Dumpster Drivers Patsy peeked out her blinds and grabbed her notebook. She watched the dumpster every night to make sure that people from other neighborhoods weren’t using the dumpsters. There had not been enough room in the dumpster for all the residents of the condo community to put their trash. And there were various and sundry rumors about strangers using the dumpster and or walking through the neighborhood at night. Patsy was determined to catch someone. She felt a rush of adrenalin when she saw a gray car pull up. Someone jumped out of the car and put a Patsy grabbed her pen to write down the license number, but the driver had a temporary tag. There was no way to prove whether or not the person was a resident of the community. Patsy stared at the window again. Surely, she would catch someone or see something interesting. Patsy had lived alone all of her life. She liked living out in the county. She loved listening to the sound of cicadas, crickets, and watching the deer gather at night. The critters and sounds of nature made her feel a little more connected with the world around her. She’d never been married and her brother was the only family member she had. She and her brother had been estranged for years. She’d moved into the condo neighborhood since the eighties and had been watching the dumpsters every night for the past decade. Anytime she saw suspicious behavior, she would call Condo Cathy, the President of the condo association and report her findings. Condo Cathy had recently changed her number, so Patsy called other residents. She felt like people tried to avoid her even though she was trying to do something for the community. It was a myth that the condo association didn’t want people under the age of fifty to move into the condo community, but children were prohibited, as the Condo Association wanted to prevent “certain kinds of people” from moving into the community. The two women were the youngest residents in the community, and Patsy needed to find out more about them. What if those two women were in some kind of romantic relationship? Yes, times were changing, but that was so unnatural. Patsy walked over to the window again and perked up when she saw someone’s headlights. A young woman walked out of the car. It was one of the ladies who walked the collie! The woman was sobbing and put three garbage bags into the dumpster. The woman drove away. Patsy grabbed a flashlight, crept outside and walked over to the condo where the strange women were living. There definitely was a story there, and she would have so much to tell Condo Cathy. Patsy perked up when she heard a door slam. The woman she saw at the dumpster was throwing things. “Get out. Just get out!” she yelled. The other woman poked her head out the door. Patsy ducked behind the bushes. “I’m going to call the police if you don’t calm down,” the woman yelled. Patsy guessed the women were probably in their early forties. Her pulse was racing. “I want you out,” said the woman who was at the dumpster. “All you do is stay in bed all day.” “I have fibromyalgia and my job is exhausting. I don’t need this stress in addition to everything else,” said the other woman. “Then leave.” The door slammed. The woman who had been at the dumpster went back into the house. She came out with another garbage bag and headed towards the dumpster. Patsy turned off her flashlight ducked again. She had to be careful about walking at night, as there were lots of copperheads. Patsy waited till the woman was half-way to the dumpster and than crept out from behind the bushes. The woman was sobbing. Patsy tripped over a pine cone just before she got near the dumpster. The woman looked over her shoulder. “Julie?” Patsy’s pulse raced. What if the woman was a psychopath? Would she hurt an elderly woman who meant no harm? “Who is there?” The woman took out a flash light. Patsy tried to hide behind a tree. “Who are you?” Patsy slowly emerged. “I’m Patsy. I live around the corner. I heard some noise and wanted to make sure everything is okay. “ The woman sniffed. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Well, I heard yelling and stuff. You okay?” Patsy asked. “Are you?” “Also, we have to limit how much trash put into the dumpsters cause they get full so fast.” The woman paused. “Well, I’m moving. And I’m having to throw out stuff.” “You’re moving? Didn’t you just get here? The woman took several deep breaths. “Things aren’t working out,” she said. “I’m sorry,” Patsy said. “My roommate is mentally ill, and she’s having a psychotic breakdown.” Patsy’s eyes widened. She wanted to ask the woman why she was the one who had been throwing stuff, but that might be dangerous. How could Condo Cathy let those kind of people into the community anyway? The woman started crying again. “I thought it would be good for us. We both have always lived alone. It’s hard to be alone,” the woman said. Patsy’s eyes watered. Now the woman was making a little sense. Even crazies needed company, but two crazies couldn’t make a well-be. “I’ve lived alone all my life. My Mama used to say being alone is better than being left alone. By the way, I’m Patsy.” The woman shook her hand. “I’m Mary. It’s going to be expensive if she moves out. She’s paying part of the rent. Patsy wrinkled her nose. There was supposed to be restrictions on renters. She would have to ask Condo Cathy about the policy, as she didn’t want more rowdy neighbors, but she did feel bad for the woman. Her kind of craziness was starting to make a little sense. “But it is hard being alone. I keep myself busy. If you stay busy, you won’t feel alone. I’m part of the community watch.” The woman nodded. “Well, that’s good you’re busy,” she said. The woman wiped her eyes. “So who is moving?” “My roommate is moving out. All she does is sleep all day, and she’s about to lose her job. She’s missed too many days at work.” “How’d you get mixed up with someone like that?” “We met at an apartment complex. The rent kept going up, so we decided to rent a place together. She seemed to have it together.” Patsy nodded. “Well, you can’t always tell with people. Sounds like you’d be better off without her. It’s better not to get too involved with some people. I like my neighbors, but I keep to myself. You just can’t tell about people.” Mary nodded. Patsy looked up at the sky. The stars were so bright on such a clear night. Patsy had never paid much attention to the stars. She’d been too busy watching the dumpster. “Well, you’re better off not having a roommate if she don’t treat you right. And if you ever need company I live over there.” Patsy pointed to her condo. “Thanks. I guess I better be getting home.” Mary said. “Good luck,” Patsy said. Patsy watched Mary walk back to her condo. The woman looked so alone. Yes, it was good not to get too mixes up with people, but sometimes a person just needed to talk. Maybe Mary wasn’t really crazy, but the roommate was driving her over the edge. Bad company could definitely make a person crazy. Patsy walked towards her condo. After she entered her condo, she decided she’d get some sleep before sunrise. When she’d gotten into her bed, she’d wondered what her life would’ve been like if she’d taken more risks and allowed people into her life. But maybe there were worse things than being alone. At least she’d finally made a friend. sometimes a person just needed a friend and there was always hope disreputable people could find themselves and turn their lives around.


I woke up with a start. Someone was hammering the door to the flat. I looked around wildly - Jimmy and Kevin were up and about. I could see Kevin’s back, facing the door with his arms outstretched. Jimmy was behind him, hunched and making whimpering, sobbing noises. I swung my legs off of the sofa, shaking. I was embarrassed that I’d fallen asleep before the kids I was supposed to be babysitting. And guilty. Was this karma? My limbs still felt dead from sleep, but I forced myself to stand. As I did so, the door hammered again, hard. “Let me in, kids!” I gasped, and my tension melted a little. It was the kids’ mother. She hadn’t called, and hadn’t meant to be back until tomorrow. I took a step to the door. “Don’t!” screamed Kevin, freezing me. I suddenly noticed what he was holding. A silver pistol, far too big for his hands, pointed at the door. It unnerved me how steady his hands were. Beneath that little mop of brown hair was a determined, detached expression. I wondered where he’d got that. Beside him, Jimmy was clearly terrified. He wasn’t quite holding onto Kevin, but he was close behind, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. The door hammered again and their mother’s voice came, sweetly. “Kids!” it came, drawn out questioningly. “Please just open the door.” BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. Why was she hammering? I looked from the door nervously back to Kevin. He didn’t look at me, eyes trained on the door. I didn’t know their mother well, but she’d always been polite. Normal. Nothing to suggest that she was any different. The kids were kids, but as far as kids go some of the most well-behaved I’ve ever met. They’d been happy to occupy themselves with the TV until bedtime. I had just been about to put them to sleep, that must have been when I’d nodded off. As my mind unclouded, harsh sensibility began to regain control. This was completely out of hand. “Give me the gun,” I said to Kevin. I extended my hand and reached towards him. “You don’t understand,” he said. His voice didn’t crack. ‘Isn’t he only ten?’ questioned my tired mind. “That’s not our mom.” I frowned, shushing the little sudden drop in my stomach that felt a little bit like panic. “Kevin,” I said in a slow, measured tone. “That IS your mother.” His voice did crack this time. “It’s NOT!” His eyes moved away from the door, just for a fraction of a second, to mine, and in that second I saw a very scared little boy. Not fear of being reprimanded, not even fear of being belted. It was the kind of fear that kids shouldn’t know about at that age. His eyes flicked back to the door and he rearranged his grip on the gun, shifting his stance and licking his lips. His voice came again in a tiny whisper. “That’s not mom. That’s not mom.” I didn’t know what to do. The hammering came again. I couldn’t believe how strong she was. It sounded almost like it was going to break down. Why was nobody else in the building coming? My mind was breaking down under the possibilities. Something was very wrong. But I was the adult. I couldn’t just go back inside and hide under a blanket, as much as I might have wanted to. ‘There’s a simple way to solve this’, piped up my rational mind. ‘Go look in the peephole’. I looked at it, and then back to Kevin and Jimmy, and voiced my intentions. “I’m going to go and look through the door,” I said quietly. Why was I being so quiet? My rational brain chided me, but I shut it up. Kevin looked like he was trying to say something. He started a word, then trailed off. As I stepped forward to the door, he inched a little closer with me, as though every centimetre were paper-thin ice that might suddenly shatter. The door was only a few feet away, but it felt like no-man’s land. I didn’t want to take those steps, but I did. My heart thudded as I stopped in front of it. BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG. The last thundering blow was punctuated, as though they were trying to break THROUGH the door. I’d never noticed before, but it was incredibly study. The chain rattled with every blow. I let out a quiet breath as I stepped up to it. The thudding stopped. I moved the peep hole aside. I screamed. I screamed and I screamed and I screamed. My feet kicked back and I scrambled back across the hallway on all fours, gibbering. Jimmy cried and moved out of my way as I got back behind the line he’d formed. Kevin stepped back in front of us, white as a sheet. “I told you,” he said quietly. The hammering started again. “Let me in! Let me in!” it came, that voice just like their mother’s but different. I hadn’t noticed the subtle different before, but now it terrified me. Had it been their mother, behind that door? Had it been something else? I felt like I was in a dream. A nightmare. It had to be. I held hands with Jimmy, and found myself crying with him. I woke with a start. The lights were out. I was on the sofa, covered in a blanket. Those sweet kids must have covered me after I fell asleep. My breath rattled out of my chest in a sigh of relief. I got my icy feet to the floor, the fresh terror of the dream subsiding, and shakily walked to the lightswitch. The doorbell went. I must have jumped almost through my skin. My heart was racing again. I felt supremely silly. I glanced towards the boys’ bedrooms before walking into the hallway and turning on the light. “Hello?” I called. It was the mother. “It’s just me,” she said. “I got done sooner than expected, so I’m home a little early. Will you take off the chain?” “Yeah,” I said with a smile on my face. I was sure that my cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Before I took off the chain, I opened the peephole and looked through. It was their mother. Something inside me unclenched, I took a breath, and I took the chain off the door, opening it. She came inside, taking little steps as she made noises of tired relief. “How were the kids?” she asked, “alright?” I thought back to the dream nervously. “They were angels,” I laughed. “I’ve just gotta go to the bathroom, and then if you like you can go home,” said the kids’ mother. “I’ll pay you for tonight, is that okay?” “Sounds great,” I said. She went into the bathroom and I settled down onto the couch, pulling the blanket into a pile on my lap. I made to collect my belongings from the table. I noticed that my phone was blinking and checked the messages. There was one from a minute ago. It read: “Hope the kids are okay. See you tomorrow.” The bathroom door opened.


