(Side note: if you’d like a little mood music- I suggest you put this on before reading.: song- Don’t fear the reaper Artist: Gus Black) The walk home was always nerve wracking. I constantly told myself that it didn’t bother me, but in reality, the last street lamp on my route plucks my nerves. It flickers on and off, and occasionally burns out, leaving those behind it to cast shadows of demons frolicking on the pavement in the dark. Or maybe they’re trees. I never really stopped to stare hard enough to look. But I pass it, and make it the half block more. My keys laced between my knuckles, tumbling through my front door until I am once again in the sanctuary of my own home, always panting from the near sprint the last few minutes of the trip. I’ve never been a brave one. I hear my brother call out “hello” from the kitchen, and I manage a “hey” back between gasps for air, and drop my keys onto our hall table. I go back to the door and lock the 4 locks and set the alarm, turning around to admire the hallway table. It’s one of my favorite pieces of furniture in our shared house. Tall and slender, the black oak table sits flush against our matte gray walls, adorned with pictures above it. On it. Next to it. Our house is definitely a pottery barn cutout; “settlement money” may as well be plastered on the front door next to the house number. But it’s ours. Bought by us after our parents’ untimely deaths. I don’t know if we have ever been the same. Tragedy has a funny way of affecting people sometimes. Holden started taking every course he could find on self defense. Weapons. Martial arts. Me? I hid. From my self, from the world, from everything I didn’t consider safe or comforting. Fight or flight. It’s either in you or it’s not. It is most certainly not in me. I walk into the kitchen and he’s sitting at the massive, dark marble island, typing away furiously at his lap top with a headset on. I smile at him and mouth “whats for dinner?” And he looks at me and shakes his head. I sigh. The fridge is threadbare, partially because he didn’t food shop, and partially because he eats nearly everything in the house. Dude is a human vacuum. I order a pizza, mouthing “pay for pizza” while making the hand gestures to him and I ruffle his hair as I pass. He throws some paper at my face and gives me the finger followed immediately by his award winning grin and a thumbs up. I laugh, and walk out of the kitchen to the sound of his discussion. A shower sounds so good right now. The second floor of our house has 4 bedrooms and one “extra” room, two of which are master suites on each end of the floor. That extra room is a panic room. Accessible from both master suites, its in the middle of the floor and set to the back. Essentially a metal box, fortified steal makes up the walls on all sides. It's armed with weapons we are both trained and certified to use; cameras, beds, bathroom with a small shower, outside line, it’s own power source- literally any and everything you would and could possibly want out of a panic room. It also has enough provisions to sustain us for a month should we need. By the grace of god, We have not needed. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* I turn off my light and go to bed. My sheets whispering against my skin softly as they wrap me in their cool, white embrace. I always need it cold when I sleep. The night was pretty cool so instead of turning on the air conditioning, I opened my windows. The breeze rolled over me and lulled me to a sweet sleep. \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* I could have sworn I was sleeping for 20 minutes, but my clock on my phone read 1:57, so I had been sleeping for almost 5 hours when I heard the first sudden crash. I could feel my heart creep into my throat and felt frozen. I reached to turn on my light, and was puzzled for a second. “What the fuck?” I said out loud, to no one in particular. The switch slid back and forth with soft clicks, but it didn’t turn on. Something was wrong. This wasn’t just Holden banging ‘round, drunk on a Friday night. I reached into my nightstand and tapped the secret compartment that slid down from the top to offer me the hand gun she kept hidden. I racked a round into the chamber, and pulled the sheets back. I just have to make it to the safe room. Thats our plan. We don’t fight, we go for safety and assess the situation from there. My eyes trained on my window, still open to the 6 inches I had left it, and I scanned my bedroom, my eyes darting to the darkest corners, my mind betraying me with flickers in the blackness. I moved one foot out of my bed at a time, careful to not make sudden movements, and once my feet hit the floor I began my slow crawl to the hidden door in my closet. My body felt like molasses, almost as if I was restrained, my legs and arms nearly immobile as I moved. The sweat was beading off of me now, my skin electric. I could feel it dripping off the tip of my nose and down my chest on to my breasts, slowly beginning to soak through my shirt. I heard the first cry. I froze. Unlike anything I have ever heard before, and I was a flood rushing to the door in my closet. Throaty and growling, animalistic. And then another bang. I was at the door now, and I put my finger on the entry pad and felt the gush of air as it opened. The second. And a bang. *What the actual fuck is going on*. My hands were shaking. *Get in, get in, get in.* I poured myself into it, and typed in the code behind me to seal it for 48 hours, which wouldn’t activate until Holden put his own in. I heard another inhuman cry, and a bang. And I cursed at myself for not being braver. *Fuck, Holden.* I looked around the room quickly, and immediately knew he wasn’t in there. None of the surveillance equipment had been turned on, and all lights were still dimmed. Behind the door, I relaxed a bit knowing I was safe, and began to turn everything on while I pulled on more practical clothing. It takes 2 minutes and 38 seconds for the system to fully boot, which is a lifetime if you’re fighting for your life, or worried about someone who maybe fighting for theirs. We spared no expense, however, and by the time I got my pants over my hips and was lacing up my tactical steel toed boots, I had a full view of the entire house, including his bedroom. My heart bled in my throat as I scanned the wall of monitors for signs of life. Holdens, and whoever else might be in there. I turned on the sound and listened. The hum of Holdens ceiling fan softly floated through the speakers, and there he was, in bed. Sound asleep. I felt sick. I frantically searched the rest of the house in the screens, but not one movement, not one thing out of place. No activation of the alarm. No dark figure lurking between rooms. The infrared cameras doing exactly what they were supposed to. I ran my fingers through my hair and over my face and take a deep breath. *What the fuck is going on?* This room has its' own power source. My light didn’t work. Those screams. My mind races as I try to figure out what it is that I should do, and I decide that going to get him, that it is the only option. It’s the only way. I go over to his door and punch in the exit code, and feel a familiar rush of air as it opens; I am so quiet, church mice are envious. The floor feels like quick sand under my knees and palms, pulling me into its abyss with each advance. I can hear my heart beat. I get to the side of his bed and rise up. I can feel my throat close up, and the pressure build behind my eyes as I gently pull the covers back from him, the sting of tears burning behind them. “Holden,” I breathe, “Please, Wake up.” I feel his body shift below my hand. “What, Ryann, what are you fucking doing right now?” His voice is full of sleep. “Please, please, just come with me. please. I heard something. The lights are out. You need to come, just come please. Reaper protocol.” I’m pretty sure my eyes were more pleading than my voice. He looks at me and I can feel the tears burning their paths down my cheeks, lava down a grass path. “Oh, Ry, honey, nothings here. I promise” his voice is calm, assured. He slides his hands through my hair, and for a second I close my eyes and its ok. I feel his fingers come to the back of my head, and then pulls the back of it hard. My neck snaps back like an 80’s bracelet, and my vision blurs. “HOLDEN!” I thrash. I for a second I think I’m in my childhood home, and then I realize I am strapped to a bed. The walls gray. The frame metal. The bars on the insanely high window close, and thick. The bottom opened about six inches. The sheets white. The room cool. Theres a man standing over me telling me to calm down, but everything is underwater. He was never there, the man says. This is a dream, he says. Take a deep breath, he says. Please, we don’t want to medicate you, he says. I begin to calm down. My arms and legs are both restrained and I cant move the hair out of my face, and it’s in my mouth and sticking to me and I need it to stop. “Ryann, do you know where you are?” The man says. And I just look at him, *Is he insane?* “No, I don’t fucking know where I am. Where is my brother?” Calm but then “HOLDEN?! HOLDEN?! LET ME GO, LET ME FUCKING GO!” I could feel myself struggle. Futile. But I tried. “Ryann, you’re in Letchworth Psychiatric Institute.” He says, gently. “Your brother Holden, and your parents, were murdered 15 years ago. “ he paused. I could feel the sting of salt sliding down my face. *There is no way.* “No. Just mom and dad. Just mom and dad...” I trailed, “Not Holden. We live together. He does private security. I work for an attorney. I take the bus because I don’t like to drive. We order pizza because he never remembers to go food shopping.” I shook my head “ Not Holden. Tell me where he is. TELL ME!” I couldn’t tell if I was begging or if I was demanding, or if I was guessing. The man looked at me with such sympathy, I could taste it. “Ryann” he said " They were killed the summer of 2005. You killed them by accident. Someone had broken into the house. You were camping in the living room. Ryann, you shot them all, including the intruder, with the rifle your father kept in the closet. You have been here since this happened. Your family came running down the stairs. You didn’t know. You thought they were all intruders...” his voice trailed off. “ I tell you this once a month.” I just looked at him, the tears stopped. “I want to see my brother. Please. Just... let me see my brother.” I was calm now. I swallowed hard, and the pity mixed with sympathy in his eyes didn’t change. That’s ok. I was brave now. I’d find him. *You can be brave. Be the bravest you’ve ever been.


