Keith Mitchell awakes to the sound of a ringing bell. As it has been since the accident, there is a second of confusion at waking up somewhere that is not his mother’s house. It doesn’t take long for him to remember where he is - the Haxton Regional Rehabilitation Centre. He repeats the words to himself and that helps to clear the fog of sleep. Then, he turns to sit at the side of the bed, winces at the pain in his head and lifts the leg that is still in a cast to join his other uninjured leg. He’s become used to the dull, itchy feeling below his knee and is certainly grateful they didn’t need to amputate it. He reaches out to grab his crutches and starts to limp out of his room and down the long hallway that leads to the dining room. It took a little time, but eventually he started to get used to communal living. It wasn’t much of a choice - his mother was in her 70s and couldn’t provide the support he needed. He limps to the serving area and sees the broad back of Belinda, the cook. Keith is fairly intimidated by Belinda, not because she is mean, but because she is very particular about how food is served. Keith can hear the TV now from down the hall - some sitcom is on and he can hear the laugh track. Belinda turns and he smiles, says: ‘Good morning.’ Belinda’s features, as usual, seem to be carved from stone and she gives a grunt of recognition as she piles his plate with rubbery eggs and hashbrowns. He limps over to the table and digs in. The food isn’t great, but he can’t really complain. He and his mother don’t have much money, and his father didn’t leave them much after he died, so the idea of a private facility was out of the question. Keith hears approaching footsteps and turns to see Marcus, a friend he had made since arriving. Down the hall, the audience cheers, probably for the entrance of a character that was a fan favourite. Keith smiles at the coincidence and he and Marcus exchange pleasantries. Soon, they are sitting beside each other eating. ‘I mean, could they at least get some seasoning on these hashbrowns? They taste like the bottom of the skillet.’ Keith shakes his head: ‘You gotta stay positive, Marcus. Just try to look on the bright side.’ Marcus chuckles: ‘I admire that about you, man. You always stayin’ positive in this place. ‘Specially after what you went through.’ From the TV audience, a chorus of awwws. ‘Well, I’m just happy to be here. It could have been worse, you know. Like my mother always says, gratitude is always the answer. ’ Marcus looks at him for a second and then continues to shovel the breakfast into his mouth. They eat in comfortable silence until they are finished and have returned their plates, appeasing Belinda’s iron stare. Marcus stretches and winces - Keith wasn’t sure what injury he was dealing with, but figured it was something with his back that he didn’t want to talk about. ‘So, what you wanna do today? You know you gotta get out and get some sunlight. Come to the gym with me. You can spot me, right?’ He asks the question with a polite look to Keith’s cast. ‘Of course I can. There’s nothing wrong with these babies,’ he says with a flex of his arms. The audience from the TV down the hall laughs and they set out towards the gym. * After the gym, they head for the TV room. Marcus grabs the remote as Keith limps into a seat. He clicks around a bit until he lands on the opening credits of a show. Keith recognises the song immediately: ‘That’s Daydream! By The Loving Spoonful. I used to listen to it all the time. It’s a good trivia question, too. Most people know the song but not the band.’ Marcus smiles and nods his head in apparent amazement. ‘Damn, that’s good trivia. It’s a nice song, too.’ They listen as the opening credits roll. In big letters the words Blink and You’ll Miss It fill the screen. In typical 90s fashion, there are a series of montage-like shots that introduce the characters. The first is a young man, probably in his 30s - he is shown with his head in the hood of a car until he looks at the camera and smiles. Next is an older woman sitting at a kitchen table cutting out coupons - she cuts one too narrow and crumples it up, then looks at the camera with feigned outrage. Next is a father and daughter - they walk through a field and he holds her hand. The snippet of the song ends with the famous whistling before it fades to black. The opening scene is a typical suburban living room. The older woman sits at a table cutting coupons - this must be a recurring thing for her character , Keith thinks. The door opens and the young man walks in. The crowd cheers. The man is blonde and slightly pudgy and wears a ridiculous uniform, all bright red and white checkers from some kind of fast-food chain. ‘How was your day at work, dear?’ the mother says. ‘Same as always. Why do people like chicken so much anyways?’ The audience laughs at this and so do Keith and Marcus. The man sits on the couch and looks at his mother. ‘What’s with the coupons all the time?’ ‘What, you think we are the Rockerfellers?’ Audience laughter. ‘Besides, it wouldn’t hurt you to be more cautious with your spending. You never know, you might meet a girl someday and you’ll want to be able to take her on a nice date.’ The mother smiles now, imagining a future where her son would not be single and living in her basement. The audience laughs but the son looks angry. ‘Mom, I told you, I just need some time. After Alice and I...’ The audience lets out a chorus of awwwws, indicating that a previous episode would have dealt with the break-up. ‘I need to get changed. I’ll be back up for dinner later.’ The man goes downstairs - he clearly lives there. There are clothes and empty bottles of beer strewn everywhere. On the wall, there are photos of a woman, presumably Alice, that have been ripped and scribbled on with permanent marker. The man opens an ancient fridge, grabs a beer, sits at a desk and opens up a photo album. There are more photos of Alice and him and he stares at them longingly. The audience awwwws and so do Marcus and Keith. Then, the man lowers his uniform trousers and reaches his hands into his underwear. The audience lets out a series of gasps and there is a crescendo of excitement. Keith looks at Marcus: ‘Wait, what? Is this from the 90s? This is... pretty messed up.’ Marcus shrugs: ‘I guess they were trying to push the envelope. Seinfled did the episode on masturbation, right? So this guy is a little sick. But he clearly just misses his girl, right?’ Keith turns back to the TV - the man is now vigorously masterbating and the camera stays close to his face. Sweat drips and lands on the photo album - Keith can hear the droplet land and the grunting but can’t look away from the man’s eyes that now seem hopelessly angry. He moans repeatedly until he climaxes and the audience cheers. He wipes his hands on the photo album and, alerted by a bumping sound, turns towards the stairs. ‘What’re you doing down there?’ the shrill voice of the mother asks. ‘Nothing! Just doing some work - working on my drawings.’ ‘I just hate that I can’t get down these stairs anymore. You know, if you just saved a bit more money, we could get one of those stair-lift things.’ The shrill voice fills the basement and the man puts his hands over his ears. ‘Fine, fine!’ he shouts back. A minute passes with the man sipping his beer and looking at the photo album. Eventually, the shrill voice: ‘Dinner!’ The man downs the beer and trudges up the stairs and the screen fades to black before going to a commercial. * The commercial is for a tow truck company. A man in overalls stands in front of images of destroyed cars being lugged around but Keith isn’t listening. He turns to Marcus: ‘You wanna watch something else? This show is pretty... weird.’ Marcus shrugs: ‘Ah, just give it a chance. It’s trying to be - ah, shit, what’s the word? Subversive or something.’ The tow truck commercial is over and the next one starts: a man in a suit stands in front of a white background. ‘Have you sinned?’ he says in a deep voice. The man keeps talking but Keith isn’t listening - a loud bang has distracted him. He looks behind him, towards the kitchen, expecting to see the cause of the sound, but sees nothing. He turns to Marcus: ‘Did you hear that banging sound? Sounded like it was from the kitchen.’ Marcus shrugs: ‘Nope. You a bit jumpy today though, man. You gotta take it easy!’ He claps a hand on his shoulder, smiles and holds his hand there for a few seconds. The commercial with the man speaking about sinning is over and the show has resumed. The set is darker now and the camera starts at the top of the stairs. Slowly, it descends into the basement but keeps the focus held in front of it. There is no more laugh track and Keith feels his chest tighten. ‘I thought this was a sitcom? I’m not a fan of scary stuff.’ Marcus’ eyes are wide with excitement: ‘It’s experimental, bro. Subversive. C’mon, keep watching.’ The camera gets to the bottom of the stairs and pans slowly towards a chair in front of a television. The blonde, pudgy man - the protagonist - sits and stares ahead vacantly. The TV screen is blurred but he is not and his bloodshot eyes gleam in the darkness. In his hands he holds a bottle of whiskey, drunk nearly to completion. The camera zooms slowly towards him and for a second, it seems like he is going to break the fourth wall and look back into the camera, but he doesn’t. He stares at the blurry TV until he stands up. He moves to the photo on the wall, gently caresses and kisses it. He grabs a set of keys on the table and goes upstairs. There is a jump cut to the man driving. The perspective is his, and the white line in the middle of the road disappears and reappears as he swerves. The man is crying and when he goes to dry his tears, he nearly misses an oncoming car. The car honks and Keith feels his heart pumping. ‘I don’t like this, Marcus. Please, can we watch something else?’ He hears the banging from the kitchen and could swear that someone is watching him. He turns but sees nothing. Marcus doesn’t take his eyes from the TV: ‘Just stick with it, bro. This is some grade-A filmmaking here. See how he puts the camera where the guy would be looking? Amazing use of perspective.’ The driver, keeping the car straight for the time being, seems to remember something. He reaches down and starts to dig around through a pile of trash and when his hand closes on a half-full bottle of vodka, he looks up to blinding headlights. The screen goes white and there is a dissonant sound of screeching violins and thumping timpanis. Fade back in and the camera lingers on the wreckage, the metallic carnage; the moon above shines indifferently. The scene jumps to a courtroom outlined in wood-panelling. As much as he wants to, Keith can’t look away. The camera cuts to a shot of the defendant - he now wears a rumpled suit instead of a fast-food uniform. His head is bandaged and he has been crying. Another cut to a wide shot as the judge enters the courtroom. The bailiff speaks but it sounds muffled - like Charlie Brown’s teacher, thinks Keith as he tries to ignore the banging sound from somewhere behind him. The camera cuts again to the little girl from the credits. She sits in the audience section and wears a sling around her left arm. There is a space beside her that is empty. Her eyes do not leave the back of the main character’s head. The rest of the scene plays out with a surreal sense of action - the dialogue is too muffled to hear, but it is clear that the protagonist is on trial for something. Eventually, the jury members stand and leave the courtroom. Then, the theme song from Jeopardy plays. Keith and Marcus laugh, enjoying the incongruity of the moment and the music, a temporary release from the tension. It plays for five minutes and the camera holds the wide shot of people fidgeting in their seats and nervous looks being exchanged and the protagonist is shown from the chest up and the girl still stares at him until the jury comes back in. Marcus reaches to Keith with his eyes wide: ‘Oh shit! Shit’s about to get real!’ There is a sparkle in his eyes that Keith doesn’t recognise - a glimmering of some kind. When the foreperson of the jury stands, her dialogue is still unintelligible, but based on the reaction of people cheering in the audience and the protagonist hanging his head in shame, it is clear that he has lost. The little girl stands up and walks towards him. Her dialogue is intelligible and stands out above the din of reaction: ‘You should have died. Not him. You deserve to die. Not him. You should have died. Not him. You should have DIED!’ And she turns to the camera before it fades. Keith looks at Marcus but Marcus doesn’t look back at him. The banging from behind him is louder now and he turns to see two dark eyes looking at him, piercing him, but they disappear quickly. He looks back at the TV and the setting has returned to the suburban home. The mother is cutting coupons - she has been crying. The phone rings. She picks it up. She nods. Nods again. She cries. She howls in anguish and pain, like a dying animal, like a dying god weeping for a world of death and sin and knowing that there is nothing she can do to help, that her world will be nothing but pain now and the only thing she can still do is cry. Then, she stops. Grabs her chest. Falls out of her chair. There is no music, only a faint static sound. The camera zooms in on her face as she takes her last breath. One of the coupons falls from the table, swirling in the air until it lands on her face. The screen goes black and the whistling from that Daydream song starts again. Marcus stands up and exhales: ‘Shit! That was a good one. I mean, really, really well done. Don’t you think?’ Keith looks at him and then looks at the TV which is now showing a rerun of some other sitcom. Something doesn’t feel right. Marcus doesn’t... seem right. ‘Look, I should call my mother. I usually call her around this time of day anyway. She’ll be worried about me.’ ‘Sure, bro. Be my guest. The world is your oyster!’ he shouts and laughs and his laugh is deeper now, echoing, almost guttural. Keith turns and walks quickly back along the hallway and slows down, expecting to see Belinda. Instead, a smaller figure is standing where she normally would. Turning to him is the girl from the television. Her eyes are flaming and she screams: ‘It should have been you! It should have been you!’ Keith runs away from her and sprints towards the lounge, where the phones are. The door - which is usually open - is locked. He hears the banging sound again, and it is louder now. He looks behind him and the girl is staring at him. Keith, now firmly convinced that this whole thing has been a bad dream, stops. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Waits for sleep to take him somewhere else. For him to wake up in bed, quietly, so that he doesn’t disturb his mother sleeping two floors above him. But when he opens his eyes, he blinks. The room around him changes first: what was once cosy and relaxing is now metallic. Sparse. Menacing. The tables and chairs in the dining hall are now long benches. He looks at himself and sees an orange jumpsuit with letters and numbers across it. He looks to his leg - the one with the cast. He falls over once the reality of his amputation is absorbed into this new reality. The door in front of him opens and two men in lab coats step in and help him up. ‘Ah, Mr. Mitchell! Got started a bit early today, did we? Well, you know this would go a lot better if you just stopped watching that TV. It’s an instant reaction as soon as you click that thing on.’ The other man is reaching in his pocket and bringing out something sharp. Keith looks at them and says: ‘I’d like to call my mother. There has been a misunderstanding. Where’s Marcus?’ The man with the needle smiles a smile of sadness at him but it is really just pathos, emotion brought on at the sight of the most truly pathetic and worthless of God’s creatures. He holds Keith’s arm gently and inserts the needle, pushes the plunger and Keith’s world goes dark once again. * The next morning, Keith Mitchell awakes to the sound of a ringing bell.


They say dogs care about their masters more than themselves. I suppose that's true, considering I am a dog after all. All dogs are loyal, to the bitter end. I'd run on broken glass barefoot for my master. I'm not like other dogs, I have human level intelligence. None of my family has my gift, or does any other dog on Earth. I guess I'm special. My name is Boston, and I'm a Border Collie. After years of being abused, I was finally adopted by a kind human called Charlie. For once in a long time, I was happy. Charlie was my everything. He adopted me after I thought the whole world left me behind. He gave me a home, a reason to live again. I loved him, and he loved me. I was his dog, his friend. Finally, I found a home for myself. But life has a bad habit of turning nasty. One day Charlie was going to the store like always. It was supposed to be a normal day, God damn it! I was sleeping in a ball on the couch, Charlie walked out putting on his shoes.. "I'll be right back, Boston. I'm gonna get some milk." Charlie said, rubbing my head. I was dead asleep, not paying attention. I heard the front door open and Charlie turning on the car. I slept for a while, I dreamt Charlie was scratching my stomach. He was scratching just the way I liked it, but something felt wrong. Charlie's hand suddenly turned ice cold, he was scratching harder than usual. The air around us turned thick and heavy, a sudden rush of dread washed over me. Charlie scratched me hard, breaking the skin. I whimpered a little, suddenly looking up. What I saw wasn't Charlie, it wasn't even human! It was a mass of eyes and lips, writhing and squirming in a grotesque fashion. It's flesh was pink, it had tendrils oozing out of its many hairy folds. "C-charlie?" I asked, terrified. "I AM GOD!" The creature roared, pining me to the couch. I couldn't move, it held my arms and legs firmly in place. I was horrified, I never felt so powerless before. I tried biting the tendrils, but it coated my tounge in a thick layer of slime, it made me feel sick. "TIME TO JOIN PARADISE, BOSTON." It screamed, extending it's tendrils around my neck. They slithered in my mouth, forcibly opening my maw wide. They were so strong, the slime and ooze stung my mouth. A thick tendril shot down my throat, extending down to my stomach. It caused me to choke, I couldn't breath. I felt it writh in my stomach, it hurt like hell! I thought I was going to die. Then I woke up. I was still on the couch, except it was dark. I caught my breath, gasping for air. My eyes were watering, it felt so real. My mouth had a sour taste, I licked my gums, an ooze was between my teeth. I looked around the room, Charlie wasn't there. I couldn't have been sleeping for more than an hour and all ready it's night? I got up and walked into the kitchen. Somehow it was even darker than the living room. On the microwave clock was 1 PM. I was even more confused than before. Was there a power outage? Surely not otherwise it would have a flashing 12. I went back to the living room and turned on the light. The light illuminated the dark and empty cabin. I then opened the curtain, an oppressive sea of black stared back at me. I had more questions than answers. Why was everything so dark? What the hell was my dream? But the most important question ate away at my mind. Where's Charlie? Charlie should be home by now, how long does it take to get some milk? My mind was racing. Nothing made sense, it's like I woke up in a nightmare. Nightmarish thoughts raced through my head. What if Charlie was hurt, or worse? No, it couldn't be. Charlie was safe and I'm gonna find him. If it's the last fucking thing I do. I walked to the front door and turned the knob. The black void in front of me called me, beckoning me to join it's maw. I took a deep breath and stepped one foot outside. I'm coming, Charlie.


"We were the same thing once," she had told you one day, so early in the morning it seemed like only the forest was waking up around her. You had only known her for a few days then, and you were still coming to terms with it. The first time you saw her you wandered too far into the forest, too enchanted by golden feathers and a too human voice. You thought she was a fairy. Or perhaps some kind of flower, the leaves obscuring her small golden body just enough so that you could've guessed what she was. Except, there's something about her that makes you feel as if you've met her before. “How could you have known that?” You answered with a cocked head and crossed arms. She had only given you her smile, the smile that you somehow always knew she was doing around her gentle golden beak. Her response came in the fluttering of dragonfly wings. In the fingertips of cold that suffused your body with shivers. I know from stories making metaphors out of metaphors, she says. I am older than this forest itself, she says. You blink and she's gone. (Momma called bedtime early. You didn't want to go back home but it was getting dark and you can't sleep without a nightlight.) She talks like she has existed before the fruits grew turgid and rich with sugar water. Like she will exist after your salvaged remains will lie dry on the forest floor, picked clean by mushrooms and bugs and beetles. You asked her about her feathers once. (Were they really real gold?) She had turned around and plucked one from her plumage, sewed it right into your sweater. Said you could keep it, said she would be around with you forever. Then you asked about forever and after that, you asked about photosynthesis, about rocks and about water and about time. About everything possibly in the world and like a promise, she answered all of them. It was later that she told you the risk she took in talking with you. That creatures like her weren't supposed to talk to creatures like you. It was even later then that you realized the consequence of her actions. It started with a feather, then two. Then all of a sudden a deluge of gold and magic and pretty soon she wouldn't have any feathers left. “Do you ever look up at the sky wishing you could be part of it too?” You were the one who spoke first this time, having woken up in a somewhat sentimental mood. At this time her feathers were already falling out in clumps, gold mixing with the detritus of leaves and gravel coating the forest floor. "All the time" she answers, though no longer with dragonflies and autumn breezes. The raw pinkness of her skin lays in incongruous patches next to brilliant gold. You smile back at her, but this time it is more somber. Like the shallow puddles children splash in before they are gone the next morning. You stayed longer than usual that night, telling yourself because of the weather, and because the bugs that light up aren't out yet and because, because, because... The days blur on and you talk so much and then not at all. New feathers grow in the puckered garden of her skin, dirty brown like the forest floor. She is so quiet now, stopping around her words tentatively like an outdoor cat who can't remember the directions back to her owner’s house. Sometimes you can't even recognize her from the clusters of birds around her until you get closer and the rest fly away. You sit in silence now. When she got quiet you used to pick up the conversation for her, collecting the pieces together awkwardly in the palm of your hand. You used to ask questions, about the universe and about gods, but now it would be hard hearing anything less in return. She says nothing at all. The gold is completely gone now, the brown covering any that would have ever grown back. She's not quiet anymore, instead pinching the air with chitters and empty meanings. Sometimes it feels like she's trying to tell you something, but other times it sounds like she's saying nonsense, saying nothing at all. Her eyes, which used to match her feathers in vivid gold, have turned an opaque deep black. Covering any recognition she could have held for you. She used to tell you stories about the moon, but now she just squeaks. The feather stays woven in your sweater, wrinkled with use. You wore it almost every day, hoping she would ask about it and you could tell her all over again the day that you first saw her. So when she asked, you could return it to its rightful place. But too much time had passed. Perhaps she forgot that she had left it for you in the first place. One night you return to the forest, suddenly desperate to find her. There's a flock of sparrows dotting the upper branches of a tree and a pit forms at the bottom of your stomach because none of them seem to look at you. You stumble on a branch and something in the forest cracks and all the birds are leaping from their perches into the horizon-tinged sky. You wait. For what, you have no idea but nobody looks back at you. She is gone. You exhale, slow and shadowed, sliding back down to the forest floor and back down to earth. Around you, the sky burns the darkness off to white, white, white and it starts to snow.


