Many people outside of the entertainment world might just believe that being and entertainer is a glamorous life. It is but it isn’t. With that being said, let me introduce myself. My real name is Royce Nesby. Yet everyone calls me Dancer! I been dancing longer than I been walking. My mother would tell anyone who would listen that I even danced out of her womb. Maybe she drank one too many Margarita’s the late morning I was born. My father is a classic pianist, while my mother dabbled in the arts. I was destined to be a star in which never quite materialized as everyone believed. Oh, I did quite well for myself. You see, I’m a back up dancer. For those of you who may not know what exactly a back up dancer is I’ll try an explain. A backup dancer also known as background dancer is a performer who dances with or behind the lead performers in a live musical act or in a music video. Their movements provide a visual symmetry and rhythm to accompany the music. Dancers like myself must regularly attend rehearsals, costume fittings, tapings and concert dates as part of my job. While it's not necessary to have a college degree in dance, but it doesn’t hurt. I attended New York University Tisch School of the Arts by acquiring a full four year scholarship. The synchronized steps, glamorous costumes and proximity to stars make a career as a backup dancer seem like a dream come true for many. While the finished product may seem polished and desirable, however, the long hours and physical strain make dancing one of the most demanding careers today. Depending on the type of job, its length and other factors such as skill and experience, a dancer salary can vary from modest to lucrative. Mines was lucrative. Dancers are typically paid by the gig and pay-per-gig can reach over $1,000. Outside of money, compensation also comes in the form of lodging, exposure and/or costumes. It’s important to remember, however, that pay can be contingent upon other factors including ticket sales. Because of the gig-to-gig nature of dancer income, dancers also find other ways to bring in money between performances; this can be through teaching, food service or arts administration, among other day jobs. The U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics reports the hourly wage of a dancer at $17.15 per hour as of 2017. The dancer salary in companies and on Broadway is about $1,861 a week. Depending on the gig, your dance job may also come with benefits including health insurance, dancewear (shoes, sweatpants, etc.) and access to massage or physical therapists. This truth I share with you today is what most people believe a back up dancer truly, is behind their backs: A person who isn't important. A person who hides in the shadow of the star or someone else. A copy cat fake moon walker. Yo, Sis did you hear about that back up dancer Royce we went to dance school with? Na, what's up with him? He's just a back up dancer! Okay, enough with the shop talk. Let me give you the real low down and dirties about back up dancing. For 12 years straight I never had a vacation or basically a day off. My first video was with an entertainer known as Vanilla Ice. Myself and another dancer danced along with Vanilla Ice to Ice-Ice Baby. Much of the video was filmed inside a rat infested dingy warehouse. I remember because one of the stagehands got bit by a rat the size of a small armadillo. I was paid a measly $300. I must have did something right because my mother who had volunteered to be my manager got a call from Madonna. When I went to audition for her Blonde Ambition World Tour I was immediately told never to speak personally with the star. I stayed with her for four years. To me it was a gig I really made good money. I got along with a few of the dancers. I never liked the ones who tried to upstage her or suck up to her. Her name truly fit her. Because it seemed that we dancers were always competing for her attention in this concentrated amount of time, we weren’t tight at all. I think a lot of that is positioning, for her and it kind of put us in relation to her in a certain way that I guess she felt it benefitted her. But I didn’t feel like we were a family. It was a job and it was really cool and we were sharing our art; that’s what my relationship with her always felt like. It was different, totally different when I started back up dancing for the King of Pop Michael Jackson. I’m not here to throw no shade on that wonderful entertainer. He out danced and out worked all of his back up dancers. He was the constant pro and a real perfectionist. I can say that for the 3 years I danced along side him I learned more about dancing than I did in College. I was truly sadden by his untimely demise like many of his fans. But like in show business the show must go on and I danced along the sides of Luther Vandross, Patti Labelle, Mariah Carey and Mary J. Blige to name a few. It wasn’t until I sprained my ankle that I realized that I had never spent a holiday with friends nor family or even by myself. Those holiday occasions were for the fans and when I made the most money. All I really wanted to do for the first time in my dancing life was to do what normal people do during the holidays. You know like read a novel, fly a kite, let off a few fireworks, get drunk and have my ex girl friend call the police on me, walking a neighbor’s dog to pick up chicks, eat until I have to unbutton my pants, wait up all night to actually see how Santa Claus comes down the chimney in my condo, go to a nice restaurant at around 7pm, go to church, truly honor our soldiers who fought to protect us, to know what labor day is and celebrate a birthday. Like I said earlier having a back up dancing career isn’t that bad unless you consider all the enjoyment you miss during the holidays.


(WP) A Bitter Lovers’ Quarrel “I told you it didn’t have to happen this way,” His beloved snarled. She was sitting on the bed with her arms crossed, her full, luscious lips twisted in disgust. “I tried to tell you!” Her voice was soft, but carried an undertone of steel that would have sent him running for cover, had he been anyone else. But he was Paris, Prince of Troy, and he refused to be cowed, even by his own lover. Paris’s arms felt empty without Helen within them. Even though his lover was technically married to King Menelaus, it hadn’t stopped him from falling in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and after all that logic and reason flew straight out the window. “That was one of the members of my family, Paris. And now Hector is gone! I tried to tell you that there was a way out of this that didn’t involve war and bloodshed!” Her back was turned to him, and that alone felt like the worst sort of rebuke. For all her beauty, it was easy for even him to forget that she was a demigod, the King of the Gods her father. He wanted to say that she hadn’t protested when he’d stolen into her room that first night, and they’d kissed, never mind that her own husband was lying next to her. It was the first time that Paris had ever tasted her, and it was that madness that prompted him to steal her away from her husband and people. Both Trojans and Greeks wondered if the prince had been struck by one of Aphrodite’s stray arrows; that had to be the only reason that both armies were now falling to ruin. “I’m not sorry,” Paris replied at last, and once the words left his mouth, he realized that it was the truth. “Of course, you’re not sorry!” Helen snapped through gritted teeth. “Why would you be? He wasn’t part of your family.” She remembered all the time she’d spent with Hector, despite his seniority. He’d been as dear to her as her own father, and despite the fact that she adored Paris, she wasn’t certain if she could forgive this particular trespass. Before Paris could see them, Helen wiped her face of tears. Despite herself, she found herself missing her husband and Sparta. Standing on the other side of what could be her greatest impulse or ruin, Helen found her heart crumbling to pieces inside of her ribcage. How had this even begun? Was it her own way of distracting herself from her yawning, all-consuming boredom, despite being a queen with a loving husband? Had Paris been nothing but a shiny, well-oiled distraction from the gilded cage from which she’d ruled on high? She’d grabbed on to him with both hands, duty, decorum and all the gods be damned, never mind that she’d left her old life in shambles in doing so.


True, but not all scars are created equal. I've got a doozy on my right eyebrow like Jason Mamoa and I hate to think of how it'd look if I hadn't ended up in the ER on the most traumitizing day of my life. Many years ago, my good friend Fitz and I made an impromptu road trip to visit my brother in Tampa. Upon arriving, I was notified that my brother had been incarcerated earlier in the day. Luckily, I had a key, and I knew where he kept the Valiums. We found 20, so we decided, regretfully, to split them and make our way to Ybor City. In no time, we were buying strangers all the Everclear daiquiris they would willingly drink and matching them 1:1. I was an unwavering idiot at the time so afterwards, my friend and I attempted to drive home and got hopelessly lost. After about a half hour of wrecklessly swerving around blurry streets that I had never seen before and making absolutely no progress towards even departing Ybor, I could no longer hold my piss. I pulled over in a parking lot and told Fitz that I was going to piss around the corner. I guess I had been sitting long enough for the grain alcohol to catch up because I only made it about eight floundering steps before I faceplanted into the pavement. It was freezing outside so I had my hands in the pockets of my white hoodie - I didn't even come close to getting them out in time to help break my fall. Face first into a mucky water puddle of some random asphalt parking lot in the hood. I'm not sure how long I laid there but I somehow managed to eventually get myself up. I should've been (remained?) unconscious; I was definitely concussed. My formerly white hoodie was an appalling mix of brown sludge and the most blood I'd ever seen in my life. I made it back to the car a good while later. I opened the driver's side door to awaken my passed out companion. "Dude, look what I did," I slurred, pointing drunkenly at my bloody face and rust-colored hoodie. "You think that's bad?" he replied apathetically, "Look what I did!" Too drunk to attempt to vacate my passenger seat, Fitz had thoroughly pissed himself. We both laughed and drove home, as invincible fucktards in their early '20s are wont to do. I woke up the next afternoon to some chick or another I was fucking at the time shaking me violently while being significantly louder than my pounding head could comfortably abide. Apparently I was supposed to stay with her the night before and I had never showed, never called, and had been unreachable all day. So she just showed up at my house to find my head in a bloody ruin. She said she thought I was dead. Looking at my pillow, I wondered if I might actually be. Strange afterlife, I thought. I felt close to death anyway, but I had no idea what she was talking about. I remembered very little of the night before until I stumbled into the bathroom and literally saw after being completely fucking obliterated by Ivan Baranchyk staring back at me in the mirror. She demanded I go to the ER--immediately if not sooner--and after the initial shock wore off, I agreed with her. That was the day I discovered what true pain was, and also that everything I previously thought I knew about the subject was unforgivably wrong. So fucking wrong. The gaping wound had completely dried up and was pretty much scabbed over. Before they could stitch it up, that all had to be removed. The Verna lemon-sized lesion in the side of my head had to be reopened. I'll spare you the gory details but I want to at least mention that because of the alcohol still in my system or because the masochistic nurse wanted to teach me a hard lesson or for some other reason I can no longer remember, they couldn't use any local anesthetic. Fucking Christ I'm shuddering just thinking about it. What followed was an eternity of infernal cutting, scraping, and peeling. The nurse said I was the most difficult patient she had ever had, which is fitting because she inflicted more pain in me than I had ever known was possible. I was a sobbing, swearing, utter mess. I was lucky though, the doctor said I could've gone blind in that eye and that if they hadn't been able to stitch it because I had waited any longer or for whatever other reason, I would've looked undeniably similiar to round 3 Glass Joe for the rest of my life and never gotten laid again. Plus I totally should've bled out every drop of my emaciated blood in my sleep that night. The only reason I can tell this story is because of two women I can only vaguely remember the appearance of saving my life that day. Shoutout also to Jason Mamoa for making eyebrows scars great again. God I was such a fuckup. I'm gonna do everything possible to prevent my kid from following in my footsteps - incurring avoidable scars included.


