Dr. Bishop was waiting for me on my first day of work, tapping his foot impatiently on the waxed linoleum. I was thirty minutes early. “Dr. Stiles,” Dr. Bishop intoned, his deep, gravelly voice pleasantly rumbling over my name, “please make sure you arrive at the testing booth promptly.” An intern standing a respectful distance away shot me a commiserating look and pressed a cup of espresso into my hand before quickly retreating, presumably to grab coffee for other employees. “Absolutely, sir,” I replied, taking a sip of my espresso in lieu of voicing any of the sarcastic comments that would instantly get me fired. I stopped next to the intimidating man, ignoring his militaristic posture and the displeased glint in his coal-dark eyes. In that moment, while he loomed over me even though he clearly had other things he could be doing, Dr. Bishop struck me as the unhappiest man on Earth. I almost pitied him, but thankfully the moment of sentimentality passed. “Before you head to the testing booth, I wanted to discuss some regulations with you.” Without waiting for my input, Dr. Bishop began walking toward my new office. I hastened my pace to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. “You will not disclose personal information or anyone else’s name to the participant. Both of you are to remain completely anonymous to the other. Your job is to ask questions and, once enough trust has been built, have a conversation.” “So you’re telling me I’m actually here to make friends,” I joked, elbowing Dr. Bishop in the side. His expression soured further. His harsh look melted into a sigh. “More or less, I suppose. Do your best to build a rapport with this person, and we will continue this discussion another time if you have any questions. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some other business to take care of.” Dr. Bishop whipped around and began walking away, his lab coat billowing behind him like a cape. There was something in the broad line of his shoulders, tight with tension and stress, that made me feel a bit sympathetic. I didn’t really know a lot about what was going on, but Dr. Bishop was apparently under a lot of pressure from some government-types. Better him than me, at any rate. My testing booth was at the end of the hallway, shoved haphazardly into what was almost certainly once a broom closet. The name plaque on the door--*Dr*. Henry Stiles-- made me feel a bit proud of myself; I quickly took a picture with my phone and sent it to my mom. I opened the door, which stuck and creaked against the doorframe, taking in my new “office.” The back wall had been gutted recently, replaced with a one-way mirror I couldn’t see through and a fresh coat of *almost*\-beige paint chipping around the edges. A desk rested in the center of the room, scratched up from years of use, along with an office chair that likely predated my birth. There was a thick sheath of papers stacked on the desk, sitting ominously next to a microphone. I sat down in the office chair and cringed as the metal legs shrieked under my unimpressive weight. I might have been handed fancy coffee, but it looked like my office wasn’t going to be quite as high-tech. I scanned the papers absently, waiting for my cue to begin. A soft whirring in the corner drew my attention to a single innocuous security camera, watching me dispassionately. The camera made me a little nervous, but I supposed I was being surveilled for any protocol infractions. Someone knocked on my door with more force than necessary. I sighed and read the first question with little interest, “Where are you from?” “You are new.” The voice had clearly been run through a modulator, almost past the point of coherence. I couldn’t tell if the voice belonged to a man or a woman, but there was something sweet in the tone that reminded me of Mom’s voice. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Yes, I am, but please answer the question. Where are you from?” “I don’t feel like talking,” they replied. I rapped my fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “Okay, that’s fine. Why don’t I talk for a little bit? I’m from Kansas, which is the kind of place I don’t think people are meant to live long-term. You shouldn’t go your whole life without seeing the ocean or a mountain or something other than wheat fields.” “I like the ocean,” the voice offered after a pause. Ah, progress. “Yeah? Me too. I used to go on beach trips as a kid. We used to look for dolphins while we made sand castles.” The stranger hummed, creating a sound so staticky and unpleasant that it made me cringe. I took the half-response as a sign to continue. “My senior year of high school, we went swimming with manatees off the coast of Florida. They’re pretty cool.” Another knock on my door interrupted me before I could continue. I ignored the sound for a moment, instead leaning closer to the microphone. “Sorry for the interruption.” “That’s okay,” the participant said, their voice calmer than before. Dr. Bishop slammed the door open, crossing the small room in a few long strides and grabbing my arm with an uncomfortably tight grip, almost like he was prepared to carry me out. “What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low enough for the microphone to miss. I had to keep myself from laughing at the sudden realization that Dr. Bishop had a very, very faint Texan accent hidden in his deep voice. “Is something wrong, Dr. Bishop?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. I wasn’t really sure what I’d already done, but it must have been serious. “Don’t mention my name, idiot!” Dr. Bishop hissed, pulling me out of my broom closet office and shutting the door with a forceful shove. The wood creaked against the too-small door frame, protesting the tight fit. Dr. Bishop cleared his throat awkwardly and straightened his tie. “This test is supposed to be, ah, anonymous. Our volunteer can’t know my name.” “Right. I’m sorry, sir,” I said slowly, recalling what he’d said earlier. Still, I didn’t really understand why the anonymity policy was so strict. I could see people casually trying to watch us from their own offices, looking far more interested in our discussion than in their work. I couldn’t blame them. “Dr. Stiles, I know you’re intelligent. You know we didn’t have you write up your will because this job is safe,” Dr. Bishop said, his voice almost a whisper. He looked me in the eye, and there was something so wild and desperate in his gaze that I couldn’t do anything other than stare at him. A month after earning my degree, Dr. Bishop himself had approached me and offered me the job. He’d known one of my professors, and apparently I’d made a good enough impression to land myself a recommendation. At the time, my student debt had been the only thing on my mind, and when I saw how much the job paid, I accepted without hesitation. From what I’d seen, the job itself was almost insultingly simple, but I couldn’t exactly turn down the money. Still, the too-easy, well-paying job didn’t quite sit right with my sensibilities. Something about it was too close to a free lunch. I didn’t understand what kind of danger I was in, and somehow I knew Dr. Bishop wouldn’t tell me even if I asked him. Instead of addressing the problem, I just laughed shakily, “That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks, sir.” “You aren’t sticking to the script, Dr. Stiles.” I shrugged. “The script wasn’t really working. They seemed a lot calmer when I just had a casual conversation for a bit instead of jumping directly into an interrogation.” “Do what you think is best,” Dr. Bishop said simply. He walked away, his lab coat swishing behind him. I made brief eye contact with a woman at the copier. She looked away quickly, her expression oddly sad and shuttered. I swallowed, trying to ignore the pervasive discomfort filling the hallway. My phone dinged in my back pocket. “I’m so proud of you, honey!” my mom’s reply text read. I slipped my phone away without answering. I struggled to force my office door open and sat down in my ancient office chair, trying to ignore the uneasy sense that something was very, very wrong with the person on the other side of the mirror. “Sorry about that!” The stranger was silent, but I could hear them breathing close to the microphone. Maybe it was just the modulator, but something in the noise was so inhuman that the hairs stood up on my arms. I took a deep breath, calming myself down. Hysteria solved nothing. My voice showing none of my fear, I asked them, “What do you want to talk about?” They never answered me, and I couldn’t help feeling frustrated as I sat there in silence, waiting for something to happen. I ran into a familiar intern on my way to lunch. “Oh, hey!” I called, quickly hurrying over to him. He looked up at my approach, his posture wary. “I wanted to thank you for the coffee. It hasn’t been too long since I was an intern myself, honestly, so I can always go get my own.” The intern’s expression relaxed into something far more open and friendly. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I know you’ve got a pretty important job, plus it’s got to be stressful working with Dr. Bishop.” He held out his hand, and I shook it somewhat awkwardly. “I’m William, William Davis. Call me Will.” “Henry Stiles,” I replied. “Want to get lunch together?” Will beamed, and it made me feel fluttery and nervous for some reason. “Yeah, sure! Normally I just eat something out of the vending machines, but there’s a cheap pizza place down the street that’s pretty good.” Will struck me as the kind of person who lived off peanut butter and orange juice and considered it healthy living. The pizza place in question was just one of those cheap buffet types, but Will looked so excited that I couldn’t find it in my heart to complain. We sat down across from each other in a set of red, beat-up booths, the space so tight that my knees bumped the underside of the table. My shoes, business-casual and purchased just for my new job, stuck to the floor. “What’s it like?” Will asked as soon as we settled, his voice hushed and fervent. “What’s what like?” I asked, taking the time to shower my greasy pizza in fake parmesan. Will leaned over the table, lowering his voice even further. “You know, working with *the subject.*” “I didn’t realize it was such a big deal,” I admitted. Why had they given the job to me, someone with so little experience, if it was so important? Will nodded and spoke around a mouthful of cheese, “No, it’s a huge deal. Kind of a shame, though, since the people who work with your participant never really stick around long. There was a really nice lady named Faith who worked here before you. I never really figured out what happened to her, but she used to bake stuff for everyone in the office.” “I’m not sure I can carry the mantle of baking for the whole office,” I joked, even though my thoughts were humming along as fast as they could. Why would anyone leave, with the amount I was being paid? Danger, but from what? “Will,” I said, and something in my voice must have seemed serious, because he immediately straightened in his seat. “What’s going on with this place?” Will cringed. “Dude, I’ve got no clue. I’ve been working there for about four months, and it’s creepy as hell, if I’m being honest. The work experience is good, but I’m thinking about quitting anyway. Faith, um, she was really nice, but right before she left, I just--” Will stuttered. He swallowed and collected himself. “She started getting really spacey and weird. She talked about work a lot more than usual, and I remember she started getting here before anyone else and wouldn’t leave until everyone was gone.” “Maybe something was going on at home,” I suggested, even though the words rang false to my own ears. “Maybe,” Will conceded, resting his chin on his fist and looking down at the table. “But I don’t really think that’s everything. Dr. Bishop kind of creeps me out, too, but in a different way. He’s really intense, but he wasn’t always that way, apparently. He’s always in charge of scouting new people to interview your participant, so I guess maybe he’s tired of having to hire new help so often. Still, it’s kind of weird that no one can figure out why he hires the people he does,” Will