*Location: Southern California* “Forty bucks worth of gas at pump twelve.” I said to the teller. “That all?” The teller asked. I thought for a moment and said “And a pack of Marlboro, if you promise not to tell my wife.” “I don’t make many promises.” The teller said. “But that one, I can keep.” I should clarify where we were and what I was doing. My family and I (aka my wife Jade, our thirteen-year-old son Ricky, and our eight-year-old daughter Deven) were driving towards Anaheim to take the kids to Disneyland. Even though the sun was starting to set, we were nowhere near any places to crash that wouldn’t be roach motels, so we decided to just power through for another hour to get into Los Angeles County. We could’ve already been there, but Jade wanted to go through a more remote route to pass a “hidden gem” natural site out in the desert she heard about on Instagram. Anyway, our last stop that night was a Native American reservation to get enough gas to make it all the way to the city. “You know, it’s a full moon tonight.” The cashier commented as he got me my cigarettes. “Yeah, I heard.” I replied. “Things get weird around here whenever there’s a full moon.” He said. “There are myths of an old curse, a supernatural disease that white settlers passed onto our people generations ago. They say it manifests every full moon, and that our land isn’t safe until the sun rises. If I were you, I’d drive far tonight; if the myths are true, you may regret being here once it gets dark” He then scanned the cigarette pack and said “Your total is $48.56. Paying with cash or card?” \_\_\_\_\_\_ When I went back to the car and started filling up, my wife immediately noticed something was up. “You okay?” She asked from inside the SUV. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I said. “The teller was really weird, that’s all. Said there was some kinda curse around here on full moons.” “Calm down, tourist traps love to tell ghost stories to travelers.” Jade said. “It brings in money. Back in New Orleans, my sister and I couldn’t go to a single bar without being told about all the ghosts that were haunting the place.” “Yeah, that’s probably it.” I said as I waited for the car to fill. \_\_\_\_ After getting gas, we hit the road again. Unfortunately, about ten minutes or so after leaving the gas station, we got a flat tire and I had to pull over. “Aw fu...” I started to say, before remembering my kids were in the car. “Fudge. Aw, fudge.” I then said. The kids looked worried, but I said “Relax, we have a spare. It’ll be a bumpy ride, but it’ll get us into town.” As I started changing the tire, I heard some kind of growl, almost like a dog’s howl but much louder. I reached into the trunk, and rummaged through it to find something I was desperately hoping I never unpacked after our most recent family camping trip. “Oh thank God.” I said to myself after I found my bear spray. It wasn’t much, but I figured it would stop whatever animal was out there. I continued trying to repair the tire until I heard it again, but much closer. I got in the car, locked the doors, and rolled up the windows. “Jade, check to see if the 9MM is still in the glove box?” She opened it and said “It is.” “Good, keep it close.” I saw that the kids were scared, and said “Don’t worry. It sounds like there’s some kinda animal loose, but that’s all. If we just stay in the car and...” Moments later, we felt something crash into the side. Then, there was a horrible sound of metal being scratched. And then, it jumped onto the hood. I shined my phone flashlight at it, and what I saw horrified me. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting the monster I made eye contact with. It had a human-like torso but had the face and paws of a wolf. It roared when I shined a light on it, and then used one of its paws to smash through the window. Before it could enter the car, I shot it with bear spray. It retreated in pain, and Jade fired a shot that grazed its shoulder. The monster then fell off the hood, and ran off. “What the Hell was that?” Jade asked. “Shit, I don’t know.” I said. “But we’re getting out of here.” I got out of the car, lowered the car jack, and quickly tried to reattach the new tire. However, when I heard the monster growl again, I simply got back in the car, and decided to take a chance on a car with only three functional tires. I turned the car around, and slammed on the pedal to get us back to the reservation. Sure their hotels would be crap, but at least we’d be safe from that thing. “Jade, we gotta call the police.” I said. “I’ve been trying.” She said. “But I’m not getting any signal.” Just as I thought we were getting away, the car stalled. “Oh no.” I said. I popped the hood, and used my phone as a flashlight. “The battery terminals are damaged.” I said. “That thing must have ruined them when he jumped onto the car.” “What are we gonna do?” Jade asked. “I don’t know, I really don’t.” I said. I thought for a moment and said “We’ll continue on foot. Hopefully someone will spot us.” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ We walked for over an hour in the dark, sticking close to the road in case anyone was there to see us. Unfortunately, there were none, it appears we were alone that night. And then, we heard a familiar noise. “Shit.” I muttered when I heard the monster’s roar. “KIDS, GET BEHIND YOUR MOTHER AND ME!” I ordered. Jade had the gun, and I had the bear spray. We were both out of our depth, but never underestimate two parents trying to keep their kids safe. “IT’S COMING!” I shouted when I heard the beast running towards us. Jade fired two shots, but both missed. I then shined my flashlight at it, and saw that the light alone was enough to keep it at bay. “JADE, IT HATES LIGHT!” I shouted. Once we had it on the run, Jade fired another shot (one that grazed its stomach), and I hit it with another round of pepper spray to the face. Jade tried one last time to shoot it, but missed again. I then grabbed the gun, ran up to the beast, and hit it in the face. Unfortunately, the beast retaliated by slashing my chest. At first, it seemed like all hope may have been lost, until a car came approaching with its high beams on. The monster was so frightened by the light that it just ran off. When the car got closer, I could see that it was a Tribal Police cruiser. “You folks alright?” He asked. “We need help.” I said. “We were attacked by...a bear.” "A bear? Okay." The officer said, but I get the sense that he knew I was lying. "I'll radio for help, once we get you to the rez we can get you to the urgent care." \_\_\_\_\_\_ We spent the night in a crappy motel across the street from a casino. First thing in the morning, we called for a ride to bring us into the city. While we were waiting for our driver, I realized that I lost the pack of cigarettes I bought the day before, so I went back to the gas station to buy another. Believe me, I needed a smoke break more than ever. I walked right into the gas station and said “Another pack of Marlboro please.” “Welcome back.” the cashier said as he turned to grab a pack. “You look like you had a rough night.” “You do too.” I said, as a joke at first. But as I approached the counter, I could see that he looked worse than I did. He had a black eye, almost like he was hit in the face. And I could see some kind of bandage underneath his shirt, around his shoulder, right in the area where Jade shot the beast. At first I couldn’t believe it, but I also could see what looked like blood underneath his fingernails. He clearly caught onto what I was thinking, and said “Like I said, strange things happen in these parts when there’s a full moon. Don't say I didn't warn you. Your total is $8.56.


People like me are more likely to die from suicide than in the line of duty. With Stella moving out things have gotten insufferable. The more friends and colleagues who “Exit Stage Left,” the more it seems like an option. It seems odd that those of us who answer the call to save lives at all costs, somehow can’t find a reason big enough to save our own. The emergency tones had beeped loudly from a dozen places in my apartment, startling me out of a whiskey-induced coma. Just after ten in the morning, on my day off, no less. “THIS IS A NATIONAL EMERGENCY. IF YOU ARE HEARING THIS...” Then the message broke off. Our cell phones went silent. The TV died. It all happened without any warning. Much like Stella deciding to leave without saying a word of goodbye. When Stella left, I could have started exercising, got fit, started going back to church gatherings, engrossed myself in my Ambo duties and angled for a promotion, or tried coping in any one of the dozens of other ways they urged at HERO--my First Responders Support Group. The ways I had after my past breakups. Not this time. I hunkered down with my Johnnie Walker Red, ate greasy takeout, stopped showering, and degenerated like a putrid limb cut off from circulation by a tourniquet after a gunshot wound. The real death knell for all of us is being disconnected. In times of crisis, isolation is death. Was it an EMP? A solar storm? A result of the megaquake on the West Coast? Collateral damage from the Gulf of Mexico being poured over Galveston like a mother pouring a bowl full of soapy bathwater over a child’s head? Causing the child to furiously wipe his eyes off with his knuckles as if soap water in the eye could kill you. I couldn’t tell you what it was. There was a blinding light. I wasn’t looking at it, but I could feel it on my face through the window, as it woke me. It felt like being by a campfire with the heat on your skin on just the side closest to the flame. Curls of dark smoke from various places dispersed and muddied the sky over Galveston. That bright Texas sun took a knee. And the world seemed just a little colder and darker. Maybe it was the shock of it all. Whatever it was, the lines are all dead. The towers too. No electric. No cell phones. No landlines. No radio transmission. The grid is down. I turn the tuner on my radio and get the consistent tone of static on every channel, even the satellite stations. The hurt and helpless are crying out all around Galveston. But I can’t find them. My Ford F-350 Super Duty Ambulance hurtles down I-45 scouting for areas where people may be in distress, pulling off of one exit after another onto flooded local roads, littered with stranded sedans and crossovers without sufficient ground clearance. The thought of wishing for a catastrophe that takes me out of the game persists. I can’t shake it from my mind. A part of me wants a way out. That part is loud. Ever present. Goading me. Reminding me of the numbness that has become my world. Reminding me of the wall I’ve put it up which makes it impossible to take one more injury. Leaves me with floosies and drifters like Stella, until they pass along, like shadows. Those shadows are evidence of a personal connection. But the evidence disappears instantly when the darkness descends and the shadow diffuses and merges with all the other lost things that cannot be seen, but which you can bump into in the dark times. At least I don’t have to grieve the relationship. The relationship was never for real to start with. Like showing up for AA meetings when you have no intention of getting clean. The disease laughs at the subterfuge. It isn’t going anywhere. The dulling of the pain outlasts the pain and replaces it. A companion that sucks all the air out of the room. It is there in the way we talk about our patients, referring to them by their ailments. “Broke my heart telling the family of that ‘A&E’ that he was DOA... that ‘bag and collar’ was going for an Emmy... my last call was a 'frequent flyer' Deb, I wish I could’ve just thrown that one back.” Our ability to feel human emotions is drowned out by the constant motion. At the end of the day, you show up. It doesn’t