I spent two years in my early twenties obsessing over a single story, one that I must have written countless times and hundreds of pages for, only to throw away each attempt once completed. With each attempt, the story changed length. Sometimes it was several pages long, other times hundreds; nevertheless, the story which I wanted to capture elusively remained the same. I left the story unfinished as a failure, and had nothing to show for two years of work until now: this story is what I ended up with instead. It was originally about a boy; I imagined him between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one; a quiet type, maybe an intellectual had it not been for his grades in school. An uncertain type, maybe even bland to those who didn’t know him well enough. He was the single feature of my story that remained constant. I wanted my story to capture what it felt like to fight depression, and the boy was my outlet to do so, and yet I was so ill-equipped to write the story I wanted. I never even managed to give him a name. The desire to capture a story I knew too well was life-consuming. I was so caught up with writing that with each iteration, story and reality began to mesh together. The boy’s thoughts became indistinguishable from my own. The writing became too personal. I inadvertently ended up laying out my insides on paper. And I realized: I never gave him a name because to do so would be to give up my own. With that realization, I forced myself to stop, and I wrote what I thought would be my last line two years ago. And it was as if by turning away from my story, my life began to move again. I stopped writing for some time, and rediscovered the friends and family who had always been there for me. I started to grow again. The story came back to haunt me though, on a winter morning, years later. I was looking at the desk that I had spent so many hours at, and I remembered. There was a story about a boy--about myself--that I had tried to write. I was no longer that same person, and while a part of me was relieved to have forgotten the worst of it, in giving up on his story, I had suggested an end. It wasn’t the end that he deserved: only because of him could I write the sentence: *I am still alive*. I had forgotten about him. I decided I would give him an ending, one that would celebrate the past, that would celebrate growth, celebrate the continuity of life, so I sat down at my desk. I drew a blank page. He drifted down the sidewalk back to his apartment in a haze. The frost collected on his boots and chilled his toes. Nothing had happened that day, just like nothing happened the day before, and the day before that. He had been left behind, and there was nothing left to feel. Maybe if he hadn’t been so lonely, he’d feel something other than tiredness. Except he felt nothing except tiredness. He hadn’t slept in weeks. What was it like to not be tired? The boy couldn’t remember. His vision swayed as he reached the front of his apartment building. The blood rushed to his head and he felt as if he were going to pass out. He sat down on the steps and a thought interrupted his mind. It took over and filled him with fear and disgust and also longing. It was a thought that hung from the ceiling, and he tried to look away. He got up from the steps and moved on towards his front door. As I continued to write at my desk, I heard the thud of my own front door closing. My chance to finish the story was suddenly threatened by some unknown housemate, who could burst in at any moment. I wanted to yell out, “Please don’t disturb me! I’m writing,” but I knew it would be futile: someone who should not be in my story would find his way in. I began to write faster, and my handwriting became sloppy and illegible--all the while spilling words onto the page--and somewhere in the rush, I ripped the page I was writing on. Ripping a page feels like spilling a drink. The medium is violated. The unbroken page is a barrier that protects a story, unadulterated, from the outside. To rip a page, then, reminds a story of its physical nature: it brings the story into physical being. When I ripped my writing, I panicked. The story rushed to an end, and I tried to patch together a conclusion from the confusion of broken pages and memories and stories. I heard the seal burst with the squeak of my bedroom door knob. I swiveled around in my chair prepared to confront whichever intruding housemate stood in the door, frustrated and confused, only to be taken aback. The boy stood in the doorway. He had a surprised look on his face, but he was without a doubt my own creation. He didn’t look like me; I had imagined him as looking better than me; being better than me. He was beautiful but he didn’t know it. “Oh, I... I must’ve walked into the wrong apartment without thinking... mine must be the one next door... I’m sorry.” He stammered. I wanted him to stay, so I said, “No, no, please stay for a moment. I could use someone to talk to for a few minutes.” “Oh... okay.” He said. I sat there shivering in my boxers, my body twisted in an awkward fashion towards him. The chair squeaked when I shifted my bodyweight. Across the room, he stood, expecting me to speak, then he made an uncomfortable shuffle as if he were afraid of what I had to say, and at that moment, all I wanted to do was hold him and stroke his head. I wanted him to know how much I loved him--to know how much he was loved--so much so that I let my emotions overwhelm me, and blustered out what I knew he needed to hear: “You’re not a waste to anybody.” He looked confused but thanked me nonetheless. Too embarrassed to make eye contact, I looked down at my feet, frustrated at myself for making such a strained and bumbling attempt to comfort him. He did not know who I was. I tried to calm myself, and repositioned my chair to face him fully. He must have seen the writing materials because after a moment, he gestured to the space behind me and asked tentatively: “What are you writing about?” “It’s a story about a boy, and his attempts to deal with the life he has. I’m in the middle of my story, but I haven’t really thought of an ending to it yet,” I replied. “How long have you been writing it?” “I started years ago, but I destroyed most of what I had written for it, so I’m starting again.” “You weren’t satisfied with your work?” “No, I wasn’t, but the more important thing to me is that I keep writing.” “That’s good. I recently picked up writing myself, but every time I try to write, I also end up unhappy with my work. I must have written a hundred pages by now.” “What do you write about?” I asked. “I keep trying to write about my own life. Trying to get these feelings I have onto paper. I’ve been having these thoughts, and I’ve made some mistakes, so I guess I’ve been having kind of a tough time and I’d like to put it into words.” “I tried writing about myself for some time, but I didn’t realize how harmful it would be to my own health.” “What do you mean by that?” he asked. “It treated it as a way out of the worst part of my life, but eventually, it was what kept me from moving on. I kept coming back to it because it was what defined me. Writing about it felt like I was reliving it.” “I’m sure it hurt.” I smiled sadly. “Like you wouldn’t believe.” “It helped you though, right? When you needed it most?” “Writing saved me. The boy in my story saved my life. I’m trying to move on though. My work reminded me of *that* period of my life, but I want to feel whole again. I’m finally about to finish what I started years ago.” I said. Then I pointed to the story on my desk. “This story is going to be the end.” “I see. I’m hoping that writing might save me too.” He paused for a moment, afflicted with a feeling I knew too well: the fragile hope of someone nearly resigned. On the verge of tears, I leaned forward and tried to study his face, to commit it to memory. I knew this encounter would be the last time I would ever see him: it felt as if the space between us, the space between my desk and the door, the space between the lines of writing, was expanding. Traversing the space of memory with words and sentences seemed to take an increasing amount of energy. Eventually, we would pass a critical moment when our words would never reach the other side, and the story would come to an end. It took me a few more moments to say the line I had been waiting to say to him: “It’ll be alright.” When he spoke, his voice came from a distance: “Thank you.” He paused again and shifted his weight a little bit before he spoke again. ”Listen, I’ve got to get back to my apartment. Thanks for talking to me for a bit, and thanks for the advice; if that’s what you would call it.” I sat up straight again. “No problem, and... could you close the door when you leave, would you?” “Sure. And thanks, again.” I watched my door shut and heard the latch click and lock. Struck with shock, I turned around to face my desk again. Looking down at the page I had been writing, I recognized that my story, the one that I began writing both years ago and earlier that morning, was nearly complete, except it needed a final line; one to acknowledge the end to all those years I spent so long ago too afraid to move. It had to be a line I could shout from rooftops. So I sat very still for another moment, thinking, and afflicted by the bittersweet swells that seem to accompany the endless growing pains of my life, it came to me. Suddenly, I whirled around. “This is the last story I will ever write about you!” I yelled through the closed door, but he was already gone.


