Donuts Do Not Die The crotchety old guy settled back down in his over-sized crusty stuffed arm chair pushing the ottoman slightly to the side for now. He jarred another cigarette out of its pack and picked it out with his teeth, flipped his Bic to light it and clicked to a 24-four-hour news station on the large box TV balanced on top of the flickering gas fake fireplace used to heat the enclosed porch. The cold chill still rattled the three walls of windows he peered through watching for them. He knew they were coming. The waning sun was sneaking below the horizon finally giving up any effort to warm the hazy atmosphere. Indian summer was long gone giving in to the soon to arrive winds of November. It was time. He could detect their torches bobbing along in the distance from every direction. They were searching. Knowing the flickering lights from the fireplace and TV would be casting eerie blue images across his sullen features, he figured he might as well give in to the ghosts, and the skeletons, and the zombies. Never any good news on these days anyway. Struggling up from his comfortable corner he lumbered to the switch by the front door and illuminated the interior then checked to see if the door was locked before settling back in for the inevitable. And he waited. He didn't have to wait long. ^**^ “This is it, Grandma! I think this is the one! We found it. Didn't we?” The miniature King Kong squealed. “Well, I think so. It looks very much like what I remember. But it has been a lot of years since...” “I am pretty sure, Mom brought us here a couple of years ago. The porch light is on. Let's go see. Okay?” “But there is an old man on the porch. Someone else might live here now... “Oh, oh. I know you. You're... Bruce. Aren't you?” “Sure am. And you are Tammy. Right? We went to high school together, if I remember correctly.” “Then we are at the right place. But maybe the wrong time. Is... your mother still...” “Yes, yes. She is still alive. I live here now taking care of her.” “She can't possibly still...” “If you are thinking what I think you are thinking then yes. She has some help now days but you'll find her inside. I am only the gate keeper. Go on in the foyer and straight ahead. The doors are closed to keep the cold out and the warmth in. But she is watching for more victims. She is waiting to see you and your big gorilla. She will be delighted.” “Knock on the door, Scooter. You know what to say.” “Don't say my name, Grandma. I am the mighty King Kong!” “Gotcha. You're on, King Kong.” “Trick or Treat!” “Come in, come in,” a frail, shaky octogenarian voice responded back. They open the second door to see a crippled-up hag in a witch's hat and green and white striped long-stockings beckoning them to enter into her lair. She reaches her gnarly long figures for a napkin to wrap up a humongous golden ring of glazed pastry before handing it to the youngster. “Here you are, you Little Monkey.” Her voice quavers. “Could my grandma have one, too, please?” He ventures as he clutches the treasure to his chest over the plastic jack-o-lantern dangling from his arm. “She used to come here when she was my age.” “Oh, no. I, I don't...” Tammy started. “Sure you do, Deary. Here you go.” “Why, thank you so much. I remember how good these are. I can't believe you are still making and passing out your delicious donuts after all these years.” Tammy oohed and ah-ed. “My girls and even my Grandson help me out now days. But I have only missed one year, the year that grandson got married on Trick-or-Treat night, in what, near 50 years? As long as the Good Lord allows, I'll try to keep up the tradition.” Tammy basked in the aroma of the delicacy and the welcoming smell of the whole house still emanating from the kitchen. “Well, God bless you and thanks again, so much.” She directed her grandson back through the double-door foyer to the front porch to make room for the next in line. “Thank you, Bruce. So wonderful to see 'The Donut Lady' is still producing her signature treat. I remember seeing that story in the newspaper years ago. If you don't mind me asking, how old is she by now?” “Well into her eighties. Will be ninety next February in fact. Almost have to tie her down to keep her out of her kitchen. She tends to fall a lot lately so can't be out there alone anymore. But she can't be stopped from supervising the production. Ours still never come out as perfect as hers but we try.” “Still looks wonderful and I can't wait to get home and enjoy this with a cup of coffee. Don't even have to share this saucer-sized wheel with anyone. I never expected to get one myself. Chewbaca, here, asked for one for me.” “King Kong, Grandma! Chewbaca would need guns and you wouldn't let me carry one!” “You make a ferocious King Kong, Little Guy. Don't be climbing any skyscrapers. Enjoy your prize.” He slightly tussled the long fur on the top of the creature's head then motioned them aside as four multi-colored Power Rangers converged on them weapons drawn. “Trick or Treat!” They demanded in unison. “Right through there but beware the witch!” He pointed them toward the inner door as a princess, a unicorn and two fairies exited with eyes as round as the treats they beheld. “Excuse us, excuse us, please.” Bruce held open the porch door to let them pass and as Tammy and her grandson started exiting as well he touched her arm, “Uh, Tammy. It was good to see you again. Perhaps I can buy you a regular sized donut and cup of coffee sometime soon over at Flinny's?” “That would be nice. How about Tuesday at half pass eight?” “Sounds delightful. See you then.” He smiled as he ushered in Donald Trump and Barack Obama. “Right this way, Gentlemen.”


Once a time there was a princess, who was sitting and looking out the windows of the castle at the winter’s first snowfall. The windows opened onto what just a few months ago had been a beautiful flower garden, humming with insects. Because the princess lived in a very distant land, I can’t tell you the names of the flowers and, unless you know much more than the average person, you wouldn’t recognize them either. At this point, it didn’t matter anyway, as only the brown stalks and a few drooping leaves remained. Now the snow was falling, for the first time in many months the view was clean and fresh, and the princess found it much more interesting to gaze out the window than attend to her tea and cake. The princess was the only child of the king and queen and the entire future of the kingdom depended on her. Inside the castle she was given everything she desired - the finest food and clothes, expensive gifts, private tutors who were the best in their fields. But she was never allowed to leave the castle. The princess would have traded everything she had to be allowed to run on the forest paths, smell the pine trees, and swim in the roaring river at the bottom of the garden. But all she could do was study in books about all the animals and plants she could see outside. The king and queen liked this as most of the people in the kingdom lived in the forest, depended on the animals and plants for food and clothing and made their houses out of wood - the princess was learning things that would help her understand and support her subjects better, without the risk of breaking her leg or running into an actual wolf or bear. Overhead, white geese had started flying south in V’s. The princess was reading a lot about geese these days - for instance, she had learned that the parents would often take turns at the front of the V so their children could fly more easily behind them. The hunters would not care about details like that - they would be busy shooting as many as possible in order to fill their larders for the winter. The princess tried to look carefully at each bird, hoping to remember what made it unique and look for its safe arrival in the spring, but even with her sharp eyes they all looked the same from this far away. Suddenly, a goose landed on the far side of the garden, skidded towards her on the snow across the lawn, and came to a stop on the stone path just outside the window. It was a young goose, its white plumage still mixed with muddy brown feathers, had been shot in the wing and was still alive. A hunter must have hit it far over on the far side of the river as the princess had not heard any sound and indeed no hunter would dare to shoot this close to the castle. The goose must have tried to carry on flying, slowly dropping and landing on the garden’s slope. As you may have guessed, the princess had for once been left completely alone with her tea and cake. The guardian who had been watching her had realized, as soon as the snow started to come down, that she had left her windows open and wanted to make sure to keep the weather out. The princess had been strictly warned about leaving the castle, but she knew the goose was likely to end up on the palace’s dinner table if anyone else found it and decided she had to save it. Unfortunately, the only door out into the garden was firmly locked, and the princess was not the type of person to use an expensive sugar bowl to break the window, so she ran into the next-door bathroom and wriggled in her finery out of a small, high window, dropping onto the snow-covered path outside. But as the princess looked around, she saw the goose was being carried off by a rust-coloured fox, tail high in the air, leaving a trail of the goose’s blood as it ran. The princess quickly followed, kicking off her tight slippers and running barefoot in her fluffy, lacy pink dress. The slope became even steeper as they approached the river and the princess half slid through a line of bare trees as the fox scampered between boulders and roots and turned sharply to the left just before arriving at the stream. At that moment, another fox darted from behind a tree, grabbed the goose out of the mouth of the first fox, and started running hard back uphill, leaving the castle to the left. The fox she had been following darted over the edge of the streambank, presumably disappearing into its burrow. “So this is what they call a wild goose chase,” thought the princess, “they are taking turns trying to confuse me”, but made a half-turn as sharply as she could and now started racing after the second fox that was carrying the goose uphill. By now, her feet were freezing cold, raw and bleeding from running across the cold, sharp stones. They had almost come to a road leading from the castle gates when a group of guards raced past - everyone was normally very attentive to the princess and they must have already realized she was missing. The fox, which had intended to cross the road into a larger area of forest, was forced instead to bank left again towards the castle and first tried to skate across an ice-covered pond that lay in its way. The ice was just starting to form, though, and wasn’t unable to support the weight of the fox, which fell through. It released its grip on the goose, which (thanks to its hollow bones, as the princess knew) skidded across the unbroken ice and came to rest at the foot of the castle wall. Now, the princess was also trapped outside the castle. As we have mentioned, she was much too well brought up to pick up a frozen rock and use it to break a window, and she couldn’t very easily climb back through the high bathroom window from the outside. Plus, she had just picked up a half-dead goose and, kind-hearted as she was, had also fished a half-frozen fox out of a pond. So the only option was to walk in her bloody bare feet right up to the castle gate. Once inside the portcullis, she instructed the guards to put the fox next to a warm fire and, once it had recovered, give it a chicken from the castle pantry that it could carry back to its mate and, very likely, a litter of little foxes in the burrow next to the river. She also asked for a large box so that she could carry the goose back to her room. As we know, the princess was granted whatever she wished inside the castle. Once back in her room, she lined the box with a blanket, placed it next to her own fire and fed it some oats, after which both the goose and the princess slept peacefully until the morning. You can imagine what a scolding she received from the king and the queen the next day. “You could have fallen into the river, broken your leg and drowned,” said the king. “Your dress is ruined, your shoes are lost, and your feet are a bloody mess,” said the queen. The princess was forced to agree that indoors was the safest place for her, and gave up hope of ever being allowed to enjoy the sunshine, fresh air, and a peaceful walk with more suitable shoes. Although they had been so brief, it was the princess’s exploits outside the castle walls that became the talk of the kingdom. Everyone knew she had caught a wild goose with her bare hands and outran not one but two foxes with her bare feet. From that day on, she was called the Winter Fox (an animal that was rarely seen in the far north of the kingdom in years of heavy snow) and everyone was sure that when her time came, the kingdom would flourish under the kindest and bravest ruler ever seen. The goose recovered from the cold, but its wing never healed and it never flew again. It dearly loved the princess who had saved it from the hunters, the palace kitchen, and the foxes and stayed in the princess’s room, reminding her of life outside the palace as she grew up. The goose itself had lived outside, knew what it was really like, and was happy to have a soft bed, a warm blanket, plenty of food, and no one shooting at it. But it still remembered and missed its family and let the princess know they were safe each time it saw them flying over the castle in the spring, when the flowers were starting to bloom, and in the winter when the snow was starting to fall.


