Hi guys! I wrote this as a personal exercise in mood and atmosphere, mostly taking inspiration from Lovecraft (mood, not really in writing style, I think). I also think it sort of holds up as a standalone thing, but please let me know if it doesn't make sense or if anything could be improved as far as style goes. Thanks! .... Hey. Is it weird? You know what I’m talking about. So? Is it weird? To be the only one with a normal mind, a normal brain, on the planet? I know you don’t understand. Please don’t struggle too much. The ropes won’t give, I promise. I need you to be open for this. At least a little bit. Let me ramble on for a while. See if you can catch up. Tell me if I’m confusing. Do you dream of the ocean sometimes? The open water? People with normal brains sometimes do. The others, they think about it a bit more. Not the fish, not the boats, not the sunny days under the sun on the beach. The real open sea. Where you see the ocean touch the sky, and the sky touch the ocean. Each is as big as the other. They are the same grayish blue, both rippling. Almost alive. But not quite. I’ll tell you what a dream like that is like. You are floating in that emptiness, and the air reeks. You aren’t there, because you are dreaming, but you still smell the ashes the are gradually filling the skies with off-white snowflakes. Around you, the surface is not opaque, and you can see the blackness below. The deep colors remind you of something else. You are reminded of a story. You remember this story well, because you see it every night. More than that. Every time your spirit wanders from your active thoughts or actions. Picture a knight. He is a hero, savior of king and country. He has just come back from war and has himself saved the young princess and her steed. He comes back to the castle, but on the throne lies not the kind old king who hired him. In the kingdom now rules the traitor, the jester that saw every going on in the castle and decided to do something with it. He laughs at our hero, who pulls out his sword. He knows he will succeed, because he is a hero. Moreover, he is our hero. He will succeed because we are reading and seeing and dreaming his exploits. But as he steps forward, his might and spirit crushing the fire and flames in the room.. the jester pulls on a rope, comically hanging next to his new throne. The hero, chosen by fate and narrative choice, the protagonist who thought he was the center of everything, who still thinks he is, falls. His gaze only has time to turn towards the ground before he is enveloped in inky blackness. The walls are invisible, and the ground as well. He might as well be dead and dreaming, but he still falls. The only thing he knows still exists is the shaft of light over him. Light that could save him, but chose not to. Light he knows he will not return to. In the dream, that is how you feel when you inevitably look down to the water at your feet. They are waving at the dark below, communicating in an unknown language to unknown beings your every move. The light seems to drain as it goes down under the placid water where you are splashing around. You are hanging over a hole that is incomprehensibly wide and impossibly deep, and you know that the only thing holding you together is the light above, and whatever safety you think it brings you. It does not change anything. You still, always, eventually begin to tire. While your energy falters from swimming and your voice grows ragged from screaming, the void underneath says nothing, of course. It does not care, much like the void above your head. In your dream you know that there is a strange dychotomy at play here. You know that it is odd that humans have seen billions of miles into intersideral space, more than billions, numbers that could break an unbroken mind, when the same human civilization has not explored all of its planet. From space, our ocean is a tiny wet dot, an oddity that will soon be corrected by collision with a rogue star. It is odd that humans have never bothered looking too deep under their feet. Under the lapping waves and dark currents. You also know, in your skin, in your muscles, in your bones, that the gray emptiness under you is somehow much deeper and much more unwelcoming than the one above you. Your skin screams as it feels the invisible rays coming from all around the emptiness, filling you with energy, but also toxins for your body and mind. Literal and metaphorical cancers that eat away at your self, only to find your real center and infect it as well, leaving nothing but an empty shell, walking around like a normal but broken human being with an unbroken mind. Your muscles tell you a different story. One of struggle. Of hard work and dedication, all in the name of achieving goals that they did not choose. They stretch and contract and sweat and drink and grow and shrink. They do their best, because they can only do what they are told. They are not conscious enough to know that they are being controlled. Your bones are the closest to you, so they whisper in your ear. Their murmur speaks of death and chaos. They have heard what the skin is screaming. Its shouts have been heard, and the bones will have to adjust. They will bend and flex as much as they can. They will break if they have to. They have to change, to adapt to the requirements of this new, infinite world, where gigantic beast that defy imagination rule as much as they are ruled by other, greater beasts that they themselves cannot see either. The bones will snap and lock into place, creating new limbs out of old stock. They will have to change if they want to be in the image of these beings. You, at the head of this band of independent beings, know what they do not. They think they should work and change for what lies below them. In your glorious, pointless dream, you know that whatever is under your feet does not know of your presence. You know it is wrong to think of it as many, since while it has many arms, and many legs, and even more bodies, it only has one mind. One consciousness, aware of every ant walking across its body. At that point your dreaming mind does not care anymore. Just as your arms and legs are tired of paddling, your mind is tired, bored and confused by everything it is processing. When it gives up, something else fills in. Something else finds the nerve endings and fills them with thick, gooey electricity. You then know what you would see if you were something else. Let’s say you were something else. Not too different, mentally. A mind that thinks in terms of years, mostly. With limbs that you control yourself. But you are not the same. As you are standing on the Moon, you know that you have no body that is yours, only what you have claimed from others. Cobbled together in order to have a semblance of persona. From Neptune, a silica-breathing semi-mechanical apparatus. From Mercury, the shields that disperse not only the heat but also the other waves you receive and do not want to either absorb or reflect directly. From Pluto, the visual equipment needed to observe goings on on a planet millions of miles away. From even further, more adaptations that are even more useless here and now. Let’s say you are that being. Looking through the universe, mapping everything you can, and noticing something. Noticing that no sapient species ever looks too far in their own back yard. They all lose so much by not communicating with these beings born of so much more potential. You then notice that it isn’t that these sapient species couldn’t find these other beings. It’s that the beings would have to respond to the pokings and proddings. And they never will, because this does not interest them. None of these lives matter, because in an instant they can be gone. You then notice the same things up above you. Whole sectors that have never been touched, even by beings that have achieved mobility and gone through the area. You see that there are intelligences beyond the understanding of sapient species, and there are also some above theirs. And more above the other. Each one, pointing and pulling towards the bigger fish, but never attaining it. You, standing on our moon, see our world. You see all of Southeast Asia, and you see El Salvador. You can hear the cries of children, and the other songs of war. It’s like a mighty melody in your eyes, performed for a blind and deaf audience. You see and understand this through the eyes and minds of every individual on that planet, filling their nerves with your consciousness every time they abandon their sensory organs. Every time they dream of the open sea. You see the remnants of older civilizations, both on land and in the seas. There are traces of gigantic buildings and structures, sometimes spanning millions of miles. Billions. You notice that there are edges that do not line up. Straight lines that end up circling on themselves. Buildings that curve around not the dip of the earth but that of the stars. You have noticed the same buildings, the same curved straight lines, pointing to structures that cannot hold in only three dimensions, in the space between quarks, and also in the space inside of the quarks themselves. Between elementary particles. Between galaxies, between stars. You have seen this web-like pattern everywhere you managed to dig long enough. You, still dreaming, understand all of this. You are sleeping, unconscious, but you are also sinking slowly in an empty ocean, just as much as you are looking intently through the cosmos, and you understand all of this. This is not an easy understanding. With it comes the pain of knowing that you are painfully, horrifically right. The great and obviously superior beings do not care, whether they are above or below you. More than that, they don’t even know that you exist. You are not the bugs in the threads under their boots. You are the microbes in the dirt stuck between the folded-up wings of these bugs. Then you wake up. That’s what the dream is like. At first, I thought I was the only one, then I met others. More and more. A lady in the subway at first. A man in the bus. Another at the shelter. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes betrayed their thoughts. Their sad, desperate eyes showing sad, desperate thoughts. They didn’t all understand the meaning of the dream, but they would. Soon. I know it’s going to be soon. The walls of the city told me. Have you ever seen the edge of the city? Outside? I haven’t either. The walls and the buildings told me their story once. They are millions of miles wide, and millions of miles deep, and millions of miles thick. Layers upon layers of crumbling concrete and dusty stone, sandwiched between meat and pleasure and thought. I know it doesn’t make sense. Have you noticed how every block of the city is almost the same? Intersection after intersection, tunnels leaking cars into highways and boulevards. Everywhere, you can see the church steeples, the traffic lights, and the apartment buildings. People, packed like animals to the slaughter, riding on buses, in cars, in subway trains, all sweating and swearing in unison against their fellow passengers. Billions of people, going to school, going to work, going to die, slowly but surely. Billions of dirty, hairy apes swinging their clubs around. Not noticing that, while there are billions of beings around them, none is actually conscious of the world in front of them. They aren’t thinking about their pointless lives, about their pointless loves. They are not thinking. They are dreaming. They are dreaming the sea of empty blackness, the sky filled with dying stars impossibly far away. They all know that something is wrong. Something needs to be excised from the human body. A slowly rotting lump of brain cells and body fat that thinks it is better than the others. A lump that thinks it thinks for itself. I will fix this problem. When I woke up this morning the sun told me. The sun spoke of fear. Of blackness, of nothingness. Of dreaming. Of the open sea, and all it brings. How does it feel to know that you’re the only one that does not have this dream? It must feel odd, knowing that your can’t get it, and never will. How does it feel to be the only one out of billions, who still doesn’t see the pointlessness of the land around, if we aren’t wanted above or below? Heaven and hell have rejected us, it seems. They forgot us in the shed and now the stench is unbearable. How does it feel? I couldn’t put words on it either, if I were you. I would probably just keep listening. We have been forgotten, and we can only look to each other to remember. Out of all of us, you’re the only one that cannot get it. You never will. Because you can’t understand the pain and rejection every other sapient human being feels when looking either above or below. I said I wanted you to be open for this. I wanted you to understand, but now I see you don’t. Obviously. My word bounce off you like pebbles against the stone walls of Babylon. The only thing we can do to make every person on earth happier, the only act with the most net happiness gain, would be to get rid of the incoherence. Once you are removed from the equation, we will be have developed our one consciousness. We will merge with the faraway observers on the moon and beyond. Humans will be on par with the others. Capital O. The Others, the great beings around and above and within. Our combined mind will span an entire planet, and we will then be perfectly homogeneous. We will all know our place and respect it. We will all be better in the knowledge that we are all the same, because you will be gone. You, the odd one out. The strange one. I will make all of us feel better, and you will thank us then. Your song ends now, but ours is only beginning. Please don’t struggle. Go on home, your mother’s calling you.


