Beware brides upon the Seine, perfumed with river water, whose veils catch the wind like white flags of surrender. They will trip along the cobbles with their arms full of roses, and the petals will find you with all the softness of forever. The brides alone feel the thorns. Beware the Latin Quarter with its songbirds and bistro tables within kissing distance. Do not be tempted here to make a beautiful acquaintance, not over a bottle of wine, not over a shot of espresso, not even over a love song. Beware the dreamers of Montmartre who create en plein air and pick muses from stoops and shadows. They will climb on braids of ivy to your window and perch on your sill. By moonlight, they will stain you with watercolours and sign you in illegible cursive. Here, there are hearts ripe for picking. Never has a city hungered so badly to ruin you. ------ The mother’s hands are on her phone. The father’s hands are in his pockets. The Rodin’s hands are white stone, a bridge formed where their fingers intersect. Beneath the tenderness, a wide and hollow space between the palms. ------ The daughter is worried she does not have role models for being in love. Her parents are passionless. Their kisses are closed-mouthed and fleeting, platonic pecks. When the daughter is in love, she decides, she will surrender herself to it, damning decorum on a voyage through desire. She will reject anyone who loves her less than the ocean loves a ship. She will be taken naturally, entirely, and dangerously. There will be no escaping it. It will take her apart. It will break her bow and soak her sails and sink her til she is just bones mired in blue. ------ The mother and father were not young when they met. They’d both had their hearts broken several times by then--with small fractures, piercing wounds, closed fists, open palms, and the sharp beak of a cooing dove. They’d known reckless loves, thrown stones in glass houses, and burned bridges. They were ready for the cushion of a forever love. Not as a ship and its waters, but as wind and sand: a love that lifts and dances in endless embrace. Their students were above them studying Water Lilies . Matin dans le matin. The shallow ponds reflected dawn-brushed clouds. Willows dipped their long, thready branches into the indigo pools. Lily pads created a soft place for sunlight to land. The water did not move. The students took selfies. The mother was downstairs with a Cézanne. The father stood beside her. They looked at the still life, and the still life looked back at them. For a long time, they were silent, and then the father said, “Yum.” He was so American. Then again, so was she. ------ The son is old enough to drink in Paris but too young to drink at home. He orders une bière in clumsy French, but cannot follow the waiter’s next question. His cheeks flaming red, he points at the menu: Kronenbourg. The waiter slaps his notebook shut officiously, then bustles on to the next table. The son doesn’t look directly at his parents or his sister. He’s ready to step into manhood and afraid they can see how he’s stumbling. ------ The mother pats her hands dry on her pants. Outside of the bathroom, everyone is abuzz about the Mona Lisa. In every language she has ever known of, in husks, in singsong, in dialect, they talk about the smile, the smile, her smile. The mother smiles. It hurts her mouth. Her lips have become so tight over the years that something as elastic as joy doesn’t keep; it wants to snap back and burn the skin. Her daughter will be on her phone, though staying connected brings out the worst in her. She sulks that life at home carries on. If she could, she’d trap it in resin and force it to hold its shape until she’s back. Her son will be standing apart from his sister and father. He has come to Paris to pretend to be alone. Her husband will be out with his spool, running circles to bind them together with fragile thread. Only the mother knows he’s trying to apologise. Sometimes, she wants to let him rope her in with the lot of them, tie the family prettily with a bow. Other times, she hopes he’ll trip. ------ The daughter once heard her parents making love through the wall. She was curious and disturbed and yanked her sheets and pillow off her bed hastily. When she was rearranged on the basement couch, she thought as loudly as she could to cover up the memory. ---- The father tilts his head to Nike of Samothrace. Automatically, he calculates her attractiveness. He registers her pleasing, hourglass figure. Her proud chest pulls his eyes, modest where the marble sheet clings to her, though not so modest that he cannot see the suggestion of her nipples. The exercise is so ludicrous that he wishes he could laugh, tell someone that he is assessing a headless statue’s sex appeal. There is no one to tell. He’s made slow progress in his amends and can’t afford to remind his wife of other women, even those who are impossible and sexless. “Wonder what she’s thinking about,” he jokes weakly and hates himself. He hates that he can no longer make his children laugh. He hates that, the longer it’s been since he has, the worse his attempts become. “Arms,” his daughter humours him without looking up from her texts. His son says nothing. He stands several feet away, brow furrowed studiously. The father’s heart aches when he sees his boy pantomiming a man. His wife reappears. She doesn’t look once at Nike. “What did I miss?” She’s never missed anything, especially not when the father is looking at another woman. ------ The son will never tell the daughter about the woman who drove their father home under a velvet night sky. He will never tell their mother that, while he watched through the window, the woman leaned over the console and pecked their father on the cheek, then let her mouth linger on the corner of his. The son turned the TV off and ran upstairs before his path intersected his father’s. He will never tell. Every night that passes, he convinces himself a little more it was not what he saw, but what he imagined. ------ The daughter declares she cannot look at another museum or she will die. Instead, they sit on a second-rate bench in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe. To a symphony of traffic and horns, they sample pastries from the Champs: an almond tart with vanilla bean mousse, rose-flavoured macarons, moist cake with mango gelee. The desserts lift everyone’s spirits. The daughter has a little pink crumb above her lip. “Is it how you remember it?” ---- The mother remembers falling in love like this: Sitting across from the father in a bistro crammed with patrons and candlelight, grateful for an excuse to crush her legs into his under the table. Browsing the les bouquinistes for an English title, turning pages made delicate with age. Leaning against the balustrade, blue sky around them and boats below, a croissant in her hand. His eyes on her face, warming her like the sun. The father remembers falling in love like this: Staring at the wall she built between them. The top lined with barbed wire so he cannot climb over it. Unable to reach through, even as the mother’s saying, “I can’t be with you anymore.” Trying to promise her “I love you more than anything,” when he means, “I can’t lose you,” and doesn’t understand that isn’t the same thing. ---- They cross a bridge heavy with initialled padlocks. The daughter thinks it’s the most romantic thing in the world. More quietly, so does the son. “We had a lock once,” the father recalls, but neither he nor the mother can remember on what bridge. Stars peek down through the gauzy sunset. With age and vantage on their side, they remember perfectly. “I hope,” the father says, “it hasn’t been cut off.” ---- Their children are above them in a pool of Water Lilies . The Cézanne is more vivid than the mother remembers it. She counts the yellow apples among the red. The father stands beside her. She reaches for his hand.


The Day was New Year’s Eve. The Day the world ended. Everyone was at someone’s house, dancing and singing the night away without a care in the world. Fizzy champagne filled our glasses as we counted down the last seconds of the year. 12:00. Silence. No fireworks, no shouts, no clinks of cups, nothing. 12:01, the bombs started. Not the kind that light up the sky and people awe at, the kind that bring destruction and desolation. Someone grabbed my hand and pulled. Pulled me down. Without them, I would have stayed there, frozen. They yanked me along to a place called safety, weaving through all the chaos around us. My foot came off the last step and the world went black. Now... I am here in a hospital, where I have been for the first few weeks of the new year and new month. The walls are white, and the beds are thin and covered in fleece green sheets, ones that are over me now. They are scratchy and nip at the cuts that are trying to heal. I brush my hair off my neck and should attempt to sleep. It’s easier in the day than in the night. Instead, I stumble to the window. The window that never shows anything different but that calms me somehow. The sun is trying so hard to push through the clouds, however they will not budge. A field stands before me where a street full of businesses and homes used to be, only now are crushed to bricks and rubbish. Tiny yellow flowers speckle the plain, bringing bits of beauty to such an ugly place. The occasional wall stays standing undeterred by the disaster around. I like to compare myself to that wall even though we are nothing alike. The nurse’s footsteps behind me speak that it is time for me to go to bed, no matter how much I fight it, it’s the same every day. I will not sleep, so I stay awake. They tell me I need sleep and fill me with drugs until I do. But then I awake again. They want me to overcome my fear of dreams, but they do not see the nightmares that flood my brain when my body rests. The moments after the bombs are blurry, though in my dreams they are crystal. I shift the crutch under my arm, taking the weight off my bad leg, and hobble to my bed. It is directly behind me with a view of the window. I think the nurse is surprised by how easily I obey. I am tired... tired of resisting rest. I do need it. “Hadassah,” she says, examining my leg, “It’s lookin’ good. Another week on the crutch and you’ll be able to walk. You might have a limp there, but it’ll be better than nothin’.” I have never told her my name though somehow, she always knows it and calls me by it. I muster up a smile for her, the muscles in my cheeks unsure of how to work. Her laugh is sweet and something I haven’t heard for a while. She closes the curtains on her way out, and the older man in the bed beside me snores. In and out... in and out... in and out... His breathing is loud, a lullaby to my needy ears. My mind wanders back to the first seconds of the new year, the moments that I can’t remember correctly, and thinks of the person who grabbed me. I was too shocked to comprehend who it was, but I wish I knew who saved me. Without them I wouldn’t be in this bed right now. I hope they are in the other room wondering the same thing. Eventually, the darkness of sleep comes. Darkness that is of rest and not of pain; those two are hard for me to differentiate. When I awake, I know a soft smile lies on my lips. My dream was sweet. I dreamt of my family, not of them hurt, but of them laughing and smiling at me back at our home. The sun shined and the birds chirped as we all sat around the table. It feels more like a memory than a dream. I believe my family is still alive, somewhere, trying to find me as I am seeking to find them. The night the world seemed to end we were all separated, a decision I regret and turn over again and again in my head. The nurse, I learned her name, Jeanne leads me over to the washroom. I still use my crutch but can feel my foot strengthening. She shuts the door and has me sit on a turned over bucket. The room is dimly lit and musty, too many dirty towels and dirty bodies. Taking a piece of the bandage, she unwraps my calf with such gentleness shivers rush through me. With the same tenderness, she helps me remove my clothing so she can wash me. I have told Jeanne multiple times that I am capable of cleaning myself, but she insists and I don’t have the energy to argue. A fluffy mustard yellow sponge floats in a bucket of water near her. She rings it out and begins cleansing me. The water is cool and refreshing against my skin. I shut my eyes as she continues. “Hold your hair please.” I lift my long hair off my neck for her to clean. “Let’s wash your hair today miss.” I nod and flip my hair forward. She drenches it in the cool water, scrubbing the filth away. Her strong nails rake through my hair and I close my eyes again, lulled by her massage. Using a towel, she dries my hair by hand. “Hadassah... you have such pretty dark hair. Can I braid it for ya?” “Please,” my voice is raspy, only used when necessary. More shivers tremble through my body as her steady fingers go to work. Piece after piece she braids