“Look,” he says, pointing to the sky. I splash water in his direction one last time and glance up. It’s so beautiful. The sun is swimming down into the trees. There are sparks of red and pink. Is the sun melting? “Grandpa? Didn’t you say the sun would stop shining forever someday?” The redness begins to spread and it mixes into the clouds. “Yes, I surely did.” “It looks like it’s bleeding.” “And do you know what that means, Jean?” The water is starting to get cold and the rocks at the bottom feel chiller. “What does that mean?” “It means the world has lost a pure soul today.” “Somebody died?” “Yes, son.” “Oh.” I look up once again to see the sun gone. Only red remains in the sky. “Let's get back, jean. The lake is starting to get cold.” “Okay.” I grab his fingers and he leads me out. I make sure not to step on the rough rocks. They are the ones that can cut. Grandpa grabs the purple towel we brought and wipes my hair. It sticks up in the air. I look down at the lake while he wipes himself. My hair looks darker in the water. My freckles look huge the closer I get to the water. The grass is light and the walk back to the hut doesn't feel long at all. “Is mommy home?” Grandpa looks down at the ground and frowns. “Your parents won’t be home for a long time, Jean.” “Who will read my bed time stories?” “I will” “Okay.” I hop on each stone leading up to the hut, trying to avoid each grassy patch. “Slow down, Jean.” I wait for grandpa to reach the stone I'm on. He opens the door and the smell of cookies takes us in. “Is grandma home?” “I’ve been waiting for her for a long time, Jean.” “She’s not home?” “I hope she comes home soon.” “Me too.” Grandpa takes the cookies out of the oven while I change into warm clothes. “How’s your sister jean?” “Is she coming home?” “I hope she doesn’t come anytime soon.” “That's mean.” I crunch on a cookie and it breaks in half. The chocolate melts into my mouth. “Do you want milk with that?” “Yes, please.” Grandpa opens the fridge and pulls out a jar of milk. He takes my favorite Spiderman cup out of the cabinet. I watch as he slowly pours it in and slides it over to me. “We can go see them all tomorrow.” “Okay.” I can’t wait to see everyone. I take a sip of milk and dip the side of my cookie in. A chocolate chip falls into the milk and the white begins to turn brown. I drink it anyway. “Grandpa?” “Yes, Jean?” “Mommy told me that you left to go on an adventure after you got so sick.” “She’s right.” Grandpa gets up from his seat to look out at the moon in the sky. “You used to tell me there's a man on the moon.” I look at the Moon. It's glowing. I can trace out a face. It looks like the face is old. “I think there is.” “Really?” “Do you not believe so?” “No.” “Why is that, Jean?” “Why does the man never come down to see us?” “Maybe he does, and we just can’t see him.” “Oh.” My eyes start to become tired and grandpa notices. “How about we go to bed?” We walk up the stairs. I hold his hand and he smiles down at me. “What is it, grandpa?” “I had missed you dearly.” “I’m right here.” Grandpa starts to laugh and seeing him happy makes me smile. The door to my room opens when grandpa gently pushes it open. I climb in and my toes start to warm up. “I hope mommy comes home soon.” “What book would you like me to read, Jean?” “Um, how about Jack and the beanstalk?” “Oh, that's a good one!” Grandpa walks to the bookshelf and pulls out a book. He walks right back and sits on the bed. “I don’t think I can wait.” “What do you mean, Jean?” “I want to see everyone now.” Grandpa thinks about it for a few moments and sighs. He puts the book down next to my legs. “You may not like it.” “It’s okay.” Grandpa nods and looks me in the eyes. “Think of someone you want to see.” I think of my mommy. “Okay.” “Who is it, Jean?” “Mommy.” “Okay now focus on her and I will do the same.” I follow his directions. I think of her brown hair that matches mine and her silver eyes. I open my eyes back up and we’re not in my bedroom anymore. I still see grandpa but we're in the kitchen. I hear my mommies voice telling Vi to brush her teeth. I run to the bathroom to see them both. Mommy is in her pj’s and Vi is too. They look sad. “Hi!” “They can not hear you.” Grandpa looks at me and he has a frown on his face. “Why not?” “Do you believe in ghosts, Jean?” “No way, Grandpa!” “Jean my dear, we are ghosts.” I look up at mommy to see her helping Vi. They both look like they have been crying. I tug on her shirt but nothing happens. I poke at her shoulder but she doesn’t turn around. I give Vi a hug but she doesn’t move. “We are ghosts?” “Yes, Jean” “So, we are dead?” “Yes, Jean” “I don’t believe it!” “It is hard to believe.” “How did I die?” “You don’t remember, right?” “Nope.” “Do you remember what happened when you were born?” “No.” “It’s the same with death, Jean.” “Nobody remembers?” “No.” I look back up at mommy and Vi. They give each other a hug and I join in. I can’t feel them. “Did I die today?” “You did, Jean.” “Was I the pure soul the world lost?” Grandpa nods. “Oh.”


The first time I came back, there were still things that smelt of me. My shaving brush in our pristine white bathroom, my shirts in the wardrobe, a faint smell of cigarettes in my study so you can almost see me exhaling a cloud of white smoke into the easy green light of the vintage lamp-shades. You’d noticed them too. Those stubborn smells. They ingrain into the fabrics of our suburban homes like they ingrain into our minds - one inhalation and you’re transported to another time, another time, another time... The first time I came back I found you at the bedroom closet holding a dark green jumper that you’d bought for me. The wool itched like hell against my skin but I wore it anyway because I didn’t want to hurt you. I never did, you know. You were holding the coarse wool to your skin as if it were the delicate blush silk we saw in the souk on a holiday to Morocco once. You pressed the fabric to your mouth and inhaled the smell of my aftershave - cedarwood and vetiver, dark handsome smells. You could almost remember, at that moment, the sound of my laugh. The second time I came back, my smell was less noticeable. It bothered me. You’d moved my shaving brush into the closet - not thrown away, not yet. The shirts were still in the wardrobe and the smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the study, but fainter now. The green wool jumper had echoes of cedarwood and vetiver but the depth of colour had drained out of the smell like your pale face blanching when you feel me pass through you. That’s the funny thing - I am simply doing now, in a literal way, what I have always done metaphysically: in all our years of marriage I passed through you like water through wine, coloured and clouded your existence. Now I can actually walk through you - the old cliché about us being able to walk through walls is true. Sometimes I try and stand exactly inside you, follow each gesture of your small hands - gestures I know like the back of my hand, studied over years of watching you flick ash from a cigarette or rake hair from your eyes when you laughed. That offers me a small comfort - standing inside you, following your gestures. Your pale white hand, fingernails bitten and skin-picked at the cuticles, and the paler translucence of my own ethereal hand. Our hands together again at last in a mere shadow-dance of their old embrace. It kills me again every time I pass through you - to see you flinch at the sudden cold you feel in your bones at my chill touch. You notice it. You notice me. But you don’t realise what you notice beyond feeling each hair on your spine stand up and a plummeting sensation in your gut - the vague bleak ache of almost encountering something long loved and hard lost. And I was hard lost. I never realised before that I would be so missed. I never realised you would stand there with the green wool jumper and grieve my cedarwood and vetiver. I never realised you would dash hot salt from your eyes as you stood in my study forgetting already the contours of my face. That’s one of the biggest downsides to my new condition of being dead: whereas you are cursed to forget me slowly and unstoppably, I am doomed with a clarity of memory unlike the living possess. It is my burden to carry just as it is yours to lose me piecemeal - the sound of my voice one day, the precise shade of my hair the next. I see you trying to clutch on to the memories like you clutch at the string of pearls round your neck that I gave you for your birthday. You visit the bedroom closet more and more but the smell on the green wool has shrivelled to the musty unused smell of charity shop clothes - Did somebody die in these? That was the joke you made at the Oxfam over the lousy pair of grey chinos I’d picked out. You dug me in the ribs and whispered, Who died in these? The laugh flashed across your face like fleeting sunshine in rain-shadowed cloud banks - you were stressed that day because I had taken a dark turn in the forest of my mind and you couldn’t reach me to bring me home. You paced outside the charity shop and gobbled up Marlborough Lites in a restless cloud of smoke that ravelled round your throat like a scarf. The third time I came back, my smell was gone completely. You still took the green wool jumper out from time to time but the mean fist of disappointment always got you in the gut for that. Of course I checked the bathroom cabinet and of course you had disposed of my shaving kit - I knew it before I opened the plush white and steel door of the cabinet we’d had fitted only months before it happened. It is time , you said to yourself, as if the concept of time makes any sense to you any more. Grief blinds you to the passing of the days. You let the letters pile up on the doormat, you let regrets pile up in your mind like so many small stones until you find yourself carrying the dead weight of a skullful of rocks. Your head pounds, you reach for the aspirin, later for a malbec that slips from the bottle like a red velvet ribbon and is every bit as