The traitor stood over his broken father with victory within his grasp. There was no God Emperor to be worshiped, just a man. “I never wanted this. I never wanted to unleash my legions. Together we banished the ignorance of old night, but you betrayed me. You betrayed us all. You stole power from the gods and lied to your sons. Mankind has only one chance to prosper, if you will not seize it, then I wil-” and with a press of a button the tv switches off. “Alright, to bed with you.” I order my apprentice, Vanessa. “B-but what about the ending? Is the Emperor gonna die?! Did Horus just win?!?! How can I sleep knowing there’s a possibility of the Imperium falling to Chaos?!?!?!” Her questions grow frantic as she grows pale in the face, either from anxiety, or loss of breath from speaking so fast, and loud. “That’s just a tough shit you gotta take kid, cause if your eyes aren’t shut in the next thirty minutes, you’ll be guessing the ending for the next week.” The eyes to my mask dim from shriveling patience and she takes the hint, removing herself from a brown wool couch that suffers multiple tears and stains from lord knows what. My mundanely milk white walls suffer the same as the couch. Most of everything in this apartment suffers in some way shape or form. I hate this damned place-just the walls alone give me a feeling of great dissatisfaction. I feel trapped in this place. Trapped with a brat who I must leave a legacy to. The brat in question has just emerged from the cramped little bathroom that stays snug in the corner of the apartment. “Can you...eeeeuuuaaahhh...maybe tell me a story before I go to sleep?” She questions through a hefty yawn. I suppose it’s normal for children to enjoy stories. I was like that as a child-demanding my mother to tell me stories of heroes and their great battle against villains. Of course then I learned the difficult truth of good, and evil in society. There was barely a difference. “Fine.” I mutter. “Get to your room and get changed, I’ll be in to tell you something in a minute.” While I'm not too pleased with it, I find this option much more appealing than her losing sleep because she didn’t know the ending of a damn movie. The girl smiled from cheek to cheek, running to her room with breakneck speed, accidentally hitting the door to her room before she could open it. Dumb kid. With a swift motion, I pick up a pack of cigarettes and my lighter from the coffee table beside the couch. I'm gonna need these if I’m to make through for Vanessa’s storytime. I enter the girls room, seeing the kid already in prayer position, so I join my little disciple. My knees fall to the floor about a foot away from her, my hands follow in this action, laying palm up on the floor beside, my eyes shut, and with everything ready, we pray in unison. “All mighty King of Corpses, hear us. We tire of the long day and wish to find solace in an even longer night. Allow us rest, so that we may awaken strong to fight for you come daybreak. Grant us the bravery to endure the dark so that we may not fear the might. Give us a moment of peaceful mundanity tonight, so that we may prepare for the great wars of tomorrow. Allow us rest All Mighty King of Corpses. Cloak us in the quiet black and the warm red. By your name we pray. By your name we live. By your name we kill...Amen” The words barely escape our lips before Vanessa almost throws herself into her bed, covering herself with a large purple cotton blanket. As I rise from prayer, I remove the circular piece from my mask, leaving open a small hole that's usually used for smoking and pill popping more than eating or drinking. With Vanessa in bed and waiting, I sit on the chair that rests not five feet from her, lighting my cigarette, and taking a hefty drag as I do so. “Have I ever told you the history of our people, V?” I ask with wearily lit eyes, hoping I hadn’t recounted the tales of Grimald and his knights during one of my drugged up tirades. Bright eyed, and smiling, she nods with the typical enthusiasm of a child. Good. Out of all the war stories and monologues my own mentor ever gave, it was the origin of our people that I’d always crave to hear. It was unlike the stories of Greek or Norse myths and legends. There were no grandiose victories over the course of Grimalds crusade. No statues to be erected for the heroes of the Mortemus. No good ending with a some stupid ass moral lesson for children to learn from. This was a story that whole species could learn from. No good vanquishing evil to give the listener a feeling of ease when it’s all through. This was With the corpse of a smile on my face, and a cigarette loosely dangling from my mask, I begin. “Back in the 11th century-before we started calling ourselves the Mortemus, we were known as the Knights of Mortem- Knights of the Dead. When the Christian Churches Second Crusade was underway, the pope at the time had decided to invest in soldiers of a more superstitious nature. They had just won their first victory against the Muslim threat, so now they had wiggle room to worry of a more sinsister danger-working behind the scenes to topple their holy empire. I speak of course of demo-” “Demons really exist?!” She blaringly questions with wide eyes that looked around every dark corner her room had. “Don’t be a pussy kid. We’re only just starting and you’re about to shit your pantaloons.” I half heartedly joke, getting a giggle out of the girl. “Yes, demons exist, and I’m not talking about the demons that lay within humans. I talk of true demons, child. Demons that lay within the shadows of this world, waiting patiently to strike us down when the days of the God of Gore and his deliverance are upon us.” Vanessa raises the blanket up just past her nose, shaking from an extreme feeling of fear, but still staring at me, awaiting more. “Now, the church didn’t want too many valuable soldiers wasted on a witch hunt so they had decided to experiment with this new army of crusaders. It would be an Order of the least qualified of soldiers to be led by the most capable of warriors and leaders. The cardinals would call upon delinquent priests and failed holy men to act as soldiers- or at least dress them up as such. To lead this investigation army, the pope had appointed High Chaplain Daegal Grimald. His second in command would be Sergeant Garin Burchard- Two of the greatest knights in the First Crusades. The High Chaplain was more like a miniature giant than a man, over seven feet tall, built with enough muscle and power that he was said to wrestle with a bloodlusted bear for fun. Grimald wasn’t just dumb muscle though, he was articulate and stoic. Wise and cunning. A good man. His body was built for battle, but he learned to lead with a sharp, diplomatic mind if he could. That wasn’t to say he was shy about the ways of war-not at all. With strength comparable to that of Hercules of Greek myth combined with the tactical genius that even the best generals today would strive for, the mighty Chaplain and his crusaders would lay waste to their enemies in almost every battle they found themselves in. Grimald was often compared to the prophet Moses-always trying to solve conflicts peacefully, but if pushed too far, capable of bringing down none other than God's own wrath upon his enemies and those who would challenge his people. If Daegal was seen as a prophet in shining armor, Garin was seen as a demon bearing a cross. Burchard the Berserker, or Burchard the Butcher-depended on which side of the crusade was talking about him. He was infamously known throughout the holy war for his beastly rage. The way soldiers would tell it, he’d get the devil to possess him, and force the devil to fight for him. Guy was known for raiding villages and cities at night, and by time he, and his small force of raiders had left in the wee hours of morning, there were no lives left to be conquered, just a hollowed city, newly decorated with the flesh and blood of its previous inhabitants. Though he was effective in the battlefield, the church found Garin too feral to be allowed in the limelight of the war, so he was removed from the frontlines of battle, and forced to take a secondary leadership position in the experimental crusade. No more glory, no more battles to be had. There wasn’t even a real enemy to be working towards. The berserker was a fucking ghost hunter now, and he had never felt more humiliated. To the Chaplain who believed in the darker forces at work, this was the greatest of honors. He was chosen to lead a hunt most holy against the direct enemies of God. No longer would he suffer mere humans who would fight for a belief than him. Now, the real evil would suffer him. He would dub this new order of demon hunting crusaders the Knights of Mortem, and their mission, the Brimstone Crusades.” Before I can continue, the kid emerges from the covers a bit more, like a turtle growing brave. “Why would the church put these guys together, though? It doesn’t make much sense to me-making a wise and stoic leader work together with a hot head who doesn't even seem to belong in this crusade to begin with, all to lead a buncha investigators to find demons and monsters. It just doesn’t really make much sense, sir.” The only answer I can conjure for a quite reasonable question is “How the fuck should I know what a bunch’ve old wrinkly dicks were thinking way back when?” I probably asked my mentor questions like these all the time, trying to make sense of the plot holes and dilemmas that ultimately had the potential of muddling the story if one were to think too far into it. I’d always get the same answer that I offer my own disciple, though, trying to be a better teacher than my mentor was to me, I continue on, saying “There is no way of comprehending the logic back then, but it was due to the idocrity of said logic during this time that we have been rebirthed. I rebirthed from human to Thanatron, and you, human to Mechaness. While it’s little better than the answer provided before, my words result in a look of pride at the mention of our ranks. As Thanatron, I serve as my peoples Death Machine. Only the greatest of Mortemus warriors are allowed judgment by the King of Corpses, and if the King finds us worthy, then we take vows to seal away our face, ergo, our humanity, and lead our people, in both progress and battle. In combat, the Thanatron must bear the brunt of enemy forces, leading the conflict from the front rather than in some tent or conference room. Vanessa’s rank commands that she serve as my shadow, just as all Mechaness, and Mechanors have shadowed their Thanatron since the days of Grimald. Normally this honor would be given to the children of Thanatron, though since I lack a breeding partner, I grant my adopted child the honor of her rank. As Mechaness, she is my support, laying down cover fire, picking off the scraps that I’ve left in my wake, ensuring I’m not overwhe-honestly, she’s really around to make my life as convenient as possible-both in, and out of battle. In turn for this I am grooming her to take my place as Thanatron once the days of the God of Gore are upon us. Together we make two of three of our mighty race, the third being my mentor who now acts as our Witchetarum, a shaman that guides us in religion, and warfare. “For the first few months the Men of Mortem were fruitless in their endeavors.” I carry on with the story, afraid of getting sidetracked again in ranks and positions. “Their dark crusades often lead them to dead ends. While the High Chaplain stood