My life was going well. I have a great family, an occasionally annoying younger brother and I lived in an average house (picket fence and all). I didn’t think there was more out there, or that maybe it was a little boring until I met the stranger. To tell you about her, I need to back up quite a bit. To a Tuesday night in late September. ~September~ I had my hands stuffed deep into my pockets. To say that Midwest winters are cold is a drastic understatement. Midwest winters are brutal. It’s so cold that when I stepped outside the wind made me cough and it whipped across my face. The snow crunched beneath my feet, icicles were hanging from porches and roofs. Even though it’s only 5:30 p.m. it’s already dark outside. The early nights make the world seem unfriendly. It’s on this night that a flash of red flits across the corner of my eye, so quickly that I thought perhaps I had imagined it. I turned and noticed a woman in a coat so long and billowing that it looked almost like a cape. She turned around a corner and was gone. Something about her stuck in my mind. Or at least, I think it did. It’s hard to say if I just remember it that way now because of all that came after. It wasn’t until February that I saw her again. I’d had a craving for brownies and stopped at the store to pick up a mix. Like last time, I again caught a flash of red. When I looked around I saw the same majestic coat as it fluttered around the corner of an aisle. The hair on the back of my neck went up and I had goosebumps. I wasn’t sure why my subconscious was reacting this way but I had to find out. I followed her quickly down the aisle. She was moving fast and besides her coat, all I could see was her long brunette hair. She turned right and I kept going but when I walked around the corner I saw tons of shoppers (more than normally frequented this store) and the mysterious woman had disappeared. As I stood there perplexed a chill went through me. But I was being paranoid, Chicago is a big city and it probably wasn’t the same person. I definitely wasn’t being followed. More likely, it was someone with a similar coat. I shook it off and walked out of the store. It wasn’t until I arrived at home that I realized I had completely forgotten my cart and the brownies. After that it was hard to shake the feeling that I was being watched. Every time I would check (surreptitiously looking over my shoulder) there was no one there. I tried to tell myself that I was imagining things, that it was just a coincidence or someone who lived in my neighborhood. But deep down I knew that something was up, I just wasn’t sure what. When I saw her again, it was months later. School had let out for the summer and between hanging out with my friends and working a part time job at a local restaurant I was training for a half marathon. It was an August day, hot and brutally humid. I had to do a ten mile run and was kicking myself for not dragging myself out of bed earlier to beat the heat. All I could picture was an ice cold glass of water (and I was only three miles into my run). That’s when I saw a flash of red ahead of me. I had been seeing red out of the corner of my eye for months and had been trying to dismiss it. Every time I turned or tried to focus on it there was nothing there. I was beginning to worry that I was imagining things. So it wasn’t until I got closer that I realized this was real and I truly believed my eyes. It was the woman with the flowing cape and long brown hair! This time I caught up with her quickly, it felt as though she was waiting for me. I stopped by her and she turned toward me, in that moment I wasn’t sure what to say. I’ve dreamt of this moment but it’s dawning on me that I’ve never thought past seeing her face. She’s looking at me intently, so deep in my eyes and there’s something familiar about her but I just can’t place it. It seems as though she's come to some sort of conclusion because she shakes her head slightly nad says, “No, you’re not quite ready.” “What do you mean?” I ask but at that moment there’s a screech and a loud honk behind me. I whip around and see that a car has ran a red light, another car has stopped just in time - narrowly avoiding a collision. I look around towards the woman, to ask again what she means and why she’s following me. But she’s gone. I have chills again and I’m beginning to think that this is very, very real. I’m not sure what to do now. The woman hasn’t been dangerous, or at least she hasn’t been threatening me. I’m not sure what, exactly, I would report to the police or my family. I keep running into a weird woman in a red cape/jacket (even though it was 80 degrees out) and she said something cryptic. I do mention it to my best friend who agrees that it’s a little strange but that there are types of people in this world. Although she’ll also keep an eye out for the lady. I become obsessed with finding her again, I need to know what she meant. A few months later I’m passing by an intersection and someone flags me down to help them cross the street. They link their arm through mine and we head across. When we’re almost to the curb there’s a commotion, some irritated driver is honking at the car in front of them. As we step over the curb I turn back to the person whose arm is linked in mine only to see that it’s the woman in the red coat. She’s peering at me closely and, speechless, I return her gaze. “Now,” she says, “you’re ready. You’ve done enough good deeds to come back to the realm.” And then she disappears. I blinked one second she was there and the next she was gone. At this stage I thought about going to the police but wasn’t entirely sure what I would say. She didn’t seem like she was going to harm me, if anything it was like she wanted to give me a message but just couldn’t quite get the meaning across. I was flummoxed. What was the realm? When was I a part of that? Why don’t I have any memory of it? When I went to bed that night I had a really vivid dream. It was a technicolor whorl, it felt familiar but I couldn't recall what any of it was the next morning. This went on for months with nothing changing. Each night I would have the same dream, there was an intense feeling of deja vu, but nothing was clear enough in it for me to know what any of it meant. But then, one night, I had the same dream. However, this team (while the main details were the same) the angle was different. In this dream, I was floating above the whirling multicolored mass. It slowly came into focus, it became clearly more of an oval. I squinted and realized that it was the pond in my backyard. I gasped awake. No wonder it had felt familiar this whole time! It was close to me all along! Of course, the version in my backyard is a drab shallow pool. It isn’t deep enough for fish or any fun plants. It’s a small water feature, really just for decoration. It’s 3am but I have too much energy to fall back asleep. Quietly, I pad down the stairs in PJs and socks. I slip out the door and into the yard. The pond looks the same to me as it has always looked. Frankly, I don’t understand my subconscious’ obsession. I head back to my room hoping that I’ll get a few more hours of sleep before I have to get up for school. I find that I’m exhausted the next day. In class my mind wanders back to the dream, the pond and what it all means. I find myself obsessing, drawing images from the dream in my notebook, daydreaming when I should be studying. This isn’t like me! I have goals, big ones. I want to go to an Ivy league (preferably Brown), study international law and then go on to become a human rights attorney. For that, the groundwork starts here, in high school. So I need to be focused. And yet, today I can’t seem to make myself listen to any of the lectures. I’m drifting back to the dream (both awake and asleep - I doze off in history class). At the end of the day I decide to end this once and for all, I’ll explore every inch of the pond so that I’ll be satisfied there’s nothing there and it will stop haunting every second of my life. As soon as I get home I make a beeline for it. I walk around it quickly, which only takes a couple of minutes. Then I go around again, studying every detail. At my next pass around I’m crawling, hoping that being on the ground will help me to catch things that I might’ve missed form higher up. I’ve been around it three times and have still found nothing. I’m completely baffled. Hands on my hips I spend a full twenty minutes staring at it. Wind ripples the water and the light dances across as the sun sinks lower in the sky. I’m at my wits end, there must be an answer here, a reason that I’ve dreamt of this pond for months. Yet I can find nothing here. Out of ideas and options, I put one foot in and then the other. I don’t think I’ll find anything but I’ll try anything at this point. Step after step the cool water seeps into my clothes, weighing me down. It’s not a deep pond and, with the water only at my waist, I’m almost in the middle. It’s when I take the last step, when I’m directly in the middle, that things seem to shift and change. The water whooshes up like a fountain and then I’m falling down through a tunnel. A tunnel that I know for a fact doesn’t exist and yet here I am, falling. Panicking, I hold my breath for as long as possible but then I simply can’t anymore and gasp a mouthful of water in what I assume are my last moments. But I don’t die, I’m breathing normally even though I’m far underwater, below the Earth’s surface, below the bottom of the pond. I’m slowing down, falling less precipitously, and then I’m floating down. My feet find purchase on solid ground and I look around. It’s a gorgeous, technicolor world. It’s not earth but I’m not sure where or what it is either. Where I should be scared I instead find that I’m feeling as though I’ve landed in a long lost place - comfortable and familiar. I turn and there’s the woman in the red coat walking up to me. She greets me by simply saying, “Welcome home.”


