Part 1 I don’t remember what her face looked like. Father doesn’t allow her picture to be hung on the walls, he hasn’t for an awfully long time. I don’t even remember what her voice sounded like, it’s a gurgle of a mess in my mind these days. No matter how hard I try, it's not even a distant memory anymore. I want to remember; I want to pretend she can touch me again. I want to see her face, but Father says I mustn’t. So instead, the halls that she used to walk are all I must remind myself. The roses have since wilted and father has yet to replant, they won’t bloom again. Not without her touch and I don’t have that special magic she used to sprinkle over them. So, their brown leaves curls upon steams spiked with thorns. They litter the ground around them, fluttering in breezes that come and go. The shadows grow longer, day by day. I don’t go into the garden anymore. I haven’t in such a long time. That was her special place, where she belonged. If I dare to step through, I just know I’ll ruin it. I’ll trample over the lilies that bloom annually and disrupt the bees that swoop in to harness their pollen. But from my window right above the garden, I can see patches of grass inside of turning brown, footprints left behind if I dare to assume. I let myself think that, to believe that they belong to the one person who loved the garden so much. As if her simple footsteps have created death within those stone walls. Father says they are just simply patches of dried up earth. The earth is dying in the garden with someone to attend to it. I refuse to. That’s her place. I don’t want to mess it up. If I did, I would have nothing left of her. For the halls do no good in keeping the memories I crave alive. I don’t remember what her face looked like, no matter how hard I try. Pictures used to line up the staircase, single portraits of each family member and family photos in between. There are squares of faded wallpaper where her portrait and our family photos once hung. Gaps in the memory line, like missing bits and pieces of your life from when you’d been a child. Eventually, you’d no longer remember what was supposed to have once been there. One day, there would be no questions asked about the missing pieces. It would be a fit puzzle, the jagged ends no longer sharp and easy to slip into place. I still tried though. I tried to keep grasp of those fading memories, even if everything was gone from view. The halls were so cold. The place she had once walked were never filled with heat these days. A fireplace sat in the living area of the west wing and had once been full of the flame of life. She’d attend it at night, urging the flames to lick up towards the bricks smoldered in black. It had warmed the hallway outside of the area too, filling the house with a gentle warmth that only a blanket could give. The blanket was gone now, forbidden in her absence. But even if it were allowed, I wasn’t sure that it would do good to keep the cold away. Nothing ever kept the cold away. Not these days. The absence of her arms made me feel empty. It didn’t help that Father never held me anymore. If he did, if he would’ve just once, maybe I wouldn’t feel so cold these days. But Father locks himself in his study in order to pretend that the loss of Mother didn’t happen. Even though the trees outside have begun to droop, weeping in desperation for the revival of what had been lost. Her smile had once lit up the place. It was the sunshine that rose every morning and the moon that took its place at night. I couldn’t remember the last time I had woken in peace, to where I felt the desire to jump out of bed. For the air no longer smelt of burning flat cakes or frying bacon that was sizzling in its. Bacon was all she could really cook, everything else usually got scorched to a crisp. Father was the cook otherwise, even if Mother did try her best. But Father didn’t cook anymore. We sit in silence now. The books on the shelves collect dust, the stories printed upon the pages within no longer read or even looked upon. We don’t dare touch them. It was an unspoken rule to not touch them. Mother never really liked reading, hardly ever took a book out of the shelves if it wasn’t done for our schooling. Father kept us in line and not running amok the way it would’ve happened had mother been in complete charge of our upbringing. That was probably a good thing. Because I was fairly sure if Father hadn’t stepped in, my brother at least would’ve ended up running naked through the forest that lay behind our home, on the other side of the garden. Perhaps that’s why the shadows were growing longer every day and a breeze cooled the air, brushing against my skin when I stepped out the door. The forest was thick. Father said to never go in there. The forest was forbidden, off limits. He said it was because other people owned it and we could get into serious trouble for going inside it. But I suspected otherwise. Father was a man of many secrets and kept to himself quite often. It was a piece of him that had rubbed off on my brother and had become adamant before he’d left to explore the world. To find his place in this world, as he had told me once before. The world was an open canvas and he had wanted to make his mark upon it. My sister was different. She was the quiet type and so very much unlike Mother. She wasn’t like Father either. Sometimes, I teased her that she wasn’t even part of the family. She acted like a young lady should, the way our grandmother had once taught her. That woman had always looked down at Mother for the way she flitted around, her erratic behavior and desperate need of constant approval. It wasn’t ladylike, she always said. I wasn’t like my sister, I wasn’t desperate to hold my head high and only be seen, not heard. But I wasn’t erratic like mother, I didn’t find pleasure in spinning around and finding things to fret about. I had no interests in keeping up the garden. For I tended to kill plants when I touched them and forgot they even existed when I somehow managed to keep them alive. She was married now and never visited. Her husband didn’t like us, said our home was creepy and gave him bad feelings, whatever that was supposed to mean. Our home was big and old. It came with creaks and groans, but old always came with those in hand. I suppose he would have preferred it when it had been new, but the manor had been in our family for generations. Father’s great-great grandfather had built it from scratch on a much smaller plot of land. Each new generation to pop up expanded the land, made it wider. Our family has never exactly left. We’ve always lived in it and one child has always stayed behind in it. I suppose this time it was me. My sister wasn’t going to come back, and neither was my brother. They’d made that quite clear before both had left. It was just me now, it had only been me for such a long time. The corridors of my home have felt so cold for such a long time. Heat doesn’t fizzle through like it had once before. Mother had always kept the fires brewing in the night when the fall chill would hit and all day everyday when winter would raise its weary head. Those were the times when Father had been beckoned out of his study and would make chili and cinnamon rolls. That was the best part of winter, sitting in the west wing’s living area to enjoy the warmth of chili, the gooey=sticky rolls, and hot chocolate that Mother overheated in fear of not making right without doing so. We aren’t allowed in the West Wing anymore. Part 2 The bricks are lined with black soot, fire having licked at their surface but had yet to break them entirely down. Not yet, maybe not for a while. They were sturdy bricks, determined to not let go of the foundation anytime soon. The scent drifts from the west wing, forever lingering. I stop right before it, right before I can truly step into the area of the west wing. I don’t like the smell. Its tart and makes my stomach churn. But Father has said plenty of times to not go in it. To not approach the west wing. I don’t want to anyways. The West Wing is also where Mother and Father’s room lies. I don’t think he’s changed it. Father never goes in there anyways. He stays in his study and pretends that she’s still here, that the woman he so loved was still here. He likes to pretend that nothing has changed. We don’t leave anymore. We haven’t gone to town in a long time. I lost count of how long it’s been. The grocer stopped dropping food off a while ago. That, too, has been far too long to remember. I don’t know why he stopped. Maybe it was the food piling up on the front stoop that we just didn’t take in. Or maybe it was because he was no longer being paid. Father’s money had begun to dwindle after we lost Mother. It quickly vanished, no longer was it inside of existence. Nobody came for us though. The manor was ours, our name printed on the paper. Nobody could take it away; Father had made that clear for as long as I could remember. It was ingrained into my brain. I couldn’t even remember being told it once. It was just what I knew. The manor was ours; it always had been, and always would be. Father always said we had to do whatever it took to protect our home. Even with it now bare of the life it had once sustained. The halls echo when you walk down them, but the air is stuffy with the windows locked tight. Father doesn’t want a draft to flutter in, so I don’t catch a cold. But he doesn’t know I still slip outside in the early morning hours and take in the fresh air. When Father’s awake, I’m not allowed to open the door without him. The house is stuffy, I feel suffocated sometimes. I hate being locked up, but Father insists it’s for my own protection. So, I can’t be taken away. Though, no one ever comes around. Not anymore. So, who would take me away? I don’t dare ask Father. He doesn’t like a lot of questions and I don’t think he realizes that nobody has come in ages. Father doesn’t like coming out of his study, not at all if he can help it. Sometimes, I think he forgets that I exist. He says we mustn’t live in the past. The present is where we are supposed to be. Father doesn’t realize he’s living in the past though. No matter how much he wants to proclaim that we mustn’t slip, he does it every time. He does it all the time. He lives in a world where we didn’t lose anyone. All the while, forgetting me, the last of what was left. The halls echo when I walk through them. I can still smell the fire that once upon burned in the fireplace in the west wing living area. We don’t go in there anymore. That was Mother’s special place. Her pictures no longer hang on the wall. Only faded squares where they had once been places were a reminder of what once was. Family photos don’t exist, and the books collect dust upon the shelves. I can remember her reading to us at night, but her voice is only a garbled mess inside my mind. The words are distorted and whatever they had been before were now incomprehensible. Mornings were cold anymore. I woke with the chill that drew a foggy breath from between my lips. Blankets no longer did any good, not even if it was three topped over me. Nights were the worst. The cold came when the sun descended behind the horizon to wake upon the other side of the world. It made the world around me turn frosty, even without the snow. Some days were crummy, gloomy skies that clung and hung low towards the ground, threatening for the white crystals to fall in flakes upon the ground. Her voice no longer fills the corridors of the manor. Father’s footsteps have long since disappeared upon the ground that is now littered with dust. The housekeeper that had once arrived at the crack of dawn only to stay until the brisk of dusk no longer comes. She hasn’t in such a long time. I wasn’t sure why; I wasn’t sure what happened. Just one day, she had stopped arriving. She’d been my friend, always told me stories of what the world was like for her when she’d been a young girl growing up. She wasn’t educated with reading, but she knew how to keep a home clean and tidy. Dust now floats in the air and dirty dishes are coated with white fuzz in the sink. The air smells rancid, the thick scent of leftover smoke lingers in the air. But no fire is allowed even in the downstairs fireplace. This manor is cold, I can see my breath. But Father doesn’t like fires in the fireplaces. I think it reminds him of mother. The pictures that line up the staircase tell of a fractured story. I no longer remember what she had once looked like. Father won’t allow that. He stays in his study. Sometimes, I think I hear him