“Gina Fortier? Here’s your new New York State license, ma’am” the lady sitting behind the glass at the DMV slides Gina’s new license under the partition. Gina lets out her breath, not realizing she was holding it. She picks up the shiny new driver’s license. New York State. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. Eyes: BL. HT: 6-02. Gina wipes tears away from her eyes and rereads. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. For the last 14 years her ID said something different. SHE was someone different. When she came into this very same DMV at the age of sixteen, she was a young, confused boy, yearning to get his license so he could get out of Buffalo and go to the city. But here she is. Still in Buffalo. But grown. Matured. A woman. “Thank you,” Gina says as she takes the treasure and places it in her Michael Kohrs wallet. She’s not sure if the woman gives her a judgmental look or not before Gina gets up to leave. But it doesn’t matter now. These people can look all they want; Gina is, by the State of New York, a woman. She has a new name and license to prove it. As she walks towards the exit, she feels her phone buzz from her clutch. As she picks it up, she sighs remembering it’s her dad’s 60 th birthday dinner tonight and her mom is obviously calling to remind her. “Brian?” her mom asks before she can say hello. Gina grimaces hearing this name. She hasn’t been called Brian by her friends for at least 10 years. Why can’t her mom understand that? “Gina, mom. It’s Gina,” Gina says into the phone sternly. She is not going to be treated this way by her mom today. Not today. “Brian, Gina, whatever you call yourself these days. Are you meeting us at Applebee’s for dad’s birthday? You can’t be late you know. You’re always late,” her mom scolds her. Gina can hear her mom’s yapping yorkie in the background. “Yes, mom. You reminded me yesterday. And the day before. And the day before. I will be there soon,” Gina replies, feeling frustrated. She sees that Virginia is calling on her call waiting. “Listen, I have an important call coming in. I will see you soon. Love you.” Gina hangs up the phone and clicks over to Virginia. “This is Gina,” she says formally as if she’s answering a business call. “Is that my strong queen?” a voice booms on the other line. “You like that I went with Fortier? Not too much?” Gina asks as she presses unlock on her key fob and steps into her silver Lincoln Nautilus. “No, I love that you went with a last name with a meaning. And you are the strongest woman I know so why wouldn’t you go with Fortier? And really, what kind of last name was Whitehead anyways? When I first met you and you told me your last name was Whitehead, all I thought about was a big pimple.” Gina laughs aloud and turns her car onto Swan Street. “Can we celebrate tonight? Ladies’ night out somewhere nice?” “I can’t,” Gina says feeling disappointed. “It’s my dad’s 60 th birthday and I’m headed to Applebee’s right now. There aren’t enough skinny margaritas in that place to get me through this dinner.” “Oh girl,” Virginia consoles her, “You’re going right now? The only people in there are gonna be you and some geriatric customers. It’s still daylight out.” “I know, my parents won’t drive past dark,” Gina responds as she stops at a red light and checks her lipstick in the rear-view mirror. “Then let’s go out for drinks after?” Virginia offers. “Nine O’clock? Boxwood?” Boxwood was their go-to spot for a guaranteed good time. Gina smiles into the mirror, making sure she doesn’t have any lipstick on her teeth. “I’ll see you then,” she says with a grin. Knowing she’s meeting Virginia later will help her get through this dinner with her family. “See you then Miss Queen,” Virginia says and hangs up the phone. As Gina pulls into the Applebee’s, she sees that her parents are already standing in the parking lot with her younger sister, Rosemary. Rosemary still lives with her parents even though she’s 23 years old and is more than capable of living on her own. Gina can’t imagine living with her parents one minute more than necessary; she moved out when she turned eighteen although her dad tells people he kicked her out. She knows the truth. She left on her own free will. “Happy birthday, dad,” Gina says as she crosses the parking lot and hands her dad a present. Her dad, a heavyset man with a permanent growl on his face, looks at Gina as if she’s intruding on their evening. “Hello, Brian,” her dad says as he hesitantly takes the present from Gina’s hands and looks her up and down. “You look...interesting as always. Hope we don’t see anyone we know here tonight.” He turns and hands the present to Gina’s mom as he heads towards the entrance. Gina’s mom smiles politely at Gina and then turns to follow her dad’s lead. “New highlights?” Rosemary asks as she walks next to Gina into the restaurant. Gina reaches her hands up to touch her hair, almost forgetting she dyed her once brown hair to a more summer blonde. “Yea, felt like going with something a little lighter,” Gina says as she holds the door open for Rosemary. “Looks nice,” Rosemary says politely as she steps inside. Gina can feel eyes turn to her as she follows her family to the table. She senses