Before the story starts, I just wanted to say that this is my first attempt at writing something and I'm not too sure what to tag this as but I think this is the best tag. I guess I should also say that the tone in this bit of writing is dark throughout the story. Any feedback would be well appreciated as I am just starting out. The Ridge As he stood there on the ridge of the mountain, he looked out on the world beneath him. In the far-off distance, he could see people getting on with there day, but from up here they were just specs that looked like everything else. The place that he was staying, he couldn’t remember the name of it, he just knew that it was the place that would help him decide. As he stood up there on the ridge, he looked out and he could see everything. He saw the beauty that was the natural landscape, not man-made massive skyscrapers, it was the beautiful mountain ridges and trails. The long forests that anyone could get lost in, the inland loch with the sun shimmering off its surface and creating the perfect reflection. He breathed out and decided that he had had enough. He sat down in quiet contemplation and thought about his decision. He knew it was the right one but he couldn’t not think about what he’d leave behind. He’d leave behind his loving wife, his family, his friends. People that had got him through hell and back before, but this time he had to do this on his own. He thought about the other things he’d miss, the small things. Such as the wisdom he could learn from reading books from the present and the ancient past, music that influenced him all through his life and helped him in his worst moments and finally, but the weirdest one he thought, he’d miss just getting to laze about doing nothing, knowing he could and probably should be doing something. He decided that tomorrow was the day, the day he would disappear forever. He hadn’t done anything of note, nothing to get him in the annals of history. He hadn’t given great political speeches like Cicero, he hadn’t given the world one of the greatest live performances like Queen, he had just existed. He had a few regrets but that was his biggest. All of the media he had watched and consumed and loved, had shown people, ordinary people, coming from nothing to rise up and become something greater. A beacon of whatever they stood for, love or hope were the usual tropes. So, he descended down the mountain, and went back to the small bed and breakfast he had booked. As he lay, for the last time, on the soft bed, that wasn’t even his, he couldn’t sleep. He knew what he was doing tomorrow and the worst part was, he was excited. He didn’t want to wait, he wanted to do it right that second. But eventually, sleep took him and he had the best rest he had ever had. Just before he slipped into this rest, he was only thinking of one thing. Earlier his mind had been racing but by just laying there staring up at the wooden ceiling, his mind calmed, his heart slowed and he knew what to think of. He could only think of that view from up on the ridge. It was about midday when he was finally ready, he had spent the morning preparing for it to happen, and he was on the verge of making it happen. So, he set off up the mountain trail again, for the last time. When he finally reached the summit, he put his bag down and kneeled at the edge of the ridge. He firmly planted his hands down on the ground and knew this was it. He looked out at the beautiful landscape for one last time, before getting up. He grabbed his bag and turned around. He saw some people were getting close to the ridge, so he scurried down the opposite side of the ridge. Finally, not on any trail or path he was told to go on, he was free. He was free from it all and he was finally at peace and he smiled. As he descended into the wilderness, he came upon one of the forests. With a smile and a feeling inside him that he had never felt, he took his first step into the forest. Never to be seen from again, never to be heard from again but he would always be there.


There is a package sitting on my bed. I find it when I drop my bag on the floor after work, ready to go to the kitchen and wash my hands. Initially, I am a little annoyed. I don’t want a parcel from outside touching my quilt. Barb must have put it there, and I consider talking to her about it, but after the bath towel incident, I don’t want to bother her. On closer inspection the package does not have a shipping label, so maybe Barb wrapped it herself, in which case I don’t mind it being on my bed. Oh. My name is written on the brown paper, printed with black ink in a familiar hand, neat when it tries, and clearly it tried. Not Barb, then. Since it does not appear to have been through the postal system, I leave the package there and go to wash my hands. The sink needs wiping down, and I think maybe I’ll do that over the weekend unless I’m pulled into something else. My apartment is the first place I’ve lived without adult supervision. It’s two bedrooms and a small kitchen on the third floor of a building near campus, with ugly pink walls that, as renters, we can’t paint over. Barb and I moved in together out of convenience and stayed out of friendship, after the first few weeks of getting to know each other’s routines. She’ll be back from biology class in maybe an hour, and then we’ll chat while she makes dinner. I go back to my room and sit down carefully on the edge of the bed. Maybe I should unpack my bag and tidy up before I open the package. But I’m too curious now, so I pick it up and slip a finger under the carefully-taped paper, not tearing it even a bit as I unwrap. It’s my book. Mine, the one I wrote. Inside the front cover, I can see it’s not one of my signed copies, but there is a note. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I wasn’t someone you could tell, when this came out. I loved your book, Lydia. There is no signature, and I don’t need one. For the hell of it, I flip to a random page, and almost laugh. There are notes jotted in all the margins, gel pen smears and smiley faces and underlined passages. I put the book aside, gently laying it on my patchwork quilt. I can’t do this right now. She wrote my name twice, on the wrapping and in the note. Lydia. Ly-di-a, three syllables. Ly-di-a. Lea-der-ship. Trust-wor-thy. Ob-sess-ive. Ob-sess-ive. Ob-sess-ive. Yeah, I get it. I wasn’t perfect. I am so far from perfect it makes me laugh sometimes, and mostly I don’t mind. I’m the only one I’m never good enough for. Except for her, maybe, or maybe it wasn’t her at all, but it still hurt. It’s still been two years. I’m still not mad. I think I should be, and for a while I was. But not anymore. I’m drifting too much to hold onto anything, especially a grudge against someone I love that much. At first, she was everywhere. Birthday cards tacked to my corkboard, t-shirts folded in my dresser, scarf hanging by the door. I think her love language was gifts, and maybe that’s part of why we didn’t work. I didn’t give my friend, in the material sense, anywhere near as much as she gave me. It shouldn’t have mattered, but it wasn’t really about the gifts. It was about communication, and when did we ever do that? Still, things she gave me were all over my room, and it stung. Now most of those things are gone or packed away. I thought they’d stay that way. I stand up and unpack my bag. I fold my laundry and vacuum the rug and wash my hands again and put a burrito in the microwave for a snack. Then I wash the dishes I found at a department store downtown. While I’m doing that, Barb comes in through the door, the sound making me flinch, since it came so suddenly out of the quiet. “Hey, Lydia,” she says. “You lovely human!” She adds, noticing the mostly clean laminate countertop. I just smile, and she gets it, that I don’t have anything to say. She sets down her textbooks on the counter and sits on one of the bar stools. “Did you see what I left on your bed?” she asks. “Yeah,” I say. She waits to see if I’ll say anything else. “She asked me if you’d be mad,” she says. “I think she found me online, ‘cause I’d never seen her before. Is she an ex?” “Not like that,” I say. “Ex-best friend, I guess. We aren’t really on speaking terms right now.” Barb nods. “What was inside?” “My book,” I tell her. “She wrote a note inside.” It’s clear in her eyes that she doesn’t really know how to talk to me about this. I wish I could tell her, but I don’t know what I would say. That it’s a touchy subject but she doesn’t need to worry about it? How is she supposed to take that? Living without adults - we’re eighteen, but that doesn’t mean anything because neither of us considers ourselves grown-up - has been an interesting experience for all the wrong reasons. When we split up chores, we decided that I would do most of the cleaning and Barb would cook. What that has meant so far is that our apartment always smells faintly of vinegar and Clorox; and for dinner tonight we are eating cornbread, carrot sticks, and what is probably supposed to be rice pudding, but which I have decided not to ask about, in case it comes off as rude. It tastes pretty good, regardless of what it’s meant to be. “Do you want to talk about it?” Barb asks. She is halfway through her cornbread, which is slightly burnt on the bottom and slightly gooey in the center, but not enough of either to complain about unless you are Paul Hollywood or under the age of six. She said the oven was the wrong temperature. “The cornbread?” I say, taking a large sip of water. She raises an eyebrow, and I look back, pretending I don’t know what she means even though I very well do. “The note,” she explains. “Some girl came up to me after work, asked if I was Barb Haufmann, handed me a package with your name on it, and told me she missed you. You don’t owe me an explanation, but if you don’t mind too much, I’d like some backstory.” “She misses me?” “Are you sure she’s not an ex?” I roll my eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.” I bite the end off a carrot stick and chew it all the way. “We were friends as little kids. A couple years ago she decided we shouldn’t be. Said I didn’t care about her interests, I think. I don’t know if it was really about me, though.” Barb winces. As understanding as she is, sometimes she takes it a little too seriously when someone gets mad at me for a little social thing I forget to do - in this case, talk about things other than whatever I’m buried in at the time. “She doesn’t sound very nice.” “She was, though. She was the kindest person I knew. She was just in the middle of a complicated relationship with someone else, and it got... a little manipulative. I think.” I don’t actually know the details, and it frustrates me. I try not to theorize. “Sounds like one of those situations you need to stay out of for your own health,” Barb says. “Maybe,” I say. I chew another carrot to mush. “I’m going to make her something.” Barb sighs. “I won’t stop you. Just be careful, Lydia.” “She’s my best friend,” I say firmly, present tense because I told her I needed time, not that we shouldn’t be friends again. I wash the dishes while Barb dries, then curl up in bed with my sketchbook and laptop. I don’t draw very much, but I don’t think that’s really the point, in this case. There was a cartoon show, that we watched when we were younger. I remember emailing back and forth past midnight, looking at the fan art she drew and telling her how much I liked it, even if that was before I’d seen the show when I didn’t know the characters. I remember feeling high on conversation and the sort of jokes pre-teens think are scandalous. I sketch out the two main characters from her show. Underneath, in a gel pen from middle school that I think she complimented once, I write: I miss you. It’s small, and the edge of the paper rips when I try to tear it out along the perforated edge. It’s nothing compared to how long it must have taken her to mark up my book. But maybe it’ll be enough. I know her address, the same one she had two years ago. I can tell - same wallpaper stains in the background of her Instagram posts, same fake marble countertop under pictures of meals she’s made. I don’t have Instagram, but I check her page sometimes, to convince myself she is real and alive and okay. The drawing goes in an envelope, sealed with a donut sticker like we’re still thirteen and addressed to just her first name, like she wrote on mine. I call to Barb that I’m going on a walk and step out into the damp, chilly October night. Should I check her posts now, I wonder if they would be filled with Halloween decorations. The mailbox at the drugstore makes me pause, partly because I’ve seen people touch that handle right after clumsily scooping up dog poop, and partly because what if this is a terrible idea, what if it’s not enough, what if she thinks the drawing means more than ‘I want to stop pretending we don’t care.’ I stare at the chipping blue paint, the box casting an eerie shadow in the dusk. The sticky air is somewhere between comforting and suffocating, and I’d better do this quick and get home before someone asks what a random girl is doing loitering in front of a mailbox. Still, I stand there for what is probably another five minutes before doing anything. Finally, I open the mailbox with two fingers and slip the letter inside, listening to it thunk down onto metal. As I run back home, I try to convince myself that the little ache in my stomach is just the urge to wash my hands.


