Five stones stood beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals floated on the wind.  In our valley beneath the sun, where the wind whispered and birdsong coloured the air, the ground was ever fruitful. Flowers bloomed in the spring, and scented the breeze with sweet jasmine. Uncle Benkei worked in the field as we played amongst the grass, and our infancy was filled with love. Our mother and father were taken by a sickness when I was too young to know them, so uncle Benkei brought me and my sister Sakura into his home and raised us as his own. For five years uncle Benkei taught us how to work the land, tending rice fields once nurtured by our grandfather, and his grandfather before him.  On the eve of my seventh birthday, once the sun began to set behind the western ridge, and the fireflies spoke softly in the failing light, uncle Benkei upheld his promise to me, and began instructing me in the ways of combat. Although I was not as naturally gifted with a sword as others my age had been, he sensed the hunger in me. 'Be a rock.' he would say. 'No matter the wind. No matter the rain. No matter the opponent. A rock is unyielding.' I longed more than anything to make him proud. He was tough, uncompromising, and formidable. But he was all that I had, and I loved him dearly.  For uncountable nights, we trained beneath the watchful stars of the moonlit sky. My fingers would bleed, and my feet would slip in the mud. But uncle Benkei never gave up on me. When at last I became seventeen, he bestowed upon me that which was always meant to be mine. The sword of my father. 'If you accept this blade, you make a promise.' he said. 'With it you will protect your family, your home, and your honour. Appear strong when you are weak. Appear weak when you are strong. Be kind to those who need it. Be merciful to the defeated. Choose wisdom over anger.' I made my promise. I was ready.  Two winters passed, and as the trees began to wake, uncle Benkei fell gravely ill. The sickness that once stole my parents had returned to the valley. It was unmerciful, and many perished by its hand. Sakura cared for uncle as I worked the rice field. He was ever a rock as he had been in battle, and clung to life when all others around him succumbed. Though he eventually recovered, he was never again able to stand. That summer, they came.  Beyond the mountains to the north, from the region of waring clans, death marched relentlessly towards us. Oda Nobunaga - a cruel daimyo who sought to unite the country under a fist of blood - sensed an opportunity with our grief stricken valley, and set upon us in the night with cruel intentions. Legions of soldiers, lead by Oda on a campaign of death, slaughtered dozens of innocents as they tended to their sick and dying. Against Oda's minions of cruelty the villagers never stood a chance. Without strength to move, uncle Benkei was unable to fight, and he was forced to take shelter with Sakura behind our house. I stood affirmed and ready, awaiting my destiny in the jasmine field.  From the darkness of the trees, two shadows took form. Swords were drawn. I became a rock. We danced together among a flurry of slashes, and our blades sang in the moonlight. Uncle Benkei danced through me, and my opponents found rest among the jasmine.  The valley was laid waste. Our farms were destroyed. There was no life for us here anymore. I returned to the house to search for Sakura and uncle Benkei.  I found them.  I surrendered my fathers sword to the flames. I had broken my promise.  Seven stones stand beneath the peach tree. Fallen petals float on the wind.


We are somewhere behind them, our vantage point two hundred meters above and to their right. We are hiding within a small grove of fir trees with tired branches all droopy with their burdens of snow. The Instructor has his back to a sheer cliff face and is quietly talking to about five others, his arms gesturing this way and that, with around a thousand metres of bounce and screaming plummet below them. We had come up the mountain to check out reports of strange activity by a group of extreme sports enthusiasts and hadn’t expected to hit the jackpot such as we had. The Instructor was elusive and notorious and cloaked in an alluring mysticism. He was classically handsome, tall with dark hair and the kind of charisma which history has proven can either work miracles or create a shit-storm of imbalance and suffering. He had recently come back from India and Tibet where he had studied with several renowned masters for a decade or more. There was mention of wild, esoteric practices which culminated at death in ‘Rainbow Bodies’-a rare feat attesting to the practitioner's high, enlightened state. Second to this, but still indicative of a an advanced Yogi, was when the corpse shrunk to the size of a small child, or even to the extent only hair and teeth remained to testify to a once corporeal existence. Some sources invoked Milarepa, saying the instructor had been invited into the elite ranks of his current lineage. Milarepa was a tenth century Tibetan Mystic who, after renouncing a life as a Black Magician, achieved such a level of otherworldly enlightenment he was commonly seen by villagers flying around the snow capped mountains, sometimes in tandem with his beautiful and equally adept consort, ‘The Sky Dancer.’ When the instructor returned he opened a meditation centre and imparted a teaching he called ‘Falling Upwards.’ The gist of it from what I can tell, is that the only thing which stops us from ‘flying’ metaphorically and, in the advanced stages literally, is our erroneous beliefs regarding the nature of our ‘True Being.’ Who we really are-Eternal, Weightless, Omniscient Spirit-both composes the substance of matter whilst remaining ever free and independent from it. Falling upwards is the recognition of this and, according to The Instructor, a process of Deep Surrender which blesses every moment with Presence and a Yielding, Openness of Heart. I am a simple, easy going cop and one blessed with a beautiful wife and two great kids. I am old school which means I can eat five donuts at a time and drink you under the table and take orders without questions and, yeah, I’d willingly take a bullet for my chief, or any one of my brothers or sisters on the force. I know...a bit cliche'd, right? But true enough, anyway. I guess what I am saying is this guy impressed me. In almost twenty years as a cop I have seen more death and destruction than I care to remember; gruesome accidents and domestic shootings and stabbings and terrible fires and the like and most of it gets pushed deep down and covered over by regular card nights spent tipping the whisky...and to be honest I don’t need that excuse anymore and for sometime I am carrying a flask of vodka and lime juice around to keep things nice and jolly with the odd nip or two. So when this guy came along I took an interest-watching him on community t.v. speaking to halls packed with wide-eyed people and he lit me up with his words and the calm and gentle way about him. If that’s all he ever did and he hadn’t ventured into all this ‘falling upwards’ stuff with the weird spheres, I wouldn’t have been placed in this situation knowing I might have to arrest the guy-with due force if it came to that. And something inside me felt sick and repulsed by the idea. Like, who wants to shoot Jesus? But I am a career cop, first and foremost and The Instructor was breaking any number of health and safety regulations as he enticed his followers into these fleshy bubble contraptions and rolled them off steep inclines and precipices. He had attracted some attention from the law-including the F.B.I-but to date he remained free as a bird with no conclusive evidence to convict him of any serious crimes. At first it was novel and the only notoriety he received was from appearances on the local news slotted in after the weather and near the end where the cute animal stories usually appeared. Then, during its trial days, the sphere’s were intriguing and were filmed rolling gently down grassy slopes as well as the odd, beginners ski range. In the talks I heard him give he never mentioned the 'Falloons' or ‘Light Spheres’ as he called them. At first he only spoke about Love and Peace and the usual stuff these guys roll out as they herd up a congregation of suckers and poor, suffering fools. Later he spoke about the human nervous system and how to release traumatic contractions in the muscles and body in general. When a steady inward focus lit up areas of dark tension within the mind and body, energies trapped for eons came home into the light and were freed leaving a more refined physical and auric body. It was an alchemic process, he said, where presence contacts the dross of matter, transmuting it back into the pure, golden light of consciousness. There was always something enigmatic about The Instructor and rumours abounded of him disappearing from view and suddenly reappearing again within locked rooms; or levitating with a softly lit hum within full view of a room full of people. Although he was said to have an inner circle of elite students, he went to pains to instruct whoever felt drawn to him and was hiring increasingly larger halls to accomodate this need. He was gentle, peaceful, charming and yet so powerful if you looked too long into his eyes you felt like a big semi was rumbling towards you on a tight, dark road with the big, bright lights and waves of earth shaking energy. Or so I've been told! These were the things which, as we were about to run out into the open and possibly shoot the guy, crossed my mind in slow, frowning disapproval. I look across at my chief, his face a mask of relaxed concentration, deep in the zone like an athlete awaiting the gun’s sharp report. ‘Chief’ I whisper, ‘let’s go!’ ‘Wait’, murmurs the chief, wait...’ I look for that little tell the chief has when he is about to order us into action; the faintest trace of a smile comes across his face and his eyes flip up and out like a horse whipped into a lurching stride. He was older than me, in his late forties, and given to outbreaks of tubbiness. He hated this sort of field work and as I regarded him I couldn’t help smiling with a great, brotherly affection. ‘Goooo!!’ he yells and the two of us begin to run in cartoon slowness towards the instructor and his group; despite wearing snowshoes our feet and ankles disappear into the soft, heavy powder. We'd talked about this and the chief said if he or others got into a Falloon we were to shoot, but only at the instructor and wide to his right so as to avoid hitting him or those clumped to his left. The chief hoped this would spook them long enough so we could stumble forward and get to them in time. ‘Stop’ I yelled, ‘police.’ The instructor looked up at us and said something to the group. It came out later he said casually, ‘okay, there are four Falloons and six of us. One is mine and so may I suggest...’ at this point we could see him pointing at the group, ‘Brad, Linda and Kim perhaps?’ What we saw was, with one hundred metres to go, Brad, Linda and Kim getting into their Falloons as the remaining two ran away to the left where the mountain sloped gently down to a thicket of pine trees. The instructor, poised to enter the unusual craft, calmly watched us approaching like we were part of a children’s game of hide and seek or tag the rabbit. ‘Stop Police’, yelled the chief, ‘or we will fire!’ Three more laborious steps and the chief let a whizzing bullet go just to the left of The Instructor. ‘To the right, chief’ I yelled, ‘remember?’ ‘Shit’ muttered the chief as he puffed and heaved his way forward. We were now only fifty metres away from the instructor and his Falloon. The others were within theirs and adhered to their seats presumably awaiting The Instructor to do the same. The Instructor leant against his Falloon and casually gazed up with a beaming smile towards the blue sky as if in appreciative measure of its endless possibilities. We were close now and I could see the spheres in some detail; they throbbed and sweated and glowed in the sun like living things; they seemed to breath and tremble slightly with a hard to describe vibrancy. The crafts-if you could call them that-were designed to withstand the extreme violence of very high drops and descents. They literally bounced down mountains, ping-ponging off huge rock walls and cliff faces and flying high through the air as they bounced and rebounded this way and that. I have seen footage of The Instructor ride one down a steep, dry river bed from about fifteen hundred metres up. He was laughing and slapping his thigh like he were riding a huge bull in a rodeo. I watched amazed as the central 'cockpit' sphere remained suspended in a motionless freeze while the two outer balls rolled in a smooth ballet of synchronic, alternating rotations. We discovered later during an autopsy of a Falloon, that they were made of hi-tech, state of the art material which The Instructor designed and produced with the help of two of his friends-one a scientist specialising in nano-technology, and the other a famous engineer. The material was soft, skin like and yet virtually puncture proof when inflated. The Instructor outsourced the construction of the Falloons via tech savvy geniuses he found on the web. The Falloons were based on the concept of ‘Chinese dolls’ and consisted of three balls of descending size with the smallest in the centre housing a clear, see through chair which held the occupant firmly to it with three interlocking straps of the same material. The seat was seamlessly joined to the floor of the inner bubble which was designed to remain still while the outer two moved in opposite directions as the force of impact was absorbed and nullified. The sphere’s entrance was sealed from the inside by the press of the second remote button-imagine if a flap of translucent skin could be welded shut-but silently and minus all the heat and sparks, that’s what it looks like. The outer ball then lifted to its optimal expansion and gave a small, quivering jolt when the process was completed. We were close now-around thirty metres or so-when the instructor gave a small gesture of his hand and the three Falloons began to roll slowly forward towards the precipice. A wind had picked up and snow dust swirled around the spheres as, one by one, they sort of floated like hovercrafts buoyed by light towards the mountains edge. ‘Stop’ we yelled together, ‘or we WILL SHOOT!’ As the three spheres rolled casually down towards the plunging drop, I got a good look at the occupants and they were grinning like they were at the inching, clattering beginnings of a wild roller coaster ride. Then, as the spheres disappeared quietly over the edge, The Instructor gave his Falloon a slight nudge with the back of his heal, sending it into a slow, powdery spin in the same, terminal direction. He then performed a slick, backwards moon-dance before saluting, about facing and running towards the vast horizon of cold, blue sky into which he joyfully soared before dissapearing down, down into the stark abyss of emptiness and bright, snow reflected light. As he began to run the chief raised his gun but I put my hand across his arm and lowered it towards the ground. The chief gave me a look but I placed my hand on the middle of his back and just shook my head, my eyes damp with exertion and emotion. The strange thought occurred to me that all these guys were doing was just having a little fun. When He reappeared seconds later, hovering in full lotus and gifting us with a look of such Unconditional Love...the chief, never a man given to piety, collapsed to his knees in the wet snow and prayed like falling upwards was the most holy and blessed thing one could ever aspire to do.