I had been lost and alone for a year and a half. Depression, abuse, the premature death of a loved one, and job hunting all seemed to hit me like punches in a boxing ring where I wasn't even wearing head gear. The weeks were the loneliest to get through but each Friday and Saturday brought alcohol's warm and gentle embrace rocking me to sleep. Sometimes if I got lucky, I might even find a warm body to fall asleep next to. Unfortunately, most girls left by the time I woke up. Worse still, the ones that stayed were always different from the way I remembered the night before. On the surface I was a well read, 29 year old man in his prime, but behind closed doors I fought hard with my demons and didn't dare ask friends for help. I didn't want them to think of me as weak because I thought of myself as strong. The friend who has been through a lot, who always overcomes obstacles and whatever life throws at him. Yet each Monday morning I woke up more tired. I lost a bit of my fight every Sunday that I regained consciousness. Hungover, lonely, and anxious about the week to come until I was drifting, directionless. More nights alone, feeling increasingly lost, more punches coming from the world, until I lost the last of my will to fight back. It was that day I saw the boy staring back at me in the mirror. He was me, or a version of me. He looked...smaller? Angrier? Or even weaker? Some days he hurled insults, throwing words at all the places he knew would hurt the most. "You'll never make it past the first round of interviews, you're too dumb for this job." Some days he would laugh at my attempts to style my hair, or the 5th shirt I'd tried on getting ready. "It doesn't matter, not like you're going to impress anyone today looking like that." Other days he didn't even look me in the eye, just at the ground dejectedly. "You should just go back to bed, don't bother trying to do anything today. Its all hopeless. It won't ever get better for you." The worst days were when he stared straight at me, wide eyed with hate. The days like this one. "Nobody will ever love us, love you. I don't care how many miles you run or how many books you read. I don't care if you have 6 pack abs, rippling arms, or boulders for shoulders. I don't care how great your job is or how much you get paid. I don't care where you volunteer, or what new hobbies you take up," he sneered with contempt. "I don't care if you discover that there really is a God and a heaven you end up in. I don't care what exotic places you vacation, which city you move to. ***I will always be with you. Because I know. I know that no matter what, it will never be good enough and neither will you."*** Every ounce of intensity of the anger I held back every day screamed, "I HATE YOU!". Still, my anger remained. I stormed out of the bathroom away from that damned mirror, then ripped another mirror off my bedroom door, and I paced back and forth in my room. Within 30 seconds I had changed into running shorts and I ran out the front door. The heavy metal was blaring through my headphones as I ran, trying to hurt the ground by striking my feet into it as fast as I could. By the time I came back down I was finishing an 8 mile loop. I walked inside, tore off my sweat covered shirt, and I laid on the ground. I stared at the white ceiling until exhaustion overtook me. I woke up the next morning on the wooden floor, shivering. I picked myself up and got into a hot shower, sitting down in the tub until the hot water ran out. Afterwards I got into bed and didn't move for the rest of the day. I felt empty and exhausted, yet there was something else there. Something small and intrusive. It reached out to me as if I were hearing a whisper from a great distance or a single breeze in the otherwise still air. I had fought back. It's been 2 years since that day I fought back. I didn't fight back every single day after that. Some days the boy in the mirror won, sometimes he even followed me on my runs. Some days I saw him in my dreams, or in the faces of friends that were having a joke at my expense. I heard him in all the rejections personal and professional. I saw him in each failure. But other days I won. I fought back, ignored him, beat him, or silenced him even if for a few hours. I met a girl, I fell in love, we moved in together. I got a new job I actually liked doing, and they paid me pretty well. I read everything I got my hands on and even published my own novel. I volunteered to pack lunches for the homeless. I ran a full marathon. I traveled to new and exciting places sometimes alone and sometimes in good company. But none of these things made the boy in the mirror go away. One day as I was getting ready I noticed something. The boy in the mirror hadn't opened his mouth in over a week, he just sat there looking weakly at the ground, his knees tucked to his chest. He looked skinner than normal, malnourished. Should I feel victorious right now? He did look like me after all, and he looked so sad. So alone and in need of a purpose? Something to do? A friend? And so I sat down. He still refused to meet my eyes. "I.." "Shut up. Just shut up okay? I don't need your pity. I don't need you or your help or anyone. I never did and I never will, so leave me alone." "Well, you never left me alone so it only seems fair." "..." "You know you've been following me around for years making me feel like shit, and I don't even know your name" "I don't really have *one*." "Everybody has a name, even asshole reflections." "I have a *few*. Some people call me Tim, others Anx, or Furo." "What the hell kind of names are those?*"* "They're Latin, and they're short for stuff. Timor, Anxietatem, Furorem." I rolled my eyes, "In English?" He glared back, "Fear. Anxiety. Anger." "...Why did you say those things anyway?" "Because I hurt. And I wanted you to hurt too. I wanted someone else to feel this." We sat there for a few minutes, neither one saying anything, both looking at the ground until I finally croaked out, “I'm sorry." "You-*what?* Sorry? **Sorry??**" His eyes glowed with hate. His fists balled up. "I'm sorry. I know that its hard. Its not fair, and sometimes it feels so bad that the only way to make the bad feel less is to give some of it to someone else." The hate faded, tears welled in his eyes, and his knuckles relaxed. I continued, "So I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you had to carry that all these years. I'm sorry that it made you tired, and hopeless, and sad. I'm sorry that its easier to be alone by rejecting people before they reject you. I'm sorry that sometimes you even push people away that you want to stay. But most of all I'm sorry that you felt you had to do it alone." The boy in the mirror started to fade. He looked down at his hands, terror in his eyes. More tears started to well in them. "What, no! Wait! Stop it please! Please don't leave me!" He cried as he shimmered and faded away. I looked into the mirror, into my eyes, and said, ***"I won't leave you. I never will and never could. I will carry you and sometimes you will carry me. Because I know. I know that no matter what it could get better. I know that one day it might be good enough, and so will you.


THE LONG WALK It an effulgent day, with an edgy sun and few puffy clouds hovering about the sky. But this connatural backdrop contradicts your dusky temperament. With your suitcase in hand, you head for the station. You are about travelling to Akwa Ibom from Abuja, where you spent your Christmas holidays. The holidays had been less favourable to you. Maybe it had been favourable to every other persons you cared less about at the station, but surely it treated you worse. The reason you keep looking searchingly for familiar faces around the bustling station, someone to lift your spirits up. You growl when you found none, and lazily you join the line of chattering passengers qeueing onto the lovomotive train. You exhale at last when the train chauffs and it speakers announces it departure, your departure from a forgettable holiday. Each passing moment you cast a glance at your wrist watch, but in pretense of keeping yourself busy than checking it correct time. The male passenger by your side tries to incite a conversation by asking about your holidays but you ignore him, instead choosing to stare out of the window at the lanky cattle rearers on the open fields, by the sides of the train tracks. Throughout the rest of the journey you are strictly quiet which makes you dooze off to sleep. The train stops at the next station and it wakes you up. You become annoyed when you realise you are not to alight there. As the train resumes it journey again, you try to silence out the metal clankings emanating from the train's engine room. It added more rhythm to the chatterings of other passengers. You realise you have been the only that has been quiet throughout the journey, so you wake the sleeping passenger beside you. You apologize for having ignored him earlier. You strike a conversation pertaining to the sunny weather and the poor state of the train. You realise you shared an opposing view to the passenger's, so you grow quiet with time, ignoring all his efforts to get you back on the conversation. The train stops at the next station, your destination. You alight with a few passengers, and choose not to look back at the departing train. It still bore memories of the miserable days you spent at Abuja. You walk briskly out of the train station, with your luggae slung over your shoulder. You halt the next cab that drives up to you. It driver drives off with you when you notify him of your destination, the bus stop at Uyo. You alight at the bus stop, where wisps of silver-grey smoke, curling out of vehicles mingles with pungent smell of decaying dumps littered around, causing passersby to twist their nose and spit their distaste. But you are untroubled with it. You are about to board a bus from Uyo to Ikot Ekpene. A Toyota Camry with a worn-out body and a fading red colour halts across the road. It driver waves energetically at you, you returned the gesture nonchalantly. ''Oto my man, Oto Oto!'' The driver cries out. He steps out of his car and takes off his cap, revealing his bald crown. He walks up to you with a grin. You silently wished you could reach out and slap off his grin, but you are civilized. He is an old friend from the past, old friends in college. You exchange exchange greetings and make inquiries affectionately. Your friend is a banker; happily married and life treats him fairl, which is visible with his bulky shape and rich attire. Yours is quite the opposite. You relate your life's ordeal to him; your vigourous work as a teacher, the mistake of travelling to Abuja for your holidays, a domineering principal at the school where you teach and the distances you had to cover everyday to work. ''It's life for you. Be a strong man.'' He speaks out loud and confidently. Perhaps, he is God and must have shaped every man's destiny, including yours-once his closest friend. He offers to drive you down to your destination without charges. Coincidentally, he is actually heading for the same destination as you. You excitingly hop into his rose-scented car, like a man Dangote had just willed his wealth to. En route, he suggest a few bottles of liqour, in celebration of an untimely reunion. Let's drink like old days. He offers, you are in congruence with it. After all the bills are on your companion. The sun disappears over several empty green bottles of liqour in a bar and over you and your drunk friend. Your companion runs out of cash to pay for all the drinks. You are a guileless man and your conscience is knocking on your door. So you open your door and decide to help him out with the last amount you had as your transport fare. Afterall, he offered you a free ride home. The journey continues with both of you sitted in intoxicating silence. Your companion strikes off a conversation pertaining to football, but his views belies yours. Your companion is infuriated and slams his brake. The car stops violently same as your heart, but you are not death. You are shocked and confused. ''Get out of my car, man. Same old you, greedy and a lover of free things''. His words fall like bags of prickles on you. Pride comes in, you obediently and annoyingly step out of your companion's car without begging. Instead, you slam the door violently and walk off with your rumpled clothe and your luggage slung over your shoulder. Your friend drives off blasting black rings of smoke from his car all over you. You curse as his car drives out of sight. The cruel realisation knocks you like a million punches from your favourite kick-boxer. The puzzles fit in; your transport fare, the drinking bar, bottles of liqour you paid for and the lurking darkness. You give up and decide to walk. A huge sign board with, ''Poverty is a sin'' inscribed on it greets you at Ekom Iman junction. It makes you cry and laugh violently at the same time. You smile at every passersby that walks by you and wave at empty red buses, while trotting like a wounded dog into the night's dark garment. Ikot Ekpene your probable destination, or madness your probable outcome. You recall you begun your day's journey with a suitcase in hand, while you headed for the station. Now, you are heading for home on your feet with your suitcase still slung over your back.