(TW ... mention of assassination, hanging) (Note, can be read on its own or as a continuation of previous story “Essy 37 Head of State” submitted in contest #224) The assassination went off without a hitch, shocking the world and those closest to him who did not see it coming. After years of oppression and cruelty, the freed citizens fled in droves, leaving Washington DC abandoned by all. All except Jane. Jane wandered the empty halls fighting the urge to continue her job which was null and void. The offices sat silently, the phones not ringing, the keyboards not clicking. The only sound was Jane’s soft footsteps as she walked the halls alone. The staff was long gone in pursuit of better lives. All except Jane. For Jane was not part of the general staff, she was not the run of the mill employee. She was, in fact, the personal assistant to the dictator. *** Waking past the desks he had his usual men surrounding him, their clacking shoes making that awful announcement of their approach, instilling fear into the environment. Jane worked quietly, keeping her head down, entering the data with both speed and accuracy, saying a silent prayer for no errors. Punishment for errors came quickly. She kept her eyes glued to the forms on her desk, her face expressionless. “You.” The footsteps stopped at her desk. “Follow me.” It took a moment to register. He had routinely made similar demands, picking out girls to summon into his office. The beautiful girls, they went in hesitantly, came out broken. Jane, with her scars from long ago, had a shield keeping her safe from his desires. “Yes, sir.” She stood and followed him into his office, his surrounding men now surrounding her. “What is your name?” “Francesca, sir.” “Have her name changed to Jane,” he instructed the man on his left. “Yes, sir.” Turning his attention to the next man in his entourage, he commanded, “Arrange her office and uniform.” “Yes, sir.” Turning on his heel, he barked, “Follow me.” Once again, she followed silently into the unknown. Looking around the office she had been led into, she asked, “What is happening?” “Your new position, Jane. You are now his personal assistant.” *** How many years ago was that? Too many to count. Before that, life with a cruel father and spineless mother was what she called her childhood. Unknown at the time, that cruelty saved her from the wicked world she found herself thrown into, prepared her for life with the dictator. The scars she carried both internally and on her face became a barrier no one would cross, not even him. She entered the clerical room, her soft footsteps in stark contrast to theirs, the memory tightening her chest in fear. Walking through the deserted aisles she stopped at her desk from years ago, reliving the sheer terror of the moment she was commanded to follow him, receiving her assignment. Looking at the papers strewn about, she wondered where her replacement admin had gone. The new government had appeared overnight in perfect coordination with the assassination. Fifty Heads of State, unknown before the takeover, took charge of the country, each needing a staff of their own. The girls fled to their new positions, free to choose from the many opportunities, finding their freedom. Months later Jane still wandered the empty halls, slept in her tiny room in the basement of the White House and prepared her meals in the massive commercial kitchen. Free to leave had left her frozen in place. Feeling a sudden chill flow through the massive and abandoned room she was startled. How long had it been since she ventured outside? Swept along with the mob to watch the public hanging had been brutal, seeing the lithe body swinging was both unbearable and awe inspiring. Such an act of courage setting the country free while giving up her own life. For he had made the rule an eye for an eye, and she had knowingly agreed when pulling the trigger. Having seen enough of the macabre celebration she had raced back inside, quickly seeking solace in her office, knowing that without her boss she reported there based solely on the familiarity of routine. Lost in thought, she walked down the marble staircase to the lobby. Opening the grand double doors, she gasped to see the snow falling on the empty lawn. The bleak scene of destruction became secondary to the beauty of the white blanket. Although temporary, it was long enough to give Jane some relief. Images floated through her mind. Were they something she had read or saw online before the signal was blocked? Perhaps memories from those few fleeting years when her father had left her and her mother penniless and abandoned in their dilapidated home? All these years later, as fate would have its twisted way with her, she once again stood penniless and abandoned, this time on the steps of what had been the grandest home in the country. Pulling the black woolen coat tighter around herself she took a step out, tilting her head back, an unnatural position for her. The cool flakes fell on her, soothing her, not discriminating one side of her face from the other. Following that long ago whisp of a memory she stepped onto the lawn and lay down. “That’s it, Francesca, there you go! See your angel, sweetheart?” Mama had said after they swept the snow with their arms and legs. Her mother had come back to life in their abandonment. A short burst of light had shone in the time between her abusive father leaving and the president turned dictator bringing darkness over the country. She stood, looking back at the angel in the snow in front of the White House, null and void. What was to become of her? *** Tiptoeing into his office she looked around, went to his desk, and sat down. Quickly nauseated she stood and ran out. Fleeing past the rows of desks she recalled her early days while she still had her own thoughts, her own voice. Finding the hollow space under her desk she had taped a folder there, imitating the silent action of her coworkers. Her papers. Did he ever find them? Surely not, for the punishment would have been swift and severe, displayed for all to see. Falling to the floor she placed her hand under the cold metal desk. Her heart racing, she pulled down the folder, tape stuck to all four edges. Startled to discover unfamiliar pages in a handwriting not her own, she sat and read the detailed instructions left behind for her to find. *** “Who shall I say is calling?” “Jane.” A pause. “No. Francesca.” Jane was null and void. *** Searching the supply room, she organized a pile of uniforms in her size to take with her. Pulling on warm black boots and layers of clothing including a woolen coat and scarf she felt prepared for the journey. S37 had offered to send her a car but the roads of the abandoned capital had not been plowed and the snow was thick and heavy. Preferring to walk out on her own, she agreed to meet on the road traveling north to State 37. After an extensive and comforting conversation with the closest Head of State, she looked forward to meeting her new boss. She silently thanked whoever had left those instructions for her in the hiding spot known only by the clerical staff, for she had saved her life. One last look around. One deep breath. She walked through the double doors and closed them tightly behind her. The angel from earlier was snowed over, no trace to be seen, but Francesca saw it perfectly in her mind’s eye as she walked across the great lawn to her new life.


She shouldn’t have answered the call from an unfamiliar number, or, at the very least, should’ve hung up when the caller revealed her identity. Alexina had worn out her welcome five years ago, when she’d used the “skills” she’d practiced throughout childhood--often at Hannah’s expense--to lure the man Hannah loved into her arms. Since then, they’d shared no phone calls, no texts, no emails, no visits, no information whatsoever. She should have resumed the boycott. Instead, the couch beneath her groaning as she leaned forward, she’d blurted, “I have nothing to talk to you about.” “You didn’t see the news?” her sister questioned, as if this made her a dolt. “I don’t care about the news. I thought I made myself clear when I--“ “My house’s gone. Parker’s gone. Everything ’s gone.” Her voice broke on the last syllable, pinching Hannah’s heart just enough to keep her on the line. She opened her laptop on the coffee table and typed Alexina’s location into Google. Her stomach plunged. Despite everything, she’d never wished this on her sister, or Parker. She pictured them huddled in a basement, wondering whether they would see the next hour. She imagined them screaming as the house tumbled down around them, weeping as they contemplated the destruction this would wreak on their lives for months, if not years, to come. “Oh, Alexina, I’m sorry.” “Yeah. Me, too.” She tightened her grip on the phone, not knowing what else to say, to do. At last, Alexina said, “I wouldn’t be asking you this if there was anybody else, or if I could afford a hotel, but Parker’s business never really took off, and we’ve been struggling with the bills, and I’ve got nobody with room for me at their place...” Hannah’s jaw clenched. Though she hated herself for it, the thought of having Alexina in her house, drinking her coffee, showering in her bathtub, sleeping beneath her sheets, drove knives into her gut. “There’s gotta be somebody,” she said, heartbeat a fireworks finale. “There’s not. I’ll be out in the streets if you don’t help.” She wanted nothing to do with her. And, yet, she did have something to do with her: the blood pulsing through her veins, the very blood freezing at the thought of honoring it. She had no choice. * * * She didn’t know why, as she paced, she straightened the curtains, the throw pillows, the roses in the vase on the coffee table--she’d stopped caring what her sister thought of her half a decade ago, and she still didn’t. She didn’t know why it had come to this, why the universe couldn’t accept their separation and move on. She didn’t know why she peeked out the window, because she had no idea what kind of car Alexina drove--whether she’d kept her blue Toyota Yaris or replaced it because that vehicle had broken down, or been totaled, or fallen out of her fickle fancy. She didn’t know why she bothered wondering at all. A car--it was the Toyota--slowed and pulled into the driveway beside her Honda. She took a breath, steeled her shoulders, and opened the door as Alexina came up the steps, suitcase in hand, looking just as she remembered. She even recognized her blouse and jeans. “Thanks again, Hannah,” she said, brushing past her into the living room without an invitation. Clenching her jaw, Hannah shut the door. “I was hoping we could talk,” Alexina said. “It’s a shame how things ended.” Hannah stiffened. Alexina sighed like a teacher with a naughty student. “Come on, Han. You can’t tell me you don’t wanna work it out.” No, she couldn’t tell her that--not because it wasn’t true, which it was, but because that would make