It all started with a handshake. 11 years ago, I had found him at the corner of our middle school cafeteria in 6th grade, staring at the ground and glumly chewing on a sour gummy worm. I felt like I’d seen him before, but a distant memory wasn’t enough for me to remember his name. But I sat with him anyway. “You wanna sit with *him*? Eww, why?” One of my prissy friends had asked. The peer pressure almost got me, but I’d hung around the lot of them long enough to know that all they ever did was talk bad about other people. I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t about to tell them that either. “...He got the last pack of sour gummy worms.” I replied before sauntering off towards his table as my friends looked on helplessly. It didn’t take them long to decide that I wasn’t worth anything to them anymore, but I didn’t care. I slammed my lunch tray onto the table he was sitting at and plopped myself down in the seat across from him. He looked startled at first, staring up at me as if he was unsure if I was really there or not. “Hey.” I said. “Where’d your friends go?” He shrugged and refused to meet my eyes. “Let me know when you find me one.” “Found one.” I replied, pointing at myself. I was quite proud for coming up that one, but he didn’t seem convinced. “Yeah, right...you’re just sitting here cause you feel sorry for me.” “Hey. That’s not true.” He looked at me skeptically. I found myself unable to lie. “Okay, maybe it’s a little true. But so far, you’d make a better friend than the people I usually hang around with.” Uncertainty crossed his face. “...You think so?” I smiled. “It’s been at least a minute and you haven’t said anything bad about anyone else’s sense of fashion. I know so. And to prove it...” I stuck out my hand. He knit his eyebrows in confusion. “You want me to hold your hand?” “It’s a handshake, genius.” “O-oh. Right.” He reached out to shake my hand, but I pulled it away at the last second. “A *secret* handshake.” Confusion reached his eyebrows again. “Uhh...what?” “You heard me. Something only the both of us know. That way there’ll be no doubt in anyone’s mind that we’re friends. *Especially* yours.” We spent the rest of that lunch working out the first steps. Front hand high five, backhand high five, fist bump, followed by a twirl and a double snap into finger guns. It was a little awkward at first, and we got some weird looks from people at other tables, but before long he was finally smiling, and I found myself doing the same. “You know...you’re pretty cool.” “Cool enough to be your friend?” I asked with a shrug. He nodded. “Yeah. Friends it is.” The rest of middle school was a blur, but from that moment on we were always there when we needed each other. When his parents wouldn’t let him hang out with me after school just because I was a girl, when I almost failed math, and especially when we both needed someone to sit with at lunch. The handshake went with us, too. As our friendship developed, it became more complicated. We spent tons of time revising it and adding more steps. Elbow jabs, vertical high fives, and even a few rounds of patty cake. We didn’t even know why. Something about it was just really special to both of us. High school rolled around, and we both started to drift in other directions. We made friends who didn’t care about the fact that I’d been alienated by the gossip squad three years ago, or that his only friend prior to meeting them was the girl who’d been alienated by the gossip squad three years ago. None of that mattered anymore. It was the best. What wasn’t the best was the new form of peer pressure that was running rampant through the school; dating. All of a sudden everyone was getting snatched up, and before long he and I were left at odds. “Y’all are so cute, you should totally go out!” They said. And as much as I hate to admit, the pressure got to me that time around. It was awkward at first, suddenly declaring ourselves a couple. But over time, I came to realize that he was a lot more than that shy kid I sat with one day in middle school. He was sweet, and charming, and smart enough to explain trigonometry to someone who had avoided math like the plague ever since bombing her 8th grade algebra final. I denied it for a while, but the feelings I had for him were very real, and one fateful Valentine’s day, he worked up the courage to tell me that he felt the same way. A relationship had blossomed between us, and with it, our secret handshake got more complicated. Before I knew it, we’d added step-kicks, jazz hands and a ballroom twirl as per inspiration from when we took musical theater. It might have seemed childish and silly, but it was special. Every time we did that handshake, it reminded me how much he meant to me, and how much I meant to him. High school and college went by in what felt like no time at all. We’d both been accepted into different universities, but somehow we made it work long distance, so long as we talked every day and met in person at least once a month. At the end of my final year of school, I threw a grad party. Lots of people came, but I was especially excited to see my boyfriend. He’d even taken the liberty to dress up a bit for once, which I found extraordinarily sweet. At the end of the night, he was the last person to head out. We’d spent the evening talking and laughing like old times...just like we used to in 6th grade. He’d just told me a really stupid joke about lyrics to an Amy Winehouse song, and I playfully pushed him. “Alright, dude. You better get outta here before I actually have to fight you.” He shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” However, right as he stepped through the doorway, he held out his hand and flashed a smile. “Handshake?” I smiled back. “Totally.” We went through the whole routine with practiced ease; Front hand high five, backhand high five, fist bump, vertical high five, elbow jab, swivel, patty cake, hand grasp, turn, step kick, pivot to the left, high five, pivot to the right, fist bump, ballroom twirl, double fist bump blow-up(with sound effects), followed by a turn and a double snap into finger guns. I moved to do the turn, but when I turned back around to do the finger guns...he wasn’t there, gunning me back, like he had been for the past eleven years. He was on one knee. With a tiny box in his hands. And a ring in that tiny box. And a smile on his face that told him, and me, that he was absolutely certain of what he was about to do. “...Will you marry me?” For a moment, I was dumbstruck. But my answer was short, simple, and straight to the point. Blinking back tears, I smiled back and laced the ring into its proper spot on my left hand finger. “...Absolutely.


There was a flash of light, and Ginevra glanced up from her desk. In her doorway was a young girl, in her late twenties at most, in flashy makeup and a sequined black dress. She scanned the room in a daze, her distant eyes scanning the room--the porcelain walls, the soft cream couch in the corner, the three paintings of running water--until finally settling on Ginevra and her white desk. “Have a seat,” Ginevra said, gesturing to the chair across from her. Slowly, the girl shuffled forward, pulling the chair out with a quiet creeak , then sitting down. Nodding, Ginevra leaned to the side and pulled out one of the cabinets next to her, flipping through until she found the proper file. “Here,” she said to the girl, who lifted her eyes from Ginevra’s alabaster suit and back up to her face. She opened her mouth to say something as Ginevra pushed a single form towards her. “Fill this out.” “Where am I?” The girl whispered, glancing around the room a second time. Sighing, Ginevra pulled out the pen and ink from her top drawer, placing them next to the form, then she tapped the desk to get the girl’s attention. Frowning, she brought the paper to her face and squinted at it. “I’m sorry,” the girl said after a moment, “I don’t remember- “ “That’s alright,” Ginevra said. “Just put what you do know. We can’t get started until you do.” The girl nodded, still a bit out of it, dipped the pen in the golden ink and started to fill in the blanks in large, rounded letters. When the girl handed the paper back, Ginevra lifted in and tilted it back and forth, letting the light reflect off of the shinning ink. There was a slight scarlet tint to the “I” the girl had written in Daina Washington . Misspelling her name--the girl must have hit her head hard. Still, there were no large swaths of red, which was a good sign. Lying on the form rarely worked out well. Setting the paper back down, Ginevra opened her computer: a floating square of light that Dana squinted at in a way that indicated she knew it was odd, but she didn’t know why. Ginevra entered the information Dana hadn’t left blank, which, admittedly, left something to be desired. But Dana’s full name was unique enough for Ginevra to find her profile with relative ease. Dana Washington , it read. Born: 2/14/95 3:36am Died: 12/31/20 11:58pm Car crash Dana leaned forward, trying to get a peek at Ginevra’s screen, but she pushed it down before she could. “What’s the most recent thing you remember, Dana?” “Uh,” Dana closed her eyes, her hand returning to her temple. “I was at Matt’s New Year’s Party. We had a fight, so I left early, took my car home.” “And then what?” Ginevra coaxed. “Well, I-I don’t actually remember getting home,” Dana muttered. “Actually, the last thing I remember, I was turning right at an intersection, but the sun was too bright...” She paused, frowning. “Wait. It was night, I’m sure of it.” Dana went quiet, and Ginevra waited. After a moment, Dana fell back against her chair, eyes going wide. Then she started pulling on her clothes, checking her arms. For injuries , Ginevra thought, with a touch of pity. When Dana finally looked back up, her eyes were no longer lost, but desperately clinging. “Am I dead?” “I am sorry for your loss,” Ginevra said. As she always had said, for thousands and thousands of years. Dana went still, and Ginevra continued to offer comforting words as she grabbed Dana’s recourse packet from her desk. Muscle memory meant Ginevra wasn’t really listening to the words she was saying, but, then again, neither was Dana, not really. It was the tone that mattered, more than anything. She handed the recourse packet to Dana. “What the hell is this?” She muttered. “You lived a very fulfilling life, Dana,” Ginevra said carefully. Dana snorted at that. “You opened a lot of options for yourself.” Dana, who had been staring at the packet unwaveringly, looked up in surprise. “You can choose any of the ones on that list.” “Any of these?” Dana repeated, flipping through the pages and pages the packet provided. Ginevra nodded. “I understand it can be a bit overwhelming,” Ginevra said. Though it really doesn’t need to be she thought privately. Most people were satisfied with the first few options. “You can exit and enter this room as you please.” “But your secretary said I had to make this quick,” Dana said, then snorted derisively at herself. “I can’t believe that’s what I choose to say.” “Wait,” Ginevra said, her eyebrow twitching. “My what?” Dana frowned. “Your secretary?” “...Give me a moment.” Dana looked up in surprise as Ginevra hurried out of her seat, muttering something about waiting on the couch when Dana called for her to wait. The hallway outside of Ginevra’s room was as colorless as the inside. Or, it should have been, but it wasn’t today. Directly across from Ginevra’s door, like a bloodstain in the snow, was a scarlet executive desk. Rested atop of it were the legs of a woman in a red leather jacket and ripped black jeans. “Ginny!” Lilly cried, wide grin on her face. “What brings you here?” “Oh, get up .” “Hey, you should be thanking me,” she said, lifting her feet off of the desk. “That girl was standing around for ages before I told her to go in.” “ That’s- “Ginny started. Then she took a deep breath, and let it out. “That’s the point. They’re supposed to take their time. You know that, Lillian. And what’s this?” Ginny gestured at the desk. “Neutral stimuli only, you know that.” Lilly shrugged, unbothered. “So, how’s it going?” Ginny turned her head to the side, staring at the walls. “Who’s the girl?” Lilly continued, nodding her head at the door. When Ginny continued to ignore her, she folded her arms and frowned, like a petulant child. “Come on, I know you get bored.” Ginevra looked away silently, the statement getting on her nerves the way Lilly had known it would. “I don’t get bored.” “Oh, come on, if that was true, you wouldn’t have transferred departments,” Lilly’s eyes shown with mischief. “What do you think makes this girl a special case , anyway?” “I have no idea,” Ginny admitted after a moment, her tense shoulders dropping. “Everything she’s done seems normal so far.” Lillian smirked. “So, no trying to attack you with your own portrait frames?” Ginny clenched her teeth. “No.” “Ha! You totally would’ve been toast if it wasn’t for me.” “Right,” Ginny muttered, and it got quiet. “Hey, Ginny?” Lilly said after a long moment. She was staring at the door now. It was a shade of white, like everything else in sight, with the only color coming from the gold 333 nailed to the door. “What do you think she’ll do?” Ginny sighed, settling her arms across her chest. “Reincarnate, maybe?” she guessed. “Those her age rarely choose to relocate. She seems too restless for it, anyway.” Those were the first two options in the packet. People never choose anything that went past the first few pages. “Maybe she’ll ascend,” Lilly mused thoughtfully. Ginny snorted. “Yeah, right. We haven’t had a new guy in centuries, Lillian. And I know for a fact, neither have you.” Lilly’s eyebrows drew together. “Well, you never know,” she said, defensively. “We could use one.” Lilly’s eyes were still fixed to the door, when she tensed suddenly and her eyes shot up to Ginny. “I mean,” she added quickly, “so it’s not as much work.” “...Lilly- “Ginny began. “I’m done.” Both Ginevra and Lillian jolted in surprise. The door was open now, Dana Washington standing in the doorway, holding the recourse packet out in front of her. “Oh!” Ginevra said, and hurriedly brushed herself off. “Thank you.” Dana nodded and took her seat. Not back inside, where she was meant to, but at Lilly’s obnoxious desk. Lilly gave Ginevra a smug look, and she fought the unprofessional urge to roll her eyes. But Ginny’s carefully controlled expression morphed more and more into a frown as she flipped past page after page of inkless papers, right down until the very last box on the very last page. Other Lilly, who had been looking over Ginevra’s shoulder, burst out laughing. Ginny spared a moment to glare at her before continuing to read Dana’s writing. It was a long, vindictive and clever description. “So,” Dana said, when Ginevra had finished. “Can you do that?” Ginevra bit her lip, thinking. There were limits to what she could do, of course. Limits that differed depending on the person and their deeds in life. But the rules pertaining to write-ins had been repeated to her so long ago, they had almost completely washed away. And Lilly and Dana were waiting. After a moment, in that hallway of lace and bone, with no color save for the numbers on a door and a desk like the wax seal on a love letter, Ginny said “I’ll try.”


