I've seen puncture wounds on just about every part of a dog, but nothing, and I mean nothing bleeds like a split ear. While there are several ways to wrap an ear, I prefer to bend at the natural seam and wrap the bandage around the entire head. This method discourages the dog from picking at the wrap and minimizes discomfort. Dogs will always choose normalcy over their well-being. That's where a balance of human intervention, and cooperation becomes necessary. This stray was brought in by the street guys, Peter and Paul; our canine-catching team of exactly two. Peter and Paul don't suffer from your average identical sibling rivalry. They got hired as a pair, work most of the same shifts, and just about split a paycheck. The rescue isn't exactly a well-funded operation, but we get by on a lot of passion and legwork. The split ear, which runs from the center, and divides the ear in two like ribbons isn't the last of the stray's problems, but it is the most urgent. Enough blood has dripped onto the examination table to create a steady trickle onto the floor. I take a step back to avoid getting blood on my shoes. A visible urge runs up the dog's spine, then around its broad neck. "He's going to shake." I say, but of course, no one listens to us 'enrichment' guys. The head veterinarian, Dr. Macnee, is measuring out her third bandage in as many minutes, and she's scrunching her face as if my suggestion is an affront to her years of schooling. It's an interesting dog, a lab mix with wire hair. Huge, but with nothing behind its eyes. I reload some peanut butter onto my spoon, which staves off the head shake momentarily. Then I drop the spoon, breaking its trance. His neck stiffens again. "He's going to shake," I repeat. But it's too late, and the dog ripples with kinetic force. With the urge relieved, the dog's tongue hangs proudly. The Doctor takes off her glasses, which are dotted now with crimson flecks, along with every surface in a four-foot radius. I hold up a fresh, new dollop of peanut butter. "One more try?" I ask. Later that day I'm out in the daycare yard overseeing a group of four for Social Hour. The group consists of Rocky the house mutt, a Boxer named Champ, and two Staffordshire Terrier Mixes, both named Luna. Rocky sits at my side watching the rest of the group like a retired athlete; like he's wondering if he's got one more game left in him. In a past life, Rocky was a bait dog; a chew toy used to foster aggression in tougher dogs. Probably the runt of his litter, or a genetic mistake that canceled out his killer instincts. His ears are cropped so close to his skull, that all that remain are two tufts of hair that have thickened in his golden years, giving him the appearance of a mad scientist, or an inbred marmoset. A muscular tongue dangles over his stalagmite teeth, and the corners of his mouth are pulled into a wide grin. Champ is off in the corner of the fenced-off yard, scratching his back against the artificial turf, and tanning his belly in the July sun. I want what he has; that unbothered look. Dogs don't test Champ, but they don't fear him either. His existence lies somewhere between the sun, and that flea-and-tick-resistant-turf, which is good enough for us both. The Bullies have had a slow start. This is their third meeting so far, the second of which ended abruptly after Luna 2 stiffened up and started growling. Today we've made some progress, with Luna 2 even engaging in bursts of play. She gets herself into a push-up position and looks up at Luna 1. A dog's behavior can teach you plenty about life if you're dumb enough, or weird enough to comprehend the lesson. By my count, a dog only feels one of five things at a given time. Their primary colors are happiness, discomfort, fear, hunger, or lust. People like to over-complicate things with degrees, and medical jargon, but they aren't the ones picking up shit, or breaking up fights. The real dog people know better. Dogs are simple, it's people who aren't. After the blood shower in the examination room, Dr. Macnee asked the staff to stay late for a deep clean. Gwen from the grooming department has stopped by to help. She takes care of the walls, while I disinfect the kennels, and remove hair from their rolling feet with a vintage sterling-silver pocket knife. "I'm heading to the Lamb tonight," she says, apropos of nothing. She's referring to a small bar on Main Street; the sort of place with Classic Rock and darts during the week, and DJs and college crowds all weekend. "That's cool," I say. "Have fun." Gwen laughs, but I don't know why. After the deep clean I hand my keys to the overnight employee, a late teenage girl who surveils the dogs on an hourly basis, or between rounds of homework. She waves me goodbye in a way that manages to feel unfriendly, and I make my way to the bus bench across the street. My bus is twenty-four minutes away, but I've brought a book, and I welcome the isolation, and summer night's breeze. I open the cover and find my place, and within moments, the Westchester County backstreets evaporate and are replaced by the high, guarded walls of my fantasy novel's kingdom. The hero of the novel has just discovered the full scope of the looming threat and retreats to his garden to ponder his options. The writer embellishes with thick descriptions of lush gardens where flowers display a degree of sentience. The hero looks to the sky, and- The moose-call horn of a Honda Accord erupts through the quiet street, and nearly jolts me off the bench. Gwen looks over from her driver's seat. "The Lamb," she says, "Are you coming, or what?" Gwen's radio is turned down, and I miss the rustle of the breeze, and the cicada's songs as soon as the door is fully shut. "I'm glad you're coming," Gwen says. "I've been trying to get you out for months." "You have?" I ask, but my attention veers to the passenger side mirror where a white van careens dangerously into the first spot outside the rescue. I recognize the Italian flag backdrop of the license plate, then both doors swing open, and two short, identical, muscular men emerge from either side. Peter is wearing a plain, black tee shirt that appears damp even in the low light. A tan-colored gauze is wrapped tightly around his left bicep, with prominent rust-colored stains throughout. His gold chain, a massive Cuban link with a diamond-encrusted microphone pendant swings wildly as he sprints to the rear of the van. His brother, Paul, meets him there, and they disappear from my view. "It's kind of late for a drop-off," I say. "Do you know if anybody called in any strays?" "Who cares?" Gwen says, "And no work talk once we get to the bar," and she puts the car in drive, and coasts away. At The Lamb, Gwen fumbles through a series of interrogation-style questions that fill me with unease. "What do you do for fun?" She asks. "I don't know," I respond. "I mostly just read and go to work." Gwen laughs, and for the second time tonight, I am confused. A few tables over, a tall guy wearing a college sweatshirt loudly teases his friend, causing the table to erupt in laughter and applause. "You are so boring!" She exclaims. "I'm sorry," I reply. "No, don't be sorry. I meant like, it's cute." Gwen stares at me for long enough that the grip on my pint glass weakens. In the dim lights, I notice for the first time that Gwen has freckles and a perfectly straight smile. I am relieved when a loud commotion diverts both of our attentions once again to the table of collegiate boys. "Why are you acting like such a pussy?" Sweatshirt demands. He's staring down at a skinny, smaller boy in a dress shirt. The boy in the dress shirt is studying his drink, while the other occupants at the table laugh, and exchange animated glances. "I said, why are you acting like a little bitch?" Sweatshirt doubles down. Dress-shirt says something inaudible to me, and without a moment's hesitation, Sweatshirt smacks him with enough follow-through to relocate him to the edge of his seat. Gwen gasps from somewhere behind me, but it's swallowed up by the explosive din of a fully enthralled crowd. People laugh, and cheer as Sweatshirt closes in on his friend, and grabs the collar of his shirt, snapping the top buttons off. Dress-shirt pushes a hand against Sweatshirt's face in an attempt to create distance. Sweatshirt cocks an arm back for a punch, but he's grabbed at the elbow, and then around the neck by a slab of muscle in a black security shirt. "We were just fucking around," he pleads as the bouncer shoves him past our table, and toward the door. I look over at Gwen, and her face has reddened, significantly reducing the contrast of her freckles. I think I see tears in her eyes, but I'm not sure. "I'm sorry," she said. "We should have gone somewhere else." "Why are you sorry?" I ask. "It just seems like you're having a bad time." She says. "I'm not having a bad time," I say. "I just don't do this very often. "Kids are so stupid," she says. "Why would you pick a fight with your own friend?" "Predatory drift," I answer. Gwen squints at me. "Dave, I thought I said no work stuff," she says, but this time I can tell she's joking. "It's sort of like when two dogs play, they're actually just testing one another. You know, who's faster, who's stronger, who would win in a real fight, that sort of thing," I begin. "But sometimes with a more dominant dog, you get these bad instincts, and they kick in if the other dog shows real weakness. Like, 'If you can't keep up, and you can't play-'" and I choose my next words carefully. "Then you're prey," Gwen concludes. We finish our drinks in comfortable silence, then pay up our tab. **\*\*\*** Back in Gwen's car, and with work-talk back on the menu, conversation flows freely. Gwen asks if I want to come overand watch a movie, and I agree. We chat as we pass the quiet suburbia of Pelham Road, then onto the heavily forested, sparsely lamp-lit glow of Shore Road on the border between New Rochelle, and The Bronx. As houses and taverns are traded for trees and horse stables, I realize that I am comfortable around another person for the first time in my adult life. "What about Dennis?" she asks. "Who?" "The guy with that silly tattoo of the sun with sunglasses." "Oh." I remember, "What about him?" "He was just so weird." She says. "He wasn't weird, just quiet," I answer. "But to answer your question, he stopped showing up about a month ago. It doesn't surprise me either. He was the only guy who Dr. Macnee treated worse than me." "Yeah, what's her deal with you, anyway?" Gwen asks. "I'm not sure," I say, but that isn't true. The truth is that she doesn't respect me, or anyone without a degree in the field. I look out my window. A chain link fence becomes visible in a gap amid the tree line. Far beyond that fence is several miles of golf course. But directly beyond that fence, and only barely visible in the dying glow of a far ahead street lamp, are three sets of green eyes focused on my side of the vehicle. Around the eyes, I can make out the jagged silhouette of thick, spiky fur, and sharply pointed ears. I stare back curiously, but a sharp jerk of the steering wheel sends my concentration to the front windshield. "What's wrong?" I ask. "It was a dead deer or something. It was too dark to see until I got close." I look back at the treeline just as it ends and a lane of parkway begins. In Gwen's neighborhood, we