I’ll pick up your prescription after work tomorrow and drop it off about 5. Neville was a slow texter, but also one who believed in correct punctuation. He re-read the message he’d typed, pressed ‘Send” and put the phone down on the countertop. At that moment the lights in his cramped kitchen dimmed. Then he heard a wooshing noise, like wind through trees, faintly at first but growing louder. Glancing through the window, the blue sky was dotted with a just a few white clouds, and the sun was casting long shadows. It didn’t look windy. Then he decided the noise wasn’t coming from outside but from above. As he looked up at the off-white and slightly stained ceiling it grew louder. If he had turned on his TV it would have drowned out Netflix. And just as suddenly, it stopped. The kitchen light came back on. But rather than silence, he could hear a man’s voice coming through from above. He appeared to be barking orders. Something about “Try harder,” and “Experiment”. That was odd, because in all the time he’d lived in his apartment he’d never heard a man upstairs before. The screen lit up on his phone. Neville picked it up to see seven text messages waiting for his attention. The first one said “ I wont be back from Scrabble Club until 6 ”. The subsequent six were increasingly terse versions of “ Did you get my text? ” He typed back, “ Yes mother, I’ll see you at 6. ” Then he went back to preparing his salmon salad dinner, with a crisp Sauvignon Blanc on the side. * Two evenings later the curious incident was repeated, albeit with minor variations. It was after nine and Neville was deep into a Ken Burns documentary on Prohibition - good background for teaching his Seniors about the buildup to the Great Depression he thought - when the lights dimmed and the TV went off. Then the wind-like noise started coming through the ceiling again, softly at first but then increasing in volume. Neville scowled upwards. This time though there was shouting, or maybe screaming was more accurate. Then the staccato ratta-tat-tat of a machine gun. Neville leapt to his feet, adrenaline setting his heart racing. The light he’d been watching TV by grew bright again and his TV came back on. Then came the distinct booming of cannon fire, followed by explosions and screams. “Are they deaf up there?” he asked out loud. More shouting, indistinct but sounding like orders or instructions being barked. Muttering under his breath, Neville grabbed his keys, stepped into the hallway, and rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. Arriving at 917, he raised his hand to knock on the door, only to realize he could still hear shouts and screams. He shook his head and knocked. No answer, but then the sounds faded away, as if the volume had been turned down. Always one to avoid a confrontation, Neville turned to walk away, only to hear the door open behind him. He turned around to see the apartment’s occupant standing in the doorway. A slight woman in her late 30s, shoulder length blonde hair, frazzled and uncombed, glasses sliding down her nose, jeans and a black tee-shirt with E=mc 2 emblazoned on the front. “Did you want something?” she asked. Neville took a step closer. “Well yes,” he began hesitantly. “I live underneath you, and well it’s about your TV.” “My TV?” she frowned. I don’t own a TV.” Now it was Neville who frowned. “Well I was hearing a lot of noise, gunshots, and I thought, I wondered...” “Oh.” She said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry about that. I was um, I was watching a movie and you know how loud...” Neville cut her off: “But you said you haven’t got a TV.” “Did I? Well no, yes. Well I had the radio up loud. I’m very sorry, I won’t let it happen again.” “I’d appreciate that.” They looked at each other for a moment, before both spoke at once. “Well I’m sorry to have bothered...” “Well have a good ...” Neville stepped forward and held out his hand. “Neville Mathers.” She took his hand limply in her and gave it a barely perceptible shake. “Annalie Jennings.” “Well it was nice to meet you.” “It was nice to meet you too,” she said, “And I’ll try to keep the noise down in future.” * The following Tuesday, Neville was sitting up in bed marking essays when it happened a third time. First the lamp on his nightstand grew dim and then the wind began to blow through Annalie’s apartment upstairs. He put the papers down and looked up at the ceiling. As before, the wind sound grew louder, and then suddenly stopped. His lamp returned to full intensity and through the ceiling he could hear men’s voices. They were arguing, but in a rational, debating manner rather than as if tempers were fraying. Listening carefully, Neville thought he could make out several distinct voices, all male, judging by their deep tones. That was strange, because until the previous incident he’d not noticed the apartment upstairs receiving male visitors before, and certainly not late in the evening. He continued listening, trying to make out what they were debating. The language they were using was English, but it seemed strangely formal and outdated. There were lots of references to “esteemed gentlemen” and “landowners” and then “clauses” and “articles”. To Neville, steeped in US history, it sounded as though they were recreating the Constitutional Convention. And then the voices faded away. * Wednesday morning Neville was a few minutes late leaving his apartment. His mother had been texting again, this time about a Doctor’s appointment, and if he didn’t reply promptly she’d be badgering him all morning. The elevator door opened and he stepped in. His attention was on his phone so he didn’t see Annalie standing at the back of the small space. “It’s Neville isn’t it?” He looked up quickly, eyes opening wide. “Annalie! Good morning, how are you?” “Fine thank you. I hope I haven’t disturbed you anymore.” Neville thought for a moment, “Well um...” “Oh I have! Oh I’m so sorry. I really try not, but I just can’t control...” her voice tapered off. The bell dinged to say they’d reached the first floor and door slid open. Neville stood back against the wall to let Annalie exit first. Once out, she turned to wait for him. They began speaking at the same time. “The weird thing is,” Neville began. “I don’t want to seem forward,” she said, then, “No, go on.” Neville smiled. “Well this is going to sound silly, but last night it sounded like the Constitutional Convention was taking place in your apartment.” Annalie’s jaw dropped slightly before she answered. “Oh! Well I’m not sure... goodness, how odd.” “Ridiculous, I know, but history is my thing. Anyway,” he continued, “What did you want to say?” “Well I just wondered if, seeing as we’re neighbors, you’d like to have coffee sometime.” For a moment Neville thought his heart had stopped. “Well I, well yes, that would be great.” And moments later they had agreed a day and time to meet at the coffee shop around the corner from their building. * How was the date? Neville knew it had been a mistake to mention it to his mother the moment he’d sent the text. But if he hadn’t she’d probably have fired off another salvo while they were sipping their lattes. “ It was good, ” he typed back. Well she didn’t need to know all the details. “ We’re having dinner tonight. ” Oh wow where r u taking her Actually, she’s cooking. * At 7 prompt Neville knocked on the door of 917. He’d put a plaid sports coat on over a plain white shirt and black slacks. In his arms he was carrying a bouquet and a bottle of wine. Annalie opened the door looking flustered, glasses halfway down her nose and a patterned apron covering a plain gray sheath dress. She looked him up and down, and he did the same to her. “Come in,” she said, stepping back, “Sorry about the mess.” Neville stepped in and looked around. The apartment was identical to his in layout, but whereas his was ordered with a specific mid-century décor going on - thrift shop furniture - hers looked more like the laboratory of a mad scientist. Open shelving lined one wall, with books stacked in various places between disassembled electronic pieces, black and white plastic with small screens and wires sticking out. On the floor below the shelves sat a row of black boxes, each with a thick cable emerging from the side. There was more shelving on the other wall, but with a desk under a giant monitor and in front of it, a high-backed computer gaming chair. Pushed up against the third wall, under the window, was a table with two place settings. But in the center of the room, in the place where most people might put a couch and coffee table, was something he’d never seen before. Four posts stood at the corners of a square rubber mat approximately six foot across, and each post was about six feet high. Thick cables emerged from under rugs to run up the posts. At the top they disappeared into the backs of large cones, almost like those on the early, “His Master’s Voice” gramophones, and each cone pointed downwards and into the center of the square. Annalie came over and relieved Neville of the gifts he’d brought. “I know it looks a bit weird. It’s a side project I’m working on.” Neville followed her into the kitchen. “Something to do with your work at the University?” You said you’re in the Physics Department?” “Why don’t you open the wine,” she said, handing him two glasses. “I think there’s a corkscrew in one of the drawers.” She’d made a very passable Coq au Vin, and she made great conversation over dinner, but Neville couldn’t stop looking at the contraction dominating the small room. As he emptied the last of the wine into their glasses he had to ask. “This, this thing... is it responsible for noises I hear sometimes?” Annalie pushed her chair away from the table. “Well yes, I’m afraid it is.” Neville waited for her to elaborate but at that moment she seemed to prefer silence, so he pushed on.” “Well what is it? Some kind of 3D TV?” She raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Actually yes, kind of. I use it to watch things.” “Like documentaries?” “Well no.” She got up from the table and walked across to the desk. “It’s more of an um, a viewing window, a portal you might say.” Neville shook his head. “But there’s no screen.” “Well no, it’s three dimensional, like you said. Well four dimensional actually. It might be easier if I show you, but you must promise not to let it freak you out and you can’t tell anyone until I’m ready to talk about it publicly.” Neville nodded, and Annalie slid into the chair. She turned on the computer and as it booted up, she pressed some buttons on a box at the side of the keyboard. Immediately, the lights in the room went dim and a low humming started. “It’s charging the capacitors,” she explained, “It needs a lot of power.” The humming grew louder, changing to a blowing wind sound Neville had heard before. She spoke louder now, to be heard over the sound of rushing air. “You teach history. What historical event would you really like to have witnessed?” Neville thought quickly. “Maybe the assignation of JFK?” She nodded, “Okay, when was that, and where?” Neville gave her the exact date, time and location and Annalie typed them into her computer. The wind sound was deafening now. “It’ll stop when I press this,” she shouted, her index finger hovering over the keyboard. “Ready?” Neville nodded and Annalie jabbed the key. Instantly, the roaring wind sound stopped and a black cloud seemed to form in the middle of the room, at the focal point of the four loudspeaker horns. The cloud was dark and swirling, angry looking, and it grew steadily bigger. After a few seconds it was a sphere filling the space defined by the four upright posts, and then it started to clear outwards from its interior. Neville watched open-mouthed as he stared into the space at the center. He was looking down at a wide street from a tall building. People lined the sides and a convoy of cars was heading in one direction. Towards the center of the convoy was a black convertible, two people sat in the back waving. Neville realized what he was watching, what he was about to see. “Pause it,” he said. “I can’t,” Annalie replied, “It’s not a replay. It’s what’s happening.” Neville turned his eyes from the familiar scene to Annalie. “What do you mean?” A shot rang out, echoing off the nearby buildings. People screamed. Jackie climbed back over the trunk of the car to gather the fragments of her husband’s skull. “I’ve opened, I know this sounds crazy, but I’ve opened a portal through space-time to that point and moment. We’re actually there.” The black car raced away out of view. The cloud grew dark in its center again and then shrank back into nothingness. Neville stared at Annalie, incredulous. “So you can go anywhere and see anything?” She nodded. “I think so, yes. But not for long. I’m limited by the power I can store in the capacitors.” “So when I thought I could hear the Constitutional Convention being debated?” “September 7 th , 1787. Well that’s the date I picked to look in. You know, Ben Franklin was so smart.” “The machine gunning and screaming?” “Gettysburg, July 2 nd , 1863.” “It lasted three days but...” She finished his sentence, “You can only see for a limited time.” And added, “And the further away it is the more power it seems to take. My first viewing was Menlo Park laboratory in 1878.” “Edison’s lab. I heard that too. Can they see you when you do this?” “I don’t think so. But you’re the historian. Were there any reports of unusual phenomena around the time of the assassination? And wouldn’t Edison have said something?” Neville stroked his chin slowly. “I don’t recall anything being said on any of those events. But what about seeing the future?” “I’ve not tried that. As a scientist I’m concerned I wouldn’t be able to validate what it shows me. “But you’re curious?” “Well yes. But I wonder if that’s really a good thing to do. I mean, has the future already happened, and if we know what’s in it, aren’t we likely to change what we do to bring about a desired result?” That conjecture awakened an argumentative streak in Neville and they talked long into the night. Neville was intrigued by the possibilities for verifying and perhaps correcting the historical record. He started to list places he wanted to go and things he wanted to see. Annalie found him interesting, with knowledge that complimented her expertise in physics. Eventually, he rose to leave. “Maybe you’d let me cook dinner for you next weekend?” Annalie nodded, “A week today? Sure.” Once he’d gone Annalie sat back down at the chair in front of the desk. Fingers moving slowly over the keyboard, she entered a date and time exactly one week hence. Then she put in the address: her street and building, apartment 817.