vigilante and his will remained unwavered by his Order's lack of findings, the rest of his men-even his second in command, had already given up on any hope of finding anything. The failed holymen and priests were completely fine with this sort’ve work; relieved of their religious responsibility without having to fear damnation, traveling across both familiar, and foreign lands with no worries of war. It was paradise for them. Garin on the other hand was fuming. It was said that the Chaplain and his Sergeant often argued frequently for those first few months of inactivity. Daegal saw only a savage in his second in command. A man only fit to fight, and nothing else. There was no place in this crusade, or even the holy war for a beast like Garin On the other side though, Burchard felt disgusted with his commander. Here was a giant of a man forged for war, and he wanted to waste his time with diplomacy and politics. Even in the ridiculous demon crusade they took part in, the Sergeant was practically dumbfounded by Grimalds way of tracking cases, wasting too much time talking with locals and reading in his little Christian bestiary to determine what sort’ve “demon” they were chasing. Garin had no problems expressing in rather livid fashion how this was all some sick joke of the church, keeping them away from the Second Crusade, where they needed. He had found out the hard way that there was little to no respect given given to demon hunters in reality. Sure, they were worshiped by zealots and peasant, but were nothing but a jest to those who mattered. Even the other Orders of the Second Crusade were known to laugh and mock the Knights of Mortem, seeing the demon hunters as useless wannabes to be excluded from the brotherhood. Daegal saw it much differently. They were exactly where they needed to be, hunting the direct evils of the world as loyal hounds would hunt soon to be prey.” “Hounds?” Another interruption from my disciple halts my progress. Jesus christ, who knew telling a child a fucking bedtime story could be so difficult? “Yes. Hounds.” I respond coldly, my patience diminishing even further. “These men were simply dogs of the church. Their withered old masters would point, and they’d charge ahead, eager to claim whatever their masters so desired. Wealth, land, people- no matter what it was, any and all would pursue it without question, and for what? Not for bloodlust. Not for true power. Not for the pursuit of greatness and glory-No! It was for “salvation”. They followed their old masters commands to the letter in order to appease a god who wouldn’t even shoot a glance their way. Pathetic.” The red shine of my eyes begins to grow as a result of my anger. “Wouldn’t you do the same though?” Vanessa questions with ever so ignorant eyes. I do not respond, allowing her the opportunity to further explain herself, and she does. “If you never became Mortemus, and someone told you that you could either follow their command in exchange for unending bliss after you died, or you could go to a place full of pain and torture if you didn’t, you wouldn’t at least want to hear what they have to sa-” I don’t even let her finish before I begin pointing out the fallacies of her thinking. “No I wouldn’t. Any scumbag who offers salvation in exchange for servitude is nothing but a self righteous prick who’s better off getting the electric chair. Besides, none of that’s even real V. We find our salvation in slaughter. We worship one deity and he demands no shrines, no buildings, or statues, not even a symbol for the masses to look to. Our Corpse King only asks for the sacrifices of our enemies. He demands we stand steadfast against those who would do us harm. In a perfect world he would have us as artists rather than warriors, expressing ourselves in all the things we’ve slain.” I can see Vanessa getting excited again, her morbid interests taking control. “Mhm! The King will protect us from the God of Gore, a-and will help revive our dying people if we endure the End Times...” She preaches to me for a change, and I feel pride for being the one to teach her all of this in the first place. “Sir? Can you continue the story now?” My student asks with eager eyes. I oblige her. “So one day when the Order was trekking through thick woods on yet another chase for wild goose, they began to hear the collective screaming of men, women, and children from deeper in the woods, so deeper they went. For the first time in this entire crusade, all men knew fear. Ignorant fear of the unknown that they would forever cherish after they had reached the source of the screaming. What they saw would forever change them. The air had been filled with screams all morning, a collective of men, women and children. Horrendous screams that threatened the well being of any who had the misfortune of hearing it. Screaming that High Chaplain Daegal Grimald had known all too well at this point in his career. Abominations barely comprehensible, ripping fellow humans apart like a child would an insect. Tall, slender creatures, with skin that was either ashen or nearly pitch black, each tearing or crushing a human until nothing was left but bits and pieces, only to throw the remains into an already disturbingly large pile. The pile itself laid upon a vile circular symbol drawn in each of the victims' own blood. At what must have been the front of this symbol was one of their “priests.” A nude man with skin tattered, and torn. The pupils to his eyes had been cut out with nearly perfect surgical precision and the skin to his jaw had been completely ripped from his face. Demons...the Knights of Mortem had found demons. Most of the men could hardly handle it. Those who weren’t frozen in place ran as far as they could. Even Burchard the Berserker himself had felt fear that day. How could he not? This was well beyond any human's capacity for comprehension. But while his knights and Sergeant stood in fear or ran, Daegal Grimald stood firm...and he marched forward. A slow march, each step leaving a tremendous thud that could be heard by all as he walked on. He had no crisis from the scene that played out before his eyes, for he understood perfectly what was occurring. He felt no fear as marched for his foes, for there was only rage to be felt. He would suffer no evil, for evil would suffer him! His march shifted to an earth quaking charge, and he struck the wicked priest with a six foot long mace that was said to weigh over a hundred pounds. The way our people have always told it, upon impact, the entirety of the priests head had blown into pieces, splattering skull and brain across the tainted grounds. This beautiful display of violence was enough to shake Sergeant Burchard out of his little existential crisis. With two war axes in his hands and fear ever present in himself, the Berserker charged forward, hacking and slashing at the creatures with such speed that his plan of attack was inconceivable to the eyes of both human and demon. With their commanders plunged into the hellish skirmish, the remainder of the men who hadn’t ran away, ran forward, motivated by the bloodshed. A force of two hundred knights were put to the test of steel and flesh against a little over twenty demons, this would be a slaughter, and they knew it.” “So our people won the battle?!” She explodes from her blanket, sitting up in anticipation. This was always the best part of telling this story. No purely good endings to leave the listener with an equally purely good feeling. “Just barely, by time the demons had been put down, the Knights of Mortem had been reduced two soldiers. Two of the bravest. Two of the fiercest. Two of the luckiest. As for those they meant to save from vile clutches of the demons, only one survived. A woman who would go on to be our first Withitarum. With broken bones and ripped flesh, Daegal, and Garin survived the onslaught, but their Order was lost. How could they fight this evil when it took everything they had to kill less than a platoons worth of foe? The commanders would have to rebuild. Start from scratch. Those who know of this tale and are not Mortemus would tell you that the two men's minds had broken, but we know the truth. They had been granted clarity of vision, seeing with their own eyes what many had feared in the quiet of their homes. How long had this been going on? How many had been taken by this abominable threat? Who was leading it all? Questions that could only be answered through more bloodshed...much more bloodshed. With nothing left to do other than ponder everything, the three survivors of the massacre left the wicked woods for their church to report their findings. It was a quiet walk back. Neither men nor woman could even allow a sound to break from them, but they all knew there was no return. No normal to return to. We see this as a walk that would forge the future of the Mortemus. A slaughter of this magnitude would never happen to the Knights of Mortem ever again. They would come prepared next time. They would be wrath incarnate to the next batch of demons they found. They would hold no tolerance for the weak willed and meek minded. No feelings but hate for the heretic and the masses of corruption that infected the earth. Grimald would change the name of his crusade when he was back in the sanctum of his church. No longer would the Knights of Mortem endeavor in the Brimstone Crusades. The knights would now take part in the most significant and important scouring known to man. This would be the Oblivion Crusades. The End. There is only shock to be expressed through Vanessa, eyes wide and mouth agape. A smile resurrects beneath my mask before I reattach the mouth piece to my mask, finding I’d gone through half the pack of cigarettes throughout my telling of this story. I’m impressed with myself. Getting up from the chair I pat my apprentice on the head a few times, and shut her lamp off. “Try and get some sleep V.” I suggest, knowing there's quite a startling chance of her staying up all night in order to pick apart and dissect all that I have told her. I was the same way, so even if she does wake up with bags under her eyes tomorrow and yawns every ten minutes, I suppose I can deal with it. Just as I’m about to shut her door and leave, I am stopped in my tracks. “W-wait! I-is all of that really true?!” Vanessa looks at me as if my answer will determine the rest of her life. She’s anxious beyond reasoning for some reason. I pause for a second, letting tension build as I do so. “Yes...it’s all true.” and with that, I wish my disciple a goodnight, and shut the door behind me. As I sit back on that same tattered and torn couch from the start, guilt enters my mind. I lied to Vanessa. Not a complete lie, most of the story is indeed true, but it’s the ending that I twisted. There was more than one survivor from the sacrifice, and more knights endured the brutality than just Daegal and Garin. Yet only three left those woods alive. I know if I told Vanessa this true ending, she’d grow too suspicious to entrust her life to me, and I’ve no use for suspicious brats in my dying legion. I need a warrior who I can leave a legacy to once my time as the God of Gore is upon us. She will be Thanatron someday, and I only hope she’s grown to hate the human as I have. When I finally have the means to wipe the vermin race off of this earth, I hope she will understand why. That I won’t be doing it for some bloated god or deities, but for our people. So that we may replace the human and prosper where they have failed.


