(Content warnings: Swearing/Mental health issues) It was dark by the time she had regained consciousness. She pried her forehead from the steering wheel and wiped the coagulated substance off with the back of her hand. She cried out in agony as muscles spasmed in her neck. The only source of light was the faint glow from the full moon hovering over the car. She had no recollection of where she was, where she had been, where she was going, or even who she was. All she could tell was that she’d somehow collided with a tree and the older model, two-door vehicle was unequipped with an airbag. She surveyed her dark surroundings. Although the driver’s door was badly dented, but the passenger’s door had been slammed against a protruding mountain rock . She managed to get her car door open enough to activate the interior dome light; unfortunately, the bulb had burned out, and darkness prevailed with the exception of the full moon above. She searched the passenger side in hopes of finding identification and a cell phone to call for help. She found a handbag in the floorboard and dumped its contents onto the passenger seat. Even though dimly lit, she could tell what the items were by touch; lipstick, hairbrush, pack of gum, big wad of cash secured with a rubber band, and a flip-type burner cell phone. She opened it, revealing the date and time: Wednesday, October 31, 2020, 12:22 AM. Also illuminated by the cell light was a damaged triangular street sign that read , Curved Mountain Road. “Just great; stuck on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere, in a wrecked car, on Halloween night with only a burner phone and a wad of cash,” she said, rubbing her temples. She turned her attention back to the handbag and gave it another shake-down, searching for any form of I.D. What the hell, no driver’s license? she wondered, throwing the empty purse back into the floorboard. A burner has emergency capability; I can still call 911. She flipped the phone open to lighten her dark surroundings; hopefully, she’d find something that might lead the authorities to her whereabouts. I can’t tell them where I am if I don’t know, myself; hell, I don’t even know who I am. Using the light from the phone, she looked in the glove compartment for identification. Registration papers indicated the 1977 El Camino belonged to Joann Blankenship of Casper Wyoming. Is that me? she wondered. “I can’t just sit here and wait for another car to come speeding around that bend and crush me like an accordion,” she said, looking in the rearview mirror and picturing the worst-case scenario in her mind. “I must have hit my head really hard, cause I’m talking to myself. I’ve got to get out of here,” she said, slamming her shoulder against the door. On the fourth and final thrust, she was able to squeeze her slender frame out , landing on the cold, damp cement. Using the door handle, she pulled herself up to a standing position which made her head spin. She stood still until her equilibrium returned. She shined the cell light on the wreckage revealing extensive damage to the front-end; especially, the fender, which was partially embedded in the tree. “Blood!” she yelled, staring at the dark red substance splattered on the hood and grill. “I probably hit a deer, then swerved into this damn thing,” she said, kicking the base of the tree. The cell light inadvertently illuminated what appeared to be a body lying about fifty feet down the road. "Oh my God! Are you okay?” She grabbed a hold of a broken but still adhered limb for support, and made her way down the hill, toward the lifeless man in running attire; his body, appearing bloody and contorted. “I’m so sorry; It was an accident,” she said . At least I think it was an accident. Yes, I’m sure it was. After all, I’m not a bad person, am I? she wondered, searching her amnesic brain for a sign that she did indeed have a conscience. She kneeled by the victim to check for a pulse but couldn’t find one. Was it because her fingers were too cold or because he didn’t have one? She searched his pockets and found a wallet with a driver’s license belonging to Dale Blankenship, of Casper, Wyoming. She glanced back at the car. Blankenship was the last name on the car registration. Inside the victim’s wallet, was thirty-seven dollars, a photo of two children, and a picture of a woman with long red hair. She swung her ponytail forward and shined the cell light on it. With pictures in hand, she stumbled back up the hill and back to the car, squeezing herself into the passenger seat. She pulled the visor mirror down and shined the cell light on her face and gasped. Just as she suspected; the woman in the picture and the reflection in the mirror were one in the same. “Oh my God; if that poor man is, was my husband or ex, these are probably my children,” she said, shining the light on the children’s photo, hoping to generate a memory or at least an emotion, but it didn’t do either. “I’ve got to call 911 and at least report this to the police. I’ll just explain my situation; that I don’t know where I am and that I’ve been in an accident and have amnesia; surely, they’ll understand,” she said, rubbing her forehead. Just as she started to push the last ‘1’ on the cell, she snapped the phone closed and picked up the large stack of cash that was still in the passenger seat. She thumbed the bills under her nose and inhaled. None of this look’s good. I can’t explain the money or the body. What if I was running from the law and someone has my license plate number? The cops won’t believe that it was an accident and I’ll probably do time for vehicular homicide. Besides, it’s too late to call for help for him because; he’s already dead ,” she said, looking down the hill at the victim lying in the road. And, as for the children, his life insurance will provide for them. Besides, it’s not like I’d be a good mother if I don’t know who they are or who I am, she rationalized, managing to squeeze out a couple of crocodile tears. I know what I must do... She kissed the pictures goodbye and laid them in the passenger seat. She picked up the wad of cash and stuffed it in her pocket and squeezed back out of the car. She paced along the mountain road, searching for anything or anybody that could implicate her in this being anything more than a tragic accident. Tiny orange rectangles staggered throughout the mountains represented the windows of the nearby cabins. She prayed that no residents or bystanders would be witness to what was about to transpired. In a fugue state of mind, she meditated. ... I’ll create another identity. It won’t be difficult since I don’t know who I am, anyway. I’ll stage my death. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. No more Joann Blankenship, or whatever the hell, the papers say I am...or was. No one will ever need to know. Hopefully, along with Dale’s life insurance, Joann’s will also care for her surviving children. My surviving children. She squeezed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. She didn’t know why she hadn’t tried to start it before. Nevertheless, she was surprised when the old jalopy started on the third try. She put the gear in reverse and gunned the engine. The embedded fender made a grinding sound, finally releasing itself from the tree’s hold. She put the gear in park and got out, leaving the driver’s door open. She leaned over the seat, shifted the gear into drive, and backed away from the moving vehicle. It was as if she wasn’t responsible for what the old El Camino did. The car picked up speed as it rolled downhill toward the lifeless man lying in the middle of the road. “Stop! This is not part of the plan, you idiot!” she yelled, while charging downhill toward the runaway vehicle. Was it fate or luck that the car veered slightly to the right, avoiding the victim’s corpse? She sighed with relief. “That was close. Two impacts with the victim would rule out an accident for sure and really fuck-up my plan.” Using the cell to illuminate her path, she made her way to the edge of the cliff just in time to see the El Camino somersault over the flimsy metal guardrail and disappear into the depths below. She could hear the shattering of glass and the crushing of metal. She shined the cell light down the cliff just in time to hear a loud ‘boom’ and see a plume of smoke, confirming its final impact on solid ground. She smiled. Unfortunately, her celebration was short-lived by the realization of another flaw in her scheme. Her disappointment echoed throughout the mountains. “Dammit, there won’t be a body to recover!” A sudden splashing sound was music to her ears for it was the welcome confirmation that both, the El Camino and its owner, had made it to their final resting place -the flowing river below. She shined the cell light down into the abyss, illuminating the tangled remains, drifting downstream. She smiled. No worries: the authorities will assume that Joann Blankenship’s body was carried away by the current . Without warning, a dark shadow ran toward her, finally taking on the shape of a man. She shined her cell light on the image standing in her presence, then on the road where the victim had met his demise. The body was gone. “No, it can’t be, you’re dead!” she cried, covering her eyes with her hands. “Melanie, it’s me, Johnathon,” the man said in a calming voice. “Dale, you know I’m Joann, but the fact that I’m still alive is a secret,” she whispered, making a shush gesture. “What is this, a Halloween prank? she asked, wiping some of the gooey substance off his face. “You’re scaring me, Mel. Your blood sugar must be getting low, let me get you something to eat.” “Stop calling me that. What is it you want?” she asked sternly. “I just want you and I want you to be okay, that’s all,” he said, his voice cracking. A paranoid expression flashed across her face. “I know what you’re after,” she said, pausing to reach in her jacket pocket. “It’s this, isn’t it?” she asked, waving the wad of money under his nose. “Well, you’re not getting any of it; it’s mine, every fucking penny!” she yelled, backing away until her rubber sole shoes teetered on the edge of the cliff. “Mel, stop!” the man yelled, grabbing her jacket, and pulling her into the safety of his arms. “I don’t want the money, it’s not real, anyway; I just want you,” he said, still holding her tight. He waved his arms to get attention. “Zac, need help over here; there’s something really wrong with Mel.” A bright light engulfed her in its celestial-like presence as human-shaped silhouettes descended upon her. The muffled sound of their voices harmonized in her ears. She could see the man she called Dale nervously hovering over her, but she was not afraid as a warm and peaceful feeling encompassed her soul. She closed her eyes, smiled, and asked. “Am I in Heaven?” Although she received no answer from the Divine Creator, a loud human cue came from behind the bright light... “Alright, that’s a wrap!”


