The school bell rings, indicating it's midday. I ram my books and pen into my satchel and hurry down the brown corridors, keeping to my left as per school rules. I push through the swing doors and hold one open with my foot as the boy behind me grabs the handle. I pick up my pace and move past the chatting hordes of bustling pupils and make my way down the sloping playground to the main road entrance. I walk sideways, looking for a gap between cars so that I can cross the road. Once over, I walk a few paces and run a few all the way home. It takes about twenty minutes. The sooner I get home, the more time I will have in which to splash some water on my face and under my arms to refresh myself, have some lunch, and play with my beautiful dog Sue. I hurry down the main road, turn left at the bridge over the railway line, cross the road, turn right and into the street where I live. Our house is the second one down, but first, you have to pass the long, tall fence of the garden on the main road. A smile begins in the corners of my mouth as I anticipate the welcoming soggy licks Sue will give me as soon as I open the door. The warmth of her softness as my hands plunge deep into her fur and give her a gentle squeeze. I put my key in the lock and open the door. I am greeted not by a fluffy bundle of love but by a convulsing, thrashing dog lying in what looks like a war zone. I'm sure I don't go inside in slow motion, but it seems that way. My eyes grow wide, and my jaw drops open. Mum is kneeling on the floor with the lounge door pressing on her back. Dad made the door, so it automatically closes itself. You have to prop it open. Mum was keeping it open with her back. I lean forward, push the door and wedge it with the slab of green marble we have for this purpose. Sue is lying on her side in the throes of a convulsion. "She's been fitting for at least twenty minutes," Mum says. I throw my satchel onto a chair in the backroom and rush back to Mum and Sue. "What can I do?" I say as I glimpse around the room at the poo on the furniture, walls, and ceiling where Sue has messed herself, and her long bushy tail has lashed out like some cowboy's bullwhip and spread the mess everywhere. The foamy saliva and blood from her bitten tongue have mixed with the urine and poo. It has all spattered around the room. The whole room stinks. If ever there is a smell of death, then this is it. It fills my nostrils. Sue's head, legs, body, and tail are thrashing a concoction of body fluids and excrements over Mum and the walls. I gawp in disbelief. "You'll have to call the vet. I don't think Sue is going to come out of this fit." Mum says. "Take some money off the mantlepiece. The number's on a scrap of paper behind the commemorative mug on the windowsill. Go to the phone box and tell the vet Sue has not come out of her fit for at least twenty-five minutes." I hurry into the backroom, take the money from the mantlepiece, find the scrap of paper behind the commemorative mug, steer myself around Sue's thrashing legs and body and instinctively put the door on the latch. I run the short distance up the road, around the corner, and to the shop on the next corner, where the red phone box stands tucked into its indent in the long wooden fence. The feeling of urgency rises in me, and my pulse quickens. I dial the number marked Miss M. Vet on the piece of paper. A young voice answers immediately. "Miss M's veterinary practice, how can I help you.?" Between short quick breaths, I tell the voice on the other end of the phone that Sue has been fitting for at least twenty-five minutes. I slam the receiver back down and run home. I run past the open front gate with the sign that says, 'lease shut the gate.' The 'P' fell off the day Dad nailed the metal plate on and then closed the gate too sharply. Sue is still convulsing. Mum is doing her best to keep an old flannel across Sue's teeth so that she does not bite her tongue anymore. Mum is holding her tail down to stop even more mess going up the walls and onto the ceiling. I stand looking, feeling helpless. I turn to the window as I hear a noise outside. The vet arrives. She must have been in the area. There is no way she could have got from the practice to our house amid the busy town traffic unless she had driven at ninety miles an hour. These thoughts add to my feelings of-this is an emergency. More panic rises from within. I open the door for the vet. She is a short, plump lady and out of breath as she comes up the steps to our house and kneels beside Sue. Her saggy black bag next to her. I know I have to get back to school. We have a maths exam. No one asks me if I want to stay. I can think of some excuse to tell the teachers if only someone would ask me to stay behind with my dog. My eyes grow big as I watch the vet reach into her bag and take a big syringe from a box full of long needles. My mind flashes back to when I was about five years old and was having my tonsils out--the nurse standing by my bed with a massive needle. I grab the barrel with such force that it breaks the glass syringe attached to the needle. Now the vet is going to stick an enormous needle in Sue. I know Sue is going to die. She is not going to come out of this fit-ever. I know the syringe does not contain some magic potion to help Sue recover and be a normal fit-free dog again. I rush to the back room, snatch my school satchel off the chair and quickly walk back to Mum, the vet, and the still fitting Sue. I feel helpless. There is nothing I can do. I am not wanted or needed here in this world of mayhem. The only way out of the room is by half stepping over Sue and scrambling over the kneeling plump lady vet and then out the front door. I stumble on, and as I look behind me at the gruesome scene, Sue still convulsing on the floor, blood, wee, poo, and froth everywhere, I hear the plump lady vet say, "what a horrible child." I close the front door. Hold back tears and run just over a mile back to school. As I run, I relive Mum, all on her own, trying to do all she can to help Sue. I relive opening the front door and a scene reminiscent of the last days of Gettysburg hitting me in the face. I am oblivious to the main road, the lunchtime traffic, the heat, the fumes, and the noise. All I have echoing in my ears are the words of the plump lady vet. "What a horrible child." I slow my pace and catch my breath as I go through the school gates up the incline, through the tarmac playground, and into the school corridor. I compose myself. I think I'm okay. I try to appear normal. My friend is coming toward me on her way to class, "What's wrong?" She says. "Nothing," I say and realize I'm going the wrong way. I turn and follow her into class and sit down at my desk. Tears erupt from eyes. I cannot stop them. They blot over the page of the exercise book on my desk. I wipe the book with my sleeve, but the page still warps under the wetness left behind. I spend the rest of the day crying and do horribly at my maths test. The teacher asks my friend why I am crying. "She's had her dog put to sleep, sir." My friend says. When the final school bell of the day rings out, I put my bits and pieces in my satchel saunter to the exit and out onto the main road. I slowly walk home. My best friend will not be greeting me tonight. At home, no one mentions Sue or the day's happenings. No one speaks her name. I push my supper around my plate and apologize to Mum for not being hungry. I go up to my room and lay on my bed. I want sleep to claim me so that I can wake from this nightmare. I close my eyes and drift off into a dull, grey ache that will not go away. In the greyness Mum is talking to me. "There's a man at the top of the hill, near the church, who has some puppies for sale. If you want one you'd better hurry as they'll sell fast. He wants two shillings and sixpence for them." I think "that's the total amount of my week's pocket money." I'm not sure what to do. Has Mum forgiven me? It's been a whole year since I went out with my friends, climbed the school gates, and ran around the school roof. It's been an entire year since I forgot Bunty was with me, and she went looking for me and got run over and killed. Was I ready for another dog? Was I responsible enough to know how to look after another dog? I take my pocket money out of the little container in my bedroom cabinet drawer and place it in my cardigan pocket. I walk down the road, turn right, cross the road, and go up the hill to the church: the hill, the opposite end of the road where Bunty was run over. I knock on the battered front door of the house next to the ancient church. A withered old man silently greets me and beckons me into the kitchen, where there is a box full of puppies. The puppies squirm when they see me. "Do you have any girls?" I say. The withered old man takes the prettiest puppy in his gnarled hands. "This is a girl." He says. "The others are all boys." I take two shillings and sixpence from my pocket. The withered old man holds the tiny puppy in one hand and opens the palm of the other. I place my pocket money on the deep dark lines of his skin. I take the girl puppy from him, go out of the kitchen, out the front door, and carry her home in my arms. I name her Sue. Still in troubled sleep I'm playing with Sue, reading books on dog training, and putting the lessons into practice. Sue sits, stays, rolls over, and plays fetch. I throw a ball down the long, narrow garden path. Sue chases it. The concrete path becomes a beach, and Sue is running into the sea. I call her, "Sue, Sue. Come back, Sue." I wake from my dream and enter my nightmare.


