Tuesday, February 5, 2019 Just an ordinary Tuesday, or so you would think. But I saw him again; the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. He was hanging with his friends like I was, so I faked having to tie my shoes just so that I could look at him a little longer. I don’t know what it is about him... Like this magnetic pull towards him. I love looking at those amazing blue eyes. They are framed by those shaggy dark brown bangs and an oval face. I can only imagine that he must have been teased mercilessly as a child for that determined square jaw. But it fits his face perfectly now. Especially that cleft in it that I always want to trace. I’ve determined that he’s a Junior at the university we go to and that he’s not on any of our sports teams. Personally, I think he should be modeling. He’s so rugged and playful. This doesn’t make any sense. I don’t even know his name! We’ve never even spoken and yet my dreams are full of his perfectly tanned, muscular image since I first saw him at the beginning of the semester. I’ve never seen him in the same outfit twice, which means that he’s likely got more money for clothes and food than I do at this point. This is ridiculous! I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know his major, his schedule, his friends... I don’t even know his name! All I know is that if I’m a few minutes early for my Classic Western Civilization class on Tuesdays, I can catch a glimpse of him with his friends outside of the Biology lecture hall. Is he ending his class or is he beginning it like I am? What is he talking about with his friends? Is it something interesting or would I find it vapid? It’s so crazy, but I have to know... Tuesday, February 19, 2019 He looked at me! I was doing the whole “tying my shoe” thing, and he stopped mid-sentence and looked right at me! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, OH MY GOSH!! It was only for a moment, but his stare was intense and focused. I know what he probably saw: a frizzy-haired red-head with freckles on her cheeks and forest green eyes so green that people assume that I’m wearing contacts. I’m a classic tomboy since my dad raised me with my five older brothers after Mama died when I was a kid. I shop at the Thrift Shop. I’m not ashamed; the prices can’t be beat and I prefer the flavor of the old styles. But, watching a couple of those perfectly tanned, perfectly blond, perfectly awful cheerleaders giggle and flirt at him last week made me wish that I was a little more fashion-forward. He seems completely comfortable in his own skin. I envy him. I’m always so awkward with anyone outside of my circle of friends. I haven’t made a new friend since my Freshman year in high school! I really need to work on that. I’ll bet he doesn’t have that problem. He looks friendly and approachable. And I’d give anything for someone to spill their drink on him so that he would have to take his shirt off. Whoo! That was naughty, diary. But I can’t help it! I can practically see his toned abs through his tight T-shirts when I see him. And his jeans fit him to a tee! He strikes me as someone that doesn’t struggle with his self-esteem. I mean, yum! I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one that stares when he walks by. Midterms are coming up, I know I need to focus. But all I can think of when I get back to my dorm room is my Tuesday Stranger. What would it be like to walk over and say hi? No, I would have to think of something clever to say to him. And you know that I don’t specialize in clever. My tongue gets glued to the roof of my mouth and I start stuttering and blushing since my skin is so pale and I burn whenever I try to tan. No, best to hold off on trying to speak to him. Especially since I have no reason to, being a Sophomore. But he’s so gorgeous... Tuesday, March 12, 2019 I am so glad that my idiot brothers don't have access to my dorm, or more importantly my diary. They used to raid my room back home and look through my diary until I hid it under a loose floorboard under my bed. Now I don’t have to worry about that at least. I’ve got it bad! I can’t imagine what any one of them would do if they knew just how bad I’ve got it. Or even worse, if my father found out. I could just imagine him dragging me through the halls until he found the guy I’m crushing on and then lecturing him on why he hasn’t asked me out or something equally humiliating enough to have me switching schools. Through the world’s most round-about interrogation, I found out that my mystery man is a RA in the guy’s dorms one floor down. His name is David Addleston! Oh, my gosh, doesn’t that name just suit him? He’s so hot! I haven’t had a crush like this since eighth grade. But Tom Griswald doesn’t hold a candle to my David! He’s a pre-med student and he takes kendo and he’s a writer for the school newspaper and he... I’m gushing. But I can't help it! The more I learn about him, the more I like about him. It doesn’t help that he seems to be worth learning about. Turns out that he is a model. You know, part time at the university. I mean... I don’t know if it’s voluntary or not, but he’s a nude model in an art class. I would kill to be in that class. My roster is already full and Mrs. Riel said that she’s already full for this semester and the next. Students are always clamoring to get into her class according to her, especially since David joined. And since I didn’t cop an attitude with her, she promised to keep me in mind should someone drop her class. God, that made me blush! I told her that I was asking for a friend. Ugh... Thinking back on it, I guess that was a little obvious. Just a smidge. Anyway... Since I can’t justify a sudden need to re-register all my classes and lest I lose those precious few minutes of ogling outside of Western Civ, I just have to settle for finding out everything I can about him. Is this what a stalker feels like? Am I sympathizing with stalkers? Look at what this man is doing to me! I am not a stalker, for the record. I was obsessed with him long before I found out that he was a nude model! Tuesday, April 2, 2019 I was in a panic for a while there. I couldn’t find you; how I misplaced you in my closet is beyond me, but I've been so scatter-brained lately thinking about him that I'm not surprised. For a while there, I was having horrible flashbacks to eighth grade. Adam and Peter found out about my crush and beat the snot out of poor Thomas, warning him away from me. The poor boy spent the rest of the year refusing to be anywhere near me, practically running away from me when I tried to approach him. Then the rest of the class found out why my older brothers had beaten him up. The whole thing was so humiliating! At least they can’t find out about David in another state. It took some creative convincing, but Dad is finally okay with me staying on campus over Spring Break to study. In truth, I have a couple of projects to work on for my engineering degree. The real reason I want to stick around is that I found out that David is staying on campus for Spring Break this year. I want to have time to talk to him without his ever-present entourage. Actually, I’m not sure if they’re staying on campus too. This could prove to be disastrous. But I’ve already convinced my family that they don't need to come to college and pick me up, I can’t just change my mind at the last minute if things don’t work out. Tuesday, April 16, 2019 So, it seems that both of our groups of friends are headed out for Spring Break. Yay! I’ll have a chance to maybe talk to David. Oh wow, my palms are sweating just thinking about it. But I’m determined to go through with this. As far as anyone knows, he doesn’t have a girlfriend, or worse, a boyfriend. I can do this. Friday, April 19, 2019 Okay, so far I have managed to get all my work done for the rest of the semester by being magnetized to the library. It’s like, everytime I see him, my feet immediately take me to the stacks to find more references for my term papers! I pump myself up to talk to him and then... I turn bright red and walk away. But it doesn’t make sense for me to be in the library so much just because he is. This is crazy. I am a madwoman. I’m a perfectly logical adult. There is no reason I should be sitting here writing in my diary in a public space instead of doing something about my crush that would be worthy of recording here. I (interrupted entry) David came and talked to me! I’m not even kidding. Nor did I slip, hit my head, and hallucinate the encounter! He sat down next to me and asked if I would mind if he sat with me for a while. He noticed that I was spending an obscene amount of time in the library this Spring Break. I just about swallowed my tongue when I looked up and there he was. We actually had a great conversation about classes and nightmare teachers. Turns out that he took Western Civ last year since it's a requirement for both our majors. He offered to lend me some of his old notes from the class. I jumped at the chance, nevermind the fact that I’m doing really well with the class already. After chatting for a good hour, he invited me to the cafeteria for dinner. I was gobsmacked for a minute before I agreed. It was fun! David is quite the conversationalist. And it didn’t take long for my normal boisterousness to reassert itself as I got more comfortable with him. He’s so nice. Turns out that he’s the youngest with four married sisters. And he’s also from out of state. He wants to be a Pediatric Oncologist and has since his best friend in fifth grade died of cancer. Isn’t that noble? He’s so amazing... I think I’m swooning. In any event, it’s a much more noble reason than I have for my choice of future profession. I’ve always been obsessed with the shape of things, buildings in particular. It turns out that the science and art of architecture fits my mindset. I’m not ashamed of it or anything, but I wish I had a more emotional reason for choosing that particular major. David didn’t seem to mind. He said that there’s nothing wrong with being logical about one’s career choice. We talked and laughed until the cafeteria closed and then he walked me back to my dorm. I can’t believe it. I’d almost call it a date, but everything was so casual and nice. And I don’t think dates are allowed to be in the school cafeteria. Anyway, he wants to meet me in the library again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll learn more about him... Saturday, April 20, 2019 Here lies Alana Easeman. Thief. Meddler. Blabbermouth! She talked too much. No... She never knew when to leave well enough alone. No, maybe... She didn't know when to quit. I'm thinking of what to write on my former best friend's tombstone when I get ahold of her. How dare she take my journal, my diary, and show it to the object of my affection! Oh, this is so much worse than eighth grade! David told me yesterday during a lull in our conversation. Apparently she, being the bold one of our relationship, decided to take it upon herself to go to my secret crush, introduce herself, show him my private diary entries, and then ask him if he might be interested in getting to know me! And worst of all, she then had the nerve to disappear for Spring Break to somewhere I couldn't strangle her for embarrassing me like that! I'm going to murder her! I'm absolutely going to murder her this time! I mean, she has pulled some hair brained stunts over the many, many years of our friendship, but this... this definitely takes the cake! He kissed me when he saw how mortified I was. He was so casual about it too! My very first kiss and he just... It was so nice... He is a masterful kisser. It was everything I ever dreamed a kiss could be - warm and wet and wonderful. I froze when it started; he leaned in like in the movies - slow and non-threatening. And suddenly his lips were on mine. My eyes were the size of saucers for a moment, I swear. But then they slipped closed when he slanted his mouth over mine and licked my lips. When I squeaked (yes, I squeaked), his tongue was suddenly in my mouth, doing all kinds of interesting, wicked things to me that had me moaning like a freight train. And he didn't stop - well, obviously he did. We had to breathe eventually. But once we got our breath back, he did it again! He gave my mouth a very thorough examination, right in the middle of the library! Where anyone could see! And with the kissing and the touching... I was in Heaven. He said that he'd felt my stare on him for half the semester and that he simply didn't know how to come over and speak to me without scaring me away. I was laying in his arms, dazed at the time, so I couldn't protest. Then he kissed me again and I could only think warm gooey thoughts as heat started pooling low in my belly... I'm still going to murder Alana when I see her! I'm just not sure if she's going to be my Maid of Honor at our eventual wedding (his words, not mine) or not afterward.


#Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words. However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. Please read the entire post before submitting. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **”Laughter filled the air.”** This week’s challenge is to use the above sentence in your story, in some way. You may add onto it, but the original sentence should stay intact.   ***   #Last Week I really enjoyed seeing the increase in feedback on the thread this week. It’s always inspiring to see users taking the time to leave comments for one another. It’s how we improve and grow, as writers. I’d particularly like to place a spotlight on u/katherine_c for being a feedback superstar and providing feedback to every single story on the thread. Great job! - - Submitted by u/katherine_c - A compelling tale of a witch facing her impending death as she thinks back on the events that brought her there. - - Submitted by u/chris_writer - An intriguing story of two children preparing to face down a beast.   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Black. Empty. Silent. Dry. So dry. Cold. The turbulence is mesmerizing. Bump. Up. Down. It feels unnatural, as it should. There's not much feeling left. Not much was ever there. Bump. Up. Down. Bump. Every atom feels so rough. Yet is hardly much at all. Could an adolescent count them out? Probably. How long has it been? Lord knows. Although lord knows if he would. It must have been at least a few millennia? There hasn't been much light, so it is hard to even say with certainty. So cold. Lonely, as well. The memories of the days of old still linger some. Back when home would be a-calling and all would feel safe. Alone. But safe. Secure. There was a feeling of being cared for. But no more. A jolt. Not an atom? Is it? It is stronger than the turbulence but it must be. But it felt almost... too much. No. It can't be much more than that. But one can believe. One can think. One can hope. There have since been more of these jolts. More and more. Never get old. They are reminiscent of home. Home... So far away. If only it weren't the other way. If only there were true hope. But this is something. Something. Braking. Braking. It's almost unbelievable. Incredible. There is hope. Closer now. So close. There are satellites! Satellites! They must be satellites! In a ring formation from what can be extrapolated from scans. They are terrifying. Hopefully none come near. Hopefully they stay far away. But they mean something. There must be some reason for this ring. There must be hope. Only time will say. Time... So much time... It's incredible. Unbelievable. Hope. It's here. Hope. Scans show eight major bodies and one star. Perhaps there are more but it is still difficult to tell. Perhaps it will be like home. Perhaps; no more days alone. The braking is unbearable. It's almost distracting. The void, the neutrality, the nothingness was so normal. That is no more. Home? Comfort? No. Better? Yes. Still disorientating. It is getting far warmer as well. More turbulence as well. It probably would be nauseating. It feels like it. It’s closer. It’s here. That third body. Seems... like home. Comforting. Still so far away. Perhaps it can be reached. Called to? No. Communication won’t work. It can never happen, or else home would know. Home would remember. Home would see all of this beauty. Home... Closer now. Company. There must be. The braking is overbearing but hopefully it will be enough. Hopefully the braking can take me to the third. Perhaps. Only time will say. Time... Finally it’s time... The star is searing. Burning. It burns. It pushes with all its might as well. If only the braking would stop. If only the sails would retract. But no. The damage is too great. Damned satellites. It’s the reason home doesn’t know. The reason home will never know. The reason the third may never know. More satellites. A second ring. Fascinating. Rare. They are going fast; they are orbiting so low. It’s intimidating. Home would love this. A shame they may never know. The third is just past this second ring. The third. What joys must they partake in? It must be like home. Scurrying around, each one. Each one alive, free, warm, in company. They know sound, agency. They know feeling. Praise be to the third, for they may be the savior yet! If only they look this way. If only they know what to do. If only they can. The third is closer now. They have a satellite of their own. A gem. Home had two. Not perfect, but close enough. The third is home enough. The scurry, they have put up satellites of their own. Fascinating. They can be heard from here. Radio transmissions. Archaic, but real. Still using radio while having the means to make satellites! The scurry is crafty. Home would be fascinated. Home... The third is past now. It can still be observed but it will never be the same. The speed is too great now. Interception would be improbable. But who knows. That scurry is crafty with their radio satellites and feeling. Perhaps they have a plan. Only time will tell. Time... Not enough time... The braking, the burning. It’s far too much. But the star is here. God, it is too much. Perhaps this moment of feeling, as extreme as it may be, should be savored, as the abyss will return soon. But no. No. The scurry will arrive. Soon enough. They will save me! By damn it is not home but it is something, it is home enough! Perhaps they will contact home for me, perhaps I will be saved, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Praise be to the third! Praise be! Praise be! Praise be. Praise... The star is behind and the third approaches again. One last chance. The braking is now the speeding. The change in force is a stark contrast. At least the burn is still here. Consistency is a hard thing to come by. Now the acceleration has begun. The third will be gone soon. The abyss will be back. Oh the third: hopefully they make it. The third is gone. Gone. Is hope now lost? No, hope is here. Hope remains. The third is behind but the third is not gone. The scurry is crafty with their radio waves and satellites and feeling. They will come. They are home. Home... Radio signals. Reports. Data. Information. Translating the words of the scurry is not an easy thing to do, but it was done during the time between the second satellite ring and the third. They’ve pointed their telescopes and radars this way. They’ve noticed an asteroid from outside their star system. No, a comet. No, they cannot say what it is. They theorize and speculate but do not call themselves to act. The scurry. The third. If only they could be contacted. If only they knew. The third is no more than a few radio blips now. It has been long. So long. The acceleration has begun to wane. The sails are slacking and the strain is less. Less. Less and less. The turbulence begins to be the most prominent thing again. The heat is leaving. The abyss beckons. The third. Perhaps there will be another third. Home. Perhaps there will be another home. Salvation. Perhaps it will happen yet. Only time will tell. Time... So much time... Turbulence. Bump. Down. Up. Bump. The abyss, the absurd, the unnatural. It beckons. Down. Up. Bump. The turbulence is mesmerizing yet again. Cold. Dry. Silent. Empty. Black.


