Dirty headlights lit up a few yards ahead with a weak yellow glow, but outside Dan’s small orbit could have been outer space. Heavy darkness pressed in around him. The wipers stuttered and honked across the windshield, hardly making a dent in sheets of rain that crashed diagonally into the glass. Rain was falling and falling and falling as if trying to wash the world clean. Water sloshed under his tires and there was a swoosh every now and then as he barreled through a puddle. No cars had passed for what felt like hours, just straggly, ghostly trees and a barn here and there. Every so often he caught a glimpse of the moon, huge and orange and sickly low in the sky, skinny branches silhouetted in front of it like a Halloween cliché. The car clanked through a pothole, tailpipe clunking and rattling and scraping until it set his teeth on edge. Piece of shit machine. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, anchoring himself in a cocoon of light and safety. At least the radio still worked, though the music came through weak and distant under the rain. He sang along to Hotel California to keep himself company. Shit, was he seeing things, or was there a person standing at the side of the road? The figure held up a thumb in traditional hitchhiker style, pretty optimistically considering the circumstances. Surely it must be a tree, or his mind playing tricks? Who would be hitchhiking here, on a back road miles from anywhere at 2am? Dan shifted in his seat. An instinct told him the figure couldn’t be up to any good. But it must be freezing out in that rain. What if they were drunk, or hurt, or in trouble? They could die of hypothermia if he just drove on by... He could hear Leanne’s weary voice: ‘If you get killed, you’ll only have yourself to blame...’ All right, he was a busybody. But there was nobody else around; probably no-one else would drive by all night. Dan stopped the car and carefully peeled off the duct tape which held the glove compartment together. He took out his gun, checked it was loaded, triple checked the safety, then stuck it into the waistband of his jeans under his baggy T-shirt. He slowly reversed toward the shape, which came forward hopefully to meet him. His heart beat faster and he kept one hand on the gun as he cracked the window - there would still be time to pull away if the guy was really deranged. ‘Thank you so much for stopping!’ It was a young voice. It sounded scared, but not crazy. ‘No problem, man.’ He couldn’t back out now, after hearing the relief and gratitude in the guy’s voice. He unlocked the car. ‘Jump in.’ The hitcher couldn’t have been more than twenty. When the car light fell on his face, Dan saw that he had a black eye and a split lip. His blue eyes had a deer-in- the-headlights vibe, though it was hard to tell whether that was permanent or the result of whatever had happened to him tonight. ‘Hey, have you been in a fight tonight?’ His tone was harsher than he intended. The guy jumped back and almost hit his head on the car window. ‘No, no... it wasn’t a fight...I basically just got my ass kicked. I didn’t even throw a punch...’ he trailed off. Dan sized him up, wondering if this was turning into a bigger problem than he wanted. The hitchhiker was wearing an oversized college hoody which emphasized the slightness of his frame. His body language was open and his eyes were fixed on Dan’s face, pleading with him not to order him out of the car again. He didn’t look like a threat. Then again, Dan knew from experience that the most dangerous people could appear needy and vulnerable when it suited them. ‘I won’t cause any trouble. If I could just get a ride to wherever you’re going. Anywhere, it doesn’t matter.’ Rain streamed off his clothes, soaking the upholstery. That would take another $20 off the resale price of the car. The kid was shivering now, from cold or fear or both. Hopefully he wasn’t going into shock or something. ‘It must be freezing out there,’ said Dan, softening. He turned up the heating and reached into the back seat for a frayed old blanket he kept there. ‘Thank you.’ His teeth were almost chattering. He wrapped himself in the blanket, which made him look even younger. Dan sighed inwardly. It would probably be fine. He guessed he was about 6 inches taller and 30lb heavier. Plus he had the gun. He was pretty sure the hitchhiker didn’t mean him any harm, but there was a hint of lingering tension, or maybe danger, coming from him. Like unfinished business. Still, Dan didn’t have the heart to throw him out into the rain again. He pulled into the road again, sensing him relax slightly beside him. ‘I’m Finn.’ ‘Dan.’ ‘Thank you again for stopping. I didn’t think anybody would.’ ‘You’re lucky. On a night like this the road could have been empty.’ Dan glanced sideways. Finn was starting to recover. Some color had come back to his face and he’d stopped shivering. Dan waited for him to explain why he’d been out there, but he said nothing. ‘This rain seems to be getting worse. It’s like biblical or something,’ said Dan. Maybe if he got him talking, something would slip out. ‘Global warming,’ said Finn. The literal type, then. ‘How old are you, Finn?’ ’19.’ Even younger than he thought. ‘I’m 35. I guess that seems old to you.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Finn politely. He was obviously a well brought-up kid. Dan couldn’t figure out how he’d ended up with such a beating. Unless it was a random mugging...but something told Dan it was personal. The kid was fidgeting with the frayed corner of the blanket and glancing behind when he thought Dan wasn’t looking. As if his attacker could still be after him. ‘Are you at college?’ ‘Yeah. Majoring in Engineering.’ ‘That’s where the money is.’ What was he, a careers counsellor? Dan looked round his wreck of a car. It should be pretty obvious he didn’t know where the money is. ‘I mean, so I hear...’ ‘What do you do?’ asked Finn, rescuing him from the end of that sentence. ‘I work in the plant.’ ‘My parents have both worked there all their lives. I’m the first in my family to go to college.’ It didn’t seem to be working out for him tonight. Did college kids get into fights? Leanne would have confidently said not. But how would she know? She’d never been either. ‘Are you on the boxing team or something?’ ‘Haha, no. Unfortunately.’ ‘So what happened tonight?’ ‘I think it was probably my fault...’ Dan raised an eyebrow. ‘I was messing around with a girl who has a boyfriend.’ ‘The boyfriend did that to you?’ ‘Yeah. He’s a fucking asshole. Excuse the language.’ ‘I though your generation didn’t agree with violence.’ Where had he got that? The New York Times? ‘He didn’t get the memo. He’s even hit Laura... that’s his girlfriend.’ Dan’s hands tightened on the wheel. ‘Is he at college too?’ ‘Yeah. Football scholarship. He’s built like a tank.’ ‘He sounds like a bully,’ said Dan. As if he thought college was elementary school. ‘You seem to have a funny idea of college, Dan. They let some real assholes in. Believe me.’ ‘Sounds like it.’ ‘I guess I shouldn’t have been fooling around with her...’ ‘Fuck that, man. He doesn’t sound like much of a prize. The way I see it, once he hits her, he’s the bad guy, end of story...’ Finn had stopped listening. He was looking in the rearview mirror. ‘Uh, Dan?’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Are those headlights behind us?’ There was a faint glow in the rearview mirror, which intensified until it was obvious that a car was following them. ‘Shit, I bet it’s him!’ Finn went whiter than ever. His panic was contagious. Dan’s heart started drumming in his chest. ‘Come on, man. It could be anybody.’ ‘You said yourself, no one is out tonight.’ Finn’s voice rose. His eyes darted round the cabin as if he could find some escape route. The car behind was close now, closer than politeness usually dictated. ‘I’ll let him go round,’ said Dan, putting on a show of calm. He pulled in slightly and slowed down, trying to keep his breathing slow. The car kept hugging his tail stolidly. ‘Is it his car?’ asked Dan. ‘I can’t tell. All I can see is the lights.’ ‘Relax, Finn. It won’t be like earlier. There’s two of us now. Who is he anyway, Bruce Li?’ ‘I should have told you earlier...He’s probably carrying.’ Dan stared at him. ‘A gun?’ ‘No, a banana. Yes, a gun!’ At least now Dan knew what he was facing. His brain started working practically, step by step. ‘Is he likely to use it?’ ‘I don’t know. I don’t know! He didn’t earlier, obviously. But he’s probably gone and got loaded now...’ ‘OK, OK.’ Dan lifted his T-shirt. Finn stared at the gun and realization dawned on his face. ‘OK?’ said Dan. Finn met his eyes. ‘You should give it to me. It isn’t fair to drag you into this...’ ‘No way, man. You’re just a kid. I’ll do it if... need be.’ ‘But...’ ‘Don’t argue with me -‘ The car behind rammed them. The crash was deafening, heavy metal crumpling and the lighter, dry tinkle of glass breaking. The car spat itself forward, and their bodies jerked against the seatbelts. ‘Shit!’ He slammed into them again. Nausea rose up in Dan’s throat. They skidded on top of the thick layer of water on the road. He pulled on the wheel madly, trying to remember what to do. Was it the same as skidding on ice? There was no time to think, and his thoughts were bizarrely slow anyway. He felt like a cornered animal, losing control of the car, losing control of himself. Finn was holding on to the edge of his seat, breathing hard. The car was slipping out of Dan’s hands. ‘Brace yourself,’ he shouted. They careened into the ditch and rumbled forward, bouncing over tree roots and rocks, bobbing up and down in their seats, banging their heads on the roof. Dan hung onto the wheel for dear life. Finn covered his head with his arms. It felt like they were doing seventy, though it was probably barely thirty. Dan slammed on the brakes but it made no difference; they were gliding on a layer of mud. Tree branches caught the sides of the car, scratching and jarring them. They lost speed sluggishly, like a runaway horse running out of energy, until eventually the car came to a stop, creaking and complaining all the way. This would probably finish it off once and for all. Why was there time to think such stupid, irrelevant thoughts at a time like this? Dan forced his brain into gear. ‘Are you all right?’ he said. ‘I think so,’ said Finn. His eyes were wild. ‘Dan, I’m so sorry about all this...’ ‘Don’t start. There’s no time,’ snapped Dan. ‘He could be out there -‘ Something on the floor caught his eye. The gun. It must have fallen while they were speeding through the ditch. Finn noticed it too and grabbed for it, taking Dan by surprise. Then he sat staring at it, holding it awkwardly with one hand and pushing his soaking hair out of his eyes with the other. Shit. Everything was getting out of control tonight. Dan took a deep breath, sat back and tried to exude an air of calm authority. ‘Come on, man. You don’t even know how to hold that thing.’ Finn swung the gun round into his hand and took off the safety. He looked a lot more formidable now. ‘Shit! Careful!’ ‘Relax. I know how to shoot. We learnt that first semester of college.’ ‘What?’ ‘It’s a joke. Dark humor.’ ‘Just give me the gun, Finn.’ ‘I told you, this is my problem. It isn’t fair to make you deal with it.’ He stared Dan down. He was calm now. Determined. Should Dan try to grab the gun? What would Leanne say? A tirade about how he should never have picked up the hitchhiker in the first place, definitely. And she would certainly tell him to back down now. Let the kid handle his own mess. He held up his hands. ‘All right, all right. Whatever you want.’ ‘Can you see anything out there? Any sign of Clarence?’ ‘That’s his name? Clarence? And he’s meant to be a scary guy?’ Finn gave a snort laugh. ‘Yeah, I think he’s a bit sensitive about -‘ A metallic twang connected with Dan’s door. He flinched. ‘Was that -?’ ‘It sounded like a bullet,’ said Finn. A dark shape materialized outside, filling the whole window with its bulk. It lifted a heavy arm and pointed something toward Dan. Before he had time to think or react, Finn lifted the gun and fired twice. The shape fell heavily, slowly, almost in slow motion. Finn stared at the gun in his hand. His eyes lost focus. ‘Finn! Finn!’ said Dan. He looked up. ‘Give me the gun, man.’ Finn didn’t move. Shit, he was in shock now if he wasn’t before. Clarence could shoot again; he might just be injured. But Dan couldn’t risk the gun’s going off accidentally if he grabbed it. Finn seemed to have forgotten he was holding it. He seemed to have forgotten where he was, even. ‘Please. Give me the gun,’ Dan repeated. He held out his hand insistently until Finn handed it over. Dan opened the car door and peered out. The huge shape was lying flat on the ground. Not moving. He reached back into the car for a flashlight, leaning right across Finn to get to the glove compartment. He didn’t seem to notice. Dan tiptoed toward Clarence, concentrating on keeping his footing in the mud in the inky darkness. The lashing rain soaked him within a few steps. He forced himself on, pointing the gun ahead of him just in case, though he was pretty sure of what he was going to find. He shone the flashlight onto the still mass suddenly, before he had time to change his mind. There were two huge wounds in Clarence’s chest, leaking blood which was diluted pale pink by the pulsing rainwater. His eyes stared straight ahead. He was dead. Dan’s stomach lurched and he leaned over, breathing through it and waiting to come back to himself. No wonder Finn hadn’t stood a chance against this guy earlier. He must have been 6 foot 6 and nearly as wide. Still, two little slugs of metal had taken him down. Clarence’s face still had the puppy fat and naivety of a child. Pride, arrogance, the desire to control some girl that he probably didn’t even care about, had killed him before he’d ever reach maturity. When the nausea subsided, rage replaced it. Clarence wasted his own life, but he ruined Finn’s too. He had forced the kid to kill him, forced himself into his life and memory. Finn was the type who’d let this haunt him forever. And he’d done it to save Dan’s life... Dan had a lightbulb moment. He glanced back at the car. Finn was staring down at his hands. Dan fired another round into the undergrowth, then stuck the gun back into the waistband of his jeans - there was no need for the kid to see it again. He came back to the car and got in. Finn turned his head in slow-motion and looked at him. ‘Was that another shot?’ ‘Yeah. He...he wasn’t dead. You just wounded him.’ ‘I thought I killed him,’ said Finn. But there was a little hope in his voice. ‘No, you didn’t kill him. He was alive.’ ‘So -‘ ‘He pointed his gun at me. He was going to shoot me.’ Dan kept his gaze steady. According to Leanne, the secret to lying well was to convince yourself that it actually happened. Finn’s eyes searched his face. ‘You killed him?’ ‘Yeah. I killed him.’ That got through to him. Finn crumpled in relief and Dan caught him in a kind of half-hug. ‘It’s OK, man. It’s over,’ said Dan.


Everything was ready for the ritual. Candles lit, the mirror pointed at the tombstone that read, Dennis Morgan 1925-1955 , and five people holding hands in a circle. “Are you sure about this, Kristen?” Vanessa asked. “Yes, I’m sure. I practiced the words a thousand times,” Kristen said. Jason let out a loud belch and Charlie and Bobby began to laugh. “Okay, be quiet guys. This is serious,” Kristen said. “Yes mam,” Bobby said. Kristen began saying the words that were supposed to summon the spirit of Dennis Morgan back into the world of the living. Dennis Morgan, the butcher of Cedar Falls was a local legend in the small town. During his reign of terror, in the late 1940s and early 1950s he had murdered and mutilated an estimated forty eight people and some think that number could be much higher. The remains of many of Morgan’s victims were unearthed on his pig farm outside of town after his death in 1955. The chant was short and sweet; basically telling Morgan to follow the light of the flame through the mirror portal and reveal himself. The chant ended with some Latin words that didn’t mean anything to Vanessa. When the ritual appeared to be over with, Charlie’s body stiffened and his eyes rolled into his head and he began convulsing. “Charlie! Are you al...” Vanessa said as Charlie broke out into laughter. Bobby and Jason chimed in. Vanessa punched Charlie on the arm. “That’s not funny, you jerk.” “I knew this ritual was a load of crap,” Jason said. “Maybe we need to sprinkle some blood over the grave,” Kristen said. “Where are we going to get blood?” Vanessa asked. “Yeah, we’re out of beer. Let’s just leave. Maybe we can try again later,” Charlie said. Kristen let out an exaggerated sigh and said, “Fine. Whatever.” Vanessa blew out the candle and Kristen grabbed the mirror. As she picked the mirror up, she caught a glimpse of her reflection and froze. Kristen gazed into the eyes of her reflection and could not look away. Then the eyes changed and so did the face. Her reflection turned into the shape of a wicked looking man with a sinister grin on his face; the face of Dennis Morgan. “Kristen, are you okay?” Vanessa asked. Kristen looked up from the mirror in her hands and smiled at Vanessa. “I’m fine, dear.” Vanessa eyed her friend as she glared back with that grin. Bobby put his arm around Kristen as he walked by. “Come on babe. We’ll bring back the dead another time. Right now we need beer.” Vanessa reluctantly followed her friends out of the cemetery and loaded into the car with them. Bobby cranked the car and said, “Okay, after the beer stop, we can either go to Bill Ferguson’s party, or the haunted house in Steel County.” “I have a better idea. Let’s go to Morgan’s pig farm,” Kristen said. “Uh, babe, there will be alcohol at Bill’s party, and everybody that is not at Bill’s party will be at the haunted house. Are you sure you wanna go to some old haunted pig farm?” Bobby said. Kristen pulled Bobby’s face to hers and kissed him. “I am sure, babe,” Kristen said with a grin. “Morgan’s pig farm it is!” Bobby yelled. They made the ten minute drive to the Morgan farm. Bobby pulled the car into the long driveway and put the car in park. The main house looked like it was ready to fall in on itself, but it still stood behind a patch of tall weeds, and so did the old barn. “Look guys, I don’t think this is a good idea. Let’s just go to the party,” Jason said. “Yeah, what are we even doing here, Kristen? This is just weird,” Vanessa added. Kristen ignored them and opened her door. She smiled at Bobby and told him to follow her. Then she walked toward the old barn. “Kristen, wait!” Vanessa pleaded. Bobby shrugged his shoulders and opened his door and followed. “This is crazy. I’m not getting out of the car,” Jason said. Vanessa and Charlie agreed. “Maybe they’ll get spooked in there and just come on back out soon,” Charlie said. A minute later, Bobby came running out of the barn, screaming. Kristen was right behind him. “Is that an axe in her hand?” Jason asked. Before anyone could answer, Kristen slammed the axe down into Bobby’s back and he went down. Vanessa, Charlie, and Jason began to scream. Jason climbed over the back seat into the driver’s seat and put the car in reverse. They watched in horror as Kristen repeatedly chopped at Bobby’s lifeless body with the axe. “We can’t just leave Bobby!” Charlie yelled. “He’s gone,” Jason said. Kristen looked up from her kill with a bloody grin and began running toward the car. Jason hit the gas and started going in reverse down the driveway. They made it to the main road and Jason put the car in drive and stepped on the gas pedal. Once they had cell service again, Vanessa called the police and told them what had happened. The Sheriff told them to come to the station and give their statements and he would send deputies to the Morgan farm. “So, your friend, Kristen, just out of the blue took an axe to her own boyfriend?” The skeptical Sheriff asked. “Yes, and then tried to kill us,” Vanessa said. “What were you kids doing out there anyway?” Sheriff Jones asked. “It was Kristen’s idea. Nobody wanted to go anyway,” Vanessa answered. The phone on the Sheriff’s desk rang and he answered it. After a brief conversation, he hung up the phone and stood up. “My deputies found the body of Bobby Leland. They don’t see any sign of the girl. I’m heading out to the farm. You three can go home, but don’t leave town, I have more questions.” Over the next two weeks, twelve people went missing from the town of Cedar Falls. The Sheriff finally found and arrested Kristen at the old Morgan farm. Apparently Kristen had been staying in the main house. They recovered nine bodies in shallow graves out by the barn. The town made national news and media people were everywhere for a few days until the frenzy died down. There was a trial, Kristen was convicted of several murders and she was sent upstate to live out the rest of her days at Fairview, a facility for the criminally insane. Vanessa, Charlie, and Jason never spoke of the events that happened that Halloween night.


