The first thing I noticed, was the cool breeze that engulfed my body suddenly. I could smell pine and taste the coolness of the air in my mouth. Then, the brightness of the large full moon in the sky shone on me. It shone on us all. We were here once more. I took a deep breath, enjoying all the aromas and feelings of my surroundings. It has been a while since I stretched my legs. I squatted briefly to stretch my hamstrings and quads. “Ladies and Gents,” began a familiar voice, “Satan has sent us here once more, awaiting another human sacrifice,” This was Shin, the leader of our sect. I opened my eyes to see that the other members and I were all standing in a circle, surrounding a large cauldron as we stood in an open space in the wood, surrounded by pine trees in the dark. We had torches lit to see our path. Years ago, a social movement was created within a community in the Philippines. It began as a group of friends and family who shared the same beliefs and virtues of peace and gratitude , bringing everyone closer together. Once this group had realized how successful they were becoming in teaching their ways, they began reaching out and recruiting members globally which, ultimately, was the downfall of this social institution. They were named Lims. Lim Lowe was the original founder of this cult. His last name, Lim, means ‘forest’ or ‘woods’ . This cult spent most of their time embracing the beauty of nature, performing a lot of their rituals and ceremonies outside in the wood or even by the lake on certain nights. When Lowe decided to open the gates to recruit new members, an adversary of Lims sent in a demon child, undetected. Lims believed in the importance of Peace for all and gratitude in everyday life. But when Shin became part of this cult and took notice of the numbers, and realized the opportunity for growth, to become a powerful leader, he outvoted Lowe, kicking him from his own organization. Shin convinced the other members that Lowe was a descendant of the devil and sacrificed him at a fire in the wood that night. None of the members were expecting Shin to be one himself. That was the first full moon of sacrifice. Now, it has become a ritual. Every full moon about once a month, or every thirty days. These are the only days that I exist. On these full moon nights, we are to sacrifice a human and feed their blood to the Devil. Then, and only then, would we return to our compressed dark room that we stay in for thirty days. Seems like a pretty lousy deal to me. There are still humans within our cult, but very few, and they are the ones who bring us our sacrifices while we are in isolation. The majority of the cult is composed of demons like myself. I’d like to learn more than just the human language and how they speak. I want to learn their emotions and try to understand why they do certain things. I would prefer to live amongst the human race and blend with their world, for this way of life is exhausting and quite cruel. Though this is something you could never admit to the face of Shin or his goons. This Particular night, there was a human that lay face down in the middle of our circle, he was next to the cauldron. He was the next human sacrifice that we would be feeding the demon. We chanted a loud prayer of sorts to the Devil and it went as so: “ We take pride in the sins we commit. Oh, dear Satan, we are grateful that you provide us with life this night. We are grateful that you create the large bright moon which ultimately helps in the process of sacrificing an innocent. We pray you to accept this sacrifice as a token of our gratitude and admiration for all you’ve brought for our lives and all sinners within The Lims.” We hear a groan from the human on the ground. “Didn’t anyone think to kill this man before we take all his blood? Come on people, we aren’t cruel!” Shin yelled. Everyone remained quiet except for the groaning man on the ground. “Now, the ceremony has been ruined because of one of you!” He accused the humans of our group. There were about ten of them that remained. “Well, who was in charge of this one?” He demanded, frustrated. He was quite scary when upset, he was a direct descendant of the devil. “It was you, wasn’t it?” Shin was pointing at another member who stood across from me in our circle. With all of our members there, our circle had a diameter of one hundred feet or so going both vertically and horizontally. This human member was an old recruit. He was an older member than I was, but of course, I was of demon blood, and humans will always die before one of us. It’s in Shin’s nature to kill off the humans first. Shin grabbed the man by the hood of his cloak, and yanked him in the air, cutting off the oxygen for the old man. As the man struggled to free himself from the grasp, Shin merely tossed him in the cauldron effortlessly as if throwing a pair of socks into his laundry basket. All that could be heard now was the screaming of the old man as his flesh burnt, and those horrid fumes filled the air. It was unfortunate to watch him go. And sad to hear him wail in pain. “Listen up, the sacrifice is over!” Shin shouted to everyone but sounded very disappointed. “Let us enjoy our ceremonies before we return to darkness”. All the members cheered and split up to mingle with others, and Shin turned to another human in our group and said “Figure out something to do with this one, eh?” nodding to the innocent on the ground. The human member nodded, frightened and headed for the intended sacrifice right away. Shin walked away. I was curious. Of the man who lay face-down on the dirt. “Hey!” I shouted to the purple-cloaked mortal who bent over the sacrifice. He still lay there groaning. “I’ll deal with him,” I said. He made no arguments or any judgements, he simply stood up and backed away. I approached the one on the floor. I turned him over and noticed his face was all bruised and bloodied. He had been beaten pretty badly before being taken here, it seems. But even with the black eye, broken nose and swollen lip, he still had so much life in his face. I longed for that. He attempted to open his left eye, the one that wasn’t bruised or swollen, and looked at me in mine. He raised an arm shakily and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. He smiled partially, still dazed and woozy from his beating, then passed out instantaneously. I let his head drop and hit the ground with a THUD. I backed up quickly, feeling squeamish. Not so much sick as I felt, nervous? This was not a feeling I was taught, this was never a feeling I experienced before. I think I was feeling... Human. I carried the man away from my group and dropped him off near a human village. I believed he would be in good hands there. It would be about a month before I would return, anyways. Though as I walked away from the village that night, I was feeling that same nervousness from before, coiling in my stomach rapidly. I found myself foolishly hoping the Human would be alright. During the next full moon, I had a sense of relief wash over me when I opened my eyes to see that the corps which lay on the dirt was not that of the man who I carried to the village. We sang our chant and sacrificed the human, and during our mingling time at the ceremony, I snuck to the village in hopes that I would spot that man. It seemed unlikely that I would, but there he sat on a park bench in the middle of the night, staring in my direction. When he spotted me, he stood up slowly. “It’s you,” he remarked. I debated on replying to him or saying anything at all. “And who am I?” I asked him. We were in shouting range and I was approaching him slowly. “You’re the angel who saved me,” He put it simply. I stopped in my tracks. I almost laughed for a moment, but that was not something that came naturally to me, so it sounded like phlegm was stuck in my throat and I was trying to get it out. “I am quite the opposite of an angel,” I assured him. He came closer to me. He stepped into the moonlight and I was able to get a better view of his face. His eye was still bruised but not black or swollen as it had been a month ago, and he had minimal bandages covering what I think were stitches that had been recently removed. His face was so appealing to look at. It wasn’t pale or sickly, he was tan and I could hear his heartbeat and his pulse. He was so lively and I wanted it so badly. “I don’t believe that,” he began, coming so close I could smell his human scent. “You saved my life. You brought me here to find shelter from the enemies. I was wondering when I would see you again.” I was still in my purple cloak, my long brown hair curled and falling onto my shoulders. He stared me in the eyes and smiled. He held my hands and said, “Thank you”. I smiled unknowingly, and he remarked how beautiful I looked. “What do they call you?” I asked, curiously. “My name is Tommy”. The handsome man replied. “And who are you?” he asked. “I am Marribelle,” I said. He leaned close and kissed me once on my lips, sending butterflies throughout. I think I was beginning to fall for a human. I had to return to my sect shortly after that but assured Tommy that I would return to see him in due time. The next full moon was the last one I experienced. The cool breeze was there but, different, it tingled, it stung, the aromas, the smells, it was a very strong awakening for someone who has been locked up for a month. This time I could smell smoke and felt the sensation of burning. I opened my eyes and shrieked in agony. I was tied to a post in the cauldron, my legs were in the boiling water, and flames from the fire were so large that they engulfed the cauldron and were burning me from all around. My hair was starting to sizzle. I had trouble seeing through the smoke, but I could just make out all the other cult members standing around the cauldron. So it seemed as though I was the one being sacrificed. “Ah, so you’ve come to,” said Shin, walking with his arms behind his back. “Let me out, Shin!” I demanded, squirming desperately to free myself from this burning agony. “I’m afraid I received terrible news, one of our members has betrayed us by befriending a human,” He said. “Oh yeah? And who told you that? A human member of Lims? Come on, Shin, I’m of demon blood!” I argued, trying to prove that if having human members in the cult is okay, then why wouldn’t I be able to socialize with one outside of it? “That doesn’t matter to me now. Demon blood or not, if you betray me, you will get burnt like the rest of them,” He said. “So, what? I’m your sacrifice then?” I asked, trying to hold in my screams of pain. My legs were completely numb now. I didn’t want to look down because I knew my skin had melted away. I was on the verge of passing out. “No, of course not. You’re not human,” he pointed out. He was smiling maliciously. “I’ve chosen someone better for the job, someone I think you know quite, well,” he said and pointed to another cauldron that was next to mine and therefore difficult to see from my point of view. I strained to turn my head to see what had been in it. I could tell it was a body, and it took me a moment to realize, but my view wasn’t obstructed enough for me to know that the shrivelled-up, crisp and burnt body was Tommy’s. I felt a stab of pain in my heart, even though no physical damage had been inflicted upon it. The light from the full moon went dark after that.