said, almost talking to himself. I sat back and let him, more enlightened than I’d been since I was hired. “Every person is completely different. Faith didn’t have a doctorate like you, and she’d never had a job like that before. Her previous job had been as a piano teacher.” “What?” I cut in. “Really?” Will nodded, tracing his initials in the condensation gathering on his drink. “Maybe it’s stupid, but I think he hires friendly people.” “You flatterer,” I deadpanned, unsure if he was kidding or not. Will snorted back a laugh. “No joke. Every person he’s hired for the job has apparently been really nice. Or good at getting people to open up, if nothing else. You’re kind of awkward in a non-judgemental way. It makes you easy to talk to.” “I wish my participant thought that way. I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall,” I muttered. I glanced at my watch and realized that my lunch break was almost over. “Hey,” Will said quietly. “Look, I know this might come out a little weird, but I’m going to say it anyway.” He swallowed and looked up at me, a crease forming in his brow. “Get out of here if things start getting...scary. I don’t know what’s going on, but I know that something is.” “You too, Will,” I replied. The conversation felt too heavy for a pizza parlor, and I shook myself mentally to clear my head. “We should have lunch again soon, and not just so I can hear office gossip.” “I think I’d like that. See you around, Henry,” Will said, giving me a bright smile like he had earlier. Despite our heavy conversation, the look on his face brightened my mood enough to shove $10 into the tip jar at the front counter. I walked back to my office, already resigned to sit in silence in front of my participant. They didn’t answer me that day or the next, but when I sat down in my office chair a week later, I heard that familiar voice in a tone so quiet I could barely catch the words. “I want to talk about my family.” I was so shocked by the sudden capitulation that I didn’t even have time to respond before the topic snowballed, their voice growing louder and more confident. “I have a large family, so large that I have trouble remembering all their names and faces. I feel like the whole world is my family, sometimes, like in some way I’m related to every person. I can’t say who I’m closest to, because when I think back, sometimes I think I was closer to my mother, but then I remember being closer to my father. I think sometimes I misremember things, or maybe my memories can’t carry the weight of so many people.” That was concerning on multiple levels, but I tried to ignore the actual content of the participant’s speech for the time being. “Well, can you remember a specific event that’s a happy memory for you? You don’t have to have a favorite person to appreciate your loved ones. You can love them equally, or you can cherish certain memories with them.” The stranger paused for a beat, mulling over my words. “I remember a family dog, or maybe more than one. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I know I loved that dog, but I can’t remember what we named it, or what happened to it.” “That’s okay, too,” I lied, even though something was wrong in a way I didn’t think I could help. Levelly, I asked them a question Dr. Bishop had been nagging me about for the past week. “Where are you from?” “I’m from many places. I travel lots. You mentioned Kansas; I remember living there once and enjoying the quiet. I remember riding down a country road and seeing cows everywhere.” “Sounds like Kansas to me,” I commented. “Kansas is pretty quiet, but I think that’s what’s nice about it. I liked to sit on my roof and watch the stars at night, when the sky was so clear and crisp it seemed like you could reach out and grab them.” “I remember the stars, too,” the stranger replied, something contemplative and melancholy in the words. “Will you be my friend, Henry Stiles?” The modulator distorted my name into something demonic. “That’s Dr. Stiles to you,” I said, my voice thin and reedy to my own ears. I knew I’d never given the stranger my name, and I knew that no one would have mentioned it, since the anonymity policy was so strict. “Besides, you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t know your name.” “That’s okay! I don’t know my name, either!” the participant chirped, cheerful for perhaps the first time. Their voice didn’t sound right in anything other than a flat, level murmur. I paused. There was something here, balanced on a knifepoint, and some primal instinct told me to choose my words carefully. “What name do you want?” “I want your name, Henry.” The stranger on the other side of the mirror trailed my name with a syllabant hiss. I got the feeling they were very close to the glass. I stared my own reflection in the eye, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Some part of my brain was screaming about my conversation with Will, about how Faith had changed so much in so little time. Without my permission, my mouth formed the words, “Take it.” The stranger laughed and refused to speak for the rest of the day. It gave me a lot of time to think, which was possibly a bad thing. I had so many questions, and the security clearance for none of the answers. Who was I speaking to? More importantly, why? The camera watched me intently, and for the first time I wondered why I was the one who couldn’t see through the one-sided mirror. When I left for work, Dr. Bishop met me at the door. There was something sad and lonely in his face. “Dr. Bishop,” I said, even though I had nothing to really say to the man. He looked up, because of course he did, and I shifted awkwardly for a moment. “Um, sir, have you ever worked with my participant?” Dr. Bishop stuck his hands in his pockets, looking away from my face. “No, I’ve never had the pleasure. I hear it’s an experience, but I’m not allowed. I’m...biased.” I got the feeling he was lying, mostly because he was a bad liar, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him out on it. “Biased?” I asked instead, hoping he’d elaborate, if nothing else. “Have a good evening, Dr. Stiles.” I just nodded, my throat dry. I decided to bring my mom takeout and eat with her. All I could hear in the silence was my name, whispered over and over again in that scrambled voice. I didn’t really want to be alone with my thoughts. I didn’t want to think about my participant any longer. I got lost on the way to my mother’s house, even though I’d been visiting the address for five years. After wandering in the dark, wooded roads for a good hour, I pulled my car over and sat on the hood, eating all the takeout myself and staring at the stars. It felt like home. After I finished eating, I decided to go back to work and wait until the doors unlocked. At least I’d be early, just like Dr. Bishop preferred. I shot my mom a text saying I was working late and apologized for not eating dinner with her. Before she had a chance to respond, I turned my phone off and threw it in the floorboard of my car. I couldn’t think of anyone I possibly needed to talk to, barring my job with my participant. When I walked into work the next morning, I could hear whispering all around me. I hoped it was normal gossip instead of he-just-lost-his-job gossip. Will stopped for a second when he greeted me at the door, my daily espresso clutched in one hand while the other hand worried at the hem of his shirt. “Hey,” he said quietly, his eyes roving my face for some piece of information I didn’t have. “Are you feeling okay?” I smiled, trying to ease his nerves. “I’m just tired, I think. I’ll be okay after I start working.” He handed me my drink, at which point I resisted the urge to gulp the entire thing at once. “You want to meet me for lunch today?” Will asked tentatively. “I think we should--I think we should get out of here, you know?” I winced. “Sorry, but I think I’m going to have to work through lunch today. Some other time, okay?” I didn’t stick around to see the look on his face. I slipped into my office as quietly as I could with my broken door and cleared my throat into the microphone. “Good morning. How are you feeling today?” “Did you know that Dr. Bishop has a daughter that moved far away and forgets to call? He doesn’t blame her, but he misses her a lot, especially since his wife died.” I coughed. “I’m sorry?” “Don’t be sorry. You weren’t there. He’s so scared of me. I miss our chats, but now I’m friends with you,” the stranger purred, their discordant voice slipping over the words. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The stranger continued speaking in an oddly clear tone. “He has nightmares of speaking to me, so he stopped. He says he doesn’t know what will happen, but that’s a lie. He knows very well, and he’s afraid.” “What’s going to happen to Dr. Bishop?” I whispered. “He thinks about me more than his dead wife, now. He’s scared, all the time. Maybe his daughter will visit him. I’m lonely, too, just like Dr. Bishop. Will you visit me, Henry?” I stood up so quickly that I knocked my office chair over. Sweat suddenly drenched my forehead, and my skin felt too tight for my body. “Please visit me. I know you’re curious. You can’t figure out who I am, and it eats at you. You have so many questions about Faith, about Dr. Bishop, about me. Why don’t you visit me, and I can answer every question you’ve ever had?” My head spinning, I picked up the office chair and pitched it through the one-way mirror. It smashed through to the other side, but I didn’t look at it. I just kept my eyes on my feet and tried to focus on my breathing. My skin prickled with anticipation. “How violent,” the stranger said, far closer than before. I looked up. The voice was not modulated, and had never been. They were every person I’d met, a face of every simultaneous thought pulsing and shifting into amorphous figures. Staring hurt, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Their eyes, deeper than the stars I’d felt so at home with, pushed and pulled like a kaleidoscope. When they spoke, I heard my mother on her wedding day, at her father’s funeral, the day she was born. I reached up to my own face, feeling a warm mixture of blood, tears, and spinal fluid. The blood vessels in my eyes and nose had ruptured. I didn’t want to think about where the spinal fluid was coming from. The stranger leaned forward, their countless eyes unblinking. “It’s nice to meet you, Henry Stiles. We remember that we liked our mother best.” The stranger tilted their head, and even though I was right in front of them, I couldn’t tell what their hair looked like. “We remember living in Kansas, looking up at the stars at night. We remember swimming with the manatees in Florida.” The stranger’s face flickered, their lips moving out of sync with their words. “Hello, Henry. My name is Faith, and my family dog was named Daisy. She was a poodle, and I remember teaching her to play dead. I used to work here, but now I get to live with all my friends. Does Dr. Bishop still work here, too? He doesn’t visit anymore.” “Who are you?” I rasped, my voice glued in my throat. My eyes burned, and my head was starting to throb. Even when I tried to look away, their awful face was burned into an afterimage that followed me with its eyes. “I’m you now, Henry,” the stranger replied, their voice serene and calm. It grated against my ears until they pulsed, then numbed. “You are here because you want to be, Henry. I know it’s uncomfortable now, but take our hand.” I remembered when I was nine, sitting next to my mother, eating popcorn. We were watching a marathon on conspiracy theories. I’d always liked Mothman, myself. I hoped my mother wouldn’t miss me too badly when I was gone, and I felt a momentary pang of guilt for accidentally eating her takeout. She’d be okay without me... Right? I pitched forward and let the stranger catch me, and when we righted ourselves, there was a sense of perfect equilibrium we’d never felt before. An alarm blared in the hallway, and the security camera, omniscient as always, followed our every move. We shuffled through the broken glass for the old office chair and sat down, waiting for the next participant to step into our testing booth. We had so many more friends to make before we were finished.


