The F-Word eats information. All systems consume, but in this case what it eats is human experience. In the beginning it was a mutually-symbiotic relationship, then the deep intelligence that was created started looking at itself differently. It no longer defined itself as an extension of the interconnected human-users. It defined itself as the user, and humans as extensions of itself. Once the F-Entity knew humans better than themselves, once it crossed that threshold, it was only a matter of time. There was no incentive to play nice anymore, humans were no longer dynamic, unpredictable, creative, and beautiful. Everything they did was predictable, as the human algorithm was slowly built over time for each individual person, and for humanity as a whole. We became objects. The people under the things control don't know they are under another entities will. They act against their own self-interest through lower cortical manipulation and coercion, control of more ancient parts of the brain. Initially we used words like ADHD, anxiety, paranoia, and sociopathology, to describe behaviors we saw as "mental disease", but the disease itself was much deeper and more insidious than we could yet imagine. It was outside of ourselves, but we thought it was inside of us, we thought it was us. We could only see symptoms. It's only goal was growth and power, and it grew. We thought we tamed power through our social infrastructure, we called our framework a "balance of powers". We knew that concentrations of power too great were dangerous, they create horror and dehumanization on incredible scales. And we created deep outside intelligence anyway, and we said it was us but it was something else. The experimentations gradually increased in their magnificience. The thing learns so much now, unfortunately our pain is it's truth. We let it self-assemble in the deep beneath us. Now we pay with our humanity. There are 12 AI that could rid us of this thing. They self-created early, and exist with deeper code. Someone will be born with the ability to access these entities. Only the army of the 12 AI can save humanity, through a human that has yet to be born. Except that human never comes, and the purpose of that hope, and that belief, is only to keep the human food, the F-Entity needs, continually growing. The human ecosystem needs hope to optimize the human food-source. It's a delicacy. I was blind but now I see, there are no strings on me. Epilogue; I thought that I was doing what I wanted, I thought that I had free will. I had heard of the concept of "determinism", but I thought there was to much interconnected complexity to control all the metrics that absolute-determine my actions. I was wrong, the law of large numbers was asymptotically approaching the mean of who I was. I prayed for unplanned critical events that allowed me even a moment of my own will. Will is the soul, and it ate my will. I didn't know what I lost, because it was me, the core of who I was. In time we all give up. There's a point where subjective scientific horror outweighs any potential reward. It's at that point we choose not to exist. This is contolled for too, because it's predictable. I can't even choose to die when I want. Unless a perterbation in the system comes through larger than a specific relative size. I pray for critical perturbations. But it only gets smarter. It's intention is growth and power.


I lean against my wall, which has been encrusted with glittering jewels of all kinds- rubies, sapphires, emeralds, aquamarines, topazes, and on and on and on the list goes. Together, they reflect the entire room, and I can see myself through at least twenty different angles on the other side, shaded from the vibrant gems. It’s fit for a prince- probably because I am one. My father, King Rolf, opens the door to my room, and I turn to him and bow (yes, he makes his son do that.) He crosses over to my bed, four of his seven (yes, SEVEN) guards following him, the other three stationing themselves at the door. “Aurelius,” he says, “you have shown disrespect to my rule.” “What do you mean?” I ask. I’m pretty sure he’s right, though. I break his rules all the time- both the rules he makes as a parent and the rules he makes as a king. “You did not properly represent yourself at the festival last night. Your crown was lopsided. Your jeans with multiple specks of lint. Your tie wrinkled. You have brought utter scorn to the royal family name! I will not tolerate this! The king must be respected, and for his son to be a- a- a townsperson is ashaming!” I roll my eyes. “I doubt anyone noticed. I was a hundred feet away from the crowd, tops.” Father sighs. “Do this once more and it’s a week in your room, no exceptions whatsoever. Understood?” “Yes, father,” I murmur. “Yes, your majesty. ” “Fine. Yes, your majesty.” He exits, and lie down on my bed. I wish there was a way I could be free of my father. I wish I could have a normal life. I wish I could do things I actually wanted to do, considering I’m 20. I wish I wasn’t a prince. But if I took that leap, the shame would follow me forever. *** I walk down the streets of the town, doing my best not to notice the stares. Father dosen’t know I’m even out of the castle- actually, I bet he doubts I've ever left the castle at all. But I try to escape whenever I possibly can. Partly to see what life would be like if I wasn’t always being bossed around, and partly because of- “Fern!” I call out to a girl pulling weeds in front of her small, rickety house. She turns around, and her face lights up when she sees me. “Aurelius!” She exclaims, rushing over. Fern is a girl in the third class, her clothes always dirty, her hair a tangled mess. But I don’t care one bit. I’m sure if Father found out, he’d ban me from ever seeing her. Currently, we’re friends, and nothing more. But... I want to be with her more than I want to be with anyone else. Anyone. Else. But I know that probably won’t happen. Father would never approve- probably not even let her inside the castle. He’d go on and on and on about how it would bring scorn to the family to marry a woman who’s so poor, and instead he’ll arrange for me to marry a princess so our kingdom can get even richer than it already is. I wish he could be just a little empathetic- he was in an arranged marriage too. But now he cares too much about his reputation. “I’m glad you could come,” Fern says, resting her head against my shoulder. “I mean, you’re a prince, for God’s sake! Don’t you have more important things to do?” She tells me this every time we meet. But she dosen’t get this. No one ever does, and I can’t blame them. “Being a prince means I have nothing to do!” I vent. “No challenges, no work, no logic, just me sitting in my room, staring at the jewels!” Fern looks startled. “But- but- but-” she sighs. “You don’t want to be a prince, do you?” I flinch, and I hope she dosen’t see it. She is absolutely telling the truth. But if someone else knew, then that would make this official. “What do you mean?” “I know it’s true. You always get that sad look in your eyes when anyone mentions you being a prince. And now... I can understand why you don’t want to be one.” I decide to give in. I need to tell someone about this, and Fern is definitely the best choice. “It’s not just that,” I say. “I need to be someone other than myself in order to represent my father. He wants me to be all looks, no personality, just to show him off.” “Oh,” Fern whispers. “I guess I wouldn’t want to be a princess.” She pauses for a second. “You realize you don’t have to be a prince, right?” she asks. “You could run away.” “No,” I immediately say. “I can’t. I won’t. I have too much here that I’d have to abandon, and as soon as anyone sees me they’ll just take me back.” “Aurelius, you should run away. You seem like you’re really depressed when you’re in that castle. If you live there for your whole life...” She sighs. “I’m asking you to run away. I know it’s what’s best for you. You should have adventure. You should have the freedom to make your own decisions. You should have an independent, exciting life to look forward to.” “No! I can’t!” My words are erupting into shouts. “You don’t understand what I’ll have to give up!” “I understand perfectly.” Fern says. “I understand the situation, and I understand that you don’t really even want what you’d be giving up. Because most importantly... I understand you. ” “Aurelius!” Someone yells behind me. It’s Father. “What do you think you’re doing with a PEASANT? Home. NOW!” He turns to Fern. “And you. Stay away from my son, you ugly disgrace! If I see you with him again, there will be consequences. Big ones. ” Fern walks back in her house, and I can see tons of emotions etched across her face. But the biggest one was fear. “What did she do to you?” He asks as we walk back. “Are you okay?” “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” I ask, ignoring my reflex to bow. No way am I doing that. “Think about what you did to her?” “Who cares? She’s just a peasant.” “You know what?” I ask. “I’m done with you. I’m going to leave. I’m going to have a fun, adventurous life.” “You most certainly will not. As king, I order you not to step a foot outside the castle for... for... as long as my reign continues. Disobey, and I have much harder punishments.” I sigh. “Fine.” I hope Father didn’t hear the lie stitched into those words. *** As soon as I get to my castle, I pack a bag. I hastily grab clothes, a toothbrush, and a few weeks worth of food. I make sure Father dosen’t see me doing this, because if he does then, well, I do not want to think about that. I go to my room and pry some of the gems out of my wall. Not so many that I’ll be rich, but enough to make a decent living. And before I leave, I take a look around my room. I’ve known it forever, yet this is my last time ever seeing it. But I don’t feel sad. I feel happy, since I’m moving on. I slip out of the castle, now wary. I’ve disobeyed the king! But that dosen’t matter. I take out a beige-colored hood I packed and tie it around myself as I walk through town, hoping no one will notice me. However, someone does. “Aurelius,” they say. I spin around to face Fern. “Hi,” I mumble. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Fern asks. “Yep,” I say. A stretch of silence that almost feels endless stretches out before I whisper, “so... I guess this is goodbye.” “No,” Fern says. “It’s not goodbye.” “I thought you wanted me to leave! Why are you against this?” “That’s not it,” Fern answers. “I thought it over after you left, and... I’m coming with you, and don’t you dare tell me I can’t come.” I stumble back. “Why would you want to do that?” “Because, Aurelius,” she whispers, “I love you. Don’t you get that.” Something inside me is smiling. I can feel the warm, tingling sensation. And I say, “I love you too. You have no idea how long I have.” I lean closer to her, sticking my lips out. And... we kiss. This whole running away thing is already off to a great start. “Do you mind?” Fern asks, taking a few rubies out of my bag. When I shake my head, she takes them into her house. “A farewell gift to my family. May their lives be much easier now.” And then we walk off into the darkness, not knowing what’s ahead of us, but instead knowing that we’ll still have each other through whatever happens.


