“You are going to die today if you don’t do this right. And I mean literally.” “I know,” I squeeze out between clenched teeth. I pull the arrow as far as I possibly can without breaking the bow’s string and aim. My fingers let go of the arrow. It lands a few inches away from the centre of the target. I curse. ****** It’s my WWL today. Who Wins Lives. I’ve been training for this day for the entirety of my life. To ensure that I have a life after WWL. Quite simply, whoever wins, lives. The title should have been Who Loses Dies. That is a more accurate way of explaining it. If I don’t win, they’ll kill me. This is a necessary annual ritual in which every seventeen-year-old in Lakeshore must compete in, consisting of a written test, archery, and a sword fight. This year, there are only two participants. Me and Douglas. Doug. My ex. Why ex, you ask? We were forbidden from seeing each other when our families found out that we were the same age. Oh no, not because they knew one of us would die and it would break the other’s heart. It was because we might reveal strategies to each other by accident. Yeah, I know, real sweet of them. Right now, I’m practising my archery. Let’s just say it’s not going too well. Christina is getting increasingly worried, as I miss every target, my hands and eyes unable to coordinate. “I can’t lose you today Catarina, please try to concentrate.” “I’m trying, for god sake!” I yell, and this time the arrow hits the target. “Bullseye.” ****** I enter the arena, Christina and Mother flanking me on my sides. Mother’s face is worn out, greying hair visibly appearing at her temples. She can’t lose another child. She just started healing from the pain of losing Cassandra. So, I need to win, for my mother’s sake. But I can’t let Doug die either, now can I? So, who do I choose, lover or mother? ****** “Residents of Lakeshore, welcome to the six hundredth edition of Who Wins Lives! This is a groundbreaking idea which was suggested by the scientists of the Future Life committee to ensure that the population consists of only the best individuals. Only the smartest, most focused and brave individuals will remain in society and will be able to contribute to its growth. No one else deserves to live.” “All these people in the arena today have successfully passed this ritual, which is why they were able to continue their lives and bring in the next generation.” “Our first participant for today is Catarina Maria, daughter of Victoria Maria!” I get up from my seat and walk towards my assigned spot. I think I’m going to throw up. “Going against her is Douglas Jackson, son of Genevieve Jackson!” Doug walks from the other end of the arena and flashes me a smile. I smile back painfully. He stands next to me, and I feel my stomach start to hurt. I don’t want to die today. But I don’t want him to die either. Feeling him so close to me makes me want to pounce on him, but I restrain myself by thinking about WWL. The nausea returns. ****** Writing a test may seem daunting by itself but having to do in the middle of an arena with an entire town noting your every move is a very different experience. The test consists of questions about responding to real-life situations and some about archery and sword fighting. It’s a pretty simple and straightforward test, with both of us acing it and passing with full points. Now, archery. The targets begin to move around, and my fingers fumble trying to reach for the arrow. By the time I get one arrow out, Doug has already shot three of his targets, hitting the centre each time. He looks at me and smirks, and then his smirk disappears all of a sudden. Now his expression becomes decisive as if he’s figured something out. I shoot at my targets, still confused at his immediate mood change. He slows down his shooting, on purpose. He thinks I was trying to let him win. Now he’s trying to let me win. He doesn’t realise the simple fact that I’m terrible at archery. Now I’ll show him. Both of our movements slow down. I take my time to reach for another arrow, and then drop it on the ground. Then when I pick it up, it slips from my fingers once again. Oops. Then he does the same thing. “ENOUGH!” We stop our movements, looking up at Mayor Connery, his voice still echoing through the arena. “I think we’ve had enough of archery.” “But who’s the winner?” I quip sweetly. “It’s a tie.” What? A tie? That means that everything depends on the sword fight now. I look at Doug and regret it immediately. He smiles at me in assurance, and I know what that means. He’s going to let me win. ****** The clang of metal against metal. The feel of dirt under my bare feet. The sweat running down my back as I push my hair out of my face. Doug is being lazy with his blows, letting me swing at him, but never letting me touch him. We keep fighting, none of us touching the other, even when we leave a side exposed. The fight lasts for a long time, none of us ready to let the other die. I’m about ready to collapse. The sweat blurs my vision, and my surroundings start to blackout. Doug senses this and discards his sword. He catches me right before I fall. My head lolls backward, and I can barely make out his face. I hear sounds in the background, people shouting, the mayor trying to calm them down, and asking us to continue the fight. Doug slowly lowers me to the ground, placing my head on his lap. I slowly open my eyes when I feel water being sprinkled on my face. I’m met with Doug’s tired face, immediately relaxing when I regain consciousness. “I think we’ve seen enough.” I crane my head upward and see Mayor Connery standing at the podium, his wig looking tousled. “Today’s WWL has proven that sometimes there are no winners. Sometimes there are only losers. Sometimes everyone deserves to die because no one deserves to live.” Doug helps me up, holding my hip for support. I’m unable to wrap my head around what he just said. Did he mean that both of us...? “Since today’s WWL has been inconclusive, and the participants seem to be unable to understand the rules, both Catarina and Douglas will die today.” “Our future will be much brighter without them.” ****** We hear two cries emanate from two women, Mom and Genevieve. I almost slump to the ground again but stop myself for Doug’s sake. I can’t become weak again, especially at a time like this. Dark clothed men leave the mayor’s side and walk towards us with handcuffs. I quickly look around, trying to find an escape route. But I’m too late. A man is pulling my hands together, fingers digging into my arms. The click of the handcuffs closing is followed by a rough push in the general direction of the guillotine. I fall to the ground, Doug falling next to me, both of us helpless. We’re kicked and shoved, our wrists bleeding by the time we reach the podium. “No! Please don’t do this!” The men don’t listen to my pleas as they position my head under the blade, the basket placed right under my head, ready to bear its weight. I hear Doug resisting, and he finally breaks free of the men who were holding him. “Kill me first!” “No, kill me!” Then the people started shouting too, some taking Doug’s side, some taking mine. People I’ve grown up seeing every day, people who I’ve borrowed bread from, people who’ve loved me and blessed me like their own daughter, some of them in favour of my death. Tears start running down my face. I limp my way towards the podium. “STOP!” Dead silence. “Can’t you see what’s happening? The goal of Future Life has been achieved. They claim to be doing this for our benefit, but what good has come out of it? I considered all of you my family. I loved you like my own. I’m sure Doug did as well. Today you are arguing on which one of your children to kill first.” “I understand the sentiment behind this initiative of our wonderful scientists, population control and all, but what about love? What about all the experiences that we get to miss because of this stupid WWL? What about the people we can’t meet and the places we can’t go?” “You claim to be making the future better, but you’re just making it lonelier.” Dead silence still. Then I hear a cheer. Christina is on her feet, cheering and clapping. Mother starts cheering too, wiping off tears. Slowly, more people begin to cheer. The entire town is cheering now. All of them do love me. They just needed to be reminded. A few boys attack the mayor’s men and free me and Doug from the handcuffs. I rub my wrists, feeling the pain but not feeling it too much. I kiss Doug, finally feeling happy again. “From now on, no more Who Wins Lives.” “We are going to live our own lives, without having it taken away.” “From now on, Who Loves Lives.” ******


Jacob sighed; he was struggling to find the perfect birthday gift for his wife. It wasn’t helping that his 8-year-old twin daughters were helping him shop. With his mother-in-law’s sudden illness he had to bring both the twin with him because his wife wanted to take care of her mother. It had been a hard year for his wife. First her father past without warning and she lost her dream job as the top writer for the city’s newspaper. Now eight month later her mother was sick with little hope of getting better. He wanted to find the perfect gift to cheer up his wife. “I know what mama wants.” Cleo said tugging on her father’s sleeve. “She would love a doll.” “No, she would want chocolate.” Angela smiled as if she had known the answer. She picked up a chocolate heart. “I am pretty sure your mom would rather not have a doll and I would like to get your mom something more creative that a chocolate heart.” Jacob told his daughters. The three of them had just looked at their sixth store and the twins were getting tired. Cleo was slowing down and had started naming off everything she saw as a possible gift idea. Angela on the other hand was trying to pick the best gift for her mother in order to one up her sister. “What about this?” Cleo picked up a pastel floral tea set. “Mom doesn’t like tea.” Angela told her twin sister in a know-it-all tone. “She likes coffee.” “You should have asked Aunt CeCe.” Cleo added tiredly to her father. “I have known your mother for over 16 years, and not once have I had to ask Aunt CeCe for help finding your mother a gift.” “What about a typewriter?” Angela said quietly looking up at a typewriter sitting in an antique store. “Mama loves writing, and she doesn’t have one.” Jacob turned to look at the typewriter Angela was talking about. It was an old typewriter, but it looked almost new. The black paint on it shined, which is what caught Angela’s attention. The keys were a bit warn, but still looked to be in good condition. “I’m not sure.” While Jacob knew his wife loved to write she had not been able to write since she lost her job. “It could be what your mom needs to write again.” “Let’s go look at it.” Angela said as she grabbed her father’s arm. They went into the antique shop and went straight to the typewriter. “It’s a special typewriter.” An elderly lady walked over to Jacob. The lady had dark grey hair that went pass her shoulders. Her eyes were brown with golden specks. She was dressed in all black. “It’s magic.” The twins giggled when the lady said the typewriter was magic. “How is it magic?” Both the twins asked at the same time. “This typewriter brings good luck to whoever uses it.” The old lady smiled at the girls. “The last owner of this typewriter had their book published.” “Well that has nothing to do with the typewriter. The last owner must have been a really good writer.” Jacob told the girls and the old lady. “You won’t be disappointed with this typewriter. You can bring it back if you are unsatisfied with it, but I don’t think you will.” “Please dad.” Angela and Cleo begged at the same time. “Well if you girls both agree it’s a good gift then I guess I will have to get it.” “Do you want me to box it up and wrap it for you?” The lady picked up the typewriter and took it to the counter. On his wife’s birthday Jacob and the twins made her breakfast in bed. The toast was burnt, the eggs were to runny, the bacon was barley cooked, but the coffee was just the way she loved it, creamer and sugar. “Thank you.” Linda, Jacob’s wife, smiled. She kissed Jacob’s cheek and then hugged both the twins. She took a bite of the burnt toast and then took a sip of her coffee. “We got you a gift.” Angela told her mother