circle for nearly fifteen minutes before a spot opens up several blocks from her apartment. "It's a few blocks this way," she says, and motions with her chin. It's late, but Gwen's neighborhood bustles loudly into the summer night with car stereos playing loud music, and older men seated in beach chairs, and drinking beers on the sidewalk. We pass a deli, and then an old-looking church. A man is lying on his side on the church steps, and he watches us as we walk past. "That's a pretty girl." the man rasps, then lets out a phlegmatic-sounding laugh. Gwen's pace quickens slightly, and her forward gaze becomes rigid. "I said you're pretty, bitch, you not gonna say thank you?" Gwen's stride is automatic now, and she rustles her hands in her hoodie pockets. I put an arm around her waist, and her body molds into mine as our steps synchronize. There's a blur to my left, and then the man is in front of us, smiling. His teeth are yellow and jagged, and his mouth stretches far into the sides of his face, giving his nose and jaw a snout-like appearance. He wears an unbuttoned shirt that shows off a topographic map of deep gashes on his torso. A chunk of his arm looks bitten into, giving the flesh the appearance of an apple core. Blood crusts alongside yellow cholesterol deposits on the missing portion of the arm. Gwen is nestled so far under my arm that my heart beats against her face. The man looks her up and down hungrily. He has not regarded me once. For some reason, I think about Rocky the house mutt. Then I think about the hero in my novel. I reach for strength that I don't own. "Leave us alone," I demand. The man cocks his head back and projects another mucous-filled wheeze. Then he directs his focus to me, and even with his mouth closed, the lip line stretches for an unpleasant distance across his face. His eyes smolder like a smoking sinkhole as he passes them over me. "Aw," he condescends. "Why? What you gonna do about it." I place a hand in my pocket and grasp the sterling silver folding knife, allowing the handle to poke visibly next to my waistline. I maintain eye contact as my spine straightens stiff. I concentrate on my breath. Then I bark. "Leave us alone," I demand again. "Or I'll cut your eyes out of your fucking face." I pull the knife fully from my jeans now. The too-wide lips creep and curl around the man's cheekbones. Then the smile fades, and he studies the blade for a moment. "I'm just fucking with you, yeah?" Then he looks at Gwen, "And it was a fucking compliment. I'll see you around, beautiful." He looks to his side and then takes off down the church alleyway with alarming momentum. He hops a small fence at the back of the alley and disappears into the night. I look down at Gwen who is still nestled into my chest. Then she looks up at me. "Let's go," I say, and she blinks out of her trance. "My building is just down the block," she confirms. We half-walk, half-jog to the front of her building where she stops to catch several breaths. "Thank you," she says and looks me right in the eyes. Then she grabs the front of my shirty and kisses me on the front steps, and under the beautifully full moon. **\*\*\*** I have an early morning scheduled at the rescue, and Gwen offers to drive me. Something has changed throughout the night, and she touches me often and speaks in a softer voice. To my relief, her neighborhood is fast asleep as we approach her parked car. "Thank you again for last night," she says once we're on the road. It's the dark morning hour when the street lamps are turned off in anticipation of the morning sun. Gwen turns on her brights as she sharply turns onto Shore Road. After a short stretch, we see the culprit for her sharp swerve from the night prior. "Oh my God," Gwen moans, and we both turn our heads, Beside our vehicle is a mushy pile of blood, bone, and fur organized into a heaping mass. Bits of meat held together by clumps of fur are strewn for several feet of road in either direction. A few feet past that, and a large buck antler becomes visible above the passenger door guardrail like some crude memorial. "What do you think did this?" Gwen asks. I think about the trio of green eyes, then the man with the wide-set mouth. "I don't know," I say. We drive in mostly silence, and as we approach the rescue, I am surprised to see Dr. Macnee's car in the lot. After we pull to a stop, Gwen kisses me goodbye and tells me to call her after work. Then she drives away as I approach the already unlocked front door. The first thing that strikes me is the absence of a night clerk at the front desk. The next thing that strikes me is a small stippling of blood near the door to the hallway. My heart beats with syncopation as I follow its trail to the examination room. As I open the door, I see Dr. Macnee slightly hunched, and at eye level with the most grotesquely inbred, or birth-defective dog that I've ever seen. Its hair is thick at the top of the skull and spine, but sparse elsewhere. Through the thinning fur, I can see blueish-gray skin textured with blood vessels and liver spots. The joints all twist inward at a point, giving the dog a cracked, and hunched appearance. It sits atop an examination table that is not at all raised, suggesting a standing height of approximately six-and-a-half feet. "Good morning," I say or ask. "Did Peter and Paul drop this stray off?" Dr. Macnee doesn't look at me and continues the examination. She peeks in the dog's sharply pointed ears, then pulls back his gums, revealing two rows of strangely uniform, plaque-riddled cuspids. "What are you doing here so early?" I ask. "Forgot my purse," she starts blankly. "Forgot my purse, and what do I walk into?" I am too confused to respond, so I just stare at the grotesque dog. The lankiness of its limbs should not support its massive center of gravity. Its hackles stand at full attention from a painfully visible spine, and its ribs thump with short, quick breaths. Its jaw is covered in red and dark brown stains, but what draws me is the eyes. "I asked you to deep clean last night," she finally continues, "And somehow, you manage to make it worse in here. Did you try to redo the bandage on your own?" The dog's deep brown eyes lock onto mine. There is a depth behind them that suggests a level of comprehension beyond "sit" and "stay". "I did deep clean last night," I say. "And Gwen from grooming helped me." Dr. Macnee snorts, then forces a chuckle. "I never wanted an 'enrichment' division," Dr. Macnee spits. "We pay you to, to what exactly? Play fetch? Clean up shit? And you guys can't even get that right. I took pictures, and I can't wait to send them to the director-" She continues speaking, but the canine's eyes snatch my attention mid-sentence. It looks from me to Dr. Macnee with a flick of its eyeballs. Blood vessels constrict in the whites while the pupils burn black with dilation. The eyes bulge in their sockets, eclipsing their depth in singular focus. "Dr. Macnee-" I interrupt. "Don't you speak while I'm speaking!" she spits and points a finger at me. "I am sick and tired-", she continues. The beast's lips curl back revealing lines of spittle that vibrate like blades of grass against the first visible signs of a deep, gurgling growl. "Dr. Macnee, seriously-" I start again. "What?!" she yells. "He's going to bite." She turns her face just as the hideous beast removes most of her ear with an easy snap of its muscular jaws. Dr. Macnee's scream is high and hysterical as her wide eyes strain to assess her loss. The beast munches hungrily, then swallows. Dr. Macnee is still screaming as the muscles twitch in the beast's neck, and he springs forward with intent. The jaws unhinge, then clamp with force in the same instantaneous beat. Dr. Macnee's right eye socket down to her jawline is ensnared in a craggy prison of yellow teeth. She pulls back reflexively, causing the teeth to sink, and lock. The skin from her face stretches, pulls, then shreds like stringy gristle from a butcher's block. The jaws of the beast twitch dutifully, and with a squelching pop, the beast cleans the meat from the bone. The untouched portion of Dr. Macnee's face twists in horror and confusion, while her eyes spin and twitch in their sockets. A gash runs from the inner ear down through what remains of the lobe which forcefully spurts pints of blood across the examination room. Then the beast rises deftly to two feet and takes the Doctor's throat into its maw. He shakes his head once, eliciting a snap, and her body goes limp. I am frozen with fear and confusion as the beast makes eye contact with me. Dr. Macnee hangs heavily from between its jaws as he lowers back onto four legs. The beast turns toward me, and I place my palms up defensively. "Easy," I command. "Easy, boy." I take a step back with my palms still outstretched. "We're good." I keep my voice steady, "It's okay." The beast walks toward me, dragging Dr, Macnee beside it across the tiled floor. As it steps past me, it looks me in the face. "Easy boy," I repeat. It continues its walk into the hallway, and I slowly shut the door behind it. As the door shuts, I catch one last glimpse of the beast. On the side of its right arm, just visible beneath patchy, and thin fur, is a crude outline of a cartoon-style sun wearing sunglasses. The examination room door closes, and from beyond the glass panel, I can see the doors to the hallway open and shut. I wait painfully still for several moments before the main door is opened and closed as well. After the shock dwindles enough for me to regain my faculties, I call the police and then feed my dogs. Rocky smiles when he sees me, and his eyes gleam with admiration as I place the slow-feeder on his crate tray. When the cops arrive, they take a quick statement, then I show them footage from the examination room, and then the lobby. They exchange worry and confusion-filled glances. The attack footage in the examination room has been conspicuously deleted but cuts back just in time to place me away from the main computer as the hallway, and lobby footage are also cut. They tell me to leave for the day as the rescue is deemed an active crime scene. "I still need to let my dogs out," I tell them. After some deliberation, a promise from their K9 unit, and several neatly scribbled notes about medications, feedings, and temperaments, I finally agree to leave. They tell me that a detective will be in touch with me shortly. As a final word, the officers ask me not to speak with anyone. "No problem," I say. My bus is a half an hour away. I want to call Gwen, but she is probably home and in bed by now. With thirty minutes to kill, I take a seat on the bus bench across the street. I fish for my novel, then crack it open across my lap. Maybe I'll finally learn how the hero of this story deals with the looming threat. As I flip for my page, the sharp crack of a twig snags my attention. In the distance behind my bus bench, and across a small parking lot, a group of four massive, grotesquely lanky dogs plod along a treeline. A glimmer from the fading moon bounces light off a metal object around the neck of the third dog in line. They move with synchronicity, but no urgency, and a calm permeates my spirit as I watch them. As the moon catches off the metallic object again, I get a better glimpse of the small, shiny microphone pendant, bouncing with each step.