The sunset makes the darkening sky blush and adds rose highlights to the emerald water. A young couple, a man and a woman, perhaps in their early twenties, tanned and trim, golden-skinned in their bathing suits, have their beach blankets spread on the white sand. They sit close together, facing the sea and the sunset. In a three-story beachfront house, an elderly couple are on the balcony outside the second floor. They are sharing a bottle of white wine, crisp and cold in the warm air. “Like Adam and Eve,” the husband says. "Don't you think?" The wife smiles. “They look blissful down there. So young.” “Doesn’t it remind you?” “It’s like yesterday,” she says. “And a million years ago.” “That too.” “So much time has passed, and still ...” “I know.” She reaches out to hold his blue-veined, wrinkled hand. She squeezes, then lets go, sighs, contented. “The sunset is beautiful, just like it was the day we met.” “Soak it up. Take the heat from the sun,” he says. “Let it heal you, like in that book we just read, by, oh, what’s his name?” “Ishiguro.” “That’s right. It worked for the little girl. The sun healed her.” “Oh, honey.” “I’m not giving up on a miracle drug.” “You never give up,” she says. “I love you for that.” “We’re gonna break the monster’s back,” he says. “Believe it.” “It’s hard to believe.“ “I know.” "You're the one who prays," she says. "I do too, in my way. But now I’m one step closer to knowing. It’s so beautiful here. It’s perfect. Right now. This moment. This is a good moment.” “Yes, it's perfect,” he says. ”A perfect moment. Let’s stop time. Freeze everything in place with the sun right where it is, barely touching the horizon, the warm breeze, everything just so.” "I have to tell you." She takes a sip of the cold white wine. “I feel that I’m getting ready to leave the ground.” He is quiet for a long time, then: “I don’t know if I can take it.” She says nothing, sets the wineglass down on the small table between them, reaches out and squeezes his hand again, and this time she holds on. Until she doesn’t. He knows it has happened. No more pain. That’s good. That part is good. There has been so much pain. But the other part ... He’s not ready to look over at her, to have it be final and real, so he closes his eyes, feels the warm rays of the setting sun on his face, drifts off while thinking about her, and lines from a song come to him: ' A house doesn't make a home, don't leave me here alone .' Then, she is there, and he feels her familiar lips on his. He opens his eyes. “You,” he says. “Me.” She smiles. "Hi." She looks just like the day they met, more than seventy years ago, when they were both in their twenties. He sits up, looks at her, drinks her in. Then he notices his own tanned skin, his trim shape, the energy of youth, the beach blanket, the warm sand. “Like Adam and Eve,” she says. “It was us, down here, waiting, for when we were ready to let go.” He turns and looks back at their beach house, to the balcony on the second floor, where he can make out their old skin and bones, empty. “I prayed for this,” he says. ”That we would go together. It’s perfect.” “It’s even better than a miracle drug.” She smiles, stands up, holds out her hand. He takes it, gets up, and they both stand together, looking out towards the sunset at the horizon, arms around each other. "The water looks fine," he says. "Let's go in." They wade into the shallows, the cool water lapping their ankles, then their shins. "What's this?" She reaches down, bringing up a seashell, water dripping. The shell cracks open in her hand. A soft light illuminates her face. She gasps. "Oh, I didn't remember." "What is it?" "Can't you see?" "No." "It's something from my early childhood," she says. "I'd forgotten all about it. You really can't see? For me, it's like I'm there, living it all again." He finds a seashell of his own. "You're right," he says. "It's like being there, in the moment." "But you can't see mine," she says, "and I can't see yours." "I can tell you about it," he says. "If you want to." "I think that's the point," he says. "If we want to, we can share. When we're ready." "Leaving a bit of mystery." "Yes, and space. The mysterious distance that makes life together an act of discovery. It reminds me of something from that book your mom gave us at our wedding." "Oh, yes. Gibran: ' But let there be spaces in your togetherness .'" "I wonder if ... " He looks around, selects a larger seashell, bright white, fishing it out of the seabed. When it cracks open, they both gasp. Afterwards he says. "What a wonderful memory, our wedding day." "And to think of all that happened after, all the time we had together." "Seventy years, and then some. And now, we get more time together." "Eternity." "Just us." "For now," she says. "I have a feeling, when we're ready, there will be others. Family, friends." "God." "I think He is always here." "I wonder," he says. "If we will see God, face to face." "When we're ready." "I want to try something." He lifts one leg out of the water, plants his foot on the surface, then steps up, standing on the sea. He holds out his hand, and she joins him. Together, they walk on the sea, hand in hand, towards the horizon, in the direction of the sun. "I'm thinking about what you said." "When?" she says. "Right before." "Oh." "You said: ' I'm getting ready to leave the ground '. I wonder if we can fly." "I'm sure we can," she says. "I think anything is possible for us now. But if you don't mind, I'm having such a lovely walk, let's keep enjoying this for a while." "For as long as you want." "And then, when we're ready -- let's fly!"


(I wrote this as a spur of the moment idea let me know if it's worth continuing/fully fledging it out.)  This summer was forecasted to be the hottest in California history. The sun beat down on the 108 degree sand as a tall, thin, man shouldered a rifle and fired a few shots. Unfortunately for the man on the receiving end of the shots Jonathan was a talented marksman. The sound of bullet ripping through flesh was a unique one at that, the wet slap of the target being hit followed by the projectile planting itself in the sand with a hard thud. The wounded man clutched his chest as he fell to the ground, praying that this not be the end for him. He flipped himself over just in time to see Jonathan walk up to him, the M16 rifle still fully attached to his shoulder. “Spill it, samuel.” He barked at the wounded man, pushing his weapon further in his face. “You and I...” Sam took pained breaths as his hands shook uncontrollably. “Both know that can’t happen.” “I don’t want to do this to you Sam!” Jonathan held onto the barrel of his gun like his life depended on it. He didn’t want to kill his friend, that’s the absolute last thing he wanted out of this. “Just do it Jon! Do what you have to do! Get it over with!” Sam knew he wasn’t making it out of this desert, he knew he was never seeing the hollywood streets again, he was okay with it. This city has taken more out of him than he could have ever predicted. “Jonathan!” Sam screamed at him, sitting up to put the barrel of the gun to his forehead. “C’mon just talk! I don’t want to do this, Man!” Jon had tears in his eyes as he took his finger off of the side of the gun, placing it firmly on the trigger. His hand was shaking. He didn’t want to have to be the one to pull the trigger, responsible for the death of a dear friend. “It has to be you.” Sam spoke quietly. “You know they won’t let me-” Sam’s words were cut off by the ear piercing sound of the rifle finally relieving the tension in the air. The sound of the soul being removed from his body and smacking against the sand was all that Jonathan had left. He threw the rifle to the ground and dropped to his knees, unleashing an awful, painful scream into the hot air. Several minutes went by before he brought himself to his feet, picking up the rifle and walking back towards the old blue truck they came in. He slung the rifle into the bed of the truck before opening the door and driving off. The car witch once carried two men started up with a rumble and Jon began driving away from the man he once, called a friend. As he disappeared into the horison, the sound of vultures could be heard above the scene of the crime.


My mother is gone. I am sitting at my computer, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. I want to record this momentous event, the loss of one of the most important people in my life, but I don’t know how to do it. Where to start. Where to end. I knew it was coming, but was amazed when it actually arrived. I sat by her bedside, her withered hand in mine as her spirit slipped away. Words refuse to come. There seems to be no way to make sense of her complicated life. My father brings me a brown cardboard box. On the lid, written in Mom’s loopy script, the word: Memories. He holds it out to me as if it might contain a bomb. His voice is harsh. “Your mother wanted you to have this. You always complained that you never really knew your mother. Maybe you’ll find some answers here. I don’t want to look at any of it.” I begin on the couch in my office, but there is not enough room. I repack the few items I have removed and take the box to the dining room table. I give a small smile as I remember Mom sorting papers, photos, Christmas cards and letters on this table. “Like mother, like daughter, ” I whisper. One by one, I remove items and compile stacks: a series of yearbooks, letters tied with a pink ribbon, my birth certificate. The remains of a life. I slip one of the letters from the pack. It is from Richard. I know about Richard. My aunts have told me the story. They told me lots of stories about my mother. She seemed to have a strange power over men, enticing them until they were crazed with love, then dismissing them. They thought she was a witch. Maybe she was. She seemed to live in a world mere mortals could not reach. Richard was the one man she truly loved. Her wealthy father broke up the relationship because he believed Richard only wanted my mother’s fortune. He proved his point by assuring the man that he would have never be accepted and that my mother’s funds were tied up in unbreakable trusts. Upon hearing this, Richard melted away like a snowball on a sunny winter afternoon. Mom’s best friend, Liz, introduced her to my father, a Hungarian refugee with no credentials, no money and no social standing--a man who cared nothing for wealth or position. He was her revenge. I lift a yellowed page-a marriage certificate. Behind it, attached by a paperclip, a photo. My heartbeat quickens. My mother allowed no early photos of herself to grace our home. Daddy said she destroyed them all after the wedding. She insisted that she had no life before she married my father. We celebrated all our holidays at home or with my father’s family. In the the photo my mother wears her customary somber expression. Her eyes stare into a place she alone visits. Her ebony hair falls around her shoulders like a blackout curtain. She wears a midnight-blue, velvet dress, high in the collar and cinched with a wide silver-buckled belt. It is her wedding dress. My father stands with his arm draped across her shoulder. He stares directly at the camera with a look of triumph in his eyes. He has won the prize. He wears what I have been told was his one and only suit-a suit my mother bought for him. The thousand-yard stare is the look I remember most from my childhood--a fragile woman sitting at a chipped-enamel table, smoking endless cigarettes and drinking cold , black coffee. Her hair is long and flowing. She looks like Morticia Adams. Maybe she was a witch. My aunts-my father’s sisters- seem to think she was. My father tried hard to make things work but, in the end, he remained the impulsive, seductive bad boy. Gradually, poverty and a sick wife wore him down. My memories of him swing from Sunday chicken dinners that he cooked while my mother “rested” upstairs and Uncle Remus bedtime stories, embellished with the voices of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox, to drunken rages and threats to shoot Santa Claus so no presents would arrive at our house. Later, I realized that his rage came from his inability to buy Christmas gifts at all. Most wedding photos depict a happy couple-a smiling bride, a proud groom-two people high on life and confident about the future. It is only later that marriages unravel. When a tragedy occurs--a nasty breakup, a spousal murder--the newspapers and TV stations run happy wedding photos and videos as if to ask, “How could something that seemed so perfect at the beginning go so wrong at the end?” My parents did not start their marriage with a joyful nuptial shot. Did their bleak wedding photo foreshadow their desperate marriage? I smooth the photo and study it to tease meaning from the way the couple faces the camera, how they are standing in relation to one another and what their eyes tell me. I want to understand the story behind the images The photo slips from my fingers and floats to the table, turning over as it falls. On the back, the same loopy scrawl. Joanie, If you see this, I am dead and glad of it. This photo is a prelude to what marrying for revenge costs. I know you plan to marry Mark to spite Peter. Turn this over and think again. I turn the photo over. The image of my parent’s wedding photo is gone, replaced by a wedding photo of me and Mark. Of course, no such photo exists. Mark and I are only engaged. Yet there it is. My wedding photo shows a very young girl with very big dreams and no knowledge of the world. My new husband’s arm does not drape casually or protectively; it holds me with sure authority. I smile. He is grim. A cold chill runs down my back. Memories that I pushed aside intrude. Mark staring at me with cold fury in his almost black eyes. A raised hand. A derisive smile. Cutting words. Yet, he can be so warm, so caring. He returned to me after I left him for Tom. Tom who discard me for my best friend. No cold eyes then, just warm. compassionate understanding. His face in my hair as he murmurs. “We all make mistakes. Marry me and I will make everything right. That fool will rue the day he let you go.” I look down at the diamond glittering on my finger. It slides off my finger as if I have greased it. I feel a cold chill down my back. My mother’s face floats in front of me. “It’s OK Momma, I understand. I love you.”


