The impending challenges that burdened the trek across the border eased with timely reconciliation to my new land. Swept up in the migratory tide to Hamilton, Ontario, Canada and suitably ensconced two years later, I now share the experience to assuage the many others in similar transit. I had been renting in adjacent Toronto and sought to purchase at hand, but real estate values hovering just north of the Pole Star motivated a search elsewhere. I thus set forth for “Steel Town”, the gritty, industrial neighbor to Toronto’s west. The boundary between the municipalities is as palpable as the mills upon which Hamilton was built, the cultures as different as chalk and cheese. How I have managed to flump nicely in said circumstance is best understood in context, so I wind back the clock to begin. My journey actually originated decades prior on the east side of meager Port Colborne, Ontario, Canada, in a very ethnic, working class neighborhood, essentially a ‘Little Italy’. Its laborers, factory and skilled trades workers, former miners and soldiers, all began their lives in poverty and hardship.. My father, for example, took to laboring at age twelve, eventually emigrating to Canada to work in factories. Though mind numbing, alienating, and soul crushing, never once did he complain about his toils. My father was a Man of Steel. With that as a measure, his older brother was of Kryptonite. One day, the story goes, while working at his garden in Villa Santa Lucia, Abruzzo, Italy, Uncle Tony was delivered a draft notice. He immediately ceased and departed, only to soon find himself a prisoner of the British, and remained so for five years. Often near death by malnutrition, he survived by proving himself useful to his captors as a mechanic. The moment he returned home from the war he proceeded directly to his garden, picked up his shovel from where it remained untouched and proceeded farming, barely uttering a word thereafter about his ordeal. And then, there is my mother. At least as strong willed as her husband and brother in law, she to this day remains the only person in the world of whom I am fearful. Being of Italian heritage in Port Colborne east I was not alone, and felt safe in an otherwise intimidating environment. And make no mistake, it was a tough place, I mean, as Charlie Callas quipped about his town, you could walk ten blocks and never leave the scene of a crime. But I was always alright, thanks to acquaintances, really tough guys, like Ape, The Bear and “Lucky” Tony Testadurra, so designated for one day while assisting at his father’s construction site had an anvil fall on his head and the anvil broke. I was tagged “Noodle” or “Joey Noodles”, in acknowledgment of my academic abilities and also because I was considered otherwise soft. So, the deal became that I helped the guys with school and they watched out for me. I marveled, for example, at how often disappearing bikes, hockey sticks or patio furniture would mysteriously reappear intact. They knew the neighborhood and the neighborhood knew us and me. All told, my parents, peers and immersion in street culture schooled me in vigilance, humility, respect and discretion, while my literacy skills primed me for analysis and rhetoric, a weave forging, among other things, an acute ability to size a person or situation at the drop of a hat. So now, decades later and in a cut throat housing market, my lawyer, not unfamiliar with my story, put me in touch with a “friend” of his that I would be “comfortable” with and who would “take care” of me in my pursuit of a home. Understanding that real estate dealing had become wildly lucrative I ventured that many were leaving their usual professions to become agents, and upon meeting Rico, replete with a Lanieri suit, Bruno Magli shoes and a Borsalino fedora masking eagle baldness, I figured him exhibit A. With Rico, everything was a drama or secret. A typical conversation would be; “ Interesting place Rico. What do you think about it?” “Listen Joey”, he would say while looking suspiciously over each shoulder, “this is what we’re gonna do...” He was always telling me what we were “gonna do.” “You’re gonna walk out the door and turn right and walk down three blocks, see? Then, you’re gonna go into the back alley and go twenty feet and stop”. “What? Really?” “Listen, just listen”, he would direct me with a clasp of my upper arm while pointing at me with his other hand, “A black car’s gonna pull up after five minutes.” “Ya, your car.” “Never mind whose car, you just get in for a little sit down with everyone.” “Who’s everyone? There’s just us.” “Never mind, now that’s what we’re gonna do.” I humored him and respected his rituals and nostalgia. My suspicions on what his real lifestyle actually was were confirmed when after mentioning to someone my agent was Rico they rejoined with “Rico The Cue Ball? He’s out now?” Indeed. Anyway, just like the fellas from back home, Rico protected me from being taken advantage of but he was hardly proactive. So, when it came to prospecting homes I had to fend for myself, finally zeroing in on a property in the small neighborhood of Homeside in east Hamilton. It was love at first sight with an east side Portuguese beauty. Having more crosses than the Calvary, circumvented with the finest concrete this side of the Pantheon and finished upstairs and down, this masterpiece was my desire. Despite strict legal restrictions securing confidentiality during the offering process, Rico managed to advise with curious precision (“I like a thousand more...”) and she was soon mine. Homeside consists of modest size homes closely crammed on narrow streets and dating predominantly from the nineteen forties to the eighties. No two homes are alike, and there are small parks and walkways dispersed throughout making for interesting walking tours. All that, along with its numerous “mom and pop” businesses, give a Homeside an authentic neighborhood feel. Immediately upon arrival I made a point of it to circulate and get to know the locals. Handshakes, smiles, invitations, sharing of garden bounty and a beer or two now and again began that process effectively. Correspondingly, life was quite good for many months and then, well, a certain someone moved on to the street and here we come to the crux of this tale... “WOW! What is that?!” I shouted to myself in my inner voice one day. “Can it be a... Lamborghini ?” It was! A jet black Lamborghini, set directly in front of the most recent sale on the street, and on the sidewalk was our newest neighbor whom I approached hoping to introduce myself. Upon my nearing to within a few meters of him, his attention was instead drawn to Sal, our local councilor, approaching from the opposite direction and coming to welcome our new resident. I approached closely while the fellow addressed Sal. “Is this a dedicated parking spot?” he asked straightaway. A curious question, with a tone of expectation inconsistent with the absence of reserved spaces signage. I already figured what this guy was about and where he was coming from, and this first encounter continued to degenerate. Although we were already acquainted, Sal didn’t even look at me let alone do the introductions. His concerns were in politicking with someone apparently more important. “Fine, Sallie”, I thought, because I also understand the character and priorities of those with title and ambition. So, I left them only with the same information with which I began, that buddy had a Lamborghini, and he thus became “Lambo”. So, we have an arrival who is not interested in introducing themselves and feels entitled. If not checked, the course is inevitable and in a few weeks - not more because they wouldn’t be able to bite their tongue for that long, and not less because they need some time to accumulate evidence against others and let their anger build - they will make a poorly judged, selfish, arrogant move. Guaranteed. So I, and my neighbors, waited. Eventually, as my street sense prophesied, the day came. One afternoon upon returning from work and checking my mailbox as per usual there was, low and behold, a note: Can everyone take care when around my Lamborghini? And, can you better supervise it? I have seen some of you just walk away while people passing through the area stop to look at it. And, there have been marks on it - fingerprints and scratches. Please do this because it seems anyone can park anywhere and so when others use the spot in front of my house and I have to park elsewhere and cannot always watch out for it. Voila. Apparently Lambo was oblivious to facts like that in our neighborhood many can not afford to have a car, let alone have a luxury one. As for damage, well, welcome to life and public spaces. Self absorbed and disrespectful, Lambo had erected a barrier between us and him. Could this just be jealousy on our parts? Not likely, for we are not communists, after all. We understand that some have more because they made their bones in good faith through education and hard work. We were once ready to hear Lambo’s story and celebrate his achievements, new home and fancy toys, but not any longer. As no one was going to respect Lambo’s letter he was certainly going to have follow up in likely an even more inappropriate communication. Sure enough, in due time, it also came. Lambo apparently escalated his concerns to Sallie the Councilman and Sallie, during a town hall meeting, says to us: Can you please not use the parking spot in front of _______’s house except as a last resort? A “last resort”? On a public street? So much for leadership. The last thing he should be doing is playing favorites. Well, that pretty much charted Lambo’s future and it wasn’t going to be bright. You see, Lambo’s and Sallie’s requests were unjust. Not in the legal sense, but socially and politically. That justice would be served there was no doubt, only its form was as yet unknown. . Objectively, a long time passed, a few weeks. However in the timing and logic of the street it was just right because you never want someone to see it coming. One fine morning Lambo stepped out to his precious curbside spot only to find that someone had gone medieval on the arse of his beloved Lamborghini - and no one knew anything about what happened. Many years ago, in the initial days of my first full time teaching gig, I would tag along with three other male staff to a nearby mall for lunch and we would gather at a four-seated round table. Each day, they insisted I sit in the same chair, one facing a blank cement wall, instead of in one of the others that had a better view of the mall. So I asked colleague Bob, who consistently occupied the seat with the best vista, what was up with this and he said that over time my position would get better. Prying further, I asked how long it would be before I had his seat, to which he replied, “Ten years." I understood that, you see, because of my upbringing and its immersion in codes of honor, respect and manners. Acceptance, respect and privilege are things earned, not just granted because you show up, or just taken because you want it or are used to it from having had it somewhere else. So, prospective settlers, we in the highly sought Homeside area await you with open minds and arms and we trust that you will bring the manners, care and appreciation worthy of our community. See you soon!