As my fingers curl around the grip of the small revolver in my jacket pocket, I notice there isn’t as much pulsating anxiety driving through my body as the first time. Still some anxiety. But not the type that leaves me near paralysis. Armed robbery is bound to cause a little anxiety for anyone. Unless you’re some kind of a psychopath. But no psychopath am I. This is simply an emergency solution to a temporary problem. Rent went up, can’t hold a job, just lost my car to the finance company after they repo’d it. Not that I didn’t try to prevent that from happening. I hid that car at friends’ houses for a good month-and-a-half. But those bankers just wanted it more, I guess. It’s not like I ever thought I’d be here, doing this sort of thing. But I’m not hurting anyone. Yeah, the gun’s loaded just in case, but I have no intention of murdering anyone. I just need to get a few more bucks and clean out a bank account or two, maybe get some cash advances with a credit card. Just to get through this little rough patch. And I’m not targeting the most vulnerable. Not people like me. I’m going after rich folks that can afford to be a little lighter in the wallet. What I’m saying is that I’m basically a modern-day Robin Hood. Give me a good century or two, and I expect there to be a Disney movie featuring an anthropomorphic fox or some such similar animal lauding my exploits. And I just found my mark. Nicer navy-blue suit draped over his middle-aged body. Balding, with love handles to highlight his out-of-shape physique. And most importantly, a bulge in the back pocket where he keeps his wallet. I find a pace that leaves me traveling a consistent twenty feet behind my mark. The mark glances over his shoulder, but I don’t think he’s looking at me. Maybe checking traffic before crossing, I don’t know. The mark turns and heads east down Carson Avenue. I trace the same route and see nothing but a ghost town up and down the street. That’s what I expected this late at night. It’s showtime. I pull the revolver out and feel a slightly less than firm grip as a film of sweat my autonomic nervous system saw fit to produce coats my palms. Picking up my pace, I close the gap between me and the mark. “Excuse me,” I say in a voice meant to be commanding but soft enough to not draw attention. The mark stops. He turns and Mr. Peak Middle-Aged Male faces me. He has warm eyes and a slight upturned smile. “What’s up?” he replies. Then he catches sight of the revolver in my hand. I expect the same response I got from the first sucker I tagged a week ago in these same parts. And that’s what I got - for a second. A flash of surprise from the mark was followed by a grin that then grew into an outright smile. I see a glimmer - actually more of a sparkle - in his eye. Okay, now I’m feeling that anxiety. But I’ve got to stay the course. Summoning the most authoritative voice I can, I say, “Make it easy, man. Take out your wallet and phone, throw them down, and lie flat on the ground!” The mark just keeps smiling at me. Now he’s gently shaking his head side to side in a vaguely paternal manner - the demented but disappointed Father Knows Best. “I feel bad for you, but you’ve got to admit this is awesome,” he says in a voice that is commanding but soft enough to not draw attention. This is not good. “I’m not fucking around here!” - my voice cracking despite my best efforts to avoid it. With a disconcertingly jovial manner, the mark maintains his smile. “Neither am I. I’m seriously happy.” His voice isn’t cracking. In fact, I find myself fighting from being drawn in by the mark’s easy confidence. Before I know what’s happening, the mark makes a seamless gesture with his right hand that flips up the rear of that navy-blue suit and somehow leaves him holding a knife with a blade stretching to at least nine inches with the kind of serrated edge that screams, “No one here is getting out alive.” I make a move to cock the hammer of the revolver, but the mark speaks and I freeze. “You heard of the twenty-one steps? I take it by the look on your face that you haven’t. That’s alright. It’s just this theory that if I’m within twenty-one paces of you with an edged weapon, doesn’t matter if you have a gun because I can close the gap before you fire.” I want to cock the hammer, but I’m locked in place by some breakdown of my fight-or-flight mechanism. The mark keeps talking in this calm and steady voice that sends a crawl through my core. “Can I thank you? Seriously. I never thought this moment would come. I’ve been waiting for this for so long. And to have it be like this, with a built-in self-defense claim!” I remain at an involuntary standstill. I want to run, but the phrase “twenty-one steps” keeps running through my mind alongside imaginings of what that terrible blade could accomplish. “Not a man of many words? That’s alright,” the mark continues in a steady but chilling tone. “I’ve thought about this for so very long. Endless nights, really.” I glance over my shoulder, hoping for a passerby that might ward off the mark and give me room to escape. The streets remain devoid of human life. The mark gives me a once over. “I’m jealous - you’re going to get to experience what it’s like when your life leaves your body.” “Wha-” is all my vocal cords can muster. “Hey, take it easy. No pressure. I see you’re tense, and I’m truly sorry for that. I want this to be a life-affirming experience for both of us,” the mark says to reassure me. We stare at each other, my face in a grimace and his still sporting that easy smile. He is the first to speak after several seconds of silence. “One question before we get started. What do you think your insides look like? I’m betting kind of a blackish-blue, not red at all like in movies. What do you think?” His voice is now one of uncontained glee. Another pause and the mark speaks again to comfort me. “You’re really nervous, huh?” His soft eyes lull me in for a moment. “Don’t be, friend. It’s all going to be okay. This is going to be the ride of a lifetime.” My body finally registers something close to a survival instinct and my thumb moves to draw back the hammer of the revolver after all these interminable seconds conversing with the mark. Twenty-one steps are closed as quickly as the mark proclaimed when I first halted him. The blade cuts easily into my belly before exiting my body and reentering in the chest cavity.


The red Jeep Cherokee was flying on the I-90. She was curious about the future in the new town. She was so open to start a new life after her awful divorce. His voice is still in her ears: "You are nothing without me! We will see how fast you will be back on your knee, asking to be with me again!" -No, I will more likely die than back to the slavery life with no voice! Helen was a 40 years woman, but she looks so young that most people would say she is 25. She was born in a big city in Ukraine and raised by a free woman. It was even so hard to understand how she could be so submissive for more than 20 years. Now it is over. The woman is free and starting a new life in the small University town. She was excited to get a new job and an opportunity to write. Her dream was always to write, but he still kept saying: "It is a stupid thing! It is not a talent neither a profession!" She got her place as a columnist-writer in the local newspapers. Most people would say it is not a big deal, but not for her. Helen was happy like in her childhood when she was living with her grandmother, and it was allowed to be herself. She missed those feelings so much. She was so tired of following other people's rules, society's rules. -Fuck everybody! I am a free woman! I can do what I want! It is my life - her hands fisted the steering wheel. Through the University building, she started to recognize the apartments. It was not as pretty as in the picture, but they seemed so cute for her. Helen stopped the car and went out. She saw a couple walking around with a little boy. She waved at them, but they did not answer. They were staring at her with fear in the eyes. Then a woman grabbed a boy's hand, and they hot-footed from her. Helen was confused, but maybe it is only because of this shitty new virus. People are afraid to be close to each other. -At least you could smile and wave me back! Fucking idiots! It looks like the virus makes people sick not only physically, but mentally too. She was unpacking her car when she felt cold eyes on her back. She turned back and saw an old lady; she was staring at her over her sunglasses. The woman has a small spitz on the lash, which was staring at Helen too. Helen smiled and waved at them. The old lady grabbed her dog under her armpit and ran to her car. -What is wrong with people here?! - Helen slapped her forehead - excellent start, man. She came in and fell asleep after 5 hours of driving. The noise from outside woke up her. The air in the room was hot and dry. She could not breathe, trying to get some air like a fish thrown by the ocean to die. -Gosh, no oxygen! Helen moved to the window to open it with the hope of getting some freshness. She opened the window and saw two boys were playing outside basketball. She waved at them, but they looked at her like she was a witch from the fairy tale and wanted to cook and eat them. -Nice town! At least people have the same opinion about newbies; she smiled ironically. Keep being positive, Helen! She took her dirty clothes and went to the public laundry. The laundry was no way special. It was an old building with little erased letters on the window about working hours and prices. -$2 per wash, are you kidding me? How I'm supposed to pay $2 per wash if I have $40 per article. Assholes!... Keep being positive An old wash machine started its annoying song. Helen could not keep listening to this awful noise; she went outside and saw a local newspaper box. She came to the box and tried to pull out one. It was a shitty quality paper with awful gray pages. The smell of the paper was like the smell of the rotten cabbage. -O my gosh, I think it is the worst newspaper I have ever seen in my life. Awful paper, awful wash machine, horrible people.... Be positive, Helen, everythin will eventually be great. Helen heard a car stopped near a laundry building, and an old lady got out of the vehicle. She was looking so lovely. Her hair was in order, looking perfect. Her dress was slightly blue, and a string of pearls on her neck was perfectly matched with the dress. Helen was staring at her like she was hypnotized. The lady was looking as the lady from the tv show advertisement. Helen imagined her with the cake in her hands saying: "The cake in our restaurant is like your grandmother's cake!" Suddenly the woman waived to Helen. Helen was so confused that she waived back only after a couple of minutes. -See, not all of the people here are bad. Such a nice lady! Helen paid for the newspapers and went back to the laundry. She opened the door and lost her speech. The lady has put all her clothes accurately in the box. -Hi, Thank you so much! -Aw, do not worry, my darling! We help our guests here! -I am not exactly a guest! I will live and work here. -You decided to change your life, honey? -Kinda.., I am divorced, and I want to start over here in the friendly and small town. -Of course, I know... I am divorced too. I know it is a hard time, but it will become better every day. You will be free and young. I do feel free and young! -You look so great and young. I love your dress. Helen was so happy to talk to this nice lady. She was feeling like she was talking with her mom. This woman was looking in Helen's eyes with love and understanding. Helen relaxed and started telling the lady her story. Suddenly, the face of the woman changed completely. Her face became dark and some fear pictured on it. -Tell me honestly, my dear, are you a Russian spy?- asked the old lady. Helen stopped talking and got confused for a moment. She tried to understand the joke part, but the lady's face was serious and compressed. -Is it a joke because of my Russian accent? - starting Helen with a smile. -No sweety pie! It is because we know you are a Russian spy and want to know all of our secrets! -Your secrets? What types of secrets? What kind of secrets can you keep in this small town? - Helen started laughing, still thinking it was a joke. -Holy- Moly, miss Brenda was utterly right about you! She said, you are a spy! -Who is miss Brenda? I have never met her in my life, how can she know anything about me?! - Helen's face becomes serious too. -She was right! You have already asked me tons of questions! After those words, an old lady ran out of the laundry, and Helen only heard the car's sound. -Charming place! - said Helen and walked to her car.