my hair, turning it into one thick strand. It flaps onto my shoulder, a beautiful red ribbon tied on the end. A lump fills in my throat as she holds a pair of pants in front of me. I slip into the clothes, with her help, my eyes on the floor. If I look up, I will crumble. But maybe crumbling into someone who cares about you is okay. I glance up, into her light blue eyes and wrinkly skin, and crumble. And break. And sob. Tears burst from my eyes and a yelp escapes my throat. Jeanne covers me in her warm arms and strokes my back. She doesn’t speak and neither do I. Her embrace is still tight as my tears dry on my cheeks. I pull back to see her face. “Thank you, Jeanne.” My voice edges back to its normal, and I want to say more but cannot. Jeanne cups my cheek with her hand. Her grin is one I will never forget, her eyes shining in reflection of mine. We head to the lunchroom, a smile in Jeanne’s eyes while we tread there. Her hair is tied in a braid same to mine, and I am grateful to match her. Grateful to wait in line for food. Grateful to be alive. “One step at a time...walk to the window.” The man’s tone is soothing and patient. The week has come to rid of the crutch. It will be a month tomorrow since the bombs first came. The man guides me on how to walk again, something I never thought I’d need to know how to do twice. Moving my feet one after another, I inch toward the window I know, the goal, with slow steps. My feet shuffle in an odd manner, in a way that feels unnatural, but he encourages me on, so I go. The window is a step away. I keep my eyes trained on the floor. “Come on Hadassah,” Jeanne says. Step... step... My gaze glides from my feet to the window. The same desolate land is there, but three familiar faces stand in front of me, and this time they aren’t from my dream. They aren’t from a nightmare or an imagination. They are as real as my wobbly ankle beneath me. Jeanne and the man laugh and cheer behind me. Awe is a word too underwhelming to explain what these people standing in front of me mean. I am running, running on my feet, limping, out the door. It is them.


-First Log of Day 202,777,575- During the month of May, the sun rises at approximately 5:28 AM. It begins as a hazy smudge of molten orange and gradually bathes the world in a sharp luminescence as the hour spans on. I’ve noticed that the sun has come to arrive much earlier now than in the winter months. If I was younger I might have pursued this phenomenon with a more able-bodied enthusiasm. Although my outward appearance has remained unchanging, my once smooth joints have become sluggish and spasmodic. The sunlight has begun to lack that wonderful rejuvenating aura it once did. Rather than pondering the timing of the sunrise, I only wake earlier. -Second Log of Day 202,777,575- There are things to be done. The house must be readied and food must be scavenged. It has never been known when the guests shall arrive. It would go against proper formality to greet them with clutter and no snacks. Of course, the house was cleaned yesterday... and the snacks were never eaten. But who’s to say guests will not come today! As someone I can’t recall once said, “ By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” -Third Log of Day 202,777,575- The windows are dirty. They’re always dirty. The morning light irradiates the grime tauntingly. I thought it would finally give today. Yet, no matter how much I scrub it hasn’t budged. It sits there... aflame with that molten orange, mocking. -Fourth Log of Day 202,777,575- Sojourner always loved mornings. She used to prance about from room to room waving a fluffed cloth chasing after dust. When she was done the tiny particles would always glitter in the light. Sojourner would say they reminded her of stars. She had been the oldest of us, but she was always the most excitable. Bitterly, I’ve begun to recall her longing eyes more than her smile. Because she was the first of us Sojourner was the first to leave. She wrote--for a little while--but communications quickly ceased. Like her name, she was a person who resided only temporarily... in our lives and her own. -Fifth Log of Day 202,777,575- Before you know it, morning slips into noon. The sun is high and at its brightest. Midday in best days to provide the finishing touches on the food and general order of the house. The light is irritatingly cherry. It reminds me of Spirit. A shiny little fool. When Spirit was still around, it was common to decorate the doorways of our homes and sometimes even the table. Spirit often favored streamers. She enjoyed the way they sparkled in the sun. “Like beacons! ” She would say, “ They will guide the lost guests to the propper house!” I was inclined to agree with her logic. In a land bathed with light, something shiny was bound to stick out. I also believed our guest to be rather... misplaced. Spirit had been our emotion, our character, our soul. Yet as the second eldest, she was the second to leave. She took our hope as she fled with the noon. I have never hated my sisters... but a certain inner torment did arise. Spirit kept in sporadic contact but eventually, she got ill from her journey. It hurts less to say she just faded away. -Sixth Log of Day 202,777,575- Afternoons are the time after which the guest should have arrived; when the sun is setting. The moldy food is placed in the fridge that long ago stopped working. The table that is more moss than wood is casually brushed down. The decaying house is to be neatly tidied up before I am allowed the freedom of the outdoors. Afternoons had always been Perseverance’s favorite time. She told me that when the light was fading and when the moon was just beginning to become brighter, that if any guest were to show up it would be then. I never understood her logic, but I’m not too nice to admit that she was my favorite sister. She stayed by my side the longest. All the same, she left with the fading day. Perseverance, the youngest, kept in much better contact than our two incorrigible elder sisters. She’s still in contact. I’ve always been more proud of that than any of her glorious adventures while searching for our guests. I hope she soon finds them. -Seventh Log of Day 202,777,575- It is the night that is my favorite time. The darkness. The coolness. The silence. I would rather become one with the many murky shadows that roamed that crumbling house than be exposed to my sibling’s beloved light. I’ve grown tired of it. The light has become painful. Tiredness. Memories. Hope. It is pleasing to watch the stars without the concerns of a weak roof and mice hogging the moth-eaten covers. Neither do I need to worry about the strange scuttling coming from within the cracked drywall. I would much rather concern myself with the slow movement of the night sky than listen to the raccoons arguing in the attic. Sometimes when I locate a star that perhaps is just barely moving faster than the others I behave rather illogically. (I’ve begun to blame my sisters for my growing lack of logical thought and action.) I’ll cross my fingers and squeeze my eyes as tight as they go. It’s the only way to take wishes seriously. On this night it is much harder to make it up the hill. My precious secret spot feels far on with my stiff joints. I make it, I always do, but tonight there's a finality in my arrival. The grass is cooler than normal as I lay on it and the stars are covered in clouds. My empty Earth feels darker. With Perseverance away from home am I the final remnant of humanity on this forsaken planet? It hardly matters. Perhaps someday someone will discover this half-hearted diary. It hardly matters. I close my aching eyes and plunge into a dark unknown. -Final Log of Day 202,777,57 6 - Tonight I don’t wish, my beloved log. ~Curiosity


One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. My chest tightens as it fills with air, breathing in the nauseating combination of odors filling the room. The unmistakable smell of blood. Whose blood was it? The smell of alcohol, burning in my nostrils. The dank smell of some kind of chalky smoke. That smell makes me sick, and my stomach turns. I need a window. Fresh air. But of course this room has no opening to the outside. I look around. It’s all too familiar. And I shudder. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Breathe. I can hear him walking around. The muted sound of his shoes shuffling from room to room. I can’t see him right now. I know he’s outside this room, somewhere. I know he’s coming for me. He’s done it before. I wonder what he’s doing now to the others. Every so often, I hear a strangled throaty moan. I change my mind, I don’t want to know. I can only imagine. Selfishly, I’m glad it’s them and not me right now. I try not to think of the last time. My eyes press closed reflexively. Chills run up and down my arms, and I wrap them around my body. It doesn’t take away the vision of him standing over me, his hands lingering over my face. I can almost feel his fingers pressing into my cheek again, hard. Too hard. “Does it hurt?” he had asked. I wanted to scream, “Yes! It hurts! Please, please stop!” But I didn’t. I couldn’t. It would not have made any difference. He was in charge. With his dark eyes, his brown wavy hair, his thin smile. He’s always the one in charge. I remember when I first saw him. I thought he was so handsome, in a rugged kind of way. His personality was charming like no man I’d met before. He had this way of tilting his head every time he spoke, and leaning forward as if he didn’t want to miss anything I’d said. Nobody had ever really made me feel so important like that before when we talked. I blushed when he spoke to me, when he asked me questions about myself. I tried to answer nonchalantly, as if I didn’t care how he was taking in my replies. But I did care. And weighed every word I spoke. Did he think I was pretty? Or funny? Was he flirting with me, or was this just how he always acted? I was never good at flirting with men. I always came across as awkward, needy, and did I mention awkward? There was a time I looked forward to seeing him. Schoolgirl butterflies would flit through my belly at the thought of him. I would get lost in daydreams thinking of him. But not anymore. Not now. And soon, he would be in this room again. Standing over me. Pressing his hands into my face, as I lay helpless beneath him. Looking up into his dark eyes. I grip the leather arms of the chair I’m sitting in, unable to escape. Or, am I? Could I run? Could I break away, no consequences? But there would be consequences. Painful consequences. I abandoned the thought, and focused once more on my breathing, on calming my beating heart and unquiet mind. One. Two. Threeâ€¦ I hear his voice getting closer. Louder. He’s coming for me. My hands grip the arms of the chair I’m sitting in. My nails dig into the worn, brown leather. The sweat on my palms makes my hands slip as I try to move. It’s too late now. He’s saying my name. He’s standing over me. He’s reaching for my face, straightening my chin upwards to look at him. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he sweetly says, as if I ever wanted him to come in. His voice is deep, gravely, and as unpleasant now as his touch. He smells of aftershave, but it’s too strong. It mixes with all the other nauseating smells in the room. I can’t ignore what he’s done to me before. The pain. I tense, and close my eyes. He has complete control. I have no choice but to do as he says, follow his orders, submit to his will. No matter how painful. I tell myself to be strong. All of a sudden, the room spins. A jolt of pain shoots through me, as I grab his arm to make him stop. “Easyâ€¦” he whispers, close to my ear. He doesn’t stop. Another lightning bolt travels through my body, and I draw my knees to my chest. Make it stop, make it stop! But I can’t speak. His hands are in my open mouth. A groan escapes as I feel a drop of blood drip from the roof of my mouth and slide down my throat. Its metallic taste makes me nauseous. I feel a single, hot, salty tear creep down my face. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to show my weakness in front of him. I go numb. Just as he wanted. “You’re very braveâ€¦” he says, watching my face closely. I look away. I don’t want to see his face. And I certainly don’t want his hands on me again. But I can’t move. I can’t get out of this. Again, I can’t get out of this. But, I came here willingly. I agreed to all of this. Why did I come here? I begin to regret my decision. Regrets don’t get you far in life though. I can do this, I tell myself. Even though I know it will only get worse before it gets better. So much worse. His voice brings me back. He’s leaning in close now. “Once the novacaine kicks in, I’ll take care of that tooth. A root canal is your only option, like last time. Good thing you came in. Untreated, this would have some painful consequences,” he said, getting up to go and check on another patient. I lay my head back, and submit to my fate.