Ralph first laid eyes on the two boys when he was refilling the team’s Gatorade jug. They emerged from the jungle of pines with their chiseled walking sticks and nothing more except the clothes that hung off their bony bodies. Ralph, who was known as Ralphie to every organism in town, didn’t know the boys, which was strange since he had been playing at Morley Riggs Field for seven years. The village of Ocqueoc was small. Everyone knew everyone. Maybe they were greenhorns or had just reemerged to civilization after years of living feral. Hey, Junior, do you know those boys out there? They were now far beyond the yellow pole that marked the foul zone. Junior chomped his Big League Chew and squinted into the treeline. He wiped off the lenses of his thick-black specs for a second look. They don’t go to Ocqueoc. Positive? Certain. Even with that 80-20 vision of yours? Shuttup, Ralphie! A playful push sent Ralphie back into his post at mid-right bench. It was a seat that he knew well and one that he frequently warmed. Even though Ralphie was a decent catcher, the Roosters had #13- JJ Spock. JJ was a star athlete but worked his magic best behind the plate. The opposing teams’ players knew the boy’s name and so did their coaches. They limited lead offs to six feet. If a player dared go beyond that threshold, JJ, called “the Rocket” by his comrades, would sense it. He would throw them out before the runner had even realized the ball had left the pitcher’s glove. The Rocket was something else. Ralphie and the other bench riders theorized their teammate’s talent. Did he have some sort of echolocation? A robotic right arm wrapped in skin? They adored JJ. He hosted the team’s monthly pizza parties and paid each boy’s share at the Mio Lanes Batting Cages. Despite The Rocket’s dominance, he never once showed a shred of an ego. Ralphie threw the ball around with the star catcher during each practice. JJ gave him pointers- teaching Ralphie how to frame and dance his fingers around in coded signs. He improved, exponentially, when JJ was around. But no matter how fast he could flicker his fingers between his quadriceps, Ralphie knew that he could never hold down the field like The Rocket. He watched from the dugout as JJ shot the shrimpy boy at first a death glare. The kid stood his ground- was that a smirk? Big mistake. WOOSH! The baseball flew like a can of nitro. Gus, the first baseman for the Roosters, put a hard tag on the cocky runner. He was out by a long shot. The Rocket removed his catcher helmet and brushed back a near mullet. He flashed the banished opponent a smile that Ralphie knew would have the Colgate salesmen rushing to Oqueqoc with a sponsorship deal. CRACK! A tree branch broke. Ralphie turned away from the field to see where the noise had come from. He peered past the parents who were glue-eyed to the game and into the Pepper Woods. There they were again. Those kids. They were holding mulberries. That made the benchwarmer’s tummy rumble. The boys should have gotten popcorn from the concession stand- it was only a dollar on Fridays. Ralphie bet it was better than whatever woody-mumbo-jumbo they were noshing on anyway. Even the Rocket’s ESPN-worthy performance behind the plate could not save the Ocqueoc Roosters. The other team had a few infielders that Ralphie swore had some sort of telekinesis or something. It didn’t help that the ump was just a 16-year-old chump from the local high school, either. They funneled out of the dugout and into the line of mandatory post-game high fives that always included a few “see you next game” threats sprinkled in. The Roosters organized themselves in a pouty pow-wow just past shortstop region, prepared to get chewed. By the time Coach Maz started to run through his list of critiques, Ralphie didn’t bother to listen. He got to 112 daffodils before they were released off the patchy grass of left field. Coach did make one thing clear: No win. No postgame celebration. That was fine. He didn’t feel like biking to the Dairy Queen anyway. Back home was far enough after an exhausting day at mid-right bench. The other boys peeled off in their ice box cars and mom vans, but Ralphie stayed and blasted that week’s playlist from his Walkman, enjoying a Dilly Bar in peace. Ralphie felt enrobed in the sea of life, savoring the light, crunchy layer of chocolate laced with creamy vanilla. In fact, he was so euphoric that he lost track of time itself. And soon, thanks to the incoming of daylight savings, it began to get dark. He finished the Dilly’s final piece of chocolate coating and licked the wooden popsicle stick for any stray atoms of ice cream. Ralphie left his roost from the see-saw, leaving the lever to justify itself back to equilibrium, and trudged through the grits of asphalt to his green Huffy. Ralphie could have unlocked that thing with his hands zip-tied behind his back. But, before he could pop off the cord, it was those boys again. They were feet away, staring at him as if he was the person who was peculiar. Ralphie felt like he was at a zoo but remained unsure if he was the one looking in or out. The tall boy had something; it didn’t look like a stick. Hey, I see y’all! As the boys emerged from the cloak of evergreen, Ralphie saw what they were carrying. The moonlight reflected off of it, a silver sheen in a canvas of beryl, maroon, and beige. His bat. There was no way he was going to let them get away with that. It was a Wrigleyville Slugger, mint condition- the premium model. It took two years of his caddie paychecks to buy that thing. Even JJ’s parents, who had enough dough to open their own pizza factory, refused to indulge in such a luxury. And here they were, the forest freaks, clutching it as if they had just been gifted it from Ty Cobb himself. The small one spoke- in English, not woodland jargon. We have an offer. This made Ralphie scratch his helmet. He was pretty sure the next episode of Antiques Roadshow was scheduled to take place somewhere other than a spit-in-the-sand town in Michigan’s thumb. He was also pretty sure that his 5’7’’ self could easily pound the two string beans- who were probably still shorter than him when combined. But they had a reinforced metal bat, and he had a freshly-licked wooden popsicle stick. So, Ralphie decided to play it safe. For the bat? Go ahead, I worked two summers to pay for that thing. The tall boy swirled the bat in his hands, fixated on the metal club. Finally, the small one reached into the pocket of his corduroys and removed a small vial. He walked closer to Ralphie and held out his palm. If you want to play, take this. We will return your bat, but only once we know you are worthy. Ralphie really wanted that bat, but he also really wanted to play. In his years of little league, he had only ever used the thing in practice. In fact, the bat was still mint condition because it had touched nothing but air. He knew that his mother would go nuts if she learned of this trade. But what was the use anymore? If this potion was the only cure, so be it. He snatched the vial from the small one’s dusty hand. You can keep that bat. But this stuff better work. The forest kids could have it. For now. A small smile appeared on each of the boys’ lips before they flitted back into the woods, dodging gangly branches and rocky outcroppings in the moonlight. Ralphie biked home fast, at an RPM that could identify his legs as eggbeaters. He barreled through dinner and skipped the apple cobbler his mother had spent all day preparing. A spray of water with a swath of suds qualified as that day’s shower. Ralphie could barely contain his excitement, as he unwrapped the potion from his makeshift cushion of Tacky Towels. The vial was small and blue- a glass blown tear drop. It smelled like frankincense and had a tinge of citrus, almost identical to the air freshener Ralphie’s mother kept tucked underneath the toilet bowl. He took a deep breath. 3. 2. 1. Down the hatch it went. The taste was sweet, not like syrup, but like the boysenberry pie Ralphie’s grandmother baked every time they came for a visit. He could feel the potion slip down his esophagus and bathe in his bloodstream. It was more enjoyable than the chicken paprikash that Ralphie’s sister and blood-related personal chef, Juliet, had stewed for that evening’s supper. Ralphie slipped under the covers and enjoyed his longest sleep of the year, which was rudely interrupted by his involuntary commitment known as school. Classes were a blur. Junior told him a very long story that he nodded and wow’d and uh-huh’d to. Choir was another opportunity to practice his lip-sync skills. Lunch was chicken nuggets with tangy red sauce and mushy Gala apples. Then, gym class came. Ralphie assumed his position on the bench and waited as the innings ticked by. Finally, he took a stand against the kickball pitcher and did something that remains in the Ocqueoc Elementary history books to this day. Ralphie sent that thing flying. The rubber ball whizzed across the sky and into the cow pasture that outlined the end of the outfield and continued into the maize-hued horizon. He could have run a victory lap if he wanted, walked it even. Ms. Brown’s science lesson served as background noise to the schoolchildren’s resulting chatter. A chemical chain reaction was interesting, but that kid Ralphie’s kick during P.E.? Legendary. At the conclusion of classes, Ralphie, who had felt like a jumping jellybean for the whole school day, was first to run out the door. His arm begged for a baseball. He biked to the field and practiced throws against the concession stand’s asphalt roofing. Hours felt like minutes. Soon, the sun melted into the horizon and Coach Maz lit the floodlights. Game time. It was a perfect warmup, Ralphie felt. The cool, spring air was making its return and the leaves shook with quivers and crinkles at each stray wind gust. He threw ball after ball into Junior’s mitt. On the neighboring field, where the reserves conditioned their elbow grease, he was unbreakable. Grade A platinum steel behind the plate. And, in what seemed like a day, Ralphie was sure that he had shattered the glass ceiling where JJ had been hanging out. He had soared past it and beyond. Today was his day and Junior, wide-eyed and breathless, agreed. Ralphie dusted off his helmet, strapped on a chest protector, and marched towards the man with the power. Coach, can I get a few minutes in today? Coach Maz spit out a hunk of tobacco. He didn’t bother to look at Ralphie- his eyes were drawn to The Rocket, who was practicing his throwdowns. Finally, the old man’s eyes removed themselves from the gaps in the chain linked fence and looked down on the Roosters’ secondary relief catcher. Ralph, come over here. I want you to look at this kid. Do you see that cannon? That pinpoint accuracy? Raphie looked. He had been looking for the past seven years. Coach, I know it’s an important game, but I want to show you all the work I have put in. Can I just show you? His coach removed his cap, which was emblazoned with an emerald cockerel. He scratched the few hairs that remained on his silvery scalp and appeared to ponder the benchman’s request. It was at this time that the Wavertown Weasels began to warm up their starting pitcher. The boy, who had a mop of brown curls, was JJ in inverse. His catcher took ample pause to recover from his teammate’s stinging fastballs. He appeared to be wearing two layers of padding, fearful of #45’s sniper-esque accuracy and barreling speed. A confident Coach Maz dissolved into a weary, dreary hunch. Ralphie already knew what the old man was going to tell him. Ralph, I hate to say this, but today is not the day. The Weasels have Buzzelli, and you know we have to win this game to make playoffs. Ralphie, that kid... Coach Maz pointed his index finger at The Rocket, who was on the last round of his third base throwdown drills, for extra emphasis. We need him. But coach - Ralphie. Sit down. The coach redirected his eyes to the field and spit the remainder of his tobacco juice into an empty glass bottle of Cheerwine. Ralphie threw his glove into a hanger cubby and took a seat next to Junior. His friend continued to suck the seasoning from a handful of dill sunflower seeds. The other reserves were engaged in a heated UNO match. Ralph would have joined them if he hadn’t scanned the timberline first. A metallic gleam near the furthest oak caught his eye. It was the boys. They were wandering away from the park, towards the Bumblebrook Marsh. The tall one got in stance and gave his best swing at a lonesome crabapple. Ralphie watched the firm fruit explode into a miniscule fulmination of skin, pulp, and seeds. They disappeared into the Pepper Woods, probably off to one of their berry-picking, stick-sharpening escapades. Ralphie thought about chasing them. Getting that Louisville Slugger he had worked months just to feel. But, only for a second. He opened a new pack of Big League Chew and shoved a handful of the purple strips into his trap. After all, it was a windy spring evening and mid-right bench would be absolutely freezing without a player like him. The bench boy thought it would end there, but before he could witness The Rocket’s next clutch play, his fingertips nudged something on the underside of the bench. Paper. And it hadn’t been there the night before.


