Luke found it incredibly hard to say no. It didn’t matter who it was or what they needed; he always found a way to help them out, so it was certainly understandable that the night he got a call from an old friend asking him for a favor, he couldn’t turn his back. Sophie was her name. They met in high school but barely talked to each other at all. One day, Luke fell into trouble he couldn’t handle alone and she was the only person who chased after him to help. Complete strangers yet she came to him, offering a helping hand during a distressing time in his life that he preferred not to think about. After that, their relationship sparked into a deep friendship. That friendship slowly heated into desire, and Luke found himself developing feelings for her. He kept it hidden and decided it was best to keep it a secret, so he never spoke of it. Eventually, he found out that Sophie had felt the same way. They dated, they kissed, and they fell in love quickly. They were inseparable and completely mad about each other. A few years later, they split up. It wasn’t because they didn’t love each other anymore or because it didn’t feel right, but because their paths led them down different roads. Sophie wanted to go to school in a different part of the country, but Luke didn’t know what he wanted to do. He offered to go with her, but at the last minute she told him it wasn’t a good idea. She left and he watched her leave, not knowing what he was going to do without her. “It’s been three years.” Luke mumbled to himself as he sat in his parked car, running the engine in front of the airport. The small radio clock on his dashboard faintly read the time and played a soft rock station through dusty speakers. With the window slightly cracked, he took a long drag of his cigarette and blew it out into the open. Smoke filled the air and spiraled around him. The open window didn’t help at all, but he didn’t mind either way. It was Sophie who was going to have a problem with the smoke. That’s why he was there at the airport, sitting in an idle car in the middle of the night. He was lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep, when he got a call from an unknown number. He could barely believe his ears when Sophie’s voice sounded through the speaker of his cellphone. She was back in town for a few weeks to visit but her ride cancelled, and she needed a way home. I don’t have anyone I can call... she had said. Please? Luke leaned back in his seat and groaned. “Who even gives a shit?” He cursed, taking an even longer hit from his cigarette, letting the stress flow out of his body. “Why did I even come here?” A knocking on the passenger side window caught his attention, turning his head in the direction of a sight that took his breath away. Her hair was shorter but still wavy, softly framing her flushed face with auburn curls. It barely brushed past the pink wool scarf wrapped around her neck. Her eyes, a cool shade of green, pierced through the glass window. Even after all of these years she still had the same effect on him. He reached over and pulled the door handle, letting her open it and slip inside the passenger seat. She slammed the door shut and let out a long sigh, sounding as though she were out of breath herself. A strand of her hair stuck to her strawberry pink lip gloss; the same lip gloss she always wore when she was with him. Her brown leather bag sat on her lap and Luke couldn’t help but check out her legs in black nylons and dark grey ankle boots. “Hey.” She spoke up in the silence between them. It took a brief second after or her to feel the hair attached to her lips. With the quick movement of her gloved hand, she moved the strand and continued to look at him. He gave her a half smile and sat back into his seat, immediately putting the car into drive. “Where to?” His voice was cold and gruff. He didn’t want Sophie to have the satisfaction of his kindness. Although the fact that he showed up at all defeated the purpose. Sophie sat back into her seat as well and stared out the window. “The Samlier Hotel. I have a reservation there.” She spoke softly. Luke gave her a side glance as he drove out of the airport parking lot. “Hotel? Why aren’t you staying with family or something?” He asked. She said nothing in response, continuing to stare out the window. Luke shrugged it off and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes. A swift movement of his hand made one of them slip out of its packaging and stick out enough for him to pull it out with his lips. He lit the cigarette with a quick flip of his lighter. The first hit filled his entire body and helped soothe his uneasiness. “When did you start smoking?” Sophie asked, breaking her silence. Luke smirked and slipped the lighter back into his pocket. “After you left.” His response made the atmosphere tense and the air even colder than it’d been before. He knew his reply hit her hard - hard enough to ensure she wouldn’t say another word the entire ride. A part of him only wanted to give her a ride so he could make her feel badly for all she had put him through, and for the most part it seemed to be working. Yet he couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t as satisfying as he had hoped. Despite his feelings, he felt... wrong. Sophie brought her head down and played with her fingers, pinching the fabric of her gloves. “I had a feeling you would do this to me.” She admitted. Luke let the smoke out of his lungs with a sigh. “Do what, exactly?” “You know what.” “No, enlighten me. What am I doing? The same thing you did to me?” His voice started to rise up. Sophie turned her head away again and didn’t reply back. Luke scoffed and focused back onto the road. “Didn’t think so.” For the rest of the ride, they didn’t speak to each other. Sophie coughed a few times from the smoke and eventually opened her window so she could get fresh air. Luke messed with the radio in an attempt to find a station but decided he wasn’t in the mood for music and shut it off completely. The tension between them was incredibly thick and that alone was worse than the smoke. Luke pulled into the parking lot of the hotel and turned his car off, letting the keys hang from the ignition. “Well, here we are.” He said unenthusiastically. The entire ride was awful, and he was relieved that it was almost over. When he didn’t get a reply from her, he peered over and observed Sophie sitting perfectly still in her seat. She had her head completely turned away from him, concentrating on the world outside her window. Her hands were clenched around the strap of her purse. “Hey, did you hear me? I said we’re here.” Still no response. Luke was becoming aggravated at this point. “Hey!” He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her slightly so he could see her face. Sophie finally looked over to him with tears in his eyes. Her make-up was slightly messed up and her eyes were pink, indicating that she must have been crying for quite some time. Luke pulled his hand back slowly, his heart racing. “Why are you crying...?” Seeing her upset and vulnerable was too much for him. Any negative feelings he had about her were completely wiped from his mind, replaced with compassion and concern. “Luke...” She turned her body around, slipped off her glove, and reached her hand out to his face. His mind told him to retract - pull away from her touch, but he found himself unable to. He let her hand touch his cheek and brush along the prickly stubble of his facial hair. Her touch sent shivers down his spine and made his head spin. Without thinking, he reached his own hand up and touched hers, holding it in his grasp. “Sophie...” Tears started to well in his eyes. Emotions flowed through him faster than he could process. It was so overwhelming and confusing for him that he didn’t know what to think or do next. Sophie smiled at him and unbuckled her seatbelt. She leaned over and moved closer to him. He could feel the heat radiating from her body and he could hear her hesitant breathing. “I... I’m so sorry... I just... missed you.” Sophie leaned even closer in and caught him in a tender kiss. Luke couldn’t help his reaction and kissed her back, deeply and passionately. When they parted, he pulled her in for another, and another, each one more intense than the next. Every time they parted for air he could hear Sophie’s soft and quick breathing. He didn’t think he had any want for her until the moment he saw her. “Stay with me in my room.” Sophie whispered, but Luke shook his head and captured her lips in another kiss. “No, come back with me. I’ll take you back to my apartment. It’ll feel like - “ “Like I never left.” Sophie finished his sentence, looking deeply into his eyes. The sparkle in her eyes were the same they’d been three years before. It didn’t take long for Luke to weave through late night traffic and make it to his apartment deep in the city. They both left his car and rushed into the building, taking the elevator to his floor. They scurried to his room door and Luke fumbled with his keys to open the door to his cold and messy apartment. Empty bottles of beer and several other types of alcohol were cluttered in corners and laid scattered across the floor. The bed was unmade, crumbled up pieces of paper overflowed the trash bin, and his clothes, dirty and clean, were either on the floor or strung across pieces of furniture. “Maybe we should’ve gone to the hotel...” Luke thought, feeling slightly embarrassed for the state of his home. Sophie didn’t seem to mind the mess and focused her attention on Luke, pulling him for another series of passionate kisses. It almost felt as though time had frozen while they were together. The light of the moon beamed through his window, illuminating every curve and detail on their bodies. They laid together, looking in each other’s eyes until Sophie fell asleep. Luke stayed awake, completely lost in thought. Everything that had happened was so much to handle at once. It took small movements or a sleepy moan from her to make him remember that it was all happening. It was real. The sound of her gentle breathing and early morning birds singing outside his window eased Luke to sleep and into a dream he never wanted to end.


