It’s been a few weeks since I told the world about my experience in the school. I’ve done many things since then. I grew up, obviously, and I’ve become a horse rancher. Despite my looks, I managed to find a romantic partner too. She was beautiful in every way, and god was she smart... Anyway, it was a normal night 2 nights ago. Me and my wife sat on the porch watching our kids play, it was 8 at night but, since we were on our land and in the middle of nowhere, we weren’t disturbing anyone. We told them they had 10 minutes before they had to take a shower, and 9 minutes later they said they wanted to take a family picture because the stars looked pretty and they thought it would be a good background. I knew this wasn’t true, they weren’t slick, they knew their mom was a photo perfectionist and they would be out for another 10 minutes at the least. But after the first photo, her eyes went wide, she yelled at us to get inside, I thought she just realized what they were doing but she seemed very distressed for something as small as that. The kids went to brush their teeth and she grabbed me by the shoulder before I could follow them. “There’s something out there” “There’s a lot of things out there.” “No, something large, and most likely dangerous.” “I doubt that. The property is fenced in, you know.” Then she showed me the photo she took... And she was right, there was something behind us, all you could see was the glare of its eyes from the camera flash. I told her it was probably a bear but we both knew I didn’t think that, it was too big, and the glare of the eyes were *red*. I propped up a chair against the door, I didn’t think it would do too much against something as large as the thing in the picture. We managed to get the kids to sleep before they realized something was wrong, then we went down to the kitchen and looked at the picture again. Then *we heard it.* I grabbed our shotgun, although I had never shot at something in self defense before, had my wife be ready to open and close the door real quick, and calmed my nerves. I told her to open the door, she opened and I shot 5 times. She closed it after I stopped and immediately put the chair back. I knew I had hit it at least once or twice. I looked out the window, thinking it would be lying there, dying. But it was gone, and then I made the mistake of turning the exterior flood lights on. 8 of them, whatever they were, right outside my house. I looked for about 4 seconds before turning the lights off and slamming the curtains shut. These things weren’t animals that I had ever seen, but they closely resembled wolves, but even larger. They had dark gray fur with a black mane and snow white paws, cute. They were at least 10 feet long, but then there was the head, oh god, the head. They seemed like they were smiling almost, the corners of their mouth reaching back to their ears, teeth and bare jaws showing the entire way. I made a mistake. I alerted them, they were all going to attack now. I sprinted to the garage to get boards, to cover the windows and doors. I covered the downstairs first, and then the upstairs. I thought that if I could barricade them out, we could wait till help arrived. I called 911 once I had finished boarding up all the windows and doors, but there wasn’t any service. The water also cut, so we couldn’t wait it out forever now. Things were quiet for a good while, and then the crying started. Not the kids, but the creatures. It wasn’t crying like a dog, but like a human, it got louder and louder, eventually turning to a wail. By the time it stopped getting louder, it was a sound that wasn’t describable in one word. It sent chills down my spine and made my blood curdle, the kids were awake now. They had been for a while, ever since I shot that gun. And they were terrified, everyone was. The howling stopped, but silence didn’t come either. Scratching, the entire house was filled with the sound of scratching at the windows and doors. All of us went silent to try to find where they were scratching at so we could move away. But it seemed equally loud everywhere we went. So we just took shelter in the middle of the second floor. I had an idea, maybe, just maybe if we were fast enough we could run to the truck and peel out of there. I whispered the idea to my wife, she didn’t like it but agreed it was our best chance. It was 11PM by now, we didn’t know how fast they were, but we agreed that it was better than sitting here and waiting to die. I peeked out the curtain near the front door despite my best judgment. There was a small crack in between the boards I put up, but it was large enough to see there were no creatures on the porch. We ran right behind the kids, the kids had gotten in the truck. I had gotten in the driver’s seat. But by the time my wife was running around the front *it was too late*... The creatures were here, she got swept up by one of them right after she screamed at me to drive away with the kids. I knew I couldn’t do anything, I put the pedal to the metal and shot down the small driveway that led to the highway. They were howling again, but it started as that impossibly loud wailing that we had heard before, and it was getting louder. I looked in the rearview to see the monsters right behind me. I didn’t get to see their eyes at the house, but the eyes were the worst, they were dark mahogany eyes, with bright white pupils, I could never forget them. It’s almost as if they burned into your soul when you see them. I was almost to the main road, I had been driving for what felt like years away from these things. Then the howling stopped and something else began. A calling, for help. *“Jeremy! Help! PLEASE, Jeremy!”* An extremely scratchy voice and inhumanly loud. It almost sounded like my wife, but just a little off. *It* had eaten my wife though. And then I realized the horrible truth, *it was using my wife’s voice*. I got to the main road, and beelined to the city. I didn’t stop speeding until I saw another vehicle and the sound had completely stopped. Once we were in the city, I drove to my Mom’s house, and tried to tell her what happened. The kids were too shocked to even cry about their mother’s death. I couldn’t form a full sentence without having to take a breath because of the hyperventilation I had been experiencing. The next morning, the kids had slept very little, at least they had slept. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the horrible calls of the monster, using my wife’s voice to lure me back to the evil thing. The burning eyes, the never ending smile that they always held, it was all fresh in my mind. My mom called the cops, and they investigated the property. *Nothing was found*. I don’t mean evidence of the creatures, or my wife getting ripped apart. But anything at all. According to their reports, the road was overgrown with brush and other plant life. When they finally got to where the house should’ve been, they found a pile of rotting wood and nothing else. No tire marks, no pawprints, no anything. It was like the property had been launched 100 years in the future and no one went there in that time. If anyone remembers attending a party or something of the lines at 71098 Lakes Drive, please. Tell me. No one seems to remember being at that house except for me and my kids, even my mom says I never lived in the country and have always lived with her. No one will listen, no matter what I say to them. I wrote this record just in case I don’t get to verbally retell this story. Why wouldn’t I be able to verbally tell the story again? You ask. *Because I can hear them again.


I open my eyes and I see an all too familiar sight. My white padded room with one light bulb hanging above. My legs are broken and cast while they hang above me. I have been sick in my mind for a very long time, but today is a new day. To my left are monitors that read my vitals and currently indicate that I am physically stable. To my right is a plastic cup of water and two pieces of bread on a padded table. I’m too dazed to eat, I feel as if I have awoken from an eternal sleep as the things around me feel like the things in my head. I have been in this room for what feels like several lifetimes, but I know the real prison is my own self, containing the evils that have plagued me like all illness all the time. I have a feeling however that forever ends today. The doctor entered my room and informed me that my casts are ready to be removed on my legs, the reason for them being there still remains a mystery to me. I take my meal and eat while several male nurses in protective gear come to remove the casts, those who weren't cutting had tranquilizers at the ready. While confused, I continued to eat and soon enough the casts were off and the nurses were gone. I stare at my bare legs and see whole patches of yellow skin that was once blue and swollen now healed from whatever destroyed them. The doctor comes in again with an armored assistant and asks if I am interested in a new experimental medication that has the possibility of curing the hell in my head. He says we can start today, and hands me the bottle and leaves. I take two with no water. Five minutes. Nothing. Two more. Ten minutes. Nothing. \*two more\* I am alone in the room and yet I hear many voices. \*take two more\*. I hear it again telling me, begging me. Maybe just two more. I do as it tells me. The walls around are melting, yes they're melting to the floor. What reality is this? \*take it all\*. What will become of me? \*you will become what man was, is, and always will be...an animal. true terror that no god has ever seen, for you will become the god that all vulgar creatures will bow. we are the serpent, this pill is your apple, and you are getting hungry.\* My hand moves not by my doing, but by whatever thing foul or fair above me. I do as I am told. My vision turns a shade bloody red, and my eyes are truly open! There it is, I see it! Never has evil been shivered so much in fear at what I see in front of me. \*you are the black goat, the one sent by worldly powers to tear this world in two by your claws. all flesh will fall at the sight of you and no kingdom of this world will overcome the rage you unleash upon it. with your mighty horns may you rip the world apart until they are reduced to bare nubs, may you consume until you are left to gum what is left, may your screams be heard until you are reduced to aching whispers, and may you march in darkness until you are left to slither on the world that remains.\* I shall. I take the single light bulb that hangs above and shatter it on the ground. In darkness I screamed until a curious nurse came to inspect. He enters slowly and calls my name. I ambush him from behind the door and slash his throat with the glass. So brutal and so swift was my hand that his last words were left to mere sounds of wind. I close the door to mask the unholy preparations I make for my rampage. The guards notice the trail of blood leading to my room and prepare to breach. They enter and are left in a nauseous confusion as my once white room now a maroon confinement stands shockingly before them. \*now\* I pounce from above and sink my claws into the chest of the strongest man there who fell to my feet...heartless. I take the two on my left by their legs and use them to smash the four on my right. I pummel them all until there is no solid left as I crush the heads of the weaklings fallen at my feet in violent strength. One remains and he stands at the end of the room. I stand stronger, a beast no longer man, covered in fur once black now a deep crimson and I move toward him. The man takes his weapon aimed at me as he shakes at the sight of otherworldly fear. Whatever torture I would have brought upon him will remain unknown as the man turned the weapon on himself while I was only three steps close. \*now eat, for I have provided\* I shall. I exit the room and lay waste to all the poor souls who remained in my godless sight. Floor number one, floor number two, three, four, five, six. Six, six was the medication warehouse. I fill a bag with as many bottles as it can hold. I retreated to my room as advised by the morning star. He instructed me to commit evil so heinous that no one man could destroy it, and to be the bridge between evil of this world and the next. I climb to the top of the asylum and already I see the waves of soldiers entering the gates and at the mere sight of me some begin to cry. The thought of God was unthinkable in a time like this. They assume position below me as I stand mighty above them. I go to take my final bites of the life giving bits of the darkness below, but on the bottle I notice it peeling. I remove the false label and read “sugar pills”. I have been in a constant battle with my inner and outer self, and this was the excuse it needed to escape. I knew that my time was up and the voices in my head became muffled as my mind raced toward the end. I decided that no hand will take me other than my own. So I look over the edge of the roof and see my inevitable doom. I close my eyes and take a step. \*your doing is now undone, but darkness remains forever. rest now for your time is over, in my cold arms may you suffer for all time. wake again as i cast you back to earth just as i was, and may you continue this pain for as long as pain can be felt\* I shall. Evil was the cold hand that gave me the strength to escape my own self, but it cannot save me from this. I open my eyes and I see an all too familiar sight. My white padded room with one light bulb hanging above. My legs are broken and cast while they hang above me. I have been sick in my mind for a very long time, but today is a new day.