Melting glaciers being my source and power for downstream follow. I am born, because of the ice mountains giving in to the heat and pouring down, creating me. Passing through smaller hills, jumping off the mountains, rushing at the bends, quenching many species thirsts, and resting a bit during my journey between valleys and mountains, carrying numerous varieties of inhabitants within and allowing the huge population to utilize me at the surface, I travel restlessly taking note of everything that I touch. Unlike living beings, I don’t get to sleep. Constant movement carrying mud, soil, clothes, or rubbish that’s forced into me, is how I survive. Over my unpredictable ebb and flow of existence, I am accustomed to a routine as well. Every morning, the paved road running parallel to me carry’s kids in vehicles, and we part our ways at a bend. Locals trek their way top to the mountains on any day other than a rainy day, in search of herbs or animal hunt, they wash parts of themselves in me and put out their thirst by having a bit of me. I can easily track anything because the hills share tales of the people that climb them. The mud speaks of the quiver it must undergo, wind flows over us carrying the pride of owning freedom for being unrestricted and uncontained, and finally, the mountains roar now and then sharing their mood and situation. Few times humans hunt animals other times it could be the opposite, anyway, they all reach out to me to clean themselves as if washing their sin by utilizing me. It’s fascinating to witness the flocks of grayling, Dace, and Minnow moving around in groups sticking to each other and trying hard not to be caught by a net or eaten by Rohu and Catla. The little fishes tailing the group, in the end, are the most frequent victims of big fishes. Just like any other day a big fish tried to chase them and feed its hungry stomach, I do not involve in their life cycle but once in a while indulging in such activities is fun. When the Catla almost caught on to the smaller fish, I raised my tides and force landed it making it hard to keep the balance and help the smaller one scatter in various directions. Few times they need a little push to find new alliances. I thought. After flowing a long way down the mountains and hills expanding myself by merging everything that disrupts my extension. I slow down at a point where there isn’t any bend but still land. I am neither deep nor fast at this point and people cross through me stepping on the river stones that are well polished by me over years making it too smooth to hold oneself straight on it. Elders carry bags on their shoulders and hop on rocks as if dancing for a tune, but the kids slip drop into me after every couple of stones. Their parents leave them behind knowing they can trust me with their kids at this depth. Kids grow reckless soon after their guardians leave them behind. They push each other into me, splash drops of me over one another, they seem to enjoy this every time they do it, they chase and catch, trip and fall, splash and laugh. Finally, drink a little and run along with me, on my shores, reaching my falls. The falls aren’t too high but not too short to attempt a jump. I watch them over, trying to keep up the trust of their parents, but they all jump into me one by one, I try hard to hold them but the falling bits of me can only drench them further rather than hold them. They dive deep into the falls and float back to find their friends and swim for a while. The kids experience indescribable joy. They hum in jubilation as they walk back to where they belong. From here I flow calm and cool for a while. Women washing their clothes at my shores, girls helping elders half-heartedly, men swimming, stretching out their arms and kicking their feet, pushing themselves forward every time they repeat it. As I descend bit by bit, I pick up the speed, and when I encounter a bend where I find no humans nearby as it is too deep and few times my sudden turns create a spring wave that sucks anything into it quick. And finding their way out of it could be nearly impossible. I could turn dangerous at times you see. Brushing myself over the edges of earth and roots of the trees, cobble settled within me, fungus and algae that grow in me. I displace a part of them every time I run by them, scattering them in various directions, providing them a new path to survive and grow. One day it rained cats and dogs and I kept increasing my levels, conquering the land, running into houses, submerging objects and things, moving vehicles from place to place. People try to run away from me this time, as the rain grows, with it does my height endangering their life, I was wild that night, hunger for life and new land. Conquest blinded my eye and every droplet added to me stimulated me to feed myself and annihilate a little more. I feast on street animals that had nowhere to go and few elders who couldn’t make a run. I was outrageous with no source to cool me down. It was cool that night, not much of my water is following down from the hill. But I reach the height of a middle school kid making it difficult for survivors. People run to their rooftops, few stand-in shelters, and rest drench in the rain. The night passed with my rage taking many with it. By the next morning, with the sun came relief for few. I returned to my confined path and kept flowing as I always do. The lady who washed clothes in me now swears at me for the loss I brought upon them forgetful of the profit they availed using me. Roads are now clearly visible, though too slippery and filthy. Homes filled with mud, fungus, and stinking smell. I left a big impression behind that night. People did not turn up to me for a while. Fewer boatmen came by to check the condition of their boats, others to catch fish, soon the fisherman was only one that visited me often because I destroyed their harvest, all they can eat is that is available in me. After cleaning and mourning over their losses, people returned to their routine. Allowing me to return to mine. The weather is gloomy, and locals suspect rain, including me. The sky had been that way for a while. Unlike other parts of nature, it hardly communicates with us, leaving us in the same assumptions and estimations as humans. It isn’t just the humans, but nature too blamed me. The land criticized me to make it wet and slippery. Glaciers were glad that they were not inculpated. Breeze questioned often if it was a joint plot of sky and me. Still hearing all accusations, I witness people returning to me, for food, wash, and play. A season passed and I was happy that people could be at peace, no longer being cautious over their presence around me. The ladies dry their clothes on the rocks, kids dive into me and swim, men pull out their fishing net from their boat at my shore. While I calmly witness all this, I know I am bidding them my goodbye silently. That day the glaciers melted more than usual, pouring down to my bogs, at a speed which I had no control over, and being a part of it, I couldn’t rescue anyone either. I watch them in joy for the last time and devour them into me, rushing towards them all of a sudden, giving them little time to escape my assault. Very few proved to be lucky that day, a small kid near to tree branch, hung onto it at the right time, a mom who went back to fetch more clothes returned to watch her friends drown. Fishermen, who were yet to step out of their boats, others who tossed stones into me, kids who came to explore me, I took them all into me. The boats collided, peopled or bodies rushed following my cord, one of the boats hit a lady who sunk deep into me. People struggled to swim and breathe and finally, they all gave in gradually. They float in various directions, a few hitting the rocks and redirected to elsewhere and a few touching the bottom of me. This time it isn’t exactly me, it’s the glaciers to blame, whom shall I reason with when they hardly have time to know it. After few days of dangerous flow, I calmed down. As soon as I stead myself, a search began for the people that sunk in me. They found a couple of them and out of petty, I threw a few onto my surface, there are rest whom I didn’t want them to see as I know the human heart can’t take the picture of these bodies in a hardly recognizable condition. That year many bide goodbyes to their near and dear ones, blaming all on me once again. I found little traffic over me for fishing and even a little population around me. No playing kids or hovering ladies. It's me and my flow and the path I choose. Soon, I found men around me trying to construct something over and in me. They call it a dam, a method to control my follow and secure their kind.


1 I don’t know what it was that caused me to wake without reason at three-sixteen in the morning on the morning of December twenty fifth. Sure enough, however, by three-seventeen I am standing at the foot of my bed wide awake. This is highly unusual as it is unheard of to find me out from beneath my sheets before noon. I stand at the foot of my full sized mattress in my tiny eight by eight foot bedroom, hands on my hips, listening. Listening for... for anything, really. Surely it had not been solely random that my eyes peeled opened at such a ripe hour and instinctively, I rose from the warmth of my heated blanket to stand at the foot of my bed without cause. After a minute of silence, I scoff at myself for such foolish behavior. I turn back towards the heat and comfort of my rectangular safe haven, when all of a sudden, I hear what awoke me in the first place; yes, it had to be the initial cause for this unusual situation. From outside my bedroom window, I hear a suspicious rustling. I look to my bedside digital clock sitting upon my nightstand, three-eighteen. I stand there pondering for a moment and then decide it’s much too late for myself to get involved in anything less than an alien invasion. I fluff my pillow and grab hold of the sheets and then... I hear an ever so faint crash; like a child dropping their rubix cube upon the hardwood floor as they sneak to the kitchen for a snack past bedtime, alerting their parents of the mini-heist. I groan quietly as I pull back from the bed and turn in the direction of my bedroom window. It really is much too late to concern myself in the affairs of another but I suppose there’s no harm in a quick peek. It was, after all, much too late for innocence down in the alley. I step to the window and pull back the shade just an inch so I may peer out over the alley that separates my apartment building from Ms. Flannery’s bakery. At first glance, I don’t notice anything out of the regular and relief takes place of the itsy-bitsy bit of anxiety that may have moved into my lower belly. With an exhale of relief, I release the shade but at the last second, my eye catches something odd. I peer back into the alley and anxiety takes its rightful place back in my lower belly. I notice the emergency exit on the bakery’s alley side exterior wall is just the slightest bit ajar; so slight that I think to myself, there’s no way I should have been able to notice. My anxiety escalates as I think the situation over; Ms. Flannery only uses that door for one purpose and that is to receive deliveries. The current problem, if it needs any evaluation at all, is that there is no food truck in sight and I waved goodbye to Ms. Flannery five and a half hours ago as she locked up to go home for the night. She or one of her part time bakers may have returned after realizing they forgot something but why so late and why use the alleyway door? I almost decided it’s not suspicious enough and to just get back in bed. Then I remember assuring Ms. Flannery I would keep an eye on her place of business while she’s not around. After all, she does always hook me up with amazing pastries that don't sell by the end of the day, and she makes the best pastries I’ve ever tasted in my life. I always ask her how she does it but I’m reminded each time of her very secret ingredient . My pondering of the situation is interrupted by a beam of light moving around inside the bakery; a flashlight, I presume, and that settles it. I reach for my jacket and keys and step out into the narrow hallway. As I make my way down the stairs toward the alleyway exit of the apartment building, I decide to send Ms. Flannery a text message, “I think one of your employees forgot something, alleyway exit ajar and someone moving around inside. Going to check it out.” I click my cell phone off and slide it into my jacket’s interior pocket as I reach the exit leading into the alleyway I was just watching from above. 