I sprinted over to Lachlann. He lay face down next to a small pile of rocks at the bottom of the cliff. I reached down and pulled on his shoulder, rolling him over. I recoiled. My stomach wretched and I felt vomit in the back of my throat. Even though I only saw him for a beat, the image was already etched in my mind, carved like the great granite cliffs beside me so that no erosion could ever remove it. He had landed on the corner of his face, just next to the left temple. The area of skull that met the rock shattered on impact, breaking apart the eye socket. Nothing remained of his eye. Behind him the rocks were crimson, thick splatters of blood splashed against the rocks like flecks of paint from a carelessly flung brush. I slowly turned back to where he lay. “Is he...” I didn’t want to finish the sentence. Alessia decided I didn’t have to. “Yes.” My arms jolted and seized, as I felt the concoction of grief boiling in the back of my throat. “There must be something we can do.” “He’s already gone, Ferdinand.” Alessia grabbed both my shoulders, holding eye contact and keeping me still. I turned my head away from her. “Surely we can do something for him.” Alessia grabbed my head and pulled it back to face hers. “He’s gone, Ferdinand.” “We can bury him,” Kurbani said. “Like he deserves.” “I can... I’ll lift him...” I couldn’t find any words. Alessia tightened her grip on my shoulders. “Kurbani and I will take him back to the boat. You wanna be of use, go help Xander. Find Sannaz.” She paused waiting for me to react, but I failed to fully process the instructions. “Go.” I ran back up the hill, the view blurry, Lachlann’s broken face smeared across my vision. There was also a small voice in the back of my mind running over everything I said and what could’ve been said differently; what might’ve saved Lachlann’s life. In that moment, his life had been entrusted in my hands. And I failed him. By the time I reached the summit the red embers of the sky had been snuffed out, trodden down to a black star-filled ash. I turned and headed south west, where we had seen Sannaz leave. Nothing seemed distinct in the nighttime. Flickering distant trees could be a torso - a branch, an arm. The shapeless wall at the edge of the town could mask a body for hours until the light came again. I scanned every direction for something that looked unnatural, something more than vegetation. I saw a figure walking towards me, but the frame wasn’t that of Sannaz. “Xander,” I called out. He noticed and walked towards me with slow trudging footsteps. “Lost him,” he said as his features came into view. “Could be anywhere by now.” He rested, his hands on his thighs. “Lachlann?” I shook my head. I refused to say the words. “Shit. Poor man.” “Kurbani and Alessia are taking him back to the boat.” I looked around at our surroundings, making sure that nothing moved. “We won’t find him tonight. And leave it much longer we’re more likely to find a northern soldier.” “He was there, Xander.” I pointed to the darkness. “We were this close.” “Trust me when I say we will find him and I will kill him.” Xander’s promise of revenge seemed to contain a new wrath. “But it’s not going to be tonight.” There was another explosion in the distance, the first one for a few minutes. I turned to the noise as the shockwave rippled my shirt. “We need to get back to the boat.” I shook my head as we spoke, denying my own instruction to give up the hunt. We jogged together back down the slope towards the harbour, both of us refusing to say anything more. Lachlann was dead. Sannaz had escaped. We had lost another life, and gained nothing. There was a growing hollow sensation at the core of my stomach. Not pain, not rage, not angst just, a void - a vacuum sucking energy and warmth from everything around it, until I would be left as a husk. As we reached the water I could see the great Deer Drum ship ahead of us forty metres out. It dwarfed every other boat on the island, looking almost like a caricature next to the small fishing vessels. I stepped up onto the wall and turned left. “Where do you think you’re going?” Xander asked. “The rowboat?” I examined the waterfront, looking for where I’d tied it. “How do you think Alessia and Kay got back?” I turned back to Xander. “So we’re stuck?” Xander huffed and pulled his shirt off over his wide shoulders and dropped it to the ground below. “You can swim can’t you?” He walked to the wall’s edge and dived head first into the water. He disappeared for a few seconds before resurfacing, going straight into an effortful but inefficient crawl. I scanned the seafront once more for a rowboat. From the town I could see people running down the winding path. Some carried a few precious belongings. Others had small children clasped to their hip. Others just ran, abandoning all they had known. But all of them were heading for the water. I stripped off my shirt and dived into the sea, feeling myself engulfed in the salty waters of Granite Vowhorn. As the water rushed over my skin, pooling around my nose, eyes and ears, I wondered how much that hole inside me weighed. Would I just sink to the bottom of the harbour and disappear among the dark waters? For the briefest moment, there was quiet. The world was peaceful. Serene. All the chaos and violence and horror was a problem for the world above. I swam beneath the surface, comforted by the embrace of the water around me, taking long breast strokes until my lungs demanded relief. My head hit the air. The distant sound of burning buildings and people shouting returned. The turmoil was still there. Through tired instinct, I stretched out my arms, and began pulling my hands through the water. No part of me was consciously focused on those strokes, the numbness had reached my head, and there it remained until my hands hit metal. I shuffled along until I found a section of rope netting draped as a ladder down the side of the boat. I climbed, pulled myself over the top and hit the floor, lying on my back panting with exhaustion. “Here.” I turned to see Kurbani throw a towel and one of Xander’s shirts down beside me. I dried myself as the rest of the islanders prepared the boat to leave. “We got enough room to turn?” “Just.” “Drop the foresail.” “Dropping the foresail.” The commands went back and forth. “Where’s Alessia?” I asked as Kurbani passed me. She turned as she walked, hurrying to the rear of the ship. “Gone back to her boat. Said she’d meet us a mile or two out.” I picked the shirt off the floor as Xander passed me. He hit me on the arm, the wet skin making a slapping noise and leaving a slight sting. “You okay?” I nodded, giving a half-truth. I pulled the shirt on. It was at least two sizes too big, but it would do for now. In front I could see Xander, leaning over the side of the boat, looking back to the town. “Raise the anchor,” Eir called out. I heard someone turn a capstan, and the great chain begin to lift. “Wait. Drop the anchor!” Xander called out. “What?” “Drop the anchor. Do it. Now.” Xander walked over towards the chain, prepared to kick it down himself if necessary. “Why?” “Look.” He pointed to the harbour. I ran to where Xander had been and leaned over. People had fled the town until they ran out of land. And when they had to keep fleeing, they did so, jumping into the seas, nowhere else to go. Xander sprinted down the boat and called out to Eir at the helm. “How many can we hold, at least till the next island?” “I mean, we have sixty rooms.” “If we all squeeze. How many?” Eir took a deep breath. “If we sail straight there, we’ve got enough food and water for a couple hundred.” Xander turned slowly, making sure every islander had eye contact for at least one syllable. “Then that’s how many we take. This is Deer Drum. These people are fleeing. We rescue them.” Around the boat, people nodded. “Eir, we may have to go quickly when we’re ready so prepare.” Xander pointed as he gave instructions. “Kurbani you keep count of those coming on board. Sirad, stay by the anchor. Lift it as soon as we hit two hundred. Everyone else, help.” I looked over to see a group of Southerners who had sprinted around the harbour and were now standing opposite me, looking out across the water. We waved to them, beckoning them to us. One by one, they jumped in, deciding to risk the waters rather than stay on their home. The sea quickly became a frenzy of thrashing limbs, the flat water of the cove turned to foam as bodies collided in their rush to escape. The mass of heads, arms and legs moved towards us till they began climbing the netting. As the swarm reached us, we outstretched our arms and pulled them over the final metre. One evacuee at a time, we took them aboard and offered them safety. Each one was greeted and taken somewhere below deck, out of the action and into the dry. We kept going. Pulling men, women, boys, girls, babies, from the water and onto the boat until there was no one left. Everyone who had fled was either in our boat or jumped aboard one of the fishing vessels. “That’s the last of them!” Xander shouted. “Let’s get out of here.” I looked back at the empty harbour. Who knew how many were still in that town hiding, or already found. But there was no one left calling out for help. Those whose pleas we saw, we had answered. We unleashed the sails and the winds kicked us away from the island. I was spent. I leaned back against one of the masts, sliding down the great wooden beam, until every inch of me was pressed against wood. Xander walked