“Ugh, I’m bored.” Chase moaned, sprawled on a beanbag in her treehouse. She was accompanied by her best friend, Nico, who was also laying on a beanbag and futilely trying to fan himself with a couple of coloring pages that had been left on the treehouse floor. The treehouse was stuffy from sitting in the hot sun all day, the tree's leaves doing little to deflect the sun’s rays away from the wooden structure, and both kids were racking their brains for ways to cool themselves down as well as entertain them. “We could... turn the treehouse into a tropical island.” Nico suggested lamely, mopping sweat his brow with his shirt sleeve, making his bangs stand messily. Chase looked at him out the corner of her eye. “How would we do that?” She asked, slightly intrigued. Her enthusiasm was inhibited by how sluggish she felt. Each move she made reminded her how her clothes stuck to her skin, and how uncomfortable the claustrophobic heat felt to breath in. “I dunno, I guess we can’t have any electricity up here. I was thinking we need a fan, and like, a mini fridge with popsicles would be cool.” Nico sighed, his head lolling back as his eyes closed with exhaustion. Chase, however, had an epiphany. “No wait - that’s a great idea! Nico, run back to your house and grab some beach stuff or whatever. Whatever you think will fit up here. I’m gonna go grab some stuff from my house. We can create a tropical island here!” “Whatever.” Nico groaned, grimacing as he unstuck himself from his beanbag. “I need a break from here anyway. It’ll be nice to be in air conditioning.” “Be back here in about an hour at least.” Chase said sternly as she watched him climb down the ladder. As Nico trudged back to his house, Chase threw the bean bags and the rug on the treehouse floor from the hatch and onto the ground below. She then followed them by climbing down the ladder, jumping the last three steps and landing on the bean bags. She took a minute to drag them away from the ladder and store them in a bush nearby before turning towards her own house. Chase entered through the screened backdoor with a loud bang, her blond hair swishing around her head as it looked around wildly. “Mom!” She shouted into the house. She listened for a minute with pursed lips, and when no one answered, she sprinted towards her mother’s study. Chase stopped her momentum on the doorjamb, peeking into the study. There her mother was, typing away at her computer, surrounded by reference books and stacks of paper alike, an open notebook resting between her arms. “Hey Mom,” Chase gasped, gulping for air for a minute from her haste. “Is there an extension cord that can reach the treehouse?” Chase watched with waning patience as her mother typed for a minute more before turning around in her chair to look blankly at her daughter through her round rimmed spectacles. “I’m sorry what?” She finally asked, unable to process her daughter’s request. Charlie blew her hair off her face with exasperation. “Is there an extension cord that can reach up to my treehouse? Nico and I are trying something.” “Oh! Yeah I think there is a heavy duty extension cord in the garage. Just be careful of the car and your dad’s stuff, okay?” “Awesome! Thanks Mom!” Chase grinned before dashing off to retrieve the extension cord. The garage was even worse in the heat. It was dark, and extremely dusty, which made the sticky heat even worse for Chase. She coughed and choked as she waded through all the tools, until finally she spotted a coiled up orange cord. After shimmying her way around her dad’s car, she grabbed the extension cord and slung it over her shoulder. Squinting, she looked around the garage to see if there was anything else she needed before she left. Suddenly, Chase’s eyes widened as she saw her old inflatable plastic pool. “Oh my god this is perfect!” She whispered to herself excitedly. She grabbed the dusty pool as well, and then exited the garage into her backyard. After dumping the inflatable pool and electrical cord in front of the treehouse ladder, Chase headed back inside, this time walking upstairs quietly. She didn’t necessarily have permission to enter the room of her sister, Amber, but Amber had some items that Chase felt were necessary for her tropical treehouse. Chase stood outside of Amber’s bedroom door for a couple of minutes, trying to discern if her sister was inside. Then she remembered that Amber was at the pool with a friend for the day, and hurriedly barged into the room. The room smelled like too much perfume and a scented candle. It wasn’t bad, it just made Chase a little dizzy if she stood in there too long. Trying to get out of there quickly, Chase first grabbed the mini fan that sat at the end of Amber’s bed and unplugged it from the wall. Then, by making trips, Chase emptied all of her sister’s masks and creams from her mini fridge into the fridge downstairs. She then unplugged the mini-fridge, and after placing both the fridge and the fan in the hall, closed the door to Amber’s room as quietly as she could. On her way back to her treehouse, Chase grabbed a box of popsicles from the freezer in the kitchen and some scissors from a drawer and shoved them into the fridge she was holding before kicking her way through the screen door. As she walked out, Nico was sitting on the grass in her backyard. It looked like he had brought a really long hose, which would be perfect for the pool, a large bucket, and had changed into swim trunks and a muscle tank. He was also holding a box of ice cream sandwiches, making Chase’s stomach rumble as she considered his superior frozen treat. “Hey. I figured you wanted to do something with water.” Nico gestured to the coiled black hose at his sandaled feet. “You were right. Also help me get this fridge up there so we can cool those sandwiches.” Chase said, handing Nico the fridge before turning to plug in the extension cord into the side of the house. The sun had started to cool down considerably since when they had started the creation of the tropical treehouse, but the kids were too determined to see their creation through to give up. After the fan and the fridge had been plugged in, with the extension cord in a taut wire leading from the house to the treehouse, Chase had Nico blow up the pool while she figured out how to get water and some lawn chairs Nico had also brought into the house. Eventually, they figured out a pulley system using the large bucket, a piece of rope, and the window of the treehouse, and before long the kiddie pool was inflated and filled. After working so hard to collect all of their equipment and set it up, Chase and Nico were finally able to enjoy the fruits of their labors. Nico had even nicked his older brother’s iPod, so as they cooled their feet in the kiddie pool and ate popsicles and ice cream sandwiches alike, they could feel the breeze from the fan on their face and listen to the tunes of some reggae singers that Chase didn’t know the names of. Nico swore it was the perfect music for their tropical theme though, and she privately agreed. Content and smiling, Chase said with a sigh, “Well done Nico. Thanks for coming back to help.” “This was totally worth all the work honestly. We should do this all summer. You can keep the bucket here and we can just refill the pool when I come over.” “Yes! Tropical treehouse, all summer long!” Chase declared, raising her sandwich over her head. Suddenly, they heard the screen door from Chase’s house open with a slam. “CHASE!! WHERE IS MY FRIDGE?” “Uh oh.”


The real difference between you and me is your incessant inane questions. What is my name? What, really, is it to you, when you often just end up catching the next whim floating in your head and christen me just that? I am whatever you decide to call me. I have been Mindy, Luna, and Talia. I have been that mousy sound you make with your mouth, or that imperious clicking of your fingers. I have been Marbles, Cupcake, and Lipstick. Why ask if you don’t care for my answer? Where do I live? You think because you close the door at night and stay within the confines of your same routine that I should be the same. I live. Could the same be said of you? ...................................................................................... I liked that she didn’t like me right away. We spent the first few weeks staying in the periphery of each other’s existence, but never out of it. We had a mutual interest in something else - the squawky feathery meatballs she was determined to befriend and feed, and that I was determined to feed on. Then, without the uhming and aahing they usually do, she named me. “Marbles, please don’t eat the lorikeets. I really like them.” She was leaving out a small plate of sausages for me while saying that, so an understanding was forged that I wouldn’t try to hunt them where she could see. I watched her often from across the road, and she eyed me from her balcony. I watched her attempts at petting every bird that came her way, and heard her yelp when the cockatoo she named Squawk nipped her finger. She had named everyone by the time I approached her door for the first time. Of course I picked the night she would be home alone. Unlike her, I know every nook and cranny of that house. I have been the only constant in that house while families move in and out in a whirlwind around me. I don’t remember all their faces or all the names they give me. The impasse at the doorway lasted only seconds. She closed the door behind me as soon as I strode in to inspect the place. It smelt different, but it always does with each new family. She apologised for the lack of sausage but offered me water. The beak-shaped scar on her finger offended me as she made no attempts to pet me in any way. I don’t generally like having strangers’ hands all over me, but this was a woman I have watched pet everyone within reach. Her reaction to my purring was one of, oddly, bewilderment. She sat down, cross-legged on the floor as I easily stepped onto her lap. She gingerly patted my back the way you would a crying acquaintance, but the worry in her voice was unmistakable. “Are you okay Marbles? Do you need help? Are you choking on something?” More awkward pats on my back. I buried my face in the warmth of her woolly sweater. She must not be too smart, but I liked the smell of her. The purrs echoed off the walls of her house. She did eventually figure it out, and in stories relayed to visitors to the house later, I found out mine was the first purr she had ever heard. I was, in fact, the first cat in her life. I had accidentally staked a claim on her, and her on me, while I was trying to move back into the house that belonged to me. ................................................................................. These days my name is Callie. I don’t visit that house very often, unless the children are having dinner. The family that came in after her had a cat of their own, so I was happy to let him pretend he owned the place. He couldn’t, not really. Not without smelling my scent in every nook and cranny of the house. I don’t dwell too much on the ones that have come and gone, but sometimes I get a whiff of her scent lingering in that house. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers those lazy Sunday mornings, of me lying on her chest, of her gently smoothing the hairs of my back. I liked being Marbles. ..................................................................................... Author's note : This is fiction, but not quite. This is a tribute to that time in my life Marbles picked me to be hers.


