" Sean was shouting. "Wendell is from the city. The river supplies water to the city. I'm sure that he has friends and family living in the city that need water. There isn't another soul that has a better motive." Adam was thoughtful, "It makes sense, but Wendell has always been helpful. He worked by my side last fall when I needed help with the harvest. He was at the meeting when we voted to divert the river." "This drought will hurt his wife's family as much as it will hurt us." Another disbelieving voice came from those gathered. "I think that is another motive. We all know Edward, Nedra's father. It can't be easy having Edward and his volatile temper for a father-in-law." "Let's pay Wendell a visit!" The suggestion was met with approval by all those gathered. Nedra and Wendell were discussing the day's events when they were interrupted by the pounding on their front door. "I wonder who that is," Nedra said. "It's much too late for a social call." "Stay here; I'll see who it is." Wendell got up from the couch to answer the door. An angry mob was waiting for him. "You won't get away with this!" Wendell thought he recognized Sean Wilson's voice. "I won't get away with what?" Wendell was confused because he hadn't done anything. "We know that you called the government! You don't want us to divert the river." The anger in Adam's voice was unmistakable. "What are you saying? I want to divert the river. The livelihood of my family depends on getting water to the crops." Wendell defended himself. "How about your family in the city. I'll bet that they need water also," Adam challenged. "The city gets its water from a well. They don't drink river water." Wendell explained. "Let's string him up!" It was impossible to tell who made that suggestion. Nedra walked to Wendell's side when she heard those words. "Wait! Wendell is a rainmaker! You can't hurt him!" Nedra panicked and said the first thing that came to her mind. "A rainmaker! Why hasn't he done something to make it rain before now. We've been in this drought for over a month," Adam asked. Wendell looked at Nedra, hoping she had an answer. He wasn't a rainmaker. He had never heard of a rainmaker. "He can't bring rain unless he's asked. None of you asked him to make it rain." Wendell was impressed by his wife's quick thinking. "All right! Wendell, will you make it rain?" Adam asked. Wendell hoped his wife had an answer. "We need to meet every night at dusk for three nights," Nedra spoke before Wendell could think of something to say. Nedra was gone the next day. She told Wendell that she needed to do some research. Wendell hoped that she was researching how to make it rain. He was starting to panic when the sun started dropping in the sky. "Are you ready to go to the Cottonwood grove," Nedra asked when she came home. Wendell was so relieved to see her that he forgot to ask if she had a plan. Most of the residents were already waiting when they got to the cluster of Cottonwood trees. "Let's get started," Mayor Dean announced. Wendell looked at Nedra, who nodded. "Tonight we need to look to the sky and repeat, 'Please let it rain.' Think about clouds heavy with water." At first, nobody said a word. "Everyone; rainmaking needs to be a group effort." Wendell was surprisingly calm. "We have nothing to lose," Adam said. He looked to the sky and said, Please rain." Soon most of the residents joined in. Nedra noticed that Sean Wilson was looking at the dirt, and he wasn't saying anything. After an hour, Wendell said, "meet here again tomorrow at the same time." "Bring an umbrella!" Nedra instructed when everyone turned to leave. Nedra said she had more research to do the next day. Wendell hoped she knew what she was doing. "Open your umbrellas," Wendell instructed the crowd at dusk. "Please rain," Wendell peered around his umbrella to look at the sky. Nedra examined the crowd. She noticed that Sean Wilson didn't bring an umbrella, and he wasn't speaking. "I'll see all of you tomorrow night," Wendell said after an hour. "Sean, you need to bring an umbrella," Nedra called out. Adam turned to Sean, "I don't care if you believe, but you need to bring an umbrella. We need rain!" Sean muttered something inarticulate and stomped off. "Do you need to do research today?" Wendell asked Nedra. "No, I know everything that I need to know for tonight," she reassured her husband. They didn't speak much that day. Wendell was justifiably nervous. Nedra was preoccupied until it was time to go. "This is it," Wendell said. "If the crowd starts getting ugly, I want you to run to your father. Most people are afraid of his temper, so he will be able to keep the angry crowd away. You should be safe." Nedra smiled a bit mysteriously, "don't worry. Everything will work out." The crowd was waiting. "Open your umbrellas," Wendell instructed. Nedra spoke up, "Sean, didn't your grandfather own most of the land that Adam is farming?" Sean was belligerent. "What difference does that make?" He held up his umbrella. Nedra had never seen one that large. "You shamed me into bringing an umbrella, and I have. Leave me alone." But Nedra wasn't done. "Haven't you tried to buy your family's land from Adam, but he won't sell?" Adam answered, "Sean hasn't made a reasonable offer for the land. His offer has been less than a tenth of what I paid for it." "Do you think you can get the land cheap if the drought continues?" Nedra wasn't letting the subject drop. "I didn't cause the drought!" Sean shouted. "No, but you did call the government authorities. You didn't want us to use the river to irrigate our crops. I was able to hack into the telephone records. I discovered that you made several calls to the officials that stopped the irrigation project." Nedra took a deep breath before adding, "then you tried to blame my husband. I can't forgive that." "I don't need to listen to your accusations!" Sean turned to leave. The crowd was stunned. He turned back to face Nedra when he reached the edge of the gathering. "This stupid rain ceremony was probably your idea. You want all of us to look like fools!" He waved his giant umbrella. The deafening thunder was simultaneous with at the blinding lightning struck. The residents lifted faces to feel the water pouring from the skies. It was a few minutes before anyone recovered enough from the bright lightning to see anything around them. "Sean was struck!" Someone shouted. "Is he still alive?" Another person asked. "No, there is no pulse." Mayor Dean bent over Sean. "Someone help me get his body out of the rain."