EMANATION You never knew that she had an infirmity until she struggled through the garden door. The limp only became distinct as she dragged her left foot slightly. The clumsy movement scraped her trainer and the bottom of her jeans on the floor. The constant pressure meant that the jeans were roughed up and frayed at this spot and the trainer clearly showed signs of being worn away. Once I’d noticed the limp I could then see that the whole of her left side sat awkwardly on her body as if it hadn’t been sculpted out fully by her maker, but she clearly carried herself positively so this gawkiness was hardly discernible. And what a positive force of nature she embodied. From the minute she appeared you knew she was there. You could feel her emanating something powerful, forceful, a vibrating energy field. She was hypnotic. “So what do you want to know?” she said plunking down on the damp garden bench by the now emptied swimming pool. The garden was strewn with crunchy, shrivelling autumn leaves, a motley yellow, brown, green flecked carpet. Her large, round face was framed like a shaggy lion with a thick, curly, dark brown mane. Her sharp blue eyes pierced. I had been finally invited to do the article because I had known her mother through work on the local paper and I helped her parents when they were left struggling with an unruly press pack in their road. I hadn’t really wanted to do the story. I’d initially walked away as I feared I wouldn’t do it justice. That I wouldn’t be able to capture the beauty and remarkable gifts this 17-year-old girl offered to the world. I’d been ordered back by my news editor and told to tell it straight. What did that mean: tell it straight. As if she could read my mind she quickly made it clear: “I don’t want something mawkish - you know - a poor me piece. No playing on my disability or being sentimental. Tell the truth. See me properly and tell it as it is. No embellishment. Take me as you find me.” I found her directiveness mesmerising. Actually, I would have been scared to do anything other than as she requested. It wasn’t an order but in its forcefulness I could only obey. I found I didn’t want to dramatize or overwrite. All I wanted was to strip my words back to their power. Allow her to stand in her truth, as she asked. And what was that truth? “I suppose I want to know what happened? How did all this start?” I replied. “I just woke up and I could see colours everywhere. Not just the usual colours that things have but layers upon layers of colours. Colour had been split into spectrums all around me. Light came out of everything. It spilt everywhere. As I put my foot down everything burst into light and colour with each step. I thought I’d entered a cartoon-land it was so bright and zappy. “I’ve never done drugs but I thought perhaps this is what it would be like. Now I’m saying this, I’m surprised I wasn’t freaked out but somehow it all felt normal to wake up and find that the world around me had gone psychedelic. “I felt that I was being held by some enormous being who’d stripped my eyes and opened them up to a new way of seeing - an alternative parallel universe. I should have been scared but in fact I felt comforted and supported. “It was only when I came downstairs and walked into the kitchen that I realised something was wrong. My mum started shrieking and dropped the milk carton on the floor. Of course, usually I wouldn’t be coming down the stairs by myself. I’d need my mum or one of my carers to get me down and plump me into my wheelchair. So, as you can see, me lumbering around would have been a bit of a shock for everyone.” Lazarus Girl and Miracle Maid were already names she had been called for her remarkable transformation. Her mum had told me that Miriam had been born with Cerebral Palsy and had never walked properly. CP is like a stroke at birth or in the womb when the infant is deprived of blood or oxygen, or both. Miriam’s mother never knew what had happened but was told that the birth had been uncomplicated. Medics believed that Miriam had suffered an event while in utero. Miriam’s mother couldn’t remember any shock or distress, except that the family cat had died when she was about eight months pregnant. “As I bent over to help mum clear up the milk I was struck by her crying and the tears dripping into the milk which was running across the kitchen tiles. I remember thinking ‘why is mum crying?’ I still hadn’t made a proper connection with the weirdness of me walking around.” “And now?” I asked. “Of course, I get that this must seem like a miracle. In my head life felt normal. Instead of wheels I was using my legs. Wheels, legs, I was mobile so I hadn’t made the distinction before. Even when I was walking in my colour dream I was me. I was just getting on with life, getting around as I wanted. “And yes, legs are easier, before you ask. And am I doing anything different? No. I suppose it’s nice to be able to come up and downstairs but it’s not like I’ve taken up running marathons,” she laughed. “I like to be able to help out more. Mum has even got cross with me for not emptying the dishwasher. That would never have happened before. I think I like her getting cross with me now. It means she’s beginning to forget that once I couldn’t do those things. She now treats me like the others, like my sister and brother.” “How do they feel about it?” “Probably glad they don’t have to hump me around and put up with me being the special needy one anymore.” I think that the world will always see her as special but decide not to say anything. Instead I wondered if she still saw the colours. “Not quite in the same way. When the Being is here, then I do.” And there it was. “What can you say about the Being? If you’d like to discuss it of course.” “Only if you tell it straight.” I agreed. In the end isn’t this what everyone wanted to know about - the Being? “I know some people want to call it an alien being. I think they’re scared of any notions of something more divine. Mum and I call it my archangel. It seems to like that. I’m not sure if it’s a he or she. To be honest I think it’s non-binary, though sometimes it feels very flowy and feminine and other times very strong and energetic and masculine. Most times it’s just there, glowing all these colours, dynamic and mega powerful.” I thought that was a good description for Miriam. She emanated. “When I go back to the start, I recall that it was speaking in my head and telling me to get up. Now I hear it all the time. If I want to know something I just ask and I’m told. Of course, before you inquire, I’ve asked what it is. It just smiles. I’m happy with that. Does it really matter in the end?” I say that many people want to claim her and her Being for their own cause whether it be religious, or science or psychological. She laughs, “Church groups of all denominations have called or turned up on the doorstep. Some of them are very annoying with the talk of Christ and angels or possession. We’ve had the ufologists and crop-circler types - they’re fun but the NASA and shadowy government figures are boring and just want to take me away for experiments. Mum’s got really good at dealing with them now. “Whereas the psychiatrist and psychologist bunch want to explore my higher being energies. The Being laughs at this and shows me how to get rid of them, politely of course. We’ve got techniques for not answering the questions.” She looked fierce. I was glad she was answering mine. I wondered if the Being’s powers were fearsome. “I know it doesn’t want to harm me. I know it’s here for good. Like now, it’s saying what do you really want to know?” “What? It’s talking to me?” “Yes. It says you’d really like to understand the power of this world, this universe. What stands beyond time and space.” I admitted I did. I wanted to know how this girl had already performed miracles. A deaf boy could now hear. Another child could walk. As news of her work filtered out I could understand why Christian groups were muttering about the Second Coming and that many wanted to bow at her feet and call her a Messiah. Now she was revealing that her gifts came from channelling this entity. “Come,” she said, standing up and walking over to the family’s empty swimming pool. Below, in the shallow end, a puddle of rainwater held soddened Autumn leaves and twigs. “The force of life is like this pool of water. All we have to do is use its energy to gather in all that we need. Water has its own power. It’s the mover, the gatherer, the transformer.” As she opened her arms and moved her hands the water flowed with her actions. She opened out her left arm and made a gathering gesture with her hand. At the same time the puddle below moved and all the leaves and twigs were washed into a neat pile in a corner. I stood in awe. I felt I was witnessing magic but I knew it was more than that. This was some stranger, deeper truth, a different kind of beauty. I found myself saying: “Wouldn’t this be amazing if we used water more constructively?” Miriam smiled, probably like her Being. “I’m glad you understand.” At that point I wasn’t sure who was talking; in fact, I no longer cared. Instead, we stood in silence together in the custard Autumn sun and admired the gathered-in leaves.


