The stars are bright tonight. They shine so much brighter tonight because the whole city has been without electricity for almost 2 weeks now-an effect of the recent very devastating typhoon. But her eyes, though hidden behind her lids now as she takes shallow breaths beside me, are still the brightest. And I could stay in this moment forever if I could. Seal this (her, me, the skies, the lack of electricity, everything) in a capsule of a moment. "Hey", she whispers as she catches me watching her sleep. I used to blush and pretend to not have done what I was just caught doing. Now I just returned the greeting and kept watching her. So beautiful. She looked back up. At the sky. And I did the same. Just content in having her with me. Right now. In this moment. "What would you do if tomorrow, I told you that you only have 12 hours to pack your bags and decide whether to come with me somewhere far from here or not? No turning back. They'll hate us for leaving without a goodbye, anyway. We can't go back after leaving like that," she asked after a while. I was taken aback. She's always mentioned wanting to run away. But usually, she meant it as a thing she'd do alone. Never considered bringing me with her, she said. Never considered coming back for me either. So for her to say it like this took me by surprise. A bittersweet surprise. "I guess I can't really tell. Unless that time actually happens, that is," I replied. With that, she closed her eyes and slept again. I woke up the next day to find her gone. I looked for her around the place. I mean, she might have just woken up early and wanted to look around. So I checked the time first. On my phone. I saw that she left a message. Says she went home early to prepare for work. It only came to me then that today is Monday. So I went back home. It's 10 am. She'd have gone to work and been working for 1.5 hours now. I'll bring her some lunch instead and fetch her after her working hours. Today was good. I just dropped her home. We had a great dinner. Watched a movie even. I'll have to report back to work tomorrow too. God, I love her smile I called her phone this morning on my way to work. Make sure she wakes up early enough to at least shower. It didn't even ring. I'll drop by her place instead. It's only 6:40 anyway and I'll still be early if I took a quick detour to wake her up. Her door is closed. She must still be asleep. What a sleepyhead. 😅 I took the extra key from under the third cactus pot on her porch and sneaked in. This will be a good surprise. "Oh..." Her place is spotless. She's a bit OCD. But hella sleepy and lazy haha. She must have gotten bored. I sneaked into her room. Trying not to make a sound so I can make a good surprise. Everything is as they are. Except for the bed. That lay flat. "Oh.


I woke slowly, i don’t know how long i really laid there, watching the dust fall through the cracks of light in the room. I hauled myself out of bed, fighting the strained and tired muscles, my stiff joints from sleeping on the uneven bed. I walked into the bathroom, and lifted my canteen, i took a few drops of the murky water and rubbed my face, with it. I shook the dust off the mirror and looked at my face, dirty unshaven, my tired eyes stared back at me beneath my unkempt hair. I turned my back on the bathroom and walked down the creaking stairs, into the living room, breaks of light between the boards shone through here too. Walking into the kitchen i looked at the water collector, it was empty, This was the third day without rain, and if it kept up this way, My third day without refilling my Canteen. I picked up the jacket I had taken off a soldier long ago, it was frayed along the bottoms, there were light rips, and the cords were splitting. The discolouration in the shoulders and elbows we’re apparent. I did up the buttons and tied the cords, the way i have a hundred times, I reached and grabbed my old shotgun, I had 10 rounds, i loaded 4 into it, and left the rest in the closet. i checked the handgun in the holster on my hip, i slung the shotgun and replaced the handgun, before picking up the wood and flint 3 pronged spear. The shoelaces taken off the dead we’re wrapped around its head holding the flint in place. I held it in front of me as i unlocked the steel framed door in front of me. I stepped onto the bright covered porch. As my eyes adjusted i looked around at the desolate street that used to be the Gale Crescent Cul-De-Sac, the dilapidated houses stared, empty back at me. The fractured and potholed road as familiar as an old friend. I locked the gate and stepped into the sunlight. As i walked past the cars which had long since been made useless i couldn’t help but feel indolent, the feeling of helplessness crept into the back of my mind like a fox tracking it prey. I tried to shake it off as i walked towards the Amigary Downs Park, which held the canopy of trees, where i had set-up my snares, and often tried to fish or spear hunt. I walked into the comforting embrace of the trees, and the cover from any curious onlookers. I walked through the trees humming to myself, checking my snares, after 3 or 4 i found a small rabbit, which i took out of the snare, and reset, a while further i found a squirrel. A pretty good quarry for the next few days. As i walked back through the forest i heard a few loud bangs, and dropped cover, unslinging my shotgun, and bringing it to bear. After 3 or 4 hours of waiting I walked cautiously back to the road, I saw a group of cars, one of which must have burned, blowing the tires. As i arrived at the cars, i noticed i was right, As i stared looking at the remnants of the burned cars, i saw one which had mostly been left alone, save a small area in the back seat. the once clean interior of it had a layer of ivory ash, in the passenger seat laid the remnants of an easier time, the flip flops, the old sunglasses, and a small teddy bear laid on the floor in front, its plaid sweater ever so slightly staring back at me beneath its ashy tomb. An equanimity washed over me for just a second, and just as soon as it came, it was gone, reminding me to go home.


I’m feeling extra grouchy today. It’s unfortunate because ‘giving out’ to others is what I do. But then, being driven half-crazy by scratching whilst lying in wait on my futon can do that to a person. Especially during the middle of the night. It seemed to be coming from the back of the skirting board. The intermittent scraping put my teeth on edge. So much so, I barely slept until the last hour. My heart rushed as the morning alarm jolted me awake; it was too late to do my daily exercises (a vigorous workout keeps me sane and enlivens me). I showered, gulped coffee, slammed the door and sprinted up the road, praying my new occupant isn’t a rat! Rats conjure up images of Plague doctors dressed in long coats, carrying sticks and wearing disproportionate beak masks beating a path through infested streets during the 16 th and 17 th centuries. I can cope with anything but a rat! But having a mouse as a house guest is bad enough. For the sake of argument, let’s assume last night’s visitor was a mouse who managed to sneak in from the garden where everything is ice-coated, even the pond. Come to think of it, why isn’t the silly creature hibernating? But when I googled it in the night (always fatal), I discovered mice are more sensible than humans. Give them some credit. They can sneak in and out of the tiniest hole, even making it in through a house’s foundations. You can’t blame them. Somehow, the idea of its presence defeated me. I hate being defeated. Perhaps it scampered in when I was tying the leaves of Lyndsey’s palm to protect it from the frost. It was her last gift to me and I can’t stand the thought of losing it. I first heard it two nights ago, when dropping off. I closed my ears to the scrabbling. But when it started again last night, I was on high alert and switched on my lamp, prepared for battle. I planned to use my dressing gown as a net, but there was nothing to be seen other than wooden floorboards and shadows. I waited some time, but other than the ticking of the clock, there was only silence. I was just about to doze off when it started again. I was now highly agitated. How could a creature, no bigger than my hand, be causing such aggravation? I suddenly remembered the gerbil I had as a kid. A friendly little thing called Pinky, I loved watching it exercise on its wheel. But as I’m rapidly discovering, a wild mouse is another matter altogether, particularly when one is alone in the house. It’s like a predator. My heart beat steadily. At any moment, the mouse might scurry across the floor and land on me! Considering I sleep on a futon (in retrospect, not one of Lyndsey’s finest ideas, but I knew she’d always wanted one), it can’t be discounted! Urgh! How I wish she were here with me now. We could deal with this blasted pest together. At the very least, she’d have seen the funny side of it. I miss her humour. But then, everything is exaggerated at this time of year! Christmas which was once a happy occasion, now secretly dreaded. You see, Lyndsey, my partner and best friend, died two years ago - just before Christmas in fact, and tomorrow is the anniversary of her death. I keep hoping it will get easier and sometimes it does. I thought I was doing alright until I overheard someone say, “It’s about time she met someone new,” but I’m not ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready. Yesterday I got a message from Natalia. “My mother has arrived in England. Can she come and help in the shop tomorrow at 9.00? Her name is Ivanna.” Natalia, I should explain, is one of my helpers at the shop. She arrived from the Ukraine under a scheme to help those fleeing from the war and has been living in England at Graham’s house. Graham is another volunteer who helps. He sorts, prices books, attends to the banking, and acts as general handyman and magician all rolled into one. Our shop is the busiest charity shop in town and I’m its manager. Graham and his wife have given Natalia a room in their house while she improves her English and looks for full-time work. She found a part-time position at an art studio, but it was temporary. At the charity shop, she helps steam clothes, tag labels and puts out the finished products for sale. She’s friendly and efficient and I like to think I’ve done my bit to make her feel welcome. I can only imagine what it must have been like to to leave her former life behind. Her brother and father are fighting in the war, but I don’t like to ask her about it. Some things are too painful. My father was also a soldier, but that’s another story. The first time Natalia came to the shop, I wondered how we’d communicate, but I needn’t have worried. Aided by her translation app, we soon made it work. Her English is certainly improving. Recently, she