GAME OF STRATEGY It’s a lot like playing Mafia. You know, that game that utilises a deck of cards to assign roles to people? Aces count as the Mafia, Queens are doctors, Kings are sheriffs, and the rest are the plebeian majority that hang around and don’t really have a whole lot of value. Except for a headcount. When I first stepped into parliament as a doe-eyed new member, I had the greatest hopes to achieve amazing things. I finally felt like I had a voice! All my big ideas now had a platform to be spoken into existence. Unfortunately, I quickly realised it was an exaggerated version of high school. Survival of the fittest, most popular, and with the deepest pockets. I won’t bore you with the details of all the work it took to get to parliament. It was hard. But, we made it. I want to take you back to my first Bill. ***** “I know, Jules. Yes. Thank you.” Alice puts down her phone and looks over to me. Today will be the first time I sit in on a reading of a new Bill, and she promised she would hold my hand through the whole process. Figuratively, of course. “So, Simon. It’s been a decade since we’ve allowed a male candidate in our party. You really need to be on your best behaviour.” I feel my cheeks grow warm. It was very controversial when I began campaigning to serve in our local government. But, something must have connected with the public, because here I am today. “We’re going to have all of Parliament’s eyes on us. They’re like bloodhounds. Don’t leak a drop.” Alice is quite fearsome. She has such strength and drive, it’s vastly intimidating. The room goes quiet as I step across the threshold and follow Alice to our seat. They’re looking at us, whispering. I keep my eyes down and settle next to Alice. Not a drop. Slowly, the roar of conversation builds up again and I look up to examine the surroundings. I am struck with awe. I suddenly realise where I am. I wonder for a moment how many people have sat in this seat before me. The history in the walls, the conversations in the cracks. The thick carpet, recently replaced, warms where feet have walked for centuries. This is the epicentre of peace, war, protest, and reconciliation. Words sharp as swords, poker-faced shields, angry tears, quiet shame. It has all happened here. The formalities begin, and I listen carefully to the Bill title. Dame Selena King’s booming voice fills the room, “I present a legislative statement on the Recycling Reform Bill.” The Deputy Speaker nods her head. “That legislative statement is published under the authority of the House and can be found on the Parliament website. Can I just ask members leaving the Chamber that you do so quickly and quietly, please?” Dame Selena continues her speech. “It's with great responsibility that I read this Bill a first time. The years have proven that current recycling programs drain necessary funds that could be better used in other areas of service, such as in the continued development of our tourist economy. The introduction of the Recycling Reform Bill today is a significant milestone, as the absorption of recycling into waste removal will release funds that will be reassigned to more important issues faced by our current economic climate. When passed, the Bill will create a single removal service and mass deposit site away from our country, maintaining the overall welfare of our citizens, and providing employment for underprivileged workers at said site...” I cannot believe what I am hearing. I flick through the pages of my planner. We’re not in April already, are we? Nope. Definitely still March. April Fool’s Day is still a couple weeks away. “...the Government ran a three-month consultation period with local councils to ensure that everyone had the chance to be heard...” I glance incredulously around at all the eyes glued on Dame Selena. Some are nodding their heads in approval. Others are furiously taking notes. I see a few women lean over to their neighbour and whisper in her ear. More nods. I have fallen into an alternate timeline, or some odd time warp. Surely this can’t be real. The Assistant Speaker stands up, announcing that, “the question is that the motion be agreed to.” Alice votes aye. She glares at me. I vote aye too. Not a drop. I wait to hear the noes. None. All ayes. Not a single opposition. Speechless, I follow Alice back to our office. She’s on the phone again, making some big, important calls. I can’t focus. Everyone is so busy. Nobody to talk to. I decide it is time to go home. Slow motion, I wander towards the nearest tram stop. I become increasingly aware of the overflowing garbage bins as I pass them on my way. A young girl drops a plastic bottle into a recycling bin. My internal dialogue cringes to realise that if this Bill goes through, there will be no recycling option anymore. I take a seat and wait for the rumble of the tram. “Sad, isn’t it?” I startle as a person sits down next to me. She has a hat on, low, casting a shadow over her eyes. Her coat’s collar is turned up, covering her chin. Hands in pocket, she stretches out her legs in front of her. “What?” “The Bill.” I try to grasp a better visual of the woman’s face, but all I see is a glimpse of red lipstick. She’s careful. “Who are you?” “A friend. “Who won’t tell me her name?” She shrugs. “What do you want with me?” I ask. “A favour. I know you don’t want this Bill to go through any more than I do. You’re not alone. I’ll be in contact.” She firmly shakes my hand, and then walks off. I glance down at my palm. A bank account name and password, with a small note attached. There’s a lot more where this comes from . Curious, I type the login details into an app on my phone. I try very hard to hold back the cuss word, but it slips out. $10,000. I think back to my first impression of parliament. Looks like I just drew the Ace card. ***** I notice yet another reporter on my tail, hoping to catch me in the act. It’s only been a couple months since the second reading of the Bill, and the public is ready to pounce. Alice still doesn’t know for sure that I was one of the noes, but she suspects it. I sense her disdain every morning. I try to remain chipper, but it’s not going to last very long. I look up at the cloudy sky and groan at the symbolism of a storm warning. The bloodhounds have turned their noses to me. She calls herself, “River,” the woman who met me on the bench at the tram. She did get in touch. Her instructions were clear. Use the $10,000 to kindly suggest to a member of parliament that they consider a very gentle, “no,” in their next vote. It didn’t take long for me to find one. Reece was my first. I overheard her complaining to her partner about the pressure she felt to vote, “aye,” at the first reading. When that first $10,000 was discreetly transferred, River was pinged, and she transferred $20,000 next, insisting that I keep half of it for myself, and use the other half for our next target. Lynne was a bit more difficult, but I heard that her house was in foreclosure, so I may have suggested that a financial gift would help. It felt strange, making these suggestions. I felt powerful, fighting for a cause, rallying for what I believed to be right. Ariana was my first taste of blood. In a fortuitous moment, I observed her in the arms of a young man just outside of a shady motel; a man who was not her husband. One photograph did the trick. Callie enjoyed one drink too many on a night out with my sister, so I recorded all the sordid details of that event. Freya was superstitious. A well-timed black cat and a strategically-placed cracked mirror convinced her to side with the noes. My kitty got extra treats that night. Those were just my firsts. Once I had a taste of the blood I couldn’t stop. I would do anything to kill this Bill. I see the reporter trying to hide behind a bush, and a cool feeling of dread settles in the pit of my stomach. They were getting too close. I message River to cancel our meeting. Then I delete the message. The quiet whiz of a drone somewhere above me draws my attention. I pretend not to see it, but the sound is all-too-familiar for me now. There is no proof that I’m the mole. No paper trail, no record. Just speculation. But of course their noses are pointing at me, the only male in parliament. I curse my sex. This is getting out of hand. River replies. “Fix it.” ***** She’s been kind to me, despite her harsh exterior. Alice has taken the time to mentor me, to see value in me despite what others think. She found me through my essays on law that I kept hidden on a blog that nobody knew the address to. She found me, somehow. Sweaty palms, dry mouth. I can’t believe I’m doing this. The cameras flash as I step up to the podium, determined to defend myself, my country. To make a stand. I clutch the blackmail notes and photographs in my hand. The mics screech. Live television. Who would have thought I would be here today? She doesn’t see this coming. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s done so much for me. I can’t let all her hard work on me go to waste. “People of this city,” I announce. I am surprised at how calm and even my voice sounds. “People of this city, today I bring tragic news. It is with a heavy heart that I must expose this horrendous truth.” You could hear a pin drop. A drop of blood drop. I pause. Do I really want to do this? All cameras on me. Hide all weakness, Simon. Hide it. “Alice Rogers is not who you think she is.” I hold up two of the blackmail packages. “In these envelopes are photographs and letters that Alice wrote to members of parliament, threatening to cause them great pain if they voted in opposition to this heinous Bill. For this reason, the Bill has made it to the Second Reading.” Even I am impressed by my silver tongue. “This Bill cannot go through, not when a knife is being held to the neck of innocent politicians seeking to preserve the beauty of our country by maintaining a comprehensive recycling program.” Alice looks up at me in disbelief. I see the police move towards her. Blackmail is a big no-no. “People of this country, you have a voice. Use it, for good.” Cheers. Screams. Reckless merriment and joy. Adulation. Appreciation. My heart swells with pride. I watch Alice being led away, tears streaming down her face. If someone had just turned over her card, they would have seen. Just another headcount. Mafia wins.


