At first glance, the Commission’s waiting room looked similar to the lobby of every hospital that Emil had ever visited. Its design was clean and minimalist, with seats arranged around the walls and a wide reception desk opposite the front door. The only difference was that a heavy, see-through barrier completely encircled the top of the desk, with rectangular openings near the bottom that seemed secured, from the inside, by a series of complicated-looking latches. Busy with keyboards and touchpads, the people behind it barely looked up when they entered. They had brought him here in handcuffs, with a full escort of four field agents. All were covered from head to toe in protective gear--bulky, grey suits made of something that looked like Kevlar. And, of course, they were armed to the teeth. After their arrival, two of them left. The others stayed behind. Although they faced the same direction as him, one at the right and the other at the left, Emil couldn’t tell if they were looking at him through those thick visors. There were chairs in that lobby, but it felt awkward to sit down while the agents stood. At the same time, he didn’t want to appear threatening. After a moment of indecision, Emil decided to--very slowly--sit down in the nearest seat by the wall. To make himself appear as small and insignificant as possible. He was still trying to do this when a man came out holding a clipboard. “Mr. Sarkozy, right?” The man sounded brisk, almost casual, as though Emil wasn’t cuffed and accompanied by an armed escort. He was of average height, with sharp features and a pair of rectangular glasses. Maybe in his thirties. The getup was just as ordinary: lab coat, black pants, a plain white shirt. But his tie was a startling shade of purple. It drew the eye. “Uh, Emil,” he managed to stutter. The man extended a hand--gloved, Emil noticed. “Sanjay Varma. Nice to meet you.” Then, he seemed to notice the handcuffs. Varma looked over at the field agents. “Do we really need these?” One of them lowered her visor. Emil could see that she was a young woman, with thick brown eyebrows and a serious expression. “The higher-ups thought it was for the best. We still don’t know the extent of his abilities. You were briefed on what he did, right? They must have sent pictures , he thought. A sick feeling dropped through his stomach. “Wait,” Emil said. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded far too quiet. He cleared his throat. “Wait, you don’t understand. I-- I was trying to help .” The moment he said it, he realized how often they must have heard the exact same excuse. The agent gave him a look that might have been pity. Varma only peered at him curiously. Then, he smiled. A little too quickly. “No worries. You’ll have plenty of time to explain. I’m going to ask you some questions, Emil.” “Right here?” The agent glanced at the people behind the reception desk, then shot him a concerned look. Aside from them, there was no one else in the lobby. “Are you authorized for that, Dr. Varma?” “Just for now--until we’re cleared for a holding cell.” He turned the same smile on her. “It’s fine, Agent Costello. Won’t take long.” “If you say so.” Varma looked back at Emil, who was in the middle standing up. He stared him straight in the eyes. “I think you’d better stay seated. Sudden movements set our agents on edge. Not that they’re trigger-happy--but I’d play it safe if I were you.” His tone remained casual. He was still smiling, brisk and unmalicious. Neither was terribly reassuring. Emil nodded anyway. He sat back down, slowly. There was a certain quality to Varma’s eyes that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A sweeping, searchlight quality. Like he was looking for something. The image blinked into Emil’s mind: an incandescent lightbulb. It reminded him of that. Those outdated ones that they’d learned about in school, lit by the sheer intensity of the heat they generated. He took a seat in the chair next to Emil’s, glanced down at his clipboard, and clicked a pen. “Ready?” Emil swallowed. “Sure.” “First question. When did you become aware of your Emergence?” Panic pushed static fingers into his skull. Would he be punished for hiding it for so long? They had to get other cases like this--why couldn’t he remember what had happened to those people? “...Twelve,” he said quietly. “I mean, I was twelve. I used it on... on a cat. And a guinea pig. By accident.” “Ah.” Varma didn’t sound outraged, at least. He just nodded and jotted something down on the clipboard. “And did you tell anyone? Your parents? Friends?” “No.” “Hm.” More jotting. “What about experiments?” Emil blinked. “...Sorry?” “Practicing with your powers?” “No,” Emil said quickly, shaking his head. “Nothing like that. The first time was... enough.” Full stop. Varma turned and gave him a look of faint surprise. Does he not believe me? But after a few seconds, all he said was: “Huh. And you weren’t curious? About the limitations?” Emil stared at him. “Maybe a little, but...” He cut himself off, searching Varma’s eyes for anything resembling an understanding of what he was trying to convey. All he found was that same glittering intensity. “But it worked on-- living things .” “Right, of course.” Varma gave a dry chuckle. “Responsible of you. It’s just... common, you know. People get so excited about these things.” Maybe if they’re not me . Emil nodded numbly. “Okay, last question,” Varma continued, glancing up again. “Well, for the preliminary round. Aside from the pets and frat boys--did you ever use it on anyone else?” Emil froze. “...Yeah,” he forced himself to say. “There was this--ice cream truck driver. But I swear it was an accident. I was trying to keep him from being hit by this car when he was fixing the roof, and--” Emil took a breath. “Look, I know this doesn’t sound... believable , but aside from those three times, I’ve never used it. I don’t even fully understand it. If they weren’t about to hurt themselves back at that party, I would never have--” “I know,” said Varma. It sounded strangely genuine. Then he was getting up and striding over to someone else who had just walked in--a young woman, also dressed in a lab coat, with her hair in rows of short braids and neon-green frames on her glasses. They spoke in hushed tones. “You’ve been cleared for a holding cell,” said Agent Costello. Emil started. They were the only words she had spoken to him so far. “Uh, thanks.” He was about to stand before he remembered. “Can... Can I get up now?” “You should.” Emil pulled himself up from the chair. His wrists already ached from the cuffs, but now his shoulders felt the strain of sitting in that position. Costello and her partner were already starting down a hallway further into the building, behind Varma and the young woman. And so, lacking other options, he followed them as well.


The story is entitled Mr. Smith decides to camp out in the backyard during a power outage. One Friday , during a power outage,the family of Mr. Smith decided to camp out in the backyard . Also around the backyard was a cave,the family of Mr. Smith all together encountered an adventure. Again the family of Mr. Smith came down into a valley ,where the dark clouds caught up with them once. At the backyard ,there were tall trees around. It became dark even faster than it had done earlier on the main road. Again it also became very windy.There were dry leaves floating down in heaps around the backyard where the Cave was entirely.As can be observed twigs were snapping off hand and then branches were hissing around the vicinity of the backyard. Also the family of Mr.Smith noticed walked around the backyard with their torch light on. As noted the family of Mr. Smith saw the tree trunks were groaning and could almost fall and crush the four children then. Also do make us rest under the iroko tree until the wind calms down,with the family of Mr. Smith. This happens to be a very big strong tree, that won"t fall possibly on the family of Mr. Smith. Again, the wind will pass to other places close to the cave, the family of Mr. Smith observed that it was always getting cold and they looked almost subdued and uncertain. Also they heard a movement and turned to see what it was. The family of Mr. Smith then witnessed a tall dark man, with a moustache , hurrying by carrying almost two calabashes across his back , hanging from his left shoulder with chisel dangling from his belt around his waist. He again stopped suddenly as he nearly ran into other children. He asked ,What is the family of Mr. Smith doing here.? The family of Mr. Smith ,then answered that,They were on their way to the Cave behind the backyard due to the fact that they experienced power outage in their family house. They politely asked ,"Who was the head of the family.? Mr. Smith was the head of the family the man you spoke to at first when you instantly met us. The distance to the cave is not all that far. The entire family came and encountered the adventures at the cave , together with a man leading them in all possibilities. Mr. Smith was also known as a good man , he was a cocoa farmer who exports to other countries for foreign exchange. Also Mr Smith never left his son and daughters to go all alone to the cave, because they were afraid of Scarecrow, Tin man, and Cowardly Lion. The Wizard of Oz ,warned them especially the kids including Mr. Smith not to be afraid of Scarecrow ,Tin man and Cowardly Lion. The Wizard of Oz, lives behind the Girls school around the neighborhood on top of the hill around a mountain. Again, by the time I came back the wind should have passed entirely. The man also turned rather surprised about what happened actually. Also the rain will not fall during the time that the family of Mr. Smith left to the Cave during the power outage. The wind was also too strong to let the clouds settle. It was observed that the wind was dispersing in the clouds yet it never rain. Later the family of Mr. Smith walked straight ahead on the pavement until they got to the Cave. At the premises of the Cave ,there was light and a generator . Also issues about power outages does not occur mostly around the Cave. Mr. Smith then realised that at the premises of the Cave,there was a resting room, mainly for accommodation purposes , together with a Cinema. The family of Mr. Smith had no better option but to find accommodation in the Cave for a days rest,until the light comes back. Again the family of Mr. Smith realised the opportunity to rest and watch movies at the cinema. Mr. Smith together with his children had to rest and watch movies with his family in the Cinema. Mr. Smith family had a good time together at the Cave because there was lights. They all ate in one Restaurant in the Cave and enjoyed watching movies with popcorn and drinks. The premises of the Cinema was Airconditioned in order to withstand the harsh and hot weather conditions of that neighborhood. Mr. Smith family enjoyed their stay in the Cave until they became tired and left the Cinema ,to rest in a bedroom in the Cave. Also in the bedroom within the Cave, family of Mr. Smith slept after watching the Television News for the day. Again ,the Wizard of Oz did not foretell or commented on the time when the light or electricity will be put on due to the power outage. The main cause for the power outage was because the family of Mr. Smith were misusing electricity. The family of Mr. Smith used to leave the television on for twenty four hours in their bedroom and the Hall whilst nobody is watching only to waste electricity. Also due to the power outage, the issue about the waste of Electricity was being controlled in order to export Electricity to other countries so that they will become wealthy with resources. Again the issue about power outage can be controlled when electricity is used wisely within the household and community. During instances ,where there was power outage ,the family of Mr. Smith never liked the issue of the black out and the calamity they encountered. However, the Electricity Corporation advised the family of Mr. Smith not to waste electricity but to rather use electricity wisely. Also the Electricity Corporation advised customers and Mr. Smiy that not using electricity wisely within a community of household could result in a continuous power outage of some sort. The family of Mr. Smith could not always solve the problem of the power outage by visiting the backyard cave to spend some time in the Cinema and bedrooms. Also the family of Mr. Smith had another option of. buying a generator for the household. This did not however solve the problem because the generator creates excessive noise to the hearing of the entire family that the kids could not withstand and even sleep soundly. Again the family of Mr. Smith employed another means of using solar energy to generate electricity for the household. Finally to stop the power outage problem the family of Mr. Smith decided to take the advice of Electricity Corporation not to waste electricity and to switch off all appliances after use. Lastly since, Mr. Smith family decided on using electricity wisely and putting off all electrical appliances after use ,the issue about the power outage was solved entirely, that enough electricity was exported to other countries for foreign exchange. The Electricity Corporation demonstrated excellence at work when electricity is used wisely and also gave the leeway for other people to testify about the wise usage of electricity. This mandate however made Mr. Smith very wealthy because the country was able to earn foreign exchange from other countries by exporting electricity.


