‘Frank Courtney; new resident in bed 12. Male, 81, major stroke with right-sided weakness, speech affected, discharged from hospital this morning. ’ ‘Family?’ ‘Widowed. A daughter, as far as I know. I don’t think they’re close. He was a clever bloke by the sounds of it; scientist for the government, apparently.’ The two nurses popped their heads round the door, saw that the old man appeared to be asleep and moved on to complete their handover. The old man opened one eye. Glanced around. Settled back into the pillows. ‘ Was. Hrmmph . ’ The care home would take in those who were struggling to cope in their own homes, and it would also take patients who were ready to be discharged from hospital, but weren’t able to go back home. And that’s why Frank was here. Not that he had any choice, not that he had any say, not that he could have said anything anyway. Frank was stuck. Four weeks ago, Frank had had a stroke; he woke up one day in a hospital ward wondering how he’d got there. He remembered that he’d been heading to Wiltshire to meet someone, but he couldn’t remember who or why. And now he couldn’t even ask anyone because his face didn’t work. It’s not that he didn’t know what to say. All the words were there. It’s just that he had a loose connection. He’d pulled a few faces when some young girl came in to give him a shave. He could nod, shake his head, raise an eyebrow and blink, and give a shaky half smile - not that he’d much to smile about. Other than that, speech was just frustrating. He’d pretty much given up. It was so awful, he couldn’t ever imagine it getting back to anything like worthwhile. Just twisted grunts, like the most garbled railway announcement you’d ever heard. What would be the point anyway? There was no one to talk to. The nurses and carers flitted in, did stuff to him, and flitted out to do something else to someone else. No one had time to talk. Certainly no one had time to paste a patient look on their face while they waited for him to utter something they might be able to figure out the meaning of. Not that there was probably anyone on his wavelength here anyway. They probably thought ‘erudite’ was some sort of glue. He lay back and waited for the next thing to happen. Drug round. Tea round. Supper round. Toilet round. Comes to something when your bodily functions have to happen on schedule or not at all... * * * ‘Frank?’ The chubby dark-haired nurse called in that loud and low voice they use when they know something more shrill will interfere with people’s hearing aids. Frank irritably opened his eyes as you do when you’re not asleep, not deaf, and not stupid either. ‘Oh good, you’re awake,’ she grinned. ‘Would you like to see who’s come to visit you?’ Times like this were when Frank regretted his speech loss the most. Times which were crying out for a retort, sharp and stinging as a paper cut. But no, he was forced to arrange his face in a ‘I have no idea, do please tell’ kind of expression, because that was one of the few that he could still do. Before the nurse could offer any further inanity, the door opened wider, and something tumbled into the room. He couldn’t see what it was because his bedrails were in the way, but then his daughter came in muttering her thanks to the nurse and clumsily pushing in with a bundle of carrier bags bursting with who knows what. Junk, probably. ‘Dad,’ she said. Making sure to give him a businesslike peck on the side of his face that still worked properly, and then lifting up Frank’s granddaughter and dumping her onto the end of the bed, as it was tiny girl who had made the clumsy entrance. Frank looked from granddaughter to daughter. ‘I’m sorry Dad, she wanted to come, and there was no one I could leave her with anyway. She’ll be fine, she’s got a couple of toys, and she just wanted to see what it was like here.’ Martha pulled out a couple of stuffed animals from one of the bags and planted them on the bed next to the little girl who immediately began talking to them as though they’d had a stressful journey. Chloe was an unexpected child. There was quite an age gap between her older twin brothers and her - but also, no one expects Down syndrome, do they? Frank hadn’t had much to do with Martha’s boys, and even less to do with the girl, living so far away etcetera, but it’s difficult knowing what to say in that kind of situation, isn’t it? Avoidance was always easier. And of course now, it wasn’t an option anyway. Frank shrugged at his daughter and glanced at all the bags she’d dragged in. ‘I brought you a few things from home to brighten up your room.’ Frank nodded acknowledgment. ‘Now you’re living so close by it’ll be much easier to pop in. But before I go back up north to check on your house, you’ll have to let me know what you want to keep and what can be cleared if...’ she paused, ‘well, I suppose we‘ll just have to work it out between us.’ She fumbled around in the bags, pulled out a few old framed photographs he’d kept of his wife and daughter on his desk. ‘Probably best if we hang these on the wall to save space,’ she said, casting around for the best bit of wall. They said it’s OK if we let them know where we want stuff, and they’ll hang them for us.’ Frank rolled the eye that rolled the best. ‘I’m doing my best, Dad. I’m really trying., Martha’s voice shook a little. ‘I knew you’d hate it anywhere, so I just picked the home that was nearest and didn’t smell of wee.’ He snorted. Martha had always been refreshingly honest. ‘Is that you laughing?’ Frank let out a wheezy gurgle. ‘OK, that’s better. We can agree on that then.’ She paused as the door opened again, and a care assistant popped in offering tea, coffee, and the usual biscuits you get in a family pack. ‘No jammie dodgers left, sorry,’ he said, ‘If they open a box overnight, the night staff always nick the best ones.’ ‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Martha. ‘I wouldn’t mind, only we always get left with the rubbish coconut ones,’ he shrugged, handed a small beaker of orange squash to Martha for Chloe who was still absorbed with her toys, and pushed the trolley back out of the room. ‘Well, you’ll be able to do plenty of people-watching at least,’ said Martha as she gently handed a plastic cup with a spout filled with lukewarm tea to her father. ‘Looks like it’s more milk than tea; Mum’d have a fit. I don’t think they have skimmed here.’ Conversation flagged as the adults sipped their tea, and Chloe offered her squash to her toys. When they didn’t appear thirsty, she gulped it down herself and went back to playing with her toys, making a little den for them with the bottom end of Frank’s duvet. ‘There’s some post,’ said Martha, reaching for another of the bags. ‘Perhaps I could open it for you, and then you can read through, you know, sort it and let me know if there’s anything you want me to do with it. There’s this one as well; I thought it might be important,’ she placed a small envelope with a hand-inked address on it on top of the pile. ‘I don’t recognise the writing.’ She laid the letters to one side of his bedside table so he could go through them after his supper. Frank nodded thanks. He smiled and touched her hand. The movement made Martha jump, but she squeezed the offered hand, and blinked away tears. She couldn’t remember a time when she’s felt closer to her hard-working, secretive father. The hand squeeze turned into a hug. So sad that after all her father worked for, all he achieved, this would be how it would end. She released him, and quickly sniffed and wiped her nose; Chloe noticed, her lip started to tremble and she took big gulps of air in preparation for what Martha recognised as likely to be loud bawling. ‘We’re going to go, Dad. Chloe’s tired. I’ll come back tomorrow evening. Try to rest. ' Another kiss and she bustled away with her daughter. * * * Over the next few days, Frank familiarised himself with the rhythms of the home, although his bowels refuse going to the loo on demand... The pile of post thins as he sat in his comfy chair, and first picking out the easy envelopes to bin without opening. Circulars, prospecting letters from people who sell conservatories, ‘free’ credit cards, charity newsletters. Then he put aside the bills for Martha to help with, magazine subscriptions to cancel, and condolence letters for her to help respond to. The small handwritten envelope remained until last. Then he eyed it as he sipped his lukewarm tea. Salisbury postmark. How funny, there was a slight smudge in the top corner, making it look like the postmark was dated 1951. Finally, he swept it into the bin at the side of his chair with his forearm. Done. One of the carers took him down to the ground floor library. He struggled to concentrate because of the stroke, and anyway, there wasn’t much he was interested in reading - the books were mostly murder mysteries which he found depressing; the main characters surrounded by so much death book after book - and the books themselves had probably been ‘donated’ by those who’d died too. Funny when you thought of it. A couple of the residents had died. No one mentioned it, but he noticed that he was now being washed and dressed about 20 minutes earlier in the mornings, and going to bed 15 minutes earlier too. There were a couple of empty chairs in the dining room, but he couldn’t quite remember the faces of those who were missing. The chairs would of course soon be filled with new people. Life goes on. Until it doesn’t. Martha brought Chloe again one afternoon. So awkward. Chloe went with him to watch him have his hair cut in the salon. She sat next to him swinging her short legs from the big chair and giggled at him in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow and it made her laugh harder. She pulled a face back, and he wiggled his ears. She roared with laughter. They headed back to his room. Chloe played with her stuffed animals as Martha told him family news and he nodded, shrugged or scowled in response. One day Martha brought more post, and Chloe brought crayons and a colouring book. Once Martha was clearing away the completed post and waste paper, Chloe plopped the colouring book onto his chair table and offered him the crayons. He reluctantly took a purple one. She, an orange one. Together they coloured, two heads bent over a picture of something - he wasn’t sure what it was; it was upside down for him. Quietly they worked, progress was slow, and neither was proficient at keeping within the lines, but Chloe didn’t mind. ‘Look, mum!’ she shouted as she proudly held up a seaside scene of crabs, starfish and a sandcastle coloured purple (so that’s what it was...) The colouring became a habit; on Mondays and Thursdays, Chloe would spend the afternoon colouring with him. He was bemused to notice that they were both starting to look forward to her visits, and he learned not to mind the scrappy outlines or the strange colours used. * * * ‘Frank?’ the day nurse popped her head around the door. ‘There’s a visitor for you. Dr Penrose? Would you like to see him in your room or in the day room?’ Dear, oh dear. Penrose. A long time, and he’d come after all. Frank had a minute before his visitor arrived. He glanced around, seeing his room in the eyes of an old friend and colleague. Now an ex-friend and ex-colleague. Tidy. Beige. Uninspiring. Just like Penrose, in fact. To Frank’s shock, Penrose didn’t look a day older than when Frank had been forced to clear his desk. Not a day. ‘Caught you at last,’ a tweedy and slightly beaky chap said as he entered, holding out his hand. Glancing at Frank’s limp right hand, he swiftly swapped to his left without a word. They shook, Frank looking warily at him. ‘It’s been a long time, Frank. And not for want of trying either - I’ve written, called, I hoped you’d consider a proposal. As it is, I now realise, you’ve, ah, had a bit of a change in circumstances.’ Frank nodded. Penrose didn’t look a day over what? 36? How was that possible? ‘So, I thought perhaps my proposal might be thoughtfully considered after all.’ Penrose pulled a chair up opposite Frank, sat and placed his briefcase next to his feet. Frank looked at him stonily. ‘The project was successful. It works - and not least down to that, ah, unorthodox thing you tried...’ ‘...t hat got me fired, ’ finished Frank, in his brain. ‘You were right after all. It is possible to go back as well as forwards. Jenkins did it. Went all the way back to Waterloo, had a look around, and back to 1951 in time for tea. Government’s keeping it under wraps though, can’t let just anyone muddle around in the future or history willy-nilly . There’s a bit more to be done though, and that’s where you come in.’ He shuffled his chair forward, resting his elbows on Frank’s chair-table. ‘We want to refine it a bit, more time accuracy, and hopefully, reduce the fatigue and after effects for participants.’ He spoke quickly. Frank’s eyes widened with possibilities. ‘Hmm, thought you’d be interested,’ Penrose’s beady eyes glinted. We can do it this Friday. Pop you down to Wiltshire, and it’s back to 1951, you continue your masterwork finish what you started, and escape all this - you get to be young again. How about it?’ Penrose looked at him keenly. Frank raised an eyebrow and took a deep breath. I mean, it would would solve everything, wouldn’t it? He’d get to prove he was right all along, work on the project that had been his passion; and he’d had so many ideas over the last decades, in idle moments imagining how he could make changes, making fresh calculations and forming new hypotheses on top of old, discarded ones. Streamlining the process, improving reliability, accuracy...’ He closed his eyes and leant back in his chair. This was unexpected - and irresistible; this chance of validation, vindication even, the opportunity to test things, the scientific process... To exchange this for all that. He opened his eyes and looked squarely at the confidently expectant Penrose. ‘No.’ ‘What?’ Penrose leant back in surprise. ‘But it’s your life’s work.’ Frank shook his head. No. It isn’t.