crying. I don’t dare approach him though. I know better. We aren’t supposed to bother him in his study. I’m not supposed to bother him in his study. I don’t touch the books and I only go out in the early morning when dawn arrives and the crisp, fresh air is sweet and tender to take a breath in. The time that Father is slumbering and doesn’t know. I don’t go to the garden though. The roses have wilted, and the grass has begun to die in splotches like footsteps of someone walking over them. I say they’re footsteps, Father insists I stop letting my imagination run wild. But there are no kids my age for miles on end and I’m not allowed to leave the manor. When I do, I only ever go as far as the end of the driveway, but by then the yellow sun that tries to break the cold has appeared. It doesn’t do well in its attempts, but it’s still enough for me to retreat inside my home. Father says we mustn’t leave. I don’t know why. He has never told me and always pretends to not hear me when I ask him during his rare appearances at the dinner table. I miss having someone to talk to, but that comes with the territory of protecting our home. Father says if we leave, we’ll get it taken away from us. The bricks are scorched black from the flames that had licked them. The air is stagnant from the fire and always smells so rancid. I have gotten used to it by this point. I must. I can’t leave beyond the driveway. Trees line behind the garden that I do not dare touch. I will kill the lilies that remain in bloom every year, which have begun to lessen in their numbers. I don’t want to ruin what’s left of them. The garden used to be a place of solitude, a place to go and think. I could just lie in the grass and stare up at the sky for hours, listening to my mother sing a gentle melody that no longer haunts my mind. I cannot remember the lyrics and the piano lies silent these days. Its papers of song are gone, vanished with the pictures that had once lined the walls. Her name isn’t even allowed upon lips. She’s fuzzy in my memories, a once upon time story that has been told so many times on repeat that words no longer make any sense. Shh. Do you hear that? The door creaks when it's opened, but joyous voices fill the halls. No one has come in such a long time. The moss has climbed in vines up the sides of the manor, hiding its windows and scorched bricks behind green canopies. The windows are covered in grime, the housekeeper not having come in such a long time. I’m so cold, it’s been so long since a fire has burned in the fireplace of the west wing. We aren’t allowed to go in the West Wing, Father forbids it. I don’t know if he’s changed his and Mother’s bedroom yet. Shh. They are coming. Sun filters through a gentle breeze whisk through the door. A fractured story lines up the wall on the side of the staircase, telling bits and pieces of a long-forgotten story. I’m so cold, but the little girl is wearing a dress. It's been so long since I’ve had someone to play with. It’s been so long since the fire took mine and Father’s lives. I’m so cold.


Hey guys, this is the first time posting here and on Reddit. I’m hoping for some Criticism and and Critique of my work and I’m here to learn. Been working on this for a bit, so I hope you enjoy! Edit 1: Did some basic editing based on flow. I’m going to have some more peers proofread it (casually) and edit more with anything that may make the story flow and sound better. Although this story has gained no traction, these edits will be for me and whoever else may appreciate some better reading experiences :)) The Man With the Newspaper Yawning slightly, I emerged from my brief sojourn to the back with a spray bottle filled with cleaning solution and some towels. I didn’t know the kind of cleaning liquid, the label had peeled off a while ago and this was just the bottle I always used. Checking my watch, I glanced at the time: 12:50. I looked out over the almost empty bar with a sigh. The bar was in an older building on the older side of town. The walls had dark, oak planks jutting neatly up the wall about three feet before cutting off and merging with the dark green and musty wallpaper. The tables were an old brown made of polished wood, slightly lighter than the wood along the wall, but still a dark shade. The bar was always dim and darkened, fitting the image of a dramatic mafia film. This was especially true when it rained. I had worked here for the extra cash and the lack of unruly college kids, the night time bar atmosphere wasn’t exactly the most appealing to younger patrons. Usually, the bar was occupied by older, gruff looking men who had paid their toll to this life and were looking for an outlet. During the day, the bar would mostly be empty except for the occasional couple, usually younger, going out for lunch at a place that wasn’t fast food. To say the job was easy work was an understatement. I walked behind the bar and raised my pointer finger up motioning it in a circle, calling for a wrap up of whoever was left. “Last call,” I called out to the almost empty bar, in a cartoon my words probably would have echoed back. The bar was more empty than I remembered from when I had gone to the back. At first, I had thought it was empty, but at a closer glance, I noticed a man with a newspaper. The newspaper was held between his two hands and resting on the bar counter, obstructing the view of his face. I walked past the sink behind the bar up to the man with the newspaper so I was standing across from him on the opposite side of the counter. After a few moments of me standing across from the man, he slowly lowered the newspaper to the counter and gazed up. His glare was icy and eyes cold, complementing the sharp features of his face. The man with the newspaper was younger than I had expected, early twenties I’d assume. I wasn’t really used to seeing people younger than myself in the bar, especially at night. He was wearing an old fedora shaped hat and had on a dark grey blazer over a white collared shirt. His hair was brownish black and the curls seemed to bounce with every turn of his head or movement of his body. The man slid the newspaper to the side of him on the counter and grabbed the drink next to him, swirling it about. The newspaper, headlined with the year 1952, was strange to be reading in the twenty-first century. “Last call, sir,” I said motioning for his drink. The man with the newspaper stopped swirling the drink and set it on the counter. “Be my guest, I don’t drink,” He said, lifting his hands up in the air as if to surrender. His voice wasn’t gruff or stubbly like most avid drinkers that visited this bar, it had class and clear spoken purpose. The man with the newspaper leaned his head onto his hand and looked up at me as if bored, the slight smirk from his lips curling up a bit. Not drinking truly made me wonder his purpose in a bar, this bar, of all places. “Ok then,” I said offhandedly and in a somewhat mocking tone, holding my hands up as if to surrender back, “This place closes in another ten minutes, dude, so uh... wrap up whatever you’re doing.” “Fine by me,” The man with the newspaper responded, “Danny.” I froze in my steps, he knew my name, not just my name, my nickname. Not even my manager called me Danny. I turned on my heel, I wasn’t about to let this little pipsqueak hustle me. I was staring daggers back at him, he continued to smirk with his head resting on his hand, his icy eyes staring back. “Who are you?” I asked, brows furrowing further. “Not important,” He said back, gaining more confidence, “What’s important is who you are,” He emphasised with a point of his forefinger. He smirked and cleared his throat, “Daniel Delgatto, or “Danny,” born just outside Austin Texas to a single mother. Moved to Chicago with your mother and three siblings when you were young, seven I believe, and lived here since. Went to college on a scholarship and got an English major, useless in hindsight for your line of profession, so you work here. Alexander- Mr. Acolyte has treated you well, offering you a well paying position here. Really values you, he does.” He shrugged a bit and spun around in the bar chair, “But that’s not actually important, at least not anymore, I’m not here for you. You’ve got plenty of time,” He said with his hands in the air, an excited smile spreading across his face. “Do you happen to know where Alexander- oh I’m sorry, pardon me again, Mr. Acolyte is? I have a date to keep with him,” The man with the newspaper said, leaning forward on the counter and looking up. His smile had a missing front tooth and sharper than usual canines. He had eyes that poked out a bit from darkened sockets underneath and a smile that never seemed to fade. He licked his lips, waiting for my response. “Do you, like, know Mr. Acolyte or...? Old friends? Friend of a friend?” I asked, my daggers going to a look of confusion, the man with the newspaper had a funny way of talking. For whatever reason, the guy didn’t seem threatening like I assumed before when he listed off my personal information, just a bit socially inept, if that makes sense? He spoke as if he were stating well known facts, never stuttering. He seemed soft, young and naive, yet presentable and forthcoming. He felt like a radio announcer almost, speaking fast and putting emphasis on certain words. He looked up again lightly scratching his hands back and forth on his neck, fast like a dog. “Old friends, old friends...” He thought for a second, “no, no. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of acquainting myself with Mr. Acolyte as of yet, at least not formerly,” He responded, looking up to the ceiling as if thinking, “but that is of no concern to me, you can always get to know someone.” His responses puzzled me, instead of being mad, I was further intrigued by the man with the newspaper, this mysterious and eccentric man. “So, uh... why do you want to see him. You got a vendetta or something?” I added with a small nervous laugh at the end. “No, not a vendetta, just a date I need to keep,” He said, taking his focus away from the ceiling, “Do you know where he is?” He added looking me in the eyes yet again with his icy stare. “Well... he’s gone, been gone actually. Got diagnosed with terminal cancer a while ago, he didn’t tell me what kind,” I nervously laughed, “He’s been at his home in Southern California for a couple months now,” I added. The man with the newspaper furrowed his brow and a look of confusion crossed his face. “It appears I have come to the wrong place, my dates and times mixed up no doubt,” He laughed, smile returning. “So long for now,” He said, smiling wider than ever as he picked up the newspaper, rolling it into a tube as he went. The man strutted and spun as he grabbed his trenchcoat from the hook by the door and put it over his arm. In the time I had spoken to him, he managed to answer none of my questions, in fact, I think I was more confused than before, still am to be honest, even looking back. As he opened the door, the dinging bell knocked me out of my confused trance. “Hold on, dude, who the hell are you?” I called at the man with the newspaper. The man with the newspaper stopped in his tracks mid door open, like a cartoon character, and turned around, a smirk appearing on his lips. “Where are my manners, second time tonight. You can call me Death, and I’m sure we’ll meet again, as old friends no doubt. Don’t worry, won’t be for a while,” He answered, tipping his hat at me then strutting out the door, trenchcoat in hand. “What the hell,” I muttered. I ran around the bar counter, out the door, and stood on the stoop, the little bell dinging behind me. I looked out onto the street; he was gone, the man with the newspaper was gone. I stood in the middle of the road for a good couple minutes, puzzled and confused, I mean, what kind of a name is “Death.” The streetlight above me flickered as it always had, the street was silent and deserted apart from the tumbleweed-like trash floating down the street in the wind. One raindrop, then two, then ten pattered down around me in the street, the rain scheduled for tonight seeping in through wet clouds. I let out a sigh as I walked back into the bar. The eccentric man with the newspaper haunted my thoughts through closing and the bus ride home, his image burned into my memory. I wouldn’t have thought much of that man, the man with the newspaper, or at least not as much if it wasn’t for the phone call I received the following morning from Mrs. Acolyte. Mr. Acolyte had passed away from terminal cancer the previous night.


