A caressing spring breeze carried the sweet aroma of the short-lived wisteria bloom through the garden patio in soft wafts, mingling with the scents of lavender and thyme and rose petal. Hummingbirds zipped in and out, flashing their red or blue or green bellies. The buzz of their tiny wings passing in loping drones over the distant laughter of children playing in the park. I sat in the cool dappled shade of the great oak, taking in deep breaths of the perfect spring day. The cubes in my iced tea tinkled against the glass like frozen raindrops as I sipped. “Aaaaaahh!” I raised an eyebrow and turned an ear when I heard the child shriek with rage from the other side of the fence. She sounded like she was about four or five. The guardian sounded like either a young mother or an older babysitter. The child wailed; I could almost hear her fists beating against her guardian. “Give it to me! Give it to me,” the kid screamed and wailed again. “I don’t know what to tell you, honey.” “Give it to me!” the child's wail turned to a high-pitched peal. “I don’t have it,” the guardian calmy assured. The child screamed again. “You’re lying!” “I promise. I’m not lying.” “Yes, you are! Give me forty million dollars!” The guardian wasn’t chuckling, exactly. But I could hear her smile. “I don’t have forty million dollars.” A shriek of frustration. “Give me forty million dollars!” “Why do you think I have forty million dollars?” “Give me forty million dollars!” This time the guardian couldn’t help but chuckle, fueling the child’s rage. “Why do you need forty million dollars?” The child answered between choking sobs. “I have... to buy... things.” The guardian laughed. “What do you have to buy?” “I have to buy movies.” “What if I buy you a movie?” The child audibly shuddered as she let the last of her cries subside. “O... k...” I finally let out a laugh. I had been holding it in even though there was no way anyone would have heard me over the child’s screams. I don’t know if the guardian heard me or not, but she laughed as well. Martha and I sat in the den that evening, laughing for the half-a-dozenth time since I had told her the story of the forty-million-dollar kid. She snorted, slapped her knee and shook her head. “Where do you think she even heard the phrase forty million dollars ?” “Probably from her parents.” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, yeah? Think we’ve got a lot of multi-millionaires in the neighborhood?” I shrugged and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, probably not. it's a good number, though.” “Maybe her babysitter really did have forty million dollars.” “I hear it’s a lucrative gig.” I turned to her. “You used to babysit. What did you get, two million a kid? Little more?” She snorted again and slapped at the air, only because I was out of reach and put on her little playful smile that I loved so much, her adorable dimples deepening “That was a long time ago. We didn’t get quite that much.” We chuckled together. “Who knows where she heard it. My guess is she heard it in a movie.” I flashed her my own signature smirk. “She sounded like a real cinephile.” We shared another laugh before turning our attention to the muted TV. Credits were scrolling across the screen, Martha’s cue to retire to the boudoir, and her novel, for the night. She took a deep breath, “Well, alright,” and pushed herself up out of her seat. “Guess I’m retiring for the night.” She bent, kissed me on the forehead, and came away with a stern glance. “Don’t stay up all night, Ok?” I grumbled and waved her away. “I know. I know.” “I’ll tell you what I know; the last time you fell asleep in the den you complained about the crick in your neck for a week.” I gave her the old one-eyed squint that said, Go to bed already . “Ok. I’m just going to watch a little news and I’ll be right up behind you.” She harrumphed and narrowed a dubious appraisal on me before giving my bald head a final tousle as she left. I watched her go. Smiling as her much-heavier-than-the-day-we-were-married derriere swayed back and forth as she shuffled away. I didn’t know how it was possible, but I somehow loved her even more today than I ever had. How did I get so lucky? I picked up the remote and unmuted the TV just in time to catch the dramatic opening theme of the nightly news. Red, white and blue graphics flashed across the screen, brighter than the anchor’s smiles as they were introduced. A mission statement from the local news team. I pushed myself out of my seat with a groan and meandered into the kitchen. I drank a beer as I slapped a quick sandwich together as quietly as I could. I grabbed another pop as I headed back into the den, the news droning. I slumped into my seat, slugged back a sip of suds and chomped a big bite of my sandwich. I leaned back and turned the volume up. ... We’re asking all residents of Jack London Park to stay indoors. Again, both suspects are presumed armed and dangerous. If you see either suspect contact the authorities immediately. I eyed the sketches. They weren’t great. “You're never going to find them from those,” I muttered aloud and waved a hand. The anchor lady turned to a window in the corner of the screen. ...and what do you know so far, Bill? Well, Carol, as we said before. The suspects are still at large after a violent and brazen bank robbery at Central Trust in downtown Saint Paul. The assailants are believed to have made off with over forty million dollars. I cocked my head and squinted. “Huh, what are the odds?” Again, we're asking all residents in the Jack London Park area to stay indoors. I slugged back another sip of beer. as the news segued into ads. I turned an ear. Had I heard something? I picked up the remote and nudged the volume down. Was that a rattle from the back door?


(I recently posted on r/writing prompts and I keep coming back to it. I have tweaked it a lot and hope you enjoy. Comments and criticisms are much appreciated.) "..uuughh.?" Was all I could manage upon my reemergence from unconsciousness. My brain felt like it had been the last tic-tac rattled around in its container by an obnoxious toddler. Was I blind? Did someone finally hit me hard enough to not have to witness mankind's atrocities like pineapples disgracing the face of a pizza? Or people who wear socks with their sandals? Awesome! I thought to myself trying to be optimistic until I remembered I could no longer see chicks in yoga pants or cute puppies in bowties. Great! Now I was sad again and still sparring with the swelling of my skull. How did I get blind? I was walking home and... I mean... shit happens, but.. fuck! Just then an auto-tuneish sounding voice came over a speaker saying, "You've got 30 minutes to kill them, or else..." I was beginning to wish I could see what the literal fuck was up when the lights came on and blinded that wish away *reeeaaalll* fucking quick. After the initial sting of the light, I noticed a freaked out looking dude with the specter of tears still haunting his cheeks holding a club with what could only be barbed wire wrapped around it. He was looking at an equally scared looking woman about ten feet away from me. The room? Or... bunker? Well, whatever disgusting place this was was lit by suspended fluorescent lights that obviously cast their flickery glow on countless horrors. The stains on the walls were probably not from salsa. Although, I *REAAALLLY* hoped it was salsa stains.. Oh boy. Oh boyohboyohboy. I. Did. NOT. Like this image. "You can make it dark again, please!" I half yelled while trying to change my sitting arrangement from 'finkle' position to 'dontcomeoverherebecauseimready' position, whatever that looked like. I would decide when my feet were lower than my ass.. "WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE!?" Cried Clubby-Boi, he was looking around frantically and beginning to notice there were about four of us total in this room. The woman from before seemed a middle-aged business woman still in her shoulder-padded magenta suit. There was a black guy with a button-up shirt and a really sweet fade. He must have just left the barber shop because, damn! And then there was a.. maybe not morbidly obese, but he was about two Big Macs away from riding in a rascal, white guy in maybe his mid twenties. "PLEASE! Don't hurt me, I have children!" Cried the business lady. She was wearing the clothes for power but she wasn't looking like a queen bee of business just now. "I *sniff* dont.. want to hurt anyone.." Clubby-Boi sputtered out trying and failing to not breathe life back into his tears. His cheeks were flooded again by them as he pressed on, "But... the voice commands.. *sniff* and I have to... do it.." "Hey! Whoa whoa hol'up a minute, man. I'm not about to die today. I got shit to do tomorrow." Spoke the fresh-fade dude rising to his feet and rubbing his head. "I have to agree with him, dude. I have a doggo at home, and who will explain to him how I just left my best pooch at home and never came back. His name i-.." "NO!! No fucking names, it makes it harder to do this!" "My name is Perry, then, Perry with a fucking y at the end, bro!" I said boisterously and with gusto. "I am Libby!" Shrieked the business woman also seizing the opportunity. "Also with a y, if it helps." I chuckled at that, trying to distract myself from the gravity of things. "Carlos." Said haircut man, "without a y." He said and stuffed his hands into his pockets with a defiant looking shrug. "J-J-J-John!" Said the big man. "With a j." "Th-th-th-thanks, John." I said sarcastically before I really thought about it. I always lost more and more filter when I was nervous. It got quiet for a moment and John shrank himself into a even more pitiful stance. "Sorry, it's just we had this whole 'y' thing going and you fucked it all up with your introduction, J-" "SHUT UP!" Cried the sad man with the club. His booming voice reverberated around the room like a forlorn echo demanding obedience which we readily gave considering his advantage. "You guys don't get it.. I HAVE to kill you, too. I have to do whatever he says or he will kill all of us." "How do you know that? ...What if at the end of the thirty minutes, he just opens a door and we are let free?" Libby ventured trying to reason with this scared man. "What's your name, honey?" "Henry.. *sniff* and he HAS to at the end. Why else would he say 'or else' at the end? We almost waited the whole time last time before that... BITCH went crazy on us." He said as he gazed upon the floor, but you could see he was actually looking at something far more grim than this terribly textured linoleum floor. He was seeing the last shit show this room bore witness to. "We convinced her to stay calm, and in the last minute...*sob* she started swinging on us." More tears watered the fields of his cheeks as he tried to continue, "after the other two were.. gone.. I managed to snatch this from her.. and end it.. I dont know what happens if we wait... but I can't go back to my normal life now! Ive..Ive..I've killed someone." "Sounds like self-defense to me, man. Wouldn't nobody blame you for it. Especially if you had us with you to explain what happened and all." Said Carlos diplomatically. "Ain't no need to kill anybody, man." "Y-Y-Y-Yeah! We-We could stick together and if he does come in and try to k-k-k-k-kill us. We-We could fight together." Said John straightening his posture a bit looking more confident now. "Oh yeah! Teamwork makes the dream work, Henry-boi. Don't kill us, and we won't kill you, I think is a very fair trade, an agreement we should ALL enjoy the benefits of, really." "Why dont we just put that club down and sit together to wait this out? Learn a little about each other, huh?" Libby offered in the best god-damned mom-voice ever. Just as it seemed Henry's grip was loosening on the barbed-wire club that same auto-tuned voice came back over the intercom and said, "If you guys don't kill each other until the last man is standing, I will kill all of you." I looked up and saw the intercom speaker and an array of cameras lining the walls. "Ah! Well! That puts a damper on this whole friendship I felt we were working towards huh fellas?" I said as we all started reacting in our own way. Henry gripped his club tighter and his face darkened as another tear threatened escape from its' source. A tense few seconds passed. Carlos' hands left his pockets and he looked back and forth between us all. John looked like he was about to shit himself, and Libby lowered her head and softly started weeping. My mind spun to how much I hate salsa. And questioning if I had it in me to actually *make* salsa. "I got shit to do tomorrow." Carlos stated matter-of-factly as he rushed Henry. A smacking sound reverberated the walls and three screams erupted as my thoughts drifted homeward to my puppy, Bilbo, at home. I rescued him. Fed him from a bottle. I was all he knew and all he had. My fists clenched until my nails broke skin. I gazed up at the carnage unfolding before me. I put all of my jokes aside and prepared to do whatever it took to come home to that sweet pupper. Damn the consequences. This sadistic fuck wanted a show, and like it or not, I was cast a lead role in this improv horror. "Break a leg.