I’m a liar. I’m really good at lying. I never understood why I feel the need to constantly tell stories, but it has become something of habit. I want to say that it is my general insecurity about my weight, and my poor personal choices, but I know that there has to be more to it than that. I’ve let so many people down, and it’s a shame really. I’ve missed out on some serious friendships because of the way I am. I’m a handful, and I know that. I sincerely wish I could just be myself, but I’m ashamed of who I am. I’ve been lying for as long as I can remember. I used to tell kids in middle school that I was actually a ninja, or a wizard, or a vampire-- whatever was trendy at the time. But I wouldn’t just say it once and move on, oh no, I would push it and elaborate into the story until it was like a wild fire blowing through a forest. Thing is, once it got to that point, there was no way for me to stop it, and it would burn out of control until it fizzled out into smoke. Smoke, just like the stories I was sharing. I make myself sick sometimes thinking about the things that I say and why I say them. It’s maddening. I thought that before it was to impress people, and while, sure that is a reason some of the times now I can’t help but think it is more or less just a part of who I am now. I lie about everything. There isn’t a story i’ve shared that I haven’t embellished even a little for no reason. I’m a sucker for the reactions, and the attention, i’ll admit. One of the worst things though, is how my lying has gotten me in trouble, and I don’t seem to learn. I believe this is the reason behind my severe anxiety. I feel guilty all of the time! I am always looking over my shoulder and pretending that everything is okay but deep down I know I am doing something that is not okay. How do I fix this? What can I do to change? It seems like any time I try to improve and do better I fall back like an old dog doing the same tricks. I feel like this is something that, if I don’t get past, will hinder me for the rest of my life. It scares me how much I buy into my own bullshit, and I want nothing more than to be free from this. I have people who love and care about me and don’t even know the real me because of how masqueraded i’ve let myself become in my lies. It’s maddening. I feel like I have become a monster, uncontrollable. Vile, and self-loathing because I have built up such a facade. I lead two lives, and sometimes I wonder which one is really in control. There is so much people don’t know about me, that I don’t know about myself. It’s terrifying. I look in the mirror and I can see it, and I wonder if anyone else can. So many people believe that I am truly a decent person and it’s hard for me to swallow. I don’t feel that way, I feel toxic. I am a venom, venom that sneaks its way into your drink and burns you from the inside out. I will watch you let your guard down for me, and rely on me while I keep myself jaded. I will watch you believe in me, trust me, love me -- all the while filling your heads with myths. I will convince you that you love this false me, knowing full well I can’t deliver what i’ve sold you. Then, when I have gotten you in your most fragile state, I will strike -- like a python and blindside you. Leaving you in shock, confused, and hurt. I will cut and run, and I won’t think twice about it. I know I do this because i’ve done this so many times. Poor Meghan, poor Lorelei, poor Maggie, poor Nicole, Poor Mikayla. I am the worst, and I want more than anything to stop. It has become me, and I have become it. I am a downward spiral. At work, I lie. I lie about everything I do outside of work. After I clock out I punch out and I go home and sit in the dark and I write this, or I watch television, or I sleep. I make up stories about anything.. women, adventures, anything. I want to spice up my life, and in some twisted sociopathic way I believe that this is the only way to do it. It’s grotesque. My best friends, friends I have had for years have no idea who I am, but neither do I. I want to get help, I want to better myself and be honest, but I am uncertain how I can do this anymore. I sometimes honestly believe I might be a sociopath, and it used to scare the shit out of me, but it doesn’t anymore. Now, I feel empty. I don’t feel anything about this assumption, and I believe that is more terrifying than being afraid of it. Am I wired differently? Am I different? How can I change? I don’t know what I am doing writing all this down.. but it seems somewhat therapeutic. My therapist told me to write, and I started to. I’m trying to be honest with him, and it’s only been one visit and I believe I truly was sincere. I could pin-point when I wanted to lie though, and I stopped myself. Maybe I want to be fixed and because of that I put in the effort with him. But if I can do it with him can I do it with anyone else? Time will tell.


The Incredible Edible Box By Denise A. Pearson “Earth to Bradley Carpenter. This is your partner, Casey Tillman calling.” I lifted my head. “What’s the problem?”said Casey. “Problem? We’ve been working on this for a month. How can we win first prize in the science fair if we can’t make our eco-friendly box project work?” “We’ll get it to work. I don’t want Creepy Freddie Potter to beat us. Or that know-everything girl, what’s her name . . .” “Susan Kinder,” I said. “But she’s not so bad.” “Mmm,” said Casey as he scraped our latest failure out of my mom’s best fry pan and into the trash. “What’s next?” I asked. Casey glanced at the kitchen clock. “It’s late. I gotta get home. We’ll work on it tomorrow.” I just stared at him. “Don’t look so worried. We’ve got a whole week left. Just because the milk and flour paste on the cereal baked in the pie crust didn’t work, doesn’t mean anything. Tonight, I’ll sleep on it.” “Sleep on it?” Casey shrugged on his jacket. “Don’t worry. I do my best thinking while sleeping. We’ll come up with a prize winner by the end of the week.” At lunch the next day, Casey leaned close and whispered, “You’ll never believe the dream I had last night.” “Yeah?” Casey hunched his shoulders and shifted his eyes right, then left. He looked like a second-rate Dracula stand-in. “I was in your mom’s kitchen. Then the fridge door opened. All. By. Itself. A long, green arm stretched out of the fridge and grabbed me. Then it dragged me into the fridge. It was so scary it woke me up. “And Ta-Da! I knew this had to be the solution for our project.” “Uh, I think I’m missing something here. I don’t get it,” I said. “Celery. The green arm was a stalk of celery. We’ll weave celery together to make our edible box.” Casey entwined his fingers to demonstrate. “Weave celery? Uh, Casey, celery’s crunchy, not bendable.” “Did I forget to mention the part about dehydrating it first? Then it’ll be in flat strips that we can weave together.” “Won’t it leak?” “We’ll use egg whites for glue. Clever, ain’t it?” I had to admit it was. After a week of slavishly weaving slabs of desiccated celery about each other in varying configurations, we had succeeded. A basket weave pattern proved to be the sturdiest. Now, here we were, in the school auditorium, setting up our project. Our poster read: The Incredible Edible Box. How more eco-friendly can you get? Eat the contents of the box and then . . . eat the box. “Think our chances are good?” I ask Casey. “Go-umphral.” “What?” I glanced at Casey. “Hey, those samples are for people to try and then like us on our Facebook page. Don’t eat them all up.” Casey swallowed. “I can’t help it. Your idea of using ranch dressing instead of egg whites was fabulous - and very tasty.” Suddenly, a shadow hovered near our exhibit. “Tillman and Carpenter. I wondered what project you guys would enter,” Freddie said. “I expected it to be in the field of science - not an entry to the Pillsbury Bake-Off. â ” I wedged myself between Casey and Creepy Freddie. Since losing the Science Trivia marathon to Casey, they’d become mortal enemies. “It’s better than depriving mice of sleep, then running them through mazes,” Casey shot back. Freddie sneered. “We’ll let the judges decide that tomorrow.” Although the judge’s decisions wouldn’t be until six that evening, we arrived at school early the next day so we could refill our sample bin. The ones we brought yesterday had been gobbled up by the end of last night’s open house - everyone liked them. This morning, we had broken up all our prototype boxes into small pieces to make more samples. “Hi,” Susan Kinder said as we walked past her exhibit, which was next to ours. Her project was growing hydroponic vegetables. “Hi Susan,” I said. Casey nodded to her. “She really is nice,” I whispered to him. “If you’d only . . . Holy Cow!” Our exhibit, and only remaining edible box, looked more like a piece of Swiss cheese than a box. “Who would stoop so low?” I asked. Casey lifted up a small, white mouse from the inside of the box. His eyes darkened with anger. “A two-legged rat, that’s who.” “Creepy Freddie,” I said. Casey gazed at the mouse. “Hey,” yelled Freddie, thundering over from his booth. “My mouse! Dino escaped last night.” Freddie plucked the mouse from Casey’s hand. He glanced up at our hole-riddled box. “Oops! Guess Dino decided to make a snack out of your project. So-o-o-o sorry. And before the judging too.” Susan came over and said, “I bet he deliberately put that mouse in your booth last night.” “Yeah, but there’s no way we can prove it,” said Casey. “What’ll you guys do? An edible box is such a great idea.” “There isn’t much we can do,” I said. “Can you make a new one?” “We haven’t any materials left,” Casey said. “Maybe I could help,” Susan said. “I read the ingredients for your box on one of your posters. I have celery in my hydroponics tank which you can use. There’s a convenience store across the street that must sell ranch dressing. And we could use the oven in the school cafeteria for dehydrating the celery. We still have most of the day get this done before the judging and I’ll bet we could get out of all our classes to do this. What do you think?” I tried to catch Casey’s eye so we could talk this over, but he was staring at Susan. “Why would you want to help us?” he asked. “Maybe because I think going green and leaving a small carbon footprint is the best way of preserving our future.” Then she grinned wickedly. “And, maybe because I like you guys much better than Slimy Freddie Potter.” I smiled back. “We call him Creepy Freddie.” “Creepy Freddie?” Susan tasted the words. “Fits him perfectly.” Casey flashed her a smile. “Yeah, don’t it though.” We pushed Susan’s booth next to ours and went to work. We were putting the finishing touches on our posters by the time the judges came around. The head judge peered at the latest edition to our poster collection. He looked at his clipboard and said, “I don’t remember seeing this exhibit listed.” We all gave each other quick glances, then Casey stepped forward to explain how two science projects had become one. “. . . and it melds environmental concerns of recycling with the newest technological advances in agriculture,” finished Casey. The judges nodded their heads and examined our combined posters that announced “The Future of Food - - - From Hydroponic Farming to Edible Boxes”. As they walked on to the next booth, they were munching our free samples of the Incredible Edible Box. Needless to say, Creepy Freddie wasn’t happy to be in the audience as Casey, Susan, and I mounted the stage to claim first prize.