George had started to lose weight. At first he was overwhelmingly happy. He had struggled for so long against his own three hundred fifty pounds of flesh, and it had pinned him to the ground both physically and emotionally ever since he had married Alan. Finally, as if it was a plague of locusts departing from a wheat field overnight, the weight started to disappear without George even trying. During the loss of the first fifty pounds, George would go to the mirror and look at himself and watch his folds and slabs of flesh closely, and he felt that if he looked hard enough he could feel himself shrinking, he could see the fat dispersing into the air like sand being carried away by the wind, like the carving out of a canyon by a Colorado breeze. He told Alan that he felt like Mother Nature had decided to finally sculpt him. He told Alan that maybe all of his struggles with his weight and all the bullying and missed opportunities he had suffered were because he was a piece of marble, and Mother Nature was letting him get big and round and full so that she would have as much as possible to work with. Alan started making love to him again. First it was once a week, then once a day, and then it seemed that Alan couldn’t keep his hands off George any time he saw him. George didn’t even want to some of the time but he couldn’t say no because it had been so, so long since he had felt loved in any way. He began to feel as if this must be a trick or a joke and that everything would fall apart soon, and so he never said no, and he breathed in every single second of feeling cared for. They went on walks together and George would catch Alan in the corner of his eye really looking at him, drinking in the details of his face, and this made George feel that maybe he really had been chosen for something special. All of the suffering had been for something. Everyone else who had gotten to be attractive their entire lives--George pitied them. They were as good as they were ever going to get. He, on the other hand, was finding out his true potential at forty-five years old, and a whole new life was unfolding in front of him. He was experiencing a metamorphosis they never would! The next hundred pounds gone were all the more bliss. George saw the scale hit 200 for the first time in two decades and he fell to his knees and wept in his underwear in their North Carolina bathroom, and Alan heard him weeping and came in from the living room and comforted him, which George could not remember him ever doing. They kissed next to the bath, feeling the cold of the tile on their skin and the heat of the summer radiating in through the windows. George wept into Alan’s shoulder and Alan hugged him tight, which George cried harder at, because usually when he tried to cry on Alan’s shoulder he would be pushed off. Alan hated anything getting on his polos, especially tears, which he said left salt stains. This time Alan did not push him. He held him tight even though he was wearing his best polo, and George wept, and then Alan spoke in a voice that George had never heard come out of him in their twenty years of marriage. It was a voice that sounded as if it was generated by his bones rubbing together, like a violin made of keratin. “I think you’re finally ready.” George stopped crying and shuddered. He realized suddenly how much colder he always was without his extra flesh, and how much more vulnerable he felt. He wished that his bones were hidden like they used to be. “What do you mean?" Alan didn’t say anything. George felt the loving embrace that surrounded him become unearthly strong, and he felt Alan’s nails grow suddenly and sink into his back like talons. Alan’s skin became freezing and hard, and the walls of the bathroom were jet-black and they closed in on them, and Alan and George were completely alone and there was no sound from outside anymore. George looked into Alan’s eyes and he couldn’t help starting to cry again. He hated how easily he cried--whether he was arguing, or frustrated, or waiting in line--his body’s first response was always to cry. Now as he looked into the face of his husband, who held him in place with the strength of 10 men and threatened to crush every bone in his body, whose eyes were now missing and replaced by deep holes that seemed to go entirely through his head and whose mouth was now filled with row after row after row of tiny, serrated teeth--all he could do was cry and sniffle. Alan spoke to him again. “I’ve always been annoyed by how much you cry.” “I know you have.” “On our wedding you were a mess the entire day. You couldn’t even eat or make a speech because you were crying so much. I thought you were going to dry out like a raisin.” George looked into Alan’s eye pits and tried to find his old humanity in them. His skin was a sickening greenish-white, glistening like the wings of an insect. “Have you been eating me at night or something? Is that why I’ve lost weight?” Alan smiled, an absolutely ghastly sight that threatened to make George cry once more. He felt his floating rib pop from Alan’s death hug. “I used to do it at night, when you were repulsive to me. Now I eat you when we make love.” George decided he would shut off his brain and just let whatever happen to him here happen. His ability to process this and form emotions relating to it was depleted. “So you were just fattening me up for this. You made me miserable for 20 years, and then I got to be happy for four months, and now you’re gonna eat me and I’ll be gone.” Alan thought for a minute. “Yes.” George decided he was actually done being emotionless about this, and that instead he was going to try being very dramatic. Alan had always called him a drama queen and so George figured that if he couldn’t stop Alan from killing him, he would at least be very annoying to him as he died. “Well then go on and do it. Just let it be known that I was always good, and kind, and fair to you. Let it be carved on my headstone: Loving Husband, Passionate Artist, Unfairly Consumed by his ungrateful lover who shall NOT be named.” Alan didn’t respond. Instead, his mouth extended into a long tube like a worm and latched onto George’s face, surrounding it completely, and all George could see were darkness and teeth. He was too shocked to scream. He could smell Alan’s foul, sulfurous breath, and hear the inner workings of Alan’s body and stomach, churning, sucking, rattling, turning his body into nutrients or energy or whatever he was being processed into. George squirmed around valiantly in Alan’s grip and broke a few more of his own ribs, and he started to have a very difficult time breathing, half because of the stomach gases that were traveling up through Alan and corroding his face, half because of the broken ribs poking into his lungs. Alan’s voice traveled up from his stomach and echoed around the tube-mouth, seemingly produced only by the acid in his intestines. The voice sizzled and popped and hissed. “I did love you very much, George. You really were wonderful in many ways. This is just what I was made to do. You understand.” George felt himself getting smaller and smaller, his mass somehow disappearing into Alan. He felt that he must be something like 125 pounds now. He began to yell down Alan’s throat. “Just get me fat again and then eat me, and then do it again--I’ll be your food source, baby. Without me you’ll have to find somebody else.” George felt Alan’s grip loosen slightly. He felt like he was losing weight a bit less fast. “It...feels so incredible all at once...” George, through tears, yelled down the worm’s mouth again. “I’ll get big for you again. You can do it all at once every couple of months. It’ll be so much nicer that way--you never know if you’ll find someone who tastes like me again--you’ll never find someone who’ll get big for you like I will. I--I get to eat whatever I want and then lose it all, and you’re fed for life.” Slowly, the rate of consumption decreased, Alan’s mouth un-suctioned from George’s face, and his grip released. George looked up at Alan and he looked human again, brown-eyed and pale with his greyish-blond hair flopping onto his forehead. He smiled sheepishly. George looked down at himself. He was smaller than he had perhaps ever been. Slowly he stood and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like he did when he was 12, his ribs protruding, his arms thin and wiry, his skin stretched like a drum over his cheekbones, which he realized were quite nice. This had been his dream when he was heavy and now when he looked at himself he realized how alien he looked. He stepped on the scale. 110. Alan came up behind him and hugged him gently. George winced a little. Alan kissed him on the neck and began to massage his shoulders. George felt Alan’s fingers touch his collarbones, his shoulder blades. He felt like if he wanted to he could squeeze his fingers together right through him. Alan was so much stronger than him now. “Why did you wait 20 years to start eating me? I’ve been heavy for a long while.” Alan breathed and thought, and George felt his breath on his back. Even the breath felt like a threat, like it could take all his warmth from him if it wanted to. “I planned to start a lot sooner. But I loved you too much.” “And you don’t love me now?” “We have something stronger than love now, George. We have a deal.” George looked in the mirror again as Alan continued to massage him and kiss him up and down his neck, and after a few seconds trying to figure out how he felt he decided he would just stop thinking about anything at all for a long while. He asked Alan what they were going to have for dinner, Alan smiled and told him, and George did his very best not to cry.


"It said 'Anti-murder juice' on the chalkboard," I say lightly as I place the cardboard carrier on the seat between us. "Although you probably wanted to kill me back there." I nod another apology at the dark stain on his shirt. "Well, it was pretty hot stuff, and I can't deny it hurt a bit, but I think I'll live." He laughs. He sounds relaxed, confident. Ever the gracious gentleman. I steal a look at the man beside me. Time has been kind to Peter. Two and a half decades have done nothing to detract from his breathtaking good looks. The teenage heart-throb has become the kind of man who's listed among the "Top 10 Sexiest Something or Other" in magazines. But life was always good to Peter. "I can't believe it's really you," I say, aware that I'm staring, that I sound like an idiot, like a gushing fan. He turns those grey eyes towards me and a wave of heat engulfs my chest. "Well, I would have known you anywhere. You haven't changed a bit." He winks. Smiles. I duck my head and fumble with sugar packets. My heart is hammering so loud I'm sure he can hear it. He's lying, of course. The last 25 years have left behind nothing of the sweet and rather stupid 17-year-old I used to be, apart from my long black hair. And even that is streaked with grey. I think it's safe to say my own mother wouldn't recognize me now. "Shit, I put sugar in your coffee. I forgot to ask if you still take it." "Haha, I'm supposed to use sweetener these days." He pats his stomach, which shows no sign of middle-age spread. "But a little sugar probably won't kill me." He takes his cup and stirs it with a little wooden stick. I stir my coffee, too. "To lucky accidents," he says, turning towards me. We clink paper cups, softly so we don't spill. I watch as he drinks. A couple of deep, greedy gulps. Then he puts down the empty cup, stretches his arms over the back of the bench, and sighs. His left hand is almost touching my shoulder, a glint of gold in the sunlight. I look out over the sea as I sip my coffee, slowly. "It's been so long," I say at last. "There's so much I wanted to say to you, Peter." He doesn't answer. So I carry on. "You left so suddenly, I never got the chance. And you never answered your phone or returned my calls. At first I thought it was because I saw the two of you - you know, that night. That you were afraid I'd go psycho on you or something. But later my mother told me that she called your mother about five minutes after she found out. I suppose she told you to stay the hell away from me. And I suppose you didn't mind so much. I mean, after all, I was just another high-school dropout, and you were a Rhodes Scholar, drinking Champagne on the banks of the Thames. Easier that way, obviously. But it was so hard, Peter. You can't have forgotten how religious my mother was. And, also, she blamed what happened on the fact that I didn't have a dad around growing up. So she absolutely refused to let me keep it. And what was I supposed to do? I had no money. Nowhere to go. Nothing. But when they took her away, even though they did it straight away, I felt something crack inside me, here, in my chest. And the pain came in through the crack. I've tried everything, absolutely everything, to push the pain back out again. I guess you could say it's been my one real ambition in life. At first alcohol was my best friend, but then it was mainly drugs. More expensive, but so much more effective. For a while, anyway. My friends used to call me The Queen of Codeine. But I've moved on. I'm way past that. And then I found you again, Peter. To be honest, it would have been hard to miss you. You're really famous these days. I've seen the pictures of you and her in the tabloids, and of the two of them too, and your skiing holidays and your yacht, and your beach house, and all of it. So, it wasn't an accident today at all, really. I was waiting for you. I've been planning this for weeks. I thought maybe, if it seemed like a coincidence, if it was a surprise, you'd let me talk to you. Let me have just a few minutes with you." The waves sigh onto the rocks below us. I steal another look at him. His head is tipped back and his eyes are unfocused, gazing off at the distant horizon as if lost in thought. I imagine what we must look like to strangers passing by: Two figures on a lonely bench, silhouetted against shimmering silver ripples. We sit there in silence a while longer. Neither of us moves. Bit by bit, like the tide ebbing out, the pain starts to leave me. For the first time I can remember, I feel like I can breathe again. I stack the two cups together and carefully pick up the paper packets and stirrer sticks. I carry them a long way before I find a bin to throw them into. ****** Story ends. I’m afraid I can’t seem to add another 109 words. I believe in brevity - even when I’m being paid by the word. I don’t oretend to be Hemingway, but I do often repeat Strunk’s immortal words: ‘A sentence contains no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences. So it does seem rather odd to me that you would set a lower limit on the word count required for your short story competition . To disqualify a story for omitting unnecessary words seems a little arbitrary and even counterproductive, assuming you are in favor of promoting quality of writing. rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb rhubarb cheers


Today my life is changing. Neither for better or worse, but it is changing. Even I don't know where it will go. I find myself in a mixture of fear and excitement underlying a deep sense of abeyance. In this car, thick with the scent of burning tobacco and wild lavenders, I head to my destination. A short while later, I reached an impasse where I can no longer drive through the fields. I station my car near a footpath and continue on my way. "I wonder how long I can go with only some fruits in my stomach," I think to myself as I swat away the shrubs blocking the path. Moments later I see a clearing. I set myself onto a perfectly placed rock, facing the vastness of the nature, as if its sole purpose in life was to act as a seat from which to behold this sight. As I watch the sun set behind distant hills, all covered in deep green grass, the brilliant orange purple sky soothing the fields with the rest of its light before it goes to sleep, I find myself overcome with loneliness and appreciation for life. "I'm not meant to be confined within walls," I begin to say to myself as I continued to watch the scene in front of me. "It's out here in the world that I belong." I've been traveling now for what seems like the most of the year. There was no grand goal in my head, nor any dramatics which forced me to flee. I simply awoke one morning and realized I know nothing of the world and its inhabitants, and so I set out. In my journey, I've come to realize one thing; I'm not an important part of this world, nor am I unneeded. I know I have no grand purpose in this world, but I know my absence will greatly affect it as well. It's a strange contradiction that I've always been pondering, yet it makes absolute sense to me. I continued to stare out into the wilderness, the orange in the sky almost gone, purple now dominating the air. Night was coming fast. I sat there unaware of everything around me, swimming in my thoughts when suddenly everything seemed to unravel. We are all the most important person on Earth. In this wondrous landscape canvas, we each hold a brush and a pallet of our thoughts, making our impact on this ever-changing portrait we call life. Some chase magnificent endeavors and try to dominate the portrait, while other choose to hide away, leaving nothing but the shadows that define the scene. Others choose to simply add a few minor details here and there with a smile and a wave to those around them. I however, choose simply to meet others and create memories with them. It's the only way I can prove I existed, that I was once alive. Soon, the sky was covered in darkness. I began to head back down the path with only the light of a million stars guiding me. I reached my car, jumped in and began to drive. Where I might go, I do not know. All I know is that I will keep driving. Whether for better or worse, I continue on these empty roads.