(I submitted a story on /r/writingprompts where I had to include the phrase, "She was laying in the bed with the window open and she couldn't stop staring at the moon." Wondering if you guys could offer any feedback.) None of it was my fault. It might've been my ex-wife's fault. I wouldn't have needed the money if she hadn't gotten the house, the kid, and the dog in the divorce. Hell, I bought the goddamn dog before I met her. It might've been my brother's fault. It was his idea that I could make some money on the side by breaking into houses. Mom always said he was trouble. It might've been my boss's fault. The guy get's a 30% cut of what I steal in exchange for security codes and info on when the owners are out of town. 30% of the profit while accepting 0% of the risk. What a prick. He got the codes right but he was wrong about the couple being out of the house. They were there. Maybe it was the husband's fault for coming after me with a baseball bat. I understand that you have to investigate a strange noise in your house but he didn't have to attack me. I didn't want to hurt anyone. But he could've killed me if I hadn't acted. It might've been my girlfriend's fault for insisting I take a knife with me for protection. If I hadn't had the knife, who knows how things would have turned out. That husband might still be alive today. None of it was my fault. Who could blame me for doing what I did? I couldn't just let the man beat me to death with a baseball bat, could I? And I couldn't risk going to jail, could I? I have children to think about. When I went upstairs, I saw the wife. **She was laying in bed with the window open and she couldn't stop staring at the moon.** She knew what had happened downstairs and she knew what was going to happen to her. She knew I couldn't just leave and let her call the cops. If she didn't judge me, then how could you? None of it was my fault.


Right after college, I took up woodworking. Sanding wood, building birdhouses, learning how to use a saw. My hands flexed in new leather gloves as I started power tools and crafted little lopsided wooden walls. I read books about woodworking, scoured websites, and went out drinking with my fellow woodworkers every Saturday at 9pm. I walked with a swagger in my step, digging my heels into the floor wherever I went. Thud-thud-thud whenever I walked into a room. You could hear me coming. I led meetings with my fellow interns at work and rapped my knuckles on the dark wooden mahogany tables of our boardrooms. Some good mahogany, I’d say with a boom of authority in my voice. Solid. I joined Habitat for Humanity and helped them build houses, putting some of my skills to good use. We crafted frames alongside future homeowners and old retired construction workers who chewed gum and told stories with their Adam’s apples wobbling. Their stories always started with “in my day” and ended with “and then I ran home with the sun in my eyes!” I developed a perpetual squint from staring down the ends of tools. I had a set of construction and woodworking clothes that always had some dust caught in them, making me sneeze. I began to loathe the sight of those clothes, out of place in my wardrobe of clean business suits. One day, my boss came up to me and complimented me on my hard work. “Just make sure you tone down that walk, kid, and try not to talk down to people. But you’re doing great. You’ll be a top executive in no time.” That night, I came home and ripped those woodworking clothes out of my closet, crumpling them up into a little ball and throwing them under my bed. The words “top executive” beat to the rhythm of the blood pounding in my skull. Three days later, I took up painting. I wore flowing smocks and always had paint stains on my hands. I painted flowers on small canvases and fruit on bigger ones. I painted peacocks and trees, meadows and valleys, and my old home in my hometown. I began to walk lightly, my feet barely touching the Earth so that I’d flow as I moved, softly, smoothly, no jagged kick of my heels. I visited local art museums and examined the paintings in minute detail, jotting notes in a new musty leather notebook. Nearly every weekday night, my new art friends and I would sit in a smoke-filled room of someone’s apartment and drink dark red wine from coffee cups. I bought dozens of wooden paintbrushes and watched the bristles wear down as I kept painting. Every night as I brushed my teeth, I would listen to Vivaldi and picture bridges covered in blossoms. At work, I nodded with an arch to my eyebrows, my face expressive even when I didn’t care. My dark eye makeup caught some glances, but no one mentioned anything. My colleagues only sometimes asked me questions about what I was painting, and I would tell them, hands waving, about my newest painting or art idea. One day, my boss complimented me on my ability to boost morale and connect with others. “Who knew,” he said, “that art could really open people’s eyes?” He laughed his little heh-heh laugh. “Just don’t forget about what’s important. You’re not going to be any professional painter. All that painting stuff, kid, it’s got your head in the clouds and no top executive has his head in the clouds without his feet planted firmly on the floor.” That night, I pulled out my newest work in progress, a painting of a bridge, and ripped it to shreds. I carefully packed up my paintbrushes and threw them into the darkest corner of my most inaccessible drawer, shoving it shut with a thrust of my hips. At the sink, before I brushed my teeth, I spent half an hour scraping paint off of my fingernails, nearly scraping off my own nails in my struggle. Two days later, I took up dance. I joined a studio where they taught beginner classes for adults, studying modern dance. I couldn’t perform the stretches with the grace of the other dancers, and I sweated and grunted my way through the first class. As we exited the dance studio, the teacher stopped me with a wave of his arm. “Wait,” he said. I waited, his hand still on my arm. “No one is born knowing how to stretch. It takes practice, and I can tell that you’ve got drive and skill. It takes a strong person to step out of their comfort zone and try something new, and you never gave up. You gave it all you got, and I want you to know: I’m proud of you. I hope to see you again next week.” After he finished speaking, I nodded with a smile and ducked out of his grip, making a beeline for the door. The words “I’m proud of you” thrummed in my toes. I walked up to the tired receptionist at the front desk to the studio and added two more classes to my schedule. I learned how to stand on one leg and shift my weight between my feet. I learned how to hold my spine, not too high or low, no slumping or arching of the back. I learned how to walk, feet placed evenly on the ground. I learned how to leap and turn, floating by focusing on everything else but gravity itself. I felt graceful, even as I panted with exertion every class. I wore jeans and sweaters and dress shirts and soft worn boots, a sweep of woolen scarf completing every ensemble. I gave presentations quickly, short and sweet. I felt the weight of my words just as I felt the weight of my body - heavy and even, slow and smooth, only held exactly as necessary. My coworkers noticed the change gradually, and one asked me about how I’d learned my posture. More people began to gravitate to me slowly, as if I were a small magnet, even those I didn’t speak to. Co-workers joined me at dance classes, and we grabbed drinks together sometimes after class, discussing work and posture and home. One day, I saw the boss speaking with his boss in the corridor after a meeting at which I had spoken, and I wondered what they were talking about. The very next day, however, as I pushed open the heavy glass door to the office, the receptionist intercepted my path to my desk. “Wait,” she said. I waited. “Boss wants to see you,” she finished. I nodded with a smile and walked to his office. After rapping on the door with one firm knock, I stepped back, eyes fixed on the plaque next to his door. The door opened seconds later, the boss’s beaming face greeting me. “Kid, come in, come in!” he said with a smile. I came in and sat down, accepting a glass of water from him, my spine straight. He settled into the leather chair across from me and clasped his hands on his desk, his shoulders twitching uncomfortably beneath his thick suit jacket. “Well, let’s get right down to it. Kid, we’ve been noticing some really great work from you, and we were wondering if you’d like to level up and become manager. Great position, great pay. Whaddya say?” “What changed?” “Excuse me?” he asked, eyebrows raised. I cleared throat. “Excuse my forthrightness, but you said earlier that I was too condescending, and then that my head was in the clouds, but now you want to promote me so soon? I’m sorry; I just want to know.” He winced and waved a hand. “All in the past now, kid. You had some things you had to work on, and I just wanted to see you do better. But you have taken those comments to heart and improved tremendously--an almost unprecedented amount. I hope you see that growth in yourself,” he added, face suddenly stern. I tightened my muscles to keep myself from shifting in the chair. The room felt too hot, and I surreptitiously wiped my palms on my pants. “I do, and that answers my question, thank you, sir.” I took a deep breath. “So what would--” “Just a moment,” he interrupted, holding up a finger. His eyes scrutinized my face. “Can I ask you something, kid?” I nodded. “You’ve been improving pretty steadily, already a lot for an intern, but these last few months, I’ve seen a great change come over you. What was different this last time?” “I’ve always taken up hobbies, little human dreams, you know? I’ve done a lot of things,” I continued, tilting my head in thought. “But this last one, dance, really combined lots of my other interests. I don’t want to go pro,” I added, forestalling any concerns he might have. “But I wouldn’t want to stop.” The boss chuckled, and I felt a foreboding shiver slide down my spine. “Well, you’re going to have to.” I locked my eyes on his. “What--What do you mean?” “You’re not going to have time for those frivolous things, kid,” he began, drumming his fingers on the desk. “You’re on the track to greatness, and silly little side activities aren’t going to get you anywhere.” For the first time, I let out a laugh in his presence, a full-bellied laugh, and I saw him rear his head back in surprise. “I thought you might say that,” I said after a pause. “I really thought you might.