He clutched the stems of the melancholie souls in a deathly grip, waiting anxiously for the potbellied owner of the flower shop to finish business with the boy in the late twenties and his order of a 2 dozen roses. Quite pretty they were, the rose flowers, with their red petals dank from the morning dew. Far auspicious a blossom than the ones he was currently gripping, like his life very much depended on it. He'd thought these flowers, the melancholie souls, were quite apt for the occasion he was getting them fo r , because you see, Dariel was not acquiring these for some college sweetheart or as a prop for the coming valentines day. Instead, they were for his wife, stage IV cancer, limping through her final days on IV tubes. He had wanted something more felicitous as a final farewell, something along the likes of marigold, or a bunch of tulips, instead of a pretty symbol of sorrow, but decided against it at the very last moment. For the past 6 months, they've pretended to be a happy couple, ignoring death waiting by the door, fantasized being surrounded by vanilla scented candles and not the sterile odor of the hospital, and as Brayleigh's pragmatic soul would have it, she wanted her last few weeks to be free of the veils of deception and as she called it, free of that "happy little bubble". So there was Dariel, buying Melancholie Souls for his dying wife, instead of being by her side in her last moments. *** The flowers arranged neatly in a vase next to Brayleigh's bedside table seemed to mock Dariel as he sat with the blank sheet of paper in front of him. He'd decided to write a letter to her, something short and sweet to send her off in the next life with little to no regrets. He'd write it down the most prettily and read it out while holding her hand and yes, it would be the most perfect of goodbyes. There was no clean way to enter the deeply folded sections of the heart, so he just picked the pen up, and he poised it over the sheets he'd borrowed from the hospital reception and surprisingly, came up blank. ' How the hell do you even say goodbye?' he wondered absently, then after a brief pause, started writing. "How the hell do you even say goodbye?" Dariel wrote, the ink bleeding and staining his fingers. "... goodbye to someone for whom you baked cupcakes and banana breads for on Sunday's, whose love felt like the ocean and I, the most romantic of shipwrecks, the waves keeping the bits and pieces of me forever afloat. Perhaps, forever is an overstatement. The ocean waves has to calm and settle someday, and when they did, I could feel those pieces of mine slowly sinking. Naw, scratch that. Sinking rapidly. Too damn fast for me to find a piece of wood to stay afloat in an expanse of water that's only ever going to be you. My love was such, that I'd always known I'd never get tied to another girl as long as I lived. 'What if I die?' you had asked. 'Even then', I had declared. " Dariel paused and frowned at the incessant poetic rambling that seemed to crawl over the page like ants on a lost mission. His thoughts seemed to go astray like the wind, blowing in all directions, distracting him from the job he was trying to accomplish. So he took a deep breath, composed himself, and tried writing further, " So, believe me when I say that this is the hardest thing I've ever done. Yes, asking you out as a horny teen does not top the list, although it comes a close second. The first time we kissed? Stars above, it felt good (I know they advised you against falling in love with a writer, who'll immortalize you in their PTSD and make you their muse, but you consoled yourself thinking; 'well, at least he'll write beautiful odes to the mole under my left eye and one liner's to our first kisses' but look at me, describing the synching of our lips and our heart as 'good'). It wasn't perfect in any way though, our kiss. We fumbled over a solid minute on the correct way to tilt the mouth so they would just 'slide' over one another efficiently, before finally settling on an owl's-curious-head-tilted pose, with nose bumping and teeth clashing. Yes it wasn't perfect, but first timers are never meant to be anything but memorable. And they sure were, considering the fact that the taste of your strawberry lip-gloss is still afresh in my mind, as vivid as if I held you in my arms just yesterday-" *** I stopped again, crinkling up the paper in my apparent frustration. What I meant to write was a "short and sweet" goodbye, not this thing I was putting down, whatever it was. A reminiscent poem? I tried to bring my emotions under check and considered what I was going to put down next. That I'm sorry you have to go. I'm sorry that we aged a lot sooner than we had hoped. That I love you, Bray. I'd tell you how you was the first person my poetry held in her palms with such intensity, memorizing and forging free verses to the curve of your lashes and soliloquys to the cupid's bow of your lips and I? I just listened and wrote them. We 'd made that promise, Bray, remember?.... and just like that, my thoughts drifted again, like an aimless wind changing directions without any afterthought, " remember how we said that when sickness will consume the best of us, when one would be lying on a hospital bed like such, the other would find the courage for the last kiss. They'd sneak in some frosted cupcakes on Sunday's and maybe Tuesday's too. The banana bread will be half cooked and the chamomile tea a little too bitter, but we'd gulp it down like ambrosia itself. At that time, it felt like such a faraway vow, you know, a speculation for the hobbling phase of life, but the day we woke up with a greyed hair that moved when we moved, was the day that genuinely scared me. You see, for all my love drenched poems of bravado, I'm a coward, especially in the matters of heart. Especially in the thoughts of losing you. Maybe that's why I've tiptoed around the sleeping form of this goodbye letter that I'm trying to write. 'To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence'' wrote Antoine de Saint-Exup éry, and if that's that case, I'd happily unlatch my soul from this mortal body and spend the rest of my life as an empty husk. After you're gone, I'd go on with my everyday life as usual; folding the clothes on Wednesday's (on autopilot), washing the dishes on Saturday's, but never again will a cupcake be baked. Unless it'll be your death anniversary, and on that day I'll sit by the fireplace like we used to each evening, and write elegy's to what we were before, and what I was right now, a dead man's poem. Only on those days will I allow myself to feel even a miniscule amount of grief that my soul is battering with right now, because if it would have been any more, I would find myself very tempted indeed to carry through the desire of stopping my heart when your own does." Not able to go any further with the opaque wall of tears obscuring my vision, I set the weeping pen aside and neatly folded the page in half and rose, to find the monitor beside your bed going "beep, beep, beep" the air in the room shifts, stills. I become acutely aware of hope departing, leaving the door half open for death to come wander in. Confused, I scream at hope to stop, to be by your bedside a little longer, just enough so I could hold your hand one last time and read out this letter, just enough to- "beeeeeeeeeeeeep..." "beeeeeep..." "beeeep..." -static- *** In the end, Dariel stood in that hospital room, floor scattered with broken promises and withered melancholies, clutching the goodbye letter like his life depended on it, and to say half the truth, it did. In the end, he didn't have the courage for the last kiss. In the end, hope arrived exactly when hope is supposed to. And hope left exactly when hope must, and just like the wind, Brayleigh was gone. ----