Author's Note: I don't really like this story but it's my first step to get back into writing again... so constructive criticism is always appreciated!!! Rosa Mori is Latin for 'dying rose' which you would later make sense of towards the end :) Thank you to Ruth for helping me fix my grammatical errors! We were moving again. My dad had left us to confinement within the empty barriers of that cold, unforgiving room. That room bound me through its dead walls, walls that lay a pale grey as those suitcases were ready to be piled again. The tuft of unruly mundane brown hair found itself tucked behind my reddened ears, careless and lazy, like my brandished soul. Fumbling through my winter coat, I grasped upon my splinted car keys, a metallic red keychain symbolized as a dying heart that lay helplessly, dangling by the rusted copper keys. Locking the door behind as mom cleared away the rest of the empty storage boxes, I slipped into my car, my jolting head ducking its dented red frames, sided with smoky grey. Dirt cracked nails drumming against the tarnished wheel of my beat Honda. The radio recently instilled rambled away as I looked into the rearview mirror, examining any smudged mascara that had gone wrong this morning. Thudding the break with a reflexed foot, I switched at the keyhole that lay filth driven through the splintering decay of the key. I tucked the plastic folder full of overflooding math worksheets under my heavy-hearted arms. I slipped into the brightly lit room; my eyes scanned for a vacant spot within a bustling crowd. They went about their business; without consideration of my existence. It made me wonder how everyone's life could attain such normality: the same schedule, the same routine while mine had to change constantly, trying to fit into the fantasies of mom-- although it was hard to. I plopped down into the far corner of the cafe's tables, pulled over the bright floral printed mask over my chilled face, honeysuckle eyes prying at the entrance, waiting for Darby to promenade in with Mrs Wright striding behind her only daughter. And she did, through the streaking sunlight, the two came inside, abandoning the scrawly streets. "Debbie! I thought this was class cancelled--cause you're moving!", the 10-year-old looked in amusement, a splatter of ebony freckles clouding over the bridge of her nose as she smiled, her crumpled chipped tooth outshining the rest gleefully. I smiled, outpouring warmth elongated from within as I pinched her nose in an attempt to feel like the best tutor in the world. Mrs Wright kept her smile stern, shoving a 50 onto the glossed oak table. "This lesson and the other two lessons are covered. Since you'd be moving soon, Deborah, I decided to add a ten", she muttered before she strode out to her expensive car that waited patiently. A content sigh escaped from my lips, wispy with sharp intakes of unnecessary breaths. I slipped the 50 into my purse before turning back to the grinning girl in front. "Okay, do you want to start with Math or English first?" I pulled out my pencil case and clicked at the pen lamely. "Math, the worst should be the first." she goes on, her eyes drawn to her worksheets with scrawly handwriting that had been gone over with rushed cursive scribbles in inky red. "Wait, I'll get something for you to drink," I called, dusting off at any non-existent crumbs at my overly loose denim jeans that screamed with the worst fashion sense, paired up with a baggy green turtleneck and thick-framed glasses. My hands swiped over to the counter, hands gently going over to the blunt silver to eject a sharp mimicking screech that fell to deaf ears of the young girl at the counter whose hair swept into a neat silky black bun with strands that fell against her powdered cheeks. She looked up, bright-eyed, face full of recognition as I was a usual customer. Every Monday evening, Wednesday afternoon, and Saturday morning, I came in to tutor Darby. As expected, I had become acquaintances with most of the staff. "Oh, uh... Chloe! Pumpkin Spice Latte as usual for me and--for Darby, of course, orange juice would do." I grinned, slipping 5 dollars over the counter. "Sure! Uh, we've lowered the price down, so it'll be $3.45", "Oh! Okay. Just keep the change then", I smiled before returning to the distinctively disorganized table. "Messy aesthetics?" I raised a brow before I slipped into my seat. I went on to mark the sheet put forth by Darby; her forehead scrunched into concentration. Perseverance was the girl's middle name she said after learning the meaning of her new spelling word. "You wanna move onto English now, Darbs? Since you've finished your math?" I said. I handed back her marked sheets, gone over in splotches of red cursives and illusionary numbers. "Hmm? Sure! I don't think I have any questions!" she beamed, shoving the rest of her slovenly math into the pits of her overflowing bag that lay imprinted with ebony zebra markings against the hot pink background, patched with remnants of debris. Inside, crumpled sheets sank to the bottom in a fury of impatient hands who didn't seem to care where her hard work had flooded to its ends. I handed out to her a new list of spelling words as the steamy drink arrived, the drink cooling beneath the milky white cream and bubbling foam that lay decorated with a sift of crushed cinnamon. It was nothing special, but my favourite out of the menu. Darby took her interest in the brimming glass of orange juice before taking a benevolent sip, too large for her mouth to withstand the trickles of salivated orange juice that ran down her chin. The ignorant girl took no notice of this. "Okay... let's try this word out!" I smiled, clicking a mechanical pencil for Darby to use as she stared at her snapped one. "Uh... I-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S", she uttered, her pale eyes squeezed into fistfuls of tightly wrapped skin. "Oh! Nice try but, it's wrong. Ir-re-gard-less. Try again!", "I-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S! Did I do it?" her eyes glinted upon me. "That was better, but it is, I-R-R-E-G-A-R-D-L-E-S-S! You forgot the double 'R', that's all!" I patted her shoulder before taking a milky sip out of the cup that sat, filled to the very top. My eyes skimmed over to the ticking clock that sounded quietly. Everyone sat unaware of the time. Wednesday afternoons always had the least amount of time, probably because Darby would have another class after this. I assumed it was piano lessons. "C'mon, your mom will be here soon, and I have to get home to help finish packing! Wait here and tidy your spot. Finish your juice!" I told her while I took my latte to the counter. "Hey, Nina! Would you mind putting my drink in a paper cup?" I have to get going!" I looked over, neck-craning, to see the girl bringing over a paper cup projecting a green aura of painted leaves, pouring the rest of it skillfully with ease. "Here you go, girl! Have a great time in-- what's that place called again?" she chuckled. Nina was a pit full of laughter and smiles, flaunting with positive vibes. "Pennsylvania, Thanks!" I smiled, grabbing the cup and returning to my table to put away my folders. A burly man with an exotic fiery red moustache and deep green eyes who deemed to look like I had seen him my whole childhood had left a receipt before me it was scooped into my adorned hands, spiking with dirt. 'Barny Beans" was labelled carefully at the top in carefully typed fonts in cursive. "Um, thank you, sir!" I called out, shoving the receipt into my coat's pocket, grabbing my tote, and placing out a pleased pile of notes at the tip. "Do you want to wait outside?" I looked at Darby. She pulled a chunky beanie over her head, grimacing at the fact that she needed to wear it. The wind hit against my pale winter struck face, numbing me of most of my embellishing senses. Stuffing my hands into my pocket, I felt my hand go against something crisp, something new, like paper, not thin like the receipt. Pulling it out, I realised it was an envelope that had trailed into my pocket while I stashed away the tinted bills. I flipped it onto its conjoining side, to see neat cursives, labelled to the irony of my name, "Debbie, my darling" although I had no lover and within was a rose, my favourite deep red rose... but it was dying... gently succumbing...