She held the hot cup in her hands, letting the warmth spread through her and ease the stiffness. She took small steps, watching the liquid hit the rim of the mug as she moved into the living room and sat in her armchair. Carefully, she brought the scalding hot drink up to her lips and took a first sip of Christmas cheer. It always brought her back to Christmases in her childhood. She eased into the calm of it and turned to look out the window. There was a small dusting of white powder on the window frame and little dots of white covering the yard. The snow wasn’t strong enough to stick to the ground but it was still a beautiful sight. The woman stared for a good while at the dancing flickers of snowflakes as they moved past her vision. She could almost pretend it was happening just for her. The slight buzz in her pocket woke her out of her reverie and she was brought back to the moment. Instantly her body stiffened, just a little and her heart sank a fraction in her chest. She pulled out her phone and looked at the message. It was from someone named David on one of the dating sites her sister had signed her up for. Her pain deepened and she felt like she might fold in on herself - crushed from the wait of it. Sunday would mark two years since he’d been gone. Two years of lonely nights, solitary birthdays and empty holidays. Now as she looked back at the snowfall, marking the season as officially winter, it felt almost as if no time had passed at all. The wound was fresh and seemed to cut deeper with each lingering thought into the past. The woman clicked on Davis’s message and viewed his profile. He was reasonably handsome, well educated with a good career. There was no reason to turn this down. She knew what her sister would say if she were there. But the woman was alone, looking at a lifeless screen, holding onto a dream she would never recover. Instinctively, she dropped the phone. It fell to the ground with a thud on the floor. She turned her eyes up to the ceiling and tried to will the tears to back down from their attack positions. Slowly, the tears started to lose their power and faded back into the background. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind. She didn’t want to focus on the absence she felt or the hollowness in her life. She didn’t want to think about anything but the falling snow outside. The woman picked up her mug once again and took a longer sip, burning the edges of her mouth. Abruptly, she stood up, knowing the only thing that might ease some of her discomfort. She threw her auburn hair up in a tight bun and covered it with a pink beanie. She only wore this one when she went to visit him . She still remembered the Christmas when he bought it for her. At the time she thought it was silly to wear a pink hat with a puff ball on top but now it felt like one of the last remaining tethers to him. She grabbed her gloves and her keys, leaving her phone discarded on the floor and headed out into the cold. The wind whipped around her as if trying to invite her into the winter dance. She ignored the calling of the snow and stepped into her car. The warm air started to blast full force as the engine came to life. Carefully, she pulled out of the slippery drive and down the street to her destination. Christmas carols poured into the car, echoing the joy of the dancing weather. It was a symphony of jubilating nature. The feelings of it did warm her to see but only for a moment before she remembered why she was driving and what was missing. When she pulled into the parking lot her car was alone. It was what she preferred in this particular setting. Other people would only make things more difficult for her. She put on her gloves and wrapped her scarf more tightly around her. The wind had become more wild in her drive, more determined to involve her. She resisted. The woman followed the path that she had become much too familiar with the past two years until she reached the stop she was looking for. The stone stood there, unchanged and unmoved with the same letters carved through it. The flowers she had placed there, the last time she had visited were dying and wilting away. Little droplets of snow lingered on some of the petals. She made no effort to stop the tears this time. She put up no resistance as the pain started to consume her. She knew this part was necessary if she were to feel any sort of relief. She could feel her knees starting to buckle under her and she let herself fall to the ground. She reached her hand up, pulling off her glove and traced the lines of his name in the stone. “Did you know him well?” came a soft voice behind her. She didn’t bother to turn around but nodded. “Yes, he was my husband,” she answered through her tears. There was a sharp inhale behind her and she turned around carefully. “I didn’t know he was married,” the man muttered. The man before her had deep charcoal skin that shone like onyx against the falling snow. His fierce eyes were the crisp blue of a fire’s center. “How did you know him?” she asked, standing up now to face the gorgeous man in front of her. The man shoved his hands hastily in his pockets and gave her a sheepish expression. “I was his college roommate. We used to be very close, I only just heard....” his statement trailed off and the rest of his sentence hung in the air like a toxic fume. “I’m Matt,” he said finally, clearing the air. He held out a hand for her and something in her heart twisted. It felt almost as if this hand could be the start of something new, a change or an escape from the dark cave she had banished herself to. She hesitated for a moment. Suddenly, the wind whipped around her, warmer than it had been, and pushed her forward. She almost fell into the man. She smiled to herself and felt that she already knew the answer. She reached out her hand and shook Matt’s, that was still outstretched. Her heart instantly felt lighter and his smile melted away so much of her pain. For the first time in two years she felt like it might actually be a merry Christmas.


Good morning Marc. A familiar robotic voice gently awoke me from my peaceful sleep as I tried to pry my eyelids open. It is time to shoot your advertisement for Taurodyne. The product is in the bathroom cabinet. Taurodyne was a toothpaste company that had purchased ads for intergalactic voyages. If life was ever discovered on one of the “Taur” missions, it would be a huge marketing boost for the company, but after the 20th mission failed, people just stopped caring. It was unlikely for anyone but hardcore viewers to recognize the name Marc Silva, much less buy toothpaste because of its ethos. I unclipped the harness holding me vertically against my padded bedroom wall and ran a quick scan with the vitals monitor set up to my left, the faint green light blinking in time with the thumping of my heart. “Andromeda, how long have I been asleep?” I asked. Measurements indicate it has been seven hours. “Ship assessment?” I queried as I rubbed my eyes wearily, now floating in the zero-g atmosphere. Oxygen levels are stable, velocity remains constant, no anomalies are detected. Everything was normal. I opened the hatch that gave way to the narrow hallway of my Edison-4. I floated down the hallway toward my bathroom. In the cabinet next to the rinseless soap and water pouches was my toothbrush, and next to it, a tube of Taurodyne toothpaste. I couldn’t even use the viscous liquid to brush my teeth in its current packaging; the liquid would just float away. Taurodyne marketers, however, maintained that the brand recognition that came with a tube was necessary. I located the camera on the left wall just above my prompter, oriented myself to face it, and displayed the red and blue logo labeled, “Taurodyne: the high-tech toothpaste.” “Roll it, Andromeda.” Cameras are recording in three, two, one. “As an astronaut, I need long-lasting freshness to keep my helmet smelling great, even for long spacewalks. That’s why I choose Taurodyne.” I flashed a smile before dropping the facade. Your recording is compressing and will be flashed to the nearest base. Orienting communication lasers... I took out one of my more space-friendly toothpaste packs. I hated these ads. I thought everyone on Earth could see through my ingenuine smile and yellowing teeth, even after they were whitened in post-production. I felt so exposed, so alone. Andromeda eased my yearning for interaction, but the blasted ads were a constant reminder that there was an Earth I had left behind. Message sending... Nonetheless, they were necessary. Ever since President Flint had cut funding for the space program, the budget had been strained. The program subsisted on nothing but our own ad revenue and philanthropic donations by eccentric trillionaires. Second-class, loaned rockets plagued the ASA - formerly NASA - while private and Chinese missions used their new, top-of-the-line ships. The message will take one month to travel and will be received at base PACS-867 on April 3, 2130. “Thanks, Andromeda,” I responded absentmindedly. Today was the culmination of my mission to find humans a new home. It was the final leg of the journey before I would be assigned to another lifeless sphere, devoid of interest and isolated in the perennial vastness; venturing in hope that there, somehow, humanity could continue its endless crusade of existence, a reckoning never resolved, only delayed. The population was growing by nearly two billion people a year, mandating the rapid colonization of the unknown; however, no suitable planet had been found yet. The “balloon problem,” as scientists referred to it, was explained to me by the man who popularized it: Mario Perez. Mario was well-dressed and -spoken for a man who spoke English as his fourth language. I met with him at his home nearly two years ago. Contrary to his gloomy work, Mario was a jovial man. Perhaps he felt safe in the knowledge that he would never survive to see his prediction come to fruition - he had stage four cancer at the time. I arrived at his warmly lit house filled with tchotchkes and knickknacks where he cracked jokes and told me about a painting that hung in his living room where we talked. It was Dali’s “The Persistence of Memory.” “Is that real?” I asked, floored. “No, not at all,” he chuckled. “They offered it to me, but I figured, why hang it here where a couple of people can enjoy it when it can be at MoMA where it is seen by thousands?” He delivered the rhetorical question in such a way that I couldn’t help but laugh, though I wasn't quite sure what I was meant to be laughing at. It was the kind of joke to be enjoyed at barbecues, perhaps said by a paternal grill master during small talk. Our conversation topic was anything but small talk. After we settled in, him in a reclining chair and me on an itchy sofa, Mario began a routine that had, by then, reached billions of listeners. “Assume you put a single piece of bacteria in a cup, and that organism doubles every minute. The process begins at midnight on Monday and will end when the glass is full in exactly twenty four hours. When will the glass be half full?” I had seen his work, but him, sitting across from me in his La-Z-Boy (but not relaxed) staring unflinchingly at me gave it a whole new gravitas. ”11:59 pm on Tuesday night,” he said with finality. “The pocketwatch of humanity is ticking. Our time is running out, and we have just one precious minute left. What’s the solution? Say we colonize a hundred planets. Let’s represent the space