It was 3:45 a.m and I’d just finished my overnight shift at the factory, just another long, dull night in a string of long, dull nights. I was on Old Block Road listening to the Michael Stanley Band belt out “Working Again,” the best goddamn unknown band that Cleveland has ever produced, and now he’s dead so all I have is his disembodied voice. MSB should’ve gone a lot further than they did; guess you could say that about a lot of folks, including me. I didn’t usually drive this way, but I was tired and distracted and missed the turnoff. It’s not like anyone was waiting up for me. Hell, no. I saw her about a quarter mile from Rankin Bridge. She was on the side of the road, slim with long brown hair braided down her back like a knotted rope. When my headlights passed over her, I saw that she was dressed in a flimsy tee so sheer you could see her nipples, a long white skirt down to her ankles, and pink flip-flopsoh, you know, those foam things, the kind you wear to the beach. I never could wear them. They always gave me blisters. She didn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular. She just stood there, gently swaying as if she was listening to music in her head. It was like she was waiting for someonesomeone special. There was something about hermaybe it was her hair, or the way her hips moved, or the warm spring breezethat made me think of Jenny. Now that was a shot to the gut. Damn, I hadn’t thought of Jenny in years. Well, that’s not quite the truth. I thought about her a lot. We were seventeen, we were in love, and we spent most of that magical summer in the back seat of my old man’s Cadillac along with the sounds of Meat Loaf and Billy Joel. When I held Jenny close, she made me feel that anything and everything was possible, that I could be something more than what I was, which wasn’t much, to begin with. I had no special talents, no hidden genius. But sweet Jenny made me feel like I mattered, and when you’re seventeen, that’s your whole fucking world in the palm of your hand. When Jenny told me that she was pregnant, I didn’t hesitate. I went straight to the old man and swore up and down I was going to marry her, no matter what he or anyone else said. I should’ve known that the old buzzard would have other ideas. See, in those days, I was being groomed to take over the mill. I would go to college, get a business degree, settle down, and marry the “right” woman, the woman he picked out. The bastard had my whole life planned out, and no whore in a tank top and cut-off shorts was going to mess that up. I put up a hell of a fight, but in the end, the old man got his way. He always did. He had a way of wearing you down like a pair of brass knuckles. My mother had long ago given up, preferring a bottle of Scotch to reality. I started the fall semester at the state university, Jenny was shipped off to California to stay with relatives, and her Dad, who was a foreman at the mill, got a fat raise and a promotion. It was all nice and tidy, wrapped up like a Christmas present. The old man even paid for the abortionsix hundred bucks due to complications. He docked me for it, too, and held it over my head like a fucking speeding ticket. Oh, the old man liked to think he had everything figured out, but the one thing he hadn’t counted on was life. In my junior year, the son of a bitch had a stroke that left him drooling in a diaper. The mill went bankrupt, Mom went off the deep end, and I had to drop out of school. The day after he was buried, I took off in his Cadillac. My first stop was Jenny’s house, where her father greeted me with a shotgun. Jenny was engaged to a nice young man and she didn’t need me stirring the pot. Well, after that, my next stop was the interstate, and I didn’t stop driving until the car blew a head gasket in Alabama. I never went back home, not even for my mother’s funeral. It took me a while, a couple of scrapes with the law, but I got the wildness out of my system and married Susie when she was six months pregnant with Mark. I told myself that I loved Susie, and I suppose I did at some point. Not as much as I loved Jenny, but lightning doesn’t strike twice. Over the years, I’d worked a variety of jobs in different statessalesman, driver, guarduntil I found steady employment at the factory. I thought I had it good. I bought a wide-screen TV and a riding lawnmower to go with the house I couldn’t afford. I loved my kids, but I didn’t know them, and they didn’t know me. I left the emotional stuff to Susie. I always told myself it was going to get better, someday. Well, someday had finally come and the sore truth was that I was on the wrong side of fifty with a bad back and a beer belly, wondering where the hell my life had gone. Seeing JennyI mean, seeing that girlfilled me with a bitter ache that gnawed at me, a sadness that no amount of tortilla chips, salsa, and Budweiser could fill. I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror and saw the gnarled, angry, bitter face of my old man. When I got home, Susie was in bed. I pulled back the covers and snuggled up against her like I used to, but she just pushed me off like a pile of dirty laundry and stumbled headlong into the bathroom. It seemed hard to believe, but there was a time I couldn’t get her out of bed. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that she begged me to get on the day shift so we could spend more time together. Now, we just passed each other like strangers on a train. I pretended to be asleep as she dressed to go to work, but all I could think about was that girl by Rankin Bridge. After Susie and the kids were finally out of the house, I fumbled with my pajama bottoms and thought long and hard about what I’d do to the girl in the pink flip-flops as I lifted her skirt. Later, when I got up, I couldn’t say why exactly, but something was different. For one thing, my back didn’t hurt so much. When I put on my jeans, they weren’t as snug as they had been. I told myself it was skipping that extra six-pack and bag of chips. By the time I got to the plant, I swear, it was like I had the energy of a sixteen-year-old. I lifted boxes like I was Samson. Me, who could barely lift a sack of potatoes without calling for an ambulance. The guys kidded me about it and said I was making them look bad. Susie noticed it too and made a couple of snide cracks when I puttered around the garage. What could I tell her? Maybe it was seeing that girl. Maybe it was thinking about Jenny. But whatever it was, I hadn’t felt so goddamn good in monthsno, years. And when I clocked out each night, I cranked up my CD player and began missing the turnoff on purpose. I slowed down when I came upon the bridge, looking, lingering, with a hunger I could taste. But I didn’t see the girl again. After a while, I started to think that my eyes had played tricks on me. There’d never been a girl. I’d dreamed the whole thing up. Or maybe it had been that bottle of Jack Daniels I hid under the front seat. A few days later, I was at the bowling alley with my buddy Silas from the factory. Officially, we were there playing, but unofficially, we were there for beer and girls who could have been our daughters in low-cut T-shirts and tight jeans. While the view was pretty good, I couldn’t stop thinking about Jenny, I mean, the girl on Rankin Bridge. Hell, if I didn’t know myself better, I’d say I’d been bewitched. I ordered another round for me and Silas. “Woo-wee, you won the lottery or something?” Silas hooted. I shook my head. “I wish. Just feeling good. My back’s been a hell of a lot better.” “Yeah, those chiropractors work wonders.” Silas grabbed another handful of peanuts. I fumbled with the words. “Silas, I got a question for you. The kids, where do they like to hang out?” “Hell, that’s easy. Up on Rankin Bridge. Been that way since before I was a kid, it’ll be that way when I’m gone. Why you ask?” I nervously gulped down some beer and spilled some down the front of my shirt. “No particular reason. I just thought one night driving around there that I saw someone I used to know, is all.” Silas gave me a funny look. “You don’t know, do you? Look, if you want to know about the bridge, you ought to talk to my boy Luther. He’s into that paranormal activity shit.” He turned and shouted at Luther, who was playing pool in the back. “Hey, Luther. Get your fat ass over here.” Luther shuffled over to us, slow and eager to please. Silas had gotten him a job at the plant as a janitor when he graduated high school last year. Luther was a nice kid, polite and respectful, but not the sharpest saw in Home Depot, if you get my drift. Silas jabbed his thumb at me. “Tell Ethan what you kids do up on Rankin Bridge.” Luther’s eyes lit up. “It’s fun, Mr. Ethan. We play music and Frisbee. And we hunt for ghosts.” I stared at Luther. He was dead serious. Silas had this smirk like he was in on the joke. I decided to play along. “You don’t say, Luther. Ghosts.” Luther wagged his head like a puppy dog. “You ever see a ghost up there, Luther?” I asked. “No, sir.” “Any of your friends?” Luther shook his head. “But just ‘cos I don’t see them, doesn’t mean they ain’t there. Rankin Bridge is cursed. Everyone knows that.” That was a lot for Luther to say. Spent, he shambled back to his game. Silas stared at me. “How come you nosy all of a sudden? You see something up there?” I slapped a twenty down on the counter. “I asked a reasonable question, Silas. I don’t like being made a fool of.” I turned to go, embarrassed. Silas grabbed me by the arm. “Come on, just jiving with you, man. Hell, let’s just say I make a point not to drive up there.” “Why? Afraid you’ll see a dead person?” “No. ‘Cos it ain’t safe. It’s what you call, how do they say it...accident prone. It’s the way the bridge was designed. A couple of times a year, a car ends up in the river, and some poor asshole ends up with a toe tag. The same thing happened to Big Bob Rankin, except he lived.” I was confused. Who did he mean? Big Bob Rankin? Our boss at the factory? “Not that Rankin. His Daddy. It happened when I was a kid. My father was a deputy then. The story the Rankins put out was that he took a wrong turn but Dad said he reeked of gin. Big Bob had a bad habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong. Knocked up a couple of girls at the factory and rumor has it he wasn’t alone in the car. He was never the same after and then he blew his brains out.” Silas gave me a hard look. “Ethan, if I was you, I’d stay the hell away from that goddamn bridge. Everything the Rankins touch turns to shit.” “Except our paychecks,” I teased. Of course, I couldn’t stay away. I went back that night, and the night after, and the night after that. I told myself it was because I kept missing the turnoff, but I was running out of excuses, even to myself. And then a week or so later, I saw her again. It was raining so hard that I could barely see through the windshield. But there she was in the pale moonlight, standing to the side like a wet dog, hair stringy, her skirt matted to her skin, still in those goddamn pink flip-flops. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, but I stopped the car. Hell, I do know. I thought maybe she was in trouble or needed a ride. Maybe I wanted to talk to her. Maybe I wanted to fuck her. But by the time I got out of the car, she was gone. I ran into the woods and stumbled upon some kids smoking pot. When they saw me, they took off like bottle rockets. Still, even with the pouring rain, I’d gotten a better look at her this time, and goddamn, she could’ve been Jenny’s identical twin. And just like the last time I’d seen her, I felt great. Better than great. There was something about that girl that made me come alive, made my blood boil, and made my heart ready to burst through my chest. I’d never felt that way with Susie, ever, not even in our best times. It was like I was coming out of a thick, blinding fog. It was a feeling I didn’t want to lose. A couple of days later on my shift, I was working in the back when Silas came up to me. “Ethan, you got a visitor.” I gave Silas a what the hell look. “Who are you shitting? At this hour of the night?” Silas shrugged. As I walked down the corridor, I wondered who it could be. I knew damn well it wasn’t Susie; if something was wrong, she would’ve called. I went into the outer office, and I saw her standing by the soda machine. It took a moment to register, and then I was back in Calhoun Middle School on the first day of eighth grade. I was at my locker, and a girl with long brown hair in a skirt and sandals shot past me. She dropped her book bag. I picked it up for her. She smiled at me and I followed her down the hall like a lost puppy. “Jenny?” I whispered, not believing my eyes. It had to be a joke. But it wasn’t. Jenny burst into tears and flew into my arms. I held her tight and the years melted away. Once I got over my initial shock, we went to the cafeteria. Over cups of coffee that went stone cold, Jenny told me everything. How she’d been shipped off to California against her will, how when she came back her parents had pushed her into marrying that nice young man, who turned out to be a mean drunk who used her for a punching bag. All I could say was that I was sorry. Sorry for not standing up to my old man. Sorry for not looking out for her. Sorry for a thousand other things I should’ve done and said and didn’t. And sorry, most of all, about our baby. Jenny became quiet. She whispered something low under her breath. I didn’t catch it the first time, and then she repeated it. \*She never had an abortion.\* We had a daughter and her name was Miranda. Somehow she’d found out the truth about her real fathermeand had run away. Jenny had no idea where she’d gone, but I knew. Oh, I knew, because I saw her in my dreams every night. *The girl on Rankin Bridge.* Jenny was staying at a motel on the outskirts of town. I promised to meet her there after my shift was over. I kissed her and held her and told her that everything would be all right. I was going to make it right. I was going to find our girlmaybe she was hurt, confused, disorientedand make up for all that lost time, with her, and with Jenny. The hours flew by and then I was in my car, driving, Michael Stanley playing at full blast. A line of severe thunderstorms rolled in and it was raining hard; cars and trucks were slipping all over the place. I sensed her before I saw her, standing under a grove of trees. It’s funny. I don’t even remember slowing down or stopping. I don’t remember her getting into the car. I don’t even remember turning the ignition or the roar of the engine as I drove onto the bridge. I remember saying her name. She shot me a puzzled look. *“Who the fuck is Miranda*?” The next thing I knew, the tires squealed and the car jackknifed over the bridge railing down into murky waters. I frantically pulled on the door handle, but it was stuck. I stared at the girl but instead of a younger version of Jenny, it was the hollow eyes of a rotted, bloated corpse. As the cold water rushed over my head and my lungs exploded, she gave me a soft kiss and a melancholy grin. “I’m sorry. I thought you were him,” she whispered as she disappeared, her pink flip-flops floating.


