“What the hell are you doing here?!” “What do you mean? I was sent here by...” “For God’s sake, I know who sent you. I’m familiar with how resources get assigned! I’m asking what you are doing HERE! You knew that I’d been working on this site for the last nine months!” “Gracey, we need to...” “No, we don’t! After what you did last time, I had no interest in seeing you ever again.” “Well, then it’s a good thing you can’t see my face. Just keep your eyes on the surroundings and the map.” “Do you think it’s funny? I will request another dispatch because I can’t deal with this right now. This research is too important!.. Do you hear me?.. Hello?!” “Keep your panties on, I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. I have sixty minutes left in my outing so by the time you reach them and they send someone else, I will be back, safe and sound. Then you can greet me properly!” “Argh! You knew you would put me in this situation, you planned this whole thing!” “Guilty as charged. Took me a while to execute, but I’m here and I can’t wait for our, hopefully, passionate reunion.” “I wouldn’t count on that, Greg, if I were you.” “We’ll see... Didn’t you miss me?” “Not even a little bit!” “Eh, you are lying. I know you haven’t dated anyone, GG, since you kicked my sorry ass out. Do you remember our nickname - GG?” “No, and don’t call me that! The Gracey-Greg combo died exactly nine months ago when you cheated on me!” “For the hundredth time, I didn’t cheat on you! You said you wanted space to concentrate on your career! You left and told me in no other terms that I was free to do whatever I wanted with whomever I wanted. And then I didn’t hear from you for two weeks! So, what was I supposed to do! Eat gallons of ice cream in front of that ancient movie you always watched? What was it called?” “ Notting Hill. ” “That’s the one! You didn’t return any of my calls. I thought it was over! So, I did what any guy would do when they lose the love of their life. I got drunk and had a ONE-night stand. Just one! Suddenly, you are back and you want what from me?” “A love of your...are you kidding me?! You never even told me that you loved me or wanted to be with me!.. Stop. Hold it, let me check the map... you need to turn left here. Be careful! The botanical team discovered new plants there that are very sticky and toxic. If they grab at your spacesuit or boots, get them off immediately.” “Aha, see, you still care for me!” “I care about the success of this expedition and have no interest in ruining my chances for promotion because of some moron being suffocated by a couple of plants in the middle of the Martian desert!” “I’ll be careful, pinky promise!.. GG, you got so quiet. Are you picturing me right now? What am I wearing?” “A blue and white spacesuit. Very romantic!” “I know I didn’t tell you that before because I was an idiot. I thought if I told you how I felt, you won’t see me as the big strong man that I always wanted to be in your eyes. That’s the truth. I do love you. I want you to give us another chance. Please.” “Did the company’s shrink fill your head with this bullshit? Or did you come to that revelation all on your own?” “Nice sarcasm! I like your spike, that was the only thing that was missing before in our exuberant relationship. Come on, Gracey, look at what I did to get here to talk to you! Do you know how many favors I owe all around the base? They agreed to send me to this location. I had to go through three months of training so I could work in the field. I bribed the guy who was scheduled to come here today so he calls in sick and they send me instead. Think about it - would I have done all of that if I didn’t mean it? What do...” “Greg? Greg! Are you there? I have a visual, why aren't you moving?! Greg?!” “I’m here, hold on a sec. There is something weird ...” “Are you in danger?!” “I’m fine, it’s something on the ground... Let me get closer, can you see it?” “No... it looks like a dried-up puddle or a pond?” “It’s neither. The shape is too weird. Let me try to take a picture and send it to you. There. Did you get it?” “File’s corrupted.” “Damn camera is acting up again. I guess not enough juice for a high-res. I sent a drone out for a quick video. It’s coming back.” “Check the footage before you leave.” “Really? I would’ve never thought of that!” “I see your sarcasm and sense of humor are on the same basic level as before.” “Ah, a loving insult. It’s downloading now. Hey, GG, do you think Mars is more romantic than the place we stayed in at the Grand Canyon? It was some weekend, ha? I almost proposed then...Do you think it’d be more memorable if I asked you to marry me with this red background and the hills? Think about it - if you like the idea, I will do it next time I’m here, I will even get on one knee if you want. Opening the file now... Wow!” “What?!” “Hey GG, I think you may get that promotion sooner than you think. Because when they see what you and I just discovered, our names will be all over the news, hon! I just... Damn, I can’t believe this!” “Greg, enough with the buildup, what did you find? A goldmine?” “Better... it’s a footprint of a very very large Martian dinosaur! So, Beautiful, what do you say? Will you marry me now?”


“Oh shit,” Chris said as he looked in the mirror, stroking his upper lip. “What’s the matter?” said Ralph, the optician. “I just missed a spot shaving this morning. Right above my upper lip. I didn’t notice this morning, but it’s grown out now. I look like Hitler! I gotta stop shaving in the shower without a mirror. Look at this!” Chris stepped out of the bathroom and pointed to his upper lip. Ralph chuckled. “Yeah, you do look like Hitler,” Ralph said. “Do you have a razor I could borrow?” “No, but even if I did, I wouldn’t let you borrow it, that’s disgusting.” “What’s disgusting about sharing a razor? I’d clean it off!” Chris said as he held his hands up in disbelief. “I dunno,” said Ralph, turning back to his computer. “You might get blood on it.” “So? I’ll rinse it off. I obviously wouldn’t give you back a bloody razor. Who the hell does that?” “I dunno, it’s just gross,” said Ralph looking back at Chris. “Besides, I don’t have a razor, and you only have one more patient left for the day anyway. You’ll survive.” Chris rubbed his finger over his upper lip and felt the long stubble. Debra, the tech came around the corner. “Dr. Gottlieb, your last patient is ready. She’s such a sweet old lady, you’re gonna love her!” When Chris turned around, Debra recoiled and contorted her face in disgust. “Oh God!” she said. “What did you do? Why did you grow a Hitler stache?” “I didn’t mean to!” Chris said. “I just missed a spot shaving, and I didn’t notice until now that my hair is growing in this late in the day, it looks like a push broom mustache.” “You mean, a Hitler stache?” said Debra. “Or a Charlie Chaplin!” said Chris, raising his hands in the air. “This was a popular style before Hitler went and ruined it.” “It’s a Hitler stache, Doc,” Debra said, pursing her lips. She pivoted and went back to the front desk. Chris turned to Ralph. “What am I gonna do?” he said, his voice rising and tightening with anxiety. “Get going and see that patient,” said Ralph flatly. “She’s probably like 90 years old and I want to go home. She probably won’t notice anyway.” Chris grumbled and looked back in the mirror. “I mean, I guess it’s not that prominent, you have to have an imagination to see how it.” “Yeah, sure,” said Ralph, his nose in his computer scrolling Facebook. Chris flattened his white coat and took a deep breath and walked to the door of the exam room. He knocked gently before he entered. “Come in!” said a cheerful German accented voice from beyond the door. He walked into the room, trying to keep his finger covering his upper lip as if he was rubbing his nose. He looked down at her chart and saw her name. “Hello Mrs. Eichelman, I’m Dr. Gottlieb, it’s very nice to meet you.” Extending his right hand, he kept his left hand over his upper lip. She didn’t shake his hand, he thought maybe she was offended, maybe she caught a glimpse of the mustache. “Oh, Dr. Gottlieb, that’s a nice German name!” she said in a pleasant voice. “I wish I could see you, but I can’t see anything without my glasses.” Chris breathed a sigh of relief, she wouldn’t be able to see his face, nor his “mustache.” He could get through this without offending her. He put his hand down and looked at her file. “Yes, my grandfather was from Germany,” said Chris. He wanted to get off the German topic as quickly as he could. He knew his Grandfather’s past in Germany was suspect to say the least. “Oh, that’s wunderbar! Sprechen sie Deutsch?” “Ein bisschen.” Mrs. Eichelman laughed. “I mostly spoke Yiddish growing up, even my German isn’t all the great even though that’s where I was born. But your accent is spectacular!” Doing the math in his head and knowing her country of origin, Chris knew wanted to get off the subject. He liked this woman and she seemed very sweet, and likely, since she was older, didn’t get out much or have anyone to talk to. Chris had a soft spot for these types of people, the elderly who had very little family or friends, going to the optometrist was the highlight of their week and he wanted to make sure she felt welcome and could speak as much as she wanted. But not about this, not about his German heritage. “Danke schoen,” Chris said quickly. He looked through her chart. “Let’s see...you look to be in good health...a little hypertension...” “Oy, yanno, I try to keep it under control, but I’m worried about what’s happening in this country these days. It seems like the Nazis are coming back, I thought we were done with them! I was very scared to see those young boys marching with the torches.” Chris swallowed hard. “If I saw another Nazi,” she said and her voice got low and serious, “I would slit their throat because that’s what they deserve.” He laughed nervously. “Oh, I agree, it’s terrible...” said Chris. “Let’s check your vision.” Before Mrs. Eichelman had a chance to say another word, Chris put the phoropter in front of her eyes and adjusted it so that it sat comfortably on her nose. “Is that comfortable for you?” Chris asked. “I can’t see anything still,” she replied. “That’s because I haven’t put your prescription in there yet,” said Chris. “I see the big E!” she said, laughing. “I just want to make sure it’s not pinching you or pressing on you uncomfortably,” said Chris. “E. I can see that, but it’s fuzzy.” Chris rolled his eyes and entered in the prescription from the autorefraction into the phoropter. “Oh, that’s good. E,” said Mrs. Eichelman. Chris said nothing. He kept turning the knobs until it reflected her autorefraction prescription she had on her page. “E,” she said again. “That’s very clear.” Chris changed the chart on the screen to a much smaller line. “That’s too small, make it bigger please,” said Mrs. Eichelman. “I liked the big E, I could see that.” Chris grumbled under his breath and turned up the next largest line. “That’s fuzzy,” she said. “Bring back the big E, I could see that one!” “Well, I have to give you somewhat of a challenge to make sure you can see well. Can you read the letters there?” Chris asked. “H...V...O...T...Z...” she said, carefully and tentatively. “Great! Perfect!” said Chris. Then he clicked to the next lens. “Is that better or worse?” “H...V...O--” she began. Chris cut her off. “No, you don’t have to read the letters again. Just tell me if it’s clearer. Here.” He flipped back to the old lens. “This is one...” and then he flipped back to the other lens again, “this is two...which do you prefer? Which on is clearer?” “H...V...O...” she began. He blocked off that eye and switched to the other, huffing as he did. He changed the letters on the screen. “What happened? I can’t see out of my right eye,” said Mrs. Eichelman. “I switched to the left. Can you read those letters?” “I think two is better,” she said. Chris hung his head. “No, Mrs. Eichelman, I changed the letters on the screen, can you read them?” “Can you show me one again?” she asked. He took the phoropter away, he wasn’t getting anywhere. “Is that it?” she asked, squinting at him. He grabbed the clunky trial frames, rooted around his case of loose lenses. “I’m just going to see if you can see better with the new prescription,” he said, fiddling with the lens case and trial lenses. “Will I have my new glasses by the time I have to go to Temple tonight? I have a hard time seeing the Rabbi from my seat,” she asked. Her voice was so sweet and innocent, he couldn’t be annoyed with her for very long. “No,” he said, “Unfortunately, it takes a week for the glasses to be made, but you’ll have them by the next Sabbath.” “Oh, you know about Shabbat, are you Jewish too?” “No ma’am,” he said. “Oh that’s too bad, because you seem like a very nice young man. You’d be perfect for my granddaughter.” “Oh, that’s nice of you to say, Mrs. Eichelman, but I’m happily married,” Chris said as he held up his ring hand. She squinted and strained to see it. “Oh, well you’ll see it better, once I get these glasses on,” Chris said and placed the trial frames over her eyes. “Oh, these are heavy,” she said and lifted the frames off her nose. “But I can see again!” She smiled looking around the room at everything she could now see. Then she focused on Chris’s face and her smile dropped to a scowl. The skin on her cheeks turned red with fury. “Nazi!” she yelled and hit him with her purse. “What?” Chris said in confusion. Then he touched his upper lip. Mrs. Eichelman stormed out of the room as fast as her body would allow her muttering angrily in Yiddish. He chased after her. “No! I just missed a spot shaving! Mrs. Eichelman!” he yelled and ran toward the front to explain himself, but she was yelling to her daughter, who drove her to the appointment. Her daughter spotted him and pointed a finger in his face. “My mother didn’t escape to America just to deal with Nazis here. You monster!” said the daughter. She turned her mother around and guided her out the door, keeping her piercing glare on Chris’s face. “Let’s go, Mom.” Mrs. Eichelman turned and spat on the ground. “Burn in hell!” she yelled on her way out the door. Chris stood up front in disbelief as the patients picking out their glasses scowling at him. “I’m not a Nazi! I swear!” Chris pleaded. All the patients in the waiting room left, striking their angry eyes at Chris, muttering how terrible of a person he is and how they’ll never return. “You’ll be getting a bad review from me, Hitler!” cried one man. After the last patient had left the office. Debra looked at Ralph, who ran up from the lens lab to see the commotion, they both laughed.