The titles bad I know. Didn’t really put a lot of thought into it. Not a good writer so I’m sure there are a million errors. I’ve just always enjoyed making stories. This is the first time I’ve ever shared anything before so hopefully it’s not bad. God damn it’s so fucking cold out. It’s only October and the grounds been frosted every morning for the last week. It’s a beautiful sight to wake up to. But I’m ok with not seeing. Makes me feel cold just looking at. I dread stepping out of my warm home to the cold barren country roads. The bland open field invite the icy winds to blow in my face as I struggle on my long strolls to school. I’ve got to stop showering in the morning. My hair crunches like I put a full bottle of hair gel in it. I could drive to school but I like to enjoy the fall colors. There’s always opportunities for pictures with the sunrise peaking through the deep red leaves. It warms you despite the cool air that fall brings. The 20 minute walk always feels like 20 seconds to me. I lose my self in thought to easily. It’s the only way to keep the chaos of other off taking me down. The negativity that fills the world is to much to handle. All these mad murders that are narrated on the news almost every day. I hear so many complaints with hopeless solutions tied to them. It doesn’t matter what you do to try and stop them. You can take away their guns but then they’ll use their knives. You can take their knives but then they’ll use their tools. You can take their tools but then they’ll use their hands. You can take their hands but then others will raise theirs. The best thing you can do is to accept, mourn, and move on. If a person has a drive to kill they’ll do it. Doesn’t matter if they have a weapon or not. Shit. It’s supposed to hurt right. Why doesn’t it hurt. Is it the adrenaline. Does that make it not hurt? Will it hurt soon? What do I do if it hurts? How do I make the pain stop? Should I be worried about the pain? Wait I can feel something now. It’s cold. Very cold. It’s like the metal was forged in an icy flame. I can feel the whole blade now. It’s being thrusted in deeper. I can feel the flesh separate as it moves. What does it look like? It’s like the leaves it’s such a deep red. It looks like a pool with no bottom. I hate it. What’s down there? Never mind I don’t want to know. Stop I don’t want to see it. It’s too deep. I don’t want to know what down their. The pool is just getting bigger. I need to stop it. How do I stop it? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? A hand. Someone’s hand. I need to stop them and their hand. How do I stop it though? Can I stop it? How can you stop someone from hurting you? Well it doesn’t hurt right now but it might. I don’t want it to hurt so I need to hurt them? That will stop them. It work when I was little. It stopped my brother from hitting me. Only for a little bit though. But I only need a little bit. I should hurt them but how. Their neck. It hurts if you can’t breathe. I remember going under water in a pool a long long time ago. Not a red pull but a blue one. I remember it hurt badly. But I wasn’t scared. I just remember crying. I couldn’t say it hurt but it did. I need to hurt him till he cry’s. That’ll make him stop. I just need to put my hand on his neck and squeeze. Is it working? I think it’s working the knife is coming out. I can feel it move. Look even his face is turning blue like the pool I was in. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. It is working. He’s going to cry soon right? Cause it hurts and makes you want to cry. I want him to cry. So I can stop. My hands are tiered. My abdomen is sore. Will he cry soon? Why isn’t he crying. He’s supposed to by now. It hurts to not breathe. He should cry. I’m getting dizzy. My head feels like a boulder. I can’t hold it up. I have too look down. Look at the pool on the ground. It’s so big now. I might fall in. No don’t fall in. You won’t be able to get out. It’s too deep. Don’t fall in. You won’t be able to swim. It hurts to much. It hurts now. Not my abdomen but my chest. I feel like I did something wrong. But I don’t know. Did I hurt him to much? Could he not cry? You don’t cry a lot when ur older. Maybe he couldn’t cry because of that. I’m scared now. Did I do something bad? Am I going to be in trouble? I don’t want to be in trouble. Maybe I should go into the pool? They can’t yell at me in the pool if I go deep. I might be able to swim away from it if I go in. That might be a good idea. I need to hold my breath before I go in. It hurts to not breath. A deep breath. The pool is getting bigger so fast as I dive in. I wondered if I can touch the bottom.


*“Huh? Oh, here.”* *“First time flyer?”* *“Last time flyer.”* I quickly entered the tunnel leading to the plane, ignoring the suspicious glance the attendee threw my way whilst scanning my boarding pass. *‘Last time flyer’*, I thought, chuckling underneath my breath. I had never considered myself quick witted, but I guess even during one’s final hours on this planet, they can learn something new about themselves. As I stepped on board, I could feel the shift in tension around me. Although no one was particularly talkative whilst boarding the plane, it didn’t really feel out of the ordinary until now. After all, a 5 am flight on a Tuesday in the middle of October is not usually bustling with big families visiting relatives, or young couples looking for a thrill. Those already seated were silent. Some had closed their eyes, others seemed to be analyzing the faces around them; taking in the last piece of humanity they would likely ever see. A small woman to my left caught my gaze. Her hair was fire and the glare in her eyes told the story of what led her here. A life in shambles, a messy divorce, lost custody, an abusive boss. Do my eyes tell my story? Or does my body wreak of a life spent alone? Carefully, I place my carry-on in the luggage holder above. If someone opened it, they would find nothing; they would see nothing. A quick unzip to check on its contents reminds me, however, that it is not empty. It is filled with love unreciprocated, time lost, and a future thrown away. Invisible memories leak through its seems, filling the air with a stench of rejection and neglect. I gag. A flight attendant quickly reaches to hand me a paper bag, but I fan her away. Even if I wanted to throw up, I had not eaten for the past two days, so I doubt much, if anything, would come out. I sit down next to a young man who appears eager to have company. Shyly, he smiles at me. *“They say that everyone dies alone, but here, we will go together.”* I look into his eyes. He does not seem like the type to choose this path. He seems hopeful, content, energetic. He radiates the energy I have always envied and craved to possess. I bring my hand up to his face and brush his cheek. *“I guess beautiful people are just as unhappy as the rest of us.”* Breaking eye contact, he turns his face away from hand and rolls up his sleeves. We both look down. *“I guess so.”* His scars tell stories I do not want to hear. Perhaps if we had met a year ago, we could have both avoided this fate. A year ago, I could have saved him, and saving him would have saved me. We could have lived a life together. But instead, we will die together. As the last passengers take their seats, the flight attendants line up and exit the plane. I can see tears falling from the lady that tried to give me a paper bag. Her muffled sobs remind us all of the magnitude of our actions. Later today, the news will run rampant with a story about how 97 people lost their lives in a devastating plane crash that left no survivors. Families will mourn, strangers will switch the channel, life will continue. For everyone but us, that is. Without any warning or announcement, the plane begins to roll down the runway. I assume in a time like this, the comforting words of a pilot are useless. The only thing we want, is to reach our final destination. As I take a deep breath, the man beside me turns his body to face mine. Slowly, he reaches over and takes my hand. His palms are soft and his hands feel like home. *“Do you know where you’re going?”* he asks me softly. *“I imagine heaven is off the table, but a guy can dream.”* Squeezing my hand, he pauses briefly as the plane begins to rise. His demeanor is no longer that of a youthful carefree boy. Brows furled, he looks at me for what feels like an eternity. I wait. *“Isn’t it ironic? The thought of being punished by choosing death, a path chosen because of the way life has already punished us?”* I sigh and tell him that I find it amusing how he is contemplating this now. I started asking that question when I was twelve, and I still haven’t heard an adequate response. He asks why. I think it's because, as a people, we are so uncomfortable with the unknown. We are scared of death because -- all faith aside -- we simply do not know. In an age where you can find out anything with a quick Google search, there is no confusion why this generation’s capacity to discuss questions you must answer for yourself is so small. Looking over, I could tell he was considering my point of view. I appreciated that the last man I would speak to would not be like all the others that have trodden on the doormat into my home. *“Tell me your story,”* he said. What can I say? There isn’t much to tell. I’m tired. Of what, you ask? I’m tired of living a static existence. I work often, socialize rarely, and feel alone always. Maybe it was just a rut, maybe there was a better way out, but I’m too tired to look for it. By now, I could tell he wasn’t happy with my response. I felt he knew that ‘I’m tired’ was just a copout to hide the real reason I boarded this flight. A tired person would not go through all of this effort to end their life. His hands fidgeted, and I could sense him pulling away from the conversation. *“I just want to be free.”* I mumbled, hoping this would draw him in enough to keep me company for a little while longer. Turning his head to gaze out the window, he said one final thing to me. The last sentence I’d hear from him for the rest of the flight. *“There are other things that lead to freedom.”* As the flight wears on, I grow tired. Before I can nod off, we are all started by a jerk in the plane’s motion. It must be time. I can see the red haired woman from earlier begin to panic. There is no escape. We begin to descend at a rapid pace. Falling faster and faster. Falling. Falling Falling. My eyes open as snow falls around me. I must have fallen asleep. Shivering from the brutal wind, I get up and look at the winter night that had grown more intense as I slept. Remembering why I was here, I walk closer to the edge of the roof and look down into the empty street below. As I place one arm on the ledge to hoist myself up, my mouth opens and something within me whispers. *“There are other things that lead to freedom.”* I stop. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Taking it out, I see that it’s 2:04 am. My roommate is calling. I answer. *“Hello?”* *“Where are you? You seemed off today, and when I got back and you weren’t here, I got worried. Why aren’t you in your room?”* Quickly, I back away from the ledge. I’m not sure what to say. Perhaps for once, I’ll try the truth. *“I went out for a walk to think about things. Things I’ve been considering for a while. All this time, I wanted to be free, and tonight I was going to make that happen. But after lying in the snow, I realized something. Choosing death doesn’t make you free, it just makes you dead.