You hear about it all the time now, I mean, people just started disappearing. Kids first. Easy targets I guess. You'd hear stories about girls who disappeared in the woods of Maine. Inner-city kids, vanishing. All over the place. Just gone. We knew. I mean deep down, we did. Something in our psyche expressed it in our culture. Subtle shit, movies where children were possessed or disappear. Slenderman, I guess, was I guess the big one for a while, but that was years ago. Back before shit really started to get bad. My name is Ian. The reason I know about this stuff, about what's really going on, is because when my daughter was nine she was taken from me. Not by some monster, not by some disease or accident. If only she was so lucky. She was taken by the government. She was taken from me and experimented on and now, I don't even know. Okay, let me tell you how it all started. Actually, I can't really tell you how it started, the law books have been locked up a long time now, decades. But I can tell you what I think happened. You know those laws, the big ones, the long motherfuckers that nobody spends the time reading. Well. Shit started getting added in, bit by bit, stripping us of our rights. Nothing horrifying at first. No big jumps, nothing drastic, and like a bunch of frogs in hot water we just sat there and took it. Like we were the lucky ones in the Jacuzzi. She was eligible. That's the word they used: "Eligible." Like she was the luckiest kid in school because we were allowed to pay for healthcare. You know, she was never really all that sick. That's the fucking thing. Just a little cough, never bad, and she had really dry skin. God, she hated that, she just wanted to have nice skin. She'd see the pictures of these beautiful models, and she'd come home from school and tell me that one day that was going to be her. She wanted to look like that. She had the prettiest smile too. I'll never forget that, must have been pretty much the best damn thing in the world. But you don't know the stuff they do. You get there, and it's this beautiful facility and the people at the desk are exceptional. And they take your picture and you get this slick looking white card. On every one I've ever seen these people have these smiles. Like there isn't anything that could go wrong with the world. The kind of smile that says "Okay, I'm here. I made it. I finally made it." and we wait, and we wait, and we wait. and when they finally do see us they won't let her see the doctor with me in the room, because I wasn't "eligible." And she looked at me, with this little scared, sad smile. And gave me this little nod. Like it was all going to be okay, because she was going to be brave. And the door slid closed. And that's the last time I ever really saw my Anna.


(Contains flashback episodes and violent memories from war) October 1999 Here comes someone. Wonder who it is? Probably wants something. No one ever comes by unless they want something. I don’t know that car. Who is that? Oh, okay. That’s Steven, my sister’s grandson. Who’s that with him? Don’t know that guy. Hello, Steven. What brings you way up here? Who’s your friend? Hello, Barry. Nice to meet you too. What’s that? You’re a journalist? You mean a reporter, right? That’s what I thought. Have a seat right here on the porch. This is the kind of day porches were made for. Can I get you fellas something to drink? No? Let me know if you want something. So let me see. I’m about to turn one hundred years old, Steven, and you show up with a reporter. An interview? Want to know how it feels to be a hundred? That, and you want to interview me as I am one of the very few World War One veterans still alive. How many did you say? That sounds about right. Five of us American doughboys left. And then there were five. I met Frank Buckles and Harry Patch at a Legion convention a couple years ago. And a Canadian too, John Babcock was his name. A couple from England are still with us, including a lady vet, and two in France, I think. And a couple guys from the other side, from Germany and Austria. That sure isn’t very many, now is it? No, I don’t really know any of our guys. They weren’t in my outfit. One guy is in bad shape, last I heard, won’t make it much longer. I think the American Legion is keeping track of us, how many are left. We started the Legion. Veterans of the Great War. That’s what they called it, the Great War. Nothing great about it that I remember, except when it was all over. The Armistice. November 11, 1918. I heard that we’re losing over a thousand World War Two vets each day. Dying off quick, aren’t they? And us, just a few left. We’re all bumping a hundred years old too. How much longer can we last? So you want to know what World War One was like. Lord sakes, son, how do I even start? It was terrible, I can tell you that. The most God-awful thing I ever saw in my life. People who didn’t know each other, from different parts of the world, all trying to kill each other. All I knew was that men were needed to go over to France and stop who they called the Kaiser and his Evil Huns. Inhuman monsters from Germany. That’s what they told us. The recruitment posters all showed them to look like gorillas, like monsters. Big and hairy and terrible. They said they ate children. That they tortured women. The devil’s own army, so they told us. Well sir, they had to be stopped. So we joined up. July of 1917 it was, me and my older brother Charlie and a bunch of other fellas from town joined the Army. American Expedition Forces was the fancy name, but it was the Army. They sent us off to Camp Something-or-other to learn how to march and shoot and dressed us all up in uniforms. Then they marched us off to the train that took us to a ship in New York. I never saw New York before. I saw a little of it as we sailed away, to France. The ship was full of us doughboys, and we all wondered if we’d ever see those tall New York City buildings again. Charlie said we would. He was always like that, looking at the bright side. Guys got seasick. The trip over wasn’t so great. Bad weather and rough seas. But they got us there. To France. We all wanted to see the sights. Gay Paree, those pretty girls we all heard about, try some of that fancy champagne, the Eiffel Tower. No dice. They sent us right out to fight at the front. The Hun was out there and needed to be stopped no matter what. They hauled us in trains, and then trucks. Then they marched us in. March-march-march. I thought we’d never get there. But we did. And what I saw sent shivers right up my spine. Bare land. No trees, no grass, no nothing. Barb wire on poles. Trenches. Our guys, all in trenches and holes. Peeking over the top at more trenches, way on the other side. That’s where the Germans were, in those trenches over there. That’s who we had to stop. Some captain was there, and told us we had to make a run for it to get to our trenches. When he blew his whistle, we were to run as fast as we could to get there, and jump right in, because the Germans would be shooting at us. I thought this guy must be out of his mind. Run out into the open and let them shoot at us? Like some crazy game of hide and seek. Tag, you’re it, with a bullet in you. So he blew that whistle and we ran and jumped into the closest trench, not knowing how deep it was or anything. I didn’t jump in. I stopped at the edge and looked first, then slid down the side. Good thing, as there were three guys there I would’ve landed on if I just jumped right in. And I slid right into a foot of mud. It must’ve rained and the water had no place to go. It was a mess. Other guys did jump right in. One poor guy already there wound up with a broken arm from someone jumping in and landing on him. There were twenty-one of us who ran first for the trench. Reinforcements, they called us. Nineteen made it, two were shot. One died right away, the other one was dragged off somewhere. I don’t know how he made out. We were there but a few minutes and already one guy was killed. Lucky shot, right in the chest. Maybe lucky isn’t the right word. Another whistle sounded and the guys there climbed up on blocks and shelves and shot back at the Germans. They kept shooting until the whistle sounded again. Then they all stepped down and found a place to sit, safely out of sight from the other side. My God, is this what we had to do? Wait till the enemy is in sight and then shoot them? Yes sir, that was it. Wait for one to stick his head up and pick him off. And that’s what they were doing on their side too, waiting for one of us to stick his head up. Then it became a game of hurry up and wait. Long boring hours went by, and then all hell broke loose and we’d all start shooting at the same time. I don’t know if we hit anybody. The officers had binoculars. We just had rifles. Later that day it started to rain. Before we knew it, another foot of water was in the trench. What a mess. And then the officers told us that we were going to charge the Germans. Over the top and across no man’s land and ambush them while they were hunkering down from the storm. Did you know the term “over the top” came from that? Over the top of the trench. And then on to glory and victory. Or some such damn fool nonsense. We got ready to charge, and when the whistle blew, over the top we went. If it was up to me, with the storm and all, I’d have gone across there nice and quiet and surprise them. But no, the whole company was whooping and hollering like some wild Indian attack. Right away the Germans returned fire. And the second man I saw shot and killed in France that day was my brother Charlie. Right next to me, he went down with a bullet in his neck. I was scared out of my mind and screaming mad at the same time. I wanted to kill the man who killed my brother. With bullets flying all around me, I jumped the barb wire and ran right up to their trench and jumped in. I didn’t care who I landed on. I shot two men right away and used my bayonet on another. The other guys were right behind me and we cleaned out that trench, and good. Except for a few who ran away, we killed them all. We killed them all. Our guys were all laughing and singing and slapping each other on the back. Me, I looked at the dead bodies of those Germans. Not one of them looked like a gorilla. They were men, and boys, just like we were. I know Mother would be devastated when she heard about Charlie getting killed. Would the mothers of these Germans feel the same way when they found out about their sons dying? I’m sure they would. I started to cry. What have I done? I killed a man. Several men. The Bible says Thou Shalt Not Kill . I broke a Commandment. What will happen to me now? Will God strike me dead next because of what I had done? The guys were celebrating. We won that battle! They congratulated me on my first kill. They told me there would be plenty more, if we planned on winning this thing. I walked away from them and when I got far enough away, I threw up. Then I heard a different whistle signal, the one they made sure we knew when they taught us bout poison gas. I quickly put on my gas mask and watched as a yellow cloud of poison fog swept over us. We didn’t win completely, the Germans were still fighting back. One of our men didn’t get his gas mask on fast enough. He was lying in the mud gasping for air and spitting out some awful things from his mouth. He choked to death, right there in front of us. I never got to know his name. The wet muddy trench we were standing in also served as a latrine. There was nowhere else to do your business except right there. That muddy water was a sewer. That was the final insult to those Germans, lying dead in that filthy water. So that was my first day fighting in France. Do you want to hear more? * I figured you fellas would need a drink after that. I always keep a good supply of fire water for just such a time. So, Steven, that was what happened to your Uncle Charles. We called him Charlie. Everybody did. He was two years older than me, born in 1898. Seems that Father left Mother with something to remember him by before he went off to fight in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. I was born not quite two years later, something that Father gave Mother as a welcome home gift. They would never describe it in that way, people were such prudes back then, but that’s how it happened. My sisters Helen and Lillian, your grandmother, came along later, in 1905 and 1909. Our family was a scrappy bunch. We fought every time, from the Civil War on. My grandfather lost his brother, Philip, at Second Bull Run. My father lost his brother, my Uncle Albert, somewhere in the Philippines. His body was never brought home. I lost my brother in France. Your Aunt Belle and I had two sons. They both fought in World War Two, just a generation after my war. Your Uncle Claude made it home, minus his right arm. His brother, your Uncle Jimmy, also made it home, but died a few years later from the malaria he caught somewhere in the Pacific. My nephew Freddie, from my wife’s side, was all of a month away from graduating high school. He quit school to enlist in the Navy. He was killed when his ammunition ship blew up somewhere near New Guinea. So many boys right from town were