I had an idea rolling around in my head. To stop the rolling, I took the idea and turned it into a story. This is the result. I hope you enjoy it. The old man rubbed his knotted hands over the smooth head of his cane as his grandsons sat before him. The boys knocked their feet against each other and giggled as they played with the edge of the blanket they were sharing. The old man rubbed his hand over his sparse hair as he prepared to tell his story. He told the boys “Tonight I will tell you a story about two brothers just like you two. Their names were Ahmed and Samir.” The older child piped up, “grandpa, your name is Samir but you don’t have a brother.” The old man gazed at the boy and replied, “it’s just a story, my child. Just a story, but remember that in all stories hides a grain of truth...” The old man tucked the boys in tighter and told his tale. Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a fisherman and his wife in a small fishing village. The fisherman and his wife lived a simple life until one day their lives were changed forever when the wife found out she was expecting a child. Their joy was complete and their hearts full. After some time the fisherman's wife went into labour and a beautiful baby boy was born. They named him Ahmed.The child was cherubic and beautiful to behold with large, dark, sparkling eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. He gazed into his mother's eyes and from then was the joy of her life. A few minutes later the wife felt another contraction and this was truly a surprise for it did not occur to her that there might be a second child. From the moment his mother went into labour, this second born child was a torment for his mother. While Ahmed's birth had been quick and uneventful, this second child took his time entering the world. His mother toiled through a long and difficult labour and once he entered the world the child screamed his discontent at his undignified entrance. He was smaller than his brother and was born with a clubbed foot. While Ahmed cooed contentedly, this second child scrunched up his tiny face and screamed his displeasure at the world. He screamed from the moment he was born and continued to scream, refusing to be consoled for the next 3 months. He was named Samir and by the time he stopped screaming, the damage was already done. He was labeled a difficult child and a difficult child he would be. Ahmed and Samir grew up together in the fishing village but their lives were very different. From the very beginning Ahmed was the favourite while his brother Samir was a burden to his family and himself. Ahmed was a charming boy beloved by all, and in their eyes he could do no wrong. Samir was quiet, introverted and preferred to hide in his brother's shadow. His eyes slanted down in the outer corners which gave him a mournful expression, and while Ahmed was quick to smile and had a sparkling personality, Samir kept his eyes downcast as if afraid of being noticed. To compound matters Samir became self conscious of his clubbed foot and he developed a habit of hiding his misformed foot behind his other leg as he followed in his brother's wake. In this way he could never quite catch up to his brother's confident strides no matter how hard he tried. The fisherman's wife favored her firstborn and it was clear he was her treasure. Sensing this unfortunate truth and not knowing what else to do, Samir avoided his mother and snuck into shadowed corners at her passing. He only scuttled out when nobody else was near and even if he did happen to meet someone he kept his eyes down and hurried past ignoring their worried stares. When they were at home Ahmed was constantly surrounded by a group of friends who hovered around him like moths to a lamp. He passed the days surrounded by laughter and cheer. Samir on the other hand took to hiding himself behind the large pistachio tree in their yard and gazing at his ebullient brother and his charmed life. At first when Ahmed saw his brother’s shadow he would call him over but as time passed and Samir failed to join the group, Ahmed was at first disappointed, and then frustrated and finally disdainful of his brother. He developed the habit of flicking his wrist in a dismissive gesture so that only Samir noticed and it was clear what Ahmed thought of his brother. Samir took to spending long hours alone inside the family home and there above the mantle in a place of honour hung a beautiful, intricately decorated calf-skin belt. The belt was a remnant of a life his mother no longer spoke of. Long ago, before Ahmed and Samir, even before the fishing village and everything that came with it, the fisherman’s wife was the daughter of a wealthy man. This man was the head tailor for the wealthiest families in the city where the family lived. This man created the best clothes for all the wealthy families and his skills were sought after far and wide. His daughter lived a life of leisure and her life was expected to be happy and easy. The man betrothed his daughter to the son of a wealthy neighbour. He was a handsome lad with dark curly hair and the tailor’s daughter blushed when she thought of him. All was well in her world until one day civil war broke out in the country. Rich and poor alike the citizens of the city were affected by the changes dictated by war. The value of a bowl of rice was greater than the need for silk jackets. The previously wealthy families of the city no longer had any need for new clothes. Fine garments became an unaffordable luxury and the tailor had no choice but to close his business. The once well to do tailor found himself struggling to support his family. Regretfully and despite his daughter’s pleading, the engagement was cancelled and a hurried marriage was arranged for the once spoiled tailor’s daughter. She was married to the son of a fisherman and from then on her life was full of mending nets and she could never quite get the smell of fish off her once silky white skin. This calf-skin belt was the last beautiful piece of her past world and was the last item of any great value in the household. Samir spent many hours silently tracing the scalloped edges of the belt and hoped to one day wear it with pride. As the boys grew older, the fisherman's wife kept Ahmed close by her side and had him sit by her as she worked on mending the nets. She could not tolerate the thought of her precious Ahmed being buffeted by the rough winds of the ocean where her husband caught fish for a living. She smoothed her hand over his rounded cheek and told him he was the light of her life. Ahmed was only too happy to sit by his mother as he kept her company. Samir, having no place in the bubble Ahmed and his mother created around themselves, naturally gravitated to his father's side and after some initial hesitation and concern over the slight boy, the fisherman warily invited Samir aboard his boat and to their mutual surprise realized that Samir had a singular talent on the water. A brusk man not given to displays of emotion, the fisherman worked Samir hard but no matter how hard he pushed, Samir put his head down and got the job done. Over time Samir won his father’s grudging respect as a boatsman. Day after day, with his father’s coaching, Samir worked hard on learning the trade. He was unaware of it at the time but his father’s shoulders stiffened with pride whenever the villagers mentioned how diligently Samir worked. How every time his knuckles cracked and chafed, he merely rubbed his aching hands and kept going because his son was by his side working just as hard. Though their life was simple and they worked from dawn to dusk every day, Samir’s father was proud of the life he had built. His own father had been a fisherman all his life but had been unable to afford his own vessel and had worked for other fishermen. The day Samir’s father was able to purchase a run down boat of his own was a proud moment. He worked hard to make that boat seaworthy and was never prouder than when his son Samir expertly sailed the vessel out to sea for the first time. As Samir engrossed himself in learning the secrets of the sea, Ahmed often leaned one shoulder against the rough bark of the pistachio tree in their yard and watched as Samir and their father worked side by side. With a hard stare he watched as they worked in tandem to ready the boat. Their wordless synchropathy was fluid and effortless and in this Ahmed felt inadequate and could not compare to his brother. He watched as Samir expertly wrapped the line around his forearm, knotting it neatly together. He watched in silence as his father’s mouth curled up in a half smile so fleeting he wondered if he had imagined it. Day after day, Ahmed kept his mother company while Samir learned the trade at his father's side. Ahmed was such a beautiful and naturally lovable child that his laziness and vanity was overlooked by everyone. Ahmed spent his days ruling the village square and keeping the villagers entertained with his cocky demeanour and cheeky antics while Samir worked long and hard hours on his father's boat. Over time, Samir learned how to read the waves, where the best fishing spots were and most of all he learned how to be patient. As the boys grew into adolescence, their uneven relationship solidified as Ahmed grew increasingly more handsome. The sweet rounded cheeks of his childhood became a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones with the healthy flush of youth. His sparkling eyes became hooded and knowing when the young ladies of the village glanced in his direction. They whispered behind shielded hands to each other when he passed and he was only too happy to run his fingers through his full curly hair when he noticed them looking. Samir was still smaller of stature than his brother and he never outgrew his awkward nature amongst the villagers. While Ahmed grew tall and lean, Samir’s shoulders stooped from his long hours working on the boat. While Ahmed’s naturally olive skin retained it’s suppleness, Samir’s became roughened from the salty ocean air. Ahmed, the golden child grew up into a handsome young man admired by the villagers for his physical beauty and adored by the young ladies of the village, while Samir grew into an introspective young man who preferred to spend his days on the dock kept company by the seagulls. As the boys neared their 17th birthday Ahmed grew closer to a particularly beautiful young lady named Laila. Laila was as fair and beautiful as Ahmed was dark and handsome. The young couple was the talk of the village and their lives were destined to be full of happiness and joy. As Ahmed reveled in the throes of young love, his brother Samir blended into shadows and gazed at the beautiful couple for as much