TW: Abandonment issues. I used to envy people bragging on their family trees and illustrious histories. So many royals, battles, and mansions on the hill. Named for a general? Cool. The conversation always stalled when I asked, ‘And what great things have you done?’ Blank stares and heated debate about the Dodgers’ stats followed. Go ahead, blame sour grapes. Lacking estate, I’m descended from a dumpster in an alley behind a liquor store, on a hill. Have you heard of it? Found sired by a dumpster, blue from desperate crying. How long must one scream to gain that bluish tinge? It wasn’t cold out. I generated it all by my lonesome. Regardless, I am who I am, through my efforts. No forebears to blame nor shadows from which to emerge. My childhood mentors were the media. ‘Just do it,’ is my favorite advice ever. Doesn’t every father tell that to their child? How about, ‘Think different’? Why would you argue with that? Lacking parental input, who could do better? I’ve winged it, since I could walk, with little input. How do you pull yourself up by your bootstraps when you can’t wipe your own butt? Eat, sleep, and poop. Wash, rinse, repeat. I never knew my father. Met my mother in passing. Then, snip, snip, tied off like a soggy balloon and released. Was it something I said? Still hope to find those misplaced baby pics. Found in a dumpster? Where else? Nick of time, too. I’d about run out of screams. Swaddled in a down comforter, of course. Standard issue for dumpster babies, don’t you know? Trust me. I have no social pretensions. Humble beginnings cure those with a bullet. In the punchbowl of life, I’m the turd floating by. Ahoy! I look in the mirror. How do people know? What invisible façade do they detect which makes me so dismissible? I know who I am, due to inside knowledge. But how do strangers know? Is it a vacant haughtiness, unsupported by money or pedigree? Oh well. If you want genuine arrogance, you must look elsewhere. My veneer is twenty-four carat counterfeit. You prefer anger? How about rage? I can give you rage. How do children learn to be human? It won’t happen in a vacuum. Mothers at the park look askance at me. But I won’t bother their kids. I crave what the mothers say.... “Play nice, wipe your mouth, don’t fight... pretend.” Where did they learn that? A machine needs oil. A bird needs flight. An apple needs a tree. But things can’t plead their case. Children won’t ask either. Mothers don’t carry a guidebook. It’s in their bones. Attitude is everything. I could sleep soundly, under a bridge. Or poise for a high-dive from the penthouse balcony. How does anyone get to the balcony, and not jump? I worked construction on a new house for Gillis, some advertising guy. He brought his family for a tour. Like ducklings, everyone followed Richard, the contractor. He pointed out framed-in spaces, soon to be rooms. Gillis’ kids touched everything. Their tactile sense revealed what mere sight could not. Gillis pulled me aside. I figured I was about to get fired. I can sense it. He told me to come in, and gave me his card. He said I ‘had a look.’ Whatever that meant. They put me in a studio with a lit backdrop and a bicycle. The photographer told me to stand by the bike. So I did. He snapped some shots. He thanked me. That was it. What was it about? I never got the memo, ‘how to stand by a bicycle.’ I’m not asking, ‘what’s my motivation.’ Fact is, I never had a bike. And I learned early, never touch what isn’t mine. So I stood by the bike. But not in a ‘this bike and I are one,’ stance. Guess I don’t have ‘the look’ after all. Damn! Upstaged by a bicycle. I could’ve been a contender. A house has a structural integrity. Like a body has its skeleton to keep it upright and intact. When the house is complete, the shingles mounted, windows glazed, and the door keyed, what then? What does it need? Furniture? Who lives there? Who belongs? What subtle chemistry bubbles and forms a family? What’s indispensable, without which, no family exists, regardless how many gather? Trust. I work construction. Stay in shape. Have time to think. Sleep well. With what materials does one construct trust? Day to day, hand me a hammer. Pick up food. Cash the check. But trust? I look in the mirror - objectively handsome, but not exceedingly so. Never cared about ‘the look.’ Do I take after my mother? Or father? Who had curly hair? Who had trust? The social workers put us in a camp. Called it ‘life skills.’ My warden, Miss Devon, assigned me garden duty. This was no Eden unless rows of rutabagas and beans float your boat. I hoed, pulled weeds. Watered. Harvested. Nail guns are sure. Use one, and something stays put. Staking seedlings for promised growth, makes a high odds gamble. It takes hours of patience and focus spent... hoping to pull up a carrot? Check please. So, my real father... There must have been one. Everyone has at least a donor, right? The dumpster daddy. Is he dead? Did he give me even a second thought? Is he rich, famous, and free because he walked away from a life including me? Does he have an unfillable emptiness? Would I want to be like him? Am I? I don’t want to know. Were they an item? This couple who created me? Did he rape her? That’s a real man for you. Over in less time than it would take to buy a condom. She must’ve been hot. Of course, she let me live. Very generous to deposit me in a dumpster and not drown me like a kitten. If only I had an address to send a mother’s day card. So special. Were they ever together? Or was I the embarrassing output of a five minute clinch? I’ll never know their names. Did they bother with such formalities? So many questions. My school years remain a fog. Teachers made me the poster boy of ‘failing up.’ Not that I’d have returned. Every summer, I relocated to a new house in a new district. Always the ‘new kid.’ Miss Devon and I set my birthday in June since that’s when I'd meet my ‘new family.’ Foster homes, a multitude, were all different, and all the same. I ate with the family, but always felt sequestered. The last one, Mike and Sue had two kids about my age. Dean, the brother, had no desire to befriend me. His nickname for me was ‘free lunch.’ Sister Sharon, younger than Dean and me by two or three years, barely acknowledged me. Who invites a perceived threat into their home? I awoke screaming from a nightmare. Spiders swarmed over my face. Dean pinned me down and punched. Over and over he yelled, “Shut up!” When I became lucid, I saw Sharon watching from the hallway, standing behind Mike and Sue. Dean said the county paid his folks to foster me. I’d never heard that, but it made sense. They didn’t fatten me up. That must have been one tight budget. Sharon, my secret friend, slipped extra cookies to me. Dean was odd. I had nothing. And no place to put it. But Dean accused me of stealing stuff. Curiously, when my stuff went missing, I’d find it in his desk. Miss Devon stuck by me when I aged out, and they cut me loose. She patted my shoulder and wished me well. After years, that was it. She’s who told me about my turning blue. That was all she knew. I figured it was a dumpster. She couldn’t confirm that. A free agent, I bounced from job to job. They’d say I had attitude problems. You think? Worse than being a foster brat. Miss Devon checked in with me every few months. Off the books. Even though I had a new worker, nothing worked for me. Richard, the contractor, who hired me said, “I’ll be honest, Jonah. I have no great expectations about you. Miss Devon asked me to cut you a break. She’s a good one to have in your corner.” She pulled in a favor for me. Might be my last chance. He said, “Listen up. Here’s the deal. I’m hiring you to do whatever needs doing, when it needs doing, or sooner. Better, if you do it before hand. Don’t waste my time.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. You do that, it’ll be plenty.” That was the most fatherly thing anyone ever told me. Clean, simple, and unambiguous. We shook on it and he put me to work. Hours were long and hard. I learned a ton, and I proved myself. He kept me busy. For the first time in my life, I had money to spare. Free day, coming out of a coffee shop, someone called my name. Sharon, now attending the community college, stood grinning at me. She invited me to join her and friends at the flea market. I’d never been. Felt good to pay her way. We watched people, joked and laughed. So much used junk! We had fun. Never felt so relaxed. Her friends wandered off. She didn’t care. One booth had a boxes of old snapshots. I don’t know why I leafed through them. Just curious. Who were all these forgotten people? Does no one remember them? I invented stories. Sharon listened, enrapt. I rambled on. In one faded black and white, a group stood in a field proudly holding giant rutabagas. They each wore suspenders and sun hats. I riffed that the tall, middle one was my grandfather. The others were uncles. The squat woman on the side, my second cousin. Sharon loved it. Another featured a man in uniform, standing by a vintage fighter plane. “My Dad. He died in the war.” “Which one?” “I don’t know. Can’t you tell he’s a hero?” I flipped through some more. “And this woman feeding geese is my mother.” “You have her eyes.” “And the curly hair...” Faded inscriptions on the back were indecipherable. No names. Lost faces. The box advertised, ‘photos - $1 per dozen.’ Sharon said, “your pick.” My first gift ever. Instantly, I had a family. I wiped my eyes. And I discovered something that sperm and egg created, no one could take from me. In the food court, I bought two coffees and we split a cookie. “Interest paid on all those snacks...” She laughed, “Yeah, you owe me, Joe. Big time.” A jug band did their set. Between songs I waxed fantastic about my brand new, antique photo family. A pattern emerged. In each story, everyone did what needed doing, when needed. Some died. Some thrived. But everyone did their best. I told Sharon, “‘Good to the last drop,’ is my favorite slogan.” She listened. “I know it’s marketing coffee, but it also seems a worthy goal for life. That’ll be my measure ‘till I drop.” Whatever their failures, I forgave them. They did their best.