Well, that was dramatic. Perhaps I should take you back to the buildup of the current situation. Precisely one hundred and twenty minutes ago when Tristan and Adley Griffin had their most contentious fight after being married only seventeen hours. You see... it all started on Wednesday afternoon, yes, these two married on a Tuesday but that is not the point. Tristan wanted to surprise Adley with some news, news that he was very excited about and thought she would be too but alas, she was not. Tristan walked in the door, holding a medium-sized cardboard box with Christmas wrapping paper... in June. Now, I’m not one to judge but I could see as soon as Adley approached the threshold from the kitchen she did not seem impressed. Tristan looked happy to see his very new wife, he kissed her cheek and handed her the box to which she started impassively. It was as if Adley was waiting on some kind of explanation, the suspense was killing me waiting to find out what the problem was. “Open it,” Tristan said eagerly. She let out a sigh, not the good kind though as she peeled off the very terrible wrapping. Inside was no better, nor was Adley’s face as she pulled out Christmas themed socks with her face all over them. Yes, it was bad, very bad. Bright red socks against Adley’s glorious blonde hair was not the gift she hoped from her husband. “Isn’t it cool?” He asked. No, Tristan, it was not cool. “You bought socks with my face on them?” Adley asked. “No, I brought the business that makes them!” He said. Oh boy. “I hope you’re kidding.” “No babe, this is legit. It’s a real business.” “Tristan goddam Griffin, you made me get married at Kentucky Fried Chicken for christ sake and yet you brought a business? You couldn’t even afford the potato and gravy! Who doesn’t have potato and gravy with their chicken?” “It’s four dollars a tub babe, stop being selfish.” At this point, I could literally see steam coming off of Adley. “We couldn’t afford a real wedding, but you can afford a business?” “No, well yes, but that isn’t the only reason we got married at KFC. I love chicken, and it was their cheap Tuesday how could I say no to that?” “We have eaten there every Tuesday for five years, we could have missed one week!” “No!” Tristan gasped. I think Adley had crossed some invisible line made of processed chicken. “I have had KFC, every single Tuesday since I could chew food. You know how important that is to me.” “If it’s so important to you then maybe you should have married the bloody chicken!” “Maybe I should have.” “I’m leaving!” Adley yelled. “Good!” As I was saying, things got a little... heated... and I’m not just talking about the chicken. Adley stormed off to the bedroom which was approximately eight long steps from the kitchen and began packing a bag while Tristan sat at the dining table staring at the socks with what appeared to be sadness. I personally had no idea what made Tristan so inclined to buy a business that plastered Adley’s face on socks but here the newlywed couple were exasperated, vexed and I was sure another hundred other synonyms could have been used but there weren’t enough hours in a year. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, they did indeed. Adley walked out with the bag I mentioned that she was packing, still storming through their home. She stood at the door, staring at Tristan with a look that could kill if they could kill. Tristan stood up and tried to reciprocate her glare but all he could manage was to look like an adorable puppy. “I’m going to stay at Bertha’s house,” Adley said. It seemed Tristan was a gasper since he let out yet another gasp but this time it was with horror rather than offence. “You’re choosing a Bertha over me? She’s a fucking vegan.” He said absolutely mortified “She wouldn’t have chosen chicken over me.” “She hugs trees, Adley! Like literally hugs them and thanks them for their service.” Okay, this is getting more bizarre by the second. “So?” “I’m losing my mind here babe. Bertha is weird and you’re mad over socks.” “I’m actually mad about the potato and gravy. Goodbye.” And so Adley got into her tiny little car and drove to Bertha’s house and for approximately fourteen minutes she stayed there. She drank her tea a little too quickly, staring at her phone, completely ignoring poor Bertha who was talking incessantly about trees. Perhaps Tristan wasn’t wrong about Bertha, but let’s not lose focus. After burning her mouth with the tea, two bathroom breaks and one hundred and eleven phone checks later--just kidding, she never put it down. Adley got back into her car and drove home to the man she loved. When Adley walked through the door, she found Tristan sitting at the table where she left him. Staring at his phone the way she was, he was even drinking tea just as she was. The romance of it all had her heart throbbing, she stared at this handsome man whom she married only yesterday and decided their marriage wasn’t worth ending over potato and gravy. “Tristan,” she whispered. He looked up and saw the love of his - odd - life standing there so beautifully and walked over to her. They didn’t speak, for a long moment, they just gazed into each other’s eyes and lusted for one another. Eventually, Tristan found the words he wanted to say. “Do you accept my socks?” “Yes, I accept your socks. I’m sorry, baby.” “I’m sorry too.” “You are the sexiest, wildest most incredible woman I have ever met Adley. I love you.” “And you, baby, are a spunk, a hunk the love in my junk.” “You’re so sexy when you rhyme.” And that my friends, is an apology... that I never wish to receive. Adley and Tristan then locked themselves in each other’s arms and ate, I mean kissed, each other. Deeply, passionately and a little scary if I am being honest. They - literally - ran the full eight steps which equated to three runs to the bedroom and had even weirder sex than I thought possible. Their passionate three-minute love-making session had come to an exhaustive end as the happy couple laid with a lot of sweat on their bodies for a hundred and twenty-second sex session. “That was... amazing, Tristan,” Adley said. Really? Because I feel like there is room for improvement. “You were an animal baby,” he said with a wink. Well, he was not wrong, she was very animal-like. I believe at around forty seconds in, she made the noise an elephant does. “I think that was your longest time yet. God, I’m so hungry after that workout.” Oh come on guys, you’re doing my job for me here. Really? This is terrible. “Want to get KFC? I’ll even get you your potato and gravy.” “Really? But it’s not Tuesday.” “You’re worth the extra six bucks, baby.” “How did I ever get so lucky? I love you so much, babe.” I wasn’t sure if luck had anything to do with it or if these two were born on a whole other planet far, far away from earth. They drove together to KFC and sure enough, Adley got her potato and gravy. I watched, holding back vomit as they licked the chicken grease off of each other’s fingers instead of using the wet wipes provided. According to their Tuesday history over the last five years, they made out in the parking lot before going home as they had every other time. They made love again too, I think Adley even invented a new animal noise somewhere in there too. Anyway, like I said... that, was dramatic. The End...