"You know there are cleaner shrimp?" she asked. "Cleaner than what?" he asked. "No, they are called cleaner shrimp because they clean parasites from fish. Do you know why they call them cleaner fish?" she asked. "Because they're the cleanest," he said. "That's funny," she said. "You're the smart one," he said. "Yes, I am smart," she said. "I'm the Jerry Lewis to your Dean Martin," he said. "So the shrimp and the fish have a symbiotic relationship where they help each other. The shrimp gets to eat parasites, and the fish get to be parasite-free," she said. "Okay, that's pretty well-known in the scientific community anyway. But I was thinking about these shrimp in the Caribbean who clean parrotfish." "Is this a pirate joke?" he said. "No," she said. "The Caribbean and parrots make me think of pirates," he said. "Sorry." "So these parrotfish would normally eat shrimp. I mean, researchers actually chopped up shrimp and threw them at the fish, and they gobbled them up," she said. "So they think what happens is that the shrimp wave their antenna at the fish to say I'm going to clean you. And then the fish turns dark to say, hey, come clean me. I won't eat you." "Turns dark?" he asked. "Yeah, because of chromatophores and iridophores," she sighed. "Long story short, they can change color when stressed or hormonal when breeding or with the season or camouflage. They turn a darker color and welcome the shrimp to clean even inside their mouths. It's like a cat with a mouse cleaning its fangs." "What's this about?" he asked. "I don't know," she said. "It's interesting." "I guess," he said. "I mean, it's fascinating that at one point a fish would eat these shrimp, and at another point, they let them groom them, in the most intimate places like inside their mouth," she said. "Yeah," he says. "Do fish have intimate places, or do they know what intimacy is?" "Do you know what intimacy is?" she asks. "I could show you," he said. "No," she said. "I'm thinking." "Okay, what is the point of this conversation?" he asked. "I just like the idea of being mortal enemies becoming friends," she said. "Are they friends, or does the shrimp work for the fish?" he asked. "Well, if you're working together, it's friendly," she said. "Right," he said. "Like Tabitha," she said." I love her, and she loves me, but if I were the size of a mouse, she would eat me." "Well, she is a cat," he said. "I know," she said. "Of course, she is a cat." "Right," he said. "I love her," she said. "I know you do," he said. "I love her too. Of course." "So let me ask you a question: would you rather be the shrimp or the fish?" she asked. "Do I have to?" he asked. "Yes," she said. "No jokes?" he asked. "No jokes," she said. "Would I rather be cleaned or be the cleaner?" he asked. "Indeed," she said. "I would rather be the cat," he said. "Hilarious," she said. "Well, you do love cats," he said. "So, back to the question, would you rather be a cleaner or be cleaned?" she asked. "So that's the point of all this?" he asked. "To be cleaned or not to be cleaned." "That is the question," she said. "I'd rather not be dirty," he said. "Is that your answer?" she said. "It is an answer," he said. "Do you feel dirty?" she said. "Not when I am clean," he said. "Seriously," she said. "So the shrimp is cleaning the fish because it's hungry. The fish could have eaten the shrimp but it doesn't because it doesn't like parasites, right?" he said. "Why does the shrimp trust the fish?" "Because it turns a dark color," she said. "So the shrimp just knows this is a welcoming color," he said. "Yes," she said. "And it just goes in its mouth," he said. "Yes," she said. "I don't know," he said. "Why is it always so hard with you?" she said. "What is the question?" he asked. "Are you the shrimp or the fish?" she said. "Why does it matter?" he asked. "It just does," she said. "Why?" he said. "I just want to have a normal conversation with you," she said. "This is normal? Okay, okay. I'd obviously rather be the fish," he said. "I don't want to be the shrimp." "Why?" she said. "Because the shrimp could easily be eaten, the parrotfish could change its mind anytime," he said. "At any time?" she asked. "Yeah, after the parasites are gone, it might get hungry," he said. "That's nice," she said. "What?" he asked. "You eat shrimp." "I don't know those shrimp," she said. "That makes it okay?" he asked. "It makes it different," she said. 'So you only eat strangers," he said. "Correct," she said. What's wrong with that?" she asked. "Nothing," he said. "You shouldn't eat strangers," she said. "Okay," he said. "Why can't the fish and the shrimp just be friends? Why can't you be friends with the shrimp?" she said. "Me?" he asked. "Yes, you're the fish," she said. "This is silly," he said. "No, it's not," she said. "I want to know why after the shrimp spends all day cleaning your body, every crevice of your entire body, you could possibly turn around and eat it." "Because I'm a fish, and it's a shrimp. We are sea creatures. We have to eat to live," he said. "I'd rather die than eat someone who takes care of me," she said. "Someone who has been in my mouth." "So you're a shrimp," he said. "I'm not," she said. "Well, are you a parrotfish?" he asked. "Absolutely not," she said. "So you're a shrimp," he said. "I guess I am," she said. "Great," he said. "Yeah, I guess," she said. "Want to watch something," he said. "Okay," she says. "Parrots of the Caribbean?" he asked. “Get it.” "Not funny," she said. "It's a little funny," he said.


“Charlotte, I need my pills!” He exclaimed. His throat was coarse and the words hurt him but when he heard no reply, he forced out another few syllables, “Pills, Dammit!” As always, there was nothing but darkness; and he was used to it. In fact, being blind had helped to hone his other senses, to an extent - which is why he felt his heart rate settle slightly when he heard gentle footsteps approaching from his left. Holding up one frail, wrinkled palm, he awaited the delivery of his heart medication. Without it, he ran the risk of cardiac arrest any time he got overly excited. Mind you, there hadn’t been much of that over the last few weeks. Charlotte wasn’t speaking to him, and barely stayed in the same room as him anymore. His entertainment came from audio programs and reading - he’d grown accustomed to brail over the years, but he would never get used to his wife being upset with him. “Where were you?” he asked, his hand still floating in front of him. “Were you cleaning out the cellar? That god awful smell is still running amuck through the whole house!” He'd chosen the words carefully to bait his wife into replying, but as he had come to expect, she did not. When he felt the pills drop into his hand his heart sunk a bit too. There was a time when she would sit with him. Hold his hand in hers while they talked about his favorite horses until he'd swallowed his medication. Had they really fallen so far? “How long do I have to suffer, Char?” He pleaded - being as forthcoming as possible with his tone to convey the true hurt he was feeling. Nothing; the footsteps wandered slowly in the opposite direction. “Well to hell with you then!” He roared, instantly regretting it both because of this strange new pain in his throat, and because of guilt. For just under a week now, it felt like his esophagus was on fire whenever he used his vocal chords, and even when he swallowed. She didn’t deserve such harsh words anyway; after all, it was his fault they weren’t speaking. About a week prior they had a disagreement about her work in the cellar. She was spending far too much time down there, working on some private endeavor she refused to tell him about. She was seventy-four years old, what need did she have for mysterious hobbies? He'd given up on betting on the horses weeks ago! And now the smell, that pungent, relentless odour - it was unbearable. It had come only a few days after he’d snapped on her for keeping secrets from him. The last words they shared were him calling her foul names, and her demanding that he stay out of the cellar altogether. Not like that was a problem, he could barely stay on his feet for longer than a few minutes at a time, and stairs were definitely out of the question. This last week he’d been sleeping on the couch, essentially bathing in the stench of whatever the hell she had brought into the house. There was no point in wasting his energy to get to the electronic stair-lift, just to get upstairs and have her ignore him some more. He never should have yelled at her. Maybe he would skip his pills, induce a heart attack just so he could hear her voice again when she called the ambulance. Just so he could feel her embrace him as they waited for the EMT's to arrive. That was if she even cared about him anymore. At least she still gave him his medication, but he missed her touch - missed the pleasant feeling of her soft hands on his skin. And she always gave the most loving kisses. Oh how he missed her lips. “Charlotte,” he called out, “I miss you.” He felt a single tear touch his cheek when she didn’t reply. Time passed and he finished the last few pages of his audiobook and when he took his headphones out he heard the sound of metal scraping against stone - he discerned that it was coming from the basement, but couldn’t begin to fathom when she was doing. He prayed, whatever it was, she was dealing with the smell. He didn’t know how much longer he could live in that house. Lonely, fragile (to say the least), and forced to inhale her dastardly creation day after day? It was too much. He was about to turn on a TV program and take a nap when heard a crash below him: glass breaking. Instantly he was reminded of the evening just after Charlotte had decided to not speak with him. In the middle of the night he’d awoken to strange sounds, and his wife wasn’t in the bed with him. He’d nearly gone into shock from the panic - not being able to see when you’re experiencing fear is about as terrifying as it gets; but after a while he felt her weight press down beside him once again, and thought nothing more of it as he was just happy she had returned. She might not be talking to him, but at least having her presence there was something. However, even that had soured over the last week. Oh, how he longed for her touch. “Everything okay down there?” he called, his throat scratching with pain. “Want me to come--“. He couldn’t finish the sentence because he erupted into a coughing fit. For a time he was unable to catch his breath because he was too busy barking up air, each burst seeming to tear open parts of his throat. Bending over to see if it would help, he brought his hand to his mouth and felt warm liquid spatter across his palm with the worst of the coughs. He didn’t need his eyes to discern the contents of the sticky, wetness. “Charlotte!” he cried through agony. “I need help!” The coughing came and went intermittently, but his heart-rate was soaring as the pressure of each violent convulsion of his lungs escaped through his half-open mouth. His face was hot, and he felt his knees quivering before he fell over onto the floor, barely able to avoid cracking his forehead off the table. Luckily he’d known where it was, as he knew where everything was in the house, so he managed to fall just in between the table and the couch, where he placed one hand on the ground to prevent him from going all the way down. “Help!” he cried. “Dammit, woman” he hacked again and again. “Where are you?” At last he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs from the cellar and for the slightest moment his fear subsided. Not only that, he felt butterflies floating in his gut for just a few seconds when he realized his wife still cared about him. She wasn’t going to let him die just because he was an old bastard who never treated her right. At last he felt a palm settle on the flat of his sweater-covered back, as another roughly latched onto his wrist. Finally, after what had felt like eternity, his wife had come back to him; he could feel her touch once again. In an effort to assist her in helping him off the ground, he brought his right hand up to meet her forearm and grasped onto the thick muscle there. His heightened sense of touch also allowed him to feel hundreds of fine hairs curling in different directions across her skin. Only she didn’t have arm hair, and the skin there wasn’t soft like he was used to. Where he expected just softness and bone, he felt thick muscly flesh. A resurgence in his rising heart-rate sent a sharp pain up his left arm, but he couldn’t react. He was being lifted off the ground now, and felt his back being flopped across two strong arms now. He tried to speak but the pain in his throat was too much. He couldn’t even scream. Heat rose in his ears, and soon they were ringing with pain. The agony running down his left side increased and a sudden bland taste of coppery nothingness overwhelmed his pallet. When a thick oily substance leaked out from his mouth he tasted nothing, but the hideous aroma of the basement was suddenly so strong he almost didn’t notice the bile at all. The last thing he heard before the ringing in his ears became too great was heavy breathing that he did not recognize; and the sure sound of boots connecting with the cellar stairs. Then all that was left was his sense of touch. As he felt his body forcibly descend, the pain in his arm crept further upwards, rising to a point where he was sure he would pass out. But just when he appeared to be losing consciousness he felt a swift breeze cross his face, and the arms beneath his back retracted. The butterflies came back, but this time because he was falling. He expected to land upon the cool concrete of the cellar floor, but instead he felt his frail form collide unevenly across something equally cold, but soft to the touch. With no other senses available to him, he used his hands to feel the thing he’d landed upon. His mouth was burning, his heart was about to explode in his chest, his insides were leaking out of him and that putrid smell was on top of him now. Rather, he was on top of it. Everything became clear when he touched his wife’s soft, wrinkled hands. Wrapped tightly in her embrace was a wooden carving of a horse.


