James awakens and sits straight up, “Fuck.” Sprinting straight to the garage, he can already hear the small sad meowing echoing throughout the house. “Well if you wouldn’t always try sneaking into the garage every chance you get, you wouldn't be freezing your tail off in the middle of the night.” “Meow” “Well I didn't think I had to tell you that you wouldn't be able to get back in. If you can't get out, you can't get in. Clown.” “Meow” “Get inside.” Cat prints covered James’s Ford Explorer in the garage. Windom must have been running a 5K on the vehicle from that amount of prints that were trailing in every way imaginable, like the opening scene to an old detective movie from the 80s. Once inside, Windom scurried across the house out of sight, out of mind. James crawled back into bed and looked at the time. 3 AM. Great. Let's hope we can get some more sleep before work. James glanced at the bedroom door to see a shadow quickly fade away from the slight crack that is left open for the cats to enter and leave the room at will. What was that? Naw, I must just be seeing things. I’m the only one home. That kind of looked like someone standing there though. It has to just be my eyes playing tricks on me. Windom came into the bedroom and curled up on the end of the bed falling asleep instantly, followed by James shortly after. The next day, James came home from work back to his empty house only to find dirty footprints all around the house. The tracks started outside of James' bedroom facing the door, turned around and continued down the hallway, up the stairs stopping outside of James’s roommate Alex’s room. James could see cat prints leave from there and disappear. “What is happening?” “Meow” Windom said with almost a tone of pride. “Who was in the house?” “Meow” “Why am I talking to a cat expecting a response? I really am losing it.” James turned around and started down the stairs to get the broom, “Because you’re the next on my list.” James stopped mid stride, heart racing, the hair on the back of his neck was on end. Turning back only to see Windom sitting near the door staring at James, James walks towards Alex's door knocking. Maybe Alex came home, maybe he's sick today. No answer as James feared. He opened the door to an empty room consisting of only a dresser, bed, and night stand. I need to get out of this house. Lets get downstairs, throw my shoes on, and just leave. I must not have gotten enough sleep last night. As James was returning home from his walk the sun was starting to set. The shadows from the trees started to stretch across the front yard and driveway. It was nice and warm. Your typical cul-de-sac scene playing out, kids screaming with laughter in the backyard of one of the houses, the smell of meat grilling behind another house. When Rachel approaches James. “Hey James.” “What's goin on Rachel? How have you been?” “Great, well, could be better. Have you heard or seen from Francis? Francis is James’s immediate neighbor to the left of his house, who had been off the grid for a couple of days which was slightly strange for Francis as James would see him once a day, on the odd occurrence every other day. “I haven't seen him for a couple of days now. Why what did you need?” “Well he invited me over for dinner tonight but never answered the door. His car isn't in his driveway either.” “Well maybe he ran to the store. I mean, to be fair, he is slightly elderly, maybe he forgot and went to visit family. “James, he's 50. I wouldn't count that as elderly.” “I mean, kinda. How about this, I’ll keep an eye out and reach out to you if I see him. If it gets to be a few more days without seeing him, I'll reach out to the Sheriffs and report him missing.” Rachel departed nervously without saying bye or see you later as she normally did. James wasn't too sure why Rachel was so nervous, they must have been closer than James remembered. James came through the front door and Alex was home. Alex usually came home from work and went straight to his room to sleep and wake up stupid early for work. James knocked on Alex’s door. “Bro you awake?” Alex must be asleep. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. James ate some leftover sloppy joes that had been in the fridge, then went to shower and get ready for bed. James hopped into the shower and started washing his hair, he could sense something was off and opened his eyes to find Francis standing in his bathroom. “Uh Francis, what are you doing here?” A deep scratchy voice that did not belong to Francis answered “This is what I wanted the whole time.” James remembered this voice, it was the same voice from the hallway. “Francis, this really isn't funny. ALEX COME DOWN HERE NOW!” “Alex has already been taken care of. He won’t be coming to your rescue.” “How did you get in the house? The security system is armed.” “James, YOU let me in the house. “I...... No, I would've remembered letting you in my house Francis.” Francis reached for the light switch and turned the light off in the bathroom. James, panicking, turned the light back on to only find Windom sitting there. “Meow,” “Fuck no.” James snags a towel off of the floor and attempts to exit the bathroom. Before he can exit the bathroom, Francis reappears grabbing James by the arm and pulling him back into the bathroom. Now James isn’t anything close to a fighter by any means, but he tried to be one tonight. James threw the hardest right hook that he could but made contact with the threshold feeling a pop in his knuckle followed by immense pain. Francis with a youth and strength that hasn’t been seen in a long time picked up James with no effort and threw him to the ground. Francis proceeded to punch James in the face and upper body with force that James could only imagine Apollo felt from Rocky. James was pinned and unable to get out from under the boulder that was Francis. He could feel the consciousness start to fade, when he heard “FRONT DOOR, DISARM SYSTEM NOW” followed by the loud obnoxious beeping that he has heard when he forgets to disarm the security system when he takes the trash out. Someone was in his house, but who? No one else lived here and Alex was, as Francis said, “Taken care of.” A grunt was heard followed by a dull thud and a shriek, as the weight was lifted off of James and suddenly he could breathe and sit up with ease. Rachel had struck Francis with a baseball bat that James kept near the front door. “Holy shit, James are you ok?” “Who... who is that?” James asked as his sight was starting to come into focus. “I’m glad I got here when I did. I heard yelling from the cul-de-sac and knew something was wrong.” Rachel said with a slight chuckle. “Francis must have been some..... Creature. A shapshifter maybe? I dont know, all I know is it was just Windom and I in the bathroom, then Francis appeared. Speaking of which, where did he go?” “I hit him and he took off towards the door. I am not sure where he went. Are you ok?” “Nothing some whiskey can't fix. Thank you.” Windom and Francis were never seen after that night. There were some reports that the County Sheriff had received for what seemed like years, of a man assaulting people in their houses and places of business after they had let a stray cat in to feed it and give it water. No one is really sure if the Francis and Windom duo had left town or someone had finally put an end to their rampage. All James knew was he was happy that he didnt have to worry about a elderly man staring at him while he slept.


There was another crew before us. Four men and one woman. They were meant to lay the foundation of the moon base, but soon after their arrival HQ lost contact with them, one by one. HQ had cameras set up there long before crews were sent up, but they were old, black and white; not much could be made out. One minute they were there, shoveling moon sand, carrying bags of cement, doing the work they were paid to do; the next they weren’t. It as though something plucked them out from space. They needed that base built and they sure as hell weren’t going to wait out to figure out what happened. Accidents happen in space. People forget to re-fill their O2 tanks and suffocate, some even forget where they’re at and get lost. They were just another statistic. After a while, HQ decided to send another crew up. My crew. We were only three guys. Jerry, Chad, and me, Michael. Our ship landed near the last crew’s. It still remained like a beacon of the past, looming over the gray landscape. Jerry went to check out their ship, while Chad and I went to worksite. They had made a lot of progress. Bags of cement and jugs of water still sat in the gray sand nearby, and there were long steel poles, gleaming under our flashlights, laid out for the skeleton of the base. The foundation was sound and solid, though only partially complete, except there were weird marking across it, as though some sort of bird had crossed it before it dried. Could’ve been a mistake by the crew, but it didn’t really matter at the end of the day. “Jerry, how’s the ship?” I asked in the short-wave intercom. After no response, Chad said: “Hey, Jerry, everything okay in there?” We turned from the site and stared at the looming ship. It wasn’t large. A normal landing ship. One level. No artificial gravity. Jerry couldn’t have gotten lost getting to the ship, or somehow fell inside and hurt himself. I looked to Chad, he shrugged, then over the flat, gray landscape, then the ship. The freeze dried food hardened in my stomach. “Jerry,” I said into the intercom, “we’re coming to the ship.” Chad went in first and it seemed as soon as he was inside, he said, “Michael, get in here.” I climbed the small ladder inside as quickly as my suit would allow and once my head was through the portal, I understood why Chad sounded urgent. I stopped midway in. The walls, the ceiling, the floor was covered in dark gray etchings of long, scratchy words. It wasn’t English -- it wasn’t any language I had ever seen. I tried to sound some of the words that looked sort of like English in my head, but it only made my temples throb. The scratchy language covered the entirety of the ship, swirling around until there wasn’t empty space left. Chad looked down at me. “What do you think this is?” “I don’t know... It’d guess it’s old, whatever it is. Look, some of the scratches are rusted.” “That doesn’t make sense -- this ship hasn’t been here that long. How could it be rusted?” Chad reached and scratched one of the coppery patches. It flaked away, revealing smooth steel underneath. He stumbled, the back of his helmet hitting off the low ceiling. “Shit, that’s not rust! It’s dried blood!” “Let’s return to the ship. HQ had to know about this.” I pushed myself out from the ship, my boot slipped and I fell on my stomach. Tufts of grayness enclosed around my helmet. “Shit, Chad, can you help me up?” There wasn’t a response. “Chad?” I crawled to the ladder and pulled myself up to my feet. Through the open hatch, the ship was empty. I turned to find nothing but desolation. “Chad?” I said into the intercom once more, and when I received no response, I ran to our ship and sealed the door. As I opened a long-wave relay to HQ, I stared out the small window in the hatch. “HQ, this is Michael Browny of US-SKEW 2, over. Repeat. This is Michael Browny of US-SKEW 2, over. Chad Young and Jerry York have disappeared, over. Chad Young and Jerry York have disappeared.” It would take over fifteen minutes for HQ to receive the relay. I waited, looking outside. Impressions appeared in the sand, like bird’s feet coming down before taking flight again. But, there weren’t bodies, there wasn’t anything, like an invisible thing hopping across the land. One after another until they stopped before the ladder to the ship. The inside of my suit sweltered with heat and my wide eyes stung from sweat. I heard scratching from above and behind and quickly I turned to see the same scratchy words appear inside the hull, rising out from the steel as if it was water. I glanced outside again, quick, and saw a faint form. Needle-thin arms, legs; tattered cloth hung over gnarled, gray flesh, a beaked head sticking out from beneath a hood covered in scratchy words. Then it was gone, vanishing into the darkness of space. The moon wasn’t inhabited as we were lead to believe. “Abandon the mission, US-SKEW 2,” HQ’s voice said over the intercom, making me jump, “Abandon the mission, over.” Before my mind registered what was happening, I was flipping switches and pressing buttons and the hum of the ship rattled my brain. I refused to look outside once more, refused to stare at the woods etched into metal by the things that seemingly passed through like a ghost. The ship rose and rose into the blackness of space towards home, but what I realized as the ship left the moon’s orbit, was that the scratchy words weren’t only on the ship but cut into my suit and I horrifyingly wondered if once I took off my suit, would they be on my flesh, too? If you like what you've read, consider subscribing to my subreddit where you can read more of my work: .


