The neighborhood was asleep but he and his son were awake. It’s 4:51 in the morning and Christmas lights illuminate the street revealing small bungalows and houses with unshoveled snow on their driveways. He parks the car near the last house on the right and leaves it running. This is their neighborhood but they drive in the winter to keep warm. Before they get out they savor one last moment of warmth as they stuff their pouches and the crevices under their arm pits with newspapers. The boy did not want to get up today. He faked that he was asleep like he did on Sunday mornings when his Dad tried to wake him up to go to Mass. Dad wasn’t having it, not today, he needed the extra hands because he had to get to work earlier than usual. He’s been working retail during the holidays for the last six years and the paper route the last two. The boy would help on holidays and some Sundays because of the ad bundles. But he doesn’t want to help today, and his dad doesn’t blame him. “Take the houses on the right.” He said as he walked to the houses on the left. The boy’s shoes crunched with each footstep, the snow from yesterday had frozen over. He was trying to be careful because he slipped and got a bruise on his left butt cheek the previous Sunday. He wasn’t trying to get a matching one on his right. The papers tossed and turned in his pouch like laundry in the dryer as he approached the first house. He reaches under his arm pit and tosses a paper onto the front door mat of 2301 Parkview Lane. Nails it. 2305 Parkview Lane is a bungalow that has an elevated front porch with a roof covering some patio furniture, a swing, and a couple of sleds. He breathes into his hand to give him some grip, grabs the next bundle, and underhands the throw. It lands on the second to the top step. Doesn’t nail it. “Make sure you get it on the porch.” His dad said in his head. He marches up the stairs and squats down to pick up the paper. He tosses it up the remaining stairs and it lightly hits the screen door. He sucks in the cold air through his teeth, praying no one heard that, especially his dad. The coast is clear, thank God. He heads back down the stairs, one at a time. Skip the next house, and then leave the paper on the mailbox for 2313, he thought to himself. Across the street, he was realizing that this is the only quality time he’s had with his son in months. Dinner last night didn’t go so well. He was late because his boss was hovering over his shoulder most of his shift and he couldn’t afford to get another write-up. By the time he got to dinner, the boy had eaten already but his wife waited for him. “He couldn’t wait.” She said as the boy drowned his final two fries in ketchup. He kissed her on the cheek and then they unwrapped their burgers to eat. After his final bite he noticed the boy was looking down at his feet. “What’s wrong, son?” The boy shook his head. “Buddy?” “Nothing.” “Something happen at school.” “No.” He looked at his wife, she shook her head in a way that said, “Don’t bother.” “Did you have fun at your class Christmas party today?” “You were supposed to come.” The boy said as he made eye contact with him for the first time. He forgot. He had been doing that a lot lately, but this time it stung. “You just work all the time. You never have time for me anymore.” The boy’s eyes sunk back to the floor. He didn’t say anything because he knew the kid was right. He didn’t even say he was sorry. After his wife calmed the boy down he went back to work and they went home. He stood in the parking lot before getting into his car, letting the cold air fill up his lungs. He thought of his dad and wished he could give him a call. He finished delivering his batch to all of the houses on the left while the boy was barely halfway done with the houses on the right. He checks his watch, 5:02. 31 houses left, clock in time is in 43 minutes. He walks over to meet the boy halfway. “Come on, bud, let’s pick it up. I’ve got to get to work soon.” He says as he takes the papers from the boy. When he finishes the rest of the street he tells the boy to stay put and he’ll pull the car up. As he waits, the boy puts his fingers up to his mouth and exhales onto them, trying to regain feeling. After his dad pulls up he gets in and they head to the next street. The boy has his hands pressed up against the vents. The heat slowly deteriorates until it becomes just a blow of air. “Heat’s going out again.” The boy says as he crams his hands into his coat pockets. “It’ll be okay, just keep folding, the newspaper will help keep your hands warm.” The boy grabs a stack of unfolded papers from the backseat and a handful of rubber bands from the cupholder. Fold the right side, fold the left side, rubber band around once, twice, snap, and toss onto the dash. Repeat. As he folds the fifth paper he stretches the rubber band too far and it snaps and whips into his thumb. The boy hates it when this happens, his dad does too. He grabs another rubber band and delicately finagles the rubber band around the paper and tosses it onto the dash. He grabs another stack and keeps folding as they arrive to the next street. Westview Drive is a darker road. A streetlight is burnt out and another one is covered by a mass of tree branches. Most of the houses don’t have Christmas lights either. The boy reaches inside of the glove box and pulls out two flashlights, a mag light for dad and a smaller LED light for himself. “Double time.” His dad says as he exits the car. They split up again. The boy has the flashlight in between his teeth. Everyone on his side of the street got the paper. He’s walking faster and the wind is beginning to pick up which makes everything colder. The first house belonged to an elderly woman who was always awake by the time they delivered the paper. She stood in the doorway wearing a white robe and bed head. She opens the door as the boy offers the paper to her. “Helping dad today?” She said. The boy nodded. “Well stay warm, ya here?” “Yes ma’am. Have a good day.” He said with the flashlight still in his mouth. Looking across the street he saw dad was almost done with his side. He picks up his pace. He’s not worried so much about getting the papers on the porch now, but he still tries his best. When dad finishes he has four houses remaining. “Hurry up, son!” His dad yells as he jogs over to the car. “I shouldn’t rush him.” He thinks as he puts his mag light back in the glove box. Still no heat. If he’s cold the boy will be much colder. Only six houses left after this, and their all by their house. “I’ll make it up to him.” He thought as he drove to pick up the boy. At least he hoped he could. The stairs leading up to the last house are covered with snow and the guard rails on the sides are glistened with ice formations that hang off of the edges. The boy grabs hold of the railings and slowly walks up the steps. When he gets halfway up he reaches into his pouch and grabs the last paper and tosses it onto the doormat. As he turns around to go back down he clutches the railing for dear life. Down the steps, one at a time, he knows he’s being slow and that dad’s in a hurry, but... too late. The boy misses the last step and his foot slides out from underneath him. He tries to grab for the railing but his hand slips off and he slams down on the edge of the last step, his elbow makes the first impact. The flashlight falls out of his mouth and slides down the sidewalk still shining. His hand turns red and numb while his elbow throbs. The melting snow begins to seep through his pants and his long john underwear. He can’t stand up and it’s taking everything not to cry. Dad pulls up to the side of the street. He sees his boy sitting down. He honks the horn. “What’s he doing?” He thought. 5:24. The boy isn’t getting up. He reaches across the passenger seat and begins cranking down the window. “Let’s go!” He yelled, trying not to wake the neighbors. The boy shakes his head. He gets out of the car and jogs towards him. “Son let’s go, I got 20 minutes until I have to be at-.” He stops. He sees a tear rolling down his boy’s cheek. He kneels down. “What happened?” He asks. “Nothing.” “Buddy, talk to me.” The boy shakes his head. “Did you slip and fall?” He asks. The boy keeps looking down at the ground. “I’m sorry. I am. But can you stand up for me? We really gotta keep moving.” He pleads. The boy pushes himself up off the cold cement. The back of his pants are soaked through and he clutches his arm as he walks to the car. He stands there watching his son and he begins to follow him, picking up the flashlight and turning it off along the way. The boy looks out the window as they drive back to their house. The dad keeps looking over to him, not knowing what to say. He pulls into his driveway at 5:30. When the car comes to a full stop the boy unbuckles his seat belt and opens the door. “Wait.” He says. “You feel that?” He says as he puts his hand toward the vent. The boy puts his hand on the vent as well, he smiles. “Heat’s coming back.” The boy nods to him as he puts both of his hands on the vents, still smiling. “Wait here a minute okay?” His dad says as he grabs the remaining six papers off the dash. He hops out of the car and leaves it running. Quality time with his dad was scarce when he was a kid. Catholic family and he was the youngest of seven. His dad worked for the newspaper, writing columns and reporting on local news. One day his dad took him to the office, showed him the printing press and the type writer he worked on. His dad told him he could be anything he wanted to be, so long as he did it well. Not great, but well. He didn’t think he’d be in this spot, delivering papers at 5:33 in the morning before he went to his next job. He could firmly say he did both jobs well, though. Well, except for one. And as he delivers his last paper he realizes this. He looks at his car and the boy is still sitting inside. He gets in the car and blows into hands while rubbing them together. The boys hands are still glued to the vents, the feeling finally coming back. “How’s your arm?” He asks. “A little better, I can move it now.” “Buddy, I’m sorry.” “It’s okay.” He reaches for the boys hand. The boy reaches back and takes it. “For everything.” The boy looks at him and nods. He knows what he means. “I just miss you.” He tells him. “I miss you, too. And I will be better, okay? You don’t have to understand everything right now, that’s not your job. I may have other responsibilities, but you’re my greatest responsibility.” Both of their hands are dry and are smudged with ink but they keep holding one another for a moment. The boy hops out of the car and he watches him trudge up to the house. He puts the car in reverse and backs into the street. He makes sure his son gets inside before putting it in drive. As the boy opens the front door he turns back to his dad, waves, and then goes inside their house. He drives down their street passing the small houses and bungalows decorated with Christmas lights and mechanical reindeer. He thought of his dad, who taught him his first paper route, and remembered his laugh and cheer. And he wipes the tear across his cheek, smearing the skin under his eye with newspaper ink.


