I once had this bud from high school, his name was Brandon. He was a tall, muscular football player, he was handsome and had a pretty average personality. I was also on the football team with him and had driven him home when he didn't have a ride so we were kind of friends. I moved though, and I didn't see him at-all until I came back to town for my mothers funeral. It was a sad journey and me my wife and 4 year old twin girls Anna and Anne and baby son called Liam planned to stay there a few days so I could show my family my hometown and just mourn for a bit. The town was small, so no hotels. So I rented a place to stay from some username called 'SulkyBoy34' who had pretty good reviews except some high hippies saying they saw someone moving in the dark. I didn't belivie those kind of things though, and when we got there I was very suprised to see my old pal, Brandon. "Oh, Heya Mark. Didn't know that you were staying here." He smiled, and brought me into a hug. He hugged my family and I joked, "Heya bud. How ya doing SulkyBoy34?". He laughed and said "Brandonfootballgod was taken". We had a nice chat inside the normal home. I learnt he had a girlfriend in France who he was visiting and he was a little low on cash so he was renting out his house. He also told me his girlfriend who he didn't mention the name of was expecting very soon that's why he was going in such a rush. I told him about my family, and we drank coffee together while the twins played and my wife unpacked our bags while dealing with our youngest. I felt bad leaving her to do the work but she assured me it was fine, and wanted to let me catch up with my mate. He had to leave soon though and quickly grabbed his bag and told me he left me a gift for the kids in the basement of his one floor house. I thanked him and my wife told me she would get it so I started to make some food for the twins while preparing formula for Liam. Ten minutes later, I called out for my wife. "Lila..are you alright? need some help?". After she didn't answer I put the girls down but my son refused and started waling so I held onto him and went down into the basement. I took each step carefully not wanting to drop Liam, or alarm Anna or Anne. "Lila this ain't funny anymore." I said again, nearly slipping on some dismantled mop. "What the hell?!" I whisper-shouted. I pushed open the heavy metal door and I could barely see my hand infront of my face it was so dark. I could hear a low hum and I assumed it was the generator or the heating, something like that. I went out a bit further ignoring the pounding of my heart. "Lila?!" I shouted, my voice cracking a bit. I was scared now, but what was I supposed to do?. I sighed, maybe she had left the basement ages ago and I just didn't hear her. "LILA IF YOUR IN HERE TELL ME IM LEAVING NOW." I yelled, and with no response, I turned to leave. Until something grabbed my foot! I turned horrified and frantic to see a slimy and oozing hand latched onto my shin, by now my son was crying sensing my fear and the danger. I felt powerless as I uselessly kicked the hand away while yelling for my wife. I didn't want to leave her in with the..creature but what could I do?. I kicked the hand with my other foot, almsot losing my balance. theres a pained howl from the monster and It lets go, It's now or never. I dash up the stairs, I do look back though. My wife is gone though, the love of my life. The twins are oblivious playing with their dollhouse. "Girls, Daddy has to do something. Look after your little brother please." I told them, grabbing some locks I had packed. I can't renember the reason now but I'm sure as hell glad I did. "Ok!" Anne and Anna said at the same time, not the freakiest thing I had seen that day. "Ok your'e so good." I smiled, my voice shacking and I kissed all my kids foreheads tenderly. Not like me atall, the burly strong football player but I could never see my kids again and I loved them. I locked the basement door, wanting to make sure whatever that hell monster was could never get out. I ran out the house like a crazy person and got straight into my car and made my way to the airport. I know it was irresponsible to leave infants alone but the airport was five minutes away and I needed to kill that son of a bitch. The next flight to France...Leaves in 5 minutes I read. And with red blurring my vision I found Brandon, waiting calmy. I pounced, furious at his peace. I scratched at his eyes, right hooked his face, ripped his hair out did anything I could. I was being torn off him by secruity and exhausted, I stopped resiting. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" Brandon yelled at me, his face red and disfigured paramedics trying to help him, Brandon refusing. "Brandon what have you done....?" I choke, my eyes welling up with tears. He has just killed my wife and now my kids are probably dead because of my stupidity and anger. "What?" he spat at me. "BRANDON MY WIFE WENT DOWN TO GET THE 'GIFT' YOU LEFT US WHICH IS SOME MONSTER WHO ALMOST KILLED ME AND HAS PROBABLY KILLED MY WIFE AND WILL PROBABLY KILL MY CHILDREN. I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS AND NOW YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE YOUR A FUCKING MONSTER THATS WHAT YOU ARE YOU DISGUSTING PHYSCO!!!!" I screamed, my voice red and sore. He stared at me and smirked. He had the nerve to smirk at me...after what he did??. I opened my mouth to yell at him some more but he laughed, cold and cruel. "I don't know what your talking about." He said, eyes so innocent but filled with lies. I collapsed, on the dirty airport floor, I ended up in police custody and my kids were taken to be put in the system, because they needed a 'stable' family. And I wasn't even allowed to go to my own mothers funeral or my wife's. Brandon ruined my life.  Thank you for reading, sorry if there are a-lot of spelling mistakes and rookie errors.


Everyone had a number. Always counting down. My parents had their number, my friends and family, even the president had her own number. Everyone could see everyone’s number except for one person; themselves. The number had five parts to it. Years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. This number was how long you have left to live. About a century ago the world had an overpopulation problem. This was the solution. From the day the law was passed, all children born from then on had to have an implant that limited how long they could live. At first it was a set number but the populus didn’t like that. Now it was a random number from 25-150 years. Only the very rich could live past that. You had to pay one million credits for an extra year. The biggest taboo in society was asking what your number was or telling someone else what it was. There’s a saying that goes: ignorance is bliss. What if you can’t ignore the obvious? “So, what do you want to do for your 25th birthday sweetie? I was thinking we could go skydiving or scuba diving like you’ve always wanted to.” My mom was an amazing woman. She was the lady I wanted to be. Her number was 23:7:3:45:32. She was only 47 years old. My dad didn’t make it that far. “Mom, my birthday isn’t for another three weeks.” I answered. “Well, I want to plan ahead. This is the biggest year of anyone’s life. It’s the last safe year” she answered back. Nobody liked their 25th birthday because it meant that you could die any second afterwards. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything mom. I’ll think about it while I’m at dinner.” “Surprise!” yelled my two best friends when I walked into the dinner room. Asusena and Sarah were my best friends since high school. “Aw guys, you shouldn’t have” I said to them. “Don’t be stupid Renee. You should’ve known we’d do this before we left for London,” said Sarah “We wanted to spend one last night with you before we left” added Asusena. There was a palpable silence. “Well, let’s enjoy the night then!” encouraged Sarah. We sat down and enjoyed our dinner and talked all night. “We have a surprise for you before we head to the airport tonight” said Asusena as she pulled a small box out from under her chair. “Happy birthday best friend!” exclaimed Sarah as Asusena slid it across the table towards me. “Guys you shouldn’t have” I said as I took it in my hands. They both gave me the same look that said “really?” I opened the box as they smiled knowing what it was. It was a small rectangular piece of paper. A check. The amount was on the other side. I saw the amount, dropped the check, and cried. “Why?” I asked sobbing. “Because you are our best friend and we hope this bit of money helps you live forever.” Answered Sarah with a hug. Asusena joined the hug and we sat there crying and laughing then crying again until my two best friends finally had to leave for the airport. When they left I cried more knowing I’d never see them again. They both had a little over a month left. $750,000. That’s a lot of money to give. That’s all that’s been on my mind the past three weeks. I couldn’t buy my extra year until I turned 25 in 6 hours. I would still have to find another $100,000 because apparently my dad had left me $150,000 in his will that wasn’t effective until 3 days before my birthday. My mom and I was waiting in line at a sky diving company while my mom chewed an employee out for being slow to get us our equipment. She finally returned with a victorious smile that read “guess who just got a discount”. She told me that once she talked common sense into him we got a 25% discount. We got our gear on and after the hour-long crash course, no pun intended, we waited for the plane. The plane crawled out of its hanger and my mother and I along with 10 other people climbed in. Everyone besides the employees had an average of a week left of time with the lowest being 12 hours. The plane struggled up into the air and we climbed higher into the sky for about five or ten minutes. The light turned green and out we went. The wind was deafening but so amazing. My heart was pumping so fast and it was hard to breathe because of the force of the wind. All that kept going through my mind was that I was turning 25 in a couple of hours. The man on my backwoods had the parachutes was whooping and telling me this is his favorite part. About 30 seconds later he signaled me he was going to pull the parachute open. I waited for it to open but it never did. He yelled at me that the primary chute wasn’t opening and that he had to use the reserve one. He pulled the cord for the reserve and it opened. There was a sudden jolt of us slowing down. Then a sickening rip as the the parachute tore in half. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” was all that ran through my mind, like a song on repeat, as the ground got closer and closer. “100 more years” my partner yelled in my ear. He was telling me how much time I had left. Too bad I’ll never get to live it through.


