He remembered the day God found him and the way God found him. Under a storm-bruised sky, he was standing in uniform, shuffling after the mourners. Their voices beat back the thunder as they rose in funerary song (O, Roc, Of The Blackest Cap). The Proclaimer of Grief, a boy not yet twelve, stood with the solemnity of his elders and clashed a pair of cymbals at the door. The God-found man did not sing. It was not very becoming of him, but he just moved his lips. He had always been self-conscious of his voice. Should he, at least, have hummed a note? Did he draw too much attention to himself? In hindsight, he suspects he was made holy to be punished by Proto Deva, but at the time, he thought little of it. He simply looked at the long black hair caught in his fingers and thought, Huh . But once God found him, he was never left alone. His hair came out first in slithering tendrils, and then in great clumps. It fell out when he slept, when it was windy, and when he took a comb to it. His son said, “Just like when we brush the cat.” It became harder and harder to hide, and eventually, he was entirely out of vogue. His neighbours began to look at him sideways, attempting to discern if he was mad or simply ugly. Some people--almost all of them brutish and strange--saw their locks with the swords they use to kill and the knives they use for bread. These people, it is agreed, are terribly unfashionable with their jagged bangs and angled trims. Fortunately, they are also usually poor and can be tucked out of sight, where we cannot hear them say things like “I don’t want my hair to get stuck in gears or wheels and lead to my untimely death.” “Wretched,” tut the wealthy, who would dare not step out without their hair styled in the fashion du jour. For men today, the thing is to wind the braid up and up in a conical formation, a narrow mountain. For women, braided buns are favoured--the more the merrier, as a symbol of both status and health. For those who identify their gender otherwise, either approach will do, as long as they pull it off. When the sun caught the dome of the God-found man’s head, passersby flinched from the glare. He was a beacon of strangeness and drew the Church like a moth. But Proto Deva, called on to summon the God-found man to his people, struggled to understand him. “You’ve never,” he squinted, confounded, “Partaken in feta?” The God-found man’s diet omitted many Church favourites. “Nor goat?” The God-found man confessed awkwardly that he was a vegan. “What do you mean you’d rather not sing? You attend mass, and I just saw you at the service for--you mouthed the words? God, are you sure this is the one?” But he was, and bit by bit, the last of his hair fell away. His wife, in either spiritual or aesthetic agony (the God-found man couldn’t tell; she was very timid now when she kissed the top of his head), said she would weave a scarf of what he’d lost and wear it every day. Proto Deva, whose hair trailed behind him like a cape, and whose wispy beard ended at his groin, was no fonder of the God-found man, but now protective of him. He would rub the God-found man’s head in the Sacred Oil of Glory and force upon him holy literature. They listened to hymns. Even the God-found man agreed some of them were pretty good. And it took time--perhaps more time than it takes most people to accept that they are the one chosen by God--but the God-found man came around. He began to look at his oiled scalp and see, as the scriptures suggested, the moon above in him. At night, when he looked up, he saw himself among the heavens. It was true that he no longer clogged shower drains or went to sleep with wet hair. His arms had not cramped up from braiding, and his mornings were no longer wasted agonizing over fashion. He reflected on his life thus and concluded he had lived it well! He was a dutiful, loving husband who regularly went down on his wife. He was an attentive father to his young son. He had painted some nice, harmless, morally inconsequential art. He had tipped appropriately. Indeed, perhaps he had lived it so well he was God-found, God-blessed, God-bald. “You know,” Proto Deva said to him earnestly one day, after they had gorged themselves on God’s word, “What a man like you means to our people. Now you are versed in the scriptures. You were chosen for a reason--and I’m glad you’re able to think of some, because I still don’t get it--and you must go where the devout can see.” They prepared him for his debut, a process involving four Protos and a choir. One Proto polished his head until it gleamed, massaging his temples til he was both half-asleep and heavily perfumed with eucalyptus. A second Proto drew squiggly lines in oil down his back, where his hair once lay, before a third Proto robed him in the grim black gown of the Church. The Church recently condemned the straightrazer among Protos, and so the God-found man had kept the hair along his cheek and chin. Proto Deva twisted curls into the coarse hairs with his finger, adding a touch of wax to hold the shape. Finally, a choir sang From Our Crown to Earth, and off the God-found man and Proto Deva went. “We’ll start in the Barren.” On the furthest edge of town live the lowest caste of craftsman. You will rarely see a fingerman, not unless you are very poor, very daring, or evidently some religious missionary. From a bird’s-eye view, the Barren souk ripples like a sail; their stalls are tarped with thin fabric, and their alleys too. Within these curtained halls are fingermen wares for fingermen prices, fingermen families upon cushions taking coin. In the factories, wealthy men feed fingermen scraps. In exchange, they are careful with the textiles they’re given. No one has mastered ripping as the fingermen have. With magnifying spectacles, they hunch over workbenches and make slow, precise tears in the cloth. There is no fabric they cannot master, no material too thick or unwieldy for them to conquer. They wear caps on their thumbs with glass for a nail so they may rupture the skin quicker. Some close their mouths on metal dentures, with a brutal smile to saw and slice at ribbon and twine. The fingermen’s cuts are famously exact, but the work is punishing; many leave their jobs with fingers curved like claws, with permanently rounded shoulders, and with fading eyesight, from staring so long at such dainty thread. Most beautiful things that fingermen have touched are not here. Here, there are corns and small pots and poems and ashtrays, sold by those who can’t labour in the factories: fat-fingered infants, people with bad backs, and the blind. When the God-found man and Proto Deva entered the souk, people mostly ignored them. Proto Deva pushed the God-found man ahead of him in the aisle, urging, “Go, go,” like the God-found man knew where. The God-found man walked up to a vendor. She sold pyramids of spices and little beaded lizards for children. “Hello.” “Can you move that fucking thing? I have the sun in my eyes.” He stepped sideways into deeper shade, ducking his head from the afternoon glare. “Do you want something?” Awkwardly, he shuffled on the dusty path. “I wondered if you wanted anything from me?” “Like what?” “Like answers. To questions like ‘How can I too be lightened of my burdens,’ or something.” “Nope.” He scurried back, “Proto Deva, I don’t think they’re the religious type.” “Maybe you’re not being holy enough.” Proto Deva raised his voice to the souk, “Do you see this man? He has ascended from his earthly burdens, and now his crown is lightened. He is a model specimen for humankind.” A fingerman squinted at them down the aisle and heckled, “What are you buying?” It took some convincing--and several more uneventful conversations with vendors--before Proto Deva agreed to quit the souk. As they took their leave, they passed a boy bleeding into the dirt. Next to him, a mature woman was on her knees, threading the wound. She felt around the dust for a knife, but, finding none, leaned into the gash, which smelled of iron and rot, and tore the suture with her teeth. “We’ll try the platz,” Proto Deva said officiously, shaking red-stained dust from his hair. “People may try to touch your head. Do not be alarmed. It is thought by some to bring fortune, and I insist that you allow it, should anyone try.” In the platz, where there is water for the earth and money for the people, the paths are laboured by flora and gossip. No one immediately attempted to touch the God-found man’s head. “You--” a woman with two large, braided buns above her ears gasped, but then had to pause to tug her dress free of thorns. There is often a quiet war against bushes, which grow into pathways and press against houses and have, at times, ripped gowns and stolen hats. “You have--” “Yes,” said Proto Deva proudly, “He is a man of God.” “No, not that,” the woman stumbled over a vines as she approached. At night, they say, a brigade takes machetes to the bark and hack at the green veins in the road. But it is never enough, and there is always a rich woman or a horse who trips, and then the bored, braided people riot. “He’s got the strangest head I’ve ever seen.” “Yes, it’s a sign from Above.” The God-found man didn’t feel holy. His head felt cold. “My, my,” the woman said, putting her hand over her mouth in glee. “It’s hideous.” “Excuse me!” Proto Deva puffed up, “This outstanding man has been recognised for his goodness. By following his example, we will all be free!” “Oh dear,” said the woman. “I hope not.” Defeated, the men slumped outside of an atelier. There was a flood of traffic and a drought of interest. The dress shops are making a killing these days. They’ve discovered how much tidier a hem can be if you fold it inward before stitching. Now, even those who can’t afford fingermen-cut cloth can buy garments without ragged edges. “Proto Deva,” ventured the God-found man. A rat ran past his shoe. Recently, an idiotic but undeniably handsome gentleman attempted to prove that rodents can be put to work too. For a fortnight, he smeared peanut butter along ribbons where he wanted a cut, then left them on the floor overnight. The result is that the rats are now better dressed than the fingermen. “Do you think perhaps that perhaps we are misreading this situation? No one but you--and, let’s be real, you’ve been a hard sell--sees my holiness. Perhaps I was not chosen by God to be a leader of men. Perhaps I am only bald.” Proto Deva looked over, affronted. “How can that possibly be? You are blessed with fortune--yes, for, again, inexplicable reasons. If we were not meant to master our hair, to bear our hair, to reconcile our hair ... if we were not meant to be burdened thus, God would have given us something to cut it with.”