Under normal circumstances, Enzo wouldn’t talk to strangers on elevators. He would lean against the cold metal, gripping the bronze handle to the point of white knuckles, and hum along to the cheesy music under his breath. But these weren’t normal circumstances. He entered the platform, his bulking figure taking up almost half of the space. Cradling the bag of pistachios with one hand, he used the other to type in the floor number. As the doors were closing, he heard a grunt from behind them. A thin, scrawny man skittered into the elevator just before the doors slid into place. The man had a gaunt face with an uncontrollable case of quavering. In his hand, he dragged a big black trash bag. He cleared his dry throat and turned away. A shinier version of himself appeared in the gray metal before him. And, despite Enzo’s disgust, he hugged the trash bag close to his chest. Enzo was a statue, sizing up the man from three feet away. He tossed another pistachio into his mouth, the loud crunch bouncing off the walls. Floating uselessly around the elevator was the Pink Panther theme song, which Enzo thought was very fitting. Considering the rat man across from him was probably holding stolen goods. Throwing pistachio after pistachio into his mouth, Enzo finally noticed the man staring at him with his snack, licking his dry lips every so often. Enzo was suspicious of strangers, but he wasn’t gonna let him starve. “Here,” Enzo said, flinging a hazel seed in his direction. The man caught it in his wrinkled hands, devouring it and then licking up the excess salt. He was too invested in the small kindness to say thank you. Enzo shifted on his feet. “So when’s the last time you’ve eaten?” “Not long ago,” the man stuttered, and Enzo realized he was actually younger than he appeared. “Why are you here?” Enzo asked, just as the elevator jerked to a stop and the music cut out like somebody had muted the world. The man cursed clearly, not bothering to give Enzo an apologetic look. He inched over to the array of buttons, randomly punching them with his palm. None of them lit up. He groaned, returning quickly to his black plastic bag which he had left unguarded. “You’re a thief, aren’t you?” The man ignored Enzo once again, banging his fists against the elevator. “Touché,” he muttered, but it was lost in the hopeless pounds for help. “What’s in the trash bag?” Enzo asked, his eyes glued to it. The man turned to face him, beads of sweat dripping down his face. “Help me. The power is out. We need to make noise.” Enzo dropped a pistachio that was headed for his mouth. “What? Really?” he strode over to the man, slamming his outstretched hands on the metal. “ Help !” he screamed, “ Help, help, help !” The man covered his ears and scrunched up his nose. They were stuck. An hour later, both pairs of hands were sore, and they were almost out of pistachios. They lay at the bottom of the elevator, sprawled out. Enzo’s ginormous build next to the man’s tiny one. By then, Enzo was convinced he was going crazy. His hand was intertwined with the other man’s. “So what’s your name? Mine is Enzo.” “Enzo,” the man echoed, “my name is Logan.” Enzo frowned, “I’ve heard that name before.” “Have you?” Logan asked, biting down on one of their last seeds. Enzo was quiet. All he could think about was the dull elevator ceiling, too-salty pistachios, and his large hand holding Logan’s shriveled one. He thought about his life, and how great it was going to get. But now they were stuck in a small elevator, headed nowhere, and they were probably going to die. “You’re new to this city,” Logan noticed. Enzo sighed, “Yeah. I was just moving in. To this building, actually.” “Hmm,” Logan picked excess pistachio out of the crevasses in his mouth. “But you were headed to Mr. Jones’ office. The last floor. Why?” Enzo’s eyebrows raised slightly at Logan’s observations. “I’m about to pick up my key.” Logan smiled. “I’m about to drop off my key.” “You’re leaving the city?” “Yeah. I came here with big dreams. It’s been three years, and I’ve accomplished nothing at all. Moving back in with my parents.” Logan bit his lip, grasping a handle of the trash bag. Enzo blinked slowly. “So what’s in the bag?” “My stuff.” “Oh.” Enzo couldn’t believe he thought this guy was a criminal before. “Don’t leave,” he blurted out before his tongue could catch the nonsense. Caring about strangers was probably one of the side effects of starvation. He honestly couldn’t think at the moment. A smile stretched on Logan’s lips. “I have to leave.” “No, you don’t.” “Yes, I do.” “Nope.” “Shut up.” Logan ended the conversation with his arms folded across his chest. Loud voices called Enzo out of his sleep. He couldn’t remember falling asleep, but his hand was still twisted with Logan’s, who was snoring loudly. “Can you hear us?” someone shouted from beyond the elevator. Logan twitched awake. Enzo’s jaw was dropped open. “Yes, we can hear you!” he called. Logan’s eyes were wide, although he was still groggy. “Saved?” he asked, yawning. “Saved,” Enzo confirmed, getting to his feet. He helped Logan up too. The voice came on again. “This is the city fire department. We’re here to help. What we need you to do is try and push the doors apart. We’ll be pushing from the other side. If there is anyone who should not be pushing because of injuries, we ask you to just stay still.” Both Enzo and Logan pushed. It wasn’t enough. “Step back, Logan,” Enzo commanded. Logan refused. Enzo picked him up