As daylight crept through the high windows after my first night there, I was able to better see the space. There was no furniture or surfaces of any kind; just one large concrete floor spanning most of the home, with a small washroom at the far end. There were fourteen of us in the building. To me, that seemed more than the space could hold, but the other inhabitants assured me that they were, comparatively, much more comfortable now than in the past. Two years ago the room had reached a peak of twenty people. However, a particularly brutal winter, a couple of accidents, and a virus had brought the numbers down again. The corner of the room I slept in was shared by Jacob. He was a tall, thin man with a curly, unruly brown beard, and his deep set eyes held a focus that seemed to always be resolutely determined. The first full day there, I asked him how he ended up here. He chuckled with a bitter laugh. “Dumb prank when I was sixteen. My friends dared me to break in, steal something and bring it back.” I looked at his face, at the thick wrinkles across his forehead, and the graying tips of his hair. “How old are you?” “Thirty-nine,” came his reply. I did the mental math quickly. “Twenty-three years?” I gasped. “I’m not the longest here,” Jacob replied. “Only third. Mary over there...” He pointed to a woman with gray hair that came down to her waist. It was thinning badly, and you could make out the patches of pale scalp between the threads. “...she’s been here forty-something years. One hell of an immune system, I guess.” I stared across the room. Most of the prisoners were fairly young. I was above the average age. Jacob seemed to read my face. “Yeah, people don’t tend to last too long down here. Few of us just get lucky... or unlucky... I’m not sure.” “So, what happens now. They leave us in this room forever?” “We work for them,” he said. “Someone’s got to keep the citadel looking shiny and white for the rest of the island to see. So they send us out. Paint the buildings, trim the grass near the gates. That kind of thing. We also go round their houses, tidy up for them. We’re the workers.” “So you get let outside?” I responded with an naieve enthusiasm. “Do people escape?” “They’ve tried.” He said, rolling his eyes at my stupidity. “They were shot. All of them.” I slumped back in resignation, and tried to accept my new fate. Those first few days were impossibly hard. I had gone from the island’s upper-echelons to borderline starvation, and my stomach was rotting at its emptiness. I felt queasy, weak, and only half awake as if my body and my mind were capable of a fraction of their usual function. My injuries were also slow to heal. After a full day of staring in ignorance at my swollen knee and blood-ridden trouser leg, Mary walked calmly from the other side of the room to inspect my injuries. “You’re not taking care of that properly,” she said, sitting down beside me. “I’m sorry?” “Your knee, it won’t heal like that.” She took off her long cardigan and began wrapping it tightly round my knee. “You need that,” I said, fearing what the cold would do to her bare skin. Without the cardigan I could see her true age, the sagging skin hanging off frail thin bones. “That thing? So frayed it hasn’t been good for many years. But now I’ve given it up someone on the other side of the room will probably feel guilty and give me something better.” She smiled, and with a final tug pulled the cardigan in tighter around my knee, before tying it in place. “That’s the compression done,” she said sitting back. “Jacob, pass me the basket.” He handed her a small wooden basket that was used to deliver a few loaves of bread - our daily rations. Mary flipped it over, and lifted my leg on top of it. “Keep that elevated on there the whole night. Tomorrow, they’ll take it away, and you’ll have to use whatever they bring the food in tomorrow. But keep it elevated,” she said. “How do you know all this?” I asked. “Mining family. Three brothers. They played rough.” There was a small grimace as she recalled. “Now keep that elevated, and put pressure on it.” And with that, she stood up and returned to the other side of the room. Her intercedence worked though, and over the next couple of days, the swelling began to reduce, and while still painful, some movement began to return to my knee. \ After four days, the door opened, and we were ordered outside. Though my leg was healing, I was still slacking behind the other prisoners, and the guards berated me for not keeping up with the pace. However, soon we were down by the front end of the Citadel. Here the grass was clipped back, the roads were paved in smooth stone, and most importantly, the homes were real. The guards gave us various tasks and set us to work. A few people were given long scythes to trim the grass. A second group were sent to run some new underground electrical wire to one of the homes. I, and two others, were sent inside to clean the homes. As we walked towards the home, the woman in our group muttered “Thank fuck. House cleaning.” “This a good job?” I replied. “It’s safe.” The man continued her point. “We could be dealing with those electrical lines out there? Or we could be changing the gas tanks?” “Gas tanks?” I inquired. “They burn gas from tanks for heating and cooking. They import it just for the citadel from somewhere. Each home has its own tank,” the man responded. The woman let out a hum of agreement. “I was working on the tanks last summer. Me and a guy called Grant...” I heard the past tense of ‘called’, and a small knot began forming in the pit of my stomach. “We were changing over these tanks when one of them just cracked, and suddenly all this foul smelling liquid pours over him. The next thing I know, some spark catches some of the liquid, and in an instant everything’s on fire. Grant screamed. I never knew pain could exist so bad as to produce those screams. He ran towards the forest, he maybe made it five metres before he fell over. I couldn’t sleep for a week. Each time I closed my eyes I could just see his panicked silhouette trying to run away from his own flames.” The woman paused for a few seconds. “Thank fuck we’re cleaning.” I chose to join her in the relief. Much of what we did was tedious, but simple enough chores: washing clothes, sweeping, or dusting surfaces. I quickly came to realize exactly how rich the council members were. Each room was decorated with beautiful, vivid artworks; portraits, landscapes, abstracts, every wall adorned with its own masterpiece. Any flat surface, shelves, tables, or countertops, held lavish ornaments; long silver candlesticks, smooth curved vases, or carefully blown glass sculptures. But perhaps most shocking of all were some of the artifacts. On a table in one home was something I ascertained to be a clock. It was connected to the electrical grid from a long wire that stretched from its back. On the front were four digits, displayed in bright red light, that changed over with each passing minute. Another council member had a glass case containing an array of brightly colored gas lighters. The small devices, no longer than a finger, were relatively common and cheap as far as artifacts went. But this cabinet was full of them, haphazardly thrown in. Jewels, each worth enough money to feed a family for a year, casually poured on top of each other to form a colorful collage. Perhaps most wondrous was what I saw - or more accurately heard - in the final home of the day. There was a device that at first seemed like a plastic black box. I paid it no attention at first. However, eventually, a council member walked in, opened a case on the front of the box, inserted some small disc, and left again. I was confused by the moment, until a few seconds later the box began to produce sound. At first it seemed like just a random mesh of different notes and noises. But that faded, and was replaced by the first few strokes of a deep violin. I don’t know how, but a melody began to appear from inside the black box. Then there was singing and words began to fill in the air in an impossible fashion. It took me a few seconds to even comprehend what I was hearing before I could even begin to process the words being sung. “That if you dare to try, to rebuild the pieces of your life, Then you’ll find, the things you held so dear, the things you held so close, were never really yours." I hobbled over to the small plastic box, checking over my shoulder that I was alone. I looked at the case the small disc had come in. A grey image displaying a series of pins read: "Broken Records. Until The Earth Begins to Part". My mind returned to the song. "And rip it up, rip it all apart, This place that are parents built, we’ll let it all burn down to the ground," I couldn’t even begin to describe the music that was playing. It’s rhythm, melody, and lyrical style were completely foreign to me. But still, it grabbed me. I felt something alien enter into my body, I could feel the drums and strings enter my veins, releasing some new chemicals in my brain. They latched on. And I knew somehow that I wouldn’t forget that moment, or what that song sounded like. I only heard it once, and yet I will be able to recall those words as long as I live. And then there was one line on the end of the song. “And we are nearly home” The music continued to play as I worked. It was perhaps midway through the third song that the moment of peace was broken by a panicked scream from outside. I ran outside towards the sound. Outside I could see a group of people standing next to a small trench that ran from the perimeter wall, towards one of the houses. I could hear Jacob shouting to the others. “Stand back. The wire’s still live.” “Someone turn off that box. Now,” someone else pleaded. Peering round the group, I looked down to see Mary, her body frozen against the ground. Her eyes were wide open in a state of shock, but there was no life. Her thin white hair fell awkwardly across her face. A few strands brushed the corner of her open mouth, a wide gape with yellow teeth. Her lips were pulled back, as if going to speak words that would never arrive. Her health, her luck, had all been wiped out in a moment. Any of us could have been next. Dice had been thrown, and you never knew when you might be chosen. When they opted not to shoot me on site the night I arrived, it was only a temporary reprieve. I would die here, perhaps sooner than later. My mind was made up. I would have to try and escape.


Fanbright, California, is a literal shithole. Never in my fifteen (out of eighteen) years of life breathing its polluted, industrial air did I compliment it once. In fact, the only humans who have been cursed with the knowledge of its existence are those who live in it, and those who have escaped it. I’ve done both. In 2005, we moved to Fanbright for a pretty boring reason: cheap housing. It’s a good idea to save money before sending your kid off to college, which leaves me to where I am now: packing my bags for NYU. I decided that I wanted to become an author, which may have been the biggest letdown for my parents, considering my older brother lives as a starving artist over in Florida. I was supposed to be PhD something Mandy Lee, but I might just be the 11-point font under a boring article for the Huffington Post. There is, however, one goal I plan to achieve in my writing career, even if it costs an arm and a leg. One day, I will write a book about the one interesting thing that has ever come out of my hometown - Toby Alvarez. Graduating Class of 1986, Toby Ryland Alvarez was as far away from the spotlight as one can get. Ditching class to smoke with his delinquent accomplices, constantly going on solo road trips to avoid family in his beaten down Volkswagen, any girl nowadays would have fallen in love immediately. Well, any girl then might have had a crush, but he was probably ugly or something. Nearly no one knew or cared about the kid, until just a few days before graduation. The story varies with who tells it, but one thing rings true for them all: on June 2nd, 1986, Toby died in a car crash. The rusty, black, 1983 Rabbit GTI was T-boned on the freeway, the smoke from the engine blending in with the smoke from whatever he was high on that day. He was dead before anyone could even help. It was the first unnatural death in Fanbright since 1925, and no one has followed since. This makes sense as to how the story gets twisted on why . Some will say it was the drugs that made him lose control of his focus. Some say it was the other driver’s fault. Most say he wanted to die that day. I know thirty years is arguably enough time to draw the conclusion that Toby committed suicide without it being “too soon”, but I always felt weirdly uncomfortable hearing it. The fact that someone who so hated the public eye would choose to die in front of hundreds around him just doesn’t make sense. The struggle with trying not to believe it, though, was that everyone around me did. I’d be lying if I said every resident hated shithole Fanbright. Most people actually loved it. Descendants of those who first settled found the northern air to be peaceful, an artifact of their ancestors that can so easily be forgotten. So if some outcast teen dies while skipping school, they think the city is too perfect to blame it on anything other than the kid. No one bothered about his home life, his interests, the fact that he happened to be the only minority in the whole school. They always said he “set himself aside” from others, never the other way around. Hearing the story for the first time when I was a freshman at the same high school, I felt an odd connection to Toby. Not because I did drugs and rebelled against the social order, but I did feel isolated by things I couldn’t control. Being the only asian american student, I too felt set aside. On graduation day, classmates who I had several failed attempts at getting close to simply said I was “independent”, and “never cared about popularity”. I didn’t care about popularity, but that’s a pretty sugar-coated way of saying I had no friends. My family also isn’t the “mingling” type, and I soon found out from verbal stories and newspapers that the Alvarez family never tried to befriend the other townspeople either. Did we hate relationships, or did we hate the possibility we wouldn’t be accepted that we just never took the chance? “Mandy, you almost done?”, my mom calls me from the hallway. My flight leaves in five hours. “Yeah, just about to tape up the last box”. For the past ten minutes I had been staring at a piece of paper I found four years ago stuffed in a library book. Mr. Rodman, thanks for assigning this. It’s the only one I’ve read in your class to be honest, but it inspired me. I want to be like him, but better. -T. Alvarez There’s no more Mr. Rodman at school, he retired in ‘92. I asked the school what the ”T” stood for, and that’s how I learned the story. The book was Robinson Crusoe , which I thought was too boring up until the last page where the note was taped in. It’s obvious that his teacher didn’t see it; he might have hoped that he could give the note personally, or that Mr. Rodman would find it by chance. The note was probably still taped in since none of the kids since the ‘80s opened it up, let alone finished it. Nevertheless, there has to be some reason why I’m the one who found and kept it. Three sentences and a sign-off didn’t close Toby’s case, but it did help his case. For someone who never did anything to or for anyone, reading a book and giving a review to a teacher definitely meant something. He had a dream to leave Fanbright, to be someone somewhere, to be like Robinson Crusoe, but better. Regardless if it was suicide or not, Toby, at some point in his life, dared to dream for a life outside of the one he was currently living in. That was enough for me not to hate him. “Alright mom, we can head out”, I was going to fly out first with a few of my things before the rest got shipped in, so I wasn’t as rushed as my family was. I quickly stuffed the note into my bag - maybe a good luck charm I guess. I headed out towards the car with my hands full of suitcases and was pushed into the passenger seat by my dad. We are pretty punctual people, so it was imperative that we arrive hours before the plane takes off. We drove for about half an hour before reaching the town sign that read “Come back soon!”. I really hope I don’t. At the stoplight, I feel a weight off my shoulders, the type of weight you feel when you turn in your final exam at the end of the year, or when you hear the buzz at the end of a game season. I was moving on, going somewhere to be someone. Across the street, I feel someone looking at me, and I quickly glance so as not to start a staring contest with a stranger. It wasn’t a stranger, though. Leaning next to a broken down Volkswagen, smoking a cigarette in an all black ensemble, I get a head nod. There was also the tiniest smile, the kind someone gives when they aren’t used to smiling. There was pride in that smile, hope in those eyes, and warmth in our hearts. I will write about you, Toby Alvarez, in NYU or after NYU. I’ll write about shitty Fanbright; I’ll write about narrow-minded people, and I’ll write about being like someone who inspires you, but better.