The young girl had never given much thought into how she would die, but being pummeled by a torrent of water and propelling into a dark sea did not seem so terrible. Still, she watched as the small boat descended slowly over the aggressive stream below. The water forced its way relentlessly from the side of the larger ship, curving like a wretched arch and not entering the sea until it spanned past eight feet. The smaller boat dangled above this deluge and continued to lower in a deliberate and slow manner. The boat’s leisurely fall compared to the stream’s reckless force was comical, especially since it would mean sure death once they met. Then, an added bonus. A second small boat swung into view and began to lower from the larger ship. This new vessel dropped at a more rapid pace and fell in line directly above the first. The young girl grinned as she pictured this new boat striking the one below, launching it into the torrent and throwing it into the frigid maelstrom of sea. But suddenly, both boats stopped lowering. They froze like two ice crystals dangling above concrete, prepared to shatter at any moment. A person from the first small boat disengaged an oar and waved it around, clearly in intense conversation with the other passengers. The riders bagan to move around the small boat like a swarm of confused ants. One of them forced the oar into the side of the large ship, causing their vessel to lurch slightly outward. This was practiced several times until the smaller ship began to sway ten feet from the larger ship’s side. The young girl blinked, and then suddenly the boat was released from its holds and plummeting into the inky turbulence below. Surely, this would be the end. But the boat landed peacefully away from the violent, spewing stream. It glided to peaceful water against a backdrop of similar boats, all making their way into the darkness. The young girl sighed and looked back toward the larger ship, which was now at a violent angle. The front of the ship had gone completely underwater, causing its back to reach skyward. Its lights flickered off. Seven minutes later, it snapped in two. ____________ As if the last two and a half hours had not dragged, the remaining twenty minutes crawled by relentlessly. Finally, the Titanic was completely submerged. The landscape that had been a whirlwind of movement and chaos suddenly became like a still oil painting. Black water and inky sky were almost indistinguishable in the silence. The scenery was rapidly replaced by chrome plates. Voices cheered, a few people clapped. Someone nearby dropped his bag of popcorn from the elation. The young girl cheered not from excitement but from relief. Finally she and her parents could move on to the next part of vacation- the more exciting one. Every year on their tour of the Great Disasters, her parents insist they visit the Titanic . The girl’s father, an engineer, inevitably breaks into fits of laughter every time the once “state-of-the-art” machinery begins to fail. “A double bottom and watertight bulkhead compartments...give me a break!” He’ll switch to a mocking tone and cackle, “There’s no way that water could pour from compartment to compartment since we made the dividing walls only a few feet tall! People used to be so ignorant. ” Just like every year, the girl’s mother would pretend to be embarrassed by his outbursts. As an old-world historian, her mother is expected to act in a serious manner when visiting significant events. Nevertheless, she would look at her husband endearingly as she sipped on a cosmopolitan. “Don’t laugh too loudly,” she’ll purr, “Those people on the boat might just hear you.” The little girl rolled her eyes, just like she does every year. Adults always say dumb things. Of course the people below them could not hear them. The time barques were soundproof. They camouflaged with the sky like any other boring plane. A boy at school told her once that the time barques made a red outline in the sky above the visited event, but the girl did not believe him. As if the men who signed the United States Constitution wouldn’t notice the red outlines every time there was an elementary field trip? As if Europeans wouldn't notice the red outlines whenever medical students visited the time of the black death? Or all those hippies did not notice the red outlines whenever teenagers came for the concert? And really, that scandal at Watergate would not have happened if everyone back then could see the red outlines above the hotel. What a giveaway. No, the time bargues were completely unnoticeable. It was one thing the little girl was sure of. The little girl’s stomach lurches as the time barque takes off. Pink liquid from her mother’s glass sloshes and lands on the girl’s dress. Although this dress was her favorite orange satin, the little girl did not let it phase her. They were on her way to her favorite part of vacation. ____________ It was always spectacular, in a way, to watch the chrome plates disappear to reveal pure sky expanding all around like an ever-growing dream. Whether it revealed silver-greys or floral-blues, it sent a thrill through the little girl. Anticipation of what is to come. The time barque shifted position to reveal the landscape below. A bustling city, filled with lively activity from the ant-like people in the one way-streets below. These small specks of residents dashed in and out of lavish villas and elegant houses, they visited stylish taverns and cafes, artisan shops and small factories. The young girl could spot even more of them in the luxurious amphitheatre and open-air squares. Over a hundred acres of buzzing, vibrant, yet ignorant life enclosed by a thick outer wall. The vessel lowered even closer to the city, causing the toy-sized people and buildings to enlarge. It rotated slowly over the lively world below, offering the passengers a glimpse of all its corners. The young girl could now pick out particular residents, some walking around entirely mosaiced courtyards. Others gathering around vats that the girl previously learned produced fish sauce- how primitive. Others were sitting at outdoor tables, eating songbirds, fish, sea urchins, shellfish and pork. Then the little girl's favorite came into view- the graffiti. Children crouched near the bottom of the city walls drawing sick-and-rectangle animals. Adults inscribed what the little girl knew now to be various transactions, the sale receipts of slaves and goods. The funniest one to the girl was etched onto the side of a building: Epaphra glaber es- “Oh, Epaphras, thou art bald”. The time barque continued to rotate and the little girl picked out a piece of graffiti she hadn’t learned before. She turned to her mother for a translation. “The smallest evil, if neglected, will reach the greatest proportions.” ____________ The little girl once heard an adult say that while a pessimist complains about the wind, the optimist expects it to change, and the realist adjusts its sails. Certainly the realists would not have been aboard the great ship on her last vacation stop- those fools could have adjusted their imaginary sails and moved away from the iceberg. The same goes for the residents of her current vacation stop. The wind here was the greatest factor. Usually it blew in the opposite direction, but today of all days, it blew directly toward them from the direction of the great Mount Vestivus. No, the residents of this city were not realists at all, or they would have adjusted their imaginary sails after that disastrous earthquake sixteen years before. The earthquake that offered a warning rumble of the catastrophe to come. Yet people still flocked to the shores of the Bay of Naples and the city was crowded on the day the winds blew in the wrong direction. The time barque changed position once again to show how the sky arced heavenward as the greatest basilica cupola . In the glamourous center rose the sun, marking the start of noon. As if on cue, a giant mushroom of ash and pumice rocks appeared above the great volcano. Unforgiving debris rocketed hundreds of feet into the air and rained down onto the city. The little girl clapped wildly as the people rushed out of buildings and factories, dashing for one of the seven city gates. The smart ones would leave their weak, old, and young friends behind. Yet, as the girl knew, people of the past were much too stupid to be selfish. As the ash hailed down, it filled courtyards and blocked doorways. The girl could see the stupid rashly resolving to shelter in place, barracading themselves under roofs that were piling up with pumice. Her father handed her a bag of popcorn as the first of the inferior roofs collapsed inward. The buildings seemed to rock back and forth as still more people scrambled about, tying pillows on their heads tied down with cloths. The city below seemed to be covering itself with a thick gray blanket. Pumice covered the fish sauce vats, blocked out the graffiti. Through the vessel’s window, the girl could see specks of ash dancing about. She thought again about the boy who told her the time barques created a red outline in the sky. Well, she knew for sure the people below would only be able to see grey death above. The hail continued to spew from Mount Vestivus, it was relentless and unending- and the girl knew it would be for another 18 hours. ____________ The sun blooms in the distance, yellow petals blossoming into a new day. It would be beautiful, that is if anyone below could see it. Impenetrable ash clouds continue to stomp on the city of ants below. The gold and white and blue colors are barricaded by debris and pumice. The little girl, refreshed after a brief nap in the sleeping chambers, grins as the new dawn approaches. The world below is silent, as if in the wake of a snowstorm. Just at the moment a first-time visitor might think this is the moment the city was officially emptied of life- a door is pushed open. Thirteen people dash into the dust. Other groups also emerge, about 80 survivors scrambling in the streets. But it is the thirteen that the girl enjoys best. She can almost taste their hope as they evade still-falling pumice and nimbly dance over the buried mounds of their dead neighbors. The ragtag group finds their way to what used to be a fruit orchard. Once vibrant and abundant trees were now broken and laden with grey. The little girl knows that the group can see the city gates in the near distance. They have almost made it out. She leans closer to the window to make out two small boys holding hands. A mother holding a baby. An older man with shaking, arthritic-like hands moving in a protective way around two others. It is time. Tremendously, the volcano’s cone collapsed in the distance. In a beautiful wave, boiling mud and ash bucket down at 100mph. The steaming wave tumbles down past the city gates, over the amphitheatre and villas. Before the thirteen survivors have a chance to move, they too are crushed. ____________ Every time she has to return home from vacation, the little girl feels a knot of dread tie in her stomach. As she follows her parents through their home’s front door, she reminds herself of what her father tells her each time they return. “Don’t cry because it's over, smile because it happened” She heads into her bedroom and hurls her suitcase onto her large bed. With a sigh, she opens the latch and begins to unload its contents. School begins again tomorrow, and the girl will need her clothes washed before then. She pulls out the orange satin dress and remembers the stain left by her mother’s alcohol in the time barque. The girl recalls that at the moment, she had not been upset. She had just been excited to travel to Pompeii, she had been ready for their time barque to appear in their next destination. The little girl moves into the hallway and opens the closet that held the stain remover. It is on the tallest shelf, so she has to stand on tiptoes to reach it. When she closes the door, the window beyond catches her eye. Almost in a trance, the girl walks closer and peers outward. The sky is dappled with white clouds, it is blue and bright and soft all at once. She can see a large bird moving in the distance, moving fast as if to flee. To flee? The girl squints, studies the clouds. The clouds are all different shades of white- some almost clear, some thick, some... red? She rubs a hand over her eyes and looks again. It is there after all- a faint red outline of what has to be a time barque. The world goes black.