The sound of the desperate wailing banshee cries of the grieving woman were broken only by the thunderous, booming clap of the rotors as the bird descended down into the sizable forest clearing, onto a makeshift landing pad, throwing up fountains of the fallen yellow red leaves as it did. A passerby hiker with no context to the events might have guessed that this was some sort of expensive private vehicle show which a pampered young billionaire had decided to hold in the local state park, for some reason. Henderson, a man in his later forties, with disheveled greying hair, wearing a worn and dirty ranger uniform had really wished it to be exactly that as he sat helpless on the trunk of a fallen tree. He looked out at the array of technology which was as if on parade in the clearing. Several ATVs had been arranged in neat little rows, each equipped with high powered lights, specialized tires and luggage attachments on the back filled with a variety of supplies. They stood next to several large canopies, the ones that you’d typically see at your local fair, under which were a tangled jungle of electronics and cables with a mountain of various assorted backpacks of the staff and volunteers lying beside it. The bird was a brightly orange colored former military “Huey” of Vietnam era fame with the words “Search and Rescue” written on it’s side in clear black paint. A strange device which at first glance may have looked like a threatening machine gun, a leftover from its war days, was in reality an expensive new thermal camera which was attached next to the side door of the helicopter. It, along with some of the ATVs, and a good portion of the volunteers were from out of state in a “Custer’s Last Stand” of sorts. Just half a week ago was it, indeed, just days ago Henderson thought, damn how long those four days had seemed since the disappearance of Jake Fulton and Catherine Helsak. They were a young teen couple, enjoying a gap year together before they were forcefully separated by destiny, he was planning to start work at a local mechanic’s shop while she had bigger plans and wanted to attend a fancy out-of-state university. Not allowing their Romeo and Juliet complex to stop them, they decided to go on a final fling before the start of school and their separation. By all accounts they had driven over to Lewiston Gap State Park at around noon on Friday, checking in at 2:00pm at the campground, and planned to leave early on Monday. When the local campground attendant saw that they were late to check out, he went down to their campsite, number 4 at 11:00pm on Monday just to find a dark, silent and most importantly empty campsite. The door to their cheap blue tent was torn open from the inside with considerable force as evidenced by the severe stretch marks on the nylon material, which in places had completely separated from the zipper. Dogs and Search and Rescue teams were first brought on site the very next morning, but still, it was nearly a day since the supposed time of disappearance. Henderson was there, every step of the way as a veteran park ranger with fifteen years of experience working at this park, he was among those first responders, and back then they still had hope. That's when things began to go wrong, right at the beginning of the search operation. The dogs combed the campsite, it was an open space of about ten by fifteen feet, just enough room for a tent, a fire pit and a nearby old, half rotten wood picnic table and a car parked in the dirt driveway leading up to it. Situated on a raised elevation of about twenty feet or so, a path led down the hillside and through a thick crown of pines which ringed the hilltop camp, down into a large open clearing nearby a sizable stream. It was a minor tributary that eventually flowed into the reservoir at the center of the park. The dogs sniffed and searched but Catherine’s scent was entirely just gone, as if she had just been picked up into the sky and right off the face of the planet. They did manage to pick up a faint scent when given some of Jake’s clothes, strangely it led away from the campsite, through the pines and dissipated into uncertainty near the sandy bank of the creek. That was where the SAR operation ground to a halt, they sent out single searchers on foot into the surrounding wilderness and divers combed the creek to find a body. Those divers seemed to be in the water for hours for the next three days, but the most that they dug up was a rusty pocket knife that somebody dropped, judging by the rust it seemed to be in there for half a year, so it definitely couldn’t have been Jake’s. Henderson was one of the searchers who were sent out on foot into the woods. There were ten of them in total, they were given a 5 mile radius of search area from the clearing, it was a huge area but they would walk through the woods and call out Jake’s and Catherine’s names but to no avail. There was no answer, just the heavy dread of the wet, mossy pines and sprawling leafy branches of the oaks high above which felt like an immense stone crushing your ribcage, pulling the air out of your lungs and not allowing you to breathe fully. It was on the third day of the initial search when it happened. They had gone out on a search in the mid-afternoon and they started only heading back when Apollo had ridden below the horizon on his golden chariot and replacing him came Selene. The darkness only compounded the feeling of unease, Henderson had to push himself, his legs were sore from the miles he had walked, and he was barely awake enough to avoid the thorny bushes on the sides of the trails, usually of an unknown species and the thick vines of poison oak which like pythons hung from the trees. That’s when he heard the scream. In the distance, he didn’t know how far away, but even then it was loud. There were no words in that scream, but Henderson didn’t need them to understand the immense feelings of fear and pain that it carried with them. He broke into a run, quickly, faster and faster, the feeling of absolute fear and the instinct of self-preservation flooded his senses, snapping him out of his tiredness and pushing his body to his limits, with torrents of sweat forming under his uniform and sliding down his skin, soaking his hair and clothing. One step, a jump to avoid a jutting out root, a dodge to avoid a thorny vine, another step, another step, everything was a blur. Henderson broke through the treeline and his boot sank ankle deep into the soft, muddy silt at the bank of the creek, he had made it into the clearing. He lost his balance and nearly collapsed face first into the dark rushing creek when a hand grabbed him and pulled him up, it was his co-worker and long time buddy, Franklin. “You alright, man?” Franklin asked in a worried tone, his voice was quivering. Looking up Henderson saw the blinding lights of handheld flashlights and camping lanterns rapidly approaching him. “Yeah, seem to be...” Henderson began before being cut off by a collective sigh of relief from the others which joined the lonely howl of the night breeze. “I ran because I heard the scream, what was that?” Franklin didn't respond at first, just looked back out into the circle of blackness which completely surrounded the lit up clearing, the trees waved in the slight wind, angrily shaking their branches in unison, as if part of one organism. “It’s Garthorn, he never made it back.” Garthorn, also Henderson’s colleague, was the only person at the park office with more experience than Henderson. A former Navy Seal, Garthorn was always a stern yet calm older gentleman who had turned 50 just this year, a secretive fellow he never told anyone much about his life, especially about the war. Nobody asked in any case, everybody could guess what happened, so silence was a sign of respect. And respect was well deserved, aside from his military service, he had earned his reputation as an expert woodsman and an amazing hunter, a crack shot with an old M1 which he always had with him in his truck. Out of anybody, Henderson didn’t expect Garthorn to encounter any trouble. Maybe it was a predator, a bear or a mountain lion perhaps, ambushing the poor man from the undergrowth? Perhaps. But, Garthorn was a “sizeable” fellow, and Henderson just couldn’t believe that a beast could’ve gotten him in one bite, he must’ve known if he was going into bear or mountain lion country, he had known these woods like the back of his hand, even in the dark. Why didn’t he fight back? He was armed, and with his history, there should have been a gunshot, or some sort of struggle... And the scream, that scream, why was it so short? “Are you sure that he isn't on his way back?” Henderson asked, “Last thing we heard from him he was heading back, was nearly here when he just cut off, we never heard