The time turned quickly from one to two. Twisting and turning on his double-sized, double-topped mattress, Jason couldn’t sleep. He reached eagerly for his glass of water and upon connection, something strange happened. At 1am, he couldn’t quite believe that anyone would have the audacity to ring the doorbell. Swiftly, he manoeuvred himself out from under the warm protection of his covers, and into the cold darkness of his hallway. He edged gently towards the door, careful not to give away his presence to a potential intruder. Reaching reluctantly with his right arm, he pried open the peephole. Standing roughly three inches from the door, was a tall, slim man. He was well dressed in a dark blue suit with large overcoat, clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest. ‘Hello?’ Jason questioned, slowly backing away from the door. There was no reply. ‘Who’s there?’ he questioned again. ‘It’s me.’ The man replied in a delicate, almost musical voice. ‘I err, think you’ve got the wrong house.’ Jason wasn’t sure why, but he was shaking. ‘I don’t often get the wrong house Jason.’ The man moved closer to the door and placed his eye firmly against the peephole. Startled, Jason quickly backed away from the door, unplugged the lamp to his left, and armed himself with it. With an odd surge of courage, he revved up his vocal box and attempted to sound as intimidating as possible, ‘I’m awfully sorry, but you have definitely got the wrong house. I doubt you have anything useful to say at this time in the morning, and I certainly have no desire to speak to you. Good night.’ Jason checked all four locks on the door, and limply moved like a scared rabbit back to his bed. He sat there, upright for the next half an hour, hoping and praying that the man had gone. \* \* \* Time turned again, this time quicker - Jason still couldn’t sleep. He looked at his digital alarm clock, except this time, it was no longer casting its ethereal green glow across the room. The doorbell rang again. Jason spasmodically sat upright in bed. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. ‘Right’ he remarked definitively to himself. ‘This buffoon is asking for it.’ He whipped out his mobile phone and dialled 999. ‘Hello, you’ve reached the emergency services how can I help?’ ‘Hi, sorry to disturb you at such an hour, but there appears to be a man outside my apartment, and he won’t go away.’ He tried to mask the quivering impudence of his voice, but it was no use. The doorbell rang again. ‘And what is the address sir?’ The distant voice at the end of the phone was comforting, to a degree. ‘Number 1, The Terrace, New Street, Bradford.’ The words leaked out of him like helium from a balloon. ‘Hello? Did you get that? Is anyone there?’ He clutched the phone tightly to his ear; the line was dead. ‘Hello?’ He uttered once more. Not sure how to rectify the situation, he got out of bed once more, and feebly dragged his chest of drawers in front of his door. There was only one thing for it, to sit and wait, and hope that the man had gone away. \* \* \* His neck was stiff. He’d been sat upright against the drawers pushing all his force on it for what felt like hours; in reality, he’d been sat cooped up in his room for only twenty minutes. A knock at the door. ‘It’s the police.’ Jason’s eyes lit up. ‘Finally!’ He scrambled to his feet, moved his barricade and ran to the door; precisely unlocking each of the four locks. Stood to greet him were two policemen, one short and fat, the other tall and slender, ‘We received a call from this property about a lurker.’ Said the fat one questioningly. Jason blurted his reply at breakneck speed, ‘Er, yes that’s right, there was a man, he was well dressed in a dark blue suit with large overcoat, clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest.’ ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ The fat man’s nonchalance ground Jason’s gears. ‘We’ll do a quick perimeter of the building, check everything’s normal.’ The tall policeman didn’t say anything. He stood there staring at Jason, and then, on command, sauntered off after the fat one. ‘What a strange pair.’ Jason remarked to himself as he slammed the door closed and did up two of the chain locks. He sat there by the door, eagerly awaiting their return. \* \* \* Ten minutes went by and there was no sign of the policemen. Jason rose from his squat to check the peephole, there was nothing but the cold white glow of the street lamps - he was shaking again. It didn’t seem conventional to him that two policemen could get lost when carrying out such a simple task, there was only one explanation. Jason placed his eye against the peephole to have another look. Startled, he fell away from the door, there was another eye looking back. ‘Hello? We finished the perimeter; can you open the door?’ Reluctantly, Jason opened the door, and was again greeted by the two officers. ‘Christ, what took you so long?’ He berated. ‘Sorry about that, my colleague Simon here got distracted by a very friendly squirrel.’ Perking up at this statement, the tall officer countered. ‘That’s not true, it was you who was taking fancy to that squirrel.’ The two turned two each other, covered their mouths and began angrily whispering. Jason, not in the mood for such a ridiculous argument, cut them off, ‘Er, excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but, are there not more important things to discuss?’ The fat man turned his attention back to Jason, his little red face blushing at the embarrassment of their domestic spat. ‘Well, we finished the perimeter, didn’t find anything!’ Jason released a sigh of relief. ‘We are going to have to ask you a few more questions though, just in case anyone else reports anything. Would you mind hopping in the car?’ Jason got into the backseat of the car and began answering the obviously routine questions. His mind drifted, and by the time it was done he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d said. It was 3am now and he was tired. Walking back to the house, he waved goodbye to the officers and relished the thought of a nice cosy bed. He then remembered that in his flustered state he’d forgotten to bring a key out with him. He tried the lock, and thankfully, it was open. Jason deftly applied all four of the chain locks and flopped into bed, without even bothering to take of his dressing gown; slowly, he began to drift off to sleep. Just as he was almost there, he heard a movement. Snapping into to action he flung himself upright in bed and turned on the lamp. There, standing in the middle of the room was a well-dressed man in a dark blue suit, with a large overcoat and clutching a New World Translation Bible to his chest. ‘Hello Jason’ he muttered wryly, as he stepped towards the bed.


“So what do you think?” Madeline asked. Billie shifted beside her, making the cushions beneath them slide against the flagstone of the church floor. They slid their arm out from around her shoulder to prop themself up, looking down at her as they said, “I think it’s natural that you don’t want to give up.” Madeline waited for more of an answer, but none came. “So... you don’t think there’s a chance?” she asked. “I didn’t say that. I just... I wouldn’t want to get your hopes up.” “And what about your hopes? What about your brother?” “There are still places we haven’t looked. We don’t know that he’s--” “I think we’ve both known for a long time that we weren’t going to find them -- Liam *or* Joe. I just don’t think either of us wanted to admit it.” Billie sighed and slumped back onto the floor. “You’re probably right there.” Now, it was Madeline’s turn to prop herself up on an elbow, looking down at her friend. “But that doesn’t mean we have to give up. The chances are, the Poiloogs have them both. So all we’ve got to do is find out where they take the humans they capture, then get them back.” “That’s all, is it?” Billie scoffed. “I know it won’t be easy, but together -- maybe with help from your friends -- we can at least try.” “You don’t think they haven’t tried before?” Billie replied, a hint of scorn entering their voice. It was the first time Madeline had heard that tone from them, and it delivered the words like a punch to the stomach. “I wasn’t around when it happened, but I know that that was one of the first things the group tried. They lost a lot of people.” “So what? That’s it? They failed once and now they’ll never try again? They’re not much of a resistance, are they?! What are they doing to actually resist?” The cushions slid every which way as Billie scrambled to their feet. “I keep telling you not to call them that,” they said through gritted teeth. Madeline hurried to stand too. “I’m sorry, I just--” “And what do you know about what we do? You’ve been to one meeting.” “I know, but--” “Do you know what some of those people have done? What they’ve been through? Sometimes just *living* in this world is resistance enough!” “And how am I meant to know any of that if you don’t tell me?” Madeline shouted. But the loudness couldn’t disguise the tremble in her voice. “*You* were the one being all secretive!” She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure, before continuing at a more normal volume. “Look, I’m sorry I upset you. Can we just talk about this? If there are things I should know, I’d like to know them.” Billie looked up, meeting her gaze for a second before turning away. “I... I can’t right now. I’ll see you later Madeline.” She watched as they strode away, footsteps on the stone floor echoing off the walls. Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to call out, but the words wouldn’t come. And though she yearned to chase after them, her feet remained rooted to the sport. When they were gone, Madeline slumped back down onto the cushions. She brought her knees into her chest and hugged them tight as she let out a silent scream. But it did nothing to alleviate the pain inside. \ That night, as Madeline lay in bed, she stared at the walkie-talkie until there wasn’t enough light to stare anymore. She must have thought about reaching out and grabbing it more than a hundred times. But each time something stopped her. The look that had been in Billie’s eyes. That edge that had entered their voice. The way they’d walked away and left her there -- alone with her grief. Still, she hoped the decision would be made for her. That she’d hear that familiar hiss of static followed by their voice. But it never came. She must have fallen asleep at some point because she woke the next day when the sun’s rays crept through the curtains and tickled at her eyelids. With that hollow ache still ever present in her chest, she forced herself to push past it. To take a deep breath, stretch, and climb out of bed. Once she’d managed that gargantuan task, she let her churning stomach lead her down to the kitchen. After a quick breakfast, she stepped out into the garden to wash, using as little water as she could. Every morning she missed her set-up at the library. Her water butts, her stove, her books. But thinking about that only served to splinter the shards of her heart even more. Then, with her only tasks for the day complete and no Billie to distract her, Madeline was at a loss. The idea of being alone with her thoughts was not an appealing one, so, for want of anything better to do, she decided to go looking for supplies. There were still houses in the area that she hadn’t searched yet and the hotplate Billie’s group had given her opened up some new possibilities for food. Her mind made up, Madeline grabbed her bag, tucked her book under her arm, and headed out the door. \ She returned home with a full bag and a full mind. The routine run, with no surprise incidents or encounters, had provided little distraction from her thoughts. She spent the rest of the day flitting from activity to activity, unable to settle. Working out in the garden only took her mind back to Billie. Reading triggered painful memories of Liam. None of her usual distractions worked. In the end, she went to bed early, hoping to speed the passage of time with sleep. Instead, she passed a frustrating night staring at the ceiling. She was sure she must have drifted in and out of sleep at some point, but she certainly didn’t feel rested. When dawn came around, she’d made up her mind. She couldn’t go on like this. The emptiness was starting to settle in, clawing out from the jagged hole in her chest. It was too much to bear. She reached out and picked up the walkie-talkie. But before she could press the button, there was a knock at the door. She froze, halfway to completing the motion. Shaking herself out of it, she dashed downstairs, stumbling on the stairs in her hurry. Without even pausing to check who was there, she swung the door wide open. Billie looked back at her, red eyes staring out of an ashed face. Their gaze flicked to the walkie-talkie Madeline still held in her hand and a pained expression flashed across their face. “I’m *so* sorry,” they whispered, voice cracking slightly. Madeline tried to swallow the lump in her throat -- tried to blink back the tears. But it was in vain. She dived forward, throwing her arms around her friend. “No,” she said firmly. “I’m the one that should be sorry. You’ve done so much--” “Sshhh,” Billie murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair. “You don’t owe me anything.” “Maybe not. But I shouldn’t have--” “And I shouldn’t have either. Let’s leave it at that.” “So we’re okay?” Madeline asked, leaning back to get a look at their face. They dipped their chin, trying to hide the tears that streamed down their cheeks. It made her heart wrench to see them like this. But a small smile playing at their lips alleviated the pain slightly. With a sniff, they lifted their eyes to meet hers. “We’re okay,” they confirmed. “More than okay.” Madeline buried her face in the crook between their neck and their shoulder once again. “Good,” she mumbled. After another long moment holding tight to each other, Billie loosened their grip. Madeline looked up to see a frown furrowing their brow. “What is it?” she asked. “I don’t want to restart anything. But I just wanted to say: you were right.” “I was? That doesn’t sound likely,” she said with a playful smile. “No, I’m serious. I’ve thought about it a lot and you were right. About Joe and Liam. About where they are. And about what we should do.” “And what’s that?” “Rescue them.