Stanley hates days like today. Days in which he will perform his job, but will never remember why. He walks down the bright white corridor, passing nurses and lab techs, on his way to the control room. The building, a bunker to be more precise, is a stifling white monstrosity. Bright, clean, and polished tiles make up the floors. White concrete blocks, devoid of any life, line the walls. The ceiling is just one bright light extending down the entire length of the hall, leaving not an ounce of darkness. Anything the facility could make white, they did. For colors of any kind could disrupt its main function. Stanley finally makes it to the door marked four-zero-four, the main control and observation room for today. Technicians dressed in clean lab coats sit at various consoles, awaiting instructions. Stanley walks over to his command chair at the back of the room, where he will observe and conduct today’s procedure. It is to be a complete wipe today, one of the hardest to achieve, but Stanley and his team are experts. Years of performing procedures has hardened them, and all but turned everyone in the room into machines. They have one job, and they will get it right. There will be no miscalculations, no errors, and no memory afterwards. Opposite the room from Stanley is a large one-way mirror looking into a pure-white, circular room. Surrounding the edges of the room is an array of iron bars, painted white. In the center of the room sits a raised platform about five feet wide, and one foot off the ground. The floor of the room is concrete that has been painted white. After a few moments, a small door carved into the side of the circular wall slides open. A man dressed in a plain white t-shirt, with bleached pants and socks walks in. His head and face recently clean shaven, nails trimmed, and freshly bathed. He walks over and stands on the raised platform, glancing at the metal bars surrounding him. The door from which he came slowly slides shut. Stanley studies him for a moment, burning the image of the man firmly into his mind, as per protocol. Six foot even. Average weight. Appears to be in early to mid-twenties. Green eyes, skin with a light complexion. The man displays no sense of outward emotion as he stands in the center of the platform. Stanley looks down at the piece of paper resting on his station, confirming that this is the same person who requested this particular procedure. Most go for lesser options; memory alterations, cognitive restructuring, or any other of the different options provided to the public. In each case, you always have to make sure the subject inside matched, most especially for a full wipe. Mistakes are not an option, not for something like this. After ensuring that the man inside did indeed match everything on the form, Stanley presses a button on his console. The door in the inner-chamber seals, emitting the sound of hissing of air as the room is slowly pressurized. He motions for the technician at his right to begin her process. She begins to softly call out instructions to the other assembled members in the room, but they already know what to do. Methodically, the team presses buttons, pulls levers, and turns dials in an eerily precise manor. With the exception of the instructions being given, and actions being performed, not a sound is made. Within the chamber, the iron bars encircling the room begin to glow with a bright light. The man shifts slightly as the bars begin to move, spinning around to room. After a few minutes, the first technician turns back to Stanley, indicating that the facility was ready to commence the wipe. Stanley spares one last moment to look at the man standing inside the chamber. Twenty-three years old the dossier said. A son, a husband, and a father according to the short biography that was included. After all these years, Stanley still couldn’t understand why some people opted for the full wipe. Why choose this option when the others are so much more effective now. But it’s neither his decision to make nor his place to judge, the man has made his decision for whatever reason. Stanley takes a long breath, and inserts a specially made key into his console. After a final moment of hesitation, he turns the key. Light explodes from the inner chamber. Everything and anything was blinded by the white light. Existence itself becomes white. Stanley could no longer feel any part of his body, could no longer see anything except the infinite white expanse, ears failing to detect any sound. Thoughts stop in their tracks within him, and it seems that nothing had ever or would ever exist. Then, suddenly, he was back. Standing in the room, dazed, Stanley looks around. The other technicians are all still sitting at their terminals; a few are rubbing their temples. One never can get used to that part. Stanley then looks back into the circular room, now empty. The entire room was now the definition of black, with not a fleck of white to be seen. The raised platform sits empty, and his console signals that the door was able to remain sealed. Another light tells Stanley that the procedure had been performed successfully. Still staring into the room, he struggles to remember what he had seen in there just moments before. After a few moments, he accepts that he cannot remember and glances down at the empty form. No information is present, just blank spaces waiting to be filled out. With a look and a nod from his head technician, Stanley knows that the procedure was a success. He quickly congratulates everyone in the room for a job well done, and leaves through the door. He calmly walks back down the hall towards his office, not knowing who he has just erased fully from existence, nor why.


"Hello, thank you for stopping by this afternoon; I'd like to talk with you about a fantastic timeshare opportunity that is too good to pass up." "All right, it's not too long, is it?" "No, ma'am, we'll be done lickety-split." "OK, I have a dinner reservation with my husband in an hour, so..." "No worries. Have you ever wished you could go back in time? There is now a way to make that dream a reality! Transtemporal Timeshare allows you to experience history directly by visiting various time periods of your choosing, all while splitting the expense with other owners like you." "How exactly does that work? Do I simply choose a time and you transport me there?" "No, not at all; it's even better!" "How?" "I'm glad you asked! We have 50 time periods to choose from, each with all of the modern convenience of the future. You could see Abraham Lincoln's assassination one minute, embark on an augmented reality adventure with Harriet Tubman the next, and undergo rotator cuff lipo suction by the afternoon." "That does seem cool, but as you said, it covers 50 time periods. How do I decide?" "Well, that's the best part! You are not required to make a decision right away. You can take your time and try each one until you discover the one that fits you perfectly. And if you change your mind later, you can trade weekends with other owners." "That doesn't sound too bad, but what's the catch?" "All we ask is that you attend one sales presentation in exchange for a free weekend at your convenience." "How much does a Transtemporal Timeshare cost to buy?" "For the price of a large Starbucks latte each day, you can afford the amazing opportunity to see Billy Holliday sing in person, Louis XIV at Versailles, or go back to see your Great-Grandmother when she was still alive." "Are you allowed to see family?" "You'll have to keep your distance for safety reasons, but yes, we'll trick your Great-Grandmother into attending a sales presentation, and you can check her out from behind a two-way mirror. Although, please remember not to feed or touch family members from the past." "You're going to trick my family?" "That's not it at all! They'll get an all-expenses-paid trip to the future to see you from behind a two-way mirror." "Wait a minute, is she looking at me right now? Mimi? Are you here?" "Ma'am, please have a seat; there is no one behind that two-way mirror." "How do I know for sure?" "Well, we did offer it to her, but your Mimi chose to see Elvis live in concert instead." "She isn't here?" "Don't be disappointed. Think of it this way, what if you had the opportunity to see the Harry Styles farewell tour of 2046 or go back to the hellscape of 2022 to see your Mimi? You'd make the same decision, trust me." "I guess. So, what do you have available for a free sample?" The Transtemporal Timeshare agent swiftly starts typing on her computer. "Glad you asked! We have a quaint cottage in 1350, which is peak black plague, this really is hard to get. We also have a lovely townhouse in 1941 Germany; you aren't Jewish, are you? Oh, and this just became available; wow, this never happens; you are so fortunate; we have all time periods open in North Korea, it's a small work camp, but all expenses are covered." "Is that it? I was looking for something a little more impressive." The agent speaks in a hushed tone. "Look, I don't do this for all our potential customers, but here's what I can do. I can get you 1920s America if you sign up today and start payments. This is popular, and it should be easy to trade. Imagine yourself doing the Charleston in a speakeasy, having drinks with Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald, or seeing New York jazz clubs in all their glory! The best part is once you own it, you can trade it to go anywhere and when you want!" "Alright, let's do it." The agent prints out some forms. "Great! It looks that I have gotten you one of the last dates available in the 1920s; your trip will begin on October 28, 1929, and end on October 30, 1929. Simply sign here to become an official member of the Transtemporal Timeshare family!" While she is signing... "That date seems familiar; is there anything noteworthy going on?" "Yeah! They get a visit from someone from the future!" "Ha, I'm feeling pretty good about this.