#Hello r/Shortstories! I’m back again to celebrate our third writer completing their serial on the . It has been a pleasure to be able to help inspire each of you week to week and provide a place for your writing to grow and evolve. And when one of you brings your story to a close, I am both sad to see the wonderful world end and proud of your accomplishment. This week, let's take a moment to say to u/EdsMusings for his completion of *The Twilight of Gods* on Serial Sunday.   ***   #The Twilight of Gods - Written by u/EdsMusings If you haven’t yet read his serial, set aside some time to check it out. You can find all the links below, as well as on his personal subreddit, . **A brief synopsis from Ed:** When the end of the world approaches, Lif, Thor and Loki have to confront their own fate. But when they start preparing for it, they realize their fates are not that far apart from each other. But how long can they delay the inevitable? And is it really the end of the world? - - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/EdsMusings about Serial Writing So, let’s take a few minutes to chat with Ed about his experiences writing a serial. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** I learned that I am capable of doing bigger projects and not immediately quitting. I think that mostly comes from the community. Each week, a lot of writers put hard work into their serial. And that idea gives you the push to do the same. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** Twilight of Gods is very much based on mythology. Like, if you'd read the Volùspa, the text I based it on, you'd see a lot of similarities. The thing I enjoyed most was trying to come up with ways to twist around the mythology. And I think that can be seen mostly in how I wrote Loki. He's more unhinged and has kind of lost that sly cunningness that's so typical for him, although you still kind of see it in some chapters. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** Like I said, having to write weekly was something I wasn't really looking forward to. It got hard to put writing in my quite packed schedule and that made me stress quite a bit when I had delayed the writing until 2 hours before campfire began. I allowed myself some leeway later on by not forcing myself to write every week. Sometimes, it was just because I couldn't find a fitting story for the theme, and sometimes, I just had a hard time writing. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** I'd probably spam the gif of Shia Labeouf yelling "do it!" until they're convinced. But in all seriousness, it's a leap of faith. You gotta believe that it's gonna work out 'cause I can assure you, when you take that leap, there will be people down there who will catch you.   ***   #Thanks! Ed, thank you for taking the time to share a bit about your experience. I love seeing how each writer’s journey differs, and absorbing the knowledge they have to share with us. This is a wonderful place to improve and grow, as well as meet some awesome people. I wish you the best of luck on your future writing endeavors. Maybe we’ll see you around Serial Sunday again! Until then, have .   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Lin woke up one early ́morn, and saw the sun hit the window with a glowing glare. A brilliant tone of light from the spheres above. And this glare, this very gaze, the eye from the window was a silly salute to the dawn. A poetic heritage this Midsummer day. Lin turned around in bed, still sleepy. Still not wanting the day to chase her to yet another work. No, she was not a workaholic. As a matter of fact her work at Samhall, a state-owned company, was a place for handicapped people. Handicapped both physically and mentally. But the sun gave no care of sickness or of disease. Lin turned around yet in another clumsy manner. Her body did not want to go to work. Very well. But the sun sneaked behind the curtain and made her feel the relief of light itself, as she saw the twinkling rainbow drips on the dew from the window. Glittering all over the place. Colours of the radiant sun that talked about the new day ́s beginning. Oh how she wished she could explain what a sun could do. It gave summer a new fresh start. A season with its own values. No, she was certainly not a workaholic at Samhall, although she could handle all paperwork with a shift hand. And that was just about it. She stretched out like a cat. Legs between sheets. Sheets that became whiter from the hitting light of the sun... Finally she got up. Took a shower. Brushed her teeth. Rituals of the dawn. Rituals as old as that. Rituals that were so common she paid no notice of them anylonger. But the sun was determined to wake her up, it was stubborn about getting the new day into order and balance. The balancing point of the solstice. She slowly got her sleepy mind to think it over. The balancing point made a cross on heaven. Four different point on the spheres above that made Midsummer ́s feast a ritual when queens had to make friends with the thralls during the Viking era. And the thrall women could make love with the king so that nine months later brave warriors were born into all families. Although odd enogh, Lin hated war, but still liked to drink a cup of vodka. The cup for an old tradition. Also she hated to dance like the frogs. Cause frogs, when kissed at the nights of Midsummer could turn out to be princes. Oh how she hated the very idea of meeting some handsome young prince , who would give her - of his status? A highborn boy would give her - what the heck? ! Silly tradition just because of solstice ́s balancing order of the sun ́s wheel on heaven. Grrr, no more f-cks to give! No more love if warriors of the clan came to kill her best friends. Grrr. The sun ́s wheel of heaven! Such a silly joke! Herring and vodka! Silly, nothing else than silly. But? How about getting dressed for work. Samhall here she comes. Clad in colours of the rainbow... She took the bus. The sun rose higher, hitting the buildings with its glare. Its one eye touched upon the whole city to make everybody wake up. And lots of them did. Children were not at school. Some people still went to work. Lin one among them. At work her spiritual friend had already arrived. Now he sat down at the desk, in front of piled up paperwork. He was on a strike of his own, as usual. The dawn had no reason to let out his spirit if it was about work. He thought the job mean. He refused to do the work. He asked Lin if they could go out to smoke a cigarette or two. They did so. Sat down on two garden-chairs. Sat there gazing up at the sun. The company was gonna give them a Midsummer ́s plate of herring that day, because they could be worth it. And handing over a present for the workers vacation. Something Lin did not need. Anyhow. Lin had no Midsummer feelings. Did not know how to have them. Had been a bit lonely in her youth. Not knowing two many people. So she said to herself that because of that tradition of drinking the hell out of themselves, she could not care less. Did not like to drink anymore. Herring she could eat. Nice food. At dinner time the catering firm came around with the workers plate of food. Coffee and cake afterwards. They sat indoors. The sun smiled through the windows in that huge hall. Lin could pretend it was their own Viking hall. Loads of space. And the same kind of tradition with jokes about sex. Viking tradition, see. And that lonely lovely spirit of sacrifice to the nature. Must be from a heathen tradition. In her dream-world Lin saw horses hanging from the tree of Mankind. The pigs slaughtered to give food to the highest god, Oden. Oden must have been connected to the highest spirit, although Balder was more Christ-like and kind and mild. He was to become Man ́s sacrifice because of death. The nature mourned his funeral. Where was his spirit now? Inside the sun? Sun smiling gently, harsh but gently. Like a touch from the high worlds of folklore. How about it, Lin? But Lin had began to ride her inner stream of consciousness, like riding on the thread of weaving web of the nornes. Those Female spirit who cared about Mankind ́s destiny. Weaving a web of life. And like death could tear apart the web of future if they did not pay tribute to the gods. That meant that the web of death needed to sacrifice animals. Or Jesus Christ? Or Oden himself? Or Balder? Lin took a piece of herring in to her mouth. Chewed on it. Drank some lemonade. Had her coffee afterwards. Her friend of spirit was sort of nagging with a work-mate. Was sort of in love with Lin. And she had told him about the wheel of the sun. And about her poetry. That the highest god, Oden, wanted men to become warriors and tradesmen, and gave the duty of spirit to the priestess. She had to know about the ceremony of Midsummer. Although it was silly. She wanted to escape it. Wanted to go with another fresh start. From where? The new cross of a new solstice beginning? A new Messias? Where from? Where to? And as the sun stood high on the middle of heaven ́s round each corner of the wheel shaped a cross. The cross of the solstice circle. Circling round and round in eternal dance from the past in to the future. The web of life was shaped by the sun, the planets and the moon. And as the herring on Lin ́s plate was uneaten but still fresh she thought that everything was now back to order. The full circle should end in another cycle of six months. Midsummer was in opposition to Christmas day. Two points of the sun ́s wheel. Only a priestess of the Vikings was allowed by Oden to wake up the spirit of - secrets? As the hall finished their plates and coffee and their cakes the music began. Traditional Swedish songs. Folklore that began to fall into distrust because they were thought of being too commercial nowadays. Lin smiled. Commercial? As the sun would care about it? But then again, the tradesmen of the Vikings had been on routes all over Europe. Where the tradition of Midsummer came from had to do with the sun. And the sun was all over the planet to bring light, love and unity. The one and only. Weaving weaving weaving the web of rays...over and over again! And at a second thought Lin came back to an old conclusion. She did care about the heathen tradition. And had heard that Jesus Christ was taking on the burden of the four solstices...Maybe, perhaps...and then the son was webbed into the sun...


THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR READING AND ANY FEEDBACK. Edit: I couldn’t find a list explaining abbreviations in brackets. I made a guess FN meant fiction. This is not a fantasy story. Or is it?/r/ Across from our fourth-floor unit is our one-legged neighbor on his balcony, perched by a small black metal grill. I don’t know his name, so I will call him Bob. With a yellowed and weathered crutch, he pivots from one side of the covered cement to the other. The lower-middle class backyard. His blonde, hay-like hair receding from his frameless glasses. Eyes as blue as the paint of the community pool below our units. He yells to someone inside, “Hey, Rocket, can you grab me the salt?” Moments later and without a word, a pale arm reaches out of the apartment with a salt shaker. “Thanks”. Slouched on a puffy cushion atop a wicker chair, shoulders forward over parted knees, I watch Bob to my right from my own cement slice of fresh air, iPhone in hand. My unshowered black hair falls as clumps in front of my eyes, like thick palm tree leaves frame waves at the beach. I pound invisible keystrokes into Google search. “Can employers access your private accounts when they run a social media check?” “What makes you fail a background check?” “What is sexually inappropriate content?” “Rocket, can you find the sesame oil for the salmon?” I see Bob hold the frame of the balcony door as he leans his head into his apartment. A train goes by down the too-close tracks. A hand appears to pass a dark bottle. “Thanks, Rocket.” Eyes back to iPhone. Search results provide little comfort when the motivation to look is anxiety. Never once have I Google’d a concern better queried to professionals and thought, I’m going to feel better after this. And that is not because Google is designed to terrify, but because I will hone in on the worst possible search result, the one that justifies my worry. “OK,” I turn to Graham through the open balcony door to my left, “apparently employers can’t use anything posted over seven years.” Some simple mental math. “Oh, that’s just perfect. I was the worst from 2013 to 2015. I’m going to be unemployed. No one will understand and I won’t have a job.” I lean against the black metal railing, the sharp edges cut into my tanned skin. Bob brushes sesame oil against a dead fish. A siren blares from the center of town, is carried through the thick July air and, saturated by it, arrives warbled and dull. The pond beyond the train tracks is slime green with algae. Entire ecosystems layered like birthday cake. Humanity a fork that hunts the sugary cream cheese frosting jackpot, that scrapes the carrot cake structure to the edge of the plate, just a pile of crumbs. A husband might be expected to calm his wife as she spirals, but not after she has gone down the same rabbit hole four times the same day, the same hour. An endless echo of doubt that results in a cacophony of catastrophe. Graham is inside on the couch. His limber legs, one over the other. His eyes widen and his thumb pulls the news up, up into the ether on his Android. His exhale a sigh that says, “Whatever I say right now is going to be fuel to some fire that burns inside your head that was set a long, long time ago, that you refuse to extinguish, that my love and support cannot extinguish, that you walk into when bored and that you blame for the blisters on your feet.” I stare at him. Wearing a Manchester United shirt, his black beauty marks scattered like a series of volcanic islands across his pale skin. Thick black eyebrows a bird in flight, eyes so big eyelashes so long. His long fingers bony. “Graham, I’m freaking out.” His long neck bends back, eyes toward the ceiling, back of his head rests on the grey fabric couch. He looks at me from the bottom of his eyes. I jump as if an idea has landed in my lap. And it has. A glorious new idea! One more vein to pump poison into until it collapses. “I’m calling them.” I bring the phone up to my ear. “You are calling who?” “A background check agency. One of the ones that has published most articles on why it’s so important employers scrutinize not just quality of experience, but quality of character.” “What are you going to ask them?” I’ll ask them to pacify the malignant worry. Code the neural network inside my head with inputs that process information without bias and outputs that don’t derange my environment. All information is new information. All information is new information. All information is new information. My eyes follow the sound of metal on concrete. “Shit.” Bob balances on one leg, his right hand holds the railing, he does yoga. Downward bending war veteran. “Rocket, I dropped the knife.” Bob grunts. He has the sullied knife in hand and hops toward a chair to sit. A lone breeze hits us both, and the obese summer air is lifted. “Rocket? Rocket can you come here?” Bob looks defeated, the tip of the knife about to touch the floor again, barely held between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Del, what are you going to ask these people when you call?” The breeze seemed to mute all other things. The train that had been inches away from view, a journey that would take it east across my line of sight, faded to silence before it could mimic the roar of a plane. The road behind the other side of the building, the side that completed the “U” shape of our complex, the chalice, holding the pool as a sacred serum which we sat around like pilgrims and worshiped the sun, made no sound. I could not close my eyes and trace the path of commuters. The children below, silent film actors. The water that splashed as they kicked and flailed, stage decoration in a vacuum. “Rocket, can you please come HERE.” Rocket is Bob’s wife, maybe. But whatever he is, he is not her first long-term partner. There is a 12ish year-old boy that comes around, her son. He spends his time there watching Bob barbeque spiced and marinated dead things. Bob prefers books to a Kindle, a landline to a mobile phone, a drive to Target with his metal leg installed over Amazon. The son likes video games and Bob will spend the time it takes to roast ribs at war with the idea. Bob does not care if childhood is now defined by continuous immersion in alternate, false realities. He does not preach children should be grateful for grass and both legs to run along it. Bob spends the time it takes to roast ribs to impart his hate for the seclusion modern convenience enforces on us all. “You just sit on your ass buying things from The Steam instead of walking yourself down to The Gamestop.” This always followed by some version of, “go tell your Mother to get me...” Graham places his phone in his lap and leans toward me. “Del.” And what about Rocket? I think of their apartment, where Rocket sits for the brief moments she is allowed. Before she is summoned to provide the next needed thing. The unit line they have is two-bedroom. Does she escape to the corner farthest from the balcony? I imagine she has a lone chair just at that spot. She placed a basket next to her chair and filled it with skeins of yarn - a color for every time a stitch has been interrupted - that she added basket after basket, so many baskets that her chair is a tomb. She has been knitting the same sock for years. “ROCKET!” “Del?” I shrug. My reflection in the sliding balcony door glass confronts me. Unplucked eyebrows an acute reminder of my priorities, the dirty glass unable to spare me the clarity. I click the hyperlinked phone number and dial across the continent to a 415-area code. My right foot taps a balcony covered in flecks of cigarette ash, fresh basil and parsley, flower petals, a Stella Artois bottle cap, things still present from the previous night’s storm and drink. Graham stares. I point to the phone and yell-whisper, “IT'S RINGING. IT'S GOING STRAIGHT TO A PERSON!” My nails are under my teeth and Graham’s mouth is agape, with a slight turn up at the right. He thinks I’m so funny, ha ha ha ha. “Hello? Hi. This is probably super weird but I was wondering if you could explain how your service works.” “I DROPPED THE KNIFE, ROCKET.” “No, I am a potential employee.” “...DROPPED IT ON THE FLOOR, ROCKET.” “I understand you don’t typically speak with job seekers but that doesn’t mean you can’t.” “I NEED THE OTHER CHEF’S KNIFE, ROCKET.” “Please. Just a few questions, nothing specific.” “ROCKET, I NEED YOU.” “...do you use some unavailable to the public software to view private or deactivated accounts?” “ROCKET, I NEED THE CHEF’S KNIFE.” “...but surely there’s a way around a private account. What about if I was @’d on Twitter?” “THE KNIFE IN THE DRAWER.” “...or a retweet of me saying something...” “THE KNIFE. IN THE DRAWER. ROCKET, I NEED THE KNIFE IN THE DRAWER BY THE OVEN.” “...so to confirm, you can only report back on publicly shared, active content...” “DAMNIT, ROCKET. I HAVE ONE FUCKING LEG.” I end the call and turn to Graham whose eyes are on Bob as he disappears inside his apartment. “You know who doesn’t have to worry about passing a social media check? The President.” Graham looks at me. “You don’t have to worry either. You think too much.” Too much? What if the world were to fall apart and no one looked at each moment with the scrutiny required to see it coming? All a bunch of somethings ending in ruin. My constant rationalization for being abso-fucking-lutely consumed by anything that could, potentially, if- looked-at-this-way, end in crisis. “I hate that ever even had a Twitter account.” “We met on Twitter.” “But what if I fail this background check?” “You won’t.” “But what if I do?” “Not going to happen.” “You can’t know that for certain.” “No, I can’t know every possible outcome of everything you worry about.” “See, it might happen.” Graham’s eyes close and his jaw clenches. I stand up and stomp into the apartment. I make a show of getting a beer out of the fridge. I yank open a drawer and bang things about, grab the bottle opener. From a posture of exasperation, Graham says, “It’s 10am.” “Well, you’re not helping.” “There is nothing to help with. All this panic and things will be fine.” But it doesn’t matter. I am faced with the unknown. I am vulnerable. I took a risk to get myself a job out of the city, the mania, the 12 hours days and two hour commute; to start a life that I want. That allows me to be with him. Be present. I stand with the cold beer in my hands, in the tiny kitchen. I drink the beer to leave reality and not be present. The old appliances left by the previous owner, the dishwasher we have to replace. I tip the bottle to my lips. Again. And again. Because I am not in my kitchen, I am lost in my mind, on a strip of land just shy of the rocky shore. I stand here every day and watch the blue ocean be pulled forward and away by the moon above me. I watch the water crash and chip away, and the strip of land gets a little narrower, the shore a bit farther. My thoughts fall about me as messages in a million bottles, every honest need for help lost in the waves. I don’t know how to get to land, how to feel safe. The days unfold and an email arrives while I stand on the balcony, American Spirit cigarette at my lips. I have passed all of the background checks. Before I give Graham a chance to hold me and say, “See, all is well,” I have permits, hard hats, and a crew at work to construct my next labyrinth of panic. Bob is at his grill, he yells inside for teriyaki sauce. Rocket is in her chair, as out of earshot as she can be.