Achilles was a hero. All of Greece would know it when he went to war against the Trojans and killed their most valued warrior, Hector, son of Priam. Prior to that, Achilles was merely a boy. A boy, favoured by Phthia's people, who played the lyre and spent time on Mount Pelion with the wise mentor Chiron, learning music and hunting. He would grow up to be a somebody. Patroclus was none of that. Unlike Achilles, Patroclus couldn't play the lyre and wasn't liked by his father's men. He only spent time with the centaur because of Achilles. He would grow up to be a nobody. So how did a somebody fall in love with a nobody? How could someone so smart, beautiful and strong fall in love with Patroclus, a poor, scraggly boy who tripped over his own two feet? And how could that nobody have fallen in love with that somebody? * * * Patroclus stood outside Achilles’ tent. He knew Achilles wasn’t inside; he had seen the boy leave the tent a while ago and hadn’t spotted him since. Ever since Hector had taken his concubine, Briseis, he had been in a foul and irritated mood. Patroclus tried not to let that bother him. He knew Achilles cared for him. Even though Achilles had already fallen for Patroclus, the mere possibility of Achilles choosing her over him was painful. If Patroclus had been stolen, would he react the same? Patroclus shook his head to rid these thoughts. Right now, he had more pressing matters. More drastic ones.When they took Briseis, Achilles refused to fight despite the decade-long war between the Trojans and Achaeans. He was their best warrior; they would lose without him. And Patroclus wouldn’t let that happen. He hesitated before stepping inside the tent. Patroclus had been inside many times since he shared it with Achilles. But somehow, this way felt wrong. Perhaps Patroclus knew that what he was about to do wasn't exactly bad, but he didn’t think anyone would be happy if they found out. And Achilles would not approve. He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves. He’d have to do this. To secure them a win, he'd need Achilles back on the battlefield. They’d need Achilles. He pushed open the flap and stepped inside. The tent wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large, either. Bedrolls lay on the floor, as well as swords and other weapons. It was the armour, however, that caught Patroclus' attention. He picked it up and tried the plumed helmet on, but it slid down his face and over his eyes. Definitely Achilles’. He picked up the accompanying pieces and put them on. The metal was heavy and unfamiliar, but he tried to look confident in it. Achilles was always confident in his, after all. He’d have to look as close to Achilles as he could get. Despite Patroclus having to push up the helmet so he could see, he was glad for how large it was. That way, nobody could tell it was him and not Achilles. He made his way over to the flap and hesitated, his hand outstretched. Should he do this? It had seemed like a good idea moments ago, but now that he was ready to play the part, he wasn’t so sure. He blew out a breath. He had to do this. For Achilles. For his people. He stepped out of the tent, and a few heads swivelled his way. Patroclus just hoped Achilles wasn’t one of them. The Achaeans couldn’t remember the last time Achilles had stepped out onto the battlefield, and many wore astounded and astonished faces. Patroclus hefted Achilles’ sword and made his way to the chariot. “I will kill them all,” he said to Odysseus, who stood there readying the horses. “Every last one of them.” Odysseus turned to face him. “Achilles?” “Yes?” “You are fighting again?” His voice was suspicious, as if he suspected it was a fraud under all that shiny armour. Patroclus dipped his head in a way he hoped looked respectful. “Yes, my friend. I am returning. I will end this war.” “I do hope so,” Odysseus said. For ten years he had gone without his wife, Penelope, and his son, Telemachus. It was no secret Odysseus’ biggest wish was to return home to them. “End them all, Achilles. And curse old Zeus who has banished us here for reasons unknown to man.” “Yes, King of Ithaca.” Odysseus climbed into the chariot, and Patroclus followed. He hefted his spear in one hand. It was odd and unfamiliar. Achilles’ spear had been made for his own hands, not anyone else’s. He knew if Achilles saw him, he would be proud. Right? With a snap of the reins, Odysseus got the chariot moving to the Trojans’ camp. Many gasps met them, and a few soldiers lifted their swords, spears, or any other weapons they possessed. “Achilles?” someone in the crowd asked, and Patroclus gave a curt nod of his head. If he spoke, he would be discovered. He couldn’t let that happen. Patroclus’ plan was simple: he would arrive on the Trojan side, perhaps kill a man or two, and then retreat back to the Achaeans’ side. Everyone would think that Achilles was once again fighting, and then the war would end. Odysseus glanced at Patroclus. “Achilles?” Odysseus asked, and Patroclus nodded. “Is this smart? Why not wait till they charge at us--” “I know what I am doing, King of Ithaca,” Patroclus told him, doing his best imitation of Achilles’ strong, confident voice. Odysseus looked skeptical, but continued to drive the chariot deeper into the Trojan’s land. What happened next took Patroclus by surprise. He knew the Trojans would be angry, and Patroclus was prepared to be lunged and stabbed at by the enemies. Similarly, If Hector had crossed into the Achaeans' land, he would have been slaughtered in a matter of moments. Nearly the entire camp lunged at Patroclus, cursing his name into the depths of Tartarus, stabbing and shooting arrows, trying to get their hand at killing the best warrior of his age, Achilles, son of Peleus. But of course, it wasn’t Achilles under the armour. Just a stupid fraud who was pretending to be something so much more than what he really was. At last, it was too much for Patroclus to handle. He had killed a few men, but they just kept coming, their rage and hatred clear in their aggressive actions. Patroclus jumped off the moving chariot, ignoring Odysseus’ protests. Then he ran. He didn’t care if he was ruining Achilles’ perfect reputation. He had to live. Because life, after all, was where Achilles was. He managed to make it all the way to a sheer rock. Patroclus thought about attempting to climb it, but then he thought better. He would surely fall to his demise before any of the Trojans got to him. Patroclus darted behind some foliage, hoping to conceal himself. A laugh bubbled up and escaped his lips. If Achilles could see him, what would he think? How dare he hide and run and run from a fight donning my armour? Would he be angry? Or grateful that he hadn’t yet gotten himself killed? He put a hand over his mouth to stifle the noise. It was devoid of any humour. It was a laugh that people made when they knew they were about to die. A shadow loomed over him, and Patroclus looked up. Hector stood in front of him. Much like how Achilles was their best warrior, Hector was the Trojan’s. He smiled wickedly, his eyes glinting maliciously. Hector hefted his spear, and Patroclus shot to his feet, his shield and spear in hand, ready to fight. He took off his helmet and threw it aside. He couldn’t win a fight if it was obscuring his vision. Then Hector stood there, dumbfounded. Slowly, his smile faded as realization struck him. “You’re not Achilles.” “No, I’m not,” he agreed. He gripped his spear tighter, never taking his eyes off Hector. And then Hector grinned again, like he knew he would win this fight against this nobody. To him, Patroclus was easy prey. Just another man to kill. Hector lunged at him, and Patroclus narrowly dodged the point of his spear. He thrusted his own forward, but Hector easily deflected it with his shield. He laughed and lunged. This time, the spear bounced off Patroclus’ armour. But it still knocked him back a step, which Hector used to his advantage. He hit Patroclus hard on the chest with the flat of his shield. Patroclus fell, and Hector loomed over him, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re over, son of Menoetius.” And then he drove the spear into Patroclus’ chest. * * * It wasn’t being dead what bothered Patroclus. Or the fact that he would forever be in the Underworld, or even the fact that he couldn’t even go there until the ashes of his burned body were buried. He would be stuck up here, in the living world, unable to touch, to communicate. No. It was none of these. Achilles wasn’t with him. Patroclus’ spirit stood over his body, watching Hector laughing. He had killed someone, and he was laughing . He saw Achilles run over, saw him kneel next to Patroclus’ body. Patroclus placed a hand on his shoulder, but his hand passed right through. Achilles wept. It remained like that for a long time. With Achilles weeping by Patroclus’ rotting body, Hector laughing, antagonizing and taunting the boy. And then Achilles stood and drove his spear through Hector’s body. Hector fell and never moved again. Then Achilles started to kill. He killed every Trojan he could see, and Patroclus begged for him to stop, but he couldn’t hear. Achilles couldn’t be stopped. He wouldn’t stop. And then, just like that, he did. The world stilled. Warriors lay on the ground in pools of their own blood, crying out with pain or already dead. And Achilles was among them. Paris stood by the Sun God Apollo’s side, a bow and arrow in his steady hands. There was an arrow embedded in Achilles’ heel. His only weak point. Paris grinned. He had killed the ever-famous Achilles, guided by Apollo’s hand. And Achilles didn’t even mind. In fact, he welcomed death. Because death, after all, was where Patroclus was. * * * It had been years before Patroclus and Achilles reunited once more. After Achilles had died, his body was burned and buried, and his spirit had moved into Tartarus, into the afterlife. But Patroclus’ body hadn’t been burned; it lay there to rot, and he was fated to walk the living world as a dead soul. Until Thetis. Thetis, the Nereid goddess and mother of Achilles, had come along one day, burning his body. Thetis had never liked Patroclus. Maybe she burned the body because she felt she had to respect a dead man’s wishes of being buried next to his lover, or perhaps it was because somehow, someway, she could see Patroclus and knew he was lonely and in despair. But she burned his body and buried his ashes with Achilles’. And then a warm, solid hand intertwined with his. “Patroclus,” Achilles breathed. And from that day forward, Achilles would be known as a tragic hero. END


Take the pink sponge rollers out of your hair quickly because it’s Sunday morning and everyone is already rushing toward the car to go to church. Slip the black Goody comb through your dense, hot combed, jet-black, Ultra Sheen-glazed hair and style your curls because it is important to look shiny, crisp, and coiffured at your church. When it doesn’t look good, keep combing it over and over, even when Mom is banging on the door. When you finally open it, angry because your hair is still a flat, lackluster mushroom-shape, do not give Mom any attitude when she slaps your face and pulls you out of your room by your hair, down the hall, down the steps, until you finally break free, still trying to fix your hair because you have to go to church with impressive hair. Do not look at her hatefully when you break free because she will slap you three times instead of just the two. Suck your lip to remove the blood; don’t wipe it with your finger because Mom will say you are making a production out of it. Keep a straight face and don’t look hateful in the car when she describes to your father and your four siblings how she slapped the hell out of your vain self and pulled some of your hair out for your primping in the mirror, exposing your punishment to everyone, even though it was done privately and could have stayed that way if it were discipline, not a Mom-temper tantrum. Be patient during the long ride that starts in the idyllic tree-lined street in your neighborhood, crosses into the next town, traverses the downtown, over the railroad tracks, over the drawbridge, and into the hood. Ignore the shenanigans occurring on the way to church, like your mother placing a topless ceramic mug filled to the brim with coffee, on the car’s dashboard. Do not react to your mother’s shrieking and name calling at your father when a drop of her coffee laps over the lip of the cup because he could have driven over the bumps in the road more smoothly to prevent the liquid from spilling during the 45-minute car ride, she said. Wonder again if people live in the houses that look like small square boxes with roofs, have peeling paint, crumbling steps, and tires, furniture, and mattresses strewn in the yards around the corner from Mount Zion Baptist church. Then ask your father if anyone lives in those houses, even though he never answers that question when you ask him every Sunday. When you get to church and the car is finally parked, after 10 minutes of your father searching for a parking space, be careful when you open the car door because there are expensive cars there, packed tight. Walk quickly in your semi-high, black heels and long skirt to the church because you are late again, but do not switch your hips because you do not want people to believe that you are a fast-tail girl. Go to the bathroom first to check to make sure that your hair looks fine. Do not pay attention to the sour smell in the bathroom, the cracked linoleum, or the leaking sink. Do not be upset that your hair looks puffy because the humidity got to it and it was pulled halfway around a house. Go to the basement and into the corner room where your age group is having class, and everyone is already there. In Sunday School do not laugh at Ms. Ida May when she tries to teach, even though you cannot understand what she is saying because she works her mouth and mushy words tumble out. Do not join in with the other kids who are fooling around in Ms. Ida May’s class because you don’t know how to fool around. Notice that Ms. Ida May wears her white church suit that looks like a nurse’s uniform every Sunday, looking like a walking black and white picture. Think about why Ms. Ida May has always been there and will always be there. When it is your turn to read in Sunday School, read each word correctly and in your real voice. Do not pretend to not know how to read and do not speak with a black brogue just to fit in like Tracey Hightower, who was a soft-spoken, sweet girl last year when she was new to church, but now is mean and womanish acting - walking wide-legged and and throwing her developing hips into it, rolling her eyes and popping her neck at you and your sister for no reason every Sunday. Don't be surprised when sixth, seventh, and eighth graders cannot read words like ‘the, come, thus, thee because it happens every Sunday. Try to say hello the right way to Antwon because he is always cool and confident, even if he cannot read. Do not sound stiff when you talk to cool, black, church kids. Do not feel disappointed because when Antwon nodded and said, “Sup” you blew it and said “Hello,” way too timid and proper sounding. When you line up to march into the choir stand with the youth choir and high voice Tonya gives you the dirty eye and tells you and your sister Belinda off, ignore her. Remember that you and Belinda always have each other, and you don’t need the tough, black church girls. The youth pre-teen choir gets to sing with the teen choir today, and they will sing fast, loud, hand-clapping songs. You will sing in the alto section, and so you cannot sit by Belinda because she is a soprano. You will be fine because you will get to sit by Carolyn, Lisa, and Sheila and they have never made fun of you. Do not get caught by Ms. McDonald, the choir director, talking to Carolyn, Lisa, and Sheila during church. Instead, pass notes. When the choir director starts directing the choir to move back and forth to the music, admit to yourself that you do not want to rock in rhythm with the choir, even though you can. Stand still.