Talk to Me She wakes and dread seeps back into her like a tide, cold and inescapable. Please talk to me , she thinks. Let it be today . Across the bedroom, the window sill glows blue-grey beneath the shudder, and the room is dark and cool and vaguely antiseptic smelling. She must have cleaned for him; he loves a clean place, or rather he loves watching her clean: naked cleaning, they call it. There’s also naked dinner, naked TV (though never during his gameshows, she’s tried), and on one memorable occasion, naked car washing. They lead to love-making, these silly events. Had she rinsed dinner plates, or tossed his stained coveralls into the washing machine with nothing on - save an apron - and he’d enveloped her and they’d been together? She can’t remember. All has become a blur since ... well, since he stopped talking to her. She turns towards him under the thin blanket. She’s cold, freezing in fact. She will get them the best blanket money can buy, she muses, one they will never want to come out from under, and then nestles timidly into his back. It’s a broad back, a rugby player’s (former), one she never hesitated to hop onto during those frenetic, hundred and eighty seconds between classes in high school, in college, or when they closed on their first home and he was literally being handed the key to the front door and she was out-of-her-mind happy. He stirs but does not move away from her. A good sign. What’s wrong? She whispers into the nape of his neck. And this time he does react: “Maa ... ehhh,” he stammers. It’s hollow and pained and seems to come from deep inside of him. It makes her feel insignificant, microscopic. Nightmares, so many lately. It’s ok. It’s ok . She can’t remember the last time he spoke to her. And he’s such a talker, especially after a few drinks. A small memory unfolds, bright and vivid: the two of them driving the Hana Highway in some ridiculously high-end rental; top down: sun and wind and hair everywhere; she with an un-corked bottle of red blend from the winery atop the mountain secreted in a brown paper bag; him grinning, hand very high on her thigh, saying: oh, yeah, that’ll throw the cops WAY off . She tries to remember the fullness of his voice, its tenor, his monologues, his contagious laugh, his pausing of CNN or FOX and contesting exasperatedly what is being posited, and then turning and providing unsolicited explanations for her, and her complete acceptance because in those moments she is awash in his true - if not closeted - intellectual colors. She’s sure her husband is the only mechanic alive who reads two books a week, watches Jeopardy, America Says, or Idiot Test (his newest favorite) with a near fanatic intensity, and who actually incorporated the word anti-establishmentarianism into the first ever conversation with her asshole parents and made it not awkward. God, how she loves him. She think-shouts: So talk to me now, damn it! Tears come. They burn like ice water in her eyes and on her cheeks. She sits up gingerly, careful not to wake him (always a concern, this), and wipes her face. Well, maybe that’s part of this whole mess: my ridiculous deference to him and this new trouble. And on the heels of that: Ugh, I’m becoming my mother. But that’s not entirely true, or fair, she admits to herself in the darkness. Barbara Montgomery feared Donald Montgomery, and with cause. And so did she all the way up to his thunderclap heart attack in a Safeway parking lot that put an abrupt, vacuous end to the black-happy bullshit. No, her mother couldn’t help herself, not then. And why she continues not to is maddening and horrifying. She doesn’t fear this man curled next to her, not that way; he’d no sooner hurt her than he would his own mother (or over-achieving younger sister, for that matter). But his hasty shutting off to her, as if she no longer existed, was worse, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she read an article recently in one of those impulse-buy women’s mags that a man who stops communicating is a man who, at the bottom of things, simply wants out? Oh, Dear God. Please no. No one deserves this. No one. We love each other. Of course we do. Then STOP this black-happy-you-know-what . She gets out of bed then, and not like some ninny, either: she tosses the feeble coverlet aside, hops out, stands at the foot of the bed, and crosses her arms. Robert Dovin, she says, I just pressed the pause button, and you’d better start explaining yourself. Talk to me. Tell me what the matter is - Tell me what’s happened! Her voice is strident and anomalous in the quiet, dim room. I won’t put up with this any longer, Robert. Robert? ROBERT! There is a tinny popping sound, and she is suddenly back-lit from what she intuits are the shudders somehow unhinging themselves from across the room. Her shadow is abrupt and wraith-like over his bound figure, causing her to start. Something hisses behind her. She spins. Two things: the big window is still very much closed (when did they replace shudders with drapes?), and a small, flat-screen TV glows brightly high on the opposite wall. Snow, just plain old TV snow. Black lines flicker and disappear, flicker and disappear. THIS IS KBAT! The television suddenly blurts, and she spooks again. NEWS THAT’S NEW TO YOU! An up-tempo, no-nonsense melody follows, and she’s sure she will hear the leathery voice of Tom Brokaw or Dan Rather break in. The TV snow fades, and a news woman in a taut blazer with padded shoulders materializes behind a sleek, glass desk. She is also no-nonsense, this reporter, but there’s more here, something solemn and grave. WE COME TO YOU TONIGHT WITH TRAGIC NEWS FROM THE BEAUTIFUL ISLAND OF MAUI IN THE HAWAIIAN ARCHIPELAGO ... “Maa ... geee.” For the third time in as many minutes, breath catches in her throat. She turns and sees her husband staring up at her. His eyes are bloodshot marbles in the quicksilver light of the TV. Bobby! Yes, it’s me, sweetie, Maggie. I love you so much - so, so much. Talk to me, sweetie. I lov - A HORRENDOUS SINGLE CAR ACCIDENT ON THE OTHERWISE TRANQUIL AND HISTORIC ROAD TO HANA ... “Noo ... Maaggg ... I-I-sorrryyy ...” Bobby, Luv, no, please don’t be. I thought you were mad at me, that I’d done something - THE RENTED AUDI CAREENED SOME SIXTY FEET DOWN AN EMBANKMENT INTO ONE OF THE PICTURESQUE POOLS THAT ARE A TOURIST ... “Noo ... ahh-gawd ... MAGGGG - “ Without warning, her body heaves involuntarily and a squelching, gargling sound comes from deep within her. She coughs, wretches, and vomits up something long and mossy and cold. It hangs from her mouth like an impossible black tongue. Gagging, frantic, she pulls it from her mouth like some nightmare version of a minstrel clown. AT THIS TIME AUTHORITIES BELIEVE ALCOHOL MAY HAVE PLAYED A ROLE IN THE ILL-FATED INCIDENT ... She staggers back against wall, some sort of thin, waterlogged reed in her hand. She looks at it disbelievingly, detachedly, then to her husband, who is not looking at her, but rather at the small screen above her. Oh, no - was he ever looking at me? Weakly, wincing in bright, clear pain, and never taking his eyes off the screen, he props himself on one elbow. And now she can see: neck brace burrowed under his chin, twisted leg enclosed in a sort of oblong cage with rods penetrating its purple skin at different angles, bandages, bandages everywhere seeping with what she hopes is only iodine. And when his swollen lips part in a feeble attempt to speak, wires crisscross his broken teeth. “Ohhh ... Maageee ... peeez-no ... donn-be-gon ... I-luff ... alllmyfall ... done-be-dea - .” Before he can finish, her mouth snaps open again, and a torrent of gritty, ice cold water jets forth, gallons upon gallons, spanning the room, splashing against the far wall and the solitary door with its perfectly square glass window, and settling into shimmery pools on the pea-green linoleum floor. OFFICIALS REPORT TWO OCCUPANTS WERE IN THE VEHICLE AT THE TIME OF THE ACCIDENT, BUT, SADLY, ONLY ONE SURVIVED ... Of course it’s linoleum , she thinks from some far off place. And we never replaced the shutters - tisk, tisk. And that blanket’s an ineffectual piece of crap because - AN AUTOMOBILE MECHANIC FROM KONA, HAWAII ... -- we’re not at home at all. We’re in a hospital room somewhere on Maui ... or at least half of us is. THE PASSENGER, WHO REMAINS UNIDENTIFIED AT THIS TIME BUT IS BELIEVED TO BE THE SPOUSE OF THE DRIVER, DID NOT SURVIVE THE INCIDENT. BACK TO YOU, BOB. The last thing that occurs to her, as that ethereal part begins its mystical undoing, and Robert Dovin - son to Belinda and Peter, brother to Dr. Cassandra McFadden, D.D.S, and father to no one - cries his wife’s name though his ruined mouth and reaches for the television, is that her husband is, finally, talking to her again. END


Used to be. Three words that hold a world of stories in their hands. Stories of the past. Things that happened that will never happen again, at least never in the same way. Well, I have one of those stories. It was in the tenth grade when it all started. Tina and I were placed in the same science class, sparking a friendship with literal sparks (physics experiment gone wrong). Before I met Tina, I would always eat lunch alone, longing to sit with one of the other kids around me, but they were never next to me. I had hoped that if I was nice enough, pleased everybody and brought each person up, they wouldn't let me down. So even though I would say hi to many people every day, I didn't have any real friends, people I could hang out with every night, and it wouldn't have mattered what we did, because we were together. When I became friends with Tina it was like that. At first, we would call each other every night, talking on the phone for hours while doing out school work, studying for exams or even just watching the same show on television. One day, a cold November night, we decided 'why not meet in person?'