I wondered if they knew. They looked so happy, like in that moment, they were infinite. I wondered if they knew it wouldn't last for very long. If they did, they didn’t show it. They reveled in the moment. They were okay that something was going on now. Noisy children, dogs and laughter. Human beings don’t fascinate me. At least they don’t anymore. We’re predictable creatures, all of the time. I knew how this was going to end. I was too blind to accept it. Flickering images. Memories I should let go of are the ones I cling to the most. Is it loneliness if you choose to be alone? Probably not. I’m choosing to be alone. I’m choosing to sit on this park bench and observe. I don’t observe because I’m fascinated. I observe because I want to see if the pattern changes. I wonder if they know happiness doesn’t last forever. If they do, they don’t show it. They’re so consumed by the now. Maybe they do, but they choose to be happy anyway. I want to smash the invisible walls I can’t see into oblivion. I want it to disappear. Sometimes I want to disappear, but this time I want it to. I think maybe today is the day for human interaction, to be fascinated again at the prospect of happiness, but then I think again, maybe it isn’t. The sun is shining brightly, way too brightly because it’ll be gone in approximately four hours and return the next day. It’s too bright for something so determined to disappear in the evening. When I was younger, I used to think it was beautiful watching the sun rise and set because I knew it would be there tomorrow. Now I feel tricked because it disappears and thinks it can show up the next day. It’s been 166 days since I had any proper form of human interaction. Maybe if I do the math, it’ll help. Maybe it’d be just another equation, except it isn’t. Approximately 5 and a half months since he left. 166 days since I ever felt so in love, never again. If only they knew love doesn’t last forever. If they do, they don’t show it. Couples are on picnics together, looking lovingly into each other’s eyes. Just by looking at them, I can tell which is a first date and which isn’t. The guy and the girl near the pond are on their first date. He’s shy, refuses to meet her eyes. I want to walk over there and tell him to look at her, that teenage girls like being looked at, but I don’t want to seem like a creep. Instead, my book is open in front of me just in case and I’m analyzing the situation in my head. The date probably won’t go well. I’m at least 85% sure. He’s way too nervous. She’s out of his league. They look like they’ve been best friends for a while. He’s way too deep in the friend zone to get out now. Maybe if he knew he was stuck there, he’d give up. Maybe he does know, and he decides to give it a try because if he doesn’t, he’ll never know. Beyond the gates of the park, pedestrians are crossing the street. People are bumping into each other, buying flowers and ice cream at different stands. It’s too hot for ice cream, it’ll melt and the flowers will wither in less than five days. They have to know that. Yet they buy it anyway. Maybe they don’t care. They get to enjoy the cold feeling of the ice cream on their tongues on a hot day and the delicate flowers in their hands before they disappear, so what does it matter if they get to enjoy it only for right now. Theo was right. You can be surrounded, but still feel alone. Working is important. It’s good to be successful definitely and to be accomplished, but what good is it when you have no one to share your accomplishments with? He told me I would drive myself insane, but he never left. He stayed. He stayed until 166 days ago. I want to be angry, but I’m not. I knew how it would end. I had prepared myself for the day he would leave, but clearly not enough. I notice everything, even the smallest detail, but I don’t notice that the bench creaks. I don’t smell his cologne. I don’t see his sneakers until I look down. “What are you writing?” he asks. He doesn’t ask my name. His question doesn’t make sense, yet he’s so focused on asking me this, he hasn’t bothered to ask my name first. I want to ask him if he’s stupid because I’m not holding a pen, it’s a novel. I don’t ask if he’s stupid because he seems so sure of his question. “Come again?” I ask him. “What are you writing in your mind?” he asks this time. He noticed me staring off into space. He noticed I wasn’t reading even though the pages were been flipped at the right time. It’s such a dumb way to ask a question. He easily could have asked, “What are you thinking about?” But if he had asked that way, I would have given a conventional answer. The conversation would have ended. I wouldn’t have been thinking about it so much. I wouldn’t have pyscho-analyzed the question the way I’m doing now. I don’t want him to know I’m fascinated. I don’t want him to know that I’m glad he noticed me. I don’t want him to know no one has since 166 days ago. I want him to be fascinated. I don’t answer the question. Instead, I ask one of my own. “Do you believe in love?” He notices I didn’t answer his question, but he says nothing. He just goes with it. He wants to make conversation. First attempt in 166 days. This isn’t looking too bad. “I believe in the idea of it. I don’t believe you end up with everyone you fall in love with. I definitely don’t believe it’s everything we think it is, but yes, I believe in it.” At anyone, I think I would have rolled my eyes. I almost don’t remember Theo while I’m speaking to him. It’s a breath of fresh air. I feel refreshed, almost. “Well, I don’t. I think we’re too selfish to know what genuine love is.” I do think that, at least most of the time. I’m not thinking it now, so I don’t know why I say it. The words hang in the air between us. I’m sure he thinks I’m a loon. I blew it. I expect him to get up and move somewhere far from me. He doesn’t. He laughs. I know he’s laughing, but I’m not paying attention to the sound. I know he’s laughing because I see his mouth moving. I see his eyes twinkle. It illuminates his entire face and I know he’s laughing at me, but I smile. It’s too contagious. “What about love at first sight?” he asks. He enjoys asking dumb questions, I’m sure of it. If I don’t believe in love, does he expect me to believe in that? “No,” I don’t believe in love at first sight. Maybe infatuation, but not love. You can’t love someone you know nothing about. “Good, I don’t either.” That shocks me slightly. I wanted him to have a different opinion, maybe I wanted him to prove me wrong. “I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in ‘Koi No Yokan’,” he says. I’m fascinated now. If there was ever a doubt about that, it’s gone. “It’s an untranslatable Japanese phrase. It’s basically the premonition of love. It’s the feeling when you first meet someone that you will inevitably fall in love with them.” When he says that, he looks directly at me with his eyes that look too dark to be brown. It’s the kind of beauty that turns one moment into a personal eternity. When he’s done talking, my cheeks are hot. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. I’m grateful that he doesn’t. ‘Koi No Yokan’. I know I’m going to remember that. The park is becoming more crowded, but I’m not upset anymore. Maybe it’s good to live in the moment sometimes. Maybe everyone does have that voice that reminds them that things may not last very long, but they choose to ignore it. You don’t have to let it consume you. You don’t have to let your happiness revolve around one person either. I want to be happy. Even if it doesn’t last an eternity. Loving is important. Even if it doesn’t last an eternity. Because it’s short-lived doesn’t mean it never happened. The teenagers are still laying on the picnic blanket. I thought they’d be gone by now. Their hands are entwined and her head is on his shoulder. She's still out of his league. Maybe they'll remember this ten years from now, or maybe they won't. For now, I’d say the date was a success. The almost stranger who I’ve had the longest conversation with in 5 and a half months looks at me and smiles, “My name’s Sebastian.” I smile too. “I’m Andrea.”


BLUE CHRISTMAS Susan W. Hudson Annie was baffled by her mother’s decision to make all the Christmas decorations blue this year. Annie loved her mother very much. Annie knew that she was smart and pretty; she got that from her mother. Annie’s mother, Marie, had year-after-year decorated the house and the tree with beloved ornaments from years past. The theme was always red, white, green, and gold. Many of the items were hand made by her children and had been lovingly preserved over the years. After the mother abandoned all the traditional ornaments and replaced them with blue baubles, Annie came in to view the result. It was not abysmal, but certainly different. One ornament caught Annie’s eye, and she couldn’t look away. The ornament held inside a young woman skating in a figure-eight configuration in a small rink, over and over. Artificial snow showered down on her. She skated on and on as long as the battery survived. Annie thought that was the saddest thing she has ever seen. She stared incessantly at the ornament. On the far side of the ornament, a black dot appeared. As Annie glared at the ornament, the dot grew bigger until it was almost the same size as the young skater. It took on the form of a man, dressed all in black and wearing a black hat. Annie stared at the man, and the man beckoned for her to come inside. Being totally mesmerized by the scene, she did. She tentatively entered into the ornament. The man motioned for her to come closer. He took the skater by one arm and indicated to Annie that he wanted her to take the other. The man took one of the skaters' hands and Annie took the other. Together they pulled the skater from her monotonous route. The skater wobbled on her ice skates over to the other side of the ornament with them. With the man taking the lead, they all went through the far side of the ornament, dusted off the artificial snow, and looked up. They were on Fifth Avenue in New York City. They made their way to a place with a huge sign touting the name Macy’s. They peered through the mighty glass windows. Almost everything displayed there was red, white, green, or gold. Annie spotted another blue snow globe with other skaters trapped inside. One was a woman and the other her male partner. “I hope I can help you someday,” Annie muttered to the skaters. Annie shivered. The man was wearing a black wool coat over his suit. The skater was still wearing her white wool sweater, blue wool skirt, and blue scarf. Annie had left her warm home in just leggings and a lightweight shirt. Annie deduced that they would somehow have to get her a jacket. And, the skater was still wobbling on her ice skates, so something had to be done about that. The man clearly knew his way around New York City and this mammoth store. He buzzed through the store to the section that sold women’s jackets. Annie picked out a warm looking fleece-lined bright blue jacket. The man went over to the nice lady who had helped them find the item they needed. He whispered something in her ear, and the jacket was theirs. Next on the list was something suitable for the skater’s feet. She was still hobbling along on the ice skates. She found a nice pair of blue boots warmly lined and just her size. She also picked out, with Annie’s help, a pair of popular brand sneakers. The man spoke to the clerk. The shoes were theirs. Annie and the man helped the skater into the beautiful boots and held her as she found her balance while getting acquainted with them. Then they found a nice little blue wheelie-type suitcase, a pair of pajamas, several pairs of leggings, and tops and socks for the skater. And, of course, they had to find her just the right pair of jeans. The man again worked his magic and the girls packed the suitcase with casual-wear items for the skater. She was in awe of her new friends and her new wardrobe, but she carefully tucked her old clothes into the suitcase as well. Led, again, by the man, they went back inside the ornament. He became smaller and smaller and finally waved goodbye to Annie and the skater. Annie and the skater looked at each other. They grabbed the wheelie and burst through the front of the ornament. Annie called out, “Mom, a friend of mine from school is here. Can she spend the night?” “Sure,” her mother said. “What is her name?” “Um, Macy,” Annie replied. “Oh, just like my favorite store in New York City,” the mother exclaimed! “Mom,” Annie called out. “Yes,” mother said. “This ornament is broken. Can I put it in the trash?” “Of course,” her mother replied. “Oh, Hi, Macy.” The mother said while doing a double-take. Macy and Annie could almost have been twins with their long blonde hair and blue eyes. They both had the small-featured valentine-shaped face. The mother caught her breath and proceeded to explain that their normal theme for Christmas was red, white, green, and gold. “Something,” she explained, “just compelled me to change over to blue this year.” “Macy, what is your favorite color,” she asked. “Blue,” the skater muttered. “Mine too,” said the mother. “Just like Annie’s eyes. She got them from her father who left us earlier this year.” That explained a lot to Annie. She, too, missed her dad. He had been taken away by cancer way too young. Things began to come into focus for her. But still, her main concern was her new friend, Macy. She knew she had saved her from a life of boredom. But what could she do next? When the mother went back into the kitchen, Annie took the ornament off the tree and placed it on the side table. The girls took the wheelie upstairs and set it on the spare twin bed in Annie’s room. “You can sleep in that bed tonight. I’ll get you another blanket in case you get cold,” Annie told Macy. Annie and Macy headed back down the stairs just as the mother cheerfully sang out “dinner.” The mother had set an extra plate. The conversation was light. The mother immediately sank back into the depression that had engulfed her for most of the past year. Annie chatted incessantly. The mother asked Macy some mundane questions, and Annie answered most of them. “You’re awfully quiet,” the mother questioned Macy. Macy replied, “yes.” Then, again, Annie jumped in. “That’s what I love about her; she listens to me without giving advice or complaining.” After dinner, the girls helped with the clean-up and settled down to watch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” - Macy for the first time, Annie, the 10th or so. The mother was still in the kitchen, making lists and awaiting the onslaught tomorrow of Annie’s twin older brothers arriving from their separate colleges. The girls were tired and went to bed early. They were both tucked in by the mother and fell asleep quickly. Annie slept late. She stretched and opened her eyes to sunlight. Macy was not in her bed. She was nowhere to be found. The mother was excited and distracted by the arrival of one of the twins. The atmosphere was jolly. Annie went downstairs and went immediately to the ornament on the side table. The skater was back inside, dressed in jeans and a bright blue jacket. She was ensconced in her figure-eight route. She was wearing her blue scarf. Annie looked around and saw that all the Christmas decorations were the usual and beloved red, white, green, and gold. She put the blue skater ornament back onto the tree. She ran to greet her big brother who had just arrived. Her mother looked almost happy.