[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: DINING ROOM - NIGHT] The stale air of the dining room is filled with the aroma of charred meat and fry oil. The sounds of nearby traffic bleed through the poorly insulated walls, pushing past the sun-faded décor, and adding a consistent static to the otherwise silent room. Behind the trebly country-western music playing from the vintage speakers in the ceiling is the cadence of the kitchen pouring out from the small space. A vote would have to be taken on which of these soundscapes was the most annoying. Sitting alone at a table is a PATRON in his mid-forties. His splotched coveralls are faded and tarnished with stains of past and present. His dirt-soiled face hangs with disappointment as he watches the young WAITER approach with his food. PATRON : ( flabbergasted ) Oh, no. Ya'can not be serious righ'now. CLANK. Startled by the man's sudden outburst, the plate slips from the teenager's poorly gripped fingers, dropping onto the graffiti chiseled table. WAITER : ( flustered ) I'm sorry, sir. My hands are wet. PATRON : This ain't even what I ordered, boy. The kid pauses for a moment to regroup, but it does little to help him. Nothing short of taking this man to a better steakhouse was going to make this better for either party. WAITER : Y-yes it is, sir. You're the only person in here, so it had to be what you ordered. PATRON : This-- THIS ( pointing his fork at his plate ) is the eight-ounce sirloin? WAITER : ( unsure of himself ) Um, it should be. I mean, yes-- yes it is. PATRON : Alright then, y'all gotta way'ta weigh it back there? There ain't no damn way that this is'uh eight-ounce steak, now. I'm not paying seventeen damn dollars for you to-- MANAGER : ( calling out ) Excuse me, is there a problem? The MANAGER , a stocky man in his mid-forties, approaches the table. The Patron whips around his seat to look at the person he will now be directing his anger towards. PATRON : Ya'damn right there is. This ain't what I ordered. This ain't even half'uh what I ordered. To further prove his point, the man shoves his fork into his-- admittedly smaller than advertised-- steak. With a quick flick, he dramatically flips it end over end as if to show the manager that there wasn't another one underneath it to make up for the small size. His best cook no longer worked there due to poor business practices on his part. So he had a new line cook that had no idea what he was doing. That wasn't at all an eight-ounce steak, but he wasn't going to admit that to him. This is Rita's. MANAGER : ( gleefully ) I see you got the eight-ounce. PATRON : ( fuming with anger ) On what fuckin' planet does this weight eight fuckin' ounces? Are we seriously gonna have to get a damn scale in here for ya' fuckin' morons? Come on, now! I have been comin' here off and on all year, and I ain't never had y'all fuck me like this. Despite the growing fury within the man, the Manager simply smiled, doing his absolute best to ignore his rude statements. Those words may have emotionally affected him two years ago. Or really, any time before he became the manager here. But this customer's reaction to his entrée is something that one grows to expect at Rita's. Or at any restaurant with fewer customers than their review ranking. That might be an exaggeration, but not an extreme one. Rita's wasn't known to be the best place in town, and those that knew why steered clear of the place. Though, every now and then you get a guy like this one. His high hopes aren't unwarranted, as the few times that he had attended Rita's, ta great cook was working Now that he was gone, the place was back to its normal menu of disappointment. PATRON : ( exasperated ) Ya'know what, asshole? Just feed this to someone else. Oh, wait! Almost in a twirl, he motions around to an empty restaurant. A small display of agility that normally wouldn't be associated with someone of his stature. PATRON : ( continuing ) Thaaaat's right. There AIN'T no one else here. I wonder fuckin' why. With a loud huff, he storms out of the small steakhouse, and (if one were to guess) probably to the nearest fast-food restaurant. The Manager picks up one of the home-fried potatoes from the plate and tosses it into his mouth. With a grimace, he chokes it back. Yeah, the food isn't the same with Gary gone. WAITER : ( laughing ) I don't get this place. How do we stay open? Whatever you got going, I want in. The Manager claps his hand on the waiter's back. MANAGER : Just steaks kid. Just steaks. Now go ahead and do your closing duties. You're cut. The kid nods to his superior, immediately removing his apron, and tossing it onto the man's deserted meal. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER] The doors to the small kitchen sway open as the Manager bursts through them. Upon his entry, all of the cooks turn their faces towards their stations, never once looking at their boss as he moves past them. And without as much of a glance towards his employees, he exits through the back door. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BACKLOT - CONTINUOUS] SLAM! The heavy steel door closes behind him as he steps out into the breezy night. He swiftly turns to the door, shifting a deadbolt to the locked position. As strange as it was to everyone that there was an ability to lock the restaurant's back door from the outside, not a single employee that didn't already know why asked any questions. Like inside the steakhouse, the backlot was also filled with the echoing static of the nearby highway. The weathered wood fence did very little to stop the sound, even though the sound was the reason that they gave the zoning committee as to why they needed fences that neared twelve feet tall and surrounded their entire lot. He lifts his wrist, checking the time. 10:45 PM ERRRNTTTTT . A loud buzzer-like noise erupts from a metal box attached to the side of the building, accompanied by a strobing red light. Without hesitation, the Manager pushes the button and begins walking across the lot towards a storage building in the back. Like clockwork, as the Manager approaches the door, it gently creaks open, allowing entry into the dubious space. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE BUILDING - CONTINUOUS] The warm halogen lights beamed down from the ceiling, washing the room out in a yellow hue. KERRY , a heavyset man in his fifties, hunches over a table that is entirely covered in five-dollar bills. He glances up to greet the Manager as he walks in. KERRY : How ya doin', boss? MANAGER : About the same. Where are we sitting on this order? KERRY : Bout the same as well. It's doin' the same damn thing as it was this mornin' actually. I don't know how we are gonna catch up. Spread across the table are thousands of five-dollar bills. With a closer look, it's easy to see the ink is faded and frayed, making the counterfeit currency, not at all believable. MANAGER : ( frustrated ) Well, damn it, Kerry, we have to get this out by tomorrow morning. We can not be late again. Kerry shakes his head, turning his attention back to the task he is being scolded about. To answer the young Waiter's question from earlier about how this place has managed to remain open-- this was how. Rita's Steakhouse was nothing more than a coverup for a counterfeit money operation. An operation that had been operating for nearly thirty years. The owners had developed a simple process to keep themselves in the shadows. Number one: never make anything higher than a five-dollar bill. And two: you never wash the money in the same town you press it in. If they were to have stuck to those two rules as instructed, tonight wouldn't have had to happen. MANAGER : Where is it? Kerry doesn't speak, he just lifts his eyes, pointing them to a back door. The Manager nods. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BEHIND THE STORAGE SHED - A FEW MOMENTS LATER] The clouds glide through the sky, relieving themselves of their diffusion duties, and allowing the pale light of the moon to beam down upon the Manager as he stands above a tarp-wrapped corpse. With a sigh, he squats down, preparing himself for the grizzly sight he is undoubtedly about to see. Delicately, he pulls the tarp to the side, revealing the swollen distorted face of what was once an attractive young man. Swollen with blood, his cheeks protrude out, meeting his broken brow, covering his eyes. Lacerations scatter his face, the tattered flesh of stringy muscle escaping from underneath. MANAGER : Gary, you fucking idiot. Why. GARY : (gurgled and breathy) Uhhhh. The startled Manager stands up quickly, tossing the tarp back over Gary's bloody face. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE SHED - CONTINUOUS] THWACK! The Manager's hands collide with the metal table, knocking a stack of the shoddily printed money into the air. MANAGER: You didn't fucking kill him? WHAT THE FUCK, KERRY? Kerry stops in the middle of a printing process, lifting his eyes to his employer. KERRY : ( defeated ) I'm sorry! I just couldn't do it. MANAGER : ...I can't fucking believe this. KERRY : Why don't you just do it? Why do I gotta be the one that hasta do everything 'round here? MANAGER : Excuse me? Kerry clears his throat, changing his approach. KERRY : Look, I'm jus'sayin'. You could do it just as much as I could. MANAGER : No. Because you couldn't even kill him like you were supposed to. Kerry breathes in deeply through his mouth and exhales slowly through his nose. A technique his divorce attorney taught him during heated custody hearings. The Manager notices, sympathizing with his oldest friend. MANAGER : ( reasoning ) I can't do it, man. I can't kill someone. And I damn sure can't kill someone I know. KERRY : Me either. It jus' ain't me. I managed to do the first part... MANAGER : I know, I know. Look, I'll take care of it somehow, okay? KERRY : Ya sure? I don't wanna leave you hangin' on this like before. MANAGER : No, you did what you could. I'll take care of it before Aaron calls asking about it. That's the last thing we need right now. [NOVAK'S RIDGE: LARGE SAND DUNE - LATER ON THAT NIGHT] DING... DING... DING... DING... The annoying melody of the ajar car door rings throughout the vast empty desert. The clouds from earlier have long since gone, leaving the wintry night sky twinkling with the light of onlooking stars. Parked on top of a tall dune is Kerry's car. A compromise was made since he refused to complete the initial task given to him. The golden light of the trunk shines out onto the dune, reflecting off of the glossy blue tarp. It gently moves, the plastic rustling against the skin of the man bound beneath it. The manager reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, revealing a small handgun. With the delicacy of his grip, it's clear that he hasn't had to hold a firearm often in his life. He gingerly cocks the hammer back on the pistol. MANAGER : Fuck-- you dumb son of a bitch. He throws his hands to the top of the crown of his head, resting the weapon upon his wind disheveled hair. Just like his more emotional colleague, he too did not want to kill Gary, as he was a fantastic employee. Gary was one of the few that was capable of working on both sides of the business. The elaborate front that is the ' should be failing ' steakhouse, and the successful printing press. Gary was by far the best cook they had, and what little clientele they did have, usually returned for him. But that was before he nearly destroyed the press business. Disobeying the rules set forth by the owners of the business, Gary decided to sneak in after-hours and make his batch of money. Ten thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills to be exact. And as one would probably expect him to do, he also broke the other rule of never washing the money within the city it was printed. ' Washing Money ' is a slang term for laundering. To keep it simple, the printer must always have a way to enter counterfeit money into a natural form of circulation without it being tied to the printer. This was something Gary had neglected to do. And before anyone knew it, word had spread through the sewers of the city-- Gary was now being watched. So he had to go. He quickly yanks the gun down from on top of his head, pointing it at the squirming man within the tarp. MANAGER : I wish things had turned out differently, kid. I really do. POW!!! His eyes immediately snap closed in an attempt to shield himself from the horrors that will plague his subconscious for the rest of his life.