Whrrrrrrr. The machine moaned as it compiled my cash to spit it out. It made a click as it stopped, then the little door slid open. I reached in to grab my money. Thumbing through it, I counted, just to make sure it was correct. My dad always taught me to do this, as he claimed he had been ripped off before. Five hundred I thought. Perfect, it was just enough to cover the rest of rent for the month. I had dropped off another five hundred dollars last week, and three hundred fifty the week before, but I had to stay on top of things every paycheck to make sure I could cover rent in the full amount. I got paid weekly, so I tried to pay in increments throughout the month. Between bills, school clothes, food and general needs of a child, rent was killing me. It whrrr'd again as it printed my receipt. My stomach groaned with anticipation and anxiety as I grabbed the ticket. Thirty-seven dollars and sixty-four cents. Heyyy! I thought. Thirty-seven dollars and sixty-four cents! It took a minute before it clicked with me. I wasn't in the red this week! I was certain I was going to overdraft my account with this withdrawal, but I had to finish paying rent this week. I had gotten into the terrible habit of only checking my account balance when I got paid, or when I pulled out rent money, and even then it was only sometimes. But, hey, I wasn't going to get overdraft fees this week, so that was great enough news for me! More than satisfied, I took the cash and crammed it into my pocket, tossed the receipt in the trash next to the ATM, and walked over to stand in line to get the money order for my landlord. I dropped the envelope with our rent money in the drop box of our complex, and drove off to go pick up Liz from school. It was only about two miles away, but it was across a highway, so the school, and I think maybe the police, wouldn't let a nine year old walk home alone. So, every day after work, I had to rush over to her school to pick her up and take her home. It was the only reason that I took the job that I have, so that I could work early enough to get off early enough to pick her up. Today, though, was a half day at school, and everyone got out at noon, so I had to take some sick time to leave early today. I didn't accrue vacation time at this job, and God knows my boss would get pissy if I tried to call out or ask for time off, so it was pretending to be sick to go home for me today. Couldn't just leave her there, and as a single father, I didn't have anyone else who could pick her up. I pulled up to the curb of the school, and all of the kids came bustling out. I looked around for Liz, and like I always do, I had a brief feeling of dread when I didn't see her right away. And, as always, there she came running out, in her pig tails and overalls, then grabbed at the back passenger door to get in. I heard a metal thunk and realized that I forgot to unlock the door, so I clicked the button and she got in. “Sorry about that, kiddo!” I half-laughed. “I gotta stop doing that, huh?” “Yeah,” she agreed, but didn't say anything else. She was usually pretty talkative, so this caught my attention. “How was school?” I asked. “Good,” she said with a bit of a down inflection. I glanced in the rear view for a second. “It doesn't sound too good.” She didn't say anything. “Did something happen?” “No,” she said, staring at the seat in front of her. “Are you sure?” I asked, a little worried. “No, Sammy just ripped a whole in my bubble popper.” She spoke like she was choking back tears. “Your bubble popper?” I asked sadly, “You mean the kitty one?” I glanced back again. The bubble popper was a fidget toy that just had you push little bubble shapes inside out, back and forth. “Yeah,” she said with a strong frown. “Awe, that was your favorite one!” I said. “Yeah,” she said as some tears started running down her scrunched-up face. My lower lip reflected her sobs. “Awe, Sweetie, it's okay. We can get you a new one, if you want?” I offered. They were like five bucks, and they kept her hands busy. Plus, she was a good kid and I hate it when she's sad. It makes me sad. “No, it's okay. I like the kitty one,” she stifled her sobs. But she still sobbed. Awe, how do I make it better? I thought. I thought maybe we could play a card game or watch some Youtube when we got home. Normally I limit her time on Youtube and save it for after homework, but I could make an exception this time. She had a bad day. “You wanna maybe watch some Aphmau when we get home?” Aphmau, (pronounced AF-MOU, like mouse), was a nearly incoherent Minecraft show that some group of adults somewhere made for kids. It had a “storyline” usually, but it never made any sense, and the voices were insufferable. But, hey, she thought it was funny, and there wasn't really anything inappropriate in it, and she loved it. So, I limit that one especially, because I can only take so much, but I did allow it. “Okay...” she answered, not very loudly. Wow, that didn't even do it. We were almost home when I had an idea. It was an idea that I usually brushed off, but I reconsidered it today. A couple of frozen yogurts would only cost us maybe fifteen dollars, max. There was one a few blocks away and Liz begged to go there often, but I usually turned it down because we just couldn't swing it. Sure, I didn't get paid again for another two days, but Hell, I was expecting to be broke today anyway. “You know what?” I said. “We have something else we gotta do before we go home, okay?” “Okay...” she didn't care. We pulled into the froyo parking lot and I parked. I looked back and she was staring out the window, longingly at the shop. “Hungry?” I asked. She lit up, but then hesitantly asked, “Where are we going?” I forced a chuckle. “Well, where do you think we're going?” I motioned my head toward the froyo shop. She bounced in her seat. “Really?!” she asked happily. Thank goodness. “ Yeah! ” I said with emphasis. “C'mon! We better get in there before the froyo melts!” I joked. She bolted out of her seat belt and through the car door as if it were one single movement. I came around and took her hand, and together we walked across the parking lot to get to the store. Well, I walked, she skipped. When we got into the store, she ran ahead of me, over to the levers that dispensed the goods. Next to the first one were the cups. “Go ahead!” I told her as she waited patiently near them. She turned and grabbed the biggest one and giggled. “Ah-ah,” I said with high eyebrows and a smile. She knew what she was doing. “Just kidding, Daddy!” she laughed and grabbed a smaller one. Not the smallest, but much better. In a joking around voice, I nodded, “Uh-huh! Sure!” I grabbed a smaller cup than hers. We made the rounds and I got two flavors; Vanilla and Strawberry Bundt Cake. Liz got a little bit from every single one. “We gotta get our money's worth, right Daddy?” she said. She was laughing, but it did give me a twinge of sadness to hear her say it. Regardless, I joked back, “That's right, Sweetie.” We walked the counter with the toppings and I let her get whatever she wanted. She got sprinkles, mini-peanut-butter cups, boba bubbles (I didn't even know what those were), and candy corn. Wait, candy corn? Why would you put candy corn on a frozen dessert? “Candy corn?” I asked. She seemed like I was questioning all of her life decisions when she answered, “ Yeah! ” She nodded her head with great exaggeration and raised eyebrows. “I love candy corn!” “Yeah, but Honey, it's gonna be rock hard by the time we sit down!” I countered. “You want me to put them back?” she asked. That kid was whitty when she wanted to be, and I gotta admit, she got me there. “I guess not,” I conceded. She smiled and continued on. “But I will be judging you,” I said in jest. “That's okay,” she said confidently. She really was her own person. I was so proud of that. We made it to the pay counter and put our cups on the scale. They charged by weight here. “Oh!” I said while it was still calculating. I started reaching into my wallet, searching. “I think...” I trailed off for a moment until I found it, “...I have a coupon!” It was for five dollars off. I checked the expiration. Still good! I handed it to the clerk. “Alrighty!” she said in a sing-song voice. “I'll make sure to get that added on for you!” She gave so much more life to her customer service than I could ever muster. “Looks like that comes out too...” she peaked over to the scale, “...ten dollars and eleven scents.” “Perfect!” I said as I pulled out my card and inserted it into the chip reader. “Sounds good to me.” It was perfect and not only that, but it was extra satisfying to know that I would have been correct in my estimate, too! It's those minor victories that get me through the day. We took our froyo with copious toppings over to a table and sat down by a window. “How is it?” I asked, knowing that she started scooping it in the moment I paid. I asked before I even saw her, and before she could answer, I saw that it was already all over her face. I smiled. “Good,” she answered, much more genuine this time. She took another bite. I laughed a bit, “I think you missed your mouth!” She giggled, and without a drop of remorse, she smeared a bit more around her lips on purpose. We both laughed. “Ew, you little stinker!” “I am a little stinker!” she announced proudly. I shook my head, smiling, and reached into my pocket. I took out my phone and pulled up Youtube. “Where did we leave off?” I showed her the screen. “Um,” she looked and pointed. “That one.” “This one?” I clicked on it. “No, that's the last one we watched. We need the next one,” she said. “Oh, which one is the next one?” I asked. I backed out of it and she pointed again, her mouth full. “Oh, okay.” I clicked. And we sat there for a little less than an hour and watched as Aphmau did some kind of episode about an under water mermaid school or something, and shared some more giggles. I wondered in the back of my head what kind of bill or streaming service didn't get paid for which left me with money still in the bank, but I pushed that thought out for now. I can figure it out tomorrow.


“How are they today?” I cup her cheek with my hand, gently rubbing my thumb across it. I know her cheek feels warm and soft; she smiles up at me as we lay together. I move my hand to cup the back of her brunette wavy hair, cradling her beautiful head. Then run my hands through her hair. My fingers get caught slightly, so I carefully detangle it for her. I know it feels soft too, but right now I can’t feel it anymore. Not with these hands. I’m unsure how to tell her. I sigh and kiss her forehead, holding the back of her head again, trying to seal my lips into her. This I feel, her soft skin and the slight wrinkles she gets when she furrows her brows, which lets me know she’s either worried or thinking. I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling. She cuddles into my side and rests her hand on my chest. I run my hand up and down her small arm, willing them to feel the goosebumps that spread at my touch. Still, nothing. “They’re being stubborn today, but I think they’ve met their match with me.” I say after some time with a smile, she stares up at me, her eyes searching beyond my attempt at a joke. Behind it, to find the truth. “Yesterday you almost burned yourself,” She remarks. The doctor mentioned I would occasionally have feelings, until I didn’t anymore. “That’s common darling, remember what the doctor said?” I ask gently, she doesn’t like doctors; ever since she lost her mother. This newest development doesn’t add any favors to them in her eyes. Again, she has to hear the words; there’s nothing we can do . It started with a slight numbing feeling, my fingers would feel like they were undergoing a soft vibration. Like they had fallen asleep. It graduated to no feeling at all, which I only realized after sticking myself with a thumbtack and Lia having to stop me and show me it was hanging from my finger. “You didn’t feel this?” Lia asked as she carefully pulled it out, some blood pooled out and all I could do was stare. I shake my head no, I hadn’t... What surprised me more than anything, was how quickly I had forgotten the simplest of sensations. How I had taken for granted the way a pen felt in my hand, the slight sharpness of freshly mowed grass, even snow. Though I always hated snow, right about now I wouldn’t mind it’s cold seeping into my hands as I make a snowball to throw at Lia. What hurt the most, is I could still touch Lia, but I couldn’t feel her. You think you have all the time in the world, or that your memory won’t fail you; but you don’t and it does. In the beginning and even now, there was this sudden desperation to cut into my hands and fix whatever nerves were stealing the smallest of pleasures... “Hellooo,” Lia knocks on my forehead lightly, “Anyone in there?” I snap out of my thoughts and