She woke up on a tear stained pillow. Her red swollen eyes gleamed with silent sadness. The eerie silence of her was maddening. I had no strength to see her so broken. But then, no words could erase what she had been through. I stopped uttering words that would pass through her untouched. Her grieving was the only possible sign to know she was alive. Every morning would be the same. She was like a clock; like a machine fit inside her petite figure. She would always cook breakfast for me. It never failed to taste good, but now it lacked her love. It’s been 3 months and I don’t remember the last time we touched each other affectionately. We’ve been married for just 7 months; 7 months and 18 days to be precise. I had always been in love with her. Her careless laughter would captivate me for hours. The way her eyes sparkled when she looked at him was just pure joy. Sometimes I envied what he had, but I knew, I could gain her affection but not the happiness she felt being with him. By the way she saw him, I knew her love was pure and far beyond passion. But for him, she was just another girl. I used to overhear her friends wanting her not to be with him. But she was truly, madly, deeply in love. I was far too beyond to be noticed and so I drifted away. She would cross my mind not all the time but I would lie if I said I forgot her. I met her again a year ago. I was at the hospital for my regular check-up and there I saw her. I recognized her instantly as if we just met yesterday. She was the same, nothing changed. Except I noticed she had bruises all over her which she unsuccessfully tried to cover with make-up. I went up to talk to her. I always knew she could open up to people easily. And so she revealed , she had his baby and he was nowhere to be found after leaving her bruised the other night. My heart sank to see her in pain. I didn’t want to leave her in such situation so I told I would take care of her. Yes, few months later I got her affection and we got married but no, there was no sparkle when she looked at me. Then the baby arrived. For me it was our first child but for her, it was the reminder of her love. I knew she never got over him. She loved him unconditionally. I too loved her unconditionally so I had no intentions to change her. It was the first night of the baby in our house. I was the happiest person at that moment. As the night arrived, so did our lives darkened. He broke into our house and took away our baby as we were out in the porch discussing how she loved him through thick and thin. Then our lives turned upside down. We did our best to find him but we couldn’t. And so did we tried finding love in each other but we failed there too. We tried not to fight but blamed each other for being careless. Since then things aren’t the same. She wakes up in a tear stained pillow with red swollen eyes. But my hands hold back from giving her affection.


The table was cold. No padding on it- no need for padding under my body, they said, when my consciousness, all forms of sensation, would be in an entirely different place. That stood to reason. There I was lain, upon my back across that slab, as the team began attaching the wired headset. Nearly delirious with nerves, I resisted the urge to burst into inane laughter at its comical resemblance to VR headgear. The reality I was headed for was anything but virtual, though. “You still want to go through with this, Christine?” Came a voice, one that belonged to the flurry of arms, which had since been replaced by darkness- thank you, visor. It sounded like Dr. Simms. He and his husband Dr. Cotton were some of our top researchers; just palpably, I relaxed. “Your body will be in complete stasis, unharmed by any-” “Yeah,” I muttered, frustration billowing in my chest to cloud the fear, the feeling of my heart pounding wildly against its bony cage, “I’ve seen *Avatar*, and you have too judging by you attempting this consciousness-transfer bull.” A laugh. “No second body needed, though- you aren’t inhabiting a host, your mind alone is simply exploring the m-” “Y- yeah,” I stuttered, failing miserably at biting confidence but nailing bitterness at minimum, “I want to explore. No hostiles anticipated, right?” “Right. Nothing should be where I send you first- this is just a test.” A reassuring voice, but I wished I could see it smile. If it even did. I wished I could be sure it was Simms, sure of *something,* as a loud *clunk* sounded at my left. “Bon voyage, dear.” And with that, a sharp tingle arced across my temples, seeming to rest itself in the center like a nasal headache. Instinctually I made to scrunch my nose, but found the motion impossible, opting instead to just sit in the pain, the darkness... ...until I bolted upright, gasping for breath in an atmosphere that felt no different than the one I left, save for a curious absence of accompanying sensation, no familiar collapse within my ribcage I tended to take for granted. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Rising shakily to my feet, I grasped for my bearings, drinking in the surrounding purple sea I stood in. A field of lavender? No, these were no flowers, they were more like...anemones? Corals. Gasping, I jumped back, but no pain, no blood, followed, just harmless waving in the wind. Still I ran through them, wondering if they truly were simple life forms or if the gorgeous purple sea was built from the bones of hapless creatures like me. I didn’t get far before I struck what felt like a body, having made one too many haphazard glances over my shoulder at the silent field. How I missed another person *and* what appeared to be a small hill of dirt interrupting the still scene before was beyond me, but I was more concerned with the ground suddenly giving way, my field of vision overtaken by the bluish-grey sky. “Oh, you must be a visitor,” came an eager, faintly accented- though I couldn’t put my finger on any particular one- voice, before a face and body popped into my line of vision. The figure was tall, but not unnaturally so, and topped with a neat swoop of violently crimson hair as bright as his clothes, the style of which lie strangely between a tunic and a suit. Shining, nearly pitch-black eyes stared at me, making me want to jerk my head just to see when his eyes followed me if he had any sort of pupils. At least I assumed it was a he. Definitely a masculine build: quite slender, but with broad shoulders sharply contrasting a narrow waist. The eerie elegance of his elevated cheekbones was cut by an almost boyish, prominently dimpled grin, one that utterly failed to mask excitement. I almost smiled back at the sight of it. “Yeah,” I breathed, eyes roaming over the figure again and again, “how did you know, the hair?” Before *whoever had found me* spoke again, though, he’d taken my hand in his, skin tone and temperature surprisingly quite warmer than mine, to pull me to my feet, a part of my own body appearing in my line of vision for the first time since I’d...er, landed? My body- my skin, my clothes, seemingly *all of it*\- was drained of color, bathed in dull grey tones of my fair skin and plum blouse as if I was a sepia character stepping into modern-day entertainment for a crossover that was likely to royally suck. I gasped, jumping back and nearly falling onto my butt again. “Oh, I guess *that’s* how you knew. So you live here, then? And you’ve seen, er, someone like me before?” “Yes, a man,” the...humanoid? replied, “though after some visits he said he must go. Something of his body, he- he must have been unwell. But what is your name? You can call me Keyu.” “Christine,” I blurted out without thinking, nerves swimming beneath my skin as I bit back a “what the heck are you?”- you know, just in case I didn’t want to see whatever it was get mad. “Well, Christine, very nice to meet you. Very nice,” Keyu repeated, warm hand still gripping mine as he led me forward toward the dirt mound, “as soon as the next storm hits, we will show you our hospitality.” *We?* *How many of them are there?* *What the heck sort of world is this?* All I asked, though, was “Storm?” “Gravity storm,” Keyu said with a nod as if that cleared anything up, “it’s coming very soon.” “Yeah, ok, we *visitors* don’t have those. That sounds dangerous- should- shouldn’t we go now?” “Worry not, this is how we get home.” Sweeping aside some crimson hair, Keyu helped me onto the mound, where I knelt like he did, eyes still searching him. I wanted to fold up, to brace myself for whatever flies at you in a *gravity storm*, but he fixed me with such an intently, joyously anticipatory grin that I remained seated, asking him *what* until he burst into melodious laughter, laugher that only increased when I jumped at the new sensation. It was like the oddest cross of wind and an earthquake, an almost electric, shaking jolt of air that cut through my bones as the mound began to rise. With one final giggle, my odd guide gripped the sides of what I now realized was essentially a small chunk of land, broken from the ground as if by some massive piece of construction equipment. We drifted higher still until our makeshift vessel bobbed about twenty or thirty feet in the air. Glancing over the edge of it, I saw the ground bobbing too, rising pebbles, roots, and even some of the strange lavender, closer and further from my line of vision and far enough down that a fall would do some serious damage. There was no leaving, not then. *If I die, I just wake up*, I told myself. “Ready?” “No, I don’t think am- *whoa!”* Mid-sentence I was thrust forward, almost slamming into Keyu, who released an arm to wrap around my waist as we sailed forward through the sky, strange static-electric wind running through our short hair. Gliding like that was surprisingly smooth, a lot like a roller coaster on a track, one that slingshots you from zero to sixty in ten seconds and maintains you on the straight, momentous path. I laughed in spite of myself, an insane rush crashing over me as I waved a hand. There was nothing to crash into at least. “Fun, right?” Keyu called into the wind. “Yeah, ok, you win, it’s fun!” I shouted back through my adrenaline high. “I thought we were getting rained on by asteroids or something!” “Asteroids?” “Big rocks.” “Ah!” We sailed over the field, Keyu promising he wouldn’t do any crazy turns or loops *this time*, and I narrowly resisted the urge to just close my eyes, surrendering to the lack of control, and breathe in the possibility of my faded self existing- or, well, half-existing- in a world where I could ride the wind, deathless. The structure that shot onto the horizon, rising beyond the lavender fields near the face of an expansive cliff, was a carven stone metropolis, a quaint yet elegant haven of crimson-haired, black-eyed beings like Keyu, all of them thin, some leanly toned like him and others practically bony. They gave me a red dress, a gorgeous, shining piece that registered somewhere in my mind between a long jacket and a saree. They ate fruit from trees that abundantly lined streets and courtyards. A group of black-eyed kids spun little discs on the street, squealing at the figures that popped up and even letting me try it. Just about everyone was interested in *the visitor,* at least enough for their dark eyes to follow me. Or as far as I could tell- it turned out they did not have pupils. I kept waiting for them to try and throw me into the soup at dinner, grin and chant *one of us*, tell me their beloved trees were watered with blood or tie me up for a sacrifice. Maybe Governor Brainwash would step his way out of his YA novel palace and break up the party. Decapitate someone. Nothing like that happened. The weirdest thing was when I told them a funny story- something about a dream I had- they insisted they’d never heard of such things, none of them ever having a dream. It wasn’t taboo, though, they just acted like I was an alien. Which maybe I was. When they pulled the plug on me, sending me shooting up and gasping for breaths I never felt like I’d missed, I raised a hand before my eyes, flexing my fingers. They were still pale, but a healthy pink had returned to them. Even if it was faintly mottled. Most curious of all was the wave of disappointment I felt when my eyes met the calm ocean blue of Dr. Simms’s, which fixed me softly from behind his thin-rimmed, ovular glasses. “Christine,” he breathed, “you’re back.” “How long was I gone?” I muttered, blinking fluorescent light out of my eyes, which I’d assumed had been closed for a long time. *What’s he gonna say, a week or something?