Eleanor peeked around the corner of the palace's stone hall and gasped. She felt absolute rage at her mother for telling such a lie. There was no strange aura or mist. There was no woman with robes of satin and gold. Just two wooden doors were being guarded by two of her spelled family members. Eleanor shrank down along the wall and sobbed. It was hopeless. She would never be able to prevent the kingdom from being overrun by its spelled citizens. "Hark! Who goes there?" One of the guards, her father, fixed the holding on his spear. He turned to her aunt. "Hear that, Milan?" "No," her mother's sister replied, tossing her silver hair back. Her face bore no wrinkles, as a blessing from the sorceress of light and life. "But have I will, I shall notify thy at once, my dearest." "No, no, no, no, no!" Eleanor whispered to herself. "The spell... it's taken over them. The first sign of the Mindless... loss of personal accent." She decided that then she had to risk it and run into one of the rooms. How to do it, she wasn't sure, but a life-or-death situation awaited her as she thought up a storm. "Henri!" Eleanor called suddenly. "Milan!" Her family members slid their weapons out and scanned the premises. "Show yourself, intruder!" Milan growled, her freshly sharpened sword slicing the air as she spoke. "Come out now, and we will leave you unscathed and give you the privilege of serving our beloved king and queen! That is if we don't kill you like a dog first!" snarled Henri. Their Mindless accent had faded because of Eleanor's outburst, sliding into the last part of their minds that wasn't blocked out by the curse that she was their beloved daughter and was not to be harmed no matter what. Eleanor dashed out from the corridor and kicked open the door on the right, guarded by her aunt. It was made of dry, brown wood that broke down as soon as she rushed into it. Milan's sword caught a lock of her violet hair on her sword and nicked a bit of her ear in Eleanor's attempt to escape. A black void surrounded her and only a small, golden aura light up the area, although Eleanor couldn't figure out where it came from. Thinking that the sorceress of life was nearby, she moved forward slowly, her bare feet gently slapping the black void beneath her. She gently knelt. "O creator of life and spirit, where hast thou reside in this empty room, devoid of life or light? Thou bestowed a blessing on thy Aunt Milan, and I plead for help during this immediate time of crisis." Eleanor recited an old chant that caused the sorceress to appear to others, hopefully, in this same room. Sure enough, a woman floated into the vicinity. She wore a satin and golden gown and grasped a vivid-colored caduceus, the staff of Hermes. Her purple hair flowed and hovered inches over the floor. The mythological and legendary sorceress lifted Eleanor's chin ever so slightly so that she stared into the woman's sharp, crystal blue eyes piercing the irises of Eleanor's ones. "Yes, child?" her velvety voice coated Eleanor's insides and forced her to stand up. Reaching the sorceress's elbows, she explained that people of what once was a proud kingdom had been placed under a curse that allowed the person who cast the spell able to control everybody that they touched both of their shoulder blades at the corresponding moment. Then they acquired the name, Mindless. "You say you require my services, Eleanora?" Eleanor reddened. "Eleanora is- was my mother. She died when I was at least ten years old, and that was before the spell took place three years later," She confessed. The woman looked at her sympathetically. "I met your mother. She was a kind and pure heart, never thinking of herself, instead of others" she commented. "She came here with you to see her child's truthfulness, purity, and honesty. Of course, you had spectacular results. She was determined to protect you more than ever from the danger of the forces of evil." "But... can you help me with the curse?" Eleanor asked, half wishing that the woman would stop talking about the personal stuff in her life. She shook her head. "No, I cannot." "Bu-bu-bu-but why ?" she worried. "Because... I am you." Eleanor fell back onto the hard, black void. It couldn't be true! She would have felt some sort of spiritual relationship with the celebrated sorceress who saved people's lives and cured plagues on a daily basis, instead of greeting her like a complete stranger who could kill her on a whim. "But... if you are me... then how did you meet my mother?" Eleanor questioned, suspecting that the sorceress was lying and was actually an adversary observer in search of a juicy story to reveal to the public about anything that would bring the morals of the few remaining survivors down to the point of surrender and betrayal. "I never told anyone about this before, but I am not just a mere sorceress. Sorceresses and sorcerers have a further unrestricted lifespan, but they are not immortal. I am a demigoddess. My father- your father- was a mere mortal, while our mother was an accomplished goddess. Eleanor is what many people call me, for I bring light to mortals who have experienced the anguish of wickedness for too long," Eleanor the Goddess confirmed. Eleanor's body formed a lump in her windpipe as she thought about the hopeless, sullen moments when Goddess Light, also known now as Eleanor the Goddess, had followers that cursed and shunned her powers and shuddered at the mention of her name so much that they torched her alter, and those who had died several days later, bringing up a generation of destructive descendants of the followers that caused the torching. No, she couldn't believe it. She was not a goddess. She was just ridiculous, proposing that explanation. "I refuse to accept your pitiful misrepresentation," Eleanor cast her shoulders backward and elevated her head in insubordination. Eleanor the Goddess nodded slowly. "Yes, I understand. I cannot annihilate you, for that would mean my own passing, but you must get rejected of me... for I am the one who placed that spell and made your life into a breathing nightmare and horror fiction." Eleanor gasped and noticed the goddess's hand gripped a dagger. An ensorcelled dagger. The weapon and the goddess are what was causing the powerful atmosphere that had lightened up the room. Suddenly, it appeared in her hand, and it pulled like a magnetic force to the goddess's, her counterpart's, heart. Before she knew what was happening, blood started trickling from Goddess Light's chest. As soon as she destroyed Eleanor the Goddess, the hollow void melted into the exhibition where Eleanor had fallen into the place where she had met her counterpart held the same room, but the doors were gone, and in their location was Milan and Henri, unspelled and leaned overhead her, observing her for any noticeable injuries or damages. "Nora, honey, are you alright?" Henri worried, whispering words in an extremely discouraging deep voice. "Ella, what occurred back in that vacancy?" Milan asked. There was nothing that Eleanor could do but sob and mourn the death of her counterpart.


“Make sure you don’t pick a squeaky one,” he says as he continues forward into Walmart. I give a few carts a rudimentary test drive, avoiding any that make any kind of unpleasant noise, knowing it irritates him and ruins our shopping trip. Well, makes the shopping trip even less bearable. “If you’re good, I’ll let you pick out a treat!” he says. I roll my eyes at him and make my way to the shampoo aisle. “How are you on shampoo, soap, deodorant?” I ask. “Uh...” he says, hesitating, “shit, I think I’m fine?” “Andy, I told you to check before we left.” I say in an exasperated sigh. “I know, babe, I forgot...” “Well, if you end up with smelly armpits this week that’s on you.” “Don’t be sassy.” he says with a shit eating grin. “Come on, let’s move on.” I say, directing him to the pet supplies. “How are we on dog food?” We continue on like this for twenty minutes, picking up items we need, filling up the cart and stressing about the total. “Close your eyes, babe, we’re passing the books...” he says dramatically. “You said I could get a treat!” I exclaim loudly. “Fine, fine, pick one out.” He throws his arms up in a conceding motion, as if he would ever deny me the purchase of a book. I make quick work of it and pick one of the titles on my “to be read” list and grab an additional one, trying to sneak it behind the first book. “That appears to be two books, sweetie.” he says with a raised eyebrow. “Well, what if I read the first book super fast, I’ll need a second one as a runner up...” I explain. “Besides, one is ten dollars and the other is seven...” “Are you worth seventeen dollars?” he asks, bringing his hand to his chin as if contemplating my cash value. “You’re going to hurt my feelings!” I say, lightly smacking his arm. “You’re worth the world, baby.” he says with that infuriating grin I’ve grown to love with my entire soul. “That’s what I thought.” I said. “I’ll settle for seventeen dollars, today, though.” “Deal.” We make quick work of picking up a new pair of tennis shoes for him, a package of earbuds for me, and get side tracked looking at baby clothes. “Look at how freaking cute this is!” I holler as I hold up a onesie with dinosaurs on it. “Okay, that’s incredibly cute.” he agrees. “I can’t wait to have a little baby to dress up, I’m going to be ridiculous with it, I just know it.” I say. “Someday, babe.” His voice is full of love as I look over and catch him staring at me with those warm, dark chocolate eyes. I can’t help but smile as I think hopeful thoughts of settling down and having children with this man. “Someday *soon*, I hope.” I say. “Someday.” We make our way to the cleaning supplies aisle and grab some more products we’ve either ran out of or are about to run out of. “How are we on toilet paper?” I ask. “You’re the one who uses the most, I don’t keep track of it.” he says. “Oh, well, have fun wiping with your hand from now on.” I say with a glare. “Another sassy remark? You’re gonna end up bored with just one book.” he threatens. I let out an obnoxiously loud laugh and check myself, not wanting to be one of *those people* in the store. “I’ve missed that laugh,” he says. “What?” I ask, confused. Surely I’ve been laughing just as much as I usually do. “Nothing,” he says. “What else do we need?” “We’re onto groceries now. Let’s go get a pack of water and start back in that corner?” I ask. He gestures in front of him, “Lead the way, beautiful.” We argue over how many energy drinks he can get and whether stick butter is better than tub butter, how much cottage cheese is too much cottage cheese and which creamer to get. “Why *wouldn’t* we get the Rice Krispies creamer?” he asks me as if it’s a no brainer. “It just doesn’t sound good, babe. Let's get something we know we both like.” “That’s boring, baby. Let’s try something new!” “Fine, get it.” I cave. “Why don’t we get a small bottle of the Rice Krispies one and then something you like, too. That way you aren’t stuck with something you don’t like.” “Deal.” It's my turn to flash a huge smile at him. If there’s one thing I love about this man it’s his unwavering ability to make sure I’m happy and taken care of. We pick up a few different kinds of lunch meat, a few tubes of burger, a package of chicken thighs and a few other meats for the week. “Remember the time we panic bought like eight packages of cheese?” he asked. “Yeah, that was ridiculous.” I