I was alone on Thanksgiving. Nothing unusual about that, and nothing sad. It was by choice. Erin had gone to Texas to be with her family. I had stayed home in San Francisco, rather than travel all the way to Southern California to spend time with mine. My family didn’t really understand, but I had blamed it on work. They needed employees over the holidays, and wanted us to choose between time off for Thanksgiving or time off for Christmas. That *was* the truth, and almost every year of my adult life, I have worked on the evening of Thanksgiving. Later on, I would also work every Christmas when I decided not to travel then either. This year, despite making myself available, work didn’t even schedule me. I had the day off to be alone at home. That would be the first of three Thanksgiving Miracles I would experience on November 24, 2005. I’ve never cared about Thanksgiving. I like it now for the small ritual of celebration we have at home. Erin no longer returns to Texas. She likes to cook a big dinner for the two of us. It’s great for me because I love her cooking. Every year, she will break down the details of everything she got wrong, that was cooked for the wrong amount of time, didn’t mix right, and now tastes “weird”. There’s at least one item on the menu, maybe the stuffing, or could be the turkey, could be the sweet potatoes, that she will refuse to eat herself because it’s “not supposed to taste like that.” It all tastes perfect to me. She insists I’m wrong, and maybe I am. She doesn’t particularly like cooking any more than I do. She doesn’t do it often. Maybe my taste buds adapt out of appreciation for her efforts. All I taste is the sweetness of the gesture. Or it’s possible... that she’s a fucking great cook! Ever consider that, *Erin*?? In defense of, I suppose both of us, sometimes the turkey is not great. But is it ever? When I was a kid, I hated this holiday. HATED THANKSGIVING. I believe it’s tied to the hate/hate relationship I have with food. Sometimes I hate that my body requires me to eat food, but sometimes I hate that I have to *prepare* food in order to eat it. It’s such a nuisance! I like how plenty of foods taste, but I hate that the healthier something is, the more likely it is to go bad, rotting like a corpse that died too soon. The perfect food is ice cream, but unfortunately, ice cream is hardly perfect as “food”. I’m a picky eater, if you can believe it. I hate anything spicy. I don’t think soft foods should ever have something crunchy inside of them. I think bell peppers are from Hell. I went to a vegan restaurant one time and ordered corn chowder. There were bell peppers in it. Some people will read that and be like, yeah that’s how you make corn chowder. Some will think bell peppers are so insignificant that they’ll wonder how I even noticed. I was so disgusted that I still feel a wave of nausea when I walk by bell peppers in the grocery store. Just typing the words “bell peppers” so many times has me on the verge of PUKING. That was my reward for trying to eat healthy and vegan! Tricked with superfluous ingredients. Ben & Jerry’s would never pull that shit with me. Ben & Jerry’s lists every ingredient on the container and they have never betrayed me. I’ve never bought a pint of Chunky Monkey and been like, “why are there walnuts in this?” Of course not, because I have never bought Chunky Monkey. It is clear there are walnuts in it! There is no such accountability in the health food industry, or even for regular food. When you eat out, you never know when there will be tomato in an omelet, lettuce on a sandwich, or bell peppers in your glass of water. My family never tricked me. My grandma would make Thanksgiving dinner every year, and it was GOOD. I wasn’t pressured to eat anything I didn’t want to. My hatred of the holiday was nobody’s fault. What I hated was the concept of food, and the concept of *celebrating* food. So much time spent on preparation. It didn’t seem worth it. Especially for the centerpiece, the turkey. It’s a whole project that takes an entire day, for an end result that is usually too dry, and never amazing. Even at its wettest and tastiest, it’s basically mediocre. At least to my obviously particular sensibilities. For what it’s worth, I also think steak is horrible. It tastes disgusting. I have also never tasted a wine that wasn’t the absolute worst thing my mouth has ever experienced. I have heard these things are not the case for everyone. Perhaps these palate anomalies have also forged my resentment against food, by making me feel like an outsider. One year, when I was 14, I insisted that I would only eat fast food for Thanksgiving. I was determined. I would not submit to the fascism of tradition and eat anything that someone actually worked really hard on. It was never personal, but in retrospect, this was definitely insulting and I owe my grandma an apology. Sorry, Grandma. I still attended Thanksgiving dinner. I just brought my own meal, which had its own complication. For some reason, fast food restaurants are not open on Thanksgiving. So I had to pick up my order from Taco Bell the night before. At the dinner, I was surrounded by family, feasting on roasted turkey, stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, yams, cranberry sauce. I had on my plate a single bean burrito from Taco Bell that sat in a refrigerator for 20 hours and was briefly reheated in the microwave. The middle was still cold. I found out Taco Bell does not taste as good the next day. I was *happy*. My mom encouraged me to eat any of the food on the table. One bean burrito was barely a meal on a regular day. I refused. All I wanted was a small tortilla wrapped around a slab of bean paste mixed with a few shreds of cheese, “red sauce”, and by request, NO onions. Don’t even get me started on Taco Bell putting goddamn onions in their bean burritos. I guess not even Taco Bell is perfect. But in that moment, it had served its purpose. I had won the night. Take that, Thanksgiving! In 2005, I was ambivalent about the holiday. Having a day off to hang around and watch a movie at home was the most pleasant circumstance I could hope for. I had no dinner plans. No intention of eating anything special, certainly no intention of *cooking* something. Around noon, I went outside to check the mail. Our apartment was on the bottom floor of a duplex. A short pathway beside some grass led to the door from the sidewalk. On the left side of the front door was the stairway leading to the upstairs apartment. On the right was our wall-mounted mailbox. I reached in the mailbox and took out the DVD from Netflix I was expecting. It was raining, and I took a moment to take in the weather, to appreciate the empty streets and beautiful gray skies. I truly love a light rain and couldn’t imagine a more perfect day. A few feet from where I stood, sitting in the grass just off the path, was a box of donuts from Krispy Kreme. The night before, I had had a craving, specifically for Krispy Kreme. I had planned to check their schedule to see if they were open so I could have Krispy Kreme for Thanksgiving. Now, here was this box. I walked over to it. The box was soaked and looked like it had been stepped on. The clear film on the top revealed that there were still five glazed donuts inside, only one of them crushed. “It’s a Thanksgiving miracle!” I said, out loud because I was so excited. This was the second Thanksgiving miracle of the day. A free dinner just showing up on my doorstep! I sent Erin a text letting her know “I found donuts outside!!!!” She wrote back, “Holy shit, it’s a miracle!” I’m 38 now, and I can’t fucking believe I ate wet donuts I found in the street. At 23, it was normal. I used to movie-hop a lot, buy a ticket for a movie then sneak in to two more. To feed myself, I would go through the theater as everyone was leaving during the credits, and pick up unfinished bags of popcorn. Sometimes I found a few nachos, sometimes even candy. I thought I was being clever and resourceful by eating trash, as opposed to fucking gross. Nothing bad ever happened, as far as I knew. I did used to get sick three or four times a year back then, and almost never do now. I never connected my frequent sickness to my open invitation to germs, but it seems there might be something there. The movie I got from Netflix was called *Blood Freak*. It was from 1972. I had no idea what it was about. I rented it because I liked the title, and because the disc was put out by Something Weird Video. I loved their catalogue. The poster promised “A 20th Century HORROR beyond belief! Only the blood of drug addicts can satisfy the thirst of the BLOOD FREAK monster!” The monster pictured on the poster had a lumpy brown head with blood-red eyes and a long conical beak that went straight out. Blood dripped from the freak’s beak’s sharp teeth. My third Thanksgiving miracle was watching the film while eating all five delicious donuts, and discovering this was a *turkey* monster. A biker named Herschell helps out a girl named Angel with a flat tire. They become fast friends, and she invites him home, where it turns out Angel’s sister Ann is hosting an orgy. Herschell is offered drugs and sex, but that night he refuses. He stays with the family for a few days, and eventually, Ann is able to corrupt him and gets him addicted to marijuana. Meanwhile, Ann and Angel’s father has offered Herschell a job on his turkey farm. Mostly maintenance, but one of the requirements of this job is taste-testing the turkeys with an experimental chemical added to them. The mysterious chemicals mixed with the already destructive drugs in his body (marijuana, exclusively) have an adverse effect. He becomes the Blood Freak, a man of the exact same stature but with the head of some special effects guy from Florida’s bizarre interpretation of a turkey. His new addiction is not only drugs, but drugs filtered through blood. Only the blood of drug addicts can satisfy the thirst of the Blood Freak monster! Herschell goes on a murder spree, chopping off limbs and sitting patiently under his victims as they endlessly scream and their blood pours into his beak. Incredible. I had inadvertently rented a holiday classic. How could I possibly have a grudge against Thanksgiving after a perfect day like that? It’s still hard to get *excited* for it. I almost always request to work. However, I’ve given up my personal War On Thanksgiving. I still don’t visit my family to have a big dinner with them, although I have a handful of times now. I prefer a quiet week of watching movies and eating leftovers with my favorite chef and our two stunningly gorgeous cats. I am thankful for having that. This year, I am also reflecting back on some of the most miraculous moments of my life. I am extremely thankful for free donuts and a movie called *Blood Freak*.