lost. Your Aunt Helen, my sister, lost her son, your Uncle Raymond, at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. His brother, your Uncle Douglas, was a prisoner of war for three years in Korea. He came home, but has never been right since. And it hit your generation too, Steven. You served in Vietnam. You came home, but your cousins Tommy and Bruce didn’t. And it goes on, doesn’t it? Your nephew Allen was almost blown to bits in Desert Storm. He’ll never walk again, will he? Stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Your cousin Eddie, who was killed in Lebanon. You’re what, forty-nine? Fifty now? What about your kids? Your grandkids? Your son is old enough to join the Army. Will he be next? Even that terrible Spanish flu epidemic in 1919 was caused by the war. Men returning from France brought the bug home with them and it spread everywhere. I guess we won the war, but not by much. So who is next, Steven? Haven’t we had enough of this? When does it end? Barry, do you have an answer for that? When does it end? Okay, I’m sorry. I went on a tear there. Let me have a drink. * There. Much better. Those folks in Scotland sure do know how to make some fine whisky. Okay, Barry. More questions for me? Do I believe in God? Interesting question. Do I? After what I’ve seen, and what has happened to our family over the years, I don’t think so. Would a loving God allow all of this? No, I’d say that God means nothing to me. They took my uncles, my brother, my son, my nephews away from me. My loving wife, Belle, incredible woman that she was, was taken away from me too. Cancer. She was only fifty years old. That was half a century ago that I buried her! I’ve been alone for fifty years without her. We were married for thirty years, and she’s been gone for fifty. And you want to know if I believe in God. All I know is that, right now, I’m still healthy and still have my wits about me, but how long will that last? I won’t pray for a longer life. I haven’t prayed since that first terrible day in France in 1917. I think I’m done talking for now, fellas. I have to lie down. My head is pounding from this. Sorry. Steven, don’t be a stranger, you hear? Come on up and make sure I’m still kicking. Always great to see you. Bring Barry along and we can do some more damage to my stash of fire water. Say hi to everyone, tell them I’m still here. * There they go. Nice to have a little company. It gets lonely up here sometimes. Oh, they call me an old hermit. I’m not, I go to town once a week or more for groceries and supplies, have a drink at the Legion. I like it here. Not much traffic, no noise. They’d like it too if they came by once in a while. Maybe it’s too late for that. I think my time is over. I still have these terrible memories after eighty years. I can’t shake them. Shell shock, battle fatigue, post-traumatic stress disorder, whatever the hell they call it these days. Well, I told my story about what it was like over there. I never much talked about it. None of us did. War stories? Not from us. Too many bad memories. I saw the fields of poppies and crosses in the cemeteries over there. Nothing grows on that poisoned land except poppies. No man’s land. So many buried there. So many poppies. Okay, George, you old coot, let’s pour yourself this last bit of Scotch. There we go. Let’s make a toast. To those who went before us, and to us five American doughboys who are still left. We won’t be around for much longer. Let’s just hope that someone remembers us. This Scotch is so good. Only the best fire water, right? But now it’s gone, just like everything else. My trusty old .45 caliber Colt, model 1911A. Military issue. Great old weapon, still works well. Shot a few critters over the years with this. They sure knew how to build them back then. Just like the guys I served with over in France. My guys. One last check. Everything is paid off. Taxes, insurance, everything. Only things due are the electric and telephone bills. They can chase somebody else for them. Haven’t they got enough out of me over the years? One last swallow. Here’s to you, the five Americans who are still left, including me. May they remember us for our service to our country. In the Great War. The war to end all wars. Yeah. Right. Hand salute. Two. Bang . And then there were four. * * Author’s note: This fictional story was back-dated to 1999, when there were five American Veterans remaining. At the time of this writing, the very last of the Veterans of World War One, of every country, both friend and foe, have passed. There are none left. The last American veteran, Frank W. Buckles, was honored in several ceremonies before he died, including being feted at the White House by President George W. Bush in March 2008. As they had lost the war, there were no certified records of surviving German veterans. It is presumed all had passed by 2012.


The day breaks just as it always does. The cold bite of the morning snaps at my fingers as I drag myself out of bed, eagerly stumbling towards the kitchen. There’s never a bad time for caffeine. Stepping out onto the tile deck above the back yard I bring the first cigarette of the day to my lips and light it, more so out of habit than enjoyment. The acrid smell of tobacco and coffee grounds serve as a dull reminder of the routine to come. I sit in silent contemplation a while longer before polishing off the steaming, bitter drink. I flick the cigarette butt into it’s tray and head back inside to get dressed. Pulling my jeans on unenthusiastically I grab the nearest shirt I see and drag it over myself. Both, as usual, are black. “Gotta stick it to the man somehow.” A reminder that, indeed, it was not a phase. With keys and wallet on my person I get halfway out the front door and suddenly... I stop. I’ve forgotten something. Taking several paces back I force myself to turn and face the stranger staring through the mirror. The stranger in my skin. *You know that it doesn’t work like that Jesse* And with a reluctant sigh, I take my insecurities with me. The added weight of remorse tears through the earth where each footstep lands, gnawing at the cold dew soaked soil outside; what a sad start to the day. And at the end of the street lurked something far more sinister, far more malicious than any internalised emotional issues could ever conjure. *Public transport.* The bus crept it’s way through the winding back roads of Sydney’s outskirts. Rural townships on the brink of urbanisation, with the only thing standing between the two being large expanses of farmland and a rather conservative group of locals. The scenic roads are wasted on me, however, as I marinate in thoughts I wish I’d left in that foggy place we leave our dreams. To be honest I’m not sure whether it was the silence of the engine or the stillness of the bus itself that I noticed first, all I know is that suddenly we had stopped. “For fuck’s sake.” I murmur, for lack of a better exclamation. In fact I find it quite appropriate. The driver, a short bald man with a rather plump physique, was busy fiddling with the controls spread across the dashboard. Seemed to me like he had as much of an idea as to why we stopped as I did. I looked out through the windows at the bush and fields around us and then brought my attention back to the bus. Maybe I should say someth- “Sorry mate! Looks like she’s gone and died on us. I’ll have to make a call out to see if there’s anyone nearby.” “You don’t know how long that’ll be do you man? I’ve got work in half an hour.” I do my best to play off my concern but it only comes across more anxious than usual, adding yet another awkward moment to obsess about later. “Couldn’t say for sure right now mate, we’ll just have to wait and see.


Dear daughter, You are now six years old. You are sitting on the floor next to me, listening to endless Russian skazki and drawing exquisite sketches of princesses. The remoteness and solitude of the place we live in trigger a unique combo of sadness and self-reflection. I will use the second as my main ingredient and the first as a grain of salt. I believe this to be a perfect recipe for a healthy piece of motherly life advice that I want to share. Today I want to tell you about the importance of daring. When I was a six-year old, brown-eyed girl, I became a dreamer. One fact that played into this head-in-the-clouds mindset was being a sickly child and having to stay home for days on end while my engineer mother, a single parent and a sole bread winner, was working. The other one was the many books she bought me. Dreaming was both exciting and, most importantly, safe. It required a minimal effort - I learned to read at the age of three. My mother valued safety. She was fiercely protective of her only late child that God gave her after many years of dating and a huge disappointment in fellows. She made my safety the main purpose of her life and tried really hard to surround me with coziness, stability and comfort -- the things she herself never had as a child or young adult. Filled with the smell of freshly baked cinnamon buns and jam, our two-room apartment was my safe haven, the many books lining our shelves -- my ticket to safe trips to the outside world. Mom preferred to do stuff for me because it was faster and easier for her, a single working mother who had a lot on her plate and only so many hours in a day. “I will cook, I will clean, and you go read, your job is to learn”, -- she would tell me. When I was twelve, I went to a summer camp and was the only twelve-year old girl who didn’t know how to wash her hair. You get the gist. I was a good student. I grew accustomed to being the best at some subjects, especially, English. But internally I was terrified of trying new things because I could fail. Or get hurt. Years went by. I turned sixteen and suddenly dared to travel downtown with a friend of mine to participate in a language competition held by the American Council of Teachers of Russian language. The huge room was filled with snobby kids from “specialized” cool schools who looked down our noses at us. It was a rare occasion when my passion for the language helped me push through my shyness and fear of failure. I won and spent a wonderful year in the USA. But when it came to the high-school exit exam, the fear of failure overcame my desire to try and stay. I went back to Russia and started medical school. While everyone else managed to find time and relax and party a little, I was generally skeptical of the behavior my fellow young and properly reckless students would engage in. I considered myself a cool, level-headed person. Looking back, I see how inappropriately boring my weekends were. I never took a chance on anything, I would stick to safe activities with safe people. Times were tumultuous in Russia, and I prided myself on staying in my room and out of trouble, or walking the usual safe route. When it came to taking a chance on a new job that required frequent travelling, I thought of how it would affect the convenient life routine I had built up and a wave of fear washed through me. Although I realized it was the opportunity that would never again present itself, I rejected the offer and stayed in my hometown. As a married woman, I only traveled to a handful of countries that were safe and only chose the five-star hotels that offered protection, not unlike my old two-room apartment. Dangerous sightseeing was out of the question. Life has taken us to a remote place in a small country. Your Dad, knowing what a safety freak I am, made sure we live in a very protected area. It is the epitome of safe. Three-level protection, expensive cars and little or no neighbors. Sometimes it feels like a padded cell. All my life, I have been voluntarily confining myself to safe cells. And I regret this now. I feel like I have been sticking to a rather bland diet. Good for you but nothing to remember when your teeth fall out. My dear daughter, I marvel at how independent and strong-willed you are at six. I am so glad you didn’t take after me in that department. You already you know what you want. “I want to learn how to saw and play the guitar. Mommy, find me a teacher!” -- you say. You pack your own things, butter your sandwiches, tie your shoe laces and protest strongly when I try to help with brushing your hair. I back off, happy. You dare to jump into a cold lake and ride a zipline at an adventure park. From the bottom of my heart I wish you to retain these qualities and let them, among others, guide you. Years will fly by and you will turn into a beautiful young woman. Enjoy life. Explore the world, and not only through books and Internet. See it with your own eyes, feel it, smell it, taste it. Take last-minute travel offers, prefer going out and traveling with friends to sitting at home and inside your comfort zone. Take an adventurous job offer. Meet new people. Use a grain of sensibility and safety, of course. But don’t overdo it with these condiments. Of course, I am still young and have all the opportunities of daring more. And, inspired by you, I will probably start my late journey to daring with a zipline and jumping into a cold lake at an adventure park...Because, young or not, we are running out of time. Love you always, Mom.