(This is a repost because I don't know how to follow rules) I dream of being in her arms. I don’t know who she is, but I love her more than I can describe. I dream of the softness of her torso, the curves of her body -- the love reflecting from the flora-filled deep green ponds of her eyes. So deep that I see nothing but the eyes and the skin of her arms as they wrap around me in their embryonic embrace. Night after night I see her, feel her. I dream of the safety I feel in her arms. The tenderness; the feeling of someone caring for you more than you care for yourself. I also dream of the intensity of it all, sometimes waking in the cold of night to the cold of sweat puddles on my sheets. I dream of those giant juniper eyes staring down at me -- never blinking. Always the eyes, never anything else. When I gaze into them, I see only the rippled reflection of myself in the water -- what I could be. I see different iterations of myself in the future and the timelines that lead to them. I see far-flung adventures, successful careers, homelessness, bad investments, crime, great friendships created and destroyed, birth, love, family holidays -- a life and lives I could never dream of. And her eyes. Always her eyes. In every image she was there -- staring back at me looking in, mocking me. Not with any expression in her face, for she had none (save for the eyes, always the eyes), but by her mere existence. I try to look past her, look to my future and my life, but she remains. The eyes, always the eyes. Night after night I see her, feel her. When I am awake, it seems like there is something missing, something I’m forgetting or not paying attention to. People say I have shifty eyes. I get inquisitive looks from women on the street, in stores, at work. None of them are her, though. I want to explain, make someone understand, share my life with them. I understand now that no one but her will ever understand. When I am awake, all I can think about is her -- and her eyes, always the eyes. Green is my favorite color, specifically the juniper shade. I think I’ve always liked it. Or hated it. Coworkers and friends have asked why -- I tell them it just speaks to me. When I am awake, I stay in my apartment when I’m not at work, lest she see me in the waking world; I fear what her eyes would bring mine in this reality. Truthfully, I wish she would come knocking soon -- I expect she will in the future but the nights are so very cold here. Night after night I see her, feel her. And when I finally meet her when I am awake, I shall not be afraid. I have seen in her eyes what I could, should, and would be. I have seen in her eyes what I truly fear. Myself.


On a walk through the woods, you see a stream that wasn't there yesterday. On the other side, you're pretty sure that owl is staring right at you. It is a bigger owl than regular owls, or at least, you think so. You can't remember the last time you've seen an owl in person. In birdson. Would it be 'in person' if it is a bird? You are a person. You don't know and wonder why you are thinking about that. There is a stream here that wasn't here yesterday. Why do you focus on the things that don't matter? Something weird is going on. It's probably because your mother constantly...no, stop. Focus. On. The. Owl. "Hey there." The owl turns his heads. Her head. You don't know. You turn your head to the right in response. "Hoo...Hoo." You sound stupid. And more like a dove than an owl. "Not who. When." Did that owl just ask you a question? Is the fact that it asked a question more interesting than the fact that it spoke? That owl just asked you a question. With a normal, human voice. What is that called when animals have human characteristics? Peoplefied? No, it is something like that. This is one of those mother-things, isn't it? The owl. "Um. When what?" You notice your head is still turned to the right. Straighten. No, that's too far left. Straight. The owl straightens its head. No, that's too far right. "Not what. When." "Ok yeah, but what does that mean? When what? What happens when?" You tilt your head. The owl tilts her head. His head. You notice the stream isn't really a stream. It isn't...streaming. It is just water that's not moving. Not like a pond or puddle. It is water that's frozen. Not like ice, but frozen in time. How long has it been that way? When. Has it been that way since you noticed it? You don't remember. You were looking at the owl. When. You straighten your head. "When." You step closer to the owl. A twig snaps, a leaf crunches. Your feet are heavy. You step closer to the owl. The stream is still between you, not moving, frozen but not frozen. Personify. No, but that is closer. That is an almost correct thing. You are almost correct. Your mother said something. This makes sense. You step closer to the owl. The owl is in the same place as it was. You are in the same place you are in. "When" "When what?" Anthropomorphize. That is correct. You are correct. Your mother. You step closer to the owl. "When." You reach the water's edge. This stream was not here yesterday. How do you know that? Were you here yesterday? You step into the stream. It is flowing. "When." "When." You respond. Maybe it is a game. "When" you repeat. You step further into the steam. You reach out to the owl. "When." "Come find me when you wake up." You sit straight up, in your own bed. The light from the hall seeps under your locked door and you can hear people arguing on the other side. A quiet breeze flows through your open window, gently causing your curtains to float, ever so slightly, in and out. You reach up to shut the window. You shudder and realize that you are freezing. Under your blankets and quilts, you shiver in your pajamas. Your socks are soaked.


The cool morning air burned Tessa’s throat. Wyvern never offered to slow down for her, but then again, she never actually fell behind. She panted for breath as she trotted after him under the dancing, waving branches of trees full of bright green leaves, bleeding the golden light of the rising sun through the cracks in the canopy. Tessa pulled in a breath and skipped over a root. “Wyvern...” She wore the breeches and tunic he had sewn for her and he always tied her flowing locks of auburn hair with a length of string, so that her long pony-tail waved behind her like a tail. She had to practically run in her little animal-skin boots to keep pace with his long strides. He peered down at her from beneath bushy grey eyebrows. His face was framed by long, tangled grey hair and a long beard that cascaded down his chest. He wore his heavy hooded cloak and carried a tall, twisted walking stick. “What does a robin look like?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the mulch underfoot to keep from tripping. “A robin is a red-chested bird,” he said. His voice rumbled softly on the air, like a distant peal of thunder. “The boy said that the first person to see a robin was the first person to see spring,” Tessa said, an unspoken question in her voice. “The boy?” Wyvern repeated. “From Out There,” she reminded him. “The one who wasn’t afraid of me.” She had told him of the boy more than once. She didn’t even know his name, but he was the only one from her village who had not called her a witch. She wasn’t a witch. She’d told them: she just heard voices sometimes. But they hadn’t listened. That was before she ran away. She no longer called the place “my village.” Everything beyond the woods was just “Out There.” “Is it true?” she pressed. “That to see a robin first is to see spring come?” Wyvern laughed at her childishness. She adored his laugh. It was a booming, powerful, happy sound that made her want to laugh right along with him. “Of course not,” he chuckled, “That’s an old myth. The trees tell us when spring has come.” “The trees?” Tessa had to jump over tree roots that Wyvern barely lifted his feet to avoid. “The trees.” He nodded, almost solemn. “They talk to us?” She remembered frowning, feeling afraid. What could the trees want to say to me? “To some of us.” Wyvern smiled. “But to hear them speak, you have to want to listen.” He said the words like a secret. Suddenly, she wanted to hear them -- more than she’d ever wanted anything. “I want to listen,” she said in earnest. He laughed again, which made her smile. “All in good time, Tessa.” ### For a year, Wyvern taught Tessa about the trees’ voices. She listened for them every day, even as autumn faded to winter and they lost their leaves and the soft rustle of the woods grew dull and brittle with cold. She stepped into her eighth winter, bright-eyed and determined to be worthy of the trees, only to storm back to the cabin she and Wyvern shared every night when it grew too cold. Her fingers, nose, and cheeks would be tingly and the rest of her numb before she’d scurry back, weary and disappointed. Wyvern always asked the same question. “No whispers today?” Tessa would just shake her head. “Maybe you’ll hear them tomorrow,” he’d say. And then he’d fall back asleep in his big, worn chair in front of the fire, and Tessa would crawl into the little bed behind the curtain at the back of the hut and be asleep as soon as the warmth reached back into her bones. By the time the snow melted away and the trees stopped creaking and groaning like old bones, and they flowered and turned green with life again, Tessa was sure that she would never hear them speak. She wasn’t chosen. But it was warm out and Wyvern didn’t seem worried that she was ignoring her other lessons, so she wandered out to her usual spot in a clearing away from the hut where she couldn’t be disturbed. She flopped onto her back on the wide stump in the middle of the clearing, cold and damp with morning dew, and stared up into the canopy glowing with early light. For a while, she closed her eyes like Wyvern had suggested. She tried to think of nothing but the air and the wind through the trees and push and pull of her own breath. But try as she might, nothing helped, and she only got more frustrated. Finally, Tessa opened her eyes and sat up. She curled her legs under her and glared at the trees around her before she noticed the little bird hopping around the edge of the clearing. It sang a clear, high trill and she almost shooed it away before she noticed the red colour of its chest. If the trees wouldn’t deign to speak to her, then the sight of a robin would have to be good enough: spring had come. Winter was over. This was a season of newness and growth. Wyvern always said that it was the best season for learning new things. The robin hopped along the ground for a while and then flapped its wings and fluttered up onto Tessa’s stump. It was wide enough around that the bird was still too far away for her to reach. Tessa watched it peck and scratch at the old wood, poking around for seeds or bugs. She liked the way the little creature twitched and jerked as if every movement was in preparation to take flight. She remembered the snack she’d stowed away in her jacket pocket and fished it out -- a leftover biscuit from breakfast. Wyvern always made them plain, but Tessa liked to add nuts or cheese to hers. She pulled off a small, bite-sized piece and crumbled it over the centre of the stump before putting the rest of the biscuit away. The robin tilted its head as though it watched her. Tessa raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be greedy. You’re much smaller ‘n me. I need more of it than you do -- go on.” She waved her fingers at the small mound of crumbs and then set her hands in her lap and waited. And after a few breaths, the robin flitted forwards. It pecked at the crumbs timidly at first and then seemed to gather its courage. Tessa spoke to the bird softly. This wasn’t strange for her. She often spoke to the animals around her, especially when Wyvern wasn’t around, but often enough when he was nearby that he didn’t question it. She’d made friends with a rabbit, and a fox she suspected was actually two different foxes that only showed their faces when the weather got cold and it was harder to find food. But she’d never tried talking with birds before. They always flew away so fast. The robin, despite its urgency, seemed to take its time pecking at the crumbs and picking up every last piece of the biscuit she had left for it. And even after it had finished, it settled on the edge of the stump and stayed there for a while. Tessa was just getting sore and resigning herself to change positions -- and risk scaring the bird away -- when she heard it. Not so much a voice, but a breathy whisper. And somehow, she didn’t seem to hear the sound with her ears. Rather, it was in her head, like her own thoughts, only in a different tone. Her gaze locked onto the robin and she froze, unable to move or look away for fear that she would never hear it again. But there it was, less of a thought and more of a feeling. She sensed the robin and its tiny, beating heart. The way it twitched and moved, the way the air felt against the sensitive fringes of its feathers. Somehow as she watched it, she became convinced that the robin felt safe near her. And grateful. It was grateful to her for the crumbs. But--oh, it had to go soon. And no sooner had Tessa thought it than the robin spread its wings and flapped into the air, away from the stump and through the trees to the sky above. Her sense of the creature grew more and more distant until she couldn’t feel it anymore, but in its place... Tessa took in a deep, full breath and her eyes fluttered closed, but it was still there. The trees’ voices were all around her . They caressed her skin and danced at the edges of her mind like forest spirits, whispering of the little mouse in the hole in the ground there, or the fox still sleeping outside of the clearing. Birds flew through her awareness, not as sounds, but as little bursts of warmth in her mind, and through it all the trees whispers were like the sound of leaves rustling together in a gentle wind. She could hear it all. She could hear everything . The trees told her about the ground and the puddles and the lingering dew; about the branches leaning over the path that led back to the hut; of the old, grey-haired man lumbering around the hut, looking once again for his misplaced axe. Distantly, Tessa was aware that she was smiling. But she didn’t break concentration even for a moment. The trees were telling her every secret that lay in the forest, and she didn’t want to miss a thing.