as Cleo ran out of the room to get the neatly wrapped present. “I picked it out all on my own.” “Why don’t you girls help me unwrap it.” Linda said when Cleo brought the box in. Cleo and Angela jumped at the chance to unwrap the box, which they did within seconds. They handed the now unwrapped box to their mother who was still sitting in bed next to her husband. “A typewriter.” Linda said surprised. “A magic typewriter.” Cleo smiled. “Magic typewriter?” Laughed Linda. “What is so magical about a typewriter?” “The lady said it brings good luck.” Angela pipped in. “What lady?” Linda whispered to her husband. “The lady that sold us the typewriter told us that it brings good luck to whoever uses it.” Jacob whispered back. “She was probably just saying that to get us to buy it.” “Why don’t you use the typewriter now.” The twins said at the same time. Linda looked at the typewriter siting in her lap. “Sure, just let me think about what to write.” The twins left the room to let their mother write. Linda went into her office and placed her new typewriter on her desk. Jacob picked up his wife’s half eaten breakfast and her empty mug that had held the coffee. Jacob stopped when he passed Linda’s office and he saw her looking longingly at the typewriter. “What are you thinking Linda?” Jacob asked his wife, startling her. “I can’t write honey. I have tried for months now, but no words are coming to mind.” Linda ran her fingers through her dark brown hair. “Maybe I can’t write anymore.” “Just start typing and see what happens.” Jacob put down the plate and mug he was holding. “What about that novel you always said you wanted to write? Why not try writing that?” Linda looked up at her husband. “I can try.” Once Linda started typing on the typewriter the words came to her. Within three weeks she had finished a rough draft of her novel. Within a few months she finished her novel and sent it to a publisher. By the end of the year she was working with the publisher on getting her story publish. By the next year she was finishing up her next book. Linda, like her daughters, believed in the magic of the typewriter. The twins grow up, and never stopped believing in it’s magic. Even when they were adults with families of their own, they told them the story of the magic typewriter. Jacob on the other hand never truly believed in the magic, but he pretended because he didn’t want to take away the magic his family felt. When Linda died at the ripe age of ninety-four, the typewriter went to Angela. Angela used the typewriter well and, in the time, it was in her possession she went on to write many stories that she never had published in her lifetime. It was Angela’s choice to never have her stories published while she was alive. The stories did get published after her death, when her daughter found them hidden with the typewriter. The story along with the typewriter continues to be passed down passed from generation to generation in that family.


Greetings to you. I suspect you've not met anyone quite like me before. I'm a bit of a puzzle even to myself and to those people I work with and who rely on me. One man perhaps understands me. The one who made me. Some people call him the Magician but there's nothing really magic about him. He made me for his daughter. As a companion for her but also as someone to keep an eye on her. She's a feisty thing and often puts herself into dangerous situations. You think of it as some kind of fantasy, Frankenstein's monster, don’t you? But that was actually a scientific experiment. My creator has perfected that method and now he makes lots of machines like me. I look like a plain old domestic cat, don't I? Well, indeed there is a bit of that animal in me. The animus, it's called. I have a vague memory of a cat-like existence. But I am also a highly developed machine that can process data faster than most computers, and that can interact effectively with humans. My first mistress and I got on well. But then I had a reason to leave and she wasn't sad. She was pragmatic. So was my master. He was going to create another machine for her, with the animus of a snow-leopard, I believe. An attractive creature, possibly even more attractive than me. Yes it was all very rosy and cosy. Arabella liked to explore and I was happy to keep her company. The cat part of me enjoyed hunting for mice and rats. Naturally I had to either kill them or let them go because a machine such as I cannot digest biological matter. I usually let them go again; they were part of the ecological balance on that planet. One day we were in the caves that border our town. I could detect something human in there. I could smell whoever it was and all of my other sensors also suggested human activity. It took several days to find her. But what a shock when I did. The poor girl was covered in sores and nasty red patches on her skin. She was also very small. She looked like a Terrestran. "You look unwell, Madam," I said to her. "Can my mistress and I be of any assistance?" "I don't feel too bad today," she said. "At least it's cool in here. And dark. It's the sunlight that harms me the most." "May I examine you?" I asked. "I only need to place a paw on your wrist." She nodded her agreement. What an assault on my robotic senses, though, and even the cat part of me was somewhat overwhelmed. Cellular exzenema and possibly the worst case in the whole universe. This child should have never been allowed to develop. I was able to interpret her thoughts. Her name was Petri and I could see straight away that there was a history of a loving father who had not allowed her embryo to be destroyed even though the disease had been discovered whilst she was still in a petri-dish. "You're all alone here," said Arabella. "What about your friends and family?" "They come here every so often and I visit them. But I like being on my own." "What if I left Catbo with you? He'd be good company and he's very clever. You wouldn't mind, would you, Catbo?" I bowed slightly. "I am here to serve you, Mistress. It is as you wish." "Please stay with her, Catbo. She shouldn't be on her own." So I stayed. She was a little wary of me at first. She ignored me. She just got on with whatever she was doing. She even gave me the slip - or tried to - occasionally. I'm really much too wily for her to succeed at that. I kept a discreet distance from her, but watched her carefully. She really had made a nice little home for herself in the caves. She had a small kitchen. It had a drawer for delivering readymade meals. Every so often a house droid came and cleaned and tidied for her. She had made one cave into a sitting room and another into a bedroom. She had a small alcove set up as a study. There was running water and electricity. I could charge myself. Whilst she was sleeping I was able to look at her dataserve. She was a good girl. A good daughter, I could see. Her school work was all up to date - which I could definitely not say about my former mistress. And there was so much evidence of her searching for a cure for her terrible disease. If only she would let me help her. I can process information a hundred times as fast as a human and I can communicate directly with dataserves. Very occasionally, when she was tired, she would forget herself and run her fingers through my fur as if I were a real cat. Then I would obligingly purr, run my cheeks against her arm or roll over for my tummy to be tickled. I've even been known to lick my bottom or fart to keep the illusion going. No. Not illusion. There is still a very small part of me that is cat. One day she had to go up to the surface for a school meet or some such. She was in agony when she came back. She'd been very careful about wrapping herself up but even so she was covered in painful blisters and she was burning up. She burst into tears. "It hurts so much, Catbo. It really does." I set to immediately. I urged her to use her wands. She was due some medication then anyway and she had a palliative wand but I could see it only took the very edge off her pain. I contacted the medics and ordered them to do something. Within ten minutes there were two powerful wands in the delivery draw. One was to ease the pain and the other was to make her sleep. "You are so good to me, Catbo," she said as she snuggled down in bed. I could tell the pain was easing and she was becoming drowsy. She slept well and in the morning she seemed quite perky. Most of the blisters and blotches had disappeared. "Thank you so, so much," she said. "You are a clever little cat." "I am but a machine, Mistress," I replied. "And may I suggest that you allow me to conduct some of your searches? I can find and process the information much more quickly than you can." "You can?" She hadn't realised. "Of course. That is one of my main functions." "Well then, let's do it." She laughed. She actually laughed. I don't think I'd heard her do that before. "Mistress." I bowed and started work straight away searching via her dataserve. So from then on she allowed me to help. We searched and searched. We found new things to try. Some worked a little, some not at all. She became better at managing her pain. Then one day it all went away. Her father - not the biological one who rescued her from a petri dish,- sadly he was killed in an accident at work - but her adoptive father, attachment of her step-mother, this adoptive father was a high-ranking diplomat and she began gradually taking over his role as he also became ill. Inhabitants of another planet were able to affect the cure for her. There were tough negotiations but in the end she was cured. Completely. You might think I feel a certain amount of frustration at that but you'd be wrong. I am glad for her, really glad. She now leads a normal life - in some respects anyway. Life can never be completely the same as that of another young girl for her - she has so much responsibility. Anyway, can a machine feel frustration? Can I feel glad for her? And yet I do. I'm always busy helping her. I've been able to look up information for her rapidly. I've advised her on some courses of action and I've been able to alert her to enemy space craft approaching the planet. I have even become her confidant on matters of the heart. Only the other day she said to me, "What shall I do about Toby?" "Do you love him?" I asked "Or is this just lust?" "I adore him. I want him with me always. But will he be too much of a distraction?" "Mistress, you may be even more distracted if you keep him distant," I replied. I now observe they are spending much more time together and she is happier. And naturally from time to time I am just cat. It's puzzling to me that I have become this instinctive creature that can love and hate, despise and respect, and even be sad or happy. Her adoptive father has now died. She needs me less in some ways because she has so many other people around her. And she needs me more in other ways because he was her mentor and friend as well as a father and she misses that. Plus, her step-brother, the biological son of her adoptive parents, is a very difficult child. And he has become more difficult since his father died. He has befriended a droid. Norman. An enemy droid. So, I have been busy. I have managed to preserve the animus of her adoptive father. I am attempting to link it to the droid, Norman. Thus, she will have her mentor still and her step-brother will have his father. The enemy will also stop being the enemy. I understand what you're thinking. Why doesn't he appeal to his own creator? Is this moral what he's doing? Is it safe? Well, I have to keep this so secret. It has to happen without anyone noticing. I'm safe talking to you. You are our past. Even if you write this down for future generations it’s so fantastical, isn't it, that people who read it will think it but a fairy tale. Norman is beginning to act like their father. The other day I heard him say to Petri: "Go girl!" That was her father's pet phrase whenever she was facing something difficult. I'm not so sure how this will develop. So, I'm warning you. Look at me. A mere cat and a mere machine have developed into something much more ... sentient, intelligent? What may happen if we use a human animus in the first place? Now, I'm working for the general good and so is Norman. But could it swing the other way? Please be careful.