Biology Sarah felt her abdomen and belched under her breath. Not again she thought, as her bloated stomach churned and gave way to gas. The classroom she found herself in, Biology was full to the gills and quite frankly, just another boring elective she had gotten stuck with. Presently clutching her stomach, she lifted her leg as unsuspecting as possible and tried to gently push gas from herself. What she thought would be a discrete moment, was immediately broken as the gentle push became a little squawk between her bottom and the chair. “Please, not now,” she said pink faced and flustered under her breath. Sweat poured from her and she brushed her long blonde hair to her side wiping an already damp handkerchief over her forehead. To her left a girl sitting next to her grimaced and Sarah felt it like a punch to the mouth. All the while gas continued to build in her like a hot furnace. Suddenly, another flatulence rang out like a church bell across the room and within seconds she became the center of attention. Most of the class laughed while those around her gasped audibly with disgust. Some even pulled shirts over their noses and others used their hands to fan away the invisible stench. Sarah stricken with embarrassment looked down hiding her face and tried to make herself as small as possible. Upon her horror she noticed how her stomach began to grow jarringly outward. It stretched her long red dress that normally was taught against her slim figure. Swiftly the dress began to tear as her stomach continued to bloat like a hot air balloon. “Fucking hell,” she yelled as she became wider, wider and even wider. The classroom fell silent with audible gasps as Sarah’s belly continued to grow. The teacher, miss Daisy dropping her chalk tried to the best to her ability to push coherent words from her mouth. “Sarah, a.. aaah are you alright,” she blubbered. Sprawling, Sarah’s legs bent outwards and her stomach became the size of a small car. “Fine, miss Daisy, continue on,” came from her now fat cheeks. All of a sudden, from Sarah’s belly there came a screech like nails on a chalkboard. “Oh gosh, they are really hungry,” said Sarah. The screech quickly turned to many squeals which sounded like thousands of tiny little voices trying to break free from her center. Abruptly her stomach buckled, caving inwards and from her open entrails there sprang forth various yellow wriggling legs; at first just a few then hundreds, marching one by one in unison. The creatures themselves where thin and elongated, like large eels with centipede structured legs and antennas. The grotesque horror was graspable about the classroom as everyone broke out in screams. Their voices quickly became lost among the creatures who in turn where giddy with noise as they plunged forward and outward breaching for air and sustenance. Toppling over each other they slithered and crawled for all avenues of the classroom. Sarah’s neighbor, one of the former giggling girls who was frozen in her panic became the first victim. A whip came from the centipede like tail and its thorny barb struck her in the middle of the chest. It pierced directly through her as blood came gushing from each end. Poisoned from the creature her skin started to bubble, flaming outwards from the center of her wound. She was burning alive yet there came no sound, only shock and surprise as she melted into a puddle of bone, skin and blood. Sarah’s children excitedly plunged themselves into their hefty meal, tails wagging about like dogs giddy with the prospect of a treat. Their mandibles retracted and gave way to a suction cup which in turn became a vacuum for the entrails of the students and teacher whom were being absolved one by one. “Slow children, eat slow, leave some for your sisters” came from Sarah like a wail in her bloated form. Her chin tripled in size and her eyes bulged from her fat face hanging from their sockets. Her mouth unhinged and her tongue swatting back and forth became loose and fell to the ground. She continued to grow into a blob reaching the height of the ceiling while teeth and bile spewed forth as more of the creatures made their way up her chest and through her throat in the birthing ritual. The ground of the classroom became one large pool of blood, bone, skin and muscle tissue as the last of the living burned up. From above the blackboard the clock struck the end of the hour and a bell rang loudly from a speaker annunciating the end of the period. The creatures all looked up at the sound then back to Sarah chittering together in their disappointment. Class was over. Quickly they worked on devouring each entrails of blood and guts left on the classroom floor before making their way back inside of the homely body. One by one they crawled up inside of Sarah regurgitating some of their devoured morsels into the middle of her open stomach. It was like a courting dance that certain birds perform and Sarah felt proud of the intimate and bonding moment. With each returning family member, Sarah started to reduce in size. Her skin tightened and shone with new vigor. Teeth regrew and sprang back into place as her jaw adjusted back to normal. She picked up her tongue from off the ground and it lustily jumped back into place as soon as she had gotten it near her mouth. One last fart came from her and it was long, sour and beautiful. She clutched the desk squeezing out every last little pocket of gas and orgasmicly she moaned and belched simultaneously. She sat there naked, breathing heavily, stroking her taught belly in a circular motion. Looking up at the clock she was suddenly struck with panick. Springing from the chair she grabbed her backpack. From it she snatched another red dress and slipped it over her slim radiant figure. She headed for the door, swung it open and ran down the hallway littered with classrooms. Running like the wind she rounded the corner in the distant hallway and yelled in a belching tone, “shit, I’m gonna be late for Geometry.” The End Thank you for reading, I'm interested in any feedback good or bad. I'll be writing more horror stories weekly and hope to improve with time.


The clouds were covering up the sky, the vineyard, and the cornfield my neighbor owned was covered in snow, so was everyone else’s house. I got up excited and woke my younger sister Luisa up, we both put our jackets on and left the house to play, it was the best moment I got throughout the day because later on, I would have to take care of the house. You see, I am only a twelve years old girl, but my mom is a hard worker she was the one who put food in the table and blankets on our beds. We didn’t have a lot of money, and to be more specific we couldn’t afford electricity or a nice meal, therefore we had to take showers in the lake during the summer, and with mugs filled with water during the winter. We lived in the middle of nowhere in Frosinone, Italy. We had only three neighbors, one of them was a communist congressman that every kid was afraid of - Although he had amazing cherries in his yard no one would dare to approach his house- My dad moved to another country to start a new life right after I was born, he still helps us with the house though, sometimes I wonder what would happen if I moved to Brazil to be with my dad. “Kids, come inside it’s time to go to school.” My mom yelled from the kitchen window Luisa and glanced at each other finished up our snowman and ran inside to get our backpacks and a slice of homemade bread for lunch. My mom kissed us goodbye and we walked to the train, everything was covered in snow, so it was hard to walk, but it was our only transportation to school. I’m not going to lie, it was fun, and sometimes one of our neighbors, Lorenzo, joined us on our journey to school. His financial situation was a little better than mine, but he lived with his dad, just like everyone else in school... Today the train didn’t crow, workers from all over the country took all of the space on the train, don’t get me wrong I’m not complaining, they work cleaning up the mess that the war made and helping families and places that lost everything. However, it feels certainly nice to be able to sit in a comfortable booth with my friends. The ride lasted one hour and forty minutes, twenty minutes less than usual. The school was another challenge to me, I have always enjoyed learning, I craved information all of the time, all of my teachers thought I was a role model to my class, but at the same time, they thought I was a freak. I had to give my mom a short and cold letter written by every teacher, every single day. December 14 th 9:00A.M Dear Ms. Cardin Francesca is disrespectful with her classmates and I, again, please teach your child some manners. This type of behavior will not be tolerated anymore. Mr. Reddin “Another one honey?” My mom looked at me with concern in her eyes while I handed her the letter with my right hand trying to hide the left in my pockets. “Your hand is bleeding... Let me take care of this” My tears were falling onto my cheekbones; my mom was so thoughtful although she agreed that I had to start using my right hand for my own good. She grabbed a glass of water and a piece of old clothing to wrap my hand. “every time, you look at this bruise just remember you have to use your right hand.” And that was what I did, I slowly learned and took care but sometimes it was inevitable because of the habit. On the way back to school, Luisa, Lorenzo, and I were talking about what he wanted to be when he grows up. “I want to fight for our country just like my dad did,” Lorenzo said with confidence in his voice “But your dad died during the war, and it’s not like you have a lot of choices...” I said breaking the mood “You may be right, but I would enjoy it.” “I wish I could work and help mom out” Luisa sounded depressed for a minute but a few seconds later she was jumping around in the snow “Don’t be silly little sister, that would be my biggest dream, but we are not allowed to” We walked past the central fruit and vegetable market in Rome, the fruits looked so tasty and beautiful. “Oh, I wish we could buy one for mom, they look so good,” Luisa exclaimed. “We don’t have the money today Lu, but I am sure we can come with mom during the weekend.” I hate to say this to her, sometimes it is hard to watch an eight years old kid starve, but I think she was used to it just like I was... “I can get us some apples, my nonna gave me money to buy fruits at the market today,” Lorenzo said with a big smile in his eyes. “You don’t have to Lorenzo, It’s so sweet of you though.” “Don’t worry it would be my pleasure” I could hear the excitement in his voice. Lorenzo bought us and my mom apples, and we laughed and talked all the way back home. The next morning Luisa and I woke up early to go after the chickens to get the eggs, today my mom was planning on making a better meal because it was almost Christmas eve. It was tedious work, but Luisa and I knew it would be worth it later tonight. We got the eggs and raced each other to the house, while we were running I tripped on something stuck in the ground underneath the snow. “You broke half of the eggs!” Luisa screamed and helped me to get up. “That was all your fault, we shouldn’t have run” I was covered in eggs and it was my best clothes. “I know what we can do, we should go ask Lorenzo if he has eggs” Luisa turned around and started walking in the direction of his house. “Wait! I think There’s something under the snow, maybe its worth something!” I exclaimed but Luisa was already too far to hear We knocked on his door shaking, my fingers were freezing but I was sweating cold. I didn’t want that Lorenzo saw me like that or if he thought I was being rude to ask. When Lorenzo opened the door, he gave a big smile and told us to come in. We nervously waited in his small living room, everything looked so beautiful to me, his house had a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms. It was different than my house, we only had a kitchen, one-bedroom, and the bathroom was outside in the cold. After a few minutes, Lorenzo brought the eggs and offered to help. I sent Luisa home with the eggs while I showed him what I had tripped onto earlier that day. “It is the remainder of war weapons. I can’t believe it! That is worth a lot of money. It is a Christmas miracle.” I said while giving Lorenzo a big smile “Come on, let me help you take this to your house” Lorenzo picked the weapon up and I could tell it was heavy When we got home, my mom was surprised to see what we found, we said a prayer that night and we made a promise to go visit my dad. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that my mom and Luisa were already packed and ready to go. We took the train to the Port of Civitavecchia located in Rome. Lorenzo came with us to say goodbye, he has been so sweet lately. I was so excited to go to another country, especially because I have never been on a boat before. Lorenzo said goodbye to my mom and Luisa first, they both thanked him for everything he has done for them and they turned around, leaving Lorenzo and I alone for a minute. “I’ll miss you; I hope you know that,” Lorenzo said softly. I could tell he was blushing “ I’ll miss you too, I don’t know how long I will stay in Brazil, maybe forever. I want to thank you for everything, you are the sweetest” I noticed I started to blush as well. “No problem, I hope you enjoy your time, I’ll write you” He looked down to his feet, so I grabbed his face, gave him a kiss, and I left in a hurry. Now we are in the boat and all I can think of is that I’m going to have a new life, live with my dad and Lorenzo will not be in it, I know I love this boy and that probably I will never see him again, but I know he was a big part in my life for all of those years.