they provide by expanding our limit to the entire room. That buys us only ten short minutes. It is only a matter of time, even if we colonize those hundred planets, until our timepiece once again reads 11:59.” That warning was the thing that drove everyone in the spacefaring business to work harder, go faster, and travel further than ever before. I assumed Mario was dead by now. His doctor’s prediction was far eclipsed by my mission length. As for Mario’s prediction, he prognosticated that barring an alternative to Earth, population control would have to be utilized by 2150, twenty years from now. Population control. That had been the question of the last few years. Whether it was righteous to struggle against an ever-increasing flood of humanity by accommodating the endless new bodies, or whether it was nobler to sterilize a portion of the population in the hopes of helping a section of the yet unborn to thrive in an Earth of plentiful resources. The UN and other international bodies were paralyzed by debate and the lack of a right answer to a confounding moral problem. It seemed that inaction would rule doomsday. I shook off my existential crisis, moving toward my modest living area, and more importantly, the breakfast pouches inside my plastic cabinet labeled food. “What exciting alien species will I be encountering today?” I queried with no small hint of sarcasm. You must repair atmospheric sensor 3b before I take low-atmospheric photos and data of planet Confutatis Spes. Once the data is collected and you are safely aboard, I will perform a boomerang maneuver to shoot you back toward PACS-867 where you will return the Edison-4 to the Chinese. Everything as expected. “Sounds good, A. When am I disembarking?” T minus ten minutes until your EVA. Everything seemed to be on schedule. I quickly slurped down my blueberry oatmeal and went to put on my suit in preparation for the spacewalk. I was done sitting around doing nothing but filming promos for shitty toothpaste. Today was a day of action, where I would become master of my own life. “Andromeda, put on Space Oddity” I mused with a smirk slowly working its way to my lips. Space Oddity by David Bowie now playing. By this time, I had made my way to the suit staging area. I went through the checklist drilled into me at training. When I pulled the tether taut to test its strength, the lyrics began to rise high above the sci-fi sounds that played in the background of my favorite song as the song’s ship countdown began. The unique voice of David Bowie became ubiquitous. I looked out of the airlock toward the planet I would soon visit, both my ears and now eyes filling with beauty. I started mouthing the lyrics, slowly working up the confidence to sing in earnest, broken high notes joining the forlorn verse. “Ground control to Major Tom: The time is near, there's not too long. Can you hear me, Major Tom?” The red-tinted sun at my back combined with the deep purple clouds that I could only assume were toxic iodine made the planet reminiscent of a sunset. As pretty as it was, a lot of work would be required to make this planet into a home. I stepped into the main body of the suit. “Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you hear me, Major Tom? Can you hear?” I donned my heavy helmet equipped with a life-support system and boasting a sun-protectant visor. The song shifted to the sound system contained within the helmet, but I kept belting. “Here am I sitting in a tin can Far above the moon Planet Earth is blue And there's nothing I can do” I slipped on my gloves, cleared my throat, and asked, “You there, Andromeda?” Here as always. We have entered the upper atmosphere and are in a stable orbit. Your mission is a go. “Then let’s do this thing.” The airlock opened and I pushed off toward sensor 3b. It was impossible to see through the purple clouds all around me so I navigated with the help of Andromeda as she activated different thrusters attached to the suit to correct my movements. You will have to perform a jump out to the right engine module. Two o’clock. “Copy that.” I jumped without hesitation, feeling a slight correction from the right side of my suit, and latched onto the metallic surface. You must adjust the collection unit to 37 degrees to accommodate our low-orbit angle when collection is happening. I reached out, trying to feel the porous, cylindrical device. My clumsily controlled hand made contact and slowly started pushing it into position. “Just tell me when to stop.” Stop. Well done. Time to return to the main body. Eight o’clock. I pushed off once again and felt the familiar correction. “I thought I had that one,” I complained sarcastically. Andromeda didn’t respond. She was used to my humor. We had grown close over the past two years. Any interaction, even with a machine, was welcome in the void. Her competence and real-seeming empathy for my predicament gave me complete trust in her. Deprivation of human contact over the years had made me boring and socially inept. I thought Andromeda was the only one who understood me. I reached the airlock and reentered the ship. The pressure equalized, and I took off my helmet. We will be entering the lower atmosphere in thirty minutes where data collection will begin. “Great. I’m gonna get a nap. Let me know when we’re boomeranging” I doffed the remainder of my suit and drifted back to my cramped quarters. I strapped myself into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep. ******************* Marc. Marc, there is a slight problem. Marc, you must wake up. “What is it, Andromeda?” I asked crankily. An anomaly has been detected in the oxygen levels of the ship. “Are we leaking? How bad is it?” I did a scan for leaks and found nothing. We are losing 3.4 times ten to the negative eight atmospheres of partial pressure per minute. “Log the deficit. It’s probably a reading error. If the problem persists, wake me up in twenty minutes.” ******************* Marc. The problem is persisting. “How so?” We are losing 1.4 times ten to the negative six atmospheres of partial pressure per minute. That was anomalous. That the oxygen was leaking 100 times worse was flustering. “Show me the data on oxygen levels,” I implored. I looked left at my monitor and zoomed in. “A, assign a line of exponential regression and give me an R squared value.” I looked intently at the exponential model, where terror awaited me. Oxygen would run out in fifty minutes at the current rate. The confidence metric read an even 100%. “Oh, no.” My panicked voice began to crack as I recognized the severity of my situation. I ripped off my bed straps and careened toward the airlock. What could be causing the leak? “Andromeda, I’m going to check the oxygen tank for leakage from outside of the ship.” I frantically jumped into the suit I had so joyously put on less than an hour ago. I reached down and strapped myself into place, but I was still missing something. I cried, “My gloves! Where are my gloves?” On the table to your right next to the purple smudge. I hadn’t done a good job cleaning up, but there wasn’t time for that now. I snatched the gloves, pulled them on, and hooked the tether onto my waist loop. Finally, I opened the airlock. Wasting no time, I made a beeline for the oxygen tanks. When I reached the panel, I unscrewed it with shaking hands and practically ripped it off. “Andromeda, scan the device for external oxygen.” Scanning through suit sensors... no leak has been detected, although there is oxygen in the air outside the ship at high concentrations. “We have no way to collect it,” I assessed militarily. “Besides, the iodine would make it unsafe for consumption.” The iodine content in the atmosphere is negligible. “Well then what is this purple stuff?” I asked. “What the fuck is this?” I yelled in shock and desperation. “If it’s not iodine what the hell is it?” It appears the substance is a rudimentary life form. I was silent for a few seconds as I processed the information. “No kidding.” This was humanity’s first contact with an alien species. I went limp for a second, my hands slipping from their holds, but I forced my clammy palms to latch on tight. Then I went as white as a sheet. “That’s the problem with the oxygen.” I realized. “There are aliens on my ship, and they’re multiplying.” I raced back to the airlock, took my suit off as fast as possible, and rushed to grab the disinfectant in the living area. I sped back to where I had seen the purple smudge before. It had noticeably grown in size. Panicked, I applied the antibacterial substance and began to scour the ship for more of the colored organism. Horrified, I found the purple film on counters, hallway walls, and a large amount in my bedroom. I must have tracked it in. I tried scraping some of it off with my fingernail, but it clung to my harness with incredible veracity. I hastily checked my first clumping to see if the disinfectant was capable of saving my life. To my dismay, if anything, the stain had gotten larger; reality set in. I crumpled and wept forlornly, “Andromeda? Am I doomed to die?” With current supplies, There is no way to stem the organism’s growth. “I need to send word of first contact to ASA.” If anything, my sense of duty propelled me upright. “How long do I have?” 10 minutes before mild asphyxiation begins, 15 before death. “How long before we’re out of the clouds and I can send the message?” 13 minutes. The air was already getting thin. What loyalty did I have to ASA? I could buy humanity time, but was it worth it? Did anything outweigh the agony I would feel? Maybe they’d name the planet after me, I mused. But what would I care? I’d be dead. Did it matter what I left behind? What about the obligation to my species? I resolved to send the message, my allegiance, not to ASA, but to humanity prevailing. The damn bacteria. I laughed in the face of my quandary. Isn’t this what I wanted? To find alien life? But why must it compete with me for oxygen? I supposed existence itself gave any being the prerogative to fight for its survival, big or small. Existence is a competition and we’re just gladiators in the arena, battling trillions and trillions of others. My breaths became ragged. I located a camera and faced it. “Andromeda? Are you ready?” Ready as always. “Thanks, A. For everything.” It has been an honor, Marc. You’re live. “Hello ASA” I wheezed. “I have discovered life on the oxygen-rich planet Confutatis Spes.” Each word was preceded by a gasp now. “The organism has contaminated my ship and used up my oxygen.” I struggled to make a sound as I rasped a final “Good luck.” Sending... sent. “A, put on ... second half of ... space oddity.” I didn’t have time to listen to the complete song. With pleasure. I floated down my now-colorful hallway to my living area where I found my kitchen knife. I ventured to the airlock where I looked out at the maroon planet below me, my insides slowly being consumed by suffocating fire. I had prolonged humanity’s survival, even if it was just for a precious minute or two on the grandfather clock of human existence. As for my own life, the clock had struck 12:00. I serenely drew my blade, feeling like a conquistador of old on a new frontier, Space Oddity serenading my final moments. Here am I floating in my tin can, Last glimpse of the world, Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing left to do. As the final line played, I plunged the knife into my stomach, my beautiful vista giving way to the blackness of the void I knew so well.