a scream however, so that’s just you. We sent some guys to check it out. They found nothing, absolutely nothing. We need to get the dogs out there tomorrow morning, but now, nobody goes out there alone anymore.” Franklin solemnly but confidently stated. “We contacted the National Guard, they should be here tomorrow as well, we stay put for now.” The rest of the volunteers returned home and only Henderson, Franklin and three others stayed behind, huddled around a small fire, the flames dancing to the beat of it’s lively crackling, holding the deafening silence of the night forest at bay. The morning came to life with the roar of engines. The next day was spent circling the surrounding area far and wide for any trace of either Jake, Catherine or Garthorn, and none was found. Today with the newly arrived chopper things might be different, Henderson thought. No, he didn’t think that, he hoped for it because there was no evidence for him to base his thoughts off of. “Henderson, we're planning to go up again in ten, get ready if you want to join us.” came a yell from a man, the pilot, who groaned as he dismounted the cockpit of the Huey. The young man tore the heavy helmet off of his head, placing it haphazardly on the ground and hurried over to a large bucket of water, filled up a cup and emptied it, all in one gulp. Henderson readied himself, making sure all his gear was strapped securely to his duty belt, most importantly his treasured M9. He along with three others, climbed into the helicopter and strapped themselves into the seats, donning the headsets. A large screen which was connected to the thermal camera displayed a sea of re, orange and purple-ish blue. The pilot promptly returned, resuming his position in the cockpit and slowly, the rotors came back to life and the engines once again belched hot air, silencing the two crying women, the mothers of Jake and Catherine. The machine shuddered and before he could blink, Hendrson felt the Huey buckle and began rising into the sky. As they soared above the treetops, Henderson looked out at the screen of the thermal camera, the camera’s operator, a National Guardsman, same as the pilot, slapped the display, visibly irritated. “Classic percussive maintenance?” Henderson leaned over out of reflex and spoke into the headset. “Aye, sir, damn thing keeps displaying wrong temperature readings.” the camera operator responded before slapping the monitor again. “And why is that?” Henderson asked, puzzled, to him what the monitor showed now, aglow with colors, was no less legible than an alien’s abstract art piece. “You see this?” the operator gestured toward the screen with his gloved hand. “See what exactly?” Henderson asked. “Here,” the operator pressed a few buttons and the camera rotated a little to the left. The screen did change colors, Henderson admitted, despite being rotated to face a nearly identical patch of trees. Instead of the bluish hue previously shown, an irregular shape appeared, colored yellow orange and stretching out outside of the camera view. “And the significance of that is?” Henderson inquired. “Usually, trees would show up as usually somewhere around 50-55 Farenheit, that's the blue purple coloration, but this trash here is telling me that a patch of ground and the trees on it, right around the campsite about 2 miles by 2 miles has the same temperature as a human body, 98 Farenheit.” the operator explained matter of factly. The Huey jerked to one side, flying erratically. The thermal camera operator was nearly thrown from his seat, the web of straps creaking but holding him in place. “What the hell!” Henderson heard through the headset. “Turbulence? At this altitude?” Henderson murmured to none in particular. He looked out to see a pine tree, to extend, grow an additional 15 feet, nearly swatting the Huey. Another treetop, an oak, flashed just outside the open door. Problem is they were 150 feet high. Suddenly Henderson’s whole world shook and began to turn 50 degrees to the side. The last thing he remembered was a blurry orange glow of flames on the left engine, and the chopper careening into a sea of trees. Then darkness... “A strange smell...” “Pain?” “Pain in my leg?” Henderson’s thoughts flashed before his closed eyes. Another jolt of excruciating pain tore through his leg, he couldn’t move it. At least he was alive, alive, yes, it seemed he wasn’t dead yet. Carefully he opened his eyes, with leaves and mold meeting his gaze, he was lying face first in the soft, wet and mossy ground of the forest floor. Carefully he tried to lift himself up and turn around. However he found that he was still strapped into his seat. Carefully reaching with his hand he pressed the button on the buckle, releasing him. He tried to turn now, his attempt was only partially successful, only managing to turn onto his side without causing another jolt of pain. He looked down at his hurting leg, a shard of bone had pierced his lower right leg, almost slicing completely through his calf muscle, and soaking his pant leg with blood. Similarly with his left, he couldn’t move it either, both his legs were broken. Unable to do much about it now, Henderson gasped, his brow wet with cold sweat and looked around some more. His pained gaze darted over the twisted fuselage of the Huey which was suspended several feet in the air, held aloft by a tree trunk which directly impaled the cockpit, as well as the metallic bacon that had once been the tail of the helicopter, wrapping around the lower branches of another tree. Two bodies still hung lifelessly in the hull of the crashed chopper, the blunt force trauma of the intense whiplash killing them instantly. The pilot was most surely dead as well, judging by the blood dripping from the broken windshield where the tree trunk had impaled it. That only left him, and, and the thermal camera operator, Henderson remembered the only other person who was in the helicopter with them. He scanned around and saw the man lying nearby, just fifteen feet away, but he couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. “I have to call for help, somebody is bound to hear me!” Henderson thought out loud. “There! I hear it, the rumble of an engine!” A deep rumble was indeed audible, just with one tiny gimmick. It wasn’t coming from the north, south, east or west, as if those words meant anything to Henderson. Nor did it come from the sky, but instead, and it took a minute for this reality to register inside of Henderson’s head, it came from *below* him, from the ground. The rumble continued, growing louder but not by much, then the ground began to vibrate, and more than that, Henderson could’ve sworn that he felt something large *move* underneath him, up and down as if the ground was breathing, disturbing the earth all around. But nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw next, the trees which held the wreck of the Huey up, simply *shifted* to the side. The helicopter wreck fell to the forest floor which in the span of about a minute had seemed to completely come to life, shaking as if in an earthquake, a plausible explanation if Henderson couldn’t have seen the ground 300 feet away, which was completely still. Still shaking, and getting more intense by the second, the soil around the Huey began to liquify, as the wreck sank into the dirt. Within another two minutes, everything stabilized and returned to normal, the birds were chirping and the ground wasn’t moving, but Henderson’s eyes were transfixed to the spot where the helicopter *was*, now there was nothing there, nothing at all, not even a tiny scrap of wreckage. He didn’t know what to do, what was there to do? He yelled and screamed, he unholstered his M9 and fired into the air three times, no response. He lay there for hours, the sun began to dip, and then the rumble came again. This time the ground opened up around the motionless thermal camera operator. Henderson could see a glimpse of something under the ground, something fleshy. He began shooting at whatever it was. One of the bullets hit a nearby tree which began to ooze not amber sap, but deep red blood. Then, the man was pulled under the earth as the ground turned into what was effectively muddy water, he was gone in five seconds. That left only Henderson, he knew he was next. He didn’t have to wait long. As the ground began to shake again beneath him, but he was ready. He racked the slide of his M9 one last time, the last round in the magazine was now in the chamber. He felt something, wet, slimey, pulsating with muscle, flesh and saliva and very much alive as he began to sink down into the earth. One single tear rolled down his cheek, he raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. No one was there to hear the gunshot, except the birds, the insects and Mother Earth.