She found herself looking for her wedding ring. The woman was sure that she didn’t misplace it, because she hardly took it off, except for an occasional clean every six months. She had searched everywhere and she was becoming desperate. Her wedding ring was all that she had left of her late husband. Her dark, wavy hair was in disarray. Her clothes were caked in dust. Searching through the storage room was her last option. Her hand brushed against a box. Could it be? Curiously and eagerly she got the box from the cabinet. Her dark brown eyes gazed at the innocent box. The box was filled with letters. A light gasp escaped her mouth when she recognised the familiar handwriting. Messy, yet intelligible. It was her husband’s letters; she never found out that he kept all of his letters for her, even the ones that he did not send. Hands trembling from emotion, she opened a letter. “I came up with some shitty poetry today,”She read aloud. “It’s a far cry from my best work, but I hope and pray that it cheers you up. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, since it was my fault for being a complete arse for the past few weeks. But please, my dearest, write to me if you have the time.” The woman paused.Her emotions nearly overtook her. She could clearly hear his voice as if he was beside her. Was it her imagination? It was only a few weeks after the horrid news that she received. There was nothing that could bring her husband back. “Here it is, my beloved, a short prose of a love struck would be poet for his muse. “Oaths are not meant to be broken. Names have power; your name that has escaped my lips has left me enthralled, enchanted by the very thought of us being loved so deeply that the oceans cannot fathom its depths.” She glanced at the paper. She spoke his name for the first time since he passed. Her husband always had a way with words. Something in the short prose-- or was it poetry-- stunned her and made her choke out, trying to stem the flood of emotions that overtook her. Her husband’s stories and poetry always calmed her down. She had to learn more. •• It turned out that he had left more than a dozen letters in the storage room, all of them unsent to her. She spent hours poring over his words, his emotions and his messy scribbles and short drawings. There was one letter of his that tore her heart apart. It was grief that finally took hold of her, aided by simple prose. “To sleep and to dream are two intertwined things. A dream can last seconds-even a few minutes. It fades. But what if I dream of you even before I have met you? It seems that I have known you for forever and a day. So intertwined our souls are. To dream of you is a delight. Whatever happens, my beloved, I will find you in another life and we will be together again. Until then, I will wait for you.


Captain Dieter took a long drag from his pipe whilst gazing upon the waters of the frigid Baltic Sea from the bridge. After the Armistice was signed and the Great War ended, the crew, once of the SMS *Swabia,* became pirates, changing the name of their ship to the SS *Fury of the Reich* and repainting the tricolor on their flag into a Jolly Roger. It had been two years since then and they had recently received a telegram from a supposed officer by the name of Alban Krebs, a major in the West Russian Volunteer Army and the commander of a battalion of 400 Freikorps militiamen that now sought to desert. When the ship docked at Ventspils, Dieter went out to meet Krebs and his men himself but found they were nowhere to be found. However, in the thick early morning fog, this made sense, as even with a kerosene lamp, he could hardly see ten meters in front of him. When, soon after, he heard the march of hundreds of men, due to this lack of visibility, he was only able to tell they were German as, in the same direction, he heard a similar number of men singing, "\[And when the day ended, we shook hands for the last time. She was laying on my, my arm, my heart was being so warmly, don't forget Maruschka, the Polish girl!\]" It was a folk song that, when he was on the ground, he had noted, the men often sang in place of the usual marching songs. After about a minute, the fog began to clear and the men came into view. Until regular officers, Krebs walked on foot ahead of the men, who were in remarkably good formation, for paramilitaries. "\[Not only are you late,\]" Dieter joked, "\[you were the ones who told us when you'd be here.\]" "\[Well,\]" Krebs replied, "\[plans change. Besides, it was only one minute.\]" "\[One minute for the Bolsheviks to arrive, execute me, and my crew to leave you here and sort out a new chain of command themselves. Now, come on, get on board. We best not waste anymore time. Besides, I need your men for something.\]" Krebs and his men marched aboard, most of the crew already there now having to share their quarters with the men, taking turns sleeping in the bunks and on the cold, metal iron floor in sleeping bags. He and Dieter looked over a map of the ocean to survey their next target and plan their next raid. Most of the time, this was done at night, when the rest of the crew was asleep and would not be bothering them. There was a war room, but they preferred to talk in the bridge as, if a British ship came along, Dieter could steer the ship away and hopefully remain unseen. On the first night, though, this did not occur. He let Krebs sleep in his quarters as, firstly, he was his guest, and secondly, he didn't sleep most nights anyway. "\[You're more important to this ship than I am,\]" Krebs had told him, "\[You should get some rest.\]" "\[It's fine,\]" he has replied, "\[I'll manage. After all, what else is caffeine for?\]" After that, Krebs accepted Dieter's offer and fell asleep in his bed. Captain Dieter took a long drag from his pipe whilst gazing upon the waters of the frigid Baltic Sea from the bridge.


In the basket contained wet red cotton shorts, two black leggings pilling on the crutch, a wool blend navy jumper included in a laundry bag, nickers with various patterns and a pink dressing gown with faded coffee stains and cigarette holes. Each was lifted and left to dry in the Australian winter sun. We had had long, cold nights, westerly winds, and the adaptation was to catch the warmest part of the day and when the sun would air dry the garments. Australia has a unique washing line called the Hills hoist. Although the company closed their doors recently, most back yards still have one. The hoist is a square apparatus, made square by the outline of wires or lines. It can be heightened and locked in place with a handle within the centre of the device. Most times, the lines are not locked, and the square rotates, catching the sun and breeze. The hoist has been a play pen for generations of Australian children swinging and spinning like a merry go round, leaving it with a lopsided closer to the ground and the opposite, a high side well above stretched arms upwatds, harder to be reached. Usually, the words, "Wait till your father gets home," are exclaimed with satisfied children peering out windows at their the played, ellipsed empty spin of their vacant household tool. The red shorts had red plastic pegs to match. The pink dressing gown had four pink plastic pegsto match; two to hold up the shoulders and one each side to stretch out the sleeves. The black leggings had spliiting wood pegs and springs that would bust to be dismantled properly sorted for recycling bin. The patterned knickers were also hung, each with two matching pegs, the most prominent colour in their pattern. Kristina had read that placing clothes in an upright position, the way they were normally worn on the body gave positive energy and good luck. Hanging them upside-down drained the clothes of luck and made them negative. Sort of like a horseshoe mentality about luck. All the clothes were in their correct category. The dressing gown with the underwear. The daywear with the daywear. The jumper laid on a towell draped over a plastic accordion airdryer, so it did not stretch. Christine's ducks were lined up for the day. It was 10 am, the right time to grab the sun, and the kettle boiled. Matt smiled and kissed her on the crown of her head. As she drank tea and relaxed, scrolling thru her social media, Matt swiftly went to the back door, saying, "Going to the shed to find that screwdriver I'm looking for Darl!" Kris smelt his double layered cologne, the matching hair/condition liquid, the skin cream, and spray on deodorant he said he had bought at a discount. Christine yelled, "Exploring your feminine side? You smell like a pheromone factory." He laughed out, "Ha ha Kristine Angela Murphy " The shed door swung open with a well intended bang. Matt wanted Kristine to think he was doing his usual. Playing coy, he walked to the Hills hoist, avoiding the kitchen window quickly, which had clear view of his actions. He photographs a long shot of the clothes, a closer category of the clothes and finally the individual items with their matching coloured pegs. Each pic he edits first by cropping them so the subject of stuff is apparent and then colour enhancing the individual clothing so their actors, the pegs, stood out. Back in the shed, Going posted to Facebook page. He posted the pictures together on one post in a column formation, with no caption, to his family and friends. He grabbed his screwdriver triumphantly, returning to Kristine, "Oh, look, I found it." "That's good honey, we really need that leg tightened on that Ottoman, glad you can do it today!" He yawns a well thought out yawn, stetching like fern frond, rolling, exaggerating, looking in total control. "You know love, I will make a coffee and relax first" "That's OK, I've noticed you've been more active lately. As the kettle boiled, Matt half smiled as his phone pinging repeatedly. Stretching again very slowly into his reclining chair, he tapped his message alerts to feeling smug and delighted. From his sister, "I always knew she was a nutcase!" From his best friend, John, "Someone needs to put a bullet thru her head and save humanity of her!" Then came the potential hens shuffling before the strong rooster, "She has mental health issues. She's crazy. "Oh Matt, just throw her out of the house" "She's no good for you, I can come over when she's out... smiley faces, heart, smile wink emojis. Matt had never acaccepted Kristine's Facebook friends request. That hurt Christine, and she ask him once only Why and he erupted him declaring, "Everyone needed their own space and he was one of the reasons. Dealing with her confused mind all day everyday was too much" Kristine felt awkward around his family. They could be very dominating to her, and she felt uncomfortable. His friends seemed no better, so she would quietly say, "I need rest, you know, my mental health issues and I just need time," avoiding loud talk, football on the TV, and feeling an outcast. Work appeared on her phone call. Christine answered, "Yes, I can be available for another shift, I feel smashed, but since ppl are sick, I guess it's best I show up." She dragged herself to the shower and wore a neatly hang dress in the wardrobe followed by leggings for warmth. Her older age of 50 years seemed to allow her bones to feel the cold more. Round her neck she placed a knitted scarf, like a hypnotised snake it coiled tightly at her throat and lost all muscle response at its head and tail. Sometimes she would help it slither over her mouth, almost gag her speech, as frigid air clogged her lungs to be stopped with wooden fibres Questions ran through her head like, would she return to two towells in the bathroom again? Would she find an unexplained bottle of mascara on her vanity again? Would she see long brown hairs tangled on a pillow of static in the loungeroom when she only had shoulder length blonde hair? Kristine had tried to ask Matt the various questions still in her mind today, to have her medication increased by the doctor. Matt's heavy depression was ignored and he would over indulge himself about her mental health with her doctor talking of his own needs the whole session. "R U WELL", he texted to her that day at work? Christine did not reply, she was far too busy. She knew to have her meds when she got home, stay quiet and sleep it off so she had energy for tomorrow. Kristine cleaned herself with a late night shower. Her clothes in a heavy mess on the tiles and she took them to the washing machine lid was closed. Opening, she saw the double beds twisted wet sheets, pillow cases and doona cover. Returning to the bathroom, she wiped the misty mirror with her hand leaving a large oval of clear with droplets of water forming on its circumference. She wrote with her red lipstick, "Today is always a new day." Below, she wrote with her purple lipstick, "Slow and steady wins the race!" Below that she wrote with her pink lipstick, "It's ok not to be ok!" Later that nite Matt unable to sleep wanders to the tiolet. In the kitchen he could be heard by Kristine pulling the ring on a beer can, as fizzy drinks have a bigger popping sound from the gas. He walked into the bathroom, with his phone. Kristine could here the camera sounds, knowing he would photograph her outburst and listening carefully as he fiddled on his phone to be followed by bell alerts were he sniggered. She went back to sleep peacefully in the eye of the storm.