For though I am strong And though I am not sad Sometimes all must pause And leave their souls to cry \- Austin Zalewski I could see that Dr. Paul Ostrander was perfectly happy. He had been that way since Winnetka in the ‘80s, thrilled to be Watson or Samwise Gamgee when our enemies would march up the beach (yet he played Batman with equal passion). Now I could see that he was happy from small to large, from enjoying a gratifying existence to admiring the waves’ quiet murmur at low tide. He was only slightly above average in most aspects of his life, but in the aggregate, far superior: confidently humble; his jaw not quite chiseled enough to catch a wandering eye, but able to keep one there once it arrives of its own accord; outspoken so as to encourage others to speak out themselves; more money than that necessary to enjoy life, yet not enough to indulge; having traveled and knowing the world, while still finding equally captivating beauty in Beverly, Massachusetts. He found mirroring Toni Morrison’s attention to fundamental human emotion - ascertaining, articulating, applying - to bring his life a particular and diverse focus. Ostrander found joy in, and gave joy to, his work. Endicott College students found him exceptionally enlightening, yet struggled to express the cause; it seemed clear that their skills improved throughout the course, yet correspondingly unclear how he would guide them to this result. Just one passage from Beloved illuminated his teaching philosophy, however: “Sweet, crazy conversations full of half sentences, daydreams and misunderstandings more thrilling than understanding could ever be.” It delighted him to sit amongst his pupils, watching the sun bend through the water on his desk and alight on a puzzled expression. Like many he found joy in love, but his was twofold - the corporeal one premeditated by Sula and the one for the text itself. He relished hot summer afternoons on the porch, sitting quietly next to her and admiring the beads of delicate sweat on her upper lip. He loved expecting to love her, he loved growing to love her, and he especially loved loving her - the unusually rewarding journey marked by “pleasant anticipation, like when you know you are going to fall in love with someone and you wait for the happy signs.” It was impossible to distinguish his love for her from his love for how the words predicted his love for her - assessing whether he adored reality or the intangible was irrelevant because they were interchangeable. A dynamic equilibrium. He found augmented joy in friendship; every conversation, every touch, every tear struck his core just as did Nel’s reunion with Sula...“It had been the longest time since she had had a rib-scraping laugh. She had forgotten how deep and down it could be.” With such delicacy Morrison gave life to that inexpressible feeling! He likened Stephen’s deep baritone over the phone to the surf’s slow, persistent rolling at dusk; circling round and round his ear and with each turn quieting his mind until only he and Stephen remained. Even his friends’ most arbitrary gestures revealed to him their particular literary beauty - how lucky he was to experience dual realities! They would go down to Boston some weekends when the weather was warm. Anna would have been 8 or so at that time, I think. Around the age when you still experience dual realities from your own experience - direct sensory perception contrasting with imaginative interpretation. The three of them, Ostrander, Anna, and she savored the feeling of grass between their toes as they gazed at the sky, bordered by the trees, bordered by the buildings. How could he be so blissfully happy? Ostrander left them there to enjoy the view one of those afternoons to walk down the path to the harbor. The ships waited patiently in the murky water - the sky so clear that day that they probably didn’t mind stopping to admire it either. He watched some water drip down the side of the railing for a while, concurrently sustaining the color of the black iron and glinting in the sun, then matched it in size and shape with his own salty tear. He let more draw out of him to mingle with the languid breeze and the mist on his face. He gripped the metal beneath his palms and felt aware that the waves of his sadness started beyond the fishing boats on the horizon. Then he sobbed, a timbre like Nel’s yet lacking the notes of oppression and loss: “It was a fine cry -- loud and long -- but it had no bottom and no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.


You’ve been comatose, sleepwalking through every joyless day. Every wall of your mind is painted grey. There are bad days and then there are worse days. On the worse days, everything hurts. Every small action or inaction gets you. You can be decimated by the most impersonal acts, your head working on them, twisting them into something painful that cuts you and keeps cutting you. Does that person like you? Probably not (and here is a long list of reasons why and here is a series of interactions with them that you fucked up). Does the world have to be so full of pain and anger and hate? (Well that’s a whole other kettle of fish but unfortunately human conflict feels tediously inevitable and therefore so does human suffering and this is a thing you can’t change even if you want to and that makes it worse and so on and so forth). On days like these you wonder how your brain got to be this broken. What on earth is it trying to achieve pursuing the same self-destructive pathways time and time again? The first time you had that unpleasant, unhelpful thought, you pushed it away. Why did it boomerang straight back, replaying in your mind as frequently as a Place in the Sun plays on Channel 4? (Why are trivializing your clearly problematic state of mind by comparing it to a mediocre day time TV show? Why are you alienating all your readers who aren’t British, or who don’t spend an uncomfortable amount of time watching day-time classics like you? Are they classics, or do you just not have a life? Why do you assume you have readers when nobody really likes you and you’re an awful writer? Etc etc.) On the merely bad days, you are visibly alive but invisibly dead. It’s curious that everybody sees you and interacts with you as if you exist. Well, it would be curious. Curiosity involves some level of engagement, and you are no more capable of engagement than a banana. Or a fish. (Like your curiosity, your desire and therefore ability to think up interesting comparisons has deserted you. Therefore, you are no more capable of thinking up an original metaphor than a banana. Or a fish.) Realistically these days are probably worse than the worse days. Your total detachment from the world around you is frankly terrifying and would probably scare you if you were capable of feeling that emotion directly. Compared to the worse days you’ve already experienced, though, these days feel like a welcome reprieve. You float through them glibly. You smile at people and interact with them disingenuously. At some level you are aware that there is a mental cost to your insincerity. Being fake, pretending that you are a normal, emotionally functional human is problematic in and of itself because it only increases your sensation of detachment. You watch yourself as if on screen, buzzing around, smiling and laughing at everyone and everything (kind of like Jasmine Harman on A place in the Sun). Inside, your emptiness expands (probably not the case for Jasmine Harman). Which one is the real you? Actress you performs in the real world. Real you hides away in your head, dwindling away to nothing until there’s only hollow you left. (You know that it’s a real option to share your apathy with the people around you instead of pretending to be Jasmine Harman. You also know that people can’t relate to the way you’re feeling and in any case will find it hard to process, perhaps blaming themselves, which is another thing you don’t want to engage with right now. You would also have to make a difficult decision about how to relay the news. Do you opt for dispassion, therefore embodying the very lack of emotion you are trying to express to them? Or do you opt for a glib, superficial delivery that takes some weight out of the message? Option 1 is probably the easiest delivery but the intensity of your message, combined with the strength of your soulless gaze and impassive tone you’ve used to deliver it, might be a bit strong. Option 2 might soften the blow but if someone tells you that they feel nothing with a rictus grin pasted all over their face might that actually be worse?) And then there are days like these. The sun erupts over the horizon, obliterating the darkness that you thought was you. You’re drenched in halcyon sunlight, illuminated in glorious rays of warmth. You thaw slowly. Degree by degree, dispassion fades. Where there was grey, there is hope. Today will be better. Maybe every day can be better. Tiny you imprisoned in a slither of your head is melting. You begin to embody yourself, your whole self, your whole possible range of emotions. You had forgotten that life could feel so intensely full, so intensely radiant. You feel like you are overflowing. You’re no longer watching someone else interact with the real world from a little corner of your mind. You exist in the real world now. You interact with joy. Every encounter is painted in vivid colour. Every experience excites you. It’s like you’re discovering the world for the very first time. These are the best days. These are the days where your hibernation ends and your life restarts. On these days you don’t look back on the grey days. You simply enjoy them. The grey days will return. When they do, perhaps you can retreat to your dark little corner of brain and bring this memory with you. Perhaps it can replace the black thoughts that overwhelm you. Perhaps it can remind you that there is hope after all the apathy. Perhaps, just perhaps, it will remind you that life is worth living after all.