as he tried to ignore it, he knew that he too was in love with the beautiful Laila. He tried to ignore these feelings but Laila was as kind hearted as she was beautiful. Laila showed nothing but kindness toward Samir. The more silent and gruff Samir was toward her, the harder she tried to be kind to him. Her kindness towards him made it impossible for Samir to hate her and hating her would have been infinitely easier to bear than to witness her falling in love with another. One day Samir left the dock at the end of a long day and ran through the village square through a dense drizzle. There, under the canopy of an old almond tree, he saw Laila waiting out the rain. She dipped her hand out to catch the rain then shook the water off. It was one of the few times he saw her alone, without his brother by her side. Before he could talk himself out of it, he detoured towards her and jogged to where she stood. Laila smiled widely when she saw him coming and shifted to the side to make room for him. Samir stood awkwardly in silence then startled when she placed her hand lightly on his arm. He looked down and saw that she was offering him a neatly folded kerchief. Gingerly, he accepted it and ineffectually dabbed at his face. Laila laughed good naturedly at his wet hair stuck to his forehead. Haltingly, Samir spoke first and asked her about her day. Cheerfully, Laila launched into an entertaining tale about her family goat and how he had escaped through a gate she had carelessly left open. She regalled him with the story of how she spent most of the afternoon chasing him through the village, only to return home to find him calmly grazing on the grass in her yard. Her friendliness was so infectious that Samir found himself relaxing in her presence. He realized that while until now he had kept his distance from her, that was mostly to do with his brother and had nothing to do with her. Samir ached to tell her how he felt. He started to speak then stopped numerous times until finally, out tumbled the one question he most wanted answered. Unable to look at her, he finally asked if there was anyone else she would consider being with other than his brother. He bit his lip hard as he focused all his attention on hearing her answer. Finally, softly and with an unmistakable apology in her voice she merely whispered, “my heart belongs to him.” Numbly, Samir stood under the almond tree even as with a fleeting look behind her shoulder, Laila darted into the rain and jogged away. Samir stood under the tree until the moon shone high and bright in the sky. In his hand he crushed the kerchief Laila had handed him. From that day, Samir ensured he could not be seen as Laila and his brother courted. He melted into darkened shadows and could do nothing but close his eyes every time he saw her almond shaped green eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughed at something his brother said. Samir scraped his nails against the rough bark of the tree when he witnessed the young couple hesitantly link their fingers together. He flushed and strangled an outraged cry when he saw the young pair bow their heads together like two graceful swans. Samir tried to hide his feelings but it killed a small part of him every time he saw Laila and his brother falling deeper in love. Samir's misery was magnified when, one day Ahmed announced his intentions to marry Laila the following spring. The boy's parents, and especially their mother was overjoyed at this news. Her treasured Ahmed would marry the most beautiful and kind hearted girl in the village. The boy's mother jumped up, ran to the mantle and took down the fine crafted calf-skin belt that Samir had so admired. Without hesitation she presented this gift to Ahmed in celebration of his upcoming nuptials. Samir’s face paled as he realized that even this, a whispered wish, a fleeting desire for something beautiful was not his to have. The one thing his mother treasured, she had now gifted to her most cherished. Ahmed had no inclination of how Samir felt, he only saw something of great beauty and he smiled widely as he put the belt on and swore never to take it off. Following this exchange, Samir receded into the shadows and walked to the far end of the beach where his village met the ocean. There, with the crashing of the waves drowning out his voice, finally shed tears of frustration and loneliness. The rough wind stung his eyes as his thin chest heaved. The seagulls wheeled overhead watching this odd spectacle until they too flew away, leaving him truly alone. One crisp autumn morning, Ahmed strolled onto the dock where his father and Samir were preparing to set sail . He announced to his father and brother that he would be taking the boat out this day for he wished to catch a bounty of fish to present to the family of his bride to be. He wished to show them that he would be able to support Laila and for them to bless the union. Samir grew concerned at this because Ahmed had not been out on the boat in some time and at the best of times was a mediocre boatsman. Samir on the other hand spent most of his days out on the water and was well acquainted with the hidden violence of the ocean. He warily looked up at the overcast skies and spoke up. Samir suggested that Ahmed wait a couple of days for the weather to clear to attempt his fishing trip. He worried that the weather was not predictable during that time of year and the ocean was surprisingly cold beyond the breakers. However, unlike Samir, Ahmed had not learned to be patient. He was used to getting what he wanted and had not learned to wait and bide his time. With a dismissive wave Ahmed insisted he would be fine and despite repeated requests to delay the trip, prepared to set sail. Ahmed's boat slid smooth and sure across the glittering water and with a sense of trepidation Samir followed his brother to the end of the dock. At the last moment before the boat cleared the dock, Samir leaned forward and jumped into the boat, rocking it from side to side. Ahmed whipped around in surprise but Samir would not meet his eyes, he merely collected the anchor lines, and pushed off the dock. The boys set off towards Samir's favourite fishing spot and as the day progressed, the clouds grew heavier and the air held a definite chill. Ahmed kept up a cheerful chatter about his upcoming wedding to the girl of his dreams as they rowed further and further from shore. Ahmed was not an experienced boatsman so left most of the maneuvering of the boat to Samir. Samir’s arms strained and his muscles bunched as he worked the oars through the choppy water as Ahmed sat back, leaning out to graze his fingers through the water. Finally they reached the fishing spot but since Samir had done most of the rowing by himself they arrived later than anticipated and it was already mid afternoon. Once again Samir pointed to the increasingly heavy clouds and suggested to Ahmed that they head back and return another day. Undeterred Ahmed insisted they still had a couple of hours left in which to fish and cast his line. Samir shook his head but followed suit. A few hours later the sun hovered on the horizon as finally, Ahmed stretched his back and suggested to Samir that they head back home. Frustrated at Ahmed’s lackadaisical attitude, Samir hurried to get the boat ready as the clouds loomed heavy and dark overhead. As the boys started their return trip, without warning the skies opened up and pelted them with heavy rain and soon the boys were both soaked through. Samir shouted at Ahmed to help him row the boat back to shore. His resentment towards his brother’s irresponsible actions boiled over as the boat was buffeted by high winds. As a particularly sharp gust of rain rocked the boat violently Samir shouted at Ahmed that he should have listened to him. Wrestling with the unfamiliar weight of the oars, Ahmed turned around in his seat and snapped at Samir that it wasn’t his fault he didn’t have as much experience as a boatsman. Unexpectedly, Ahmed launched into Samid about how he was never given a chance to prove his worth. Years of hidden resentment came to the surface as the boys fought to stabilize the boat and their emotions. The storm hit without warning and with such ferocity it took all Samir had to keep the boat upright. Samir fought against the biting wind as he wrestled the sails together and tried to get the oars in place. Again, he yelled above the din of the downpour for Ahmed to help him but his words were whipped away by the wind and all Ahmed could hear was the anger in his heart. Unfamiliar with the oars, Ahmed let them go and hung onto the rigging with a white knuckled grip as the rain plastered his hair to his face as Samir struggled on. As the boys crested a wave, Ahmed lost his grip on the ropes and fell face down, tossing hard on the bottom of the boat as the vessel rocked. Samir squinted his eyes to see beyond the driving wind and shouted at Ahmed to hang on. Ahmed struggled up but was dazed and winded by the hard fall. He had barely dragged himself back up when another wave hit the boat and this time he didn't have a chance to grab hold of the line and was shoved hard against the side of the boat. Samir saw his brother's form slam against the side of the boat and reached out to grab him. In that instant the boat careened hard to the right and Samir grabbed the lines again to right the vessel as he braced himself against the violent rocking. Samir was torn between the fight to help his brother and the fight to keep the boat from capsizing. In that moment of indecision, Ahmed teetered on the edge grappling for a hold but the rain slicked ropes slid from his frantic hands. Ahmed's eyes widened as he tilted back over the side of the boat. Ahmed's mouth gaped open in silent terror as his feet slid out from under him. All of a sudden with a great shudder he felt himself being pulled back. With a grimace on his face Samir grabbed hold of the belt around Ahmed's waist. The one their mother had given to him. Samir pulled back with all his body weight but he was outweighed by his brother and the momentum of the boat shifting was too much. With a horrifying tear the belt snapped in half and Samir fell backwards into the boat as Ahmed tumbled into the great chasm of the ocean. The waves engulfed him in a momentary flash as Samir scrambled to the side of the boat. Samir strained to see into the inky churning darkness of the ocean for signs of his brother. Samir screamed Ahmed's name as the wind and rain rushed around him in a cacophony. Samir let the ropes go and screamed until his voice grew hoarse. He screamed until he could no longer hear his own guilt. As quickly as it had started, the storm died down. Samir let himself drift on the waves until finally, dawn