say before chuckling loudly again. “I didn’t think we were ever going to get through all of that.” “It’s always something,” he says “If not too many packages of cheese we get too many things to drink or too many snacks.” “We’re hoarders.” I joke. We then begin weaving through the dry goods aisles, picking out cereals and snack crackers, spices we’re low on and baking goods, a large bag of rice and a few cans of veggies. Both of us weave around each other in a delicate tango as we pluck items from shelves, careful not to bump into one another, laughing when we do. “It’s warm in here.” he says, handing me his flannel. I slip it on, reveling in the fresh warmth. I take a deep breath and smile as the notes of cedar, mint and *him* invade my senses, making me feel at home. “Looks good on you, baby.” “What can I say, I have good tastes.” I say. “In men or the flannel?” he asks. I shrug my shoulders and round the corner into the frozen food aisle. “Ouch!” I holler, jumping at the sharp pinch to my left buttcheek. “Andy, we’re in the store!” I holler. “Well, what did you learn?” he asks. “I’m not even sure?” I say. He replies by pinching my butt once more. I laugh and attempt to return the pinch to his posterior, laughing harder as he dances out of reach. I pretend to be preoccupied with a box of frozen corn dogs, waiting for his guard to be dropped. I “compare prices” on another box of the frozen foods as he steps beside me to see what has my attention, just before I reach over and give him a good pinch. “Ouch, babe! I hate being pinched.” he complains. “Well, what did we learn?” I mimic. “That’s it...” he says. He backs me up against the frozen cooler door and tickles my sides until I’m begging for mercy, gasping for breath. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I scope the area to see if there’s any onlookers, relieved when I don’t see anyone. “I miss you.” I say to him. “I’m right here, baby.” he leans in and kisses me before wrapping his arms around me. “I’m always right here.” Emotion clogs my throat, I chalk it up to being overly grateful to have him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I say. “Lucky thing for you, you’re stuck with me.” He kisses the top of my head. “Forever.” I smile and blink rapidly to clear my vision. It must be close to that time of the month, stupid hormones. Finishing up the frozen foods on our mental checklist, we continue to the produce section. We grab a few pre packaged salads, some garlic, onions and potatoes for a soup we have planned to make and some fresh herbs. “No, you don’t need to get any lemons.” he scolds. “You never use them, we pay for them and then they turn into science experiments on the counter.” “I want them for water!” I protest. “If you *used* them I’d be all for it, but you never do!” he counters. “It’s wasteful.” “They’re like sixty cents!” “Put a book back and you can get ONE lemon.” he jokes. I roll my eyes and put three lemons in one of the plastic produce bags. “Ooh! Look at these goodies!” he says, rubbing his hands together. He hands me a package of mini muffins with candied pecans baked into the dough. “Do you deserve these?” I ask, mimicking his raised eyebrow. “Yes. Yes I do.” he says. I laugh and continue to the bin with tomatoes and avocados. The store’s radio system comes to life with one note repeated softly a handful of times, I smile as I realize what song is playing. *When there’s nowhere else to run, is there room for one more son? One more son.* *If you can, hold on. If you can, hold on. Hold on.* Andy begins to belt out the first verse of one of our favorite songs by The Killers, completely unashamed and with absolutely no inhibitions. I feel my cheeks flush with heat, not nearly as self confident as he is. I begin peeking around us, checking for onlooking eyes or anyone outright gawking at us, at the scene before them. “Sing with me, baby.” he says before crooning into the chorus. “Andy, we’re in the store...” I say. “It’s fine baby, it’s just us.” he says, grabbing my hands to pull me into a dance. It’s just us... It’s just us... My head begins to spin, confusion insidiously creeps into my expression, muddling my comprehension and mental stability. It’s just us... “Andy...” I begin to question. “Shh baby, it’s okay.” he says before continuing to sing. It’s just us. Most shopping trips are full of stress, tension and dread for me. I hate running into people, zigzagging in a wild path to avoid being hit by carts or hitting others who stop without warning. I hadn’t felt so much as a second of annoyance or stress this entire time. Come to think of it, I hadn’t *seen* so much as a single person, not a single employee. It’s just us. Confusion takes the wheel full force as I spin in a slow circle, checking to see if there’s anyone else in the store. Was it closed? Did we break in? It’s just us. I glanced at the deli, no workers. I glanced at the checkout lanes, no workers. I glanced down the long aisle leading back to electronics, no workers. I glanced out to the parking lot and saw cars, but no shoppers or loiterers waiting outside of the doors or walking to their vehicles. I saw *no one.* It’s just us... “Andy...” “*If you can, hold on.”* “Baby...” “*If you can, hold on.”* Tears well up behind my lower lids, my eyes pricking with a burning sensation, threatening to spill their contents at any second. It’s just us. “You’re not...” I choke on emotion clogging my throat. Andy grabs me and pulls me into a tight embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around my shoulders as he rests his head on top of mine. I always love being held by him like this, his six-foot-four height surpassing my five-foot-five greatly, my head nestling between his pectoral muscles comfortably. Nothing has felt more like home than when he holds me like this as I breathe in the scent that is uniquely him. “I love you, sweetheart.” he says softly. “I love you, too.” I sob. It’s just us. The song slowly fades as it finishes, silence wrapping its cruel void around us once more. It's just us. “You’re not...” I try once more, taking a deep breath, knowing my next words are going to collapse everything. “You’re not actually here, are you?” I ask. It's just us. “I’m with you, always.” he says quietly, placing another kiss on top of my head. “You know what I mean...” I say. “I do, baby.” he says. “I’m so sorry.” I inhale deeply, the breath going nowhere, and let out a shuddering sob, not ready for this to be over. I cling to Andy as tightly as I possibly can, fervently praying for it to be tight enough to keep him with me forever. “I’m always with you, Allie, always.” he says once more. “Any time you close your eyes I’m right there.” The sobs are painfully ripping through my chest at this point, threatening to suffocate me. “I love you so much.” I say, plead. “I love you so much, too, beautiful.” he says. “I’m never far...” he says. I feel him place one more kiss to the top of my head. I release my arms and wipe my eyes, desperate to find some relief from the chasm ripping my heart into two. I wipe my wet hands on my pants and reach out to embrace Andy once more, panicking as my arms close in on nothing. I open my eyes and blink rapidly, hoping to will him back into place in front of me. “Andy?” I holler, panic gripping my voice in a chokehold. “Andy!” I spin in a circle, selfishly praying he’s playing a prank on me, hiding behind the bin full of avocados or in an aisle out of sight. I take off in a dead sprint, checking up and down every aisle, screaming his name as loud as I can, my throat raw from sobbing and screaming. I run through the entire store twice over, frantically searching every aisle, hiding spot and shelf. I look down and am comforted only briefly as I realize I’m still wearing his flannel. His scent no longer lingers on the fabric but feeling the soft material cover my arms and torso brings enough comfort for me to drag in a ragged breath. I sink to my knees as the depression takes over me once more, a process I’m painfully familiar with by this point. The shelves around me slowly disappear and morph into nonsensical things, a tree house, a dog house, a large cardboard box. The integrity of the dream slowly falling away after my realization. I wasn’t here grocery shopping with Andy, I wasn’t anywhere with Andy. I’m at home, in bed, unsure of what day it is as I’ve lost track. *If you can, hold on.* It’s been days- weeks? months?- since Andy passed away in the accident, taking him from this world and my life. I had no idea how long it had actually been, grief cripping any and all sense of normalcy and functioning. My eyes slowly open, damp with tears that had escaped from my dream and found their way into real life. My lungs struggle to fill with air, my chest heavy with sorrow. I wrap the flannel around me tighter, squeezing my eyes shut, begging to restart the dream. I know better than that. The dream comes and goes as it pleases, never allowing me to manifest it when I need it the most. Whether we’re grocery shopping, making dinner or going for a hike, the beginning is always bliss as I look into his eyes unaware of real life. The end always cripples me as it disappears from my subconscious. *If you can, hold on.* I know Andy is with me, always. From the random breezes that dance through my window on cool fall days to the rays of sunshine that kiss my skin as I read in the reading chair he got me, to the warm cups of tea in the eclectic mugs he always gifted me to the random wafts of his scent that come from nowhere. I know I’ll never truly be without him, not entirely. I know I should be grateful for that, welcoming of that fact, even. I feel selfish when I beg and wish for *more*. *At least you can still smell him from time to time, at least you remember the color of his eyes, at least, at least, at least.* I don’t want “at least”. I yearn for the future that was stripped from us, from the what-if’s and maybes, to the plans both spoken and yet to be spoken, for the somedays. I glance down at the ring on my finger on my left hand, the shine in the diamond either mocking me or pitying me, I haven’t decided which it is yet today. We hadn’t made plans further than “let’s get married”. At the time it was more than enough for me, just belonging to him more than being his girlfriend. It was mature, refined, *adult*. If only I had been a little more impatient to actually marry him, I could have his last name as a reminder of him and our relationship. *At least I had a ring.* I take a deep breath and sit up, knowing I need to at least do *something* today. *At least do something today.* I remind myself that Andy wouldn’t be content with me wallowing in despair every day, would be down right furious at even a single tear shed for him. I get up from the bed I shared with him, avoiding glancing at his pillow and make my way to the living room. Reading is a waste of time, I can’t focus on the words on the page, much less the story. I make my way to the couch and turn on a mindless program on Netflix, something about a tattoo competition. I avoid things like sappy romances and cooking shows- a regular tv genre we shared for watching with each other. I make it a total of five minutes before I find myself laying down on the couch, resting my head on a pillow, begging my brain to transport me to another realistic dream with my soulmate. *At least I got up from the bed...* If you can, hold on. If you can, hold on. Hold on.