* “It’s nighttime,” he replied, “how do you feel?” “Fine,” I replied before motioning to the headset, which felt to be cutting a red line into my forehead, “may I?” “Oh, yes, yes! Of course.” Dr. Simms instantly shot up to untangle my head, helping me sit up further after the gear was finally lifted, a cool rush of air hitting my sticky forehead. “So you didn’t feel any complications? Nothing unusual about the world around you? Empty?” All I could do was shake my head. Nothing came to mind. “Your body was in complete stasis.” Our respected researcher repeated his earlier reassurance, tone strangely...impressed? Relieved? “Would you consider making a return journey?” “Yes,” I replied before a single gear in my head had even turned. My vitals seemingly at norm, I was let free shortly afterwards, free to cross the station’s institutional halls and take a meal alone like always. The soup I wordlessly spooned into my mouth seemed almost devoid of taste, drained like my color had been where Simms had sent me. Memories of the city, the gravity storm, Keyu’s smile as he sent our tiny two-person island racing through the sky, arm wrapped reassuringly around my waist, flickered across my mind as my eyes swept the rest of the cafeteria tables, all of which were inhabited by couples and laughing groups of three or four. The lavender wasn’t coral. It was a thick-leaved, almost frilled plant that fanned out a bit to catch the sun like one of those lizards that ran on their hind legs. When the field erupted in bloom, it lit up bright orange “just like the sea”. As the visitor in the scenario, I knew better than to argue with Keyu that the sea was not orange. I learned to use terms like “my sea” as if I owned all of planet Earth. Apparently, the other visitor, the man, had done that too. I started learning to ride gravity storms that day, claiming a chunk of stone that broke off the city and gripping its sides like it was an ATV, not someone’s old bedroom wall. I only hovered about four feet up, the electric breeze not nearly as strong down there, so as to keep my falls soft just in case. And fall I did, again and again, Keyu laughing at my “wobbling knees”, until I began to master keeping my weight distribution up, hovering straight ahead without dumping myself into the lizard flowers. A wave of triumph crashed over me, sending me whooping and leaping against Keyu in some weird half-embrace, half chest-bump, my own chest feeling light as a feather even through the faint vertigo. From over his shoulder I saw shadows in the sky, human shapes, limbs waving, striking, tugging. Starting, I jumped back, and that’s when I was yanked back into harsh fluorescent light, gasping and tightly gripping a wrist over its smooth, cold watch. “What the heck was that? You weren’t so violent last time!” I burst out incredulously, panting a bit and shaking a few beads of cold sweat off my forehead as I twisted as far to my right as I could. This turn met me with dark skin, a short beard, brown eyes laced with concern. Dr. Cotton. “Get Landon,” he commanded one of the masked attendants, who reluctantly loosened her grip on my arm. “But,” the woman protested, “he said-” “Get him.” This time, even harsher. “No, I’m sorry, I’m fine, I was... I was fine,” Numbly waving my hands, I made dizzy insistences until the doctor seemed to be assuaged, his eyes softening once more as they looked into mine. “Nothing in the forest with you?” *Nothing in the forest*. “No.” \~ My nails dug into Dr. Cotton’s flesh that time. The shapes had flailed much more violently, frantically, as I shot awake-or rather back to that particular consciousness-from Keyu telling me the next time I visited, he would take me to the shore, earnest, dimpled smile across his features as lightning pain arced across mine. My cheeks felt like they’d been hapless victims of less-than-nimble hands missing my hair with my three-hundred-degree straightener. Rather than blink slowly and plaintively, clearing sleep from my eyes, I winced, panting, as I glanced upward. Right into Dr. Cotton’s eyes. His very, *very* concerned eyes. “Why do you keep doing this? I was *fine*.” I bit out, annoyance blooming in my heaving chest. The last memory I had from the trip was sinking to my knees, Keyu narrowly catching hold of my hand as the shadows flailed above me, fighting for their lives in a silhouetted dance of death. Not fun. “Christine, I just- Your-” “Exploration of the forest *had been* quite enjoyable,” I shot back, frown deepening at the pain each stretch of my cheeks caused. He thought I was flitting between hollow rows of uninhabited trees, Snow White-ing my way through the flora or perhaps on an intrepid trek. So, trek I did. I didn’t want Keyu involved, didn’t want whatever pain and visions that befell my body, or perhaps my mind, to come to him at the hands of the wrong visitor. Just the mental image of him buckling like I had was enough to send a heavy jolt to my heart. Dr. Cotton’s bearded face buzzed with a multitude of bitten back words, lips parted and moving soundlessly as his eyebrows remained firmly and concernedly furrowed. “I’m sorry,” he sighed, “I’ve never travelled to any other worlds before. I don’t know what it feels like, what it-” he cut off with another sigh of sorts, this one more of a defeated exhale. He obviously knew more than he was letting on. “What are the other worlds like? Simms mentioned some of them already, said my forest there,” I questioned innocently, tilting my head and pointing diagonally off to the sky with a wistful ceiling-ward glance, “was one of the less dangerous ones.” Keyu’s world wasn’t dangerous. Not a single one of those black-eyed people so much as spoke a rough word to me, let alone being armed or starting cults or trying to cut out my mostly-white eyeballs. Gravity storms, for the most part, caught you, and if they didn’t? Well, that’s why you rode them on a vessel. Trying it skateboard-style was hard, but I was getting the hang of it. Laying down was the easiest until you got a nice bob like the one we’d used to picnic that one day. They could have sent me there deliberately- if they’d actually wanted to. Any hint at a non-plant life form and the researcher cowed. Worried as if I’d mess it up or something. “They can be dangerous, yes. We wouldn’t enact anything but a test journey with anyone outside of very select personnel,” Dr. Cotton thought he was reassuring me. “Like the ones you’re actually prepping for interplanetary excursions, not the people in perpetual training like me.” “Christine, you’re a *very valuable*-” “Guinea pig! I’m a valuable *guinea pig*.” “Christine, you are very strong and- And-” I was getting *really* tired of that preschool-teacher voice, those attendants’ furtive, fearful glances at me like I’d been pulled *from* Keyu’s world, not *back out of it*. “And what?” I finally sat upright, ignoring the sharp burn raising my voice ignited within my hapless face tissues. My vitals beeped a bit faster. “None of you trust me!” All I got was a wry smile and a disgustingly sympathetic hand upon my smarting shoulder. “We researchers are much more ignorant than you think, dear.” “And I’m not. Even when you ask me to study how many kinds of trees I see, to identify them. You don’t want a botanist. If you did, you’d send Maneet. But you’re *not* sending her, not once as far as I know. All I ever heard from you guys was that I was stubborn. So what do you *really* want from me?” Silence. Not a word about what happened to the first subject they’d sent to an inhabited world- the man Keyu mentioned, the one who’d aborted the mission, probably out of fear or anxiety...or one too many of those rude awakenings Simm’s husband favored. Not a word about any certain skill or gentleness or discernment or even simple *eagerness to travel* that impressed. Yet another middling grade chasing a profession that asked for astronomical numbers- literally. Heat pricked at my eyes, a warmth nothing like the hot, tender pain upon my cheeks, which had to be bright red by that point. Dr. Cotton’s consternation blurred before me, image shifting like it had been dropped into a pool. “I’m starting to think the reason you’re sending me is because I’m the only one no one would miss if something happened!” “Christine, I-” “I’m sick of it!” Tears flowed, saline I’d only previously allowed to soak my bunk on the worst solitary nights. “You do not have to continue with this project,” Dr. Cotton replied, firmly but with a new sort of smile in it, one far less insipid, perhaps more hopeful, “in fact, it may be better if we simply called it off now. Perhaps-” “No.” I blinked, my hands curling into white-knuckled fists as sparkling sunset seas lapped at the shores of my mind, swishing powerfully beneath the sound of mine and Keyu’s mingled laughter, not unlike what I heard from the others in the halls, in the cafeteria. The ones who stole judgmental glances so painfully obvious, it was like they wanted to be noticed. “Let me go one more time.” A pair of arched raven brows. It brought a tiny smirk to my face the way Dr. Cotton all but jumped back in his little swivel chair, wheels grinding faintly against the dull steel floor. “You *have* been viewing the reports, yes?” “Yes,” I lied, “and I’ll put a stop to everything going wrong next time. I want to take a walk there one more time-see the trees. They’re nothing like ours. The color of their leaves... If you really trusted me, you’d let me.” Ultimatums really scare people. He let me. I was bidden a good rest of my evening, released into grey halls, where I didn’t let myself stumble until Cotton and his pair of uneasy scrub-clad helpers couldn’t goggle at me. A shudder wracked my chest as my vision went in and out, flickering pitch-black then back to the station at intervals like a light switch had been installed behind my eyes. One hand, still mottled after twenty minutes, rose to my head, pinks and red splotches dancing before my eyes. I really hated when it did that. Vertigo was temporary; I thought maybe that was too, but getting worse over a week wasn’t the best sign. Not that Cotton needed to know that- I’d given him a chance to come clean, tell me about the first man they sent, the one a little crimson-haired kid had attempted to make a straw and fabric doll lookalike of, the one that had Keyu chiming in about our eye variants when I made a joke at the expense of my light green irises. The one who couldn’t push through it like stubborn, stubborn Christine, the one everyone whispered *just wouldn’t give up*. “You don’t have to do this, Christine.” Those were Dr. Cotton’s words as he stuck a diode to my forehead, eyes softening slightly at my wince-and-frown combo. “I need to,” I replied, voice hard at first until I sighed, giving into my fatigue as the face before me flashed into pitch, “you understand just feeling like you have to say goodbye, don’t you?” *Splat.