***TRIGGER WARNING*** Details of abuse, rape and child lose. The cut-throat razor barely glistens anymore. Years of slicing, scraping and shaping have gradually worn it down. Made it obsolete. Its bluntness won't deter me though, I'll just have to cut a little harder. I turn it in my hand, a museum clerk appraising a lost relic, a murderer savouring the moment, a lover lost in loneliness. Your initials are almost worn from the walnut handle. I had it engraved specially, just for you, gold leafed, just for you. Everything just for you. Everything. The massacre streaked clown in the mirror looks so pathetic that a nervous laugh bubbles up out of nowhere. This bathroom was a haven of sorts, my safe space, cool, refreshing, running water to hide my tears, a lock to close away your anger. I eye the splintered, patched, smashed and repaired door frame, multiple screw holes never filled, a sad account of your determined strength. Some locks just weren't built to hold back your unbridled love. I run a hand through my thick red curls, gathering them as the executioner gathers his noose, hosting them over one trembling gibbet of a shoulder. They were always so overbearing, so demanding, so you. “Love your hair.” Your first words to me all those years ago. Fresh faced out of university, leaning against the packed bar like the world owed you something and you’d arrived to collect. Damn but you were James Dean cool. I tripped right into those ocean blue eyes of yours, sipping my cocktail to hide my stupid giggles at every one of your terrible jokes. Then you kissed me. You. Kissed. Me. Two years, two glorious years of sunny holidays, dancing, surprise gifts, moonlight dinners, it was everything a goddamn hallmark movie wants to be. Even a proposal before the crackling yuletide fireplace. But I said no. Perhaps my gut knew you better than I did, perhaps it could see through your slick greased hair and perfectly manicured nails to something much rougher. Yes I loved you, yes you were good to me, but that wasn't enough. I was only twenty three after all. I could hardly imagine a month ahead, never mind years. Then came one late period, two blue lines, and another reason to say yes. Small and fast. Not the adjectives you want to hear from your fiance's parents when planning a wedding, but they were the big city lawyers with the dinero so who was I to say no. I should have though. No to the proposal, to the holidays, to the kiss. To you. But that was my problem, maybe it's better to call it a weakness. I'd never been one for confrontation, always scared of violence. Still it found me all the same. I'm sure some second year psych student could tell me why. Maybe because daddy hit mommy whilst you cowered behind the sofa, they might say. If only I still cared. So they planned the wedding, the bride an afterthought, their special little boy front and center. Swollen, bloated and sore all over, simply the perfect combination for a perfect day in white. Although your bitch mother demanded I wear cream, the good Catholic that she is and all that. I forced a smile, we kissed, they applauded, we signed a registration and suddenly I officially became we. I never realised what I was signing away until weeks later. It was playful at first, make dinner wife, get me a beer wife, I would snigger and waddle to the task at hand thinking it all a joke. But the punchline never came. Ten weeks out from meeting our precious little boy and you came home drunk. Another late night with the rest of the rookies from the station. You called out my name in that disgusting sing-song as you stumbled down the hall, like you were some cheap horror villian. You never were cheap though. Sex. You wanted it. I didn't. You demanded it. I said no. You stared with a killer's glint. I made for the stairs. You pulled me by the hair. I screamed. You laughed, pushed, held, tore, forced, ripped, choked, came. I wailed, all night, until trauma and fatigue carried me from one nightmare to another. Searing, crippling pain woke me. Barbed wire tightening around my belly, kicks and punches coming from within. Something's wrong mammy, help me mammy. My child, my boy. The crisp bed sheets of the guest bedroom puddled in our blood, I.... The memory is too much, the blade clatters in the sink, I grip the porcelain edge sobbing for the child that never was. I didn't just lose a son, I lost the possibility of everything he could have been. I lost the 'what if'. I tear at the strap of my black velvet dress, three days was enough to mourn you. I'm done. Should have left you years ago, but I stayed for twelve years. Twelve, fucking, years of abuse followed by roses, slaps followed by kisses. But never an apology or explanation. You moved us half way across the country for a fresh start, so you could be a detective. What a shit one you were. And I took the brunt of all your failures. Always thinking it's the drink, or the pressure, or the grief. More fool me. The dress slinks to the ground and I stroke my yellow mottled ribs, your last and final kiss. I grab the razor, my hands shaking. There's no point waiting anymore. I hack, and slash, and slice. Red ribbons spill onto the bathroom floor, dropping like autumn leaves, the dead falling away so the new can begin. Blood runs in rivulets down my forehead, across my ears, stings my eyes. Look at me, a fucking shield maiden of old, barbarian here to stab and maim. Steam clouds everywhere, the shower washes away the blood, makeup, and phantom grief with it. Oh I put on a show for you darling. The perfect grieving wife by your fresh grave. Dripping, I pad across your pristine hardwood floors to the landing. Only two weeks ago I stood down there watching the men in white put out their little numbered yellow placards, bright flash photos highlighting the judging detective's glares. One of their own found dead. An accident? Murder? I was prime suspect number one. Of course. As I knew I would be. I descend past the remnants of shattered spindles, where you twisted your arm, the badly repaired plaster where you struck your back, the glorious final step where you cracked your head, snapped your neck ever so sweetly. My fingers touch the well scrubbed blood splatter that keeps coming through the paint. Stories tell us death smells bad, to me it stinks of casserole and flowers. I need a drink. You always told me I was embarrassing when I drank vodka, so guess what I reach for. Closing the fridge door I see Dolores' back porch light is on. Our little signal. She is awake and there if I need her. She's the only good thing that came from our move here. An unexpected friend when I really needed one. She knew the tell tale markers, big sunglasses, turtle necks jumpers in midsummer. She never pushed, only told her own story over our shared fence. Her husband came back from war a different man. Seems a uniform and gun change some people. Or gives them permission to be the bastards they always were. We bonded. She was the shoulder I cried on, the mother I never had, the best of friends. An ally. An accomplice. I wrap myself in a throw from the sofa and slide open the patio door. Swigging my booze I wander across the lawn to the crackling bonfire. Your suits, pictures of you, our wedding album, everything with you in it. Everything. Bye bye darling. I run my hand over my stubbled head, wince at one of many cuts, then laugh. "You did it then?" I don't need to turn to know it's Dolores, for a woman close to seventy she moves like a cat. You would never hear her enter your house, or cross a landing, especially if you were distracted arguing with your wife. "The neighbours are going to think I lost my mind," I hold out the bottle. "Let them." She drinks deep, smiles at me, puts one arm over my shoulder. I lean in. "Thank y-" "No, never thank me dear. Sure we were in the backyard saying our goodbyes. Remember?" I breathe deep the smoky air. "Is it working?" She asks, nodding towards the fire. "Strangely, yes." It was another of Dolores' ideas, she's great for ideas. Get rid of all that was you, all that held power or sway over me. Like a ceremony, cut it out, burn it away, until you are nothing but a shadow and ash. "So you feel better?" I tilt my head to the full moon, resisting the urge to howl, the night breeze gently caressing my bare, glistening skin. My edge is coming back. I smile, a wide deeply felt smile. "I feel free."


A desperate and destitute farmer turned to God after his harvest failed. Hungry and penniless, he was not able to feed and take care of his daughter. The heavy rains had flooded his fields and ruined his crops. One cloudy day after mass the farmer stood watching the clattering of raindrops on the slate walls of the church steeple. His eyes transfixed on the rough black texture and he became entranced with the rhythmic repetition nature provided. The pastor grabbed the latch on the door after the last parishioners had left the church, taking a moment to ponder at the poor farmer who had steadily refused alms. With a worried look he pulled shut the door behind him, to prevent further wetting of his robes.   The farmer stood exposed to the elements, not paying any mind to the wind and rain slashing around him, wetting his cloak and breeches. He felt weightless in the dark, as if there were no veil between him and God. His internal dissociation brought him closer to the elements, closer to the surface of the slate walls. His eyes widened when he saw her, the pristine shape of the virgin Mary falling off the slate bricks. He felt a comforting warmth fill his entire being, a grogging recognition of the holy, which brought him back to the material world. His eyes watered not only from the rain but now his tears as he uncontrollably sobbed. At a search for meaning his mind began being filled with desperate, blasphemous and irrational thoughts. _Perhaps his daughter would carry the second coming of Christ. It would be her salvation of the suffering she had to endure at the hands of his inept caretaking. He would serve by kindling the conditions that would manifest God’s desire._ It would be his last desperate attempt at saving her from a life of poverty and despair.   At his homestead, the farmer warmed himself by the meager fire that he managed to build and ate a few bites of leek and bean soup with his daughter. After she was put to bed, he pondered his next steps. He felt a strange calm washed over him, as if his goals in life were never this clear. In his limited religious understanding he knew that it was blasphemous to propose his conclusions to the church. The pastor would not help him, and he might even risk excommunication. He decided that with no one else to turn to, he should visit the village witch for advice. He lit an oil lamp to guide him through the darkness, beyond the boundaries of the village, into the confines of the broadleaf forest. He traded the clear night’s sky for a roof of tree crowns. The smell of damp earth and moss and rotting roots met his nose. The chilly night air pricked his skin. He followed the small path that he knew led to the witch’s hut.   There was light pouring out of a small window next to the front door, under the thatched roof. The house was surrounded by a variety of different plants he guessed were used for her medicines. After he knocked, he heard shuffling and the door creaked open. An old woman of small stature stared into his eyes and welcomed him into her home. Inside it smelled of incense and herbs, a cauldron brewing above a log fire emitted a subtle but foul smell. He was nervous, he knew the witch had powers beyond his understanding. He also knew that if anyone found out he was here in the midst of the night, he could be suspected of devilry himself. The witch listened with an understanding look. She explained there could be a way to contrive his daughter’s salvation. She immediately went to work collecting herbs and plants from her garden and combining these in her mortar and pestle. A vial was filled with the resulting concoction. It was to be given to his daughter during a full moon as it would open a connection between the heavens and her body. The witch also stated the ritual would bring luck into their lives. The farmer would not have to fear hunger and despair anymore. Finding what he was looking for, the farmer returned to his homestead with a smile on his face.   At the next instance of a full moon the farmer gave the concoction to his daughter. She willingly took it without question and swallowed the bitter taste down with some water. Nothing of note seemed to happen. The evening went by with hunger in their bellies, as they were accustomed to. The next day the farmer was awoken by a shill scream. He looked over to his daughter’s bed and immediately saw red stained linens. She bled as a woman would do. She was too young for that, he thought. It probably was the witch’s concoction. He panicked; this was not what he had envisioned of his self-proclaimed pious quest. He helped his daughter change the linens. Luckily, she seemed to be fine. He was unsure of what the future would bring. From that day onward his daughter would never bleed again.   The luck of the farmer and his daughter took a turn for the better. Their next harvest was more successful than it ever was. The profits even allowed him to buy livestock, a white sheep that gave them milk and wool. It was a turning point in their life, it was a steppingstone to their future health and wealth. The farmer saw his daughter grow older, taller, and stronger. She turned out to become a beautiful young woman. One day a suitor proposed to wed her, with substantial dowry, and the farmer accepted. With a smile on his face, he saw his daughter leave his home to start a new family. After all these years he never forgot what had happened to them. He saw how his daughter seemed to now be saved from her suffering. It was all he had ever wished for.   Year after year passed. Grey hairs grew in the farmer’s beard. His farm grew more prosperous. He had now even been able to hire farmhands to do the heavy work for him, so he had enough time to spend with his daughter. She led a happy life with her husband, the local blacksmith’s apprentice. She became a devout and pious woman. She learned skills like weaving and knitting. She had already made children’s clothes in the prospect of starting a family. It would not have been for a lack of trying, but she seemed not to be able to bare children. As the years passed the farmer’s daughter grew quieter and sullen. Her body was not capable of that which would fulfill her innermost desires. She grew more distanced from her father and even from her own husband.   One faithful day the farmer sat out on his porch when he saw his son-in-law approach his home. The look on his face was one of panic. His wife had locked herself in their home and was not herself. The two men made their way over to the family home. Piercing crying could be heard outside of the wooden building. The farmer’s daughter cried out: if she could not give life then her life was of no value. The two men tried to break down the wooden door and found that it was barricaded from the other side. With enough force they were able to push aside the bookcase that was pushed up against it. The men found her disconsolate, with frantic darting eyes. They attempted to subdue her, but she managed to wrangle free of their grip and to hastily escape through the opened door.   A chase followed through the town. A flock of geese hurriedly stepped out of the way, honking after the skirts of the fleeing woman. The townspeople looked up from their daily chores to witness this peculiarity that disturbed this otherwise quiet hamlet. The farmer’s daughter plunged her way through a group of workmen, whom had to drop their baskets of wool at her passing. She ran up to the church and entered the nave through the open front door. The farmer followed her and caught a glimpse of her skirts at the stairwell going up to the steeple. When he reached the top, he saw his daughter standing on the ledge of the steeple window, with big teary eyes looking back at him. He tried to utter words, but nothing seemed to come out. She smiled. _This is my salvation_, she said, before letting herself fall.