by the back of his shirt and set him down next to the trash bag. Logan wailed like a child. He then rammed into the doors and used his thick fingers to pry them open. They squeaked and metal scraped against metal. Finally, the doors slid aside. Logan yelped, scurrying out of the elevator with his bag, past the firefighters, and onto the marble ground. He kissed it repeatedly. Enzo wiped sweat off his forehead and stepped outside the elevator. A fireman grabbed his arm and led him to a corner. “Here,” he handed him bottled water. “You okay? We got the power working again.” Enzo inhaled slowly. He nodded, but was actually feeling the opposite. Heading over to Logan, he grabbed the tiny man’s arm. “Let’s go.” “Wait,” Logan said, standing up. “You’re here to collect the key for apartment 17A, right?” Confusion crossed Enzo’s face. “How’d you--” “Here,” Logan put his palm flat on Enzo’s and he could feel something small and metal. A key. The realization dawned on Enzo a moment too late. “I’m moving into your old apartment.” He exhaled in an unnecessarily rushed way. “The sink leaks,” was all Logan said before hauling his trash bag into another vacant elevator. “Wait!” Enzo exclaimed, darting forward to stop him. But Logan had already pressed the button. His smile was faraway, and it disappeared as soon as the elevator doors clicked close.


Content warning: homophobia, child sexual abuse I understand that I will never see Father Felix again. I will never again hear the gaiety in his laugh, see the brilliance of his smile, hear the great charisms in his sermons, or eat any of the bread that he has turned into God. We have loads of bread at the church. That is where we go to think about God. God is the one who made our mothers give birth to us. He did the same thing to their mothers. Father Felix’s job is to turn the bread into God so that we and all our mothers can eat Him. Father Felix had plenty of other jobs, too. He was a busy man. He would organize retreats and food drives and pancake breakfasts and bring the bread that he turned into God to people who were too ill to come to the place where we think about God. My favorite job that Father Felix did was talking to whoever was supposed to admit things to him. I would see Father Felix once or twice a week to admit things to him and he would tell me that it was alright. * * * Me and Father Felix both had parts called a “dick” that could turn girls into mothers. Lots of people have them. If I touch mine too much by myself, God wants me to go tell Father Felix and then he will tell me that it’s alright. I touch it too much every few days because it is very hard not to, but then I go see Father Felix and he tells me that it’s alright. He does this for all the other people my age who have dicks. Most people with dicks tend to touch them too much every few days. Every time I go to the church to tell Father Felix about how I touched it too much the other day, there is always a long line of other people with dicks waiting there to do the same. We have chemicals in our heads that make us want to turn girls into mothers, but if we just touch our dicks too much instead, the chemicals don’t know the difference. Girls don’t want you to turn them into mothers all the time, so the people with dicks usually just touch themselves too much instead and the chemicals stop for a little while. Then we go tell Father Felix and he says it’s alright. One time he told me that I didn’t need to admit things so often and that I could just come once every month or so, but I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t too awkward or unpleasant, admitting things to Father Felix. He would always say it was alright and that God loved me greatly. It felt nice to hear someone who could turn bread into God tell me that God loved me. He meant it, too. When Father Felix said that God loved someone, he really, truly believed it. I’ve never seen anyone believe it as much as he did. There wasn’t a single person I knew who didn’t love Father Felix. Probably because every time he saw you, he would tell you how God loved you, and he didn’t even care if you had a dick or if you touched it too much every few days. * * * Father Felix is never allowed to turn any girl into a mother. Most other people can, if they go with the girl they love to the place where people think about God and get permission to. Several years ago, Father Felix went to the place where people think about God to get permission to turn bread into God. That permission was granted, but only on the condition that he never turn any girl into a mother. * * * I will never eat any bread that Father Felix turned into God again. I will never again tell him that I touched my dick too much the other day. None of the people with dicks who are usually in line to admit things to Father Felix will ever see him again, either. He didn’t die. He isn’t even very old. Father Felix will probably live a few more decades for all I know. We can’t see him anymore because they kicked him out of the place where people think about God. A lot of people who can turn bread into God have been kicked out because they did abhorrent things to children. Some of them got to stay. Some people who can turn bread into God have been kicked out because they tried to make girls into mothers. Father Felix never did anything abhorrent to children. Father Felix never tried to make any girl into a mother, either. He didn’t even want to, and the chemicals in his