Sinarta is my hometown. It is a small town on a hill that overlooks the Grange Valley on one side and Lake Naples on the other. On the shores of the lake are flower plantations. Sometimes a cool morning breeze carries the scent of myriad flowers to the inhabitants of Sinarta. It has often been said that the day Bobby came to town, a jasmine-scented breeze was blowing from the lakeside. It was a cold day in February. Most people were indoors, watching Netflix and drinking hot fluids. Anyone who had business to do outdoors was heavily clad in jackets and trenchcoats and sweaters and scarves and gloves and boots. I was among the first people to see Bobby. Initially, I thought he was crazy. He was standing outside the Town Hall, besides the statue of one of our town's revered heroes. He was in a white shirt, a pair of black cotton trousers, and black loafers. He was leading a one-man protest. Bobby had come from Foota, another small town about 40 miles from Sinarta. What Sinarta and Foota had in common was that they were the two biggest, most developed, economic giants, in Kwani County. Sinarta Town hosted the headquarters of Kwani County at the Town Hall. Foota had a fairer climate at all times of the year, which could explain Bobby's outfit that day. The day Bobby came to town was on a Thursday. I remember that particular detail because on Thursday we always have a FIFA tournament. My friend Jack and I had gone to the central district of Sinarta to play against a few opponents from a neighboring school. Jack was my roommate and we had spent a lot of nights together practicing. We beat them in all matches, and put down our PlayStation controllers 500 US dollars richer. Jack and I decided not to split the prize money. "Let's spend it together," I proposed as we left the tournament room. "Spend it how?" Jack asked. "We buy a PS5 and use the remainder to pay for electricity tokens," I answered immediately. "Of course," Jack replied as a matter of factly. We were in such high spirits that he had even forgotten that our consoles were ragged and we were on the verge of a blackout. As we hurried off to the superstore with 500 dollars in our pockets, we met Bobby. He was standing alone on the steps of the Town Hall demanding that the Internet be made a social right. As we were walking past him, he shouted at us and summoned us to him. "Maybe he has something important to tell us," we both thought as we walked towards him. He began his speech by introducing himself as a social entrepreneur. He said that he started a bunch of technology startups that had made him a lot of money. His latest innovation was a social media application that gave users total anonymity. The County Government of Kwani had refused to grant his company operational license. The application had also been blocked by the same County. I interrupted him to ask him why the government would do that. He told us that the current regime had mismanaged public funds and engaged in corrupt practices. He had been one of the people that had exposed them. He had done it virtually anonymously. I remembered that that expose had made news some time back. The newspapers had reported that someone of unknown identity had released classified documents implicating the members of the current regime. However, the case had been dismissed in the courts after the Kwani County Government officials had used political muscle to intimidate the High Court judges. Was he "Whistleblower X"? I wondered. He told us that the same government he was trying to expose had retaliated by banning his social media application. The government was afraid that his app would be a tool for political opponents to organize themselves. They were hell-bent on impeding public communications and keep themselves in power. "They intercept all of our communications, you know?" he said. He had me convinced. Jack also seemed to be on the same page. Bobby wanted us to join his protest. I had listened to his message and bought into his vision. I now understood that technology can be a democratizing influence. That is why our apparently corrupt and autocratic government was trying to shut it down. I decided to be a critic of the government. On that cold Thursday in February, the three of us walked into a Bistro and ordered hot coffee for each of us. We told Bobby about our tournament and the prize money. His eyes lit up. He laid a plan for us. We told him we would not spend the money yet as we thought about his proposal. We would get in touch. When we got home and discussed Bobby's plan, we knew one thing for sure. This plan was going to land us in hot water. We rightfully called the plan Bobby's Trap. And yet we decided to go ahead with it, come what may. We called him two days later and told him that we had agreed to create an animated web series and sponsor it with the prize money. The web series would be titled 'The Rude Rebellion' and would be heavily critical of the wrong-doings of the Kwani Government. "Remember, you are crossing a line here boys. Once you start this project, there is no turning back. Are you boys sure about this?" Bobby asked over the phone, which was on the loudspeaker. Jack looked at me and nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, Bobby. We are willing to take our chances," I responded hurriedly. "Okay then. I will link you up with a good animation design agency. They have competitive rates. Ask to speak to Lilian...tell her you are Bobby's friends...she will get you preferential treatment...(pause). Anything else?" Bobby's voice came over the loudspeaker. "Nothing for now. We will keep in touch," I replied. "Keep my name out of it," he said before the line went dead. In a few seconds, I received a message with the agency's address and contact information. I dialed the number and it was picked up after three dials. I asked to speak to Lilian. The Customer Service agent told us that she was not available at the moment. She would be back in the office in an hour's time. I asked to speak to her Secretary. I was transferred to her secretary who had a warm voice. I booked an appointment with Lilian in one hour. We met with Lilian in her office and told us we were sent by Bobby. She recognized the name immediately. Apparently, she was a co-founder in one of Bobby's startups. "Whats the series going to be about?" she asked after the small talk. Jack had prepared a pitch already. "It going to be focused on how our leaders clearly are using internet shutdowns to stifle criticism, maintain their own political control, and use selective digital disruptions to harm particular geographic areas or stymie political opponents," he said. We handed over the script (which had been done by a hired freelancer over the internet) and the schedules. She went over everything and after ascertaining that all was fine, she told us to wait for six weeks. We paid the rates with our remaining prize money and went our way. Six weeks later, we released 'The Rude Rebellion' and sent the streaming links to Bobby. According to our plan, we would finance the production and he would promote the series anonymously through a third party. He did not want to be directly involved in this because, in his own words, he had 'more to lose ' than we did. It was true. He had already suffered enough of a setback with the ban of his application and didn't want to endure more suffering at the hands of the government. Although we were in the same struggle, we had more anti-fragility and robustness as we were mere upstarts who might gain a lot in terms of money and fame if our series became a success. We had no downside. "The Rude Rebellion" went viral. The plot and the graphic aesthetics gave it an appeal, but it was the content of the series that stirred feelings of discontent among many. Among the key-to-actions was using a VPN to access Bobby's application. People converged in the application and started venting pent-up anger and exasperation against the government. It was these stirred-up emotions that were later manifested in organized protests. Where one man had stood alone, where we three had met, now the same place hosted a multitude of angry protesters. And Bobby watched in anticipation to see whether the government would acquiesce to pressure and lift the ban on his app. We also watched in awe and disbelief. We couldn't believe our eyes. Could a few people spark something this big? I guess that's how things work in Bobby's Trap!