She pulls her shoulder length blond hair back into a ponytail held by a zebra print scrunchie and begins searching furiously through her room. Getting down on her knees, she peers under the bed and roots around with her arm. Sitting back on her feet, the girl lets out a frustrated grunt and springs quickly up to cross the room and open drawer after drawer after drawer of her dresser. Her efforts succeeding in producing nothing but more frustration the girl stands in the middle of her ransacked room. Her face changes from speculative to anger, and she marches into the hallway and down to a closed door. Balling her left hand into a fist she knocks rapidly on the door, but there is no answer. She pauses for a second and presses her ear to the door attempting to hear some movement inside the room. Failing to determine if the occupant of the room is currently at home, she resumes her knocking and accompanies it with shouting. “David! Open this door right now!” The girl shouts. Her shouts bring a woman from another part of the house who is dressed in tan slacks and white cotton blouse. She stops a few feet from the girl and watches the display with arms crossed and stern look on her face. Her blond hair is cut short in a pixie cut, and she holds a pair of spectacles in her left hand. “What are you doing Hannah?” The woman asks. Stopping her banging and shouting, Hannah turns and responds, “I’m trying to get David to come out and give me back my journal. I know that he took it out of my room.” “He’s not home. He is at baseball practice.” “Well, I’m going to beat the daylights out of him when he gets home.” “You will do no such thing. Family does not hit each other.” “I don’t care if we are family. He is always invading my privacy, and I’m tired of it mom,” the girl says stomping her foot. “You may not realize it now Hannah, but family is everything.” “Mom, this is ridiculous. He won’t stay out of my room. If he goes in there again, I’m going to make him pay.” Hannah responds standing and staring back defiantly. Tired of waiting for her mother to say anything Hannah asks, “Can I just get a lock for my room already?” “We’ll talk about it when your father gets home. Now stop banging on your brother’s door and clean your room and do your homework.” Defeated, Hannah passes by her mother and enters her room. Slamming the door, Hannah throws herself on the bed. Taking a pink covered pillow, she presses her face into it and screams. ************************************************************ Walking into the living room, Hannah pauses at the sound of two women arguing. One of them is her mother, and they are arguing in German. Hannah creeps closer to the kitchen entrance to listen. After several minutes, the two women cease arguing, and Hannah quickly walks over to flounce on the couch. An elderly woman enters the livngroom a moment later with white hair done in a loose bun wearing a light flower pattern dress. Seeing Hannah, the older woman smiles and says, “Hannah! My enkelin. How are you?” Rising from her seat, Hannah cross to greet the older woman with a hug saying, “I’m good Oma. How’re you?” Hugging the girl tightly, Oma responds, “I’m good.” “Why were you and mom fighting.” Steeping back from the girl with hands on her shoulders, Oma smiles and asks,” Were you spying on your mutter and me?” “I didn’t mean to. I heard you fighting when I came into the living room.” “Well, don’t you worry dear. Your mutter and I fight, but we always will love each other.” Oma says and turns to yell over her shoulder, “Isn’t that right Katie.” “Yes mutter,” Katie answers back from the kitchen. “Das ist gut. Hannah go tell your brother to come out and see me.” “I’m not talking to him, Oma.” “What? You’re not talking to your only brother? Tsk Tsk that’s a shame.” Oman says shaking her head. Entering from kitchen, Katie says,” I’ll get him mutter. Have a seat, and I’ll make us some coffee. Joe should be home in time for the program tonight.” “What program?” Hannah asks curiously. “The Berlin Wall is coming down today, dear.” “Oh,” Hannah comments. Then she asks, “Were you in Germany when it went up, Oma?” “Ja, I was not much older than you when they built it. Soon after, we came to the United States.” Oma sighs and her face settles into a sad expression. “What’s the matter Oma?” “Oh Hannah, I was just thinking about my sister. Her husband and she live in East Berlin. We haven’t seen or heard from them in many years.” “Oh! That’s terrible!” Hannah exclaims. “Yes, dear, it is.” Oma sighs again and says, “Well today the wall will fall.” ************************************************************ Hannah and her family gather in the living room while the news plays on the television. Her father sits in his easy chair. He is a sturdy man with brown and gray short cropped hair and stubbled jaw. He wears a white undershirt and navy-blue work pants. He sips from a beer can that he sets on a television tray to his right. He smiles as her mother enters and places a large bowl of popcorn and a stack of paper bowls next to it on the coffee table. A young boy who until then was laying with chin cupped in his hand staring at the television, turns over and sits up next to the table. He starts scooping out popcorn with a paper bowl while Oma grabs a handful which she pops one by one into her mouth chewing slowly. Katie leaves the room to return with a pitcher of water and cups that she sets down on the table next to the bowls. Pouring herself a glass, she settles on the sofa between her mother and Hannah. She fills a bowl with popcorn which she hands to her daughter before getting herself one. The gathered family settles back to watch the news program on television. Television news anchors talk about the history of the Berlin Wall, and its construction after World War II. Several times during the program, Oma dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief as they tear up at the memory of those times. The rest of the family for their part quietly watch the precedings with unwavering attention until the young boy turns his head to say something to his Oma. “Did your sister really get trapped in East Berlin, Oma?” “Yes, David, before her husband and she could come to us, they had closed the border. Then the wall was built, and no one was allowed across.” “Wow,” the boy says in wide eyed wonderment.” Couldn’t your mom and dad do anything.” “No dear, there was nothing that we could do. Eventually, my parents decided that we should move here, and I had all but given up hope of ever seeing Sara again until now.” Katie interrupts with, “Let’s not start that again, mutter.” “Start what?” Hannah asks curiously. Katie and Oma exchange a look and then Katie says,” That’s what your Oma and I were arguing about earlier. She wants to travel to Germany to find her sister, but I don’t think that’s it a good idea.” “But Liebchen it would mean so much to me. I have missed Sara so.” “I know mutter, but your health isn’t that great.” “It’ll be fine Katie, and you can go with her.” Joe interjects. Before Katie can respond, David points and says,” Look they’ve started tearing it down.” The conversation forgotten the family turns their attention back to the television screen. The image shows people, everyday citizens of West Berlin and government forces with tools tearing at the wall. As large chunks of graffiti decorated bricks start to break away and fall to the ground, the people cheer, and Oma begins to cry in earnest. Without tearing his eyes away from the television, David reaches for more popcorn and knocks over a glass of water which splashes in Hannah’s lap. With a startled cry, Hannah jumps up from her seat exclaiming, “Look what you’ve done jerk.” “Gosh, Hannah, I’m sorry. I didn’t do it on purpose.” David says defensively. “I don’t care,” Hannah says petulantly. She storms off towards the bedrooms yelling, “I wish I could build a wall to keep you out of my life!” The television program forgotten; the group sit there in awkward silence. David’s eyes fill with un-shed tears, and he springs up from the floor rushing towards the door. When he reaches it, he puts on his shoes and grabs the door handle. “Where are you going,” Joe asks. “I’m going to Patrick’s.” David says walking out the door and slamming it behind him. A few seconds later there is sound of a car braking loudly then a car door slamming. Katie is the first one to the door, and she pulls it open rushing through it followed by Joe. Joe does not even stop to put on his shoes. Oma rises more slowly and starts towards the door too when Hannah comes from the hallway. She follows her oma out the door. Outside is a chaotic site. Several of the neighbors have gather out in the road in front of their house. Hannah approaches the group and sees her parents on their knees while a middle-aged man in a suit stands nearby where a silver sedan sits. Her grandma makes it to the periphery of the crowd first, and her hand goes to her mouth. Hannah draws up behind her oma and peers through the crowd. On the ground between her parents, David lays. His bike a mangle mess lays nearby. Hannah mirrors her oma bringing her hand to her mouth in surprise. She stumbles towards her family with tears welling in her eyes. She too drops to her knees near her brother David. David lays quite still and quiet while the gathered crowd looks on with worried glances and whispered conversation. The motorist seems frozen in place, and his right hand rests on top of his sweaty brow. ************************************************************ Hannah stands in the kitchen toying idly with a yellow phone cord that trails behind connecting the handset in her hand with a wall mounted yellow phone cradle. A woman’s voice can be heard chattering excitedly through the phone while Hannah listens showing signs of obvious delight. Delight which turns to seriousness after a moment. “Yes, I know Oma,” she says into the phone. Then after a moment, “I will.” After another pause, she says reassuringly, “I will take care of everything. You and Mom just enjoy yourselves. Say hello to Aunt Sara for us.” She listens for another moment pacing back towards the wall phone. Her father passes by heading towards the sink and washes his hands. Hands dirty with soil and grass clippings. Hannah smiles at her dad and gestures questioningly with the phone towards him, but he shakes his head no hurrying out of the kitchen. “Ok, Oma, I love you. You have fun.” she says finally before hanging up the receiver. Returning to the kitchen counter where a plate sits next to containers and a cutting board on which rests slices of red tomato, she begins constructing a couple of turkey, swiss and tomato sandwiches. Sandwiches slathered with mayonnaise which she slices in half diagonally. The halves she splits apart, puts on plates with a handful of potato chips thrown between them. Grabbing the plates, she makes her way into the living room. Her brother sits on the couch with a cast encased leg propped on the table. He smiles when she enters and shifts in his seat to make room for Hannah. Hannah sets down the two plates and goes back to the kitchen returning a moment later with cans of pop which she sets down on the table too. “Looks great Hannah,” David says before reaching out to get his plate. “Thanks, eat up. You need your strength.” “Is Roger coming over today?” David asks between mouthfuls. Giving him the side eye while chewing and swallowing her sandwich, Hannah asks,” Why do you ask about him?” Then elbowing him playfully in the ribs adds,” Did you read about that in my diary.” Blushing, David says,” No, I saw you two talking outside yesterday.” “Ok,” Hannah says with mock severity.” Well, he’s not coming over today. Today just the two of us are going to hang out.” “That’s great.” The young people settle back to enjoy their sandwiches and watch television. When particularly funny part happens, it causes David to laugh mid-drink and to cough and sputter when pop comes out his nose. Hannah starts laughing while clapping him on the back to help expel the pop that has gone down the wrong way before springing from the couch to go grab a towel. Once the mess is cleaned up, Hannah and David continue eating and watching their show.