Ted froze where he was. He didn’t know what to make of it. Of all things he expected, that wasn’t remotely in his mind. He stared in its eyes, and it stared back. Ted noticed that they had a sparkle not present back when he left his buddy Julius in the tent, barely half an hour from their last talk. Ted had done what Julius asked him to do. “Go to the guy with the creepy mask! Get some of the blues for me, quick! I need them, dammit!”, and Ted complied. He did so because he had never heard Julius in such a desperate and frustrated tone before. He always saw Julius as the chillest guy he had ever met, even in the times pre-flash. Maybe even too much chill. Except the same ol’ jolly face, Ted had never seen that man display any other emotion. It was like he had a mask constantly over his face. But, in the brief time that the two were together, it seemed like the mask was slowly fading away, feebly showing the presence of the abyss that haunts most of the men of Olathe. And now, what did remain of the old man that was once Julius? A nightmare. A crooked and malformed parody of Julius layed in front of a bewildered Ted. Ted could barely recognise his pal. His body grew horribly, it bloated and expanded all over, causing the tent to fall over Julius in a vain attempt to hide the monster from the terrified eyes of the world. His stomach seemed like it had exploded from the inside, causing it to swell in a rough round shape. The legs has disappeared, engulfed by the belly. His torso twisted over itself like a screw made out of flesh. His arms stretched and pulled, becoming contorted and elongated. They grasped the soil beneath them with sickly calm. It was phisically repulsive and painful for Ted to look at that display of depraved fantasy. He couldn’t believe his friend had become such a monstrosity, even though the evidence was right in front of him, staring at him with the same ol’ jolly face Ted knew. There was silence. Only the melancholy howl of the wind filled the empty valley around them. Ted sat on the ground, with his hands on his head, sobbing. Tears run down his cheeks. Ted had hurried, like Julius told him to. He run far and wide in desperate search of the vendor with the creepy mask. Only if the weirdo hadn’t moved from his last spot Ted would have made it in time to save his friend. Ted remembered the chuckle of the creepy guy has he gave him the little blue pills. It resonated over and over in his head. He felt guilt building up in his chest. Ted didnt’ want to fail Julius. He didn’t want him to suffer like that, all alone. He just wanted his only friend back. Ted stood there for a while, looking at the monstrosity, in silence. Eventually, someone arrived. He heard his steps behind him. Ted turned to see a tall man, armed with a spiked club and armoured with a worn-out bullet-proof vest. The man’s long black hair were animated by the feeble breeze. Ted had never seen him before. He didn’t like him. He didn’t care much about him, or anything in general in that moment. The man came up near Ted, towering over him. “Are you allright?” he asked. Ted said nothing. Couldn’t care less. “Mpf... at least you seem ok...” The man continued: “Look, you should get away from it. You never know when one of these may jump at you...” “And where do you suggest me to go?” Ted asked angrily. “Look man, I don’t give a shit where you should go. Fine for me if you wanna stay here... just don’t crawl to me asking for help when this thing rips off your legs.” Silence. Then Ted got up and slowly walked away from there. He had lost everything once again, and once again he needed to travel around Olathe in search of something or someone to make his life worth living. The bright sun shone in front of Ted. The wind pushed him toward the horizon. The thought that he had to commence his search all over again made him feel disheartened. He pulled one of the little blue pills from his pocket and stared at it with tired eyes. Ted had no one to give this pills to anymore, except himself. Ted gulped down the pill, just for the heck of it. He could feel it travelling down to his stomach. He felt something strange happening inside him shortly after. The sadness that filled his heart was taken over by a comfortable numbness. Ted now felt nothing. He was grateful to the pill for relieving his pain and felt happy that he had a couple more for later. Ted walked down the road, toward a fate he didn’t know anything about, and never turned back, for he didn’t have anything to look back to.


“Why do they make this so goddamn hot? They must want to burn your tongue so you can’t taste how much they water it down. I can barely taste anything anymore. Maybe I should sue them; get my big pay out and open my own shop that sells coffee at the proper dilution and temperature. Ground breaking ideacoffee that doesn’t leave my customers writhing under the pain of a blistering tongue everyday of their miserable lives. I guess I should just stop coming here. But, then I’d have to find a new place to go and find new things to complain about there. Seems like a lot of hassle over a tongue with a few burned off taste buds....” Kurt stared at his laptop screen, glowing blue in the ambient mood lighting of *Brew-Ha-Ha,* the non-alcoholic version of the local dive in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, tucked away down a little side street off the main drag. Few ever went looking for it unless they already knew where it was. He had just arrived, and already there was a bitter taste in his mouth. He had run through nearly the same monologue in his mind day in and day out, for the better part of the year since he had started going there. Today was the day, though. Today, he was going to make real progress on this story; this pulitzer-potential Great American Novel that he merely needed to coax from the ends of his neurons. He looked at the thousand or so words he’d managed to choke up: something about a guy in a coffee shop in front of a laptop trying to look like he was doing something important in order to avoid social discourse. “Fuck.” He mouthed the word as he thought it to himself. He set his coffee down to the side and popped the cheap plastic lid off so it could cool down. He watched for a moment as the steam rose gleefully from the surface. Glee had no business here. Moving his hand in a well practiced multi-touch technique, he was able to have his Facebook screen up in less than a second. The blue-motif world of Facebook was calming for him. Every second spent wasted checking up on the friends he once had was a second spent away from making any real progress. Progress was hard. It took concentration; motivation. It was far easier to scroll this infinite tome the internet had written for him. And it was an illustrated novel. There were pictures of his elementary school friends looking chiseled as they hung out by some undisclosed body of water with beers in hand and faceless tan girls in little pink bathing suits that always seemed one size to small. “Those stupid parties are never any fun anyway. I always end up drinking too much on my own and doing something stupid. Remember that time I thought it was funny to dump the contents of the punch bowl down the front of my pants like I was drinking it from my crotch? And then I thought it was also funny to moon the cops when they came because apparently I didn’t leave when I was asked. Actually that is still pretty funny. Anyway, look at those stupid assholes. They’re never going to amount to anything beyond their quaint little small town parties. I’m better off not being there. Even if they invited me, I still wouldn’t go.” He scrolled down some more to a picture of his high school best friend, Max, and his golden retriever. It was a sunny, and they were alone together in some field with tall grass. “Pfft. How silly. Why is he posting a picture of him and his dog as a profile picture? That’s a bit sad. Doesn’t he have any real friends to post pictures with? That stupid dog is probably all he has in the world. How pathetic.” In the midst of his spewing of thoughts, Kurt remembered his own golden retriever that he had when he was growing up. He remembered the day they had to take him to the vet and how he stayed with him as they poked him that long needle. He remembered watching his eyes close for the last time. And he remember crying in a heap on the floor harder than he ever had in his life. His expression was dazed, backlit by the monitor like a ghost wandering in the moonlight. He absentmindedly clicked ‘like.’ *Cute puppy! Reminds me of my own when I was growing up.* He mouthed the words as he typed them in to the comments section. He read them over twice before holding down the backspace deleting his words from existence. He continued the scroll stopping at a picture posted by his long ex-girlfriend, Kate. She was with her new boyfriend. The caption indicated they were engaged. “Kate’s too young to get married. She shouldn’t give her life to some guy like that. Who knows what she’ll be missing out on. Look at that guy. Looks like a Friday night bar pick-up. I can smell the ink on the divorce papers drying from here. I guess I should be nicer. I’m sure they’re going to end up okay. I wonder if they’ll have kids. Shit, he’s a good looking guy. I bet they’re kids will be good looking and popular in school. I miss you, Kate. I wish I could tell you. ‘Kurt and Kate.’ Our names even sounded good together.... What am I doing? How is that any type of indication of two peoples’ compatibility? It means nothing. I’m actually stupid. I moved on from this many, many years agoand yet here I am. I’ve never had another girl like her, though. She was so amazing. And now she’s boning this other fuck-stick, while here I am in this stupid coffee shop with this retarded name, burnt out from whacking off every other day. I can’t let her know this. Should I say ‘congratulations’? No, I’ll just like it. Would that be weird? Fuck, just get off Facebook, you asshole.” Kurt closed the window with a rapid fire keyboard shortcut and saw his measly thousand words staring back at him once more. He picked up his coffee and took a swig. “Goddammit! How is this still hot?” He spoke his mind out loud this time and the quiet little people on their own little laptops looked over his way with a combination of confusion and dismay. ‘Out loud’ is forbidden here. Kurt closed his laptop a bit more forcibly than he was accustomed, but it still made a soft little pat sound. He looked down at his closed computer in front of him, and then up at all the other people quietly drinking their coffee and going about their work. There was an Asian girl in the corner with chin length hair and square goggle-glasses. She stared intently at her computer while sipping on some drink through a straw. “I bet it’s a non-fat chai something something something. Asians are crazy about the chai. Great, now I’m a racist. Good going, Kurt. As if you didn’t have enough wrong with you. I wonder if she’s writing a book, too. Probably not. She’s probably studying for math or engineering or something... Goddammit, you racist fuck! I’m the worst. I should just go talk to her and ask her about herself. That’s not weird, right? Why is not talking to each other the new norm? Oh, shit...” The girl in the corner made eye contact with Kurt, realizing she was being stared at. Kurt quickly looked away and pretended he was minding his own business and the girl quickly returned to her own endeavors. Kurt turned his attention now to a man sitting a few places down at a table parallel to his own spot. He was drinking a coffee and reading a book. “Greatanother guy in the world who’s better looking than me. Chalk another one up. Why isn’t his coffee dissolving the taste buds on his stupid tongue? He must be blessed by the caffeine gods. Who wears a blazer to a coffee shop like this, anyway? Who’s he trying to impress? What a phony. What’s he reading?” Kurt leaned forward and squinted to decrypt the title of the book. “Oh hang on everyone! You’d better fasten your seat belts. This guys’s reading *The Catcher in the Rye.