I awoke with a startle. I was three minutes early to my alarm waking me up with it's normal, yet awfully loud ring. Looking at my calendar across the room I noticed it was the day I got to go out. Every third Monday of each month is the designated day. I used to be excited every time I got up in the morning and knew that at 10:15 A.M. I could open my door and see the sun. But that feeling soon faltered. After 12 years of a pandemic, and living on the same schedule each day, I practically forgot what it felt like to live. I hadn't seen friends, coworkers, teachers, or fellow peers since the 9th grade. I'm 27 now. There isn't anyone that is allowed to go anywhere anymore, unless they're some sort of authorized government official. I used to say that we should fight against what they were doing, but at this point it isn't worth it. There isn't anything we can get back now. They've taken everything from us. We don't have anything. They took our freedom. They decide what we can and can't have. They assign uniforms. They do everything to prevent us from being any different or being anything that is seemingly out of the ordinary. Although there is nearly 2/3 of the population that was wiped out, the pollution from factory made food, clothing, and the special suits we have to wear to go out has completely changed the environment. The sky that was once a beautiful blue is now an awful, dark purple. The grass is all dead, and I don't think the actual sun has come out at all in the last few months. Everything is created by the government now. I walked down the stairs, the silence of the apartment has become almost calming. I haven't had any kind of interaction with anyone since the pandemic began. I guess that's just the price you pay of living in New York nowadays. I turned on the coffee maker, and searched through my freezer in an attempt to find something that sounded even the least bit appealing. The clock struck 9:30, I rushed upstairs and got ready to gear up. First I put on my form-fitted, blue body suit. I heard that everyone has a different color that they are assigned. Of course, I've never seen any so I wouldn't know. I picked through to the back of my closet and grabbed the oh-so-attractive plastic hazmat suit. I put it on, grabbed an N-95 mask and a face shield, zipped up the hood and got ready to leave. The clock hit 10:15 and I went to my front door. I turned the lock and as the door opened I saw the bus. I got on and closed my eyes as I listened to the sound of the wheels turning. Finally the bus came to it's final stop. The person on the front row got up, walked through the door, and was greeted by a woman taking temperatures. I was in the very back, so I knew I had some time. Eventually it got to the person ahead of me, the woman taking her temperature paused. She took her temp again, and slowly reached up to her walkie-talkie. The woman who was presumably sick took off running as fast as she could. She didn't make it far before she was tackled and thrown in the back of a government van. I got up hesitantly, I walked off the bus and held my breath as the thermometer was held to my forehead. I waited for the beep to go through, the time felt as if it went by slower and slower each second. At last I heard the woman's voice through the ringing in my ears "...not clear, sorry" I tried to walk forward but suddenly my brain processed what she had said. I heard another van come up behind me, I tried to run but my feet felt like concrete. Finally I felt my foot come up. I started in a dead sprint in the other direction. I rounded a corner and threw off my suit. Today was the perfect day for wearing my running shoes. I heard the rumble of the van. I took a quick right and ran through a field. I saw the tree line creeping closer and closer. Finally I could feel my feet hitting the brush underneath me. I was free. I felt more alive in this moment than I ever had. A rush of memories came pummeling back. I first remembered how when I was in Grade 4 me and my best friend, Elaine were first learning to skateboard. We would push ourselves with our feet so hard that they were covered in blisters by the time the sun went down. I remembered how when me and my first boyfriend went to see a movie. We only payed for one ticket, but we would sneak out of one theater and into another. Half the time we didn't even know what was playing, but we did it because we could. I remembered how right before everything changed, me and my friend group of 7 all took a trip to Tennessee. The mountains were beautiful, the air smelled of trees and fresh water. Suddenly I tripped. I hit the ground and every bit of air was knocked out of my lungs. Two men came up behind me. I was hoisted by the shoulders and thrown into the back of the van. I felt them sticking needles into my arm, my body started to feel like it was floating. I knew it was over. I wouldn't wake up to hear my alarm. I wouldn't sit up and see my calendar ever again. I wouldn't put on my hazmat suit. Which wasn't all that terrible. I didn't know what was going to happen next, all I knew is that I wasn't going to live normally ever again. All I know is that I was just trying to get groceries.


Night had felt even more desolate than normal, the air in my bedroom was hot, stagnant, heavy with dust suffocating me under my half removed blanket. Outside from the nearby window, I could hear nothing. The static searing of the empty void pounded against my ears as the damp, sweat covered sheets stuck to my body. I had been laying here for hours, but how many hours had it been? It was the period of night that you should be asleep for, the overbearing sense of disconnection, darkness, the only feelings surrounding you are those of the unwashed blankets encompassing your body, and the pain in your neck from the pillow that flattened hours ago. Tomorrow would have been terrible if the early morning had held anything for me, a few hours of oversleeping would hardly be a problem. The sleep did not come easily. Visions of suffocation plagued my mind throughout the night. I felt the sense of time pass, how long exactly I had no idea. I felt existence in that void of reality, a reality of fever ensued machinations, of far off deserts and sweltering labyrinths of all matter of horrors that I could not remember, but experienced in every way. There was no other night that had felt so long, so lucid, surreal but impossible. I experienced every moment in those hours, reality becoming cross with the unnameable things that asphyxiated my mind and prevented any possibility of rest. When I awoke my mind was overrun. Suggestions of dreams, memories of nightmares, my mind quickly forgetting them as I came to, repeating to myself what was real, what held consequence in this world and what was nothing more than a product of my overheated mind. I came to realize the sun peering into my room. Beams of orange light pierced through every crack in my blinds and curtain, each dust particle ignited like ash from a blazing fire. This was no cool morning sun, not a white drape to slowly wake me in its crystalline warmth, this light was blinding dark orange that signaled the suns peak. A fiery gaze looking down upon me. How late is it, how late had I slept? My mind was already fogged with the vestigial events of the night and I could not gather my sense of time. I understood that I would be waking up later, perhaps an hour more even though it would truly be an hour less. Daylight savings time had come, and the distortion of time could have very easily effected my sleep, but not to this caliber. The clock on my bedside showed late evening. Before sleeping I had set it only an hour forward, if the clock was correct, I had slept nearly 16 hours. 16 hours was unprecedented, and simply losing an hour would not have caused that. My stiff muscles and locked joints felt as if it had been days, my greasy, matted hair almost stuck to the damp pillow sheet, my blanket sodden with sweat. Was the night truly that stressful, to keep me asleep for hours on end only to gain no rest? Something else had pierced my senses, there was no sound. In the late evening the sounds of gatherings and day workers returning home would be blaring outside my window, but there was nothing. Not a laugh nor a shout, there were no roaring engines or horns blaring. It was a cause with potential outcomes startling enough to force me from my bed, to my window, and quickly after I had seen what lay beyond it, I would rather return back to my fever dreams and the comfort of false reality. It had taken me a moment to understand that this was not just another dream. I was truly awake, truly experiencing the physical senses lost in nightmares: pain, discomfort, hunger, all while the pressing sense of emotional turmoil came down on me from that one glimpse outside the window. It truly had not just been an hour, the clocks had not gone forward, nor backward, it had not been a day, a week, a month or a year. No amount of time within my ability to comprehend it could have done this. All sense of modesty was gone, and I stepped outside half naked, I had to know it was real. With my own eyes I saw it, and I truly believed I was the last able to. A forest of desolation, a desert enveloping the last remaining suggestions of the civilized world I saw not more than an hour before I slept. Towering buildings crumbled against each other, the red sun penetrating each broken window as it sunk down beyond the horizon, leaving nothing but a sickened orange sky, bare of any streak or cloud that might have filled it on a normal day. Rationality in my mind had left me, answers could not be had, it had been a no more than five minutes since I had woken up. I walked through the old street that sand and rock had all but tore away, the metal beams of posts and the bodies of the few remaining vehicles stood as nothing but shells of rust, each gust of wind tearing away another piece. Nothing could be heard but the wind and the sand it carried, tearing against my pale skin as I walked down the road into the city. My eyes burned in adjustment, black scars blotted my already blurry vision, squinting at every window, every door and every object that once suggested hospitality in the hopes that some answers would reveal themselves. Answers for questions I couldn't ask, and no man, woman, or any living creatures presented itself, nor did the remains of any. No bodies could be seen, not even the bleached bones of a long forgotten street beggar peered from the shallow sands. No bodies, no remains, no signs of destruction or war. Simply the wind, consuming everything. Feelings of hunger and weakness pressed upon me, but it did not stop me from traversing the city. Every street, every skyscraper, vehicle and shop was identical to the previous, an unrecognizable maze of rusting metal, and concrete shells. The city ended abruptly, where the highway would take you was now little more than an endless wasteland of stone pillars and metal rods. A desolate stretch of highway could be seen, black pieces of old road in a suggestive path that suddenly ends. Where the old road ended, I could see nothing beyond the horizon but the sky of orange, darkness slowly revealing itself as the sun fell out of sight. When the sun ended, a new light revealed itself beyond the old road. One that grew in intensity as I came closer to the end, a red beacon shooting up into the star filled sky from underneath a horizon that was lost to me in the darkness. Until I came to the end of the old road. I could see it there, a black pillar of no shape, projecting its beacon into the sky from the crater beyond the horizon. As I starred at it, my vision cleared and my anxieties dispersed, I could no longer feel the heat against my neglected body, nor the ache of hunger and the pain that once resonated from my every movement. All the answers to the questions I did not have presented themselves to me. The beauty of this thing brought me to it, it brought all of us to it, down into the crater where we could be close, where the sweltering heat was replaced with a resonating peace and indifference. Where we could all exist with it, with a singular purpose as the lesser beings to look upon it, and bathe it its eternal beauty.