people whispering, looking her up and down. Or maybe they aren’t looking at her at all. Maybe it’s in her imagination. It usually is her imagination. She sits down next to Rosemary, facing her dad. “So, dad. Did you do anything nice for your birthday yet?” Gina asks as she opens the menu and scans the drinks. Maybe she’ll get a vodka soda instead of a margarita. Or maybe a red wine. “Fixed the lawn mower. That thing has been acting up,” her dad responds as he opens up his napkin and places it on his lap. “Oh, that’s great,” Gina says, trying to be respectful. She sees a young waitress approach their table. She looks to be younger than Rosemary. “Hello, and welcome to Applebee’s. My name is Amanda, and I will be serving you today. Can I get you all some drinks while you look over the menu?” the waitress asks as she pulls a pad of paper and pen from her apron. “Budweiser for the birthday boy,” Gina’s dad says right away before anyone can speak. “Happy birthday, sir,” Amanda says and scribbles his order down. “I’ll have a strawberry daquiri; extra whipped cream,” her mom orders with a sneer. “It’s a special occasion so I’ll indulge myself!” “I’ll have a rum and coke,” Rosemary orders. “Vodka soda,” Gina blurts out. She needs some alcohol and quick. “Okay so that’s a Budweiser, strawberry daquiri, rum and coke, and vodka soda?” Amanda asks. “And sorry to ask this, but I have to ask anyone who looks under the age of 30 for IDs.” She turns and looks at Gina and Rosemary. Gina can’t tell if this is the truth, or if Amanda is snooping and wants to investigate her more. As she takes out her ID, she feels pride and shame all mixed into one. Amanda takes Rosemary’s ID first from the table, eyes it quickly, and hands it back to her. She then grabs Gina’s ID, inspects it, looks up at Gina, inspects it more, looks up at Gina, and inspects it more. Gina now knows Amanda isn’t just looking at it for her age. “Is there a problem?” Gina asks, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m clearly older than she is, and you just handed her ID back right away,” she gestures towards Rosemary sitting next to her. “No problem,” Amanda says handing the ID back to her. “Sorry about that Ms. Fortier.” Amanda turns and heads to the computer station to punch in their drinks. Flushed with anger, Gina takes the ID back and places it in her wallet wishing she had said no to the invitation for this dinner. She sees her parents on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthdays and that’s it. Why does she do this to herself? Why does she bother spending time with them when she’s never felt one ounce of confidence or happiness in their presence? “Did she say Fortier?” her mother asks, looking at Gina with a confused appearance on her face. Gina fumbles putting her wallet back into her purse. How can she feel so empowered and strong one minute and the next minute feel two feet tall? “She did say Fortier,” Gina responds, sitting up a little taller in her seat. “Why would she say that, Brian?” her dad asks, sliding a toothpick from his pocket and putting it in his mouth. “Because that’s my last name,” Gina replies. “And my first name is Gina. Not Brian. I had it changed legally. So, I would appreciate it if you would all remember to call me by my correct name.” “You changed it legally? But what if you decide to go back to Brian Whitehead” her mom asks as Amanda comes back with a tray of drinks. “Mom, I’ve never been Brian Whitehead,” Gina says as she begins to scoot out of the booth and look for the bathroom. She needs a break. “I need to use the restroom,” she murmurs before she’s embarrassed anymore in front of the waitress. Gina spies the bathroom across the bar and walks past a couple tables of men eyeing her up. She wonders if they are eyeing her up in a good way or bad way. Why does she care either way? She would never date a man who chose to eat in Applebee’s in the first place. She heads towards the lady’s room and opens the door right as a woman with short blonde hair is leaving. “Excuse me,” Gina says as she holds the door open for the woman. The woman, who seems to be in her mid-fifties and is about a foot shorter than Gina, looks up at her in surprise. “Excuse me,” she says, eyeing Gina up and down before scurrying away. Did Gina scare her? For the most part, Gina looks like a woman. The breasts, the clothes, the hair. Even the hormones make her voice more feminine. But her height. Her feet. No money in the world can change those things. So, it’s harder for her to blend in. All she wants is to blend in. As Gina finishes up in the bathroom, she inspects her face in the mirror and applies more mascara to her faux eyelashes. She makes sure not to buy lashes that are too long. She isn’t trying to look like a drag queen. She isn’t a drag queen. She’s a woman. A woman whose name means strong queen. Gina zippers up her purse and as she begins to walk out of the bathroom, the door opens and a large man in a Harley leather jacket walks in, eyes wild. “I think you have the wrong bathroom, sir,” Gina says in astonishment. “This is the ladies room.” The man looks directly at Gina, and she sees rage burning behind his eyes. Her knees begin to buckle. “No, I think