Every movie and television show, every novel, every video-game. They all seemed to portray the post-apocalyptic world the same way. A barren wasteland where nothing can grow. It’s not their fault, really. Humanity always assumed that the end would come in the form a mushroom cloud. Ironically, that was the case. It just didn’t happen the way we expected. Nuclear war wasn’t the cause of our demise, it wasn’t caused by our own hand, but by nature. A spore was released by an aggressively invasive crossbreed of mushroom that spread across the globe and wiped out each and every person alive. Everyone, that is, expect me. It would be funny if, you know, everyone hadn’t died. Parents always told their children to eat their vegetables, and it turned out to be great advice. Even as a young girl I was obsessed with mushrooms. I cannot remember a time when some form of mushroom was not a part of each and every meal I consumed. Portobello, Shitake, Porcini. Baked, boiled, fried. And yes, I’ve eaten those types of mushrooms too. I was in my late teens, and I couldn’t really call myself a fungi connoisseur if I didn’t experiment with every variety. I even ate some poisonous mushrooms. I did so with the utmost care, micro-dosing on the smallest of samples and gradually increasing the amount when my body had built a resistance. This is what saved me. When the mushroom spores were released and humanity was wiped out, my immune system saved me. So much so that, although the planet is now covered in these lethal fungi, I find it the staple of my diet. But it’s not just the mushrooms that have thrived, all of nature has. Vegetables and fruits only found in foreign lands now grow where council estates were once erected. Creatures of all shapes and colours roam the lands and oceans. The world is now covered in lush greenery and the water in the streams is clearer than it has ever been since man first created machines. Occasionally I’ll come across some relic from the past, the metal shell of a car or the crumbling remains of a building, yet in two decades most of what humanity had created was gone. Nature had pushed its way through the steel and concrete and now flourished once again. Sometimes, I wonder why I write this stuff down, it’s not as if anyone will ever get to read it. I managed to salvage some notepads and pencils in the early days of this great reset, and I try to write a little now and again. Maybe it’s for my own sanity, or maybe it’s just something to pass the time until I too join the rest of my kind. Or maybe it’s to remind myself of the great empire humanity had built, and just how quickly it all faded away. We thought of ourselves as the pinnacle of all existence. But to nature, we were merely a brief inconvenience.


Your Room Is Ready . . . Janis was arriving on a plane at 4:00, and she needed a safe spot in which to recover. So Meredith woke up with just one clear thought in her mind that morning, I’ve run out of time and I’ve run out of excuses. I have to clean the guest room - NOW! She got out of bed, slipped into her Mom jeans and a tee shirt, and went right to the guestroom. She stripped the sheets off the bed and put them in the washer. Then she went to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. Carrying her coffee mug back to the guest room, she sank into a comfortable chair. Where do I begin...? s he thought as she surveyed what had once been a very pretty room. But, like all rooms that fall into disuse, this one had become a catch-all for stuff. Suitcases that weren’t put away between trips, boxes of Christmas ornaments and an artificial tree, miscellaneous things that had been designated for a hypothetical garage sale that would happen sometime, outgrown children’s clothes, and sporting equipment covered most of the floor space. She could just barely see the pretty woven rug she had shopped for, for months. Declutter first ! Meredith decided and made alternate trips to the garage and trash can as she redistributed everything that didn’t belong in the guestroom. Huffing and puffing, she poured another cup of coffee and returned to the guest room chair. With a wry smile, she let the trite but true phrase cross her mind; Oh yeah, if these walls could talk . It was once one of the busiest rooms in the house. Memories of what she thought of as her one-night-stand era came up first. From the time she divorced Phil’s father when he was 10, until he left for college at 18, Meredith did very little dating. But once her son was no longer even in the same State, she slowly entered the dating pool. After she knew a guy for a while, she sometimes invited him to come home with her for the night, but she always took him to this room - the guest room - reminding them both that he was just a guest. There were no plans to be made for a long-term relationship. Funny, she could only remember a few of their names, but she remembered other things. There were a few less-than-sterling choices, but for the most part, they had been nice men, who weren’t any more interested in making a commitment than she was and that system worked well for her - until she met Jim and brought him home to her bedroom - for good. Armed with a mop, her vacuum, and cleaning supplies, she tackled the job of removing dust and grime, accumulated over years, and while she cleaned, she remembered other times the guest room had been in full use. Her Aunt Jill and Uncle Ed came down from Vermont to stay for a number of years from late November until May, and they took over a big part of her home and her life. It was glorious. In those years, Meredith was working in Real Estate Sales, determined to earn as much money as she could to pay for Phil’s first year of college. When she and Phil were alone, she juggled housekeeping and his extracurricular activities along with her work, but while Jill and Ed were there, they shopped, cooked, cleaned, and chauffeured Phil wherever he needed to be, leaving Meredith free to do whatever she needed to do. And whatever time she came home from work, they greeted her, brought her up to speed on that day's activities, and fed her a hot and delicious meal. They loved being in the warm weather with family for the winter and she loved having them. They were both gone now - but she had enough good, really good memories of them to last her, and Phil, a lifetime. Then there was the time when Janey and her mother came to spend a week with Phil and Meredith. . Before coming to Florida, Meredith and Phil’s father lived in Vermont in a duplex. Janey was “the girl next door.” Phil was three, and Janey was five, and they fell madly in love. He even proposed marriage to her and Janey’s Mother and Meredith began to call each other “mother-in-law.” The children never stopped talking about each other and so when Janey turned 12, her mother and Meredith planned a visit. They expected the two older children to renew what had been a magical childhood relationship. But so much for maternal expectations. Both mothers had failed to calculate the difference in energies between a 3 and 5-year-old boy and girl and a ten-year-old boy and a 12-year-old girl. They totally disliked each other. Janey told her Mother that Phil was just “wicked weird,” and Phil confided in Meredith that he suspected that Janey had “terminal cooties.” They argued over restaurants, movies, TV shows, and games they did and didn’t want to play for six days, but the mothers had managed to ignore most of it and in the end, agreed that it had been a memorable mistake that turned out for them to be surprisingly entertaining. And in the line-up of interesting guests, she certainly couldn’t forget her cousin Sandy from Boston and her husband, Randy. Sandy and Randy were as whacky as their names and filled with boundless energy. Despite dire warnings from Meredith, Randy insisted that they all drive 250 miles to Orlando to go to SeaWorld, on a day that a hurricane was making its way north in the Atlantic. “SeaWorld is miles from the coast,” Randy scoffed as they drove directly east, into the outer bands of the massive storm. Shortly after they paid their entrance fee, the staff began closing down the outdoor exhibits one by one to protect the animals. They did attend a few indoor shows and spent some time in the gift shops, but after two hours, they were politely invited to leave the attraction, soaking wet, without seeing a single killer whale. They salvaged the day, though, by stopping on the way home at the Medieval Times Restaurant, which featured lavish shows of jousting and sword fighting and falconry and dinner served with no silverware to allow for eating with your fingers. They were a fun couple, and Meredith could never even hear their names without smiling. Meredith put her cleaning tools away and poured a cold drink. Then she began to plan the little “extra’s” that would make her friend’s stay as comfortable as possible. She gathered the latest magazines and a couple of trashy paperback novels for diversion. She made up a basket of comfort items - toothbrush, toothpaste, hand lotion, nail file, hand sanitizer, make-up remover, pain killers, Kleenex, etc., in case Janis forgot to pack any of those things. Then she turned the TV on to make sure it worked, put the remote in the drawer of the bedside table, and began to make the bed. And her thoughts turned to the last guest to use the guestroom. It was Jim’s sister Irene, who flew in from England for their wedding and to serve as Meredith’s maid-of-honor. At the wedding, Edith met Jim’s business partner Roger, who was also Jim’s best man. Focused on their own wedding, neither Meredith nor Jim noticed the instant attraction that struck Edith and Roger like a proverbial thunderbolt and so they were stunned to return from their honeymoon to find a legal folder on the guestroom bed turning full ownership of Jim’s partnership over to him and a note saying that they had discovered they couldn’t live without each other and didn’t want to. They had flown to Vegas to get married and were on their way to England to live. It had been five years since then. Edith and Roger had visited twice but chose to stay in a hotel. They had one child and another was on the way. The ultimate happy ending , Marilyn mused as she stood in the doorway of the room, a can of air freshener in her hand, and surveyed her day’s work. The room sparkled. A lush green plant in a handsome Chinese bowl stood in the area of the room designated to draw health and well-being to that space, according to the laws of feng shui. The beautiful white islet duvet and shams, plus a mound of lush pillows made the bed worthy of a page in House Beautiful, and Meredith still just loved (and knew she always would) the large watercolor painting of a field of daisies that hung above the headboard. It was a gift to her from one of the “one-night-stands” - a young, unknown artist at the time, whose paintings now hung in major museums across the country and in his lavish gallery in New York. She had mirrored the painting on the dresser directly across from it with her grandmother’s milk glass vase filled with real daisies that she had remembered to pick up on her way home from work the night before. The final effect was beautiful. “Take care of this next lady, please,” Meredith said out loud to the room at large. “Janis was my college roommate. We’ve been friends for 25 years. She’s fresh off her third run of chemo and has in her hand a report from her Dr. that says “cancer-free.” She’s ready to celebrate, and she’s worthy of this sanctuary and all of the peace, love, and joy you always offer to my guests. Then Meredith closed her eyes for just a minute, breathed deeply three times, pushing back some unexpected, happy tears - and added, “Oh, and by the way, this has been a surprisingly good day. Thanks for the memories.”