over. He leaned down and smacked me on the shoulder, then held his hand there. He had a wide grin on his face. I understood why. And I smiled back. Many people would have died when the Southern town was invaded. Some of them would’ve been soldiers, others just people in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was more destruction, more death, more loss. But for that hour, as we pulled the tired, frightened evacuees from the water, we stood against it all. We were in the right place at the right time. Across the other side of the boat I could see Novak sitting in the corner, holding Lachlann’s guitar. He looked down at the instrument in his lap, still as big as he was. With all the commotion, no one had checked on Lachlann’s musical mentee. I pulled myself up and slowly walked over to him. I knew I had to speak to him, but even as I arrived, I had no idea what I would say. “Can I sit with you?” He suddenly jolted his head to me, seemingly unaware of my approach. After a second he nodded. I shimmied around the guitar and sat down so that the neck stretched across me. I looked at the frets and the points on the strings where fingers had worn away at the wire. I could see stained wood, a million fingerprints leaving their oily trace on Lachlann’s favourite chords until the grain lightened. “They said...” Novak chose his words carefully, negating the reality. “Lachlann’s not coming back.” “Yes. I’m sorry.” I grimaced. “Just like everyone else.” There was a pang in my chest thinking at all the loss the boy had suffered on Deer Drum. “Did the same people get Lachlann?” Novak asked, turning to me. “Yes.” Novak glanced back to the guitar. “What do you think they’ll do with this?” “I think you should keep it.” Though I had no grounds to say it, it felt perfectly correct. “He would’ve wanted you to have it.” We both watched as a mixture of islanders and evacuees trudged back-and-forth in front of us, shoes trampling over what remained of Xander’s vegetable garden. “Lachlann’s been... was good to me.” Novak’s eyes remained fixed on the passers by. “He liked you. He wanted to spend time with you.” I tried to offer what comforting platitudes I could as I stared at Novak’s face, trying to see his reaction. “I liked spending time with him too.” “I’ll always remember the songs he played for us,” I smiled. Novak lifted up the guitar slightly, looking at it. “I’m going to keep playing, become as good as he was. Continue what he did.” “That’s...” I paused, a genuine smile crossing my lips. “That is exactly what he would want.” “You think?” He turned to me, sensing the shift in my tone. “That’s what we should all do. Try and be a bit more like Lachlann.” Novak rotated the guitar and placed his hands against the strings. “Can I play you the tune he taught me?” I grinned at the hint of energy in Novak’s voice. Novak nervously placed his fingers in the right positions, counted the beats in his head, and began strumming. I leaned my head back against the side of the ship, listening to the melody. The music continued. -------------------------------- We met up with Alessia two hours or so out to sea. Granite Vowhorn was nothing but a silhouette. A distant set of lights, impossible to distinguish between town and fire. Xander, Kurbani, Alessia and I sat on the deck of Alessia’s boat, pulling a few crates round into a circle. The rest stayed behind, helping organise the evacuees: handing out whatever blankets they could find, or finding a space of floor on which to sleep. “Where will you go?” Alessia asked. Xander sighed. “Amnia Garman is the nearest place. Drop off the refugees there. Then, back to Talin Barier.” “Talin?” “Yeah. For Lachlann.” Xander pointed a thumb to Kurbani. “We took him back to his room - he’s the only one with his own place tonight.” She let out a small chuckle despite the watery film to her eyes. “There were some letters on the side from his sister. That’s where he was from. Originally. She still lives there in those slums. It’s not good news, but... she should decide what to do.” “Why did he never tell us?” I squinted. Kurbani shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes when you come from not a lot it’s easier to reinvent yourself I guess. I imagine there’s a lot we’ll never know. All we get to know is who he became. A friend.” We sat around in that circle and shared stories. We cried. We laughed. We frowned, and we smiled, until we had said what needed to be said; until his good life was spoken to the ocean. Finally, Kurbani stood up. “We should get going, but I think there’s only one way we should end this.” I looked up. “How?” She closed her eyes and sang. Her voice found a perfect contralto tone. Soft, melodic, and sombre. My friends, come along. Don’t you hear the fond song? The sweet notes where the nightingale flows? For to hear the fond tale of the sweet nightingale. We all quietly sang the final two lines. As she sings in the valley below, As she sings in the valley below. We all remained in silence, letting the last notes resonate and hum against the wood, until their energy was gone. Kurbani walked over and embraced us both, holding us tight. “Stay safe out there.” “We will,” Alessia replied. We said goodbye, and untied the boats. Deer Drum left once more, filled with a new set of evacuees, and drifted off into the night. I sat back down on the crate next to Alessia. The boat floated aimlessly in the sea, slowly rising and falling over the waves. We were quiet, just listening to the sound of the ocean. The creaking of the old wood. The sloshing of water against the hull. The wind whistling in the loose sail. I thought for a moment of old idioms people would say when someone died on Kadear. “They’ve gone to a better place,” “They live on in your memories,” “They’re at peace now.” My mind was stuck on that last one. It angered me. If it were true, then Sannaz was right. Death is the best outcome, and we should all embrace its swift arrival. No. Lachlann wasn’t at peace. He just wasn’t there any more. A path of writing songs, or laughing with friends, of travelling the Archipelago. All the endless possibilities of the future, the love he might meet, the family he might raise, the fame he might find. Whatever eventualities awaited him, whether they were world-altering or merely mundane were snuffed out. All the potential in the world was reduced to one absolute certainty. The exactness of nothing. To rebel against that, wasn’t to say Lachlann was at peace, and it wasn’t to sit around quietly mourning. No doubt grief was coming for me, but as I sat there, in the peaceful ocean night I thought back to Novak’s simple plan to keep playing. And so I would too. Live double the life, go on twice as many adventures, share twice as many jokes with friends, bring twice as much happiness, and feel twice as much love. That was the rebellion. To reclaim what was lost. My reflection was interrupted by Alessia. “How you holding up?” “A bit better. We did a good thing helping those people on Granite Vowhorn. But, I know when I lay down tonight, I’m going to think back to Lachlann.” I stared off into the black void of the ocean and the distant outline of the Deer Drum boat. “I’m going to think every night. Think on what I said. And what I could’ve said to save him.” “Nothing.” Alessia said. “You heard Sannaz. He is killing because he believes it’s right. Even if you gave him everything he wanted he would’ve pushed Lachlann off that cliff.” My face twitched, but the doubtful frown remained. She shuffled to one side and grabbed my hands, holding them in hers. “Honestly, if anyone is smart enough and stupid enough and can speak well enough to stop a murderer with just words, it would be you. But the truth is, Lachlann was dead as soon as Sannaz laid eyes on him.” I nodded. Alessia let go of my hands, letting them fall into my lap. “When you think of that conversation, what you should be thinking is what we can use *now*. What did he say that can help us find him.” “There was nothing, Alessia. Just nonsense.” I bowed my head “Think.” She leaned down, making sure she stayed in my eye line. “He must’ve said something.” I took a deep breath and pulled my shoulders back. I stared up at the sky, and tried reliving the conversation. “He spoke about some site. He’s trying to find a place that he thinks we know. Somewhere, tied to the Archipelago’s birth, that he wants to find.” “Okay. So we find that before he does.” Alessia nodded. “There was all that stuff about why killing was for the greater good.” My head shivered with the memory. “He said he’d heard about us, me specifically. That he’d heard about why I was travelling the Archipelago.” Alessia shuffled back on her crate, rolling her head from side to side. “Okay, so he’s been asking after us.” “There was one thing.” I looked forward, peering into my memory. “What?” “He said he’d tried to find out more about me. Said he’d followed me and even visited... Pomafauc Reset?” I shook my head. “I’ve never even heard of that place.” Alessia quickly averted her eyes, her mouth slightly open. “Uh. You have.” I stared at her, waiting for a response. “What?” “I heard about it on those trading missions.” She spoke hesitantly, choosing each word. “It’s undergone some changes. So it altered its name. It used to be different.” “Alessia,” I said, a hint of irritation. “What did it used to be called?” She grimaced. “Kadear Coalfields.” # END OF BOOK TWO \ Book three of The Archipelago will begin the 3rd March 2022.