No matter how hard he tries, Madoc still couldn't manage to fit in with the Goya family. Despite his relationship with Wesley being in a good place, he hasn't managed to reach the same level of eccentricity it takes to fit into his family. They were loud, out-spoken, brazen, and weird. Every reason was part of why he loved them all so much. From an outside perspective, the Goya family was a regular Addams family, but to him, they were the family he always wished he had growing up. So when the biggest family event arrives, Madoc knows the best way to prove that he truly belongs in the family is to win the trophy. This was an annual tradition that dates back years, and no one in the family can agree on just who started it. "What has you in such a thoughtful mood?" Wesley asks. He had returned from his snack run to find Madoc gazing at the lawn musingly, which in certain places would make sense, but Wesley had specifically chosen a boring patch of grass to picnic on. "Just trying to figure out how I'm supposed to know which ball is mine." Searching for a croquet ball wasn't what he thought his boyfriend meant when he said they had to find their weapon of choice. "It's a bit like adopting a pet," Wesley explains, setting a little wicker basket down in front of Madoc before plopping down next to him. "Oh, they aren't sentient," he hurries to explain. Madoc's look of panic recedes to one Wesley interprets as interest. "They're animated and all, but they don't have feelings." "You hit animated objects around a field..." He barely makes it out of the way of an oncoming blur that whirls past him. "What was that?!" Madoc looks up to see a croquet ball lodged in a tree. "Please tell me that one isn't mine..." "Aw, you got chosen first!" Wesley plucks the croquet ball from the tree and wrestles it into the crook of his arm. "A competitive one, too!" "That one's really mine..?" He stares at the ball. The last thing he wanted was crazed sports equipment trying to behead him. He carefully takes it from Wesley. "This feels more like it will kill me..." The croquet ball goes still the moment it's in Madoc's hands. "See?" Wesley says. "It's yours!" "Yay..." Madoc stares at it. And just like that, he thought this would be the weirdest moment of his day. He was wrong. The field was a simple assortment of grass, grass, and more grass. The occasional tree would provide an obstacle for the croquet balls to shoot through - or into if they were like Madoc's ball. He watches as the ball once again looped around a tree before finally going through the appropriate wickets. To add to his frustration, he had to listen to Wesley's Uncle Wilder bragging about how it was his wife Trio that came up with the game, to begin with. "Uncle Wilder is a liar," Wesley's sister Meadow says mildly. "Everyone but him accepts that Aunt Trio is terrible at all things sports," Wesley agrees. "Though I don't really have a leg to stand on," he sighs, watching as his croquet ball ambles through the tall reedy grass on a mission only it knows. Madoc yelps when his croquet ball leaps back around and nearly beheads him ... again. "I don't see why that one has to be mine..." He sighs. "Then who did make up the came?" "I'm telling you," Wilder interjects, walking up with a croquet mallet over his shoulder. "Trio was the one that made it up. She was seventeen and - honey, tell them the story," he encourages, nudging his wife. "I was seventeen," Trio says grandly, her croquet bat nestled in her arms like an awkward baby. "It was summertime, and all my peers were bored..." Wesley shoots Madoc a pained look. "I was something of a leader then," Trio says, her tone confiding. "So, of course, it was only natural that I took charge. 'Family,' I said, 'it is a beautiful day, why don't we go out and explore the grounds?'" "And explore they did," Wilder said proudly, taking her hand and kissing it. "We were at this very spot when I suggested we come up with our very own game," Trio continues, beaming at her husband. "I insisted we use croquet balls, and here we are!" Madoc found the easiest way to deal with the Goya family was to agree with all of them. So he did. And then, when they finally go to the end of the field and finally got to let the evil little croquet ball go, he found that the next stage in the game was to swim across the lake. The lake that the family's pet alligator tended to lurk. An idea that didn't fill him with much confidence. But it was either continue with the game or listen to Clo talk about how she was the one who came up with the game. Not her sister Trio. "Swim away," Violet, Clo's youngest daughter, advises. "Mom won't shut up for at least an hour." He should have taken her advice. Clo's next comment was about how she made up the game after getting into a race with Strawberry - the family's pet alligator. "So you see, I took off swimming as fast as I could because I was still unsure about the relationship between us and was fairly sure that he was going to eat me." She laughs, a cross between a cackle and a snort. "And then I made it to the other side, found a croquet ball, and then that's when I thought, 'hey, this should be a game.' So you see how it was me." "How dare you!" Trio cries. "Strawberry would never chase anyone, and even if he did, you wouldn't have been able to outswim him!" By the time that argument ended, and the sisters were yelling at each other, Madoc decided it was a better idea to jump into the lake. By the time he made it to the other side without drowning - though a slight incident halfway through nearly gave Wesley a heart attack, and now Madoc has proof that his boyfriend will come to save him - he felt like a monster that came out of a swamp. "Whoever came up with this part should pay," Wesley says darkly, shaking himself off like a dog. Muck goes flying but not enough to make much difference. "Well, if they ever decide who actually did it..." Madoc grumbles. He was starting to think impressing Wesley's family was a dead end. "I honestly doubt it was anyone still alive," Wesley says, coming over to swipe at Madoc's clothes. "Most of our inventors don't live long." "Then why does everything think they made it up?" His question receives an answer from Wesley's great aunt Euphemia. "Because they all want credit for my idea," she insists. "I remember it from decades ago. We were playing this with our parents, and well, we didn't have a gator then, but our cousin would chase after us with a stick, so that was pretty close." "Now that I believe," Wesley says. "Too much sense," Meadow says, giving her great aunt a skeptical look. "How did you come up with the idea?" "Easy, we were whacking balls - tennis, I believe it was at the time - and then we started to race. Had a wild hair and took a leap into the lake." Euphemia was proud of her answer, so Madoc wanted to believe her. "I really want to believe you, great aunt Euphemia, but..." Violet glances at Wesley for help. "But it just seems so unlike you to be wild like that," Wesley says quickly. Thankfully they didn't get to hear the end as the bell rang for them to race through the obstacle course. In hindsight, Madoc should have predicted that it would be a series of strange and unusual activities. He also should have predicted that he was dead last when Ferry - Wesley's grandmother and matriarch of the family - started walking with him. But her encouragement was infectious. "What a fun game!" Ferry enthuses. "Thank you so much for running with me, dear." "Thanks... Though I lost..." And made a fool of himself in front of the entire family. "There will always be winners and losers," Ferry says. "What's important is, did you enjoy yourself?" "... Sure." Madoc rubs his arms. He felt like he was a walking swamp and felt humiliated, but he didn't see the point in telling her the whole ordeal. "Though I can't find Wesley." "Oh, didn't you hear? Wesley fell in a hole!" Ferry shakes her head. "These kids and their pitfalls." "What?" Madoc practically shouts. "What hole?!" "You know," Ferry says, gesturing over her shoulder. "One of those." Madoc groans. What was with the holes? "I don't understand how anyone could have thought up this game." "Oh, you can thank my dad's dad's dad for this," Ferry says helpfully. "My grandpa always used to say his grandpa was a prankster and a half!" "And so he made up this whole game?" Madoc asks, gesturing around him. "Believe it or not, this is simple compared to what he and his brothers did. A single game took three days to play!" Madoc didn't even want to think about three days of this. "Thanks for toning it down..." "You're welcome!" Ferry grins. "Now, maybe you should go find your man?"


Richard had ignored the signs. His had been a demise that crept upon him slowly, his self-worth stolen in the lonely work hours, validation kept from him at home. If it wasn’t the expectations of his career peeling back the last of his resolve, it was his high-strung wife with her exhaustive demands. She taxed him to the brink of collapse. His three children had pushed him to the edges of bankruptcy with their private schools, designer clothes, and rehab stints. He loved them, but they had drifted from his reach, caught in the rip current of daily activities. His life had faltered, picked up momentum, and now lay in utter ruins as he rifled through the paperwork the nurse handed him. “It will be okay, Mr. Darden,” she lingered with eye contact, forcing a faint smile. “I know. It has to be,” he muttered unintelligibly, “there must be a way to right things.” When he stepped outside, the sun’s glare, which normally accosted his sensibilities, held him in its warmth. The hospital grounds were steeped in green hues, awakening his senses, the air rife with smells, fragrant and sweet. For the first time in many days, no months, he felt a connection to the ordered flow of nature, on the cusp of an infinite understanding. Then he glanced downward, the paperwork stark in its finality. He bit his lip, tasting the metallic bitterness, the one tangible sign that he was still alive. “Pancreatic cancer,” he said the words aloud, as if putting them to sound might help make sense of it. The discouragement and despair funneled into a sudden anger. He grasped for a way back to that time before his death sentence. It had to be a misunderstanding; they confused the lab results with someone else. He was in his prime, a recent promotion to Director-level, the possibility of realigning his finances, and now it was being stripped from him, not slowly, but in a quick rage. His diagnosis was unfathomable. It wasn’t a solid wall he was pinned against. The denial was amorphous, wrapping its arms around him from all angles. “How could I have only two to three weeks left?” The question went unanswered. He knew he was asking a ghost. Richard teetered, his balance being swept up in the movement of passer-byers, the chirpings of the mockingbirds. He sat with a spinning heaviness on the vacant bench, feeling his inner reserves collapsing, surveying his options in his mind’s eye. It was too much to sustain, and he cradled his forehead in the palms of his tired hands. He could feel a tear, one at first, followed by many rolling down the inside of his cheek, skirting his nose and the corners of his lips. They raced a hurried path to the edges of his chin where he watched the saline drops fall into the Bermuda grass below. His body rocked to the rhythm of the release, a cathartic movement. In his concentrated focus, Richard hadn’t felt the presence of his bench companion, and he was jarred back into the present by her question, a soft utterance, “You’re trying to find the perfect thing to bargain, aren’t you?” He slipped his palms over his eyes, wiping away the errant tears. He was afraid to meet her gaze. “I am willing to trade anything, at this point,” he said, slowly turning to face this stranger with the gentleness in her voice. She stared straight ahead, her hand reaching to tame the hem of her white dress as it fluttered with the insolent breeze. She sighed, not from exasperation, but an empathetic exhale. “It’s natural to think you can buy your way out of this fix. There are all those sayings you grow up with like ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ Or ‘never give up.’ ‘Perseverance pays off.’ I can go on and on,” her thoughts trailed into the silence. She tucked the dress under her knee, reigning in the difficulties, yanking away the flirtation of the breeze. Richard averted the truth, “I mean, you know it can happen. You hear about friends of friends who get cancer or MS or have that unexpected heart attack, but you never think it will be you. It can’t be me. I haven’t even started living yet,” he raised his eyebrows with the ponderance, “Meg and I were supposed to take all these grand trips once the kids were through college. I’ve been mired in work for decades with the thought that there would be a payoff in retirement, and maybe even an early one of that.” He sat up straight, a conviction flowing through him, “I will do anything, anything to change it. I’ll go to church. I’ll volunteer. I’ll make amends with my kids,” pausing he continued, “And Meg. I’ll make her happy. I’ll adopt a dog, or a child, yes, a child. I’ll take in a homeless person. I’ll do whatever it takes.” His steadfastness warped into a frantic anguish, his voice tilting into desperation, “I’ll admit to all my sins, the ones known and unknown. I’ll change. I’ll be a better person...I’ll never take anything or anyone for granted again. I won’t. I promise.” His voice receded into the blank nothingness; his pleas fading alongside his vision of himself. She let her hand rest on his knee. Her tone, caring and pure, she urged, “Live fully with no regrets. Enjoy the way ice cream tastes and how sweet the melody is in your favorite song. Laugh at the simple observations your kids make, and revel in the kindnesses that abound. Don’t waste any more time. There is no space for grieving yourself.” Richard shook his head with acknowledgment and closed his eyes, allowing the tenderness of her advice and touch to wash over him. For a moment, he felt whole. Once steadied in his thoughts, he said, “I needed someone to show me another way to accept my failings. I needed someone to listen.” Glancing to his right, the bench was empty, as if she had never been there. Richard swiveled to see behind him, raising to a half stand, his bent leg resting on the bench. He looked back and forth quickly and turned around, surmising he would see her disappearing in the distance, but she was gone. “Where did she go?” he whispered, struck by the seeming elusiveness. He could still smell the scent of her perfume. Lowering himself back on the bench, Richard reached into the inside pocket of his sports coat, and pulled out the scratch-off lottery ticket that he had purchased at the gas station on his morning drive. He half-chuckled at himself, toying with the possibility that lightning could strike twice in a single day. With a penny that felt gritty in between his fingers, he carefully rubbed away the grey coating. The small flecks stuck to the card and his hand, as he shook it away. For the second time in a span of hours, he sat motionless, shaking the card and looking at it again, bringing it close to his field of vision. “You unlucky bastard! There is no way!” he laughed a hearty laugh, scanning the grounds with the hope of seeing his disappearing friend. His focus fell on the cherry willow, weighted in white blossoms. It labored in the gust of wind, its wispy branches shifting then returning to their natural bent. He wished he could share his newfound windfall, but only misery loves company, and she was long departed. Instead, his gaze alighted on a young female, holding her newborn, as she was being pushed to a waiting vehicle. They looked serene in their passage to the life that awaited. Richard instinctively jumped up and ran toward them, his bargaining complete. “Please take this and do something good, something beautiful, something you’ll be proud of,” he implored. She struggled to understand the exchange and the ticket he had handed her. She clutched her infant closely to her chest and eyed the gift. Sprinting away, Richard turned back and playfully yelled, “Remember this moment, remember me!” His legs carried him across the open lawn toward the parking lot, chasing a realization, a shred of happiness still within grasp. He tore into his dark blue Lexus, and sped toward the main thoroughfare, intent to get home to share his profound news. His family mattered; they were the only thing that mattered. Weaving in and out of traffic, delicate maneuvers to spare time, he dialed the office. “Yes, Charlie’s line please,” he stammered to the annoying receptionist, the one who always clicked her teeth and twirled the ends of her hair. “Charlie! Hey - it’s me Rich. This request, well it’s not really a request, I won’t, well you see, I’m taking the next two weeks off from work. I know, I know, it’s last minute, but it’s got to be done, and you’ll understand. It will all make sense soon. No, it can’t wait. You’ll see - trust me. You’ve been great, swell, I’m not sure of the right word, but thank you,” and he let the call disconnect. The commute afforded him twenty minutes to mull over his approach, torn between telling them the truth about his illness, or offering them a two-week vacation to San Francisco. He had always wanted to visit northern California, to feel the chilled air walking along the pier, exploring the myriad neighborhoods on their slanted streets, the smells of sea and city-life combined. Would it be fair to keep his secret? They could persist in the experience of something new, together and without the confines of his prognosis. Pulling into the driveway, he shut off the engine, looking up at the façade of his Colonial-style house. His heart tugged at the innumerable times he failed to notice the enormity of what he had, and the larger scope of what he had to lose. A light in the upstairs bedroom was extinguished. The quiet of the evening beckoned, a solitude in knowing the inevitable loomed. Once inside, Richard shouted, “I'm home!” The gathered silence broke into distant murmurings and grumbles. “Hey, everyone come down here. It’s important. We need to talk as a family,” he let the words tumble out with a forced positivity, a weakening bravado. He sat down at the kitchen bar uncertain how he would tell them, if he could tell them, flipping the message in his mind, wondering how they would react to his mortality. Maura, his youngest and sole daughter, would be depleted yet resilient. She was daddy’s girl, the one he could count on in the worst of situations. Drake would be despondent, but it would blend with his normal angst. Dylan was the wild card, the eldest son who was dutiful in his support. Meg would be a quiet disaster, and he realized how much he loved her. “What’s up, Dad?” Maura bounced into the room with her resilience. Meg came from the laundry room with a folded basket of clothes, as Drake leaned in the entryway of the kitchen. “Dylan!” bellowed Richard. “Coming, Dad,” he shouted back, simultaneously appearing next to Drake. “This better be good,” said Meg, tiring of holding the basket. Richard took a deep breath and relaxed into a smile, a sad optimism in the words that followed, “I have something to tell you.”


I have Bipolar 1. There, I said it. It’s not something I usually talk about very much. I’m private about it because it’s something I really struggle with, and sometimes, I’m even embarrassed about it. Especially the times that I’m manic. But I’m not always manic- in fact, Bipolar has many different faces. For those of you who don’t know, there are three basic states you can be in when you have Bipolar 1: depressed, stable, or manic. Technically you can be hypomanic, too, which is a state of near-mania that is usually characterized by Bipolar 2, but the condition wears the same face as mania. Two of the states- mania and depression- are bad for different reasons. With mania comes irresponsible, life-changing decisions and high impulsivity. Mania is toxic to the brain and can cause someone to ruin their own life, but while you’re manic, you feel like you’re on top of the world. Depression brings with it suicidal ideations, feelings of hopelessness, and a deep despair that eats into the soul. It was the end of April. I had had a rough go of it recently due to my manic episode in September and my subsequent depression in the following months. I had been absolutely crippled by this depression largely because of my mania. I had done so many things I was ashamed of, made so many decisions I regretted, but at the time I had been so happy and carefree. The months after that were spent picking up the pieces of the destruction I had left in my wake. Now, though, it was almost summer. My summer classes would begin soon and I had work at the funeral home to keep me busy. I had more structure in my life, and things finally started to feel...better. I had recently moved, partly to get away from the ruin I’d left behind, partly for mortuary school. But mostly to get away. I was in a new place, on my own (except for my faithful pug), with a new career path and no friends or family in the area. I felt conflicted because part of me was lonely and nervous- this was the most “adult” I’d ever had to be- but the rest of me was so excited to begin a new life. This, coupled with a new therapist who finally got me on the right medication, helped me level out. I was actually able to experience joy again, this time without being destructive. I could finally put on my Stable Face. I probably should have mentioned this, but when I said that Bipolar has many faces, I meant that literally. At least, in my case. I have three faces I can wear, but they will only look natural if my mood matches the face. For example, if I’m depressed and I try to wear my Stable Face, the flesh will be askew and the skin won’t line up like an ordinary human face. Think of the cockroach alien flesh suit from ‘Men in Black.’ Yeah, not so pretty. But you know what? Bipolar isn’t pretty either. When I’m not using them, I keep my faces in a jar by the door. The little window lets in the perfect amount of sunlight for my faces to get their proper amount of vitamin D without having to actually set them outside. I’m sure the neighbors wouldn’t be pleased about that anyway. My Depressive and Manic Faces floated flaccidly in a mixture of formaldehyde and other preservatives that I managed to sneak home from work. Every year, I would change out the mixture and clean the jar. Tongs in hand, I dangled my Stable Face over the kitchen sink and began to rinse off the chemicals. I made sure to scrub inside and out, especially around the holes for my eyes and inside the nose, because formaldehyde always makes my eyes and nostrils burn. Then, I gently patted it dry with a clean towel and ran my fingers across the loose skin. The brow was not furrowed like the Depressive Face I’d been wearing for so long, and the eye holes weren’t wide and wild like my Manic Face. No, this face was relaxed and at peace. It also wore the slightest hint of a smile, its lips turned up at the edges. I brushed my hair back up into a bun and began to apply my Stable Face. For the first time in forever, it fit perfectly. I gently pasted down the edges to cover the exposed flesh and muscle tissue beneath the skin, then I looked in the mirror and flashed myself a smile. It actually looked genuine, and I could practically feel the endorphins rushing through my body. I added a little makeup, and voila! The perfect face. I looked at my reflection and felt confident and beautiful. I was still admiring myself when I heard a noise. I was in the bathroom, so I didn’t hear the initial click of the jimmied lock, but I did hear the slight creak of the un-oiled hinge on my front door. My ears pricked up, and I heard my pug begin to growl from the entryway. Suddenly, she yelped and bolted into the bathroom with me. I scooped her up and