This was originally intended as an r/WritingPrompts post but ended up being a bit too long. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ I’m known as many things among the mortals of earth: wish-granter, djinn, even demon. But at the end of the day, I’m just a guy who makes sales and has to meet quotas. The currency I most often work in are the souls of such mortals. Too often are they willing to trade theirs for the things they most often covet or desire. Usually these are such cliche things as power, wealth and sometimes even someone to fuck. Other times though, I get unusual requests from memorable clients. The last man on earth was no exception. I remember the day his ticket came in. It didn’t say much. The only information I got was a name, a location, and a note saying he was the only remaining customer on the whole damn planet. I figured it would be an interesting experience and jumped on the opportunity. Humans tended to be my favorite clients anyways. I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to make a sale to literally the last one. I readied up, putting on my nicest suit and a sporting tie to match. I grabbed my leather bound attache case, my hat, and my coat. I then turned to face destiny. A door to another dimension manifested before me. I opened the portal and was a little surprised by what I saw. Before me laid the home of the last man on earth, Mr. Edom. I didn’t know what to expect, but a cozy little log cabin nestled in an idyllic forest wasn’t on the list of things that crossed my mind. I was thinking more of a festering hovel in a war-torn city. *I guess I’m not getting this man’s soul for a can of beans,* I joked to myself as I stepped through. I crossed a little clearing containing a simple garden, and a stump with an ax lodged in it. I approached the door of the cabin and knocked three times. I waited for a response, but nothing came. Out of some degree of frustration, I peered through a window to try and see if anyone was home. The cabin seemed lived in but no one appear to be around. However, in my examination I spied a little shrine on the mantel of an earthen fireplace. Various photos of friends and family adorned it. But at the center of them all, placed with a sense of reverence, was the picture of a beautiful young girl. In that moment, I sensed I came across something deeply sacred to the man who I was trying to make a sale to. I even felt a tinge of sympathy for the mortal as I began to realize the gravity of his situation. The thought that I should perhaps leave entered my mind. *Maybe another time then,* I mused to myself. As I turned around, I was greeted by an arrow whizzing past my head and lodging itself in the door frame. I was a little shocked, even though I knew I couldn’t be harmed by such mortal weapons. I then noticed the man who fired off that arrow. In front of me was Mr. Edom. He was a grizzled, middle aged man with a flowing beard and a weathered face. His eyes were fierce though and his body seemed strong from enduring hardship. He was carrying some freshly killed game and held a crude bow in one hand. Despite his hostile demeanor, my opportunity finally arrived. I decided to introduce myself to this survivalist, tipping my hat toward him. “Ah. You must be Mr. Edom?” I asked. He didn’t respond but instead approached me. I continued with the pitch anyways. “I am The Salesman. Now, I don’t necessarily deal in trinkets and objects, but rather dreams, wishes and fantasies. For a small price, I can give you the things you most desire.” He still said nothing and was now face to face with me. His eyes were piercing and stared deeply into my being. “Can you please move?” he asked in a gentle tone. “You’re standing in front of my door.” His voice was hoarse and authoritative. Truly this was a man of immense will. But I could also tell he carried a burden of immense despair. “Now, hold on Mr. Edom,” I said. “I am a being of impressive power. I don’t come out for just anybody. You are literally the last of your kind. As such, you have been deemed of interest by a higher cosmic order. May I at least *show* you what I have to offer?” He gave pause. I pulled up my attache case and opened it. An immense light poured forth in front of the man. In it he saw many dancing possibilities where desires for lust, power, and comfort were all fulfilled. He could have been king of another world or even blessed with bountiful harvests for the rest of his life. Hell, he could have even been immortal. The potential for his happiness was nearly endless. Still somehow, he saw nothing that he wanted. He reached out abruptly and shut my case, much to my utter disbelief. “I don’t know who or *what* you are, but I’m not interested in whatever you are offering,” he said. He then pushed past me and went into his home, slamming the door behind him. I was flabbergasted. Never had something like this happened before. “Mr...Mr. Edom, surely there must be *something* I can offer you!” I hollered through the door. “Go away!” he hollered straight back. Now I was the one feeling despair. I was saddened not only by the fact that I was about to lose my first client, but a client who endured so much hardship. Didn’t he want to be happy after all he must have edured? It made no sense. At that point I just wanted to know *why.* I then remembered the pictures on his mantel. “Mr. Edom?” I asked again. There was only silence. “Mr. Edom, I’m not going to lie. I came down here to acquire your soul, as crazy as that sounds,” I said. He didn’t respond, but I decided to continue. “It’s nothing personal. I’m just doing my job. But sometimes I come across people who make me really stop and think about what I do. And I’m thinking that I had nothing to offer you because it’s not really about ***you*** in the first place, is it?” He still remained silent. “The girl in the photo? Was she your daughter?” I asked This time, there was a muffled sigh. “She was beautiful,” I continued. “I’m...I’m sorry for your loss.” Mr. Edom finally spoke. “She didn’t deserve to go. None of them deserved to go. None of the people who I lost; who I *loved* deserved to go,” he said in anguish. They’re the ones who deserve to be alive right now, especially my daughter. Instead fate chose me to continue on. But honestly? I really don’t understand why.” “Why do you say that?” I asked. He sighed a deep sigh that shook me to my core. “Because I...I wasn’t strong enough to save them,” he said. “I wasn’t strong enough to save my own daughter in a time of calamity. I don’t get why that makes me worthy of life in the first place.” A profound silence overtook the conversation. “Salesman?” beckoned Mr. Edom’s voice through the wood. I raised my head again. “Is it possible that you can give them a chance? Can you give my friends, my family and my daughter the chance at life they deserve? If you take souls can I exchange mine for theirs?” I was moved. Most mortal humans only think of themselves when given the opportunity to use my powers. “Mr. Edom, I’m truly impressed by your noble desires. I really wish I could fulfill your request but I can’t. A soul passed is a soul passed. They can’t return from the ether unless...” I paused to mull over what I was about to offer. Not only could such a deal land me in considerable trouble, it would also likely result in the complete **unmaking** of my client: a destruction so complete that the atoms making him up would cease to exist. Mr. Edom opened the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Unless what?” he asked. I stared into Mr. Edom’s piercing gaze. “Unless I grant you the powers of divinity and make you a god.” Mr. Edom was stoic as always. “But there’s a caveat or two,” I said. Simple mortals, even ones as strong and selfless as you, cannot easily handle the powers of divinity. You will more than likely be completely torn and shredded from reality; your soul will likely burn up in the energy of such divine powers, and the only person who would remember you is me. Not even your daughter will recall who you are.” I raised a finger. “***BUT,*** you will get an opportunity to give your loved ones a chance at life. Mr. Edom’s eyes burned with a frightening intensity. I put my hand out to shake on the deal. “Is this a sacrifice you are willing to make?” I asked. He clasped my hand firmly. “Absolutely,” he said. Touched, I again I brought up my attache case and opened it. I reached into the swirling energies of infinity and produced a small, glowing egg. “Swallow this whole. It’ll grant you the powers to bend the universe to your whim.” I said. “But once you do so, there’s no going back.” “I’m ready,” he declared. He took the egg from my hand and examined it. He noticed it was surprisingly weighty. He the breathed deeply and consumed it whole. Time stopped in that moment and the fabric of reality began to tear away. A kaleidoscope of colors transported us to some sort of blank realm. Then the stars, nebulae and other rich colors of the cosmos came flooding back in. Mr. Edom was transcending from his from his lesser form as glowing energies began flowing from and into him. He was struggling against a thousand instances of raw power over a thousand life-times. I was worried that he would lose control, but he remained true. He began to focus his powers, screaming a scream that could shatter a universe. He began to shape reality not for himself, but for those who he loved. He rebuilt their bodies, minds and souls and even rebuilt the ones of those who he did not know. Through sheer force of will, he undid the calamity that took everything from him. He was remaking all of his kind in that instance. But I noticed the toll it was taking. Chunks of his essence were being stripped away, disappearing in streams of colorful, super-heated vapor that in turn disappeared into nothingness. Then in a blinding flash, he then faded from all realities, having finished his work. As everything settled, I caught a glimpse of his magus opus. I saw, his daughter, his wife, and his friends, continuing to live their lives as before the calamity. They seemed content. What a shame that they would never know the sacrifice he made.


# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about: People, we’ve made it. We’re in the eye of the storm and all around us . We’ve talked about . We’ve talked about setting up for the moments that will appear in your story’s “”. If you’ve been holding out for this week to really test our edge-of-our-seat tolerance, this is the week for you to bust those moves. In the next couple weeks we’ll be hitting the Finale-- but we’re not there yet. This week we’re going to see things double down for our protagonists. Friends and allies are meeting back up for a showdown. Enemies are finding new and inventive ways to be . Metaphorically, our characters have been learning to juggle, and last week they learned how to walk the tightrope while juggling. This week they’re juggling on the tightrope while on their tippie toes , and... *oh snap,* someone is sending random electrical currents through it and turns out that’s ... *bad.* Y’know, . Metaphorically. Remember our friend Bill, from the Event that Changes Everything, and Raised Stakes? In Raised Stakes he discovered he was on the new regional manager, Frank’s chopping block. This week Bill can choose to try to get upper-management to intervene and get Frank to slow his roll on new layoffs, or Bill can . For the ones among us *not* writing life-and-death, this is still a story of when bad-leads-to-worse. In Pride and Prejudice this is when Jane’s letter to Elizabeth reveals that their younger sister Lydia just eloped with the rogue Wickham. In the 2011 movie *Bridesmaids* this ‘storm’ moment happens when the main character, Kristen, accidentally gets the entire bridesmaid crew kicked off the plane while headed to Vegas, forcing them to make the rest of the trip via bus and the protagonist gets replaced as the maid of honor. The Storm doesn’t always have to be a big battle or argument-- this installment *should* make us worried for the health/safety/security/stability/sanity of your main character. This is a moment that takes up the focus of our heroes, and requires all their concentration. Next week’s theme is the Darkest Moment, so make sure that this current week reflects how we end up there. **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 10/10, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Raised Stakes: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/Lynx_Elia, with a story that pulls two threads together with all kinds of spy-tastic fun. This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: /u/Xacktar, for raising the stakes on a story that has kept us on the edge of our seats. And honorable mentions: /u/Mobaisle_Writing, with a story that flows beautifully week after week, fitting the challenges and moving the story into deeper waters with every raised stake. And /u/ATIWTK, for an episode that is kicking into high gear with some *earth shattering* developments. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely ***family friendly***" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: **Raised Stakes** Have you seen the? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.