* How original. We got a regular literary fucking genius over here. Everyone else put your shit books away, can’t you see we’re reading *The Catcher in the Mother-Fucking Rye.* I didn’t know you were even allowed to read that once you graduated high school. He’s probably in here trying to pick up freshmen girls or something. The little airheads who walk around with their heads up their asses because their shit don’t stink because they read the *Themes Motifs & Symbols* tab on SparkNotes for stupid, wipe-my-ass *Catcher in the Rye.* You know, whatever. Good for him. I bet he gets laid tonight while I’m naked and jackin’ it in San Diego.” Kurt chuckled to himself. “I wonder if he watches South Park. Dammit...” The man looked up from his book to see Kurt looking back. He was able to squeeze in a quick, but sincere smile before Kurt whipped his gaze away. “Oh, what a guy. Reads J. D. Salinger and offers sincere smiles to strangers. I should contact the pope and see about pushing his canonization papers through.” He looked down at his laptop again, remembering he had just closed it. Not enough time had passed from him to throw it back open againthere’s rules here. Impaired of other options, he plunged his hand in to his right front pocket and whipped out his iPhone. Nothing. No texts. No SnapChats. No Facebook updates. Kurt flipped back and forth from page to page of useless apps. One, for instance, was called Coffee Finder. With one click you can find coffee shops that are near to your current location and read their menus and reviews from other customers. “Solid download.” Kurt clicked on Coffee Finder. A map popped up with a blue dot emitting little waves to indicate his current locale. It hovered over a red dot that read *Brew Ha-Ha.* He clicked on it. An image of the facade of the building popped up. He clicked on the about tab. The location apparently used to be a furniture store in the 1950s, a grocery store through the 90s, abandoned for 10 years, and then repurposed as ‘Oshkosh’s favorite gourmet coffee establishment.’ “Gourmet, my ass. Although, I am drinking shitty coffee on historical land. Or at least I would if it would ever not be scalding.” He looked over menacingly toward his still steaming cup of French Roast. “I hate you.” He looked back at his phone and clicked on the review tab. The average: two and a half stars. “Seems about right.” He clicked on the read more button. The first review was five star. Holly J. writes: *Brew Ha-Ha is a great little whole-in-the-wall coffee shop. It offers a cozy atmosphere and really friendly service. If only the hoards of Starbucks drinkers would turn around the corner their eyes would be....*(continue reading) The review was cut off and you had to click if you wanted to read the rest of it. Kurt did not oblige. The next review down was one star. Blueballs69 writes: *This place sucks. The person behind the counter was picking his wedgy as he asked me what I wanted. When I got my coffee, it tasted like ash and burned off half my taste buds. Go to Starbucks. Brew Ha-Ha sucks....*(continue reading) “This guy gets it! Let’s see what he has to say. Click-a-roo.” Kurt clicked the button. *...balls.* “Worth it I think.” Kurt smirked slyly to himself as he rested his arm on the table staring methodically into his phone. (continued in comments....


The day I realized I was nothing was the same day I destroyed the one thing I worked my whole life to find. My mind was still foggy, as it had always been. I was still mindlessly working, searching for fire stones, as if nothing was wrong. Nothing had changed, and only then did I realize that nothing ever would. I walked obediently in a single-file line, standing in the very back because I was the smallest, the one least likely to be successful. There weren't many children in our village. In fact, there were three. None were younger than thirteen. The entire village, from the elderly, down to me, were in the same line. The strong young men stood at the lead, the fathers and mothers behind them. Finally, there were the two young boys and then me, the only daughter in the group. We all carried heavy mining tools, enchanted to be able to break through any stone. Everyone ahead of me was looking around like hawks for the one thing that they were trying to find: the cave of fire stones. I didn’t fully understand what the fire stones were, and come to think of it, I don’t even have the slightest idea why we are searching for them. For some reason though, that didn’t matter. My scrawny arms never got tired under the weight of the tools. No one ever needed to sleep, or eat, or drink, but none of this ever crossed our minds or stood out as strange to any of us. “Stop!” The head of the line announced to us. Everyone stopped at once at his command. “Mine here.” The same young man yelled back to the group, pointing at a small mound. As if right on cue, everyone started forming a circle around the hill, making it so everyone had an area to hit. I raised my pickaxe above my head in time with everyone else. I closed my eyes, mustering all my energy, and struck the sharp edge down into the cold, hard earth. The impact caused the pickaxe to fall out of my grasp, a mistake that never happened before. Before I could even grab the tool again, a hand grasped my shoulder and pulled me back, out of the circle of mining villagers. I screamed and yelled in shock, trying to get myself out of my captor’s grasp. I looked to my fellow villagers, seeing if anyone noticed or heard my screaming, but they simply spread out a bit to close the empty gap. “What...? No!” I strained in the grasp of my captor, but their grip was too strong. Once my village wasn’t able to be seen through the dense trees, whoever was grabbing me finally let go. I scrambled to my feet and whipped around to finally have a look at who dragged me over here, “What do think you’re-” I froze. I was expecting to look up at a huge, scary man, but instead a young boy, my age, stood in front of me. I screamed in shock at seeing another person as young as I was, but I was soon silenced by the boy putting a hand over my mouth. “Stop! I’ll explain, but you need to stay quiet. There are things in this forest that you don’t want tracking you.” he said. My mouth snapped shut. “Where do I start?” the boy mumbled to himself, then looked back up at me. “How would you react if I told you that everything you ever knew was wrong and you actually don’t exist because someone is controlling all you do and think?” I took two steps back, worried the boy was mental. “That's what I thought.” Before I could run, the boy grabbed my arm. “Hear me out.” He said seriously, “If I’m so wrong, then what's your name... actually, what’s this world even called anyway?” I raised an eyebrow, “Well, duh, it’s...” I froze, then held my head as if I was having a bad headache. Of course I knew what the very world I live in is called! Except... I didn’t. I stopped trying to run, curious to hear the boy’s explanation. “Exactly. It’s called nothing. Everyone here is nothing. You're under a spell; the reason it was so easy to snap you out of it was that you're a kid, so the curse is less potent.” He motioned to the darkness of the forest. Before I could ask what he was doing, kids my age, and younger started coming out of the darkness one by one, shocking me with each young face. “Each one of us,” the boy continued, gesturing to the children, “came from your village. I’ve been working hard to free the children from the curse before it was too late. We-” It was too much for me. “Hold it! Back up! What on earth are you talking about?! What curse?” “The curse was cast so that the very universe has complete control over you; you were hardly human, just their minion ready to do their bidding.” The boy paused, “The fire stones, what you and the rest of our village were looking for, are the source of the curse. If your... if our village finds it, then the curse will take complete hold and we will no longer be existent at all, not even under another’s control.” “No. No, this can’t be true! That means... that means that this whole time, I've been searching endlessly for something that will be the end of this world as we know it?!” I was stunned. “Precisely, we need your help to block the fire stone cave before they find it. I already tried multiple times to free the other two children in our village, but it seems they’re already knee-deep in the curse.” the boy said sadly. “So will you help us?” I was still confused, my mind was overflowing with the new information, but I nodded. “But... How will we even find the cave? Our village has been searching for ages... and they’re adults! We’re just a bunch of kids!” The boy looked worried, as if just realizing they don’t have much time, “We already found it.” “Wait what?!” “The problem is, it’s in the exact location that our villagers are mining as we speak!” “Why didn’t you lead with that?!” I shouted at him as the whole group started running back through the trees. By the time we got back, the villagers had already made their way very far into the mound that I just recently left. Glints of red were already glowing through the dirt and stone. One of the villagers, a huge man, was mining very quickly, at his rate it wouldn’t be long before he hit the fire stones. “What can we-” I started but was cut off when I saw the boy pull a sword out of my abandoned tool belt and jumped in front of the large miner, crossing his weapon with the man’s pickaxe and causing his fast progress to stop. The man was stunned for only a moment, then raised his pickaxe and started dueling with the young boy, trying to get back to his job. “Don’t just stand there!” the boy yelled at me, throwing my old pickaxe in my direction. “Do something!” I shakily reached down and grabbed my tool as a miner started charging towards me. I realized I was standing in between him and the fire stone mine. I dodged his attack and let my mining instincts take over, helping me fend for myself. The attacking villager recovered from his miss and struck at me again, this time I met the blow with my own pickaxe, pushing him back. Suddenly my eye caught on something, a small trickle of water was spilling out from between two rocks and running down the hill to where a group of fire stones were gathered. Each fire stone that was splashed with the water turned black and lost its red glow. That gave me an idea. I pressed my pickaxe hard against my attacker’s own weapon, forcing him to back up. When he had backed up close enough to the source of the water, I released the pressure on his pickaxe and used the moment of his confusion to strike my pickaxe down onto the rocks that were blocking a stream of water to spill out. Immediately, the rocks broke and water poured out of the hole, drenching me and many others. The water splashed ferociously down to the fire stone mine. I watched as it hit the uncovered fire stones, turning them black one by one and taking a bit of the curse away with them. The blackness spread until the entire hill was covered in it. All around me, villagers dropped to their knees, dropping their pickaxes and causing the children fighting them to look up in confusion. When they saw the mine, their faces turned into smiles. “What... happened?” The villager who was attacking me earlier asked, “Who are you? Who... who am I?” “You're free!” I said happily, “They’re free; we're all free!” “What are you saying? Where am I?” I thought for a moment, “You're in Zumari, land of the curse-breakers.” It sounded right the moment I said it.