broke over the horizon. Stretching his aching body, he slowly rowed back to the docks. As he got closer he saw the shadowy figure of his father in the morning mist standing on the dock waiting for him. His shoulders dropped but he thought to himself, at least he would not have to face his mother yet. That is, until his mother's frantic form materialized from behind his father's shadow. Samir heard the searching cries of his mother above the drumming of his own heart. As he got closer, his mother raced down the dock towards the boat. On her face he saw the moment she realized Ahmed was not on the boat with him. His mother immediately started a keening wail as she pounded her fist against her chest as if to restart the beating of her broken heart. As soon as he cleared the dock he simply sat back as his father scrambled aboard and searched frantically for Ahmed for surely he must be hiding somewhere. Surely the unthinkable had not actually happened. Samir sat silent even as his father shook him hard, demanding to know what had happened. He sat unmoving even as his mother begged on her knees, holding his hands in a hard grip, tears flowing from her eyes asking where her precious Ahmed was. As chaos erupted around him all he could see was the scalloped edge of a belt sitting amidst the debris on the bottom of the boat. In the days following the accident the news of Ahmed's accident travelled around the village. At first there was disbelief for how could such a bright life be snuffed out so unexpectedly? One by one the villagers came by the family home, and one only had to look at the faces of Ahmed's parents to know that as unfathomable as it was, the rumours were true. The villagers whispered amongst themselves about the dangers of the ocean. How they knew someone who knew someone who had also been lost at sea. They shook their heads and clicked their tongues when Samir walked through the village square. That poor boy who lost his brother, that poor awkward child was all that family had left. Even as some villagers pitied the ill fate of the family, others cast wary glances at Samir. They knew him to be a capable boatsman and wondered how it was that such an accident took place. They had all admired his stalwart fortitude even in the worst weather conditions. The villagers shushed each other when these thoughts were uttered out loud. Of course Samir had tried his best, of course it was an accident. Afterall, he was still just a seventeen year old boy. The boy's father became even more silent than he already was. He rented another boat from another villager and fished out on the ocean for even longer than he usually had. He often did not come home until it was dark and the village was asleep. The villagers worried for him but his hard stoicism did not welcome their concern. He left his fishing boat tied to the dock where Samir had last stepped foot in it and never touched it again. Their mother simply took up residence in Ahmed's old room. She created a small spot for herself by the pallet where Ahmed had slept and spent her days and nights there. Samir didn't care about what the villagers said about him and tried not to worry about his parents, but he did care about what happened to Laila. The once fine and beautiful Laila became a recluse. She retreated into herself and became a shell of her former self. Her concerned parents told her she would meet another, but to anyone who looked closely, it was as if her spirit were broken. She took to taking long walks along the cliffs at the edge of the village overlooking the vast ocean where her beloved had been lost to her. One day, as Samir sat in his yard mending the nets his mother no longer cared for, he saw Laila walk past his house as she headed for the cliffs as was her new habit. Samir started to call out to her but bit back the words as he realized he didn't know what he could possibly say to her to lessen her pain. That day she did not return from her walk and in the evening her broken body was found at the foot of the cliffs. It was unclear whether the fall had been accidental or intended. The day after Laila's accident, Samir packed a satchel with a hard knot of bread, a hunk of cheese and salted dried fish. He slung the satchel on his shoulder and silently walked away from his family home. Samir had come to the conclusion that he was the curse that tainted everything and everyone he touched. From the moment of his birth he had been a source of frustration for his family and he could tolerate this no longer. He would walk away and hope to spare what was left of the lives of those he loved. As he walked away from his village, he looked back one last time towards the dock where he could see the shape of his father’s boat gently rocking on the calm water. Samir eventually settled in another fishing village and earned a living there. He married the hard working daughter of another fisherman and together they had a son. Samir's son grew up and had children of his own. The old man tucked the boys in closer as they had fallen asleep long ago, with their small rounded arms wrapped around each other in slumber. He whispered his calloused fingers over the sweep of their cheeks as he sighed, for he was weary. With some difficulty he stood up and with cane in hand thumped his way outside to stand in front of his small cabin. He looked up at the clear sky and wondered when the passage of time had worn away the bitter sharpness of the memory of that night. As if in a dream he could still remember the shape of the rough ropes on the boat. He could remember the sting of the ocean breeze on his skin. he remembered seeing the relaxed sweep of his brother's back as he spoke of his beloved and his enchanted life. He could still remember pulling out the small tub of lard he always kept on him to smooth on his face to protect his skin from the rough salty wind. He could still remember hesitating before he smoothed the lard on the ropes of the boat. He could still remember wanting to teach his brother a lesson. He could still remember thinking a small slip would be enough and Ahmed would never dismiss him again. A small slip and Ahmed would take him seriously. A small slip and he would save his brother and be a hero for once in his life. A small slip he had thought as the lard glistened on his skin. The old man rubbed his calloused fingers together and remembered.


I was once known as the luckiest man in West Chester. Everything I touched turned to gold. I had the Midas touch, people would say. Luck just seemed to follow me around I have won every hand of poker I have ever played. Nowadays it's hard to find a place to let me play. It can get quite boring winning all the time anyway. I bought the winning scratcher every time. They soon got sick of me down the lottery headquarters. They even tried to investigate me. They thought I was scamming the system. I have never lost a coin toss. Never even lost an argument I didn't know what bad luck was. It had its drawbacks though. Didn't have many friends, because people would be too envious of me. Jealousy is a strange emotion. People love to see you down. Then hate you when you are up. It also brought me unwarranted attention from a few unsavoury characters. Fellas wanting to cash in on my luck. The luck didn't seem to work in that way. Bad things happened to the people who benefited from my luck. A couple of gangsters got wind of my good fortune and wanted in. One evening when I was getting into my car. I get jumped from behind and the next thing I remember I was being led into a casino by two fairly large, bald, Russian gangsters. To put a bet on a number on the roulette table. If I didn't do it, my wife was getting shot, if I lost me and my wife were getting shot. They hand me 200 thousand dollars. I pick my luckiest of numbers, twenty-one. As I watched the wheel going around. I suddenly found myself doubting my luck. The ball bounced eight times before it came to a rest. My heart began beating out through my chest as the number landed on twelve. I look up at the two Russians and they were celebrating. I look at the wheel again, twenty-one. I feel an enormous weight lift off my chest. I hand the money over to the two Russians. They told me they would be in contact with me for some future fun. They slap me on the back as they went skipping out of the casino. A group of rival gangster were waiting for them outside. As soon as they stepped outside they open fire. Gunning down my two kidnappers in a hail of bullets. Stray bullets hitting the innocent people who just so happen to bet on my number as well. Killing them as they collected their winnings When I think back on it, everyone around me fell on hard times. Everyone around me was miserable, while everything just fell into place for me. No wonder my family hated me. The best thing my luck brought me was my wife Amy. She was the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She had the most angelic face with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen. The one and only time I ever got rear-ended by another car. The woman driving so happened to be my future wife. Things didn't start out too well for her though. Not long after we got married her parents died. Then the miscarriages started happening. Doctors couldn't find a reason for it, just bad luck they said. Then came the lottery win. 6.5 million dollars. I thought this was what my wife needed to lift her from this terrible depression she found herself in. We decided to go on a holiday to France. Ever since she was a child she longed to see Paris. That dream soon turned into a nightmare. We decided to go for a romantic meal in the city and after we went for a stroll. As we walk down Rue de la Paix, she told me things were starting to feel fussy in her head and then she just collapsed. The doctors told me it was cancer. It had already progressed aggressively and she had a week at best. Both our families had flown in. We had decided to let her spend her dying days in Paris, just make her comfortable and let her rest. Since the families paid their own way over I decided to treat them with some of my lottery winnings. I booked them into the fanciest hotels and treated them to dinner in the finest restaurants. I even booked out the whole first class cabin for their journey home. I had to stay behind to finalise some issues with the hospital. When I got back to my hotel room I flicked on the news to a breaking news report about a plane crash that only killed all the first class passengers of the plane. As the news of the plane crash was sinking in, I get a message to my phone. My wife's life insurance policy was just credited to my account. 2.3 million dollars. Even when I'm down, I'm up. The story of my life.