On a bright sunny morning, somewhere in Chicago, Ronnie woke up with a start, cold sweat dripping off him as he thought is it true? do I actually have a magic portal in the back of my garden? he shook his head and thought it's just a dream. but it felt so real, a tiny voice in the back of his mind said. I'm probably just overthinking things. he sighed and heaved himself out of bed. as he ducked into his closet in search of a pair of socks, he felt his cat, Purssimon, brush his foot lightly, like she usually does when she wants something. he ducked out of his closet and looked at her. suddenly she ran out of the room and ducked into the hallway. a few moments later she peeked her head back into the room, looking slightly annoyed. "you want me to follow you?" he asked. Purssimon nodded, a little impatiently , thought Ronnie. she ducked out of the room into the hallway, and this time Ronnie followed her. as they kept walking, it took Ronnie a while to notice that they were walking to the same place he had in his dream. in his dream, he had walked out of his room and went to the back of his garden, where he keeps his old family relic, a glass Grifin statue. the moment he reached the statue, a portal opened and sucked him in. ... after a few minutes of walking they got to the back of his garden, to where he kept the glass Grifin. the moment he looked at the Grifin, he felt a sudden urge to pet its beak. suddenly a portal opened and sucked him in, just like in his dream. the moment the portal sucked him in, he closed his eyes, and felt a gust of cold wind, all over him. as he opened his eyes, all he saw was white snow. he blinked several times and thought wait a minute... this isn't Chicago, " where am I?" he asked. "well kid, welcome to Elaria" said a voice behind him. Ronnie spun around and found himself face to face with a cat lady who looked very similar to Purssimon. he took a step back so that he could see her a better. she was wearing a white fur coat and tall black leather boots. he decided to focus on her head. her ears were a little sharp and on top of her head she had two big, furry cat ears. her face was a bit furry and she looked like a leopard or a cheetah. her eyes were sharp, and her pupils were thin just like a cat. "who.. who are you? and where is Purssimon?" he asked. the cat lady chuckled to herself and said "you really are an idiot, I AM Purssimon" Ronnie stared at her blankly "wait... what? explanation now... please?" Purssimon sighed and said "well dumbass, you're in Elaria. my name is as you know, Purssimon. I am a cat lady, and your bodyguard" Ronnie shook his head and thought I'm probably dreaming another crazy dream. "can you please pinch me?" Purssimon looked at him blankly and said "sure...?" she pinched his arm very painfully. "ow," he said as he jerked his arm away from her. so I am definitely not dreaming, he thought. "so, how am I supposed to go back home?" he asked. Purssimon looked shocked as she asked "why would you want to go home? Elaria is a great place!" Ronnie felt himself get angry as he clenched and unclenched his fists, and said "well Aleria-" "Elaria" corrected him Purssimon. "well Elaria isn't my home! and I don't want to be stuck here forever, and never see my family again!" he sat down on the snow and pressed his hands to his face. his pants immediately got soaked wet, but he didn't care. he wanted to go home! he didn't want to stay there forever! he wanted to go back home to his family! Purssimon sighed and said "I guess that means we're going to see an old colleague of mine. he will help you control your connection with Elaria, so that way you'll be able to go home whenever you want and come here whenever you want" Ronnie got up excitedly and said "let's go now!" Purssimon chuckled and said "First we're going to get you some new clothes that are more suitable for this" Ronnie glanced down at his T-shirt and trousers and suddenly he realized how cold he was. he started shivering violently. Purssimon sighed and said "you're lucky I have fur, and that I don't need a coat" she took off her big fur coat and gave it to Ronnie. Ronnie took it gratefully and slipped it on. suddenly he felt so warm as if he was standing under the hot summery sun in Chicago. Ronnie glanced at Purssimon and what he saw totally shocked him, she was wearing a tight black leather suit and she didn't seem cold at all. "How are you not cold?" he asked. her expression was somewhat smug as she said "well I have fur, so I don't need a coat. anyway, come on we need to go get you some new clothes" as they started walking, someone knocked him down to the ground. he tried to twist around to see who was his attacker, but whoever it was pinned his head down so that he couldn't see who it was. he tried wriggling free but whoever attacked him wouldn't budge. he tried screaming for help but the person attacking him said "shut up Scorpio!" Scorpio? who is Scorpio? thought Ronnie. he kept wriggling until he finally managed to throw his attacker off. he glanced at his attacker and he was shocked! his attacker was a beautiful female elf with white hair, pale skin, grey eyes, and soft pink lips. he quickly recovered from his shock, and started backing away from the elf. the elf stood up and said "give up Scorpio. you have nowhere to run now" Ronnie started to panic as he said "look miss elf I think you have the wrong person. I don't know what you want from this Scorpio guy, but I think you got the wrong person" the elf snorted and said "do not joke with me Scorpio. you know perfectly well that Scorpio is an organization, and you know perfectly well what we want" we? Ronnie thought, he scanned his surroundings but he couldn't see anyone. now that I think about it... he couldn't see Purssimon where is Purssimon? a new wave of panic as he scanned his surroundings frantically. "where is Purssimon? what did you do to her?" the elf studied his face with a frown and said "relax. your friend is fine. if you give us what we want peacefully no harm will come to her" he let out a sigh of relief and asked "what do you want?" her frown grew even deeper as she said "you know, that thing your boss stole. the silver crown" Ronnie stared at her blankly. she sighed and said "you're not a Scorpio, are you?" he shook his head. she sighed and yelled "BLUE YOU CAN LET HER GO" the air shimmered somewhere to his left, and suddenly Purssimon and a boy around Ronnie's age fell out of a purplish portal. purssimon yowled and hissed at the boy, who Ronnie assumed was blue. the boy had blond hair, with a small hint of greenish turquoise. he had sea-green eyes and surprisingly, he had normal ears. the elf held out her hand and said "nice to meet you, I am Aria" Ronnie shook her hand and said "nice to meet you to my name is Ronnie"


I'm a human who was born in a nation where boom shelling and body burying were commonplace. The entire day and night felt like a nightmare. My friends, relatives, and neighbours have all died. The secret boat made its way inside the flesh and blue zone. Food, water, and oxygen are in short supply. This appears to be a roller coaster ride, and the distance seemed to stretch on forever. The beautiful and pure sea waves push against the boat, making me feel alive. I haven't seen land in almost a week, and all I can think about is crying, food suffering, and the scent that surrounds my body. I had a good night's sleep, dreaming about resting my head on my mother's feet and eating home-cooked meals with delight. My family showers me with kindness, and my mother tells me stories. Everything was fine, and I was having a nice time. My brothers and sister forced me to wake up and play with us after water blasted on my face, which I was enjoying. Meanwhile, heavy, deadly rain begins to fall. People were moving and the boat was shrivelling. When I awoke and saw that we were dating in the heart of the blue water, I began screaming and shouting. A man walked over to me and helped me get up, pulling water out to save 1000 lives. A team was transformed into a group, and members of the group clasped each other's hands. We were moving into a fleshy surface as the boat sank into the sea. Perhaps a big giant wave and boat came toward us. Throwing an orangish air filled wheel for us and shouting to gap that and swim towards the boat. We have no choice and are ready to become a prison on that boat. A man dragged me upon the boat and told me to move to the middle round mark and sit. In the country of sand, food, and water, I develop as a victim and live as a slave. Assuming the role of a prisoner and living as one for the rest of my life. This journey was never going to finish. Some young people who had previously aided me offered me the opportunity to flee to Europe. Where we can live, work, and eat with justice and a respectful manner. They scrolled and slapped me when I answered yes, let's go. I screamed and argued with them, and they subsequently apologised. We broke out of prison, hid in a truck, and revised our strategy and plan. Without a car or support system, you can only get halfway. Finally, I discovered a boat that others had reserved, and I hid among them because we didn't have any extra cash to pay the human smugglers. The travel will be joyful because of the excellent people on board, but the weather was not. For the first time in my life, we travelled to meet a water cyclone, but it was a dead end. We were gone in the open blue sky and sea since the smugglers forgot the path. A weekday and night spent with an empty stomach and dry lips in the sun, surrounded by dangerous sharks. People who were eager to land and take their first steps on European soil were slaughtered as a result of the illusion. It's like a narrative, but it's based on my real-life experience of travelling with strangers and turning to friends. We all noticed an island and wanted to land there after a month without a guide, but the people who came there to enjoy the weather and fish pushed our rubber boat away and screamed at us to return. The mother of a newborn requested that we land on their territory, but they shouted and pulled our boat away. They don't want us to live among them and earn money in their country, as a matter of fact. I questioned myself, knowing that we were both humans, but that our faith was Islam. Our entire country was burning and collapsing, but they were unwilling to save our lives by giving us a shelter where humanity exists, whether the word humanity exists or not, whether human rights exist, or is it just a name? The course of events had been altered, and we were once again on the open sea, with individuals attempting to enter the country in the dead of night. We all agreed and patiently awaited our turn. We attempted to enter, but when we arrived, individuals were still waiting and performing out their obligations. Another boat approached us and sought permission to feed our babies, but they refused. We set out in search of another island where we can all land and live in peace. After a week, some of the refugees noticed a site where we were all getting ready to land and decided to look for food for the women and children. As we arrived, there was a steel wire gauze-enclosed barrier on the uphill side. There was a tsunami of refugees fighting there, and they were shelling an eye-burning boom to force the people to retreat. We were all part of the hunger strikers' gang. I've always observed that Hungary weakens men to the point that they can even eat human flesh. It was a true storey, another battle outside of our country for adopting us and providing us food and shelter instead of our hard work. For the purpose of obtaining a living among strangers, "strangers are supporting strangers." "Strangers' help for Hungarian women and children " What a life experience. Which began with violence and destruction and may finish with violence and injustice. Oh, mother, your kid is suffering, yet he is not alone. Oh, father, your boy is powerful, yet he is hungry. Because I'm injured, I'm missing my smile, dear brother and pretty sister. I'm missing you all so badly today. I was unable to find a peaceful location for myself. But, mom, all of the strangers are nice people, and one of them is holding my head up and asking for a first-aid kit. Don't be concerned; Mom I’m alright in the society of strangers, but not in the hands of devils. We all need your prayers; please pray for us to understand and learn to love the strangers who live in our midst.