It’s Thanksgiving. You arrive at your distant relatives’ house after a long, hard semester, give and receive hugs, and all that jazz. But something’s nagging at the back of your mind. You can’t quite recall what, but you remember that you get the exact same feeling every single year at this exact time. It’s probably just the fact that you haven’t seen your family in forever, so you shrug it off. The family gathers in a big circle, holds hands, and prays, thanking their preferred god for the meal they’re about to consume. All seems to go as you remember it going every year, but something still feels wrong. You go up to the kitchen table to construct your plate exactly how you like it, no deviations from the norm whatsoever. Then, you see it. Just off to the right of the Turkey, surrounded by platters of stuffing and homemade cranberry relish, there sits a glass bowl. Inside that glass bowl, there’s a thick, sinister white substance with yellow and orange chunks. You finally see why you’ve been feeling uneasy. You are staring directly at it. The Ambrosia. You immediately pretend to ignore it, picking up the things you like instead. As you make your way to table assigned to your generation, you hear a voice. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” You turn around to see your mother, who has somehow materialized behind you within milliseconds. Wasn’t she talking with her brother about his latest misadventures? How did she get here? You play coy and show her your already completely full plate-- Turkey, ham, Hawaiian Roll, green beans, olives, black beans and corn, all around a beautifully crafted mashed potato volcano. There should be nothing wrong with this. All the food groups are present, so what could her issue be? You get a sad feeling as you see her arm sweep in an almost planned-out manner, gesturing to the bowl of that vile, chunky white substance. “What about the Ambrosia?” she asks, feigning polite curiosity in order to hide her clear disapproval. Dammit, you think to yourself, Almost escaped. “But my plate’s already full,” you try to argue. “Aunt Sharon worked long and hard to make this!” she cuts back in, feigning insult. She’s trying to guilt trip you. You don’t stand a chance. There is no avoiding it. You start running through your options... Feign sickness? Not worth skipping dessert. Run outside and hitchhike home? But your cousins are all discussing that movie you have an interesting theory on. Tell your Mom the truth? But Aunt Sharon’s right within hearing range. Just say No Thanks? Hmmm “No Thanks,” You stammer, “not right now.” Phew. Crisis averted. You sit down at your generation’s table and gladly join in your cousins’ debate about that awesome new movie, pouring yourself a fancy champaign glass of sparkling cider. After a while of cheery conversation and feasting, you almost forget what you’ve been avoiding. Almost. Then you feel it. A looming presence standing directly behind you. You turn. “I imagine you guys are doing well,” your mother feigns a smile at you, holding a heaping mini plate of Ambrosia, “But there’s something you haven’t finished.” Oh no. Now’s your chance to run, but social obligations are chaining you to your seat. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself. You sigh a little and take the plate, turning back to the table. You can still feel your mother’s eyes drilling into the back of your head, expectantly. Your cousins fall silent, eyeing the mini plate of muck, then you, and then your mother. Unsure what to do, your cousins give you looks of pity. Even Aunt Sharon’s daughter, Jenna, is very clearly mortified for your sake. Under duress, you sift your spoon through the gelatinous mass. Chunks of preserved pineapple and tangerine reveal themselves in the unholy mixture of marshmallow fluff and sour cream. Their stench is overpowering-- sickly sweet as a siren song. I’ve had this before, you psych yourself up, I can choke down one bite and then throw the rest out. You take just a big enough spoonful of the Ambrosia to impress your mother and your Aunt, and slowly and deliberately bring it up to your mouth. Then you quickly swallow it just to get it over with. Immediately, you are overpowered with a surge of heaves as your stomach tries to defend itself from that cold, creamy, cloying concoction, but you manage to keep it down with a final gulp. In all of your years of trying Aunt Sharon’s Ambrosia, you have never experienced anything besides violent revulsion. Now, however, it seems that you are not only experiencing the revulsion that you are accustomed to, but also a sense of detachment. You are no longer yourself. You can still see yourself move and hear yourself speak, but you are no longer in control of your actions. Your view is largely blocked by a mysterious sigil painted in white and orange. You watch yourself rejoin the conversation, but find that your words seem to make less and less sense as the minutes pass. Soon you rise from your seat, speaking in an inhuman tongue. The white and orange sigils burn brighter and brighter in your eyes. As far as you can tell, no one else attending the gathering is acting like this is normal. In fact, they seem horrified. You take the carving knife and plunge it into your nearest relative’s--Cousin Jenna’s-- chest, carving the sigil that your eyes are now nearly blinded by. Instead of blood, though, Ambrosia pours out. She starts speaking in sync with you. You proceed to do the same to everyone else who is too paralyzed with horrified intrigue to run away. More people join the speaking in tongues, and more people start stabbing each other with whatever they can. What have you done? What is happening? You frantically fight to regain control of yourself, and somehow, you eventually manage to do so. Knowing that you have little time left, you scream. “I’m sorry for everything,” you cry out, plunging the carving knife into your own chest, this time carving a cross. The sigils fade from your vision. As you slump backwards and your vision fades, your Aunt Sharon approaches you with a look of cold pity. “How pitiful,” she clicks her tongue, her irises flickering between white-orange and their usual dark brown, “You may have won this time, but I will return next Thanksgiving. You have only delayed me, child...” You know nothing else.


Gentle Readers: No need to tell me there are grammatical errors. They are deliberate. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* The next evening, I take Jerome to Devotion's place. She made breakfast. It's sitting there on the table. Three plates. "Sweety-pookums," she says to the kiddo, "why don't you come sit between Daddy and me?" She pats the seat of a chair. Jerome's just happy to be anywhere, so he bounces over to the table and scrambles up on the chair. I sit in the chair closest to the door. "Oh, don't wait for me," she says. "Just dig in, fellas." She goes into the bedroom, and I hear some rummaging sounds. I ain't hungry. Well, yeah... I'm hungry for food, but I ain't hungry for whatever else she's cooking up. I ain't waiting for her to come out with a rose in her teeth. Quickly, I grab a couple pieces of bacon. "Jerome - eat those eggs for me." I say that low. In a louder voice, "Sorry I can't stay. Gotta business call to make." I high-tail it out of there before she can play any more mama-and-dada games. Early for my shift, I get to Packo's and go inside for a couple minutes. "Early, ain't you?" says Pony, the barkeep. "Yeah." Packo comes out of his office, his face all twisted in an angry snarl. "Hey. Billboard," he says. "Come in here." I don't dawdle. In Packo's office there are five cats and a rat. I don't recognize none of them. Probably out-of-towners. "These guys need some muscle down at the docks," Packo says to me. "There's five mackerels in it for you, if you give them the muscle they need." The rat says, "There's some dogs been nosing around. We need them gone. Can you do that?" That last part is meant for me. "How big are these dogs, and how many?" I ask. Again. I ain't stupid. "Pack of dogs. Six of them. Two of them is small. Chihuahuas. Another three is rat terriers." Now I understand why the rat's all jacked up about the dogs. "The last one's a beagle." I hate beagles. I got my reasons. "Yeah. I can keep those dogs at bay for you. Make it six mackerels, and I'll make sure they never come back." "Deal!" the rat squeals. I don't let it show, but that negotiation helps solve the fins and tail I'm gonna owe Stacks. My pappy taught me when I was young: don't ever let them know you're getting a good deal - they can take it back. I follow the out-of-town cats and rat to the docks. The rat runs along a mooring rope to a beat up boat. One of the cats, a gray tabby, points out a rundown building across the way. "They come from thataways every night. Six dogs." His hair's on end. "Show me exactly where," I tell him, "or I can't do my job. That means making sure they ain't bothering you no more, so show me." Even though he's shaking, the gray tabby takes me to the windows where the dogs come out every day. There's a broken pane in one of the windows, low enough and big enough for the beagle to jump right through. I give the window the once over - I don't wanna get tore to pieces by glass falling on me. It takes me only a minute to cypher out the panes of glass and the stresses. There's six panes of glass, three to each side of the window, all framed by wood. Six separate pieces of glass. I look till I'm satisfied. It seems like all the other panes are solid for now, even with that corner out of the lower right pane. Now to take a look inside the place. It's a smelly snore-party in there. Six dogs laying all over creation sawing logs. One of the chihuahuas is barking in his sleep - it sounds like he's saying, "Mick, Mick, Mick," with his lips closed. Not a one of them budges. Each one's stretched out or curled up on his own. I wouldn't be able to tiptoe between them, if they was all piled up like puppies. Strung out like that, I got plenty of room to stroll. Ring leader's off to one side. Seems kind of strange, but good luck for me. Take out the leader, the rest of the pack falls. I inch around. This dog's got elephant ears. He shifts his head in his sleep, pointing his nose straight up, and his tongue rolls out his mouth till it touches his ear. Slobber all over. I hate beagles. I take a little jump and land hard on the soft part of his gut. All the wind goes out of him - he don't even have a bark left. His back legs are jerking, as he tries to get his breath back, so I don't let him. I give him another pounce right in the soft part, and all that comes out of him is a thin wheeze. He rolls over, but that ain't smart. I get on his back, and rake at his eyes while he tries to get away from me. He gets breath enough to squeal. Squealing and running - he can't see the broken window. I got my fingers in his eyes. Well - claws in his eyes. I take my chance and bite into one of his ears, then the other - all the while still raking his eyes. More squealing. He runs nose first into the wall. The other dogs are awake and hanging back. Yeah, chihuahuas are scrappy - but just with other dogs. Pound for pound, they can't match a cat. The beagle stops running and stands still with his ass dragging low. There's a puddle under him. I'm gonna have to watch it when I get off him. I don't like my paws pissy. I lean forward and say: "These ain't your docks, pal. Move along and stay gone, or there's worse coming your way. Take your mutts with you." Jumping off, I give him another dig with the back claws. I take a look at his face. He's gonna have to find his way around by smell for a while. I go back out to the docks. The rat is sitting on a piling, tail curled around him. It looks dainty - but I know it's just to keep his tail close. He works with cats, and they know where their pay comes from - but they're still cats. And he's a rat. "Willie, bring them mackerels!" he yells in a high-pitched voice. He talks kind of funny. Even for a rat. That same gray tabby comes out onto the deck of the boat. "Got'em, boss," he says. Willie walks over to hand me a bunch of mackerels. Just like that. No carton. No can. No paper sack. Just a bunch of cold fish. It ain't nice to count your fish in front of others, but this is business. I take a quick look. "Hey. You gave me seven mackerels," I say. "The deal was for six. I got an extra one here." "Yeah. About that. You did a good job. Willie told me how you took out the big one. So you get a little extra. And maybe sometime we get another deal." He looks me up and down. "What do you do good?" "Bouncing. Bruising. Heavy lifting." It looks like he's asking for more, so I take a chance: "I blow the sax some." His tiny eyebrows shoot upwards. "You do music, and you count good, too. Yeah... I think we can deal again. Billboard - that's your name?" "I'm Billboard." "Tikus. A pleasure." I repeat the name: "Tekkous." "Yeah. 