This is part one of a series I've been working on for a while. Currently, I have six parts up (plus 4 parts of an alternate horror version). Warning Profanity.  The world is going to end soon.  Or that's the conclusion one would reach from surfing the internet. Mayan calendars predicted the end, they were wrong. Homophones said gays would be the fall of modern society. But they got the right to marry, and I got a raise two months after. The two incidents were most likely coincidental. Still though, one day someone is bound to say the world is going to end and the next day it'll be gone. Poof, up in smoke. No more dogs or cats, no more Ben and Jerry’s and existential crisis. No more keeping up with the Kardashians because spoiler alert for those not keeping up, they’d be gone too.  I digress. While someday the world may be over, that day wasn’t today. Today was for all intents and purposes, normal. Work was work. Hopefully, sitting in the car and contemplating life, afraid to walk into the office knowing damn well it drains every ounce of happiness from me isn’t a pastime that only I partake in. Because I did that today, as I do most days.  Then, Janet, she’s the receptionist, was in front of me somehow It dawned on me that I entered a sort of hypnotic state and walked into the office without realizing. She was chewing gum, smacking her lips eagerly, her eyes burrowed into me.  **Janet**: Well?  She intimidates me, more than other people do. I’m never prepared to talk to her. Not that it matters.  **Me**: The uh... calls? Today’s calls...  **Janet**: Um-hmmm... Here.  She handed me a folder. Same as any other day. Same as the one I had held in my right hand.  **Me**: This is... yeah, you know.  We trade folders. She’ll file my reports, and I’ll go track down pests. We’ll do the same routine tomorrow.  I turned around and pushed back out the front door. I walked not to my aging, beige Toyota, but to the aging, white company van. The side of the van says "Ron's Pest Control" in black text with no logo or even a phone number. Shouldn’t it have both, maybe even a slogan? One that rhymed, like “We fight pests better than the rest!” Also, I don't know who Ron is. A John hired me, Mike is another exterminator, Mary does something in the office maybe accounting, and of course, there's Janet, no Ron though.  ▪ ▪ ▪  A family was sitting outside their home with tents and a grill set up. The camping gear screamed, “help my house has been overrun with rats!” so I knew I was in the right place. The family was squinting at the van, it is never what people expect. I got out and circled the van, they now squinted at me. I am never what people expect.  **Me**: Is this 215 Hanger drive?  **Man**\-on-lawn: Yes sir.  **Me**: Rat infestation, right?  **Man**: Yes, are you the exterminator?  He glanced once more at the van as if it would answer him, well I suppose it did. I nodded.  **Man**: Well go on and get your equipment and let yourself inside.  **Me**: That won’t be necessary, I’ll go in and evaluate before I bring anything in.  Walking into the front door of the house, the family’s eyes were on me the whole time. That is until the door shut shielding me from their quizzical looks. The living room was modest. Only one photo of the family hung above a couch that has seen its fair share of movies from the outdated wide flat screen parallel to it. No rats though. Then my nostrils were attacked by the foulest stench of what had to be body odor and rotten food. There was a rat: somewhere.  On my left appeared to be the kitchen so I started walking towards it. The stench seemed to be getting worse so either I was getting closer or my body was refusing to get used to it. I stepped through the doorway, my right foot on linoleum, my left still on the living-room carpet. I turned my head to the left and there it was. It was red, not that color matters. Its claws were overgrown by a few inches and wrapped around a beer bottle that it most likely helped itself to. Its tail fell off the chair and spooled into a coiled mess on the floor. Its bright yellow eyes glanced over to me, they were puffy, perhaps it was rabid.  **It**: Hey  I moved myself into the kitchen and took a seat across from the rat.  **Me**: Hey.  The rat didn’t follow up with anything, just took a long swig of the beer.  **Me**: So, what uh, what’s your name?  **It**: Ron.  This Ron and the Ron I supposedly work for are probably unrelated.  **Me**: Okay, ah, Ron? You can’t be here okay?  If he doesn’t give up easily I’ll have to go back out to the truck and get the Weaponized Overcharged Rely Device or W.O.R.D for short.  Ron started sobbing.  **Ron**: Man, she’s planning on leaving me and taking the kids. I just needed to get out and collect myself, Ya know? But no bar would serve me.  **Me**: Because you’re a rat?  **Ron**: What? No, because I smell so bad. What you gonna do to me?  **Me**: Well, I’d taze you and call for back up. They would probably tranquilize you and lock you up.  Ron threw his hands.  **Ron**: Whoa man, no need to taze me, I’ll go. Rather deal with Samantha then spend time in jail again.  Must be one of Mike’s regulars. He got up and walked at the back door, which shut on his tail. It didn’t seem to faze him. I went out the front door.  **Man**: What’s wrong? Need your equipment? Told you to get it.  **Me**: No, he left, no need to get anything.  ▪ ▪ ▪  I went over paperwork with the home owners. They tried to tip me, very generously at that. I had to decline. It’s against policy. I watched for a bit as the family started taking down the tents to begin reclaiming their home. Then I left, off to the next house.  Oh, I should have mentioned it up top, Ron’s Pest Control isn’t your typical extermination specialist; our hours are 24/7. Well that, and we are one of the only few exterminators trained to deal with the weird and supernatural. And a giant 6-foot rat breaking and entering to help himself to booze isn’t an out of the ordinary call.  If you liked what you read, here's .


Philip whistled across the street. He felt good. Life was good! Mr. Brown: Philip's boss, was not an easy man to please, but he had just given him a raise. was pleased with him, and he had just received a raise. Philip had lost his father the year before, and apart from the house he had lived in, he had left nothing. He had not worked much before his death, and the family's finances were meager. After the funeral, Philip had to go straight to work to support himself and his mother. With that, he had to give up his dream of going to college. Philip's father had not left him worldly wealth, but he had taught him the importance of integrity. He was hardworking, conscientious, and obliging. Everyone liked him, and besides, he had discovered that he enjoyed working in Mr. Brown's store. Philip was happy to have a job and to support his mother. Most people who knew him liked the friendly boy with bright blue eyes and an honest face. As I said, most people. Except for Mr. Peters. He was generally known for his gruffness and, above all, his avarice. Philip was never bothered by his unfriendliness. He thought him: apart from accumulating money, there was nothing that interested the old grumpy bear. Despite his financial prosperity, he had to be a lonely man. Philip and his mother lived on a hill, at the end of a winding village street, in an old-fashioned house painted white, in the middle of a beautiful green field. The most beautiful lawn in the area. -"Tea?" Philip's mother asked as he walked merrily into the kitchen. -"Tea? I am hungry like a wolf!" he replied, but when he came a little closer to his mother, he saw that she had been crying. -"Mother," he asked worriedly, "What is it?" -"Mr. Peeters was just here." she replied in a broken voice. -"Why did that old miser bother you?" Philip asked angrily. -"He says we owe him thousand dollars." his mother replied. -"A thousand dollars?" Philip exclaimed in astonishment. "Didn't Dad pay off our debts just before his accident? He told me that himself. I remember it very well." -"Yes, your father said that, but..." his mother began. -"Where is the receipt?" her son interrupted, "Let's go look in the papers," -"I think the receipt is lost." his mother cried. -"Lost?" Philip was shocked, "How is that possible?" -"He laughed in my face." the desperate woman lamented, "Let me tell you the whole story. But first have a cup of tea, boy." "Oh, I don ́t want tea anymore." her son replied matter-of-factly, "Now tell me." -"About five years ago, your father had borrowed money from Abraham Peeters. At the agreed time when the money had to be paid back, I still remember it as if it were yesterday because it was extremely hot that day, your father paid back his debt to Mr. Peeters and got proof of payment. I saw that myself. Dad put the receipt in his pocket and then went to see his cousin, Paul. His wife was so terribly ill at the time. On the way, however, a violent storm arose, and just as Papa was about to pull into Paul's driveway, he was struck by lightning. That stunned him. It took him weeks to regain consciousness, but he never quite became himself again. Weeks, if not months later, I once asked for that receipt, but we could not find it. We have looked everywhere, turned everything inside out, but found nothing. And to be honest, Dad could not remember any of that. In any case, Abraham Peeters had left for California and never returned. His entire possessions were then left to his brother James. At the time I didn't worry much about it, and your father certainly wasn't in a position to worry about it." -"Mother!" Philip said forcefully, "Hold on because I don't understand your story at all." -"I'm trying to explain it to you, son." his mother said, startled. "On the day that receipt was signed, our old cat jumped on the table and knocked over the inkwell. The ink ran all over the table, and that note got stained with ink. The old Peeters was an advocate of absolute cleanliness, and of course, he thought an ink-stained note was impossible and tore up that note, I mean the receipt. He wrote and signed a new receipt. I've seen that myself." Philip sat looking at his mother thoughtfully. "I was convinced old Peeters had torn up that stained receipt, but that's exactly what James Peeters showed me this afternoon. He said he found it among his brother's papers." Philip's mother finished her story. -"How are we going to solve this?" Philip asked, "We don't have thousands of dollars to pay back right now." Philip got up and paced angrily in the kitchen. -"I'm afraid if this goes to court, your story won't be worth much, mother." he said with desperation in his voice. "Moreover, I am convinced that Mr. Peeters believes that he has a valid debt certificate in his hand. And that old miser will go to any length to claim every penny of it. We have to take another look, search thoroughly whether we can't find that evidence anywhere." -"I'm afraid that's a lost cause son." his mother wept softly. And it was. They couldn't find the note. -"Peeters is such a mean man, he had to laugh at that whole story about the cat and the inkwell." Philip's mother moaned. Philip couldn't help but admit that it sounded very unbelievable. There was nothing left to do, but to sell the house to settle the debt. Philip's mother seemed to have aged so much since Peeter's claim. He had turned very pale; his boyish face looked haggard. At first, he had hoped to settle, and his boss, Mr. Brown, had offered to borrow money on a mortgage on the house, but Philip was terrified that he would not be able to pay the interest on his salary. He wasn't afraid of hard work, but he didn't want to end up in an endless state of debt. He saw no prospect of paying it