Lonely in Space Don’t let anyone tell you anything different, space is lonely. It’s only exciting in movies or books. Space is deep, dark, and depressingly lonely. And cold. And dark. And lonely. My name is Kimearrah and I'm from the planet Thrae. It is a beautiful planet with sunshine, water, and lush vegetation. The only problem is that Thrae is also lonely. I'm writing this as I travel inside my spacecraft. This spacecraft is called a personal craft because it is built for one person. The living quarters are cramped at 12 feet by 12 feet. That's 144 square feet of loneliness. The rest of the 100 by 100-foot craft is occupied by the engineering and physics marvels needed to propel the craft through dark and cold space at incredibly high speeds. The storage space needed for the dried food is also in this area. Food is wrapped in edible containers so storage space is utilized to the maximum. The waste management systems also have to fit into this area. There is barely room to walk into this area if I need to check on any of the machines needed to keep me alive. Fortunately, most of the engineering is controlled by the craft's computers which have a high level of redundancy. This craft has computer systems that check on computer systems. The personal craft was invented when the population of Thrae was on the brink of extinction. The reasons for our population decline are unknown, at least unknown when I left. The birth rate dropped to 0.001 children per couple and people started dying younger. At first, it was barely noticeable; people started dying in their seventies instead of their late eighties. Couples started having 2 or 3 children instead of 6 or 7. No one came from a family of 10. It seemed sudden but it took about 200 years before people started dying in their thirties and many couples had no children. Babies were so rare that most people only knew what a baby looked like because they had seen their baby pictures of themselves. That's how I knew what a baby was. Our physicists were much more advanced than our physicians. Making machines was profitable, medicine was not, so the most brilliant minds studied physics. The personal craft was a combined achievement of some of the greatest minds Thrae had to offer. One person could safely travel alone through space at warp drive. Some short excursions had been made before I left, but no other life forms were found. All of the people on Thrae knew that other life must be out there because of a very famous artifact that crashed into our planet about 200 years ago. It contained some writing that was obliviously written by another human. All children had to memorize the letters NASA because we hoped to one day learn the meaning. So far no one has solved this mystery. At first, the personal craft was very expensive, only the incredible rich were able to own one. That changed when our population reached a crisis. Even our leaders realized that if we continued at our current rate of decline our race would cease to exist and no one would be left to morn our passing. Leaders would not be necessary, there would be no one left to lead and no one to lead them. A decision was made in record time. Within three days, it was decided that every person under the age of 25 was to be given a personal craft. The same people that could debate the merits of lunch for 2 years suddenly wanted action. The idea was that everyone under 25 years of age would travel the universe in a different direction. That made 2,000 different directions or 2,000 different chances for our race to find life, breed and continue our race throughout time. Yes, there were only 2,000 people under the age of 25 living on Thrae when this plan was set in motion. No one on the planet was under the age of 12. We were a race that once faced overcrowding and depletion of resources because of the population explosion. More than 10 billion people lived on Thrae at that time. It was crowded. I cried when I boarded my craft. I was leaving behind a beautiful home. My parents doted on me; every child was treated with love and care by all adults. I had a close friend named Tautamer and I wanted us to travel together, but that was not part of the plan. I was at home with her parents and my parents loved her as well. People our age were scarce and we all felt special, just because we were born. When I'm honest with myself I know that even my parents did not have much longer to live. They were both thirty-six, very old for Thrae. I know that traveling alone increased all travelers' desire to find another home and increased the odds that at least one of us would find another planet with people, find another home; a planet with people so that we could procreate. The will to continue our race outweighed any individual need. I left knowing that I would never see my parents or friend again. My parents would likely die within 10 years, though they appeared healthy. I was given a quick course in what I needed to know to survive. I was taught what I should look for on a planet and how to approach my possible new home with caution. Blending in with other life forms is necessary for our quest. The personal craft is truly a marvel of engineering. It can reach speeds of 100 times the speed of light while avoiding nasty surprises like other vessels, stars, planets or anything that would destroy the personal craft in a crash. The personal craft required no pilot which is good because at this speed no pilot could avoid crashing into any of the various things floating in space. Naturally going this fast has hazards that only a super-fast computer could recognize in time to avoid. The computers on board were capable of scanning great distances analyzing solar systems, their planets and looking for life. It's necessary to find living beings similar enough to me so that we can reproduce. The computers will also analyze languages and put a learning packet together so that I will be able to communicate, albeit basically when I land. The outside of the craft is made of a nearly indestructible polymer and looks like a boulder. Our engineers thought this would be less conspicuous in a new world. Another side effect of traveling this fast is that time is altered for the person inside the vessel. I have been in this vessel, all alone for six years but time on Thrae has measured six hundred years. Food and water were held in the shop's cargo bay, the initial supply will last seven years, ten if I am very, very frugal. Once that initial supply is depleted, food and water can be chemically rearranged from various waste products, not a tasty option, so I have tried to be prudent. Oxygen also recycles from the carbon dioxide. This allows travelers to search indefinitely for another planet to call home, assuming they survive their own company. We hope that at least one person would land on a life-giving planet and integrate our DNA with the host planet. Our wildest wish is that all 2,000 pilgrims would find a home. I consider this my privilege and duty to my race. I was eighteen when I left Thrae. My parents were some of the last few to have offspring. I was an only child although I imagine they tried to have more children as this is considered everyone's duty on Thrae. I have been traveling for 6 years as I mentioned. I celebrated my 24 th birthday 2 weeks ago with a high energy nutrition bar that I had been saving. It is one of the most flavorful things I have to eat. The loneness and despair that I feel can't be erased by the relative extravagance of an entire nutrition bar. I'm going to sleep with the anticipation of another day exactly like the previous 2,192 days aboard this tiny home. The morning after my birthday I wake up refreshed, the sleep having dispelled some of my depression. I am alive which is a more favorable condition than most of my race. A small area of my personal space in the craft is reserved for weights and a treadmill. Exercise is important during space travel to fight off depression and to keep bone density at a healthy level. Breaking a bone while traveling alone would be unpleasant at best and could be life-threatening. I mentioned that medicine was not advanced on Thrae but I know how to set my bones if needed but I'm warned that is very painful and should be done immediately. That is one skill that I hope I never have to use. I use the treadmill and weights for the required two hours. Even the energy that I expend is recycled. Exercising for two hours enables my personal space to have lights for eight hours because electricity is generated and captured. I think having the lights powered by exercise was a way for the leaders to ensure that all of the travelers took our fitness seriously. Even light-years away our leaders exert some control. I fall into my usual, same routine after exercise and scan the computer readings for any planet that may be suitable. I may be doomed to live my life in this craft, sharing my existence with my sophisticated machines. What, the computer is showing an interesting possibility. It appears that I am heading towards a solar system that has a sun of the right size and energy output. I'm wishing with all my being that it will have an orbiting planet with the requirements necessary for procreation. Carille Durbin needs to write about a suitable planet and let me find it. This unbearable solitude will soon drive me crazy.


As the moon shone through the blinds, I rolled over in bed and gazed at my wife, Lauri. Her breathing was quiet as she lay there. Her hand was tucked by her head, underneath her tangled hair. Strangely, her hair seemed to glisten in the soft streams of moonlight, almost like a halo encircling her face. I could stare at her for forever; the mole underneath her left eye, her little button nose. Everything about that face was the definition of perfection. Yet, something else in the corner of my eye, held my attention. Pulling the sheet down, I reached out to touch Lauri's swollen belly. Gently, I cupped my hand over her belly button, feeling the rise and fall as she breathed. Through her silk night shirt, it was almost like I was already holding our baby. The long months of daydreaming, the weeks of emotions, and the snack-filled days were almost coming to an end. We would finally get to meet her. There was no way to describe the amount of love I already felt for this child, which seems ridiculous, yet I was ready to give my whole heart to her. I would protect her always, through every season for many years to come. Just as I plan to as a family, her mother and I. Rolling back over to my side of the bed, the world seemed to spin a bit slower. The clock ticked by even slower, as I lay there in my muddled thoughts. As I thought about Lauri and the baby, life as I knew it just seemed slower. Slower... and slower... So much slower, that my breathing, had become shallow. I lay there as I felt my own chest rise and fall, images flashed before my eyes of the life we will have, of the memories we will make. Until finally, in my rapture, I let myself give into sleep. \- - - As I opened my eyes, sunshine blinded me as I sat up, shaking the sleep from my mind. I reached over for Lauri, but her side of the bed was empty. Thursday was shopping day and she always tended to be the early bird. I wondered if she would bring me back the lemonade I asked for, along with whatever treat she'd been craving last night. I believe it was an eclair? Not entirely sure... So I did my morning routine. Brushing my teeth, a clean shave. I looked in the closet, and for whatever reason, the yellow t-shirt seemed to be the obvious choice. Normally, I don't like yellow, but I made an exception today. I made my way down the stairs, looking around for Lauri in case she actually hadn't left yet. I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal. As I stood there, eating my cereal, I couldn't help but notice that there wasn't a dirty bowl in the sink. Nor a plate. Usually that's not like her, especially nowadays, to leave the house without eating something. Maybe she was going to visit a drive-thru? Yeah, that's probably it. Can't judge the random cravings. After rinsing my bowl, I headed into the foyer and grabbed my keys from the bowl. As I reached for them, Lauri's keys were right on top. Maybe she went for a walk? She has been very keen to stay fit lately. I smiled as I heard her voice in my head, "I read that if you walk every day during the third term, the labor is much easier!" with her wide, brown eyes and her dimple as she smiled at me. So, I just brushed her keys to the side of the bowl and grabbed my own. As I opened the door, the sunlight seemed exceptionally bright, blinding me for a good second as I walked out onto the porch. When my eyes finally focused, there I was face to face with a girl. She wasn't too young, maybe what, sixteen? Maybe even seventeen? As I tried to make sense of this, there she stood in a bright yellow sundress, her brown hair resting on her shoulders. Her pensive eyes seemed to stare right through me. "Michael?" A little surprised, I nodded. "Um, hi." I wasn't too sure who she was, but something seemed off. "And you are?" She reached out her hand, "Faith." I stared at her hand, that feeling just was too strong. Something was definitely off about this girl. Splaying out her fingers, she motioned for me to take her hand. "Come on, I need to take you somewhere." Her voice was very soft, but I was disturbed by this. "Why? Where?" I asked. I could feel my heart beat rising, the blood rushing near my ears as I continued to feel more and more unease. After a moment of a pause, she looked at me with a hint of what I thought could be desperation. "Please, it's- it's for Lauri." That's when my heart dropped. My knees buckled, and the world seemed to spin. What could she mean? What about my Lauri? Was she okay? Where was she? Why did she go? What happened? And a million other thoughts at one moment. Until the damning thought... Our baby... So I reached out, and took her hand. Before I really understood what was happening, she and I were already walking. \- - - Outside of LoneValley Hospital, I could feel the tears stream down my face as my world began to crumble. "Why are we here? Is Lauri here?" I asked. "Yes," Faith answered, looking at me through the corner of her eye. "She's on the seventh floor. Room B14." We made our way into the hospital. Faith lead me to an elevator and we both got in. The ride felt like an eternity, as the tears only became heavier and more frequent. My shoulders felt like they were being crushed by some unseen thing, as the weight of the world only seemed to become more unbearable. I don't remember much of the rest. I remember glimpses of doctors, nurses, and assistants running about. Vaguely, I remember a sign above the hallway we were walking down, the Intensive Care Unit. Harsh white walls, streaked laminate flooring. An overwhelming smell of alcohol and other cleaners, but not much else other than a blur. Finally, B14 was in front of me. Faith stood behind me, as I hurried and opened the door. The sigh that escaped my mouth was so sudden, as tears pooled in my eyes. Lauri was sitting in a waiting chair, back towards the door. I was so relieved to see her alive, to see her breathing. No other feeling on this earth will ever come close to that. I walked over to her, so happy to touch her again after what felt like an eternity of long hallways and fluorescent lights. I reached out and held her shoulders, so incredibly happy... Until I saw who was in the bed. I saw myself. Next to me was a large machine, full of buttons, lights, and a small screen with numbers I didn't understand. A blue hose snaked from the machine into my throat and a little wire was clipped to my ear. Everything I saw before me was overwhelming, as I didn't know what to believe anymore. Lauri made no reaction to me behind her, holding her. It was almost as if I wasn't even there. That was when I saw something else... As I looked down over her shoulder, there was a little yellow bundle in her arms. No tummy in sight, just a small blanket wrapped around something small that my wife was cradling. I couldn't see into the bundle, but I knew exactly what it was, which is what made it hurt even worse. I just broke down and cried. Sobbing on the cold floor, kneeling, I pounded my fist on the laminate. "Why did this happen?" I screamed at Faith. Putting her hand on my shoulder, she knelt down beside me. "I don't know," she responded, stroking the hair near my ear. "All I know, is that life is never predictable. Things like this happen to the best of people, and here it is, happening to you." I sobbed, "Is this it? Is this the end?" After a moment, she shook her head. "No. This is entirely your choice." Helping me up, she continued, "If you choose to, you can wake now and be with Lauri and your daughter. But life will never be the same, especially for you. You will have a long road of rehabilitation, as your lungs aren't what they used to be. It will take months, maybe even years to regain a sense of normalcy after this." "Or," she sniffed. "You can pass on. Finish your journey here and now, because you'll eventually meet Lauri again when it's her time. There is no guarantee what she will do between now and then, though." It wasn't much of a choice, because I had already made my mind. "How do I go back?" She sighed, "Spend the rest of today with Lauri, waiting for night. When it's time to rest, you'll become one again with your body. If you decide otherwise, you can leave this hospital, and you won't ever come back. You will move on." Faith hugged me then, kissing my cheek. I could feel the wet on my face, as her tears touched my skin. "Whatever you choose, I hope to see you soon." Before I could stop her, she was already gone. So there I sat, watching my wife, waiting for the sun to set. She coddled our baby, who slept soundly in her mother's arms. I could tell my wife hadn't slept in quite some time, as she had been waiting for me for a while. As the sunlight streamed through the blinds, illuminating the golden hair that draped her soft face, I could see the hope in her eyes that I might at any moment, wake up. That's when I realized, that even hope can be considered something more. A belief that something can happen. A synonym for something else. Something that others might even call faith.