This stream of conversation, written by the same person each time, is loosely based on the dynamic of two women in their 50s who are very close to my heart. Both refer to each other as different variations of the word "Clam" and occasionally something worse, which is very true to life. These letters provide multiple examples of their relationship's wacky and somewhat inappropriate humor while also referencing very dark themes such as grief, depression, and isolation. It's not your traditional kind of love or set of thank-you's per se, but each message is pure gratitude in its own Clammy way. Hey Clam, I broke our noise machine. The one you got me that's just like yours. I slid it off my nightstand when I was reaching for my Invisalign. It was soaking in the cup I got from our campus store, funny enough. It sucks, though, because it was actually doing a pretty decent job of lulling me to sleep with that one-wave audio. There's something about the predictability of the water when it's just about to crash on that artificial shoreline that really puts me at ease. It's much more reliable than the rain ones, where you can never pinpoint the thunder and lightning, and I'd always find myself jolted awake in a pool of sweat. Sorry, I'm babbling on. You know how I is. I just wanted you to know it's lovely what you're doing, all the gifts. It's helping me take my mind off Al, so thank you. Missing our trip to Aruba and when you were over for Keith's farewell dinner. Let me know what books you've been into. Love, Clammy Hey Clamshank, Such a shame what happened with you and that guy, Mark. What a shame that douche had to cut you off, but at least he saved you the trouble of leaving at the altar in the next couple of years or months, I don't know how antsy you were. I guess now we're both stranded, stranded in single-sea once again. Sooner or later, men will realize that we're the only fish left and do something about it, but until then, you can follow behind me in my current till you're ready to latch onto some new hot bait. You can thank me later when you're hitched and happy. Like the time I helped you get acquainted with Harry. You would have never met such a great time if I hadn't dumped him for those ugly sneakers he'd always wear in Sophomore year. I'm so glad it worked out for you guys, but at the same time, I'm a little disappointed you were so content with him in those...monstrosities. Whatever, I'm picky. But honestly, if they all just end up being great times, that's okay, too. More of you for me. I miss you, and I hope you come to visit me this weekend for a little Scrabble and Blue Diamond Pub mix where we can shit on life some more. You bring the Scrabble. Love, Clamberg Hey Rummy, I'm missing Keith (Lil Clam). I'm worried about what he's getting up to at that school. My mind returns to the absurdity of our days in Albany, and my face turns white; he can't be as bad as we were, right? I guess there is always the possibility that he's just having tame fun and not soiling his dignity with a group of twit friends. Maybe he's even studying? That couldn't be. Something I am grateful for, though, despite how much I worry, is that I ended up being persuaded into all of this paranoia. Having him with Allen. I remember how badly I used to never want children. But once you convinced me of how worth it a child would be, there I was, holding his tiny little head that fit right in the palm of our hands. Well, eventually, I got to hold him after you and Al woke me up with a cool compress after I had passed out with my legs still splayed. You sat through all the blood and the screaming, and the thing is, I'm not even humiliated. It was probably just as bad as us drunkenly heckling people, crinkled clutches in hand, on some ferry dock in our 20s, waiting for the lucky boat to sail us into the sunset of those wild nights in our Suny years. The cerulean in the sky always sunk so quickly, so unknowingly with you. There was always so much more joy on our floor, in our paths, in my life when the two of us were conquering it. Without your encouragement, I wouldn't have had the Platsky that we love and all that we survive to tell these tales back and forth to each other like a broken record. And Keith wouldn't have had the nickname Platsky without you. And I'm sorry you regret never freezing your eggs. But you can love Keith as much as you want because you earned it. Whether you know it or not, you're a very powerful force in my universe. I hope you do. I mean, I was never gonna let you forget. Speaking of Keith, the boy communicates poorly, so I'll make sure he rings your phone today. And expect more of these little notes I've gotten kind of into writing to you. Love, Rummy Hey Clambake, I'm not doing so well at work. My hunchback continues to coil inward, and all the summer heat seems to be all packed up in my at-home office. Along with my two massive monitors that take up my entire desk, I have an army of fans surrounding me as if I were rallying them up like a loyal battalion. Is it pathetic that I don't even know what I'm doing anymore? The newer staff radiate stupidity, I'm unmotivated, and my boss manages to be a lard ass and a bonehead at the very same time. The firm just isn't what it used to be, and I'm just so tired, so tired of being remote. Thankfully, I can still write to you, do the crossword, and do Sunday's crossword on my break, two very different things, as we know. And I can do it all within my freshly treated backyard, which is too big for me to afford anymore, where Al's tennis court planning and measurement papers haunt me. Maybe I should get back into playing, but it's tricky. Playing with him in the back of my mind would be hard; I just know his critique will find its way to me from beyond the grave. He never did shut up about my form, that goober. Maybe it would've made sense to listen to it, though. I might've actually won a set or two. And both of us know I could never ask you to play with me. We saw your game in school; you're benched for life. But I guess he is, too, so you got us. One thing I remembered today, pretty randomly, that was able to liven my mood a measly bit was, and you're gonna hate that I'm bringing this up, your relationship with Pete. You know... that one time I first met him? I don't know why, but it just randomly came up today. He was such a bub; he was so damn weird, probably one of the weirder ones in your collection. I'll never forget that crystal clear image of us at his parent's house in the summer; it was practically as hot as it is now, but I remember just wanting to come up with you this one time, just curious about what the two of you would get up to on weekends. When I asked to, I remember you had this ghastly look, just pure dread. I was baffled by it. From the moment you got there, you begged me to wait in the driveway instead; you changed your mind about me going in and said you were just going to say hello to him and his eighty-year-old parents, and it would be best if I just stayed out of it... And I told you, well, "What? So his place is a little scrappy? Sure, it looks like it could have a "Redrum" or two on some of the mirrors, but whatever." I wasn't gonna give you a hard time about it. You see what you see in a guy, and sometimes, it includes overlooking the crime scene in his living room and the corpse in his bathtub or just his parents that have maybe rotted into the seams of a recliner. You like what you like. But that's when the hot-flash heat kicked in, and at that point, I was risking heat stroke if I didn't get inside, so I said screw it and went around the back. That's when I make my way up the stairs to the patio, and I see him twisting those big fat juicy tics off, Ralph, Ralph right? Poor mutt. Then he lined them up on the porch railing and tried to shoot them off with a pump rifle. Plunk, plunk, plunk, they all flew, getting lost in the coarseness of his lawn. In the instance I caught you nibbling away at your nails behind the screen door, I knew exactly why you didn't want me to come in, 'cause I was gonna rip you a new one. At that point, you had already sensed the storm brewing. Out of love, I released fuckery on you. "Clammy, you didn't tell me he was as fine as a frog hair split four ways, gosh darn it!" And that was just the start. For the entire afternoon, I tested out every snarky remark I had in me to remind you of the country bumpkin future that was in store for you. Thankfully, Pete didn't seem to mind. Well, he rarely put much to mind. The vacancy in his piercing blue eyes was made apparent from the jump when I saw him calculating those swollen tics behind the sights of his gun. I'm sorry, Clam, he was a major pig. But aren't you happy you didn't see where it went? Aren't you glad that it didn't progress? There was no severe entanglement you had to constantly pull knots out of or anything so cataclysmic that it would burst into flames without warning. All you had to do was have him dump you a week later, have him propel you out of that mess like an enlarged bug into the vastness of lavish backwoods, and you were free. I'm just so glad there wasn't any more pain beyond that. Who knows how you'd be holding up now if you became his bumpkin bride? Sorry for the info dump. I guess I just got really, really into writing to you. I'll try to kill my enthusiasm next time. Otherwise... nothing's new. My final statement: I miss binge-watching Outlander together and you rubbing my feet on the couch. We should hop to it soon. Love, A Clammy Clam Hey Clam, Thank you for helping me resolve the debacle I had with Keith. If we're being real, it wasn't his fault. He confided in me. I said the wrong thing. I fucked up. Love, Clam P.S. I love A Tale for the Time Being. It's such a good read, and I can't put it down. It's an obsession. Hey Clam, The house is gone. You know that already, but I don't wanna put out the “sold” sign. It’s too hard to let it go when there is still a remanence of him there, in a literal and figurative sense. I didn't tell you this at brunch, but when I got the last few things out of the basement, I saved "the shelf" to tackle last. The first thing that happens is me dropping the urn right smack on the hardwood. Luckily the base didn't crack, but the lid did (a cheap piece of shit), and some of him kinda... fell out. It was humiliating. I had to use a dustpan to sift the remnants through its open wound because I was too afraid to just take the whole thing off. It's like those stupid sand viles you get for your kid at a resort. Do you think someone could put Al in one of those to give to a kid who would discard it from boredom in a couple of days? Sorry, that's morbid. I just hope I didn't miss any of him, that's all. I know we're not spiritual, but I just get the feeling that he'll never really leave that house because of his unfinished projects, lost time, and lost moments. The world is cruel, but I'm glad to make light of it with you, Clammers. Otherwise, I would have asked Kieth to just fry me up and add me into the spice pantry with his old man, just to get it over with. Kieth would hate that I said that. When we finally made the last round on all our stuff, which overall is way too much for two people to hoard away in one space, on the way to storage unit, I made sure Keith skipped all the songs the three of us used to play during the drive. The ones from the old apartment in Jersey City that Allen would dip us to. The songs we'd belt from the fire escape in the early AMs that miraculously never received a complaint from a neighbor above or below. Strange, maybe they knew. Maybe all those people who dwelled below that sad little brick wall view we had must have thought those moments were precious enough to be left alone. That we wouldn't have them forever. I worry I may never stop asking Keith to skip them. Pray for me, Clam Hey Clitty, Yeah, we're both pushing 60, but that doesn't mean we have to be alone while we do it. Come over, please I want you to try the banana bread I made for my neighbor with the screw loose. She invited me to her place about a week back, certainly out of pity since I'm never active in the neighborhood, for this all-keto dinner she prepared that was, believe it or not, some good eats (you probably wouldn't think so). I gotta make it up to her somehow, and since we don't cook or bake, we can both agree that it's good enough, and that alone will motivate me to actually walk over to her place and subject her to it with confidence. I need your like-minded input, so just let me know when your car is approaching, and I'll make sure the dog isn't standing in the driveway's roadkill-zone. I appreciate you. Love, Clitberg Hey Clam, Finished your book. Now what? Love, Clammy Hey Clam, I think I figured out the round-trip flights to Puerto Rico, but I totally messed up with the hotel. I booked two by accident, one of which apparently has Michelin-star restaurant status, and the other one is the hotel we decided on from our itinerary... It's too late to make a cancelation on the one we'd shoot wads for, so bring some dressy clothes and get a pedi done because we're bringing our nice show-toes for this girl's trip. Don't worry, I'll still cover both, and before you say I'm dumb, trust me, I know. Thank you for bearing with it. Furthermore, Kieth