I read a funny quote once. The problem with stupid people is that they don’t know they are stupid. The joke is a paradox. Stupid people read it and they laugh. The problem is we’re all stupid. That’s the joke. And it’s not funny. It’s not funny and I’m certainly not laughing. If I’m honest, I doubt I’ll ever laugh. Another oft used quote is something along the lines of we all make it up as we go along . We’re all muddling along and trying to make the most of things. Making the best of a bad situation, and grinning and bearing it as we go. Life is a state of denial. You can disagree with that if you like. That just proves that I’m right and you’re stupid. Denying that you’re in denial is right up there with as stupid as it gets. Of course we’re stupid! We were born knowing the square root of bugger all and then, somewhere along the way our egos kick in and we think we know it all, which locks us into a perpetual state of idiocy. Think? You’re having a laugh there aren’t you? We don’t think we know it all. That’s another self-refutation. There is no thinking going on here. Instead we believe. Belief is the single most stupid aspect that we are possessed of. We all believe things and we carry a belief system around with us. Even those who spend a huge element of themselves refuting the belief systems of others whilst denying they have one. I’ve put your back up haven’t I? No, I have. None of us like being challenged and the worst of all challenges is against our belief systems. What gives me the right to be so appallingly challenging? Well, I’m about as stupid as it gets. I believed I was alive when all the evidence pointed to the contrary. I held on to the fact of my existence as proof of life. I refused to believe that I could be anything other than alive. My twisted logic was that if I was dead, then I would have ceased to exist and I held this absolute certainty that I would surely know if I were dead. Death is after all the one absolute certainty in life. My argument was flawed in the presumption that I was alive. I’d made that arrogant assumption because I didn’t have anything else. I could not stomach an alternative. But I knew. Underneath the lava flow of denial I could still feel the truth. As much as I tried to burn it away, it remained constant. Truth has an annoying habit of clinging onto its constancy. Let me tell you something, when you’re dead the dimension of time holds less meaning. It is demoted in the pecking order and down in the bowels of the organisation of your existence it is overlooked, ignored and treated quite badly. Honestly, it should file a grievance and HR should do something about it. I joke of course, because time conspired against me and managed to embarrass me. I remained in a state of abject idiocy for the best part of a century. There. I’ve said it. I’ve admitted it. I was dead for almost a hundred years before I could countenance the fact of my demise. I would refer to myself as a loser, but I’d already lost everything and by rights should have had nothing else to lose. That should have been such a liberating state of affairs. I’d done my living and I’d gone through the worst part of living; death. We fear death. We loath and resent it. Death gets in the way. Death ruins the party. We would get so much more done if it wasn’t for the stone faced denizen who insists on turning up to cut the cord of our life as the sands of our meagre existence are ebbing away. I would tell you that I believed in oblivion at the point of death, but that would be a blatant lie. I cannot tell you anything about how I was prior to my death because I cannot remember who I was. I do not remember my death. Of all the things you think you would remember about your existence, it has to be your death. But then, I don’t remember my birth either. I don’t remember my mortal birth and there is nothing there when I attempt any sort of recollection of my coming into this existence of mine. I think I must have come into this state of being fully formed. A facsimile of the mortal I once was. No infancy or childhood. Just the shade of the man I might have been. If I ever was like the man who lived, a hundred years of denial have followed. More than a life time of not living but refusing that I did not live. You must wonder what I did in all of that time. That ridiculous era spent in a state of splendid misapprehension. I suppose I went through the motions. I did what I could with what I had. I ploughed a rut and I read a lot of books. There were other things I did to pass the time. Things that I am not proud of. Pursuits that are seldom spoken of in polite company, or if they are, we all dismiss them as ribald and meaningless comments spoken in order to illicit a cheap laugh. I sinned. I did a lot of sinning. What else is there to do when you live a solitary life. I considered myself a loner and convinced myself that this was a choice that I had made. The truth is that I had no choice and my complete and utter isolation was another sort of death. You see, some of us die more than once. People are social beings and if we are separated from that which makes us make sense then we cease to be. We are that proverbial tree that makes a habit of falling in a forest at a time when there is no one to hear it. I heard it though. I was there. I just wish I’d listened. I am a ghost. Being a ghost is not fun. Being a ghost is a terrible eventuality foisted upon you when you are distracted with the prospect of your end. Everything happens in a chaotic frenzy and you are burped out into another sphere of existence like a morsel of food from a choking diner. I was ejected into this world by the Heimlich manoeuvre of fate. I doubt I will ever cease fumbling around for a reason for my being here. My quest for meaning is ceaseless, for what else is there? I understand that this is a futile pursuit. The diner did not place me in their throat on purpose. They intended to swallow me. Fate intervened because it saw the diner choking and could not stand idly by. No one goes in pursuit of the globule of meat that was launched from the dying person. That person holds the stage. I was the sleight of hand. I am here thanks to a magic trick that went awry. There are others. Not once did I think that I was the only one. After all, for such a long time I thought I was in the land of the living. There is something about the nature of our existence that prevents any sort of connection. We are not built for that and we are not meant for that. I just wish I knew what we were meant for. Maybe I knew that once and forgot it along with everything else I have forgotten. Worse still is everything I have overlooked and ignored. Those things I have forgotten are a mere drop in that ocean. I have been deliberately blind. Pinballing myself through this existence in the vain hope that I would miraculously hit the jackpot. Once I calmed down, after nigh on a century of cartwheeling and spinning through my existence, I began to see a little more clearly. Ghosts aren’t white sheets with eye holes badly cut out in a rushed after thought of a Halloween costume. We are not cheap special effects. No, we are something altogether different to those twee and half thought out tales. It's been two generations now. Soon to be three. I suppose there is a chance that I won’t move on when my current host passes, but somehow I doubt it. I think I’d know. It’s not like knowing when it’s your time to die. This is a twisted inversion of living and dying. I just don’t think I’ve done anything worthy of my ceasing to be held in this state. I have not fulfilled my purpose. I have not fulfilled by destiny. The living have it easy in comparison. They can coast and fail to be anything of worth and they will suffer the same fate as everyone else. Many of them live longer. After all, the people who do what it was that they were meant for shine more brightly and the light that shines brightly does not shine for so long. I know I did not shine brightly in my former life. I doubt I was a dullard either. That only leaves one other possibility. For a century I have existed in purgatory and I have watched as my granddaughter led a bitter and twisted life. She punished an undeserving world and in taking her pain out on those around her, failed ever to live. Then I observed her son spoil the world around him. He was a baleful poison that blighted everything he laid his eyes upon. Now I have the sad and pitiful prospect of following the bleak and tormented life of his daughter. Sometimes I wonder whether Elizabeth is here with me. Will George follow me as we transition? I don’t think they will. I think I have always known this. And if that is the case, then I am beginning to understand why that may be. I started this. It’s all my fault. I broke things so badly that my descendants cannot live properly. In fact, they live so badly that their offspring are broken in childhood and they carry on my evil and broken legacy. For a hundred years I have witnessed this and thought I was living it. In a way, I suppose I was. I started this. I wonder whether I can ever finish it.