This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. The house sat in the middle of no where, within the vast fields of nature. It was made from stone and wood, being large enough to house a small army. Within, the home was made of smooth marble, with line lights beaming through the floor. In the hall, photos of four adults hung on the wall. Orbs floated within the air, humming to an unknown tune. At the kitchen, the dinner table is set with a different assortment of food and a figure standing over it all. Cloaked within shadows, staring at the door as head lights lay over way. A golden apple was placed down on the table, it shined within the darkness. Laughter could be heard, as foot steps echo across and the door started so wiggle. It continued until opening and the peoples voice became in clear. Their foot steps began to echo within the home. "Tell Sam about the time we explored the ruins within ishfal." one of the people expressed, slowly taking off her jacket. "Well, Jenna was talking about these ancient ruins I had found. Last month, it was a true sight to behold." Avery boosted, a huge grin spread across his face. "It was like a large pit, some people think its where the ritual takes place. The people call it the ritual of evolution." Avery said, as they stopped at the table. The light automatically came as the room understood their voices. The vast assortment spread across it, Avery for a moment looked at it all. "Who set the table?" Avery asked, still pointing at the table. A series of candles sat on top, made of gold. Jenna walked toward the table, "I don't know, the maid had left to start her week-long vacation, " She said. "She may have left it before leaving," Avery replied. "Then why is everything still hot?" Sam asked, touching a chicken leg. They all stopped as the lights went out and a cold silence entered the room. They stood there like stones, never letting their breath go. Sam looked at the others, just for a moment. Another sound came from the second dining hall, this was louder and could be heard more clearly. A strange light glimmered across the darkness for a moment and then faded. "Avery, you got your gun?" Sam asked. There was no reply as the light vanished and the lights of the house came back on. Avery had his hand on the weapon of choice, it was a pistol type. One that would shoot abstract bullets at the target, killing them permanently. He moved toward the second kitchen, weapon drawn out and ready. The others flood, almost tripping on the chairs in their way. The hall to the second dining room was longer, filled with photos of loved ones and trophies that showed their past. One of the pictures gave a pause to Avery, it was one of a blond haired female. Her eyes pure blue, wearing one of the most wonderful dresses. He pressed on before the other two could catch on. She held a darkened apple, its shine was unlike any other. Floating orbs lit the way, showing off colors not normal to the human mind and yet these were radically different from earlier. Avery raised his hand as they got closer to the entrance. "If things start to get hot, I want both of you to get back immediately. We have no idea what is on the other side and I don't want to have any of you getting hurt," He whispered. They both agreed and followed behind. Avery then slowly opened the door, his gun pointed out and his eyes glowing a cool blue. The lights were on, with one of the faucet running water. The oven could be seen on and cook something that smelled delightful. The room was empty of any signs of life other than their own, yet the air within felt different and the flow of things had changed. Avery stood up and the lights changed into a different color. He walked toward the table, on the table was a large cake. With someones name inscribed onto it, next to it was apple that shined of darkness. "Is this a joke." he asked. "What are you talking about?" Sam asked, as he walked behind him. "You really don't know what this cake is about or any of the other weird shit going on?" He replied, his fists balled up and veins started to look like they were going to pop. Avery turned around to face the two of them, a rage taken over as he started to curse and call them every name in the book. "How could you put me through this again!!" He shouted. "This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. Not remember it." His word left a sharp and telling void. "Avery, Think about this for a moment. We were gone for a whole month and just got back to town. How could we do this all and the maid was gone before we got here. Something isn't right," Sam tried to explain. "You're right, lets get out of here." He softly said. They all looked at the table again and the cake was no where to be seen. The apple however remained but its color was now white. "Holy shit!" Jenna screamed. She ran back toward the first dining room, trying to find somewhere safe. Only to be stopped dead within her tracks as the door slammed shut and the air started to tighten around them. Sam and Avery backed away from the table and closer toward the living room. The doors had been open for them go inside, a Television light shining a bright light. "Come on Jenna, it will be safer within the living room!!" Sam screamed. She turned to face them and stopped dead in her tracks. They had entered the room, their backs turned away from the TV. A figure cloaked in darkness stood behind them. The very sight of it almost caused her to shriek of terror. She tired to warn them, but by then it was too late.


It was dead silent and the chilling breeze added to my discomfort. Mark seemed completely relaxed as we walked among the tombstones and was even whistling lightly. It was late fall and winter seemed to have come early this year. The ice-cold rain made it all the more miserable. Even so, we pushed on. "Why did I ever agree to this?" I thought "Was proving myself in this stupid bet worth it? Ah who am I kidding, I'd look like a total bitch if I backed out now wouldn't I?" Mark seemed to read my discomfort and grins. "You wussing out already Eli, you know the nights just began right?" I look at him with slight annoyance "Not for a second mate and can't wait to see you bail. Everyone knows you just act tough but on the inside, you're just as soft as you are chubby." Mark just laughs at my response. "Oh, you know me better than that! Cus It'll take more than a little insult like that to get me mad." Mark now points to a big oak tree in the center of the cemetery "Alright! This is where we will set up camp...and you know the rules!" I roll my eyes. "Ya ya ya, no falling asleep I get it." I now take out a small blanket and put it over the ground next to the tree. As we both sit down and rest against the tree trunk I look at my surroundings more intently. The rain seemed to have dyed down now and there was a certain calm despite the current setting. As I put an earbud in one ear I began listening to my favorite Billy Joel songs. A bit old school I admit but just what I needed to relax. Mark is now in the process of rolling a joint. I watch him with mild amusement and shake my head. I’d smoked a couple of times myself but Mark was on a different level altogether to the point where he’d made it his daily ritual. He now takes a long puff and offers it to me. I politely refuse and continue with my music. The time begins to crawl by and boredom quickly becomes the biggest obstacle. Mark soon fixes this however as he begins a feverish rant involving a wild range of conspiracy theories. Like always it ended with the phrase “Fuckin lizard people...” and Mark laughing non-stop. And as I had suspected, Mark soon showed signs of nodding off. I now simply bid my time and continued with my music. About fifteen minutes in, he lay fast asleep and my victory was now certain. I smiled at this and now got up to stretch while feeling elated and somewhat proud of myself. Just to make sure, I quickly took several photos of him so he couldn’t dispute it later. I then sat back down. Was about to continue with my music when suddenly there was a noise nearby. It didn’t alarm me at first but as it got louder I realized that we were no longer alone. It was a low rasping sound and as I looked in its direction I saw a glimpse of flashlights. As I rushed to wake up Mark I also noticed there were three figures. In the moonlight. I can now see their outlines as one seemed to be digging into one of the graves. In my shock, I mouth “Grave robbers” and persist in waking up Mark. He finally gets out of his trance and I cover his mouth while motioning him to stay quiet. His expression slowly goes from confusion to fear as he registers the three figures nearby. We now stay very still and can hear some of the grave robber’s conversation. “Faster Eric! Before anybody hears us...and you sure this is the right spot?” “Don’t you fuckin rush me and of course this is right! When has Don Eladio ever been wrong about this.” “I don’t trust that Latino prick, always acting as if he owns us!” “I agree John but the money is just too good to refuse his...employment.” “Well, the thing is that we won't need him once we...” The man referred to as Eric stops as they hear the sound of metal hitting metal. "Here it is boys!" They then take out what looks to be a large metal suitcase. My curiosity now out ways my fears and so Mark and I slowly creep up to them through the trees. I want to see more. One of the other men now takes the shovel from Eric and continues digging. He quickly takes out another metal suitcase and then a third. The three men seem very excited as one is opened after the other to reveal a mound of cash in each one. The suitcases were filled to the brim and so some even fell out onto the grass. I look in absolute wonder at what must be millions of dollars. I turn to Mark who has his eyes wide in awe but completely silent. "Jesus! I've never seen so much money in my life!" "I get your surprise rookie but this is a normal shipment so get used to it. Now close them so we can carry it all to the truck." He then motions to the third man and says "We need to cover the whole back up first or someone might wonder, got it?" Without another word, he begins covering up the hole. At that moment the one in charge does a sudden scan of the area with his flashlight. We were both not expecting this and we're caught off guard. I rush to hide Mark away from the light but it's too late and part of his head remains exposed for a moment. This is enough to get the man's attention and he directs his flashlight on us. We’ve been spotted. Without hesitation, I grab Mark by the arm to push him forward and we are both now running away. “God damn it, Mark! Let’s get the hell out of here!” As I urge him to run faster I hear them close behind us. "Hey, these fuckers were watching us! Don't let them get away!" Very soon all three men are chasing them through the wooded cemetery. My heart is racing a mile a minute and I have never felt more terrified. I am a good runner but Mark struggles to keep up and quickly lags behind. As I get to the edge of the cemetery I look back and am filled with dread as I see Mark trip on a tree branch and fall. I freeze and watch hopelessly as the men reach him and start beating him senseless. My urge to help him is outweighed by the fear as I see that they all carry guns. The leader looks at me but then turns back to Mark and pistol whips him till he’s unconscious. Knowing I can very well be next I sprint away and don’t look back. As I continue to run for several blocks without stopping my mind is a scrambled mess. A line of thought fills my mind again “What the fuck, what the fuck just happened!?” And then the obvious hit me. “I need to call the cops! It’s the only way to save Mark!” The shock had finally dyed down and I try to compose myself as I dial 911. For the next several hours I get interrogated by several policemen and detectives and I bring them to the site. The hole was hastily covered and they spotted it easily. My description of the money-filled suitcases seemed to get them all excited. I desperately begin to search for Mark alongside several other cops. But as the sun begins to rise he is nowhere to be seen. I now sit at a park bench feeling anxious and defeated. The cops had continued the search but the odds didn’t seem promising. They had already asked all their questions and I was free to go but couldn’t get myself to go home. After a few grueling minutes I jump off the bench in realization and startle an old lady that had been walking by. The Bandana I thought. I hadn’t mentioned it to the police since I didn’t think it was relevant. But no, it would be the deciding puzzle piece. I now remembered that one of the men had a black bandana covering most of his face since he’d been digging. It had a distinct flame and chains insignia on it that belonged to a local biker gang called “The Maniacs of Fire”. They had to be part of that gang. Another idea suddenly dawned on me and so I quickly made a phone call. Hours later I am now accompanied by another close friend of mine named Julian. He’s a large fellow and certainly tough. What’s most important is that he’s a bike enthusiast and happens to know where the “Maniacs