'Tikus'. Like saying 'tea' and 'coos'. It's Malay. I came from Borneo." "Nice to meet'cha." I remember my manners when they matter. I'm done with that job in time to get back to Packo's. It's a slow night. Nobody needs tossing. Thing is, I think they smell the dog blood on me and figure I ain't one to mess with tonight. Around dawn, I pick up my pay and head toward home. I get to Devotion's place a little before dawn. I got enough time to pick up the kiddo, take him home, and see that he beds down good before I go meet Stacks. But it seems like Devotion's got plans. "Oh, don't take my little Pookie-Poo just yet. He just fell asleep." Jerome's curled in a ball in the middle of Devotion's bed, like a golden buckeye in a field of snow. I reach out and poke the what-d'you-call-it fancy blanket. Doo-vay. It's filled with feathers. My kid, laying in a feather-bed. "If that don't beat all," I say. Devotion's eyes are boring straight into mine when I turn to tell her I have to meet somebody. "Hurry back, Daddio," she says. I double-step it to the library. Stacks is sitting next to the stone lion in front of the door. "I like the comparison," Stacks says. "Did you find the dope on Flattery Cattery?" "Yes. It's out in the boondocks. Remote. Unsavory past with the law. I got the address on this envelope, and I drew a map on the other side." Stacks reaches out the envelope to me. "Bill," he says, "this is big. You need extra paws on this one. I'll throw in with you, and I can get a couple other cats together - if you say so." "You're all right, Stacks," I say handing him all the fins and tails off the mackerels. I'm flush, so I don't mind sharing some extra with Stacks. "That's mighty decent of you, Bill." He looks me in the eye. "You mind, me and my pals are here to help if you need us." "Just casing the place for starters," I assure him. The map is easy to follow, and it doesn't take long to get out there. I take the back roads and cut through a woods. Flattery Cattery used to be a farm, looks like. Then it looks like it was something else, like a factory. Furniture factory. Now, it's just a broke-down old building that smells like ruin. I nose around, and I don't see nobody. Not a soul. There is laughter from somewhere. There's an old house on the grounds - it's in better shape - and a beat-up shed. I creep closer. There's a big bunch of humans in the house. No cats to be seen in the house. Not even on the table. So I turn to the shed. The shed is full of cages, beat-up rusty cages with wire floors. It smells like a hundred cats pissed on the floor. I pull out my penlight. There are eyes in every single cage. I count at least ten pairs of eyes. "I'm gonna get you outa there," I promise them. I sit down for a think, because this is a much bigger thing than I ever thought before. The sun rises, shining through the shed door. Some of those cats won't make it past noon, I think. And there are way more pairs of eyes than I counted by my penlight. "I'm gonna get some help." I know my words sound lame. Not even one of the captive cats says nothing. Not even, "Hurry back," or "We're saved". Not even, "We don't believe you." They got nothing to say to me. I run back the way I came, hoping Stacks can make good with his promise. As I am coming around the bend in the forest path, I see Stacks with a bunch of cats following him. "I came to meet you halfway," Stacks says. "And these cats?" "They're coming to help." I lay it out for them right then and there. Three of the cats will go into the house and keep the humans busy, chase around the table and stuff. Two will scout the abandoned building to make sure nobody's there. Stacks and the other five cats, are going to free the poor souls in the shed. "Some of them need water or food right away," I tell them. "So you scoot with them, as many as you can get to follow you. Maybe you gotta carry some." We split up once we get to the cattery. I stay in the middle where I can see everything and catch whatever I need to, go where they need me. The cats in the house stir up a ruckus. One high-tails it across the kitchen table, and then out through the dining room and up the curtains, bringing the curtain rod down. Another climbs up the outside of the house and goes in an open window, yowling at the top of his lungs. They had a dog in there. The third cat goes through the screen on the screendoor - then jumps on the dog and rides him, both him and the dog shrieking. A china teapot goes sailing off the china cabinet and crashes. It's a three-ring circus in there. Humans running around like ants when their hill gets stirred. Even though one of the humans is swinging a broom, she won't touch those cats. I have to laugh a little when the broom gets caught in the ceiling fan. Two of the blades go flying, the brooms in pieces, and the lady is screaming blue bloody murder. I chance a look at Stacks and the others by the shed. They're bringing out cats and kittens. Stacks has two kittens in each arm. They look about Jerome's age. All golden. Some a little sickly. Stacks and his pals are stashing the cats in the woods. One big cat stays to watch over them, the others go back for more. About that time, the two cats from the shed come back. "Hey, Bill," the one says. "There's nothing doing in there. What do you want us to do?" "Go help the cats in the shed." I go back to looking at the house. Not one human has come out yet. They're still chasing cats. Losing, but still chasing. After a couple trips more, the shed is empty. I don't know where to take them. I sit to have a think. They need a place. A place they can be safe. A place they can come and go. A place with water and food. That place by the docks, I decide. I'll find a better way in and out, but for now - that's where they can call home. I motion Stacks over. "Yeah, Bill?" "Take all them cats down to the docks. You go - just yourself - and find a rat name of 'Tikus'. Like saying 'tea' and 'coos'. Tell him Billboard sent you. You're looking for the place the dogs was staying. Take all them cats to the dog place. You gotta go through a broken window, so mind nobody gets hurt. You have any problems, come back here and let me know." Stacks gave me a toothy grin. "Sure thing, Bill. What are you doing?" I fixed him with a stare. "I'm gonna get any human who thinks they're gonna split without paying for what they done, and then I make them pay." He salutes me. I have to smile. Nobody ever done that to me before. I turn back to the house. One of the cats is looking out the window. I give him a wave. Suddenly, all three cats come streaking out the house. One out an upstairs window, one out the kitchen window, one out the door. Soon as they get close, I tell them to help Stacks get the cats and kittens to the docks. I head to the house. Inside, the lady is sobbing. Hard, racking sobs. I jump up in the kitchen window in time to see her throw a cup at one of the other humans. The cup just misses his head. I didn't notice before, but all the rest of the humans is little kids. She's screaming at him, all that human blah-blah-blah, but I get the gist. She don't want him around no more because of all the cat business. He says blah-blah-blah. It sounds like he don't want stay anyways. Like you can't throw me out if I leave first. They bring the argument to the kitchen. Suddenly, it's so clear what they're saying. I can't believe I'm getting every word - "You're a crumb, George. I always knew it, but I stayed for the kids." "Shut up, Sheila. It's not like you turn down anything the Cattery's dough got you - " "That's just not so!" She pulls off a ring and threw it at him. "There's your ring. Bought with the dirty money from your cattery!" The ring clatters to the floor. He pulls his fist back, and she shrinks, her kids cluster behind her wailing. None of them see me coming. I ride his right arm as it starts toward the lady. I hold on while he flaps like a chicken. No way I'm flying off, because I have my claws all the way in. All the way to the quick. When the left hand comes close enough, I sink my teeth in. Pulling his hand away only rips longer tears in his hand. That, plus one of my fangs catches on something, and he can't pull no further. When I let go of his hand, he quick pulls both hands back to the sides, and I go for his head. I bite him as many times and places as I can. His forehead, his nose, his eyebrow, his cheek, his nose again - only harder. When he puts up a hand to pull me off, I turn and bite the hand. After enough biting and scratching, he gets his hands in between me and his face. I let him protect his face, because that right there means I won. On his knees, blubbering, he begs for help. I step off to the side. I figure I freed the cats and took some revenge. Maybe the lady has the floor. She hits him in the head with a fry pan. For a second, me and the lady, we lock eyes. I understand he's been doing her and the kiddos wrong. She understands the cats in her house were part of the plan. She puts the pan down. It's not always the size of the cat. It's not always the size of the fight. Sometimes, it's all about the heart. A human ten times my size who picks on kittens - he don't have a heart. A full growed human who picks on little kids - he don't have a heart. All kittens and kids should get is mother's milk and love. I give the lady a nod and jump back out the window. At a fast trot, I take the path through the woods, and the back roads. Pretty soon, I'm at the docks. No cats to be seen roaming around. I look toward Tikus' boat. Nobody on deck. I look toward the building with the busted window. As I get closer, I see cats and kittens inside. One of the cats Stacks brought is standing guard by the window. "Hey! It's Bill," he says. I come through the window and see where Stacks is. "You wanna tell me who everybody is?" I go over to him and ask. "They're my littermates," says Stacks. "There are twelve of us, but Recall is estranged." Pointing to each, Stacks says, "That's Swipe and Trace next to him. Atlas is there. Verso over there. Carrel is the dainty one with the mean eyes. (I love you, sis.) Fiche is there, Browser over there. Concordance is here, and Flyleaf is behind her. Abstract is... Where's Abstract?" Carrel says, "Behind you, Einstein." Stacks turns and points, so I turn to look. "Hiya," says Abstract. He's looking sideways at us. Stacks says, "We just all stick together-" "-Except Recall!" says Swipe. "-since we were small. We were born under the library steps. I stay around here, but we always know how to get through to each other when we need to." Carrel says, "Our father was Festschrift, and mother was Fine." Festschrift and Fine. Sounds like lawyers. I shake my head. "I wanna thank all of you's," I say. "I didn't know how big this was until I got there. All of you's did a great job. Everybody's safe and sound." "You're a good leader," says Browser. Stacks asks, "How did it end in the house?" "I cleaned his clock. After I pealed his face, the lady beaned him with a pan. He only got what was coming to him. He was farming cats," I tell them. "Speaking of. I got a kitten who came