It was hard to tell the difference between fantasy and reality at Greenbrier. A few things were obviously genuine. The musicians playing quadrilles for guests engaged in the rigors of Regency dancing. The gardeners planting daffodils and tulips in showy displays along the paths where guests strolled and gossiped. And Greenbrier Manor House, which had been built to impress. And to last. Crafted of Indiana limestone, it served as a private boarding school for wealthy Midwesterners seeking a New England elite education closer to home. A private rail line ran to the station in Rochester, connecting Greenbrier to Chicago and the world. Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century the Manor House had been used as a sanatorium for patients dying from tuberculosis and Veterans convalescing from Civil War injuries. The heirs to the Greenbrier Mining Company bought it in 1925, installed the modern convenience of electric lights, and used it as the family’s summer home. The British accents adopted by the Greenbrier Regency Faire staff, however, were decidedly inauthentic. A disturbing conglomeration of the Scottish accent you might hear in a Disney movie about dragon riding Vikings mixed with a cockney twang reminiscent of the Artful Dodger. “In need of lodgings, are you, ya Bonnie Lass? I know a respectable Mistress what’ll give you a room for a farthin’, she will,” Billy--the lantern lighter and town crier--called out to Margaret as she walked down the cobblestone road from the bakery to the dressmakers’ shop. She waved at the enthusiastic young man and pulled her shawl around her shoulders against the wind that had dislodged ringlets from her braid. Margaret loved the Faire. The air of celebration and excitement. And she treasured her role in the community. Margaret was the modiste. She transformed guests from jeans-and-t-shirt-clad modernists into chemised and corseted ladies of the ton. As enjoyable as it was to dress people in flowing gowns and fitted pelisses, she reveled in the metamorphosis of a slouching teenager into an erect and elegant peer of the realm--performed with the magical power a high collared shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and breeches. Margaret lived and worked in the heart of the village that had been assembled by the eccentric Greenbrier visionary who spent his fortune salvaging nineteenth century mercantile buildings from as far away as Niagara Falls and St. Louis. Her three-story dressmaker’s shop sat between the tiny post office and the cheerful tea shop. The bakery stood across the village green from her store, tucked between the print shop and the perfumer. The early morning sun had not yet chased away the grey light of evening when the doorbell tinkled. Alexander stepped into Margaret’s shop. “Morning Maggie.” “Sandy. What a nice surprise.” Alexander--known as Sandy to his friends--was the Greenbrier Regency Faire’s art tutor. He gave lectures on the paintings and sculptures in the Manor House, taught drawing and painting classes, and occasionally accepted commissions to paint guests’ portraits. Although Maggie’s dressmakers’ shop had comfortable living quarters occupying the third floor, Alexander lived in the studio on the far side of the Manor House. A single large room overflowing with easels, canvases, paints, and brushes. One wall, made of windows and glass-paned doors, overlooked the gardens. It provided a beautiful view of the changing landscape but made for rudimentary accommodations and miserably cold winters. “I’ve popped a button off my vest. Mister Jenkins gave me a warning this morning. He’ll force me to attend Saturday night’s ball if I don’t have it fixed by tomorrow morning. Will you lend me a needle and thread?” “Have you got the button?” Margaret held out her hand. She was delighted to have an excuse to spend time with him. “No,” Alexander said. “I’ll need a button, too. Do you have one that matches these?” He stepped toward Margaret pointing to the two remaining brown buttons fastening his blue vest. She reached out and used both hands to slip first one and then the second button through their buttonholes. She had never stood so close to Alexander. He smelled of bergamot with a hint of turpentine. They had met at the beginning of last years’ Faire season backstage at the theater. He had been hired to paint sets for the theater’s adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo . He fabricated a desolate prison cell, sumptuous dining room, imposing courtroom, deserted island, and a smuggler’s ship. Margaret had been asked to alter the costumes to accommodate the generous proportions of the leading lady. Although she found him to be both excellent company and undeniably attractive with his brown hair, hazel eyes and captivating smile, they rarely encountered each other. He worked either in his studio, the gardens, or the Manor House. She was occupied in the village which was a thirty minute walk from the Manor House. And most importantly, seeking his company would have been in direct violation of Margaret’s absolute prohibition against getting involved with the itinerants. The various lecturers, musicians, acrobats, repairmen, and laborers the who kept the Faire running and the entertainment fresh and exciting. She had suffered heartache her first season at the Faire when she had indulged in a romance with an itinerant tenor who sang his way into her affections and left when he got the lead in a dinner-theater production of Beauty and the Beast . She inspected Alexander's buttons. Placed her hand on his shirt--feeling the flat planes of his abdomen through the soft cotton--and in one smooth motion pulled up and back on the vest, slipping it off his broad shoulders. She stepped around him and took the vest to the far wall of the shop that was comprised of drawers. She pulled on the brass handle of a small square revealing a long row of small boxes filled to bursting with buttons. She withdrew three boxes. The kettle whistled from the stove in the dressing room at the rear of the first floor. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, setting the vest and button boxes on the counter, and opening the frosted glass door separating the shop from the dressing room. She inhaled the scent of lavender that hung in bundles from the ceiling. She would have to make more sachets--she was nearly out of the little fragrant pouches she packed with the clothes she sold to her customers. “I don’t want to be a bother...” He followed her as far as the doorway. “Wow. I thought my studio was crowded.” He smiled at the sight of a dozen racks loaded with clothing--each rack dedicated to one type of garment. The tallest rack bore men’s great coats. Another was full of waist coats. Others held gowns for every occasion. Promenading. Dancing at the Faire’s elaborate balls. Windows were set just below the ceiling, flooding the room with light, but protecting the privacy of customers who stood in varying states of undress when Margaret took measurements and conducted fittings. The sky darkened as rain clouds swept across the morning sky and rain fell in gentle droplets against the windows. She set the tea pot to steeping and lit the first-floor lanterns, chasing away the cloudy gloom with cheerful firelight. “Where are all your apprentices? I imagined your shop full of people wanting to learn how you create your fabric masterpieces.” He’d imagined her shop. Interesting. “They’ve all gone back to college, or jobs, or their families. Most of them left the first week of August.” She loaded a tray with the tea pot, cups, saucers, a jar of honey, and the lemon scones she had bought at the bakery. “Come. Have some tea.” She walked back through to the shop, set the tray on the counter, and withdrew a tall stool from behind the counter for Alexander. She poured the tea and set out two steaming cups and the scones. She inspected the button options. “What do you think of this one?” She held out a button made of brown stone streaked with blue veins that matched the vest. “It’s beautiful.” He took the button from her outstretched hand, drawing his fingers over her palm, leaving a scorching trail across her skin. “It’s lovely. But the others are just plain brown.” “Oh, don’t worry about that.” She snipped the strands that held the two buttons in place. He stared at her, shocked by her bold move, and then laughed. She took a sip of the fragrant tea, enjoyed the sound of his laughter. The rain pelted the shop windows. A bell rang from outside the shop. “Sounds like Billy,” Margaret said. Alexander stepped to the door and opened it a crack, trying to keep the rain outside. “This one’s fer the bonnie Miss Maggie. And I’ll just be givin’ you yours. Save me from wadin’ through muddy fields to get to your patch ‘o paradise,” the young man said as he shoved two bulky bags into Alexander’s hands. “What’s this for?” Alexander asked, water dripping into a puddle despite his efforts to keep the shop dry. “Mister Jenkin’s heard word of a severe thunderstorm warning. High winds and hailstones. They’ll keep the guests coddled ‘n cozy in the Manor House ‘till it passes.” “Thank you,” Margaret said as Billy headed to the post office, bell ringing, water sluicing off his hat and coat, a huge smile on his face. Alexander peered inside the wax-coated canvas sacks. “Bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, a jar of strawberry jam, a couple of apples...” “Sounds like we’re all set for lunch. Do you have to teach classes today?” Margaret asked. “No lectures or classes, today. I’m a free man.” “Well, let me fix your buttons before the rain gets worse.” He watched her as she threaded a needle, tied a tidy knot, and bent over the vest to sew the top button in place. The porcelain clinked as he set his cup onto the saucer. “Would you mind if I sketched you while you work?” She looked up, surprised by the request. She was inclined to make an excuse, but his expression was hesitant and earnest. “I’ve got a stack of newsprint you could use.” She pointed with the needle to the stash of grey paper on the far end of the counter. “Thanks, that’ll be great,” he said, tucking a small notebook into his pant pocket. He emptied the tea tray, lined it with newsprint, and rested it against his stool. She relished in the sight of him in her shop. Like an exotic bird visiting a bird bath--a welcomed and cherished visitor. But every birdwatcher knows that such creatures will continue their migration home once they’ve taken their respite in your garden. “Are you staying through the winter?” she asked. “I am. The winter is the best part of the deal.” “Whatd’ya mean?” “I only planned to come for a month. To study the Greenbrier collection of Ingibjorg