. Soon after, we would hang out together all the time. Creating private jokes, sharing secrets about our past and crushes of the present, baking to our hearts desire- I was happy. Somehow, I got lucky. Somewhere, way up in the sky, someone woke up and decided to look out for me and make my deepest desire a reality. For some reason, the stars decided to align for me that year. I didn't, I still don't, know why that happened. I was just another rather average human being, hoping to survive not just life, but also high school. Tina didn't just make me happy sitting under a blanket in her parents' basement watching movies until 4 A.M., she also made me happy in school. We would study together, getting good grades in all of our classes. Tina, being the social butterfly that she is, also introduced me to a bunch of people I had never really interacted with before. Like I mentioned before, I said hi to many people, but never truly got to know them. But with Tina by my side, I could tell you billions of stories about each and every person at my school. We would get invited to party after party after party. I felt over the moon after every single one, the night confirming that I belonged. That is, until one of those nights, as I went to grab Tina so we could make it home before curfew, she had brought Chandler to tag along with us. Chandler was every girl's dream at our school, and Tina knew, believe me she knew, that I had the biggest, most crushing crush of my life on Chandler Wong. With his fine black hair sitting neatly on his head and his chocolate brown eyes looking like wells of melted chocolate calling to me to dive in deeper and deeper, and let's not forget his personality (since isn't that what makes him our true hero?). Chandler could be described as loyal, brave, smart and maybe a bit cunning- all the ways in which he can't be placed into even one Hogwarts house. Always nice to people, always seeking to help out to those in need (seriously, he did charity work at the soup kitchen three times a week), always trusting everybody. Chandler was the kind of guy that even the most not-wanting-to-ever-be-married type of girls would want to marry and live with forever since he treated every single person he met with the utmost respect. So when Chandler and Tina tagged along behind me on our way home that night from the party, I couldn't help but feel devastated. If Tina could do that to me, why had I trusted her so much? How could I have become such good friends with her and never have known this would happen? And how could Chandler, perfectly sweet Chandler, decide to go out with someone as awful as Tina? Maybe she changed. Maybe while I was watching movies and baking cakes, she was planning her way of overstepping, using me as the step in her ladder, the pawn in her little game of chess, the last ingredient needed to perfect her poisoned apple. All she ever wanted was to get to the top and be the best. Whenever we would get are tests back, she would gloat about all the 100s she got, making my 98s feel as pathetic as a crumpled, dried flower. But perhaps it was my fault, because I let her do that to me. Tina saw a lonely target to crush on her way up, and I allowed her to take that step. If it weren't for my stupid wishes and feelings, I would have never have became friends with her, and maybe I would be ok. I vowed then and there that I would never let Tina, or any other person treat me that way. I decided to still be friendly with Tina, because the fact that I knew her true intentions, gave me power over her. Power to decided how our future would be. After we graduated, Tina going off to a prestige university, and I going away to law school, I never bothered to answer her phone calls. It was easy, since they never came in. Over the years, whenever I think about our friendship, I wonder if there was something different that could have happened, enough to changed the ending of this Used To Be. But even if there was, I don't think I would change a thing. the story helped me realize how to be a better person and friend. I also realized how much pain and suffering can come when experiencing lost. At the end of the day, Tina and I were friends, best friends. But now? we are just two women, living extremely different lives, who used to be.


(This is a collaborative story with my friend Wei Hello!, it’s the same story told from two different perspectives. They aren’t exactly the same, but they follow the same storyline.) My hands were shaking on the wheel. Although I’ve driven a golf cart countless times before, it still terrified me. Nobody else knew this, of course. Like I was going to tell Jerry that I was afraid of driving. He was practically getting driving lessons already. I pulled up very carefully in front of Jerry’s front door, and he was sitting on the steps waiting for me. He was on his phone and apparently didn't see a bright lime green golf cart park meters away from him. “Uh... Jerry? Hello?'' I asked tentatively. I was just the tiniest bit late, but Jerry was very impatient and would probably get mad at me for being- “Two minutes and thirty-five seconds late! I expected better of you Carson,” “Well SORRY.” “Come on, let’s go already!” He got up and stepped into the seat next to me. “Okay, first stop, The Apple Orchard!” I announced, carefully driving along the suburban road towards the apple orchard. I had been there many times before so I had practically memorized the route. Jerry was still grumpy that I was late, but he got a little more excited as we hit the road. “We're going to pick some apples, we're going to make some pie! Were going to pick some apples and we’re to make apple pie.'' not to don't toot my own horn, but I am very good at writing tunes. “Hey, Jerry! We're almost there! See! It's the sign!” The entrance to the orchard had an old wooden archway going over the main entrance for cars, and on it was a sign that said, ‘WELCOME TO THE BEST ORCHARD FARM YOU’LL EVER SEE!’ or at least I assume it said that it now looked more like, ‘WFICCNE TC IHF BECT URLHARD FAYN UCI’LI EUFR SEF!’ “Are we there yet?” Jerry asked, taking his hands off his ears... wait was he not listening to my amazing song this whole time? Rude. “We‘re entering the farm, you just missed the sign, I looked over my shoulder trying to see the sign again. “CARSON WATCH OUT YOU’RE ABOUT TO RUN INTO A-” Tree. I ran straight into a tree. “Well... the good news is that we’d finished our apple picking for today!” I said after I winced at the sound of apples hitting the roof of my dad's golf cart. “Bad news is that they gave this golf cart a bunch of dents.'' I tried revving up the golf cart again hopefully, but nothing. “Other bad news is that we are now stranded in this apple orchard with no other humans around to help us.” I opened the golf cart door and stepped out, surveying the damage. “Well, not NO humans around, there is that cottage a little way away from here,” “What are you talking about? Wait... you don’t mean,” and I swear I heard thunderclaps in the distance, “LARRY’S HUT?” I for one thought it very dramatic (though I do wish his name was Gary or something spooky like that. Larry is kind of lame), but Jerry rolled his eyes and said, “OH come on, you don't really believe those stories, do you?” “Uh, yeah? Larry’s hut is the most known story in Paranoice!” “Well, I’ve never heard it.” Jerry crossed his arms, and so I began to tell him the legendary story of Larry’s Hut. It started on a leisurely Thursday morning, not unlike this one when Larry decided to go apple picking by himself in his Uncle’s apple orchard. His uncle was away on a holiday, and so Larry took his chance to get some free apples from his orchard. It was told that he picked two basketfuls of apples before he heard it, a voice calling out to him- “Oh come on, a voice? really?” “SHH! Just let me tell the story! As I was saying, a voice was calling out to him,” It was saying his name, over and over again. Larry, Larry, Larry , came to the voice. Larry was curious and reckless, so he tried to find the source of the voice, and he came upon an old cottage that was overgrown with vines. Larry hadn’t seen this the last time he’s been to his uncle's orchard, so he entered it. And he never came out again. Later it was told that his uncle had died within the day he had returned to his orchard. “That,” Jerry started, “was the most RIDICULOUS thing I’ve ever heard! There is no way that’s true.” “Come on! You can't go there!” “It’ll be fine .” “That’s what Larry thought!” Jerry snorted. “Larry. What type of scary story has a guy named LARRY as the main character?” “This one!” “Whatever, I’m going.” And with that, Jerry ran off from the direction we came, into the mostly deserted road that we came from. “Ok. What do I do now?” I thought out loud. I started examining the damage to the golf cart. I shivered as a chilly breeze whooshed past me. I was wearing only one jacket since it was only October 1st, but now I was regretting wearing something warmer, especially since I was stuck here now. “Hello, what are you doing?” I jumped and turned around. What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. There in front of me stood the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She seemed only a few years older than me, but she seemed perfect. She had long, glossy black hair that was slightly wavy and ran down to her waist. She was taller than me, but not so much so that she loomed over me. She was wearing a long-sleeved white dress that went all the way down to her ankles. She had peachy lips and a small nose. The only thing that was slightly unnerving was her eyes. You would say that they were green, but they were bordering on yellow, and her pupils seemed to dilate and contract so they looked like they were constantly shifting. I was suspicious, what was a beautiful lady doing in an apple orchard all by herself? “Are you okay? You seem to be having some trouble there?” And just like that, all my suspicions were gone. Her voice sounded like flowing golden honey. I felt myself just staring at her for a few moments. “Oh, silly me! You must be Carson!” It didn’t strike me as strange that she knew my name, of course, she knew my name. And I should be following her as she turned and walked away from me. Wait, what? No! I shouldn't be following a stranger! “Oh, Carson, dearie! Do catch up.” And without knowing it I was briskly walking forwards to catch up with her. I was suddenly at a battle with myself. One part of me was trying to abruptly stop and reason with my other half, which wanted more than anything to follow the pretty girl in the dress. My reasonable half almost succeeded at stopping, when she began to sing. And suddenly my reasonable half disappeared into oblivion. And I followed her. When my head didn’t feel like it was full of honey anymore, I was sitting down on a picnic mat with the girl... no wait... she wasn’t a girl anymore. Standing in front of me was a creature with sickly green and bumpy skin, it had a long, ugly nose and was wearing a black hood. It still resembled a humanoid figure, but it was hunched and had a pointy hat... or as that a hat? No. It was horns. Two glistening black horns twisted together to form a point at the top of the hag’s head. And the eyes. The eyes were this time bright yellow, like cats' eyes, except something about them screamed unearthly. This time it had no pupils at all, just one solid color of yellow through and through. But something told me it could still see. “Oh hello. You’ve come to your senses, I see.” The hag cackled, and it sounded like all the worst sounds in the world. Nails on a chalkboard, microphone feedback, and even slightly like the crying of a distressed and sick baby. I immediately stood up and started running away, like any sane person would, but the witch made no effort to run after me, I saw when I looked over my shoulder. She was taking a glass vial off of the picnic mat I was sitting on -- how did