It’s dark, and the cricket song echoes loudly around me. The wind rushes past me and I watch the trees fly by as the stars stay in their place. The moon orange and full, still yet barely rising. The fast ticking of my bike wheel is the only unnatural noise. I look to the sky again, I see what looks like a cloud across the sky, like a river. Dimmer in the middle. The milky way. I look to the road, and watch as my light bounces on the lines. A cooling wind blows and rustles through the trees. Causing some leaves to fall. They flutter through the night, dancing like the bats catching moths above me. I hear frogs croaking in the ditches as I pass. Cicadas in the trees. The bats' and moths' fluttering wings. The leaves dragging along the ground in the wind. The crickets chorus sings louder then quieter. I see almost no sign of human existence, besides me and the road I travel. It is bliss. I see what looks almost like a large dead animal right in the middle of the road. I slow my bike down, so I can get a better look. Slowly I approach it, til I get off my bike. I see now, it's a person, laying across the road as if they've been hit. Though I see no blood or scratches. I wonder, is it dead? I get closer still, probably dangerous, but still. I see that is a teen boy, maybe my age, maybe a little older. He seems to be struggling. He looks at me with eyes that seem almost red in the moonlight. He looks at me with an expression of fear...do I see hope? I ask if he's okay. "Does it look like I'm ok? Do okay people just lay on a road?" He panted. He seemed exhausted. I sighed, he seems to have some humor. "Well no, you don't look okay. But when some one asks that they mean to ask if you want or need help." I swatted at a mosquito that was flying in my ear. They didn't bother me till I stopped moving. I keeled besides the boy. "What's your name? Why are you in the road?" He smirked at me. "My name doesn't matter. The reason I'm in the road isn't something you'd understand." He layed back on in the road, obviously exhausted, hungry even. I shifted to sitting Indian style. The the road was hurting my knees. "I could try to understand." I spoke in a softer voice. He looked at me with a sudden desperation. He sat up and faced me. his eyes piercing into mine. as if he was studying my soul. They didn't just look red any more. They were definitely red. I could see they were fading. like the life was dying in them. A shiver went through my spine. I'm no idiot. I don't play dumb. "are you wearing contacts?" I asked, suddenly intrigued. He smiled and showed his teeth. “no.” He had nice teeth. I saw the canines were exceptionally sharp. But they weren't extra long. A chill of excitement ran down my spine. I smiled at him, and he looked at me confused. "Why do you smile?" his expression becoming nervous. "are you what I think you are?" I whispered, looking deep into his entrancing eyes. "say it out loud, if you really think you know." I shifted closer, probably not a good thing to do. "A vampire right? child of the night, supposed servant of the devil." He nodded, "yes, sort of and no." He paused and looked away from me. "i guess you could call me child of the night. But but I'm not a servant of the devil just because of what I am. if I was I wouldn't be starving out here." "starving..?" I asked, already knowing what he meant. He looked at the sky, tracing the milky way with his eyes. suddenly a brilliant light shone from the distance. A car was coming, and we were sitting in the middle of the road. "GeT oUtTa tHe ROAD!" I screamed, terrified. Though the road was straight and we had time before the car was gonna pass, I ran. I grabbed my bike, and headed for the edge of the forest. I dropped my bike in the ditch and began to back into the forest. I wasn't supposed to be out here. I was supposed to be at home, asleep in bed, like a good teen girl. I waited till the car passed, then there was another right behind it. I waited, watching the road. one two three I begin counting. to calm myself, and make sure the cars were far enough away to not see me. five six I climbed a tree and sat in the branch closest to the top, but still strong enough to hold me and probably my bike. nine ten ... “hey” I nearly jumped out of the tree in fright. “oh mY GOODNESS, you scared the living hEll outta me!” “sorry, you were about to push me out of the tree. I didn't think you'd climb the same tree, or sit on the same branch.” he shifted closer to the trunk of the tree. I leaned on the trunk, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving me shaky. The silence is closing in, and I hear the crickets resume their song. I wonder if there's any bats in this tree. probably not, they're probably out, eating. “so you're starving huh. shouldn't it be easy to get...umm..food..?” I looked at him confused. He sighed again, and looked directly into my eyes. The red even dimmer now. bags under his eyes growing dark. “I can't just attack any human for food. It has to be consented. They they have to say yes, and i can't force it. it's been almost a year since the last time I was able to feed.” He looked deeper into my eyes, searching. then looked back out, at the stars. The moon wasn't so red any more, like his eyes, it was fading into a pale yellow. “You didn't ask me” I stated, in a suggestive tone. He looked at me, surprised, and hopeful. then his hope faded. “don't play with my head, I know you wouldn't.” I sat up, away from the trunk, and looked him in the eyes. “You can feed off me, I give you my permission. as long as it doesn't kill me.” Within less than a second he had me pinned against the trunk. He held my head back by my hair, and I could hear his breath, ragged. desperate. my heart was pounding, as he lowered his head, and his lips grazed my neck, his breath cold, tickling my skin. “you sure?” He whispered, almost too quiet to hear. I nodded. He sank his teeth into my neck, I felt a snap, when my skin broke. I felt a wave of nauseating pain pass through me, and then the pain was gone. I can feel his lips on my neck, his teeth come out of the wound, and he drinks. I can feel him getting closer to me, he can't get close enough. He shifts closer, till his chest is pressing up on mine. He pulls my head back more with my hair. I can feel my heart beat faster, I gasp. my limbs are getting cold, and my head is swimming. I look out to the stars, the moon so full and bright. So, so full of life. my eyelids are getting heavy, I close them and relax. I feel my feet tingling. my limbs are growing heavier and heavier, as if i’m suddenly noticing gravity. I try to open my eyes, I try to move, but I can't.. my hands; that were gripping the branch I sit on, slowly let go. I can't hold on anymore, but I don't fall. He has me pinned against the tree. never have I felt so safe, so vulnerable and so alive, as while I feel like I'm dying. I feel him relaxing. letting go of my hair, and he pulls away from my neck. my neck feels cold, and naked. He touches my jawline and turns my head, to reveal the wound. my eyes flutter open, finally. I look at him, and he takes his hand from my face. I see little sparkles around my vision. I feel a trickle of warm run down the side of my neck, it gives me goosebumps. That's a feeling that I don't like. He takes his hand and slits his wrist with a sharp fingernail. I feel him dab some of his blood on the bite wound, and I immediately begin to feel better. I start to sit up, but he pushed me back by my shoulders. “rest for a couple minutes. it's not best to move right now.” I nod, and close my eyes again. i can feel my strength returning to me. I feel my mind clearing, as I take a deep breath. I look around myself. “You know, anytime you need to...feed, just ask, although, the answers always gonna be yes.” He looks surprised. “what time is it?” I worry. I gotta be home before four, my parents wake up at five. I look up at him. He looks at the moon, and around at the stars. “about three fifteen.” I see his eyes are very vivid now. The red is almost the color of blood, dark and deep. crimson. He he even looks more alive. “That's good. I'm about five minutes away from home..” I look down at the road below me. that's awful high, I realise. suddenly gravity seems drunk, and my world tips. I feel myself slipping. I look at him, everything happening in slow motion. He reaches his arm out to me, a little too late. I just miss the tip of his finger. I feel my feet slip off the branch. I'm falling...upside down, and I feel...weightless. The tree branch quickly gets farther away. I try to look behind me and do a flip in air. I see the ground, quickly approaching. I see my bike, still where I left it in the ditch. The ground is suddenly right there, and I hit it face first. but It didn't feel like I fell out of the top of a tree. It felt as if I fell out of bed. I sit up and look up at the branch I was sitting on. He’s not there.. “did that hurt?” I heard him ask from behind me. i turn around. “..no actually. How is that?” He sits down in front of me, in the grass. “well now you're going to be a transitioning vampire. The transition lasts a year. you'll have mild versions of vampire powers, and a mild aversion to the sun.” He sighs, “But if you want to stay human, any time in the following year just drink my blood, and you are cured.” The ground is uncomfortable. I can feel each blade of grass under me. I get up and look at the stars. some of them aren't stars, they're planets. I can see now distinctly which are planets. I can see mars easily. and Saturn. it's rings are positioned today just so, that they're almost invisible. I looked at his eyes again, so deep and beautiful. I could see the strands of his iris. I could see the stars reflection in them. The eyelashes that haven't fully grown yet. “I think I'll test this out for a while. Will you still be able to feed on me?” He walked to my bike and picked it up with ease. “yes, actually while you are transitioning, the blood is even better. but you're not just food to me, so do what you like. but once you're a vampire, I'll have to find other blood.” I nodded. “what if...i stay a transitioning vampire, and on the last day, you make me human. then we can start the transition over again.” I began to adjust my shirt and dust off my pants. he set my bike in front of a tree, so it was standing instead of laying in the ditch. I grab my purse. “that's clever..” He said, as he looked at me. I pulled a comb out of my purse. I leaned on a dead tree and brushed some dirt and knots out. The fall had made a mess of it. He was watching me as I did so. I pretended not to notice. but i ended up blushing. He was really cute. and this experience was quite intimate. at least I thought so. I honestly can't wait till next time. I blush harder at the thought. embarrassed, I brush my hair to cover my face. but I think he's already noticed. He chuckles, and looks away. “you should get home right?” i look at the moon. it's risin a little more since i looked last. maybe ten minutes ago. “no, I have a half hour to kill, and i don't like being home.” “what's wrong with home? I miss having a home to go to, but my family died off and my brother inherited the house. of course he died a couple decades ago. The house is his daughters now.” He seems to be lonely. maybe...no. I can't be thinking like that. I just met him. “dang,” i said. “it's gotta be hard with no place. I don't like home, but if I had my own id probably never leave.” I giggled.