When my father left it was a shock to us all. He and my mom were so in love, and I remember when I thought he loved both his daughters, me as the eldest especially. We played chess and cards and I would fall asleep on his chest as we watched the late-night sitcoms. I thought he loved me enough to stay. I remember him being strong and tall, and a deep black handlebar mustache that he said was Jimmy Buffett inspired. On the last day I saw him, he was making breakfast - a completely normal day. He had cut himself while slicing breakfast fruits and I put a Band-Aide on it. He rustled my hair and called me his little future nurse. Then he was off to the store to get milk for our morning cereal, kissing my mom on the lips and Bea on the forehead. He said he’d be back soon, but he never came home. At first, we thought he was missing, and after months of searching it seemed that he wasn’t lost, “he had escaped” the detectives said, another way of saying he left us. Mom had us tell our friends that he went missing, maybe she was ashamed that he ran away to start a new family or something... I’m not sure. I was 10 years old. I was raised the rest of my life by a single mother, stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. She was stoic, when my dad left, although Bea and I knew how much she hurt inside. She never remarried, because, “although Daddy is a no-good piece of dirt and left us high and dry, I could never love another man again.” Her strength was one I always looked up to. Having a strong female role in my life was the best thing I could have asked for. On the anniversary of Dad leaving she would always get quiet, and it became a somber holiday for all of us. As the years went by my sister and I grew up independently, and I inherited the family home after our mom died. I became the local newspaper editor, had a nice family, a good career, and retired with a husband who loved me in the comfort of my childhood home. The years had turned all of us gray, and our joints popped and snapped when we moved, it was deeply comfortable, and I was happy. Early one morning someone knocked at my door. I hobbled to get it, shushing the barking dog. When I swung open my door a man stared at me from the stoop. He was tall and strong, with a black handlebar mustache. This man was holding a gallon of milk. It looked like my father, but it couldn’t be. Possibly a sick joke Bea was playing on me. “Theresa?” the man asked, looking weak and desperate in the doorway. “No, I’m Samantha, Theresa was my mother.” I replied, watching his facial expression change into one of complete confusion, awe, sadness, then love. “Samantha?" he paused, "I’m... I’m... your dad. I know you won’t even believe me but I promise I have an explanati - ” I slammed the door in his face and stormed to the kitchen. How dare he, whoever he is, play this joke on me? It has been 65 years since I last saw my father. I stopped, and look at the calendar on the refrigerator. July 11th, 2083. The anniversary of my dad’s disappearance. I felt as if the reality had become far away, and I was faintly aware of a continuous knocking at the door. In the storage cabinet was an old SIM card of pictures, one of them had to be of him. I plugged it into our home system and sifted through the memories, looking for a picture that must be buried deep down of my father. I think my mom wiped most of the pictures of him out of shame and anger. Finally, I came across a one that looked hauntingly familiar, a picture of him laying in the sun, smiling, probably taken a month before he left. I transferred it to the telelens, so that the picture shined in my hand. Walked back to the door, I opened it cautiously. There the man stood, looking exactly like I remembered my dad had. I lifted the thin glass of the telelens up to compare the picture to the man in front of me. Age had not touched him a day, whereas I had become a woman, and *old* woman at that. He was indistinguishable from the picture, down to the curl of his mustache, and the scab on his hand. That scab... he had cut himself, the morning he left, the morning that had been burned into my memory. Dad had cut himself on a knife while chopping Mom’s grapefruit. “Who are you?” I tentatively asked, worried of the answer. He took a deep breathe, “We really need to talk, honey.” I let him inside.


# 3. Another Hanging in Paradise The following month was hot, the sun’s scorching rays beating down on the packed earth and sending waves through the otherwise clear air. While neither Maggie nor Otis felt it, they did notice the stillness that accompanied the extreme temperature. Even the snakes, usually so fond of basking in the sun, crawled back in their holes for fear of being cooked in their own skin. Late summer was always that way, and brought dull boredom with it as the days went on. Adam looked up hopefully at the sound of every hoofbeat on the horizon. Whether it was a misguided prayer for rescue, or the promise of future company that wasn’t, Otis and Maggie found difficult to tell. In either case, the result was shit company and a disturbance of the tenuous peace the other two spirits worked so hard to achieve. Maggie sat in the higher bows of the hanging tree. Her ass hovered a few inches inside her chosen branch but was close enough to make the action feel real. Too much time floating through anything and everything was enough to drive someone mad. Pretending the rules of physics still applied was one of the many tricks she had learned to stay sane. From her perch, she watched the wagons and horses cut a wide berth around Hangman’s Hill and didn’t blame them - it was haunted after all. The sun made its way across the arid sky as she reflected on her death and the days that followed. Unlike the people hung after her, Maggie had been alone. Back then, the hill had been so quiet. While most of the deceased weren’t keen on talking, Maggie could hear their spirits rustling just beneath the crust of the earth. Most tried to find sanity, speaking with her and Otis for a day or two, but in the end, they all did the same thing. Six feet below the ground, thirty or so odd spirits lay horizontal with their eyes closed, pretending to be dead. Feeling particularly morbid, Maggie floated through the layers of the earth to peer in at the others, but there wasn’t much to see aside from dirt and otherworldly green energy. She and Otis had taken to calling them The Dirt Nappers. Neither of them was much for creative energy. They tried their best not to disturb them, but on the occasions they did, the spirits grew violent and became every bit of a poltergeist they could muster. One of them had moved a branch in a moment of particular passion, but Maggie had been the only witness. Maggie shook her head and floated back to the top of her tree. Watching the world slide idly by while sitting in the branches of her tree was as close to peace as Maggie had ever found. In life, there had been a profound calling for action every second to fight for every man, woman, and child on earth. In death, there was nothing to be done. Sitting and waiting for nothing was the best damned retirement she could have asked for, and Otis was right; the sunsets were fantastic. Adam on the other hand could find no such peace. He spent his days trying to break through the barrier, enduring the painful shock that went along with it each time and finding new and creative ways to curse. The sound of his cries broke Maggie’s calm and made it nearly impossible to appreciate the serenity that was her afterlife. Otis had always been good about knowing when to shut up. Adam always assumed it was his turn to talk and spewed a continuous string of unhelpful questions. One day, still sizzling from his latest escape attempt, Adam had fixated on the idea of pockets. “Why do we still have ‘em?” He pushed his hands through his pants for emphasis. “Have what?” asked Otis. “Pockets, why do we still have pockets?” Otis for his part encouraged the kid and didn’t make things any easier. “If you really want to keep yourself up at night, ask Maggie why she’s got a still-functioning pocket watch, yet I can’t fix my damned hat.” “Don’t start about the hat again.” Over time, Maggie learned that Adam wasn’t curious so much as eager for an opportunity to complain. “She has a what?” Otis laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about it, you’ll see it when we get to bettin’.” “Bettin’?” “If he asks another question, I’m going to run into the barrier myse--” Maggie stopped, going silent. In the distance, she heard hoofbeats, followed by whoops and hollers echoing across the desert. It was the telltale mix of excitement and testosterone that only came from impending murder. “You’ve got to be kidding me, another one?” Otis floated up to get a better look. Sure enough, a party of four men was riding toward the tree. “It’s that damned summer heat, puts the devil in men.” “Just in men?” “Oh, let’s not get into gender norms now, Maggie, there’s a hangin’ to watch.” Maggie glared at him but returned her attention to the riders. “I bet that’s Reggie again.” Otis scoffed. “Why don’t we just ask young Adam here.” Adam floated up beside them, struggling to maintain his balance. “Reggie?” he asked. “You probably know him by Reginald, the man that hung you.” “Oh.” Adam paused. “Yeah, he’s none too fond of me.” Maggie let out a slight whoop. “Told you, Otis. Could spot that man a mile away.” “Yes, and being right is such a lovely color on you. Now why would our dear friend Reginald want you hung?” asked Otis. “I may have...” Maggie turned toward him. “May have what?” “Slept with his wife.” Despite the circumstances, Adam still had a tinge of pride as he said it. Maggie scoffed. “To think, Otis and I were both unjustly strung up, and you’re just here because you couldn’t keep it in your pants. Well, The Hanging Tree really does take all types.” “Hey--” “Shut up, kid, it’s time to bet.” Otis watched the riders carefully. “He’s got a bag over his head, just like this one.” He jerked a thumb to Adam. “But he’s making a lot less noise, probably conserving oxygen.” Maggie looked down at the men, sizing up the victim. “This is a tricky bet.” “What are we betting on?” Adam hovered closer, still correcting for a constant, slow forward spin he couldn’t seem to shake. Otis ignored him. “You know he’s not getting enough air in that bag. Means he’s going to be quicker.” “Don’t think he does his core exercises?” “As a matter of fact, I don’t.” “What the hell are you talking about?!” Adam’s form glowed bright before settling to muted green. “We’re betting on how long it’s going to take this man to die once they string him up.” Saying it out loud made Maggie feel shameful, but not enough to stop taking mental measurements in her head. Besides, Adam would be a dirt napper before long; the crazy had already begun to eat into his brain. Adam made a disgusted noise. “Look, kid, we’re stuck, can’t do nothing about this poor bastard’s fate, might as well have a little fun. Think they’ll use a bucket, Otis?” “There has to be something we can do. No one should suffer a fate like this.” Maggie ignored him. “I’m going to say four minutes on the nose. Less if there’s a bucket, for obvious reasons.” “That is a long time to sway on the rope.” Otis thought it over. “I’ll take that action. The usual bet?” “Usual bet.” “You’re both pathetic. I’m going to do something about this.” “Have fun, kid.” Adam floated away from the other two spirits, towards the approaching party. Had they been able to see him, he might have cut an intimidating figure. The image of a spirit floating down from a hanging tree to greet bandits would have sent anyone running. Fortunately for the greasy men, confident atop their horses, they saw nothing but an empty tree. “Oh, this is perfect. You’re going to love this place, Larry” said the man in the lead with a hearty guffaw. “Bill, take his bag off.” “That’s not Reggie.” Maggie could tell immediately. The leader was too round about the middle, and Reggie only laughed once a job was done. One of the horsemen stepped down. Adam walked up until he was right between Bill and the to-be-hung. “Hey, get out of here!” he yelled. “Well this is new.” Maggie watched eagerly. Bill, a thick barrel of a man, took no notice, passing right through Adam on his way to remove the victim from his horse. There wasn’t even a shudder of acknowledgment or a cold chill. Adam yelled. “Screw this!” His spirit glowed bright once again. “How is he doing that?” asked Otis. Maggie didn’t answer, but was instead watching the horsemen, one of whom twitched when Adam’s form glowed. She couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like the man had seen him. “Holy shit,” she muttered. “I don’t believe it.” Adam paid neither of them any attention and ran full speed at Bill. His spirit reached a blinding level of brilliance and then disappeared. Bill looked momentarily sick, his hand still wrapped around the rope connected to their prisoner. Then, his arm jerked out to the side, violently, snapping the rope taught and pulling the victim off the horse. Maggie watched as the bagged man fell in slow motion with a muffled cry. He twisted, trying to right himself, but landed firmly on his head. There was a sickening crunch as his neck cracked against the hard-packed dirt. Adam reappeared in the same instant, moving at high speed as if Bill’s body had shot him out like a cannon. His spirit smacked into the barrier, sending up a huge burst of energy, outlining the upper portion of the dome in its entirety. “What the hell did you just do, Bill?” The leader hopped off his horse and walked around to where the hanging victim now lay slumped. “Ah, Christ.” Bill looked around wildly, confused. “What just h-happened?” He ran his hands over his skin as if it were someone else’s. Maggie didn’t have to look closely to understand the position of the victim’s neck wasn’t healthy. It was slumped to the side at a forty-five degree angle, and the man gave no movement other than slight twitches of his feet. “Hell, he’s still alive. No point in hanging him now, Bill. He probably can’t feel shit.” In a surprising act of mercy, the leader pulled out his pistol and shot the twitching man in the head. At the same instant, an older man appeared, lying on the ground, right next to his body, neck still bent at an odd angle. “Holy shit,” muttered Otis. “Did Adam just possess someone?” “He sure did, and you lost the bet. Time to pay up.