closed the bathroom door with my back against it, heart beginning to race. Someone was in my apartment. I held my breath and tried to keep my dog as quiet as possible. The intruder was rifling through my things, looking for valuables. I cursed myself as I remembered that I’d left my purse right out in the open. After a few minutes passed that seemed more like hours, I finally heard the door shut. I expelled my breath in a heaving sigh and placed my dog back on the ground. She had stopped whining, so that probably meant she couldn’t smell the intruder in the apartment anymore. I peeked around the edge of the bathroom door and into the front room. There was no one. I relaxed a little, stepping out of the bathroom and into the front room to check my purse. Oddly enough, nothing had been stolen out of my wallet. The whole purse was untouched. I furrowed my brow and then had to reposition my forehead to undo it. I went to the front door and, sure enough, the lock had been picked. Shaking my head, I looked down at the small table to my right. On top of it sat my bowl of keys, and on the shelf beneath sat my jar of faces. I mean...face. There was only one. Panicking, I picked up the glass jar and examined it from all sides. Still, there remained only one. My Depressive Face. Someone-the intruder- had stolen my Manic Face, the most dangerous of all my faces. With that face, some serious, serious damage can be done. Now, I’d never had anyone steal my faces before, so I wasn’t sure how this would all play out. Would my face fit on someone else? What would happen if they weren’t manic? How the hell was I going to get it back? I thought hard about who could have possibly wanted to do this to me? The only people in the world that knew about my faces were me and my parents. I racked my brain for any enemies I might have made recently, thinking that maybe someone had come for revenge and instead found something so bizarre they had to take it. But they didn’t take both- just the one. Why? And how did they find out? I was on the verge of frustrated tears. I’d had no visitors for weeks, maybe even months because of the depression I had just gotten out of. And I worried that with the extra fear I was now carrying I might need to slip my Depressive Face back on. I went to the mirror and adjusted my skin. It looked okay. Not perfect, but good enough to pass as a normal woman. I thought about calling the police about the break-in, but what would I tell them about what the intruder stole? I imagined a cop showing up at my house, leaning back with his hands in his pockets and examining my door. “Yup, that lock’s been picked alright. Ain’t much we can do about it since they didn’t steal anything, just get your locks changed,” said the imaginary policeman. I huffed and called a locksmith, then I took my pug and left the apartment to go to the park. I just needed to get out of there for a bit, every second I was in there I felt like I was being watched. I made sure I hid my extra face. Once we were at the park, I read and my dog played, and for a moment, everything was forgotten. That changed when I got back home. It was late in the evening by that time, and I was exhausted from the sun exposure and emotional trauma of the day. I’d just bid the locksmith goodbye as he finished up. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I ordered a pie from Papa’s Pizza for takeout rather than delivery. I’d gotten delivery from there the whole time I was depressed, and I was ready to get off my ass and out of the house, even if I wasn’t fully up to cooking my own food yet. What better way to relax than eating comfort food? I kissed my dog on her forehead the way I always do before I leave the house, even if it’s just for a short while. I triple-checked that the new lock was secured before leaving to pick up my food. Then, I hopped in my car and put on some Zeppelin. I lost myself in the music and drove to the restaurant under a cloudy, darkening sky. When I arrived, I sat in the parking lot so that the song I was listening to could finish, then I got out and slammed the door behind me. My feet crunched on the gravel as I swung open the glass door and entered the establishment. I strolled up to the bored-looking middle-aged man at the register and gave him my name. He looked up at me. “So you’re the special customer Katy was talking about. She loved your tips, man. Shame she was fired,” he said, and reached around to grab my pizza. Gears turned in my head. “Fifteen, even.” Katy. Katy...that was the name that always popped up on my delivery app. She was the girl who had been consistently delivering me pizzas for months now- the only person that could have peeked inside my apartment and seen my faces. It had to be her. “Wait, why was she fired?” I asked slowly, reaching into my purse to fish for my wallet. He shrugged. “Started acting fuckin’ crazy. Kept saying her face was falling off, or something.” I bit my lip and nodded, trying to keep a straight face, no pun intended. I handed him the cash. “Right, right. Did she say where she was going, by any chance?” He shrugged again. “Just home, I guess. Said she didn’t need a job anymore anyway because she just became a millionaire.” I sighed. Classic mania. It all hit too close to home. “Alright,” I said as he gave me change for the twenty, “Where is ‘home,’ then?” The man snorted. “How should I know? I don’t look at employee records.” “Well, could you show them to me?” He rolled his eyes. “Ma’am...” he started. “I’m gonna stop you right there. First of all, I am way too young to be a ‘ma’am.’ Second, you’re gonna show me that record,” I said, acting more confident than I actually felt. This time, he actually laughed. It was more like a hee-haw. “Or what?” I hesitated for a second, then I had an idea. Tearing at the delicate glue that I’d used to paste my face to my head, I ripped off my Stable Face and showed him the raw, pulsating, muscular, exposed, gruesome tissues beneath. Immediately, a wet spot started to form in his jeans. “Rah!” I screamed at him, lunging forward menacingly. Then, he passed out. I admit I had to stifle a giggle as I rearranged my face to the best of my ability. I’d never shown that to anyone except my parents. Focus, I told myself. I walked behind the counter and wandered into the back of the store. The office was the first door on my right down the hallway that led from the kitchen. I approached the file cabinet and opened the top drawer. ‘Financial Statements,’ it read. I closed it. In the second drawer, I found what I was looking for. ‘Employee Records.’ I found Katy’s resume in the ‘Shred’ folder. Her address was listed right at the top. Perfect, now I knew where I needed to go. I left the pizza parlor after repositioning the unconscious man so that he wouldn’t wake up with a kink in his neck. Then, I took my pizza and headed straight to Katy’s, eating in the car along the way. When I got there, there was only one car in the driveway. I hoped she lived alone. I knocked on the door, softly at first, but then louder after there was no answer to the first knock. A light flicked on in the doorway and I heard footsteps approach. Slowly, the door opened, but only just a crack. “What is it? What do you want?” said a gruff female voice. “Katy? It’s me, Isabelle, your best customer. I think you have something of mine?” I heard her gasp on the other side of the door. She paused to consider her next move, then sighed and opened the door fully. It was me. I mean, she was me. It was like looking in a mirror, except the body was different. She had my face, and it was a face I was oh, so familiar with. Wild-eyed and not quite lucid, but damn, it fit her perfectly. “You can come in. Sit over there on that old couch, I’m tossing it tomorrow and buying all new furniture for this place.” I didn’t sit. “Katy, I know you must have a lot going on, but I need my face back,” I said patiently. “Well yeah, this is the busiest I’ve ever been in my life, so I’ll make this quick. Look, it’s not like I wanted to steal your face. I actually never even noticed the jar on your shelf until my own face started to peel off one day. And then I robbed you, and everything changed! Oh, my life is just perfect now! I’m gonna sell the house and buy a big van, you know? Like, the old-fashioned Volkswagen buses? And I’m gonna travel across the country and live off of the land. I’ll be blogging and taking photos the whole time if you want to follow my adventures- after all, it will be your face that makes me famous. Tell you what, we can even split the profits!” She spoke with such genuine zeal and excitement, I couldn’t bear to be the one to tell her that she was just delusional, that it didn’t make sense to buy new furniture for a house she that was planning to sell, that her life didn’t change at all- she did. And now she was about to destroy herself without help. “Katy, listen to me,” I said, formulating a plan in my mind, “I’m gonna make you a promise, okay? If you give me back my face, your life is going to get so much better. And I can take you to a place full of people who will recognize all of your faces, and just how beautiful each of them are. But they have to be your own.” She blinked at me, skeptical. I continued. “Look, bring me your face, the one that fell off.” She shrugged and went to fetch it. When she brought it out and I looked at it, I felt a pang of sympathy. She was so beautiful, yet she couldn’t accept herself. Her flesh had rejected itself. I gently took the face in my hands. It had only been a day, so the fact that she hadn’t preserved it in formaldehyde wasn’t that big of a deal. I would have to tell her about that trick, though. “Now, can you do something for me? It’s not going to be easy, but I need you to trust me, because I’ve stood in your shoes before. I need you to give me back my face, and then you need to face yourself. We’re going to patch you up as best as we can, and then we’re going to go on the most important adventure of your life.” Katy nodded and bit her- my- lip. We went into the bathroom together and I helped her by getting my long fingernails under the edge of the skin to peel off the rest of the face. Once it was off, I sighed with relief, then I folded it up and slipped it into my purse. “Okay. This isn’t going to be perfect, but we’re gonna do our best,” I said. After a half hour of glue and two hours of makeup, she looked reasonable enough to pass as a slightly-deformed woman. By the time I got her to the hospital, I knew that she would be in capable hands and that her face would readjust alongside with her medications over time. The medical staff would probably be baffled. I think she realized what was happening on the car ride over, but she didn’t try to fight me. Deep down, she knew that something was wrong and that she needed all the help she could get. I let her eat the rest of my cold pizza. Once they were ready to take her back, we exchanged a hug and waved goodbye. I slipped her a small piece of paper with my phone number on it. “Sometimes it gets lonely in there, so... Just call anytime.” She smiled genuinely at me as a tear rolled down her own cheek. “Thanks, Isabelle. Things are going to change again, aren’t they?” Her voice cracked. “Yeah, they’re gonna change. But remember when I said that this is the most important adventure of your life. It might be grueling, and sometimes you might even hate it. But it’s a path you’ve gotta take.” Katy nodded. “The most important adventure of my life,” she echoed thoughtfully. I gave her hand one last squeeze before they took her away. I knew we would keep in touch. It’s been a year since Katy stole my face, but in that time, she’s managed to build faces of her own, and I’m proud to say that she’s been wearing her Stable Face consistently for 9 months now. I’ve still got mine on, too. We’ve still got a long way to go, but now, we get to be our best selves, and we’re doing it together. I can’t wait to see what face she’ll be wearing when I pull out the engagement ring tonight.