Olafurdottir’s paintings. But I couldn’t afford the guest fees for a month. So, I signed on as the art teacher for a year. I really don’t like public speaking, and nearly had a panic attack before my first lecture until I realized that only two people showed up.” His arm moved with quick motions. Eyes flicking between his page and her form. “I don’t mind the lectures so much anymore. And dancing at the balls can be fun. It’s the fancy dinners that are the major downside of the job. Making conversation with strangers doesn’t come easily to me. But I have you to thank for rescuing me from many an awkward conversational lull.” “How’s that?” “I ask about the clothes my dinner partners are wearing. They’re eager to tell me all about their visit to the modiste, and how it’s one of their favorite things to do at the Faire.” “That’s lovely to hear.” “But the teaching and even the dinnertime chatting--it’s all worth it. Free room and board year-round, and the whole winter free to study and paint. I forget that it’s all make believe in the wintertime.” “What’s make believe?” “This life,” he pointed out the window. “Pretending it’s 1813. Entertaining Jane Austen fans who come here to escape the real world and live out their fantasy of a weekend fling with Darcy. There’s no electricity. The Manor House has power, but all these outbuildings are off the grid. Which means I’ve got no light. No internet. No cell phone. I can’t take a picture of a scene I want to paint. I’ve got to get it down all in one hectic rush before the light vanishes. In bed by nine so I can be up at dawn. Otherwise, I miss the light.” The words of an itinerant. Sharp and clear. A flash of lighting brightened the sky and two breaths later a crack of thunder rattled the shop windows. “You might want to wait out the storm.” She swallowed what remained of her cold tea and turned her attention to the vest’s lining which had split across the shoulders. “Where’d you learn to sew?” “First, I learned to darn. My grandmother immigrated from Alsace to work as an underseamstress to the Kirkham family. She was only allowed to repair underwear her first year in service. She graduated to darning socks and reweaving bed linens and handkerchiefs. My grandfather came from Naples where he’d apprenticed as a tailor. They met in Central Park, waiting in line to buy ice cream on a hot summer’s day. They opened a store that was a menswear tailor’s shop on one side and a dress shop on the other side. I grew up with them.” She didn’t explain why she’d been sent to live with her grandparents after her parents divorced. The official reason was that neither of them could afford to keep her. But the real reason was that they didn’t want her. Maybe the Faire wasn’t real life, but it had been a sanctuary where she could lead a life of her own making. Helping her customers fulfill their fantasies. And to her astonishment, it was the place where her business had prospered. Her customers paid handsomely for hand-made garments made to fit and flatter their bodies. And her apprentices happily peddled the treadle sewing machines, powering the workshop even without electricity. She cut the thread on the final stitch, stood, placed her hands in the small of her back, and stretched. “Do you want to see the workshop? It’s just upstairs.” She flushed with embarrassment at what sounded like a proposition. “I mean, maybe the old sew machines might be interesting to draw.” “I’d like that. This is only a sketch, but I’m really pleased with it. There's a truth in it that’s been missing from the still lifes and landscapes I’ve been wasting my time on lately.” He set the tray on the stool, and although he could reach the newsprint from his side of the counter, walked behind where she stood. His hand rested on the small of her back as he leaned to fetch more paper. Without thinking, she pressed against his hand, keeping him fixed in place. She was violating her own rule. And happy to do so. “Here,” she said, lifting the vest. “Try this on.” She stepped behind him in the close quarters between the counter and the shelf, threaded his arms into the vest, and pulled it up across his shoulders. She spread the fabric over his upper back feeling his taut muscles under her hands. She stepped around him and carefully inserted the top button into its buttonhole. He rested his hands on her shoulders as she slowly tended to each button. “I’ve wanted to paint you since the very first day I saw you, but I’ve been too shy to ask,” his voice was low and rumbling. His hands moved from her shoulders up her neck to cup her face. “There’s something else, I’ve wanted to do...” She stepped up as he bent forward touching her lips to his. Gentle. Soft. Warm. She tugged his shirt collar, pulled him closer, and deepened the kiss. He tasted of lemons and honey. She savored the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. Eventually, he broke the kiss, tucked her head under his chin, and held her in a tight embrace as the sky flashed and thundered. “Is this make believe?” she asked. “No.” He lifted her hand, opened the button fastening the cuff of her sleeve, and brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist. “This is...,” another kiss, “wonderfully real.”


On a cold autumn morning, camera in hand, I set out to the park near my home in an attempt to capture the grandeur of the changing foliage. Clouds overhead dampened the spectacle of mother nature's display as the red, gold, and amber hues shone ashy and dull under overcast skies. A low mist hung to the ground as if the spirits of all that had ever lived in my city came back to walk the earth. I had my camera at the ready to capture the hauntingly beautiful landscape around me. I snapped photos as I walked, checking each on the digital display to ensure the lighting and framing was just right. As I looked at my last photo, I noticed a ghostly figure sitting on a bench underneath the maple that I had just photographed. I hadn’t seen her when I framed the photo in my viewfinder, but when I looked up, there she was--a beautiful, young woman in a flowing, laced white dress. Her dark hair was done up but with strands falling out as if from a long night. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her lips were gray. Her mascara ran down her cheek, stark against her porcelain white skin. As I approached I could see her face was wrenched in agony. She cried, dropping her face in her hands, her body shuddering with sadness. I walked up beside her. "Do you mind if I sit?" I said. She shook her head, wiping tears away, crumpling her face, trying to hold back tears. "No, not at all," she said, sniffling. After I sat, she put her face back in her hands and began to cry even louder. I looked upon her with pity, wishing there was some way I could help this poor girl. But what advice did I have to give? I was an old man, and she was a young woman, obviously suffering some kind of heartache. I knew my fair share about heartbreak in my long life, but I could never know what it was like to be a scorned bride. But she looked like she needed someone, so I offered her my ear. "Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. She didn't respond, she just kept crying. But by the way she was dressed, I surmised that her wedding day didn’t turn out as she had planned. "Is it your wedding?" I asked, unsure how to bring up the topic delicately. "No," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "Today is my funeral." My heart began to pound and I straightened up. But then, after a moment, I chuckled. Thinking she was joking and trying to dissipate my unease her black, lifeless eyes made me feel. "Your funeral?" "Yes," she said, nodding and sniffling. She wiped her tears away with her gray fingers. I decided to play along, perhaps this girl was sick, needing psychiatric care. Perhaps I could gain her trust and bring her into the nearest hospital. "Then why are you in your wedding dress?" I asked. "This is what I was wearing the day I died," she said. "I had just been married that morning to the love of my life. The wedding could not have gone more perfectly. We danced and sang and our families were all there, having a great time. It was the greatest day of my life." She paused, taking a deep breath looking up to the granite skies. "But that night, I fell asleep in my dress and I never woke up," she said. "I don't know what happened. The next thing I knew, I was watching my poor husband struggle to wake me up. He started to yell and scream and shake and cry. He called an ambulance. The whole time I was in the corner trying to calm him, but he didn't see me. 'Jake,' I said. 'Jake, it's okay, I'm right over here.' But he didn't hear me. Then, I watched as my mother and father cried over my lifeless body. They said it was an aneurysm, and there was nothing anyone could have done for me." My stomach felt like it flipped, my heartbeat quickened. But I decided to play along. "Well, how did you end up here?" I asked. She pointed her finger far across the park, where I saw a huddling of bodies all dressed in black. I spotted a man crying over a casket, and an older couple weeping together. A preacher’s voice boomed across the misty plain. "I have been following my husband around," she said. "I want him to know that I love him. I want my parents to know that I love them too. That's why I'm here. I was at the funeral before, and I was shouting at my husband, saying 'Jake, it's ok! I love you, I'm right here! Jake! Mom! Dad! I'm right here.' But they didn't turn around, they couldn’t hear me. They just kept crying--and I kept crying too." I nodded. It was all so strange. This woman was clearly sick, or pulling my leg. Either way, those tears were real, so I did the best I could. "Well, you can tell just by how sad they are, that they loved you very much,” I said. “And they must have known you loved them too. “When my wife died, I worried that I didn't tell her I loved her enough, but I never worried about how much she loved me. That was apparent in every day we spent together. One day, you, your husband and your parents will be reunited and you'll know for sure. But for now, take comfort in the way they miss you. You meant the world to them." For the first time since I met this young woman, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile that anyone could fall in love with. "I guess you're right, but it's so hard to be in this...this...limbo right now. How do you deal with it? Why aren't you with your wife right now?" I furrowed my brow. "Well, like I said, she passed away, a long time ago." "Yes, but so have you." She pointed down the path. My body face down on the concrete--the camera shattered on the ground beside me.