She asks me what is the worst thing I’ve ever done, however I cannot tell her. To share the worst thing you’ve ever done is a crime in itself and exposes you to the consequences of reprehensible moral decision making. To even begin to think about sharing the worst thing is a step too far in itself. To share the worst thing you’ve ever done must be preceded by forgiving yourself, at least partially, for this crime you’ve committed. If you can forgive yourself for the worst thing you’ve ever done then either you haven’t done anything reprehensible yet or you are morally bankrupt. If you forgive yourself for the worst thing you’ve ever done then you can forgive yourself for anything. You are free to live a life however you wish, whoever you hurt along the way. This kind of living is incredibly attractive to many people but we cannot consider these people as functioning members of a good and just society. The reason you must never forgive yourself, instead hoping you never achieve a new worst thing, is because if you do then you will never have a chance of shame for your actions. So when she asks me the worst thing I’ve ever done, I must decline to answer. For if I share it with her then she will never respect me again. I have already lost my own self respect for the deeds I do, however, the rest of society has not come to the same conclusion yet. If I so choose I could spoil my entire life through excess sharing with people I’m close to, however, this would only succeed in alienating myself. I must hold myself accountable but my human self dreads real justice. I remain silent. If I was to share the worst thing I’ve ever done with her and she forgave me I would be in an even bigger bind. If she forgives my misdeeds then this shows me she has forgiven herself for her own. If she has indeed done this then she no longer has the same level of shame for her own actions and therefore can look past mine. A person’s worst deed should die with them. I may die very soon, I may die in a long time, or more likely sometime in between. When I pass, the worst thing I’ve ever done will finally be laid to rest and made okay. The deed was never okay, however, the perpetrator has had retribution finally brought against them. There is no greater punishment than death, therefore revenge has been served. She asks me if the person I harmed has at least forgiven me. I tell her that they have. She does not understand why I still blame myself then. She can never know. Someone has to hold me accountable. If the victim won’t do it then I will. In the future when I find myself in similar situations I freeze in terror. I cannot move and I am back in the moment. I see it often, flashes across my mind. It rules my life. As it should. I deserve it. She begs me to tell her the worst thing I’ve ever done. I kiss her instead. She has her answer and yet doesn’t know it.


What a lazy day! There is too much movement outside, too much noise. Just another lousy day. The mundane world of humans, aha!! While I see from the window pane of my tiny apartment resting on a couch, everything looks so busy, the street and the people. Everyone’s running, so are the vehicles and so is the time. And there he is, Tom: a miniature sort of a dog and my neighbor, with an average coat of black hair. “Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof” is all he does, such a dog speak. Strolling around with his human dad like always. Wagging and panting the whole day acting all cute, well he is cute but I have a hard time understanding this species altogether. They get too excited around humans. Perhaps they are too emotional and friendly. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just not my thing and I am too smart to handle myself anyways. Suddenly the door creaked. Startled, I fell from the couch. Who is there? I darted across the chair lying opposite the windows. Ears straightened, eyes wide opened, whiskers standing, on tiptoe I stared from the corner of the chair towards the main door. The door opened. Ohh it’s Kate. Sigh! back to normal. Is she early from work? Ohh my God, not again Kate. Please wash up, and change your clothes. Why do you feel this need to straight up jump on me after coming from work, take a chill girl? This is an invasion of my privacy, to be honest. Wait, what? You just said hello, a small peck and you left for your room. Hmmm... Okay, something seems different today, this is not you. You don’t understand space and time, not because you were weak in Physics, that you were but it’s just your thing. What about petting me and kissing me till the end of the time, asking me what I did the whole day in a weird tone where you think I specifically understand that tone, I do but that’s just weird mumbling of words. Something is wrong with you today. You are not you. You are so quiet. This is unusual of you. Ohhh I am sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Patts. Not the petty pet but the patty cat. I have this amazing humor you see; it is natural. I don’t know why she gave me the name “Patts”. It doesn’t even suit my personality. Look at me, I belong to the family of great hunters, the gigantic and ferocious king of jungles where they could have called me anything but “Patts”, hmmm. Maybe because it rhymes with KATe. But anyways, I live in an apartment with kate at 221 laymen street in London. Very chaotic, I must say. Horns honking all day, crowded, polluted, and whatnot but I do care the less until the smoke doesn’t make my furs filthy. I hate dirt, but it’s alright because kate’s apartment is clean though she is a mess, yeah, and I clean my alluring golden-brown furs every day by thoroughly licking them, that’s my favorite pastime. I can do it till the end of eternity. Just kidding, or am I? Wait, Kate, where is she? What on the earth has happened to her, this silence is killing me. Where are you? Ohhh, there you are all curled up in the bed, and wait!!! You’re weeping under your blanket; I can hear you sobbing. What happened to her? Should I go near her? I don’t know, does she need some time alone? Perplexed me standing at the doorway. With heavy paws, I walked into the room and snuggled into bed. “Hey cutie”, said kate peeping from her blanket. She collected herself and sat on the bed resting her back on the headboard. How are you, little girl? What did you do the whole day when mommy was gone, huh? She said whimpering, while she holds me gently in her lap. “I don’t know Patts, I am feeling a bit sad today and the sadder thing is I don’t know even why,” she said with agony in her voice. “It’s just loneliness that’s hovering over me today. It’s that one day where I am feeling alone in the crowd”. There was a pause in the air as she wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Sometimes, I am also tired of doing everything on my own, you see.” It feels nice sometimes to be asked for or spoken for. It’s nice sometimes if someone waits for you at home or calls you asking about your whereabouts. It feels good when you don’t have to turn on the lights on your own every day. I miss the sense of belonging, Patts. Ohhh, Kate!!! I don’t know what to say. I am not good with emotional conversations. But it saddens me to see you like this. “I think I am the problem Patts, that’s why I am alone. I don’t have anyone to share my life with.” My job sucks, I suck, and my life sucks! Hey, hey, hey! Don’t doubt yourself this much young girl. I mean see me, have you learned nothing? I have so many doubts Kate about humans. Always crying and whining about everything. See me, I have never caught a single mouse, it’s a shame to our cat community because it’s something we are known for from the legends unknown. The catcher of the mouse, the protector of Earth from rodents, the master of mousing. And here I am. But you still love me. I am more than a mouse catcher to you. You have so much love to give, my whiskers can sense that, ehhhhh. But you’ve to love yourself first, all day every day. It’s good if people are there if they aren’t you got yourself. You have to create a ring of self-love around you as I do. I love myself, I am my favorite, heeehaaaaaw. “But you love me Patts, you are calmly listening to me, I got you.” I do Kate, always. “I will try to love myself Patts so that I don’t fall into the well of dismal again.” “You must be hungry little girl, come let’s eat”. Kate said with a smile on her face. There was an exchange of energy as if we understood each other. I jumped from the bed and swishly followed her to the kitchen.