“Father! Father! Come upstairs!” “I’m not falling for another one of your little jokes, Lila!” “It isn’t a joke! Come upstairs now!” The middle-aged man reluctantly dragged himself up the stairs expecting to see a trail of painful, knifelike legoes on the stairs. He carefully went with uncanny precision, wondering when he’d meet the plastic toy that would jab him first. Instead, he found his precious daughters, the lights of his life, staring out their window with pink frilly curtains. “Look! There’s a family of puppies in our backyard!” Yelled Lila. “Oh, those aren’t puppies, they’re foxes.” At this point the father, whose name is James, and Rina, Lila’s younger sister, were laughing hysterically. Lila crossed her arms and snapped, “foxes are part of the dog family anyways!” At this point Rina and James were on the floor. They always laughed at how adorable Lila was when she crossed her arms in an attempt to look intimidating. A few minutes later, Rina and Lila raced down the stairs to see the foxes up close. Meanwhile, James decided to bring out the barbecue in the closet to make some hot dogs. “Girls come get dinner! I made hotdogs!” “Can I give the foxes some? Pretty please?” Begged little Lila with puppy dog eyes. Without even waiting for James’ response, which would have been something annoying and along the lines of “what’s with the puppy eyes? Did your dog-foxes teach you,” Lila grabbed two hotdogs and threw them at the foxes. The foxes viciously tore into the flesh of the meat like lions. “Look! They’re so adorable,” exclaimed Rina. “You call THAT adorable?!” James and Lila were staring at Rina like she was insane. That’s when they heard a loud shattering sound that Lila thought even the other side of the Earth could hear. They saw a pitch black line in the sky that looked like a cracked snow globe. “What is that!? Father, I'm scared!” Lila cried. She clung onto James as hard as she could. “I don’t know sweetheart. I don't know...” The foxes were gone, and it became dreadfully silent. That’s when a random shard fell from the sky. Rina ran and picked it up. The shard was glowing softly a white as pure as untouched snow, and was cold to the touch. More shards started to lightly fall from the sky, making small thumps and cracks as they touched the ground. The family was speechless. They felt confused, anxious, shocked, amazed, and utterly terrified at the same time. They stared in frozen shock as more shards fell from the shattered, crystal sky. That’s when suddenly an odd ash fell on Rina. It ran through her hair, hands, and fingers like warm sand. Rina stood still for several seconds, pondering and trying to organize her overloaded train of thought. Her brain was as twisted and turbulent as a tight knot on a shoelace. She was then interrupted by a shard that crashed with her head. “Rina! Are you ok?” Lila screamed. “Yeah... I’m fine.” Inexplicably, Rina barely even felt the shard when it collided with her head. She almost didn’t notice it. That’s when the family heard an odd sound in the direction of the forest. It sounded like a porcelain teacup being placed on a table. They ran in its direction and saw a girl. She also glowed like the shards, and glittered bright ethereal hues of bright blue and silver around her. The porcelain cup sound was coming from her footsteps. The girl was picking up the shards one by one. “Hey, you! Do you want help?” Asked Rina. The girl did not answer. She just smiled at Rina and continued picking up the shards. “What is your name?” Asked Lila. A light, mechanical sound came from the girl’s mouth. She slowly sounded out “Esther.” “Hey Esther, where is your family?” Asked James. Esther stared at him confused. She then softly answered, “in my hands.


‘You want your coat, Mama?’ ‘No need child. Train’ll be here in a minute.’ I nodded, walking back to the kids. The crowd was long gone but Mama stayed sitting on her suitcase by the tracks, waiting patiently to start our new lives. ‘Is Daddy coming back soon?’ Dorian asked. He was the next oldest after me, but still had the naivety. I envied that. ‘He’ll be along later. Pro’ly coming back on the train to save his legs’. Truth is Daddy probably wasn’t coming back. When the train never came on time, he got impatient. Daddy always lacked patience. He used to say Mama needed to do enough waiting for both of them. So rather than sit and wait with his family, he said he’d start walking along the tracks to meet the train. But that was hours ago and the light was starting to fade. I closed the buttons on my wool jacket and did the same for the young’uns. The desert’s plenty hot but once the sun goes down, you can catch yourself hypothermia quicker than shit through a goose. That’s what Daddy always said, before Mama would correct him. *Language, Hank. They’re children*. That we may be but it wouldn’t matter a damn once the Big Dark comes in. We’d only heard stories about it from folks going the other way. But for me, it wasn’t the words they’d say. Especially since most didn’t really see much through the fog. It was the look in their eyes when they described the screaming. That was enough for everyone to start making their peace and pack up. Maitland got their trains first of course, then the folks at the Pines. All the way down until it was just us. The more educated had noticed that once the richer folks got taken, the number of trains started to decrease, but at least they had the sense not to say it out loud. Griffin swore blind that he’d send one more train for us. No one could pay full price for a ticket but we gave what we could. Seems like it wasn’t enough. I noticed Old Earl McTaggert hauling some steel down from his cow shed to board up his windows. I knew it was about time we start doing the same, even though we didn’t have any steel for our windows. A few people with less than most were staying in the church. At least praying would give them something to do to stop their minds from drifting too much. ‘Can we sit with Mama?’ said Jessie, tugging on my sleeve. She was the youngest, not just in our family but of the families left. I didn’t want to think about what that would mean when the Dark settled in, so I just nodded. I let Dorian sit on the case so I could stay standing and feel useful. Jessie sat on Mama’s knee, curled up, ready to go to sleep. ‘Give it another half hour then we better go inside’. Mama gave us a little nod and started to sing a soft lullaby as the last of the light went down over the valley. So now we wait.