* Another diode. “Of course.” “It’s beautiful over there,” I told him before slipping away one more time. Keyu smiled, poking at my cheek as he whispered my name. “You’re here.” Plush beneath my head. Thickly woven, yet somehow still soft, covers. All familiar-Keyu’s bedroom, the place I’d begun to wake up after the first few visits. “Of course I am. I said I’d come back, didn’t I?” His eyelashes, a softer red than his hair, fluttered briefly upon his angular cheeks as he drew back, hand leaving my face to rest under his chin, elbow settling upon the head of the backwards chair his lanky legs always straddled. “Yes. You did.” “You’ve got a much better bedside manner than the doctor back there,” I told him, propping up on my side. Keyu gaped, eyes falling widely open like I said I’d said his great-great-grandfather’s ghost was jigging behind him. “The blue-eyed man?” “No, Cotton. Simms is the blue-eyed-” Scrambling in my fabric cocoon, I shot vertical, sitting upright like I had after my very first journey, chest turning upside down just as fast. *No.* *No.* *There’s no way he wouldn’t have told me.* *He wouldn’t have said it was empty.* *He must not have known.* “Christine?” I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud, wrapping my faded hands around my knees, until Keyu shot me back to reality. “Are they pulling you from me already?” I shook my head, image of the masked attendant lady protesting bringing Dr. Simms into my room, to take one more look at my lovely little home slab flashing across my mind alongside Dr. Cotton’s face, the laboratory screens, even the peripheral little images of my nose that only bugged me when I chose to perceive them, fading into black as they sent me away one more time. “The blue-eyed man sent me here, but I don’t think he meant to. I think he wanted to stay away.” “Are you leaving?” Keyu repeated more urgently, his face fading from concern, expression falling away until he just looked *lost*. Never had I been looked at like that. It was enough to defibrillator me back into action, heart skipping an erratic beat before it calmed entirely, a smile shakily returning to my face as I shook my head once more. “I’m flying over the sea with you, if I’m not mistaken.” There went those deep dimples, those almost unnaturally straight, beautifully pearly teeth. “You are not, Christine.” Flickers didn’t happen there. Not physical ones, anyway. I didn’t lose sight of Keyu, nor the smooth stone walls of his home or the intricate, almost mandala-like chair head carving before me. “Good. I’m so sick of Earth’s BS today,” I announced, breathing a shaky laugh, “I think I need a beach escape or something.” “BS?” “Yeah, it’s short for-” I just shook my head, momentarily letting it fall back upon the plant-down-stuffed pillow it had been raised at a right angle from. “It’s a saying.” Weightless and free, I floated on my little six-by-six foot island of one, zooming along the glittery, faintly Himalayan-pink beach. Keyu piloted his at my side, dodging fallen rocks upon the sand with ease, having taken the inside lane and leaving me “the open, novice shore”. Stick my tongue out at him though I did, I’d laughed. Even harder still when the gesture went completely over his head, causing him to raise his bright red eyebrows and mutter that yes, my tongue was “quite a nice one” as we arced further past the shore. Seas were, in fact, bright orange there, looking and sparkling for all the world like an underwater sun was setting in their depths, tinting all but the white wave crests I skimmed merrily above. Whooping and shooting closer to shallow waters, I reached a hand out like they did in all the movies, spraying translucent orange droplets that caught the sun like fire diamonds and laughing as some water flicked my face, my nose instinctually wrinkling in response. Keyu laughed too, flicking more water at me until I did the same, earning a cover performance of my expression upon his much richer-toned face, those shining black eyes squinting tightly closed as he squeaked in surprise. We stayed above the water for what felt like nearly two hours, keeping by the shallows lest the water prematurely affect our reduced pull, forcing us into an early version of what I called the land land. We landed our lands near one of the jagged tidal rocks, Keyu jumping nimbly off as I tried to do, failing miserably in a comical stumble. Yet again, my guide was there to catch me, arms firmly grasping my waist, one hand traveling up, up to my shoulder... Another blackout, except this time a white flash, one that burned a distinct, moving afterimage like a vintage flip book. I gasped at the image of my body, soulless, eyes white as bone save for the veins creeping up their newly-rolled backs, writhing, Doctors Simms and Cotton’s assistants struggling to hold it down as its hands made clawing motions, fingers finding home base around their wrists. Just like I’d woken up practically palming Dr. Cotton’s expensive watch a couple weeks back. Two? Three? They tried to unplug my headset, electricity arcing above my reddening, unwilling head. A hand cupped my face, warm, grounding. “Christine?” Keyu’s eyes, complete and utter negatives of my thrashing body’s, searched mine as the image faded, their lids fluttering like they had when peering down at me in his bedroom. He’d reached with his right, I reached with my left, the gentle friction of warming skin beneath mine pulling me back from that sight, though my heartbeat didn’t slow in the least. Not when Keyu’s eyes opened back up, boring at me intently, pleadingly. Not when he adjusted his grip on me, pulling me a bit more onto my feet and against his broad chest. I yanked myself closer still, tilting my head slightly as I pulled his lips to mine. He responded immediately, hand on my waist traveling lightly on a little up-and-down circuit as his lips picked up the pace, quirking up in a smile at my faint inhale of surprise. Pleasant surprise. I’d like to say the kiss made me weak in the knees, but in reality I just dropped like a ragdoll the moment we pulled apart for air, sending Keyu calling out my name once more. Another white flash overtook my eyes like lightning, this time burning in the sight of Dr. Cotton weeping and shaking his head while his masked attendants shook my hands off and raised a pure white sheet, covering my utterly still, lifeless, burned-out face. Shuddering, I bent my knees, standing shakily up from a kneel with Keyu’s help. My hand, resting gingerly in his, had returned to its healthy pink. As he gave it a squeeze, my gaze travelled up to meet his eyes; wiggling his eyebrows, he smiled at me, *saw me*, as for the first time in that world I felt a full gust of crisp air rush into my lungs. I breathed in and out heavily, tasting the temperate sea breeze with a growing, relieved smile. My lavender fields and white city awaited. I have an eternity to make that colorful world my own, and Keyu says he wants to give it to me. His neighbors greet me warmly, regard me as a much more successful traveler than the blue-eyed stranger. I came to know that one little stone hollow, those woven indigo sheets, like the back of my hand, the one price I had to pay being faced with the sight of my own lifeless body staring back at me in my dreams every night. I can see why Keyu and the others didn’t talk about their dreams.


Rejection isn’t easy. Putting yourself out there isn't easy, and yet people do it everyday. Jamie was a man who was goal driven, straightforward, and knew what he wanted; and how to get it. When he saw her from across the parking lot he knew he felt some kind of attraction, and so, being the sort of man he was, he drove up to where she was rather ungracefully stuffing the pillows she had just bought in her car and rolled down his window. “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but -” She jumped a little at the sound of his voice and turned around. “Sorry, I’m just putting these in the car, I’m not leaving yet,” she interrupted, misinterpreting why he had stopped in the first place. “No, I just wanted to say that you’re beautiful” he replied, smiling at the way her face flushed a deep crimson, and not because of the sun that was beating down on the both of them in the middle of the perpetually full parking lot. “T-thank you,” she stuttered, a smile forming across her face. “Do you mind if I could get your number, and we could go out some time?” asked Jamie, as straightforward as ever. “I’m sorry, but I’m actually seeing someone at the moment.” The words came with a faltering smile, as if she was disappointed with the answer she was giving. The words that came out of her mouth felt like little pin pricks on Jamie’s face, and he could feel the redness warming his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she added, as if she felt bad about seeing someone else, or perhaps she just saw the redness that Jamie now felt burning on his cheeks. “No worries, have a good day,” he said with a smile, before driving off and turning away from the mysterious girl with the long hair and green sweater, whom he had been taken with just moments before. Their thirty-second conversation rolled over in his mind as he aimlessly drove around in circles. He wondered what would have happened if she wasn’t seeing someone, and if they had exchanged numbers, perhaps gone on a few dates, fallen in love, gotten married, and lived out the rest of their lives together. He wondered if she was thinking the same thing, and the disappointment in her face was actually guilt from ‘hypothetically’ cheating in this fantasy that she might have also played out in her head. He wondered what her hair smelled like, what her voice sounded like in the morning, what her face looked like when she was deep in thought. He wondered what her faults were, as Jamie knew that we are all flawed, and he wondered if he would be able to look past them for the sake of staying with her. He was reminded of something he had read some time ago: you fall out of love with people for the same reasons you fall in love with them. At first he dismissed the statement as something that some 16 year old had written after a particularly dramatic breakup, but after thinking on it for a while he found it to be true. The sarcastic sense of humour that can be so charming turns into emotional unavailability. Their extroversion can become tiring, introversion becomes something that must be ‘put up with,' and fights become more frequent. Their endearing seemingly harmless petty jealousy that caused them to slip a hand around your waist when they caught strangers looking at you turned into vines, choking you and preventing you from having a personality outside of who you are with them. The flaws we once found so compelling about the people we love slowly transform into things that draw us apart, no matter how many times we try and convince ourselves that we once loved those same flaws.