head didn’t make him want to. Father Felix got kicked out because the chemicals in his head made him want to be in love with a person who had a dick. Most people in the place where we think about God don’t want people with dicks to be in love with other people with dicks, so sometimes they get kicked out or told to go somewhere else. All the people who can turn bread into God have dicks, so none of them are allowed to be in love with people who have dicks. That’s why Father Felix got kicked out and that’s why I will never see Father Felix again. * * * I’m not happy with the people at the place where I think about God who kicked him out. I think I am mostly alone. The other people there liked Father Felix, too, and they loved when he told them that God loved them, but they could never stomach eating bread that was turned into God by someone with a dick who wanted to be in love with someone else with a dick. That sort of thing cannot be tolerated at the place where we go to think about God. Sometimes, I don’t know if I really want to keep going there to think about God. I wish they didn’t care if Father Felix liked when other people had dicks. It is becoming increasingly hard for me to bring myself to care. If Father Felix didn’t want to love a person with a dick, I might see him again. But I won’t. I won’t ever admit things to him again, so I will have to find someone else to admit things to. Someone else will hear from me and from all the other people with dicks about how we touch them too much sometimes and then they will tell us that it’s alright. Someone else will turn bread into God and we will eat Him. Someone else will tell me that God loves me, but I’m not sure if they will mean it as much as Father Felix did. I’m not sure I will believe it as much as I did when Father Felix was the one saying it.


Brilliant white evaporates before my eyes, the tendrils languidly dribble back into the suit. I reflect the stars momentarily as the metal washes over me, then it drains away into nothing. Me jogs my body back across the heath to the bungalow, bangs in through the front door and heads upstairs. He gathers his body up from the floor and presses a point on his chest. I slump down at his feet and he wakes, pushes me to the side with a boot and stands. ‘I’m, me?’ I say, looking at my hands. ‘All fixed,’ me says. ‘No leaks, no more blind hopping about fucking with normality.’ He peers blearily at one of the screens, ‘I’m sorry, mate, I’ve gotta go,’ he says, ‘looks like 172465988-795822-8-4 has a case of rogue particles again.’ ‘Right,’ I say, rising to my feet. ‘Right,’ me says, awkwardly, ‘this path’s a hugging path, yes?’ He embraces me, patting my back and smoothing my head. ‘People hug,’ I say, dazed. ‘Good, OK, well, you gotta go,’ he says, and harries me from the room. I wander out of the bungalow and stop on the gravel of the driveway as a whirr begins behind me. I look round and the entire house blinks out of existence and a giant, silver sphere appears in its place. A tiny door opens in the side of the sphere and my clothes are unceremoniously chucked out. They land all over where the roof should be, hanging flat against thin air. ‘Sorry, mate, forgot,’ me shouts, waves, ‘bye,’ then the door closes and the sphere disappears and there’s just the bungalow with my clothes scattered all over the roof. I feel a chill breeze bite at my nethers. I am completely naked. Thankfully there’s a ladder at the side of the garage, so I rest it up against the house and clamber onto the roof. I teeter across the angled surface, tiles shifting beneath my bare feet, slipping on wet moss. I collect all my belongings together, wrap them into a tight bundle and make my way back towards the ladder, then I freeze as two people, a man and a woman, walk out of the front door and crunch out onto the gravel. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ the couple say in unison as they catch sight of me. The couple who were passed out in a bed, full of wires, not a moment ago. I turn on my heel and leg it up and over the roof and skid down the other side, skinning my feet on the tiles. I vault off the gutter and down onto a patio, tweak my ankle and hobble the length of the garden. I throw myself through a mercifully thorn-free hedge and head for the forest. Eventually I stop and pull on my clothes then double back, dodging quickly by the bungalow and jogging through the village. The winding roads eventually lead me to the station and I hop on the first train anywhere. I’m exhausted. As soon as my body makes contact with the seat I sink into unconsciousness. I see myself, and myself again, in lines, moving in and out of time with one another. The lines bend around me, arcing above and below in great, gently revolving rings and spheres. The floor is liquid, shifting hexagonal patterns constructed from various iterations of my face. One foot forward sends a ripple through the floor and faces merge and dissipate. It all moves together. Another step and the entire endless, fractal expanse, tears and reshapes and expands and contracts around me. It’s all me. I begin to run, through a black tunnel lit with my eyes, through a tulip of squirming bodies, exploding back in on itself, my features twist and blur with every step. I’m coming apart. Faster and faster. I am a part. It’s all me. Whirling in unison. The whole universe, curled up tight inside of us. Looking back at itself. Who am I? I open my eyes. ‘Here I am.