“The Burgh” That’s the thing about Pittsburgh, it seems like the last place anyone would build a city. It’s three rivers flowing through steep hills and deep ravines and surrounded by even higher hills. Any sizable tracts of level ground are scattered among steep terrain and along the edges of the rivers. Whoever that first person was who stood there, looked around and thought it could ever be anything more than a small military outpost must have been a true visionary. I thought about that as I drove from the airport in a stripped down Nissan Altima, the last available midsize that Enterprise had. The woman at the rental car counter told me to take the Parkway to the tunnel and then over the bridge but the word Parkway was not on the map she’d given me. In fact there was a lot of information missing from that little map. The highway sign read Route 376 Downtown and it was the only road I could see from the rental parking lot so I took it. I drove for about fifteen minutes and the impressive view of the city straight ahead of me didn’t offer many clues about what to expect. I didn’t know anyone in Pittsburgh and the little I knew about the place I’d learned from seeing aerial shots during the Steelers games on TV and from doing a couple of Google searches. It wasn’t much to go on but enough for me to know it was worth a closer look. I’d had enough of upstate New York small town living and a major lifestyle change was in order. I was eager to explore a large city and sample all that it had to offer. Through my online searches I’d learned that there were over four hundred bridges, four tunnels and two inclines that people used to navigate the city. It sounded confusing but the closer I got to my downtown destination the more intriguing it had become. The overhead signs on the highway were the first clue that a driver had to pay close attention to what laid ahead. The rental car woman said to stay on the Parkway and it would take me through the Fort Pitt tunnel so I did what she’d instructed. When I came out of the tunnel there was a sign for Route 279 but not one for Route 376 and with a huge bridge over the Monongahela River looming in front of me all I could do was stay in my lane and follow where I thought it would lead me. That was my first lesson: Pittsburgh roads didn’t all enter and exit in any consistent way. The main highway appeared to curve to the left but a sign told me that I should exit right to remain on 376. I’d have to exit to stay on the road I was already on. Unfortunately I was in the center lane and the traffic wouldn’t allow me to get into the right lane to exit. Moments later I was headed north on Route 279, over another bridge over the Allegheny River. I could see the tall buildings in the center of downtown receding in my rearview mirror. As soon as I’d crossed the second river I began to look for a place to pull off the road. Because my rental car didn’t have onboard navigation and my cellphone signal was erratic among the tall buildings, the rental car map was my only link to any hope of getting downtown. I’d rented a room for two nights at the Renaissance Hotel and planned to walk around the city and get to know it from street level. At that moment I was seeing a whole other part of the city through a windshield and feeling a little nervous. I saw a small retail plaza ahead on the right and quickly pulled into it. Sitting in the parking lot trying to make sense of the map wasn’t easy. The rivers, bridges, tunnels and major public attractions were labeled and except for a few major streets not much else was identified. Heinz Field was visible a few blocks away and signs for the Warhol Museum but nothing about how to get myself downtown. When I got out of the car and stood facing south. I could see the tall buildings and the part of the city I wanted to get to but had no clue of how to accomplish it. After a few minutes I got my bearings and found where I was on the map then got back into the car and pulled out into the traffic. There was nothing to do but keep trying. Any small feeling of confidence I might have had left in me faded quickly when I read a large overhead sign that read: 6 th Street Bridge 7 th Street Bridge 8 th Street Bridge Ahead . I remembered from my last glance at the map that all three bridges crossed back over the Allegheny River but it didn’t note which ones connected to Canal Street which was the street I was on. As it turned out none of them did. All I could do was look down and to my right and see three bridges that could each take me in the right direction but that I couldn’t get on. My frustration was slowly turning into anger. After a few blocks in thickening late afternoon traffic I saw a sign for Route 579 Downtown and my spirits lifted. That is at least until I got to a cluster of multilevel roads and saw that Canal Street only went under 579 but didn’t connect to it. Once again I’d seen another bridge that could take me toward my destination but couldn’t get on to it. I was angry and thought to myself, “How do people get around in this town? How will I do it?” It was another six blocks of driving before there was a way for me to turn around and at least head back in the general direction I wanted to go. With so many unlabeled streets on the map, reading the street signs was pointless. I stopped at a convenience store, hoping to find someone inside that could give me directions. That turned out to be my second lesson: Pittsburgh people spoke a strange, local dialect unique to the city. I walked in and saw a sturdily built woman in a red smock restocking shelves of gum, candy and all kinds of things a healthy person shouldn’t ingest. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m trying to get downtown and I’m kind of lost. Can you help me?” She turned and looked at me. “That depends. Dahntahn’s a big place. Are yinz goin’ some place special?” Her dialect was strange but I understood it, sort of. “I’m trying to find the Renaissance Hotel. It’s on 6 th Street.” “Then ya’ need to take the 6 th Street Bridge.” “Well, I was going to try that but it didn’t connect to the street I was on.” “You aren’t from around here, are ya’? “Uh, no I’m not. So how else can I get downtown?” She thought for a moment then answered, “Well, all I can say is that yinz need to get on the 579 and go over the bridge.” Which bridge, you have so many?” “Vetrins. It’ll take you right to the convention center.” “And then where do I go?” “Sorry, I can’t help you there. I don’t get downtown much anymore.” I didn’t feel a whole lot better but hoped her strangely spoken directions would at least get me closer. “Okay, thanks, but how do I get back to 579?” “Ya’ turn left out of the parking lot, head on down the hill and turn left again after the Jine Iggle.” I hesitated, trying to decipher what she’d said. “What’s that?” “It’s the supermarket, the drugstore n’at.” It took me a moment to realize she was referring to a Giant Eagle store. “Okay, got it. Thanks again.” I hoped her directions would be easier to follow than her side of the conversation had been. It was like she’d spoken a whole different language. I drove back down the hill, saw the supermarket and turned left. A sign reading Veterans Bridge to Downtown hung above the road and I immediately felt some relief. That was lesson number three: Never let yourself feel comfortable about finding your way around Pittsburgh. The entrance ramp on to 579 was wide and easy to access. I accelerated into the traffic and crossed the Allegheny River for the second time. The highway was elevated enough for me to look out over the downtown area. Somewhere in the midst of all the traffic and buildings was the Renaissance Hotel. It was a somewhere that I’d hoped would become clear soon because I was in need of a bathroom break. When the highway crossed over Liberty Avenue things really got confusing. There were exit and entrance ramps to the left and right and street signs that were of no help whatsoever. I was looking for some sign that read Sixth Street but that was wishful thinking. The exiting and oncoming traffic created a roadway choreography that demanded my total concentration. I knew I had two choices, take an exit somewhere and try to find my way on rush hour surface streets or stay up on the highway and hope a sign or clue would reveal itself. I chose the latter. After about ten more minutes of driving I realized I should have exited somewhere when I’d had the chance. A sign over the roadway read Liberty Bridge/Mount Washington and I’d just passed my last chance to exit. When I saw another sign reading Liberty Tunnel m y anger returned stronger than ever. For the first time I was rethinking my plans to move to this unnavigable city. Being trapped on a highway leading me further away from my destination was bad enough but when I began the downhill slope to the bridge and looked down I saw that I was crossing over Route 376, the road I’d come in on from the airport. “God dammit! I shouted. I was starting to think I’d have to drive over all four hundred freaking bridges in that city before I got to my hotel. My hands were getting cramped from gripping the steering wheel so hard for so long and they only got worse as I drove through the tunnel under Mount Washington. When I exited into the fading sunlight I decided to pull over at the first chance and try once again to figure out exactly where in the hell I was. And I really had to pee. The exit to the right put me on Route 19 and a fairly large commercial strip appeared on the right. My priority was to find a restroom and fortunately a Shell station gave me the relief I sought. At the end of the small plaza I saw a restaurant and decided it would be a good place to sit for a while and get my bearings. I relocated my car to a parking space near the entrance, grabbed the map and walked in. Seeing that they had a bar gave my mood an instant lift and I settled on a stool at the far end. I would have felt more comfortable drinking at the bar at the Renaissance so I wouldn’t have to do any more driving but I’d had a stressful day. A vodka and tonic was in order, drive or no drive. “Hi there, what can I get you?” An attractive young woman slid a coaster and menu in front of me. “Well, let’s start with a Stoley’s and tonic.” “Sure. Interested in looking at the menu?” Her smile was distracting. “No thanks, I’m trying to get downtown and I guess I’ll wait until I get there to find dinner. That’s assuming I get there.” “What do you mean?” “I mean I left the airport around two-thirty and I’ve been driving all over the place but I couldn’t figure out how to get to my hotel downtown.” A well dressed man two stools down turned toward me. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but hear the conversation. So you’re having trouble getting downtown?” “Trouble doesn’t begin to describe it. I’ve driven a complete circle around it but couldn’t find the right way to get there. How do you people find your way around this place?” He smiled. “Well, I guess it depends on where you live and where you work. Lots of people refuse to drive in the city because the streets are so winding and narrow. We have the T-System and lots of buses but the schedules are confusing. You have to allow extra time for transfers, and the constant street closures can drive you nuts.” “So if I decided to move here what advice would you have?” The bartender set my drink in front of me and said, “I’d advise you to keep a vodka tonic nearby at all times because even the locals get lost.” The man laughed. “Yeah, there’s kind of a common feeling that you don’t go downtown unless it’s absolutely necessary.” I looked at both of them and asked, “How do you handle it all?” The man said, “I live up here on Mount Washington. I take the incline down the hill to Station Square. That’s where my office is. My wife and I do everything down there or up here on the hill.” The bartender nodded. “Yeah, Pittsburgh was never laid out like with a master plan, it just kind of grew into a city. It’s like a big patchwork of neighborhoods and that’s kind of how you live, close to home.” I took a sip of my drink and sat for a moment before saying, “By the way, I have to ask you something. You both speak normally. I mean you don’t talk like this woman I talked to this afternoon. She had this strange kind of accent or something. What’s that all about?”” They both laughed at the same time. The man leaned toward me. “That’s called “Pittsburghese” and I have no idea how it started but you’ll hear it all over town.” He grinned and asked, “Do yinz understand that?” For nearly an hour the two of them and an occasional patron joining the crowd at the bar filled me in on the real Pittsburgh. Not the sanitized hype from the Chamber of Commerce ads but the things only a local would know. The places to visit and the places to stay away from. The best places to shop and dine and the few easy places to park if you absolutely had to be downtown. They even warned me to stay away from the Northside when the Steelers were playing a home game because there’d be no place to park or find a seat in a bar. I was starting to get a clearer picture of the city but I couldn’t figure out if that picture was positive or negative. A glance out the window quickly brought me back to the moment. It was dark outside. If I couldn’t find the Renaissance in the daylight I’d never find it at night. “Well, folks, if you don’t have a hotel close by I’ll be sleeping in my car tonight.” The bartender said, “No problem.” She pulled a pen from her apron and began drawing on a napkin. “There’s a Sheraton down at Station Square. You turn right when you leave here, go two blocks and you’ll see a sign for incline parking. You take the incline down the hill and you’ll see Station Square. It’s within walking distance. You can’t miss it.” I thanked her, shook the man’s hand and paid my tab, then sat in my car wondering if a map hand-drawn on a cocktail napkin would be any more useful than the lousy one from the rental car counter. But I knew I had no choice. In less than a minute I was back on another Pittsburgh street trying to find my way somewhere. To my delight the bartender’s map was spot on and five minutes after I’d parked I was having my first trip on an incline. Five minutes after that I was walking toward the Sheraton. And half an hour after that I was sitting at the bar with dinner and a drink in front of me and a head full of thoughts about the stressful day I’d had, thoughts about the people I’d met and mostly, thoughts about Pittsburgh. Sleep didn’t come easily that night. The next morning the woman in the ticket booth at the top of the incline gave me directions to follow Route 51 to get back to Route 376. It was a short drive along a winding, tree-lined road and when I came around a bend into an open area I saw it, the final punctuation to the story of my trip; a large, green sign that read Route 376 Airport Left Downtown Right. I took a deep breath and clicked on the turn signal.


Narrow Escape Mildred was in her way home from work after a long day of working with school children. She’d been a volunteer at her daughter’s school for several years now, both on the play ground and in the classroom. Today she had, also, volunteered in the lunchroom. She was still picking spaghetti out of her hair. She loved working with the kids most of the time but her daughter was getting to that age now where ‘mom’ was more of an embarrassment than a comfort. That’s why Mildred had requested to stay in the elementary school for the next term. Her daughter would be in junior high when the next school term started. So many things to do today. Many errands to run. She began to tick off the places where she needed to make stops. She had to pick up her dry cleaning since she had forgotten it every day for the last two weeks. She had also forgotten to stop at the post office for mail that could not be delivered, after someone knocked down her mailbox. Then she had better pick up a new mailbox at the hardware store. Denny worked there. Her nephew would fix her up with everything she needed for the repair. Probably even come and fix it for her. She was lucky to have so many family members close to home. She’d lost her husband a few years ago but she had managed by herself and with some help from her daughter. But she had good neighbors and friends she could call if she really needed anything. “Dry cleaning, hardware, post office,” she said out loud to herself. She could remember things easier when she did this. Her head was so full of what she needed to do. Maybe she should just write it down. “Pharmacy, grocery store. Probably should get some gas if I see a good price,” she continued to speak out loud. “Okay,” she said. “Dry cleaning first.” Mildred loved to chat when she had the time and sometimes when she didn’t. She had been coming to this dry cleaner’s for years and the same couple of people were always working there. She could afford to be friendly, right? After a nice chat she got back in her car and drove away. She happened upon the gas station and filled the car up before moving on. “There’s the post office,” she said. “Better stop there while I am in the area.” She had to park around the side of the building, near the jail, and walk to the front. She knew the people in the post office very well too, so she had a nice chat with her friend, Fran, who had worked there ever since she could remember. They caught up with the day to day gossip with their neighborhood. After returning to her car, Mildred turned on the radio to keep her company. She loved the ‘oldies’ station and sang loudly, off-key, but she didn’t care. She didn’t have to rush home as her daughter was studying at a friend’s house. The hardware store looked deserted. She was the only car in the lot and considered they might be closed for some reason, but she saw Dewey looking out the door and motioning her to come inside. He’d heard of her mailbox incident and had the supplies at the counter for her. “I can come over tomorrow afternoon and put it up, if that’s okay with you,” he said. “That would be wonderful,” said Mildred. “I’ll make my special chili that you like and you can have dinner with me for your help.” “I can’t wait, Aunt Mildred,” said Dewey. “You’re the best! I’ll just keep the supplies and bring them when I come over.” “Sounds like a plan,” Mildred replied as she gave him a hug before she left the store. It was strange how everything seemed to be deserted. She passed very few cars on the road. She had a bad feeling that she couldn’t seem to shake, but shook it off anyway and turned the radio back on. “...Special Bulletin. A man escaped the county jail earlier today and is believed to be hiding in the area. He left the jail on foot after stabbing two guards. The man is of average height and build. White. Mid-thirties and wearing a gray prison jumpsuit. If seen, do not approach. He is dangerous. Leave the area and call for help....” The announcer went on to give a more detailed account, but Mildred’s mind had gone into overdrive thinking about the town being in danger. This had happened before and there were discussions at all the town meetings about lack of security at the jail. The turnover of security guards was ridiculous. No one stayed there for long. Now Mildred was really spooked. She decided to stop at the closest grocery store and make the pharmacy her last stop. She wanted to get home and make sure her daughter was safe, as well as her home. Of course, at the grocery store, she ran into a couple of neighbors. They discussed the jailbreak at length and what they could do to make their homes safe until this man was found. One of the neighbors had seen a bunch of police officers near the post office and ‘crime scene’ tape roping off an area behind the feed store. He’d asked the feed store owner what was going on and was told a woman’s body had been found, murdered, behind the store not thirty minutes earlier. “I was at the post office about an hour ago,” said Mildred. “I even parked on that side of the street.” “You were lucky, then,” said the neighbor. “That could have easily been you.” Mildred hurried to get the items she needed from the store and nearly ran to her car. She threw the small bag into the passenger side of the front seat and headed to the pharmacy for her daughter’s medication. She called her daughter to let her know what was going on and to stay inside her friend’s house until she came to pick her up. Mildred was driving faster than she normally would but she wouldn’t feel safe until she was at home with all the doors and windows locked. She needed to be with her daughter and she felt she wouldn’t rest until this man was caught. What her neighbor said about the murdered woman was haunting her. It could have been me, she thought. Mildred was in line at the drive-thru window for the pharmacy pick-up. She was agitated and anxious to get out of there. It should only take a moment to get the medication. She had called it in earlier in the day. Finally, it was her turn at the window. She made eye contact with the pharmacy tech. The young man looked upset. “I’m here to pick up my daughter’s medication,” said Mildred. The tech looked her in the eye, then turned around to speak with the pharmacist. “I’m afraid there was a problem with the script,” said the tech. “You need to come into the store so we can straighten it out.” “I’m in a hurry,” said Mildred. “I don’t have time for this. Just tell me what the problem is and fix it. I have to pick up my daughter.” “No,” said the tech, still looking her in the eye. “You have to come inside to fix this. I can’t let you have the medication until you do.” “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Mildred put the car in gear and started to pull away. “Please park in the handi-capped spot by the door,” said the tech. “You will be able to leave quicker.” Mildred was so frustrated she almost floored it to get to the front of the pharmacy. She was really pissed now. Her daughter was waiting. A killer was on the loose. If her daughter wasn’t out of the medication, she would forget it altogether. She parked in the space, as she was instructed, and ran in the door. Of course, the pharmacy was in the back of the store, just adding to Mildred’s frustration. When she approached the pharmacy counter, the tech and the pharmacist were waiting for her. “Something must be really bad,” said Mildred. The tech and pharmacist came out of the enclosed pharmacy area and sat her down in the chairs that were provided for customers. “What is going on?” Mildred was starting to lose it. The pharmacy tech spoke first. “I could see into your car since I am located higher up than your vehicle at the drive-thru window. There is a man crouched down in the backseat floor board and he has a large butcher knife. I had to get you out of that car.” “I called the police,” said the pharmacist. “That is why we instructed you to park by the front door.” Mildred almost passed out. She started crying with the shock of how close she had come to death. If not for the tech, the man might have killed her and her daughter. The tech put his arm around her and let her cry. After a few minutes, a police officer arrived to speak with them. The officer informed them that they had apprehended the man and he was indeed the man that had escaped from the jail. The knife still had blood on it so they would be able to prove he had been the one to murder the woman behind the feed store. Mildred was so grateful that she had not left the pharmacy as she had almost done. They all went to the front entrance and gave their statements. Mildred was given an escort to pick up her daughter and return home. The officer checked her home because she was so frightened and it was all clear. She and her daughter thanked the officer and together gave thanks for the quick-thinking tech that had given Mildred her narrow escape. Several hours later, Mildred’s daughter was asleep and she was preparing for bed when a knock sounded at the door. She looked out and saw the police officer from earlier standing on her front porch. She opened the door to see him smiling. “This is just a follow up to make sure you are okay,” he said. Mildred smiled back and opened the door wider. She never saw the butcher knife he was holding behind his back.