from there. I went there to save his mama. Lemme go get him, and let them figure it out." By the time I get to Devotion's, I'm dog-tired. I knock on the door a few times. She must be that tired too. She comes to the door and drags it open. "Oh, it's you, big boy," she says. "Come in. How come so early in the day? I'll get Jer-Jer." When I tell Jerome I want him to meet some cats, Devotion wants to come along. "It's kind of rough," I warn her. "Some of these cats is sick and need tending." "I'm coming along, you hear that?" I hear it. All three of us go to the docks. Before I can stop him, Jerome is running fast as he can, and he pops through the window. When I get there, Devotion steps in front of me to go through the window, and then I can finally come in to see if I did what I promised. Mewing loud, Jerome is all over the four ginger kittens with crusty eyes. They're kissing and crying. I kind of get a tear in my eye. These poor kiddos needed each other. I wanna wipe my eye, but my hand bumps into Devotion. She's all bundled up close to my side. I feel a couple claws in my back as she flexes her fingers. "That is so sweet, Billboard. So sweet," she says. "Is their mama here?" When I ask them, the kittens just start crying again. One gets a sob right in the middle of his words. "She's gone. She got dead." "Those poor babies!" Devotion is on all fours snuggling with those kids. She kisses them and looks up at me. Who, me? I have to admit those are some cute little kiddos, and Devotion ain't hard on the eyes. This is more than the little I want. But they're babies. All they should get is kindness - they can't get no mama's milk. "You wanna name them?" I ask Devotion. "Nothing cutesy-tootsie. Good names. Real names." She says, "This is Charlie. This is Duke. This is Dave. This is Ella." Good names, all of them. Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Dave Brubeck, and Ella Fitzgerald. I can't help the smile stretching from ear to ear. Devotion's eyes are big as pennies. All five kiddos are nestled together around her. I didn't think she was the type to be a mama, but it looks good on her. I look around the joint. It needs some spiffing up, but I can handle that. I ain't afraid of hard work. I look at Stacks and his littermates. There's brain power there, and they ain't afraid of nothing. I stand up straight. I got this. "Welcome to Bill's Boarding House, a home for cats and kittens in need.


Serenity knew that she wasn’t supposed to, but she enjoyed staying up late. She loved the feeling of being the last person awake. It felt like she was awake while the rest of the world was asleep. It was a strange feeling. Her family went to sleep pretty early. Usually, they were all in bed by ten. So after ten, Serenity had free roam of the house. She tried to stay quiet. She knew which floor boards creaked, how to open her door so it wasn’t squeaky, and which stairs to skip. She slid out of her bed near midnight, peeking out the window. Aoiski looked different during the middle of the night. Nobody was awake. It was rare that there’d even be a single car on the streets. She’d see a few people walking around, but not many she recognized. Aoiski was small, but there were still people Serenity hadn’t met. People that she didn’t really want to meet either. Serenity perked up when she noticed a light turn on. The lights outside always turned off after midnight. The light was coming from too far away from her to see clearly. Serenity turned from her window and pulled her door open, keeping it quiet. She made her way to the stairs, staying clear of boards that creaked under pressure. She went down the stairs and slid out from the front door. She wasn’t supposed to be out alone so late, but considering the handful of rules she’d probably broken just from dinner, Serenity was choosing to ignore that one. She shivered a little in the cool air, walking around the house towards where she’d seen the light. Lights were almost never on after midnight. Street lights were set on a timer and people turned their house lights off before they went to sleep. She started to feel like she was being watched as she was getting closer to the light source. She looked over her shoulder, but there was nobody nearby. She hadn’t realized how eerie it felt for their town to be so empty and dark. Aoiski was only ever quiet during the latest hours of the night. Otherwise, it was vibrant with the people. Serenity was sure that nobody liked staying up late because they feared that ghosts and spirits had more power during the night. Serenity thought the fear was ridiculous, but she enjoyed being the only one awake. She stopped when she came up to the light source, a little disappointed that it was just an old, plastic lantern sitting on the ground. Nobody was there. Serenity walked over to the lantern. She picked it up and clicked the switch off, looking around for anybody. Why would they have left the lantern? Maybe they’d turned it on and heard her coming and left. She didn’t even know what to do with the lantern now. It was wrong to take it, but if she left it, would anybody come back for it? Serenity spun around when she heard something, backing up. She was starting to wonder if she was just freaking herself out. There was wind blowing by, so it wasn’t insane to assume that it was just the wind. She shut her eyes and blew out a breath. She just needed to calm herself down before she freaked out. She was only scared because there was nobody else around. Nature was the one making all the sounds. Serenity felt something grab her arm. She went to spun around, feeling herself being pulled. She went to scream, but a hand clasped over her mouth, muffling any sound that came out. “Who are you?” Serenity shook her head against the person’s hand. They moved their hand. “Who are you?” “Serenity, my name is Serenity.” She said. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?” “Last name.” “Wioax. Serenity Wioax.” Serenity said, trying to pull away from their grip. She was trying to keep herself under control before she burst into tears. “Look, you don’t want to kidnap me or whatever. My family couldn’t care less if I fell off the face of the planet or ceased to exist.” “Wioax?” They let go of her arm, pushing her onto the ground Serenity grunted, pushing herself back with her feet. She saw him for the first time and hesitated, trying to recognize him. He crouched down in front of her, searching the fear in her eyes for a moment. She moved back when he pushed her hair back with a finger to get a better look. “You don’t look like a Wioax.” Serenity paused to look down at herself for a moment. If she and Salvadore were placed next to each other, they didn’t look like they had the same parents. Serenity had fluffy and curly black hair from her mother’s side of the family. Salvadore had blonde hair that was mostly straight. They didn’t look related. “I get it from my mother’s side of the family.” Serenity hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Who even are you?” “Eryx.” He said, backing up from her and standing up. He held his hand up to her, but Serenity refused to take it and got to her feet on her own. “Fair enough. I don’t usually get that many people out during the middle of the night.” “Have you ever done that to somebody before?” Serenity asked. “You look young.” “You look younger.” Eryx commented. “What are you doing up so late?” “What are you doing up?” Eryx chuckled. “Cute, but that won’t work with me.” He said. “You’re the Wioax’s second, right? So you’re maybe 16?” Serenity crossed her arms. She didn’t like not knowing who Eryx was. In Aoiski, everybody knew who she was and who her family was. “15.” She said. “How old are you?” “You’re good at math, right? I’m four years older than you.” “That’s not funny.” “You didn’t like my math joke?” Serenity rolled her eyes. “It might be funny if I was actually good at math.” She grumbled. “I’m the only unexceptional Wioax.” “Ouch. That’s got to suck.” “Gee, I wonder.” Eryx smirked. “So little Serenity, why are you up so late?” Serenity sighed. She thought she might have gotten away from that question. She didn’t have any reason to be up so late. “What’s breaking one rule here and there?” Serenity said. “I like being up late.” “Don’t you have school?” “Don’t you?” “I told you that doesn’t work with me.” Serenity sighed. “Yes, I have school. Whatever.” She said. “I fall asleep in class, so what? I’ve gotten enough detentions to last me until I’m 30. Aren’t you in college?” Eryx laughed, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t go to college. We could never afford that.” He said. “I help my dad run his little bakery. He needs all the help he can get.” “Can’t your mother help?” Eryx’s expression hardened. “No, my mom left Aoiski when I was six.” He said. “She got tired of small-town life and she left the both of us. So it’s been me and my dad for as long as I can remember.” “I don’t think I’ll go to college either.” Eryx raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Wioax; you’ll have to go whether you want to or not.” “A worthless Wioax that’s interest in art. But according my grandmother, you have to actually be good to be an artist and it’s a waste of time.” Serenity said. “I told you, my parents couldn’t care less if I fell off the face of the universe.” “I think that they’d care if all the sudden their daughter went missing and they had to explain it to the town. It’s easier if you’re still existing.” Eryx said. “Why are you out here? A girl like you?” “A girl like me? What does that mean?” Eryx looked her over. “When’s the last time you saw a mirror? You look more expensive than my house.” Serenity’s face went red as she looked down at her clothes. She didn’t like wearing pajamas, so must of the time she just slept in whatever she had been wearing for the day. They had school uniforms, so she pretty much always wore slacks and a button up shirt. She looked back at Eryx. He didn’t look that bad. He just had a t-shirt and jeans. She’d kill to just wear a t-shirt, but her parents liked for her to look nice. It was really the least that she could do. “I didn’t really think Aoiski was the type of place where somebody pops out of a bush and grabs you.” Serenity murmured. “What are you doing out here?” “None of your business.” “So you won’t tell me your name or what you’re doing out here, but you get to know everything about me?” “Don’t flatter yourself, you’re a Wioax, not a celebrity.” Serenity laughed a little. “Wish I wasn’t a Wioax.” “Uh huh. Do me a favor and scramble on back home.” Eryx said. “I’m not trying to take care of a little kid.” “You mean two little kids?” Eryx sent her a glare. “Whatever rows your boat.” Serenity turned to leave, but she stopped herself before she walked too far. “You said that your father owns a bakery, right?” “Why do you care?” Serenity shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”