I can see it now. The fire rated glass doors to the emergency room slide open. Swirling red lights flash in the black night sky. Rattly wheels of a gurney roll onto white linoleum tiles, white sheets are tinged red, pink and black, doused with blood and caked with ash. Melted skin mixed with coagulated blood drips from the patient and leaves a sticky trail down the hallway. Screams curdle my blood. I am not a psychic. I couldn’t predict what you’ll have for breakfast, or who will win the lottery or how many kids you and your husband might have. I’m just a night nurse. A “miracle worker” with a shitty track record of miracles performed. I wipe asses and administer medications and take blood pressures and draw blood. I am nobody special. In fact, I am the opposite. I am cursed. I am cursed by Déjà vu. Everyone knows present moments exist in a continuum with the past. But, sometimes the past completes the present moment instead of the other way around. I am convinced this is the way time and space is actually configured, it’s just no one else knows the past before it completes the present...no one except me, apparently. And only sometimes. Déjà vu never tells me anything that could help make the present better. My visions are vivid, yet vague; visceral, yet vacant. Basically, I get to experience the horrors of the past before they become the horrors of the present and then again when the past officially completes the present, a moment I can’t predict and don’t know is coming until it happens. I live a life of double horrors. I just don’t know why. Two weeks have passed, just enough time for my vision to begin to slither away into the recesses of my memory and fall asleep. It’s a game of cat and mouse Déjà vu makes my brain play. I am charting the elevated blood pressure of the patient who came in with a broken tibia when the bay doors slide open. A gurney with rattly wheels, draped in blood-tinged sheets atop a body, burned from head to toe, crashes through the doorway. The patient’s wife, I’m assuming it’s his wife, rushes in behind. She slips on a flap of her husband’s sloughed off skin that has dropped to the floor and grabs hold of the nurses station countertop. She looks down at her shoe and screams. Then sobs. Then her sobs and screams mix to form bone-chilling scream-sobs. My blood curdles. What can I say? Oh hey, lady, I knew this was going to happen to your husband two weeks ago, but I had no idea who you guys were, so there was nothing I could do? I learned long ago to keep my complicated relationship with Déjà vu under wraps. No one believes me. Most think I am mentally unwell when I try to talk about it. So, I let the visions simmer in my brain until they happen to boil over and splash onto the burning ground of the present. The good news is, relief is here. The relief that comes when the past finally completes the present and I get a break. I get to live like a normal person: oblivious. Oblivion is underrated. Sure, bad things still happen in oblivion, but their weight feels lighter, two-dimensional. Tonight I am going to watch Netflix and chill, while eating Ben and Jerry’s Netflix & Chill. It is the alignment in the stars my soul needs. Peanut butter ice cream will join his friends salted pretzel and fudge brownie and have a dance party on my non-boiling brain (as long as they promise no strobe lights). My night shift ends and I walk outside for the first time in twelve hours. The sunrise is creeping up over the horizon. Beams of light illuminate the city-scape. A chilled gust of wind whips my pony tail in front of my eyes. I feel like I am a needle in a haystack, peering through wisps of hay at the day shift staff passing by. I dig in my bag for my car keys, and it strikes. Lightning catches the bale of hay atop my head on fire. I can see it now. My hands cup a white porcelain tea cup that hovers just above its matching saucer, on a white linen table cloth. The tablecloth is dotted with crumbs. I set the cup down on the saucer to swipe a cluster of crumbs onto the floor, except they land inside my bag instead. I reach down into my bag. I think the shadow underneath the table of my legs makes them look like a pair of cheap unbroken chopsticks from a take-out joint. My mouth tastes like sour lemons. An ear-piercing screech. A crash. A thump. Glass breaking. A child’s voice, “Mommy!” I look up. Just outside the café, a little boy peers into the road at what looks like a woman’s head poking out beneath a black off-roading tire. The head is squashed. Strawberry blonde hair is matted in oily ooze, and bits of brain splatter the mudflap of a dark green Land Rover. I gasp. Oh shit. The child turns around and sees me through the window. Wait, I know that child. He is my five-year old nephew, Ryan, only he seems taller somehow. Must be the distortion from the café’s thick glass window. “RYAN!” I jump up, knock over the table and make my way to the entrance of the café to the soundtrack of breaking porcelain and disgruntled murmurings. I exit the café and run toward Ryan. I look up. Another vehicle is speeding down the street, unaware of the crash ahead. I make it just a few steps from Ryan when the black Ford Focus veers to the left and rams over the curb, which hurdles it in the air. I look down at Ryan, who is now covered in a tidal wave of darkness from its shadow. I reach for him, then everything goes black. I open my eyes, no. No, no, no, no. Please, god, no. Not this, please. I am still standing outside the hospital, my hand is shaking inside my bag, and my knees begin to buckle. It’s not real. Visions never come the same day the present completes the past. I usually have a few weeks, at least! What the fuck! I run to my car as tears fly off my face in the wind. I text my sister with my adrenaline-fueled fingers. Me: Hey, are you and Ryan okay? Em: Hey, yeah we are fine, what’s up? Me: Nothing, just checking - let’s get together soon. Em: Come by later, we will be at the house. Me: Will do. I don’t know what to do. I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes I see Em’s brains on that mudflap and Ryan’s lanky arms reaching for his auntie while a sky-high shadow-monster envelopes his body. Perhaps this is just another one of Déjà vu’s sick games, like the cat and mouse one. Yeah, that’s it. Only, now I have to guess which vision is real and which one isn’t and this is the first unreal one. I’m not a psychic, I am not special. I am just cursed, remember. A cursed, non-miracle worker night nurse. Still...I need to talk to Em--on the off-chance, the extremely unlikely off-chance, that. Well, you know. “Hey, Em,” I say, then give her a massive hug when she opens her freshly painted red front door to greet me. She said she hopes it makes the white picket fence stand out more, and it does, but in a creepy way. Ryan comes running in from his play room. He is holding a plastic tyrannosaurus rex and a handful of multi-colored Legos, including one dismembered yellow head with no hair. It winks at me from his palm, which makes my stomach flip. “Kate, you look exhausted, what’s wrong?” Em says as she ushers me in and takes my bag and coat. “Oh I just worked last night, that’s all. It was a long one. Burn victim. Pretty gruesome.” “What does gruesome mean?” Ryan pipes up from behind. “Oh, shit, sorry,” I say, then look at Em. “Shit,” parrots Ryan. This is not going well so far. Em makes us a cup of tea and we sit in her living room. “So, um, this is going to sound crazy, but, I had a pretty vivid dream, and it scared me. I feel like I need to tell you about it. To...well, to warn you.” Em let out a slight chuckle, then looked at me. My look was not so light-hearted. “Oh, um, okay...you’re being creepy. But, okay. What was this dream about?” I had decided I would spare Em from the gory details, but still impress upon her the urgency of the situation. I told her I had a dream where she and Ryan were killed in a car accident, and I was nearby in a café, and tried to help but I couldn’t. “So, Em. Promise me you will never just, like...be outside of a café, ever. Just cross the street. I will also avoid all café’s, especially with white linen tablecloths. I mean, who do I think I am anyway, that’s way too fancy for my taste. So, it’s no big deal. Right?” “Kate, it was just a dream. Everything is going to be okay...I’m just worried about you, are you feeling okay? Like, mentally?” “I’m fine!” I snapped back. Of course, my agitation gave her more reason to doubt that I was. “I’m fine,” I said and forced myself to sound laid-back. “It’s all good, I’m sure you’re right, just,” I leaned forward and took her hands into mine, “promise me you won’t loiter in front of café’s?” Em smiled and squeezed my hands. “Don’t loiter? Okay, policewoman Kate, I promise to lead a loiterless-in-front-of-cafés existence.” “Good.” “Great.” Two years pass. No crash, no café’s with white linen tablecloths and white porcelain China. No disasters. I am convinced I beat Déjà vu in her silly new game. In the meantime, I start dating this resident, Kirk. Kirk and Kate, cute, right? He is dreamier than dreamy. Curly brown hair, deep, hazel eyes, freckles, tan even when he hasn’t seen the sun in months due to his grueling residency. Between you and me, and the dementia patient who came in to the ER early this morning, to whom I overshared a little, I think Kirk might propose tonight. He is taking me out to dinner. He didn’t tell me where, just to wear a dress. I can’t wait. A girl can’t go wrong with a classic black dress. At least that’s what I heard, so that’s what I am wearing. It’s a little short, but only when I sit. Kirk ends up blindfolding me. He takes my hand and leads me out of the car to the front of the restaurant. It is none other than Bianca’s, the Italian restaurant I have wanted to try for years, but could never afford. We hold hands, walk inside and are seated. I am too fixated on a potential proposal to take in much of my surroundings. We have focaccia pomodoro for our antipasti. Kirk orders trofie al pesto, and I order linguine al frutti del mar. It is the best food I have ever eaten, hands down. Kirk insists we split a lemon semifreddo and a pot of tea for dessert. I don’t argue. I am still hopeful a proposal is coming my way. As we are waiting for our dessert a thought comes to my mind. It is like a drop in the ocean that ripples, then disappears. A tiny drop with a familiar sensation. I have been here before. I shake it off. We delight in our lemon semifreddo, feed each other spoonful’s and giggle when whipped cream gets on Kirk’s mustache. Only one bite left. We both agree we are too stuffed to eat it and instead, sit back and sip our cups of tea. Kirk looks nervous, then reaches into his pocket. This is it . I cup my white porcelain tea cup, hover it just above the saucer, afraid to move until I see what he is going to do. I hold my breath. He pulls his hand out of his pocket to reveal...his wallet. Oh, come on Kirk. Despondent, I take the last bite of lemon semifreddo. I set down my tea cup and notice a cluster of focaccia crumbs on the white tablecloth. I swipe them off in angst. Of course they fall straight into my bag on the ground. I reach into my bag and catch sight of my legs in my simple black dress. I think they look like a pair of cheap, unbroken chopsti.... shit. An ear-piercing screech. A crash. A thump. Glass breaking. A child’s voice, “Mommy!” “No!” I look outside to see a green Land Rover and my nephew, Ryan calling out to my dead sister. On the other side of the road is a tiny café. I realize they were crossing the street to avoid it, as I made Em promise to do. “RYAN!” I knock over the table and make my way outside. Porcelain plates, bowls and cups crash everywhere around me as people yell out in disbelief. I don’t even look up, I run to Ryan. I can get to him, I can save him, it’s not too late. The black Ford Focus veers to the left to avoid the Land Rover and rams over the curb which hurdles it in the air. I look at the tidal wave of dark shadow and... it’s a miracle . The shadow monster is no longer coming for Ryan. It is coming for me. I reach out to him, then everything goes black. Past completes present.