look down at her slender face, “Sorry love, what were you saying?” “Where’d you go?” I shake my head and rub my eyes, this, my fingers also don’t feel, “No where, just zoned out I guess. Sorry love.” I kiss her forehead again and begin to move off the bed to stand. Lia sprawls out on the bed and tries to reach for me, I grab her hand and kiss it too. I grasp any chance to kiss her and feel her on my lips. “I have some work to do love, I need to get the final draft of the new building out.” I move toward our dresser and pick out a pair of dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt. “I thought you had finished that project.” Lia says as she sits up and lifts her arms above her head to stretch. I watch as her shirt lifts up slightly and I smile at the exposed belly button. “Almost, just a few minor notes from Stanley on materials and measurements.” “Will you go to the park again?” She asks sleepily as she lays back down and cuddles into my pillow. “I think so, it’s a beautiful day out.” I grab my sneakers and a pair of socks and slip them on. I look around quickly for my work bag and make sure my notes, drawings and pencils are all set. “Okay, I think I’ll take a nap. Oh! Can you bring those raspberry cookies I like from Estelle’s please?” She perks up and puts on her best puppy dog eyes. Which always works. I laugh and nod my head yes while moving to the bed and kissing her rosy lips again, “See you soon.” On my way out of the house I first enjoy the smell of summer, fresh cut grass and a sizzling barbecue the neighbors are enjoying. The park is about a mile away, but I like a good walk. I look down at my hands as I walk, they feel like I’ve slept on them too long again. I pass couples kissing, parents running after children with ice cream dripping down their chin, dogs happily wagging their tails. Life is all around me, but now I face moments where I can no longer feel it in my grasp. Once I get to the park, I find my favorite bench that overlooks a large pond. There are beautiful roses growing, large trees that seem like they dance as a slight breeze passes through its leaves. I set my bag next to me but can’t bring myself to work. It’s weird to hold something in your hand, but not feel it. I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face, the way its rays hit the water's surface and make it sparkle. There are ducks swimming and I wonder what that life is like. I hear footsteps behind me and smile, an older gentleman sits down and lets out a big sigh. I notice he has a beautiful bouquet of flowers. “Beautiful day.” He remarks as he takes out bread and breaks it apart for the ducks. “How ya doing Frank?” I ask and enjoy the way the excitement of the ducks causes ripples in the water as they flock to food. “Still alive Sam, still alive.” I smile, he always says this. I met Frank a few months ago after my diagnosis of MS, if you can guess, numbness is one of the symptoms. He had just lost his wife of forty five years and I was losing my life as I knew it. Loss was eating away at us, the way MS was eating away at me. “How’s it today?” Frank asks causally as he looks up to the clear blue sky. “About the same,” I say, looking down at my hands, “no feeling today, just pins and needles.” “And the missus?” He glances down at my hands, they look normal he must be thinking. How looks can be deceiving. “Good, she’s napping now,” I look over at him, worry filling my heart as I see dark circles under his eyes, “Are you sleeping, eating?” Frank waves the question away, “You sound like Maryanne. Yes dear, I’ve been sleeping and eating. Some nights are just... harder than others.” I nod in agreement and we sit in silence for sometime. We enjoy the stillness of this moment, the way it feels like a bubble or cocoon shielding us from the life that lives beyond this park. “Frank,” I begin to say, but stop myself. Unsure what I really mean to ask. He looks at me and waits patiently for me to continue, “I’m scared.” I finally say. Frank nods slowly, “Good, that means you have more living to do.” “I don’t know how to go through the rest of this life, when my body is betraying me. I can’t even feel Lia when I touch her.” Frank nods again, “Maybe it’s not about you feeling her, but that she can still feel you. Sammy boy, don’t waste whatever time you have left with her; harping on what can’t be changed. What I wouldn’t give to see Maryanne again. You don’t need feeling in your hands to feel her warmth, it’s in here.” He says as he points to his heart. For a moment, I think I can feel the sun's warmth on the back of my hands and I smile. I am still alive, and there is more living to do. Frank smiles at me and groans softly as he gets up. “Leaving already?” I ask, watching to make sure he’s okay to walk. “Yeah, I have a date,” He says and smiles at the flowers in his hands, “Lilies were her favorite.” I smile fondly at him, “Say hello for me.” He nods, “Same time tomorrow?” “Of course,” I say in return and watch as he begins to walk away, “Frank!” I call out suddenly and he turns around, the sun hits his face and I can almost see his younger self behind the graying hair and wrinkles. “Thank you, for everything.” “Thank you, Sammy boy.” He says in return before waving and heading towards the exit of the park. I sit for some more time, the park is beginning to bustle with sounds of children’s laughter and dogs barking. I stand and begin to walk toward the exit of the park too, I have to remember Lia’s cookies. I flex my hand as I pass shrubs of healthy green and roses of deep reds. I reach out and touch them, feeling slight pricks from its leaves and thorns. I think of Lia and smile, willing myself to remember the feeling of her slender frame and soft skin. I can almost feel the curves of her body, ghost-like at the tips of my fingers. There is comfort in the fact that Lia can still feel me, that I can still touch her. There is more living to do, I’m not done here yet.


\[RF\] Realistic Fiction The wake of frost, glazed over young grass, lulls the starkness of the wind into a deep slumber. It cleanses me from sleep, like cold water from the tap might've done and, the wind trickles down as goosebumps on my skin. I clamber out of bed like a koala leaving its' favourite branch, to explore - it doesn't. Removing the duvet, it peels off as though it were second skin, with reluctancy. My body heat had transferred itself over through the discourse of the night, as if all my tired thoughts had vacated from my spirit and mind to settle between the bedsheets and the mattress, as if to say "stay here".  Many things had held my hand in this way, my child self was silenced by a baby blanket; my mother. Perhaps the greenhouse I had gotten so used to, withered. I had become dependant; shy but loud, talentless but so full of dreams, as if I were a river that travelled through the hearts of others. The fish that lived in my body contained the actions of others and I lived vicariously through other peoples' 'happily ever after' tales.  Until my own inactivity caused a drought that had buried me beneath the cracks of hardened soil, now more like brick. I am forever catatonic, in the sense that my time is still - unmoving. I crawl back under my many blankets, and look through my phone. This is how I start my days, daydreaming to have the life of some stranger on an instagram feed. Longing to be the version of myself that existed in some parallel universe somewhere else, far far far away from my version of here. To be the one that took all her chances, embraced the warmth of the sun on her skin and carried the storm from seas to land within the hazel of her eyes.  I crave the 'femininity' of a flower, what about it I want exactly ...I'm not so sure anymore. Yet, I often wish to be as alluring as the Wolfe's bane, to hold your attention by plainly being me. Like the roots of a tree, this incentive grew and grew and grew until it manifested a cobweb of toxic traits; such is the desperation to be conventionally beautiful. Such a hollow yearning, yet I knew from a young age that I was not to be adorned with any such thing. I was, and still am, average in every sense of the word, and so, back then, I sought the laughter of others in my attempt to feel needed. Whether people laughed at me or with me did not matter...  And I did everything for you to learn my name, only to misspell it then, because it is foreign on your tongue. I'm one of the good ones you see, not from your idea of here. I could not be, I was never enough, I did not light up the room when I walked into it, rather I hid behind the hips of my mother. As the youngest of the family, the wolf sought me out in many ways and, in all he succeeded, I was infested by his salivation. Leaving myself to be crucified with the apple of Eden stuffed into my innards like Christmas turkey. I let myself be heard through the voice of someone new and confident. Oh! how I’d prance about the living room singing opera to humour the broken marriage of my parents, as it watched television in the living room.  I would realise later that I had always been waiting for someone else to become my magic wand. For the man who is my father to be my father, for my mother to let her young’n fly and for my sister to love me as much as I clung to her, back then. She could do no wrong despite all the wrong she did. I was waiting for you to catch the fallen egg, to whisper to me that I am special in some form. That amongst all people I was your favourite. I was waiting for someone to remember me by name. Maybe I had strayed from my path, I had wandered too far from my flock and a Phrygian snatched me from my course by its' breath. I nestled in its' stomach and the darkness swallowed me whole, until I was no more but poison to its' lungs.


Donald flew the usual route. The other geese flew behind him in a V-shaped formation. They trusted Donald and followed him blindly. They did not know that he was trying to escape from them. No matter which turns he took, no matter how many loopings and barrel rolls he did, the other geese would always follow him. Donald hated being the leader. All the other geese could see each other, talk to each other. They must have felt like part of something bigger than themselves. The Leader had nobody to talk to and felt lonely. His father had been leader and so nobody had ever asked Donald what he wanted out of life.  The team was heading south. Their route took them over the colorful vineyards of northern italy, lit on fire by the autumn. Donald gazed at the red and yellow beauty of the leaves and did not see the human hunters, who were aiming at him. "PANG" Blood soaked his feathers and he fainted. As he got pulled closer to earth's surface his body gained speed and Donald crashed right through the window of a teeny tiny stone house.  As he woke up Donald found himself circled by humans. He was laying on a wooden table and two human girls were looking at him with a big grin and sparkling eyes. Initially he was scared, but he looked at his hurting wing and saw that the humans had helped him. They had cleaned his feathers and patched him up. He let out a scream of relief.  Finally, he was free. A huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He did not have to lead anybody. Suddenly, his stomach crumbled and Donald looked across the small room, searching for something edible. He saw a few seeds close to the open front door and started waddeling towards them. The humans started moving. They followed Donald to the seeds. The mighty leader of the geeese got scared, let the seeds be seeds and waddled out of the house. He found himself in the middle of a small village. After some exploring Donald was suprised to see that it was empty. No humans anywhere. Donald could not fly, his wing would never fully recover and so he waddled through northern italy without seeing anybody. That was until one day as he was drinking out of a little pond Donald saw the reflection of a human girl standing behind him. He turned around in shock and saw that hundreds of humans had lined up behind him.  The humans had recognised that they were in the presence of a true leader and started worshipping Donald the mighty gander. Politicians had lied and betrayed them for years and Donald had a long desired purity and honesty. He went on to waddle through the whole country and unwillingly became the first gander president of the republic of Italy. His sudden rise to fame marked the beginning of birdism in Europe.  Long after Donald-Il possente-'s death Italy and France were led by charming magpies and Germany had a female cuckoo as Chancellor. The birds were quite fond of each other and instituted long lasting peace on the continent.  \-This is a short story written for a creative writing course that I am doing. It had to consist of the following blocks: Orientation-Crisis-Escalation-Twist-Ending.