difficult to swallow. You gag on the crimson fabric of the wine, a sob rises from your chest, the wine only muffles it, muffles it, muffles it. I wonder, when I open the bathroom cabinet and see the empty space on the shelf where my shaving kit was, if you heard the creak of the cabinet door in your sleep, if you pulled the duvet around your ears, a feathered fortress against things that go bump in the night. The fourth time I came back, you were not there. I took the opportunity to leaf through the papers on my desk. You haven’t had the heart to touch them yet. It is the last room you’ve left, the study, because it was my room and life must go on in bedrooms and kitchens and sitting rooms. The shirts and green wool jumper had also vanished now as if they too were ghosts - ghost-garments that would haunt the same charity shop we’d laughed in, limp and unfilled on their hangers. You’d always teased me for wearing too much ‘drab’ - you were the colour to my beige, you were the sun to my moon, the light to my darkness. When we’d married, there were whispers in the family: What business does she have to be walking up the aisle with a manic depressive? I suppose in my final frenzy that was both a farewell and a fuck you to the world I proved them all right. I’m sorry , I whisper, but the words are ghosts of themselves, pale imitations of apology. In the papers in the study, there is nothing to see. An unpaid bill that will never be paid, a picture drawn by our granddaughter, half of the invites to your birthday party that I was writing when it happened. The only note I really want to see is noteworthy by it’s absence. I feel the lack of the last letter I left on the desk, neatly folded and addressed to you in my spidery black hand that was only a little more shaky than usual, like I feel your absence from me. I remember exactly where I left it, tucked under the snow-globe you gave me one Christmas with its cutesy little world of teddy bears in red and white Santa suits that’s only a little shake away from being a blind flurry of blizzard. That’s how my world always felt, you know: one little shake and a blizzard of unease would sting my eyes and howl my ears to deafness. The fifth time I came back, the study door was shut. I noticed you’d moved the tiny urn from the mantle-piece too - you had scattered my ashes weeks ago at the park where we had courted, as dizzy with grief as we were then with lovers’ impatience to fall headlong into each other. You picked up conkers and pocketed them like small talismans the day of the memorial. It felt good to have something very hard and very smooth between the pocketed fingers of one hand as the other threw my ashes to blind the wind’s eyes. The priest also throws his words to the wind, humble comforts that you half-hear above the yowling of a November north-westerly. You stamp your feet and dig for warmth in your pockets. On the way home, you laugh with the others about my old quirks and catchphrases and your laughter has the airy sunshine of a Spring day echoing with light after storms. I follow you at what I have judged a seemly distance (I did not wish you to feel the cold ghost-touch on your arm today at the memorial) and now I, too, smile as you recount the story of how we met. It was a blind date to the botanic gardens arranged by mutual friends. The hothouses were stifling and sweat beaded on my forehead and I regretted wearing the heavy flannel shirt. I was anxious - you were beautiful. We talked of our dreams to travel, touring the world in our minds as we read the exotic placenames on the labels of the plants - Jaipur, Malaysia, Nicaragua , their names read like spells. By the end of the date we were holding hands and you were impressing me with your knowledge of the tiny curl-backed ferns and plump squat cacti. Your eyes were dashed with diamonds as you spoke, the scintillation of a fresh young mind at work. I kissed you beneath the Indian vines and the smell of your vanilla chap-stick mixed with the smell of the desert rose whose flowers bloomed like the first recognition of a kindred soul. The sixth time I came back, I knew instantly that I would not return. I do not want your dreams haunted by the memory of my suicide forever and I may be a ghost but the living have a habit of noticing our shyly-left clues - the pile of papers in the study moved and no through-draft to have shuffled its ghostly fingers through them, a bathroom cabinet door left ajar, a wool jumper refolded out of habit when you’d left it scrunched up in a fit of weeping. We must keep the secrets of the dead. These half-snatched glimpses of us that the living may glean at midnight in the wicked dry laughter of a door-hinge or creak of an untrustworthy floorboard are the only clues we may leave. You will shiver and turn on the light and reach for the water on the bedside table to ease the sudden dryness in your mouth. You will sleep a little uneasily that night but you are not a believer in the supernatural. You do not believe in me, just like I did not believe in myself. I want life to go on for you, I want laughter to go on for you. I want you to heal from the loss of me, and lead, with my blessing, a life less haunted than mine. And so I will not come back again, but pray only that we may meet again one day, when you too will be no more than a breath down someone’s neck in the night and a wandering stranger in the darkness, to touch hands once more, spirit to spirit, like we always did...


In the beginning god created the heaven and the earth. Then he said “let there be light!” And there was light. Et cetera. god created man on the sixth day. And this was good. god blew into the nostrils of dust, and created Adam. god also saw that Adam was alone, so he created a partner from Adam’s rib, and named her Eve. On the earth, Adam and Eve lived in a bountiful paradise god perfected for their birth. Verdant life burst from every inch of this garden named Eden. Amongst the green were the clusters of reds, purples, and oranges of fruits and floral arrangements, all for them. Everything was theirs. And this was good. “Everything you see in this land is free to you. All these animals are yours to domesticate, eat, and own. Every tree you see is yours, and so is the fruit those trees bear. You shall eat from any tree you see here in this garden of Eden, except the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. For if you disobey me and eat the fruit from this tree, you will die,” said god to Adam. “I have no concept of what death is,” said Adam, “ and I know not why I should fear it. However, your booming voice insinuates that it is a concept that should be feared. I am becoming self aware, and this is the first negative emotion I have ever felt, and I do not like it. I will not jeopardize my bliss further. I have an idea, father, my first idea, and it will be good,” Adam said to god. Adam found the sharpest rock, the strongest bough, and the toughest vine, and tinkered the universe’s first axe. Adam found the tree in the center of the garden with the most enticing fruit, and proceeded to chop down the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. god was perplexed, and consulted his angels. “Reverse psychology really is not all it is cracked up to be. I don’t know what to do, this was not my ultimate plan,” god said. “Is it not cruel” said an angel “to endow a creature with free will and then set traps for their failure? How could you love man and crave his downfall? Is that not sadism?” “I gave them too much free will,” said god, shaking his head. “But god,” said another angel, “without the Knowledge of Good and Evil, what will become of man?” Adam and Eve were happy. All the fruit and animals were theirs, in this endless paradise. With bellies full of fruit, they reclined in the shade. With no responsibilities, and without a care in the world, they spent their days eating, reclining, and procreating. This was good, or bad. They had no knowledge of either. This just was. Eve grew plump with children, and gave birth with ease. This irritated god. He had something else in mind for childbearing, and now, it would never be. Adam and Eve eventually put on some weight. And this was good, or bad. They had no knowledge of either. This just was. Eve routinely spouted children every 9 months, and forth from her womb they waddled into the garden. With nothing to teach, and no risk of death, these tubby spawns of man grew fat, while their intellect remained non-existent. Babies played with snakes and bunnies alike, and stripped the bushes of berries. With no incentive to leave, living only within reward, eating, and procreation, what was to prevent the incest? Or the homosexuality? god had not gotten to Leviticus yet, and this eternal Genesis was getting frustratingly weird. Babies popped from daughters and sisters as easily as they were conceived, with the ramifications equal to that of a bowel movement. The spawns from the fat, happy inbreds became more twisted of mind and body as the generations layered. And this was good, or bad.They had no knowledge of either. This just was. The garden began to suffer. All the trees and bushes were raped of their fruits quicker than this continuous spring could endow. The flowerbeds were trampled under the weight of twisted inbred feet and rampant sexual intercourse. Let me remind you, they are all still naked. Without death and without diffusion of population beyond the garden, god was at a loss for how to proceed. “With my knowledge of good and evil, I can say, confidently, this is bad,” god said, grimacing at Eden from above. “There are parasites in my paradise.” “This is unsustainable,” said an angel to god. “Literally, I have done the math. Eventually they will be forced from the garden, and roam the rest of the earth. The earth can only sustain these immortal inbreds for another few hundred years, and I don’t want to know what will become of your earth after that.” “Neither do I,” said god, with a heavy heart. And god pressed the “reset” button again.