matter how you feel. If you feel anything. It’s their emergency. I’ve got to act now. Stay in it. Before the time is up to do some good. The freeway lights are all out and it is going to be hard to see anything on the island after dark. The window is closing. This is my chance to save a few souls. I pull down the visor and look at the notches I’ve made with my straight edge over the last two years since I’ve been doing this job. Seventy-eight. Twenty-five tallies of five. Three lonely straight-line stragglers. These are the souls saved that I’ve got to my credit so far. But what about all the ones I didn’t get to? The ones I failed to save? How do you account for those? A frequent anecdote at HERO is the Drunk Superman Syndrome. Jesus in Gethsemane weeping blood is another one. Who is there to save the savior? Where does the comforter find comfort? It is kind of like that bar scene in Superman II, where the beleaguered drunk superhero, swilling Johnnie Walker Red for good measure, descends into petty bullying and self-loathing, breaking liquor bottles, before touching down in a scrap yard a few miles away and having a full-on meltdown. Or the tantrum in Man of Steel where Supes skewers the 18-wheeler the rude grab-ass trucker from the bar owns. I mean, I get it, I do, the dude--literally--has the weight of the world on his shoulders. We have that in common. The only difference is that I wouldn’t be caught dead in those tights. Margot, the support group leader, calls it the “Martyr Complex.” Whenever someone starts going on about their first responder burden like it is a form of slavery rather than a privilege, she plays the martyr violin over her shoulder. Margot is a real pisser. In the natural world, there’s no one coming to save you. They are probably coming to eat you. The first line of defense for humans is that we can call for help. We’ve got that going for us. That there are helpers on the other end of the line. That somehow two-legged meat popsicles see each other as more than a meal. But what happens when the line goes dead? I guess there’s nothing to do but go on patrol. * * * Carl Belafore is doggone lucky. I am just passing the boat rental on the 342 huffing down a Marlboro Red cigarette before the fun starts and I see a crowd out in the Hooters parking lot. I flick the stogie and go to work. I swallow hard and brace myself. This is going to be a bad shift. Without my day partner, Debbie, riding with me, I’m all alone out here, doing a two-man job. Even if Deb is a real shit magnet--she’s my shit magnet. Drunks, vomiters, and urine patients. Bar fights. And 300-pound men that you have to carry down 7 flights of stairs. Those are Deb’s specialties. I pull up and jump out, carrying my Defibtech Lifeline Auto AED, battery-operated, out to the patient. Carl’s wife Angel is there screaming. Saying Carl just had heart surgery on Tuesday, three days earlier, and he went down in the parking lot after a healthy helping of onion rings and a few pitchers of Bud. Don’t get me started on Carl’s bad life choices. But who am I to preach that the body is a temple? Angel’s jawboning is jarring and shrill. She is just talking out her nerves like a kid filibustering a parent the kid thinks is mad at him. I tune it out like I have on imaginary earmuffs and focus all my attention on Carl. I check his breathing, skin tone, blood pressure, eye alertness, and skin. His skin is cold. Carl is down on the hot Texas pavement gasping for air and looking up at the clear blue skies, through a haze of ashen fog, as his whole body ironically starves. The layers of fat clogging his arteries prevent all those nutrients and all that oxygen from getting where it needs to go. Alright, Carl. You aren’t checking out tonight. Not on my shift. My two-way to the emergency room is the only means of communication. But I thank God it is still operational. “UTMB Emergency. This is Ben in ALS Ambulance 33. On the scene with a Code Blue. Please have a bed ready. Forty-eight-year-old male, conscious, disoriented. Skin pale and cold. Recent heart surgery. Administering CPR. Will defibrillate if he codes. I will bag and bed and head to you. I’m on my own. I’ve got no one in the cab.” “Oh my God,” Angel screams. She acts like this is her first rodeo with an ALS event and like she’s not an enabler. I want to strangle her for running up his blood pressure with beer, salt, and grease, when he’s not even a week out from discharge. I’d ask her if he took his prescribed meds, but I already know he hasn’t. As I perform some light chest compressions, I look up at Angel and say, “I can feel a pulse. There it is. Very weak. We are going to get him up on the bed and take a closer look at his vitals before we scoot.” Some blood starts making a triangle on Carl’s camo Bass Pro Shops T-shirt. The damn steri-strips are getting ripped open from the wound. I’m not going to be able to do compressions without hurting him. I place him on the stretcher, elevate it, and wheel him into the cab, breaking down the stretcher as I lift it inside the metal tomb. Angel comes in with me, crying distractedly as I continue to care for Carl. I want to throw something at her, but I just meet her gaze and say, “Maam. It’s okay. Carl’s going to be alright. We’ve got him now.” Once I have Carl in the cabin, I cut his shirt off and start placing the 12-lead ECG. First, I get the precordial leads in place, measuring the intercostal spaces to get the right orientation, and then attaching the other leads to his limbs. And we wait about thirty seconds for the monitor to pick up the signal, during which time I bag and intubate Carl, getting him some oxygen. The blips start running down the monitor and we are getting tombstones. A ton of them. Those patterns show the heart stalling like the motor of a car that won’t turn over properly. A sure sign of a heart attack. Angel is hyperventilating. She is heaving out small wet sobs. Her cinnamon-colored hair is matted on her forehead and her mascara is running off her long press-on lashes down the sides of her eyes. To be honest, her reaction is evidence that Carl has something worth living for. This devotion is touching. Lower-case t. “Is he going to make it,” she says. “Sir, please, please take care of my Carl. He’s all I have.” “I’ve got to drive,” I say. “Stay put and let me know if he flatlines.” * * * Margot is in the Emergency Bay, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds like it’s her job. As the rigs pull in and out, she barks orders and runs triage. She is in mass-casualty mode. “Get out of my emergency room,” she yells at a newbie EMS lingering in the triage area with a CTD (circling the drain) patient while the poor bastard goes downhill. The internists gather like fleas--the last to jump off a dying dog. “What’s the story with this hit?” Margot asks as I jump off the rig. And I give her the rundown. “So, what is the deal with this blackout?” I ask her. “Couldn’t tell you. Doesn’t matter. We’ve got a Hazard Response Team down at Pleasure Pier, pulling dead bodies out from under the rides. The Tilt-a-Whirl and the Ferris Wheel are in the chop. Roller coasters too. The seawall didn’t cut it. We are about to get slammed.” “Jesus. I guess it’s going to be a long night.” “You aren’t kidding. Hey. How are you holding up since Stella left?” “Par for the course,” I say, with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. “You better get back out there," Margot says. "Head down by Pleasure Pier.” “Roger that,” I say, and jump back in the rig. “Radio me about Carl, let me know if he is out of the woods, so I can mark it down.” I look at my straight edge sitting in the dash organizer. What the hell. I believe in you, Carl. I cut a hash mark into the visor. We’re going to count it. I have faith. * * * The rig pulls out. I take Seawell Boulevard toward the pier. As I drive down by the churning sea, looking over at the yellowed dust sailing across the horizon, I can’t help thinking that it is just another day at the office. Margot always says at the support group that every day counts. Every patient counts. And most importantly, you count. The Hazard Response Team are all wearing yellow jackets. They buzz back and forth like foraging bees. There are body bags lined up on the pier. Everything is black and yellow. Rigs are pulling out with patients on stretchers. There must be three dozen dead lined up so far. They will rot in the Texas heat until all of the injured are taken. Then the dead will be hauled back to the Medical Examiner for processing. Under normal circumstances, the family would be alerted in a couple of days. But now? Who knows. I watch the emergency workers carrying more bodies out from under the rubble. A black man with a proper beard is standing at the boardwalk staging the patients. Two men on the team are coming up the staircase onto the pier with a blonde-haired woman, late twenties, totally unconscious, a gash in her torso, and her jeans stained with red blood. It is Stella. I’d recognize her anywhere. I know right away that she is dead. I walk over to the guy and ask, “You have anyone that needs transport.” “Not yet, pal. All DOA so far.” “Gotcha. Let me know.” I pull out a Marlboro Red and stand on the pier looking out over the rubble while I smoke. I feel nothing. Even the heaviness of the smoke in my chest. My heart beating faster. It is academic. Action, reaction. What was Stella doing down here? I wonder what she was doing when she lost her life. What were her last thoughts? Was she happy? It is so unfair. Every day is a trauma exercise. The only unknown is the degree. Every day it is the same thing. Will today’s victim be experiencing the merely life-threatening, the real-life horror episode, or the apocalyptic nightmare? We never know when we clock in. Routine calls. The severity ranges from life-altering to society-ending. But they all matter. It could be a lone gunman. A theater shooting. Another Sandy Hook or Columbine. A fire with people’s skin peeling off like overcooked hotdogs that bulge, fry, and crinkle, with that screaming steam of nitrates flowing out from the spoiling flesh. Or it could be toppling buildings. A chemical plant explosion. Mad cow hysteria. Garden-variety flooding due to climate change. A gang of marauding cartel enforcers recklessly searching for a lost score. Today it is this. Pleasure Pier caving in. It is as if there is a divine agent with a thirst for vengeance and an infinite imagination for hatred and bloodshed--constantly inventing new implements for human torture. And today, Stella punched her ticket. But I got a free pass. I sit back in the rig and wait, pulling out the hip flask from the glove compartment. I have a long nip of whiskey. My chest burns and my eyes itch. Something tells me there are no survivors. There never are in things like this. Through the yellow haze along the horizon, I see the sun setting. Ribbons of pink blaze out from the sun’s vicious gaze. And a splinter of feeling pierces my heart. I know for a fact that this job is going to kill me. Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming instinct to get away. To get away from danger. To get away from the poison that is polluting my soul. You can’t save anyone else if you don’t keep yourself safe. There’s no one to call. The lines are all dead. It is up to me. Maybe Margot will visit once I get situated. Maybe I’ll start my own group out in Colorado, in the mountains, in the cool mornings, with that dark roast. I pull down the visor and reach for my knife. I draw the diagonal and complete the tally. Ben is marked safe. Eighty lives. That’s enough. Enough is enough. I rev the engine, pull out on I-45, and head west. Tears roll down both cheeks. And I begin to grieve. Margot’s voice comes over the two-way. “Benji. Good news. Carl Belafore is gonna make it.” Doggone lucky, that guy. Maybe we all are.