It slowly comes into view when her horse crests over the final incline of the mountainside. The rocky slope leads her and her steed around a corner tucked away between large boulders and a steep treeline. She’s stopped in her tracks and holds her horse’s reins in one hand, the other pulling the thick woollen scarf away from her face so she can take in fresh air. This trail has given way to a thick forest of pine trees reaching their spindly trunks up towards a dull grey sky, the first snowfall of the year beginning to drift down past her face as she stands slack-jawed for a moment longer. There’s a part of her that’s convinced it will all vanish the second she looks away for too long, closes her eyes and doesn’t open them quick enough. She hasn’t seen the valley in so long, after all. A million footsteps led her right back to where she started. The mountains arrive at a collision, walls of black rock etched with crevices as old as time. The land dips downwards to cradle a clearing hidden away among the dark green of the pines and the gnarled surface of the rocks that enclose it, the earth’s hands gently holding steady the remains of what was once a thriving village in the biting wind. She can truly see it all from up here, even the weathered and withering houses that look minuscule from this far away. A river - her river and her family’s river and their families’ river - curves through the clearing just beyond the village itself, a snake with frosted scales that hasn’t fully frozen over yet. Winter’s coated everything in a layer of white by now. She counts her lucky stars that she made it before the whole scene became buried and unrecognizable. Most of it is already hard enough for her to stomach. She’s trying to knit together the snow-covered landscape of today and the green pastures that once stood in their place, eyebrows furrowing in consideration when the pieces don’t reconnect like she wants them to. It’s a feeling somewhere between shock and longing, and it settles stone-heavy and frantic at the pit of her stomach. Another feeling grips her underneath it as well, a different sort that doesn’t want her to move forward or want to face what her home became. Her horse snorts impatiently on the other hand - it’s cold , he seems to tell her. They’re both bone-tired, the smell of sweat and wood-smoke has long since tangled itself in the dark coils of her hair. It’s sensible to travel towards the village rather than continue along the mountains, if not for the waves of homesickness that crash over her then for the possibility of shelter before nightfall. There’s no smoke curling up from any of the chimneys, however. She keeps a tight grip on her horse’s reins and keeps a keen eye out for any movement other than their own, but there’s nothing in that regard either. The path twists downward, and she can see no new tracks leading in or out of the valley, her horse’s hooves and her own boots the first to leave imprints in the cold mud. So, no. Not exactly as she left it. Then again, perhaps it just depends on the memories she settles on. Her mind often delves into the softer ones first anyways, childhood lullabies and fresh bread. Someone's hands holding her face. They’re still vibrantly warm in her mind’s eye even after so many years. The village briefly disappears from view when the path curves down into the trees, and she clings to those memories in the temporary shade of the woods. Now that she has begun moving, she finds herself unable to stop. It’s a desperation of sorts. She hasn’t felt this need to travel so urgently in quite a while, but her horse keeps them steady the whole way down opposed to the break-neck pace her own feet wish for. Warm memories. Not the cold metal of the sword resting against her hip in its hilt, nor the ache of the leather armour across her shoulders and back. The other memories taste of iron and charcoal, make a sound of roaring embers and the collision of sword against shield whenever she dares to look their way, so she keeps those pressed up against the very back of her thoughts. Those ones burn to the touch in comparison. They will do her no good anymore, she tells herself often. Her other hip is heavy with a different burden. She tries not to think about that either, not now, yet the thoughts have a funny way of creeping up regardless. They break through the trees once more and the village comes back into her sight. Its silence welcomes her when she follows what remains of the stone pathways through the fields. What once held crops now sits unused and died out. She can still see the farmers and their plows if she squints hard enough. Otherwise, things remain quiet and abandoned. Entering the village makes her stomach drop. Not a single sign of anyone living under a single one of these roofs since the day she left, each house bending at odd angles and missing bits and pieces of themselves from years of neglect. No footsteps down here, either. No light in the broken windows, no voices, just warping wood and cracking stone. The well at the village’s centre has been reduced to more of a mound with a large hole in its middle. When the houses around her groan in the howling wind, she feels for them in a way she didn’t as a child. She’s older, that’s it. She would have once scoffed at the elders of the village and their wisdom of creaky joints and greying hair. Now, it’s as if she and the valley are the same. Tired. Forgotten. A silver lining pokes through one way or another. Her house is...somewhat a house, still. It's able to be made out among all the others simply because she knows its location relative to the well, a bit back to the left and closer to the paths that lead out to the river. She hadn't been expecting there to be a roof on it anyways, that had been burned up a long time ago. It does have enough shelter for her to settle and rest up when the night comes though, four walls standing with decent protection from the wind. The stable in the back remains untouched if not overgrown with weeds and tall grass. Suitable. She’s slept in worse before. It’s quick work to sweep away debris, lay down blankets and furs for the night to come, and build up the start of what will later be a nice fire. Her horse seems content to stay behind in the far warmer stable as she settles him in, brushes the tangles from his mane, and finally relieves him of his saddle after a long day's journey. She is just as content to continue off towards the river alone. Any of the older dirt paths that would have led to the riverbanks have been overtaken, hidden beneath the flow of time. The effort it takes to travel through the tall grass is an excellent way to ground herself in the present. She’ll need that for what is to come. One hand goes instinctively to her hip at the reminder. Not the sword like it’s done many times before, but to a round bundle wrapped in cloth and rope. She slides down a slight incline and arrives at the water’s edge, pebbles and sand crunching underneath her boots before she finally comes to a halt. The river is only partially frozen over, a winding length of it still flows freely in between the patches of ice beginning to form. The small clay pot tied to the belt around her waist rests comfortably in her hands now that it’s unwrapped. She cups it like the earth has cupped her village for so long, takes in the swirled engravings carved deep into its surface and traces them idly with her thumbs. It remains unscratched and smooth unlike the callouses that cover her own fingers and the lighter scar tissue that stands out against the deep brown of her skin. Years of scrapes and cuts hastily tended to. Still, the sight of it brings the slightest of smiles across her face. Her wife was the one who shaped it after all, though that had been for far simpler purposes. Collecting spare coins, perhaps. Something pretty and delicate that had sat in their windowsill through the final few months of peace they hadn’t even known would be final. One of the only things salvaged from the rubble. The ashes laying within it for six years have been shockingly well-protected, to say the least. Her wife deserves nothing less than the best, even in death. Ah, yes. Those memories pushed away earlier are bleeding back into the forefront of her mind now. They sting worse than the biting chill of the wind here, dig deep under her skin and remind her of just how exhausted she is. When the first signs of war had breached into the valley, no one was exactly prepared for it. It had only been some riders on horseback the first time around, fully dressed in battle gear and armed to the teeth who did nothing the first time they arrived beyond circling around the village before going back the way they came. That was that. The next time they came by, it was far more of them. Things blur into a mess of bloodshed and fire beyond that. A lot of fire, ash and steel. The taste of iron in her mouth. Screaming. Her wife lying in a slash of crimson just on their doorstep and the blood won’t stop flowing and - Deep breaths. She forces herself to blink away the dizziness that has suddenly overcome her, instead focusing on the mountains surrounding her as they loom in the distance. She remembers enough, even if she doesn’t want to. It had been simpler - or so it had felt at the time - to pick up a sword and charge after them than it had to sit back and grieve. The deepest of anger had been easier than the darkest of sadness, the restlessness of it all spurring her forward. So far forward in fact, that eventually the way home became an afterthought. Until she felt as if she couldn’t even turn around and head back even if she wanted to. Six long, long years spent with a rage brewing so deeply within her that it blocked out the agony - and most other things along with it. Something’s changed, though. Like the landscape, like the village, like herself. Wildfires are bound to extinguish themselves eventually, and so did that rage which fuelled her for so long. Puttering out as the war between two selfish kingdoms came to an end that she only witnessed on the outskirts, and then all she found herself left with again was her grief again. A widow, not a mercenary. Tarnished sword at one hip and clay pot at the other, two burdens balancing each other out and slowing her down. Never mattered where she travelled or how many rolling fields she crossed, or cities she walked through, or corpses she walked over as their armour still gleamed in the dying sunlight. So many steps taken forward, yet she doesn’t feel like she’s gotten anywhere different. The world's moved on without her. In the end, the village finds her one more time, and she is no less shattered than the day she poured ashes into a small pot found on what remained of her windowsill. She knows now that walking a million miles more won’t take her any farther away from the pain. Not if she doesn’t let go first. Her grip on the pot tightens ever-so-slightly, as if she’ll feel familiar hands clutch her own in return. The air in her lungs hurts to breathe in, and out, and in... It was a custom of sorts, to have one’s ashes thrown into the river after death. She and her wife never lingered on the topic of death too long when it seemed so far away at the time. The pot’s tightly-fit seal pops off after some gentle force. The wind beckons her closer to the flow of the river, as if offering to take this weight and hold it instead. Her wife had said she would want nothing more than to be laid to rest in the same place that raised her. Unlike herself, her wife never ran away. Her hands hesitate. They hover uncertainly with a minuscule shake to them, the pot held out to the cold surrounding the valley but not quite tipped forward. She is nothing if not fearful these days. Somehow the act of forcing her grip to loosen and allowing the ashes to spill past the lip of the pot takes more strength than swinging the heaviest of swords. They pour downwards in a cascade. The ashes settle onto the river’s surface, swept away within seconds down the current. It's finally done. She takes a deep breath, tilts her head back and closes her eyes to the sky above, chokes down the burning lump forming in her throat. There's still much to do. This is a temporary resting spot for the night in the long run, nothing more. She’s a long way from the next town on her map if the coordinates turn out to be true. When the morning comes, only the ghost of her presence will remain among all the others.