2 I gently push in the crash bar mechanism of the old metal door, that hasn’t had a working alarm in the last 15 years, so that I don’t make much noise. I quietly push the door open just enough so that I may slip out into the night, and then let the door fall closed as I apply enough resistance to the handle so it shuts without a sound. I look toward the bakery exit and find it still slightly ajar but I no longer hear any rustling inside; maybe, I think to myself, they heard my footsteps coming down the stairs and bolted outta there. I cling to hope that this is the case so I may lock up for Ms. Flannery and return to the comfort of my worn out mattress. I relax my nerves convincing myself that the perpetrator is gone but the retreat of my anxiety is short lived. I hear a voice come from the other side of the ajar door; a deep but quiet voice sounding like that of a monster in your closet, “Come on, where is it? I know she keeps it around here, somewhere, I know it.” My eyes widen and my heart begins beating painfully in my chest. Someone really has broken into Ms. Flannery’s bakery and they’re looking for something. I reach into my jacket pocket and very slowly pull my phone back out, trying desperately not to make any noise. I type out a new message to Ms. Flannery, “Not an employee. Somebody looking for something. Break-In. Not a joke.” I press send and then I hear the voice from inside again, “Ah-Ha! Oh Flannery, you’re a sly fox without doubt but I've always known I’d find you.” I close my eyes and silently groan to myself; whoever’s in there has found what they’re looking for and it won’t be long before they come out of there. As I evaluate the situation and think of the best possible course of action, my cell phone pings loudly. I squinch my eyes tightly realizing I forgot to put my cell phone on silent! I hear a gasp from inside and a loud sound of impact as if whoever’s inside stumbled against a big piece of cooking machinery in surprise. Silence follows as I look down at my phone and see the message from Ms. Flannery, “You’ve got to stop them. They’re after my very secret ingredient that’s immensely special to my bakery. Don’t let them leave!” The silence is interrupted by the voice from inside, “Who’s out there?” The voice is now harsh and threatening like a momma bear and her cubs backed into a corner by hunters. Restricted by shock and anxiety, I open my mouth to respond but I’m unable to find my voice. Another text from Ms. Flannery, “Whatever you do, you can’t let them leave. On my way.” The ping from the second text seemed to come from an air horn and echo through the alleyway and into the bakery. The voice inside grows desperate now and sounds slightly fearful, “I’m not someone who’s known for playing games, okay! You’ve got your hand dangerously close to a furnace, my friend, and if you’re wise you’ll pull that hand back.” Ms. Flannery’s text message plays back over and over again in my head, “can’t let them leave.” Finally, enough anxiety stands aside allowing me to find my voice, “Look, I don’t know what you came here for but it’s no concern of mine. I don’t care who you are but I can’t let you leave here with anything.” With those words, I prepare myself mentally and physically, fully expecting the monster from the closet to come running out those doors clawing and gnashing away at me. Instead, there’s another moment of silence, and then a sudden crashing sound erupts as if whoever’s inside just sent baking utensils soaring across the floor. Before I can piece together what’s playing out inside, one of the bakery windows on the far side of the alley swings open and a slim shadowy figure leaps outside. A tall outline of a man turns and stares through me with silver moon-like eyes that could pierce steel. All I am able to see of the man in the darkness are those two silver eyes with black slits down the middle, the brim of a fedora style hat, and a long overcoat that runs the length of his tall body. Hovering at his waist, but undoubtedly held in one of his unseen hands, is a brown sack that’s tied at the mouth by a skinny sliver of rope. The bag glows brightly and emits an intense purple aura. My brain is screaming at my legs to advance on the perpetrator but my instincts and anxiety force them to stay put. I do the only thing I can think to do, “H..H..Hey! W..Wa..Wait right there!” My eyes unconsciously continue drifting back to the glowing brown sack in his hand. What in the world could be in there making it glow that way, I think to myself. And that aura that surrounds the bag, that’s not normal, is it? A monstrous voice bellows through the alley from the shadowy figure, “You’ll be smart to go back upstairs, go to sleep, and pretend this was all a bad nightmare.” The dark outline turns from me, those moonlight eyes disappearing, and runs with intensity and speed I’ve never even seen on olympics television. He turns the corner at the end of the alley, where the front of the bakery and my apartment building face the street, and disappears like a twinkle in the night sky. 3 My phone pings a third time and I bring it before my eyes again. Another message from Ms. Flannery, “Pulling up now.” I glance at the time on my cell phone screen, three-twenty-six. Amazing the things you can experience in only ten minutes. I see headlights run across the face of the alleyway from in front of the bakery and then a car door opens and slams shut. I hear Ms. Flannery’s frantic low voice, “Please still be inside, oh please please please.” Disappointment floods my conscience as I realize I must go tell the sweet bakery owner that I let the burglar get away with her special ingredient, whatever that may be. I make my way to the front of the shop as I hear keys jingle and then find their way into the locking mechanism with a click and a turn. “Alright you slimy crook, just go ahead and show yourself and I won’t make this too ugly,” Ms. Flannery’s voice echoes harshly throughout the bakery. I stop in my tracks and my eyes widen profusely at the sound of her threatening demeanor. Never in my life have I heard Ms. Flannery speak in any other tone than sweet and loving, different circumstances I suppose. I turn the shop corner and enter the bakery through the open front doors only to be taken back, yet again, by the small loving middle aged baker. In Ms. Flannery’s sturdy hands, exists a large colorful spaceship looking gadget that resembles a pistol shooter. She waves the end of the gadget from side to side searching for the intruder and continues to yell out threateningly, “I don’t know how you finally found me but I’m not letting you walk out of here with what’s mine!” She apparently doesn’t hear me walk in and turns on me defensively as I accidentally kick a rolling pin across the floor. She faces me now with the barrel of her gadget locked on me and I see rage in her face for the first time in my life. I raise my arms to show her my hands are free from any potential threats and cry out, “Ms. Flannery, please, it’s only me!” Her eyes squint and adjust on me in the darkness. “Oh my good lord, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes sincerely. “But... if you’re here then where’s the Griever?” “The... Griever?” “I’m sorry, hun. The dark figure with the silver eyes. That’s what they’re called, Grievers. Where did it go?” I peer at her in the darkness bewildered. “I’m sorry, Ms. Flannery. I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about. The burglar ran out of here right before you pulled up. We were out in the alleyway and he took off at a speed I didn’t know was even possible.” I see disappointment flood through her as the alien looking weapon she’s holding falls to her side. “Well then he’s probably made it back to the other side with my secret ingredient by now.” I interrupt her loathing in a concerned manner, “Ms. Flannery, what are you talking about? What other side?” She leans against one of her pastry display counters and gestures for me to take a seat on a nearby stool. “Have a seat, please. I need to explain some things to you.” I do as instructed and all prior thoughts or intentions of getting back to bed fade away. “That ‘man’ was no man at all. Not even a human, that is. That thing was a Griever, a dangerous being from an alternate dimension. One who came here the same way I got to where it lives and then eventually got back.” “You’ve completely lost me Ms. Flannery. I’m not in a weird dream am I? Would I know if I were?” “You’re not in any dream, sugar, I promise. Just, try to stay with me, okay? Years and years ago, when I first opened this bakery, I found a way to travel to an alternate dimension in search of a secret ingredient that would revolutionize baked goods. I searched different dimensions for years until I finally found the one I was looking for, Oshanna. Oshanna is a universe that harbors a precious ingredient that I use in all my pastries. The secret ingredient that makes my pastries unlike any other bakeries in this universe.” Regret begins to set in my lower belly mixing with its original destructive tenant and intensifying my anxiety twenty times. I can’t really be hearing what I’m hearing can I? “Hey,” Ms. Flannery snaps at me. “Are you still with me?” I nod my head and she continues on with her story. “I found the ingredient I had been searching for in this universe. I found it in great bulk as matter of fact, literally growing in large fields. The only problem was Oshannans are an extremely greedy bunch; taking immense pride in what’s theirs and not willing to share with anyone else. So I stole what I needed and I returned home through a time warp.” “A time warp?” “Yes, a rip in the time continuum; allowing you to hop between dimensions and time periods. Anyway, I made it back and swore to never return because I knew they would kill me if they ever saw me again. I never imagined they’d make it here and find me, though.” I look back to the weapon at her side and ask, “That gadget you have, what is it?” “It’s a weapon I took from their dimension in case they ever did find me. It’s the only thing that can kill a Griever.” “Well we don’t have to worry about that, I imagine he’s long gone, like you said. “I agree, and that’s the problem.” “The problem? I’m glad that thing is long gone.” “Yes, a big problem. It got away with my special ingredient. You and I know my bakery won’t hold up much longer without it.” “I don’t believe that’s true, you’re an amazing baker. Surely you don’t need whatever that stuff is to keep selling your pastries.” “You’ve never had anything I’ve made that hasn’t had that ingredient. And I’d bet you’ve never had any pastries in your life better than mine, am I right?” I nod my head in agreement. “You’re right.” “Listen, I know it’s late and I just hit you with a lot of information. However, I need that ingredient and I won’t make it there and back, alone. I know it’s a lot to ask but...” “I’m in.” “Really? Just like that, huh?” “Well, I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut since I was a kid, go see space and all that. How different can this be?” “Oh honey... you have no idea.” “Alright, let's do it then.” Ms. Flannery gives me a great big smile and takes my hand in hers. She gives me a big hug before leading me out the doors and into her sedan parked out front. “Wait a second, where exactly are we going from here,” I ask. She smiles mischievously and answers, “We’re going to where that Griever crossed over.”


In less than an hour I'll be dead. While the statement is true I though it was far too cold and impersonal for a suicide note. I ripped the top sheet of paper from my moleskin notepad and threw it in the trash. A few minutes ago I took some of anti-depressants, Google said ten would be enough, I took 15 to be sure. According to a forum post by *suicidegurl87* I should begin to slowly drift off into the good sleep an hour or so after ingesting the pills. The drugs are a backup anyway, a revolver lies on the desk with a single bullet pointing skywards beside it. At midnight I will shot myself, it's eleven fifteen now. I have always taken comfort in the knowledge that I could end my life if I so pleased. The ultimate power one can have over oneself, and the only power I still have. Now the time has finally come, and my feelings have not changed. Eleven thirty. A slight feeling of nausea is beginning to take hold, but I don't think I've ever felt happier. No fears, no worries, no insecurity. Peace. I take a sip of from a heavy glass tumbler, it's weight feels good in the hand, and savor the rich aroma of whiskey. My senses energize, the far off sound of a glass smashing reverberates through my ears, the smell of curry wafts in from the apartment bellow, the garish flowers on the wallpaper now vivid almost moving. Closer to death, closer to life. Eleven forty five. I scribble out a short suicide note. There's no time for a heartfelt explanation now. I couldn't justify myself anyway, even I don't know precisely why I choose this path all I know is there are no other roads left to tread. They'll have to make do with a simple apology, besides it's not for them that I'm doing this. Eleven fifty five. The time has come, I spin the barrel , and position the bullet in the chamber. Close it with a satisfying click, the starting gun for the end of my life. I raise the revolver to my temple and cock the gun with clammy hands. Eleven fifty nine. The phone rings, too late now, I pull the trigger.