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair. “Looks like you’ve got a choice to make then, kid. The company or--” “--or myself,” I finished for him. “Well, now, we’ve got tons of opportunities to take time for yourself. Work socials, group painting nights, all sorts of great stuff for you to kick back at.” “That’s not for anyone, and everyone knows that. Last painting night, we all just got drunk and no one painted a damn thing.” “We’ve all given up lots of little joys to keep this business going strong,” he replied, his tone even but severe, every word slow and enunciated. “This is a great opportunity for you. Don’t blow it.” He planted his elbows on the desk and leaned in. “One last chance: Give me your answer.” The room went silent as I gathered my thoughts. Finally, swallowing hard, I smiled. “I went from top executive to thin ice pretty fast, huh?” I noted. “That’s how it works. Loyal intern to sad manager to drunk painter to top executive to ‘one last chance’.” He stood up and stepped around his desk. “This conversation is over until you can screw your head back on right. Dismissed.” I grabbed his arm and stood up, blocking his path to the door and planting my feet. “I could do your job.” He resisted my grip. “Excu--” “You know it,” I hissed. “I could do it in half the time it takes you, probably.” “You don’t know what you’re--” “I don’t want your promotion. In fact, I quit. Effective immediately.” With a slow grin, I released his arm. He yanked away, shaking his head in disappointment. Before he could send me out, I placed my knuckles ono the desktop and rapped on it twice. “Good solid table. Mahogany?”


Her vision dances before her, flecks of near blue in an endless black sea, stumbling about like drunken ants. She digs her knuckles in deeper, and blue brightens to white, a starry sky painted against her eyelids, then beams of bright light, then dizzying spirals that slowly swallow the darkness. Maybe if she pushes hard enough, they’ll swallow her too. She brings her hands down to rest in her lap, one atop the other, and in time the brilliance subsides, and she is once more alone in inky blackness. All around her are the sounds of panicked people that should be at rest. She focuses on the rough stone beneath her instead, cold as the desert night. She ought to be wary, sat as she is, a restless city beneath her, their cries drifting to her ears on the wind. But some slight, terrible instinct within her fears that to leave her refuge and descend, would be the most dangerous thing of all. She sees brief glimpses of reds, and oranges, dull and throbbing. Perhaps figments of her imagination, perhaps not, but dread pulses through her regardless. Her head hangs low, spine curving forward like a triumphal arch, severed in two. A single spasm could send her tumbling over the edge. The reds and oranges continue to bloom like weeds, just as the white did, as if hoping to engulf her. Razia opens her eyes. She looks down, to see a world ablaze. **************************************************************************** They’d lain in wait beyond the city walls. Tens of thousands of pale demons - armoured ghosts, bloodless ghouls. She doesn’t know when they’d first arrived. It feels like a lifetime ago, but she remembers the time before. She remembers a calm, of sorts. A crystal night, when she had climbed up onto the city walls and seen nothing but stars, eternal and unending. A darkness not permeated with the glare of firelight on metal, and silence not corrupted by the constant brays of dying horses. The city has not been dark, truly dark, for many months, but she would rather the uneven night to the inferno she sees now. “Hell must be empty,” her mother had once said, “for the number of devils in the world.” She thinks now, that her mother must have been wrong. She looks around, and knows that Hell has followed its servants here. The very air burns. **************************************************************************** She cannot stay on this roof, sedentary, sedate, as much as her fluttering heart implores her to stay. She feels exposed, and vulnerable, and she knows that while the streets hide untold dangers, they will still be safer than simply waiting for fires to spread and claim her. Voices rage below her. She uses that disquieting blend of terror and triumphant mirth to mask the sounds of her own descent, and when bare feet finally touch down on dusty earth she keeps close to the flickering shadows of building, innocuous and unnatural. This is her home, the city where she grew up. These are the alleys she played in as a child, the homes where her friends and family live. She can only pray that the familiarity will serve her now. The dark shields her like an old friend, while surrendering the foreign devils without mercy, pale faces reflecting the firelight like fallen moons. Her mother calls to her in her mind, in her memory. “My little shadow,” she’d laugh, walking between the rows of buildings as she visited her patients, bringing food and medicine, comfort and clothing, and Razia would doggedly follow her footsteps, though her feet would ache and she was seldom allowed inside. Today, when the cries had rang out that the walls had been breached, heralded by choked screams, her mother had looked at her with bright eyes and wordlessly told her to flee. Today, when her mother had left the house, Razia didn’t follow. But she can still be a shadow. She moves like one now, silent and stealthy. Intangible. If she can convince herself of that, then maybe the flying arrows and stray blades and wandering hands will believe it as well. If she can will herself untouchable, perhaps she will make it through this night unscathed. **************************************************************************** The air stinks of smoke and the night is thick with screams. But for just a moment, Ravia feels removed from it all, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. For a moment, here, in this alleyway, as the city burns around her, she is only aware of one thing. The man lies on the ground, stiff and unmoving. She thinks she could recognise him, but she looks away before she can be sure, not wanting to know. Lidded eyes unseeing, rigid fists press deep into his flesh, tight around the sword hilt protruding from his stomach. The ground around him is streaked red. She imagines him, the man he was, dirt beneath his fingernails as he desperately tried to claw himself towards help, to safety, before succumbing to insurmountable pain, to the beckoning of death, and simply holding on instead, as his grip slipped on the life bleeding out of him. She moves closer. More screams - and laughter too, she can hear now, but screams always are the best at making themselves heard at night. She knows these streets like a sailor knows the night sky; even amidst the chaos, she could walk the path to her uncle’s shop with closed eyes. The mosque is around the corner from there. She is sure, with a sudden, plummeting certainty, that that is the focus through which the demons will unleash their Hell. People must have fled to the mosque when the battle horns sounded, seeking safety, sanctuary, salvation. The void within her remembers the cries she tried to block out on that roof, and their words take shape in her mind now, though she did not want to understand them then. She sees smashed doors and burning buildings, but not a single person, and has the horrifying suspicion that those who did not run to the mosque were dragged. Screams and laughter, and the screams demand more attention, beg more loudly to be heard, but it’s the laughter that sends shivers down her spine. She wants to run, but she has nowhere to go. And she wants to survive, but she doesn’t know how. Choices stretch out before her, and she fears that they all lead to death. She moves closer still. **************************************************************************** She kneels. A dampness soaks through the knees of her shalwar. The hilt is a curious thing, strangely crooked, topped with a cross. She tries to adjust the hands, to better study the sword - there is a little resistance, then a loud crack, and she can move the arm aside with ease. The blade, what little she can see of it, is narrow and flat. She tugs, but there is little give. She thinks it must have been straight at one point, but now it sticks, bent against the ground. Useless. The screams are growing softer, hoarser. Her resolve strengthens with every one. If the only thing she can do now is give witness, she will not shy away. She turns instead to the man’s belt. It holds a dagger - small, with a beautiful curved blade and a hilt that fits her hand as if moulded for her grip, as if it were made for her to wield. Part of her laments that she cannot use the demons’ own blades against them, but the better part knows she is as like to damage herself using a sword as the enemy. Perhaps she will do the same with this knife, but it is at least familiar, and will not unbalance her as she walks. And for all the strength of her will, she cannot bring herself to approach the devastation unarmed. The taste of smoke has made a home in her nose and mouth, and she is preparing to venture even deeper into the hellfire. She will need protection. She can readjust her hijab to loosely cover her nose and mouth, and must be content with that. She reaches out to close the man’s eyes, and then stands. She doesn’t know the entire Salat al-Janazah, but it feels wrong to say nothing. So she recites the Takbir, and hopes someone will be able to perform the complete rites later. And then, still in the shadows, she begins to walk to the mosque. **************************************************************************** She watches from the shadows, as the mosque, it’s doors barred, is set ablaze to depraved laughter. She chokes on smoke and other people’s screams, and ash clings to the tears that stream down her face. Heat floods the night - she tells herself it is still the night, though the sky is so thick with grey that she doubts she’ll know when the morning comes, because if this is only one night then it can still end when the day breaks - and dries her throat, her mouth, her lungs. She welcomes it - it keeps her quiet, silences her sobs. And through it all, she refuses to look away. This is her burden to bear, the price of her unearned fortune, and she pays it willingly. So though her eyes sting, with sorrow and anger and frustration, she opens them wide, and lets the sight of flames engulf her.