From Drake's *Scorpion* blasting from one side of the clubhouse competes against country music from an unknown country artist coming from Cory's locker. A race war, although this one has no casualties, only good natured shit talk amongst teammates being hurled from one corner to the other, is in full effect. Twenty five teammates, a manager, four coaches, a few kids moonlighting as batboys, and a couple of washed up reporters from the local news station go about their business like they have for every other home game this year. The Richmond Flying Squirrels have a record of 54 wins, 64 losses, and are 11 games out of 1st place. To say the team is playing out the season is an understatement. Right handed pitcher Mateo Rodriguez is the only player on the Giants 40 man roster and other than a few other fringe prospects, the big league team would have to all die in a plane crash for anyone in this clubhouse to get a sniff in the show. Blake leans over to tie his cleats as Mateo walks by with his hammer of cock out and busts Blake's balls for having the whitest name possible. Blake pays him no attention; he has other things on his mind. Besides, what can he say to the 21-yr old kid with a future and a cobra between his legs, that would get under his skin - nothing. "*I know shorty and she doesn't want no slow song had it made last year, life goes on*" bumps from the sound system. Unbeknownst to his wife and all his teammates, this will be the last time Blake laces them up and runs out between the white chalk lines. 29-yrs old with a birthday rapidly approaching, Blake has played over 1,200 minor league games after playing ball at Eastern Tennessee State. After signing with the Braves in the 12th round in '10, he's been traded more times than DMX has been arrested. The moderate signing bonus Blake received is long gone. Some of it spent on PEDs which helped him get called up to AA two years ago, some if it spent on drinks for floozies in visiting towns, and the vast majority of it went to child support for a child he hasn't seen since birth. His baby mama got pregnant on purpose, thinking Blake would be her ticket out of bumfuck Tennessee. She should have spent more time watching him play than lying about being birth control and she'd realize Blake had no shot at making a big league squad. General Managers aren't looking for a left fielder with 30 career homers in nearly 8 seasons of lower level play. 6:30 and first pitch is 37 minutes away. Willie Larkin, the Flying Squirrels manager, is in his office finishing up his interview with the local reporter. Same shit different day. Neither want to do the interview, but then again, neither he nor the reporter are talented enough to get beyond this point. Willie is giving one word answers. The sooner this asshole leaves him alone, the sooner he can take a swig of the Jim Beam in his bottom desk drawer. In the clubhouse, players are taping their own wrists & ankles up. Others are on their phones texting their significant others and DMing the ladies they're planning to cheat on their significant others with on the road next weekend in Hartford, CT. Mateo pitched a gem last night, 7 shutout inning and 12 Ks, and has made his way to the field to scout talent in the stands. Rolling a basket around the clubhouse, the batboy picks up towels and rolls of medical tape and warm-ups from the guys lockers. The smell of foot sweat and unfulfilled dreams permeate the cramped room. A flickering light above the center of the clubhouse is symbolic of just about every ballplayer presently putting on their uniforms. Blake takes it all in. Eight years in pro ball, another 15 before that, he's seen all baseball has to throw at you, except for the spin on a 95mph slider. He's addicted to painkillers; he chews enough tobacco to kill a bull; he doesn't earn enough to pay for his herpes medication; he's a dream that's run out of gas on the freeway. Too many successful folks get interviewed he thinks to himself. Makes you think everyone will be. On the one flat screen TV mounted on the wall across from him is the pre-game of the Giants game scheduled to start at the same time as the Flying Squirrels game. The thing that will eat at Blake's soul for the rest of his living days is not falling two exits short of the show, but rather, seeing former teammates of his through the years make it to the cathedrals that are MLB stadiums. Jealousy is a deadly sin and Blake knows that jealousy will be the cause of his death more so than tobacco & illicit drugs ever will be. Willie stammers out of his office with a five o'clock shadow going on midnight and tells the boys first pitch is less than a half hour away and to turn the music off. A standoff between those listening to the country music and those listening to Drake ensue. Neither side wants to be the first to turn their music off. Same shit different day. Eye black applied a few minutes earlier, Blake picks up his Louisville Slugger in his callus covered hands and grips it with more passion than he did his baby the day she was born. Baseball is his true love and he's been lusting after it ever since his dad brought him to Camden Yards as a 6-yr old. That day Blake told his dad he'd play there when he grew up. Problem is love is a two-way street and baseball doesn't have time for washed up players that are going to be on the wrong side of 30 soon. The clamors of cleats clicking on the cement pavement rumble as the teammates make their way out of the clubhouse. Blake waits behind and sneaks into his manager's office for a quick swig of Willie's Jim Beam. He's not in the lineup tonight, so why the hell not. In a few hours he'll be an ex-ballplayer. That thought soaks into his pores more than the cheap liquor. With one more glance at the deserted clubhouse, Blake turns and makes his way to the hundreds, not thousands, of fans that have come to the game for $1 beer night. None of them know his name.


I had the same dream every night, of looking at myself in bed, from the corner of the room. The dream would end when I tried to touch my sleeping body. The first time it happened, I was 15. I hadn't thought much of it the first night, but when it had repeated itself a few times, I started doing some research about what was happening to me. I came across tons of articles on "dreamwalking" and "astral projection". Most of it sounded made up, but after my dreams, I was way more open to entertaining those ideas. The concept I kept coming across was that a non-physical version of you could theoretically separate from your physical self, and would then be free to roam the cosmos, unbound by your physical limitations. Once I'd read about it, in my next dream, I turned away from my sleeping body and tried to leave the room. I couldn't. It was like there was an elastic band tying me to my body, and if I moved too far away, something would pull me back. Disappointed, I went to tap myself on the shoulder, to wake up. And so the dreams went for months. It got boring pretty soon. Try as I could, I was unable to travel far from my body, let alone fly around the world like some articles online had suggested. I started waking myself up earlier and earlier, cause atleast awake, I could move around the house, rather than spend hours stuck in one room, unable to interact with anything. Pretty soon, I was heavily sleep deprived and depressed. To prove to myself it wasn't just completely imagined, I'd left a book open at a random page before I went to sleep one night. In the dream, I found the book lying open on a table, and memorised a sentence. When I woke up, I checked the open pages for the sentence, and confirmed that whatever was happening to me wasn't just simple dreaming. With the novelty of my "astral" dreams wearing off, and the depression starting to affect my performance in school, and my social life, I turned to my mom. She'd been a single mom since Dad died many years back. She worked incredibly hard to provide a life for me, but we'd never had the kind of relationship where you share deep stuff about yourself. But with nothing concrete on the internet, and no close friends anymore to reach out to, I figured it was worth a shot. She'd noticed something had been wrong for a while, but just chalked it up to a teenage phase. While we were sat at the dinner table one night, I started, "Mom, do you ever have weird dreams?". She looked up from her plate. "What kind of weird are we talking here?" "Like, seeing yourself sleeping, like you're outside your own body" I'd expected her to just chuckle or be dismissive or something, but she dropped her fork and looked me dead in the eye, her tone dropping to a much more serious one. "How long have you been having these dreams?" I explained how they'd been going for a few months now, how I came to learn how the ability worked, how I'd touch my body to wake up, and how boring it had started getting. She listened carefully to every word I said, and when I was done talking, she asked, "And do you ever see anyone else there, when you're having these dreams?" I tried to think back through the past few months, confessing that I'd never had. She looked relieved. Confused, I asked "What's been happening to me Mom? Who else did you think I would see?" "Don't worry about all that. The only thing I need you to do is this. Every night, before you go to sleep, I need you to trace your index finger down from the centre of your forehead to the centre of your chest, all the while humming, like this". She demonstrated. "You should feel the vibration from your humming in your finger at the end, when you're touching your chest. Do that, and you should be able to sleep without dreaming. Can you remember that? Promise me you'll do it every night" "Yeah, I'll remember, and I promise" That night, before I went to sleep, I did as Mom instructed. As I finished up, I felt all the tiredness I'd accumulated over the past few months wash over me, and I passed out. The next thing I remember was waking up to a ray of sunlight breaking through the closed curtain, falling directly on my face. The moment I woke up, I realised that for the first time in months, I'd had a real night's sleep. I got out of bed and ran straight downstairs to find my Mom making breakfast. I told her how much better I felt and asked her why that weird humming thing had worked. She told me not to worry about it, but repeated that I should never forget to do it. I promised again that I never would, and I really meant it at the time. Over the next few months, I consistently did the little ritual every night, and woke up fresh every morning. I picked up new hobbies, reconnected with my friends and life in general seemed to be a lot brighter. It was a few