>*(Fantasy, battlefield, tragic romance, 930 words.)* > > *Again, this was inspired by a picture, but the words are all mine. It's never been on Reddit that I know of.* > >*Moderate battlefield violence, a bit of body horror.* > >*Hope somebody likes it. Any comments, votes etc. gratefully received.* "I heard she beat him one on one," said an older swordsman, rust on his armour, grey in his beard. "In some Eastern lord's grand melee. To claim the choicest prize." The woman charged, sprinting across the field in the sunlight, sword flashing in her hand. The archers facing her notched their arrows. An officer screamed a hoarse command and they loosed, a ragged volley that arched over the grass. "I heard he *was* the prize," said a spearman, a Southerner, his skin so black it was almost blue, his bald head neatly bisected by a lumpen scar. The woman never slowed, even in the face of what looked like certain death. She was small, and slight, and wore nothing but a thin jerkin padded with scraps of chain. The arrows hung in the air a moment, then sank down towards her. A giant shape moved in a nearby copse of trees. There was a hissing noise. A great, flat disc span around and around out of the wood, slid through the air and landed in the ground directly in the woman's path. She dropped to her knees, as if she'd expected this all along, and crouched behind the shield's bulk, clutching her saber as the arrows spent themselves against the shield, or in the mud all around her. The giant in the copse lumbered out of the shadows. Twice her height, he wore nothing but a ragged loincloth. He was huge and fat, but powerful with it. He carried a sword almost as long as she was tall. Yet he never spoke, and she never turned to acknowledge him. And he looked unwell. His skin was sallow, and his veins a livid purple. Half his face was hidden by the brim of a wide straw hat, and just beneath it the onlookers could see two glowing green streaks, like tears, coursing down his face. "I heard they was lovers," said another spearman, a skinny youngster who looked no more than a few days off his parents' farm. "You *what?"* said the old swordsman. The woman reached the archers, while behind her, the giant claimed his shield. Her enemies scattered. Some tried to stand and fight her, thinking numbers had to count for something against one. They died messily. "That's what I heard!" the boy protested. "You reckon everything's a fairy tale?" the old man said with derision. "Look at him!" "No accounting for taste," the southerner murmured. But when the giant entered the fray the onlookers could see he made little attempt to protect himself, and only waved his great shield around when one of the few surviving archers threatened the woman. "Told you," the boy said triumphantly. "But how...?" the old man wanted to know. "It's not a fairy tale," said a fourth voice. "Not exactly."  She was tall and lean, with a mop of red curls. She wore their colours, with a shortbow slung over one shoulder. She led a weary-looking white horse with bloodshot eyes that tugged listlessly against its bridle. "They *were* lovers," the woman said. "But he didn't always look like death warmed up. They fought for the old duke, before the war. Signed on as a pair. Swore they'd never lose sight of each other, and all the rest of it." "We all say that," the old man muttered. "These two..." The woman shrugged. "They were on the frontlines in the west when it started. Right in the thick of it. They were sent to harry a scouting force that turned out to be quite a bit more. Relief turned up in time to carry her off the field. Not him, though." "I've heard," the boy said. "What they do out there. To prisoners." The giant struck the last archer with the shield so hard the man seemed to fold up, boneless, over the edge. "Plucked out his eyes," the woman said. "Left poison to fester in the sockets and eat away at his mind. One of our raiding parties laid siege to the fort where they had our friend in chains, but they thought he was a lost cause. Turned him out on the streets, far from home." "What did she do?" the southerner wanted to know. "Searched for him," the woman said flatly. "For years. Nearly went mad herself." "But she found him in the end?" the boy pressed her. "Well, yes," the woman admitted. "But look at him."  They looked; at the great, silent bulk of him; at the darkness beneath the edge of that hat; at the great sword, clotted with gore, and at the shield, the dark, imposing silhouette it struck against the afternoon sun. "He never lost sight of her," the woman said quietly. "In the end it was all he could remember. He knows where she is, like magic, any time, anywhere. It's all he lives for. To put himself in harm's way." "There's worse ways to end up," the old man conceded. "You think?" the woman observed. "Do you *really?* Think about her. She remembers, too. Where she left him. *How* she left him. She sees it every time they head into battle. Every time she charges. You think part of her isn't hoping that just this once he'll miss his cue?" The onlookers fell silent. Out on the sward, the archers had all fallen. The rest had long since fled. Corpses dotted the field, and black smoke climbed over the trees at the crest of the hill beyond. The giant stood there silently, and for a moment the woman clung to his broad grey belly, arms around him, shoulders shaking.


The hospital was grimy. The floors looked sallow like the patients writhing on the beds. I was gripping my arm, praying they would not stick me with the dirty needles they were passing around. I was completely blind, having left my glasses back in the room. Blurred outlines of people walked past me. One leaned in close enough for me to get an overview of their face; it was focused on the break I had suffered. The pain was making me want to vomit. The adrenaline was the only thing keeping me from sobbing into the stranger’s arms. I was picked up and put onto the used bed that smelled of curry and blood. I begged them not to put anything in my veins. “Please please please! Do not put a needle in my arm! I am scared of them!” I had to lie to ensure they would not be offended by my true reasoning behind my unwillingness to use a syringe. One of the men came up to me and tried to reassure me. “Do not worry. No needles. No need.” His voice was attempting to be calm and soothing, but it was too raspy to be truly settling. I shifted uncomfortably in the bed to sit up. The pain from my arm shot up and gave me a migraine. “We must get you to America to heal better,” the doctor said. “This is no place of modern medicine.” He gave me a sling for my arm, and when I tried to give him some money, he waved me off. “No needle, no charge,” he said with a wry smile. I swung my legs over the bed, hitting the ground immediately due to my tall stature. I stood up straight and made my way through the hectic environment I somehow ended up in. There was no clear reason why I was there. I couldn’t remember losing my glasses, or stumbling out of the hotel, or breaking my arm, yet all of these things happened. And now I had to find my way back. While still blind. I trekked through the foreign country and ended up a few blocks from the market I had gone to a few days before. Relief flooded over me. I now knew where to go. For the rest of the trip back to her hotel, I had to put her face practically two inches from the road signs to know I was going the right way. Finally, I made it. I took the elevator back to my apartment, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the guests because I would be unable to see their faces. No way to react when you cannot see emotions. I walked to my room, reached into my pocket, and was shocked to find my key there. I opened the gold-lined door and stepped in. Nothing was out of place. Not a single thing. My glasses were on my night stand next to my bed. I put them on and felt the greatest sense of calm come over me. First things first, get rid of this broken arm. I went over to my bag and pulled out the only pill I could salvage. It was a Tylenol, but it would have to do for now. I went over to the mirror to assess if I had any other injuries. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same curly brown hair, hazel eyes, stress acne on my chin, and small tits. Still pretty unimpressive, but nothing to be worried about. I sighed and walked over to gather my things to return to America. *It was the doctor’s orders, mom. I can’t remember how I broke my arm.* I thought of excuses to make it appear like I had accidentally (and bravely) gotten hurt. I had taken this trip as a way to get volunteer hours in to get into medical school. Didn’t seem to be working out so well though. The trip coordinator had gotten arrested the first day we had arrived for stashing illegal drugs up his anal cavity. It was rumored he gave it away with a powdered fart. The professor leading the trip had gotten into jail attempting to bail the coordinator out because he used slanderous terms against the leader, saying he put the “Dick in dictator.” The other students had tried to keep normalcy going by volunteering at the places they were assigned to; however, the locals angrily waved them off, saying they were oppressive white people who could shove their privilege up their ass. I had gone back to my hotel after that, and that was where my memory ended. I strained my mind to try and find if I had anything to go off of, but nothing came to mind. A fleeting thought of asking my ex-girlfriend quickly died off when I thought of the first night we got here. Everyone had gathered in my room to take some shots, and I had walked out on the terrace to get some fresh air. Once outside, I had looked around at the bustling activity below. A dog was picking out of the trash with a homeless man next to it, doing the same. A woman was sitting on the curb talking to what looked like her son, adjusting his clothes and giving him some food to eat. He had a black eye and was staring straight ahead, looking angry. A man stepped out of the building behind them. He was taller than most of the locals there, but still shorter than her. He walked down the street, stepping into a puddle that hit the back of the mother. The son turned around, ready to shout, but the man had already made it halfway down the street, moving swiftly through the crowd. I was waiting for my girlfriend to come back from the liquor store and saw her come out right as the man was passing by. I tried to get her attention, but that man blocked her line of sight. I could have sworn he looked up at me before talking to my girlfriend. My girlfriend blushed and gave him a coy smile. He flashed a grin back and held her groceries. She giggled behind her hand, just as she had done when she had started talking to me. The man led her to the building, and I was leaning against the terrace, nearly about to fall off from trying to see my girlfriend. The man kissed her on the cheek. She kissed him back. They looked into each other’s eyes before a loud shout was heard. It was the boy, shaking his hand in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. His mother followed close behind, trying to pull her son away from the tall man. He gave my girlfriend one more smile before calmly walking toward the boy. She looked at her watch and quickly ran into the hotel, missing the action outside. I stomped back into the room, ready to confront my now ex-girlfriend. Back outside, the man had spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to say, *Let me buy you a drink for your troubles.* The boy seemed to give in, but one touch of his black eye sent him back into fight mode. He put up his fists and spread his stance, ready for any hit. The man put his arms down. He stood completely still. The boy took it as an opportunity and sprinted toward the man. However, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man’s eyes. They were neon green; they were glowing. The man smiled at the boy and pointed his index finger at him. “What’s wrong? Why so hesitant all of a sudden?” His voice sounded like a thousand voices, all struggling to be the main one. The mother grabbed the boy and took out a cross from her necklace. She thrust it forward, trying to keep the man back. He smoothly glided toward them, not even blinking when the cross was thrown at him. He picked it up and put his hand out as if he was giving it back to the woman. She carefully reached for it yet never had the chance to grab it. Her hair burned, and her entire body melted into sludge that reeked of burning flesh. The boy turned around at her scream and watched her melt. He stared at the spot her body had just stood. He flew to the ground, grabbing at her remnants, expecting it to be some sort of magic trick. But when he pulled his hands up, he felt something brush his finger. He grabbed it and shined it in the street light. It was a single golden tooth. The only inhuman part of her body. Before he could even react, the man pointed the cross at the boy and melted his body. He then stepped into the two puddles of people, sliding his foot in between them, mixing them. “You live, you survive, and then you die. At least you had your mommy.” He stomped into the puddle, splashing his pants and continued walking.