for an even more awkward few weeks. Better to approach this diplomatically, for now. “Let’s get you settled in, and then we’ll think about that.” Alexina frowned but didn’t argue. She followed her to the guestroom. As her eyes swept the place, the creases beside her lips darkened. Apparently, she’d expected the Ritz. Unsure how much longer she could retain composure, she told Alexina to tell her if she needed anything and walked away to start a dinner she had a feeling neither of them would eat. * * * Their forks clinked, pushing food around their plates but not bringing it to their mouths. Hannah sculpted her mashed potatoes into a mountain and nudged a pea up its slope; it rolled back down. “I missed you all these years,” Alexina said. Hogwash. She’d called her because she needed her, and only because she needed her. “You remember we were always at each other’s throats.” “That was then. We’re more mature now.” Not true. People didn’t change--not in five years, not in ten, not in twenty. They may learn a few lessons along the way, but personality was etched in stone since the day one came screaming into the world. The only question: Why did Alexina care so much about mending fences? She’d gotten what she wanted. Since when did anything else matter to her? Because she doesn’t know if this is all she’ll want from you. Her jaw stiffened, a fist curling in her gut. “I think it’s better if we keep our distance.” “Why?” “Because we’re cats and dogs, Lexi.” She sighed, feeling as if explaining simple addition for the fortieth time. “Look. I’m not saying anything bad about you. I’m sure there’s lots of people you can gel with. But I’m not one of them.” Alexina flicked a pea off her plate; it plunged off the table and onto the floor. “So you just wanna give up on your only sister.” “There’s a point where it’s just wasting time.” Alexina’s face flushed, and she shot Hannah a glare that could’ve punched straight to a volcano’s core. “Grow up, Hannah.” She jumped to her feet and stalked out. The guestroom door slammed. Hannah remained there, staring at her food, Alexina’s words echoing in her head. Perhaps she was acting immature. Perhaps the twister, or marriage, or life in general had changed Alexina. Perhaps she did deserve another chance, if not because of that, then simply because of the genes and history they shared. She contemplated it all night, tossing and turning, the chirping of the crickets outside her window maddening. When the sun’s tangerine tendrils peeked over the horizon, she rose with only a sweaty pillow and blanket pretzel to show for those hours. As Alexina showered, she dropped onto the couch and switched on the TV. She’d had it tuned to the news; an anchor was droning on about a sculptural exhibit in a nearby city’s museum. The camera flashed to a white-walled, white-floored room filled with busts sporting hideous features--gigantic hooked noses, broken teeth, ram-like horns protruding from their foreheads. A waste of the marble from which their “artist” had carved them. A buzz sounded from the table between the sofas. She grabbed the phone and woke it up. The text had come from “Kaila”--a name she didn’t recognize. Thus, she realized her mistake: She and Alexina both had the newest iPhone. She’d forgotten that she’d left hers in the bedroom. Before she could replace the device, however, the message in question caught her eye. Hey. Just wanted to see how you’re doing and let you know if things don’t work out with your sister my offer to stay with me still stands. Her jaw dropped, mouth going as dry as sandpaper. She should’ve known. Or perhaps she had known, but, once again, she’d ignored the facts, ignored common sense, ignored anything she didn’t want to accept. But she’d have plenty of time to excoriate herself later. Heat expanding in her chest, she jumped to her feet and marched to the guestroom. She gathered the clothes Alexina had hung and the suitcase containing those she hadn’t; stalked down the hall, through the living room, out the door; and hurled the contents of her arms onto the lawn. They looked better there than they ever had on their owner.


You know that strange feeling when you see the name **Al Pacino** in a sentence and without your consent, you just start adjusting your reading? It’s kinda like you are leaning back on the front seat of your car when you are waiting for someone or something. It’s not that you read it in his voice. It is just... different... Ahh... Nevermind. ### So anyway. I took the subway the other day and saw an ad for **KingNugets**. Just a nice, big, tasty and very juicy bucket of nuggets. I don’t even know if it is chicken but it was looking mighty tasty. Since my bank was closed and I don’t trust those God damn machines that create money out of plastic, I just went home and forgot about it. **You should know that I am at that age where time is just a linear path towards your death bed, so I was firmly asleep by 10.** My mornings usually start at 6 because I feel like I would be missing out on something even though every morning is exactly the same. It’s like life is pulling a cheap FOMO prank on me. **_It’s a tragedy when you think about it._** My next morning would also start at the usual time if that friendly-looking Chinese guy didn’t convince me that those batteries are super-durable. He was very specific about it. _See? It says super-durable on the package. Very good price._ You don’t have to be Albert Einstein to figure out that the alarm clock didn’t go off and my morning was ruined. At least that’s how I felt when I woke up at 9. ### Boy, do I hate false advertisement... It wasn’t anger, it was just that I am missing out on that thing that I like and I honestly don’t know how many more chances I will be getting. A logical chain of events occurred after that realization. My fear of missing out signaled my brain that we should do something about it and my brain took a while but it eventually signaled me that we should do something about it. **And so we did.** I went straight to the bank with the batteries in my pocket. I also have the receipt because old people anticipate these things. It is pointless trying to explain why. You are just not ready for that information yet. My trip to the bank was refreshing. The air felt different at 9 o'clock. I forgot about that... The bank door opens, I am greeted and served as a gentleman and no one is asking for plastic. **_You should try it sometimes, it is a rather pleasant experience._** On my way out I see another **KingNugets** ad. This time it was bigger and I could smell the taste because I was hungry like a wolf. I felt like running after that bus but my logic reassured me that there is no prize at the end of that marathon. Only a stroke after an exhausting 15-meter dash. Luckily, a window of opportunity for a detour has just opened up. Time to get that bucket and to hell with my cholesterol. I go for the drive-through at **MrKingNugget** and a kid stops me to ask for the time. I look at my watch, pass on the information to this unsupervised minor and continue my journey. **My mood was getting better and I was seconds away from picking up my order.** After I am done with that bucket I will have more energy to fight for my consumer rights than those batteries had in mint state. Who will stand up for the people if not me? “**It all starts with an idea**”, that’s what they always told me. ### **But a strange turn of events would soon unfold that will baffle me to this day.** I hear a knock on my window, I turn my head to the right and it’s that Chinese guy from the store. He recognized me and before I could say anything he started apologizing for giving me the wrong batteries. **I didn’t know how to react.** I was pleased because someone recognizes me and I was also pleasantly surprised by his honesty. Not many sales people posses that ability. I had all of those complaints lined up in my mind and rehearsed at least 20 times. Am I just going to let it slide? **Eh... I guess we can use it another time.** Waking up at 9 didn’t turn out so bad after all. The only thing that is missing is that bucket of **KingNugets** and a pissed off kid that just threw a rock at my windshield. > Where did he even find a rock that big? At this point, you just have to ask yourself, what the fuck is going on here? The kid was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was properly pissed like someone stole his lunch or something. For some reason, I was labeled as a liar and the noise was becoming a bit irritating. > What are we doing here? This is not the school, I’m not the nerd and you broke my damn windshield kid! I was thinking about getting out of the car and punting him across the parking lot but there was his mother running in the distance like this was some dramatic Hollywood scene. **I couldn’t hear her, obviously, because her triggered offspring had no plans of shutting up. ** A lot of screaming and shouting followed. She shouted at me, I shouted at her, the kid shouted at the Chinese guy and I had another reason to shout back at him... It took a while but a civilized level of conversation was eventually established. As it turns out, the kid has “**anger management issues**” (whatever that may be) and he doesn’t like to be lied to. Since the watch I was wearing came from the same shop that I visited yesterday, the kid somehow figured out that I didn’t give him the correct answer. How come he didn’t figure out that I was limited by this piece of technology that was made who knows where and doesn’t perform the task it is made for in the first place? And why would he even think that I lied to him? What’s with the fact-checking kid? >It says “marketing expert” on your car sir. He has anger management issues, not brain damage. That’s what his mother said right before all three of them took off leaving me with a lot of questions about my ego and a broken windshield. **It was an awkward moment...** This whole mess lasted for about 5 minutes. Maybe less. How can I know? That thing still doesn’t work... After a brief pause, I handed over the money, took that bucket and put it on my lap. > I was never more disappointed in my life... Did you know they photoshop those ads to make the nuggets look bigger? The things these kids can do with technology... My day was officially ruined once more, my breakfast was way below my lowest expectations and there was no one left to pay for that windshield. I think I read once in a very old book that there are these tiny moments of honesty every once in a while. They are time-limited but they are strong enough to get the best out of you and make you do the thing you really want to do. If you ever saw the movie **Scent of a Woman** and got all the way to the scene where they are all arguing at the table, you would know that I am having the same look on my face as **Al Pacino** did in that scene. I think I even went blind for a second or two. **So... I did the the only logical thing I could think of.