“ZOMBIES!” yelled my best friends, Brooklynn and Charlie. At first I thought they were joking. They always play pranks on me but, the way they ran to the tree house was telling me they were not kidding around. This is it. The end of the world. I can’t believe it. I thought that I would be one of the first to go. The first thing I think to do is pull the ladder up and lock the door in our tree house once Brooke and Charli get in. Next I wonder if there are any more survivors hiding in their houses or tree houses. I get on my walkie-talkie system that I got from my parents 5 years ago. I went on every channel and screamed, “ HELLO! HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE? THERE ARE ABOUT 30 FREAKIN’ ZOMBIES AT MY RIGHT NOW! IF ANYONE IS THERE SAY COPY, TELL ME YOUR NAME, AND ADDRESS (if you live in Oregon). MY NAME IS ADDISON (Adi) MY FRIENDS ARE HERE AS WELL. THEIR NAMES ARE BROOKLYNN (Brooke) AND CHARLIE (Charli). WE ARE ON 389 EDEN RD, IN OREGON CITY.” My voice hurts. I just yelled a lot of words. I need water. Wait what happened to my mom and dad and... One Hour Ago... “I’ll meet you after school at the tree house!” I say to my friends. They prefer to run home while I would much rather ride the bus. I am pretty lazy. But when I am on the bus I draw or stare at a super cute boy on my bus. I would never have a chance with HIM though. My stop is not very far from the school, only about 15 minutes give or take. It’s an extra 5 minutes for Brooke and Charli because they walk or run. That's when they do their daily gossip. Today was a running day for them because they came at the tree house yelling “ZOMBIES!” and they weren’t kidding. The good thing my tree house has lots of food to last us. A bad thing is we don’t have a toilet. Present Time... The zombies are getting really close to the tree house. Then we get a response from the walkie-talkie. It was really glitchy. But I could still make out the words. “Hello this is James, William and Oliver. We are on top of my roof. Our address 159 Harding RD, and we are in Oregon City as well.”I knew James, Matthew and Oliver. We went to school with them! And Harding RD is a neighboring road. At one point in time I actually liked James. That was like in second grade though! I’m a seventh grader now. And you probably know you can’t change the past that's that. It’s going to be totally awkward spending the end of my life with my two best friends and three boys. He's smart so maybe he will make a zombie cure. But what if he doesn’t. I start making a list, “How to survive the zombie apocalypse (without becoming one of them). Always have access to a car Go to the store once a week STAY AWAY FROM ZOMBIES Meet up in groups of people” That was all I wrote before William, James and Oliver pulled up in a Jeep Wrangler (my favorite car ever!). They're a year older than us so yes they can drive a car. He called some more of his buddy’s to come. Not even 10 minutes there were 9 people in MY treehouse. I didn even invite them. But whatever. I called some friends, some picked up and others didn’t. They drove here in their parents car even though they can’t drive yet! They figured it out quickly! Or so that's what they told me. I don’t know where my parents are and if they're safe. Oh no! One of James’s friends fell off of my treehouse into the zombies! He is dead or at least a zombie. James' face is HORRIFIED. That was one of his best friends from kindergarten. We all hope in cars and start to drive. I don’t really know any zombie free spots but James, William and Oliver were driving around before they came to my house. My friends let me drive! It’s so fun but I never imagined learning to drive during an apocalypse. James takes us to a secret area in a forest. I think it’s a really good area to get attacked in so I drive me and my friends somewhere else. James Follows us. I drive or vert the sand dunes where me and my friends always hang out. It's so vast out there and there's probably no one out there. Good thing everyone brought food. But we’re living with BOYS. I would not be surprised if they ate everything in a week. There is a store near the dunes but it would be very risky to go in there. After we set up “camp” I walked to a high point in the dunes. Oh great. James is following me. “Hey Adi! Wait up! I need to talk to you.” Well I don’t. He should have talked to me in the second grade. I sit down. He sits VERY, VERY close to me. He leans over as if he were to kiss me. I hide behind him as he kisses the air. He grabs me from behind him and flips me over so that I’m laying in the sand. I don’t move. “Adi, I like you. Like a lot and I have for a while now. I was just so scared to say anything, I thought you might hate me. Will you forgive me?” Of course I would. All the girls at school fall for him, but he’s falling for me! He leans in for another kiss. This time he gets it. I couldn’t deny the way his eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “Hey Adi! Whatcha doing? Oh My GOSH! Dang it. I forgot how snoopy Charli is when she's under stress “Charli let me explain. Well...” It’s going to be hard to explain. “You see...umm...” I am super choked up. I am never really this choked up. James stepped in, “Okay Charli. I know that you have a boyfriend now just let Adi have one. Please?” James is so smooth with words. “I just thought I’d never see James with you Adi! Congratulations!” She runs over and gives me a hug and one of our friends kisses on the cheek. That means she approves! “Just a little piece of information, back at camp Oliver is kissing Brooke! Come on!” We ran back to camp as fast as we could. James carrying me on his back when all I wanted to do was run in the sand! Brooke was totally enjoying herself. James yelled ”Hey Oliver! Come check this out!” Just so Brooke could have a minute alone. Brooke's expression on her face is OMGG! She has never really kissed a boy. And Oliver’s a good kid. Oliver has had a little thing for Brooke for a while now. I’m happy that he made a move. Two weeks later... Hey! We’ve survived two weeks so far! Yesterday James asked me to be his girlfriend and guess what I said? YES! Like a week ago Charli developed a little crush on William. She calls him Will now. I think she might be first to make a move on him! Will told James he likes Charli a little too. In my head I keep screaming Oh My Gosh! Whenever James kisses me his lips feel so warm. Charli always finds us when we’re hiding or sitting in a romantic spot. Some of our friends died on trips to the store. That’s the sad part but we figured out we could drive through the building. It’s super fun! James never found a cure. Or hasn’t yet. We found some people like us who have been surviving the apocalypse. They are 18 years old. Only a few years older than James, Oliver and Will. We are allowing them to stay with us. I can’t believe how long we’ve survived!