“I can’t wait to see you, Bunny.” A wave of panic rose over him, like the adrenaline rush at the crest of a rollercoaster. He read the text message again, then a third time, hoping doing so would somehow ease his worries. He cared for her so much, and she’d finally invited him to stay the night, yet he couldn’t stop thinking in worst-case scenarios. She was waiting for him when he stepped off the tram. “Hi, Bunny!” She ran over and kissed him. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that, it’s so cringey.” He said that, but deep down he liked his pet name. Bunny walked by her side. His eyebrows were raised high causing the stress lines in his forehead to protrude. She slipped her hand into his. “Your hands are clammy. What’s up?” He shook his head. “You know how I get, Fa...” He almost called her Fate. It was a single letter from her actual name. He’d never said the pet name he’d given her out loud. She squeezed a little tighter. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. You’re safe with me, I promise.” He’d told Fate about his issues, and how difficult it was for him to be away from his home. Yet he hadn’t told her everything, and the closer they walked towards her home the more the panic rose within him. Fate noticed Bunny’s lips moving slightly. “Did you say something?” “...no. Sorry, I was just thinking.” Bunny trusted her. Yet he still felt it would have been embarrassing to admit he was repeating positive reassurances to try to keep himself calm. He looked at her through the side of his eye. She was beautiful. Not only that but she was kind, funny, and brought the best out in him. He was seen as quite serious, often described as moody, but her joyful spirit made him smile. He felt he could let his guard down with her. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was close. Her hair was long now, way past her shoulders, but it had been short when they’d met. Fate had been looking at Joy Division albums in H.M.V. when Bunny saw her from over in the Heavy Metal section. Her bag was made from two old vinyl records and some cloth, which she’d made herself. He hadn’t asked a stranger for their number since he was fifteen, yet he was compelled to when he saw Fate. Fate opened the door to her house and walked in, flicking off her pumps. She started to walk towards the living room and then paused. She turned towards Bunny and looked puzzled. “Why are you still standing at the door?” “...you didn’t invite me in?” Fate laughed. Bunny might have felt offended, but her chuckles were so warm he knew there wasn’t one iota of malice within them. “It’s a given, Bunny.” He nodded and walked in, standing in the immediate entrance, and not moving. Fate sighed with a smile on her face and rolled her eyes. “Will you just come in?” She moved behind him and began to push. He managed to get his shoes off before she’d shoved him through the door to her front room. She frogmarched him in front of the couch and pushed him into the seat. “I’m not even going to ask if you want a drink, because you’ll say no. I’m just going to get you one. It’s okay, you don’t have to be polite, it’s not as if my parents are home.” He looked around her front room from his position on the couch. Over in the far corner was an old upright piano. Fate came back into the room with two glasses of water. “I didn’t know you played?” Fate went quiet for a few seconds before responding. “I don’t... I mean, I do play it. I just don’t play in front of people. My grandmother taught me. She’s the only person who has ever heard me play.” He smiled. He wanted to ask more, but her response told him it wasn’t a comfortable subject. She placed the two glasses onto the coffee table, slipping a coaster under each. Then she moved over to the piano and opened the lid. “I’d like to play for you, Bunny.” He stood and walked over to her. “You don’t have to if...” “I want to.” He smiled. He wanted to say something about how much of honour it felt, or to thank her in some way. But he was still incredibly anxious, and his brain couldn’t create a sentence that felt right. Words were a clumsy jumble within his mind, impossible to organise. She began to play and for the next few minutes he forgot all about his issues. He stood behind her and watched her fingers dance over the keys. Every now and again he would close his eyes for a few seconds, letting the mellifluous sounds wash over him. Then she stopped. She replaced the lid and turned to him from the stool. “...Thank you for listening.” He wanted to say it was him who should be thanking her, but again he couldn’t get the words out. Instead in leaned over and kissed her. They moved towards the couch, their lips parting only for brief moments to avoid any collisions. She lay with her back against the cushions, wrapping her legs around him. He ran his fingers through her hair and kissed her neck. “Bunny, do you want to go upstairs?” Like a strike of lightning the panic hit. He’d been in the moment, out of his own head and filled with passion. Yet that single sentence killed his confidence instantly. He didn’t want to say no, yet he couldn’t say yes, layers of fear piling on top of each other as he tried to find a reasonable excuse. “I... not just yet. Let’s hang out for a little bit first. We’ve got all night, so there’s no rush. I think I still need a little bit of time to settle in and get comfortable.” She nodded and smiled with understanding, but he felt disappointment radiate from her. She kissed him again and got up from the couch, grabbing the remote and turning the television on. They nuzzled up together on the couch while watching a film. “I feel really comfortable with you, Bunny.” He wanted to say he felt the same and, in many ways, he did. He felt more comfortable being with Fate then he had with anyone before. Yet, his mind was still conjuring full catastrophe outcomes for the inevitable conclusion of the evening. The credits for the film eventually began to scroll on the television screen. He looked at Fate, her eyes were hazy. “I think I’m ready for bed, Bunny.” He felt the fear once again rise within him. They headed, hand in hand, towards her bedroom. She undressed in front of him and slipped on her nighty. He remained fully clothed. Fate raised an eyebrow. “Are you really going to sleep in your jeans?” With defeat he nodded. He lay on his back while she straddled him. Kissing her made him feel so much happiness, yet still he remained inside his own head. He criticised himself for not being able to lose himself with a woman so beautiful, the worry piling higher and higher. His motions were all correct, he kissed with passion, he ran his hands up from her waist and cupped her breasts. Yet he knew it would go no further. Any time Fate tried to work her hands down to unbutton his jeans, he would move them back up towards his chest. This was done with as much tact as possible, but the obviousness was difficult to hide. After a while, Fate rolled off. “Well... I guess we’ll go to sleep now.” She rotated to face away from him, and he spooned her. After a short time, she began to snore in a gentle melody. Even her sleep was filled with music. He lay there the entire night. His eyes were closed but slept never took him. His mind continued to be filled with catastrophic thoughts. Would he ever be able to make this work? Would he ever be happy? Would he ever be able to be the man that Fate deserved? What if he never got comfortable enough around her? How long would it be before he couldn’t hide it any longer? Would she leave if he told her the truth? It was fine when he was alone, when he wasn’t anxious, why couldn’t it have been fine just this one time? Was it fair for him to have her affections when she could have so much more? The more the hours passed the more panic ebbed, slowly replaced with the heavy weight of melancholy. He felt the sun against his eyelids and heard the morning song of the birds. He rose from the bed and Fate stirred slightly. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She smiled, yet never woke. He creeped out of the front door and back towards the tram stop. Sat on the tram he pulled out his phone and began to type. “I really like you, but I’m just not looking for a relationship right now. I should have said something last night, but that’s why I was acting distant. I’m sorry if I’ve led you on, Fate.” It would be the first thing she would see half an hour later when she woke. She thought the last word was a typo.