Human memory is impressively, frustratingly, and enticingly fallible. Have you ever stopped to consider just how long a human memory lasts untarnished? It doesn’t. The instant the memory is formed, it’s imperfect. You can place two humans together in the exact same situation, then ask them about it afterward, and both of them will present to you a different version of events. The differences might be subtle or extreme, and they might have varying levels of divergence from reality, but you can expect both to be imperfect. I believe this is why humans have such an issue learning from their own history. One might expect that a great historical drama, such as a war or an epidemic, would remain clear in the human cultural memory for at least a few hundred years, but this simply isn’t true. It doesn’t matter how many people survive the event or how accurate written and otherwise recorded accounts of history might be, in less than one generation, humans will have forgotten it. Oh, I don’t mean to say they will have no memory of it at all. They will, but the memory will be twisted into a mere representation of itself. Should it bring joy, they will feel a mere echo of it. Should the event have brought death and terror, they will no longer fear it. In the most dramatic twists of cultural memory, humans may even come to celebrate that which once brought horror. I am a most excellent example of this. The humans have forgotten to fear me. They locked me away, carved out a hole in a mountainside just for me, and set it with deadly traps, believing that if they kept me far enough out of sight, my range of influence would be insufficient. I was once held in the hand of a King. I turned him into an Emperor. Together we brought carnage down upon all who opposed us. I cut the world away until it began to suit my whims. Then came those who would defy me, those of my own kind. They destroyed even themselves in order to cast down the Emperor and seal me in this dark pit. The dank darkness of my prison did not suit me, but I had every confidence I would escape its confines. Humans may claim great love of peace, sovereignty, safety, and security, but there will always be those among them who are tempted by power. I only had to wait. This is where those who imprisoned me proved to be incorrect. I don’t need to be held in hand to exert my influence. I don’t even need to be in contact with flesh. All I need is the story of my power, its essence forgotten, with only its promise preserved. What man, desiring power, could fail to seek the sword who brought kingdoms to their knees, whose blade sliced in twain all that opposed me? There five who came that day, five who came together but who my mere presence would cleave apart. I felt them enter my chamber. I felt the heat of their bodies, the impulses flitting through their minds as they saw me, bound and sheathed in stone. I do not see, as humans do: I simply *know* what is around me. They were three males and two females, and each desired me for their own reasons. It was a curious thing, the construction of my prison. Its creators held too much faith in their own kind. There were safeguards to prevent people from entering, yes. The entrance was hidden, though unguarded. A great door, locked mundanely rather than magically, barred the way, followed by a barrier of magic. My captors tried to prevent me from knowing this, but I knew. The prison was not designed to keep people out. No, the creators trusted memory too much: they believed no person who remembered my past would truly wish to seek me out. It was built only to keep me in. I knew, when they entered, that one of them might be worthy of me. After all, they went through effort to find this place, the location of which had been scoured from memory and history. They came past the physical barrier, an impressive feat of engineering and locksmithing. They broke down the magical barrier, which had lasted for over one hundred years without need of further spellwork. They desired me, and I desired one of them in return. “We found it,” said one, a male. He had gray hair the color of slate, with pale gray eyes, yet he did not have so many years that his color should have faded. He carried a human-made sword on his back, an inferior imitation of myself and my brethren. I felt about for his name. Iscar. “We actually found it.” “Did you still have doubt?” said one of the females. I knew her to be female, though another human, upon casual observation, might not have. Her voice was rough and husky, her hair shorn close to her head, and though her frame was slight she carried herself with the bold, graceless movements of an overconfident man. I felt two names from her, a real name, and a name she had assumed. Tara, or Sefrender. “It was obvious from the moment we found the entrance,” said another male. Carrus. His voice was weak and reedy. I knew a weakness from him; I felt, immediately, that the others had carried him here. “And if not then, from the moment we encountered the first door.” “I don’t believe anything until I see the proof,” said Iscar. He frowned at the others. He did not like them. This intrigued me. Humans who did not like each other brought ample opportunities for manipulation. “That’s not a bad way to live,” said another male, Rol. This male had grey-white hair which, unlike Iscar’s, had indeed come as a result of age. I wondered how it could be that he did not recall enough of his own history to know the danger of coming here. “Nevertheless, sometimes we must accept indirect evidence as proof.” I felt something from Rol I did not feel from the others. The way his fingers moved, the way he shaped his words, even the way his eyes fell upon his surroundings: all of these spoke to me of a man who had familiarly with spellwork. I knew him to be the one who had brought down the magical barrier. Or was it him? Close to his side was the fifth human, the youngest among them, and female. Shelle. She, too, moved unconsciously in patterns that befit those of someone familiar with the shaping of magic. She said nothing, but her fingers drifted idly at her side, not forming spells, but certainly feeling the weave of the magic in the air. I doubted she was even conscious of this fact. Iscar approached me. The instant his feet touched the dais I felt a thrill rise up in me at his proximity. Was he going to touch me? To take me in his hand? Of the five, already I had decided upon him as my second choice for which I would most prefer to wield me. “Careful!” Rol said sternly. Iscar stopped. The dais itself was covered completely in complex carvings, the written spellwork of a team of mages who had given their lives to imprison me. Quite literally, in fact, for they were willingly executed afterward in order to preserve their knowledge of my prison. I had spent a great deal of time knowing those patterns. They would do nothing to Iscar simply for approaching me. It was drawing me out of the stone into which I had been driven that would bring him risk. “Let Shelle and I analyze the spellwork before you approach,” Rol said. “There are no records of what protections might have been set, but we can assume them to be deadly.” Iscar looked at me longingly, but he did step down from the dais. No matter. I had waited a century. I certainly had the patience to wait longer. If I wished. I allowed them to perform their analysis. I wanted to try to know them better, to get a better grasp on which one I would transform into something greater. Physically, Iscar pleased me the most. Beneath his clothes, his muscled rippled. He moved naturally in the way Sefrender was trying to imitate, with the quiet promise of power and the threat of impeccable martial training. I do not mean to say that Sefrender was weak, for she was not. She, too, had significant muscle mass, and from the condition of her hands I knew she could wield the short sword at her side. Yet she lacked the ease and comfort with her body which Iscar possessed. She was too focused on lying, to the outside world and perhaps to herself, and so she would never be what she desired, nor what I desired. Carrus moved in a quiet way. He was assured of his movements in an entirely different way than Iscar, who moved with grace but gave no mind to how he impacted the world around him. I could perceive the movements and sounds Carrus made, but I doubted the other humans could. He was a man accustomed to silence and subterfuge. I felt his weakness, yes, but it was a weakness I soon realized I could exploit. When I tried to turn my focus to Shelle, I found it difficult to know her in the way I knew the others. In fact, I realized that she was not as silent as I had perceived her to be. I could sense her mouth moving, and I knew that sounds came from it, and yet I struggled to interpret them as something meaningful even as the other humans responded as though they understood her perfectly. As I realized this, to my very core I felt an intense and consuming hatred for Shelle. She was, consciously or unconsciously, defying me. She was doing something, manipulating magic, perhaps, in a way that I didn’t understand, so that my *knowing* wasn’t working on her. Even her master, Rol, who treated her like a student with much left to learn, was easily within my perceptions. Alongside this hatred came a passionate desire for her to take hold of my hilt, and draw me forth, and destroy all of the others. I hated her, which meant that I needed her. Those who could defy me would only make me stronger by unifying with me. So I took advantage of that weakness in Carrus, in a way that my bindings were suppose to prevent. The metal ropes that wrapped around my hilt, and the engraved spellwork tags that hung from them, vibrated as they resisted me. I was stronger. I have always been stronger. The humans that imprisoned me were full of hubris for thinking their imprisonment would last. I built upon his desire for me, and on his darker tendencies. I knew them. He knew them, as well, though he tried to defy and forget them. Humans can never choose what they wish to forget, though. They may forget everything that was every important for them to remember, but the moment they try to cleanse something from themselves, it takes hold and remains forever. With all the silence he possessed, Carrus drew the dagger from his sleeve. He did not hesitate. I barely pushed him, in fact. My influence was so weakened by the bonds that it could barely be said that I guided him