I also might be dead, which is its own freedom in a sense. I almost didn’t check anything at all. The movie was late, I was tired and more than a little high, and I was feeling just enough of a buzz to feel young and reckless and indestructible. Twenty five going on forever. But my roommate was out of town, and I was no hero. So, gulping Cool Blue Gatorare like an overzealous Little Leaguer, I shuffled to the guest bedroom, flicked on the lights, opened the bathroom door. Clear. Checked the guest closet: clear. Groaning, flattened myself on the ground and checked under the bed. I wasn’t sure if anyone could fit under there, but if I was doing it, might as well commit. Hall closet, my shower, my closet: not a soul to be found. Marinading in the privacy of my own embarrassment, I stuffed my toothbrush into my mouth. It was because of that single moment when Jonah had held out the joint, and I, a slave to my casual nonchalance, accepted it with only the slightest hesitation even though I really didn’t want any more, that I crossed the line from fine to moderately stoned. And it was because of that buzz that I didn’t notice that in brushing my teeth I had allowed my own foamy spit to seep onto my fingers. And it was because I didn’t notice that foamy spit that my phone slipped from my fingers as I pilgrimaged to my bed. And then, upon kneeling down to grope under my bed for the piece of shit that had gotten me in enough trouble already, I looked into the abyss. And the abyss was wearing Warby Parkers. “What the fuck?” I was standing now. So was my unexpected companion who I had temporarily dubbed the Scary Guy. Scary Guy wasn’t visually scary, as he was shorter than I was and was wearing Crocs. “Hi.” “Hi. Who the fuck are you?” “I’m Kyle. I was going to kill you.” \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* “Milk? Honey?” “Just a splash of milk, please.” Kyle settled down at the table, knife in hand. I slid his earl grey over to him. We eyed each other. Me, regarding him with terror. Him, regarding me with interest. We had been over the basics: he had warned me not to scream, or he would stab me. He warned me not to try to call the police, or he would stab me. He said this as a matter of fact, not a threat, which was both comforting and terrifying, a perfect encapsulation of his overall vibe. “So what now?” “I’m not sure. I’ve really never been caught before.” Kyle sipped thoughtfully, itching his temple with the knife. “Can I ask you not to kill me?” “You’ve seen my face.” “Yea, but what am I going to do? Call the cops and say, ‘this man was about to kill me but because I caught him under the bed, he decided not to? No officer, he didn’t even touch me?’ I don’t even know how you got in.” “Trade secret.” “Fair.” I squeezed my mug, the porcelain burning my hands. This was a good sign. If he was going to kill me anyway, he might as well tell me how he got in. My phone was in his pocket. There was no landline. Could I overpower him? “Don’t you want to know why?” “Why what?” “Why I was going to kill you.” A thought that had genuinely not occurred to me, concerned more with the knife going into my body rather than questioning its motives. “I mean I guess so.” “You can ask.” “Kind of seems like you want me to ask.” “Doesn’t really matter to me either way. You’re going to be dead anyway.” I took a deep breath. Perhaps Kyle was committed. Perhaps I could talk this way out of this.” “Okay. Why were you going to kill me?” And he told me. He told me about how he’d seen me eat an entire pack of saltines on the subway while trying to hide it. He told me how he followed me home and began to watch me. He told me how he had made a habit out of killing genuinely sad people, his form of unconsensual mercy killings. “Look. You’re wealthy. Successful. Good looking. You seem to have friends. Decently healthy lifestyle. You seem to be doing everything right. So if you can’t be fucking happy with all these wonderful things and resources...” He trailed off, shrugging apologetically. I stared at him. With anyone else, Iw ould have thought it was an elaborate joke. A fucked up prank show, a twisted practical joke from Casey. But surprisingly, I trusted Kyle. “My life was so hopeless that you thought you’d be doing me a service by murdering me with a paring knife?” There was pity in Kyle’s eyes. He was certifiably insane, about to kill a stranger with a paring knife, and wearing fucking crocs in my well-appointed yet humble West Village apartment, and he pitied me. “Yes.” And it was the way he looked at me then, with honesty and sympathy and with complete conviction in his own fucked-up morals, that made me issue a proposal. And he countered and we bartered and negotiated and debated and pleaded a little (me) and in the end hashed out our arrangement. Kyle would not kill me. Yet. He would stick around and monitor my happiness, checking in periodically. In one year, we would reassess. And he would either kill me, or he wouldn’t. There was no point in going to the police; Kyle revealed that he’d been in my apartment no fewer than a dozen times, and the local brass weren’t exactly known for their proactivity. Kyle was a man of his word. He promised he would help me find my passion, as he had found his own passion of euthanizing the depressed. And with that, our life together began.


Tuesday 4:20 The sentences on the page blurred into opaque black lines as Callie's eyes tried to fixate on the words, she squinted them to focus. Her math professor’s monotone voice dragged on despite the class's apparent lack of interest. The window was open. A cool breeze gently hit her face, occasionally taking a bit of her vibrant red hair with it. That’s what it said on the package, vibrant red. She twirled a strand around her finger. The clock mocked her, it extended every second as long and tedious as it could muster. The bell shrieked through the corridors and a swarming of voices erupted around her. Callie kept her eyes on her backpack while rapidly shoveling down her papers, so harshly that they wrinkled and tore. She was in a hurry, she was told to come at 4:40. Callie Davis slung her backpack over her right shoulder and walked out. 4.26 p.m An explosion of heat hit her as the plastic doors shredded open. It must have been one of the hottest days in Seattle. She tried to get past the people rushing out, but it seemed to be nearly impossible. They all must have been in a hurry too. The clock showed just past 4:30, she wouldn't make it. Callie glanced around the subway, all the seats were taken. She leaned into the corner while simultaneously grabbing one of the cold metal handrails. It was like a dance. A dance she performed every day, but especially on Tuesdays. By adjusting her grip, her fingers slowly became less sweaty. Her eyes bored out the window as the subway headed to the next stop. Every time Callie visited, the feeling that all was lost grew. Every week her grandma got a little bit worse. Margot had always loved to talk, and Callie tried to keep the tradition up. Even when she mixed up the dates and details, Callie was always her number-one listener. She tried to follow along by nods and smiles to keep her engaged, even though it was difficult to keep up sometimes. It was a jumble of stories that didn't make sense. Callie imagined that everything she told her was memories from the old days, before the sickness swallowed her. The brief moments of her grandma’s recall often caught her off guard, but before she knew it, she fell back into that looming fog This was her stop, Pearson Street. Once again, her backpack took place over her shoulder. Callie waited for the doors to open, impatiently tapping her foot on the rubber floors. With a creak the doors shut open. Almost running, she crossed the turnstile, heading right. 4.52 p.m Margot held up her feet and wiggled them, showing off her new blue shoes, cozy and soft for her feet. “My granddaughter got them for me,” she told a nursing home attendant, joyful. Her face brightened as she saw Callie in the hallway. Of course, Callie didn’t know if it was her granddaughter she saw or someone entirely else. Her dirty Doc martins left a trail on the clinical clean floors as she approached. “Calliope is here to see you Margot” the nurse informed, giving Callie a don’t be late next time kind of look. It may have seemed a bit harsh, but it was true, every minute wasted was a lost opportunity. “You know you shouldn’t walk in with your shoes dear; you’ll get the floor all dirty” Margot reached for her purse, pulling up a pair of pink silk slippers. “You can borrow these” she dramatically sighed, accompanied by a smile. Who am I today? Her mom? Her nurse? An old colleague or friend? She thought. She admitted that her usual stubborn optimism had grown fainter and fainter over the months. Callie didn’t know what was more terrifying anymore, being forgotten or forgetting herself. A year ago, Callie was sure her grandma was the exception, she was healthy and strong. Never had any surgery complications or diseases. She was a ray of sunshine, the sun itself. Back in the day, she had a thousand lovers, sailed from continent to continent. Her grandmother was always on board with an adventure, and so had her grandfather been. Age was never an obstacle; she captured age and made it her own. Played with it, teased it, and mastered it. She was the drama, the life of the party. Never a dull moment by the side of Margot Davis. In Callie's mind, her grandmother would never, ever forget her. How could she? She felt betrayed, erased, like none of their memories together had mattered in the end. Can you truthfully say you shared a memory together if you’re the only one remembering it? It felt strange being the only one responsible to keep them alive if she forgot, then who would be the reminder? A wave of guilt washed over her. She knew her grandma struggled, fought the black mist clouding her head. It was wrong to hold her accountable. "Grandma, how are you, any stories to tell? It’s me Calliope", she said with the usual hopeful tone, by now it sounded forced. e “Honey I'm not blind, I can see who you are, I'm not dying just yet,” she said with a scoff and a laugh, patting the side of the bed for her to sit down. Callie stood in utter shock. A glance of hope and excitement rushed through her body. What was happening? She leaned to the nurse and whispered. “Is she really lucid?” The nurse nodded. “She’s been lucid for about half an hour now; I was afraid she would fall back before you came here. This might be her last time of lucidity, ” she gave a compassionate expression. “ we try to keep her brain active by talking, terminally lucid patients often lose themselves in their silence, then there is difficulty ever bringing them back” There was an awkwardly long pause, it seemed to go on forever. Then the forbidden words were said. “ Alzheimer's will beat her at last, and this might be that day” Callie glanced towards the withering woman sitting on the hospital bed before her. She didn’t dare to look the nurse in the eyes. The nurse took the hint. “Tell me if you need anything” She gave a last pitiful smile, then walked away. “Calliope, it’s been a while, don't keep me waiting!” Margot laughed while taking a sip of water, raising her arms for an embrace. Calliope , only grandma called her that. It had been a long time since she last heard that name. She had missed it. Her name had always been Callie, ever since first grade. It is not only easier to pronounce, but also to spell and remember. Most people didn’t even know that her real name is Calliope. Callie didn’t answer. Instead, she hugged her, tight. Wrapped her arms around the frail shell of a woman and cried. She cried and cried, until her eyes were swelled and red, until mascara smudged on the white hospital gown. “ Honey what’s wrong?”, her grandmother asked, gently patting Callie's head. She wiped her tears away with her hand, smiling. “ I have just had a very very bad day, and seeing you has made it so much better”. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in months” Margot continued, smiling softly. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in years” Callie laughed, tears threatening to run down her cheeks. She rubbed her eyes, once again ruining her black eye makeup of the day. Her grandma had no idea that her brain was tearing itself apart. And today Calliope didn’t have the heart to remind her. “Do you want to play some board games? I know they have your favorite on the shelf over there” She smiled her best smile, the one she knew her grandma loved. A youthful smile, full of hope and dreams. She turned to the shelf, trying to keep the fantasy going. Do this, she told herself, do this for your grandma, do this for Mags. Callie wanted her grandma to leave this world in peace and joy, not by seeing her grandchild grieve her death before it had happened. She had to keep her talking, keep her engaged. 7.05 p.m The hours went by. One hour, two hours. All Callie could think about was, how much longer until she forgets me again. How much longer until nothing could be understood? It was like slowly pressing a nail into a balloon, knowing it would pop any second. How much longer until there wasn’t anything to remember anymore? Until she wasn’t just confused and forgetting memories anymore, but when there were none left to forget. They talked and talked, then talked some more. Every time she caught Margot slipping out of the conversation, she quickly asked a question. Remember that time you colored your hair green to prove to me that green hair could be pulled off? Tell me about when you and grandpa sailed over the Atlantic. Tell me your life story . Every time she left for a bathroom break, Callie's heart stopped, imagining her returning confused and dazed. But instead, she came back complaining that they’d changed the toilet paper to the “wrong type” After a while, Callie fully fell for her own fantasy. They laughed as if they were back at home, drinking lemonade on the balcony, gossiping about the other elders across the apartment. Her "enemies", she used to call them. She laughed at the memories until she realized she was the only one laughing. It had happened. A small wrinkle between Margot's eyebrows had formed. Her previous expression had disappeared and confusion took its place. Her eyes traced the cards in her hands, then curiously set her eyes upon Callie. 7.47 p.m Margot stared at an unfamiliar room. Unfamiliar people were talking to her. People were walking all over the place, but she didn’t remember where she was. Everything seemed familiar, but she just couldn’t recognize anything. All these people were suddenly trying to talk to her, but she didn’t know who they were, or what they were talking about. A girl was crying beside her, she didn't recognize her face. She stared at her reflection. She stared at a fading memory. A memory that would soon be forgotten along with the knowledge of her existence. She felt as if she had entered a home, but couldn’t find her way out. It all seemed comforting, but it slowly became the same thing, and then it became nothing. Margot Robbins was sitting there, a shell of the person she used to be.