IV - OFF THE RAILS After a string of ‘rather uninspired’ work written for the *Times*, my services have been placed on temporary hold, to ‘reinvigorate the senses,’ or (more likely) so I can quietly disappear. It’s terrible really, how often I find myself in these situations. Just last month I looked so proudly at my exploits: dodging bullets in Qatar, protesting in Venezuela, being nominated for countless awards courtesy some writing association dictating journalistic standards as if they could grasp excellence... I’m bitter. I sit sweltering in South Indian heat approaching forty degrees celsius. The Kerala Express violently jerks in reaction to what looks like rusted rails and... air. My mother sits beside me, gazing through barred windows as childhood ghosts streak the passing fields. We are on our way to visit perhaps our fifth set of relatives, custom dictates a meeting with each one, ‘especially after so many years, *this* one held you when you were just a baby!’ The trip was her idea. Watching me waste away through journalistic failure sparked her idea of a cure: The motherlands. Kerala, *God’s Own Country*. ROAD TO ADOOR We spew from train to train platform through noise you’ve never seen. Coolies balancing massive suitcases on their heads, weaving through crowds. Patterned shawls sweeping the platform with the speed of instinct. The clamors of commerce, the smells of fried foods. We pass by vendors selling all kinds of wares, from water bottles to purses to peacock feathers, careful not to look too long in one direction as we head toward the exit. We find our driver, Santosh, outside the station. He’s a stoutly built man about fifty dressed cleanly in an off-white dress-shirt and gold-lined lungi. His grey hair seems doused with a lifetime supply of coconut oil. We awkwardly exchange greetings and I help him with the luggage. Santosh is the talkative type and begins chatting with my mother in Malayalam about their family histories. Apparently, my mother knows his wife’s second cousin’s dog’s best friend’s previous owner’s nephew. They bond on this. They continue chatting as I peer through a one-way glass. I am there but not there. I understand most of what is being said but I cannot really speak the language. Growing up in Canada, my parents thought it best to not teach me so as to not impede my English (??). Hence very little of the language is now my own, and I have even less to pass on. Santosh’s car, a white Hindustan Ambassador Grand, finally stutters to start and we pull away from the station. I am too tired to complain about the lack of air-conditioning. Driving on these roads requires obscene levels of apathy and assertiveness. Every crack of space between the piled cars is quickly filled with scooters and motorcycles, some of which hold three people. Motor horns are used constantly, not out of anger or frustration, but as a subtle warning before the driver bursts onto their desired route, forcibly merging. Stuck behind a truck going too slow, Santosh begins weaving behind it, taking note of oncoming traffic before quickly overtaking and only slightly avoiding a collision. My mother’s high blood pressure and hypochondria have gotten the best of her. She reproaches Santosh about his ‘crazy driving’; he is courteous enough to listen and agree (with a few wobbles of his head), but the drive has remained more or less the same, and my mother has been forced into silence, into staring at *anything* but oncoming traffic: at billboards of fair-skinned beauties in glittering bridal wear and jewelry, at countless 5G wireless ads and vivid almost cartoon-like political posters. Scattered patches of huts face the road with their storefronts, several of them with branches of *nendran* bananas (delicious) hanging right above their entrances and commercial refrigerators with *Pepsi* signs seen easily from the road. Small clusters of population gather variably near the huts, immersed in the inescapable vibrations of 1.3 billion souls packed in space less than one-third the size of Canada. I’ve seen the *same* man several times. He is an old and lean and veiny figure. His skin is sun-stained and dark and deeply wrinkled, especially around the eyes. He watches the passing noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste, his head slowly oscillating and his hands clasped behind his back and his eyebrows furrowed and his face prickly and unshaved. He watches. He is condemned to watch the noise with a blind and almost vulgar sort of distaste... We park at the side of a junction. My mother spotted a *chaya kada* (tea shop) and felt wistful for a cup. Tea, or *chaya*, is somewhat of a national pastime. India is the world’s largest consumer of tea (consuming thirty percent of the world’s output) and its second-largest producer (after China). But Kerala chaya is different. Frothy, creamy, and delicious, it is locally called *Adicha Chaya*, meaning “One Meter Tea.” Served in a small glass, the shop owner prepares it by boiling water, adding smashed cardamom and smashed peppercorn, and then adding loose black tea leaves. After letting it boil, he adds milk and stirs often, straining the leaves and--finally, pouring the tea from one mug to another, again and again, *one meter* apart. The motion serves many purposes: it mixes the tea, cools its down, spreads the aroma, and creates the frothy texture--all while producing a rhythmically calming sound and spectacle. We sit and sip our chaya in front of the hut and take in the mixtures of flavor, heat, and bustle. Santosh tells us a story of his childhood, of a man called *Half-tea*. Every morning he would purchase a glass of tea (ten rupees), but then instruct the shop owner to give him only half. Returning from work at the end of the day, he would then request the other half, earning his moniker. Santosh cannot remember his *real* name; Nicknames, or *house names*, are a large part of Keralite culture. Usually given by parents, it is quite common to have a formal name on your birth certificate but then be called something completely different. My mother’s formal name is Sara, but her house name is Beena. Ninety percent of our community would likely not know her *real* name, and it would not be a stretch to say that she *feels* more Beena than Sara. We finish up our chaya and my mother spots a snack store. We are about to purchase in-bulk snacks for back home but not before Santosh warns us about their somewhat shady practices. Entering the busy store there are many workers, a common thread of bold fast-talking boys in jeans and dress shirts and flip flops. Their voices ring above the bustle and in between large vats of snacks: fresh plantain and casava chips mixed with every spice under the sun, endless flavors and textures and colors of halwa, fresh cashews... with no prices to be seen. We take note of each and give a list for Santosh to buy later. Though my mother and I are of local descent, our foreignness is painfully obvious; the way we walk, talk, and navigate space speaks more for who we are and where we come from. Santosh will return later and purchase snacks on our behalf (with a tip of course) at a more reasonable price. We enter the Ambassador Grand and pull away from the junction and continue on our journey. It’s different being in Kerala than anywhere else. Perhaps it’s because here I can’t *be* completely foreign, so my sense of identity starts to merge instead of reaffirm. Something stirs at these sights and sounds. I can’t place it. In the heavy heat, speed, sweat, the red dust spewing clouds through car tires. It emanates from Santosh and now my mother, something much bigger than them... I fall asleep to the sound of cars honking. ARRIVAL We arrive at the house around dusk. It sits at the bottom of a hill surrounded by tall trees and the road leading to it paved by gravel and tall weeds. The house is white and one-story with a flat roof and wooden sheds at the back. A woman in a saree, a helper, sweeps the porch with a broom made of dry wild grass. Inland India. Old Kerala. Much different than the brochure: Cochin airport powered by solar panels, Lulu mall, Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple, drifting through Alleppy backwaters in a houseboat surrounded by coconut trees and wiry fisherman casting their nets in the foreground of a sun just about to set. *God's own Country*. I think of the places I believe I have seen. Perhaps they too were just the brochure. We are greeted on the porch by our relatives. It is only an hour until dinner so we exchange pleasantries and then quickly unpack. The house is noticeably old, cracks and other signs of decay line the pale-blue cement walls. There are no hallways, the rooms simply link to one another like a mash of mismatched cubes. But I sense a unique warmness that comes with this old worldliness and desolation. The warm yellow light, the cricket quietness, the faded flower-patterned bed sheets, the smell of mosquito coils. All my passions and restlessness--overwhelming back home, seem now like a restless dream. Dinner is served. Rice, avial, chicken curry, papadum, and lemon pickle. We eat using our fingers, the practice based on the premise that eating is a sensual activity, and touch is part of the experience along with taste, aroma, and presentation. The meal is delicious. My cousin sits next to me at the table. She is around the same age and is a history major. Her English is excellent (much better than my Malayalam anyway) and she educates me on the various spices used for our meal. Did you know that black pepper originates from Malabar, Kerala? Black pepper! An utterly essential ingredient for so many cuisines--all indebted to the Malabar Spice trade. We wash our hands and sit together in the living room and continue our discussion of history. She ends the night by declaring that she cannot possibly go through it all. I laugh and head to bed. UNSCRAMBLING NIGHTMARES I’ve been having trouble falling asleep. It’s very odd. I usually like rooms that aren’t my own. When the weight of my own decisions aren’t draped around me... I’m a sailor at sea. I’m a wreck without eight hours. Maybe it’s because the bed’s next to this wall--messes with the feng-shui. Writing helps I guess. Thinking too. Pacing. Thinking. Thinking things. Mosquitos hovering. A lizard just fell through the blurring fan blades, its tail detached--*it’s* still moving!--mind of its own, or nerves I think. Don’t look at the time it’ll make it worse. Exhausted. Right on the edge of sleep. Excruciating. Morning already. Strange feeling, dawn when you haven’t slept... like the world moved on without you. How many days have I lived like this? Jet-lagged and weary, going through the motions, just trying to get home. Home. So much to do. Santosh awake and dressed. Mom awake and cheerful. Quiet breakfast. Idli and sambar. Waiting on the porch and peering at wild dogs with testicles. Strange how strange it is to see dogs with testicles. Car horns. Melting through noise and heat. Crippled beggars. Skin-whitening cream ads. Malls--air conditioning (!). Piles of sarees and lehngas and salwar kameez bought and rarely--if ever--to be worn. *So cheap!* Carelessly crossing streets and hoping to make it. Faintly. Beginning to feel delirious. Crowds and heat. Pulse and breath just pounding through my core. I don’t like *knowing* there are this many people in the world. In their own worlds. Made of voices and fears and dreams as *real* as mine. Back at the house again. Finally. Sleeeeeeep. ***The rest of the story is available for free on my substack, the link is available through my profile!*** If you enjoyed my work and would like to read more, please subscribe tp my email list. I publish a monthly short story or essay every second Sunday.