My life started like a fairytale--and by that, I mean I was fucked over by fairies. Apparently, a long-lost ancestor did something helpful to some fairy sometime ago, and the fairies chose my birth as the moment to pay my family back for my ancestor’s kindness. The fairy chose a gift to supposedly bless me with, no matter how much my parents begged them to reconsider. I can see the conversation happening in my head like it was only yesterday. “I, a great and completely superior fairy being, have decided to bless your newborn child with a gift that is so undeniably wonderful that you all will be singing my praises for the rest of your small, mortal lives,” the fairy probably said at some point. “Your daughter will have the gift of being completely and totally irresistible. Everyone and everything will find her to be the most interesting and appealing creature they ever saw and this in no way will totally screw up her sad, little life!” If my life was a movie, the narrator would chime in with “What could possibly go wrong?!” My parents, bless them, did not know how to handle everything that came with a daughter who was irresistible. They tried, for sure. When I was picked on and kissed by literally every child in my preschool class and the teacher aid tried to kidnap me, my parents realized this was going to be a problem. I was homeschooled, and I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. I grew up without friends or seeing other family members because we couldn’t trust them to not fall under my spell. To save everyone some grief, I left home as soon as I was able to go and live in the middle of nowhere, Location Redacted. I wish I could say moving away from people fixed all my problems, but it didn’t. While I was successful in getting away from other people, my new location brought forth a new audience to avoid. \-- “I can see you,” I rolled my eyes and tossed some salt over my shoulder. The telltale human-shaped outline flashed before disappearing completely. I didn’t look up from my book. “Eden,” a tentative voice pipped. The air shimmered and a tall, lanky boy sat a heavy stare where the specter had once been. “That ghost has been getting closer and closer to you over the last few weeks. I think we should take another look at the runes on the fence.” “What’s a ghost gonna do, Mael?” I glanced up from my book and rolled my eyes. “Possess me? Jokes on him, then he would have to deal with all this shit.” Mael pursed his lips and reappeared on the other side of my armchair. “You and both know ghosts aren’t a big deal.” I was far more unnerved at the thought of not being able to finish my book in peace. “Come on, please? You know I can’t leave the cabin. Can you please check the runes are still intact? I can try to fix them if the sigils have worn off. It’s been, what, ten years since I was alive and placed them there?’ “Probably closer to twenty. You looked super dead when I got here.” I added as I turned back to my book. “Come on, Eden, this is serious. That ghost got too close for comfort.” I rolled my eyes. For the spirit of a witch bound to his former home, Mael was more overprotective than my own mother. “Fine, I will go get some food from the garden and I will check the runes while I do that, okay? It’s not a big deal though, ghosts are easy enough to get rid of.” I appreciated Mael letting me use his home now that he was dead. When I stumbled upon the small cabin in the woods, I knew it had to be cursed. Despite that, it was my only option, so I pressed on. I was surprised to find the spirit of the former owner still in the house, but Mael was pretty useful. He knew all sorts of stuff about the supernatural creatures that wandered around the woods and he was pretty handy at making runes and creating poisons and medicines. It was the first time I was grateful for my curse--instead of horrendously murdering me for disturbing his eternal slumber, Mael now acted like my bodyguard, or like an annoying big brother. And, best yet, he couldn’t follow me when I left the cabin, so I could easily escape his nagging by going into the garden that surrounded the cabin within the fence. I pulled on my oversized gardening boots and grabbed my basket of gardening supplies and walked out the door. The sun was starting its descent from the sky. I fingered the iron nail I wore around my neck, it wasn’t nightfall just yet, but things did get a bit more restless around here when the sun went down. I set to work on picking dinner for the evening. I didn’t often leave the confines of the small fence surrounding the cabin, so I relied on the fruits and vegetables Mael had planted during his life. Sometimes, a few of the werewolves who roamed the woods would bring me some of their smaller game or the occasional grocery store essentials but I tried to dissuade that kind of behavior as much as possible. “Good evening,” a smooth voice called from the treeline a stone’s throw away. I stopped in the middle of picking a carrot and sighed. Here we go again. I didn’t bother standing up from the dirt as the umbrella-wielding man approached the fence. His pale skin and dim glowing eyes gave him away immediately. “Let me guess, you aren’t a vampire and are totally just lost in the woods and need to come inside for some reason. Or, better yet, you have been creepily watching me for who-knows-how-long while I slept and now you are here because you are in love with me and *totally* won’t eat me.*”* I rolled my eyes and went back to the carrots. “Why I am wounded!” he feigned. I could feel his piercing eyes burrowing into my back as he watched me. “It sounds like my brothers have been unkind to you, sweet darling.” One thing I learned about vampires is they always blame each other for their bad reputation, and, for some reason, they always call their victims by nauseating pet names. I looked up at him and blinked my eyelashes. I stood from the dirt, content with what I picked from the night, and sauntered slowly toward the fence. He audibly gulped. “Oh, you have no idea. Some of those mean, ol’ vampires came here not long ago. They--they said they just needed some help and I couldn’t just turn them all away.” His eyes were even brighter up close, and they are carefully watching my throat as I spoke. “But, wouldn’t you know it, they tricked me. As soon as my back was turned--” I bit down dramatically on my own teeth and he jumped. “They took a big bite right out of me.” To prove my point, I pulled the collar of my tee-shirt down to reveal a mess of scarred flesh on my shoulder. The vampire stilled, his glowing orange eyes were transfixed on the newly exposed flesh. He was so easy to read. I held by the urge to roll my eyes. “You know,” he jumped when I spoke again and smoothed out my collar. “You should really be more concerned with what happened to the guy who took a chomp out of me. As I’m sure you have noticed, my blood smells--and tastes--irresistible. Do you really think they would have stopped by choice?” He was leaning in so far, his hands were propped up by the invisible barrier that bound him outside my fence line. I thought I even saw some drool pooling out from his lips. They never did listen. I also didn’t tell him the other vampire got garlic poisoning because I had just eaten a whole loaf of garlic bread. “Hey!” a voice suddenly shouted. “Get away from her!” In a flash, the vampire was gone, his umbrella was abandoned on the ground assuming so it wouldn’t slow him down in his retreat. A second later, a flash of brown and black barreled past my fence and howled. The creature stopped in his run and trotted back to my fence, transforming from his lycanthrope form to his human one. His yellow eyes lit up when he got closer and he started to run his hands through his messy black hair. “Hello, Garret.” I returned to my basket, now full of carrots and a small potato for my supper, and finished brushing the dirt from my knees. “Man, that was close! I am glad I caught a whiff of that guy when I did! I don’t even want to imagine what could have happened to you if I wasn’t here to help, Eden!” I tried to smile at the young werewolf as he beamed at me from my fence, but I am sure it resembled more of an exhausted snarl. “You are so right, I would have obviously been eaten alive if it wasn’t for you.” “Right? You are so lucky I am so close by. I sometimes swing by this way, you know, just to check on you, and I am so glad I did today.” Garret couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen. He was a kid so I tried to not hold his behavior against him too much. Besides, Garret was one of the wolves who brought me fresh meat when there were leftovers, so he wasn’t all bad. He was, however, a talker. I didn’t want to stand there as he monologued at me so I quickly wished him a good evening and retreated back inside. Mael was nowhere to be seen when I walked back inside. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for a while, so I set to work on cooking my dinner. When I sat down and finally picked my book back up, I remembered why I had gone outside in the first place--I didn’t check the runes on the fence. It was already dark outside by the time I realized, so I frowned and shrugged it off. One more day would be fine--I had just salted the peeping-tom ghost anyways. I had to fight to keep my eyes open as I read on in my book. I had just gotten to the part of the story where the protagonist ignored her instincts to run when she had the chance, the antagonist was sure to make an appearance... I woke up to a pounding headache. My hand reached up to touch my forehead, but I couldn’t move it. Slowly, the world came back into focus. I wasn’t in my living room anymore. I was outside, surrounded by trees and darkness sitting alone my own table covered in sugary sweets. One of my hands was tied to my seat. I swore loudly as I tried to remove the rope from around my wrist with my non-dominant hand and failed. “Good morning!” a voice chirped. I stopped struggling with the rope and let my head fall to the table. This couldn’t be happening, it was laughable. A young specter materialized, his face full of mirth as he spirited around me. “You’re finally awake! It’s very rude to fall asleep at the table, you know!” His grin was unnerving. It was too wide for his thin face. The ghost couldn’t have been more than a young adult when he died, but his clothes gave away his age. No one wore suits styled like his for the last several decades, at least. “Okay, you caught me. What do you want? To have a tea party? How did you get all of this from my cabin?” I paused, my eyes raking over the small cakes on the table. This son-of-a-bitch used up all my flour and sugar to make this shit, didn’t he?! I turned furious eyes on him. “Well, it wasn’t easy!” he laughed, then his eyes narrowed and his voice rumbled cooly, “You know, you aren’t very strong.” His countenance returned to his sickenly sweet smile and she pushed his ghostly hands through some of the cakes on the table. “I just want to have a little party with you! You see, I think it’s about time for my birthday and I don’t have anyone to celebrate with. You aren’t an easy girl to get ahold of, you know.” I frowned. I didn’t want to ask it, but I did: “Why do you want me to celebrate your birthday with you? I have salted you out of my life more times than I can count.” Take the hint, seriously. “Let me guess...” “You are so beautiful, you are captivating!” he finished for me. “Your skin looks so soft and those freckles are just adorable.” Of course, people who don’t have freckles always think they are so interesting. “And your hair is so thick and luscious.” I wash it, like, maybe once every three weeks. “And your eyes. Your eyes are the most beautiful. They are bright and the color is just so strange and captivating.” My eyes are hazel. Just hazel. It was always interesting to hear how others saw me as a glamorized version of what I actually was. “Thanks.” I reached unceremoniously for the iron nail on my necklace and pulled it off. “But, you should probably go back to Hell or whatever you spawned from and leave me alone. I am not interested in playing house with you.” His eyes fixed onto the iron in my hand. Surprise flashed across his eyes for just a moment before he disappeared and immediately reappeared behind me. He placed his hands on my temples and pushed them inside my skull. My skin didn’t offer him any resistance. My body involuntarily convulsed, my tied wrist twisted and thrashed against the bindings and the nail fell from my hand only to be kicked away by my own traitorous feet. I gasped for breath when my body finally