As Rain is walking to her car after work she looks up and sees her skinny boyfriend with shoulder length black hair and too many ear piercings to count riding into the parking lot on an elephant. “What on earth?!” she screams, but he can't hear her over the mariachi band and the circus performance. She stares in awe as he swings off the elephant using a firemans pole, that she has no idea where he acquired, and lands right at her feet. She just shakes her head, raises her eyebrow, and waits for an explanation. He reaches down to his belt where a speakerphone is latched on and raises it to his mouth. “America! I’m in love!” At this point Rain is considering walking away when after a long pause she hears, “Rain Marshall, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” She sighs and says “AJ Sallow, I love you, but how in your right mind would you think I wanted a proposal this big?” AJ sinks to the floor sitting on his knees and just stops and thinks “ Damn it. I messed up so bad, what was I thinking? ” Rain walks away. As she’s walking to her car she's stepping over confetti and glitter that she has no idea how he’ll clean up. The tears welling up in her hazel eyes make the glitter glisten even more in them. She unlocks her black prius and slides in. She turns the rearview mirror towards her and sees a petite blue haired girl looking back. She has a thin face with a nose a little too big for her small proportions. She starts the car and then realizes she has no idea where she’s headed. She doesn’t want to go back to her and AJ’s tiny one bedroom apartment downtown. She starts driving without any idea where she’s going. Meanwhile, AJ is still back at Rain’s job cleaning up the parking lot and wondering what he’s gonna do next. After driving for 30 minutes and sobbing, Rain finally arrives at her best friend Mariana’s house. Mariana opens the door to see a disheveled, red face girl standing there. “Rain! Are you okay?! Did that stupid boy do something?? Aight I’m ready to kill him let's go.” Mariana puts her fists up before hugging Rain and bringing her inside. Rain laughs as she sits down on the couch. “Mariana you’re ridiculous.” Rain proceeds to tell her all the details of the way too extravagant proposal. Mariana holds up her finger as if to say hold on and walks to the bedroom. A second later she comes out with a ring and gets down on one knee. “Alright I think we should be done with stupid boys and get into a lesbian relationship.” Mariana is a raging lesbian and Rain is bi, so for a second Rain seriously considered Mariana’s offer, but remembering her boyfriend cleaning up the proposal mess all by himself snapped her back into reality. Rain replies, “Mariana, you know I love you more than anything in the world, but we’re platonic and I have a boyfriend. Remember last time?” Mariana laughs, sighs, and says, “Yeah yeah whatever, go help your boyfriend,” in a much more condescending tone than she meant it. Rain walks to her car and drives back to the parking lot where she was proposed to only to find it spotless and AJ-less. She dreads seeing him but misses her boyfriend, so she procrastinates again and drives to AJ’s best friend Hudson’s house hoping to avoid AJ again. Hudson and Rain have had what some would call a tumultuous history. AJ and Rain met when she and Hudson were dating. She and AJ fell in love and she left Hudson for him. As she drove down the long, winding road, she thought about all her relationships, Mariana, Hudson, and now AJ. Was he who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with? She began to doubt her decisions as she arrived at Hudson’s house. Hudson and AJ were very similar but there was one major difference; Hudson was an asshole. He always treated Rain badly, but she still stayed though she knew she shouldn’t. She gets to his house and is suddenly unable to catch her breath. As she’s breathing heavily and starting to shake, Hudson walks out with a concerned look on his face. “Rain? What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in awhile. What’s, uh, what’s poppin?” Hudson is a very awkward guy who rambles when he’s anxious and has a hard time with conversation. Rain says nothing, just falls into his arms and starts to cry. Hudson scoops her up and brings her inside. He starts to brew her some tea while she sits on the floor crying. He takes a seat next to her and awkwardly pats her back. She sniffles and looks at him “He proposed. And I got scared and ran.” Hudson’s hand freezes above her back. “He... proposed?” Rain nods her head before resting it on Hudson’s shoulder. “That fucking asshole,” he mutters and stands up. Rain watches him take his phone out of his pocket. “What?” she wipes the tears off her cheek. He holds the phone to his ear and taps his foot impatiently. “I can’t believe you!” Hudson exclaims into the phone. “You know how I feel about her, and you tried to steal her away from me forever? Of course she told me, she came to me for comfort.” Rain stands slowly, not believing what she’s hearing. He still loves her? She can’t fathom it. He hurt her so badly how could he love her? She looks at him eyes wide in wait “Hudson?” she whispers. Hudson gets on one knee and says “Rain I know I hurt you and I was a shitty boyfriend but please will you give me another chance and be my wife? I promise I’ll be better and give you the life you deserve.” Just at that moment AJ bursts in and sees Hudson down on one knee and Rain with puffy eyes and a tear stained face. “Hudson what the fuck?!” AJ screams “She’s mine, what is wrong with you?!” AJ grabs Rain’s wrist and tries to pull her out of there, but Rain resists. She says “Both of you stop it right now or else!” Hudson and AJ stop in their tracks, they know what Rain is capable of. “Hudson how will you be a better husband than AJ?” Rain asks “I won’t hurt you and I’ll buy you stuff and fight for you. Rain I’ll protect you from people like him” Hudson points to AJ “Please girl will you marry me?” Rain nods her head in acknowledgement of Hudson's sentiment and moves on to AJ. “AJ tell me why you can be a better husband than Hudson” Rain insists. AJ stammers “What what um uh I will love you forever and I’ll be sweet and caring and a good provider and um well I just I love you so much and I’m sorry for that over the top proposal please marry me Marshmallow I love you.” Rain stops in her tracks. Marshmallow is his pet name for her that makes her heart melt. Rain realized at this moment that she was being foolish and AJ was the one. “Yes baby I’ll marry you.” Rain says with a smile and a hushed voice. They say their goodbyes to a torn apart Hudson and make their way to their little black prius with their hands interlocked and their hearts the same.


Grayness. My entire vision is immersed in a pulsing gray vortex. A thunderous cacophony resounds in my head as I flail around. Gradually my sight focuses, and a landscape sprawls out around me. First comes an evening sky, enshrouded by a ponderous layer of clouds. Snow is falling onto the ground, disgorged by the sky as bloated projectiles that splatter over everything in the vicinity. I hold out my hand and catch a few, but I feel no chill despite the brumal winds and vision obscuring snowfall. Looking at my hand, I notice that the snow is passing through it. My chest moves, but there are no vapor clouds around my head. The snow cakes onto the branches of the nearby trees so thickly that I wait for the precipitous white heaps to plunge to the ground, but they never do. Coniferous trees converge on a hillside. I try moving forward, brushing against the nearest tree with a soft thud. “How are you feeling?” A disembodied voice says. I try to respond, but nothing intelligible comes out. “Did you just day something? That is unexpected. Well, whenever you’re ready, go to the other side of the hill. I looked at the apex of the hill, but I turn away and wander in the opposite direction until I happen upon a secluded woodland cabin. Christmas lights blink in a repeating series along the rooftop. A trail of smoke emanates from a stone chimney. Above the garage, a motion activated floodlight maintains a nocturnal vigil over the property. I approach the tall, frosted door, but the sensor does not activate. Behind the cottage, a bare expanse of snow extends for about twenty feet, concealing a birdbath and currently barren garden. The back door was wide open, so I passed into the house. Soft, warm lighting illuminates the interior. Blocky furniture and shelves are arranged throughout the rooms of the house. In the living room, a television beside a Christmas tree depicts the descent of a geodesic sphere in New York. A woman sits on a crude couch, eyes fixed on the ceremony. Her face bears no expression, and she does not blink, even as I interpose myself between her and the television. I leave via the front door. I have dallied enough. I take a moment to stabilize my emotions and retrace my steps to the forested hill. This time I ascend the rise. As I progress, a wall of oily smoke becomes visible, but I smell nothing. The trees are thicker here, prohibiting vision, but I know what awaits on the bottom. “Yes, you’re almost there,” the voice says. I make my way down the slope, weaving in between the trunks until I reach the base of the incline. An ice laden highway wraps around the base of the hill. On the far side of the street is a sheer cliff that is easily over a hundred feet high. The crushed remains of a truck and a sedan block the entire street. Both vehicles are on fire. The truck has torn the safety railing aside, and the back of the trailer wavers on the edge. Behind the windshield of the smoke filled cab, the unknown driver’s head is buried in an airbag. Whether he is alive or dead cannot be ascertained. The truck tips back, plummeting into the darkness. I wince at the sound of the resulting explosion. I slowly look at the remaining vehicle. This sedan is the second vehicle I’ve ever owned, purchased at a used car dealership after two hours of deliberation. I remember the reason why I would be on the road tonight, a promise made to my girlfriend to spend the new year together. I brace myself and countenance the driver. I barely recognize my own visage. My face has been damaged extensively, eyes swollen shut, blood trickling from the left side of the mouth. The voice speaks again. “Now, don’t look away.” This edict proves difficult to follow as a nauseous chill washes over me. The tension in my chest increases as the flames lap closer to my vulnerable form. Someone is behind me. It is the woman from the cottage. She quivers in her robe as she holds a cell phone. She dials 911 and supplies the details of the situation. A few minutes pass. My skin is beginning to burn. A fire truck and ambulance pull up. The fire fighters extinguish the flames and extract my body with hydraulic tools. The paramedics take it into an ambulance and fasten it to a mattress with secured wheels. I follow them inside. The door closes and the siren wails as the ambulance takes off. The EMTs scramble to sustain waning vital signs. My head begins to pulse. Suddenly the monitor emits a high frequency tone. The numbers to the side of the screen plummet, and the wavering lines straighten. The ambulance driver disables the siren, and one of the men in blue uniforms grabs a set of defibrillators. As shocks are administered, I see the gray haze return and coalesce. As the final jolt goes through my body, the vitals begin to stabilize. The gray vortex engulfs me again and I hear another disembodied voice. This time it is feminine and metallic. “Simulation complete. Logging out.” Everything goes black. The visor surrounding my head pops open. I’m back in my hospital bed. Beside me, a man removes a headpiece similar to my own and takes off my helmet and gloves. “So, what do you think?” His speech is much clearer without the electronic feedback in the background. I take a ragged, painful breath. “Doctor, how is this supposed to help me?” “I concede that this desensitization therapy is unorthodox, but you commented in one of our earlier sessions that your flashbacks always elapse at the moment of impact with the truck. This therapeutic simulacrum is designed to let you see the see the entirety of the incident, culminating in your successful resuscitation. Our hypothesis is that allowing patients to see reconstructions of their traumatic events in a safe environment will give them psychological distance from the traumatic event.” “Why did you recreate the old lady’s house?” “Our company believes in maximum verisimilitude, or at least the highest degree attainable without crural inputs,” He glances at my legs, which are suspended in traction. “This is the end of today’s session, but I think you have a visitor.” As the psychologist departs, my girlfriend enters. “Happy Valentine’s Day!” She says. I had forgotten entirely. I smile with what my intact facial muscles. I’m in intermittent pain, my legs won’t be usable for a long time, and I’ll never be the same, but I’m alive.