The band began to play, the audience began to applaud, and the show announcer stepped to the podium and announced... "Ladies and gentlemen, he's caught more people lying than a scale at weight watchers, he's known as the human lie detector because dogs don't have any money, the host of Late Night Truth, Clarke Wooooooodddddwardddddddd!" Clarke Woodward emerges from behind a curtain as the host of "Late Night Truth," a late-night talk show in which guests answer questions from Clarke, a human lie detector. Clark walks to the center of the stage and began his monologue. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. So, unemployment is at an all-time high; it's gotten so bad that Bob the Builder is now known simply as Bob." The audience erupts in laughter. "Homelessness is also on the rise; however, half of those homeless are only musicians "between bands." The audience erupts in laughter. "Let's talk about President Fitzpatrick; he's gaining a lot of sympathy for the mess he inherited; in fact, people now wave at him with all of their fingers." The audience laughs once again. "Ah, speaking of President Fitzpatrick, since this is the 100th episode, we wanted to do something extra for you. And we definitely will not be a boring show tonight. President Fitzpatrick has offered to participate in five questions from Woodward. If you ask me, he's a brave man, and I'll give him all the credit in the world for coming on, ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, President Fitzpatrick!" The President of the United States entered the stage, accompanied by secret service agents, and took a seat next to Clarke's desk. "Welcome, Mr. President, and thank you for joining us on our 100th episode." "It's my pleasure; I wanted to show the American people that I have nothing to hide." "Well, we're going to find out." "Fire away." The President says, laughing. "Just so everyone is aware, the administration has vetted these questions to ensure complete transparency." "We don't want to reveal any State Secrets." The President says joking. "I suppose not." Clarke takes out a notecard and starts reading. "First and foremost, do aliens exist?" "As far as I know, the American government has no proof that aliens exist." "Have you seen the New York City subway system?" "Yes, but there's no proof that they're aliens. No one knows what's going on there." "Well, Mr. President, you are telling the... truth!" Clarke presses a button on his desk, causing a "truth" sign to illuminate behind them. The President nods and smiles as the audience applauds. "Question number two: who assassinated John F. Kennedy?" "Of course, it was a plot involving the Soviet Union, the CIA, and the mafia." "Are they also responsible for Jack Ruby's death?" "No, that was the Illuminati." "Sadly, Mr. President, you are... lying!" Clark presses another button on his desk, and a sign that says "lying" appears behind them. "All right, third question: why is unemployment so high?" "That is a good question; it's a combination of many reasons; we've just exited a period of high inflation, the global economy was reeling from the economic crisis last year, and businesses are being cautious with hiring until the fourth-quarter profit results come in. But we are doing a lot to improve things, such as providing rebates on certifications and education, cutting tax rates so that businesses can hire, and establishing trade agreements so that demand for US products can return to normal." "Mr. President, you are telling the... truth!" Clark presses the button that activates the "truth" sign once more. "The fourth question: there has been increased worry about the homelessness rate in the United States; why are the numbers increasing?" "This is a really serious issue; millions of Americans lack a place to live and are forced to live on the streets. Unemployment is a factor in all of this, but it extends beyond just having a job; it includes making a livable wage, single-parent households working two or more jobs, and strengthening our schools, particularly in low-income communities known as dropout factories. We are taking various steps to combat homelessness, including improving mechanisms to assist people battling addiction, reforming the school system to provide for post-graduation jobs, and ultimately, being honest with ourselves about the scope of the problem." "Mr. President, you sir are telling the... truth!" Clark presses the "truth" button on his desk once more. "OK, you're almost out of the hot seat; only one more question to go." As Clarke pulls out the next notecard, he pauses. "And now for the final question..." Clarke hesitated once more before continuing. "Who is Alexandra Guthrie?" Clarke asked in a confused manner. Clarke turned to face his producer, who shrugged. The President's handlers appear to be on the verge of storming the stage, and the President dismisses them. "Folks, I must admit that this was not the question we had planned to ask before the show. I'm not sure what's happening here; there appears to be an error." Clarke said. "This was bound to come out sooner or later. It's alright, I'll answer the question." A handful of stagehands held back the President's chief of staff as he tried to charge the stage as well. "You asked about Alexandra Guthrie, so tonight, live on the air; I will tell you the truth about her. Alexandra Guthrie was an investigative journalist who..." Just as the President was about to answer the question the power suddenly went out in the studio. Everyone was sitting in the dark. The Secret Service stormed the stage and whisked the President away to safety. "What exactly is going on here?" "What caused the power outage?" Clarke asked of his producer. "We need to talk backstage." Clarke addressed the audience before exiting the stage. "Sorry, guys; we'll get to the bottom of this, and then we'll resume the show shortly; we apologize for the inconvenience." Clarke dashed backstage to see his producer. "I guess the last question was switched out. This was huge; the President was going to broadcast breaking news live on the air, but then the power was cut." "Can you tell me where the President is now?" "He was taken to an undisclosed location by the Secret Service." "OK, keep me updated." Clarke dashed down the hallway in the dark in search of answers. He promptly took out his phone and searched for Alexandra Guthrie. She was a Washington Post investigative reporter who died of a heart attack two weeks before the election. As he got back to his dressing room, a Secret Service Agent was heard yelling from down the hall. "The president has been shot!" Clarke returned to the commotion when he was stopped by the President's chief of staff, who pulled him into his dressing room. "It doesn't look like the president will make it." "Does this have anything to do with Alexandra Guthrie? She had a story about the President, didn't she?" "That's none of your concern; the President was mistaken when he recognized her name live on air tonight." "You're lying. Was it a mistress, misappropriation of funds, or something worse?" "If I were you, I would let this go; television shows, even popular ones, get canceled all the time." "Oh, it's far worse than I thought. I can see it in your eyes: this is a story that would bring your entire political party to its knees." "Consider yourself canceled. This will be your last show." The chief of staff exited the dressing room and continued down the hallway, and Clarke followed him and shouted at him from ten feet away. "People have the name Alexandra Guthrie now; they're not going to let this go, I'm not going to let this go!" The chief of staff continued down the hallway without glancing back even once.