Nov. 3, 2021  I came up with a band name today. "Ready, Aim, Tired". I was thinking about how meaningless my job is and how exhausted I am all the time because of it. I mean well, truly, but I am constantly feeling like I'm running on empty. Always filling my tank, just in time, with scrounged dollar bills carelessly put through the wash. It's not good money, but cash is cash.  I often think about how precarious my predicament is. How I've been one paycheck away from abject poverty for my entire adult life. So I come to work and earn my measly $1700 per month. That'll do. It has to though, because I'm severely burnt out.  I don't have the energy to go back to school, job hunt, update my resume. Hell, I don't even have the energy to work 5 days per week. Now I'm working 4. My choice, thankfully. I feel like I'm stuck in a cycle of never ending, repeating, days. Except the seasons change, my body starts aching, my hairline recedes, and I realize that there's a surprising amount of grey in it. I guess I really have been working here for 8 years.  I've decided to call it silver hair, because mines shiny and only a little bit depressing. I just realized that "Shiny and only a little bit depressing" perfectly describes my guitar tone, my playing too frankly. Maybe that's the name of the debut album.  "Ready, Aim, Tired - Shiny and only a little bit depressing" Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but I like it.  I'm writing because I've been told it's good for you, and I could use some good in my life right now.  My estranged father has been getting his neighbors to call me. I'm not sure why he doesn't just pick up the phone and call me himself. I'd probably be so shocked that I'd forget not to answer. He's sick, but not nearly as sick as he wants me to believe. His doctor told me it's "Munchausen syndrome". He's faking the rest for anything it'll earn him.  He want's me to go out to \[place\] and spend time with him in my childhood home. Like it would somehow make him feel better, or validate his existence. It would be bad for me, and I would hate it there anyway. It stinks like piss and shit...because he did literally use the floor as a washroom for a couple months before his operation. He smokes like a 23 year old drunken socialite with a coke habit and he doesn't have screens in the windows, so there's always insects inside.  What used to be my bedroom has had the carpet torn out and is filled floor-to-ceiling with the discarded boxes and packaging of at least five years of impulse purchases. It's as if he still hasn't learned that no amount of spending on himself will make him feel happy or fulfilled.  He neglects his poor cat and micro-waves frozen dinners while chain smoking in the ruined house that my ruined family used to live in.  I wanted to spew all of that at my dad's old neighbor Rick when he called me up 2 weeks ago, but instead I said; "Sure thing, I'll drive out to see him on Tuesday". Rick means well too, like me. But I never went out to see my dad.  He bought me a guitar. Way back in July. I was spending time with him at least once per week for the first time since before my brother died. He wanted to buy me a nice gift for all of the birthdays and Christmas' we missed because he was too busy being an asshole for me to love him. I declined his offer a couple times, but he insisted. Once, getting angry when I said all I wanted as a gift was to hangout in the backyard with him and a couple beers. I instinctually did what I always used to do when he was angry. Comply, or else.  So, I did some research and picked out a brand new electric guitar from Ibanez. They had just released them. I fell in love with the colors, the wood, the shape, and the features. I thought it was the perfect guitar for me. I even allowed myself to fully feel the excitement and anticipation. Later when I showed my musician friends what I ordered they each said "That guitar is so you!" excitedly...or some variation of that anyway.  That was 4 months ago. My ADHD brain has decided that guitar playing doesn't make us happy anymore. Which is a shame because it showed up at my place today and cost me $300 in duties, taxes, and fees. Welp, I guess I only have $1400 this month for expenses.  I'm writing this on a pile of post-it notes at work and I just thought to myself. Wouldn't it be funny if I go home, open the package, admire it, and play it, only to have disgust, resentment, and shame wash over me like a melancholy tidal wave of regret.  I'll try not to hate it. I'll go home after my shift, open the box and not hate it for what it represents, but appreciate it for what it is. An instrument that's so me. Who knows, it might kick start a manic ADHD guitar binge that'll give me joy for a couple weeks. But for now I'm just going to take it as it comes.  That might be on the debut album. Track #3, "Melancholy Tidal Wave"  Nice.


"I can see that the video games of this world are still mostly focused on killing monsters and... people. Or on the end of the world. Or on zombies" Astra stated while watching some reviews on my tablet, her left eyebrow risen above the other. The sky was covered with clouds again, and the quarantine was turning a little gloomy because of that continual grey light. "Will you ever focus on reality? Why don't your video games talk about reality? Video games can be serious, from time to time." "Those are just the most popular ones... I told you" I replied, sitting on a sofa. "There are many exceptions, I swear. We also need entertainment. Even if I'm not very knowledgeable in this field." "You always preferred books, I know" she said with a mocking tone. "You still give a lot of weight to words. Too much weight indeed. Video games can be as important as books. But it looks like special matter people always need entertainment, entertainment, all the time..." "Please, detach from my tablet, you're monopolizing it. Tell me more about the universe, the dark matter, your civilization. I mean, I am sure you did not come here just to spend the quarantine here in my ugly house. Please, tell me if your people found out what's the purpose of..." "Of...?" "Of life. Well, of life, of course. We barely know how dark matter works, so you must know something we don't know." "The purpose of life... Well. You'll be disappointed. No purpose. Sorry" she said drily, and kept scrolling for a while, getting to the latest news about Sony. I sighed with impatience, and after two minutes she activated her brain again: "Ok, let's put it like this: the absence of a purpose is the greatest discovery an advanced civilization can make. So my comment can just be: about time." "How come?" "Because that's the only thing that can actually make you free! If there is no meaning anywhere, that means you can just do things you like - provided that you don't work all the time pretending you want what you do. I cannot believe you are so naive to believe that life should offer you a purpose." "We are mortal. Any purpose of mine would be temporary. I want to know if there's something more." "And the fact you are mortal should mean anything to the rest of the universe? You need a great quantity of ego to think that the universe promised you something at the end of the tunnel! Oh no, you need to stop with science fiction celebrating the end of the world, and also with apocalyptic video games. You need to realize that nothing is more clever that making your time meaningful. That means: stop trying to make everything useful and productive for the whole humanity. You do not need that. This planet does not need that." I looked ad the bees struggling against the breeze in the garden, and realized that I had wasted so much time before that quarantine, I had given so much energy to a system which just wanted me to survive in order to produce more for it, exhausting me with lies about the personal choice and the necessity of a common struggle. I loved this quarantine, I loved talking about life. And I did not need a higher purpose. The whole civilization did not need to imagine absolute purposes and meanings all the time. Yes, we needed more video games about reality. Yes, we needed to resist during the lockdown, but also after it, after realizing there was no need to keep pretending that life had a purpose. No, there was no purpose, so why couldn't we enjoy our time? - or at least try. We didn't really want to back to our every day routine. "I think this virus is doing something great to humanity. But only if we're ready to learn its lesson" I stated, taking the tablet. Strangely, she didn't protest, and let it go. There was something strange in her smile.


The Hearth The hearth above the fireplace at Pewderschmidt’s Department Store was a resting place for the collection of unique objects left there by any and all patrons which elected to do so. There was no criteria, other than to abstain from hoisting a behemoth upon it, even though it’s breadth was sizable, Yfan promoted a sense of scale so unconsciously upon those before him it seemed that whoever had placed the first object, a soul long since forgotten to the ages, and even Yfan himself - or so he says: suspicions and rumors mount to this day - had placed a spell on the ever living wood and all had followed suit to select an object similar in size and space consumption. The item first placed upon the now soot covered grains, which were ostensibly fresh at the time of its placing, yet that was still undetermined as many claim Yfan was not the progenitor of the establishment as he promotes himself, is a small token of an indistinguishable figure, carved from an earthly clay hardened and greyed by a millennia of smoke and grit. The figure kneels, its head raised, a hand facing forward, the other resting on its knee, the outstretched leg counter balancing the straightened arm. Legend has it, one night as one of the heaviest snows hit the countryside, the roof failed and snow, ice, and rain plummeted towards the mighty hearth, the patrons hollering for cover and diving under the tables faced being buried alive in the thousand year storm, yet with a whisper a nearly inaudible voice cracked, and the small token increased in size 100 fold, rose from its knee and pushed the storm back with its broad chest and hips, heaving the weather with a shock of its own, a zephyr whipping up to the clouds. The force of the thrust created a vacuum, and drew in the surrounding timbers, intertwining them in an impenetrable woven roof of trees whose roots stretched down the walls to the soil and strengthened the structure. It was this night that the immortality of this place was enacted. They say the token is a key to the heavens, and the hearth it rests on enchanted by the one who placed it there allows one to pass through the fire beneath it and arrive in paradise. Or so the legend goes. Many a man has scorched himself attempting to access the fiery vessel only to return engulfed and choked, yet strangely no creature has ever been burned by the eternal flame. Yfan himself is said to have placed an object on the hearth yet over the years the living tend to blend together in the eyes of eternity, a sea of unique and unified consciousnesses heaving and flowing like an ocean, it’s currents hidden beneath the surface, directing it and cloaking its purpose, and since Yfan himself fails to admit what it may be - if anything - and generally smiles and feigns dutiful in his own excusing if queried, eternity is left silently winking at us - but probably not at Yfan. The most recently placed item was put there by a small boy passing through with his grandmother. Both on their way to the theater in the city, and needing respite and taking some winter bread and cheese into their stomachs, their horses being cared for by Polty the stable hand, Yfan approached them with the tradition of Pewderschmidt’s Hearth. The grandmother, showing more interest in engulfing sour crumbles and rips of bread, fished in her purse and pulled out a tied leather pouch and handed it to the boy. He poured the contents out before him and climbed upon the table. He began to sort the arrangement of Knick knacks that fell to the gouged planks. By what standard Yfan could not tell, and the grandmother was occupied too much to give notice if she had any clue herself, so Yfan sat and watched. The boy would move the same piece, placing it next to one other, then another. He’d hold two up to the fire, a shiny sitting on the hearth catching his eye or both, his gaze altered momentarily before focusing back on his task. When he’d selected the one he wanted, he turned to Yfan and handed it to him. Yfan put his hands behind him and bowed before the wood carved gorilla. The boy pointed to his chest and held the figure up. Yfan understood the boy had made it himself. Yfan smiled and directed the boy to place it upon the Hearth. The child hopped off the table, his suede moccasins wrapping the wooden floors as he walked slowly to the monstrous hearth that towered before him. The boy looked to Yfan for assistance, but Yfan simply gestured elegantly towards the hearth, leaving his hand hanging gingerly before the flames. Tendrils of smoke snaked out from the fire pit and wrapped themselves around the ankles of the boy. Slowly his soles lifted from the ground and he rose towards the hearth, his hand outstretched. He placed the gorilla next to a smooth stone and brass fork green with grime. the smoke puffed and a single flame leapt out and enveloped him, and retreated to the roaring embers beneath the hearth, taking the boy. Yfan bowed toward the grandmother, a smile in his eyes. The grandma looked up for a moment, pointed toward the cheese plate, and took a gulp of honey milk. Yfan nodded and retreated to the pantry for more cheese.