The last of the campers either made their way up the steps of the bus that would be carrying them home for the night, or those old enough to drive themselves piled into their cars and pulled out of the dirt parking lot. All that was left to finish for the night was to pull out the supplies for tomorrow’s craft for the youngins, write the outline for the camp sermon, prepare the special treat for the campers and to finally finish her Bible notes for the day. Shouldn’t take too long if she got back to the farm right now and got started on her chores. Savannah Ash, Sav for short, pulled up the long driveway, bumping along every pebble, feeling every imperfection in her older than dirt pick-up truck that everyone said she should replace, but she just couldn’t part with. Realizing that it was 5:30, she ran into the house tossing her keys on the counter and changed into her work clothes, slamming into a wall of muscle known as her brother, as she zoomed out of her room. Beau, with his 6’6” towered over her 5’10 frame, but though he hated to admit it, Sav could keep up with him on most things. However, she didn’t play football so they’d never know the answer to that mystery. “Whoa, where are you in such a hurry to?” he asked, his booming voice filling the house. He was seven years older than Sav and he had practically raised her since their parents passed away when she was twelve. “You know I got to get to the calf barn so that I can feed the cows and start getting the Jerseys weaned,” she replied, getting a little irritated that he was still standing in her way and her to-do list kept growing, “not to mention I have to get stalls for the new babies ready and bring them over.” She watched as his stern face morphed into a big grin and turned to sprint back to her room as his huge hook of an arm came and pulled her into a headlock and began messing up the pony tail she had just pulled her hair into. “I was just messin’ with you Sav,” he said with a laugh, finally releasing her. She pulled away, and looked him in the eyes as she fixed her hair. “Very funny,” she said with a look that reflected how unamused she was, “do you still have more seeds to plant?” “Yeah, I have probably another three acres that need seeds. I’m going to go do that while you are in the barn. Let me know when you're done and we’ll figure out dinner.” Without a word of response, she gave a quick salute and headed to the back door and slipped on her dirt-caked pink crocs. As she walked to the calf barn, the sun hung golden in the sky, bathing the world in warmth. She looked around the farm and smiled to herself. Beau had done a good job of keeping the farm going since their parents died. He did most of the work on the actual farm during the day, with the help of a couple other farm hands. That meant that he was in charge of the cows and planting the seeds and harvesting of the crops. Today he was getting the pumpkin seeds in the ground so that they would be ready in the fall for the pumpkin patch. Sav was in charge of the calf barn and was also in charge of the bakery. She would help out with whatever else she could, but she knew that this was Beau’s project. She stepped into the barn and got to work thinking about how proud their dad would have been of Beau. The town knew the story because they all had pity for the family when the Ash kids lost both of their parents in a car accident, but the pity was quickly replaced with respect. Respect for the fact that Beau had raised his younger sister while expanding the family business the way their late father had wanted to and keep the family legacy alive. With these thoughts occupying her mind, Sav’s chores were done before she knew it. Later that night, after a dinner of barbecued chicken sandwiches with slaw and corn on the cob, Sav cleaned up the table and did the dishes. She headed over to the bakery so that she could check inventory and then whip up the treat that she was bringing to camp in the morning as Beau headed into the den to watch some sports show. Sav was greeted at the door with the ever present spicy sweet aroma as she flipped on lights and set down her bag. Reba MacEntire streamed through the speakers above as she tied on an apron and thoughts of her momma crossed her mind. She could see her standing over by the massive industrial ovens bouncing along to Reba’s “Pink Guitar” as she pulled tray after tray of her famous beignets out of the heat. Snapping out of her day dream, Sav began her Thursday night ritual of baking beignets for the campers on Friday just as her momma had done when she was alive. Although, once she started, she noticed that she was going to have to make more than she thought seeing as the bakery was out. Not that Sav minded--it meant that she got to spend more time with the woman she most admired. It wasn’t until 10:30 that the music fizzled out of the speakers and Sav removed the flour speckled apron that she had worn like a shield for the past three and a half hours. She left the trays on a cooling tower, flipped the lights off, locked the door and walked back to the main house. Opening the door, a sports announcer’s voice floated down the hallway as he announced the Braves, Giants score. Sav walked into the den to see her brother passed out in the recliner looking like a spitting image of their father. Turning back to the kitchen, Sav made herself a cup of tea before making her way to her room. After showering and pulling on her favorite red flannel pj shorts with the matching tank top that says “Country Girl”, she settled in her desk chair with her tea, her Bible, and her notebook. Opening the Bible she let the withered bookmark float to the desk and she read the message that stared back at her: to my beautiful baby girl, you are an angel sent to me from God and I am so proud of you. You will do great things. Tears pricked her eyes as she slid the bookmark to the side of the desk and began reading, silently taking notes with Lauren Digal stream softly in the background. This was how Sav always ended her summer nights--outlining the sermon that she was going to give in the morning shortly after the campers arrived. It was the job of the camp director and she learned from the best having watched her mom do it for years. Many parents of the campers over the years have come up to her and told her that she is just like her mother. Everyone in town knew that the place to send their kids for the summer was over to Meriam Ash’s Chirstian Church Camp. After her mother passed, the camp wasn’t open for a couple years, but once Sav turned fifteen, she started getting things ready and she brought back the camp as yet another way to honor her mother. Soon the clock read 12:00. Yawn. Stretch. Put the bookmark in the Bible. Close the cover. Crawl into bed. Sav laid in her sea of pillows and stared at the ceiling. Life was hard without her parents, but at just eighteen, she had accomplished so much. Though she did not get to experience the rest of her life with her parents, she knew that they never truly left her.


2099 There was an eerie silence enveloping the decrepit building that was one of many in the compound that had been ravaged by Millenial forces. It was like the still before a storm, or the final moment as one waits to die. I can’t fathom being 150 years old. I feel better now than when I was 80. Science and technology have come a long way but it is exactly that technology, manipulated by forces of evil, that made longevity a life sentence rather than a gift. “Dietrich, come. It’s time for us to move.” said my ally, Petron, while he looked out the window toward the setting sun. Darkness would provide added cover for our journey to our next location. I gathered my belongings and made sure that my laser pistol was fully charged. As much as evening and night normally brought clear passage to the next city or place of refuge, one had to be prepared. There was always the chance that the Millenials were listening. “Chance favors the prepared mind,” I said aloud. “ Under Siege 2 ,” Petron replied. “A lesson to be learned.” We started our trek to the next safe house. With the destruction of the majority of surface structures, safety was best found below ground where interventions could be implemented to thwart detection devices. It was risky to move but it was a necessity since many of the Millenial forces honed in on safe houses after a period of surveillance. We walked along in silence initially, wary of being heard. The journey would be two deca-grids and would take two to three timespans to complete if we kept a steady pace. I was the first to speak. “What are the chances we make it to Base 3 without being noticed?” Petron laughed. “Chance favors the prepared mind,” he mimicked. “We’ve done all that we can do to be successful. I can’t believe that they would annihilate us if we were caught, although there have been gruesome stories about what the Millenials will do to extract what they consider vital information. Two stragglers marching from one safe house to another would not be a prime resource. If that were the case, they would have found us by now.” Petron’s words put me at ease. “It’s sad in a way that we are in this position. With all the positive advances, the negative prevailed, destroying what could have been Eden, turning it into Hell.” Petron nodded. “Cyber-hacking for profit and undermining government and all that held the world together in the mid-twenty- first century was the cancer that could not be cured. People could no longer thrive in unison but needed discord to fuel their energies. The Millenials won out with their underlying falsehoods that brought the majority to their side. Fortunately, medical advances and the great scientific minds of our time have been able to circumvent the Millenial invasion and provide an existence that, albeit guarded, is extended beyond what one would have expected sixty years ago. We must have faith in our mission and keep moving forward.” The conversation helped to make the trek seem shorter. I signaled with my Identi-card to the safe house which was nearby. As we approached, a hole opened in the ground and an elevator rose above the surface. We scanned our arm chips and the doors opened. The elevator started downward and the surface went back to being an area of a non-descript landscape of bushes and trees. “Welcome, brethren,” a man met us as we entered through a hidden door into a vestibule where we went through an initial screening. “I am Weldon, the new Prefect here at Base 3 . The former leader, Centani, was captured by the Millenials and we have yet to hear of his fate.” “I am Dietrich and this is Petron. We have come from Base 27 . What do you need us to do?” Weldon was gracious. “Take time to refresh and then we can discuss your areas of expertise and how you can best be of service here at Base 3 .” The pair rested a bit, then provided Weldon with a thumb drive of their resume and work as well as recommendations from other members of the Resistance. “We are one of the few Bases that employ computerized extension for obvious reasons. Too many portals and the Millenials would be able to track down activity easily. We vary times and utilization after monitoring Millenial output so that we can best use what we have without detection.” Weldon set his eyes straight ahead to impress upon Dietrich and Petron the importance of a rigid protocol. There would be no room for deviation. “We understand,” Petron added. “I can help with the cyber operations and Dietrich possesses an uncanny ability for rousting out Millenials and gathering sensitive data that will come in handy for tracking activity and intentions. “Are you up to the task?” Weldon wanted to know. “You both seem a little long in the tooth.” “I’m 150. Yes, I know, I don’t look a day over 125,” I smiled. “Petron is a youngster. He’s 92. We have both been cleared for maximum activity so, yes we can do whatever needs to be done and yes, we are ready to be of assistance.” “That is good,” Weldon confirmed. “I know you are both aware that the forecast for the turn of the century is grim, at least for those of us who still fight for what’s best for humanity as opposed to the self-interest and greed that are part and parcel of the Millenial focus. Dietrich, you are old enough to have studied Roman history and their downfall. I don’t want us to follow in those footsteps. Our capabilities are far advanced technologically, but the world has been destroyed by the selfish minds of people who have not developed their critical thinking beyond what is personally gratifying.” “Amen, brother,” Petron chimed in. “We’re here to be of service,” I said. “No matter how our earth evolves, I have lived a good life so I have nothing to lose in being of assistance to those who want to put a positive spin on the global community versus the self-indulgent battle of alpha personalities trying to prove who has the biggest penis.” Weldon smirked and Petron burst out in laughter, a spray of water exiting his nose. “Thank you,” Weldon offered, “though I am still trying to wrap my hands around that last image.” The three shared an embrace. It was time to save the world.