Take a slight right in 2 miles. Dan loved his new car. And although it wasn’t brand new, it was new to him. A 2018 Volvo sedan, “best car in its class.” However, despite being the “best” technologically at the time, Dan still used the GPS on his phone, which protruded proudly from his dash via a connector he bought from Walmart. “What the hell does ‘slight right’ mean?” Jack sat up in the back seat, his new girlfriend sliding off his shoulder like a loose sleeve. Dan heard her head hit the leather seat with a soft thud. “I know, right?” Dan said a little too loud, glad that someone was awake. He looked back and forth from the road to Jack in the rearview mirror like an eager dog wanting a treat. Sarah, Dan’s sixth-month girlfriend, hated that and watched with disdain as the man in the back woke up and Dan’s personality disappeared. Sarah had been awake the whole time, staring down at her phone and purposely ignoring Dan. “How far we got to go?” Jack’s girlfriend sat up. Dan loved hearing her voice. It was soft, but her tone was direct, as if she were really talking to just you. “About two hours. That’s if we don’t stop again for piss-breaks.” He looked tauntingly over at Sarah, only to find a middle finger floating in the air beside him. They drove on. In three-quarters of a mile, take a slight right on to interstate 419. “I think ‘slight right’ means it’s not a direct turn, y’know?” Dan explained as if he had been thinking about Jack’s question for five minutes. Sarah decided to play along and, in the same volume as Dan, she said, “I don’t know, Dan, I think a ‘slight right’ still means right, so it’s still a turn.” She watched his uncomfortable eyes dart back at Jack. Dan breathed, “Whatever, Sarah.” “Yeah, you’ll think ‘whatever’ tonight, driver boy,” she said and then made a sad face for a Snapchat picture. Dan looked at her with a frowned brow, “What’s wrong with you?” Sarah felt useless and bored and said, “Better not miss your turn, driver boy...” Turn Now. “Shit!” Dan exclaimed as he drove a little too fast into the turn, and Sarah laughed a little too loud. “Heh, heh, sorry ’bout that, guys,” Dan said. “Those ‘slight rights’ are harder than ya think, huh?” Jack’s girlfriend was fully awake and looking forward, as if watching for another turn. “They’re a riot,” Sarah said, never looking up from her phone. Stay on 419 for 93 miles. “Alright,” Dan yelled, “ninety-three miles free of the GPS bitch.” “That’s weird to say,” Jack’s girlfriend said thoughtfully. Dan was the only one who seemed to hear her. Jack was still looking out the window, imagining himself in a red truck, and Sarah was beyond his sarcasm, looking at her phone that was displaying memes of sarcasm. “Why weird?” Dan asked, actually curious, and sadly endeared because someone was listening. “I always thought of the GPS as sincere and honest. She - it is always trying to find the best route for wherever you are headed at the time.” “I guess you’re right. Never thought about it like that, never appreciated it.” Dan smiled, looking at his phone stuck to the dash where the GPS voice emerged from. “Maybe you should give it a name,” Sarah chimed in. Her voice held the sticky drip of ridicule. She had been listening. She was always listening, even when she wasn’t. Dan thought at that moment that Sarah might hate him and knew at least, she did not like him. “Vicky. Let’s call her Vicky!” Jack’s girl said eagerly from the back. “Heh, she sounds like a Vicky,” Dan said, hoping this pissed Sarah off, who did indeed smirk in disgust. In one mile turn left on Van Buren Road. Dan looked perplexed. He looked at Sarah and said, “I thought it said we were going to be on 419 for the next ninety-three miles.” “Maybe it’s a detour. Just to be safe, better take it. There might be a wreck on 419 or some construction.” “Seems like it would have considered that before.” “Unless it is a wreck and just happened.” Sarah spoke the whole time without looking up from her phone. “Vicky wouldn’t lie to us, Dan,” said Jack’s girlfriend. Dan smiled at her through the rearview. Take the next left onto Van Buren Road. “ Okay, Vicky,” Dan said jokingly. Stay on Van Buren Road for two miles. “How much farther until we hit Florida?” Jack asked from the back. “I think about an hour,” Dan said. Take a left in one mile on Irwin Street. This bothered Dan, but he refused to voice his concern again. Another left would take them away from the original route even more. Stay on Irwin Street for 22 miles. About ten miles in, Dan said, “This seems really out of the way. I mean look at these houses. This is not a main road.” “Hmm,” Sarah replied. Jack was dozing again, but his girl leaned forward and rested her face on her arms on the back of the front seat. Dan could see her round face framed by her long black hair in his peripheral vision. She smelled like soap, and it was mixed with the sweet smell of bubblegum as she breathed, “I think these side roads are interesting. It’s like glimpsing a hidden world. It’s like going back to nature.” Dan was nodding in agreement. “Whoa! Watch the road, driver boy!” Sarah put her hand on the dash as Dan slightly swerved back onto the road. Take the next left on Chapel Street. “What? By my calculations we still have about five miles on this road...” “Better listen to her, Danny-boy,” Jack croaked from the back. Turn now. “Okay,” Dan said doubtfully, and eased into the turn. Stay on Chapel Street for 1.2 miles. The road was a single lane road with no divider lines. Dan’s eyes were wide as he observed the green, Southern foliage closing in upon him. “This is exciting.” Jack’s girlfriend giggled as she nudged up under Jack’s arm like a cat. Dan could not remember the last time Sarah had done something like that. “Yeah, if you like getting lost,” Dan countered, a little beyond appreciating her enthusiasm. Take the next right on King’s Street North... Dan. “ What? Did you guys hear that? It said my name. The GPS said my name!” He plucked his phone off the dash and looked at it. He looked at Sarah. “Did you hear that?” “Yeah, take the next right,” she said. “No, it said my name! The GPS said, ‘Dan’.” He held the phone in front of her as if that would prove something. “Is Vicky talking to you directly now, Dan?” Jack’s girlfriend teased. Dan began to wonder if he just imagined the GPS saying his name and decided to drop it. You are still on the fastest route. “See there, Danny-boy, a little reassurance. Just listen to... what did you call her? Vicky?” Jack had become suddenly preoccupied with his backseat friend, so Dan did not comment. He simply drove. Turn right on King’s Street North now. Dan slowed, turned, and was surprised to find the road was unpaved. “What the hell? Where is this thing taking us? Sarah, will you double check the destination?” “I already did while you and nature girl were looking at houses,” she lied. “It’s fine. Just keep going. I’m sure this road will turn back onto blacktop soon.” Remain on King’s Street North for seven miles. The trees and undergrowth were even closer and, in some instances, brushed the side of the Volvo, making Dan cringe. After about ten minutes, Dan could not stand it anymore. He blurted out, “This can’t be right. I think the GPS has gotten us turned around somehow.” You are still on the quickest route... Dan. Everyone in the car sat up. “Did you hear it? Did you hear it that time?” Dan almost screamed. Sarah picked up Dan’s phone and looked at it inquisitively. “Do you have some weird maps app that listens to you and personalizes information?” She turned it in her hand. “No. Just maps. Came with the phone.” Dan was looking back and forth between everyone in the car and the road. He felt vindicated and relieved. Jack’s girlfriend spoke up, “Vicky, can you hear us?” Nothing. However, they all were curious to see if her experiment would work. Jack still sat at attention, looking forward. He flinched as a branch hit his side of the window, then said, “I wonder if it’s something new Google is doing. Y’know, they take all our information and use it for whatever they want.” Take the next left on Yellow Springs Road, Dan. “Man, that’s weird.” It even unnerved Sarah. Sarah, whom Dan was going to break up with when they got back from Florida. “I think we should turn around,” Dan muttered. You are still on the quickest route. Turn now. Dan obediently turned. He was surprised the road could get any narrower, but it did. A heavy silence ensued, and the Volvo rolled on down another dirt road. Turn right now. Dan turned again, thinking the road looked more like a driveway than a road. He also noted that Vicky was not listing road names anymore. No one spoke. Even the love birds in the back seat looked around as if they were on a daunting carnival ride. Stay on this road for 27 miles. Dan sighed. The trees had become increasingly close to the car and shut out the sun with a dark canopy of brown and black. Dan felt as if his vehicle were sliding down into some fathomless depth, and he could not come back to the surface. They drove on in silence. Forty minutes passed before Vicky spoke again. Take the next right. Dan slowed into the turn and again felt as if he were entering a long driveway. Eventually, they came to a bridge. Cross the bridge. He crossed a wooden bridge that spanned a rather deep creek, and everyone looked over the edge to see the water rushing beneath them. The Volvo eased off the wood with a creak and back on to the grind of the dirt road. There is a house 1000 feet ahead. This is your destination. “Okay, that’s it. We have to turn around. This is getting way too strange.” “Just keep going, man,” Jack said from the back. “Let’s see what’s ahead. You can’t turn around here anyway.” “That’s fine, but as soon as I see a spot, I’m turning around.” You are still on the quickest route, Dan. “Oh, shut the hell up, Vicky!” The house had been obscured by the trees, but soon came into view as Dan eased his car down the lane. It was a single-story unit with dirty white siding. There was a small porch on the front, flaking paint and littered with car parts and what looked like an ancient washing machine. Several chairs of different kinds were strewn about on the lawn. Some were kitchen chairs, some were lawn chairs, some were broken and in pieces. In the center of the yard, there stood a soiled, yellow kitchen table with several bottles and containers of different color resting on it. As Dan pulled up, Vicky spoke. Turn off the car and go inside the house, Dan. Dan stopped the car, but did not turn it off and, for one brief moment, thought he was getting pranked. However, he realized that no one in the car cared enough about him to go to such lengths. He looked at the others in the car, who were looking back at him. They were waiting to see what he was going to do, then advise him. “You gonna go in, man?” Jack’s voice was quiet. “I’m going to try and turn around and back-track our route. That’s what I’m going to do.” Dan felt shocked at Jack for even asking. “At least go in. I mean Vicky said to go in,” Sarah said, looking at the house. “Are you nuts? That could be a murder house. Why the hell would I go in?” Sarah retorted, “I doubt maps would be allowed to take you someplace that would do you harm. I think it will be fine.” From the back, Jack’s girlfriend blatantly said, “Hell, I’ll go in.” “Wait!” was all Dan could say before she was out of the car, a hot breath of air rushing in to take her place. Once outside, she stretched and let out a long squeal. “God, it feels good to stand!” “Jack, stop her, man!” Dan pleaded. “Dude, she’ll be fine,” Jack said, not moving from his seat. “The GPS said to go in.” Sarah was on her phone, and said, “Did you know sometimes bees sting other bees?” She then proceeded to take a Snapchat picture of herself fake laughing at the random fact. Dan shook his head in disbelief, and wanted to ask Sarah again, “What’s wrong with you?” But he knew the reason for his alarm would not register. He opened his door and stood by the sedan with his hand on the hood. “You need to come back to the car!” he yelled, but she was already on the porch. Randomly, she picked up what looked like a metal box from the top of the old washer, and screws and nails fell out at her sandaled feet. She looked back at the car, shrugged her shoulders and laughed, then put the box back. They all watched as she knocked on the door, her jean cut-offs just high enough to see the bend in her cheeks as she stood on her tiptoes to look through the door’s high window. She knocked again and then tried the doorknob. It opened. She looked back and waved with a smile, then walked in. “What the hell!” Dan felt helpless and walked toward the house, but then came back and sat down in the car. He left his door open, and that was how they heard the scream. All three passengers in the car looked at the house, but did not move. “Oh shit. Jack. Did you hear that, Jack?” Dan’s voice was a careful whisper, as if awaiting another scream. Jack did not say anything. Sarah was holding her phone up, recording the front of the house where nothing was happening. “Jack, you gotta go get her, man. Go see if she’s okay.” “I’m not going in there!” Jack said defensively. “She’s your girlfriend!” “She’s not my girlfriend. I just met her. She got in the car when you guys picked me up at Fort Hood.” “She’s your girlfriend. You two have been fooling around all the way here.” “Dude, she came on to me. I thought she was with you guys.” Jack always said “dude” when he was serious, as if it made him sound more sincere or credible. Dan decided he did not like it. “We thought she was with you.” Dan tried to think, tried to remember when she got into the car. It was just before Jack got in the car. “Dude, I don’t even know her name.” I know her name. Dan grabbed his phone from its perch on the dash and turned it off. He looked at Sarah, but she was on her phone again. Dan could not imagine what she was looking at. She looked up and saw his outraged countenance and angrily responded, “I was looking to see if there were any strange murders in this part of the state.” “And what part of the state are we in, Sarah? Where the hell are we?” Dan closed his door and put the car in reverse. “I don’t know what part of the state we are in, Dan. You turned off your maps!” He stopped the car and seriously imagined opening her door and putting his foot against her hip and pushing her out. Instead, he finished turning and headed out of the drive with a little more gusto than he drove in with, eventually crossing the bridge. None of them looked over the edge this time. He did not worry about the trees brushing against his car or the wide narrow creek as he splashed through it. Once on the blacktop again, it seemed like only moments before they were back on 419. After driving on the main road for a while, Dan pulled over at a diner, took Sarah’s phone out of her hand, and called the police. Sadly, as they sat there in the parking lot of the restaurant, Dan and his cohorts could not give the police the girl’s name, only a description. Jack and Sarah only shrugged at questions when Dan asked for help remembering something. Dan finally got out of the car and leaned back against his Volvo as cars whizzed by. The lack of details surprised the official, and Dan’s entourage was asked to come into the local precinct to make a statement, but honestly, even Dan was afraid to go. Instead, he hung up in frustration, and they all walked into the roadside dive, aptly named Debbie’s Diner. Later, when he crossed into the Everglade State, Dan was glad that Jack and Sarah were not with him. He left them at the diner, sitting there in a booth, looking down at their drinks. Dead to him. In the fading light, as Dan drove down a long stretch of wide Florida road lined with indifferent palm trees, his phone came on by itself. He had put it back on its perch, and now watched it curiously as twilight made the sky pink in front of him. He calmly said, “Vicky?” Yes, Dan?