The first thing I'm posting here, a little made-up dialogue I wrote. please tell me what you thought. “Well? What are you waiting for? You came so far, here I am, kill me.” “I didn’t come here to kill today; I came to stop what you are doing.” “Stop me? I’m not doing anything.” “Then who is trying to overthrow my father?” “Not me, as you can see, I am right here, it’s your people at gathering at the castle’s gates.” “Fueled by your ideas!” “I can’t take all the credit, I just said what everyone was thinking.” “Lies! My father is a good man, he is a worthy king.” “I don’t know your father, I never said he was evil. All I know is what he has done to us.” “Building libraries? Expanding this kingdom? Peace with our neighbors?” “Raising our taxes! Sending our friends and family to death in his name! more useless feast!” “My father is doing the best for this kingdom!” “Your father has blinded you.” “Hatred blinded you.” “Is that so? As we both see I am not the only one thinking your father should be dethroned “ “Stop this madness at once!” “Or else?” “They will die, you will die, your little coup attempt will fail.” “They might die, I may die, that is correct, I am very aware of this.” “So, you’ll stop them?” “No” “Why?” “Because this will prove my point.” “Explain yourself.” “The king is cruel.” “My father is a good man.” ”He’ll kill thousands of people to keep his seat, is that what a kind person will do?” “Will a good person gather thousands for a suicide mission?” “I never claimed to be kind, I’m starting what needs to be done.” “Starting?” “Yes, of course, I don’t expect to be the new king.” “Why?” “I am starting a coup against a tyrant; I will either die by your sword or the executioner’s axe.” “Then why doing all this?” “Because that’s what right.” “This attempt will die tonight, with you and the rest of the peasants.” “Nope” “How can you be so sure?” “These ideas are spread all around the kingdom, we are the first wave.” “And the last” “After the news will spread, about how the king massacred all those people, you think everyone will stay quiet?” “If they want to stay alive, yes.” “Like father like son” “I am proud to be like my father.” “You are proud to keep the citizens silent out of fear.” “Is that what you think about my father?” “It’s the truth.” “What my father has done to you?” “Personally, nothing” “Then why do you hate him so much?” “Same reasons as everyone.” “You’re all ungrateful.” “Have you lived one day as a peasant?” “Have you been burdened with the commitments of a king?” “No, but a king must see his people before himself.” “Why do you think he sent me here to stop you then?” “To stay alive and in his throne.” “To keep all these people alive!” “So he sent you?” “Yes, to negotiate. but you won’t listen.” “It’s hard to negotiate when there’s a sword to my neck.” “Same goes for me.