I not notice them before? -- and threw it at her feet like a magician would to disappear in a puff of smoke. Oh and how I wished that happened. Instead, it burst into black gunk that surrounded the witch almost instantly, I stopped to look back, what happened? Why would the witch do that? Suddenly two yellow eyes appeared out of the gunk, and the black mound of writhing, bubbling, potion surged towards me. I started running again. I had no idea where I was going, but I had to get away from the witch. I got out of the trees onto the main path and sat in the distance a blob of bright green. The golf cart! I knew that color would come in handy. I ran towards it. I could hear the witch’s horrible cable behind me and could feel the yellow eyes on me like I was being hunted. Scratch that, I was being hunted. I didn’t think about my burning calves, or that I am getting closer to the not much different dirt road outside the orchard, I just focused on running for my life. I passed the sign. The witch's potion armor shrunk to fit through the archway but grew taller right after. I kept on running. Consciously I had no idea where I was going. Subconsciously I was heading towards Larry’s hut, where Jerry was. I risked a glance over my shoulder, and almost grazed the black gunk. I accelerated. Then I saw it, Larry’s Hut. Or as some people called it, the Vampire House. Jerry, I prayed, please be alive. I burst through the old wooden doors. “Jerry! Jerry! There’s a giant back blob chasing me...” my voice faltered. Jerry was alive, alright. But he was standing next to an old man, and he had a bite mark on him. I stared at him in horror. His eyes were red now. And in them, I saw someone other than my friend. I saw a vampire.


Note: This story was written for a project I call "Love and Monsters," a collection of ten (?) short stories covering a variety of genres, themes, and styles. The only rule is that each story feature both love and monsters, though the interpretation of these two terms is very open. If anyone is interested in this project, I've completed two other stories in this collection that I would be willing to share. I should also mention that this is an early draft, so suggestions and criticism are not just welcome, but encouraged. With all that out of the way: "Falling Apart, Together" By Rathgar Click. Click. Click. Ashley’s nails struck the kitchen table as she drummed her fingers. The rhythmic patter of her incessant tapping seemed to penetrate the tender barrier of my eardrums on its way to stab at my very brain. I said nothing, opting instead to watch her in silent exasperation. “I hate when you stare at me.” she said. “Good.” I replied. I clawed at an itch on my arm, tearing away at my skin. She glared at me. I glared back. She continued to tap away at the table. Click. Click. Click. ... There still existed a place where Ashley and I loved each other with a passionate intensity to rival that of the brightest burning star. A place where we lied awake, fighting the creeping sensation to succumb to sweet sleep and winning that war night after night just so we might have a few more minutes to stare at the ceiling as we enjoyed each other’s conversations about nothing in particular. In that place we held one another tight, careful not to release our grip for even a moment. We knew only contentment and bliss. That place is called the past, and only my memory can return there, though the cost of entry is a painful nostalgia too severe to subject myself to. Instead, I chose to live in the present, where our love compared only to the core of the coldest dying star. Where we lied awake, struggling to ensure the other did not see our tears as they rolled down our cheeks in silence. We rested two feet apart, careful not to touch. We knew only our own pain. That place is where years of tragedy and bitterness left us to rot, a fate I soon experienced in the most literal sense. Somewhere in the first few years of marriage I developed a serious skin condition, which I attributed to stress. My body itched and ached during moments of tension, a near constant state in our home. This left me with a collection of nauseating bare patches all over where I scraped the top layer of skin clean from my body. These disgusting marks, too numerous to hide, embarrassed me whenever I went out into public, a pastime I abandoned in favor of isolated solitude. Solitude, that is, except for Ashley. Though avoiding the outside world allowed me safety from any perceived mockery, it did force me into constant company with my wife, whose callousness exacerbated my stress-induced condition more than anything else. Most of all I hated her habit of drumming her fingers on the table while we spoke, the clicking of her nails against wood no better than scraping them across a chalkboard. My response remained the same as it had from the very beginning: a stiff, silent stare. She hated this more than any response I might muster, a fact which brought me no end of pleasure. Despite this tiny indulgence, I still lacked any real outlet for my nervous condition, so it worsened with each passing year. What started with scraps of skin soon developed into something much more serious, the gradual increase in my disease’s severity metamorphosizing me into a disgusting creature, a lump of clay turned flesh. Even now I cannot explain the development of this ailment. I can, however, remember the exact moment it transformed me from a man with an awkward illness into the thing lepers pity. My conversion into a walking infection began with four words. “I want a divorce.” said Ashley. “A divorce?” I repeated to myself. I tilted my head to one side, swallowed a knot of sickened shock, then collected myself. “No.” I said, and I left for the bathroom to start my day. Hot beads of water shot at my face as I stared into the face of the showerhead. A divorce? I could not imagine a more appalling fate. Our marriage broke apart years ago, but the concept of abandoning it altogether still frightened me, though I knew not why. My body shook as I stepped out of the shower and approached the mirror. My face lost its color and I realized that I feared the loss of something I had grown so accustomed to, advantageous to my wellbeing or not. I placed my face in my hands and drew them back against the sides of my head. My left ear dislodged itself. It sloughed down my face, slid around my chin, and plopped into the sink below me. I clasped at the side of my head in stunned terror, feeling the mushy, sunken hole where my ear should be. Crimson-tinged pus of brown and yellow stuck to my trembling hand. The logic of shock prompted me to grab my ear and force it back into place, a futile exercise. After several unsuccessful attempts at this endeavor, I surrendered to the fact that I lost a part of myself I would not get back. I examined myself in the mirror. From the proper angle I looked fine, but when I tilted my head too far the grotesque visage appeared, sickening even myself. I prodded the exposed hole. It did not hurt. I drew a deep breath and exhaled, releasing both my breath and my concern for my missing piece. I tossed my ear into the toilet, wiped up the wound with a bathtowel, and made a mental note not to turn left around Ashley, lest she notice my terrifying deformity. And with that, I put the incident behind me. I dressed myself for work and exited the bathroom. “You can’t just say ‘no.’” said Ashley the moment she saw me. “Truly, it’s not a question at all, but a statement. I want a divorce and there’s no more to it.” I held both hands over my leaking earhole in the world’s least subtle attempt to hide anything. Despite the blatancy of my effort, Ashley did not notice anything. I stared at her, saying nothing. She tapped her fingers on the dresser. I held my silence for as long as I could bare. The tension grew too intense and I relented. “We will talk about it later, my fallen angel. That I promise. But for now, I must go to work. I do provide for us entirely by myself, you know.” Ashley’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to speak, but I heard only a soft creak and the sound of the door latching behind me as I walked away. I smiled, having amused myself by shutting her up, if only this once. This charmed mood carried me throughout the brief drive to work, though it soon faded as my thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Ashley would give me no choice but to discuss her plan whether I wished to or not. I dreaded that conversation with my entire being. By the time I passed through the doorway to my place of employment, my mind swam with images of all the wonderful moments we would leave in the past should she have her way. Our first kiss, dancing in the backyard, making love under the stars in the park. It pained me even to think that the worst times might soon be lost. The loss of our only child, the betrayals, the pain we caused one another which we could never undo. Those may be horrible memories, but at least I shared them with someone who understood the particular pain they brought. Should we decide to separate she would leave me to suffer these reminiscences all alone. I attempted to shake the thoughts from my brain as I headed for my desk, but they remained persistent. Work could not distract me. I spent most of my day mulling over my wife’s request and contemplating a potential future as an aging bachelor. The very idea offended me. So engrossed in this line of thought was I that I forgot about the loss of my ear entirely. This baffling incident, which should have shocked me to no end, failed to faze me beyond the moment when it first occurred. Indeed, the event left so little an impression that I gave it no thought at all until, as I sat at my desk wondering if I still loved my wife, two teeth popped free of my gums. My previous experience was no isolated incident. I saw that now. I rubbed my jaw and two more teeth fired from my mouth, rattling across my desk. I ran my hand through my hair, which fell away in thick sheets as if my fingers were razors. Appalled, I shot out of my chair and excused myself for the day. During the drive home my thoughts again turned to divorce. And then it dawned on me. My worsening symptoms were not the natural progression of my strange disease, but rather the result of stress caused by Ashley’s declaration. Perhaps by saving our relationship I could reverse the damage, or at least see its cessation. And so, to spare myself further suffering, I committed to keeping my wife at any cost. I considered a great many ideas as I drove down the sunny street, but I did not settle upon a decision until I walked through the front door. I located Ashley, still moping around the bedroom as she had been hours ago. I did not speak at first. I watched her as her fingers danced across the dresser. Click. Click. Click. I shuddered at the sound. In an effort to end the horrid pounding of fingertips on