It was a crisp Monday morning, an unprecedented bitterness wafting through our rickety house. I dressed myself to look presentable and descended the stairs into the kitchen, where I snatched a granola bar from the cupboard. I scooped up my backpack from beside the door, leaving without even a farewell from my negligent stepmother. Once I stepped outside, I drew my jacket more tightly around me. There was an icy breeze today, which was odd because the weather patterns in this town rarely differed. I cut between a few houses to get to the back alleys, in which I would begin the two-mile walk to school. I don’t take the main roads anymore, not since a kid got hit by a car there. I’d rather take the abandoned paths beyond the neighborhood, which are lined with dumpsters and garbage. It was then that things took a turn. I rounded a corner, and froze. About ten yards away from me was a very short man, about four feet tall, standing very still. His entire body was draped in a jet-black cloak, except for his face, which was wrinkled and pale and arranged in the most brutal smile I had ever seen. His platelike eyes were as wide as saucers, as if staring into my soul. In his pudgy little hand was a razor-sharp knife. He seemed a more twisted and vile version of the Grim Reaper, yet he never moved a muscle. For a moment, we both stood there, staring at each other. I brought my hand to my face and rubbed my eyes thoroughly. *He must be a vision,* I thought. But when I opened my eyes again, the Man was gone. He had disappeared in a split second, leaving no trace of his presence behind. Shaken, I continued on my way, but his face remained in my memory. When I arrived at school, I feigned serenity, though my sighting of the Man had unnerved me. I swallowed the ever-growing lump in my throat, and managed to survive the first half of the day without a hitch. Of course, I should’ve known that my peace wouldn’t last eternally. During recess, I saw a small boy from my class curled up by the fence with a book. It was Robbie, the timidest and most withdrawn kid in my grade. Under normal circumstances, I would not have taken notice of him, but the cover of the novel he was reading sent a chill down my spine. *The Strange One*, it was titled, and sported an image of a short man with a remarkable likeness to the one I had encountered on my journey to school. I approached Robbie, quaking. “Robbie?” I whispered, my voice quivering. “What is that book about?” His head snapped up from the page and he gazed at me curiously. “Want to have a look?” Nervously, I took the book from him and thumbed through to a random chapter. My heart stopped as my eyes flickered to a sentence in the middle of the page. *She saw a figure just beyond the tree, clad in a cloak with a pale face, and a knife in its hand.* Alarm bells chimed in my head and I goggled at Robbie, my eyes feral. “Is this... fiction?” I queried, desperately hoping it was. To my horror, Robbie did not give me the direct, reassuring response I desired. He stated, “I suppose it was written as such; however, it might be real. Why perceive something as fake just because you haven’t seen it with your own eyes?” *Whoever sees the Strange One will die within two weeks. It is an unavoidable destiny.* I tried to steady myself before I fainted. Deserting Robbie, I dashed back into the schoolhouse and towards the girls’ bathroom. At the sink, I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My mouth was dry and my hands were trembling, but then I saw something that made my heart turn to ice. I gawked wordlessly at the mirror. A few yards behind me perched the Man, grinning silently and creepily. The blood drained from my face. Slowly, I turned my head to look over my shoulder, but saw only the tiled back wall. I whirled back to the mirror. The Man had vanished. The air had grown frigid, as if I was in an icebox. In a fit of terror, I sank to my knees, not taking my eyes off of the place where the entity had been standing. Black dots danced in my vision, but I forced myself to rise. As soon as I was stable, I dashed out of the bathroom and ran for my life back outside to the schoolyard. I did not utter a word about what had happened for the rest of the day. Over the next two weeks I encountered the Man five times more: once standing menacingly in a sewer, once peering into my window, once hiding in the corner of an empty classroom, and once watching me from my closet. The fifth time was by far the eeriest: I was watching television when it began to flash and glitch, and a distinct image of the Man flickered onto the screen. On each occasion, the moment I blinked, he disappeared. I was concealing a horrible secret, one that chilled me to my core. And anyway, who could I confide in? What options did I have? My father was away on business. My stepmother wouldn’t care. And, according to Robbie’s novel, I was supposed to die at the hands of the Man tomorrow, fourteen days succeeding my first sighting of him. That night, I had a restless sleep and was tormented by nightmares. At about three a.m., I awoke to a persistent knocking on my bedroom door. I called for my stepmother, but only silence met my ears in response. I stumbled out of bed and ventured tentatively over to the door. Under the crack of the doorframe, I could see a person in a black cloak stationed mere inches from my nose. I knew without hesitation that it was the Man. And he kept knocking. I skidded backward and started shaking all over, shivering like I was cold. I sobbed, I prayed, I moaned, I willed to be anywhere but here. Anywhere out of reach of the Man. I scrambled back to my bed and buried myself under the covers, crying. Abruptly the door burst open and a figure materialized in front of me. As my eyes adjusted to the dark I saw none other than the Man, his knife raised high above his veiled head. I opened my mouth to scream, but only an anguished squeak escaped. It was all I could do to console myself as I watched his dagger come down, down, down. My world dissolved into shadows.


Standing at an imposing 5 feet (159 cm), my camp mate hails from a particular kind of human species that I’m not sure science has discovered yet. His patchy beard crowns a beaming smile. A pungent odour seeps from his yellow teeth and clogs the nostrils of anyone unfortunate enough to stand in his way. A few cigarettes away from being a chain-smoker- his presence rarely goes unnoticed; either thanks to his uncontrollable coughing which might (and should) raise doctors’ eyebrows or thanks to an inner gurgling sound which is always followed up by a blob of spit slapping the ground. Yet despite these... *vices*, one might rarely meet a more affable and generous goblin. He converses with everyone, takes an interest in their opinions and never shies away from a pickle- no matter the magnitude. Being a powerhouse of exuberance, if there was ever a “can-do” attitude that self-important managers on LinkedIn dream about- he is the only person in the world who truly embodies it. Throughout the duration of the expedition I learned plenty from and about this peculiar man. He is a sous-chef who allegedly sliced his finger open at work one day, only to stitch it back together using a first-aid kit and copious amounts of what I assume was cocaine. The hospital took care of the rest. To show his devotion to his craft, he tattooed a carrot on his right arm. It wasn’t long into our adventure that I realized he harbours a very short temper which to my genuine delight, is never channeled on anyone else but Jesus Christ and his extended family. “Fuck the Holy Mary!” he barks whenever faced with the mildest inconvenience. Awed remain the people in his surroundings, too dumbfounded to speak but also too afraid to stand in his way. I suspected that he has Tourettes but his friends shook off my well-meaning explanation to this peculiarity, saying that he wasn’t always this way. The day I began to fear this entity arrived only a few days into our expedition. The night had crept quickly- too quickly for my camp mate to remember to shower before the rest of the people in the camp did. This was a fatal oversight. As I unzipped my pants, ready to empty the proverbial snake prior to crawling into my sleeping bag, he erupted. In full force, blasphemies fired from one of the shower stalls in an uncontrollable manner, echoing around the entire campsite if not even further into the forest. “The other motherfucking retards used up all of the bull-fucking water!” he squealed. My piss danced around the toilet seat as I attempted to regain control amidst my tearful laughter. He did not stop. Blasphemies shot out of his mouth like bullets from a mounded gun. The wall banged as he drove his demonic fist into it repeatedly. As my last drops of piss descended into the puddle beneath me, I tried to get myself together- fearful that he’d notice my presence and direct his wrath onto me. I zipped up my pants, rubbed my reddish eyes after laughing uncontrollably for the last few minutes and began sneaking out. “Dog-fucking Christ, what a bunch of greedy pieces of shit...” he bellowed prior to whisking the shower curtain aside, only to find me tip-toeing half way across the room. Our eyes met. Inside his, I saw Satan incarnate- wearing the guise of an ordinary, if boisterous man. Inside mine, he saw a realization that his inner demon had been compromised. Seconds passed unhurriedly. We both erupted in laughter.


All the places I know from my youth seem to have gotten smaller now that I revisit them forty years later. When I was a child, I thought my hometown Ypres, Belgium, was a big city, although it counted only a couple of ten thousand souls. Once I was old enough to go to college, I went to Ghent University, also in Belgium. Now that was something else! Ghent had a population of a couple of hundred thousand people with more than 160 different nationalities. A completely new world opened up for me. There were three movie theaters instead of only the one with two screens in Ypres. There were places to go out to where you wouldn’t accidentally bump into your parents --or somebody who knew your parents. There was always something to do, even on weekdays. Once I graduated, it was an easy decision to make. I permanently moved to Ghent and started a new life in what a real city was supposed to be --or so I thought. Then I went into business and traveled the world: San Francisco, New York, Boston, Singapore, Seoul, Hong Kong... That’s the order in which I discovered the places that brought my understanding of what qualified as a big city to the next level. I don’t remember what made me decide to make a detour on my way home on that cold spring evening. I had flown in from San Francisco to Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris. From there, I had taken the train to the “Gare de Lille Flandres” station in the North of France. My car was parked there, ready for me to drive to Ghent, but for some reason my heart made me change my mind. Instead of driving straight home, I made a stop in the godforsaken town I was born in, making my trip at least forty minutes longer on what should have been a less than one-hour ride. “What have I lost here?” I wondered when I got out of my car. “Nothing that matters,” my mind replied. “A piece of me,” my heart tried to convince me. “Nostalgia is not for us. We should admit that we have outgrown our hometown a long time ago,” my mind urged. “We have seen wider avenues, higher towers, more impressive bridges than anything we can see here. We could have been home already if we hadn’t stopped here.” A cold shiver ran down my spine as my mind kicked at that open door, but I shook that feeling off. “Let's take a walk anyway, now that we're here,” I said in one of those rare moments of indulgence towards my heart. “Maybe we'll find that piece you claim to have lost here once.” My heart jumped up in joy. I felt how it cheerfully pumped blood through my veins to ban all chills. Fortunately, there was nobody around to see me blush. “Okay then, I’ll walk with you,” my mind gave in, “but don't expect too much from it.” Together we walked from one end of the city to the other. It barely took us twenty minutes. The center of the city had improved; the Cloth Hall dominating the Great Market looked much nicer than I remembered. The place where I had my first beer however, was permanently closed, and the movie theater had been turned into an apartment building. “I feel like a tourist,” I sighed. “A lot of things have changed in forty years. I recognize the buildings that remained in place as if I know them from an old picture book. I don’t feel connected to them anymore. I don't know if I would still feel at home here.” “That was exactly my point,” my mind said. “There’s nothing left for us here.” “We should take the scenic route back,” my heart implored. “The ramparts look really nice this time of year.” For once my heart was right. The walk around the city took us longer than the walk through the center, but the parks along the ramparts sparked a memory I failed to retrieve. Flowers were starting to bloom; buds were starting to show on trees. Nature was ready to start new life, yet I felt a frustration that I couldn't explain. “There was something about this place,” I said when we arrived back at the car, “but I can’t put my finger on it.” I looked around on the parking lot. It used to be a park where we had played as a child. Today, only an old beech tree and an old oak reminded us of what once was. “Maybe we should sit here for a moment to see of our memory comes back,” my heart suggested. “Spring is in the air; maybe it will bring something new into our life.” My mind disagreed: “It will be dark soon, and it's a long drive home after having traveled so far.” I concurred with my mind, but before we got into the car, I listened to the rustling of the beech and the oak looking down on us. I thought I heard them say something, but that must have been my imagination. I drove home regretting the time I had lost. My mind reminded me of something I had read in the Bible: “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” *** “Did you recognize him?” Beech whispered. “How could I forget him?” Oak replied with his slow voice. “His initials are carved in my skin.” “He's smaller than I remember him,” Beech observed. “It only seems that way,” Oak said after a long pause. “All of us have grown, but we have grown taller than he has.” “I remember his sweetheart.” Beech smiled while the car drove off the parking lot. “She was a beautiful girl.” “And now she's a beautiful woman,” Oak reflected. “She lives just around the corner.” “Why didn't he pay her a visit?” Beech asked. “He must have forgotten her.” “But she didn't forget him,” Beech whispered after a while. “She's different from him,” Oak confirmed. “She still comes to what once was the park they used to meet in. Occasionally, she searches for her initials on my trunk, musing about what could have been.” “Does she still carry that piece of his heart in hers?” Beech asked. “Yes, even after all those years, she does,” Oak sighed. “But that’s something he will never understand with his mind.” “Look, there she is,” Beech said. “If he had waited for ten more minutes, they could have met. Imagine what could have happened.” “Yes,” Oak pondered. “Just imagine...”