She opens the door to her building and starts quickly up the steep, narrow stairs of her fourth floor walk-up. The first floor wreaks of garbage as always. The second smells of heavenly spices and garlic and home. She whips around the third bannister and the familiar smell of weed wafts over her, instinctively easing the tension in her shoulders before the last flight and then she arrives. 4B. The apartment she’s lived in for the past four years. She frantically turns her key, leaving it dangling from the lock, door open. She throws her bag on the small weathered futon and darts into the bathroom. Incredible relief washes over her. Finally. Sitting on the toilet she silently thanks a god she doesn’t believe in. She drank too much. Again. It happens here. Her hungry cat slinks about her feet insisting on more food which she forgot to buy. Again. She’s too tired. Half a bowl will suffice until morning. But Lady won’t back down, that knowing, judgmental look in her eyes. Fine Lady, you win. She always does. She reluctantly heads back downstairs to get some meow mix at the deli next door. While she’s at it, a cup-a-noodle. As she finishes paying, a man asks what she’s up to. She stares blankly at him, grabs the black plastic bag, goes back up stairs, puts the meow mix in Lady’s bowl and heats up her cup-a-noodle. Sometimes a warm cup of msg and freeze dried corn and carrots is all she needs to ease her soul. We don’t have much time left here anyhow, or so they say. She opens her laptop and turns it on. Bing bong. Why is it bing bong now? She ponders how much she spent on a new model only for this discernible difference before she begins to type all the alcohol induced wisdom she can manage before collapsing onto her already unmade bed. She wakes a little while later with the sun, she forgot to close her curtain. Her head feels particularly hot and sweaty. It seems Lady has made herself comfortable there. Her tail swishing back and forth with that regal entitlement cats possess, emboldened by the seemingly inherent knowledge that they’ve been a worshipped breed. And here she is, Lady’s humble human servant, to have when she feels like it and hold when it suits her till death does them part. She’s resigned to getting up, knowing she won’t be able to get back to sleep now. She always has trouble. Alcohol doesn’t help. But the momentary relief seems to outweigh that fact. She puts on some coffee, places a piece of bread in the oven and fries two eggs. The pan she has is so old no matter how much oil she uses they always come out sloppy, but she doesn’t mind. She goes to pour the coffee, strategically holding the lip of the pot as she pours. The handle comes off if you don’t. She’ll spend a fortune on electronics but won’t buy new kitchenware. She eats her eggs and toast and drinks the strong black coffee, easing the ache in the back of her head from not sleeping enough. Ok, back to work. She opens her laptop to see what she managed to get through last night. Bing bong. There’s gotta be a way to change that. Alright, where was she? Yes... “We’re all going in circles trying to find our purpose before the machine stops. For generations they’ve told us it will. Countless tales of self destruction and post apocalyptic circumstances but we somehow seem to survive. Survive to tell the tales and to write more.” That suddenly seems more frightening. An eternal machine. That the machine will never stop, but will prevail no matter the circumstance. Or perhaps it’s comforting? She wants to believe that if the machine doesn’t stop it is in part because the good in us prevails and prevents a total loss of humanity. But who knows? And then, what is her purpose? What is the purpose of any of this? Oh no, she’s going down the spiral again. A tidal wave closing in on her and the significance of anything she’s ever done or thought. She shuts her computer. She needs a break. She goes to yoga. On her way back stops for a bite to eat. She remembers she wanted to grab some things at the drug store, call her mom, send a package to her cousin for her birthday. Ok, she’s feeling better, more grounded. She can revisit her writing about the possible end of the world now. Just then she gets a message from her friend. Boodle doop doop. Really? She looks through her settings and sees this fun new noise is called “spunky fever”. The message is from her friend inviting her out for a drink. She could spare a little time for one drink I guess. I mean what’s the point of anything if you’re not going to spend time with the people you care about right? She goes. They have a glass of wine, then two. Talk about life and love and hopes and dreams and silly mundane things. They have a couple more glasses because it’s two for one and it gets her out of her head. But then she looks at the time which suddenly feels suffocating. It’s so much later then she planned on being out. How has she wasted the whole day? She apologizes to her friend but she has to run. She leaves some cash and slips out of the bar down into the nearest subway. She accidentally makes eye contact with a guy who is about to say something but the subway doors open and she quickly gets on. She turns around and sees through the glass that he is asking someone else for directions. She feels bad but can’t erase the experience that has taught her not to take those chances. She’s finally back in front of her building and starts cursing herself for getting distracted. She makes the rounds of steep stairs back up to her apartment in a frenzy: garbage, spices, weed, 4B. Bypassing Lady’s charms she goes straight to her laptop and opens it wildly, determined to get to the bottom of it this time. This time . She looks at the clock. It’s still early enough. This time is a tricky character. She reads back: “I feel like I’ve been stuck, my whole life. I keep trying to write. It feels like I need to write. But just when I begin to get to the bottom of it it feels as though my mind hits a wall and can’t move forward. So I don’t, I get caught up in the machines distractions. There are so many. Friends, and shows and books and articles and outings and events and parties and dinners and then I don’t even know who I am anymore or what I wanted to begin with. Oh yes, to write! To write. But what? And it feels as if I have to start all over again and once I’m making real progress the wall comes. I wonder if the machine controls this wall? It must. And then not everyone can break through the wall can they? Or at least not all at once. It has to be spaced out, regulated. I have faith. I have faith the machine will let me through when the time is right.” There’s a loud knock at the door. That’s always alarming here when you’re not expecting someone. She waits, maybe they got the wrong apartment. Another knock comes, louder and more insistent this time. She makes her way cautiously to the door when her phone dings- boodle doop doop. She takes it out of her pocket. It’s an unknown number. She reluctantly opens it. “It’s time.” is all it says. She carefully looks back at the door. “Time?” She squeaks out, as if it might finally be time itself in the flesh and everything will make sense or explode or spin out of control. Or maybe she really did drink that much this time and time has come to collect her. “Time waits for no one.” Replies a forced husky voice. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes knowing who that voice belongs to. “Ughh, asshole!” She unlocks and opens the door, breathing a sigh of relief. His flight must’ve gotten in early. He continues in the forced husky voice. “That’s Father Time to youuu.” He makes himself into a spooky ticking clock with both hands shooting straight up and his right “hand” ticking down. “You’re ticking backwards mister time.” “I am all mighty Timeeee.” His voice returns to his normal tenor register. “I can tick however I want, yo.” She smirks and goes to put on some tea. Father Time makes himself comfortable on the little futon, strategically dodging a stain left by Lady’s indigestion. “Well ok then, all mighty Time, can you tick us back to our ninth grade talent show and tell me not to wear that tube top that caused my infamous wardrobe malfunction.” She leaves the kettle to boil and joins him on the other side of the stain. “Hey, you got loads of numbers from that.” “Yeah and they all just wanted to know if they were real.” “And...?” She shoots him a look. “You know they are. One hundred percent homegrown fat bags here. That do nothing for you.” “Yes, sadly. They are fun though, havin’ a ball just bouncin’ down the street.” Looking down fondly at her chest, “Yeah, they like to party.” She giggles and then looks back up, her mood suddenly shifting. She rests her head against the back of the futon, looking up. “I miss you.” She looks down at her phone trying to make out the time but the numbers are all blurry and jumbled. She sighs. A heavy wind whips through the browning trees outside making the crispy leaves chatter. “I miss you too.” “It hurts so much, some days I feel like it takes everything I have not to just- ” There’s an abrupt, high pitched scream. She wakes with a start, slouched on the futon, laptop on her chest, Lady sitting to her right staring at her. The kettle is whistling fervently. She goes to turn the kettle off, feeling hungover. Her hand sleepily reaches for an Earl Grey tea bag from the glass jar next to the stove and rips open the wrapper. She always reads the daily inspirational note on the little paper tag at the end of the string, however cheesy. “Nice talking with you.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, is she still dreaming? She looks back at the little paper. “Talk nicely to yourself.” A bit foggy from her nap it seems. She places the tea bag into her Crazy Cat Lady mug and pours the steaming water over it carefully, drags herself back to the futon and opens her laptop once more. There’s a blank page other than these words she does not remember writing. “The time is right, now.” She looks out at the trees, they rustle knowingly. She looks back at the screen, the wall has lifted and it all begins to flow.