Calling 9-1-1 Rose: A voice asked, “Please state your emergency: Police, Fire or Ambulance?” “This is Rosemary Wesley; There’s been a vehicle rollover, on the S-curve in the Stevenson Road, eleven miles south of Paisley. “There’s an overturned half-ton truck in the ditch. The headlights are on and the wheels are still spinning. I’m going down there to see if anyone is inside. The hill is so steep, I’ll have to use a rope. I’ll leave my truck on the shoulder of the road with the four-way lights flashing,” I added. “Help is on the way.” The operator replied. “Please stay on the line so you can advise the number of passengers and their condition.” “Will do. I’ll need both hands for descending the hill, so I won’t be able to talk again until I’m there.” Tucking the phone into my coat pocket, I reached for the coil of rope I kept in the truck bed, opened the passenger door and tied one end of the rope to the opened window frame. I edged down the steep hill, using the rope to anchor my feet on the icy surface. The falling sleet trickled down my neck, soaking me to the skin. I’d come out of the office to find the spring rain had turned into sleet, coating the roads with a layer of ice. When I reached the bottom, I spoke to the operator again. “I’m down the hill, and approaching the vehicle now. It’s on its roof, and I’ll try to open the driver’s door.” Using my tiny flashlight, I shone the beam inside. “It looks like there’s only one person inside, a male who’s suspended upside down by his seat belt and appears to be semi-conscious.” “I copy - one male passenger with indeterminate injuries,” the 9-1-1 operator said. “Please stay at the scene until emergency crews arrive, and keep the victim awake, if possible.” “I’ll do that. I’m trying to open the door but it seems to be stuck.” The door was jammed. I yanked on the handle several times, then realized it could be locked from the inside. Leaning down, I tapped on the window, motioning him to unlock the door. He looked confused. I shouted, “Unlock the door!” He sluggishly reached across with his right hand to push the button to release the lock. I realized his left arm was must be pinned against the caved in door. I tried again, but it wouldn’t budge, so I asked him to open his window. He finally pressed the window button and held it. It opened halfway. I was able to see inside, and confirm that he was alone in the truck. There was blood on his face, and I wondered how bad he was hurt. If he hadn’t been wearing the seat belt, he’d likely have gone through the windshield, which was laying on the ground. I considered trying to help get him out through the hole, but decided to wait for the paramedics, lest I complicate his injuries. I told him my name, and asked his. “Ben Buchanan,” he rasped. He was a young man, with dark hair, wearing a dark suit jacket but no tie. I remembered the operator’s instructions to keep him talking, so I told him it was a dangerous road in bad weather, and that I lived nearby. In fact, my lane was just a few yards beyond, and I had been almost home when I’d spotted headlights in the ditch. He said he’d been on his way home from his grandfather’s funeral, and it had turned to sleet as he drove. He’d swerved to miss a fallen tree branch, and had lost control on that bad curve. I’d seen that branch, jutting out onto the roadway, and had been able to miss it. Being familiar with the road, I’d been driving especially slowly as I approached the S-curve, knowing it had been the scene of many accidents, and tonight’s icy conditions had made it treacherous. He said he couldn’t move his left arm; it was jammed against the door frame, and he thought it might be broken. I noted that the dash was crunched in, but his legs didn’t seem pinned. He said he wasn’t in any pain; he was possibly in shock, and not feeling it yet. Soon we heard multiple sirens, and as the flashing lights came into sight, I told him help had arrived, and they’d soon have him out of there. I stayed with him as all the emergency vehicles pulled up beside my old half-ton truck. Floodlights shone down on us, as the responders assessed the situation. I aimed my flashlight at the rope by which I’d descended the hillside, hoping they wouldn’t attempt that icy slope without assistance. But they had climbing gear, including a winch, and I stepped back as three men and one woman, in yellow slickers approached the wreck. Not wanting to be in their way, I told Ben that I wished him well, then carefully climbed back to my truck. I turned the heater up full blast and held my hands over the vent, trying to warm them. A Police officer came to my window, and I lowered it inviting her to sit inside, out of the sleet, to talk. She did so, asking what time I’d come upon the accident. I told her everything I knew about it. When I said my laneway was just ahead, and I needed to get home to let my dog out, and still had horses to feed, she agreed, saying she’d contact me later if she needed to. When she left, I eased my truck back onto the slick road and crawled the short distance to my lane. I was never so glad to see my cozy little farm house. After changing into warm dry clothes, and a rain slicker, hat and boots, I went out to feed the horses. They were huddled under the overhang, looking miserable. I let them in, tossed them each a biscuit of hay, closed their stall doors, and hurried back to the house. I wondered how badly hurt Ben Buchanan was, and hoped he’d be all right. It had been a rough day for him, first his grandfather’s funeral and then wrecking his truck on the way home. I hoped his injuries weren’t too serious. By the time the Police and paramedics had arrived, I’d felt like he was almost a friend. Ben The bright lights hurt my eyes, so I closed them again. When I next awoke, I saw that the walls were aqua, and a wavy patterned curtain hung beside my bed. Looking at the waves made me dizzy, so I looked away. I was in a bed with side rails. There was a cast on my left arm and my right one was attached to the bed rail. A tube ran from it to a bottle hanging from a tall pole. I realized I was in a hospital. I closed my eyes to shut out the harsh light and when I opened them again, the quiet shush of a nurse’s soft soled shoes approached my bed. She was tall and stern looking, until she smiled. “Good morning! I’m glad you’ve decided to join us at last!” Her voice spoke kindness and concern. “How long have I been sleeping?” I croaked. My throat was parched, and I gratefully drank from the straw in the glass of water she held for me. “Just a few sips at first, Mr. Buchanan. You’ve been out of it for a day and a half. From what the medics said, you were lucky to have so few injuries.” I looked at my cast, “What other injuries do I have?” “Your left arm is broken, and your left knee was jammed against the door. It’s not broken, but the bone is bruised. You’ll need crutches for a while. You have some stitches and a concussion from that bump on your head.” She stuck a thermometer in my ear, frowning as she recorded my temperature on a chart at the foot of my bed. Her fingers were cool on my wrist as she took my pulse, then pulled a machine on wheels to my bedside and slipped a blood pressure cuff on my arm. When it released, she smiled. “Your vitals are improving. You’ll likely be moved from ICU to a room of your own, after the doctor checks you.” “Can you free my right hand? I can’t even scratch my nose, with it tied down like this.” “You’ll want to scratch very gently. Your face is quite bruised. We secured your hand to prevent you from pulling the IV line out in your sleep. You’re receiving a mild pain med and fluids, to keep your body hydrated.” “I remember heading for home after my grandfather’s funeral, but nothing else.” “The roads were icy from freezing rain. You spun out on a curve and your truck rolled down a steep bank. It was on its roof, with you hanging upside down by your seatbelt. It’s good that you were wearing it - it likely saved your life. “A driver not far behind you, spotted your headlights in the ditch, and called 9-1-1. She lives just past the accident site, and she stayed with you until emergency personnel arrived,” she said, undoing the strap holding my right wrist to the metal railing. “I guess I owe her my life. I need to thank her.” “She’s called the hospital asking about you. I’ll find out her name for you.” “Thank you.” I said, as she left the room. I dozed again until the doctor bustled in. He glanced at my chart, and smiled. “I’m Dr. Nelson. I’m glad to see you’re doing better, Benjamin. We’ll move you to a ward upstairs this afternoon. I was concerned when you didn’t wake up sooner. You have a broken arm, a badly wrenched knee, a concussion and a few stitches on your forehead. Your face is bruised; you’ll have couple of shiners for a few days. Just say, ‘If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy!’” “Ow, it hurts to laugh. It feels like I’ve been run over by an Army tank, I said. “I’m due back in surgery, so I’ll look in on you tomorrow.” He was out the door before I could reply. A different nurse entered the room. She lowered the bed rail, pressed a button and the head of the bed started rising. When I was almost sitting straight up, she put an arm around my shoulders, the other under my knees, and swung me around so I was sitting on the side of the bed, without having to strain my sore ribs. “It’s time to get you upright. You’ve been lying in bed for too long. Let’s take a trip to the bathroom, and see how it feels to be mobile again.” She placed a pair of cotton hospital slippers with no-skid soles on my feet, and held me as I tried to stand. Every muscle in my body screamed at the punishment. She undid the IV pole, moved a wheelchair into place and eased me onto it. I was grateful for the effortless ride across the room to the washroom. My pillow looked like my best friend when I got back, and I was asleep as soon my head hit it. It seemed like no time at all until I was awakened again by an aide bringing dinner. It was scrambled eggs and toast, a small packet of strawberry jam, a glass of milk and a cup of coffee, with cream and sugar on the side. I told her to keep the cream and sugar, as I drink tea and coffee black. When I’d finished eating, I slept some more. My bed was moving! I awoke to find two orderlies lifting me onto a different bed. When they saw my eyes open, the one at the foot of the bed said, “You’re moving from ICU to your own room. That means you’re no longer considered critical, and you’re on the mend.” They swung my bed around, through the door, down the hall and into an elevator. I felt the rising movement and the sudden cessation of it as the elevator stopped. The door opened, and I was moving down another hall, around a corner and into my new room. The walls were light blue, and the bedside curtain was cream, thankfully with no wavy pattern to make me dizzy. A picture window with a wide ledge below it took up most of one wall. The afternoon sun brightened the room. “Do you want the curtain pulled?” one of the orderlies asked me. “No, leave it open, please.” I replied. “What floor am I on?” “The third floor, west wing,” he said, as he attached my IV line again. “You’ll get regular meals now and be able to have visitors.” “My only visitors might be the Police. I don’t know anyone else in the area.” “Is that so? I heard there’s a pretty young lady who’s been asking about you. Maybe you’re keeping secrets from us.” He winked, as they went out the door. That gave me something to think about - I hadn’t known anyone in this area. I was just driving home from my granddad’s funeral when the accident happened. Nobody would know I was here. I wondered if anyone had found my phone. I needed to notify my neighbor that I was stranded here so he could collect my mail and forward the important things to me. The building contractor I worked for needed to be advised that I was laid up, and wouldn’t be able to make custom cabinets for him for a while. If I lost the contract for the new high-end housing development, it would be a huge financial loss. I needed access to a computer, to manage my online banking, like utility payments. My head was buzzing with all the complications an icy road had caused. I hadn’t been speeding; it was dark and I remember feeling the wheels slipping on the ice, so I was taking it easy. Little bits of it came back to me now, but not the accident itself. I didn’t dare tell anyone that I’d seen an angel standing on her head, talking to me while I’d sat in my truck. Nobody would believe me; they’d think I’d been seeing things. Maybe I’d been so near death an angel had really appeared. I’ve heard of such things when a person almost dies. Trying to think about it made my head ache worse, so I closed my eyes again. Rose When I called the hospital this afternoon, the nurse told me Mr. Buchanan was awake, and had been moved from Intensive Care to a room, and he could have visitors. I’d been worried; Waiting with him for the ambulance had made me want assurance that he was okay. I asked at the nurse’s station for his room number, and took the elevator to the third floor, followed the signs to room 315. His face was bruised black and blue and he was sleeping. I’d seen little of him that night, only what my feeble my flashlight beam had shown. I remembered seeing blood on his face. No wonder he’d been in a coma for a day and a half. Despite the livid bruising, I could tell he was young and handsome. His curly hair was a deep auburn, and he had laugh lines around his eyes. I still couldn’t see what color they were. I left him sleeping and went to the cafeteria for coffee, He was awake when I returned to his room, but he was not alone. A Police officer was with him, so I stayed out in the hall. I heard part of their conversation, the officer telling him that his truck had been hauled to the Police locked yard, and that it was a write-off. I’d guessed as much from what I’d seen that night. Not wanting to eavesdrop, I walked to the corner of the hall and back, then to the other end and back. The officer was leaving when I got there, and he smiled as we met in the hall. I suddenly felt shy about talking to Ben. He turned his head slowly and looked as I entered the room. “Hello, Mr. Buchanan, I see you are awake now.” His eyes were blue like the sky outside his window. “Uh-uh, not Mr. Buchanan, that’s my dad! I’m Ben,” he said in a raspy voice. “Okay, Ben. I’m Rosemary, or Rose to my friends. You’re more colorful now but better than the last time I saw you,” I said with a smile. “Don’t laugh, but you remind me of the angel that was standing on her head and talking to me when I was in my wrecked truck the other night.” “Sorry, but I have to laugh at that. I’m not an angel and I was not standing on my head; it’s you and the truck who were upside down. I’m glad you’re on the mend. When you see someone in a difficult situation, it makes you want to know that things turned out all right.” “‘Thank You,’ does not nearly express my gratitude. The Police told me there was little traffic that night, due to the ice storm. If you hadn’t found me, I could have hung there upside down until morning. He said you likely saved my life, so I owe you big time.” “A simple ‘Thanks’ is plenty. I’m so glad I could help.” I felt tingles go all through me as my eyes met his, like I was seeing my future, and he would play an important part in it. Ben: I’d seen myself in the bathroom mirror, and knew I looked like Frankenstein’s monster. How could this lovely girl smile at me? She was truly an angel.