Sean the Squirrel looked down into his small paws at the big ripe chestnut clasped between them, a proud cheeky grin spreading across his face pushing his cheeks up and making his eyes crescent moons. Placing the nut on the pile of other nuts stacked in a corner of his home Sean felt satisfaction spread through him. Winter could come now. As if hearing this a pattering started outside, thick drops of rain falling to the ground in a heightening tempo. The Squirrel walked over to the opening of his cave and pushed one of the big leaves away with his front paw looking out, he shivered as a cold wind blew, through raindrops blasting in his face making him drop his ears and scowl before promptly putting the leaf back in place and with harrumph shaking himself to be rid of the wetness covering his fur . He then preceded to illuminate the cave by giving the in a wood container held fireflies a deceased snake as incentive. Thus, casting the small cave almost completely filled with chestnuts in a greenish warm light and causing a soft humming noise to appear in the background. Sean was about begin his winter rest feeling sated. Laying down Infront of his pile of chestnuts he rolled up in a baseball like form, folding his fluffy tail around himself. Just as his eyes began to flutter close ha let out a mighty yawn showing his big front teeth. Just as he was slipping from a soft daze into a deep slumber, he heard a loud knock on his front leaves. A loud voice muffled by the winding weather outside was heard, “Heloooooouuu anyouuune at houuuumeeeee?”. Sean’s eye popped open at this before he indignantly turned around, so that his back was facing his leaf door and whichever rude visitor which did not know to leave a squirrel to its winter slumber. Once more a knock appeared shortly followed by the voice calling “Helllooouuuu , I said, I said Hellllooouuuuuu?”. Once more Sean purposely ignored the intruder and with his paws pulled his small ears down as to muffle the penetrating shrill voice of however desired entrance to his abode. The next time the voice called and his ears did not survey as ear muffler he also put his feet over his hand holding his ears, by the fourth time he had buried himself into his chestnuts and wished upon sleep so that he might ignore whoever was rapping so rudely at his leaf. Here there was a prolonged silence in which Sean made himself confutable amidst the chestnuts and once more closed his eyes in order for slumber to endow itself upon him. When suddenly once more the loud shrill voice calls out “Helloouuuuuuuuu, its couuulllld ́, I said, yes I said Its couuuulllllddddd” The startled squirrel shot upright forgetting that he was borrowed in a pile of chestnuts, making resounding Bonks ring out in the small cave as chestnut after chestnut fell upon his head. Sean’s before widened eyes promptly narrowed to slits, a small crease forming between his eyebrows, a livid frown contouring his face into a grim countenance. Puffing out his chest and clenching his small paws into round fists he stalked towards the Leaf being knocked against. Opening the door wide he bellowed “Whaaat?” Sean yelled in a mocking tone “What, What What?” he continued. The squirrel standing outside his cave drenched in rain, left paw still raised to once more knock looked at him in surprise before catching himself and asking in a rather timid voice “IT ́s cold, I said, yes I said It ́s cold...? Can I not come, yes, I asked Can’t I come in? Just till the rain stoops I said just till the rain stops?”. Sean, taking in the lanky big squirrel Infront of him, figured he didn’t look ice he would die so he plainly stated “no” before swiftly slamming the leaf back in place pivoting around on his feet made his way back to his former resting place. When he once more looked back at the front leaf, he saw the dark silhouette of the squirrel curled together from the cold now shivering, the rain must have seeped through his coat thought Sean, he felt a pang of sympathy before hastily pushing it to the side, thinking the godamn squirrel should have just built a lair in the summer, then he would not have to annoy innocent, hardworking tree civilians such as himself, he certainly did not malnourished or sick, as such he could take care of himself. With these thoughts in mind, he made to go back to sleep in his comfy tree cave. Shortly, once more before his mind could drift into slumber, there was a sneeze, snapping both eyes, a vein could be seen pulsing above his eyebrow’s, he shot up stalked over to the leaf ripped it open and yelled “come in come in make yourself at fucking home”. The drenched squirrel outside walked in with a happy, “Why thank you kind sir- I say kind sir” and quickly stomped over on its small paws to the fire burning in a corner chimney. Now that the stranger of a squirrel was illuminated, Sean could see him more clearly. Full cheeks and wrinkle free squished doe like eyes made for a round youthful face sitting on a rather scrawny body, with too big, clumsy looking paws connected to stick like arms and legs, wet fur hugging the squirrel’s thin frame. A nuisance Sean deduced in conclusion, as he stood rather hostile near his chestnuts, you never knew after all... After the foreign squirrel had warmed up a bit and his fur had begun to fritz, he turned to Sean with a gleeful smile Eyes squishing up even more before widening in apparent want at the stack of chestnuts behind Sean. “NO absolutely not” declared Sean, “I let you into my home, no more”. “Please I said Please kind sir just one it has been so awfully long day, so awfully long I said” begged the squirrel putting his hands together in mock prayer. Looking at the pitiful being before him even old Sean felt a semblance of empathy, after some back and forth between his conscience and his frugal self he compromised by giving the scrawny squirrel half a chestnut. He himself of course ate the other half. The strange Squirrel had of course taken the half of a chestnut with great gratitude, opting to sit down near the fire and start munching, Sean opted to once more sit Infront of his pile of chestnuts and after a few distrusting glances started slowly eating his piece of the chestnut in a much more dignified manner. After having eaten for some time the Stranger of a squirrel, who Sean had now dubbed balloon head, due to his gravely mismatched proportions, started talking... a lot. Sean being a squirrel of little words did his best to ignore this, in his opinion great annoyance, happily chatting away. After a while there was a penetrating question that kept popping up at the forefront of his mind, so interrupting the yapping balloon head he questioned, “why do you always repeat what you said?”. The strange squirrel looked at him in astound silence for a minute before cheerfully answering: “Ma Mama birthed a full litter you see, so I had a lot of siblings- a lot of siblings I said, as a middle child you got to say everything thrice- everything thrice I said. Just to be heard, yep, just to be heard”. Sean after hearing this in a more annoyed manner rather stated than said: “If you have so many siblings why could you not stay at one of their home ́s?” and get on their nerves he added in his mind. The question, as the older squirrel came to notice he would very much regret asking, as Balloon head now started into a whole, obviously over- exaggerated story about how he was chased by a fox, almost got eaten, then got lost, barely avoided becoming a living ice cubicle and lastly had found Sean’s house in an old tree. “Thought no one was home, I did-I said yes, I did, was about to give up till you opened the door, I said till you opened the door” the scrawny squirrel stated in-between munches of the chestnut. Great, thought Sean, had I just waited a tad bit longer, deciding he had conversed quite enough with this foreign squirrel he left to return to bed and resume his well-deserved sleep. As he was about to lay down, the younger squirrel still sitting next to the fire, empty half of a chestnut next to him carefully asked: “do you not have any Family sir, I as- Sean interrupted him with a sharp “no” breaching the topic no further he laid down, back to the stranger an closed his eyes, ready to sleep. “Sorry, I said I said I ́m sorry” came a sullen reply. Ignoring the stranger lying 3 meters away, Sean tried to desperately fall asleep. But in the wake of old repressed memories, he found sleep did not wish to grant him passage into the thick, dark, out of- reach oblivion of his dreams. Perhaps it was the warm enclave of his home lit by the comfortably crackling fire in correlation with the rough storm waging war on mother earth outside. Or maybe it was the fact that he for the first time in years had held a, if not very one sided, conversation with another living being for more than a few seconds. Perhaps it was none of the above an in a moment of forgotten rationality followed by intense emotions he, said very quietly “I do not have any living relatives”. The younger squirrels’ eyes popped open at the voice of his reluctant host. Happy that he was finally talking to him he sat upright looking at the back his companion he mindfully asked, “How? I asked How?”. “Winter” was all Sean said before once more trying to close his eyes, knowing that even a naïve squirrel such as balloon head, would understand the threat of a cold, cruel winter after all he himself had almost fallen victim to it. When the storm passed and the cold winter sun, shone on the white snowy forest ground, early in the muddy morning the scrawny, young squirrel left the home he had resided in for a night. Of course, not before leaving a note scribbled in the empty shell of half a chestnut announcing that he was to retrieve his stuff from his sibling home before coming back and moving in, haven chosen Sean as his new roommate. Sean none the wiser slept for tree day and nights having been deprived from his sleep on that stormy night, and when he woke up, he woke up to the sound of knocking on his door followed by a sing song voice yelling, “I ́m baaackkk, I said-I saiddddd, I ́m backkkkk”


What about power? Isn’t it the most wonderful of concepts? Power. POWER. It rolls right off the tongue, doesn’t it? Power. It’s never quite enough. We get a job; it gives us power. We go to school; it gives us power. We get money; it definitely gives us power. What? You’re going to say that’s not why we go to school or get a job. We do it because we have to. We do it because we need to survive, to live, to strive. Live for what? Strive towards what? Survive what? Most of us lead miserable lives. We’re just waking up, stretching midst the piles of shit the world is made out of, and what’s our need? To survive? Survive what? Power, that’s what. Other people’s power. Their need to identify themselves beyond their mere mortal condition. Their need to be beyond want, fear, doubt. That’s why you go to school and get a job. Because it’s a race. No, nobody cares if you don’t need to run alongside them. That’s not the point. You need to do it; you need to be there; you need to believe you have a choice. That’s what makes it so exciting, the belief you can win, the smell of your own power, the feel of freedom and escape. Just one more day, just one more dollar, just a bit more effort. And then? Well... who knows? We can’t really predict the future. But imagine if we could. Imagine how it would be to understand exactly where the line should be drawn. When enough would be enough. Not only to see that we finish the race, but how we finish it. To wake up one morning and immediately feel that today would be different. Today would be the day when we would finally understand who we are, feel that all your efforts would finally come to fruition. But no. Think further than that. You would wake up a century from that day, and you would get to learn that your struggle has paid off and see the ripples across time. Feel your power propagate and shape the world. Would you be able to notice it right away? Of course! What am I even asking here? We all know that feeling, that delicate elation when power comes within our grasp. That yearning. A morning such as that would be no different from any other, with the exception that from the moment we would open our eyes, we would feel complete. Effervescent. That’s how I would describe this morning. From the first breath of light, I know that today is the day. Today I will finally understand. What do I need to understand, though? This question has always racked by brain, stuck like a burr somewhere in my subconscious, floating just out of reach like a will-o’-the-wisp. It has guided me, molding me, fueling me, and now I finally feel as if it is no longer beyond my senses. Today. Today will be special. I get up at 7.00 AM and take a quick shower. I like to feel the splatter