*click clack, click clack, the sound of Katrina Miller's heals continued down the long stretch from her office to the exit. Co-workers glared trying not to get caught staring. Knowing this, Katrina held her nose in the air higher and a pleased grin drew across her face. Before she reached the exit of her office building, her assistant cut in front of her and began speaking immediately. "Donavon called." She pumped her eyebrows multiple times before giggling and continuing. "He wanted to see if you were available to talk? He's on line 1." She clenched her notepad to her chest excitedly. Katrina rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Ha, tell him I am not in the office and take a message." With a nod and a huff she walked toward the elevator and declined down to the parking deck. "Siri call Felicia." Katrina unpinned her hair, it dropped down to her shoulders and she shook it looser. Pulled her watermelon flavored lip gloss from her purse and reapplied a layer of gloss and glitter to her lips before popping them out at herself in the mirror. Aye girl wassup? The southern accent spoke loudly through the car. Katrina couldn't wait to fill her in on the whole Donavon fiasco. Katrina laughed and started: You are not going to believe who called me today at work. There was a slight pause for suspense or for Felicia to guess within that time, but when she didn't, Katrina continued; Donavon! Katrina could hear the sound of Felicia choking on whatever drink or smoke she was hitting at the time. Katrina looked at her phone in annoyance. "You are so extra, I'm pulling up now. The phone call ended as Katrina pulled into the driveway of her friend Felicia's house. She honked a couple times to let her know she was outside, then proceeded toward the door. Felicia opened the door and greeted her best friend with a hug. "So Don called?" Felicia announced again while dropping down on the couch smiling in Katrina's direction. Katrina flopped beside her friend and tossed a pillow in her face. "yes girl, Katrina started. I didn't take the call, I want to make him work for it you know?" She shrugged then looked at her friend for assurance that she was doing the right thing. Felicia raised her brow, "You like the guy, been filling my ears and head up for the past month, he finally calls and you blow him off?" Katrina clutched a pillow and looked nervous at what Felicia might say next. "You did AWESOME GIRL!" They simultaneously scream like school girls. "Now he's really gonna break a sweat and try harder." Just then Katrina got a text: got a sec? -D Katrina waited a few minutes before responding. They scheduled to meet Thursday night at Bel-air's, an upscale 4 star restaurant not too far from where she works. Katrina pulled up to Bel-air's at 7 on the dot, paid valet and walked inside. She wore a slender black dress that hugged her tight and didn't go an inch over her knees. Her neck sparkled with a pearl diamond necklace, with earrings to match. She decided to curl her hair to bring more attention to her beautiful big brown eyes. She approached the waiter checking people in; "Reservation ma'am?" He asked with a light smile. Katrina cleared her throat, "yes, I'm meeting a friend here, Donavon McDonald." He looked down the list on both sides of the reservation paper. "No, I'm sorry ma'am no Donavon McDonald." Feeling the heat rise from the tips of her toes up to her forehead, she tried to keep her cool. "How about Katrina Miller?" Again he searched, again no luck. To save herself from more embarrassment she stepped out of line and called Donavon. " Hey, it's the Don, you know what to do at the beep." "Um Donavon it's Katrina, I'm at Bel-air's I think you forgot the reservation, call me." She looked around and finally spotted Donavon. "Am I late or you're early?" Donavon called out as he approached her, he flashed a smile, that she did not return. Her arms were folded and her body said she may be upset. "You don't have a reservation?" Katrina questioned. "I do, actually." Katrina shot him a look that called him a liar. "Under what name?" Instead of answering, he grabbed her hand and led her inside the restaurant again. "Hello sir, madam, reservation?" Just like before he gave a light smile and spoke very kindly. Katrina looked to Donavon, who spoke rather cheesy. "Yes, reservation under Markel Manson." Katrina released his hand as the waiter walked them to a table that was candle lit and had musicians close-by playing a soft melody. Katrina had to admit she was impressed. He pulled her chair out so she could sit, a true gentleman Katrina thought. "So you're name is Markel, is it?" Katrina interrogated. She took a sip of her champagne and nearly spit it out. It tasted like an old boot, if she ever tasted one. "It's Markel Donavon Manson McDonald, I know it's long and crazy just like my parents who gave me the name. I hope that's not a deal breaker?" She smirked at her suspicions, "no, but this nasty drink might be." They both share a laugh. "Hey Huns you ready to order?" A red haired waitress with a Texas accent approached with her pen and paper ready. "I'll have a bourbon taco steak with mashed potatoes, green beans and the cheddar rolls." Donavon licked his lips at his order before closing his menu and passing it onto the waitress. "And for you Ms. Lady?" She turned to Katrina. "I'll have the southwestern chilli bowl with jasmine rice and cornbread with a large side salad, oh and instead of this champagne, I'd like a sweet tea please." Satisfied with her order, she passed her menu, and the waitress went to deliver their order to the kitchen. Donavon's face grew serious and Katrina caught it. "You okay?" Katrina asked. "I uh, I thought you'd order a lil' salad or sum." She noticed that how he spoke also changed. "lil'? She repeated. Donavon grew impatient with her and came clean, "the reason why I was late, is because I may have been involved in a robbery wit' my lil cousin Jermaine. Katrina was speechless and worried. She stayed silent for a while and then spoke. "So, you're a thief AND a liar", she pinched the bridge of her nose and let out a loud exhale. "I don't date thugs, or any rutheless man for that matter, I'm sorry but I have to go." When she got up to leave Donavon grabbed her hand, with such grip force, he stared into her eyes; "look wench! I did this for you! so you gone sit down and eat, now sit, or the next place I rob will be this one. Wide eyed, and frightened she slowly sat down and so did he. The waitress came back with their food, Katrina didn't touch her food. When the waitress came back around after Donavon finished eating she inquired to Katrina; "Is there a problem with the food?" Donavon gave Katrina a warning look, that made her force a shaky smile. "No, nothing's wrong, I just got full off the drinks, may I have a to go container?" "Yes ma'am, I'll be right back." Katrina stopped her halfway, "Oh ma'am? I'm sorry, where's your ladies room?" "Right that way, first door on the left." Katrina quickly linked with the waitress, apologizing for her behavior while blaming the tea and champagne for her full bladder. She wasted no time by looking back, she prayed there would be a window in there. Luckily there was and she managed to crawl out of the small window. Her dressed ripped but she didn't care, she ran up to the valet and grabbed her keys so she could personally get her own car. "Siri call the police." Out of breath still trembling she told the police everything, including the fact that she may need protection. After hanging up she parked the car and cried, thankful that her date didn't go any worse than it did.