Sun peeks longer this summer at San Diego- a suburb of Alhambra. It is exactly five in the afternoon, and the sun’s still grinning up high. What a perfect Sunday to go on multiple dates. This is evidently why eighteen-year-old Antoinet Garcia is racing for the train to arrive at Merlin tonight. Yes, Antoinet, without its t and e at the end, for completion purpose. The reason why she won’t marry until she changed her name to a more feminine, Toni. She demanded the world to call her only that. She wear pink blushes that run across her nose, and scarlet lips. She’s all set for love at Merlin. “You’re at it again?”-says from the other line. Toni stopped in front of a mini-shop. It goes by the name, J Surplus . She steps one feet closer. Then, leans her forehead on and through the glass, she could see random items. Tea sets, geisha dolls, and a wall clock far in one corner. “No, I’m at the grocer”, Toni says, eyeing on the clock. “Don’t give me that. So which one?”, says Margot. “No way, it’s four and nine..”, Toni mumbled as she stares at the hour and minute hands, urging her feet to go in. “What?” “No, go on, what do you mean?” “C’mon, you can’t fool me, I’ve been there” “Here? When?” “I mean, the lying part- wait, is it the one with that pointy, you know, a gentle face, who hides cigarette butts in his shirt pocket?” “He has a name, it’s Wayne. And yes, I know, there’s that but, he’s not entirely bad. He’s cute..”, Toni walks in slowly. Her eyes looked like it was mesmerized. Her periphery, it seemed to her it was slowing down, in motion. From Margot’s voice shifting to that of a giant-like sound, to the lips of the cashier forming an upward curve as she held out a receipt. “Okay, fine, but you only met him TWO days ago, Antoinet” uttered Margot, Antoinet meant to trigger her, “how can you be so carefree-” “Sorry, later”, Toni ended the call, but her phone is still glued to her ear. She glances over to her wrist, “it’s five, thirteen.” She then hold her head back at the clock. “That’s two hundred and fifty dollars” said the saleslady. “I- again?” ‘who the son of a horse spends 250 dollars on a crippled clock?! Well, I’m not that of a good judge of antique items either, but’, she thought. “Two fifty, no bargaining” “Uh I’m not in- um, well, about its hands..” “..does it always points at four forty-five?” At first, she thought that maybe this clock is a trend. Despite how it looked. And maybe most shops just had the same clock. But, if the hands stay at the same numbers, the story will be different. Today should be the third time she witnessed how the minute hand stopped moving at exactly forty-five. And how her eyes zoomed it in while her periphery moves slower. This made her felt like she wore the same clothes and that she went in the same shop, and had had the same conversation with Margot, in other day before today. “What d’ya mean? It’s passed five now babe” “I mean, I think it’s broke” “Broke?” the woman was skeptical yet rushes closer to check on it. “Nothin’ I sell here’s broke- good heavens, no!” cried the woman. “Wait, five?” she snapped then looks over her wrist, “God I’m late!” One more hour and twenty minutes before rush hour. And, people waiting by the shed could watch this unexpected entertainer from a mini-shop for lifetime. As if her life’s on the line, Toni strides fast despite the long slit skirt and four inches heels. She didn’t- she can’t care how hell her hair could transform nor the straps falling off from her shoulders. Nor the head-turner heavy clatter sound of her shoes. “Train.. must.. wait.. me” she uttered in between miserable breaths. Although, the last train will be at seven. Unfortunately, she is not allowed to stay out late at night. Toni wants to spend more time with her three-days lover. Not just two hours! That’s pure pain. After all, what can she do? The train had just run passed her, leaving her disheartened. She had no room now for excuses. If she had just leave one hour early or if she had not stopped by that shop. Toni only meant to make him wait for 20 minutes. And made him believe she’s less interested in him than he is to her. And taxi is expensive, she will be left penniless in front of him. She felt more weary thinking how’d he react. She stood by for more minutes in front of the tramway, grinning alone. She fell in love with his voice first, that day he spoke to her. It was deep and rough. And she remembers the faint smell of smoke and alcohol from his morning breath. She laughed how she find herself crazy before impish boys. And that she never had liked even one righteous guy. “Guess it’s not my day today” Her room is dimly lit as she wakes at 4 am, only to think nothing but sweets. The outside’s seemed cold that it pulls her from getting out of the bed. Yet, painfully, she should. Toni treads down the stairs, squinting her way towards the fridge. At long last, her lips form a grin seeing a bottle of cooled fresh milk and vanilla waffle biscuits. ‘Life is good’, she thinks, enjoying its sweet aroma after removing the lid. Recalling how her last Sunday went, she drank directly from the bottle and the liquid made quite a sound in its way down. If she had not ruined their date, she would have gone to an Italian cafe. And they would’ve been texting each other until midnight. Those thoughts crossed her mind many times, because Wayne had never reply since then. Almost a week now. And that she have been sulking herself in her own room. The milk was halfway now to nothing when she noticed flickering lights from the sala. Her face immediately went blank. “That explains the loudness.. at 4,” she says, her bubbly voice in complete monotone. Toni thought the noises were from the next door. And felt instant guilt from thinking they’re so restlessly- they’re weird. ‘Just recalled someone ready to renounce her children every single morning, because of the bill, then does the opposite’ Toni complains in her mind, “Lovely”. She sees her mom asleep over the couch. She ended warming her up with her sleeve pajama. “Well, ‘guess it can’t be helped when it gets hard to sleep” and grabs the remote. But it ended up rolling on the floor, together with the waffles. Her eyes are now locked in on the TV screen- I mean, her whole being. She, is seeing Wayne, all the over the news. “Wayne Perez admitted leading other three men to Anna Turner’s murder..” the news was going on. Toni had hoped it’s not him. But from the way his back curves as he walks, to how his hair bounce against his neck, to how he say “Genovese” as his reply to the police’s question: “where did you first brought Anna?.” Toni recognized it was the name of the famous Italian cafe from Merlin. She was about to shut off the TV when the screen showed her the picture of Anna Turner. Anna is only a minor, a high school girl with a cheery grin. “And then?” ask the police. “To motel”, uttered Wayne. “Then?” “To where you found her” Toni felt a flush fear as to how calm his voice was despite verbalizing the places they went to murder her. Yet became more skeptical later. Maybe he was forced or he was framed. You must’ve brought in the wrong guy! She slowly bend over the table and luckily, a phone appears in her palm. After a few taps, a rough voice from the other line utters, “what”. It’s Margot’s. “I’m.. I'mma go over”, declared Toni. “Why?” “You won’t believe this” “Seems so. It is.. four in the morning, Antoinet, four-”, “-toot” “What?- wait, no!” She need to be sure so she immediately browse his name. There were over a hundred articles in the results. She read many “rape”, “murder”, “sewerage” words as she scroll down. And as her breath became heavier. Wayne raped her with other three men then stabbed Anna's chest three times with a hotel knife. Later of Monday, at 6:13 am, Anna's body was found stuck in the sewerage after the townspeople nearby noticed the lump of waste.. “Wayne! why!” Toni cries. “Toni? Something wrong?” “Mom..” “What?” “Everything’s wrong!” “What are you moppin’ at early in the morning?” Toni immediately grabs her mom’s coat on the hatstand. “Oh and can you do the grocery today? We’re out of food- where are you going? the money-” “Mom, later” She almost laughed. Toni had a lot of first times today. That was a first that her mother had asked if something’s wrong, although it did not ended nice. This is the first time she had run without knowing where to go nor she can stop her tears. Her emotions are overflowing. When.. did it all start going wrong? Her mind flashes the glimpses of events that happened to her this year. A series of pictures that could answer her. And then her mind paused at one item. She knew she saw it not just once. That item she saw at the mall when she first dated Miggy. She remembered how devastating she felt after knowing Margot was pregnant with his baby. The next place was inside her school canteen when she had her first kiss with an employee that frequents the hamburger stool. And soon after their lips moved apart, she was cuffed by his wife. They were dating for over five months without knowing she’s became a mistress. The last one was just last week. At a mini-shop. When she was desperately catching for the train. She paused. Whenever she sees the clock stopping at four forty-five, that’s when the accidents happen. She runs again and this time, with a goal. Toni read again the name of the mini-shop while she was rolling her eyes. Then, went in with quite an entrance. “Good-” “Where is it?” “Oh, I know you” said the woman, scanning her face. “You mean the clock over there?” “Yes!” “Uh, it was sold?” “What? But it’s broken!” “Calm down dear” “Please, tell me, I need it! Please, put on the price, I don’t care. I will pay you. I just need to see it once” “Uh okay, okay dear. Wait here” During those few minutes, her feet just won’t stop stomping briskly against the floor. The people inside were disturbed by the sound that they throw evil stares at her before going out. “Here, here” She quickly opens the box, and she had never felt more tragic. “A..are you sure it’s this clock?” “Why? Is it not what you’re looking for dear? I ‘ly have one clock o’that shape and color. I felt relief just by looking at it so I hung it” It’s different. “This one’s working”, Toni said before she left the woman dumbfounded and rejoicing, at the same time. Walking on her way home, she was laughing. “Today is once again, another beautiful Sunday everyone..” The radio’s running on. And the prickly wind through the terrace spread out aromas of detergent. “What a sight! The world must be ending. No dates today?” “Go away sis” Toni calmly shoved her. She’s out in the terrace, hanging out clothes as it made the drip drop little sounds. And where the wind is a lot harsher. “Maybe, I’ll try good guys in my next birthday” But really, deep inside, she wanted to be a judge on her next birthday. A good judge of character. If only, she never reads them as superficial as one’s reflection in the water. Then, maybe she would not have memories of three worst betrayals. Nor a nightmare of mourning voices at her own burial. Nor the creeps from seeing the same item following her. If it wasn’t for it, she is living her best life right now. But at least, she has something to throw on the blames- a thing that remains unhurt no matter how. Little she know, the time had saved her countless times, at four forty-five.