It was almost two years ago, March 28th, when I found myself onboarding the Z216 overnight train. Xian - the ancient capital of China, a pearl on the Silk Road, was awaiting. It's been 7 months since I've been here, and yet, China was nowhere to be found. Where were the crimson temples on holy mountains, merging with the dragons of gold? Where were the gardens of balance and faith? Why music no longer felt like the wind, floating underneath you, taking you towards your true self? The elhu did not belong in the cities, it's voice was overtaken by the sound of destruction. Glass and steel giants devoured everything along their way. The temples, the gardens, the homes of their ancestors. There was no rest for their greatest conquest. Theirs was not the sound of creation, but the world crying for help, in loss of its heritage, of it's identity, of its wealth. On another loud and crowded train I found myself, chasing freedom, chasing peace, yet unable to break free from the grips of chaos, of destruction. We are told that peace can be found everywhere, for me, it was impossible to find it on that train. I was sitting near the window, trying to press myself as close as I could towards it. With every inch trying to disappear into its cold existence. Nonetheless, it was hard to ignore the disgust I was feeling from looking out, towards what my dreams had turned into. Gray, repetitive, competing with the mountains and stomping on humanity. Yet, peace could be found even in times of restlessness, or so I chose to believe. With every gentle breath, I distanced myself from the window, observing the people around me. Emerging myself into the sound of music was challenging, for the sounds of conversation and burst of emotion, overpowered technology. Pickled chicken legs, with a questionable scent, continuously being spat out into the ever growing plastic waste. The incredible warmness and curiosity of people, accompanied by persistent glazes, often made boundaries more challenging to create. Yet all was miniscule, compared to the announcements which did not seem to stop, for they with great enthusiasm, overtook all sound. Chaos was inside me and chaos was outside. I grew to believe that one's relationship with their surroundings is influenced by their state of mind. Indeed, my surroundings created a restlessness within, yet was the restlessness one of refusing defeat? I could not surrender to China becoming another memorial of cultural identity loss. I refused to believe that the steel giants will spread across all lands, until the mountains are nowhere to be seen. Until all is cold. My desire to dwell into misery was overtaken by hunger. As I enjoyed my dinner, I found myself sharing meals and conversations. Conversations with words neither side could understand, yet pleasant memories were made, and family pictures were taken. At midnight the dark sky covered up the atrocities made in disguise, miles after miles, there stood the giants, with no life. Early Friday morning I arrived. A city like no other, for it was with modernity which honoured it's past. The elhu sang in the gardens of the Giant Goose Pagoda. Fountains, statues, shops and houses spread across narrow roads. One after the other - non overshadowing the Great Wall. That is - in parts of the city, yet it was more than I had seen. Comforted I felt within its ancient walls, no longer an ant, finding its way home, feeling lost. A human again I was, my surroundings reflected my nature. I could see the gray roofs of the brick houses, and only a few steps would take to cross a street. At night, I could look into people's lit homes, and comfort would warmly take me in. A great adventure was ahead of me, the ancient paintings are what I wanted to see. It was 5am, on a Monday, when I took an empty train. To a land, far outside the city, a land the metal giants haven't yet claimed. A small village I arrived at, watched over by one of the holy five - Hua Shan - the Western Mountain. Mount Hua, my eyes tear when I think of your beauty, your magesticity, your gentle embrace. For I will never forget my first climb, alone on my path, I witnessed wonders of human faith. A climb like no other, for Hua was no mountain, but a true giant of steep rock, standing high, protecting all. As I reached her peak , the sun was growing weak. A crowd was on every step, with no peace surrounding the temple of crimson red. Patience and time was what I needed, yet the last bus was soon leaving. Sitting I found myself, on a stone, reaching towards it's edge, witnessing what life can create. Children with parents as their guide, friends standing side by side, loved ones hand in hand, honoring their ancestral land. Trees emerging out of the rocks, reaching further towards their Gods. The small red cloths, a prayer flag they are called; inscribed with hope, were gems on the crown Hua wore. The sun had merged with the mountains, the sky was light, yet heavy at first sight. I was there, alone, all the paths were empty, all I had was a moment for a single song. As I stood there, on the edge of the cliff, with ancient temples on each side, decorated in red light, I was in a dream-like state of mind. I saw the paintings, they were in front of my eyes, a dream they were no longer. The elhu was singing with joy, with desire to live, to survive, to surpass time and human greed. Hua Shan, I looked at you for the last time, my heart full of fear, my eyes full of tears. I took a deep breath. I wanted to remember forever your wealth. A forest of green mountains far beyond what I could see. Together, they formed waves, and held you in their warm embrace. Peace was not found on your mountain top, for peace was not yet within me. Yet faith was, strength was, admiration of your existence was. When I took my last glance, a gentle smile appeared on my face, as my eyes reflected the mountains last light of the day. I was alone, a woman, a stranger, standing with a purpose, to fight for my true home.


**Content Warning! Before reading please know this short story has themes of self harm, death, depression/medication. Please read at your own discretion, and know this is a work of fiction. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 800-273-8255 Help is always available. I looked around my Aunt’s empty guest bedroom. There was quite literally nothing in the room save for a small, twin sized bed and a dresser. I smoothed the comforter on the bed and sat atop the untouched blanket. I took a deep breath and smelled the clean air in the room- it reminded me nothing of home. I didn’t feel sad about moving, the only thing Klarksburg had to offer was my mom, and now that she’s gone there’s no point in being trapped there any longer. I heard voices and footsteps coming up the stairs as my aunt and uncle rounded the corner to come into the guest room. They were carrying a large chest- my only ‘suitcase’, containing all of my possessions. They sat the heavy chest down with a thud. Aunt Suzie brushed her hands together, “Whoo! All in a days work, huh? Get yourself settled in honey, then we’ll assess what you have and don’t have, and we’ll take a trip to the mall in a few days, alright? Uncle Kenny and I are gonna go start on dinner, holler if ya need anything, darlin’!” She said as she laid a gentle yet reassuring hand on my shoulder. She kissed my head and walked to leave the room, uncle Kenny winked at me while leaning on the door jamb. Once aunt Suzie left the room, he followed behind her, and pulled my door shut. I took a moment to breathe, and squeezed my eyes shut. “Okay Lea. Everything is fine. Breathe. Things will feel normal soon.” I stood from the bed, and kneeled in front of my chest, noting how rough the carpet felt against my knees. It reminded me of being a little kid, knees pressed against the hot sidewalk while I drew chalk-masterpieces. My mom would stand behind me ooh-ing and ah-ing in ‘amazement’ in order to encourage me- maybe I’d grow to become an artist, she couldn’t crush my dreams- she’d said once I was older and asked about the false encouragement. I shook my head as if to be physically shaking away the memory, and opened my chest to begin unpacking. A few hours and one slightly uncomfortable family dinner later, I had my pajamas on ready to climb into bed when there was a gentle knock at my door. I quietly invited them in, the door slowly opened and my aunt suzie’s small frame replaced the closed door. She came in and closed the door gently behind her. “Hey junebug. I just wanted to come check in on you before bed, and give you a hug. Talk to ya a little. How are you doin’, bug? Really?” The bed dipped slightly as she sat next to me, turned a bit to be facing me. I hadn’t been asked how I was since the day after the incident, I felt my eyes lightly well with tears. “I- I um. I really appreciate you guys taking me in aunt Suz. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you guys weren’t there.” Memories from that night flashed through my mind, inciting the pain all over again. I looked up to meet my aunt’s eyes, she met my glance with not sympathy but empathy. After all, it was her sister. I wasn’t the only one struggling. “Listen sweets, I just want you to know this is your home now. We’re here for you. Any need, any question, you’ve got it. Your mom told me about a month ago you have a girlfriend back home? We’ll help facilitate you seeing her however you need, junebug.” Hearing my aunt say this caught me by surprise and I burst out laughing, it was clear by her face that she wasn’t expecting my reaction. “Oh, aunt Suzie I really appreciate that, but that was just my mom being goofy. We have- uh, had- a neighbor girl my age, we were good friends and my mom liked to tease that we’d get married one day. But..that was before things got bad. The neighbor girl’s parents stopped letting us be friends when mom took a turn for the worse.” I watched my aunt’s face droop in sadness as I spoke. She then quickly grabbed me up in a tight hug, “I am so, so sorry sweetie. You never should’ve had to go through any of this..but you know how hard losing your dad was for your mom.” I nodded along with her words, she reassured me again that I was more than welcome to come get them if I needed anything through the night. She kissed the top of my head and left my room. I laid back in my bed to sleep but as the pattern has been since the incident, I had to relive those moments over and over before I could get any sort of sleep. My dad was in the armed forces, so we did a lot of moving throughout my childhood. We moved to Klarksburg when I was 14 years old. We’d been there for a year when my dad had to leave. It was a month before I turned 16 when we heard the knock at our door. I was sat at the kitchen table doing homework, my mom went to answer the door. I heard low murmurs and then the most blood-curdling scream I’d ever heard. My heart sunk and I immediately knew what happened. I ran to the door and saw the two uniformed men holding a folded flag with solemn faces, I crumbled to the floor and held my mother as she wept. Because my dad was often enlisted, I didn’t really know him, and my mom was my best friend. But my parents were highschool sweethearts and totally, grossly in love. After my dad died, my mom’s mental health plummeted. I couldn’t blame her, she’d lost her best friend. I started picking up the house chores, and taking care of myself. Mom spent most of her days in bed with the curtains drawn, medicating herself until she was numb. I just did everything I could to keep her alive. I kept her water glasses filled, I re-filled her prescriptions, and picked them up, I spoon-fed her oatmeal and soup, easy things to keep down that her medication wouldn’t cause her to puke up. On particularly bad days when she would sob so loudly it felt as if the walls shook, I laid in bed with her and held her quivering body through the night. But the night that changed everything was different. She’d gotten up out of bed that day, for the first time in weeks, other than to use the bathroom. She came downstairs while I was eating dinner and doing homework. She looked like a zombie, her face sunken in, and her frame small and frail; but she gave me a weak smile. She slowly walked over to me, sat next to me at the table and asked me how my day had been. I felt my eyes fill with happy tears to hear my best friend’s voice. I’d lost all my friends with my mom’s mental health decline and the loss of my dad. I had to take care of her and the house so I had no time for any fun, and no one wanted to come over, they said ‘the house felt too sad’. We had a bit of small talk before she headed back to her