It was impossible to tell the smoke from the dust, great plumes billowing into the sky above. The coal was burning in earnest now, consuming the oxygen in the shaft like the wick of a candle. It would burn for decades to come. The floor under my bare feet was hot to the touch. *Why would something be alive down there?* I stumbled. The cuts across the soles of my feet were too many to count now, and although the lightning pain begged me to tend to my wounds the little voice of fear in my heart pressed me onward*.* *Away, get away, get away from the mine!* it begged me. In that moment it was louder that the voice of pain but I suspected that - if I lived long enough - the opposite would become true. My legs ached from the climb, not just in my feet, and my shoulder felt like it might be broken from where an explosion had thrown me against the wall. *But something was alive down there.* I looked behind for survivors. All I’d seen were fingers moving amidst the coal. Maybe we’d dug too deep. Maybe it had been waiting for us. I was the only one left, but how could that be? Seventy were down there when the fires broke out. At least half of those managed to get to the emergency respirators before the lifts failed. Hell, even when the central shaft caved there were at least fifteen who avoided the worst of it. That felt like moments ago. How could I be the only one left? Moisture coated the inside of the respirator’s mask. Without thinking I reached up and drew my dirty fingers across the lense to try to wipe it away, leaving long smudge marks like runways along the visor. A dark shape stirred amongst the haze, beyond the runways. At first I thought it was a tree or a bush, but then it stumbled. A man. Another survivor. I nearly stumbled myself as I bolted towards him; the ground was uneven, and *hot.* So burning hot it felt like I was walking on the sun. There was a road somewhere around the mine but in the chaos I’d gotten turned around. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t found the others. A young face fell through the wisps of smoke towards me, landing cradled between my hands. I had often thought of Paolo as cherubic, even beautiful. Less so now, although there was something entirely messianic about him. Even in this state. Blood plastered his long hair to his face in dried rivers, and one of his handsome eyebrows was split in two. He wasn’t wearing a respirator, and his eyes seemed to focus on a point in the middle of nothing as he drew each laboured, rattling breath. Something clear and viscous was leaking from his eyes, bubbling away and rolling like thick tears to meet the corner of his mouth. “Paolo!” I cried, my voice strangled by the respirator. “Paolo, it’s Eduardo! Where is your respirator?” He stirred, dark pupils locking with mine as I cradled him on the ground. For a second there was something in them, some recognition of the person he was staring at. Then it was gone. “I saw,” he wheezed. I shook my head. “You’re delirious from hypoxia. Save your breath-” “I *saw,”* he pressed, as if the words carried something urgent. I nodded. He didn’t look well. These could have well been his final words. “Okay, what did you see?” For a second he just stared, transfixed on that point behind me as his lungs rattled for air. Bubbles formed in the corners of his eyes and between his lips and that stuff kept dripping and *dripping.* What was it? Liquid from his sinuses, or some effect from inhaling the burning particles of coal? I thought I was losing him as the colour drained away from his face. His eyes relaxed and his fingers uncurled, but then he locked his vision with mine and hissed a defiant intake of air. *“How long have we forgotten the nightmares that lie beneath our feet?”* The ground shook as he slipped from the world, his head rolling sideways at an angle that would have been too uncomfortable for a living man to maintain. I figured more of the mine was collapsing, but the way he lay there in my arms reminded me of our crucified lord as the earth rumbled and tore the temple in half. Slowly it dawned on me that my friend - a man to whom I had once drunkenly confessed attraction - was dead in my arms. Paolo, beautiful Paolo, was gone. And then something moved. My face whipped to where it had been, wisps of smoke curling in the empty space that it had left behind. Something had been standing there, watching me. I was sure of it. Something fast enough to disappear before I could lay eyes on it. Could a human do that? Or an animal, maybe a deer or a horse? I felt Paolo’s body twitching in my arms, his face smacking the stones beneath as I recoiled away from the fluid pouring from every orifice in his head. What the fuck was happening to him? He shook and convulsed but as if it weren’t his own muscles doing the moving. It was like something was *inside* of him trying to get out. I had to get away from this place. I had to find the others, and the emergency crews that had to at least be on their way. I turned and limped back in the direction I’d come from, tracing my own bloody footprints until I came to the shaft entrance, still billowing smoke like a volcano. Good. At least the building was still there, even if the fire had warped it beyond recognition. If I walked around the building like so, I might be able to... “There!” I exclaimed, pointing at my discovery of a sealed road. Who was I talking to? I shuffled forward, to where I imagined emergency crews were gathering to take us away from this hellhole. The bitumen was hot, even torrid, searing the exposed flesh in my cuts as I shambled but that little voice was still in my head. Go, it said. Go. *Run. Get away. Never come back. Don’t look behind you.* Somehow I knew that all hope was forsaken. I felt like I was stuck in one of those dreams you thank God for awakening you from, only somehow I knew there was no God to be found here. But I found the others. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them, crouched with their faces pressed to the ground. Why weren’t they fleeing or tending to the wounded? None of this made any fucking sense! When they rose, kneeling in formation, I noticed the bald head of my supervisor, a heavy man named Nicolás. Nobody looked at me as I scuttled towards him, skidding to my knees at his side before I even had a chance to count the others. There was something wrong with him but the mines were burning. There had to be something wrong with all of us. “Nicolás? Nicolás! It’s Eduardo! We have to get to safety. We can’t stop here to-” I fell backwards, jamming my feet underneath me as I threw myself away from him. The same viscous goo was pouring from his face, roiling and bubbling as it flowed down his chest and onto the ground. His mouth moved in the shape of words, but all that came out was more of that *stuff.* BREATHE. The word rang through my head like a struck gong. I looked up, to where something towered over us with arms outstretched. It was so big. It looked like the cross of our lord Himself. How had I not seen it? Had it always been there? BREATHE. My left hand reached up for the respirator before I realised what I was doing, my fingers pawing at the straps holding it to my head. Some disembodied voice sounded in my mind, commanding me to take it off. The air felt so hot, so claustrophobic. I longed to breathe the cool air outside my mask but it all felt so *wrong.* I scuttled to my feet with a roar, vaguely aware that something was trying to trick me. I didn’t get far. Hands closed around my shoulders before I had a chance to get more than a metre, and I saw the angelic face of Paolo and the viscous tears he wept for me. I wanted to embrace him, to wrap his arms around me and forget any of this had happened, and a dark cool settled over my mind as I watched his lips forming silent words. *Breathe,* he said. “Breathe,” I repeated, offering my head to him so he could undo the straps. The mask fell away, slapping my shins as it caught the line that attached it to my air supply, but it was not cool air that I inhaled. I was tricked. It was sickly, and warm with something acidic that assaulted the walls of my lungs. My body protested my decision with coughs, heaving and choking in its futile attempts to respire as the burning crept out of my chest and towards my limbs. Tears welled up in my eyes, but all I could think was that one, horrible word. BREATHE. It was not my voice, nor a voice of my subconscious. It was something else. Something *outside.* Not spoken with sounds but with some dark, guttural language of thoughts and impulses. In obedience, I drew deeply and ignored the urge to vomit. Eduardo reached down for me and I caressed his forearms as he pulled me to my feet. Finally, my love, we will be together. He led me to a place at the back of the formation, glyphs and nightmares forming in the back of my mind as if someone were reading a grimoire to me, and I saw that thing smile at me through the haze. I couldn’t see it through the dust but I knew that it was happy with me, and that made me *glad.* Smile at me, my Lord, for I am your willing sacrifice! SUCH LITTLE THINGS, the voice boomed. SUCH FRAIL, LITTLE BODIES YOU HAVE. My lips moved, though I knew not the words. Wetness formed in the corners of my eyes like spittle, and I could feel the fluid boiling up from the bottom of my lungs, forcing its way through my larynx as the nightmare became my reality. The ground rose up to meet me, and I realised in the shrinking parts of my free mind that I had bowed without intention. Again, that thing smiled. *Yes, Lord,* I thought. *I will obey.