I'm here today to tell you how to get happy again when you are sad. It's by making chicken soup. First step is to do something you regret and get upset about it. Then go to the fridge and get out a few carrots, an onion, celery stalks, and your chicken. Find a nice big pot and put it on the stove and drizzle in some olive oil. Take a sharp knife and start cutting vegetables. The nice thing about making chicken soup when you are sad is that you don't have to be very precise or specific with the cutting. Just hunk them up into uneven shapes, moderately bite sized, maybe not, and throw them into the pot. Wanna keep the skin on the onion because you are too upset to spend the effort? Not a problem. Knife too much work and you just want to break the veggies into pieces with your bare hands? Great stress relief, not a bad idea actually. And now the kitchen smells like cooking onions which is the first sun break to reach your shaded heart. Next part is the part that kinda sucks, but honestly getting happy isn't always a wholly enjoyable process. Neither is working with raw chicken. So you pull the chicken out of the wrapper and despite your best efforts immediately get raw chicken juices on the counter. A little even splashes on the clean apron you just put on. Into the pot goes the chicken, into the trash goes the wrapper. Now you spend the next 10 minutes cleaning the counters which is actually pretty therapeutic. A good clean kitchen counter is an inherently satisfying thing. You forgot to put water in the pot while you were cleaning but that doesn't even matter, chicken soup is the least picky thing you could make. The perfect companion to a frustrated self-loathing chef. You add a bunch of water but don't measure or really think too hard, cause you can always add more later or boil some off. It's a lesson in flexibility you could probably stand to heed right now. Bring to a boil, pop on the lid, turn the heat to medium, and go take a shower cause you need it. In the bathroom you realize your favorite podcast updated two days ago and you didn't listen yet, so you crack a cheeky 4pm shower beer and turn on the speaker and do some grooming. 25 minutes later you are warm and clean and smell nice and are laughing about something stupid from a video game fifteen years old with a 45 year old comedian and her brother. You open the bathroom door and are greeted with the smell of hot chicken soup, preliminary yet still inviting. Getting dressed and entering the living room you see your partner on the couch, clearly also in a better mood than before your shower. It's funny what a half hour away from your neuroticisms can do. The smell of chicken soup is also helping that equation balance out. You walk over and kiss them on the forehead and laugh about whatever silly thing they tell you from the article they are reading and head back into the kitchen. The soup is boiling a little too hard and has spilled on the stove, but it's not a huge deal because it isn't a sugary creamy mess and is easy to clean. The chicken isn't upset either, nor the root vegetables. Turn down to a simmer, add salt, pepper, and any herbs and spices that inspire you and are within reach and recover the pot. Remember you left your beer in the bathroom and literally only took one sip, retrieve it, and return to uncover the pot and stare at your soup for about five minutes. During this time of deep meditation and wonderful aromas you realize that you definitely were a little wrong earlier and maybe apologizing wouldn't be the end of the world. Forget to recover the pot (doesn't matter) as you head into the other room to own up to your faults and realize that your partner forgave you long before you forgave yourself. Crying optional at this point. Return to the kitchen and stare at the soup with your partner this time, chatting about whether you actually need salad to go with the inevitable garlic bread and realize that you are now happy. Cook soup for 30 minutes-3 hours more, dish up, enjoy. Rinse and repeat as needed to maintain a happy life and a healthy relationship.


I grew up in a piece of shit. Well, I suppose it’s called a mobile home. But it sure seems like a piece of shit. It smells like one too. Cigarette smoke, cat pee and the raw sewage smell from the nearby plant create a trifecta of nasal nastiness. My mom and dad don’t seem to notice the smells. Perhaps they have gotten used to it over time. Or perhaps smoking meth daily did something to their sense of smell? All I know, is that when the chemical stench of it is added to the cigarette, pee and sewage smells, I HAVE to avoid my parent’s room. I share a tiny bedroom with my twin brothers, Bud and Al. For being twins, they are not similar at all! I’d say about as similar as the Minnesota Twins and the Twin Towers. Bud is always smiling. I sometimes wonder if he even *knows* how to frown. He’s genuinely the funniest, kindest person I have ever met. Bud is always there for me when I need him. Loving relationships are almost nonexistent in our family. Bud is the only one I truly love. Al on the other hand, is a huge asshole. Don’t get me wrong, he can be fun occasionally. The fun never lasts very long though. His anger is always present, millimeters beneath the surface. His violent outbursts terrify me. I hate Al. My brothers never get along, and this evening is no different. They always fight about the same issue. Constantly, they argue about who gets to spend time with me. “Come on, you spent the last three days watching Youtube videos with Bud. Why can’t you do something with me this evening,” Al asked pleadingly. I replied, “You’re an angry asshole, Al. Why would I want to do anything with you?” Al appeared hurt, stung by the truth that I spoke. “It’s not my fault,” Al shot back defensively. “How could I not be angry, living in this stinky ass, meth den of a trailer.” Always kind and loving, Bud stepped in with a gentler tone. “I know it’s not your fault, but I still think he should spend the evening with me,” Bud urged. Suddenly, I heard a loud crash from outside my bedroom. Oh no, I know this sound too well! It’s the sound of my parents bedroom door flying open. “Shut up,” I yelled angrily at my brothers. “You really did it this time.” The thumping of a meth addict’s frantic footsteps followed, crossing the tiny trailer in a matter of seconds. The torn sheet that served as my bedroom door was ripped down, with one violent jerk. My father’s face appeared, his eyes unpredictable and wild. Fear gripped my heart and sank my stomach as I looked at this miserable excuse of a man. I know exactly what he will say to me.