Remis gazed past chalet windows, up the hill to where several hot shots were out doing extreme flips on the half pipe. He was just as crazy as those kids and loved to challenge his abilities and style, not so much for the audience, which seem to always appear after a while, but more for the few like him, who also lived to develop new and different maneuvers. The sheer joy of trying or perfecting a difficult jump, flip, or aerial challenge, was what Remis lived for. The swirl of steam escaped from his mug into his face as he watched the next generation display their skills. There was a storm forecast for today, but like the other enthusiasts out there today, he decided that there would be fewer bodies on the hill, allowing for more time and less interference. He was right of course only the crazy snowboard enthusiasts who longed for days when the hill was nearly empty were out to enjoy it. The other end of the hill held the usual skiers, an entirely different crew, or at least that is what Remis, and most boarders thought. Skiing is for conventional and less exciting athletes, unless you are a jumper but you’ll not find that kind of dare devil on this hill. He couldn’t believe his eyes, was that a double or triple back slide, Remis wondered as he squinted to get a better look. Damn, the kids were getting pretty young these days, it seemed they were fearless. Remis, nearly twenty-four was ancient by snowboard standards but he loved the sport and for the last fifteen winters he was still competing. Beaver Valley was close and less crowded and it even had a decent half pipe, so it was a good place to practice. Just as he drained the last of the hot chocolate and felt sustained for the remainder of the afternoon, he noted the lights flickered. Hmm, maybe the storm warnings were true, thought Remis as he headed to the hill. Storms did not scare Remis, they were always saying how terrible weather was going to be, only to be wrong ninety nine percent of the time. People were so easily influenced these days. He was about to attempt his latest quest, to land a triple back slide cork, which most of the younger boarders were practicing these days, when he heard a “Hey Remis,” behind him. Matt Johnson, his boarding partner for many a season and someone he’d gone to high school with, slid beside him. They often arranged boarding trips together and even though Matt wasn’t his caliber when it came to maneuvers, he loved boarding as much as Remis did. “Hey Buddy, when did you get here, I didn’t see you earlier.” I got off early today, due to the storm warnings,” Matt said, rolling his eyes. “The winds have kicked up a bit and everyone is up in arms. I thought, why not do a few runs.” “Yeah, I know, my parents tell me that I really don’t know what a snow storm is, and I have to admit they might be right,” Remis smiled, “the lights at the lodge flickered a few times but that happens here all the time, right?” “Yes, the hydro situation here is always in peril,” Matt grinned, making his whole face look amused. He had one of those youthful faces, a perpetual teenager, freckles, pale blue grey eyes, curly blonde locks and a wide grin that took over half of his face. The only thing he was missing, were pimples. The pipe’s lights came on just then and Remis looked at his watch, 3:30 pm. “That’s a little early isn’t it?” Remis asked, frowning. “Yes, a tad, I’d say, but I see that some clouds have moved in, these are probably sensor lights and it is getting a bit dark. Ooh, the storm, it’s coming,” teased Matt as he slowly descended down the pipe enjoying a gentle sweeping side to side, to start his session. Remis however, contemplated his newest challenge. If he thought the activity through in his mind, he somehow managed it more easily. He found that pre-thinking his anticipated movements, proved better results and improved techniques. It was like meditating his movements and once he imagined himself landing it, he opened his eyes and took off without hesitation. When he landed the jump perfectly, he smiled triumphantly, but he failed to see that the skies were getting darker still. Boarders began leaving the hill. “Wimps!” thought Remis as he unstrapped his board, getting ready for another run. “Do you think we should call it quits,” asked Matt, “the wind is getting wilder,” He was looking a little concerned as he scanned the sky. The snow whipped up, making it harder to see, and the lights are flickered a few more times. “Maybe there really is a storm coming.” “One more run,” said Remis, with a devilish grin on his face, “one more perfect landing and I’ll have it committed to memory! Five is my lucky imprint number.” “Sure, sounds great,” Matt replied, not sounding as excited as Remis was right now, “one more and we’ll call it a day.” Snow had drifted in on the half pipe and even though Remis landed the last four runs, he could see that this one might be a bit impeded, but he began his meditative state while Matt was strapping his board on. One of his straps was frozen and he had to stop to clear the ice build up. This took a few minutes and once Remis opened his eyes he began his moves automatically almost like he was in a trance. He looked down the course, placed his goggles and adjusted his chinstrap and did a mini jump to start as he began his run. Matt watched from the top of the pipe, and he knew something was not right when he saw Remis head into the slope on an angle. He watched him hang upside down much too long, with not enough force to continue the curve needed for this maneuver, his eyes widened as he watched his friend, come down awkwardly hitting his helmeted head on the icy run. Matt sped down immediately, to where Remis lay now not moving at all. He knelt down beside him, but seeing him limp like this was frightening. “Hey Remis, can you hear me?” You took quite a tumble there, landed right on your head. Can you hear me Remis?” Not a word, not a sign, he took off his mitt and placed his hand before his nose, and he could see his chest rise and fall, but he knew enough not to move him and instead looked around to see if anyone was nearby. “Damn!” He couldn’t see a soul out here. Everyone had left the pipe already. Matt could see a few people up near the skiers hill and yelled out to them “Help, help, he yelled, I have a man down,” yelled Matt, but no one heard him, the wind was becoming wild and the hill was emptying of people fast now. Luckily Matt had on a bright yellow coat and he jumped up and down trying to get someone to notice him, he waved his long arms above his head trying to capture just one persons eyes. It worked, a young boy looked over at him just as he reached the lodge door, and he pulled a taller persons coat, pointing in Matt’s direction. Soon the supervisor was next to Matt asking him what happened. “He was trying this trick and something went wrong, he landed on his head,” Matt said worried. “He’s still breathing but he’s definitely out.” “Okay, said the big man, “don’t move him and he left to get more help.” He returned with a sled and straps and two other people, what seemed like an hour later, to Matt. The supervisor, Oscar, was built like a warrior, and he was totally in charge as he approached Remis. “So, it seems the ambulance can’t get through, apparently the weather is much worse in town, visibility is down to zero and choppers can’t come either but I’ve been told what to do so lets get him onto this sled but first we have to put on this collar. He’d pulled out a padded neck brace while his assisters seemed unsure Oscar, walked them through the procedure. He had one of the men hold his head while they slipped on the collar and secured it with Velcro straps. “Now on the count of three we will move him onto this stretcher in one quick smooth movement,” said Oscar, the leading the trio. And with the countdown they managed the transfer perfectly. He was fastened to the sled and brought to the chalet, and for the seventeenth time, Matt repeated, “Hey Remis, can you hear me?” Once inside, Matt became even more concerned, “We’ve got to get him to the hospital, but how?” Oscar, was oversized in every way, hands, head and body, all looked gigantic to Matt. “We’ll have to call the ER and talk to one of the docs there.” Although he was big, Oscar was worried, Matt could tell by the sweat on his brow and the raised bushy eyebrows. The lights flickered again, and the remaining fifteen skiers and boarders, the die-hards who to attempted to leave the parking lot, but who returned due to white out conditions, frowned as they looked up to the lights. Oscar had his phone on speaker as Dr. Murphy, the ER doctor, asked about Remis, “Is he breathing?” came a loud clear voice. “Yes,” replied Oscar, “his chest is moving well.” Can you check his pulse? Just feel his wrist and see if the heart rate is normal. Do you have a stethoscope? Sorry Doc, no stethoscope, but I checked his pulse at his wrist, and it feels strong. Okay, good, you have him in a neck collar? “Affirmative,” said Oscar confidently, “He is strapped into the sled at present. He can’t move.” “Okay, do you have an oxygen tank there just in case?” asked Dr Murphy. “No, Doc, no oxygen tank,” said Oscar looking a bit more worried with every minute that passed. Okay, lets check his pupils, open his eyes and see if the pupils are the same size, instructed Dr. Murphy Oscar opened both of Remis’ eyes, and they were the same size, no differences. “The pupils are equal, I think , I’m really no expert,” confessed Oscar. “Is there any medical person here,” Oscars voice, boomed . “I’m a paramedic student,” came a tiny voice from the back of the room almost as a question, and a pale faced young man walked toward the table. “I’m afraid I’m relatively new to the program,” he continued sounding apologetic. “Okay,” came Dr Murphy’s voice, “young paramedic, what is your name?” “I’m Eric,” his voice had gained some volume. “Eric, do you know CPR,” asked Dr. Murphy. “Yes, I do.” replied Eric, as he checked Remis’ pulse. “His heart rate is about 70 beats per minute and strong at present, his respirations are 16 and he is definitely unconscious at the moment.” “Can you check his pupil responses Eric, I just want to make sure his brain in not injured.” Eric took out his phone, turned the light into Remis’ eyes, “Yup, they are equal and look to be normal size but both are very slow to react.” “Okay, we’ll have to keep an eye on that but can you check his abdomen, to make sure there is no swelling there? I’m worried about internal bleeding.” Eric undid his jacket and snow pants, the procedure was slow as he gingerly proceeded. Eventually he was able to say that it didn’t look like he had a distended abdomen. “Also no abnormalities to his extremities that I can see,” said Eric, now feeling like he needed to add what he knew. “Okay, just keep an eye on him, call me the minute things start to change, and we’ll keep trying to get someone in to help out,” he added optimistically. Remis looked peaceful and was placed on top of