Rain pelts the single-pane windows of the New England coffee shop. In the distance, a grey sea churns, salty spray spitting from its stormy swells. “How inappropriate to call this planet Earth when it is clearly Ocean,” a wrinkle of a man mutters from the corner table as he gazes through the warped glass. His gnarled fingers clutch a delicate cup of tea that had long gone cold, but he lifts it to his lips anyhow, indulging in its floral notes. His words hook my ears and I stand, moving from my corner of the little cafe to his. I waver there, above the only other chair at his table. He doesn’t notice. I clear my throat. Still, the old man stares out the pane, at the smoky sea and the tempest beyond. “Hello,” I say. “May I join--” The old man grunts, miffed. “Took you long enough.” “I don’t understand,” I reply, lowering into the rickety chair. The old man finally looks at me, his grim eyes as grey and stormy as the sea on the horizon. “I’ve been waiting for quite some time,” he announces. “My name is Truth. You’ve been looking for me.” “Yes,” I nod fervently, a bit in disbelief but beginning to understand. “I didn’t realize I was keeping you waiting.” “I have sat here day after day, watching you sip your coffee and click away on your keys,” Truth says, his voice weakening, “waiting for you to see me. You look out this same window as I do, watch the same sea as I do, yet you still can’t see me.” “I see you now,” I tell him. “Though, you’re not quite what I expected,” I admit, suddenly a bit sheepish. “Not very pretty, am I?” Truth asks with a smile that reveals three black, rotten teeth. “Not really,” I laugh. “Well, go on,” Truth raises his scruffy eyebrows. “Ask.” “Ask what?” “Ask me your question. But be careful--I will only answer one.” “One!” I exclaim. “You will only answer one question?” Truth smiles again. “Is that really what you want to know?” “No!” I calm myself. “No, wait. That’s not my question.” Calculating so as to be sure I don’t waste my question, I slowly utter, “One... has to wonder... why Truth himself... could only answer one question.” “Ah,” Truth leans forward over his tea cup. “All humans ultimately only have one question.” I think about this for a long while. So long, in fact, that Truth takes to looking out the window again. I watch him. Then I look out the window, too. I see the choppy waves, the power of the winds--the same sea I glance day after day. After some time, I speak, ensuring a statement is what comes from my mouth. “I want to know why you gaze at the sea so,” I tell him. “Those who understand the sea understand my lessons,” Truth says, almost too softly to hear. “They know that too much of Her--too much water--can cause death. So can too little. Water is life. And, water is death.” “Tell me more,” I beg, already craving Truth’s honey-balm words. “They know She can be strong, and can be meek. Tidal waves and rain drops. Powerful, and peaceful. Terrifying, and soothing.” He looks at me again, this time stern. “They know She holds neither preference nor bias. The sea doesn’t choose who will live, or who will die. She is passionate, and ambivalent.” “I understand,” I say, choosing my next words carefully. “There is much to learn from the sea. The same thing that gives life, also causes death.” Truth lets out a sigh, then takes another sip from his cold tea. “If nature had an economy, contradictions would be its currency.” “Natures disproves itself,” I surmise. Truth beams. “The duality of reality.” “I used to think of the sea as good,” I say. “Something beautiful and full of life. But now I’m not so sure. The sea is bad.” “Tell me,” Truth leans forward, and I do the same. “Two men journey along a road, when eventually they reach a fork. One man goes right. The other man goes left. Who is correct?” “I don’t know,” I admit. “I need more information.” “There is no more information,” Truth insists. “At least not any that matters. Who made the correct choice?” I think for a while. “I suppose... neither of them did. Or perhaps they both did.” “Yes,” Truth says. “There is no right or wrong. There are only the choices we make for ourselves.” “Then the sea,” I wonder, “is neither good, nor bad. That’s why you sit here, watching the sea--because it teaches us this.” “No,” Truth shakes his head, then shrugs. “And yes. All of existence teaches us this, not just the sea. People meet me in different places. They find me everywhere, not just here with Her. Some never find me at all,” he says, solemn. Then, with a cheeky smile, “But there’s some who can’t get rid of me.” “Nothing is right and nothing is wrong,” I mumble. “That’s a bit bleak,” I decide, and Truth laughs. “At first, perhaps,” his smile crinkles the edges of his eyes. “In time, I suspect you will find it to be freeing.” “Bleak... and freeing,” I repeat, and my eyes widen as the connection forms. “Just like the sea.” “Yes. Just like Her.” Truth leans back in his chair. “Just like everything.


When I saw the mouse in the guest room, I shrieked louder than I cried today. The shriek startled us both. The mouse bolted, jumped high in the air and then scurried away someplace. I don't know where, because I scurried away someplace too. It's been the worst day of my life but all I can think about is how big his ears were and how high it jumped for such a little thing. It seemed impossible. I'm pouring myself a sherry in the kitchen. I know you'd disapprove. It’s only four o’clock in the afternoon. But my nerves are shot. Truly. What a day. I'm so sorry love that I've done this to you. I want to say sorry to you over and over again, but I know you wouldn’t understand. There's no point, it would only upset you. You'd get confused. You might shriek as loudly as I just did. It had an air of a survivor, that mouse, which I could relate to, and dark black-hole eyes that seemed to suck light from the room. How did that little bugger get into our guest room? I don’t know, and right now, I don’t care. I guess I've heard scurries about the house sometimes but always just assumed it was a branch from a tree grating against the side of the house. What’s to be done with the little rodent? You’d know what to do. You always knew what to do. Be it sorting out practical things or comforting me when I was upset. It's what drew me to you in the first place, your kindness. After we met at that ballroom dance at the town hall, all I could think about was you. I felt insecure like I might not be good enough. But as we courted, your love soothed my insecurity. Recklessly, I fell in love. But I trusted you, and you never let me down. And today I betrayed your trust. Didn’t I, love? I know that I did. It seemed like a nice enough place. The staff were friendly, and they seemed half-human. Frazzled but with enough heart left to care, maybe changing residents out of dirty clothes and pads quickly. And the facility was clean. You had a lovely view over the courtyard. There was an apple tree in the middle. What a funny place to have an apple tree! But I know you can look at that and maybe that will mean something to you. I don’t know. What was I supposed to do? Your good humour meant looking after you was easy. Odd things would happen from time to time, like the car keys being put in the fridge, but it was as comical as it was concerning. But then you got worse. You forgot your manners. And being confused is frightening. Your shouting was just your way of expressing it, I know that. But when you wandered down the street in your pyjamas and the police had to drag you home, I knew it had become too much. I take a long swig of sherry. It tastes good. Maybe a bit too sweet. I seem to have developed a taste for bitter lately. There’s a faint scratching upstairs. The mouse must be back. It’s bizarre but I’m happy there’s another soul in the house tonight. Having discovered a mouse, I should be worrying about whether there’s more of them, whether we have a vermin-infested house that will never sell if I want to downsize. But that scurrying noise, it just makes me think: that’s my little mouse with the big ears. Maybe he’s hungry? There’s a bag of grated cheese in the fridge and I take a handful. Grated cheese, a bugbear of yours - have we become too lazy to grate our own cheese? I have, that’s for sure. Cheese in hand, I creep up the stairs. The floorboards creak in tune with my joints. Back in the guestroom, with a neatly made bed and wall pictures that never made it into the main house, I place the cheese onto the wooden floor just beside the bed leg. I could sit in one of the two cushioned chairs, but instead, I make a comfy nest in the corner with pillows from the bed. I sip sherry and wait. It'd be good to see that little mouse again. My heart shrieks and I think, more than anything, I’d love to see you again. I mean, as you were. Maybe five years ago, before that disease took you from me. I can picture you now, with your short grey hair and cleanly shaven face. You could never sit still, always tinkering with things around the house, in your cheap shorts and paint-stained top. I don’t know if I can bear to see you now. When you don’t even know who I am anymore and just keep asking for your Mum. She’s long gone, love, we buried her decades ago. But you don’t remember that like you don’t remember me. Such a complex thing, memory. Who knows how it really works. I get them to play your favourite music, to try and give you some comfort, maybe stir some old memories. Is that just wishful thinking on my part? But then, you do have the odd moments of clarity. Like when you remember Mike or Louise for a moment. You had one of those moments of clarity today and it's the only thing that's keeping me sane. You turned to me suddenly and said, “It’s alright, Geraldine.” That's all you managed to say but it meant everything to me. I'm sure you meant so much by that. That you were alright in there, that you weren’t suffering. And that leaving you there was the best thing for you and me. A tear trickles down my face and I lift the sherry to take a sip. I look up to see my little furry friend nibbling at the cheese and he’s looking right back at me. Just like you love, there’s no way for me to know what he’s thinking. But he’s eating and he’s keeping me company. One survivor to another. Just a few paces away. And I think he agrees with you. It’s alright.