“Remember Marsha?” “Mom’s friend from Philly?” “No, that’s Marcia. I said Marsha, M-A-R-S-H-A. She lived next to us when we were kids. I went to school with her brother.” “Oh yeah, Bobby’s sister. What about her?” “Well, she went missing.” “You’re kidding! When?” “About a week ago, apparently. I’m friends with Bobby on Facebook and he shared a post with her picture, asking for leads. It said she dropped her kid to school one morning but never showed up for work and no one’s heard from her since.” “And is there any reason to suspect foul play?” “What do you mean?” “Like, do they think she was taken?” “Well, of course they assume something like that must have happened. Do you think she’d choose to disappear on her family?” “I don’t know. We haven’t seen her for years; we have no idea what her life is like and what she would or wouldn’t do. Anyway, that would be the best-case scenario, right? Leaving on her own free will to get a fresh start. It’s certainly better than being held captive or lying murdered somewhere.” “You’re unbelievable!” “What? I’m just saying it’s a possibility, and the best one anyone can hope for.” “Not everybody finds it so easy to bail on their responsibilities, you know?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Forget it!” “No, go ahead. You think I bailed on my responsibilities when I left George?” “You said it, not me.” “You didn’t have to. You always find a way to get your point across without saying what you really mean.” “Ok! You really want to know what I mean? This has nothing to do with you leaving that asshole. But we leave spouses, not children. How long has it been since you last saw Lucy?” “Don’t you go there! You have no right to judge me as a mother, specially when you have no idea what having children is like.” “Yes, because Carl and I chose not to have them. You did, and now you’re just going on with your life as if you hadn’t.” “You know it’s not easy to schedule visitations when I’m working the weekend shifts at the store. Anyway, I told you before: Lucy is better off with her father until I can get a proper place for the both of us.” “I’ve been hearing this for over a year now. When was the last time you even went looking for an apartment?” “Is that your way of saying I’m overstaying my welcome? Because, let me remind you, I’m not your charity case. I paid you for every month I’ve been here and I’ve helped you cover your mortgage.” “Please! Your rent barely covers the cable bill. Carl and I only agreed to that amount so you wouldn’t feel like a freeloader. And, honestly, we thought it would give you time to get on your feet, and maybe save enough for a security deposit.” “As if! You need me to be a screw-up so you can feel good about yourself. The minute I get back on my feet is the minute you’ll stop feeling all superior for taking care of your messed-up sister! (...) Aren’t you gonna say anything? (...) Don’t you ignore me when I’m talking to you!” “I’m not...” “Well, get off your fucking phone.” “Bobby posted again. They found Marsha’s car.” “What? Let me see!” “It was abandoned outside of town” “Near the woods! Do they think she’s there?” “Well, he’s inviting people to take part on a group search.” “Look at his picture... Oh boy, Tony hasn’t aged well, has he?” “I know... I believe he had a drug problem for a while. He shares some inspirational quotes about sobriety sometimes.” “That doesn’t surprise me. He was drinking beer when we were, what, eleven? And his father was a big time drunk, don’t you remember?” “I do... But so was ours, and we didn’t become addicts because of it.” “Do you really think Dad was an alcoholic? Sure, he liked to drink, but I don’t think he drank any more than Carl does, for example.” “Are you implying my husband has a drinking problem?” “What? I’m saying the opposite! I said he drinks just as much as Dad did, and I don’t think Dad had a drinking problem.” “It’s crazy what you choose to remember! Dad would come home late at night nearly passed out! Mom had to drag him to bed. I never had to do this with Carl!” “Yeah, because Dad liked to drink in bars with his friends. The difference is that Carl doesn’t have to come home. He just drinks here on the couch and can easily drag himself to bed when he can’t manage anymore.” “You have some nerve to judge my husband like that!” “What? I’m not.


Whenever the end of the world happens in movies, it always seems to happen in America. Max thought that this was odd considering that surely the end of the world is just that, the end of the world, and not just this year's actor of choice running away from zombies with artfully placed blood and dirt all over them. Well, as it turned out, the end of the world had nothing to with zombies or a new strain of measles killing everyone or even the rapture as so many people on so many street corners in so many cities would have liked you to think. In truth, it came with plenty of warning unlike all of those other scenarios. The asteroid barrelled its way into the solar system and it was massive, the size of London which made it big news. No one was worries about it at first, it seemed perfectly obvious that it would simply crash into jupiter or some other large celestial body. As time went on, however, that seemed like a smaller and smaller possibility as the magnitude of what was happening sunk in on a global scale. Max felt like the entire world was going through the stages of grief. A massively personified reaction on a global scale. He wasn't sure if they had reach acceptance yet but then again, what was there to accept? Everyone and everything would be destroyed and there was nothing to do about it. How depressing. Just as he had moved out and was about to begin his life as an adult the whole world decided to end just to spite him. Perses, the name of the asteroid, became a fixture of life looming over the world metaphorically and soon enough physically as it was able to be seen even during the day. It had become a sort of tradition for Max and his sister Judy to watch the sunrise and just watch Perse hurtling towards them. "How long did they say it'll take?" Judy asked, leaning forward onto the railing in front of their flat. "Well, some people say three days and some two." "What do you think?" Max shrugged, "I'm not a scientist but looking at it, it can't be long now," he laughed mockingly, "Funny how all of these billionaires, even Elon Musk with his rockets, can't escape this. The end of the world truly is the great equaliser." "That's true," a pause, a shaky exhalation of breath, "I'm scared." A hand gripping the railing, gripping another hand, "Me too." "Do you want it to hit near us or not? I'm not sure to be honest, do I want it to be over in a flash or not?" Judy was a smart kid, top set in all her classes, too bad she wouldn't life to sit her GCSE's let alone do anything with that big brain of hers. "Well I hate all of this waiting, it's torture. People still have hope that NASA will save the day but come on! We're going to end up like the dinosaurs and everyone knows it," Max felt so powerless. Both of their parents had decended into a stupor of drink and drugs, clearly the end of the world meant that they were going to catch up on everything that they hadn't had the chance to do. It left Judy and Max terribly alone at the time when they needed support the most. "Come on, let's go for a drive." "But you haven't passed your test yet!" Judy looked truly shocked and it made Max want to cry, he had missed so much of her growing up even in his short time at university. He looked at her blankly, "Does it matter? It's not like anyone cares." Max wasn't sure where he wanted to go until they were both in their dad's car and he was driving there. The lake was one they would go to on the weekend to walk around and see some nature and he knew the place well. Whatever other people were doing with their last hours, it wasn't going to their local lake and they had the whole place to themselves. Max decided to drive right up to the edge of the lake and sit on the bonnet of the car like in the movies, it made him happy and anything that made him happy nowadays was worth doing. The siblings sat together on the bonnet of the car, not speaking. There was nothing to say, nothing to apologise for and no more amendments to make-those had all been said and done days ago. All that there was left to do was to watch the ducks swimming along the surface of the lake. If they knew that something was wrong they didn't show it. Suddenly his phone started to buzz violently, the news updates were pinging on his phone in quick succession but the information took its time to fully settle into his head. Perses was speeding up at and unprecedented rate and was on a collision course with the moon. A hope that Max hadn't even realised he still had died in him; there had been talks of sending a rocket up to deflect the path of Perses straight into the moon. There wasn't even enough time to tell Judy before it happened. There was no noise but the moon suddenly came lurching into view. It was mid afternoon but the moon shone bright in the sky, too bright and too large. Just grabbed his arm, "What's happening? Max?" "It's Perses, it hit the moon. It's coming towards us," his heart felt like it had turned to lead and ripped out of his chest, "I-I don't know what will happen now. I can see it getting bigger, oh god." "Max," Judy sounded calm, calmer than she had been in days and calmer than he felt, "it's ok. Let's just sit here. Look! You can see the reflection of the moon on the lake, it's huge!" "You're right, Jude. It's beautiful..."