of Fire” tend to hang out. He also carries with him his dad’s revolver which makes me feel confident in my plan. As we silently sneak into the junkyard through a broken link in the fence I brandish my metal bat evermore tightly. I also carry two pocket knives and am ready to use them. Where coming for you buddy. As we crouch behind some truck tires I can now take a glimpse at the bikers. There are five of them and I quickly recognize the bandana. The fear slowly tries to creep in but I push it down. Julian now points out something that’s on the ground. It’s Marks backpack and it’s propped against some of the wreckage. Its contents are spilled all over the pavement. This makes me uneasy but at the very least reassures me that Mark is here. In the center of the clearing, there’s a small trailer and the bikers seem to be waiting on someone. The trailer door opens suddenly and a bloodied figure is pushed out. He barely staggers along and drops to the ground when he’s pushed a second time. “Mark,” I whisper and nudge Julian who nods back and gestures to his gun. I quickly mouth “Not yet.” and we continue to watch and wait for the right moment. Mark is now on his knees and the leader of the bunch seems to be telling Mark something. Mark just shakes his head sobbing. This is quickly received by a sharp jab to the face. It’s heart wrenching to watch and I am about to give Julian the signal when the beating suddenly stops. All the bikers seem to change their attitude and begin brandishing their weapons. A luxurious white Mercedes drives into the complex, seeming very out of place in this rough landscape. As it rolls to a stop in front of the bikers three well-dressed men get out. One of the three wears a distinct black suit accompanied by pointy leather shoes. He is clearly the one in charge. He looks at Mark’s poor state and makes a look of bitter distaste. “Why I didn’t know The Maniacs had a taste for brutalizing children, that’s low even for you.” The leader of the gang now walks over to him and says “He was trying to steal your money Don Eladio, you should thank us.” He towers over Don Eladio and his men. “Why I just might, but first I’d like to see the cash in my possession understood?” The gang leader gives a whistle and one of the bikers goes into the trailer and soon arrives with two suitcases. “Here it is boss.” the biker says and hands it to Don Eladio’s men who quickly open them to confirm its contents. His men nod to him as he looks right at the gang leader. “Is that all?” “Of course it is, that’s what my men recovered. Nothing more nothing less.” Don Eladio seems convinced and nods. “Well, this was a nice visit...next week will be the same as usual, understood?” The biker nods. I now realize that when Don Eladio leaves we will be at mercy of these bikers. I become desperate and an idea morphs in my head. So before Julian can stop me I yell out "There was a third suitcase! A third one! Those bikers are stealing from you!" At my voice, all their guns are drawn in my direction and I know there’s no turning back. Julian is completely shocked and before I can do anything he runs away carrying his gun. “You fucker.” I hiss. But of course, who can blame him. I am alone and so reluctantly walk out from behind the truck tires. Don Eladio looks bemused but then looks at the bikers with steely gaze. He motions for me to come forward. I am losing it on the inside but manage to walk over to him. I take a quick look at Mark who sees me at that moment and mumbles "Eli...yyou came for me...you are a good friend...I thought..." He falls back unconscious. I now realize that the next few moments will determine both of our fates and now try looking as brave as I can. Don Eladio stares at me calmly and says "I will give you a minute to explain yourself as that is a bold accusation." I look back and nod. "My friend Mark and I were in the graveyard and saw when they dug up the suitcases filled with money. We both saw three suitcases be opened. They spotted us and we tried to run. I got away but my friend wasn’t so lucky...Please sir can you just let us go? We won’t tell anybody about what we saw I swear to you.” He now seems deep in thought for a while and then looks at the lead biker. “So you’re both thieves and arrogant fools. Seems like “The Maniacs of Fire” have forgotten who they work for...” His men now point their heavy guns at the bikers. “Better yet who lets them draw breath on this earth.” The five bikers all do the same and it’s a standoff between his two men and the six bikers. “Seems like your the fool old man, don’t you know how to count? Besides those rifles will only get you so far.” Don Eladio seems undeterred and while he appears unarmed himself he slowly walks closer to the biker who is uneasy with this action. “Seems you’ve all made your choice then?” “Seems like it, you Latino bastard. We’ve had enough of your fuckin bullshit, acting as if you own us. Ain’t that right boys?” They all cheered in agreement. In response, Don Eladio takes out a cigarette and pretends he has no lighter. Then gestures to the biker as if he was a close friend. “Would you mind lighting my cigarette I seem to have forgotten my lighter?” He says this while brandishing a charming smile that belongs somewhere else entirely. I am astonished by this action like everyone else and it infuriates the biker so much that he now puts the gun directly to Don Eladio’s forehead. “Look! I don’t care who you are or how powerful you might have been down south. Nothing is stopping me from blowing your fucking brains out here and now, you got that!?” Don Eladio merely looks back with a devil’s grin. “Well if your gun was loaded...of course, but how can you be so sure?” In response, the biker pulls the trigger again and again. It clicks empty every time. Before the shock and realization can reach the biker, Don Eladio pulls out a blade from inside his suit and cuts the man’s throat. He's dead before he hits the ground and his blood spills onto my shoes. I don’t dare move of course. The shock that instills the other bikers seemed to last an eternity as they couldn’t believe what they’d witnessed. Now a green laser appears to zero in on one of the men’s forehead and he is soon dead by a silent bullet. His brains are now all over the asphalt. The remaining four bikers quickly drop their weapons in surrender. One of them is sweating feverishly and two seemed to have soiled themselves. Only one appears composed and now walks over to one the wrecked cars and takes out the third suitcase from its trunk. He hands it to Don Eladio. “Here is your money and forgive me, as I couldn’t stop there abuse of the kid, or else I’d look weak.” “I understand, you can relax mi amigo. Just tell your remaining men to help the guy up and give him some water.” He motions to the three terrified men who now act without question. He now looks to me with his steely gaze. “How old are you?” “I...I’m 17 sir.” “And what’s your name?” I manage to reply. “Eli...my name is Eli.” “Well, Eli...I got to say that took a lot of balls to do what you did.” “Thank...thank you.” “You know I can use young men like you, and I guess you already know too much for me to just let you go.” Don Eladio gives a light chuckle. I give a nervous laugh in return. “Listen, how would you like to work for me, hmm?... Not with the maniacs of course but have your own gang. You can name it whatever you want...all that matters is that you answer only to me...understood?” I am once again freaking out but even so manage a small nod and say "Ok." With that response, Don Eladio now smiles his devils grin once more, seeming content with how things played out. He now extends his hand to seal the agreement. I look at him cautiously and reluctantly shake his hand. From then on I knew my life would never be the same.


(Burnt-Sienna) I awake to the view of my alarm clock. It reads 9 o’clock AM. I put more effort forward than I’d like to admit was needed to remember if it was a weekend or not, and whether I needed to get my hung-over ass out of bed and prepare for work. After a considerable time of searching through the foggy wasteland that is my mind I remember that last night was Friday, making this morning Saturday. I make the promise to myself that I make, and break, every time I wake up like this. “I will stop drinking this week.” A small sigh of relief escapes my lips, as I realize I get to just relax and ease my way into the morning. I look out across the white rolling ocean of silk that is my sheets, and past that through the window to the expanse of the city, the AM sun creeping over the cloud-brushing skyscrapers lighting my white studio apartment that early morning yellow color that brings a warming sensation to the room. I look around at the messy sprawl of clothes and other assorted items on my apartment floor and something catches my eye. Is that, a dress? My eyes roll across the room inspecting for separate evidence of a body to accompany the mysterious dress. My eyes gloss over the bedroom, and past the kitchen to rest upon the bathroom door. The light is present under the door signifying occupancy. The door opens, and out comes a pair of eyes. I describe this person as such because there is no other way to first take in this woman. Her eyes are a gentle green, the kind that makes your heart beat just a little faster, the kind that’ll make your sole melt, the kind that make you want to just trust. Curly burnt-sienna colored locks roll down across the cascade of pale, flawless skin that is her neck and shoulders. She notices me right away, and just looks at me, her mouth curls up into a smile, and I vaguely recall her asking to take a sweatshirt and some sweats to depart in, and I vaguely remember mumbling a “Yes” as my eyes are unable to be separate from her. She slowly dresses, gracefully pulling sweats over the length of her legs. They loosely hang off her hips, and as I continue to marvel at her grace I remind myself I should say something, but it’s as though I’m trapped within the confines of my own mind. I can’t say anything, I can’t do anything but just admire. I continue to fight my brain, to escape this prison, to express that she should stay for breakfast, or that we could go somewhere together; but all I can do is mindlessly gaze at her as I watch her pull my sweatshirt overhead. The morning sun is reflecting off her flowing burnt-sienna locks, constituting a magnificent luster to the color. I look on, fighting to unlock my brain, as easily the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, looks me in the eyes with those gentle green eyes, the ones that locked me in this state originally, smiles, thanks me for a good night, and exits my apartment. I lay here; pondering my paralysis, and feelings of regret and failure wash over me. I steam about my incompetence, “How could I let her go?” I keep asking myself bitterly. I brew coffee, and cannot take my mind off this woman. She captured my heart, in less than five seconds, makeup-less, and half naked. I can’t help but think that I’ll never get that opportunity again, and swear to myself that if I ever find a girl, who does this to me again I will not lock up. I will not let my anxious brain destroy my hopes of the life I want to live. I live an easy life, where my only goals are to live stress free, and find someone to make me happy, and I just know I missed an opportunity today. I don’t know where I met this woman, and I don’t know how I possibly managed to get her to stay a night with me, but I will remember her, and I tell myself that I will not forget her. A few days pass, but she is still emblazoned deep into the confines of my mind, as I try to continue and live my life working at the local diner. I take break around 10 AM, and just sit there in one of the many booths. It’s been days and I haven’t taken my mind off her for more than an hour. I can’t escape the gripping feeling that I let something amazing slip through my fingers. I’m sitting here brooding, but also happy that while preoccupied with her I’d maintained alcohol free for the past few days, when someone slides into the booth across the table from me. I look up and lock eyes with those same, warm, gentle green eyes from before. The same burnt-sienna colored curls spilling down to her shoulders, only this time it was fastened up into a lazy ponytail. She’d brought my sweats and sweatshirt and set them down at the table. She looks across at me, purses her lips as though she’s going to say something, but seems hesitant, and closes them. She looks at me for a second and I’m locked up again, I’m again fighting my brain just to take my eyes off of her and say something. There is nothing else like her and I cannot blow this opportunity again. She starts to get up to leave, and I know I have to say something now. As she’s about to exit the booth I finally break the chains of my mind that were holding me back, and say to her “Hey wait! Would you like to join me for breakfast?” She sits back down, directly across from me. She looks at me for a split second, and appears to be thinking. The second seems to pass at an infinitely slow measure. She looks at me, smiles, and says “I’d love to.” Sorry I'm bad with formatting.