"When they open the door, I'll swing and you get that shit down in the living room as quickly as possible, got it?" Darren says. I nod weakly, adjusting the huge roll of polyethylene under my arm with my other hand, which is holding a monkey wrench. I can't believe I'm here, about to do this. For my own mother, no less! "Hey Jared, there's something I want you to help Darren with. Get in the car, he'll explain on the way." She tells me. A normal request, if a little vague. I expected something like "we're picking something heavy up," or "some things have to go to the dump." I've never been so wrong in my life. I get in the car with my mom's bodyguard. Not the regular kind, we're not rich by any means. We live in a campsite for crying out loud, eating what food my mom can steal from the food bank! I always wanted to say something about that, but I've learned you don't talk back to the most well known street level crack dealer in the city. That's how she paid Darren, with drugs. The drive is quiet for the first few minutes and I gaze lazily out at the lake. The silence is broken when Darren asks "remember Yvonne and her man, Cameron?" How could I forget? We lived with them for a while. They stole the paintball gun I won in a tournament to pawn for drug money and got rid of our dog when we went to a movie. I didn't really like them. "Yeah," I reply simply. "Well they owe your mom some money and are refusing to pay, so we're going to 'collect' it. Ever heard the phrase 'let the poly hit the floor'?" I hadn't, but between noticing the giant roll of plastic in the back seat and him handing me the wrench, I began to piece together what was going on. So here I stand, a terrified 16 year old trying to understand just what the hell is going on and hoping they're not home. When I see the knob begin turning, however, hope is quickly turned to horror. Darren doesn't wait for any words to be spoken as he kicks the door in, sending Yvonne to the ground. He quickly extends the nightstick he brought and hits her in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. "Get that poly down, we're gonna make a little mess here!" He barks at me. I struggle to flatten the plastic, trying to focus more on making it perfect then what's going on around me. After a few seconds Darren is dragging Yvonne onto it as Cameron rushes into the room to see what's going on. He quickly understands the situation and runs towards the small kitchen off to the side where there's a knife block on the counter. "Stop him!" Darren yells at me, and without thinking I bolt towards him and strike him in the back with the wrench as he fumbles to get a knife. He winces, but doesn't stop. He pulls a large chef's knife out and in one motion turns and slashes at me. I've always had pretty good reflexes, but not good enough to evade completely as the blade runs across my chest. The cut isn't deep enough to be fatal however, and adrenaline blocks out the pain as I swing the wrench again, this time at his knee. He goes down, yelping in pain and dropping the knife. I kick it away and Darren pulls Cameron kicking onto the plastic. What happens next is mostly a blur, my mind choosing to blank it all out. I remember hearing Darren threatening them and a consistent thumping, like the beat of the most violent drum. After what seemed like forever, he tries to ask for my help getting them into the trunk of the car, but must notice my pale face and does it himself. He folds the bloodied plastic up and puts it in the backseat as I climb into the passenger seat. We start driving to "dispose" of our ex roommates. I guess we were going to the dump after all. "It's ok, the first time is always hard for everyone. It gets easier, trust me." He says, trying to ease my mind with the promise of more encounters like this. I don't reply and continue to stare out the window. This is the day I became a man, though not the kind I expected to be. Most of the details in this story are true, except the door was never opened so the murder never actually took place, thankfully. This was 9 years ago, and if the door had opened, I probably wouldn't be here today.


The warm humid winds before the storm once made me feel a feeling of happiness. The Storms of summer and spring always brought me joy as a child, they made life so fun and puddles that the storms caused I would play in for hours at a time, they had a special thing that just made me enjoy them. But now it all brings me dread. My dread is the one of pure fear, the fear of annihilation. My many memories I had with these storms, so many great beautiful memories, but alas this shall be my last storm. I am but an old withered man with my life coming to an end soon. My life was a great life, I had many good friends, Many good times, many laughs, many sad cries, My life was filled with joy and sorrow and I loved it and wouldn’t trade my life for anothers. No one to say goodbye to before this storm sweeps me away like a crashing wave on high tide. Like the fallen empires and kingdoms of the past. Life for me was a beautiful thing, even on the verge of death life is great and though I don’t want this dream of mind to end it shall be so as my time has come. All my children have passed, My wife is gone as well. My parents and grandparents are long gone. I have said my goodbyes to them in their last moments when their last storm came. All my friends gone and in their graves living happily in eternity. But look on the bright side of things, look to the eye of the storm. I will see them soon and we can meet again. All my grandchildren have left me for their jobs and kids of their own. I have sent them all letters to see me one last time before the storm hits. But only one has came, My favorite grandchild sits by my side on the porch watching as the clouds roll in and he sees my health degrade. He sits here holding my hand and I can see him holding back his tears as we feel the warm humid winds of the storm blowing into us harder and harder as we await the first droplet of water to fall from the sky. The warm humid winds before the storm always brought me great memories and at least I know that this time it will be the greatest of my memories, my last one. My grandson can no longer hold back his tears as he gives me one last hug. I hug him back in return and I assured him that things will be alright and to stay positive. I told him to tell the others to not cry at my funeral and that though I spent my last years alone with few visits, to not regret anything with me and to be happy for me and that one day they may be with me too with no other distractions in their wake. As I feel the first rain drop hit my face I knew my time was up. I said my last goodbyes to my grandchild put a smile on my face and closed my eyes. My time is up. I had a great life after all, why should I be sad? What is life without death? What is joy without sorrow? What is earth without trees? My time is up and once again I lived a long happy life and I’m glad I could spend my last moments with my grandchild in the warm humid winds before the storm. I’m Happy that I could hug someone one last time. I’m happy that I had someones hand to hold as I go. I’m happy I could feel the awakening of the storm with my grandson as my life comes to an end. This is the end and I am happy. This is life and it’s how I wanted it to be.


Their voices rolled on in my head like the recordings of my mom’s voice. I sat on the couch and made myself a glass of wine and watched the reel play. This one was *Summer 1982*. It was Mom holding me over a picnic blanket at some sunny lake. I was cherub-round with wispy blond hair that matched the woman laughing on the screen. “Percy Goldman, you turn away the camera right now,” she said. The camera angle shifted and I saw a spectacled man on the right of the blanket, smiling, his glasses glinting in the light. *Bastard*. The glass in my hand shattered. I looked down, my hand shaking, and grimaced at the red spot that was rapidly growing on the carpet between my socks. The bell chimed and snapped me out of my reverie. I got up, kicked the rug so that it covered the spot, and then hastily looked for a change of pants. Then I changed my mind and took off my skirt, pulling up my underwear so that my ass was more exposed. I ran to the front door and opened it. Grinning was James, and next to him his girlfriend Helen. “So Dollface,” he said. “How can I help ya?” Helen scoffed. “She’s been so waiting for this day. With that mug she’d have to beg or go to Mr. Harrison to get laid.” Mr. Harrison was the old janitor at our school. I forced myself to smile. “Please, come in.” James sauntered into the living room and plopped himself on the sofa. “So, wanna start dancing or what?” he said. “Sure, let me touch up a bit in the bathroom.” Helen rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” I walked into the bathroom and turned the light on. As I started wrapping a piece of cotton around my injured palm, I felt a cold sensation brush across me. She was here. “Are you sure?” she wrote across the mirror. The message vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Yes,” I wrote back, using some of my blood. “I love you honey.” In a second the mirror was clean again. I looked at my face, pale and white, my hair now fully brunette -- those Goldilock years were gone -- and finished bandaging my palm. I took off my shirt and peeked out of the bathroom so my breasts were showing. “Hey, I’m ready,” I said. I tried to sound flirtatious but it sounded weird and robotic. James didn’t seem to mind. He dashed to the bathroom, followed by Helen. I pressed play on the little radio I kept on the counter and some Britney Spears began to play. *Hit me baby one more time*. I started kissing Helen and undressing her. I could see James getting aroused and put out a hand to pull him closer. His weight pushed us backwards, and I was sandwiched between the people who had tortured me every day since I’d come to Washington High. *I must confess, that my loneliness--* “Mom, now,” I said. The lights went off. As they screamed, I could feel blood erupt onto my chest and thighs, and I came. \ More demons at r/ladyandthepen.