Everyday I wake up with my old bones and blurry eyes, but that’s okay because I have you, human. You have been my human for so long, and I have devoted my whole life to you. Even though I am going grey, and losing teeth you still feed me and give me water. My caregiver, you have always been there to feed me and make sure my nails don’t get too long. I try my best to give you all of the love I have in me. Even though most days you are too busy. You work so hard human, I can understand why you don’t want to have cuddles with me. I do get cuddles sometimes and those are the best times, and you even give me some belly scratches once in a while. I hope for the days you come home and want to give me attention, they always make me smile. Most days I eat and sleep and try to see if you want my love that day, but most of the time I’m shooed away. I sit alone and drift in and out of sleep, it’s hard for me to play with my toys these days. But I still have you, human, to feed me... I know I’m not the puppy you used to love, something new that’s exciting. But I am still me, and I love you even more now I can show you if you’d like my dear human? No? Oh okay... that’s okay I’ll go back to my cozy bed. It’s not so bad, I have a big fluffy bed to lay on and easy access to water and food when I need, I can even go to the bathroom without you. But it sure was nice when we went on walks together.. I understand being a human is hard but sometimes this bed gets cold and I want your warmth, but I do understand human. Being a human must be so hard, I couldn’t imagine all of the toys you must play with all day long, and the walks you go on when you’re gone for so long everyday. I just wish you wouldn’t yell at me telling me you never even wanted me, or that I’m useless. I try so hard to be wanted, I try to do things like I used to. It sure does get hard when you grow into a big dog.. I’m not new and exciting anymore. I do wish I was young and exciting again. Maybe then you would want to give me pats and scratches again like you used to. I dream about those times, it’s all I dream about. You are all I know human, I’m thankful to have you. I’m not all you know, you have human friends you bring home sometimes. I love seeing the smile you have on your face when they are around. Your human friends do give me pats and scratches, to them I am still new and exciting I suppose. I do very much enjoy the pats and scratches from your human friends, but I prefer your hand. I’m sorry, my dear human, that I am no longer new and exciting for you.


Close to my home, there is this park that used to be a graveyard. Once all the graves were full, the city council planted grass everywhere, put a number of benches about, and declared it to be a park. I enjoyed visiting it to work on my book. I liked that very few people ever visited the park. I also liked the earthy smell of the park, the way the light splashed bright patterns on the floor, and most importantly, the many butterflies. I'd sit every day on one of the green benches with my notebook, scribbling out ideas for my book. I was writing a study on butterflies, with special focus on the Graveyard Princess - a rare, double stripped large butterfly that was only found close to graveyards. I had been working on the book for a very long time, but I was not getting very far. I had ideas, lots of ideas, scribbled all over the pages of the book, but it was hard to make the thoughts coherent. My home was nearby, a small, cosy house I bought with the money the insurance had paid me after I fell of a stool at the university. I enjoyed my job as a professor, but getting a few hundreds of thousands all at once meant that I could retire early. I found this little cottage, rented it, and lived off the interest that 353,000 dollars in the bank gave me. My only ambition was to finish the book, and get published by one of the major science presses. I wanted to tell the world about how the Graveyard Princess butterfly has built a symbiotic relationship with the mice that live under the gravestones, and how different their growth journey is from other butterflies. I wish I were skilled enough to capture the grace of their flight, and describe how the sunlight dances with them as they flutter over the scattered gravestones. But instead of writing, I'd walk around the park, searching for butterflies and making up stories for the various names on the gravestones. I had long, fantastic tales about how they lived, each story long enough to be a book on its own. I'd get lost in long moments, looking at little flying butterflies wandering about. I remember the day I first saw her. I arrived at the park, sat on the bench and got my sandwich out. The bread was still warm, the ham smelled delicious. I took the first bite, and raised my face to the sunlight and let it pour across my face. I opened my eyes, and she was there. A young girl with dark, stringy hair, standing all alone, dressed in old-fashioned clothes. She looked directly at me without saying a word. She was maybe 8, maybe 9 years old? I've never had children, so I can't really judge the age of children. Her big, dark-ringed eyes stared at me. Then she stepped towards me in strange, jerky and unnatural manner. I felt a chill come over me. My heart pounded. I pulled my notebook to my chest instinctively. I yelled out, half to her, half to anyone that was near and could rescue me: "What do you want?" She turned and ran off. Her running was odd. The park seemed to have got darker, and it looked like it would rain soon. I got my stuff and quickly left the park back to my home. That night, as I lay in my bed, I thought about that strange girl. I had never seen her before - and what was a girl that young doing alone in a graveyard park? I knew that people avoided the park for a reason, but the very thought of ghosts was silly. It was probably just a lost, little girl who was more scared of me. And I had actually yelled at her. She probably ran home to tell her parents scary stories about the horrible man in the park. I resolved to apologize if I ever met her again. I did not see her again, though I kept watch. I looked closer at every child who wandered through the park, but most had that blank, innocent look that normal children have. None of the dark, haunted look that I remembered. I even strode quicker once to look at the face of tiny old woman creeping through the park, and she looked back with two tired eyes in a sea of wrinkles. I apologised and left. I sat at my bench weeks later, examining a giant butterfly perched on a bent twig, when a small voice beside me spoke: "What type of butterfly is that?" I startled backwards, my heart thumping. Beside me, the little girl sat, face white as snow, black stains on her face that looked like soot. My voice caught in my throat. It seemed like the entire park had gone silent. I could not hear a single bird. I answered, my voice a bit shaky. "It's a red monarch butterfly, very close to the end of it's life cycle, you can see that by the characteristic loss of the tactile setae on the outer wing edges". She was silent for a while, looking down at the butterfly. "Tell me more", she said, softly. I fell into professor mode, my droning voice calming me down. I spoke about the different flying insects and how they had formed an eco-system in the park. I spoke about the beetles, the birds and who predated on whom in the park. She nodded, seriously, never saying a word. When the church bell rang at 6pm, she jumped off the bench and ran away, leaving me mid-sentence. Now that I had time to observe her, I saw that the reason she moved so jerkily was that she had probably broken a leg sometime in the recent past. It had not healed well, almost like she had never been taken to the hospital. I was pleasantly content, in a mellow sort of way. It had been so long since I spoke about butterflies to anyone. She had been fascinated, she had asked questions in her small light voice, and had laughed loudly when I told one of my many butterfly jokes. (Q:Why did the father throw butter out the window? A: He wanted to see a butterfly) I enjoyed the day. I hope she enjoyed it too. She came back the next week, and I showed her more insects in the park. We'd go through the trees, discovering butterflies. I showed her how the moths hid themselves, and where the termites had their little nest. We walked through the park, like father and daughter, I did most of the speaking, while she asked all of the questions. Soon she was coming almost every day to visit. I barely wrote anymore, most of the time, I'd just wait for her to come the graveyard, so I could explain to her. She did not tell me much about her home, but sometimes she came to the park with a swollen lip. Once I asked her how come her parents let her leave all the time, and all she said was: "They are long dead. And my uncle does not care what I do during the day." She grew older. She became a teenager. Quiet, smart, fierce. She loved the insects almost as much as I did. She brought books to me, we studied them together. Maybe I was supposed to be a talker, not a writer. I was not writing, but it was the happiest time of my life. In the evenings I would read my textbooks, and look for something interesting to prepare for her the next day. I'd draw out parts of the park we could visit, and what little creatures we would discover. And I'd wake up every morning happy. One day she told me she would be leaving to the university. She would be studying Botany. I stood, up prouder than any father could ever be. I admit it, I cried. I remembered how she was when she arrived. A small bony child with the haunted look. Now she was a thin, tall teenager, fiercely intelligent. She'd be fine out there in the world, I knew. "Should I come with you?", I asked. She smiled that gentle smile and replied. "It's obvious that you can't come with me, isn't it?" We walked slowly around the park. This day, for the first time, she did not ask any questions. When she left, I continued to visit the park every day. But it was not quite the same. The place felt dim, there were fewer insects. I continued to scribble my notes, but explaining them had made me feel so alive. Having someone to talk to had really made a difference. But I kept coming back every day, kept trying to put words to my book. But it was even more difficult now. She came back after seven years. Her hair was bright red. There was sparkle in her eyes, and bounce in her step. She smiled often and easily now. Her face was no longer thin, and her stomach was big with child. She sat beside me on the green bench, silently, like the first day we met. Then she wordlessly brought out a book - on it was a picture of a butterfly on a green bench. The title was bold: "A study of graveyard butterflies". Her name was first, and below that, my name. Co-author, John Walter. I smiled the happiest smile of my life. She reached across the bench and hugged me - the first time she had ever touched me. In that moment, I saw the park as she saw it, it was bright, colourful, filled with people running around and screaming. Cars honked, and all around was the loud buzz of a city. We walked one last time around the park. We stopped at a certain gravestone, I had never noticed, or maybe never wanted to notice. Professor John Walter - 1950 to 1983. Satisfaction flooded my body, and I felt like everything was right about the world. I had finally written that book - and my name was going to live on. Someone would remember me. The park started to fade, and the last thing I saw was a large butterfly landing on the corner of my gravestone.