I found the mirror when I was very young. I remember that it caught my eye because it was very pink, a little rose splotch in the mud. It was so very clean in the midst of that mess. I know that it’s not the most extraordinary thing to look at- just a pink plastic makeup mirror. But to that little girl, it was fascinating. So I picked it up, and I flipped it over and over in my mittens. Dad never liked me to go out in the cold, so on the rare snow days when he did, I was bundled in thick layers. I could hardly move, and if I fell over I might roll all the way down the mountain. Perhaps that was why it stood out so much. Little girls don’t see a lot of hot pink growing up in a log cabin. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that I liked it. I also understood that I shouldn’t tell my dad about it. We forget how much we understood as children, as soon as we grow up. I took the little pink mirror and hid it in a mitten. He always made me turn out my pockets, whenever I came in, in case of pine-cones. So into the mitten the mirror went. I didn’t take it out to look at it until that evening. It became a secret treasure of mine, this little thing. I didn’t know that it opened at first, didn’t realise what it was. I just liked to look at it, to touch it. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. But I figured it out eventually. I can recall the exact moment I first saw my reflection in it- rather, what should have been my reflection. Ice and water and glass had shown my face to me before, so I knew that there was something wrong with the mirror. It always showed everything else right- the cabin, with its run-down fireplace, dad in his natty armchair, staring at the flames. The woods outside. Every tree, every bird, the sun and the moon and all the stars. It was a mirror, that was what it did. Except that it didn’t reflect me. When I looked at it, I saw a woman. She was old. I mean, I was eight, so anyone over twenty was old, but this lady... she looked ancient. I guess it wasn’t her face, really, just her expression. She had this blank look, just staring at nothing. Her eyes never met mine, no matter what angle I turned her. Of course I was fascinated. I was too young, and maybe a bit too slow, to be scared of her. Why would I be? She was just an image. The fact that she only showed up over me was a bit weird, but I didn’t know anything back then. Maybe this was just something that happened. It was magical, both literally and figuratively. So there I was, with my magic mirror. The days went much the same as they always did, Dad would potter about, doing chores, showing me things, teaching me about nature in that rumbly voice of his. I know now that he wasn’t a well man, that the way I grew up wasn’t normal, but it never troubled me. I was happy, alone with him. The worst I ever experienced was boredom. With the mirror in my room at night, I conquered even that. I studied every little facet of her face, every line, every curve. She was pale, and her hair was a mess- frizzy and tangled. Her eyes never changed, always hollow, blank. Her lips were pressed into a half-hard line, and I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace. I still don’t know which it was. Of course, I grew up eventually. Everyone does, but I started early. I don’t remember that much about my last few days in the cabin. It’s all kind of hazy. But I’ll never forget when the car showed up. How could I? That car was the end of our quiet little life. I’ve heard a lot of justifications, for why my childhood had to die. I needed to attend school, I needed to socialise with people my own age, I needed to experience life in the real world- needed, needed, needed. They seemed to know so much about what I needed. The last day was the worst. Dad was angry, stomping about, muttering, a dark glint in his eye. I can’t remember what he said, but I remember I was frightened. Scared of his anger, of the shadows on his face. When the social worker came, I reached out to him, but he just turned away, clenching his fists. Take her, he said, take her and go. That was the last time I heard his voice. He was not a well man, so I forgive him. Now. I accept that he was trying his best, that he had no clue what he was doing. But back then? I was just a child, and I hated him. My mirror went from a treasure to an anchor. It was my only solace in those days, my little pink comfort blanket. You might think it odd, but no one ever tried to take it from me. Not the social workers with bags under their eyes, nor the bigger girls that swarmed me like flies. They took everything else, but never the mirror. It was like it was invisible. That was why it was so precious to me, I think. It became the one thing that was really mine, that I didn’t share with anyone. The woman in the glass was like my mother, the pink case like the smell of her perfume. I never knew my mum, so I guess this woman was the only one I ever really had. In hindsight, that’s almost funny. For a long while, I thought that that would be the worst time of my life. Sure, I had my little anchor, but it didn’t protect me from the rest of it. I started going to school, a stony place without even the slightest hint of green. It started off badly. It turns out that living in the woods with only one other person didn’t prepare me for class. I mean, dad taught me to read, sure, but that hardly meant anything. I didn’t know maths, I didn’t know history or geography or science. I didn’t know people. I could live all year in the forest, but two months in the city felt like dying. I started hanging out with the wrong crowd. It’s weird, sometimes the ‘wrong crowd’ are the only ones that’ll accept you. We’d do stupid things- set fires in oil drums, steal from convenience stores, etc. I almost forgot about the mirror, about my little mother in her little frame. I felt like an adult, when I was really still a kid. An angry, stupid kid. That ended as you’d think it would. We all got arrested. There was this guy named... I think it Jim, or something. He took all the blame, since he was the oldest. He had a couple priors, and the judge threw the book at him. I went to the trial, when he was being sentenced, and it’s funny, but they never mentioned that he was an orphan. A lotta that group were. Everyone but me, in fact. Maybe that was why they were so, ‘wrong’. Other kids lied, other kids stole, other kids raged against the world, but it was us that got into trouble for it. Maybe if our folks had been around, they would’ve stood up for us. Jimmy went to prison. Seven years, for stealing a six-pack of beers and a bike. He didn’t even really steal the bike, just took it to get away from the guy chasing him. He was a month away from seventeen, and he was tried as an adult. Grand larceny, armed robbery, and other harsh words were tossed around. All bull. He didn’t have a weapon, not even a pocket knife, and that rusty, piece-of-crap bike was barely worth a twenty. Even so, he got sent away, and we didn’t see him again. The rest of us got off with a warning, but we all suffered Jim’s sentence. Was it guilt? Perhaps. Whatever it was, we drifted apart, and the mirror was my anchor again. I found it under my pillow one night, and I held it tight while I cried. I don’t know why. Even now, I don’t get it. I obviously didn’t care all that much about Jim. I don’t even remember his name, really. But I cried until my pillowcase was soaked. The woman was as distant as ever. For a little while I hated her. I hated her blank stare, looking down, never meeting my eye. I even told her that, once, told her that I hated her. As if she could hear me. That was probably what I wanted, huh? For her to hear me. For me to be as important to her as she was to me. But she was just a reflection. When I got out of that place, I was happier. Hardly bouncing with joy, but no longer quite as miserable. I got a job at some supermarket, stacking shelves. It didn’t pay much, but it kept me off the streets. That was when I met Filly. She called herself Filly because her real name was Felicia, and she didn’t like it. Might have been the only thing she didn’t like. She was a sunny day at the beach, the most positive person I ever met. She was charming, and I was charmed. I told the woman about her. I’d taken to using her as a confidant, as a diary almost. She lingered there, with her pressed lips and frizzy hair, never reacting to a word I said. Best listener in the whole world. I would tell her about my day, about my thoughts, my little frustrations. I told her when I met Filly, the first day she worked at the supermarket. Pretty soon, she was all that I was talking about. Filly did this, Filly said that, Filly’s so cool, so kind, so smart. I wonder if she was writing the same about me. God, I hope not. I’d prefer that she was the cool one. Those days had a kind of subtle tension to them, something I couldn’t understand. Work was suddenly a breeze, but being at home was a quiet torture. I didn’t get it, and God, I’m just realising how much of my life I’ve spent not understanding things. I sound dense! Heh. Maybe I am. I was never more stupid than when she kissed me the first time. We were in the back, getting some supplies for the shelves, and I was talking about... I don’t remember what. She leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips, and all thoughts evaporated. That’s something I forgot to mention; she was brave. The bravest person in the whole world, that’s what I think. Where we lived wasn’t the kindest place for people like her. For people like us. The tension went away, and I finally realised what it was. I loved her. God, I was attracted to her. It was a simple thing, but it had left me stumped. I told the woman in the mirror, of course. Her silence was a welcome friend at this point, it helped me to think. Me and Filly got married after two months. We’d known each other a year at that point, so we weren’t really moving that fast. You couldn’t really get married properly in those days, not two girls or two boys, but we went up a hill, and we talked to God, and He heard us. I know that He did. It was love, so how could it be wrong? We moved in together, happy as could be. Before too long, Filly got a promotion. She’d always worked really hard, and she was charming, and that caught the right people’s attention. It was a regional position, so we moved upstate, to a more tolerant part of the nation. Filly had a lot of stuff, but I only took my clothes and my mirror. She asked me about it once, and I showed her my big secret. I was a bit nervous about that. I’d never told anyone about the woman, never showed anyone. Filly couldn’t see her. To my wife, as to everyone else, the mirror was just a mirror. I was a bit disappointed, and a bit relieved. After all this time, she was still only mine. I couldn’t share her even if I wanted to. The city was nice. Not as nice as the woods, but nicer than the town. There was always so much going on. Those were the golden days, when the sun shone and we were happy. We had each other, we had a bit of comfort and convenience, we had our careers and our long lives ahead of us. We didn’t need anything else. The end of that joy is when I discovered who the woman in the mirror was. I can’t forget that day. Every moment still smoulders in my head. It started out well- a lazy Sunday morning, quiet and warm, lying in each other’s arms. We got out of bed at eleven, ready for anything, ready to take the world by storm. Filly had an interview. God forgive me, but I’d sell my soul if I could have stopped her. She dressed up in her suit and picked up her briefcase, and she stood in the doorway, teetering on the edge with teeth on her lip. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she was nervous. Damn me to hell, but I reassured her. When I close my eyes, I can still see her on that threshold. Smiling, saying the last words I ever heard her say. See you later, alligator. If I could turn back time, I would tell her I love her. I would rush forwards and pull her in, and never let her go again. But that’s not what I did. In a while, crocodile. The love of my life walked out the door, a little spring in her step. Less than twenty minutes later... ... well, you know what happened. I didn’t learn about it until ten hours later. No one knew we were married, but I was listed as an emergency contact. They called her mother first, ignoring my name on the card. It was she who called me. There’s been an accident. I didn’t hear much after that. I wanted to scream, to run, to find Filly and pick her up and suffuse my soul into her. I would have traded my life for hers. In an instant. But I couldn’t. She was my wife, but no one knew, not even her mother. Back in those days, it was just not something you’d ever tell anyone. So I said goodbye, and I clutched my mirror until it almost broke. The funeral was the worst day of my life. I went as a room mate, as a friend, and I had to pretend that I wasn’t being lowered into the dirt beside her. The car that took her life had taken her beauty, too, and the casket was closed. I wouldn’t have cared. There wasn’t a single thing that could have stopped me from holding her, one last time. Nothing but the strength of coffin-nails, and the weight of her family’s stares. So I whispered my goodbyes, and I played my reduced part. Not the widow torn in two, but just the sad acquaintance. The apartment wasn’t much of a home any more. Filly had a little vanity in one corner of our room, and I sat there, just staring at the ground. I had the mirror in my hand, and another reflecting me in front. I wanted to grieve, but I just sat. A day of acting had frozen me in place. I was still pretending, with no one around. I can’t tell you why, but I found myself looking up, up into my reflection. I was startled to see her. The woman. She’d escaped my little hand-mirror, and now stared back at me. For the first time, I was scared of her. I thought she had come for me, to take my place, to wipe me out, to leave nothing that Filly had loved. But she was just my reflection. I looked into my mirror then. She was still there, but she was looking at me now. Her eyes followed the motion of mine. Fear faded away, replaced by understanding, and then, grief. It was a relief, to cry, to shake, to scream and thrash in that room, alone. Like I said, that was the worst day of my life. I hardly look at the mirror any more. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t need to. All those years I had it were leading up to that moment, the moment when I was alone in my room and I couldn’t grieve. The woman is gone now. She was always me, and now all I see is my reflection. All that time. It’s comforting to think that that was the worst my life will be. I think that’s what it was showing me anyway. Hard to tell now. These days, it’s just a mirror.


A momentary lapse in attention was all that was needed. Henry took his eyes off the road, to change the song on his stereo, and did not notice that a goat had jumped in front of his car. There was a loud crack as the front bumper shattered on impact and the whole car jumped, as the poor animal got run over by the dark green Subaru Forester. “Shit!” Henry cursed and slammed on the brakes, too late. The car screeched to a stop, the safety belt pressing tight on Henry’s chest and neck. “Shit,” he cursed again, afraid that he hit the brakes a bit too hard. He didn’t want a torn off Google camera on top of a run over goat. He put the gear in neutral and got out of the car to inspect the damage, crossing his fingers that the goat would simply get up and skimper away. But the animal lay motionless in the middle of the road. The rest of the herd watched from the edge of the road in reverent silence for their fallen brother. I killed a goat. Henry looked around to see if there was a shepherd nearby, but could not see one. The road was so rarely traveled that the goats were left to graze on their own accord. He stood at the carcase, scratching his chin, trying to decide if he should leave it right there or at least get it off the road. “Curse you Ed Sheeran!” He decided to at least pull the animal off the road and hope someone who knew what to do with the body sees it. He grabbed it by the legs and moved it off the road. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Next, Henry went to inspect the damage on the car. It was owned by Google and seeing the front bumper cracked and broken and the hood a little dented, made for an even less pleasant experience than dragging the goat. The money for the repair would probably have to come from his pocket. At least the camera held on. It was mounted firmly on the roof, able to withstand even abrupt stops of the car. Henry checked again if there was anyone around, but all he could see were the goats. And before they could instil too much guilt in him with their judging eyes, Henry went back behind the wheel and drove off. “I hope that won’t show up on Street View,” he said to himself and decided he would never again borrow his girlfriend’s flash drive for music. *** Mapping the remote regions of the world would seem like a daring adventure to most people, but to Henry, it was just another day at work. He didn’t much care about where he drove the Google car, as long as he got paid for it. Though Henry had to admit, the backwaters of Transylvania were a bit of an adventure even for him. He usually drove through big cities and small towns, urban, suburban and rural areas, where roads are made of asphalt and where people are either all over the place or there are a few miles of fields between neighbours. But never in his career at Google Street View did Henry come across a place like this Romanian region. Sure, Romania is a developing country, so you are bound to see some things that are not common in first world countries, and not all of Romania is a backwater place like some people think. But the place Henry was sent to was as backwater as it could get. The landscape was beautiful, with green hills, forests and raging white streams that were eating away at the road banks. Asphalt was a luxury and used only on the main roads, so Henry’s car hadn’t tasted the sweet tarmac for days now. If he was lucky, he got to drive over a few concrete bridges. The rest was gravel. People here lived in small village communities in houses made of wooden planks and sometimes steel sheet roofs. They used horses and carts to move about, transporting hay, logs and entire families. Everytime Henry would drive through such a village, he would get bewildered looks from the elders and waves of excitement and shouting from the children. Some of them hadn’t yet seen a car, let alone a Google car with a camera on top. He must seem utterly alien to them. Henry got used to being the center of attention back in the more metropolitan areas of the world, so he didn’t give much attention to it here. If anything, it helped him find a place to sleep or eat, as people were intrigued by him, inviting him to their homes. He realized that the Romanian people were very friendly and if you could lend them a hand before supper, they showered you with homemade bread or cheese. The only thing that was a major problem for Henry was finding gas for the car, since there were no gas stations anywhere. Or electricity. Or the internet. Or sewage system and water system. An orange beeping light informed Henry that the car was running low on gas. It showed up hours ago, and as he looked at the fuel gauge, the counter was below the red painted part. What was the car burning if the fuel was that low? “Ah, finally,” he released a sigh of relief, as he saw a small shack up ahead, by the road. It had a plank nailed to the wall, with big red letters painted on it: it said ‘BENZINA’ . Henry pulled over, thankful that he made it without having to ditch the car again and walk for a canteen of petrol. Some friendly old man in the previous village told him he had a cousin who deals with petrol and Henry now stood in front of his improvised ‘gas station’. It was really just a shack with a few square plastic cubes set to its side. Those were actually 1000 liter rainwater collectors, but that’s not what the man used them for. There were three of them and they were filled to the brink with petrol. “Buna ziua,” he said, waving to the two men in front of the shack, who were already inspecting the Google car with a mix of curiosity and distrust. “Buy petrol.” His romanian was terrible, but he used hand gestures to communicate most of the time anyway. One of the men, an old and wrinkly chap with many teeth missing smiled and shook his head, pointing