off. The house was sold and together with his mother, they moved into a small, rented house. Down by the river, because the rents were affordable there. Philip had died inwardly at the mere thought of his mother being evicted from her home in this way. She tried her best to hide her feelings for her son and to give him the impression that she was cheerful, but she found all of this very bitter. The house and lot had been sold and this was their new life now: in a small house down by the river. She had lost everything she was used to. This was a particularly heavy blow to her. Philip felt distraught and discouraged. His step lacked bounce and his face had lost its smile. He yearned for his childhood home. He was deeply unhappy. That winter, Philip's father's cousin, Paul, died. He left behind two small children. Their mother had died the year before. The two little boys were left penniless and homeless, as there were debts on all sides. "What will become of those children?" Philip's mother lamented. "We have to take those children in with us, son, and offer them a new home." -"Mother please!" exclaimed Philip exclaimed, "We don't have a penny of our own." -"We are the only family they have." his mother sighed sadly. - "Think about yourself mother." Philip continued, "You already deny yourself so much and you work way too hard!" -"Oh, stop it son! You should do it with love for those poor souls. Their father was your father's cousin. They are family, and we have to do what we can for those children. We can don't let strangers take them. Who knows what will become of them." Philip spent a week thinking about it. Taking in those kids meant two extra mouths to feed. His mother saw it as a privilege to take care of those boys. -"Okay mother." he finally said to her, "We're going to give those boys a new home. And so it was that Jonah and Sam, ages eight and five, came to live with Philip and his mother. They were a bit naughty and very lively. Before long it was Jonah's birthday. But there was no money for a present. -"Why don't you give him one of Daddy's books? The one with the nice red cover, the story about the pirates, little boys like that, don't they?" Philip's mother suggested. The story was not very special, but it was Jonah's gift, and on the day of his birthday the boy got it at breakfast. But that day there was another cause for celebration: when Philip wanted to wrap the book the day before to make it look like a present, he flipped through its pages carelessly, when suddenly he sprang up, his face white as marble. -"Mother!" he gasped. -"What's wrong son?" she asked in alarm. -"Look at this." he whispered, holding up a yellowed piece of paper. Mother and son looked at each other in silence for a moment. Philip began to laugh, and his mother let her tears flow. -"Do you think this note is valid as legal evidence?" she asked, sobbing. -"And why not?" Philip said dryly, "We'll have to leave it to Mr. Peeters' sense of justice. But it's worth trying anyway." -"Can a judge force him to pay us back the money?" his mother asked worriedly. Mr. Brown accompanied Philip when he went to talk to Mr. Peeters and together, they were able to convince him of the authenticity of the note. Peeters was a hard, stingy man, but he prided himself on his honesty. -"Then the story of the cat and the inkwell must be true." he bellowed gruffly. By spring, Philip, his mother, and, of course, the boys had settled back into their beloved home. -"We really owe our happiness to those boys, don't we, mother?" Philip said. "Because of their birthday, we found that misplaced receipt." Philip’s mother shrugged her shoulders and said timidly: "In the end, you were the one who decided to offer those boys a new home with us." "I didn ́t want to do it at first,” Philip said, embarrassed, "if you hadn't come up with the idea of taking those boys in, it wouldn't have happened. It's your selflessness that has given us the privilege of having those boys with us. And for that: I thank you mot


A young man awakens with a breaking back, feeling ancient despite the twenty winters, and turns to his side. Drowsy and numb. He rises from his soft prison and puts on a pair of pants, the same of last night; a blinding star greets him from his window each day, so does a small bamboo on a glass tube adorned with a bronze coin. The bags under his eyes and his exhaustion remain eternal and the perpetual routine begins: He forces himself outside and flinches before the blinding gold of the skies, then looks down at his feet; healthy nature amidst a sea of endless concrete. Small vibrant flowers bring life into the oasis surrounded by the soulless white brick walls; improvised towers of plastic and tape are the homes of young and eager crops. The ancient young man watches them closely and caringly, he has named them: Monolith, Obelisk, Hope, Claw, Neo, Overflow... He quietly bestows them words of encouragement and is grateful. He rejoices in the presence of the bees, but despises that of the ants. Breakfast, a cup of mint tea or similar infusions, a handful of calories and then back into his self-inflicted sentence of isolation. Idiotic penance for thought-crimes. The pain grows for reasons well-known yet he ignores the cure and has chosen instead a half-assed treatment. Better than nothing. With each breath drawn, his ribs crackle along with his spine. With each letter typed onto the screen, fingers crackle. With each step taken, both his feet and knees crackle. With each passing minute, his mind crackles. He yearns for forgiveness that no one has He resigns to the numbness He dreams of morphine Before another soul, he fabricates a smile and a voice but behind them lies nothing. Only fear and weakness. Two voices argue and yell inside, one moves his body and the other, his mouth; they rarely agree. The first one yells without a tongue, the other does with two. A third one rises louder than the others, this one moves the soul. The mediator. The golden star begins to settle on the horizon, a warm infusion rests on the ancient’s desk. Peace. Hours passed, wasted? Perhaps. Futile are his dreams? Those of a calm morphine sea? Those of a day without screams? Those of a life without freezing fear? He will be handed no answer, for he has not yet earned it. The pale moon now rises, final meal of the day. He shares table with those who love him, yet he feels no warmth. Regret. A fabricated smile once again until the clock shows 10pm; he heads into the shower. The infernal water clashes with the arctic one and, in perfect synchrony, they drown both the pain and his poisonous thoughts. Serene. Methodical cleaning takes place, the skin breathes once more and the hair softens; the poison is washed away following the rhythm of soothing tunes. The clock now shows the 11th hour again, he heads back into his cell, feeling renewed. He leaves his pants on his obsidian chair, turns off the lights and partially jams the door. He returns to his soft prison of springs and cloth. The pain awakens just as he falls asleep, the nightmares continue. He dreams of burning flesh and twisted bone He resists the fear and the pain He dreams of cold morphine sea.


One foot in front of the other. That is where he kept his focus as he made his way down the country road, alone. Had he not, he may have passed out right there. His feet were blistered and raw from running all through the previous night. The hakama he wore were spattered with mud at the fringes around his ankles. The edges of his kimono--tattered from running through thick brush--flowed freely around him. Mementos from his late night escape. He kept one hand clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. This is no way for a Samurai to dress, he thinks to himself. Then I suppose I am officially no longer a samurai... The wind whipped at his face as he limped his way along the dusty road. He began to contemplate the events that had brought him here. How his whole world had turned upside down. Late last evening, Lord Zankoku had called in his top samurai for a council of war. This is not out of the ordinary as the country is locked in civil war. The shogun had passed away two years prior without naming a successor. A power vacuum ensued. Lord Zankoku was one among four other Lords vying for control of the country. As the war continued, Lord Zankoku’s tactics had become more wicked; commanding for whole towns to be decimated--women and children included. The Samurai had conflicted feelings about these cruel methods. This, however, was irrelevant. His honor required unquestioning fealty to his Lord. Luckily, he had not been sent on one of these missions... Yet. Before the Samurai reported to the council of war, he stopped by his family shrine located behind his house on the edge of the woods. He lit incense and knelt before the placard with his late father’s name on it. Closing his eyes, he commences to pray. Father. I need your guidance... my feeling towards my duties are conflicted. Gently he drifts off into a reverie like a leaf on the wind. A distant memory from his youth. The sun was shining bright. He was training with his father in the courtyard of their home.... It was late spring and the scent of white peonies pervaded the air. The two of them stood face to face holding their wooden training swords--their bokken. They were wearing identical white kimonos and red hakama. Eyes locked, their bodies standing as still as statues; sweat building up above their brows. His father then raised the bokken with a swift fluid gesture, bringing it back down with the force of a meteorite strike. The young Samurai steps to the left by three inches. Bringing his blade handle up, pointing the tip down and aslant to the left, resulting in a perfect parry. Had he been any slower, he would have suffered serious injury, but he has been trained by his father ever since he was old enough to hold a stick. “Very good my son. You are shaping up to be quite the swordsman,” he steps closer and gingerly puts a hand on the young Samurai’s shoulder. “I’m ready to fight for our Lord, father. I am ready to bring honor to our family,” the Samurai proudly declares. His father’s brows arch up. “Oh, you think you’re ready? Being a samurai is about more than just flashy swordsmanship. Are you ready to follow orders?” He gazes deeply through his son’s eyes and into his soul. “Yes,” the Samurai says without skipping a beat. His father slowly looks away, drops his hand and begins to meander the courtyard at a steady pace with his hands clasped behind his back. “You will have to follow our Lord’s every command without question. You owe undying fealty to him once you’ve taken your oath. Do you understand my words?” He pauses and turns back to look at the young Samurai. The Samurai responds, “Of course, father. As I have already claimed. I will bring honor to this family,” He brings his right fist to his heart. His father slowly steps up in front of the Samurai. After taking a long hard look into his son’s eyes he asks, “What if he ordered you to kill your fellow samurai, your friends?” “I’m sure it would only be for valid reasons. Maybe they betrayed our lord and country. Yes, that’s it, there is no place for traitors.” His father then asks, “And what if he ordered you to kill me? Hm? Would you still follow his orders?” The Samurai hesitates, he lets his right hand fall back to his side, then says, “That would never happen. You would never do anything to deserve that.” “Are you sure? You would question an order from your lord?” The Samurai’s face tightens as he realizes the contradiction he made. “It’s not a question of whether or not I deserve it. It’s a matter of serving the will of your Lord in the name of honor and duty for your