I slid my clothes off and cranked the shower knob, holding an orange in my palm, toes and fingertips heating up red. Brushing dirtspace from my wet knees. Crouching in the clatter, sinking my chin lower into my chest. Silverfish climb the curtains up to the cracked ceiling. Citrus smell joins the hot steam between careful bites, and I watch little hairs suck down the drain in a dark whirlpool. Glowing red capsules churn inside me. Ten, maybe twelve. Swallowing them pill-like makes me less nauseous than the syrupy version, but sometimes that’s all the store has. Tonight is a mix of both (and the fruit hides the taste of glue). Cut the water shivering. I lay out my towel and just sit until dry. Seeing double now, two towels. I put on loose boxers and a long shirt. Limbs lag through the holes at ten frames per second. Opening the bathroom door now. A dim night light blinks in the hallway, plugged low by The Old Woman. She’s in Hawaii this week (and I must remember to pay her when she gets back). There’s two doors in my room, but it’s really true, I’m not just seeing it that way. One to the hallway and one to the backyard. I squint at the clock by my bed and think. Lover Boy should be here soon. I hear taps at the backyard door. It’s the cat. She slinks between my legs and camps in the cubby of my nightstand (only it’s not a nightstand, it’s an apple crate turned upright to look like a nightstand). I look outside for a sign of Lover Boy. I see grapefruit trees, plastic flamingos and tarped furniture. A wheelbarrow, too. No Lover Boy. The dark sky is bright, shaded misty gray by the distant stadium lights. I hear the hush of leaves and skin. It’s him. He emerges from the gap in the fence like I told him to because The Old Woman has a camera at the front door. He calls me beautiful. He asks if my name is really Mango. Of course it is. Lover Boy jumps up onto my bed. I try to do the same but I can’t feel my legs, and I fall. You’re bleeding, he says. I tell my tongue to say something but no words come out. My head wobbles down, connected to my neck like a Slinky. He’s right. A red drop made it to the surface. I wipe the blood with my thumb and lick it clean, smiling at Lover Boy. Lover Boy studies the way my boxerfabric clings to my crotch. A coin flip for him, one outcome luckier than the other, wondering if I’m more boy or girl. His hand glides under my waistband. My eyes would be shut but I notice a dead bee caught in his hair. Lover Boy seems happy. I can’t feel what he’s doing, the red slush of cough medicine in my stomach turning me ghost. He’s like a mime then. The cat watched from the floor and I wished she would leave but then she jumped on Lover Boy’s head and ate the dead bee. I tried to laugh, paralyzed below Lover Boy and the cat. The noise part of the laugh came a few seconds late, brain and body lagging still. Don’t go, Lover Boy.


# The Snails Are on the Move Harry noticed them immediately. Groups of snails clustered in three or four moving across the slick, freshly rained-out pavement. Steam rose in twisting tendrils off the warm pavement, obscuring their paths in a fine mist. Harry weaved through the snails like a slalom course, trying not to step on any. *This can’t be normal, can it?* Every four to five feet in front of him, a new cluster of snails made their way through the world at a decidedly languid pace. CRUNCH. Harry looked down, already feeling guilt and shame. Lifting his boot, he saw the shattered shell and gooey carcass of not one, not two, but three snails. “Ooh, I’m so sorry.” Genuine anguish filled his words. “Why do you have to cluster together like that?” It wasn’t the snails’ fault but asking helped. Harry made his way toward the grassy surface of the neighborhood park, hoping that the snails would stick to the concrete. His mistake was immediately apparent when he took his first step into the dewy grass. SQUISH. CRUNCH. He let out a gasp of horror and jumped back. CRUNCH. “Why?!” The unforgiving gray sky, barely holding back a torrent of rain, didn’t answer. Harry carefully moved away from the site of the kill, finding an unoccupied piece of pavement and staring out at the park. He was in the process of plotting a snail-free route home, when he saw the tree. The neighborhood park didn’t have many of them. There were rows of low shrubs next to the sidewalk, and a few saplings that would one day shade the paths, but an old oak dominated the landscape. Its branches were gnarled and crooked, standing out against the elements with suicidal determination. The tree looked sick. There were green leaves as one would expect at the end of spring, but something about the bark felt wrong. Bulbous knots dotted the thick trunk-like sores waiting to burst. The tree groaned, giving the impression that it might collapse under its own weight at any minute. Harold approached it out of a sense of need more than want. A slick, clammy chill fell over him as he stared at the bark. Growing dread mounted in his chest with every step he took. CRUNCH. Somehow, he found himself able to ignore the sound and the implication. He was transfixed by the bark of the tree. It looked as though it had blown a thousand tiny bubbles, and they shifted ever so slightly in the evening breeze. Only, the wind was calm. There was no breeze. CRUNCH. Harold didn’t look underfoot. Yes, the bark was moving. As he approached, he saw them. Thousands, maybe even tens of thousands. Snails coated every inch of the tree, writhing their way toward the upper branches. The soft, squishing sound of their movement was like a whisper in silence. Dread, confusing and all-encompassing, filled him at that moment. Despite the growing sense that something was very wrong, Harry couldn’t look away. For an hour, or at least it seemed like an hour, Harry stared at the moving bark of the tree. Watching the snails make a seemingly endless march toward the sky. He didn’t feel the weight on his boots, or the slick sensation on his pant legs. Time passed at blinding speed and was at the same time placid. By the time the cold, creeping sensation had risen to his chest, there wasn’t much to be done about it. He couldn’t say why, but he knew the outcome was inevitable. His eyes darted down, just for a moment. Snails. Snails, covering his body from chest to foot. They were heavy, giving his clothes a sodden, soggy feeling. A numbing, slimy sensation ran up his neck. *The snails are on the move.* They were covering him, climbing, just like the tree. The inevitability of it was both comfort and dread. His lips parted, maybe on the verge of forming a scream, but no sound came out. A snail, surprisingly heavy, slithered between them. Its bubbly shell filled his mouth. *Why is this happening?* Harry tried to take a breath and found he couldn’t. Soft, mucous underbellies covered his nostrils. He tried to move, wondering if there was a way out of this. Back to the path, back the few blocks to home. Movement was impossible. His feet were fixed to the ground, weighed down by an endless wave of snails, measured and steady in their march. His lungs started to burn. A dark cloud came over the bottom corner of his left eye. He tried to blink, but couldn’t tell if his eyelid had moved. The world descended into darkness. *The snails are on the move.* He knew that much was true. It would be impossible not to feel their movement. Wherever they were going, they were determined. The burning in Harry’s chest changed to shooting pain and he knew he would need to breathe soon. Against his better judgment, he inhaled, the sensation thick and wrong. His throat bulged and yet his mouth filled again with more slick bodies waiting to take the first one’s place. *The snails are on the move.* \ Note from the author: Yeah, I'm not sure if this is anything, but for some reason I had to write it. I saw a bunch of snails on my walk yesterday and this is what came of it. I hope it was enjoyable or at least well-written nonsense.


It was a rainy, cold Friday. I was wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, not my usual attire but it was laundry day. I had walked the four blocks from my apartment to the old wash-o-matic laundromat, just like I did every few weeks. It had been longer than usual this time, so I had everything except for what I was wearing in the laundry bag thrown over my shoulder. By the time I arrived, I was sopping wet, and leaving a trail of drips behind me in the slightly too warm, loud room. The rain must have been keeping people at home, because I was the only one there. I had used the last of my quarters to tip the pizza delivery driver the night before, so I walked over to the change machine and inserted a handful of ones I had found in various places around my apartment. On the last dollar bill, the machine froze up and refused to drop the quarters with the usual clank into the metal tray. I hit the side of it with the palm of my hand, and three quarters fell out. I cursed at the machine, knowing that meant 5 minutes less of drying time. But what did it really matter... dry or not, by the time I brought everything home it would be wet again. Still mad, I walked over to the nearest washing machine and loaded my clothes. I inserted most of my quarters, leaving me with only the shorted change from my last dollar. After adding detergent, I pressed the start button and sat back to wait. The Wash-O-Matic’s washers look like they are older than me, and apparently at the time the washers were built, people were not in a hurry. I settled in, ready to wait for the forever cycle of the wash. Little did I know, it was exactly that. After nearly 45 minutes, I watched the clothes spin faster and faster through the glass window on the front. I sat up in my seat, knowing from experience that this was the final stage in the cycle, when it tries it's hardest to get as much water out of the clothes as possible. It usually did a very poor job. As I waited for the sad buzz that signified the end of the wash, the clothes continued to gain speed. Finally, I thought, maybe it will actually work for once. But the drum continued faster and faster, now producing a whirring sound, like a plane getting ready to take off. As the speed increased, the lights began to flicker and spark. When the turbine sound reached a roar, the lights popped, one by one across the entire room. But the machine kept gaining speed, any shakes that had started at lower speeds stabilizing to a barely detectable vibration. I ran out of the building with my hands over my ears, crouching as I tried to avoid the shattering glass above me. I stood outside in the rain, looking in on the row of machines through the large glass window. Maybe there was a power surge, I thought. But the speed of the drum had not slowed down. It was running at a stable speed, so fast the inside was a flickering blur of color from my clothes. I waited outside, not knowing what to do. That's when the vans showed up. Black vans with blacked out windows, carrying heavily armed men in black uniforms. They swarmed out of the van, and circled the building. Before I knew it, I was on the ground and in handcuffs. I guess I didn't look like much of a threat in my soggy sweats and hoodie, because they walked me away from the building and sat me down in the grass and left. I sat there handcuffed in the rain for almost an hour. While I sat there, helicopters started circling around, and men in hazmat suits started towards the building carrying boxes of expensive looking equipment. Finally, a man in a suit came and got me. He brought me into a hastily erected white tent, and questioned me for a while. I told him what had happened, and that all my clothes were stuck in there. After a quick laugh at me, he dismissed me out of the tent and back onto the street. He said I had just solved the world's greatest problem. My only reply to him was “but my clothes...” With another chuckle, he walked away behind the line of armed men. And that was the day the world changed in a pretty big way. That old machine with all of my clothes had somehow created an infinite supply of energy. That one rickety, aging washer with a load of old gym socks and tattered t-shirts had somehow transformed itself into an endless generator of power. That building became the power source for the entire world eventually, with lines running under seas and into other continents. Power plants were obsolete. Power was free for the whole world. A lot of things changed after that. For me though, the only real change was a lack of clothing, and three leftover quarters in my pocket. Not having to pay a power bill any more is nice, but really, I just want my clothes back.