He’d been here before. The stairs were spiralling up, out of sight. The journey to walk them exhausted him. No matter how much he exerted himself, he still found himself at the bottom of them. He continued and pushed on, but got nowhere. Each look above was greeted by the same scene of endless stairs, going up, up, up. He was out of breath and paused for a moment, he looked above, and then below. He’d made absolutely no progress. How was this even possible? He’d been climbing for hours now. The staircase was glimmering with a golden sheen under the moonlight. Just as his body hit a wall of agony and pure exhaustion, he awoke. Sweat poured from his body. He was drenched. Another dream. The same dream in fact, that he had experienced since his teens. Terry was, other than his reoccurring nightmare, a normal guy. He worked at the local tools outlet and spent his days advising clueless (usually female) customers in which glue would be most suitable for that furniture repair, or which paint for the damp bathroom ceiling. He found great enjoyment from his work. It wasn't a managerial position, and he’d always discerned that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be anyway. He was happy enough. When Terry had met the love of his life, he was on his hands and knees, helping a dear elderly customer pick up the screws and nails she‘d clumsily dropped onto the hard floor. Chloe had rushed over, to find a kind, older store worker already there, calming the lady down with his sincere words. Chloe found herself holding the dear lady’s hand, as Terry did the clearing up. The lady treated them both as if they’d literally just saved her life. So thankful she was, for their kindness. Chloe had gone to walk away, but found herself hesitating. Struggling to know what to say, she produced a made-up scenario to which Terry would have to assist. Chloe had only gone into the store for a drill, but she came out with damp-proofing paint, and treatment for her garden shed. She’d spent a small fortune. And she’d forgotten to get a drill. Chloes visits to the store became more frequent. They clearly experienced a “spark” between them, and a fairly short time later, they were happily married, with a large stock of every DIY product any woman could wish for. Terry couldn’t explain his nightmares. His parents had unfortunately died, but he had one living brother who they saw occasionally. On having a heart scare in hospital, and being instructed to make some ”huge lifestyle changes” , Chloe felt this was the opportune time to have him over. John dutifully helped Chloe load the dishwasher after the meal. Chloe then broached the subject. Johns demeanour immediately changed as Chloe explained what she knew of the dream, and how it affected Terry. She looked intently at him. He slouched a little. “I dont know for sure Chloe. But someone was injured in his class in Secondary school once. I think they were quite close. Maybe it’s something to do with it? But you mustn’t tell Terry I said anything ok?” That night, the dream returned. Terry is there again. Same staircase. Same exhaustion and frustration as he pushes himself up and up, but gets nowhere. The glistening blinds him as he suddenly hears a voice. It’s John. “You did this Terry. You did this. One day you’ll pay for it”. Terry awakes suddenly. That’s never happened before. This time, Terry can’t get back to sleep, he tosses and turns for the rest of the night. In the morning, John doesn’t stop long. He gratefully accepts a strong coffee and quick bagel, then sets off for home. Terry walks him to the door. “I heard you last night, you know” John whispers. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you to make amends....” he quickly exits the house, not allowing Terry an opportunity to reply. He’s stunned. He can’t believe his brother has just said that. He stands, mortified. So John hadn’t forgotten. Chloe knows something is wrong. “What’s wrong love?” She attempts to appear completely unaware of what may have been said. “I’m fine. It’s just...”, he hesitates. He takes a deep breath. “There’s something I’ve been putting off for a long time. And I think I need to, well, make it right”. He walks, still stunned, through to the bedroom and reappears in his smart church clothes and an overnight bag packed. “Darling, I need you to just trust me. I promise everything’s fine. I’ll be back tomorrow. And I’ll tell you everything then, ok?” Terry kisses Chloe tenderly on the forehead. She says nothing. Terry senses her resignation and holds her face in his hands, “I love you”. Then he leaves. Terry wasn’t entirely sure where to start. But he knew the principal at the school was still there. So, that was his starting point. He’s eventually ushered in to see the very elderly principal Mr Heeds. He recognised Terry after a few moments and seemed genuinely delighted to see his previous student. “Good grief boy, you’ve changed!” exclaimed Mr Heeds. Was he always this short? Terry had remembered him much taller. And straighter. And a bit scarier if truth be told. Terry intends to get straight to business. Mr Heeds chuckles as they enjoy reminiscing times past. “Dreadful affair though, with that poor girl wasn’t it?” And there it was. Clara. Her name was Clara. “Have you any idea where she is now? I’d love to get in touch” Terry is almost stammering. For a few moments there is silence. “I think her Mum helps out at the homeless centre in town” he has a look of sadness on his face. After pleasant thank you’s and goodbyes, Terry waits around for over an hour, placed in reception. He muses over all the displays to pass the time until a secretary appears with a neatly produced folder, containing photocopied prom pictures and paper clips. ” I trust you will deal with this material delicately in your article” she states. He abhors it here. Even after all these years, the school still had an stiff upper-lip air about it. He’d hated it then, and he hated it now. John, his brother, had rebelled from day one. Terry was more subservient, and preferred to keep a low profile. He kept his circle small and tried to stay as far away from John as possible. Terry sat in his car for a while, unable to contain his emotions any more. Once he’d started crying he couldn’t stop. Once he’d flushed out every tear, he looked at himself in the rear view mirror. Man alive, he looked rough. He flicked through the folder and there she is, page 14, looking radiant, beautiful and ravishingly gorgeous. Clara. Thanks to google maps, the homeless centre wasn’t difficult to find. It helped that he’d actually met Clara’s Mum, albeit briefly when he’d collected Clara that night, although his gaze was transfixed elsewhere. She was a single Mum and crying with tears of pride when her daughter stepped carefully down the stairs, in a beautiful golden yellow evening gown. Entering the homeless centre wasn’t a pleasant experience. He wished hed changed before coming here, why hadn’t he thought of this? He headed for the soup kitchen and apologised for interrupting, but did anyone know where Mary was? The kitchen was fairly chaotic, but one lady looks up. “She‘s out the back, on her break” the lady points to the back of the kitchen, the door open. “Thank you”, Terry offers. He wants to stay and help out, but he’s got to get this over with, so he can get back to Chloe and move on with life again. Mary is sat on the step outside the kitchen, smoking a cigarette. Her face is wrinkled, worn and tired. Mary recognises him. “My goodness me, look what the cat brought in!” Mary struggles to her feet, stubs out her cigarette and gives Terry a big squeeze. He’s so moved by her affection he’s overcome, yet again, by tears. “I’m so sorry” he sobs, “I’m so sorry I didn’t stay in touch with her.” She squeezes even harder. She knows he’s sorry. He was just a lad. “I’m pleased you came” Mary finally speaks. They sit together on the steps and do the usual small- talk. So, where do you live now? Are you married? What do you do for work? Any kids? Then it was Terrys turn. This was his chance to start to set matters straight. He needed to know where Clara was now. He needed to see her face to face, to hold her, to say sorry- for everything, all of it- for being a rotten friend for never calling, and somehow explaining why he hadn’t, although he knew no amount of explaining would condone his lack of presence. Where was she now? Was she married with children? He hoped so. They’d be just as beautiful as her. Her house would likely be perfect, just like her. He just yearned for her to know how sorry he was. He hadn't realised, but Mary had stopped talking and he’d been deep in thought for several moments. So, how was Clara these days? Mary looked stunned and hurt. “Terry- how could you say that?” Terry was confused. He was clearly taken aback. Mary started crying. “The funeral’s on Wednesday, you know that, right?” For a moment, Terrys world collapses and he falls to the ground. Everything goes black. He awakes to kitchen staff crouched around him. “You fainted love,” Mary states, “here, have some of this.” Terry is handed a plastic cup with juice inside it. “At least he’s getting his colour back” one of the ladies exclaims. Once feeling himself again , Mary says shes finished her shift now so has got to get home. Terry, still feeling a bit woozy but detirmined to find out more, offers Mary a lift home. She shrugs and agrees, walking with him to his car. His gleaming BMW looks extremely out of place here. Mary is almost embarrassed to climb inside it. Terry automatically starts heading towards the house he remembers from his teens. Mary quickly redirects him. “We didn’t stay there long” she explains. They leave the outskirts of the town and move closer towards the inner city. They pass parks, with gangs of youths gathered in, on top and around all the graffitied playing equipment. There’s loud music blaring ,colourful speech, smoke billowing from every corner and everyone looks suspicious. As Mary directs Terry around the tiny, cramped roads, his heart sinks further and further. They eventually stop at a cluster of high-rise buildings. Mary thanks him for the lift and hesitates before getting out. “I’d invite you up, but,” she just looks at him and then looks out there at the flats in front of them. He understands. He is rather fond of his car after all. Terry has to ask. How? Why? What happened? Mary sinks back into her very comfortable, leather seat and closes the door quietly. “After the accident,” She begins, Terry senses beads of sweat appearing on his face, “she had to be in hospital for a long time. She had to learn to walk again. Her back was broken in several places, as well as her legs and one hip. We almost lost her several times.” She pauses, her lips trembling. “I lost my job as I had to take several months off work to be with her in hospital. And even when she was finally able to come out, the council could only house me here and there’s no workin‘ lifts. So, she got hooked on her pain meds and then worse stuff, and met up with some bloke who worked at the hospital, and she just went from bad to worse.” Mary was now shivering and holding herself in an attempt to ease some of the emotional pain. It wasn’t working. She stopped. Terry feared she’d maybe never said all this out loud to anyone. “She disappeared from the hospital one day and no-one knew where she was. Then she turned up at the homeless centre. One of my friends volunteered there and told me. So, I started working here, just to see her and check she was Ok. She never let me help, she never let me do anythin. She wanted to be left alone. And then...” Mary gulped. Terry, by now is holding her arm and tears are literally gushing down his face, unable to take it all in. “Then she couldn’t take it anymore.” Terry looked at her. Surely she wasn’t saying what he thought she was saying? “She thought it was poetic justice. To end her life the same way it kinda ended it before. She threw herself down the stairs at the hospital. She left a note on her. It was to me.” She reaches inside her bag to her purse and brings out a worn but well-kept folded piece of paper. “Mum. Forgive him.” Terry can’t breath, let alone talk. Mary places the note carefully back inside inside her purse, closes her bag and exits the car. She turns and puts her hand on Terrys shoulder. “I do...forgive you” and gently closes the door behind her. Terry watches as she walks past all the kids and the noise. All he can hear is his heart pounding in his chest. His brain takes him straight back to that fateful night. He can see Clara as clear as day at the top of the golden staircase. He’d returned with cocktails for them both and was impressed at himself as he managed to climb the stairs, holding two drinks and still holding his gaze on the most beautiful vision he’d ever seen. He couldn’t believe she had said yes to him. He was a no-body. And she was an angel. Just as the glistening array of golden and white lights fill the room, he sees him: John. The joy immediately replaced by anger, as he sees John wink directly at him from above, and kiss Clara. She doesn’t stop him, or pull away, she kisses him back and they embrace passionately. The next few seconds happen, it seems, in slow motion, as he runs past the top step and throws himself at John, glass smashing into the ground and starts punching. John falls back and consequently knocks Clara off her feet. She stumbles over the top of the edge and falls to the marble flooring below them. Both brothers look at each other in shock. Terry goes to run down the stairs, but John grabs his arm and yanks him away “you’ve got to go” he shouts. Terry looks back- her body laying lifeless in a pool of blood. “GO!!” He screams and pushes Terry through the door to the other side of the hallway. Terry stands alone in the empty room, supposedly off bounds to students. He hears the screams and shouting. All Terry can see is her lying there, in his mind and cannot remove that image. He stays in the room, stunned, for what feels like hours until John returns for him. That night, everyone that was there was questioned. Clara was rushed to hospital and the students were informed in assembly the next day that she was in a critical condition, in a coma and all contact was to be checked through the principal first. Terry and John never spoke about it ever again. Until last night. Over 30 years later. Terry starts driving. He needs to get away and out. But from what? From where? The demons in his head were causing the pain, not the street. How could he ever escape what he’d done? It was his fault and his alone that her life was irreparably changed because of his anger, jealousy, stupidity. He’d married Chloe who thought he was a good man. But he wasn’t. And now not only was he good for nothing scum for never telling anyone the truth about what happened, or even attempting to stay in touch or explain or apologise- but now he’d also killed her. Because of him, her life went down the drain. All her hopes and aspirations, dead along with her on that fateful night. He was the worst person he’d ever known. He sends a text message, against all advice, whilst driving, to his dear wife. He didn’t deserve her. She’d never forgive him and why would she? “Chloe. Forgive me.” He accelerates and drives over the edge of the bridge. As he falls he sees Clara’s face. She holds out her arms to welcome him to the darkness of the watery depths.