Hey all. This is just a short story i wrote one day. Hope you enjoy it! Deaf voices all around me are speaking a language I once knew but understand no longer. A life of pride, indulgence and valour, foundations to the coarse wall of fear and death no longer standing. A loving wife. Obedient children. All taught to follow a false truth, a repeat of history. Around me I see my fellow companions, friends who walk the same path as I do. The swastika, a symbol which established my superiority and once stood proud in my eyes now lays on the ground with its meaning detached from its purpose. Coming to a halt, my future stood. The fortress which resides in stolen lands. Auschwitz. *** “The war to end all wars. Propaganda sought out by those who fear defeat!”. Spoken by my father, his final breath which serves as my final memory of the man. The confronting thought to which I hold as proof of evil teachings. My father, turned mad through war, turned mad through death. He was once a man of integrity and strength, yet he now lays here fallen to the fate which no one escapes. The journal he wrote, the scramblings of a madman, his concealed thoughts revealed. He now lays there, quiet as the cold dreary nights of his silent screams which echoed through the empty air, unheard. *** Uniforms, bland and generic. Worn by the bricks in the concealed wall of death and fear. Symbols I thought I knew challenge my understanding, tearing open a void encompassed with regret and question. Red, black and white stripes I was once proud to wear, a symbol which gave me authority, but over what? Authority of judgement and the taker of life? Propaganda manufactured by Lucifer and believed by all. No joy or happiness lives here. From the naive youths to those knocking on death's door, all were condemned to the same judgement. Tears strike the eagle emblem, the very same I was taught to worship as a deity, the God that will grant us victory. But what god would grant sinners victory? A machine designed to “Cleanse The Earth” of undesirables, a war machine built by blind, ignorant men now does the fallen angel’s bidding. Never had I comprehended the resilience and the determination of man until this day, clawing like tigers against the steel cage. Engraved scars mark the blood stained stone and the coarse concrete walls. Their fate challenged, driven by that evolutionary trait, “Survival”. Horrific acts against God to which I ordered, fates of the innocent I locked into place. Acts which cause celebration in the streets, with my people cheering my family name and chanting my deeds and values as gospel readings. Calling me the key for victory, the key to Europe and to all new worlds’. Yet, I feel nothing. I’m isolated in the lost desert of my own barren soul. The key to my past life now buried, hidden from the ages and to remain lost until the ends of time. *** A past life lead by a dead man. Lüneburg Heath. A field to learn my future hunting profession, passed down through the generations. A repeat of history. My father, his head held high with pride wearing his freshly pressed, immaculate uniform, overwhelmed with badges of honour across his left breast. I, his eldest son, carried the family pride, “Vereingewehr”, the weapon granted the title of “peacemaker” which kept us fed, defended and alive. I hold my father's compass, forged long before he was from intrinsic gold which shone as bright as he did, but folded as easily as he had. “What truth could a madman give?”. Confronting thoughts to a concealed, unanswered question which grew from a past war, one which drove him to insanity. *** The fresh stench of blood and smoke stood before us. Fifteen demons, clearing out those who took their last breath only moments before. Holding man's most horrid creation, the fifteen took aim at their next victims. Among the fifteen stood a young man, related only through blood stood my son, a man of questionable beliefs and provocative values but a man of unrivaled loyalty. Ahead stood fifty, the overspill of the ‘cattle’. All awaiting my signal, my signature for a reservation to hell. Why I was condemned to end their God given life, lives which could have changed the world, I will never understand. My son glances back, staring at my weary facade, through the rusted iron mask I wore everyday. With one breath, one I did with regret, anger and pain, I changed the moment, I signed that reservation. I played God. *** Horrors, stimulating past memories which surface from the suppressed subconscious. We came to a river concealed by a russet haze. Our future meal lay along the bank, our means of survival met. As I held the “peacemaker”, I grew nervous. Approaching the river bank, I see our blunder, a man lays dead, his life taken by a boy on the order of his father. My father, a man of strength and integrity began to weep. Sprinting to the deceased, my father looks back at me, but not with his iron face of God, but one challenged by weakness and sorrow. He stares at me with eyes as red as the fresh haze, as red as the blood which now stained his attire. It was at this moment that I saw the error of my father’s ways, the blunder he had made. Just like his father before him, history has repeated itself. *** Awards and medals for loyalty, obedience and leadership stood stately in my office. Characteristics which became my undoing. Above the medals hung my family's versed “peacemaker”, an experienced weapon carried into conflict across three generations. Outside grey clouds defeat the sun, smoke of the dead blankets the truth. Prisoners, forgotten numbers in blue and white scramble across the vast concrete fields. Reaching for the “peacemaker” I reflect upon the choices I have made, the pain and suffering I had bestowed upon my family. The choice I was about to make. Pulling the “peacemaker” down, the shining compass draws my eye, bringing forth memories of my family. A family driven to insanity by choices, wreaked by war and suffering. My family, whose perceptions and assumptions drove me to sign up and fight. My compass is the only memory of happier times before the war. Now, it simply signifies a practicality, a compass for direction. A direction which took me down the path of evil. The path for judgement by God.


Nasrin was old enough to understand what was being discussed, even though she was in the other room with the old lamp to read by and not supposed to hear the conversation. The man had come to investigate, and after talking with her parents, confirmed what she already knew: Nasrin could use magic. This was highly valuable, and the man offered a large sum of money to take her away. He said he would take Nasrin to a school where she would learn more about her art, but Nasrin didn’t believe him. She’d already heard rumors on the street of how much was paid for the gifted. It was never for school. And she’d never see her parents again. But she knew her parents couldn’t ignore such a sum of coin. The family was starving as it was. The real surprise, Nasrin realized, was that her parents hadn’t marketed her already. Nasrin loved her parents very much, but she knew she didn’t want to go with the man. His smile was greasy and he carried too many weapons. What use did he have for so many blades, if not to lose them in a kill? She was convinced he was a bad man. For Nasrin, there wasn’t a choice except to decide for her parents. She would go. Her way. Nasrin quietly rose from where she sat at the table and walked to the window on the far side of the hovel. There was only cloth to cover it, so she unfastened the bottom and climbed out easily. There was a short drop to the ground; she could not turn back. Nasrin took a deep breath and fell to the ground. As soon as she gathered her footing, she was on the move. Growing up poor in a city such as this, Nasrin was used to crowds. She could maneuver easily through the flow of people, and soon she had made it several blocks from what she’d called home. But this wouldn’t be far enough. She had to keep going. She went to the south district, an even shabbier and more dangerous neighborhood than where her parents had staked their lives. But she knew of its secrets: the city was as magic as Nasrin herself, warped for those who could control it. She could find bubbles of space where no one would ever find her; she could hide there while she figured out what to do. By the next day, Nasrin’s hunger had grown too strongly and she hadn’t figured anything out, despite having nothing but time. She’d already been near starving, and she knew food was a problem she’d have to solve. Her mother had taught her that the southern district was no good for begging, but Nasrin didn’t want to beg anymore. She’d seen market stalls heaped with grocery goods. Why should they have so much and she so little? She settled on stealing more quickly than she had thought she would. She knew it was considered wrong, but truthfully, she had always questioned that. Now there was no one to stop her from getting the breakfast she deserved. Nasrin held up her hand and felt in the air for the tear in the bubble that would let her out on the street again. It tugged across her fingers like a fishing line with fresh meat, and she dashed through. The stalls were not far, and she was decided on the outcome. She used a sound distortion, a magic trick she’d taught herself for fun, to distract the merchant. It was easy to take the fruit, so easy she took more than she thought she could eat. She grabbed dried fish -- she’d never been allowed to eat dried fish -- and a loaf of bread before she was away. She heard raised voices behind her, but back in her bubble she could only crow in celebration. She had a feast before her. She ate her full, and then kept at it, until she couldn’t fit in another bite. She felt queasy from so much food, but also alight with power. On her own, she could do so much more than her parents had ever let her. A drop fell on her head, and then another. Nasrin looked up as the sky open and rain poured down. There was no shelter in her bubble, but she was too scared to leave it. She sat in the rain and felt the cold soak her through. Her parents had always found a way to shelter her from the rain. She wondered what would happen to them now. She hadn’t even said goodbye, in her resolve to leave. Would they be fine without her? Without the money the man offered, it was likely they’d continue on starving, or worse, lose what housing they had salvaged. Nasrin considered returning. She could at least explain to them her thinking. She couldn’t believe they’d try to hold her and turn her over. They loved her, and she them. She decided to go back. It was evening when the rain stopped, and Nasrin wandered back to her home district. She was still sopping wet, chilled to the bone, but the flame of resolve pushed her onward. She was surprised to find the door open and waiting. There was no one in the main room, the kitchen and communal space that dominated the home. This was where they had spoken with the man. They must be in the other room, for there were only two rooms, and they wouldn’t leave the door open if they were out. The old lamp sat on the table where she’d left it, the flame burned almost all the way out. In the dying light she saw what the man had done to her parents when he hadn’t found Nasrin. Nasrin willed herself not to cry. She had left without saying goodbye and not the other way around, and she hated the feeling of regret. But she felt the immeasurable loss. She could never call this place home again. There were fresh clothes in a wardrobe, so Nasrin dried herself off and changed. She took a spare set of clothes, too, and threw it into a spare sack. She went back over to her parents, knelt close, and carefully removed her mother’s necklace. Something to remember them by, she thought idly, pocketing it and returning to the main room. There were a few other useful things to be found before she left for good. She could cry later, she thought. Yes, she would cry later, the next time it rained.