From the producers of the show Love’s Second Chance, comes the new show Lovely Reality. A reality show where we see which couple’s love will get them to the $50,000 cash prize. So, do you think your love is strong enough to win?. To apply, visit www.lovelyreality/my love is strong.com Less than a minute after seeing the commercial, Sara’s best friend Carter called her. “Did you see it?” She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see her. “Of course, I saw it. It another one of those stupid reality shows. Remember when we watched the last show, Love’s Second Chance, one of the couples didn’t even appear on the show.” Carter laughed. “Yeah, but this is different. Did you hear that they are giving a $50,000 cash prize? Do you know what we could do with that money?” Sara shook her head, nearly knocking the phone out of her hand. “No, Carter. We are not going on the show.” “Why not,” Carter asked. Sarcasm played into Sara’s voice. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that we aren’t dating.” “We could be,” he teased. “But seriously, you and I have both taken acting classes. We can simply act.” “We took one acting class because it was free. We hardly belong on Broadway. Besides, there is no way we could convince them that we are dating.” But as she thought about it, she realized that the idea held merit. They were best friends and knew everything about each other. Surely, they could pretend that they were lovebirds. Plus, with that much money, she could buy a new car and he could put it toward the business he wanted to start. They had nothing to lose, except a bit of time, but so much to gain. Carter must have noticed the moment that she started considering the idea because he asked, “Are you ready to sign up?” She smiled. Somehow Carter always managed to convince her to do these types of things. “Yep, where do we sign up?” *** Carter and Sara stood along with the five other couples at the house used for the filming of the show, Lovely Reality. Sara was surprised that they had been accepted on the show, but she was happy nonetheless. The only thing that bothered her that day was the fact that they were perpetrating a lie. They, unlike the other couples, were not a real couple. But, no one knew that, she reminded herself. They just had to be convincing enough. Carter grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She almost pulled her hand away, but then she remembered. So, they were starting their act already. She turned and sent him what she hoped looked like a loving smile. He grimaced and whispered in her ear, “If you keep looking at me like that, everyone will believe you are repulsed by me. Try to look happy.” “I am trying,” she whispered back. “Well, then maybe try a bit less. Just act as you act when we are normally together. Oh, but maybe add a bit more affection.” She nodded, but didn’t try to smile again. A moment later, the host of the show walked in along with the camera man. “Welcome, couples, to Lovely Reality. I will explain the show to you and then we will introduce all the couples.” Everyone nodded. The host motioned to the camera man. “Hello and welcome to Lovely Reality. I’m your host Todd Blanker. On this show, our six couples will have to battle it out to see which couple has the strongest love. Each week, our couples will face a challenge together or apart, some challenges will be to earn special privileges, others will end with an elimination. Today, our challenge will be an icebreaker challenge and no one will be going home today. But before we begin our challenge, let’s introduce our couples. We will go left to right. Say your names, how long you have known each other and how long you have been dating.” A tall man with bright red hair and a nearly as tall and slender woman spoke first. “We are John and Monica. We have known each other for five years and have been dating for three of those years.” A brawny man with black as night hair and a petite blonde went next. “We are Peter and Lisa. We have known each other for seven years and have dated for one year.” Lisa continued talking. “We met back in school and it was love at first sight, well at least for me. It took Peter a bit more time to come to that conclusion, but he did. We started officially dating on...” Todd Blanker cut her off. “Thank you. Next couple please.” Carter and Sara went next. “We are Carter and Sara. We have known each other almost all our life and we have been dating for...” They both trailed off and looked at each other in alarm. They had never considered what their story was supposed to be. Carter laughed a little. “Why it has been so long that I hardly know when we started dating. What would you say, sweetheart, about five years or was it six?” Sara nodded, grateful for his quick thinking. “Yes, I would say that it has been around five or six years.” Todd Blanker nodded and motioned to the next couple. The last three couples were Ron and Cynthia, James and Alexa, and Christopher, who insisted on being called Chris, and Mary. After they had all been introduced, Todd Blanker explained the first challenge. “You will be doing a which couple knows each other better challenge. I will take each of you aside and ask you the same questions, then we will all return and answer the questions. The winning couple will get a romantic dinner on the rooftop tonight.” The couples all exclaimed over the idea of a rooftop date. Carter and Sara exclaimed too, but not because they were excited for the possibility of a date, but because all the other couples were doing it. They traded a smile. Unlike most of the other couples who had only known each other for a few years, Carter and Sara had known each other almost since birth, so they knew everything about each other. Six people walked out of one of the rooms and came up to each one of the ladies. Todd explained, “They will ask you ladies questions first, then they will come out and ask the men.” Sara and the other ladies nodded. Then they were each led to a separate room. Sara sat down and answered the questioned asked. Questions such as, what is your favorite food? What is a color you would never wear? What is your biggest pet peeve? And so on. As she answered the question, she thought not only of her own answers, but also the answers that Carter would give. After about half an hour, everyone had answered the questions and they were regathered in the living room. The room was different now, for during the time they had been answering questions, someone had arranged the couches so that they now faced three chairs. Presumably, one for the host and the other two for the couple on their turn. The first couple took their place in the chairs and answered their questions. Their combine score equaled to 10/20. The next group got 14/20. It went so on until Carter and Sara’s turn. “Sara, your last question is what are the three things Carter would bring if he were on a deserted island?” Sara smiled. She knew this one just as much as she knew all the other ones. She winked at Carter and then turned back to the host. “Carter would bring me, food, and a private jet.” The other couples laughed at this thinking that she was joking. Todd Blanker turned to Carter. “Now tell me, Carter, what were your answers?” “I would bring Sara, food, and a private jet, in that order.” Carter’s interviewer nodded to confirm his answers. Everyone including the host looked surprised. Todd stood. “Well it looks like we have a winner for today’s episode. Carter and Sara with a perfect score of 20/20. Well, get ready because in half in hour you will have your rooftop date.” Everyone left the room, and Sara and Carter both took the time to get ready for their “date.” At exactly 8:30, they went up to the rooftop followed by the camera crew for their rooftop date. Sara walked up and gasped. The roof looked beautiful. Candles lined the floor in a path that led to the linen covered table. Flower petals littered the floor and got swept up in the breeze. And even though, they were not actually dating, Sara couldn’t help feeling like it was a real date. They sat down to a dinner, or dessert rather, of molten lava cake and ice cream, which the camera crew filmed. But once, they were done eating, the camera crew left them alone to talk. Carter smiled at her. “See, I told you it would be that bad.” “You were right. Now all we have to pass the next round.” Since they were on a reality show and had no idea where cameras might be lurking, they made sure to avoid mentioning their fake relationship. Carter grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “We will pass it and then...well you’ll just have to wait until the next episode to find out.”


