THE TINY SILVER BELL The leaf was settled, stretched out, with the tips of its lobes upright, on the bench , right next to her, who only noticed it when she get up. It was a five lobed maple leaf , whose predominant color was reddish, which had almost completely eliminated the green. It was autumn and under the trees, in the meadows, in the gardens, but also on the roads and the city streets there were many leaves , there were carpets of fallen leaves. That one, perhaps carried by the wind, lay on the bench as if it was sitting on it ( on the bench). “ My little leaf “ she said, taking the maple leaf in her hand. It seemed to Zara that the rather little maple leaf was there , on the bench, just for her. Even before she could see the reverse of the leaf Zara, as soon as took the leaf in her hand, felt something hard and rather cold against the palm of her hand, while the leaf was cold and warm. She thought of an insect, perhaps a little beetle, a ladybug, that was attached to the leaf. ( to the other side of the leaf). It was instead a very small thing, a tiny object , really a trinket. It was something not to be believed in her eyes. ( something that made her to not believe in her eyes) There was a very tiny silver bell attached, or rather hung on the other side of the leaf. The tiny silver bell had also a rattle____ otherwise what bell would it have been?____and its rattle went : DIN DON DAN. And , surprise in surprise, when Zara took the leaf by the petiole, to lift it from the palm of her hand, on which she had placed it , truly (very) incredible, the tiny silver bell remain attached, or, rather hung on her index finger. So that it was enough for her to move only a bit her finger and the tiny bell started ringing: DIN DON DAN. Zara, she didn’t really know how that would be possible. She was more than incredulous, more than amazed. But she didn’t even think for a moment of removing the tiny bell from her finger. Zara started walking down the same narrow paved road which would take ( would have taken) her to the lane between the fields , that she usually made to come back home. Alongside and parallel to that narrow stretch of asphalted road, there was a freeway where, in addition to cars, many heavy vehicles transited : big trucks with tall and long wagons, trucks with long tanker trailers. Zara, as walked on that narrow stretch of paved road, keeping her index finger pointed forwards, so that the tiny bell rang___DIN DON DAN___at every step she took, she could see, out of the corner of her eye, those big trucks, with tall and long trailers, that sped on the super highway, after turning at the roundabout, with an agile movement , which never it would be expected by vehicles so much heavy. When they turned at the roundabout, they looked like huge snakes crawling sinuously on the asphalt. When she, sitting on the bench when she had found that maple leaf, under which there was the fabulous tiny silver bell, watching at them as they turned, following them with her eyes until she could see them, keeping her eyes glued to the back of their huge wagons, Zara always thought: these big trucks really go far. Sometimes, to tell the truth, she had been tempted to ask for a ride in one of those big trucks with big trailers. Leaving a place where she was sick, where indeed she had always been sick, getting into one of those trucks, that certainly went far away from there. And so she could come far enough that she once got there, it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to her to go back. Zara had been seized by this temptation several times while she, walking on that narrow stretch of asphalted road, along the freeway where those big beasts, the trucks, whizzed by , she had felt that they stir the air as they passed. But until then she had never asked for a ride.....to somewhere far enough from there. Until that special day, when she found the tiny silver bell under the maple leaf that was sitting on the bench right next to her, Zara didn’t dare to stop one of those big beasts of the trucks for a ride. But that day was a very special day. She not only had found the silver bell under the leaf, but the tiny bell had attached itself to her index finger, and it rang ___DIN DON DAN___at every step she took. So she dared. Indeed it was be tiny silver bell, hanging on her finger, that pushed her, took her on the highway, where she started running alongside every big truck which passed, and she, waving her arms and hands, tried to stop a truck. While the tiny silver bell was sounding more and more louder, just as if it, the tiny bell, were working hard for a truck to stop and she could have a ride. Miracle! It was the tiny silver bell which was taking her away from there, from that cursed place. It was again the fabulous tiny bell that pushed her to get (to go) into the middle of the freeway , after giving struggled for not a little time to run alongside those big trucks without anyone stopping. Zara knew that she, standing there, in the middle of the freeway, she was in danger of being run over, yet the impatience to be able to leave for any place, but far from there was stronger than the fear of being run over and killed. It was not the first big truck she faced, so to speak, face to face, that stopped. Two or three of those big trucks went by without stopping, and their drivers shouted the most terrible insults and also the fiercest threats to Zara. Then finally a truck stopped, despite the bombing of the horns of the vehicles traveling behind. Even the driver of that truck, from the window to which his face appeared, first , as greetings, addressed insults, and scares, and threats to Zara. But was she completely crazy to get there in the middle of the freeway? She, ugly witch, damn whore, was very dangerous! She could cause a real big mess, standing there, in the middle of the street! Oh, but of course a very bad woman like she didn’t care how many dead her insane, criminal behavior might cause! But why they let someone like her circulate? Oh, she had to be locked up! Zara paid no attention to what the truck driver was yelling at her, and she started shouting that she was looking for a ride, that she needed a ride to get out ( away) of there as soon as possible. “ Ah, but listen, the slutty lady wants a ride! And, let’s hear, where do you want a ride for, milady?” The truck driver asked the question with a giggling tone ( voice), as if to imply ( to say) : “And imagine if I can give a ride to you!”. He spoke protruding ( sticking out) his big and ugly face from the window ( out of the window). Meanwhile the bombing of the horns of the cars and other vehicles to which the big truck, which was stopped almost in the middle of the freeway, was getting louder and louder. Maybe because ( since) the drivers of those vehicles, at a certain moment ( after some time) didn’t only protest with the horns, but they got out on the street and started to kick the big truck, and to threat , very angry, the driver, or maybe it was instead because the tiny bell attached to Zara’s finger started ringing ( sounding) louder and louder, that that man, the driver of the big truck, albeit with a shivering grunt, said to Zara that she could get on board, ugly bitch she was! Zara with a leap was on board of the truck. As soon as she jumped up into the truck’s cockpit, before she even sat down, Zara began to thank the very little bell, since, oh, it had been it, so tiny, to do the miracle of making her find a ride to get out from there! He, that big man driving the big truck, shaking his head and grunting, kept on saying that oh, but she was also stupid , as well as completely crazy.....Oh, and he was giving a ride to....to one like her....Ah, who knows what was shaken in his head to make such a fool ! Zara, after thanking the very miraculous little bell, she thought to thank the driver too. Ah, he couldn’t imagine what it meant for her to be able to get away from there, getting on a truck like his one , that certainly had to go far. “Eh, we are going quite far, yes...I have to take my load to St. Petersburg” The big man muttered. Oh, as soon as she knew how far and WHERE the big truck would have taken her, no less than in Saint Petersburg! Zara jumped to joy and started to thank and to tank again the tiny silver bell , and the truck’s driver, and the big truck, too. He, the driver was a big and bodied man, stout and muscular, with tattoos on his biceps, representing Christ on the cross and the Madonna. He was called Karol. Karol was born in Poland, but he had been living in Italy for more than twenty years. He was married with an Italian woman and they had four children. Karol was a hauler for( since) many years. He, in his big truck, mainly transported (carried) products of Italian agriculture to the countries of Eastern Europe. Eh, he had already been to Saint Petersburg a lot of times. Always with a load of highly sought products grown in Italy. This time he was transporting ( carrying) the special and very delicious Red Potatoes grown in Maremma. Of course she too had heard talking of the very wonderful Red Potatoes of Maremma. Yes, Zara knew those Red Potatoes and she also had heard how expert gastronomes advised to cook them, which had to be placed into the oven with the peel and cooked over a slow fire. But she really couldn’t understand why in Saint Petersburg they needed of those red potatoes grown in Maremma, Zara came to say ( observe). Then Karol told her, looking at her sideways, with pity....oh , but then she didn’t know that the Red Potatoes from Maremma had extraordinary properties that Russian scientists had discovered, and precisely scientists from Saint Petersburg, who, when they had come on holiday to Italy, had been able to taste the very tasty Red Potato of Maremma. Karol began to say, or rather to shout, ah the medicines, the miraculous drugs that the Russian scientists had obtained from those very special potatoes! “ Then they, Russian people don’t eat them” It came to say to Zara. “ Oh, they also eat the red potatoes, instead:...indeed they are very greedy of them . They roast the red potatoes , then shower them with vodka , then cover them with peppery cream and again drop on them vodka...ah , such a real delight, such a delicacy ....” Karol said, licking his lips. “ But in addition eating them, they, that is their scientists, managed to extract some....now I don’t know how to say....some active ingredients, some substances that are able to cure even serious diseases. Yes, they, the Saint Petersburg’s scientists, oh, very great scientists...., discovered the healing power of the Red Potatoes grown in Maremma. “ But when Zara asked him which ( what) diseases the red potatoes, or the substances extracted from them, were able to cure, he , the big driver of the big truck said only that the Red Potatoes , he was carrying to Saint Petersburg, contained very special substances which, combined with others, were very effective in healing diseases caused by the alcoholism. Eh, sure that even in Saint Petersburg people drank heavily, eh, with that frost it was obvious that the people would try to warm themselves with VODKA! And Karol started shouting of vodka, which was a really bomb! Other than whiskey and cognac, and rhum...eh, compared to vodka, they were sugar water! While he kept shouting his homage to vodka____Long life the vodka of Don! Long life the vodka of Neva! Hurray the bomb exploding in your stomach, the vodka!____ Karol pulled a rather large metal flask out of the dashboard., and shouting:“ Ah, here it is my dear vodka! “ , as he continued to drive, with only one hand on the wheel, he began to drink greedily from the flask.” Oh, but be careful, you have to drive” Zara couldn’t help but say, almost worried, while the tiny bell had started to ring louder and louder, as if to warn of a danger.” Ah, don’t worry , baby! With Karol you’re safe! Oh, I can hold alcohol very well! Don’t worry! Indeed I even drive better when I’ve had my fill of vodka! Ah! Ah! Don’t worry, dear baby! We’ll arrive In Saint Petersburg safe and sound! And also whole!” The big driver shouted, while he kept on drinking from the flask. And in fact their journey continued without incident. They stopped every two, three hours at most at the motorway grills , for refreshment, for eating too, and for taking two steps just to stretch their legs. During those stops Karol went to check his load of red potatoes, and he always did it alone. He didn’t want Zara to be present So that, inevitably, she began to have some doubts... That Karol was also carrying something else besides the prodigious Red Potatoes of Maremma into the great trailer of his big truck? That he was even hiding something among the potatoes? And if he was hiding something, what could it be? Come on, but she didn’t have to think about it, she ended to say herself. She had rather to think that she, finally, had succeeded in getting out ( away) of that damned place, of that damned country too, and that she was on the way for Saint Petersburg. Their journey proceeded smoothly, in complete tranquility until they went about to cross the border between Poland and Lithuania. Here, at the border, Karol’s truck, with its cargo, was seized , and he, Karol, was arrested. Zara, who risked of being arrested too, was saved by the providential intervention of a priest who was called to be an interpreter. Zara learned that Karol , in addition to the load of Red Potatoes, he smuggled very special animals from Italy to Russia. Those animals were pigs, or rather a kind of pigs, since they had been obtained by genetic engineering . These animals could be considered a hybrid, or a medium , between pig and...man ( human), so they were in great demand for organ transplantantion. For some time animal welfare organizations had raised the alarm about the completely illegal trafficking of these animals from Italy to other European countries. Saint Petersburg was still far away. But when the tiny silver bell started ringing, with an impatient tone, Zara set out on the road. She knew she would get there anyway, in the enchanted city, even if she had to do the whole journey on foot.