Jack stood at the doorway, stooped, with his hand held up and pointing at the doorbell, but unable to actually push the little steel button. He felt the tickling sensation as drops of sweat rolled down from his forehead, and he felt hot in his chest but cold everywhere else. In his frozen stillness, he began thinking over the vents of the past few weeks and what he had to say. It took him numerous calls just to find the address. He could no longer make contact with his son any other way, so he had to go over to his house. It took him two hours get there, during which time, he practiced all the things he would say to him. Upon his arrival, he felt ready; he stormed out of the car with a straight back and a determined face, his steps fearless and strong, but as he was nearing the mansion, his legs started to weight more and more, making his movement rigid, his shoulders leaned inwards and his heart started pounding faster. With his confidence vaporized, his body froze in a position of stillness at the door. It’s been more than ten years since he saw his son. Ten years ago, he briefly appeared on his son’s wedding and wished him good luck for the future, then went back to the office to run the accounts. During the following ten years, times changed, and he changed with them. He realized his errors in his life, and the biggest of all was his relationship with his son. It took him a great effort to pick up the phone and call him, but he did it, and they talked. That conversation still haunted his mind, and he could still recall all that was said. “Hello. You have reached William Fisher, executive director of Fisher & Thom’s Ltd,” Jack was nervous even as he dialed the number, but hearing his son speaking made his face turn ashen. “Hey Will. It’s me...” After moments of silence he continued. “It’s me, your father.” “Oh, right. Hey dad. I didn’t recognize your voice,” Will’s own voice was rigid without a trace of cheerfulness. “Hey son. I wanted to call you... It’s been so long since I saw you, and I-I...” “Yes, it’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Will suddenly cut him off. “Don’t worry about it, dad. How is business doing these days?” “Yes, it’s good. Everything is great there, but that’s not the real reason...” “Have you finally fired that Joseph Pierce - I remember he always gave you headaches.” “Listen, son. I’m not here to talk about Joseph Pierce or the firm; I’m here to apologize to you.” “For what?” There was real surprise in Will’s voice, which scared Jack more than an outburst would have. “I’ve done some pretty bad things in the past, and I want start over. I want us to be a family again.” “But dad, what are you talking about? We are still a family,” he said in a carefree, emotionless voice that made Jack’s eyes watery. “Yes,” Jack said quaveringly, “but I want to see you again, I want to get to know you and...” “Sorry dad,” like a sudden icy breeze Will’s voice hit him in the head, “I’m getting a call on the other line. Listen, don’t worry about it. I will talk to you some other day. Bye.” And his son hung up before he could even say goodbye. After that initial conversation, he made more attempts, but all were in vain. He thought that Will just didn’t want to talk to him anymore, but he desperately wanted to make this one thing right. He wanted to show his son that he cared about him. He wanted to show Will that for once in his life he would be there for him. He wanted to try to be a father for once. He had one phone number; he didn’t even remember Will’s wife’s name; and he had no idea where they lived. So he did the only thing he could, and he called up friends and family members he hadn’t seen in years in an attempt to learn his son’s location. After the tenth call, an old family friend gave him the address, and he set out on an early sunny morning with an optimistic smile on his face, and a plan in his mind. He imagined how surprised Will would be, when he would see his old man at the door. His son would invite him to his house, and Jack would apologize for all the years he was not there for him and all the times he missed from his life. Then he would tell how he realized that the connections are all that truly matter to a person: not work, not travelling, not the colleagues; but the truly important connections - the ties of family. Then, they would both look sideways with watery eyes, and Jack would mutter ‘I love you, son’, and his son would whisper an ‘I love you, dad’ and they would give each other a manly hug. The vision in his mind was crystal clear, but walking towards the door it became murky, and he was forgetting all the script in his mind. His heart was pounding and his limbs anchored down, unable to move. Come on, man , he thought to himself, it’s now or never. He will be happy to see you no matter what. Just talk from the heart. And with that idea, he pressed the doorbell and heard a ringing sound resonating inside. After a few seconds, which seemed like hours to Jack, muffled footsteps came closer and closer until the door opened. It was him. Will’s face didn’t even twitch as their eyes met. He had stern, commanding features making him quite handsome. As Jack examined his son’s face, he realized that Will was more and more reminiscent to his younger self back in the old days, when he was still working at Wall Street. He was even wearing a delicate suit, which seemed strange, since it was a Sunday afternoon. Jack felt like he was looking into a mirror to his past. “Hey, son,” he said, but the other one still looked vaguely at him, then with a light of recognition, his face turned into a half smile. “Oh, hey dad. I didn’t expect you. You should have called,” he was leaned at the doorframe with his hands around his chest, seemingly blocking the entrance. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t...” “Oh, you must have called my old number. I only use that phone to make personal calls, but mostly I use my business phone.” “Right,” Jack glanced down. “Listen I wanted to come here to talk to you personally.” “Well, you are here. What did you want to say?” “Son, I know I was a terrible father, and I wanted to apologize for the past and...” “Oh, this again? Dad, you were not a terrible father. You didn’t do anything to me. Why are you crying?” Jack wiped his watery eyes and looked into Will’s eyes. “Look, son. I was absent from your childhood; I was never there for you, and I was always busy with my nonsense: my career, travelling to exotic places and making money. But I want you to know I have changed and I want you to know from now on, you can count on me. Of course I understand if you don’t want me in your life, but I just wanted to apologize.” Jack’s eyes were solemn, contrary to Will’s, whose face remained rigid with a half-smile and cold eyes. “Look dad, I appreciate you coming here, but I don’t really have the time right now. I have a plane leaving in an hour, and I have to get ready.” “I-I understand. Where are you going?” “I have a meeting in Norway. I will be away for a few weeks and...” Will was interrupted by someone calling out for him. Jack glanced inside and couldn’t believe his eyes - it was a little girl there, maybe six years old. He didn’t even know that his son had a child. “Daddy, who are you talking to?” The little girl asked and Jack’s face shone at the sense of having a grandchild. “It’s nobody, dearie. Get back inside, I will join you soon.” And as soon as she came out, she was gone. “I didn’t even know you had a child,” Jack’s throat was dry and his voice muffled. “I have two actually. Now, listen this meeting is really important. It was good to see you, dad, but as I said I have business to attend to.” The door shut before him, before he could even say goodbye. The words of his son still echoed in Jack’s mind: nobody - when the girl asked who he was talking with, he said nobody , he though. So is this what I became: just a nobody? Maybe I was always a nobody to him - no wonder he’s so cold towards me. He doesn’t even hate me; he just barely knows me. On his way home, Jack didn’t think about anything, then stepping into his house he began repeating the conversation in his mind. He didn’t see any possibility to ever visit Will again: his son didn’t even give him his proper phone number - his business phone’s number. The whole conversation sounded like he was arguing with his former self: with someone, who doesn’t care about the people around him, puts on a fake smile for conversing, and places financial success above all else. Did his son really become like that? Or was it just a strange resemblance to his own past? With all his heart, Jack hoped Will wouldn’t turn out like he did, because that would result in negligence towards his family, a divorce and years later a bitter realization about all the mistakes he made. Eventually, he would realize that there would be nobody to save him from his crippling loneliness, not even his own family. Only time could tell. And Jack could do nothing, because he was just a nobody, a passing ghost in his son’s life.


Log #2 As I stepped down the ladder, I was dreading being in this place for days, or, if I'm unlucky, months. When I reached the bottom, I looked around. I saw an oven, a fridge, and a few other necessities. Kitchen. There were two hallways off the kitchen. I walked down the one closest to me. There were a few numbered doors. These must be the bedrooms. I walked back to the kitchen and down the other hall, there were a few open rooms, I only peeked in them. One had a foosball table, a pool table, and a few more. This must be the game room. I looked at the room across from it. It had a door. I opened it and there was a bathroom, only a toilet. There must be bathrooms in the bedrooms. I walked to the other two doors. There was a few shelves with books in one. Library. The other one had a fireplace, a T.V., a few couches, and everyone else that was in there. They all looked at me when I came in. I saw my friend (I forgot to tell you, his name is Fin.), and a few others. I assumed they were friends and family of his. I said hi and sat down, and we immediately started talking. About the nukes, the stock of food we had, etc... There was an older woman, her name was Mag, a little girl and boy, Rachel and James. A woman about my age, Dawn, Fin, and me. After we introduced ourselves, we talked about what we were going to do. Fin said this place has a recycled air system in every room. Not only enough water to last 5 people 5 years, but also a water recycle system. He also said we have a large sum of canned goods, a few herb farms (Cilantro, Cayenne, etc. .) And a freezer room full of meats, vegetables, fruits, and more. Not only a generator, but a backup generator, and a backup generator for the backup generator (The one I brought.) I told you he was at a good place in life. We then picked our rooms, packed up the goods I brought, and I settled my ferret in. By then it was about 6 PM. So we started on dinner. I made myself some spaghetti-O's, then settled down in my room. Each room had 2 outlets and one T.V. Before I went to bed at about 9, I went and talked to Fin. About why I felt bad that I didn't bring anyone else. About why I just wanted to sit and think for hours, which is what me and him did. We were there talking until about 3 AM. Then I went back to my room and slept till about 8. I woke up to a familiar smell, someone was making bacon. I went to the kitchen and saw Fin making some bacon. A lot of it. Enough for everyone. When he saw me he smiled and we started talking. Soon everyone came out. We all talked and ate breakfast. And for the first time in years, I felt like I had a family. I was stuck with these people for a long time. Better make friendships. After breakfast we all sat down and watched some T.V. It was an amazing time. The kids were playing, we were watching some T.V. and talking. I was happy. Finally with people I actually liked. Then There was another rumble. All of the lights cut out. Shit.