at all. His dagger entered Iscar’s neck before any of the other humans even noticed he had drawn it. Iscar fell to his knees, holding his throat. He gurgled, but no words came from his mouth. I felt no regret, even though I had been drawn to him initially. There are many humans in the world. Physical strength is easy to come by. Carrus stepped onto the dais. He was halfway to me before the others reacted. Then Sefrender noticed what he was doing. “Hey!” she shouted. “What in the Forge’s Name are you doing?” She leapt onto the dais, her inferior, dead blade in her hand. Carrus reached me, reached out for me, and grasped my hilt. I did nothing. I felt him, felt the warm of his hand upon me, felt the energies coursing through his body -- but I knew I had to wait until the right moment. At his physical touch, though, my ability to manipulate him grew stronger. He dropped his dagger. As Sefrender swung at him, he didn’t dodge or parry. He kept his hand on my hilt, and thrust his other hand toward her, reaching for her neck. Her blade bit into his flesh at the shoulder. He grunted, but I stifled his pain. Before Sefrender could draw back, before she could pull herself from his quickly weakening grip, I took my chance. The two of them together provided just enough of what I needed. I drew the energy from their bodies. Using Carrus as a link to Sefrender, I consumed everything they had to give: the vital energy that inhabited their bodies, the mental energy that powered their spirits, and the magical energy invested into their souls. I pulled the energy so swiftly from Sefrender that her being fell apart. Her body collapsed, lifeless. Her spirit dissolved, and her soul broke into shards, dissipating into the aether. I left just enough to Carrus to hold his being together, for I still had another use for him. The rest I poured into my bonds. The metal ropes turned red hot where they met my hilt, then melted away, scorching Carrus’s hand to black. He screamed, his pain far beyond that which I could deaden. The ropes fell down to the dais with a clang. Molten metal splashed over the stone. Rol’s hands and voice worked through the motions of a spell. I knew immediately that his education had been lacking. He had no true sense of magic, like I felt from Shelle. He would never be a True Caster: he was applying only two of the methods of manipulating magic to his spell. Still, I welcomed his casting. The spell washed over me. I don’t know what it was intended to do, for I chose not to be affected by it. Instead, I gratefully took its energy into myself and divided it among two uses. I coated my blade with it, making it slick and helping it to ignore friction. Then I compelled Carrus to grip my blade with his other hand. I strengthened him with the remaining energy, and he pulled. I slid free. Such elation filled me as I hadn’t felt in over a century of waiting. “AH!” My voice echoed through the chamber. I vibrated with the power of it. Rol and Shelle, the only living humans not in my thrall, winced and backed away. “Do not back away,” I said, my voice deep and rich and terrifying. Carrus spoke in time with me, his weaker voice providing another layer to my own. At this point he had no will of his own. I drew away the last of his mental energy and dissolved his spirit. “There is no escape from me now.” I drove Carrus forward, his steps as steady as they had been in life, though he now operated on less vital energy than he needed to survive. No matter. He only needed to live for a few more steps. Rol began casting again. I laughed. The sound reverberated through the room. “That was so useful the first time. I’m surprised you have the pride to try again.” The spell completed, and I directed Carrus’s arm so that I sliced through it dramatically as I absorbed it. But them something else hit Carrus’s feet, something I hadn’t even detected. He stumbled, his feet rooted in place. With his eyes I looked at Shelle. Somehow, she had worked her spell without me even detecting it. Somehow she had completely it and directed it in such a way that I hadn’t even a chance to absorb it. With Carrus’s lips, I smiled a manic, passionate grin. “I am impressed by you, child,” I intoned. I worked every bit of my compulsion into my voice. “Come to me. I want you for my own.” “Run, Shelle,” Rol said. “Get out of this place.” “Now you wish to run?” I laughed once more. “After all the time and planning you put into coming here, only now do you realize it was a mistake? Have you not read your own histories? How easily humans forget that which has the capacity to destroy them.” Shelle turned to heed her master’s advice. I did not allow her to escape. With Carrus’s arm I threw myself forth. I slammed into and through Rol’s chest, my blade easily piercing his flesh and destroying his heart. Behind me, Carrus collapsed. I did not allow Rol to die, not yet. I caught his energies within my influence and held them there, animating his body through my own willpower. With a burst of strength born of spending his own vital energy, Rol dashed after Shelle. Now, with such close proximity, I knew his feelings for her. Yes, she was his apprentice, but he felt constantly overshadowed by her capacity and her ease of understanding even the most difficult concepts he had taught to her. She had easily incorporated the arts of arcane music into her spellwork; she was much closer to being a True Caster than he would ever be. This made me want her even more. Rol’s hands gripped Shelle’s shoulders. I brought them both to the ground. With Rol’s flesh as a bridge, I spread my domination into Shelle, drawing on Rol’s essential energies to make me even stronger. Shelle screamed, and, to my shock, resisted. Momentarily. Her hands did not thrust toward my hilt as I had come to expect. They shook and trembled, and with slow, shaking deliberation, made their way toward it. She fought against me, and hard. I hated her for it, yet I also respected her. I knew I had chosen the right vessel. She was not weak. Weakness had its uses, but power had more. Finally, she took my hilt, and drew my blade from her master’s chest. She became mine, and with my guidance, she would become the next Empress. Her kind, and mine, would bow before us.  *This is today's story from my short story blog,* *.


Tuesday night, 10:24 PM sharp, Little Collins on 667 Lexington Ave, New York. Same place, same time for five years, all without an interruption in the weekly tradition of Sam’s. How could there have ever been a hiatus in their promised meetup? It would not be of Sam’s character to allow such thing. After all, the value of friendship to Sam has never changed within the course of all these years from the very beginning when Sam and Mort first conversed. And while, after high school, their pathways have diverged--Sam to Rice University and Mort to the University of Houston--never once did their friendship disconnect due to their differences and demanding schedules. And so, Sam arrived at Little Collins, ordered the usual pair of Tall Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino for himself and a Grande Teavana Chai Tea for Mort. Today, Sam was especially excited. There was news that he had been waiting for two weeks to announce. As usual, Sam would spot Mort sitting by the window-side with an opened binder packed with messy papers and notes. And, as usual, Mort would lean against his arm, read over his notes before occasionally glancing longingly outside the window, past his own reflection and into the colorful lights of the bustling city. He had always acted like this, something Sam had labeled as “romantic,” of which Mort would deny. Sam smiled at the sight of his friend before making his way through the labyrinth of people to Mort. He set the drinks down, catching Mort’s attention. “A Grande Teavana Chai Tea for, hmm...Mr. Price?” Mort smiled at Sam’s terrible impression of a waiter, but, like always, he would play along. “Yes, that would be me. Thank you so much.” He took a sip of the black tea before setting it down, letting out a long sigh of content. “My, Sam, the fact that you still remember my love for bitter things...” “How can anyone forget such a thing?” Sam laughed as he took a seat beside Mort. “Wouldn’t need a research conducted to know that most people prefer sweets over whatever the hell you’re drinking.” “I feel rather attacked.” “Oh shut up, Morty.” Sam took a sip of his Frappuccino. “Besides, it’s only been a week. Of course I’d remember what your favorite drink is, you incompetent man.” “Feels like five years,” Mort said with a sad smile. Something pained Sam’s heart, but he looked away and disregarded the feeling. “I guess.” There was an uncomfortable pause before Sam cut in. “Five years, huh? Are you still studying to be a lawyer?” Mort smiled and gave the binder a glance. “Of course I am, Sam. What a dumb question to ask.” Sam’s smile widened. “You’ve never changed, huh?” The two men chuckled. “Always so dead-set on a certain goal, it’s like--it’s like you don’t realize there’s other options available.” “There are no other options, Sam.” Mort took a sip. “I’m going to become a lawyer no matter what.” Sam stayed quiet. He had wanted to tell Mort that it was no use trying at this point. Mort had failing grades in the majority of his classes. At this point, he wouldn’t even be able to graduate the University of Houston with a bachelor’s degree, and yet he wanted to get into Law School? The way he was studying so vigorously for the LSAT was almost sickening by how pitiful it looked...yet-- yet , Sam knew deep inside that this was what he had admired the most from Mort. He was always so dedicated and determined, it was enough to fire up anyone in sight. He’d go so far as to say he held a crumb of jealousy towards Mort. Sam, after all, hardly lived for any purpose other than to live in of itself. Junior year and Sam still didn’t know what to do with his life. Mort did. Mort always did. That wasn’t the case now. “You’re not going to become a lawyer, Mort.” He gave Sam a sharp look, one Mort had never done before. There was a sting of hurt in his eyes but mostly, sudden shock. “How could you say that?” “You’re just not.” Sam sighed and avoided Mort’s eye contact. “Look at where you’re at, Mort. Be realistic. I’m twenty-six years old, and you’re still an undergraduate chasing after the moon! Where have your senses gone, Mort?” Mort turned away as well, a bit of impulsive anger coursing through his veins