mentioned the possibility of her mother joining her shortly. By all accounts, Natalia’s mother knows very little English. It would be easier if mother and daughter were together the first time Ivanna comes to the shop so Natalia can explain what needs doing. I need to catch up on a growing number of tasks and checklists on the back office computer. There’s always extra work to do and I’d planned to spend a couple of hours getting onto it. Even one hour would have been good. When I got Natalia’s message about wanting her mother to help at the shop, I quickly rebooted. “Can she come in at ten? 9.00 is too early,” I messaged back. “Sure,” she replied. That was yesterday evening. Today, my eyes are sore and my head is filled with all things MOUSE. In my mind, the house is infested with them. A veritable tribe have built a nest somewhere and it just keeps growing. Maybe I should ring up the council? They ought to take pest control seriously, but I’ll probably have to spend hours waiting for a reply, only to be fobbed off from one department to another. The other alternative is to go online. Me and computers?? Enough said.. It’s easier to deal with the problem directly. Be strong Yvonne, I tell myself. Live up to your surname. What about mousetraps, then ? Sounds ok in theory, but I’m not keen on the idea of inflicting unnecessary pain. I don’t hate it/them enough for that. YET!! Poison, then? Not a particularly pleasant way to go either, from what I’ve heard. The only thing left is “humane traps.” The protagonist (me) tempts the antagonist (the mouse) into a small chamber with morsels of delightful food. At which point the door jams shut. Let’s hope it’s not a claustrophobic mouse because it could have a heart attack while waiting for me to return home to be released in a field where it will probably freeze to death.The mind boggles. Maybe the lethal mousetraps are the best method, after all. My mood turns thunderous when I catch sight of bags and boxes stacked up against the shop door. Why would anyone do that? Isn’t it bad enough leaving it against the window? As I get closer, it appears to be piles of rubbish and filthy bedding. Usually there’s a respite before Christmas as people are preoccupied with shopping and have less time to donate. It’s a welcome chance to catch up on neglected tasks. Apart from the fact that the path outside the shop is a treacherous slide, leaving stuff outside the shop is actually fly tipping. In other words, illegal. The perpetrators clearly haven’t read the sign on the window. It states in bold letters: Do not leave donations, except in shop hours, as they are liable to be ransacked. Standing by a bench, I see a woman waiting outside the shop. I hope it’s not a customer wanting a refund. Another annoyance. They must be keen to be hanging round a quarter of an hour before the shop opens. Normally, I arrive at the shop at least an hour before opening so I can set up and prepare for the onslaught. I like to be prepared. The woman turns to me.“Excuse..... I Natalia’s mother.” What! Already? You’re not supposed to be here till ten! I want to say, but don’t. My head is aching and I’m desperate for coffee. “Ok. Come in.” I try not to sound cross as I fiddle with keys and she follows me in. Close up I see she’s very much like her daughter, only about twenty years older. “I’ve just got to bring these bags in. Can you help?” It takes a while but after a few gesticulations and grimaces she helps bring them in. “They shouldn’t do this. It’s not fair,” I mutter to myself. “Bloody arseholes.” “Sorry. I speak only little English.” She gives me a concerned look. It’s just as well she can’t understand me because I make various rude suggestions about where such people can stick their unwanted goods. If first impressions are anything to go by, most of it should have been disposed of at the town’s tip! Inside the shop, I gesture a seat.“You wait here.....” She sits down. “Your name?” she asks holding out her hand. “Yvonne. Hello.” “Hello. I Ivanna.” “Hello Ivanna. Nice to meet you. Now. Wait here.”I hold up my hand like some police officer stopping traffic. “Won’t be long. I have to set up.” She waits while I turn heaters on to warm the place. I then get the money from the safe and set up my float. Although people increasingly use cards now, many prefer cash. I feel I’m being heartless here. Making her wait. Over time, I’ve perfected a way of settling new volunteers in on their first day. It’s called a “taster session” where both manager and volunteer see how they get on. At least, in theory. In reality , there’s nothing worse than when someone totally unsuitable shows. Since Covid, more and more people are battling with depression and mental health. I do my best to help, but sometimes it can be overwhelming. I’m not a trained professional or social worker and it’s difficult to strike the right balance. Between helping people and running a shop. There’s no secret to a successful shop. The more quality items are sorted and processed to be sold, the more money the charity makes. By now, Jane, the assistant manager has arrived. She can see I’m struggling. “I’ll go in the shop, if you want. Then you’ll be able to spend time with the new lady. Shout if you need me.” After showing Ivanna where to hang her coat, she follows me to the kitchen area where staff lockers are kept. Some of the keys are missing and have not been replaced (in spite of having kept a spare set in the safe). With the amount of people coming in and out, keys often get lost. Note to self. I must get some new keys cut ASAP. Ivanna seems baffled when I explain about pinning the locker key to her jacket so as not to lose it. I feel like an actor in a pantomime mining where to hang her coat, and the need to ‘sign in’ in case of a fire. Normally I would explain about the fire doors, safety, and the nearest exit routes, but I’m feeling shattered. When all else fails, steaming is a job that needs doing. Ivanna looks more than capable. “I’ll show you how to use the steamer.” I point to an electrical gadget which looks a bit like a Henry hoover minus the friendly face. It’s a cylinder with a hose attached to it. At the end of the hose, a nozzle rests on a holder. Ivanna watches as I unscrew a lid and pour in water from a jug using a funnel. The water must be hot (I explain), otherwise it will take ages to reach the right temperature. After readjusting the lid, I press a green switch. The water heats up and a cloud of steam emerges from the nozzle. Ivanna watches me take a blouse from a rail and place it on the holder. The heat has made the pipe malleable and soon the creases iron out. She looks suitably impressed. When it runs out of steam, the machine makes a loud noise to alert the user they must switch it off. You then refill, wait for it to heat up and start the process all over again. Ivanna wants to ask a question. “Have you got a translate app?”I ask. She checks her mobile phone and tries to work the app. “Ooooh,” she says irritably. I wait while she perseveres. What with that and me speaking English as slowly as a snail (how peculiar words sound spoken like this), we get there in the end. Ivanna a settles into a routine and diligently steams a rail of clothes. By now, other volunteers have trickled in to offer their services. I introduce them to Ivanna. They are a friendly bunch. Suddenly Natalia appears bright-cheeked at the doorway. Unexpectedly, shes cycled through icy roads to check on her mother’s progress. “Getting on well,” I say. “Ah, I see you get her use steamer,” she grins. “Yes, I’ve tried to show her where to put the clothes in the shop, but it’s difficult. I really need to go on the computer. Have you got time to quickly show her?” Natalia takes off her coat. “Of course. I would have come in earlier but I did not want to miss my English lesson.” “Well, if your mother works at English like you, I think she’ll be good.” For a while, they converse in their own language. Ivanna is being thoroughly instructed by her daughter. While Ivanna sets about her task, Natalia smiles at me. “I have question to ask. I’m looking at Christmas present for Graham. What you think I should get him?” I smile. Graham a very kind man, with a cheeky sense of humour. He has a saucy side which we all take it with a large pinch of salt. This year he’s managed to get invited to at least eight Christmas meals, all of which he will greatly enjoy. I count myself lucky to have been invited to two. I’m less certain whether I will go. “I thought maybe I get him game,” Natalia says. “A good idea. What about monopoly?” “How you say?” I skip monopoly for the moment. What do you play in Ukraine?” Her expression turns wistful. She once told me before she got out, her family lived by the sea. She said it was warm in the summer which surprised me, but then the Ukraine is a large country. “Well, the young people my age like playing video games in cafes.” After searching the back room for a monopoly set, I find one for sale in the shop and hand it to her. “Ah monopoly!” She understands now. “But Graham already has that. He loves it. It is very loud when he plays. It is a big family game with him. His daughters enjoy it too. They shout loudly.” We suddenly come across a beer glass designed in the shape of a woman’s body. It’s fairly mild compared to some of the things I’ve encountered in the the shop. Sex toys are a definite no-no. Some of the customers might be offended and send an email of complaint to head office. It generally results in grovelling on my part. Perhaps Graham would like this beer glass?” I suggest mischievously. “But I think his wife would not.” We laugh. “I already have chocolates for Graham’s wife.” Natalia finally settles on a game of chess for Graham. “I don’t think he has a chess set. I think maybe I teach him. He likes to learn. Something I can give for him being kind and letting me live with his family. And for helping me with forms for my mother to come too.” “Yes, he is good.” I cannot imagine how hard it must be for them. Their courage and strength shine through. A day or two later, I sift through the Christmas cards we keep on a shelf in a box for the staff. When I get home I open mine. Graham’s one says. You’re very welcome to join us for Christmas. Natalia and Ivanna both hope you can make it. xxx No pressure then. But then, why wouldn’t I want to join them? Last year, I did Christmas alone - in spite of several kind invites. As I make my way home, I think of Ivanna. Her step when she left the shop was lighter than when she came in. All in all, a job well done. As for the mouse business? Tonight I’ll sleep in the spare room. Let’s hope it’s mouse-proof. In the New year, I’ll treat myself to the cat Lyndsey always wanted. As for joining Graham’s family and my two Ukrainian friends, why not? We can always play a game of monopoly.