so when you asked what happened in kentucky i thought you meant like what made Kentucky Kentucky lol but you meant what happened when i had guns pulled on me maybe? **8:50 PM** yeah! 😩 that's why i was confused genuinely interested bc thats a fun story post hoc (vocab word of the day! someone used it in class and im using it now in probably the wrong context) **8:52pm** lol, i was confused too clearly i was like, how the fuck do i explain Kentucky to a New Yorker and why am I being asked to **9:51pm** wait i wanna know what happened wit da guns in kentucky **12:25am** i'll tell the story tomorrow i don't want to tell it in a way that plays into stereotypes or paints Kentucky as a negative place because it's one of my favorite places on Earth  **7:07am** so first things first there was a pretty girl the prettiest think roll out of bed without makeup on pretty think a wardrobe full of things she bought in India pretty think no bra millenial hippy pretty think positive vibes and a longtime interest in Jainism pretty think 24 years old and slightly obnoxious in 2009  her boyfriend was a friend of mine a skinny affluent suburban kid from the northside of Columbus, Ohio  he liked to play video games the pro-social kind like Minecraft and he'd talk to me about how they could maybe save the world by bringing nerds together for good  he'd tell me this over craft beers in a Unitarian Church on Bardstown Road  you know the kind of church with taps and bartenders and salvaged wood tables with mason jars for water  the kind that got converted into a for profit company because the progressives who built it don't need God anymore  and besides their children were more interested in witchcraft pokemon and the understandable joys of dancing naked in same gender company in the thick dark woods  anyway, it's through these two people the pretty girl and her boyfriend that I met Andrew the girl's older brother  since he is the first character with a name i think it should be clear that we immediately hit it off due to a shared love of anti-civilization philosophy and anarcho-communist ideals  besides I knew how to farm organically and could strike up a wallet-opening harlequin smile at the St. Matthew's farmer's market  Andrew, for his worth, knew how to operate and repair machinery produce high quality bourbon and install gravity powered-irrigation systems on land his family had owned since the early 1970s  the land was a few hours south of all of these immaculately maintained victorian mansions in Old Louisville and the Highlands  it was also just a few hours south of where *we* lived at the time in a shotgun cohabitation with a large yard in Schnitzelberg  keep in mind, this is 2009 and I am an appropriate technology anarcho-communist on a farm hand's income so my directions were written down with pen and paper and there was no GPS in my car or on my phone  on the drive down, I listened to music loudly alone in the car but I didn't let Okkervil River, Neil Young, or Fleetwood Mac distract me i simply followed Andrew's written word like I was a fresh Biblical Scholar at Southern on the verge of losing my inerrant convictions through my sincere, devote attention to every serif and san of a higher power's life-directional >!lack of clarity!<  i got off I-65 the winding two lane road became a straight one lane road that one lane road became gravel then dirt and finally it stopped at tall grass and a small break in the trees  this was the end but something didn't look right i didn't see a large back-to-the-land yurt in a secluded clearing with three palimino horses drinking from a crystal clear, cold spring fed unpolluted creek  i saw a doublewide in decent condition with a mix of tobacco and weed growing in the backyard and shagbark hickory and dying ash in the front  i pulled into this dirt driveway slowly to turn around and briefly check my directions  however, that's when it hit me that i was driving a 2002 Saturn Ion well off the well-travelled roads and I was in a drug grower's driveway in a part of the country that is notoriously suspicious of *their own family members* let alone longhaired outsiders in India-import cowboy western buttondowns with big city, Jefferson County plates  i claim no great stroke of wisdom for this humble realization the dogs, the nine pitbulls, they helped me  so did the three adult men bearded, strong, healthy on their porch with shotguns pointed my way and words heading toward me that i couldn't hear  as dumb and clueless as I might be sometimes, I am the reckless, wayward son of Quaker missionaries and this was not the scariest thing that's ever happened to me not close  I simply raised my hands and slowly moved my left one to lower my window  the first thing i hear is WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE but against reason, i laugh i say: isn't it obvious? *i'm* *lost* I was *invited* to see Gerry Dickens do you know him?  at this, they laugh louder and harder than I had in my profound fear and vulnerability "*You* want to see *that* crazy old man who never wears clothes?"  (they lower their guns)  "See where the dirt road ends and turns into a skinny driveway of unmowed grass between those rows of mostly beech and elm trees *that's* where you go."  "But, first, let me guess... you're dating his daughter, aren't you?"  **5:10pm** i liked the way you told that very memoir-y like it could be a cool nostalgic bit in a lil memoir or book or whatever also thats not at all how i imagined it also is it not taboo to talk abotu how beautiful a girl is when ur friend is dating her? ALSO i see a pattern in guys liking the hippie no makeup kinda pretty bc all my guy friends (including you i suppose) have expressed this specific aesthetic  **8:52pm** haha, yeah idk i like people when they are comfortable like pjs over a fancy dress 99/100 times but this is Kentucky as I understand it or this is a slice of Kentucky i wanted to give the sense of a deeply rooted people who are comfortable with who they are and who like being outside and like doing things themselves and are a little romantic and kooky and it's not a joke i saw so many naked people in Kentucky and it's not necessarily a sexual thing it's just people don't think they need to be ashamed of their bodies or awkward about it even if they are women who haven't bothered to shave anything in 11 days \-not so bad, right? like not for everyone, but not a nuclear wasteland in need of other people's intervention and charity \-like fuck. this is the horse capital of the world and horses aren't exactly for beggers \-oh, and yeah.


Their eyes meet and he smiles, his face illuminated and bright. He has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. She has plain features and limp drab hair, but to him she is perfect. Framed in shadow, she sees him and a look of shock transforms her face. The happiness in his face flickers; maybe he shouldn’t put his burdens on her. But no, it’s too late to go back. Thoughts race and build inside him, the noise around him bringing up latent memories. He is six years old, standing behind a door and quietly crying as his parents scream at each other. He remembers the heavy sting of alcohol filling his nostrils and the crack of his father’s hand across his mothers face. He is twelve, a failing test grade in one hand and a crumpled cigarette in the other as his mother tells him that he is the reason his father left. Fifteen, dropped out of high school, working two jobs just to eat, while his mother lies passed out on the couch, still clutching the syringe that she traded the food stamps for. This is all he knows of life, a hardness that grew up with him, grew inside him. He has never trusted anyone until now. As he gazes towards her, he knows that she can help, knows that she can erase the twenty-two years of hell. A tear trickles down his cheek, shining in the headlights of her pre-owned mid-size sedan as it hits him at 43 miles per hour and sets him free.


Rivulets of sweat rolled down BJ’s sides, saturating his shirt. He removed his hat, pulled the shirt up, and wiped his hairless scalp. It didn’t absorb any moisture, but the motion gave some cooling relief. Pendulous drops of perspiration cascaded from his eyebrows, stinging his eyes. He wiped his face on his sleeve. “God almighty,” he said, sucking in a deep breath and breaking open his last bottle of water. He looked at his phone. “No damn service! Where the hell am I?” Sliding the phone into his back pocket, he shaded his eyes from the glare and peered along the two-lane blacktop undulating like a twisting snake in the mirage of heat bubbling from its surface. Behind him, lost in the distance, his ’80 Gremlin sat along the side of the road, having succumbed to the south-Texas heat. “I should’ve gotten rid of that piece of shit a long time ago,” he said, grinding his teeth in disgust. He bent over with his hands on his knees, staring at his glistening legs and soaked socks. “Gotta find some shelter soon or I’m going to share the same fate as the car.” With that thought firmly set in his mind, he continued to trudge toward a group of buildings wavering in the distance. Thirty minutes later, he stood before a gas station. The walls listing in surrender to the elements, the faces of the pumps cracked and crazed, 25 cents a gallon frozen in their final throes. Besides the station and its adjoining service bay, three other buildings, one on either side of the station and another across the highway, hung in similar stages of decay: broken windows, missing doors, and slumping porches. A breath of despair popped from his lips. “Shit.” He shrugged. “Well, at least I’ve got some shade,” and with that walked between the two dead pumps and through the station’s front door. Fine sand blew in through holes in the windows, spiraling into small cyclones and dying in the corners and on a table against an opposite wall. The metal walls turned the room into an oven, mitigated only by the circulation of a warm breeze. It may not have been a gas station for a while, but it had frequently been used for shelter as evidenced by the detritus strewn about the floor. A door at the rear opened into the service bay, the rolling doors closed, and all the windows covered in newspaper. An ’81 Ford pickup sat parked in the bay. The back door to the bay swung in the breeze and banged a sinister rhythm against the metal wall. A sudden urge to leave knotted BJ’s gut. He spun on his heels and into the narrowed glaring eyes of a suspicious round face. “What’re you doing here?” BJ caught the dull glint of sunlight off the cold steel stuck in the waist band of this unfriendly face’s pants. “Ah . . . I, ah . . . my car broke down about three miles from here,” his eyes fixed on the tense face, he brought his hand up and tentatively pointed toward the roadway, “that way.” He lowered his hand and stuck it in his pocket. The glare became a scowl, his brows pitching down into a deep crease above his flat nose, and he reached for the pistol, but BJ raised his hands, exposing the palms and splaying his fingers. “Look man, I don’t know what’s going on here,” his words spilled out in rapid staccato bursts, “and I don’t want to know. I’m looking for someone to fix my car and to get some water.” His heart racing, his hands began to shake. The face softened and he lowered his hands. A smile curled at the corner of his mouth as he pushed BJ’s hands down. “Nothin’ going to happen. I’m not going to shoot you, but you picked a bad time to show up.” He canted his head toward the mess that littered the floor around them and chuckled. “Not