Grace By Cynthia Brennan Grace walked in her garden for what was likely the last time. Sunflowers dipped and reached toward her for one final embrace. Hydrangeas in shades of pale blue and pink huddled close to comfort each other at the loss of their dear friend and caretaker. Bright red roses clung to their trestles for support. The usually happy-looking yellow and white daffodils drooped their heads in sadness. Grace was leaving her home of fifty five years today and moving into a retirement home. It was breaking her heart to leave her petaled companions whom she had nurtured and loved over so many springs and summers. She sat down on the bench that her late husband Warren had made for her a few years before he died. It was worn and faded and warped in spots, just like her. They used to sit together in the early mornings, sipping coffee and reading the paper while inhaling the intoxicating aroma of the many blooms opening to greet them. Her rational mind understood that the impending change of residence was necessary, but her emotions wanted nothing to do with common sense. This had been where she and Warren had raised their three children. Their son Robert was now an airline pilot and lived in Chicago with his family. Sabrina, the oldest girl worked as a chef in an upscale restaurant in Boston and had not met the right man to settle down with just yet. Charlie (short for Charlene) lived close by, but didn’t have the free time needed to devote to keeping her mother safe and secure if she continued living on her own. She was a nurse at the local hospital and often worked long hours, even double shifts, leaving her very little in the way of flexibility with her schedule. Grace was becoming less stable on her feet and had fallen more than a few times. There had been some near misses with minor head injuries and she had fractured a hip twice. They had tried having caretakers move in with her, but she didn’t like having someone hovering over her and taking away her privacy. When she began forgetting to eat, or take her medication, Charlie decided it was time to look into other options. One evening when she was working in the emergency department, a woman she remembered from her childhood came in with a fever and chills. The name on her chart said Rose Stevens and her address was listed as that of the retirement community a few miles away. Rose had been one of the family’s neighbors when the children were young. She and Grace had been close friends for many years. While Charlie examined her, she asked if she remembered her mother. “Of course, I do!” the elderly woman said with a wide smile. “How is she?” “Well, she’s starting to have some challenges. I noticed your address says that you’re living at the retirement development over on Lincoln Avenue. I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you like it there?” “I don’t mind at all, dear. I love it there. There are so many people to socialize with. The staff is so nice and attentive, and they keep us busy with lots of activities. Oh, and the food is wonderful!” Charlie placed the blood pressure cuff on her tiny arm and began to pump it. “Is your mother thinking of coming to live there?” “Well, I think we need to consider that, yes. She doesn’t want to leave her home, obviously. But it’s starting to become too dangerous for her to be on her own.” “I felt the same way, of course. But after my husband died, I just couldn’t live alone. My eyesight became so bad I couldn’t drive anymore and was struggling to cook and take care of the house. My daughter did all the legwork and got me a spot over there. Just like you’re doing for your mother. We’re both lucky to have such good daughters looking out for us.” Charlie took a blue and white hospital gown out of cabinet and handed it to Rose. “Well thank you, but I’m not sure my mother would agree with you. We’ll see what happens I guess. Can you please put this on? The doctor will be in shortly. I hope you’re feeling better soon Mrs. Stevens. It was nice to see you.” “Thank you dear. It was lovely to see you, too. Tell your mother I said hello.” “I will.” She started to open the door. “Mrs. Stevens, would you mind if I told her where you live? Maybe it would make her more agreeable to considering it for herself.” “Oh no, you go right ahead. Tell her I’d love to have her join us. We’d have such nice times together again, just like the old days.” “Thank you very much. I’ll discuss it with her. Take care, Mrs. Stevens.” “Rose, please.” She said from under her shirt as she began pulling it over her head. “Rose.” Charlie repeated and left the room. After a few weeks of wrangling back and forth, Grace finally relented and agreed to the move. Luckily, there was a spot open and things moved quickly. Quicker than she would have liked, truthfully. The house was put up for sale, and within three weeks it was sold. Grace adjusted to her new life reasonably well. It certainly helped to find her old friend among her new community. She did all she could to make Grace feel comfortable and safe. One sunny afternoon some of the ladies were enjoying lunch outside when a young woman approached the table carrying two large bouquets of flowers. She leaned over and kissed a woman sitting across from Grace on the cheek. “Hi Gran, how are you doing today?” “Oh, Erin. So nice to see you! Ladies, this is my granddaughter Erin. Isn’t she beautiful?” The girl blushed and said hello to everyone. “Of course, I used to look just like that when I was her age. Except I didn’t color my hair blonde like this one.” She winked at her lovingly. “Erin, I don’t think you’ve met Grace. She’s new here.” “Nice to meet you Grace.” She handed one of the bouquets of flowers to her grandmother and then quickly turned back around. “Wait. Grace, did you live on Elmhurst Drive?” “Yes, I did.” She replied, a little sadly. “Well, then these are for you.” She handed Grace the other bunch of flowers. “I don’t understand.” said Grace. “My husband and I bought your house. These are from your garden.” Grace regarded the future corpses of the flowers for which she had so lovingly and painstakingly worked to ensure their long-term survival in their cozy little beds in the back yard. She began to cry. Erin looked at her horrified that she had caused such a reaction. That had surely not been her intention. Grace got up from the table and walked as quickly as her swollen arthritic knees would take her. “Oh gosh, I feel terrible. I certainly didn’t mean to upset her.” Erin said, still holding the bouquet. “Oh my dear, you didn’t do anything wrong. Grace was just so attached to her home, and especially her garden. I’m sure it was just a sad reminder of what she had to give up when she moved here. She’ll be fine, don’t worry.” One of the other ladies volunteered to take the unwanted flowers off her hands. Over the next few months, Erin visited her grandmother a couple times a week. While she was there, she made it a point to say hello to Grace. After their rocky introduction, Grace warmed up to the girl with ease. After all, it was a sweet gesture. How could she have known it would cause any pain? As the two women grew closer, Erin wanted to do something to give Grace back a bit of what she had lost. She hatched an idea that she thought would bring some comfort to her new friend. One day, at the beginning of the following spring, she asked if Grace would like to take a walk outside with her. She brought two coffees and two donuts to sweeten the offer. Since it was a warm day and Grace was tired of being cooped up inside, she agreed. “So Grace, I wanted to run something by you.” Erin began. “Ok, shoot.” “Since spring is here it’s time to tend to those wonderful gardens at the house.” “Yes....” Grace took a sip of her coffee, waiting to be assaulted once again by an inconsiderate remark. The girl was sweet, but so many of them were not all that self-aware. “Well, I’m not really very good at gardening. In fact, I’m rather clueless.” Here it comes , Grace thought. “Uh-huh.” “And I was wondering if maybe you’d like to come over sometime and help me?” The words hung in the air for a few moments while Grace tried to work out whether she was offended or flattered. Erin continued, desperate to fill the silence. “No pressure, of course. If that’s not something you’d want to do, I understand. It would just be such a shame not to see them return to their usual glory.” Grace thought it over. Would she be able to “visit” her own home and not feel sad? Would it just be a reminder of everything that she had lost? She imagined herself working in the soil, coaxing new life from it, but not being able to look out the kitchen window each morning and gauging the progress. The new owners would have that pleasure, not her. She wasn’t sure she would be able to take that. “I was thinking maybe this Sunday, if you’re up for it.” She waited, hopefully. Finally, Grace decided that her boredom and desire to be outside making things grow overrode her reservations. She agreed to try it and see how she felt. They made a plan for Erin to pick her up the following weekend. It only took a few minutes for Grace to realize that this was a gift that she had been given. She walked around inspecting the condition of all the plants that had been slumbering and were now waking up. She patiently showed Erin what to do to get things started for the season. After a couple of hours, she grew tired and ready to go home. Erin parked the car and walked her to her room. Grace thanked her and told her she’d see her soon. The same thing happened the following week, and the one after that. After a while, Erin would pretend she had something pressing to do in the house and leave Grace to spend time alone in the place she loved. Grace knew the truth, but never said so. She just made the decision to be grateful, and savored every moment spent with the blooms that had been her constant companions for over half of her life. That spring the blossoms were brighter and larger than they had ever been. It seemed they were as glad to see her as she was to see them.


“Stage to Black”. John pressed down on the sliding knob to dim the lights on Act II. He brought the house lights up for intermission and watched the audience rise from their seats, their conversation growing louder as they moved toward the back of the theater. Ten minutes until lights up. Ten minutes. He slipped a blue latex glove onto his left hand and made his way through the heavy red curtains that separated make-believe from real. An unlit American Spirit hung from his mouth as he passed by dressing rooms filled with costume changes and actors reciting lines into mirrors. The euphoria of performance. All of it for a Thursday night audience buying discount tickets and overpriced wine served in plastic cups. Giggles followed him as he pushed against the backstage exit, lighting up and exhaling into summer. Five years doing stage tech at the Almost Corner Theater. A summer job that had quickly evolved into a way of life. Black shirts and Levis, alcohol and shows, tattoos and shows, parties and shows, after-parties and more shows. Lots of shows. More cigarettes too, but he’d been cutting down. Liza made him promise. She thought he was done, but he was still smoking a pack a week. Better than two. His car was filled with breath mints, cologne testers, and latex gloves. Those goddamned latex gloves. They stopped the smell sticking to his hands but fuck. The looks he got, especially on the drive home, a guy with tattoos wearing a latex glove, smoking on the highway. All of this behind her back and for no good reason at all. Liza knew he was still smoking. Five minutes. He took a hit, savoring the moment, letting it all out, unsurprised as the door opened behind him. Enter Sharla. “What’s up John? Bum me a cig?” He gave her a hard look, pressing the yellow pack into her palm. Ten shows down, and she hadn’t yet brought her own pack, or for that matter offered him a smoke. “Lighter?” She giggled, an instant of orange lighting up against her dyed black hair. Ten cigarettes and not one coming back to him in return. Not even a lighter he could pocket. Three minutes. He caught her staring at his tattoos, geometric shapes, from the shirt sleeve down into the latex glove. She looked back up at him. “Ernest just tried to kiss me back there. I turned away and he wasn’t too happy about that. He pushed me against the wall, but I still didn’t kiss him.” John frowned, exhaling, watching her inhale and twirl her cigarette in elegant circles. Two minutes. “Hey Sharla, how come you never bring your own cigarettes out here huh? Why you always bumming them from me?” She smiled. “How come you always wear that blue glove when you smoke?” He flicked his cigarette. “C’mon, let’s get back inside.” Her smile turning to laughter as he pushed the glove into his jeans. “It’s your girlfriend, isn’t it? She doesn’t like you stinking of smoke, that it?” He pushed by her to find the backstage door locked in front of him. She began to pull at his shirt. Her hands turning him around. Her face moving close to his before she spoke. “I don’t want to kiss Ernest.” One minute. He banged on the door behind them. “Fuck. We’re locked out, we’ve got to go through the front.” They ran around the block, John holding Sharla’s hand as they entered the theater. The audience already seated, waiting for the lights to come up, watching John and Sharla run down the aisle. Watching as Margaret, their diminutive director, jumped up and down, waving the script in her hand. Her hair bunched up in a nervous bun over thick-rimmed eyeglasses. She looked like a school teacher and her angry whisper echoed into the theater. “What the hell John?! Sharla! Places! Now!” Sharla pulled at his jeans, slowing them down before she slipped out of his hand. He took his seat at the switchboard and watched her scurry through the tense curtains. Act III. He turned the spotlights on, bringing the stage back to life. Suddenly smiling. Smiling because he tasted like smoke. Smiling because the girl who bummed all of his cigarettes just walked on stage with a blue latex glove on her hand.