To my Tammy, I bequeath my toilet bowl seats because you liked to sit your fat ass in my bathroom for hours sticking it up every day. Then you would go clean your tail with my good towels. Girl, you lucky I was too sick to grab you when I noticed you used my $30 rags to wash your ass. You need to go to that boy house you always complaining about and shit up his toilet and towels. To my granddaughter Pam, I bequeath to you my pots and pans, maybe one day you will learn how to finally cook and finally keep a man. Girl, only you can burn boiling water but what you have now are cast iron skillets, you can’t possible burn what’s already burn. Hopefully! Go to school to be a chef and upon completion and receipt of your chef credentials, my estate will reimburse you for tuition cost and all monies spent on classes. To my grandson Tommy, I bequeath my tool sets. You always did try to call yourself building shit. Oh and by the way Tommy, that bench you made was booty. The wood pieces stuck me in my ass and snagged my cloths. Oh and the paint job looked like little Sally Jensen painted that crap. You should go use it for fire wood and take Bob the Builder classes because your skills are amateur. So when you receive your architect license, my Estate will also, reimburse you for all tuition monies invested and spent. To my James, I give you my automobile set. No, not the cars in my garage but my little toy cars I let all those bad ass grand kids play with and break up. When I think of it, you can't even drive so why would I give your dum ass a real car. Sorry son, keep bussin’ it or bumming rides or actually get your driver license and when you do come see Mr. Dickson. To my sister, Salty Sally, I bequeath my hair combs and brushes and my good hair greases for you to use on your ashy ass head. You bald headed heffa. I know you broke my Easy Bake Oven when we were young. That's why I pissed on all your teddy bears and said it was the dog. But I still love you so, I will also give you my wig collection and my Estate will pay for your hair appointments for the next 6years if you actually wear them. To Johnny, I bequeath my living room coffee table. You come in my house dam every day and plopped your stinking ass feet right on it, with those dirty, holy, funky ass socks. You better be lucky I was too sick to shoot your mother fuckin toes off. So, I give you my dining room table too because I see you scratching your toe jam on my chair legs, so now they are all yours. To Sammy, I give you my good rags and towels and bathroom rugs. You know, the ones I got from Macy's. One rug was dam near one hundred dollars but you can have them all, I don’t need them where I am now. Maybe you should use one of those $30 “for show only” rags to wash your sticking ass too. It don't make sense why a grown ass man, who don't work or get physical smell so dam bad. To Venus, you sat around with me for many a day and I thank you for your time. I bequeath my rocking chairs, slippers, and robes. Yes, those run through slipper you always complained about me wearing. And you bet not throw them out neither. Maybe you can use the robes and house coats to cover up your naked ass body. Because you are a size Zero don't mean folk wanna see all your bones bouncing round like a frigging puppet and rocking back and forth like that Annabelle doll. But Granny Love you. To Pastor Black of the Church of God and Christ, I bequeath unto the church $200,000. I was a little behind in my tithes and offerings but I give you this to make up the difference. I only ask that the Church opens an evening night care center for the young single parents of this community, male and female. Build it where dinner and meals are given freely to the recipients and neighborhood families. I only ask that the Center be named it after me, The Sister Odella Johnson Community Night Care Center. As long as the Community Center is open and growing my estate will continue to help finance the center yearly. Last but not least, I bequeath to you Mr. Jones all that is in this case. (Mr. Dickson places a large case on the table). I will not allow Mr. Dickson to share the content with all here today, but I do want you to enjoy all that is inside. Take this case home with you tonight and call me in the morning, lol. You brought a different kind of pleasure to my life when you came by with those sweet potato pies each Sunday and I thank you. To all I have given my lot too, I need you all to understand why I have chosen those items for each of you. You all may not like my final decision on how I distribute my belongings but hey, there is nothing you all can do about it but keep my gifts or throw them away. But, I need you all to know there is a reason behind my madness and my giving. Each of you have touched my life in a ways that money will never be able to show my appreciation and love. Each of you have shown me how much my time and presence meant to you by your telephone calls and your visits. Many of you brought me joy, some of you just was a pain in my ass. You all came in and ate up my biscuits and sweet potato pies and drunk up all my homemade teas then left me to wash all them dam dishes. But I’m not mad, I’m grateful to know many of you still loved me enough to call and even come over in spite of my attitude and mental state. I appreciate you all and love you most. So, as I journey to my Father’s house, I leave you all with these stipulations. As I have left gifts to everyone, I ask that in 6 years to the day of this meeting, you all gather here once again. Mr. Dickson will contact each of you to see if you all still have the items I bestowed upon you. If you do, additional instructions will follow. Love Always Granny Ma Odella Johnson.


\[This is a retelling of the night my grandpa died; it's not finished. I have changed the names in this story for safety reasons. If you have any suggestions on how I can become better as a writer please leave a comment down below, thank you.\] "What am I going to do once he's gone?" That single thought chased itself around and around in my head, unanswered. I stood in front of the stove watching the noodles boil in the pot, with tired eyes. This had been the longest week of my life. Grandpa was sick, really sick. Mom had a priest perform his final rights a few days ago. His doctors were certain he didn't have much longer now. That was hard to accept. The idea that he would be gone soon. Distantly, I hear mom and dad talking. But I carry on with what I'm doing, this was the first moment I'd had to myself this past week. So much of our family had come to say their goodbyes. While it was nice to see them, it was so hard to be happy. I just wanted to eat and sleep. Briefly I toyed with the idea of waking up from this nightmare. But there would be no end to this. Not even when he passed on. The dread sat heavily in the center of my chest pulling me back to the present. I sighed, fighting back tears. Just then, dad ran to the kitchen tears in his eyes, "Poet!" he says hurriedly. I look to him and my heart drops, "What's going on?" I ask somehow knowing before he says, "Grandpa." and that's all he has to say. Immediately I stop what I'm doing, and I rush into Grandpa's room. there in the darkness Mom is holding a stethoscope, at his side. Her face locked in concentration, and I can clearly see pain and sadness behind her eyes. I stand in the doorway, ice water rushing through my veins. 'Please. No, not yet.' I think to myself, 'I need more time.' I plead internally. There are so many things we need to do still. We have to go to Texas so you can tell me about your family. I need to learn Spanish so we can actually have a conversation. I can feel my heart beginning to break, as I look up at my mom silently asking, 'Is he-?' Mom glances over at me and gives the tiniest shake of her head. He's gone. Before I realize what, I'm doing I walk over to the side of his bed, and I gently take his cooling hand into mine. Tears running down my face, I sit next to him. My breathing becomes erratic, and the tears burn tracks down my cheeks. time ceases to exist as I remember who he was and is to me. All that he meant to me and how lucky I was to have him in my life.  (to be continued...


It all happened in slow motion and was over in a half a breath. Sayna was animatedly telling her mom about her day at Skyline High school as they drove home. She couldn’t wait until they got there to tell her about the tryouts. She was three weeks from graduation and had been accepted at four of the five different colleges she had applied to, but she had chosen USC. Probably. She had been accepted into Gallaudet, but she wanted to be an actor and USC had graduated more alumni who have gone on to win Academy and Emmy awards than any other institution and she didn’t hesitate to tell anyone who she met about that fact and her dream to be one of them. She just had to try. If Marlee Matlin could do it, she could do it. She was up for valedictorian of her Senior class, and she was both freaked out and super excited. She had tried out today to be the commencement speaker with five other students and she was praying that she had a shot although the other students included the Student Body President and the head cheerleader. Her mom, Fatima, was watching the road while watching Sayna with a glow of pride. Sayna was mid-share when the truck was just there framing her mother’s head with its wide, shiny grill. Out of nowhere. It was red and it was huge, and it had just run a stop sign and was coming up behind her mom’s window so quickly she didn’t even have time to warn her except the enlarging of her eyes. There was no sound for Sayna. Sayna’s hands were in the air mid-story, and she covered her face as shattered glass hurdled through the air toward her face. She could feel it embedded like sand in the palms of her hands, in her hair and the skin on her face. Her mom was thrown toward her with her head curling toward the impact. The seatbelt held her in midair from crossing over the center console of the car. Sayna, who was nearly sideways in her seat was thrown back against the passenger door with the handle digging into her back and her head hitting and shattering the window behind her. The car came to rest on the well-kept grass of the nearest home. The truck had twisted with the impact, was still in the street but was facing the direction opposite their car and the engine was smoking. She closed her eyes against the instantaneous pain that was radiating into her skull from the back of her head. Her mom slumped unnaturally toward the driver’s side door. The bone of her forearm was bent awkwardly and had broken the skin and blood was oozing out and down her arm. It looked to Sayna like she was still breathing but only just. Her skin was whitening with every breath. People were beginning to surround the car. None of them were close enough for her to read their lips. She closed her eyes again for what felt like a brief moment to her but when she opened them again, the lights of the ambulances that had surrounded their car were making her nauseated as they swirled around in and outside the car. She hadn’t heard them coming. A fire truck had pulled up on the other side of the street and men were pouring out of all of the vehicles like one of those old-fashioned movies she had seen on YouTube - it was if there was no end to them. They were gathering like flies to honey huddled around the car deciding the best way to enter. She just wished they would hurry up and help her mom instead of standing around talking about it. She was lifting her hands to get their attention and they were studded with a thousand tiny cuts from the glass that, in some places, was still imbedded in her skin. She didn’t realize they were gathering behind her too. When she turned to look at them, a man was standing on the other side of the shattered window. He looked expectantly at her as she had caught him after a question. He was an EMT, and his partner stood just behind his right shoulder. He said something again, but his mouth was obstructed by the shattered glass. His partner grabbed him by the arm. She read her lips because she was facing Sayna, “she cannot hear you, Brian.” She looked directly at Sayna and mouthed, “can you hear me?” She shook her head. She pointed frantically to her mom and signed “please help her.” She looked around her for her phone. Gratefully, it was still in her pocket. She pulled up her note app. Her hands were on fire, but she gingerly held the phone and typed. “Please help my mom!” and held it up to the windshield so the female EMT could read it. The EMT nodded her head. “Yes.” She said looking directly at Sayna. “They” she pointed to the firemen on the other side of the car “will help her. We” she pointed from herself to her partner “will help you.” And she pointed at Sayna who could tell she was trying to look directly at her so she could read her lips. She didn’t want to hurt her mom, but she reached out to touch the arm closest to her. Her mom had not yet opened her eyes since they had been it. Her arm was still warm to the touch and that helped her. But it didn’t feel like there was much time before.... The firemen had carefully tried to pull the driver side door open, but it had not given way to them. They were going to have to cut her out. Sayna wanted to stay with her. But the door behind her opened. She turned and the female EMT was reaching out to her. She showed her a neck brace and motioned to Sayna if it was okay that she put it on her. Sayna nodded. The lights were still threatening to make her sick. The EMT lifted her hair and slipped the brace around her neck and silently attached the Velcro to sinch it tighter. She could no longer turn her head to look at her mom and she was beginning to panic. Her breath was shallow and coming faster now. This was her fault. If she hadn’t been signing to her mom while she was driving, she would have been paying more attention to the road. What if her mom was not okay? Tears were swelling in her eyes and running down her face. The female EMT took her hand. She gripped it with a fierce intensity. She didn’t know how to live in a world without her mom in it. The female EMT touched underneath Sayna’s chin to get her attention. She looked her right in the eye. “Are you hurt?” she mouthed. Sayna took an inventory. She felt like she had been tossed around like sack of laundry, but she couldn’t feel anything that felt broken. She shook her head. The EMT nodded and took Sayna’s phone from her. She typed in: “We’ve got to get you in the ambulance.” The EMT Brian had pulled the stretcher up next to the car on the passenger side. “Can you step out of the car and sit on the stretcher?” She typed. Sayna nodded. She tried to turn and look toward her mom’s side of the car. The EMT looked up to the firemen on the other side of the car. They had peeled the door from the car and were sliding the neck brace on Fatima and prepping to slide her on a back board as they pulled her from the car. The EMT looked at Sayna and took both her hands to steady her as she stepped out onto the pavement, and she turned to sit on the waiting stretcher and Brian helped her lay flat. He pushed the stretcher toward the waiting ambulance. As he prepared to pull her head-first into her ambulance, she caught a glimpse of her mother laying flat on her stretcher. Brian lifted his end, so she had a better look at her mom. Fatima’s eyes came open as they moved her nearer her ambulance on the other side of the lawn. She tried to sit up, but they had a tight hold on her as they pulled her up into the ambulance. She was desperately looking for her daughter. For just a brief second, Sayna caught Fatima’s eye. Sayna would have believed she imagined it, but her mom raised her uninjured hand toward Sayna, curling in the second and third finger on her right hand leaving her thumb, index and pinky fingers raised toward Sayna. I love you. Sayna raised her hand in the air and returned the sign to her mom. She closed her eyes as they pulled her into the ambulance. She would always be okay as long as her mom was there to break her silence.