furniture, I cleared my throat, then spoke. “Ashley,” I said, “I fear we have lost our connection. I believe we both are aware that things have not been good for some time. My dear, what I mean to say is, I believe we have fallen out of love.” “Indeed.” she said. “I gave so much love and got so little back, I seem to have run out. I care not to ponder your excuse.” “Preposterous.” I declared. “You’re the one who withheld from me. I offered nothing but passion and affection, but you could not be reached. Nothing pleased you.” “Hm. I suppose we see things differently.” “Quite.” I said. “But that’s not the point. I want to make things better. I don’t think it’s too late for us. Divorce is a nasty business. Let’s spare ourselves the embarrassment.” “What do you propose?” asked Ashley, her tone indicating skepticism. I opened my toothless mouth to speak but found my voice suppressed by the sight before me. Something brought Ashley a deep discomfort, so intense as to stop our conversation at once. She appeared to suffer some severe irritation in one eye, which she could not quell. Red, enflamed, and bulging, it threatened to burst free from its socket at any moment. I cocked my head to one side and watched in sickened fascination. She groaned with pain as she dug a finger deep into the cavern behind her eyeball and neatly plopped it out of its confines within her skull. It hung limp by the optic nerve before slipping out and rolling across the floor. Mortification overtook her face as she stuffed the loose gore back inside her. “That’s new.” she said, blushing. “It’s just been skin so far, but I guess it was bound to get worse.” “It’s happening to you too? Well, it’s not as bad as mine, but the pressure of this ordeal clearly afflicts you as well. So, let’s repair the situation before it gets any worse. It’s not too late, you know.” “I think it is.” said Ashley. “It’s time we separate, Clayton. Let’s leave on amicable terms rather than allow ourselves to waste away any further. Heed my words, my former love: cut your losses now. Accept what’s gone and flee before it includes any more.” “Give me one chance. That’s all I ask.” Ashley sighed and turned away. She considered the offer for quite some time before responding. “I’ll grant you one chance.” she said. “Every molecule in my body screams out for me to leave, but the sight of you begging me to stay is too pathetic to ignore. We can try once more, if only to convince you that it’s a losing game.” Though displeased with her reasoning, I accepted the offer. The following days were of an rare blend of peace and discontent. Though we had yet to recover our lost love, we did discover a new era of civility, the likes of which we had not enjoyed in years. But the peace was shortlived. The ceasefire collapsed days later when Ashley complained of my working late, which morphed into a prolonged and exhausting argument. As a result, a long stretch of skin on my side peeled away. The fingernails on Ashley’s left hand popped off, shooting in all directions, one after another. The next day saw a debate over some matter so trivial that I no longer recall the cause. Inconsequential though the issue may have been, it resulted in me vomiting a large squishy lump of unknown material while a torrent of blood flowed from Ashley’s empty eye socket. Our bodies diminished further with each passing day as the petty arguments grew more frequent and venomous. We soon took on the form of two horrid beasts, half-finished creatures marked by a hideous dissymmetry. I came to agree with Ashley that our problems could not be willed away through ignorance. Instead, I suggested we take drastic action. My proposal was a romantic dinner, which I prepared over the course of an entire day. The most extravagant thing I could manage, the meal consisted of every delicacy I could cook as well as several I really couldn’t. Buttered lobster, steak, and expensive wine were the centerpieces of the feast, but chef’s salad, mashed potatoes, and even chocolate mousse made an appearance at the table. With the lights dimmed, I donned my nicest suit and took my seat. Ashley joined me soon after. She drummed her remaining fingers on the table. I scratched at the shedding skin on the back of my neck as I watched her. For a long time, we neither ate nor spoke. At last Ashley broke the silence, startling me with both the sudden sound of her voice and the content of her statement. “You killed my baby.” she said, prodding at the salad with her fork. Her voice sounded dry; her face expressionless. She spoke as if the fact were not only indisputable, but of a casual enough nature to bring up at a fancy dinner date. My mouth hung open. “What?” she said. “You told me this was a chance for us to work things out. So, let’s start with that. You killed my baby. There, I said it. We can stop dancing around it. Now undo it, please.” “You know it can’t be undone.” I said, displeased with my response but too shocked to form any other. “Oh, really?” she said. “Actually, I didn’t know that because you told me we could still fix things. You said it wasn’t too late for us. That can only mean one thing. It means you’re going to unkill my baby.” “Stop saying that.” I said. “What? That you killed my baby? You did. You can’t deny that.” The toes in my left shoe released themselves from my foot. Ashley continued her incessant finger-tapping upon the table. The vibrations shook my body and caused my eye to twitch. I clenched a butterknife in my fist. “The abortion was a joint decision.” I said. “Oh, it was, was it?” laughed Ashley. “So, we were protecting both of our careers? We had to hide it from both of our mothers? Wait, which excuse did we go with again?” “I didn’t make the decision alone.” I declared. “You killed my baby!” she shouted, her voice cracking as she struck a note far above her natural timbre. “Stop saying that! An abortion is not the same as a murder. And you should be glad we never got to see that baby. You should thank me for sparing you that embarrassment.” “The baby was yours.” she said, her voice quaking with rage. “But you don’t know that, do you?” I said. “You can’t know that. Because, for all the hell you’ve given me, you know damned well that you are the one who destroyed our marriage. You are the one who stepped out.” “I made a mistake.” she whispered. “A mistake happens once. And now, thanks to your little slip-up, I live with the heart-wrenching pain of what you did every day of my life, Ashley. It never goes away. You hurt me and you can never unhurt me.” I punctuated this last statement by redoubling my grip upon my fork, resulting in the loss of my fingernails, shoved free of the skin by the pressure. Fuming, I glared at my wife, who was busy pulling a loose strip of flesh from her arm even as her perpetual drumming continued. Click. Click. Click. Tears welled up in the corner of her eye. “You think you’re the only one who’s been hurt?” she said. “I may have done something horrible to you and I swear I will regret it till the end of my days, but you can’t sit there and feign innocence. You hurt me too. Again and again you hurt me. You were always busy with your precious work. You never had time for me. I spent years feeling so unloved and unwanted because I pledged myself to you and you didn’t have time for me. That’s why I did it. Because, after being abandoned for so long and after being rejected so many times, I just wanted to feel wanted again. Just for a little bit.” My gaze became fire. “You are nothing but a... whore.” I spat. She remained unfazed. “It was easy, by the way.” she said. “He told me I was pretty. That’s it. That was all it took for him to have me.” She laughed. “Maybe I am a whore. It certainly sounds like it. But you know what? I’m glad I did it. Because I finally got to experience what it’s like when it’s done right. That’s right, Clayton. I finally got fucked right.” I slapped my hand against the table with pure fury, so hard that my entire hand detached, rolling across the table and taking out the baked salmon. “How dare you intensify a suffering you cannot possibly comprehend!” I screamed. “Suffering?” said Ashley. “Suffering is being married to you. You never want to leave the house except to go to work, and I’m honestly quite surprised you bother to come back. I’m left here alone at all hours, desperate for some form of social interaction. A kiss, a compliment, a conversation. I beg and beg on my hands and knees, but you refuse to see me. You won’t take responsibility enough to address my needs and you won’t take me anywhere else to save me from this crushing isolation. Not even for an evening. Not even to show me off for your own benefit. You leave me questioning night after night why I’m so unworthy.” “You don’t deserve to be taken out or shown off. You’re nothing but a common harlot.” I paused in search of an insult severe enough that it could not be taken back. “And you would have made a wretched mother anyway.” “And you are barely man enough to be called a boring, passionless baby-killer.” Ashley’s hair cascaded down from her head. My arm grew loose and stretched towards the floor like taffy before sliding off my shoulder and slipping out of my sleeve. I screamed out, not for pain, of which I felt none, but for the sound of her fingers pounding away at the table, neverending, penetrating my very soul. How I wished that she might lose those fingers next. But she didn’t, and the tapping continued, as did our parade of abuses and accusations, the collapse of our fragile relationship, and the annihilation of our very bodies. The dinner continued in this manner all night, and soon the two piles of body parts on the floor outgrew those resting upon our chairs. After each loss I considered her suggestion; leave now with what little remains. But I could not. I would never give up. Not because I still loved her, but because I knew I was right. In the end, neither of us left the table, opting instead to wile the night away engaged in a battle that could only be won through surrender. We both lost our tongues around the same time and, having lost the ability to speak, it seemed the argument might end at last. But even then, we could not resist the urge to find some means to hurt each other. It became clear in that moment that we were no more. There remained nothing left to save, nothing to gain, and only very little to lose. We went with losing. My body fell away, leaving me to rest upon the table as a pair of eyes and nothing more, my steely gaze fixated firmly upon what was left of my wife. As the last of her fell to pieces there remained but a trio of fingers, connected by a disgusting tangle of bloody nerves and exposed bone. I stared at those fingers, lacking even the features to express my rage. For all of eternity I would hold my ground, glaring at those fingers without a word. And in return they would spend the rest of time tapping upon the table. Click. Click. Click.