*I don’t want this. I don’t want this.* I despair silently. As my days turn into weeks. As I watch him come in and out of the apartment. As I cry myself to sleep. *How can I make you love me? What can I do?? What if I am sweeter? More adoring?* I consider. *I could give him more kisses and hugs, then he’ll have to understand.* I resolve to try. *What more could I possibly lose?* I am sitting at the kitchen table when he gets home. He settles in not making eye contact only giving me a brief greeting. He’s not ignoring me exactly, just not dying to chat. I keep staring. *Look at me.* My gaze pleads but it’s not working. I walk up to him and stand in his way. “Look at me.” I manage to whisper. This is painful. He hesitates but stops and looks. *Can you understand how desperate I am to fix this?* My eyes start to collect tears but before they spill I hug him tightly and breath deeply. He stiffens slightly, but let’s me hug him. After a while of his nonreaction I admit defeat and let go slowly. “I love you.” I say. *How do I fix this?* I want to ask. “I love you too.” He says back, stilted. Technically we’re not broken up. The official words have not been spoken. He simply put the gun on the table and backed away slowly, refusing to pull the trigger. I am aghast and anxious for him to shoot. Instead he checked out. All I have is a shadow of a person as I scramble for something that will give me back the relationship I had. *Maybe I am just not lovable enough.* I start to wonder. *Maybe there’s nothing I can do.* For weeks after the initial conversation he walks in and out of our apartment barely acknowledging me. He gives me short answers, he doesn’t smile. Our home has become a frozen tundra and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stand it. I wallow in anxiety. Wondering what’s going to happen and why on earth it hasn’t yet. I don’t want this. Breaking up was the furthest thing from my mind. But something needs to happen. I am starting to think he’s too scared to do it. Just because it hasn’t been declared doesn’t mean we’re not already living it. I hate admitting that. I guess it’s on me. **Me: Hey...** I decide to text him. Mainly out of cowardice **What if we did a trial break up? We can live as if we are broken up for a while, and if we don’t like it, we can go back to normal.** **Kevin: That’s a good idea** I want to give him an out. I want it to be clear it doesn’t have to be permanent. *You can change your minds.* *Please change your mind*. He comes home that night more receptive to me. I make us dinner and for the first time he makes idle chit chat. “I’ll sleep in the living room.” He states once we get into the particulars of the arrangement. “No, we can take turns.” I am quick to refute. “We both bought that huge bed we should both sleep on it sometimes. “ Don’t worry about it.” he insists. “You take the room.” I shrug. He seems lighter. Taking this step was the right move, I acknowledge begrudgingly. After dinner I watch as he pushes the couches in the living room together to make a spacious bed. Just a few months ago we were shopping for those dreaming about what our apartment might become. We roamed that store for hours finally deciding on the two comfiest couches we’d ever sat on, that were also luckily in the clearance section. The memory brings a small smile to my face that is quickly wiped away when he asks where we keep the extra set of comforters. I go and get them, and grab his pillow from our bed. That night I cry quietly wondering if I will ever run out of tears. I didn’t know it was possible to cry this much. I wish he would come into the room and lay with me. I could ask him... I realize. *Would he say no? Do I have that much courage?* I don’t. I decided, after going back and forth for an hour. My ego is bruised plenty I won’t risk more rejection. I am startled awake by my alarm unsure when I stopped crying long enough to fall asleep. *I am alone*. I think as I look around the room. *The first of many to come.* And the tears start up again. A few weeks later he hasn’t asked to go back to how things were. My hoping that he was going to change his mind starts to turn into a panic that he won’t. I dread coming home to see those couches pushed together day after day. Outside of the apartment, it doesn’t seem so bad. I even catch myself smiling from time to time. But when I come home the inescapable truth hits me. *It’s really over.* I try not to look into the living room and head straight to the room but it doesn’t matter, I already know what’s there. My lungs start to feel like they are shrinking and I am breathing through a straw. I can’t see straight. There are spots everywhere. I make it to the door of my room, throw my bag down and lay with it on the carpet still wearing my winter coat. He finds me on the floor like that minutes later. Hyperventilating and sobbing. I didn’t even hear him come through the door. “Maria...?” He whispers and kneels down next to me. “What’s going on?” I don’t respond. I can’t. And his voice fills with more concern. “What do you need?” I try to shake my head, it's hard to since I can’t pick it up off the ground. “I. Can’t. Breath.” I manage to croak. He has been privy to my panic attacks he knows the drill. “Here.” He kneels down, helps me take my coat off and lays on the floor. His face next to mine on the carpet watches me intently. “Do you want to talk to me?” He is using his sweetest voice. It penetrates my heart and only makes me sob harder. “It’s okay baby.” He soothes and gently rubs my back. If only I could lie here forever. It takes about 10 more minutes but with enough focused attention I calm down enough to bring air into my lungs with ease. I start to sit up. He stares at me wide eyed and concerned getting up with me. “I am not doing okay.” I say in a shaky voice wiping away tears. “I want to be.” I add and shrug. “Is there anything I can do?” He asks with genuine concern. “No.” I say and sigh deeply. *“*I’ll manage this.” I promise, to both him and myself. I go run the shower. I need to get away from him, his concern only makes the pain worse. *I can’t sulk in grief for the next 9 months.* *I need to start accepting this.* But I immediately reject the idea. *Admit defeat?* *This break up is wrong*. *It doesn’t make sense. How can I accept it?* The comfort of the hot water envelopes me and I start to feel better. Physically, at least. *My future. The beautiful home we were building. Am I just supposed to let it go?* It feels like I was having a gourmet meal when the table cloth was yanked and everything went flying off the table, leaving me with a terrible mess to clean. *What choice do I have?* I need to make sense of this breakup. There’s a small voice in my head that gets louder everyday. It’s not very nice, but it rings true. *Of course Kevin broke up with you.* It says. *You thought the man of your dreams was madly in love with you? Get serious*. *Of course he’s leaving, he never wanted to be here. The universe has finally realized it’s mistake*. The idea hurts but I can see it. I can make peace with it. *That’s okay then*. *I can accept that.* I start to think. I share the idea with Kevin. I’d like him to confirm it. “What? No Maria. What are you talking about?” Kevin reacts. “Of course I still like you, and love you, and want you and always have.” He speaks with admonishment that I would believe the opposite. I stare perplexed. I was expecting the opposite. He was going to come clean and own the fact that he never really wanted to be with me. it was going to hurt but letting go was going to be easier from now on. “Um... You do?” I respond, unsure why he feels the need to lie to me. “Yes!” He insists. “Then why are we breaking up!?” I shout. Frustrated that what was finally making sense makes no sense again. “I told you. We weren’t affectionate, we weren’t romantic. We turned into friends. That’s not the kind of relationship I want to have.” I shake my head. I hate that answer. “We can change that. If we both agree we still have feelings for one another there are things we can do!” I yell, starting the argument we’ve had several times already. “We’ve tried before.” He replies, calmly, dejected, and on cue. “Not like this. Not knowing breaking up was the result of failing.” “I don’t want it to be forced.” He repeats, slowly pronouncing every word. Hoping I will finally understand. “What’s wrong with trying?” I ask but I’ve lost my vigor. I know his mind is made up. I know there is no reasonable argument that can change his mind. I hear the determination of his decision increase every time we have this argument. “Maybe at another point in our lives. Maybe once we have some space and time we can come back and have the relationship we were supposed to have. I just can’t make you any promises.” I sit back and close my eyes. *The relationship we were supposed to have.* That’s hilarious. He holds just as much responsibility in creating this dynamic as I do. More actually. We were doing just fine until he decided to withdraw affection from me for the sake of protecting his delicate heart all those years ago. But I know I am just as guilty for letting it happen. *We made it this way and we can also unmake it.* I believe wholeheartedly. I just don’t know how to show him. I don’t want to be bitter, but it’s getting difficult not to. I love Kevin so much, I want to be friendly, kind and understanding. But he gave up, and the anger I hold for his decision starts to leak through in our interactions. I become short and snappy. My own annoyed reactions to his simple inquiries catch me by surprise. I don’t recognize this person. He doesn’t comment on my hostility. I think he feels guilty. I am acting like the victim to a crime he has committed. I am convinced I am. *Kevin made a choice. I just happen to be affected*. I try to talk myself out of it when I feel the subtle indignation peaks. *Nothing has been done to you. You are not a victim.* I want to be rational, but the anger is intense. *Kevin obviously did hurt you!* I argue back*. The ache in your chest proves it. It’s his fault you feel like this!* My thoughts spiral. *You wouldn’t be in pain if it wasn’t for him. But I want to be above it*. I remind myself. Living with him has made it imperative we get along. I don’t want to live in a hostile environment. *He didn’t ruin my life. My life isn’t ruined. I am going to be okay, blame is not necessary. Blame does nothing.* I practice believing that whenever I feel the hot anger overcome me. I picture myself calm and loving towards him. It’s not difficult it’s what I most want. Slowly I start to stip away the anger. I want to be his friend, I miss him. Being kind is first and foremost. “Hope is a problem. “She says through the headphones in my ear. “Hoping for something to happen does not motivate action. Hope makes you passive. It’s dreaming about a circumstance that you have no control over. It’s exchanging this current moment for a future better one. Hope sounds lovely. But that is deceptive. If you want something, you have to take action. You have to decide. It is up to you.” I turn off the podcast and stare at my ceiling. I’ve been staring at my ceiling a lot lately. For the first time just listening to the thoughts in my head. They’re so loud. “I am living on hope.