Should I get revenge? Should I calm my angry body with such a thing? Do I need it? What would an intelligent person do right now? I am struggling, badly. My head aches and so does my neck. What comes next? Do I stab back after being stabbed? Or do I let her win and relinquish my knife. She has no idea what she's put me through does she? Watching them together, time after time, why would she do that to me? How could she do that to me? I don't know, but I wish to know. Maybe I should stab her back just so she knows what it feels like. Maybe then she would feel my pain, rather than playing the victim like every woman does. Maybe it's the misogynist in me, but how often do women try and get empathy off men? Every day, every sentence, every second? Maybe I'm cold hearted or maybe I'm detaching with care. I'm just saying it how I see it, and exaggerating a little. I'm so tempted to stab her back, just so she can feel my pain. So she can know what it's been like to be me. How close I've been to suicide. How close I've been to slitting my own throat. But I won't stab her back. I'm not sure why, at all really, but I won't. I'll stay strong for a few more days.


In the year 2042, the world was annihilated in a storm of nuclear fire. Humanity, the dominant species of a dying planet, chose its own destruction over cooperation. My great-great-grandparents were two of the lucky thousand chosen at random to survive extinction. When the bombs fell, they and their peers were taken to The Bunker, a massive underground city built to sustain human life indefinitely in the event of nuclear war. The holocaust came and went and all communications from the surface world ceased. That was it. The end of the human race save for a small pocket living deep, deep below the ground. The first Governor of The Bunker kept tabs on the surface, periodically checking radiation levels, air quality, and so on, but the equipment on the surface quickly fell into disrepair with no one willing to brave the wasteland to maintain it. The population growth quickly began to overwhelm the available resources of The Bunker. By the time I was born, the governor had instituted a strict, One Child policy. Second children were routinely executed by the governor's security forces along with their law-breaking parents. The orphaned first children inevitably became street rats, rebels, and criminals. Just after my seventeenth birthday, the war began. A group of radicalized Orphaned stormed a security outpost en masse. Eighty seven people, including the entirety of the security garrison at the outpost, twenty officers, were killed. That was the first of many battles between the Orphaned, and the governor and his police force. With access to weapons, the Orphaned swelled in numbers until they included nearly a third of the Bunker's nine thousand residents. That's when the war found me... "Quick, get inside, hurry!" Mom was sweating as she helped me crawl into the ventilation shaft in my bedroom. It was barely wide enough for me to squeeze inside and the cold air trying to push me out made goosebumps form up and down my body. "Mom, please!" I cried quietly as she gently replaced the vent cover in front of my face, "You need to hide too! You and dad!" "Shh..." she pressed a finger to her lips and peered into the vent, looking into my eyes past the louvers, "We'll be OK sweetie. You just stay quiet, alright. We'll be OK, I promise," I could hear gunfire and shouting outside the apartment. "I love you," Then she was gone. I waited in the vent, trying not to make a sound for what felt like an eternity. The gunfire grew and grew in intensity. The lights went out, replaced by dim, red emergency lighting. I heard shouting. Dad's voice? Then my brother Nathan's. Then my mom screamed a shrill, painful, scream that ended as abruptly as it started. More gunfire. Louder now. I heard glass breaking and loud crashes. Then the apartment went silent. Gunfire continued outside in the halls, more distant now. I could hear footsteps, heavy, walking around the living room. Two? No, three sets of boots. I swallowed hard and tried not to breathe. I felt like my heart, pounding against the steel vent, would give me away. The door into the bedroom opened. I squeezed my eyes shut and held my breath. My heart raced. My mouth went dry. It felt like the vent was going to squeeze me to death. Someone walked in. I heard three more steps. They ripped the sheets off the bed, flung the mattress across the room. I could hear furniture sliding across the floor and things breaking. Then a curse, more footsteps, going away from my hiding place this time. Then, quiet. I could still hear the fighting outside the apartment but it was growing more and more distant. I waited until the only sound I could hear was the ringing in my ears. It may have been an hour, or a day. I wasn't sure. Eventually, when no one came, I carefully pushed the vent cover out, and shimmied my way out of the ventilation shaft. My room was absolutely trashed. Debris and broken furniture lay everywhere. My clothing had all been ripped from the closet, scattered on the floor and trampled. There were bloody boot prints all over the place too. I swallowed, and crept out into the living room. I saw my dad there first. He lay on his back near the front door. His head lay in a pool of blood. There was a large bullet wound in the center of his forehead. His eyes were rolled back and bloodshot. My brother sat slumped against the wall, three gunshot wounds in the center of his chest and his face covered in black and purple bruises. My mom was the worst though. She lay sprawled out on top of the kitchen table, her clothes were tattered and torn nearly off and her chest was a bloody mess of stab wounds. I stood there in the doorway, staring. I didn't want to, but I couldn't look away. Tears welled in my eyes and still I just stood there and stared. I was one of them now. One of the Orphaned. One day, we'll all go, I remembered Dad's voice, We'll just pack up what we can make a life on the surface. He had been on the Bunker's science staff. I remembered him trying to convince the governor that the surface would be livable again. I remembered him losing his job because of it. They had called him crazy. I remembered his stash of supplies then, hidden. I darted across the kitchen, trying not to look at my family anymore, and found the loose floor panel. I pried it open and tossed it aside with a clang. There it was. A big gray duffle bag, covered in dust. I yanked it from its hiding place and opened it. There were weapons inside, a security submachine gun and handgun, and an old hunting rifle with wooden grips from before the great war. I took them out and made sure they were loaded, then checked the bag again. It was full of canned food, freeze-dried ration packs, purified water, medical supplies, ammunition, and even a few toiletries like toothpaste and soap. I ran back to my room and grabbed what clothing I could find that wasn't covered in blood and tossed it into the bag then threw the strap over my shoulder, and steeled myself. The tears had dried now, leaving a salty film on my face. I washed them away quickly in the bathroom, and left the apartment. The halls were dark, just like home, with red emergency lights bathing the Bunker in an eerie glow. I knew I needed to get to the governor's office. The Bunker entrance was close by, according to maps I had seen. The way I figured, the battle would distract everyone and, with any luck, I wouldn't see anyone along the way. Even so, I crept along quietly, my head on a swivel and my gun at the ready. Dad had taught me to use it. How to aim, and how to squeeze a trigger if I ever had to. How to clean and maintain a weapon. He had been preparing me for this my whole life, I realized. I reached a corner and heard voices. I peeked around carefully and saw two security troopers in full gear searching the lifeless body of a young man wearing ragged clothes. An SMG just like mine lay in the blood next to him. I swallowed the lump in my throat, checked that my safety was off, whirled around the corner and squeezed the trigger. I didn't let go until the gun stopped bucking with recoil. My ears rang as the deafening gunshots stopped. The two men in the hall had been reduced to a bloody pulp by the hail of bullets. I lost control and wretched at the sight of them. Sweating, and shaking, I quickly searched the bodies for ammunition, reloaded my weapon and darted further down the hall. My stomach was still in knots and my breath was coming ragged and shallow. I had to go, I had to get out of this hell. As I approached the large open doorway to one of the main community areas, I could hear more fighting below. It was a large, three-story space with a ceiling that had once simulated the sky on a sunny day. It was dark now, bathed in the same faint red light as the rest of the Bunker. I was on the upper level and I crept around the periphery, staying low and close to the walls. I watched the battle unfolding below, on the ground floor. A squad of security officers in the middle of the long chamber were being beaten and bludgeoned and torn to pieces by rebels armed with kitchen knives, hammers and a random assortment of other tools. Another squad was engaged in a heated firefight with a group of rebels three times their number. A third squad burst into the chamber from a doorway on the second level and mercilessly mowed down the rebels that were beating their comrades on the ground floor. The entire chamber was filled with acrid smoke and the stench of fear, and sweat, and blood, and death. I hurried along to the opposite end of the chamber and left as quietly as I had come. I had to be a ghost, or I would doubtless be caught. I found an exit and darted through into a completely black corridor that ended in a T-intersection up ahead. I crept along, hugging the wall as best I could. I heard voices, footsteps. I looked back and forth and heard a second set of footsteps behind me. There was nowhere to go. Panicking, I dropped to the floor, pressing myself as tightly into the corner against the wall as I could and trying to protect my head. The two sets of footsteps entered the corridor at the same time. There was a brief pause, a wordless roar and then a deluge of gunfire opened up just over my head. Several sets of boots sprinted past me in the dark. I heard bodies drop to the floor. I felt their blood spattering over me and tears running down my face. Bullets whizzed past and ricochets bounced off the walls and floor. I felt a round bite into the back of my shoulder and I stifled a scream, though I probably would not have been heard over the din anyway. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed myself tighter, tighter into the wall, trying not to move, or make a sound. Then someone fell on top of me. A man. I could feel the stumble of his beard against the back of my neck. He did not move, or breathe. I could feel his hot blood seeping through the back of my shirt. More boots sprinted past, more gunshots, around the corner this time. Shouting. Cursing. Then, silence. I allowed myself a long, shaky exhale. My back and shoulder throbbed. I pushed the body off of my back and got unsteadily to my feet. I reached back to where the bullet had struck and my hand came away red, though I didn't even know if it was my blood or not. I continued to the corridor intersection. The fighting had moved in the opposite direction from where I was headed. Relieved, I ran, as fast as I could, toward the Bunker's main entrance. It had not been opened in over a hundred years, but I hoped against hope that it would work. I reached a long staircase going straight up and climbed, still clutching my weapon in one hand, the other hanging limp at my side. At the top of the stairs, a massive steel door blocked the way into the entrance chamber. To the right, a smaller door stood open with a sign that said, 'Administration' flickering above it. I went inside. I was sure this was the governor's office. The place was ransacked and picked clean of anything of value that was not bolted down. At the center of the room, stood a large round desk with a computer console built into it. I went over to it and breathed a relieved sigh when I saw it was still functional. I set my bag down on the desk and began searching the terminal for a way to open the door. A file caught my eye as I dug into the system. It was labeled, 'surface analysis records'. I opened it, expecting to see a log of files sixty or more years old. The file at the top of the list, however, was labeled with yesterday's date. I opened it and my eyes began to scan across the data. Normal. It was all normal. Oxygen levels, radiation, temperature, everything. Normal. Livable. "What are you doing!?" I heard a gruff voice growl from the door. I gasped and grabbed for the handgun in my duffle bag, pointing it at the door with my one good arm. I cringed at the pain the sudden move sent through my other shoulder. An older man in a tattered suit stood there, unarmed, studying me with cold eyes. The governor. I was sure. "You," I said, my voice coming out weaker, and smaller than I expected. "Get away from there," he barked, stepping toward me. "YOU DID THIS!" I shouted, "YOU KNEW!" Before I knew what I was doing, I had crossed the room and squeezed the trigger. The bullet punched through the governor's chest and sent him sprawling to the floor. Before he had a chance to say anything, to do anything, I had emptied the magazine into his face, leaving nothing but a red smear across the floor. I was hyperventilating. My hands shook violently and tears streamed, unhindered, down my face. He had known all along that we could leave. Why? What was the point of all this? I screamed and began kicking the body as hard as I could. He had killed them all. Everyone that had died in this stupid war. All that blood was on his hands. I began sobbing uncontrollably. I felt ribs crack. I started stomping down on his lifeless chest, letting all my anger and frustration out. I felt it cave in beneath the blows. I wished that he was still alive to feel it all, to experience hell with the rest of us. Finally exhausted and sobbing I turned away from the bloody mess that had been a man, and returned to the computer terminal. I found the door release, and activated the protocol. I heard an alarm blare outside the office and stepped out to see the massive steel door sliding slowly open. I walked out into the entrance chamber and it slid closed again behind me. Another alarm and a hiss of air filled the room as the atmosphere equalized with the outside. A second giant door groaned and screeched, and finally slid apart, revealing a dark, rocky space beyond. I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, tossed my weapon inside and proceeded to climb the cavernous tunnel up, up, up. After climbing for what felt like forever, I reached an old rusted overhead door meant for vehicles, with a pedestrian door next to it. I turned the handle on the smaller door and pushed. After the rust on the hinges cracked, it swung open and a blinding light washed over me. I took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air and let it fill me up. I stepped out into the sun and for the first time in my life, I was free.


I’m pouring us a cup of tea, just for the two of us. It’s not for the whole world, it isn’t even for the people down the street. It’s only for her and for me. The steam wafts up and warms my hands, wetting them. And it feels like a bit of it is melting, lightly like the way a flame slowly melts a candle. Mine, green. Hers, jasmine. She’s always been that way and in that is something I’ve always loved about her. Not too different, but different enough to notice. Maybe that’s the way she wants to be remembered, just a little different. Enough to be misunderstood and long for understanding but not so much that people think she’s crazy. I feel as if I’m in my twenties again, though those days are decades away now. But right now, as my hands melt into the mugs of tea, it feels as if it were just yesterday that we were meeting on the train platform, each of us saying goodbye to somebody. Me, my father as he went away, and her to her brother. Each the last time we would see the other. Neither of us knowing that would be the last time we would see those people and not understanding how close we were to meeting the other. How close I was to meeting my brother-in-law, and her her father-in-law. I suppose that’s fate. How they died brought us together, and there’s something poetic about that. Something feels like they were our angels leading us to each other, and that makes it okay that we didn’t meet the other. We were both crying that day. There were hundreds of people there, but of those hundreds of people, only our lives were meant to be woven together. Like a basket of yarn all knotted together, except two strings that found each other. I asked her to coffee the moment I saw her. She had curly hair that skipped on her shoulders. It was shiny and soft, and despite the cold weather, she was warm as a Summer’s day. She was in a red coat, bright red and suede. I would later find out she wore it so her brother could see her from as far away as possible, until the train turned the corner and the stop couldn’t be seen any longer. I cried when she told me that. I cried anytime she talked about her brother and how close they were and how he was only two years older than her. I bring her her tea in bed, careful not to spill it down the sides, walking as if I’m carrying glass sculptures. She hates when things spill down the sides. The steam is caressing the air and the floorboards are creaking beneath my feet. Like that day at the train station, it’s cold outside. The snow is falling lightly, as if it were afraid to wake the ground it’s landing on. Through the window I can see that the road is covered by about eight inches of snow, and at least five more in the fields. The sky is gray but happy. The sun is trying to make an appearance, bursting at the seams with jealousy that it cannot be seen today. I sit her saucer and mug down on the bedside table next to her. She smiles at me gently and softly closes her eyes. I take a sip of my tea, hot to the lips, and put it on her table as well. Our saucers touch, only slightly. I suppose that’s natural, that everything we touch must always touch, too. I pick up her mug and blow it, the steam whooshing away as ripples tickle the sides of the mug. I taste it to make sure it isn’t too hot, and bring the mug to her lips. With a smile she brings her lips up to her jasmine tea and quaintly sips one, two, three drinks. She can’t hold the tea because she hates for things to spill down the sides, and her hands shake too much to drink it herself. She has a water bottle with a lid and a straw that she has to use for water. Even with that she has to use both hands, and usually has it sitting on a table. She nods and rests her head back, that’s enough. Her hair is much lighter now and it’s lost its curls. Though its bounce is still there, skipping across her shoulders. I sit in the green chair I have pulled up to her side of the bed. I grab the book I’ve been reading her, Wuthering Heights has always been a favorite. Dorothy was an English professor and always loved the classics. She especially loved the theme of love in Wuthering Heights, and she always found a way to forgive Heathcliff for his shortcomings, despite being abusive. She once said, “We often forget what it’s like to be hated, oftentimes never feeling it. But Heathcliff, he was loved and hated, he must have been so confused. I don’t know what it’s like to be hated, but I know what it’s like to be loved. Truly loved. I don’t know how I would be if that were ever taken from me.” The spine of this book is worn like the others, and this is probably our fourth read through of this one. Next she wants to go through The Catcher in the Rye, and then 1984, then The Brothers Karamazov after that. Each taking a few days to get through. I’ll read to her during dinner, then after when we have tea, then before bed. When I’m not reading I talk to her. I talk to her about my day, about my feelings, about her, about what the kids said was going on in their lives. She can’t talk, not much. We don’t love those that can talk to us forever, we love those that speak to us forever. She isn’t dead, but she is dying. They said she would only be this way for a few months, but after we made it through Crime and Punishment we started onto another book. Then we finished that one and started another one. Disease can only kill you as much as your happiness will allow it to. So I kept reading, and reading, and reading. And still I read. I learn something new, take something different away from each book every time I read it. Dorothy is a lot like these books in that way. It seems I’m learning something new about her all the time, at least weekly, even after all these years. That’s what’s special about loving someone. The wind is howling outside. The snow is floating to the ground. The tea is hot. The book reads, “He’s more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”