started to still and the ghost was once again in front of me, looking with renewed interest at the table. “Which cake should you eat first?” He didn’t acknowledge the pain he inflicted on me. The sparkle in his eyes said he probably enjoyed it. “If I celebrate your birthday with you, you’ll leave me alone, right?” I said. He smiled and got far too close to my face. “Yes! In fact, just try a piece of cake! It has been so long since I have eaten anything and cake was always my favorite when I was alive. If you eat just a bite, I promise to let you untie yourself so you can go.” I glared. This was obviously a trap, but I was out of options. Mael couldn’t help me and I couldn’t rely on Garret to come bounding up this time either. Did ghosts even have a scent? It seemed unlikely. “Fine. I will have a bite of your cake and then I am going to go home. We have a deal.” It was fine. I was always fine. The god of luck also seemed to find me irresistible. I picked up the fork set in front of me and the ghost’s eyes watched my every move. Slowly, I reached for the cake closest to me and took the smallest bite I could manage. The cake wasn’t very sweet and it was certainly burned, but I continued to chew. When I swallowed, I made a big show of it and then reached with the fork to the rope around my wrist. The ghost watched me, remaining eerily silent as I finally broke through the rope and flexed my sore wrist. I coughed as soon as I stood, and the ghost burst into laughter. I coughed again, this time doubling over and retching on the ground. I stumbled and tried to stand, but I instead fell to my knees grasping my stomach as a stabbing pain shot through me. Of course, he fucking poisoned the cake. Jackass. “Oh, sweet girl, don’t move so much. It will be over soon.” the ghost was grinning down at me like a madman. I guess ghosts were more dangerous than I had originally given them credit for. “I was hoping you would pick that one--it looked like the most fun according to all those scribbles that witch boy left.” I coughed again, this time blood splurted out and fell from my chin to the ground. “We are going to have so much fun, honestly. You and me, together for all eternity. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” There was no way I was gonna let myself die at the hands of a motherfucking ghost and some shitty, poisoned cake. I crawled, one arm still firmly grasping my stomach that felt like hot lead. “It’s no use,” he smiled, getting too close to my face again. “You’re already dying.” I coughed again, this time hacking up blood in his ghostly face. He jumped backward, probably a habit from his life, and glared. It was then I saw the iron nail on the ground. I could just barely reach it when he realized what I was doing, but it was too late. I turned with all my might and slashed through his spectral form. While salt was effective at banishing ghosts for a short while, iron was like a lock to keep them from coming back to our side. It would be a good long while before he would be able to come back. Not that it would do me much good. I couched again. More blood. “I thought that bastard would never leave.” A familiar, smooth voice said from the darkness. I tried to scramble to my feet but faceplanted in my own blood instead. “You smell...” he paused and took a deep, satisfying breath. “Delicious.” I hate vampires so much. The vampire from earlier blurred towards me as I coughed again, he stopped just short of running into me. He regarded me with his reflective eyes as his smile slowly fell. “What did he do to you? I can’t drink this. It’s ruined.” He wrinkled his nose as though my wasted blood was the most offensive joke he had ever heard. “No. Stop it.” I wanted to quip back that I was in no way able to cure myself from whatever afflicted me, but all that came out was the taste of iron on my tongue. Next thing I knew, I was being lifted from the ground and thrown over a shoulder before being sped away. I was suddenly thrown hard to the ground, in my weariness I could just make out the light from my cabin’s windows. Shakily, I turned and saw Garett snarling at the vampire who was looking from me to my cabin to Garett and then back again. After another bout of coughing up my own blood, I crawled into the dirt and pulled myself forward as best I could. “You idiot!” I heard vaguely behind me. I didn’t bother trying to identify the voice. “I am saving her!” “No!” The other growled. “I am saving her!” I tuned them out completely after that and focused my efforts and pathetically crawling my way to the front door. Everything was spinning and I felt just so cold and tired, but I kept on as my entrails tried to work their way to the outside. A sudden, knife-sharp pain bit into me--it felt like I was drowning in my own lungs. Something crashed into my fence behind me, but the world had already gone black. I woke up gasping and thrashing with horrible pressure pushing down on my chest. I was inside the cabin and Mael was leaning over me with misty eyes. “She’s awake!” He bellowed suddenly and disappeared. Somewhere behind me bottles started to rumble and clatter together. Garett was over me, his hands were pressing down on my chest and his face was dripping in blood, my blood I suddenly realized. I twisted to my side and pushed his hands away from me just as Mael reappeared with a vial of something bubbling. Garret instantly forced my head back and stuck the glass vial between my lips as Mael paced beside us. I spluttered out some of the liquid when I was overwhelmed by it, but Garret only forced me to drink until it was gone. “If you hold her head like that, you are going to rip it off! Gentle!” A voice called from beyond my garden fence. The whole gang was here to watch me pathetically almost die because of a pathetic ghost. Fuck my life. I tried to push Garett off of me again, but he held steady. “I am going to put you in your bed now,” he stated and he moved to pick me up. “Don’t do that, idiot. She is covered in her own blood and dirt! Clean her off first!” Mael materialized at my side and growled, “You won’t be touching her like that.” “Well, you can’t touch her at all!” Garett spat back. “I’ll touch her!” “No!” Mael and Garett both roared. I just wanted some peace and quiet. They were too loud. I pushed myself up and shakily attempted to stand. When I almost fell, I held tight to my armchair for balance, ignoring Garett has he reached for me. “I can fucking clean myself up. Everybody, get the fuck out of my house.” Garett frowned but nodded his assent before walking to the door and shutting it behind him. I didn’t hear footsteps leading away, so I guessed he was still outside on the step. I turned to Mael. “Help me pack a bag. Tonight.” “What? But you aren’t in any condition to leave. Where would you even go?!” “Honestly? I need to punch a fucking fairy in her stupid, fucking face.


Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Wake up earlier. Frankie woke up with the afternoon sunlight in her eyes. The room smelled of dust and sweat and old fried chicken. It was one thirty in the afternoon on January first. Frankie had gone to bed at half-past three. Not because she’d gone out. She was new in the city and had no friends here yet, and hated parties and wouldn’t have gone to a New Year’s party even if she had been invited to one - which she hadn’t been. No, she’d spent New Year’s Eve alone in her half-furnished studio eating spicy Korean chicken from the take-out place across the street and watching episode after episode of Indian Matchmaking. Then, for something completely different, she’d watched all three Die Hard movies in a row. The new year had arrived unnoticed sometime between the second and third Die Hard. At half-past two, Frankie had stood on shaky legs and arched her stiff spine. She reached her arms above her head and clasped her greasy fingers together, and then stretched her whole body by swaying left, then right. She’d left her apartment and pounded down the stairs to the ground floor, pushing outside, inhaling a lungful of cold air. Frankie found her new neighbourhood drenched in wet shadows and deserted. Her sneakers slipped on the frozen sidewalks. It was drizzling in December, the sleet shocking on her hot face, a welcome contrast to her too-hot apartment. She’d forgotten her coat and it was cold, but it was nice to feel cold, to feel something jarring after hours and hours of sitting in a hot, dry room with grease on her fingertips, bathed in the hollow white light of the television. She veered left and walked aimlessly, her mind energized, spinning plans for 2024. Get a pet . Like a dog (a small dog) or a cat (a calm one). Something living to share the apartment with, to breathe the same air as her; a warm body to touch when her mood dipped into moroseness. Frankie was used to being alone; she was an introvert, but something about being in a brand new city with nothing and no one familiar made her feel exposed. She’d moved to Calgary late last summer, just as the Winnipeg mosquitoes were getting fat and lazy. She’d left her mom back in Winnipeg, and her dad lived in Germany and called her once a year on her birthday. Her parents were both old, in their late sixties. They’d had her late in their marriage, almost like an after-thought that they later regretted, like they’d looked around and said, “Hey everyone else has a kid, why not us, eh?” And later realized they were too old and set in their ways to tolerate the scuttle of new life in their orderly home. Frankie grew up odd, without siblings or pets or many close friends. She chose a reliable-sounding major in university and dated Brian Liu for three years until he came out as gay and, last she heard, was married to his college roommate, Julian. That was all years ago. Three years and four months ago. Water under the bridge. Frankie reached a crosswalk and stopped to stare at the dark suburban street ahead. She heard car tires crunching on snow somewhere in the distance, but here on Frankie’s street, the traffic lights changed uselessly for an empty intersection. She frowned, turning back towards home. Frankie resolved to get a cat. From the shelter. She fumbled in the dark to take out her phone, planning to search up shelters in Calgary right then, but the falling sleet fogged up the screen and she hid the phone back in her jean pocket. It was getting too cold now, no longer a pleasant shock but a jittery painful one. She made her way back to her building, back up the concrete steps to the third floor, a trail of wet footprints in her wake. She stepped out of her shoes and kicked off her damp jeans and fell on the mattress that was the focal point of her apartment. She stared up at the ceiling. Buy a real bed. She’d already looked online, but all the beds were overpriced and hard to assemble, and it had seemed easier to just keep sleeping on the mattress. She did need a sofa, maybe a dining table. The studio was small, but even so, it looked sad and bare with nothing to fill it. Decorate. Get a plant. Buy a painting. She did own a proper desk that she’d bought off Kijiji for thirty five dollars. She worked remotely, so she’d needed a desk right away. Frankie worked for the same company she’d worked for in Winnipeg, writing and proofreading copy for technical manuals. Speaking of which: Find a better job. It was the main reason behind the move. She felt like Winnipeg held no jobs for her; none that she was qualified for, anyway. Winnipeg was a city she knew, a city with old disappointments. Calgary was something with promise, more people, mountains. She’d browsed Indeed a few times since she made the move, but everything she could realistically apply for paid less than the current job that she was sick to death of. She’d be a fool to quit one easy, work-from-home gig that paid well to work in a department store or wait tables. Not that anyone would hire her as a waitress. Frankie had an awkward air around her that made people uncomfortable and disqualified her from most jobs in customer service. So scratch that last resolution. She’d keep her old job, but do better outside of work . Be a better human being. She just needed...more energy. She needed to wake up, shake herself off. Exercise more (or start exercising). Go for brisk walks. Join a gym. Get moving. Frankie had fallen asleep with that thought pulsing at the forefront of her mind, a resolution to be active. She saw herself running and running and running, her blood thrumming in her body and her breath burning and something just a few feet away. If she could just run a little faster, a little harder, and there it would it be...