The door slammed open against the hearth to admit the princess. She was angry enough that the snow seemed to steam off her swaddled head. "The frogs have got to stop," she said by way of introduction, peeling back the layers of dull cloth she had used to conceal her identity. They did nothing to hide her regal bearing. The crone leaned back in her seat, eyes closing. "I can't imagine I know what you are talking about." "Don't give me that, witch. You and I both know that curses in the kingdom are up 600% this quarter, and almost exclusively frog transformations." "Sounds like quite a bother. But I'm not sure what your problem has to do with me." Princess Melba dropped the pile of drapery and rags on the table before whirling to fix the withered woman with an exasperated stare. In the cramped space of the cottage, she felt as if she were towering over the woman. "Do you know just how many frogs I have kissed this week?" she began. When there was no answer, she responded, each syllable punctuated with a sharp stomp of her foot. "Sixteen." The woman in the chair raised an eyebrow but kept her eyes closed. Melba rolled hers. "And do you know what? Each one said the witch told them the same. 'Only a princess's kiss can break the spell.'" "That does sound rather unpleasant, I'm sure," said the woman, turning her head as if to resume her interrupted nap. "Come now, we both know you are loving this. Can you please stop with the frogs?" The witch's eyes snapped open, the look of polite disinterest replaced with a humble smile. "Well, I'm sure whoever it is has your best interests at heart." "Best interests? I've got the court physicians putting together poultices at all hours to prevent me catching some disease. Plus, half of the frog men refuse to leave the castle. They are convinced we must be destined for one another since my kiss broke the curse!" "How can you be so sure one of them isn't your true love?" The woman rose from her seat and shuffled toward the fire, pulling a kettle from the hook. She began to make her way back to the table. Melba snorted and shook her head. "There are no true loves for me there," she said. "Regardless, most of them are preparing to duel to the death, so I'm sure that problem will take care of itself soon. Then I'll only have one dense, obsessed, and murderous suitor to contend with." The aggrieved regent crossed her arms and turned away from the offered cup of tea. The old woman shrugged and took a sip herself, moving toward a stack of cakes on the end of the table. "Why the frogs?" asked the princess, dropping her arms and her anger long enough to make a convincing plea. The woman stopped her walking and huffed. "Well, I can't believe you would be so ungrateful. What godmother would not try to help her charge find true love? They keep you locked into that castle all the time in 'advisor's meetings' and 'council sessions.' I thought you would be pleased to have the eligible bachelors come to you. Besides, aren't they handsome?" The woman paused, a puzzled look on her face. Most of the men had looked objectively better as frogs, Melba thought to herself. "Godmother, I--" Her mind reeled with dozens of sane, logical rebuttals. "I can handle my own love life," she said, convinced it was both the best argument and wholly untrue. Her godmother lifted one of the thin, yellow cakes to her lips and bit down, chewing sardonically. "Well, you're twenty-two and the last of your siblings to be married. I think we'd all agree you could use some help." Crumbs tumbled out of her mouth as she spoke, dropping to her chest before scattering on the floor. "Exactly, there are plenty of heirs already. I am in no hurry." "Well, you aren't, but some of us aren't getting any younger. What kind of fairy godmother would I be if I didn't make sure you were well established before my tragic departure?" Melba bit back the words. The precise kind of godmother granted to the youngest in a stable of princes and princesses. The bottom of the barrel had looked passable at first. "Your current legacy is of creating a plague of frogs while also decimating the eligible stock of middle and upper-class men." Her godmother kept her back turned, now puttering away at something on the counter. She hummed an out-of-key lullaby and shoved aside knickknacks and assorted clutter. "Good thing there is a princess to solve these problems. Simply kiss the frogs and pick a prince!" "I don't even like men!" Melba finally exclaimed, letting go of one final secret. The crone stopped her humming and her moving, appearing for one elongated moment to weigh this new information. Melba began gathering her things. Everyone had told her this was a hopeless request. She accepted her defeat and resigned herself to a life of kissing the never-ending tide of frogs. Once all the cogs finally turned in place, the godmother began shuffling about the kitchen again, nodding in a self-satisfied way. It was, after all, a simple solution. "Very well. I'll turn the women into frogs then if that's what you'd like." The door thundered on its hinges as Melba stormed out, not bothering to redon her disguise.


Coming back to DC was something I never thought I’d do. I grew up hearing the stories: how it used to be the capital, about the surprise attack, and the remnants that remained. In fact, even being this far up the coast was unnerving. After eighty years, nothing seemed like it’d gotten back to normal or that it ever would. It was as if the whole eastern seaboard retreated inland when DC was lit up. The only people who lived here now were the ones who were changed. The van slowed to a stop. The driver, a muscular man sporting jet black aviators, an earpiece, and a pistol turned to me and my chief of staff, Aaron, in the back. “We’re here. Make sure your suits are fastened tight.” I turned to Aaron. “You ever worn one of these things before?” “Yeah, once,” Aaron said, “Make sure it’s snug.” Aaron pulled the zipper of his nanotryte suit up to the top of his neck and then clasped the four buttons at the top to keep the zipper in place. He then placed the reflective helmet on top of his head. I followed suit. We hopped out of the van and made our way up to the driver who was about a hundred feet ahead of us. “This is as far as we can go. Any closer and not even these suits would protect you,” the driver said, staring straight ahead at the ruins. “What’s your name?” I asked, eyeing him awkwardly. “A-549d3k” “That’s not--don’t you have a human name?” I said. The driver didn’t answer. He looked down at his feet as if contemplating whether he remembered his name at all. “Fred. My name is Fred,” he said finally. I nodded turning away from Fred and out towards the ruins of the White House. Smoke rose from the rubble as if the building still smoldered some eighty years later. My mind ventured to church as it often did. There was always talk growing up of judgment day and how the sinners would be the ones left behind. The Pastor would yell and scream and wail and raise his fists. I used to marvel at it. It was a special kind of theater. Now, I thought what if judgment day had already passed. “This whole place is a wasteland,” Aaron said, surveying withered husks of apartment complexes that dotted the edges of what was left of the National Mall. The stump of the Washington Monument poked out like a nub, the rest of it either obliterated in the blast or lost in the piles of rock that surrounded it. Aaron turned and put a hand on my shoulder pulling me in close, “I’m gonna go back to the car and make some calls. We should head out in fifteen to make it to the ANCF event on time.” As I took one last look at the remains of the nation’s former capital, I debated whether or not to blow the ANCF thing off. The Association of Non-Denominational Churches in Friendship’s annual gala was being held tomorrow and I was invited. In reality, it was just some podunk association of mega-churches that wanted to interview me and give me an award. I was the one who had convinced Aaron to leave a bit earlier so we could make this detour into the heart of DC. I turned to Fred and asked, ‘You have family around here?” I looked straight at him, his face motionless betraying nothing. He shifted slightly and said, “Uhhh, yeah, down by Georgetown.” “How are they?” “Fine.” “Good,” I said. \-- *“Welcome back, everyone! I believe we are now going live to Olivia Fields, who’s on the ground in Charleston where the protests are raging. How many Scarred would say are out protesting tod--”* The signal cut out as the TV screen turned to noise. I wasn’t surprised. It’s a miracle these small towns got any connectivity at all with how thick the cloud cover had gotten these days. I surveyed the green room in which I was now situated. A bank of TVs to my left showed a three-camera live feed to the auditorium where Jake Hannible was giving his monologue dutifully reminding the attendees about the offering plate that would make its rounds later. A lanky man in a button-down shirt that was two sizes too big monitored the feed, flicking a button every once in a while, but mostly just dozing in and out of sleep. “Jim? Jim Pennywalker?” A petite woman with a small clipboard and an ear mic stood at the door to the green room. I raised my hand in a brief acknowledgment of my presence and then walked over to her. “Am I up?” I asked. “Yep, you’ll be on in three minutes. Follow me backstage. You’ll be coming on stage right. Shake Jake’s hand. Pause for a few shots. Take the award and then sit on the couch. Jake will ask you a few questions and then you’ll leave. Got it?” I nodded, eminently sure that I’d forgotten every word she’d said. I had been to a few of these things over the years, though, so I wasn’t too worried. I walked onstage and spotted Jake, offering a handshake. His palm felt clammy to the touch. I looked at him. He had the expression one has when they are physically in the moment but mentally had checked out hours ago. As the audience cheered and several photographers snapped away, we meandered over to a pair of chairs situated behind us. “Welcome Jim, thank you for coming all this way. I know West Virginia is a bit of a trek for someone from Florida. How was the trip up here?” “Thanks,” I said, “I am so glad to be here and accept this honor. The trip up was fine. One I’ve made a few times over the years.” “Take any stops along the way?” Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly. I felt like a monkey in a cage being leered at by knowing scientists. “Yeah, we made a few.” “Did you stop in DC?” “Uhh, yeah we did a brief detour there. I’ve always wanted to see the remains of the White House. My mother used to talk about it all the time. “ “Ah yes, again we all were sorry to hear about Mildred’s passing. We were praying for you,” Jake said. “Thank you.” Jake paused, his eyes shifting off into the distance as if mulling in his mind the phrasing of his next question. “Jim, it does seem odd to me that a member of the Risen Savior Alliance would venture so far into Scarred territory.” “All I did was visit a monument. Nothing more,” I shot back. Jake’s narrowed again, but then in a flash that look was replaced with a smile. “Well Jim, as I said, it’s been an honor. Thanks again for coming and stay safe out there,” Jake said putting out his hand again. I took it and then made my way off stage, mumbling an incoherent thank you as I went. I rode back to the hotel in silence, turning my conversation with Jake over and over in my mind. Aaron was on his phone next to me organizing the schedule for the rest of the trip and Fred was upfront driving the van. “Tomorrow morning, we’re scheduled to have lunch with Bobby at 12:30 so we got to make sure we’re up early,” Aaron said, not looking up from his phone, “Fred, could you make sure to have the car running by 9:30?” “You got it,” he said. “How many more stops we got?” I asked, leaning over to Aaron. “Well, we’re meeting with Bobby tomorrow and then the Secretary’s dinner in Columbus the following day,” Aaron responded still not looking up from his phone. “How important is it that I go to that?” Aaron looked at me with a thinly veiled smile that was some sort of mixture between shock and horror. “You told me yourself this whole trip wasn’t just to accept some tacky award, right? It was to feel it out. Take the temperature. This is how we do that?” He whispered. I looked at Aaron for a while and then leaned back in my chair. “Yeah, you’re right, you’re right. Sounds good.” I turned my head and stared out the window, my mind fluttering longly towards the wet rolling marsh grass of Summitville and how I couldn’t remember what possessed me to take this trip in the first place. \-- Bobby was thirty minutes late to the meeting. As the West Virginia Head of the Patriots Party, he was a busy man. I heard a loud bang and turned my head to the entrance of the restaurant near the hostess stand. There he was in all his slovenly entitlement. I never liked Bobby. He waved to me. I nodded and turned back towards the table taking a sip of lukewarm coffee and nibbling on a bit of egg. Bobby waddled over. I was afraid he might tip over if he went too fast. As he passed by me to sit in the chair opposite me, he laid one of those hands on my shoulder that said I’m sorry to hear your mother passed, but I only learned that fact today and not two months ago at the funeral. I smiled, not willing to get pulled in. Bobby still had some crumbs from a previous meal taking up residence in his beard. Couple that with the rancid alcohol that was on his breath, and it took everything in me to not get up and leave. “Jimmm.” Bobby hung onto the “m” as if his mouth was permanently stuck in that position. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother, Jim,” he finished. “Thanks,” I said tersely. Bobby shuffled into his seat and flagged down the waitress, barking his order of scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits and gravy as she made her way over. It had been a while since I’d been up north but Bobby was a blatant reminder of why I had stayed away for so long. His was a legacy of failing upward into vital positions of power. “So Bobby, I’m sure you know why--“ “You’re looking to run, no?” Bobby grunted in between bites of egg and bacon. “Yes.” “Not gonna happen,” he said. “Wait, what do you mean? I’m running,” I responded. “You’re too moderate Jim. People are worried you’re too soft.” “Bobby, I head one of the largest parishes in Florida. What do you mean?” One of Bobby’s eyes twitched slightly. I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead from a heart attack in two years. “Ever since Mildred started to go downhill, people got worried. She said some things. And then the incident with Cato? Jim, it’s just not your time yet. Wait a couple more years. We’ll take you off the bench then.” My face felt hot. I would be lying if I didn’t say there was a small part of me that wanted to reach across the table and strangle Bobby in the chair where he sat. “Is this coming from you, or--?” “Straight from Chicago. We’ve already chosen our guy,” Bobby shot back. “Who?” “Vince Bakersfie-- “Vince?” “Jim, lower your voice. It’s done. Now we expect you to throw your support behind him,” Bobby said with a thin toothy grin, “For the good of the party.” I didn’t say anything. I got out my wallet, laid a couple of bills on the table, and left. \-- “You’re the guy who wrote that op-ed?” I looked around the bar to see who recognized me. A few washed-up bikers talked amicably at the far end of the bar and a middle-aged woman chain-smoked cigs at a table in the back. Besides them, the place was dead. I turned back in my chair only to come face to face with a brown-haired, bespeckled young man sitting next to me, too close for comfort. I nearly fell out of my chair in surprise. “Jesus Christ, what do you want? And back up a bit would ya?” I said, doing my best to keep my balance and not make a fool of myself. “Apologies, it’s just not every day we get someone of your caliber in our town’s bar. I thought preachers weren’t allowed to touch the stuff,” the man said, speaking quickly and gesticulating wildly with his arms as if he was a character in a sitcom. “If you could please, just leave me alone. Let me be. Thanks!” I responded, motioning to the bartender for another drink in the hopes of registering clearly my dismissiveness of this conversation. The man didn’t take a hint. “Who writes an op-ed denouncing anti-abortion laws and still manages to keep his job as a preacher?” the man asked. I shrugged in response. I couldn’t help but feel like I was under interrogation. “Look, I don’t even know who you are. Please stop harassing me or else I’m going to call the cop--“ I said. The man raised his hands in surrender, pausing for a moment as if trying to decide whether or not I was worth further conversation. “Forgive me,” he said, “my name is Stevie Marriot. I’m a consultant for DMA.” I nearly spit out half my drink. “DMA? What brings you guys here? To West Virginia” “We want you to run,” Stevie responded, far less animated and energetic, making me think his earlier schtick was an act. “Me? Run for president? Are you nuts?” I said, waving the bartender over again in the hopes of getting rid of this looney toon for good. “Here’s my card. If you decide to run give me a call,” Stevie said in a low voice, placing a card on the table in front of me. It said “S. Marriot, DMA.” I flipped it over and all that was on it was a phone number. “Is there a problem here, sir?” I looked up and the bartender, a burly man with thin eyes and a large forehead, was staring at me. “Umm, no sir,” I said, “My friend--“ I turned to the chair next to me only to find Stevie gone. I turned back to the bartender. “Uhh, nothing. Nothing’s wrong. All good here, man. Thanks!” I mumbled. The bartender frowned and lumbered away. I just sat there staring at the card. It was gold on one side and black on the other. \-- “The Democratic Martyrs of America want to draft you as president?” Aaron said, pacing around our hotel room. The question hung in the air, each word inviting the dissent and dissection. Aaron struggled to hide his adverse opinion of the idea. Next to him was Fred, my driver, and Rebekah, my communications director. I looked at everyone individually trying to get the best read I could or at least any read at all. I knew the DMA was problematic. They’d been practically non-operational for almost eighty years and for me to happen upon a supposed member in a random bar in West Virginia felt strange. “Well there’s no harm in calling the number,” Rebekah chimed in. She sat gracefully, cross-legged on the floor next to Fred who was leaning comfortably against a wall. A framed pastel painting of a beach house hung beside him. Stevie’s business card sat on the bedside table next to me. I grabbed it, turning it over and over in my hand. It had some heft to it and the phone number was indented, contrasting nicely with the solid gold textured background of the card. “It would certainly grab Bobby’s attention,” I said to no one in particular. The room was quiet in response. Fred looked deep in thought. Rebekah was fiddling with one of her shoelaces and Aaron was deep in his phone. “Thanks, everyone! Can I have the room?” Aaron said, still not looking up from his phone. Rebekah gave Aaron an annoyed side-eye glance and then sauntered out. Fred followed. Aaron moved to a chair directly across from me and breathed in deep as if mentally preparing himself for what he was about to say. “You can’t do this. It would ruin your credibility if it went sideways, and it’s likely to go sideways because all we have to go on is a business card from a creep in a bar. This could easily be a plant from one of the lesser parties -- maybe, Climate or Freedom? -- Point is this is too much of a risk? You do this and your career is over. I know the meeting with Bobby didn’t go as planned, but you wait for just two, maybe four years, and you could easily run for a major--“ “Aaron, relax. I was just curious. That’s all. I’m not gonna do it,” I said. Aaron let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said, kneeling down next to me, “And look like I said, a few more years you’ll get approval to run for a serious office, I’ll make sure of it.” I nodded. Aaron got up, grabbed his phone, and left. A moment later he poked his head back in and said, “Oh, and Mildred would be proud of you.” I nodded again, unsure of how to respond, still turning the business card in my hand. Aaron took one last look and then darted out. I set the business card back on the table. Looking at my watch, it read midnight so I quickly changed into more comfortable pajamas and brushed my teeth. Turning out the lights, I laid face up on the bed with my legs hanging off the end. I felt unsatisfied. This trip hadn’t gone the way I’d hoped and there wasn’t much to be done. The political winds had spoken.