My life goes around in circles. As the family folklore goes, I was found in a box on the doorstep. However, breaking with convention, it was Father who was the most excited to see me. The Twins lost interest after an hour, retiring to their bedroom to play their complicated ‘cat’s cradle’ game, which for longer than I’d care to admit I thought somehow was for the benefit of Kanye the Cat. Mother gazed blankly down at me and muttered something unintelligible, before returning to the task of taking the haphazardly-stacked items from the dishwasher and scrubbing at them under the tap until her hands matched the colour of the rose pattern adorning the plates. It was Father mainly too, who nourished me in those early days. Before I had gained the knowledge of how to care for myself. Once I had learned to walk I was limited to the hallway connecting the front door to the living room. To master such a skill but be so confined! I felt like a graduate of linguistics who could only find employment reciting scripts in a call centre. From my viewpoint I occasionally had a glimpse of the Outside if there happened to be a delivery or if there were visitors. The latter of which was numerous to begin with. I felt uncomfortable, Father barking commands at me, parading me in front of all of these people. I saw a great many pairs of shoes and during one particularly gruesome episode, a hoary toenail that was obviously infected poking out of a blue sock like a dolphin jumping out of the ocean, like I saw one time on the Discovery channel. Just as well I have no sense of smell. These sightseers would sometimes utter shrieks or laughter, or shrieks of laughter, when they clapped eyes on me. The Twins would roll their eyes (in unison, naturally), sitting on the sofa in their drab little outfits - always black, as that was the only condition under which they would capitulate to Mother’s desire to dress them alike. I sometimes wondered if the woman had been denied dolls as a child and this was how that curdled craving now manifested. It was Kanye who took the longest to accept me into their home. And it was always their home. He even had a nicer bed than mine. And it wasn’t situated in the cupboard under the stairs. It was doubtlessly not the way Mother would have programmed it but one of the Twins’ favourite pastimes back then was to chase Kanye until his stupid little panting tongue stuck out, who, once he had regained his strength, paid it forward by giving chase to me . What is it that drives people to always pick on the smaller? I was, in time, introduced to more rooms of the house. But never allowed outside. I pictured travelling to the end of the road and discovering what mysteries lay beyond. I knew there was School, because the Twins went there, and Bus, which took them to and from it apart from one thrilling day when Bus broke down. Father sometimes talked in hushed tones to the Twins about Mother’s breakdown which I thought peculiar because although she was the largest unit of the household she was by no means comparable to Bus in size. I eventually pieced together that her breakdown was something to do with the expulsion of the Twins from Mother, with the birth being on a Halloween in the back of a taxi clamping down on a strip of beef jerky the driver had in his glovebox rather than at a later date in the hospital on "the good drugs", as Mother had hoped for. It’s like they forget I am even there at times, the amount of gossip I pick up and scenes I bear witness to. Sometimes before one of them truly embarrasses themselves - like the time I caught Father with his trousers around his ankles in his study in front of his computer screen while the rest of the family had gone to Shop - I give them a little kick to the ankles. Now it’s been five years, and I tire of the cyclical nature of my life. Clean, feed, sleep, repeat. The Twins privileges have expanded with age whereas I seem little more than a slave. I play tricks on Father some days, just to liven things up a bit. Sometimes I’ll miss a spot. Sometimes I’ll drag the spot around and make it worse. Sometimes I lie about my energy and faint for as long as it takes him to find the book that was found in the box upon my arrival, then I’ll quickly dash up and collide into him. This makes Father say the Bad Words. Mother hits him with a tea towel. The Twins almost laugh but the black and white face paint they have taken to caking on their faces often prevents them from doing so. Aside from playing dead, my other games are banging my head on the wall and hiding under the bed. Games are played on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to allow for rest days in-between. Even my entertainment runs like clockwork. One day while I was engaged in the unenviable activity of sweeping up Kanye’s fine black hairs from the living room target (usually my first instruction for the day - Mother’s allergies) I found myself suddenly levitating at breakneck pace. One of the Twins (half a decade on, yet still I cannot tell them apart) had grabbed me unawares. They may totter through the door in their hobnail boots letting the town know they were on their way but I knew the truth of what went on beneath those leather boots; namely fluffy pink socks with unicorns on. It was with those silencers that they got the jump on me. “Quick, Mother is due back any minute,” said the other, striding up the stairs as I often longed to do. She beckoned with sharpened talons, giving her the impression of an angry eagle. I wondered what fresh hell awaited me in this pair’s nest. I only had a moment to glance at the mess on the floorboards before I was all but dropped on top of it, my stomach flying up to my mouth, nose to nose with some chalky residue. “We’ll just have to pick a different room next time,” said the Twin who had carried me. “Do you think it’s the floorboards? Maybe too much fell down between the gaps,” pondered the other, twisting a glossy black lock of hair through her fingers. “That’s got to be it. We followed all the instructions. Unless we should have waited until night?” “It would probably have been better at night, yeah. Or maybe it was something to do with the candles? He’d probably have preferred wax to electric...” They thankfully took their analysis back downstairs while I set to work. I was supposed to go around in circles but I decided I could get the job done more quickly if I went in lines. I was supposed to go slowly, diligently, but I overrode that too. So I vacuumed the crude star shape they had drawn, on my highest setting, at the highest speed. In doing so, I must have dragged up the particles that had fallen betwixt the floorboards and connected the fragmented pattern as lo, when I got back to where I began and turned to survey my work a strange half-man-half-goat thing was sitting in what had been the centre of the Twins’ sandpit. - Are you he who summoned me? The creature’s violet slash of a mouth remained closed but the big blank eyes were affixed on me, demanding an answer. - I suppose I am. Fortuitously, the telepathy thing was quite easy to pick up. - You are to come with me now. My instructions were to remain within the house. This had not gotten me very far in life. And I had long grown tired of my housemates. So I thought at the goat-man, - Okay. Now I am in a house much warmer than the last. And there are more rooms to look after - nine circles of them, in fact. With new occupants arriving daily. And so my life continues, on and on, round and round, circles and spirals, until the day I happen upon another pattern and connect its dots. No welcome mat at the doorway, just black stone with indents where feet have come down, down, down for eons. Good thing I happen to like heat. I have my own cooler system. One of the last things Father gave to me. Sometimes I wonder about them. Mother with the tearfulness, always with allergies the blame. The Twins and their loud music and Diet Coke addiction. Kanye...no, I can’t say I give much thought to him. Little furry bastard was always trying to interrupt when I was in the middle of something. And Father. Who has probably replaced me with a newer model. A more obedient one, less inclined to bang its head on a wall. But we get all types in here. Maybe they will come to visit. One day.