fief. You see? One must be ready to do their duty regardless of their own feelings in the matter. Your fealty to your lord is to be undying. Honor above all else.” The young Samurai stands there for a moment and contemplates the gravity of this lesson. A smile graces his father’s face, then he reassures the Samurai, “Do not worry, my son. I am sure that when the time comes you will honor our family and uphold your duties.” The Samurai’s eyes snapped open to the tolling of the castle bells. It is time for him to report to Lord Zankoku and the war council. He bowed before the shrine and clapped his hands once. Carefully he stood up. Then prepared himself mentally for the meeting ahead and takes his leave from the shrine. The Samurai entered the war room. He saw several other samurai have already seated themselves on the ground. Between them there is a short round table. The table is covered with a map and several crudely carved figures have been placed on top of it in various locations. The carvings of the figures reminded the Samurai of the grotesque creatures from the yokai stories kids used to tell each other on stormy nights. Stories about demons that come out at night and consume entire villages. The Samurai takes his seat and waited for the last few stragglers to shuffle in. Everyone waited quietly at attention. Then Lord Zankoku entered the room. He wore a suit of light armor composed of rectangular metal plates linked together with chain mail and painted black. A golden half-moon shaped metal plate adorns the front of his helmet. Everyone immediately bowed in his pressence. “Rise, my warriors. Tonight we shall deal a mortal blow to our enemies. For we have enemies everywhere as we trudge deeper into this war,” says Lord Zankoku as he scans the room. “Our spies have reported traitors within our borders. It is said that one of our own villages has been sharing food and supplies with the enemy!” One of the samurai seated speaks up, “Sir, I know the spies you’re speaking of. That information is unreliable. They may even be working with-- “ “Who said you could speak?” roars Zankoku. His face contorts into a livid visage. “Get this insubordinate fool out of my sight! Lock him up, I will deal with him later.” Two guards shuffled in and yanked the man up by the shoulders. They griped tightly around his wrists and hurried him out of the room. “Now,” continued Zankoku. “We will deal with the traitors accordingly. Tonight we shall march into the village, slay every last traitor, and burn the village to the ground. This shall serve as a message to anyone else that might be contemplating defying my will.” All of the samurai cheered their agreement. All except one. The Samurai sits frozen to the ground. The order he dreaded had finally been delivered. What was he going to do? I know people that live in that village. They are not traitors. This is outrageous! He had to follow his orders, but at what cost. Where is the honor in murdering the innocent? This has gone too far. I will not partake in this for another minute... That’s it then. I must warn that village. With his mind focused on the present moment, he leaped into action. He was on his feet and before he even realized it, he had drawn his sword out into an arcing motion practiced thousands of times. With one move he severed Lord Zankoku’s right hand. Everyone in the room stared at the gushing bloody stump in awe. Lord Zankoku looked at the place where he used to have a hand, then looked at the hand on the floor. He began to shake violently, a guttural sound building up in the back of his throat. “Kill that bastard! I want his head! Bring it to me! Now!” The Samurai had already departed while everyone was still staring at Zankoku in shock, buying him a bit of a lead. The other samurai started pouring out of the war room, swords drawn. They charged out of the building and began to scour the woods outside the castle. The Samurai was running through the woods. He could hear the others; they were far behind him. It is unlikely they will find him; the woods are pitch dark. He ran through puddles from the recent rain and tumbled his way through thick brush that clawed at his kimono. I must make it to the village. Suddenly he heard a man shout out into the night, “Stop right there!” The Samurai turned to see his old friend and comrade, Haji, with his sword drawn and pointed at him. “Can’t you see this is wrong? Everyone knows those reports are a farce. Those people don’t deserve to be butchered,” proclaimed the Samurai in sharp hushed tones. “I will not have my family name besmirched. Our duty is absolute. You have shamed your family,” Haji said defiantly. The two of them locked eyes and settled into their stances. Their faces were drawn up with great great intensity, but within their minds there was only the calm focus of a warrior. A cool gentle breezed caressed them and as the chorus of nighttime insects chirped on into the night. Suddenly, Haji’s left foot started to slide in the mud ever so slightly. Taking advantage of this development, the Samurai leaped toward Haji and cut him across the midsection like a farmer scything wheat. Haji’s eyes went wide, his hands reached for his stomach in a futile effort to stop the blood. He fell to the ground, dead in matter of seconds. The Samurai realized what he had down. He murdered his own friend. A gyre of shame encompassed his heart. No time to mourn. He turned and continued running. Suddenly his feet dropped out from under him. He tripped over a deep ditch formed by a large wisteria tree that had fallen the previous summer. As he fell, he slammed his head against a rock--knocking him out cold. He woke to the sounds of birds cheerily chirping, making their way about their morning business. As he was coming too, he noticed the scent of smoke drifted upon air. His eyes burst wide open as he realized he is too late. He got to his feet and hurried to the edge of the woods. The village was in sight way off on the horizon. A pillar of smoke rose up from the village, trailing off into the sunrise. He failed. Was it really worth it, he thought to himself. The Samurai limped his way to the road. He no longer cares where he is going. He has nowhere to go. What life is there for him now? His family name will be stricken from the records. All that is left is for him is the shameful life of the wandering Ronin. Focusing with all his might, he walks. One foot in front of the other.


I had it all planned out. I bought flowers, I made her a drawing, I even went as far as making her a cake. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I put on a nice outfit, I had even taken a shower that morning so I could ensure that I smelt okay. I still remember that feeling of overwhelming joy as I was setting it all up. I had put a large banner above the window in her room and I remember spreading the bouquets of flowers I bought her on random shelves scattered around the place filled with all of her memories. I placed the cake on her desk and opened my computer so I could play the music playlist I had worked on for hours perfecting for her. I remember envisioning her smile and imagining how happy we would be together once she agreed to be my girlfriend. It was agony waiting for her to get home from hanging out with her friends but her mom kept me company. I still recall the sound of her door knob opening and the sound of her voice as she greeted her mother. I could hear her walking up the stairs and I felt my heart speed up. Gosh i was so happy and so excited. I could see the door knob turn and I felt like I was going to pass out. I got in position beside her bed and as she opened the door I said, “Would you do me the honor of being my beautiful girlfriend?” She looked around the room with a smile that could light up the whole world, then she met eyes with me and all of a sudden her smile faded and it seemed as if the world had gone dark again. She looked at me confused, almost scared as if she didn't know who I was. That was the moment where I physically felt everything fall apart. When I felt the world shift from underneath my feet. “I’m sorry, but are you sure i know you?” I smiled for a minute, waiting for her to laugh and come and hug me. But she never did. She stood there with the same confused look on her face. As if she truly had no idea who I was. “You're kidding right?” My voice shook as I spoke. I tried my hardest to act calm and put together. Surely she had to be kidding. I mean we've been friends since the first grade. She shook her head slowly and she had a look of sympathy written on her face. “ Kayla, come on. We've grown up together. We've been friends since like the beginning of time. If you don't like me then say so but there isn't a need to go so far as pretending like we've never met.” “ I don't think you have the right girl dude. I genuinely don't know who you are. I mean you look familiar but i don't think you're at the right house. The Kayla this is for though must be pretty lucky.” I sat down on her bed and ran my fingers through my hair as she sat next to me. “Look it's nothing to be embarrassed about. I've shown up to the wrong house before it's not a huge deal.” “You seriously don't know who I am? You're not pretending just to get me to leave you alone.” She smiled a little and a part of me felt a bit better. She lightly bumped her shoulder with mine as she spoke. “What kind of awful person would do that to you? You seem sweet. Besides, if you really knew me you would know that I am not that kind of person. What's your name lover boy?” It hurt to hear her ask. As if all those years of wonderful memories had somehow escaped her mind overnight. “ I'm Phoenix, You're Kayla I can safely presume.” “ Oh so you admit you're at the wrong house?” No. i knew for a fact this wasn't the wrong house. I knew that the teenage girl sitting next to me was the same girl that I learned to ride a bike with when I was seven years old. I knew she was the same girl that I had fallen in love with. She laughed a little as she waited for my response and i decided to save myself from the embarrassment. “ I guess it's a possibility that this is not the correct address” She laughed and shook her head and after a second or two I found myself laughing with her. Although at that moment I was still confused as to how in the world she could just forget about me and all of the moments that we had shared, I figured that was a problem for tomorrow. I was going to spend tonight getting to re know this beautiful girl that was laughing in front of me. Although i didn't mind. I always loved listening to her talk. The sound of her voice was always one of my favorite sounds. And that's exactly what I did that night. We stayed up talking until the sun came up. We laughed and I told her stories about us, not that she would know. Everytime i told her a story of something that we had previously experienced together she would always laugh. Almost as if she remembered it. I still remember walking home the next day with the feeling of happiness and sorrow sitting on my shoulders. It was nice getting to talk to her that night but i still struggled to comprehend that it was possible for her to forget all about me. I didn't want to believe I was that forgettable. We didn't talk much after that night. Maybe it was because she thought it was weird that i had claimed to know her or maybe it was because it hurt me a little too much to be around her now. Whatever the reason we still don't talk. I still think about her sometimes. I'm still not really sure whether or not she forgot about me or if she was just pretending. I guess now it doesn't matter. I hope she's doing well. I would ask her but with my luck she wouldn't even remember my name.