There’s a fine line between caring and being invested. It’s a difference similar to the line between compassion and empathy. In both cases, the former brings emotions that can be examined, dealt with, and set aside as the feeler sees fit. But the latter, the being invested and empathizing, those emotions become a part of you. They stay with you longer, until you can deal with them or set them aside. Seeing her mother, curled on the couch, eyes flicking between the television screen and her phone, receiving ping after ping of messages from friends reacting to the same news program, the child couldn’t help but wonder if she herself had ever really been empathetic. “Protestors stormed the capital,” the mother said when the child emerged from her room for only the second time that day. “Oh?” Was all she could respond. How could a protest even make it to the capital, she thought. One look at the tv screen filled with MAGA hats and Confederate flags provided her the answer. She’d just wanted a snack, maybe some coffee, and to go back to her room. She’d been learning a pop song on her violin, a challenge because the layers of modern tones in pop songs don’t always translate well to the classic wooden instrument. She was stuck on the bridge and couldn’t quite figure out how to blend the layers of tones with the right notes. She couldn’t practice well with people in the house, her violin was too loud and the child herself too shy. Instead she sat on the edge of the couch. “He gave his big speech then just went inside! I mean, he got them all riled up and now...” the mother’s voice trailed, gripped by fear and disbelief. I should be more afraid or worried, the child thought. Instead she wondered how the US representatives didn’t know the proper methods for sheltering in place. The thought pulled her to an old memory of her sitting in the computer lab with her class and second-grade teacher, backs against the wall as their teacher tried to impress on them the importance of being quiet without ever saying the words ‘active’ or ‘shooter.’ Then another memory, only a year later, when the child’s whole school had been placed on lockdown for a bomb threat. The whole thing had lasted maybe an hour and was ultimately just a middle schooler playing a prank they didn’t fully understand the repercussions of. It hadn’t been a traumatizing event, in fact, she couldn’t help but remember them with some fondness. Active shooter drills or drills like them were always presented in a form of a game. Like high stakes hide-and-seek, or some sick team-building exercise. How else do you teach kids to survive something adults could so easily prevent? “Why are they calling it a protest?” The child asked, as the same footage of windows being shattered, and offices being broken into played across the screen again and again. She was growing more frustrated with the news anchors than she had been with the protestors. It seemed like only one of the groups really knew what they were doing, and she couldn’t decide which was worse. Hours passed this way, with the mother feeling and the child wondering if it was so wrong that she was hoping some gun control laws would come out of this. Occasionally her fingers would twitch as the melody of the pop song played again through her head. It was a love song, slow and melodic and filled with emotions much happier and much more hopeful than anything the news had to offer. Still, she watched the screen with her mother and saw, for what felt like the hundredth time, a security guard push and redirect a mob giving the chamber time to lock up. Neither could deny the impressive and valuable feat, but it was the cut to the news anchor, her proclamation of, “sometimes all it takes is one good man,” that broke them. The child burst into laughter, “I think they could have used a few more a lot earlier.” Even her mother, muscles still tense, couldn’t help but smile. Humor and games and laughter, that was how she grew up. And what else could the child offer to the situation? Her fingers twitched again. She was growing tired of the same footage, of no new news, and what felt like no real progress. The child knew her mother loved to hear her play the violin, she’d told her so nearly every time she’d caught her sitting on the floor of her room silently plucking the strings and fingering through a piece. But it had been so long since the child had really played, bow on the string, music filling every square inch of her room while another person was in the house. She loved playing but hated performing. Just the thought of it filled her with a fear the tv screen could never hope to give her. She looked again at her mother, still curled on her seat and scrolling through her phone searching for something new. Before the child could stop herself, she asked, “Would it bother you if I practiced?” The child’s mother looked up at her and smiled, “I’d love to hear you play.” The mother meant it, but in that moment of eye contact the child could see how drained her mother was, how tired the events of the day had made her. All the child had was energy that needed an outlet. So she went to her room and closed the door. Not that the door would make any real difference, the walls were so thin the child could always hear when the tv was playing. She knew her mother would hear every note she made, but the door helped her at least feel like she was alone. Like she could make a mistake without being heard. The child tuned her instrument first. Warm-up notes that meant nothing, shared nothing. Then, she practiced the part of the song she had already figured out. Her bow arm wouldn’t quite cooperate, it was putting too much space between notes that needed to bleed into one another. She moved on to the next part, then the next. There was nothing she could do to help with the images on the tv screen, but she could figure out these notes. She listened to the bridge again, toyed with the strings, listened, made notes, listened. She wondered if anyone in the riot, anyone with any real kind of power over the situation, would listen after this. If any of them had listened before it all started. She finished the first half of the bridge. She listened again to the second half and let her fingers ghost over the strings in an attempt to catch the sounds. She made notes and played again, but it wasn’t right. She listened again while ghosting her notes, trying to play spot the difference between what the song was saying and what she was playing. She wanted the notes to go a little higher, sing a little longer than what the original bridge was playing. She tried to adjust again and again, but it still wasn’t quite right. Her notes didn’t match the song, but the tone was close. The child’s music still held the love and hope the artist sung of, and the child decided that was as close as she could get for the day. Arm tired and fingers slightly numb, she loosened her bow and placed both it and her violin back in its case, taking care to fasten the Velcro strap and lay the felt cover over the delicate wooden instrument. Then with a swift flourish she zipped the case shut and pushed it back to its safe place against the wall. The child walked back into the living room where her mother was still curled on her seat, television still on, but this time her eyes were on her phone. The mother looked up to her daughter and smiled again. “Thank you, that was beautiful.” The child returned the smile but could tell her mother had still only grown more tired. “Any updates?” “There’s supposedly a curfew,” the mother laughed. The child giggled in return, “Oh?” She looked back at her mother and was filled with a sudden wash of gratitude. In that moment, she realized her mother was feeling everything, so the child didn’t have to, whether the mother realized it or not. She wished she could take some of it, but there was nothing on the screen she hadn’t decided to let go of long ago. The child walked over and sat next to her mother, a woman who lived for hugs, and wrapped her arms around her. “I love you, mom.” “I love you too,” the mother replied, kissing her daughter’s head.