“Arthi! there is a post, go get it” Arthi's mom screamed from the kitchen. “Ok mom!” Arthi replied. The postman ask her to sign in the paper. After doing it she took the post and came inside the house. She noticed that the post was from her school. She opened the post, it was an invitation. she read the content in the invitation and there was a smile in her face. At last her wish of meeting her true friends is about to happen she squealed with happiness and sat on the sofa. It was reunion. She was very eager to meet Kiran and Lakshmi who helped her when she was in depression. She took her phone and was about to message Lakshmi, “Arthi, there is a wedding invitation on the table just tell me when is the reception, so that we can prepare accordingly.” Asked her mother from the kitchen as she was preparing the lunch. “Ok mom” said Arthi. She crouched down the table and took the wedding invitation. Sitting back comfortable in the sofa she opened the invitation, the first word attracting her sense was 'Aiswarya'. Her eyes bulged out, though it was just an invitation with someone named Aiswarya, she was totally distressed. She fell back into her past, and imagined what that name had caused her. " Can you keep a secret?" asked Arthi to her friend Aiswarya. " Yeah, for sure " replied her friend. Arthi is the class monitor for their class XII. She and her friend Aiswarya were very close friends. They stayed, played and studied together as they were studying in the same residential school. Arthi is a very jovial person. She never keeps anything in her mind as she is very open minded. Aiswarya likes her a lot. But she is a short-tempered person and she has certain principles to live her life. She never accepts the playful, funny things of mates as well as friends. Arthi doesn’t hide anything from her friend Aiswarya. So Arthi told the secret about the incidents of the game " Truth or Dare " which was played in their class the day before as she was absent. " You know what! Tom and Jemi kissed each other over a dare!!! " Arthi said. Aiswarya was shocked, she scolded Arthi of her irresponsibility as a class leader. Arthi pleaded, " Aishu, Please don’t make this a big issue, please. " Aiswarya agreed and kept her the secret with her, but she couldn't bear the incident happened in their class. Arthi loved her more than her soul. She had a special place for Aiswarya in her heart. As they were waiting for results of their board examination, the results of the exam was declared, "Hurray! hurray! Aiswarya won with first rank! She got a Gold medal !!!!" Arthi rejoiced with joy and happiness. But Aiswarya started to move away from Arthi, as she was not able to accept the incidents of the game 'Truth or Dare.' While Arthi was rejoicing over the victory, Aiswarya started talking ill about her best friend to everyone. " Arthi is too bad.. she has affairs with so many boys..."said Aiswarya to Tittu. " Is it ???.. " asked Tittu. Tittu then spread this rumour to everyone in their batch. They all started to ignore her by mistaking her entire character. At the same time, Aiswarya acted as being very close to Arthi. As Arthi is open minded, she couldn't understand the behaviour of other mates of her class, ‘cause her innocence believed in everyone. "Ma'am , Arthi allowed the students to kiss each other on your absence, Is this the responsibility of the class monitor?" she asked Pramela, a tutor of them in their residential school. "Oh!!! What nonsense you are talking???" "Is that true?" "What are you blabbering?" "Yes ! Ma’am. You can enquire anyone you want" she said. The tutor was very furious with Arthi she wasn't able to to keep mind calm in such an indecent behaviour. She was about to take an action against Arthi, but was stopped by Aiswarya saying that, “No ma’am. not now, please.” Being a favourite student to the tutor, Pramela listened to Aiswarya's words. Few weeks later, knowing the true nature of Aiswarya, Arthi's friend Kiran talked to Arthi. "are you mad??" asked Kiran. "What?? what happened??" said Arthi "Don't you know? there are things happening around you?. "Everyone is avoiding you. . . Arthi" "No ..no..no.., you must be joking" "Do whatever you want" and he left from that place. Arthi started thinking and walked aimlessly. "Hai ! Mubi" Mubisina didn't react anything and passed Arthi without saying anything. "Rashika..." "what?" said Rashika. "Why are you all like this?" Arthi became very upset and sat in her class alone. By looking her, Kiran felt bad and came near her and asked 'did you say about "Truth or Dare" which we had played last year in the class to anyone?' " No. . . ", "Yes. . . to Aishu alone" replied Arthi “Can’t you keep a secret with you Arthi?” "Yes! She is the one creating the entire problem. She said it to Pamela mam and informed it to our principal." he said. By hearing those things, Arthi fainted there itself. Kiran brought some water in a cup and sprinkled few drops on her face. "Arthi ! Arthi! What happened? " Arthi opened her eyes and cried aloud. "Don’t worry Arthi, Be very careful with Aiswarya. She had created bad rumours about you that, you are going for dating every week with many boys". " What???" "No! Aiswarya will never do like this. You are lying" and she went to her hostel. Had a glee to Aiswarya and she lie on the sofa closing her eyes. At that time, Neenu knocked on the room in which both Aishu and Arthi stayed. Aiswarya opened the door and they Chatted for a while. She started to talk ill of Arthi. "Neenu! Do you know one thing? " "What? ? " "Arthi is very bad, I hate being with her," and said many things about her thinking that Arthi was in deep sleep but Arthi was listening everything they were talking. It's 10.pm Arthi woke up with a new strength and hope, not to believe any human being in her life thereafter and sat on the sofa where she slept. Her heart was broken like a broken glass, but still she loved her as Aishu was close to her heart. The kind heart of her made her forgive and forget the entire matter, yet she did feel sad about the incident, she knew that this incident will remain in her heart forever. After two months, the sports students of their school were taken to India for the National tournament. Aiswarya and Arthi were there in the team. On first day, they conducted the indoor games like chess, carom, table tennis etc. Aiswarya won the title on the game of chess and the next day, Arthi went for 100 metres, 200 metres and 400 metres running race but she lost it in few seconds. Losing the game made her fake friends make fun of Arthi, and Neenu said "she is tired from dating with many boys" and everyone laughed aloud. Arthi was totally broken she wasn't able to hold her anger any more, hence, shouted at Aiswarya "you !!!... betrayed....!! Me....!!!.. you can never have a friend like me who understands you and forgive each and every mistake you make. You have hurt me so much. This is all your fault you have done enough for me. Thank you so much for doing this. I just request you not to ever enter my life again.” Aarti went to the hostel room and cries her eyes out. After few days she vacated hostel room and went to live with her parents as she finished her schooling. Days passed she was so much broken from inside that she denied talking with anyone and remained alone for most of the time. “Arthi, what are you doing I asked you to tell me time for reception.” asked her mother. She was brought back into reality looking at the time for the reception she said to her mother, “5 o' clock in the evening, mom!”. She looked at the reunion invitation in her hand, and thought off all the things Aiswarya has done in her life. With all the thoughts in her mind decided not to attend the reunion. Though she wants to meet her friends very badly, Arthi felt betrayed by her only and one friend Aiswarya. She was not ready to see her. She wasn't able to forgive Aishu for what she has done. Because of her Arthi went to depression and suffered much. Hence, she decided not to attend the reunion and crumpled the invitation and threw the post in the dustbin. Arthi's mom after finishing her works, came and sat near and asked, “Dear, what was in the post, “ Oh! nothing mom, it’s just an advertisement paper for college admission.” “Ohh, ok ok dear!” said her mom and went to her room. Arthi looks at the dustbin in which she had crumbled the invitation and threw and thinks about the pain that she had gone through.


I knew I had to make it stop. I closed my eyes, breathed in slowly, held it for a short time, and then released it just as slow. Out of instinct alone, I reached for the still cold ground. My hand thrust through the soil and I felt the roots. I started combing them with my fingers. The cicadas yawned from too much sleep and began to sing their song. I opened my eyes and watched them climb up the old oak tree. The one that grew the tallest at the center of the land. ( I don't remember a time when it wasn't there.) I sat on the ground listening to them sing. I usually only hear it at night when they sing me to sleep. I closed my eyes again to speak to the spirit. Breathe. The electric blue clouds come first, then the high pitch tone, and at last, the sound of cicada comes. Since it happened, I hear them when I'm still and I close my eyes. Even when they are asleep in the roots of the trees. My cold sweet prince woke me from my sleep. He's already left and it's my turn. I know I'll see him again, but it's not enough for me. One of us is always dying. I came to the forest because I couldn't be without him. Now I get to see him, but he always seems to be just out of reach. I've been trying to remember how it happened. All I remember is that it used to happen without me. The cicada sound is soothing. I'm drawn to the same path in the woods. Walking slowly through the twists and turns. All the while, shaded by the trees. All of the tree branches holding hands above my head, as I can never do with him. The path looks worn to the width of my feet. What if I have been here forever? As it always does and will again, when I reach the end of this path my life ends. It happens when I feel the warmth of the sun on my face. My cicadas are singing, but it's only in my head. I walked past them some time ago. I take some comfort in the creek that runs across my path. Cool, wet feet are soothing. One day, someone will come and I'll welcome them with open arms. These are things that are known in secret; We are in the forest with intent, this is happening, and one day we will finish. I have company these days. My hawk friend Frederick flies through here every day catching mice along the way. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal stop by to say hello sometimes. The squirrels think they're funny. They like to throw acorns thru me. The raccoon takes up for me when they can, but I can't expect people to drop their everyday lives just for me, even furry lives. The deer are always careful not to be noticed. Quiet peaceful and solitary. I feel for them the most. I noticed this young couple walking in the woods. That's when I heard them giggling and making sweet little promises to each other. I sent them a warm Spring breeze and lit up the flowers for them. Breathe. An old couple sits on a log, remembering the promises they managed to keep with each other. I sent them a strong whiff of lavender. They're kind of my favorite because they come here a lot. What follows is my confession. I can see it as it happened now. When he ran away, I followed him into the woods. I remember it was cold. Blas froze to death that night. It was me. He only left because I told him that's what I would do. I couldn't leave him there, so I stayed. I tried to hold him to warm him up. I blew warm air in his face. I just kept breathing for the both of us. In the forest, with only him, I wished for the sun to come out and bring him back. Life-giving light please come. When the sun was finally overhead and peaking through the trees, I knew it wasn't enough. I was just a child myself and had never met death before. So I wished even harder. The next thing I knew, I was walking my path through the woods. This is the way it's been ever since; My frozen prince wakes me and fades before my eyes, I wake the forest and walk the path. Always at the edge of the forest, the sun touches my face and I die. Until I realized, this day will last forever. I have to let him go and release us both. I spent time as Spring wishing that I was just a person. And time as a person wishing I was more. I have to fix this. It's easy to get lost in the woods. I didn't know what was going to happen next. I've never gotten this far before. I hope he forgives me but, even if he doesn't I still need to look into his eyes just one more time. I know this will put us in front of each other face to face. I need this to happen, even if it's for the last time. I'm finally not afraid. When I stepped out of the forest and felt the sun on my face, for the first time in forever, I did not die. I felt his warm hand in mine as we walked away together. We were set free. Not being alive any more is a small price to pay. I didn't leave him and he never left me. When we come back to the forest again we'll just be sitting on a log together, remembering. It's not like it was when we were young and walking and giggling together. But, it's my favorite time with him. The great changes have come and gone and the mistakes are behind us. Spring and Winter are returned to their rightful owners, and no one will ever know what happened here.