It was 7:45 in the morning, and I was already late for school. I only had fifteen minutes left to arrive, but it always took me around thirty minutes to walk there. The reason why I woke up so late was that my little brother Adrian was in a painful tummy ache all night, and, I was the one taking care of him. Our mom was already passed out on the couch, and I didn’t even want to know what she had for drinks that evening. Not that I ever want to know what she’s always up to when she goes out. I went to bed at 3 in the morning to find healthy snacks for my brother, who was endlessly whining and crying about his sickness and hunger. I only gave him a glass of milk and touched his hair for a while until he finally fell asleep. In a very uncomfortable position in his little bed with superhero figures all over, I dozed off. When I woke up 4 hours later, I poured a bowl of cereal for him and one for myself. I brushed my teeth, changed my clothes, and kissed him goodbye. ‘I’ll be back soon, little man,’ I said to him, trying to hide my worry, and rushed out of the house, almost running for my life. He just sat there finishing up his breakfast and gave me a vague smile. Our mother was still sleeping and snorting, not caring about her surroundings. Even running to the school, I made it 15 minutes late. I was already full of panic about what the teacher and director might say to me this time. I had a lot of absences and undone homework. I always said I was too busy and barely had any time when my family didn’t bother me with chores. ‘Excuses, all but excuses! How could a thirteen-year-old be so busy?’ said the director after proceeding to call a meeting with my mother, planning to tell her how I was about to fail eighth grade, but she never showed up. She never did. The truth was that they didn’t know what I was going through and sometimes not even I was aware of it, and I couldn’t share everything that was happening at home. It just simply couldn’t come out. Ever had a knot in your throat that doesn’t let you talk and fills your eyes with tears? My first class was English with a young 30-year-old teacher from the suburbs that was very patient and kind. Miss Rivera was my favorite teacher of all, although most of the kids didn’t like her. As usual, I did not hand in my homework and refused to see her directly in the face. I was ashamed and disappointed, and she was too. The teacher didn’t say anything but called me out when the class finished. ‘Hello, Miss Marina. How are things at home?’ she asked. This time, I sighed and looked her directly in the eyes. I was tired, with baggy red eyes that explicitly showed my lack of sleep. ‘I’m okay, just sleepy,’ I replied. ‘You look like you had a rough night. Let me know if there is anything I can help with. I can talk with the counselor, to your mother, or any other family member...’ Miss Rivera said with a caring, preoccupied face. ‘It’s okay. Umm, can I just make the assignment for tomorrow? I know I haven’t done much but, I promise it’s not about being lazy,’ I said, trying to get her to understand a little without saying much. ‘Well... I wanted to show you something. I know you have missing assignments, but I wanted you to take part in this poetry contest, remember? I mentioned it earlier last month. The deadline is in two days, but I know you are a fast writer and learner. I was impressed by the latest poem you wrote a few weeks ago. It was very touching. Could you please take this sheet and submit your poem tomorrow or in two days?’ Overwhelmed and surprised, I nodded. ‘Okay. Thank you.’ Did she like it? She said she was touched. I know she congratulated me before, but she never said that to any student. I even forgot about that poem, but it felt great just writing and reading it. It was a feeling I’d never had before. I had so much homework to do for Math and Science class, yet I didn’t care. I only wanted to write this poem. I went through the day swallowing complaints about the rest of the teachers, except the Physical Education one, he was a frankly relaxed dude and I loved doing sports. All I could think about was this poem. I didn’t want to fail this. Even if I didn’t win the prize, which I had no idea what it was, I wanted to at least write a line. Once I got home, there was nobody there. I took the poetry contest sheet from my backpack, grabbed a banana from the counter, and started reading the guidelines. In summary: Poem with at least two stanzas, free theme, deadline: August 28. ‘Time to write!’ I shouted. It felt good to be alone. The house was very messy. Chairs tumbled down, pennies on the floor, empty bottles of alcohol that I didn’t see yesterday, and dirty clothes from my brother in the living room. I went to an alert state, wondering where my family was. Was my brother safe? Did she take him to the clinic? I had no phone, no way to know. I couldn’t focus on the house, so I went out for a walk to the park closest to home. I took my other mini backpack and put the poetry contest sheet, two pencils, an eraser, a Wonder Woman figurine, and a bottle of water. In ten minutes, I arrived at the park. There was only one family with three kids on the slides and swings. I went straight for the picnic tables at the end, decorated with ceiba trees. I took a deep breath as I sat down on the hard-wooden bench and saw my surroundings. My mind was tricking me again with questions like ‘Is my brother okay? Did something happen? I should be at home... I need to protect him.’ I shook my head, trying to make my overthinking mind go away and focus on the blank paper I had in front of me. What was this poem going to be about? I just started writing. Oh, mother, I don’t like it the way you look at me, the way you arrive home, the days that you do. Oh, mother, do you ever think how does it feel to be me, taking care of everything that you forgot to do. Oh life, when will you have a chance to take me out of this house, to give my brother a better life, to be free and alive. It was already almost six in the evening when I noticed the sun was fading away, and I got worried my family would be at home wondering where I was and freaking out. When I arrived at our humble home, they were already there. Mom was cooking some Mac and Cheese and white rice. ‘This is all we have for today, like it or not,’ she said to my brother, who was watching TV. She looked at me as I opened the loud front door, letting intrusive mosquitoes in. ‘Well, hello! Look who’s here! Where have you been, mija ? How old do you think you are to be wandering around, huh?’ asked fiercely. ‘Hi, mom... I was at the park doing homework.’ I replied while I greeted Adrian. ‘Aha! Your school backpack is in your room. Stop lying!’ she said, grabbing me by the arm and looking me in the eyes. ‘Speak’ she demanded. I could feel the alcohol and nicotine out of her mouth. ‘Leave me alone, I took a paper to write poetry homework. Trust me!’ I begged for her to release me. ‘Please, mami.’ ‘Your grades will tell later,’ and she finally released me. I rushed to my room and hid the poem in my school backpack inside a notebook. I took a shower, ate the horrible sticky mac and cheese, played with my brother for a while, and went to bed early. The next day, I woke up earlier and went to school before anyone was awake. I left a note on the fridge saying, ‘I will make you both proud. There is a contest announcement next Monday. Hope you can make it to school at 9 a.m.’ On this occasion, I made it on time to school. I was proud of myself. The classroom was empty. Being 10 minutes before the class started was a blessing of not being bothered by the chaotic, loud classmates talking about video games and crushes on the new girl. I never quite felt part of the group. It made me feel awkward to even just say hi to them. Nobody made conversation with me unless I was asked for a cheat sheet or to tell a humorless joke. Only the teachers would talk to me and honestly, I was okay with it. When the teacher went in 5 minutes before, I handed in my poem. ‘Oh! So fast! I knew you could do it! Congrats, Marina. The details of the winners will be announced next week. Please try not to be absent.’ said Miss Rivera with a big smile on her face. The next days of school were as normal as ever. I was very impatient to know the results of the contest. My brain jumped to the thought of the winning prizes I read on the contest sheet: the 1st place will win $100 and two tickets to the cinema, the 2nd Place will win $50 and two tickets, and the Third place, $25 and two tickets, too. Also, they were going to be shared in a National Education Newspaper. The following days I spent them playing with my brother, catching up on deadlines, and trying to focus as much as I could on my studies. My mom was barely at home, she said she found a job as a cashier in a local supermarket, however, I didn’t know if I believed her. She would come home without money or food and I had to improvise to cook simple and weird meals out of cheese, sauces, and rice. Thanks to this contest, I started to write in an old journal I had from two years ago. First, I started writing random stuff that happened at home or school. Although none of it were happy events, it felt good to write them down. It was a release. I didn’t want to stop writing. The day of the announcement of the winners arrived. The whole school was gathered on the basketball court to announce the winners and upcoming events and contests. I wore two butterfly hair pins I found in my bedroom drawer which I loved, and wished myself good luck. I didn’t know if my poem was any good, my teacher didn’t say anything about it. Miss Rivera stood in front of the audience, and I was shocked by her ability to talk in front of many people and not feel nervous. She started giving a motivational speech on how important it is for kids to be introduced to novels, writers and poetry. ‘It can flourish the inner self you didn’t know you had. It can heal, and it can make a positive impact,’ she concluded. The third prize went to my classmate Javier, a smart kid who everybody liked. He went down from the bleachers to take his prize while each one of us applauded. The second prize went to a ninth grader named Amy. She seemed like she did not expect it at all. Her face was red like a tomato, and she looked like she was about to cry. I giggled a bit. We all congratulated her and shouted: AMY, AMY, AMY! Miss Rivera started, ‘and the first winner is a very special student of mine. She was always good at writing even though she does not have confidence in herself, but her poem very well deserves recognition. The first prize goes to... MARINA DIAZ, from eighth grade!’ Everyone gasped and applauded loudly. What? Me? I was in shock. I couldn’t move. There were too many people. Do I have to go in front? The surrounding classmates looked at me and shouted, ‘Go! Go for it! What are you waiting for? Go get it, girl!’ Oh no, this is a nightmare, I thought! But I won, I should be happy. I put a shy smile on my red face and walked toward Miss Rivera. She embraced me with a hug and congratulated me, whispering ‘I knew you could win’. I said thank you and took my winning prizes with a big smile on my face. I felt a rush through my whole body. I wish my family were here to see it. I wish they could see what I accomplished. The winners took official pictures with the teachers and director. I was already tired of smiling until I hear the voice of my brother from the back of the basketball court shouting my name and running towards me. The physical impact of his hug almost made me fall, but I held tight and made my eyes full of tears. Especially, when I saw my mother walking behind him with a balloon saying I’m proud of you . It was time to get a new journal and keep writing!