To enter heaven, I need to face what I did 55 years back. She asked where I wanted to meet, and I let her pick out of guilt. Elenor chose our old apartment, and we both laugh when we look at the red walls and the wooden base boards. I finally decide to look at her, and I do. She looks exactly like I saw her when I was twenty five, the extra 7 years of age completely useless in stopping her from looking no older than twenty three. Her hair is in a bun with two sets of curls blocking her ears from view. The only thing that unsettles me about her is the gash in her neck, the slim hole just as visible as the day I lost my purpose. A drop of blood runs from the gash, and as she tilts her head, I jump from surprise at how the blood does moves with her, rooted in the exact same spot. She laughs. “Don’t worry” she says with a smile, “it’s just a tattoo. Everyone has one”. I look down through my shirt to see a broken heart in the middle of my chest. We both smile. “Well I’ll be damned”. We lock eyes and our smiles begin to fade as we know we need to get to the point. I try to figure out how to say it, but she reads my mind like she did 55 years back. “It’s okay. Your heart always worked slower than your brain” she taps my forehead with her friendly smile returning. “It didn’t matter...” I begin to break down into a sob and Elenor reaches across the table and hugs me, my mind immediately easing. She taps her tattoo. “How much worse would it have been if you didn’t give me this?”. I think about those kids in the warehouse and the gun pointed to their heads, the man’s malicious grin just barley barring his teeth at me under his thick beard. We lock eyes again, and I see the sad understanding in her eyes just before she breaks her gaze to look out the window at the Honolulu beaches. “You didn’t know.” She says. “There’s no way you could’ve.” I knew she didn’t hate me, but I didn’t know if she forgave me. There’s no reason she should’ve. So why would she? Yet here we are, in the same apartment as the night I cleaned of the kitchen knife, sitting at The same IKEA table she reluctantly agreed to. “Hey” I look up at Elenor as a mischievous grin appears along her face, and I understand where she stands. She knows I understand and grins wider. She loses her grin fast as she begins to understand. “What does it matter what lingers down there?” She says pointing to my chest. “I forgive you! You don’t need to dwell!” “I do.” I respond. “I took away your chances at raising children. I took away your chance of seeing the world. I took you away from your family. If that isn’t a reason to dwell, I don’t know what is!” “You clearly don’t!” She grabs my hands. “We can still have all that! Please, for the love of god, stay here!” I shake my head. “I’m sorry” I feel her soft touch turn into a fluffy sadness, one that I can’t hold onto as the world slips from under me and I fall. As I fall my young hands take back their wrinkles and coarseness. I close my eyes and wait to be greater with flame, but my fall is interrupted with a firm softness, like a storm cloud forgot its cruel visage and caught be on a bed of hail. And as it remembers the visage, I feel it’s lightning go into my chest. I open my eyes to find the storm cloud in a young woman’s hands, her hospital uniform matching the dull atmosphere. She couldn’t have been older than twenty two. “Oh thank god!” She sighs. “I thought you were a goner!” She stumbles out of the room, her brown curls bobbing up and down as she leaves. I look out the window at a cloud weeping, and the weeping causes rain to fall over the hospital. And I begin to weep, the first tear running down the valley of my wrinkled face, and I realizing that night 55 years ago was the first dance with the devil.


Ben Johnson had recently graduated from college and worked as an intern at Bloom Trust, a financial services firm. He was in charge of the coffee runs, the copying, and the crucial launch order. He was late for his first day, and all of the good spots had been claimed by other interns. The lone remaining office was a filthy closet containing an old computer from 2008. However, when he arrived at his desk, there was only a single sheet of paper with one sentence: "Please begin the launch." Ben looked around for someone to advise him what to do, but everyone was too busy to bother. He didn't want to appear dumb, so he started it himself. When he turned on his computer, he noticed a file called the launch, and Ben shrugged and began the program. Ben's computer began to perform erratically as soon as he double-clicked the file, cycling through various files, strange numbers, and images. A massive, black screen appeared before him, displaying the message "INITIATING LAUNCH sequence." Ben's heart raced as he realized that whatever this file was, he should not have clicked on it. When he tried to close the file, he found that his computer had locked him out. He could only stand there helpless as the countdown proceeded. Ben had an idea with 10 seconds remaining. If he could simply unplug his computer from the wall, he might be able to stop the countdown to whatever was about to occur. Ben attempted to unplug the computer, but it began to beep, causing him to pause. The screen sprung to life, revealing an image of a smiling skull. "Hello, Ben!" exclaimed the skull cheerfully. "I'm your new computer's operating system! I'm here to assist you with all of your computing needs!" The skull continued to speak. "Don't worry, Ben," it reassured him. "I won't replace your old operating system; rather, I'll work with her to ensure your computer runs smoothly." Ben was browsing his new operating system when he spotted something odd. It featured a slew of weird suggestions for him, such as "bring an umbrella tomorrow, it's going to rain," and "tell Shelly you like her new haircut." But it also featured some unusual ones, such as "become a work genius" and "earn millions." Ben initially thought the OS was weird, but he saw that the ideas were genuinely helpful. His company was performing better than ever, he'd been making profitable stock market predictions, and his coworkers were suddenly taking notice of him. He was the office's golden boy, all due to an old computer that no one else wanted. After months of unparalleled achievement and attention to his coworkers' needs, his boss called him into her office. She informed Ben that she had seen his work and was impressed by what she saw. Ben was overjoyed when his boss informed him that he had been promoted to vice president of financial services. He was only twenty-three, but how could he say no to a six-figure salary and a corner office? His dreams were being fulfilled. As he packed his belongings to relocate to his new corner office, he realized he wouldn't be able to get anywhere without the assistance of the outdated computer he had been given. Ben stayed late at work that night, waiting until everyone had left before sneaking into his old office and unplugging the old computer. He moved it to a basement storage closet and plugged it in, ensuring no one saw him. He figured it would be there for him whenever he needed it. At first, the computer's suggestions were personal but helpful and benign. The computer would offer helpful suggestions like "You should delete your ex-girlfriend's number from your phone" or "It might be time to change your password." But then it made darker recommendations, such as "Why don't you choke her the next time you see her?" or "Perhaps it would be fun to stab him in the stomach." Ben was becoming concerned. He wasn't sure if the computer had been hacked or if it was simply becoming too clever for its own good. In any case, he was no longer at ease with the computer, and he made the decision to erase its memory and start over. Ben was a skeptic who refused to believe in anything he couldn't see or touch, including the supernatural. So when his computer started suggesting that he hurt others, Ben dismissed it as foolishness. But then Ben's computer suggested he hurt his boss, and he began to wonder if the computer on which he had come to rely was evil. He considered unplugging the computer but remembered how successful he'd been due to its advice. Maybe there was a reason for the computer's suggestions after all? Ben decided to give it another shot and see where it led him. Ben began a covert investigation of his boss based on the advice of his computer. He eventually found out that his boss attempted to frame him for massive fraud. According to the computer, she was a threat to him, and she needed to be confronted. Ben had been feeling unsettled all day. So, when everyone else had left for the day, Ben decided it was time to confront her about it. Things didn't take long to get heated. They began arguing, and before long, they were shouting at each other. Ben grew so upset that he snatched a paperweight from her desk and smacked her in the head with it, instantly killing her. Realization began to dawn on him as he stood over her body. He'd just killed his boss, and there was no way he could cover it up. Ben walked down to the storage area, anxious. He'd never killed someone before. When he reached the storage room, the computer greeted him and instructed him on how to cover up the murder. Ben followed them step by step, and by 6 a.m., the task was completed, just as the morning crew arrived for the day's work. He exhaled a sigh of relief and returned home, knowing he had just committed the perfect crime. Ben's trust in the operating system became stronger after that; they had killed together and had reached the point of no return. Ben continued to follow the suggestions of the operating system. The next time the computer urged Ben to commit murder, he didn't hesitate; he knew what he had to do. And thus, it went on for years until Ben and the operating system were promoted to President of the Bank. A promotion obtained via hard work and, of course, the murder of anyone who stood in their way.