I was so happy. I had been waiting for what felt like so long. But it was here. The weekend was finally here, and that meant that I got to go on another hunting trip. I woke up extra early and had a light breakfast that day. After that, I immediately flew my private jet straight to Africa. Everything was going according to plan so far, and my excitement was growing by the minute. I had rented a Jeep, and was busy packing equipment in the back. But then, something happened. I didn’t have time to react when something hard hit the back of my head, and I was knocked out. *** *Crazy dream.* I thought. Then I realized it wasn’t a dream, because I don’t sleep on the ground, I definitely don’t sleep inside a cave, and I was 100% sure that my house didn’t smell like shit. I tried to figure out where I was, but it was dark. I wasn’t even certain that this was a cave in the first place. Then I noticed there was something-- or someone, hiding in the shadowy depths of the cavern’s walls. I pulled out the flashlight that I had packed in my backpack, my eyes taking time to adjust to the bright light. The stranger crept out of his hiding place. The first thing I noticed about him was his nose. He had a really big nose. Big as fuck. It was long too. “Yo What’s wrong with your nose?” I blurted out. The stranger stood there in silence. I repeated my question, trying to hide the frustration in my voice. *Oh.* I thought to myself. “Oh”. I then said out loud. This wasn’t a man. It was an elephant. “Are you an elephant?” I asked, just to be sure. The animal blinked. “What do you think?” He was an elephant. I knew it! This was probably only the sixth time I had ever seen an elephant in my entire life. I was obviously very excited. The creature took a seat, not letting go of the gun he held in his hands. “Unbelievable. Bruh you still can’t recognize me?” The elephant had asked. He seemed to believe that we’ve met before, but he didn’t really look familiar. I noticed something wet run down his cheeks. Then I pointed out how cool it was that his eyes can shoot water. I never knew elephants could do that. The animal didn’t reply. We stared at each other for a couple more minutes, the elephant‘s eyes dispensing even more water now. I wondered how an elephant could possibly die of thirst. Taking a deep, fragile breath, my new friend finally decided to speak. “Those-- those are tears.” His voice was shaky. I had a feeling he was sad. “How do you not remember?” The elephants voice was starting to sound more angry and less hurt. “You murdered my wife!” I had no clue what this guy was talking about. I’m not the best at dealing with people’s emotions. “It really do be like that sometimes” I exclaimed in an attempt to soothe the aching creature. Before I could say so much as another word, the elephant cocked his gun,and pulled the trigger. After that, I died.


The day had started before the sun was up, being out of bed, showering, then grabbing a granola bar on top of the kitchen counter for breakfast and arriving for her 7 am-7 pm shift. This was the beginning of a typical 12 hour shift for Elizabeth, starting off her morning at the V.A. hospital. At the first of her nursing career she had dreaded her first 12 hour shift, but got used to it after having a few years under her belt, just turning 30 that day. Elizabeth did her work, having a smile on her face all day because she knew she had a three day weekend coming up. Her fellow nurses congratulated off and on during the week. This made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, seeing how much they all cared about her. She ended her work week feeling exhausted while entering the locker room, following her routine of removing the scrubs, showering off and into her normal clothes which consisted of the jeans and the floral sweater that she received from her boyfriend, Brian earlier that week. As she left the hospital, she got a call on her cellphone and noticed it was from her older sister, Sarah. So, naturally she took the call saying “Hey Sis,what's up?” “Well, you’re coming to my house Saturday evening?” asked Sarah. “Oh yeah, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” replied Elizabeth. “Okay, that’s great, but won't ruin the surprise. Well, I’ll let you get home. See ya later, love you, bye.” She got into her cherry red Mini-Cooper, then started driving away. Now finally reaching the apartment building, opens the door, walking into the kitchen and getting out the green tea from the cabinet above the stove. Waiting for the water to heat up, Elizabeth thought about the call from Sarah. Wondering if she was going to have a surprise party or something different. Sipping her tea was relaxing her, then she started to doze off in her chair, so she peels herself out and goes to get ready for bed. Later that night, Elizabeth begins dreaming. It has Brian standing in a room next to a nice, warm fireplace with bright flames coming from it. He locked eyes with her, while raising his hand which held something in it that she couldn’t see clearly. He spoke with a slow, calming voice saying “I've been thinking...” Elizabeth didn’t want to wake from the dream, but the alarm clock told her otherwise. It went off with the loud, annoying “Beep! Beep! Beep!” She finally rolled over and hit the snooze button. Sitting in silence for a while, remembering her dream and it made her smile, also realizing that she could do whatever she wanted on her extended weekend, so she decided to turn off the alarm clock and go back to bed. Brian wanted everything to be perfect for this weekend. He had been planning a week earlier, so he made a call to Sarah on Monday, asking her if he could come over to discuss something with her and her husband, Mark. He arrived that evening, having a sense of anticipation about what would come next. He came inside after Sarah answered the door and he heard Mark saying “Come on in! Can I get you something to drink?” “I’m fine, thanks.” replied Brian as he sat down in the chair by the fireplace. After they had sat down on the couch facing him, he began to explain why he was there. “I am here tonight asking your approval of me marrying Elizabeth? I know that you’re all the family she has got, so I wanted to know your opinion of me and anything I can do to make her happy.” “I think you would be a fantastic couple. I appreciate you asking us. We can see that your relationship has blossomed with the time you’ve spent together.” said Sarah. “Well, I agree and you’ve got a steady job with your online business, so you can provide for her.” replied Mark. “Oh, I did have another thing I wanted to discuss with you.” Brian told them. “I was wondering if you guys could let me surprise her by you inviting her over to your house on Saturday, making her think it was going to be just for her birthday, but I would have a special dinner for me and her set up?” “I’m sure we can work something out.” Mark said as Sarah nodded her head. “All you want from us is to get Elizabeth to come over on Saturday night and to use our house for your romantic dinner?” “That’s right. Your house has much more style than my boring apartment and I think that it would be a much more memorable moment for her with me surprising her. I’ll pick up the food on the way over and give you my AMC gift card, so you guys can see a movie while I set everything up for Elizabeth.” “It sounds great, I guess we’ll see you on Saturday at 6:30 pm and I will tell Elizabeth to come at 7:00 pm.” said Sarah. Saturday evening came for both Brian and Elizabeth. Brian started at 5:45 pm by calling Elizabeth’s favorite Italian restaurant ‘Gabriella’s Italian Bistro’ and ordered two of their chicken alfredo meals. He picked up his order and headed over to Sarah and Mark’s. Brian arrived on time, the sacks in-hand along with a bottle of red wine that he bought for the occasion. As he walked through the door, he found Mark had lit the fireplace for the evening and also handed Brian two red candles and a lighter. Elizabeth started by thinking about what she wanted to wear for the evening. She thought about her options for a few minutes and then decided to go with her green & white striped turtleneck with white pants and her brown shoes. Everything was set up perfectly, just awaiting Elizabeth’s arrival. Then he heard the doorbell ring and the door being pushed open. She entered the house, finding it to be dark inside and she walked a little further, seeing the glow from the fireplace with the dim light of the candles. Not knowing what else to do, she said “Hello?” Brian walked into the light saying “Your table is ready, madam.” She asked him “What is all this for?” when she sat down. “Well, let’s just say for now that I’ve been doing some thinking.” Brian told her. The dinner went on as planned and when they finished the meal, Brian said “Now it’s time for your surprise.” Elizabeth could tell why she was really here, but didn’t want to ruin the moment for Brian. Brian left the table, getting the dessert plates out and when he sat the plate down in front of Elizabeth, there was a ring on it and then knelt beside her saying “Will you marry me?” She replied instantly “Yes, I will.” Then they went into the den and sat on the couch. Brian was looking at a picture on the mantle above the fireplace. Elizabeth had seen it many times throughout her life and said to him “That was my parent’s wedding picture.”