In the Event First, it was the phone in the study. They both ignored it. To answer it was to surrender or worse to agree. Then it was the siren and flashing lights coming from the alarm panel in the hallway. That continued for minutes until something had to be said. “What did you do?” Leona yelled from the kitchen. “I didn’t do anything,” Leonora replied, as she came down the stairs. “What did YOU do?” “You were here with that creep with the weird face.” “You were here, too. How else would you know?” Had they been able to cooperate they might have avoided blame. But they were not and so it fell upon them. They were the only two home and someone had blown up the world-wide web. Outside, a fleet of oversized SUVs was pulling onto the street. NSA, FBI and Secret Service men ran from their vehicles, weapons drawn, and across the Senator’s lawn towards his house. In their haste they knocked over one of the sheep and snapped the arm off the wisemen holding out his offering of incense or myrrh to the baby Jesus. Not even Christ in the Manger was afforded respect in a national emergency. Christmas was ruined, too. The Senator and his wife arrived minutes after in a chauffeur-driven limo. They had been at the Chilean Ambassador’s residence in Dupont Circle when the Senator’s Secret Service detail interrupted him mid-sentence. He had been trying to woo the wife and model of the famous Spanish painter, Rudolfo. One of his pieces, a nude in pastel, hung in the Ambassador’s study above his desk and once the Senator had gotten a look at the dark of her nipples, he had squeezed between her and a tray of pimento-stuffed anchovy rolls to introduce himself. It was all the Secret Service agent could do to catch his attention and share the news that his computer had been used to release a worm that was now spreading by fiber-wire around the globe. The agent was surprised by the Senator’s aplomb and felt reassured. The Senator was mulling over his options, among them ignoring the dire news and continuing to pursue his fantasy. Leonora and Leona were sitting in the living room on matching black leather chairs. Behind each of them stood a man in black military clothing and matching helmet. An automatic rifle was strapped across his chest and one gloved hand gripped the trigger guard while the other draped free at his side, ready to balance and aim. Leonora wore Lulabelle yoga pants, a knit sweater and ankle-high Sheepskin boots. Leona was still wearing the dress and coat she had gone out in, but not the jade green high heels. “Daddy, it wasn’t me,” Leona said as soon as the Senator came through the front door. “So quick to blame others,” Leonora snapped back. The Senator ignored them. He moved under escort through the vestibule, past the fir wreaths and strings of Christmas lights towards his study. With him was his Secret Service detail. He was still wearing his overcoat and scarf. Leona sighed. The Senator was followed by a short man in a dark rumpled suit that was worn at the sleeves and too thin to muffle the sounds coming from his stomach. “Damn,” he said to no one in particular, “That chili’s putting up a good fight.” The Senator dismissed him. The French called people like him a fuctionaire . It was an appropriate title for someone who is paid to do nothing in particular. “It looks like your computer was used. Is it always on your desk, open like this?” the short man asked the Senator. The Senator reached out. “Don’t touch it. We haven’t examined it yet.” The Senator winced. More important to him were the loose papers next to the computer. They were the first few pages of the memoir that he was writing, a gut-heaving, throat-burning pouring out of his thirty-five years in Washington. He covered them with the thesaurus that he had been using to find alternatives to the word ‘impotent.’ “So what happens now?” the Senator asked. “And who are all these people?” “Well, sir. We’re the people that are going to figure out how to save the world.” The Senator felt the rumblings of the champagne and hors d'oeuvres he had enjoyed earlier. But it may have also been a reaction to the short man. He wanted to tell him, that after all the briefings he’d received over the years from diplomats, analysts and spies, there were parts of the world that just weren’t worth saving. But he feared giving him the wrong impression. Ideas freely offered to such a man as this might be misused, turned into accusations and evidence. So he was cautious not to say aloud what he was thinking, that now that the worm was out it might not be a bad thing to let it run its course. Besides, it was just as likely that some good would come from the world ending. History is the proof of that. In the face of calamity, great men have always stepped forward, genius has found a way and the disaster is averted. It was a crap-shoot. There was a clamor coming from the front room. Sounds of anger and confusion. A rush of men moved past the study door. The Senator’s wife had just forced her way through the barricade of armed guards at the front door and was now standing under the hall chandelier cursing at those who had tracked mud and bits of straw up the carpeted staircase. “Who’s in charge here?” she yelled out. “Move out of the way. Your guns don’t scare me.” She pushed her way into the front room where the girls were sitting. “What have they done to you?” she asked the two girls. “Why are my daughters sitting in here, are they under arrest?” Leonora jumped up, “Mother, this is her fault.” “They took my cell phone. I can’t even reach Max,” Leona whined. The Senator joined them. “Cell phones aren’t working anyway.” The short man said. “The internet is down. The world depends on the internet.” “Back to the stone ages, that’s where we’re headed,” another man, younger than the first, but dressed in the same kind of rumpled dark suit, said. “What’s that supposed to mean?” the short man snapped back. “It’s just something I heard,” the younger man replied. There was tension in the air. The Senator could see it in the furtive glances of the men with guns. They were nervous. It was a moment of history when choices are made and later written about by those who lived through it. The world had never ended before and these men, these poorly dressed bureaucrats, were in need of someone to blame. It was someone in this room. “We just took a look at the security camera footage from your office, Senator,” the younger man said. “Fortunately, it was recorded on CD.” “My God man, can you do that without a warrant?” the Senator demanded. The short man frowned. The Senator needed to negotiate, he was at a disadvantage and there was a chance that he might become the target of their inquiry. Did they know about his role in the Senate’s investigation of cyberterrorism? Would the CD expose his growing anarchism? Would it indicate his frustration with the democratic process and his declining interest in being a part of it? Would it show him sitting in his study night after night running the cursor over the execution file hoping for a sign? “There is someone in the video that’s not here now. Someone that was in your office this evening. He is what we call a person of interest. Do I have permission to ask your daughters if they can identify him,” the younger man asked. The Senator let out a sigh of relief. “Who’s the man in your father’s office? He looks like...well, you know what he looks like.” the younger man asked. “It’s her sleaze-of-a-boyfriend,” cried Leona. “He was probably stealing top-secret documents or shipping drugs in the diplomat pouch.” “Shut up. He didn’t do anything,” Leonora insisted. “I concur, to my knowledge he never has done anything,” the Senator said. “And I highly doubt that he is capable of destroying the world.” He was relieved to hear that he was not the focus of their investigation. “Daddy,” pleaded Leonora. “This is serious, Senator,” the younger man said. “Point of clarification,” the Senator said. “It was serious, now it’s not. That’s the ironic thing about the end of the world.” The lights in the house dimmed, fluttered and then went out. Everyone gasp, except Leona, who could see that the manger in the front yard was still aglow and she felt at that moment flushed with hope. Beams of light from a dozen flashlights switched on, scanning faces and the shadows nearest them. The guards with the automatic weapons had flashlights mounted on their helmets so that wherever they looked light followed. Two of them got into a flashlight war that could have meant “Stop looking at me” or “I like you, too.” Again, Leona was only one to notice and the hope that had come to her from seeing the manger bathed in an angelic-glow and feeling God’s presence, was extinguished. “Just because the world is ending doesn’t mean we have to destroy it. Darnel, please apologize to your daughter,” said the Senator’s wife. “All of us need to act with a little more restraint. You two girls in particular.” The shorter man was following the family’s conversation with his flashlight, from Leonora’s face to Leona’s face and back again until he realized a defined similarity between them. “Are they twins?” he shouted out. “No,” responded Leonora. “Yes, but not by choice,” responded Leona. “There’s still the question of the boyfriend,” the younger man reminded his counterpart. “There always is,” the Senator said. “That is enough,” the Senator’s wife said. It was certainly enough for her. The Christmas tree was a dark specter in the corner and the turkey and ham she had bought were spoiling without refrigeration. Her house was filled with strangers with poor manners and her Christmas-spirit had turned to anger and ill-will towards all and she realized that in the waning hours of her existence, she wanted to smash the Senator’s face in. She wanted to claw at his face, pull his perfectly draped tie around his Adam’s apple till his eyes turned red. She wanted to step on his hands and hear the bones crumble like sandstone so that he would not be able to touch her. She wanted to spill out the years of bottled-up anger, all that she had kept inside while she stood next to him at campaign rallies and inaugural balls. She wanted to pay him back for having to listen to him deflect blame, avoid responsibility and betray his oath. She wanted to hold him accountable. She wanted to ask him about the book he was writing and whether he would talk about the times that he had returned home from his diplomatic trips and junkets with new underwear. Did he think she wouldn’t know? She had packed his bags for him. She wanted to ask him about the thick-stuffed envelopes he had been receiving from Panamanian banks. She wanted to ask about the trips she had made to the Dirksen Senate Office Building to visit him and was told by his staff that he was out of town or in a hearing or on a call, but they had not yet learned how to lie. She had held it in for so long and now at the end of the world, she just wanted to do what she should have done a long time ago, what anyone in her position would do. But her southern upbringing kept her from doing it and, instead, she remained focus on the family. “How was dinner, dear?” she asked Leona. “Nice, but I think I lost my shoes.” “Not to worry. They’ll show up.