Covering her ears, she watched the clock. No burst of sound must catch her off guard. Ever. Tick. Tick. Tick. The final bell rang. Susie charged into the traffic of students, slipping past their shoulders. Upon seeing Mrs. Marghast’s office, she stopped and peeked through the glass. Her guidance counselor and friend, with her back to the door, fixed a few of the little things hanging on the wall. Susie closed her eyes, her hand feeling the doorknob. Mrs. Marghast turned around as a hinge squeaked from behind. Her eyes grew gentle. “Priscilla? What’s wrong?” she asked, though expecting someone else. The young girl looked up, her face frozen still. “I’m losing her....” Susie could have been halfway home, could have been seven minutes into the fifteen-minute walk. But one could blame her quick stop by a flower shop off her beaten path. She pointed. “Three please.” Her allowance could only allow so much. Delighted, Mr. Tingey, the vendor, asked her to pick her favorites. Triplets, she picked. Not one a shade lighter. Not one a shade darker. Each one was as pink as the other. Mr. Tingey bid her a safe walk home, reminding her to keep off the road. Keep off the road.... It echoed on and on in her thoughts. Louder and louder. Her brow puckered. Eyelids disappeared into her head. Lips froze. Everything else, her skin and all, rattled. As if hearing thunder on a cloudless day, she inched backward, no eyes behind her head. The loud question on Mr. Tingey’s face stayed put. “Deary, don’t!” he shouted. Susie’s heel reached the sidewalk’s edge. A honk from a speeding car her scared away from the gutter, back where bystanders belonged. Leaving Mr. Tingey’s concern untouched, she walked away, pink beauties in her hands. Of course, she was fine. Probably. Though the way deemed her a stranger, she pursued it. The fresh scent of pastries from a bakery mingled with her. While making the much-needed left turn, she battled against the temptation, her empty pocket helping. The sound of running water caressed her ears upon reaching the hidden entrance to a footpath. Careful step after careful step, like persisting through a tightrope, she kept to the safe side with her hand on dirty murals. The bare edge of the footpath, the one that promised a sudden drop to the creek, repelled her. She had a dry and less murky face to keep. Loud chatter gained ground on her. Several steps beyond the exit, sardined houses surrounded Susie posthaste. Though the invitation to come inside stood for the neighborhood folk, they sat on the gutter, cackled under the sun, teamed up against today’s crossword puzzle, and even played checkers outside the smallest barbershop ever. Talk about too much community. Clean laundry hung like festival banners. Stray dogs sniffed through the last garbage bags standing. Susie endured the hey-new-kid treatment: prolonged stares, mouths hanging ajar, chatter that turned into whispers. She embraced her flowers, soldiering on. I did nothing wrong! she screamed into herself, her lips pursed. Nothing! Then came a tap on her shoulder. A friendly face sharpened into view, and Belton was his name. After a handshake, the schoolboy in the wrinkled shirt offered to walk with her. With pleasure, she accepted. Both carried onward. Belton asked her to drop her cautions, adding that his people were simply wired never to miss an outsider. “Everyone here knows everyone here,” he said and snorted out a laugh, waving at a man carrying an out-of-breath janitor fish. Susie smiled but said nothing in hopes of honoring her dad’s don’t-talk-to-strangers commandment. But then... “Thank you,” she said, stopping. Two of them stood past the fine line where the world changed. The village they beheld was... To call it “peaceful” would be too kind. It was dead quiet. Its birds--if there were ever any--must’ve departed in search of warmer pastures. Overly dotted by towering trees, the village boasted--if such could be boasted--an abundance of shade. Huge roots had broken a few sidewalks into shards. Its afternoons settled for dim skies. Its old houses coupled with barren yards. Mouth open, eyes stretched wide, Belton nodded. They followed separate ways after the goodbyes. The time was five minutes past four. With nothing but a backpack, Susie left the tailored sidewalks and crossed the healthy front lawn. Her mom held the door open. “Had too much fun?” she asked, trying to make sense of the late arrival. Susie forced a smile. “Yeah.” “Did you bring me anything, sweetie?” her mom asked. The girl shook her head, frowning. After kissing her daughter, she took one last look outside before closing the door. Everything was neat, bright, day-lit. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the break on the sidewalk and a cracked tree. It took some getting used to. A new day began. After the classes, Priscilla tried to, but she couldn’t catch up to her. Free as a bird, Susie bought flowers again. Three pink ones from Mr. Tingey. The vendor sensed a pattern forming, and with all his heart, he welcomed it. Like yesterday, Susie carried them around the bakery, past the creek, through the crowded neighborhood, then into the dark and mum village. There was something about number sixty-seven that marked the spot for her. The lot had its own house, a dirt-filled front yard, and a massive tree on one corner that rained down a thick shade. She tiptoed deeper... but never inside. Near the porch steps, light croaks slipped into earshot. Someone was snoring. The girl scrambled and reached the planted trio of flowers. There they stood, each paired with an erect barbeque stick, each bound by the simplest knot of pink yarn. From her backpack, out came the sticks. Out came the roll of yarn. All thanks to her, three more flower stalks found their footing. And if time allowed it, she could’ve named all six. Six became nine. Nine became twelve. Then a whole square of them formed. She always left with empty hands. Then it was off to the hills and greens of the golf course next door, then the main highway’s overpass, and lastly, home ground past the guard gate. The school days lived for her floral project... and not much of anything else. Her arriving home at four-thirty before sundown set the record. For her, lunch at school didn’t mean the cafeteria. The lunch ladies no longer saw a dollar, not even a penny, out of Miss Susie Hollister. She bit away, more than often, out of the loaf and sardines she smuggled out of the house. Ashamed of her eating situation, she took her lunch to the school theater’s backstage, leaving her bestest friend all alone by a table--if the label between the two still stood. They used to walk home together. Back at number sixty-seven, kneeling on the dirt of the front yard, she planted the twenty-seventh flower. But some were already losing color, more brown than pink. “I love good stories!” a warm voice yelled out. Hairs standing, her neck heating up, Susie slowly turned around. Smiling at her was a plump old lady holding a bag of goods. She ambled over to the porch, pulled herself up the steps, and sat on the topmost one. A delightful sigh escaped her. The lady patted the space beside her, saying, “I believe you have one to tell.” Unknown steel burdened Susie’s head. Her legs matched juice-box straws. A balloon of air crawled into her. She didn’t know how, but a couple of minutes later, she landed on the porch steps without help. She pointed at the peonies she’d planted and said, “I used to have a field of those.” Her words started painting. Every night, at the right time, just when Susie’s eyes fell shut in bed, the field came to her. Milky, sun-dipped clouds hovered from above. Blushing stretches bridged mountainous horizons. Cottony fluffs drowned the hips of the beloved guest. The field’s breeze invited her to dance at every chance. And they danced. Dancing should never be guilty of heartbreaks. What harm could a soft sway or a merry hop do? But the rules changed when Susie left her bed without waking up. She swept her hand across a cluster of petals, then twirled farther, the wind whispering the beat and melody. All ended when a screech, crash, and shatter stirred the air. Susie’s tangible set of eyes flew open. Her bare feet stuttered for balance amidst the street, cold. She beheld the night. On one side were tire tracks that made a sudden curve. On the other, a car clasped a tree nonstop, smoke rising between them. Taillights had outlasted headlights. The girl dragged her feet, then ran. Every step was a punishment. Every breath was icy black. The killer tree grew before her. Its form inched closer to swallowing her whole. But she didn’t stop. “What? What is this?” the old lady of number sixty-seven asked, cutting the story short. Susie, once again, forced her lips to move. “The field--it never came back. It was never mine to keep. But maybe mine to give away.” She inhaled deeply through her teeth and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline Young Veteran Perishes in a Neighborhood Car Crash met the old lady’s eyes. Her son. For three weeks, Susie carried the whole story all alone. And telling one more soul didn’t seem to spread the weight. “I’m sorry...” Susie said in a cracking voice, eyes drowning. There was no reply. The veteran’s mother didn’t frown, didn’t smile, didn’t even budge any wrinkle. She stood with the news article in her hand, stepped inside, and never came back. Wiping her tears, the girl took the piercing hint and staggered home. The days reverted to her fifteen-minute walk home. But Susie preferred to do it alone. She barely talked and always ate by herself. Dimples lacked reason to show. Though her grades were fine, everyone was worried. Her head settled under cold waters but never drowned. For two months. The final bell rang again. Susie checked her bag before heading home. She’d accidentally gotten her seatmate’s test paper that had a failing grade of sixty-seven. Behind her eyes came a spark, and a sole choice remained. She rushed into the long detour. At last, surrounded by sickening shade and silence, she neared number sixty-seven. To her surprise, the lot alone basked under the outpour of sunlight. The tree by its corner had been sheared to the trunk, almost leafless. Right where a dirt-filled front yard once stood was a garden, one that housed countless kinds of pink. Grasses, leaves, and peonies breathed life. To call all of it “stunning” would be perfect. Porch steps creaked. Standing on the last one, the old lady of number sixty-seven caught sight of her. A big smile swelled on her face as she waved at Susie. Warmth overran the girl. While everything inside her awakened, her cheeks dared to float skyward. With the old lady’s smile--and probably a Little Dreamer Crossing sign planted on her own front lawn--Susie believed she could dream again. *** She was the first to arrive in her office. The fine morning begged her to take one more sip of her coffee. Licking her lips, she put her bag and cup on the desk, and between them sat a letter, right behind her name plaque. It was a no-brainer for her to open it. Dear Mrs. Marghast, You were right. My bestest friend came back! We finally got to talk, like you suggested. I guess a “thank you for listening” is not enough. Perhaps I could pick you a peony. We know a whole garden of them. Love, Priscilla


“Hey Tammy, are you busy?” Clarke asked as he steps into Tammy’s cubicle. Her internal eyeroll is engaged with this constant question from those above her in the totem pole of office politics. She wishes she could ask them: “don’t you pay me to be busy?” Minimizing the document she had open on the right side of her double monitor, she turns to Clarke. Tammy is famous around the office for what everyone has taken to calling “Tammy’s waterfall”. She places all of her “to-do” paperwork on the left-hand side of her desk. The least important items are at the bottom and each successive project is layered on top of the others with just an inch of exposed header so she knows what is next and it cascades down the desk until it is almost falling off of the desktop at its height. She knows Clarke couldn’t have missed the excessively large pile of paperwork to her left. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kent?” “How’s your day going? Did you have a good weekend?” While she thinks the obligatory small talk to lead into the favor is a nice gesture, she truly is busy and wants to dive right into the “ask” that has brought him to her cubicle. “It was good. How was yours?” A very detailed story followed. Her hand was poised over the mouse itching to move it to her open task list but she knew it was rude to continue to type while he regaled her with his hiking adventure and Sunday golf game. She gasped in all the right places and put an emphatic “oh” in when it was required and cheered at the fact he had come in under par; but, in her mind she was calculating what she could get done if she skipped lunch and stayed a little late. When it felt like Clarke was wrapping up, she smiled and nodded. “Was there something you needed?” “Oh yes. Do you mind coming in my office and taking a look at something for me? I’m having that problem with my excel spreadsheet again. I always swear I am going to take better notes next time you help so I don’t have to ask.” Tammy locks her computer screen and follows him into his plush office. She shows him again how to fix the problem and attempts to return to her desk. She is stopped by Susan at reception who thrusts her cell phone into her hand, “look” is all she says. It is a Facebook post with a picture of her soon-to-be-ex husband with the girlfriend that ended their marriage. Three angry rants and two consolatory hugs later, she starts back to her desk. Before she can get logged back into her computer, the phone begins to ring. Super Needy Client needs her help right away. She talks her down off her proverbial ledge while she pulls back up the files she minimized nearly an hour ago when Clarke interrupted. It is a letter. Her letter of resignation. She reads the opening paragraph again. Then closes the file. She is so tempted to just send it. Send it today. Make this the first day of the last two weeks of this decade long job. She doesn’t really despise the job. She genuinely likes most of her co-workers but she did it this weekend. She watched the show. The documentary about the person who quits their 9 to 5 job and reduces their life to one sleeping bag, two matchboxes and a radio and goes to live in the woods and finds their long-lost passion of leaf art and now lives off the tiny leaf-art income and feels fulfilled and joyful and at one with nature. She picks up the forms at the peak of the waterfall with the matching task in her system and starts her research on the resolution. She is technically making a difference for the person who is on the other side of this paperwork who needs her help. She isn’t performing life-saving brain surgery but how many actual people can say they are brain surgeons? Someone has to process the brain surgeon’s forms so they can keep brain surgeoning right? Tammy feels guilty about abandoning the stack but she has to go the bathroom and maybe heat up her lunch to eat at her desk. She gets corned by Hilda from the office next door to hers which shares the public restrooms. Hilda has to tell Tammy about her daughter’s new baby. She takes her back to her office to show her pictures and cry. Miraculously, Hilda’s phone starts to ring and Tammy mouths: “I’ll see you later. Beautiful grandbaby!” and she escapes back to her own office. In the break room, while heating up her frozen meal, Jake strides in and asks her what she is having. He spends twenty minutes on his new workout routine and diet regimen. It’s called Paint Your Palette. He does twenty minutes on how his breakfast is all yellow foods, lunch is all green foods and dinner is a protein power shake that is red. She teases that Jake should throw in some Mac and Cheese orange to round out the palette or some chocolate chip cookie brown. Jake laughs with her. When Tammy reaches her desk, her lunch is cold again. Somehow her day is escaping her grasp. She imagines her tiny lifeboat and the waterfall of paperwork is about to capsize it. She takes advantage of the after-lunch coma of her fellow cubicle workers and attacks the waterfall with fervor. In two hours, she’s made a dent in the form stack. The ear pod in her ear is her theme music and her foot is tapping to the beat unheard by her fellow cubicle neighbors. Tammy has a second wind, and it takes her to and past closing time. The others leave with a flurry of “see you tomorrows” and she pushes through two more projects before she scoops up the paper left in the stack and files it away. Before she shuts down her computer, she pulls the letter file back open. She looks around the mostly empty office. On her other screen, she brings up her bank account balance. She looks between that and the letter announcing her two weeks’ notice. It’s a possibility. She writes an e-mail to her boss and attaches the letter. She stares at the computer screens for a long time. She pulls a Snickers bar out of her drawer and downs it in a few bites. Her finger hovers. She hits send. She better start practicing her leaf art.


Dear Mikirken State University Admissions Board, For my college entrance essay, I have chosen the three prompts: * Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University? * Tell us an experience that humbled you. * What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University? I hope to prove with these essays that I am MSU material and will be a unique and valuable contribution to the MSU student body... and humanity. ## Why should we choose you for Mikirken State University? I have a 3.4 GPA, my SAT score is 1350, and I am the proud son of a hard-working single mother. But my most important qualification is that I will become the first president of the world. That is to say, that sometime in the year 2062, I will be inaugurated as the first president of the United World Order, a democratic, federal government with jurisdiction over the entire Earth. Why do I know about my destiny? Although I don’t have the full story, I have preened this information from the hundreds of time travelers who have visited, stalked and harassed me since my birth. That might sound unusual, and it is. At least, it is for normal people. However, for People of Historical Interest (POHI), it’s quite regular. In fact, every POHI from the Egyptian King Narmer to the 24th century Cyber Warlord Bob has been swarmed by curious, fact-finding time travelers. You might also think it’s strange that the time travelers have told me so much about my history. The truth is, they’re not supposed to reveal themselves as time travelers or tell me anything about the future. But time travelers, while being generally intelligent people, are so enthusiastic about meeting historical figures that they tend to let things slip. When I was four, our mailman would deliver mail three times a day and regularly ask if he could join us for breakfast in our home. My mother assumed he was romantically interested in her, but it quickly became apparent that he was more interested in her parenting. What she fed me, what books she read to me, if I showed any traits that might facilitate my future greatness, etc. He was writing a book. They’re always writing a book. When confronted with the fact that the post office had never heard of him and his uniform was clearly made of a chrome-colored, synthetic fiber unknown to modern science, he confessed. Since then, my mother and I have become adept at spotting time travelers. They almost seem relieved when they’re exposed, admitting their professions, but adding that they cannot reveal anything about the future or risk dire consequences for the timeline and humanity’s destiny. But slip-ups happen. When I was nine, a woman asked me what influence the U.N. declaration of human rights had on my understanding of Neo-Gramscian International Relations theories. I asked, “why?” She said, “because you quote the declaration in your inauguration speech as first President of the United World Order in 2062.” That’s when I knew. Since that embarrassing slip-up, it’s been easier for me to collect information about my future self and explore why I would make a great MSU student from the perspective of Post-Doctorate level historical analysis. In the future, I will lead a band of highly-talented individuals to save the planet from the worst effects of climate change, mitigate the chaos and violence caused by depleted world resources and unite all nations in the greatest endeavor ever taken to end war, forever. Although I’m not the most brilliant POHI or the strongest, I have a high degree of honesty and moral courage, or so I’m told, and yet I am strangely evasive. I will be regularly compared to Abraham Lincoln, although my place in history is closer to that of foundational leader like George Washington, speaking from a strictly American historical perspective. Also, my favorite subjects are math and biology. ## Tell us an experience that humbled you. This answer is also related to the time traveler/future president of the world thing. My college prep tutor told me that I needed to show a variety of experiences in my essays, but seeing as that tutor is also a time traveler in disguise, I have decided to write more about this particular aspect of my life. I also realize that being a POHI with a constant retinue of time traveling observers hardly seems like a humbling experience. Certainly, my mother has taken enormous pride in my future. She has used it as affirmation her all-bran breakfasts are the cornerstone of a healthy childhood. Time travelers seem reluctant or unwilling to dissuade her of that idea... unfortunately. Nevertheless, many conversations have been disturbing. Most travelers come from the years 2130 (roughly the year time travel was invented) through 2180. But I also get people from 2200 through 2240, a period where my legacy becomes “problematic.” During my rise to power and administration I made (or will make) several compromises and had a variety of moral blind spots that were perfectly acceptable, or at least overlooked, until the year 2200, when citizens of the first world order start to “wake up.” These moral failings include not recognizing Kurdistan, the Basque Country, Tibet, Somalia and France as independent states within the global federal system. Supposedly, that’s due to the racism and ignorance of my “America-centric perspective.” I also blocked amendments to the global constitution that would grant human rights to cyborgs and genetically enhanced humans. That backwards view will lead to a century of discrimination. Time travelers tell me about these problems regularly with almost no observance of temporal law. I suspect that many of them hope to change the timeline, and maybe they have. Whereas other time travelers are looking for the keys to greatness, these people are looking for the seeds of evil. They hate bran. My mother doesn’t like those travelers and tries to shoo them away whenever possible, but they keep coming. They argue a lot with historians that praise my administration. Sometimes, they’ll even start fist fights. I used to argue with them too. I’d become defensive and scream. Tell them they wouldn’t even be alive without future-me. I’ve grown. I recognize their pain and try to listen now. They’re right to be angry or even hate me, because I could have easily made their lives easier by a simple admission of their humanity. But I didn’t (or won’t). These historians have made me realize that I’m not perfect, and I never will be. How I come to forget these lessons in the future is beyond me. I suspect that I will be forced to compromise my morality for some sort of greater good. I don’t know. But I’m the only person who regrets something they haven’t done yet. ## What do you hope to accomplish at Mikirken State University? As you are probably aware, Mikirken State University currently ranks towards the bottom of universities nation-wide. There are almost no notable alumni or programs with significant acclaim. I’m sorry for my honesty and the arrogance of this observation -- but why would the future president of the world want to go to your university? This application was inspired by one time traveler from the year 2567. You see, after the year 2240, I stop being a POHI with such an emotionally controversial legacy and I start becoming a stale subject of academic interest. I still get visitors from past that year, but they usually stay hidden, my failings and victories too distant to be provocative. One morning, a dirty old man burst into my bedroom. His eyes were blood-shot and crazy. His hair hadn’t been washed in some time and he had a long, wiry beard. He made no attempt to disguise himself for our time. Instead, his clothes were dirty and as grey as his beard. I thought it was a time assassin, but before I could even scream, he held his hand to my mouth and pleaded with me to hear him out. I figured I had no other choice. He told me that in his era, the government I founded is gone. The world is suffering from a terrible, man-made blight that’s left billions to starve to death. Competing cults have turned people against each other and freely destroy the world’s technological infrastructure and kill off engineers and scientists. War and nuclear destruction envelope large sections of the planet. The ideals of justice, equality and freedom are taboo. Even the words used to describe them are being expunged from the future global languages. The man told me he had saved the last known time traveling device and used its last charge to come talk to me. He knew that in his distant past I prevented the horrors his world faced. He and his followers had come to worship me as their last hope for fixing a broken world. And after telling me every detail of his time, he asked what I would do to heal the planet. I said, “dude, I’m only 12.” It wasn’t the answer he was looking for. I never saw him again, and I’ve never seen a traveler from after 2567. That doesn’t mean civilization was wiped out. It could be that my legacy was cleaned from history or time travel was banned or many other possibilities. But getting back to the question -- why MSU? Right now, your institution may not be the best. And it won’t become significant in the next century. Or the century after that. Or the one after that. Nevertheless, by 2567, it will be the last institution of higher learning left on the entire planet (at least, as far as that man knew). It’s from your university that that desperate man made his journey. To be precise, he traveled from the basement of science center, which still exists in 2567. I didn’t have an answer for him when I was twelve, but I plan on spending the next four years looking for one and leaving it for him. I’ve been told (indirectly) that my college years don’t actually matter. There’s no record of my experiences during those years, and I will one day confess to being kind of idiot during this future time. And so, I am not interested in a specific program, a career track, or even a degree. I only hope to answer that one man. I have included these essays along with my transcripts and other application materials. Thank you for your time and consideration, and I hope to speak with you soon about my joining the student body.