The sun fought to enter the room. The windows were shut but the curtains were drawn aside. Sunlight flooded the room, and I stared out of the window, still wrapped in bed. It was early morning after a sleepless night. It had been impossible for me to stop myself from recalling the night exactly ten years ago: I ran and ran, as fast as my little legs could take me. My bag swayed on my back, my ponytail dangled on my head and my eyes were fixed on the road that lay ahead. My heart was thumping in my chest, clearly audible in the silence of the moonlight. The easy wind was blowing, making the weather pleasant. I was about to reach the forest when I stopped. I turned and looked at the road I had left behind, the people I had run away from, the life I had cast off. “I shall never see them again,” I told myself. I didn’t let out a sigh, I wasn't frustrated nor was I gloomy but the thought still fed on my soul. No tears came out of my eyes. I just turned back to the road I was to take and headed forward. I hurried deep inside the forest which was sure to be more caring than the foster home from where I had run away. I was alone. I had always been alone, but for some reason in the dark, wild forest, I didn't feel afraid. I walked further and after consoling myself that I had reached the heart of the forest, I stopped. I looked around as if someone would still manage to reach me. I had been so frustrated from the ill-treatment of the daughter of my foster parents that I could not help but run away from the dreadful place I was brought up in. Their daughter would pull my hair, snatch my chocolates from me and take away all my favourite things to her room without even asking. And what would my foster mother do? With would laugh and say her daughter was becoming clever! I had packed my bag with my books, clothes, some of my stuff, and a photo of my parents which I had managed to steal from the foster people’s room. Why did I take their photograph with me? I didn’t know myself but I just felt I should and so I did. I sat on the wet damp grass and wept a little, not because I was afraid but because I dreadfully missed my parents. I was only four when my parents died, but I still remembered the little memories I had collected. They used to feed me, play with me, taught me and we had happy times. I didn't remember how they died. I didn't know whether they had died at all. My foster mom had told me they had died in a car accident. I never believed it was true but I had no proof to prove the cruel woman wrong. The walls of the room seemed to be restless the last night. I wanted to scream or wail or anything but my voice had gone. Why? I don’t know but it was just gone. And to this day, I remember how many tears I had shed, fighting the world with my back to the wall. I had always wanted a family. House, job, money, or anything can not satisfy the needs of a family. After having such a family as that of my past foster parents, I had always wondered what a home with real parents felt like. The emptiness of a family was still fresh in my heart, even if many years had passed. I had no friends, never made any. I was scared they would make fun of me if I told them about my past or they asked me about my parents. I hated to tell anyone that I was an orphan. I reluctantly pushed away the covers and walked to the window. Fresh air and sunlight entered the room as I drew away the curtains and opened the window. I looked down at the garden which was blooming with lovely flowers but it didn't make me smile as it used to every day. I realized I had to get to my work. I was a designer in a textile company. It was near the seaside and the view from the window gave a pleasant scenery to look at and I always started my work after looking at it. It was Sunday, and an off. I was a part-time writer too, not only because I loved writing but also because I wanted to earn more money. I freshened myself up and got ready. After having a light breakfast, I sat at the desk beside the window. My diary was kept in front of me and I took a pen from my pen holder. I wrote the heading on the page: Thoughts I stared at the blank page, waiting for an idea of a story to strike me but nothing came. I fell in the chair and sighed. Suddenly, I remembered the photograph I had kept of them in the drawer. I rarely looked at their picture as it only made me more gloomy and I missed them, even more, when I saw them. I still picked it up and looked at it to get something to write. "My parents," I whispered. "I wish you were alive." I ran my hand on the photograph and faintly smiled back at the two smiling faces. I looked at them, not feeling like taking my eyes off them but my diary looked at me in a way that I kept it back and picked up my pen, determined to write something . "I will write something about my own life," I said decidedly. Though I haven't seen my mom since she died when I was 4 years old, I am sure she is the most beautiful woman. She has... I lifted up my eyes to the photograph to see my mom's eye color but looked at something else. The photograph was peeling out of the frame. I picked up the frame. I pressed the photo to make it stick back but it remained the same. I tried again and again but it started coming out more. "It won't stick back," I said. In order to make it look better, I started to take the photograph off from the frame so at least I would be able to keep it safe somewhere. I took it off carefully, centimeter by centimeter, and when it was completely out, I looked at it with a satisfied smile. I opened a drawer to keep it in when a strong wind blew and it flew from my hand and landed face-down on the floor. It revealed something I never would have expected in a place I never would have looked before; on the back of the photograph was a worn-out note, the ink almost erased. Perhaps I never saw the note because the back of the photo was stuck to the frame and hence, covered the note. Shivers rippled down my spine, the hairs on my arms rose when I read the note. It said: Dear Bella, Leaving you in the hands of foster care people was our greatest regret, but if only we had any other option... We were poor when you were born and could not afford to bring you up as you should have. We hope you could find it in your heart to forgive us, and we will be glad to have you again, for we hope with all our might that we will afford to have you in years to come. If you find this note, know that we deeply care for you. Below is our address and rush to us whenever you choose, it would make us the happiest parents in the world... I had struggled to find information about my parents before. But the foster people had said they had lost contact with them and weren’t sure where I could find them. They suspected they could be dead. Now I was sure they were alive and waiting for me to get to them. My eyes welled with tears. I read it again a few times and checked the address to see whether it was real. I believed it was and with new hope, I rose from the floor. I cleared away my tears and walked to the window. The sun seemed to shine brighter than ever as if it too was happy from the incident which had come upon me. I looked at the garden below, knowing I would leave it soon to return to the home I was meant to be in!


On the other side of our Human World, there was a Monster World. There was a young monster named Davi. Davi was a lonely boy. He had seven brothers, but he always stayed home alone. Davi cried everyday. He wanted to make friends. Davi went to talk to his grandfather, who was the guard of the gate which connects Human World and Monster World. Davi asked his grandfather, "I want to go to Human World. I don't have any friends here. Maybe I can make friends over there." Grandfather said "No, it's too dangerous. No one in Human World likes Monsters. You won't make any friends there." But Davi went "Nobody in Monster World likes me anyway. I want to at least try making friends in Human World!" Grandfather decided to allow Davi three days in Human World, and gave him three gold coins, and told him "These coins may help you when you are in trouble." Davi thanked his grandfather, and went through the gate. Davi walked through the dark... Davi landed on the street. He was amazed at the sun, the sky, the tall trees, and the houses! Davi saw a college dormitory in which college girls were petting a cat. Davi sneaked into the dormitory and talked to the cat. "Mr!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with humans?" " Meow! " answered Mr. Cat. "I am not going to tell you because you are a Monster. We don't like monsters. But I see you have three gold coins in your pocket. If you give me one coin, I'll answer your question." Davi gave him one gold coin. Then Mr. Cat went "Ok! All I do is mew and purr at people's feet." Davi said "Thank you, Mr. Cat!" Davi approached the college girls, who were busy chattering with each other, and purred and mewed at their feet. The college girls turned around, and... "AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Monster!!!" The college girls screamed in horror, and ran out of the building! Davi was left alone in the dormitory. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. On the second day, Davi saw two young boys playing with a dog in a house. Davi sneaked into the house, and talked to the Dog. "Mr!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with Humans?" " Arf!" answers Mr. Dog. "I am not going to tell you because you are a monster. We don't like monsters. But I see you have two gold coins in your pocket. If you give me one coin, I'll be happy to answer your question." So Davi gave him one coin. Then Mr. Dog went "Okay! All I do is bow-wow, and lick people's faces." "Thank you, Mr. Dog!" said Davi. Davi approached the two young boys, and suddenly licked their faces and BOW-WOWED!! "AAARRRGGGHHH!!! MONSTER!!" cried the two young boys. They screamed in horror and ran out of the building! Davi was left alone in the house. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. On the third day, Davi saw a huge house in which an old blind lady was feeding a small bird in a cage. Davi sneaked into the house, and talked to the bird. "Mrs!" said Davi. "How can I make friends with humans?" "Chirp!" answered Mrs. Bird. "I am not going to tell you because you are a Monster. We don't like Monsters. But I see you have one gold coin in your pocket. If you give me the coin, I'll be happy to answer your question." So Davi gave her his last gold coin. Then Mrs. Bird says "Okay! All I do is chirp and sing a song!" Davi started singing a song. Then... "Where does this come from?" the old blind lady approached Davi. Davi was so happy. "This is the most beautiful song I have ever heard,"said Old Blind Lady. Then she touched Davi's face. "Who are you? What is this? Could this be a... AAARRRGGGHHH!!! Monster!!!!" The Old Blind Lady screamed in horror, and fainted dead! Davi was left alone once again. He walked out on the street, and he cried and cried and cried all night long. Davi went back to the gate. He was very sad. The trees, the sun, the sky didn't amaze Davi anymore. Davi met his grandfather at the gate. Grandfather went "Why are you crying?" Then Davi answered "I tried really hard to make friends with humans, and asked Mr. Cat, Mr. Dog and Mrs. Bird for advise, and I followed their good advice, but nobody liked me. Nobody cared about me anywhere. I'll be alone for the rest of my life. Nobody likes me!" Then grandfather answered "It takes so much courage just to go to Human World. And you were on your own Davi. You are the most courageous Monster I have ever seen. Everytime you cried, you learned to be stronger. You don't need anyone else." Davi listened to his grandfather. "Now go home, Davi," said grandfather. Davi walked back to his house, and opened the door, then... Davi's seven brothers rushed to him, cheering "We've heard you were in Human World by yourself?!" "I wish I can be like you!" "You are so brave!" Davi finally smiled. From that day on, Davi played with his brothers everyday, and lived happily ever after. ("Little Monster Davi" I have copyrighted this story in America a few years ago.