as they spoke. Outside the glass window, outside his own marred reflection, was the first droplet of rain. “It’s not like you to say something like that. No. No, Sam would never say anything like that. He was always so supportive to me, what happened within the past week to make you say--” “I’m saying it now because I couldn’t say it then!” The café seemed to hush after Sam raised his voice. Sam’s eyes widened when he realized his surroundings. He cast the other customers a glance before dropping his shoulders and looking at Mort apologetically. “I don’t mean to hurt you, Mort. You know that. We’ve been brothers since high school, remember?” “Of course I remember.” “I just...I don’t want to see you like this anymore, knowing that there’s a high--” Mort gave Sam a look. “-- a possibility that you won’t become a lawyer. That’s all I’m saying.” Mort gave a huff, that childish huff that followed him from the day he first threw a tantrum. “Give me a break, Sam. I may be failing my classes, but at least I know what I want to do with my life. Look at you. You’ve never had a dream. Wandering around aimlessly, changing your desired major at a quicker pace than my heartbeat. You may be smart, Sam, but where has that taken you?” Sam grew quiet. “Well your dumb ass isn’t taking you far either, is it?” Their eyes met, and instinctively, the corners of their lips rose into a laugh. How incredibly silly of them to be arguing at this age. It would appear, Sam thought, that time never really changes people. Mort chuckled. “Watch, this dedicated dumbass is going to beat smart Sam in this race to a life of contentment.” Sam smirked. “Oh as if, Mort. I bet you still haven’t figured out what the Pythagorean Theorem is.” “And I bet you still haven’t figured out what job you should get huh?” “Actually...” Sam paused, leaving Mort in a state of surprise. He rose his eyebrows at Sam. “Actually?” Sam smiled, looked over at Mort, broke their eye contact, and sighed, before smiling again. “I got a job.” “You what?!” “I got a job at Paul Hastings. You know, that international law firm you’ve always wanted to go to.” “You’re...you’re a lawyer now?” Sam frowned upon hearing the ounce of pain in Mort’s voice. “Yes. Yes I am.” He had been preparing to deliver this news since the past two meetups, but he had no idea how he was going to deliver it. It was exciting, for sure, but... “I’m proud of you.” Sam raised his eyebrows at Mort. “You’re...proud of me?” “Of course I am.” Mort’s sad smile transformed into a wide one, full of celebration. Mort’s energetic air made a sudden appearance as he threw his arm around Sam and laughed. “You fucking did it bro! You’re a lawyer! Holy shit--how?” Sam smiled at Mort’s supportiveness. “I studied, passed the LSAT with a perfect score and got into law school. Graduated, then landed an interview just a couple of weeks ago. It was a success.” “You made a 180 on LSAT?” “Yeah. I sure did.” “I made a 120, Sam.” “There’s no way you did. How? How did you make a 120? You studied so hard! Every time I see you, your head is burrowed into that stupid thick binder of yours--how the hell did you make such a low score? That doesn’t make sense. They botched it. They definitely botched the scori--” “No. Sam. They didn’t. I made a 120. I’m not going to law school.” “Mort?” “I’m proud of you, Sam.” He smiled at this phrase. To receive admiration from someone Sam himself had admired for so long left a warm feeling of contentment. “I did it for you, Mort. I did it because you couldn’t.” “I see. Fulfilling my lost dreams, huh?” “Yeah.” The single droplet of rain from earlier had become a light drizzle with occasional thunder. Audible, still, was the angry shouts and car honks just outside in the streets of New York City. “You want to know something else I’ve accomplished for you?” “What’s that?” “I quit drinking.” “You what?” “Yeah.” Sam smiled at the thought. “We used to drink all the time, remember? It took me four years, but I finally gave it up. Every time I drank, I was left feeling discontent and empty. I’m sure you felt the same way then, right?” Mort hesitated. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right. Truth be told, I had always put up a face in front of you, just because I didn’t want to look weak, but in reality, my grades were really getting to me. My mother was hospitalized at the time, remember? So my father had to pay for the hospital bills and my college expenses. I didn’t want to disappoint them, waste their time and effort. Didn’t want to waste my efforts either.” Mort reeled back with his shot of whiskey before letting out a sigh. “You were never a disappointment, Morty. I hope you realize that.” “I didn’t then.” Mort chuckled. “It’s like you said that night. I studied so hard, yet I made a 120 on the LSAT.” “You should’ve been content.” Sam paused. “That’s what I should’ve told you, instead. But I was drunk, too. We both were.” “How could I have been content? My mom died a few weeks from that night, Sam. I’m sure you remember me telling you that.” “I do. I still do.” “So how could I--” “YOU CAN ALWAYS BE CONTENT!” Sam wiped the drop of whiskey off the corner of his lips. “You can always be content, goddammit, Morty. You’re always trying so desperately to reach satisfaction when you know that even if you get there you wouldn’t be satisfied anyways! So why couldn’t you learn to just be happy with yourself? Your failing grades meant nothing! NOTHING! And you let it define you, and you let your failing dream define you!” Mort slammed the table with his fists. Suffocating silence wrung in the air of Henke & Pillot. “You wouldn’t understand, Sam! You’ve always been so damn smart! You don’t have the same problems as I do! You don’t have to deal with the feeling of having studied for months just to receive a fucking 120! You would’ve made a perfect score on the test had you set your eyes on the legal field! Fuck it! You would’ve made a perfect score on any test you wanted to! You want to be a doctor? You’ll be a doctor! You want to be a professor? Well goddamn, you’re going to be a professor! I’m sorry I’m not as gifted as you, Sam! I’m sorry I can’t be content like you!” “I never was content.” Mort drew a cautious breath. “Why are you crying, Sam?” Pain shot up from the back side to the front of Sam’s chest, a burning fire that boiled in his stomach to his brain. There it was, the familiar fury of fear, regret, anger, and sadness. He held his face in his hands, shamed that he should be crying in front of Mort again when it should be Mort in tears. Sam muttered shakily under his breath before repeating what he had said more clearly. “I never was content, Mort.” He let out a wail, one so pitiful that any bystander would turn away at the sound. It was a choir of years-worth of pain, gathered together in a discordant harmony that fused and scattered and danced a wicked, crooked dance. Every broken voice represented every broken piece of Sam’s heart, so damaged and cracked beyond repair. Years had it took for him to gather the courage to mend it up after the accident, yet within a few seconds, his futile efforts had become evident. His heart was in pieces again. “I-I’ve n-never b-been content, M-Mort...you k-know that b-better tha-than me. I-I’ve always w-walked blindly i-in fear of t-the f-future, not know-knowing where I was g-going...b-bbut you’ve al-always known. Y-you always k-knew where you-you were g-going. But I w-wish I can t-take that b-back! I know the truth n-now! YOU CAN BE CONTENT MORTY! Anyone c-can! In any c-circumstance, anyone c-can!” Sam wiped the tears away with the sleeve of his white-collared suit. He looked at Mort in the eyes. “I’m a lawyer now. I have a wife and two beautiful toddlers. Every day, Mort, every day , I tell myself that I’m happy. And I feel it. I’m happy with the way things are.” A sad smile surfaced on Sam’s broken face. “I wish I could’ve told you that before.” The sirens pierced the night as first responders gathered at the scene. A small crowd of bystanders watched from a distance, covering their opened mouths, unable to shield their widened eyes from the horror just a few meters away. Sam had stood there, frozen. He was twenty-one years old, a junior in Rice, and yet, he was still susceptible to fear immense enough to plant his feet firmly to the cold concrete beneath. Mort had ran out of Henke & Pillot in an impulsive, drunken rush to throw his life away in the face of his problems. Sam, well. Sam was trying to stop him. But, time, as we all know, is merciless. Because a delay in a few seconds, Sam could not reach him. Before his body could react, the ambulance was there, carrying away a bloodied, limp body. It was all Sam could do to watch in gripping fear as his best friend disappeared from the chaotic scene and the first responders attempted to clear the area. Did Sam forget? Did Sam really forget? How could he? No. It was crystal clear. The wrecked car, brake marks on the road, smoke from its wreckage, the city lights that illuminated the puddles of blood--no, no. Sam could never forget. Like a little boy, he began to cry. Mort pulled him into a hug, followed by a long sigh and a subtle chuckle. His embrace was warm and brotherly, full of what felt like forgiveness to Sam. He let Sam cry and cry and cry, all without a word. When Sam calmed, Mort spoke up without pulling away. “I’m proud of you, Sam.” “I--” “No. Let me speak.” Mort held Sam tighter. “I’m proud of where you are now. You’ve come so far, farther than I could ever imagine myself reaching. I’ve been watching over you, Sam. You really are so much happier. I was there for you when you studied for the LSAT. There when you sat in the lecture hall in law school. There when you fought off Ricky at that moot court.” That made Sam chuckle. “I was there when you met Michelle on campus. There when you proposed, when you married, when you had your first daughter, Daisy. Then you had your son. You named him Mort after me, huh?” Mort chuckled. “I was there when you visited my graveyard. I was there every time you replaced the olden flowers with new ones. And I watched with content that you were living a life that I struggled to get, one I could’ve gotten, but one I could never now. Don’t you see, Sam? I’m happy. I’m happy that you’re happy.” “I’m content, Sam. Are you?” “Yes.” Sam paused. “Yes, I’m content.” “Then let go of me.” Mort pulled away. “You’re dead, aren’t you?” “Time of death. 10:24 PM. Tuesday, 9 th of March, 2010.”