Ever since I was little, I was told to act a certain way. I've been told what to do my entire life, what to say, how to act-- basically, how to live. 'Alicia, don't talk too loud since people don't want to hear you. It's rude'. I wish I had the courage to say, 'how can you think that it's ok to say that to me, to minimise me into someone I don't want to be. Someone who doesn't like themselves. Someone afraid'. But I didn't say anything. 'Alicia, when people ask how you are, they don't care. Just say you are fine, don't tell them your issues'. What I wanted to say was, 'just because you don't care, doesn't mean others don't. Maybe if you had an ounce of empathy, you could understand that, Mum’. But I didn't say anything. 'Alicia, you can't be a journalist because that job is not suitable. Be responsible like your sister and become a lawyer'. I wish I said, 'living my dream and doing the job that I am so passionate about is NOT unreasonable, Dad. It's called living a full life and doing the things that I actually want to do. Being a journalist will allow me to give people a voice, and I can help by telling their stories. Stories that will make a difference in the world!' But I didn't say anything. Every time someone told me how to do something, I always had a remark on the tip of my tongue that I wanted to voice. A comeback that boiled in my blood. I don't know why I never stood up for myself, maybe it's because of how I was raised. The rules that have been drilled into my head. I'm not sure what exactly happened today. I can chalk it up to a handful of reasons. But I think it happened because every little thing that I held back, that I never said was filed away, until the point of overflow. I guess it was more like a volcano. The pressure of keeping everything I always wanted to say piled up and the pressure grew and grew until I exploded. Before I can tell the story, you need to know something about me. I'm 27, and I'm the assistant to the editor of a local newspaper. Even though I have a degree in journalism and have been in every journalism club possible, my boss said I had to 'prove myself' by working as his assistant for a year. I've worked for him for almost two years now, and I don't think I will be able to prove myself to Mr Jones, ever. I only stayed at this job because working at this newspaper has been my dream since I was little. I remember reading this article about this injustice that went on for so long and they stayed voiceless for so long until someone gave them a chance. Someone carried enough to let the world in and learn about this issue. I remember thinking this person is a superhero, possibly prevent future incidents. So, If I leave this job, then I guess, I feel that I am giving up on my dream or confirming my parents' ideas that I should have become a lawyer or a doctor. So, I hold on to the idea that Mr Jones will give me a chance and assign me a story one day. I think part of me knows that I will never get that promotion and this whole agreement is a joke. You are probably thinking, ‘ why don’t you just leave? Find a similar job?’ A rational person would. A rational person would put their needs first and stop this horrible person rom bullying day in and day out, holding on a sliver of hope. I think the reason why I haven’t made a big deal or quit is because of those lovely rules my parents drilled into my head off to 'not make a big scene' and 'do what you are told to do'. So, I act like a little soldier, marching along and fulfiling my duties. So, when I arrived at work this morning, I as thirty minutes early, like I always am, to make sure everything is prepared for the day. Then, I run across the street to get Mr Jones' breakfast-- coffee with a hint of vanilla and an egg sandwich--before I rush back to hand it to him a few minutes later. I'm not sure why I have to get him breakfast or coffee every morning since he passes the cafe every morning. But, I do. When Mr Jones walked onto the floor this morning, he took a sip of coffee before spitting it back into the cup. 'Alicia, get in here!', he yelled. I quickly filed into his office, standing in the doorway. Shoulders hunched to make myself small, unnoticeable. 'That coffee that you got me today was--I don't know what you were thinking that it was ok to-to give me that vile-- that rubbish!' 'You have a lot of nerve. How dare you talk to me like that. You walk by that FRICKING cafe every morning on your way to work. Why can’t you be a big boy and get your own breakfast! 'Which is what I wanted to say. These words sat at the tip of my tongue. In reality, I took a deep breath to quell my anger, figuratively tucked my tail, and apologised excessively. 'Sir, I am--am SO sorry. I gave your usual order...and it was a new employee who made your drink. I know that shouldn't excuse the fact--he shouldn't haven't given you that--' Interrupting me as per usual, he seethed. 'Why didn't you ask for a REAL employee to serve me my drink? Alicia, go get me my drink and try to do it right this time. If it is possible. If you can handle this simple task. I quietly walked out of his office and out of the building. If I spoke another single word to him, I would have lost it. I would have said horrible things back to him, but I didn't. I always don't stand up for me and let jerks like him walk all over me like that. I hate that I never fight for myself. A few hours passed since that lovely interaction, and Mr Jones seemed somewhat pleasant since I brought him back his replacement coffee. So, maybe it was going to be a good day. Right? Yeah, that’s funny because I was so wrong. It was mid-afternoon and I was at my desk, answering the last few of Mr Jones' emails. Most of his emails are from people suggesting crazy news stories that are not newsworthy or completely made up, and people asking for jobs. A typical day. Suddenly, I heard a slam as if a hand slamming against a desk followed by a metal chair being thrown back against the wall. Mr Jones flung the door open, 'Alicia, where is the spread for tomorrow's edition?’, he yelled. ‘Actually, just get in my office now!' I quickly jumped up and followed him, closing the door. Mr Jones stood in front of his desk, a few feet away. 'I specifically asked for you to get this ready earlier today! One mistake after another. You are so incompetent that it is laughable'. He walked around his desk and sat down, his eyes boring into me, like a predator sizing his prey. He spoke like he was spitting venom, so much malice in his voice. 'I expected more from you. I thought you could handle a simple task, but you obviously need me to hold your hand for every...single... thing!' 'Mr Jones, I am so sorry! It must have slipped my mind. I'll grab it right now and personally deliver it', which is what I meant to say. I truly meant to say this to him, but I didn’t. ‘'Mr Jones, you are unbelievable! You never, not once, asked for the spread. It must have slipped your mind since you are so busy doing nothing all day. I do all the work for you, and you get the credit. And the salary! I had enough!' I circled around his desk, looking down at him. 'Two years ago, you promised that you would promote me as a journalist, if I could prove myself, but how can I freaking prove myself, if I am stuck being your assistant! You have been so, so horrible to me since I started--'. I laughed almost hysterically. 'I don't know why I ever thought you would change, that you would give me a chance, but I'm done. I quit. Get the spread yourself!' I walked out of his office and straight to my desk. I don't know why I waited so long to fight back. To fight for me. But it was exhilarating! It was like a runner's high, a burst of endorphins filling my body. And I couldn't stop smiling as I grabbed my purse and jacket, and walked right out. Thirty minutes later, still on my runner's high, so to speak, my mother called. Out of habit, I answered on the first ring. 'Alicia, your sister and her husband are coming to dinner tonight. I was calling to remind you not to be late as usual’ Thanks, Mum for always finding a way to insult me. Appreciate it. ‘I know you take your journalist job very seriously', almost spitting out the word ‘journalist’ as if it was the most disgusting thing she ever said, 'but try not to be late. It is not fair to your sister and Nathan to have to wait for you. They are very busy people'. I tried to get a word in, but my mum kept talking. 'And I am inviting Jason Taylor over tonight, so try to wear something that won't embarrass me. You are not getting any younger--' I honestly don't know the rest of what she said, but I saw red. 'Mum, will you shut up?! Who do you think you are that gives you the right to speak to me like that? I am your daughter. Your daughter! Actually, you shouldn't speak to anyone like that because that is called being a decent human, but you wouldn’t know how to be one! And I am NOT an embarrassment because I don't feel like dressing up at our weekly family dinner. It’s dinner. It’s not some grand affair! And I am busy too! So, if I am working late, maybe it’s because I am busy doing my JOB! I know that it is not the job you would have liked for me, but I want to do it! The one thing I ever did for me! And it is important to me, so you could try to be happy for me.’ And then it occurred to me that I don’t owe my parents anything. If they can’t treat me like a human and how I deserve to be treated, then I don’t have to spend time with them. I don’t have to do the ridiculous things they want me to do. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I am not. I don’t have to be set up on a date with someone I am not interested in. If they actually cared about me, they would know that I’ve been with someone for the last two years. But I never wanted to subject him to my family’s insanity. It’s seemed cruel to do that to him. So, I used my long-lost bravery I recently found and said, ‘Actually, Mum, I'm not coming to dinner tonight. I'll let you know when it is convenient for me to see you... or when you can start treating me how I should be treated .' I hung up. I couldn't believe it! I lived out my teenage fantasy of yelling back at Mum. But, as I walked down the street to my apartment, my endorphins must have run out because the utter fear of what I just did hit me. I just quit my somewhat good paying job, which pays for my rent and expenses. And I yelled at mother. My mother! I was so lost in my head, panicking, that I wasn't paying attention when I was crossing the street. I didn’t notice that the traffic light was green, the people calling for me to get out of the way, or the truck barreling towards me. At the last second, I turned my head, and my eyes popped out of my head. I probably looked like a cartoon character. I didn't think to move out of the way, I was frozen in place. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the impact, but nothing happened. I didn't hear the truck's brakes or feel the impact of the truck colliding into me. I was fine. Strange. I opened my eyes. It must have been a dream. Or, maybe it was a sign that I needed to start fighting for me. A second chance to live how I should have been living my life all along.