Growing up as a little girl, I learned about Greek mythology. My dad was a professor of Greek Mythology and Religion at the local university, so my childhood was filled with dramatic retellings of the Odyssey and fantastical summaries of how spiders came to be. He told me of powerful, narcissistic men who could fight away any problem and witty women who could outsmart the sun. These legends became an important part of who I am today. Especially after my dad died. After his death, I read the stories he would tell me over and over again until I committed them to memory. I learned Greek, I got my degree in Greek Literature and I took the teaching position my dad had. I’m even in the same office he had when I was little. It still kind of smells like him and I kept his rare Greek poem collection displayed on the same shelf he had it on. One of my favorite stories, while I was in high school at least, was the story of the Suitors of Penelope (Proci). The story is about the wife of Odysseus who ended up having 108 young men, known as the suitors, invade her house and vie for her hand in marriage after her husband supposedly died in the Battle of Troy. Talk about pushy. The thing is though, they were terrible houseguests. They drank all of the wine and spirits, ate all of the food, and were just overall disrespectful of Odysseus’s home. Penelope couldn’t do anything about it though. The concept of Greek xenia encouraged everyone to be as kind as possible to everyone they came across. You could never know who was a god and who wasn’t in those days. Ten years after the ending of the Trojan War, Odysseus ended up returning home once his young son, Telemachus, found him, after being prompted by a disguised Athena to search for his father. Telemachus told his father of the suitor situation back home and they headed back to Ithica swiftly. Once Odysseus was back home, he and his son slaughtered all of the suitors and maidservants that were aiding the suitors. Gory ending, but they were kind of jerks. Well, I now know how Penelope felt and why Odysseus did what he did after a series of somewhat dumb mistakes on my part. This last weekend I went on a Tinder date with this guy named Levi. We started our night by going to see a play at the playhouse near my apartment. It was some kind of Shakespeare theater that I enjoyed, but my suitor didn’t seem very into it. No big deal, theater isn’t for everyone. After the show, we went to get dinner and were able to sit down and have a conversation. As he talked more, the more I realized that he was just not my type. Oh well, not every guy can be a winner and he was cute so I figured I would at least invite him back to my place for a drink and see where the night went from there. Note that this was my first mistake of the night. We got back to my place, post-dinner, and got settled on the couch with a glass of red wine and the fireplace going in the background. Kind of cliche, but why mess with something that works. He noticed my collection of Greek literature on the shelves around my living room and asked about them. I didn’t like this guy enough to explain the true relationship I have with Greek literature, so I summed it up by saying it is a big thing for me and I work in the Greek department of my college. He nodded and said that was cool and continued to tell me about the minute details of his job. He talked about his work as a manager at some sort of technology shop (I looked it up after this shit show. Think Best Buy but smaller and with worse reviews). He set his wine glass down. I thought he was about to make a move, but instead, he burst into tears. As you can imagine, I was very taken aback. I looked around my apartment, like people do in movies and TV, for the hidden camera, unsure of what the hell was going on. “I just got out of an engagement. My fiance left me at the altar like 3 weeks ago and I just felt like it was time to get back in the game and I don’t really know what I am doing.” He blubbered. I sat there blinking at him, feeling like an idiot because I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to that? I went with the classic, “Shhhh, it’s ok. Relationships are hard and I am so sorry you had to go through that. She doesn’t know what she is missing.” This choice of words was my second mistake of the night. “You’re right, I am an awesome dude. I make lots of money, I am in shape, all of my friends say I am hilarious. It’s a miracle I wanted to be with her in the first place.” He boasted through, puffing his chest up. I winced internally at everything I had just heard but nodded along politely and gave a weak “yeah” in an effort to support my date of the evening. Before I even knew what was happening he had lunged over to my side of the couch and was grossly pressing his mouth against mine. I froze. I no longer wanted to be kissing this guy and at this point, I just wanted him out of my house. Call it intuition, but I had a feeling that if he stayed much longer, the night was going to get a lot more interesting and not in a good way. I wondered to myself if Penelope had this feeling when the first 25 suitors came strolling into her castle. I tapped his shoulder “coming up for air” and pulled back as far as I could. It wasn’t as far as I wanted though because somehow his arm had wound its way around my waist. I squirmed uncomfortably and put a hand on his chest. His face still hadn’t changed from the kissy-face he had been making and I had to hold back pitied laughter. “Woah, hold up man. Maybe this,” I gestured between us, “isn’t the best idea. It seems like you’re still kind of dealing with stuff from your last relationship and you need to take time to heal and work through everything.” “I don’t need to work through anything baby. Fuck my ex, she was a cunt and a dumbass. You’re pretty hot, I’m really hot, let’s see how hot we can get together,” He explained leaning back in for a kiss. I leaned away from him further into the arm of the couch, hoping it would help me in this situation I found myself in. “Let me rephrase this Levi, I don’t feel comfortable doing anything of a physical or sexual nature with you. You were just bawling on my couch and I don’t think it would be very humanitarian of me to uh... take advantage of a situation like that.” I sugar-coated hoping he’d get the damn point and leave. “Take advantage of me all you want pretty girl,” He crooned, unbuttoning his top shirt and throwing it on the carpet. I stood up from the couch and placed myself behind the arm I was previously trying to melt into. “Levi, I am not interested in anything and I think it is time for you to go,” I stated firmly gesturing towards the door. He stared at me for a moment and scoffed. “So you’re a dumb cunt too?” he laughed, “what is it with all you blondes. Pretty, but dumb as fuck. You should feel honored that I would even want to fuck you.” He stood up from the couch and started approaching me. “I could make you feel so good, Lily.” He attempted to purr. “My name is Libby, short for Elizabeth and you can take your ego and...” I started, completely ready to tear this man apart. Lucky for him, he was saved by a knock at the door. Willing to take any escape route from this Tinder date gone terrible, I quickly walked over to the door and opened it to find a blonde woman I had never seen before. “Can I help you?” I questioned, confused as all get out. No one wearing that much pink had ever knocked on my door. “So you’re the skank trying to steal my fiance! Levi!! Levi, are you in here you fucking pig?” This woman screeched, storming into my apartment. I resisted the urge to throw my hands up in disbelief like this was some kind of sitcom. Not a sitcom, my real life. Gods, I need a different life. I turned around to see that in my attempt to flee from Levi he had managed to remove his undershirt. So now he was standing completely topless in the middle of my living room with his clothes strewn on the floor. “Kayla! Babe, what are you doing here?” Levi asked, also obviously dumbfounded. Though I assumed being dumbfounded wasn’t anything new for him. “Don’t you babe me! You’re a fucking pig, Levi! Cheating on me every chance you get. I hate you! My mom was right, you are a worthless son of a bitch,” The Barbiesque woman whose name was apparently Kayla, yelled at him. Before I could even move she had picked up the vase that I keep on my living room table for fresh flowers from the farmers market and threw it at Levi’s head. He dodged it and it thudded, thankfully unbroken, onto the carpet. “What the fuck, you crazy bitch! I wouldn’t have to cheat if you weren’t such an airheaded whore. Who is also the most boring person in bed... Ever. Also, your mom is a whore. She’s one to talk about cheating, she’s cheated on your dad more times than I’ve ever cheated on you!” At the mom comment, I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing for real. Man, these two sweethearts had such a healthy relationship and I wish them all the best. While oddly invested in this ridiculous couple’s dramatic and convoluted backstory, I had had enough and honestly just wanted to go to finish my glass of wine and watch the newest episode of Chopped. I looked around my apartment as they continued their screaming match. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed two pans from the drying rack beside my sink. I banged them together, effectively getting the lovebird’s attention. “Both of you need to get the fuck out of my apartment right now. Or I will use these” I lifted up the pans, “and start swinging at both of you. Get. Out.” “You crazy bitch, you can’t just threaten people like that!” Kayla screechingly whined. I made a fast lunging motion towards her, frying pan lifted at my side and she ran out the door, heels clicking obnoxiously down the hall. I turned to Levi and made a brief swinging motion towards him and he fastly followed after the Belinda the Good Witch impersonator, completely forgetting his shed clothes. This whole story does have a point, aside from a fast laugh and a feeling of horror. I got suckered into being Penelope. Thankfully mine was just for a few minutes and not a few years. The Greeks never knew if a god was walking around disguised amongst the mortals, so they had to treat all visitors and strangers like they were, well, gods. The concept of xenia is what kept Penelope from being able to just take a knife and charge down those castle stairs and start threatening those dumbass suitors. As much as I accept the concept of xenia and try to practice it in my life, there is a time and a place. And last weekend I learned that having a crazy dude and his “fiance” fighting in your apartment is a time and place it might be ok for xenia to go by the wayside. If only Penelope had gotten the chance. I would have loved to read her story of violent and threatening conquest over the suitors.