There are many wonderful people in my life, but the most important one is my friend, Norman. I love him and love being with him. Out of all the humans in the whole world, Norman is my favourite. He’s smelled poorly for a while now, and I could tell he was scared. When my friend didn’t wake up at his normal time, or give me his normal pets after he leaves the dream world, I could tell that we would be going on our last walk together. For a little while, at least. ‘I love you, friend.’ Which, of course, to his ears only faintly came through as something other than a bark. He stirred a little. I knew it wouldn’t be long now. I could tell my friend was having a scary dream, but that’s ok. I know my purpose is to be a good boy. You see, many humans can be heart stupid. You have the potential to be the most wonderful beings there are if you can get past all those dark smells in your mind that hold you back from being truly happy. I chased some of Norman's bad dream away with my breath and could tell that he knew I was there. His son, David, was a lovely person, but he was, for a long time, heart stupid. Most humans are from time to time. He pretended he didn’t love my friend as much as I knew he did. But, lately, with a little encouragement from me, he came round to visit more often. I could tell that they had made peace with each other. I’m a good boy. Everyone says so. Norman stirred again, his breathing went a little shallower. ‘I love you, friend.’ I said once more. His eyes twitched a little. I could see the dream world and the valley of the next walk coming into view. The faint smells of lavender and pine, sunshine and freshly mowed grass holding the promise of a new adventure. Did you know, my friend had been in many battles? Yes! When he was younger, long before I knew him, the pack he was with didn’t care about his future dreamworld or the valley beyond. They hurt him, and every night, the bad dreams came, and every morning, I’d help chase them away. I’m a good boy. Everyone says so. Every human has to fight the bad dreams to make the world a better place. The dark smells, if left unconfronted in the corner of your mind only grows stronger. That’s why you should get a dog. A dog will help you and those you love from being heart stupid. Dogs always believe in their friends and believe that their friends will succeed and make it to the valley beyond. A pang of sorrow crept into my heart as the last breath left my friends body. I put my head on his chest and closed my eyes. I concentrated harder than ever before. I could just about hear my friend as he took his first steps through the valley. The last remnants of his pain faded. Concentrating harder, I could see my friend in the valley. Beautiful sunshine illuminating the sky. Then he turns around and smiles at me. Softer than a whisper, yet bound with a power that made my heart leap with joy, my favourite human said: ‘I love you, my friend, thank you for being a good boy.


“Be thankful of what you have; you’ll end up having more. If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never, ever have enough.” - Oprah Winfrey There once was a boy named John, who lived in an old and small red cabin up the hill with little to no neighbours around. John was a skinny and weak but determined child, whenever he goes to school, he’ll always envy those who play soccer and basketball, he thought to himself while watching at the side line “Wow, those people sure are energetic, they’re so strong and fit, I wonder how it’s like to be that strong, life must be easy for them.” As he wondered about his hypothetical life, he started to analyse the fast and elegant movements of the players, day by day he’ll analyse and see how they do it, how they throw the ball and how they shoot for the goal, and all the time he’s fascinated by how good they are. Until one day, John decided to join them, after being envious of the players for so long, John wanted to climb up and be just as good if not better than the player. First John went to the soccer team and tried his hands on the black and white ball, of course it didn’t end well at first, John couldn’t even pass the ball onto another coming players. After weeks of playing in the soccer team and practising on the wide and green field, John still can’t manage to keep up with the rest of the team who had been playing for years. John wasn’t even qualified to partake in the competition, he wasn’t up to par. People even started to doubt John, the team, the couch and even his parents were trying to convince him to find another hobby, one could even say even John was starting to believe in their doubts. Until one day, during practice, John landed a straight hard goal. At that moment no one was really cheering for John as landing a goal is not enough for him to compete, but for John, it was the first major sign of improvement. John became even more determined and more obsess with soccer, John started training in his own free time, day and night, John will be spending the time on practising his kicks and coordination. Until finally, the couch recognised his skill and he went to win a gold for his team. All the people who once doubted John was cheering for him, lifting him up in the air and such, he had accomplished what he desired, to be on par or better than the players. John had never felt so alive at that moment. After a few months however, John returned back to his normal mood. He was good at soccer but there’s nothing left to prove. So, he looked upon the gruelling basketball team, thinking “If I could become good at soccer, I bet I could become good at basketball as well”. So, he left the soccer team and soon joined the basketball club with the same amount of determination he once had for soccer, at first of course he couldn’t catch up to the rest of the team but he knew he was improving, he was attentive regarding his progress and that’s what kept him determined and eager. The couch for the basketball club could see it, he saw the fire in John’s eyes and offered help with practice. Not long after that, he was qualified to compete and won yet another gold. He had accomplished what he desired, to be just as good as in basketball as he was at soccer. John had never felt so alive at that moment However, after a few weeks, John lost his determination in the sport, he could still play and score but for him, it wasn’t the same. It was getting boring for him, so he looked for another hobby, until when the exam result came in and he realised how poorly he had been doing. Even worse, his younger brother was doing better than him in academic which made John really envious. At the time John hasn’t felt envy for quite a while, and John hated it. His eyes began to be filled with determination once more, to become better at academy, to become as good if not better than the top. So, there he went, began to cut out distractions and study as hard as he can, filled with goals and determination. After a year, he pulled through and became one of the top students of his school, winning academic competitions and was seen as an example of a hard-working student, even having scholarships for colleges. He had accomplished what he desired, to be as good if not better than the top. John had never felt so alive. However, after a few days, John once again felt...bored. He returned to his home after graduation and lay in his bed. He did it, he maintain the top until graduation, yet nothing was in his eyes, no fire, no...determination. At that moment, John could hear the chirping of the bird, the blowing of the wind and the rustling of the grass through his window. It was until he realised, he didn’t have any long-lasting friends to talk to, he realised that other than his family he was quite, alone. He couldn’t go back to his soccer team, he abandoned them. He couldn’t go back to his basketball club either, he left the couch without any consideration. He couldn’t go back to his school, because he was too caught up with studies that he made any connections. The thought of being alone disturbs him, for the first time he felt empty, until he saw a crack in the wall, and started looking around and realised how poor the family is. And so, he began, going to college with the scholarship and determine to become rich, as rich if not richer than the top. He believed he will accomplish what he desires...then maybe he can be alive.


Slowly I awake, the ocean waves lapping against my calves gently bringing me to a disoriented state of consciousness. Why I’m at this beach is an idea my mind cannot discern. All I can focus on is the pull of each wave calling me. I look behind me to see a man beckoning me far from the shore, an eerie familiarity surrounding him. Water crashes hard against my legs capturing my attention once again. The melodic beating coaxes me to come closer and closer. I step forward. Sand gives way to the weight of my step as the receding waves fight against me. The pull becomes hypnotic, compelling my feet to follow as each crest recedes. With every step a low drumming grows around me, each pause filled with the man’s sudden calls for my attention. I step forward. Once more the pounding grows louder, and a heavy weight grows inside me. The water just above my waist now, the pull getting harder to resist. I must resist. Looking out at the sea, the weight inside gets heavier and grasps at my throat. Slowly a man’s face appears in the deep blue. The pleas of the man behind gain in urgency. I recognize his voice; it belongs to me. I step forward. I acquiesce to the summons of the waves. My body betrays me as it continues forward, submitting to the swaying sea. Soon it will take me. The man’s pleas turn to screams, begging me to come to him. A hand in the water grabs hold of my wrist, belonging to the face below. Although his grip is tight, I’m not afraid; he has the same eerie familiarity as the other man. The heaviness inside me tightening its grip on my throat; the waves grow in intensity. I step forward. The drumming has grown so loud that it leaves a sharp ringing in my ears; barely able to detect the man’s now frantic screams from ashore. The man in front pulls me closer, submerging me with him. I barely keep my feet planted in the sand; the current threatens to pull me forward. In front of me he gestures to come closer. The heaviness inside me closing my throat, trapping what little oxygen I have in my lungs. I step forward. He withdraws back, luring me farther down. Incapable of resisting the pull I continue forward. The waves cause me to sway; I slowly lose my footing. As they recede, I’m drawn farther out to sea. The man pulls me into an embrace. Now clearly visible, I see the man is me. He joins rank with the heaviness inside and they begin to crush me. As they become one and drag me further down, the pain of this unbearable weight causes me to scream out for help. It’s nothing more than a futile attempt and waste of air. I sink further down. The light in the sky is no more than a tint of yellow above me. Water rushes into my throat as my body recklessly attempts to breath in a violent spasm. Burning spreads through my lungs as they’re filled with liquid. I start to numb as a calming isolation sets around me. At least these last moments will be peaceful, despite my body’s thrashing. The ringing in my ears dissipates to a dull ache. A faint yelling barely detectable, as everything fades to black and I drown. Slowly I awake, the ocean waves lapping against my calves gently bringing me to a disoriented state of consciousness.