The cluster of skyscrapers that define the city’s skyline loom impassively across the river, sparkling glass teeth sprouting from concrete gums under the red tongue of a late autumn sunset. Sometimes I marvel at the fullness of this city life--opportunities always available in the unknown, absolute freedom in every unfamiliar face, space to pursue passion without personal persecution. Other times I despair at its emptiness--anonymity dismissing family legacy, unpredictability abolishing comfort, novelty closing the door on community. I sit on a memorial bench placarded with a stranger’s name overlooking the valley and trace an absent finger over the peak of my burgeoning belly while I ponder to which life to condemn you. I tossed my tasseled cap into a bright summer sky nearly ten years ago with 22 other graduates. We started as a tiny flock of tots thrown together on the first day of Kindergarten by parents who had raised hell together in the very same parking lots and school hallways we later grew to frequent. Generation-old friendships and genetically-inherited feuds set the hierarchical stage for our relationships before we were even capable of reciting the alphabet. If we go home, I’ll be dialed into the babbling parental party line that has eyes and ears in every square foot of the county. You won’t be able to lie about your late night trips to the trestle bridge, the underage drinking that you’ll do there, or the boyfriends (or girlfriends) that you’ll probably settle on at some point. You’ll be watched over; you’ll be safe--even when you’re trying to be sneaky. We were so proud of our coy capabilities. I’ll be at Angela’s tonight, just the girls, her parents will be home. We later learned exactly how much our parents did know. E verything. We met Angela’s parents for wings every Friday until Frank passed. You won’t get to reinvent yourself after middle school; you’ll have to make do with the people who know you all too well at your awkward adolescent worst. It’ll make dating dreadfully difficult, which is not exclusive to rural romance, but it is uniquely perplexing. When we got to the tenth grade, Paul Parsons, who was a scrawny, semi-mean nose-picker, suddenly grew three feet and became disarmingly charming. Our moms were close and desperate for us to fall in love, so naturally we resisted. In the eleventh grade, my first boyfriend Jake Johnson broke up with me because he was in love with Angela. She turned him down out of loyalty. Then the three of us carpooled to Minnie Hansen’s bush party that weekend as if we weren’t all reeling from being freshly heart-stomped. In the twelfth grade, prom was a tangled web that rivalled even the wildest television soaps. I ended up on Beau Parker’s arm to avoid Paul’s, even though Beau really wanted to go with Minnie, who was matching ties Jake, who ended up spending the summer sleeping with Angela, who later ended up marrying Beau. I still can’t decide if that was tragically hick or small-town special. In the end, graduation was an extraordinary high. After years of navigating debilitating teenage turmoil, we finally stood at the top in collective we-run-this-town triumph. Braces removed, acne under control, immaturity surely behind us--these were my people; the world was ours for the taking. I was a natural product of my age, brimming with the optimistic philosophy of eternal friendship that is required of all high school seniors in June. I hope you will be too. That summer, my mom stopped me on the way out the door for a weekend at the lake, and I braced myself for an embarrassing lecture on the new boyfriend waiting in the truck (who was, disappointingly for mom, not Paul). But all she said, with a note of nostalgia, was, “Enjoy it. This time. These people. This is it.” I thought it was a weird thing for her to say--these were my people after all. They were all I’d ever known. Sure enough, she was right, and the high faded. Some managed to maintain steadfast friendships whether across town or time zones. Some floated for a while on a breeze of good intentions before drifting into separate spheres of adulthood. I packed up to pursue higher education in the city, equal parts eager to grow my horizons and determined to remain rooted. Time and distance had other plans. Removed and free, surrounded by novelty, diversity, and independence, my homesick ache quickly devolved into active disdain for the limitations that had collared me and condescension for the people who still allowed themselves to be leashed. Growing into new friends and hobbies, my contempt then dulled into passive surveillance of the small town life that I actively avoided. Finally, caught up in career-building and flights of first dates, my aloof monitoring faded to a peaceful ignorance only occasionally disrupted by unsolicited online bulletins. These days they’re no more than an online network of profiles labelled as friends (or ‘People You May Know’). Their names appear alongside small, predictable bursts of updates that I may or may not deign to double tap--Minnie in Bali, Beau coaching basketball, swollen Angela welling up over the glittering pink shower of a burst balloon, Paul on his knee offering a decent diamond that could have been mine to Jake’s little sister. They’re the people that I chased in the schoolyard and sat next to in church and drank my first beer with. They’re the people whose parents patched up my scraped knees and drove me to soccer games and gave me my first job. They’re the people I hugged and hurt, crossed and kissed, loved and left. I miss them. I want you to know them. I want them to love you like their parents loved me. I want to be sitting on Frank’s memorial bench. It is truly a privilege to hold a place in a small town lineage, to be a core member of a community where people know your name, your parent’s names, and your grandparent’s names. I hope you’ll forgive me for giving up this life to give you that one.


Stephen wakes up to the smell of smoke. His mother runs into the room and takes him into her arms. Smoke fills the hallway and his lungs. A towel is draped over his head with little precision to try to protect him from the smoke. The floor rushes under his mother's feet; he watches it change from carpet to tile to concrete. When his mother reaches the car, she puts him in a car seat, and his father starts to drive. The city is burning right before his eyes. Fear and terror are in the faces of every person who is running outside. A few people jump in front of the car in the hopes of an escape from the inferno. His father refuses to stop for them and keeps moving. They all retreat, and their fear turns into rage. Bricks and stone pelt the back of the windshield. His mother looks back periodically to ensure her son is alright. A large piece of cinder falls from the sky. Stephen wakes up lying in the back seat of a car. Marla and Tim are having an argument in the front seat over something miniscule. The two of them would argue even if they both were in agreement. He pushes off of the seat to straighten himself. His back and arms are sore from the seat, and he does tiny stretches in the back of the car. "Hey, the man is up. Did you have pleasant dreams?" Tim asks. Marla hits his arm. "Tim," she says. Stephen looks up at them. "Sorry was I making noises?" he asks. "Not too much noises, don't worry," Marla says. Tim shakes his head slightly. "I am sorry. It is the first time that I have been to my hometown since I was an infant," Stephen says. "Don't worry. We understand," Marla replies. "If only you were a few years older, we could have had a tour guide," Tim says. "Yeah, well, I am sure the city has changed a lot since then," Stephen says. The collapsed city ruins come into view. All of the skyscrapers were destroyed during the Mierans surprise attack. The Mierans did not attack military bases in a tactical error. Every nation realized this mistake quickly and unite to create a coordinated defense. The war only lasted a few years as the Mierans realized they underestimated their opponent and retreated. The time after the war was chaotic. The nations of the world tried to continue this global unity in case of a return. Without a certain threat, the leaders of the world found themselves deadlocked once again. Citizens had to adapt to a post-war life. Infrastructure was destroyed, and the scare resources were being directed to the military and research on Mierans. Civilians unaffiliated with both adopted a nomadic lifestyle like Stephen's parents. Stephen's family traveled with a small band of survivors that traveled all over the continent. The size of the group was constantly in flux with constant disaster like the flood that killed his parents. Survival groups would frequently merge to supplement dwindling numbers. His group joined with Tim and Marla's when he was sixteen. After a recent rockslide killed most of their group, they had decided to travel to the city. Cities were considered dead zones for the during the war and were ignored as such. There were whispers that the survivors who remained in the city were able to form societies and thrive. There were also whispers that they were mutated and turned into monsters. The three of them are desperate enough to explore the ruins in the hopes of the former. As Stephen looks at the empty streets, he can't help but feel disappointed that mutant theory is also false. A mutant attack would at least be interesting Empty streets are all that is left of the world. All that differentiates this city is more rubble which blocks off certain paths. Tim and Marla are fighting constantly over which way to turn and keep reaching dead-ends. Tim honks the horn a few times against Marla's protests to try to draw out survivors. Out of the corner of his eye, Stephen sees something that sparks a memory. "STOP!" he yells. Tim jams his foot onto the breaks. Stephen gets out of the car and runs up to the collapse building. "What is it do you see something?" Marla asks. There is nothing that separates this building from the others except for a feeling. Tim walks up to the ruin and starts climbing. "Come on, man. What are you doing?" Tim yells. Stephen starts burying through the rubble. He knows something is here. After a few minutes of digging, he finds a picture frame. He runs back to the car with tears in his eyes and shows it to Tim and Marla. "I give up. Who is this?" Tim asks. "It is my family," he points at the happy young couple holding a baby. "Oh my god, I cannot believe it survived," Marla says. "Whatever get back in the car," Tim says clearly stifling tears. The three of them drive out of the city. Stephen clutches the picture frame to his chest as thinks about the life he had before the war, and the life he could've had.