This will ideally be a multi-part story dealing with the aftermath of a tragic event. Part 1 - Letters/The people we wish we knew A. She worked in an office where she made 12$ an hour and the coffee looked terrible. She punched numbers into a spreadsheet and wrote cash reports by hand, scrawled in pencil and she laughed at the jokes. The racist jokes, the sexist jokes, the jokes about menopause and children and shit. She read a book while she worked and brought a new one in every week. Jane Austen, Bukowski, and Dostoyevsky and Salinger and Aristotle. She listened to them talk about their husbands while she collected papers and added numbers up, she listened to them berate their boyfriends and butcher foreign politics while she made paper clip necklaces. It was the kind of job where you didn’t make much and the coffee was terrible and you still drank at least three cups every shift. She wore stockings with tears in them and sweater dresses and worn boots. She wore a leather jacket and big sunglasses and crooked half-smile. She chewed on her pens and her pencils and she got so lost in her own thoughts that the girls she worked with would call her half a dozen times before she heard them and her eyes would light up like fireworks when she came to. I didn't work in her office, I didn't know her name, but I felt like I knew her. I sat in security and the screens surrounding me were a blanket of black and grey and the images were a blur of bodies and movement, and there she was, sitting still as the the grainy world catapulted around her. B. He wore beat up runners and a three day stubble, I never quite caught his name. His uniform was too big on bony shoulders and he was intense looking; with eyes that made you feel naked and vulnerable. He had an easy smile and the kind of tan you get from working outdoors, he was always humming The Smiths under his breath. I thought about him when I got home and drank a glass of wine, pulled off my work clothes and washed off my face, touched myself as I lay on the couch: eyes closed, for a minute, I thought of him. Every few days I’d pick up a different bottle of wine and he’d be wearing the same stubble and the same stare as he packed my purchases into paper bags. Sometimes he would ask me how my day was, or what the weather was like outside. He noticed when I cut my hair and always told me to enjoy the book crooked under my arm. I liked him more than most people I worked with, that I saw every day, but I never quite caught his name. I imagined him going home to a girl with a cheap haircut and a part time job who loved him more than life itself. I imagined him going home to a ramshackle house, rented, with sunflowers growing in the front yard. I imagined him smoking a joint and strumming on an acoustic guitar, calling to the girl for a beer and thinking about not exactly anything when the bottle pressed against his lips. I wish I knew him, I still do. C. We rode the subway together every morning, sat in the same train, and read the same newspaper. He had a kid with him, two or three, pressed next to him and chattering away in that way that kids do: no purpose or drive, just words strung together and volume up and down. He always looked calm like he’d just finished a yoga class or something and I’m sure that cup he carried was filled with green tea and not the triple sweetened, whipped-cream-covered, diabetes-in-a-cup in my own travel mug. I always wondered he stayed that way, even when the train stalled and the kid screamed and spilled juice all over his paper, he stayed calm. When it was raining and snowing and it was hot as all hell, he was calm. I never said hello to him or even smiled at him and I don’t think I ever caught his eye but he was the kind of person that just made you feel better, just to be around him. I wish I had asked him how he stayed that calm, I wish I had known his girl’s name, I wish I had brought her candy on halloween. Her and her father dressed in matching costumes; Thing 1 and Thing 2 from Dr. Seuss . Sometimes he read to her, on halloween he read that to her and she was so quiet that for a moment she looked just like he did, eyes went placid and focused all at once. I wonder what happened it was like for her, after it had ended. I wonder if she ever found her daddy’s calm again. I wish I knew her, I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry.


“Hi Dad,” I whispered in my father’s ear. His eyes opened. He blinked a couple times, turned his head weakly towards mine, and gave a slight smile. “Hi Michael,” he replied, and started coughing. After the coughing fit subsided, he looked up at the hospital ceiling. There was silence for a while, which I eventually broke. “How have the nurses been treating you?” I asked, hoping it would start a conversation. He turned his eyes back towards me. His pale blue eyes had little life in them, and no longer had a sparkle like they did when he was younger. “They’ve been good,” he said. Silence again. I knew what was on his mind, because it was on mine, too. He was going to die. I was all the family he had left. My mother had died a couple years earlier, and I was his only child. We were close many years ago, but as time passed, we talked less and less, and we had reunited only when he became very sick. I visited him every day since he was admitted to the hospital, but our conversations and visits were very brief. I wanted to be closer to my father, but I felt like I didn’t have the time. Which I knew was a stupid reason; I could always make time for my father. I just didn’t. Nurses tended to my father while we both sat in silence. It was awkward for both of us, but I knew my father needed company, so I stayed. After the nurses left, I got up from my chair to leave. “Michael,” my father feebly said from his bed. I turned around. My father had tears in his eyes, and they were falling down his cheeks. I quickly rushed over to him. “What is it, Dad?” I asked, concerned that something was seriously wrong. My father continued to cry. I wiped away his tears. “I love you,” he said. I felt as though I had been hit with a ton of bricks. I realized just how dumb I had been to ignore my father, how dumb I had been to never have the courage to say what he said. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes, and our eyes met. “I love you too, Dad,” I whispered. My father smiled, and I smiled too. Suddenly, my father’s breathing became irregular. He clutched at his chest, and his eyes grew wide. I understood exactly what was happening, despite him not saying a word. I ran outside the room, screaming for a nurse. Nurses rushed into his room, frantically trying to assist him. I dropped to my knees outside the room, crying, begging God to let my dad live. The beeping of his heart monitor grew faster and faster, until eventually it flatlined. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out. There was only silence except for the heart monitor. I fainted. Despite seeing my father die, I feel at peace. I got to finally unite with him, even if it was only for a few minutes. There’s still a part of me that feels guilt for not spending more time with him, and I fear I’ll feel that for a very long time. But at least I got to see him one last time.


“Are you sure we should sleep outside? It’s gonna be an awful lot of work to get the kids out there...” Nessa stood in front of the sliding glass door overlooking a damp lawn, with plants poking out of the shadows like a dangerous Amazonian jungle. The end of the yard narrowed into an over grown path which lead to a worn gate holding back blackness beyond. The house around her was dark and cold. She pulled her oversized gray cardigan tighter around her body and hunched down. “Pffft. The kids are gonna love it Nessa. You’re the one who is worried about being out there. It’s a nice warm night. Besides, the fresh air will do you some good. You look exhausted, it’ll help you sleep.” Beside Nessa stood her older sister Lindsey. She stood about a foot taller than Nessa with her hands firmly planted on the waist of her lulus. “Ugh thanks for the diagnosis Dr. Carry.” She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to bring my appearance into it, I already told you I’m feeling just fine.” Nessa sighed and hugging herself. Her hands almost reached right around her back. “So is everything ready to go girls? You have the tent Linds? And the sleeping mats Nessa?” Their mother’s voice boomed down the creaking stairs as she joined them in the living room. She was Nessa’s height and just as slim, but stood up straighter and had a hair pulled back in a tight bun. She wore red cat eye glasses and a bright printed blouse with cream linen pants. “Yeah mom, everything is right here.” Nessa indicated to the large pile of camping supplies beside her. “Where’s Alli?” There mother had moved beside them in the room and was waving the flashlight around the room as if her other daughter would come melting out of the darkness. “She went to get the boys.” “Of course.” Nessa smiled. Her youngest sister Alli was an elementary school teacher and baseball coach. The boys loved her. “Well let’s get out there and set up the tent then!” Linds picked up the tent with one hand and pulled open the sliding glass door with the other. Nessa’s phone began vibrating and glowing. She pulled the phone out of her pocket and glanced at the screen. Callie, again. “Who’s calling you. I can go get started, you take the call.” “No. It’s not important right now. Let’s go.” The two women went out the door into the warm night. The stars were bright and a gentle breeze rustled the bushes. “So where’s Matt his weekend? Working?” “Yeah. As usual.” “I’m surprised Callie let you have a weekend off.” “Yeah.” Nessa worked as a personal assistant to the demanding and intense Callie Stevens--a top magazine editor and fashion personality. She never had weekends off. “Hey Nessa.” Linds had put down the tent and was watching her as she deleted her notifications on her phone. “are you sure everything is okay? You’ve barely put your phone away all evening. I know you love the fashion industry, but I’m worried it’s starting to wear on you...” Nessa shoved her phone back into her pocket. “It’s nothing Linds. Look, I even got a weekend off, progress, right?” “Yeah. I guess.” “Hey! What’re you two gabbing about out here?” Alli bounced across the lawn. She was also small, dwarfed by oversized sweats she wore but her face bright and open with her hair in a messy ponytail. “Where are the boys?” “Oh mom is with them. Getting together some supplies for a special surprise. She bought a fire pit for this weekend. They’re gonna love it.” She pumped her fist at the end of the sentence. “So how’s the set up going?” “Alright. We haven’t started yet.” “Ooookayyy. So I’m feeling a vibe that somethings going on. You two wanna spill? Nessa?” “Why do you assume it’s me?” “It’s always you.” Both sisters said together. “Soooooo who are you complaining about this time? Matt or Callie? Or both.” Nessa sighed. “Neither.” “Liar. I saw how you only picked at dinner. Somethings going on and you’re gonna tell us about it.” “Alli...” “What? If she doesn’t fess up it’ll just eat at her all night and she’ll be miserable.” “She’s right Nessa... It can’t be that bad. Just give us the bare bones and you’ll feel better...” Nessa sank down into the nearest lawn chair. “I took all our money!” She threw her hands up in the air and began crying. “What?” “Well that wasn’t what I was expecting you to say...” “And I caught them together.” “Who?” “Matt and Callie.” “Well there’s no surprise.” “Together together ?!” “Yeah. Together together . Last Sunday. Matt went away on a business trip Monday morning so we didn’t talk about it. Then I came here.... I was already planning to anyway. And I took it. I took it all. All our money, all our investment papers, the jewellery. All of it.” Nessa stood up again and began pacing and wringing her hands. “What about work?” Nessa didn’t respond. In her pocket her phone buzzed again, but she ignored it. “Does that woman ever stop calling you? You kept working, didn’t you!? Ugh Nessa that woman has you wrapped around her little finger.” Alli ripped the phone out of her pocket and finger posed to answer “I’ll give her a piece of my mind...” “NO!” Nessa grabbed the phone from her sister. “Was it at home?” Linds put her arm around Nessa’s shoulder and hugged her. “No, Callie’s place. She forgot I was coming by.” “HA! The heck she did! She probably planned it so you would catch them in the act. What a bitch.” “I just, I just don’t know what to do with all the money... There was so much money.” “You should’ve called...we can help you.” “I know... I didn’t want to bother you. You’re always so busy with work...always with a patient.” “Ah Nessa. You can always bother me.” “Ugh I can’t believe you kept working. For her. I wanna--” “That’s enough Alli. Let’s get this camping stuff set up.” The next 20 minutes were spent in silence as the three women finished erecting the tent and setting up the beds. “How much money was it anyway?” “A lot.” “What are you going to do now... divorce him?” “I don’t know.... I don’t want the boys to--“ As they stood back admiring their hard work the screech of the sliding door filled the yard. “Look Grandma! A real tent! “I’m gonna get a bed