The cities continue to fall. For aeons, we have fought the invaders. Our cities were great metropolises when they first arrived, and it seemed that we could fight them off. With our superior numbers and their small societies, we were sure their days were numbered. They could not communicate with our efficiency. Our networks allowed coordination of great armies against them, and they were confined to simple, local communication. Surely, victory was assured. But they were such giants. Even the great armies of entire city-states could only take down a few before they would escape. And they eventually learned to avoid them. We could send out expeditionary forces against them, but we would be lucky to strike down one or two of the massive aliens. And then the weapons came. We thought they were stupid beasts and that their only advantage over us was size. We had thought their poor communication was a sign that they lacked the intellect to construct more than the simple tools they so often used. We were wrong. They had incredible firepower at their disposal. Our expeditions grew less successful as they began to strike out at our forces with heat enough to cook them in their armor. Had that been all, it would have been a formidable threat. But they had more. They were able to reshape our lands with ease. They directed massive floods into our greatest cities, wiping the proof of their existence from the land in mere moments. We learned to move our cities underground. We left what proof of their existence we could not hide. Fresh air is necessary for life, and food suppliers needed to be able to ship in goods. But the smaller we could make ourselves appear, the more likely the aliens would leave us alone. Some of the great city-states still remain. They are isolated to the few parts of the world that have not been completely overtaken by the invaders. As for the colonies we have formed underground... When they are found, the invaders continue to find new ways to annihilate our people. Fire, flood, even landslides and great earthquakes... but it is the bioweapons that are the greatest threat. Our food supply routes can be tracked down. When they are, the invaders can arrange for poison to be introduced into the food supply without notice. Until it is too late. The birthing centers and government officials are the first to go. Then the rest die out. So many peoples lost. We remain. It is clear the aliens do not consider us a threat, but a nuisance. Our armor is useless against the kinetic force of their attacks. Our own attacks have become less effective as they have developed armor against them and treatments against the injuries left by our forces which would once have driven them to madness. The juveniles are more vulnerable, but it is rare to be able to mount a sufficient force even for one juvenile in most places. But they do not eradicate us, either. They have taken our world and consider us beneath them. Oftentimes, they are right in a literal sense. We have tried to go after their own food supplies, but their ability to bring in more, and so much, is beyond the abilities of all but our greatest legions. It doesn’t make sense. We have better armor. We have better communications networks. We have better trained militaries. But they have the better weapons. They have more food. And above all, they have size. Those great, heaving, horrific forms can stand taller than most of the cities that remain. We aren’t sure how gravity allows for such monstrous forms, but they have clearly paid heavy costs for their size. They are covered with huge musculatures and move so slowly. Most are unable to lift even half their own weight in our gravity. They communicate by great explosions of pressure rather than sophisticated speech like our own. Their senses are less acute, as well. They are not stupid, but their brains are certainly limited in processing speed by the sheer size of the bodies which must transmit the same neural signals our much smaller forms can do so much more quickly. But they are winning. They *have* won. We continue to fight, but we are beaten. Beaten by these brutes who move so animalistically, so stupidly. But because they are the victors, they think us the stupid ones. And they have a word for our people. It is small, like us, which is fitting. They call us, “ants.


14 February 1778 To my dearest Maria, I sincerely hope all is well. How are you holding up throughout this war? I know I haven’t written to you in a while. I truly long to see you all once again. Everyday I miss you more and more. Remember when we were young? I often have memories of the fresh Philadelphia air filling our lungs as we lay on the soft grass in the meadow. While I am writing this, it is hard to suppress my grin while reminiscing on such simpler times... I miss my work as a teacher and all the wonderful children I taught. This treasured innocence is now thrown away, never to be resurfaced, for what I have seen at Valley Forge can never be erased from my memory. My decision to aid the Continental Army may have been a grave mistake. The conditions here are so terribly dreadful. Soldiers are practically naked, on the brink of death, and starving. Watching all of these brave men slowly lose their spirits is nothing short of heartbreaking. With my brother now living with his wife in Massachusetts, Mother and Father have no one to take care of them. They are left to tend to the farmland by themselves (I fear you now know what the purpose of this letter is for). Because of these horrible conditions, I have decided it would be best to leave Valley Forge. I understand that leaving in the frigid winter is practically suicide, but I cannot die without trying to see you again. I can already imagine what a scolding you would give to me if you were here: “What a blithering fool you are! Why on EARTH would you ever think this is a good idea?!? I swear, if you make it back, it’ll be me that kills you!”. By the time you are reading this, I have already started my journey back (mainly so you will not be able to talk me out of it). Please allow me to elaborate, Maria. Have you ever seen a man die? I have. Many times. Far too many times to count. I think us in the medical department try to pretend that it doesn’t bother us each time we watch a patient pass on, but it does. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed it, it never seems to get easier. It truly makes me feel grateful for what I have and the life I have lived so far. But also, it makes me think of all the things in life I wish I had done. Mortality is horrifying. Watching men slowly meet their demise knowing there is nothing you can do to help starts to take a toll on you after a while. I often find myself thinking: Could that be me next? I will now include a few excerpts from my diary: “25 December 1777 Although it has only been a week at Valley Forge, the blizzards show no signs of stopping. Our living quarters (cabins) are crammed, only about 16’ by 14’ with dozens of men inside just one. With the harsh winters forcing everyone to stay inside, the influenza is spreading rapidly. The insulation is poor and it is freezing on the inside. The smoke from the fire is entering our lungs, making us even more run-down. Merry Christmas. 4 January 1778 With each day I spend at Valley Forge, I find it harder to believe in the Revolution. Today was no exception. This night when walking to my sleeping quarters, I overheard the lieutenants discussing how their force was shrinking at a detrimental rate. Over 1,000 men have died from smallpox, and this number will only skyrocket as the days go on. It fills me with despair to watch these brave soldiers die, knowing that their death may be in vain. Instead of dying a noble death fighting for liberty and freedom, they are forced to spend their final moments sick, vulnerable, and afraid. I never would have volunteered for a cause as hopeless as this if I was aware of what I would be getting myself into. If there is a Hell where mortals can roam, it is Valley Forge. God bless us all.” Life here is anything but luxurious, Maria. We are starving and malnourished, making it impossible to help sick patients. Men can hardly stand on their own and are being brought here only to die. I am aware that General George Washington is doing his utmost best with what he was given, but nothing seems to be working out. Even someone as influential as himself can’t seem to keep up the morale. The soldiers haven’t said anything, but you can tell just by the gruesome look in their eyes that they’ve already given up. We will stand no chance against the ruthless British army if things stay the same. We are left with empty stomachs most days while the British eat like kings. Our army cannot even afford to buy enough for one full meal from the Patriot farmers. Ever since I came, I have even started to miss the taste of your dreadful pumpkin pie. That taste, no matter how insipid, would provide me with the comfort of familiarity, whereas here, there are only unknowns. Everyday I am here, it seems I get one step closer to my own demise and I am not willing to play with the odds of life and death anymore. With the statistics as they are now, around half of the soldiers are sick, and I might just be another body to be buried. My lovely Maria, I know you would have wanted me to stay and help until the end, but I hope what I have written so far gives you a better understanding of my decision. I mean, I’m a teacher for God’s sake! I’m hardly qualified for this line of work. No matter how many times you write to me assuring me everything is fine on the homefront, it does nothing to ease my worries. Back in Philadelphia, it is now only me and them. They are old and can hardly take care of themselves anymore. They are extremely reliant on me to help around the house and I feel terrible about burdening you with them. I know you do what you can to help out my mother and father and I thank you kindly for it. Alas, they aren’t getting any younger. If something were to happen while I was at Valley Forge, I would never forgive myself for not being there. Furthermore, I miss you all very much and wish to be with you especially again, my love. For the weeks I have been here, nothing has improved. General Washington has tried his hardest but his efforts may in fact be in vain. I have nothing but respect for Washington, but no matter how hard he tries there is practically nothing he can do to improve the conditions at Valley Forge. I genuinely have tried. I hope you know that. I am not one to quit, but this is not for the faint of heart. The conditions are horrible and the whole army seems to be slowly withering away. My own health is at risk due to the lack of food and the chances of me contracting smallpox. This reason may be selfish, but my life at home is so dear to me. I want to die being surrounded by those who I care about. At Valley Forge, my death would be just another statistic. It strongly pains me to say this, but my time here has been proven to be useless. I do not like to see my fellow Patriots on the brink of death. I am embarrassed to say this, but I have completely lost faith in the Continental Army’s success. We stand no chance. I feel as though the most important lesson one can get out of this is that sometimes you must put yourself before others. Please do take care of yourself, Maria. Perhaps if I return home, we can finally be together again. Do not lose faith in me, my love. I know you will be disappointed in me leaving but I also know that you will be understanding of what I have been through. The chances of me making it back home are slim, but those odds are greater than me surviving at Valley Forge. If I do however face my utmost demise, I would like to say that I have no regrets. However, that would be lying. My biggest regret would be not telling you how much I truly love you. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. Do take care of yourself for me. Hopefully we will meet again and laugh about this matter in the future. Please tell my parents that I wish them well. I won’t ask you to pray for me, but I may need it. I love you. Yours truly, Emelia Smith