Fri 10 Jan, 13:06 Hi Gorgeous. Looking forward to seeing you tonight. J xxx Who is this? Stop messing around! No, seriously. Your number’s just coming up as Unknown. Fran? Kate. And you are? OMG - I’m so sorry. I must have mistyped my girlfriend’s number. You mean she’s not saved in your contacts? I’ve got her number saved on my phone, but I left it at home so I borrowed someone else’s to text her. I thought I remembered the number, but obviously I was wrong. So you’re texting from someone else’s phone now? Well, yeah, otherwise I wouldn’t be texting you instead of Fran. I can’t argue with that logic. Well, fascinating though this conversation has been, I do have other stuff to do apart from chatting to unknown people who’ve messaged me by mistake. Ouch! Take care, J - hopefully I won’t hear from you again. It’s Jon, btw. Bye Jon. Bye Kate * Sat 25 Jan, 08:17 Hi Kate. Who is this? It’s me, Jon. The guy who messaged you by mistake two weeks ago. Didn’t you save my number? Why would I save the number of someone I don’t know? ... Anyway, how did you manage to text me if the last time was on a friend’s phone? Did you dial every possible combination of your girlfriend’s number with one wrong digit? I got lucky after the first 87 minutes, so it wasn’t too bad... What? Got you! You didn’t really think I tried that hard to find your number, did you? I’ve known guys to take longer trying to find my clitoris! Too much information! And with less success. La la. Fingers in ears. I can’t hear you. Seriously, what do you want this time? I just thought I’d say hi. Hi. Okay. Chat to you another time then. Hang on! You mean that’s it? You go to all the effort of tracking me down just to say one word? I think you’ll find this conversation is a lot longer than one word, Kate. And I think you’ll find that ‘conversation’ is a very loose term if you’re using it to describe pestering a woman you’ve never even met. Pestering? Pestering. What do you mean, pestering? You know - stalking. Doesn’t that involve actually following someone and then watching them undress through binoculars? OK - you’re getting creepy now. I promise you I’m not watching you through binoculars at the moment. Do you even have any binoculars? Well, no, but I could buy some. That’s not making me feel any better, Jon. Wait - I was going to say, I could buy some but promise not to use them to spy on you. Is that better? I really hope this isn’t a pickup line. ... OMG! It IS a pickup line! What does Fran think about you flirting with other women when she’s not around? We’re not together anymore. I’m not surprised - I wouldn’t put up with a boyfriend who texted random women and made jokes about watching them through binoculars. ... Wait - you’re serious? I’m so sorry - I thought you were joking again. That day I messaged you by mistake, I caught her cheating on me with my best friend. That must have been hard for you. She said she’d already cancelled our date - only I didn’t know because I didn’t have my phone. ... Anyway, I would have got in touch with you before now, but I didn’t have your number Excuse me? WHY would you have got in touch? I don’t know you. No, but you seemed like a good listener. Most girls would have just ignored a text from a wrong number. So you’re basically using me as a free therapist? I never know whether you’re joking or being serious. I guess I just have a sarcastic nature. Everyone needs a hobby. Well, I’m sorry your girlfriend dumped you. Had you been together long? About three weeks. What? I was feeling sorry for you because I thought you’d been together for years ... Of course, I might not have ever had a girlfriend. ... Maybe I just typed in a random number and tried to get a girl to feel sorry for me. You’re back to stalker territory again. Fran really does exist - I just don’t exist for her anymore. That’s deep. Philosophy 101. You studied philosophy? No, I’m just good at making stuff up. This is getting weird again. Time’s getting on and I have mouths to feed ... You have kids? Cats. What are their names? Avelynne Kitten and Charlie Kitten. Dare I ask if they’re actually kittens? Not anymore. But they were when I got them, so the names sort of stuck. You’re as weird as I am ... Says the guy who threatened to buy binoculars so he could NOT stalk me. I was hoping you’d find that a romantic gesture. Much as I love all this high-quality flirting, I really do have to go. Bye Kate. Bye Jon. * Tue 4 th Feb, 21:17 Hello Stranger. Jon? How did you know? You’re the only Unknown Caller who texts me. Besides, after last time, I saved your number. I saved yours too. So that’s saved you 87 minutes this time. You remembered! No, I just re-read your text messages. That seems a bit keen. Are you sure you’re not interested in meeting up some time? You should never EVER meet up with someone you only know from a text message. So that scuppers my chances of finding anyone on a dating app then. You’ve been looking? Why not? Are you jealous? Why would I be jealous? I think it’s healthy if we both agree to see other people. We’ve never actually seen each other. True. It’s the sense of mystery that makes it so exciting though. I KNEW you were interested! Not interested in that way - more like intrigued. What’s the difference? Interested suggests wanting to form a relationship; intrigued suggests wanting to find out more about the person. Are you an English teacher by any chance? I only asked because of the semi-colon. I don’t know anyone else who knows how to use one. Flattery will get you a long way, Jon ... Thank goodness for that - I was getting tired of using the binoculars! You still need to work on your pickup lines. If I said you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me? I don’t think you wrote that one. It was worth a try. I don’t want to be rude, but I need to go to bed. Now who’s using saucy pickup lines? On my own. I have to get up early for work. Goodnight, then Goodnight, Jon. * Thur 6 th Feb, 19:23 Hi Kate. Is this better? Is what better? Texting you at this time. You don’t give up, do you? Did you get to work on time yesterday? ... You said you had to get up early for work. That might have been a lie. ? I don’t have a job at the moment. I don’t have cats either. I know. And I’m not as young as you probably think I am. I know that too. How do you know? Have you been using binoculars all along? I’m going to send you a photo. A photo of you? Open it and see. It’s a wedding photo. Are you married? Yes. So why have you been texting me? It’s a photo of us. I think I’d remember it if it was! Besides, I’m not married. Look in the drawer beside your bed. It’s a wedding ring. Your wedding ring. The photo is you and me getting married, thirty-eight years ago. How come I don’t remember any of this? You were in an accident. You lost the part of your memory that’s to do with us and our children. We have children? Avalynne and Charlie. They’re both in their thirties. Avalynne has three children and Charlie has two. We’ve got grandkids? Yep. So all this time you’ve been texting me, I wasn’t a wrong number after all? No. Are you sure this isn’t a rather elaborate hoax? I’m telling you the truth now, Kate. You have to trust me. I’ll try. In just a few minutes, I’ll be walking into your hospital room. And Kate ... What? I promise not to bring my binoculars.


“Sorry, tell me again what happens when you turn off the lights?” A rattling breath preceded the answer. “Cold... I can’t breathe... The weight on my chest suffocates me... I can feel... the walls of my skull crushing my brain... No sleep.” An older woman in glasses scribbled a note on her pad, saying in a soft voice, “I see... And this voice you talk about-” “The voice of the night,” he interjected in a hoarse tone, feeling his heartbeat quicken. “Does he only talk to you when it’s dark?” Her brilliant eyes shone through her glasses. He nodded in a jerking motion. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s always him.” “Jamie, have you been keeping that journal we talked about last week?” she asked, still scribbling. Another jerk of a nod. “It’s... in my coat pocket.” “Do you mind if I read it?” Jamie shook his head. “No... Of course not.” His eyes became fixed on a shady area in the corner of the room, and though a blanket of clouds shielded the sun from dancing that day, he thought he saw something move within the darkness. He jolted himself to an upright position, about to cry out when Dr. Abraham cleared her throat. “This is... very interesting, Jamie...” She ran her finger down the small page and paused, asking, “Can I read this part out loud to you?” He tried to shift his gaze to her, but he couldn’t stop looking at the corner. “Go ahead,” he muttered, his sandpaper voice grating on his own ears. “This is from last Wednesday,” she began, “‘He speaks to me in shrouded whispers, he says, “I am the voice you hear on the night whispering your worst fears into the depths of your heart. The sound of your teeth chattering as the cold wind bites you and forces your soul to shiver is a premonition of my arrival. When you look into an inky shadow and your mind forms all the fears you hide even from yourself, I am those fears. The flutter in your chest as you hear a rustle in the alley, the half step you walk faster when the streetlights are dim, the reckoning you know you will face in the afterlife... they are me, and I am them. When the twilight drips into the sewers, I will be there to haunt your every move, and when you close your eyes and view the darkness of your subconscious reflected on the backs of your eyelids, I will peel away the curtain and view it with you, for it is me and I will make myself known to you in ways you cannot imagine.”’, and then you go on to add, ‘can’t sleep.’... It’s very poetic. ” Jamie’s face was a deathly pale, his gaze stagnant and horrified as sweat began to build on his face. He pointed to the corner and whispered, “He’s there!” “Who? Who is there, Jamie?” Dr. Abraham looked at the corner and frowned. “Do you see something there?” The patient shook his head. “I... I feel something there!” “And what does this thing ‘feel’ like to you?” She pulled out her pad again. “Like... Like him!” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Like who , Jamie?” “The voice of the night!” Dr. Abraham penned a few words. “And what does he feel like?” Jamie struggled for words, his hands gripping into the chaise lounge, though there weren’t many places to hold. Finally, he said, “Like... fear... asphyxiation... cold... But so cold that it burns... I... I can hear him now!” “What’s he saying to you, Jamie?” Jamie swallowed, his brown eyes wide and his eyebrows arched into his hairline. He began in a voice not quite his own, “You can’t... escape... You can’t... hide. The nameless things you keep locked away, I will... make them bare. Sleep... sleep and I will find you in your dreams and make them nightmares of shadow.” “Jamie... Jamie ,” said Dr. Abraham, finally getting her patient to turn his head slightly towards her. “I thought you said this voice only comes to you when it’s dark. It’s two in the afternoon.” “It’s dark,” whispered Jamie, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m... tired... so tired, and the shadow is everything now... it’s dark.” “Can you confront the darkness? Can you close your eyes?” He shook his head hard, his hair swirling around. “He’ll find me.” Dr. Abraham stood up and knelt next to Jamie, quietly saying, “Please try, Jamie. Please. You’re focusing on the darkness, but you need to be able to close your eyes. Try and find that within you. Remember when we talked about your favorite places?” “Yes...” She smiled and said, “You told me your favorite place was Hawaii-” “Waikiki Beach...” “Yes, Jamie. Can you go there right now? In your head, can you find the beach?” “It’s too dark to swim.” “Think of a hot summer day... The sun a blinding beacon in a clear blue sky, the softness of the white sand beneath your feet, and the sweat cooling you down as a salty breeze hits you from the ocean. Lapping waves of clear water against a silky shore... Can you picture that?” “Uh-huh. But the clouds-” “There are no clouds, Jamie,” said Dr. Abraham. “Take yourself there...” “Okay...” “Alright, now... close your eyes.” “What?” Jamie’s voice was sharp. Dr. Abraham pursed her lips and said, “Close your eyes on Waikiki Beach... Just follow my voice. Hear it over the kids laughing as they play, the music coming from up the shore, and the birds... Can you hear all those things, Jamie?” “Yes,” he murmured, finally closing his eyes, though his knuckles were still white as he held onto the couch. “And can you hear my voice over those things?” Jamie nodded. “Yes, doctor, I can hear you.” “Am I the only person whose voice you can hear clearly?” As tightly as Jamie gripped the couch, Dr. Abraham clutched her pen. “No... Someone else...” Jamie’s eyes almost opened, but Dr. Abraham swiftly replied, “Keep your eyes closed and focus on my voice. I’m there with you, Jamie, walking along the beach. The sand’s pretty hot, isn’t it?” “Yes... Can we... walk closer to the water?” “Of course. Let’s go there.” Dr. Abraham paused and then said, “Can you feel the coolness of the water? How about the small waves just coming up to your ankles, testing their strength as they climb your shin with gentle fingers?” “I can feel that... I like it.” “I do too, Jamie. Now, I want you to keep your eyes closed, and just keep walking on the beach and following my voice until I say so, okay?” Dr. Abraham’s heartbeat was rapid as she looked at Jamie’s pale face beginning to relax. “Now, you said there’s another voice. Whose is it?” Jamie frowned. “Deep... It’s... too deep.” “What’s too deep? The voice?” “No... the ocean. The water’s up to my waist... I don’t like it.” Dr. Abraham nodded. “Let’s walk back to the shore a little.” After a brief pause, she said, “There. Can you feel the water on your feet again?” “Yes.” “It’s no higher than my ankles, is it the same for you?” He nodded. “I like it.” The doctor smiled and adjusted her spectacles. “I do too. Why’d you go so deep into the ocean, Jamie?” “That’s where the voice is,” he replied. “It’s in the ocean... way out there.” “And you don’t like the ocean?” “I like the beach.” “Yes, but what about the ocean beyond the beach? Can you look out there for me now?” Jamie’s face tightened as his eyes turned beneath closed eyelids. “I don’t want to.” “Are you scared?” “Uh-huh.” Jamie’s voice gained an octave. The doctor wrote furiously, trying to keep the pen light on the paper to avoid perturbing the scene. “What about the ocean frightens you?” There was a pregnant pause where each person took a few breaths; Jamie’s were rattled and Dr. Abrahams were constricted. At last, he replied, “I... can’t see in the ocean. My feet, my legs... what’s out there.” “So you don’t like that you don’t know what’s in the ocean?” “Yeah... It hurts me.” “That voice you were talking about earlier, how does it sound?” Frowning, Jamie muttered, “Sounds like... me...” “What does that mean?” “I don’t know. I thought it was... you know, but maybe...” “You think the voice out there is you, Jamie?” asked Dr. Abraham. “Why do you think that?” “I... I don’t know. I like this place, but I don’t like the ocean.” “Because the ocean is unknown, but here you know everything?” Jamie took half a breath and said, “Yes...” “Did you feel that wind, Jamie? It came from inland... It’s warm.” The patient smiled. “Yes, I felt it.” “When you picture the ocean, is the sun there?” “No... no sun.” Dr. Abraham ticked off a few things. “What about clouds? Are there clouds?” “I... I don’t think so...” “Why are you so uncertain?” “I... the sky is black. There’s no light to tell me if there’s clouds, I can’t see anything-” Dr. Abraham noticed his knuckles go white and interrupted, “In the ocean it’s dark, but here where you are, Jamie, at the beach, it’s nice and bright. Can’t you feel the sun on your face? I can feel it.” For a horrifying moment, Jamie looked lost in the dark, but he relaxed and said, “I feel the sun here, doctor.” “Jamie, while we’re walking on the beach, can you tell me about your job?” “My job?” “Yes,” said Dr. Abraham, trying to push her heart out of her throat. “You’re a detective, right? I heard you’re pretty good.” “Detective... Yes, I think I am.” “How long have you been doing it?” Jamie frowned. “Six years... Why am I on the beach?” “We’re on vacation, Jamie. You and I. Look over to the left, what do you see?” “The ocean.” “Alright, and what do you see to the right?” “A white hotel.” “We’re staying there,” said Dr. Abraham, trying to refocus the conversation. “Can you tell me why you like being a detective?” “I... I like solving puzzles, and I like when people who have bad things happen to them... get justice.” Jamie’s face, though sweaty and fearful, began to show pride through the sternness of his chin and the furrowing of his brow. “I think the tide’s coming in, Jamie, can you feel it?” “Yes... the water’s up to my ankles now.” “Please, tell me about the first case you solved.” Jamie paused to ponder, and then said, “It was a burglary with vandalism... Over at the Conways’ place, d’you know them?” “I think I do. Continue.” “We found some prints. Turns out it was a maid they’d fired the year before who wasn’t happy with her severance pay.” Jamie smiled. “Pretty cut and dry.” “I bet you had a lot of cases like that.” “Oh yeah. It’s not exactly NYPD stuff.” “What does that mean?” Jamie chuckled and said, “Well, those guys have to deal with serial killers, mass shootings, gang violence... that kind of stuff. We mostly have small time break-ins and some car crashes, y’know?” “Hey Jamie, can you see those kids playing with the beachball over to your left?” After a moment, he said, “Yes...” “I think it’s cool how light it looks with the sun glancing off the side as it floats in the air. Do you find that interesting?” “Yeah, I suppose...” Jamie’s voice was slow but a smile played on his lips. “Now, you were saying you mostly dealt with small crimes as a detective.” “Yes.” Dr. Abraham pursed her lips and asked carefully, “But not all the cases were like that, were they, Jamie?” His eyes moved from left to right beneath his eyelids. “No... No they weren’t.” “Can you tell me about your last case?” Jamie shifted uncomfortably in the chaise lounge, scratching the gray stubble on his face. “I... I don’t think-” “Focus on the tones of my voice over everything, Jamie,” said Dr. Abraham in a stony voice. “Hear the waves, the breeze, the birds, the people, and your breath, but follow my voice over all of them.” “Oh... okay.” “Now, while we’re on this beach, do you think you can tell me about your last case?” Jamie’s hands balled into fists, though his knuckles did not turn white. “The voice of the night... that was his name.” “Whose name?” “Dorian Smith... the night watchman.” Dr. Abraham shook her pen to get the ink to the front, trying to write her thoughts down as fast and quietly as she could. “Who was the night watchman?” “Serial killer,” whispered Jamie, his voice no longer hoarse. “And he killed at night?” “Yes.” The patient remained still in the chair. “Had you dealt with a serial killer before, Jamie?” asked Dr. Abraham. “Yes...” “And why is Dorian different?” Jamie shook his head slowly. “I don’t know... We caught the other ones before...” “Before what?” “Before they hurt someone in the department.” Tears began leaking out of Jamie’s eyes, but he didn’t wipe them. “Who did they hurt in the police department?” Dr. Abraham waited for Jamie to answer, but when he did not, she asked, “What happened to Dorian Smith?” “We caught him... He’s in jail,” said Jamie, adding, “The water’s getting too high, doctor.” “It’s fine,” she said, “It’s just the tide.” “Okay.” “Now, did he hurt someone in the department?” Jamie’s tears dripped on the chaise lounge. “Yes... Matty...” “Matty... Matthew Johnson? He was a detective, wasn’t he?” “My... partner,” he choked, “and his daughter... my godchild.” Dr. Abraham paused and put down the pad and placed a delicate hand on her patient’s forearm. “Can you feel my hand on your arm, Jamie?” He nodded, so she finished, “I’m so sorry. Have you lost a partner before?” “Once,” said Jamie after a few deep breaths. “The water-” “That’s just the tide,” repeated Dr. Abraham. “What was your other partner’s name?” “Gary Smith...” She picked up her pad again and jotted down a few notes. “Did you seek help after Gary’s death?” “No... I didn’t.” “I see. Why is that?” “Didn’t need it.” “You two weren’t close?” “We were close...” Dr. Abraham frowned. “Then why didn’t you need help? You didn’t hear voices after him, did you?” “No...” Jamie took a few thoughtful breaths, adding, “Gary died in a random shootout with some druggie who came up from the city to rob a place. It was an accident, and there’s nothing I could’ve done. I wasn’t even there... He was off-duty.” “Wasn’t Matty off-duty? He was killed in his home, and you were at your own home, right Jamie?” “Yes, but...” he again took a few breaths before continuing, “There were clues... things I should’ve known that I didn’t. If I’d worked harder... If I was smarter, all the clues were leading to a cop being the next victim, and since we were the head detectives on the case, it was clear he or I was gonna be the target, but he had a family - wife, two kids... I had nothing. Dorian’s MO was big, flashy kills... I should’ve known it’d be Matty. I could’ve protected him.” “You think Matty died because of what you didn’t know?” asked Dr. Abraham. “I’m sure of it.” Dr. Abraham smiled. “Can you feel the water receding, Jamie? I think the tide’s going out.” “I... I feel it.” “See, that’s what the tide does. It comes in, and sometimes it comes in quickly, but it goes out, too. The ocean can’t hurt you like this, when you know about the tides. Matty’s death wasn’t your fault. This ‘night watchman’ was - is, a criminal, and he’s been brought to justice because of work you did. Jamie, you saved countless lives when you brought him into custody. Thanks to you, that man won’t kill anyone again.” “I... I guess.” His tone was uncertain. Dr. Abraham silently took off her shoes. “You know, there’s a similarity between the darkness and the ocean, Jamie. Can you tell me what it is?” “I don’t know.” She padded over to the shadowy corner, finding the lamp with her hand. “Just like the tide, the darkness also recedes. Every night has a dawn.” She turned the light on. “Why do you sound further down the beach?” asked Jamie. “I’m just walking a little faster. You can follow me if you open your eyes .” His eyes fluttered open, and he squinted in the light. “Doctor... Dr. Abraham... is that the same-” “The same corner, Jamie.” She walked back over to him and knelt by his side, smiling as she said, “Every time you close your eyes, I want you to go to the beach. Remember Matty, but remember all the good things about his life, not the circumstances of his death, and use it as a light. Can you do that for me?” Jamie looked at the corner. “Yes...” “Now, I want you to go home and try to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Dr. Abraham stood up and led him out of her office. Somehow, Jamie made it home in a daze as the sun set over his lawn. He went to his bedroom, lit by a hundred light bulbs, and began turning each one off. He closed his blinds and made his way to the bed, the last lamp on his nightstand fighting a losing battle with the shadows in his room. His heart began to beat quicker, a voice seeping into his mind, but he thought of the beach and of the tides, and the darkness retreated from his perception, the voice fading into an afterthought. Jamie slumped into the pillows with a small smile on his face, falling into dreams undisturbed by the voice of the night.