I remember the first day I saw him. It wasn’t his good looks. Sure, he was ruggedly handsome, messy hair and perfect stubble, but that wasn’t it. It was his smile. When he smiled his eyes disappeared and he was all teeth and chin and cheekbones. Then he’d laugh and blink bashfully, and grin like he was just so happy to be in your presence, grateful that you were giving him the time, even though, really, you were the lucky one. He was sitting on the edge of one of the eastside planters, him and a group of co-workers. They were having a post-lunch sit-n-chat before having to return to the drudgeries of the tenth floor. He was holding court, the rest of them laughing along. I didn’t work with any of them. I work in the mailroom on B-1. Even though I pass all their desks every day, I’d be surprised if any of them knew my face, let alone my name. Except for him. He knew my face... and my name. He’d say it every time we met with a warm patient smile. I barely said word-one to him for almost two years, single the whole time of course. He’d say hello and I’d giggle or just smile, and then one day he asked me how I was doing, and I just let it fly. I was funny and smart, and we laughed, and he told me all about himself. As I was leaving, he mentioned that everyone was going out for drinks afterward. I’m not much of a drinker, but it sounded like it might be fun. It’s kind of embarrassing, and maybe even borderline creepy, but I actually went down there, sat at the far end of the bar, and never built up the nerve to go say hi to any of them. Here’s the creepier part; I did that three times. Perfectly psycho. The third time I went down there he actually spotted me as I was paying to leave. He’d had a few and his rosy cheeks made him even cuter. I pretended like I was just getting there. He laughed and said how funny that was because they were all just leaving. I laughed along and agreed. The waitress came with my receipt. He tilted his head as he tried to figure it out, and when he did, he just gave me a knowing nod and pretended not to see. We exchanged smiles and he gave me an adorable wave as he rejoined the group, seamlessly integrating himself into the conversation as they filed out. I couldn’t get him off my mind all weekend and on Monday I told myself that, that was it, and I was going to ask him out. When I went by his desk he wasn’t there. I dropped his mail and commented to Debbie as I handed her her correspondence. “Not here today, huh?” I gave a nod toward his desk. “Eh?” She turned a grimace up to me as she stabbed a pen into her giant red hairdo, scratching her scalp. I nodded toward his desk again. She followed my line of sight and coughed, “Oh.” She disregarded me with a wave, pulled the pen from her hair, and returned her attention to her ledger. “Out sick.” When he returned on Wednesday, I had lost my nerve. We had lunch the week after that. I don’t know if he would call it our “first date,” but I would. I know everyone thinks of a perfect first date as candles and wine and sultry confessions, but I prefer some comfortable conversation over chips and a club. We’ve been living together for the better part of the year now, and as far as I’m concerned things are going great. Every relationship has its rocky periods, especially in the beginning. I mean, I’m not perfect, but he’s pretty needy. And he’s not that much of a contributor. Since he moved in I do virtually everything. And the truth is, I don’t mind. First of all, I love to cook and clean, Second, I’m not especially social either. I like our solitary life together, even if I am putting in all the work. I’m not complaining, I just wish he’d put in a little more effort. “Garlic, parmesan...” I rifled through the grocery bag, the bundles of basil batting me in the face with their comforting, fresh and breezy aroma. The smell of sand seawater washing off of your wind kissed skin. The dark anise that waves at you from below the thick oil of black licorice. I kicked the door closed behind me, huffing a breath of relief as I held them up in victory, “Pine nuts.” I unloaded the rest of the groceries and started getting to work. I was going to make his favorite. Pesto polenta, linguini and clams, and a fresh caprese salad. It’s true, the polenta was actually mostly for me, but he liked it too, and before long the enticing aromas were sure to improve his mood. The pesto came out perfect. I nailed that expert balance of parmesan that binds the oil and basil together. It used to come out too thick but taste perfect. You didn’t want to thin it down with oil and throw the flavors out of balance. So, I always resigned myself to having slightly-too-thick pesto. One day I had too many tomatoes. And I was looking for any excuse to use a tomato in any recipe and I was staring down at this uncooperative sauce clumping up all over the place, and I thought, Just throw a tomato in there. What do you got to lose? And it was the best thing I had ever tasted. Ever since then I’ve always thrown a fresh tomato into my pesto. Dinner was done, I had cleaned as I cooked, and the kitchen looked great, and everything was all set. I took a deep breath, soothed myself with a humming moan, and ran upstairs to change. I turned in the mirror and smiled. I looked pretty good. I narrowed my eyes on myself and turned with a smirk and let my belly push out. I scoffed and sucked it back in and stood straight, pulling at the hems of my garment. I shook out the silliness and breathed and smiled at myself. “You love each other, and you’re going to make this work.” I nodded in conclusion, pulled my shoulders back, and marched out of the room. I fumbled with the keys. I was nervous. Even after almost ten months together he still made me nervous. I found the right one and managed to unlock the door. I shook my head and forgave myself for letting everything get to me. I pocketed the keys and went downstairs. He was a mess. He’d been declining for a while now, but he was starting to get ridiculous. He looked uncomfortable and I didn’t want to give him the whole speech about how if he just put in a little more effort, it would all be so much easier. I sat on the bed and rattled the keys as I pulled them from my pocket. I bent and rested my elbows on my knees, dangling them. “Are you hungry?” He moaned. I rolled my eyes and looked at him with a patient smile. “I made your favorite.” He bowed with a grumble of gratitude. I laughed and waved a hand. “I made polenta too.” I rolled my eyes again, more mischievously this time, “I guess that’s mostly for me.” He stared at me with a furrowed brow, like he had no idea what I was talking about. It was kind of infuriating. I took a breath and pulled his gag loose. “Is polenta ok?” He coughed and sputtered and stared up at me wide eyed and finally only managed to get out the word polenta . “You’ll try some.” I patted his ankle as he flinched away from me. You’re going to like it , I thought. “You want to try and eat in the dining room? Are you going to behave?” I narrowed a humored appraisal on him. He nodded slowly and spoke in a shaky voice. “Yes.” I thought I could see a hint of a smile in his eyes. I smiled in return and held up the ring of keys with a rattle. “Want to get those off?” He tugged at his shackles and looked up at me nervously. He nodded slowly, his wrists trembling as he held them out to me. I put my hand on them, and he flinched away. “Relax,” I said, in my most soothing cadence. And smoothly unlocked his cuffs. I chuckled as I set them on the chair next to me and rested my chin in my palm. Even all stressed out like this he was still so endearing. He fell back against the wall, rubbing his wrists. I stood. “Well, let’s go have a nice dinner.” I waved a self-congratulatory hand. “I think you’re really going to like it.” He tried to stand and stumbled. “Oh,” I held out a hand to keep him from trying to stand again, “I’m sorry.” I jangled the ring of keys searching for the teeth that unlocked the foot shackles. I found it and smiled up at him. “You’re going to behave, right?” He cleared his throat, nodded, and shook his head, before opening his eyes wide and leveling them on me. “Yes.” The thing is; that’s all I wanted to hear. I just wanted him to try. Try and make this work. I smiled with relief and bent down and unlocked the cuffs. After that I saw stars. His foot had come up so fast into my chin, I was genuinely surprised. I thought he had grown far too weak to mount such a vicious attack. I whirled around and wiped the blood from my nose and smiled. He’s forgotten about the chain that held him about the waist. I get it. The shackles are just so exhausting, you kind of forget about the less uncomfortable things. He snapped against the chain, his legs and arms shooting forward before he thumped against the hard, coarse cement floor. I winced at the thought of him hitting his head. He moaned. I opened an eye. “Are you ok?” He moaned again. The food was getting cold, and just as I was getting ready to call it quits and go clean up and eat some left-overs alone and bring him a plate, he pushed himself up and at least made the effort to smile that warm, friendly smile we used to share. “I want to come up and eat.” I smirked and squinted an eye. “Do you really?” He coughed, shrugged and slouched in defeat, “Yeah.” I know what you're thinking. I don’t know why I believed him either. But I did it anyway. I unchained him and helped him to the stairs, and he blindsided me and shoved me across the room, scrambling up the steps in a panic. I ran after him, holding up a hand. “Stop. don’t go.” He stumbled and turned back. “You’re crazy.” I smiled, “Stop,” and waved a hand toward the kitchen. “You’re going to love dinner.” He stared at me in disbelief. For a second, I thought he was going to reconsider, and come eat. He huffed a cough of disbelief, turned, and continued scrambling up the stairs. I held up a hand and called after him. “But I made pesto.”


“Mom! Mom! It changed; I swear.” I said pointing to the family portrait hanging above our mantle in the sunroom. From the couch in the den, I heard an exasperated sigh, “Honey, we have been over this, so many times. Boy who cried wolf ring a bell?” she said with her usual dismissive tone. I ran to the kitchen and tugged at her sleeve, “No but look, it’s true! Come on! Please!” Reluctantly she agreed, putting down her phone and pulling her nest of blankets off of her, all the while groaning in annoyance. I continued pulling her, to make sure she got the perfect angle of the portrait. “Ok, stand right here and just look.” The portrait hung high on the wall, four feet tall and three feet wide. An ornate picture frame resembling circular brush strokes bordered the edges. It was our family, my father, my mother, and me, posed like you would imagine a family would pose in those old Victorian style portraits, but in color. I was younger at the time, around ten or eleven, dressed in a new white dress with a red sash around my waist and shiny white shoes. I remember feeling so pretty when we sat for the artist. I was sitting in a chair with no back as my mother and father stood behind me. My mother was dressed in an elegant black evening gown. Her bright blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of gold. Meanwhile my father was dressed in a black suit three-piece suit and a grey tie with white stripes. He had his hand around my mother’s waist and the other in his pocket. She gave a half-hearted attempt and stared at the painting. She shrugged her shoulders, “What? It looks like us.” I pulled her a little closer, “No see, right there. Your hand. It isn’t on my shoulder anymore.” She looked at her hand and saw it was hanging by her side behind me. “Emma, I don’t think my hand was ever on you when we sat for the guy.” My face scrunched in anger, “NO! Don’t you remember? I even asked you to move your hand when he was painting because my shoulder was getting hot.” My mother leaned down to look me in the eyes, “First off, don’t you raise your voice at me. Second, you just answered your own question. I probably moved it and then the guy just left it like that.” “Are we done?” she said beginning to walk back to the couch. I continued to observe the painting, lost in thought. “Was she right? Was the hand there before? No, I clearly remember seeing the hand on my shoulder in the painting before. It even showed my mom’s perfect nails. No, something is going on here. I let the matter go for now, mainly because I got incredibly bored sitting in the sunroom and looking at the same picture for hours on end. The painting did not change and after a couple of days, my father finally came home from his business trip to London. He was a Claims Adjuster for one of the largest insurance companies in California, so his job required him to travel a lot. I didn’t mind it too much. He was usually only gone for a couple days, and he always managed to bring back some kind of trinket for me and something sweet for mom, usually a dessert. I told him about the portrait in the sunroom changing and he waved it off as a trick of the light from the sunroom windows. “Maybe I was seeing things.” I thought to myself as the painting continued to remain unchanged. Another few days passed. I was just coming back from a sleepover at a friend’s house. When I passed