I’ve always known my reflection was a bit off. I often caught glimpses of it, never thinking much of it. But as the years have gone by, the occasional “that was weird” thoughts have graduated in severity. And now, I am hiding besides my bed, fearing for my life. My parents first brought the mirror when I was 7. It was a few days before my first day of 2nd grade. It was delivered to my room by my dad, hoping to have dual benefits: The new mirror would allow me to dress myself for school every morning and simultaneously alleviate my mother’s hectic morning routing. My little sister was soon to enter kindergarten and required morning assistance. I encountered it one evening as I entered my room, oblivious of what it would eventually become. My dad placed it next to the bedroom door without warning, trying to avoid my objections to it. Even though I would have never admitted, I secretly enjoyed being dressed by my mom, and I had expressed poor excuses as to why I shouldn’t have it. Nonetheless, it stayed. The mirror was tall and skinny. My mom called it a “body mirror”, which seemed a bit grandiose to me: It was just a big mirror. Protests against it quickly wore off, and that mirror became a part of my morning routine. Every morning, I dressed myself. And every morning, my reflection stared back at me, dreadful eyes watching me. It started like that, with those eyes. Initially, I didn’t take notice; my innocence confused dread with grogginess, and that was normal, right? Everyone was sleepy in the morning, so there was nothing out of the ordinary! It took me years to realize this was not the norm. Years passed, and I became aware something was off about my reflection in *that* mirror. I first noticed one afternoon in the third grade. I caught a glance of my *real* reflection on my school cafeteria windows. We chatted away, in single file line, waiting to receive our meal. As a kid, I never cared much for my looks. I didn’t spend time in front of mirrors. I was like most kids, oblivious to physical attributes. But catching a glimpse of my reflection through the windows caused me to do a double take. I looked different. My reflection looked...alive. It looked vivid. It looked nothing like what stared back at me every morning for years as I got dressed for school. That reflection was glum. It was cheerless. It was even a bit pale and sickly. Here I stood waiting in line, captivated by what I saw. My classmates nudged me, urging me to keep up with the line. But I stood there, staring. When I arrived home, I went to my mirror, still in disbelief. I looked. The empty shell of a boy stared back at me. For years, I made excuses to justify this disparity between what I saw in my mirror and elsewhere. In the 7th grade, we learned the science behind reflections, but that didn’t seem correct. My mirror’s reflection wasn’t me. It looked similar to me, but it wasn’t exactly like me, as the teacher had taught. Windows, water, even other mirrors, they all showed me, but not the one in my room. The years passed, and I never told anyone, afraid to being labeled as a crazy teenager seeking attention By then, it was obvious something was wrong with that mirror, but the variances were always only aesthetic. I attributed it to bad lighting in my dimly lit, edgy, teenager bedroom. My skin tone looked unhealthy. My eyes didn’t look human; they even looked lifeless. My lips were dry. But I grew used to starting at a pale, soulless version of me, never digging deeper into its strangeness. But it finally happened. It was exactly 3 months ago today. My reflection disobeyed me for the first time. I was getting ready to go to my first college interview. I was putting on a tie, staring at the mirror while rehearsing an opening anecdote to use during my interview, one that highlighted my knowledge and wit. I fidgeted with my tie, mumbling the words of my story, trying to seem genuine and spontaneous. I lowered my hands to my side. I straightened my back, puffed my chest, like a soldier ready to go to war. I was ready to go to my first college interview. I examined my attire from head to toe. I approved. I turned away, satisfied with my appearance, and noticed something through my peripherals. My reflection *didn’t move*. I jerked back towards the mirror; it stood there. Staring at me - unmoving. I moved my hands nonsensically, like a mime waving enthusiastically. I raised my hands, wiggled my fingers, but it stood there, hands down, unmoving, a stranger in my room. I took a step forward; he stayed still. I reached my hand towards the mirror, my fingers feeling the cold polished surface. He stayed still. Then, slowly, his face contorted into a smirk; otherwise, he remained unmoved. I felt my stomach clench. I moved away and sat on my bed, away from the line of sight of the mirror. I knew I had to have imagined it. But deep down, I had been waiting for this day to come. I gathered the courage to stand in front of the mirror again. When I did, everything was back to normal. The pale version of me mimicked my every move. Since then, my reflection’s disobedience is growing in frequency and severity. The worst just happened, minutes before typing this. I felt particularly brave this evening, drunk on excitement for being accepted to my dream school. I wanted to challenge him, knowing he couldn’t really do much to me. He was the one confined to the mirror, not me. I stood in front of the mirror. I stared at him, trying to catch him break character. I did this half-jokingly, since he rarely response to provocations like this. I taunted. Usually, this kind of provocation would fail, as he seemed to only act when I least expected it. But He decided the facade was up. I stood, staring at my mirror, challenging him to defy me. I bobbed my head side to side, smirking, as he rightfully mirrored every one of my moves. “Ah come on! Indulge me!” I said conceitedly, as my head movement became more extreme, heavy with arrogance. But as those words left my mouth, he stopped. He froze, head tilted mid bob. And he slowly straightened his neck and started back at me. I felt a rush of embarrassment and fear, as I stood there, swaying my head to side to side idiotically. I felt my face hot and eyes wide. Before I could collect myself, He took a step forward, growing in size. I stumbled back in fear, knocking over a stack of papers neatly placed on my desk. I reached for support, as my legs became jelly. He stepped forward again. Again, I recoiled, this time stumbling to the ground. I sat there, legs bent against my chest, staring forward, feeling the sweat drip down my face. He was now towering over me. He stood there, so large, half of his body took up the entirety of this so called “body mirror”. He stared, and his face changed again. Horror filled me as I stared at a stranger that looked like a possessed version of me. One end of his lips curled up slowly, creating that smirk I had seen over the last 3 months. He stared at me, taunting, towering over me. He slowly shook his head. His demonic smile remained unchanged. He raised his right hand, index finger and thumb extended out: The universal hand gesture for a gun. He placed the tip of his index finger on his head temple, his thumb aiming towards the ceiling. He imitated a gun shot with his hand, recoiling his head to the side. His demonic smile remained unchanged. His neck and head quickly sprung back to position, staring at me. Uncontrollably, I thrashed backwards, crawling away and breaking eye contact. When I looked back, he was gone. Only I stared back, fear covering my sweaty face, panting for breath and grasping at anything to offer some support, as if the ground below me was giving out. With the help of my desk, I slowly stood. The room was spinning, and my head was throbbing. I became unusually aware of my temples pulsing unnaturally on the side of my head. I reached out to touch them. Adrenaline pumping through me, my immediate reaction was to reach for my bed’s comforter. I threw it over the mirror. He can’t do anything if he can’t see me, right? But as I write this, I hear hoarse voice is whispering, “you’re going to die...” over and over. I’m crawled up in the corner of my room, but there’s a light tapping of glass coming from the mirror being muffled by my comforter. It’s growing louder as the whispers continue. I’m afraid my reflection is going to kill me.


There he sits, in the crowded train going to Memphis, Tennessee, rereading yesterday’s newspaper from April 24, 1942. Halfway there the man begins to regret his decision of applying for a law enforcement job. Why did I leave the beautiful, scenery of Kentucky for this stupid job? he ponders. I like food better than music. But, life has its reasons that it keeps to itself. All of a sudden, a black man is getting on the train. He sits down in the front. “Hey, you,” the conductor says. “Go to the back of the train.” “But, sir, I-” “I don’t wanna hear it,” the conductor interjects. “You either go to the back of the train or you don’t ride this train at all.” “Conductor, wait,” says the man from Kentucky. “Let the black man sit with me.” “Well,” the conductor starts to say, then hesitates. “Ok, fine.” “Thank you so much,” the black man says. “No problem,” says the future law enforcement officer. A day later the man arrives in Memphis. He loves the scenery and the beautiful hills there, but he did not realize it would be so busy, and he feels sorry for the hundreds of people without a home, crying and struggling to keep their kids fed. As a few families soon see that this man is a prestigious individual, they scamper up to him and beg for the precious paper with the president's face on it. "I can only afford to treat you to twenty dollars each; I am so sorry,” says the man. Sniffling, one of the mothers gratefully speaks. "God bless you, Mr...," "Isaac,” he replies generously. “Isaac Hunt. And you?" "I am Ava Griffin, and this is my 12-year-old daughter, Naudia Griffin. My daughter's dream is to be a great detective. We needed money for food and clothes, so we could eat and I can get a job to pay for my daughter's education, so she can live up to her big dream. Thank you so much for the twenty dollars, we will never forget this." Isaac humbly replies, "You are so welcome, and I am glad I could help. And Naudia, good luck with your big dream. Just don't forget to never give up. And trust me, you will make it. And, who knows? Maybe we will cross paths once again. But for now, goodbye." As Isaac walks away, he notices that it was getting dark out and that he didn't even have a place to sleep. But thankfully Isaac sees a humongous, lit-up sign that reads, "Glacier Inn and Suites." Something about this place strikes Mr. Hunt’s mind, and before he even knows it, he is inside the building. "Hello sir, would you like to book a room?" a blunt and heavy voice asks. "Oh yes, a regular room please," Isaac replies softly, feeling very welcomed in the city. "How many nights will you be spending?" the man at the counter asks. Isaac hesitates for just a moment and says, “Just tonight, please.” “Okay, that will be five dollars. Here’s your key and you are going to be in room 202,” the man at the counter tells Isaac. As Isaac walks up the stairs to his room, he begins to look around the burgundy stairway to try to figure out why the stairway reeked of gasoline and cigarettes. But, before Issac finds out, he lets out a yawn, so, knowing that he is sleepy, he walks tiredly into his room. “Wow!” he says to himself, “I didn’t think the rooms would be this nice! Are they all suites? I thought I ordered a regular room.” He crawls into the very warm and cozy bed, and very fast he falls asleep. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! The fire alarm goes. Isaac wakes up. There is a lot of heat and pressure. “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” Isaac yells as he hears screaming. “HELPPPP!!!” he hears a female voice say. “MY BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Isaac knows he can’t leave them; he has to help them. “Don’t worry, help is on the way!” Isaac yells so loudly, it hurts his own ears. He feels the door with the back of his hand, checking if it is hot. It is not. He runs out the door, slides down the stairs, runs past the lobby into the hall of rooms he knows the woman called from. “Ma’am,” he yells. “I need you to yell something, so I know where you are!” “OKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!” she yells. Almost instantly, Isaac knows where the woman is. He feels the door with the back of his hand again, but this time it is hot. “I’m coming, ma’am!” he yells. He runs into the bathroom in the lobby, finds a wet towel, and opens the door. But the flames. The flames are everywhere! With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he runs into the janitor’s closet, grabs a bucket filled with water, and throws it on top of the flames, dulling them all out. “Don’t worry, ma’am, I will save you.” He runs into the room with a towel partly over his eyes, grabs the baby, and puts his free arm around the lady, and brings them out of the hotel and into the parking lot. Together they watch the hotel burst into flames as they listen to the sirens of the fire trucks and the ambulances. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much,” the lady says as she starts coughing. “You’re very welcome, but get to a hospital right away, just to get you and your baby checked out.” That is how Isaac Hunt’s career started. He became a renowned law enforcement officer, with his trained sidekick Naudia Griffin, and he fought against many foes, including Nazis, the KKK, Communists, and many other villains during his reign. After a long tenure as the chief law enforcement officer, he passed the position down to, now a full-grown, Naudia Griffin, who holds the position today. He retired and lived a happy life. Nobody knows where he is now, however. But some have seen him in gardens, looking at the sunset in all of its glory. Because that is what he liked the most.