weeks after my 16th birthday, for which I'd had a small party at home with friends and family, when my dumbest, but most fun friend called me. He told me that he wanted to throw me a real party, which left me confused. He then sent me a picture of him holding two six packs of beer that he'd obviously stolen from his dad, and told me to meet him at our local park in the evening. Rolling my eyes, I texted back that I'd be there and sent an invite to another one our buddies that lived nearby. The park was usually empty after 7pm, and today was no exception. We messed around on the slides and the monkey bars, like we'd done before we'd gotten too old for it, before settling down to open our first cans. It was a fun evening. We repeated all the stories we'd told each other a thousand times and laughed just as hard as when they actually happened. A few drinks in, we started messing around on the swings, pushing each other and seeing who would throw up. Funnily enough, it was the friend who'd brought the beers in the first place who lost that little game. Not wanting to be caught for throwing up in the local park, and realizing that the sun was setting and we'd run out of drinks, we all hugged and headed back home. It wasn't a long walk, and I'd only had 3 beers, so I made it back in one piece. It was almost 10pm. I tried to get in without making much noise, but I shut the door a little too hard. My Mom called out from upstairs "Where were you?". "Just with some friends", I responded. "I'm gonna sleep soon. Long day. There's some food in the fridge if you want. And don't forget to do the thing before you go to sleep" "Yeah, yeah, thanks" I stumbled up the stairs, suddenly aware of how tired I was. Or maybe it was the booze. I made it into my room, took off my shirt and my jeans, and fell onto the mattress. My eyes were starting drift shut, when I remember the ritual. I raised my hand and touched my forehead, slowly tracing a line down to my heart. With that taken care of, I drifted off to sleep. I realised I was standing in the corner of my room, looking at my bed. I could see my body lying on it, my chest swelling and rising, my mouth slightly open. "The humming!" I thought to myself. I forgot the damn humming. "Do you ever see anyone else there, when you're having these dreams?". My Mom's question from months ago, the night she taught me the ritual, echoed in my head. I didn't want to wait to find out what she thought I might have seen, and so I began to move towards my body, reaching out my hand. That was when I felt a violent pull back, similar to the pull I experienced when I tried to move away from my body in these dreams, only this time, the same force threw me back into the wall. I tried to fight away from the wall, towards my body, but it felt like I was trying to walk through water. I looked to the opposite corner of the room, on the other side of the bed, when I saw it. A dark figure a few inches taller than me moved towards my body. As my eyes adjusted, I saw, what it was. Or rather, who it was. I'd only ever seen him in pictures, or if I'd seen him in person, I'd been too young to remember. But now, seeing that cruel smile on his face, there was no doubt in my mind. I was looking at my dad. I'd asked Mom about him for years as a kid, and always heard the same kind of answer. "He passed away when you were young. It was just his time, don't worry about it. You have me, and I'll look after you". If I bothered her enough, she'd show me a picture or two, and one time, she broke down crying, and I'd hesitated to ask ever since. But now was staring right at him, as he moved towards my sleeping body. I tried to scream out, but the sound was caught in my mouth. He reached out towards my shoulder, as I struggled against the forced pulling my back. He looked up, directly at me, and just said "Thanks kid", before tapping my shoulder and fading away. I watched it horror, as my own body began to stir without my control. The eyes opened, and the body shuffled to the side, climbing down off the bed. The force holding me back began to ease up, and I rushed as fast as I could towards the body. I tried to tackle it, hoping to somehow regain control, but I simply fell through my own body. The body, still just in my underwear, opened the door and walked out into the corridor. I was lying on the floor, after my failed tackle, when I felt a familiar pull, drawing me back towards my hijacked physical form. Fighting the indifferent pulling force, I managed to stand and walk a few steps behind my own body. I followed it as it walked downstairs, and towards the kitchen. It opened up the fridge and grabbed a handful of sliced ham and shoved it into it's face. It turned as it chewed, opening up a few drawers and rifling through. I was panicking already, unsure of what to do, when it drew out the largest knife in the kitchen and looked back towards the stairs. I felt myself being pulled again as I saw myself walking back up the stairs. I kept trying to touch my shoulder or grab my leg, but my hands simply passed through. I started crying, screaming "Dad! Please! Don't do this!". I wasn't sure he could even hear me, but it was all I could do. I watched in horror as the door to my mom's room slowly creaked open, and my body stepped inside. It crept slowly towards the bed, and lowered the knife over my sleeping mother's face. I screamed "Nooo!", as I watched myself drive the point of the blade into her forehead. She woke up immediately, and tried to fight back, but I was stronger, managing to hold her down as the knife traced a line down towards her heart. I saw my face contort into the twisted smile I had seen on my father's face, as I wept at the sound of my mother screaming. I kept trying to grab my arm, despite knowing it was futile, clawing more desperately each time my hands passed through. As the blade touched the centre of her chest, I watched in horror as my arms tightened their grip and drove the blade deep into my mother's heart. Her screaming stopped, as the blood poured from her, soaking the white sheets she was lying on. I broke down weeping, when I noticed her turning her head towards me, gasping for her final breaths. I wasn't sure how, but it felt like she was looking directly at me. She whispered, "I'm sorry", and her eyes glazed over with death. I was so occupied with my mother that I hadn't even realized that my own body was now sitting on the ground, on the other side of the room. I noticed a deep red line running down from my forehead, down to where I held the knife pointed at the middle of my chest. I heard a crunch, as the blade dug its way into my heart. I watched my own body collapse forward, as I bled out into the rug. I was so shocked at this point that I wasn't any more taken aba when I saw my father appear again, standing beside my body, looking down. He then tilted his head up to look at me, and with a wild cackle, he simply said "Good luck kid", and walked past where I stood frozen, out of the room. I stood there for hours, alternating between frozen shock and weeping. A few hours later, I tried to leave the room, but still found myself unable to move away from my own body. ............................. It took a few days, until the smell alerted the neighbors, and the authorities came by. The officers took one look and all seemed to agree it was some sort of psychotic breakdown leading to a murder-suicide. I watched my body being transported to the morgue, and the coroner determining that I'd been drinking the night before. I hoped my friends wouldn't get in trouble, or feel too guilty for drinking with me, but there wasn't really anything I could do for them anymore. Before long, I was packed away and given a silent burial as befits a murderer. It's been months now, and I just sit around in the graveyard all day, watching the trees, the grass and the occasional mourner, still unable to move more than a few feet from my own headstone. All I want to do is sleep, or even better, die.


The first time I experienced real death was when one of my classmates passed away. I was never really close to him. We chatted from time to time, but it was rare. I was friends with some of his friends, though, so they were more impacted than I was. I remember everyone from school came to the service. People who didn't even know his name were there. Pews full of young teenagers watching as the family wept while the boy's short life was sealed away in a wooden tomb. I remember my friend, sitting beside me in the church, eyes clouded with tears, listening as the preacher told us about him. How good a boy he was; how he was in a better place; how God had a plan and everything happens for a reason. But I know none of that mattered. Truth be told, nobody wants to be told that their 14-year-old is in a better place. They just want their son in their arms. Alive and well and that's all they want at that moment. They'd apologize for all the things said and for those words not said and tell them they love them. But he wouldn't hear. He couldn't. He couldn't hear his mom crying in the first row. The crack in her voice when she told everyone in the church that he was a wonderful boy, or when she could barely walk away when the coffin was fully submerged in the dirt tavern. My friend sat beside me in the pew, his eyes clouded with a grief no one our age should have to endure. I remember I sat there beside him, wondering whether he needed tissues, or if I should hold his hand, tell him it was okay. But I didn't. I couldn't. My friend sat there beside me crying while I sat there confused. I was so confused. What had happened? I couldn't even tell if it was real, everything felt surreal, so fake; like I was playing out a dream, or, more accurately, a nightmare. But as we finally stepped out of the stuffy church into the summer heat, my other friend's grandmother stopped me. She pulled me in a hug, and wouldn't let me go. She wrapped her arms around me tightly, rubbing my back. She told me he was gone, but that it was okay, that he was okay now, that everyone else would be okay too at some point in time. She told me it was okay to cry, even if I didn't know him that well. And so I did. There on the steps to the white building, I bawled my eyes out. I cried for the young boy whose life was ripped away from him in a split second, I cried for my friends, his family. I cried at the realization that life is a precious thing. Something that could vanish without caring whether that person was important to anyone, without caring whether that person leaving could break someone down until they themselves could barely be considered living. Death doesn't care who they take, or the aftermath that's sure to follow.