What is silence? Is it a soft monotonous drone, a subtle buzzing - a swarm of bees discussing things in whispers? ‘This seems like silence - but not complete - I can hear something. Is this what ‘nothing’ sounds like?’ and she closed her eyes. ‘Closing my eyes seems to make the emptiness, nothingness louder’ she mused. ‘I wonder if this is the sound you hear if you are deaf, like Grandma was? She liked the quiet at the moment - needed it. She didn’t miss all the voices that were once in her head, - loud, insistent cruel voices. ‘Instructions that lead to destruction’ is what Dr Lynch called them when he could eventually have a proper conversation with her - just the two of them, no friends telling her what to say from inside her skull, not the devil, just two normal adults conversing. It had taken a lot of sessions, rivers of tears and forgiveness to get where Sally was now. She came into the ward fighting, not wanting to stay, the voices telling her to get out, away from this place where they would hurt her. Wrestling and kicking, shouting, swearing, a tiny body with a lot of fight, silenced with a needle. PTSD it was labelled . “Seeing what she saw was horrific” they discussed around the table. It’s going to take a long time and even then.....” Sally’s physiatrist told them shaking his head. A seasoned shrink, seeing and hearing the worst of human suffering, but being able to help ease the pain and agony for so many of his patients. “She seems strong thought, underneath all that pain she’s suffering” he concluded. It had been a long time. They wouldn’t go away - lingering on and on, disappearing for a short time but always coming back, claiming their place in Sally’s mind. It was like a cancer being scraped away and then returning. Dr. Lynch thought about the ‘olden days’ when the preferred treatment for psychiatric patients was electric shock treatment - wrapping the patients in strait jackets, holding them down and doing that archaic thing to them, even children. He shuddered at the thought and knew that he couldn’t have done it. He was a warm and gentle person with a genuine passion for helping those in need. Towards the end of her treatment Sally would sit in the garden on a bench and marvel at the beauty that could be found in watching trees moving in the wind. Branches would shake their leaves slowly, the sound mesmerising, a bit like a soft and gentle baby rattle. It was peaceful too watching other people walking slowly over the green carpet of grass, taking small steps, quietly talking, telling their loved ones that they were ‘getting better’ and smiling for the first time in months. A little girl visiting someone rang past Sally laughing; her hair tussled by the breeze, face dirty from an ice-cream someone had given to her, and she thought of her own little girl. She could think of Lila now without rage and despair. Dr. Lynch had taught her that it was ok to miss a loved one, to want to be near them, touch and smell their fine hair, soft skin, but know they weren’t coming back again - reassured that our memories would always keep them alive in our hearts. She stood up to go inside. The little blonde girl had settled on the velvety softness not far from Sally, but for now it was a little too close. She could almost reach out and touch her. It was going to take time to feel completely relaxed when little girls were around her. “Hello Sally” Dr. Lynch called from the steps in front of her and she waved to this lovely man, her friend to whom she would always be grateful. “I was just coming to see you. How are you feeling about leaving us tomorrow?” he asked looking into her eyes for the reassurance he needed to know that all was well. “I’m a little scared John but I also feel strong enough to go. I can’t stay here for ever I know that. I also know that if I ever need help again, I only have to ring you” she answered in a quiet voice. “And also just to talk Sally” he reassured her taking his leave, telling her he would be here in the morning to say goodbye. In her soft pastel mint green room she sat on the bed spread - a swirling paisley green and blue cover. It matched the grey carpet. She felt restless and looking through her window she watched the little girl trying to do handstands telling the adults with her “No that wasn’t a good one, watch this one” and she recalled her little girl saying the same thing to her while trying to master the art of cartwheels. Taking a deep breath Sally said out loud “I am grateful for the love I got to share with Rosie for five years. She will always live in my heart and I in hers and our bond of true love can never be broken”, repeating it twice. After the second time her breathing had slowed down, her sweaty hands were starting to dry and she no longer felt like she had pins and needles on her head. “Ok what I need is some dinner” she said out loud and walked to the dining room. The next morning she left. Dr Lynch was there to hug her, tell her once again how well she had done, how he had so much confidence in how her life would go from now on, but that he would always be here for her. The imposing stone house and wide verandas with lush floral grounds had been her sanctity for quite a long time. As she got into the taxi Sally knew that she had left the negative voices, and the destructive behaviour behind and the building that had welcomed her warmly, would get rid of them permanently after she had gone. Sally had decided to spend some time at the family holiday home. It belonged to her cousins who were quite a bit older than her. The old house hadn’t been used in a long time. It was not far from the sea. Sometimes you could hear the waves crashing against the rocks if you listened carefully. She looked around at the sparsely furnished cottage, with books being the only thing of interest in the white walled house, apart from a black and white photo that hung from one of the walls, the frame a solid black wooden surround. She didn’t know who was in the phot but assumed it was her Aunty and Uncle. They were long gone and the cottage had been passed down to their children. He had dark hair and a handlebar moustache while she had her hair done up in a bun - her frilly high necked collar almost choking her as she smiled nervously. ‘They looked well suited, proper, so stiff and upright,’ she thought. She had unpacked as soon as she got there - a legacy from being brought up with a mother who was once in the army - so neat and tidy. “If you unpack as soon as you get anywhere, then it’s done and you have free time then” she used to say. Sally didn’t have much to unpack; she was only staying a few days but remembering her mother’s instructions of long ago, put it all very neatly in the chest of drawers. Sally pulled a book from the shelf - liking the sound of the title she began to read silently. The quietness of the room felt heavy somehow, as if a cover had been thrown over the house. The buzzing sound had been replaced by a slight ringing in her ears, silent ringing. ‘Can you have silent ringing?’ she asked herself desperately trying to describe what the noiseless room sounded like. She put her book down after turning the corner of the page - “that ruins the book” her Gran used to tell her. Uncrossing her legs she rested her head back against the chair and listened. The bee sound had changed to a hum, long and hollow. She was tired and closed her eyes ‘just forty winks in this peace and then I’ll go for a walk’ she trailed off as her lids shut. When Sally woke up it was a lot later than she thought it would be. ‘I must have needed that’ she contemplated, adjusting her eyes to the dim light. Her ears became attuned to a sound that she hadn’t heard since being in the house - it was of the waves crashing - the only noise shattering the tranquillity and calmness of her surroundings. She could picture the white foam spraying out after the angry waves had hit the solid rocks, droplets flying in the air and being carried away, landing gently on whatever sat beneath them. Her Aunt used to get annoyed at how dirty the windows of the beach house were, blaming the sea spray that flew into them, sticking and then gathering dust. The windows were like that now, very dirty, and probably hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. Sally had to put the light on in the house to find her way around. She sat down on the lumpy couch and put her socks and sneakers on, grabbed her rain jacket and locked the door behind her. ‘This is my first official outing anywhere since being in the hospital’ she thought sucking the air into her lungs and feeling the coolness of it hit her face, refreshing and invigorating. It almost felt as if the clean fresh air was washing away the unhappiness and sadness, just for this moment in time at least. The little torch she brought with her kept flicking off and on. ‘It’s probably been sitting in that drawer for months - I’ll be lucky it if makes the journey to the beach. It did stay on, albeit sending Morse code signals all the way through the sand dunes to the edge of the water. It wasn’t completely dark as behind her was a small carpark with a street lamp and remarkably this was working! The sound of the waves seemed to be so much louder at the house. Sally sat down on the damp sand and took off her socks and shoes, then stood at the water’s edge , the cold water washing over her feet and making them sink deeper into the soft wet sand. It felt good, cleansing, relaxing. There wasn’t much to see as she stared out towards the horizon, just one ship with a couple of lights on it, surrounded by a black inky void. A couple of hopeful seagulls flew around but seeing no food being eaten or bait being put onto hooks, flew off, gracefully into the dark. High above where grey and coppery clouds gathered a few stars peeped out alongside a slice of moon from behind them, and Sally picked out the star that gave her comfort.. She was sure it was the same one, the right distance from the moon, and the brightest one - just like her little girl had been. She couldn’t take her eyes off it - the tide was coming in quickly and the water getting further up her legs, almost reaching the middle of her calf now, but still she watched it, as if her eyes and the star were magnetic. Just as quickly as when it first appeared, the moon slid behind a thick billowy cloud taking the twinkling stars with it, and she was gone. Sally wrapped her coat tightly around herself as she was feeling cold now - her feet had been in the freezing water for at least forty minutes and her legs were slightly numb at the bottom. Pulling them out of what felt like quicksand, they made a plopping sound as they came out, and she walked towards the tough grasses at the bottom of the dunes to sit and put her shoes and socks back on. The torch had stopped working and away from the carpark lamp it was very dark, but she knew this route and wasn’t frightened in any way. There wasn’t another soul around, only one other cottage with lights on shining through the old lacy curtains. Apart from the ocean there was no other sound and she walked back to the cottage with just her thoughts, her own thoughts and nobody else’s. She took her jacket, sneakers and wet, sandy socks off. She was glad that she had left the light on in the cottage; sometimes she didn’t like walking into dark places. A grey rusty looking heater stood in one corner and she put it on, remembering from long ago that it soon warmed the place up, and then went into the kitchen to look at the meagre supplies she had brought with her and what she could make with them. As she pondered, her mind was deliberating on something else....and with the positive attitude that she now felt, did what she knew her little girl would want her to do... Sally went into the lounge room and turned the radio on, quite loud and began dancing to the music. It was a rock and roll song that she first danced to as a teenager. Then she thought of her beautiful, lively five year old daughter and how they used to dance together, laughing and falling over, and knew that it was time to put the silence of grief and sadness on hold and bring out the noise of life once again.