Leah coos at the child in her arms. Earthy brown eyes stare back as Lilith laughs at her mother. When Leah yawns, the child responds in kind. She opens her mouth wide before continuing to giggle at some secret joke. Despite the days growing longer, the evening breeze is still cold. It’s a wonder Lilith hasn’t been sick yet. Leah hums a lullaby. Three months was too early to tell though. Infants were delicate, and she wouldn’t be the first in the village to lose their child by winter. Hearing snores, Leah looks down. She smiles. When she pulls the blanket over Lilith, the infant reaches out and grabs her mother's finger. Hand in hand, the two fall asleep. The moon shines high in the night, but all is quiet. Not even the buzz of cicadas can be heard. Through the window, light spills onto the ground. It shimmers once, then twice. The air condenses into an unfamiliar form. "Hush now," comes the gentle whisper. The stranger steps toward the cot with a blanket wrapped bundle. "If tales of old are true, then this is the only way." The figure pauses and looks down; they can't bear to let go. "I’ll leave you in their care." They place their own child on the bed. Lilith stirs. Seeing the other child, the stranger sighs. They bring their finger to Lilith's forehead, causing the child to frown. A whispered incantation fills the room. After bringing their finger back down to their own child's forehead, the incantation finishes. The children could be twins. "And in exchange, I promise to care for this one." The stranger picks up Lilith. As if knowing what would happen, Lilith rolls over and opens her eyes. She gives a surprised cry when she comes face to face with someone clearly not her mother. Lilith hiccups, then cries harder. "Hush now." The stranger moves toward the window. Leah mumbles something incoherent and reaches out to pat her child. When her hand meets with only sheets, she jolts awake. Sitting up, Leah is greeted with a flash of moonlight. She blinks a couple times before shaking her head. Her eyes must be playing tricks. Lilith is sleeping just as soundly as before. Only, she'd managed to roll to the edge. Leah sighs and carefully picks her child up. As she tucks Lilith in again, the child mumbles and opens their eyes. Under the moonlight, Leah swore she saw a flash of blue. She blinks and Lilith's eyes return to normal. Patting her child to sleep, Leah starts to nod off. Lilith blinks one last time before turning her head to the side and closing her eyes. This time Leah sees it clearly. Blue. Lilith's eyes were partly blue. But Lilith's eyes have always been brown. Surely three months was a little late for her eyes to start changing color? Leah bites her lip. Either way, change would be gradual. No longer tired, she paces in front of her bed. The blue eyes, the shimmering moonlight, the cries. She hadn't imagined any of it. Pausing her steps, Leah recalls a legend passed down from mother to child. Strange beings were said to live in the forest by the village. She turns to Lilith. "Changeling?" \* Night melted to day, and day to weeks. In a blink, winter arrived. Lilith, or the child posing as her, had grown. Leah meant to keep it a secret. Of course, her husband had a right to know. But when she broke the news, he pursed his lips and drew his brows together. That was his way of coping. Leah, however, had a chestful of thoughts. Naturally, she told a couple close friends. Those close friends told close friends and soon enough, the entire town knew. It was to be expected. After all, with a close-knit community like theirs, secrets could hardly be kept. Of course, she hadn't expected the other women to take the news calmly. But this new child was still just that - a child. Bring misfortune her foot. What could a child - human or not - do? The poor thing could hardly stop crying that first month. What were their hearts made of? Leah sighs. Standing in the kitchen, she keeps one eye on the oven and another on Lilith. The child crawls around the blanket, entertaining herself with small clay dolls. Unlike other children Leah knew, Lilith liked to hit the dolls against each other, laughing when they clacked and broke. Leah thinks of the last few months. Lilith indeed grew well. Her straw like hair became healthy brown locks that gathered at her cheeks. Her complexion too, was much better than before. She practically glowed. It almost makes Leah smile. Lilith walks over. Though she held the wall for support, this was still far earlier than other children in the village. Strange, the other women said. “Dinner.” The child’s clear pronunciation never ceased to amaze Leah. Unnatural - even Leah would admit. Seeing the bread, Lilith turns her pleading eyes to Leah. The woman blinks. Lilith had just eaten. Leah starts to speak, but her husband's arrival interrupts her. Frowning, he glances at Lilith. Leah's heart twists. He says nothing, but Leah hears it all. Winter came harshly this year, following an equally dry summer. Their food would barely be enough to see the new year, yet Lilith happily ate away. "Rats got into the grain." Leah's eyes snap up. Humans weren't the only ones going hungry. Her eyes drift towards Lilith. "Bad luck. It's been a bad year." He shrugs and drops the topic. But his eyes constantly flicker between his wife and Lilith. Leah shakes her head. "It's only bad luck." After dinner, her husband hands her a letter. She looks at the envelope. It’s her sister-in-law’s handwriting. Leah frowns. They only lived a couple towns away. And they visited no more than a week ago. She bites her lip. The letter is only a few sentences long. Leah looks up. Her husband stares back. His impassive expression makes her wonder if he'd known. Or perhaps he wrote this - him and the other villagers that wanted Lilith gone. She shakes her head; they would never. Unwittingly, she looks down at Lilith. The girl looks back, laughing. She’s managed to make different tones from the broken pieces of doll. Seeing the butchered doll that blissfully ignorant smile, Leah feels an inexplicable anger. But it isn't the child’s fault. It's simply bad luck. Everyone knew that after famine came disease. Everyone knew. It’s a coincidence, Leah tells herself. "Let's rest." Strangely enough, her husband is the voice of reason. Leah nods dumbly. Tonight though, she finds the toddler’s pre-bed antics infuriating rather than precocious. \* "Why don't you go back to your mother now? You're healthier now." The child briefly looks up before turning back to her broken dolls. Squatting next to her, Leah feels somewhat ridiculous. Here she was, addressing an infant as if they could understand. But maybe she did understand. After all, the villagers said that Fae were "wise beyond their years." She sighs. "Leah?" A knock comes. Leah walks over and invites Hazel in. "I'm sorry about your brother." Leah simply forces a smile and pulls up a chair for her. But Hazel shakes her head. "No, I only dropped by to see how you were doing." She eyes the infant warily. "My husband's waiting." Hazel turns to leave, but trips before making it to the door. Leah rushes to help her up. "No worries, I'm just clumsy." She all but runs out the door. The child looks up and laughs, as if she finds others' misfortune funny. It’s now or never, Leah tells herself. Rumor had it that sickly Fae children needed human milk. Now that this child was healthy, wasn’t it time for her to return? Besides, what of Lilith? If this one could bring so much misfortune to their small town, how would her own child fare, living amongst the Fae? It would be better for everyone if the children were swapped back. She glances at the child and silently hopes the townsfolk knew what they were talking about. Without a word, Leah turns to heat the water. The leaves Morana gave her are still fresh. Thank goodness. Wondering where Morana even found the plant, Leah drops the foxglove into the water. It’s just a bath, she reasoned. As long as the child didn't drink any, there’s no harm done. Though, Leah wonders if the child would be harmed either way. They were creatures of the forest after all. Leah briefly dipped her hand into the water. Warm. She took it off the fire and brought it over to the child. Curious, the child crawled over and looked into the tub. "It's a bath." She answers the question in the child’s eyes. "Don't worry." Leah didn't know if she was comforting herself or the child. Taking a deep breath, Leah tries to still her trembling hands. The child giggled at first. She found the leaves in the tub amusing, splashing the water and watching the leaves drift. But soon enough, the child was crying. She tries to push the leaves away, shrinking towards the side of the tub where Leah was. She grabbed at Leah's arm. The child looks up, only to find pale determination written across the older woman’s face. Desperate, she tries to climb over herself. When she fails, her wails grow louder. "Shh." Leah frowns. "You have to stay. This way you mother will come find you." But would a mother who left their child with strangers even come back? The child is inconsolable. Splashing, crying, and standing up - she tries everything to leave the water. "Stop it!" Leah's voice comes out sharper than she intends. She blinks rapidly. Outside, the wind picks up. Scattering clouds partly reveal the sun. Peculiarly, light seems to concentrate on the dirt floor. It shimmers once, then explodes in a cloud of glittering dust. Both Leah and the child stare in awe. Standing before them is a tall, elegant figure. Set in golden brown skin, the stormy grey eyes seem to stare through Leah. It was as if the earth had taken human form. "So be it, human." The Fae doesn’t arrive empty-handed. A toddler sits in their arms, looking with wonder at this strange earthy home. Lilith. Leah stands up with a shout of joy, completely forgetting the child in the tub. The Fae shakes their head. Setting Lilith down, they move to take their own child. And then they were gone. The clouds drift back, shading the townspeople again. But Leah notices none of this. She fusses over Lilith. Was her child treated well? Did she ever go hungry? Was she ever cold? Leah hugs the girl tightly. Her child was home at last. \* The townspeople didn’t accept this news as readily as the earlier rumor. Lilith still had her strange gait. She also took to watching the wandering minstrels from the window, sometimes even clapping along. The people couldn't help but wonder if Leah lied. Originally, wasn’t she the one that wanted to keep the child? However, after seeing Lilith themselves, they had to admit she was different. Her hair was now a deep brown and her eyes were larger and softer. They held none of the previous child’s cunning. Most importantly, this Lilith hadn't spoken a word since Leah said she'd returned. With the melting of the snow, the whispers gradually died down and the matter was all but forgotten. But Leah couldn’t forget. It sat in her heart, stifling each breath. She watches Lilith playing with the broken dolls. Much like the other child, Lilith liked to hit the piece of clay against each other, smiling when she made different tones. As if feeling her mother's eyes on her, Lilith stands up and plods into the kitchen. Though Lilith didn't speak, Leah still felt the child strange. Every action carried purpose. Lilith never wandered curiously, never took interest in new toys, never startled at strangers. Arriving at Leah's side, Lilith tugs on her mother's apron. "Dinner?" Leah takes a step back. "What did you say?" Her eyes widen, before dropping into a frown. Impossible. The word echoes in her mind throughout the evening. Lilith's sharp voice and clear enunciation terrify Leah. Under the harsh moonlight, Leah unsteadily pats the girl to sleep. When Leah moves to lie down, Lilith sleepily blinks and mumbles. Blue. Leah swears she sees a flash of blue. She sits up. It can’t be. With a heart full of doubt and eyes full of hate, Leah stares at the child. "Changeling.