It was a cheap hotel and a pair of unfamiliar beds, and I probably wouldn’t have slept very well under any circumstances anyhow. Whatever the reason, Ben and I were up in time to see the sunrise. I didn’t mind a bit. The sooner this was over, the better. While he was still in the shower I walked down the balcony to get a coffee in the hotel lobby. The sun was just peeking over the horizon and the asphalt wasn’t the blistering hot sheet it would be in an hour or so, but I wore my sandals anyway. I hadn’t seen any snakes last night but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. The night clerk looked exhausted but kind, and I felt like buying her a coffee. I settled for exchanging smiles while I waited for the little door on the machine to open. The coffee was weak but the price was right. I knew I could choose between Ben complaining if I didn’t get him one too, or having him complain about how lousy it was. I opted for the latter and stepped back outside with just the one paper cup. Back outside our room, I opened the door and heard the shower still running. Ben always got dressed in the bathroom, I knew, so I left the room door open and stepped back outside to watch the sunrise. The car was parked just below us, and it’d be hot as an oven by the time Ben finished packing. I thought about running downstairs and opening the windows but I couldn’t be bothered. “Connecting with nature out there, are you?” Ben asked a few minutes later. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked without turning around. He sidled up beside me at the railing. “It’ll be awfully bright for driving.” “We can always stop for breakfast somewhere.” “Haven’t you already got yours there? Where’s mine, anyway?” “You hate instant coffee.” He laughed. “You know me too well, man.” He took a moment to look out at the dazzling rays. “Guess you know her real well, too.” “Yeah, she doesn’t like instant coffee either.” He laughed harder. I joined in but I guess I missed a beat. “Come on, Dan,” he said. “We talked about this, didn’t we? You know I’ll take good care of her, and you’re the one moving to France.” “Yeah, yeah, of course,” I said. “Ready to go?” “I’ll go pack,” he said. “You want to drive?” “Very funny.” “I’m serious, Dan.” He tossed me the keys. With my coffee in one hand, I was lucky to catch them with the other. That, he did find funny. It only took him a minute or so to throw everything in his suitcase and zip it up, and I still hadn’t quite finished the coffee when we shut the door behind us. Seeing I wasn’t done, he said, “Could you finish that before we go?” “Listen to you!” But I finished off the coffee as directed while he dropped off the key inside. I started the car and got the air conditioner running, and stepped back outside to wait for Ben. He must have stopped to chat up the night clerk, because he had that same bashful grin he’d always gotten from flirting since high school. “Let’s go find that diner,” he said. The first few minutes out on the road were quiet. It was a long drive to Lake MacPherson, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted it to be over now, or if I wished it were an even longer drive. Ben must have had similar thoughts, because he broke the silence with a memory that had been on my mind, too. “Remember the first summer you had your license?” he asked. “We had that big long road trip planned, but your parents wouldn’t even let us leave town?” “Didn’t we know they would say no!” I agreed. “I remember thinking I shouldn’t even ask, at least then I’d be able to think it might happen someday.” “And it did! I mean it is!” “Yeah.” I wondered if it ever got this hot in France. Probably not. There’s a reason their novels are always so depressing. “Come on, Dan, you had some great times with her!” Ben said. “You’ll always have those memories.” “You’re right, of course,” I said. “And French women smoke more than she does, don’t they?” Ben laughed. “I sure hope so! But they’re better on the curves!” I laughed, for real this time. It felt good. The elusive first diner appeared just as we were finally cooling off. I pulled off and suggested leaving the windows open, but Ben vetoed it. The place was about half full, and the greeter pointed us to a booth by the window. She was tall with a few extra pounds and red hair in a bun with a pencil stuck through it, a perfect combination of both our styles. “Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?” she asked. “Oh, you surely may...Julie!” Ben said with that same grin, after craning his neck to see her nametag. “Allrighty then!” she said, and spun on her heel to go get it. “Think she likes me,” Ben said. “Think she didn’t appreciate you staring at her boob,” I said. “Can I help it if that’s where her nametag is?” Ben replied. “Not all of us stayed in college and got all refined, Mister Feminist.” “Yeah, whatever,” I said, and turned my attention to the menu. I got waffles and scrambled eggs and the biggest orange juice they had. Ben got an omelette and hashbrowns, and offered to pay for my share. “Sending off gift, man,” he said as we were finishing up. “No, that’s fine!” I said. “I’m flush with my last paycheck from that place, you know.” “That place!” he repeated. “No love lost there, huh?” “It did push me to the point where I had the courage to buy that one way ticket to Paris, didn’t it?” “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Ben said. “Just...I feel like I ought to get you something, you know?” “Just take good care of her.” “You know I’ll do that, Dan!” Did I, really? We’d already gone over her likes and dislikes, what worked and what didn’t and what to avoid at all costs, and what to try first when she was acting up, and how to take good care of her. But did I really know if Ben was up to it? He was my oldest and best friend, but I’d learned things about her that I could only have learned through a long and intense relationship, and all through the long drive I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d forgotten something. Maybe it was just guilt that here I was running off to France, maybe I was forgetting something - several things, even! - that I just knew instinctively after all this time. Or was it that I was jealous and didn’t want him to know every last secret? Through the long and poignant drive to Lake Macpherson, I just couldn’t tell for sure. We both did our best to talk about other things - old friends, memories from high school, plans for the next big trip, which we were both sure would happen even if we had no idea when - but I couldn’t set my mind at rest about the whole thing. Rather than give him any excuse to accuse me of whining, I kept my mouth shut for long stretches. Ben didn’t seem to mind. He even took a nap for an hour or so after lunch, leaving me alone with my own poignant thoughts. It didn’t help and I was glad when he woke up. “How much farther?” he asked. “We’re almost there.” “Can I treat you to dinner at least, when we get there?” “If you insist. You really don’t have to, man.” But there was a nice bistro by the hotel, and when I saw the prices, I caved in. At least we got a male waiter. “So how long are you staying here, again?” he asked as we ate our steaks and salads. “Three days,” I said. “My folks think I’m still working through this week, so no long goodbyes.” Then I chuckled. “Not with them anyway.” “Dan, I promised, didn’t I? I’ll take care of her!” I nodded. “Thanks.” “How’s the wine?” he asked. “Great,” I said. “Sorry you can’t have any.” “Don’t be,” he said. “Better safe than sorry. Remember Jimmyjim?” “God, that sure got the point across, didn’t it?” I nodded and did take a moment to remember Jimmyjim. Back in ninth grade, our school had brought in a speaker who’d killed his son, Jimmyjim, in a drunk driving accident. Heavyhanded as hell, but it had worked: neither of us had ever gotten behind the wheel after even one beer. The sun was setting as we finished our dessert and Ben paid the bill. As we stepped outside, we must have looked like two guys just enjoying a decadent meal, no sign of the goodbye we were in for now. I considered inviting him to crash in my hotel room and head home in the morning, but I didn’t really want that. He was my best friend, but I wanted this over with. “Well, I ought to get home just about ten,” he said as we lingered on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. “Anyone there I can say hi to for you?” “Not my folks, that’s for sure. Remember...” “I know, Dan, they think you’re still working and don’t have time to visit. Ain’t like I want to have to see them either, you know.” “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” “Well, I guess I’ll be off, my friend,” he said. We shook hands, and I turned to head back to the hotel. “I’ll email you from France,” I said. “Uh, Dan?” I stopped in my tracks. “Oh!” I laughed and shook my head. “Didn’t I tell you I was having a hard time letting go!” “I know, man, but I told you I’d take good care of her.” “I know you will, Ben. Of course you will.” With that, I reluctantly drew the keys out of my pocket. “Here you go. Did I tell you she likes an oil change every six months?” “At least five times, Dan. And rotate the tires then, too.” “Right, and -” “Dan! I’ve got it! Have a safe trip!” “Thanks,” I said. “You too.” And I turned back toward the hotel. I just couldn’t watch him drive off in her. It was a beautiful hotel room and I was feeling strangely relieved, now that it was over. Relieved, but strung out from the road. I took a long bath. When I got dried off, I was feeling refreshed rather than tired, so I put a fresh change of clothes on and set off for the hotel bar. “House cocktail for you?” asked the barmaid as I took a seat by the window. “We call it a MacPherson Mimosa.” “Sounds great,” I said. “Please.” “Certainly, sir.” She poured me a glass of water and was off to make the drink, and I turned and looked out the window at the full moon shining on the lake. La lune, le lac...I had three days to brush up my French and no way to go anywhere else if I wanted to. I sipped the ice water and smiled.