WANTED: SINGER/SONGWRITER Able to pair subversive lyrics with catchy beats in order to create popular songs that are easy to sing along w/. Also the ability to promote giving into base desires instead of worrying about public issues. Songs need to pertain to Spontaneous Sex, Mind Altering Substances, Casual Violence, and to Overvalue any feelings resembling Love. MUST be able to create an air of acceptance around personal failure, poor money management, and relationship issues, also the ability to impress youth with the idea that individualism, self-thought and hard work are not necessary in society. MUST be able to make Fashion and Likeability synonymous with Overt-Sexuality, and be able to Idolize Drama and Infidelity. COMPENSATION: Guaranteed Stardom, Transformation into a Sex Symbol, Legal Ambiguity, and to be lusted after by youth of the opposite sex while idolized by youth of the same gender. Cosmetic and Computer compensation can and will be used to fix physical, vocal or other flaws. APPLY TO Department of Homeland Security, Black Budget, Internal Awareness Prevention Division.


It was a day like no other. January first, 2038. New year, new me. At least until the Incinerators came. Let me organize this story in a way that will be the most gratifying. I don’t get to tell stories often, and I don’t want to bore anyone. Space. The beginning and ending of the trudge of life. Life, that ever-expanding, ever-fruitful bending of a straitened reality. Never showing anything. Always learning. The science of space travel had just turned 10 years old. In our short jaunt through space, we colonized all the planets of our solar system. Even Jupiter. Do you have any idea how hard it is to land on gas? That’s what she said. It was a brave new time. We had created a new form of energy. It turns out that the human sperm and egg, when put into a supercollider, produce a form of energy so potent that it can hardly be contained. They called it Banging, after the Big Bang theory. It was supposed that such a collision could have begun the universe, or some such other. Goodness gracious, do I digress. We had colonized the entire solar system in less than ten years, and as soon as we reached the “used to be” planet, Pluto, something that had mocked us for millennia with its icy deserts. Suddenly, there was a jolt out into the heavens. We stood at the edge of our solar system, realizing that we were way out of our depth and that whatever was coming wouldn’t be waiting for autographs. Storytelling is one of the great arts. It’s difficult to put into coherent words the terror, the frustration, the fear that the Incinerators brought to bear upon such a small, relatively backward race. We still hadn’t figured out how to make bullets work in zero gravity. Our only way of killing someone was to take their helmet off and hope they would suffocate. But the incinerators were different. They breathed carbon monoxide natively, and oxygen. Some sort of ungodly take on amphibians. We’ll get to why they’re called “The Incinerators” in a minute. But suffice it to say that we weren’t happy about our new foe, nor had we even contemplated the vastness of space or its potential pitfalls. What kind of problems had we created for ourselves? How much pain had we caused? The first ship to go down was Admadames at the far edge of the solar system. It was my ship. I had just started captaining it ten days before it was struck out of space, leaving only debris and an unrelenting zeal for revenge. My first instinct was to go down with the ship. Perhaps death in space wasn’t something so terrible after all. But I had experience. Plus, those medallions on my uniform were pure gold. Very hard to replace. I escaped with my life, but I’ll never forget the dangers of war in space. A war is not so much a measure of life’s fleeting quality as it is a test of patience. Everyone wants to have their say, but they won’t. Only a person - a being - with a clear voice and a positive mental attitude will ultimately have the last word. We fought. Our principal weapons were just toys to them - to the Incinerators. We fought like crazy, but we couldn’t make them stop. They kicked us out of Jupiter with a garbled shout. We were routed from Uranus, home of the Pixie Pavilion and the largest human cohort outside of Earth. The pain we felt. The evil did not triumph for long. It was at this time in 2041 that we made our stand. In only three years we went from having the whole solar system to having less than when we started. All told, only about 73% of the Earth was still ours by the time the Incinerators got here. There was no way out. My commanding officer, General Perimedes of the Space Shock Force, told me that this would be our chance. I commanded the remaining forces of the Human Space Fleet, but I was becoming increasingly worried. I never knew that one planet could lose that many ships. That many cadets. After multiple attempts on my own life, as well as the lives of my direct reports, I decided to go on the offensive. Using the highest security clearance available, my cohort and I developed a plan that would “Shock” the Incinerators into ultimate surrender. This was not some chicken scratch plan written on the back of a dairy box, but a well-thought-out and effective plan that had both a high chance of succeeding and little in the way of downsides. If all went well, we would have defeated these “space gremlins” and gotten back on track to achieve our goal. The crazy thing about all of this that I’m saying to you is that it was never my plan to be in the military, much less the savior of all we hold dear, the savior of humanity. I was a young peacenik and conscientious objector who wanted to be a visual artist. Painters, they called us. Always slinging paint. I had covered enough canvasses to lace the Great Wall of China, but I found that something was missing. Then, there was space. The great inventor, Dareth Musk, had just concocted a special chemical that would successfully carry humanity on an adventure that no one even thought possible. I was the one who was called. I did my duty, often without recognition, without comfort. It was the most painful, and yet most exhilarating experience I’ve ever had. So many great things happened, some terrible. When humanity finally made its stand, it didn’t look to the outside world that we even knew what we were doing. The plebes, so focused on Saturday night TV. Even at that time, most had no idea of the fight involved. We mounted our weapons and took heed. No one could stop us because we were determined to bring the fight to them. We were the ones that had the most to lose, who had lost the most, who wanted the most. It was at the Battle of Baf Matex that it all came into being. We had already had some success kicking the Incinerators off the surface of the planet, but they were swarming. Our special weapon, the Dynamo Complex, had been in development for a few months and was ready to go. The Incinerators, as powerful as they seemed, didn’t know what to do. They fell, and we entered the immortal, permanent sky.


"And this is why I hate moving, '' exhales Namita and lights up her cigarette. She looks around from her balcony. A sense of loneliness sinks into her as she sees rows and rows of empty balconies and she thinks to herself "Where is human life here?" She just shifted to this apartment and was looking to make new friends. She finished her cigarette and went back into the flat. As she was arranging her stuff she starts questioning her decision to move. “Why did I leave my friends and sweet home! Now I need to make new friends here.” While reminiscing the good old days she starts snoozing off and then finally sleeps on the floor. “Knock knock” she woke up in a jump. “Coming”. “Ma’am your grocery is here” says the delivery man. She thanks him and goes into her messed up kitchen. “I think i need a cup of tea”. She prepared the tea and went to her balcony with the cup. “Love this weather. Yeah I remember now, I came to Bangalore for this weather”. There was a commotion of a normal evening in the apartment. She again started looking at the balconies and saw one guy in the adjoining one. “Hmm my neighbour, finally”. Pankaj was her neighbour and he was quite an introvert. He hardly interacted with anyone in society. Today he was quietly reading a book on his balcony. “Hey there” shouted Namita but Pankaj didn’t respond. “I am your new neighbour, I have just moved today”. “Hello, Myself Pankaj”, Pankaj replied in an impersonal tone. He didn’t even look at her. “That's a bit rude” thought Namita, “Can’t he give a bit of a warm welcome, no I am here to help if you need anything”. Namita shrugged it off and got back to her cup of tea. Next day in the evening she again saw him on the balcony. This time again she initiated conversation. Pankaj was more warm in his response. But Namita sensed awkwardness in his body language. He was not making eye contact while conversing. She thought it was normal being a bit awkward in the beginning. These small talks continued for 2-3 days. But Namita always notices he’s not comfortable with her because of how he avoids eye contact with her. “Maybe something is wrong with her eyes, huh” She thought. ............. Over the weekend she was coming down stairs to throw some stuff. She was quite exhausted and not being mindful. The new stairs were less forgiving of her lack of attention and she slipped on the stairs. Luckily at the end moment she was caught by none other than Pankaj. “I am so sorry” she said, taking back control. “It’s no problem” replied Pankaj. “Wait, did he just look into my eyes ... Yes he did. And he has beautiful eyes” thought Namita. She thanked him again and continued on her way. She kept thinking about his eyes. .......... They started having a daily routine of talking though balconies now. Pankaj was also more comfortable with her now. They discuss their daily lives in the evening. Namita even asked him why he doesn’t mingle with anyone else in society. He just replied he's a bit shy. After a few days Namita invited Pankaj over for a party. “Come we’ll have fun. I have asked my office colleagues to come over too”. “I’ll try but i can’t promise” Pankaj tried to shrug it off. “Please please, you have not even seen my flat yet. We just talk over balconies” “Ok I’ll try to make it” ........... Finally Friday came and the party started. Namita’s friend started coming in. Everyone was enjoying the party, but Namita was waiting for someone else. Hours went by and Pankaj didn’t come. After everyone left She started cleaning up the flat. Someone knocked on the gate. Finally Pankaj arrived. “Why are you so late?” asked Namita, a bit annoyed. “I was just waiting for everyone to leave, you know I am a bit shy. I generally don’t come to the parties but I promised and here I am”. “Well the party is over. Now you should help with cleanup. This is your punishment”. “Sure”. “Also there’s some wine left, please help yourself” Pankaj poured two glasses of wine. They started cleaning the flat. Namita shared her experience, how she enjoyed getting everyone here.. “Ok, tell me one thing, why were you so afraid of me in the beginning? You never even looked me in the eyes” teased Namita. “You want the right answer or wrong one” “Hmm, tell me wrong first” “well, I am shy” “And real reason” “That’s bit long and you might not like it” “Well I have all the time and 2 bottles of wine to like your reason” “Ok, I tried to warn you. The thing is I don’t want to look into the people’s eyes” “I know that. But *why*?” exclaimed Namita. “Because I immediately know when and how people are going to die” Pankaj said monotonously. “What? How?” asked Namita with a bewildered look on her face. “For some reason when I see through the eyes, I can talk to the soul of the person” “ok, go on” . Suddenly the glass of wine was feeling too heavy to her. “The soul tells me when and how they are going to die. I can’t have this burden on me. If I know when a person is going to die and then I can’t just pretend to talk like everything is normal” “Ok but you looked into my eyes and you are very comfortable with me now” asked Namita. Wine’s effect was fading on her. “Yeah, I tried to avoid you. But that day on the stairs I accidentally looked into your eyes”. “Hmm ok. And you don’t feel any burden because of me?” asked Namita in a sobered tone but she felt ghastly.