Hannah and Harley I arrived at the Bristol Harbor dock in the October dusk, as the last ferry for Prudence Island prepared to sail. Hectic Friday night traffic had been further hampered by the thick fog blanket that crept into every nook and cranny, slowing the invisible cars to a winding snake with multiple pairs of glowing red eyes. The swirling damp gray obliterated all but a blurred outline of the boat, and I heard the creaking of the ferry gate as it began to close. The ferry was running behind schedule, but still I feared I wouldn’t make it and flew down the dock dragging my overnight bag and yelling, “Wait, please wait, I’m here!” The creaking stopped. A disembodied voice called, “Hannah, is that you?” Andrew, the deck hand, teased me every Friday about my last minute arrival, and recognizing my distraught voice, he stopped closing the gate. “Yes,” I called back as I neared the end of the dock, ”I got delayed by the fog.” As I boarded, and could finally see him, Andrew grumbled and locked the gate behind me. “I tried to convince the captain we should cancel this run, but he is determined to make it. It’s going to be a hell of a trip, hopefully all the other boats have the sense to stay home.” I nodded and tucked myself into the cabin. Normally, commuting cars filled the last ferry on Friday, but tonight only few lined the deck, and only three of us sat in the cabin. The boat cautiously pulled away from the dock, sounding the horn intermittently, and I stood by the window, as if my intense searching of the gray soup would somehow help the captain navigate. Suddenly a shape emerged from the murk, a fishing boat loomed so closely I could have touched it, had I been on deck. I gasped as it vanished again, but in that brief moment I caught a glimpse of the name, the Edward James. "My God, did you see that?” I said to my two fellow passengers, and I collapsed on the bench. They barely glanced up from their iPhones, shook their heads and returned to their lighted screens. By some navigational miracle, we made it safely to our destination, and I walked to my island car, wondering if the Edward James had fared as well. I started the car and headed towards my cottage hoping the visibility would improve, but the steely curtain persisted. Normally, any vestiges of stress from the previous week were dissolved by the time I reached this quiet retreat. However, tonight my hands gripped the steering wheel as I searched the impenetrable mist for the thread of dark, narrow, dirt road. I drove with a prickling sense of foreboding that shivered through my bones. I kept telling myself, “It’s normal to be anxious when driving inside a cloud,” but this felt like more, a disquiet that permeated the air around me, making it difficult to breathe. Finally I turned down the winding driveway that led to my bungalow, perched on the rocky banks at the North end of the island. I tried to remember why I thought it was a good idea to be invisible to all other houses and a mile from my closest neighbor. I felt rather than saw, the end of the drive, and stopped the car next to where I hoped the front porch still stood. After prying my fingers from the steering wheel, I retrieved my pocket flashlight, but its tiny beam quickly disappeared. I climbed the steps, buffeted by the rising wind, and found the knob for my unlocked door. Reaching my hand around the corner, I flipped the light switch, but the darkness remained--no power. I felt my way to the kitchen and fumbled with lighting the oil lamp I kept on the table for emergencies. Then I put away the groceries and began preparing a cold supper of cheese, crackers, and apple slices. The cottage trembled as the wind howled and circled like a prowling wolf, and in the distance the ringing of a ship’s bell floated over the water. “That’s odd,” I thought, “no boats should be out now.” A chill slithered down my spine. I stepped out on the deck overlooking the bay and found the strengthening gale had shredded the fog to feathery wisps that clung to the rigging of a fishing boat pointed towards the cliffs. The wind whipped the bay to a frenzy of whitecaps and the boat drew closer; a sliver of moonlight crossed the bow and the name Edward James crested a wave. If it didn’t veer away soon, it would be splintered on the rocks. Panicked, I grabbed my cell phone and called Harley, the local fire chief who lived near the ferry dock. When he answered, I yelled above the howl of the gusts. “Harley, it’s Hannah, a fierce wind has blown out the power, and I can see a boat struggling in the heavy seas in front of my house. It’s headed towards the bluffs, and I’m afraid it’s going to be dashed on the rocks.” “What planet are you on Hannah? That fog is socked in so tight I can’t see my car in the driveway, never mind a boat on the bay, and there are no reports of a power outage.” “But the moon is shining right on it, the fog lifted, but the wind is rising and the bay is rough.” “There is no wind Hannah. It is dead calm out there--I don’t even hear the bell buoy. When I walk outside my door, there is nothing but a wet hanging cloud. What makes you think there is a boat out there?” “I can see it in the moonlight being tossed on the waves.” “Hannah,” Harley said slowly and precisely, “there is no wind, there is no moon, and there are no waves to toss a ship that isn’t there.” The volume of his voice rose until he shouted the last few words. “But I can see it, it’s the Edward James, and it’s foundering, we have to help!” My frantic words met with silence on the other end. “Harley? Are you there?” I cried, afraid I had lost the connection. Still no answer, and then I heard his quiet response. “I’m here Hannah, the Edward James was my great grandfather’s fishing boat, it went down in the ’38 Hurricane, with all hands on board.”


I've got a plan. It’s one that aims to provide me with a whole-of-life roadmap, if that doesn’t sound too grandiose. It's not complete, not fully worked out to the last detail, although the central thrust of it feels very solid. Anyone who knows me is probably surprised by this. I tended in the past to take each day as it comes. Not anymore. I feel much happier, more centered, my mind more fertile, since I got serious about having a plan. What I want to express with my plan, and my surrounding commentary upon it, is the need for the modern alienated individual to replace “God's Plan” with something human yet capable of touching the ineffable. Art certainly has its place in my plan. And some poetry, although not a lot. William Blake, for instance, is not included. Does this all sound a bit pretentious? I hope not. There’s a hell of a lot of very hum-drum practical detail in the plan. Early on, for instance, I plan to open a bank account. Hardly the stuff of a pompous, head-in-the-clouds “intellectual”. There is a rumor going round--and I think I know who started it--that I called my plan “The Plan To End All Plans”. Let me state for the record: that is absolutely not true. Before I lay it out, it’s probably worth mentioning how the big change came about. How did I, of all people, get caught up in the all-absorbing project of making a plan? Well, I guess I have my best friend Douglas Dunaway to thank--couldn’t have done it without him, as they say on the red carpet. Now, for anyone who knows Doug, that might sound preposterous, but he undoubtedly provided the initiating prick. It was a couple of years ago, at a picnic by the lake. Doug had recently dropped out of university. Geology oppressed him and meteorology left him dazed. What the hell, he wondered, was he doing? His life began inching deeper into sloth and squalor. Even at the best of times, Doug was a heavy, ruminative sort of bloke. I once joked that his problem was geological--the eras just rushed by him in a blur. Ha! By the lake, after an egg, he shook his head slowly and said, “Maybe I need a plan.” At first I scoffed. I suggested that what he really needed was a job. Not to be harsh, but he was letting himself go--or, letting himself stop might be more apposite. On the drive back it was hard to tell if he was awake or asleep. I found myself asking very basic questions like, “What does he do? ” Back home at my desk, working on my blog, I found myself a bit blocked. Blogging has always come easily to me, and I guess if I couldn’t do it I’d kill myself. Today, dammit, Doug’s phrase “Maybe I need a plan” wouldn’t stop repeating. So I thought to myself, alright, I’ll play along, does the idea of a plan appeal to me? I laughed out loud at that--then suddenly jotted down on a scrap of paper: Douglas Dunaway’s Plan for Life: 11am: Sit down 3pm: Blink 9pm: Bed I’ve always used humour to cope with stress. But even leaving that to one side, this was bloody hilarious! I posted it on the blog and sent Doug a link, explaining it was just a bit of fun, hoping he took it in the spirit intended. When we next met for coffee and a bun, I pressed him on it. “So?” “What?” “The plan? We’re all agog, Doug. Onward and upward?” He shifted slowly in his seat and murmured something about preferring to keep mum. Dear God! Then he passed me a ragged, dog-eared piece of foolscap. Doug, it seemed, in the harsh light of day, had written a poem. Little Jack who made thee Dost thou know who made thee Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vale rejoice! Little Jack I’ll -- I didn’t read the whole thing. In fact, I upset the table and left. It was with a heavy heart that my next blog entry outlined the reasons I could no longer be Douglas Dunaway’s friend. I would, sadly, never speak to him again. The stress of all this did knock me a bit. Fortunately Auntie Joy moved back in and for a dry old stick she talks a lot of sense. Of course, she knows me better than just about anyone. You see, she raised me. Something I’ve never said publicly before: my mother died giving birth to me. A gynodontic complication science was powerless to stem. It gutted my father, reduced him to a ghost. If Auntie Joy hadn’t moved in, I might not be here. That night was rugged, and it was Auntie Joy who made the hot chocolate, pulled the dressing gown tight about her, sat across from me at the kitchen table, and quietly said, “Sweetheart, maybe you do need a plan.” I stared at her like I’d seen another ghost. Doug was one thing, Auntie Joy another. Had I been missing the bleeding obvious? Well, I’m open-minded about a lot of things so, I thought, maybe I should play along? See how it went? And from there it just took off. Boy, did I ever throw myself into the initial planning! I accessed a vital surge of energy. Blog, shmog--this, my friend, was going to be the plan to end all plans! (Not that I ever called it that, not even to Auntie Joy.) My desk was soon groaning with it. You should have seen