*”* I admit outloud to the ceiling. Hope is all I eat, sleep and drink lately. It sustains me. “I want him to change his mind. I hope he changes his mind.” I mumble. Saying the thoughts I hold dear. “I am just not ready to let go. All I have left is hope*.”* But her words strike me. She’s right, hoping is keeping me helpless. *So how do I force myself not to want him? How do you stop wanting what you want?* I throw the pillow I am gripping against the wall. This is frustrating. I lay back down and stare at the ceiling some more, maybe the answer is in one of the crevasses up there. A half hour later I get up. *I don’t want to be helpless or at his whim*. I know that much. I have no control over what he does or decides and I don’t know what to do about this desire. But I can do something. I can focus on the few things I have control over. For the next 6 months I go into serious self improvement mode. My life has been turned on its head and instead of sitting around being at it’s mercy I make some decisions. I start to put back together my gourmet meal, one broken dish at a time. I reluctantly accept the reality of the situation. I start to imagine what life is going to require of me without Kevin. For one, I need to get my finances on track. I don’t know anything about credit, I don’t have an ounce of savings and I could probably be making more money than I am. I dive deep into all things self help. I learn about the power of meditation. The pain from the heartbreak is so unbelievably heavy and constant, I learn quickly meditating helps me process the pain in a way I’ve never experienced. Eventually I get up feeling a little less melancholy. A little more at ease. I read a book on nutrition, decide to cut out processed foods and lose a bunch of weight. I join a crossfit class since I’ve always wanted to be someone that exercises regularly. I become vegetarian after spending a lonely fourth of July weekend watching vegan documentaries on Netflix. Distracting myself from the fact that Kevin was going to tell his family that we were over. I learn about investing and open a savings account and a Roth IRA. I quit my job with crap hours and get a better paying one that is 9 to 5. It’s as if the pain from the breakup motivates me to do things I never would have. I am taking ownership of my life. I start dreaming and making plans for myself years down the road. I feel a sense of control again. I ask myself what I truly want, if I could have anything? Who do I want to become? *Confident. Thriving. Independent.* I dare to believe what might be possible. You could say I start to hope, but better, I start to plan. During these months Kevin and I grew close again. The immediate pain of being broken up receded and we spent our afternoons together. We cherished the time knowing we would soon be apart. We no longer played mind games, we weren’t afraid to be vulnerable and real. All of the issues we had, any resentment that we held, dissipated. None of it seemed to matter. We showed up authentically without agendas and expectations. We were still intimate on occasion, but it became less frequent over time. We were slowly letting go of each other. Counting down the days until the end of our lease. Once in awhile I would check in and wonder why we were breaking up. Seeing if maybe he’d rethought the decision. Considering how great we were getting along it made no sense. “If you say that maybe someday we can make it work, why can’t we break up with the intention of coming back to each other?” I asked one morning as he ironed his clothes and I journaled at the kitchen table. “Because I don’t want us to put our lives on hold for each other, that’s not fair to either of us.” “I would. If you asked me to.” I proclaimed “I wouldn’t ask you to.” “But you want to stay friends. You don’t think that’s unfair to ask?” “I don’t want to lose you from my life Maria.” he says passionately. “Maybe we aren’t meant to be together but I do think we belong in each other’s life. Don’t you?” *Well of course I do. I am in love with you.* I think but ignore it and keep writing instead to hide my frustration. Kevin’s insistence that we stay friends was both amazing and awful. Certainly the joy of still having his company keeps me interested. But what if being his friend keeps me pinning? That sounds like a nightmare. He thinks we can make it work that everything will be fine. I am not as confident. Kevin informs me that he has been looking for apartments a few months before our lease is set to end. I put it off, I still have plenty of time. Also, what if we miraculously somehow end up staying together? A little hope lingers in the background. That’s not why I am waiting. I tell myself. I am just too busy and it’s still too soon. A week later it’s official. “I signed a new lease.” He says. “I got the confirmation yesterday.” *Fuck*. “Oh.” I say quietly. Feeling a tight knot in my stomach. *Wait no.* I never told my coworkers my ex and I were living together, I said he was still my boyfriend. It seemed easier than explaining the situation at the time. And for a few hours in my day I got to live as if it were true. As I walk into work red faced and sniffling I decide it’s time to come clean. I go straight to my manager so I can explain why I’ll be on the verge of tears today. “It’s been a long time coming.” I say “But it’s official, he signed a new lease.” She nods in sympathy. “We’re here for you, whatever you need.” She says giving me a warm look. “Start with the onions.” she suggests with a smile. “That way no one has to wonder about the tears.” I laugh, what a sweet offer. *Will I ever get over this?* I wonder. *This feels like the longest breakup in history. I just want to be better already.* No matter what I do my heart feels splintered into pieces. I can’t think about anything but this. My emotions sway from heartbroken to angry to bargaining to grief. I stay at anger for a long time that day. I hate Kevin for asking me to stay his friend. I can’t fathom not being in love with him. *How can I watch him move on with his life like that?* It is difficult for me to say no to Kevin, that’s part of the hesitation. I wish I could give him whatever he wants but this. “I need to say something.” I declare as we sit down for dinner. “I’d like to hear it.” *I doubt that.* “I know that you’re very adamant that we need to continue a friendship after this. And I get it. In a perfect world so would I. The thing is I can’t see myself being able to move on while we’re friends. I just can’t imagine it. I really think I am going to need space to really mourn this before I can just have you in my life like that.” “Really?” He says sadness in his voice. “How long?” “ I dunno.” I shrug and look away. “A year?” “A YEAR!?” he shouts. “Maybe.” “That’s so long.” “I don’t know I am just guessing.” He stays quiet. And finally nods. “Okay Maria. I know I’ve been incredibly selfish to ask you in the first place, so of course I’ll respect that. Take the time you need.” “ Thank you.” I say relieved. “But if you could shorten it to a couple of months for me that’d be real swell.” He says and smiles. I roll my eyes. I can’t keep putting it off, it’s time for me to find my own apartment. I start my internet search and soon realize I won't be able to really look and choose if I want to get into a place in time of this lease ending. I waited too long, my options are limited. A voice in my head tells me I could just ask to room with Kevin so I can get more time to look but I scoff in refusal. That will not be happening. I imagine what that conversation would look like anyway. Kevin’s disapproving look at my continued unacceptance of this breakup. His reluctant yes at having to keep living with his ex girlfriend, unable to start his new life. I pick the cheapest closest place I find and sign the lease without the option of looking at it first. *Ah well.* I think. *That’s what hope costs you.* I decide that we will cut off contact once we are fully moved into our respective apartments. It’s my decision to do this and yet I dread it. Seeing as I’ve been kicking and screaming throughout all of this, keeping him around as my friend would be an easier middle ground. But I am proud of this decision. I am taking the harder less pleasant option for my ultimate well being. All the literature on breakups say that cutting ties is best so you can fully ‘withdraw’ from your partner and lose dependency. Kevin definitely feels like a drug. Apparently being with him even lights up similar parts of the brain. I am choosing the painful deliberate process of moving on. Although partially out of a fear that not doing means staying stuck for the rest of my life. At the moment I can’t fathom a reality where I am not in love and desperate to be with him. I remind myself that there are enough examples of people getting over the ‘love of their lives’ to believe it’s possible for me. I’d do anything to know their secret. *Time.* Everyone tells me. *It’s time*. But I loathe that answer, I don’t buy it. *Of course it’s time, but what do I DO in that time?* I implore*.* That no one seems to know. *Just live your life?* There are certainly people who kept themselves pinning even after decades of time. I vividly remember a podcast of a man who pines for his high school love into his old age. “I thought about you everyday since I last saw you.” He told her once they were reunited. *EVERYDAY*. I can’t have this with me everyday. That is unacceptable. Does that not prove that it isn’t just time that will work magic? I won’t say that to anyone though. Doing so will reveal the hidden fear that I will be stuck in love unable to move on. Instead I nod and try no to let them see my annoyance at their clichéd answer. *How do I heal? How??* I plead the universe to give me an answer. Finally it’s the night that I am fully moved into my apartment. Our lease has ended our new leases are signed and if there was any hope left within me it was wiped away when he helped me move the couch in. We plan for him to spend the night, our final rendezvous. As expected It’s lovely and sad. I am divided into the me that wants it to be over so I can start to heal and the me that wants it to never end. He is gone when I wake up. I search frantically for my phone and see a text: Kevin: **I love you. I’ll miss you so very much. You were my best friend and I'm so very sad to see us go our separate ways... I wish you the best of luck and I’ll always be thinking about you.** Here it is. I’ve been imagining this, writing this goodbye text in my head for months. **Kevin I love you. My heart aches from your absence. I can only hope time and distance does it’s job and makes it so we can once more be in each others life. I thoroughly look forward to that day. Until then I hope you find joy. Thank you for loving me.** He replies **Thank you for loving me. Goodbye Maria.** It’s beautiful and succinct. I close the phone and cry more endless tears. I’ve stopped wondering when they’ll stop, it’s a fruitless question. I look around my new apartment, life feels empty and hollow, like the pain in my chest. I can’t imagine how I will fill the gap he left. *I need to create something out of this* I think and take a deep breath, owning the weight of that responsibility *maybe* I dare *something amazing.