Stubborn as a Bull: What do you do when two best friends fall in love with you, but only one may have your best interest at heart? The other one wants to have sex without serious commitments. Living in a world with friends sometimes bring on hardship because of the choices lying right in front without much remorse for turning the other direction. Life can deliver a decision-making conquest of two separate worlds and both must be attended to avoid losing friends forever. Lena moved to a city taking a job with a decent pay, since graduating from college. Her two best friends are resided there and offered to be a friend with guidance to the end when trouble lurks her way. Having friends is not the problem, the only complex issue is the time spent having fun on the Rooftop Club has captured more than just friendship feelings enforcing a different kind of love for Lena. After the exposure of these wild feelings, the entire situation turns into a crazy love battle, where each man expects Lena to make a final decision on who will be the lucky one chosen. These two males are established with real jobs to offer support and is looking to support Lena. Lena is torn between the two because she loves them both as friends, and ever since she found out how each one feels about her, the comfortable world, she has developed has flipped upside down. Now, the raging emotions are coming to a head for her to make a final choice or what’s worst, take a risk of losing them both as friends, altogether. Lena’s cousin came to the large city to help with the move. On the way to return the Rental truck, she had gotten lost in traffic and had to turn into a gas station due to her car began spatting and jerking. After speaking to the clerk, she agreed to leave the car there overnight and return the next day to get the vehicle. Without a second thought, Lena began to walk away remembering several miles down the road, her cell phone is left in the car with her small purse, which is locked in the trunk. She could kick herself for not remembering to grab those most important items before leaving. Several miles down the road, she recalls the Rooftop Club, where she and her friends would sometimes hang out during her visits, while attending college. The next thought Lena foresaw is to return to the club and take a chance on running into at least one of her best friends. Lena carried a small pull bag on wheels with several of changes of clothes inside with a few personal items to maintain good hygiene, which she took very seriously. She walked up the stairs to get to the roof of this fabulous club, which held fond memories for the three friends as music rung through the air. Reaching the main entrance to the club, Lena notices both friends sitting at the bar enjoying a game on the wall hanging flat screen. Both had a few drinks and Luke glances to see her enter the area and gets louder, but turns his head quickly as to not notice her at all. Next to him is a female sitting and laughing, while enjoying the game as well. Jim never saw her, as he continued to watch the game. Lena decides to continue her journey to the rooftop where the music was playing to relieve her mind of the mistakes made, thus far. Having no cell phone and friends right before her presence, but expects no direct attention, because she needed time to think and figure out her next move on how to return to her new apartment. After searching her pockets, she has a total of five ones and some change in her possession. Therefore, a choice of a cheese, garlic soft pretzel with a glass of water or a mild alcoholic beverage to relax her nerves. Of course, she chose the food with water, at least her stomach would be satisfied. She was reluctant to ask her friends on the level below for anything. The vibes just didn’t feel right for the moment and pinpointing what doesn’t feel right is a problem. A man looked about 30ish was sitting alone told the waitress to take a mixed drink over to Lena, in which Lena smiled, while holding the small glass up thanking him for being kind but looked away quickly to avoid giving him an inviting look. "Well, the night is turning out to be not so bad after all." She sits quietly and ate her soft pretzel with much enjoyment because she hadn’t had any dinner for that day. Her stomach felt painful and uncomfortable. What a sign of relief she began to experience. Sitting here for several hours, Lena decides to head down stairs to the next level to see if the game was over, and speak to her two friends. She notices Luke’s female friend is gone and the minute Luke sees her for the second time, he rushes over to greet his friend. Instead of a smile with a simple hello, he smiles and kisses her on the lips gently putting on a show for Jim. Jim gives a look of disapproving his gesture. Luke grabs her by the arm and pulls her to the opened elevator to head down stairs and leave. Upon reaching outside, Lena stops in her tracks and say “Luke, what are you doing” Luke replies with “we are going to my place, which is not far from here.” Then, he proceeds to ask “I’ve been calling you, where have you been and why are you carrying your overnight bag, if you don’t plan to stay someplace for the night?” Luke never gave Lena an opportunity to explain the ordeal she experienced earlier and the disposition it placed her in with emotional shame for not remembering her small purse and cell phone to call for help. The two-mile walk to the Rooftop Club was very tiresome, but Lena had to stand her ground. Don’t mention when Luke saw her the first time and never acknowledged seeing her because another female was there with him. This is the same man who claims to love her. Lena could not stop her mind from going farther with points of view to examine his actions and figure why a friend would behave in such a manner. Consequently, the moment he constructs a serious look on his face, looks right into her eyes and say “I love you... Lena!” This statement of proposing love struck a nerve, especially after what she had just witnessed. Immediately stopped completely and said to Luke “Yeah.....right!” She pulled her arm loose from his embrace and walked back to the club with tears in her eyes from the hurt of her dearest friend ignoring her in the presence of another female. What, hurt this has caused Lena to feel to go along with the other mishaps that has taken place earlier. All Lena could think of at this moment is she misses the comfort and true meaning of friendship she thought would be there until the end of time. She was devastated. Going back inside the Rooftop Club was the only option left in hopes of Jim still being there. Luckily, Jim was sitting at the bar, speaking with the drink mix master. The moment he notices Lena had return, he immediately jumps up from the bar stool to greet her with a gentle kiss of comfort and an apology for not noticing her entrance before. He asked, “what happened?” Because, she looked distraught from distress, which places her in a disorganized position. Jim ordered her a glass of white wine to relax her nerves, while she explained all about her ordeal and the unexpected greeting received from Luke. Luke portrays the image of a strong personality bad-boy type full of excitement that always made Lena’s day, until he hurt her enforcing a strangeness of emotions by ignoring her presence. Jim is somewhat the opposite type of guy, but has the upmost respect for Lena’s best interest. Lena had asked herself quietly, when all alone “whether or not if she might get bored with Jim.” Lena’s question of choice remains with her, whilst the two of them walked to his car and heads over to his place. The late-night hour represented a time for rest and will handle the vehicle business in the morning. At Jim’s condo, he places Lena in the spare bedroom, providing a cloth and towel for a shower. Lena contacts her cousin. Jim ensures that she was alright, waves goodnight and turns in for the night. Lena lays her head down on the soft pillow with the words of expression inside her mind yelling, “WOW! What a night!” before drifting off to a deep and relaxing sleep. Waking up with thoughts of the Luke’s direct approach, while wondering how he really feels about her, but may never admit the excitement of the two exploring one another just to see if there is compatibility and real connection worth taking a long journey as one. THE END


“Clara.” The single word cut through the coffee shop buzz, piercing through the grinding espresso beans and pulsing blenders. I pretended not to hear the grey-haired customer calling out in my direction and focused on my task at hand: foaming milk. I had 18 more minutes in my shift and was not in the mood for what I knew was about to come. “ClarClarClay-ruhhhh,” she blurted. I had no choice but to look back. I have FFS: familiar face syndrome. It’s not a case of a doppelganger, celebrity look-a-like face. As much as I’d like to have a striking resemblance to Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Watson or any other famous person for that matter, I do not. Rather, I’m the face of the person you kind of know or kind of used to know. I’ve been a co-worker’s sister, a yoga instructor, an old friend from middle school, a girl from last week’s birthday dinner, a daughter’s old babysitter. The list goes on and on. If faces were answers to multiple-choice questions, mine would be “all of the above.” The mix-ups happen in airports and restaurants, on the sidewalk and subways. The conversations are nearly always the same and the awkwardness is like splitting a bill at the end of a group dinner. It gets weird. The interactions usually go a little something like this: **Scenario 1: Long Time No See** As I blankly stare out the bus window, I’m yanked from my daydream to the sounds of: “Lisa, Lisa! I cannot believe I’m running into you like this. After all of these years! What a small world.” I’ve actually been mistaken for a Lisa three times. **Scenario 2: Cut To The Chase** Sometimes they try to pick up where they think we’ve left off. I’ll be mid-chug in my morning cup of coffee and hear: “Caroline, I finally decided to do it. I called my brother and you’re right, I feel so much better.” Insert: long pause. **Scenario 3: You Are Who I Say You Are** And finally, my favorite, the stranger who thinks I’m lying. “It’s me, Charlie. We went out three years ago? You know, that Korean BBQ joint on 32nd and 1st avenue? You never called me back. No, no. It’s definitely you. I remember you had four brothers.” I have one sister. No matter the situation, the person eventually realizes my apologetic eyes are different from the ones they know. “So sorry, you’ve got a twin out there!” they say. Their look of astonishment fades as they shuffle off. I get it. Only so many facial configurations are possible. Plus, I’m 5’5 and average build with a wardrobe that consists of mostly jeans and sweaters. I have no distinguishing tattoos or piercings. Also, I’m not helping my case with my shoulder-length hair that is considered blonde in New York and brunette in Los Angeles. I tell myself I’m sending an approachable vibe out into the universe and FFS may make it easier for me to connect with others. I always found people confessed secrets to me openly and who knows, maybe my Prince Charming will strike up a conversation with me thinking I’m an old friend. Hey, it’d beat Bumble. Yet, there’s something oddly sinking about telling people you aren’t who they think you are and something kind of freaky about knowing your face is that similar to someone else’s - multiple else’s. Alas, when this seemingly nice lady was clearly mistaking me for “Clara”, I tried to break the news gently and exit quickly, channeling the same inner-strength I used to tell a customer we’re all out of mocha powder. “So sorry,” I said. “I think you think I’m someone else. It happens a lot.” I was on my way to continue my milk foaming when the moment swerved from the land of deja vu to unseen territory in a matter of seconds. The woman’s eyes welled up with water and she squeezed her lids tight to plug the tears from streaming down her cheeks. Fumbling over words to make her feel better, I apologized again and nervously offered an idea: “Maybe it’s a sign you should reach out to her?” The woman slid her right hand over the counter and pressed her warm palm on top of my mine with tenderness, as if she was touching something breakable and important. “You look *just* like my daughter. It’s unbelievable,” she said. The woman weakly told me her daughter Clara died in a car accident on the way to a ski trip with friends. Clara was 19-years-old. She was a social butterfly with plans of becoming an architect and studying abroad in Florence. She volunteered with Habitat for Humanity and hoped to build schools in underprivileged communities one day. She had a whole life unlived. Looking into her mother’s spent eyes, I saw a mix of pain and joy. I was close enough to feel like something, yet different enough to feel like nothing. I didn’t know what to say but ask to see a photo of Clara. “Oh, you probably won’t see it because no one ever thinks they look like other people, but alright,” she said. She fumbled through her purse and pulled out a crisp photo from her wallet of Clara curling her arms around a big, fluffy golden retriever. We had similar hair, build, style and overall look. She even squinted one eye more than the other when she smiled, a habit I found impossible to break. It could have been me in that photo. “Do you see it? You see it, right? I’m not crazy, right?” Clara’s mother asked. My co-worker and I agreed. We were met with the quietest sign of satisfaction that was less than a smile but more of a soul-filling look. It was one of those looks that made me feel changed or known, or somewhere in between. One of those looks that imprinted in my identity more than the way people who looked at me every single day. Peering down for a moment, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the milk-steamer and felt grateful for the face looking back at me. Clara’s mother half-smiled and grabbed her latte on her way out. Before she left, she had one more thing to say, “Call your mom.