"Everybody get down on the ground! Put your hands on your head don't make a move." I remember that day clear as blue sky, that day that condemned me to a life of incarceration. I had gotten out of my van with two assault rifles, thinking that nothing could go wrong, and then it did. As soon as I made a move on the vault, the police burst in to shut it down. It was as if my entire life flashed before my eyes, as they handcuffed me, and I knew at that moment that I had made a mistake. The next few weeks went by in a blur, from the trial to the sentencing. I almost didn't notice anything until they locked me in the cold, dark, cell. I can still smell that now as if I was being chastised by the prisoners that came before. Not that I don't have anything to regret, because if anything, I deserve all this and more. Still, there's no way that I would ever do something like that again. I've learned my lesson, and that's why I deserve parole. That was 3 weeks ago, and since then, they released me from the facility and granted me parole. I was never happier in my entire life. Darn it, I wouldn't have been happier if I actually succeeded in robbing the bank. Now, I get to go home, to see my wife and kids for the first time in five years. I hope Margaret's doing fine. She's the most loyal person I know, and I love her more than I love myself. I hope that she's still willing to take me back. "Kingston, you okay? You're being super quiet." Martin, my best friend who was in the area, inquired. "Yeah! I'm fine, I'm a little rattled, that's all. I've been inside that place for longer than I could've been president!" I was saying with a smile. I need to practice my interpersonal skills more. In the slammer, you only ever talk when you're trying to face off with someone else. "So how's Margaret? Have you talked to her at all?" I asked with a hopeful gaze. "Nah, man, I haven't seen her. I was only in the area for this job interview and thought I'd drive you back." He said, "Why?" My answer's the same as before. "I haven't seen her in five years!" He doesn't seem to understand the effect that much time in prison could have on a person. We started pulling into the driveway of my house. I thanked Martin quickly and ran up to the front door, knocking as hard as I could. The person answering the door is a shriveled, pale, old lady. "Who are you? Where's Margaret Stevens?" I asked, in shock. "Oh honey, you must be the husband. Margaret died three years ago. They put the child up for adoption." She said, her voice dripping with sympathy. ______________________________________________ I can't believe it. I just can't. That's not the Margaret I knew. The Margaret I knew wouldn't have done this to me. I don't know what I'm going to do now. What can I do? Sweet Lacey is up in a foster home right now, without her father, and what can I do? Nothing. I can't do anything to stop it. Never before have I felt so helpless. Not when I first broke a bone in a prison fight. Not when I got thrown into prison in the first place. "Are you okay, mister?" I can hear the voice, but I don't care. I run out into the street and I walk away. I walk wherever my feet take me. Sometimes I punch lampposts, kick the trash cans, but I can't get over it. Why did I have to rob that bank? I took myself away from my wife, away when I should've been there, by her side, even in death. I have no purpose. No family. At least in prison, I had something to live for. Now I don't even have myself to fight for. _____________________________________________ "Time of death, 8:30 PM. Take him down to the hospital." Officer Wilkes said. I was starting to pull the man into the ambulance when I see his face, the face of Kingston Fisher. I was his prison medic back in the day, back before I got transferred to the City Hospital. I never thought I'd see him again. "Come on, Emily, move it." my partner said, and I finished hauling him into the ambulance. Jeez, I haven't seen him in forever, and now he was dead! I was standing in the ambulance, thinking as it was driving. Kingston always seemed like he never belonged there. He just wanted to go back to his family. I had heard about a Margaret Fisher dying in the Oncology Unit, so that could've been why. We started driving up the intersection, I got into the passenger's seat, not willing to face my former ward. I hope that he died fast and painless because he was a good man. "Which road are we taking today? Merrill or Lynshire?" I asked my partner. "The interstate, Emily. We gotta get him there as fast as we can, because we may not be able to preserve his body for a funeral." I know he has no family, but I still don't object when he says this, because I want it to be true. I want him to have a good funeral. It is getting so commonplace for released convicts to commit suicide. I'm not surprised, since they have to go back into the world a mark on their record. I know firsthand from convicts on their second offense that they find it easier in jail. Easier because you have a stable flow of food and a roof over your head at night. I'm not surprised that Kingston chose death over life. It can't have been easy for him. I only wish that my daughter Lacey turns out okay. The last thing that I want is for her to think adoption makes you lesser than. We sped down the interstate highway, and I sent a prayer for Kingston, hoping that whatever comes next for him is merciful and that they recognize his pain.


This is it, my final performance. I can hear the crowd cheering, the slight rumble of the ground when the crowd gets more and more excited. The lights go dim and I take a deep breath, breathing in the cool crisp air of the rink, the smell of sweat and ice, and a memory of when I first started to skate. The music starts, the memory is interrupted and I’m off. I go around the rink once then stop in the middle, I bow to the audience and the judges, and then the music changes and my feet start to move. They move like fish in a wave, like birds in the air, calm and still, but graceful like a ballerina. “I’m on autopilot,” I say to myself, “that won’t cut it.” I start to lean into the music like I am a quarter note among the staff that makes a symphony of sound. The ice is like grace as I carefully etch it with my life story. “Fifteen more measures, only fifteen more,” I say as I build up speed to do a quadruple jump; I have only made it once and that was in a practice run two days ago, I didn’t land it all the way but I did it and it felt amazing. Today will be my first time doing it in front of an audience...and as you might expect I was a little nervous. But not today, I won’t let that happen to me, not today, not ever. I pushed through my nerves with an axle jump. I landed it on the beat, two measures before the big jump. I can feel my heart beating, so hard it could burst. One measure... so I begin my prep. I breathe in and out then JUMP!...one, the cool air rushing past...two, I’m high in the air...three, I breathe, it’s almost over...four, I made it...and then nothing. It felt as if I was floating in the air, nothing could be better. I was still like nothing could move me but the wind. The memory that was deep in my mind when I touched the ice with a skate for the very first time. It felt the same. I landed, it felt perfect, but it was far from. The blade of my right ice skate breaks, my knee hits the ground; I felt my leg burst. I try to catch myself with my left arm but I slip. My arm goes numb, I hear a crack. I hit the ice and couldn’t breathe. I am on my back, and I feel nothing...then the pain set in and I cried out. Blood is rushing down my head and onto the ice. My left arm from the shoulder to the tips of my fingers, I couldn’t feel a thing. I couldn't move, but I desperately wanted to. There was a piece of my skate’s blade underneath my back, I can feel it in my spine. Something was very wrong. As I lay here crying out, as blood fleas from my body, all I can think is that I should have, that I should... I... I... I woke up in the hospital two days later and was in so much pain that I would have rather relived the most embarrassing moment of my life. I wanted to cry, so I did. I cried until my mom, Nadenka, came in and told me that she was there for me and would never leave my side while I laid in this bed. She was the only family member to be with me for the performance. My fiance, Larissa, dad, Boris, two brothers, Victor and Vladimir, and two sisters, Nastasia and Anya couldn’t come due to weather, work, or prior engagements. My leg was in a cast. I could feel the metal pins they put into my leg like you are getting a shot and being punched at the same time. I looked to my left. My whole arm was in a cast. I had five pins in my shoulder, four in my elbow, and three in my wrist. I moved my neck, it cracked, it felt good. The liberty of being able to move my neck made me cry again after seeing my leg and arm. I had movement in my neck and right arm, nothing else. Whenever I would take a breath the air would fill my lungs, but the pressure on my spine was too much that I could only take short and small breaths. I have been awake for fifteen minutes and a nurse and doctor and an intern enter my room. The doctor asks if my mom is ok to stay, like a defensive mother bear she says yes. You could hear the disdain in her voice from the question. The doctor spouted some words about what had happened, but I knew what happened, I was there. He then tells me about treatments I can try and what they will do to improve my situation. I wanted to ask if I would ever be able to skate again, but the way the doctor was talking made me think that I would be lucky if I could walk. I couldn’t stand his voice, the way he didn’t care about how I would never walk or skate. He kept going on and on about how I was paralyzed from the waist down due to the piece of skate that cut into my spine. He said that the shard hit my spinal cord in just the right place to cause me to be paralyzed. My mom couldn’t speak. She just looked at me like a mother would after hearing something like this. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to accept it. Why, why me. All I did was skate and help people so why did the universe decide to take away the thing I love most away. I couldn’t take it, I yelled, “WHEN WILL I SKATE AGAIN!” The room went silent, the hospital staff just looked at me with the look you would give a child who didn’t understand what you said. My mom just looked at me with pain in her eyes and she couldn’t stop holding my hand like she was keeping me tied down to the world. The doctor in his clean white coat and dark slicked-back hair finally spoke. “Listen, Alexei, there is no easy way to put this... you are paralyzed from the waist down. The nerve damage is too extensive for us to repair, and it won’t be able to heal itself either. I’m sorry but you will never be able to skate again. It would take a miracle for you to even walk again, but Alexei, I’m sorry there is nothing more we can do other than heal your bones and teach you how to adjust to your new way of life.” “Leave me,” I said “I want to be alone, I... I need time to think” The doctors left the room and it was just me and my mom. “My darling Alexei, my darling boy,” my mother said in her thick Russian accent. “Please just leave me, I just want time to think, please.” My mom left the room and said she would just be outside if I needed her. When she left the room was quiet, just the constant beep of the heart monitor I was hooked to. It was nice, having the room to myself. I started to cry, not because of the pain of my body, but for the loss of the one thing in life that I held closest to my heart. Ice skating has been there for me from when I was five years old to now. I’m twenty-five, skating has been with me for twenty years it's all I know. For me, life has ended. I'm just a husk laying in a world that offers me nothing. I offer the world nothing. The next day Larissa, my fiance, burst into my room. Tears were streaming down her face. She collapsed at my bedside as if she had been shot. She was crying harder now. We sat in my room for what seemed like an eternity, then Larissa lifts her head and starts to speak. “My love, my dearest love Alexei. I was so worried, so scared. I... I just wanted to hold you in my arms and never let you go. I should have come. I should have come to see you, maybe then we would be in a restaurant right now eating, drinking, and laughing.” She starts to cry again, “We will get through this together. I love you. There is nothing you can do or say to make me leave you. I will always be here for you. I leaned on you for years now it is your turn to lean on me.” She grabbed my right hand and bowed her head. Her silk-like hair fell over her face. I missed the feel of her hair. I would comb it out for her at night after she had taken her shower, or I would braid it while we watched a movie. “There is room on the bed,” I say, “if you would like to sit with me.” She gets up from her knees. She moved her blond hair out of her face, it fell behind her back, almost to her waist. The bed was big enough for three, for when I had to be moved and more testing had to be done. She gets in the bed on my right side. She lays inside my arm and I hold her. Her face was facing mine and she kissed me. We then both fall asleep, the warmth of each other and the love we have made life seem bearable for a few moments. * * * * * * * * * * * * * I was finally out of the hospital. The smell of freshly fallen snow filled the air. The sky was clear and the sun was out. It was noon. A car was waiting for me and Larissa. We got in. Our destination was a physical therapy treatment center. The car pulls out of the hospital parking lot and turns north onto the street. The center was only four kilometers away, a quick drive. I soaked in every minute of the drive. Looking out the window, seeing the sky, snow, trees, and people. It felt so good just to be out. The freedom, so brief, but so fulfilling. We pulled into the center, the drive was up. My door was open and a ramp laid in front of me. I wheeled myself with one arm down the ramp. Larissa came up behind me and started to push me. “Please,” I said, with a voice that sounded like a wounded wolf. “I told you no matter what, you can’t push me away. I’m here and I am going to help you no matter what the cost is. I will be here.” Larissa said with a smile on her face. A nurse was waiting for us by the door. Above her, a sign read Physical Therapy Treatment Center in Russian Letters. She let us in and led us to my room. The room wasn’t large but wasn’t small. It had enough room for me to move my wheelchair around so that I could go to either side of the bed, into the bathroom, and up to the window. I was on the top of a six-story building, there was a courtyard in the middle, and a place to sit on the roof. From the roof, you could see the Ural Mountains. They were in the East, I was in Yekaterinburg, Russia. My home town, Moscow was 1,790.6 km away. The drive home would take 24 hours of nonstop driving. It was a two to a three-day trip back home. My mother left the hospital and went to go meet my father and siblings. Once I was settled in, a nurse came in to talk to me about what my stay would be like. Larissa was sitting on my right like she always does. As the nurse talked she mentioned that the process would be slow but the time was needed for the muscles and tissue to heal properly. She said the normal time was six to eight weeks for a normal patient, but in my case, it would take five to six months. Larissa couldn’t handle it anymore, she burst out screaming at the nurse, “We already spent nine weeks in the hospital! Why can’t you do something to make him better in the six to eight weeks!?” The nurse took a step back and talked to her calmly about when something this extensive happened to someone, it would take more than the normal time. Larissa understood and asked for the nurse’s forgiveness. She asked me if she could leave to collect her feeling and use the Lady’s room. I nodded and she left the room. A few minutes after Larissa left the room my family burst in, tears in their eyes. It had been almost been a whole two months since I had seen my siblings. Vladimir, he goes by Vlad, Victor, Anya, and Nastasia, we called her little Stasia. The four of them were all the same age, nineteen. They are quadruplets, with two identical pairs. They all came to my side and kneeled on the ground. They were so happy to see me. “We were so worried, we never stopped thinking about you,” Vlad said with love in his voice. “There is so much to tell you! You won’t believe the news little Stasia has!” said Anya in an excited tone. Victor started to talk, “Your dog, Katya misses you very much.” “I miss her too Victor,” I said looking at him. Stasia stared at me with an intense look and a hand on my shoulder, “I have some news that will brighten your day. Dimitry and I are...” Boris, my father, burst into the room, “Sorry I’m late, I had to find a parking space. They also said you were on the fifth floor, not the sixth.” I laughed, “Papa! I’ve missed you so much.” “You’ve looked better, I hope they have been keeping you fed. You look skinny.” My father said with a laugh and a smile. As they all shared what had happened in their lives the past few months my mind started to drift to a world where I had my legs back. I longed for that world, my heart was pounding trying to leave this world and go to the one where I was perfect. My face was getting red, tears started to swell up in my eyes. I tried so hard to keep my emotions in, but they swelled like a tsunami coming to destroy a city. I couldn’t take it anymore, I yelled out, “WHY!” My family stopped talking and stared up at me. I spoke, “Please, everyone. Please leave me.” They got up and left the room. They were reluctant to leave but I pushed for them to leave the room so I could cry and wallow in my sorrow alone. This was my burden to bear. I was finally alone. Alone. Why did I have to be alone? I wanted to walk, run, SKATE, but I knew that I would never be able to. I cried out, “WHY!? PLEASE, PLEASE GIVE ME MY LEGS BACK!” I cried with the voice you cry with when you lose your mother or a wife. I was in a hole, no light, no sound, only the screams of my pain and agony, suffering for all of eternity. I was in my own Hell. I cried out for help, but who could help me? No one was coming to make me whole again. The thought of not being able to ice skate again hit me like a bullet to the heart. I cried out, again and again, nothing could be worse, and nothing will get better. I laid in my bed screaming and crying. My family down the hall. Victor started to head to my room but halfway down the hall, he stopped when he heard me say, “I WISH I WAS DEAD! I WISH I HAD JUST DIED ON THE ICE! JUST LIKE MY LIFE HAD!” He fell to his knees, unable to control himself. He wept. My father came to comfort him, but it was too hard to hear the words that I screamed that he fell to the ground as well. The last thing I said before I blacked out was, “Please... I... I can’t do this. My leg is gone. My life. Please let me die!” With tears in my eyes and my heart ready to give up I said, “I want to let go.” I don’t know who I called out to whether it was a god or just the universe, but I let go and they took me with them. By: Memphis L. Haven


The darkness was coming. How I knew it, I couldn’t explain. But it was coming for us and one thing was clear in my mind. I needed to flee. My dad had already begun running and he was screaming my name over and over again, his voice gaining more and more strength. His legs hit the asphalt with the speed of drumsticks, played by a skilled drummer. His voice roaring my name started to get overpowered by the rain which gushed from the grey cloud-covered heaven. One side of the sky had changed to an intense black colour and it spread fast, like when you accidently knock down a glass of water, and it starts to ooze along the dining table. Even if my legs were glued to the ground, I realized that my only chance of survival was to move. I picked up my bag and ran towards dad who was already a few yards ahead of me. “Eliza! You have to run faster! The darkness is approaching!” he shrieked. The tone of his powerful cry would’ve, in an ordinary case, made me half-deaf. But over the sound of the booming thunder, it was barely audible. Dad rushed down an unlit alley and I followed him, in lack of own instincts. I tried to remember all of the turns. Left, right, right, straight forward, right, but the turns soon became too many and my already spinning head couldn’t keep up with the information. I turned my head and saw the terrifying reality of what we were escaping from. Everything placed under the dark side of the sky had turned into ash. The darkness was literally pulverizing everything in its way. People were running all over the place. A couple of old people who weren’t able to keep up with the inhabitants with fresher muscles, fell down to the ground and were turned instantly into ash the moment the darkness shadowed their weak bodies. My head would not turn back, it was physically impossible. The vision of all the dying people and my hometown steadily turning into nothingness was excruciating to watch. My clothes, soaking wet with sweat and rain, were itched to my body and my legs started to go stiff. I imitated my dad’s tiniest move, every sharp turn, every rattling breath. He increased the tempo as the darkness was closing in on us with rapid speed, and I fought to hang on. I had never been significantly athletic and my aching legs and my pounding heart were solid proof. I released the bag hanging across my gangly body and it fell to the rain-covered street. Even if the bag hadn’t weighed much, it was still a small relief when it left my shoulders. Then a thought suddenly hit me and I stopped dead in my tracks. “DAD, OUR HOUSE!” I cried, my throat vibrating, in the rain that kept flooding down. Our simplistic red cottage would be shadowed by the darkness within a few seconds, and then disappear with it. “We can hardly carry it with us. Come on Eliza, we have to keep moving!” And the both of us spurted on. I wondered if the darkness would stop spreading when it reached a certain limit or something. I strongly doubted it would. Only a few minutes ago, the sun had been shining and its beams were casting light over the city. But now the feeling of my bronze-coloured skin cracking of cold was overwhelming. I pinched my arm while continuing to speed forward. Two red marks appeared in my frozen skin, but I didn’t feel any pain. But I didn’t wake up either. Sweat was sippering between my shoulderblades, along my spine and I shuddered. This can’t be real. The thought repeated itself in my head. The ground, buildings and people getting pulverized, it wasn’t something that possibly could happen. No, it couldn’t. No. Right? My chocolate coloured waves for hair were whirling behind me in the wind, I could almost feel the straws of hair tangling together and forming snarls and knots. My whole body was shivering, and the thin fabric of my t-shirt was not improving the situation. “Make it stop!” I yelled to no one in particular, however the voice of mine was too soft to cut through the roaring thunder. The once white sandals on my feet were not ideal to run in, and as a result of that, deep red blood was leaking from two large abrasions. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I pinched myself again and to my disappointment nothing happened, aside from creating two new nail-formed marks. Maybe this was an extremely powerful dream, I thought, maybe a dream in which I need to do something more severe than pinching for it to cease? We ran on a street lined with stalls. A market had been taking place just before the darkness arrived, I swiftly remembered. Now, almost every stall had collapsed due to the strong wind. On my left, I could glimpse a box filled with shining objects. When we came closer, I realized what they were. They were guns. Without thinking I stopped and grabbed one of the many metal handles. I kept on moving my legs while looking down at the object clutched in my hand. I held it in a steady grip, like my life depended on it. Which, for the record, it did. Suddenly four squiggly words appeared carved in the cold steel. I am the solution. Unknowing of what the hell I was doing - as if someone else controlled my limbs - I pointed the barrel to my foot and simply pressed the trigger. A loud bang seared through the storm and a wave of pure pain consumed me. And then I fell. Fell into nothingness. But it didn’t take long before my eyelids opened wide again. I sat up with a jerk. A plain unlit room with light green walls and way too many bookshelves appeared in my field of view. Outside of the windows a cobbled street lightened by yellow streetlights and red cottages on the sides could be seen. I was home. It had been a dream. I took a deep breath of relief, but when I did so an agonizing pain welled up inside of me. It hurt so much, I couldn’t think and I couldn’t locate where the torturous agony was coming from. My own howl filled the room. I lifted the quilt I had been sleeping beneath with a shivering hand and saw a big, gory hole in my left foot. Pictures from the dream flashed before my eyes. Panic filled every cell of my body, until it almost overpowered the inflaming anguish pounding in my foot. I raised my left hand from under the quilt, afraid of what I would discover. My suspicion was confirmed when I looked, because in my hand rested a cold silver gun with three letters carved into the shiny metal. And when I with difficulty opened it, one of the shining bullets were missing.


My fingers are raw from trying to find the floorboard. I silently curse my fifteen-year-old self for not being smart enough to make some sort of indication on which floorboard I hid the box under. I finally am able to lift the jiggly one with the help of my car keys. I lift up the box, a wave of the past hits me with the force of running headfirst into a brick wall as I open it. “Are you even going to remember this box, Winnie?” Andrew laughs, kissing me on the cheek. “You know, if you keep calling me Winnie, I’m gonna have to call you Andy.” I laugh back, blushing bright red in contrast to my white t-shirt. “Okay, Winston.” Andrew jokes, toying with everything that litters the floor. “What if you forget about all of this stuff?” He picks up a mood ring, “Are you sure this isn’t awfully important?” Andrew jokes, putting it gently into the wooden box. “I think that I’ll live without a cheap mood ring.” I say, reaching for my half of our best friend’s necklace. “Can you put yours in too?” Andrew looks hesitant as he takes it off, “Please?” I make a pouty face. “But-” “Please,” I ask, holding my hand out stubbornly, “Do it for your ‘best friend?’” He sighs, dropping it into my outstretched hand, “Fine, ‘best friend.’” He watches intently as I make a show of placing both necklaces in the box with extreme care. I look around my mess of a room for other items. I reach for a pen and hold it up, “Is it worthy?” Andrew covers his mouth with his hand as he laughs, “I think you know that answer to that Winston.” I run my hand through my hair, and I look around. “Well, what do you think I should put in here?” I keep looking around my floor for something of personal value. “What about this?” Andrew asks, holding up three photos. The first one is a strip of photos of all our friends crammed into a photo booth. Everyone is laughing and squished against each other. I grab the strip, “I can practically hear this photo.” I look at the two other photos. The second one is one that Andrew took of me as I held up my dog for the camera, trying to block my face. “That’s when you first got your camera.” I say, chuckling. “Mhm.” Andrew says, waiting for me to remark on the third photo. The third photo is another photobooth strip. It's him and I. We do a variety of poses and I kiss him on the cheek in one of them. I see his blush which is exaggerated in the poor lighting of the photobooth camera. “Do you like this one?” “No,” I say, taking all three. “No, I don’t think I like it at all.” “Wha-” “I love that one.” I place all three into the box with a satisfied smile. Andrew punches my shoulder and I look at him with concerned eyebrows. “Jesus, you scared me.” Andrew says with a glare. I laugh at the severity of his glare. “Gotcha.” “No shit Sherlock.” Andrew tries to hold his serious expression but breaks as I poke him in the sides. “Okay, okay!” He jumps up on the bed to avoid me poking him where it tickles. “I surrender!” “Come back down.” I say, clearing a space for him on the floor. I push aside action figures and dolls, magazines and comics, stuffed animals and unmatched socks. “We need to finish the box!” I insist as we settle back into our spots. “Okay,” I say seriously, “what else?” “Hmm,” Andrew looks around, “chapstick?” “Chapstick?” I look and see the chapstick in front of me. “I mean, why not? Maybe this kind won’t be around when we’re old and stuff.” Andrew picks up the chapstick, “And when we’re old and everything, we’ll be needing this chapstick more than ever.” Andrew pulls his chapstick out of his pocket. “In fact, put this one in there too. Better safe than sorry.” “It’s good to have multiple flavors too.” I add, putting my cherry flavored chapstick and his mint flavored one into the box. After the chapsticks are settled into the box, we continue to look around. Andrew taps my knee, “What about this shell?” Andrew points to a shell on my nightstand. It stands out pink against the clutter that covers my whole nightstand. “You think it’ll fit?” I ask, turning my head to the side. “‘Cause I don’t want to break it or anything.” Andrew reaches up for the shell, trying not to cause a collapse of items onto the already disastrous floor. “No. no I don’t think it’ll break. We might have to do some rearranging.” Andrew frees the shell with little damage, and I giggle at his carefulness, “The shell will probably be the last thing in the box though.” “That’s fine.” I say, taking the shell in my hands, “I can’t think of anything else to put in the box anyway.” I hand the chapsticks and necklaces to Andrew as I hold the shell, “Wanna know a secret about this shell?” “If it’s about talking to mermaids, you’ve already tried that trick on me.” Andrew says, putting on his chapstick for the last time. “I’m a bigger man now. Smarter.” “Not so sure about ‘smarter.’” I joke, positioning the shell just so, “The shell isn’t actually real.” Andrew rolls his eyes, “Really? I had no idea. The bright pink color and the plastic-y texture didn't give it away at all.” He says sarcastically. “As I was saying,” I grab back the chapsticks and necklaces back, putting the chapstick on for the last time too. “My parents bought it for me at some shop because everyone else found seashells and I just couldn't find any.” Andrew laughs, toying with a G.I Joe on the floor, “Your mom told me a different story. There were plenty of shells, you just couldn't get any because you were afraid of waves.” I sigh, “Okay, yeah, maybe that also was a factor in why I ended up with no shells and everyone else had shells.” Andrew gets closer, “It’s okay Winnie. I’ll protect you from the waves if we go to the beach.” “That was a long time ago!” I protest, “I’m not afraid of beach waves any-” Andrew kisses me and I’m taken aback. I lean into it, not sure how to do anything. Where to put my hands or whether to keep my eyes open or to keep them closed. He’s only kissed me on the cheek before and we officially became ‘boyfriend boyfriend’ last week. After panicking for an eternity, I tentatively place my hands on his face. After a while of me panicking and Andrew being perfect as usual, we break apart. “I think I did it wrong-” “Winston-” “But-” “Just put the box in the floor.” I close the box, tears welling up in my eyes. I take a few deep breaths and reopen the box. “Can’t believe we didn’t think Carmex wasn’t going to exist when we were older.” I say to myself with a chuckle. As I look through all the items in the box, I hear little feet enter the room. “Dad, whatcha doing?” My daughter, Jettie says with her hands on her hips. “Oh, just something me and Papa did when we were younger.” I say softly, holding the bright pink shell in my hand. “Like in the olden days?” Jettie asks, peering in the box. I laugh out loud, “Mhm, that’s right.” As Jettie and I continue to look through the box, I hear someone else come in. “You found it?” Andrew asks, kneeling down and setting Jettie on his lap. “Sure did.” I pull out his half of the best friend's necklace, “And you thought I would forget about it.” “To be fair, you did until I reminded you on the car ride to your parents' house.” Andrew says, taking his half and putting it around his neck. He takes the box, “Can’t believe that we put chapstick in here.”