As I walked into the office, it looked spick and span and modern. I didn't know what to expect. I had searched the net for many days to get the address of this place. The receptionist, a brunette looking all of her thirty-odd years, greeted me. "Welcome to SFD office Madam, can I help you?" "Thank you, I am Mrs Silverking. I had called earlier you gave me an appointment to see Mr Salvatore." I said. "Please take a seat, Madam. I will confirm your appointment and send you to him." I sat down thankfully. Feeling tired, frequently was a symptom I was suffering from. My doctor had told me that there is not much they can do to cure my cancer as of today. The receptionist called on the intercom and spoke. "Mr Salvatore, one Mrs Silverking wants to see you. You will see her now? I will send her to you. Thank you." She disengaged her intercom and called me. "Madam, Mr Salvatore will see you in his cabin. Please proceed to the seventh floor. You will see his office right in front of you." The elevator was a modern soundless model with touch-enabled switches. I got in and pressed the number seven. Soft classical music was wafting into my ears as I stood in the chill atmosphere of the cage. There was no one in the elevator at that moment. I reached the floor and walked out. Right in front of me was an office marked Mr Salvatore, Executive Director, SFD. As I walked in, I saw another brunette manning a desk. “Mrs Silverking, I presume,” she said and asked me to step right into the inner office. It was a plush office. The Director was an expansive man in his fifties. He had black hair, probably dyed, and a receding hairline. He was plump as the comfortable chair he was sitting in. He gestured me to take a seat, and I did. The door closed itself softly. "Yes, Mrs Silverking. I am so happy that you have subscribed to our deluxe package. You said on the phone you needed some counsel about preparing to go down. I am here to help you. I will ask Rina to get you our literature for going under. He gave a crisp order to his secretary, who scurried in immediately with a sheaf of papers neatly packaged. Salvatore inquired, ‘Coffee for you, Madam?’, noting my acceptance, he told Rina, “two freshly brewed cups of Americano please.” "Have a look at the kit, Madam. Most of the information you need and some FAQs are in the kit, there. You can have a glimpse at it and then ask me any further doubts or questions you may have." Skimming at the literature, I got a rough idea of how I need to prepare for my going under. The intro pamphlet mentioned the purpose of SFD: To prepare clients and put them to sleep using the latest Hypothermic techniques. It seems that they had begun this about 12 years ago. Apart from the front office and administration, they had medical, legal and Rehab departments. The legal department dealt with making legal documents like wills. Vetting and preparing the clients was the responsibility of the medical department. Their Rehabilitation section dealt with the reinstalling of clients back to mainstream. Their promise was, ‘all client services in one place’. "We will schedule you to meet our legal and medical experts tomorrow. We scheduled your flight down to be next Monday if all the checks are fine. Any further questions, Madam?" Salvatore asked. "Will I be down for ten years as I have contracted to? Then when I come back, will they restore all my rights?" I asked. I knew the answers but wanted some reassurance. "Surely you will be reinstated fully, Madam. You need to have no fear. We have already restored over twenty-five clients in the past two years. We will be continually doing this as clients complete their tenure. We will resuscitate you, on October 15th 2020, for instance. It clearly mentions all this in our contract, which you are going to sign. We are also taking the signature of your next of kin so that there will be no problem. Your son Frank Silverking is signing, I am told, on your papers. Everything is legitimate and clear, Madam. We are a client-friendly organisation. We are here for your sake." We were sipping our coffee as we talked. I put the cup down. "What are the things I need to do before I come here to stay down for ten years, Mr Salvatore?" "Well, Madam," he continued as he slowly sipped his coffee, "you need to make sure you provide for your pets and your property. As your son stays in your house, he will look after the essentials. Please inform all your friends and loved ones that you will not be available for them for the next ten years. You can tell them you are off to South America if the truth would seem strange to some of them” “Will I be able to come back to my life? Will medical science advance by 2030 to get a cure for my cancer?” I ventured to ask feebly. “We are in touch with your doctors and also with the scientists at the cutting edge of research too, Madam. They assure us that the treatment may be ready in 6 to 7 years. They would have done a few trials also by the time you come back, I am sure.” Salvatore seemed confident. It was his job to be so, I thought. He continued, “I will ask our doctors to have a session with you about the research that is being done on therapeutics in Cervical cancer research in the top universities of the United States today. They will be able to convince you better than me. Will there be anything else Madam?” “What about the costs involved Mr Salvatore? I have paid up the entire costs. I suppose that also accounts for any escalation that may take place in the ensuing decade.” “Yes, Madam. Our accounts section is clear about this. Thank you, Madam, for trusting us with your most precious life.” Indeed, I am trusting this corporation with my life. I began to have some qualms about it. “Am I doing the right thing?” I asked myself for the umpteenth time. Going home, I started to settle my accounts at every front. “Should I be writing an obituary for myself too?” I wondered as I did this. It felt as if I am preparing to die. “Maybe I will be able to come back. If not, then how? Then it is almost like I am going to die.” I thought as I pondered my future.


I always wondered what they meant when someone said they were a kid at heart. I never knew that kind of spirit. Even as a child, I only knew responsibility. No fun, no games, nothing. Then my neighbor asked me to get in touch with my inner child for a few hours to watch her son. I had spent a lot of time around them and quite enjoyed their company, but being solely responsible for a six year old was a lot of work and I wasn't sure I was up for the challenge. In order to gain confidence, I thought about my childhood, but I couldn't remember anything. What kind of things did I enjoy? I couldn't even remember watching cartoons or playing with toys. She insisted that I would only have to pick him up from school, make him a quick snack, and put on some cartoons. And while the task didn't seem very challenging in words, I was definitely unsure of my ability to entertain a child. Nevertheless, our friendship was more important to me than unexplained fears and I accepted. After all, she really needed the help. She was up for a promotion and the extra time at work would almost guarantee her the job. The day came too soon and my anxiety kept creeping in. Would Josh have a good time in my apartment until his mom got home? I wasn't sure that simply following my friend's instructions would be enough. I decided to take a nap before the afternoon crept up on me in hopes that it would ease my mind, but as quickly as I fell asleep, my alarm went off. I then impulsively decided to walk to pick him up as I figured the exercise would help wind him down and keep him calm once we got home. After signing him out, everything was going as planned until he suggested that we take a shortcut that he and his mom discovered. I didn't like the idea, but he insisted that his favorite park was on that route, so I gave in. When we set foot on the park path, I started to shiver. I felt funny and off, and as dark clouds formed around us, I wanted to turn around and go with my original route. But something wouldn't let me; something pushed me to act like a child and feel excitement in anticipation of the park. I was worried about Josh getting wet, and possibly catching a cold, but even more terrified of encountering lightning. Thankfully, the clouds didn't make much of an impression and gave way to a sunny afternoon quickly. Just as the last cloud vanished, I heard Josh exclaim in happiness. “Yes! We're finally here,” he said as he ran through a gate. From the outside it didn't look like a park, but who was I to argue with an eager six year old. As we passed a path lined by trees, a simple playground was revealed and I was relieved. Josh immediately knew what he wanted to do and wasted no time. He tried everything out. First, he sat on the swings. He tried three different ones out and each time he looked around. Then he looked in a tunnel. But that must have not been his thing because he quickly decided he wanted to try out a rocking horse. He was an odd little fellow for sure, but he looked to be having fun in his own way. “My mommy says I should try everything out, but I know it's the slide. It's always the slide.” His voice was so fresh and cute that his gibberish made the perfect sense. “You mean the slide is your favorite, right?” I asked him knowing the answer already. Then my phone interrupted our fun. His mom was checking in and I assured her that we were having a good time. “Your mom is gonna be a little later than expected because she's working really hard, but we can hang out here for a while. Does that sound good bud?” I was worried he'd be upset, but he just kept smiling and laughing. Behind a rather peculiar snicker, he said, “I'm working harder! I brought you to the dream slide.” “What's the dream slide?” The name intrigued me and I wanted to know more. “Get on here and I'll tell you.” He told me with a warm smile and grabbed my hand leading me