Jack’s eyes grew heavy. Clumsily, he fumbled around the passenger seat of his early 2000’s pickup in search of his sunglasses to try and block out the burning sensation caused by the setting sun. After 3 swerves and 5 car horns honking loudly at him, giving him a mild headache, his hand found them, and he put them on. They were large Ray-Ban aviators with mirrored lenses. He’d heard a few times that the eyes were the windows to the soul, so naturally, being who he was, he did everything he could to prevent people from looking directly at him. They gave him a small sense of security, and he felt they made it easier for him to lie. As the sky in front of him turned a burnt orange, he looked to the lands surrounding the nearly empty highway he found himself on. To his left, short grasses, with the occasional lonely tree, and to his right the same. His eyes grew heavier. Without much a thought he turned on his radio. Static. Jack was now too far from Fort Worth now to get the stations he was tuned to on his drive in earlier that morning. He flicked through the channels, more static. He was alone. He lived just far enough away from everything, that nothing could get to him. Not even radio frequency, and a part of him liked that. Growing bored as the sun dipped below the horizon, much faster than he thought it would, Jack’s foot left the gas pedal, so he could reach behind him and grab the bottle of bourbon he’d opened earlier in the week. He popped the cork off, and took a swig, hoping that the initial burn of the whiskey would wake him back up. And for a while it did. Then his eyes grew heavier still. With his head moving in a manner similar to that of a bobber on a fishing line, just robbed by a clever fish, Jack suddenly woke and for a split second he thought he saw a dog in the middle of the road. Swerving to avoid it, he quickly found himself suspended from the floor of his truck by his seatbelt. Shocked, he unbuckled himself and as he fell, he impaled his left leg on what remained of the glass from the driver’s side window. He let out a scream, and took another swig of bourbon. He tried the radio. Static. Carefully, and in a great deal of pain, he crawled out from the inverted truck, then found himself crawling back in to grab the whiskey. He clawed for support against the wreckage, and stood up. He was in a ditch. To his right, a barbed wire fence, guarding the land of what was likely in these parts to be a cattle rancher. To his left the highway, but more immediately, a hill he was going to need to climb if he was going to hitch a ride home. The lights on his truck flickered for a moment, then turned off. The sun had fallen below the horizon, and the moon was beginning to make its way across the evening sky. He began his climb up the side of the ditch, unable to get great footing, he slipped frequently, each slip digging the glass a little deeper into his calf. Each time, he let out another scream. Upon reaching the top, he sat on the precipice, looking down at the pile of metal that, had it been a little earlier, might still look that shade of red that he couldn’t say no to all those years ago. “I’m going to need to remove this if I’m going to get anywhere”, Jack thought to himself as he stared at the chunk of glass currently lodged in his left calf. He touched it lightly, and winced in pain. With that, he tore off a sleeve of his flannel shirt, and bit down. Even through the fabric, he felt as though he might break his teeth on themselves with how hard he was biting. And the glass was removed. “What a waste.” Jack thought, as he poured some bourbon over the wound. And he tied the sleeve of his shirt around his calf in an effort to stop the bleeding. But he knew, it would still continue to drip as he limped down the highway. Perhaps it was the pain, perhaps it was the whiskey, but roughly three hours into lurching along the deserted highway, Jack came to the realization that his sunglasses only had one lens in them now. Realizing this, he took them off, and stowed them in his shirt pocket. As he did this, he thought he heard the sound of a tree branch cracking. Jack assumed he was hearing things, after all, there wasn’t a tree around for what had to be miles. He carried on, taking the occasional swig from his bottle to dull the pain in his leg. Ahead, around a small curve in the road, he saw headlights, and as the car rounded the corner, he caught a silhouette of what seemed like that dog he had evidently succeeded in not hitting with his truck. Then it was gone. The small sedan gained on him, getting closer and closer, the high beams blinding to the eyes, and before Jack even had a chance to wave, it was gone. Far behind him now, and going the wrong way anyway. “Good riddance”. He kept limping. A sharp pain shot through Jack’s right arm, and a loud, vicious growl was all he could hear. At first he thought maybe he tripped on a rock and fell over scraping his arm against that gravel, but that wouldn’t have explained the growling, he suddenly had a suspicion that the dog he had deliberately not hit with his truck, was in fact, a coyote, and that it must be the very thing attempting to make a meal out of his arm. Feeling weak, he broke free of the animal’s jaws and backed away slowly, it followed towards him. Slowly, Jack bent down, and with his left hand, threw a rock at the animal. He missed. As he was about to try this again, the animal suddenly appeared distracted, and hurried away. “Yeah, that ought to teach ya”. He clutched his upper arm. “Damn. What a waste.” He poured a small amount of whiskey on the bite marks, hoping to disinfect them. He continued limping toward home. Stopping for a short rest, Jack sat. Astonished that the sun had yet to come up. It certainly felt like he’d been walking long enough since sunset to warrant a sunrise. He thought he heard footsteps. “HELLO?”, he shouted. No response. Instead a pain similar to that in his arm surrounded the wound from the glass of his truck, and he felt himself being moved. He was already downed, there was nothing for him to grab, onto. Panicking, and clawing around for anything, he smashed his bottle of whiskey on the ground, and violently slashed it around hoping to cut anything around him that might be responsible for his movement. The makeshift blade couldn’t find anything. He heard a yelp, immediately followed by a growl, a sharp pain on his neck. Then nothing. A dull ache filled Jack’s body. He was suspended from the seat of his car, which was, by what he assumed was the morning light, upside down in a ditch, somewhere in west Texas. He turned to the passenger seat, and on the ceiling above was his bottle of bourbon, completely smashed. It had not survived the crash. With a groan, Jack pulled through the pain of his bruises, and unbuckled himself from the driver's seat of the pickup. With a thud, he fell. This time, he didn’t get up.


I was sitting at the terminal bar drinking a double, smoothing over thoughts of catastrophic engine failure, making small talk with the bartender J. I’d taught J how to cook when he was just a kid. He’d been a bright one, with the air of future swarming around his excitement as he’d picked up the knife and learned the treasured skills of the craft. J’s dead now, overdosing on fentanyl in a car only minutes after getting out of jail, needle still hanging in his arm and foot resting on the brake pedal with the car still in drive, leaving a bright, young, fatherless daughter in his wake. He was twenty-three. But for this moment, we were both still alive. “I’m telling you man,” J said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a bar towel, his pale skin and toothpick frame betraying his energy. “This place ain’t nothing. My buddy in Nashville’s got me a gig set up. Second he calls, I’m driving to freedom.” I downed the gin, gesturing for another. “Sounds good bud.” “He’s working the trainyards, I’m talking big bucks. This town’s dead, I ain’t staying. You could come with, blow this joint together.” I hadn’t seen him in months, knowing his crowd, feeding my own addiction yet still retaining enough brain cells to know that his crowd wasn’t mine. But the idea was intoxicating--the chance to flee all my troubles only to find them waiting for me in Music City. “Sounds real good, but I’ve been thinking about going back to school. Maybe,” I said. I’d run away twice already, learning just enough to know that I was the source of my troubles, even if I couldn’t articulate what they were. A figure approached the bar in my periphery. I turned, recognizing him immediately: S, our city’s college basketball star, fresh off a national title run, packed bags behind him, ready to skip town and go pro. We’d met once. I’d gone to a baseball game with his father, Big Papa. We got so drunk the security staff made us leave, not taking kindly to our shouting at opposing pitchers, but still being gentle for Big Papa’s sake, his royalty, the father of a king, practically apologizing as they escorted us to the property line. The taxi deposited Papa at S’s doorstep, son carrying father in the house with a glare in my direction telling me that I was not welcome. Here at the airport bar, I was anonymous, a nothingness. He sat down beside me, ordering a beer. Yo dude. You’re S,” J said, his excitement turning heads of the bar’s patrons. S smiled, a daily repetition he endured with humility. “That’s me,” he said, and sipped his beer. J looked to me, reaching across the bar to push my shoulder, “It's fucking S, bro.” He turned back to S while pouring me a fresh double. “Let me ask you something. You coming back to play next year?” I was downing the last drops that were simmering in the bottom of my glass, hardly a speck of booze left, and coughed when I heard his words, knowing S had graduated, feeling embarrassed by proxy, covering my eyes in apology. S laughed, smiling again. “Nah man, I love this place but I’m out of here. Draft coming up next month.” “Damn shame man. If you ask me, you were one of our best player, maybe top three. We’re gonna miss you.” S finished his beer and left. J looked at me. “Fucking dumbass.” “Who?” I asked, already drunk but genuinely confused. “Dude’s wasting his time when he could stay here and slay. Fucking loser.” I threw a tip on the bar counter and caught my flight. J called me asking for a cooking job a year later, after I’d come on as morning manager at one of the city’s top restaurants. I let it ring to voicemail, hearing the desperation in his voice, knowing he had a toddler, listening to it twice before deleting the message and removing his name from my phone’s contact list. He was sixteen when we met; troubled, like me, but full of hope. I’d kept him under my wing until my wing wasn’t even big enough for me. He was gone within a month of the phone call. His daughter is ten now and I don’t know what happened to her, and if I did, I don’t know how I could help. I pray every day that she is full of life, that the wind picks her up and never lets her land.