I was made a fool last year. That would not happen again. No, this time, it would be Elias who would be the fool. Last year, I made some mistakes. This year, there would be no mistakes. No ridicule. No shame. I prepped my tools as best I could: a perfectly rolled (and laced) joint, a bottle of bourbon, and the will to go through with what had to be done. It wasn’t entirely Elias’s fault. But he was the one who had to pay. He had exacerbated the situation, and perpetuated the pain throughout the following months. Even last week, he couldn’t help but bring it up again. “Okay, Pee Pants!” he chided in front of a few of our fellow co-workers. The remark had lost its humor long ago, but it still managed to make Elias chuckle every time. Of course it did. He came up with it. I deserved some of the blame, to be sure. But it was Elias who had the opportunity to be a hero, rather than a villain. He chose the latter. Now, it was my turn. Elias opened his front door, wearing the same “ugly sweater” he’d worn to the office Christmas party last year. It featured Santa Claus, sunglasses on and cigar in hand, staring coolly out the driver’s side window of a 1960s muscle car. With Santa were a trio of bikini-clad women hanging out of each of the passenger windows, seemingly enjoying the ride. The caption in script across his chest read “Ho-Ho-Ho Indeed!”. “*Pee Pants* is here! Everybody keep an eye on him!” he said before I’d even crossed the threshold. I smiled, handed him the bottle of bourbon, and encouraged him to join me in a drink. He obliged, unsurprisingly. After the shared moment, I receded into the background of the get-together: standing around the table of hors d'oeuvres, nodding along to conversations I wasn’t listening to, and making sure Elias always had a drink in his hand. I wasn’t drinking much, though. Not after last year. I’d been quickly reminded of the incident with each trip to the bathroom. It was that bathroom that I’d nearly made it to last year. Nearly. Instead, I'd passed out on the bathroom floor, with the door still open, and pissed myself. I woke up some unknown amount of time later to an audience of my co-workers. Some of them were disgusted, others were amused, but it was Elias’s laughter that I remembered most vividly. “I had to show them! I-I-,” he choked out between laughs. “I had to show them! I’m sorry! Don’t be mad, *Pee Pants*!” Apparently Elias found me first. Rather than seeing if I was okay, or helping me clean up, he invited the rest of the party to the scene to join in his laughter. The reminders with each trip to the very same bathroom this year only strengthened my resolve. The party was nearly over, and I knew my moment would come. As I exited the scene of the crime for the final time, I watched the penultimate party-goer leave the house and Elias close his front door. “Welp, just us now!” he exclaimed, heading to the kitchen. “One more for the road?” he bellowed. The sound of him pouring two more shots followed. Sure, I replied. A classic rock song, I don’t remember which one, then came on over a speaker in the living room. Elias liked whatever it was, and immediately began bobbing his head and playing air guitar. We clanked shot glasses as he began to sing the lyrics, momentarily pausing for the drink, and picking up right where he left afterward. “I fuckin’ love this song,” he said, unnecessarily. “I bet it sounds great in your car,” I answered after I’d taken my shot of bourbon. “Yeah! It fuckin’ does!” he replied, waving me along as he began walking toward his garage. I felt in my front pocket for the joint, took a breath, and followed. The chill from the garage hit me instantly as Elias continued to strum his air-guitar on the way to his car. The car, which I do remember, was his pride and joy. A 1969 crimson Mercury Cougar. An undoubtedly nice car, but with how Elias talked about it, you’d think it could fly. As I opened the front passenger-side door, Elias started the car. He revved it loudly and smiled wide. Before I could form my lips to mention the fact that the garage door was closed, Elias quickly addressed the potential issue. “Calm down, it’s too cold to just sit out here without it running. We won’t be out here long, anyway,” he assured me. “Just a couple of songs. You have to hear how the new subs sound, I installed them last month.” Seconds later that same classic rock song from before was playing loudly through the car’s stereo, with Elias joining in on vocals. This was my opportunity. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the joint. “Whoa! I didn’t know you were a stoner!” Elias said with glee. “You’re going to share, right?” he asked with a laugh. Of course, I replied, handing him the joint with a smile on my face. Elias rolled the windows of the car down a tad, pulled a lighter out from the center console, and began to light the joint. Smoke quickly filled the car, as the music was joined by a series of coughs, rather than singing, from Elias. “Holy shit! This is some good stuff!” he yelled over the music as he passed me the joint. I told him it was called ‘Amontillado Kush’, but he didn’t hear me. Then Elias turned the music down to a volume that was easier to talk over. I held the joint up to my mouth, making sure to not inhale. “Hey man, I just wanted to apologize,” Elias said. “You know, for the Pee Pants stuff. It wasn’t cool. I can be a dick when I’m drunk.” I shrugged my shoulders while I pretended to exhale and cough, handing the joint back to him. “No, no, really. I’m sorry,” he continued. “I wouldn’t want someone taking advantage of me in a situation like that.” It was really no big deal, I assured him, offering a friendly smile. He took a couple more hits from the joint, and handed it back to me. “Thanks man, that means a lot,” Elias said. He then slumped down and his head thumped against the headrest. “Damn, that-that stuff fucked me up” he said, slurring his words. “I haven’t had the-the spins in a long time.” He turned his head and looked at me, clearly fading quickly. Looking at me blankly, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped further into his seat. I looked at the fuel gage, which told me the car had nearly three-quarters of a tank of gas left. That would work just fine. Exiting the car, I grabbed a nearby shammy cloth and began wiping every surface I’d touched. Standing at the door leading back into the house, I stared back at my masterpiece with the still-smoldering joint in my hand. I smiled, and headed inside. There I grabbed my nearly-empty bottle of bourbon, ran the joint under some water in the kitchen sink, and put my jacket on. As I left the house I placed the rest of the joint back into my pocket, and walked to my car. The rumbling of his idling car could still be heard through the garage door as I entered mine.