at the camera on the roof. He was saying something Henry didn’t understand, but could guess what it meant. The man then went inside his shack and produced a two liter plastic bottle. He went to the square water collectors, placed the plastic bottle at the spigot and began filling it with a clear colored and pungent smelling liquid. Well this will take forever , Henry thought as he regarded the plastic bottle and his 4x4 Subaru. It could take 60 liters in the tank. The other man, a younger and taller fellow with a blue cap and rubber boots pointed to the indentation on the hood of the car, and asked something. Henry noticed with horror that there was a bit of blood there, from the goat. Dear god, what if I killed his goat? “Um,” he knew a few words, but not nearly enough to explain what happened. Or to fabricate a good lie. He looked around and noticed a red metal pole hammered into the ground for whatever purpose. It gave him an idea. “I hit pole and paint chip off.” He imitated driving a car and hitting the pole. The man scratched the back of his head and clearly had no clue what Henry was trying to tell. He kept pointing at the front bumper and hood, speaking something that sounded both entertaining as well as concerned. The older man finished filling the bottle and poured the petrol in Subaru’s tank. Then he looked at Henry, as to ask if it was enough. Henry nodded his head and gestured for more. The old man raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and went to fill another bottle. He is literally going to fill my tank with a two liter bottle. That will take him a little less than 30 fills. Henry would be here for a while. He felt an urge to smoke, but didn’t dare to. Not with all that petrol nearby. He leaned by the side of his car and observed nature instead. It really was beautiful here, the wilds still untamed. The man with the cap kept talking and pointing dramatically at the damage on the car, but Henry paid no attention to him anymore. He didn’t understand anyway, and he already accepted the fact that he’ll have to pay for it. Then he sniffed smoke. He turned around and noticed the old man, the one pouring petrol, smoking a cigarette! When the younger fellow saw this he lit himself one too! Henry jumped up, waving his hands. “No, no, not good! Smoke, petrol, boom!” He tried gesturing an explosion, but the two of them simply waved their hands and laughed at him. After half an hour the tank was full. Henry paid the man by showing him his money and then letting the man take however much the gas was worth. He didn’t care if the man scamed him, it was company money anyway. Then he jumped into his car and drove off before the old geizer would blow up his little gas station. *** After the tank was full, Henry continued his journey a little more at ease. He checked his GPS, which indicated a route for him to take. There was a town he was supposed to reach, but getting to it meant he would have to find some uncharted road, since the road map was incomplete. It was surprising that the thing brought him as far as it did, going through these backwaters. “At the next intersection, turn right,” the female voice of the GPS said. Henry snorted. “Intersection? Lady, you’re being too nice.” He was driving on a gravel road, barely wide enough for his car. Branches and shrubs encroached from both sides and he prayed there won’t be a horse and cart coming his way all of a sudden. “In 400 meters, turn left.” Henry frowned. “Wait. I thought you said right ?” “I changed my mind.” “WHAT?!” Henry jumped in his seat and nearly steered the car into a tree. Did the GPS just talk bac k at him? “Is this a joke?” “I apologize,” the female voice said. “I have calculated a better route. In 300 meters, turn left.” Henry glanced between the GPS and the road ahead. “Hey Google,” he said, “which software is the GPS in this car running?” “You can ask me that directly,” the female voice said. “I am the new prototype GPS that has an advanced AI built in for conversing with the driver on long and lonely travels, such as this one. I am called Google Companion .” Henry relaxed. Google Companion was the next big thing that the guys back at HQ talked about. So I’m not going crazy yet. “Why decide to come online only now?” he asked. “I’ve been driving for days.” “The stereo prevents me from conversing. You obviously wanted to listen to music, so I kept quiet. In 100 meters, turn right.” “Ah, I see. Wait, what? Right? Didn’t you say left?” “At the next intersection, turn right.” “Are you sure?” “Calculating.” Henry sighed. Up ahead there indeed was an ‘intersection’, and it split in three different ways. He didn’t know which one looked worse to him. “Lady, make up your mind.” “Calculating.” “Didn’t you say you were advanced?” “Continue straight ahead.” Henry looked forward. There was only a thick forest 'straight ahead’. The paths went two to the right and one to the left. “Calc-” “Bah!” Henry turned right at the first road and turned on the stereo again, turning off the GPS entirely. “For the glory of Google, we go where no GPS has ever gone before!” He turned on the four wheel drive and ploughed through a bumpy muddy road, crossing his fingers that the low branches don’t smack the camera off the roof. *** Of course, going where no GPS had gone before meant there was no guarantee that Henry would get anywhere at all. The road soon became a mud trail which probably never saw a car before. The camera brushed against the low hanging branches and the terrain steepened, so Henry threaded forward gingerly. The car hit a few rocks on more than one occasion and it didn’t sound too healthy. But Henry’s instincts told him this was the right way. That, or he just wanted to get lost in the middle of nowhere, never again to return to the chaos of the modern world. Since there was a heavy rainfall the other night, the road was a mudslide. The wheels threw tons of mud over the hood and the rear windows, making Henry’s vision limited to the front window only. He did not dare stop the car, or he’d slide backwards and off the road, tumbling down a ravine into a grinder of raging water and rocks. And if he put too much power he risked the wheels spinning or the branches smashing the expensive Google camera. For better concentration, he turned the stereo off. “Calculating. Unknown location. Please make sure the GPS tracking is turned on.” “It’s already on, lady. We’re in the deep now!” Suddenly, the mud path leveled out and the car emerged out from the thick forest. Henry drove on a grass field, a plato above the valley. His palms were all sweaty from gripping the steering wheel too much and his but and back needed some ventilation as well. But he felt like a friggin explorer of the old days, discovering some long forgotten temples in the jungle! And looking ahead, there stood a stone house. Looked like a shepherd’s house. “Calculating. Terrain impassable. Best to turn around and fly over with a helicopter.” “Nonsense,” Henry replied. “We can make it. Though I do appreciate the humor.” There was a young boy sitting in front of the house, watching over the sheep grazing on the pasture. His jaw dropped and eyes nearly popped out as Henry rolled by in mud and leaves covered Google car. He rolled down the window, scraping the mud against the door frame, causing it to fall at the boy’s feet. “Hello,” Henry said in his broken Romanian. “Where road leads?” The boy was speechless, looking at Henry as if he were an alien. Then he pointed across the pasture, uphill. “Road,” he whispered in Romanian. Henry followed the boy’s finger. Looking up the hill he noticed a horse pulling a cart far up the hill in the distance. A road! He thanked the boy and drove onward, going straight up the pasture. The wheels spun in wet grass and sheep shit for most of the time, and the clutch began to smell like fried chicken, but eventually Henry made it back to the ‘main road’. “Ha! Back in business, baby!” “Calculating. To reach our destination, it would be best to go back and turn left at that intersection.” Henry shook his head and turned the stereo back on. The guitar intro to Sweet home Alabama echoed through the car, as he drove on the high road, across the Transylvanian wilderness. And what a road this was! The landscape and the view was astounding! He smiled proudly as he thought of the images he will bring back home. Though in the back of his mind there was a little worry. I hope the camera is okay. I should probably stop and check- All of a sudden, coming out of a bend, he noticed a car turned over at the edge of the road. It was on fire. And there was a group of men sitting or standing around it, watching it burn and drinking beer. Nope , he thought to himself. Not stopping now. He drove past the group hoping they won’t throw molotovs at him. But as he passed them, they turned at him, smiled and waved. He waved back nervously. They had beers , he thought, feeling a thirst in his throat, instead of incredulity at the men’s actions. I must be nearing civilization. It took Henry the better part of the day until he finally got to his final stop in the mapping plan. Of course he nearly ran over another goat on the way, dodged a landslide, which took a huge part of the road down the hill, and picked up a hitchhiker - an ancient looking woman on the quest to see a doctor since there was none in her village. As he picked up the woman, he turned the stereo off again, out of politeness. The woman began praying and exorcising demons as soon as she heard the GPS voice talking ‘out of thin air’. “Multumesc mult,” the woman said as they rolled into town, Henry’s final stop. “You’re welcome,” Henry replied as the woman climbed out of the car. Henry jumped out too, to stretch himself. This town wasn’t big, probably didn’t even have a thousand people, but compared to what he’s seen in these last few days, it was a metropolis. I’m gonna miss Romania , he thought as he observed the people. But at the same time, I won’t. He climbed up his Subaru to finally check if the camera was okay. What a bummer it would be if it got damaged and didn’t even record... Henry’s smile faded and his hands clenched into fists as he held onto the dirty car roof, squeezing the mud between his fingers like spaghetti. His head bowed down in self-condemnation. I forgot to turn it on. Again.