His ragged cardboard sign read, “NEED FOOD - PLEASE HELP.” He indeed looked hungry--dirty, skinny, even feeble. I had seen him--or others like him--many times at this intersection under an overpass. I never give anything to those beggars. I have been suckered too many times. A recent neighborhood chat room proclaimed that these people are not truly homeless. “They just don’t have jobs. It is more profitable for them to beg than to labor all day. At the end of the day, they get into their cars and drive home.” I suspect there is no data to substantiate such a claim; it is simply the complainer’s own contempt and wishful thinking. Still, I always feel a tinge of guilt and try not to look them in the eye while I wait for the light to change so I can drive away. But this time something struck me, a face devoid of emotion, a bleak mood that somehow affected me. I was tempted--not to hand over cash, but perhaps to at least to talk to this man and see if he would share his story. I rolled down my window and he limped over. “Are you really hungry?” I asked. He nodded, deadpan. “Yeah, I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday.” “I’ll tell you what. ‘You see that restaurant over there on the corner? If you meet me there, I’ll buy you lunch.” He hesitated, looked over at the restaurant, observed the empty seat next to me, shrugged, said “Okay,” and walked away. It took me a couple minutes to get parked and to find him standing with a backpack near the restaurant’s door. The receptionist looked suspiciously at us, but she led us both to a booth. “Order whatever you want,” I told him. After placing our orders (his was not extravagant), I got down to business. “If you don’t mind sharing, I would like to know a little bit about you. My name’s Bob, by the way. I’ve seen you around this neighborhood before. I promise I won’t share anything you tell me with police or anybody else you don’t want to know.” He hesitated, but told me his name. (I’ll call him Max - not his real name.) Max didn’t seem to want to talk. “Look,” I said, “you don’t have to tell me anything, but I really do want to understand how we’ve come to be facing each other today. I’m not here to judge you. I only want to understand you.” His distrust seemed to dial down a notch. “What do you want to know?” “Feel free to tell me - or not tell me--anything. Like, how old are you?” He looked at me for almost a minute, silently evaluating, and then apparently trusting me enough to say, “Thirty-two.” “Are you homeless? Where do you sleep?” Again, a moment of hesitation. “I try to sleep where nobody can see me, usually outside.” “Do you have a tent?” “Nope. Too much trouble. I only have what I can carry.” His weathered backpack sat on the seat next to him. “Where are you from?” Another narrowing of the eyes and a deliberate lowering of his head. “You mean recently?” “You tell me.” Now he looked up and closed his eyes, as though remembering. “I was born in a little town in west Texas. I don’t remember much about it. My mom and me, we moved a lot. I don’t remember nothin’ about my father. There were a lot of men in my life. Every time things got tough with one of ‘em, my mom would pack me up and we’d move to the next place. So, I guess you’d say, I’m from Texas.” He had revealed more than I had expected. I had to choose my next words carefully to keep this door open. “Your mom must have loved you a lot.” His face hardened and he stared directly at me. I was certain I had overstepped. “No,” he said, and shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t say that at all. She was stuck with me, is all. I was nothin’ but a burden to her, especially when she was courting some guy.” This time I was uncomfortable and not sure what to say next. “Do you still keep in touch?” He studied his plate. “Nope. I ran away when I was sixteen. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. I don’t care.” Uncomfortable silence. “Where did you go?” “No place particular. I had friends. I was still in school, and I wanted to finish. I can’t remember how many schools I’d been in. My friends would help me stay with them or with other people.” “Friends are always good.” Empty platitudes. His expression darkened. “Not always.” Okay, should I follow up on this, or let it be? “Like how?” I finally asked. Again, that stare. “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Fair enough. Did you finish high school?” “Barely. Nobody came to see me graduate. I enlisted in the army the next day.” He winced and pulled his hand down to his belly. Maybe that had brought back a bad memory. “Are you alright?” “Yeah.” Max dabbled at his lasagna. “It’s just a pain that I live with. Sometimes it reminds me it’s still there.” “What’s still there? Do you have cancer or something?” “Nothing like that. I have this piece of shrapnel that they couldn’t take out, so every once in a while, it stabs me.” Awkward moment. “Well, thank you for your service.” Another platitude until I could think of what to say next. “You were injured in Afghanistan?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” I let the topic go. “Do you have any other family?” Max stopped chewing and looked past me. “Yeah” he said. “Sorta.” “Sort of?” He pursed his lips and avoided looking at me. “I was married once. I met Annie while I was in the army and fell in love. It was great, even though army life is tough. I have a little girl.” Max’s eyes watered. He closed them and he stopped eating or talking. I stayed silent, afraid to disturb this moment. Finally, I asked quietly, “Where is she?” “Annie? She died.” He said this dispassionately, as though telling me the temperature. More awkward pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Max shrugged. “It is what it is.” I asked the next obvious--but risky--question. “Where is your little girl?” I wasn’t ready for his response. He set his silverware down, faced over his shoulder toward the ceiling, as big tears ran down his cheeks. “I don’t know.” He began to sob. He put his face in his hands and blubbered for about a minute while I waited, not knowing how to react. Finally, through sniffles, he continued. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I love that little girl. And I don’t know where they’ve taken her.” “Who?” “You know, CPS or whatever they call the foster organization.” “She’s in a foster home? What is her name?” “I don’t know if she’s in a home or an institution or what. I only know what I don’t know.” His tears were still flowing, and his eyes were red. “Her name’s Maxie.” I felt uncertain about whether or how to comfort this man. I could only wait and listen. “I’m sorry,” Max said again. “I didn’t mean to dump on you.” “It’s alright. I asked for it. I want to hear your story. Please continue if you want to.” It didn’t seem like Max wanted to continue. He had stopped eating and stopped talking, apparently lost in thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know how to find her.” I searched for something reassuring to say. “Maybe they’re trying to find you too. How would they find you?” The question seemed to sober him. “I don’t know. They can’t find me. Nobody can find me. I don’t exist anymore.” I smiled. “You do exist. I see you right here, a grown man loving his little girl.” He almost smiled but didn’t say anything. “There are organizations that can help you. Have you asked VA or anybody to assist you?” “VA doesn’t want to help me much.” “Really? Why is that? You’re a wounded veteran. I would think they would want to help you.” He grimaced again, looking at my plate but seeing something else in his mind. After a long pause he said, “I have a ‘less than honorable discharge.’ That makes me less than human.” My turn to be silent for a while. Finally, I said, “Is that something you can talk about?” He shrugged. “I got in a fight with a guy. Hurt him pretty bad. He went to the brig. I got discharged.” “He went to the brig? Did he start the fight?” “Nope. He didn’t go there for fighting. He went for what he did. To Annie.” I was stunned. My mind sizzled with all sorts of possibilities, and I was afraid to touch any of them. In the end, I simply waited for what seemed an awfully long time. Max had tears in his eyes again. Finally, he said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” “Fine.” I was grateful to change the subject and keep the conversation going, even though I really wanted to know what had happened to Annie. “So, after you got out, were you able to get a job?” “Sometimes. Usually part-time, nothing permanent. I learned to be a pretty good mechanic in the army, but I had other issues.” “Issues?” “Yeah. One was all the pain meds the army had given me. Opioids. I couldn’t kick them. I still need them.” He winced again. “What else?” “Another was stability. I had jobs, but they didn’t pay enough for me to rent a place. Or if I did, I didn’t have money left over for anything else. After I missed the rent and got evicted a couple of times, nobody would rent to me again. “The other was the bad conduct discharge. Not many people want to help somebody with a record like that, especially for a record of violence.” I felt an involuntary fear pop up. I hoped my next words would sound gentle and not shaky. “Are you violent?” He shrugged. “I guess you could say I have anger management issues.” “Lots of people do. So do I, sometimes. Have you tried counseling?” Max looked at me as though trying to remain patient with an inattentive child. “Have you ? Do you know what those costs? Who’s going to pay for it. I already told you VA doesn’t care about me anymore.” “I’m not so sure about that. VA helps a lot of vets with PTSD and drug dependency issues. Even some with felony prison records. You deserve assistance. What if I could direct you to somebody who could take your case to the VA? And, maybe even to Child Protective Services? His face brightened slightly, hope and distrust conflicting in his mind. “Could you?” “Yeah. I know an organization with an outreach program that could get you on a housing list, get you some medical help, some food, and guide you through the government maze.” I gave him a couple of minutes to digest this information, his struggle to trust and distrust. “Would you?” “Sure. Would you like me to take you there today?” The devil on my shoulder was shouting in my ear: Are you nuts? You’re going to let this vagrant get in the car with you? Alone? He already told you he gets violent! You’re tempting danger! Max pondered some more, then said. “Okay” he smiled. And so did I. An hour later I introduced Max to the folks at the assistance center, and left with the promise to check in on him from time to time. His last words before I left: “Thank you for listening to me.” Driving home, I couldn’t help feeling selfishly good about having given into the temptation to listen to another person. Temptation is not so bad.