Tim saw the blue and red light flashing from a distance. He shouted, 'Patrol Car, Ron.' Hearing this, Ron hid behind the railings of the top of the water tank of the town. Tim hid behind the concrete fence walls around that water tank. The police siren murdered the silence of the night. The intensity of sound was increasing, and as the car passed by the water tank, the siren sound began to decrease. Suddenly, the car stopped, and the policeman reversed the vehicle to park in front of the water tank. 'He definitely saw us,' thought Tim. The policeman left the vehicle and switched on the flashlight. He beamed to the top of the water tank as he noticed two things when passing by. The first thing: the gate was open, might be the mistake of a waterman. The other thing: he saw a silhouette behind the railings at the top of the water tank. He was looking for that silhouette with that beam from the flashlight. Ron, meanwhile, swiftly moved to the backside of the water tank away from the beam. Tim also moved behind the cabin of the waterman. The policeman continued the search only to give up after few minutes. He closed the gate and continued with the patrolling. As soon as the policeman left, Ron resumed his work amidst the deadly silence. The moonlight assisted Ron in his quest. Tim did not want to participate in that task. He was here only to observe and caution Ron about the impact of his action. 'No, you can't do that on your own.' cautioned Tim at the top of his voice. The silence hidden in the darkness allowed Tim's voice to reach the top of the water tank. Ron was moving around the tank in circles and sometimes up and low. Tom could hear the hissing sound of the Spray-Can. Tim shouted again, 'It will appear in a negative light. Vandalism is not the way to bring change.' 'Will you keep your voice low. I am up here only and I am not deaf.' Ron shouted. 'Listen, use proper ways. Don't deface this water tank. If you can convince the planning committee, they will themselves demolish it. Can't you see?' argued Tim. 'I have been explaining to them for almost nine months. If they were keen enough to listen to us, we would not be doing this.' explained Ron. 'Don't say we. Say I. It is all your plan. I will never take the refuge of vandalism to prove my point.' 'Whatever suits you. To make those deaf ears listen to our voice, this is my final step.' 'Let us again go door to door and garner some more support.' 'What good will do that?' 'The committee will listen to those united voices.' The discussion continued for another hour until Ron finished his work. After that, Ron glided down the vertical stairs like a pro and landed with a big thump. It was time for the patrol car to return. Both of them hurried out of that premises and closed the gate. 'What good this vandalism will do?' asked Tim. 'Let the sunrise tomorrow and you will see.' They were walking down towards their car. They parked their car a mile away from the water tank to cover their tracks. They reached the spot in the middle of barren land, some feet distant from the road. The passerby won't even glance there. They arrived home and climbed up through the rope into the bedroom that they shared. Tim and Ron even lived together before they were born. They entered this world as twins, and only their birthdate was identical. All the other things were different. Tim and Ron were only a year away from college, but they were far ahead in the level of intellect of their counterpart. The newspaper mentioned nothing of the graffiti. But the social media picked up at around noon. The picture of graffiti was all over the internet. That picture would make a huge impact. The water tank was considered the unique landmark of that town, and the water supply came from there. Now, the problem was that one philanthropist decided to develop a sports complex at that place. The philanthropist can choose any other location for the Sports Complex, but this location had many benefits. But, the planning committee did not approve the plan. They will miss this golden opportunity. Tim and Ron took it upon themselves to change the opinion of that committee. They started doing meetings, but only a few cared about the issue, let alone support the cause. They went door to door and explained the benefit of a sports center to locals. Many arrived at the meeting. Some were curious, and some had nothing to do, and some were genuinely concerned about the issue. The minor support changed the mind of four committee members in the latest hearing. However, one member vetoed to halt the momentum. The twins tried to convince him, but he was hell bend on saving the water tank. The identity of the town mattered more than the town's progress. Tim and Ron took the refuge of social media to increase awareness about the issue. They ran ads, played testimony of those who enjoy the benefit of having a Sports Complex in the town, and also made groups of like-minded people only so that Tim and Ron can influence them to support the cause. The Twins were confident that the committee would rule in their favor after seeing huge support, but the reverse happened. Now three members went against the destruction of the water tank. Ron knew that something was not right. He let his inside sherlock holmes lose inside the digital world. He investigated the one member who vetoed using his digital footprint. Ron was good with computers, and coding helped him earn a scholarship to an Ivy League college. He nicely combed through all the details of that member and found more than three anomalies in the past month. The first anomaly: Huge sums of money transferred in an offshore account by his wife's name. The second anomaly: a flat purchased in his son's name. The third anomaly: Two small but equal shares of fund transferred to two newly created offshore accounts of the other two committee members. The picture was clear. Someone was giving bribes to those three committee members. Who was doing that, and why this much money for a simple sports complex. Ron began the deep dive and at last found the source of the money. Someone used a dummy corporation to hide the reality. Luckily, Ron solved the mystery. It was the owner of a construction company that specialized in entertainment parks. The phone of the committee member helped a lot. It had all the call recordings that painted a clear picture of what was cooking between them. The owner of that construction company wanted to build an entertainment park. Right where the water tank stood and all the open land near it. If the philanthropist constructs the sports complex, the upcoming entertainment park will lose its place. That means the owner of the construction company will lose billions in revenue. So, the owner bribed that committee member who vetoed. That committee member further bribed his two colleagues, and all was set. Those three members would then pass the plan for the entertainment park. They will shift the useless water tank to another place. Ron then vandalized the water tank with graffiti, shouting in colors. It said that: I will only relocate myself for entertainment park. Don't entice me with Sports Complex.' The next day instead of asking who wrote it, everyone was asking what is written? The momentum built around 2 in the afternoon during lunch, and that is when Tim anonymously shared the call recordings between the owner and the committee member. It took only five days for the plan to get approved, and on the fifth day, the water tank was razed to the ground for the groundbreaking ceremony to ensue in the evening. Sports Complex will now be a reality for future generations to hone their skills and talents, all thanks to the persistent effort of the twins.


I know this may be hard to imagine, because you’ve only ever seen other little kits like you, but there are monsters in the world that are born without fur. No pelt, no tail, only a tuft on the top and sometimes a shaggy mane. The rest of them is bare skin, angry pink or brown, as tall as trees. Without their fur, the beasts are cold all the time and destroy everything in their paths to get warm. They don’t dig cozy holes like us - they tear down trees and raise hills to build their huge dens. Even the dens don’t keep them warm, though, so they eat and eat to stave off the cold. They pluck fish straight out of rivers, strike birds from the air, and move swift through the dark and strike deer from a minute’s run away. Everything they see goes down their craws and they burn it in their gullets to keep warm. But not even the fires in their bellies can heat these naked monsters. Eventually, they go out in search of fur. They come out in the day, when you’re sound asleep, and set their traps. They hide strings in the leaves to slip around little necks, they leave food to entice little babies only to snap them into crates, and they hide metal jaws to clap around tiny paws. After waiting until the cold darkness fades, they return with sharp claws and hungry bellies. They slice the skin right off your back and use it to cover their own bare hides. Sometimes, very early or late in the night, you’ll see one, lumbering along with the skins of a hundred little foxes patched together to keep him warm. So remember, kit, to sniff with care when you’re out in the world, and look out for the furless monsters in the woods. [ABOUT] I've written a few children's stories and love the freedom of them.