a table where he was now surrounded by concerned faces, each looked as helpless Matt himself felt. Oscar sighed wiped his wet brow and looked at Matt, “we need to watch him and hope that help comes soon.” Time dragged, and people came up to Matt, not sure how to help or what to say which was awkward and unproductive. Matt felt helpless and yet he became aware that Remis seemed to be there somewhere in the atmosphere. Matt was not religious, especially. Raised christen but certainly not a church going sort, he did, however, believe in life after death and had many a conversation about it with his friends. It had always comforted Matt that Remis felt the same way about the after life. As he stood there beside him, Matt felt that Remis was there also and very much alive. He watched his chest rise and fall; he looked so peaceful, without a worry, just, blissful. The lights flickered several times and then they went out completely and the lodge fell into darkness except for the fireplace. There was a unified gasp from the people in the lodge who now realized that their cell phones were the only access to the outside world and screens lit up the room as everyone began to text their loved ones. After several moments, Matt suggested they turn off their phones, as there would be no way to charge them, now that the power was out. Matt managed to call Remis’ family to inform them of the situation. He was almost in tears before he ended the conversation telling them he would call as soon as things changed. He felt extreme fatique, emotionally worn out. The winds howled now, and everyone was painfully aware that the poor bastard on the table was in trouble. Matt and Eric did not leave Remis’ side. They were offered hot chocolate by some of the by standers, some of whom Matt recognized as frequent patrons of the lodge. Oscar kept checking back and asking if they needed anything, and the crowd gathered around the fire and tried not to stare at the young man on the table. Matt asked Eric, what he thought was going on with Remis, hopeful to have something positive to hang on to. “So many things began,” Eric, trying hard not to be an alarmist. “He could have sustained a spinal fracture but it wouldn’t necessarily cause him to be unconscious, while a brain bleed might, but it could be just a severe concussion too, so there’s that. At this point he is stable, but unconscious. Lets keep our fingers crossed that an ambulance can get through.” Oscar’s phone rang and startled a few people in the lodge. He’d put the phone on speaker just in case Eric was needed. “How’s the patient,” asked Dr Murphy, he sounded tired. “The same,” said Eric quickly, “still breathing well, still unconscious.” “We tried sending snowmobile out but the storm is just too crazy, we can’t see a thing out there. I’m going to ask you to keep checking his pupils, and heart rate Eric, let me know when things change, we will continue to try to get help out to you.” The next three hours passed with Eric and Matt taking turns checking Remis’ pupils and heart rate, and all the while Remis seemed to be in a deep sleep. The storm continued to rage outside, Oscar found candles, and the lodge looked almost pretty with several flickering lights, snow laced windows and the tangerine flames in the fireplace. How long would he stay like this Matt wondered, as he rechecked his pulse. “I’m right here buddy,” Matt whispered in Remis’ ear. “I won’t leave you, not ever.” He held Remis’ hand tenderly, and started talking to him as if he could hear him. “Remember that time in Mrs. Collins class, when we gave her such a fright by making those animal noises when she turned to write on the board? God, I thought we were in big trouble but the class cracked up because she kept looking out the window looking for a cow? We probably should have had at least a week detention but she let us off. What a sweetie she was huh?” Matt seemed to be in another world as he spoke to Remis, and then suddenly it was like he could hear Remis voice, “Don’t worry Matt, I will be okay, thanks for being here with me.” And with that Matt thought he felt a twinge from Remis’ hand. A mere reflex maybe, but something for sure, something positive. Oh thank god, thought Matt, he’s going to be okay. The peaceful look was now a full-fledged smile. Such relief Matt had not felt for a long while. Matt was grinning now, and he nudged Eric who had been watching the fire, “I think he’s coming around,” he said softly. “He managed a week grip in this hand.” Eric checked his pulse, then checked pupil response, “Shit, this is not good. His pupils are not reacting at all now, and his pulse has dropped considerably, we need to call Dr Murphy now!” Matt saw that Remis’ chest was barely moving now, “what does all of that mean?” “It means he likely has a brain bleed and we don’t have much time. Matt, he may die.” Eric was trembling. The minutes were a jumble of voices, Dr Murphy, Eric, and Oscar but Matt witnessed his friend depart. Everything was blurred except the strong feeling of peace, of quiet and harmony. Matt gazed at his friend’s face and realized that the light was fading from his face. He had already said good-bye.


At the entrance to my classroom were the high school Principal, Vice Principal, on-grounds Police Officer, and a couple of people that I didn't know. I am not positive because of all the confusion, but there was a man that I am sure was introduced as an FBI agent. They needed to speak to me. The rear door had swung open, and the Principal nodded at me and motioned with his hand to, "get back here now". All of the kids were murmuring loudly but were still seated when the door opened, and they saw ***the group*** standing there with serious looks on their faces. Then, it became so quiet that you could literally *hear a pin drop*. The class looked at them, looked back at me, and back again at them. They were squirming in their seats. A couple of them pointed to the open cupboard at the back of the room as if to say "right there". Before I could make my way to the back, I heard one of ***the group*** say, "where is it, where's the **SHOTGUN**?!" It wasn't a shotgun; it was a **sawed-off shotgun**! I had not checked all of the storage cupboards yet. The class was frozen. There were more than a few dropped jaws. At that moment, I remembered the story about a substitute teacher whose tie was loose and flopping around, so he took the class stapler and proceeded to staple the tie to his body from top to bottom. But what his class did not know, was that he had a brace around his broken ribs from an accident and was stapling his tie to the cast. His high school class was so freaked out that they never, ever were unruly again. I figured that with this "*shotgun*" incident, I might get a reputation of someone that won't take any nonsense in the classroom. Teaching may have just become easier; that is if I got a short jail sentence. So, how did this all come about? I had five classes and four lab assistants. Usually, a lab assistant would: grade makeup work, organize and return old work, record scores on the computer, at times tutor a student or two, clean my desk, organize desk drawers, take messages to the office, sweep floors, paint walls, wash my car, and any sort of helpful project they could find. They were usually A or B students that had more credits than they needed and needed no more classes but could not go home early. They were self-starters. So, I got lots of nice efficient help. But, then there was **Hector**. Hector just needed a place to "hang" and stay out of trouble. I was asked by his counselor to take him because he could not handle more than a few classes a day, yet was not allowed to go home early. Hector was a good kid but a bit hyperactive. I would give him a few easy responsibilities which he still managed to often mess up. He would wander around touching everything, looking over students' shoulders, and opening every cupboard and drawer. This was only my first week in this classroom. It was just vacated and was better than my old room--little did I know! Hector had been with me a couple of days when he made his way to the back of the room. I was up front lecturing about solving quadratic equations when Hector reached into a large bottom drawer and pulled out this sawed-off shotgun; raising it with one hand over his head, called out, "what's this?". With a bit of panic in my voice, I said, "put it down now, **carefully**." Hector wasn't dumb. He had to know it was a gun. He could have just left it in the drawer and walked up to me and whispered in my ear; But oh no, he had to announce it to the world. He did though, put it down carefully as I dialed the front office quickly telling them of the situation. The stunned class stayed at their desks. He put it back and immediately took out a pair of nunchucks as I hurried back there. As he stood beside me, I looked in and saw a military type knife, some of those stars that Ninjas throw, rope, a handgun, a gas mask, a bazooka, 2 Sherman tanks, and an aircraft carrier; maybe not the last three! But, I was feeling a bit of stress. I told Hector to go back up front, and the class to stay in their seats. Just as I got back to the phone to see how much longer it would be before someone could come to the room, ***the group*** appeared. Only 5-10 minutes had passed. The kids in the rooms across the hall were all standing at the windows. The weapons were collected then and there. A few minutes later I was interviewed outside by the FBI agent. I shouldn't have, but I felt guilty. He was glaring at me. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him pull out handcuffs. Did I need a lawyer? I was sweating! Then he smiled and told me that the principal had just called the previous teacher and now knew the reason behind the secret cache. It appeared that the former teacher in my new room had taught **law**, and these were his props for any time he had **open house**. He was still cleaning out this room and hadn't gotten to that drawer yet. I was exonerated. The Earth had begun to rotate again. I will see my family tonight. But just to keep Hector on his toes, I grabbed him and jokingly said, "remember, you're the one who's fingerprints are on the gun, not mine! If I go *down*, I'm taking you with me!". When I smiled, he knew I was kidding. See, Hector was smart; he just reacts before he thinks. I told the class how the weapons got there. No way was I going to discuss quadratic equations for the rest of the day. Each class that came in wanted to hear the story. The whole school had heard the story; this included cafeteria workers and maintenance workers, as well as every other teacher in the school district, the PTA, the mayor, all of Southern California, and Washington D.C. All I got for weeks, were these smirks from anyone that passed me in the halls. I imagine the FBI now knows everything about me from the day I was born. I wonder what happened to Hector! He did make life interesting **WHEN THE FBI CAME**.