"What do you think?" He hands me the painting he had been working on for weeks. I look at it. I tilt my head as I rub my chin. I hmm, lower the frame and look him in the eye. That damn twinkle of his, so childish. I. Am. Impressed. "The lady," I start and halt myself immediately. I could say the same thing I always say. ' It's a great piece man.' 'wow, you're so talented.' 'you did this? you're selling it right?' 'wow, no words.' I ponder for a second. Yes, I could say those things, but then I would make myself fall in a bed of thorny disappointments just like I've had in the past whenever he started woodworking. I look at the chair out of the corner of my eye. Sturdy, aesthetically compelling, and impressive overall. I tilt my head the other way and spot the vase he made for me. Its contours and dull colors capture the senses of those looking at it. It's like looking at the Fibonacci frequency in a physical object. Just awe evoking. I look down at my jeans. He drew that Pikachu on it. It looks so badass and so like the manga. In that split second of decision, I realize that he has never made two of the same. He has never made another porcelain related thing. He has never made another woodworking related object. He has never painted on my clothes again. Why? I ask myself this simple yet powerful question. He's bought all the tools to keep working on each and every single one of these hobbies. Why doesn't he stick to them? People throw money at him for him to do one of his pieces. He refuses to take money or even make another piece. Is this guy some type of mad genius? is he trying to add value to his name? Is he trying to simply turn people's souls on fire with his art and let them smoke into nothingness? I can say that the lady, God, the lady looks so real. That I love the way he made the dress look transparent, and her breast so delicate. I want to remark how great her caramel skin looks. It looks moistened. And the flowing hair as she floats on the lake. Wow. I want to tell him how he made the water look so ultra-realistic that it makes me want to tilt it over a cup just to see if it would fill it up. Yet, I also find myself seen his eyes dimming just like they have had a dozen times before. This painting, God, it's so amazing. I bite my lip and stall by humming. I smack my teeth then catch the tension in the atmosphere. I lower the painting to look at him in the eye. He's expectant. He's not being nonchalant. His big brown eyes, perfect color match to his curly hair, twinkle even more wildly. What is happening? I hadn't seen him like this for any of his hobbies... I gasp! Realization. Aha moment. Epiphany. Blind to the fact. Why hadn't I see this before? He's a dude!!! He's a man!!! And not that this is a rule, but yes! He's not motivated by compliments and affirming words! He's lead by challenge. He has never stuck to a hobby because he has been so good at them as to give a damn. He wants, even in his hobby, to grow! "Ahem," I clear my throat, "the lady looks fake." I gulp as I lie. Luckily, he doesn't see it. I take a peek over the painting again. Oh my God, it's working. Look at those arched eyebrows. Those parted lips. is that a smile I see? "The lake can look ten times more realistic." I bullshit, "it could really use more highlights and a little less surrealism." I say as I smack my teeth. I clear my throat again as my subconscious betrays what my mouth is saying. I decide, at this moment, to halt my experiment and hand him the painting. He grabs it and looks at it from afar. "Mmmm," He looks at it. I step to the side to see his expression. I bite the inside of my lip. Is it going to work? The moment becomes eternal. Is he going to get mad? Is he going to stop painting on canvases? Is he going to try another hobby next week? "Wow, you're right, bae." He nods vigorously. "It does need a little work. I don't know how long it's going to take, but I can improve my technique." He nods, turns around, places the canvas back on the stand, sits down, and starts adding more details to it. He takes one, two, three strokes and if I thought it was amazing, this time... He left me breathless. I cover my mouth to avoid him hearing me gasp. To my misfortune, he can feel it in the air. He looks at it, tilts his head, puts the brushes and pallet away. "This is boring." He says, gets up, and stretches his arms. He walks towards me, steals a kiss, squeezes my right boob, and strolls away. "Imma try photoshop. I heard it can be challenging." He walks out of the room and I'm left wide-eyed and mystified by this guy's prowess. I drop my shoulders in defeat, thinking that I've failed to make him feel inspired about something. "Hey," He stretches his neck out of the door frame. "Imma paint something else tomorrow. It's boring but I kinda like it. Thank you, bae, you're the best." He winks. I clench my fists and celebrate. I spin on my heels and dance for reasons I don't understand. I feel alive. I feel empowered. I feel like I helped my man find a passion. Where is he going to go with his newfound passion? Where are we going to go? Is he going to quit his job and support us with his art? Will I marry a successful artist? Could this be my new hobby...? Nah, it's too easy.


The nervous energy buzzing in the air is unmistakable as the students pace around the auditorium, their eyes darting to the empty bulletin board. It is casting day. The atmosphere is charged with hope and anxiety, everyone waiting for the director to walk in and put up the cast list of “Romeo and Juliet.” Jake tries to hide his nerves behind a mask of casual confidence. However, bouncing on the balls of his feet is a clear giveaway. His friends, always the cynics, stand beside him and tease him. "You really think you’ll get Romeo?" asks Max, raising an eyebrow. "And that it'll somehow make Lily fall for you?" Jake shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "Why not? We both had really good auditions, and this could be my only real shot at getting with her. Think of all the practices we’d spend holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes..." His voice trails off, his thoughts wandering into a dream world where Jake and Lily are dating. Max and the others continue to laugh at him, trying to explain how stupid he sounds. “Lily is way out of your league. She would nev--” “Shut up! She could walk behind you any second.” Jake said, motioning around him. His eyes flicker to the auditorium doors just as they swing open, and there she is--Lily. In Jake’s eyes, she's walking down the hall like a scene from a movie, her hair flowing as if caught by an invisible wind (where did it come from?), her stride confident, almost regal. She looks every bit the leading lady, ready to receive her role as Juliet. Lily joins her friends, and Jake can’t help but eavesdrop. "I’m obviously the choice for Juliet," she says, her voice ringing with certainty. "There's no one else who even stands a chance." Her friends nod in agreement, their faces mirroring her confidence. As Lily continues to talk, everyone in the hallway starts moving aside. The director, Mr. Hastings, strides down the hall with the cast list in hand. He reaches the bulletin board, and with a flourish, pins the paper up. He smiles smugly and shouts, “Good luck to all!” and struts away with an energy that could only follow with chaos. A wave of students crashes toward the board as they push forward to see their roles. The voices grow louder, a cacophony of excitement and nerves. Jake grows increasingly anxious, feeling the intensity of the moment that could make or break his year. A shriek cuts through the noise. It’s Lily. Her face is a storm of emotions as she stomps off, the sound of her platform wedges echoing down the hall. Jake, breathing heavily, finally pushes his way to the front and his eyes scan the list. "Romeo - Jake." Before he can even react, Jake is high-fived and slapped on the back in approval. The sounds of congratulations fade away as his eyes move to the line just below his name. "Juliet - Isabella." Jake’s heart sinks. He forces a smile, trying to look excited and happy as his friends cheer around him. Deep down, disappointment gnaws at him. He had hoped being Romeo would bring him closer to Lily, but now she’s cast as Juliet’s understudy. His whole plan is ruined. Did he even want to be Romeo if he didn’t have his Juliet? As the crowd begins to disperse, he wonders, "Who is Isabella?" His mind drifts back, vaguely recalling a shy girl he showed around on her first day of school. He barely remembers her, but he was about to get to know her very well. As the initial shock wears off, Jake takes a deep breath. The show must go on, and he had a role to play. -------------- Chattering excitement fills the room as students slowly arrive in the auditorium for the first rehearsal. Actors are warming up on stage, laughing with their friends, and meeting the rest of the cast. Jake stays off to the side, distractedly flipping through his new script. This is it. Jake thinks to himself. It’s the first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, and the perfect time to talk to Lily. After a few minutes of back and forth in his head, Jake takes a deep breath and looks up at the stage. He steels himself and walks up the steps of the stage towards Lily. There she stands, laughing with her friends, but to Jake it’s as if no one else is around. Platform wedges showing off her defined calves, golden hoop earrings glistening from her ears, and her shining, waist length hair blowing in the wind. (Seriously, where is that wind coming from?) Jake’s heart pounds as he approaches her, forgetting everything he rehearsed to say. “H-hey Lily,” he stammers. “I was wondering if we could--” Before he could finish, he feels a gentle tap on his shoulder. “Hi Jake,” says Isabella softly but with enthusiasm. “I’m so excited to work with you and be your co-star. Maybe we could go over our scenes together? You know, to work on our chemistry and stuff.” Jake glances over his shoulder at Lily, her left eyebrow now raised and her smile slightly faded. Jake wants to say no, thinking this would ruin his chance with Lily, but he has a responsibility as the lead. “Sure, sounds like a good idea,” he says reluctantly. Isabella’s face lights up, and she leads him to a quiet corner of the stage. They sit down and open their scripts, about to begin their first scene together. However, they are quickly interrupted by Mr. Hastings calling the cast to center stage. Jake quickly joins the forming circle, sliding into the open spot next to Lily. He shoots her a crooked smile, and