‘You know how the signs at the zoo say Don’t feed the bears?’ Nina held up her bulkily bandaged hand. 'There’s a good reason for that.' 'Wow.' Steve was practically stunned speechless. 'I’ve never met anyone injured by a bear before.' Nina caught herself before she could reply you still haven’t . This was too much fun to spoil. Having seen dozens of different doctors, nurses, surgeons and specialists about her injuries, she was bored of repeating the same story. When Steve asked about her hand, Nina got creative. Nina had a cheeky streak broader than the red-purple dye in her scruffy blonde hair. Growing up, she was frequently criticised for her overactive imagination . She’d visited Perth Zoo’s sculpted lawns and leafy paths countless times and loved feeding the greedy giraffes. She knew they hadn’t any signs about bears. No self-respecting zoo had enclosures so unsafe someone could get mauled feeding ham sandwiches to a grizzly. Nina had been sitting in the hospital coffee shop, enjoying her first latte in three days after being discharged when Steve had walked in. His black suit was too shiny to be exceptionally expensive and too stylish to be cheap and when he invited himself to sit at Nina’s table, she saw him take an interest in her bandages. He wanted to project successful lawyer , not l awyer with wheelbarrows of money . If he looked too rich, his clients wouldn’t trust him. Steve’s business card said personal injury lawyer, but for Nina, it might as well have read professional ambulance chaser . Having been burnt by past abusive relationships, she could smell when someone wasn’t on the level. Steve had asked her what she was reading, but Nina knew he surely made a habit of striking up conversations in the coffee shop. She figured she’d string Steve along for a little while. What could go wrong? Nina asked herself; it wasn’t like she was lying. Maybe it had been a tiny oversight to mention bears, but Nina reassured herself it wouldn’t go to court and if she got another coffee out of it, where was the harm? This definitely isn’t a date, she told herself - admittedly, the guy was kind of cute, but had a date organised with someone else. *** Nina met Charlie the week before, on a humid evening stuck outside a secure car park. The shutters down, their cars were imprisoned inside. 'Doesn’t this place close at midnight?' Charlie asked. 'I thought so,' Nina agreed but was distracted by Charlie’s twilight-coloured eyes. 'Wait. It’s bloody Thursday!' Charlie exclaimed, startling Nina. 'They shut at 11.' 'I’m uncool; I’m never out on weeknights,' Nina admitted, worrying how she sounded to this magnetic stranger. 'Now what?' 'I’ll scale this lamppost, climb in, and rescue our cars!' Suddenly, Nina thought Charlie might try. Charlie looked athletic, as if she enjoyed things like bouldering, but Nina wondered what kind of traction her scuffed Converse could have. 'I’m kidding!' Charlie insisted. Nina was further concerned Charlie might have noticed her looking worried. Was she messing this up? She compromised by calling the car park’s help number. After they paid to release their cars, Nina took a chance asking Charlie for her number. Charlie readily accepted though she struggled to read Nina’s cracked phone screen. When an incident with her cat left her bitten and bleeding like she’d badly lost an argument with a woodchipper, Nina took a rain check on their first date. Charlie was only concerned about why Nina needed to go to the hospital. Now Nina was letting this ambulance-chaser buy her a second coffee because of a story about bears. It’s nothing , she told herself. 'What do you think?' Steve asked, surprising Nina. Nina wasn’t listening. She’d been daydreaming, endlessly swirling her mocha with a plastic spoon and thinking about Charlie instead of stringing Steve along. 'My marshmallows aren’t melting properly?' Steve laughed; Nina was unsure if he was laughing at her. 'Look, dude, I gotta go,' she said. Despite moving to Australia from Munich 10 years before, Nina felt awkward calling people mate . Dude wasn’t much better. Steve found Nina’s faint accent and oddly dyed hair charming but knew he shouldn’t date clients, even if she wasn’t a client quite yet. 'I’ll call you Monday to discuss your zoo letter. Unless you want to meet sooner?' *** Nina arrived at Charlie’s waterfront apartments complex 25 minutes early. Frequently late from misjudging how long she needed to do everything, tonight Nina over-compensated. Pacing outside the gates, her jeans were still damp from the wash - she’d naively expected them to dry in time. She was a good judge of character, but other things were less well-considered. Nina couldn’t buzz Charlie’s flat now; it was much too early and she’d look desperate. Instead, she could only kill time. As an old Italian lady entered the complex, she noticed Nina’s pacing and deliberately pulled the gate closed behind her with a suspicious glance. 'I wasn’t going to steal your bag, mate!' Nina called out, trying to sound more local. 'I’m glad to hear it,' said a familiar voice. Nina turned around, praying she was wrong about this. Steve would have recognised the short shaggy hair and bandaged hand on anyone. 'Were you threatening Mrs Giuseppe?' he asked. 'No!' Nina insisted, 'She acted like I was breaking in.' 'What are you doing? Are you here to see me? I don’t know how you found me, but this is inappropriate. You should have called.' Steve wasn’t sure he did mind that Nina had tracked down where he lived, and he was confident that what she wanted wasn’t his legal advice. Nina knew how she looked, loitering and yelling at old ladies. 'I’m not here for you,' Nina said, embarrassed. 'I’m visiting a...kind of date.' Steve raised one obnoxious eyebrow. 'A kind of date? Where does this sort of date live?' Suddenly Nina wanted to slap the designer stubble off his smug face. 'They live in unit 1.' ' They? Are they a split personality?' Steve’s smile was getting annoying. 'Thanks, technically correct man . She lives in unit 1.' 'Follow me,' Steve sighed. 'I’ll show you the way and make sure you don’t mug anyone’s Nonna.' Nina hesitated. Charlie was probably waiting, and this was easier. Steve didn’t wait for her reply. Unlocking the gate, he walked without a backwards glance. He didn’t close the gate but also didn’t hold it, and Nina hurried to keep it from slamming shut. Steve was unnaturally quiet. Glad of the silence, Nina looked around as she walked, noting a swimming pool and manicured garden beds. She was right that Steve had money. Steve stopped in front of a building and turned to Nina. 'Here you go!' That smug look again, but Nina was determined to be polite. 'Thanks,' she said coolly. 'I’ve got this.' 'No problem,' Steve insisted. Instead of walking away, he rapped loudly on the door. Nina was appalled, but before she objected, he unlocked the door. Nina realised her position when she saw Charlie in the hallway. 'Oh, it’s you,' Charlie said. Nina’s heart sank at her unexpectedly lacklustre welcome. Then she realised Charlie was talking to Steve. 'Charlie, I met your date outside,' Steve said dryly. 'Nina, meet my little sister Charlie.' Charlie seemingly noticed Nina for the first time. Looking to Steve, then to Nina, then back to Steve, her face twisted in confusion and revulsion. 'What’s wrong?' Nina was perplexed. 'You know each other?' Charlie countered. 'No!' Nina replied quickly, her heart was audibly thumping. Steve jumped in: 'Nina and I had coffee earlier today; I think she’d just got out of bed. Either way, I’m taking her case about a bear attack, and now I’ve found her lurking outside. She said she has kind of a date, but I think she was looking for me.' Growing up with her obnoxious brother, Charlie knew when he was lying to wind her up, and when he knew the truth would annoy her more. 'You always do this, Stevie; quit messing with my dates!' With the argument intensifying like a cyclone, Nina felt like there was some history and sibling rivalry she had stumbled into unknowingly. More to the point, her night was going badly wrong. 'I don’t know what game you two are playing,' Nina shouted into the din, 'but I’m leaving!' Charlie apparently agreed; shutting the door in Nina’s face. *** Nina knew she’d look crazy if she stood outside the apartment door all night. Instead, she wandered about for a while until she found the pool, then sat under a light nearby. What could she say to fix this? She hadn’t admitted it to herself until now, but she sort of, kind of, maybe, just a tiny bit liked them both. Or had liked them both, past tense. Nina had achieved a certain unexpected clarity on that front now. It’s not what you think 🙁 Nina texted. Don’t care. Go away 😡 Charlie’s reply was immediate. Don’t want your idiot ambulance-chaser brother! I like you! Don’t use that word 🤬 'Like'? No, dumbass: ambulance chaser. It’s offensive It’s what he does? You didn’t ask me what I do Nina knew then that she’d messed up. Earlier in the day, Nina considered making Charlie a first date playlist but rejected it for being cheesy. Now she had a better idea. Opening Spotify on her phone, Nina created Playlist for C and started adding tracks. Hey girl It was a strong opener, Nina thought. Sorry Getting to the point quickly, so far so good. Hear me out I’m a fool Nina paused. This was turning out to be harder than expected. I didn’t mean to hurt you Please forgive me Nothing happened Don’t let me be misunderstood You’re the one that I want Waiting on you Nina pasted the playlist link into a reply and hit send. The night was warm and starry, and if she left now, she’d be home in time for watching Netflix with her overfed tabby cat. The following day, Nina tried to put Charlie out of mind. She’d messed up there, but life goes on. She was moving on, Nina told herself. Finding a free sofa at her favourite café, she’d barely started into her book when her phone pinged. Can I see you? Her heart leapt. Grabbing up the phone, Nina saw a message from Steve. She then realised it didn’t say can I but instead I can . Nina looked up; Steve was leaning on the counter, waiting for his coffee. She knew this coffee shop was popular, and maybe she’d hoped its proximity to Charlie’s apartment might afford a coincidental meeting, but she hadn’t considered what might happen if the wrong sibling showed up. Steve waved, and Nina conspicuously ignored him, putting her phone down and picking up her book. Before she could find her place on the page, Steve wandered over. 'Get lost,' she muttered angrily, half to herself. If it hadn’t been for Charlie, and Steve acting like a jerk, she could like him. When Nina didn’t acknowledge him, Steve sat conspicuously nearby with a newspaper. Her phone buzzed again. Before she could throw it at Steve, Nina noticed the sender: Charlie. Nice playlist doofus 😊 Nina smiled. Forgive me? It’s weird 😝 Doesn’t flow *at all* Right OK 🙁 I like it. Made me smile, like you Nina was mid-reply when she pressed something wrong, and her phone started calling Charlie. 