6:34 pm. Charlie was just pulling up to his drive after a hard day at work for Charlie was working as a sound technician for a new upcoming film set in Leeds. He drove a silver Vauxhaull Astra, he had bought it off his older brother two years prior. Charlie was a 29-year-old with a light stubble on the underside of his chin making him look a lot younger however he was a strong man, physically fit which was being shown by his blue shirt nearly ripping off his chest when stretching after stepping out of his car. He was around 6 foot 2 inches tall and didn’t seem to have much money being evident by his shoes being dirty and old and having a small house which used to belong to his grandmother after she passed away by taking her own life in said house. Charlie and his grandmother were always very close and when she died when Charlie was 20, he was obviously very distraught. As Charlie opened his house door, he was suddenly attacked by a small ball of fluff. This was his pet dog Layla who ran up to him and jumped up in excitement and even let out a small wee. Charlie returned this love back to Layla by petting her forehead and giving her a large belly rub. They then decided to sit in front of the television and have a rest after a stressful day. 8:16 pm. Charlie jolted up from out of his sofa. He had fallen asleep whilst watching tv and Layla had managed to find her way into the treat jar and ended up and smashing it, waking him up. As Charlie was walking towards the kitchen area where the smash took place, he went into his cupboard and grabbed the old broom that his grandmother used to use herself. He swept all the broken glass into a corner and went to look for his dustpan and brush. Whilst he was looking, he found a packet of cigarettes that he had bought the previous day that was unopened. He placed them in his pocket and continued to search. Charlie eventually found it in the bathroom under the sink and returned to the kitchen. He then spent a few minutes collecting all the shards of glass into the dustpan and placed them all in the bin except for one sharp shard which he placed on the kitchen counter top. 8:43 pm. By this time Charlie was starting to get hungry and went to the kitchen to try and locate anything edible. And he did except for it was only edible to Layla. “fucks sake” Charlie muttered under his breath for he spent his last small amount of money on the cigarettes in his pocket and wouldn’t be getting paid until two days’ time. He gave Layla her food and went back to the living room and lit up one of his cigarettes. Puff, puff, puff. One down. He lit another. Puff, puff, puff. Another one down. Charlie went to the corner of the room where on a little table, there was a picture of a little girl. This little girl was in fact Charlie’s young daughter Emily who would have just turned 5. Charlie didn’t see much of Emily for him and his partner Charlotte split up shortly after she was born, and Charlotte took full custody of Emily and only allowing Charlie to see her once every 2 months. However, as Charlie lit up his third cigarette a tear fell from the corner of his right eye. Puff, puff, puff. 9:07 pm. Charlie got up from the sofa once more after a while of thinking to go to the toilet, for he had just finished his last bottle of beer that he had in his fridge. On returning to the living room, Charlie noticed that he couldn’t find Layla inside. He called all over the house, however Charlie wasn’t very worried for this was rather common for Layla to go into the back garden at this time of day. So, Charlie opened his back door and called out for Layla, and again, and again, and again... Charlie was starting to get worried for she normally came bolting back to the house after the first call. He was panicking now, thinking something had happened. But then he heard a faint bark that was undeniably that of Layla, but it was round the front of his house. He went around to the front drive through a gate that joined the drive to the back garden. There Layla was and Charlie felt very relieved to see her. However, something wasn’t quite right; she didn’t come running up to Charlie like she usually did, in fact, she wasn’t moving at all. She only let out a faint yelp and Charlie came running. She was lying motionless in the centre of the road and when Charlie lent down to see her, he saw blood. Lots of blood. Layla had been hit by a car and Charlie was too late, she died in his arms as he carried her towards the house limp and lifeless... 10:28 pm. The burial was done. Layla was buried in the back garden next to her favourite spot, right next to the daisies. Charlie went back into his house and finished wiping away the tears for Layla was the closest thing he had to family and his relationship with his parents was poor and he hadn’t spoken to them for at least 2 years when they had a falling out about Charlies career and problems with drug addiction which he had since overcome. He went to his office which was next to his room and only contained a desk, chair and pen and paper. Charlie decided he would write 5 letters to 5 people. His Mum, his Dad, his brother, Charlotte his ex-partner and one to Emily for when she turned 18. In each of the letters he ended them with “I love you, and I’m sorry. Charlie”. He labelled each letter to who he wanted them to go to and left them on his bedside table. 11:08 pm. Charlie decided that he needed a bath. He started to run the water and let it run. As the water was running, Charlie went to the kitchen to get a glass of water before his bath when he noticed the sharp shard of glass, he had left on the kitchen side. He picked it up and returned to the bathroom. The water was steaming, just how he liked his bath, and just like he had liked them from since he was a young boy. He climbed into the bath and placed the shard of glass by the taps that let the water out. Charlie lay there for a short while, soaking in the warm water. But then he sat upright. He grasped the shard of glass and placed it against his wrist. Tears streaming down his face, Charlie cut across his skin. The water turned red, and he made another slit, and another and another. A few minutes had passed and there was no evidence that the water was once water for Charlie was lying in a pool of blood. But Charlie lay still and motionless.