It was just a joke. Everything was a big fucking joke back then. Have messy locker. Heh. Deliberately throw all your trash in the locker. What a hoot. Leave lock off so that your friends can get in on that shit. Fucking hilarious Take all of our school photos, the preview ones that were clouded with a water mark, and hang them up on the door of the locker. God damn comedy gold. You see 11th grade is probably the biggest you'll ever feel in your entire life. You focus way too much on how the world views you and not so much on anything that actually mattered. So no, being a pig on it's own isn't funny, but getting that look. The unsuprised, slightly apathetic, accusitory look that said "You dumb fuck." Priceless. I was sitting in homeroom, which is the second class of the day for some reason. I remember the vice principal walking in. "Ben" He was holding a small caddy that contained gloves, a roll of paper towel, and an unknown chemical in a spray bottle. "Is your locker number 2007?" "Yeah." It wasn't. It was Danny's, but it's a retarded question anyways. There's no way I could confirm that, I mean who actually ever looks at that shit? "You and Daniel need to go clean that up right now, this is ridiculous." I could feel my face getting hot and heard a couple of shushed giggles scattered around me as I got out of my chair and walked to the door. I tried to remember what walking normal actually looked like and tried my best to emulate it. Nice walk dumbass. I hated being put on the spot when I was alone. Vulnerable. I found my way to my locker though silent hallways besides the occasional chatter coming from open classroom doors. Grabbing one of the hallway's trash bins, I pulled off a rotting apple core from the coat hook it was impaled on. I didn't bother with the gloves. It was mostly just stray homework that never got done and wrappers of those breakfast pastries you could buy outside the cafeteria as long as your mom never asked "what the fuck happened to the 40 dollars I paid last week?!" I'm a big boy. I was so focused on ignoring the smell that I didn't even notice Emma and Hailey walk up. Must have been skipping homeroom. Emma looking over the smug smiles of 6 proud owners taped to the door broke the silent awe first. "Why would you guys do this" That's a good question. I shrugged "I don't know, it's funny" "No it's not" blurted out Haley "it's disgusting" I guess I looked helpless enough standing there that Haley started to put a pair of gloves on "you want some help?" "That'd be great" Emma grabbed a pair as well, and the three of us got to work. And by the three of us, I mean I drifted further away from the work at hand whilst Emma and Hailey went into girl gossip flow mode. I stood back and just let them do their thing, picking up little details about who's dating who, etc. Just then Danny, sole proprietor of the locker, walked in from the parking lot with Bacon, bottom left photo in door of said locker right next to "Deaf Boy". Talking loudly and laughing about last night's GTA sesh, Danny sipped off a McDonald's orange juice. Danny wore a huge smile as they approached us. "We got caught huh" He said through a contained, bellowey, kind of laughter as he immediately sucked the last bit of OJ down, then casually tossed his cup into the locker, splatting specks of juice not only on the freshly wiped locker walls but also onto Hailey's face. We all laughed minus Haley, clearly annoyed that she was interrupted in her talk about prom with Emma. "What the fuck?!" She said through a bitter smile Ignoring it, and still laughing I said. "Yeah! Emma and Haley are helping us clean up" "Well it looks like they're doing a pretty good job" Danny said with an impressed look. Bacon put his arm around my shoulder. "Yeah It looks like they have it under control" That bellowey laugh infected Danny's voice once again as he choked out "You know what that means right?" Bacon's face went stone cold. "No consequences for our actions." My eyes widened "You wanna do it again?" I pointed at Danny, "Maybe we should do it again." He retortored before I even finished talking. Bacon chimed in "I'll do it again" "Let's fucking do it again" "We're gonna fucking do it again" A calm authoritarian voice interrupted from behind us. "No. You wont." Danny let out a huge dramatic gasp as he whipped around with bug eyes and a Shakey core to look the vice principal in the face. He always did that immediately following an aural plan of fucking up when vp was nearby. "Drop the theatrics Daniel. Why are Emma and Haley cleaning your locker?" "We tried to stop them but they overpowered us." Haley giggled at this "Girls where are you supposed to be?" Emma started to studder out "Mrs. -" "Get there now. You both have an hour of detention" Emma and Haley pulled their gloves off and grabbed their books from the floor. As they turned around to leave, Haley looked at me like she was waiting for me to say something. I really wanted to, and I would of, had it not been for the knot growing in my stomach. I had to keep my cool and I knew the illusion would be ruined as soon as I opened my mouth. The two girls walked away silently, probably until they were in safe bitching distance. I wondered if my name would be brought up in that conversation. Danny was unfazed by this and I don't think Bacon was even paying attention. "Finish cleaning this up then get back to class. You all get one hour." "C'mon man we just got here" Danny rebuttled "Well then that's 3 hours for you and Bacon" Danny scoughed and spit in the trash can as the vice principal walked away. I know Danny didn't actually care that he got detention. If you missed class, you got detention and Danny was always missing class. Hell, the fucker was in school every Saturday anyways making up all the homework he never did. We all periodically found ourselves making up homework and chipping away at our detention during Saturday school. It wasnt that bad. Sometimes, I'd even tag along when I had nothing better to do. As soon as Danny got his license was when we started to regularly skip class. We'd skip English and go get taco Bell. Next day, get called into the office. "Where were you 3rd block?" Sandy would ask I'd studder out a dumb excuse she was completely apathetic of. "That's one hour of detention" At one point I stopped making excuses and just told Sandy the truth. Didn't change anything. Just streamlined the process. It really was better for both parties. At one point though Bacon told me he "two-streamed" and pissed all over the front of his khaki shorts so he just left. When Sandy asked him why he missed 4 classes, he said the same thing verbatim. He didn't get detention. Anyways it was during one of these skipped periods that the 6 of us would take a joke too far and fuck up beyond redemption.


“Gentlemen, The Flop.” With a glint in his eye, The Dealer deftly flipped 3 cards upright before us. I glanced around the ornate poker table at my new friends to study their faces, but the bourbon had rendered their tells nigh unreadable. “Jorge, the bet is to you.” Jorge, the amiable thirty-something to my left, squinted at the cards face-up on the table: The nine of clubs, three of clubs, and queen of spades squinted back at him. “Check,” he said with a sheepish grin, “Gotta pace myself tonight with you cutthroats!” He looked to his left at Hector, the stoic forty-something with a baseball cap. He seemed to be pleasant enough, though “friendly” wasn’t exactly a word I’d ascribe to him. “Check,” he said with a grunt. Even through the bourbonic haze, it was evident that no one was thrilled with the cards on the table. Except, of course, the quiet fellow across from me. The one I’d followed here. “Ten dollars,” he said, placing a red chip in front of him. A mix of chuckles and groans rose through the thick cigar smoke in the dimly lit parlor. “Call,” said the next man, placing his chip in front of him. He was a big man with broad shoulders and a faint European accent. I couldn’t quite place it; Austrian, perhaps? He appeared to be trying overly hard to disguise it. Chips bounced and slid onto the table as each man called the bet. I glanced at my cards, a Four and a Jack, both of clubs, keeping my attention on the quiet man. He’d made his rounds at various poker dens, though none of them as posh as this. Old house, Tudor style on a large property in the hills, expensive whiskey. We were seated in the house’s great room with a large fire crackling in the hearth. The room was dimly lit, with the primary light source directly over the ornate gaming table. The only other light came from the hearth, casting long shadows across the wall nearest us. The rest of the room was veiled in shadow, with tall ceilings and a wide floor plan, making it difficult to truly make out the scale of the space. It was a far cry from the tobacco-stained folding card tables in the basement apartments that he frequented. I’d certainly gathered enough information to confirm his gambling habit to his wife. But this evening cracked open another case of questions. What else are you involved in? The eyes of The Dealer moved to me. “Call,” I said, placing my chip in front of me. His eyes rested on me for a second longer, piercing blue and full of discernment, before he flipped another card onto the table. “The Turn, gentlemen.” He slid the Ten of Spades into the center. The quiet man’s countenance remained the same. Whatever was in his hand was good. Even a rookie could tell he probably already had a straight in the bank. And I’m no rookie. Another round of betting ensued. Of the five of us, the quiet man, Paul was his name, had the largest pile of chips. He was having a good night. The next in the ranking was, unfortunately, me. I hated drawing the attention to myself, but I couldn’t help it if the rest of these knuckleheads were trash poker players. Besides, I’m there, I might as well play like I’m there to win. It’d be suspicious not to. Glancing down at the Jack of Diamonds in my hand, I weighed my options. I could fold now and cut my losses or stay in to see what the final card was. If it was a king, I’d have a straight and good odds of winning the hand. It was a risky move, but I had to keep up appearances. Besides, the money didn’t matter this evening. I decided to hold out for the straight and tossed my chips in while the European folded. The betting concluded and The Dealer made another glance around the table before flipping the final card. “The River, Gentlemen.” The hair stood up on my neck as The Dealer’s eyes rested on me again. They seemed old, much older than the man himself appeared to be. Who was this guy? Did he run this gig or was he just a hired hand for tonight? No amount of sleuthing had uncovered any information about this operation. I don’t normally go in so blind, however this was too intriguing to pass up. But...I was starting to feel unsettled about the whole thing. I was sorely tempted to start in on the bourbon with the others to calm my nerves. Jorge let out a little giggle. “Ah screw it,” he said, pushing his last 5 chips in, “I’m not diggin’ myself outta this hole. Better to go down swingin’!” “Idiot,” grunted Hector as he folded. Paul, of course, matched the bet with a quiet smirk. I didn’t have to think too hard about my decision. The King the dealer had flipped onto the table gave me the straight that I was waiting for - I matched the bet as well. “Gentlemen, reveal your hand,” came the command from The Dealer. He seemed amused, as if he already knew what the results would be. Jorge shrugged with a drunk grin as he revealed his hand. The nine he was holding gave him a pair with the nine on the table. A horrible hand to go all in with; but at this point in the evening the bourbon was doing the betting for him. Paul smiled as he turned over his hand, revealing a Jack and a King, giving him a straight. Called it. The Dealer’s penetrating eyes moved to me once again as I revealed my cards, a Four and a Jack; another straight of equal value. Paul’s eyes