'No! Stop it!' Steve looked up from his newspaper. 'Are you seriously calling me?' Charlie’s voice was smiling, and Nina knew she liked this feisty girl. 'My phone does weird things, and I couldn’t make it stop.' 'That sounds awkward,' Charlie laughed. 'Do I get another chance to see you?' 'Maybe. You’re lucky you’re cute.' 'Charlie, let me take you to a gig tonight. At the zoo.' 'I wondered what you were going to say there, for a second.' Nina’s face flushed pink, blushing harder knowing Steve could see her. 'Meet me there, 7:30? It’s a special event, I’ll get us tickets.' 'Alright, doofus. I’ll see you there.' 'Hi, Charlie!' Steve Called out. Nina froze. 'Is that my brother?' Charlie asked, hanging up before she could wait for an answer. Nina threw her phone down in frustration. 'Goddamn it, Steve,' she cried, 'You ruin everything.' 'You sound exactly like Charlie,' Steve replied. Suddenly his phone started ringing. 'That’s Charlie,' he sounded concerned. 'I don’t believe you,' Nina replied flatly. 'Hey,' Steve answered before being interrupted by his sister. 'She wants to talk to you,' he said, handing the phone to Nina. 'Are you having coffee with Steve? Again?' Charlie asked. 'No!' Nina insisted. 'I’m here alone with my book, I didn’t know he’d show up, nothing is going on, and-' 'Turn around.' Charlie stood in the doorway, still on her phone and a wry smile on her face. Nina kept talking into the phone, though Charlie could hear her without it. 'I swear, I only met him yesterday because of my stupid cat bites.' Whether it was Nina’s passion or seeing her, face-to-face, across the crowded café, Charlie visibly softened. 'I believe you. Tell me more about it tonight, and whatever this is about your cat.' Nina smiled. 'This is yours,' she said distractedly, handing Steve his phone and walking over to Charlie. Steve looked from his phone to Charlie, then to Nina. The customers who’d been listening intently now pretended to be engrossed in their coffees. Not needing anyone’s permission, Nina enthusiastically kissed Charlie. 'Wait. What’s this about cat bites?' Steve asked.


CONNECTED By: Janis Van Meter Restless and Weary Feeling hazy and a bit foggy, I sat up from a restless nights sleep feeling more tired and less energy than I had before I went to bed last night. My hair and pajamas were damp with sweat that the strange dream had caused. It was so real. I could see people around me so vividly. I felt I could reach out and touch them. The colors of their clothes and their interactions were so very distinct in my memory. I had dreams similar to this one when I was a child around the age of eleven or twelve but they never had this much detail. Now I’m twenty six and I’m actually afraid to leave the warmth of my bed and the small amount of security it offered. Just like that, those dreams from my eleven year old self once again resurfaced in my memories. My name is Tolley Parker. It’s a family name. I’m a legal secretary with a big law firm in Dallas, Texas. I drive about fifteen miles to work every day and I follow pretty much the same routine. After I park in the parking garage that’s about three city blocks from my office, I walk to a nearby coffee shop and pick up my usual coffee with cream and two sugars. Then I walk the remaining block to my office which is located in a twenty three story building. My elevator ride is short only going to the fifth floor. I greet our receptionist, Lauren and keep walking until I reach my little office toward the back of the large suit of offices. I sit down, stash my purse in a desk drawer and sip my coffee. My boss, Attorney Patrick Moss, is out of town today and all next week. so I should have a quiet Friday. Checking my list of items that Patrick has left, mostly phone calls to return or appointments he would like set up for the week he returns, I organize my day. my mind is drawn back to the dream. Not quite a nightmare but very foreboding. . The First Dream “Tolley? Tolley? Get in here girl, you’re breakfast is ready.” I could hear the familiar voice of my mother calling me just like she did almost every morning during my childhood. Such a nice dream. I start to the kitchen but the dream shifted suddenly to different place before I could get to my mother as dreams often do. Suddenly, I was standing on the sidewalk out in front of my office building with a cup of coffee in my hand. I was looking around but I was frozen in place. Something was wrong. I could sense it as I felt chills run down my spine. I strained my neck as hard as I could. I looked left and right but all I could see was the back of a delivery truck parked across the street where some big boxes were being unloaded down a ramp and onto a a cart for the business across the street. Nothing there to be concerned about. Further up the street was a woman pushing a baby stroller. She had apparently just gotten off a city bus that was pulling away from the curb. Nothing unusual there either. I looked straight ahead again. I saw a man in some kind of job related coveralls. He was carrying a boxy shaped case in one hand and his phone held against his ear in the other. He was walking and about to get to the back of the truck. Everything seemed ok. What was going on? The sense of dread was so strong now that my heart was pounding in my chest and I tried to cry out but I couldn’t speak. Some movement returned and I found myself clenching my cup so hard that I felt hot coffee splash onto my hand and wrist as I dropped it landing beside me. I felt no pain from the burn. Why? I looked up and across the street but everything had disappeared. I realized that I was at home and sitting up in my bed, panting, almost hyperventilating, trying to catch my breath. That’s where the dream ended. Dreamscape I managed to get through the rest of my work day. I cleaned off my desk and headed to the parking garage to get my car. As I was opening my car door to get in, I glanced up and noticed a light blue van parked directly in front of me. The driver of the van had just taken his seat behind the steering wheel. At the same moment, we looked at each other as we sat in facing parking spots. For just a few seconds we just stared at each other. I had the strangest feeling, like a déjà vu’ moment. I’m not sure which of us looked away first. Clumsy me, I dropped my keys and bent down to pick them up. I stood up and took the drivers seat in my car. I glanced in the direction of the blue van. It was backing out. There was royal blue and white logo on the side shaped like a crown that said Imperial IT, Plano, Texas and gave their phone number. There wasn’t anything unusual or even memorable about the logo so I’m not quite sure why I felt the need to tuck this detail away in my memory. Traffic on Friday afternoons is always horrendous. The freeway was backed up and it took me to over an hour to get home. Instead of going to dinner with some friends, I opted to stay home. I was exhausted after getting so little sleep last night. I took a hot shower put on some loose pajamas and rummaged through my refrigerator for something to eat for dinner. I was in luck. I found some leftover pasta. I sniffed it and it was still good. I stuck a plate in the microwave to heat and poured myself a generous glass of wine. My meal was ready and I took it into my small living room. I decided to watch some TV while I ate. Nothing interesting on TV so I took my laptop and decided I’d scroll through some sales ads looking for a new chair that I needed so badly. I found a couple that looked promising and sent the information to my phone. I planned on doing a little shopping tomorrow. I settled into my old lumpy sofa to watch a movie. At some point I dozed off and the dream started again. I was standing back in front of my office building. I looked around quickly and realized that everything was still in place from where my dream had ended last night. Again I couldn’t move except to turn my head. I hadn’t noticed that I was wearing the same clothes as in the last dream. I had not worn slacks on Friday. A cup of coffee was still in my hand. I made a mental note about the coffee to avoid getting burned this time. I started checking off the things that I had noticed in my dream the night before. Delivery truck unloading boxes, check, man in work coveralls across the street beside the truck, check. Wait a minute! My eyes froze on the man, he was stopped and had turned to stare at me! What’s going on? We both blinked a couple of times, I think I even tilted my head a little because I was so confused. He looked dazed as he reached up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, he shook his head as if he was trying to wake himself up before he turned and faced the back of the truck. There’s the lady and stroller again. Check. She looked the same except now she was holding a cell phone to her ear. She was gently pushing the stroller back and forth in a rocking motion. I looked at her more closely. She looked to be about my age, maybe a little shorter and her dark hair pulled up in a ponytail. Her dress was pink with flowers. My thoughts returned to the man so I glanced back. He had stopped and was engaged in a conversation with one of the delivery guys and they were laughing at something one of them had just said. He was turned facing me and I strained to see what name was stitched on his pocket. It looked like Bob, no wait it was just two letters. His name is Bo. Below his name was the same logo that I had seen on the van in the parking garage. Imperial IT. Now I knew why I felt as if I had seen him before. I was so confused even in my dream state I was puzzled why he stared back at me in the garage and again just a few moments ago from across the street. Then, I was jarred awake and out of my dream by the ringing of my cell phone. I answered it. Honestly, I was a bit aggravated because my dream had been interrupted before I got any answers. My friend, Celeste was calling and she invited me to a pool party tomorrow afternoon. I really wasn’t feeling that sociable but I agreed to meet her there. I really wanted to go back to sleep but, I had shopping to do. I showered and dressed for the day. I do need some new furniture. I have been living with my thrift store finds that I purchased after I had graduated from college five years ago. It was time for a change. Third Times A Charm My weekend flew by as usual. I found the perfect chair ended up buying the matching sofa. I justified this purchase by telling myself that it was on sale. Yes, they got me. My new beige living room furniture was delivered in just a few hours. It was gorgeous. The pool party was fun and I’m glad I went. I needed to relax. As