TW: alcohol dependency I won’t be able to do that today, I’m sorry. That’s what she was thinking to herself over and over as she lay in bed that morning. Apologies, but I won’t be able to do that today. She stretched out her feet from under the covers and clicked the joints in her ankles. Her body expanded for a moment in satisfaction and then flattened itself out again. The ache around her temples wasn’t so bad this time. I won’t do that today. I’m not sorry. I don’t apologise. Her eyes fixated on the ceiling as the shape of the shadows strewn across it gradually shifted. The sun was creeping in behind the blinds and there were long, rectangular blots of darkness striping her ivory painted walls. For a moment it looked like a prison. I’m a prisoner. I’m a prisoner trapped inside my own discontent. She rolled over and let the flickers of sunlight warm her face. In that moment the brightness might have tricked someone into thinking it was summer, she thought. There was no use setting an alarm in the mornings these days. Her body seemed to know what was coming. Sleeping in late by mistake would not be an issue but more of a blessing. If she were to miss her train then she would get into trouble, trouble that might lead to action. Action that might change her situation. It might even make her feel like she is worth more than the numbers under her name. Worth more than just the secrets she can keep. She could hear the sound of people on the street outside. It was usually quiet at this time of morning but some people took shortcuts down her road. Most of the other people were probably still sleeping in their homes. I’m not fucking doing that today. She let out a yawn and flopped her arms either side of her onto the covers. Then, with a sigh, she plucked herself from the warm bed. She hoisted the blinds, turning her prison into a light box brimming with potential for the day ahead. -- Seventeen people were in her train carriage that morning. Two she didn’t recognise, but every other face she had seen many times before. One man was on a phone call, like he was most mornings. He was loud and got progressively louder when the train passed through a weak reception area. She was sat facing two other women, one was looking out of the window with her headphones in. She gets off at the same stop. The other woman was asleep. Closing your eyes on the morning train, even for a second, was a bad idea, she thought. If you liked where you were going, that is. Maybe I should close my eyes then. She thought about what she would say when she sat down at her desk. She had to say good morning because it would be rude not to. She had to make niceties with them even though she did not want to. As soon as she took one step into that building, she would conceal her true self. Her eyes would glaze over. Her lips would purse. Her walk would stiffen. The train pulled up to her stop and she watched as the woman with the headphones gently tapped the sleeping woman next to her. She jolted upright, smiled and shuffled out into the aisle. Sorry you had to wake up. -- The building was a short walk from the station. She quite liked this part of the journey. It was an adequate amount of time for her to gather herself before she began her day. This part of the city had less of a rush about it. She could walk at a pace which didn’t feel like she was getting in the way of anyone behind her. Part of the reason she had put up with what she had for so long was due to the location of where she worked. It gave her some disconnect from the bustle that consumed so many other parts of her life. The building loomed overhead and she braced herself for what was to come that day. It was a tall building and not unpleasant to look at from the outside. What went on inside told a different story. From the outside you couldn’t smell the lingering stench of a used bottle. You couldn’t hear the clinking of two small glasses crammed inside the desk drawer. -- She watched from her desk as everyone went about their morning routine. Coffee machines were filling the quiet with their familiar sound. Cups were sliding in and out of the plastic hold, one after another. No one paid much attention to her before they had indulged in their morning caffeine intake. The second for those who had ample time to drink one before they left home. Then she saw her. Jenny. Walking out of her office, dressed in bright turquoise with heavy black heels. She swept her hair back as she made her way down the corridor, smiling at anyone that fell into her line of sight. Being the boss of a business like this one would wear anyone down. Luckily for her, it didn’t show in how she dressed. Just in what she did. The two of them clocked eyes from across the main printing area. Jenny’s eyes lit up and she let out a knowing smile, one that could be identified even from all the way across the room. That look she gave was all too familiar. I’m not doing that. Today I’m not doing that. She smiled back at her boss and turned around to her laptop. It was 9:02. It was too early for that look. -- Shortly before lunch, she started to prepare herself. She had somehow got through the morning without having to go in to Jenny’s office to speak to her. On a busy day, she would have been in and out of there at least three times already by this time. She wanted to avoid having the conversation all together. Dip out for lunch. Try and time it so she got back into the office after everyone else. But if you don’t have the conversation now you won’t ever have it. She was half way out of her chair when she heard her name called out alongside a loud noise. The sound of metal on glass. She turned around to see Jenny opening the door. On her way to open it, she had probably knocked into the blinds, causing one of them to fall down, covering the office from view. That’s convenient. She braved a smile as she made eye contact with her boss. There was that look again, this time accompanied by a gesture that was welcoming her inside. Her body froze up with a tension she had grown to ignore. Today it was unavoidable. She wanted the words to come out. She had rehearsed them in her head. They shouldn’t be hard to say. Today. I’m. Not. Doing. That. Nothing. She loosened her body and uncovered a smile that she didn’t think was there. Then she walked into Jenny’s office. -- It started a year ago on her first day. She was learning how to get used to everything, as the systems they used at this place were a slight upgrade from her last job. The people in her team were friendly, if a little disinterested with welcoming another new person. She had got the impression that there had been a fair few people before her who hadn’t lasted that long. Just before the end of the day, Jenny had called her into her office to go over everything. It was a lot of general chit-chat, a bit of eye-rolling about certain software complexities and it ended with an offering. Jenny placed two glasses on the desk before her. She pulled out a big, dark-green bottle masking the brown-coloured spirit inside. Before she could object, Jenny was pouring her a glass. She wanted to decline, to tell Jenny that she wasn’t drinking anymore. That she had stopped when she found herself having a glass every night before she went to bed. When she crashed her sister’s car into a lamppost on a late-night run to the shop. She held the glass and they toasted to a successful day. Maybe one is fine. But it turned out to be more than one. What started as a celebratory drink with Jenny, the bright and bubbly, successful business woman, ended up becoming a weekly drink. Every Friday Jenny would call her in, they would toast to the week, good or bad. Jenny began to find out more and more about her life, who she was dating, what she thought about everyone else in the office. Then the Friday drinks became daily, and after not too long Jenny was calling her into the office during lunch. She didn’t know how to say no. She had told Jenny things that a boss should not know. But Jenny still didn’t know about the car crash, or about the mornings she would wake up wishing she could remember what she had said the night before. Jenny didn’t know that it made her feel like a prisoner. -- She closed the office door behind her as Jenny muttered something under her breath about the mess. It was a mess. Stained, sticky rings circled the wooden desk and piles of paper with curled edges littered the sofa. The plant atop the filing cabinet was withered and dead, like the smell lingering from the empty coffee mugs. Jenny asked her how her day was going so far. Today I - Before she could answer, Jenny started talking about how ugly the receptionist’s hair was today. She was wearing a new colour that she had had done the day before. Jenny made a comparison to a rusted saw that ‘you might find in the back of the garden shed’. She was uncapping the freshly bought bottle, probably picked up on the way in that morning. You were in the shop buying alcohol before I had even left my bed. As the drink slid into the glass, the rich and robust smell of toxicity filled the air. She looked at the level rising, the measurement increasing with the amount of time that would be needed to finish it. She wanted to put her hand out and cover the bottle. She wanted to push the glass off of the table. She didn’t want it but she didn’t know how to say she didn’t. I am not. I’m - The room had gone silent. She hadn’t responded to a single word Jenny had said since she had entered the office. She hadn’t even sat down. Now the silence had crept up on her. Jenny was staring at her. Right then there was so much that needed to be said. There was a silence that needed to be filled with small talk, with drinking and toasting to unnecessary achievements or commiserations. But suddenly she saw in Jenny’s face all she needed to make her act. To make her walk into the trouble. Jenny sat, head back and slightly angled to show a look of confusion. Her whole body was illuminated by the midday sun outside, the rays of orange lighting up her whole complexion. So bright, so piercing in their revelations. As her boss stared on in disbelief that her companion was blankly ignoring everything she said, long rectangular shapes darkened and striped her whole body. In that exact moment, Jenny; the powerful, vibrant boss clutching her glass of room temperature scotch looked like a prisoner. Just like the ceiling in her bedroom this morning. Jenny was behind bars, her own bars that she put up herself. She couldn’t get out because her fellow inmate was keeping her going, enabling her problem, extending her sentence. This time she knew what she needed to say. There was no moment before then that was more perfect. “I’m not doing that today. “I’m not doing that with you today or any day. This isn’t normal behaviour. We are prisoners to it, Jenny. There needs to be a point where we say ‘enough’. Jenny sat in silence, the drink inside the glass still swirling from being poured mere seconds before. “I actually only agreed to come in here today because I wanted to tell you that I am leaving. This place is not good for me. I wake up every day and feel like I’m already sliding down the neck of that horrible bottle before I have even brushed my teeth”. There was silence in the room again except for the faint sound of people outside the building, heading to have lunch. She could feel herself moving with them. She could sense her feet taking light strides with everyone else unconsumed by Jenny’s poisonous habit. Her poisonous habit. She had been treading the dark waters of this room for so long she was close to drowning. Now she could feel herself beginning to swim. She breathed out a deep sigh that felt like it had drained the tension away. She felt warm, in her mind and in her body. She felt like she had broken out of jail and, from the look in Jenny’s eyes as she backed out of her office door, no one was going to stop her.