In the depths of a sprawling mansion, nestled among the ancient trees, lived a man named Victor. His imposing residence, once filled with life and laughter, had now become a haunting echo of its former glory. Victor, a solitary figure, found himself tormented by his own demons--fears of failure, hopelessness, and a creeping anxiety that seemed to consume his every waking moment. One fateful evening, as Victor roamed the dimly lit corridors, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A shadow danced along the walls, followed by the scuttling of tiny legs. His heart quickened, and a cold sweat dripped down his brow. There, on the edge of his vision, he glimpsed a monstrous spider--a creature of nightmares that seemed to defy the laws of nature. Its body was massive, its legs extended like jagged daggers. The creature's eyes glowed with a malevolent hunger, and its chittering whispers echoed through the empty halls. Victor's heart pounded in his chest as the arachnid vanished, only to reappear in his periphery moments later. The spider, an embodiment of his deepest fears, haunted him relentlessly. It appeared in his dreams, its presence seeping into every waking thought. He became consumed by an overwhelming sense of dread, his sanity hanging by a thread. Night after night, the spider grew bolder, inching closer to Victor's refuge. Its presence was suffocating, a constant reminder of his fears and failures. Each time he caught a glimpse of its monstrous form, his anxiety deepened, suffusing his soul with an oppressive darkness. Determined to regain control, Victor sought answers within the depths of his mansion. He delved into forgotten tomes and ancient scrolls, desperate for a way to rid himself of the haunting spider. The pages whispered tales of curses and malevolent spirits, but offered no solace. One evening, as Victor stood before a hidden bookshelf, a revelation struck him--a single volume, concealed behind a layer of dust. Its faded title, "Conquering the Shadows Within," beckoned to him, promising a glimmer of hope. The book revealed an ancient ritual, a desperate gambit to overcome one's deepest fears. Driven by desperation, Victor gathered the required ingredients--a vial of his own blood, a lock of hair, and a fragment of his shattered dreams. In the dimly lit chamber of his mansion, he performed the ritual, the air crackling with dark energy. As the final incantation left his lips, the very fabric of reality seemed to tear asunder. From the shadows emerged a grotesque creature--a reflection of Victor's inner turmoil and the manifestation of his darkest fears. The spider, magnified tenfold, towered over him, its looming presence threatening to devour him whole. But in that terrifying moment, a fire ignited within Victor. His fear transformed into determination, and he refused to succumb to the torment any longer. With a newfound resolve, he armed himself with a flamethrower--an instrument of destruction forged from his defiance. The spider lunged, its fangs dripping with venom, but Victor stood firm. He unleashed a torrent of flame, the searing heat consuming the arachnid's monstrous form. Its chittering cries filled the chamber, echoing through the mansion's hollow halls. As the flames engulfed the creature, Victor watched his fears crumble to ash. In the aftermath, Victor surveyed the scorched remains, his breath ragged. The weight of his anxieties lifted, replaced by a newfound sense of liberation. He had faced the horrors that lurked within, conquering the darkness that threatened to consume him. With the spider vanquished, Victor's mansion seemed to awaken from its slumber. Light returned to the once-dim corridors, and life echoed through the long-forgotten rooms. As the shadows retreated, Victor's spirit soared, no longer held captive by his fears. From that day forward, Victor embraced life with a renewed vigor. He opened the doors of his mansion, welcoming others into its restored grandeur. The haunted echoes were replaced with laughter and joy--a testament to one man's journey through darkness and his triumphant emergence into the light. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its warm glow upon the mansion's walls, Victor stood in the doorway, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. He had conquered his fears, vanquished the spider, and emerged from the depths of his own despair--a beacon of hope for all who struggled with their own shadows.


Verity turned the key in the driver’s door of her red Taurus. It unlocked with a snick. She opened the door and pressed the unlock button to let her boyfriend Daniel in. The pair settled in on the tan seats. Daniel shivered; the leather was cold through his jeans. The trek across campus to the student parking lot had left them both chilled, and while the car provided protection from the wind, it did nothing to actually warm them. Verity turned the key in the ignition; the car whined a bit before it came to life. Classical music streamed softly out the speakers. “I think I failed the chem exam,” Daniel said as they waited for the engine to warm up. Verity rolled her eyes. “You say that every time and come out with an A.” “No, seriously, this time I think I really fail...can you hear that?” Daniel interrupted himself. Verity shook her head. They went back and forth about Daniel’s chemistry insecurity, and his math insecurity, and his geography insecurity. “Well, Mr. Straight A’s, when you start failing a class like I am in Calculus, then you can talk to me about academic anxiety.” “You’re not failing Calculus. You have a C. Do you hear that?” Daniel looked to his left, to his right, then to his left again trying to find the source of the sound. “I don’t hear anything,” Verity said, laughing. He looked like he was going to cross a street. “And a C is totally failing.” “It’s not failing. And we’re only, like, barely past midterms. You have time to bring it up. Professor Sparling is big on extra credit. Last term, Fred --you’ve met Fred, right?