You can’t choose your family, and I lost the family lottery big time. I doubt anyone ever wins big, not unless they are gifted a very limited number of family members who have mastered the art of not inflicting themselves upon family members. There is supposed to be a compensating strategy to make up for family and it has something to do with friends. Apparently, you can choose your friends, but that all falls down because it’s not like you can form a cadre of friends who you take with you wherever you go to protect you from family and the occasional crafty mugger. You certainly can’t take your friends to the annual assault course which is Thanksgiving. That’s one of the unwritten family rules. The Thanksgiving rules seem to be that you have to be present at all times and you have to take anything and everything that is thrown at you. It seems that my role is as the family punchbag, and punchbags can never hit back. Funny isn’t it? You know how some things will go so you don’t even try them. If I was to defend myself from the insults and injuries that I receive during Thanksgiving, then this would be seen as the worst kind of attack and everyone would suddenly find a way of uniting and pulling together in order to put me back in my place. That’s the only way I could unite my family, a temporary set of uneasy alliances formed to secure my demise. Now, I could endure and survive Thanksgiving if it was atypical of the way my family is for the rest of the year. The truth is that each and every member of my family is broken and the sad truth of it is that the family broke all of them. The Clark Clan has been doing this for a very long time now and they’ve got really good at it. This family is a sausage factory. They mince their young up and squeeze them painfully into the straightjacket of their skin. There’s no defence against something like that, and there’s no stopping it. There’s no stopping it because you don’t know it’s happening to you until it’s already happened and by then it’s too late. The fascinating thing is that my family looks like all the other families. This broken and spiteful set of warring peoples somehow manage to look like a unit. They seem to conform and never do they set any alarms off, nor do red flags get hoisted up the flag pole in the front garden. People see what they want to see though and they keep themselves to themselves. Even the really nosey people. That lot are on the hunt for juicy snippets that accord with their world view and for some strange reason they skip over my family. We’re not invisible, but we are unremarkable. And yet, we’re all weird and we do stand out. I know we do. I can see the reaction we provoke, but somehow we’re passed by each and every time. I watch people you see. I’ve watched them for a long time. Studied them. I think I wanted to know them a little more so I could figure out how to fit in, but somewhere along the path that all changed. Change has happened to me all along the path I have stumbled and hobbled along. It’s happened so relentlessly that I now loathe it. I loathe a lot of things. If I wrote a list I would run out of ink and then I’d run out of paper. Right now, I loathe the prospect of Thanksgiving, and Thanksgiving is already happening to me. Again. This time I have a different plan. I’ve always had plans, but they never work out. You see, there’s only one me and there are seven of them. The odds have never been in my favour. But this time I’m going to approach it in an entirely different way. “You’re quiet George.” This is my gran and this is her opening gambit. It seems innocuous enough, but to engage gran in any sort of conversation is to open yourself up for a spot of verbal flogging. Her tongue is so sharp that she could flay someone alive in the space of five minutes. To say she is not pleasant is the closest you can get to being complimentary about her. I whisper my reply, “I’m being overwhelmed with the wonderful company at the table.” “Pardon?” she says archly. “I’m sad that Betty couldn’t make it,” I tell her at normal volume. “Yes,” says gran, turning on my father, “where is Betty?” “Dunno,” he says, “she said she was going to come.” And of course she did. We’d all rather remove our eyeballs with rusty spoons than come to gran’s for Thanksgiving, but the consequences of non-attendance don’t bear thinking about, so no one has ever defied gran and not turned up. Until now. “She better have a good excuse,” gran growls. I whisper again, “oh she does.” “You what?” gran growls again, “what is it with you and your whispering you rude girl!” I’m twenty eight and don’t consider myself to be a girl anymore. I doubt I ever was thanks to this awful matriarch, “I’m sure she’s here in spirit, gran.” Gran is not placated. Gran would never allow herself to be placated by another human being. That cannot happen because she is at the top of the pecking order and that is all there is to it. “How’s the new job, George?” this is Aunt Francis. She’s alright on the face of it and that has always bugged me. I don’t see how she can be alright in this toxic environment and so I harbour suspicions that she is the worst of us all. If I have any doubt about Aunt Francis’s bad credentials, all I have to do is look at her two children. They are about as shitty as shitty can be. Spoiled, but in the same way that food spoils when it is not eaten in time. They fizz and they smell and I can’t bear to look at them. “It pays the bills,” I tell her. I hate my job and even saying those four words about it boils my urine and makes me hate her just a little more. “You’re still existing in that backward town then?” asks gran. “Surviving,” I nod. There’s no point in pushing back. She’s looking for that. Anything that will give her more ammunition to wound me with. I glance across at granddad. I think I saw him react to her question, but cannot be sure. I’m never sure when it comes to him. Granddad has been on death’s door for all of my formative life. He barely says a word. Barely does a thing other than breathe. Some of his food will disappear from his plate, but I won’t see him eat it and it’s never enough to fuel a human being. There was a time when I thought gran was poisoning him. The husbands and wives that marry into our family don’t last long. Long enough to make the next generation of losers and then they’re off, ignorant of what they have actually done. Too busy licking their wounds and wondering what the hell happened back there. They never once think about the abandonment of their children. Somehow they don’t see it like that. People see what they want to see. We make our way through the main course, slings and arrows thrown my way, mostly by gran, but father joins in too. Francis’s kids smirk at me, adding to the hostile ambience. I take it. I take it all, just as I always have and I watch them as they eat. A tradition of our Thanksgiving is that we all bring at least one dish. This year, I brought the pigs in blankets. Gran was derogatory as soon as she saw them, but I see she has polished them all off. In fact, my side dish has been quite the hit. The plate is now empty. The empty plate is my cue. “I see you enjoyed the Betty in blankets,” I say to gran. I’ve stopped eating and have my elbows on the table. I make a cradle with my fingers and rest my chin on it. This is guaranteed to rile the old bag. On my plate are all the bacon wrapped sausages I took from the serving plate. I haven’t eaten a single one. Their presence there makes a point. “What did you say?” gran hisses. I hear Francis gasp. “That’s not funny,” father says. I never take my eyes from gran, but in my peripheral vision I can see Francis’s kids and they are not grinning. I don’t think they’ll ever grin again. “I find it amusing,” I say in a dull monotone, “Betty was always a bit of a pig.” “You’re a horrid little girl,” growls gran, “always have been, always will be.” I smile in reply. Then the tension of the present interaction is broken by a far too loud ringtone. Francis blushes bright red as she reaches into her bag for her phone. The ringtone louder as she retrieves it. The tune catchy, but not recognisable. “Hello?” she says into the phone. When her red face goes very pale I know what the call is about. I’d hoped it would play out like this. I smile as an optional part of my plan comes into play. She isn’t on the phone for long, but it’s long enough to see her transformed. Her transformation will not stop there though. Not by a long chalk. “What is it girl?” gran asks bluntly as Francis ends the call. Francis does her best not to cry. Crying in front of gran would not go well, “my house. It’s on fire...” Gran tuts. She tuts like Francis’s house being on fire is an avoidable inconvenience. That tut makes it clear that Francis is misbehaving and that this is not acceptable. Not here and now during Thanksgiving. Francis gets up. “Where do you think you’re going!?” barks gran. “Home!” shouts Francis. And just for a moment, I think I might have got Francis wrong. That moment passes though. They all do. In the face of gran’s chagrin, Francis leaves. She leaves under the darkest of clouds and she takes her two grown up but still childish children with her. They scowl at me as they leave. I also get up. “What do you think you’re doing, girl? ” asks gran. I smile my smile, “seeing them off.” “Sit down right now!” she screams as I turn my back on her and leave the room. I am in time to see Francis reverse at speed from the driveway and I wince at the sight of it. Composing myself, I return to a dispassionate state as Francis accelerates away and disappears down the hill. She didn’t see me in the doorway, but her two smarmy offspring did. They turned to look at me and gave me the bird in a well-choreographed move. Drawing a deep breath in I savour the crisp smell of the approaching Winter. Some smells enliven a person. This is one of them and I am smiling in an approximation of happiness. I flinch just once as I hear the car crash. Francis was driving far too fast. There was no way she was going to stop in time. Not without any brakes she wasn’t. The sight of the fireball warms and emboldens me. I sniff