Three-fingered Jack Garcia. That’s me. Most lawmen and evil guys call me Three-Fingers. I am the most feared anti-hero on the planet. And the most popular. I was created by my former friend, writer Horace Lovestreet III. Horace is an Old West aficionado. He keeps a vintage Colt .45 in his desk. He pulls it out occasionally, hoping for inspiration that never comes. It all began one rainy night in Los Angeles. Horace was finishing a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon, wondering how he would make a living now that the writing thing clearly wasn't working out. There was little protection against me in Horace's inebriated state, infiltrating the creative portion of his brain and putting ideas into that head. ‘Western’ was the first idea. “Bounty Hunter’ was the second. ‘Anti-Hero' was the third - a protagonist who, when necessary, would do things a typical 'good guy' wouldn't do, like fatally shoot a defenseless bad guy out of revenge and to collect the reward money. Three-fingered Jack Garcia was born that night, and, with my help, the outline of the first novel sprung, fully formed, into Horace Lovestreet’s Bourbon-soaked consciousness: A Price on Their Heads. Horace and I couldn’t have Jack Garcia just all of a sudden arbitrarily decide to become a bounty hunter, we had to give him some motivation. So we gave him a fiancé, Linda Sue Darlinquez, who was beautiful, wonderful, and engaged to marry Jack. One night, three bad guys broke into the Darlinquez farmhouse, killed Linda Sue's Parents, dragged Linda Sue outside, repeatedly raped and sodomized her, and left her to die after burning the Darlinquez farmhouse to the ground and stealing every penny they had. Bastards! On the pages, I sprang into action. I got two six guns and tracked the three perpetrators down. We had it out in a blazing gunfight on a hot, dusty day on the streets of Laredo. They had a three-to-one advantage, but it was no contest as they had no way of knowing they were dealing with an up-and-coming anti-hero. Two fingers on my left hand got blown away during the gunfight. Thus, I became Three-fingered Jack Garcia. You can call me Three-fingers. The bounty I was paid for bringing the three banditos to frontier justice was both unexpected and substantial. It led Horace and I to decide on my new career: Bounty hunter, but only for the bad guys who deserved it. That led to the second book, Echoes, from Linda Sue . It turns out the three hombres who attacked the Darlinquez farmhouse that night were part of a much larger gang, most of whom had a price on their heads. The second book was spent with me tracking down and killing every member of that gang. My fans became legion. The movie was a huge success. The third book started with me being rich, fat, happy, and semi-retired. I didn't like the direction Horace was going with it at all. It seemed like he was introducing a young character as my protégé. I waited until he spent a night with Jim Beam and persuaded his brain to change the story to where I would offer my services to a deserving widow or family who had been terribly wronged by bad guys who now had a price on their heads. The title was Once More for Linda Sue. Just when you think it will never end and things will last forever, you find that forces outside your control are making changes that may have nothing to do with your goals or desires. That's what was happening to me, Three-fingered Jack Garcia. Horace's publisher was furious and called him onto the carpet for a meeting. The room was full of publishing executives and movie producers. Nobody was smiling. The publisher swung a copy of Once More for Linda Sue like a sword. “What the fuck is this? We agreed that Three-fingers takes on a younger protege, and we use this book to promote the young gunslinger and move Three-fingers into the background.” “I couldn’t do it,” Horace replied. “I felt Jack had one more good story left in him. Maybe more.” Attaboy, Horace! Give 'em hell! "Oh, you did, did you? Well, let me tell you something, Horace. The movie people aren't interested in this story like it is now. They're not interested in Three-fingers anymore, either. There’s only one way to regain their financial backing.” "I'm not bringing the protégé back. That's off the table." “Who said anything about bringing the protégé back?” “Then what do the movie people want?” “Three-fingered Jack must die at the end of Once More for Linda Sue . Then you start a whole new trilogy with a brand-new anti-hero.” Horace thought for a minute and nodded. "I can see that happening,” Horace said to the publisher. “In fact, I think I can write a great dramatic scene around Three Fingers' demise.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I had inspired Horace, a writer of marginal talent at best whose career was going nowhere, to create the greatest anti-hero in the history of the annals of the Western genre. Namely, me. I had given him story ideas that made him rich and famous and now, because some Hollywood suits thought they knew better, he was prepared to kill me off, dump me to the side of the literary scrap heap like yesterday’s garbage. The good news was on the way home from the publisher's meeting, Horace stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Jim Beam Bourbon. There was still hope. Horace was finishing the final scene of Once More for Linda Sue , where Three-fingers dies in a hail of bullets, ambushed by a half-dozen desperados. Horace was also working hard on the bottle of Jim Beam. I must admit his writing had improved dramatically since starting the Three-fingers series. The final scene was emotional and dramatic. It actually made me a little misty. But I had work to do. The bottle of Jim Beam was nearly empty. It was time for me to enter Horace’s Bourbon-soaked brain. The idea I planted into Horace’s brain was simple: What if he killed himself just as he typed ‘THE END’ of the Three-fingered Jack Garcia trilogy? The stories would become immortal. They would live forever, right beside Three-fingers. I saw the idea gradually taking hold in Horace’s mind. Horace opened the desk drawer. He slowly pulled out the antique Colt .45. He checked it. Loaded. He held the muzzle of the revolver to his temple and pulled the trigger. He died instantly with a smile on his face, That’s the last thing I remember.


"Mom I'm Home" Mariam called out when she got home. "Great, how was school" Mom replied. "Normal" Mariam responded. Mom just cocked her eyebrow. Mariam walked into the kitchen. god, I'm starving Mariam thought. She grabbed some leftovers from last night's dinner, then she walked over to the microwave which had her brother’s food in it. "Ibraheem get your food already” “Coming, bossy!” Ibraheem ran into the kitchen and grabbed his food from the microwave, Mariam made a face at him and put her food into the microwave. Right when she put her food into the microwave, She heard a weird growl-like noise come from it. Probably nothing. Mariam thought then when she tried to click the buttons it wouldn’t work. Dang it she silently cursed. Mariam checked the wire but it was still plugged in. “Dad!” Mariam screamed, “is the power out!” “No” he yelled back. “Then why did the microwave stop working if the wire is still plugged in?” She asked. Her dad sighed and came down the stairs. He Checked if the wire was plugged in which it was. “See Nothing’s wrong,” he said then heated her food. Mariam just stood there still trying to take in what happened. “It wasn’t working a minute ago” she complained to her dad. “Well Mariam, It’s not like the microwave can go against you or something,” he replied sarcastically. When he left back to his office, Mariam studied the microwave again. It just sat there looking completely normal. Then when she turned around she heard another weird noise. She turned around and the microwave lights were red then she took the wire out not wanting to risk anything but then it turned on 3 minutes. She jumped back not knowing what to do. She left the room in a hurry. That night when Mariam came into the kitchen for a glass of water, she had forgotten about the microwave incident a few hours before. So she grabbed for a glass and then, CRASH she heard the weird noise again she turned around slowly and dramatically to stare at the sinister piece of technology. “Shut your door dummy,” she said to the microwave not knowing why she said it out loud. The microwave shut its door loudly and harshly then turned red and made a low growling noise. Mariam then went to pull the wire out again but then realized. That there was another microwave behind hers. And more beyond that one as well. Great, she thought. “Well, I guess you all are going to try to get me now huh?” she said out loud to them. Then all the microwaves turned red and banged their doors open and close they jumped off the counter. Where did we get 12 microwaves from she thought? Then they circled her and turned on 3 minutes. She was freaking out right now So much for a glass of water, she thought as she put her empty glass back on the counter. Mariam turned back to the out-of-control microwaves. She attempted to step over them but they tied their wires around her ankles pulling her down. She grunted as her back hit the kitchen floor hard. She grabbed all the microwave wires and then tried to tie them together but then they tied her wrists too. She kicked 3 of the microwave doors shut. The timer was now on for 2 minutes and 30 seconds. She needed a plan to get out of these wires or else something bad could happen when the timer goes off. She struggled to get out of the wires but they wouldn’t come off. Then as if on cue her brother casually strolled into the kitchen. The microwaves instantly shut down and went back to normal. “What are you doing?” Ibraheem questioned. Mariam rolled her eyes and shook free of the wires she kicked another door shut and walked out of the circle. Then one microwave accidentally turned red again and her brother saw. He screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “Shush” Mariam told her younger brother. Then not caring anymore All the microwaves turned back on. Mariam grabbed a hammer from the tool pantry, went back to the kitchen, and slammed it into a microwave facing away from her then all of a sudden again the microwaves turned back off. Mariam and Ibraheem put them away somewhere her parents wouldn’t find them. Thank goodness there on that business trip she thought optimistically. The next day when they came back from school. The microwaves were gone from their spots. Mariam Searched the whole house but they were gone. She forgot about them and continued like life was normal. That night again she searched the house once more before going to sleep. She heard a low growl again when she got into bed. Mariam opened the lights and studied the room she then slowly opened her closet then all of a sudden the creepy red light flickered on again. The microwave growled again the same creepy low noise. The timer went off again this time only ten seconds to spare. She opened her window and threw it out. The microwave exploded halfway down. She saw as it landed loudly waking a few on the street. There was a huge hole in the road where it landed with rubble surrounding the area. Mariam stared at the microwave for a few more seconds before realizing the others were still hiding in the house. She found them hiding on the shelf in the shoe closet. Mariam grabbed them and destroyed them quickly. The next morning Mariam’s parents rushed back home noticing all the chaos surrounding their house worried them more. When they reached their driveway they saw the cops at their door. “What happened here?” asked their mom “Some weird explosion happened in front of your house leaving a hole in the street” the cop responded with a thick southern accent. Both parents looked at each other and ran into their house. “Guys where are you?” dad asked worriedly. Mariam and Ibraheem ran to the door trying to get there before the others as usual. Their parents sighed in relief seeing they were ok. “What happened out there?” Mom asked. “Well the microwaves attacked me then I threw it out the window as it exploded I felt like James Bond, you have no idea!” Mariam blurted out excited. Her parents cocked their eyebrows in confusion. “Mhm, microwaves,” her mom said sarcastically “Believe it or not he’s actually telling the truth this time,” Ibraheem said while giving his older sister a look. Then they both started again chasing each other trying to get revenge like a normal day in their household.