to the slide. “I don't know if I'll fit.” I tried to reason with him, but he was unusually strong and pushed me to the steps of the slide. I gave in and climbed on. “Try it. I'll catch you at the bottom,” he said as he opened his arms and positioned himself perfectly to catch me. “I'll be okay,” I chuckled. “Scoot back and watch, okay?.” He nodded and I slid down. “Go again. But this time think of your dreams. Kid dreams. Like what you want to be when you grow up.” I smiled as I listened to his silly request. “Okay. I’ll try it.” I said with a big smile. As I slid down, something changed inside me. I remembered everything about being a kid. I remembered going to the park as a little boy. And I remembered eating popsicles and coloring with crayons. It felt so good that I wanted to go again and again, but as good as it felt, I wasn't the child and I needed to give Josh a turn. “Let's take turns, yeah? This is really fun!” I could hear a youthful joy in my voice that filled me with happiness. Deep down I longed to continue the connection with my childhood that I had previously forgotten. This was where I wanted to be. I savoured every moment even while sharing the slide with Josh. As we played I couldn't help but wonder if the slide had been my favorite park adventure as a child. I decided to try to remember a memory of being at the park as a child on my next turn. As I slid down, I was completely consumed by childhood. “It's a lot of fun, isn't it Derek?” There was something off about Josh’s voice, but I dismissed it. Surely all the excitement and yelling had made him hoarse. Besides, my turn was up next. All I could focus on was the childish rush. But it was abruptly interrupted by an eerie honk. Josh and I tried to look toward the street to see who was honking. He then darted off and began to snicker as he hid behind the jungle gym. “Oh, look Josh, it's your mom! She must have finished up early.” I turned to him to let him know our fun was over, but I didn't see him anywhere. The rush of the dream slide was still running in my veins and I tried to compose myself as Linda walked toward us. “Come on Josh. Your mom’s here,” I said as I looked around. I started to get a little nervous because I couldn't see him, but surely he was just hiding in the jungle gym. “Hey, how'd it go?” Linda said with a friendly smile. “It's been g-” I began to answer, but she cut me off rather rudely. “Not you, I'm talking to him.” That quickly made my youthful high disappear and I felt a string of emotions that I couldn't contain. I was upset and my tears showed it. “Everything went smoothly.” A strange voice spoke from behind the slide. It certainly wasn't Josh. Then I saw Josh climb the steps and approach the slide. He looked at me and smiled. Then he spoke, but his voice was no longer silly or innocent. It was that of a man and had a tone that I couldn't comprehend. “It's always the slide. And good thinking with the childhood amnesia elixir. The slide was able to collect more energy and the switch was easier. I think it will last a lot longer this time, and it feels better too.” He said all of this with a terrifying smirk on his face. He sounded mean and he made my heart sink. Then he slid down the slide, only when he reached the bottom, he was a grown up. Linda smiled and turned her attention towards me. She was loving and motherly as she gave me a hug and wiped my tears away. “You hear that? I got my promotion!'' She said excitedly. She pulled a small mirror out of her pocket and with a soft voice said,”look, you're a doll.” Confusion filled my soul and she could no longer keep up with wiping my tears. When I looked in the mirror, I saw myself as a child and I couldn't help but cry. Her soft voice tried to soothe me. “It's only temporary Derek. You'll grow up again one day.


“Economics is fascinating, really.” I said, looking into the mirror at the man sleeping in the backseat of the car. “Nothing is truly stable. There are fluctuations everywhere. The stock market, interest rates. Sure, people have an idea of how consistent something performs, and put all their money in that, thinking its safe. It’s not. Nothing’s safe when it comes to money.” We were driving down a long stretch of highway, enjoying the time we had together. “So, you put things in a ‘safe’ place, or at least your broker tells you its safe, and you trust him, so why not, right? Then that ‘safe place’ decides to go belly up. All that money you put in there is just vapor at this point, right? Just because a bunch of people didn’t value that stock anymore.” I gripped the steering wheel tightly. I wasn’t bitter. “Economics is just a fantasy on a planet-wide scale!. A bunch of people thought that the stock was valuable one second, the next, it’s worth nothing. Then schmucks like you and me have to deal with a auto-recorded phone call from their broker saying ‘sorry I’m a dipshit that gave you bad advice-blah blah blah- goodbye cruel world’” He even had the gunshot sound during the recording! Do you believe that?! Like I gave a shit about his pathetic life at that point. I had to get back to work!” My friend’s head nodded as he slept. He understood me, even while he was sleeping. He really was a great guy. It was too bad I had to drop him off. “So now, I’m what, sixty eight? My old job at the railroad was too much for me anymore. I can’t do what I did back then. My body won’t take it, but my mind. Oh boy, my mind is just as sharp as it ever was. So I take the last of my money, go to school and grab some certifications that I could use to help myself get back on the right track, you know? I grabbed some counseling credentials. Fuck, if my therapist can charge me hundreds of dollars an hour to talk, I could at least get a few bucks doing the same thing, right?” I heard a snore, which I took as affirmation of my thoughts. He really was quite understanding. “Turns out, nobody wanted to hire me. I look *great* on paper. Hell, I think I look great in general, you know what I mean? Look at me! I’m quite the catch!” I adjusted the rear view mirror to take a look at myself and brush a few stray hairs out of the way, brushing them back into my pompadour. “I would get through the initial phases, but for some reason, they didn’t like me after the interview! What kind of bullshit is that, I ask? Some major bullshit! I out-qualified every other applicant! They even told me so! ‘You’re overqualified’ ***WHATEVER***.” I pounded my palm against the steering wheel. My BFF fell over. It was a bit melodramatic, in my opinion, but at least he’s on my side. “So now, I have to go freelance, right? If there’s no opportunity, MAKE an opportunity. I’m so very glad you’ve decided to come along and help me make this opportunity for myself. I don’t know what I would have done without you. You know that, right?” Another snore, a loud one, confirmed he understood the importance of his assistance. The hemp friendship bracelets I had made for him had tangled together. I would have to help him get those off later. Don’t want him to wake up to hands that are asleep. That’s the worst feeling ever. “So, I found this opportunity up here. Real quiet town. One stop sign type of place. Nice little convenience store for people passing through like you and me.” I winked at him. “Anyway, I scouted the place out. I think we’ll do really well here!” I looked at the GPS map my Best Friend had pulled up for me, and we were nearly there. He was quite the catch himself. I felt so lucky to have him with me. “When there is no opportunity, you MAKE an opportunity!” I sounded so confident. I’m sure my heterosexual life mate would agree. “You can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs! Fortune favors the bold! Yes, these are all true, my friend! We’re going to show those asswipes on Wall Street that even little guys like you and me can make a major impact on the world! We don’t need those fancy retirement accounts! We can survive on our wits! And our cunning! And...we’re here!” I turned down the main lane, stopping just a block away from the convenience store. “Ok! So here we go! I’m going to wander up there, ok? I parked a little bit away, because I need to stretch my legs. I’m going to grab the stuff, then in a few more minutes, you do your thing, right? And then I’ll be there to collect the checks and money! We can’t lose on this!” I got out, and rummaged through the trunk to find my sign and a table and a couple of folding chairs. I was halfway to the store when I remembered that I had forgotten to take off my soulmate's bracelets. I set the things down, and ran back to him, cut the hemp ropes off, and started walking back to my things while pushing the lock button on my key fob. “Remember kids, we’re parked on the tracks!” I chuckled at my own joke. So clever. I set up the table just outside the convenience store. Made it look all nice, had a couple of clipboards, some pens. The folding chairs were those nice ones with cloth covered foam seats. I went all out! It was going to pay off, I knew it. It wasn’t long before the railroad crossing activated. My car, and the love of my life were right there, in the middle of it. Sitting there, waiting for this moment. A moment later, the train whistle sounded as the locomotive powered down the line and finally was able to see the car on the tracks. I saw my love’s head jolt up, confusion on his face as he tried to clear his head from the chloroform headache. It was a doozy to get over, I tell you. Been there once or twice myself. When realization struck, he tried to reach for the door handle, but it was too late. The sight of a train hitting a vehicle is actually underwhelming, and nothing like they show in the action movies where there's explosions and cool people walking away from them without looking at the fiery inferno occurring behind them. Nope. It’s a loud crash, followed by the sound of screeching metal and rubber on the street. It was at that moment, that I unveiled the sign.