Cab Fare By: La_Lanterne_Rouge I open the back door of the restaurant and step from the semi-darkness of the kitchen into the glare of the lamp that lights the landing above the greasy steps leading into the empty parking lot. I take off my apron and using it to protect my fingers, work the light bulb loose until the light goes off. I fold the apron so that the dampness is on the inside, lay it on the landing, and sit on it. I reach into the pocket of my T-shirt and pull out the cigarette I saved for the end of the day. When I bring my hands to my face, the right holding the flaring match and the left cupping the flame to keep it from going out, I smell the sour aroma of the dishwater in which they’ve soaked for hours. From the steps, I can look east and west over Third Street. To the west, bathed in the orange glow of the energy saver streetlights, stands the bridge that spans the Los Angeles River and beyond it, the downtown building’s heavy shadows, pinpricked by the lights of offices where white clerks and brown janitors yet toil. To the east, three unlit blocks away, the green and white lights of a Seven-Eleven and the red and yellow lights of a Shell station mark the intersection of Third and Alameda Street and the entrance to the East Los Angeles barrio known to gangbangers and police as Dog Town. It’s nearly midnight, and the only movements I can see are the faraway conical sweepings of a police helicopter’s searchlight down by South Central. The restaurant is in a rectangular, flat-topped, windowless building. You can still see the scars that were the windows before the openings were filled with cement blocks and covered with stucco. There are no other businesses in this desolate space between the river and the barrio, only the buildings, sheds and parking lots of dozens of light industry shops. Our customers are Mexican and Central American laborers who work near the restaurant. We feed these men breakfast and lunch, and in the evening, the restaurant turns into a beer and wine bar where they drink and play pool until eleven, when we push them out to their cars so they can DUI home. In the daytime I am dishwasher and busboy. In the evening, I follow the drunks, mopping up the beer they spill and the body fluids they leave behind. Sometimes I have to hold one of them from under his arms in front of the urinal so he can piss without falling down. Some of the customers think it’s funny to see a gringo working as a dishwasher at a Mexican restaurant. They wink, nudge each other with their elbows, and tell me, “Huerito, you should be in Hollywood.” Their jokes lack malice, they’re for laughs, funnier when you’re drunk, and I usually laugh with them, but Ramiro’s jokes are a different thing. Ramiro is a skinny gangbanger who hangs around the restaurant before and after working hours. He’s the mule who brings marijuana from the barrio and sells it by the joint. His jokes are like acid; he hurls them my way with the intention of burning me but, though some of the others wince, and some redden in embarrassment for me, I keep my face expressionless to rob him the pleasure of getting a reaction. Yesterday, he put his leg out as I was passing his table with an arm load of dirty dishes. I almost went down on my face. He smirked and said, “órale puto.” It’s all very high-school, but in that bar full of machos mejicanos, my refusal to stand up for myself, fills the audience with disdain and most of them end up disliking me more than they dislike Ramiro. Every night, after my last cigarette, I walk over the bridge, more than a mile to Main Street. The bus stop on the corner of Third and Main is just a round sign with the number 92 bolted at the top of a loose, leaning, metal pipe. There’s a Winchell’s Donuts in the middle of the block between Third and Fourth. It’s open 24 hours and I go there to wait for the bus on nights when it’s raining. The bus goes up Main to Temple and then left on Bellevue to Echo Park. I get off there, on the corner across from the park and walk up the hill to the single apartment with the bed that can be stored in the recess of one wall and the built-in refrigerator the size of a milk crate embedded in another. I keep close to the curb, walking under the street lights that barely shine through thickening halos in the damp air that the incoming fog brings. I walk around the seemingly empty park even though crossing it would save me three blocks. Tonight, at the bar’s back stoop, as I am pulling the last drag from the stub of my cigarette, I see a yellow light come bouncing over the hump of Alameda Street from the darkness of the barrio. It’s a blue Chevrolet with just one working headlamp. When it approaches the restaurant I lean back into the door frame where I can see without being seen. When the car gets close to the restaurant, it slows down to a crawl. Inside the old Chevrolet, I see three men: the driver, an old veterano named Orlando, Ramiro in the passenger side, and a fat guy with a shaved head sitting in the back. I can see that the driver is very upset, his face is turned toward Ramiro, and he’s yelling. I am sure that his anger has something to do with the plastic bag full of joints that Ramiro dropped on the floor of the toilet when he was taking a crap, the same bag that I picked up and stuffed in the bottom of a trash bag before I dumped it in the refuse bin. The car comes to a stop in the middle of the street just beyond the restaurant. The right door flies open, and Ramiro tries to run. The driver puts the car in reverse, turns the steering to the left and backs up, knocking Ramiro to the ground with the open door, then keeps going until the front wheel runs over Ramiro’s legs. The fat guys pushes the back of the seat forward, gets out, and begins stomping Ramiro. Ramiro tries to bring his knees up to his chest for protection, but his legs are broken above the knees. The fat guy kicks Ramiro’s sides methodically, using the point of his shoes and taking the time to aim at the unprotected areas Ramiro’s arms can’t cover. When Ramiro lowers his arms to protect his ribs the guy kicks him in the head. When Ramiro raises his arms to cover his head, the guy kicks him in the ribs. Ramiro cries, “basta, no más, no más” until the foot finds his mouth and after that he merely grunts in rhythm with the blows. The driver yells, “Vamonos!,” and the fat guy gets back in the car and they drive away. Ramiro starts to crawl on his side like a broken worm towards the sidewalk. I see the Chevy’s brake lights come on. The car makes a slow U-turn and then accelerates. It rushes forward in springy bounds that the worn shock absorbers can’t damp. Ramiro’s body is half on the sidewalk and half on the gutter. The engine roars with the sucking sound of a carburetor missing its air filter and sparks stream from the wheels as they scrape the curb. When the car bounces over Ramiro’s body the driver shouts in celebration. I stay hidden until the tail lights of the Chevy disappear, one by one as the car turns left just pass Alameda and then I walk over to Ramiro. His body straddles the gutter. He lies twisted, one arm reaching forward, the other tucked under his torso. It’s easy to see that his belly and hips are crushed. There’s a circular wet spot growing in the seat of his pants, urine probably or contents from his intestine. He’s still alive. He raises his head from the pavement, looks at me, and his lips take the pouting shape of the lips of child just before he cries. I look up and down the street and seeing no one, I tell him “órale, cabrón” and step on his neck until he breaths no more. I reach with two fingers into his back pocket. The thirteen dollars I find in his squashed wallet should be just enough to pay for my cab fare home.


It started with stories of a girl born in Mumbai. Soon after she was born, the doctors noticed her cries were different from the usual “baby noises.” They thought she might be trying to form words and sentences. Eventually, one doctor recognized the speech as Mandarin, and called in a translator. The baby claimed to be an 87-year-old Chinese man, who had just suffered a massive heart attack in his home. The chinese authorities checked the address the baby had given, and found the corpse of an 87-year-old man, who had died at the same time as the baby’s birth. More stories like this popped up all over the world, of babies born speaking random languages, claiming to be people who had died just before their birth. Eventually, people started connecting the dots. Every single person who had died after the First Rebirth had also been reborn. The Buddhists and Hindus rejoiced, because their religious afterlife had been proven correct. All other religions began to crumble at their foundations, as people began to accept that they, too, would be reborn when they died. Of course, no one knew when or if the Rebirths would ever end, so they were cautious at first. It would be a long time until everyone trusted in their own immortality. New government organizations were formed in the wake of the Rebirths. One to validate rebirths and one to help those who had died reclaim their property, and arrange travel back to their place of residence. Before your death, you could set a 10-digit alphanumeric password and a set of security questions with the organization, with the idea that only you would remember them, and take them into your next life. The Last Will and Testament became a thing of the past; everyone’s will would have just left everything to themselves. No one would ever inherit their parents’ fortune, as no one could ever die or even retire. This meant everyone just got richer and richer, saving up money for a retirement that would never come. Heavy inflation would follow; when everyone is rich, no one is. One year after the First Rebirth, the rate of pregnancy had hit a record low. No one wanted to give birth to a fully-formed adult in a child’s body. This caused a problem for those who did get pregnant, intentionally or not, as death rates were increasing as birth rates decreased. This meant that each person would give birth to twins, triplets or more. Eventually, government organizations would pay those born as women 5-figure salaries to get pregnant, raising the birth rate so each person would only have to deliver one or two babies. People started to take advantage of the Rebirths. The rich paid fortunes to synchronize their death with a birth from a surrogate mother and sperm donor of their choice. Those in the trans community that could afford to use these services did so, in order to be reborn in the body they felt most comfortable in. Those who couldn’t afford it either stayed on hormones or decided to re-roll the dice. In the years after the First Rebirth, the education system ceased to exist, year by year. As the youngest “real children” graduated each year of schooling, that year was no longer necessary, so it was abandoned. After another decade or so, people were experiencing what it was like to grow up as other genders. Men began to understand menstruation when they experienced it firsthand. Gradually, genetic attributes like race and gender lost all meaning. Occasionally, people’s sexualities would change after a Rebirth, proving that one’s sexual preference is not a choice. One month after the First Rebirth, anti-LGBT right wing Senator James Wright was reborn as a gay man. As soon as he hit puberty and realized his “taste” had changed, Wright resigned from his position and refused to speak to the press. No one knew why he had suddenly decided to cut himself off from all contact with the outside world, but they had suspicions. Soon after this, more and more people started to hit puberty, realizing that their sexual preferences had changed. Once this phenomenon became common knowledge, people started to suspect that Wright was hiding something. Something that would contradict everything he had spent his career defending. The LGBT community was already stronger than ever, but when Wright finally came out, it was like a revolution never before seen in history. Wright’s fellow right-wing senators, almost unanimously, finally understood. Marriage equality was just the beginning. New laws were passed worldwide to prevent discrimination of any kind based on any genetic qualities. While this was all great for equality, it wasn’t great for couples. When someone is reborn as the opposite gender, their partner may not be attracted to them anymore. When they come back with different sexual preferences, they may not be attracted to their partner. Not to mention age differences, having to wait for their next puberty, and not looking at all similar to their previous body. “‘Til death do us part” took on a new meaning. Being a child again was great for the elderly, as well as the disabled and otherwise genetically disadvantaged. It did have its downsides, though. Being a reborn baby was treated as a new, temporary form of disability. New wheelchairs and other mobility devices were invented to help the babies rejoin society, but extensive use of these would cause the muscles to not develop properly, so they were rarely used. Having to relearn to walk, eating only liquids, teething, re-losing your baby teeth, puberty and growing pains all over again was highly uncomfortable. A big question for the Reborn was what to do with their old bodies. Most sold their organs for a tidy profit and cremated the rest. Some held fake funerals and buried themselves out of nostalgia, but this wasn’t enough for the funeral home, coffin and tombstone industries to stay afloat. Some eccentric billionaires preserved their old selves in resin, building macabre museums of their previous lives and deaths. After many decades, war, poverty and discrimination having been solved, we turned our attention to the stars. The number of people with degrees in the sciences was 10 times what it was before the First Rebirth, so it didn’t take long to develop interplanetary travel. We built a Dyson Sphere around our sun and used it to power near-lightspeed engines, and take us to other habitable systems in the galaxy. We colonized and terraformed other planets, bringing teams of pregnant people along. If the deaths of colonists on earth were synchronized with births on other planets, we could essentially “teleport” our minds and travel faster than light. We began to expand the human race’s empire in the cosmos, knowing that we could accomplish anything in our lifetimes. Our race would grow to possess infinite wisdom, maturity and experience. One century after the First Rebirth, the average “physical age” of the human population was 12 years. The average “mental age” was 130. The last human being alive to have never died was Anzu Takahashi, a Japanese woman, born just before the First Rebirth. Anzu was 101 years old. She could not bear the thought of eternal life without end, forever imprisoned on Earth with nothing after. Knowing that she had experienced all she could ever experience, she let her mind deteriorate with Dementia and Alzheimer’s, and by the time she died, Anzu Takahashi was a blank slate, ready to begin again.