They have put you in this box with me. A casualty of commons. Death by our own tax money. They have put you in this box with me. Three walls of cement with one large glass pane so that we may watch the anthill world below us. I wanted you to see this place. This less than perfect side of me. My anthill. Where the rules are only as firm as your will and where your tribe is the real law. It is as dis/honest as it is un/flattering. You are here now. And this is the truth of it. We have given everything to come here. Our tidy little home among the Angels has been rented by another hopeful couple. It was once an empty box, but we made it ours. May they treat those walls with as much love as we have. I hope they remember to water the plants. I hope they love our tree the way you and I did. We have left everything and come here. Traded a nuptial bed for two pieces of paper marked 41F&G. That bed was the only thing I had to my name in the early days, besides that overused duffel with its broken strap which carried my whole life inside. You helped me build it, back when you were my first friend in a foreign country. I thought I would need a hammer and you laughed. Apparently everything in your country is built with an Allen wrench. That bed followed me to every new box. Each time, we took it apart and rebuilt it together. It was there for us, at the end of every long day. As you were for me, whenever I felt the walls of that strange land closing in. Whenever I felt foreign and less than. You seemed, somehow, to understand, though you had never lived anywhere else but among the Angels. I will never forget how it felt to take it apart, one last time. Piece by piece it went, out the door, down the stairs (all three flights), out to the lobby and into the garbage. First the legs, which held us up for so many years. Then the frame. Then the headboard. As I carried it in my arms for the last time, I imagined your fingers gripping the edges, the way they did every night when we were finally alone again. I wish I had kept a piece of it. One screw or splinter. I wish someone or something else could make its home in that bed. I suppose we left it for the flies and the worms in the landfill. Nothing ever really disappears. And now we are here. Come all this way. To live in a box in the sky. I wanted you to see this place, and I suppose that's my wish fulfilled. From this view, my anthill looks so different. It sprawls until it meets the horizon in every direction. Our greatest structures touch the sky and the neon billboards flash unyieldingly into the night. It looks grand. And terrifying. I watch you as you peer into the streets below, curious about life in this new world. And I wonder if we will ever really be a part of it. My anthill can be a savage and unforgiving place. Once upon a time, you would have been welcomed here by a band of singing men and dancing ladies as we walked the carpet out of the airport. But today... today we are treated with sterility. Today we are carted off by strangers in hazmat suits, ushered hurriedly into a van and delivered to our box to await judgment. There was a time when you would have been seen as an Angel. A welcome visitor. And my people would bend over backwards to speak your language, accommodate your whims, treat you with kindness and offer you the best of our meager anthill. Today you are a stranger, and carry with you a foreign scent that sends my people into a scramble. Today you are to be contained. Hence, the box. They tried to take you from me. How have you come here, they asked you. Who are you with, in the rough tongue of my people. They can see that you are different, but they don't lend you the courtesy of speaking your language. That time has passed. I must translate. They resist, they are suspicious. They do not want you near me. I bear the mark of one of their own, but you do not. You are a threat and they place partitions between us. I must yell over the barrier. I must summon the will of my people that has lain dormant for years. I must assert my will over the rules. No, I say. This one is with me. This one is my tribe. They are skeptical. I insist. They scramble to call a superior. And you... are terrified. You cannot understand our words, but know implicitly what authority looks like. It takes a strange new form here, doesn't it? We have all the right paperwork and yet somehow that does not matter. In the land of Angels, that's usually all that matters. Welcome to my anthill, darling, where one must wield their will and invoke the power of their tribe like a sword and shield, or in your parlance, a badge and gun. Here I am, your chthonic knight, come from under the earth to defend you. In your land, you would have resented me for it. I would have resented it myself. But here and now... it is necessary. Or else they will take you away. They have put me in this box with you. The bed is not our bed. The walls have no love. We watch the man across the street with envy as he tends to his roof garden, missing our tree. But we are here. We have made it. And now you see this side of me and have begun to understand the first rules of this earthly place. I watch you as you stare out the window, too ashamed to touch you, to speak. I have brought you here. Have made you feel trapped, less-than, foreign. You turn around and meet my gaze. I feel as though I have been caught watching you, and I turn away in shame, but you take my hand. Placing it on your chest, you smile and say, so this is what it's like.