You know what's funny? Time. Well its more ironic than funny, but I've learned to laugh at it because it slips by you in what seems like the blink of an eye. I smile at my reflection, my reflection shows me that time, has caught up to me. The days have passed since I've been able to run up to my father and have him swoop me up in his arms and twirl me and dance with me as if there were music playing and and audience that cheered with admiration and awe. My smile becomes a laugh at the memory, however my gaze grows sad as the realization of that never happening again sinks in heavily. Besides the fact that I am a 27 year old woman, today is the day we lay my father's body to rest. He leaves the world full of memories, but his presence will never leave my heart. His service was beautiful. Despite the sad occasion that bought us here, daddy would be happy that everyone was able to come together to say one last goodbye. Uncle Rick, started sniffling and hiccupping, probably from trying to hold in his cry. I remember when I was about seven years old, I saw him cry over my aunt Felicia dumping him for a mechanic, though I was too young to fully understand what was happening, I do remember aunt Felicia rolling her neck so hard I thought it would fall off and pointing her finger this way and that way as if it were a wand. This cry was nothing like that. I scan the room to see who else is here. I notice my mom hugging herself in a chair, gently rocking herself as if she is coddling a small child in her arms. When my dad was sick in the hospital and had to stay for weeks because he collapsed more than a couple times at his office and sometimes even at the dinner table, mom had the same reaction, only I now this is a thousand times worse. Dad was a strong man. Strong willed and wise, his heart, however was a ticking time bomb, doctors couldn't figure it out, so they couldn't give us how long he would have which gave me great relief. Hearing my dad would only have 6 months to live or something would have made everyone a wreck. I was 5 when Daddy got the news that his heart was a time bomb, I'm glad he got to spend 22 years of his life raising me and loving us. I still feel like that helpless little girl right now however. I feel lost and confused. Hurt. I walk up to my mom and plant a soft kiss on her head. She gives a weak smile in my direction. "would you like some air mama?" I ask her kindly. She nods, I lend my arm to her and as she links, I can feel her knees buckle, not from old age, but because loosing my father has taken a lot out of her. I end up taking her home and to my surprise I was more tired than I thought. My bed felt like a warm soft marshmallow that allowed me to sink in it and float my troubles away. I looked up at the ceiling, gave out the loudest exhale of my life, my eyes feel too heavy to keep them open, so I surrender to their will and close them. Darkness. *Screams* I jolt out of bed and run into my mom and dads room. I get a quick glance at myself who looks about 10. I can feel it in my chest, I'm terrified. I push forward in my mothers direction who is screaming hysterically. I'm too afraid to lean over and see what she's screaming about. My shaky little hands reach for the covers and as I do my mother, with such force grabs my arm. My heart thumps so loud it's the only thing I hear, I look to her and she looks monstrous. Her eyes are wide and her face terrifyingly old and damaged. She says something but all I hear is my heart. She shrieks even louder, but this time she sounds like my alarm. I forced myself up, body and sheets drenched in sweat, if my bed was a marshmallow it would have melted from the intense heat pouring from my body. My breathing was still heavy from the dream, but thank goodness it was only a dream. After my shower, I decide to take a walk down 15th street, the joyous feeling of blissful childhood churns my stomach when I hear the school bell. My dad would pick me up after school everyday. I loved that. Mom was a teacher at the school, so every morning we went in together. Dad worked as a journalist for 'Dekota Bay Dispatch' it might sound boring and displeasing but it was the best. When I was 12, he took me downtown with him to do a story on the owner of the 'Castle nova hotel', we discovered all kinds of horrible things, the owner was a racist, "against any 'kind' but his own," he was a creep too. Had minors working in the kitchen almost naked. Daddy got all kinds of hate on that story, but to me he was a pure hero of the people. **BEEEEEEP!!!** the blaring of a horn snatched me back to reality just in time, I almost walked in the road. Focus! I think to myself. I hadn't even noticed the tears that have been dripping down my face at the memory I was just caught up in. A few months and more than a few breakdowns later, my family and friends held an intervention so I, well they on my behalf decided a therapist would offer better assistance. They tell me that they're worried, concerned, and even fearful of my behavior and attitude over these past months. It's only been 2 months since my dad's passing. You'd think that things would mend somehow, like those families who can continue strong and bold when they lose someone. I was waiting for that moment but it never showed, with every memory I cry and miss my father, other people continue on and I started to get upset, " do they not care I mean truly care enough about my father to stop time, not even for a moment. " I hear replay in my ear the argument I had at the dinner table. I agreed to see a therapist, no-less because apart of me did know I got out of control, emotionally withdrawn, careless and shut down. My father wouldn't want this of me and so here I stand in front of a door that reads "Dr. Patricia Dean, psych therapist, hypno-therapist, inner-child/adult therapist". in my mind I take off but I knock instead. On my sixth visit with Patricia, she came at me with a new idea. "I'd like for us to connect with your inner child." She smiled sweetly at my raised eyebrow slightly dropped mouth reaction when I responded, "my whaa?" She continued to explain what she meant. "The child-like aspect of yourself, doing this will allow us to understand why you are responding in this way, and the best possible way to make you feel safe again." For some reason when she said those words, a hard lump filled my throat, like I wanted to cry. I could feel my eyes flood intensely with tears. When Patricia notices, she swiftly pulled out some soft tissues and patted my shoulder in a comforting manner. I laid back on the couch in her office, allowed myself to relax as much as I could, which still may not have been enough going off the number of times Patricia gently whispered "relaaaaax, you're in a safe environment, you're okay" After awhile my body did begin to settle and flashes of my life quickly flicked in and out of my closed eyes view. "Now focus on my voice." muffled at first then the words of Patricia filled my ears and head. "I want you to try and remember a moment in time where you felt unsafe." I really had to think, with dad around I always felt safe, secure, whole. Then I remember, when dad got threatened several times doing an interview for his story about the secret rape tapes involving all-star coach Denis Mclane. My body begins to twitch and fidget at the memory, Patricia's reassurance puts me back at ease. I explained to her what is happening to the best of my ability. "What did you do to feel safe again, what happened?" The images that were laid out in my mind changed again and in front of me is the memory of my dad hugging me, but not just dad, mom is there and my family. They surrounded me and told me, that I would always have them, "even if we left we would always be there." someone says. I was 13, they gathered around me and placed a hand over my heart and said simultaneously; "right here, we will be." My dad kissed my forehead and said, "as long as you're here, we are here." What feels like a force begins pushing me and I feel like I am thrown in my body, though I never left. Patricia is right beside me, where she has been the entire time, I jump into her arms almost and can do nothing but cry. Happy tears, sad tears, then happy again. I tell her everything that transpired and although I feel amazing afterwards, I still have sessions with her every now and then. Through time I think she will still be a great friend to me. I write a letter, that includes the date, time and my current age. In the letter I keep it short and sweet. "If you ever feel sad or alone, as long as you're here, we are here."-27


We had often heard tell of warm and welcoming climes in the lands south of the English channel. Many amongst us had known those lands for their eternal sunshine, for their beaches of soft, white sand and for the magnificent cities which lay beyond. Yet, our venture into French territory that dreaded summer’s day, was anything but welcoming. On that very day, the sun did not emerge. It hid behind a sky of pale grey. What little sunlight did seep through, conversely, quickly succumbed to an emerging cloud of black smoke which swelled from the beach head. We were welcomed by a sound of unrelenting machinegun fire, of which rained down upon us from every conceivable angle. It struck our Higgin’s boat more times than I could have counted, particularly in that flustered state of mind. If that wasn’t bad enough, we also had to contend with Gerry’s mortar fire, each of us standing helplessly as shells splashed disconcertingly beside the LCVP en route to the beachhead. My superiors had sent us all into a living hell - and we were none the wiser for thinking this call to arms would make make us all heroes. They sent us all to our deaths, crammed within vessels of iron, just like sardines in a tin can. As if suddenly awakening from a deep reverie, I had just become aware of the man to my left owing to the repetitive metallic clanking noises his flask made as he attempted to take a swig from it. The bespectacled youth’s hand were trembling so violently that it begged the question as to how much of it he actually drank. It wasn’t until a stern voice called unto him that he decided to abandon all hopes entirely. “Get a grip son,” said a man to my right, who was taking a drag out of his cigarette. This man carried himself in the same manner most veteran American soldiers had, with an air of confidence which was almost tangible. As he spoke, he stared ahead towards the shoreline, wide-armed and square-jawed; and his undying gaze did not waver even as he addressed the boy who trembled. “If we’re to die today, we’ll die as men, y’hear?” Perturbed, the boy cast his flask aside, instead opting to re-align the round glasses sliding off the edge of his nose. Not that it mattered, the thick black smoke around us was enough to leave us in complete darkness until our eventual touchdown in shallow waters. “If this ain’t FUBAR, I don’t know what is, Mason”, he said. “FUBAR?” I said, dumbfounded. These Americans had such a way with words. “Relax son, air support should’a demolished these bastards long before our coming”, said Mason. He then turned to face me, “and just where the hell are you from, anyway? That accent sure as hell ain’t American,” he added, gruffly. “I’m... I’m from Malta,” I stuttered, not that I expected him to know where Malta was actually located. “Holy dog shit!” he said with a tone of assent. “Ain’t you boys the farmin’ type? The hell y’all doin here?” I hadn’t taken offense. In truth, amid the increasing sounds of machine gun fire and death taking place around me, any attempt at an insult towards my heritage was rather laughable. Mason chuckled, even amid the darkness and the odd whizzing of bullets. I could not help laugh with him. In my mind, the prospect of death beyond the tall iron doors of the LCVP was a sure thing - no sense being grim about it. He simply held out his arm. “Mason,” he said sharply, “and the maverick beside you is Johnson. For the last time son... get a grip!” The boy with the round glasses did not answer. He merely gulped, hugging his M1 carbine as if it were an enlarged, metallic teddy bear. “Carmelo,” I said, addressing Mason. As I turned to him, I noticed him staring at the iron crucifix dangling from my neck. “Car-melo?” Mason twisted his face. He had obviously never heard such a name before. “Look more like a holy boy if you ask me. Think I’ll call you... ‘Bible’. You a believer, son?” “We’ll see.” I replied. The barge’s rise and fall had begun to die down in the moments which followed. That, coupled with the now-deafening sounds of mortar-fire had only meant one thing. We had finally arrived. In that moment, another American, a Captain, called out to us from the front. His hand remained clasped around the lever of the front door as the landing craft came to a slow and steady halt. He shouted instructions towards us, all-the-while signaling which direction we had to sprint towards with his free hand. I nodded in understanding. Though like many others, there wasn’t much else I could gleam from his orders other than ‘get to safety’ and ‘rendezvous’. Yet, if the unyielding gunfire was of any indication, ‘getting to safety’ was by no means, a plan to object to. Once the sound of gunfire had reached a deafening threshold in our ears, our landing craft had come to an abrupt halt. It lodged itself across the sand of the shallow waters - it was the sign we had all been dreading. To make matters worse, the already malodorous black smoke now brought forth the additional rancid smell of death. With our Higgin’s finally at a standstill, the captain’s hand rose up high. He folded his fingers into a number ‘three...’ Then into a ‘two...’ Then into a ‘one...’ But before we could make our way out, a large bang reverberated from the base of the barge, with it, a powerful explosion launched the entire vessel upwards amid a chorus of panicked screams from the men alongside me. It cast us all out of the boat and into the cold sea of ‘La Manche’. Rifle, pistol, grenades... I watched helplessly as each item I could have used to increase my chances of survival had suddenly scattered into the sea. With them, gone were any lingering hopes I may have had of surviving the ordeal ahead. For a fleeting moment I had wondered whether I was in fact, dead, succumbed to German artillery in the same quick fashion as many before me. Yet, once my body found its way out of the air and into the ice cold water below, I knew that it was all just wishful thinking. It wasn’t until a hand had taken me by the scruff of my neck, that I was able to regain my footing once more. “On your feet, Bible!” Mason’s voice bellowed as he dragged me to a sandy shoreline. “Get your ass behind some cover! Now!” He needn’t have told me twice. With as much haste as I could muster, I dived behind the first thing I could find - one of the many rusted hedgehogs lining the beachhead. I ducked under it, without so much as a second thought, all-the-while attempting to shrink myself down to the size of a mouse in hopes that no bullet would make its way through one of the many openings. In my attempt, I caught sight of a familiar object sitting neatly beside the hedgehog - a pair of round spectacles, broken and drenched in blood. I was shortly joined by Mason, who simply jogged to my position whilst callously firing his weapon in the direction of the enemy. “Where’s Johnson?” I shouted. Mason did not answer. Instead he inclined his head, nodding to my left. Johnson, or what was left of him at least, was indeed lying there. “We gotta make our way there!” Mason yelled, as more men convened to our position, each among them returning fire with the same tenacity as that of the enemy. Mason pointed towards a low, grassy ridge to the west of the beach. Many of our boys had already established a foothold there. That, it would seem, was the rendezvous. I wanted to agree, though try as I might, words could not escape me. Between the whizzing of bullets, the sound of explosions, the smell of death and Johnson... it was all too much for what Mason correctly termed ‘a farmer’. Thought it wasn’t until he caught me by the throat once again, this time staring at me with a look of pure rage, that I began to understand that there was hope yet. “Get the fuck up there!” He cried, “Move!” Taking Johnson’s bloodstained rifle, I turned on my heels and fled, hurtling through mazes of barbed wire and running as fast as I could towards the grassy platform Mason had previously indicated. He remained close behind me, taking shots with his heavy machine gun. Sure enough, we had come by a sward of tall, green grass which stretched out as far as the eye could see. In better days, one could easily admire the beauty of the open plain, though in that moment, the beauty of the beach was overshadowed with scenes of violence emanating from a network of trenches which lay just below. Regardless, by reaching that position, it had suddenly dawned upon me that we were clear of the black smoke which occluded our view of the German defenses. Our boys, of which were mostly American, had already flooded the trenches in great-a-number. They were shortly joined by myself and the gruff American who had callously pushed me over the parapet and into the trench. He followed, discarding his weapon in place of his handgun. As he took point, I followed too. I followed behind him through a dense network of passages and towards the sound of gunfire, taking my first shots at what seemed like a fleeing German guard. It had all seemed to be going well, almost uncomfortably well. From well beyond our position, Mason and I could even hear American soldiers breaking into song. Had it been over already, I wondered? As we swept through the trench, I was distracted by an ominous glint which shone from the sandbags behind the parados. Rifle in hand, I attempted to take aim, but I was too late. A German sentry emerged from behind the wall, aiming his pistol towards me. There was a loud ‘bang’. The last thing I could remember, was falling into complete darkness amid a sensation of excruciating pain in my chest. It had to be it, I thought. Death, such as it were, had found me at last. Though if I were truly dead, then how was I still able to hear the exchange of gunfire around me? How was I still able to hear the sound of song emerge from the west? How was I able to hear Mason muttering curses as he exchanged fire with the man who shot me? My eyes had opened once again. This time, to the blurred sight of what seemed like Mason wrestling with a man in a grey coat. As my vision slowly restored, I was able to see that they were fighting over a Luger, presumably the last remaining loaded gun they could get their hands on. I blinked, repetitively, until the image of their tussle came into full view. Then, in silence, I drew Johnson’s rifle, aimed and fired. Gerry was dead before he hit the ground. I half expected Mason to turn around and thank me. Hell... I had just saved his life. Instead, he just stood there... grinning. “Sun’s out,” he said, looking towards the now-clear sky, a sardonic smile gracing his blood-stained face. He was right, the Sun had indeed emerged. It illuminated the green fields behind the Utah beachhead in a manner which I had yearned to see ever since learning of my involvement in operation ‘Overlord’. I couldn’t help but heave a heavy sigh, turning to face the tumultuous chorus of song breaking out as the American’s sang victory at the beach head. Soldiers carrying the star spangled banner drifted past me, carrying their rifles on their shoulders as if mere faggots of wood. “Think it’s about time I ask again, Bible,” said Mason, “you a believer, son? But before I could realize what he was on about, Mason gestured towards the iron crucifix around my neck - the one which now had a bullet lodged within it.


There is a girl who lives in two worlds. The first is the real world. Half of her lives there. In this world, she is known as the woman who hardly says anything at all. That’s a lie. She is not known in this world at all. Instead, she is a woman who apologizes to people who bump into her. She is a woman who takes the coffee orders and accepts that her name is not Jessica, but Jennifer to most people. She is a woman who goes home at night alone, knowing that she hasn’t said anything important in over six months. But the other half of her? The other half of her lives in a world that she’s designed. In it, she is not Jennifer, but Jessica. She’s the woman who runs around and saves the day. She’s basically Superman, except she’s Lois Lane because Lois Lane puts in the work and what does Superman have except being the only Kryptonian on Earth? Superman might have superpowers, but he’s alone. Lois Lane has a successful career and she’s happy with the way her life is. But, Jessica always says what she means to people. When somebody bumps into her, she graciously accepts their apologies. She can imagine it in exquisite detail, how somebody will bump into her and then they’ll apologize. They won’t spill her coffee and rush off without so much as a by-your-leave. They’ll even give her a smile, and she’ll go about her day happily as if things couldn’t be better. But, she knows that things can be better. There is some part of her, the one that lives in reality, that understands that this is not what life is meant to be. She understands that life is meant to be celebrated with friends and family. It’s not meant to be lived in her mind, where everything works out exactly as she wants it to. She thinks about the This is Us character, Randall Pearson, and how he constantly imagines a life where both of his dad’s lived. She related to him more than she liked to admit during that episode. As he imagined a life where he got his happily ever after, she could recognize her own happily ever after between the lines. It’s all that she wants, when she thinks about it. A life where everything is happy and she is surrounded by people who know exactly what she means, because she never stutters or misdirects. She’s honest about how she feels, possibly for the first time in her life. This is a fantasy in of itself, and as she drafts this new healthy reality surrounded by remnants of the grim truth, she knows that it isn’t right. But, how do you escape the fantasy without creating a new one? Isn’t that what life is? A hope for better days, ones that you might never see but you cling to with all of your might? She doesn’t consider this for long. Instead, she lives her life, and day after day, she spends it walking to an office that doesn’t know her. She’s not an imposter in her own life. Instead, she is a shadow in her own mind, thinking about all the what if’s and what could’ve been’s, wasting all of her today’s on them. She knows that she’ll wake up one morning full of regrets and knowing that life could’ve been better. Life could’ve been the dream that she’d always pictured it to be, filled with more than just sad fantasies of the idea that somebody who bumps into her will one day apologize instead of her apologizing to them. On one particular day, one particularly gloomy day, she awakens to the idea that it is a brave new world. She steps out onto her doorstep, a brave new world in mind and words that she’ll say strapped to her back. She starts at the coffee shop that she always frequents, the barista named Joe standing behind the counter as he always is. “Hey, Jennifer!” He says. “The usual?” Jessica, she chants in her mind. It’s Jessica, it’s Jessica, it’s- “Yes, please.” The words spill out of her mouth, but she doesn’t let herself get discouraged. It’s just one greeting. It’s one word. Things’ll change. They’ll change. By the time she’s gotten to the end of her day, they haven’t. She throws her purse down at a bar stool in her kitchen, thinking of all the missed opportunities, the Jennifer’s that were passed around instead of the Jessica’s, the times that she wanted to have a coherent conversation with Lily instead of just mumbling her way through like she always does. Nothing’s changed, she thinks, and perhaps nothing will. Years pass by this way. Jessica spends a lifetime trying to correct people, trying to get the words out of herself like a lump in her throat that won’t dislodge itself, and maybe that’s what’s blocking the words or maybe it’s another excuse, like all the excuses she’s so great at making It happens unexpectedly. She’s walking down the busy street she always takes to get to work. Somebody bumps into her, spilling her coffee, and she lets out a shout of surprise. “Sorry!” They shout to her as they run past. “It’s fine,” she says, smiling at them. It doesn’t even occur to her until she’s back in the coffee shop that she’d done such a thing, finally said it’s fine instead of apologizing for something they’d done. “Jennifer, hey!” Joe says, as per usual. “Back again already?” “It’s actually Jessica,” she says, the words flying from her mouth without any thought from her. An axis shifts as she realizes what has happened. She stares at Joe. He stares back, though the confusion on his face reads clear as day. “Sorry, what?” “Jess-Jessica, that’s-that’s my name,” she tells him. She’s surprised by his reaction, smiling at her. “Well,” he says. “Better late than never, right?” She smiles once more, the world suddenly a much brighter place.