As I walk along the pathway that lay beside the rusting playground where I grew up, a million memories swarm in my head... But what catches my attention isn’t the new statue they’d built, nor the rose beds but instead, a man who looked all too familiar. ... It’s wintertime 1989, I’m fourteen years old sitting on the swing next to Marco, the best-looking guy from my grade nine class. I wore the red and white checked dress stained with coke with a denim jacket despite my mother’s warning about the weather. It was freezing and the river that flowed nearby was almost frozen over. We sat side by side on our swings occasionally talking, sometimes looking at each other, and rarely laughing. ... It was the biggest dare yet this year. My grade had come up with some stupid dare system where if you did something that the whole class voted you do, then somehow, you’d become more popular. And that was my dream - popularity. I was just Santana, the brown-haired, brown skin, brown eyed girl that no one ever bothered to talk to. So the day I finally spoke up and said I wanted to take part in the immature dare game they called The Devils Dare, was the day most kids actually noticed me for the first time. I did have one friend, Angie, but she had just moved schools before The Devils Dare began... lucky her. So that left me alone and I was sick of living like that. At fourteen years old, I’d never even held hands with a guy! Vivian, my class’s most beautiful, most popular girl had done everything. She’d held hands with not only one, but many boys, even kissed a few too and who knows what else, and one day she came to school ‘drunk’ claiming she’d stolen alcohol from her parent’s liquor cabinet. But the day Vivian came to school and announced she had a boyfriend, three years older than her was the day I was sick of being lonely. So, I spoke up. “I’ll play,” everyone turned to look at me. I could feel my cheeks beginning to turn the colour of a tomato. No one spoke. They were all either completely in shock or didn’t know what to say. “What?” said Vivian. “I said, I want to play.” “ You want to play The Devils Dare?” “You heard me,” I replied, joining the circle. Vivian began to shake her head. She turned to look at the rest of the people in the group which was essentially my whole grade. But none of them argued against me and my offer to play. Flicking her perfect blonde locks back over her shoulder, she turned her attention back to me. “Fine, it’s Elliot’s turn to pick the dare so let’s hear what he has up his sleeve shall we?” Elliot, being Marco’s sidekick and even more irritating follower smirked and cleared his throat. “Santana, Santana, Santana...” I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to give me my dare. For some reason, the silence in the air didn’t even make me anxious, somehow, I felt... ready. “I’m waiting Elliot ,” I said getting a little bit impatient. “And I’m thinking, Santana .” “ I have a dare,” snickered Vivian. “Mind if I steal this one from you Elliot?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fine, go ahead.” Everyone gave into Vivian, it was like the boys were under some type of trance anytime she asked for a favour. To retrieving her a pencil or carrying her to the sickbay when she fell over in sport one time, the boys were willing to go miles and miles for her. Maybe one day they’d realise. “I dare Santana to go out with Marco. This weekend. At Pablo’s Diner, 6 pm sharp.” I instantly look up at Vivian, slowly my eyes are drawn to the other side of the circle where Marco sits glaring at me. “Vivian, are you kidding me? Santana ?” He rolled his eyes. “No way!” “I’m down,” I say. Murmurs start to arise and chatter replaces the silence. “I’ll be there, Saturday night at Pablo’s, 6 pm.” That was that so I got up and walked away, leaving my classmates behind. ... 5:55 pm, Saturday night I walk into Pablo’s Diner to find Marco. As I walk through the door, the bell rings and instantly I’m hit with the sounds and smell of Italian food. Marco’s nowhere to been seen so I take a seat on the empty booth right at the back of the diner by the window. The bell chimes and a boy with blond hair, hazel eyes, and adorable dimples walks in - it’s Marco. He sees me and begins to walk my way. He’s not smiling nor frowning so that’s a start I gather. “Hey,” I say as he sits across from me. “Hey,” he replies. Neither of us says anything for a while, I had a mental list of things to talk about in my mind but with a guy like him sitting across from me, all my brain cells had left well before I had a chance to use them. “F-food,” I stammer. He cocks his head to one side in confusion. “Do you want to order,” I rephrase myself. “Sure.” Marco clicks his fingers to get the attention of the closest waitress. The blonde-haired girl turns and starts towards our table. Out of all the waitresses in this town, the one to serve Marco and I is Vivian’s older and even more popular sister and not to mention the girl Marco claims to of kissed on multiple occasions. I immediately look down, busying myself with what’s on the menu. “April,” says Marco, I didn’t know you still worked here. She nodded, her bosoms bouncing up and down a bit too unnaturally. “I see you’re on a date with Santana here. How adorable!” her voice sounded just as fake as her personality. I looked up, trying my best to give her my most realistic smile. “We’re not... o-on a date exactly,” clarified Marco almost immediately. The smile that I had tried my best to plaster on rapidly faded. April looked at me just in time to see my smile fade. “Well, I think Santana here had a different idea. Is that right San?” “San tana ,” I corrected her, emphasis the rest of my name. “And frankly, no, this is not a date, instead, a dare set by your sister.” There was a pregnant pause before anyone spoke again. “Well, what can I fetch for you two?” “I’ll take a loaded cheese pizza and coke,” said Marco. “And I’ll take a creamy carbonara please, with a lemonade.” April wrote down our orders and walked off. Marco pulled a bottle from his jacket, it was only small but it had a golden-brown colour to it. Taking a swig of it, he winced when the liquid trickled down his throat. “Want some?” he pushed the bottle towards me. I shook my head. “No thanks. What is that stuff?” “Rum from my father’s office. He won’t even notice it’s gone.” “Marco!” I whispered although it came out louder than intended. “You shouldn’t be drinking. You’re only fifteen!” “Sixteen actually,” he said. There was a two-year age gap between us. Once I graduated grade three, the teachers were that impressed with my numeracy and literacy skills, fourth grade wasn’t even an option, it was straight to grade five for Santana. Our drinks came and Marco proceeded to top up his coke with his father’s rum while I listened to him talk. His speech was beginning to sound like spaces never existed between words. The alcohol was kicking into his system and fast. Once our food came, Marco dug into his pizza and I began with my pasta. I really thought that I was having a good night. I was beginning to actually enjoy myself when Marco tipped his glass over. It could’ve gone three ways... onto him, onto the sides of the table or, onto me. Just my luck, it tipped straight onto my lap, staining my red and white dress. I didn’t overact as most other girls would screaming hysterically, instead, I just looked up at his guilty face. No words escaped his lips so I stood, leaving a twenty on the table and walked out. I didn’t know where my legs were taking me. This was the first time I’d been out on the town at night. Most young girls my age would run home or run to their nearest friend’s house, but I didn’t. Before I knew it, my feet were crunching under the bark chips at the local park. Rain had fallen recently and I could hear the river gushing nearby but that wasn’t the only sound my ears picked up. I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. I was never one to think of the worst so I confidently spun around to face whatever or whoever was coming from behind. “Santana, I am so sorry, really I-I’m...” “Forget it, Marco,” I replied in a firm tone. “You’re drunk and you just need to go home. Really this is all my fault. I was the one who wanted to play this stupid game to start with. If I’d just kept quiet, we wouldn’t be here.” “Exactly.” “Exactly what?” I asked. “We wouldn’t be here,” he said taking three steps closer. Now an arm’s length away from each other’s body, I noticed Marco’s tear-stained face. “Marco, were you crying?” I asked although I knew the answer. It happened within two seconds. No words said just Marco wrapping his arms around my shoulders and releasing the build-up of tears. He stood in my arms sobbing. What was I to do? Push him away? Comfort him like he’d treated me like gold my whole life? I settled on just lightly wrapping my arms around his back. “Hey, it’s okay,” I whispered after he’d let go. His cheeks were shiny with the tears that dried on his skin. Then he did it. He kissed me. It wasn’t just a peck on the cheek or lips it was something more. Something that felt like it had meaning. “Marco...” “Santana, I don’t care anymore.” “About what?” “About who. About who sees this. About who hears about this.” “Oh please,” I replied earnestly rolling my eyes. “As if you mean that. You’re drunk and you are going to have no comprehension of this tomorrow morning so don’t say anything you’re going to regr-” “I love you.” I licked my lips and nodded, raising my eyebrows in doubt. “You do?” “Yes, I have for a while now.” “Okay buddy,” I said carefully selecting the tone and pitch of my voice. Let’s go to the swings, shall we? Just sit? Maybe talk?” Marco nodded. The only light in the park came from the twenty-year-old streetlamps which gave off just enough light to make out someone’s features if they were within two feet of your face. The swings creaked as we sat on them. “What time are your parents expecting you home?” I ask. “9:30 pm.” “You live on the corner of Rowling Street, right?” He nodded vaguely. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a hike from here.” “I’ll call for a taxi then.” I walk slowly toward the payphone on the corner of the playground block. Once I get to the phone, I glance back at the swing set to see nobody on the swing next to where I was. Instead, it swung back and forth as though someone had just gotten off it. “Marco?” I asked. “Marco!” This time raising my voice. No response. He was gone. ... I spent that weekend worried sick about Marco’s whereabouts. Although he’d acted like such a jerk and treated me as if I were a ghost majority of the time we’d known each other, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had meant what he’d said. He’d kissed me and told me he loved me. No one had ever said such things about me. I couldn’t even remember the last time my mother had told me she loved me. Monday morning rolled around and I walk through the school gates, peering around for Marco or at least his best friend, Elliot. Then, I see him. He has his back to me but I know it’s him. No one could miss Marco. I wander over to where he sat on the ground. Elliot must have said something about me coming because Marco turned his head and immediately jumped up. I stop walking and let him approach me. Without even saying hello I burst out with, “where the heck did you disappear to?” “I’m sorry,” “You’re sorry? God Marco, I was-” I stopped myself in my verbal tracks. No, I shouldn’t let him get the satisfaction of him knowing I was worried sick about him. “I was just about to call the taxi and then you were gone!” “So he got you, yeah?” Elliot had joined the conversation at some point although I couldn’t recall inviting him. “You knew about this?” I asked. Elliot nodded, obviously very satisfied with himself. “So how was his acting?” “Acting!?” I repeated. “But he was... Oh my God, you weren’t even drunk, were you?” I now faced Marco. “You pretended to act drunk just so you could see me make a fool of myself. I can’t believe I was even going to let myself hate you just a little less than before. Now I hate myself for even thinking about that.” I turn the other way, my long hair flicking over my shoulder as I storm off. “He’ll take that as a compliment,” yelled out Elliot on Marco’s behalf. The next thing I heard although I tried my best to zone out their irritating voices was, “this has gone too far.” It was Marco’s voice. I slowed my steps but didn’t stop. The next thing I knew, Marco had grabbed my arm and spun me around. I didn’t have time to think before he kissed me. Again. This time in front of the entire school. As our lips parted and our eyes opened there was just silence with the occasional mutter or murmur but then, someone yelled out. “Marco did it! He finally kissed Santana! The girl he’s wanted to kiss since grade five!” It wasn’t just anyone who yelled out those words, it was Marco’s older brother. Gradually cheering and clapping became the sound I heard. Marco stood in front of me, smiling. Unconsciously, a massive grin had made its way onto my face and I stood there looking as taken aback and happy as ever. “It’s true, what my brother said.” “Really?” “Sure is.” ... My heels crunch under the bark chips, this time, twenty-five years later. I no longer have the long dark hair trailing down my back no do I have the innocence I had twenty-five years earlier. I have life experience. I’m a mother to a ten-year-old boy back at my new home by the beach. “Is that Santana I see?” said the familiar voice. Nothing had changed about him, not even the blond hair or dimples in his cheeks. “Sure is,” I reply. I embrace Marco into a hug and take in his strong scent. “It’s been too long.” “But here we are. Our very own high school sweetheart reunion. Just for the two of us.” I shake my head and smile. I realised instantly that I’ve missed his presence in my life. “What do you say, want to go sit on the swing set? Maybe talk? Make sure this time you don’t disappear on me, okay?” “Never again,” said Marco. “I don’t know why I ever let you go...”