It’s where I’ve always felt the safest. Whenever I felt scared or stressed, I would retreat to my bed, to that safe place under the covers I’ve known since I was a child. It’s a place I’ve been spending a lot of time in recently. Since my recent graduation, I spend hours everyday jobhunting on my computer in my bed. I thought it would be easy to find a job after college. I was laughably wrong. After another frustratingly fruitless day of the job hunt, I decided I was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to fill out anymore applications. In a fit of futile rage, I shoved my laptop off my bed and onto the floor. It was dumb, but it felt cathartic. A small consolation after another overwhelming defeat. All I wanted in that moment was an escape, to see the light at the end of my current situation. I saw no light. I pulled the covers over my head and cried myself to sleep, my tears soaking the old mattress. It was dark outside when I opened my eyes. My eyes were still damp. I glanced over at my alarm clock; the bright red numbers read 12:37 AM. I had only been asleep for thirty minutes. Feeling slightly annoyed, I rolled over and tried to fall asleep again. As I tried to drift back to sleep, I noticed what felt like a draft in my room. The draft was unlike any draft that I’ve ever felt. Instead of cool, it was warm and almost sticky. It had steady rhythm with short pauses in between gusts. I looked at my window; it was closed. I looked at my fan; it was off. The draft felt like it was getting stronger. Feeling slightly unnerved, I reached to pull my covers up further. As I touched them with my hand, I noticed movement between my fingers. I quickly reached for my phone and turned on its light. What I saw horrified me. Along the sides of the covers were long fibers that were beating rapidly and rhythmically, almost like massive cilia. The entire comforter was undulating slowly. The edges of the mattress were leaking a thick, slimy substance. I was about to scream, but then I heard a voice speaking in a whistle-like tone. “Do not be afraid, I only wish to ease the pain you feel. As I have always done” I was too afraid to speak, but it continued. “I can sense your emotions, your thoughts, and your desires. I know how hopeless you feel.” It reached up with one corner of the comforter and dried my eyes. “It doesn’t have to be this way; I can keep you safe and warm here. You don’t need to worry about the outside anymore.” Even though I knew I should be terrified, something about the way it spoke was comforting. “Why now?” I finally asked. “If you’ve always been here for me, why didn’t you speak up before?” “I’ve never had the strength before, but the more time you spent with me the more I’ve been able to interact with you.” It replied. “But I think it’s best if I didn’t burden you with unnecessary thoughts. It’s time for you to go back to sleep now.” Before I could interject, an overwhelming feeling of warmth and calm washed over me. I quickly fell into a deep sleep full of wonderful dreams. I was startled awake by the alarm on my phone. I quickly turned it off. It was 8 AM. I looked around my room. I didn’t see any long, beating cilia; I didn’t feel any weird drafts, and I didn’t hear any strange voices. I did notice the carpet around my bed seemed wet but that could have just been a leak in the roof. Something to deal with later I suppose. I normally go to the gym in the morning, but today my bed felt so warm that I just didn’t want to get out. I decided sleeping a little longer wouldn’t hurt. ***Buzz*** I opened my eyelids slowly, still in a sleepy stupor. ***Buzz*** It was my phone. I grabbed my phone, feeling slightly annoyed that someone was calling me this early in the morning. ***Buzz*** I looked at my phone. It was my boyfriend calling me. I glanced over at the alarm clock and it 5:27 PM. He must be calling about our date that was at 5. I turned my phone off. I didn’t feel like talking. I just wanted to go back to sleep. I can always call him back later I thought. I went back to sleep. I haven’t left my bed for a week. I’ve been drinking the water bottles I kept stored next to my bed, but I haven’t eaten in that time. I feel fine though. As long as I stay in my bed, I feel fine. I thought I had imagined my bed coming to life that one night but sometimes it still whispers to me. It says kind, comforting things that make me feel better when I feel alone. I haven’t looked in a mirror since I decided to not leave my bed, but I can see my ribs under my pale skin when I lift the covers. My arms and legs are hard to lift but that’s okay. I don’t need to move as long as I have my bed. I’ve noticed the bed has started changing too. The mattress used to be firm and thin. Now it’s plump and soft. The once frayed and stained covers look pristine and vibrant now. I guess I’m writing this message out to everyone because I just didn’t want anyone to worry. The outside world is tough. I encourage more people to stay in bed, it’s safer there. I just want everyone to know that I’m fine, as long as I stay in bed.


I woke up to the thick black smoke entering my lungs, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to cough but the more I did, the easier it was to choke. I tried to cover my mouth with my blanket, that’s when I noticed the heat. I could feel my veins melting out of my skin, I could feel the tiny hairs on my arms becoming nothing more than ash on the ground, it was so bright I felt like the sun was in my room. I heard someone screaming, but the sound of everything I had once loved burn to the ground like my house was nothing more than a fireplace was too loud for me to concentrate on anything else. I tried to scream for help but I barely had enough air to breathe, I couldn’t escape. It was already in my room. I tried to get up and get outside but I felt like my body was tied down to my bed, with no energy in me to move. I tried to cry but it seemed as though all the water from my body was already out of my system. I waited for my life to flash before my eyes, everybody’s does, doesn’t it? What kind of life have I lived if I get nothing but the black smoke turning me into ash? I closed my eyes, and I gave in. At that moment, I woke up, my heart was pounding so heart I wondered if it would wake my mom up, I coughed, but there was no black smoke filling my lungs. I looked down at my bed, and back around my room and placed my hand on my chest, sighing a breath of relief, it was just a dream, I thought to myself. That’s when my little sister ran into my room, “Christian!!” she screamed, “Did you have a bad dream again?” I smiled at her, “Yeah, same one, Dotty.” I saw her yawn, her hair was messy and she was in her pj’s, then I realised I must’ve woken her up, but when I was about to apologise my mum walked into my room, “Come on Dotty” she started, “let’s leave your brother alone” she said, as she took Dotty into her arms, kissed her on the forehead and closed my door behind them without so much as a look towards me. Ever since my bad dreams started happening my mother and my relationship hasn’t been easy, I think it’s because my dad left around the same time they started, and unfortunately for her, I’m a spitting image of my father when I was his age, so I didn’t blame her for being sad all the time. I hated my dad for leaving her this way, he’s so selfish. All he cares about is his next smoke and his next bottle. After I put a shirt on, I went downstairs and Dotty was watching television, my mum was sitting at the kitchen table, looking at photographs of when we were a family. “I’m sorry about last night, mum” I said, and she sighed, still not looking my way, and she whispered, “Oh, Christian.” I knew she meant that it was okay, but she, like me, was probably sick of me waking everybody up in the house at ungodly hours. I noticed the empty ashtray on the table, she hadn’t smoked for a few days. I thought that was progress at least, when my dad was here they’d smoke like trains. Just as I noticed the ashtray, she threw it into the bin, chipping off the sides of it against the outside of the bin. I went into the living room by Dotty, she had a glass of juice on the table, so I had a sip of that, and held the glass in my hand when I heard a knock at the door. My mum sighed again as she got up to slowly answer the door, her hair looked as though she had been sleeping for a month, although her eyes tell a story of the opposite. I heard her slowly answer the door, and mumbles to follow. I got up, because I thought the voice was familiar, I stayed out of sight, behind the doorway to the living room, “Is Dotty still here?” I heard a man ask, there was a hint of something other than concern in his voice, but I couldn’t pick up what it was, and I realised it was my father, I definitely didn’t want to see him, “Go away.” I heard my mum say as she tried to close the door on him, but his boot was in the way, “Let me see my daughter.” He said sternly, more anger in his voice this time than concern. “Your daughter?” my mum spat, “That’s rich coming from you.” I couldn’t see her but I imagined her eyes now stronger, with venom, “Don’t. I made one mistake, and I will live with it for the rest of my life, but for now, let me fix this.” He begged, I could hear the desperation in his voice. “Haven’t you done enough? You tore this family apart!” I heard her choking back on tears as she screamed, “I tore this family apart? Have you even told Dotty why her brother doesn’t join us for family outings? Why he doesn’t join you for dinner? Why he locks himself in his room all day and never leaves the house?” By this time I had heard enough, I stepped into plain view although none of them noticed me until I threw the cup at the door, and I heard my mum scream and begin to cry, “You made him mad!! Get out! GET OUT!!” she screamed as she slammed the door shut and began crying, she ran straight past me and I saw Dotty about to follow her when I stopped her, “Hey, don’t. It’s okay. She just needs some space.” Dotty nodded and went back into the living room to watch tv, I was about to pick up the broken glass by the door when I figured getting paper towels from the kitchen would be easier, as I reached the kitchen I found some pieces of the ashtray still outside the bin, so I put them in before I went to go clean up the glass I just threw at the door, and that’s when I noticed it. The paper that my mum was looking at on the table was now in the bin, although it wasn’t photographs of our family, it was just me. I picked it out of the bin and almost fell down with shock when I read what it said, “Christian Darko, loving son, loving brother, gone but never forgotten. 07-05-1996 - 17-02-2012” I fell on the floor. What the fuck is this, I thought to myself. And then I remembered. My dad had come home later that night, I was still awake because my leg hurt from basketball training. I heard my mother and him exchange words before she went to bed and he came to check on me, his smoke still lit in his mouth and whiskey on his breath, “And why the fuck are you awake?” he slurred at me, “My leg hurts from practice, I’ll be asleep in a sec though.” “Did you take your sleepy pills?” He asked, trying to be concerned but too drunk to care about anyone other than himself at this point, “Yeah. Goodnight dad.” He took that as his invitation to leave, and he did so. And I heard him flick something at my door, but I just rolled my eyes, he always flicks my door before he goes to bed. It’s like a good luck charm thing his family believes in. I saw something glowing under my door but shrugged it off and blamed it on the pills, then I fell asleep.


Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep-beep. My eyes pop open as I turn off the alarm on my phone. “Good morning Dahlia. It is August 30, 2086, 6:00AM. Events today include Reveal Day, and your 16th birthday. Top on the news this morning, a continuous increase in Dog burgl- “Janet, off,” I say as I roll out of bed. I quickly change and head to the restroom. As per the rules, I turn off all the lights before taking off my mask to brush my teeth. I wash my face but don’t do any makeup. I haven’t done makeup since my tenth birthday. Actually, I haven’t seen my face since I turned ten. On our tenth birthdays we get our marks. We cannot look at them until we are sixteen. Today. I get to see my face again today. Maybe do makeup again too? I gently touch my face, trying to feel what I look like. But I am given no clues. The marks are smooth, I have no way of knowing until the Reveal. I quickly pull my mask on and rush to the bus stop. I can’t be late today. “Oh my god did you run again?” Stacy asks when I get on. Stacy has been my best friend since we were eight. She has long blond hair and bangs she keeps in front of her mask. “Makes me look more human,” is her reason. She’s not wrong. The masks are dark and opaque from the outside, but on the inside it is surprisingly easy to see. They aren’t particularly comfortable, but we wear them so often we barely notice anymore. “Naturally,” I say sarcastically while I fake flip my hair. I would actually flip it, but I haven’t grown my hair longer than a few inches in years. I cut it off when I was eleven, after my hairbrush got caught on my mask and ripped it. Nobody saw anything, but I still got in trouble. “Whatever. In other news, happy birthday! What do you think you will have at the reveal?” Ah yes, the marks. When I am called to the Reveal room the Revelation Officer will pull off my mask and change the settings in my name. Free if I get straight lines, assigned a job if I get spots, and if I get swirls... “Spots I hope,” I say. A strong sense of curiosity suddenly overwhelms me. I want to know what I have before anyone else does. Most people have straight lines, but a few have spots. I’ve never actually seen someone with swirls. “Hey Stace, what happens if you have swirls?” She stops moving for a second and looks me dead in the face. Well, I think she looks me in the face. I can’t really tell. “Oh Dahlia you didn’t know? Swirls are just, well, bleh,” she says while swiping her hand under her neck to imitate being beheaded. She quickly changes the subject and starts talking about nail polish, but I don’t pay attention for the rest of the bus ride. Right when we arrive at the school I notice the compact mirror fall out of her bag. My first instinct is to give it to her, but something stops me. I could see ahead of time. I stick it in my pocket and the moment I enter the school I go to the restroom. I enter a stall and slowly slide my mask up while facing the wall. I hesitate, and nearly pull my mask back on without looking, but I look in the mirror anyway. They are so small I almost don’t notice, but I can see them. A tiny swirl coming from each corner of both eyes. I want to scream but I don’t. My whole body goes on autopilot and when I realize what's happening I hear sirens. I hide behind a trash can until they pass. That’s when I realize I’d been running. For miles. I am maybe two minutes away from my house now, but I still hear the sirens so I go the back way through the woods. I quickly arrive at my house and sneak in through the basement door. Seconds later I am in my bedroom. Before I can question it, my mom is in my bedroom forcing me into bed. “Fake being sick, I’ll deal with this,” she says before exiting my room. There is a loud knock at the front door before I hear my mother again. “Good morning officers, what can I help you with today.” “Step aside,” I hear a gruff voice say. Then there is a grunt from my mom that I can only assume is her being pushed and loud footsteps coming toward my room. “Dahlia Peterson,” a skinny man surrounded by guards reads off a paper. “You are hereby charged with the crimes as follows; felony mask revelation, truancy, avoidance of government workers, and attempted lying to a prosecutor.” By the time he is done saying that my mom has rushed into the room with a bat in hand. Before I know it she beats two guards to the floor and is about to hit a swing on the prosecutor when there is a gunshot. One of the guards has shot my mother in the back of the head. I scream and try to run over to her, but a guard catches me in his arms and I feel a cold sensation at the back of my head. “As I was saying before we were rudely interrupted,” the prosecutor says coldly, “the punishment for such crimes, in addition to the spiral marks, is death.” Another gunshot rings through the air, but this time far louder. In an instant the world turns red. Everything goes silent and dark. At first slowly, and then all at once, the world is calm.


# Welcome to Roundtable Thursday! Writing is so much fun, but it can also be very challenging. Luckily, there are so many other writers out there going through the exact same things! We all have unique skills, areas in which we excel, and ways we’d like to improve. This is our weekly thread to discuss all things writing and to get to know your fellow writers!! We will provide a topic and/or a few questions to spark discussion each week. Feel free to join in the discussion in the comments, talk about your experiences, ask related questions, and more. You do not have to answer all the questions, but please try to stay on topic! # This Week’s Roundtable Discussion - Do you like to give your characters more backstory or secrets that you don’t include in the story? Does it help you know how your character will move forward through the narrative or is it just something special to amuse yourself? Do you hint at any of the backstory or secrets in the writing? - **If this is your first week joining us, please feel free to introduce yourself! Tell us a little about you and your writing!** *** # Reminders * **Use the comments below to answer the questions and reply to others’ comments.** * **Please be civil in all your responses and discussion.** There are writers of all levels and skills here and we’re all in different places of our writing journey. Uncivil comments/discussions in any form will not be tolerated. * **Please try to stay on-topic.


“I’ve had enough!” Kyln dropped onto a fallen branch and crushed it under his weight. “We’ll be lost in this forest for the rest of our days, doomed to search for trinkets we’ll never find.” “Whose idea was it to venture into the Black Valley to begin with!? You promised we’d be swimming in gold by now!” Hob wobbled sideways over the crumbled leaves. The two gremlins came to a mushroom and collapsed under its stem. It was nice to finally get some shade, thought Kyln. He wiped his forehead with his long pointy ear and watched his dimwitted brother continue along a tree root. Hob had made their journey longer from his careless missteps. Kyln rolled his eyes as Hob fell over the root and disappeared over the other side. As his brother yodeled his displeasure as he took a tumble the vocalizations soon turned to excitement. “Kyln! Kyln! Come see! Our troubles are over!” Kyln rolled his eyes again and slowly made his way over the root and gazed at what his brother had found. The object was the size of a fairy’s house, long and square, and sat in the nook of the tree roots, spread open. Hob scratched his head and made inquisitive noises. “It’s a manuscript, you daft buffoon. A book.” said Kyln. The yellow pages had been exposed to the elements and were worn with the foliage and shrubbery that grew around it. Just as Hob was about to scratch his head again a robed gremlin stood up from the top of the book, rising from the moss above, using the pages as a balcony. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had visitors.” The gremlin spoke with an old, uncertain voice, as if he hadn’t used it in a while. “If you’ve come for the book, be warned -” He suddenly fell down the crevice of the book, tumbling head-over-heel down the crusty pages, and landing in a plume of dust. Hob shrugged his shoulders while looking to Kyln. “What are those scribblings there? Only someone with large hands could read this. How many nymphlings would it take to read that?” “I’m Aether, if you’ll care to hear it.” said the old gremlin, patting off the dust on his knees. “This is not a book for nymphlings, or any other sprite of the forest.” “Yes.” said Kyln. “The children of Abe. Sapiens, they’re called. The sapiens are a wise race but often wisdom comes with the vexation of overthinking. They keep and read many books like this one.” “Can we sell it to them?” Hob moved quickly to the book, running over to the edge and rubbing the massive binding. “Depending on the rarity we could make a good chunk of gold for this. Aether, is it? Are you willing to part with it?” said Kyln. “Oh no,” Aether shambled to his feet in a hurry. “I told you. This book is not for you. This book only brings woe.” Kyln chuckled. “All objects are valuable to someone. I’m sure someone wants this dusty old thing.” “Is it a cookbook?” asked Hob gleefully. “It is neither of those things.” Aether plopped onto the paper’s edge, head down. “Nobody knows where it came from or why it came. Long ago, before the sapiens were a nomad tribe, they lived in large castles and towns, collected together like a bunch of berries. After the last great war of man there was a time of temporary peace. During this peace the sapiens became complacent, bored with life. They needed guidance, they needed insight. They received this insight when a book appeared in all of their hands at once, suddenly and unexpectedly. A book like this one.” “At once? All of them? Even the children?” Kyln lowered his left eyebrow. “Only the adult sapiens and only those stricken on hard times.” said Aether. “Nobles did not receive the book and neither did mystic priests or shamans. The sapiens were curious at first. They did not know from whence the book came. Magic was to blame of course. It could only be magic that caused the appearance of a tome on such a massive scale. But no priest, wizard, witch, sorcerer or warlock claimed responsibility for the arcane phenomenon.” Kyln tried to remain calm but his voice grew louder. “What was contained within?” “Everything. And nothing.” Aether waved his hand in the air and then made a fist. “Nothing was written at first but as the days went by words started to fill the books, all of them, at once. The words that appeared were simple advice on how to live. The people, the sapiens, were muddled with worry and melancholy and the words they saw filled them with joy and relief. After all, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you were given a book that told you how to be happy, how to live a long and healthy life, and without vexation?” “Yes!” Hob was eating a mushroom spore. His brother shook his head. “But their lives soon took a dark turn.” continued Aether. “The books contained the same content. Some pages had recipes, some had advice on how to raise a child, how to raise a corn stock. Proverbs, inherent sapien rights, calendars, instructions on various trades. Somewhat of an almanac really. It seemed like sapien society would flourish through peace and order. But some of sapiens took sharper meaning to the prose contained within and schisms started to shape the land. They instilled their own beliefs in trying to understand the mystery of the book. Sapiens are a fickle sort. They seem to enjoy dying for their beliefs. And they did, by the wagonload.” “No wonder their trinkets are so abundant in these dark, abandoned places.” Kyln rubbed his chin. “And their bones. Saw a few back on the road.” said Hob. “‘The rain washes away the pain of scorched soil.’ This quote from the book led to much disagreement and violence.” Aether’s robe flapped in the wind when he turned to face the giant book. “The eastern sapiens rallied under Harbinger Harken, claiming this phrase was meant to signify that sapiens were meant to be subservient to a one true king. While the opposing side believed that it meant simply what was written...that sometimes it rains...” Hob covered his eyes. “Oh, such sadness. But the book itself cannot be blamed.” “If any of this is to be believed.” Kyln said examining the large leaves of paper closely. “Interpretation isn’t to blame either.” Aether continued. “As the War of the Book waged the people started to shut themselves off from the world. The words in the book changed more frequently, often around evening time, when the sapiens returned home from a long day and were more susceptible to suggestion. When I was a house gremlin, I was able to read a few pages before the masters of the house awoke. The text itself seemed to have become more edgy and rough, as if the writer was angry. One line stuck out to me and still haunts me: ‘Free speech is only free when people are willing to die for it.’ The book started to mirror their distrust and unease, further driving a wedge between them and their neighbors, by confirming their ill-conceived fears and hatred. I’ll save you the miserable and violent details. I barely made it out of the house before the entire town went up in smoke from rioting.” “Were they hungry? I get like that when I’m hungry.” said Hob. Aether bowed his head, concealing his face. “For revenge mostly, yes. The words became spiteful and the more they read of the book the more it catered to their hateful beliefs, the more it pleased them. When Harken invaded, the western sapiens were weakened and desperate. They gave their belongings to the overlord freely, their freedom and their wisdom they abandoned with ease. I don’t rightly know what happened after that, only that their culture perished and their cities were left in ruin.” “Fascinating story.” Thought Kyln. “But this tale doesn’t have a very good ending. Why wouldn’t they simply burn the books?” Aether looked up, “Such an act would be treason. They’d rather burn themselves.” “That’s right! If I had a book that could tell me the weather or where to find the best berries, I wouldn’t part with it either!” Said Hob. Kyln looked up at the book with a furled brow. He gently touched the worn edges and tried to lift up the pages but they were practically glued together from sediment and age. “Perhaps this is the true lesson. We’ve traveled far, in search of something valuable for trade. I thought, perhaps mistakenly, that there would be a pot of gold waiting for us, and that the journey would culminate into something more meaningful. But I can see that the search for possession can never really provide any kind of substance.” “Speak for yourself, brother! I’ll take anything I can get. Especially when it comes with such pretty words.” “You can’t even read.” replied Kyln. “What would you get out of it?” Hob’s eyes widened, “Yes but...it’s pretty. But perhaps it’s best to let sleeping things lie.” Kyln nodded, “Perhaps it is best we leave these things in the past and find other ways to seek fortune.” “It is a safe bet.” said Aether, smiling. The brothers thanked the old gremlin and left them to guard the book, to tell the tale of woe that the book wrought, and to prevent anyone from ever seizing the unholy relic for themselves.


Twist of Fate Sirens screamed past the window and returned a second later to shout another warning. Jamie pressed her fingers to her temples. Frame by frame, her gaze slid from the TV screen to the speckled glass. The Alabama sky crackled to life, illuminating angry puffs shifting and writhing close to the earth. Through the dots on the window, she saw debris swirl closer. In the darkened sky, a finger formed. Jamie watched in fascination as the finger reached down to touch the earth, punctuated by a brilliant flash, then slide back up again. Trees bowed low; their leaves shook like feathers, taunting the clouds above. The air outside began to moan. The pungent scent of dry earth and fish seeped inside, making her sneeze. Shivers slid down her spine, and her pulse jumped as she watched another finger tap the earth in an explosion of light. The man on the television told her to get into a safe place. Her eyes darted around the sparse beige room with a frown. A safe place? Where do I go? She jolted when the TV man supplied an answer. 'Get in the bathtub, a hallway with no doors or windows or any closet away from exterior walls.' Jamie looked out the window once more and felt the flesh rise on her arm as the tiny hairs stood to attention. She rubbed at the electrified flesh, but it did little to soothe. The clouds, engorged with flying debris, was just close enough to make out bits of twisted metal and broken tree limbs. Something shimmered then ducked back inside the dark cloud as if afraid to show itself. She watched, mesmerized, and bit her lip. She licked the wound; the metallic taste made her gag. The spell shattered when something pounded the roof with such force Jamie thought it would splinter it like a toothpick. Her gaze shot skyward, heart hammering. Sirens yelled through the roar, swallowing her heavy breathing. Her mind wandered. I need to get gas. Maybe when the weather clears, I can go to the beach again. Is the building shaking? Oh, it's just me. Her gaze rolled around the virescent hued space looking at everything and nothing. The TV man shouts, 'Take cover now! Get a pillow or blanket and a bicycle helmet if you have it and find a closet, bathtub, or location with no windows.' Jamie jumped into action. She snatched her pillow off the unmade bed, retrieved her bicycle helmet from the closet, and called for her cat, Sophie. With her pillow hugged tightly against her chest, she clamored into the tub--her labored breaths deafening in the sudden hush. Her brows knit. She looked around her at the creamy walls of the tub. Ears pricked; Jamie peeked around the too cheerful swirls on the curtain. Birds were silent, and the wind had quieted. Unease made her belly quiver. Why is it so quiet? Sophie bolted through the bathroom door and bounded into the bathtub with a loud meow. Jamie's heart rate accelerated. "Oh Sophie. You scared the life out of me." Jamie pressed a hand to her chest and bent to rub between Sophies' flattened ears. The lights danced then blinked. Jamie looked up. Noise erupted around her as if the world suddenly caught up to itself. She plopped down hard in the narrow space. A roar slammed into the room; a noise like paper torn and splintering wood echoed down the hall. Jamie screamed and yanked the pillow down over her ears. Head between her knees, her eyes slammed shut, blocking the sight of Sophie huddled in her crotch. The walls shook. The wind blowing in her ears swallowed her shrieks. Please let me be okay. Please. Please. Her heart pounded against her ribs hard enough to break them. It was impossible to breathe. The air smelled of dirty rain. Glass shattered in the bedroom, making her limbs bounce. Her body vibrated from fear or the world around her; she couldn't tell. She scrunched tighter against the tub floor. Sounds of a train nearby confounded her. I didn't know there were train tracks near here. Her mind slid to the day she spent at the beach as the building rattled. The building shuddered and seemed to hold its breath as the air whistled. Something sliced Jamie’s bare shoulder--the sting made her hiss. Jamie's fingers ached from gripping the pillow. Her ears popped. She felt something bounce on the fiberglass tub beside her. What was that? The rumble swallowed her scream, making it part of the clamor around her. She felt light-headed, dizzy, barely in control of her bladder. The world calmed once more and the sound of panting filled the claustrophobic space. Unable to move, she tried to calm her racing heart. She wasn't sure how much time passed before the alarms sounded anew. Her heart began a slow crescendo once more as the wail pulsed through her bones. This time she knew the shake did not come from her. Pieces of what she could only assume were the ceiling peppered her bare flesh. Noises she could not identify surrounded her. Her lips trembled and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed hard as the world bellowed. For what seemed like hours, Jamie sat huddled under her pillow. Tears plopped onto her bare feet; her ample frame rattled beneath the downy pillow. Sophie huddled closer. Jamie felt her tiny form vibrate. She pulled the pillow edges tighter against her helmeted head. Her eyelids squished together so hard it was giving her a migraine. She didn't want to open them--was too afraid. A trembling finger released the pillow and slid into her ear then jiggled. Am I deaf? Everything seems so quiet. Her terror ratcheted up once more. Her grandmother's phrase, the calm before the storm, flittered through her foggy mind. Sofie's distressed and muffled meow made her eyes bounce open. Tears matted her fur. Her black as night tail stood out like a bottlebrush. Ears folded back, her wild green eyes darted around the biscuit colored walls of their prison, and she meowed between pants, the sound visceral. Jamie reached down and placed a protective hand on Sophie's back. She felt her small body pulsate. A warm yellow glow on the back of her hand made her breath hitch. She snatched it away and rubbed the warmed flesh. Jamie put her hand on the outside of the pillow and tugged. She startled when something warm touched her fingers. Flinging the pillow off, Jamie looked up into the blue sky and slivers of sunshine. Lifting Sophie, she stood and stepped out of the tub and walked to the door land looked where her room used to be. A voice called out, and she peeked over the edge of the threshold and saw her neighbor and her three children. Dust covered their faces. Bright red dots speckled their arms and legs, but they were alive. She smiled down at the single mother, and an understanding passed between them. A sympathetic knowledge only those who survived could understand. Jamie sighed. I am not alone. The storm had passed. By some twist of fate, her second-story bathroom remained untouched.