Space, the final frontier, is a cold and desolate empty void where very little occupies so much. It is open and vast, interspaced with bits of beautiful visions and epitaphs of stars, suns' and novas. A simple man is sitting on his porch, watching the stars and the quiet beauty of space. His home is little more than a large rock with metal panels strewn along its side's like a large metal ring; sitting atop the large rock is a house; from a distance, the house would look like a quaint small ranch with a small red barn in the back, but as you grow closer, it's more of a bunker than a building of Wood or primary house material. On the side of the house, in white lettering painted onto the side, is the name of the vessel, The Butch Rangler. As this house serves two functions a spaceship and a home. The old man watching will rise; finally, Alright Bud, we got us a job to do," he would say to his companion. A small beagle named Bud would bark one time as he followed his master. The man would make his way into the house. It's adorned with the usual things you would find in a house pictures, wallpaper, and brooms; as he gets to the basement, the home gives way to a ship, revealing that in the basement is a vast engine that hums with energy, behind under the house's small windows dot the Asteroids middle, behind the windows is the command center, computers, machines, and consoles blink with lights, As the man would get in his command chair the engine begins to hum louder. The console before him starts booting up, and large letters in computer text take up the screen. "Welcome, Space Rangler, Wayne, are you ready to begin transport" I think we have taken a long enough break Butch, and it's about time we got this little doggy onto the space Trail. The Computers begin to boot up many systems throughout the rock-like ship. Begins to hum as the transfer of electricity and information begins to energize the vessel. The ship itself begins to move but, away from the Asteroid belt, its engines humming with energy; when the boat has moved far enough away, determined by Wayne's practiced eye. The panels begin to ChooOOM as large and small asteroids start to gravitate around the artificial orbit created around the ship. These large rocks sell for millions back on Earth, filled with rare materials and unique properties. The small planet-like ship moves at first but picks up speed; In the bowels of the boat, an extensive coal engine belches flame as the ship's conductor computer shovels in the fuel like an Iron locomotive engine, as the Asteroid Rangling begins. Wayne grips the wheel loosely while he keeps his eye on the radar. Since the Humanities colonization of the star, Humans have used the most viable building resources on planets and moons around them. Earth looks more like a second stone, powered by the man-made lights and electricity that pumps throughout the Earth; so powerful is the light from the Earth that space wranglers have begun calling the Homebound star. The only viable way of resource collection is from Roid wranglers, men, women, dogs, and cats. They have put their lives on the line to bring resources back to Earth. It has become a very profitable business, but also one with an inherent amount of danger, from the randomness of space to the Outlaws or vultures that watch space trails for theft and robbery. The vastness of everything makes any sort of regulation between Earth and the Belt null and void. Whole companies make their bottom dollar by stealing from smaller companies of people in business for themselves. Wayne stays alert and ready. He knows that if someone is going to steal from him, it will be as if he is leaving the belt. Even though the chance is 2 out of ten of running into one. A red light comes on as it sounds off an alarm. Roid Rustlers. Says Wayne as he flips a switch for battle stations. The engine begins to hum loudly as the orbit of Large Asteroids in orbit around his ship come in for a tighter circle and faster as well., Forming a type of physical shield around his Own Butch station. Wayne would yell, "Bud, I think we have some uninvited guests." Hearing the command, the Beagle runs to a small crawl space, where a dog-sized console sits, As Bud places his paws into the rig built for him. Underneath the Butch station, a giant sleek black cannon descends from the bottom. On Wayne's receiver, he hears Bud's battle bark. Wayne says a prayer as he Turns the Butch station to fly near the Asteroids. The outlaws of the space trail are not much different from the Wranglers themselves. More accustomed to piloting smaller and faster vehicles to catch ships and cars before they reach the space trail. Darting around asteroids and debris as they head toward the Butch station. The sides of the vessels have the symbol of the tri Banditos; alright, you sons of nuts and bolts, it's time to make our digits. He flips a switch to open up communications with the Butch station. "Listen, Homes, if you surrender your ship and wealth, we let you live; keep running, or fire on us, and your dead! The Butch station has one reply, Nuts. The Butch station makes an acrobatic maneuver and dives back into the belt. The banditos follow the station darting between rocks and debris toward him. Barrels poke out of the bandits' ships as they slowly gain on the butch station. The Cannon on Butch station barks out blasts of fresh lead at the bandits, using it's far heavier barrel and range to get them back off. The shots go wide, hitting the many asteroids hanging in space. Is this guy Blind? Says one of the bandits before; the larger asteroids being pushed by the butcher's shots begin to quickly close on the Bandits. Two of them are quick enough to change the direction. The guy who made the blind comment gives one last blood-curdling "CRAP!!!!" Before his ship is crushed between two asteroids. The Bandits, now within range, unload their own weapons on the butch station, their bullets peppering the station. Hitting something critical, an explosive goes off and sends the craft hurdling into the darkness of space into the shadow of another asteroid. The Bandits slow their ships as they search for the wounded station. Moving slowly so as to not miss a thing. Tuco calls out, Come out, come out wherever you are, wrangler. Your cattle and your ranch are going to be ours; you're dead; that was my brother you killed. As the two bandits find a void of darkness, The Butch station comes barrelling out. It hits both ships as the three make contact; Butch's sheer size and weight allow the vessel to barrel past them both. Fuck says the bandits, as their systems and ships are both badly damaged in the vacuum of space. As the Butch station escapes in the distance. Tuco swears revenge on the wrangler. The Butch goes as far as it can on the last of its power stranded; Wayne has to activate his homing beacon. He prays whoever finds him won't ask for much. As the signal starts in the distance, a light can be seen coming from a black and gray poncho that is a large, boxy robot standing at approximately six feet tall. Its body is predominantly made of metal, giving it a sturdy and imposing appearance. The Robot's frame is angular and utilitarian; on the front of the Robot gliding through space is a screen with the face of a man with no name. He sees the damaged station and opens his communication, revealing that he is there but offers no help. He stays silent. Wayne knows someone is listening; I've been attacked by road bandits, and my ship is damaged and needs repairs; if you could pull me to the Space Trail station, I would be very appreciative. I'll even cut you in on a cut of the profits. The Robot listens to the audio coming through, running it through multiple lie detection to register how honest the wrangler is. Moving to the ship, the Robot inspects the damage. The ship's systems, using its archive of knowledge, the Robot begins to do a patch repair job for the wrangler; moving as quickly and working carefully, it attaches cables and welds via attachments after about 40 minutes inside the station. Wayne's power returns and the ship begins to power up. Then Wayne gets a request to the board. He considers leaving the stranger, who doesn't talk, but decides against it, thinking about where he might be if the stranger had not come along. He allows the stranger to come in. As the stranger rolls aboard the Butch station via a large wheel that holds the Robot's considerable weight., Wayne is struck by the air of mystery that surrounds the face on the screen. The Robot with no name moves with a silent grace, his eyes scanning the Insides of the ship with a keen sense of awareness. Wayne offers a nod of gratitude, acknowledging the stranger's assistance in repairing the station and getting him out of a hairy situation. With the repairs completed, the Butch station regains its power, ready to continue its journey to the space trail. Wayne takes his place in the command chair once again while the Robot with no name finds a spot nearby, his presence both reassuring and enigmatic. As the ship sets off, Wayne's dog, Bud, breaks the silence, As his curiosity gets the better of him. "I appreciate your help back there. You saved my skin," says Wayne, his voice filled with gratitude, as he orders Bud to quiet down. The Robot with no name turns his gaze towards Wayne, the piercing eyes of a young Clint Eastwood. Seemingly carrying the weight of countless untold stories. He remains silent for a moment before. Finally, audio comes out of a speaker in a low, gravelly voice. "Trouble has a way of finding those who seek fortune in the vastness of space. It's a dangerous journey we walk." Wayne nods in agreement, realizing that he and the man with no name share a common understanding of the perils that await them. They both know that survival in the unforgiving depths of space requires more than just luck--it demands skill, resourcefulness, and the ability to adapt to ever-changing circumstances. The two arrive at Tombstone Rock, a man-made moon that sits at the beginning of the Space Trail back to Earth, a wrangler hub of activity that captures the brutal and harsh nature of space; Tombstone Rock has about 5000 people living on board with another 10,000 coming through, it so life there is fast and quick. The town boasts one of the larger resupply points in the area, so it has an abundance of shops and storefronts, as well as more unsavory types attracted by the quick wealth and opportunity living in this new frontier. Wayne and the Robot with no name disembark from the Butch station, stepping and rolling onto the metallic surface of Tombstone Rock. The bustling atmosphere of the space hub surrounds them, with small transports coming and going and a diverse array of people engaged in various activities of hawking wear and supplies, offering ship repair and robot dismantlement. As the two of them stepped off, people were already begging and selling toward Wayne as they shoved necklaces and bits of trash. Then the Robot rolled out and gave them the same harsh look that sent vagabonds to the wind. Wayne is familiar with Tombstone Rock, having visited it numerous times before. He knows that it's a place where wranglers like him gather, seeking rest, repairs, and connections before venturing back to Earth with their valuable asteroid cargo. The space hub provides a range of services, from refueling and restocking supplies to hiring security escorts for the treacherous journey through the space trail. Wayne and the Robot made their way to the central hub of Tombstone Rock; as they walked, Wayne turned to the Robot and asked. The job is pretty much done with the amount I'll have made just making it here with such a large haul; we can celebrate our success. I know a delightful games room that is the jewel of Tombstone. The Space Saloon is Rooty's toothy, a large establishment located in the center of Tombstone where the drinks never cease, and