under the window so I can watch the stars.” There mother had returned with two boys in tow both were wearing PJs. One was about 8 and the other 6. She was also carrying a bag of marshmallows. “Be careful with that tray Eddie. We don’t want to water the grass with hot chocolate.” Nessa turned to her sisters and whispered. “To what?” Alli poked her sister in the shoulder. “Shhhhh I haven’t told them yet.” She gestured to the boys. “Ohhh Nessa...” “Oh my god Nessa! What?” “Mommy, mommy! Look at the stars! They’re so bright!” Rigel ran up the Nessa dragging his blanket in his wake and clutching a box of celebration cookies and a stuffed cat. Nessa reached for him and pulled him to her in a hug. “Yes, sweetie, it’s beautiful out here.” She kissed the top of Rigel’s head and then gave both her sisters a death stare. “Ah man. I wish dad were here! He would know all the names of the constellations! Maybe when we get home we can go star gazing with him too.” Eddie’s eyes glinted at the prospect. Alli rolled her eyes and snorted. “Well luckily your auntie Linds knows plenty of constellations.” Linds got down on the ground next to Eddie and began pointing out constellations and giving them silly names. “Now that we’re all here I have a surprise! Everyone grab a chair and wait here.” Their mother disappeared around the side of the house as everyone settled into chairs. Linds, Eddie, and Allie all sat together on one side of a semi circle while Nessa and Rigel cuddle up on a sofa on the other. “What’s grandma doing mom?” Rigel’s voice carried around the circle. “It’s a surprise sweetie.” “I can’t believe you actually haven’t told them.” Alli seethed cross the circle. “Told us what?” Eddie looked from his mother to his aunt. “Surprise!” their mother had returned with an around black circular object in her arms in a canvas case. In the crook of her elbow she had a small propane tank balanced. “It’s a fire pit! I bought it at Costco. Thought we could use it to roast marshmallows.” “Told them that their father is lying cheating scum!” Alli jumped up from her seat and pointed around at the boys. “What she’s talking about mommy.” Rigel looked up at Nessa with round eyes. “Shut up Alli.” “Alli, that’s enough. Nessa will deal with it in her own time.” “You knew?” Alli shouted “I could hardly not know when she’s moved in with the boys!” “Why are we moving into grandma’s mom?” “Mommy what’s going on. What’s wrong with daddy?” Both boys stared at their mother now. Eyes wide and mouths open. “That’s enough you two.” Linds stood up and grabbed the fire pit from her mother. “Mom’s right this isn’t the time. Let’s have a nice marshmallow roast. “You’re staying here?!” Where am I suppose to stay? Did you forgot I live here too?” Alli waved towards the house. Her face was bright red and her eyes flashing. “Mommmy.” Rigel started crying. Eddie got up to comfort his brother. Just then Nessa’s phone began to buzz again. “Oh and I bet I know who that is. Are you just going to answer it like nothing’s wrong? Are you just going to gloss over that too?” Nessa pulled the phone out of her pocket and looked at the screen. “Hello? Why are you calling me?” She strode to the gate and went through. The darkness looked inviting now, away from her family. “Nessa! It’s Callie. I’m so sorry, I had to call. Matt, he’s gone crazy. He’s ranting about money and how he has to get it back and then he keeps repeating the boys’ names again and again.” “So? You expect me to listen to you, after everything you’ve done to our family.” “Do not take that tone with me. I could fire you in a second.” “Oh? And what if you did? I couldn’t look you in the eye again anyway, know what you did to me family.” “Oh dare you!” “Mommy, is that daddy? Can I talk to him.” Rigel had followed her into the orchard. “I’m sorry Callie. I need to go. My family needs me.” “B-b-but I need! Matt needs you!” “No. Matt made his choice. And you should have thought of that before sleeping with my husband.” “Mommy?” “Daddy won’t be joining us here again, ever.”


The train bellows in the distance- running through the mountain pass like a dragon in the clouds. Smoke releases from the stack and rushes through the air. A man in the forest hears the sound of the technical beast- afraid due to his limited exposure to the advances of neighboring cities. Everytime a train passes, the vibrations channel through the dirt. Sensitive to the nature surrounding him, the man feels each wheel rushing across the track. The vibrations that dissipate as distance increases still present the man with an earthquake sensation. Unnerved, the recluse curses under his breath when the train approaches his forest home. Living alone in solitude can either make or break a soul. Since the man decided to reside in nature, he has felt a gracious tinge of relief. There are no neighbors in sight who may pass judgement or ridicule of the man. His way of life in the woods has brought him fresh air and plenty of provisions. He can fish from the nearby river or scavenge for berries. With a small home, the man doesn't need many logs to keep warm. His fireplace is suited for the entire flat. Oh yes! Residing amongst the singing birds and the deer who share drinking water is living with good company. The man smiles as a squirrel scatters across his boot. Despite being from different species, the animals have seemed to not care about the man's presence. He is one of them- a forest dweller doing what he needs to stay alive. Yet, what damage could this train bring? To both, the man and the animals, the train is a monstrous force. Where clear blue once existed, now black fog permeates through the sky. The disturbance is monumental. Only one decision could be made: move. The man sighs with regret as he lays a hand on his home. Perhaps someday, another human would be able to withstand the noice of the technical beast and enjoy the house he crafted. Another human- another soul- who loves nature as much as the forest man. With that thought in mind, the man readies himself for a relocation. The journey begins in spring, a comfortable time to begin building a home from nothing. With his supplies prepared, the man carries onward. He already knows that a new home would sit well by the riverfront. The trip to the river is about five miles through a tight forest. Care is crucial when walking, an unlucky encounter with a poisonous snake would put the man's journey to an end. Regardless, he is confident trailing through the forest. As birds dart through turn brush, the man smiles- they are playful creatures. To the lone forest man, the birds remind him of children. After all, they are always flying to and fro with cheerful vigor. Honestly, the birds prove to be his favorite neighbors. Once he reaches the river, the man continues to follow the water. He grabs a few pieces of dried meat from his pouch while searching for a place to craft his new home. After another few several miles, a clearing in the forest comes into view. The man laughs happily as he envisions a fresh log cabin- still very much alike to his old home- with a great view of the wild river. Night ensues shortly so the man makes haste. For now, he must utilize a tent. The structure entails large branches and a rawhide cloth that the man brought. After the tent is set, the man builds a small campfire. Although he loves the wildlife, the man understands how dangerous nature can be at night. Fire wards away potential predators like bears of cougars. The flames are as lively as the sound of the surrounding forest. The man sits around the fire and watches the flickers shoot up towards the stars. The contrast of the vibrant fire against a dark night overwhelms the man with sentiment. Life is beautiful and better when all is calm. The man stands up and cracks his back. Tomorrow will be the beginning of hard but exciting labor. He lays inside his tent and thinks about how wonderful it will he to have a peaceful home again. There will neither be devilish trains to shake the earth nor black smog to disturb the balance. With beautiful thoughts in mind, the man quickly drifts into sleep. The sun rises at dawn, painting the earth in light hues of red and pink. Once the morning birds begin their trill, the man finds himself awake. He opens his provision pouch and takes meat for breakfast. The campfire is low but at no cause for alarm. The man can safely leave without fear of causing a wild fire. Another good reason why working in the spring is beneficial- no summer heat to cause distress. The man clutches onto a handmade axe. He finds a section of trees and begins to chop. Slowly but surely, he will have lumber to begin the foundation of the house. The process will last days and weeks. Fortunately, building a home in solitary is not new to the forest man. He understands the difficulties and bas the determination to prevail. Time passes and the man stands in front of his new home. The cabin work is complete in midsummer. A feeling of relief warrants celebration. The man runs to the river and takes off his clothes. Cool water greats the man as he flops into the river. His swimming startles some fish who dart away. The man cannot help but to laughs- there's no need to be afraid especially since he isn't hunting. Of course, fish don't understand the difference between playing and preying. After a good swim, the man returns to his cabin. He dries off and begins to cook some rabbit. Food always tastes better inside a home. There is no need to be afraid of bears coming through a solid door. Finally! Peace is achieved! At least that's what the man thought until several years later... The sound of machinery begins to haunt the forest man. In the distance, trees have fallen to manmade construction in progress. As with the train, the vibrations of various trucks and tree cutting mechanics travel through the ground. The man's heart drops- not again! Despite his age, the recluse decides to take action. He wants to know why the hell outsiders are causing destruction. The walk must take about half a day's journey, but is a necessary toll for this old man. Quickly, he gathers some provisions and a cane. With a bag over shoulder, the man begins to confront the disturbance. He reaches the site before the workers pause for lunch. Surely, they were not expecting an angry old man walking to to them from the forest. The old man stumbles to catch his breathe. Once he found his ground, the man confronts a worker. The cane slams against the ground to draw attention: "What do you all think you're doing!?" The worker looks perplexed but unfazed: "Sorry old man, but you have to leave here. We're busy." Outraged by the lack of decency, the old man continues to uproar: "How dare you all coming in here and destroying this beautiful forest! All of these trees have been here longer than you or me. They deserve to remain standing!" The worker yells back annoyed and aggravated: "We're only doing our job! This trees are coming down. We will be working on fresh roads and a bridge. Look, this property all belongs to the state, and everyone has agreed to connect two cities together. That's how it's going to be and no old mountain man can stop production!" The old man holds back bitter tears: "They have trains don't they? They don't need more roads! Already the trains have brought unrest. Now, with this project, more animals will be driven out of their homes!" "Understand this," the worker harshly replies; "No one cares! When the work must be done, it will be done. Should more trees be chopped down, then they will be chopped down. The progression of towns and cities does not rely on trains alone. We need roads, we need construction! Now, go home old man and let me do my job." The worker leaves with a hand shooing the old man away. To see how little respect the workers have for the life that they are destroying hurts the old man's heart. Feeling defeated, the old man returns to his cabin. As night falls, so does the sound of construction. The old man opens his door weakly- the day's journey has been more difficult than he had thought. He lays in bed without eating dinner. Looking up at the ceiling, the old man replays the scene of the construction site. Tears roll down his cheeks. He had believed that moving from his first home to a new location would bring him away from human interference. Yet, the contrary has been proven true- humans will continue to leave their mark. Regardless of the needs of nature, technology grows at a deadly pace. Why can't there be balance? The phrase crosses the old man's mind. He concludes that those workers were not people, but machines. After all, a human's role on this planet was designed to help support nature- not damage the life around them. Mulling over what was and what could be only creates more discomfort. The old man's love of nature is simply not shared by all. Alas with the oncoming days of mechanical work, the old man understands that he has lost. In the morning, the old man feels ill. He sits up in bed and coughs violently. Unfortunately, yesterday's journey left him weakened. The old man scrambles to get his cane. Walking slowly, he reaches the door. The beautiful river greats him as he steps outside. On the other hand, he begins to hear the construction take place. More trees fall to the earth and the old man feels their vibrations.