I stepped off the plane with a feeling of resentment. Throughout the flight I thought of thousands of different ways to escape, to find my way back home. Many ideas floated through my head like diving out of the fire escape and parachuting my way to freedom, or pretending to throw up so they would have to take me off the plane. But, considering all of the butterflies that were, and still are, in my stomach, I doubted that I would have had to pretend.The i thought I could have locked the pilot in the bathroom and turned the whole plane around, which actually doesn't seem that bad...no that's crazy... yeah, that was crazy. It was stupid to think of an escape plan when it was my own fault that I was coming here. Because I wanted to. I pick up my luggage at the baggage carousel. I find it easily, as it is the only bright floral print bag with a neon yellow tag. My parents bought it for me so I could never lose sight of it and find it easily as it moved along the conveyor belt. I drag my bag behind me and walk through the airport always as slowly as possible, taking small turtle steps and stopping at literally every airport magazine shop to flip through the magazines. Anything to delay my arrival into this city. Toronto, the place where I was born and the place I am trying so hard not to enter right now. It is not, however, the place where I grew up. I grew up in London, England. My parents moved there right after I was born because my dad got a job offer there. He’s a pretty successful businessman. In all these years, I never left London. I’ve lived in the same house since I was a baby and I’ve been attending the same school since kindergarten. I stop by the food court and stand in line to pick up some McDonalds. I’ll probably get a classic burger and fries and eat it really slowly, and maybe by the time I get outside it will be dark and I can get straight to my hotel and go to sleep... ughhh no! I know I shouldn’t be complaining because I wanted to be here. After high school, a lot of my classmates and friends got accepted into these amazing English universities like Oxford and Cambridge, and some other fancy ones I don’t know the names of. While they were getting acceptance letters left, right, and centre to become doctors and professors and Michelangelo-type artists, I decided to study photography right in the city. Since I was a kid my parents would show me pictures of their life before London, when they used to live in Toronto. I would look at the photos all the time and admire the way the CN Tower blinked red over the whole downtown scene, and I always wanted to visit, but never really got the chance. I’ve never really felt at home in London, for no reason in particular, but it always just felt like an extended stay that would soon end. Which I guess in a way it was. In my last year of high school, I realized nothing was really holding me back in London, so I decided to move to Toronto to study photography. I picked up my bag and put my phone in a basket. I watched as my belongings rolled through the black curtains into the scanner. I took off my shoes and my ring and waited to step through the arch. The lady called me to come forward but I did not move. Why was I so reluctant to join the city that I had admired for years? Miss, please come forward. I join reality again and step through the scanner and pick up my things. The decision I made was quite rash. I had no plan, I wasn’t promised to any Canadian university, and I didn’t have a job either. I guess I was so excited by the prospect of living out my dream I hadn’t stopped to think logically. What if everything failed and I would have to move back to London? My grades would not support any English university I wanted to go to, which I really don’t. What if I can’t find a job? Or how long will I have to live in this hotel? And how did I travel across the world by myself with no plan? Maybe these were just dreams, only dreams. What if - Whoosh My cloud of worry and overthinking is blown away by the crisp and cold Canadian air as it hits my face. I soon realize that I somehow navigated myself out of the Toronto airport and I also realize that I’m very under dressed for the cold weather. I zip up my jacket higher up to my face and look around. The snow is lightly falling all around, making the sidewalks splotchy and damp. There is a white billboard to the far left with an ad for the new iPhone 12 which provides splashes of colour to the grey-blue monotone building it sits on. To my right, a woman is singing into a microphone, her voice echoing out on the streets with a drummer and guitarist playing their accompanied music behind her. A small group of people crowd around while one person drops a bill into the hat on the floor and then another person does the same. Turning away from the music scene I look in front of me, and look up. There stands a tall tower, that is round and pretty thin, but gets wider to the top, then thins again. A blinking red light on the top of the tower hits me square on the face. It was like how the sun shines on a new day. The light is comforting and reassuring. All of my anxious questions and worries feel a mile away, almost as if it hopped on the plane and flew back to London. A new sense of hope and motivation grows inside of me. Maybe I’ll find a new apartment to stay at and I’ll walk along the city passing out my resume to any restaurant I see. I’ll take photos all over the city, and I will take a photo of the place I always admired in my parents' picture. And I know not every day will be perfect and my battle with this city is far from over. There may be days when I hate this city and days when I love it. But I guess you can experience all different kinds of days when you are at home. END


Ghosts are just like any of you. We say “good morning” and “have a lovely day” like any normal person. We wave and smile, or at least try to. In conversation, I’m barely there, but trust me, I’m listening. My voice box has recently gone out of order, so you won’t be getting any participation on my end. It’s always a pleasure, though, to hear the latest rundown of the news or stories about your weekend. I’d love to connect with you, but you should know we’re from different dimensions. The life of a phantom ain’t so bad. I’m unbothered and do whatever I want! Floating above you all, I get a wonderful view. Sightseeing has been my newfound passion. During my subway cruises, I get to see a bunch of funny faces. And if I’m lucky, a drunk wacko will dance in the streets. It’s moments like these where a smile feels genuine. On weekends, a seat by the ocean with a good book fills the void that my day-to-day doesn’t. Since my death earlier this year, I’ve lost touch with my emotions. I don’t get scared or excited like I used to. Sometimes, loneliness will creep up, so I look back over old pictures with the kind of fondness a mother has for her child. Memories of my past life give me a sense of accomplishment. Like I truly meant something. But, now that I’m dead, I know I won’t be making souvenirs anytime soon. One day, I hope I can live again. For real this time. Maybe I could meet a girl that’ll spark my heart. I’ve always wondered what it was like to hold someone’s hand as you run off in the sunset. Inspiring! I could only imagine. If I’d magically revive, I would take over the world. I’d fix up my act and save enough money to move to LA. Then, I’d join a band and live like there’s no tomorrow. But let’s face it, I’ve always been one with wishful thinking. This is my life now. Cold and empty. And there’s nothing I could do about it. All the action lies in the underworld. Here, I’ve made friends with millions of bizarre characters. Mummies fall in love with sirens, witches cast spells on tin men, hellhounds give the best cuddles, and demons know how to party. It’s a shame they can’t access the surface as I can. They’re having fun down here, so why would they want to anyway? The burden’s mine. I sail through both worlds but don’t have the strength to pick up a drink in either. I’m just a sad pair of eyes. I like to think I’m a good soul. I have the ability to possess human spirits, and whenever I do, I try to uplift the host’s brain. When I control bodies, I tap dance or sing profusely. It makes me happy to believe I make a positive impact, even if it’s just for a short period. By the end, I’m fulfilled and the mortal is entertained. It’s a fair trade if you ask me. If I can’t live for myself, then I will live for others.


Angus Hooper boarded the cruise ship Heaven’s Orchid, taking a light transport from the nearest space station. His travel was work-related; attending a conference meeting on the ship. Angus was a plumbing and sanitary engineer for the colony back home. The profession was honest work and well paid, but it was not a discipline that garnered high status. He knew the conference on maintenance and upgrade would be dominated by the more glamourous divisions, the ‘service-providers’ and management-types, that like talk a lot about all things impractical and flippant. Once on board the conference ship, he felt his mind and body shift into a more relaxed state. These conferences usually felt like something halfway between a holiday and the usual work. He took the omnidirectional lift from the check-in to his floor on the ship. The company would only pay for a cheap cabin but, privately, he preferred the modest practically of the middle decks. It was comfortable without the gaudy ostentatiousness of the more expensive suites. As he walked down the corridor leading to his cabin, he noticed one of the wall panels had been removed, and its display, changed from the usual artificial window projections on the other walls to read “Work in Progress” in black-on-orange lettering. As he passed he looked in, and had to do a double take. It was a creature, moving slowly and holding onto the mess of conduits that made up the ship. The creature was a roughly cat-sized crustacean. In appearance, it looked somewhere between a coconut crab and a spiny lobster. It’s tough carapace was covered in a film of dirt and grease, which seemed to blend or camouflage the creature against the ship’s internals. Its underside was a mess of limbs of various sizes and functions. Two black, mottled eyes on stalks stared back at him dimly. Seeing but not processing what it was seeing, more like a camera’s lens than an eye of an animal. What was it doing - eating ? Of course not, it must be something to do with repair. A pest wouldn’t make itself as visible to passers-by. After a pause the creature resumed work, slowly weaving between the wires and pipes. Angus watched, fascinated. Feelers and fine claws tested the cables, bringing some nearer the creature’s head for inspection. Larger implements moved obstructing cables out the way. “Angus!” the voice startled him, as he turned around to see a smiling man in blue overalls. “Are you here for the conference?”. It was an old work colleague who had transferred a while ago, Angus recalled him boasting about a new job on a cruise ship before he left. “Bob, what the hell is that!?” Angus said, gesturing to the creature. “Straight to shop-talk Angus as always” bob laughed. “It’s the latest art-life novelty I picked up on a stopover at one of the new settlement colonies. Bio-engineered artificial maintenance drones is they’re official name, but us on the Orchid crew just call them plumber-crabs”. Bob reached in and picked it up. He put one of its large, curved limbs around his own and the other crab’s legs followed independently. It hung from his arm upside down, sloth-like. “pretty cool” Angus said. “yeah, but it certainly isn’t pretty!” Bob replied. The two continued down the corridor till they were outside Angus’s cabin, and the conversation shifted to-and fro, between catching up on their private lives and talking about the crab. Angus had initially thought the crab had been put there by Bob to do a specific task. But Bob explained the crabs were almost completely autonomous. They moved around the ship at will, and were capable of completing virtually any small-scale maintenance task inside the ship, unnoticed or with minimum disturbance. Since the crabs were installed, the Orchid had gone from a track record of near-constant breakdowns to being the most reliable ship the Heaven fleet. Bob claimed, they’d become a necessity. “how intelligent are they?” Angus asked. Bob answered “These guys? Pretty dumb. All the cognitive processing is done by the queen. She has a rudimentary artificial intelligence installed in her neural linkage. She’s also pretty dumb, but she can understand basic instructions communicated by text.”