I roamed through the library shelves, yearning for Byron but coming up with Borges. As a Psychologist in waiting, it would’ve been proper to restrict my reading to those authors associated with mental disorders. However, I was feeling rebellious, so I added Borges’ *Labyrinths* to my stack of textbooks. Then through the hassle of the University’s library system and back along the lonely path to my dorm. Putting the books down on the sticky wooden desk it costs me $4000 a semester to use--and never mind the actual course fees--I prepared myself a student dinner- plain toast, Pringles, and coffee. Using my noise cancelling headphones to block out the rest of the dorm, I surfed YouTube while I ate. And when I’d finished, Freud, Pavlov, and Rogers occupied my evening until, blear eyed, I collapsed on my bed with the volume of stories. A plasticky little receipt fell onto my chest as I opened the cover. Out of curiosity, I picked it up to discover that one Andre Theodore had borrowed this book three years ago, along with *The Complete Works of Kafka* and *Paradise Lost*. I returned my attention to the book and saw that Andre, obviously a lit major, had annotated it. Tight, obfuscated prose covered the margins in a daemonic black block. And the phrase ‘lime green ex-Nazi wives’ was printed in block letters underneath the title card. Andre had been considerate enough as to not directly tamper with Borges’ prose, apart from the odd underline or asterisk, and it was all readable. But it was annoyingly readable, as if Andre was forcing me to make a choice between the text and his reflections on the text. I chose the text and immersed myself in the twisting sentences and labyrinthine facades of the story. \# I returned the Psych textbooks, along with the annotated Borges, to the library and began hunting for fresh fiction. Already familiar with Nabokov and Vonnegut, I wandered deeper into the library; stepping farther and farther back in time. A dull throb of Kafka turned me onto German Literature, and I perused through Goethe and Schiller unimpressed. The Germans write such stilted dialogue it’s a wonder they ever had a theatre scene. But a collection of Kafka looked good, so I picked that up; justifying it to myself as research for a thesis on abnormal personalities. But alas, when I returned to my dorm and started reading, I found poor Kafka had similarly been defaced. ‘Blue balled congressional seats’ printed underneath the title, and dense annotations all over the margins. This nonsensical scribbling on prober public books was no way for an academic to behave. I recalled the receipt from the other day and reasoned that if he had gotten Kafka and Borges, Milton would’ve been hit too. The fiend. Sure enough, when I’d dug out the library’s only copy of *Paradise Lost* from underneath the moth-eaten remains of Shakespeare, I found similar vandalism. ‘Orange brown sea puddles’ on the title and annotations in the margins. That’s three books defiled, now. And although I’m not particularly religious, there’s something heretical about covering Satan in obscene gibbering like that. And seeing what Andre had done to the poor defenceless books, I resolved to catch him. And strengthened by the relative boredom of a Tuesday night, I sat down with the three ruined books to investigate. I will gather every scrap of evidence about this book vandal I can and convey it to the proper library authorities so the proper legal proceedings can take place. \# Time, as is its prerogative, passed. I moved into the post-graduate stage of academia. No longer forking out for a squalid dorm but living large on a government stipend in a small apartment; student debt absorbed into a research scholarship. And keeping in the spirit of youthful rebellion turning midlife crises, I’d kept the vandalised books long since my library membership was revoked. It’s all online, anyway, and I can read my academic journals and science-fiction journals on the internet; I think I’m saying, ‘nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ or something like that. I’ve puzzled out the margin notes. In a spare room, I’d plastered photocopied pages onto the walls, one wall per book. A thing I’ve noticed in my studies--not studies, but perhaps devotions--is that the musings all fall within a familiar theme. First, a colour based declarative signals the tone of the writing. The Borges reflections, for example, were about an unnamed (perhaps unnameable) character with lapsed right-wing beliefs, jealous of another unnamed character who had wronged her. And the Kafka writings tell of a love unconsummated, maybe of a Political Philosophy Student Andre was friendly with. The only flaw of colour as a hermeneutical model is that orange does not easily associate with one emotion. Regardless, I understand Andre better. Like an author you loved as a child or a friend you grew up with, I found myself viewing the world through his perspective more often. When something happened in my research, I looked for a correlation in it in his writings. No longer was my search one of vengeance, but within these notes I believed that there lied some greater truth. More sublime than the sublime itself. A secret phrase buried in his prose that shall illuminate a new perspective on life more valuable than all philosophy; a power beyond life. And so I do my research and search for this phrase and keep myself to myself. \# More time passes. Quite a lot of it for me, but not that much all things considered. The years have fallen through my body like so much sand through an hourglass, carrying with them triumph and sadness and heartbreak quite unrelated to this narrative. And I find myself alone in a beeping ward, surrounded by machines. People come and say things to me I do not understand; and that doesn’t bother me. The only unsolved mystery in my life that really bothers me is the purpose behind your writing. Oh, did I just use a direct address there, my friend? My mind is going and the framing of my story along with it. I see you there, gilded phantasm, hovering over the edge of my bed. Do you know how long I’ve waited to talk to you? The agony that unresolved strain you created has burned into my head. Of course you do. There is no time, so hurry. What was the point? THE POINT? Of your writing. The scribbling. The torment and restlessness of it all. YOU FOOL, CAN’T YOU SEE YOU’VE DOOMED US BOTH? THAT THE ANSWER WAS THERE IN FRONT OF YOU ALL ALONG? THE SERET OF ABSOLUTE POWER. THE MEANING BEHIND THE CREATION OF THE UNIVERSE ALL SPELLED OUT FOR YOU IF ONLY YOU HAD THE BRAINS TO SEE IT! No, Teacher! I don’t. I can’t. Please show me, I need to understand! THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO NOW. THAT DOOR WAS CREATED FOR YOU ALONE, AND THE LOCK TURNS IN THE KEY, CASTING US TO A SHADOW EXISTANCE FOR THE REST OF TIME. No, wait. I can do better. Please don’t turn away from me. Don’t leave me here by myself. I’ll die. I will. Please help me, please. Please.


A brilliant white flash cut across the dark sky, briefly lighting up the graveyard. The gravestones stood resolute against the downpour; some having weathered the storms for centuries. Sheets of rain pelted down, suffocating the grass as it drowned in a river of water. A rhythm of sopping thuds echoed through the cemetery in between the cracks of thunder. In the corner, a lone, dark figure scooped mud from the pit and tossed it out. The pile of dirt slowly grew beside the hole. Shovel crunching against rocks, he dug deep into the earth. The storm would only give him a few more hours of cover. Moving with renewed vigor, his muscles bulged as he picked up speed. The dark clothes he wore were soaked through, clinging to his body like a second layer of skin. “After all this time, you finally found someone to redeem you, Brother.” A voice sounded from above. Marius glanced up. Lightning lit up the sky once more, revealing the ghostly figure. Ignoring him, he continued digging. An explosion of thunder concealed the metallic thwack as his shovel slammed into something other than earth. When it bounced out of his hands, he dropped to his knees, leaving the tool where it landed. Another flash of lightning gave him enough light to drag away the last layer of mud with his hands. The wooden top of the ancient chest peeked out at him. Gold encrusted edges of the box glinted with each flash of light. Digging a trench around it, he searched for the handles. Upon finding them, he grunted, using every ounce of strength he had in him to wrench it from the earth. Muscles straining, it finally gave way with a squelch, rainwater quickly filling the hole. Tossing the large trunk out, Marius ran his muddied hands through his hair, pushing it away from his face. Quickly climbing from his excavation, he hauled the heavy chest into his arms, rushing back to the pathway. The SUV was quietly idling with the headlights turned off as to not disturb the darkness. Opening the cargo area, he moved everything aside to make room for his plunder. Grasping the key dangling against his chest, he yanked it away, breaking the chain. A whimpering came from the backseat. Shoving the key into the ancient lock, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m coming.” The hinges creaked and the wood groaned when he flung the chest open. Shoving aside the worthless mementos that he had saved all those years ago, he rummaged to the bottom. Finding the secret locking mechanism, he opened the hidden compartment. An old cloth bundle was all that lay inside the slot. Stashing it away in his belt, he grasped the other bag of items. Marius left the back open as he rushed to the side door. Laying across the backseat was a beautiful young woman. Her dark hair was plastered against her pale face, drenched with sweat and rain. The man climbed inside, gently adjusting her to lay across his lap. The woman moaned again. “I know it hurts, Fallon. I’m right here though. I’m going to get you all fixed up, okay? Just stay with me.” Her blue eyes opened, searching for his. “I’m...t-trying,” she murmured. Moving her hand away from the crimson towel, he peeled it back to look at the wound. The once white cloth was forever stained red with her blood. The deep laceration was still seeping. He had only a few more minutes before he lost her forever. Digging into the duffle bag, he grabbed another towel, replacing the used one. They had both been lucky that Marius found her still alive. One of his brothers, Ezekiel, had already wounded her by the time he had shown up. Marius subdued him long enough to escape, knowing Ezekiel would not stop until his duty was complete. Marius and Fallon were officially marked for death. “Remember when we met?” he asked, trying to keep her mind focused on his words. She nodded, giving him a weak smile. “As soon as I saw you in that ballroom, I knew.” As he recounted their first night at the benefit in Paris, he pulled more supplies from the bag. Before he could worry about bandaging the wound, he had to get the transfusion started. Rolling out the tubing, he hooked it up to the needle. Tightening the tourniquet around her arm, he hoped he would be able to find a viable vein with amount of blood loss she had endured. Pouring alcohol onto her wrist, he sighed in relief upon finding one. Quickly and efficiently, he inserted the needle. Taping it in place, he took off the band and turned his attention to the other end of the tubing. Her eyelids drifted closed as she lost consciousness, indicating he was running out of time. “You know, there’s some things that I never told you. Things about myself, where I come from.” He murmured, yanking the bundle from his belt. Unwrapping it, he revealed a leather-sheathed weapon. Uncovering the dagger, he sliced into his wrist. A deep golden liquid poured out. Biting the blade between his teeth, he quickly replaced the steel with the needle, inserting it into the wound. Almost immediately, his skin closed around the needle. Relief washed through him as he watched his blood snake through the tube. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the seat. The rain thrashed against the SUV in waves, rocking it in a foreboding tempo, like the slow beating of her dying heart. “What is it about her ?” his ghostly companion asked, appearing in the front seat. Opening his eyes once again, he stared at the ghost of his brother. In life, they had looked a lot alike. Tall and broad, with dark hair. His brother’s once golden eyes were watching him curiously, now the milky white of the dead. Glancing back at the woman cradled in his arms, Marius’s gaze softened. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a whisper. “I just knew the day I met her that I couldn’t live without her.” Zephyr nodded knowingly, “They’ll come after you for this.” After a long pause, Marius glanced back at his brother, “Do you ever regret it, Zephyr?” “Not for one minute,” he smiled sadly. “I knew it would be you to come after me. You would give me an honorable death.” “I didn’t want to believe that you had betrayed our kind for a human woman.” Zephyr sighed, “I fell in love. What you’re doing is a betrayal to our kind.” “Giving her my blood is the only way to save her.” Marius argued. “I know. You of all people know how they will see it though.” “What do I do now?” “You fight for her. I didn’t reach my Abigail in time. You were given a second chance, Marius. Do everything in your power to protect what you have.” Zephyr’s form started to dim. “I’m sorry, Brother. I didn’t understand what it was like. What it meant to fall in love.” “I know. But you do now. What you choose to do with it is up to you. You can change your own fate and those who come after. Or you can endure the same doom as me and all our brothers who have fallen before us.” Zephyr smiled softly before disappearing. Eyeing the black dagger, he thought of the lives he had taken. The dagger had once been a beautiful gold, engraved with the words of the Ancient Ones. A symbol of the purity of his kind, it was never originally meant for war. It was more of an adornment for the rituals and ceremonies of his people. The short hilt had been literally shaped by his hand, his fingers still fitting it perfectly. The pommel had originally held the purest diamond in existence. Now, the stone was the same inky black as the night sky. The souls of the dead and the blood of his brothers had darkened the blade over time, marring it beyond recognition. Like the charred remains of his soul, it was now only a representation of his past. Marius would take up the blade once more to redeem himself. This time, he would use it to protect the one he loved most.