The moving truck pulled up at twilight. I watched the movers unload the belongings inside and bring them into the house. I didn't see anyone else go in. I'd heard someone had bought the old Murphy house, but I thought they'd be tearing down the building, not living in it. The new owners must have heard the rumors about the house being haunted. It was featured in the news and at least one paranormal group had investigated there, capturing voices on tapes and shadowy figures darting from room to room. I hoped the new owners knew what they were getting into. Shaking my head, I moved away from the window and finished getting dinner ready. The next couple of weeks were strange. I didn't see anyone leave the house next door during the day. It was only at night that I saw someone leave. A man's figure would exit the door, lock it, then go to the car in the driveway. I didn't see him come back, so I figured he worked midnights. Due to him keeping the lights off, I didn't get a good look at him, so I wasn't sure what he really looked like. I'd also started to have nightmares every night. You'd think living next door to a haunted house would have done that, but it didn't. Every night, I'd dream something was scratching at my window. A feeling of dread would wash over me, and I'd pull the covers up over my head, so I wouldn't see whatever it was at the window. I'd feel a pull though to look, and just when I couldn't take it anymore and look, I'd wake up with the memory of a pair of red eyes staring at me. My heart would be pounding, and I'd glance at my bedroom window, but nothing was there. It always took me a long time to get back to sleep. One night, I'd decided to sleep on the couch to see if that would stop the nightmares. I wasn't sure if a change in scenery would do that, but I was desperate enough to try. I dozed off while watching the television, hoping watching something before I fell asleep would make me dream of something else. A sound in the backyard woke me in the middle of the night. The television was still going, so at first, I thought that was what had woken me, but then I heard it again. I muted the television. It sounded like someone was running through the yard. I sat up on the couch and grabbed my phone, in case I needed to call for help. Slowly standing up, I kept my attention on the backyard as I crept through the living room and into the kitchen, which overlooked the yard. I made my way to the window over the sink and peered out. The yard was still. I leaned closer. A pale face with red eyes lunged at me, causing me to fall backward as I let out a scream. I landed on my rear end and covered my head with my hands. I thought that thing was going to burst through the window and kill me, but all was still. I lowered my hands, which were shaking, and made myself look up at the window. Nothing was there. Looking around the room, I got to my hands and knees. Nothing was out of the ordinary. Reaching up, I grabbed the edge of the sink to help me get to my feet. My legs were shaking so hard, I thought I'd fall over if I didn't have that support. I made myself look out of the window once more, but nothing was out in the yard. I leaned closer to get a better look, but the backyard was as it always was. Shaking my head, I closed the curtains and went back to the couch. I unmuted the television and got back under the covers. As I was dozing off, I realized the face in the window was the same one as I'd seen in my nightmares. My eyes shot open, and I sat up, my heart pounding. Wrapping myself in the blanket, I sat up, watching mindless television for the rest of the night. The next day, as I was getting into my car to get groceries, my neighbor on the other side of me, Betty, called out. "Yoohoo, neighbor!" she said in her usual greeting. "Hey, Betty," I ground out, grumpy from lack of sleep. "Did you hear the excitement last night?" she asked, walking over. My eyes got wide at that. I shook my head and asked, "What happened?" "You remember that string of break-ins that have been going on for the past couple of weeks, right?" she asked, reaching me and leaning against the car. I thought for a moment, then nodded. I hadn't paid them much attention since I was so disturbed by my nightmares. "Anyway, they caught the guy who did it," she said, her eyes wide with excitement. "What? Where?" I asked. "Right in your backyard!" she said, leaning toward me. "What?" I asked, my mouth dropping open. "How did I not know about this?" "You might have been deep asleep," Betty said, patting my arm. "Are you a heavy sleeper?" I shook my head and said, "Not usually." Her face scrunched up, then she shook her head and said, "Anyway, the guy was in a panic and screaming that something was chasing him, trying to eat him or something." "What?" I asked for the third time. "What did he mean, something was trying to eat him?" Betty shook her head and said, "They weren't real sure. He was babbling and practically climbed into the back of the squad car to get away from whatever he thought was chasing him." We were both silent for a moment, then she added, "Oh, and the police officer said the guy was bleeding from his neck, so he must have scratched himself or something while he was trying to get away from whatever he thought he saw." After that news, she said her good-byes, and I got into my car. I didn't start it right away, but sat there, lost in my thoughts. I turned my head to look at the house next to mine. Staring at it, I had a sinking feeling I knew what type of person could live in a haunted house. Live being the operative word. I still had groceries to buy, so I started the car and went to the store. I made sure to stock up on garlic. I'm sure the cashier thought I was making a lot of Italian food, and I didn't have the heart to correct her. That night, I made sure to have a head of garlic on every windowsill and hanging off of every door. For the first time in months, I didn't have any nightmares. In the morning, when I opened the door, I found an envelope on my doormat. I looked around to see if I could tell who had written it, but no one was in sight, not even Betty. Closing the door again, I opened the envelope and pulled out the folded piece of paper. On it was written, "You have nothing more to fear from me. You are under my protection now." No signature was on the note, but I knew who it was from. The vampire next door.


Tough Love There was a list of things he had to do before the big date tonight. For the last week he’d been envisioning how the evening might go. From the location of their table to the color of his suit, everything needed to be perfect. Thats because thats how she was. She was a perfectionist, and without affirmation, he would be left to wonder what he could have done differently if all did not go accordingly. It had been almost a year since he’d seen her. Leading up to this day, there were many difficult nights trying to piece together his feelings. The last time they had met, he was not in the best place to speak my mind. They had both ridiculed each other on the night of a friends wedding which was out of character for them both. The truth of the matter was that they were drifting apart. In all honesty neither of them had direction in life. He was working for minimum wage, while she had learned to latch onto those with security. Those who could impress her with their success and status. Over the last year he had transformed for the better. Each morning was spent running around his neighborhood and the second hour stretching, completing his yoga practice. The consistency had taken him almost a full year to develop. Sheer determination alone could not take full responsibility. It was his drive to overcome his mistakes that woke him up in the morning, she was his morning sun. Getting into the office, he arrived 15 minutes early so that he would greet and thank his coworkers for their hard work. This way of thinking was new, and had become habitual as he genuinely cared to connect with others. In the last year he had taught himself to be grateful and show up to work with optimism and charisma, which had led to overall growth in the workplace. He treated them like her, and they received his gratitude kindly. The hope was that she would be able to see the changes he had made in his life. While getting dressed for dinner, he envisioned what the rest of the night might look like. Would she lay in his arms until morning? Or how would their first kiss be? Should he make the first move or would it be like in the movies, sudden and passionate. Most importantly he considered how or when he might tell her how he had always loved her. He had never heard her mimic those words back to anyone but those successful boyfriends she had in the past. Tonight he felt reassured as he had financial security and renewed confidence. Hopefully he was just as worthy as the rest, he was in their league. Arriving 15 minutes early, he took initiative to talk with the manager, slipping him a 3 digit bill to reserve the best table in the house. The manger smiled and proceeded to give him a two top overlooking the entire establishment and paired him with his most seasoned waitress on staff. Looking over the wine selection they went over which bottle might be best in season. They chose the Chablis 1992, which was far from fairly priced. Looking down at his phone, he debated whether he should txt her. It was 8:00pm. Approaching his table, the waitress asked if he would like to start with a single glass of the chablis which he declined. “No that is alright. I think she may have miscounted the time” “Certainly Sir, I will be circling around, please let me know if there is anything you need” As 8:15pm turned into 8:30pm, he sat there alone with his glass of water and untouched bread. Over the next 30 minutes he had become more present than he had been all day. Sitting up straight in his chair, he watched as the jazz band played an upbeat new rendition of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way.” Smiling at the waitress as she made her rounds, he did not feel much pain. Instead his focus drifted to a young couple sitting in a corner booth away from everything. It was a young man and women, no more than a few years younger than himself. The two of them half way decently dressed and were fooling around about something. He watched in admiration as they picked at their appetizers and drank their beers from the bottle. In the preceding years, this is how he and his best friend had been. He considered this with a bittersweet feeling. The waitress circled back again, it was 8:50pm. “Excuse me sir, I wanted to apologize that we had accidentally corked the Chablis. We won’t charge you for the bottle, but my manager had asked that we at least charge you for one glass.” “Thats quite all right, you can charge me for the bottle, and please if you don't mind, would you would take it over to that couple over there with the calamari.” “Sir I’m not sure that they’re a couple, they seem more like friends” He watched as the two giggled to each other about something. “Yeah, they do look like friends. I’m sure they’ll be happy to receive it then.” Paying his bill, he tipped the waitress kindly and proceeded to leave the restaurant. It was 9:00pm and he had been given up. Walking by the booth where the younger pair sat, he overheard the waitress as she informed them of their gift. He did not look back to see their reaction, continuing stride. While paying for his valet ticket, he began to feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. Looking down he saw a text from her. In it seemed to be an explanation from her that was too long for him to pick up at the moment. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into his car, turned on the ignition and began to roll the windows down. Then he heard a yell. “Excuse me sir” It was the young gentleman. “I just wanted to thank you for that bottle of wine for my good friend and I” “Sure, not a problem” He said this with a courteous smile. “By the way kid. If you love her, tell her.” The young man began blushing, and opened his mouth but couldn’t speak a word. “Worse things can happen than you not telling her” Letting these last words settle, he put his car in drive and took off. On the way home he let the fresh air outside blow through his car. On that drive he received another message from her, but did not look to read it. Instead he followed his nighttime routine, organizing his materials for the day ahead. As he wrote down in his journal the 3 things he was thankful that day: I am appreciative today for my health, that I am able to exercise and feel energized each day during my runs. I am grateful today for my job and the amazing people I work with who make my days easier. Lastly I am thankful to have had been stood up tonight. You have taught me the greatest love of all, and that is to love yourself. Txt Message from: Hi, I’m so sorry, my phone didn’t update for day light savings.