Jasmine barely opened the door to the small Italian trattoria and the silver bell mounted on top pealed, announcing her arrival to the handful of tables inside. She slipped through sideways, snagging the hem of her gingham blue dress as the door shut. The waning evening sun and glimmering Manhattan lights blotted out of existence, the black painted windows creating an artificial twilight with an illusion of candles flickering across Venice. The aroma of garlic, oil, and creamy sauces hung thick in the air, the way sea salt clung to her skin the first night of her honeymoon with Bobby. She couldn’t escape the other patron’s dinners, a savory force-feeding of memories from their trysts between Milan and Rome, Bobby’s star on the rise as changing fads relegated her to decoration. The taste of chloroform masked with red sauce. The hostess smiled, a bland professional veneer that masked any scrutiny about whether Jasmine deserved one of the exclusive tables at Il Postino . She reminded herself she ate here before, already passed their test, even if the reservation had belonged to Bobby and not her. Her watering mouth turned to cardboard when she noticed the minimalist eating area, couples paired up at a half-dozen tables next to an empty bar. The open concept guaranteed her date couldn’t be tucked away out of sight. “I’m supposed to meet someone, Christian Jarez.” She took two steps closer to the hostess so no one would overhear her inevitable humiliation. This was a terrible place for a first date, fresh with memories of Bobby, but she couldn’t think of a reason to ask Christian to choose a different restaurant. She couldn’t bring up a past relationship so early in a new one. The hostess’ mouth twisted in concentration as she studied an oversized ledger, an awkward expression that accentuated her beauty that came so naturally with youth. Only a thin podium stood between the two women, nowhere for Jasmine to hide. Jasmine didn’t wait, ready with an excuse to leave, when the bell above the door chimed again. Two sets of footsteps, clipped and assured, echoed amid the hostess’ silence. A sultry woman in a red dress, features dark as night with piercing blue eyes, walked in trailing the hand of her date. Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. Bobby didn’t recognize her, his gaze focused solely on the woman in front of him. Jasmine took a step back, desperate for the moment to pass unnoticed. The woman in the red dress sashayed, her full hips swinging in time to Jasmine’s heartbeat. She dropped his hand and left Bobby behind, confidant that all eyes followed her as she walked away. She leaned on the hostess’ podium while the young girl rushed to accommodate their reservation. “Are you Jasmine Varez? I saw your exhibition at the Anastasia last month. You’re an amazing photographer,” Bobby gushed, something in his tone less grave than she remembered. Swatting at her eyes to hold back the threatening well of tears, Jasmine confronted Bobby. His dark hair no longer had the sprinkle of salt coloring at his temples, fuller and wavier than it had been when he walked out. The corner of his gray eyes, the eyes that had probed her with both desire and scorn in equal measures, were smooth, missing the care lines a decade of marriage had brought. He studied her with interest, but without history. He was young, the man she fell in love with before abandonment twisted their feelings into an aberration. “The Anastasia? I haven’t shown there since before your debut,” the memory washed her away, a temporary respite of happier days, when they were the darlings of art society. A pairing talked about and adored. Bobby blushed, a stainless shade of pink, too innocent for their tortured souls. “I’m flattered if you’ve even heard of me, but I can only aspire to your skill. The Anastasia is above my level.” A traitorous tear escaped, leaving a wet trail down her cheek. Jasmine ducked her head, too scared to wipe it away and leave a black trail with her makeup as visible proof of how much this hurt. “I’m sorry, I must have caught you at a bad time. That was inconsiderate of me,” he rifled through his pockets for a moment and pulled out a wallet and handkerchief. Bobby’s date cleared her throat loudly, impatient to see him talking to another woman. Upset the spotlight diverted from her rightful place, she clenched her jaw and bared her teeth as any predator in the jungle. Bobby produced a business card and handed it to her, along with the handkerchief. She carefully blotted her eyes, mascara and eyeliner bleeding into the crisp white fabric. “If you ever have time to discuss your photographs with a neophyte like myself,” he flashed the vibrant smile that made her fall in love with him, “Please call me.” Without another word, Bobby descended into the cloud of rich dinners, happy couples, and infinite futures, no apology or recompense. Jasmine unfolded the handkerchief, the smeared makeup creating a Rorschach test with an image that perfectly resembled a dove. The same dove Bobbie had framed once they started dating, to commemorate the first time they met in an Italian restaurant, and he gave her a handkerchief to dry her tears. The handkerchief that became part of his first art exhibit, his first big success. The dove on which Bobby soared. She looked between the card and the dove, sudden revelation that she wasn’t remembering the past, but granted a view of the future. Their future, the start of everything they were going to be and eventually destroy. The dove in her hand represented their love, his career, and her demise. Would she trade the means to enjoy a better end? Or would she arrive at the same place again for the experience at one glorious summer in Italy, the center of their shared world? The hostess opened her mouth, probably to apologize that there was no reservation, no record of her post-breakup blind date. Jasmine didn’t wait for the explanation. The silver bell above the door tinkled again as Jasmine left, a second chance in her hands. History was immutable, the two of them inevitably draw together like fish upstream to a waiting bear. He was the black hole that would consume her. One small difference existed between the future she remembered and this Italian restaurant. The dove in her hand, a change in fortunes. Jasmine had an art exhibit to create and a phone call to make.


ast Cicones’ moons and the shining radiance of Helios, they turned their bow and set a steady path into the black. Odysseus, captain and chief navigator, stood alone on deck. The crew had long since retired to their cabins, yet Odysseus remained, troubled and pensive. Odysseus was not ignorant to the hardships of space travel. His father Laertes had been a Galactic Argonaut. From Odysseus’ home planet of Ithaca, Laertes participated in expeditions journeying to the far edges of the known universe. Odysseus had heard many times over the stories of his father: the capture of the mighty Calydonian alien, the venture across the Hellespont Nebula and the turmoil of the Stymphalian meteor strikes. All these exploits came to mind now, as Odysseus struggled with his own decision. The ship’s provisions could last only a week longer. Deep space scans gave hints at the possibility of an unexplored planet, possibly a moon, that existed within their fuel limits. If this planet was desolate and barren of life, they would surely perish. It was a risk then, a risk they could not afford. Odysseus dreamed of returning to Ithaca, if only to see the Neritum mountain range and the boundless lush forests that covered it. He would first have to go forward if he was to return. Days passed and the crew were informed. There was no disagreement among them, for there were no other choices than this. After another half’s day of blasting the thrusters, they rounded a small cluster of jagged hurtling asteroids and came into view of the planet. A cheer rose from the men as it appeared on the ship’s visuals. The planet was a green and orange blob, textured with crisscrossing streaks of deep blue. The blue was water, and with water came life. Odysseus immediately ordered preparations to enter the planet’s atmosphere. The thrusters fired slowly at first but the crew hastened Odysseus to accelerate. The ship pressed forward, nose-diving as the wings buckled erratically from the force of entry. Nearer they approached and faster they squeezed against the atmosphere, speeding up in high spirits of good food and drink, until fear of crashing compelled Odysseus to pull up and slow down. The deceleration was too late, and the ship was thrown headfirst into a shallow body of water a few hundred metres short of land. A mechanic had not strapped himself down and now lay in a small crimson puddle across the deck where he had landed. The crew did not have time to mourn the man. The medical staff were dispatched, and Odysseus gathered twelve of the bravest men to come ashore and search for supplies. The planet’s air was tested for toxicity and it was found to be as clean as Ithaca’s. Three sturdy blow-up rafts were taken from storage and placed into the water. Although shallow and up to knee-height where the ship was grounded, the body of water grew deep and opaque in its centre and the twelve men did not wish to swim where no man had swum before. Odysseus beckoned into the middle raft and urged his men aboard. As they paddled through the water, Odysseus observed the surroundings. Thickets and undergrowth wrapped the shoreline and a row of tall trees blocked visibility. Looking above the wall of arrowhead treetops, Odysseus was able to make out an outcrop of steep and craggy cliffs that lay just beyond the forestry. Upon tying the rafts to the shore and walking through the woodlands, the crew’s botanist searched and found no evidence of cultivation, with neither planting nor plowing but wild and unknown variances of wheat, barley and grape vines growing near the trees. It was a short while later that the thirteen men came across a three-legged beast, with two short and sharp horns, like a goat, and a furry exterior that coated his back and hindlegs. More of the beasts were discovered and the crew leapt at the opportunity. Odysseus cautioned the men from using fire power, as they did not wish to scare off the beasts nor bring unwanted attention to themselves. Short blades and rapiers were used, and the men dragged the carcasses of the small goat-like creatures to the shore. Some of the men were sent back on the rafts to fetch the rest of the crew, and Odysseus bade the men bring the wine they had bought from the interplanetary merchant Maron, son of Euathanes, which was to be used on a special occasion. Once the crew had assembled, a pyre was made from nearby firewood and the beasts were set alight. Each man gave a small portion of his meal in sacrifice to Zeus, the mightiest of the gods, and a portion of their wine to Dionysus, for his love of wine and merrymaking. Having partook in food and drink, while also replenishing the ship’s water holds from a nearby spring, Odysseus led his men back to the ship for the night. A knock on his cabin door from one of the engineers woke him. The engine was damaged, and the engineers would need time fixing it - at the least, they had said, a few days. This did not altogether displease Odysseus, as he wished to explore the landing site. The twelve most courageous men again volunteered and for as long as the light lasted, they explored the woodlands. Three days passed and no new discoveries were unearthed. More goat-like creatures were found, who were duly put-down and brought back to the ship, and the botanists began to map out the landscape. They located the lake’s position to be in fact at the base of a large valley with the forestry masking the sloping mountains around them. At the bottom of these mountains, from what they could see through basic scanning, there appeared to be caves entrances. Odysseus, hearing no new progress on the engines, planned an expedition to the caves. All but the thirteen men were to be left at the ship and an assortment of rations were divvied between them. Odysseus decided to bring along a receptacle of wine, seeing as he did not want the crew to drink the rest without him. They left at morning and arrived at the entrance of the cave nearing nightfall. Camp was set just outside, and the men prepared their libations to the gods before supper. As the morning light seeped in through the treetops Odysseus noticed the thirteen companions had dropped to eleven. Two of the men were missing. The cave took in no light from the outside world, as it was covered by the mountain’s overhang, and so it resembled a screen of black tar. Odysseus reassured the men by explaining that the two missing companions must have left to explore the cave early. They entered the cave and followed it downwards as the walls grew further apart and a large cavernous ceiling extended above them. Small flashlights were used to light the way and Odysseus now cursed his decision to leave the crew’s firepower back at the ship. They still possessed their rapiers for the goats and each companion now clutched his in their right hand. A soft scuttling sound, of dozens of tiny feet echoing on the cavern’s floor, was the first they heard of the creature. It was only moments later, after hearing this sound, that the companions discovered two white cocoons plastered to the rocky floor. The crew’s cook, one of the bravest, led another man over to the cocoons. They began to unravel the outer layers of the cocoon, revealing the pale cadavers of their former companions. It was in their moment of realisation that the creature, in pitiless spirit, pounced upon them. Dropping from the ceiling, the creature’s long talon-tipped legs darted for the men. It clasped each man and swiftly threw them back and forth between the cavern’s walls. Frozen from fear, Odysseus and the other eight companions could only watch helplessly as the creature beat the men and then wrapped the two warm bodies into cocoons. The creature resembled that of a gigantic arachnid in appearance, with sharp long legs and prickly skin, and its only distinguishable quality being its large singular eye. It moved meticulously between the four cocoons, tapping and feeling for movement, and after a short while, taking no stock of Odysseus or the others, it bit down into the two original companions and supped on their flesh. After taking its fill from the men, and leaving the two fresh cocoons for later, the creature’s pulsating eye wandered to the group. With the speed of Hermes, it jumped and clung to the cavern’s ceiling. Odysseus reached for his rapier, but the creature was uninterested. It crawled along the ceiling past the group of terrified companions and headed for the entrance. Odysseus deliberated on whether to chase the creature. He chose, rather, to run to the cocoons. Lifting his blade, he cut open the silk and checked the two men’s pulses. They were both freshly dead. Thinking fast, Odysseus unhooked the container of wine attached to his belt and poured its contents over the two cocoons. Having completed this task, he got up and resumed a tight circle with his companions. The creature scurried back along the ceiling, returning after a few minutes. The men waved their rapiers up at the creature, but it crawled past unconcerned. The group, slowly and timidly, edged further away from the creature as it passed. When they could no longer see the creature hanging from the ceiling above the cocoons, the men broke into a sprint towards the cave’s entrance. Reaching the top of the cave, they were met with a ghastly sight. A great white web had been thread across the exit. One of the younger men of the group lunged at the web and began hacking at the bonds furiously. His strikes were futile as not even the smallest cut or incision from his rapier appeared on the web. Odysseus halted the man and told the group of the wine and his plan. Odysseus made the men cast lots as to who would accompany him back down into the pit. The lots fell upon the four very men Odysseus would have chosen, and with himself as the fifth, they crept their way down. They found the creature slumped over the two cocoons asleep, its long talon-tipped legs holding the bodies close. One of the cocoons had been half-eaten, and Odysseus knew the wine had put him to sleep. Quick to observations, Odysseus realised the torso and head of the creature were protected by a thick body plating. Only the middle of the legs, from what he could see, were unprotected. Without disturbing its slumber, Odysseus urged the men forward lest they feel fear and cower before the creature. He directed two men to slowly, ever so softly, lift one of the creature’s many legs outright. He then tapped two of the other men on the shoulder to lift their rapiers as he was. In hushed whispers they counted down, and with heaven filling their hearts with courage, three great whistling swipes struck the leg. The creature immediately woke and recoiled from the pain. The two men holding the leg wrenched it from the slither of flesh that kept the leg intact after the three cuts inflicted by the rapiers. The creature drew itself to its full height and screeched a sharp agonising scream. The companion pulling the leg was immediately dashed against the wall by the creature. The other man with him managed to reclaim the leg from the ground and, in his last effort before being dashed himself, he threw the leg to Odysseus. Odysseus clasped the leg against his chest, heaving as he ran, and the three remaining men scampered up the cave. Barging his way through the rest of the group waiting in agitation, he held the sharp talon-tipped end of the creature’s leg and tore a hole through the web. The men burst from the cave and stumbled over each other to the tree line. The creature did not leave the entrance of the cave. Looking back as he ran, Odysseus watched the creature sit down on its haunches and begin to caress its broken leg. Believing he was safe out of arrogance, and full of hatred for his companions’ deaths, Odysseus jeered and spat at the creature. The men begged him to run. Seeing no reaction, Odysseus ignored the men and lifted the broken leg and threw it at the creature. The creature looked up and hissed, spitting an acidic bubbling projectile that barely missed them. Odysseus did not need more prompting; he swiftly turned and fled with the men. Crossing the lake and re-joining the crew, Odysseus was informed of the repairs and immediately took off. And as a more ancient Odysseus once spoke, “Then they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades.