Clint was twelve years old when he was first punched in the face. The burning, throbbing sensations he felt in his cheek were definitely unexpected. The force caused him to stumble backward, and he fell on his bum. He has seen fist fights on television, the “punch-er” would take the initial shot and the “punch-ee” would appear to be infuriated, prompting him or her to retaliate. But the pain Clint felt was physical and he was reluctant to fight back and risk another blow. He also felt a bit disoriented and needed a few minutes before standing. Was it possible the actors on television were only pretending to punch one another? He scuttled in reverse and leaned his back against a tree. His bully laughed and called him “Nancy,” although he didn’t understand what that even meant. Perhaps the guy’s sister was named Nancy and he didn’t like her very much. Whatever the case, he thought it best not to argue. Clint West was the youngest of three boys. His brothers, Wayne and Stewart, were out of the house and married by the time he turned five. His mother called him a blessing, but his father called him a mistake. Mrs. West hoped that a new baby would rekindle her husband’s love for his family but instead Clint’s father left not long after the older boys moved out. Mrs. West was understandably overprotective and overbearing, considering Clint was the only one she had to dote on. But her actions only exacerbated her son’s gullibility. While Clint sat there resting by the tree, he recalled the time he hit himself over the head with a bottle. At that time, he was re-enacting the scene from a comedy sketch he saw live at the Mountaintop Theater. The bottle didn’t shatter like it did in the play, it didn’t even crack. He only managed to give himself a lump so large that his skin split. Live and learn, he thought. He shook his head and returned to the present. He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a pack of chewing gum. He unwrapped a stick and folded it into his mouth, then winced when he bit his swollen inner cheek, he would have to chew carefully. Eventually he pushed himself to his feet and headed towards home. As he approached Bella’s Gaming Resort, he hesitated. Clint decided he deserved a treat, something to take his mind off his woes and his stiffening jaw. He sauntered up the ramp in front of Bella’s and pulled the heavy glass door open. A bell jingle-jangled announcing his presence, and Kelly glanced his way with a friendly smile. Kelly worked at Bella’s. She was quite knowledgeable about video games. In fact, she recommended the game Twisted when he was there looking for a gift for his mother. The puzzle game was a hit. Kelly was also pretty but he knew that pretty girls always had boyfriends. He walked past the idle games, or clicker games as he called them, turned right at isle three; he wasn’t interested in the simulation, puzzle, sports, or racing categories. He strolled passed a display of role-playing games, then paused and took a step back. Not seeing anything of interest, he moved to the wall of action, adventure, action-adventure, and strategy games. After pulling a fistful of loose change from his pocket, he crouched near the floor. While cupping the silver coins in the palm of his left hand he used his right index finger to separate them as he counted. His vision drifted to the high-top sneakers that came to a halt next to him. He looked up and the wearer of the shoes squatted by his side. “Which one ya thinkin of buyin,” the boy next to Clint asked, his head gesturing to the row of video games in front of them. “Depends,” said Clint. “Wanna chip in?” The boy held out his hand, “Vern.” The moment the boys shook hands was the moment they decided to stick together. They had different upbringings and on the surface, they seemed like an odd couple. Vern was an only child. He exuded confidence and many saw him as a natural leader. His parents were both employed by the state and were able to provide him with everything he asked for. The boy’s love of video games was their first connecting link. They spent numerous hours playing and babbling, talking to themselves more than to each other. They soon discovered the world of co-op games. One day, while their avatars were attempting to defeat “The Weapon Wizard,” the final boss, Clint began to get frustrated; he kept getting distracted, Vern was sustaining too much damage in the battle and Clint often had to stop fighting in order to heal him. He muttered that he could do a better job at defeating the behemoth himself. Vern was appalled--disappointed his friend wasn’t as insightful as himself. He would have to enlighten the guy. He paused the game and turned toward Clint. The avatars on the screen froze and Clint sighed. “What’s the problem,” he scowled. “I thought we were a team. I’m trying to save the one life you have left.” An awkward silence hung in the air for several seconds, then Clint realized that he must have said that last comment out loud. “Sorry, of course I appreciate your help.” *** The summer Clint turned thirteen, his mother was diagnosed with a fatal illness. Neighbors took turns checking in on them to aid Clint with her care. The boy did an amazing job tending to her basic needs. One day when Mrs. Walton from next door knocked on the front door and there was no answer, she peered through the window to see Clint clasping his mother’s limp hand. As she assumed, Clint’s mother had passed, and there was no doubt the boy had been traumatized by such a tragic event. Clint stayed with Vern’s family the two nights immediately following the funeral. After that Vern pleaded with his parents to allow Clint to move in with them until they finished high school. “Think of it this way,” Vern argued, “I’ll have someone else here to keep me occupied.” And with that, Clint became Vern’s roommate. From that day forward, they became more and more reliant on one another for the camaraderie they both craved. While they ate their Fruity-Ohs at the counter in the kitchenette one morning, Clint learned that his friend wasn’t as happy with his cushy life as he presumed. The kid had the entire finished basement to himself, he noted. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchenette and sitting area. Even got an allowance for merely living for goodness sake. But Vern said he would rather his parents’ pay him some attention rather than give him cash. He claimed that they only showed interest in his accomplishments and achievements when they pertained to academics. Vern said he felt more like another item on their “To do” list than part of a family. It was Clint’s turn to confide something to Vern. He’d been having a recurring nightmare about his mother since her death. “I’m at my mother’s funeral,” he starts, “watching her coffin being lowered into her grave at All Saints Cemetery. I want to scream, ‘She has another life,’ but I can’t speak or move because I’m a statue. When everyone leaves, a dump truck comes along and unloads a mountain of dirt into the hole and rolls on top of her grave, packing and sealing the earth under it. I start to rock back and forth, hoping to tip myself over and shatter the plaster that’s inhibiting me from speaking out. At that point, I wake up. Sometimes I roll right off the futon. I feel anxious thinking that my mother is in her grave panicking because she’s trapped with no way out? What do you think it means?” “I think dreams are a symptom of stress and anxiety,” answered Vern. “Definitely not premonitions and warnings.” Vern swiveled on his stool to look at Clint who was staring into his empty bowl. He slapped his friend lightly on the back. Hey buddy, extra-lives only happen in video games, [hesitation] and maybe cats. Definitely not real people.” That day, the boys spent most of their time at the community pool. They had lunch at the nearby “Tiki Hut” with some kids they knew from school. Afterwards, the group returned to the pool area to resume their kick board relay races. Clint suggested they wait twenty minutes before getting in the water. “My mother said you’ll get cramps,” he said. The kids laughed. Matt pinched his nose, ten minutes he cried, and then he did a cannonball, holding his tucked knees with one arm. Thirty minutes, bellowed Tina right before performing her forward dive. The twins jumped and yelled in tandem, an hour. Vern stood next to his friend. Clint was troubled, his mother would never lie to him, right? The next morning the boys once more sat on stools at the counter in the little kitchenette eating their Fruity-Ohs. Vern again started the conversation. “I fell on my head when I was five and went into a coma, then one day I woke up.” “Wow, so you think people do have more than one life?” “I don’t think I was technically dead,” Vern said. “Are you still wondering about your mother? -- Maybe we should go dig her up.” Silence hung in the air, then Vern put down his spoon and slurped the milk from his bowl. He turned toward Clint sitting to his left and mocked, “You were considering it weren’t you? I was joking.” He rolled his eyes. “Newsflash, when you’re dead you’re dead, like forever, and your mother’s dead.” Clint had never felt so disrespected, how could someone he so admired and trusted be so insensitive? That was the moment he snapped. “You are wrong sir,” Clint said in a chilling tone Vern never heard from him before. Then Clint swiveled on his stool. He grabbed Vern by the throat and squeezed. Vern clamped onto Clint’s wrists. He pulled, but he might as well have been trying to stretch steel bars. He had no time to take a deep breath before the crushing force of Clint’s thumbs on his windpipe cut off his air, and he was weak. “Calm down. You are going to die but I won’t let anyone bury your body. I’ll make sure you get to live your second life. You’ll be alive and kicking before you know it.” And Clint watched the sparkle fade from Vern’s eyes. Vern’s head lulled forward, and Clint loosened his hold on Vern’s neck. He rotated the stool Vern was sitting on and the cadaver slumped over the empty cereal bowl on the counter. Clint hopped off his seat and pushed it neatly under the ledge. He gripped his friend’s shoulders and pulled him upright, releasing one hand to gather the bowls and spoons and lay them in the sink. He spun Vern around ninety degrees, so they were face to face and slipped his arms under Vern’s, then slid the corpse off of the stool. He walked backwards dragging the body’s flaccid, bare feet along the nylon carpeting. He lay the body on the futon under the stairs and kneeled by his side praying that he’d wake up soon. If anyone were to discover Vern in this condition, they would simply bury his body, or worse yet, burn it until it no longer existed. It disgusted him to think of how many people were buried and came back to life underground only to die again because they couldn’t get out. Who knows how many times? For the first time, Clint noticed the malformation on Vern’s collar bone. Maybe Vern broke it when he fell on his head when he was five. And at that moment, a lightbulb lit in Clint’s mind. If Vern had lost a life that day nine or ten years ago, how many lives did he have left? Panic and remorse flooded through Clint and his eyes filled with tears.