I was getting ready for bed Sunday night, it dawned on me that I didn’t have that dream again Saturday night. In fact, I don’t believe I dreamt at all. I was hoping to get another good nights sleep tonight. I had work tomorrow. Monday morning I started my usual routine. No dream again last night. I wonder if it’s stopped now. I was relieved but still curious as to what it was all about. Monday evening I invited Celeste over for pizza. She wanted to see my new furniture. Of course, she loved it. I told her about my strange dreams. She was fascinated. She said it may be some sort of prediction. She explained her grandmother was a psychic and often experienced things like the dreams. Celeste said she didn’t get the psychic gene. We laughed and I told her I was sure it wasn’t anything more that just dreams. She said, “what about Bo? You really saw him.” I think that was just a coincidence. I’ve probably seen him before and just don’t remember. Celeste left. I picked up our paper pizza plates and put the wine glasses in the dishwasher. It was almost midnight by the time I made it to bed. The dream started almost as soon as I closed my eyes. Same events transpired. I was frozen, same spot. All I could do was look around. I immediately turned my attention to Bo and the delivery guys across the street. Bo was facing me and he seemed to be trying to say something to me but I couldn’t hear him. I mouthed, “I can’t hear you” because I still had no voice. This time the dream was in jerky sections. Bo suddenly appeared by the pink dress lady. He ran like a flash into the street. I too was projected forward to middle of the street in front of my building. My back was to Bo. My hands were outstretched in front of me. The delivery guys were trying to yell something to me..... This Is Not A Dream I woke up before I could figure out what they were saying. This time I ran to the bathroom and started throwing up violently. My nerves were shattered and I was shaken to my core. I sat down on the cold tile bathroom floor and placed a cold wet wash cloth over my face. The nausea soon passed and I managed to get ready for work. I applied a little extra makeup to help with ghostly paleness. I dressed simply in some black slacks, a casual beige blouse today and some comfy black flats. I intended to clean out some file drawers today and it was always dusty in the old stuff. I stopped for my coffee and briefly considered buying a bagel but I didn’t think my stomach could handle it yet. I walked on to my office building. I stopped outside the revolving doors. Across the street was the same delivery truck from my dreams but it was real this time. The same two guys were unloading boxes. One stack of boxes was off balance and it toppled into the street. An oncoming car slammed on its brakes and managed to maneuver around the boxes. The boxes were picked up quickly and re-stacked onto the cart. This had not happened in any of the dreams. Maybe this was what the dreams had been warning me about. Everything was really happening and it was taking just a matter of seconds! Bo now was approaching the back of the truck. I glanced up to see the pink dress lady pushing the stroller just like in the dreams. Fear jolted through my body like electricity. I realized that I could move. I wasn’t frozen. Somehow this frightened me more. I turned in Bo’s direction as he turned toward me. With my voice working, I yelled, “whats going on?” I didn’t expect him to respond thinking I was the one that had the dreams, right? I glanced back a the pink dress lady. She had dropped her purse while talking on her phone and had let go of the stroller as she stooped to gather her things that had spilled from her purse. The stroller was on a handicapped ramp at the curb and it had begun to roll from the sidewalk into the street. I turned quickly back to Bo. “Bo, get the baby! “ I was afraid he wasn’t going to get there in time. I spotted another oncoming car and it was headed straight toward the stroller. I leapt like a mad woman directly into the path of the car. Brakes were squealing . I knew the driver of the car couldn’t see the stroller yet because the delivery truck was blocking his view. With my arms pushed straight out in front of me, I screamed “Stop”. A split second after Bo had started to run. He somehow knew what I was talking about and had burst into action, trying to get to the baby stroller!” The car was sliding and in smooth motion it began to come straight at me. The last thing I remember was the car striking me and knocking me hard to the pavement. I woke up in the hospital with a cast on my right arm, a huge bandage wrapped around my head and a few cuts and bruises everywhere hurt. My head was throbbing. I had an IV in my left arm so I tried to sit up slowly while scanning the room for a nurse. I heard a male voice say, “don’t move. You’re pretty banged up. I’ll go for a nurse”. The man left the room. Things were still kind of blurry so I didn’t get a good look at him. I lay my aching head back down on the pillow. Soon a nurse came rushing in and started checking me over. My vision had cleared. I could now see behind her and there stood Bo. She asked me some standard questions like my name, where I lived, how many fingers was she holding up, etc. I must have passed her test because she injected something into my IV tubing that she said would help with pain and my headache. She said that I did not seem to have a concussion and that I was lucky. My injuries could be far worse. She glanced at Bo and he asked if it was okay if he stayed with me for a while. She told him it was fine. He said, “ I think we have a lot to talk about. My name is Bowman Greer. Bo for short.” I said, “I’m Tolley Parker and yes we do need to talk. Is the baby okay? Yes, he’s fine. I got to the stroller and pushed it on across the street safe from traffic. Then I saw you had been hit. Girl, you jumped in front of that car. Why did you do that? I told him, “I wasn’t sure if you could get to the baby in time and I had to stop that car. I was afraid you were going to be hit and the baby.” We talked for hours. He had been having the same dreams as I had. Of course, he was looking at me and everything from his perspective on the other side of the street. Neither one of us had dreams connected to anyone else before. Bo said too had strange dreams like predictions or just dreams that left him with a sense of dread since he was a teenager. “I wonder if this could happen to us again?” I asked. He just shrugged his shoulders “ I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.” He wrote down his phone number and said I needed to rest now but he’d be back tomorrow. I was pleased to hear that. As he was walking toward the door, he paused for a second then slowly asked, “what the heck kind of name is Tolley anyway?” I laughed and told him that I’d tell him the entire story when he came back tomorrow. I made a few calls. I told my boss what happened and that I was in Baylor hospital but I was ok. I called Celeste and she agreed to call my parents. I was suddenly exhausted and was just too sleepy to talk anymore. The END.......(maybe)


I'm a high school student so I don't have an incredible amount of experience writing. I'd appreciate some advice, although I'm sort of nervous about posting here lol. Thunk. Immediately, I knew what had happened. I begged for it to have been a rock, or a piece of debris on the road, but I knew better. Supposing it immoral to wish it to be a particular species of animal, I still couldn’t resist dearly hoping it not to be a cat. I pulled over my car. I was incredibly terrified to glance over at what I had done. I, instead, temporarily focused on assessing the damage done to my dilapidated little beater. I couldn’t identify any damage to it immediately. Dread creeped inward and shivers ran down my spine realizing that it was time to look at the animal I had mercilessly slaughtered. I doubted that the average person would turn around for such an event, and it provided me a slight amount of comfort in that I felt particularly caring. It was a raccoon. Its insides had been squeezed out of its mouth like a tube of toothpaste. I nearly vomited at the sight of it. Shock and guilt rung through me like a bell, sending shivers through my body from head to toe. The fragility of mortality never left my thoughts, and the consideration of my inevitable accompaniment of my raccoon acquaintance into nothingness consumed my thinking power. I sat down quickly upon the pavement, attempting to dismiss the previous events as meaningless. Thinking about the gruesomeness of the death of the raccoon, I forced the conclusion upon myself that the death was quick and relatively painless due to shock. I felt immeasurably envious of what I perceived as the “average person’s” dismissal for the slaughtering of animals. I briefly entertained the idea that perhaps the raccoon experienced some sort of afterlife, but, of course, I dismissed the comforting fantasy almost immediately. The thought that I would likely keep the trauma and guilt I experienced in this incident to myself forever for fear of ridicule spun me deeper into despondency. With the neverending pondering of the existential nature of our existence infinitely amplified by the gruesome face of the raccoon’s demise, the thought that I will someday end up like it pounded at my skull. My consideration for the amount of time I had spent staring at this piece of roadkill had been long since gone. I simply couldn’t move on from this incident. It ate at my insides furiously, immobilizing my brain from even considering leaving. I internally wept, having not actually cried for many years. I briefly felt as though I had some sort of cosmic connection with this animal, however the nihilistic nature of my beliefs eventually stripped me of this feeling. I felt hopeless, as if I were in a vast sea of despair of which no other person could relate. I eventually stumbled back to my car, wishing for the last time to no one that the innocent animal I had slaughtered had had a good, long life. I collapsed into the driver’s seat of my car, turned the engine over and continued my way back home. The thought that I could become that poor raccoon, an innocent victim to a reckless driver, at any point never left my brain for the rest of my drive. I eventually arrived at my destination, much to my dismay. My home was an old, run-down duplex in the worst part of my city. Although I worked a 40 hour work week, such a property was all I could single handedly afford, and even then I was still deep in debt to predatory student loan agencies and regular loan agencies the like. I sat in my chair, and lit a bowl. The cheap cannabis tasted like chemicals, and was probably filled with them. Nonetheless, it did its job of erasing the raccoon forever from my memory.