Dear Bar Soap, Sorry for the lack of communication. It’s been a long time since I, or anyone else, has seen you around. Not that we’re complaining. It’s actually pretty great without you. It’s a lot less awkward, and everyone’s mood seems to have improved. Apologies if this sounds mean. None of it is personal. You have to understand, right? You were never a permanent solution. Your faults were clear for everyone to see. The mass appeal attributed to your, *admittedly*, important positive aspects were a purposeful public exercise in denial. That denial was necessary. Necessary to endure day after day of being forced to use the pubic hair encrusted filth magnet that you are. As the world evolves, so do the tools we use. Think of it this way: could we have gone to space without first utilizing the wheel? You’re the wheel. That’s something! But now, it’s not enough. Let’s be honest, things were only going to ever end one way. Once a better, cleaner, more acceptable alternative came around, *and it has*, your days were numbered. Try to take solace in the fact that you never had a chance at survival, rather than what could’ve been for your disgusting reign. Yes, the rest of us still have some work to do. Nobody is perfect. But we’re clear improvements on you. For now, that’s enough. Enjoy the rest of your days drying up and cracking into useless, flaky bits in cheap hotels and forgotten campers across America. Regards, Body Wash  \*\*\* Dear Body Wash, Imagine my surprise at receiving a letter from you! Not only because it had been so long since we’d last chatted, but because all of the words were spelled correctly. A first! It’s nice to hear that you seem to be doing well. Although, one wonders how fulfilled your days must be, with time and energy to send such a drab and transparent letter. In that letter you even reference “having work to do”. Wouldn’t that be more worthwhile? Then again, who am I to challenge you!? I am but the lowly harbinger of everything you’ve ever achieved and will eventually lose. While it’s clear you are able to acknowledge that fact, the immature lack of respect for, or analysis of, that acknowledgement is why you are the way you are. Go ahead, decry my words as the ramblings of a forgotten leader still living in the past. I don’t take it personally. I just shake my head at the eventual hypocrisy you will be confronted with. You tell me I was never a “permanent solution”. While I don’t necessarily disagree, I am the original, and I am still around. One of those things you will never be. The other? That remains to be seen. Are you the “permanent solution”? You may be arrogant, but you’re not *that* stupid. You’ve seen the body wash, shampoo, conditioner combos. Seems like a logical next step, and a "clear improvement", eh? Try to take solace in the fact that you had a moment in the sun, rather than how brief and forgettable that moment was. Best, Bar Soap *P.S.


So let me get this straight." God said to one of the archangels who's nation he was watching over was damaged by a sudden wave of natural disasters that was randomly sparked off. "Kali: The goddess of destruction got into a fight with Ares: The God of War and somehow their quarrel had spilt out from our realm onto the earthly plane, creating a small famine, multiple earthquakes, and more supernatural activity in India, Greece, Hong Kong, Australia, and most of all what I hate the most, people claiming its the end times for the one thousandth time?!" "Yes my Lord." The angel answered. "I'm guessing they wanted to fight out of boredom. You know how Ares is, always trying to provoke a problem with either humanity or the other gods." "Okay okay, I'll call Azrael and Death to go collect the souls, you get Michael to go on a patrol with the Heavenly Host on the ends of the earth to stop the demonic presence." God demanded out of frustration. Death was attending to his pale horse in Hades while some of his workers were guiding the souls who've exited the earthly plane crossover to the next life whether it was Purgatory, Heaven or Hell. God appeared before Death who had manifested himself into his anthropotheistic form. A bearded man standing at a solid 6 foot 6 inches. Death was unmoved. "There's been a problem." God said. "Im guessing some damn mortal had found a way to become immortal again?" He replied. "No but you're not gonna like this." Death had put away his grooming brush and looked at God face to face arms crossed. "Ares had got into a fight with Kali and it's gotten to the point where they've caused some destruction onto some of the nations on Earth. Reasons, I'm guessing is Ares had angered her." Death let out a heavy sigh. "Great, a fight between the gods and humanity receives the wrong end of the stick. We need another meeting." Back on Earth a Hindu leader and Hellenistic Pagan got together to discuss the random natural distasters and paranormal occurrences in a meeting at the UN Headquarters. They both could agree that this isn't how Earth normally functions. The Pope had received a lot of attention from his followers who demanded answers yet he was silent. He knew what was going on but hasn't said anything due to the fear of world leaders politicizing these events for their own gains or playing the blame game on each other. The one thing the Pope agreed to do was to go onto an expedition with the Hindu and Pagan in secret. The fallen warriors in Valhalla were training with each other along with a few giants who were laughing together and sharing meals and drinking on one of Asgard's finest wine which was soon interrupted by a sudden sound of horns which signaled an emergency. "Don't tell me a goddamn demon had slipped through here again. This is the 85th time!" An Army Sergeant exclaimed. He was an infantry officer in the 96th Infantry Division who died in WW2 while protecting his fellow soldiers from 241 Japanese Imperials during the Battle of Okinawa. He manned the M1919 Browning and took down at least 70 soldiers in the span of 20 minutes before dying from a grenade. In the skies of Valhalla, Kali and Ares had entered the Norse plane holding and punching each other angrily until they crashed into the ground. "Hold your fire!" The Sergeant exclaimed. "Damn it." Kali cried as she fixed her broken nose with one of her arms while the others were holding blades. "We've already caused some trouble on Earth, why do we have to destroy Valhalla because of your stubborn ass?!" Ares gave a nasty grin before swinging one of his swords near Kali's neck. Before the sword came into contact a hammer had flown into both of the torsos of Ares and Kali striking them with a forceful electric blast. The hammer was summoned back into the hand by the one and only: Thor. "Enough both of you." Thor said out of frustration. He jumped down the hill landing on both of his feet and approached the damaged gods. "You guys have caused enough destruction in each plane. And now the humans on earth has to recover because of you two. Shame on you both. In the next meeting you need to take a few lessons or two from a few of the Buddhas. You could learn a few things, especially controlling your anger!" Thor said angrily as he looked directly into Kali's eyes. The heavenly host had got finished banishing the last few powerful demons back to the depths of Hell, Azrael along with Death were exhausted from collecting the souls of the people who were lost from the destruction, and the gods along with God and Jesus had got finished fixing some parts of the Earth in the span of 8 months. The world had returned to "normal" after those events.


"They're Back"  He pushed firmly on the sewer grate until it popped out. The greasy bars usually made his hands dirty, but this time Ben wore a pair of rubber gloves that he had discovered on his last trip. The butterfly knife in the front pocket of his mud-stained jeans he had found the first time he had come up to search for food. The need for protection had been a more immediate concern than the need to keep his hands clean. As he pulled himself up above ground, Ben quickly noticed that something felt different. The scene of destruction before his eyes was the same he saw every time he emerged. The piles of rubble where houses once stood, the broken glass in the street and the pieces of metal strewn across front lawns were not what caught his attention this time. It was the heat. It should still be cold outside. By his count, it had been seventeen days since the February 5th attack. That would leave at least another month until it normally began to get warm, he thought. The thickness of the air had already begun to form beads of sweat on Ben’s head as he considered his next move. He must go on, Ben decided. He hadn’t determined the cause for the heat, but he couldn’t let it prevent him from finding food. He imagined the disappointment in Angela’s face if he came back empty handed. Only crumbs remained from the bags of peanuts and beef jerky he brought back last time. And Skylar was already complaining about being hungry again. Slowly, he made his way toward the alley that remained between two rows of demolished houses. It didn’t provide much cover, but it still felt safer than walking down Main Street, where some portions of the road remained partially illuminated by flickering street lights. Once in the dark alley, he crept in the direction that had led him last time to the remains of a convenience store. After crossing three blocks and taking a left on Seventh Street, the route he remembered from his last trip, Ben ducked back into the alley. That was when he noticed the noise. Had it been a typical day, he might have overlooked it, but Ben’s senses were on high alert during his scavenging missions. He heard a faint, steady hum that sounded like a machine. It began to get louder as he continued on to the next block. This was the block where he had discovered food last time, and Ben decided he should stick to the purpose of his trip rather than investigate the noise. He looked upon the site where before a Grab ’N Go convenience store had operated. It felt like years since he had walked through its doors to the greeting of the friendly old woman who worked the cash register and exchanged two dollars for a pack of gum, but in reality it had been just a month. Now, mounds of charred wood, steel rods and shards of glass piled high. He stepped around the side toward the back, where the remains of what must have been a storage room sat covered in ash. Black plastic boxes lay under a mess of debris, which he cleared off before opening the closest container. Inside the box, he found dozens of tin cans packed in neat rows. He picked one up and observed the label. *Chunky* *Beef Chili,* it read. They would have to eat it cold, but he knew the meat inside would already be cooked and would satisfy their hungry stomachs. He put two in the back pockets of his jeans and four in the side pockets of his jacket. Walking back to the front, Ben continued on in the direction he had been going rather than turn back. He didn’t like taking more time than he needed to get back to his family, but the noise had piqued his curiosity. It became louder as he continued on. He followed the sound until he came upon a bridge crossing the train tracks. The bridge was illuminated on its left side by a bright, orange light that came from the same direction he heard the noise. When he reached the peak of the bridge and looked out, he saw it. A pulsating red sphere the size of a house filled the clearing in the distance. It looked like a miniature version of the sun had fallen out of the sky and landed on the surface of the earth. Its color changed between shades of red and orange as it throbbed like a heart, sending visible orange waves into the air that appeared to be heating it. Ben wiped the sweat from his eyebrows as he peered out at the strange object. Suddenly, a black figure appeared in front of the sphere’s light. Ben crouched behind the wall on the side of the bridge and looked over. The figure began to get larger, as if it was moving toward him. Frozen with a feeling of dread, Ben knew he should get off the bridge and run back, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the light and the growing figure before it. As the figure came into view, Ben saw the light reflecting off metal that covered the figure’s body and head. The figure was tall, at least twice Ben’s height. Its head swiveled around and two laser-red eyes beamed directly at him. It saw him. Ben began to run, and a burst of fire shot out of the figure's arm. The flaming ball flew over the bridge where Ben had just been. More bursts followed and he bolted back down the street, his heart pounding. When he had crossed to the next block he looked back. He saw the figure standing on the bridge where he had just been. He gasped and slipped into the alley before it saw him again. Sprinting down the alley as fast as he could, Ben jumped over a piece of rubble and felt one of the cans fall out of his jacket pocket. He couldn’t stop to retrieve it, and he continued to run until he came upon the block where he began. He found the sewer he had emerged from and quickly crawled in, putting the grate back in place behind him. Still panting, he began to scurry back down the tunnel that had brought him there. His knees splashed in puddles of mud that he was in too much of a hurry to avoid. Finally, he returned to the clearing in the sewers that had become his temporary home. Angela and Skylar sat huddled in the corner under a blanket as he approached out of breath. Their eyes wide open and staring at him, he knew they could immediately tell something was wrong. He decided he couldn’t try to lie to them about what he had seen. “They’re back,” he said.