Below is my first piece of writing in a long time. Its strongly influenced by my homeboy Alan Watts and the scientific field of evolutionary psychology. All feedback is appreciated!  Rolf was stuck somewhere between a boy and a man. Twenty-eight he was now, and even though he was slowly starting to show the first signs of maturing his face was still fare and smooth, and his body could have been that of an adolescent. He had always been very self-conscious about his boy-like features. He sat on the red leather bench of the ship stroking his attempt of a beard on his chin. He was still digesting the thought that his journey to South America had embarked once more. Anyone would find the way he traveled exhausting. Now he was taking a boat from Finland to Sweden, after which he would fly to Miami, Florida, with two long transits. From there he could finally board the plane to his final destination, Argentina. The entire mess was supposed to take three days, with one night in Stockholm and another in Madrid. However, he was not bothered at all about the upcoming busy days. An older woman looked at him for few seconds while passing his seat, which he had purposely chosen to be away from the biggest crowds. It made him question his choice of clothing and his general look -jeans that were already worn out and a single colored but already battered t-shirt. “Do I look too rugged? Damn, is my hair getting messy again from the wind?” But then he remembered that he had made the decision not to care about people’s opinions when it came to irrelevant topics such as looks or status. He was supposed to be better than that. He felt happy about being on the road again, even though he was somewhat troubled. This was because he was not certain if he was traveling for himself, or for the woman who was waiting for him in Argentina. He did not mind about doing nice things for the sake of the woman, who he did love. However, he questioned the sincerity of his motives. Maybe he was controlled to think that this was the way to act, even if the animal inside him was desperately howling against it. ”How am I supposed to gather my thoughts on this!” - he thought. “Even if I am doing it for her, my mind won’t admit it to myself! Who can I trust, if not my own brain!”. He had picked up subjects such as psychology and philosophy in high school and been obsessed with finding the correct way of being ever since, but he was not sure if it was doing him any good. He had turned countless stones in literature and tried to discipline himself to be happy, chased Buddha in his spiritual journey to achieve nirvana, lived like the Cyrenaic, and lived like there was no tomorrow and nobody to answer to. He had tried a myriad of things but had become none the wiser. Mostly this quest for the holy grail of truth had gotten him into overthinking every small aspect of his life, creating unnecessary complications, or at least so he felt. “I need to relax my nerves somehow. Maybe it’s okay to take one more today.” He dug up the package of Swedish snus. This strong product resembled chewing tobacco, but one kept under his lip passively, instead of chewing. Rolf lifted his upper lip and sucked the air gently, to remove any extra moisture under the lip. Then he inserted the fresh bag of snus in that carefully prepared spot. For the next few minutes he stared at the sea in mundane thoughts like “Did I take my passport” or “Should I change my major once more in the university”. Then he felt it kicking in, and his whole body became light and started slowly sinking into the couch. “I was supposed to stop using this, even jellyfish have more spine than I do”. Rolf was obsessed with this sort of thoughts, thoughts on how to be a “man” or how to be “good”. He also thought he had found an answer to both of these questions, yet paradoxically he did not follow the advices. It was as if there were some otherworldly powers tampering with his sophisticated self-improvement strategies. Rolf closed his eyes to see better. Five figures manifested into being. Closest to him there was a woman with wide hips and unnaturally narrow waist, with full lips and fair face. It took tremendous effect to redirect his attention away to the next figure. On the right side of this manifestation of feminity there was a human like figure that was not male nor a female but was still more human than any of the others, but it gave out a feeling of confidence, calmness, goodness and wisdom like Rolf had never seen before. On her left side the woman had a handsome bearded man with his head held high, and who greeted Rolf with a booming voice right when Rolf had first laid eyes on him. Behind this trio were the fourth and fifth figure; First was a wolf but in man's clothes, with untamed fire burning in its eyes, clearly looking for a prey. Second was almost like three figures but still one, and it was evil with no emotion, but only deception and care for itself. Or so Rolf thought at first, but here, in this unreal space the good and the evil faded away and had no meaning, and the four figures became equal. They all had their place, right where they stood. But they could not be given freedom. They all guided him on his path, but from their given places. And he realized he knew who they were now, and he felt that knowing them will be a refreshing start. Rolf opened his eyes to see the sun pouring down hot on him. The red leather couch had heated up to be rather uncomfortable, and so he spat the snus out into the small part of the package that was meant for the used ones, and after quickly got up. He felt great. Only now he realized that he had woken up with a smile wider than his mouth had ever before experienced, and it was still engraved on his face. He laughed. People turned to look, but he did not mind, but he was not being indifferent either. Girls gave curious glimpses, but he felt no desire. Men looked down on him, but he did not get angry, nor did he submit. Rolf saw the sea, trees, sky and the clouds all connecting to each other effortlessly. His mind did not wander off to tomorrow or to the past, and hence he had finally arrived to the present. This moment was not twisted, not warped by anything, and he had never felt true like this before. Rolf understood that all the leashes that had been guiding him and all the hands that had held him in his place had now been cut loose, and he was able to set his own purpose.


It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Her eyes locked onto the familiar face across the dining room. After all this time he’d changed as little as the façade of his award-winning restaurant. Only slightly gray around the edges of his face with deepened crows feet and those lovable laugh lines. The cleft in his chin was still as defined. His eyes just as sparkling as always, even at this distance. She practiced the opening line of her speech one more time as she slowly made her way toward the bar. She tightened her grip on her purse strap to prevent her fingers from trembling any worse than they were already. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she felt obligated--no, compelled. That wasn’t right either. She felt captive, enslaved to the desire to speak to him this time. She sat near the opposite end of the bar from him, waiting for him to notice her, hoping he would recognize her. Had she changed as little as he had? She looked up at the mirror across from her, between the bottles and glasses. The fragments she saw of herself told a story too long to relate over casual drinks. That was why she’d practiced her speech so ardently. He had to know certain truths about what had happened twenty-four years ago before he was able to jump to conclusions and assume the worst. Who was she kidding? He’d spent the last twenty-four years drawing the conclusion he assumed was true. She’d already done the unthinkable. That’s why she was here. The restaurant was crowded, as usual, or so she’d heard and read over the last two decades. He was a smart business man, an incredible chef, and a superlative host. She’d never wondered at his success through the years as she kept tabs on him. He was nearing her end of the counter, reaching underneath for a napkin as he spoke his first words to her. “Good evening, ma’am. Have you been to ‘For the Love of Cod’ before?” He glanced at her before grabbing an empty glass, but it didn’t cause a reaction. “Um, not inside.” He froze for a moment before slowly standing erect, right in front of her. He took a deep breath, and she thought she saw a hint of mist in his eyes as they met hers. “I didn’t see you at first. I knew your voice. You look wonderful, Vi. Barely changed.” He was making his way around the end of the bar toward her. She stood from her stool, and they embraced. It wasn’t stiff. It was warm. It was friendly. It was home. “I was thinking the same of you, Bret.” He stood back from her and examined her features from head to toe. “Violet Turner.” He shook his head and scoffed softly. “I truly thought I’d never see you again.” She half smiled. “I’ve stood outside the front door of this place a dozen times.” He looked hurt. “Bret, I have--” His attention was drawn away from her. “Just a sec, Vi. Mike! Mike, cover me for a ten, will you?” Violet looked down the counter at the bartender who gave Bret a nod. He took her by the arm and motioned to the dining area. “Come on, I’ll get us a table.” “But Bret, I have to--” He motioned to the hostess. “Cheri, I’m taking this one for ten, okay?” “Fine by me, but you know how Kristen gets about her tables.” “If she makes one peep you get me.” He winked at her. Cheri smiled and shook her head as she disappeared through the crowd, back to her post. Bret pulled a chair out for Violet. They weren’t very secluded for what she had to say, but it would have to do. She couldn’t wait anymore. She opened her mouth to speak, but he obviously didn’t want to hear it. “What are you doing back in Boston? Last I heard you were in California. San Diego, wasn’t it?” “Uh, San Jose, actually, but--” “Oh, wow. Like, from the song?” “Yeah, I guess. Bret, I need to tell you--” “I’d like to vacation in California sometime. You recommend it?” “Well--yes, but--vacation?” She was losing control before she even got started. “Bret, I didn’t come here to make small talk with you.” Bret sighed and blinked at her. “Why did you come here then, Vi?” “I came to apologize.” “Apologize? After all these years?” “Yes. And to explain--” “Then you’re wasting your time. I haven’t been waiting twenty-four years for an apology or an explanation.” He rose from the table and walked back in the direction of the bar. She followed close at his heels. “What do you mean ‘waiting?’” He walked beyond the bar through an impact traffic door that led to the kitchen. Violet