of the warm water over my body as the first thing of the day. The sensation keeps me rooted in my self, digging out the feelings of the previous night. This way, all the thoughts, all the dreams that I had borne throughout the night, get a final chance to sink in. Shedding their light and secrets as I bathe. I wash my teeth and eat something quickly. It’s not like I’m not a fan of breakfast, it’s that, how can I explain this. Food doesn’t do it for me anymore. I’ve tasted so much, so many times, flavor, well, there’s nothing new there or complex enough to get me started. I eat only what’s necessary. I love coffee, though. It’s hard to say why, but I do. If we go beyond the taste and its properties, I think there’s something beyond that which draws me in every morning. A freshness, an alertness, it’s like a distant friend’s handshake. It fills you up, makes you smile, even though he doesn’t say much. He’s just there. Today is a good day. I get dressed, grey slim-fit dress pants with a light blue shirt, also slim fit. A pair of dark blue Oxfords and a navy blue tunic to wrap everything up, and I’m off. The moment I step out through the front door, the feeling of completeness evaporates, a sort of anxiousness stepping in. I’m not worried. I knew this would happen eventually, feels somewhat romantic that it does the moment I walk away from the safety of my home. The dull grey of the lobby stares back at me. It’s such a lovely color, limited, silent. Normally, a driver would come and pick me up in the morning and take me to the office. Today I decide against it, well, I lie. I’ve decided against this last night, when I canceled the appointment. I feel like walking. I want to soak in the city as much as I can. It felt as if it would be one of my last chances to do this. It reminds me of my childhood honestly. Walking. I used to go to the central park or the central market square and sit somewhere and stare at people. Well, not stare. I would look at them, study them. Try to understand where they came from and where they went. I liked to imagine that I was a famous detective and looked for little clues about their lives. A piece of lint, a crease, a mark, anything. I didn’t notice them as much as I could, but I did get pretty good at reading people. Understanding them. Could this have been the understanding that I had been seeking all this time? Hmm, I don’t really see how this fits in. Why would everything change today? No. It’s got to be something else. Something that has touched me, but I’m still to touch it back. The elevator is rather busy in the morning. Today it jumps up at me from the shadows. I never heard it open. I’m glad I took the time to walk to the office today. It feels symbolic somehow. The apartment complex is in the city’s heart and its heartbeat makes itself known as soon as the elevator doors open. A healthy buzz of life and need, a static that presses and pulls and squeezes and rips. I love that first glimpse of... ‘What the fuck?!’ Where the fuck am I?! Everywhere I look, grey figures stare back at me as they step quietly on dark passageways. Higher up, what look like hovering cars hum back and forth incessantly. A man steps up to me and grabs me by the arm, and pulls me to the side. My body feels limp, so I let myself be pulled quietly. He lets go of my arm and walks away. I’m dumbfounded. I don’t understand what’s going on, but that’s not the issue. The real issue is, I don’t feel like needing to understand anymore. As if an existence was wiped out of me in the blink of an eye. The man took me to the left of the building entrance and I don’t feel the need to move from this spot. It feels safe. Is this why he dropped me here? Was I in his way? That’s some really strange behavior on his part. Socially conscious, though. The stream of people does not ebb. It has a steady rhythm to it, soothing and soft. What should I do? Am I dreaming? This hasn’t happened in quite some time. I’ve always had a sort of love-hate relationship with my subconscious. It never felt as if it were truly mine and yet, the only moments of care and tenderness I have ever experienced were the ones that it imprinted upon me. It felt as if I had a stern father within me. Sleep was something that always brought me closer to it, dreams especially, training me and nurturing me in the man I grew up to become, but I can’t really remember when I last had a lucid dream. I’m safe, I know I’m safe. This world that I’m having the privilege to witness mesmerizes me. Its precision, it feels as a finely tuned recorder, its sounds monotonous and dependent. What should I do? Normally, I would’ve turned right at the entrance in order to get to the office. I don’t have anything against this, so I find my place within the stream and step lively. Hmm. It feels so strange to fit in here like I do. My steps fall briskly on the metal floorboards and their echoes get sucked in. It’s as if I’m walking on linen. Comforting somehow in its unnatural way. The world sucks me in fully. I feel completely at peace. Even though the world in itself is strange and new, it’s not different from the one back home. The buildings are pretty much the same, more organized and neat, softer on the eye, but definitely the same. The passageways are easy to follow and there are guidance markers everywhere. My office is in the Central Square, and the path towards it is clearly marked. I have no issues getting there. The square is as magnificent as ever. The passageways are running along the edges of an empty square made of a black metal material. Having learned my lesson, I follow the path to one of the corners of the square and step off. Looking at it closer, it feels as if it’s not metal, but velvet; soft and inviting. An urge to touch the material comes over me and I begin to hunch down when a soft sensation prickles my scalp. I straighten and reach out an inquiring hand. The prickles flow through the tips of my fingers. Some sort of force field? Weird. From within the square, a ball of light gently shoots up, leaving behind a feathery trail. Upon reaching its climax, it floats for a second and then begins hovering with a slight delta. The feathery trail intensifies, sparks of light reach out every which way in unison with the hovering central light. The mute image feels soothing and welcoming. I explore the view from my corner and find my office building a little way off. It’s bigger than I remember it. Two banners hang from the sides of the building, furnishing the party’s colors: a black and white feather on a red background. Sublime! I truly think it is. If only I could see this in real life. I step on the path once more and approach the building. A large gateway bars my path and I step to the side to take it all in. To the left and right of the gateway, there is a security guard. As I stand there and look, several people approach and use an access pad, swiping a key card against it. A green light flickers, and the air clears within the entrance. The person steps in and then the following person approaches the access pad. Once the green light doesn’t show up and one of the guards gently escorts the person to a cubicle to the far left. When there are no more people waiting to enter, I go to one of the guards. ‘Good morning!’ ‘Good morning, Sir.’ ‘Would you be able to help me with some questions?’ ‘Yes, please.’ ‘I work here, but I don’t have my key card. Could you please tell me what I need to do?’ ‘Please go to the receptacle to your right and request a temporary pass.’ I look around for the place in question and quickly locate it; a small booth off the beaten trail getting here. ‘Thank you!’ I walk back to the main pathway and approach the booth. Several people had already queued up in front of it. I get in line and take the time to look at my colleagues. I don’t recognize any of them. They’re all wearing slim grey uniforms, zipped up just below the chin. I find the uniforms to be quite soothing to the eye, elegant too. There are only two more people in front of me and I can see the station in front of me. Although I can’t make out all the details, it seems to be some sort of scanning station. A crystalline voice makes itself heard: ‘I feel contempt.’ The person at the scanning station picks something up from a slot and makes its way back up the line. A quiet smile floats lavishly across its face. The person in front of me steps towards the station and inserts a key card. Ten seconds later I hear that voice again: ‘I feel contempt.’ The person picks up its key card and walks past me. I stare at the station and step towards it. Besides the slot to the right, there are two buttons leveled with my chest. One is labeled: “Scan” and the other “Temporary”. I press the one marked with temporary and the slot closes up. A couple seconds later, the “Scan” button lights up. I press it gently and feel a slight tingle in the middle of my forehead. ‘I feel empty,’ makes itself heard. The slot shoots out a key card and I pick it up. What does that mean? I make my way towards the front gate and scan my key card. The light doesn’t flicker green. The security guard approaches me and asks me to come with them. He escorts me to the cubicle located at the left of the building, the same cubicle that he had escorted the other individual towards. Inside the cubicle, a thin woman waits for me. She has close cropped hair and an easygoing smile. ‘Hello!’ ‘Hello,’ I reply. ‘State your name, please.’ ‘Jason Blumm.’ ‘Blumm? Are you sure?’ ‘Yes, Mám.’ ‘Like the father, do you find that odd?’ ‘Why would I find it odd? It’s my name.’ ‘Hmm. I see here that your empathy scan registered a deficit. We will now go through reprocessing in order to fix that.’ ‘Reprocessing?’ ‘Yes. There will be a series of questions meant to identify your mental state. Could you please attach these sensors on each side of your head?’ Why did she find it odd when I mentioned my name? ‘Because you share the name of our nation’s father, Mr. Blumm.’ What the... she can read my mind. ‘Impulses are registered through the sensors I’ve given you and the AI translates those impulses into a basic query. For example, it shows that you’re questioning your identity at the moment. I can only assume this is regarding my earlier reaction to your name.’ ‘Fascinating.’ ‘Indeed, is this why you’ve been feeling empty, Mr. Blumm. Does sharing the name of our father exact a pressure upon your being?’ ‘I’m sorry, but what do you mean through: Father.’ ‘Jason Blumm, head of state and creator of the wellness doctrine over a century ago. You were heading towards the administration building, weren’t you?’ ‘I was.’ ‘What were you intending to do there, Mr. Blumm?’ ‘I don’t know. I didn’t know where else to go.’ ‘I see. And the building’s significance drew you in?’ ‘I guess. I work here, if that counts.’ ‘What do you do here, Mr. Blumm?’ ‘Senior party executive of the Futurist Party.’ ‘Hmm. I understand. Mr. Blumm do you know what year this is?’ ‘2031?’ ‘Aha, that explains it. Reprocessing is complete now, Mr. Blumm.’ ‘Is it?’ ‘Yes, you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re most likely suffering from fatigue brought on by the pressure of your name. Like I said, there’s nothing to worry about. You have been reassigned as an archivist in the administrative building, starting tomorrow. Please take these pills and report back to the scanner tomorrow.’ ‘But...’ ‘Here’s your new access key. Now, Mr. Blumm, the pills, should take effect immediately. Do you need help getting home?’ ‘No. Thank you,’ and I hand her the sensors. She tucks them away and dismisses me with a smile. She is right. The pills kick in as soon as I leave the cubicle. My thoughts get muddied, but they don’t impede my judgment or motor skills. The light show is still playing in the center of the square. Its velvety appearance as soothing as before, yet not as enticing. I wait for the feeling to pass and follow the pathways towards my apartment. I feel overwhelmed. I spend the rest of my day caught in a sort of reverie. I feel the presence of this place and the rightness of it. Is this the future that I seek, its understanding, its safety? Why would I not?! Outside my window I see the flow of life as it grinds to a halt in the evening, flickers of light shooting up from everywhere around the city shortly after. Life knows a peace and tranquility here hard to understand. The lack of need, of want. Could this be the future I imagined? Could I be this blessed? I fall asleep cradling these dear thoughts in my mind, and they nurture my sleep. Next day, I show up at the receptacle outside the administration building. I insert the access key in its designated slot and press the “Scan” button. The tingle feels familiar now, and a crystalline voice welcomes me into its world. I am content. Are you?! No? Could’ve fooled me. Peace.