More Than Yourself My sword reflected the bright morning sun. I tried to focus on the maneuvers I was supposed to do, but my mind kept wandering to the contest the next morning. I would be facing the best swordsmen on this side of the mountains. I breathed deeply. That was not the problem, the problem lay in the fact that I was a girl, well not a girl, a woman. My skill with the sword was formidable, but I had been prohibited from competing in the Trials. The Trials were held every year, they boasted many different competitions, but the one people came to see the most was the sword fighting. Many great swordsmen would come from all over the world to see the outcome of the Trials. The winners got the best treatment and would be able to stay in the castle and keep company with the King. The Trials had very few rules. Number one: you had to fight fair, if you cheated in any way you would automatically fail. Number two: Whether you failed or won, you would fail or win humbly and respectfully. And last but not least, Number three: you had to be male. This was the one rule that I wanted to change. And so, I had taken the matter into my own hands. Yesterday had been the second day of the Trials and a man named Erick, who had won the last two years, was winning the sword Trials. And he made a point of telling all the women in the stands, that he was the best catch any girl could want. Well, one thing led to another, and before I could think twice, I jumped the stand and slapped his face with my glove. The universal challenging insult. And before I could change my mind I spoke the official words, “I challenge you, Erick, to a contest by the sword in two days. If I win, then I and any other girl will be able to compete in the trials. If I lose, then I will not trouble you again.” After looking me up and down, he stared me in the face and laughed! I was furious! But it was settled, the only thing that had me worried was the fact that the last contest Erick had been in, he had killed his opponent. And I knew that I had publicly flouted his so-called “authority,” and this made him mad, which made him dangerous. I had been lost in my thoughts, but my sword had not stopped swinging. When I finally pulled my focus back to the present, I realized that someone was watching me. I stopped suddenly, staring at the dark-skinned man. He watched my every move, and I could see his right hand making small movements as if copying my sword strokes. “Well hello there!” the man started as if he knew he was not supposed to be there. “Sorry miss, I did not mean to interrupt you. I was just trying to learn your sword fighting style, it is something I have never seen before.” I looked at the man, I recognized the stance of a fighting man. “Do you fight?” He in his turn looked me up and down. “Some, but there is nowhere for me to compete.” He made a motion towards his dark skin. I was not known to be the brightest in recognizing cultural things, this was one of my weak points, but the last and unspoken rule of The Trials was that all contestants had to be white. “I understand, I want to compete in the Trials but am not allowed either. In fact, I am preparing for my fight with the two-year running grand champion Erick Futermer, I challenged him yesterday, and am going to fight him tomorrow.” He looked at me “Yes, I know, everyone knows. And you have helped spark an interest for others to fight for justice. I hope you know that it is more than just you that you are fighting for. For if you win the path will start to open for others, maybe even me. But if you lose you will not only die, but the spark will die with you.” His dark serious eyes made his words even more real, but I could not tell, was he nervous for me, or for the possible impact that my failure could bring? “I know what rests on my shoulders, but there was no one else who was going to take action, and I was not going to stand and let the opportunity slip by! After all, I did not see you there!” My words were slightly salty, but I was close to being offended by his brisk assessment of my odds. My confidence was fake, but I could not let him see how nervous I was. He just raised his eyebrows and leaned against a pole, he said nothing, and the silence created a black hole that needed to be filled. My fake confidence and salty attitude were slowly sucked away. I did not speak, but I lowered my sword and looked to the ground. My shoulders slumped, I was exhausted, I had not slept well, and was at a loss of how I would be able to beat Erick. The man stood up and walked towards me. “You do not have a chance if you fight the way I saw. You lack focus, and your stance could use improvement.” At first, I was angered at his words, what did he know? But then I felt a profound sense of hopelessness, he was right! I had never fought an opponent who was trying to kill me. Any weakness that I had would be exploited. I had fought one on one plenty of times, and I did have some skill, but compared to a man who had been fighting since he was fourteen, my skill was nothing. I also had not had access to the training that Erick had had. I was starting to feel less like a woman and more like a girl. But before I could let my feelings spill out, the man continued. “But you do have speed, in your sword and your feet, and your lack of a style will help you immensely if you know the style with which your opponent fights. That way you can make up for your lack of strength with knowledge.” His words stopped me in my tracks, the way he said them made it sound as though he was going to help me. I tested the waters. “And do you know how to help my stance, and how to gain this knowledge? And if you do, where did you learn it?” He looked at me and smiled, “They do not let me fight in the Trials, but they will let us join the armed forces. My father was one of the best swordsmen in the armed forces and he taught me. And because of that, I do know some things that will help you.” As he spoke, he pulled two swords from his back, they were shorter than a normal sword and curved. But I could see the light reflecting off the sharp blade. He got into a fighting stance and motioned for me to do the same. The training had begun. The next morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, I had had a dream of the fight, and I had lost. The man came as promised and he taught me more about stance and technique than the actual fighting. Before I knew it, it was time. “Well, it is time for you to go, the contest will begin soon. I wish I could do more, but there is just no more time.” The man spoke and I felt that he meant what he said. I nodded, “Thank you for what you have taught me. I wonder, will you be there? If I do win, Erick’s friends may not be too happy.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it; I know a few others who will be there. I think you will be fighting in front of a crowd!” “Great!” I said, he laughed, “You best go, I will be there soon.” I made my way to the grounds, Erick was already there. I put on a smile. Best not make him mad, otherwise this contest could go sour. “Good morning Erick.” I tried to be cheerful, but when I saw his face, I could see that the contest had already been soured. “I see you have finally decided to show your face! I am mildly surprised you showed up, but then I guess I knew you would not be smart enough to stay away!” I tried to keep my mouth shut and think about what I was going to say. “Well, I guess I am not smart enough to stay away, but too smart to leave.” My words did not have the intended result, instead of laughing it off, he drew his sword, “Well then, let us start this thing!” His sword moved with the speed of a snake. I hurried to pull my sword free and blocked his rushed stroke. He circled to his right and I moved to my left, he struck out again, reminding me of a snake’s tongue. “Focus!” I told myself, I had to implement what the man had taught me. I steadied my feet and made an attack of my own, my heart jumped to my throat when Erick dodged and struck out at me. I held my breath when his sword came within an inch of my head. The fight went on, he would strike, and I would parry, then I would strike, and he would parry. But the speed at which this happened got faster and faster until I knew we were fighting way out of my league! Our swords still flew faster, but I was no longer in control of the fight. My response was slow, and my attacks became fewer and farther between. He was attacking more and defending less. I was losing! I got one cut across his leather breastplate, but then disaster struck. When I withdrew from a lunge he ducked and stepped on my foot causing me to stumble, I tripped and fell to the ground! He stood over me and stabbed me in my right shoulder. The pain nearly knocked me out, but I managed to hang on. This wound had been on purpose, I would not be able to fight for a long time. Then he held his sword over his head, the typical stance of someone who was about to permanently end his opponents' fight. I realized that my arm was the least of my problems. The sword started to fall, and I closed my eyes. But then there was a loud ‘ring’ I opened my eyes to see the man who had helped me standing over me, protecting me from the death stroke. “Enough! You may disagree with her, but that does not mean that you must kill her! Relent, and I will not kill you!” I watched Erick’s face in surprise, for he was pale, and looked as though he might faint. He dropped to one knee, “Of course my Lord John.” I was suddenly confused, the man who had saved me put down his hand and helped me up. I looked into his face, and that is when it struck me, the king had adopted a son, the son’s father had been in the king's guard and had saved his life, but had died in the process, the boy had been about sixteen years of age and the king took him as his own son, raising him as a prince. My eyes widened as I realized who this man was. “I am sorry my Lord, I did not recognize you.” John, as I knew him now, laughed. “I must admit, I was surprised you did not recognize me, but that is not the purpose of my visit. My father, the king, has heard of the unfairness that the Trials enforce, so I was sent to see if anyone cared. But my father also told me not to act unless there was already someone trying to make a difference. Which of course there was.” He looked at me “But that was not enough, you still had to put actions behind your words, and even though you were scared you still came and fought the best that you could. And even though you were not able to win, there were more people than yourself that were behind you.” He looked at me as if I should respond. “I am sorry, I do not understand.” John smiled and took out a piece of parchment. “It is here declared that the Trials shall no longer be for men of one color, but now the Trials shall be open to both men and women of all races.” John put the parchment away, “You may not have won the battle, but then again there was a bigger war going on. And even though we have won this small victory there are still many more battles that need to be won before the war is over. Justice will prevail! We just have to remember, that we are more than ourselves.”