was temporarily distracted by how impressed she was at the respect he commanded from his staff as he barked out some orders while walking toward his office. She followed him still as he passed his office and walked out the back door into a dimly lit alley. “Ah, so this is what’s it’s come to then. Murdering me with one of your kitchen knives and ditching me in your dumpster?” She laughed. Bret did not laugh. He turned toward her with his eyes on fire. “This isn’t a joke, Vi! I was doing just fine. I was making it work. I’ve been making it work for twenty-four years. It’s been a quarter of a century! Why do you suddenly want to apologize and explain things now? I’ve long buried my pain and you can’t--you don’t have a right to it anymore.” His intensity almost frightened her, but not enough to make her forget her purpose. The opportunity to make her rehearsed speech was long gone. Their conversation hadn’t unfolded at all like she’d planned. She would have to go off cuff now, straight from her heart. “Bret, I’ve wanted to apologize for years. Ever since that night. I just didn’t know how.” He rolled his eyes. “You finally learned?” “Stop it! You don’t know what I went though!” He pointed a flexed finger at her and then at himself. “You don’t know what I went through, Vi!” She wouldn’t be hindered. “When we lost Gabriella--”. She could see every muscle in his neck tense as he spit his words. “You lost Gabriella. I lost my daughter and my wife.” “I didn’t know what to do!” “Neither did I, but I knew enough not to blame you and leave.” “I never blamed you.” “Not in words, but what was I supposed to think when you left?” Violet blinked slowly, causing a few tears to spill over. “Oh, Bret, I’m sorry.” Bret sighed heavily and turned his back to her. She wondered if he was hiding his own tears. “Well, it’s water under the bridge.” She heard him sniffle. “And no use--no sense rehashing everything now.” “We were so young, Bret. I was only eighteen! I know you were twenty-two, but even still! Eighteen’s young to get married anyway, but a stillbirth the very next year? And you’d just opened your restaurant. I was alone every night. It was just too much, and I--” She saw him hold up his hand toward her. “Please stop. I don’t want to relive it. Once was enough.” She watched his head roll back and he looked toward the dark sky. “Though it’s not like I don’t relive it in my head almost everyday anyway.” Violet took a step toward him. She spoke as tenderly as she could. “Bret?” She took more steps toward him until she was an arm’s length away. “Bret, what did you mean when you said you hadn’t been waiting twenty-four years for an apology?” She gently rested her hand on his arm. “What have you been waiting for?” Bret slowly turned to face her. His eyes were red and wet to match hers. He stared into her eyes for a long time and then instinctively reached down and pulled his wallet chain from his pocket. There was a full key ring on the end of it, and he fiddled with it until there was a single gold band around the end of his index finger. He held it in her direction. Violet gasped softly as she examined the trinket. “Bret, I left after we lost Gabriella because I didn’t know what to do or how to cope with the deep pain of the loss I was feeling. I thought I needed to rediscover myself or reinvent myself to get the hurt out of me, but it never went away. When I finally realized how wrong I was, and that I should’ve clung to you and leaned on you, and you could’ve done the same to me--we could’ve helped each other. When I finally realized that, I was too scared to come back. I was too scared to find out that you were probably happily moved on with--” Was that compassion she saw in his eyes? “As time passed, just, more time passed until it was so long I didn’t know if I ever could come back. It took a while, but eventually I started coming home. Every year I’ve made more and more trips back to try to speak to you, and each time I got closer and closer, but tonight was the first time I’ve had enough gumption to walk through the door. It took me twenty-four years, three months, and sixteen days.” She reached under the neckline of her sweater and pulled out the pendant of her necklace. It was a small gold band. “I haven’t been waiting twenty-four years for your forgiveness.” Bret took her hand in his and closed it around the wedding ring that hung from her neck. He bent his forehead down to meet hers, and they stood in silence until Mike came looking for him. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t like magic. It wasn’t even quite like riding a bicycle. Love is hard, and it takes time and commitment. But it was a start. They’d healed separately, but now they needed to heal together. She’d walked a lonely path the last twenty-four years, and her leaving had forced him to do the same. They had a long road still to travel, but they could do it together, knowing that their love for each other had never wavered. Pride and fear had been her enemies until now, but she’d finally come home for good, and that was all that mattered.


Time does fly. Sometimes it seems like it was yesterday and sometimes it feels like it was ages ago. I met my wife when I was 15 years old. In high school. When I saw her the first time, I was in awe. I cannot explain the feeling. It is like my heart stopped beating. Time stopped. It felt like the world slowed down around me. All in slow motion. I remember, it was my first day of class of the year. Summer about to end. It was Tuesday after Labor Day. I was always and even today, a very punctual person. For some reason, that day, I was late. It was the first class of the year, and it was math. My favorite subject. I enjoyed it and I exceled at it. As I enter the class, I explain to the teacher that the bus was involved in an accident. That I had to get off from it and wait for another one. That was not a made-up story. I did not have a proof but the teacher believed me. ‘’I will excuse you this time young man,’’ said the math teacher. ‘’I can maybe call the bus company’s customer service line and get them a letter to be sent to the school if you wish Sir,’’ I replied. Everyone started laughing. I don’t think it was funny. I was just being honest. I was raised in a very strict environment. My mom always told me to respect time and to be punctual. I started wearing a watch since I was ten. A digital watch. It was the trend among kids and teens. I had a Casio watch. At this point I was still standing in front of the class and the teacher was not laughing. It felt like he was going to let it out. Laugh out loud with the class. He refrained from doing it. I guess he wanted to stay professional. If we had a smartphone with the bus company’s app on it back then, no one would be laughing. ‘’Well, well, well, calm down class! This is not funny. Can you sit there at your right?’’ Mr. Durand pointing to the desk. ‘’Yes Sir. Apologies’’ As I head to that direction, that girl...oh boy. I mean, she was a girl, not a boy. As I was walking to my desk, our eyes crossed each other, and she smiled at me. That smile. I will never forget. Later on, I will discover that she laughed at my silly comment about calling the customer service of the public bus. The first thing that made me fall in love instantly were her eyes. If she smiled, and laughed, then I was enslaved to her beauty. For me, she was the one! Okay, I was only 15 and life is just starting. But...I felt that she would be my soulmate for the rest of my life. It took me many years to have the guts to ask her out. We did have a few classes together each year till the end of high school. In the last year, we had several classes. I think more than 70% of my classes were with her. We had many classes where we needed to partner up. For physics and chemistry labs. Now that we had many classes together and needed to work in teams, the attraction was mutual and also, I liked her for her values and her personality. I would say, she was in extremely pretty but she never really showed arrogance that she was better than others. A very humble, modest young woman. Honestly, I don’t think I had a chance with her. She saw something in me that maybe other girls did not see. Maybe also, I did not want to meet other girls after I saw her the first time. We started dating in the last year of high school. I was talking about movies, and how good Stephen King was to get his art on tv or on the big screen. Gabriella kept arguing that King writes only horror and nothing else. He is not a respectable author. That really got me upset. I told her that he can write any genre but the public wants horror from him. The supernatural side. I told her, to read Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption . She would not. She was stubborn. And still is. When she makes up her mind, then that is it. In September 1994, the movie from that Stephen King novel was released. I ask her if she wanted to go see a movie. The Shawshank Redemption . She had forgotten that it was from the novel of King. I told her it is drama and that she would enjoy it. I had read the book. Not her. I knew the main plot of the film. Also, I never told her this. I saw the movie a week before. And I loved it! I was gambling on this great date and impress her. I told her I could pick her up. I promised her no touching, no kissing, no cuddling or hugging. I loved her so much that I think I would have waited till I was thirty to kiss her. When the movie ended. She grabbed my hand, squeeze it, and kissed me. Right on the lips. Then she smiled. My heart melted. ‘’Thank you! I loved it! Now I remember, this is a movie based on the novel of King, right?’’ ‘’Yes Gabriella. Now, promise me you won’t bash the great Stephen King. He is not any author of only horror.’’ “I won’t. I apologize Stevie. ‘’ ‘’Apology accepted My Lady.’’ She giggled. That made me lose my heart and give it to her. My eyes would always be on her. That last year of high school was special. I thought I had met the woman of my life. The one I will spend my life together. Was she? Yes!!! We are now together. Married. Two kids. We are in our forties. My wife looks beautiful. Ageless. Young heart. Still the Gabriella I knew from the early 90’s. I know my love is beautiful but it is the combination of her inner and outer beauty that makes her so special. I can say also, she is a great mother. A beautiful mom. A beautiful wife. Anyone that can get to know her, will appreciate her. Tonight, we are together, all alone. Our kids our at my parents for the weekend. I decided to clean up the house, cook, do the dishes, and give a good massage to my lovely wife. Then, we will watch a good movie. I let her choose. Tonight, Mickey Blue Eyes. She will laugh and smile, giggle, the way I always loved to see.