The old man across the table looked ancient. Not ancient in the way most old people are. His eyes were old. Forever. The only wrinkles he contained were confined to the corners of his eyes. It was as if his body never aged, but his eyes had existed before the beginning of time. Of course, if he’s to be believed, then that very well might be the case. “Immortal”, he said. “As old as the earth itself and probably wiser”. Making eye contact is always difficult, but looking in this man’s eyes was like staring into a bottomless well. It felt soul-sucking. Empty and infinite. Yet, I knew there would be something at the bottom. Something foul and gruesome while also life-giving. Wells were like that. You think of a well and you think deep disgusting pit with bones at the bottom. But wells gave water. They gave life. They provided when other sources didn’t. In that way, wells were both life and death. Just like this man. “Being immortal isn’t what you think it is. No one thinks about the passing of days. Imagine your longest, most boring day. Imagine the days you’ve lived. Can you count them all? I lost track many decades ago. I aged with technology, with advancements and with knowledge. Before there was anything, I was there. After there is nothing, I imagine I will still be there”. He leaned back in his chair. His back groaned as loud as the wooden supports. “I’ve witnessed it all. Even the small things. I’ve witnessed the creation of great monuments. I’ve witnessed the crying of a mother that has lost her child. I witnessed the first murder. I’ve witnessed the creation of greater weapons, and as a byproduct I’ve witnessed the creation of greater murders. I witnessed nukes, bombs, guns and war. Soldiers shot, crying in the dirt as they slowly realize they will not be making it out alive”. There’s pain in his voice, but not a sharp pain. Not a pain of fresh feelings. It’s a resigned pain. There’s no tears, hardly emotion. His eyes are as empty as when we first spoke. I visited this man every Sunday, my one day off. “No one thinks about how you lose everyone. How you watch people age and die and birth again. The cycle of man, of animal, of nature. How can you grow attached to something you know will end soon?” Weeks go by and I continue speaking to the man. He never seems to age a day. “People ask what I am. Who I am. My answer is always the same. I am. I am existence, I am pain, I am desperation. That feeling you get when you lose your best friend, your dear mother, your loved one. That anxiety of impending doom, when all is too well. I am what hides in the dark corners, where you see a shape shifting about.” The restaurant we met at weekly got sold 7 years after meeting the man. 10 years after that, it shut down. “With every wrong, there is a right. With every dark, there is light. This seems cliché, but clichés stick around for a reason. They work. They’re proven. Duality is a strong factor in our lives. I am existence, I am hope, I am grace. I am the first flower of spring. I am the newborn cry, shocked by the first breath in a world of chaos. I am that feeling of calm on a rainy day.” I married, I had kids, my kids had kids. He’s seen them all, but never more than once. “In this way, I am eternal. In all these ways, I have always been and always will be. This doesn’t make me a god; I am no more than any average man. The only difference is I’ve existed far longer. I’ve seen the world and what it has to offer. There’s no good or bad, fair or unfair. There is no light or dark, no duality. As I’ve lived, I’ve realized there is no Yin and Yang. Only existence. Only experiences.” My wife has passed. He didn’t attend the funeral. We never spoke about it, but he was fully aware of everything that happened in my life. I lied in my bed, growing ever sicker. He started visiting my room every Sunday, sitting beside me. “I have no answers, only questions. But as I’ve lived, I’ve come to terms with never receiving any answers. Answers are not a part of our existence. This world offers only questions, like an unresolved mystery. A cold case murder. D.B. Cooper, the Zodiac Killer, all mysterious. Their identities, sure, but also what compelled them to act in the ways they did. Human beings killing other human beings. Man against man, woman against woman. Finding differences to rationalize their prejudice. “ “Is life futile? Does our presence on this earth even matter? Nobody leaves a lasting impact, at least not one that matters once everyone has long gone. When the earth is nothing but a speck of dust in the cosmos, will what you have done matter? Because of this question, why worry? Why hate, why loathe, why grow distaste knowing that ultimately it doesn’t matter. Humans create their own reason, their own purpose. I’ve created my own purpose, though I’m not sure what that might be anymore.” “We make and lose friends, lovers, family. We watch them grow and fade. After they’re gone, do they truly matter? Our scope is limited. The random person on the other side of the world never comes into our existence. You shall never know the life of a stranger. Does that bother you? Does that not keep you up at night, to know you cannot physically experience everything, everyone, all at once?” “But on the other side of the coin, even if we do not truly matter, this is our experience. We care. To care is to love and to hate. I love the people around me, and I hate what they do. I love you, and I hate to see you leave. There’s something odd, something terrifying, about watching someone you love leave. We may think we’ll see them again, we may hope there’s another side, but are you certain? All that’s guaranteed is that everyone will leave.” “I have no answers, and it’s the most unsatisfying feeling that could possibly be felt. Only wondering. Endless searching has given us psychology and an understanding but that’s not an answer. It has only generated more questions. Why do we dream? What’s the voice in our head? Why do some people have more than one?” I pass away, lying next to him. I could’ve sworn he held my hand in my final moments. I cannot say whether there is another side, but I can say that this man will never see it. That unresolved feeling will be with him forever. He never cried, never shed a tear. He moved on, used to the fact that people left. But he did grow attached. It’s impossible not to. How do you know someone so deeply and not care for them? Then again, how do you not care for someone knowing they are like you? This man gave me many questions, and very few answers. He had none. I wish I could have given him some comfort. Maybe I did. He wanders into a large coffee chain which had replaced the family-owned restaurant that was there before. He will never find answers. But at least he had a moment of hope with me. That is the greatest gift I will have ever given.


“Ya know, that paper confetti blew all the way over here from Times Square, and it’s still all over the streets.” It was an uncharacteristically warm and cheerful morning on one of the first days after the New Year. Yves sat sketching the view from his street-facing window, which included a park with an old playground, a sprinkler, and a bathhouse. “The city doesn’t bother dealing with it,” his girlfriend, Claire, half-shouted from the kitchen. She joined Yves in the bedroom, tying her reddish-brown tendrils of hair into a bun. A taxi pulled into the remaining parking space across the street in front of the park. “I wonder if it’s because there’s just so *much* of it that they just let it get into giant clumps on the curb, and *then* they clean it all up.” Yves’ blank expression and floating gaze communicated that he wasn’t intent on listening to her anymore now that his idea was vocalized. It seemed, at least to Claire, that he paid *less* attention to her responses whenever she was *more* receptive to whatever it was he was talking about, which drove her up the walls. She *hated* that about him. She wasn’t supposed to *say* she hated it, but she really did *hate it* when he dismissed her thoughts in such a passive way. *Why do you* ***ever*** *tell me* ***anything,*** *if you don’t care to hear what I think about it?* She wanted to say. He would blame it on an undiagnosed ADHD sort of quirk, but she’d seen him be engaged in conversation for *hours* at a time when we wanted to, especially when *the guys* were involved. “I’m wondering if I should include the confetti in this,” Yves said, folding his arms. “Ya know, for accuracy.” He rolled up the sleeves of his denim shirt and looked back at the bones of his sketch. “Well, does it fit the -- I dunno -- the *mood* of what you’re trying to depict?” This sketch bore little resemblance to the others -- the bleak, dreary, arteries of the trees and the avenues around the park went up against the vibrant oranges and blues of the other sketches. “I don’t think It does,” Yves questioned, standing up. “But I’m finding it hard to imagine the scene without all of it now.” “Well, there you have your answer.” Claire relocated her attention to the bookcase that towered over the bed, adjusting the few that stood out of their place. She looked over at a slight crack in the wall just left of it, and wondered if the building’s management wouldn’t mind fixing it. She’d prolonged asking about it since she was always putting in requests for various tweaks and repairs in the apartment. She recalled the words of her mother, back in Pittsburgh, about being entitled to what you pay for. It’s what *they* were paid to do, anyway. “Hmph.” Yves furrowed his brow and tapped his pencil on the sill. He sucked his teeth and backed away from the window. “Also, this guy is more or less obscuring my view of that little garden in the park.” “Who?” This made Claire react almost defensively. “This homeless guy. he’s got a ton of stuff with him, and it’s blocking what would be my view of that little garden in the park.” Claire shrugged. “It’s winter, anyway. that garden is a pile of dust and dry soil,” she said definitively. “I don’t think it’s any different in the springtime, incidentally.” “I guess I’m just finding it hard to ignore.” Yves stood motionless, save for his twitching eyes, scanning the scene. “Ya think I should go down there and bring him something to eat?” He said after a few moments. “Wow, you gonna try and goad this guy out of the park with a snack for the sake of your crumby sketch? That isn’t artful integrity.” She glided behind Yves and buried her chin into the space between his shoulder blades and gripped his torso. “Well, if you must know, I think I may include him in it,” Yves said resolutely. “But he does look hungry, and my guilty conscience could never stand to capture somebody who’s hungry.” Yves freed himself from Claire’s hold and craned his head into the doors of the pantry, shuffling around assorted bags and cans. “Man, this healthy kick has got us strapped for snacks,” he said, closing the doors. “I can hardly find anything that doesn’t resemble rabbit food.” “I think you’ve used that rabbit line once before. Or, a few times.” “Well, I just don’t feel so good about forking over a bunch of pickled *artichokes,* or-“ “It’s asparagus. Artichokes have too many carbs for a *vegetable*, believe it or not.” “Oh, I believe it. Hey, what am I gonna bring this guy to eat? Nunna these stores are open, go figure. And I’ll feel just awful if I’ve gotta watch him be all miserable down there.” Claire passed through the kitchen. “Hmm.” Yves turned to watch as she carefully filed through the fridge, squatting down in the yellow light of the doors. She wasn’t wearing her trademark carpet slippers with goats embroidered on them, with it being so warm over the last day, despite her feet always being so *cold*. You’d think the tiles were made