There was nothing festive or Christmassy about lobster, and he would not be convinced otherwise. Throwing a few shrimps on the “barbie” and calling it Christmas dinner was clearly deranged. The sheer convenience of it upset him, never mind the distinct lack of stodge. Bowls of roast veg, glazed in honey, a rich, thick gravy (none of this watery piss either), a tangy cranberry sauce, and the pièce de résistance, in the center of it all. Preferably on a red tablecloth decorated with candles and Christmas crackers. Sunlight shone brightly into his kitchen. It barged in like an unwelcome guest. How could anyone possibly celebrate Christmas in the summertime? Another irksome thing about Australian Christmas, even more irksome than nibbling on a charred shrimp that’d been seasoned with chili and lime instead of nutmeg and cinnamon - though he wasn’t a complete moron, he knew that a chili and lime combo was probably for the best in that situation (dare he admit tasty). But still . Christmas in the sun was a paradox. It could not be done. Sure, making sandcastles on the beach was fun (for some, he supposed) but it was not the same as feeling frost on your nose and patting together a snowball in wet gloves, ready to launch square between your brother’s eyes. Nope. No matter how many Christmas songs played in supermarkets, or how many twinkly Christmas trees peered from windows, he could not be tricked. No amount of tinsel or baubles or blow-up Santa’s could conjure the sound of sleigh bells or their ring-a-ling-ding-dong-dings. Not even an angelic church choir dressed as elves with rosy red cheeks and full of cheer could raise his Christmas spirit from the dead. It was staunchly buried, in the bush somewhere. Probably in the knitted red-nosed reindeer sweater that his Grandmother had made him, which he now regretted ever wearing under such duress. Christmas just... didn’t belong here. He was sure of it, but he peeled potatoes and root veg anyway because this year he had been given the task of sharing his version of Christmas - in his opinion, the only version of Christmas. He might not be able to make it snow or bring the cold (he did crank up the aircon, and some might say his personality could do the trick) but he could at least try to recreate the meal. Not to his Mother’s standard, of course, certainly not while maintaining her blood alcohol level - he did intend to sip sherry all day in her honor - but he hoped to get something close to it. Perhaps I can bring the Christmas cheer, he thought, then promptly snorted sherry down his nose. He set the table, positioning the crystal and candlesticks, holly wreath whatever-they-were’s and rolled napkins in ornate holders shaped like deer. He burned incense, some Christmas mishmash but it worked better than he thought. Music played, all the classics. He didn’t mind the cheesy, overplayed ones. In fact, the cheesier the better, much to his friend’s surprise. The kitchen was a steam room. Pots boiled and the oven ticked over nicely. It smelled good, somehow like roasted chestnuts despite the fact he hadn’t made them. Things were going smoothly, and he drowned a mouthful of sherry. He wasn’t altogether pleased with how smoothly it was going - there was a certain jovialness, a frenzied quality that was missing. But he couldn’t help it if he’d executed everything like clockwork - he was an engineer - nor could he help that his own company was not naturally jovial. He needed his friends for that. The doorbell rang just as it occurred to him what a miracle it was that he had any friends at all. He felt a sudden warmness in his heart, a tingling sensation that inspired a feeling of gratitude. Perhaps his Christmas spirit was waking up. “Merry Christmas!” His friends flooded in, all four of them. They took turns to greet him individually, kissing him on the cheek, shaking his hand, socking him on the arm. He was not touchy-feely, but he could make exceptions at Christmas. The commotion of their arrival - how excited they were to spend Christmas with him, their comments on how good the food smelled, their thanks for his hospitality - stirred his spirit even more. He helped them with their coats, which they did not need in 30-degree heat but had worn for his benefit. “Ooh, it’s brisk outside, mate!” said Damo, feigning the cold by hugging his arms. Damien in Australian is Damo, of course. “Help yourself to some mulled wine,” he replied, gesturing over to a vat of fragrant red wine on the side table, “should warm you up nicely.” They all took him up on the offer, ladling some into glasses and taking a swig. There was a mixed reception. Some had had it before, of course, but he felt they needed to try his mulled wine. He was not offended when they made a screwed-up “yuck” face. Those that liked it, had taste. Those that didn’t, did not. Simple. He told them exactly so and gladly took the heat for it while digging out some cold beers and Jim Beam cans from the fridge. What followed was pure merriment if he did think so himself. Everyone pulled crackers and delivered the stale jokes, they donned Santa hats (Damo donned his elsewhere but was quickly reprimanded by Suzie, his long-suffering girlfriend). They shouted: ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’ and snapped photos at every opportunity. And then the meal... It was met with acclaim! They were particularly enthralled with the meat, his pièce de résistance - and the part of the menu that took most of the work. “Mate, that meat was just perfect,” Robbo said, spread out on the sofa. “Yeah,” Charmaine agreed, “I expected turkey.” “Me too,” Suzie said, and the rest agreed. “What actually was that shit?” Damo asked. He was pouring himself another rum and Coke, swaying a little. “Aren’t I glad you asked, Damo,” he said, and smiled. He stood up and asked them to join him. He led them out to the garden, butterflies in his stomach. He was excited to show them the effort he’d put in, to serve them a traditional Christmas dinner. He was proud of himself, and not even the humid air could dampen his mood. He could really feel the Christmas spirit this year. He opened the door to his shed with a flourish, and in a magician’s assistant pose, directed their attention to the wonder inside. “Pièce de résistance!” Suzie gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth. Charmaine screeched and turned away. Damo made a loud retching noise, then followed through. Small bodies, strung up, lifeless and naked. It wasn’t obvious what they were at first. The bench next to them was bloody, and the sharp utensils hadn’t been tidied away yet. There was a bucket on the floor, which, on closer inspection, was full of a watery, reddish brown mixture that appeared to have pink lumps floating in it. “Rabbit,” he said, proudly. But no one was very receptive, apart from Robbo who took a swig of his beer and simply said, “Fair dinkum.” “Danke schön,” he replied, then added, “ mate !” in his best Australian accent. He put an arm around Robbo and brought him closer inside. “This was how my Grandfather prepared Christmas dinner. I wanted to do right by him, make it authentic, you know? I must tell you, though, I still have nightmares about the eyes floating in the bucket." He pointed down, where indeed, on the surface of that sour-smelling mixture, beady little eyes peered up at them, along with a tangle of innards. "Always seemed to stare at me when I was a kid.” He shivered, then laughed abruptly and clapped Robbo on the back. “Did you have to show us like that?” Suzie cried. He supposed not. He knew it would be jarring but he couldn’t help himself. Christmas pranks were a thing in his house too.


“If you need help, you should ask~” Hisashi says. I feel a little embarrassed. I pull my hands away from Hisashi’s. “Sure...” I say. “Thanks...” Hisashi continues smiling. Then he finally goes back to his own crochet piece. He’s farther than me and is crocheting like a master. What is he making...? Has he crocheted before...? I have to stare in awe for a moment. Then I get over it and continue making my necklace. It’s the easiest thing to make in this page of instructions, so that’s why I chose it. “Have you... crocheted before?” I ask. Why am I trying to make conversation...? “I’ve dabbled in a few crafts similar to this~ But this is my first time crocheting. Since I’ve had some experience, and I’m good with my hands, I quickly got the hang of it~” Hisashi explained. He crocheted as he talked. He totally seems like an expert... What does he mean this is his first time... “Oh... I see...” Why do I have to be jealous of the pervert of this camp...? I continue crocheting and it seems like it’s coming along. I glance over at Hisashi again. I pause. His creation has a strange shape... Seriously, what is he making...? “What are you crocheting, Hisashi...?” I ask. Hisashi immediately beams at me. “You want to know?” “Never mind...” I turn my head away. I don’t want to know after all. “Hold on~ You don’t have to be shy~ If you want to know, I’ll tell you~” Hisashi tries to bring me back. I give him the side eye. He holds up his creation. “It’s a pair of underwear~!” He exclaims. I choke on my own spit. I start coughing. Hisashi pats me on the back to help me. What did he just say!? Underwear!? Why is he making something like that!? There’s also no instructions for that, so how is he making that!? “Are you alright~?” Hisashi asks, not sounding too concerned. “What the hell... What are you making that for...” I manage to get out after my coughing fit. Hisashi puts a finger to his chin, thinking. Once he finds his answer, he smiles brightly. “It’s a pair of underwear for you!” I choke again. Is he trying to kill me!? Why is it for me!? I’d rather burn it in a fire than wear it!! “Be careful~” Hisashi says, patting my back again. “I don’t want it!! Why’d you make it!?” I exclaim. “What~? You won’t accept my heartfelt gift~? So mean... Boohoo...” Hisashi pretends to cry. “I don’t care if it’s heartfelt, I don’t want it!!” Didn’t he also hesitate before answering what it was for...? He obviously didn’t make it with me in mind. What is this crazy pervert even trying to do right now!? (This is a tiny part from my story called Camp Criminal. I just wanted to share it because I find Hisashi really funny. This is their first proper conversation. (If that's what you want to call it...) The narrator is Akiara, a boy.