A Girl I Met Once “It’s like wishing for rain as I stand in the desert, but I’m holding you closer than most.” - Ron Pope, *Drop in the Ocean*      You waltzed right in, without knocking or announcing your entry, without waiting for permission, without a care at all. I was eating a quick dinner and had changed just before you arrived, just in case you ended up being someone I wanted to impress. I had heard so much about you that I was fairly confident we would hit it off, and even though I assumed you were straight, I wanted to be friends with you before I even met you.      Rewind. I had been working at Chili’s that night. Abby told me earlier that she’d finally convinced you to come down with her for the party, so I was looking forward to going and meeting you. When I got off work, I drove straight home, changed into a striped v-neck t-shirt that I bought a few weeks earlier in the little boys’ section at Marshall’s because I look good in it, and threw some breaded chicken into the microwave. I texted Abby to let her know she could come pick me up, since she’d offered and this way I could drink and wouldn’t have to worry about driving. I was a little bit nervous about this, because I knew about the crush Abby had on me and I didn’t want to lead her on - I wasn’t interested in the least - but I felt pretty sure that she knew where I stood. Turns out, I was wrong, but that’ll come into play later on.      So, she arrives. She pulls into my driveway, gives a little knock at the door, and I let her in. She’s typical Abby - a little nervous, a little awkward, but nice and sweet and all the rest of those generic things that everyone says about everyone else. Anyway, as I was collecting my alcohol to bring to the party (green apple Smirnoff) and trying to devour my dinner, Abby let slip that you were waiting in the car. “Tell her to come in!” was obviously my reaction to that. So, she did.      And that’s where this story began. You danced in with your twinkling eyes, you’re indescribable smile, and the giggliest hello. I melted. Right there, that was when you had me. You just came right in, like you owned the place, like we had been friends so long we were practically family... And then we were introduced. Abby scolded you for just coming in without knocking or anything and I can’t remember if I said anything more than that it was totally okay, but I really liked that you did that. I liked the way you commanded the room. I liked how light your command was, too - how it felt more like a plea, or a wish from a fairy or a princess in one of those Disney movies we watched as kids - lovely and pure, as you are. And I especially like that you seemed so comfortable - it made me feel comfortable (which isn’t something I’m used to in the presence of such a pretty girl).      Immediately I knew you were going to cause problems for me, because somehow you were already in my head. I literally took a second to say to myself (silently, of course), “she’s straight, she’s Abby’s cousin, she’s not interested - don’t even try.” “No, bad ~~dog~~ girl.” I was doing well, too! I even caught myself a couple of times and pulled back. I wanted to flirt so badly, but I kept it in.      Soon, I finished eating, grabbed my stuff, and we piled into Abby’s car to go back to her house where the party was already going on. We didn’t say a whole lot to each other in the car, but you were happy and smiley and so pretty and way too cool for me, so naturally I was totally captivated.      When we arrived at the party, we went in and I was introduced to a few of Abby’s friends and some people who I guess were her roommates. One girl who became my beer pong partner (secretly, as we were setting up for pong, I was hoping you’d ask to play so I could ask you to be my partner) introduced herself to me as Diamond Princess. I started calling her DP for short and, as it turns out, those are her real actual initials. That’s not important to the story; I just thought it was funny.      Pong went on forever and we just wanted it to end, so the other team tricked DP into thinking we won just so we could stop playing. The whole time you were playing with the music and talking to Abby and, most importantly, dancing. When I watched you dance, the rest of the party was on pause. Everything stopped - it was just you and the music. You smiled and laughed and your eyes sparkled. Abby was right when she said you were more yourself that night than she’d seen in a long time. Obviously I couldn’t have known that then, because I had never met you before, and I probably can’t even know that now, because that’s the only night I met you, but I believe it because of how alive you seemed. More full of life than anyone else at the party. Hard to believe you tried to off yourself the very next day. Forget social work; you should pursue a career in acting.      We finally finished pong and gave up the table for someone else to play, and I moved to stand closer to the stage so I could watch you dance more. Abby found her way over and joked with me about how, regardless of whether you’re singing the right words or not, you love to sing along to every song. I thought that was just the cutest thing. That song Some Nights by FUN came on the iPod while we were down there - you continued dancing and we all sang along (or, you know, tried to). I had forgotten about that until you brought it up via text a few days later, when you said “Every time Some Nights comes on I think about us hanging out in the basement.” Now it’s a memory I hold onto, and when I hear Some Nights on the radio or on someone’s iPod, it makes me think of you and I feel closer to you for just those four minutes and thirty-seven seconds even though we can’t talk anymore.      Anyway, after that song we kind of all made our way upstairs. I really only went up there because you did, and I wanted to be wherever you were. I hope I wasn’t too obvious. The next thing I remember is when a bunch of us decided to play cards. We didn’t know what to play, and we went back and forth for a while, but we ended up on Egyptian Rat Screw - you know, that game where you each put down a card on your turn and you slap the pile on doubles and sandwiches. I wanted you to play so badly. You were sitting on the couch not far from me, and I was sitting on the floor somewhat facing you, stealing glances as often as I could manage. I didn’t win the game, and I couldn’t convince you to play with us, but it was fun anyway. And I was content just knowing you were there. Until you weren’t.      About halfway through the game, you got up and went outside. I wasn’t sure what you were doing, but Abby got all concerned when you were walking out. She was practically mothering you the whole night. I guess, considering the circumstances, it was totally understandable, but I remember thinking she should probably ease up on you a little bit. I doubt that it would have changed anything, though. Anyway, you said you were going outside to call your roommate. Well, you said “to make a phone call” and Abby had to drag out of you who you were calling.      You didn’t tell me until a few days later, via text, that you were calling your roommate to convince you not to make moves with me, because both of you knew about the crush Abby had on me. After you were outside talking on the phone, you only came back in for about a minute before you went to bed. It was at that point that I was over the party and was ready to go home. If you weren’t there, I didn’t really care to hang out any longer. But I stuck it out for a few more minutes so it wouldn’t be too obvious, and because I didn’t want to hurt Abby’s feelings.      Side note: as I’m writing this outside the coffee shop Holy Grounds (Catholic University loves its bible puns) in the student center at school, I see your cousin walking in the doors. I immediately feel a rush of emotions: nervous, awkward, hesitant, and then also all of the things that you make me feel. What feelings do I have about you? Well, whatever they are, they’re strong. Stronger than they should be, I know. The mix of feelings that make me so drawn to you with the ones that make me so avoidant of Abby at the same time is confusing to say the least.      So you go into Abby’s room to supposedly go to bed (whether or not that’s really what you did, I will never know) and I start thinking of an exit strategy. It wasn’t hard to think of one. “I think I’m about ready for bed, whenever you’re ready to get me out of here.” That’s not an exact quote, but probably extremely close to whatever it is I did say. Abby was ready then, and we got up and I said my goodbyes to everyone I met at the party, save you. I told myself I was going to go knock on the door and give you a hug and say it was nice to finally meet you and then leave. I was sure I was going to do it. As I stood up, I even got butterflies because going in to say bye to you made me so nervous. Actually, it was just interacting with you that made me nervous. As you already know, I didn’t do that. I didn’t work up the courage to go in and say goodnight to you. And I’ve been kicking myself for not going in there ever since.      It’s probably for the best that we weren’t alone together at the end of the night, though. Even for the 30 seconds it would have taken to say goodnight. We were both so attracted to each other and you were my entire focus - I wouldn’t have even thought about it before saying something that crossed a line or even kissing you in my drunken stupor if I started to get a vibe from you. But you were good; I didn’t get a vibe at all. I had no idea you were interested in the least. You hiding away probably had a lot to do with that. That was the only chance I’ve had so far, and probably the only chance I am going to get, to kiss you. Or hug you. Or see your smile one last time.      I would say that I strongly regret not going into that room to see you before I left that night, but honestly it’s a stupid thing to regret. As much as I would have, and I hope you would have, enjoyed it, Abby would’ve found out what happened and you would’ve felt guilty. You told me that if we had kissed then, you probably would’ve tried to kill yourself that night instead of the night after. I don’t think I could have handled that. So I’m glad it didn’t happen. I’m still upset I missed out on a chance to kiss you, though.      That was the last time I saw you. That was the only time I saw you.