She had been so happy with *him*, feeling at peace with herself for the first time in her life after meeting *him, a* friend of a friend. After years of longing for a deep, intimate relationship, he suddenly appeared right before her. Both of them had rather melancholic temperaments, so sadness was a well known acquaintance to both of them. He especially suffered from depressive episodes, but when they held each other tightly, their negative emotions seemed to disappear. He tried his best to always come to her aid, and she tried her best to be always there for him. She allowed herself to accept the thought that maybe, just maybe, life wasn't as cruel as she had imagined. She needed him and he needed her, so everything was perfect. They spent most of their time together, periods of time where in their minds everyone else disappeared from the surface of the world. An objective observer would have probably declared this relationship as a mutual dependence, but she would have taken this as a compliment, as a symbol for their deep love and affection toward each other, for the fact that they were able to keep going simply by supporting each other. For her, life reached a high point when he gave her a key to his flat, allowing her to come by whenever she felt like doing so. And so she did. She craved his love, his presence, his smell. She loved being dependent on him. But she always feared that she was unable to make him happy, as an aura of sadness still surrounded him, while she herself felt great. So she made an extra effort to cheer him up, to be a shoulder he could always lean on. And so the days went by. Until he said to her how he thought they had slowly stopped existing as individuals, and how it would be beneficial to their relationship if they started to spend more time being separated from each other again, in order to keep the spark between them alive. During the first moments, while processing what he had just said, she felt deeply saddened and alone. But she could nevertheless understand where he came from, and since her worst fear was losing him, she agreed to his proposal, all while holding back her tears. After this conversation, something changed within him. Texts she sent him were met with a reply hours later, calls were often not returned, visits to his flat were short-lived because he often told her about the plans he had made in the afternoon with his friends. She felt as if their relationship was nothing but a shadow of its former glory. But what had brought about this sudden change in his behaviour, in his feelings? Had she been too clingy, too affectionate, too needy? But maybe he was just busy, which of course may be a logical possibility, she thought. That was what he had texted her before, telling her how much he missed her. And like that, months went by. She finally reestablished contact with her best friend, someone she had neglected for such a long period of time. She felt disgusted regarding her behaviour towards the girl, but nevertheless her primary thought wasn't about her guilt towards her best friend, but about the growing distance between her boyfriend and herself. She confined in her friend about the changes, his eagerness to get rid of her, his short replies. After thinking through was just had been said, her friend brought up something she would have never wanted to hear, never wanted to think about, never had allowed herself to even consider the possibilities. An affair. Tears shot down her face, because she instantly realised that this had to be the truth. An affair. But with whom? With her boyfriend being "away on a visit to his parents“, she had more than enough time to think thoroughly about the possible candidates. Was it this girl from his Biology course he had mentioned a few times because of her unnatural long hair? A mutual friend? Maybe an old flame from his high school years? Who was she? It all made sense. He never wrote her back because he felt guilty, he always practically chased her out of his flat because she would afterwards come over. He put a distance between them because he wanted to spend time with this side fling. He switched wearing simple t-shirts for long-sleeved turtlenecks which made him look like a pretentious follower of Sartre, probably in order to hide the love bites she had marked him with. He became less affectionate because his love was now directed at another woman. He was probably spending the night making love to her in a hotel instead of visiting his parents. How could she have been so naive? Shortly after, she got a text from him, stating how much he loved her, how much he craved her presence. Liar, she thought to herself. Liar. The first text she had received in two days. Liar. After a sleepless night nearly breaking her head about his affair, about the identity of this woman who had stolen the man she loved, she realised what she had to do in order to come close to the truth. With trembling hands, she dialled the phone number of his family home, and after some seconds which felt so endless they took away her breath, his mother answered. Forty seconds later, she learned that her boyfriend was, in fact, not at his parents home. Her heart skipped a beat. He had, in fact, lied to her, straight to her face. He had lied. He had lied to her. It took minutes for her to comprehend this. She picked up the keys to his flat, still laying on the table where she had put them five days ago. It felt as if years had passed since her last visit. Now he was staying there with another woman. Liar. She opened the door silently and listened. No one was talking, no trace of perfume was in the air. There were no moans, no laughter. Just a deadly silence. Had they heard her coming into the flat? It didn't matter to her. Still, she tried to make as little sound as possible while she made her way into the bedroom. As the distance grew smaller, she noticed the faint sound of a female laughter coming from the room. The light also seemed to be on. So he was there after all, and in his company was a woman. She didn't bother knocking on the door, entering it fully expecting seeing him on top of the long haired girl from Biology. But instead, she saw him sitting on his bed. The first thing she saw was him wearing a t-shirt again. The second thing was a blood soaked tissue he firmly pressed onto his hand. Then she saw his arms, covered with fresh red marks. The third thing she noticed was an empty syringe, laying next to him on the bed. The sounds emitted by the television instantly faded into the background as she took a look into his eyes, his eyes, so far away, which formerly were so full of love. No, not formerly, she realised. He was still in love. Not with her, not with the girl from his Biology class, but with what seemed to be heroin. She realised that while he was able to give her everything she needed to be happy, she herself had been unable to do the same for him. So he turned to something else in order to give him what he craved so severely. Yes, they were both dependent. But obviously to very different things.


This Valentine’s Day was going to be a rough one. I was not looking forward to it. My boyfriend had recently moved across the ocean with his family. And while we were keeping in contact, it was straining us, as it would anyone. I was starting to lose all hope that we would make it through this transition. We still had a planned facetime date that we arranged. He was five hours ahead, so it’s been difficult to organize a time everyday or every other day to find time to talk in person, not just leave messages on chat programs or emails. Today, we had arranged to talk at 4pm my time because it was a day where I didn’t have practice. It was almost the end of the school day, so I sent him a picture of me holding a rose out as an offering and a message that read: *Always thinking of you, wish I could give this to you in person.* I sighed for what was probably the hundredth time today. Watching a lot of the other students giving tokens to their significant others, or the hopefuls asking out their crushes was really bringing me down. It also didn’t help that James was being really quiet today; I hadn’t heard from him since before I left for school this morning. So, I was really looking forward to him calling me this afternoon. My mom picked me up after school and suggested we stop by the store to pick up some last-minute Valentine’s gifts. She kind of pushed me into at least picking up some chocolates. I also grabbed a single rose on a whim. It almost made me sadder, but at the same time was comforting. Now I just wanted to go home and lay down in my room listening to music until his call. Even my usual chatrooms weren’t very enticing to me, I was so excited to talk to him. I got home, put the rose and candy on my desk, and was getting more and more anxious. Four o’clock came and he still didn’t call. Then it was four thirty. This wasn’t like him. He might not always be the most punctual of people, but he usually wasn’t this late without at least some kind of message explaining and updating me. But today, there was no message explaining why he was late. My low mood and anxious mind started to think the worst things. The one that popped into my head the most was that he had found someone else to spend the evening with. I couldn’t shake the feeling that that’s what happened. Like maybe it was innocent, someone asked him out for coffee that day, it was Valentine’s day after all, but still... I was so frantic with these bad thoughts that annoyances from the house kept building up. It almost seemed like my mom’s phone was purposely put on loud ringer to annoy the shit out of me and make me jump. I swear she kept getting calls or texts every 5-10 minutes. I didn’t care to listen in. At ten to five, my phone finally started to ring. I picked up almost immediately, so excited to finally see him/talk to him. “Hi James! Happy Valentine’s Day!” My mood immediately rose, but I was still anxious. “Hey Gabe, happy Valentine’s Day.” His face took up the whole screen, I couldn’t see anything around him. I was just so glad to finally see him. “Sorry, I’m calling later than we agreed. Things came up and delayed me.” I heard the doorbell ring, but I knew my mom would get it. “I’m just glad to finally talk to you. I’ve missed you so much.” “I’ve missed you, too,” James said. “Gabe, someone’s at the door to see you!” My mom called from outside my closed door. “Ugh, okay, I’ll be right there, Mom!” I called back. “Sorry, James, I’ll take care of this real quick, but I’ll bring my phone with me.” I groaned. “No worries,” he smiled at me, from the screen. There was a light in his eyes, he seemed really excited. He lowered his phone and I lowered mine. I walked down stairs and down the hall to the front door. I looked up from my feet to see who was standing in our entryway and stopped. James was there with a bag next to him and a rose in his hand. He had the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on his face. I nearly dropped my phone, which was still open to the connection with him. I was completely shocked. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Gabe,” he said softly with a warm smile. “Wha- how? How did you get here? I thought you were in England?” I was frozen to the spot. “No hug?” His smile faltered, but stayed on his face. I almost ran into his arms and hugged him, kissed him. “God,” I breathed, our foreheads pressed against each other. “I’ve missed you so much, this is the best thing to happen today. This week. This month.” “Same here.” I opened my eyes, “Now, explain.” He opened his eyes and pulled out of the hug, holding out the rose for me. I took it, looking him in the eyes. He smiled and sighed. “Well, it’s a bit of a story, but basically, since I moved away, I was trying to plan a surprise for you. My parents saw how depressed I was getting, and offered to set me up with a trip back when I wanted to go back. I got your mom’s number and arranged with her some logistics. She’s way more supportive than you’d have thought. And so here, I am,” he explained spreading his arms in a finale. “My mom...?” I said perplexed and looked around only to see her and my sister peek their heads around the corner from the next room, smiles on their faces. I turned to look back at him. “I can’t believe you’re here.” My emotions were all over the place but finally a smile broke across my face as I said, “You’re here!” I threw my arms around him again. He laughed, hugging me tight. “Yes, and I’m staying with you for a week.” “Come in then and make yourself at home then,” I said pulling out of the hug. I put the rose in my belt loops, grabbed his bag with one hand and grabbed his hand with the other hand. He kicked off his shoes with the rest of my family’s shoes. We walked up to my room and he told me how hard it was to keep this a secret from me for the last two weeks. “I just wanted to tell you so bad but I couldn’t, and it was just gah!” We got to my room and closed the door. My music was still playing. I set down his bag, then carefully pulled the rose out from my belt loops and placed it on my desk next to the one I bought earlier with my mom. Now her pressure all made sense to me. She knew about my sexual orientation. Oh my God. SHE KNEW. And she was seemingly okay with it; supportive even. James took off his coat and hung it on the back of my desk chair. I picked up the rose and candy I had bought and held them out for him. “You are here and this is better than I could ever have imagined for how today could go. Happy Valentine’s Day,” I said choking on the words, so happy. He took them only to put them back down on the desk next to his rose for me. He grabbed my hips and pulled me close to him again, kissing me deeply. Then he broke the kiss. “Gabe, our intimacy may be a time-bomb for now, but we will always have our friendship. And for now, we have this and us. We should make this count while we can,” and he kissed me again. We fell onto the bed just making out, making up for lost time, our hands exploring each other over and under our clothes. My family always ate at the same time, so I kept it tame for now, because I knew that they wouldn’t let me skip just because my boyfriend was here, especially since he was staying with us. For now, this would have to be enough. This time, what we could make of it, and how to keep going over the distance, even just as friends. We are young, maybe we will get thrown back together in the future. There was always college and life after that for us to look forward to. For now, he was here, I could hold him, and I was not going to take that for granted.


“Yo, Shawn! Over here! What took you so long? I’ve been waiting at least twenty minutes” Shawn and I are going biking in the Community Forest. We’re meeting at the gate behind the baseball diamonds where best trail starts. It branches off at several locations before we get down to the creek. “My Mom! She wouldn’t let me leave until I packed a lunch, water, a jacket, and spare socks. Oh, and my first aid kit! Then she had to watch me oil the chain on my bike, and check the tire pressures. Finally, she let me go! I’m sorry man!” “Well, you’re a onesie and Moms get protective when they only have one chick.” “What the heck are you talking about? Onesie? We don’t have any chickens.” “It’s something my Mom said...women with only one chick, meaning kid, get over-protective and try to bubble wrap their chick-kid.” “Well, you’d better not start calling me a chick, or chicken, or anything like that because you’ll regret it!” And he swats me on the shoulder. “Hey! I was just explaining. You’re no chicken! I’d say you’re more of a daredevil. Now, let’s ride!” Shawn takes the lead, as always and I am happy to let him. He’s a better rider than I am, and his bike is well oiled and maintained. I’m sure he parks it in the garage every day when he gets home. Mine leans against the fence in the back yard and I’ve never oiled anything on it. I also have two sisters that take it for a spin once in a while, and rarely put it back where they got it, preferring to just dump it on the gravel driveway right near the door. He’s the only one who rides his bike and it’s like an extension of him. The first hill is steep with a quick turn at the bottom and another sharp dip to get over a short wooden bridge. As long as nobody is standing on the bridge, you can pick up some good speed to whip up the next incline. We are in luck today! Shawn waits at the top of the hill until I catch up. The trail branches here, Rockwood trail to the right - a quick ride by the rock cut with a few twists through the poplar bluff and back out to the ball diamonds. To the left is Briar Creek trail - lots of twists and turns through the spruce and cottonwoods, complete with rocks and roots, a little mud, until you get down to the creek, then it levels out to run the creek edge for half a kilometre or so. “Rock, paper, scissors? Or, how much time do you have?” Shawn asks, as he removes his helmet and wipes his sweaty forehead. I pull my helmet off, too. The sun is hot up here near the top of the gully. “I left a note, said I’d be gone all afternoon. Let’s take the creek trail.” Shawn let’s me take the lead this time. There’s a lot of quick turns and a few small jumps. I pull to a stop by the blue bridge. Shawn is right behind me. I pull a water bottle from my pack. “There’s a nice long drop up ahead with a short lip at the bottom. I brought my cell phone. I want to go down a little ways first and try to get a picture of you catching some air.” “Wait. Jimmy? Could you take a video? That would be so amazing! I could send it to my Dad. I bet he’d be super impressed!” “ I have a full charge, so yah, video it is! Give me a few minutes to find a good spot down there. I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready.” I head down the trail, looking for a good spot to stand. The trail is a little slimy here, and there’s a mud hole that’s slick, but it’s got a good lip that should give Shawn some air. I want to get lower, but not too low or I’ll miss the mud spray and the launch. I find the perfect spot and haul my bike off the trail, pull my gloves off to get a better grip on my phone, then shout, “Let ‘er rip, Shawn!” I start to record as I see him round the jog just above the mud hole. His legs are pumping and he’s gathering speed and he’s yelling at the top of his lungs. I’m squatting down to catch him hitting the mud hole, and bracing against a tree to swivel and catch the second he hits the lip that thrusts him up and into the air. Another swivel and I catch the landing, skidding on the spruce needles that litter the trail, skidding and losing control and Shawn flying in one direction while his bike crashes into a twisted spruce stump. And the word he was yelling finally registers “BEAR!” I hit the ground and spin around to check the trail. There it is, a huge black bear! I’m shaking in my boots but I lift my phone, still recording, and watch the bear amble down the trail towards me. I’m too afraid to make a sound, too afraid to twitch a muscle, praying silently, “Please go away, please go away, please go away.” The bear stops suddenly, sits up on its haunches and sniffs the air, twisting its head first one way, then the other, huffing a bit. It turns suddenly and lumbers off into the bushes. I hear a few branches snap as it heads deeper into the gully, down towards the creek. Immobilized for what seems like an hour, it finally sinks in that it’s gone and I’m safe, we’re safe. “Shawn,” I yell, and pull myself, unsteadily, up to the lip of the mud hole. Shawn’s bike is crumpled against the stump, but Shawn is nowhere to be seen. I slide down over the lip, calling his name, “Shawn! The bear’s gone. Shawn! We’re safe. The bear’s gone. Shawn, where are you?” I hear a groan and notice another sharp drop just to the left of the trail. Running to the edge, I’m afraid to look, but there he is. Shawn looks as crumpled as his bike. His helmet is cracked open and his blond hair looks darker than it should. A shiver runs through me, afraid that he’s dead, but he groans again, and I give myself a shake. He can’t be dead, he’s groaning! “Shawn! Are you okay? Shawn?” I scamper down to where he’s lying against a poplar tree, imbedded in last year’s crumbling leaves. I touch his shoulder and he screeches, trying to pull away. “Shawn, it’s me, Jimmy. Shawn, you’re okay. You’re safe, the bear’s gone.” I grab his shoulder and hold him down. “Let me go, Jimmy. I’m okay, I think. You saw the bear? It was after me! It was going to get me!” “Not at the speed you were going! Man, you were flying! And then you really were flying! You got some serious air there! And I caught it all on video. I caught the bear, too. That beast was huge!” “You caught it all? Can I see?” I pull my phone out of my pocket to show him, as he gingerly