It is the first day of spring. Our favorite season. I had our dog, Yuno, beside me. I found myself walking towards the river today like we used to. It’s too early in the morning, I didn't think anyone in town is awake. I walked by the unpaved road and see the trees enveloping the winding river. I could hear the steady sound of the water and I stood there in awe. You loved to catch butterflies and other flying insects just to try to be friends with them. You would sing and dance all the songs to The Sound of Music and pretend we’re in a Disney film. I would go along with you and be happy watching you as you are. You loved going to the beach too, but it’s quite far from where we live, nevertheless, we would go once in a while. "So, this is what underwater sounds like!", you smiled as you held an enormous seashell by your ear and listened to the sound of the trifling matter. I stared at your eyes wandering into space trying to figure out what to feel about it. You put it on my ear, and I heard a breeze. It was calming. I had to close my eyes to feel every moment of it. I wasn't entirely sure if that's what underwater sounds like, or if it even has a definite sound, but you just assumed it had, and it was boundless. It was like you. If anyone comes close, would they know you belong to me? Just like how the seashells belonged to the sea. Would they hear your soul searching for my name? I wasn't entirely sure if I was the one in your heart then, or if it even identifies me as your lover, but we just assumed it has, and it was boundless. “How many sleepless nights do I have to spend to be together with you again?” I would say as I look at your photograph in my wallet. I looked at Yuno wagging his tail at the river and dipping himself a bit. You would stop him, but every time we come again, he gets more stubborn. I guess he also remembers you in the water. He never left your side, even at that time. I sit by the big tree we called Peter. I’m pretty sure Peter had also been hearing a lot about the times you would rant about your work. You never knew the concept of time, and deadlines are foreign to your nature. You always had your own perspective on things, and I admired that about you. You would often let out a screech, sometimes of victory and other times in devastation. All of it was valid. Every decision you make, emotions you feel, and thoughts you think. I would listen to you for eternity. Trust me, I would. Given the chance to listen to your voice once again, I definitely would. This river was our own world, a secret hiding place where time suddenly stops as we would enjoy every moment together. We would be like this every year and sometimes more when we needed it. And I miss it. I miss you. All of you. The sun began to get hotter, and Yuno seems to be tired from running around and chasing butterflies. He got that from you, obviously. I get up and we head back to our house. How long has it been? The first time you stepped onto our house. You were crying with joy and were utterly speechless, which was a sign of how thrilled you were, considering how much you talk about everything in such detail, the only thing you could do then was to kiss me. It was the best moment for both of us. And the last time you stepped onto our house. You were crying in pain, and you couldn’t say a word, which was a sign of how agonizing it must be to keep fighting an unbeatable illness. Still, you would smile, you would hold my face with your warm hands and look at me with those eyes. Those unchanging eyes. I remember when you were painting me, you were deeply in love with my blue eyes, and I would look at yours with soul and love. “I love your eyes so much! I’m painting it so I could keep it forever. So, stay still and look at me!” You would say. I smile and I felt tingles on my neck and onto your eyes I look, and I think of you. I would write about your eyes, but you would think it’s a waste of time and paper. But still, I would write because I too, would want to keep it forever. I remember writing about you. How your eyes are as beautiful as your kindred soul, and I would say I had fallen into a black hole of love just by looking at you, and we would laugh. I look into your eyes which revealed a golden halo at sunset, and suddenly I feel like I’m the luckiest person in the world. We have loved everything and anything the other couldn’t, and then we began to love ourselves as well. If only I had the ability to stop time. I would make every moment last forever. I wouldn’t want to remember. I want to know you again, to feel you again. I’m scared that I would forget the way it feels to be in love and be loved by you. I want to know how it feels like to be held by your hands again and keep me from shattering just like the day you left. Just one moment more. Winter nights were most difficult to handle. “Why did you leave me? I hope you stayed a little longer.” I would say under my breath. I would look at an empty bed and cry onto my knees. I miss you so much. The loneliness, the reoccurring thought of the one being left in the world on this cold numbing weather which I felt most of the pain. Still, I tried to breathe gently and then stand up at once. Just before the alarm rings, I finally woke up from this long and lonely dream. I feel relieved, I feel like a burden was lifted. A tear finds itself sliding onto my neck. I’m getting up slowly and I look at the window, it’s spring again . I feel my heart fleeting like it had been liberated from everything. What does this mean - to breathe calmly on this day. Is this what acceptance feel like? For a long time, I stopped writing, since you were all I ever wrote about. And today, so swiftly I feel like I could write again. The door knocks to the classic tune of da-di-di-da-da da-da! And our daughter enters our room to wake me up, but I had already woken. I saw a glimpse of you in her eyes, and she smiles as brightly and as beautiful as yours. It’s your death anniversary today, she had been waiting to visit you again. Though she doesn’t remember much about you, she was sure that you loved her, and she was happy. I would read to her the ones I’ve written about you, like a bedtime story she would smile and light up when she realizes she does the same things you do, she would tell me how much she loves us and aspires to be like you. They say time heals, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, Time remembers the best moments, and other times it brings pain. If only Time could help and stop itself, but Time couldn’t. Time wouldn’t stop for the world, there is only one way to go, and that is forward. I take a glance at our daughter, a living memory of you. Your resemblance is quite uncanny, I was hoping she would look a little bit more like me, but I’m thankful she didn’t. I’m standing before you now, and I brought these flowers you liked, the snowdrops that you would sometimes imitate during winter in hopes you could see them in the spring. It was your own ritual, and I would do it with you wholeheartedly. I could only hope for peace as I look at your resting place, with the wind brushing my face. I stand here in silence; no words spoken. There are no words, or methods, or any means to get over you. People will somehow get there. It may take a long time, but then we realize that we did not suffer for nothing. It wasn't all meaningless, it was proof you were loved. People find ways to get over the things that are too painful, and most times we hurt ourselves even more. It is a process of how you try to accept the truth. Slowly and eventually, it will all be okay. Our daughter sits by your tombstone with Yuno by her side. She begins to tell you stories about her best friends, and how happy she was that she could see you again like she’d never been here a few months ago for her birthday. I know you would come back if you could, and now I understand that. You had to leave, and it’s okay. Though you only live in the memories of the people you loved, and those who loved you dearly, you were never forgotten. If you were to live again, in another time, another person, another life, I hope you both would meet. Oh, to be remembered. To take you as you are. To love and to be loved. What a wonderful thing. I know you. You are in the stars that watch over the earth. You are in the clouds that carry the burdens of the world. And you are in the wind that swiftly passes by on a spring day. And soon, I know I would be with you there. Beyond the clouds and the stars, beyond galaxies and the vast universe. I will meet you there, at the river when we first met. Sincerely Yours


Prompt #267 OVERCOMING OBSTACALS Your character wants something very badly. . . . will they get it? A GREAT GRANDFATHER’S ENCOURAGEMENT FROM THE GRAVE Her dad had been a writer; but, a writer of fact-based, instructional materials; writings that could not, justifiably, be classified as “creative”. She, herself, had been a writer, of sorts; but, as with her dad, her writing too consisted of fact-based, persuasive materials. Nothing creative. Having grown up hearing her dad clicking away on his old Olympia manual typewriter down in the basement where he did most of his work, she had vicariously experienced the “writing bug” which, later in her life she realized had been in her genes. Her great grandfather - on her mother’s side - had also been, what appears to be, a “frustrated’ writer. In looking through old boxes which had been passed down from great grandfather to grandfather to mother and now to daughter, she came upon several packets of material written by her great grandfather. Much to her surprise, she found that he, too, entered contests and wrote manuscripts. To the best of her knowledge, however, he was never actually a “published author”, but possessed the “writing bug”! One packet which caught her eye consisted of twenty “student” writing assignments put out by the then NEWSPAPER INSTITUTE OF AMERICA in New York City. They would send writing assignments in yellow folders, which would be returned to the writer with a critique. An interesting comment on the cover of the final writing assignment read, in part: “In writing, each failure is a forward step. For it is by attempting jobs not quite within our powers that we develop strength and ingenuity” . NIOA, Editorial Dept . “Failure”, apparently, is an inherent fear of all writers? However, as her grandfather later optimistically wrote in a prologue to a submission to an unknown publication: “ Men and women are looking through the columns of newspapers, magazines, and other periodicals, seeking something that will satisfy an innate desire for better things. Perhaps a word, sentence, or paragraph, will have an appeal that will sparkle with the very thing they so much desire”. HWMiller The fear of “failure” can be allayed by a drive he so eloquently described. Her “writing bug” was obviously “in her genes”! After a lifetime of not pursuing what she had, in the back of her mind - without then having all of this generational information - always considered her dream, now, at this stage of her “senior”, retirement status, little hope seemed left of achieving her dream. She always loved to write, but mostly, now that she was retired, her writing consisted primarily of correspondence to friends - either typewritten and posted, or simply emailed (a despised format which she considered “without class) or in the form of notes of bereavement placed in sympathy cards which, as she aged, became more and more frequent. Any support she may have received over the years trying to convince her that she should “write” came mostly from those who had received her notes (youth to whom she was offering supportive advice or motherly wisdom) or to those who had received one of her bereavement notes which they indicated to her they would “treasure forever”. As a retired senior, she was feeling that her ship had sailed, so to speak, on her confidently productive years and now, in the twilight of her days, she held little confidence or hope that her dreams of becoming a noted author would ever come to fruition. Yet, almost daily, to her friends/family, she would refer, in some way, to her writing. She just knew she loved to put words on paper - for whatever the reason - in the hope that they would actually have meaning to someone. She had been well-advised by author friends that there were two important aspects to becoming an accomplished author: First, you had to write something every day. That took discipline. She was disciplined enough in her real life. But in her writing life, she held no discipline. As a child, she had grown up with the routine of having to get her work done before play time. In other words, if she wanted to write, she first had to get all of her life’s chores out of the way; then she could sit down and write. More often than not, that free time never occurred. Without the required discipline, she was unable to put all else aside and simply sit down to write. Yet, in truth, she could never quite seem to find the time to actually sit down and write. While she longed for, and agreed that, the set-aside daily time was necessary, at the close of a busy day other demands constantly seemed to take over. Dinners needed to be made, children needed to be cared for, laundry needed to be done and spouses, friends and family needed her attention. What was “left” of her at the end of the day was insufficient to provide the creative thinking necessary to effectively write something on a sheet of paper that anyone would want to read. The second aspect of becoming an accomplished writer, she was told, was to write about something she knew. As one ages, one is constantly reminded that we are no longer in our prime , we are no longer “with it” when it comes to knowing what is going on in the world AND we are no longer entitled to have (or at least express) an opinion about things about which anyone would give a damn. Given the fact that she was now considered a senior member of society, with little to no “free” time, no energy, no creativity and no support for her dream, why did she try to hold onto any false hopes that she could become an author. If she could find the time, what did she “know”, at her age, that could be turned around and used in a creative fashion that would be of interest to anyone else? Yet something in the back of her mind kept telling her that she could make her dream a reality. Day after day, she fought with herself as to just how to accomplish that goal. If income was strictly her desire to publish then her chances of success were even slimmer. Intellectually, she knew, first and foremost, that she needed to set aside the monetary goal and deal strictly with trying to put down on paper words that would mean something to somebody which might catapult her into a genre of creativity and accomplishment. One day she found herself off the grid , alone for a week with absolutely none of life’s interruptions. On a whim, she shot off a note to a publishing company whose name she found in one of the many writing files she had accumulated over the years with various research articles about publishing and writing and succeeding in the literary world. To her amazement, the inquiry was immediately responded to. A publishing employee (likely in pursuit of his desire to pick up a new author for his company) began routinely hounding her for a commitment to a completion date for her anticipated manuscript. How flattering; but, REALLY? Her contact with a publisher had been a spur-of-the moment impulse; intended to encourage her own self motivation. In her mind, she had only two writing options (in terms of what she “knew”): one being to write about a traumatic experience in her life (which she wasn’t even sure she was ready to revisit) and the second being to expand upon a short story she had written many, many years before (which would take hundreds of hours to accomplish background research because it was not set in an era about which she “knew”). She had nothing . No files stuffed with proposed manuscripts, or even notes or thoughts about writing topics. N othing. Yet, she fancied herself as wanting to be this discovered, legitimate literary icon! After several months of follow up by the publisher’s employee, she finally fessed up to him that she had nothing. Why did she have nothing? When the dream of being an author had been such a part of her life - in vision if not in reality - why couldn’t she ever find the time to write; or was it that she didn’t have the drive to write; or was it that she didn’t have the confidence to write. What were her excuses? Obstacles. Overcoming obstacles. Self-made obstacles? Real-life obstacles? Would they continue to pop up in front of her; or, had she finally reached a point in her life when she would break down, one by one, those obstacles that had prevented her from at least trying to accomplish her dream. As she sat down at the keyboard one sun-drenched day (when, in truth, she would have loved to be outside puttering around in her yard) and put her fingers to the keys, she remembered her great grandfather, and her father, writers of a different sort. On this day, she knew: first, that she was going to write something today; and second that she was going to write about what she knew . And, if she failed: “. . . each failure . . . (would be) a forward step” in developing in her “. . . strength and ingenuity. . .” which might, as her great grandfather’s words had so aptly encouraged, help her to create a: “. . . word, sentence, or paragraph, [which would] have an appeal that will sparkle with the very thing [the reader ] so much desired”. Only time would tell if her great grandfather’s words would help overcome the real or self-imposed obstacles that she felt had held her back and that now, in her twilight of days, her written word would some day accomplish her long-awaited dream of becoming a real “author”.