going to find any water or a mechanic around here.” Then he nodded toward the truck in the service bay. “Can’t give you a ride either.” Biting his upper lip, the face glanced at the chipped crystal of his watch. The second hand ticked off the seconds, much slower than BJ’s pulse. “Shit,” the face said, whispering. He turned to BJ. “You gotta get out of here. I got friends coming and they ain’t nice.” “Where can I go?” “Not my problem.” He walked toward a front window and pointed. “Over there. Across the road. Haul your ass over there.” Voices wafted from outside the service bay. The face strode back to the bay and looked toward the back door, “Too late asshole,” and slipped the pistol from his waistband. “Find somewhere to bury yourself or they’ll do it for you.” BJ’s heart jumped into his throat. His mouth dropped open. The face turned and clenched his teeth. “Go, you idiot or you’ll be dead!” BJ couldn’t move. The face’s eyes darted about the room and then he jabbed the muzzle of the gun toward a low cabinet in the corner. “In there!” The voices, at least three, entered the bay. BJ blinked as the face shoved him toward the cabinet and slid the door open. He pulled a shelf out and pushed BJ inside. Sliding the door shut, he dragged a chair in front of the cabinet and sat down. “Yo! Who you talking to?” “Myself.” “Yeah?” BJ peered out through a hole the cabinet’s lock once occupied. Three men stood in the doorway to the service bay. The one in the middle, talking, wore an unbuttoned sleeveless shirt over a wife-beater, sweat stained and dirty. A large, tattooed crucifix extended along the inside of his right forearm from the elbow to the wrist. “The Devil’s Man” was tattooed across his left bicep. Two men stood behind him, BJ’s gaze fixed on the long rifles slung across their chests. “Yeah,” the face said. “You’re early.” “I’m never early. You’re late.” The sleeveless shirt stepped closer to the face. The two rifles remained in the doorway.” “The truck’s empty,” another voice belonging to a fourth man said as he stepped between the rifles and into the station office. The sleeveless shirt moved closer and stopped a foot from the face. “Where’s my shit?” he said in a low, menacing drawl. “Hey, man, they’ll be here. It’s only twelve-thirty. You said one. They’ll be here at one.” BJ held his breath, squeezing his bent knees together to keep from shaking the cabinet. Something crawled up his leg and he froze. A slim beam of light penetrated the missing lock’s hole, illuminating his knees. The tingling of small feet moved up his shin. Thank God it didn’t slither, he thought. It stopped at the top of his shins. He stared at his kneecaps. Long black, hairy legs appeared in the light, touching, feeling his knees, climbing over until perched on top, two gargantuan beady eyes glistening in the light. Oh! God! A tarantula. “I’m tired of your bullshit!” the sleeveless shirt said. “You’re always late.” You give me a bad name with my customers when you make me late.” “They’re comin’. They said they’d be here at one. C’mon man. Give them time. They’ll be here.” BJ baked inside the cabinet, his breathing shallowed, but he never took his eyes off the large arachnid staring back. The sleeveless shirt laughed and raised his voice to the others. “Well, what’d ya think? Should we wait?” Before the question garnered a response, a shot pulsed in the sultry air. BJ jumped, then clamped his hands against his mouth. The tarantula raised up on its legs and hissed. BJ held his breath. The sleeveless shirt howled. “Guess not. Don’t see any reason we can’t make the exchange without him.” The chair the face had been sitting in slammed against the cabinet. The tarantula scurried down BJ’s thighs and into a pantleg of his shorts. BJ squeezed his eyes shut and strangled a mortal cry with his hands. It crawled from one side of his thigh to the other, the bristles of its hairy legs tingling against his skin. He panted, his breaths shallow and ragged. I can’t see! Where am I? The metal burned his hands. His mouth dried and his legs cramped. A wave of nausea twirled in his stomach and his head pounded. “Let’s wait out by the truck,” he heard the sleeveless shirt say and watched through the hole as they walked into the service bay. The walls closed in on BJ. He pushed against the cabinet’s door, but it wouldn’t budge. I got to get out of here! I can’t breathe! He pushed harder, unable to move it. Through the hole he saw the chair rocked up on its back legs and the face slumped in the seat, his head rolled to one side. His eyes an empty stare, blood matted his hair and ran down the side of his head. BJ pushed his back against the side of the cabinet to get more leverage against the door until a sharp sting on the inside of his thigh stopped him. Snarling through his clenched teeth, he punched his leg and said, “Get off me! Get the fuck off me!” The arachnid skittered from his pants across the floor of the cabinet and disappeared through a hole in the corner. BJ grabbed his thigh. A cramp knotted his stomach and his head spun. Visions of a thousand beady eyes crisscrossed the cabinet in front of his face. His mouth hung open and his tongue lolled over his lips as he tried to suck in a breath. In the distance, shouting voices and a volley of gunfire. Lightheaded, he rocked from side to side, shouting and banging the sides of the cabinet, then tumbled against the door and collapsed into unconsciousness. ### BJ listened. He rocked; he was on his back. Cold. Wet. Someone wailed. Voices. Distant. What are they saying? Who are you? Where am I? The vision before his eyes wavered and bent and faded. A large tarantula stood over him, all eight eyes glaring. It leaned down, close to his face and snarled, the two prominent eyes fired with anger. BJ swung at it, screaming. “Get away! Get away from me!” The fangs snapped and then the mouth impaled his arm. “God! No!” BJ swung his arm trying to free it from the spider’s grip, but it wouldn’t let go. His arm froze. He couldn’t move it. “You’re okay, sir. Easy.” “What?” He shut his eyes and shook his head. “What?” “You’re okay.” When his eyes cleared, a paramedic had a grip on one arm and an IV fed fluid into the other arm. “I am?” The paramedic nodded. “Where am I?” “On an MedEvac helicopter.” He opened the cooling blanket wrapped around BJ and put BJ’s arm inside. A machine misted the air, and a fan circulated it throughout the cabin. “You’re a lucky man.” “I am?” His leg twisted in a painful cramp. He gritted his teeth. “I don’t feel lucky.” “Well, if it wasn’t for your Gremlin, you might not’ve been.” “My Gremlin?” “Yeah. The state police found it and set out looking for you. They found you and got a drug bust in the process.” “That piece-of-shit car? Didn’t think it would ever be worth anything.” He rolled his head and looked up at the paramedic. “You know anybody that wants it?” He chuckled. “It’s junk. Cops said it was stripped. Wheels. Engine. Just scrap now.” BJ, laughing, said, “Know of any good used cars? I gotta drive another thousand miles.” “Well, that won’t be a priority. They’ll keep you in the hospital for a while. So . . . how about a drink? Water, of course.” “You know what?” “What.” “I fucking hate tarantulas.”


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: Raised Stakes *This time,* *.* Folks, we are officially at . Remember our friend Bill, from our post for The Event That Changes Everything? This week Bill has to deal with the fact his moral enemy in his office, Frank, landed the Regional Manager position, and Frank is looking to ‘trim the fat’. It’s personal when Frank starts making his wishlist of fired employees and Bill is at the top of that list. It’s not an accident when that list is left in plainview in the conference room. Can Bill smooth things over with upper management while burying Frank? The raising of stakes is the midpoint of your story-- your characters are started down a new path sometimes without even realizing it. This is where your story really picks up with faster paced elements and . If you’re writing action, this is where you can imagine Keep that clock in the back of your mind as we accelerate towards big reveals, and situations hitting too close to home for our characters. For this brief, I’ll turn it over to ’s explanation, found on her website: >Raised stakes are all about consequences-- what are the consequences that kick in for the protagonist. > >Good stories show us the stakes in two parts: WHAT will happen, and WHY it matters. > >Both threats and obstacles can make the situation worse, and while good and important methods for developing the plot and increasing the tension of our story, they’re not necessarily the same thing as stakes. So let’s talk more about what it means to amp up the stakes in our story. > >What Does “Stakes” Mean? > >Stakes are the consequences for failing to rise to new challenges. If your protagonist doesn't reach their goal, what will happen? > >Stakes force the characters to make riskier and riskier choices. In turn, those choices will take the characters closer to the ultimate showdown with the main conflict. ## What if Our Story Isn’t Life and Death? How Can We Raise the Stakes? Let’s take a look at a classic, : In P&P our raised stakes occur when Mr Darcy tracks down Elizabeth and tells her the truth of his affections. Elizabeth is both taken aback by this sudden declaration. He does it poorly, while opening up an argument of the inferiority of her family, citing their behavior. That’s... not the way to win hearts, y’all. Finally, Darcy also explains that Mr Wickham is a bad dude. Particularly since Elizabeth was rather taken with George Wickham, this news comes as both a surprise and sinking of the stone in Ms. Bennet’s heart. So back to the question. What can we do to ? Complicate things. Cross some wires and give us Level up your antagonist- Looks like Dr Death just got a lot more deadly with his new Death Ray 2000! Maybe your antagonist is just the office jerk, but he’s the guy who seems to have a chokehold on your MC’s happiness at the workplace. Increase internal conflict- bring on the pain with a good ol’ tug of war of. Increase external conflict- throw away those matching BBF bracelets and face the betrayal in the eyes of a loved one,. When It Rains, It Pours- kick it up a notch with inclement weather, or an But just in the case you want to \*add\* some life and death elements: Light the Fuse, Literally- Force some drama, as long as it’s plausible. Do your characters need a push in the right direction? Works great on mountains and stubborn mules! **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/3, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Point of No Return: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Lady_Oh, with a beautiful ending to her fairytale-like serial world, which drew to a close with the knowledge her characters could not return. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/lynx_elia, for thickening the plot and showing us some things her character can’t un-see. And honorable mentions: /u/Ryter99, for pushing forward this veritable fluff-driven party with the fury of a thousand buns.... Err, Bundarr. And /u/ATIWTK, for showing that when there’s no return, it could spark a journey that is just the beginning. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Point of No Return** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