Derek C. The Stack The snow dampened the world. It crunched beneath our feet as we slipped down the path. All was quiet except for our voices. We stumbled to the barn. I felt out of place, oddly gazing at the hay as if it was a masterpiece. The starlings bathing in the dust and pecking at insects flew off as we walked to the back. I climbed onto a stack of hay and she pulled out her camera. She stared through it and fiddled with the knobs. “Look that way,” she said waving her hand around. I sat still atop this mountain I had conquered and looked out. I heard a giggle and a click. She dropped the camera and her eyes met up with mine. I smiled and said “Why don’t you get one from up here?” She shrugged, went to the ladder and soon we were on top of the world. We sat and talked, my hand in hers. As the day ticked on the birds came back. One at first cautiously darting it’s head this way and that to see if the loud creatures had left. A few more came to join it. Soon we were watching the dozen or so starlings peck at the ground and dusting their feathers in the dirt. I looked at her. She sat there beside me with a smile permanently plastered onto her face. I looked out to the world. The smell of hay filled the air. Snow drifted slowly down though we were sheltered under the roof. The birds danced and tweeted. The tattered ends of ropes holding bales or tarps danced with the wind yet the trees remained still. The world turned yet it felt as if we stayed still. I felt her gaze on my face and I looked back to her. There she was. Right here. She could’ve been anywhere right now but she had chosen here. It amazed me. A shiver ran down my back as much from the excitement as from the cold. With that I started stammering, my mind losing it’s control. “Do-d-do you want to kiss?” She took a short breath, “Maybe...” The way it rolled off her tongue was odd. Not bad by any means just in a tone I’d never heard anyone give their words. I smiled and closed my eyes as did she. There we sat. Atop the hay bales in the back of a barn. Snow falling and birds chirping as if we were in a movie. I sat there taking in the moment. I took in the smells, the sounds, the world, and her head in my shoulder and arms around me. Then I heard it. Those three sacred words. Again I stammered but I managed to get them out. My heart beat its way out of my chest. Then the gentle swoosh of the wind took over again. “So that’s what butterflies feels like.” She said with her cheeks red from the rush and the cold. It took me a moment to process the line. Something about it sat in my head and wouldn’t move. It had power behind. I smiled ear to ear and pulled her in close to steal her warmth. The snow dampened the world around us as we sat. Content in each others presence while the world ticked on.


Logline: A woman struggles with a car accident that killed a young woman, she can finally put it behind her but first has to meet the young woman's mother. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Savannah Appleton was stressed out, her daughter, Beth, was sick, her son, Jackson, was not doing what she told him to do, and her husband, Jack, broke the dishwasher. He was unable to repair it himself, and as a result, the kitchen was flooded. She's had better days. "You know, I told you to find someone to fix that, but you just had to fix it yourself," said Savannah. "Yeah, it looks worse than it really is, it just looks like a lot of water because it’s spread all over the place. Unless you block it from going to the living room, it's going to make the carpet wet," Jack says. Savannah begins placing paper towels on the border between the kitchen and the living room, soaking right through the carpet. "Great, now we're going to have to replace the carpets after this, this is completely insane," Savannah says. The dog starts barking outside, "The dog is still outside! Jackson!" Savannah shouts. "What?" Jackson yells from his bedroom over the sound of his video game. "Ten minutes ago, I asked you to take the dog in, he's going to get off the leash again," Savannah says. "I'm going to get to that in a sec," Jackson says. Meanwhile, the situation with Jack and the dishwasher has gone from bad to worse; now, water is pouring out of the sink as well. "I can't do this anymore, I have to meet our tax advisor at three," Savannah says, giving up the paper towel remedy, and letting the water right through to the carpet. Jack puts his hands up in a rage, "There you go, just let the water into the rug, that's a great job," Jack says sarcastically. Savannah starts walking to the door, as Beth comes out of her bedroom, "What is going on here?" Beth says that she takes two steps towards the kitchen, smelled the dirty water, and proceeded to vomit on the floor, mixing the dirty water with her vomit. "You really couldn't make it to the bathroom, I'm out of here, I'm going to be sick," Savannah says in desperation. Savannah begins leaving the house; she sees their dog running away with a leash still attached to its collar. She offered up a little chase, but the dog got away, and she gave up on that, too. "Not my problem," Savannah says, having given up entirely on this day. While driving along a wooded rural road, Savannah starts to cry, frustrated by all the bad things that are going on today, her children, her husband and that stupid dishwasher, and that damn dog. She's in a trance, driven this commute a thousand times in her life. The road is about to narrow, and she slows down a little, tears streaming down her face making it hard to see, out of the blue, a car heading in the opposite direction has to swerve and hit a tree. Savannah gets out of the car quickly, runs over to the other car, the driver, a woman in her twenties, hit her head pretty hard on the steering wheel, and she was bleeding. Savannah took her phone out and called 911. "Hey, can you hear me, my God," Savannah says to herself. She taps the girl's shoulder through the shattered driver's side window; her head falls awkwardly. Savannah knows that this girl has broken her neck; she's dead. Savannah's gasping for air; she's in a panic attack. What did she do? Her foolish crying killed this girl. The paramedics came, it doesn't look good, the young girl wasn't breathing. Savannah feels guilty and accompanies the ambulance to the emergency room where the girl is pronounced dead. She's in shock; she sees the girl's mother running into the emergency room, weeping, hearing the news, nurses have to catch her or else she'd collapse. Savannah can't bear it any longer and left the hospital. She's a mess when she comes home. She steps into a house that's an inch deep in water, bits of vomit still visible through the floodwaters and a dog leash that hasn't returned yet. She doesn't care, Savannah lies on the couch, and just looks ahead, she's inconsolable. "What's wrong?" Jack asks. Savannah is not responsive. Eventually, she tells them about the crash, and they're trying to comfort her, but she can't stop crying. Later that night, they watch the news, the car crash is the lead story, at the end of the story they say, "Sadly, the 24-year-old, Alexandra Morgan, died of injuries sustained by the crash, a young life cut short." They show an image of this beautiful girl laughing, and Savannah can't take it, she goes to the bedroom and cries herself to sleep. Savannah attends the funeral anonymously, visiting from afar. She didn't want to see the girl's mother, so she left the funeral when it was halfway through. A month passes by; Savannah refuses to drive a car, sees a therapist twice a week, and is haunted by the belief that she is responsible for the death of Alexandra. Her family does all they can to try to help her get through this accident; Savannah just sinks further into depression. During the middle of the night, Jack wakes up and finds that Savannah is gone. He gets up to find her and locates her in her car, with the engine running in the garage. Savannah is trying to kill herself. Jack sits in the passenger seat and turns the engine off and consoles her. "We'll call your therapist in the morning," Jack says as Savannah nods her head. She starts to take part in therapy three days a week and begins to feel better. Savannah is finally able to get out of her depression. When she's ready, her therapist suggests that she put the accident behind her, go and visit Alexandra's mother, and offer her condolences. Savannah goes to meet with Alexandra's mother. She rings the doorbell, and Mary, the mother, responds. She invites her in, and they have tea, Savannah keeps it together, "I just want to say how profoundly sorry I am, I was at all the memorials, she was a great girl with a lot of friends," Savannah says. "Thank you; I appreciate you saying that it's been a tough couple of months," Mary says. Savannah gets a glimpse of the family photo on the fireplace, that's enough to set her off, she starts weeping, shaking her head, Mary takes control of the situation and holds her close. "Now, let's put it in the past," Mary says. "It's all my fault, this beautiful girl, taken so unexpectedly, I can't sleep nights, I don't want to live any longer," Savannah says. "Now, stop that right now, that doesn't do anyone any good. Alexandra was a beautiful young girl, but she was troubled," Mary says, Savannah stops and pulls away. "What do you mean by that?" Savannah asks. "We kept this out of the press, but Alexandra had attempted suicide once before the accident; in truth, it was just a few days before the accident," Mary says. "You don't think?" Savannah asks. Mary shakes her head and starts to weep. Alexandra stares at her phone, staring at a text, it's a week old now, but the pain is fresh. "I think we should see other people." from her former boyfriend, Aaron. Alexandra throws her phone and it hits the wall, leaving a dent. Mary pops her head in the room, "Is everything alright?" Mary asks. "Please leave me alone, nothing in life will ever work out," Alexandra says. "You need to stop this talk, what did the doctor say, concentrate on getting better, concentrate on the future," Mary replied. "I'm done with all this nonsense," Alexandra says as she gets up. "Give me the keys to my car!" Alexandra screamed. "No, you know what the doctor said, you just need to stay at home and get better," Mary says. "I'm a prisoner in this house, I need to get out, I'm going nuts!" Alexandra says as she storms out of the room, followed by Mary. Alexandra goes to the dining room where she takes the tea kettle from on top of the fireplace and empties it on the dining room table. Rummaging through a bunch of keys, she eventually finds the keys to her car. "No, no, if you're going anywhere, I'm going to drive you," Mary says as she pulls her back into the house and tries to take the keys. Alexandra pushes her mom away. "Sorry, Mom," she says as she turns out the front door. Mary opens the door again, " I love..." Mary attempts to say, but Alexandra has already taken off. Alexandra drives down the wooded and rural road; the radio is on, it's distracting, so she turns it off. Tears are running down her face; Alexandra closes her eyes. There is a narrow part of the road coming up. Her car is in the middle, but Alexandra's eyes are closed and she can't see the turn, her car begins to drift, misses Savannah's car entirely, and hit the tree.


Rooney wakes up before he does and he steps out of his tidy bed immediately as if he has a life to save while desperately trying to save his own from himself. He slept the whole night dressed in a suit in one position. He takes a deep breath, not out of excitement but by being struck by unknown, unfamiliar panic as he had to go to his final trial in the court that uneventful morning. He calls an Uber and as the car runs down the road with in-between traffic, he wants all the things that are traumatic to happen to him. He counts the money to pay the Uber driver before he is about to reach the court, he pays him fast as they reach and runs to the nearest place he can find a cigarette and a drink. He got there early for that sole purpose. He looks at the time to see how much time he has left before the trial starts, it was two hours. He is relieved, he takes a sip directly out of the bottle to subdue the guilt just for a little while as he was aware it will come back. He was guilty of running a car over an eleven-year-old kid and fleeing the scene of the accident. Few days weeks later, he met the parents and what he saw in his eyes was something he was unfamiliar with, the look in their eyes was as if they were looking at someone whose death can only let him live though in pain but just enough to be bearable. The trial starts and the opposing counsel calls him up on the stand and asks him after he takes an oath that if he is guilty. He gets nervous, he has a cloudy flashback of what happened that night, he feels guilty but at exactly that same moment, he wants to hide the most despicable reprehensible act he has committed, also the survival instinct of an animal plays a factor in making him choose to plead not guilty. After the opposing counsel hears what he said, he immediately throws the light on the evidence he hid until he has his words on record. He shows the tape of recording capture by the state’s camera and it clearly proved that he was guilty. The judge sentenced him to death. The reasons were his intoxication while driving on a street that had no prior records of an accident in a seriously long time and the heavier reason for killing an eleven-year-old. Don’t they say smaller coffins are heavier? Rooney closes his eyes and feels an unforeseen satisfaction, he says to himself he deserved it. He thinks a life with knowing what he did is worse than death. He thanks the court. It was a day when the truth was seen, justice somehow prevailed without much struggle, and the entire world titled just a tiny bit, a little to the side of the good.