The cloak of brume was lifting. Once released from its shadows Greta was afforded a clearer view from the dew-damp park bench. Ah! Yes, that’s better . She absentmindedly scratched the ears of the chubby little black and white dog on her lap, her fingers settled upon a gnarly patch of hair. She gently worried it back into smoothness while watching her grandson Dillon’s elastic smile grow wider as he was projected higher and higher by daddy. Observing their game filled her with sunshine. The mood seemed to transfer to Sushi too, who jumping down, danced, Lipizzaner like, from one foot to another in rhythm. “C’mon girl, let’s go for a walk and explore old Katoomba town eh?” Sushi responded eagerly. Meandering past an old Edwardian house with dust white walls and loganberry stained trims, Greta paused. Her eyes drank in the details. Its worn stone steps, beckoning them to enter. Sushi had always struggled to pull her tummy over the first one. It was inexplicably a couple of inches higher than the others. Remnants of deep red paint clung tenaciously to the outside edges. The slight dip in the middle of the stone from one hundred years of use exuded homeliness like English muffins. The variegated holly still stood in the front garden, its bramble invader still visible. And lilac-lush wisteria enveloped the old wire fence covering up its out-of-sorts utilitarianism. Greta recollected the nut roast, followed by raspberry pavlova she had shared with Brendan. Just the two of them, in the house’s comfortable flag stoned kitchen. It had been during that Christmas meal she had realised how very ill he was. “Haribol you two! Fancy running into you here.” She turned towards the unexpected greeting unique to Hare Krishna devotees. “Goodness! I was just thinking about you and that Christmas lunch and here you are.” “Well you know you should be careful what you wish for,” he quipped. Greta, wrinkling her nose in response, threw him a look that assured him he was not on her wish list. “I’m just heading for that antiquarian bookshop on Waratah Street, care to join me?” “Why not,” she replied. Unhappy memories ran like tributaries into the river of their past, yet somehow it all seemed insignificant now. Brendan certainly showed no sign he was concerned she might harbour any resentment. Best cling to happier times Greta decided, under the changed circumstances. “I am just surprised to see you here, how’s your Mum and Dad?” “They’re great, and here with me now. You are bound to bump into them one of these days walking around here.” Greta decided not to think too deeply about Brendan’s parents in case they might also appear around the next corner. It did seem quite likely. Odd things had been happening. But some adjustment was to be expected, she thought. Quatermain’s Books was not far, so they had little time to swap stories before the shield-shaped black sign embellished with its traditional gold leaf loomed above them. Entering through the narrow mahogany double doorway Greta noticed a faint smell of Nag Champa. The shop’s floorboards had been polished to a soft sheen by its many visitors and were graced by a rather ancient Turkish rug. Greta had always liked bookshops, especially the old ones. The kind with shelves full of forgotten memories in foxed pages, their thick paper sometimes not quite separated. Her eyes were soon attracted to some old leather-cloth covers with embossed lettering with titles like ‘ The Builders’ . She moved towards the small Masonic history section. Smiling to herself, Greta remembered how affronted Brendan had been when she had compared the Krishna’s to the Masons. Sushi stayed quietly at her feet, while she and Brendan browsed among the steeple-tall shelves so expertly fitted jigsaw-esque into the limited space. Noticing the afternoon had drawn in, Greta resolved to move on, she still had a few more places she wanted to re-visit. Brendan had not changed much, he was totally absorbed in the books. She might as well not have been there. “We’d better be getting on, I have a bit to do still”, she said. “Nice seeing you.” “No worries”, was Brendan’s mumbled response, still too deeply engrossed to pay much attention. Making their way back out into the late afternoon sun, Sushi instinctively turned towards the highway. Greta glanced down at the old railway station signs as they crossed the bridge. There was something wild-west about the lettering. She imagined a steaming iron-horse screeching to a halt before whisking away its passengers clad in their Stetson and gold watch-chain finery. They walked on, the oak-lined pavements slipped silently under their feet. The road bowered by these relics from the days of the Empire. As they approached the cottage on South Street, the old rambler’s heady perfume brought the garden’s charms back. She noted the two cherry trees she had planted on the left side were already heavy with fruit, affording the resident sparrows a seasonal feast. These gentle little brown birds had always been welcome when she had lived here. She was heartened the new owner had not driven them off and, for a while, she tarried, amused by their dust-bath antics. A passing breeze sharpened her mind a little. Her thoughts turned back to her son and grandson in the park. “We best be heading back my little Soosh, we have quite a way to go.” The willing dog trotted out in front, her short legs carried her along jauntily, as her long coat followed the direction of the light wind. Greta smiled. This lovely little soul had been her companion for seventeen years. She remembered Brendan saying that Sushi would take a human birth next time, such was the goodness of her spirit. Considering he thought dogs were unclean when they first met, this was the highest praise he could have bestowed on any animal. An old photograph danced across her mind, Brendan and Sushi in bed on their backs, both fast asleep, their heads together on the pillow. How quickly that undershot smile had wheedled her way into his heart! Funny how things change, the same but different. They turned the corner to the park but the swings lay empty. Greta walked over to where the family had played, in the hope of finding some lingering trace of laughter. All was quiet now. “Looks like they have gone home”. “Well if we hurry we may be there before Dillon’s bedtime”. They walked on together, past the old laundromat with its flaked paint lifting from the walls like tortured petals. Past the takeaway Chinese, its occupants just warming up for the evening. Through the City, on up the hill, the one she used to find too difficult to climb. Yes, funny how things change, the same but different. “Almost there old girl.” The sun had gone to bed as the flats loomed out of the dusk. Greta weaved past the green bin blockade, through the entrance to the block at the back. Katy and Eric had been so happy when they found this place with its distant glint of the sea across the old Randwick cemetery. It was home to the three of them now. Climbing the flight of stairs to the landing, she wondered if the bats had already left for the night from their roost in the eaves. The light spilt yellow from the lounge window. Looking in, she could see her grandson in his bouncy chair. Still smiling, always smiling. Eric was in the kitchen, cooking. It was painful to be so close. Stepping into the room, Greta knelt beside Dillon and stroked his hair. He turned towards her, puzzled to find no one there. She ached to be able to hug her son and cuddle her grandson but they were oblivious to her presence. The closest suggestion she was near, might be a waft of her favourite perfume, or perhaps thinking they had heard her call their name. She had found her darling Sushi waiting for her when she arrived. And Brendan was around too it seemed, even if he was someone she could easily do without. There was a lot to learn about this place. Others she had met told her it was possible to communicate with the living. She hoped she could learn how; because it was going to be a long time before Dillon and Eric would cross over to the dimension she inhabited now. Funny how things change; everything the same but different.