I began, at 7 AM, by placing the mirrors I bought on the dewy grass in front of our little yellow house, and stomping on each one with the heel of my boot, one after the other, trying each time to get a perfectly symmetrical spiderweb-shatter, failing worse with each attempt. 7:04 AM to 9 AM was spent picking mirror shards out of wet grass so that the neighbor kids didn’t step on them with their bare feet. I spent 9 AM to noon purchasing a black cat on Craigslist, bringing it home, then patting its bottom lightly with my hands, gently encouraging it to cross my path as many times as possible. It got fed up with me after about 40 path-crossings, so I gave it a little milk and let it rest in our bed. Then I went to our kitchen and dumped a few saltshakers out onto our floor, making sure not to throw any over my shoulder. I left the pile on the linoleum. I spent the afternoon with an A-frame ladder open in our living room, walking back and forth through its legs again and again, an opened umbrella in my hands, the waterproof fabric getting loudly pinched by the ladder every time I walked underneath. I did this for about three hours, following the same path, wearing deep grooves into the thick, cream-colored carpeting. I escalated from there, down in our unfinished basement with grey concrete walls and floor and foam soundproofing on the doors and windows. I had ordered quite a few religious symbols--crucifixes, statues of Jesus and Buddha and the saints, bibles, Qur’ans, copies of the Vedas, the Torah, everything sacred I could get my hands on--and on the evening of that day, around 6 PM, I loaded my (licensed) handgun, put on noise-cancelling headphones, and unloaded every round I owned into the holy texts and symbols of most major world cultures. I then took off my headphones, laid my weapon on the ground (safety on) and proceeded to jump up and down on the religious items with my aforementioned boots, then set fire to them with gasoline and a lighter. I watched to make sure the fire didn’t spread, spit on the ashes until I was certain my salivary glands were tapped out, then went upstairs, leaving the pile there. It was 8 PM. The sun was almost finished setting and the neighborhood dogs were barking to each other in their sweet, faux-aggressive way. The sound of crickets intermingled with soft voices, drifting in through our open windows from the neighbors’ front porch where they smoked Pall Malls and watched the sun’s slow downward retreat, the horizon turning a grey-purple. I finished my work of nailing the number 13 in place of our old house number (78) and went inside, making sure to leave our door unlocked. I noticed there was a raven sitting on our driveway and silently cheered. I went to our bed and checked on the cat, who was still fast asleep, then kneeled down, lifted up the sheet, and retrieved a baker’s dozen of identical boxes from underneath the bed. I brought the boxes to the living room, the stack teetering in my arms, then gently opened each one and set up their contents in a circle around me. The sun was down now, but I had not turned on any lights. I sat in my dark living room, the only light from the streetlights outside and the full moon, which shimmered over the horizon, perfectly placed so that from where I was sitting it looked like a beach ball, balancing on the chimney of the house across the street. It was 8:30 PM. I reached out and touched the planchette of the Ouija board directly in front of me, hoping the power of the other 12 in the circle would flow through it, and me. I felt the day’s bad luck, cursed actions, and general terrible vibes that I had so methodically gathered running through my veins. Confident in the evil and misfortune I had accrued, I reached deep into my diaphragm and began to speak the words that I had spoken, every night, at 8:30, for the past 391 days. “Hi, honey. If you’re out there--just know--I’ve been really awful today. I’ve broken mirrors, crossed paths with black cats, burned bibles, spit on the spirits--13 Ouija boards, I--I changed our house number--and... if anyone deserves to get haunted, it’s me. I would hate so much for you to come and throw around plates and appear in dark mirrors behind me and whisper evil things in my ear while I sleep and punish me for my transgressions against the spirit world--but I deserve it. I must be the most sacrilegious, evil person alive. I know how much you hated people who disrespect the religious, and how superstitious you were...” I waited. There was only silence. “I shot eight bibles today, hun. With a pistol. And I stomped on them.” Silence. I looked at the planchette in my hands and waited for it to move. Then I looked around at all the other Ouija boards, surrounding me, and looked for any tiny movement, anything. The silence only grew louder. “If you’re here, make a noise.” The icemaker in the kitchen gurgled a little. “Another. Please. I need to know it wasn’t just a fluke.” Silence came, this time pointed and thick, like she was doing it on purpose. “Please, baby--it’s a full moon tonight. I won’t be this unlucky for another month. Just haunt me. Please. Break something. Make the walls bleed. Make me bleed. Anything.” I closed my eyes as tight as they could go and kept my fingers distinctly uncrossed and thought about the number 13 and 17 and 39 and every culturally unlucky number I could think of, and I listened with everything in me for even the slightest noise in our little yellow house, and then I imagined Jesus being eaten by an anaconda, and then I slammed my fists on the Ouija board and begged for my wife to come back and haunt me in terms that are too pathetic to repeat here. Then I sat and listened to the silence for so long that I could hear my heart beating and the fluid circulating through my skull. I packed up all the Ouija boards without moving the planchette to ‘Goodbye’, slid them under my bed, and gave my new black cat a little kiss on the forehead. It was 9:30 PM. Slowly I lumbered into the computer room and sat down. For a split second I saw my reflection in the hazy black of my monitor. My eyes were worn and ragged, my beard patchy, my veins pronounced from the mental exertion of trying to will her ghost into existence. I focused on the gap behind me in my reflection, over my shoulder, hoping she would appear with black pointed teeth and red eyes and talons she would sink into my throat and use to drag me down to hell with her, or wherever she resided. Or maybe she would just walk in through the front door, somehow returned in perfect condition, and I could tell her about all my efforts to get her to haunt me through superstition and desecration for the past year since she passed, and she could laugh and laugh, and know deep in her heart that I loved her more than anything. Then my hand hit my mouse, the monitor flared to life, and the white light of the Amazon home screen obliterated my reflection and my thoughts. Slowly I moved the mouse, transferring my consciousness to my cursor. I forgot my body and my face and let autopilot take merciful control. It was 9:38 PM. I ordered mirrors, and salt, and ammunition, and religious artifacts, and bibles, and Quar’ans, and some cat food for next week. It wouldn’t be a full moon. I wouldn’t be as cursed. But I’d just have to try anyway.