darkened as The Dealer announced that we’d be splitting the pot, kicking half the chips my way. I may have been a bit too bold there. Jorge let out an exaggerated yawn. “Well, looks like I’m out, folks!” “Indeed,” replied The Dealer with a cold smile. There was a sudden change in his eyes. A look that was almost... Hungry. A whoosh from my left immediately caught my attention. I snapped my eyes toward it just in time to catch a glimpse of a tall, dark, hooded figure gliding out of the shadows and latching onto Jorge. Inhuman claws peeked out from the dark cloak as the creature yanked the screaming man into the shadows and out of sight. In seconds we were left with nothing but the sound of the rain pattering against the window and a growing dread in our bellies. The Dealer smiled. “To hell with this,” said Hector, hands and voice shaking as he stood up from the table, “I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is but I’m out!” “Mr. Rodriguez,” The Dealer’s cold voice asked, “are you forfeiting your place at the table?” “Yes. I’m leaving,” he snapped as he headed for the door. “Very well,” replied The Dealer with a grin. Hector was halfway to the door when it burst open and another of those cloaked creatures flew through it, tackling him to the ground. “No!” he yelled as he kicked and squirmed against the horrible thing dragging him out the door and into the night. His protests were abruptly cut off as the door slammed of its own accord. “Would anyone else like to forfeit?” asked The Dealer with a wry smile. No one said a word. “In that case,” he said, “we will continue to the next hand. I’m sure you’ve all grasped the true nature of the stakes this evening.” Not even a little bit. I reached for the bourbon and gave myself a pour. The Dealer paused, those eyes drifting back to me. “My, your first drink in 3 years, Mr. Philips,” he commented, smiling. How the hell could he have known that? “Seems appropriate for the situation,” I replied. “Indeed,” he said, dealing two cards to the remaining three of us. Guess the money does mean something tonight . Picking up my two cards, my eyes glanced around the table. The European was visibly sweating; understandable, considering his dwindling pile of chips. Paul was calm and collected. He seemed to be the only one who was not surprised by the evening’s latest development. Dammit, man, what the HELL are you up to? “The Flop, gentlemen,” came The Dealer’s voice, interrupting my train of thought. He flipped three cards out on the table. A Nine of Spades, a Two of Hearts, and an Eight of Hearts. I checked the cards in my hand. An Ace of Clubs and a Ten of Diamonds. Not much I can do with that . The European hesitantly placed a white chip in front of him. “Five dollars,” he croaked. “Fold,” I said, placing my cards down in front of me and looking to Paul. The man’s analytical eyes were examining the European like a cat of the Sahara. He was about to thin out the competition. “Raise,” he said, first placing a white five dollar chip and then a green twenty-five dollar chip, “Thirty dollars.” The European’s face flushed, looking down at his three remaining chips, two red and one white. Exactly twenty-five dollars left. The sonofabitch was calling him all-in. The European’s eyes flitted from his cards to his chips, hand quivering over the table, unsure where to go. Pressure makes men do strange things . With a resigned sigh, the European pushed his remaining chips into the center. “Very well,” said The Dealer. With one of two players all-in, The Dealer revealed the final two cards in quick succession: a Four of Diamonds and a Three of Clubs. Glad I stayed out of this mess. “Reveal your cards,” instructed The Dealer. The European timidly placed his cards face-up on the table: an Eight of Spades and a Ten of Hearts. With that Eight he at least had a pair with the Eight in the middle. Not a horrible hand, but maybe not one to bet your immortal soul on. But again, pressure is a funny thing. Makes men’s gears jam up. Paul was resolute as he revealed his two cards: a Two of Spades and a Nine of Hearts. With the Two and the Nine in the middle, that gave him Two Pair. The European went white as a sheet. Another whoosh and rustling of fabric from the shadows. “Who are you?” The European asked The Dealer. “You’ll find out soon enough,” came The Dealer’s reply with that same sinister smile. A SHRIEK broke the silence as another cloaked creature swooped from the ceiling and knocked the poor man from his seat. The figure turned on a dime in the air, maneuvering back toward the European. To my surprise, he didn’t scream. In fact, the big man nimbly stood and swung his chair at the thing as it advanced on him. The chair smashed against the creature, breaking to pieces and sending the ghoul sailing into the darkness. The big man stood tense, brandishing the leg of the chair, waiting for his assailant’s return. When silence greeted his challenge, he exhaled and turned back toward The Dealer. “I’ll be le-“ I felt the thud in my chest as the creature soared out of the shadows and slammed into the big man’s back, knocking him to the floor. The European grabbed fruitlessly at the legs of the poker table as the thing clamped onto his leg with one of those hideous claws and yanked him across the floor and into the shadows. Silence returned. “Gentlemen,” said The Dealer, breaking the silence, “shall we resume?” “Why not,” I said, trying to keep the shiver out of my voice. The Dealer simply chuckled and began shuffling the deck of cards. “Why have you been following me?” I looked at Paul as he spoke candidly for the first time this evening. “That’s what’s on your mind right now?” “I’ve seen you before. Why did you follow me here tonight?” “Why the hell are you here tonight?” “Who hired you?” “You know I can’t tell you that.” “ Who hired you?” I looked toward The Dealer, but the man just sat peacefully observing. Clearly he was in no rush. I sighed and returned my gaze to Paul. His stern eyes demanded an answer. “Someone who cares about you very much,” I replied, “Someone who sees the desperation in your heart, your desire to provide, and the crushing weight of the debts you hold.” Paul’s jaw clenched. “She loves you, Paul,” I continued, “and she wants to tackle these problems with you.” The man’s eyes dropped to the table. “You can’t do this on your own, son.” “It’s too late, now,” he replied, meeting my gaze, “but if I beat you tonight, I can fix everything.” I looked to The Dealer. “What have you promised this man?” I asked him. “The same promise I made to the others,” he replied, “The opportunity of a lifetime - the chance to be granted their greatest desires. A game with the highest stakes possible.” “Who are you?” “I’m certain you’ve already guessed my name,” he said with a grin, “Pleased to meet you.” My stomach churned at that. I looked back to Paul. “My poor friend, you’re not the only man at this table with a family,” I said, “and I am not going to lay down and willingly die for your mistakes. But promise me this: if you walk away from this table tonight, do not accept whatever this man offers you.” Paul made no reply, but the resolve in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. His course was set. The Dealer slid our cards to us. “Mr. Philips,” he said, “the bet is to you.” “Check,” I said. “You’re not even going to look at your cards?” “I said ‘Check’.” The Dealer looked to Paul. “Check,” the man replied. With that, The Dealer revealed The Flop: Three cards up in the middle. Three sixes. “Mr. Philips?” said The Dealer. “Check,” I said, resolute. “There’s no use in dragging this out,” Paul said, “One of us is going to walk away from this table, and one of us is going to die. Let’s end it right now.” Don’t do it. “I’m all in,” he said, pushing his entire pile of chips into the center. I had no choice but to call his bet. I nudged my pile forward as well. “Well met,” said The Dealer. Since there was no more betting possible, The Dealer swiftly revealed the last two cards in the middle, both of them Aces. “Gentlemen, the grand finale,” The Dealer said with delight in his eyes. Paul revealed his cards first. He was holding a six. Four of a kind. He smiled. I sighed and flipped my cards over. Paul’s smile vanished as terror flooded his face. I looked down at my cards. Two Aces. I too had Four of a Kind. And mine was higher. Paul’s ashen face blurred in my vision as tears filled my eyes. I squeezed them shut as I heard the rippling of fabric from the darkness. The sound of wood scraping on wood echoed throughout the big room. I kept my eyes closed for what felt like an hour. When I opened them, Paul and his chair were gone, skid marks trailing off into the darkness. The Dealer stood. “Congratulations,” he said with that same sinister smile. I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. “I don’t suppose you want to hear anything that I have to offer,” The Dealer continued. I shook my head. “Very well,” he said, “You’re free to go.” -- The wait for the cab was excruciating. When it finally arrived, I gave the driver a start as I scrambled into the back and urged him to floor it. “Man, I don’t blame you for wanting to get outta here quick,” he said as we sped toward the gate, “This place gives me the creeps.” I nodded and turned to look out the back window. The house was dark save for two windows on opposite sides of the second floor that were lit. A figure stood silhouetted in the frame on the right. And I could feel its blue eyes watching me.


Salvation looked like hell. So it was exactly as Iris Danes remembered it. She steered her Jeep around a jagged crack in the asphalt just ahead of the faded sign that read Welcome to Salvation! Posted beneath the cheery welcome message was another, more ominous sign. For your safety: Turn on the radio Keep your windows rolled up Do not feed the monsters “Good to be back,” Iris muttered, syncing her Bluetooth and cranking up the volume as she drove past the sign. Stevie Nicks’s voice blasted from her speakers, singing about white winged doves. The sky over Salvation was always dark; the foreboding black clouds hadn’t receded once in the last twenty years. In the five since Iris had been gone, they seemed to have gotten even darker. Jagged bolts of purple and red lightning forked through them like spears from time to time. And below the clouds, the southwestern desert sprawled out in every direction. Cacti stood like kings overseeing their otherworldly domain; sage brushes and the occasional tumbleweed serving as their sentinels. Iris tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, humming along to the song. Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw movement. She turned up the volume on the radio and pushed the gas pedal a little harder. She didn’t turn her head, keeping the monster in her periphery until it dropped out of sight altogether. She turned and drove the Jeep up to a large black gate strung with barbed wire and overgrown ivy. Iris simply sat there, halfway wondering if the gate would just remain closed. After all, she’d been the one to walk through it and not look back, until now. After a couple of minutes the gate swung open and she drove through. She put the Jeep in park and stared at the house, at once as familiar to her as her own face and as foreign as a stranger. She’d been gone for five years but it felt like a lifetime. The garage door opened and she pulled inside. Once the garage was closed, she made herself get out of the car and walk inside the house. Her father had built the garage, and it was soundproof. But as soon as she stepped inside, she was engulfed in noise. It wrapped around her like a safety blanket. She was in the kitchen, which was full of white noise machines. She could faintly hear the tinkling of half a dozen wind chimes outside the window. Her mother had loved wind chimes, and they had each hung a set out front like a shrine. Iris had left the next day. She moved out of the kitchen, the sound of wind chimes and the memories of her mom making Sunday dinners trailing after her like ghostly sighs. Her feet walked the familiar path down the hall to the living room, the corner of which was occupied by a large monitor that showed the camera feeds from around the property. And seated in front of the screens was her father. “Hi, Daddy,” Iris said. Her voice was loud though the words were quiet; she spoke them almost like a question. Or maybe a plea. Teddy Danes was a hard man to read, but he rose from his chair and studied her face. “You came back.” His voice settled on her like a weight, but then he hugged her, and she didn’t crumple under the burden of her grief and her guilt. She hugged him tightly, savoring the feel of his flannel shirt against her cheek. She had hoped to return home with some dignity but tears pooled in her eyes as soon as her father kissed the top of her head. She felt like a little girl again, nursing a scraped knee and needing Teddy to make it better. “I’m sorry I left,” she said, her voice thick around the lump in her throat. “I guess I thought I had to leave Salvation in order to find it.” Teddy’s chuckle rumbled through her since she still had her face pressed to his chest. He gently pulled her away, looking at her face again before squeezing her shoulders. “You look even more like your mom than the last time I saw you,” he remarked and Iris knew that in the language of Teddy Danes, that meant “welcome home.” She wiped at her eyes and offered a watery smile. She glanced toward the hallway again, where the stairs led up to the bedrooms. A jumble of noise spilled down from up there, but she could tell the sounds apart. Grams was listening to Sinatra; Luck Be a Lady. There were strains of Beethoven, which conjured the image of her brother Simon. Cameron was the one with an action movie playing at full volume, and Jamie was wailing on an electric guitar. And of course, Teddy had Bobbie Gentry and Tammy Wynette keeping him company in the living room. This was the soundtrack to Iris’s life. Her house had never not been full of noise, except for that night when the power had gone out and the monsters had stolen her mother in the moments of silence. These monsters didn’t hunt in the traditional sense. They slithered into people’s minds, using voices like snapping jaws to trap them. They made people do things. Terrible things. They forced their prey to do the killing and then feasted on the corpses left behind. Scavengers of fear. You had to surround yourself in noise to block them out, to prevent their projected voices from digging into your brain like a burrowing parasite. Iris’s mother had been awake, downstairs in the kitchen when the power went out. The voices had taken her, urging her to grab a knife from the drawer and walk outside. The rest of them had been startled awake by the deafening hush, and Iris had spotted her mother from the window. She screamed for Teddy and the power had stuttered back to life, filling the house with noise again. But Laura Danes was caught up in the whispers weaving through her mind, and the music blaring from the house and even the anguished shout of her husband as he’d tried to reach her wasn’t enough to break the spell. Laura had slashed the blade across her own throat. Iris had run down the stairs after her father and watched from the back door as her mother’s body fell, graceful but limp and blood-stained; like a fallen angel. A week later, Iris left home. She’d been nineteen and her heart had become a shredded piece of raw meat in her chest. She’d felt as if she’d been buried alive, the house crowded with noise and memories a sealed crypt that she needed to escape. She had craved silence. A place where when people spoke of their grief, they could do it in whispers instead of shouting the pain to be heard over the clatter of unending sound. She’d just wanted to be able to scream and actually hear the echo of her own pain instead of it being absorbed by everyone else’s noise. “Are you ready to see the others?” Teddy asked. Iris didn’t think they were ready to see her but she nodded anyway, wiping her eyes again. Teddy went upstairs to bang on bedroom doors. Footsteps pounded on the stairs and Jamie rounded the corner, stopping short when he saw her. He laughed. “Holy shit, I thought Dad was messing with us. You’re really back.” Jamie was across the room in two quick strides of his long legs, embracing her in a bear hug that lifted her clean off her feet and almost broke her back. He set her back down and promptly tousled her hair in that affectionate but annoying big brother way. Iris scowled and swatted his hand away. “Leave my hair alone,” she complained, trying to fix her now messy ponytail. Jamie grinned. “Picking up where we left off. It’s like you never left,” he said. “But you did leave.” Simon had appeared in the doorway, emotions flickering wildly behind his glasses. Iris took one hesitant step toward him, like he was a horse that might spook and run from her. “I did,” she agreed. “But I won’t do it again. I missed you.” Simon pursed his lips into a hard line but he was forced closer to her on the tide that was Cameron and Grams and Teddy. “Oh, baby girl,” Grams said. She came forward and pinched Iris’s arm. “Ow!” Iris yelped. “Grams, what the hell?” “That was for leaving, Iris Katherine Danes,” Grams said sternly. “You worried this family half to death.” Then she wrapped Iris in a hug. “And this is for coming back.” “Are you back for good?” Cameron asked, and Iris nodded. “I’m not leaving again,” she said. “I promise. I shouldn’t have left in the first place, but at the time it felt like it hurt more to stay. Everything reminded me of Mom and I kept forgetting she was gone and then I’d remember again and I just...I couldn’t breathe. I wanted some peace and quiet so I ran. It was selfish and unfair. I’m so sorry.” “Did you find it?” Simon asked. “Peace and quiet?” “I found quiet. And I realized that silence isn’t always golden,” Iris said dryly. “And I realized too that the only place I’m going to find peace, if it even exists, is at home. Even if that home is filled with obnoxious, weird looking creatures. Not to mention the monsters.” Teddy’s lips twitched and Jamie laughed. To Iris’s relief, the laughter spread and Cameron came forward to hug her. Simon tried to hold out but he finally cracked when Cameron suddenly held Iris in place so Jamie could mess up her hair again. Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Simon came over and they all nearly group-hugged her to death. “Can I pinch her for leaving, too?” Simon asked. “Grams got to.” “No, you may not pinch your sister,” Teddy said. Simon did it anyway and Iris elbowed him in the ribs. “So what made you decide to come home?” Jamie asked. “I had a dream about Mom. I think she was trying to warn me.” “Warn you about what?” The world knew about the monsters, in a, “far away problem” kind of way. They had even become something of a tourist attraction for the thrill seekers and the dumbasses; hence the town’s welcome sign. The monsters had never left Kettle County. Twenty years ago a chunk of meteor landed in the desert not far from the town, and it brought the monsters with it. They seemed content to terrorize Salvation and the other few small towns that were scattered across this small stretch of desert. But Iris suspected that was about to change. “I think the monsters are going to start spreading,” she explained. “I think they’re going to destroy Salvation, and then they’re going to finally move on. To the entire world, maybe. We’re the line of defense. I wanted to be here, to help. I am the best shot in the family, after all.” “Wow, that five year sabbatical really humbled you,” Jamie quipped. “And if the world is going to possibly end, I want to be home. With all of you.” “Depressing, but kind of sweet,” Simon said. Iris was home for three days when her prediction about the monsters proved to be true. She moved through the house as if on eggshells, still plagued with the guilt of leaving. It was a dark fortress built inside her chest, the rough stones scraping her bloody and weighing on her heart. But every moment she spent in the company of her family chipped away at the stones, wearing the fortress away to ruins. No one dismissed her dream or her warning, and on her fourth day home they found a monster lurking at the front gate. It was rare to see one right in front of you; they usually preferred to exist in the shadows and the corners of your eye. A long body on four legs; the hind legs were considerably longer than the front and they ended in feet that looked like a cross between human and raccoon hands. The six toes were long and bony. Its skin was the same, slightly nauseating shade of gray that appeared on spoiled meat. The head was small and seemed vaguely featureless aside from the impossibly long mouth full of tiny teeth that never quite closed. It looked like the edge of a saw blade. But the very worst part was the tongue. It was long and bloated and tapered to a narrow point. It unfurled itself from the mouth and flicked through the air like a snake’s. “Never seen one just standing out there like that,” Jamie commented. As the day wore on more monsters appeared at the fence. By sundown there were ten of them. “Christ, how many do you think there are out in town?” Cameron asked. Grams whacked his arm. “Language,” she scolded. But her gaze was locked on the monsters. They were all gathered in the living room, locked in a staring contest with the demons at the gate. Twenty minutes passed in silence, aside from the wind chimes and the noise machines and the speakers. “What the fuck do they want?” Jamie said, his voice the closest to a whisper that Iris had ever heard it. Normally Grams would scold him but she said nothing. She was incredibly still, face almost pressed up against the glass. Abruptly she reared back and then smashed her head against the window. Iris jumped two feet in the air. “Mom!” Teddy yanked her away before she could head butt the glass again. She thrashed a little in his grip as he dragged her away from the window and closer to the speakers, which were currently blaring Patsy Cline at high volume. He cranked the dial up higher, yelling at Grams to snap out of it. The blank stare on her face morphed into confusion. “What happened?” she asked, touching her forehead. “They almost got you, is what happened,” Teddy said. “Simon, get a towel for your Grams.” “That’s why there are so many,” Iris said, glancing back out the window with her heart pounding. “They’re trying to overpower the noise.” “Why don’t we get even louder, then?” Cameron suggested. Soon they had the walls vibrating with the volume of the music. Metallica and Johnny Cash and Dean Martin and Kansas and Mozart all overlapped with each other, creating a discordant mess of noise. But it may as well have been a choir of angels with those stretched, ugly creatures outside. Their bruise purple tongues kept reaching out to test the air; Iris wondered if that’s what they looked like when they were “talking;” planting violent compulsions inside people’s brains. “They’re climbing each other,” Simon said. “They’re trying to come over the fence.” “Then let’s make sure they have a welcoming committee,” Teddy said. It was ordinarily difficult to put down a monster. They didn’t usually show themselves so blatantly, and if they did it usually meant you were already dead. But the Danes were armed and prepared all the same. Teddy popped open the safe and distributed weapons like Santa handing out presents. “As soon as any are in range, shoot it,” he ordered. “We hold our ground until they’re all dead or we are, understood?” They moved as a unit out onto the porch. One monster had managed to get over the gate, its feet trailing blood from the barbed wire. The Danes raised their rifles almost in unison. Iris fired a shot that ripped through the creature’s head. Its body fell, twitching, but another was already scaling the fence. Jamie glanced at her and grinned. “Welcome home, Iris.”