I messed up. I messed up badly. I sat across the table from my ex-wife and watched as she evaluated the cup of coffee that the waiter just placed on the table. Meeting at her local food joint seemed like a better option than her driving two hours to see a man that requested for them to meet. Plus, Elena never liked to waste her time, so I ensured that every moment that she spent with me would not go to waste. After two years, she looked much younger than when I last saw her. Her forty-ninth birthday was coming up in July and she didn’t look a day older than thirty. She wore light purple and red eyeshadow and a dark purple lipstick that almost looked black. The only grays in her hair were the random ones that popped out during moments of high stress. The dress she wore was, ironically, one of the dresses that I loved to see her wear - though I never told her: a form fitting, long sleeved red dress with a low V neckline, a slit down the left side and see-through sleeves. Adorning her neck was a fat ruby necklace and amber earrings, probably given to her by her new boyfriend. Leave it to me to show up in a baggy T with jeans and tennis shoes. This meetup wasn’t anything “special”, I suppose, though Elena always showed up at her best and she did it so flawlessly that I always felt... I readjusted myself in the chair and gave the best smile that I could. “You, uh, look good.” Elena’s gorgeous blue eyes, now covered in pretty red contacts, stared right into my eyes. The combination of colors made her eyes a dazzling purple, adding more dimension to her gorgeous features and her outfit. Damn, I messed up. “Thank you, Xavier.” Gently, ever so elegantly, Elena grabbed a small cup of coffee creamer and poured it into her coffee. Her nails were red, too. “How have you been? You look well.” She took a sip after slowly applying some sugar. Then, those beautiful eyes, once so soft and loving, pierced my spirit more than the Great Lord could. “You didn’t drive all the way from Dallas just to ask me how I’m doing. What happened?” My teeth rubbed against my bottom lip. I figured that we could have a good chat while lunch arrived. Apparently not. “In truth, it’s been a while and I wanted to see you. I...had a dream about you a few nights ago.” “Mhmm?” She sipped, completely eyeing me the entire time. There were many nights where I dreamed about her, and those dreams will never pass my lips. This one, however, I needed to share. “You and I were sitting at a table just like this one and we were talking about everything that ever bothered us. When I woke up, I was crying, and I knew that I needed to talk with you.” She lowered her cup. “Funny. Didn’t your wife help you with that?” I exhaled then leaned back. I knitted my fingers together and placed them on my lap. “Elena, she’s the one that encouraged our meeting.” “Mhmm.” She sipped again. There was a heavy energy in the air when the waiter returned to take our orders. I hadn’t looked at the menu once, but I ordered my usual. Elena did the same. When the waiter left, Elena leaned back on her chair as well and kept her attention away from me. The lost look on her face told me exactly what she was doing. “Let me be frank, I didn’t come here to become friends with you. I asked to have this exact conversation with you a few months ago and you refused.” “I wasn’t ready to talk back then.” She huffed at me. Normally, I’d call her childish. In truth, I deserved her reactions. I hadn’t been the greatest man to her. I treated her very poorly after our breakup and I was too far into my own head to fully express how sorry I was. Elena was always a talker. She loved working through her issues through words. Even though I didn’t solve my issues that way, and she knew that when we got together, she still tried to work with me so that we could both communicate. Unfortunately, my mind was occupied elsewhere. My wife, Anna, and I recently got into polyamory. We saw our friends open up their monogamous relationships and the Reddit stories online showed us that relationships like that could work. Anna was my first everything: first kiss, first marriage, first love making, everything. So when she expressed that she felt my fire dying inside and that she couldn’t revive it, I was stunned to hear her confession, but I accepted the reality that I didn’t feel the same passion that I had before, though that didn’t mean that I loved her any less. One day, Anna and I attended my company BBQ, an event that I usually didn’t attend, but that year, I felt compelled to go. Anna, also a prone talker, nearly became friends with everyone. She brought over one woman who was a Tech Writer just like her, sweet Elena. My heart instantly skipped a beat and the fascination on my face was something Anna noticed immediately. That night, Anna asked me if I was interested in Elena. I confessed that I was. It didn’t take long for Anna and Elena to have a chat about a possible relationship. Anna was always a straight woman, so mainly, Elena and I would be sharing each other while Anna enjoyed our relationship from the side. At first, everything fit very well. We spent months in bliss. Elena and I even decided to take our relationship to the next level. We got married in the Winter of 2018. Instead of moving into our home, Elena decided to have her own home, to which Anna and I disapproved of...thankfully, she kept her place. Six months after getting married, Elena and I had our first fight. It was a major one. Elena had issues opening up to romantic partners. She told me that when we first started dating. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand how or why she wouldn’t open up to me. I wasn't like those guys from her past. I wouldn’t hurt her the same way they did. So, I didn’t understand why she didn’t see me as different from those other partners. Ultimately, I ended up telling her how wrong she was to feel this way and Anna intervened. She waved her finger at me, telling me to behave, and so I apologized to Elena. That was one of the many fights we had about her inability to open up Our fights became more frequent, ranging from her opening up to her being upset that I wasn’t spending much time with her. I do have to admit that I was not very good at communicating. I people pleased. The more time I spent with Elena, the more that Anna became upset and needy. I made a promise to one woman and ended up disappointing the other. I told one woman one thing while acting like a completely different person to the other. Elena called me out on a lot of behaviors of mine, to which I told her that I understand my actions and promised to never do it again. I broke that promise many times. In the end, Elena called off the relationship. I lost it. I ended up yelling at her, saying things like, “You don’t even care how I feel, do you?” and “You’re just going to end it? Just like that?” A heart that was once so beautiful and open turned colder than stone. I told Anna about everything and she consoled me. Her and Elena spoke many times throughout that process, until they started getting into arguments as well. Their arguments consisted of one not understanding the other. Elena wanted me and Anna to take responsibility for our actions, or lack thereof, because Anna’s refusal in acknowledging my changes in personality and blatant lying enabled me to continue to emotionally break everyone. Anna wanted Elena to forgive me for not knowing better and to not be so cold towards “a man that is trying his best.” After losing her patience, and a part of her soul, Elena left, unfriended, blocked, and got rid of us entirely. She moved 2 hours away from Dallas and I hadn’t heard from her for several years. The only way I was able to contact her was through a friend of a friend at the company. Thankfully, I was able to contact her before she submitted her two week resignation. After a few weeks, Elena agreed to meet at her local restaurant. It took all this time to present myself to her and even as I sat in front of her, witnessing the burning fury in her eyes, I still wasn’t ready. There was no better time than the present and holding myself back from her anymore seemed to be futile. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Elena.” “You’ve apologized many times and those times meant very little. Why does your apology matter so much now ?” It didn’t. My apology honestly meant nothing...to her. “I’ve grown from my experiences and I realize that I was too immature, upset, and lost in my own head to truly be what the man you needed.” Elena continued to stare at me. Her cheeks were heated. “I’m sorry that the promises I made to you were not up to your expectations. I dreamed about you and reached out to you. So...there.” If anything else happened, I knew that I did my best. If she didn’t accept my apology then at the very least, I could return home with some solace. Elena’s heated face started to settle. Her shoulders jutted as a humorless laugh passed her lips. She shook her head and rubbed her temples with her thumb and pinky fingers. “You don’t get it...” When she brought her head up, she smirked with watery eyes. “Do you even know what you’re apologizing for?” "Why else? “For not being the man you needed to be?” Now, she laughed. “No.” She kept her voice low, but loud enough for me to hear. “Your broken promises and personality changes were not what made me angry. They upset me, but my hatred of you comes from the sheer fact that you and Anna refuse to grow up and actually accept the truths of your own individualities. You both claimed to be adults that knew how to have a poly relationship, that you knew how to cultivate healthy relationships and neither of you have expressed this or proven this. Both of you are immature children parading yourselves as adults. ‘Adulting’ does not make you an adult.” Elena rose, threw her hand into her purse, and threw a $20 bill on the table. “Thank you for the confirmation that I needed to move on. I hope you and Anna find peace.” The waitress arrived with our food ten minutes later. There was hardly anyone around us, yet I felt so suffocated. I thanked the waitress for the food then began eating. “Did your friend leave?” “Yeah,” I replied, “she did.” Elena’s meal, steak with mashed potatoes with a side of steamed broccoli, sat in sadness. As I looked at her plate, it presented itself in front of me, sad and abandoned, just like me, even though the knowledge that all is well coursed through me. There was nothing else I could do, nothing else I could apologize for. Anna and I needed to grow as a couple, yes, and that was that. I knew that Elena's eyes would never hold love for me again, not the love that I so desired before. Maybe, in the midst of my mistakes, both her and I could make amends for our own misdeeds.


I woke up in my bed. What a miracle, I don’t remember getting home... I went over the checklist; “I am not in jail and I seem to have all my limbs”. My heart was racing and a feeling of anxiety and panic overtook me. Could it be withdrawals? “NO, only alcoholics have those”. I tried to plunge for the bottle of water but the newly discovered pain in my arm managed to deviate the trajectory of my hand. I watched as the bottle fell in slow motion and awakened my 120 kilos roommate sleeping in a bed across the meter wide room. He promptly asked, “Are you okay? You came home late last night”. I tried to respond but the apparent lack of moisture in my mouth made speech impossible for me. I managed to grunt, “EUUEUUEUH”. In this state of existence called HUMAN GARBAGE, basic functions cannot be performed simultaneously. They follow a strict hierarchy of prioritization determined by what remains of the human brain. It is a natural defense mechanism that allows basic reflection and memory recollection to be postponed to a more suitable time. The meager effort required for this display of life was too much for me and I promptly closed my eyes, only to open them instants later realizing that I would not make it another second without hydration. I tried to counteract my blurred vision by widening my eyes, but achieved the opposite effect as a fucking sunray that had navigated itself between the curtains managed to cross my path. I was now mute and blind. By scanning my hands in the general area of the last recorded position of the bottle I managed to make contact with an unidentified cold surface. I enthusiastically picked up the object only to find its weight deceptively small. “Its ok, I just need a mouthful”. NIGHTMARE. The bottle is empty and the nearest source of water will require a range of motion that is currently unavailable to me. I pivoted as to allow my feet to make contact with the ground. It is only when I managed to stand up that I realized to what extent I had made abstraction of the nausea. I braced myself for my long and perilous travel. I had the target in sight, not literally as my vision was severely impaired, but I hade spend enough time in that hellhole of a room to find my way to the sink.