“I have Blue Angle Pins, Hats, and Balloons. Get one for your kid. No kids...no worries! Grab one for your nephew.” Dam This Guy! Get Out The Road! The pesky peddler in the middle of the median was slowing traffic down. I screamed out loud again. Get out the road....I want to go home! My damn temper was governing my thoughts! Why did I waste my breath? I knew better. The street salesman could care less, he kept moving from car to car as he hawked cheap souvenirs. Another year and another air show. We need to move! All I wanted to do this evening was attach myself to the couch like an old worn-out piece of velcro. Stuck, but still capable of making a move. After what seemed like hours I finally made it to the entrance. My stress deflated. A couple of cold beers and today would be history. I was praying the neighbors were still at work., that’s all I needed right now. As I started walking toward my apartment two Blue Angels flew in perfect formation. Their dazzling areal display painted the sky as my heart pumped to the beat of the engines. I hated the congestion from the Blue Angels but dam this show was intriguing. The sheer force of the Super Hornet and the way they moved always kept me gazing up. It reminds me of playing Mario Cart. You could always catch player two with a super boost. Now that I was home I went into stealth mode to avoid my neighbors. Cat-like reflexes moved me through the parking lot like Pink Panther. Sneaking around every corner with careful precision. Yet, being stealthy was only in my own mind. At 6'3 I was too clumsy to sneak in. It was all a pipe dream from Saturday morning Kung Fu movies. The only good thing about the air show was the loudness. Maybe they won't hear me enter, god please don't let me see them today. The separation between apartments was only an arm's length. Which meant you had to be super careful when entering. If he sensed you nearby, he would open the door and watch you oh...so carefully. Maverick was the chosen name for this confident, short-tempered blue falcon. He was, without a doubt a complete jerk. No matter the circumstance his anger always made him bang on the bedroom walls. Screaming, quiet down over there! Does this asshole not realize the walls are paper-thin? I remember the day we moved in. He stood outside watching us with a thousand-yard stare. I’ll never forget his stance, it was daunting and scary. Something was out of place. He must have seen some serious action. Why was he sizing us up? It has to be something from the past. I ran a bar right next to the base, so I knew all about the desert stare. We had folks belly up to that old plank of wood from every corner of the world. Most served on the base. Some served in combat and the rest were still battling it out upstairs. I approached each case with a cold beer and warm whiskey. Back at the apartment Maverick's wife looked lost and on edge. You could tell by the look in her eyes. Throughout the day his wife came out and held onto his arm. I could see her begging and pleading for him to go inside. Except, he sat still. He wore these oversized headphones to block out the loudness from the Blue Angels. The only thing that moved was those glaring eyes. I tried twice to introduce myself to the old saltwater commander only to no avail. As we hauled in taped beer boxes, worn down lamps, and half-broken furniture the watchman greeted every move. During our short stay, we learned that Maverick worked part-time at the base for SOCOM. Each morning he would arise at five am and head off to work. Always making sure to slam the front door, which in turn rattled our entire apartment. Each day it felt like the trusses would collapse and the shanty would crumble. His daily departure would awake both dogs. And stir us out of a dead slumber. It was after this initial slamming of the door that I decided to leave him a post-it note. The first of many. Dear Maverick & Company, I work nights, you work days. Can we find a happy medium? Maybe you could stop slamming the door at 5 am. Before heading to work that evening I found a note on our front door. Hey Log Head, Try investing in earbuds. I could care less about your schedule. Regards, your neighbor After speaking with my fiancé I decided to squash the drama. And let bygones be bygones. But the next day Maverick had a different plan. Dear Log Head, The conversation was last night about who gave your co-worker herpes it is not something I want to hear at 4 am. It would be nice if you could refrain from talking so loud after 10 pm. P.s I hope you learn a lesson from your co-worker about STDs Not Maverick We both became addicted to leaving notes. Maverick, Do all SOCOM members spy on their neighbors.? There has to be a better choice in music than Barry Manilow? Your concerned neighbor, ( aka log-head) The following day I received this note after stepping into a bag full of dog shit. Log Head, I took it upon myself to pick up your dog's shit. And I brought over some extra bags, I assume you’re out. I also dropped the shit in front of your doorstep for easier clean-up. With Love Your neighbor Can you believe this asshole, he thinks we have the only dogs in the complex. I am over this!!! Dear Poop Patrol, We are not the only residents in the complex with dogs. Maybe you should bring the SOCOM team out to run an investigation? Do your friends know about your secret crush on WHAM? If they had a couple more members would you consider them a boy band? Your concerned neighbor, And the notes never stopped. Log Head I know the poop came from one of your dogs. And I am not a WHAM fan... it’s my wife’s favorite! At this point, I figured I would start messing with them since they watched our every move. I recalled when we first moved in that his wife screamed...SNAKE!!!! I overheard the entire dilemma. The twisty serpents ruined their day. Maverick, Our pet snake escaped last night. There is a slight chance he squeezed through your front door. His name is Mr. Huggy. I’ll be at work tonight so if you could hold on to him until tomorrow that would be great. Your concerned neighbor, While I thought my note would scare him into rage the opposite happened. The banging on the walls stopped along with the daily notes and threats. During this period we received this letter from his wife. Dear Log Head & Company, My name is Mia and I am the wife of Captain Sam Birch, The Captain is doing fine these days. He is a man of much pent-up anger but your notes and letters over the last year have seemed to put him at great ease. I am not sure why that is but I thank you. When the captain was serving in Noth Africa, on assignment he was struck with great trauma. To this day he still has yet to recover. "At this point, I paused my reading, looked down at the paper, and braced myself for what was about to learn." Captain was on a March when he fell behind. His superior officer told him to "hurry up" but he couldn't physically move any faster. This sent his superior commander into a fit of rage and Captain Sam Birch was confined for 3 months. His offense was simple. He was charged under Article 257 as a "Straggler." He spent three months in Military jail and forfeited two-thirds of his month's pay. But the real damage was done by the taunting. His new name was Sam the Straggler. This taunt put him into a rage. With that being said, your notes, as crazy as they are have enabled Sam ( aka Maverick) to have some type of friendship again. For that I thank you. Our marriage is on the upside. It took me about a week to process the letter. As crazy as it was. I remember being taunted. It's some serious shit. The following Sunday I awoke early. Knocked on Maverick's door. Invited him outside to sit down in the lawn chair. Then I handed him a pair of oversized headphones. We both sat in silence as we watched the Blue Angels prepare for the upcoming airshow. We also stared down any new tenants.