the party never ends. The piano plays a saloon song as everyone raises a glass to the final frontier. We see Wayne, our hero, and the Robot with no name sitting at a card table in the Saloon across from them is sitting, The Curt O Conner Triplets, all three of them clutching their cards close to their chests. The Opposite of Wayne smiles as he continues to beat the triplets in cards, progressively making them poorer and poorer. The Robot just watches silently; he gets more than a few stares at him and his cold exterior, but their looks and eyes can't bother him any more than his mysterious past. Before Wayne can win the last of their money, the saloon door opens, and 2 of the 3 Banditos enter the Saloon. The music cuts off in an abrupt part! Tuco, the leader of the Bandits, is a squat, more petite man with 3 golden teeth and fiery eyes like the devil glares at the patrons. I know you in here, I know because I saw your ship being repaired. The Butch Station 1. Upon some interrogation, I was told he could be found here with a robot companion who had the face of a handsome man. The bandit moves like lightning, perhaps from some modded attachment. His pistol comes free in the blink of an eye as he aims it down at Wayne. You killed my brother. Prepare to die, Puta. I wouldn't be so quick to point all that attention to my friend there. The bandit turns to see the Robot with no name pointing a single finger at him, it has the look of some hidden weapon, fires your weapon, and I assure you with 100% certainty that you will die. Just as the tension reached its peak and the Sheriff's voice echoed through the Saloon, the Robot with no name and the two Bandits locked eyes, a silent agreement passing between them. They stepped outside, leaving the safety of the Saloon behind, and the crowd followed with bated breath. Wayne, filled with concern, hurriedly caught up with the Robot, his voice laden with worry. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, his words tinged with doubt. The Robot turned to Wayne, determination flickering in its robotic eyes. "If I don't do this, they will kill you. For sure," it replied, unwavering in its resolve. Suddenly, the haunting melody of "Ecstasy of Gold" swelled through the streets of Tombstone, intensifying the atmosphere. As the participants took their positions on opposite sides of the long road, the citizens, wranglers, and even space dwellers hastily abandoned the area, seeking shelter from the impending clash. The anticipation hung thick in the air as both parties locked eyes, ready to face off. The music reached its crescendo, its notes intertwining with the uncertainty that gripped the crowd. Each second felt like an eternity as they waited, holding their breath, unsure of who would make the first move. The Robot turned slowly, its gaze fixed on the Bandits, who in turn glanced at the image of Clint Eastwood displayed on a screen nearby, a flicker of recognition passing between them. Wayne runs up to the Robot with no name and says I owe you way more than just my life. The Robot with no name rides off into the sunset. Wayne shrugs and just accepts that this is the life of an Asteroid Wrangler.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Although in possession of a full set of keys to the house she had remained for some time on the front porch where the heavy front door still held a mosaic window of lead-jointed obscured glass. The window permitted light but so distorted the shape of any person on the door’s other side that identification was quite impossible until the door was opened. Once the antique bell pull had been drawn down, it was only possible to tell that the summons had been heard, but not by whom. Now, as she stood there with no reason to pull the bell on an empty house, her mind sluggish with fatigue, Shirley Jackson’s sinister story of another empty house returned to her. What utter crap, she said out loud, her voice returning to her ears crookedly after percussing from a thousand vitreous faces. While she-who-was-me decides how best to proceed, and with a solemn promise to return, allow the she-who-is-me to step away for a short while .. For nearly a year Hank has pursued the project of collecting stories from each of the people in our small clan. LiV, a colleague from Hank’s university days has been hired to compile the material. Hank shrugs and smiles when I ask about the project’s purpose. Call it a living group autobiography if you need a name for it is the answer I get. In spite of my doubt and non-participation, the project has not only succeeded, but appears to be accelerating. When Hank introduced the rather plain and stolid figure of LiV, I barely concealed my annoyance. If others in this canaille wished to have their stories recorded and my consent was desired, I would give it so long as the specifics were obscured. As the months have passed I have learned that Emmie and Bunny forward their email communications, that taped interviews with Hank have been transcribed, that Kit has copied off portions of a journal, that even taciturn Griff has shared the contents of text exchanges with Bunny, all this while I myself have found no reason to contact LiV. How could I do justice to the need which has driven the direction of my life for nearly three decades now and, while having celebrated small victories, now seems ruined, already half in shambles? I have done nothing to advance the notion that within groups of humans, ethical practices, evolving systems of agreement, and absolute transparency might produce lasting cohesiveness. I was wrong, and it is too late to change my topic. So why would I wish to share failure? I have casually studied impersonal objects or moments which find in us receptor sites and flash into brief reactive phenomena as well as ongoing dialectical of relationship between our selves and others, learning little. As to the notion of self-contained personalities, cross-contamination makes it impossible for any one of us to claim true originality or to accurately grasp the full causation of the holograms we call selves. Therefore, if I am nothing more than an ever-shifting cluster of internally viewed images, how can I ever hope to describe myself in ways both meaningful and trustworthy? I cannot, and I must suppose that it is the same for everyone in this group, acknowledged or not. Nonetheless, they have apparently begun making contact with LiV to share the moth-eaten fictions of themselves. Contrary to my own expectations I have uncovered within myself a similar desire to mete out something of my life, no matter how small. Is it LiV herself, this unremarkable person, or is it simply the opportunity to participate in this project of us , the energy of which can be felt even hours after she has gathered up her materials and driven away? For it now seems to me that we are on a path toward something unseen, and if this work is to be representative of the entirety of us, mine must be one of the voices. I shall begin, then, with the window. From earliest childhood I understood that Matters of Great Importance went on inside that house, as unknowable as the figure of whoever stood on the other side of the front door. In the adults who came to the house to conduct business with Grandfather, I detected a starching of personal space among the suited civilians standing at attention, while I found my way behind his desk to wrap my arms around him. At those times there was no one else, simply he and I, old friends. He never failed to be delighted with me, and in me was a secret door which opened only to him. Later as I came to understand that he headed an empire, I never felt unwelcome no matter how urgent Grandfather’s affairs. Kept in a lawyer’s vault for a quarter century before the letter was placed in my hands along with my unlooked-for inheritance, Grandfather opened up for the first time about his wealth: .. without someone like you, Joey, all of it means nothing at all. You can’t eat it, sew clothes from it or feel truly safe. You can only imagine a child’s future with a reflected brightness, how that child will find many paths open to him, hope that he will take confidence from that and stride boldly forward into the world to make it somehow better. This I wanted for your father, yet somehow things went badly. Never mind how or why, for there are few things more tedious than an old man’s regrets. All you need know is that you have always been my single chance for redemption. The fact of you kept me from becoming ossified and complacent. A rich man does not have to adapt or to evolve into a better person, for his money buys any number of plots of land in which to bury his mistakes. This tendency of hiding and turning away from errors is so common that most rich men do not even know they do so and that all they buy is premature death. What gold buys the wealthy is a delusion of significance, when in truth we are no more significant shooting into the world covered in blood than when we are at last sewn into our shrouds, silver spoon or no silver spoon. All a rich man really has is the means of commanding the attention of others and shiny coins for the hiring of musicians, the trappings of theater; we make religions of ourselves. For my ignorance I could weep from now until death comes to claim me, which will not be long. I have had and have wasted a thousand times more than the average man, a million times more than any poor man. This now-failing body, of which eyes and hands and tongue long ago became servants to acquisition and to the have-ingness of objects, in which no god could ever be felt even if it did exist. I cannot claim that I was not shown the way; in love, in poetry, in the early wonder of being a father I again and again beheld transcendence. Now, it seems that all that is left to me are my fears for you, Joey. And my hopes. Soon enough I will be sewn into my last suit and my mud shall join that of the planet. Poised on the edge of that precipice, desperate to leave just one thing which is not matter but energy, my thoughts turn to you. As I realize the true insignificance of all of my successes, I am left in shock. I have been a man admired, emulated, sought after and written about; my obituary is already typeset. But none of this is real. You, Joey, are the only real thing in my life. And I pray to what gods there might be that by the time you read this you will still be real. I fervently wish that I could be there to watch your face as you read this letter. There is a force in this fifteen-year old you which gives me hope as I write this that I would recognize this you in even your thirty-nine year old self. Thirty nine is old enough to know oneself and young enough to still have many beginnings ahead, to be nearly ready to undertake learning the kabbalah of yourself. While I cannot begin to imagine you in another quarter-century, eyes do not change, and yours at fifteen are vast unknowable universes, containing humor and ridicule, fascination and condemnation. Your eyes radiate not only intelligence but agility. There is drive in you, but as for what persons, ideas, goals that passion will attach to remain to be seen. If I know you, whatever occupies your adult life will be original, principled, daring. You will expect too much from people and be disappointed in them. I hope that you will open to love I feel that for you this inheritance, this sudden having-ness will bring only good. By now in your adulthood, you know who you are and will have honed and refined the means of making a living. Perhaps you will be a parent, what a thing to imagine! Your grasp of cause and effect will be solidly in place, guided by justice. You will be merciful and self-effacing. You will hold your success with equanimity and not rest upon laurels previously given. Your restlessness will cause you to remain a searcher until the end of your life. Despite my many mistakes, I clearly see these