Most men on board the HMS Defiance hadn’t seen their families in years now. When the war first began, men like Lieutenant Shecter were more than eager to serve under Captain Barbosa as Privateers in his majesty’s navy. But that was years ago. Now the weary crewmen hadn’t seen their families in years, their pay was constantly being delayed and there was seemingly no good outcome to the war. Lieutenant Shecter thought on all these things as he approached The Captain’s quarters and knocked hard on the door and was beckoned inside. “I hope I’m not interrupting you, Sir?” He asked as he closed the door behind him. Captain Barbosa set aside his pen and folded his arms neatly on his desk. “Not at all. I can always make time to speak with my right hand. Please have a seat won’t you?” Lieutenant Shecter smiled slightly and sat down. Shecter has served as Barbosa’s right hand for many years now and it was no use trying to hide his thoughts to him as he spoke. “Sir... I’ve come to speak about Fisher.” Barbosa took in a deep sigh and opened a bottle of Scotch and poured himself two glasses deciding he didn’t want to speak about the topic sober. “Yes it was a great tragedy.. unfortunately for our men accidents seem to be deadlier than bullets”. Barbosa then offered him a glass but Shecter refused “Not tonight Sir”. Barbosa drank the glass himself in one go before slamming it back on the table with a thud. “You mustn’t let it get to your head... Fisher was as fine as a sailor I’ve ever seen. But he should have been more careful handling powder like that.” Shecter then began to fidget with his fingernails as he spoke. “Yes. Well rumors have been circulating about his death Sir and I can’t ignore them any longer”. Barbosa then leaned back in his chair with the glass in his hand. “Rumors?” He asked with genuine curiosity. “Sailors love rumors and superstitions Lieutenant I thought you’d be above that.” Shecter however shook his head. “Not this one Sir... There’s a rumor going around that Fisher found out something remarkable. Something we have all been wondering about for some time.” Barbosa became more attentive and nodded “Well what was it?” Shecter then changed the subject at the last second and stood up and began pacing the room before speaking again. “We haven’t weighed anchor in a month now Sir. The last time we did so was back in that harbor town in the Hornish isles and we barely spent an afternoon there.” Barbosa nodded “Is that what this is about? Alright then the next time we spot dry land we’ll weigh anchor and the boys can stretch their legs”. Shecter shook his head. “They don’t want to walk around on some shrub-infested island Sir. They want to go home. They want it to be over”. Barbosa ran his fingers through his beard. “In case you haven’t forgotten our blue-coated enemies guard the coasts of our homeland day and night ensuring we cannot do so. No William not a single one of us will go home until this war has been won.” Shecter’s lip began to quiver before speaking. “What if it was over then? What if the war was over and we all could go home then? What would we do?” Barbosa then drank down the scotch and sighed “Then we’d all sail home as heroes wouldn’t we?” Shecter then raised his eyebrow “Wouldn’t we?” Barbosa then became angry “What are you getting at Shecter? Don’t be coy with me spit it out.” Shecter then reached into his coat and threw down a newspaper onto the desk. “Read it yourself”. Barbosa then took up the newspaper. He didn’t even need his reading glasses as the font on the front page was quite large. “THE WAR IS OVER, CEASEFIRE IN EFFECT IMMEDIATELY”. Barbosa then swiveled his jaw and growled “Where did you get this?” Shecter nodded “Fisher’s sea bag. How long have you known?“ Barbosa then set down the newspaper. “It’s a ruse. I’ve seen this before. The enemy is getting our own sources to print fake papers to dissuade our men still in the f-“ Shecter then exploded in anger “How long have you known Sir?!” Barbosa then stood up to face him man to man. “Watch your tone, Lieutenant. As long as you draw breath on MY ship you will address me with the rank to which I’ve earned.” Shecter began to tighten his fists “Earned? All we have done this entire dreaded conflict was rob and sink merchant ships. We are no better than pirates at this point”. Barbosa then changed the subject. “How many ships do you think we’ve sunk over the years William? 10? 20? Try 68.” He then sank back into his chair. “Don’t you think I’ve gone over this before? If we go back now you lot will spend the rest of your days in a jail cell.. meanwhile I’ll have my appointment with the hangman”. Shecter then nodded “Is that why you murdered Fisher? To save your own ass? What sort of Captain are you?” Barbosa then lunged at Shecter and the two men crashed to the deck with Barbosa’s paws firmly grasped around Shecter’s throat as he shouted. “I am the Captain who has kept you safe for all these years! And I will see my ship drown with all of us on it before I surrender to those bastards!” It was just then that several crewmen breached into the room and grabbed Barbosa and began beating him relentlessly until Shecter stopped them. “Enough! He’s had enough lads!” The men then ripped him from the floor and Shecter spoke with a scratchy voice. “Captain Arthur Barbosa as acting commander of the HMS Defiance and a Lieutenant of the Ticonderogan Empire. I hereby place you under arrest for murder, perjury, and other such war crimes. You will be placed under arrest until your trial.” Captain Barbosa then looked at his former crewmen and only began to chuckle. “You minus well lock yourself away then as well”. Shecter then cocked an eyebrow and asked “What?” Barbosa then flashed a grin. “9 months ago when the war ended. They sent out a letter to all privateers and smugglers still in service.. surrender or be branded as a pirate and face immediate execution.” “We’re all war criminals now William. No one is ever going to go home.


It was Tuesday so, a slow day in the diner. Weekends, everyone is partying. Monday everyone is either hung-over or just sick of starting the same ole shit, new week. Wednesday and Thursday, they begin to look forward to, and make plans for, the weekend. Then Friday begins the cycle again. But Tuesday, Tuesday everyone just “coasts”. They don’t want to go out, so it’s typically our slowest day.  A few usual's were in and out. Now we’re almost empty. It’s just after 11 pm and I see Jason finishing up busing tables at the end of his shift. Jason’s an ex-con. I never got in trouble myself. (Who am I kidding . . . I just never got caught.) So I occasionally pick one getting released and try and give them a better start back in the real world. To help move them off the path I know I narrowly avoided.  Jason cleans tables, and helps out in the kitchen. Sue, the cook, is teaching him a thing or two. He’s not a half bad cook, I’m just not sure he’ll ever have the gumption to seize control and be an actual “cook in command” alone somewhere.  I catch Jason as he’s carrying the last tub of dishes to the back for the night., “Jason, when you get done, if you have a few minutes stop by my office.”  “OK”, he says, head down now, continuing on to the back.  I amble back to the office and begin going through tonight's inventory counts, getting restock orders ready for tomorrow. Five or so minutes later, I hear a knock on the door, and see Jason crack it open and look in. “Come in Jason, have a seat.”  Jason closes the door behind himself, and sits down. Literally “hat in hand”, rolling the rim of the navy blue toboggan around in his hands. “Are you going to fire me?”, he asks.  I look over at him, “What? No, no.”, I pause, slower, “No. I’m not firing you. You’re doing a great job. The diner is spotless. Or at least so clean, last month’s health inspector ask if we’d changed ownership.”, I chuckle, “And Sue says you’re picking up a thing or two in the kitchen. You’re doing fine on the work part.”  I exhale and lean back in my chair, “You ever have one of those moments, where, you’re not exactly having an original thought, you just hear one thing in one place, read another thing somewhere else, next thing you know, two or three seemingly unrelated things come together and you have a realization?”  “I don’t think so.”, Jason looks confused.  “Well OK, it’s been happening to me lately. One of the things was a quote, I can’t remember who said it . . . ‘You should only give advice at two times, when someone asks for it, or because someone is about to hurt themselves.’ I’m gonna break that rule and try and pass on some advice. Maybe it’ll help, maybe it’ll just make things worse. I can see that it’s been hard going for you lately. You’re not the first person I’ve hired right out of prison, or the first person in the job you have now. Maybe some of the customers have picked up on that, and some of the ‘less-nice’ ones are giving you a hard time. And if some are giving you a hard time here, then you’re probably getting the same at your apartment and other places.”  “Sometimes.”, Jason nods.  “There are a lot of bad things about prison. One is that, we (society) take people having a hard time out in the world, and put them in a place that is even harder and more unrelenting. For those not bad to the core, but who just made a few bad choices, we’re not taking the bad and trying to make them good again, we’re instead putting them with even harder, even worse people, and are shocked when they leave prison worse than when they went in.”  Jason leans back in his chair, stops fidgeting with his cap and listens as I continue.  “This is going to sound strange, but I want you to answer a question. You don’t have to answer it out loud, because the answer isn’t for me, it’s for you alone. And I ask myself this question from time to time. It’s sort of a ‘thought experiment’.”  I look down from Jason at my hands on the desk, “Pretend, you know everything you know now. But, the year is 1920, and you are about to be born. With all the understanding you already have, God is asking you . . . ‘Who do you want to be born as?’ Now, most people, knowing what we do about the approaching 1939-1945 years would say, ‘I want to be one of those plucky Americans that sweep the world, leading the charge to halt the forces of evil.’ But, God tells you, ‘Sorry, right now almost everyone wants that. All those positions went fast, and first. There are only two slots open now. You can be a Jew, that will die in Auschwitz at the age of 22, or, you can be an SS officer in charge of exterminating prisoners in the same camp.’ Who do you choose to be?”  I lean back in my chair and look at Jason, who understandably seems confused and continue, “I think about the question a lot, during my idle moments. If ‘saving yourself or saving others’ wasn’t an option, would I choose to be ‘Victim’? Or ‘Victimizer’?, if those were my only options. It’s a hard choice. Maybe an impossible one. No one wants to be the lamb, the victim. And (hopefully) only a few want to be the wolf, the victimizer. Many more, wish/hope/pray that they can be the sheep-dog. Someone able to protect themselves, and fend off any foes (wolves), and not be an innocent lamb waiting to be slaughtered. But, we’re not all built to be sheep-dog’s, mentally or physically. And even if we were at one point earlier in our lives, as the years pass, health, reaction times, and muscle strength inevitably declines, even those that were once sheep-dogs, drift towards the lamb end of the spectrum.”  Still seated, but leaning a little over the table, hands flat on the desk now as I look directly at Jason, “Prison teaches you to be a wolf. It reinforces the idea that there are no sheep-dog’s. No one is going to save you. And you can either be a wolf or a sheep. You had to be a wolf in there, just to survive. But, now, you’re not in prison any more. You’re back out in the ordinary world where people live their lives, and make most of their decisions out of FEAR. And most likely, the people who treat you badly, are afraid of you. I’ve seen the way some of the people treat you as you clear the tables. If it’s a regular, or someone I know, I try and correct their behavior. But I can’t always catch everyone, some are just strangers passing through, plus I’m not always there, when you have to deal with people other places.”  I lean back in my chair again, clasp my hands together, interlacing the fingers on the desk and look up at Jason, “The last five years have reinforced you to be a wolf. And now you’ve back out among the lambs. So, whenever someone raises their voice to you, or demeans you, you instantly flash back to being surrounded by wolves in prison. Your trained instinct is to ‘be a wolf back’, to protect yourself from them. So, I’m going to ask you do the hardest possible thing. I’m going to ask you to ‘Have Mercy On Them.’ Now, understand. It’s not going to ‘get you anything’. Not exactly. People won’t suddenly, or maybe ever, respect you. They won’t turn their personalities around and start treating you better.”  I pause, “Like many of us, you’re not really in the position to be the sheep-dog. Fresh out of prison, if you fight, even justifiably so, you’ll take the hit as the ‘wrong party’ no matter who started it. But, I’m not asking you to be the lamb either. I’m asking you to *‘Know you are a wolf, choose to have mercy on them and not strike back.'* Not out of weakness, or fear on your part, but out of the strength of knowing after five hard years of prison, you could probably rip one of their arms off and beat them to death with it. To hold yourself steady in the face of simple verbal abuse, out of the strength of being a wolf who chooses to have mercy on those who, most likely, don’t deserve it.”  I shake my head, “I’m probably not making sense.”, I exhale again and stand up from the chair, “It doesn’t matter. Head on home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night Jason.”, I stand and extend my hand to shake his, as he rises and returns the handshake.  Jason stops on his way out with the door half open, pauses for a moment looking back at me, “Thanks boss. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  And I wonder as the door gently closes, if the wolf in Jason has made a decision.