tries to start a friendly conversation. “Looks like we’re all set for an amazing show, huh.” “Yeah, whatever.” Lily responds coldly, her tone edged with irritation. Jake, hurt, looks away in a shrug. I ruined it. Now I’ll never have a chance with her , Jake thinks to himself, forgetting to listen to the director's opening words. “I SAID, Jake, time to dive into the first scene,” shouted Mr. Hastings, already showing his short temper. They are flying through the first few scenes and it’s time for Romeo and Juliet to take the stage together. Jake and Isabella take their places, facing each other on the stage. As they deliver their lines, it becomes painfully clear that something is off. Their interactions are awkward, their movements are stiff. The moment they are supposed to hold hands is ruined by Jake's recoil to Isabella’s sweaty palm. “STOP,” barks Mr. Hastings. “This is supposed to be a moment of connection, not repulsion. From the top!” Jake sighs in frustration, and pushes through the scene. However, the awkwardness lingers, and his mind keeps wandering to Lily. After another hour of criticism from Mr. Hastings, the whole cast is on edge, and the initial excitement has fizzled into tension. Rehearsal finishes and everyone starts to leave. Jake stands alone on the stage, feeling the weight of the practice pressing down on him. He just watches as Lily gathers her things and leaves without a word. Isabella lingers around the auditorium, casting hopeful glances Jake’s way. Jake sighs, rubbing his temples. This is going to be a lot more complicated than I thought. -------------- The auditorium is starting to feel like a second home for the cast, as opening night is around the corner. The walls backstage are covered in posters, sketches, and set designs, showcasing all the hard work that has been put into the set. The play itself has also begun to take shape. The awkward interactions between Jake and Isabella become more natural, and, at moments, almost magical. The chemistry they display on stage breathes new life into their performance, and their energy is undeniable. Jake starts to look forward to rehearsals after school, not just because of his character, but to spend more time with Isabella. His feelings for her are growing. Her initial shyness starts to melt away, revealing a passionate, witty, and charming girl. They spend hours together, on and off stage, running lines and exploring their characters, only to find they have a genuine connection. This afternoon during rehearsal, Isabella and Jake perform their scene that had caused them trouble from the beginning. Now, when the time comes for their hands to touch, the whole room can feel the passionate energy. After the scene, Mr. Hastings claps his hands slowly together and says, “Bravo! Now where do you suppose this beautiful chemistry that blossomed tonight came from?” Isabella beams, barely containing her excitement. “Well,” she says looking up at Jake, her eyes sparkling. “We went out on a date to get to know each other better.” Jake feels his stomach flip when she says “date.” Annoyed at how fast she’s moving, he realizes he doesn’t like her as much as he previously thought. He chuckles nervously, shaking his head. “It wasn’t really a date.” The room grows tense and awkward, whispers spreading around the auditorium. Isabella’s face falls, her smile fading and cheeks turning pink. “Come on, Jake. It was kind of a date.” Jake feels the heat rise in his cheeks, and in frustration he says a bit too loudly, “No, it wasn’t, Isabella. We were just rehearsing.” The room turns silent. The cast and crew members exchange wide eyes as they watch this interaction. Isabella’s expression hardens, her frustration growing as she takes a step closer to Jake. “Why are you being like this?” She says through her teeth. “Because this isn’t just about us.” The words tumble out of Jake faster than he can process. “This is about the play, and how you even got the lead in the first place.” “What are you talking about?” Isabella sneers, in a much too defensive tone. “I’m talking about how you bribed Mr. Hastings into getting the lead! All I want to know is why,” says Jake. All eyes turn to Mr. Hastings, whose face now resembles a beet. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. Tears well up in Isabella’s eyes, and she has no idea what to do with herself. “Is this true?” Someone whispers, breaking the heavy silence. “I just wanted to get close to you,” Isabella chokes through her tears. “I didn’t mean for it to get out of hand. I really really like you, Jake.” “I can’t do this anymore!” Mr. Hastings cries, as the students' heads turn quickly back to him. “I am sick and tired of the lies. The truth is...I am a collector.” Confused looks spread across the students’ faces. “I collect antique stage props from Broadway. When I see one, I can’t help myself. And when Isabella came to me, a one of a kind Phantom of the Opera mask was being sold for a price I could not afford on my own. Don’t look at me like that, I know it was a mistake and I deeply apologize.” Mr. Hastings looks around the room one last time, watching as the cast snickers and whispers to each other. He feels pathetic. All at once, he gathers his things and storms out of the auditorium, papers flying behind him as he makes his dramatic exit. The room erupts into chaos, no voice can be heard over another. Accusations are flying, sounds of panic echo. Jake stands frozen in the center of it all, unable to process all of his emotions. Jake storms off the stage and out the front door of the school. He needs fresh air to process everything that’s happened. The cool outside air washes over him, but does little to clear the turmoil in his head. He thinks about the irony of him trying out for a play just to get a girl, only for another girl to manipulate the show to get closer to him. He sits on the concrete, his face between his knees. They are so close to opening night, and they are actually getting better. At this point, he doesn’t even know if there will be a play. -------------- The next day at rehearsal, the atmosphere is thick with uncertainty. Students walk around the room, distractedly running lines, and glancing nervously at the clock. Mr. Hastings is nowhere to be found, and speculations are swirling around the stage with what might happen next. Jake sits alone on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, absentmindedly flipping through his script. His thoughts are a tangled mess of anger and confusion as he sorts out last night’s revelations and tries to figure out how to move forward. The auditorium door creaks open, and all heads turn toward the entrance. A tall, middle aged woman, with sharp eyes and a confident smile strides in. “Good morning everyone.” She begins, her voice steady and authoritative. “I’m Mrs. Thompson, and from here on out, I will be directing your production.” Murmurs ripple throughout the room. Jake exchanges a glance with Lily, causing butterflies to appear in his stomach. Isabella stands off in the corner, eyes downcast and face pale. She regrets even showing up, but there is something she has to do. In true director form, Mrs. Thompson claps her hands together loudly. “All right, all right. There are a few things we must discuss before we get started, so pay attention.” Isabella steps forward, her voice trembling. “Before we start, I need to say something to all of you. I’m sorry. I realize now the hurt I caused because of my selfish goals. It was not fair and I understand if you guys are mad.” The cast threw sympathetic glances her way. “That is why I have decided to step down as Juliet, and let someone who truly deserves this opportunity have a chance.” There is a moment of stunned silence before Mrs. Thompson adds, “Thank you Isabella. We appreciate your acknowledgement. That was very mature. Now team, let's begin. Lily, I understand that you were the understudy for the role of Juliet. That deems you perfect in my eyes to fill this role. Do you think you can handle it?” “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for this chance!” Lily exclaims, determination shining in her eyes. The cast proceeds to go through warmups and prepare for the first run-through with the new changes. Lily pulls Jake aside during warmups to a quieter side of the stage. “Hey,” she says with a genuine expression on her face. “I’ve been acting like a brat. I’m sorry. I was mad at the casting and took it out on you when it wasn’t your fault. Can we start over?” “Thanks Lily, this means a lot,” says Jake with a warm smile. “I’m Jake, and I am so excited we get to co-star in this play.” Lily giggles, throwing her head back. “Nice to meet you, I’m Lily. And we are going to rock this play.” When it comes time for their first scene together, Jake feels a mix of nerves and anticipation for how it will go over. Their hands touch for the first time, in the play and in real life, and there is a burst of passion and sparks that no one can deny. Their hands meet, not with clammy awkwardness, but with true connection and excitement. Their fingers intertwine perfectly, and their eyes lock, acknowledging all of their feelings for each other in a single look. Mrs. Thompson is on the edge of her seat in the audience, a huge smile spreading across her face. “That...was... IT, my darlings. Keep this up and we will be ready in no time.” Jake and Lily continue the scene, their movements fluid, and every line delivered with heartfelt emotion. It feels right, like this was how the show was always meant to be. Every touch, every glance is filled with a love and affection that could only be true. During this run-through, they are not acting. As the scene comes to an end, the rest of the cast erupts into applause, creating a unity and excitement that has not been felt in weeks. Lily turns to Jake, overflowing with joy. “Wow, that was amazing. I don’t even know how to describe that, other than... right.” Jake nods, still feeling the rush of the moment. “Do you want to hang out after rehearsal?” Lily stands still. “Like a date?” Jake takes her hand and says, “Yes. Like a date.” She smiles shyly and nods her head yes. Rehearsal finishes stronger than it started. Everyone embraces the energy put forth by Jake and Lily’s connection, and experiences the best run-through yet of “Romeo and Juliet.” The journey to opening night is back on track, and the cast moves forward with a sense of excitement and solidarity, ready to bring their story to life on stage. Jake and Lily walk out of the auditorium that day, hand in hand, ready to embrace the rest of their journey together.