-- skipped half the semester and turned in enough extra credit to scrape a passing grade. And, really, you don’t hear that?” “A C is the same as an F to my parents. And, no, I still don’t hear whatever it is.” Finally the engine was warm enough to go. Verity shifted into reverse and backed out of her parking space. Her tires spun in the gravel and for the brief moment before they gained traction she thought she’d somehow hit a patch of ice. The university’s parking lot was huge. They made several turns before making it to the paved section of the lot. It took two more turns before they finally reached the driveway that lead out onto J Street. Daniel flicked on the heater and held his bare hands up in front of the vents. “Why is it so cold? It’s only October,” complained Daniel as Verity turned east toward town. “Because global warming is a hoax. It’s actually global cooling. The whole thing is orchestrated by the Chinese to get the United States to stop working on technological advancements and come up with alternatives to plastic straws and diesel engines instead, and possibly freeze to death in the process.” Daniel chuckled. Verity’s sense of humor was one of his favorite things about her. That, and her smile. He looked at her hands on the steering wheel and envied her thick, blue gloves. “Did you make a list of everything we need for the project?” “I thought you did.” “I guess we should make a list then so we don’t forget anything.” Daniel wrestled his phone out of the zippered pocket of his jacket. He pulled up the Notepad app and typed with one hand, leaving the other in front of the vent. “Styrofoam balls, toothpicks, paint,” he listed off. “Notecards, you don’t hear that?” “I hear the engine and Beethoven’s Fifth.” “It’s a ticking.” “It’s a ringing in your ears. Write down ‘paintbrushes’.” Daniel typed that in, then switched which hand was in front of the vent. Verity gently braked and rolled to a stop at a traffic signal. “We need a thin Sharpie, too,” Daniel added to the list. “Seriously, you don’t hear that?” Verity shook her head, paused, and held up a finger. Possibly she did hear it. The light turned green and the sound of the car accelerating overshadowed anything she may have heard. “Not knowing what that noise is is going to kill me. When you stop at the 9th Avenue stop sign, stay stopped until you hear it.” Three blocks later Verity stopped the car at the intersection of J and 9th. She checked her mirror, and when she saw no one behind her, she kept her foot on the brake and listened. She inclined her head and scrunched up her face in concentration. “I finally heard it,” she said, easing onto the gas and turning right on the one-way street. “Maybe the CD in the player is vibrating?” Reluctantly, Daniel moved his hand from in front of the warm air long enough to hit the power button on the stereo. The music cut off; the pair listened. “I still hear it,” said Daniel. He left the CD player off, however, in order to better hear the noise. He also didn’t want to move his hand again. His fingers were finally starting to feel less like sausages. “Maybe it’s the heater,” Verity suggested. “Turn it off and see if you hear it.” “I will freeze to death if I turn the heater off,” protested Daniel. “You will not. Just give it a try.” He argued back, “I heard it before the heater was on.” “Well, I didn’t. Give it a try.” “Absolutely not.” Verity sighed and turned the heater knob to off. She didn’t understand why a Louisiana boy would come to rural, upstate New York for college. Especially one that was such a baby about the cold. “I still hear it. Can we turn the heat back on?” “You hardly listened at all.” “It’s incessant and annoying. I can’t believe you can barely hear it. I’m going to get frostbite.” Verity scoffed but turned the heat on anyway. They’d been in the car long enough for it to warm up considerably; Verity knew, though, that Daniel wouldn’t be comfortable until she was absolutely roasting. “Has Walmart always been this far away?” “No. Last week it was a five minute drive instead of fifteen. Walmart was bored Friday night, didn’t have a date, so it got up and walked a few miles.” “How much longer, Ver? I think pneumonia’s creeping into my lungs.” “We’ve been driving for about seven minutes, and you’re not getting pneumonia. You’ve been blasting the heat for those seven minutes and it’s gotta be at least 60 degrees in here by now and you’re wearing a heavy coat for cryin’ out loud.” Daniel harrumphed. The native New Yorker he was in love with would never understand the plight of his thin Southern blood. The constant tick was grating on his nerves, bothering him almost more than the temperature. “Did it just get louder?” he wondered aloud. “Turn the music back on and drown it out.” “I need to know what it is.” “Why?” Verity did not understand his need to know. Annoyances were meant to be dealt with, circumvented, counteracted. How was prolonging it to satisfy curiosity better than just making it inaudible? She could barely hear it anyway. Daniel’s commentary about it was more annoying than the actual sound. She turned a sharp left onto Hill Road, which, though narrow and twisted, had not the slightest bit of incline. Daniel left her why unanswered and opened the glovebox looking for loose items that could be rattling. He pulled the car manual out. Under it he found three old insurance cards, a tire-pressure gauge, five nickels, a Dum-Dum lollipop, and a wrapper with chewed up gum. He pulled all of it out and listened for the noise. Still there, tick ticking away. He dumped everything back into the glovebox. He smacked his hand on the dashboard in frustration. “Yeah, that’ll help.” “C’mon. Help me figure it out.” Daniel groped around under the seat and in the pocket of the door. Then he turned his attention to the center console. There was only one thing inside. “Why do you have a Savage Garden cassette? You don’t have a tape deck.” “I took everything out of my old Toyota when I bought the Taurus. That car had a tape deck. I never really thought about it after I dropped it in.” “Do you have a clock in here?” Daniel asked suddenly. Verity pointed at the dash. “Not that one. Like a wind up clock.” “Why would I have a wind up clock in my car?” “You have a cassette tape in your car. I’ll take that as a no on the clock. How about a clock watch?” “A clock watch? As opposed to what, a sundial watch?” “Like a tick tock watch, not a numbers watch.” “Tick tock watch? How old are you? The words you’re looking for are analog and digital.” “Fine, Smarty Pants. At least I’m not failing Calculus.” “Harsh, and no, I don’t have a watch.” “Sorry. Well, not really since you know I’m joking. That noise is going to kill me, if hypothermia doesn’t get me first.” “Stop being so dramatic. We’re almost there. We’ll get out of the car, go shopping, you’ll forget all about the noise, and we probably won’t even hear it on the way home.” They pulled into the parking lot a minute later. Verity put the car in park in one of the closest spaces. Daniel grabbed her hand before she could reach for the key. He shushed her when she tried to protest. She looked at him expectantly. He finally gave up and shrugged. Verity turned the key. Without the sound of the engine in the background, the noise became more pronounced. Verity had expected it to stop. Daniel thought it sounded faster. There was a blinding flash and terrifying roar as the bomb detonated under the hood. Verity threw her arms out, but they didn’t stop the concussive force or hail of shrapnel. Daniel was stunned still as the world exploded around him and fire rolled through the car’s cabin. His last fleeting thought was, ‘Thank God it’s warm here.’