room. That night I slept in her bed with her. It was about two AM when I heard the tub running. I rolled over in mom’s bed to see her side of the bed unoccupied, with a small trail of tiny blood droplets. I assumed she’d maybe gotten a nose bleed, but couldn’t understand why the tub was running. Concerned, I jumped out of bed and ran to the door. I knocked a few times, twisted the locked doorknob and heard no answer so I called out, “Mom? Mom are you okay? What are you doing?” There was no answer, and I began to panic. I knocked harder and louder when I felt wetness seeping through my socks. I looked down and saw water flowing under the door, and then pink began swirling through the water. It was then that I knew something was wrong. I tried to slam the door open with my shoulder, to no avail. I grabbed a hammer from my dad’s toolbox which was left perfectly untouched under his side of the bed, and smashed the door as hard as I could, eventually breaking it. I broke through the door and stepped into the flooded bathroom, and saw my mom laying in the tub, passed out, with her wrists slashed open. I screamed in horror, and immediately began crying and screaming her name. I ran to the side of the tub and tried to shake her awake, her skin was hot from the water but her face was cold to the touch. After shaking her and seeing she wouldn’t wake up, I called 911. They came in and took care of everything. She survived after major surgery to save the nerves in her wrist, but they deemed her mentally unsound and incapable of caring for me and herself. I was allowed to visit her the day after she was admitted. As I entered the room, seeing her brought tears to my eyes. I’d never seen my mom so vulnerable, so broken, the light in her eyes was completely gone. She looked up at me slowly as I entered the room, she gave me a weak smile, “Lea..I’m glad to see you. I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry you had to see me that way I just...I thought things would be better. I thought with me gone, you’d have a chance at happiness. I’m sorry.” At that moment I felt such anger toward her, “You thought you were helping?! You’re all I have! I have no friends, no family close. I can’t even get a job because I have to be at home caring for you all the time. I know losing dad was hard for you, but you brought me into this world, you already abandoned me by never leaving your room, and now you wanna abandon me completely? Why can’t you just love me the way a normal mom does? Why are you so selfish?!” I yelled at her through my tears, and I ran out of the room. And every night since then, I’ve had to relive the events of this past year over and over before I can sleep. I woke up exhausted that morning to Aunt Suzie opening my door with a plate of pancakes and bacon. She’d chosen me an outfit for the day, the sun was streaming through the windows, and the blankets smelled clean even after a restless night. That morning I felt a level of relief I hadn’t felt in months, but I also felt a level of guilt I’d never felt before. I had the knowledge that my mom was somewhere in a room full of soft edges, where she was practically spoon-fed medication all day long, forced into therapy sessions lit by florescent lights, and monitored by nurses in sterile, white, scrubs. Meanwhile I sat in a comfy room, on an even comfier bed, and was treated like a queen. I guess the saying about everybody handling grief differently really wasn’t kidding.


TW: rape, violence, death of a child WRITING CONTEST #251: To Kill a Mockingbird Write a story about someone losing faith in an institution. This is a work of fiction. Birth and Death I am an urban park ranger. I patrol the city’s parks. I cover the parks in a ten-block radius from downtown. I have been doing this for ten years. One part of my job is to kick the drunks and druggies off the park benches in the morning before the commuters coming from the subway stations see them. Ever since the legislature cut all funding for unemployment, welfare, and drug rehab assistance, the number of homeless sleeping in the park has gotten out of control. These bums just need to get jobs. They’ve been freeloading off the government for too long. There are plenty of jobs to be had. Look at all the help wanted posters on all the fast-food joints. There’s plenty of work for them that are willing to work. Last night’s snowfall covered many of the benches. After a snowfall or a bitterly cold night, it’s not unusual to find a bum dead on the bench or under a bridge where they tried to seek cover. I hate it when I find one. I have to call the coroner, and he takes a couple of hours, and I have to stand by the body to see that the clothes don’t get taken off their back. Sometimes, the bum is still alive, but it’s only a matter of time. Rescuing them only means that they’ll be back tomorrow and maybe die then. I pretend I didn’t see them and go about my rounds. It’s a mercy to let them die in the cold. They don’t feel it. They just go numb, and the heart stops eventually. I make sure that the next of kin know that this burden has been lifted from them, and they can go about their lives. February is usually the worst when the winters here are so cold. On warm sunny days, even in the winter, I meet the regular people who use the park. The joggers are my favorites. They always wave as they pass by with their music on their earpieces. I also keep an eye on the gangs. Mostly they’re a lot of noise and not much harm to anyone, but there is this new gang. With only four members, this new gang intimidates gangs more than double their size. Even the other gangs are afraid of them. We have been getting reports from the joggers about verbal harassment from this new gang, but nobody has reported an assault yet. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was this one report, but nobody believed her. I mean, she was a drunk, and she claimed someone raped her. I found her on the ground under a tree. She’d been beaten up pretty good, and her clothes were torn. The shopping cart with all her stuff was overturned, and her stuff was scattered on the ground. I took her to the emergency clinic across the street, figuring they could help her. They claim to be an emergency clinic, but they’re not really. They have doctors and nurses, so I just thought they could help her. They’re run by some fancy church group, and they claim to do all this charity work. They’ll take in a drunk and patch up his bruises and give him a bath. But they won’t do anything else except pray for him. Still, even if they stopped the woman’s bleeding, that would be a step in the right direction. She told them she had been raped, and they pushed her out the door. They wouldn’t even help stop the bleeding. They shouted that she was a whore and a tramp and how dare she come to them for help? It wasn’t all their fault. It was mostly, but not all. The legislature passed a law that said anyone turning in an abortionist or aiding in an abortion got a cash reward. The people at the clinic wanted nothing to do with her. All they really wanted to do was to use torture to force gays back to the “way of righteousness” and obedience to Jesus. I loaded her into her shopping cart and pushed her to the fire station four blocks away. The paramedics did what they could, but they couldn’t administer the rape kit. Only the police could do that. The police wouldn’t administer the rape kit unless she identified her assailants. She had been drunk and could barely remember them, but I learned enough from what she did remember to know that it was the new gang. I also suspected that if she identified them, they would kill her. Lest the state’s legislature appears totally devoid of all human kindness, which they totally were, the abortion laws had a provision for rape and incest, but the perpetrator had to be convicted before the abortion could be performed. Since such cases generally took two years or more to slog their way through the court, if they were prosecuted at all, the provision was meaningless. The woman begged for them to give her the morning-after pill, but the drug is not legal in this state. I saw her again from time to time, hiding under a bridge to get out of the rain or sleeping under some tree. Mostly she slept during the day and was about at night. As her pregnancy showed more and more, she found panhandling did not make her as much money as it had. I kept an eye on the gang that I suspected had raped her, and I guess they figured out that I knew because they left me and her alone. We talked a bit. I knew that she had tried out for the Olympic skating team and had been one of the last people cut. She had worked her entire life to make the team, and now she had nothing to show for it. An ex-boyfriend had introduced her to drugs and prostitution. She was off the drugs now, but she still drank a lot. I knew that she went to the rehab center twice a week, but she wasn’t even welcome there with her pregnancy. The city had passed an ordinance just before the big Christmas tourist season, which forced the closure of all the halfway houses and homeless shelters. The publically proclaimed goal was to drive all the “scum” south for the winter. Many left, but most could not go. So, I was on patrol before dawn on the morning after the coldest night I could remember. I came upon a body covered in snow on a park bench. Frozen blood puddled on the ground mixed with the falling snow. I figured that some drunk had finally had enough and had done himself in. I was wrong. As I cleared the snow so I could attempt to identify the body, I discovered a baby covered in ice crystals. The umbilical cord was still attached, and the placenta had not been delivered. The blood had flowed from the bench to the ground and frozen. Ice crystals glistened in the streetlight’s glare. I turned away from the body and threw up. I called the coroner and was told that with all the wrecks on the roads last night, I wouldn’t see anyone before noon, but I was advised to call the coffee shop on the corner to have them deliver something for me to eat. This was someone’s daughter and their granddaughter. Did nobody care? Why could nobody help this woman? What was her sin to be punished like this? Was devoting her entire life to a dream a crime? Why had she been tossed out in the garbage? Why did she have to die in this horrible manner? I stood next to the bench when the gang that I suspected of raping her wandered by. They laughed. They strutted like peacocks. This was a statement of their power. They were proud of what they had done and knew that I could do nothing about it. They mocked her and me for a bit and then grabbed her shopping cart. They ran toward the bridge over the river. They planned on tossing the cart into the river. I guess I lost it. How many people could have saved this helpless woman, and instead, they went out of their way to harm her? Weren’t the strong supposed to protect the weak? She was dead, and the people that did this to her were running away with all her earthly possessions. Abandoning my post, I ran through the darkness and followed the gang to the bridge. They were about to lift the shopping cart over the rail when I pulled my sidearm. I always carry two full clips and the one in the pistol because, since this is an open-carry state, I can. I shot them all at close range. The falling snow muffled the sounds of the shots. Even though they were not all dead, they offered no resistance as I threw them into the freezing water below. The flow was swift enough that the bodies would not show up until they reached the rapids ten miles away. By that time, they could not be traced back to me. I rolled the shopping cart back to the bench. The “doctor” who ran the clinic across the street who had refused treatment when he could have helped the now dead woman was standing there with one of his staff members looking at the bodies. The “doctor” was not a real doctor. He had a Doctorate of Divinity from one of those internet sites where you send them the money, and they send you your certificate. The “doctor” and his “friend” laughed and commented that the woman on the bench had met her just end. They made a joke about the wages of sin and turned away. They did not see me or hear the cart. The falling snow muffled the shots. At that range, I only needed two. I unloaded the shopping cart and loaded the bodies into it. I pushed the cart to the bridge and threw the bodies over the rail. I walked back to the bench. I stopped to buy coffee. I reloaded the cart and waited for the coroner. Somebody needs to protect the helpless even if the government doesn’t do it. I guess that’s me.