This story alludes to the loss of a child. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. It’s a slow song, a heartbroken song for a heartbroken man. God seems to know what’s happening this morning as a light rain falls dutifully on the windows. It keeps a steady rhythm like a metronome. But the time my father played to a metronome is long gone. His long, angry fingers crash into the keys as thunder roars in the background. I stand, lingering in the doorway. His body sways and rocks, a man lost in the song. Lost in his own devastating grief, unaware of the child who needs him for arguably the first time in her whole life. Instead, he crashes into the keys. Louder and louder as the crescendo dictates. I see his right foot, shielded in a black loafer, gently pressing on the golden pedal. The notes linger in the air and I want to rush to him like we did in the summertime. When Mama plaited my brown hair in a long, mermaid’s tail down my back. He lifted me onto his lap and let me touch the most valuable item in our whole home. Mama, stood where I stand now, watching with a joy on her face that at the time seemed indescribable. Papa’s calloused fingertips dancing along my infantile ones as he taught me scales. His laughter filled the parlor room with love, joy. I could swim in that laughter. Now, I depart from my father’s grief, watching as the laughter was broken down into tears. I step into her sanctuary, her bathroom. Mama always said, “It takes more effort to frown than to smile, my love.” She’d pinch my dumpling cheeks and mumble something about wrinkles before turning to face the mirror. Her face was like a painting, stuck behind the glass. Her blue eyes sparkling as she applied rouge, a little mascara, and her signature red lip. My little fingers reached up to grab at the perfumes, delicately housed in crystal castles. She’d smile down at me, her little dumpling. Her long, elegant hands, nails perfectly polished in pastel pink for Easter, vivid red, white, and blue come July, burnt orange in the fall, and a deep green by Christmas, would grasp the castles and release a cloud of love into the air. “Choose your perfume wisely, my little dumpling,” she’d say. Sometimes, I would get to mock her. I’d crane my neck up high and dab some lilac essence onto my neck. The bottles stand haunted, untouched. My little fingers still reach for them. I pull and let out little sounds of frustration as my hand flaps on the counter. I successfully feel the hard tube of one and grab on tightly, pulling as I go. I don’t notice as it edges off the counter and I gasp as it falls. I have destroyed a crystal palace. Tears rush forward as I hear my father’s heavy footsteps crash up the stairs. He’s set me on my bed in a new, black dress. My little feet dangle off my bed. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. My first dress lies crumpled in the corner of my room and I tilt myself back onto my pink comforter. I can smell Mama as I do this. So I sit up and throw myself back again, inhaling her as I do. I can see her face, bright as she clutches one of my dolls. She’s waiting for me. She says, “Let’s take a walk,” so we do. Mama reaches out her fingers and I grasp at them with mine. We walk down the wooden steps. She holds me up so I can skip one every so often. We walk out the big, red door, out into the front garden. Mama smiles at the rose bushes, coming into bloom in the spring and summer. She shows me how to kneel down and smell each of them. Her pearl earring brushes my cheek. It’s cold and it sends me into giggles. Mama smiles back at me. We walk to the Big Tree, just a bit away from our garden. I tell her all about Tilly, my doll, and how she is a princess and so am I. “Right you are, my little dumpling, a princess for the red of your days,” her lips press into my forehead. They leave a red scar of love. I awake to the soft song of a violin. Violet must be here. I brush my curls back from my face and smooth my dress. Downstairs, a shaft of bright, afternoon sun cuts across the wooden floors. I am an international spy as I plop down and dangle my stocking covered feet off of the balcony. My hands grip the wooden banisters out of habit as I poke my face down and peer. I can see Papa, playing the piano. His broad shoulders sit straighter now. Violet is indeed there with her violin. Mama used to watch them play. She would sit back on her warm, leather chair, with me in her lap. When I was too small to silence myself, she’d shush me softly in my ear. I can feel her warm breath as it breathes comfort and safety into me. Her arms would wrap around my waist as the violin cried or laughed or stomped in anger. However, her belly grew too big to hold me in the chair. She told me she had swallowed a watermelon seed and that made Papa laugh, even as the song crescendoed into joy. Violet laughed, too as she took a break to bounce her bow off of Papa’s shoulders. “Our home shall always be filled with music, my dumpling,” promised Mama. But now, Violet does not stand tall with her violin. In fact, she sits in Mama’s chair. That does not sit right in my tummy. I stand and rush down the stairs. My stockings make the journey slick. Papa doesn’t look up from his work. Violet plays deep, long notes as Papa crashes along with her. I rush to Mama’s chair and tug at Violet’s dress. The music stops. I see tears in Violet’s green eyes. Papa doesn’t turn to me. His right pinky reaches out and lets loose a high pitched note. Violet begins playing from Mama’s chair. I tug on her black lace at the bottom of her dress. She stands. I take my seat in Mama’s chair. It feels warm. I decide to make Mama proud and keep myself quiet. I button my lips. But music is boring. And Papa’s shoulders seem to slump down low, low, low like the lowest branches of the Christmas tree which brush the tops of colorful bows and boxes. I unseat myself, my stocking covered toes scratching at the leather. I wander into the kitchen. Juliet is there. She stands with her broad back against the white counters. Wisps of red hair escape her bun. I march up to her and she lifts me onto the counter, an act of rebellion against my father. “Cookie?” I ask. She doesn’t correct my speech. I am handed a chocolate chip cookie and crumbs soon fill my dress. I offer a bite to Juliet who refuses. My brow furrows in confusion; Juliet always enjoys a bite of cookie with me. She isn’t wearing her blue dress with white apron today. Just a long, black one. Like Violet. Like me, I realize. The door opens. I hear some adult speech and reach for another cookie. My father sits at the piano playing “Piano Sonata Number 14” by Beethoven. Juliet slams a glass of cold milk beside me before returning to the counter. I swallow it in three gulps. She lifts me off of the counter. I return to Mama’s chair. Papa does not look up, his fingers slam back into the keys of the piano. I am bored. So I stand and try to clamber into Papa’s lap. He doesn’t permit me. His music does not stop wailing. I huff and stomp my foot. Juliet comes in and mumbles an apology. We sit in Mama’s chair together. Juliet does not feel like Mama. She’s not as soft and she doesn’t smell like perfume or roses. Her hands are rough and unpolished. Juliet does not wear any earrings. I turn so I can whisper in her ear, “When is Mama coming home with the baby?” Juliet pushes my head to her breast. I can smell a new scent on her. It’s clean. Frustration echoes in my heart as I demand the question once more, “When? When is Mama coming home?”


Vampire movies make me laugh. In the movies, we can’t see our reflections in the mirror, which is absurd. You can’t kill us by stabbing us through the heart with a wooden stake. You can only kill a half-breed vampire with a wooden stake. My favorite myth is we burn up in the daylight. Why do they put these myths in movies? Oh, I’m sorry for not introducing myself. My name is Nina Vegas and I’m a vampire. I just moved into a lovely neighborhood with my husband and son. We purchased a nice four-bedroom home that has a glorious backyard pool. It’s sunny here all the time, and it’s perfect beach weather. I’m a financial adviser and my job pays well, but I have a second job that pays me another six-figure salary. I would say that my second job is morbid. It involves visiting funeral homes. I bought a new home in a suburban neighborhood that has plenty of funeral homes in the surrounding area. Sometimes funeral directors pay me to visit at night. Most of the time a loved one pays me to resurrect a family member. I can come out in the day, but I let people believe the myth that vampires can only roam the streets at night. You would never guess I was a vampire by looking at me. I look like a CoverGirl. I’ve had funeral director men flirt with me, and I have to tell them I’m a married woman. They see my curvy body, my scantily clad dresses, and my expensive jewelry. I’ve been told that I look like a runway model, which flattered me. Sometimes I wear a dark veil over my face whenever I visit a funeral home. I wear the veil to protect my identity and my family. There are people out there who want to kill me. I have a 4-year-old son and I don’t want to put my baby’s life in danger. We, vampires, are not completely immortal. We can still burn up in a fire. I’ve caused some funeral directors to lose their job and they’ve hired hitmen to come after me. I get paid mostly by the bereaved. A mother who lost her baby would gladly pay for the resurrection of her child, instead of a funeral director, since funeral directors make their business off the dead. If you resurrect too many people, you put a lot of funeral homes out of business. I’m not the only vampire who gets paid to resurrect the dead. There are other men and women vampires out there who resurrect the dead so they can flash their cash. It’s a great way to make extra money, but you gotta watch your back. Some vampires don’t just use their gifts to resurrect the dead. They also use their gifts to heal the living. An ounce of vampire blood can cure any disease. Doctors know this, yet they keep it a secret from the public because they don’t want to lose their job to an immortal. I’ve heard of vampires mysteriously dying after getting hired to do a few jobs at hospitals. Healthcare companies would lose money if they allowed every vampire to donate their blood to the sick. There would be no need for Medicare. Everyone would be immortal and free of disease, but the good old government won’t allow that. The government has investments in healthcare companies. They want people to stay sick so their investments can thrive. I know what it’s like to be paranoid. I’ve fought people sent to kill me. That’s why I’m always moving my family to a new area. You can’t be a healer or a resurrectionist vampire and live in the same neighborhood for a long period. Eventually, a paid reaper will come after you. I had to realize that concealing your identity can’t always save you from an assassin sent by an angry unemployed doctor or a mortician. A month ago, a man tried to shoot me while I was in my car. The bullet went through my windshield and it grazed my left ear, shattering my earring. My baby was sitting in his car seat right behind me and the bullet struck the headrest an inch above his head. I was taking my son to daycare when this happened. All I saw was a man on a motorcycle and the nozzle of a semi-automatic pistol aimed at my face. Only