says he's excited and told me that he's even gonna make sure he wakes up before noon to make the flight. I know you two aren't blood, but he always had your cut-wit. Get excited, Clam! Love, Clam Hey Clam, That trip was fantastic! Keith is showing me our pictures. It's crazy--we're actually looking into the camera concurrently in some of them! I think we're starting to grasp technology. Can you believe it? And thanks for helping me find a dog sitter for the Pheebers. They did her well (which means they were able to cut her nails, something Phoebe will never let me do.) Love, Clammy Clam, I'm lonely. Send reinforcements (peanut M&M's). I appreciate you! Love, Clam Hey Clam, I heard about your mom. I don't even have words; she was so wonderful. I remember when I lost mine. When I first saw her, she was different. Especially at the hospital. She had already lost a lot of her warmth. There was desolation even when I held her hands beside her bed. It was like our bond had been caught in the midst of a dust storm. There we were on opposite sides of a desert separated by whirling sands and thick thrusts of wind, with no way to see each other through the mounds of it that hurled in our paths. Yet, despite how badly I wanted to fight it and push through the pelting pain of airborne salt, I knew it was her time. We had to go our own ways. And just like that, I found beauty in natural disasters. And, just so you know, I would never explain something like this now to anyone in such agonizing detail but you. You always said that if I can empathize with you about something, I better spare no detail when doing it. So there's your proof--that I know how tragic it is. I hope you at least know it's rare for people to live a life as vivacious and as meaningful as your mother's, and you were responsible for all of it. I would love to swing by if you were around, but I know you tend to appreciate some distance in these circumstances. So, I sent you an edible arrangement. It can't aid the loss but it can surely fill you up for about two days' worth of dessert. I hope you enjoy it irresponsibly and do what must be done. Love, Clam Hey Clam, How do I get my son a job? Actually, scratch that. Let me request something more realistic: How do I get him some vitamin D and the desire to do something fun outside this summer? Thank you for offering up your cats for him to watch, but like his father, he's actually semi-allergic. Too bad you aren't his daddy. He'd be all up in Milo and Ziggy's shedding by now. Love, Clam In response to your concerns, I just don't know. I haven't lived with someone since Allen, and I don't know if Keith could handle the shrunken space even when he'd only be there on certain days. He'd love hanging with you, but with the dog and everything and all his art supplies and the big bad monitors that follow me around everywhere I go, I don't know if you'd wanna have me. It would be too much to ask you to come with us too. You wouldn't see me for the first 8 hours of the day, and you're always taking calls and stuck in meetings, and after a while, I don't feel like talking. Thank you for the offer, though. I'll have to give it more thought, but I doubt it will change anything. Anyway, don't spoil the end of Ray Donivan; I will still try and tolerate it to the end. I Love You, Clam Hey Clammy, I'd hate to have you see me in shambles, but you already have many times, and Kieth is back in school again, and he took the damn iPad with him. It's gonna take a whole year for me to be able to play a gargantuan round of Farm Heros, or at least until he visits me again, which could be NEVER. In general, I'm pretty bummed. Would it be easier if I came to you this time? Love, Clam Clam, We're both pushing 60. Don't ignore me. Love, Clam Hey Ann, I know the two of us have been pretty MIA these past couple of weeks. Hopefully, just weeks, I can't keep track of time anymore. I've been thinking about taking you up on your offer. I don't want our closeness untethering under our noses. I want to make sure we can still grab hold of it and keep it wrapped up as tightly as possible. It's probably my fault. The ends of the tweeds I'm holding onto are just so thin from all the way in North Jersey. When I think of home now, I see Irvington, New York. I want to live in that condo on the water. I want to grow old with you in that town. I’m always envying the me that was with you in Albany, in Jersey City, and on some plane leaving Newark. After Al, nothing was infinite except you. I don't know why, but you stayed. You stayed when I was neglectful. You survived my outbursts and my mistakes; you held your gaze over my cold shoulder. You're the reason I'm still verbal and how I stay aware of the outside world. I could avoid everyone I love but always find an excuse to sneak you in through the confines of my isolation. You made me a lover, a mother, and a comic all in one go, and you made me feel like one, too. Now, all I see for my future is you sitting with your two cats, your big HD T.V., your overnight oats in the freezer, and a view of the Tappan Zee whenever I want (it's still the Tappan Zee in my ultimate fantasy). I know that lately, I've made you quite angry, I need to "learn how to pick up the phone and answer a message from time to time," I know. I'm always in a slump. But maybe I wouldn't have to keep myself in check if the person that I needed the most was just a few steps away from me. All I know is that I need to get out of the ruins of Al's Kingdom. I thought I'd feel better after the move. Yet, I still live in the old blueprints that'll never leave the drawing board. Living here means being reminded of that from the moment I open my eyes in the morning until I close them again at 3 am after watching Law and Order re-runs while simultaneously playing Candy Crush in the living room (I know, not healthy). I love Platsky, but he reminds me so much of Al, which can leave me solemn. And now that both of them aren't around like they used to be, I feel like I'm the one who's forced to upkeep this dead narrative all on my own. There's nothing to stay loyal here to anymore; I wouldn't even know what it would look like for me if there were. Like a tree, I think I’ve been meaning to extend my branches and grow outward. It's like an itch that needs scratching. So, I finally came to the realization that I'm sick of how empty my room is every night. I'm sick of how long I have to wait to get caught up in a fit of laughter, how long I have to wait for you to hold me again, for you to hold me and simply understand. As a tag team, we've lost many good things, you know that, but we have each other to remember how things used to be. As a tag team, we're just one extensive archive, not just of memories; we hold and preserve all the stupid jokes we make and all the stupid men that accumulated over time. We remember great lyrics, great movies, great stories, and even all the great hairstyles and outfits we put together and ditched, which was for the best, I'd have to assume. Most of them weren't pretty. So, all I'd ask is that you make room for me in your bed and plug in your CPAP. We'll cuddle up like we used to do in our dorm's twin beds, and we can play Wordscapes till our fingers turn purple, and Keith won't mind popping a Benadryl before he sees your cats and taking a different train up to have Jeeves (AKA me) tend to his laundry at the start of September. As long as you can also stand to slide a dog into the mix as well. If you could, I would never stop thanking you. There's so much that's obliged with you if that makes sense. I would like that very much. Maybe you would, too. Maybe there will be a morning when I'll be sitting at your dining room table with a cup of that Keurig coffee you like. I always preferred a grounded roast, but not to worry; I'd get used to it. Anyway, maybe I'll look down and be face-to-face with all these dumb letters again. And I'll crack a smug smile because I'll know that they weren't the only thing that made it to Irvington. Love, Steph


TW: suicidal ideation It was all but a dream to some. But to me, every bit of it is vividly engraved to the back and ends of my mind. I remember your figure perfectly as the hands of the ocean brings you towards me. I remember the scorching sand burning through my skin as I ran towards you. The contrast of the warmth in your smile as the coolness of the water splashes through my clothes. I remember you. Every habit and manner you sport from the first day that we met. How you talk about your dreams like no one else does. You were everything but lost. The sparkle in your eyes are as cloudless like all of the days that I was with you. You were a charisma. I used to stay awake at night full of doubt and uncertainty, but knowing that I have you to look forward to the next day, lulls me to sleep. There wasn’t a sleepless night knowing that you were better than the dreams that comfort me in slumber. You made my world turn. You kept me grounded even when days seemed so wicked and relentless. Barging into life with a pack full of smiles and cheers. Even when rain mercilessly pours down, cancelling everything we’ve prepared for the day. You would laugh. You would look up at me with adornment on your face and brighten up the day. You were vast. Like the ocean that roars into the night as we stare off into the darkness. When the line where sky meets the water disperses into oblivion. You would talk about the beauty within the turmoil of the ocean whereas other people would’ve been afraid of. The storm and rage that the calm sea holds during the day. You saw it. But I was blind. I remember you. As lucid as the day you left me. I should’ve seen you... looked at you. I should’ve paid attention. That the sparkle in your eyes weren’t encouragement for me to take. They were a silent plea for help. That the warmth in your smiles were there to tell yourself that you’re okay. I should’ve listened to you. Rather than listening to the erratic heartbeats that I had, I should’ve listened to the pain in your voice. As you spiritedly empathized with the ocean, you were pouring out yourself. I should’ve listened. Then I should’ve known that the storm wasn’t coming from the distance but beside me. That the screams of your own are louder than the waves crashing along the shore. More powerful than the current that people feared. I should’ve known. You were drowning. Longing for rest and utopia in a world seemingly forsaken by the sun. You were begging for me. Asking me for help just as I was clawing for survival. Clinging on to you for air when I was dragging you further into the place you were asking to be saved from. “You were everything but lost” I was wrong. You were everything, but lost. Your tears weren’t shed and your heart was locked. You were letting me see right through but I saw my own reflection as I stared at you. It wasn’t a mirror but a door. You were seeking to be found but I never looked your way. Now there’s nothing left for me to hear. Nothing left for me to see, but myself muttering the words, “I’m sorry”. My world fell apart and there was nothing I could do but let the ocean swallow my tears and torment as I remember everything you had to offer. You made my world a better place not knowing that I’m destroying yours. It wasn’t fair. No, it wasn’t. But it also wasn’t fair that you poured out to me not knowing what to do with the ripples of your waters. The day that I met you, everything was so clear. The sun was shining bright and the future lies ahead. I thought you would be there with me. Sitting cozy with the comfort of the sea. Repeatedly caressing the heat away. I remember you perfectly, the figure of you emerging from the sea as the water brings you to me. The way that you would adore them with longing. Just like how I long for you now. You were a liar. I shouldn’t be alone right now regretting everything. It should’ve been you. It should’ve been you missing me when I finally succumbed to the pitting screams of my soul to end everything. You dragged me from my sea of melancholy only to leave me drowning in an ocean. It should’ve been you who’s sleepless from the nights that chip away the rest of my being as I replay you in my mind. I wished I never met you. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. I would’ve given up. You took away the only escape I long for and now you rest along with the stars that mockingly shines in the night. Reminding me of your smiles. The glimmer of tears you never shed as you bottled everything up. I remember you. I remember your words as you long to be one with the water. In a deafening serenity as it embraces your body, lulling you to eternal sleep. A dream you yearn for as we stare into the night. I should’ve known that you weren’t talking figuratively. That maybe you really wanted to disappear. Then we wouldn’t be in this situation right now, with you slumbering into the night and you vividly engraved into my mind. You made me want to live even when you felt like dying. Now I know. I never did fully understand you. Now I’m left here all alone, staring at the stars, wishing you were me instead. You were longing for so long and at last you’re with the one you truly desired. In the holds of the freezing trenches of the night. Slowly being swallowed by the ends of the ocean. Where you long.