The moment my mother, Mara, gave birth to me, the Wisewoman held me and gave me my Proclamation. The matronly female did this with every infant. It's tradition in our tribe. "This child is special;" the Wisewoman said. "When calamity comes from the outside, she will be salvation for our people." My mother wanted to ask what that meant but she was too tired and shocked. So the Wisewoman left for her next appointment. That was fifteen years ago. I'm almost old enough to have a family of my own. Yet I'm still the most unremarkable girl in our village. I'm not pretty like Kerada, the chief's daughter. I'm not good at making thatching for our hut's roof. I don't have visions. I don't know what I'm good for. Certainly not saving people. If I'm lucky maybe I'll learn how to talk to chickens or something. "Samri;" my mother calls. "Get up and help me get water for the crops." I groan and sit up, scrubbing my eyes as I wake up in the pre-dawn. Today is another day on our island. How will it be any different? I'll help mother and father with chores on our farm. If I'm lucky I'll be able to go hunt in the afternoon...if I don't have to sell any produce at market. I hate market; I always run in to Fellurn or Tinia. They're both in the Wisewoman's class with me and they both hate me. Fellurn always ties my hair in knots while I'm not looking and Tinia loves to point out my flaws. "Samri;" Tinia often says. "Your chest is so flat and your arms are so scrawny. You'll never get a good man!" Ugh! I don't even care what that nasty cow thinks of my arms! Pushing these thoughts from my head, I join my mother. We talk a little as we walk with our vases to the well. "How was your sleep last night?" Mother asks me. "Okay, I guess;" I lie to her not mentioning that I'd had nightmares about weird creatures all night. "Just okay?" she prods. "You don't feel any different do you?" I shrug indifferntly. "Nope;" I say. "Just another day." The sun is starting to rise over the jungles. Shore bird calls begin to mix with the last cries of nocturnal beasts. My mother ties her vase to the rope and lowers it down into the generations old cistern. I was abou to grab another rope and follow suit when a voice breaks the silence. "Mara!" the Wisewoman calls out. "Is that you? I must speak to you and your daughter!" My mother and I turn towards her. "What's the matter?" Mother asks. The Wisewoman grabs me by both arms and stares wide eye into my face. "Do you remember your Proclomation, child?" She asks me. It's not polite to sass someone who is elderly. "I remember what my mother said." I tell her. "But I don't know why that matters." She nods approvingly. "The prophecy is going to be fulfilled." She said. "Today a great wind, rain and lightning will darken our skies!" A storm, it's the hottest part of the year of course storms would come ashore. "We've always had bad weather;" I say. "Nothing unusual--" "This will bring worse!" The Wisewoman says. "I have seen visions of shining beings riding in a giant log made of many logs. These beings look like men but they are demons. Their log will be brought to us by the winds from the storm! They will tell us they want peacefull trade but they will kill, steal, ravish and bring disease! You, Samri, are the only one who can save us from these monsters!" I felt cold in spite of the warm air surrounding me. "How can I stop such terrible things?" I say. "I am not a warrior." The Wisewoman's face softened and she spoke with kind urgency. "Samri;" she says. "Remember the stories I taught you and the other children. Not all peril is fended off with strength." No sooner had she finished this lecture than the sky became almost black. Wind began to blow. "It's begining" the Wisewoman says. "Get home quickly and prepare yourselves!" She hobbled as fast as her legs and staff would carry her. My mother and I grabbed our vessels and hurried to our hut. We made sure our livestock was safe in their shelter and then huddled with my father in our hut. Outside the rain smashed against the palm leaves of our roof and wind tore at the chords holding our door curtain in place. I prayed the torches did not extinguish. Darkness with only lightning bolts often reminded me of the legends of our island's thunder spirits. They were supposed to be merciless beings of light, fire and shadow. Anyone unwise enough to go outside during a storm was often savaged by the thunder spirits. I must have dosed off. The next time I opened my eyes, it was late afternoon. The storm and clouds had given way to the amber light of dusk. I checked to see if my parents were still alive. "Are you two allright?" I asked. Mother and father both nodded. "I'm going outside to see if anyone needs help." I told them. "Stay here, I'll be back before sundown." There was some damage to the village. A few other families were taking note of their remaining assests and repairs to be made. Remembering what the Wisewoman had told me, I headed to the beach. Amazingly, there was what looked like a giant tree made up of dead trees laying almost on its side in the sand. Around it, four or five two legged creatures with metal arms, bellies and feet milled around the wreckage. I looked at the new arrivals. What was with their legs? They looked like they were made of poofy fabric. I stood still mesmerized by the unusual scene. One of them noticed me! My legs refused to run even though I was terrified. It got the attention of the other creatures. They moved at a slow deliberate pace. "Parblo, les Spenchagese?" The one in the front of the group gabbled at me. I had no idea what that meant. "Parblo, les Spenchagese?" The creature said again. I tried to back away but stumbled over a piece of driftwood. Seeing me fall, the thing stopped and put its hands to its head...and PULLED. I screamed and looked away. A metal hand tapped my shoulder. I looked back. A bearded face stared back at me! It was the face of a man but he didn't look like anyone I'd seen. His hair was black but curly and his nose was narrow and beaky like a sea eagle and his skin had no color. The man thing offered his hand to me. I took it and he pulled me to my feet. "Thank you;" I said. "My name is Samri." The strange person stared at me like he hadn't understood. I gestured to myself. "Samri;" I repeated. Body language finally conveyed my meaning. He brought his hand to his chest with a clunk. "J'Mi anobrelle es Paulo;" he said. "Paulo." I nodded to let him knew I'd heard. Paulo looked around for a stick. He picked one up and drew in the sand with it. A box with a squigly line and a dot next to it. I looked at him in confusion. He tapped his ears and neck, then gestured to me and raised an eyebrow. I realized that I was wearing my shell necklace and golden hoops. Maybe he wanted to know where I got them? Smiling I waved for them to follow me. I led them to the market place. I kept a carefull eye on my new aquaintances. They had all removed their head carapieces. What men were like crabs? I had no clue but so far they hadn't hurt me. Most of them gawked at the women and jewelry. What I obseved worried me. They might not be like my people but some emotions are universal. On their faces I recognized lust and greed. I'd seen that before on Fellurns face when he looked at the chief's daughter at great feasts. Despite my concerns, I had no idea what to do. I ran into cheif Palani. "What are these?" He asked. "Are they men or crustacians?" I stammered. Before I could answer the one called Paulo approached Palani. "Bon Tardes." He babbled. "J'Mi anobrelle es Paulo. Yt son garconbre es mi Marshalles." Palani looked to me for help. "They don't speak our language;" I told him. "They seem to want to get some gold or jewelry; at least thats what I think their crude gestures and pictograms mean." Cheif Palani processed this. "I need your help;" he said. "I'm going to act like I'm trading my ring for your necklace. Maybe we can make them understand." I took off my sea shells and handed them to the chief. He removed his ring and handed it to me. We bowed and then handed eachother back our items. We looked to see if Paulo had gotten the idea. "Ah!" He said and reached into a leather pouch. He pulled out some sort of coins. He pointed to my necklace and offered me the metal discs. Reluctantly, I took off my necklace and handed it to Paulo. He handed me the coins and offered me his hand. I stared at it. What was this? Paulo noticed my hesetancy and demonstated with one of his companions. The two of them clasped hands and moved their arms up and down. It must be their way of negotiating friendly interaction. After Paulo turned back to me, I mimicked their actions. Later that night, Cheif Palani asked me to find a place for our odd new aquaintances to stay the night. We had almost reached an empty hut when the Wisewoman saw us. "What are you doing?!" She screamed. "These are the demons I warned you about! They cannot stay!" Before I could react, the Wisewoman had raised her staff and began to charge. Faster than I thought possible Paulo drew a metal blade and plunged it into her heart. She fell to the ground bleeding. I knealt by her to see if there was anything I could do. The light had already faded from the older woman's eyes. My face was hot with anger. I glared at Paulo and the look I saw on his face was terrifying. His eyes were like obsidian, sharp, cold and unfeeling. He didn't seem to care that he'd slaughtered another human. Paulo still had his weapon drawn. I knew I had to keep calm, otherwise he'd probably kill me too. I led them into the hut and left hurriedly. At my own home I found my father still awake. "The demons came;" I told him. "They already killed the Wisewoman. I need your help to drive them out." My father gaped in horror. "How can we?" He said. "They must be very powerful." I thought and an idea sparked aglow like a firefly. "You know the thunder spirits?" I said. "Maybe they should greet these fiends." My father sighed. "We can't contoll them." He said. "There's no hope--" "Yes there is!" I insisted. "These demons have never seen the thunder spirits. We could make costumes and scare them!" Still not convinced my father helped me stitch together some animal skins and we doused them in water. After we put on our disguise, he made bright torches and grabbed two conch shells. He handed one torch and chonch to me. "Lead the way, my little cocunut;" he said. When we found ourselves close to Paulo's hut, we held the torches as close to ourselves as we dared. First my father then I blew on our shells. The noise woke the sleeping demons up. Paulo stared at both of us, his eyes wide with fear. He shouted something to his compainions. Father and I advanced waving our torches and blowing our conches. Soon Paulo and his men were running into the jungle like piglets that have just seen a jaguar. Once we could no longer see the demons, my father and I shrugged out of our costumes. We shared a laugh and went home. None of the strange people from the wreck were seen ever again. Now I understand the Wisewoman's Proclamation. I saved my village from evil, I only wish the old woman had seen it.