pulls himself up to lean against the tree. I’m trying to go to Photos, but I see a little red light in the upper right corner and 10%. The battery is almost dead. I know it won’t play the video, but maybe he can see the picture. “Battery’s almost dead. You can the picture though.” I swing the phone towards him and he gets a glimpse before it dies completely. His face is a little grey, but he’s sitting up. It takes a minute or two, but his colour returns. He pulls his smashed helmet off and looks at it. He runs his fingers gingerly through his hair. There’s no blood on them, just dirt, as he drops his hands into his lap. “Where’s my bike, Jimmy?” I hesitate, “It’s wrapped around a spruce tree, where you landed. You flew this way and the bike went right, and smashed into the tree. You were flying!” “Okay. Okay. We have to get out of here. That bear might come looking for us.” He tries to stand but cries out when he tries to put weight on his left leg, and crumples back to the ground. “Is it just your left leg? Are you hurt anywhere else? Geez, Shawn! How are we going to get out of here of you can’t walk?” I’m trying to check his arms and legs and his head. Tears slowly, quietly leak from his eyes. “I’m scared, Jimmy. Don’t leave me here alone! I know we need help, but, don’t leave me here!” Now he’s full on bawling, and not knowing what else to do, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and hold him close. “I won’t leave you here. Hey, man! I’m not going anywhere without you. We’ll figure something out. Shhh, now.” I grab his backpack and rummage through it. There’s a pack of tissues, which I hand to Shawn. He sniffles and snuffles and blows his nose and slowly the tears stop. I hand him a bottle of water and pull one out of my own pack. I take out a couple of granola bars, too. Shawn doesn’t want one but I chew slowly and consider our situation. I eat the other bar, too. “Shawn, how heavy are you?” He’s small for his age. I see him shivering and look through his backpack again. I pull his jacket out and help him put it on. His left arm isn’t bending too well. “I don’t know what I weigh. Not enough, apparently. Mom’s always telling me to eat more so I’ll grow.” He cracks a wobbly smile. “Okay,” I’m smiling, too, “Okay, so that’s good! I’ve got a plan. The bikes will have to stay down here. I’ll pull them off the trail, maybe hide them a bit in the leaves. We’ll have to leave the backpacks, too, but, I think I can carry you. Sorry, but, you don’t look much bigger than my sister, and I can carry her.” Shawn scowls, “But, I think my leg is broken. And, my arm isn’t working too good. How am I going to hang on?” “Let’s get you on your feet...or at least on up on one foot! Lean on me and the tree, and we’ll see if I can manage to lift you.” I grab his right arm and he slides his way up the tree trunk, using only his right leg to brace himself. I squat down to get his arm up over my shoulder, “Hang on around my neck, Shawn. I’m going to try and piggyback you up to where your bike is.” I reach around to grab his legs and I hitch him up onto my back. Slowly, I make my way around the rocks and trees, and head up the trail. When we get up to Shawn’s bike, I lower him to the ground. He hasn’t said a word, but, I see his face has lost all its colour, and I’m a little scared. “Shawn? How was it? Was it too much? You look like you’re going to pass out!” “Oh, man! My leg hurts so bad. I just need to be still for a bit.” “Just sit here, Shawn. I’ll get our packs and be right back.” I shimmy down to the backpacks and grab them, wondering how I can carry Shawn all the way back up to the ball diamonds. I can handle the weight, but if his leg hurts too much he might pass out and not be able to hold on. My mind goes back to some first aid we took last month and I remember that we should immobilize a break, but, there we had all the bandages and boards we needed. Here I have nothing! Shawn is laying down with his eyes closed when I get back. I notice the tears leaking into his ears, but I pretend not to see. “Shawn, just lay there for a bit. I’m going to hide the bikes. I’m not far away. Don’t be scared if you don’t see me. I’ll be right back.” I grab Shawn’s bike and scurry it up to where mine is. I pull Shawn’s bike over mine, tuck a few branches around the bikes to hopefully camouflage them. That’ll have to do. I slide down to Shawn. He’s sitting up, leaning against the spruce stump that mangled his bike. “I’ve got the bikes off the trail and hidden a bit. Um...we have to immobilize your leg, and I don’t know how we’re going to do that. If we don’t immobilize it, you’ll probably pass out and I won’t be able to carry you out.” “I was thinking about that, too. Jimmy, bring the backpacks over here. Let’s see what we have to work with.” I dump the contents in front of Shawn. First aid kit: Bandaids...too short for anything, but, the Aspirin might help. Shawn takes two with water and a bite of granola bar. There’s one of those cotton slings - that might be useful, too. Snacks: crackers and cheese, an apple...not necessary at this point. Water: always needed, but we’ll only take one bottle. Socks: who packs socks?!? My pack is one of those with a stiff back and I see Shawn’s eyes light up. “Jimmy, do you have your knife?” “Yeah, I’ve got it - never leave home without it. What are you thinking?” He grabs my knife and starts cutting my backpack apart. “The back part of your pack has some kind of reinforcement in it. I could wrap it around my leg. We can use the sling to tie it on.” He hacks away at the back pack and I unroll the sling. It’s not very long but maybe we can tear it in half. I catch sight of the socks and I have an idea. The back of the pack is long enough to cover mid-thigh to mid-calf, and I was right about the sling, it only covers part of the top section. Shawn gets a defeated look on his face and I can see the tears start to gather in his eyes. “I’ve got an idea, Shawn. Give me the knife.” I grab the two pairs of socks and the knife. Cutting the toe end off, I pull on one sock to stretch it open as much as possible. Not too gently, I pull it over his foot and up to the pack board around his calf. Shawn pushes my hands off, and grabs the sock. Pulling and stretching at the same time, easing it up slowly, he gets it up over the board, pulls it up to his knee and that’s as far as it’ll go. I toss the next sock to Shawn and he repeats the process. Soon, we have the other pair in place, too. I throw a bottle of water and the first aid kit in Shawn’s pack, put my knife back in my pocket, and sit down by Shawn. “The Aspirin has kicked in. Do you think you can do this, Jimmy? Do you think you can carry me all the way up?” Shawn asks with a grim look on his face. I take a swig of water and roll my shoulders. I hand the pack to Shawn and stand up, “We’re about to find out. Don’t choke me, and let me know if we have to stop.” We get Shawn up and I squat to load him onto my back. I hitch him up a bit to settle him into position and take the first step; then the second, and the third, and I stop counting. The trail is steep and I’m concentrating on one step at a time, watching not to slip on the spruce needles, watching not to trip on exposed roots, watching not to slide on loose rocks. Slowly, it registers in my brain that Shawn is humming, and the tune, OMG, he’s humming “We Are the Champions!” I start to giggle and I have to stop. I’m laughing out loud as I lower Shawn to the ground. I’m flat on my back, still giggling, breathing deeply. I have no idea what time it is but my stomach rumbles a bit. Shawn hears it and laughs. “We left all the snacks down the hill. You need water?” “Yeah, water. You crack me up! “We are the champions!” You’d better think of something with a faster beat if we’re going to make it out of here before dark.” “Jimmy, you’re doing great. I have faith in you, and we’re already quite a ways up. I think just around that next bend we’ll see the split in the trail. It’s not that far now.” “I think you’re full of shit, Shawn. We’ve got quite a ways to go yet. Do you need more Aspirin? You’d better drink some water, too.” I stand and roll my shoulders. I tuck the water back into the pack. “I’m okay. Are you ready to move on?” “Saddle up, buddy! We’re going home!” And, Shawn is right, just around the next bend, we reach the trail split. I continue on the Rockwood Trail rather than take the dip over the bridge. Head down, one foot in front of the other is all I can focus on. Shawn is still humming but I have no idea what the tune is, it’s got a good beat, though. Suddenly, I hear shouting and Shawn tells me to stop. People are running over from the ball diamond. Shawn shouts out to them. “Help! Can I borrow a phone. We need a ride to the hospital.” I collapse on the grass.


"I love you." She was looking at me. Looking into me even. Her eyes wide with the soft hope that comes with saying those words. This girl, here and now, has opened up to me expecting me to do the same. What was I to do? A girl's emotions are a frail thing, and one would have to be a monster to betray such trust. "Do.. you love me?" I was taking too long. The panic was starting to show in her face. Her mask beginning to slip. I know how I feel about her, but what was I to do? To say? I did the only thing I could. The only possible choice I really had. I lied. I lied because I didn't want to hurt her. I had seen the brief regret in her face during that silence following her question.. the doubt. I had to make it right. I never wanted to see her sad again, never wanted to see her dreams broken. To tell the truth would be only heartless. I have grown accustomed to her smile. Her happiness bringing me my own in a way that only the strange magic of the mind can fathom. In that moment of confession, she was so perfect.. so sure of her life. The only thing I could hope, in the most secret corners of my heart, is that she could be as happy as she was in that moment forever. Who am I to take that away from this beautiful girl? This kind, and loving girl? I had no choice. I am not the one who deserves her affection. I was never good enough for her. Too far gone for my own angel. What cruel god could create such a perfect human being.. and make her have pity on me? In that moment, every fiber of my being screamed I love you too. I love you so much it keeps me up at night. My heart.. my mind.. my soul.. all said I love you. I said "No.