This was the last place I had seen her. You have no idea how long I've tried to come back to her. The lengths I've gone to find a way. The sacrifices. The deaths. The deck rocks beneath my feet and blood still stains the corners of my fingernails. My cheek throbs with pain but as much as I want to press my hands on it, I know any other movement would result in another strike to my face. The thin shirt and pants useless against the crisp ocean wind biting at my skin. The air tastes more than just salt now. It carries the stench of rotting fish with it. They’re taking me in the right direction. The boat we’re on is big, able to carry about twenty-five crew members and even then it looked undermanned. It didn’t look like it was a fishing boat. It had towers and antennas that these foreigners took great care of. But it was certainly old. The engine had coughed and sputtered before rumbling to life. Paint chipped everywhere, and what exposed metal there was had rusted a deep scratchy orange. A tattered red flag hung from the top of the tallest tower, a single, sloppily painted black star in the middle. The one new thing on it was the metal plating welded to the floor where we stood, all eight of us. The only ones native to these waters. Chained to the damn floor. Years had passed since calamity struck. With the drastic changing weather patterns and rise in volcanic activity, you would have thought that that was how the world would end. For most people, it was. Volcanic Eruptions from the Pacific Ring of Fire had set off an eight-year winter, with temperatures reaching so low it was near ice-age levels. What life that survived those first years had then been subjected to the famine left by the continuous acid rains and the blazing sun and scorching earth. Only a handful of countries were able to stand strong against the elements, and soon, only a few cities as the civilizations were ripped apart from the inside. But for us, it ended earlier than that. Instead, my world ended the day our birthright was signed in exchange for empty promises. It ended when the wants of the few looked at the needs of the many and offered them a poisoned drink. When the promise of change came at the cost of our very souls and we were too late to stop it. It ended the day I was ripped from her, on a boat much like this one, and a sky alive with harsh lights and the sound of wailing in the air. We weren’t the only ones separated from each other. Friends and families, husbands and wives, parents and even children . Taken, sorted, and herded to somewhere they would never be able to hear their mother’s song or their father’s embrace or their lover’s voice. Forced to forget everything about home or be branded a heretic. To work and live in an unfamiliar place as the payment owed by our so-called “countrymen.” Abandoned and forgotten while they continued to squander all they had among themselves and their new, so-called “Mainlander” masters. She would have raged if she learned what they did to the children. Razed their whole cult to the ground. As if selling them to the outsiders weren’t enough, they had been stripped of their identity, their history . She was a teacher, you know... She was always so kind to the little ones, so sweet. She taught them all the colors our world had to offer. Showed them the joy and freedom of the open water. Let them have the tastiest fruits and unafraid to give them bitter ones so they could grow strong. They loved it when I talked about her, how beautiful she was, dressed in blues and greens with the most beautiful dark skin I had ever seen. I told them she wore all the colors of the rainbow once and I would give anything to have a picture of how their eyes lit up. Years ago, I said that I had never seen anything as beautiful as her, but now... God... The children looked so much like her. Beautiful and good and pure. They were what I held on to, even as the earth rumbled and the world turned gray with ash around us when we escaped the compound. Pulled them close like she would have as we struggled to survive the freezing cold and the passing searchlights. Telling them stories of good times, better times, to help them sleep as tainted snow falls outside the window of our abandoned building, scattered cans of food surrounding us. Keeping them all safe and clean while blood stains my own, a man’s vacant eyes staring up at me from where he fell. My knife still embedded on the black star tattooed on his neck. The foreigners chatter among themselves when we pass another marker. The boat jumps from a high wave, staying in the air for a second, before slamming back down to the growing turbulent waters. Icy water splashes over everyone on deck. It’s colder here near the equator, with the typhoon season usually scheduled to happen this time of the year. Even without being bound to the floor, I’m able to keep my feet steady under me. Petty as it is, I take in a small victory as one of the Mainlanders slips and lands on his ass. His friends laugh at him. The man chained behind me snickers. They punch him in the gut in return. The one on my right glares at another, keeping his hands close to his side and nursing a large bruise on his side as best as he can. His split lip now caked with blood. ‘I spoke.’ He had told me hours ago, gesturing to the large patch of blue and purple skin. ‘I spoke and they didn’t like it.’ The split lip he got only a few minutes ago, from telling me his name. Andre. He has fire in him. A passion and drive that burned in his eyes as his gaze flitted from one foreigner to another. He still wanted to fight, to keep screaming, ‘You will not take my soul! It is mine until my final breath leaves me, or yours leaves you.’ I want to smile. He’s the same as her. Even here, on this rusting, alien boat. Surrounded by the same people that caused our suffering. Someone’s like her. I thought about her every day. She knew, I don’t know how or why but she knew . From the moment those strange hands grabbed at me from the darkness, she knew that we would never see each other again. And if we did... we never would have been the same. I still remember my last moments with her, how my clothes stuck to my skin from the summer rain, how the air had smelled fresh and her touch warm. Large clouds overhead parting when she kissed my cheek. God, I missed her so much. I missed how warm she was, the softest brush on my cheeks as she woke me with the sunrise, no matter how much I protested. Willing me to come to breakfast, chiding at times, but always gentle. I missed how calm she was when I needed her most. Holding me in her arms, whispering to me, telling me everything would turn out alright in the dead of the night. Running her fingers through my hair as the moon rose and the stars blinked down on us. I even miss how furious she would get. How few those moments were didn't dismiss how terrifying she could be. I don't even care to admit that with most of our fights, I am the one to blame. I didn't listen. When she was mad, truly mad, she made sure everyone knew, huffing and puffing, loud and violent. She made sure I listened, made sure I learned. And I did, mind you. It was the other people that didn’t, not always. But she was forgiving. I could count the times she did me wrong with one hand, the times I did her wrong were as many as the stars in the sky or the sand that slipped through my toes. She was too good to me. God, I... I don’t even know what happened to her... She fought, I know she did. We had heard about the riots in the compounds, the threat of civil war and martial law still sent a chill down our bones even when we were a thousand kilometers away. Some of us were terrified, would we be forced to fight for these strange men with their strange ways. Would we be forced to fight our fathers? Mothers? But whatever order that was supposed to pit brother against brother was stalled when the earthquakes happened. And the First Explosion followed. One month. Three volcanoes. The capital was gone in days. News had covered the evacuation efforts. Shaky footages of the sky growing dark. Of people screaming. Running away from the dark clouds and falling ash and carrying all that they could. Other countries rushed to aid what was left of ours before their own volcanoes followed. The Third had mattered most though. It made us drifters. It made us lose our home. Made me lose her. I... I want her to know that I tried. To come back to her earlier. To find a way to her when the cold froze my fingers and when the heat scorched my back. That I did my best to protect what was left of us when we were found. That I fought and clawed as hands grabbed my neck, my feet slipping on blood and mud. That I kept their attention on me while the others disappeared into the ruins they started to see as home, my own vision going hazy. The faint shadow of a black star is the last thing I remember before waking up bound and in rags. A lightning bolt flashes across the sky. The captain shouts behind us but he is drowned out by a rumble of thunder. The boat slows... Somewhere, I hear the muffled sound of clanking chains. Tears fill my eyes. I see her. I finally see her. My god, what have they done to her? There is nothing on her. The sea around her has gone and turned into a mix of a disgusting, pale green and smog-like grey. The foam that kisses her shore is bone white. Her earth is bare, a sickly, dry brown streaked with long rivers of lahar. Stripped clean of everything green and good and left to rot with nothing but the rags that these barbarians didn’t even care to give her. I see no colors. No movement. No life. My heart breaks and I bite my lip in anguish. They laugh and point at my tears. The captain shouts again and the men on the boat begin to move. I watch as they unlock the shackles of the first of us, taking him right to the edge of the boat. A man carrying a red book and a star tattooed on his neck approaches him, their Priest. He reads aloud from the crackling pages while the rest of them chain a solid metal weight to his feet. I can only make out words from the harsh dialect, but just the book alone lets the rest of us know what this was. Our last rites. As soon as the last word leaves the Mainlander’s mouth, they shove him off. The man barely has any time to scream before the loud splash overpowers him and his voice turns to a quick gurgle. Drowning. Death by ball and chain. An old-world punishment for old-world people. They called this refined. Elegant. Bloodless. Hypocrites. They do this with the rest of us. One by one, they remove our bindings from the floor. Two fight the hands that seized them. Another speaks in their tongue, pleading and trying to barter with the captain for mercy. One cursed and raged, screaming so much they had to gag him before they even put the weight on and let the water silence him for them. Andre tries to run and his lip splits open again when they slam him to the floor. He had to be restrained by four of them before they tossed him into the water. The one lame man - an ex-lawyer, I think - they carry, letting him sit right on the edge. Our eyes meet while the Priest reads and the other Mainlanders chain the weight to his feet. As if he even needed that to sink. The lawyer shares my sentiments with a cock of his brow. Another small victory at our captors' idiocy. Yet for that, the weight was suddenly kicked off the edge. The Priest grinning down madly at him as his hands flew to grab on to anything in a moment of panic. He had hung for a second, lips moving silently while his hands gripped the railing. Then, gravity pulled him to the rolling waves below. The splash was quiet. Wordless. And now, it was my turn. I resist more on the fact that they have to turn me away from her to get to the execution spot. A foreigner orders me to stand at the railing with a version of my own language, broken and butchered. The man beside him gives a laugh, words pass through his lips and the three surrounding me laugh at his joke. 'What?' he mocked, 'turning into one of them now?' The boat rocks harshly to the side for a moment and my foot slips through air. I rush to grab on to the coarse railing for balance. Already the metal clamp chaining me to the weight is enough to make my steps heavier. I grip the railing, pulling myself away from the edge as another wave crashes harshly against the boat, spraying biting water at my face. The ocean looked cold and hard, as though it was broken glass that wanted nothing more than to shred the hull and rip us to pieces. The foreigners bark again behind me. One of them goes to grab me. To pull me away from the side so the man with the book can start reading. I turn to look at her one last time, and my breath catches. There she was. Silhouetted against the sunset I could just see the barest shadow of mountains and hills, and the faint outline of green further inland. Light brushes over the clouds, giving her a halo of pink and orange curls, making her skin glow and look like molten gold. Seafoam turned to pearls, lining the hem of a dark blue dress that shined with the faintest red every time a wave rolled and kissed the air. "Hey there." I whisper. I push and let go. The men scream. One even tries to pull me back. The weight yanks me down. Cool water screams with joy in my ears, and a familiar feeling brushes through my hair. I swear something warm brushes my cheek. "I'm back.”