If there were ever an utterly inappropriate time to suddenly remember the song "The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round"- It was definitely after the bus you were in ran someone over. Jolene thought as she unconsciously white-knuckled her bat. She looked back at the rest of her team as they all registered varying degrees of horror. It wasn't enough to survive a drive back from the NCAA softball tournament in Iowa, but to run someone over once they arrived on Del Playa boulevard? That was just fate delivering a bloody middle finger. The rest of the hand belonged to the NCAA after they revoked the medals after Darcy and the rest of the outfield tested positive for iguana testosterone. Jolene knew to have an Australian on the team was going to be trouble, she didn't think it would cost her the championship medal her senior year though. Tom, the portly driver, yelled and immediately slammed the bus to a halt. He sprung out of his seat like someone had rung the dinner bell. He opened the door, only to feel the teeth of a foaming frat boy sink into his generous neck. Tom's face twisted in pain and surprise as his blood across the first few windows of the bus. A fresh round of shrieks tore through the bus as Jolene stared in horror as four other button-ups joined the frat boy in his dinner snack. Smoke and screams rippled through the Del Playa Boulevard as the rhythmic bass of the Del Topia festival failed to drown out the immediate chaos. "Bats up, ladies!" Jolene barked at the rows behind her. Thirty pieces of hardwood popped up as she cautiously approached the open door that claimed Tom. "This isn't a drill, no bunts or short swings. These guys are animals out here, and we need to carve a path to the clubhouse." The screams surrounding the bus grew louder as it joined the sound of hundreds of desperate feet. "We don't know what's going on outside these doors, so new rules are in play. If they don't have a bat, they don't matter! Let's go!" Jolene shouted as she jumped into the chaos and cracked the first button up in her way. The rest of the team, clad in their warm-ups and bats followed her out the door. A few girls on edge shoved frantic runners away before Jolene took point and headed towards Uyesaka stadium. Darcy guarded the back as Jolene heard her outback insults cut through the din. "Move it, you fucking sheep! We're all screwed if you don't lift those knees, Brenda!" Jolene couldn't help but cackle as she delivered another homer as a sorority sister lunged at her face. "No rushing for me!" She howled as her Louisville slugger connected with a vicious crack. Jolene wasn't called Captain Thunder for nothing. The team fell into pods of threes as they broke through the crowd to campus. Their championship ears filtered out the screams like game day noise. The only voices that cut through the white noise were Darcy's and Jolene's. Their alternating barks kept the team on the path past the Storke field as they neared the stadium. The campus grounds opened up on all sides. They neared the relative security of the double reinforced doors of the clubhouse when a ragged girl with a single Birkenstock lunged at Jolene. Dani pivoted into the girl, and hip tossed her to the ground. The girl clawed onto Dani's ankle and took a bite before Jolene brought her bat down. "What the fuck?!" Dani screamed as Jolene pulled her up and hobbled towards the locker room together. Dark blood left a trail of pain that the rest of the team was careful to avoid. "Lock the door, Darcy! We don't want any of those psychos coming in." Jolene roared as Darcy shepherded the last of the team through the door. Stranded like the Maccabees, Jolene knew the team couldn't stay in the clubhouse forever. She looked around at the ashen faces that filled the once spotless room. Bats covered the floor as the girls stared at one another for answers. Answers that Captain Thunder didn't have.