possibilities in you. So do what you will with all of this: the house, the properties, the businesses or what remains of them if they have been well managed. The cabin. You have my gratitude for what has turned out by far to have been the most significant relationship of my life. We have always seen one another, you and I. If as the poets say love never dies, then as you read this feel me once again. Grandfather Let us now return to the porch where the then-me stands uncertainly. I did finally unlock and enter the house, but I did not stay any longer than necessary. I had by then come to settle in another part of the state, and my grandparents’ home was sold with most of its furnishings. I kept only a few pieces of furniture for my study, and from the massive door I saved the window with its many textured panes, having it installed in the west wall of my study. At certain times of the year late afternoon sunshine warms me as I worked and I can easily imagine Grandfather looking over my shoulder. Well can you imagine, then, my reaction to what I found after returning from a conference this June. It was already past dark when I finally unpacked and sat down to catch up on email. Only when I was seated at the desk did I notice what appeared to be gritty powder on the blotter. Brushing it aside I felt a tiny stabbing pain and stared rather stupidly at two drops of blood welling on my fingertip. I turned on the overhead light and saw a spray of glass shards across the desktop. At a slight draft on my neck I spun in my chair to see that one of the Grandfather’s windowpanes had been broken, leaving an irregular oval hole which let in the night. The hole - no larger than a fist - certainly would not have permitted access to anything larger than a squirrel, and that impossible, for from the outside the damage was at least seven feet above ground level. Nonetheless I was deeply bothered, quelling a hot dark emotion as Griff looked around the room. Of course, citing security concerns I had called him in the morning. He studied the ground beneath the window outside, finding no footprints, stooped, crawled and took pictures. No disturbance inside? asked Griff. None. Nothing taken or disturbed. Just the window. It is very old, came from my grandfather’s house. Can it be fixed? asked Griff I am sure I can inquire with the historical preservation society and find someone who works with leaded glass. Don’t think you need to worry about someone breaking in. Doubt that’s what happened here. Do you think it could be from the landscape company? A rock kicked up by the lawnmower? Uhh, no. Think I know what happened said Griff. You gonna be around later? I will I said I’ll be back maybe an hour. We’ll get this sorted, as Bunny likes to say. An odd expression crossed Griff’s face before being replaced by the speculative lawman squint. I was at the desk working an hour later when Griff returned, tapping on the open door. Got a minute? Of course I said. Griff came in and I noticed Hank’s apprentice Kit’s angular shape in the doorway. What is this? I asked. Kit has something to tell you said Griff. Come in and sit down, both of you I invited. Kit slouched into one of the two chairs that face my desk. Griff closed my study door and came, depositing something on the desk with a meaningful look at me. What is that, a slingshot? I asked. And - is this a BB? Wrist rocket said Griff. Found that pellet on the floor under the desk this morning. Standing almost over Kit, a steely-faced Griff nudged a leg of the girl’s chair. Go on. Tell her. What was this now, I wondered. Why bring the girl in here? I broke your window said Kit. You broke my window I repeated, a statement. Why did you break my window? Kit shrugged. Griff scowled. I’ll pay for it said Kit. I can. Well and good, but I really do need to know why. Were you trying to break in here? Was there something in here that you wanted? When did this happen? Confusion angered me. Over the course of more than a year I had gotten to know the girl Kit and none of this was making any sense, least of all her apparent unconcern. Have I somehow offended you? I asked. The question surprised both of us. She looked directly at me for the first time. Her face underwent a rapid change, and I saw a minute glitter in the corner of one eye. The plumwine stain over one cheek, usually obscured by a fall of dark bangs, stood out prominently. No she said. Please don’t think that. All right I said. Then why, Kit? She covered her face with one long hand. Griff made a sound of exasperation. Fucking explain yourself, you little punk. That window came from Jo’s grandfather’s house, ya know that? Say something, goddamnit! I don’t know said the girl. She lifted her face. I seriously don’t know. She and I regarded each other across the desk for a long while. I’ll pay for it Kit repeated. Is there no way you can help me understand this? It really is quite strange I said. I do feel that I deserve an explanation. She shook her head slowly, staring down into her lap again. Her neck looked tender and unprotected; I feared any moment Griff would hoist her up by the scruff and shake until answers fell out like loose change. Kit looked up past me suddenly. Can I see it? The window? Here, I said, pulling off the cardboard patch. She studied it systematically while I watched. My Grandfather collected the pieces from different historical buildings in Europe I said. I like the design said Kit, her eyes still taking in details. She turned to me. But I don’t get why you’d want a window you can’t see out of. After they left I realized two things. The first was that she had never actually apologized. The second was that she was not wrong. Those lovely bits of glass carefully searched out and purchased, wrapped and shipped or carried across the ocean, arranged by a no doubt underpaid artist into a pleasing mosaic for the door - each is a cataractous eye. The view from this window is of foggy shapes; the trees outside are blurs of bright yellow-green, changing to dark green in summer. The color moves gently in breezes, agitatedly during storms; I can make out nothing of the trees, only their moods. Each autumn there come hazy reds and oranges followed by black stippling of bare winter branches. I spend a great deal of time at the desk, and if I were to only take my reality from behind the desk I would never know what a real tree looks like. An artisan was found to replace the broken pane, an elderly man who has traveled the country doing so for longer than I have been alive, most of his commissions coming from synagogues and churches. He treating the lead chemically to accelerate oxidation so that old and new appeared to be of an age. It was a summer afternoon with the sunset coming through warmly when I called Kit in to see what her reparations had paid for. Once again I watched her, noticing how the light refracted beguilingly through the tawny eyes. She looked at the repair and turned to me, her face open with wonder. But you just put in regular glass she said. Yes I did, I said. I decided after some thought that you were right, and that there was limited value in a window I cannot see out of. There are trees out there; I want to see them clearly. The new piece would keep out the rain and the wind while allowing me to see the outside in a new way, and that, I told her, was all that mattered.


A Dangerous Game of Cat and Mouse: or You Can Be the Mouse and I Will Be the Cat Part 1 of 3 I knew trouble when I saw it. What walked through my office door was about six and a half pounds of premium grade high-octane trouble. She was a classic beauty - lithe, long-legged and almond-eyed. Dainty feet. She had the kind of eyes that lied to you, straight out, but you couldn't hold it against her - and you couldn't help wanting to believe her. I dropped the mouse I'd been working over. I hardly noticed it run across the floor back into the hole it came out of. Fine. I could start up with him again later. Right now there was the most beautiful female I'd laid eyes on in months. In my office. Looking right at me. She closed the door with her hip. The hairs on my arms rose. "Someone told me you're called Harry," she purred. My voice came out thick, but I managed to say, "That's right. I'm Harry, the private dick." I hesitated, then asked, "What can I do for you, Miss?" "Call me Cleo," she said. Her voice was light and whispery. I glanced at my water. It was too early to start drinking. Cleo climbed on top of my desk, and the temperature in the room climbed five degrees. She did that sweet little roll that only females can pull off: she put her shoulder on my desk, started a somersault - in mid-twists, she flipped onto her back, giving me a long look down her tender white belly. "I can't find my friend," she said, wistful. "I'd like you to find him for me." It felt like I had a hairball. I couldn't cough it up or swallow it down. It wasn't really a hairball - it just felt like one. That's what happened every time I got stuck on a dame. I felt sick. I held back the hacking. She just kept that sweet green-eyed gaze trained on me. I stared back. "Well?" she demanded. I realized she wanted me to say something. I had lost track of the conversation. Was it about a toy? A bird? I remembered something about a mouse. Maybe it was a spider. I tried shaking my head, but it just made my ears itch. Great. I was sinking in a pit and the pit kept getting deeper. "Of course," I said. I meant, of course I was getting stupider with every passing second: there was a pretty little long-haired calico stretched out on my desk. Who'd have any sense looking at that? No matter that I had lost any brains I ever had, my words sounded like an answer to her. She jumped up and gave me a sunny smile. That was it. Her smile broke my old heart into a million pieces. The shards left behind couldn't have been any smaller if she had smacked them with a ball peen hammer. She winked her pretty green eyes at me. That would have been the end of me, except I was already lost. "Super! Why don't you start now?" "Ok." I kept staring at her. "Aren't you going to do something?" she demanded after a couple moments. "If you're going to find him, don't you need to get up or something?" Dimly, I remembered something about a friend. Her friend. The memory got closer and closer. Right. She was looking for her friend. "What's your friend's name?" I asked. "Pookums." "Ok, sweetheart, what's his name?" I winked at her. She gave a little snort. "That is his name, silly. He's called Pookums." She paused, and added, "He has one of those long, involved names, like Sir Pointy-Toe Plushbottom Pookums Snookums Rex the Fourth. But to his friends, he's just Pookums." "Hm. Purebred," I said. Purebred cats always had the kind of name no one could remember long enough to yell out the back door. I'd have to make a note to start looking for a spoiled brat-cat. I fished around in the top drawer of my desk. I pulled up string, some old tinsel and a milk jug ring. I gave up the search for a pen for the moment. Note-writing would have to take a back seat to something much more important: Cleo was stretching, and it made the room a little brighter. And another five degrees warmer. "He's a Himalayan. Flame point." I couldn't help rolling my eyes. One of those, I thought. A fancy-pants pussy cat with a pedigree a yard long and a name twice as long. One of those designer cream puff kitties who wouldn't know which end of his paw to hit with if it came down to a brawl in a back alley. A momma's boy kind of cat who probably had a silver bowl with his name engraved on it. He probably had a personal trainer and a shrink. Hell - he probably had his own lawyer on retainer. It was always the fluffy, fancy-pants guy who raked in the classy dames. I looked at Cleo's wistful face. In my mind's eye, she was sinking her pretty little face into his six inch deep fur, purring like a race car engine, her claws