“Sometimes I wonder if you like me...it feels like you hate me.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t know how to reply to that message that popped up on my screen as I scrolled through the messaging app. I was looking at other conversations when right at the top of my screen, the message popped up. It felt like a full ten seconds before the notification disappeared, though it was probably only one or two; they didn’t stay on the top of the screen for long. It couldn’t be my fault, right? This wasn’t my fault. I ran my hands through my hair; I didn’t even notice how oily it was from not showering for the past few days. I barely noticed how messy my room was as I waded around to my bed, putting down my phone and opening my laptop. I booted up the app again and navigated to the conversation. The screen went from a black or dark grey to a vibrant background. It was from one of my favorite video games, but I hardly cared as I put in my password. When I finally opened the app on my computer, I noticed that my friend went offline. I wondered why they would say this. They were my best friend after all. Even though we haven’t known each other for the longest time, I did tend to think that we were quite close. I had spent time with them several times, we went out to eat and shopping together, and we saw each other whenever we could. That was right, wasn’t it? It probably didn’t matter that they were being more distant lately. They probably needed to be alone. It wasn’t my job to look after them. However, it was concerning that they weren’t talking to me when I wasn’t feeling well. I’m trying to communicate that I’m not alright and they seem to not care in the slightest. It did make me anxious, that they didn’t care and all. They should be replying faster. At times they don’t respond to my messages, even when they’re online. I started combing back through old messages, trying to get a feel for where this message came from. I remember that a few months ago I did snap at them. I was a bit rude I will admit, but I don’t know what they expected from me. I get that they were going through a hard time, but I really didn’t want to deal with it. I mean, yes, finding out that you had a seizure is hard, but I really couldn’t deal with it. I had other things to deal with. I was on a self-exploration journey at the time and that took up a lot of my energy. So of course, I couldn’t deal with it and it was awful that they figured I could. They made a big deal about it, as if it was a regular occurrence. Yes, I’m busy a lot but it seemed like they didn’t care. They said that we should communicate better, and that set me off at the time. We had been communicating as far as I was aware. I messaged them all the time about things that I was dealing with, I just couldn’t deal with their problems right when they needed me to. It was inconsiderate of them in all honesty. I scrolled back a little further, when things were better than that period. It just affirmed what I was thinking; that we did communicate. We always talked, nearly every day. I would send them messages about video games that I was into or cool videos I found on the internet. I messaged them about new music that was being released from my favorite bands and I was always able to tell them if I was having a rough day. I wish that they were more responsive at times, sometimes leaving my messages on read for a few hours. This irked me, it utterly irked me. You could say that they did talk to me more when we first started to get to know each other, but I would honestly say that they messaged too much. I told them this a few times, that I thought sometimes they were clingy or messaged me way too often, but that’s just setting boundaries. You can say what you want but I’m not heartless for setting down boundaries. I’m not a monster for looking out for myself. Every therapist, psychologist, and psychiatrist will say that setting boundaries is healthy. I scrolled back down, images and messages blurring together as I tried to get back to the most recent message in our conversation. Nothing really caught my eye as I scrolled except for that conversation, that argument that we had. “I really feel like you don’t care about me or my issues” is the message that my eyes fell on. Of course, I cared I just didn’t always want to have to deal with them. They’re annoying, their issues are infuriating. “Whenever I try to say something, you call it boring or say you’re busy.” That’s true, because they were boring. They’re not an interesting person and I can be blunt about it yes. We’re still amazing friends, at least in my opinion, but a lot of their interests are just boring and otherwise dull. At least I can keep up with interesting things in life. At least I have good interests, I’m involved with things that are actually entertaining. “I just want to feel heard.” I understood that, which is why I was even more infuriated when they didn’t respond to my messages as often as they used to. I felt ignored and invalidated, and it’s not my fault that I didn’t always have time to deal with their life. I needed help and when I did, I reached out. I just don’t understand why they felt the need to come out and say this. I don’t always respond, yes, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not heard. “I want to feel like your friend again.” This one is the message that vexed me the most. We were friends, we were obviously friends. It’s not my fault that at the time they felt the way they did. They should just have re-evaluated themselves instead of sending these messages. I just really couldn’t place why they sent their most recent message. I thought that rereading over this conversation might give me some insight or some clarity, but it did nothing. I reached the bottom after another few minutes of scrolling and looked at the message again. I can’t believe that they’re so selfish. Don’t they understand how this effects my mental health? As I had thought before, maybe they just should have checked themselves out in the mirror first before really trying to blame things on me. “Sometimes I wonder if you like me...it feels like you hate me.” Yeah, it really does. \ This is a story that I wrote fairly recently. I leave a lot of things vague and up to the interpretation of the reader, and even though I have my own vision for the story there are a few different outcomes I've heard from my friends reading this story.


Calli spent her high school life getting hurt, so she decided to spend her university life getting misunderstood. It took a persistent few to break down the wall she had put up and see what lie beneath. When Rita met Calli, she thought the other girl to be cold and emotionless. She thought that way for a while. They met on their first day of university, both starting off their degree in Engineering. Rita had seen this small girl sitting alone in the corner while everyone else mingled and her kind heart would not allow for her to ignore the other girl. She walked to be closer and when her presence was noticed, the other girl had raised her head. The blank stare would have sent shivers up a weaker girl’s spine, but Rita gave her patented warm smile and spoke up, “Hi, my name is Rita. What’s yours?” The girl appeared to be thinking about whether or not to answer, but eventually settled on a toneless, “Calli.” Rita decided on that day that she would work towards opening Calli up and to see through the cold exterior, believing that no one could be that emotionless. If you asked Rita, her persistence was friendly, but if you asked Calli, her persistence was exasperating. All the same, Calli found that Rita attached herself to her hip and was going no where. Yet three months into knowing each other, Calli said the first thing that was not completely void of emotion. “The last time I had a best friend, she spread false rumours behind my back,” Calli explained with a frown on her face, yet Rita could sense the sadness in those eyes. “So I apologise for not being so willing to open up to you. Please understand.” Rita, sensitive as she was, wanted to cry. Yet she held in the tears, because she had done it. The first crack had appeared. When Vera first interacted with Calli, she thought her student to be rude. Calli never greeted her whenever their paths crossed, she also never reacted to feedback Vera offered on her projects. Vera found herself frowning whenever she settled her eyes on the expressionless face. Five months into being one of Calli’s many professors, Vera began to observe and learn. She wanted to understand all of her students, one of the reasons she had never pulled up Calli on what Vera perceived to be rudeness. One of her first observations of her student was that she only had the one friend, another student of hers named Rita. A warm, friendly girl that seemed out of place next to such an emotionless person. Another observation was that the girl did not trust easily, Vera often having complaints from other students that Calli would do their parts for them in group assignments on the off chance they did not do it themselves. This showed her that Calli felt the need to be preemptive just in case she happened to be grouped with slackers. Then the day came that she realised the girl was not rude or emotionless, she was shielding herself. She realised this when she happened to pass Calli and Rita in an empty hall. The two girls appeared not to notice her and Vera caught the first glimpse of an emotion on Calli’s face. A small upturn of one corner of her mouth that betrayed a smile at something her only friend had just said. Rita was someone she cared for and trusted. A week later, Vera approached Calli when she noticed the girl was alone for once, her sunny shadow nowhere in sight. “Calli,” she calls softly. That expressionless face turned to face her, the only sign she was ready to listen. Vera gives her a warm smile, noticing the surprise in the girl’s eyes to be smiled at when she had not given her teacher a reason to smile at her. “How are you finding this week’s readings? The next exam is coming and a lot of the content this week will be covered in it.” Calli appeared to hesitate, but eventually, she started to discuss the readings with Vera. The spark that steadily came to life in her eyes belayed her passion for Engineering she had been keeping hidden. The second crack appeared. When Daniel met Calli, the first thing he noticed was that she was rather pretty. The second thing he noticed was that she was antisocial and preferred the company of her one friend. Honestly, she had peeked his interest and he spent the last few months of the semester observing her. They were not in the same faculty, but he had learned her habits rather quickly as she frequented the same cafeteria every day and only went from class to class. She never even hung out at the library. That being said, he did eventually take note that her friend was not the only person she interacted with. On the rare occasion her friend was not around, he found Calli to be talking to one of her professors. He did not know the woman’s name, but he at least recognised her as one of the second year teachers for Engineering. He never got close enough to hear their conversations, but the girl seemed engaged with what they were discussing. The interested look, the first emotion he had seen on her face in several weeks, brightened up her face in ways he would think only a smile could do. The more he observed her with her friend and her professor, the more he came to like her. She was different than most other girls he knew, she kept her feelings close to the chest and saved her emotions for those she cared about, not wasting them on those that may not even deserve it. He learned based on the way some people behaved around her that they did not appreciate the way she was like her friend did, nor did they try to understand her like her professor did. One day, he worked up the courage to talk to her directly, finding her alone in the cafeteria. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to stand beside her table and waited for her to look up at him. He noticed a confusion in her eyes, yet he was sure he only saw it because he was beginning to understand her micro expressions. With a gentle smile, he tells her one of his many observations. “You’re beautiful,” because he knew she had not heard it often, or even at all. A blush rose upon her cheeks, and he took that as a success as he walked away. All he had wanted to do was firstly, get her to react, and secondly, make her day. The third crack appeared. When Dia met Calli for the first time in five years, she barely recognised her. The last several weeks of high school, Calli had been morose, lonely and not once had she smiled. Dia knew it had been her fault, she had become jealous of the attention Calli was getting and without thinking, had started vicious rumours. Those rumours ended up hurting her best friend and destroying their friendship. After graduation, she never saw Calli again. The guilt she felt over everything made her glad for it. She was scared what would happen to Calli, what her life would be like knowing that particularly hard teenage years can effect adulthood. She knew shew was being selfish, but she never wanted to know the outcome of what had happened to the girl whose high school life she had ruined. Yet before her stood Calli, not how she had expected to find her. She was smiling, holding hands with a tall man beside her and a bright girl to her other side. The smile slowly faded from Calli’s face as she took in the woman before her, starting to recognise the face of the person who had once been her friend. “Cal? You okay?” the other woman asked, a frown starting to take away her wide smile. “Dia,” Calli says pointedly, eyes narrowing. The way her two companions flinch and face her quickly tells Dia that they knew exactly who she was. Dia was speechless, all her nightmares were unwarranted. Calli was fine and as far as Dia could tell, unaffected. What Dia did not know was that Calli had not been fine and unaffected. It is just that Dia was not around for the years it took. The years it took for the wall to shatter.