Teenagers. They’re rambunctious. They’re rebellious. They’re hunters of the supernatural in the night. At least, mine thinks she is. You got one too, don’t you, Hugh? So, you’re probably going to get it. More than any of the others. See, Hugh, we lost her mother awhile back. Neither of us took it quite well. But, Seline? I mean, who am I to assume to know anything of the connection between a mother and daughter? But Jesus, Lord almighty. She just crumbled into bits. I could tell you all about what came next. The months of dark rooms and uneaten dinners. Pastor sayin to me she needs more church but I’ll admit before God himself, I was this close to taking the darned girl to the best shrink I could afford. Icould not lose Seline, too. Not after what we went through together. But then something happened. And I don’t pretend to be no prophet. I’m no saint. But something real otherworldly transpired when I was at the end of my wits and I tell you, I’ve never been so thankful for anything in my life. You see, my baby girl was carried home on cloud nine one evening after weeks of looking. like she had just personally surveyed Dante’s rungs. My Seline, my beautiful Seline, had found actual shards of heaven. She said an angel from on up high living out in in the desert in one of them steel trailers showed her how to use these divine minerals to see the truth of the world. All be damned, if the second she showed me how to ingest the good news of the mineral, I didn’t start seeing straight this entire damned world. I know what you’re thinking. Ol’ Matty Pigstuy has lost his goddamn mind! Of course that’s what you’re thinking. I got you strung up here in my barn LIKE A GODDAMN PIG! But you’re no pig, right partner? You been coming to buy from ol Matty for years! So what gives? Well, gimme a second here. Let me shove some more of this angel glass into my pipe. Gotta get it real hot, so it can do its jesuit magic. Good god. That feels great. Yeah, baby! Here, I know you’re upside down and that hook in your back gotta hurt something mighty fearsome... But you feel that? You see that? That clarity. Breathe it in deep, like a good sow on the grill..... See? See that? That’s how my baby Seline showed me to see you all. I know what you are, partner. You’re a demon, lurking in the dark. Pretending to be human. Been biding your time pretending to be a good neighbor and loyal customer. Buying my hog for your little watering hole, using fruits of my labor to entice men to hellish means. But my baby Seline is the legendary hunter. She’s shown me. She’s the chosen one. From season one to series finale. She’s going to foul your kind up. That grinding sound you hear behind you is her sharpening that demon-hunter sword of hers. She says she pulled it from a dreamworld after an adventure in another universe. But between you and me? I think that gal’s a bit cuckoo. I made her the goddamn sword. The things we do for our princesses’s though? Right? Am I right!?! Goddamn! Thank you lord for sending me this heaven rock so I can see the way. Goddamn! Thank you lord for making my baby girl your warrior disciple! Goddamn! Thank you lord for showing me Hugh, the bar owner, is my baby girl’s next demon bounty! Or whatever.


It started off as just another Sunday morning. I was out on my morning jog, running beside the tree line of the woods that flanked our neighborhood. I was enjoying nature’s beauty while working up a good sweat, when I heard what sounded like whimpers. I followed the sound to it’s source and found a dog, a yellow Labrador sitting under a tree. I knelt down to pet him and he nuzzled into my hand. He seemed somewhat relieved to see me. His tail wagged like crazy as I pet him. I noticed that he was dirty and looked quite malnourished. I wondered if he was had been kicked out by his owner or was just lost. After looking around for a while to see if his owner would show up, I decided to take him home. I gave him a bath and fed him some chicken, which he gobbled up. The poor thing must have been so hungry. The next day, I put up missing dog posters around the neighborhood. My own dog, Duke had died just the previous year and I could imagine what this dog’s human must be going through right now. For as long as he was going to stay with me, I decided to call him Happy. Happy and would go for walks everyday in the mornings and in the evenings. For our morning walks we’d walk past the same woods where I had found him, but in the evening we’d take a different route and would venture a bit further from our neighborhood. Our walks were fun. Happy was a very well behaved boy. He would relieve himself only when and where I told him to and would never pull on his leash. Except when we walked past one particular house. It was the house a bit removed from all the others. Wherever we approached it, Happy would whimper and would act very agitated. At first I thought he wanted to go inside, but as we got closer to it, I noticed that he seemed scared of it. He would stare at it wide eyed and would freeze in place. He didn’t want to go inside, but he also didn’t want to walk away from it. It made me think of a person who just cannot tear his gaze away from a horrible car crash. After he did this for the third time, I decided to change our route. Months went by and no one came to claim Happy, in spite of the posters I had put up. I decided I was going to keep him for good. We had formed a bond and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him now. He too seemed to love me. Every morning , he would wake me up with kisses, making my alarm clock redundant. In the evening when I picked him up from doggie day care, he would run to me with a look of pure joy on his face. How could I possibly let go of this creature who had brought such joy into my life? Then one very hectic evening, I needed to run some errands and decided to take Happy with me to get his walk out of the way. I had to walk past that same house that had vexed him so much. In my haste, I had forgotten all about his anxiety when he came near it. Happy, however, hadn’t forgotten. As we came to pass it, he once again began to whimper and froze in place. He wouldn’t take his eyes off of it. I tried to calm him down, I promised him bacon, but nothing worked. He seemed more unsettled by the house than he ever had been before. He must have stared at the house for ten minutes, with terror in his eyes, refusing to budge. Then without warning, he bolted towards it, pulling his leash right out of my hands. “Happy! NO! Get back here!” I shouted. But he wouldn’t listen. He had finally overcome the fear that had paralyzed him. He ran around the corner and dashed into the backyard of the house. I ran after him, hoping like crazy that I could get him out before the owners saw us. I got in there to find Happy, frantically digging a hole in the back yard. I had never seen him do this before. He never dug holes in my yard, or even in the woods near our house. I tried to pull him away, but he was determined. He dug and dug, as if powered by an otherworldly force. I was considering lifting him up and carrying him, when I saw what Happy’s digging had started to uncover. It was a piece of cloth. As happy continued to remove the dirt, I noticed that it was in fact the sleeve of a shirt. In the next instant, a person’s hand was exposed. There was a human being buried in that yard. This time, I did pick up Happy and ran from that place as quickly as I could. I forgot all about my errands and went straight to the nearest police station. I told the cops everything. The dead body was unearthed and an investigation began. An autopsy report stated that the person Happy had found, a man in his early thirties, had been dead for five months. That’s as long as I had had Happy. The coroner had concluded that the man died of a blunt force trauma to the back of his head. That house was a rental and the dead man lived there with his girlfriend and his dog - my Happy. The neighbors in the area knew them as Aaron and Vicky. It turned out that these were fake identities. Everything this couple had told people about themselves was a lie. The insides of the house were untouched and nothing seems to have been taken. The girlfriend, “Vicky” is still at large. She remains the prime suspect in the murder. Though the cops aren’t sure if she was behind all this or if she too had been killed and was just another victim. No one has ever come to reveal Aaron or Vicky’s real identities. Aaron was buried in an unnamed grave. Strangely, until the body was found the house rent continued to be paid in cash. Perhaps to prevent anyone from becoming suspicious. I’m sure there are other details that the cops haven’t revealed to the public. I often wondered what kind of a man this Aaron was. He may have done something shady in his life, but his dog seemed to care enough about him to battle his paralyzing fear and go dig up his body. I like to think that he was good, caring dog owner. As strange as this entire series of events was, I haven’t even told you about the strangest occurrence. One morning, Happy was playing in my front yard and I was in the kitchen making breakfast. Suddenly, I saw him head to the fence on the far left side of the yard. He was happily wagging his tail at something. I couldn’t see who it was as my view was obstructed by the shrubbery. I went outside to see what was going on. Happy came trotting towards me. I noticed that his collar, the one I had put on him, was lying on the ground next to the fence. And he was wearing a different one. I ran out to the street to see if I could catch a glimpse of whoever had changed Happy’s collar. But there was no one there. Happy let out a small bark, as if telling me to come back inside. I took Happy indoors and examined the collar. It had a name tag on it. On one side of the tag the name “Dennis” was carved and the other contained a house address. The same house where Happy’s owner lived. He licked my hand and looked straight into my eyes in a reassuring manner. Dennis and I are still very happy together and I can honestly say that he’s the greatest good boy who ever lived. And yes, I *do* call him “Dennis” now. I have a feeling that his deceased owner would want that.


When I was young, my friends and I would go to The Pink Barn. It was an isolated building past the woods that lay behind the playground of our small (almost deserted) suburban neighbourhood I remember we were all around 11-14 years old. It was our little hideout. Our place to stay when our parents would shoo us away from our cartoons. It was always sunny, where we lived. Not anything like where I am now. The days we would visit The Pink Barn always started the same: I would be the first one to be shooed out by my dad. He had to watch his football, and I tried to fake protest just so he wouldn't get suspicious. Then I'd make my way to Dennis's house. He was always dressed and ready by the time I rang the doorbell, looking at me with a smile money couldn't pay for. We'd then go to Maya's, then to Tom's house, dragging them out with promises of adventure and mischief. Things only The Pink Barn could provide. Eventually, we'd all spend a small amount of time on the playground, mostly so that Tom and Maya could check if we weren't being watched by one of the nosy neighbours like Mrs. Dachman. Once the coast was clear and a few cars passed by, we'd all book it into the woods. A few giggles and someone tripping over a branch or rock (mostly Dennis) later, the woods would make way for a clearing, revealing a green field and a vibrantly pink barn smack dab in the middle of it. It was out of place, for sure. We all knew that it didn't belong where it was, but none of us knew how much of a red flag that was. The barn was always empty. But it still had stalls and bars to swing on. Rusty bars. One thing that stood out to us was that there was always fresh hay in the barn. We would play with it and throw it around, scattering it all around the barn. But the next day, the hay would always be where it was before we touched it. Tom told us that it was because the owners came at night and cleaned up our mess. Since then, we have decided not to scatter all the hay around. But we would still play with it. It was the same thing, every time we went to The Pink Barn. Every time. Until it wasn't one day. Dad was shooing me out of the house again and I was grumbling again (as per routinely facade), sliding into my purple-pink glittering shoes when Mom yelled from the kitchen that it was going to rain later and I should be back earlier. But I was already fixed on spending the usual time in The Pink Barn, so I pretended I didn't hear her and waddled out the door, headed for Dennis's house. When I opened the door, his mother told me Dennis had headed to the playground already and gave me a bag with bottles of water. The bag he always brought with him. I took the bag and headed over to Maya's place, telling her that Dennis had gone ahead without us. She muttered threats against Dennis in a half-playful way as she put on her shoes, and we made our way to Tom's house. Tom shrugged when he heard the news and just said he hoped he made sure no one saw him. When I asked him why, he didn't answer. As Tom pulled the gates open, we peered into the barn, expecting to see Dennis belly flopping into the pile of hay, like he always did. It was his whole thing. We called him Flat-Belly-Denny because of how he poured his heart into it. It was an art to behold. But he was nowhere to be found. We searched the barn, where we could. Even around the walls. Nothing but mold, rust, dirt, hay and a strange mixture of pinkish slime paired with a black substance we had never seen before. Something was very off. Maya called the two of us back into the barn while we were getting distracted by a piece of metal buried in the ground. She pointed at the hay, not saying a word. But the tears on her eyes and her trembling knees said all they needed to. And as Tom parted the hay to reveal a bloody heart buried inside, I retched, hunching over and hugging my belly. It was still beating. Tom immediately buried it back in the hay and said that we had to leave now, in a very monotone voice. He was just about to shove me and Maya past the gate when we heard cracking. Bones cracking. It sounded like how Tom would pop his neck, but louder. And more gut-wrenching. We slowly followed the sound. Me and Maya have a fair distance behind Tom. The sound came from a stall. As he opened the wooden door, a grimey pink tendril with inky black liquid stickily hanging around it stuck itself into Tom's head. Penetrating through his skull. It took Maya's shrill screaming and her full force to get me to move from my sudden paralysis and we sprinted back home, screaming until our vocal chords gave out. Four days later, we held a funeral for Dennis and were packing to move countries. Police were called to The Pink Barn. They never told us what happened or what was in there. A day after their investigation, the barn disappeared, leaving behind a crater where it once stood. The Pink Barn was gone. Part of me was relieved, but there was a sense of dread twisting and turning in my stomach, a feeling I can't explain to this day.