Lisa Angel had a gift. Whenever her gift would activate, she could never remember the day of her birth or major events in her past. Sometimes Lisa’s gift would give her nightmares. She could see into the future, but she could only see people’s deaths. Lisa’s morbid clairvoyance manifested when she was 5 years old. Now Lisa was 37 years old. She was the mother of a tall, dark, and handsome young man named AJ. Lisa’s son didn’t know about his mother’s gift until he experienced it firsthand one night. He went to visit his girlfriend. While kissing his lady friend, he received a text message from his mom which said that him and his girlfriend needed to leave the house and call the police immediately. AJ didn’t understand the text message, but a voice inside him told him not to disregard his mother’s text. AJ and his girlfriend, Chrissy, took shelter in his car, which he parked across the street directly across from her house. As AJ sat in his car, he called his mom before calling the police. Before he heard his mother pick up the phone, he saw a muscle car roaring down the street. It came to a murderous stop in front of his girlfriend’s house. AJ watched as a young man jumped out of the muscle car, brandishing a gun. He remembered his girlfriend telling him that the young man was her ex-boyfriend. Thankfully, Chrissy’s parents weren’t at home when her ex-boyfriend kicked down the front door, preparing to shoot everyone in the house. That night, AJ’s mother saved their lives. The police arrested Chrissy’s ex-boyfriend. AJ walked away with his life and Lisa thanked God that her supernatural gift saved her son. The evening came and Lisa made herself comfortable in her bed beside her husband. While holding her husband’s hand she thought about the night she rescued her son and his girlfriend, who soon became his ex-girlfriend. This incident occurred two years ago. Lisa didn’t want to let go of her son. The last time Lisa saw her son was in his dorm room. She helped him unpack his things. Lisa laughed to herself while thinking about how she hugged and kissed all over her son’s face, not caring about embarrassing him in front of his college roommate. Lisa had to stand on her tiptoes to kiss her son goodbye. She told herself not to cry in front of her son. Lisa couldn’t accept the reality that her baby had become a grown man. She still saw herself coddling a toddler. She saw herself playing hide and seek with her son. She saw herself pushing her son on the playground swing. While Lisa hugged her son, her sadness struck her like a fist after she realized that her days of playing with her son as a baby were over. Lisa had her face buried in her son’s chest with her slender arms locked around his waist. She cried so hard that her tears drenched the front of her son’s Notorious B.I.G t-shirt. Lisa didn’t care about embarrassing herself. She didn’t care about blowing kisses at her son and watching him squirm from his mother’s overstated affection. She didn’t care about her husband taking her by the arm and dragging her out of her son’s dorm room. Lisa knew she looked psychotic in front of her son’s roommate, but she didn’t care. “He’ll be okay,” Lisa’s husband, Harrison, whispered to his wife. He stopped reading his book after he heard his wife release a mournful sigh. Harrison laid the book down on his chest before leaning over to kiss his wife. “I know he’ll be okay, but I can’t stop worrying. Our baby went to college today. He packed all of his things and he moved out. Now he’s fucking gone, living on a college campus that’s forty miles away from us.” Lisa looked away from her husband while wiping a tear off her face. She normally didn’t cuss, but she was so distraught that The F-Word escaped from her lips. She had an upright position in the bed with her back pressed against her pillow and the headboard. Lisa brushed her flowing caramel-brown hair away from her wet face. She forced herself to smile at her husband when he gave her another comforting kiss on her cheek. “Our baby is fine. We’ll see him again,” Harrison reassured his wife through his relaxing, deep voice. “He’s a man now. He’s gonna make new friends. He’ll find his future wife just like his father met his future wife at his college,” Harrison chuckled out his words as he tickled his wife, causing her to giggle. “See! I’m making you feel better already!” Harrison tossed his book to the side. He let the novel fall off the bed as he scooted closer to his wife. Lisa gave her husband an amused stare. She knew what her husband wanted when she felt his hand slide up her stomach before coming to a stop beneath her left breast. “When you look at me, can you still remember your past?” Harrison whispered the question with his mouth hovering over his wife’s full lips. He knew about his wife’s supernatural gift and it would always stimulate him sexually. Lisa knew that her gift aroused her husband, but his question unnerved her. She knew her husband presented his question as a joke, but she didn't find the humor. “What’s the matter?” Harrison looked puzzled after he brought his lips in for a kiss, only to get halted by his wife’s hand. Harrison hated to see his wife turn away from him. “I don’t think you should joke about my gift. It’s too damn serious to joke about.” Lisa gently rebuked her husband while folding her arms and turning her back on him. Harrison laughed nervously. “Look, I’m sorry. It was just a joke.” Harrison’s smirk and his playful attitude didn’t warm his wife’s heart. “I’ve been a clinical psychologist for twenty years, but I feel like a freak.” Lisa rested her hand above her cleavage while turning to look back at her husband. “You have no idea what it feels like to counsel a person, knowing that they’re going to die. I can’t save every client who walks into my office. I dread it when I look into a client’s eyes and I can’t remember my past, but I can see their future death. The premonition of death I see through a client’s eyes erases my childhood. When I see someone’s dark future, it’s like I cease to exist.” Lisa’s whispering became harsh. When her husband nervously dropped his gaze, she clutched her fingers beneath his chin forcing him to look back into her eyes. “Look, forget what I said. My question was a bad joke and I’m sorry,” Harrison profusely apologized, hoping it would stop his wife from discussing her supernatural sight, but she crushed his hopes. “I accept your apology and I pray that I will never forget my past when I look at you.” Lisa stroked her finger beneath her husband’s well-defined chin. “I had a client who came to my office a year ago. He needed treatment. He was psychologically scarred because his mother molested him every night. She was a crackhead and a prostitute. Her pimp would beat her and put her in the hospital sometimes. This young man told me that his mother’s job made her feel powerless and she hated men. So she reinstated her authority by sexually abusing her son. She imposed her hatred for men onto her 4-year-old baby. On some nights, she’d beat her son and strangle him the same way her pimp would do her. On other nights she’d sexually abuse her son the way her male clients would abuse her and treat her like sexual trash. The abuse she received for being a prostitute didn’t give her the right to abuse her son. Her child didn’t deserve to suffer because of his mother’s poor lifestyle choice.” Harrison didn’t want to hear his wife’s story. He wanted to make love to his wife, but he forced himself to listen. Sometimes his mind would drift. He’d try to stop his eyes from admiring his wife’s slender neck, and how it melded perfectly to her shapely body. Harrison tried to keep his eyes off the voluptuous form of his wife’s boobs, concealed beneath her silver negligee. The man fought with his desires as he kept his eyes on the symmetrical beauty in his wife’s face. “I couldn’t help him.” Lisa never broke away from her story even when she could see the disinterest in her husband’s eyes, which disturbed her a little. “He had severe depression. The medication prescribed to treat his bipolar wasn’t helping. I could hear his suicidal thoughts as if they were my own. I’ll never forget the day he came into my office in tears. My past vanished when I looked into his eyes. I knew he was going to do something bad to himself that day. I tried so hard to talk him out of it. As I’m looking at him, I’m seeing a vision of him hanging from his bedroom ceiling and I couldn’t remember my date of birth. I couldn’t remember our wedding. I couldn’t remember giving birth to AJ. When you see someone’s death, it’s like being pushed off the roof of a skyscraper, or drowning in the middle of the ocean. That’s what it feels like for me. Nate was the one client I couldn’t save. Or maybe I could have saved him, but I didn’t try hard enough. I could’ve canceled all of my appointments for that day and just focused on Nate. But I knew that I had other troubled clients like Nate, and I couldn’t cancel their appointments.” Lisa paused, wallowing in her regret. Harrison kept his eyes on Lisa’s face and he had his chin resting in his hand. He had his other hand coasting down the side of his wife’s arm. “I let him walk out of my office after we talked for three hours. I told him he was beautiful and that his life was precious and that he shouldn’t throw his life away.” Lisa bit her bottom lip. “I couldn’t save him. When he walked out of my office, I thought about calling the police. But I didn’t want the police to arrest him or harm him. I just wanted them to protect him. I didn’t see him hanging from the ceiling anymore, which gave me hope. But I still sensed something wrong, and that’s when I heard a loud pop. I heard the gunshot as I was dialing 911, and I knew he had shot himself outside my office. He was 19 years old. He was just a baby who was no older than AJ. He had a bright future. That bright future was ruined because he had a bitch for a mother.” Lisa hated how her tears would make her eyes itch. She wasted no time using her fingers to clean away a few tears that cascaded down her nose. Harrison folded his hands. He had his hands pressed against his lips while staring up at his wife with intensity in his eyes. He kept quiet for a few minutes and he rested his folded hands on his wife’s chest. Lisa took hold of her husband’s hands. She wanted him to say something and she waited to hear her husband’s voice while bringing his hands up to her face. “You need to let go,” Harrison told his wife as he leaned closer to her face with his eyes longing to look down at her neck and cleavage. He only said those five words before bringing his lips to Lisa’s neck. Lisa felt lost. She wanted her husband to say more. Lisa remembered her husband being more supportive and soothing with his words. When