‘How can I protect her from any more suffering?’ He asked himself. The sky was clear and the sun was bright. Jared always considered himself plain. He wore old jeans and t-shirts with cheap prints of jokes and dry humour on them. For clothing he owned more jackets than anything else, they helped to hide his stomach, something he doesn’t want the world to see. His dark hair hung slightly lower than he’d like; the barbers might’ve seen him in the afternoon. It was 11:00am on a Saturday and he had just arrived at Amy‘s flat. The neighbours weren’t great but the rent was very reasonable. Through the rotting door, up the creaky steps and there she was. Most people don’t like to live near the centre of town, but to her it was home. “It’s been a whole year already, huh?” Jared’s eyes lit up as she came into his view. “I cannot believe we’ve both made it this far!” She replied quickly with a grin filling her face from ear to ear. Amy’s flat was much cleaner than the rest of the building. The rooms were small but the bright-coloured walls and abundance of shelving units brought the space to life. Light filled the halls from the windows. They both stood in the kitchen and Amy offered him a drink to which he nodded. As she poured the fizzy pop into a glass, Jared looked over to the corner of the room. Maximus, or Maxxie, as his friends call him, was in his cage trying to run on his hamster wheel. His fur was brown and white, and his whiskers were long. The wheel squeaked and creaked as it slaved to roll. “Sorry if that’s a bit distracting.” Amy apologised as she gestured towards his now full glass, “I want to get a new one but...”, her eyes closed shut and she took a deep breath, “I’m not ready to go out yet”. The air froze for a moment, but the atmosphere of peace swiftly returned. Normally their Saturday meet-ups can last hours as they talk to each other about their thoughts and feelings. They caught up on the week’s events and, after only half an hour, Jared excused himself with the promise of a surprise for her. He went back down the stairs and left the building. Jared ran so he could make it to the bus stop in time. His heart raced as he took his seat at the front of the vehicle, fanning his face with his sweaty palm. The journey should take no more than thirty minutes. Suddenly, his phone buzzed with a notification. He reached into his pocket and pull it out to read ‘Congratulations! It’s your 1-year Anniversary with Amy!’ ‘The last year has been hard, but worth it’ he thought. Jared’s mind wondered. Looking outside, the area was less than pleasant. Boarded-up buildings and houses, dead plant life and littered roads. There was one ironclad shop in the centre of the street selling tobacco and questionable milk. ‘I wish she could afford to leave this place’, he thought. Twenty minutes later, outside of the town’s harrowing centre, he arrived at his destination: the pet store. The store was large and the air conditioning loudly fought to keep the heat outside. The smell of animal biscuits and sawdust was overwhelming to those unaccustomed to it. There were multiple glass enclosures featuring a variety of different rodents and small, fluffy animals. Towards the back of the store were the toys and treats available for purchase. The Isle labelled ‘Hamster’ immediately took Jared’s attention and he moved towards it. Only two Hamster running wheels remained, one was blue and the other was pink. ‘Maxxie’s current wheel is the same as the blue one’, he thought, ‘or should I go for the pink? It’s Amy’s favourite colour.’ After a moment of deliberation he took the blue one to the front of the store. Once parting with £10.00 for the wheel, Jared left the shop, walked for 30 seconds, and turned the corner to meet a very unwelcoming face. The last time he’d seen this face he was given a grotesquely vivid description of what would happen the next time they met. His skin went pale and his brow began to sweat. “You’re that little shit from the self help group, right?” Kurt said as his arms and neck began to build tension. Kurt’s boots came down with heavy stomps as he inched closer and closer to Jared. His jeans were both dirty and torn and his muscular chest was contained only in a black tank top worn out of pure vanity. Kurt’s bloodshot eyes noticed the wheel clutched in Jared’s now trembling hands. “You think I don’t know who that’s for?”, he asked rhetorically as he continued at a slow, steady pace forwards, “You think you can keep her away from me forever?!” he asked, gritting his teeth as his eyes started to water. Jared’s mouth opened and, weakly, produced a sound. “I don’t-... I just want her to get better-” he began to say before he was swiftly interrupted by the impact of Kurt’s clenched fist forcing its way through his side. Jared fell shoulder-first into the ground, still cradling the wheel in his arms. Kurt’s black boots drove their way into his stomach, leaving Jared panting for air. After a futile struggle, the wheel was relinquished from the safety of Jared’s grip and thrown to the floor before also meeting the weight of the steel-capped hammers carried by Kurt's feet. As the nearby shoppers noticed the assault, Kurt took a look over his shoulder and ran. As he sprinted, a small bag of powder fell out of his pocket, only for Jared to notice. As soon as Kurt was gone a young couple helped Jared up and another older lady got her phone out and offered to call the police, but he declined. The next twenty minutes he spent leaning on the wall, staring at the pile of blue, plastic shards on the ground. His face was red and hidden by his knees as he lightly sobbed. Finally, he got up and shuffled over to the small bag on the pavement. His world stopped as he clenched it into his fist. His grip got tighter and tighter before he opened the bag and emptied the contents onto the floor. “No,” he muttered to himself, wiping the final tears from his eyes, “I couldn’t do that to her. We’re a team.... We’re a team...” Through the rotting door, up the creaky steps and there she was. He was finally back to the only safe haven the world has to offer. Amy was in her bedroom lying face-down on her bed with an MP3 player in front of her. The room was as bright as the rest of her home. Amy was wearing small denim shorts and an overly large, red hoodie. Her short, brown hair was pinned back to allow room for her headphones. She looked up and saw Jared with a childish grin on his face. “You’re back!” She sang as she hopped up onto her feet to hug him, “I have a surprise for you!” She produced a small token from her pocket with the inscription ‘1 Year!’. As Jared held it in his right hand, she produced another one from her other pocket and tapped them together. Jared’s eyes started to water, but he kept his composure enough to continue with his own surprise. “Close your eyes.” Jared said softly. She took a step back and did as she was told. Slowly, he grabbed her hands and made them into a cupping shape in front of her. While her eyes were still shut tight he produced a new hamster wheel from behind his back and placed it on her palms. She opened her green eyes and her face immediately lifted with delight. She hopped on the spot and ran through to Maxxie, who was still slaving away on his current wheel. “I love it!” She said as she started to swap the wheels, “I love the pink! How much was it?” she asked. Jared smiled softly. “I’m so glad. Don’t worry about that. You’re worth it.” He says. ‘All of it.’ He thinks to himself as he holds the 1 year chip close to his heart.


It began with the scent of crushed lavender. At that moment there was no recognition of self or other, only the unmistakable feeling of change this wafting fragrance brought to an otherwise still and vacant mind. The scent overwhelmed him but even at its height, the moment was tainted by the subtle realization that it was beginning to fade. In an effort to compensate for the loss his attention shifted to the warmth of the sun on his face; another fleeting but equally intoxicating sensation. Despite his own desire to keep his eyes shut, the light seemed to work its way under, prying them open. A lavender field lined with trees came into view. He surveyed his surroundings. Jacob’s thoughts remain scattered and incoherent but he could at least remember himself. How long had he been standing there for? His inquiry was suddenly interrupted by a red figure to his left. A door. A free-standing door. A free-standing door furnished with a brass knob and matching knocker. Jacob looked behind him for any other signs of activity before venturing further. Now Jacob was certainly no builder, but it was common knowledge that doors should typically be attached to buildings. For this reason he pushed against the red specter, testing its reality and half expecting it to fall over. The door was surprisingly firm. In fact, for a door placed in the middle of a field it appeared remarkably unweathered. The other side of the frame revealed nothing. At this moment a dull but unmistakable ring emanated from the wooden monolith. Jacob’s curiosity piqued. Pressing his ear against the immaculate red wood grain Jacob steadied his breath and listened intently for any sign of life. But not a sound could be heard other than the rhythmic thumping of his own heartbeat. The thumping briefly distracted him from the question of the door but it was soon interrupted by another ring. Jacob’s pulse quickened. The ringing reminded him of the kind of bell one might find at a shop counter. Was someone calling for help? As though in answer and without much thought Jacob’s hand found its way to the door knob and turned it. With his weight still resting firmly against it, the door caved in. Jacob stumbled across the threshold. However, instead of the feeling of loose soil and broken vegetation, his distressed leather oxfords found themselves comforted by the soft padding of a Persian rug. As his head lifted his eyes darted across the floor, following the dark wooden beams to the finely detailed wooden balustrade above. Directly above him hung the most elaborate chandelier he had ever seen. Hundreds of finely cut crystals of varying sizes suspended by gold thread and refracting the light of hidden sources gave the chandelier an ominous sense of both weight and fragility as though it were some illuminated sword of Damocles that would fall at any given moment. Jacob hurriedly moved forward, however, remembering the red door, he looked back to spy what it looked like from the inside. It was gone. Now he was most certainly committed to this path though he did not know where he was going or from where he had come. His field of view widened. Surrounding him on all sides were various doors; some closed however, many were opened. Through the door to his left Jacob could see a man in his early 50s dressed in a vest and tie clutching a black, corded rotary phone and sternly addressing someone on the other end. Jacob quickly shifted his gaze to another room. A woman in her mid-thirties and sporting a black-laced fascinator and red lipstick caught his eye before closing the door. “Excuse me sir.” Jacob shifted his attention to the source of the voice; A uniformed woman occupying a service desk in the centre of the lobby. “Excuse me sir, may I help you?” the lady enquired. “Help me?” “Yes sir. How may I assist you today?” “Can you please tell me where I am” Jacob asked. “Why yes, of course sir; you are in the lobby sir.” “The lobby? Well, yes I... I can see that but where is the lobby? What kind of place is this?” Jacob remarked. “Where would you like to go sir?” “What? How can I possibly know where I want to go if I don’t know where I am?” “Well sir, it seems to me that if you don’t know where you are then you should start with where you would like to be. Then you will know where you are not.” Jacob stared at the woman in complete bewilderment. “Just... just tell me the name of this place. Please.” “Certainly sir. This is the Hilbert hotel. Now, where would you like to go?” Although Jacob felt this answer to be sufficient he had the sudden and uncomfortable feeling that it didn’t make any difference. Whether this place was called the Hilbert hotel or perhaps went by some other name, he was still lost. The concierge was right. If he didn’t know where he was going then it didn’t matter where he was. At this point Jacob realized that he didn’t know much of anything. No relations, no friends, no work, no home. Nothing. And so, he began to panic.