Warning: Deals with heavy topics. I'd prefer not to say more. \ Darren's car shuddered a bit every few seconds. He was concerned about it, but he figured he'd deal with it when it broke. The neighborhood was getting dark and grey as the sun went down and front lights got turned on. It was mostly porch lights that have that orange haze and the bugs always get stuck in. A hard turn into the driveway, but there was only room enough for one car in the garage and that one was Mom's. Mom had moved in with Darren a few years ago. She wanted company and he wasn't very good at telling her no. The car shuddered to a stop and he shifted it into park. There was something satisfying about that moment when the car finds itself a stationary object due to your hands. It was about as good as the feeling of starting a car up. As he stepped through the grass onto the front porch, he could hear the TV in the house. It was playing the usual evening drama. Probably some crime-show. The door would be locked, so he pulled out the keys. He knew the keys by their shape but also by the scratches on them. It gave them a unique look that always caught his eye even before the shape or color. The door handle was loose when he unlocked it. He told himself he would put it on a list of things to fix, if he ever made one. The little dog started barking. It was Mom's. Not that he disliked it. It would lick his face on occasion and he would laugh at it rolling on the ground. Its damn bark, however, every time a noise happened in the house did make him imagine punting it across the room. He'd never do that, of course, and anytime he imagined it he felt bad afterwards. Mom didn't get up, but he could see the light brown curls of her hair peaking up over the top of the lazy-boy chair. He always had to shoo the dog when he closed the door or it would try and run out. The damn dog never ran too far, but it was a hassle running around half bent over trying to catch it, especially in the dark. He'd never admit it, but it kind of made the dog endearing to him. He always felt rather satisfied once he caught the dog and it was something he had accomplished on his own which no one else would ever have a claim to. There wasn't much in life he could say that about. Deadbolt behind him, not just for safety but to keep the electric bill down by making the seal on the door pull tight. He didn't say anything to Mom, but just turned and headed to the kitchen. She was probably asleep, he figured. There was only a lamp on in the house, beyond the red light of the clocks in the bedroom and the microwave in the kitchen. But, upon a flick of the switch, let there be light. It was so bright it momentarily dazzled. The bugs stuck in the light fixture gave the light almost a spotted look, like a dalmatian. If only those silhouettes didn't have legs sticking up showing their true dead-bug nature. He opened the door and got a glass of orange juice. He was working on his health, he told himself. But he also figured the chemicals from the meat plant he worked at would get to him early anyways. Thats just how things were. The dog barked and ran out the dog flap on the back door, making him chuckle a bit in the middle of a gulp of orange juice. It amused him how the dog seemed to just change thoughts in a split second and suddenly it's entire existence could only be satisfied by jumping at a bird or barking at a person passing on a bike. He envied that a little. He opened the dishwasher, which was half full, and made sure to put the glass on the top towards the back like his mom always lectured him on. He never tried to do the opposite on purpose. He merely got tired sometimes and it slipped his mind. He remembered tonight. He wore gloves at the plant, and they left a bit of a stench on his hands. He didn't like the smell. So he squirted a bit of lavender scented soap on his hands and gave them a good washing. While there were letters and newspapers on the tables, him and his mom kept things pretty clean. They just got so much in their mailbox they sorted through at a slow pace that things got covered over again fast. With a sigh he walked around to where his mom had drifted off. The TV was on a commercial break which was louder than the show itself. Due to this, his hearing didn't catch the silence. But he might not have noticed it anyways. He was awfully tired. Darren didn't consider himself particularly strong, but he could pick up an older woman like his mother. And he liked it better when she slept in her bed rather than out here. That was his priority. Getting her to bed. So the TV and the dog and the lights would come later. He reached under her knees and behind her back, making sure to cradle her gently and support her head. Keep in mind, she wasn't particularly light, but it was his mom. The heavier she was, the more he felt like a dutiful son. He walked at an angle, carrying her into the second bedroom. He made sure her head didn't hit the wall along the way. He moved at a slow gentle pace, but he didn't notice how still she was in his arms. It had been a long day. He was tired. His focus was on making sure she stayed healthy and getting her back into her bed which, as she said, was better for her back. He set her down on top of the bed before heading back to turn on the light. Now that he could see a bit better, he returned and pulled back the covers. She had been wearing depends for a while now, so he didn't notice anything unusual with respect to that either. Not that he would've said anything. It was always an awkward subject for him, and he never quite knew how to handle it. But he'd bashfully get what she needed from the store. They argued sometimes, and as he lifted her legs under the covers, he thought of their last fight. He thinks it was about his eating habits. He never ate too well, and his mom always seemed to nag him about it. He knew it was because she cared, but he still had a bit of pride, which he asserted by being slightly slovenly. It was a paradox, but it worked for him. And if his mom ever got really angry about something he would do his best to change things up. An example being the orange juice earlier. The room was cool enough that he thought she'd be fine under the blankets. They were pretty light. But he turned the fan on in her room for some extra noise cancellation in case some asshole's muffler was broken when they tore through the neighborhood at 3 am. He turned off the lights, noting a little how gaunt her face was. But only seeing her from the light reflected off the hallway wall, all the way from the kitchen, it was far less obvious. He walked over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. He knew she loved when he gave her kisses, and even if she wasn't awake, she had trained him well in it so it made him feel like his task wasn't complete until he gave her a kiss on the cheek, or when she was in bed, on the forehead. She had done that when he was little. He walked to the doorway and looked in, his body partially blocking the pale yellow light from the hallway. It made him think of the trips they had gone on when he was younger, riding in the car, the streetlights shining their lights across the window in a hypnotic rhythm. He liked to pretend he was asleep so Mom or Dad would carry him inside. Most kids probably did that. But it still meant something to him. He wondered if she did that lately. He was pretty sure she had. But that was fine too. He didn't think she was doing it tonight though. And he was correct on that point. He closed the door most of the way but left it cracked. Then he returned and shut off the TV and put up her glass from the table, getting it to the dishwasher. He considered putting it in the sink, but he was already here so might as well. The shifts were brutal to him. His eyes felt dazed from the glaring white walls and the bright lights that gave the perfect amount of light so that the slices of meat could be checked from all sides as they came down the conveyor belt. Another glass of orange juice. It had been growing on him lately, though he definitely needed to pick up the low acid kind or he'd get acid reflux before bed. Kitchen light went off... Then he had to get the dog in. He called it, and like usual it didn't come for a few seconds. Then it bounded in. He shut the door behind it and locked the doggy door. Mom had watched too many of those criminal shows. Didn't like the idea of just a flap keeping the outdoors and in separated. He thought it was funny that she cared about that when she was asleep but not when she was awake, as he knew she fell asleep without planning on it anyways. He brought it up once, but regretted it and she ignored the conversation. Now the living room lamp went off. He sighed and headed to his bedroom. He wished he had more time to relax after work, but exhaustion hit hard. The door to mom's room was open a bit further as the little dog had shoved it's way in and had already gotten up, snuggling next in the covers on the inside of the bed. Which meant the dog was in the middle, like she owned the place. Well perhaps she did. Mom doted on the little dog. And he told himself he didn't, but he did. He gave it the end pieces of hotdogs and would chase it outside sometimes. It almost gave him the thrill of trying to catch the dog, without the worry of it running into the road. Almost. There was still light, however, in the hallway. A small lamp from an outlet low to the ground, just to make sure everyone could make it to the bathroom or kitchen without stumbling, no matter their eyesight or how awake they were. He used the restroom, stripped down a bit, then got under his own covers. Later during that night he would realize he had gotten a bit hotter under the covers and so he kicked them off. This, however, made him concerned for his mom so he went in and pulled the heavier covers off of her, except her feet. That way her body could be at the temperature it needed. The dog didn't like this, running around in circles, and he shushed it to stay quiet. But the dog settled. He was still very tired. He half noticed she hadn't shifted positions from when he laid her down, which a bit unusual. But he was still very tired. In the coming days, the little dog would mean everything to him. Sure, others were shoulders to cry on or hug. Close family friends meant a lot. But the little dog was a bit more special to Darren because it had been mom's. And it had slept with her every night. It still slept on her bed, so he still went in some nights and turned on the fan to make sure it was cool enough. He wished he hadn't been so tired that night that he hadn't noticed. It wouldn't have made a difference. She was gone hours before he got home. But for Darren she was there for at least a little longer. \ Its not particularly original, but I though it might be worth sharing. Its repetitious, but perhaps that gives it a bit of charm.


Above the chatter, a woman gritted her teeth and pushed, her screams partly silencing the crowd around her. On the horizon, no one seemed to notice, maybe there was another birth going on there right now, or maybe a conception. The woman near me hung on to the shoulders of the women and men around her, I could make out one of her hands squeezing another woman’s shoulder, her bright red hand clenching so tight that the skin on the shoulder was pale, she’d probably leave a bruise. I made out the smell of her birth, even through the many other unwashed people between us. She pushed again, this time shoving those around her so hard that I felt the energy ripple through the crowd. A few of the men around me sighed as the ripple of shoving hit them. A light misting rain began to fall and muffled the air. The clouds had hung low all day, and now they had finally broke. The horizon went out of sight, but I could still see the woman. Her face was pointed calmly towards the sky, the rain indistinguishable from the sweat on her face. I could see her nostrils flaring as she sucked in air. Rain always quieted people down, it softened the tensions between neighbors, and lessened the body heat constantly caused by the brushing of our bodies against one another. Other people raised their open mouths to taste the air and quench their throat. They moaned and sighed as they gulped, contrasting to the painful noises of the mother. The rain picked up and began to disturb members of the mass. People pushed and shuffled through the crowd, agitated by the weather. Was it instinctual to be so resistant and uncomfortable in the rain, does the body naturally seek shelter? The agitated began to flow together in concise paths through the mass of bodies and in turn causing more people to move, swear, and grow angry. Nobody ever liked when too many people moved, such as this uneasiness. Resolute old men were known to swear by their stature, hardly moving from their spot for years or decades. All should be done in their spot. It was safest not to move, lessen the chance of losing a family member or nice neighbor. I had moved once like those moving now to avoid the rain, and I regret it. The slamming of bodies, the pushing of strangers, the trampling. The mother had been pushed to the opposite side of the river of people. I wasn’t sure if her neighbors had carried her out of the way or if she had moved of her own accord. It made the air feel more anxious than usual, her birth and the rain. The rain got worse and the puddles grew larger. The flow of people widened and slowed. They sloughed through the mud that their trampling feet had created when mixed with rain and the usual filth. The mother wasn’t audible anymore from this distance with the angry noise of the movement and the increasing slamming of the rain. I could feel the oil running from my hair now, as it trickled around my nose. I could taste my sweat and dust, watery in the rain. I licked the roof of my mouth and blinked my eyes rapidly. It was becoming too much. So I closed my eyes, trying to forget the world. I breathed in. I breathed out. I focused on my breathing. *Breath in.* *Breath out.* *Breath in, breath out.* The rain was running all over my body. Soaking my hair and clothes. Tiny streams of it ran around my neck and down between my chest, another down the spine of my back, each vertebrae slightly tickled. I raised my head and my closed eyes fluttered and winced at the falling rain. My body jostled from the outside, but I swayed with the flow. I patted my toes in the puddles, wiggled my knees ever so slightly. I could feel the warm darkness inside the cavity of my body growing closer, richer, soon it would reach my eyes and my brain. And it did, until my head felt like balloon carrying the light weight of my body, and my eyes felt like oiled marbles, like bearings rolling idly in a wheel. I became unaware of my breathing, yet felt the rhythm of the skin on my chest sliding over my ribs. I moved my eyes under their lids. Life and light emerged in the void, colors swirled and children’s laughter echoed. Children running around in a circle holding hands. I can still feel the breeze. Then the mother screamed, her highest note. The baby had come, “The baby has come!”, “The baby has come”, “The baby is here!”, “The baby is with us. “Baby, baby baby!” I opened my eyes, though they still winced in the smashing rain. The flow of moving bodies had grown larger, yet now it began to circle around the mother. The woman and her new girl in the eye of the spiraling mass. They all chanted, “Baby!” The woman brought the girl to her chest to suck. The rain washed the babe clean in a few moments, revealing her thin black hair and brown skin.