once again at the air and fancy I catch a whiff of an unseasonal barbeque. Smiling once more, I walk back inside, leaving the door open. Another small victory that will annoy gran. My coat is hanging in the hall and from my coat pocket I pull gloves. I am putting them on as I return to the dining room. Gran shakes her head at me, “gloves? You are as odd as they come. A constant disappointment to me and your weak father. It’s his fault. Far too weak. Let you get away with far too much...” No one asks me about the noise of a car crash and explosion. They don’t care. She’s still talking as I pick up the carving knife and carve a second mouth into my father’s neck. The knife is nice and sharp, I sharpened the blade earlier. I can’t help but ignore gran and inspect my handiwork. Father’s eyes are dumb with surprise. He just sits there, but there is a moment of inexplicable beauty as his new mouth gapes open and for the first time ever, he smiles at me. Then the blood comes. I had read about this part, but never experienced it. I had toyed with practicing with Betty, but instead I despatched her in a far less theatrical manner. The Thanksgiving dinner table is painted red, but somehow gran remains her usual granite-like self. I note only three small and disrespectful spots of blood. I grin at the thought of father remaining so scared of his mother that even in his death throes he avoided getting any of his life blood on her. But I’m grinning. I can’t help but grin. This has to be the best Thanksgiving ever! “You bitch!” gran snarls at me, “how dare you ruin Thanksgiving!” That’s what she says to me. They are her words in the aftermath of the slaying of her son, and the death of her daughter and grandchildren. They are her words after I’ve told her that she’s just eaten some of her granddaughter. These are her words as I walk around the table and place the carving knife in her bony little hand. A hand that seems birdlike and too small for such an evil woman and such a huge, dominating presence in all of our lives. She looks at the knife and then at me and for one magical moment, I think she is going to stab me in the guts. I can picture it and almost feel the knife entering my midriff. She would twist it and disembowel me. That is what she would do. That is how she is built. “You’ve made your point love,” granddad is nodding at me, then his eyes go to the door telling me in no uncertain terms that I should leave now. Not wanting gran to end me with that life. Get out. Get out while you can! Why didn’t he say this earlier? Why didn’t he say something when it would have counted? Too little. Too late. “Oh shut up you ridiculous man!” My gran spits these words out even as she turns on him and plunges the point of the wickedly sharp knife through the old and helpless man’s eye. Such is the force of the thrust that the knife goes almost all the way to the handle. I laugh. I can’t help myself but laugh. I’ve just heard the punchline for this year’s Thanksgiving and it’s a humdinger. “Why are you laughing!?” my gran screams. Why are you laughing?! Why are you laughing?! Why are you laughing?! I tell her once I have gotten over my fit of the giggles. I lean in and whisper it in her ear. Then I step back and in a loud voice I pronounce, “Oh gran! What have you done!?” As she looks at me with a contorted expression of shock and rage, I call the police and I play the part of innocent and traumatised granddaughter very well. I play it better than anyone ever could, and I find myself looking forward to being there at gran’s trial. I’ll be there every day and I’ll look her in the eye as she faces the music. I’ll relish the summing up. That part will be delicious. As the judge name calls and she winces with every word that lands. They won’t see it of course. None of them will. Gran will be wearing her very best mask. But I’ll see it. And I’ll know, and that will be enough. That and the prospect of no more Thanksgiving Dinners with that bunch of broken and messed up assholes. Good riddance to bad rubbish as far as I’m concerned.


Phil Connors rubbed his palms across his face and placed them on the back of his head while he slowly leaned back in his chair and contemplated his next move. He never thought he’d be the type of person to sit behind a desk. Funny how things change. Shortly after high school, he worked as an intern at a small marketing firm and hated it with every fiber of his being. Then one day during his lunch break he saw an ad in the classifieds from the Bricklayers Union seeking people for an apprenticeship, and didn’t hesitate for a second to make a career change. So, he traded in his penny loafers for a pair of work boots and abandoned his leisurely job for a lifetime of lower back pain and calloused hands. Forty-two years, he’s been in construction. Forty-two long, arduous years. First as an apprentice, then as a journeyman, then a foreman and for the last 6 years as the Area Manager. A promotion he was more than grateful for. The raise in pay afforded his wife an early retirement and the work wasn’t nearly as physically taxing which did wonders for preserving his body. But with the big bucks, came bigger responsibilities, more stress and worse headaches. And when difficult decisions needed to be made, Phil often missed the grunt work, especially on a day like today when he had bad news to deliver. There was a knock on the door. His visitor had arrived. Phil sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Come in,” said Phil. “It’s-a me! Mario!” Mario excitedly declared. “Yes, Mario. I know it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Please, sit down,” Phil said while motioning toward the empty chair in front of his desk. Boing! In an impressive display of athleticism Mario leapt from the doorway to the chair. Phil deeply exhaled, “Look, I’ll be Frank.” “Okie Dokie, Frank. I’ll be Mario!” Phil couldn’t help but to chuckle. He had to give it to him. The little fucker was funny. “Mario, do you remember the last meeting we had three weeks ago?” Mario shrugged. “Ok, let me refresh your memory. You were working with Walters and his crew at the KFC remodel on 5th street, when for no apparent reason, you picked up a turtle and threw him at the wall as hard as you could. Do you remember that?” Mario nodded. “And I had to put you on probation. Remember that? Mario nodded again. “You know, Mario, PETA was right across the street protesting that day. Can you imagine the shit storm we would’ve been under had one of them seen you? Not to mention, it’s a fucking psychotic thing to do. I mean, seriously, who the hell throws a turtle?” “It-a was trying to kill-a me!” “I highly doubt that, Mario,” Phil leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Look man, I like you. I really do. Walters says you’re the best brick mason he’s ever worked with, and I might have to agree. Your work ethic is unparalleled. But you’re a loose cannon. Some of the other guys are afraid of you, Mario. You make them uneasy. There have been many complaints. But so far I’ve managed to look the other way. We would have to hire two people to replace you. You’re too good of a worker....” “Oh, thats-a kind of you to say!” Mario interrupted. Phil smacked his desk with a clenched fist. “Dammit Mario! Let me finish. You know I wouldn’t have believed it were even possible had Davis not taken a video of it. But after that stunt you pulled today, I’m afraid there’s no way we can keep you.” “Oh no, but-a why?” “You punched a brick chimney right off of a house, Mario! Absolutely demolished it with your bare hands. How the hell are you that strong, anyway? Mike Tyson can’t punch through bricks. You’re 4’3” and weigh 90 pounds. It makes no sense. It should be physically impossible. I don’t know how you did it. But I do know why you did it. Davis tells me...” Phil sighed before continuing. “...I can’t believe I’m even saying this. Davis tells me you thought there was money inside?” “I had to get-a the coins, so I can save-a the princess!” Phil leaned forward, pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and deeply exhaled. “Which brings me to your excessive drug use. I’m not here to narc people out, Mario. That’s not my intent. I know many of the guys here have their own way of unwinding after a long day. Hell, I’ve been known to indulge myself every now and then. But smoking a joint at your house after your shift is over is one thing. Using hallucinogenics on the clock is another and I can no longer turn a blind eye towards it. Mario, mushrooms aren’t meant for daily consumption. They’re more of an every once in a while kind of drug, understand? They’re the type of drug you take on a camping trip in the middle of the woods to get in touch with nature. You’re not supposed to pop them on a Tuesday afternoon while you’re at work. I need you focused, Mario. I can’t have you out there tripping balls on the job site, climbing flag poles and playing with fire! Walters told me the other day you raced in twenty minutes late, and your whole body was shimmering like a strobe light. Said it freaked him the fuck out. You care to explain that?” “Yes, I ate-a a star!” “You ate a star?” Phil said in a puzzled tone. “You know what. I don’t even want to know what that’s slang for. Honestly, the less I know the better. Mario, you leave me no choice, pal. I have to fire you.” “Oh-No! You make-a me sad!” “I’m sorry, buddy. The good news is I may have found you a new gig. An old acquantice of mine owns a plumbing company and is always looking for help. He’s a crazy fucker. Kinda reminds me of you. He pays well. And it’s under the table too, no taxes. There’s one catch. It’s extremely unflattering work. He only takes on the tough jobs. The ones no one else wants to take. But the money is good. Last time I heard from him, he was looking for two guys. So, he could take on you and your autistic brother, Luigi. His name is Bowser. I’d be willing to give you a recommendation. How’s that sound?” Boing “Let’s-a-go!” Mario shouted while exiting the room in one hop. Phil connors picked up the phone, dialed, and chuckled to himself. “Mario. That little fucker is a lunatic.