Deputy U.S. Marshal Roger Kelly’s chair creaked as he tipped the glass to his lips. The dark liquor inside left a trail of fire down his throat before it took up home in his belly, spreading its now dull warmth up through his chest and arms. He lowered the glass back to the table, placing it gently without a sound. Across from him, the man who called himself Aquila banged his own upturned glass down on the scarred wood surface with a thunk. “Don’t drink bourbon, Marshal?” he asked without a smile. “Only with friends,” answered Kelly. “Well, shit, I should be honored then.” Aquila brought two fat fingers to his lips and blew a shrill whistle. The barkeep, a timid little shrew of a man with a curled mustache and balding pate, scurried over to their table. “Bring us the fucking bottle,” said Aquila, tossing the words out as if they were coins for payment. He brought a rolled cigarillo to his mouth, puffed deeply from it and exhaled a plume of thick smoke which drifted about the flat brim of his hat in a gray cloud. “Me and my new friend here are gonna have us a few drinks and chat.” The barkeep nodded urgently and rushed off. Kelly shifted in his chair. It creaked. His leg was tight. They weren’t the only ones in the saloon. Aquila -- whose real name was Francisco Antony Sangino, Kelly knew -- never traveled alone. A rabble of similarly grim figures surrounded him, dressed in leathers and cloth stained two shades darker by hard wear and long days lived off the land. A glance alone told of the violence these men were capable of, but Kelly didn’t work on mere appearances. He had seen the resultancies of their line of work firsthand. The Praetor Gang, they were called, a self-fashioned moniker undoubtedly cooked up by Aquila himself. It was a tad too bookread, in Kelly’s opinion, but he supposed in some way or another that actually made him respect the man sitting across from him a bit more. At least he knew history. History, though, had a tendency to bend towards the brutal and Aquila and his Praetor Gang meant to carry on that black tradition. They had crisscrossed the New Mexico and Utah territories, setting down on towns like a bloated, darkening cloud. They were robbers, bandits who took what they thought theirs and woe to those who stood in their path, but where other gangs were motivated by those baser human instincts of greed or even pride -- understandable, in a way, if not to be condemned all the same -- the Praetor Gang had a wholly distinct engine which powered it: Justice. Or so they called it. Those that stood before Aquila likely disagreed, Kelly would bet. For the Praetor gang, justice was meted out with a particularly heavy hand. Where other towns were left stained by gunfights or knifings or swinging pairs of boots from the local gallows when a gang passed by, the Praetor Gang’s work had its own unmistakable trademark. They were crucifiers. The barkeep returned to their table and placed a tinted bottle of brown liquor upon it with shaking hands. Aquila showed him no acknowledgement. He only took the bottle up in one of those large hands of his and poured, eyes never leaving Kelly’s face. When both glasses were filled, he set the bottle down and took one up, lifting it toward Kelly. “Salute,” said Aquila, still unsmiling. Kelly thumbed his own glass. Never a big drinker, even in his younger days, he could already feel the effects of the first shot. “You know, I’m a bit embarrassed here,” he said. “I generally speak more clearly. I suppose the badge,” Kelly shifted his coat, revealing the silver star pinned to his chest, “lent a bit of an authoritative candor to my speech, but over the years that may have dulled somewhat. My apologies. Let me be a bit less ambiguous.” Kelly leaned forward, chair creaking angrily. “I ain’t your fucking friend and I ain’t here to drink.” There was a bit of rustling from Aquila’s men, but the big man who sat across from Kelly remained nonplussed. He downed the liquor in his hand then brought the glass down hard on the table. He then reached across to grab Kelly’s glass. “Well, I suppose I know why you’re here, Marshal,” said Aquila as he threw back another shot. “And I suppose you know who I am and what that means for you.” He shifted his own coat. Kelly saw the glinting handle of a revolver there on the man’s hip. “I know who you *think* you are.” Kelly showed his own hip and the Colt resting there. A cramp ran up his thigh. He wished he was a few years younger. “Some righteous, vengeful arm of the Lord reaching out over the West. You think what you do lines up with divinity?” “I think there’s a rot that’s setting in across this land and we’re cutting it away. In a sense, Marshal, I think we’re doing your job for you. Doesn’t that fancy star of yours give you the right to bring outlaws to justice?” “Yes, sir, it does.” “Then why am I out here finding vipers under every rock I upturn?” Aquila scooped up the bottle once more, eschewing the glass this time and taking a long pull directly from its mouth. “You look like you’ve been at it for some time, Marshal. How many outlaws have you laid low? Because we’ve cleansed town after town of wickedness, both on that side of the Rockies and this one.” “And left a trail of corpses nailed to crosses behind you. I wouldn’t personally refer to that as ‘cleanly.’” One of Aquila’s men stirred. “I suppose hanging men is an act of clemency?” he blurted. He was a tall man, broad as a bull, too, with blond curls spilling out from beneath his hat. He stepped toward Kelly, full of menace, but a simple raised hand from Aquila halted him. “You’ve caught us at the end of a long stretch of riding, Marshal,” said Aquila. “And tempers can run hot when eyes grow heavy.” He took another pull from the bottle and then wiped a palm across his beard. “I have no outright quarrel with you, personally, recent rudeness aside. But, as I see it, this conversation ain’t going down any roads pleasanter than the one it’s on now. So, that being the make of this situation, I suppose there’s only a few options afforded us. “One, you use your authority to officially deputize us as members of the U.S. Marshal Service and allow us to carry on our work with the full weight of our benevolent federal government behind us.” Aquila’s men laughed heartily, squaring their shoulders and preening about as they pinched at invisible stars on their chest, doffing a hat to one another with smug, mocking faces. Aquila raised his hand again and they quickly fell silent. “Two, you apologize and extend a formal note of gratitude as a federal Deputy U.S. Marshal and lawman to myself and my men for doing so much of your work for you.” Now Kelly laughed. “Three,” Aquila continued, ignoring him, “you lay that star of yours down, walk right out of here and avoid even the smell of me coming down the road for the rest of your life.” Kelly dropped his smile. His leg ached intensely. Aquila brought both his arms onto the table between them. They looked like cords of wood, thick and heavy. He lowered his voice to a whisper. The saloon was quiet enough to hear a mouse’s sneeze. Aquila’s rasping voice filled the dusty air. “Or, of course, there’s the obvious. I shoot you dead and take that pretty star of yours for myself.” Their faces were close. Kelly’s wrinkled and tired, whiskers white as snow; Aquila’s streaked with grime under a beard of jet coal. The men looked on, unmoving, as the two squared off. Behind the bar, the little mousy man with the curved mustache trembled. “Can’t say I’m eager to oblige you on any of those proposals,” said Kelly. He did not whisper. “Though I must say I’m a bit surprised you didn’t offer to nail me to a cross. That being your wont and all.” For the first time since he sat down, Kelly saw Aquila blink. “You may be a salty son of a bitch, but you ain’t done nothing worthy of crucifixion,” said Aquila. “No, a bullet will do just fine.” He skirted his coat farther back behind his waist. The revolver lay bare in its holster. Kelly followed suit. His leg had begun to shake. He tried not to let the tension show in his jaw. The two men sat, inches apart, eyes trained on one another’s. All else was quiet. Kelly spoke. “I have a proposal of my own.” Aquila’s brow wrinkled a fraction of an inch. Kelly took that as openness. “Loathe as I am to admit this, I’m not quite the draw I used to be.” “Your days of tracking down outlaws should have ended awhile back then, Marshal." “Maybe, but I ain’t finished.” Kelly moved his hand up, slower than slow, from his side. Aquila watched him with eyes like chips of flint. “I may not be as quick as I once was, but I’m quick enough still when I need to be. You’re a younger man than me, though, and your draw is likely mighty quick.” Aquila nodded as his men chuckled behind him. “Right, then I propose the following on the grounds of equity: We place a single pistol here between us. Each of us place our hands, palms down, atop the table. My hands are still quick enough for that, I think. What do you say?” What could have been a smile danced under the dark forest that was Aquila’s beard. “I say you’re a crafty old bastard.” The men laughed again. “But I also say yes.” Quick as lightning, Aquila unholstered his revolver. The smile was undeniable now as he saw Kelly’s eyes grow wide at the speed of his