Content warning: references to suicide and death ----------- She scrolled past image after square image of happy mothers, fathers, children with their toothy smiles, all appearing candidly full of joy and wonder. This specific photography account she began following a few days ago was becoming one of her favorites. The photographer had a distinct talent at capturing families at their most perfect, their most beautiful. Of course, she knew that photos like these weren’t always real life, but as she looked at a young mother cradling her newborn son on her bed, her husband’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist as he looked adoringly into the baby’s sleepy eyes, she could tell that this wasn’t fake. They really did love each other in that special way that made people forget there was a camera pointed at them. Some people might say that an 11-year-old having a social media account on Instagram was a bad parenting choice. It probably was. Violet’s mother wasn’t exactly on her way to win a Mother-Of-The-Year award. Violet supposed she could download porn and watch it on full volume and her mother wouldn’t come out of her Ambien-induced stupor to put a stop to it. In fact, Violet had done just that last night, seated in the floral upholstered chair not ten feet away from her mother, who was snoozing on the couch, a tumbler of whiskey balancing precariously on her stomach. Violet had turned up the volume on her phone as high as it would go, the moans of two women reverberating off the tall ceilings in their living room. She wasn’t even interested in watching these adults have sex, only in getting her mother’s attention, which was sorely lacking these days. She continued scrolling through the photos until she stumbled upon a face that looked familiar, though it was hard to tell due to the photo being taken at a distance; a playful family scene on a pebbled beach in which a mother was holding her daughter’s hand and the father was tossing a small boy into the air. Their smiles were rapturous. She pinched her screen, zooming in on the woman’s face. It was Mrs. Kessler (or Rachel, as her mother called her), their neighbor a few doors down. She supposed the man in the photo was Mr. Kessler, though Violet had never met him despite having had at least five play dates over at the Kessler family home. They had a 2-year-old son named Carson and a 9-year-old daughter, Annie, who Violet would play with occasionally, seeing as how their neighborhood was made up of mostly retired couples. She didn’t particularly enjoy Annie’s company - she only wanted to play with Legos while Violet much preferred spending time in the kitchen, baking something with Mrs. Kessler - but it was an excuse to get out of her house and away from her mother. Violet saved the photo of the family so she could look at it again when the mood struck. She stood up from her seat at the kitchen table - where she’d once again found herself alone after pouring a bowl of Frosted Flakes for dinner - and went to her mother’s bedroom. Her mom was zonked out on her bed, fully clothed, and flanked by Eddie and Reggie, their other cockapoo. Eddie growled as Violet approached. He had never taken to her, and Violet always wondered why her parents had adopted him when the shelter had explicitly stated that he didn’t like children. Her mother was sure she could change his ways and encourage him to love Violet, who was then just a toddler. He never did. Old dogs and all that. She held the photo in her mother’s face, careful to keep her distance from Eddie. “Why aren’t we like them?” she said out loud, knowing full well that her mother couldn’t hear her and wouldn’t respond. She pulled the phone down by her side. “Why are you the way that you are? I hate you. Did you know that? That I hate you?” It was at that moment that Eddie lunged for her, but she backed away in time. He continued to growl from his perch at the edge of the bed, but Violet could only laugh. “Stupid dog,” she mumbled on her way out, heading to her own bedroom where she would inevitably fall asleep, scrolling through Instagram. ----------- It wasn’t that Violet’s mom was afraid to leave the house. She didn’t have agoraphobia, according to the Google research Violet had done. She would occasionally leave to go to the pharmacy for her Ambien pills. Sometimes she would take the dogs on walks - though most days she just let them out into the backyard to do their business. On her better days, she might walk to the corner pizzeria and bring home Violet’s favorite, Hawaiian pizza. But most days, she just slept or stared blankly at the TV while HGTV jumped from show to show. The internet called it depression. One quiz that Violet took on behalf of her mother said it could be posttraumatic stress disorder. Regardless, it was serious. Violet tried to convince her mom to get help, showing her the WebMD articles she had found, imploring her to “talk to her doctor” as the articles suggested. But her mom just shrugged her off, telling her to leave her alone, to “go play or something”. It had started a year ago when Violet found her father in the unfinished basement of their old home, hanging from an electrical cord that was looped around a wooden beam that ran the length of the room. His face was drained of color and his neck was bent at an unusual angle, but otherwise, he looked like he was just sleeping. Violet didn’t yell or scream; she suddenly couldn’t remember how, even though her mom always joked that she had “solid pipes” on her when she was an infant. She fell to the cement floor and hugged her knees. She stayed like that for an hour until her mom returned home from work. Her mom screamed when she found them. She remembered how. Since then, Violet’s mother had been out of work, relying solely on the considerable savings the family accumulated over the years. Violet ordered groceries using her mother’s credit card. She set her own alarms for school. She packed her own lunches and laundered her clothes. These things, she didn’t mind doing herself. It was the lack of attention that angered her. All of her grandparents were deceased. Her father was an only child and her mother hadn’t spoken to her sister in over a decade (apparently, Aunt Teresa had tried to “make a move” on Violet’s dad). Violet wasn’t even sure whether or not her aunt knew she existed. There had been a few coworkers of her parents’ who stopped by in the first few weeks with sad faces and even sadder casseroles. But even those visits petered out once her mother stopped returning calls and texts. Violet’s mother hadn’t been perfect, but she used to read her stories before bed. She used to kiss her forehead when she dropped her off at school. She used to take her to the local pool in the summer and sledding in the winter. Now her mother was a ghost of her former self. And Violet had had enough. ----------- That Saturday afternoon, while her mom was sleeping off the sleeping pill and wine combo from last night, Violet put on her pink coat and laced up her boots. She trudged through the newly fallen snow down to the Kessler’s house and rang the doorbell. Carson came to the small, narrow windows beside the door and stuck his face on the glass. Violet shook her head at the absurdity of it. When the door opened and she saw Mrs. Kessler’s kind eyes and honey-blonde hair, she perked up, a smile working its way onto her face. “Hi there, Violet! Carson, look! It’s our friend Violet. Can you say hi?” Carson ran off in the other direction, seemingly uninterested in the family’s visitor. “He’s been a little shy lately,” Mrs. Kessler said. “What are you doing here, sweetie? How’s your mom doing?” She asked a lot of questions, but Violet liked it. Mrs. Kessler seemed genuinely interested in her. “She’s fine! My aunt’s visiting next week, so she’s doing a lot of cleaning,” Violet lied. “I’m kind of bored at home and my mom said I should see if Annie wanted to play.” “Oh, I’m sure she’d love to, but she’s actually with her dad today. They went ice-skating. Rob used to play hockey in school, so he’s been wanting to show her the ropes for a little bit!” Violet’s face deflated and she knew that Mrs. Kessler could tell, because a look of pity swept across her face and she cocked her head to the side in that way that so many people had done in the last year when they encountered Violet or her mother. “Oh...okay. Well, thanks.” Violet waved and started to step down off the porch. It wasn’t slippery with ice like their porch was. It was carefully salted to avoid any accidents. “Would you like to come inside with us? I know a 2-year-old isn’t the best company, but we’ve got Frozen II booted up on the TV and some donut holes and hot cocoa. How’s that sound?” It sounded perfect. Mrs. Kessler was making the hot cocoa on the stove from scratch and the smell filled the room with a heavenly scent. Carson came over and grabbed onto Violet’s hand, sticky in that way that most toddlers hands always are. He led her over to the couch where their giant Newfoundland, Jack, was already sprawled out. As she sat down, Jack scooted over to sniff her and then proceeded to plop his giant head in her lap. She kept her hands at her sides. She didn’t know what to do with a dog that didn’t want to murder her. Carson seemed to notice her hesitation and squealed, “pet, pet!” over and over while guiding her hand across Jack’s head and ears. He was soft and warm. Was everything about this place soft and warm? “He’s such a loverboy,” Mrs. Kessler said as she appeared with two mugs of cocoa and a plate of donut holes balanced atop one. Violet helped her by setting down the plate, at which point Carson grabbed a tiny toddler fistful of donut holes, but before he could shove them in his mouth, his mother grabbed them out of his hands and ripped them into smaller, bite-sized pieces. It made Violet wonder if her mother would do the same or if she’d be content to let her toddler choke. As Frozen II played in the background, Mrs. Kessler seated in between the two children, Violet took in her surroundings with new eyes. Sure, she’d been to this house half a dozen times, but most of it was spent with Annie in her room among her hoard of mismatched Lego pieces. The house was a little messy, as most homes with toddlers are on a weekend, but was otherwise homey and well-decorated. A candle burned from its place on the mantel and a Christmas tree sat in the corner. The scent of vanilla and pine filled the room, mingling with the chocolatey smell of the cocoa. Carson fell asleep a mere 20 minutes into the movie and Mrs. Kessler picked him up and carried him off to what she assumed was his room. “I’m actually surprised he went down so quickly,” she said when she got back, smiling. “Normally nap time is much trickier than that. Maybe you’re my good luck charm!” “Maybe!” Violet returned the smile in kind. “So how have you been, Miss Violet? I know it’s probably been a tough time for you.” Understatement of the year. Before Violet even realized what was happening, she was crying. Salty tears rolled down her cheeks and onto her sweater. Then a thought formed in her head: she wasn’t sure if they were genuine tears or if she simply wanted to get a reaction out of this woman. That reaction didn’t take long to form, and only seconds later, Mrs. Kessler had her arms wrapped tightly around Violet. Violet hung on. She smiled as she laid her head on this kind woman’s shoulder and the tears petered out. However, she continued to make a whimpering sound so Mrs. Kessler wouldn’t let go. ----------- What felt like hours later, Violet awoke to the sound of heavy snow boots hitting the wood floor. She was covered in a warm, fleece blanket. The candle continued to burn. She could hear Annie and her dad talking loudly in the kitchen. Annie’s voice was a shrill thing, full of whines and complaints. Violet turned around and peeked at them over the back of the couch. “I don’t want to do it anymore,” she cried to her parents as she quickly shrugged out of her coat, throwing it on the ground in a tantrum. “I hate it!” “Honey, when you’re first learning to skate, you’re going to have a couple of falls,” her father tried reasoning with her. “You’ll get better if you just--” “NO!” Annie screamed, storming up the stairs to her room. Mr. Kessler - Rob - sighed loudly, clearly exasperated after a day spent with Annie. Mrs. Kessler cocked her head in that pitying way and hugged her husband, whispering what Violet could only assume were words of encouragement. Violet thought Annie was a bitch. What kind of spoiled brat gets mad when their doting father takes them ice-skating? An image of her lifeless father flashed before her eyes and she shook it away. “Do you want to stay for dinner, sweetie?” Mrs. Kessler said from the kitchen, pulling items out of the fridge and placing them on the giant kitchen island. “Want me to call your mom and ask? I’m sure we exchanged numbers a couple of years ago--” “Oh, I can text her! I don’t mind!” The last thing she wanted was her mom ruining what was an otherwise perfect day. “Okay, hun! Let her know she’s welcome to come over. It’s taco night!” Violet pretended to type out a text and waited a few minutes before saying, “She said she can’t come - she has a headache from all of the cleaning - but said that I could stay!” Violet was nothing if not an experienced liar. Why, for a whole year, she’d been pretending that everything at home was just peachy. “Okay, well, why don’t you go on upstairs and see if Annie wants to play?” Mrs. Kessler suggested. She really didn’t want to do that, but knew it would look strange if she didn’t at least play with Annie for a little bit. After all, that was supposed to be the reason why she came over in the first place. She smiled and uncurled herself from the blanket and Jack’s body, which had been draped over her the whole time. Annie was angrily breaking apart a Lego contraption that Violet guessed was supposed to be a ship, but looked nothing like it in reality. “Do you want some help with that?” Violet offered as she got down on her knees. “No, I don’t need any help.” Annie’s voice was harsh. Violet wanted to take the toy from Annie’s rude, ungrateful hands and throw it at the wall. “What are you doing here anyways?” Annie asked. “I told you last time I didn’t want to play with you anymore. You only want to hang out with my stupid mom and bake stupid cookies like losers.” “Your mom isn’t stupid. You’re lucky she’s your mom.” Violet knew she hated Annie right then. “Just because your family sucks and your dad killed himself doesn’t mean you can have my family. I wish you’d just leave and never come back.” Something inside Violet snapped. She grabbed a blue, rectangular Lego piece with one hand and the back of Annie’s head with her other. She shoved it inside Annie’s mouth, which was wide open in surprise. She pushed it far down her throat and then smoothly pulled her damp hand back out, watching Annie’s eyes bulge as she realized what was happening. She began to choke. Violet looked on in curiosity. She hadn’t seen her dad die and always wondered what it had looked like. She waited a few moments before screaming for help. Annie’s parents tore up the stairs, their faces horrified at the sight of their only daughter choking to death. Mr. Kessler quickly began attempting the Heimlich, while Mrs. Kessler shouted and spluttered into her phone, crying to a 911 operator. “What happened, Violet!?” She yelled, grabbing onto Violet’s shoulders firmly. Violet had already begun producing tears long before they entered the room and she managed to get out, “Sh-she was trying t-t-to take a piece off of her ship, b-but it was stuck, so she tried to g-g-get it with her teeth!” The color began to drain from Annie’s face and Violet saw her father. She saw her mother, drooling in her bed, her tongue stained red from the wine. She hated them. She grabbed onto Mrs. Kessler’s waist and she wrapped her arms around Violet in return, wanting something to hold onto as her husband failed miserably in reviving their daughter. Violet wanted to smile, but held it back. She felt her heart flutter with something she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was love. She finally had a family. And nothing was going to get in her way.