Bohdan Kozak had lived on the outskirts of Kyiv all his life and he’d seen Russian tanks trundle past his front door before. Thirty-five years ago, his house had trembled on its foundations as dozens of heavy old Soviet T-62’s retreated East to Moscow. He could still recall the thunderous approach and the sulphurous fumes left in their wake. His wife, Oxana, had compared them to a flight of cantankerous dragons suffering from acute halitosis. They’d laughed at the time and brushed off their home’s minor structural damage as one of life’s unfortunate events. Deep down, both knew there’d be no apology and little recourse for redress; distress would get them nowhere. # Today’s return visit had started two days ago when the first platoon of shiny T-14 tanks had rumbled towards them, followed by support vehicles and A.P.C.’s packed with fresh-faced conscripts. The tanks travelled two abreast and were the head of a long column that disappeared into the far distance. There had been a news blackout. The local TV station had gone off the air. There was no explanation for the sudden appearance of Russian tanks. The old couple had no choice but to ignore the rumpus and hope the commotion would soon desist. For two long hours, the couple’s windows rattled and the internal woodwork creaked as the mighty battalion ground its way towards the capital. Oxana resorted to burying her head under two feather pillows and Bohdan stuffed his ears full of cotton wool. Their precautions dimmed the racket to a certain degree, but did nothing to stop the house from complaining. Its timbers and beams shrieked as the weight of the passing cavalcade twisted and undermined the property’s fabric. After the din diminished, the house relaxed once again, and Oxana raised her head and gesticulated at Bohdan to check outside. Bohdan exhaled dramatically and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. It was a relief that the commotion had stopped, but Bohdan had an unpleasant surprise. The noise had subsided; it was true, but that was because the endless line of armoured vehicles had come to a halt. Eight feet away from their front door, there was a solid wall of heavy metal; caterpillar tracks, armour plating and countless 125 millimetre cannons. # Clutching her ear protection to her chest, Oxana poked her nose past her lace curtains and peered out of her front room window. The stationary vehicles’ exhaust pipes coughed and spluttered noxious fumes and that was the only sign of life. However, as the afternoon drifted away, they heard orders barked, distant shouts and the crackle and splat of radio transmission. The column remained motionless in front of their home and, by early evening, there was an eerie silence. All the engines had stopped belching out diesel fumes and as the sun dropped below the tree line, Bohdan detected nervous birdsong in the surrounding woodland. He recognised the familiar chirrup of a friendly blackbird, but it seemed more remote than usual. It was as if the creature had retreated to a safe distance, just in case. # Oxana fretted all afternoon, and Bohdan did his best to calm her. She’d made noises about an evening meal and said she couldn’t wait any longer. “It’s no good,” she says at last, “one of us must collect the groceries. Bohdan inhales with my mouth closed tight. “Mister Kalashnik’s store isn’t open all night and he’ll be closing his store soon,” Oxana says, presenting Bohdan with a list of groceries as though it was both a challenge and a commission to accept or be damned. Oxana had trained her husband well over their long marriage. Bohdan was an obliging fellow and his partnership to Oxana had flourished for four decades despite all the regime changes that had occurred over the years. He accepted her scrap of paper, double-checked the list of provisions, and saluted Oxana. “I may be some time, my dear,” he says, hauling on his outer coat and knotting his scarf. Oxana pinches his long, straight nose. “Now, don’t you stop on the way and get talking to any strangers,” she says, pursing her lips and frowning. “I won’t,” he says, clapping his hands together. # There was a fug of wood smoke outside the house, and Russian voices echoed up and down the column of static metal boxes. Bohdan shuffled up his short garden path, closed the gate behind him and edged his way past the convoy towards the village. It was a pleasant ten-minute walk on most days, depending on the weather or any local impediments. The rolling pastures beyond the pine trees support cattle and it’s not uncommon for a herd of Ukrainian Greys to delay a trip to Mister Kalashnik’s store. Milking times occur at regular intervals during a working day and all traffic stops when they cross the road. Bohdan wondered if there’d been any cows traversing the tarmac today or if they’d abandoned the milking schedule. # Mister Kalashnik is folding his metal chairs and coffee tables outside his store. “Hey, Kalashnik!” Bohdan says, checking his list again. “Had a busy day?” “Busy day?” He asks. “It’s always a busy day. I’m busy here and busy there and I’m busy everywhere.” “Is that good business?” “I’m always busy in my business and any business is always good.” Bohdan enters the premises and places his wicker basket on the counter. “You have Oxana’s list for me?” “You know me too well, Mister Kalashnik.” “I can supply most things, but...” He scratches his chin. “Business today has been---” “Busy?” Bohdan asks, frowning. “But we live here and---” “I can’t turn away extra business and today I’ve had an extra busy day.” “We’ll take what ever is available.” “I’ve had a run on toilet rolls and flour is in short supply, too.” “Milk and butter?” He shakes his head. “Bread?” “Yesterday’s only.” “You have been busy.” “That’s business.” # Today’s unwelcome visitors have lingered longer than expected. We do not know when they’ll leave or in which direction they’ll depart. The End


Just looking for critique on anything really . The story is by no means finished but I'm finding getting feedback rather difficult. Anything would be gratefull be it structure, naration, bloody grammar ..... anything would be welcome.   **Augur** We all have that little voice inside our heads. That running commentary, a play by play of what could be and what could have been. The constant drone that just keeps playing scene after scene, never ending, keeping you awake till the small hours of the morning. Getting up for work the next day after only 3 hours of sleep, feeling exhausted but that little bastard voice just starts right up again. Playing out how shit your day is going to be. How you are so tired you have no idea how you will manage to even get through this day never mind this week, this month, this year, this life.... The incessant replay of that time you were flirting with the girl you’ve been crushing on. Her joking, you laughing, then her silence. The look of shock and utter disgust on her face, some strange green slime totally covering her face and hair. You wondering where the hell this vile shit came from, only then to realise it was you. You laughed so hard trying to impress her, you blew your whole fucking nose worth of snot all over her. You now never leave the house without at least two packs of travel tissues. Forever blowing your nose, people have started calling you Rudolph behind your back. How about the upcoming work appraisal, imagining and reimagining every moment in your head. Telling your boss exactly how much you are undervalued. How you are such an important member of the team, and you are not receiving both the recognition, and the compensation of somebody so vital to the operation. Imagining every possible scenario in your head, creating every argument and counter argument. Seeing exactly how this scene will play out, your boss finally overcome by your reason, admits defeat and agrees to all your terms. You are victorious, supreme, and master of your destiny. While in reality you agree to more work and less pay, furthering your degradation. But every now and then that little voice inside your head gets it right, fills you with hope. That maybe this time things will change, things will be different. You might start living the life you always knew you were meant to live. That maybe you can make a difference, maybe you can *be* the difference. It was at the age of thirteen, lying in bed getting ready to go to sleep when my first vision of what was to come happened. The scene that kept replaying in my head was about my baby brother. He had just started walking, you know what they are like at that age; stumbling around like a drunk who’s been trying their hardest to forget the miserable existence that is the cycle of their waking lives, while they slowly kill themselves with booze. Up steady on their feet one minute, the next thing they are face planting the pavement. Except the pavement for my baby brother was a Boerboel, our guard dog. It stood 72cm high at its shoulders, 92Kgs of pure muscle with a bite force of 800psi it was an absolute monster of a dog. In slow motion time and again watching my baby brother falling face first into this beast of nature, hitting it square in the head. The dog, startling awake, lashing out in defence, biting my baby brother in the head. Red velvet streaks flying across the air, wails of excruciating pain come from what is left of my brother’s head and face. This felt so real, this was going to happen. Running to my mother in floods of tears telling her what my mind’s eye had conjured up, she soothed and hugged me, reassuring me that it was just a nightmare. “Everything is all ok. Look, there is your baby brother right there”. He was stumbling around the living room coffee table, and then in a flash it happened. The exact same scene played out, cut for cut just like it did in my head. It wasn’t the dog’s fault to be fair, it was trained to kill, that was its job, to protect the household. He was just frightened and did what comes naturally to all animals’ instinct of self-protection. That didn’t stop my father taking it out back and shooting it. My brother never fully recovered from the attack. His head permanently looking like a dented in ping pong ball. Brain damaged, paralysed down the right side of his body and missing his left eye. Later on that year a few days before Christmas it was visions of my younger cousin. Her cheeks started becoming mottled red with the capillaries turning a purplish-blue. Her nose transforming into a two tone Blueberry Vanilla ice lolly. Lips turning a blue black as the cyanosis took hold. Tears started to stream out of her bulging eyes. Mouth gagging open and closed but no sound came out. Her hands frantically tearing at her throat. Her father rushing to her side. Grabbing and leaning her over his leg. Pounding her on the back so hard I swore I could hear the vertebrae in her back cracking with every hit. Every year the family spent Christmas day at my grandparents’ house. My mother’s brother and sister would bring their families along, which added up to nine kids running around. It didn’t take long for an opportunity for me to try and warn my younger cousin of her impending doom. Needless to say she ran off crying to her mother screaming that she was going to die. It was during the fallout when it happened. She always had liked the taste of metallic things. Forever sucking on old coins, metal buttons, badges... This time it was a beer twist off cap. The doctor says the serrated edge embedded itself between the back of her throat and the epiglottis. The only way to save her would have been a tracheotomy. None of the family were medically trained and it took the paramedics twenty minutes to get there, so in reality there was no chance of saving her.