he told her she needed to let go, it sounded heartless. Lisa didn’t like her husband’s simple words, although she did like his touch. A few alluring kisses to the side of her neck put Lisa’s mind at ease for a moment. Lisa wanted to force her husband to say more. She wanted to push him away, but she couldn’t. Within a blink of an eye, Harrison had his wife on top of him with his hands going up the bottom of her negligee. “I need to let go? That’s all you’re going to say?” Lisa whispered down to her husband. She waited for Harrison to answer. Instead of an answer, she felt his hands massaging the back of her thighs. Soon she felt her husband’s hands coasting across her butt and coming to a stop on her lower back. Harrison stayed silent as he guided his hands up his wife’s negligee. He held his wife on top of him while bringing his sneaky fingers closer to her breasts. While getting him a handful of boobs with one hand, he forced his wife to bring her face down to his lips with his other hand. Harrison brushed his wife’s hair behind her shoulders before giving her a steamy, enveloping kiss. The kiss triggered every pleasure sensor in Lisa’s body, but there was something unfamiliar about her husband’s kiss. Lisa wanted to withdraw her lips, but the kiss between the wife and her husband remained unbroken. She had her hands massaging his wide muscular chest and she expected to feel her husband’s solid masculinity inserting itself into her vagina. Insertion would come at a price for Lisa. The air in the room became hot. Sweat enveloped Lisa’s skin at an unusual rate. She still had the mountaintop position on her husband. Lisa would always close her eyes while kissing her husband, but something told her to keep her eyes open. Kissing her husband would always put Lisa in the mood, but Lisa discovered that the man she enjoyed kissing was not her husband. She discovered the truth when her husband brought his lips to the side of her neck. Lisa brought her hands down on her husband’s back when he sat up slightly to kiss her neck. This gave Lisa a chance to look down her husband’s back. She finally noticed that her husband wasn’t sweating. He had bone dry skin, but his bone dry skin isn’t what startled Lisa. Her mind went blank when she noticed something growing out of her husband’s back. The growth reminded Lisa of metal spikes. “Baby, what’s wrong with your back?!” Lisa blurted out her question. She screamed when her husband’s massive hand gripped her throat. “Don’t be afraid,” the imposter Harrison hissed in Lisa’s face through gritted teeth. “You sacrificed yourself and now you’re with me.” Harrison’s face morphed into a reptilian-like form as he continued to speak. “I want you. God wants to keep me from having you, but God can’t stop me!” A dark split lizard tongue emerged from the monster's mouth whenever he'd chuckle. Lisa couldn’t talk, mainly because the reptilian man was squeezing her throat. She tried to fight off her otherworldly attacker and as she struggled to breathe, the room became hotter. “I don’t get it. You stopped a gunman from killing a group of college boys. You’re a heroine who took a bullet to the chest, but yet you’re down here with me. I don't think God loves you.” The creature spewed his words in Lisa’s face. He got pleasure out of watching Lisa fight to breathe. Lisa heard a distant voice calling out to her. It sounded like the voice of her son. Hearing her son’s voice gave Lisa the strength to break free from the reptilian man. Lisa slapped the creature across his face. She struck him a second time with her fist. The creature became enraged when Lisa punched him. A guttural, demonic, growl escaped the monster’s throat. In a fit of rage, he hurled Lisa across the bedroom, causing her body to slam into a wall. A fire erupted around the bed. When the reptilian man arose from the bed, the smoldering flames leaped up, kissing his bulky, shirtless, tattooed body. Lisa kept hearing her son calling after her. She had to escape the bedroom and she saw the fire rising from the floor. Lisa bolted toward the bedroom door. The reptilian man tried to grab Lisa around her waist, but the woman’s elbow sent him tumbling to the floor. A white light swallowed Lisa when she opened the bedroom door. The woman followed her son’s voice. She soon heard her husband’s voice calling out to her. When Lisa opened her eyes, she was lying in a hospital bed. There was a bandage below her collarbone. Lisa looked up to see her son sitting at her bedside. Her real husband, Harrison, sat on the opposite side of the bed, holding his wife’s hand. Lisa raised her hand to caress her son’s face when he stood up to kiss her. She placed her eyes on her husband, who had tears of joy in his eyes. Flowers and gift baskets surrounded Lisa’s hospital bed. Harrison kissed his wife’s hand when saw her eyes open. He broke down in tears when his wife caressed his chin. The man thought he had lost his wife. He also thought she'd be in a coma for a long time. “Your supernatural gift made you a hero,” AJ whispered to his mom after kissing her. The young man held his phone up in front of his mother. Lisa read the news headline on her son’s phone, which said; A YOUNG BLACK MOTHER PREVENTED A GUNMAN FROM SHOOTING HER SON AND HIS COLLEGE FRIENDS AT THE MOUNTAIN RIDGE UNIVERSITY. THE MOTHER FOUGHT WITH THE GUNMAN UNTIL POLICE ARRIVED. SHE SURVIVED AFTER SUSTAINING A GUNSHOT WOUND TO HER CHEST. THE GUNMAN WAS A WHITE SUPREMACIST. POLICE ARRESTED THE GUNMAN AFTER USING LETHAL FORCE.


It was the morning of December 31st, New Year’s Eve, a time when most people were anxiously awaiting to dress up and go to some glamorous party to celebrate the new year. But not Jade, she was at home in her pajamas thinking about the last six months of her life and how she wouldn’t be celebrating the new year the way she had been hoping for, in fact, she wouldn’t be celebrating at all. Jade sat on the sofa heartbroken, she was finally supposed to meet him, the man of her dreams. A man she met online, a man that she fell in love with. But instead of holding him tonight she was holding an empty champagne glass in one hand and a box of Kleenex in the other. Six months ago Jade had met Lorenzo a 52-year-old Italian from Pisa, Italy. Their correspondence started with a few messages on the dating site and quickly moved to text and email. Jade couldn’t believe how everything flowed so easily with this man. His emails read like poetry, he told her about his family and how he came to be in the United States for work. He was a single father of a teenage daughter and also took care of his elderly mother. She had expressed to him how much she always wanted to go to Italy and she talked about all the books and information she had on his country. He loved this. Jade had raised her children all by herself as well, but they were now young adults living their own lives and that left Jade more alone than ever. Her last romantic relationship was a little over two years ago and ended just as bad as all the previous ones. Her streak of bad relationships was probably one for the record books. But she refused to give up on love, despite how many times men have broken her heart. She believed with all her heart that one day she would find the “one” to spend the rest of her life with. She prayed it would be Lorenzo. As much as she adored Lorenzo, deep down there was a little bit of fear, a little doubt. Could he really be the one she has waited for her entire life? Was he real? Was this destiny? They shared this feeling, the feeling that something great and divine had brought them together, with all her broken relationships and the loss of his wife in recent years. They were convinced they were brought together to share in the joy of love again. Each the lost puzzle piece to the other’s life. She remembered the moment she heard his voice for the first time she melted like butter. His laughter warmed her heart and awoken her spirit, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She knew that no matter what she was going to give her all to this relationship they were building. She decided to push her fear and doubt aside and instead be fueled but faith, trust, and love. Within a couple of months, she was head over heels in love with him and he said he felt the same about her. Her friends thought she was moving too fast, but Jade always had a ‘go for it’ attitude. The unfortunate part of her situation is that he was an engineer working overseas, even though he lived in the United States, in a different state then hers but to them, that was just geography. “True love conquers all”, is what they would say to each other. But was it true love? Jade knew that she wore her heart on her sleeve and she always believed the best in people. As far as she was concerned he was perfect for her, she hadn’t found any holes in his story and he was always forthright when she had questions for him. All these months she has waited patiently for him to finish his work overseas and finally come to meet her face to face. During the six months apart they had missed birthdays and holidays, they decided that they would start the new year together. It would be the moment they started their ‘real’ life together. But here she sat, a few hours before the new year and no Lorenzo. He told her his work was taking longer than expected and couldn’t leave yet. To make matters worse she hadn’t spoken with him on the phone in hours, which was not normal. They always talked on the phone, at least twice a day. That is one of the many things she loved about him, he has called her every day for six months. All that doubt and fear pushed its way to the surface, the tears flowed down her face, and her heart ached. She didn’t want to listen to the fear or the doubt. But she had invested so much time and emotion into this relationship, she wasn’t sure her heart could recover if he turned out not to be the man he has portrayed himself to be. But what could she do? She watched as the time ticked by, she tried calling him but the call wasn't going through, she was so frustrated with the connection problems they seemed to have. She just wanted to hear his voice, which always made her feel better. Instead, she decided to stop with the pity party and she turned on the TV, it was an hour before the ball dropped to ring in the new year, she poured herself another glass of champagne and popped some popcorn...emotional eating always made her feel better too. She sat there trying to watch the festivities but her mind kept going back to Lorenzo, and all the same, thoughts kept twirling in her mind. It was driving her crazy. Even the champagne wasn’t settling her mind down. Before she knew it the celebrities on TV were counting down to the new year...5...4...3...2...1... Her doorbell rang.