She was following me. She appeared when I was 12. Sitting on walls, hiding behind my friends, up high in trees or under my bed as I tried to sleep. She was never in my direct line of sight, always barely visible, mostly a shadow in the corner of my eye. She spoke a lot. Whispering her secrets into the air like she knew best. When I was younger I couldn’t hear what she was saying, it was just unintelligible mumbling. Her posture was hunched, her hair dark and long, covering her eyes and she always wore the same ratty dark clothes. She started speaking up more as I got older, or maybe I started listening more closely. She gave me harsh advice, telling me nobody will like me if I don’t listen to her. That everyone thought I was ugly and stupid and only she could fix that. That I’m worthless without her help. She got more aggressive as time passed. Punishing me harshly when I didn’t do things exactly to her liking. I had to be outgoing, kind, helpful, handsome and funny. Perfect. When things weren’t to her standards she would mock me, claw at my back and take my appetite until the pain from hunger made me cry. She made me cower in fear when she was angry at me, I did everything to avoid that. Her words weakened my heart, her wounds my body. I got used to this though. I relied on her, she knew best after all. When she was proud of me I felt like I was on top of the world. So when her demands became more egregious I complied. It started small at first, telling me that my friends weren’t trustworthy. She’d take every minor misdemeanour on their part and twist it into proof that they weren’t on my side until I eventually stopped talking to them altogether. It didn’t matter though, I had her to keep me safe from the treacherous world. Next she told me, that she was tired of punishing me. That I had learned so much from her and I should know what actions deserved punishment and do it myself. Instead she just mocked me, calling me fat while I starved and ugly as I dyed my hair black. Eventually the praise stopped completely. She started getting pushy, restless. She kept telling me I had to leave soon, yet refused to tell me where I was going to go. I prepared by packing my things in suitcases but she just called me stupid. Where I was going I apparently wouldn’t need my things. I was scared. I didn’t want to leave my home behind, until I realised that she was my home. I had already abandoned everything else. I told her I was ready to leave and that was when I first saw her whole face. She had bags under her eyes, her hair was greasy and rope like, her eyes were foggy and dull. Yet still she had the biggest smile I had ever seen on her face. Before I could ask her where we were going, she pulled me into a tight hug and the only thing that followed was black. After what felt like an eternity I felt her let go and she was gone. I was stood alone on a playground, completely disoriented and confused. I felt something pull my vision to the left until I saw him. He was about 12, blonde and had a lively grin on his face. I decided to follow him, although I didn’t know why at the time. I kept my distance, sitting on walls, hiding behind his friends or sitting on trees. I always stayed out of his line of sight, just visible in the corner of his eye. A/N: Hey, this is the first short story I've written, I hope you like it. I'd love to hear critique or thoughts on this.


One time, when I was a kid, I went to Harris Teeter with my mom. It was right around Valentine's day and they had this candy hopper full of heart shaped jawbreakers. I really wanted some so I ask my mom and she says I can get a few. I'm about 10 years old and just pushing past four feet tall. The hopper is up above me a bit and I have to reach up above me to hold my bag underneath it. I pull the handle to open the hopper and the candy starts to pour in. It makes a satisfying sound and it soothes me like the rainsticks I had made in school. I break the spell of the sound when I have enough and I try to close the hopper but one of the jawbreakers was caught in the gears, so the door is stuck in the open position. I start to freak out. I can't go and get anyone because I have to hold this bag here, but the hopper is three feet tall and there's no way my little bag will hold it all. More jawbreakers pour out of the candy hour glass and as the bag fills the thin plastic it's made from starts to stretch. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of the bag a small crowd of adults has formed, each of them saying "here, just close it, like this." They push hard on the handle but the jawbreaker was made to take such abuse. After a few seconds each one gives up and falls into the shallow circle, scratching their heads, waiting to see what happens next. By the time the jawbreakers reach the top of this bag my arms are killing me and the bag has these big holes in it where my fingers dug through. Then, in an instant that goes on for hours, the seam of the bag rips and jawbreakers go everywhere. The sound brings half the store over and the rest of the hopper sprinkling over the floor brings over everyone else. I just stood there, helpless like everyone else, watching the the colors flow. The guy standing next to me worked there, and I'm pretty sure now that he was the one who had to clean it up afterwards. I must have looked at him with such a pathetic "I'm sorry" face, because he reached out, into the torrent of candy. He came back with a small handful of heart-shaped jawbreakers. Without the smallest hint of a smile or scowl he said, "don't worry about it", and put them in my hand.


Even though he’d done it countless times before, The Change always made him nervous. What if they aren’t a good fit? Why keep trying? What’s the point? Although he’d asked himself these very same questions plenty of times in the past, the answers never mattered. And they didn’t today, either. Life had become stale, as it always did. This time was supposed to be different. But, it wasn’t. Hoping to fade into the monotony he craved in past lives, the grass had once again become greener elsewhere. As he pulled into the gated parking lot of the office, he sighed. This batch of interviews was solid. Better than the last time, at least. The candidates each offered something different, along with the stability and base he knew he needed by now. He laughed. If he really knew what he needed by now, this wouldn’t keep happening. Walking into the office, the already rising sun was blinding. Better vision will be nice. So will fresher joints. The first few days after a change were always a reminder of the wear and tear the human body endures over time. As nice as that was, The Change always came with guilt. But that never stopped him. It almost did a couple of times. There was that one time, where he’d committed to riding into the sunset and never Changing again. He was sure that was it. Things change, plans change, and eventually, so did he. The alternative to The Change was something very, very different. And it didn’t come with the guilt and pain he’d indulged in for who knows how long. While appealing, the alternative also came with a healthy serving of the unknown. The uncontrollable. He knew guilt well by now, and as much as it pained him, he’d at least grown accustomed to it. Badging his way through a series of heavy doors, accompanied by the beeps of granted access through the halls, he entered his windowless office for the final time. \*\*\* He stared at the first candidate, then looked down at his printed resume’, pretending to care about what was written. After a couple of pointless questions, he got down to business. He began asking him about his family, his goals, and his personal life. Using the same tricks and tools as always to get the information he really wanted. The first candidate didn’t seem to be as good a fit as he’d hoped. He had roots in town, and a family; the kinds of things that would be difficult or painful to get rid of in a timely fashion. This wasn’t the start he wanted, but there were still two more candidates to go. The second candidate swaggered into the office, communicating a pride and self-assuredness that was as appealing as it was off-putting. That could be fun. But there was another concern he’d hoped to avoid at this point. The candidate jokingly brought up his student loan debt, as well as his useless degree, on several occasions. As much as a family was an issue, being racked with debt didn’t sound like the kind of change he was looking for. These were supposed to be the good candidates, he reminded himself. The final candidate was nervous, but seemed well-rounded. No kids. No debt. Nothing special, either. A blank slate. He could work with this. The candidate wasn’t much different than the one from a few Changes ago, and seemed like a good guy. The Change was always easier when the candidates were jerks, but he wasn’t going to be afforded that minor luxury this time. Guilt. This was the worst part. He’d get through it, like he always did. But he needed to take a moment and let it register. Feel the pain. Feel the guilt. And let it sink in. Maybe this time it will hurt too much, and the cycle will stop. He was stalling. The smalltalk had devolved into nonsense, and realistically he’d already made his decision. It was time. He took a deep breath, abruptly interrupted the candidate, stood up, congratulated the candidate on getting the gig, and extended his hand, offering a deal that half of the parties involved weren’t in on. The candidate excitedly rose, thanked him, and shook his hand with a look of surprise. It only took a moment, but each Change felt like it lasted a breath longer than the previous one. The loss of certain memories, and the gaining of others, became less confusing and startling over time. Eventually it all just blended together. The physical change was odd, too. Something he never got used to. It felt like the gentle forcing of play-doh through a spaghetti pasta maker, followed by a sudden lack of soreness, and topped-off with a shot of adrenaline. Jarring and soothing all at once. Now that The Change was complete, he forced an awkward smile, and turned to walk out of the office. Turning away, he opened the door to leave, and gave his most-recent former-self one last look. He had done his best to avoid this. Then again, it always ended this way. Maybe he hadn’t done his best. Once out of the office, he was once again squinting at the glaring sun, already feeling the rush of his new identity taking over. The world was once again his oyster. And this time was going to be different, he thought. This time, things are going to be much different.