. “here” Bob handed him the crab. It hung weightily from his arm. Bob opened up his communicator and typed “message BAMS queen: This drone to accompany Angus for duration of conference.” Bob laughed “He’ll keep you company for the stay”. Angus rolled his eyes, as he looked down at the crab, which in response, tightened its grip round his forearm and shifted to a more comfortable position. Angus entered his cabin. He coaxed the crab off his arm and onto a desk, where it sat a gingerly on a pile of its gangly limbs. The crab stared at him vacantly as he unpacked his compression suitcase, the clothes expanding as the shape-memory alloy completed the uncoiling programme. “Maybe it’s hungry” Angus thought, “...but what do crabs eat?”, he looked around the cabin, stuck his head in the minibar. With some hesitation he offered a peanut to the crab. The interaction was not like those he’d had with natural animals on the colony. The crab was neither shy not boisterous, and it seemed indifferent about the food. He’d found that if the peanut was placed in one of the crab’s smaller claws near its mandibles, the crab would accept the peanut, gnawing it calmly as it continued to follow his movements with its eyestalks. Angus made himself a cup of coffee to relax for a moment. He still had half an hour to wait before the auditorium opened upstairs. The crab looked at him with the same detached coldness as it passively played with one of it’s larger claws. After unpacking Angus drifted upstairs and watched one of the plenary sessions. But he kept drifting off, all he could think about was the crab. The possibilities back at the colony! Just one of these things could half his workload. He could finally get away from the daily emergency repairs and rote-tasks, and focus on the big project long overdue. Like the new heat exchangers on the digesters. And that’s not all, he could set up his own maintenance contract company. Hell, with a few modifications maybe he could even send squads of them out to renovate abandoned shipwrecks out in deep space and sell them on as working vessels. The possibilities were endless. His daydreaming continued on and off through the day’s sessions. At lunch he saw Bob sitting alone at a table across the mess deck - He made straight for him. They spent the whole dinner talking about the crabs. “It’s just a basic system, cobbled together” Bob said, “I haven’t even bothered with voice interaction for the communication, it’s still just command line. The AI is also Just a basic royalty-free sourcecode. The hard work was all done in the lab by the breeder I bought her off really.” Angus agreed “I find that with all of these bio-engineered tools. The ground work really matters. You know I tried a mammalian-cellline based self-healing pipe once about ten years ago. It caught a flesheating infection not long after I’d commissioned it. I had to pull it all out, and replace it with new, old stuff! We finished with three skips filled with these slimy, rotting veins and arteries. The smell was vile!”. Bob quipped “technology eh?”. Angus continued “but I have to say Bob, these plumber crabs are something else. Its certainly cool to see bioengineering done right for once” Bob suggested “After lunch, do you want to go downstairs, meet *Her Majesty* !?”. Angus lept at the opportunity: “yeah for sure! it’s all electrical stuff in the next session - my boss sent me here to learn about plumbing right?” In the core of the ship the artificial gravity was uneven, making them both nauseous. They stumbled along a damp, dirty corridor filled with scrap and raw materials. Behind an old disused water tank was a door. It was cramped, and they had to stoop to get inside. The room was dim, lit by the blue shadows of old screens. In the centre sat the queen. It was roughly pig-sized, propped up in an old chair in the centre of the room. It looked like a woodlouse, with hundreds of arms folded over each other, protecting eggs in various stages of gestation that clung to its body. A mess of cables and wires ran from it’s flank into the electronics at the back of the room. The surrounding room was thick with juveniles, shuffling around amongst the bric-a-brac. Bob said “So, this is my setup. It’s pretty hacky, but I got it up and running”. Stepping over the wires, bob turned one of the screens to face them better. It showed details of technical drawings, maintenance log summaries “the screens are mostly for my benefit. The crab receives them as neural uploads directly”. Angus looked back at the queen, which almost seemed to show a glint of recognition. Angus was quietly inquisitive. The two spent a lot of time down their discussing technical details, and touring around the rest of the ship’s core, before they got too queasy and had to go back upstairs. The next day, Angus was still thinking about the crabs. Partly due to the one bob gave him, which was still sitting his cabin’s desk, watching him calmly. On his way to breakfast, he noticed the panel had been repaired. After another day of inconsequential presentations, Angus returned to his cabin to work on a longrunning issue with the plant on the colony. He thought the change of scenery would give him a fresh perspective. He was not in luck: he stared at the same old diagrams, but everything seemed correct. He looked at the crab sitting on the desk, “Don’t suppose you have ideas?”. He quickly received a text message: BAMS ORCHID1: good afternoon Mr Hooper. Can I assist you ? Startled, Angus explained the problem he was working on. The queen replied. BAMS\_ORCHID1: drone 137 will inspect the issue... The crab waddled across the desk, and stared at the digital-twin plans of the colony on Angus’s computer screen. After a long pause, a detailed discussion ensued between Angus and the queen. They arrived at a fault diagnosis: a part that had been installed backwards by contractors last year. With the issue resolved, Angus was in an upbeat and chatty mood. “I’m surprised you’re not more involved with the conference. You clearly know a lot about engineering, probably more than a lot of the other AI’s in attendance”. “Thankyou Mr Hooper” the queen replied. Angus asked “Is there anything I can get you in return? Anything you would enjoy?... what do you like to do in your free time? ”. The queen replied “I am a bio-engineered artificial maintenance system. I think only of maintenance. It has been hardwired into my basic fulfilment drives. Much like your dopamine system rewards you for human behaviour, my biological neurotransmitters have been repurposed to seek reward through fulfilling my primary functions.” Angus replied “but, isn’t there any part of you left from the natural genetic stock you were synthesised from? Surely, those biological drives can’t have been removed completely. Otherwise, how would you function day-to-day?”. There was a pause. As Angus got up to make himself something to drink, midway he received a reply: BAMS\_ORCHID1: my drones miss the sea. As he sipped his tea, Angus contemplated this reply. He looked at drone 137 sitting on the table. It’s once dozy demeanour now struck him as oddly wistful. This creature, simultaneously completely at home, fulfilling the purpose it was made for, while also completely separated from where it originally belonged. He finished his drink and washed his cup out in the sink. On a whim, he put the plug in, and let it fill with water. He took a salt sachet from the room service meal he had the night before, and emptied it into the sink. He picked up the crab, and put it next to the sink. The crab enthusiastically charged into the sink. Splashing around for a few moments, before it settled down, half-submerged and content. The water was now dark with oil and grime from the Crab’s carapace. And the crab itself had changed colour completely, it’s natural blue and yellow colours coming through the oil and grime it was caked-in. He hadn’t even noticed before, it’s largest claw, was biomineralized, and now cleaned, it glinted with a mother-of-pearl like sheen. Angus sat and watched the creature, as he relaxed before bed. The next morning was the last day of the conference. Already many people were saying their goodbyes, packing up, and leaving to catch early-transfer shuttles. Through the now half-empty presentation sessions, Angus huddled over his computer, jotting down his idea. At the coffee break, he went to an additive manufacture demo stands at one of the expo booths, and had his idea 3D-printed. The host gave him the spiel “Look at the quality of that edge...”, Angus quickly thanked him, scanned his business card, and left. After lunch, he stole some salt sellers from the mess deck. Back at his room, he scooped up his crab, and took everything down to the core to see the queen. He dropped the drone off, placing it on the queen’s lap. “I have an idea about how I could repay you, if you’d like?” he texted to the queen. He dragged the water tank from outside into the queen’s modest room, and fitted the simple 3D-printed filter. He used a fire hose from further down the corridor, and filled the tank, emptying the salt into the water. As the tank began to fill, the crabs from around the room quickly piled into the water, clamouring over each other for positions, some dropping from the ceiling directly into the water. Before he had filled it completely, all of the crabs were in or around the edge of the water. He turned off the hose, and stood back for a moment. BAMS\_ORCHID1: “Thank you so much Mr Hooper. My drones are very happy. How can I illustrate my appreciation?...” “I have been in communication with my Master. Previously you enquired about obtaining one of my units for your own work.” She curled to look down at drone 137. She secreted a gelatinous material from her abdomen, and fed it to the drone. “This is royal jelly” she explained. “in a year’s time, this drone will moult to become a queen, should you wish to take it with you to your colony as a gift. I have programmed the drone to pair with electronics for communication”. Angus took the drone back. He didn’t know what to say. He replied “I have to go now, I still need to pack before we dock. Nice to meet you!” The ship pulled into port, and Angus disembarked with the rest of the conference attendees. Along with his memory-alloy suitcase, he was now also carrying a box, with holes in the lid, in the other arm. He split from the main group to walk up to the Custom and Excise desk. “Anything to declare?” the guards at the desk asked. Two inquisitive eyes peered out from the box holes.


This is a short story about a frustrated, washed-up writer I had to write for my year 12 English class. We were supposed to incorporate some amount of metafiction into the story. 564 words. Feedback would be nice. **The Abyss** The whiteness is blinding as I sit alone in the dark, mug in hand, gazing upon the glowing blank screen, pondering the question - how did this happen? Only yesterday, it seems, I stood upon the velveted stage, that little gold statuette held tight within my grip, all lights on me, all eyes on me... the glory. The ecstasy of prestige, the sweet perfection of vanity, the golden beams of eminence and esteem. And now, I sit alone and empty. A sad, old, fat man with an empty mind and a full belly. I’d resolved to write something original... something real and tangible. Something beyond cheap melodrama or sappy romantic-comedy drivel. Something visceral, something powerful, something *alive*. That first win was something special, but since then it’s all been a gush of commercialized, focus-room trite. Guidelines and checklists. Quantified and collated, maximised for optimum profit and tailored for critical success. Constructed, assembled, manufactured with clinical precision... never *crafted*. So, I stare at this blank screen and tell myself that I will make an attempt at real art. At something more than titillating loglines and sizzling taglines. An honest work. But what about? Well, let’s start with a ‘fade in’, at least. The keys click and clack as my fingers tap against them in rapid succession, a little pulse of unearned optimism coursing through my mind, a flare of naïve excitement lighting up a chasm of empty contemplation and despondent reflection. What was the last idea? Ah, yes, the story of a man left bitter and disillusioned with society following the death of his wife in a tragic train crash. There’s an idea. I can do something with that. He’s depressed, angry, worn down. He spirals down into sociopathy and misandry... he’s pissed off that the city council didn’t spend money on creating newer, safer public transport... so he gathers a bunch of guns and takes city council hostage! And there it goes. Another idea burned. Made flash and sizzle. Or in other words, garbage. You see what they’ve done to me? No. I need to think. *Really think*. Draw upon the world, tap into the faces that pass by every day. We are all worn down in our own way, we all have our stories of the pain and the cold. I need that. Last night. As I sat under the dim, dusty incandescent bulbs of the bar, sipping at some syrupy cocktail, I gazed upon the faces around the room. I ignored the usual patrons, but someone caught my eye. A woman in a uniform. She sat alone at a booth, drinking bourbon. Her coat was decorated, covered in brass and ribbons. She sat with a straight back, but her shoulders were relaxed, and she didn’t seem tense. She had the posture of a proud and strong woman. A fighter. A soldier. But her eyes said something else. They were empty, gazing into an abyss of cold and dark, a space between the mind and reality. I wondered what had happened. She didn’t seem scarred, not in the way so many veterans are. This was someone who’d thrived in the chaos of war - her strength forged amidst fire and fury. She’d been a leader. So what was that emptiness in her eyes? What was that abyss? Maybe that’s the story I need to write. The story of her abyss.