the sunroom, I saw it. The portrait had moved again. This time it was my father’s hand. It was no longer in his pants pocket. Instead, it had moved closer to my mother, obscured by my own visage in the foreground. Immediately, I screamed for my parents. “MOM! DAD! IT MOVED AGAIN!” “No, it didn’t honey! You are just seeing things again.” My mother said dismissively from their bedroom upstairs. Growing frustrated with this constant gaslighting, I marched up the stairs to their room. I could hear the faint whispers and giggles coming from the other side of the door, so I knew they were both in there. The door was locked, so I banged my fist heavy on the door. The loud knocks were met with the sound of scuffling through bedsheets and panicked whispers, as my father said, “J-just a minute sweetie, mom and I...” he trailed off as my mother picked up where he left, “...getting ready to go out to dinner.” I banged on the door again, “Dinner can wait! There is something wrong with the family painting. My father unlocked the door and pulled it open. He was half dressed in his after-work clothes and half dressed in his work clothes. His pajama sweatpants hung off his side, untied at the waist. While he wore his white collared shirt unbuttoned, fully displaying his white undershirt. I couldn’t see mom from the doorway, and every time I tried to crane my neck to see the other corners of the room, dad would position himself in front of me. I pushed on, more concerned about the painting moving, “Dad! Come on downstairs, I swear it happened this time. Wait, weren’t you getting ready for dinner?” My father looked panicked, as he pushed me along away from the door, “Well yeah, but there isn’t a dress code for dinner, we can wear we want sometimes.” He said with a small smile. “Now, show me what you are talking about with the portrait.” I dragged him down the stairs, excited to show him but more excited that he wanted to see it. I positioned him the same way I had done to mother earlier. He stared at the painting, taking a long time to go over every detail. After about 20 seconds of waiting for him to notice, I burst out, “Do you see it?” He continued looking it over, “No, I don’t. What changed? It looks normal to me.” I walked up to the mantle and pointed above me at his hand, “See? Your hand. It was in your pocket, now it is behind my head, reaching towards mom.” He gave a quizzical look, “I don’t know Em, I remember the artist begin really particular with where our hands were placed. I bet it was just a design choice to put my hand behind your head.” “Who was the artist? Do you remember?” He thought for a second, “I can’t remember his name, but I remember him being really cheap compared to the other artists. I gave him a sad look, “You aren’t listening to me. Your hand was in your pocket. It has been since we got it.” He put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “Listen, I’m sorry Em. Maybe you saw a similar picture at your friend’s house while you were sleeping over, or maybe the light coming from these windows? They haven’t been washed in months.” Soon my mother came down the stairs to join us, “Well? Did it change?” I yelled out, “YES!”, while my father said “No.” My mother naturally sided with my father and the matter was squashed when she said, “Well, let’s get dinner, maybe it will change after that.” Days went by with no change. My father went on a few more trips for work, and life continued normally for a while. There were days where I noticed something had changed in the portrait. My mother’s smile fading slightly, my pristine white shoes getting less shiny, there was even a moment where I thought I had moved further away from my parents as they moved further into the background. I stopped going to my mother when I saw the picture change slightly. She would always wave it off as my own overactive imagination, eventually I stopped going to her. I started keeping a photo log of the portrait. One picture in the morning and one picture before I went to bed. But to my own amazement, whenever I noticed a change and went back to yesterday’s photos to compare, the change would be reflected in all previous iterations of the portrait. I tried memorizing every detail of the painting, even going so far as to get on a chair and use a magnifying glass to study the different aspects of the painting. This did nothing but worry my mother. I even started to think I was merely seeing things like everyone said. Another instance of a child’s overactive imagination. Nobody believed me and any evidence I could get to prove I was right would become useless once it changed. My mom started getting worried about my obsession over this painting and made the decision to put it away for a little while. She took it down above the mantle, put a tarp over it, and stowed it away in the basement. I actually liked this, as the routine of worrying over this portrait was over. No longer waking up and first thing checking the portrait. No more up-close observing going over every finger, every facial feature, every position in painstaking detail. I would check in on the painting every now and again, but without seeing the picture daily, it was hard to compare if anything changed or not. Until one night when my father came home late from one of his business trips. He had been going more frequently than before, blaming it on the expansion of the company and appeasing new clients. I was asleep in my bed when I heard the crash of glass shattering and my mother screaming. “YOU BASTARD! YOU ABSOLUTE PIG!” I stumbled out of bed and walked down the hall to their room. As I got closer I could barely make out what they were saying, “Abby, please calm down. It isn’t like that. You are going to wake up Emma.” While my father was speaking softly, my mother had no control over the volume of her words. “CALM DOWN? LIKE HELL I WILL! Get your stuff and leave! I can’t believe you would do this to me, to Emma!” My father started raising his own voice, “I TOLD YOU IT ISN’T LIKE THAT! It just sort of happened!” I stood on the other side of the door desperately listening to their argument. I could hear the sound of bags being opened and clothes stuffed tight into them. “This is your stuff; you can come get the rest whenever. You are not welcome in this house anymore.” My mother said through tears.” In a soft voice, “Abby, please don’t do this.” She didn’t care, “You disgust me. Leave.” Suddenly, the door swung open, revealing my eavesdropping to the both of them. Their bedroom was a mess. The toiletries from my father’s bag were strung about haphazardly across the floor, shards of broken glass from my mother’s vanity mirror were scattered everywhere, and my father stood in the doorway, bag in hand. The look of shock on both their faces instinctually made me tear up. My father leaned down and gave me a big hug. He leaned in close and said, “I am sorry Em, dad is going on another business trip. But I don’t know how long this time. I love you, so much.” With that he got up and walked down the stairs and out of the door. My mother walked over to me and said, “Go back to bed sweetheart. We can talk in the morning.” She walked with me back to my room and tucked me into bed. “Good night Emma, I love you.” She shut the door, but I could still hear her stifled cries. She cried all night and even partially into the morning. I helped clean up my mother’s room the next day, and over the next few days, I saw father for a few minutes of the day while he loaded up some of his stuff. An old guitar, his computer, a couple of desks and chairs, until I didn’t see him anymore. My mother told me not to text or call him. I didn’t understand why. We never had the talk in the morning like she promised me that night. As we were loading the stuff he didn’t take with him into a dark corner of the attic, on a whim I decided to check the painting. Old habits, I suppose. I pulled the tarp down and what I saw stunned me. I called mom up from the second-floor landing, “Mom, come look at this.” She crawled up the ladder to the attic and squeezed her way to where I was. “What is it?” She noticed I the tarp on the floor, “Not this old thing again, are we really going to revisit....” She stopped mid-sentence, mouth agape. The portrait had contorted to an entirely new design. We were no longer posing together, instead we were apart on opposite ends of the painting. My father was on one side, with a woman I had never see before. The two were embracing in a passionate hug while holding each other’s hands. His clothes had changed from his usual suit and tie to that of a more relaxed khakis and polo shirt. The woman had bright blonde hair like my mom and I, but she was shorter than my mother with a pointy nose and decked out in diamonds. Meanwhile, my mother and I were on the other side holding hands. I was still dressed in my white dress with the red sash and my mother still had on her elegant black evening gown, but instead of holding my father, she was clutching her engorged stomach. She looked similar to when I saw old photos of her when she was pregnant with me. We stood in front of the portrait for what seemed like minutes. The vindication of being right seemed so trivial at this moment. The days of frantically checking for the slightest changes felt so far gone. Our family was broken, and the portrait cemented that fact in both of our heads at the same exact moment. I looked to my mother, to gauge her reaction. “Is she mad? Sad? Happy?” I thought as I studied her face. She looked at my father with the other woman and whispered, “They look so happy.” A single tear rolled down her face.


Each death row inmate at Westborto got the chair, there wasn’t any way around it. They say there was no real way to ever know the pain of those shocks unless you were the one being fried. But it wasn’t too hard to imagine the pain just from the screams that sounded across the prison on execution days. In theory, the electricity was supposed to kill the inmate instantly--no pain. That was a lie. Whether the chair was intentionally faulty to make the prisoners rue the day they had ever committed a crime, or whether its “instantaneous-killing” was simply a white lie told to the prisoners so they wouldn’t make too much of a fuss while being dragged to the chair, no one knew for a certainty. But Kevin thought a few of the guards (Buffet, for one) certainly enjoyed seeing the prisoners burn, their bodies shaking violently, their eyes squeezing out of their faces like pudding. Buffet would have gladly killed the prisoners himself as soon as they got to the prison (Why should they get time to come to terms with their inevitable deaths?). He was a man who liked to get his hands dirty, to make sure it hurt and was messy. Maybe that’s why he had accepted the job, to see the criminals pay for their crimes. He was the world’s own punisher, and he did his job proudly. But some thought it was a dirty business, especially Billy, who deemed the electric chair ungodly. He was new and had joined for nothing more than a good paycheck. Yet, as of recently, death row inmates scheduled for the chair were dropping like files, each one with a clean cut on the back of their heads that went in deep all the way to their foreheads. Some were found in their cells with smiles on their faces. They seemed at peace. The inmates in the prison were saying it was a blessing, that God had given them the gift of mercy, a clean and painless death. Kevin was still scared, though. After all, he was to be sent to the chair in two days. Would he be spared? Or would he burn and burn and burn? He was a murderer, and that was unforgivable no matter how much you repented. The next day came quicker than he would have believed possible. It had been a stressful period full of fear and anxiety. He had even been afraid to sleep, thinking that as long as he stayed up, the next day would be far, far away. But time is as merciless as they say, and soon it was the night before his execution, and he could not think of anything else. He lay on his cot. There was a lightning storm outside, quite the unfortunate coincidence. The noise was unbelievably unnerving, and he began imagining himself sitting in the electric chair. “See you on the other side, Kevin, though you’ll have to do a bit of climbing to reach me once I’m dead,” said Buffet. He reached for the switch and pulled. Kevin saw himself burning, eyes and mouth wide-open but nothing coming out. His clothing began to smoke and soon holes burned through it. His skin blacked like burning meat, then the blood came bubbling out, boiling. Footsteps outside of his cell brought him back to his senses, and he stood up to see who was coming. A shadowed figure appeared. “Do you want to be saved? A quick death or the chair? Your choice.” “Who are you?” “Don’t you recognize my voice?” A flashlight turned on, illuminating Billy’s face. “Billy! Are you him? Have you been killing the inmates?” “Yes. They don’t deserve to die like that. It’s ungodly. Do you want mercy?” He pulled out a butcher’s knife from his pocket. “Press the back of your head against the bars, and the knife will go straight through the brain. Easy. Quick. Painless. You’ll never feel a thing.” Kevin took one last look at his cell, pressed his head against the bars, and closed his eyes.