unsheathed to just the tiny points as she started to knead his side. I could smell her body warming to him... I jerked my mind back to the office. Cleo was drinking my water. "Hey!" I said. She turned to smile. "I swear I don't have cooties, Harry." "No, it's not that. It's just old water and probably tastes like medicine. I dipped my finger in the bowl, you see, and my medicine..." She licked her chops. "No. It's fine." Then, sharply: "What kind of medicine, Harry?" "Ringworm," I managed to say. What a sap I was. Dames made me nervous, and beautiful dames made me stupid. It was a deadly combination. "Ringworm? That's kind of quaint, Harry. I was afraid it was something worse." She gave a cute little sneeze. I knew what she meant. A cat had to be so careful these days. There were things out there that could kill you without you ever knowing it was there, until suddenly everything inside you fell apart. I'd been around long enough to see a lot of friends go out like that. Rotting from the inside out and dying an inch at a time. Without any warning, she stood, arched her back in a quick stretch, yawned broadly - then said, "See you around, Harry." Before I could answer or tell her what I planned to charge her for finding Mr. Pookums-with-the-long-stupid-name, she disappeared through the door. It was like someone turned out the light in the world and plunged me into darkness. There was a quiet rustle. The mouse had come back. The stupid little chump heard the door close and figured all the cats were gone. It was just his bad luck that mice can't count higher than one. He didn't stand a chance against an experienced tabby like me. Within ten seconds, I had the mouse on his back, pinning him with one paw at his throat. "How many fingers am I holding up, Chuck?" I taunted him. "One!" he squealed. "Wrong!" I cuffed him in the head really hard, rolling him past my water bowl. I ran over and pinned him again. This was my favorite game... Games never last as long as you think they should, unless they last way too long. Cat and mouse left me in serious need of regrouping, so I stretched out on my desk. I knew I should lock the door, but I wasn't expecting anyone, and I was just going to catnap for a minute or two. Besides, the sun was so warm, slanting through the window. As my eyes drifted shut, I watched dust motes dance in the sunbeam. It was dark when I opened my eyes. I had only a half-second to focus before something hit me square in the forehead and landed me on my side on the floor. Whatever that something was, it picked me up neat as a pin and sailed me against the wall. I landed on my feet, but had no time to plan a defense: it was on me like stink on a dog. I turned my face away. If I could have plugged my nose, I would have - even if it cost me the fight. It picked me up again and headed out the door. It definitely was a dog. It smelled like cooked meat left out of the refrigerator too long. It had teeth as big as my ears and breath hot as the asphalt on a sunny day in August. If that wasn't enough to convince me I was being carried by a dog, I got a good look at his profile by the light of a street lamp. He was not just any dog. He was the ugliest dog I had ever seen. He didn't have a muzzle. He had a face. Dogs don't have faces, not proper faces with cheeks and grins. Dogs have muzzles - long and pointy, or long and droopy, or short and snipey. The thing carrying me was half the size of a horse and had a big, wide, meaty face. If he had been a human, he would have looked like a prize fighter who went one too many rounds. There was nothing in the cat world that compared to that kind of ugly. The thing gave me a shake and let go. I fetched up against the curb and fell in damp leaves in the gutter. He took a menacing step toward me. Now I got a look at the whole dog. He looked like half mastiff, half bull-dog and all mayhem. He was short-haired, white-furred with scars all throughout. Pure muscle under the scarred pelt. Torn ear. The skin under his left eye sagged. His mouth split his head in two sideways in an obscene pink grin, and six inches of tongue lolled out the side. He was not the usual stupid dog like I hoped. There was a mind behind those beady eyes, a mind like an adding machine. Fangs like Ginsu knives. Breath like poison. Coiled like a spring, he walked slow, letting me savor the size and shape of my last moments on earth. "You mind letting me know why you're making a milk shake out of me?" I demanded. He stopped walking. Drool spilled out of his huge maw as he answered. "Sure. My boss sent me. Either you pay the rent, or I take it out of your hide." So that was it. Jingles, the rat terrier who owned the building, was trying to muscle more out of me. Himself a shrimpy dog, he sent one of his enforcers. I could have handled Jingles. Nothing short of a stick of dynamite could have handled the dog facing me. I told the ugly mug: "I already paid the rent. I sent Jingles a dozen cheeseburgers yesterday." By now, drool was splattering on the pavement. "My boss said he didn't get the whole dozen." I started, "But - " and never got to finish the sentence. The thug's huge greasy lips closed over my neck and shoulders, and I got shaken like a rag. My brains were still rattling when he dropped me to the pavement for the second time. I lay there. “This time I’m being nice about it,” he warned. “You owe my boss six cheeseburgers by tomorrow night, or you’re going to be a small midnight snack. There won’t even be a red smear left if you don’t pay up.” He smiled. There was nothing but death behind the smile. “I’ll be back at midnight. Don’t make me have to hunt you down.” He leaned in for a close sniff of me. It was a nice touch. My bladder ached to let loose. In one of those weird lucid moments, I read the tag on his collar. It was a simple enough name: Malice. After the long sniff, which also covered me in spit, he trotted off, disappearing into the darkness. A white dog that size disappearing into the night just wasn’t right. He should have stood out like bird shit on slate. Instead, he was gone. It took me ten minutes to stand up after Malice left me. My back legs kept going east, while the rest of me leaned west. It wasn’t the first time I’d been roughed up, but I could tell it would be a long time until I couldn’t predict the weather by the knots in my back. I looked at the sky. It was only ten o’clock. I had all night ahead of me, and already I was feeling my age. I had to get some fast answers about a floofy-poofy cat, and I had to get my hands on some cheeseburgers even faster. I had no doubt Jingle’s enforcer would make good on the threat. My first stop was the home of Spiny the sphinx, just down the alley. He knew everything that went on because he never left his window seat. There was a reason for that: it heated up like an electric blanket. He toasted himself all day and night. Maybe he got down to eat once in a while, but in all the years I knew him, I’d never seen it happen. I forgot how ugly he was until he greeted me at the window - then I got the reminder. Even though Spiny was sitting down, I could still see the loose, hairless folds of skin hanging at his haunches. He looked like a beige-pink balloon that had lost too much air. He didn’t have ear hairs. That was disturbing. His ears were black on the outside - the skin itself was black. He had no eyebrows. He was lucky to have two short, crooked, mutated whiskers coming out of each side of his nose. As I looked in the window at him, I wondered if he resented humans for engineering his misery. But that’s not the sort of question you should ever ask, especially when you needed to call in some markers. Like I did. “Hey, hey, Harry,” he chirped. Even his voice was odd. He sounded more like a wounded bird than a cat. “Hey, hey, Spiny,” I responded in our routine greeting. “What do you know?” “I know everything, dumb ass. I’m a sphinx, remember?” he said. With a grunt of pain, I jumped up on the outside ledge. “Who chewed you up and spit you out?” he asked. “One of Jingle’s boys. Name of Malice. He shook me down for the rent, but I already paid it.” Spiny nodded to himself. “What?” I said. “Doesn’t it strike you funny you should pay and still get worked over?” Now that he mentioned it, funny wasn’t the exact word - I would have called it “suspicious”. Jingles never roughed me up before. I never gave him a reason to. It was just good business to stay on each other’s good side. “What are you saying?” Spiny shot me a look out of the corner of his eye. No eyelashes. I still wasn’t used to the cat, no matter how long I knew him. “Harry. Jingles is a rat terrier. He gets bigger dogs on his payroll to do his dirty work, but nothing too obvious. He goes for the medium mutts. The dog who worked you over was as big as a Buick. It’s not Jingles’ style.” I was starting to feel queasy. “How do you know it was a big dog who did this to me?” Spiny said, in the gentlest voice I’d ever heard from him, “You want to sit down? You got fang marks in your back.” I sat down. Then I fell down. I opened my eyes. It was dark. I half expected to be in Spiny’s front yard where I fell from the window ledge. It didn’t feel like grass under me. It felt like a blanket still warm from the dryer. I picked my head up. I was in Spiny’s perch, toasting my aching back and nursing a headache so bad it made my teeth hurt. I craned my neck until I caught sight of Spiny. He was curled up in a chair. He was wearing a red fuzzy sweater. It covered him from the flappy folds under his chin to the flappy folds in his groin. I tried to stand up and the perch squeaked. “Hey, hey, Harry,” Spiny chirped. “Hey,” was all I could muster. “Stan brought you in and doctored you up.” Stan was the human Spiny lived with. He was okay as humans went. He didn’t do any of that creepy baby-talk, and he didn’t do the cutesy stuff with perfumed shampoos and jeweled collars. In my book, that made him okay. That he brought me in and patched me up - without taking me to the vet who would more than likely suggest that putting me down would cost less than fixing me up - well, that made him more than okay in my book. My estimation of Stan went from okay right up to all right. I still couldn’t stand up straight, but I wasn’t going to lose any more time. “What time is it?” “It’s four in the morning.” “I have to get going. I have to find this fancy-pants cat -” I couldn’t quite remember the name, but I’d be fine as soon as I was on my feet and hitting the pavement. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ve been out like a light since the night you got here, two nights ago. You’re in no shape to go anywhere.” I put my head back down. Jingle’s boy Malice would have come to my office and not found me. He’d be looking for me with a mind to turn me into fillet-of-feline. I was already as good as dead, so there was no reason not to rest. When I could walk without staggering, I left Spiny’s place. I was feeling better, but I still didn’t have any information on the cat named Pookums. Spiny knew about Cleo, though. He told me she was trouble - no newsflash there - and then he told me exactly what kind of trouble. It was out of line. She was the sweetest thing I had ever seen, and the whole reason I wanted to finish the job was just to get another fifteen minutes alone with her. I didn’t give a row of rats about her fine friend. Spiny told me she was a junkie. “Spiny, you wouldn’t know a nice girl if she cleaned her claws on you,” I told him. Spiny shook his pointy head. “I’m telling you,” he chirped, “she’s a user. Just look for the signs. That funny light in her eyes. Dreamy voice. Lots of rolling on the ground. Thirst. She’d sell you out for a dab of goofy-weed.” I rolled my eyes. I was already headed for the door. “She will cross you!” Usually Spiny knew what he was talking about, but he was wrong on this one. It was early in the morning, but already light out. I figured it would be the best time to hit the pavement and avoid the big ugly dog Malice. I headed straight up the middle of the sidewalk and kept out in the open. No shadows. No edges. No bushes. I wanted that one foot wide patch of concrete right down the middle. He wouldn’t want anyone to see him grabbing a cat in broad daylight. The citizens were not so jaded that they could watch 120 pounds of dog eat six pounds of cat. By citizens, I mean humans. Dogs would egg each other on if they happened on that kind of scene. “Get-that-kitty! Get-that-kitty!” Cats would simply disappear, unless there was a crowd of cats. I had seen cats take on dogs singlehandedly, but never one as huge as Jingle’s boy. One cat could take a miniature poodle, no problem. I had also seen cats tag team a bigger dog. Again, not one the size of Malice. Two cats could take a husky. With the size of dog out to get me, I wouldn’t look for any help to come from either cats or dogs if he just stepped out of the shadows - I was depending on the kindness of human strangers. So far, it was working out. By the time I got to my office, I was ready for a nap. The heat was wearing me down, and I still had a set of Ginsu wounds along my spine. It was right ahead of me: “G and H Detective Agency”. The door was open. It wasn’t just ajar. It was swinging crooked off the top hinge only, and the hinge looked about to crack open. Scratches ran the length of the door, big werewolf sized scratches. It looked like a combination of teeth and claws marks on the door jamb. It wasn’t the scratching or chewing that busted the door open. The whole door was cracked and bowed. That big ugly mug must have body-slammed it till it gave in. I didn’t trust the door - it could all come crashing down. I didn’t want to have a deadly overdose of wood if the hinge broke. But there was no other way in, not even through the window. Years ago the fire escape fell off into the street, so there was no way in the window unless I sprouted wings. The only way in was through the broken door. I eased past the door, waiting for it to creak or groan. The hinge held fast. The door was just the appetizer for the jumble that had been my office. It looked like the Jolly Green Giant had picked the room up in one huge hammy fist and shaken it like a snow globe. The papers from my desk drawers must have drifted down like snowflakes. They littered everything. I saw my water bowl. It was broken. There was a huge muddy paw print in the middle of it. I glanced around. Apparently, the lug liked to decorate every surface with urine. It smelled like the dog pound six weeks after Christmas. I watched where I stepped. The place was so turned over, I almost didn’t see it. Something caught my eye, so I bent down to look. Poking out from under a file folder, there was a small piece of pink stationery with one line written on it, right in the middle. It said: “Meet me tonight at Packo’s - Cleo.” I picked it up gingerly. It must have been the one thing in my office that Malice hadn’t taken a squirt on. I could smell Cleo on the note she left. The hair stood out on my arms. There was no date on the note. I hoped she hadn’t sat at Packo’s waiting for me, thinking I was a chump for standing her up. Putting myself into high gear, I headed for the hamburger shop on the corner. It was a little ma-and-pa place where families used to go. On hard times now, it was easy to get a seat in there even on weekends. The younger, hipper crowd had moved on, and the families stayed home, minding their pocketbooks. I ran around back to the dumpster and popped inside. It was usually good for a couple of burgers. It must have been my lucky day. I found four burgers and a shopping bag that wasn’t even dirty. I packed the burgers into the bag and hopped out. I needed two more, and I could pick them up along the way to Albertine’s house. Albertine lived on the rich side of town. She was an ordinary gray cat, but somehow she had made it in the world of designer cats. I knew she still carried a torch for me, and I cared about her - but it just wasn’t like that for me. I needed her. She could get information that was hidden from me. She was in the in crowd, one of the beautiful people - there were things they would tell her but bury from someone like me. Right now, I needed a break on Pookums the Fancy-Pants, so I couldn’t afford to have a conscience. The sidewalk met my feet heavily. I looked at the sky. I had plenty of time before I had to be at Packo’s - it was a late-night cathouse that didn’t open the doors until midnight and it stayed open until dawn. There was no reason to rush, but I found I was dragging along slower and slower. I hardly had the steam to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I stuck to the center of the concrete. It would go very badly for me if Malice caught up with me in this condition. My luck held. I walked until I thought I couldn’t walk anymore. I sank into a rhythm. Suddenly I realized I was only a block from Albertine’s. I sped up as much as I could. I was panting by the time I reached her porch. I trotted up the steps and jumped onto the window ledge. I scratched the window frame until I heard movement in the house. Albertine opened the catdoor. It was one of those fancy magnetic catdoors. The magnet was on her collar - it operated the door. “Why, it’s you -” I came through the door. I had to shoulder her aside, and I could see the surprise on her face. “What in the world is going on?” I headed for the middle of the foyer, motioning her closer. I wanted that magnet as far from the door as I could get it. “There’s a dog after me. One of Jingle’s boys. Big bruiser called Malice.” Her face showed the appropriate amount of horror. “Good heavens, Harry. Come in the kitchen. We can talk there.” As I told her everything that happened, Albertine paced the kitchen floor. I could see she wasn’t happy about Cleo, but what else should I expect? Albertine was still sweet on me. She also didn’t look so happy about Pookums. She waited until I unloaded everything, then she sat down across from me, her feet all tucked together, her perfect tail wrapped around them. Maybe she wasn’t a purebred, but she was still a queen for all of that. “Harry, Harry, Harry. You don’t know how much trouble you’re headed for, do you?” I supposed she meant Cleo, so I said, “I can handle whatever comes. Cleo’s a nice girl, so don’t worry about it.” She laughed. “Cleo? Oh, Harry, she’s just a small piece in the bigger game. She’ll bring you heartache, of course, and I can see there’s nothing I can do to save you from it. But that’s not what I mean. I mean Pookums. He’s a bad seed. He may come from good stock, but he’s a bad one. He deals.” That caught my attention. “Deals?” Albertine shook her head like I had said something stupid. “Why do you think Cleo is so interested in finding Pookums?” I sat there blinking at her. She laid it out for me: “Cleo uses. Catnip is her drug of choice. Pookums deals catnip. He deals it for sex, usually.” Here she gave me her serious face. “Harry, Cleo is a special client of his. She’s spayed. She’ll never have kittens, and she isn’t interested in Pookums like that. But he’s interested in her, so he deals to her for favors. This is one twisted knot you’ll never get apart.” I looked her over. She was always honest with me, but I was looking for some telltale sign that she was not being straight with me. Looking for a sign that she was mistaken or confused. She had to be wrong about Cleo. “If that’s true, then what does she need me for?” “Pookums has been missing for days.” I let it sink in. That matched the scenario. What was Albertine getting at? “So she came to me to help her find her friend. That’s what she told me.” Albertine tried to nuzzle me. I shouldered her off, realizing too late that I had just crossed the line with her. She cuffed me across the nose. “Get out.” “Albertine...” “Get out now. You’re headed for a world of hurt. You can’t see it coming. You probably wouldn’t care if you did see. She has you whipped, Harry, and you’re not thinking.” I stood up to leave. “I don’t know why I care about you, Harry. You’re a louse. But you should know this: Pookums isn’t just off having fun. He didn’t disappear on his own. Rumor has it he had help disappearing, and he won’t be back. This is out of your league. I just needed to tell you. If you don’t leave this alone, you’ll end up dead.


2019 - El Dorado Hills, CA Devin bursts through the front door and slides to a stop on his knees in front of the entertainment center. In record time he fluidly powers up the television and game console betraying not only his excitement but also his experience. He’s been waiting for this moment for weeks now and to his ten-year-old self it’s felt like an eternity. The warm glow of the Fortnite loading screen greets his retina and is passed to his cerebral cortex. An equally warm burst of dopamine makes Devin smile. Positioning his gaming headset just so, Devin eagerly anticipates the voice chat trash talk that’s about to come. He’s good at it. He’s “Tourette’s Syndrome” good, having learned many choice insults from his older brother. In the past he’s made people scream at him; sometimes cry. The loading screen seems slow today, but Devin assumes it’s due to user traffic. Everyone knows that today is the “Summer Solstice Soldier” Event release day. He presses “Play” and sees a quick glitch; strange, but the Battle Royale begins and his worries evaporate. Raising the sights of his weapon to his first-kill he screams “GET WRECKED!” into the microphone. A rapid succession of ten-year-old insults and virtual bullets hurl towards some innocent person at the receiving end. Unbeknownst to Devin a day and a half ago and 94,467,556 miles away the largest X-Class Solar Flare ever recorded exploded out from the surface of the sun. The radiation’s trajectory eventually aligned with the Earth causing an EMP of massive proportion. Overnight, satellites lost contact with their controlling stations. Much of Europe, Russia, some of Northern Africa and western regions of China lost power as they bore the brunt of the blast. Auroras were seen as far south as Northern Texas. Internet usage and electronic communications were affected worldwide as people arose from their slumber and sleepily checked their mobile devices. Today the solar radiation of that X42.7 flare is still bombarding the planet as Devin furiously mashes buttons and screams curse words into the voice chat. 1953 - Chicago, IL Harry Edwards awkwardly reclines on a burgundy leather Chesterfield sofa in Dr. Martin Landers’ office. It’s dimly lit except for the thin window which Dr. Landers peers out of while listening to Harry’s words. “I don’t know what to do, Doc; I ... I feel crazy. The voices in my head keep screamin’ at me. All sorts of curses and takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. Some of it I don’t even understand. Today I’m movin’ boxes off a truck and out of nowhere - ‘GET WRECKED!’. I nearly shit myself! Ya' gotta help me.” Dr. Landers returns his gaze from the window to the man, inhales and exhales. “Mr. Edwards, this sounds like early stages of Schizophrenia. It’s a serious condition, but in this modern day and age very treatable. I’m going to write you a prescription for Thorazine which you should start taking immediately.” He removes a set of tarnished keys from his jacket pocket, unlocks a cabinet and retrieves a dark brown bottle with tablets inside. As Dr. Landers hands it to Harry he thanks him for his time and sends him out to the lobby to schedule a follow up appointment with his secretary. Closing his office door, he returns to his desk and scribbles in his journal: ‘Patient suffers from delusions of hearing hostile disembodied voices. Fifth case of schizophrenia diagnosed this week.’ He sets the pen down on his desk, reclines back in his chair and turns to face the daylight once more. “How odd,” he says aloud.