Aster breathed heavily as she pressed her hand firmly against her stomach, glaring at the blue glow emanating from between her grimy fingers. When a pebble flew across the cave room and landed by her foot, she smothered her mouth with her other hand and pressed her back flush against the stalagmite, the rocky spire barely thick enough to hide her trembling body. “*Aster*!” Her target’s voice sounded heavy, tired and frustrated. How long had she been stumbling in these dark caverns to hunt this...this thing down? Was it still light outside? “Just surrender, little star,” it groaned, dragging its feet across the gravelly ground. “I won’t hurt you. I would *never* hurt you.” She bit into her finger as two cylindrical objects manifested in her hand and lay against her aching stomach, while a bead of sweat rolled down her grubbily scratched face. *Only* *two?* The glow faded and her heart sank as she lifted her hand, revealing the turquoise bullets. A wave of dizziness swept over her and she pushed back into the stalagmite, a tear mixing with sweat and blood as she listened to the shuffling footsteps that paced the room. “Aster? My little star? Where are you?” Silence. Such deafening silence. Aster didn’t dare breathe. Her teeth sunk deeper into her finger and she squeezed her eyes shut. Drip. Something cold landed on her head and her body tensed in response. She began to shake again, praying to any deity or any higher power that nothing will give her away. She flinched at the sound of a weary sigh. “My starshine...” it began singing as the shuffled footsteps moved away. “My lovely starshine... Come home to me, oh come home to me...” She listened to the footsteps fading deeper into the cavern system, waiting several seconds more when they’d faded, and the room was silent. Then, with a shaky gasp, she scrabbled for her bullets and pistols. “Hell...” she whimpered as the bullets slipped in her fingers. “*Hell*.” The clicks echoed painfully in the room as she slid a bullet each into her pistols. She hastily patted the pockets of her trousers, each one empty until... She pulled out a caramel wrapped in clear plastic. She stared at it with wide blue eyes and parted dry lips. It wouldn’t do much, but right now, it was definitely better than nothing. The wrapper crinkled stridently. She chewed hard and grimaced as the stretchy substance got stuck between her teeth. Wetting her lips and taking a deep, calming breath, she forced the ball of sugar to swirl around her mouth as she pushed herself to her feet. The motion made her stagger and grab the stalagmite, wheezing and choking on her sugary saliva as she swooned on the spot. She closed her eyes and chewed harder. The dizziness swept over her again and faded as quickly as it came. Her grip on the stalagmite tightened as she opened her eyes to the dim light that struggled to light up the cave. With clumsy footsteps she crossed the room to the cavern path outside, shoving her right pistol into its holster and supporting her left hand as she aimed down the corridors. She could feel her heart thud in her chest with every unsteady step into the darkness, the tunnels winding around bends, up and down slopes and opening into empty rooms; every sound she made felt far too loud. Aster turned the next corner and her heart leapt. A breeze. Fresh air. *Escape*. She lowered her pistol and hobbled down the tunnel. To her dismay, she arrived in yet another cavern room. Above was a skylight, allowing moonlight to illuminate the lake below. Aster inched towards the ledge and peered down. She could see an islet that hadn’t been consumed by the still water and a tunnel from where the water was flowing in from. She closed her eyes, tipped her head back and took a deep breath of fresh air, listening to the faint chirping of crickets and grasshoppers outside, and smiling as the breeze kissed her cheeks. She heard the scraping of a foot across gravel. She spun on her heel and saw glowing golden eyes. “Aster!” She shot. Black substance splashed on her. An unholy shriek of agony echoed in the cavern as it reeled back. Aster grabbed her other pistol and aimed for its cowed form. She took another shot. BANG! The pistol backfired on its owner and Aster cried out in pain. She lost her footing and fell back into the lake. The cold soothed her burns as she was submerged, while the pistol in her right hand drifted from her grip and disappeared into the murky darkness below. She forced herself to swallow what was left of the caramel and pressed her hand to her stomach again, her heart leaping at the sight of the familiar blue glow. *Please, please, just one more...* Aster used her spare hand to flail in the water and resurface. She gasped and sloppily swum to the islet nearby. She crawled onto the stone, bent over and gripped her shirt. Her stomach churned and a bullet fell into her palm. *Thank gods!* She fumbled with her remaining pistol, shoving the fresh bullet into its chamber. “Aster...” She paused and looked up at those golden eyes glaring at her. It had gotten bigger, its form more distorted. It was difficult to believe this had been a human, if it ever had been in the first place. “Look at me, little star. We’re both at breaking point. Surrender now and we can relax. We can while away the hours in peace.” Aster raised her pistol and pressed the barrel between the eyes. She supported her left hand with her right. A black tendril coiled around the barrel as she closed her eyes. *Please.* She pulled the trigger.


I remembered the slime. That slime--that disgusting ooze that coated me after I had escaped its grasp was the first thing that came back to me. Then, I remembered the eyes. Long forgotten was that awful day, so many years ago. I must’ve buried deep within me, hoping it would never return to the forefront of my mind. It was supposed to be a relaxing fishing trip, just me and the sea. The possibilities were as endless as the blue ocean horizon before me. I felt freedom on the sea, and a connection with mother nature. My wife warned me not to go alone. But I wanted time to think, decompress--forget the stresses of the world and work and bills. All of my worries melted away as the sea swayed my small, yet reliable, vessel on its gentle waves. I felt like a baby back in my mother's arms, being rocked gently to sleep. The sea was my mother that day, and she rocked all my cares away. But she couldn’t protect me from all the horrors she held. I threw my line attached with a hook and heavy sinker into the sparkling water. The light plopping sound cut through the creaking of my boat and the gentle splashing of the waves against her bow. The line fell deeper and deeper into the unknown below. I opened my cooler and moved the ice aside and grabbed a cold tall boy. I popped the tab, took a sip, and waited for a bite. It's lonely out at sea. There's nothing to look out in the endless blue on blue. I regretted not bringing a companion with me. I missed home, even though I had only been gone a few hours. I thought I would enjoy some time alone. But I was growing frustrated, Nothing had bitten my line all day. The blue skies, that once made me feel free, turned gray and I felt boxed in. An awful sense of foreboding came over me. Just as I was going to head back into port, my reel began to spin out of control. The line went deeper and deeper into the sea at a rapid pace. But I couldn't stop it, the handle spun too fast. As I tried, the whirling handle nearly broke my fingers. I had two hundred feet of line and, despite my excitement of the bite, I worried my catch would take my line, rod, and reel--and the whole damn ship. Finally, I ran out of line, but the line didn’t break, nor did the rod jump into the sea. Instead, the ship started to tilt towards the stern until water filled the hull. Panic set in as I feared I would lose my boat, and, possibly, my life. I ran towards the bow, which now was some five or so feet above the water line. From there I saw the black outline of a creature crest the surface of the water. I didn't remember what it looked like until I saw it on TV, just today. All I remembered until today was the red eyes. The red eyes were the last thing I saw before my vessel capsized, bow over stern, and I was thrown into the sea. Exactly what happened from the time I was thrown overboard and when I was rescued has escaped my memory, but I do recall feelings of suffering in the lost time. My body felt like it was alight, like the ocean was made of fire. My mind was lost in darkness and confusion. I saw nothing but blackness and felt nothing but fire. It was as if the red eyes I saw belonged to the devil himself, he brought me down to the burning flames of hell. When I awoke, I floated among the wreckage. My face and life preserver were covered in the most wretched slime. It was a putrid stink that made me think, not just of death, but of the rot thereafter. I tried to wash it off with ocean water when I came to, but I wasn't able to. Even when I returned home, the smell stayed with me for weeks. A rescue helicopter found me after a few hours of floating. They asked me what happened and I could not tell them. They were visibly repulsed by my smell and they tried to wash it off to no avail. When I got to the hospital, they were finally able to remove most of the slime, but the smell still lingered. My body was covered in blistering burns. As I watched the news coverage of the discovery, my wife looked to see my horrified face. Without me saying a word, she knew that it must have been the creature that had caused me harm that day. The scientists looked so pleased with themselves for capturing this abomination. The camera panned up to the eyes--those infernal, red eyes--and my body felt like it was on fire again. I screamed in pain. My heart raced as I jumped in the shower. I tried to turn on the cold water but only the putrid slime rained down on me from the faucet. I drifted into the blackness of that day at sea when this devil attacked me. My wife pulled me out of the shower, trying to stop my screaming. I opened my eyes to see the look of concern on her face. She threw a towel over me and wrapped me up. She embraced me and rocked me gently as I shook and cried. I fear this creature may forever hold its power over me.