“Here you are, sir! One dozen fresh and yummy doughnuts! Satisfaction is guaranteed!” “I need milk,” said Mr. White abruptly to the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “Why certainly! Here you are!” The fat and jolly man behind the counter gave Mr. White a large smile and an ice-cold bottle of milk. Mr. White gave the fat and jolly man behind the counter his money and turned his back and walked towards the door. “Thank you for purchasing at Mr. Happy’s Doughnut Shop!” exclaimed the fat and jolly man who stood, invariably, behind the counter. Mr. White remained silent and let the door close with the loud thud of its own weight. His car was white like his name and, like most cars, sat on four wheels. Mr. White clicked open his grimy vehicle and sat himself in the gray and fraying polyester seats. The polyester irritated his skin on contact. He ate his doughnuts and drank his milk, savoring every doughy and chewy bite. Mr. White slowly bit down and let the glaze melt away in his mouth before washing it all down with a sip of his cold and creamy milk. Mr. White ate all twelve doughnuts. He looked into his rearview mirror and had a staring contest with the handgun which sat quite comfortably in the backseat, for the polyester did not burn her skin. Mr. White had a heavy breath after he chugged down the last third of the milk, but he never broke eye contact. “He knows,” she said. Mr. White maintained the staring contest, a dry layer of milk forming around his lips and in his graying facial hair. His bloodshot eyes were locked in place. She spoke again. “Don’t lie to yourself, White” she said, in her sweet and velvety voice. It dripped like golden honey which was freshly scraped from the comb right into Mr. White’s ears. Mr. White’s brow closed in tightly and the wrinkles turned white from pressure. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled. “Oh, I do!” said she in return, lightheartedly, “That fat man figured you out!” Mr. White once again found himself among that mist of confusion, under which he was suffering only hours ago. She was in his head, after all. She had seen all that he had; she had also always been admittedly more intelligent. Perhaps she had picked up on some subtleties that he was oblivious to? He gave in. “Oh, God!” he exclaimed. “He does know, doesn’t he?!” he continued. “Yes, White”, she spoke like a mother who had her child caught in an I-told-you-so situation. “I knew there was something off about that,” he hesitated, “that fat bastard, Mr. Happy!” “Yes, yes, you’re right!” she said to reassure him. Mr. White broke into tears. Once again, she used her luscious voice to seduce him. “You know what we have to do, don’t you, White? You don’t want that pig to squeal, do you? I think you need to silence him. Wouldn’t you agree?” Her voice suddenly became dark and malicious. The car grew dark and he lost himself even further in the mist. He was a man stuck at the end of his own leash. Mr. White’s tears slowly came to a halt and he gazed once more to the backseat. He admired her form. The way her sharp edges transitioned into smooth plateaus of cold metal. He whispered out her name to himself. His eyes made their way to the trigger, naturally his favorite part of her body. When he squeezed her there and felt the rush of the shot, they were the most intimate and he found himself craving the intimacy. “Yes,” she returned to her chipper and positive tone of voice and chuckled. “You know I love it when you look at me like that, White,” she said, seductively. “Won’t you squeeze me just once more? He’s going to tell someone what you did!” He will, thought White. She is right! She had always known better. Mr. White resolved to use her again, it had proven quite effective just a few hours ago, in the dark of the early morning. He grabbed her from the backseat. He hesitated a moment before he opened the door of his car. “Oh, yes, White!” she exclaimed to him, “It will feel so good!” She knew his weaknesses. She had control of the leash, and he was going exactly where she wanted him to. Mr. White stepped out of his rusted, old car and walked slowly back to the doughnut shop. He took short strides and focused his senses on her. The way she felt in his hand was so exhilarating. He wrapped his hand around the handle and his index finger around her trigger. He felt how eager she was as well. Mr. White concealed his beloved, as to not immediately startle the fat and jolly man behind the counter. He stood in front of the doorway and looked into his reflection. His eyes, dyed a deep pink from sleep loss, stared directly back at themselves. He focused his eyes away from the pestering reflection to what stood behind the pane of glass. The fat and jolly man behind the counter had not moved. In fact, he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Mr. White held her tightly behind the safety of his jacket and opened the door. He was welcomed by the ring of a bell and the wide smile of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. This time, however, he noticed the rosy cheeks and the short, grey strands of hair. He noticed the way he bumbled about behind the counter trying to look occupied, despite the unfortunate lack of business. He noticed the humanity of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “My, my! Have you forgotten something? Did I give you the wrong change? Or have you just come back for another dozen?” He chuckled loudly at his own joke. Mr. White, merely a man whose threads had frayed quite a bit too much, resolved to remain quiet and simply stare at the fat and jolly man behind the counter. “Do it, White,” she whispered to him impatiently. Mr. White began to shake and shiver. “Son, are you feeling alright?” asked the fat and jolly man behind the counter. Once again, his question remained unanswered. The room was still, almost even at peace. The rays of the morning sun sparkled golds and silvers in the dust of the air. The window towards the ceiling was open, allowing a comfortable draft to trickle its way in. The black and white checkered floor was absent of any unpleasantries, just as the counter from which the jolly and fat man stood behind. “He knows, remember?” Oh, how it pained him. It pained Mr. White so to hear her voice, which was beautiful and elegant. Just how he had remembered it. “You don’t want him to tell anyone what you did to me, do you, White?” Mr. White teared up and clenched his bottom lip with his upper jaw. “Sir, do you need my help?” asked the fat and jolly man desperately. “Do it, White. Silence the pig!” She sounded so wonderful, the way she yelled. Familiar. “Yes, my dearest,” whispered Mr. White aloud. Mr. White pulled out his beloved and showed her to the fat and jolly man behind the counter, proudly. The fat and jolly man behind the counter tensed up, barely able to comprehend the situation. He raised his two hands in the air, a beg of mercy. “Don’t you see, Mr. Happy?” said Mr. White, fighting the tears and sobs, “I’ve got to do it! You won’t tell anyone what I did to Mrs. White!” Mr. White laid out three clean shots into the upper body of the fat and jolly man behind the counter. His body fell to ground with a very loud thump, followed by pool of crimson. Mr. White, satisfied, turned and walked himself out of the door, stepped into his car and felt the burning of the polyester on his skin, and wept.


Hello short stories, This comes from a strange musing I got. Just a forewarning it has some violence, but it really has no deeper meaning. There is no political metaphor or any kind of symbolism it's just something weird that popped up in my head and I had to write it down. I hope it. . .intrigues you. All was silent, all was dark in the pitch black room. For almost thirty minutes the valued employee waited until a single metal door swung open and slammed onto the wall upon which it was fixed. The open frame painted one lone ray of light on the floor. Then footsteps, like a raucous cacophony of hail, flooded the hallway leading to the room. Man after man poured through the door, each one a mirror image of the other. They were all dressed in black suits and ties, pressed and fitted, with a striped tie and black coiffed hair. A keen eye would immediately mark them all as salary men, seemingly taken from your pick of any mid twentieth century ad campaign. Their fine dress and well shaven faces would place them somewhere directly in the rank and file of the army of American middle management. Each one had the endearing, grinning smile of a high caliber salesperson or politician. They all ran, one behind the other, in a line with a gait that was more like a hectic scurry than a dignified march. As they came into the room they turned their heads to stare directly at where the employee was sitting, alone and barely visible, in the darkness. The line stopped moving before turning to face him, each man shoulder to shoulder. In the hands of every man was a solid hickory billy club, painted black, and grasped with such hateful force that the bones of their hands show through their skin. No sooner had the last man come through the door than did it shut with a deafening crash. What followed was, again, only silence and darkness. Several agonizing minutes passed and a single lightbulb flickered on in the center of the room, illuminating the cheerful and smiling faces of the line of more than thirty men. All was quiet until the echoes of hurried footsteps approached from the other side of the door. Once again the metal door flew open, as if kicked, and slammed full force into the painted cinder block wall with a deafening crash. The one man that entered looked the same as all the rest, except in his hands was a briefcase. Out of the case he pulled a piece of paper. His eyes darted over the paper as he silently read it with a cheerful and genuine smile. After reaching the end of the page he shoved it back into the briefcase, turned around and scurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Silence ensued for only a brief moment after the metal door slammed shut. Each of the thirty men, still grinning with charming and inviting smiles, then leapt forward without hesitation and began beating the valued employee to death. Rapid and powerful blows covered him in the frenzy as the sound of shattered bones could be heard one after the other with mechanical efficiency. The beating was carried out as quickly as possible as if being done on a timetable without a moment to lose. An unrecognizable lump of blood and flesh, contorted in all directions, was all that remained. Each of the men then hurriedly filed out of the room just as they had entered it and the door slammed behind them. The light went out and finally, once again, the room was filled with only silence and darkness.