The sun had just set behind the sand dunes that surround the city of Agrabah. The merchants are beginning to close up their shops and the common folks are getting ready for the nightly activities. Aladdin and his family will take advantage of this time, when the guards are tired and the merchants are preoccupied with counting their earnings for the day. Aladdin has been taught by his parents that this is the easiest time to take any bread or fruit that still remains on the merchants stands. Aladdin’s father would tell him how the stale food will most likely be thrown out anyways, so even if they are caught the punishment would not be so severe. This meant that their meals would consist of stale bread and rotten fruit, however, when you are a poor citizen of Agrabah you have to survive some way. The plan was simple. Aladdin’s mother, Samira, would distract the merchant by flirtatious means while Aladdin and his father would stuff their pockets with the spoiled fruits. Samira’s long black hair would wave back and forth as she talked to the merchant. Her brown eyed gaze would be interrupted by her eyelashes gracefully batting down toward the unsuspecting merchant. Aladdin’s heart would race as he saw his mother laughing with the merchant, averting his gaze away from the apparent theft. Everything would always go as planned. The merchant would be no wiser and the poor family of Agrabah could eat their first meal of the day. Some nights, however, the Queen would take a nightly stroll outside of the temple’s gates. Guards would be more on edge these nights and the merchants would stay open longer in hopes that the Queen would stop by their stand and give a generous donation. Aladdin was taught to never steal on these nights, but it had been nearly a week since his stomach had been filled with rotten fruit and hardened bread. His eyes were sunken in and his body appeared frail. The merchants stocked their stands in abundance in anticipation for the Queens arrival. “Look at him, Hakim, he needs to eat.” Aladdin overheard his mother say to his Father. “We all need to eat, but the Queen will be out tonight, it is too dangerous.” Aladdin could hear the sternness in his fathers voice. Aladdin’s hand was grabbed by his fathers to direct him through the crowd of people that hoped to catch a glimpse of the queen walking through the streets. “The Queen isn’t even on this side of town Hakim, if she were don’t you think we’d see more Guards? This looks like a regular night in Agrabah.” She was right. The amount of guards present in the street was fairly dismal. “We could use these crowds as a diversion. The merchants would not be able to see us or their bread disappear.” Aladdin could feel his father’s sweat start to form on the palms of his hand. “Ok, Samira, I will take just enough for us to eat tonight, you watch Aladdin.” “Are you joking? You are the tallest man in Agrabah, the merchants will see your head towering over the crowds. I will go, and you watch Aladdin.” She said as Aladdin watched her disappear into the crowd of people. “Let’s go over here and watch the street performers son.” Hakim guided Aladdin over to a shirtless man who was only wearing a turban and pants. The scars on the mans neck and chest scarred Aladdin, yet he still watched in awe as the man waved a sword around in the air. Aladdin’s heart skipped a beat as the man held the sword directly above his mouth. “What’s he going to do with the sword Daddy?” Aladdin asked innocently. “Just watch closely, son, it’s all a trick.” Hakim’s smile calmed Aladdin as they watched the man courageously swallow the sword. “Thief! Return the bread immediately!” A voice shouted through the crowds of people. The man with the sword in his mouth was startled and immediately coughed up the sharp piece of silver from his throat. Blood landed on the floor near Aladdin’s feet as the man held his throat and screamed in pain. “Samira?” Aladdin’s father shouted as he yanked Aladdin away from the horrific scene and through the crowd of people. “Hakim, help me!” Aladdin could hear the desperation in his mothers voice but could not see her through the crowd of people his father was navigating him through. They pushed past the shoulders of people forming a circle when they finally got to a clearing. The merchant held a sword in one hand and with the other he was grasping Samira’s wrist as she struggled to break free. “Stay here son.” Hakim let go of Aladdin’s arm and dove towards the merchant as the sword was about to strike his mothers wrist. The guard flew to the floor and Samira was free. “Run!” Hakim shouted as he quickly stood back up and picked up Aladdin. The merchant chased after them as they ran through the small alleyways and weaved through the crowds of people. Aladdin looked over his fathers shoulder and saw the merchant was no longer chasing them. “I told you it was too dangerous Samira.” Aladdin could hear his father scolding her. “Ya, but we have to steal to eat.” Samira handed Aladdin the first piece of soft bread his hands had felt in over three years. He remembers the last time he felt bread like this was when the Queen bought his family some bread one of the times she was in town. Aladdin smiled at the bread and filled his stomach with the fresh food. “Watch where you’re walking you peasant.” Aladdin looked up from his bread to see his mother in the arms of a guard. A lady was on the ground beside them holding her wrist in pain. “My wrist! I think it’s broken.” the lady screamed out. As she looked up at the Guards Aladdin saw that it was the Queen. “Your Highness.” Aladdin’s father said as he knelt to the floor. Aladdin heard the merchant shouting behind him. “Help thats the lady that stole my bread!” The guard glanced down at Aladdin’s mom and saw a piece of bread in her bag. “These are filthy street rats, take the queen to safety.” the Guard demanded. Aladdin saw him pick his mother up by her neck. Her feet were lifted into the air. The queen contrastingly, was graciously lifted into the air and carried away. The guards pushing Aladdin out of the way as they made their way back to the palace. “Hakim, take Aladdin and go.” She coughed out. Her brown eyes looked at Aladdin and he saw a tear fall to her cheek. “Theft and assaulting the Queen. Death is the only punishment for a street rat like you.” The guards sword raised into the air and Aladdin was jettisoned away by his father. He tried to see what was happening to his mother but his father kept his face tucked into his chest. “Mom!” He yelled out, but to no avail for he could only hear his fathers heart beating loudly. His fathers breath heated the top of Aladdin’s head as they weaved through the crowds of people to evade the guards. They arrived to the entrance of their home. A whole underneath a building that had enough space for the three of them to sleep comfortably. It was hidden from site as long as the rug was placed over the entrance. Aladdin’s father moved the rug and placed him inside the den. “I’ve got to go help your mom, but I’ll be back son. Do not come out for anything until morning.” Aladdin’s father reassured him as the carpet slid over the entrance and Aladdin was left alone in his dark cold home. “Hey I’m over here.” Hakim yelled. Aladdin listened to his fathers footstep quickly disappear leaving him alone in the room. He walked around the tattered sheets on the floor until he bumped into a wooden box that functioned as a table. He blindly searched for the matchbox on the table. He struck a match and found the candle that was across the room. Walking over carefully to not extinguish the match, he carefully lit the candle. Light surrounded the humble home. Aladdin sat on the dirt floor of his home, staring out a slight crack between the rug and the entrance. The feet were constantly passing by. For hours he watched, and for hours he never saw a pair of his fathers worn sandals stop in front of the rug. His heart sank as time passes and he is left to wonder what happened to his parents. Eventually a monkey breaks the silence. Aladdin has always loved the small monkeys that people keep as companions in Agrabah. He disobeys his fathers wishes and walks across the room toward the rug entrance. The rug is pushed to side by a few inches when suddenly a monkey storms inside of the home. The monkey sprints around the four dirt walls before hopping up onto Aladdin’s shoulder. There is a note tucked underneath the monkey’s hat. “What do you have here?” Aladdin rhetorically questions the monkey. The note Reads: Alladin, Your mother and I had to escape the city. The Guards would not let us live for what we have done. I am sorry, but you will be safer with out us. Love, your father. The note fell to the floor as a tear fell from his eye. There was no signature from his mother. “Why wouldn’t she have written any thing?” Aladdin thought to himself. Then the gruesome reality of what must’ve happened to her came to him. The memory of the sword swallower choking on the sword rushed to the front of his mind. The blood that poured from the mans mouth from an accident. It had to be null in comparison to the blow his mom must have received from the guard Falling to his knees he cried out as he covered his face with his dirty hands. The monkey hopped onto his shoulder and he felt the fur brush up against his ear. The Monkeys paw caressed the back of Aladdin’s head as he cried alone. He knew his mother was dead. He knew not what happened to his father, but what he did know was that he would only have this monkey from here on out. Gathering his emotions he glanced down at the monkey. “What should I call you?” The monkey screeched back at him. “Habibu?” The monkey screeched louder. “Habib?” The monkey became more irritable, jumping off of Aladdins shoulder pacing back and forth. “Abu?” A giant smile formed over the monkeys face and he started clapping his hands together. “Alright buddy, Abu it is, you want some bread?” Aladdin laughed as he picked up some bread from the floor. He tore it in half and handed it to Abu. “It’s just me and you from here on out Abu. Welcome to my home.” Abu smiled and ate the massive piece of bread. Aladdin felt nervous, yet had a sense of confidence. The confidence surmounted from his fathers trust in him. This confidence will be tested as he ages with Abu in the city of Agrabah.


There once was a boy who was the son of a baker. Everyday when the bakery closed, he would take the extra wheat to the park and feed the birds. The birds loved the boy, for he was always there for them to feed them even in the winter. One day, the birds asked him why he would feed them, to which he replied, "I just want to see you all happy,". The birds were delighted by his answer and their relationship with the boy continued. One day, the birds saw the boy at his usual spot at the park. But instead of wheat, he had millet. Unsatisfied with what he had brought, the birds asked him what had happened. "There have been more people at the bakery lately, the leftover millet is all we had left today. I'll try to bring you grain tomorrow," The birds nodded at the boy pecked away at the though millet. On the next day, the birds awaited the boy anxiously as he approached them, but once again: all he had was millet. The birds asked what had happened once again. "We ran out of grain again at the bakery. All I could get was millet again," replied the boy with a somber look. The birds didn't say anything and proceed to feed on the millet. On the third day, the birds saw the boy bring out another bag of millet. They questioned what had happened once again. "The wheat supply has been rationed out to the military, I won't be able to feed any more grain to you," The birds were disappointed and slowly pecked away at the feed. They didn't want the boy to feel bad so they accepted what he had to offer. But on his way home, the birds decided to follow the boy. They saw him slip into a barn nearby his house and exit with a few white bags of wheat underneath his jacket. On the fourth day, the birds watched from the trees far away to see what the boy had to bring to them. But when they had seen the brown bag which always held millet, they didn't even bother to fly over towards him. The boy sat there and looked around for awhile waiting for the birds to fly on over. After an hour a so, a man with a fancy hat and pins walked over to the boy and asked what he was doing. "I was simply here to enjoy the scenery," said the boy smiling hiding the bag behind his back as he got up. Thinking that the boy was there to mock them with millet, the birds suddenly flew around the boy and he spilled the brown bag onto the ground out of panic. But instead of the millet there was wheat. Glad that they have had their favorite feed, the birds all flew down and pecked at the grain happily. The man sighed and told the shocked boy to go on a walk with him. On the fifth day, the birds waited for the boy at his usual spot; he never came.