"Out of my way!! I'm from Guinness, out of my way!!" The cameras were crowding the bakers, swarming them as if they were sprinkles on a cupcake. They tried to get to the door, tried to sneak their way into the bakery, but the cameras were there too. Eventually, they started throwing cupcakes at the cameras. Through the power of pastry, they banished them to worlds unknown and slunk inside. "Jeez, all this over a cookie? You guys better prepare yourselves for the big day. I'd suggest bulletproof vests and beekeeper helmets. Of course, that's my preference." Maria, their best friend, as sarcastic as ever. "We'll need more than that." Stacy groaned, setting down the pounds of cookie dough, made and frozen in clumps for this purpose. "They're like leeches, every one of them." Stacy reclined in her loveseat, letting it hug her legs. "You didn't even carry half as much as I did, Stace!" Jamie dumped her share of the cookie dough on the table, then proceeded to hoist Stacy out of the chair before plopping down on it himself. "Ahh, why don't we have more of these things? We should at least have two, and then maybe get one for Stacy and you to share." He talked in a teasing way, making faces at Maria and Stacy. "What the hell, man? You don't own that chair!" Stacy tried to pull him out, but he just laid there and laughed. "If you can't pull me out of a chair, how are you supposed to cook the biggest cookie in the world?" Jamie swatted at her jokingly. "Ugh, I need to sleep. Just because we're trying to make the world's biggest cookie doesn't mean we have to be up day and night to bake." Maria was complaining again. Stacy rolled her eyes, but she knew the truth in those words. "Yeah, the paparazzi sucks, but hey, we knew that going in." Jamie had been baking since fourth grade and Maria and Stacy since fifth. None of them had planned on building the world's biggest cookie. They hadn't even been trying to make big cookies before. Once they discovered the joy of breaking a record, though, they couldn't think of anything else. "You know what? We're not answering questions tonight," Jamie declared, "but we are going to get some sleep." Maria and Stacy sighed their approval. It used to be so easy to sleep in their quaint little bakery, with the holiday smells always wafting through the air. There were cupcakes around the tables, frosted birthday cakes and gingerbread, all mingling. It was a treasure to behold. In fact, it was a wonder that the three besties hadn't eaten it all already. "G'night, guys..." Stacy mumbled a reply under her breath and then went out like a light. _______________________________________________ It was the big day. The day they had all been waiting for. The day they'd been preparing for for months. Stacy, Jamie, and Maria took turns carting out the pounds of cookie dough. Their arms sank and wilted like dead roses, but they hadn't even spread the dough out yet. "Mr. Wilkes, Mr. Wilkes! Is it true that you are responsible for all the hard work behind the projects and the girls are for show?" A conceited reporter with a microphone stuck it in Jamie's face. "What are you talking about? You saw them right now cart dough up the hill, doing the same amount of work as I am, and you have the audacity to call them accessories?" Jamie and Stacy crowded the reporter. "Why on earth would you think that?" Stacy asked, her words oozing contempt. "Well... it's... just that... You're girls... and it's a lot of... hard work..." The reporter was stumbling on his words and, upon recognizing his mistake, started stumbling on his feet to get off of the stage. "Can you believe the nerve of that guy? It was like we weren't even there to him." Maria nodded her agreement, but her main focus was spreading the dough. Her long, lanky arms flexed as she stretched it. Maria was in a hard-fought war against the dough, and the dough was losing. "Geez, Maria, I've never seen you this energetic!" Jamie was in awe of her grit. "Well, we have been working towards it for a while, so... Why wouldn't it excite me?" She talked with a gleeful skip in her voice, as if she was a kid going to Disneyland. "Guys, I want you to know that, no matter what, this experience has been amazing," Jamie spoke only once the dough was all spread out. He truly loved the women. Not as romantic objects, but as equals and friends. They had sweated and got through this together, and they would finish it together. "3... 2... 1...!" Joining hands, they pushed it into the oven and hugged. "We did it!!" Stacy was ecstatic. Jamie wasn't far behind. Maria, though, wasn't excited at all. "Guys, I don't think we did." Just then, fire rose up from the oven, exploding and sending everyone backward. Jamie and Stacy pushed through the rubble, fighting to find their friend. "Maria!! MARIA!!!" They yelled over and over again, but it was no use. She was gone. ______________________________________________ "We are called here today to commemorate the life of Maria Mendoza, a woman determined to achieve her goals against all odds and adversity." The droll of the priest's voice blurred into the background. Jamie was the only one left. He lay there, tears streaming down his once flour-covered cheeks. Stacy was gone. Maria was dead. He had no friends anymore. Only pain. Eventually, when the time came to make his speech, he forced his limbs to climb up the steps. He forced himself to face the pain. Jamie clung to that podium as if it was the only thing that kept him tethered to the Earth. When he let go, Jamie would have to find something else to hold on to. That was how pain works, though. You process it by holding on to what you can when you can. Jamie was almost out of things to hold on to. "I... was trying to make the World's biggest cookie. We were, actually, Stacy, Maria, and I. We had been friends forever, and always together. Maria was one of my favorite people in the world, and I knew she felt the same about Stacy and me. We were her family. Do... do you know what it feels like to lose your family. I lost her. I can't change that. I wish I could but I know I can't. I know that it might seem selfish that I want her back, but I do. I don't care if it's selfish, because I'm wishing it anyway. She didn't deserve this. She doesn't. I'm going to take comfort in the knowledge that she is still alive in me and Stacy, wherever Stace is right now. Unless you want to keep her memory alive, you are no relation of hers." Jamie walked off the stairs and held his breath, all the way until the ride home. He didn't... couldn't breathe. When he got back to the bakery, his eyes warmed. "What're you waiting for, Jamie, we saved you the loveseat!" Stacy was patting him on the back and munching on a cupcake. "He's not taking my spot. You may have saved him a seat but I certainly didn't." Maria was there, sarcastic as ever. "I thought you guys left me." He choked on his words, like a pill that was too big to swallow. "We'll never leave you, man. We might not be next to you or even on the same continent as you, or may even be dead. But we'll never leave you."


I sat down on the cool, prickly grass, letting the harsh wind of the night blow my long black hair into my face. All I had to see was the soft glow of the moon, which dimly illuminated the small hole I had just dug in the back corner of my fathers backyard. Laying down my rusty shovel, I breathed in the cool midnight air, letting the freezing air fill my lungs and make me shiver. This feels right, I thought, untying the sweatshirt knotted around my waist and putting it on to cover my goosebump covered arms. With careful hands, I grabbed the small tin box next to me and gave it one last hard look. The colorful drawings of ponies and children which had once adorned the box had long since rubbed off, leaving nothing but a swirl of red and yellow. No amount of weathering, however, could scratch away the small engraving on the bottom which read “Good luck on your adventures- Mom.” Yeah, no one is going to miss this, I thought, and I gently placed the old tin box into the small hole in front of me. I stood up and grabbed my shovel before pausing. I looked back at the undervalued object, lying in the cold dirt, and finally realized the weight of what I was doing. I had been planning this for a week, but not once had I thought about what would happen after this box and its contents were hidden from the rest of the world. What if I never come back here again? What if my father finds it and yells at me? What if no one finds it, and it slowly rots away in the mossy dirt becoming riddled with rats and bugs. That image in my head was almost enough to convince me to grab the cold box out of the grass and run back into the warmth of my home never to think of the hole in the ground again. But there was a little voice in my head, telling me that this was a good idea, that this would be worth it, that I would look back on this day with nostalgia, and not regret. So I left the old box where it was, and slowly began to cover my prized possession with the mound of dirt which had haphazardly formed as a result of my digging. Bit-by-bit my box was being hidden from the rest of the world. The more I covered it, the more I felt ready to let it go. After a half an hour, the box was completely out of my sight, but I continued to fill the whole until it looked exactly like it had when I began my digging. My hands were covered in splinters from the rough wood of the handle, dirt was splattered all over my legs, and sweat dripped down my face. I took one last look at what I had done, saying one last goodbye to the object which now sat half a foot under the ground, hidden in a small tin box which no one but I would miss. I leaned the rusty shovel on the side of the garage, praying no one in the house could hear the soft thud it made as it hit the aged tin siding. I then casually walked back into the house, hoping no one would care about the new patch of dirt which had magically appeared in the backyard overnight. I’ll just say the dog was digging for a bone. I carefully opened the squeaky sliding glass door which stood between me and the rest of my family, and stepped quietly into my house, walking into the bathroom at the other end of the hallway. Even in the dark, I could see the trail of dirt which was left behind me and I sighed. I’m going to have to clean that up later, aren’t I? Once I was in the bathroom, I wet a soft washcloth, and washed off the dirt which caked my skin. All my scrubbing splashed wet dirt onto the white subway tile, so I grabbed a paper towel, and wiped the mud off the walls. Once I was done, I cleaned up the dirt trail I had left from my walk into the bathroom. I walked across the first floor of my house with soft footsteps, cringing whenever the time-worn floorboards creaked. I arrived at my room, stumbled past the cardboard moving boxes stacked on my floor, and climbed in between the fluffy blankets which covered my bed. I calmly drifted to sleep, with the memory of placing my time capsule into the ground fresh in my head. Every day, archeologists dig through the ruins of ancient civilizations, looking for artifacts which might tell them what those people were like. They spend 8 hours a day searching for what are essentially ancient, slightly broken time capsules. These little time capsules tell the stories of those civilizations which are no longer standing, stories which we can no longer hear in person. When it came to choosing my own artifact, I wasn’t really sure what to choose. Finding a single object which can tell your story turned out to be a lot harder than I expected it to be. After a lot of thinking, I finally found the one thing which truly represented who I was. -10 years later- The spattering of the outdated U-Haul’s engine could be heard from anywhere and everywhere in the neighborhood. The rusty truck pulled into the neglected driveway, and the front door opened, letting out a small Beagle which proceeded to dart down the street, chasing after the squirrels and birds which sat in the trees. His owner, Marcus, went running after him, and grabbed him as he stopped to smell the lamp post at the end of the street. “Come on, Buster, let’s go inside,” he said, picking up his furry dog, and carrying him to their new house. Marcus opened the thick wooden door, cringing at the loud screech it made when it was pushed. The time-worn floorboards creaked as he made his way toward the back of the house, and the sliding glass door let out a small squeak as it was opened. Marcus put his dog down on the overgrown grass, and left him to play around in the backyard while he started to unpack his belongings, bringing life back into the cold and empty house. A half an hour later, Marcus checked on his dog, and found him digging in the back corner of the yard, kicking up dirt onto the rotted wooden fencing. “Hey, Buster, stop that!,” Marcus yelled, running across the backyard as the prickly grass rubbed against his bare ankles. He pulled his dog away from the hole he had dug. He looked to see what his dog had been digging at, and noticed the glint of something metal hidden under the dirt. He grabbed at the metal, and pulled out an old tin box. He examined it with a puzzled look, and traced his hand over the inscription at the bottom. “Good luck on your adventures- Mom,” he read aloud. “Huh”. He opened up the box, and looked to see what was inside. He reached his hand into the box and pulled out a small photo. The photo showed a young girl with long black hair, looking up from inside a ditch with a shovel and brush in hand, smiling from ear to ear next to her mother. “Aww, thats cute,” Marcus said. “Is this what you were looking for Buster?,” he said, turning to his dog with the tin box and photo in hand. He looked at the objects in his hand once more. “Hey, this is actually a really nice tin,” he said. Marcus gently placed the photo back in the box and walked into his house. He wiped the dirt of the tin box, and placed it onto a shelf which was mounted to the wall in his living room. “Perfect,” he said, taking a step back and looking at his newest decoration. And just like that, the box had finally found its home.