At just eleven years old, Dennis always dreamt of living in an enormous house, so massive and magnificent that it would earn the right to have its very own name: Lakeview Manor. Or perhaps Driftwood Estate, named after his favorite forest and hiding place in Northeastern America. Either way, In every respect, it would contrast the tiny cabin he grew up in. Gone would be the wooden panel walls, the grungy near-yellow carpet, the brown ceilings, and the clutter. God, the clutter, it was awful. Just to eat at the table, things like papers and figurines and books had to be moved, only to have to be moved later again to reach the telephone. His parents were the definition of hoarders, and they found solace in all of the things they owned. Maybe they saw that the more they had signified wealth and prosperity. They grew up with even less, so perhaps they did see it that way. Dennis hated it. He hated his parents for the house they grew up in. He hated them for the way they treated him. The beatings. Was that why he was the way he was? Perhaps that’s why he was drawn to the darkness of things. He found somewhat a beauty in them. Friends would ask to come over, mainly to play in the creek several hundred yards behind the cabin, but every time, he had an excuse. His mom was sick, his dad was in a bad mood, they had company ... sometimes they grew as outlandish as a tree falling onto the cabin and damaging it so they were rebuilding and remodeling. Eventually people stopped asking. He preferred to visit his friends’ homes. His buddy, Timothy, lived in a nice subdivision just up the road from the cabin, and while their house was no manor, it was the closest thing in Dennis’ eyes. Timothy’s parents would make them the most refreshing iced-cold blackberry tea for when they came in after running around, playing in the dirt, playing on the slip-n-slide, and riding their bicycles. There were always plenty of snacks. And the place was clean. Everything was updated, the sofa didn’t have tears in it, the floors didn’t creak, the dining table wasn’t wobbly, it was just all so perfect. But then after an argument, Timothy disappeared. Dennis wanted to be a realtor. Instead, he found himself doing grunt work as a plumber. He wasn’t a very good one either, and the constant drinking meant missing appointments and becoming unreliable. But somehow, as if by destiny, a recently widowed Gennifer had run into him at the grocery store and learned of his trade. She was having sink issues. And her house? It was on a cul-de-sac in the prestigious wooded neighborhood of Auburn Terrace, a golfing paradise. This house was a manor. As soon as you walked through the doors, the foyer’s shiny white marble floors made you nearly squint. The wide staircase ahead led to a landing where a huge replica of the Mona Lisa - much larger than the original - hung. Chandeliers were scattered throughout the house, the kitchen was practically the same size as the cabin he grew up in, there was just as big of a wine cellar, and the windows were so large the entire house just brightened up. The furniture was so uniquely designed Dennis wondered if everything had been made specifically for Gennifer and the house. He tried to hide his amazement, but she saw right through him. “Would you like a tour?” she asked. He didn’t answer, and she proceeded to give him one anyway. He saw not one but two dining rooms - one informal and one much more formal, holding a table that could seat twelve and a cabinet with the most exquisite china he had ever seen. He found delight in the white grand piano room. Dennis wasn’t a reader, but he was mesmerized by the two story library where mahogany bookcases lined every single wall except for where the brick grand fireplace stood. Two comfy chairs over an oriental rug faced them. He could get into reading if he lived here. And then there were the numerous guest rooms and even a movie theater with leather reclining chairs. Some rooms just looked like more sitting rooms. How many living rooms did a single home need? But what about the master bedroom - the most intimate place in a home - a place where people found safety and peace? Of course she would never take him there. Minutes later, he was working on the sink, fighting his hangover. It was a simple clog. Most people seemed to dump anything and everything down a kitchen drain not realizing that grease and fats did build up overtime. It was just a few minute fix, but he dragged on to enjoy the house for as long as he could. But he had another appointment, so it was time to collect payment. Gennifer was nowhere to be seen. He made his way through the house, searching for her. Nothing. And then he found it. The master bedroom. This was the definition of luxury. An oasis. Centered on the back wall was the dark wooden bed with four large posts towering high into the air. The white bedding fluffed up, covered in a multitude of pillows one would never use. He admired the large burgundy round rug that covered almost the entire room. Recessed lighting dimmed the room. A seating area with two chesterfield chairs was snuggled in the corner, a thick quilt thrown over one of the chairs haphazardly. A modern abstract light fixture brought the focus to the middle of the room, even though turned off. A closed door on the far end of the room caught his attention. What would a manor’s master bathroom and closet look like? He went to take a step. “What are you doing in here?” He froze in his tracks. After a few seconds, he turned around slowly. And that’s when he realized that Gennifer was absolutely gorgeous, covered in adorned jewelry, skin without a wrinkle, blue, captivating eyes, lavished clothing, everything he wanted in a woman. *** It only took ten minutes. Still, he wouldn’t be making his next appointment. He moved the quilt and sat in the chair, his legs crossed. He took out a cigarette, lit it, and gazed at Gennifer’s pristine naked body lying in bed. Had his parents made him this way? Had his childhood been so traumatizing that he had no control over his actions? But why defy pleasure? Why go against the instincts he was born with? He took a long drag and smiled at her narrow legs. Then her ample breasts. “I wish we could stay here forever,” he whispered as he contemplated her opened eyes followed by the blood draining down her cheek, soaking the expensive duvet cover. It would be another trip to Driftwood Forest. “We have a long car ride ahead of us. Just you and I. I hope you like country music.”


I got away with murder. Well, not actual murder but I had bad thoughts since early childhood. Fratricide, for starters. I was three when my youngest brother was born. That meant I’d get less of my parents’ affection so I picked up a hammer and headed for his crib with evil intent. Mother grabbed me as I was climbing into the crib, weapon in my hand. Three or four years later I broke into my middle brother’s grammar school classroom and trashed it. No one ever knew this - until now. Nor did anyone know that I would steal coins from the Coke machine at church. Until now. I had every ADHD symptom; I was a handful. On the other hand, I was precocious and often showed flashes of brilliance. Eventually I was taken to a shrink. I remember nothing of that visit other than taking a few tests. I can speculate what my parents were told: “John is a very active child and in many ways he’ll be a challenge. He is deeply attached to you, to a pathological extent. That’s immaturity. He’ll grow out of it. In the meantime, he will have excellent coping skills due to his intelligence. He has huge willpower and with that intelligence, he’ll be a high achiever but also difficult at times. And congratulations to the two of you: Your child is an actual genius.” I can imagine smiles on Mother’s and Dad’s faces and I can imagine Dad’s asking if my IQ was tested and then giving out a low whistle when he heard the number. Sometime years later I found out what my IQ was. I let out a bold whistle. Put it this way: Per Google, it was the same as Stephen Hawking’s. That meant I was a rara avis and I liked that. I was still doing bad things: Using a BB gun to shoot out streetlights and execute songbirds. I started drinking beer at fourteen or fifteen. Drunkenness came early. Despite that problem I matriculated at an elite school, then got an MBA and embarked on a hugely successful career. I learned that co-workers nicknamed me “Boy Wonder.” This all seemed so natural to me but I blew it. In my mid-thirties I was before the Directors of a large bank, presenting a plan to build a new headquarters building. Stage fright slammed me. Instant panic attack. Instantly mute. My boss saw what was happening to me and took over. I should have been embarrassed, but instead I was filled with tremendous anxiety. In the back of my mind was fear of another panic attack. That fear became part of me, maybe it defined me. Imagine a double attack of claustrophobia and stage fright. My panic attacks began episodically, but worsened and never left. A doctor gave me Valium. Wow! Anxiety faded; calm appeared. After three months or so, the doc would not give me a refill. Anxiety returned and I could not fight the panic. For some reason I don’t remember, one day I gulped a shot of vodka. Then another and the panic abated. Being a certified genius, I had an idea: Use alcohol preventively, proactively. Keep panic at bay. It worked! Soon a single shot was not enough; I needed more. I needed a drink when I woke up. I needed a drink to get through the day. I needed a drink to sleep. I was a mess. Somehow my willpower and intelligence got me through the workday. This went on for months. One morning as I stumbled to the garage I had a realization. Two of them, actually: One, I was an alcoholic. Two, I didn’t give a damn. Depression had shown up with its dark cloak. I did not realize that the alcohol was not fully metabolizing, but building up in my system. I learned that one April. My long-suffering wife found me comatose on the living room floor. An ambulance arrived and I was strapped onto a gurney and taken to the hospital. I started coming to after three days, but I was incoherent and my thoughts were muddled. It was alcohol poisoning, at a probably fatal level. That’s at a blood alcohol level of .40 or higher. My BAL was higher, significantly higher, than that. I later learned that my parents were told three times that I was dying. One time I felt a coldness low down in the back of my skull. I was certain that it was death, creeping up my brainstem. Thankfully, it wasn’t death and after eight days in the ICU, I was released into a treatment center, where I was ushered into a locked room with a bed, lavatory and toilet. For the better part of a week this was my jail cell as I went through the DTs. The experience was dreadful. When the worst was over, I was taken for an interview with the head of the treatment center. “Tell me about yourself,” said the guy, all smiles. Feeling a bit better, I took on a chipper attitude and told my tale. The man was not impressed and challenged me, “You’re just another drunk.” He was probably right but at this point my emotions were raw and too sensitive for his dose of tough love. The next day I found an unlocked door and escaped. Somehow, I ended up at home but I was shaken and willing to do anything to avoid not just my recent hospital - treatment center ordeal, but drinking at all. I checked myself into a new treatment center and its folks were compassionate and kind. After a friendly interview I was shown my room. It was nice and I sat on the bed, thinking. Soon tears streamed down my face. These were not tears of pain or hurt, but of gratitude. After 28 days there and some months of group therapy, I was a different and better person. I resumed my life and my career, to include daily AA meetings. *** I’ve always loved music - pop, rock, soul and then “dance music” which I listen to today. Basically, it’s pop songs with a strong bass line. I’d explain it to people: It’s a chick singer, a black rapper and a German DJ with an electronic keyboard. A 1999 song tugged at my soul, then and now. It’s “Pray for Redemption” by a German group named Culture Beat. The primary lyric is “I need to pray for redemption and start all over again. The tears wash away my sorrow and shame.” I love the song but have never able to define “redemption.” I’ve puzzled that for years and sometimes my eyes water as I listen to the words. My wife and I enjoy travel and Vienna is our favorite destination. It’s quite amazing. Among its riches are many spectacular churches, some dating to the 13 th century. Our favorite was Peterskirche, a Baroque masterpiece. We’d sit near the front and take in the spectacle: altars, apses, transepts, narthex and so on. There was gilt everywhere and it awed me. On our last trip we visited the church as a mass was beginning. As a lapsed Presbyterian some of the ritual was beyond my understanding. We sat quietly and soon a male choir marched in, its members clad in white robes with red trim. Soon I was embraced by the choir’s dulcet chants. A spirit touched me. Its caress left me weak and wondrous. In the year since, that caress occasionally appears and when it does, I automatically think of redemption. I need it and want it but I’m a coward and keep my sins to myself. AA’s “twelve steps” provide a path to redemption: Make a moral inventory of ourselves and admit our sins to God and another person. Another avenue would be to make a confession to a Catholic priest. I know doing either of those could bring me peace and redemption and gain me forgiveness. I’m stuck, though, and lack the courage or energy to trod those paths. Rather than fret over this shortcoming, I simply try to be a good, moral, empathetic person. Writing this narrative has helped.