We were earth’s First Fleet, sent to colonise the closest habitable planet in our galaxy. Unmanned probes were sent first, followed by landing drones. However, we would be the first humans to set foot on a planet outside of our solar system. In amongst a fleet full of scientists, pilots, engineers and soldiers I stood alone ... as the entertainer. I was a pianist for the military band and had volunteered to join this expedition not out of a sense of duty or a craving for adventure. I had volunteered simply because there was nothing left for me on earth. I didn’t have many friends at all in this fleet with nearly everyone belonging to some team in one way or another. No, I stood alone. “Get up,” the drunkards would say to me, “Play us something.” Our first few hours escaping earth’s orbit was one of hopeful sadness. We knew that we had left everyone we loved behind. But this was to be a grand adventure, the greatest adventure in human history. I sat at the piano and looked out at the audience. Many were happy, drinking and having a laugh. But some were melancholy, preferring to be alone with their thoughts. My fingers began to work across the keys. I opened with a D minor, settling into an easy flowing melody. The 5th would be the natural progression giving the piece an ethereal feel. I flattened out the 6th note in the melody, finally confirming my use of the Dorian scale. The sadness in the piece could be now be felt as I moved onto another minor chord, in this instance an E minor. From here there could be only one place to move. I hit the G major chord, bringing the progression to its victorious climax. Finally I returned home to the D minor, quietly ending the piece as our fleet moved its way further from our stellar home. \*\*\* We landed on our new planet two weeks ago. That is approximately three and half weeks in earth time. This world we have named, unimaginatively in my opinion, Eden. Erroneously too as it turns out, for this world is not the earth analogue that the scientists had predicted. The temperature is significantly colder than expected considering its atmospheric composition and distance from the sun. The ground, as a consequence, is unfriendly to agriculture but for a few root vegetables. The storms are much more frequent than we had expected and although our habitations have so far remained stable we have had to reinforce them with the precious few materials we have. However, despite these hardships, the mood is one of optimism and the pioneering spirit of the great days of exploration has been reborn. The engineers tirelessly work on our buildings, the scientists eagerly survey our environment and the former soldiers have now reinvented themselves as our farmers and labourers. Each evening I play to the tired and overworked settlers. The boisterousness of the crowd is infectious and seeps through into my playing. I play an A major chord shifting next to a B major over A. Ah yes, that raised 4th removes the major scale mask revealing the Lydian scale underneath. I alternate between these two chords playing an uplifting melody over the top. However, the Lydian scale is harmonically unstable and simply cannot sustain an entire piece. I move over to the E major scale, somewhat rescuing the piece and adding a grandeur and joy to the music. The audience barely acknowledge me as my piano blends seamlessly with everyone’s merrymaking. \*\*\* Last season’s harvest has once again failed. The agony of starvation has now become a very real proposition as the news of food shortages is announced to the settlers. The response is silence as this possibility has already entered all of our minds during the last months. The storms, the unceasing relentless storms, have rendered long term colonisation impossible. This reality was one that we were all aware of when we left earth. However to face it is a much different thing entirely. The last messages to earth were sent although it will be many years before they will receive it. Finally, protocol Roanoke was implemented. We gathered inside our last undamaged habitation, most of us very weak from hunger, and listened as another storm ravaged our settlement. Slowly the oxygen was released as we waited for our eternal slumber on this alien planet. The captain asked me to play one last time, “As they did as the Titanic sank.” I didn’t know what he was referring to but I dutifully sat at my piano and began to play. My heart was sinking as I looked at the slumped people in front of me. Some were still breathing, steady and purposeful. I began my final piece by playing an F minor chord, slowly arpeggiating the notes up and down. I moved from the 5th to the flat 6th, down to the 4th and then to the 2nd. Finally I played the flat 3rd before returning to the F minor. The Aeolian mode, the most fitting scale for our current predicament. I continued to play as all breathing and movement stopped. The dead planet we found was a dead planet once more. I slumped onto my piano, the sound of dissonant notes echoing throughout our tomb. The final notes ever heard on Eden.


Trigger warning: sexual harassment We are sitting in David’s kitchen drinking tea. We do this every workday morning between 8.05 and 8.45. I rinse out the dregs and smooth away the tannin stains before I put the tea bag and boiling water in his cup. When I put David’s drink down for him, it knocks against the table top, and a tide of light brown liquid slops over the edge of the cup. I want to go and get a napkin to clear it up, but that will annoy him. “Why did you go there? Why did you agree to have a cup of tea with him?” The tea that David’s talking about has got nothing to do with the tea we’re drinking now. Because I like tea. Because he’s an important client and I wanted to work with him. Because why not? All of those are true. But I know David well enough now not to give any of these answers. He is unusual in that he’s consistent: I can often tell how he’ll react. “I didn’t think anything of it.” I say. “But why go to his house? I don’t get it.” He puts one arm around me and the other hand up to touch my forehead. His finger traces a parenthesis across the skin, except it’s not really a parenthesis because it’s turned at 90 degrees: so like the mouth on a sad face. “Are you okay?” His eyes go funny; a bit glazed and unfocused, and he sniffs. “I’m fine. He tried to kiss me. That’s all. So I left.” I nod, to try and reassure him. It seems to have worked because he takes his arm away. I gather up my things quickly and leave. David’s house is just over the road from my work. It was more than that. Ray stood over me, pushed down on my shoulders and tried to put his slug of a tongue into my mouth. I shoved him away. For a minute he looked like he was going to stop me leaving, but then it was okay. I left the building plans there though, and I don’t know how I’m going to get them back. Now it makes me think of the times at school with Mr James. Whenever he came over to me, he leaned into me, letting out a curdled puff of stale coffee breath. Then he touched my shoulder, always underneath the colour of my school blouse. I can still feel the branding of his hand; it still feels like there are flames reaching down from my shoulder towards my chest. *** I start work right away while my colleagues pace out the triangle between their desks, the bathroom and the kitchen, fetching coffee and porridge. I’m straight into my diagrams; I look at the floating cubes on my computer screen, and double-check calculations to make sure that the supporting walls will do what they’re supposed to. I can hear conversations drifting between the colleagues. This time they are talking about a club night they went to at the weekend. They invited me, but it would have been too much; the music and lights would have ensnared me, whipped me around until I felt dizzy and sick. This is okay though; the conversation is gentle, lapping away at the quiet in the office. Usually they leave me to it, but sometimes they talk to me, like today. “How are the plans going?” Oliver says, ‘I hope you didn’t work on them over the weekend.’ He fiddles with the new fluff that has grown on his chin over the last week or so; apparently he’s growing a beard. The rules of communication are difficult. I tried to develop my own manual by observing different people: like algebra: IF a and b are odd THEN a + b is even. IF you are talking to someone and they laugh THEN you should laugh back It doesn’t work with people though. They are inconsistent. Smiles and laughs can mean different things even when it’s the same person doing the smiling or laughing but at different times. So instead, Mum and I developed a strategy and she gave me some bullet points. I imagine the list she wrote in her neat squat letters: make eye contact, nod at the person talking to you, and don’t ask too many personal questions. And the most difficult one: don’t bang on about one subject for too long. “Here I’ve used structural analysis to make sure that the intersecting bridges in the hotel can safely support their loads.” I point at my screen, then carry on talking about my big project. Oliver is nodding and smiling; looking directly at me so I make eye contact with him. I hope I haven’t overdone it. “Interesting,” he says. “I don’t know how you do it. You must have a brain the size of England.” “Oh no, it’s not difficult. This program helps a lot.” I am about to show him some of the calculations when I realise I’m breaking the cardinal rule that I told Mum I would follow: Don’t bang on. I pull it back just in time, and stop talking. Mum said everyone is doing the same thing, making it up as they go along, except it’s a bit more challenging for me. That’s all. According to her, I think a bit differently to other people. Not better, not worse, just different. That’s all. *** As it’s Monday, we have our team meeting. The four of us from my office file into the meeting room, the other three clasping cups of coffee to their chests. I sit in my usual place opposite the clock. Daniel, our boss, comes in with two cups of coffee, one for him, and the other he puts in front of me. He does this every week, and he always says the same thing to the colleagues: “Tanya always has her head down working; not like you lazy fucks.” Then he and the others laugh, and I smile. In the meeting we go round the room to give updates on our projects. I get ready to invoke the strategy Mum and I put together, making sure my update lasts five minutes and no more. I use the second hand on the clock opposite to time myself: another tool in the battle not to bang on. Today I do it with around ten seconds to spare. Now I just have to ask the questions I’ve prepared on my colleagues’ updates to show I’m interested: a member of the team. They’re not the questions that I want to ask which would be about steel girders and weight bearing walls. I’m like an archaeologist scratching at the earth looking for ruins, except I scrape through graphics and measurements to find the perfect design. Even though my colleagues are, like me, structural engineers, they don’t have the same urge to dig into every detail. So I’ll ask them about the timetable for the work and what the client is like. I realise Daniel is asking me something. “How did the meeting with Ray go?” I pause. According to my strategy, personal questions are out of bounds; although what happened at Ray’s house is personal to me so maybe we can talk about it? I’m not sure. Before I get a chance to speak, Samantha cuts in. “You were brave going there, Tanya. He’s a sleaze.” Samantha is the loudest of my colleagues; we don’t talk to each other that much but she’s always been okay with me. “I’ve heard that, when he gives women a business card, he puts a condom behind it and hands that over as well.” I try and remember if he has ever given me a business card, but I don’t think he has. Samantha hasn’t finished, “And Leonie’s been to meet him three times. At his house.” All of the heads in the room turn to look at Leonie, my other quieter colleague. “I think we should take your points outside the meeting, Samantha. It’s not appropriate to discuss it here.’”Daniel turns towards me. “Was it okay Tanya?” He’s looking at me strangely; I can’t tell what he’s feeling. Everyone else in the room is looking down at their hands. “I left the plans for the bridge there. I need them back.” “I can get them back. Don’t worry about that.” *** Afterwards, the others go and get lunch but I stay in the office. I need that time to recover from the team meeting. My counsellor once asked me to describe how it felt to be me, which is strange, because does anyone know how it feels to be themselves compared to being someone else? But then she said I could write it down. It feels like I’m trying to sing a song but my timing is off. When I sing a high note, everyone else has moved on to the next note, which is lower. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t catch up with them. I can’t fall in with their rhythm. It’s frustrating. It’s exhausting. And that’s why I need this downtime. Everything’s quiet for twenty minutes, and I can feel my nerves calming down and my reserves of patience being replenished, until there’s a tap on the door. It’s Daniel. He comes in and perches on the edge of Samantha’s desk, and looks at me. “If anything did happen with Ray that made you feel uncomfortable you can let me know, and I can figure out what we should do.” I don’t say anything. “And if you don’t feel comfortable telling me, you can always write it down, or type it out. It’s only with your permission that I’ll take any action on it.” I still don’t say anything. “Or you can speak to Sue if you would prefer.” Sue is Daniel’s wife. I nod. He leaves the office, and I go back to studying the diagrams on my screen. I get another ten minutes on my own, then Leonie comes in and sits at her desk. She is quite new; I know she’s been struggling with the work. I smile at her. “I wasn’t hungry,” she says, “so I came back.” She stops talking for a few seconds, and I carry on clicking my diagrams and calculations. “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” she says, “What happened with Ray? I know I shouldn’t ask but he did some things that made me.......feel uncomfortable.” I think she’s saying that he did the same thing to her as he did to me. “I don’t mind you asking. He tried to kiss me. He tried to push his tongue in my mouth. David, my boyfriend, he asked me why I went to his house. He isn’t happy that I went there.” I don’t know why I’m telling her about David. “And what did you say to David?” “I said I didn’t think anything of it. But that’s not true. It’s because I wanted to work on the bridge project for Ray.” She nods, and then rubs her eyes with her fists. “People ask me the same thing, especially because I met him three times. I can’t tell them the truth.” ‘Right.’ “I went there because he made me feel pretty. Then I went back because I thought it would help me with the work here,” she looks down at her desk and shakes her head, “and then because I was too embarrassed to say no to going there. After that it was too late.” She sighs and looks towards the ceiling with watery light blue eyes that look like they will overflow her eye sockets and run down her face. People don’t always act rationally. Or at least they don’t do what is in their best interests, even though they may think they are acting in their best interests. And that includes me. I nod to show I understand, “That’s okay. He shouldn’t have done what he did to you.” *** That evening after work I go home to the house I used to share with Mum until ten months ago. She had been ill for three years by the time she died. That time went by both slowly and quickly. Some things are the same as when it was her and me together; I still cook the same meals on the same days; Monday is macaroni cheese. And my bath time is still at eight every evening even though I don’t need to have it that early any more; when she was alive, I had it at eight so that she could have a bath at nine. But lots of things are different as well. I didn’t meet David until after she had died. I go into her old room and sit on the bed. I play the swan theme from Swan Lake on my phone: that was always our soundtrack. When I was much younger, maybe eight or nine, I’d dance to it in elaborate swoops and pirouettes, twisting and diving around the living room. It was one of the few experiences I had of moving to the same rhythm as someone else, even if that someone was contained in a shiny compact disc. Sometimes Mum would join in; she’d sway and occasionally a clumsy leg or arm would come careering out and I’d have to dodge it; she wasn’t a graceful woman. Later on, especially as she became weaker, the two of us would just listen to it together. Now I listen to the music alone, but I don’t feel alone. I have the notes that she and I worked up; we designed them so that I’d be able to manage better once she wasn’t around. They are contained on a neat patchwork of post-it notes, in different pastel colours, stuck to her bedroom wall. I look at them most evenings. I think she would have been pleased at how I managed today. I have one more thing that I need to do though. I fetch my laptop from downstairs: I will write down everything that happened with Ray.


TW: Graphic descriptions of violence **Cassandra steps out into the coliseum, and the floor thick with black mud. It's storming, and the raucous crowd in the seats behind her seems to loathe her name. To her left is a cliff, where the mud sloughs off little by little into the abyss, and ahead of her is her Reputation.** **The doors shut quietly behind her as she stares up at the beast. It's stranger looking than her, and it's much taller, and rather lean. It’s eyes glow and its horns seem out of a functioning state. It holds an axe the size of her in one hand, and its tail seems to be amputated. Even still, it looks like her. Like looking in a carnival mirror. She ties her shotgun to her belt, revs her chainsaw, and rebuckles her shield.** **The announcer shouts over the comms that the fight is about to begin.** **It opens with a charge directly at her, feinting with a sidestep and a swing for her neck. She blocks with her shield, and counters with a blast of her shotgun. The shot sinks into its chest, and it sputters up somewhere on its face grey liquid for a second before pausing and letting out a deep, reverberating cacophony of what sounds like laughter. It retreats and fades into the background for a moment.** **The crowd cheers.** **It reemerges and takes a heavy step towards her. She backs up, two steps. It takes another step towards her. She steps back some more. She’s retreating. Like a coward, which is strange. She feels like prey. It's been a long, long time since Cassandra has felt like prey.** **She runs and slides between its legs and attempts to sink her now spinning chainsaw into one of its arms. And then her saw** **gets** **stuck.** **It grabs the blade in its other paw and rips the chainsaw, straps and all, from her wrist and tosses it off into the abyss on the other side of the cliff. It bops her on the head, removing the top few layers of her horns, costing her most of her teleportation charges. The monster begins the next round of combat.** **She pulls out her shotgun out of fear, and lets a shot loose into its face, Tenderizing it for double damage on her next attack. It grabs the gun from her, and tosses it too off of the cliff. She blocks a swing of its axe with her shield. And then another, and another, and another. Her first shield shatters into crystal shards that sink into the mud. The monster steps on a few as it advances towards her, either not noticing the glass or not caring. Cassandra retreats a few feet, and it throws its axe at her. She recalls her second shield to block it. Two charges left in her horns. The axe deflects off the shield and embeds itself into the crowd. The monster climbs up to get it, giving Cassandra a few moments to think.** **The rain gets heavier as the fight drags on. One swing of the serpent’s axe is blocked by a now broken shield, and it goes for one more. Cassandra reacts fast enough to catch the blade between her two palms. The rain makes her slip, and she lets go for just a second.** **The axe does not forgive this mistake.** **The metal is freezing, tearing through her shoulder and becoming embedded in the floor. Bone leaves its flesh, and she can’t hear her arm plop into the mud below her over the storm. She summons her wrist cannon to her remaining arm and loads it with mud from the floor while the beast attempts to remove its axe from the floor. It gives up, and rushes at her barehanded. It slams into her, and it's almost rotting human face stares down at her as she readies her cannon. She pulls back the drawstring with her teeth, and lets go. The force of the mud being flung staggers it, and she ports scrap metal into her cannon while the serpent recoils. There are no charges left in her horns now. It stomps back over to her, and she pulls back the string one last time, aimed between its glowing, empty eyes.** **The crowd goes silent.** **As Cassandra stood there, standing over the corpse of her Reputation, she began to wonder. What the fuck had she gotten herself into? It had taken her arm from her. And her gun, shields, horns, and saw. Even though her opponent was dead, the door on the other side of the arena was still shut. So she got to tearing its head off its neck with her claws. After 10 minutes of sawing off the beast’s newly donut'd skull and lugging it with one hand and two legs, getting it stuck in the mud beneath her a few times, fifty feet to the door. Lightning sans thunder flashes in the background as she presses the monster’s ugly mug against the scanner on the pristine, metal double doors.** **The doors creak open. She steps out into the next level of the dungeon.


The Lady I Live With  The lady I live with knows me. I don’t know her, but she knows me. Sometimes when I’m on my computer I see her in the corner of my room, crouched and balled up like a starving child. Her eyes watch me sometimes too. They feel empty like an abandoned house, but something watches me behind it’s windows. A green galaxy surrounds her voided pupils with the outskirts of a thick brown ring keeping it from escaping. Usually when I’m cooking I see her resting on my electric oven as if it were a warm bed, but sometimes she would stand exactly one foot behind me and watch as I cook my usual eggs and toast, occasionally doing one of those crying sniffles that happen loudly and quickly as the toast pops out. Her nose isn’t what I would really call a nose though. It’s more skeletal since it’s so thin and pointy, like a horn.. She likes to play pranks on me almost every month. I would be sleeping in bed or listening to music when she’d start laughing. Not laughing as from joy, but an “I’m giving up” crying kind of laugh where it howls coarser and longer than usual. After a few seconds of laughing I’d feel blood, then pain. I could find one of my fingernails missing, or cuts and scratches on the bottoms of my arms or all over my chest. It’s more annoying than painful. My blanket and shirt are usually light colored, like white or yellow. So whenever she pranks me I have to buy a new shirt without the brown stain of blood. I notice she’s kind of mean. After school and work she’d berate me in the voices of friends and co-works. I don’t know how she knows how they sound or even how they are, but it’s mean. It’s always at times when I’m at peace too. I like taking in the noises of the roads outside my house and the constant chattering of the neighbors above me. They always have something interesting to talk about or do. At some points they turn into music singing and vocalizing beautiful symphonies. With the repetitive scream or thud, it helps me relax and sleep. Until their performance is once again ruined by the lady. I know she likes to see me cry. Whether from a movie or from pain, I see her standing with her hands locked behind her back as she smiles open mouthed. I see her wrinkles from her cheeks so scrunched up they looked as if they were going to snap. Her eyes would be squished and widened as her smiles grew ever so bigger, until I stopped crying. Her face plateaus as her emotion and joy are shot out like a bullet. She irritates me. She dresses up like me every day, even down to the hair and height. I always ask her to stop, but she never does. When I walk out the shower I see she has my exact clothing for the day. A baby blue t-shirt with a black and white sunset embroidered on the chest. White shorts speckled with tiny light pink roses. Lastly she has my wet straight black hair running over her forehead and blurring a smidge of her eyes. She’s nothing, but a hurtful copycat. Or more accurately, a second me. It’s like having your reflection become a real object. I hate her. No one knows about her, no one has seen her. She knows me, but I don’t know her. Even though she’s a replica of me, she is dead. There’s no life in her emotions or movements, even though they're mine. She has no name, and I won’t give her one. Human is not what she is. It’s like watching a robot imitate human life. Wake up, eat, work, observe, and see herself without her eyes. Behind me.