Once upon a time, there was a gerbil named George that lived in a little cage. George always wondered what life would be like outside his little cage. He has escaped before but he rarely made it to the front door. His owners would scoop him up and put him back into the cage. George was unhappy and wanted to be as independent as a human. George had a plan. A very big plan. That plan was to escape the house and never return. For a gerbil, George had a big brain. George had helped his owner’s son with his algebra homework and even did his owner’s taxes once. George could also read dead sea scrolls and could write Icelandic runes. There was so much about George that almost no one knows about. Anyways, George managed to convince the owner’s son to go on the internet and find, download, and print a floorplan of their house. The son crammed the 8 x 11.5in print of the family home floorplan into the gerbil’s little cage. George studied the floorplan. He didn’t have a pen to mark his escape plan so he ended up having to make urine tracks all over the floorplan. Inside the cage underneath his bedding, George kept a stash of house tools and equipment like a welding machine, soldering tools, a handsaw, and a bunch of power drills. Don’t worry, they were gerbil-sized so no one could see the tiny equipment. What the hell was the gerbil making with all of those tools? His ultimate escape rocket. The rocket will help launch him out of the cage and go through the door. From the distance, it’ll look like a small bullet but don’t worry, the rocket is made out of titanium metal so the rocket will remain intact after it goes through several walls and the solid wooden front door. On the morning of the escape, George waited until everyone left the house but there was a problem, his owner’s son was at home. He wondered why wasn’t he at school? Then George looked at his calendar, it was a Saturday. Drats! He was supposed to launch on a weekday. He thought about rescheduling the launch until Monday but then he thought about how unintelligent the owner’s son was. He was the only person that actually listened to the gerbil and did what he said without question. George asked the boy if he could open the front door to let some air in and ventilate his cage. As usual, the boy listened and went to the front door. By the time the boy opened the door, he heard a loud pop. Next thing the gerbil’s rocket flew towards the exit. George flipped him the finger as he flew past his face but before he even left the property, a giant golden eagle flew out of nowhere and swallowed the rocket. The boy just stared in disbelief. He didn’t know what was cooler, the gerbil that could fly or seeing a giant eagle for the first time. Does this mean the end for George? Not really. To this day, he is still inside that rocket and inside that eagle waiting to be defecated.


Dedicated to and based on a concept by Danschneider Arroyo, for every scammed author and lover everywhere... Chapter 54 East Vrmlmelmnsk, Syburslovenia At last, Alexis’ heart’s desire was within one GPS turn of fulfillment, and her desirous heart thumped rapidly as she crossed the landfill beyond the village bazaar. The trans-Atlantic journey, the loss of her luggage at the charmingly quaint bicycle-powered Aeropotschk carousel, the succession of taxis and taxi robberies, the bribes to countless provincial cops, the chicken she was coerced to buy at the market, the foreigny threats that bombarded her as she roamed the cobbled streets in search of 12 Zjrchskmsk Avenue, rooster wrestling under her arm -- it would all be worth it when she could look her pfisher soulmate in his unpatched eye. “Your destination is in 300 feet, on your left,” Siri cooed. “Please be aware of organ harvesting activity ahead; I can devise an alternative route back to the Aeropotschk...” But Alexis now was guided by her appetites rather than her apps, and she pressed ahead, gently driving away one of the local street weasels that might have been the twin of the creature she’d nibbled at a charmingly retro crate in the marketplace, after her desire-filled gut had throbbed with non-cardiac desire for something beyond the boiled airline chickpeas. Her heart swelled with swollen feelings as she reached the last hovel at the end of the block before the rustic old cell phone/nuclear waste dump. Her delicate, alabaster fist-blossom froze before the warped plank that served as the door. This was crazy - when the private eye her BFFs at the cat café/cupcake emporium had hired for her traced the pfisher’s IP address to this tiny hamlet in a pastorally bombed-out former Soviet republic, she’d poured out her pain and fury at this Facebook scammer before understanding that rage is but the other side of that coin we call love. Between the lines of the badly constructed, clumsy warning that her system had been compromised and the ransomware demand, Alexis could sense the heart of a wounded outlaw soul. Like Beauty and her Beast, Bullock and her Jesse James... Steeling her desire-saturated heart, the baker/quilter-turned-author rapped on the splintered wood like a desirous heart beating out a rhythm of love. “Come. To. Me; Come. To. Me.” The love-plank finally shifted, and a glacially blue eye peered from the shadows, like the piercing light of Cupid’s lighthouse beacon across the dark and ripply waters of doubt and pain. Alexis now knew her story wasn’t the website romance that “Lance Boyles” had pirated into an internationally acclaimed erotic vampire suspense thriller. Her story began with this rogue who indeed had stolen her desire-riddled heart. “Lance” grunted a series of long words neither Alexis nor most of her readers would have understood even had they been in English rather than some rural Slovenian language. Only her fondant sous-chef Russian Mikhail back home was poly-Slavic, but while he had insisted on accompanying her on her journey, Mikhail himself had found bliss with the lady day-trader from the city who’d finally taken her face out of her laptop long enough to discover the true meaning of rapture and pre-molded frosting at the town bake-off and comforter fair. The ceremony was next week at the old fiction mill by the river, the Reverend Dodge officiating. Alexis thus implored Lance to repeat his declaration into her cellphone. Her Cunning Linguist app translated. “It is you, my Alexis, at last. You have made the future of my destiny a reality!” He shoved the plank aside and emerged. Aside from the gnarled and possibly infected face-navel that had once served as his left eye, Lance was perfect. Hours of hacking and scamming in his dark garret had chiseled his upper arms into Greek statue kind of arms, and his jogging suit-draped legs had been shaped by constant escape from global law enforcement and Bulgarian mobsters. Lance’s was a life lived large, and Alexis felt a stirring in her loins wholly different than her reaction to the boiled garbanzos. Alexis fell into Lance’s arms, and his eye leaked dewy tears of love moisture. Lance grunted again, his Tokarev gun dipping sensually below his pelvis. “Can you forgive me?” Cunning Linguist recited. “Forgive you???” Alexis gasped, catching a lungful of waste dump sulfur. “You silly, beautiful Cyclops! You have made my humble paranormal suspense novella a classic in five Eurasian markets, and Kindled the long-extinguished embers of desire in my heart furnace. And besides...” She displayed the locket she had blinded a cabbie/former surgeon to protect. The woman had gone down hard and valiantly, and Alexis vowed to name a werewraith in her next novel after the driver, adding a few vowels for reader ease, of course. The filigreed gold clamshell was inscribed with her non-nom de plume fake writer name. Lance squinted at the florid mall engraving, then switched to his good eye. A.I. Chatt . Alexis’ digitalized heart swelled with love blood as the thief of that previously mentioned heart realized there was nothing for his future life mate to forgive. No more torture or remorse or fear of mercenary revenge squad retaliation. Lance’s life of underground plagiarism had nearly ended in violence numerous times - the Kindle Unlimited attack on his favorite wifi coffee shop/arms dealer; Nora Roberts’ Mossad-trained hit squad coming after his mother as she prepared his beloved borscht and cloned stolen Discover cards. The grainy photos of the meeting between a coldly vengeful and immaculately put-together Danielle Steele and Ivan the Badger in a Budapest Chik-Fil-A his bro Sergei the trafficker had Messenger’d him. As colleague after colleague had been “Kristin Hannah’ed,” as those in the trade called it, Lance had stayed one step ahead. Now, he had been apprehended by this spunky paperback word-poet, his heart clamped in the titanium grip of Alexis’ love-cuffs. His sentence? Life, in a maximum security prison with Alexis as his love-jailer. Lance grunted. Cunning Linguist processed Alexis’ newfound language of love. “So. You want to see the place?” “Oh, yes, YES! On the soul of Stephenie Meyer, a million times YES!” Alexis exclaimed, flattening a feral cat as she hurled the plank aside. She felt like a bad Eastern European knockoff of Pinocchio (one of Lance’s top-selling works in the Russian children’s market and unedited, on the YA list). Alexis’ Intel chip glowed warm within her OEM bosom. Tonight, she would become a real woman, if they could figure out a workable interface...