France 1918 Staring at the now limp form, lying on the trench floor in front of him, Bert began to shake uncontrollably. Looking down at the rifle in his hands, he recoiled in horror at the shock of what he had become, and as he tossed the weapon to the ground, it now became clear to him as to what he had to do. Australia 1913 Looking down at the young child lying on the roadway, a feeling of anger and disbelief began to surge through the mans body like a tidal wave. All that he had been taught to believe in, was now crushed and broken like the small body in front of him. Raising his head to the sky, he opened his mouth to speak, but like a wounded animal all he could do was howl in pain, as he slowly dropped to his knees. Finally composing himself, in a quiet voice he asked, “Why have you done this to me, is this my payment for all I have sacrificed for you.” By this time, a small crowd had gathered, quietly bowing their heads in respect for the small child. Many who knew the man, felt pity for him and his loss, but also for the sad realization that his faith had failed him. France 1918 “What’s wrong with old mate,” asked the new soldier, pointing along the trench as he settled down into his position on the muddy floor. Glancing over at the digger sitting by himself, his companion said. “Oh, you mean old Bert, he’s had some sort of a death wish ever since he arrived here.” Then changing to a more serious tone, he continued in a whisper. “They say a long way back, he was training for the clergy, and just when he was about to head to New Guinea as a missionary with his family, his kid was killed right in front of his eyes...never got over it, now he volunteers for every patrol that comes along.” Looking back along the trench, the new soldier could now see Bert asleep in the darkness, his helmet pulled down over his eyes, his hand instinctively resting on his rifle beside him. Reports of a massive push by the Germans had been expected over the last couple of days, and all the troops were on high alert expecting an attack that could come at any time. Small patrols had been sent out into No Mans Land during the night, to try and get an idea of the strength of the troop build-up, but they had been forced back by heavy sniper fire, leaving the Allies with no idea as to when the attack would begin. “How would you get over something like that,” exclaimed the boy, “you’d definitely have to wonder if there was a God.” “Lad, I think he’s been testing that theory since he’s been over here,” replied the older soldier, “and at this rate, he might find out if he’s not too careful.” Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by a series of flares that shot up illuminating the night sky. Before the two men had time to react, Bert was on his feet, rousing the men along the line, and on arriving at the young diggers said. “Hurry up you two, get on the parapet now, and keep your heads down.” Waiting quietly, they all watched as a volley of smoke shells were dropped into No-Mans Land, making for an eerie setting, as the mist drifted across in front of them. As the light of the flares slowly faded, they all knew what was about to follow. When the first wave of German infantry burst through the billowing haze, there seemed like no way of holding them back. The fighting was relentless, with machine guns cutting swathes through the attacking enemy, but they continued to advance at a frightening pace. Out of the chaos a group of Grenadiers made their way through the maelstrom, the enemies appearance causing panic amongst the defenders as they breached the trench. The young soldier completely taken by surprise, cowered on the ground as one of the attackers moved towards him and thrust a bayonet into his chest. As he was about to pull the bayonet from the boys body, Bert clubbed him to the ground with the butt of his rifle. Lying dazed in the mud, he looked up at Bert who had drawn his rifle back and was ready to plunge his bayonet through the man’s chest, when all of a sudden, he was stopped by the sight of something. Holding the tip of the bayonet against the mans body, he reached forward and tore open the man’s tunic, to reveal a silver crucifix. Looking to the Germans face, then to his chest, he stood there confused, and then as if repelled by the cross, slowly staggered back and slumped down against the trench wall, tears forming in his eyes. The German clearly confused and not able to understand what was happening, began to move, at first Bert leveled his rifle, then lowering it, indicated for him to go. As the German turned, and tried to climb up out of the trench, a shot rang out, and he fell back at Bert’s feet. Staring at the now limp form lying on the floor of the trench in front of him, Bert began to shake uncontrollably. Looking down at the rifle in his hands, he recoiled in horror at the shock of what he had become, and as he tossed the weapon to the ground, it now became clear to him as to what he had to do. 6 Months later - Chaplains Department “Glad to finally have you along with us,” said the Major, “you do realize that with your background, you could have signed up, volunteered as a padre, and totally avoided the front line.” “Thank you, Sir,” replied Bert, “I’m very glad to be onboard, and yes I know that would have been the logical thing to do, but....” The Major seeing the hesitance in his reply, quickly cut him off. “Look, as I always say, it doesn’t matter how you find your way, just as long as you get there in the end.” “So now down to business, some of the men are going on leave, and we are planning on having a talk tonight, on...um...ethics and the local culture, do you think you could look after that.” With a smile, Bert looked at the Major and said, “Yes Sir, I think I should be able to handle that.”