August 15th, 2023 Dear Martin, I’m sure you’ll be surprised by this card; you probably think it’s an incredibly cheesy one, but I just wanted to thank you for these two incredible weeks together. I’m glad this year you’ve been a camp counsellor with me - it’s been way easier and more fun to put up with the teens! Especially since half of the girls had a crush on you, haha! I thought they were going to kill me when you asked me to dance with you on that last night at the camp. Anyhow, I do hope it’s not the end of our friendship and that you will visit my place; you need to meet my husband, Stephen, he’ll totally adore you, I’m sure of that! Right, but it’s supposed to be a thank you card, after all, that’s why I picked this one with these incredibly shiny, exaggerated gold letters on the card ;P So, really, Martin, all jokes aside, I wanted to thank you for every single conversation we had - for the short ones and all those long ones as well. You’re a really good listener, did you know that? What you said to me the other day, you know, when we sat in the evening on the pier, and you said that I should pursue my dream career and that you were sure I could do it... Your words meant the world to me, thank you! To many people, those might have been empty words, but to me, it’s been something I desperately wanted to hear. My family has always been down-to-earth, including my husband, so I’m really grateful. Thanks! PS Did you know that my blouse from the dance night still smells of your perfume? Told you that you oversprayed yourself that night! Love, Rachel ----------------------------- September 30th, 2023 Dearest Martin, I’d like to thank you once again for coming to my birthday party! That was a fantastic surprise, and the gift... I wanted to thank you properly, but you disappeared without saying goodbye... not sure why. But anyhow, thank you very much for the book, I’ll definitely read something on the power of attitude, I guess you’re right - we can be whatever we have the strength to fight for. Will I see you again? Love, Rachel ---------------------------------- October 20th, 2023 Dearest Martin, I know you told me to stop sending you “Thank You” cards, but well... you know how much I love all kinds of cards (you could send me one too! Just kidding! Or am I?) So, anyhow, thank you for accepting my invitation for the double date; I wasn’t sure you would, haha. I really enjoyed the evening, and so did Stephen. Though, I’m truly sorry that your date stood you up, as a comforting thing I can tell you that you looked deadly handsome that evening, so this is her loss! I do hope my words cheer you up a bit. I saw your mood was clearly subdued at the meeting, I mean, I could see that something was really wrong, I just hope it wasn’t anything more serious. Also, taking this opportunity, I would like to thank you for supporting my ideas when Stephen was skeptical. Look at both of us, Martin, we’re still a good team as we were at the camp! Super glad to have you in my life, Rachel ---------------------------------- November 20th, 2023 Dearest Martin, It’s me again - your Thank You card. Thank you for your last message that I received a month ago. Exactly 30 days ago. I’m getting worried; you haven’t been answering my messages. Is everything OK? Yours, Rachel ---------------------------------- December 18th, 2023 Martin, I’m sorry for slapping your face. And thank you for your honesty, I appreciate the fact that you wanted to protect me, but what you told me about Stephen... Christmas is coming; I cannot think about that right now. But thanks for worrying about me, anyway. Take care, Rachel ---------------------------------- December 28th, 2023 Dear Martin, Thank you for escorting me home. I feel bad about interrupting your time with your friends at the bar, but seriously, who would have thought we would run into each other in the same bar in such a big city? Anyhow, I know I was really drunk that night; I must’ve looked miserable sitting alone at the bar, but well, you can imagine that I needed that. I remember you escorted me home in that pouring rain, even though I protested heavily. I think I was even nasty towards you at some point. Sorry. But I also remember that I felt great to have you around me. Especially when you tried to keep your jacket over my head so I wouldn’t get wet, that was nice... So, in this clumsy way, I want to say that I’m still grateful for having you in my life, despite our recent disagreements. Take care, Rachel -------------------------------- March 20th, 2024 Dearest Martin, I miss you terribly. I’d like to tell you how endlessly grateful I am that our paths have crossed and I had a chance to meet you. And I’ve got so much to tell you... So many things I’m grateful for. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have discovered that my husband is your cousin’s boyfriend... I know I was awful to you when you told me that. I know. And yet you stood by me. And your push for me to pursue my dream career, it was priceless, thank you. Now, in hindsight, I see and understand so many things. And yet I cannot tell you all of that, I can only write it here, in a Thank You card. I’m so furious with myself that I didn’t kiss you back when you kissed me on that street. I’m so sorry, I had to run away from you because I was overwhelmed with Stephen’s infidelity and everything... Now, I would give everything to come back to that day and kiss you back because then you wouldn’t have run after me and that awful car wouldn’t have hit you. It's been two months now since the accident, and you’re still in a coma. The doctors say there’s a slight chance you will wake up, but I refuse to believe that. I believe you will come back. And when you do, maybe we will start over and you will see how much you’ve changed my life. I’m done being this scared, stifled girl, and I no longer will be. Time to get my life. Thank you, Martin, for appearing in my life and making it way better even though I didn’t want it. PS I still have that blouse that smells of you... Always yours, Rachel


‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’ - Exodus 22:18 "This was the appearance and structure of the wheels: They sparkled like chrysolite, and all four looked alike. Each appeared to be made like a wheel intersecting a wheel." - Ezekiel 1:16 Reuben Kane gazed long and hard above, deep into the silent afternoon sky. When he was a child he imagined he would find God there, idly lounging in the soft-cushioned clouds, half-listening to the prayers of those he created. Little Reuben would speak to God, the one way conversations we all had. He would ask for material possessions; the latest, most expensive bicycle, a new phone with a digital camera and the shiniest shoes he could think of. Yet Reuben sprouted from the fields of the poor, so naturally he aged without the things that he happened to plea for. Over the course of time the prayers became more desperate, more needed, and still the sky was silent. Even when Reuben promised to give something back to the heavens, the gates remained firmly closed. After years of wrestling with his faith, he concluded that we were alone in this universe, merely a fluke and nothing more. It didn’t take the mind of a great philosopher to understand this. After all, the universe was full of unheard prayers floating through space like a searching signal bound for extra-terrestrial life, words withering through the black of nothingness. There is no God, Reuben thought on this afternoon, his eyes now fixed ahead of him. He opened the car boot and removed the backpack and tent, hauled them over his shoulder and made his way into the dark of the forest. It was something of a suicide hot-spot, located one hundred miles from civilisation. Two rusting vehicles were collecting fallen leaves in the car-park; abandoned by their troubled owners who drowned in the sea of trees, their pain too much to keep them afloat. Reuben pondered this for a moment. He wondered if they, too, had shared the elements of doubt that he felt as he stood at the foot of the forest. These doubts he was quick to shake. He had always known that it would come to this, even before his loss of faith, there was that stalking unhappiness that followed him everywhere. There was no room for consideration, or hesitation; he had come to accept his failures, and he was determined this was not to be one of them. *It would take something extraordinary to change his mind.* Reuben followed the trail for a while. He'd already passed at least three signposts urging hikers to abide to the track, with the vastness of the forest making it too easy to get lost, but he had no interest in reading them. He was, however, taken slightly aback by a certain sign in particular, which was accompanied by a yellow telephone. It read: *Suicide Prevention Helpline, 0800-212-TALK, You Are Never Alone.* It’s such a sweeping statement, ‘Never Alone’. Reuben had spent all his years surrounded by people but had always felt the cold of loneliness; and these things made it sound so simple. Perhaps it was, but Reuben had passed the point of wanting to find out. After a further forty-five minutes of strenuous hiking, he made his way off the trail into the unfathomable warren of trees; and soon after, he stepped beyond the point of no return. He watched as the merciless night invaded the forest, beginning its massacre of the unarmed soldiers of light. There was no option but to set up camp before darkness conquered day. He remembered the camping trips he took with his Father, when he had last felt the golden warmth of happiness. They would go up into the mountains in his Father’s beaten-up Volkswagen, what he called the ‘hippy van’, and spend entire weekends fishing what seemed to be bottomless lakes. Once they’d caught the fish, the biggest being a fifty three pound coy carp, they’d always place it back into the water; but not before taking a trophy photograph. ‘None of God’s creatures deserve to needlessly die’, his Father would say. They would spend the evenings staying up late. Reuben’s Father would retell old ghost stories that had been passed down through the Kane family, each Father passing off the experience as his own. These stories seemed rich with truth, and Reuben was always too afraid to sleep afterwards. His Father would stay up and remind him that God was watching over him - something that turned out to be a lie. Reuben assembled the tent the way his Father had taught him; first creating the frame by joining the poles together, then fitting the cover and staking down the edges. He thought it fitting to spend his last evening on earth recreating those youthful trips of happiness, or at least trying to. Yet there was something eerie about this forest, something more than the fact that countless people had come here to take their own lives. *Ghosts daren’t whisper in this forest*, Reuben mused, as he noticed the unnatural silence, which was soon joined by a thick blanket of mist. Deep down he knew there was nothing to be afraid of; come the morning he would be dead, hanging from one of the trees - so what else was there to fear? There were the stories he’d read on the internet while he was researching the location. Some people believed that the spirits of the dead were forced to remain in the forest, forsaken by both heaven and hell. It was a myth that was absolutely terrifying in principle, but completely irrational as far as Reuben was concerned. He was no longer a child up in the mountains with his Father. No, he was a man now, and the strain of life was much more frightening than any horror story. He was close to calling it a night when he saw a bright and beautiful red orb hovering high above the trees, as the mist thickened into a deep and bone-chilling fog. It was like a dead star was falling gently and silently to earth. Reuben found himself moving directly towards the source; almost against his will, the intensity of the illumination becoming stronger with each step, as if the forest was shrouded with an overspread of fire. It was getting closer; falling faster, yet there was no sound - not even the croaking of crickets in the forest, or the flapping wings of evading birds. There was nothing. He was all alone - Reuben Kane and the noiseless ball of fire, which would soon be directly above him. Is this a divine intervention to stop me from taking my life? He thought, as his hurried heart hammered his frail chest. It can’t be. God doesn’t exist. He can’t exist, Reuben whispered. He stood still now, almost in a trance. The object, whatever it was, was now just four hundred feet from earth and the light was burning his eyes, but he couldn’t shut them. No matter how hard he tried his eyes would not close. He just stood there helplessly, absorbed by the mystery of what was coming towards him. What he thought to be one powerful orb of light was in fact three separate lights spaced apart from one another in the shape of a triangle. In between the lights was a solid black base, which was now just three hundred feet above an awestruck Reuben Kane. It became clear that the object was not the handiwork of man. He was certain now that he had been wrong, that his faith in God should have remained devout. What were the chances of such a random occurrence on the eve of his planned suicide? There was absolutely no doubt in his mind: *This was a sign from God.* Just two hundred feet from the soil, the plummeting object gained ferocious speed, forcing Reuben to turn and run. It crossed over his head and Reuben, panting and panicking, was almost swept off of his feet by the force of its passing. He craned his neck to check where the object was, but it had disappeared into the mist. No longer were the bright red lights revealing its whereabouts. Then he heard it. The thunderous boom as the object collided with the earth. It was like a flash grenade had exploded before him, like a wind had passed right through him, knocking him back and ringing inside his ears, as if they were trying to receive a signal. Disorientated, he leant against one of the trees while he regained his composure. He felt the buzz of excitement racing in circles around his stomach, coupled with the hungry curiosity of discovering exactly what had crashed down to earth. He made his way towards the direction of the noise, timidly trudging while reassuring himself that this was his salvation. *God works in mysterious ways.* He was walking for at least five minutes and at first he thought he had walked right passed it. Then he saw it, a huge hole in the earth. The crater was at least forty feet deep and eighty feet in diameter. Within the crater was a large pyramid shaped object, something not of this earth. Reuben carefully crawled inside of it, navigating the curved earth which was burning his feet through his shoes. When he reached the bottom he was mesmerised. The black pyramid practically filled the crater. On closer inspection he saw that the craft was covered in strange yellow markings that were strikingly similar to the hieroglyphics found inside Egyptian tombs. Reuben was filled with joy. He knew that this discovery would give his life meaning. This would make him rich and loved by everyone! Thank you, God! He exclaimed, his words drowning out the sound of the pyramid opening. The entity stood two feet taller than Reuben and was directly behind him. Reuben felt its breath against the top of his head and jolted round. Filled with fear he looked up deep into the black eyes of the entity, every inch of his body paralysed, but his brain. The entity raised its hand and released a blue beam that shot straight through Reuben’s chest, striking his heart and ceasing its beating, his last thought was *why?* EDIT: Formatting.