motion. He placed his revolver down between them and then spread his hands wide across the tabletop. Kelly brought up his own hands and did the same. His leg was trembling something awful, convulsing and jittering. A knot like a tree stump had burrowed itself into his thigh, but he paid it no mind. He saw only Aquila’s hardened face before him. The air left the room. A graveyard’s stillness descended. Neither man moved. A finger twitched. A flash of movement across the table. Kelly kicked out his cramped leg, shifting all of his weight to the side. The chair screamed beneath him, splintering like he knew it would, spilling him to the floor. A gunshot cracked, shattering the stillness. Smoke filled the empty space. Kelly hit the ground, hard, but his hand was still quick enough, indeed. It found the familiar curves of his Colt, freed it, fired. A spray of blood exploded into the air. Before Aquila toppled from his chair, Kelly had gotten off two more shots. One buried itself in the chest of the blond man, the other passing through the neck of another of Aquila’s cronies. Kelly rolled onto his back in time to see another man reaching for his belt. His Colt blared again, erasing the man’s face in a red mist. The rest of the men stood shockstill. “Make a move and I will put you down,” Kelly called out. His leg was numb from holding up his weight, but he got it beneath him all the same. “Now,” he said, standing, “I know you know at least a bit of history to be riding with a man who names himself and his posse after Roman legions, but I’m gonna test you now on biology. What happens to a snake when its head’s chopped off?” The assorted men looked at him queerly, unsure. The metallic smell of blood hung on the air. “I’ll tell you what happens,” Kelly answered for them. “The body twitches and moves for a while, as if it’s still alive.” He hardened his voice. “But it ain’t. It’s dead.” Kelly swept his arm out over the floor of the saloon, which was strewn with the bodies of Aquila and a trio of his men, leaking their lifeblood into the floorboards. “The Praetor Gang ain’t got no head, so as far as the U.S. Marshal Service is now concerned on the matter, it’s dead. If it sprouts a new head, well,” he clicked the hammer on his Colt. “I’ll chop that one off, too. We understand each other, gentlemen?” Heads nodded. “Alright,” said Kelly as he fell bodily back onto the chair that Francisco Antony “Aquila” Sangino had sat, numb leg now regaining a bit of its old sensation. “I suppose I will take another drink then, after all.


Hugh’s thoughts trickled cold and slow, like the thin, melting sheet of ice that had formed on his windshield in the time he spent inside the store. His gaze wandered over the rear-view, showing piles of bags and boxes in the back of the sedan, and down to the passenger seat. Peeking out of another pile of bags was a carving of a squirrel. “What an ugly piece of work,” he thought. On his way into the store he had noticed Chuck, a homeless man. Hugh didn’t personally know the man, but he used to see him around town before the quarantine had started. Four weeks ago, the last time Hugh had left the house for supplies, he had seen Chuck sitting under a streetlight just whittling away. Chuck always had an old red wagon he pulled around, chock full of wooden carvings he made and tried to sell. He also looked cold and miserable this time of year. That day, Hugh happened to park near where Chuck had set up. On his way out of the store, Hugh paused and had a brief exchange with the man. He handed Chuck twenty dollars and in return grabbed the wooden squirrel out of the wagon, then made his way back to the car. Hugh hoped that Chuck might be able to afford new shoes, or at least some whiskey to Knock the Edge Off . So there Hugh sat, staring at the squirrel and waiting for the car to warm back up. It was carved out of a single piece of pale yellow wood, and had the same basic shape of a squirrel. Kind of chubby, huge tail, big buck teeth and perched on something resembling a nut of some kind. Hugh couldn’t tell if it was an acorn, chestnut or just some random shape Chuck made so the thing would stand upright. I should roll down the window and eighty-six this thing , Hugh thought. He had felt bad for Chuck, but had no obligation to take the squirrel thing. He just wanted to help out, Chuck had insisted he take something in return. Hugh pulled out of the parking lot and drove home. After rolling into the driveway, he went and unlocked the door to the house, then propped open the swinging door between the foyer and kitchen. Hugh figured his parents were in the depths of the house, so he started unloading all of the groceries and supplies by himself. Hugh hated that he had been forced to move back in with his mom and Ted. He got along with Ted now that they had gotten used to each other over the years, but that was like being used to smelling a corpse because you worked in a morgue. Hugh didn’t have to like Ted, just tolerate him. He was sure Ted felt the same way. Normally, Hugh wouldn’t interact with Ted at all, but nothing had been normal this year. It had been downright miserable. First the panic, then the quarantine. The bar Hugh had worked at was forced to close down, so he lost his job. Then he got evicted from his apartment building. He had no idea that it was zoned as commercial property, and it never occurred to him before. The city had purged half the residents to try to comply with the fifty percent occupancy mandates that had come down on them. Shit always rolls downhill , Hugh had viewed the situation. Now he was a thirty five year old man living at home with mom and Ted again. Even the woman he had been seeing ghosted him after the quarantine started. Hugh had just set the last of the groceries down and was starting to unpack them when he heard a gasp behind him. “Good morning, mom,” Hugh turned and said. “What are you doing!” She screeched. “Unpacking,” Hugh said, his voice dropping to a dead monotone. “Get your ass back to the foyer,” she made shooing gestures and pulled her nightgown up over her nose. “You’re going to kill Ted with that damn virus, coming into the house after being out there . You know how weak he is!” She stamped one of her little feet and yelled the last few words. “I’m just trying to help,” Hugh started saying. “What all did you touch?” She asked him, scrambling through the bags until she found disinfectant. Lickety-split, she removed the packaging and started dousing everything. Hugh removed himself from the kitchen, and back to the foyer where he lived. He spent most of his time lounging in a gaudy old love-seat he had dragged from the depths of the house. Hugh also drug in a chest of drawers and propped an old flat screen television on it. His days were full of reading, gaming and streaming services. The foyer had a swinging door to the kitchen, a glass paned door to the depths of the house and the door outside. Hugh left a baseball bat next to the door outside, which he thought of as a just in case measure. A spiral staircase led up to a lofty bridge hanging over the foyer. One side of the bridge extended over the house, creating a small room as a second floor. It was a bed-bath combination he used to only use when visiting for the holidays. This year, he had lived here until the holidays. It wasn’t all bad, Hugh supposed. He had been growing tired of the bar lifestyle, after all. Sure, Hugh had become a decent bartender, after working his way up from serving tables. He had built up a laundry list of regulars who would invite him out to events while stuffing money in his tip jar. But, the hours sucked and he was always picking up his coworkers’ slack. Hugh wasn’t great handling money either, so he’d often be broke on slow weeks. At least now, the unemployment office gave him enough spending money to keep a stash of Knock the Edge Off in his room. Plus, his mom wasn’t making him pay rent, as long as he went out and got supplies for her and Ted. When Hugh got lonely, which was at about ten every morning, he would fire up a video game and chat with the people in his clan. Hugh had been getting to know them better and had actually played with them instead of the usual lurking, drunk, at three in the morning. They made him feel old though. Even though he was halfway through his thirties, he still felt like a kid when he played games. He only got reminded of his age when his references would fly over his clanmates’ heads. Hugh would confine himself to the foyer for the next two weeks, in order to keep his mom happy. She had been Ted’s sole caretaker since the dementia had started eating away at him. Ted’s health had been in decline before everything happened, and the pandemic had his mom wound up even tighter than usual. So, as per her motherly mandate, Hugh would be on double secret quarantine . She’d leave food on the kitchen counter, wrapped up to-go with paper plates and plastic utensils. Every other day a bag of garbage would appear in the foyer, which Hugh would take out during his daily ten minutes of sunshine. If they needed to have a conversation they talked over the phone. If she noticed him gone for any extended period of time, it was back to day one of her double secret quarantine ; and Lord forbid if he got caught in the house before