You groan, feeling your shirt sticking to your back. The vast football field stretches out in front of you, brimming with life, cheers erupting as someone scores a goal. The floodlights make everything a hazy white. You mull over what you’re going to say once more but the words elude you, fear slowly settling in. What are you going to say? What if it all goes wrong? You try to reason with yourself. It won’t go wrong (this was sheer optimism) and even if it does, you had nothing to lose (this was you trying to downplay the worst outcome.) The one thing you did know was that you had to do it right now, or you’d regret it later. Your final year in college was upon you and time was steadily slipping from your grasp. You despair, doubt once again seeking comfort in your mind. You look up to the stars, as if to seek divine guidance but end up seeing familiar pattern of silvery white gaze back at you. It reminds you of a very important day when the night sky was not merely a taut canvas dotted with stars in the background, but the main actor in a conversation with someone that had brought you to this very pavement on a humid September night with your heart in your throat. Your first encounter with him was unmemorable. In hindsight, you try to look for facts that you can exaggerate to create a sensational tale but the bitter truth stands--the first time you saw him you did not even care to look at him twice. You were tired from a project that had took two sleepless nights and you prolonged going back to your dorm, lest you had to deal with your roommate again. Partly because you felt extremely lonely and partly because of the fact that you didn’t want to confront her about her ability to be noisy no matter what she did. You sat with the only person you had managed to befriend over the span of the semester, but sadly they were not as antisocial as you were, so you awkwardly sat alone, fiddling with the layer of plastic that managed to peel off of your notebook. The table was occupied by other people and the person sitting immediately next to you was ensconced in his chair, hunched over the backpack in his lap with eyes concealed behind a pair of thick rimmed glasses. He looked like he was preparing to defend himself from some unknown attack. Perhaps the only reason you even noticed him was because his stalwart frame was oddly incongruous with his quiet demeanor. Its funny how when you didn’t even know him, you found solace in his silence. It made you feel a little less alone. The second time you saw him, however, was much more eventful. Unfortunately for you (in retrospect of course) you had been swept into a whirlwind romance with a very questionable individual--the affectations were initially charming, but soon reared their ugly head in every conversation, making them seem less cute and more annoying. The endeavor abruptly ended in a mere three months, not really surprising you. When you were still engaged in it however, you ended up going to a friend’s birthday together. You remember putting on your favorite black dress, with pink pinstripes at the hem. You would be lying if you said it was more for you than for your date, whatever the reason was, you felt nice. You remember your date scrutinizing you from head to toe - and then making a comment you did not even fathom. ‘You have really big eyebrows.’ You subconsciously bring a hand to your eyebrows, smoothing them over. They were still big, but a little less unruly then before. You had yet to have your big self-love moment, but perhaps letting go of that lard was a step in the right direction. Naturally, you were not your happiest that night. You felt sordid; uncoiling and coiling your scarf around your neck, the cold air nipping at your bare neck but the tiny frayed threads making it prickly and uncomfortable. The carousing accelerated by the second, and your date had disappeared. You nestled yourself further in the couch you were sitting on, wishing for some portal to emerge and suck you into it, teleporting you far away from a crowd that was turning rowdier by the minute. When your delusions of reprieve couldn’t keep you entertained any longer, you decided to step out. You expected to find an empty porch but to your surprise you found the backpack-clutching-angry guy crouched over the porch with his hand extended, fixated on something before him. When you stepped closer, you realized that it was a cat. The feline meowed, alerted by your presence, causing the boy to turn and look. His eyes didn’t seem to light with recollection, making you think that only you had noticed his presence that day. He looked like he had something to say but he refrained, and looked back at the cat. The orange and black in its fur contrasted with the white, which was rendered a bit dusty. It indolently licked itself, and the boy retracted his hand. ‘I uh, I’m scared of cats,’ he spoke, as if trying to justify what he was doing. You didn’t know what to say. He looked almost guilty, as if you had caught him in some nefarious act, but you could somehow understand his need to explain himself. The strange part however, was how his statement contradicted with his actions. You crouched down next to him feeling like an interloper in a private interaction. ‘They don’t really bite or anything, not unless you provoke them,’ you said, not knowing what else to say. You liked cats, but only from afar. It was one of the two rules you had upheld due to your acute fear of failing responsibility; no pets or children. ‘I have one at home,’ he continued. ‘Its an outdoor cat though, but I don’t pet him. I feel like he’ll bite.’ The cat, disappointed at the hesitance shown by him, proceeded towards you. Reluctantly, you ran a hand over its smooth fur. You could feel the kinks of its backbone, but not satisfied with your shaky hand, it slipped out from under you, only to settle itself in the boy’s lap. Time stood still. He was now completely frozen, hand in midair and legs, stiff. But even in this spectacle you could sense a tranquility that you couldn’t define, so you left it alone. He awkwardly lingered his hand over, and then gently pet the cat. Feeling yourself an intruder to this intimate moment of self-conquest, you trailed your gaze over to the stars. The lights had rendered it a hazy maroon, but you could still make out some of the stars from where you sat. The only one’s you recognized, formed a clear pattern, one you could identify anywhere. ‘The Big Dipper seems to be pretty clear tonight,’ you said, not really addressing anyone in particular. It was your feeble attempt to make conversation. You had time to kill and you’d be damned if you have to step inside that house again. You felt a stir next to you and when you turned to face him, you were met with an inquisitive gaze. ‘You’re into astronomy?’ he asked, expectant. You didn’t want to disappoint, but your knowledge had been pretty limited. Up until middle school, you pestered your parents to buy you a telescope so you could see the stars, but the intrigue soon dwindled when you entered high school and by the time you were in college it had buried itself in the depths of your mind with the rest of your unfulfilled desires. It poked out in your allusions sometimes when you wrote. While your desire to know them scientifically had subsided, you couldn’t deny the poetic resonance they held in their being. ‘Not really, it’s the only constellation I can recognize.’ ‘Its an asterism,’ he said. ‘Eh, semantics.’ ‘No no. People commonly mistake the two, but an asterism part of a larger constellation. In this case it would be the Ursa Major. It looks like a bear but-‘he stops midway. ‘I’m sorry for rambling, I’m a huge astronomy fanatic.’ ‘Its alright, we all have our things.’ You couldn’t help but feel a bit envious though, you had become so emotionally latent that you didn’t feel that passionately for anything anymore. Any semblance of reticence he had washed away after you had expressed your interest. You can’t remember clearly everything you talked about that day but it had devolved into physics, planets, the intrinsic nature of human despair (your contribution to the bit) and then finally, something you can recall as clearly as the sky which you’re gazing at right now. ‘Hey,’ you pointed out when the silence had settled in once again, ‘Looks like you got over your fear,’ you said, pointing to the cat, who had completely nestled itself in his lap. His frame was more relaxed now and he was resting his hand on it, a fact that was unbeknownst to him. When he finally realized it, shock dawned on his face. ‘I guess I did,’ he said, smiling triumphantly. It reminded you of a child who had earned his first gold star. In that moment, you realized you had been smiling too. ‘Do you know Roche’s limit?’ he asked out of nowhere. You shook your head. The only Roche you’d remotely heard of was Edmond Roche, and you doubted that a violinist had piqued his interest. ‘It’s a distance around a celestial body within which a secondary body overcomes its gravitational attraction and disintegrates,’ he said. ‘So, if you’re inside the Roche’s limit, you’d turn to dust,’ he said, gesturing with his hands but failing to emulate the effect. ‘It sounds like a very poetically profound concept,’ you said, looking up at the sky. ‘But I don’t get how you got reminded of that.’ You’d lost all concept of time while you talked to him, but the stars remained where they were, as if suspending you in an inanimate moment. He laughed. ‘It is. I couldn’t help but liken it to the current situation I’m in. It seemed like I’d inadvertently approached the Roche’s limit and my defenses ended up breaking down.’ You turned to face him, and found him facing you. Part of you wanted to think that what he said was not about the creature that lay sleeping peacefully in his lap. Your moment could not last long however, for your phone rang and unceremoniously dispersed all the enchantment. Turning it over, you immediately soured when you saw a familiar name, one that you didn’t really feel like associating with. ‘I have to go.’ You got up. It was late and as much as you disliked it, you were with someone. No matter how much of a douche he was, you had to respect the fact. ‘That’s alright,’ he said, back to staring off in space. You lingered for a while, and ended up not bidding goodbye. If you had, it would’ve formed a clear conclusion to your meeting. And you didn’t want that. You wanted some illusion of continuance because there was something magical about that night, maybe it was the saucepan shaped asterism in the sky, or the light breeze, or those gentle moments that you shared with a stranger. Whatever it was, you felt like preserving what you couldn’t pursue. Maybe you were straying close to Roche’s Limit too but you couldn’t cross over just then. The entire ride back, you kept your eyed fixed on the Big Dipper. Your first relationship ended soon after, rendering you a bit saturnine. It was inevitable, but the outcome was most amicable, you were rid of a burden you wished not to carry but that didn’t make it any less lonely. The Big Dipper was a distant memory as you progressed into your third year. College too became routine, and you found yourself too busy to wax lachrymose. The one thing that changed though was whenever you went out, you made sure to look at the sky, eyes always wandering in search of something. The boy had been from the electrical engineering department, which explained why you didn’t see him often. You wondered why he had chosen not to pursue something he was so passionate about, but you never had a chance to ask him about it. The few times you did see him, he was laconic and spoke with careful restraint, a complete antithesis of what he was that night. It made you feel a little special though, you saw something that he had so carefully concealed. It had taken you many attempts to find out his name, and just one more to end up with his number. The third encounter you would have with him was going to be now, on a completely ordinary day, with humidity hanging in the air and mosquitoes nipping at your bare feet. You finally decided to seize the coincidences and actively asked to meet him, with every cell in your body willing to protest. But then again, you really had nothing to lose. If he rejected you, you would’ve gotten back to routine and if he didn’t... You’ll think of that later to avoid all the butterflies in your stomach. The din rises as the game continues. The haze seems to be dissipating. You see someone jogging in your direction and your heartbeat speeds up a little. In less than a minute but more than a lifetime, someone is looming over you, with ragged breathing. He wipes his forehead from his sleeve and hands you an orange soda, one that’s now lukewarm. You’re not a fan of orange soda, but you graciously accept. He sits down on the pavement next to you. ‘Weird, the forecast said it would rain today.’ The sky couldn’t be clearer, and you see the familiar asterism staring down at you, as if to give you its blessing. You felt it now, it was visceral and perhaps too abstracted to put into words but your entire body was consumed by it. You realized that you had finally crossed over. Fists clutched, heart hammering in your chest, beads of sweat hanging from your temple at a time that couldn’t be more right, you turn to face him. And then you smile.