one bullet went through my windshield and I didn’t give this asshole a second chance to shoot into my car. I rammed my car right into his motorcycle. I drive an Escalade, which is an enormous SUV. So when I drove over his body, my tires squashed him. I heard his bones snapping beneath my car. I drove away after I saw that his body was flatter than the road. Later on, I found the funeral director who sent the hired gun. I executed him in his home. His wife was at work, so she stayed alive. Before I killed the funeral director, I made him apologize for sending a hitman to kill me. I forced him to get down on his knees. You should’ve seen the look on his face when I showed up at his house. He kept asking how I knew and I wouldn’t tell him. Vampires have a sixth sense. This guy didn’t know that because he was stupid. I made him pay for his ignorance. He died in his living room wearing nothing but his fucking underwear. I had no mercy on him, because the hitman he paid to shoot me, almost killed my child! I tortured him by biting off his fingers one by one. And then I sunk my fangs into his throat, putting a hole in his windpipe. I ripped out his throat, and I chewed on it. He had time to see my face before he died. Sadly, I’ve killed other funeral directors and the hitmen they paid to wipe me out. I killed a man who was twice my size. He thought he could surprise me by sneaking up behind me in a parking garage. I felt a needle pierce the side of my neck and I knew it was a tranquilizer. My body went numb, but only for a minute or two. When my attacker whirled me around, I saw that he had a black bandana covering his nose and mouth. He had a skullcap, and he wore a gray tank top. His arms were the size of boulders. Wow, you’re beautiful. It’s a shame that my boss wants you dead. This is what he whispered in my ear while pushing me against my car with his hand up my skirt. I told you the tranquilizer lasted for a minute. Sedatives do not affect a vampire. He made his mistake when he leaned his ear next to my lips, thinking I was trying to say something. I chewed off his ear and I spit it in his face. After I did that, I sunk my fangs into his nose. First, I ripped out his nose ring with my teeth and then I gnawed on his nostrils. I swallowed his nose, and it had a slight saltiness to it. He begged for his life, but I told him to stop talking. He didn’t, so I stretched his mouth open and I used my fangs to tear out his tongue. I dug my long nails into his throat and I lifted him off his feet. Yeah, he was a big guy, but a 6 foot 4, 240-pound man is no match for a vampire woman. I watched the life in his eyes disintegrate after I crushed his throat with my bare hand. A funny thing happened. My husband called me after I killed my attacker. We were discussing our anniversary plans. I kicked the hitman’s body away from my car and I got in, driving away while still talking to my husband. It was so nice to hear his voice. Later that day, I killed the funeral director who sent the hitman. It was a 42-year-old soccer mom and I hated killing her. I know you think my life sounds like the typical Hollywood vampire thriller. Let me tell you something, sweetheart, nothing is thrilling about paid hitmen coming after you and your family. This is my reality and I hate looking over my shoulder every time I'm out in public with my husband and son. I thought about purchasing a gun, but vampires don’t use guns. It's a dishonor to our ancestors. The only upside in my life is resurrecting dead loved ones. It’s not about the money. It’s about making people happy during death. Last week I went to a funeral home to resurrect a woman’s son who the police wrongly killed. The mother was African-American and I could see all the pain in her beautiful face. I understood how she felt because I’m a black mother myself. Well, I’m half black and half Latino. I knew how this woman felt because I almost lost my son. She told me that the cops shot her son when he reached for his phone in his back pocket. These idiots thought he was reaching for a gun. He was 17 years old and scared for his life. The police stopped him because he fit the description of a suspect. He wasn’t the suspect they were looking for, but instead of letting him go; they told him to get out of his car. He panicked when one officer tried to put handcuffs on him. The mother told me he reached for his phone to call her, and that’s when one cop shot him in the back. She wanted to know why God let a group of racist cops kill her only baby. The only thing I could tell her was that God sent me to bring her baby back to life. On this resurrection job, I told the mother to keep her money. I walked into a refrigerated room where I saw her son’s body lying on a table, dressed in a dark men's suit. I closed the room's door and locked it. When I saw the woman’s son, he was so handsome and young. I stroked my fingers through his short, curly hair while leaning over his face. I kissed his forehead, and I took a deep breath before sinking my teeth into the side of his neck. He had a beautiful lion tattoo on the side of his neck and I hated messing it up. If you bite a person longer than twenty seconds, you’ll turn them into a vampire and I didn’t want to do that. So I had to time myself. I reached into my purse to get my phone, and I set the timer on my phone to fifteen seconds. I gave myself enough time to resurrect him but not transform him. I do this with every human I resurrect. It’s euphoric for me when I feel a cold body turn warm. It’s like reviving a dead rose. I smiled at the young man when he opened his eyes and looked up at me. The sunlight coming in through the window made his eyes look like hazel colored diamonds. He had gorgeous eyes. He asked me who I was, and I told him that I worked for his mom. I took him by the hand and I watched him stand up. He was tall and slender. I told him how handsome he looked and he told me I was beautiful like the singer, Rihanna. That made me giggle. The best moment was taking him to his mother and watching her throw her arms around him. She cried so hard while kissing his face. She thanked me for what I did and she tried to pay me, but I refused to take her money. I messed up that day because I wasn't wearing my black veil, but I didn’t care. The funeral director was an elderly white woman who had a German accent. She had her silver hair tied up into a bun and she had a pinched up mouth. She rolled her eyes at me from behind these ancient-looking eyeglasses. She called me a freak under her breath and I gave her the finger before turning my back on her and walking out of the funeral home. I knew she’d send a hitman after me, but I didn’t give a damn. After I resurrected a young woman who died from leukemia, I packed up, moving my husband and son out of the neighborhood. We moved to a quiet little town in West Virginia. A few days ago, I went to a funeral home to resurrect a guy named Frankie Venza. That resurrection job didn’t go too well. I found out that Frankie was a gangster who had a lot of innocent blood on his hands. He had three sons, and they wanted me to resurrect him, but I refused. They offered to pay me 10 million dollars, and I still turned them down. All three of them pulled out their guns, and they aimed them at my face. They told me that if I didn’t resurrect their father; they would load my pretty face up with bullets. I never gave them a chance to pull the triggers on their guns. I was a small woman surrounded by three strong, armed men in black suits. These boys didn’t know who they were dealing with. I devoured them. Bullets tore through my body, but my vampirism gave me regenerative healing. I felt like I was killing the Backstreet Boys. All three of them looked like they belonged in a 90s hip-hop boy band. One boy wore a backward cap, and it amazingly stayed on his pretty little stupid head when I sliced it off using my fingernails. Blood soaked his black turtleneck and his suit jacket. To my surprise, I found out that these boys were human-vampire hybrids. One of them bit my shoulder and I saw he had 24 karat gold plated fangs, which matched the gold bling around his neck. Amazingly, I kept my cool when I saw their father rise from his casket, pulling a small-caliber machine gun from beneath his suit jacket. I realized that all of them were hitmen. It didn’t take me long to annihilate Frankie’s three boys. I wore their blood on my face and dress. There was nothing like executing three young men in their prime who were all part vampire. My hardest moment came when I had to kill their fat ass father. He looked like a Mafia Godfather. He had slick back white hair that touched his shoulders. His suit was impeccable, and he had diamond rings on each finger. I stood my ground when he started shooting at me. Bullets kissed my face and my neck. They ripped through my breasts. I could feel their steel jacketed tips piercing through my liver and my other internal organs. I played dead after Frankie emptied his clip on me. He had no more bullets in his machine gun and I knew his ass was mine. I had the advantage because I was one hundred percent vampire while he was a half-breed. Half-breeds are much more vulnerable. I kept my eyes closed, remaining perfectly still while lying on the floor. Frankie lumbered over to me and he walked with a limp. He kneeled over me and had the nerve to put his hard, truck-size hands on my breasts. I let him grope my boobs for a minute and then I bolted up, sinking my teeth into his double chin. The blubber in his neck impeded my teeth a little, but I finally reached an artery after three, agonizingly long minutes. He tried to sling me around the room, but I didn't let go. He punched me a few times in my ribcage, but I still wouldn’t let go. I wrapped my legs around his fat body and I dug my high heel sandals into his lower back. I had my arms locked around his neck with my fangs buried in his throat. I forced him to carry me in his arms like a little girl as I drained every ounce of blood from his body. It seemed like it took forever to suck him dry. He finally fell to his knees. I had a 300-pound gangster lying on top of me. It took all my strength to push his body off my chest. I was in an abandoned funeral home, so there was no director. It was just Frankie and his three sons. Somebody paid them to assassinate me. My sixth sense told me it was an old German woman, and I was gonna kill this stupid bitch. While I was lying on the floor gathering my breath, I thought about how I resurrected a woman’s 3-year-old daughter. Thinking about this relaxed me. I thought about how adorable the woman’s baby was. The baby had on a wig because her chemotherapy treatments caused her hair to fall out. She looked so pretty in her little black floral dress. Her name was Keisha. Keisha's mom almost fainted when I came out of the room holding her daughter. The baby’s hair grew back after I resurrected her. She had beautiful, gold curly locks. I could tell she was half white and half African-American. I stood there watching the mother hold her daughter while crying and thanking God that she was alive again. She thanked me and kissed me. I was still lying on the floor beside a 300-pound dead body when my husband called me. I told him the plans I had for our son’s birthday party next week. I also told my husband what happened to me at the funeral home, and that it was time to move to a new neighborhood.