those two weeks were up. * Three days into the double secret quarantine , Hugh caught himself flopped over the love seat with the television blaring at him. It was late at night and he was staring at a can of warm pop in his hand, thinking about the daily rationing of Knock the Edge Off he had put in it. Surely, another little dose wouldn’t hurt would it? What else was he going to do? Watch more crappy comedies and not drink? That’s how he always ran out early, and he knew it. Hugh looked up and through the glass paned door that led to the rest of the house, and started. On the entryway table sat the carved squirrel, right between his high school graduation picture and a picture of his mom and Ted. Hugh had forgotten about it. He figured his mom must have placed it there as a joke. He had the urge to throw it away again. Hugh blinked and shook his head a little to be rid of the stupor creeping on him. The longer he looked at the squirrel, the uglier it looked to him. The face was squashed almost flat, and the buck teeth were too pointed. The wooden eyes seemed to bulge out of the head, and there were pits where the pupils would have been. Was it carved like that before? The squirrel thing looked bigger and darker in the poor light pouring out of the foyer. It creeped him out. Hugh flopped the other direction so he didn’t have to look at it anymore, then fell asleep before he could get another dose of Knock the Edge Off . * The next day Hugh’s mom called him just before lunch. “Hugh, how’re you feeling honey, are you okay?” She asked, worried. “I’m alright mom, what’s up?” “How was the chicken last night? What did it taste like?” Of course , Hugh thought, she’s testing me . “It tasted mostly like cumin. Pretty good curry flavor, Spanish rice was an odd choice though.” “It was Mexican food, not Indian.” She said, sounding a little relieved and irritated. “So, you’re not feeling bad?” “No, I’m fine,” he replied, “is everything alright in there?” “Well,” she gathered herself, “Ted’s been running a little fever, and I’ve been feeling a little weak myself.” “Don’t work yourself up too much,” Hugh tried to sound reassuring, “take an extra long, hot bath if you can. I’ll make lunch today-” “No! No, you just stay on that side. I can handle it.” Silence hung out for a while. “You sure?” Hugh asked. “Yeah... Yes, I’m sure. In case we don’t have the virus, I don’t want to risk it if we’re both feeling extra weak.” “Alright,” Hugh replied, “But as soon as you need help, let me know. I’ll be right here, as always.” * Four more days of the double secret quarantine had passed before he got another worried phone call. This time it was early in the morning, waking Hugh up. “Morning, mom,” Hugh said, answering the phone. There was labored breathing on the other end of the line. “Mom?” Hugh said. “Hello?” He asked again, as a sinking feeling started dropping towards a knot forming in his stomach. “Hugh,” she replied at length. Oh my god, he thought, Ted’s Dead. “Ted’s not doing very well.” The anchor plummeted in Hugh’s stomach, then held fast on something and settled. “Ted says he can’t taste breakfast,” she blurted out. “Oh,” Hugh said. Shit he thought. “Is he okay? Other than the taste thing, I mean?” “Well, he could barely tell me anything this morning. He’s been having trouble talking the last few days, and it only got worse this morning. He doesn’t look good either. I mean, my eyes have been acting up lately, but even I can tell he looks worse. He’s been dehydrated and his nose has bled a few times.” She sounded a little hoarse like she had been crying. “How are you feeling mom?” Hugh asked. His mind was tumbling over the thought that he brought the virus down on his parents. His stomach somersaulted the other direction and made him nauseous. “I’m okay,” she sniffled. “I feel weak and tired, but I can still smell and taste everything. I lit one of those apple cinnamon candles earlier just to check-” “You’re sure you’re okay?” He interrupted. “I’ll call the hospital and try to get Ted in.” “No.” “No?” “Maybe... I don’t know Hugh,” she said. “I don’t know if he really has the virus, and I don’t think I do. Whatever you brought in with you, I’m hoping was just a cold or something.” “Well I don’t feel any different, and I didn’t bring anything else in with me,” I hope , he thought. “I was thinking about everything you could have touched when you brought the groceries in,” she said, “so I could make sure I disinfected everything. And, I remembered that ugly little squirrel thing.” Hugh felt like he was under a ton of bricks that just kept pushing down. “I didn’t see a price tag or anything on it, where did you get it?” Hugh was silent for a long time, he knew what was coming. “A homeless man.” She exploded into suppressed fury. Eventually the words became recognizable “I. Can’t. Believe. You. Do you realize the lengths I’ve been trying to go to, to prevent this exact thing from happening? And you bring some ugly wooden thing in here? That you got from some homeless man? I can’t even begin to imagine the numbers and kinds of germs that could have been on that thing. What is wrong with you ?” She hung up on him. Hugh stared at his phone for a while, then got out of bed to appease nature. Afterwards, Hugh spent a while pacing and worrying. He hadn’t gotten any more phone calls from his mom. If I accidentally wind her any tighter she’s liable to have a stroke, he thought while scratching at his scruff and chin. She hadn’t had any symptoms though, he reassured himself. Mom only said she was feeling weak and tired, which was par for the course. When Ted’s health declined, so did hers. It only made sense , he told himself. I’ll give it another day, maybe two. If Ted isn’t getting better, I’m calling a doctor . The rest of the day passed by without incident. Hugh spent a large portion of the day gaming to keep his mind off of things. He made sure to keep his phone within reach and eyesight, just in case. Once it grew dark outside and Hugh was sure his parents were in bed, he gave himself a double dose of Knock the Edge Off . He was lounging in the loveseat when his thoughts turned again to the phone call that morning. He looked over at the entryway table where the carving loomed. Somehow it looked fatter, squatter and meaner. Hugh rubbed an eye and blinked. Before, it had been a pale yellow color, but now it looked dark, almost maroon; and it glistened like it was wet. He got up and walked over the the glass paned door, watching the carving. It looked much more bulbous, shiny and super-hydrated as if it had been soaked in oil. Now that he was closer he realized the face looked eerily human, though malformed and with giant fang-like incisors. Hugh’s heart stopped. A viscous substance oozed out from the pits in its bulging eyes, then he saw it take a breath . The squirrel thing made a hissing noise that sounded like a branch creaking on the other side of the glass. It hopped off its grotesque wooden perch and bounded into the depths of the house. Hugh grabbed the baseball bat by the door, then hurried off after the carving. He was out of shape and out of breath by the time he sprinted down the hall and turned a corner into the living room. The light was on where it shouldn’t have been. A breath caught in his lungs at the sight of Ted, emaciated and withered. Ted was sitting upright, his head leaning all the way back against the couch’s top, which ended at his shoulders. As Hugh drew near, he got a good look at Ted’s face. Ted’s mouth was opened wide, and his tongue looked like it had been chewed down to a nub. His nose was gone, replaced by two scabby openings in his lined, aged face. His eyes too, looked to have been eaten out of his skull. A couple places around his neck had pairs of what looked like small puncture wounds, but no blood was visible around them. A ringing in Hugh’s ears brought him back to his senses. His face was going numb and his heart was pounding. “Mom,” he whispered before whipping around and sprinting off. He went room to room until he reached her bedroom. A light was still on, beyond the door. “Mom?” He called out, pushing the door open. His mother was sprawled on her back on the bed, as if she had been sitting down and then slumped backwards. She was immobile, her face turned away from him. Hugh teared up as he walked toward her body. Her head moved, and he locked eyes on it. It moved again, and the squirrel thing appeared, freshly smeared blood on its face soaking into the wood. It’s eating her was his only thought as he raised the bat up and gripped it with both hands. Hugh yelled as another creaking scream came from the squirrelstrocity. It darted towards the edge of the bed. Hugh swung the bat, hit the thing square, and heard a soft thud as he followed through. The squirrelstrocity exploded on impact, flinging blood and splinters of wood all over the room. Hugh stood there aghast, as he watched the splinters twitch and move all around him. They all seemed to rattle towards other nearby pieces of wood; floorboards, dressers, bed frames, night stands, lamp posts and cabinets. Then the splinters just melted into the other wooden surfaces and disappeared. Hugh slumped down to his knees, still in shock. All around him he could hear the sounds of branches creaking in the wind.