Dawn. Tara walks to the well outside the village, a pot in her hand. Two years into adulthood, her green bangles clink as the pot bounces against the side of her thigh. Her saree is crudely worn, and a sliver of sunlight illuminates her tired eyes, which she promptly covers with her hand. Her toe rings, a sign of marriage, click against the hard, barren earth. She reaches the well, and puts the pot down. A metal bucket tied to a string sits on the edge of the well. Tara knocks it over with her elbow, and it tumbles down until there’s a small splash, and the rope goes slack. She pulls up the bucket with the rope, only to see that it is half full. She looks down into the well, but sees only blackness, and the light quiver of dangerously little water. Not eager to deny her neighbours of water, Tara pours the paltry amount of water into her pot, and hoists it onto her head. Suddenly, she hears the distant sound of something foreign. Something recurring and rare. An engine. A cloud of dust trembles on the horizon, a blemish on the rising run. Tara looks at it, squinting. The dust cloud grows in size, and Tara makes out the rectangular oblong shape of a sleeper coach within the dust. She walks back to her hut, a heavier pot on her head. -- Vasu looks out of the window of the coach as it hobbles through the dirt road. He’s struggled to sleep throughout the journey, but it doesn’t show on his face. He twirls his moustache, thinking of her. -- The village bus stop is small enough without fourteen people packed under it, sheltered from the morning sun. At the front of the small crowd is Susheela, a short and weary forty-five year old woman, waiting. The rest of her entourage, consisting of tall, dark and burly men, wait impatiently, talking amongst themselves. The coach rolls in, tossing up another cloud of dust. Everyone squints to avoid the dust except Susheela, who gazes at the bus. The bus stops, and after a short pause, the passengers begin to pour out of it, hauling bags, boxes and baskets. Susheela looks at the door of the coach in anticipation, and her face brightens as Vasu walks out of the door, bags in hand. Sunlight hits his face as he sees his mother and family, and he squints and smiles all at once. Vasu skips down the stairs and pushes through the people to embrace his mother, who hugs him tightly as he towers over her. He looks up at his uncles and cousins, and smiles at them. They smile back. Vasu lets go of Susheela. “How are you, Vasu?” Susheela asks. “Was the trip alright?” “It could’ve been worse,” he replies. “We had to stop near Ramnagar because of a crash, but we didn’t end up losing much time. Shall we go?” He asks. Susheela nods. The entourage heads home, as Vasu’s older cousin Soma takes his bag from him to carry it himself. “Happy to be home, Vasu?” Soma asks. “Of course. How’s your wife?” “She’s good. You know; the same old fights.” They laugh. Soma ponders for a moment, before leaning into Vasu’s ear. “Your mother wants you to get married soon.” “What?” “Yeah, she wants to start looking for a bride in a few weeks. You don’t have anyone already in mind, do you?” Vasu looks at Soma. -- “So what is it that you study, exactly?” Uncle Deepak asks. Vasu is seated on the floor in front of a banana leaf full of food. His cousins sit next to him, also eating. His mouth is full of rice and curry. He chews his food, and swallows it. “Biomedicine. BES College.” Uncle Deepak raises his eyebrows. “Biomedicine,” he repeats. “Couldn’t you get into medicine?” Vasu chokes on his food, caught off guard. Some of his cousins chuckle. Deepak laughs. Susheela shakes her head. “Drink some water, Vasu, don’t choke,” she says. She turns to Deepak and adds, “you and your jokes! My son just arrived and you’re already trying to kill him?” Deepak laughs once again. “I was only joking. How long are you here, Vasu?” Vasu smiles. “2 months.” “I hope that village life doesn’t bore you...” Deepak mutters, adding: “not as many pretty girls here.” “Deepak!” Susheela exclaims. The single light bulb illuminating the whole room flickers, shrouding Vasu’s reaction in darkness momentarily. He looks up at the light, and back at Deepak. “I don’t think I’m going to be bored, Uncle,” Vasu says, and bites into a piece of chicken. -- Tara sits in the dimness of her small home, sifting rice. She sings a song to the rhythm of her sifting. Outside, the rush of a small village, muffled by concrete walls, is still ever so slightly audible. Tara continues singing even after she is done sifting rice. She pours the rice into a metal pot, and takes it over to a large canister filled with water. She tips the canister, pouring the water into the pot of rice, squatting, when she loses her balance and slips. Water spills all over the floor, along with grains of rice. She stops singing and gets up, wiping herself off. She looks at the clock in the house. 1:21. She begins singing again, cleaning the water off the floor with a cloth. The door opens. She stops. -- Vasu walks through the busy village street, alone. He takes a left into a residential street, and as he walks, the noise of traffic grows quieter and quieter. He makes a right turn, and then another. He climbs down a narrow staircase into a smaller neighbourhood situated on a downwards slope with smaller houses and less bikes. The houses are crammed together, congested, with no space to move. Vasu makes his way to one of the houses on the edge of this downwards neighbourhood. He stops in front of a house, covered in chipped away green paint. A man sits at the front of the house, smoking. His name is Prasad. He looks at Vasu, who is looking at the house, while slowly walking past it. The confusion on his face becomes recognition, and Prasad gets up. “I’m just passing through,” says Vasu sheepishly. Prasad runs at Vasu, pinning him against a wall by the collar. He towers over Vasu. “What the hell made you think you could come back here?” Prasad asks. “I wasn’t--” “Yes you were. She’s not here, you dirty bastard.” “Listen, let me- let me show you-” Vasu reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. He opens it and shows Prasad a passport size photo. “My girlfriend! Ok? Why would I look for your sister if I already have someone?” He pauses. “I used to play cricket here as well, right? Do you own this neighbourhood?” Prasad thinks for a second, and loosens his grip on Vasu’s collar. Vasu pats his shirt down, getting rid of the wrinkles. He puts his wallet back in his pocket. Prasad looks away. “Don’t think you can come around here any time you want,” he says quietly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Don’t let me catch you here again.” He lets the smoke out of his nose. The man turns around and walks back into his house. Vasu spits on the ground, and walks on. Children playing cricket with battered plastic equipment look at him as he shrinks into the distance. -- Tara dreams of her boat. She lies inside her boat, dry, untouched by the salty water. Her boat floats through the endless ocean. Tara looks up at the sky, with its soft, moving clouds. A single bird flies across the sky. She can’t tell what kind of bird it is. It flies away. Tara continues floating. - Vasu is on his phone in bed late at night. He is trying to access the internet, but it isn’t working. On the search bar on his phone is “hot porn.” He refreshes the page over and over, only for it to not load. Over and over again he tries unsuccessfully. He sighs, and turns his phone off, rolling over to sleep, when he feels a bump against his hip. In the darkness, he reaches for it. It’s his wallet. He pulls his wallet out and looks at it. Then, making sure everyone around him is asleep, he grabs his penis with one hand, and picks out the passport size photo he showed to the man earlier. The photo is of an attractive young woman, smiling. On the back it reads, “Sara, XOXO.” He squints at the photo through the darkness. He begins. - Tara is at the market, buying vegetables. She looks at the vendor, a young man. He avoids her gaze. “How much for the okra?” she asks. “Sorry, what, madam?” “How much for the okra?” “40 rupees for 250 grams, madam.” Tara looks at the man, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that a bit much?” “No, madam, they’re very expensive this time-” “I just saw you sell a whole box of okra to that man over there.” “He’s a caterer, madam, he needs-” “Make it 25.” The vendor drops his facade of kindness. “25? Are you crazy?” “25. Take it or leave it.” “I’m the one that’s meant to say that! 30, take it or leave it.” Tara is silent. She looks down, and back at the vendor, who smirks. Tara shakes her head, brushing her hair off her forehead. The vendor stops smirking as he looks at her, and begins to put the okra in Tara’s bag. Tara takes the bag, and hands the man a 50. She looks at the rest of the market. It teems with activity and life. “Madam?” Tara turns around. “Change.” Tara takes the change, and counts it. 25 rupees. “You gave me 5 rupees extra,” she says. She hands the vendor back the 5 rupee coin. He shakes his head, refusing to take it. “Keep it, madam,” he says. He hesitates, then says, “for yourself.” She looks at the vendor. He smiles. “Take care,” he says. Tara nods, and walks away from the vegetable stall. She looks at herself in the reflection of a shop window, and sees that there is a purple bruise on her forehead. - Vasu does not wash his plate after eating dinner. He leaves it in the already crowded sink where his mother stands, washing dishes. After washing his hands, he goes around to the front of the house, where his cousins are playing rummy and smoking. Smoke hangs over them; self-made fog. A single tube light illuminates the verandah, casting deep shadows across their faces. Vasu stands behind his cousins, watching them play. Soma turns around and sees him. “Hey, someone give the city boy some space to sit down!” Soma calls out. Some of the cousins shift over, and Vasu sits down. “How do you have so many cards this early into the game?” Vasu asks Soma cheekily. “They’re cheats,” Soma replies, shaking his head. “I’m glad we didn’t do this one for money-” “You’d have to live on the outskirts!” another cousin calls out, resulting in everyone except Soma laughing. “So how’s village life, Vasu?” one of the cousins asks. “The girls here don’t give it up as easily, huh?” another cousin taunts. They laugh. “I mean, it’s hard, you know?” Vasu says. “2 months without it is going to be tough.” The cousins laugh. “Yo, Sidda, it’s your turn,” someone says. They begin talking about the card game again. Vasu looks out into the night. “Vasu,” Soma says in a low voice, below the chatter of the others. “Yeah?” Vasu turns around. “I heard you went to Tara’s old house.” Vasu looks at Soma wordlessly. “Who told you that?” “Prasad told one of our boys.” “It’s not true. I was just-” “Save the bullshit.” Vasu looks away. “Don’t you know what happened after you two got caught? Remember, you broke the walls of that straw hut going at it-” “I remember. What happened?” “You went to boarding school, right?” “Yeah.” “She got married off to a drunk.” Vasu looks at Soma, hoping he’s joking. “Where?” “They still live here. On the outskirts. Some of our boys have had to break up some of their fights.” Soma looks away, and turns back to Vasu. “Why do you want to meet her? It’s been six years. You’re just going to cause more pro-” “I just wanted to apologise to her, Soma.” Soma looks at Vasu, not believing him. “Honestly.” “There’s brothels here too. She’s not the only woman on Earth-” “Paying for it is no fun.” “What?” “I just want to apologise, okay?” “I’ll see what-” Someone smacks Soma on the shoulder. “What are you two old ladies gossiping about? Soma, it’s your turn,” another cousin says. Soma looks at his cards, and back at Vasu. “Play your cards right, Vasu.” - Dawn. A couple of days later, Soma and Vasu are walking together.. Vasu has neatly combed his hair, and is clean shaven. They take a left into a residential street. They make