She slammed the electric bill onto the maple table. Missing a leg but too expensive to replace and, therefore, propped up by dog-eared paperbacks, it wobbled. Arden stopped fiddling with his glucose meter to turn toward her and scowl. She sighed. “We can’t let this keep going on.” “What do you want me to do? I can’t make it rain.” If only he, or anyone else, other than Trista Pitchford, could, they wouldn’t have fallen into this predicament. Their fields, once a verdant paradise, had browned and withered after about two months of dry days. After three, the corn stalks had started dropping. Now, after a year, the soil had grown as dry as the bristles of an unused toothbrush, netted with fissures, as bald as pear skin. When they trooped through it, their boots scraped up dust that billowed in clouds, clung to their clothes, and stole their breath. The sun beat down, a bully unlike any she’d faced before. The sky had become a cloudless bowl, its blueness blinding; the wind, cackles at those helpless enough to fall victim to its cruelty. They couldn’t afford the electricity. The water. The food for the animals. The fertilizer. The mortgage. Arden’s insulin. They’d sold off seventy-five percent of their livestock and may have to do more--Would the next be Dairy Underwood, the herd vocalist? Moo McClanahan, a diva if she’d ever known one? Georgia O’Beef, for whose distinguished pallet only flowers would do? Milky Bobby Brown, a quiet, subdued companion with chocolate-drop eyes that could’ve melted a glacier? Who knew? They may even have to sell the entire place. Ordinarily, she would’ve cursed Mother Nature. But, in this case, nature had nothing to do with it. “You know who can make it rain, though.” Everybody in town did. Kaylyn hadn’t been there that day--she’d gone to the city, taking Arden to the doctor’s appointment where he’d received his diagnosis. But gossip, here, spread like ink on soaked paper, so, by that night, she’d heard about it multiple times, from multiple mouths: Trista had come in from the nearby city to which she’d moved fifteen years ago, to the county fair. She’d shoved her way onto stage, interrupting a bluegrass band, to inform everyone present that no rain would fall from here on out. As to her reasoning, she’d said only that the town had sinned, and it should pay. No one knew why she’d chosen now, a decade and a half after she’d last set foot there, to make this happen--though, of course, speculation and rumors abounded. Kaylyn had hoped that Trista would tire of the charade, realize that it wouldn’t do her any good, or perhaps even feel guilty if she happened to see what she’d wrought. But day after day squashed those hopes, and she now felt certain that Trista would keep it up until everything and everyone in Barnett turned to dust. “I’m going to Trista’s,” she declared. “Gonna talk to her. See if we can’t get this sorted out.” Arden’s frown deepened, his eyes flickering. “You can’t possibly think this is a good idea. Do you know what she can do?” “We’re living in ‘what she can do.’ And we can’t afford to any longer.” “Then we’ll move.” He’d suggested it before, and she’d considered it. But Barnett had grown her, nourished her, provided for her and her family her whole life. It had given to her, and she wanted to give back. Deserting it when it needed the favor returned seemed heartless. Plus, everything here--the people, the land, the general store, the post office, the heart no one knew, but everyone loved to speculate regarding, who had carved into the gnarled oak on Emily Rd.--had grown so entangled in her DNA that extricating it would tear her apart. Arden had grown up in a city for which he didn’t feel the same, so she hadn’t expected him to understand. She had, however, expected him to sympathize, and support her. “You can’t go,” he said, glaring at her. “It might piss her off, and who knows what she’ll do then?” “Well, I can’t just let her destroy this town. If that means taking a chance, so be it.” She jumped to her feet and headed for the foyer. “Think about this, Kay,” he pleaded, nipping at her heels. “The risk-reward isn’t in your favor.” She slipped into sneakers and grabbed the front door’s knob. “I’m going. You can come, or you can stay.” “No way. I’m not walking myself into--“ “Then I’ll go alone.” He continued to argue, but she ignored him, throwing open the door, storming out, and slamming it. As she strode to her Toyota, he emerged from the house, shaking his fist and shouting with volume that, though high enough for their nearest neighbor half a mile away to hear, was dwarfed by its desperation. It made her freeze, reconsidering. She hated to see him so scared, and she hated herself for causing it. But what choice did she have? She couldn’t let Trista do this to Barnett. Forcing herself to ignore him, she climbed into the car and left. Once out of sight of their farm, she pulled over and grabbed her phone from the pocket of her jeans. After a few flicks of the fingers, she had Trista’s address. She plugged it into the GPS and resumed her journey. As she drove, the world outside her windows a blue and taupe blur, she contemplated what she’d say. She composed, and crossed out, and composed again, and again, and again. She still hadn’t come up with something satisfactory by the time she reached her destination, one of hundreds of concrete-and-glass stalks shooting from the pavement and into the sky. The streets separating one line of them from another teemed with cars, trucks, vans, and taxicabs; the sidewalks, with people, young and old, clad in everything from sweats and pajama bottoms to designer suits. Air dense with a cacophony of blaring horns and the stench of smoke leaked through her vents. Already, she craved home. Perhaps she should go home. Perhaps this would more likely lead to doom than the result she wanted. She didn’t want to see Barnett rot, but she didn’t want to die here, now, at Trista’s hands, either. However, she reminded herself, that would mean staying silent in the face of atrocity. She’d done it before; from kindergarten to twelfth grade, she’d watched Jessica Faris and her posse torment Trista and done nothing. Had she acted, Jessica might have backed off. She might not have mocked Trista at graduation, in front of their whole class. Then, Trista wouldn’t have, declaring that she’d pay, pointed upward, and lightning wouldn’t have split the cloudless blue sky, striking Jessica with force that had crippled her for life. Kaylyn saw the latter around town here and there, and, to this day, she couldn’t look her in the eye. She had been a coward. She would not make that mistake again, even if that meant stepping onto a precipice and giving a woman who most likely hated her guts the option to push her off. She parked at the curb, steeled her shoulders, left the car, and wove through the shuffling cloud, through the glass double-doors, into the lobby. Sneakers squeaking on the marble floor tile, she made a beeline for the elevator’s gaping steel doors. She took it to the fourteenth floor and found room 183. She braced herself, stomach twisting, lungs as flat as peanut brittle, and knocked with a trembling hand. Footsteps sounded from within, each drilling a nail into her gut. The door opened. Trista took one look at her and rolled her eyes. “Oh, no. I’m not getting involved with that again.” She started to close the door. “Wait,” Kaylyn commanded, sticking her foot between it and the jamb. Pain lashed the area, but she ignored it. “Please. I’m sorry about what happened to you in school. I should’ve done something, said something--“ “Wow, only fifteen years ago. You catch on quick, don’t you?” “Trista, please--“ “You know why I did it. That hellhole deserves it.” “What about my husband?” she blurted. “He’s not even from--“ “Your husband?” she repeated, as if she’d just suggested that her wrath had struck Santa Claus. “Your husband is the first person I’d wanna go after.” Kaylyn’s brows furrowed. “What’re you talking about?” “You mean he still hasn’t told you?” A smile she didn’t like one bit spread across her face. “Oh, this is rich. This is rich... ” “What’re you talking about?” Trista leaned one hip against the doorframe, suddenly giving the impression of wanting to take her sweet time and savor the anticipation. Kaylyn had half a mind to take off, because she had a feeling that whatever burgeoned behind Trista’s lips would prove far worse than abandoning the only home she’d ever known. Instead, she froze, sweat dripping, heart trembling like a tire rolling over grated asphalt. “He and I met at the bar down on Pitt St.,” Trista continued. “Got to talking. Really hit it off.” She sighed, shaking her head. “I should’ve known better. If I took one second to think about how people’ve treated me my whole life, I would’ve walked away.” She straightened. “Anyway, I didn’t, and one thing led to another, and...well, you get the picture.” It stabbed her like a spear to the chest. She tried to hide it, to avoid giving Trista the satisfaction she’d so looked forward to, but couldn’t help wincing. How, she asked herself, could he do this to her? To them ? Yes, they bickered sometimes, but she’d thought that, at the end of the day, the warmth that she, and, she’d thought, he, had felt as they’d joined hands across the petal-strewn aisle would hold them together. Perhaps, though, he hadn’t felt it, or perhaps he had, but had stopped feeling it sometime in the years that had passed since then. In either case, how could she have missed it? Had she enshrouded herself in denial? Or was she just that oblivious? Trista’s face illuminated, rivaling the moon itself. Heat, not pleasant but welcome in the face of its alternative, flared in Kaylyn’s chest, and she fought the urge to slap her. “Anyway, fast forward a few weeks. We’re still...getting together...on the regular.” Her expression darkened, her eyes sharpening. “And then what do I find out? He’s married. Been married five years. To you.” The heat increased. Blinding. For several moments, it blocked the words from leaving her mouth, but, finally, she managed, “When did this happen?” About two weeks before the county fair--he was the last straw.” It hit her like a tornado: And that was one week before his symptoms had begun. Her jaw dropped, the world swirling into a Technicolor blur. She staggered against the railing; otherwise, her buckling knees would have sent her somersaulting down the steps. “I’ll tell you, Kay,” she said, words dripping with satisfaction, “you really picked a winner. He’s got a lotta nerve.” Yes, he did have a lot of nerve. Or a lot of stupidity. Or both. Whichever proved the case, she’d make him regret it. Forcing strength back into her legs, she turned and made a beeline for her car. Screw the drought. At this point, what good could a little rain do?