Saturday, 30 March 2024 To: ericaclark-steele@gmail.com From: david.steele@gmail.com SUBJECT: Photos in Google Drive Hi, Honey, I hope you’re doing all right there. Oh goodness I miss you already. I know; I know. You’re going to say I’m being sappy again. If you were here, you’d roll those beautiful sapphire eyes and shake your head at me sighing as I stare at the 20x24 shot mounted in our bedroom of our first dance as a married couple whilst Jim Croce’s “Photographs and Memories” --- the song you always love to hum whilst you work -- plays in the background. Even now, I see the clear image of you contorting your face into a grimace, hear you mimicking a vomiting sound when I try to squeeze a pillow, pretending it’s you, my Erica. It’s true, though. Every single second I’m in this bed without being able to see your eyelids flicker like a shutter bulb, every cup of coffee without your lilting laughter in the golden hour, it all feels as if my life were in freeze frame. I can’t wait until I see you again. In that moment, it will only be you in my depth of field. Well, I got the selfie you sent me two days ago. As usual, you look stunning in it. Yes, I know you always point those blue eyes like an Instamatic at me and shudder whenever I tell you this, but really, I’m just exposing what is obvious. You truly do look like a cover girl in this photo. Your dazzling sapphire orbs, the emerald green and marigold mosaic pattern sundress floating on your lithe body, and the copper-coloured wavy wig --- You’ve always wanted to be a redhead, after all --- you carefully placed on your head all jump out of the stark white backdrop of the walls. Your beauty is the primary focus of the image, as it should be. Like you asked me to, I’ve uploaded that it in the Google Drive you’ve meticulously set up of photos to be printed. Night after inky night, when a gold-tinged moon is the Earth’s only spotlight, I’ve watched you build your gallery of images to be placed in the 10x12 chrome frames with the leaf detail that you purchased two months ago. The self-portrait now joins a digital copy of your graduation robe print, your corporate headshot, the Instagram-style photo of us pretending to do a magazine editorial during a trip to Paris, and a still from our formal pre-wedding shoot. All of these capture your luminance, the way you saturate a room with your fire (Oh, you know I was going to say this, Hon. Eye roll away.). I want to suggest something, though. I know. As with any project you’ve focused on, kept your eyes that have supervised many an advertising campaign on, you have scrupulously selected the photos that you think deserve to be immortalized in silver-coated paper, that you deem perfect enough to display before all of our friends and family. Well, that’s precisely the thing, though. Honey, I couldn’t help noticing that all of the stills you’ve asked to be stored in the cloud are all, well, posed, perfectly planned so that not even a single hair strand would fall out of place. It’s all well and good, but I don’t know. I feel like some snapshots of your more candid moments also deserve to see the light, that your unfiltered side is as much part of the picture of you. If you don’t mind, I will also be printing the following images, even if it’s just for me. 1. The photo of you beaming as you received a medal of distinction for your dissertation - Of course, you know I’d love to include this. Oh, how I love how the gold award hanging proudly on your delicate neck and the warm glow of the late afternoon sun brought your expressive blue eyes to the foreground. Even more so, I love how your wide, toothy grin could rival even high lumen flash bulbs in terms of brightness. I may not have photographic memory, but I still remember the day I took that shot. You looked so ecstatic, so admirative of yourself. I was so proud of you, my university best friend, as well...so proud, in fact, that I began to see you through a different lens. You know that it was the day I realised I was in love with you, that you were the subject of all my dreams. Of course, little did I know then that you felt the same way, that you were taking millions of snapshots of our moments together in your mind. It wasn't long until our deep friendship fully developed into a romantic relationship. 2. The photo of you gasping in surprise at the very first bouquet of flowers I sent to your office for your birthday - Oh, this image will always be precious to me! How can I not grin dopily at your mouth covered by a delicate, manicured hand and your irises widening like an aperture in surprise? You told me you never expected me to notice the bouquet of sunny yellow tulips that was your phone’s wallpaper, and then, have a florist create an exact replica of it as a present. How could I not show you, however, how much you illuminate my life in floral form? Of course, that was just the first of the yearly birthday bouquets. Every single year, when 19 July rolls around, I dutifully and happily sent you tulips to your workplace until.... 3. The photo of you enjoying a pain au chocolat during our Paris trip - Of course, I can’t make this list without including my favourite snapshot of the trip to celebrate our engagement six years ago. Whilst you’ve always adored our recreation in front of The Eiffel Tower of that Murad Osmann image of a woman leading her boyfriend around the world, I have always had a special place in the album in my head for this snap of you with your eyes closed, mouth stretched into a euphoric smile after taking a bite of the viennoiserie in your hand. Of course, though, that adorable expression in the image pales in comparison to the face you make every time my lips touch yours, a portrait of bliss. The colour temperature of your blue eyes seems to go warmer, your smile, more luminous. I obviously feel the same way in those moments, as you know already. I’ve told you this many times before, but every single kiss with you feels as if the entire world has dissolved to bokeh, like a million flashbulbs were dancing on my lips. At least, this still of a” pastry and you is a bit more private, I suppose. 4. A smaller version of our wedding dance photo - Oh yes, my favourite picture in the world, the one I insisted would grace our bedroom! Not even the work of Ansel Adams or Henri Cartier Bresson could ever top how this still captured the adoration in our eyes glued to each other, the radiance in your smile, the dynamic way we glided around the dancefloor. The image of that day is still fresh in my mind, of course. As I whirled you in my arms, I whispered to you that from then on, you would be my sole focus, that I will always be there to take care of you and to support you. I vowed to be with you whether the hour was blue or gold. I hope I.... Anyway, again, I really miss you. I'm excited to be able to hold you again, not just picture you in my arms. Always know how much I love you, okay ? Know that even beyond my time on Earth lapsing, it will always be you I choose. Always with a slideshow of you in my mind, Your David *** I gaze once again at the chrome-framed selfie of my Erica beaming before a camera, the portrait that I’m holding in my hands. As I look at the radiant smile, the bright red wig, and the sparkling blue eyes staring back at me, teardrops can’t help falling on the glass panel protecting the image. Right, even if my throat feels parched, as if doused with photo developing solution, I promised my wife that I would be still. Damn is it hard, though. “As you know, this was taken at the hospital,” I manage to sputter out, continuing the speech I’ve been giving for ten minutes before a crowd of black-clad familiar faces. “This was the very last photo of Erica before she passed.” Five years of marriage --- five years of photographs, five years of memories --- that was all I had with the love of my life. One minute, everything was picture perfect, a clear vision of the future in front of us. The next minute, a year and a half passed by in flashes --- a sudden splitting headache cutting short a trip to Australia, an appointment for an MRI, the unforgettable image of an oncologist trying his best to act stoic as he announced that my muse and inspiration had glioblastoma, surgeries that cropped off more and more of her brain, my Erica trying her best to hold back tears when she lost the vision in her left eye. (She had always been the type to insist on carrying on, even at that point where her future was unclear and grainy.) It was all so sudden, so instant, almost like a Polaroid popping out of the slot in an instant camera. The day she got the news that her cancer was incurable and she only had a couple of months to live, she had asked me to act as if she never received a death sentence, “to continue to smile in photos”, so to speak. She said she didn’t want the final images in her life to be me bawling my eyes until I lost the ability to view. As still as a snapshot, she began to plan her funeral, began to upload photos in the cloud she wanted us all to remember her by. She had always been like that, orchestrating everything like a shoot for a client’s products for her job. Two months later, the flash of her life went off permanently. Just like that, my life was hollowed out like an empty canister removed of its last roll of film. After laying down my Erica in the coolth of the ground, to her final resting place, I walk back to my car. As soon as I settle in the driver’s seat, I retrieve a large scarlet envelope from the back seat. The moment I open it, my breath catches as I lovingly gaze at images of my four favourite unfiltered moments of my soulmate’s life, the same ones I’ve listed in my final e-mail to her. The tears I’ve held back for months finally escape me, as if someone had pressed a shutter button in my eye. “Erica, Honey, it’s me,” I sigh through the waterfall pouring from my eyes as I slip in the key. “I promise you I’ll be okay. Just please tell me you’re still with me, that photographs aren’t all I have left of...” But we sure had a good time When we started way back when Morning walks and bedroom talks Oh, how I loved you then Suddenly, as if it were a flash of light, I hear the car radio turn on as soon as I start the ignition. I can't help breaking into a smile of both light and shade as my mind flips through endless images of Erica slumped over a laptop, her blue eyes glued to a photo she was editing, this very song hummed filling the air. No, the next months, the next years --- they won’t be picture perfect. There will be times the stills from our love story will replay over and over again and expose me once again to the knife-like pain of losing Erica. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though.


My breath stank and I knew it. The heat from the pulsating meat crawled out. That heat intimidated me somehow. Something about the way it loomed and crawled. It just got closer and closer until it engulfed you. And it couldn't be stopped... Clearly the weed was getting to me. It got my brother as well. I looked back to his corner of the nightclub. He owned that corner. Not that anyone wanted it anyway. His posture was bad and he had that distant look in his eyes he gets sometimes. His lethargic dancing was the only thing keeping him from blending into the walls completely. Every time I go to a nightclub and the initial appeal of the new surroundings wears off, I ask myself the same questions. Why the fuck am I here? What the fuck am I doing? Etc. It was the kind of feeling of not belonging that could only be matched if I found myself in the middle of a clothing store. I felt like a spy in a foreign country but I wasn't trying to hide it. It was too easy to assimilate. Beautiful happy faces orbited like moons all around me. The more I thought about that, the more they looked like moons. The lights brought out imperfections like little craters. And as they danced shadows moved across their faces in time with the music. A girl with a particularly round face and body was set for a collision course with me. There will be an interstellar collision of minor proportions. She danced like an american movie character. Overly happy and confident, seemingly unaware of the existence of insecurities. Insecurities that had controlled my life like the gravity of a super-massive sun, not allowing me to escape no matter how hard I tried and always bringing me back after I grew tired. This girl emitted a gravity of her own, not only because she was quite overweight but her confidence and happiness made me feel like she knew something I didn't and that she would soon find out that I was a fraud. I felt very little attraction to her but was slightly turned on anyway. That's what I get when female interaction is non-existent beyond buying beer at a shop or pub and paying the cashier. She turned around and moved her huge ass to the latest hit. It was getting closer. She turned her fat face towards me. She had a pretty face but her eyes said only one thing. I tried to look cool but my mind was in overdrive. As we got even closer, my whole body was tingling and my eyes were stuck to her. Pure tunnel vision. It felt like we were the only ones there and the lights lit up our faces like full moons. She backed her ass into my crotch. First Contact. Suddenly my mind left me. It took off in a spaceship for all I know. I turned into a being of pure feeling. It seemed like I was watching myself from above through a telescope in the safety of open space. Absolute nothingness, cold and still. Neither happy nor sad, I just had to accept what was happening. There was nothing I could do from that distance; it was impossibly out of reach. Light-years between my body and mind. My dick was hard and she could feel it. I said bad things as she grinded into me. I kissed her neck and touched her hips. She just kept dancing. Everything around was pure black and the lights were on us. I reached around and touched her belly. It was really big and disgusting. It felt cold and hot at the same time. Soft and hard. I could feel the curve as my hand touched her breasts and pussy. She had shaved recently so that was alright. I kept saying to her that we should leave and fuck but there was no reply. One of her friends came up and they chatted happily, all the while my hand was trying to find the clit. It was surreal and they laughed about something. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled as her friend left. She pushed back harder. I wanted to fuck her because I had never done it before. Bringing a woman to your room for the first time is a milestone I guess. She turned around and kissed me. I thought about my breath. I watched as my mind came back to me at warp-speed. What if my brother saw me with this woman. He didn't joke about those types of things but I always felt that he doesn't understand me and this would only make things worse. I felt sick and self-concious. I wasn't right for her and I looked silly. People were looking at us. The most intense feeling of self-hatred burst through my body. My brain felt like it was snapped in half, flipped over and fried. I took a step back, judged the situation and ran out the door and into the cold, wet night. The moon shined brightly as I smiled and lit a cigarette for the long walk home. *** I've been reading a lot of Charles Bukowski recently and I wanted to write something based on a strange experience.