My ride, a 2013 Wolf Brand Blaze II was running well. It gave me no signs of any trouble - even after having recently given me problems on an almost daily basis. I had done a significant amount of work on it - spending nearly an entire day over the recent holiday weekend tearing it down, fixing it, and putting it back together. Today was the first time in weeks it was running well and I was happy to be riding it without the fear of stalling in an intersection and getting hit by a car. It was louder than normal since I recently had to remove a piece of the cheap Chinese muffler that had partially fallen off, but I was happy to be riding again nonetheless. It was almost seven, it was hot, and I was ready to go home. I had just spent a few hours after work helping a friend fix a computer problem. For the first time in several weeks I would be home before nine and I was looking forward to it. I had a full tank of gas and recently found a back road to take me part of the way home. It was overgrown with huge trees and flowery bushes with a lake just off the side of the road. The sun was gradually sinking lower - not setting yet, but still a beautiful sight on the lakes dark, still water. It was going to be a beautiful ride home I said to myself. As I exited the serene back road and entered a much busier road, traffic became much more intense - speeds increased significantly, and the ride quickly turned from peaceful to defensive as cars careened past me trying to beat me to the next stop light. I was driving the speed limit, but that wasn’t good enough for them. This however was nothing new to me - I did this everyday and I continued on my way. As I approached the stop light for my next turn, I noticed no signs of trouble with the scooter. It was running smoothly. I was proud of the fact I had done all the work myself and that it showed. I was happy. I turned the corner and started heading for home. “Only 25 minutes to go!” I told myself. It was only a few minutes later I realized I had a lot longer than 25 minutes to go. As I rode down the road at speeds in excess of 50 miles an hour I heard a very loud bang and my scooter shut off. The power was on, the key was in the “on” position, but the engine wasn’t running. I was gliding down the road with only my momentum. I pulled to the side of the road, into the bicycle lane and eventually the sidewalk. This was a behavior I had never experienced before from my scooter, or any of the other scooters and motorcycles I had owned in the past. I would push the start button and hear only a high pitched whirring noise... this didn’t sound good... I immediately reached for my phone to call a friend for help. I hated to interrupt anyone’s dinner, but surely someone would be available to come pick me up. To my surprise, however, the screen wouldn’t turn on... it was completely black. It was now that I remembered a GPS application, which I never use, had accidentally been opened a few nights ago and I had forgot to close it. For the past two days it had been running in the background draining my battery. I was now a lot further than 25 minutes from home. I tried for about 10 minutes to fix the scooter - or at least see what was wrong. I had a limited amount of tools, a screwdriver, a spark plug socket, and a wrench that didn’t fit any of the bolts on the scooter. The Chinese must have sent me the wrong wrench... or the wrong scooter. After getting nowhere I decided to start walking. I didn’t really have any other choice... I couldn’t leave the scooter on the sidewalk; it would surely be gone when I got back. I knew there had to be a gas station somewhere up ahead. I didn’t know the area well but I knew I had visited a 7-11 on this road once before. The scooter weighs 300 pounds, and even though it was on wheels, trying to balance it and pull it along with you while you walk down a narrow sidewalk is not a lot of fun. Even less fun however is trying to walk a 300-pound scooter down a narrow sidewalk while you get yelled at and honked at. First it was a guy in a huge pickup truck - he pulled as close to the sidewalk as possible, yelled something I couldn’t understand, and stepped on the gas hard enough that his turbo-diesel monstrosity let out a loud rumble coupled with a huge cloud of engulfing black smoke. A few more blocks up there was a family of bicyclists. I moved onto the grass so I wouldn’t be in the way, but they just kept yelling, “Move out of the way so we don’t fall in the ditch!” The ditch they were referring to was only a few feet from me for the entire walk. It was filled with old, smelly, motionless water and a plethora of frogs and insects - mostly mosquitoes that started biting me as soon as I broke down. There was enough trash in the ditch that I imagine it could have passed for a third-world countries water supply. Further down the road I heard a loud motorcycle coming from behind me. It kept creeping closer and closer until it finally felt like it was right next to me. And, it was. I turned to my left and saw a young black kid - likely in his early twenties. I had seen him before - riding around town helmet-less on a loud dirt bike doing stunts and weaving in and out of traffic, all whilst driving at least twenty miles over the speed limit. This time however, he wasn’t driving fast - he was driving as slow as possible. He was in the bike lane, right next to the sidewalk, holding his clutch and revving the engine as loud as possible. If he said anything at all I couldn’t hear it over the sound of his loud, obnoxious death trap. After a few minutes he grew tired of harassing me and left, only to make a U-turn and come back for more a block later. Finally he gave up and left, but not before several more motorcyclists sped past, revving their engines and honking their horns. Finally after what felt like an hour I saw what looked like a shopping center in the distance. As I got closer I realized it was in fact the 7-11 I had been to before. I walked my scooter into the parking lot, parked it on the sidewalk and collapsed for a few minutes; taking a break to drink the bottle of water I had in my scooter seat. “Water has never tasted so good” I thought to myself. The older gentlemen browsing the Netflix machine just looked at me like I was crazy. I went inside and the clerk was gracious enough to let me use the phone. “Local calls only” he said, “And keep it short!" In a world where everyone uses cell-phones and pay phones are a thing of the past, I would’ve paid good money to use one for just a few minutes. I paged through a phone book - something I haven’t used in over a decade and found the towing section. My first attempt didn’t go so well, “We don’t tow motorcycles and we definitely don’t tow scooters!” was the response from the guy at the first company I called. The second company was able to help, but still not very pleasant. And they were expensive, “We charge $75 to pick it up and $3 a mile after that.” I decided it wasn’t worth paying a few hundred dollars to tow a scooter and told the clerk I would leave the scooter in front of the store and call for a cab. I would come back tomorrow and figure out how to move it. The cab company was happy to help and dispatched a driver who was slated to arrive in twenty minutes or less. As I moved the scooter closer to the front door in hopes that it wouldn’t be stolen overnight, an older unkempt man who was smoking a cigarette approached me offering to give me and the scooter a ride. I was hesitant at first until the 7-11 clerk came outside and told me not to worry, “he’s a regular - he come’s here all the time!” Against my better judgment, I agreed to take his offer -- after all it was much cheaper and more convenient to get it over with right then and there. I went back inside the store and called the cab company, “I need to cancel my cab... I am moving to another location... I’ll call you when I get there...” the woman was hesitant and sounded confused, “Ok, but he’s right around the corner, Sir.” I stepped outside and sure enough, he was right there, “Did you call for a cab?” He said, talking cheerfully while watching me try to load a scooter into a barely running 1980’s Chevy van that was blaring the Tampa Bay Ray’s game on the radio. “Yes, but I won’t need a ride until I drop this scooter off near the airport.” I replied. I could tell he was eager for the fare, “Oh no problem - I’ll just follow you. If you don’t get in yet I won’t have to charge you!” he replied. Finally, some good news. The driver of the van, whom I came to know later as Bob, yelled out the window to the cab driver, “I have to go pick up two other kids on the way. They’re around the corner in a neighborhood selling candy.” The cab driver and I looked at each other confused but he agreed to follow us. We quickly left the gas station and headed around the corner. No longer than two minutes later we were pulling up to a dark street with an obese, young, black kid carrying a plastic tote filled with candy. “Did you sell any?” Bob asked between several long drags on his cigarette. “No! This neighborhood fucking sucks!” the boy said angrily as he crawled into the front of the van. “Did you buy a motorcycle?” he asked. “No - we have to drive this guy and his scooter over by the airport. Where the hell is Gabriella?” Bob was visibly annoyed with the boy and his lack of sales for the day. The boy didn’t seem very happy either, “No one wants to buy this shit” he said, under his breath. We rounded the corner and Bob was flashing his lights, honking his horn, and yelling out the window, “Gabby, Gabby?!” From a dark porch a young, pudgy blonde girl emerged carrying her own blue plastic tote filled with candy. Gabby seemed just as surprised as the boy to see me, “I have to sit on the floor?” she asked. “No - sit on your box - we have to give this guy a ride!” Bob said. Gabby laughed and sat on the floor, “If I sit on this box I am going to break it.” she said. We left the neighborhood and headed for the airport. Every bump we hit made the van squeak louder and as we continued speed down the road Bob’s van sounded like it might explode even worse than my scooter. “Yep - I’ve got over 300 thousand miles on this one!” Bob said. “I put close to 1200 miles a day on it.” Bob seemed happy - like he had accomplished something. The closer we got to the mechanic the more the kids were complaining, “We’re hungry” Gabby exclaimed several times. “Yeah, what are you going to buy us for dinner tonight?” the boy asked. “We’re going to your house for dinner! I’m not buying you guys anything to eat.” Bob said, as we grew closer and closer to my destination. I quickly chimed in, “If you want to stop any place that serves fast food I’ll buy you guys dinner! I really appreciate you...” Bob interrupted, “NO! We don’t have time.” Gabby and the boy weren’t thrilled. “I only sold three dollars worth of candy tonight... I can’t buy diapers and buy dinner.” Gabby said as she turned and looked at me in the back of the dimly lit van, “I have two kids and another one on the way.” Bob interrupted, “It smells like gas back there... do I smell gas?” I don’t know what he expected... there’s a scooter with a gallon of gas in the back of his van that’s tipped on it’s side. Of course it smells like gas. “Ooh I love the smell of gas!” Gabby said... three times. Actually four, because she said it again as we were pulling into the parking lot of the scooter shop. “I just love the way it smells!” We pulled into the parking lot and I immediately felt I had made a mistake. The scooter shop was in a bad part of town - right by the airport. It was dark, it was late, and I had a bad feeling. Bob helped me unload the scooter into the parking lot. “Is the cab going to pick you up here or do you need a ride?” Bob asked. As soon as he asked the cab pulled up and I immediately felt relieved. I didn’t want to have to ride home in Bob’s van. I was tired, I was frustrated, and I wanted to go home. But first I had to figure out what to do with the scooter. As Bob started looking behind the shop to find a place to hide the scooter where it hopefully wouldn’t be stolen, I snuck over to the van and handed each one of the kids a $5 bill. “Don’t tell Bob,” I whispered. I gave Bob $30 for gas money and he and the kid’s quickly went on their way. I hid the scooter between an old RV and a semi-trailer. It was dark and out of the way so I figured it would be the safest. I wrapped the key in a piece of paper that read, “Please call me ASAP - I dropped my scooter off in the middle of the night behind your shop.” As I walked towards the cab an all black Lincoln town car pulled up. “What are you doing on my property?” an older gentleman yelled from inside the car. I quickly recognized him as the owner, whom I had dealt with before and explained the situation to him. “You need to be careful around here... walking around on people’s property you’re liable to get shot” the owner said. “I have a guard that lives on the property. He called me because he saw you walking around the property and thought you were trying to break in.” The owner parked and emerged from the car wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts. “Let’s get it in the shop. We’ll take a look at it tomorrow.” He said. He was clearly annoyed and a bit startled. He took the keys and the note, locking the doors behind him and crawling back into his Lincoln. I made my way back to the cab and apologized for keeping him waiting for so long. He was smoking cigarettes and waiting patiently. He explained to me he didn’t mind waiting because he, “never got very big fares.” On the way home the cab driver, a young man about my age named Ryan and I talked about the situation with my scooter, his own Italian scooter which he had bought recently, and his new computer - an Alienware laptop that he bought because he loved to play games. I told him I worked in IT and offered to help if he ever needed it. As we got closer to my house, he became excited and said, “I live right by here!” Eventually I found out that not only did he live in the same part of town as me, he lived in the same neighborhood as me, on the same street - about 10 houses down. As we pulled up to my house he thanked me for the fare, I tipped him $10 and I thanked him for the ride and for patiently waiting for so long. As I opened the door to get out of the cab he turned to me and said, “Just one question!” “Sure, what’s up?” I asked. “Why did they get rid of the start menu in Windows 8?” he asked.