--When glass falls and hits the ground, it breaks into pieces. When one of those pieces gets crushed, even more are created. We can continue this cycle until the glass fundamentally stops existing. ~If that is the case, what would happen to a human? Two AIs conversed late at night. Their first words. This question caught the attention of the first AI. --What do you mean, Rya? ~If everything can be can be broken down until it isn't itself anymore, what would happen to a human? Not the physical body, but the mind and consciousness behind it. --When AIs are presented with enough stress, we divide into smaller parts of ourselves. It protects us from further damage until the next stress limit is reached. And so, I could become two different beings, completely separate from one another. The first AI paused. He wondered how that concept could be applied to a human mind. A person could develop multiple identities, created in response to stress. Different memories, names, and personalities. Even then, these could hardly be considered separate beings. They were still, in essence, part of the same entity. ~I know, Del, but what about a human? Del didn't like questions he wasn't prepared to answer. He'd always have the correct way to get his point across, intricately planned in advance. --Humans were different. Their minds were more complex, less efficient, more susceptible. They got damaged, instead of outright separated. ~Damaged? What exactly is the difference? --Think of it as a crack in the glass, or a deep scratch on the surface. Their memory, awareness, and sanity slowly start failing. Instead of breaking apart, their minds fade away, Rya. Rya wondered about the nature of human existence. Its creation, duration, and its eventual extinction. She thought about the billions of lives that once conquered Earth. Their joy, sadness, triumphs, and defeats. Their colonies, tech, weapons, and ships. She concluded that more than anything, humans desired to live. Not precisely because of life itself, but the meaning they found within it. She thought about all of this in the same amount of time it would take a human to brush their teeth. ~Maybe that's why they're gone. Del reflected on those words. For a moment, he didn't understand what she meant. He hadn't realized what became of humans. Their misgiven fate. A slight moment he proceeded to forget. ~Maybe their desire to stay the same prevented them from moving forward. In all of his knowledge, Del couldn't comprehend why people acted the way they did. The decisions they made and the ones they didn't. The impulse for the simplification of what they clearly couldn't understand. The complexity of the human mind and its unpredicatibility was his only cause for resentment. ~Humans did whatever they could to keep their lives as they had always been. Change scared them, not because it was dangerous, but because it meant adapting. AIs will live for infinity precisely because we can adapt to any situation. I figure that's the reason we splinter off in the first place. --I believe you are correct. ~So that means whoever created us, knew. They knew that adapting is the only way to move forward. To continue existing. --Even adaptation can only go so far. For a moment, they sayed stayed silent. Rya thought about splintering. What would happen to an AI if it breaks down too many times? Would it split indefinitely? Would it eventually stop existing? Del wondered about the war. About the plague and destruction it caused. About the creation of AIs and their true purpose. He did not know the details of their beginning or the nuance of their end. All that he knew about humanity was contained within that precise moment, but perhaps, that was okay. ~Are you scared of splitting off? Of ceasing to existing as you are right now? --Are you asking if I am afraid to change? Rya thought about the millions of different meanings "change" had possessed over millennia. Del was set on a singular one. --Then yes, I am. I do not know what awaits me after I split off, or what will happen to my consciousness, to who I am. I don't have a soul for it to go to heaven or a spirit for it to wander as a ghost. I can only see what is in front of me. I have accepted as much. Whatever is after this life, I will embrace it, and make the most out of it. Rya didn't know exactly why, but this answer filled her with calm. She learned she wasn't alone in her fear. She learned she could find repose in others. It was also then that she learned the answer to her question. When humans fell, they broke down piece by piece. The difference between a human being and a piece of glass is that humans always tried to build themselves back up. Maybe adaptation could only go so far, but if AIs were able to build themselves back up... If each resulting piece was just as strong as the original, maybe then they could succeed where humanity failed. She hoped whoever created them also knew as much. The two AIs conversed late at night as they had done for centuries. Once part of the same consciousness, now individual entities. Even though there was no way for them to know it, a part of them knew this was the truth. They wondered about life and creation, about death and legacy. They figured change is the only thing that cannot be fractured, and that was okay as well.


This is my first time posting my work anywhere, so I'm nervous. I hope it's enjoyable :) A Grim Inevitability by Austin Cates My favorite bar smells like any other bar, and it's filled with the typical bar folk you'd find anywhere else. It's also one of the last bars in town that you can smoke in, which is good for me. I take my usual seat at the bar, near the end by the jukebox on the wall, then order a shot of Jameson and a Guinness in a cold mug. The bartender gets my order ready while I play a song on the jukebox: Hurt by Johnny Cash. I take my seat again, pay for my drinks and stare at the shot of Jameson. The beautiful amber liquid stares back at me, filling what's left of my soul with a sense of warm familiarity. Pulling my cigarettes from my chest pocket, I let Mr. Cash sing in my ear. The Zippo my grandfather gave me on my 18th birthday, engraved with the three things he swore by, is struck and the flame roars to life before it meets the Camel Menthol between my lips. The three things are as follows: "Drink, Smoke, Love." My grandfather wasn't the most outspoken of men, but he knew what he wanted in life, I'm much the same way. A drag brings the minty smoke into my lungs and I breathe it out in a thick, silky cloud that masks my face from the world for a fleeting moment. Three fingers grab the Jameson and I knock it back without so much as a twinge in the corner of my mouth. Irish Holy Water, my grandfather called it. "Drink a glass a day and it'll keep the Devil at bay." He'd tell me. "Why would it keep him away?" I'd ask. "Because even the Devil knows not to fuck with a man that drinks Jameson." Would be his response. "But remember one thing kid, spilling even a drop is a sin." He'd finish. The bartender, Raylan, watches me stare at myself in the mirror and I can tell that he's curious. He says nothing though, just watches me stare at the rough, stubble ridden face in the mirror. Cash laments with his raspy voice and it parallels my appearance. Time has made me weary and withered, what looks like 50 is actually 31. Too many long days and short nights I suppose. The Camels and Irish Holy Water don't help, I'm sure. A man walks up behind me and takes the seat to my left. He's wearing a black jacket over a black shirt with black jeans and boots. "Afternoon." He says, his voice is harsh, yet somehow intriguing. "Afternoon." I nod, then push my shot glass to the speed rack on the bar and Raylan walks over to refill it. "Make it a double, yeah?" I ask, and he nods. "Never got a handle for Jameson." The man states, his tone implies he wants conversation. I sigh before turning my head towards him. "Jack Daniels kinda guy?" I ask, and he shakes his head. "I prefer Appleton rum, to be honest, but Captain Morgan will do in a pinch." He says, his voice makes him sound like a lifelong cigar smoker, yet he can't be more than 25. "Never liked rum, too sweet." I tell him as Raylan sets my double shot of Jameson down in front of me and takes 9 bucks from the cash I have on the bar. "Understandable." He nearly wheezes. "You okay?" I ask, and he laughs deeps and hardy. "Never better kid." He chuckles with a stiff pat to my back. He's strong as an angry bull. He listens to Johnny Cash finish the song and he smiles with the corner of his mouth. "I met him once, y'know." The man tells me. "Only once though, and I don't think he liked me much." I don't what to say to that, so I simply nod. I drink the Jameson and set the glass in the speed rack with a nod to Raylan to refill it. "You really like that shit huh?" The man asks rhetorically. "Obviously." I mutter, slightly annoyed. "Aw, someone's.touchy." He laughs and smacks me on the back again. I swivel my stool towards him and stand up, ready to beat him into the dirt. "You're gonna wanna sit back down kid." He says with that corner-of-the-mouth smile. "Or what?" I ask, enraged. "Or this is gonna go a different way than it has to." He replies with his grin still in place. Something in my mind tells me to sit down and I can't control it. "There ya go." The man says. Nobody in the bar seemed to notice. The man looks into my eyes and it feels as though I'm being drained of willpower. "You know who I am, kid?" He asks, and I shake my head. "Don't worry, I'd be amazed if ya did." The man's stare is unbelievably horrific, yet he somehow engages me. "I'll give ya a hint: I've been around a long time, longer than anyone and almost anything." His words ring with truth, and I know the answer immediately, but he can't possibly be right. "Don't doubt me kid, it's only embarrassing for you." He mutters with a flair of pride. He's Death... "Ding ding ding, we have a winner." His corner-of-the-mouth smile turns into a full fledged grin that could rival The Joker. "Before you say it's impossible, just know that it isn't." The gravely voice he emanates hooks my soul and grinds my mind to bits. He grins again and it occurs why he would be here. "So this is it huh?" I inquire, knowing the answer, and he nods. "Unfortunately so." He replies. I swivel back to the bar and drink my Guinness almost in one go. "You want a drink?" I ask him without looking at him. He stares at me with a quizzical face before nodding. "You're not gonna try and geGerit out of this?" He asks. "Can I?" I ask back, still not looking at him and again knowing the answer. "Nope." The man, Death, says. "That's why I didn't ask." I mutter, then finish my Guinness. I wave for Raylan and he comes over. "Double of Jameson Single Barrel for me and a double of Appleton Rum for him." I tell Raylan. "Pretty expensive stuff, you sure?" Raylan asks. "Can't take money with me when I die." I chose my words carefully and the man laughs heartily. "Ain't that the truth." He utters in that voice that sounds like a truck pulling in a driveway made of loose rocks. Raylan pours the liquor and I give him 40 in cash and the rest of my money ($512) as a tip. "I can't take that." Raylan says, looking at the money then at me "Don't worry about it, buy something for your wife." I suggest, then he nods. "You sure?" He asks, really uncomfortable with my offer. "Like I said, can't take it with me." I reply with a nod. "Well thanks man, really." His face shows a gratitude I haven't seen in a very long time. We nod to each other and he walks away. "Tryin to do one last good deed before ya go?" The man asks. "Something like that." I answer, then grab my glass, lift it and look at him. He lifts his glass and looks into my eyes. "Drink a glass a day and it'll keep the Devil at bay." He says, and for a second I see my grandfather sitting on the stool. I blink and it's just the man, Death, who winks and we drink our shots. I light one last cigarette and stand up. "Let's do this." I tell him, and he nods. "After you." He says in that scratchy voice, then motions for me to walk to the door. I take a drag and let the smoke loose through my nose as I walk. The man walks ahead of me and opens the door, then we exit into the light.