We stumble down early in the morning, pulled from our beds not a half hour before. The cold air cuts deeper in the early hours, and the pulleys and gears of the lift screech just that bit louder into my ears. I shake myself awake as much I can, humming along to the bird’s song. His cage is heavy, a great clunky thing that would give anyone a fright. He doesn’t let that stop him as he whistles away. We’ve only had this boy a week, after the fire in October he came in ready to put us to rights, his bright yellow feathers like a rainbow after a storm. Lord knows we need it. The deep blackness of the pit is often times a welcome break from the world above. We’re all stretched thin, and I feel worse than dirt on days when my only contribution is a black rock no bigger than my thumbnail. Still, my lamp burns bright in the darkness, and my boy still sings. Of course I can carry on. When it’s as dark as dark gets, it gives a man time to think. Time to worry in my case, as has been the case for the past few weeks since things turned sour. The wife wasn’t herself this morning, barely whispered a ‘god bless’ when she saw me on my way. I wandered past strangers in the drizzle and was greeted by grimace after grimace. Things are tough, I remember. Things are tough, and not everyone can see that rainbow just yet. I’m yanked out of the troubling depths of my head by the loud clang of the lift meeting the pit’s floor. My friend chirps, and I wonder what’s happening in his head too. He’s certainly not troubled, that’s for sure. I couldn’t imagine him ever crooning a lament over his beautiful melody. All these thoughts have filled my head fit to burst, and I stop to rub my dusty fingers across my temples before making my way to the rock. Chipping away at it can be peaceful on these days, just taking in the cool air and knock, knock, knocking at the wall. I know it’s nearly depleted. I know it every minute of every day but I’ll carry on until that day comes. My boy still sings, a soothing waltz now, which lulls my demons to sleep. Cheep, cheep, cheep. Knock, knock, knock. I steady my boots on the uneven floor and tumble down deeper into the dark, looking for that precious jewel. What was it Rogers had said this morning? They’d found a good stash of it the cave had hidden away the other day, when they were inspecting. Heaven knows where that was though, all I see is darkness and dark rock. The caverns spin around me and we nearly trip twice before I finally find the patch. She hadn’t wanted me to find it, and led me on quite a wild chase. It’s taken hours to get here. Ha! I think as I steady my hand to swing the heavy, heavy pick. Boy is it heavy, and boy am I tired. These early mornings have me in ruin, but finding the stash has made it all worthwhile. For days I stay, stuck to the wall. Greedily gathering the rock. I think of my wife, I think of Rogers and all of the solemn strangers I passed those months ago. I pray their troubles will soon disappear and I think of my bright boy. Most of all I think of his sweet song, and how much I miss it now.


He placed his long, bony fingers on the edges of the lid. The container looked like an egg with its top and bottom lopped off. It shone like one of those Hercules beetles you find in rotting ash trees. If you caught one, you could turn it this way and that, and it changed colors in the sunlight. The container would probably do that too, with its streaks of gold in the black lacquer. Mr. Sasaki lifted the lid to reveal a green powder the color of the algae that spreads out on the water between the bald cypress trees in the lake. Setting down the lid, he dipped a long bamboo stick with a scoop end into the matcha powder and dropped two little mounds into a ceramic bowl. Then from the cast-iron kettle he poured steaming water over the powder. My nostrils filled with a smell of the lake in spring. He set a whisk that looked like straw hair standing on end into the bowl and whipped it back and forth, turning the liquid into a bright green froth. We sat on bamboo mats. I’d never sat on a mat before. He picked up the bowl, spinning it twice in his palm then bowed from the waist and sipped. “Now you,” he said, his words light and floaty in the humid winter air, only the slightest trace of accent in his voice. I bowed and held my hands out. But he set the bowl on the floor, nodding for me to pick it up and spin it. As I touched it, warmth spread from my palms to my fingers. “Drink,” he said. “Then wipe the edge with the cloth and hand it back to me.” I did as he said. The green froth tickled my upper lip, tasting like grass, earthy and bitter. I wipe the bowl with neat cloth on the mat. He sipped, and we passed it back and forth. He had to make adjustments to the ceremony in Texas, he said. When we had finished the bowl, he cleaned the implements, putting everything away in its proper place before inviting me to sit at the table. I was glad to be off the floor. I cleared my throat. I came here to find out. He looked at me, his eyes wide with anticipation, like he thought a conversation with a teenage girl would be the most interesting thing he’d ever done. “They say you made a lot of money from the pearls,” I said, instantly regretting starting that way. Everyone said I was too bold. Mr. Sasaki’s eyes crinkled in laughter. He was eighty if he was a day, deep lines running this and way and that all over this face like the bottom of bald cypress roots, just as they go into the water. “I did,” he said. “That’s how I bought this house.” He had a good-sized house right on the water where the Spanish moss swayed in the wind. “I sold the pearls to a big jeweler in New York. I met a tea merchant there. He sends me my tea. Where else could I find it here?” He swept his arms in the air. “And you? Your father also sold a pearl.” “Yeah, but he only made three hundred dollars. It was enough to buy a truck. And made him happy enough to name me Pearl.” We both laughed. “Pearls are a precious thing. In Japan, they are revered, as are the divers who find them. To be named Pearl is an honor.” No one ever thought I was something special just because of my name, or for much else. From that day on, I thought there must a lot to learn from Mr. Sasaki, and I got better at making the tea myself over the next year, visiting him, hearing from him about how he stowed away on an American navy boat in Japan They didn’t kick him off, but made him a cook instead. And when the Admiral he worked for retired in New Orleans, Mr. Sasaki went too, making his way up to the Big Lake to fish. We’ve long used mussels for bait around here, but Mr. Sasaki was the one who found the long pink pearl in his mussel. He was the one who showed the folks who’d grown up here how to look for mussels with your toes, wading into the lake and gripping those suckers in the muck. But it paid off, so even when the government built the dam in 1913 and killed the mussels, he’d already made a sackful of money and helped others to do the same. Then he went to cooking for the oil workers because he didn’t like to be idle, he told me. Everybody liked him, even though nobody’d ever met someone from the East. Well, more East than the piney woods of East Texas, that is. Daddy always said I was an old soul, so I guess he wasn’t surprised when I preferred Mr. Sasaki’s company to the sweaty boys and caddy girls at my school. Our town was as segregated as any other, maybe worse because we had oil and the highfalutin attitudes that went along with it. But somehow they looked past it with Mr. Sasaki, maybe on account of his quiet ways, maybe on account of there being no history there. But probably because he made them money. We plugged along in our town, fishing, swimming, and for me and Mr. Sasaki, drinking tea while he told about the grand wonders of the wide world and I told him about smallness of mine. Things were happening in the rest of the world, and one day he couldn’t seem to smile at all. He was an American citizen now, but part of his heart was in Japan. In the cherry blossoms and the tea ceremonies and little sparks of life that feel like home. Now Japan had started on a dangerous path. Japan had signed a pact with Germany and Italy. Now, in my town, we didn’t seem to care much about what was going on in the rest of the world, but everyone knew Hitler was doing bad things in Europe. Mr. Sasaki had told me about the history of Japan; they even had women emperors. He said the one they had now though was a man and a bad one at that. He was ashamed that Hirohito allied with Hitler. And he was scared, but I couldn’t understand why. Then we were having tea one day in early December. I had gotten really good at the whisking. Mr. Sasaki said the froth was light and airy like a cloud in a painting. He gave really nice compliments, and it always felt like he meant them. I had just brought the bowl to my lips when the door flung open with a bang, swinging and hitting the wall. The sound startled me, and I dropped the bowl. It smashed, lime green tea seeping into the bamboo mat underneath me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sasaki,” I said. He didn’t seem to hear me. He jumped up and stood rigid in front of the men in the doorway. The men. Men of my town. Men with power. The sheriff, his deputy, and the county judge who lived in the county seat two towns over. Their expressions were set, eyes hard. I stood beside Mr. Sasaki, feeling uneasy and like maybe my presence would stop them from doing whatever they had in their minds to do. “The Japanese have bombed an American naval base in Hawaii,” the sheriff said, emotion pulling at his words. I took Mr. Sasaki’s hand. The only time we had ever touched was if our fingers accidentally grazed during tea. But he gripped my hand right back then. I could feel the old bones and gnarled knuckles under my fingertips. The men, I noticed, saw me do it too, but they didn’t move to stop me. “You should come with us,” said the judge. I squeezed Mr. Sasaki’s hand tighter. If they were gonna take him, they were gonna take me, too. “He hasn’t done anything,” I said, my voice unnaturally high. “We were just having tea. He’s an American now. He hasn’t done anything.” All the law men turned to me. The deputy was my uncle. He took a step toward me. “Now, Pearl, it’s for his own good.” “That’s a lie, Uncle Bobby, and you know it.” “They’re gonna be people out for him, Pearl. We can protect him.” I’d seen how they’d protected citizens of my town, people that didn’t look like them. This town was built on the backs of our Black residents, always had been. Sharecroppers eking out a life while white fat cats sat