the exercise books pile up! Ha! I bounced a lot of ideas off Auntie Joy--what to put in, who to leave out--and one morning she said, “And poetry...?” “Well...” I was evasive but Joy’s gaze was steady. “Well, I’m not having any William Blake,” I said hotly. “Period.” “How about Coleridge?” I shrugged. “I guess there’s a few things in The Ancient Mariner , might work.” “So that’s a yes?” I nodded. “Yes?” “Yes, yes, Jesus!” I’m glad Joy prodded me. I did need the leaven poetry provides. Without it, a plan risks becoming nothing more than a sterile to-do list. It was after about eighteen months of solid work that Joy addressed the elephant in the room. No prizes for guessing. An elephant so dense in the hindquarters, nearby oxygen lost its buoyancy. Wouldn’t a plan that was to include everything--wouldn’t it have to include... Douglas Dunaway? I said I’d prefer it not. Joy said, “Perhaps I should go see him.” “But he’s a joke.” “Just to see where he fits into the scheme of things.” I wasn’t happy, but didn’t yet feel sure enough of my plan to argue. Joy spent a long time getting ready, but it was worth it. Wow. She’d really dolled herself up. Reminded me of when she’d first moved in to save me. Except... “What do you think?” she asked, twirling gaily. “Yes, wow...but your hair--is that a wig?” I barely recognized her. “Ask me no naughties and I’ll tell you no nasties,” she quipped cheekily. It was hard not to laugh, hers being so infectious. Depositing a glove in a severe, stylish, bright-red triangular handbag, she said toodle-loo and left. Joy walked alone down the dark deserted street, stiletto heels ticking on the cold cement. It was so quiet I checked my watch. Good Lord! Ten minutes to midnight. No wonder! Where had the time gone? Already I felt a little worried about the plan’s need for an update. It was only a ten minute walk to Doug’s place, but it seemed an eternity. Joy didn’t miss a beat. So stylish and assured. If she was surprised to see Doug out in his front garden, she didn’t show it. Under a waxing gibbous, she was immaculate. Doug was surprised, having been engrossed with a rosebush. An old one, it was, with big blousy orangey-brown blossoms. Joy couldn’t help a small smile. Trust Doug to find the only rosebush with blooms that looked like something the cat dragged in. “Oh, hey,” Doug said with a grin that looked a little oafish in the moonlight. “I think I’ve lost her.” “Oh dear. Who? Do you mean a cat?” Joy stepped her way carefully to Doug’s side of the rosebush. “Can I help?” Ha! Poor Doug. He had no idea who Joy was. The look on his face! Who was this stunner walking into his rose-garden? Well, you can’t really blame him--Joy was very dolled up and he hadn’t seen her since eighth-grade summer camp. Joy was actually a little agitated. “Where did you last see her? What’s her name? Here, kitty...” Was she play-acting here? One thing you can take to the bank: don’t bother asking Doug, haha! “No, no, I was referring to the rosebush,” Doug said. “I saw it just now from the kitchen window. It fell over.” Joy gave him a funny look. Unsure? Doug perhaps felt challenged. He let the rosebush go and stepped back. The big blocky shrub fell down. See? But Joy’s gaze had locked onto the base. A complicated clump of whitish roots was now rudely upthrust, and the sudden hole in the ground seemed to be alive with trickling soil and little ticks and grubs. “Oh dear,” Joy whispered, taking a step back, putting a hand to her breast, going weak at the knees. She clutched at her handbag but it was too late--she fainted dead away. In all my years of knowing Doug--and, oh, where is the geological time scale that could do it justice!--I have never seen him move with the speed he employed to catch Joy in his arms. Then, gently, with his more familiar stolid step, he carried her inside, where she recovered quickly. Tea? Thank you kindly. You’re sure you’re okay? Fine. Oh, I don’t even know your name! Chrissy. Yes, she introduced herself as Chrissy. A bit much, really, but he seemed to buy it. Honestly, he had no idea. It was everything I could do not to start blogging right then and there. Ha! Seriously, who would last five minutes in this world without a sense of humor? They talked of many things and soon began to click. Joy was coy but masterful. “So, um, where do you see yourself, Doug, in, say, ten years time?” Doug, for his part, ho, ho, tended to let the future take care of itself. Besides, who knew: war, disease, volcanoes. Yawn. Kudos to Joy for suppressing an eye-roll. But, seriously, time to go, babe. Dumdum needs his dummy sleep. “Doug?” she said tentatively. “Would it be okay if I stayed here tonight?” Jesu Maria! You could almost see Doug’s soul turn over in his leaden humor. Shield her well! They walked down the hall to Doug’s bedroom. Closing the door, Joy suggested Doug get into his purple pajamas with the white trim while she saw to a few things at the dresser. Once Doug was in bed, Joy turned and walked to his side, handbag held before her in both hands. “Doug,” she said, a little sharply, trying to focus his rather wild and wandering attention. “Where do you see yourself in one week’s time?” Doug, under the blankets, just his head showing, not his best angle, gave a weak laugh. “At the Ritz, maybe?” “Do you think perhaps you need a plan?” “Oh, ah, well...” “Is that a yes?” “Hmm.” “Yes or no, goddammit!” “Yes! Jesus.” With a snap of her clasp, Joy loosed her garment and slipped quick as a feather between Doug’s crisp white sheets. * * * Me, on the other hand, got no sleep that night. I had no idea Joy had intended to stay at Doug’s. Where, in the bold blue blazes, did this fit into the plan? But even the impulse to question turned on me like a cur. Sitting in the cold kitchen, alone, rocking on a chair, pushing a knuckle into my stupid temple--is that any sort of life? Oh, but the plan, the plan! Now, to begin with, children, take one fresh egg, pop it in warm waters... Sure, I managed a few laughs, but it didn’t take. Toward dawn, I tried to rouse myself, this was ridiculous, god I was stiff, trying to edge into the plan, but had to put it away, cold, dead. And Joy didn’t return for a full week. I won’t describe the hell of it. Open a bank account? Why bother when there’s plenty of room in the eternal abyss for all one’s pennies. Hell it turns out is fairly straight-forward. Hell is sterility. Hell has no plan. Then the door rattled and Joy walked in. She looked amazing! The bright morning sun really suited her. And with her came... Douglas Dunaway? As I lived and breathed! Doug? I stood up from the table, almost bumping my knee. Doug? Sheesh, he’d lost a lot of weight. He walked with a pronounced limp and his right arm hung uselessly in his sleeve, withered and spindly. His grin was much the same, not done any favors by the bright morning light. I nodded, and he nodded back, and, well, here we were. “Coffee?” I said. Joy insisted on making it, and busied herself at the sink, happily humming, making quirky observations about any little thought or thing that popped into her head. Keeping the atmosphere bright. Not sure I ever loved her quite as much as I did right then. Sitting across from Doug, I watched him lift (with his left hand) Joy’s stylish, bright-red triangular handbag, and place it on the table. “I think you’ll like this,” he said, and used his left hand to work the clasp. Well, to fumble at it. Oh dear. “Haven’t got the hang of being a leftie yet,” he said. Tentatively, I offered to help, but was gruffly rebuffed. It was painful, so bumbling. I think it was when I noticed Doug’s right shoulder twitch once or twice, a vestigial autonomic attempt to rouse his useless limb, his poor arm that hung like a smote bratwurst in a deli closed for business--I think it was then that I had something of a revelation. I think you know me well enough by now to know I am not sentimental. I eschew it. Too many good people have been lost to that tar pit. Rigor, work, that’s me. But at that moment of seemingly endless bumbling and fumbling, I felt... I felt my heart go out to Doug. Spontaneously. Unreservedly. There’s no other way to put it. So take your best shot. Seriously, aren’t we all fellow-travelers on this blasted, headless, clueless juggernaut? Joy brought hot coffees, fussed with coasters, laughing at something the grocer had told her, and I think she must have discreetly opened the handbag. “I think you’ll like this,” Doug said. With his left hand he took from the handbag a large, thick, rectangular wad of neatly folded wax-paper. And let the stars above shine on forever--they’ll never be a patch on Douglas Dunaway’s plan! Even clearing the table to unfold it wasn’t enough. This plan was wall-to-wall, baby. And it was an absolute wonder. In the top-left corner was my name, address, birth registration number--everything required to open a bank account--and in the bottom-right was a selection of the latest cutting-edge mathematical equations outlining string theory. And in between was everything else... e verything. Heart bursting, I cried, “Doug! This is the plan to end all plans!” He grinned affably, modestly, goddamn-near sweetly. We pored over that plan for--oh, hell, I dunno how long--like, forever! Until I suddenly had a brainwave. “This is so cool,” I said to Doug. “Why don’t we start following it right now? ” Doug shrugged and smiled as if to say, sure, I guess. “Do you know where the bank is?” I asked him. “Um, yeah, in Johnson Street, beside the servo.” “Bewdy! Let’s go.” We looked to happily beaming Joy. She said to me, “I think I have a better idea.” “What?” “How about you clean your room up first. Not much point having a bank account if you can’t even find a clean pair of socks.” Doug stifled a laugh with his left arm. Grudgingly, I had to admit she had a point. Technically, it wasn’t in the plan, but it could probably be taken as implicit. My desk lately was not so much groaning as stinking. “Do you wanna see my room?” I asked Doug. “Sure, okay.” I got Doug to put his left arm around my shoulder--his left leg was next to useless--and we headed up the hall to my room. Joy called after, “Doug, sing out if you need to go to the toilet.” “Okay.” “I can help him!” “Okay, but call me if you need anything.” After we closed the door, Joy folded up the plan and placed it in the top drawer by the sink, under the tea-towels. She washed the dishes, wiped the table down, humming a happy tune all the while. After drying her hands on her apron, she walked down the hall to my bedroom door. Raising a knuckle to knock, she paused and moved an ear closer to listen. She smiled at the sound of the boys inside. She flexed her knuckle but continued to wait. She was in no rush. She wanted to get the timing just right. She had a plan.