“The brightest sun shone, through the clearest skies.” Ichad was reciting another of his biographical poems, his own invention he often remarks. He says that he enjoys reminiscing because it reminds him that he had lived a full life, though I think that he enjoys it more because it gives him an opportunity to flaunt. He never had an issue with arrogance on his moral compass and never cared if others did. Reciting the poems helps him with painting - the words focus the mind on the truth he says. Whatever that means. There was always something undeniably magical about how he'd get lost in the nostalgia of the history imbedded in his poems. Many times I could swear I saw a mirage in his amber eyes of the young voyaging Ichad; fearless adventurer, scourge of tradition, father of modern technology. Images of eerie foes and great deeds danced like reflections - hints of old emotions would surface ever so often as he continued to paint: his hand guided as if by instinct while his eyes focused on the past. Indeed, he is by all accounts a great polymath and hero of the Empire. Or once had been. All that was more than a lifetime ago I'm certain. All that progress, all that discovery had been achieved before my time and now Ichad sits before me calm and peaceful, as though his attention is ever present elsewhere. Each stroke on the canvas so slowly and expertly executed, each glance back at the mountains he was painting - a long drawn out dream. Not the man of pursuit, purpose and haste as my father describes. Though I suppose that is how the chronicles of time are written. Ichad is my mentor in natural philosophy, art and sciences and he is an inventor whose creations have changed our Empire for the better in more ways than will ever be attributed to him. He is the kindest and most respectful person I’ve ever met. But foremost, he is my closest friend. "On Royal blue canvas - a blinding white corona..." "Too dramatic, it's still a dull day despite the good weather" "Great weather - and it’s never a dull day when you're learning, my young cynical princess" I was rehearsing court etiquette, not learning. And it was dull. Idle. Everyone was busy preparing for an official visit from one of the other Isles. I never bothered to pay much attention. "What's with this visit Ichad? I want to go explore" "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about Emily, just some routine royal business - trade discussions or some such other jestering" “That doesn’t interest me - I want to be like you were once - an explorer.” I wanted to go climb those jagged mountains I wasn't allowed to. It was frustrating sitting and simply staring at them from the Palace balcony. "I wish I could stop time and move those rocks closer, I'd be able to climb them then and be back before the official visit" "Intriguing, and how would you achieve that?" "Simple, I would ask the smartest most powerful and greatest inventor in the whole of the Seven Isles to move them for me, you can move them can't you?” He paused just briefly before answering - the momentary excitement and comprehension in his eyes giving way to a somber and introspective look. "Emily... the young and ambitious strive for the power which would allow them to move mountains and the wisdom to turn seconds into hours but older and wiser, having attained that power, they understand why it is that they shouldn’t use it." "What is the point of striving for this power then if you will not use it?" I got the impression that he agreed with me at first, or could understand my frustration as though he himself still felt it. After a brief moment, he got up and walked over to the North side of the balcony - overlooking the city port below. "Come sit with me; look out as far as you can see - one day all of this, everywhere under the blue canvas, everything touched by the white rays, the palace, the city, the mountains, the whole of the Empire and its Seven Isles and beyond the horizon, beyond the corners of what we know exists - all of it will be yours as Queen. And when it is, you will have the power to change this world as you'd like; you will be the painter and the world your canvas and you will remember me then my young princess... because you will choose to change nothing at all" “Nothing? I want my painting to be perfect. In my painting there wouldn’t be any bad things.” “Yes, nothing - look at my painting it is just like the real thing. Isn’t it perfect?” At the time, I argued, I told him it wasn’t perfect - his painting - it could be better. I was furious. I explained that if we all thought as he did the world would see no progress, the Empire would stagnate, the just would never rise above the criminal, decadence would persevere while with each idea not realised because of apathy and each innocent soul lost due to ignorant rage, enlightenment would slip further and further away. If the righteous do not protect the weak evil takes root and innocent people suffer. If we do not stand for what is right then who will? How could he even say such things being an inventor and researcher all his life? Has he not changed the world beyond what was thought possible? Has he not prevented terrible things from happening? I told him that he was wrong - that I would make changes. I would paint not as things are but how I would like them to be, for it is up to the good people of this world to bring about change so that happiness, health and prosperity would be rights to all not luxuries of the few. I would attain that power to move mountains, turn seconds into hours and see the truth without light. That was what I told him that afternoon. That was decades past. And now? Now, just as my own youth bid welcome to experience once, experience welcomes content. As I grew older and more accustomed to the world and it's people, society and it's rules - I learned that our hearts aren't only capable of love but envy and jealousy as well and our minds aren't only capable of compassion but hate and wickedness as well: I learned that our souls aren’t only capable of inspiration but doubt and fear as well. I have come to understand many things in life but foremost now I understand what Ichad was telling me so many summers past: The balance that exists is incorruptible and all the change you perceive in life is just an illusion, relative in time, fading slowly as your own line stretches further until eventually progress can no longer be understood as ascent upwards because discovery and invention become just steps on Penrose stairs: to realise that to discover is an act of finding something which was found, and lost, ages ago does naught but enervate the soul. One winter Ichad had organized an expedition to a far away place. As he departed he handed me a note which read: “all that you could ever want is within you - I was as you are, and you will be as I am.” He has left me some time ago, I presume to pass from this world peacefully away from the eyes of people he would rather not indulge with his death or perhaps to go on one last adventure but truthfully I wish he has managed to escape this inexorable wheel of Illusions, as I hope I will one day as well. He left me a gift most precious, a memorabilia of our afternoons together - his masterpiece. A painting: “The Queens Canvas”. And as I sit on my palace balcony with a crown upon my head looking out across the landscape so expertly recreated in Ichad’s painting of that afternoon, those jagged mountains smile at me. It is perfect. I am at peace.


July 14- 00:00 I never understood the point of keeping a journal until I started working at this little taco stand at the corner of 6th and 8th street. It wasn’t your ordinary taco shop, it was below ordinary, All the food was frozen and had to be microwaved. My little hut consisted of four rooms, the main area where I stood, the kitchen, which was just a microwave and a freezer, the employee breakroom, and the bathroom which was the only way out of the shack. Our stand used to be one of these old Japanese food stands with the pedestals outside, how it turned Mexican? Beats me. I got the job through a phone call interview; I was told to be dropped off and will be called when my shift was over. Now, the location made no sense to me at all. The taco stand was in buttfuck nowhere, I remember only seeing one car pass in my four-hour shift and it was my car! I can’t complain though, 16$ an hour for the nightshift? Who would say no! It’s been boring for a little but an hour ago I had seen my first customer... it was a man in a trench coat. Now it wasn’t one of those small dick flashing trench coats, it was a whole ass noir suit, something you would see in a detective movie, really fucking weird. I obliged and took his order, “what’s the order?” “Empanadas... two....” “uh sure 5 bucks” he smiled with almost one big hillbilly tooth and put the money on the desk. I heated up the empanadas and stared at him. Now a NORMAL human being would engage in conversation, No! the fucker stared at me and rubbed his gums with his tongue. He took his empanadas and left, where he went? Different ass story. 03:15 Okay, what the FUCK just happened? A little while after the incident a new guy, no scratch that, A FUCKING STATUE appeared! I didn’t even see it at first but every time I had blinked it appeared closer and closer... twelve blinks later and it was basically where my stand was. Now I freaked the fuck out, I closed the shutter and sat in a convenient area under the register. The statue or whatever kept knocking louder and louder, I was shitting bricks. I locked the bathroom door and sat there in complete silence. Couple minutes later it stopped, and I peeked through the slit in the metal shutter to see if whatever it is was gone. Fuck me. July 15 The rest of yesterday’s shift was normal, couple crackheads needed to use the bathroom. Heard one of them scream and checked to see, no one had entered... whatever. The dayshift dude, Nunez took over and I went back home. Now I just got back to work, and Nunez finally tells me about the dumb things that happen during the nightshift. He calls them “rules that I muse oblige to or end up dead and missing!!” How the hell does he know I’m going to be dead if I’m missing? Load of bull shit. He gave me the list anyways. “Lil Jose’s nightshift” Rules To Stay Alive 1. Keep the bathroom door locked, if you need to go, run to the exit door and lock it. DO NOT WALK 2. Always have one thing being microwaved, does not matter what. 3. Always have the lights on unless Steve comes. 4. Never keep the register open 5. Never look outside for too long, if you see something that is not a customer, close the shutter and wait until daylight. 6. If Steve comes, do as rule five but go into the employee breakroom and stand in the middle. Continually laugh until Steve leaves. 7. Do not clog the toilet you fat fuck Wait, that’s it? So, fucking dumb ??? Okay not as dumb as I thought, Steve came, well he’s HERE. He has round glasses and stuck up hair. I was in the middle of his order when It finally struct me to ask for his name. “Oh, I’m glad you asked... it’s Steve.” I smiled and looked at the listen which he could also see on my naked desk next to my phone which had po- which was off. “ah one second there...” I slammed the shutters closed and went into the employee breakroom. I’ve been laughing for who knows how long, he wont leave. He keeps knocking and asking to come inside. “I just want to laugh with you Jonathan!” I started laughing harder, this place has no fucking name tags and the last time I checked I was NOT employee of the month, Nunez was. I’m terrified and I don’t know how long he’s going to stay. FUCK July 16 Eventually Steve left, or disappeared, or was abducted, who cares? Nunez opened the room and I finally stopped laughing. I feel like I have a six pack now. Hello! This is Kenneth, Jonathan took the day off and allowed me to work for once. He probably forgot to mention me but I’m one of the workers of the nightshift, granted I sleep in the employee lounge all day, it was rude that Jonathan never brought me up shame!! Jonathan said he needed to “find himself” whatever that means. So, I must work for once. I’ve been working here for a little over seven months, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go and learned a lot from it as well; how to correctly heat up a burrito, the price of every item, how to defend the shop during the blood hours... the usual. A customer came up to the shop and asked to use the pay phone. I groaned and looked at the freak, “10 cents and hour no change is provided." She pleaded with urgency, “please you need to let me use your phone I don’t have any cash I’ve been chased for a little over an hour please please please” I denied, a policy is a policy and it’s dumb to lose this treasure of a job over 10 cents. She ran away and I continued with my night. Later, a man with a wolfs hide came up and asked if I saw a girl. His voiced changed every time he spoke; it went from an elderly voice to a child’s... Without looking up from my phone, I pointed in her direction and kept swiping left on my phone. I really don’t understand the point of this food stand. I know Mexican delicacy is great and all but we’re in nowhere New Mexico somewhere near the border of the state. But for SOME reason this shack gets new inventory every week. It amazes me why the store is still open.