A giant snowstorm happened overnight and there was so much snow outside that you couldn't open the door without sinking into a giant snowdrift. This was a major deal since we haven't had that much snow well, in forever! Nobody would be going anywhere today, Kara decided. Shawn and Adam would have to do some major work on the driveway before they could even venture out on the roads to go to work. She was excited! Not that she loved snow, on the contrary. She hated the cold and the snow and would much rather be at the beach any day and have 90 degree weather but at times, it was rather fun to be snowed in when you didn't have anywhere you had to go and everyone was home with you. Never in her wildest dreams did she think her day would end up the way it did. It all started when Adam ended up being sick and Kara grudgingly helped Shawn with the driveway because she hated seeing him out there all by himself all cold and miserable. Then, when they were done, he got some crazy idea in his head that they should sled ride over the hill since they were already cold, wet and miserable. "Why not make some fun out of it", he said. "When was the last time we did anything in the snow?" She smiled and said "That would never" "Exactly he said, trust me, it'll be fun and we can get in the hot tub and warm up afterwards" "Ok, Ok, just for a few mins" Kara agreed. They dug the sled out of their shed and set off over the hill. Before they knew it, they were going at a crazy, almost warp like speed and Kara thought to herself that something didn't seem right. Then, they were spiraling through what looked like a portal and Shawn turned and looked at her for a split second with a look that said he was as confused as she was and the next thing they knew, they landed on a sand dune on the beach by their favorite vacation spot. And there were the kids, playing in the water and building a sandcastle. They sat there for a minute looking dazed and confused and stared at each other. Because the kids were little. Like really little. And that morning when they left to go on their little sled ride, Adam was 20 years old. Now he was 6. And Abby was 4. Somehow, they had traveled back through time and were on their first beach vacation together with the kids back in the year 2007, when the two of them first met! They both started talking to each other at once "What did this mean? Kara asked" "How did we get here and how do we get back? she said" and the big question "does this mean my dad is still alive?" and Shawn said " What happens if something doesn't go right and it changes the path of the rest of our lives if we don't get it right on the way back?" "OK, let's think" said Kara "The kids don't seem affected at all, they were just here, like nothing was wrong. Is this an alternate reality?" One where time stands still?" Shawn thought for a bit and said "I don't know, but let's try to find out what's going on and see how we get back." They went over to the kids and it was as if nothing was wrong or out of place or that they didn't just come from a portal where another world existed, which made it even more baffling to them. It was so strange to see the kids so little and so refreshing at the same time. Almost like starting over again! But they knew the outcome of how they would be 14 years later! It was so surreal. They were so proud of them and even more so knowing how good they were going to to turn out as adults. Kara asked Shawn if she thought that they had to remember everything they did on this vacation in order to get back home again to the year 2020 and he said that he thought about that and he didn't think so. He thought it was strange though that there weren't alternates of themselves in this reality, just of the kids. And they wondered why that was and the reason for that. Kara looked alarmed and said "do you think something happened to us?" and he said "no, or we wouldn't still be in our alternate reality of 2020." Then he asked Adam and Abby if we had been here all along and they looked at him strangely and said "yes, Daddy, why would you ask that?" He looked at Kara and said "well, that answers that, we now exist in two worlds." Somehow, when we took that sled ride this morning, we tumbled into this reality and got the chance to see ourselves in 2007 when we first met and on our first vacation with the kids when they were so little. Now we know that we will always exist in both worlds and life has new meaning. While we are here, you should call your Dad and see if he is still alive. Then we will really know" Kara looked at him pensively. She said "Do you really think he is?" and he handed her the phone and said "call" she took it and called her mom and then her Dad's voice answered and she started crying and laughing at the same time. She looked at Shawn and said "This is the best day ever". After they talked and it started to get dark, they decided that they better try to get back home. They took the sled and went back in the direction they came and gave it and giant push into the sand dune they arrived in and sure enough, they started hurtling through the portal once again and they looked at each other in amazement. Before they knew it, they were back in their snowy backyard and back home. It was dark and almost midnight! So much time had passed. Adam had been frantically looking for them and was about to send out a search party. He looked at them and said "Where have you been? I've been so worried about you!" and Shawn said "you'll never believe us if we tell you but we are so glad to see you, son. We love you"


The door knob twisted silently. The only thing that told the room's occupant that it had moved was the small click of the latch. The door, swinging open, moved just as quietly. A tall, pale, man entered the small room. The heels of his boots echoing on the tiled floor. The occupant, Darius, looked up at the footsteps. It was different from the soft beeping of the heart monitor to his right. His wrinkled hands shook as he closed the book he had been reading. He shifted slightly allowing him to sit up higher in his bed. This visit was expected. He had been waiting for it ever since he entered the hospital. The Man before him was exceptionally well dressed. A tailored three piece suit, black, covered his thin frame. A silver chain led from one pocket to under his suit jacket. He had a long overcoat, also black, draped over his left arm. In his right hand he held a cane. It was long to match his height, and it had an elongated, sharply curved handle running parallel to the floor. His face was smooth skinned with no beard or mustache. The brim of his hat covered his eyes as he looked over his cane. "So you have finally come for me," Darius spoke. His voice, once deep and robust, was now thin and frail. The Man looked up. Black eyes focused on him. He missed a breath. Those eyes were fathomless, and old. They had seen things he couldn't imagine, and now they were trained on him. "You can see me?" The Man asked. His voice was smooth and carried supreme confidence. Despite the surprise his statement implied, his face showed none of the emotion. He seemed more curious than anything. It was the first time Darius had ever heard him speak, but it was not the first time he had seen him. "Yes I can. I have my whole life," he replied. Reaching over he laid his book on the small bedside table. It rocked every so slightly on its wheels as he touched it. "Interesting." Silence fell between the two. The only sound filling the room was the steady rhythm of the heart monitor. He didn't know what else to say, and the Man seemed content in his silence. Darius thought back. Back to the first times he saw the Man, or at least the first time he remembered. The sterile smell of the hospital room faded; the musty smell of an old trailer house filled his nose. His mother had been passed out in her room; sleeping off whatever she had gotten high on. He had been left to fix the little food that was left in the house, and could be cooked by an eleven year old. His younger brother and sister waited eagerly at the table for the boiled potatoes he had managed to make. Having saved a few for his mother, he brought a plate back to her room. There before him was his mom, foam on her lips, unmoving on her bed. Standing over her was a tall thin man. He looked from his mother to the Man then back to his mother. The lights flickered, and the intruder was gone. He dropped the food, rushing to his mother. Screaming her name and shaking her arm. She didn’t wake up. From then on he could always see the Man around in seemingly random places: on a busy intersection, standing outside a house, or waiting at a construction site. It was years before he had another direct run in. After his mother was gone, the three children had moved in with their father. He had enjoyed the government check he got for them as much as their mother had. Finally he was able to afford all the booze he wanted to drink, and drink he did. At the age of fifteen the Man had visited Darius' house once more. This time to see his father who had spent the last few days on a bender. The Man had walked straight past the front door and behind the children. Darius had looked up from the TV to watch him go by. He stood to follow, but couldn't make his legs move. Something about the Man's back, retreating from him, told him not to go. His brother and sister didn't seem to notice; the cartoons were too interesting. He sat back down on the faded couch slowly as a door in the hallway closed. The three had been moved into foster care the next day. It was around that time that Darius was old enough to figure out what he was seeing. What the Man meant. From that point on anytime he saw him, he turned and went the other way. Running from what he knew he was seeing. The Man visited more than a few of his neighbors. He clocked out early when his workplace received a visit; that place had been shut down shortly after and he had to find a new job. When his sister had followed in their mother's footsteps; ending up in the hospital for her drug of choice. The Man had come to visit. He had seen him enter his sister's room. To his shame, fear overwhelmed him. He couldn't bring himself to enter his sister's room. He stood in the middle of the hall staring at the door as the alarms started blaring. Only moving when a nurse pulled him aside as doctors tried to rush around him. The Man visited his friends, his family, and even his late wife. Now he was visiting him. Darius came back to the present. The hospital smell returned. The clock showed only seconds had passed. The Man was still standing before him; a pleased smile on his face. "Many who meet me have their lives flash before their eyes. I try to give them time to process it," the Man's voice filled the silence. "I feared you," he began. Ignoring the statement. "I did everything in my power to avoid you." "That is very common." "Then I hated you." "That is also very common," that statement carried a hint of dejection. "I hated you for what you took from me: my mother, my father, my family, my wife. I spent almost all of my years believing you were evil. "And now?" "And now," Darius sighed. "Now I believe you were there to give them peace. To lead them to the other side." The Man's face seemed to brighten. "Never did I think to meet someone who could see me," the Man said. "Let alone one so understanding." "Do I have time to call my children before you take me?" The Man pulled on the chain coming from his pocket. A watch appeared. With a press of a finger it opened and he examined it. "Unfortunately, no," the Man apologized before making a suggestion. "If you want more time you can always challenge me to a game of your choice." "No, it's okay. I am ready." "Very well," the Man approached. His footsteps echoed loudly over the floor. When he reached the bed he moved his cane to his left and reached out. "For what it is worth I am sorry." "It's okay old friend. Take me home." The heart monitor stopped beeping.