I killed someone today. I cannot recall ever shooting someone with intention to kill. It must have been the last war, but my memory of those days has been blurry. I am certain of having fired quite a few shots since; some bullets, such as those of my neighbor’s wedding, carried a joy that flew up into the clouds alongside a swarm of accompanying bullets, elevated evermore by the force of our dances, chants, and drummed melodies. Other bullets were pushed forward by my fear, but with the intention to instill that same fear in the enemy. Not to kill. Today, I wanted to kill someone. I did not have to. I wanted to. After returning from two years of being stationed in the desert, one can only imagine what it felt like to be home. On my land and the land of my ancient ancestors. Where the water flowed so seamlessly, and the greenery emerged to claim its place, and the crops appeared to thank us farmers for treating them well. Life flowed as smoothly as our blue waters. And when I returned, the land welcomed me every morning as affectionately and soothingly as my mother’s blessed hands. For she expressed her love through that of the land and its waters. The warm meals she cooked for me, the flowers she plucked to symbolize my spirit, the clementine tree she named after my sweetness; it was from our land that her motherly love came. When the water stopped flowing, so did her love. It began a year after my return. The water slowly became shorter. First at the knees as it always had been, it made its way down to the calves. The stream’s force, once like the cannon’s, was withering to that of a common exhale. It was not long before the upright greenery that once beamed with confidence began to crouch, with each leaf and piece of grass begging to lean on the one beside it. The tree that once bore my name now bore nothing other than shriveled fruit. For months, the mystery of the vanishing waters remained unsolved. Some blamed witchcraft, others God’s wrath for any selection of sins. The innocents with questionable reputations were blamed, scorned, and shunned. Communal animosity grew where the blossoming flower petals once welcomed all so warmly. Soon, word traveled to us with the winds of inquisitive fury and the mystery was solved. It was a neighboring land that had decided to block the water’s flow. A large, nearly indestructible wall had been placed in the stream’s way. The thought was unfathomable. Locking up our waters in a cage like a criminal. Yet, there was nothing to be done as the decision to take action laid not with us, but with those in the North. Those whom our land’s waters fed. Shortly before our lands grew thirsty, we had supplied the North with more than they could need. As a consequence, the urgency only traveled to them much later. By then, our community had begun warring over the leftover crops. Thieves always existed. Always have and always will. Thieves in our parts cannot be blamed for thieving, as it is a circumstance that forces their hands and fingers to grow longer. Not gluttonous greed like that of the ones who have stolen our water’s freedom. Thus, the bullets targeted at our thieves, as mentioned, only served to instill the fear of loss they had planted in us with their presence. But, when our circumstances dragged us down to those of thieves, the bullets redirected. When my father, God rest his soul, taught me how to shoot, he said to me, “the bullet mustn’t be given a voice except for the one your finger grants it; for only a desperate man’s bullet can whisper in his ear.” I was indeed desperate. The whispers never left my ear as the gun never left my hand. The urge to kill grew. It was an urge I had lacked even in the war, for there, it was likewise the circumstance that drove me to kill. I had to. I did not want to. Now, as a desperate man with a desperate mother whose love has evaporated with our last drops of water, I shoot with a desire to kill and scavenge. I do as the bullet asks. More news came our way. The North had decided to retaliate and free the waters from their dungeon. My mother urged me to join the fight and I did so gladly. But, I, along with my neighbors, had grown weak over the past months. My body shriveled like the fruit of our late tree. In a matter of days I was on the frontline. I stood there with my gun aimed at my enemy. I could remember from the last war that here, on the battlefield, I was nothing more than my enemy’s enemy. To each other, that is all we should be. They had greedily taken our watery lifeline. The bullet’s whisper filled my ears. My enemy was in sight. His body, like mine, was frail and scrawny; his eyebrows tied to each other by the ropes of focus and anger. As I cocked the gun and narrowed my vision along with my wrath onto the opponent, I shifted the barrel to the level of his tightened eyebrows. Before the whisper could pull the trigger, my eyes could not help glancing at those of the life I was moments away from meditatively taking. But, his eyes said something louder than the bullet’s whisper. They drooled with desperation. They repeatedly announced that he stood here, before the barrel of my gun and at the disposal of his bullet’s whisper, out of circumstance. He, like our thieves, like myself, stole because he has to. Not because he wants to. If only the bullets could be aimed at the circumstance. The whisper regained control and pulled the trigger on my finger’s behalf. I have killed a man. Not because I wanted to. Nor because I had to. I am not sure why. The bullet told me to.


A nightmare took over the mind of Harold Thumperton on September 15, 1818 and caused him to toss and turn all night in a restless sweat. His dream recalled in much too vivid detail the tumultuous sail across the Atlantic that had brought him from England five years before to seek his fortune as a wheat farmer in the rich fields of Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore. Over the course of the eight-week journey the ship carrying Harold and his family had run into seas so rough that his fellow passengers believed the ocean would swallow them whole before they came close to the New World they had heard about for years from letters sent home by the earlier settlers of the new land. An avid reader of pamphlets containing the writings of William Shakespeare, during his family’s voyage he became more and more absorbed in the English bard’s Tempest . Like his own adventure, the play had taken place amid driving rain and howling winds that tossed and turned the writer’s humble sailing vessel in an ocean in a voyage propelled only by a scribe’s vivid imagination. A half decade later, he and his family believed they finally had adjusted to their new surroundings. Yet, continually exhausted from laboring all day to gather enough crops to sell and feed his wife and two young children, he often barely escaped the same type of storm that had brought them to their American homestead and welcomed them to this new land. Fortunately, as morning’s light dawned the day after his nightmare, Harold had awoken to a pleasant and gently cloudy day. Although exhausted from his struggle with his internal demons from the night before, he only had time for a quick breakfast of ground oats and warm milk before he prepared for another work-filled day on the farm. Employing many of the methods passed down by generations of his Thumperton ancestors across the ocean, he had labored from dawn to dusk clearing, plowing and planting his new fields during the few bouts of moderate fall climate on the barrier island on the Atlantic Ocean. Unlike many of his fellow English transplants, he had brought with him to the New World a love of reading. His horizons also continued to expand thanks to the few copies of the pamphlets of the works of the bard of Avon he had brought with him from his home country. Although the hard work of running a farm didn’t leave him much time for his avocation, he had begun to study Shakespeare through newly-established mail courses sponsored by Maryland’s Washington University and eventually earned a degree in the discipline. He dreamed that, one day, he would be able to apply his education to advancing the lives of his fellow tillers of the sod by passing along his love of literature, but this remained an elusive dream. His heart and hands still primarily focused on helping grow the food to feed his family and helping out his neighbors in his small circle of life. Farming had not advanced nearly as far as the world of academia. Since tractors and other mechanized equipment didn’t exist, Harold and his fellow farmers cut the wheat with long-bladed scythes and bound the sheaves by hand. They then used the strong horses of the ocean side island to harvest this rich crop. Satisfying the huge appetites of the large creatures required year-round feeding not available on the inland sections of the island. During the times when their farms did not provide seasonal forage, the farmer and his neighbors would herd their horses to the island borders with the Atlantic Ocean, where they could feed on the rich salt hay. For almost two decades Mother Nature had provided an almost limitless supply along the shore to help their animals thrive in the off-season, and the weather often moderated enough to help them transport the animals to the water’s edge with no problem. Then, in 1818, a foul wind that made Harold recall the account in The Tempest , swept up the East Coast without warning, smashing a path of destruction throughout the Sinepuxent Bay. Its force took down the small farmhouses and businesses that had grown up in the tiny village of Sinepuxent, on Sinepuxent Neck across the bay from the barrier island. The inlet there had allowed access to many ocean-going ships passing through the island from the Atlantic to the bay. As the farmers on Assateague Island tried to shelter their valuable animals from the storm several trees split right down the middle, threatening to destroy them, their masters and their home. The horses, of course, went into a panic and began to rear up and run around wildly. Two members of Harold’s herd almost crushed him in a hurry to escape. As he rushed after Starlight Master, his prize stallion, his rope slipped off the horse’s neck every time he attempted to lasso it. Finally, he pulled the animal to safety. The wind continued to howl, and the combination of the fearsome breezes and rains eventually flattened the village and made what once thrived as the homestead in Sinepuxent crumble and become an addition to the expanding ocean. The forces of nature which helped Maryland’s Lower Eastern Shore contribute so much to the growth of America, destroyed the town which had, 39 years before produced Stephen Decatur, one of the country’s greatest naval heroes of the 18th century. Harold managed to round up the remainder of his herd on the island, but the storm had other ideas. The raging sea, so similar in depth and power to that described by his favorite bard in the literature he loved as much as his new home in America, took with his beloved village the man who his fellow workers of the island fields had come to regard as one of the saviors of the famous Assateague ponies. The forces of nature which often had partnered with the gallant farmer swept him under the surf before he could breathe his last and drowned his dream to bring Shakespeare to the masses of the Eastern Shore.


It was a long winter day, a cold night. As you stepped outside it felt like you walked through an ice wall... and the storms... the storms made it so much worse, but somehow today it all seemed different, it was calm, at least calmer than usual. For whatever reason, I was feeling a bit down, so I went for a walk as I always do, helps clear my mind; Without thinking I picked a direction and started walking. ... After walking for a few minutes, I received a message from ‘her’, a video of her... ice skating, talking to me and smiling... oh that smile... it warmed by heart up to the point that I couldn’t even feel the cold surrounding me. I’m sure my face made the biggest smile it ever could as I kept walking and listening to her talk just about anything. ... I somehow ended up at an ice ring, the sound of roller skates on the ice brought me back from my trance. I was sitting down on a chair, overlooking the ice ring; I took out my phone and looked at it again, the video she sent me. I wanted... to hear her voice again and to see her smile. All of a sudden she was next to me... wait what... I thought she was in a different coun... out of my reach... She looked at me and smiled. Her lips moved but I didn’t hear anything. I gave a stunned smile and showed her that I was just watching the video she sent me... how her beautiful brown hair danced with the wind as she skated on the ice, her beautiful hazel eyes, where I’ve been lost far too many times and her lips... the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. She leaned over closer to the phone looking at the video, her lips started to move again but I couldn’t hear anything. I could feel my face was turning red. Without thinking I reached forward and kissed her on the cheek... She sat down on the bench next to me, and stared into my eyes, the video she sent me was still playing in the background. I’m not sure what she saw in my eyes, but she closed hers, leaned forward and gave me a kiss. That kiss... was unimaginable... I could hear and feel my heart beating all over me... my whole body was so warm I might have even produced some steam in this weather. I leaned back, surprised by her advance... I think she felt a little embarrassed, as she looked away the instant I leaned back... but no! don’t get the wrong idea. I too fell in love with you... long ago! I pulled back the hair that covered part of her, faced her and kissed her back. Suddenly I couldn’t feel anything at all... my eyes were closed and it felt dark, completely dark until our lips touched... then I could see her lips pressed against mine... it was as if I was in the abyss but our lips touching was the only thing I could see... the only thing I could feel. Each kiss felt better than the last. I couldn’t stop... what I felt for her was so strong... I don’t thing even the word love would be enough to describe it.