Ray Baker is dressed in a blue button up shirt, a flak jacket snugly pressed against his body, black pants and matching boots. In his left hand is a large empty canvas bag and on his right hip is a glock secure in its holster. From under a black cap his eyes scan the severely outdated bank. He moves forward like he belongs there; but he doesn’t. He is firmly convinced that he only needs to look the part in order to be granted access to anywhere he desires. In his mind he is invisible so long as no one knows his true motives. For the past five years Ray has been working at a company called S&K, one of the largest local distributors of sundries and wine supplies in the county. He’s a delivery driver and while out on his “beat” he’s developed an obsession with being in places he isn’t supposed to be. He found that all it took was showing up with a box and a truck and he would be granted access to any number of businesses and organizations without having to show his credentials. He developed a habit of bringing a package around with him on his days off so that when the mood struck him he could walk into an employee entrance or the loading dock of any number of businesses just to get the rush of being where he shouldn’t. He sometimes felt like a ghost who was able to peer into the “behind the scenes” of so many restaurant kitchens, storage rooms of large corporations, warehouses full of products being prepared to ship, and supply closets in hospitals and the back rooms of stores at the mall. He would wander long hallways with no one in them and patrol work rooms with people at their computers clacking away at their keyboards. Sometimes someone would look up and see that he was a courier by the box in his hands and go back to their tasks. “We can’t eat there,” he told his girlfriend Mary one night when they were cruising downtown looking for a place to stop for dinner. “ Why not? I’ve heard good things, ” she said. “If you saw the kitchen you would know why. Trust me, we ain’t eatin there.” It never seemed to matter where he walked into so long as he carried a box and moved with authority. Sometimes he would even break out the hand truck as an extra cover. He never wore a uniform or a badge. He began to wonder how much farther he could get if he did. Mary thought he was crazy when he started talking about how easy it would be to walk into a bank and rob it. “I”m telling you, Mary. I do this shit all the time. All I gotta do is look the part. I’ll dress up like one of those armored car guys, walk into the vault and take the take! Easy peasy.” “You’re a crazy son of a bitch, you know that? I ain’t going to be your get away driver, I’ll tell you that.” “I’ll come up with something...” Steven was fired a month ago from S&K but was secretly living in the warehouse in a nest he built high up in the pallet racks. Ray was sympathetic to his situation and helped him avoid detection. Late at night after a route Ray would be the lookout while Steven climbed up the pallet rack to his bed. Sometimes they would talk, and eventually Ray shared his idea of robbing a bank successfully if they could be convincing enough. Ray was a bit of a salesman and after several discussions was able to convince Steven, who had been looking for work ever since he was fired, to be the driver. They pieced together a uniform and even though the getup wasn’t perfect it was close enough that no one would notice the difference. They had a bit of luck when Steven met a guy at a bar who used to work for an armored car company. He laid out the details of how the procedure worked. The barcode that had to be scanned in order to keep tabs on their movement. The weekly pickups that were never done at the same time of day. "Are you thinking of robbing a truck?" The man had asked. "Nah, hell no. Just job hunting. Was considering applying." After the tip they were able to narrow down the pickup day to Thursday and confirmed that the truck never showed up at the same time. Sometimes it was around noon, other times closer to three, or somewhere in between. “We don’t have an armored car,” Steven said one day as they sat outside Chase bank. “It doesn't matter. We need something quicker. I think this ride right here will be just fine.” “ My clunker!? You gotta be shittin. Plus it's registered in my name! We gotta rent something...” “ No renting. How much money do you have?” “I just lost my job! I’m sleeping in the damn warehouse of my previous employer! I ain’t got no fucking money!” “We gotta have something to get away in. Maybe we can find a ride on Craigslist.” Ray walks toward the half door to the left of the teller booth. There are seven people standing in line, bankers sit with other clients in little cubicles. A woman, maybe a manager, notices Ray and walks over to the half door to greet him. Outside, Steven is in the parking lot in a 80’ yellow Honda civic. He's smoking and bouncing his legs impulsively, his hands tightly gripped against the steering wheel. Ray and Mary had terminated their lease over a month ago and were now sleeping at the Sand Man Hotel. “This shit better work like you think,” Mary said one day as they sat by the pool. “I’ve been doing this for years.” “You say that like you’ve been robbing banks. All you’ve done is walk into places like you own it. I can’t believe I’m trusting you.” “Look at this scene,” Ray said, looking over at the kids jumping into the pool while their parents drank blended margaritas. “Pretty soon we’ll be doing this on the beaches of Miami, minus the kids. But who knows, maybe kids too...” But the truth was Ray wasn’t all that sure it would work. Plan B was something he didn’t want to act out and hoped that he could fool the bankers into giving him the take. Outside the bank Steven is blowing smoke from his nose. He stares through the bank windows trying to make out figures. His leg is bouncing uncontrollably and when someone nearby honks their horn he jumps and yells to “Shut up!” At the half door there is a barcode on the wall. Ray nervously holds up his phony scanner and it beeps. “Thursday it is,” Ray had said when he and Steven met at a local diner on College and Mendocino. “Yeah, but what time?” “This is where we gamble.” “Sometime between twelve and three, Steven mumbles.” “One thirty,” Ray says nodding his head. “One thirty.” It was 1:33 in the afternoon when Ray entered the teller booth. He’s led to the old style vault, a large walk in with steel bars and a huge dial. “What did you have for us this week?” The girl asks. “I’m here to make a pickup,” Ray says, lost in the rush of being where he shouldn’t. The girl looks at him a little confused. “Oh, but what about our cash?” “That’s what I’m here for,” Ray says. “I’m here for the money.” “So, you’re saying you're only here for a pickup ?” “That’s right, like usual.” “Okay, but I... listen, lets go back to the booth. I need to make a call. I’m worried about our cash levels.” At a red light an armored truck squeaks to a stop. Steven, a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, turns toward the sound. “Ah, fuckin hell!” Inside the bank the woman begins to leave the vault, but before she can go Ray pulls out the gloch from its holster and shoves it under the woman’s chin. “ I didn’t want to do this but you’ve made me. Fill the fucking bag or I’ll spray your skull against the ceiling.” Ray was acting. He was the robber he wasn’t, the one like in all those Hollywood movies. “ Fill--the fucking--bag! ” he says against her ear. The armored truck pulls up into a loading zone and the passenger, an armored guard, exits the vehicle. “Ah holy hell!” Steven says. The woman is stuffing the bag with cash and Ray is telling her to hurry up under his breath. When she’s done the time is 1:41. “ Get on the ground- -and don’t--fucking move !” he instructs her. The woman complies and lays there with her hands over her face sobbing. Ray begins to exit the vault and as he rounds a corner he sees a teller standing at the half door. Someone is on the other side but he can’t make out who. As he approaches, the teller looks behind her and reveals the guard on the other side. With a sudden instinct of playing the part, Ray raises the gun and fires three quick shots. One hits the teller in the neck and blood goes spraying into the guard’s face as a round hits his cheek and the other goes into his face just below his nose. He drops to the ground and people are screaming. Ray steps across the threshold from the tellers booth, he looks down at the guard whose face is a mess of gore, his eyes are blinking and he is reaching for his sidearm. Ray fires his weapon in the center of the man’s forehead which creates a small explosion of blood and brain matter to spread out against the floor. Before he exits the scene he leans down and takes the man’s gun. From outside Steven can hear the four shots. He looks to the driver in the armored truck who has his eyes trained on the bank entrance. When Ray emerges he immediately aims the weapon at the truck and unloads the rest of the clip into the windshield. The bullet proof glass splinters and the driver ducks behind the dash. Ray jumps into the back seat of the yellow Honda and yells, “ GO, GO, GO! ” As the Honda Civic takes the on ramp headed north, Ray is pulling off his clothes. The sweat makes everything stick and he frustratingly yanks it all off. As he is changing, two police cars head south on the other side of the freeway. They pass in a hurry, sirens blaring. The yellow Honda pulls into the Sandman Hotel. “Mary! It's time to move, darling,” Ray yells as he and Steven barge into the room. “I was so fucking worried you wouldn’t come back,” she kisses him hard. “We gotta go baby.” “What’s the take?” Steven asks. “I don’t know but there were a lot of hundreds stuffed in that bag.” “Let's split it up.” “How much do you want?” “What do you mean? I want my fair share. Let's split it.” Ray looks over at Mary who returns his stone cold gaze. He raises the weapon he took from the guard and fires a round into the center of Steven’s face. “Killing really does get easier the more you do it...” Ray says. Mary grabs the keys to Steven’s clunker sitting on the night stand and they slip out of the room. When they hit interstate 580 they breathe a little. “I think we did it sugar plum,” Ray says. “You think?” “Every mile we get a little further.” “What about our identities? They’ll catch up to us sooner or later.” “Don’t worry. We got time to think about who we can be. We ain’t Mary and Ray no more, baby. It's a new scene, we gotta act the part. I figure we bum around the United States until we come up with some new identification. We got plenty of money to turn into new people.” “Who are you going to be?” “I don’t know yet. But you sure look like a Bonnie if I say so myself.” “ Bonnie? Does that make you my Clyde?” Ray looks over at her with a big full toothed smile. “You know what, baby? I think I like that. You’re my Bonnie and I’m your Clyde.” “Forever?” “Forever and ever. There is no question,” their eyes meet and so do their lips.