“You spent $30,000 on those rare fish for your aquarium last month!” I exclaim.  “Don’t drag my fish into this, they are innocent,” my dad retorts. “Besides they actually have the chance of paying me back when they start popping out $5,000 babies.”  He doesn’t even care.  “You probably have $50,000 lost in the sofa!”  I notice how strange this idiom is as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Cash and coins hardly exist anymore... no one loses money in the sofa. “Dollar” is just a unit of measurement, not one specific currency. But I’m too angry to consider where exactly I pulled the reference from.  “You won’t keep your kid out of prison?” I continue.  “It’s the principle,” my dad says. He’s not yelling, he never yells.  “Dad! If you just pay 40 of the 70 thousand, they’ll let me work the rest off without confinement.”  He’s shaking his head slightly, and making that tucked-in-lip face; the one people make when they pass a stranger on the street.  “I’ll pay you back...” I try, exasperated. Nothing. “Don’t you have insurance to cover things like this?”  “We self insure for things like this. So imagine me as your insurance agent. I deny your claim for violating the terms of the agreement,” my dad says. “Remember how I told you that you should look into buying defense insurance for yourself? Maybe you could have got the renegade plan, or something, and they would cover things like this, I don’t know.”  He is not budging. Not even showing any emotion. That is what is so frustrating. If he was pissed-off I could work with it. Emotional responses cool down and things change. But my dad’s decision isn’t going to change. He’s not upset. There is nothing to cool down. He just made a logical decision.  I’m nothing like him.  “I’m going to prison! And you could stop it without even noticing!”  “You know this affects my business Dege. Who knows how much you cost us by insulting Francesco? He’s a big buyer.”  “Are you hearing me?! PRISON!” I pronounce the word with emphasis but I’m not quite yelling. “And all you care about is your business?!”  “Oh stop being so dramatic,” my dad says, breaking eye contact. He takes a sip of his drink.  “Dramatic,” I repeat indignantly. “Do you know what happens in prison?”  “Yeah, you learn some discipline,” he responds.  “No,” I say shaking my head, “You get raped! Is that what you want, for me to get raped?!”  “Rodigio, this isn’t 2000. Statistically, you’re more likely to get raped at those clubs you frequent.”  “Well it’s still two years on an island with all men.” I shoot back, “Don’t be surprised when your son comes home hanging off the bicep of Buff Jimmy, the reformed pirate.”  “We should be so lucky,” my dad scoffs. “A stern man is what you needed in your life all along. I blame myself. But anyway, there’s actually an island for female confines, and you all get to meet up twice a week. Haven’t you even checked out the website?”  I turn to my mom. “Is that what you want?” I say slow and serious. “For me to come home with a bull-dike-looking prison bitch named Ricky?”  “Oh you have such an imagination!” She says, “You’re such a natural storyteller, with your creative names and flare for drama. You should spend your extra time on the island writing stories! Or maybe work on your acting? You were always so good in those plays, you loved them.”  She’s serious too, not even trolling. She will always side with my dad. He convinced her a few years ago that she was an enabler of my “irresponsible behaviour.” This is just how she tries to stay positive.  My mom forces a smile, “Maybe it will be like camp,” she sort of laughs and shrugs.  I put my face in my hands realizing that my parents are about to abandon me to a prison island.  “I can’t believe you two are doing this to me!” I whimper.  “We aren’t doing this to you, Dege,” my dad says with candor, “We just aren’t bailing you out this time. It’s two years, less if you actually learn to do something people want to pay for.”  My mom is shaking her head in agreement, looking between my dad and me.  “It will be good for you sweetie. Don’t you want to learn a meaningful skill, go out on your own at some point?” Then she adds quickly, “Not that you’re not always welcome here!”  My heart is beating faster. It’s sinking in that I am about to go to a prison camp for two years. And that means missing New Year’s Eve in Barracuda. That means being separated from Majorie.  “Why do you both hate me!? If it was Raji you would pay it!” I am desperate and lashing out.  “You know what,” my dad says, “your attitude just proves all the more that it is high time you take a little responsibility for your actions.”  “Who buys a glass ball that costs more than I make in a year!? And I didn’t know his stupid statue would break.”  “Exactly. You didn’t know. But that didn’t stop you from doing something impulsive and destructive.”  “I was drunk!” I shout indignantly.  “That’s not an excuse,” he says, still infuriatingly calm.  “And that’s the other reason this will be good for you.” My mom adds. “They don’t allow alcohol on the island, and I think it will do you some good to stay sober for a while... clear your head.”  “You better get packing,” my dad says.  I’m back in my room. I still cannot accept it. I have one more thing I could try... I can ask Dean. But I don’t want to.  And yet, I make the call anyway.  “I can’t even believe you’re asking me this Rodigio.”  “Dude, I’ll pay it back with interest! I know you have the money!”  “Dege, it’s not like all my money is just sitting in a wallet somewhere. I do things with it. It’s invested all over, diversified. To give you that money would be an opportunity cost.”  “What?”  “If I give you that money, it means I can’t do something else with it.”  “So you care more about making more money than you do about your friend?”  “You know where the last $35 grand I threw down went? To a start-up bringing rule of law to the parts of the world that still have oppressive governments.”  “That’s just the last 35. I know you put at least that much in the virtual reality porn company!”  “I remember you being pretty excited about CyberNut at the time. But it still doesn’t matter Dege, because even CyberNut deserves the money more than you do. And I deserve to put my money in the places that I want, and make money back for my risk. What do I get risking that on you? Because please don’t try to tell me it’s not a risk...”  “I just thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see your friend in prison for two years. But I guess you think that’s what I deserve.”  He sighs. “Dege, I love you like a brother. But yes, you deserve to be held accountable for your actions. Me bailing you out wouldn’t help you in the long run.”  “Now you sound like my dad.”  “Well your dad is a smart guy Dege. Maybe it’s time you start listening to his advice. I mean you keep saying, two years, two years. Have you even considered the fact that you can make that much money in two months if you really wanted to?”  “Maybe you could...”  “I’m glad this conversation went this way. I’m now convinced that this will be good for you.”  We hang up. I am alone in my room.  I walk out on the balcony, overlooking the pool and tiers of grass that lead down to the white sandy beach, gently sloping into the ocean between large stone jetties.  It’s dark, but most of the palm trees and tropical ground cover are illuminated from hidden lights in the lava-rock-mulch.  I’ve lived here all my life. So accessible, always available just outside my back door. And suddenly I’m a visitor, just here for the night. So I might as well take advantage of it. I walk down to stroll through the pristine grounds.  I want to see Majorie but am not sure what to say. That’s what has kept me from messaging her. That and the stomach churning reality that I am going to prison.  A message comes in. Its from Majorie.  “Can I come over?”  Her drone lands about five minutes later. She walks down into the backyard garden and sits down next to me without saying a word. We look at each other and force a smile. And for a few minutes we just sit listening to the waves roll off the platform.  I sigh, “well apparently this place doesn’t have any alcohol. So... want a beer?”  “God yes.”  We grab a couple from the outdoor kitchen and sit at the tiki bar.  “I have to say... Your platform is way nicer than mine,” Majorie says.  “Well you’re closer to the center. And... you get to stay.”  “What are you going to do?” she asks.  “What can I do?”  “I mean to earn the money.”  “I guess I’ll keep working my bug catching job. Maybe if I put in enough hours I can cut it down to a year and a half.”  She looks down, “That’s a long time.”  Silence. Faint lapping of the ocean. Distant windchimes?  “I understand if you want to just forget about me and move on,” I blurt out. “I mean we just met anyway, I don’t expect you to...” I trail off.  Majorie takes a long swig of her beer. “We did just meet. Which is why this is so weird. Because I’m not just going to ditch you.”  “Look, it’s not your fault that I broke the statue. I don’t want you to feel attached to me out of guilt.”  “It’s not guilt. Definitely not guilt. It’s... well I don’t know what it is. It’s you, you’re different. I don’t know how yet, but I know a good thing when I see it.”  Now we’re staring into each other’s eyes. And it’s probably the only thing at this moment that can make me feel better. She’s right, there is something else going on here. I just hope the separation won’t ruin it.  We kiss across the bar. It feels so good to just enjoy each other’s company for a minute or two, sipping our beers.  Then I remember the burning question on my mind (when I’m not distracted by my impending incarceration).  “So what’s the deal with your job? You worked for Elijah Braze?” I ask.  “Well yeah sort of, but I barely knew him. Ben Rupert, his head of staff is-well was-my boss.” Majorie sighs, “But they already revoked all my permissions and sent an official severance notice so... looks like I’m a free agent.”  “What did you do for him?”  “Mostly data gathering.”  “You mean like marketing data for one of his businesses?”  “More like,” Majorie says slowly, formulating the right way to explain it, “Data gathering of a more personal nature.”  She only goes on after laughing at my blank expression.  “Sometimes it is digging into personal character, other times it’s confirming where someone lives or sniffing out conflicts of interest.”  “You’re a spy!?” I exclaim, only half joking.  “Well, I guess you could say that. Intelligence gathering.” She winks.  Suddenly an image of Majorie seducing a business contact to get some confidential pillow talk pops into my head. She seems to see the gears turning.  “It’s really not as exciting as it sounds,” she assures me. “Usually it’s pretty boring grunt work. The paid travel is nice... well at least it was.” Swig.  “Do you have other clients?”  “Yeah, but that was by far my largest chunk of income. I’m going to need to find something to replace it. All my other stuff is more routine digging. I can do most of it online.”  Another silence. It’s a wave of reality that keeps washing over me, anxiety about my fate tomorrow. I know Majorie can feel it too every time it hits.  “So when do you have to go?” Majorie asks.  “They pick me up at 9 tomorrow morning.”  She gives a sympathetic smile. “Any plans until then?”  I manage a laugh. “If you want to keep me up all night, I don’t mind arriving to prison a little groggy. Who do I have to impress there anyway?”  We spend the night laying in the grass, looking up at the stars, midnight skinny-dipping, and pre-dawn moonbathing. Majorie and I fall asleep in each other’s arms curled up on a large plush piece of patio furniture as the sun breaks over the horizon.