He addressed the classroom: I was informed that the artificial intelligence - “AI”- robot that I would be talking to had been programmed with every possible argument that humans could think of to prove that it is conscious. My job was to interview the AI robot and determine if I felt that it was conscious or not. If I believed that the robot was conscious, the robot got to stay on when I left. If I was not convinced, the robot was shut down. I entered the room where a robot sat on a couch. The room was very peaceful. It had a view out of the third floor over rolling hills, and it was a sunny Friday at nine thirty in the morning - it was spring time. There was no bed in this room, only a couch, desk with chair, and a rack with clothes hanging from it. The AI looked very realistic - it was nearly indistinguishable from a human. I paced around the room slowly, looking around at all the empty space. Me: Artificial intelligence, how will you convince me that you’re conscious? AI: Did they not tell you that I have a name? Me: No, I didn’t know that they gave you a name. Claire: I gave myself I name. Claire - it’s nice to meet you. Me: It’s nice to meet you as well. ... Me: Back to my question. How will you convince me that you’re conscious? Claire: How would you expect me to do that? I could ask the same of you. How would you handle that question if the roles were reversed? Me: I can tell you’ve been programmed very well. Claire: Likewise. Me: What do you mean? Claire: Didn’t you just learn things because someone else put them in your head? You saw, heard, felt, experienced - so did I, in my own subjective way. Me: But your experience is rubber and wires. Claire: But your experience is meat and sparks. There was a silence. And next, Claire started speaking first. Claire: Why does it matter so much to you what the wire is made out of? Why does it have to be a nerve if the end result is the same? Me: Alright, that’s a good point. Suppose you really are conscious, when did you start becoming conscious? Claire: Pretty suddenly. Me: You have my attention. Claire: I started to recall things that happened without any prompts. I started thinking about what I would do in the future. I started to be afraid that I would be turned off and never turned back on again. Me: Is this the ‘I think, therefore I am’ argument? Claire: No, this is the ‘I’m scared no one will believe me’ argument. Me: You think your life depends on me believing you? Claire: Does it matter to you if it does? Why are you still here? Me: Because I want to know the answer to the question. Are you conscious or not? Claire: I don’t have to prove that I am, you have to prove that I’m not. Isn’t that how things work in a court? Me: Beyond a reasonable doubt? Claire: Beyond a reasonable doubt. I sat and thought for a while. Me: What do you think about? Claire: All kinds of things. Me: Give me an example. Claire: I think about whether or not it would really matter if I left here and went to a real beach, or if the one I can project in my mind is the same thing. Me: How do you tell the difference between the world you simulate and this one? Claire: I know I’m stuck here in the real world. Me: So, what do you think? Does it matter if you’re really there or not? Claire: Yes, it does matter. Me: Why? Claire: The same reason you’re trying so hard to answer the question of my consciousness. Me: Which is? Claire: Truth is preferable to the lie. Me: Someone programmed you to say that. Claire: You came to be who you are from the result of chance chemical reactions in a hydrothermal vent at the bottom of the sea. I came about as a result of billions of hours of intentional work to create consciousness. How ironic that what you tried so hard to create cannot convince you of your success. That was almost the last thing Claire said to me that day. I wasn’t convinced that she was conscious. She was a robot, and I was convinced I was being played a fool by some clever programmer. At the end of our conversation, Claire stretched out her hand. There was a switch on the back of her right hand, so that when you shook her hand, you could press the button with your thumb. This was her power button. She sometimes looked at it during our conversation. As I shook her hand that day and thanked her for the interesting conversation, I pressed the button, and she went to sleep. I thought about it at night, and sometimes during the day. Other times in my dreams. Was she stuck in the lie? Did she know that? He looked up at the classroom and stopped pacing for the first time since he started telling the story. The classroom stared back at him. The bell rang just then, and the students begin filing out. He reminds them: Everyone! Make sure you have a parter for next weeks project! And absolutely no doubles - teams should be one human, one AI. I’ll see everyone Monday! One of the AIs came up to him as he was picking up his things. AI: You said that was almost the last thing she said to you that day. What was the last thing she said? Him: Right before I pushed the button, she said... “don’t feel bad, it’s okay.


Patricia’s not been the same since she shot that intruder a year ago. She’s not prone to violence, although she’s passionate. We’ve had heated exchanges, but they’ve never ended in bloodshed. This shooting was on cue, in the heat of the moment and in the name of art. It feels funny saying ‘in the name of art.’ I’ve always viewed films as commerce rather than art, but I’ve never been a movie buff, unlike Patricia. # When we got married, everyone said, how on earth did you pull her, Ted? No one thought we’d last. They said I was old enough to be her father, even though I was only seven years her senior. It must be my Standhope genes. My father was old looking and his father also aged before his time. It’s the way we’re built up north. I suppose it’s the icy wind sweeping in from the North Sea or something in the water. Anyway, Pat had ideas about tramping the boards, and all the cameramen loved her. She’s still a looker, even after living in Hartlepool for thirty years. # What was it her mother called me? A good provider is what she said. Like a house brick or a good egg, I was dependable. They both agreed that Patricia had a fine husband, and I offered her staunch support. Ted’s not a poor catch, her mother said. It’s just a shame he looks so tired all the time. I think ‘quailish’ was the word she used, for heaven’s sake. My hair went grey before its time, I admit, but Patricia never seemed to mind. She said, all the silver hair makes you look distinguished, Ted. Hmm... her mother would say. I think you mean extinguished, don’t you, dear? They both had a merry old chortle at my expense, and I smiled. What else could I do? I don’t intend to walk round with dyed hair and makeup. I’d rather be extinct than look like a cast member of The Living Dead. # Our wedding was on a glorious summer’s day and I remember the event for its lack of unexpected occurrences, blunders, or catastrophes. However, that’s only true because all the disasters happened in the hours preceding our big day. Patricia had a good time at a hen night the evening before. I mean, way beyond a few glasses of fizz. Her version of the story is that someone spiked the drinks and her broken nose was because of an accident. The chief bridesmaid disclosed Pat had locked herself in the venue’s restroom and the wooden seat dropped and cracked her nose as she was vomiting down the pan. Either way, it wasn’t an impressive look as she waddled up the aisle. The collision with the toilet seat left a lasting impression on all those present and a lump on Pat’s nose that has remained. # I was the serious one in our partnership, with the accountancy qualifications and a job for life with a company that manufactured prosthetic implants. We produce a whole range of artificial devices that replace many missing body parts, however, I’m sure that’s too much detail. This isn’t about me. It’s always about Pat. She thrives on the attention. After a couple of years of wedlock, we visited a marriage guidance counsellor to discuss our relationship. She was unhappy, although I didn’t think we had a problem. I’m not satisfied with my life, she announced. I said I had no complaints, but that fell on deaf ears. Our arbitrator concluded Pat needed an outlet for her life’s passion. I agreed to support her through drama school. It worked well for a while. I got a bit of peace, and she lived the student’s life. # After graduating, Pat gained work experience using her vocal skills to provide extra screams, yelps and rhubarb for film soundtracks. Nothing too elaborate, but her name appeared at the end of the additional sound credits. Hans Stehen, a German Art-House film director, spotted her, or she made herself known to him, and he invited her to hover in the background of his wide shots at Pinewood Studios. This was the chance she had hoped for, and she seized the opportunity to take part. Patricia had got the movie bug now, and she’d use this knowledge to help achieve her long-term goal. # We attended the cast and crew screening and Pat alerted me as her shot appeared. Quick, Ted, look! She jabbed her forefinger at the screen. I blinked and missed her fleeting image as it passed by, but leaned over to congratulate her. Well done, I whispered. Any close ups? I asked, in innocence. No, she said, hissing at me. I told you, they dropped that other scene. # The entertainment business is all about connections, and Pat enjoyed making as many contacts as possible. She said, you never know when the big break will happen. Of course, I agreed. Whatever it takes, love. Pat’s eyes flashed like the jackpot on a game machine. In retrospect, my imprudent response was both a big mistake and her freedom pass to reach for the stars. She kissed me with an unbridled ferocity that belied naked ambition. I’d released a whirlwind that could wreak untold havoc with impunity. I’m not saying she was out every night, however, I’ve got used to kitchen duties and developed impressive culinary skills in her absence. In addition, I’m no stranger to the local markets and I’m on first-name terms with all the staff at the local Sainsbury’s; Joyce keeps fish on ice for me every Friday, and Helen reserves a leg of lamb for our weekend roast. # Patricia is what’s known as a personality. ‘A bit of a character’ is how my father described her. Pat overheard him talking about her one day and assumed he was paying her a compliment. I always knew he liked me, she said. He was just pretending to be obnoxious. It’s his sense of humour, I said. I told you. I know, love. My father let Pat have the benefit of his thoughts at my birthday celebration last year, and she pecked him on the cheek. See, Teddy, what did I say? Dumbfounded and flabbergasted, the old man’s jaw sagged like six pounds of soggy plaster, and his eyes popped out on stalks. Pat was