Another sleepy morning in Clayton. Clayton is a small town. So small, the morning breakfast coffee shop, lunch deli, and late night saloon are all the same place. (Late night being 10:30pm weekdays, 11pm weekends.) I’m Benji. I own/run the aforementioned establishment, named (you’ll never guess . . .) “Benji’s”. It’s just after 10am, the vacation travelers passing through (well, when there are any), the farmers having done the morning’s chores, and the old retired gang, are the ones filling the establishment at the moment. All two of them today. The door chime rings, “Morning Joe.”, I say, “The usual?” “I’d hate to break tradition. Breakfast Tea, and throw a cheese danish in the microwave a few seconds, if you have one.”, Joe responds. Joe joins Roger and Anna at the bar. Roger and Anna are having coffee’s. Over the years, Joe’s almost turned me from a coffee person to a breakfast tea person. Not totally, but almost. Roger and Anna are updating each other with their children, now all moved away from Clayton. “So Roger, how’s the daughter?”, Anna asks. “Good, good. Well, some days are better than others. She loves being an obstetrician, bringing new life into the world. She’s got a real knack for knowing what they’re feeling, even when they’re too young to tell you anything. Some of it is training, but a lot is natural instinct. Thursday was hard for her. Lost two on the same day. One preemie, expected, that had been on the edge for a while, and one in the ER. Accidental overdose. Just a few seconds looking away, and it got into some cleaner the mother left out. Everyone was hysterical and heartbroken.”, Roger grimaces, “I’m afraid the same natural instinct that lets her know what they are experiencing, makes the pain of the losses even deeper.” “She’s able to cope with it though?” “Yeah, she still runs whenever she can to clear her head, and there’s a psychotherapist near the hospital that sees several of the staff. Try and help then deal with the losses, and keep their personal lives on track.” “How about Melinda?”, Roger asks Anna about her daughter. “Oh, she’s doing well. Still doing materials research at the MIT Nuclear Research Reactor. They irradiate isotopes for medical treatments, but lately she’s been testing new carbon nano-somethings for new reactor designs. They can’t generate power, but they can blast samples researchers send them, to see how they’ll stand up to the environments in a real power reactor. There’s a lot more to it than that. She’s tried to explain a few times, but that’s the most I ever get.” “Now, she’s done now right?” “Graduated? Right, she finished her Doctorate, and just stayed on as full time researcher for the university.” I look out the front window and see Doc Bradley passing by. “How about you Joe? Is Maxwell ready to scoop you off to his private island yet?”, Anna kids Joe. “No, not yet. He’s still working part time at the bar and grill in the Topeka, and part time managing his growing investments. Had a big positive hit on some tech stocks a year or so ago.”, Joe replies. “So he’s Day Trading?”, I ask. “No, he says not. There are too many rules about cashing out at the end of the day and such that go against his instincts. He describes himself as more of a Swing Trader. He’s searching for those stocks he can hold onto for two to three weeks, and then have a few days window to sell for a profit. Or the ‘cyclical's’. Oil Rigs are one of the best examples. They eat and eat and eat money for months, then BANG they’re producing and you get all the investment-time back and more so. Of course it’s not always a BANG, sometimes it’s a fizzle . . . The trick is knowing which companies will be more Bang than Fizzle, and he’s turning out to be pretty good at it.” Doc is just standing in front of the store now, one arm across his chest, bracing the other one he’s resting his chin on. I cup my hands around my mouth and yell “Hey Doc.” At the door. Bradley turns, and comes on in. Pulling up a seat at the bar between Joe and Roger. “Hi.”, he says quietly. Everyone is quiet a moment, seeing if Doc has anything to say to the group, as I slide over a cup of coffee. “Awful long look you have there Doc. What’s wrong?”, I ask. “Sarah and I, we’re . . . Aliens.”, he says. “Not the kind from Mexico I take it.”, Joe asks. “No, not the kind from Mexico.”, Bradley looks ahead. Joe snaps his fingers behind Bradley’s back, and holds out his flat hand to Roger. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll bring you the $20 tomorrow.”, Roger says. “Pffft, like you’ll remember.”, Joe snorts and draws his hand back. Bradley looks at Roger, Anna, Joe, then me. “You mean you knew?”, he asks me. “’Knew’, no we didn’t ‘know’. But there were strong suspicions.”, I wipe drops of spilled coffee off the wooden bar. “You and Sarah have both been here too long, and still look too young. Heck, my father used to call you ‘Ole Doc Bradley’. That, and some of the people in town you’ve saved over the years. We always wondered if you knew a few things the local doctors didn’t. And you’ve had such a range of knowledge, whether it’s battling a flu outbreak, farming, or fixing microwaves and TV’s, you just had a strange depth and breadth of knowledge.” “After all these years, why tell us now?”, I shrug. “It’s Sarah,” (Doc’s wife) “she’s dying.” Everyone sits their cups down and turns to the Doc to listen. “I didn’t know she was sick.”, Anna asks for the group. “She’s been sick the entire time you’ve known us. I’ve just been able to keep it at bay. But time is running out.” Joe put a hand on Bradley’s shoulder, “You’ve treated us all for decades. Seen us inside and out. What’s wrong with Sarah?” “It’ll be hard to explain. There’s no word for it here.”, Doc looks up at me, then back at the coffee cup I’ve just passed to him on the counter. “You know back in the old West days, when they’d talk of people having Tuberculosis leaving New York, or Chicago, or somewhere, and going to Arizona for their health? It’s like that for Sarah. Only, we didn’t come from New York, and it’s not TB.” “Chemical sensitivity to something in the atmosphere. We can live to be near 1300 earth years, under good conditions. But Sarah was looking at only two more years back home. Coming here, the different atmosphere got rid of eighty percent of the problem, but I still had to give her treatments from the ship every few months to keep it fully at bay. The Uranium core fell below drive system levels decades ago, so we can’t leave, but it was still enough to irradiate the Thorium . . . which I used for her treatments. She was doing so much better, I thought she would last another hundred and seventy five years, and let us pass at around the same time. But the Uranium has totally depleted now, and the last of the Thorium is dropping below usable levels. I can’t keep up the treatments.” Roger and Joe both have their hands on Doc’s shoulders now. “So you need Thorium?”, I ask. Doc harrumphed, “No. I HAVE Thorium. I have TWO fricking TONS of fertile Thorium, but it needs to be irradiated into U-233 to power the isotope generator, and the core Uranium has depleted, so I can’t irradiate the Thorium again.” “Two tons? How much does depleted Thorium go for?” “Depleted, raw out of the ground? About $150 per ounce.”, Bradley says, resting his elbows on the bar, and putting his face in his hands. I grab the calculator from behind the bar, place it on the counter. “So”, glasses down on my nose, I’m mumbling out loud while punching numbers, “2 tons, times 2000 pounds per ton, times 16 ounces per pound, times $150 per ounce is . . .”, pressing the last numbers and squinting at the display, “$9.6 million in Thorium.” “How much of it do you need irradiated to treat Sarah to finish your lives together?” “About ten percent.”, Bradley moves his hands back to the coffee cup, and looks up at me. “So”, punching again, “ten percent irradiated and returned to you, and ninety percent of $9.6 million is an $8.64 million ‘gift’ for some company or organization to do the irradiating and keep the whole thing on the down-low.” “Anna,”, I pause, “. . . just how well does Melinda get along with the people where she works?”, I ask. “Way ahead of you.”, Anna says, having placed her phone on the bar, dials and puts it on speaker-phone. “Hi Mom.”, Melinda answers, “Is everything OK, you don’t usually call during the day?”, sounding worried. “No your father and I are fine. I just needed to ask you something. You remember Doc Bradley that did your emergency appendectomy don’t you?” Melinda giggles, “You mean the one that everyone at Benji’s thought was an Alien? Yeah why?” “Yeah, it’s funny you should mention that . . . “, Anna says.


Before him was a program of his own creation, running, 'life.exe'. He had been working on it for so long now, but there was still an infinite number of problems with the executable. No matter how hard and long he worked on it, there seemed to be an infinite flow of issues surfacing on a daily, if not hourly basis. The biggest problem right now was the procedure 'free_will()', which was meant to enhance and automate a large part of the experience. Unfortunately, he made a mistake somewhere along the way. Somehow it kept overriding other procedures like 'faith()' and 'morality()', to the point any of his other subroutines didn't even matter anymore. Other aspects of his program where fine and were always doing exactly what he expected, but it was designed to do exactly what he wanted it to do. But the new mob he introduced, 'humanity' was at constant conflict with everything else. There was a non-stop log of syntax errors showing up after he started to program humanity. It was never enough to crash the world he had created, but it caused all new problems, conflicts in the system he had never anticipated that flowed into other areas of his source. Perhaps he had made a mistake and slipped in a semicolon somewhere it didn't belong? It'd take him eons to go over the source to make sure. For now though, he got up and stretched his lanky body. Perhaps he should listen to his Father, Yahweh. He was right, he needed to get out of the basement every once and awhile and do something else. He left the program run on the computer as he climbed the basement steps, he'd come back to it another day.