February 7th, 2040. My name is Bryan and I’m writing this because I don’t know what's next. I found a blank journal and some pens so I decided to document this. I’m was always bad with remembering dates so if the dates are wrong, or weird, then I’m sorry. A week ago on January 29th they attacked. At first we thought they were human, our neighbors, coworkers, friends, family, celebrities. Then their leader came. Whatever they were emerged from their skin sacks and attacked everyone in sight. You know those theories where there's aliens living among us? Well that's what I think it is. It was my day off so I was inside. When I heard the news I locked all my doors and barricaded myself in the basement. I have enough food to last me maybe a few months if I can spread it out. March 5th, 2040 The power went out. Whatever they are keep trying to get in. I heard the front door breaking and now they're trying to get in the basement. The news says that the government is trying their best but you need to stay inside. I don’t think I can make it through a few more months. I remember my neighbor said that he had a bomb shelter made inside his basement. I can try to get through the tiny window in my basement and make it to his. But will he let me inside? Is he one of them? Please if anyone's reading this send help. March 17, 2040 They stopped trying to get in. I fear that if they try again my door won’t last. I packed a small bag with some cans, bottled water, clothes, flashlight, and some batteries. I’m gonna try to get out next week but if they pick up sooner than that I’m leaving then and there. March 19th, 2040 I saw one of them. They look like what people think werewolves look like, but with no skin. They’re tall, really tall. Hunched over. Pure white eyes. Long fingers and limbs. I can never unsee it. March 26th, 2040 More of them are here. Their changing. Now patches of skin are starting to form on them. I should have left sooner. I don’t think I can make it to my neighbors. April 4th, 2040 They’re moving. I think my town is just a rest stop for them. Their going somewhere big, I can feel it. During the day they sleep or are slower than usual. I’m gonna escape then. April 8th, 2040 I made it! He wasn’t there but I didn’t look around. He was very prepared with food for about a year (only for 1), bottled water, clothes, tubs filled with water, a backup generator, batteries, hanging lights, flashlights, books, pens, and much more! April 27th, 2040 Someone knocked on the door. It sounded like a woman, she asked if anyone was in there. I think she knows since that was a week ago and everyday she’s come back. She's getting desperate. I think she's one of them. April 30th, 2040 She left. I feel a little bad since she sounded so human. I wanted to try and go outside to explore but I think their still out there. May 6th, 2040 I heard something. The last time I heard something was when the woman was knocking. I think it's trying to get in. I need help, please. If anyone finds this help me. May 27th, 2040 My birthday was yesterday. I turned 21. I can now legally drink. Not like I haven't drank before. July 17th, 2040 Something tried to break in. I heard a chainsaw. Men yelling. Banging. Its starting to smell. July 27th, 2040 I found the smell. My neighbor had made a hidden room under the bed. He hung himself. I think I might follow him. August 12th, 2040 I found a letter. It was in front of the door. It wasn’t there before. Am I going insane? I don’t need help now, I need company. I’m gonna open the door. Only to throw out the body, the smell is almost life threatening. I’m gonna read the letter, I think? I don’t know. August 14th, 2040 I opened the letter. “Dear Bryan, happy birthday! I wanted to write to you sooner, but I never got the chance! You can come out now. The world is safe, the aliens are gone. I would love to officially meet you. Please you remember Cally’s Cafe on 4th? Well from 10-4 I hang out there! I hope to see! Sincerely, Lamien.” That fake. Totally fake. Who uses all those exclamation points? I’m not going. I’m still gonna open up the door to throw out my neighbors body. I’m gonna try and give him a proper funeral. I didn’t know him that well but hey! August 17th, 2040 I opened the door! I looks like a bomb happened. I guess that also helps my theory with how the letter was fake. I just realized a bomb probably did happen. Tomorrow I’m gonna give him a funeral, and bury him. August 18th, 2040 I buried him. I’d wanna say it took about a few hours just to dig the whole and cover it. Then 10 minutes to say some words. The whole time I felt like someone was watching me. I tried to go as fast as I could but if you’ve ever dug a grave after being in the same room for months then you can’t complain. I walked around a little more. There were still some buildings but mostly the bottom parts. My house is gone, along with everything that was in it. September 2nd, 2040 I think something got inside the bunker when I was burying the body. I hear scratching and some of my food is going missing. But I can’t leave! I don’t know what's out there. I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I’ll update you hopefully soon. September 10th, 2040 I found out what it was. It was a pretty big rat. But how did it survive? It seems friendly to me. I might keep it for some company. September 29th, 2040 You remember that room where my neighbor hung himself? Well I decided to do something with it. I don’t know what yet but I’m gonna do something, I’m really bored. I’ve read all of the books he had in here. November 15th, 2040 I’m hearing explosions, people screaming, and screeching. I think they're starting to come back. If so I’m not leaving or making any noise. The generator is dying, I don’t know how it works. November 21st, 2040 The generator is died. I’m only using the flashlights and the batteries for this and finding stuff in here. With the time I’ve spent in here I’m sure I won’t need the flashlights that much. I can’t find my little rat friend. It’s also starting to smell, I think he's dead. All the noises outside are still going on. December 14th, 2040 In case you're wondering my neighbor had a calendar in here so I’m trying to cross of the days but since I can’t see the daylight and my phone is not something I want to use, I’m mostly guessing. Most of the noises stopped I’m still hearing some screeching from time to time. December 25th, 2040 I think it's Christmas! My gift for myself you ask? Well I’m gonna find my dead rat friend. I did get another letter. “Dear Bryan, merry Christmas! I see you didn’t want to meet up. You probably thought it was fake didn’t you? Well it isn’t! No your not crazy. I hope you kept my last letter because I do still want to meet up with you at that same location! I do hope you come, it would be nice to officially meet you! Sincerely Lamien. P.S. I did see you burying your neighbor, how nice! ” How? How did they see me? I didn’t see anyone? I’m not going. I don’t even think the cafe is still there. January 6th, 2041 A new year! I did find my rat friend. I quickly threw him out, didn’t take time to bury him, I didn’t know him that well. January 10th, 2041 Someone is knocking. I don’t know who but I think it's the thing whos given me letters. January 13th, 2041 They started banging. I don’t think the door can handle it. January 29th, 2041 It's been a whole year since this alien thing started. The banging stopped, I’m glad, I got another letter. “You didn’t come, how sad. You also aren’t answering. I still would love to meet you, even with how rude you are.” It's different. They didn’t address me or add their name. February 7th, 2041 The banging started again after January 29th. I think I’m gonna open the door. You know humans, curious creatures. Well you know what they say, “Curiosity killed the cat.”


I just saw my reflection blink. It’s happened regularly, every so often, ever since I can remember. I smile back at my face in the mirror and continue combing my long, grey hair. It comforts me, especially on days when I’m feeling sad or alone or ugly or useless. That little blink. It’s gotten me through times of stress, through job changes and continental moves, through sickness and health. It got me through my father’s death and then again through my mother’s. It got me through my worst days and it lauded me through my best. I gaze longingly into those eyes that stare back from my reflection, those ones that are on my face but that are not my own. Shimmering and clear. They’re more gold today. Sometimes they’re green, sometimes more hazel, the little flecks of color moving with the morning sun, morphing with afternoon light, never the same color -- never the exact, precise same color -- twice. I like that about them; it makes me feel like I’m always learning about them. About him. Others don’t see these eyes when they look at me. They see my eyes, whatever those may be. Blue or brown or maybe purple, I don’t really care to know. After all, we don’t get lost in our own eyes. We aren’t soothed by our own gaze, aren't inspired by our own look. I’m inspired by his though. I wonder if he’s out there walking around with those gold, sometimes green, sometimes hazel eyes and looking in the mirror at my blue or brown or maybe purple eyes. Calmed when they blink in his reflection. Stirred when they look back at him in a way slightly ajar from how he’s looking with his own eyes, the eyes I see looking back in my reflection. I saw him once, a long time ago. Before wrinkles outlined my face and sunspots dotted my hands, I saw those eyes that I see in mirrors and glass doors and clear lakes, I saw those eyes without any reflection. It was only for a second, for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it instant, in between subway stops at rush hour. I was standing on the train, tired and halfway-through a cold my coworker had given me, my fingers lazily holding onto the hand strap, no thoughts in my mind but of my warm bed and hot soup. I stared idly ahead of me, at the plexiglass subway doors across from me, and gazed at my reflection there. His eyes were more green that night, in the dank underground light. They squinted up ever so slightly, as if with a smile, and my runny nose felt a little bit better, my face relaxed. The subway stopped, and the train doors slid open; my reflection slid away too but the eyes remained. It took me too long to realize. I’ll always blame that coworker for getting me sick, for slogging my reactions in that moment. It took me too long to realize that the face around those now-green-in-the-dank-underground-light was not mine but his. It must have taken him too long to realize too. Because just before the doors kissed close again, I saw him jerk forward with a sudden understanding. I jerked forward too, but it was too late. The doors sealed, and the train jerked forward too. I’ve looked for him since. Searched commuters’ faces and expressions on pedestrians. But how often do you pass the same stranger twice? And how luckily often do you notice when you do? I think that was our chance, that was our illustrious moment on that tired night in the underground, and I don’t think we’ll get another one. We were blessed to have one kismet flash; who are we to deserve another? I used to think it sad. I used to curse fate and denounce its teasing tendrils. I grieved a love I lost without having. But then I glanced the mirror, and I saw my reflection blink. I never lost anything. I’ll never know my soulmate’s name, or his job, or what he likes or dislikes. I’ll never know his mannerisms or the little things that get on his nerves or if he takes his coffee black or sweet. But I know his eyes. Those ever-changing, ever-shimmering green and gold and hazel eyes that give me more than a name ever could.


Last night, I got drunk. It was the first time I had ever done that, and I could feel the burning of the cheap bourbon I had stolen from a shop that same day sliding down my throat, drop by drop. It hurt a lot at first, but then the burning became... pleasant, and it made my body feel warm on that harsh winter night. They had told me before that drinking was harmful, and that I should steer clear of drugs such as alcohol, especially being only seventeen. Fuck them. They probably don't know how amazing it feels to have a drink after a rough day... or a rough week... or, in my case, a rough seventeen years. Or maybe they do. But I don't care. I downed that entire bottle of $10 bourbon and I could feel my mind going away, as well as the warm feeling after a couple... hours? Minutes? I can't be sure. However, I can, yes, be sure that that was the first night I forgot who I was. Laying down on my bed, looking at the ceiling, completely wasted, I started to feel something remarkable, dare I say, glorious. It felt like flying or having a vivid dream... something I could barely recall. Was that the feeling of the highly sought-after happiness everyone longed for? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing is certain, though: after having a painful hangover this morning, my body needs more of that feeling. That feeling of what I believe is happiness. That feeling makes it all seem bearable. That feeling makes it all seem forgettable. It makes it all seem fine. And I need things to be fine.