Although the weather was clear, strong westerly winds made for choppy seas as we sailed towards Granite Vowhorn. The Deer Drum boat, with Alessia’s towed behind, lurched over each wave, a spray of water shooting up into the sky as we ploughed through. Alessia, Xander, Lachlann and I were on the quarterdeck behind the wheel as Eir navigated the seas. “So the island’s at war,” Xander said, his calm voice only just audible over the billowing sails and churning water. “Yeah. Has been longer than anyone alive can remember,” Alessia nodded. I pursed my lips. “Last I heard it was a stalemate. Neither side was making any ground.” Alessia shook her head. “Word on Sneppath Head was that the North has been pushing the South back. The South’s down to two small towns. Everything else been lost.” The boat hit a sharp dip. A plume shot into the air, the smallest droplets carrying the length of the boat and landing on our faces. “So we go to the North then, presumably safer.” Lachlann said, shaking the dew from his hair. Alessia shook her head once more. “The one thing the south does have is the harbour. Unless you wanna be sitting in seas like this the whole time, we need the bay.” “Besides,” I sighed. “Is anywhere going to be safe in a war zone?” Alessia cocked an eyebrow and nodded to me. “He’s right.” “We know what this war’s about?” Xander asked, looking out to the sea as the next wave approached. Alessia shrugged. “Ferdinand?” “Religion was all I heard. Nothing more than that.” “Oh. Well, that’s good.” Lachlann smiled wryly. “Religion always keeps people nice and calm.” The next wave caught us at a three-quarter angle. Water poured down onto the deck drenching Xander’s carrots and cabbages before running off the side. Xander squirmed slightly as though he could feel the vegetable’s pain. “How we doing there, Eir?” Eir turned half a shoulder, getting Xander in her periphery but keeping her eyes on the seas in front. “It’s handling a bit differently than the last rough seas we caught. Lighter load. Need more passengers and more cargo again.” Lachlann chuckled. “The pole beans not creating enough weight for you?” “As much as the seven people who left and all their things? No.” Eir sighed. “We’ll make do though.” Xander took a look at the waterlogged soil beds. “But yes. Let’s head to the bay to the south.” Two days later, we arrived at Granite Vowhorn, most of Xander’s vegetables intact. We were greeted by two long stretches of cliff that stuck out from the southern end of the island like the prongs of a fork. The harbour walls were made of great chunks of chiselled stone and stretched almost the full length of the western cliff, before wrapping round in a curve where the two crags met. At the point, a few small shacks nestled by the water’s edge. Weaving between them, I could see a zigzag path cut up across the hill to a small town at the top, big enough for a few hundred residents. The only other way up the cliff was at the end of the harbour wall to our left. A hill climbed up a gully. Centuries of erosion had carved a smooth run to the sea with steep, rocky banks on either side. We moored the boats a short distance from the harbour and rowed the rest of the way. Xander dropped off Alessia and I first, before returning to fetch Kurbani and Lachlann. The harbour itself was quiet. There were one or two people milling around, and a couple of officers by the shacks at the end, but a port this size was certainly capable of much greater traffic. The fighting had driven much of the trade away, so that now an arriving boat was a rare blessing. As soon as the five of us began walking towards the town we saw a gaggle of islanders sprinting towards us. They were all children. The youngest maybe only six or seven. The oldest in her low teens. “Welcome, welcome,” said a young boy around ten. He puffed his chest out, trying to deepen his voice. “Are you here to buy anything? The war’s slowed down some of our production but we’ve still got plenty of granite available.” “Sorry,” I interrupted, bowing my head. “We’re not traders.” The boy’s frame sagged, his features becoming more childlike, his sales pitch removed. “Have you come to help with the war effort?” the oldest girl asked. “We’re here looking for someone,” Alessia interrupted. “Would’ve arrived maybe two weeks ago, maybe with a few other people.” Young scrawny shoulders rose in sharp pillars. “No idea. But speak to Rory up top if you can,” the oldest girl said in a flat tone. “Rory?” Alessia asked. “General of the army. He keeps tabs on everyone. If you catch him before nightfall he should be free.” “Thanks.” Alessia began picking up her pace with the new information. “Your ship,” a girl said, looking out at the harbour. “It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen.” Lachlann smiled. “Yeah. We live on it.” “Like. All the time?” the girl asked. Lachlann knelt down beside her. “Yep. We travel around on it.” “Cooool.” Xander leaned over, trying to get Lachlann’s attention, nodding back up the hill. Lachlann glanced to us. “Go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you. I’ll talk to this lot. Little knowledge exchange.” We reluctantly agreed and left Lachlann by the docks, and headed up the winding path up until we reached the town. The ground was worn down to soil, churned up from the endless footprints of the people stacked on top of each other in the cramped space. The small homes were painted white with dark oak crossbeams acting as supports. The buildings stretched back a couple of hundred metres before coming to an abrupt end at a wall made from piles of rock and old debris. On this side of the wall there was a flat section some four feet from the top with planks laid down as a walkway. I watched a man in thick black clothes and a balaclava - too warm for the weather - walk by. He held a small pistol in his right hand. I looked around at the villagers. I was startled by how still everyone was. The children played slowly in the dirt, drawing patterns in the ground with sticks. The adults were quiet. They sat in doorways, looking out at the town with emotionless faces. They glanced at us as though we were a passing moth, a brief distraction, something to concentrate on for a moment, but nothing more. We continued walking through the town, inspecting each of the streets as we passed. As I looked down a road to our left, I could see a crowd gathered in front of a wooden gate built into the wall of rubble. We turned and headed towards the gathering. As we got closer I could see a man standing atop a stack of wooden crates. He was dressed in the same clothing as the man on the wall, except his was dyed a dark red. It was a hue that reminded me of the first light of a sunrise. From someway away I could already hear the man shouting. His hands gesticulated in large mannerisms as he spoke, stretching his arms out as wide as he could, before pounding his fist into his palm, his eyes fierce. As we got closer the inaudible boom became clear distinct words. “Tonight we thank the brave men and women who continue to defend all we hold dear. Though we lose a few true believers each time, we continue to take more of the bastards down with us. If I die, but I kill seven northerners as I do, then that is a victory that God can be pleased with.” Cheers erupted from the crowd. “They do not believe you have the right to worship the God that you know to be true. They do not believe that you should praise the summer solstice. They do not believe in giving to our God when He is at His strongest. They want nothing more than to come through those gates, and slay every last man, woman and child here. Why? Because they hate the unshakable faith that you have. We shall not let them defeat us.” The man pointed to the sky and paused with each word. He waited for the inevitable applause to die down before leaning in, getting closer to his audience. “The summer solstice is two weeks away. They know that. They know how much life and power our conviction will bring us that night. How God will bring us victory. They are terrified. So to our soldiers who enter the battlefield tonight, I want you to remember what we fight for. I want you to remember the slaughter at Camweirr. How they brutalized the bodies. How they murdered children. I want you to remember that and let it fuel your anger. Let it spark your revenge. And go out there and fight for the South. Praise be to God.” The crowd chanted back in unison. “Praise be to God.” “Praise be the sun,” the man shouted with a fist raised in the air. “Praise be the sun,” the crowd replied. The gate opened and a group of men and women splintered from the crowd and headed off through the opening and off to the war. Their marching frames cast long shadows as the sun set to the west. The man who had given the speech jumped off his podium and walked up to remaining members of the crowd, clasping fists with some, embracing others. Slowly, the audience dispersed as the man headed down the street towards us chaperoned by two large guards. Alessia stepped forward as they neared. “Hoping you might be Rory.” The man halted and turned to us. “Well you’re in luck then.” He inspected us with casual glances. “Don’t recognize you. Take it you’re not from here.” The two men beside Rory pulled out long knives from their belts. “No,” I replied. “The North send you?” He smiled a wide grin: a charming, smooth smile. “We’re not from the island at all. We came by boat.” Alessia thumbed towards the coast. “The big one in the cove. You can go look, you can’t miss it.” Rory turned to the two men either side of him. “Calm down boys, if they were gonna kill us they’d have done so already. Besides, this lot don’t look like they know how.” I didn’t want to correct him, but my mind flickered. Here it was again, the world reminding me that I was a killer, even though I hated myself for it. The next bit of conversation seemed to pass in a haze. As though I was a spectator, watching from afar. “We mean no harm.” Xander tilted his head, raising his hands. Rory signalled to the two men. They sheathed their knives and returned to their slouched postures. He stepped forward, closing the gap between us. “Can’t say we’ve had a lot of visitors here lately. But we are always pleased to welcome people to Granite Vowhorn, or at least what’s left of it.” “War will always leave a scar,” Kurbani said, her voice soft, but her eyes steely. Rory looked at her. He paused for a second before the boisterousness returned. “Just like the sun, we will rise again. How can I help?” “We’re looking for someone,” Alessia replied. “Would’ve come by boat, maybe a week or two back. May have come with a small group.” Rory scrunched up his face. “Don’t remember the boat. But ten days ago we lost Camweirr. The survivors flocked here. If they snuck in with them and kept low they could’ve gone by unnoticed. Few new faces.” “So he could be here,” Xander muttered. Rory nodded. “This person you’re looking for. They a friend or someone unsavory?” “The worst.” Xander replied, a contained rage in the undertones of his voice. “Well in that case he probably chummed up with the North. That’s where I’d go if I had no conscience.” My mind arrived back in my body, and I managed to force out a thought that was lingering in the back of my head. “What you said in the speech - about what the North did - that all true?” I asked. I caught Alessia out the corner of my eye glaring at me. I guessed she would be annoyed at me veering off topic, but after a second or two, her face softened, replaced by a smile. I suspected she