of lava the way she hopped about them, and the way she terrorized Yves by planting them on his back at night. She had Yves fixed on her, his arms and the corners of his mouth tied in admiration, enamored either by her delicate handling of each item or by the upper thighs that peered out from the bottom of her sleeping shorts. “Well, if this wasn’t ever a nudge to take a visit to the grocery store,” she muttered. “Nothing?” Yves asked, heading back toward the bedroom. A pause. A pause that meant Claire wanted to be *sure* if there was something to bring or not. “Ya know what?” the light in her voice quite literally magnetized him. She rose out of the fridge, gripping a bushel of bright red strawberries in her long, situationally useful fingers. “I’ll wash these and you can bring them down to him.” Claire stood up and pushed closed the door of the fridge with her hip. “They’re *mine,* as you know,” she said as she brought the fruits to the sink. “But they’re the sweetest strawberries on earth.” \*\*\* Yves clomped down the stairwell with a small cardboard box and paused at the door of the vestibule. It truly was a *nice day --* something about the air even had a taste to it. That usually didn’t happen for another three months. Sometimes more. Across the street, the homeless man flung pieces of bread at a gang of pigeons bobbing around in the garden. Underhandedly, though, so as to not startle them on impact. Yves descended halfway down the stoop and took in a large inhale, and a longer, slower, more necessary exhale. Whether or not he consciously acknowledged it, he was nervous. Not because the man was homeless, but because he was a stranger. Meaningful interactions with strangers always made him nervous. He always said it was because, in New York, people don’t go around having meaningful interactions with strangers unless they want to appear “suspect”. Or, if they want something from them. Yves crossed the street and squeezed through the bumpers of parked cars and yanked open the iron gates of the park. As he approached the benches, the man looked up from his zookeeper duties with a sort of jovial warmth that quickly transformed into a stone-cold default as Yves neared closer. “Hey, man. Y’want s’more to eat?” Yves raised the box. “Some berries.” The man peered into the box, looked up at Yves, and gingerly accepted. “My girl washed them and cut the tops off. That’s the worst part.” The man took a bite of one. “She said they were the sweetest strawberries she’d ever had.” Yves forced in a chuckle -- an expulsion of air or some sort, as to make the situation more -- human. God, he loathed the idea that this was something transactional. He loathed even more the idea that the other person would feel the burden of having been done a favor. “Thanks, brother. Really,” the man nodded insistently, exposing the thinning crown of his head. “God bless.” Yves walked off, feeling overwhelmed with nervousness. He could even feel his pulse thumping in his ears. When he passed through the park’s northside gate, he wondered what the man’s name was, and where he was from. For some reason, he thought San Francisco or Seattle. Somewhere on the west coast. Then he wondered *why* he was homeless. The truth is, he wanted to be friends with the man. He wanted to know his story from the beginning, and what he liked doing. It made him upset that he *couldn’t* be friends with the man, not because he was homeless, but because he was a stranger. New York *never* lets you be friends with strangers. It might be because a lot of them end up being lousy friends. It can be real transactional in that way. As he rounded the corner outside toward the avenue, Yves started to feel better about everything. The man probably didn’t want friends, anyway. For someone like that, hanging out with a stranger and getting *sympathized* with is the *last* thing they want. That’s what he told himself to feel better. The start of the new block revealed dozens of people in two single-file lines along the sidewalk. Mostly women over sixty-five, or something around that. Every few moments, they would shuffle their carts forward in the direction of this big church all the way down to the west side of the avenue. Those at the front of the line received their portions from the back of a van -- bread, it seemed, but no strawberries. Holding on to the side of a few of the carts were little children. Grandchildren. They were remarkably poised and attentive considering the monotony of waiting in line to get a few loaves of bread. And for being little kids and all. A gust of wind flowed by and crept under Yves’ t-shirt. It was indeed still winter. Along the curb, pieces of yellow, blue, and pink confetti twirled around and danced in the air in front of him. \*\*\* Upstairs, Yves pushed the apartment door open and tossed the keys on the counter. He caught the door reflexively on the way back, so it wouldn’t slam and piss off the whole building. Save for the buzzing of the light fixtures in the hallway -- that sound was *always* there -- it seemed a lot more quiet than usual. Claire was in the back, sitting ambivalently on the split of the window and the fire escape. It was funny; now that he was focused on Claire, imagining what she was looking at and hearing in the street, it seemed *less* quiet. She was already smiling when Yves looked over at her, but it became a grin once she turned over to him. It was impossible not to smile back. He wanted to keep things serious and maintain that almost *sublime* sense of morosity he’d been feeling in the street, but it was no use. Claire bounded over to the kitchen and into Yves’ arms. “Well, do you think he liked them?” Yves looked down at Claire’s middle-parted hair, and at the tops of her bristling eyebrows. “Yeah,” he said, pushing some bass into his voice. “I think he liked them.


A wealthy and exceptionally intelligent man once hired a renowned artist to bring his ideas to life as masterpieces. The clever artist, being cunning himself, agreed only under the condition that the rich man would pay double the regular amount and provide double the usual time for each painting; this way, he believed he could truly turn them into masterpieces. The rich man accepted the proposal, with the stipulation that the artist remain anonymous, reject all other work, and exclusively paint for his grand gallery, available for purchase or auction. With the agreement in place, the artist and the mastermind exchanged ideas, and the artist dedicated time to giving them shape. After a lengthy wait, the rich man saw his grand concept manifested on the canvas. He arranged an exhibition, and the painting became an overnight sensation. Wealth and grandeur flocked to witness the creation of this masterpiece by an unknown artist, and its value soared to tens of thousands overnight. Unbeknownst to the wealthy man, the artist had secretly crafted a far more grandiose rendition of the same concept, executed with perfection. The painting displayed at the exhibition paled in comparison to this exquisitely created piece, hidden away in a concealed dungeon. Many years passed, and numerous paintings later, the artist approached the rich man, requesting retirement. The wealthy man agreed, rewarding the artist with a house, land, and a modest estate for his years of dedication. As the years rolled by, the allure of the rich man's gallery paintings waned. Rumors spread that these artworks were inferior to the superior art styles of similar ideas executed elsewhere. Intrigued, the wealthy man attempted to trace the origin of the new painter who had depicted similar ideas. To his astonishment, he discovered that this painter was none other than his own, selling his work under his own name. Amazed, the wealthy man visited the gallery and watched as the artist introduced him to the public. The artist revealed how the rich man had used him for his paintings, exploiting a poor painter for his own glorification. This confession resonated with the public, who turned against the rich man and supported the artist. The painter's superior artistry and style gained immense popularity, leading to paintings' prices soaring to hundreds of thousands. Time passed, and the frenzy gradually subsided. The once-famous painter faded into obscurity, and the prices of his paintings dwindled. Meanwhile, the rich man established a new gallery dedicated to classical art, which gained prominence. Curious, the painter visited this new gallery, only to find his original, lesser-quality art depicting the rich man’s novel ideas. Approaching the painter, the rich man smiled and gestured towards the paintings, declaring to the audience that the painter was the world's most famous artist, whose art was considered godly, flawless, and ethereal. He highlighted the "limited edition fault-only" paintings, showcasing imperfections, deformities, and the dark side within the divine. The word spread like wildfire, and people flocked to see this collection of greatest flaws. Suddenly, the price of these "defective" paintings surged to millions. The rich man concluded, proclaiming that as long as artists exist, a rich man will always be there.


I’m not crazy. I love her. I want to protect her. I want to be with her. She will be mine. Ever since the day I saw her, the first time I heard her voice. “Hi!” she said to me. She is so goddamn cute. Why is she so beautiful? She makes me feel so happy. I’m not crazy. But, she will be mine. Those other guys are disgusting. They will hurt her. They will use her for their own needs, not caring about hers. I’m different, I will only give her love. I will give her my time, my attention, she is my world. I will walk with her at night, through the park. She looks so lonely by herself. It’s dangerous to be alone. I care about her. I can’t let her out of my sight. I have to be quiet though. If she sees me, she’ll tell me to leave her alone, she’ll try to avoid me. I don’t want to go back to the darkness. I’m not crazy. I’m not a psychopath. I love her. That’s all. I just want her to be happy, to be loved, by me. She will be safe. She is my main priority. I won’t rest, I won’t sleep, I won’t stop. Until she is safe. Until she is with me. Until she is in my arms. Everytime she is sad, I cry. Every time she’s scared, I want to protect her. Tell her, “Everything will be ok.” Everytime one of those bastards try to talk to her, they make her feel uncomfortable. I want to kill them all. Make sure they have a slow death, something they deserve for what they do. I’m not crazy. It would be out of love, and protection. She can never find out. She would look at me like I’m a murderer. She’d run away, call the cops, then I’ll never see her. I am a protector, a guardian angel. They say I need a doctor, my own friends, they think I’m a danger. They’ve started avoiding me. That doesn't matter. When I have her, the demons will go away. She’ll make everything better. The thought of her already does. I want to hold her hand on those long late nights. Hold her close, knowing she is safe. I’m not crazy, but I want to bring her here. To my house. I don’t have any roommates, no one will tell the cops. But, I don't want to hurt her while doing so. I’ve made a spare room for her. Comfy, safe, and within the area around me. She’ll love me. Once she sees how horrible the real world is, I can bring her to a fantasy, where she is treated like the queen. Her family is just as horrible. I should feel relaxed when she goes to her parents in the winter. But, she comes back bruised and hurt. She hardly ever looked up last time. I need her to be with me, I want her to be happy. She is the only thing in life I care about. I am not crazy. I am protecting her. I’ve saved her. Nobody can hurt her anymore. I love her.