I was always taken away by the beauty of the woman I loved. Her sheer presence could make me smile, even on days where darkness overshadowed the light. The simplicity of her “Hey!” when she walked through the door of my house had me jumping in excitement like a young child opening presents on Christmas. She was the person I wanted to spend every second of every day with, taking cringeworthy pictures and putting them on Instagram, or recording me when I danced around the room as if I was Jamie Bell in Billy Elliot. Our love was simple - and equal. We first met in college in Sociology. It was the first day of the term and the universe already did us a favor by having the teacher make us sit next together. We were both slightly awkward and although we wanted to start a conversation, it was difficult for us to do so. I finally got the confidence to say the word, hello and in that same sweet way she always does, she looked at me and said “Hey.” It took us twenty minutes to start talking to each other, but after that, we couldn’t stop. It got to so much talking that we eventually started dating. But relationships aren’t easy. To keep a relationship vigorous is one of the hardest things to do as many factors can intercept the relationship and knock it off course: The stress of your job or schoolwork, financial issues, new people that come into our lives, they can all damage a once happy relationship - they can all dispossess you of the woman you love. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She no longer gave me the long-detailed responses I used to get when I messaged her “How was your day?” It was now just: “fine” or “good”. I was inexperienced with relationships. I was naïve. I didn’t know how to tackle this issue because I didn’t know what the issue was. Was it me? Was I the issue? I went to her house to see if she was in, to see if we could speak about this and overcome it. I didn’t want to lose her, she was the first person that made me feel such warmth, such happiness. I didn’t want that to be stripped away from me. She opened the door and I froze. I hadn’t planned how I was going to come about the issue, I just knew that I wanted to. “What are you doing here?” It wasn’t the heartfelt greeting I wanted but with the way things have been going lately, I wasn’t surprised by the way she greeted me. “I need to talk to you, about us, things are different between us.” “I can’t, I’m busy.” She wasn’t busy - I knew that. I wanted to be wrong, but I knew that she was lying to me. She shut the door before I could reply, I stood there for minutes as I had frozen in time. The same night I decided to message her so that I could try and say what I wanted to. For hours I sat there listening to the same 1975 songs, waiting for a reply from her. I never got one. For the next couple of weeks, I tried to try and speak to her, but she never returned the favor. I went back to her house and knocked on the door like I did the previous weeks. She answered the door and started with excuses pulled from thin air. “Stop with the lies!” I couldn’t take the worrying or the hurt anymore and I told her exactly how I was feeling. I told her about the pain of not seeing her in weeks, the constant worry of upsetting her. It was all too much. For several minutes I poured my heart out to the girl I loved about how I couldn’t cope not seeing her and feeling as if I had hurt or upset her in some way. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and on her cheek and said the most painful sentence I’ve ever had to hear. “I think this is the end for us.” She was right. We no longer shared the same amount of excitement about our relationship and it was clear that we needed to move on, and after the longest and most soul-wrenching hug of my life, I walked out of her house and said goodbye to her for the last time.


The flipping imprint, three narrow circles intertwined, on the inside of his wrist glowed soft blue, and soon it would glow red, then yellow, then blue again, but with Black inside, not me. I walked away from the mirror, grabbed the flipper’s phone from the table, and called Mr. Black. “Everything’s all ready, when can we make the switch?” “Today, if you like. Can you come now?” I nodded, shouldered the phone as I gathered fitted pants and a black button down from the closet. “Yeah, yeah I can. I’ll be there in ten.” I hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed, put socks and polished shoes on, then took the Mercedes keys from the hook in the hallway and opened the front door of the apartment suite. Mr. Black’s house, though more like a mansion, was behind a black steel gate I had to be allowed through. I left the car parked a way’s away, something I’d like to keep after the switch, and walked the winding gravel path to the granite stairs that lead up into an entryway that could double as a ball room. A twinkling, glass chandelier hung overhead, and two sets of snaking massive stairs lead up to the second story of the house. A set of double doors off to the right opened and Mr. Black walked out, his forehead reminding me of melting wax, and his deep-seated beady eyes always seemed to be glaring. I shook his clammy hand. “You ready?” I asked. “Of course, of course,” he nodded, raised his hand towards another room near the stairs. “Right this way, to the study.” He shuffled ahead to the dark mahogany doors, then with a grunt, pushed them open. Beyond was a smaller room with shelving from floor to ceiling, spilling with thick books, and a golden trimmed oriental carpet covered the ground. When I stepped inside, he closed the door. There were two low, wing-backed chairs facing a large desk. A decanter with amber liquid, and a black phone sat atop. Behind was a large window overlooking Mr. Black’s sprawling backyard. “Would you like a drink?” he asked, walking around me. I shook my head. “Booze throws off the switch. “So, you ready?” “Yes, yes.” He opened a cabinet, pulled free a rubber-banded envelope, and handed it to me. “It’s all there, you can count if you want.” “Not needed,” I glanced at the shelves, the floor, the books, “I know you’re good for it, with a place like this.” “Okay, so how do we do it?” “First you give me your dominant hand. Left handed? Okay, don’t meet many of those. Place your wrist against mine -- the one with the imprint -- and close your eyes. I’ll do the same. There’s power in the ink, it just does the rest, like magic, really. Once it happens, you’ll be in here, and I’ll be back in my own, back home. You’ll be left to deal with your old body, but we already agreed to that. Okay... deep breathe in, deep breathe out... One, two, and three!” Nothing. Not a good damn thing. I didn’t feel the tug of being flipped, didn’t feel the pull of switching, of wrenching free of the flipper and thrown back to my body back home, didn’t hear the sound of the whirring, or feel the warmth radiating between us. “Did it work?” Black asked. “No, but this happens sometimes on the first go. Let’s try again. Breathe in, then out... One, two, three!” Again, nothing but clammy flesh on warm skin. I opened my eyes. Black’s were still closed, though he was frowning. “Is everything okay?” he asked through pursed lips. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Let’s try this one more time.” Again, nada. *What the fuck!* I pulled my wrist away from his, he opened his eyes, and I handed him back his money. “Sorry ’bout this, something’s funky with this flipper, don’t know what.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my hand and dug his feet into the carpet. “No, wait, I have to have this body... I can’t stay in this one anymore... The cancer, in my lungs, constant pain--” I wrenched my hand free from him. “I can’t do it, buddy. It won’t work. I just tried three damn times. Maybe in a month, if I can get it fixed, then we’ll talk but until then--” “I don’t have a damn month!” he screamed, shaking his fist. “I can’t live like this anymore! You-- you promised me that body and now you’re taking our deal back?” “Look Black, I gave you your money back. No harm, no foul. Deal’s off.” I turned and strode towards the door. *Have to get out, have to leave this place before-- ah, shit... door’s locked.* “Can you unlock this, Black?” I asked as I faced him and something overwhelming and sharp enveloped my body. My legs crumbled underneath me. I rapped my chin on the floor, felt the crack of my teeth, and something warm was pouring out from me. I groped the flipper’s body. *Not piss, not shit... Ah, blood, goddamn blood.* I tried to roll over, but my arms were too weak now. I breathed heavily into the carpet, heard footsteps come over and felt something on my arm. I rolled onto my back, blood pumping out from my chest. Mr. Black knelt down, eyes red-rimmed and teary. “Now maybe it’ll work,” he said, taking my imprinted wrist and placing it to his. He closed his eyes, breathed in, then out. Nothing. “To-- told you, buddy... Not, not gonna work... No-- now this flipper’s gonna die and I’ll be, I’ll be back in my body and you’ll be left with a corpse.” I grinned, tasted copper. The world went dark. It went cold. His wrist was on mine when I closed my eyes, and it was still there when I opened them, kneeling over the flipper’s body. *Oh fuck, oh fuck no!* I dropped the wrist like it was red hot, straightened slower than I was use to, heard my knees crack, and shuffled to the window behind the desk. I looked into the reflection. Touched Black’s face, his melting forehead, the sunken cheeks... *fuck, fuck, fuck.* I checked my wrists. No imprints. I lifted his shirt -- none -- unbuckled his pants -- nothing but shriveled gonads... There was no imprint, he wasn’t a flipper, he was me and I was him and I coughed into my palm and looked into my hand and saw blood-- the cancer... about a month to live. I walked around the desk, peered down at the corpse on the ground. Mr. Black was inside, or, maybe-- I ran to the phone on the desk, picked it up, dialed my home number. Ring. Ring. Ring. “Hello?” I said on the other end. “Hello? Who is this?” I asked, in the study. “Mr. Black, who’s this?” If you like what you read, you can view more of my work in my subreddit at .