on their porches drinking whiskey and chewing tobacco. They’d always acted better toward Mr. Sasaki, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t turn on him. Mr. Sasaki squeezed my hand and then released it. Stepping forward, he said, “I’ll go with you.” I grabbed his arm. “No! It’s not fair. Don’t go.” He patted my hand. “Take care of my tea things. Clean up the spill. I’ll be ok.” The law men parted to open the doorway, and Mr. Sasaki stepped through the opening. Uncle Bobby was the last to leave, turning to me. “Get that cleaned up and get on home.” “Uncle Bobby...” His face softened. “I promise, he’s gonna be alright.” He closed the door, and I stood there, tears streaming my cheeks, helpless and hopeless. We listened to the radio that night, and it was all over the news. Daddy said he thought people would start trying to hurt Japanese folks. That was all he said, and it put the fear in me. I woke up early the next day and headed straight to the jailhouse. They kept him in there, but didn’t lock him up. “I told you, it was for his protection,” Uncle Bobby said. “We thought maybe some folk woulda got a wild hair and come to make trouble. But it’s been real quiet.” Mr. Sasaki was smiling, that smile he got when he was real content. It spread wide across, stretching out some wrinkles and squeezing others together. He sat at a table and played cards with the sheriff. It all seemed like a dream. But a few days later, the big lawmen came from Dallas: the Feds. An order had come from Washington that they were to round up all Japanese. It didn’t matter that Mr. Sasaki was an American citizen. In fact, they said even people born here were enemies. I knew Mr. Sasaki loved Japan, but he had served in the U.S. Navy. He loved living here. He’d been here longer than he’d been in Japan. He said Japan was like his mother, but America was his wife, and a child must leave his home to make his family. When the sheriff got word that the Feds were coming, they scuppered Mr. Sasaki off to the judge’s house. I wanted to go too, but Daddy said no. He let me stay at the jailhouse with Uncle Bobby, though. I sat on pins and needles in a chair in the corner. Those big lawmen weren’t so big. One of them was real small, like his fancy trench coat swallowed him up. And by the way he talked, his mind was small too. Well, anyway, the sheriff said they couldn’t take Mr. Sasaki. “It’s not your decision to make, sheriff,” the taller but rounder of the two Feds said. “This is my town, and I say it is.” “We’ll bring the full force of the Federal government down on your head if you don’t surrender the alien traitor.” “He’s neither alien nor traitor.” The Feds couldn’t do much but bluster they’d be back with reinforcements. As soon as they left, the sheriff flopped into a chair and wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “Bobby, get over to the judge’s. We can’t hold them off forever.” I dashed out after Uncle Bobby, sliding into the passenger seat of the police car. He looked at me as if I had appeared out of thin air. “You can’t come, Pearl. Your Daddy’d kill me.” “He won’t. Drive.” He shook his head, but didn’t say anything else until we pulled up at the judge’s office at the county courthouse. “Mind your manners, Pearl.” “Best behavior,” I said with a smile, though my insides churned. We were shown into his office, possibly the biggest office I’d ever seen. Texas and American flags hung on big stands behind him. Heavy, dark furniture filled the room, and it smelled like old money. Uncle Bobby explained the situation, the judge listening intently, his elbows on the burgundy leather-wrapped arms of his chair and his fingers steepled and resting on his mouth. “Time for the big guns,” he said when Uncle Bobby finished. I didn’t know what that meant, but I’d find out soon. Along with the rest of the town. Uncle Bobby dropped me at old Jeb’s grocery in town, told me to head on back home. I picked up the few things I knew Mama needed and brought them to the counter. Jeb made a note in his ledger so we could settle at the end of the month when Daddy got paid. He set his pen down and put his hands flat on the counter. “Don’t you worry, Pearl. This town won’t let anything happen to him.” I stared at Jeb. He’d never said anything about Mr. Sasaki before, least of all to me. “Thank you, sir,” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “This town looks out for its own.” I nodded and went home. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, sick with worry over Mr. Sasaki. Daddy offered to take me out on the boat on the lake for some fishing, but I didn’t want to. Even Tuck, our old hound dog, seemed restless and uncertain. A frantic knock on the door roused me, made Tuck yelp. Uncle Bobby didn’t wait for an answer and pushed the door open. “Come on,” he said. I looked at Mama and Daddy. They didn’t say anything, and we all followed Uncle Bobby down to the jailhouse. The main street was full of people. Everyone in the town must have been there. I caught sight of Mr. Sasaki on the porch of the jailhouse. He made a small bow in my direction, and I returned it. I shifted my attention to the big black car parked in front. The Feds stood with their arms limp at their sides, waiting like the rest of us. A man stepped out of the big black car, his door opened by his Black driver. He was dressed like something from a magazine, fine looking suit, brimmed-edge hat, and skin so smooth it glowed in the soft December sunlight. With a smile, he pulled that expensive-looking hat off his head. I went closer so I could hear him. The Feds took a step back. “You’ll follow me inside, boys,” the fancy man said, his voice so low it vibrated. To my surprise, they obliged and followed him inside the jailhouse, the sheriff, Uncle Bobby, and the judge following with Mr. Sasaki. I made to go too, but Daddy held me back. “Who is that man?” I asked. “Big Cappy Jones,” he replied, keeping his eye on the jailhouse door. Everyone knew who Big Cappy Jones was, but I’d never seen him. He lived in the big plantation house on the other side of the Lake, the fancy side. He had dozens of sharecroppers working his land and calling him “Big Mister” like nothing had changed in eighty years. What he said around these parts went, no matter the color of your skin. Word was he knew everyone worth knowing, all the way up to the King of England. The whole town stood in the street and on the sidewalk, the winter wind whipping around us like water around river stones. After awhile, the door opened. Big Cappy got in his car and drove away. The Feds didn’t say a word, but their hangdog expressions said enough. The sheriff and judge shook hands, and the judge got in his own car and left. Mr. Sasaki and Uncle Bobby came to us. “They won’t bother him anymore,” Uncle Bobby said. “Would you like to have some tea?” Mr. Sasaki asked. “All of you?” Mama, Daddy, and Uncle Bobby all mumbled excuses about this and that. They liked Mr. Sasaki, but the thought of tea was a step too far. I was over the moon. We sat on the mats, and Mr. Sasaki brought a bowl, one I had never seen before, to replace the one I had broken. It was just as beetle-shiny, but black with water and pearl divers painted in red all around it. He didn’t offer for me to help, but performed every step himself, carefully and with a contented smile on his lips. At last he bowed, offering me the bowl. No one bothered him throughout the long days of the war. Midway through, we could no longer get the powder, as supplies of matcha ran dry with the embargo. He grew herbs in a small garden and ground them up. We kept taking tea until he died, peacefully, in his bed, a year after the war ended. He left a note for me alongside all his tea things. It read only: Musume . Daughter. (Inspired by the true story of Sachihiko Ono Murata.)


I gazed upon the groups of people in front of me, I looked at the people I once considered my friends. I smile, knowing full well that this would be the last time I see them. They have already made the decision for me; I have already made the decision. I sit down in my little dark corner, thinking about the people I used to care about. They have stopped caring a long time ago, and so have I. But I think about what could have happened, the relationships we could have had. Before I knew it, the bell had rung and everyone was heading back to class after the PE lesson. I go deep into thought. What’s the meaning of life? Why do we exist? Why are some people just there to be someone’s personal punching bag? A while later, we’re dismissed. It’s the last day of school for the year, yet I head home without saying my goodbyes. They don’t need it anyway. I reach home, it’s on the 10th floor of the apartment building. I place my bag down and change into some nice clothes. I turn on my laptop and look at the document I had written long ago in preparation for this. I’ve been thinking about it for years, weighing the pros and cons. Unfortunately, the pros heavily outweigh the cons. I leave the document open and post it on Reddit and my social media. It’s time. I head to the open window and look up at the sky, and then down to the trees. I grab the stool and placed it beneath the window ledge and stand on it. I smile, knowing that I won’t have to live a life of solitary confinement. I’ll be free, free from all my troubles. The people that hate me won’t have to see my face anymore. I’m ready. I let my body fall forward and I close my eyes, feeling the wind against my face. I’ve never felt so free. And, just as how I had come into this world exactly 13 years ago, out of the darkness into brightness, I delve from the brightness into the darkest darkness possible. It’s all over. It’s all over, there is no afterlife, there is no heaven or hell. That’s just something humanity tells itself in order to make the idea of death seem less scary. But deep down, we all know. No matter what people say, death is inevitable. Everyone dies eventually, and one day our names will be forever forgotten. Even if it takes hundreds or even thousands of years, we will be forgotten someday. People are different, in the sense that, we’re able to think as we do. You’re able to read this, people were able to engineer and construct the device you’re viewing this on. We built a society, yet this society will be forgotten one day. If we ever venture out into the stars, people might live on, yet humanity will not. We won’t be the same. Death is inevitable, no matter what you do, it will find you. Humanity as a species will cease to exist someday. As the saying goes: There are two things we cannot avoid in Life, Death and Taxes.