a right turn, and then another right. They climb down a narrow staircase into a smaller neighbourhood situated on a downwards slope, with smaller houses and less bikes. The houses are crammed together, congested, with no space to move. They walk past the green house this time, however, and further down the slope. Vasu and Soma reach the bottom of the slope, and take a left. The neighbourhood begins to grow sparser, with dirt roads, straw huts and lanterns. Vasu and Soma take a left into a laneway. They reach the true edge of the village. Beyond the road is a small well and a vast, dry landscape, peppered with withering trees. A lone figure is walking towards the well in front of the sun. “Is that her?” Vasu asks. Soma nods. “Every day she gets up at this time to get the water,” says Soma. “Why?” Vasu asks. “That drunk husband of hers doesn’t wake up till at least noon. I’m waiting here.” “Make sure no one sees,” Vasu says, looking around. “I’ll whistle if someone’s coming. Keep your ears peeled.” “Ok.” “Ok, hurry,” Soma says, and pushes Vasu away. - Tara carries the pot of water on her head as she walks back.The sun has not risen yet, and the world is dark and warm. She feels the water rock from side to side in the pot. It won’t spill, though. She knows that. There isn’t enough. Slowly, she walks back home, her bare feet calloused to the sharpness of the dirt. “Tara!” a voice hisses. She stops, and looks straight into the dark mass of trees and houses in front of her. Something is moving. It’s a person. She stands still, waiting for the person to come into sight. She does not know who it is. - Vasu briskly walks to Tara. He cannot see her properly, but he knows it’s her. Her stature, or the way she sways her hips lazily; it’s her. - It’s Vasu. Tara lowers the pot from her head, and puts it on the ground. She looks around to make sure that no one is there. “Vasu?” she asks. Vasu walks towards her slowly. She walks backward. He keeps walking, and eventually, Tara stops, leaning against the trunk of a dead tree. He gets closer, and closer, and closer, until she can feel his breath on her. “You smell the same,” he says. Tara is paralysed. Whether it is with fear or shock, she doesn’t know. “W-when did you come back?” she asks, her voice shaking. “Doesn’t matter; I’m here now.” He wraps his hands around her waist. Soma is turned away from the well, smoking a beedi. “Vasu, stop.” “I missed you so much.” “Vasu, please, stop, I don’t want people to-” “My-” Tara slaps Vasu in the face, and pushes him away. “You bastard! Is this all you want from m-” Vasu looks at her. “I don’t know you anymore. You’ve changed.” “What?” “You’re not the-” “Shut up!” Soma turns around, but beyond some sound, he cannot say what is happening. “Shut up, you’ll wake the whole village up!” Vasu hisses. “Go away!” “I love you, Tara. I waited all these years for you.” “I’m married!” “No one has to know.” For a moment, Tara is quiet, looking at Vasu. “Eh?” Vasu says, smiling and coming closer. “At least for as long as I’m here, we can-” “Fuck?” Vasu pauses. “You shouldn’t talk like that. That’s not how I-” “If you thought it was wrong, you would’ve-” Tara begins to tear up. “You would’ve asked me something, Vasu! How are you, Tara? How’ve you been, Tara? Are you-” her voice breaks. “Are you happy, Tara?” Vasu looks away. “Please, Vasu.” The sun has begun to rise. Dawn peeks in between the branches of the tree, and Tara sees Vasu’s face for what it is. Confused; opaque. She stops herself from sobbing. “Are you going to come back for me?” Vasu’s face lights up. He’s gotten through. He nods, getting closer, and closer. “I didn’t want to leave you the first time, darling.” The last word is thrown as rancid bait. He gets closer, until Tara can feel his breath on her once again. Then she smells his breath, and feels his chapped lips on her. His hands search her for something she doesn’t have anymore. Something foreign and distant. - Tara dreams of her boat once again. She lies inside her boat, dry, untouched by the salty water. Her boat floats through the endless ocean. Tara gets up this time, however, and looks at herself in the reflection of the water. She looks at her skin, her hair, her eyes and nose, and doesn’t recognise them. She wishes she knew the face she wore.


#Hello r/ShortStories! A few weeks ago we announced our , where you all nominated your favorite content from the past year. The time has come to vote on all the nominated stories! Use the upvotes on the appropriate comments to vote on your favorites in each category. The winner of each category will receive our “Best Of Winner” Community Award, gifting them one month of Reddit Premium and !!! **Please do not make comments outside of the Off-Topic stickied comment.** #How It Works There are several categories in which you can vote on your favorite stories from 2021. In the comments below, you will find a comment for each category, with subsequent comments for each nominated story, made by me. Upvote the ones you think deserve to win! It’s that simple. Be sure to read the entire post for categories, rules, and deadlines. Should any changes be made to the schedule, they will be edited into the post, so stay updated! *** #Voting Categories ###Feature Post Submission Categories: - **Micro Monday Stories** - **Serial Sunday Installments** ###Tagged Story Categories: - **[SF] Science Fiction stories** - **[FN] Fantasy Stories** - **[HR] Horror Stories** - **[MS] Mystery & Suspense Stories** - **[RF] Reality Fiction Stories** - **[HF] Historical Fiction Stories** - **[AA] Action & Adventure Stories** - **[HM] Humor Stories** - **[RO]Romance Stories** - **[SP] Speculative Fiction Stories** - **[TH] Thriller Stories ** - **[UR] Urban Stories** - **[MF] Miscellaneous Fiction Stories** *Note: Categories with 5 or less nominations were filled in with the highest upvoted stories in the corresponding category.* *** #Schedule - **Announcement Post:** December 20th - **Nomination Phase:** December 20th - January 10th 11:59 EST (closed) - **Voting Phase:** January 17th until January 28th - **Announcement of Winners:** After the Voting Phase ends, results will be recorded and awards will be handed out. Winners will be announced in a post. *** #Voting Rules - Upvote anything you believe deserves to win. You may upvote several nominations in the same category. **Do not downvote any nomination.** - Attempts to game the system for or against any nomination will result in appropriate punishment for those involved. - Ties in the voting process will be broken by an anonymous member of the mod team. - **Do not comment in the voting area.** Use the off-topic stickied comment if you have questions or comments.   If you do have any questions, feel free to ask in the provided Off Topic Comment or send us a modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with or test your micro-fic skills with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Ben Green is a professional engineer. Back in the days when he was on his private tropical island with his parents, he used the natural resources on the island and build houses, stairs, paths and other construction stuff. Back in 1995, his parents bought the island so they can relax. Later they bought the island and they built a house and lived there. They used water to run electricity for their home and used wind turbines too. It took a few months and the engineers finished their island by building their home there. They lived there ever since and grew fruits and vegetables for food supply and the water is clean and clear. The island has everything they need for food supply to shelter and electricity. The island is peaceful, no wild life but they have to watch out for snakes. Living on that peaceful island was a great time for his parents. A few years later, he was born. Since he was born, his father took him out for an island tour. By the age of three, he knows the island very well and started to make stuff with sticks and ropes. Later, his father was building a small shed out of wood, bamboos, nails and rope. He started learning construction tips from his father. At the age of 10, he started to use hammer and nails and had to be careful not to hit himself. He started to make bamboos and wooden boxes and make roofs, repair and it was the best time of his life. The island was his home and he’d never know there were other islands or people living in cities in modern life. He doesn’t want to leave that island even if anything happens. Many years passed and he is now a man. He constructed bridges to cross streams and roads made by wood and houses too. He wanted to create more building but he was afraid the resources would run out and the island would die. Rain season is a hard time for them. Rain drops fall from roofs and the sea level gets higher every day and storms and waves came and wash up the shore. He tried as best as he could to fix the issues of the roof. But later, he was shocked to find that the island is sinking and the water is rising, destroying the island. They might not be able to live there, but Ben will try his best to try and bring it back. He planted some berries and trees and try to bring back the natural green life of the island. He doesn’t want to leave that island and he knows there are other islands and people living in cities. His parents told him that when he was little and told him they have to leave it if it dies. He would bring it back to normal and every day he works hard. His parents help too but it was no use. Every season is a peaceful season but the rainy is very difficult and the island is sinking and getting smaller. It’s raining cats and dogs and huge waves big as a house hits their island and they had to evacuate. He doesn’t want to leave that island but they have no choice if they want to survive and live. They built a raft to get cross the surrounding water but it was so strong the raft would be destroyed. The nearest coast is 12 miles away from their island. They need to build a secure boat that would go for 12 miles with some food supplies. Watercraft isn’t easy if you make it without modern tools and it have to be able to carry some load of supplies and get it out of the island. First he needs to learn to build a raft. Building a raft is a piece of cake for him and took about 4 to 6 hours. The second thing to do is to give it an upgrade and make it into a more secure boat. Third thing to do is to make room for supplies and for his parents and him. The boat can’t sink or get the rooms and supplies wet. It’s small but at least they could get to the coast and survive. It was during a thunder storm and he was finishing some final touches and his parents were loading the ship with some food supplies. He needed more wood so he decided to get some more. He chopped a tree down and made the logs in to planks. On his way back, the sand of the island he was standing on suddenly drag him down. He was sinking in to the grown slowly, it was quick sand. He could not grab anything to get back out. The lightning struck on to a tree and the tree was on the quick sand he was on. One end of the tree was outside the sand and one was on a rock. Because of the tree, he could grab it and get out. He finished the boat and it was finished and ready to evacuate. They made it pass the water surrounding them and they were washed up on the beach. It was very sad for Ben, the tree of the island saved his life and it was his home ever since but he has to work his life with a family and a new bigger home with lots of people and friends. They walked back to his parents old home and started living there selling their fruits and getting a job. They all struggled to live their lives but soon, everything went back to a normal life. Every evening, after his job Ben goes to the beach and watched the direction of their island and he promise to try to get back there one day or even bring the island back to life. Unfortunately for the island it became a deserted island with a little bit of trees and lots of sand.