felt the same warmth I felt as the words left my lips. The comfort of knowing that the inquisitiveness that brought me to sea was returning. “Every word and worse,” Rory snarled. He leaned to his left and spat on the ground. “They caught a whole cohort of our soldiers a few months back. I knew they’d execute them. That’s war. But they chose to build a scaffold few hundred metres away from our front gates, far enough to be out of range, but close enough to make sure we could see. We watched as they hacked off limbs one by one, and then beheaded them, one at a time. They’re bastards.” “We’ve suffered too,” Xander replied. “The man we’re after. He attacked our island. Only a few of us survived. I’ve buried most of my island.” Rory’s mouth fell open slightly, as his head tilted back. “Deer drum?” Xander and Kurbani looked at each other in confusion. “I’ve heard of you. Travelling in that massive boat.” Rory snapped his fingers. “Is that the one you sailed here? It’s here, right now? In our harbour? Oh, you must let me see it sometime.” “How do you know of us?” Kurbani asked. “Word travels. The story of an island on a boat, travelling the seas. You’re all folk heroes. Staying together, after everything you’ve been through.” He paused, a delighted chuckle escaping his lungs. “That’s true resilience. Please, walk with me, I’ll introduce you to some people. Help out in any way I can.” We began following Rory back down the path. “We’re trying to find the person who attacked Deer Drum. We believe he came here,” Alessia said. “Well, if he’s anywhere in the south, we’ll rat him out. I’ll bring you the man’s body on a spike. But, you should go check with the bastards in the North too.” “Is there a safe way to get there?” I asked, taking a couple of paces to get in front. “Sunset right now.” Rory pointed to the orange sky to the west. “That’s when the fighting starts. Go in the morning, wear blue.” “Blue?” I asked. “This is a nasty war, but there are still rules. We have nurses, priests, who tend to those on the battlefield. Blue is the colour of neutrality. You wear that, keep your hands up, travel unarmed, and no one will hurt you. That, and travel during the day.” “Easier to see.” I concurred. “That, and no one wants to commit murder when the sun is up. God is watching.” He nodded to the sky. It seemed strange to me to believe so fervently in your God that you could kill in their name while they slept but not while they were awake. “That stuff you said about the summer solstice...” Rory nodded, understanding where my questioning was going. “It’s the most important holiday of the year. When we make our offerings and celebrate all God gives. The longest day of the year. It is when He is at His most powerful. The time when we must celebrate Him. And in return, He will give us the strength to win this war.” His smooth smile suddenly turned to gritted teeth. “There’s nothing we hold more dear. We will fight to the death for the right to celebrate the summer solstice and the Sun God.” Rory led us through the town and introduced us to a couple of his lieutenants, informing them to help us with our inquiries in any way. We spoke for a while, mostly discussing the war and what happened on Deer Drum. When we parted we had a plan. Two of us would head off the next day to the North. The rest would stay in the South and try to find Sannaz here. \ As darkness fell we found ourselves back on the Deer Drum boat. Whether we were all genuinely in the mood to celebrate each other’s company, or if it was the morbidity of the island making us need to respond with something joyous, we decided a party was in order. We opened a few bottles of rum and sat around a large fire on the quarterdeck. Old planks crackled in the summer twilight as the majority of the remaining Deer Drum residents drank and talked. It wasn’t long until Lachlann had broken out the guitar and was leading the group in song. The old tune of the Nightingale played once more. *My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song?* *The sweet notes where the nightingale flows?* *For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale,* As he reached the refrain the entire ship sang back. Xander wrapped his arm round Mirai, Alessia raised her glass to the air, Eir sat with a blanket wrapped around her legs and her head held back bellowing the words. *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* Lachlann led the second verse. *My trav’lers don’t fail, for I’ll carry your pail,* *Safe home to a harbour we’ll go.* *You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale* Once more, the entire boat sang the chorus. *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* The guitar took over again. *I still think of my home, where I’d lands of my own.* Though the chorus did not sing it, I saw Xander mouth the words. *The spirit of Deer Drum’s hard as stone,* *We will hear the fond tale, of the sweet nightingale* The crowd chimed in. *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* The guitar strummed again, this time softly. Lachlann leaned in close, his voice like a lullaby. I looked at Alessia next to me as he sang. *Pray sit yourself down, with me on the ground,* *On this bank where sweet primroses grow,* *You shall hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale.* I sang with all my heart. *As she sings in the valley below,* *As she sings in the valley below.* Lachlann lifted up his guitar and placed it down on the ground beside him. “Well, that’s enough of that.” There were sporadic jeers from the crowd. Xander bellowed above them. “Thought you said you’d adapted the last two verses Lachlann. Let’s hear them.” The crowd cheered the proposal. Lachlann laughed. “I have. But not yet.” Xander lifted his hands up to his mouth. “Booooooo.” Lachlann shook his head, his tongue bit between his teeth. “I’ll do you a deal. When this is all over. I’ll play them then. Wouldn’t be right to do it before.” “I’m keeping you to it.” Xander pointed to his friend. As the crowd quietened, Kurbani walked up to Alessia and I. She waited till we turned to her before speaking. “I’ve spoken with Xander about it. I want to go to the North. With whoever goes.” I looked to Alessia. “Why?” she asked. “Eir’s been teaching me about medicine. I can help. Plus, it’s my turn.” She smiled. Alessia turned to me. “Fine by me. You and Kurbani head North tomorrow?” I chuckled. “I’m going am I?” “Ferdinand,” Alessia placed a hand on my shoulder. “Which one of us is always dying to go off on stupid, =deadly, trips to see the world?” My face stayed flat for a half a second until a grin slowly emerged. “I am.” “settled then. Xander, Lachlann and I will meet up with Rory’s lot here. You two head North. Now, let’s see what else Lachlann can play.” Alessia headed off to go grab the bard slowly slipping away with his guitar. I turned and looked around at these people I’d met. The friends I had made since I left Kadear. I thought back to my old life where I so tirelessly worked for an impossible dream. During that pursuit of wealth and a home in the Citadel, I had never taken a moment to think of what a home truly was. And I realised in that moment that this place was more of a home than Kadear had ever been.


'Anything can happen now!' my aunt shouts on the phone, and her voice sounds hollow, distant. Well, she is distant from me. She lives far away, in the middle of the huge country. I don't know where she exactly lives, to say the truth, - we hardly met, maybe a couple of times at the family gatherings, in the deep past. Since recently she has kept calling me. She says she must take care of me. Even if from a distance. She and I are the only members of our extended family who remain alive. 'Anything can happen these days!' she keeps yelling at me. “Be more specific,” I ask. “This woman. She can be anyone... Anything!'' “Like who?” “A spy! An agent! She can use your kindness against you!” my aunt says. “Come on. You should have seen her. She's scared, that is all. She fled from the war, for God's sake.“ “It doesn't make her a good person by default.” “Nor makes her a spy.” “Be careful, kid,” my aunt sighs. “Do you know her full name at least?” The lady's name is L. Her kid is in a safe place now. She said she had placed the kid first (“ I know people, too, ” she said) and then traveled further. “I need to find the place where both of us will be happy and secure,” she explained to me. “I figured we were not happy nor secure where we lived before.” For that purpose, lady L. traveled through numerous countries before she got to where we, she, and I, met. She started her journey in a provincial town, it was at the beginning of the war. The lady L. used to own a small shop there. “What did you sell?” “Female stuff, mostly.” “Such as?” “Nail polish, wood polishers, bath polishers. Polishers, yeah, for different use. And, also, rags.” I met her at the grocery store. The lady L. was wandering in the canned food section, trying to figure out what was the difference between one type of canned tomatoes and the other. She struck me as a person with a very little life experience. I offered help. We ended up having a coffee together, which I also helped to choose. My aunt is the elder sister of my mom's and is the complete opposite of the latter. She never had a family or kids of her own, having devoted her whole self to work in the public sector. She built a community sports center in their town, almost literally with her own hands. My mom was proud of her elder sister. Mom used to say she'd go and visit her sister one day. And she never did. No wonder, though: my mother lived like a bird - no plans, no roots, no savings. She worked as a stewardess and then she was an operator in customer service. “When she talks to me, I hear my mother's voice, you know,” I say to lady L. on the next day after my aunt's call. Funny thing about parents - even if they are dead, they somehow have access to your mind, and even when they are dead, you think of them: they mean well. Lady L. and I are at some official place where they get the paperwork done. ''What does she say to you?” asks lady L., using her application form as a hand fan. “Who?” “This aunt of yours.” “Ah. Just usual things - that she misses me and stuff.” Lady L. smiles. “Do you have relatives?” I ask. “No, just my kid. All gone.” “Now, or...?” “Long-gone.” “Okay.” The lady L's face expression is null. Looking at her is like looking at a freshly linen bed sheet - neat, clean, monochrome. “How did you get here, again?” I ask. “I told you already.” “I know, I know. Just I was telling to someone and seemed like I missed a few details. Where did you after...?” She interrupts me: “I'd rather not go there again.” “Okay.” “Sorry. I really don't wanna talk about this.” “Sure. I understand.” Some people in line talk to each other, others remain silent. It's hard to say who's sadder - those that are quiet or those who chit-chat. The lady L. texts, I can't but look over her shoulder. “Just making sure, that they are waiting for me,” she says as if she noticed me peeping. “Who - they?” I ask. “People at my next stop.” “Where will it be?” “I haven't decided yet.” I nod. “You know any decent pedicurist?” the lady L. asks. “Sorry?” “Look at this shame!” she points at her toes - the polish is half ragged. “I can give you, you know, a nail polish remover.” “I am not some lout!” she exclaims. “I used to take care about myself, and I did it alright.” “You're next in line,” I say. “They are waiting for me,” the lady L. says. “Who?” “People that I know.” I dare to ask: “What's your plan, though?” She stares at me bluntly. “I want them red.” “Excuse me?” “Red toes. My turn! Counter number 27”. My mother had a period in her life when she became extremely suspicious. She thought, for instance, that my friends wanted to let me down. She would come up to me and say that I deserved better friends. She wanted to protect me and she never could. “That's all friends I've got, mom,” I, a teenager then, responded. “Better be alone than in a bad company.” “Define bad company,” I disputed. “People who pretend to be someone else,” mother fended. “I've learned human nature, believe me, kid. Flight attendants are the best psychologists ever.” You are not a flight attendant anymore , I wanted to say then. But I didn't. “They might also steal from you,” she added. I didn't know who my mother was at that point. It was a period in her life when she was getting ready for her final flight. She was preparing the ground for an easy take-off. And it didn't play out easy. I missed her dearly until I turned 20 and outgrew my pain. It seemed like I fell asleep, while lady L. was away at the counter. We don't talk much on our way back to the downtown. Lady L. is not such a pleasant lady, after all, and if I think about it, I don't even know her last name. “Let's meet for a drink in the evening,” she said when we were about to split our ways. “Like at 8?” “Are you sure you've got money for this?” I ask her. “I've got some support,” the lady L. responds. “The fact that I fled from the war, doesn't mean I am helpless.” “Why am I helping you then?” I ask. She shrugs. “This is absolutely your choice.” I didn't want to go. She was unpleasant. She was shut. She was ungrateful. Maybe my aunt was right, after all. I went only because my close friend, whom I supposed to meet with, canceled on me. Maybe my mom was right, too. “What about you?” the lady L. asks. “What about me?” “Why are you engaged in all this... activity?” “Activity?” “I mean, in all this helping,” she sips wine. “Good wine, by the way.” “Everyone is helping,” I said. “People are not generous, by nature.” “I believe, people are different.” She smirks. “Tell me about it,” she says. “I was just thinking... I don't trust people.” “Fair enough.” I, too, sip wine. It tastes horrible. “Where do you work?” she asks all of a sudden. “Who, me?” “You, who else?” “I used to work for one NGO and I was... They've let me go recently,” I say. “Where's your income coming from?” she insists. “I've got savings and I rent out a flat.” Lady L. laughs loudly. She is getting drunk so quickly that this is even scary. “Let's drink for a farewell!” she raises her glass. “What farewell?” “I am leaving tomorrow morning,” lady L. says casually. “What? How? Where?” “I told you repeatedly that people are waiting for me,” the lady L. sounds irritated. “Where?” “I will let you know when I am there.” “Did you get a ticket?” She nods. “Do you want me to take you to the airport?” I ask. “Oh no, no,” she says. “No. You've done enough. Enough.” I make a certain effort to take this “enough” in a good way. The same night I check the departure schedule. There is quite a few flights scheduled for tomorrow morning: Naples, Frankfurt, Tel Aviv, Doha, Seoul. She could go anywhere. My aunt calls me again. “What about your new acquaintance?” she asks. “How is she?” I respond after the pause: “She left. She can be in Doha, in Rome, in New York.” “People are unbelievable!” the auntie is almost shrieking with delight. “People are...” I interrupt her: “They really are.” Then I say: “You know, auntie, it won't hurt if I lay low for a little while.” “How is that? Are you in danger?” “I am most definitely not. But just in case. Don't call me until I call you.” Aunt mumbles something and then she says: “Is there anyone who can take care of you?” “Of course.” I look at the departure schedule one more time in the morning. And then again, for no reason, in a week. Lady L. didn't call me, of course. But she can be anywhere.


In my family, we have our own holiday. As much cheer, frenzy, and zest put in to it as, say, Christmas. October 30 th is the day my grandmother almost drowned. She should of drowned, according to logic. She was lost inside the ocean for four hours. To commemorate the miracle of her survival, we eat from the sea. Sometimes crab, sometimes tuna, and I find it all in poor taste. Because of the fisherman. The fisherman lived alone on the coast near a cliffs edge and a wood-line of conifers. His closest neighbor was fifty acres away. A big family. He would salute them as they passed by on the way to the beach. Sometimes he would pick up little pieces of trash that they would leave in their wake. But he enjoyed watching them walk by, and hearing them laugh or yell at each other. They had a formation, the grandmother and the mother linked together at the arm, brothers and sisters to the right and left, and the father leading the front, plowing the way, swiping the air when the path inclined. The fisherman would sit from his top deck and watch them while he smoked a pipe and fantasized about retirement. Of course had respect for the sea, but he wasn’t in love with it. His feet fit fine on the shore. Lately he was having recurring dreams about the ocean having forests of pine and fur, towering out of the waves. Everyday on the water he would see some piece of garbage floating along, lifeless. And there was nothing left to fish! Only things to throw out. The fisherman’s last catch was an orange road cone. The cone had inside of it, a purple dildo. It was a blatant message--you’re fucked. It was a gift, a last gift from the sea, for a fisherman turning his back on his purpose. After this he drove the boat slowly back home with the sun behind him, watching the waves and trying to identify waste-- Tuna cans! Shoes and ragged tarps, tires, bottles, and clusters of pieces of that horrible immortal: plastic. “I wont even go for a swim again,” and he swore the ocean off forever. I hate October 30 th now. It almost makes me sick. Nobody else on the planet can share this with us, my grandmothers survival and the perennial reliving of her fall and rescue by the lord. It’s embarrassing for me now to see my father sitting at home on a Wednesday, using vacation time from work, for his mother-in-law. We dress up, fill ourselves with sea food, and hand out presents to grandma. This year, I had a Halloween party to attend, and I was going to wear my costume. My mother called me that afternoon. “What are you going to wear tonight?” She said. “The sweater,” I said. “What did you get her?” “A life jacket,” “You better not have!” After we hung up I put on my costume. The beanie, the woolen sweater, and the rubber bib. I really filled the pipe with tobacco, and smoked it. Before the accident I would see him from a distance, loading his boat or walking the hill to his house, and I could see small smoke clouds hop out from his face, I imagined he was a machine, releasing exhaust, performing a task he’d been ignited for. He would wave to us sometimes, as we took our family walks. One time we met him on the trail, my grandmother was speaking bible versus to him for good fortune. He had been in a slump. “I think I’ve pulled all the yummy stuff out of that ocean. Me and all the other assholes on the sea. What should I destroy next? Maybe I’ll set my sights on the wood line,” said the fisherman. All upon deaf ears apparently. This was a man with something to vent, with an existential hang up, and all he could get in return were non-applicable versus from my grandmothers favorite book. From her mouth, “ ‘Fishermen will stand along the shore; from En Gedi to En Eglaim there will be places for spreading nets. The fish will be of many kinds--like the fish of the Mediterranean Sea.’ That’s a little wisdom from the book of Ezekiel.” The fisherman said “Yes many kinds of fish, even the plastic ones. I appreciate the support and encouragement.” The poor guy. The next day, the accident happened. I was watching the fisherman smoke his pipe on his front porch when my grandmother fell off the cliff. My dad claims he saw her hit the water, that she was caught by a waive that slammed her to the rocky bottom immediately. The jump alone was suicide. Surely she was dead. We had to run down a dirt path to make it to the beach. . When I got to the beach the fisherman was just pulling in with the raft, and he tossed me his pipe. I watched him fight the tide and make a rough way over to the cliff. Then he jumped into the water. We waited and cried for four hours. But just before we gave up all hope, my purple grandmother washed up, practically right at our feet. She was as purple as cartoon grapes. Her eyes were bloodshot and bulging from her skull, and her body mass had doubled. She was unrecognizable, monstrous. My father hoisted her upside down with a rope that he’d thrown through an exposed wood beam at the entrance to the public toilet. Then my father and mother started pushing against her bloated stomach, then punching it, and finally my father squeezed her. Wherever what’re could exit, it did. It came pouring out of her ears, I’m sure if it. The fiasco of draining her of water worked! she came back to life coughing and vomiting. Weall hugged and kissed her, while she clutched a cross on her breast. But we didn’t wait around for the fisherman, I don’t remember ever hearing about anyone from my family informing anyone about the missing man either. When he’d brought his boat to dock, he stepped off empty handed, and walked to his house for a shower. After his dinner he sat on the deck and sipped coffee. “I’m a free man,” he said to himself as his eye caught the family walking down the trail. The grandmother was behind the pack by a few steps, and he saw her looking over the cliff’s edge. “She’s gonna fall,” he said, and before his sentence was finished, she had. He stumbled down his stairs, but transitioned to a somersault and opened the garage door. He got the raft, pushed the oars into the locks, and leaned it against his back while he ran with it as fast as he could toward the sea. When he made it to the beach, he took his pipe out his mouth and tossed it to the eldest boy of the family. The fisherman paddled against and through violent waves and found the spot where the sunken grandma was drowning. Her red jacket, his guide. He jumped and sank. Her leg was stuck in the rocks. He pulled her free, but to get the leverage he’d gotten his own leg stuck in the same trap. The fisherman pushed the grandma up as far as his body would let him. Next he tried to free his own leg, he pulled and squirmed until his mouth was finally forced open and filled with the sea. The last thing he saw was a trash bag floating to the surface, in trail of the grandma. So on this October 30 th I was dressed just like him, with his own pipe. When I got to my grandmas house the rest of the family was already inside, at the table, with plates of crab and tuna, and bottles of wine. Everyone all dolled up, and then me, the fisherman. I knew my mother was furious with my costume because she took a bite of tuna before we had prayed. “Get that pipe out of your mouth!” My father said, then snatched it. “Let us pray,” Said my grandmother. “Allow me,” I said, and commenced. “Lord, we thank you for your great love, your overflowing cup. We praise you this day for the miracle you bestowed on our family. You pulled my beloved grandmother from the depths of the sea, from death. I just would like to know--” “Louie!” Yelled my mother. “Dear lord, What about the fisherman?”