With a grin on my face, I step into the elevator, holding the heavy bag of food I've carefully prepared and packaged. "I'm sure he will love this!", I squeal as I press the button for Floor 22. "Hmm, I hope I've got everything, fresh veggies, washed strawberries, a week's worth of reheatable meals, oh! and my secret recipe guac that he loves.. shoot I think I forgot the tortilla chips", I tell myself as I peek into the bag, checking the contents, "he should be back from his work trip later tonight... I'm sure he'll be hungry so this food will come in handy for sure.. I should text him later to tell him to check the fridge when he gets back". Ding! The elevator doors slide open and the cool air from the hallway gently blows on my damp skin as I step out. I take a right and march down the hall, stopping at unit 2203. I reach into my purse and pull out the key with the bacon keychain and shove it into the keyhole. "I'll just put everything in the fridge, hopefully the sticky notes I put on the tupperware don't fall off..", I mumble to myself as I turn the key and push open the heavy door. I had prepared each sticky note with a sweet little message, I wish I could see the look on his face when reads them. I step into the entrance way and slide my sandals off, as I look around for the pair of slippers I like to wear whenever I'm over at his place. A furrow forms between my brows as I fail to spot them, "hmm, maybe he washed them and they are drying somewhere". I shrug and make my way towards the kitchen barefeet. I heave the heavy bag onto the kitchen counter and start taking out the contents, laying them out neatly. The window blinds clatter as they flap in the wind and my eyes drift up to the living room area. "Did he forget to close the windows too? He must have left in such a rush, good thing it didn't rain during the 5 days he was away", I think to myself as I continue to take out the containers of food. Suddenly, I freeze as I hear a giggle. "Wait, am I hearing things? What was that?", my eyes widen and the hairs on my skin perk up. "Not there! Heheheh", I hear a voice say lightheartedly, trailing from the bedroom. "Wait what? Is he back already? His flight doesn't arrive until another 6 hours. Did somebody break in?" I put the box of bacon I'm holding down as quietly as possible and scan the kitchen for anything I might be able to use as self-defense. My eyes land on the knife block, but reconsider and instead open a drawer and reach for a rolling pin. I suck in a deep breath and tip toe towards the bedroom, my right hand firmly gripping the rolling pin. With each step I take towards his room, my heart races faster and faster until I reach the doorway of his bedroom. I hold my breath and pause, "what the hell am I doing?? What if the people who broke in are really dangerous?". Too late now, I slowly peek over the doorway and my eyes are immediately drawn to the center of the room. A mound lay on his bed, under the blankets. More giggling ensues and the mound shifts around. "What the heck? People broke in to do THAT in somebody else's bed??", I gape as my grip on the rolling pin loosens. Then, two heads pop out and the familiar tuff of ash blonde hair over a black undercut appears. My eyes widen and my free hand flies to my mouth, stifling a gasp. "That's Nick!! In bed...with somebody else?? What the hell?". I stumble backwards in shock, losing awareness of my surroundings. Just as I'm about to fall, I grasp the edge of the door frame, steadying myself. I abruptly turn around and bolt towards the kitchen, my mind racing. "What the hell, what the hell, what the hell", I broode as I hurriedly pass the kitchen and finally arrive at the entryway. I fling open the door and charge out, making a bee line for the emergency stairs. Tears begin to pour out of my eyes, lining my cheeks with marks of betrayal. I half-stumble, half-run down the stairs, floor after floor, round and around, the cold hard cement slapping against my bare feet. As I reach the seventh floor, my right foot gives in and I feel myself falling face first. My eyes widen as I see the cement floor practically pull me towards itself as I shield myself by putting up my arms in a cross in-front of my face. I feel myself hit the cold cement, scraping my forearms and my knees and wince at the pain. Then, silence. I stay still, lying on the floor for who knows how long, listening to my breath, feeling the cold of the cement seep into my body, and my heart beat against the floor, my mind blank. Vrrrr, vrrr, my phone suddenly starts vibrating in my pocket as I get snapped out of my trance and back into reality. "Is it Nick? Did he hear me run out? Hah, I wonder what reason he'll come up with. No..... do I even want to know? How could he do this to me.. after all we've been through and after all I've done for him", I wimper as tears begin to well up again, still lying on the floor. The phone stops vibrating and I wait. "He should call again right..? To show that he's sorry? Right..?". What seems like an eternity passes but I get no other calls. "Wow, what a jackass", I mumble as I pull myself off the floor. I examine my injuries and flinch as I see the crimson blood drip off my scraped arms and knees. "Damn, I'm a mess", I sigh as I let out a long breath and press my back to the wall, "now what?". Vrrr, vrrrr, my phone starts vibrating again. "Oh finally, he calls again?", I roll my eyes as I slide my phone out of my pocket and glance at the screen. The screen glows and "Mark" appears. "Wait Mark? Why is he calling me?" Mark is good buddy from uni and he lives in the same building as Nick, just only on different floors, floor 16. I drop by sometimes whenever I vist Nick but I have been visiting Mark less lately... "Dammit, if I don't answer, he'll know something is up," I think as I wipe my tears, clear my throat, and press *Accept Call*. "Heyy!! What's up Mark?", I exclaim trying to sound as enthusiastic as somebody who has just found their boyfriend cheating and has just fallen down a set of stairs can. "Jenn, I noticed your car parked out the front of the building. Are you here? Just in time cuz I still have the camera you let me borrow last time. Come by and pick it up before you leave! You barely come around I've almost forgotten what you look like!", he says with a smile. He has one of those voices where you can just imagine what emotions are spread across their face. I glance down and see the bloodied mess, there's no way I can let him see this. "Ohh sorry man, today won't work.... Nick and I are uh... oh I just parked the car by the apartment but I'm actually somewhere else! I'll come by to pick it up next time okay?", I manage to let out as I try to stifle the lump in my throat. That excuse did NOT sound convincing, I sigh. "Umm alright, you better come by soon!", Mark hollers back, he did not sound convinced but whatever. "Yep, I gotta go, bye Mark," I quickly mumble as I scramble to hit the *End Call* button right away. I let out a big sigh as I stand up, hand on the wall for support. I dust myself off and notice my barefeet and realize that I forgot my sandals up at Nick's place. I wonder if he's noticed yet... but he hasn't called.. I check my phone to see who the previous call was from before Mark. Oh, it was from Mark as well, I guess he called again after I didn't pick up the first time. My mind wanders back what I saw in Nick's apartment and I feel my legs lose strength. "What an asshole," I mumble to myself as I start to make my way down the stairs. I'm really hoping nobody is in the lobby... and I'm sure that once I get out of the building, I can easily get to my car parked out front quickly enough. Once I reach to the bottom of the stairs, I pause at the door leading to the lobby and peek through the little cut-out window in the door. To my dismay, I see a couple standing there waiting for the elevator. Okay, no biggie, I'll wait for them to hop on the elevator and then I'll slip out. Minutes pass and the cold air bouncing off the cement staircase and walls seeps in deeper into my body. I shiver as I finally see the couple enter the elevator and I reach for the door knob. Quietly, I open the door and tip-toe towards the lobby exit. With each step I take on the white marble floor, a chill seems to run from my feet up my spine. I reach the lobby door and pull, spotting my little green beetle VW parked on the sidewalk. I don't need to tip-toe anymore and speed up to a jog until suddenly, I feel a hand grasp my right wrist. Surprised, I turn around only to see a face I was really hoping to avoid. "Jenn? I thought you were somewhere else? Wait.. what happened to you? Are you okay?", Mark asks with a concerned look as his eyes land on my bloodied arms and knees, "what's going on?".