He got engaged the same day I moved out. Whatever. Fair enough. No skin off my nose. Forget the skin off my knees. I found out later that he’d married her on my birthday. You try to think of these things as coincidences. Who knows? I’ve been moving around fairly randomly since then. Not a problem. No big thing. It’s just seeing what fits. The big round global dressing room. I’ve tried a lot of jobs, but learning to work a tap and getting an ESL certificate made me instantly employable all over the world. People always ask me what’s my favourite place I’ve been, and I never know what to tell them. I’ve tried to explain that I don’t rate things or attach them to a scale, but that tends to get me blank looks. It seems that everything should be judged in thumbs and stars. I saw him again when I was visiting my parents, doing some shopping for them, to get some fresh air. An excuse to borrow their car, really. Getting out of the house has always been a priority. I had just come into the mall when he came out of Starbucks and almost walked into me, followed by a double take and a look of utter surprise. All of which seemed a little over the top and suspect. We talked a while, catching up on this and that. He looked like himself as I’d known him, in fancy dress as his dad. I didn’t mention this. I noticed that he was deflecting questions about his wife and kids. His voice would sink in both tone and volume and his eyes would shift downwards, before coming back to me with a new topic. I didn’t mention this either. He told me he was thinking of taking a trip, maybe to Vietnam. He always used to talk like this, I remembered. Big, grand plans that sounded exciting, especially in company, and then zero follow up. “Which part of Vietnam?” I asked. He seemed excited to expound. “I’m thinking probably Ho Chi Minh. I’ve heard it’s the best place to visit. More authentic.” “Really?” I asked. “Where did you hear that?” He seemed puzzled by this and stumbled a little. “I was in Vietnam for just over a year,” I told him. “Ho Chi Minh was nice, but I think I preferred Hanoi overall.” “Is that right?” he said, kind of slow and vague. “Maybe I’ll think about that then. Maybe.” “Have you been to Asia before?” I asked. He shook his head. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “Soon though.” This led on to talk about my travels. He seemed to be taking an interest in what I had to say, rather than in his own words. He asked me a lot of questions, and I did my best to answer them honestly. It’s difficult sometimes though. The things people want to know throw me sometimes. When they ask what I’ve been doing, I tend to draw a blank. I tried though, and I talked about Chiang Mai and Sukhothai, but he wanted to know about Phuket and Bangkok. I told him my favourite cities were Kuala Lumpur and Hanoi, but he wanted to stick to Thailand. He didn’t seem at all interested in South America, except to make predictable comments about illegal substances. “I never realised you were so wild,” he told me. “What do you mean?” I asked. He stood back and looked me up and down. “Look at you,” he said with a sweeping arm gesture. “What do you mean?” I asked. I mean, I know I look different from the last time we saw each other, but then so does he. It had been, what? A little over ten years. My hair’s grown a bit, I’ve bought new clothes. I could see him eyeing the tattoos. “Can we meet up and have a proper catch up?” he asked. He touched my arm as he said this, between the shoulder and the elbow. One of his fingers was under my sleeve. When I looked down, I could see his wedding band. “What do you mean?” I asked again. I was finding I didn’t want to ask him anything else. “You know,” he said. “We haven’t seen each other for a long time.” He was standing close to me. “You seem different,” he said. “I don’t think so,” I told him. I didn’t either. Iwas and I am just me. Nothing’s changed. “It’s true,” he told me. “You do.” “Ok.” I didn’t know what else to say to that. We stood there, neither of us saying anything. He touched my arm again and ran one of his fingers down it, over the elbow. I tried to keep eye contact, because I didn’t want to be the first to break it, but I kept glancing down. I took a step backwards. “I’ve got some things to do,” I told him. “Ok,” he said. “Sure. I can come with you.” I shook my head. “It’s not a problem,” he told me. “I have the time.” “I’ve got to get these things and get back to my parents,” I told him. “Oh,” he said. “Too bad.” After that, he asked for my number and I strung together eleven numbers that were close to my real one, but not close enough. I walked away from him, into the mall, and took the nearest escalator down towards the supermarket. I walked quickly through the crowd on the lower ground floor and to the escalators at the back and went down into the car park. When I was teaching English, in Asia mainly, different countries and different age groups, I felt the most myself and also the most lost. Often, I’d be the only native speaker at a school or a language centre. Not always though. I preferred being the only one. If there were others, they tended to expect me to spend lots of time with them. It was like we were in some kind of club. I don’t like clubs. I enjoy walking on my own. I enjoy looking at things and thinking about them. I enjoy being me. It’s true. Every time I had a new class, whether I walked into the room with them already there and waiting for me, or I watched them filing in from my place by the board or the computer or or desk or whatever was there, I used to have minor panic attacks. Every time. I’d struggle to breathe, feel the tightness across my chest, the itching in my palms. I’d worry that I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next, even if I’d been there a long time. I have a complex relationship with the new. But there’s not much you can do at that point. You have to power through it. I think it was good for me. Having to deal. I don’t think any of the students would have even noticed, except maybe that I would rub my hands together and drink a lot of water. They were always focused on other things. I don’t think they believed me when they asked for my Facebook or Instagram or whatever and I told them I didn’t have one though. Maybe I’m old fashioned. So be it. The main thing was, after that first day of trauma, everything would generally roll along smoothly until the end of term, when everything reset. I enjoy teaching. I didn’t think I would, but I do. I fell into it, more or less, which is a long and boring story, and I tried to resist for some time. The one place I struggled in was Delhi. I knew I’d made a mistake from the start. There was simply no escape. Everything was everywhere. Dense and overpowering. But it taught me what to avoid, as well as what to seek. Speaking of which, I’ve been checking flights and maps and websites. It’s good to be home. It’s good not to be too. I got back to my parents’ house without any shopping. They asked about it and I told them I hadn’t been able to get it. Dad looked at mum and she shrugged and then turned to me and smiled, as if she knew what was going on. Some things never change. I went upstairs and I got into the shower. The water was only lukewarm, but that was fine. That was the temperature of home. I stood there with my hands hanging limp by my side, my hair stuck to my face, my shoulders, my back, and I turned on the spot. Slowly. Three hundred and sixty degrees. And again. Tiles. A small frosted window. Green and white plastic curtains. And again. Tiles. A small frosted window. Green and white... I kept on turning and I didn’t speed up. I could keep going like that forever. I would never get dizzy.


7:00pm EST  Good evening, America.  I know the media has been climbing all over each other for a statement from the Presidential office regarding our current health crisis, but I wanted to have as much information as possible before addressing the American people. Were times not so dire and the need for action so immediate, I would still be waiting for more information to address the nation. Unfortunately, America, that is not the case. The bald truth is this: more is unknown about this epidemic than is known. Medical professionals around the world are working tirelessly to provide answers, but as of right now, no cure or preventative mediation have shown long-term effectiveness.  Known by different names around the country - Creeping Flu, Bellows, Influenza M - the infection is spread through direct disease transmission. Simply being touched by an infected person does not cause transmission of the disease from one person to another, but an exchange of bodily fluids will. This can come from being bitten by an infected person, ingesting fluids from an infected person, or sexual contact with an infected person. I must stress... simply touching an infected person will not transmit the disease. Forced quarantine upon medical professionals based on this misinformation will only lead to further infection and unnecessary condemnation, not to mention the loss of valuable personnel.  The speed of infection appears to increase with every new generation. Because of this, providing an accurate timeline for symptom progression is impossible. What we can do is provide a concrete, concise list of symptoms. Before we address this, however, it is important to note that one or two symptoms does not necessarily indicate infection. With so much confusion, stress, and exposure to new drugs, it absolutely makes sense that people would be getting sick with perfectly normal diseases. This is not the Wild West and we are not horses: a bullet is not the cure for a broken leg, nor is it the cure for the average flu. Even now, when the infection can potentially spread so quickly throughout the body, we must be sure of our decisions.  That being said, the symptoms, in order, are as follows:  1. General fatigue/weakness 2. Cluster headaches: sharp, burning pain behind the left eye 3. Burst blood vessels in left eye 4. Quickly onset fever of above 106 degrees Fahrenheit 5. Vomiting/diarrhea 6. Hallucinations 7. Paralysis 8. Death 9. Reanimation  Symptoms will appear in the order shown. No variation of symptom order has been observed, though personal susceptibility to individual symptoms may accelerate the onset of specific steps. Again, I must stress that individual symptoms do not indicate an overall infection.  Finally, it is with a heavy heart I inform America that its military will be unable to assist at this time. Were this an invading foreign power at our nations door, the United States Armed Forces would be fully prepared to stand and defend her people. As it is, we have been found shamefully unprepared to address an epidemic of this strength and nature. For the foreseeable future, the American people will need to rely on their own grit and perseverance in order to weather this storm. This will not be the first time the mettle of the American people was tested, nor will it be the second, nor the third. America is a nation born of independence and ingenuity. A nation of adaptation and spirit. This is a fight we will win, my fellow Americans, but one that will take a heavy toll.  Doubt is a rot in the heart of mankind which is easily planted by fear - one that must not be allowed to take root.  It has been an honor serving you, America. Thank you, good luck, and god speed.