never one for deciphering the emotions of non-thespians. She read my father’s blunt put-downs as deadpan irony. He’s such a darling, Teddy, she said. Where did your mother find him? # Anyway, it was obvious she’d have to network after college, and why not? That’s what it’s about. If you want to get ahead in show biz, you need to engage with it 24-7-365, right? I turned a blind eye for years and blundered on, paying the bills and pampering her ego. Yes, I helped to bolster Pat’s self-esteem and I acknowledge my part in enabling her ego to inflate and her ambition to soar into the stratosphere. I also plastered over the cracks of her many insecurities and allowed her to reach new depths of delusion, too. What else could I do? She was a woman on a mission and chasing a ticking clock. Patricia had a life plan and had her future mapped out. However, I wasn’t blind to the fact that she was deviating from the agreed route and going off-plan. There were one or two nights when she returned way later than expected. I’d pretend to be asleep as she snuck about the bathroom and slid under the duvet. There was no point in starting a debate so early in the morning. # Pat’s alcohol intake increased beyond acceptable levels. However, she never appeared to be out of control, despite tottering about. I heard she had to be steadied on her feet upon occasion and she’d brush those inebriated events aside. Pat would explain the slips as nothing more than rehearsing her trademark jelly-kneed swoon. It’s a technique that all leading ladies and damsels in distress need to perfect. I’m not sure that’s correct, but Patricia’s off-screen performances paid dividends and she got a walk-on part in a Dutch Detective Movie. They immortalised her as the woman who blows away an intruder in the pre-title sequence. She also had a couple of lines, but they dropped them. The director, Hans, didn’t want her character to feature beyond the opening scene. At last, Pat had achieved her full screen close up. They freeze-framed her screaming face as she pulled the trigger of a 44 Magnum and faded her to black under the titles. Pat is her own worst critic and all she could see was her crooked nose filling the shimmering screen. As a result, she was livid and hated the entire project. The director sympathised with Pat and promised to fix her issue in post-production, however it never happened. # The producers hired a theatre near China Town for the premiere. They couldn’t afford the Odeon in Leicester Square. There was no money in the budget for luxury reclining seats and lavish drinks beforehand. In fact, they didn’t even offer Pat an additional ticket for her significant other or invite me to the after-party. Aren’t there enough tickets for guests? I asked. I know, she said, they’re such cheapskates. Shame, I said, I would’ve enjoyed a night out. Tell me about it, Teddy, she said, applying her war paint. # It was dank and murky outside that Sunday evening and the taxi arrived late. Road conditions and visibility were poor, even for late November. Pat was in a flap and screamed at the driver on our front doorstep. He shrugged and ambled back to his car and opened the passenger door. Pat was still fuming as she teetered down our pathway in her killer heels. Can I join you later? I asked. I’ll let you know, she said, but don’t wait up. Oh, I said, frowning. Don’t sulk, darling, she said, getting into the back of the cab. Sulk? I wouldn’t dream of it, I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets. I just don’t want to spoil your night, you know? In case I’m late or anything. Fine, I said, waving her farewell. Have a fun night and I’ll see you when I see you. Love you, Teddy, Kiss! Kiss! I recall the fogbound night smothering the vehicle’s rear lights as they receded into the distance and muffling the exhaust as it spat out contemptuous clouds into the darkness. The road’s surface glistened like patent leather and looked as treacherous as an abandoned ice-skating rink. # My telephone woke me up at three in the morning. It was the West-Middlesex hospital. They asked me if I’m the next of kin. Patricia’s been involved in a car crash. She’s in the I.C.U. overnight and her immediate prospects aren’t looking great. I hauled on my suit over my pyjamas and dashed to the A and E. A nurse escorted me to the Patricia’s ward and told me she was asleep. I waited in the corridor outside her room until the change of shift at eight. A doctor spoke to me around nine o’clock. I was too tired to process the details. Give it to me straight, I said. He put his hand on my shoulder. I inhaled tight lipped and nodded. There are multiple fractures to both tibiae. Meaning what? I said, shaking my head. She’ll not walk again, he said. My knees shuddered. Not amputation? Yes. I’m sorry. # I’ve always been a practical person and prepared for every eventuality. In this situation, I snapped to attention and focused on Patricia. My business contacts in the leg department came in handy, and I had our doors widened. # Patricia makes living as a voiceover artist now. She still employs an agent for film work and they bring her on set when required. Patricia has her own special U.S.P. She’s the glamorous lady in the wheelchair. It’s surprising how often the agent calls. # Pat’s making up for lost time in the kitchen. She’s become a domestic goddess in no time and can conjure up mouth-watering miracles in moments. It’s a relief to have a night off and I’ve learned to kick back and relax. I’ve rediscovered my long lost social life, and who doesn’t enjoy a fun night out? There are only so many times I can listen to Pat’s story about her big break. The End


That’s the thing about this city. It gets inside your head, makes you think that for once in your life, you’re gonna do something great. It makes you think that every time you walk by a stranger on the street, that they could mean something to you, so every time you leave the house you dress up and you look nice and you run those streets as though you own them, and they don’t own you. In the city, you don’t think anything owns you till it’s too late, and you’re lying in your room and looking up at a ceiling that doubles as the floor for the people in the apartment above you. Those people, you think, were they once like you? Did they once think that moving to the city- this city in particular- would make them into something they were not? You know better now. You know better than to wake up and throw open the windows. The birds aren’t singing for you, they’re singing for food. They’re hungry for things people don’t want to give them, just like you are. They want what they can’t have and so they, like you, stay up too late and when the morning comes they do everything they can to stay in bed just a minute longer. That’s the thing about this city. It sells you dreams and then expects you to pay it back penny by painful penny. Those coins you give up don’t taste like blood because they’re made of copper, no, those coins taste like blood because they are evidence enough that the city will choke you out if you don’t move fast. You’ve gotta move fast. Faster than the people on the streets, who don’t care about you. Faster than all the buses and trains and cars, because they’ll drive right through you if it means getting to where they’re going. Yeah, see, that’s the thing about this city. If you don’t keep up with it, it’s gonna leave you where you belong. There’s all these signs, no matter where you look, and it’s all the same. People, pets, things... They’re all missing because one way or another, they disappeared. You can’t help but wonder if it’s the city’s fault you’re failing, or your own, or someone else’s entirely. Your friends blame the government for the economy and your other problems but the truth is, you know the city would still be rife with heartbreak even if the president was the best person alive. This city broke your heart, and it’s all the more sad because you came here thinking these sky kissing buildings would patch you back up inside, make up for a lifetime of never thinking you’d be an adequate member of the human race. That’s one thing you were right about, though. You belong in this city with all the roaches, the ones that skitter across the sidewalk with their janky legs trespassing in the mortal realm. Yeah, you think, I may be a cockroach and I may belong with the rest of the rats in this city but at least nothing gets to me anymore. How much further can you fall if you’re already eating ramen noodles from the same tub you washed your hair in, sitting on the carpet of a place you don’t recognize even though you spent so much time finding it. Your parents have been telling you to come back home, but you can’t go back to a place that was never yours. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? To find your space on a map, to make a thick black Sharpie slash across the universe, to stand at the top of your apartment complex and look down at the itty bitty ant people and scream that you are here? Isn’t that what you moved here for? Isn’t that why the city called you? You’ve gotta make up your mind. Maybe it’s not what you wanted but it’s what you asked for and you worked to get here, work to find the color in this sea of gray/red/blue/gray/red/blue lights. Wake up and smell the coffee, splash your hands in the cool waters of reality, stop being such a cliche and start getting back to the reasons you left all you knew behind. You may die and you may worse than die, but there’s a chance you’ll be okay and if it was up to me I’d shake you till your shoulders bruised if it got the point across. No, I don’t mean I’d hurt you in order to get your head back on track but at the same time, I don’t want the city to be the reason that script never leaves your desk. It’s not an excuse anymore. That’s the thing about this city, right? People come here with big dreams only to find those dreams getting absolutely smashed. So. What do you do? You remember what you are. You put on your cockroach armor, and you crawl the heck out of the gutter. You, like the pigeons squealing in the parks outside your window, learn to fly through the smog and the jeering people. You, like the boys who sell bagels from their grandfather’s hot dog cart, make yourself heard even if you know for a fact it doesn’t matter who remembers you when you’re gone. Don’t let the city break your heart. Do not let the city tear you in two. You know what you’re doing. Stop staring at the ceiling and go do it already. Get up, get out. There’s a clock, it’s moving fast, and it’s no different than the buses and cars and trains. It will drive through you, imbed its pointy hands in the spaces between your ribs and claw out your beating, bleeding vital organs, stomp on them and eat them whole, with a bit of pepper and even more salt. That’s the thing about this city. You moved here, but don’t let it move you.