When I was 7, my whole life changed. My third move to a new school, I hated it every time. On the first day there I met a girl named Alicia. She was a quiet girl, like me, so she was easy to gravitate to. I felt drawn to her. I sat next to her at lunch, and as soon as I sat down the whole world quieted. It was eerie, like I was suddenly listening to the cafeteria activity at 20% volume. She looked up at me and her eyes held me frozen. They were sunken in heavily. And they were the color of twilight, almost purple when the light caught them. She smiled, in a way that made me think she'd rather be doing something else, perhaps more sinister, with her mouth. She introduced herself and then returned to eating. Startled, I said nothing, and poked at my lunch for the remainder of the period. When I got up from the table, sound returned to normal. The sudden intensity in volume scared me, and I dropped my tray. I bent down to pick it up, and when I stood up she was gone. I knew she couldn't have made it out of the cafeteria, but she was nowhere. I was confused and I felt a pit growing in my stomach. I left and returned to class, but I never saw her again. Since then, I've had many strange encounters with the creatures. I don't know what else you could call them. They definitely aren't human. The smile is wrong. Too forced, too plastic looking. The eyes give them away too. My second encounter with one of them happened 2 years later. I was walking home from a friend's house. The world went quiet again, and I looked around quickly. Across the street a young girl was standing on the corner. She had the same twilight sunken eyes, and was beckoning to me awkwardly. My skin crawled, and I ran the rest of the way home without stopping. After that night, whenever I was alone, I would start to hear muted whispering. And a low, mournful, far off wailing sound. The wailing made me scared I was going mad. I would periodically find a strange black handprint on things, with a swirled and jagged scar mark on the palm. No one I asked seemed to be able to see them, so eventually I stopped asking. When I was 15, I had my third encounter. It was another young girl. I was playing in my favorite woods, and when I came to the creek, she was sitting on the bank. She was humming a faintly familiar tune, and when I stepped in the clearing the hush returned. She stood up and motioned me towards the bank. Her viscous looking smile made me feel like jelly, but I found myself inching to where she was pointing. Her smile widened, now making it look like a horrible parody of a stroke victims mouth. I fought the urge to scream. I never took my eyes off her, as I inched to the edge. When I finally got close to her, her smile disappeared and she leaned in towards me. She again pointed eagerly at the water, and whispered in a gravely, echoing voice "you'll be one of us soon." I looked at the water, and my own reflection looked back at me with hollow sunken eyes. I screamed and fell backwards. As I hit the ground, I felt a sharp pain in my hand. Sound had returned to normal, and the girl had gone. I looked at my hand, as the blood ran down my wrist. A rock had pierced my hand, and created a jagged cut. My whole body felt stiff and unnatural. When the cut healed and left a scar, it was familiar looking. And I finally began to understand what was happening a little bit. The next time I saw one of them, A tall, thin woman, I wasn't afraid anymore. She beckoned me to follow her. I started to cross the street, and everything went silent. I knew it was time. I continued following the woman, almost blindly, and before I knew it we were somewhere dark and oppressive. The whispering and wailing that was all too familiar assaulted my ears. I stopped and the woman turned and smiled a toothy, lopsided smile. "Welcome to the quiet place. A place of echoes and regrets. You have been chosen. From the day I said hi to you, you've been marked. You'll remain here with me, acting as a guide for lost souls to the other side. When you have completed your task, eventually you will wither and fade. Until you become like them." She said. She gestured around her. In the distance I could see vague greyish/white figures, of what once might have been human. There were no features. They were almost like shadows. I could tell now that the faint wailing was coming from them. I shuddered and said "who is my first soul?" The woman smiled in a way that looked as if she were trying to sneer. She pointed back the way we had come and whispered "your own. All these echoes you see, are your own, including me. You must go back to the beginning, and mark yourself again. In between ferrying souls to the other side, you'll visit yourself. Until things play out exactly as they have now. And you're in my place, and I am one of them" That's how I became a wraith. I still don't know why I was chosen to live in this endless, echoing purgatory. Perhaps I'll never know. But I do go back and visit myself. And touch things that once were mine. I see the confusion on my own face, as the black handprints appear. I laugh inwardly, and my smile becomes more forced. I am now one of them.


Odin’s mom stopped in front of the big glass door. Squatting down next to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “When we get inside, I will buy you a treat. You are going to sit next to me at a table and eat while I talk with a friend. I brought some play dough for you to play with when you are finished eating,” she explained. “Okay, Mommy,” Odin said. She took his hand in hers and pulled the door open. Odin followed her inside and immediately noticed a pungent smell. He sniffed the air, trying to place the familiar aroma. His mom guided him over to a counter, where they had to stand in a line. Odin decided it smelled like Sunday mornings when Daddy didn’t have to work and could make breakfast for the family. The line moved, and he saw a cash register on the counter, next to a glass case. Odin pressed his face against the glass that was protecting rows of muffins, cookies, scones, and other baked goods. He breathed out of his nostrils and watched the glass fog up around his nose. “Odin, stop!” his mom hissed. Odin wiped the glass with the palm of his hand, leaving smudges behind, as his mom pulled him closer to her. Finally, it was Mom’s turn to talk to the man on the other side of the counter. Odin watched as the man pushed some buttons on the register screen, then swiped his mom’s credit card. A few minutes later, the man handed Mom two paper cups with lids and a ceramic plate with something big and fluffy to eat. Odin could see blueberries dotting the top of the treat. “This way,” Mom said, guiding him to a table with four chairs. Odin pulled out one of the chairs and climbed up. His mom sat next to him. She removed the paper liner from the bottom of the treat and cut it in half. She took one of the halves for herself, and pushed the plate with other half towards Odin. “This is hot, so take little sips,” she told him, as she slid the smaller paper cup over to him. Odin picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. All he could taste was whipped cream, at first, but then a warm, sweet liquid flowed into his mouth. “Yummy!” Odin exclaimed. He picked up his half of the treat and took a bite. It also tasted sweet, and it crumbled in his hands. The blueberries were soft and squishy. Odin was surprised at the way juice popped out of the berries when he chewed them. A woman carrying a baby in a car seat, and her own paper cup approached Odin’s mom. “Hi, we’re finally here,” she said, softly. “Amy! Hi, I’m so glad you made it,” Mom gushed. The woman set her cup down on the table, and the baby in the car seat on the floor. Mom hugged her, and they both sat down. “How are things going?” Odin heard his mom ask, as the other woman leaned down to loosen the straps on the car seat. “It’s been a big adjustment, but I think we’re finally figuring things out,” the other lady said. She pulled the baby out of the car seat and cradled him in her arms. “This is Augie,” she said, offering the baby to Mom. Mom took the baby and he promptly started to cry. Odin stared at his tiny, bright red, scrunched up, screaming face and covered his own ears. How could something so little make so much noise? Mom held the baby up with his head on her shoulder and patted his back. He let out a burp, and began to calm down. Now that he wasn’t making so much noise, Odin noticed the dark, fuzzy hair sticking up all over the baby’s head. He reached up to touch it and was amazed at how soft it felt. “Gentle, Odin,” Mom reminded him. She reached down in her purse and pulled out a container of play dough. “Can you open this for him?” Mom asked her friend. “Oh, sure,” Amy said. She popped the top off and handed the container to Odin. He took it from her and set it down next to his plate. Odin took another bite of his crumbling treat before digging the play dough out of the container with his fingers. It was bright orange play dough. Odin preferred blue, but this was all he had right now. When he’d gotten all the dough out of the container, he picked it up and rolled it into a big ball. Then he set the dough ball on the table and began pounding it with his fist. The table shook with each blow. “Shh, Odin,” Mom scolded him. Odin tore off a smaller piece of play dough and rolled it into a snake. He did this again and again until all of the play dough was snakes. He pushed the plate away to make more room, spilling several crumbs on the table in the process. Odin smooshed them with his thumb, then smashed them into the dough. The tables around them were filling up with people. Odin didn’t like all the loud talking. He couldn’t hear himself think. He wanted to leave. “Mom,” he whispered, as he tugged at her arm. “Odin, I’m trying to talk with Amy. We’ll be done soon,” she assured him. Odin was frustrated that she didn’t listen to him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he went back to his play dough. He tore each of the dough snakes in half and rolled them into tiny balls. The baby was now sleeping in his mom’s arms, and she and her friend were deep in conversation. They were so busy talking that they didn’t notice when Odin dropped a small ball of play dough into his mom’s paper cup. She had taken the lid off earlier to sprinkle sugar in her drink, and had never put it back on. Odin took the lid off of his own cup, and stared at the contents. It was half full of the light brown liquid. He swished the contents of the cup and could see a chocolate coating on the bottom. Odin picked up a piece of his treat and sprinkled it into his cup. The crumbs floated on top. He pinched off a piece of play dough and dropped that into the cup. The dough bobbed up and down when it hit the liquid. Mom picked up her cup and brought it to her lips. She was about to take a sip when she saw the bright orange ball floating on top. “Odin! Why would you do that?! What a waste, now I can’t finish my drink,” she hissed. Then she turned her head and saw the mess of crumbs squished into play dough. She handed the baby back to her friend, and took a deep breath to compose herself. “I’m sorry. Odin, we’ve been sitting for a long time. I can see that you are getting bored. Let’s clean up and go to the park,” she suggested. “Does that work for you? There’s a nice little playground across the street with lots of shade,” Mom told her friend. Amy nodded, and began to pack up the baby while Mom threw away their garbage. She pulled out a pack of wipes and cleaned the crumbs and gunk from the table. Then she gave Odin a wipe for his face and hands. “Alright, let’s go to the park,” Mom said, taking Odin’s hand in hers. Odin stopped to give his mom a tight hug before following her out the door, across the street, and to the playground.