Life is funny in the moments that it doesn’t hurt. It has that sense of humor that isn’t supposed to be funny, but somehow it is, and you laugh. It was her birthday. All day she had been calling me with plans, but I just wasn’t in the mood to party. I would celebrate with her tomorrow, but I still listened to her voicemail. “Let’s drink.” Is all I could make of it. Well, all I decided to make of it. I rolled over and looked at my book shelf. I needed a new book to get lost in. I wonder if she would read with me. I had fallen asleep before I could think of an answer or pick a book. By the time I had woken up, it was dark outside. Although it was that time of year where it got dark at around 5 p.m. and your body reacted to it by being tired all the time, my clock read 9:15 p.m. Below the time on my phone was a notification of a missed call and a voicemail. She had decided to go out without me. I was okay with it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to celebrate her birthday with her. That day I just didn’t want to be anywhere but by myself. I had pushed all the errands I had to run off, making the next day the only day I had to get them done. I just wanted to relax. I decided to walk to the store for some snacks, given that I had put off grocery shopping, I had no good fattening foods. This was a walk that she usually accompanied me on. I usually never walked by myself at night, but the store was so close I was sure I would be okay. However, as soon as I hit the street my anxiety decided to kick in. When I got closer to the gas station, police cars were lining the street. Something happened, and I wanted to get home before getting asked questions that I didn’t know the answers to. Just as I started to pick up my pace, she called again. “You know I never got to tell you how much of a good friend you are,” she began. A greeting I had never heard before. She continued before I could ask if she was alright. “it’s like sometimes we forget that the greatest things are in people, and before you know it, we’ve forgotten to tell them just how much great shit they added to us.” I was focused on a man walking a black dog as I listened to her words. She was most likely drunk. “You must be walking to the store,” she said. I assumed that she heard the wind or something in my background. “You getting candy?” she asked. “Uhm, yeah,” my eyes shifted to a street light as I avoided the police cars across the street. I was still thinking about her greeting. “Where are you? Are you okay?” Even drunken her had never told me those things. We were alike in that sense. We could read each other’s eyes, making words unnecessary in most instances. Our strong-point usually included us saying everything by saying nothing at all. “I’m okay.” Was the last thing I heard her say before the line faded out. I hung up and imagined how she would recap her night to me tomorrow. I made it into the store and retreated straight to the candy and snack aisle. I would change these habits one day. I picked my poison and placed it onto the counter. 3 Milky Ways. I asked the cashier to hold on before I ran over to the “Slim Jim’s”. I decided against it. When I returned to the counter the cashier handed the candy over to me. “That guy paid for you.” She said. She then began attending to the next customer, barely allowing me enough time to move out of the way. I turned around to thank the good Samaritan. He was cute, and looked to be no more than 20 years old. I gave my thanks to him and walked out of the store. I wish I would have said more. I adjusted my coat while wondering why he paid for my things. My phone ringing interrupted my thoughts as I unwrapped one of my candy bars. It was my dad. I clicked the green button before putting the phone to my ear. “What you doing?” another weird greeting. The phone line faded out again before I could process my confusion. I decided to call him back later, along with Sprint to discuss their sucky coverage. \*\*\*\*\*\*\* The next morning, I woke up expecting a conversation to take place about how her birthday went. It didn’t happen. Instead, everywhere I went, people kept handing me flowers that had magenta ribbons tied to the stems. But it wasn’t the odd gesture that concerned me, it was the sorrowful looks on their faces. People I had never seen before had somehow seen me, and for some reason, they were sad for me. I could feel it. At this point, I called her. I was wondering if people were handing her small bouquets as well. The phone rang until it got to the point where everyone knows to hang up. I decided to walk back to the store that I went to last night. Maybe we would bump into each other. As soon as I got to the curb, two women greeted me. They both handed me flowers wrapped in a magenta ribbon. But this time, one of them spoke to me. “Sorry about your friend.” She then dropped her head and walked away. “Hey! What the fuck does this mean?” I called after them, raising the flowers into the air to seal my question. They kept walking. I turned on my heels to cross the parking lot. It was then that I seen the boy again. This time he was on the ground, being cradled in the arms of a much older woman. I suspected that it was his mother. The scene made me uncomfortable, like it was supposed to take place in their home, behind closed doors. Not in the middle of a gas station parking lot, with people surrounding them. My feet walked toward the woman as my mind protested it. The boy laid lifeless, obviously dead. My mind went back to how he paid for my candy. A man walked up, and laid flowers wrapped in a magenta ribbon at her feet before walking away. I seemed to be the only one close enough to actually talk to her. “What happened?” I managed to ask. “Magenta days.” Was all she could muster up to say through her tears. I got up quickly and went inside of the store, trying to escape the chaos from outside. The same cashier from the night before was working again. She didn’t seem to notice the commotion going on just outside of the store’s doors. I walked up to her in a panic. “What happened here?” I asked, desperately searching her blank face for answers. “A boy committed suicide. He stayed out there all night before somebody discovered him inside of his car. I suppose his mother got here before the police did,” she said through pops of gum while peering out of the window from the register. “I’m stayin’ out of it.” I looked at her and was offended by her mannerisms and comments. It may have stemmed from the boy’s kind act from the night before. She noticed me staring at her and looked down at the flowers that I still had gripped in my hand. Her expression changed. “Sorry about your friend.” She said while nodding at the flowers. “He’s not my friend. I didn’t even know him.” I responded through a sigh. My eyes were closed and I was massaging my temples. “Not him, the girl. The one I always see you with.” She said matter-factly. I’m surprised she didn’t add a “duh” to her statement. “What are you talking about? And what is with everybody and these damn flowers?” I began to get angry because I was still processing the stranger’s death. “Your friend was murdered last night,” her face told me that she was surprised that I didn’t know. “Right outside of here.” She said while pointing to the parking lot. I recalled the police cars from last night silently in my head. My heart began to beat faster, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of the flowers in my hand. “Wh- what time did this happen?” I stuttered, still staring at the flowers. I still don’t know if I believed her when she said it. “Around 9. About thirty minutes before you came last night.” Her voice was quieter now and I could tell that she regretted talking, not prepared to accept the fact that she was the one who was breaking the news to me. I shook my head, a bit relieved. “That’s impossible,” I dropped the flowers on the counter. “I was talking to her on the phone right before I walked in here last night.” I said, unknowingly talking much louder than when the conversation began. She gave me the look that everyone gives when they know that someone is in denial. That look of pity with a touch of fear. She was afraid to say anything else. “Are you sure it’s her?” I asked, while blinking heavily. My anger was turning into annoyance. And what was with those stupid ass flowers? Magenta days? I was so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t noticed the cashier turn on a small TV behind the register. She kept her head down as I looked at what was on the screen. It was her. My best friend. The picture of her that I had taken not too long ago was plastered on the news. Below it, a headline. She was murdered. Last night. Around 9. Prepare for magenta days. Magenta. Universal love at its highest level. Compassion that ignites harmony and balance. My eyes went back up to her picture. I had forgotten I was standing in the gas station. Seeing that picture and word combination on the TV screen caused something to break inside of me. I drew the connections in my head. I had heard of connections from beyond the grave before, but it just didn’t seem real until now. That’s when I began to laugh. A big, hardy, belly-filled laugh. The cashier looked taken aback and looked at me with her eyebrows furrowed. She was the one offended now. But despite her judgement, I could not stop laughing. I recalled her greeting in my mind. *“You know I never got to tell you how much of a good friend you are.”* My laugh turned into a big, ugly cry. I clinched onto the flowers and fell to my knees, staring at the ribbon. The flowers comforted me in a weird way. I began to think about the boy, and I stopped crying. I thought of his mother and stood up, wiping my tears and steadying myself. The cashier was still staring at me. I was relieved that no one else was in the store when I looked around. I made sure that the flowers were in my hand as I made my way to the door and walked out. Outside was still in a frenzy, but I found the boy’s mother through all of the people and flowers. She was talking to police officers now. The boy was no longer in her arms. I slowly walked over to her and handed her the flowers wrapped in ribbon that were given to me. I still don’t entirely know what they mean, but I know how they made me feel. “He paid for my candy last night, and I didn’t even know him,” I said, looking at the flowers that were now in her hands. “Sometimes we forget that the greatest things are in people.” I walked away remembering my friend’s words, and all the people that handed me flowers. I crossed the street with two things on my mind: my dad and magenta ribbons.