YOU have the wrong bathroom SIR,” he says as he walks closer to her. “You nearly scared the life out of my wife walking in here you circus freak!” he begins to grab at Gina, reaching for her. She screams and fumbles in her purse for her ID. “What do you got under there, huh?” the man says as he begins to grab at her dress and lift it up. “You like to pretend to be a woman just so you can peek on them in the bathroom you sick pervert?” Before Gina’s hand grabs her license, the man slaps her hard against the cheek and she feels blood trickle down her cheek. “Stop it!” she screams, scrambling around in her purse. “I’m a woman! My name is Gina Fortier and I’m a woman! I have a license here to prove it” she realizes her voice has deepened in her panic. It sounds like a man’s voice now. Sounding this way is almost worse than feeling the pain running through her cheek. She gives up on the ID and knees the man as hard as she can in the groin, making him drop to the floor. She pushes the door open and runs into the restaurant realizing all eyes are on her. Why do all eyes always have to be on her all of the time? What must she look like to them? Her dress is hiked up. She has tears streaming down her face. She has blood running down her cheek. She sees her parents look at her from across the restaurant. They look embarrassed. She turns towards the exit and hurries to her car as fast as she can before anyone else comes after her. Why did she come here? She pulls out of the parking lot hastily and speeds down 190 to a rest stop, wiping mascara filled tears from her face. Pulling a tissue from her glove compartment, she dabs lightly at the blood on her lip. She opens her clutch and takes out her wallet. She takes out her license and reads. New York State. Gina Fortier. Sex: F. “I’m a woman. My name is Gina Fortier and I’m a woman. I have a license here to prove it,” she whispers to herself as she stares at her treasure. She starts the car back up and heads towards Virginia’s house, holding the ID tightly in her fist.


** When the Mierans first invaded, the primary targets were the major population centers. Every sprawling metropolis that was once a shining example of human ingenuity is now a depressing reminder of humanity's insignificance. Medium sized cities were thrust into a chaotic position both during and after the war. Refugees from the destroyed cities flocked to the suburbs and smaller cities that formerly existed in the shadow of their homes. Simultaneously, the image of burning skyscrapers caused inhabitants to flee in fear of being the next target. The Mierans launched a few attacks on the new major population centers after the initial strike, but they quickly abandoned their tactics due to the rapid distribution of anti-aircraft guns and fighter planes. The military presence contributed to the expansion of these cities. After the war, the mid-sized cities could broadly be classified into two categories. The cities that had a high military presence became known as the bases even if the military base was only part of the city. Life in a base was heavily regulated and regimented. The people were constantly being monitored, and the soldiers regularly patrolled the cities. They are also known for being the safest places on earth. A large number of scavengers lose their lives for the chance of joining that city. The other mid-level cities are in a state of chaos. The military presence heavily declined in those areas, and a few groups were able to steal enough weapons to attempt to seize control. Most of these attempts failed due to internal conflicts and populations that left to become scavengers. A few support networks were able to form from the groups. Scavengers will often raid the networks and leave quickly. The groups are either unwilling to chase them or believe it is sabotage from a competitor. Stephen, Tim, and Velma are crouching on the side of the road. Their crank radio was able to pick-up a transmission from a supply truck that is headed into a place called Golden Hills. They have spent the last few weeks scouting out the town and finding its weak points. Tonight, that supply truck is making its way towards the city with a truck full of food. They cut down a tree a few miles away from the city to stop the truck. When the truck reaches the tree, it comes to stop. Four people with guns and two people with chainsaws come out of the back. The four guards immediately assume strategic positions on all corners of the truck. The two people with chainsaws immediately start demolishing the tree. A person gets out of the passenger seat and climbs on top of the truck with a flood light in hand. The flood light starts to circle the area. "Damnit, they have training. I was hoping it was one of the more inexperienced groups," Stephen says. "It's okay. That's why we prepared for them," Velma says, "Tim circle around." "Got it," Tim crawls away from the truck and turns to his left. He takes care to avoid the flood light. When he reaches a sufficient distance. He dashes across the road. The guards do not react to the movement. He starts to slow down and feel the ground for the marker they left. When he reaches the location, he pulls out his weapon. At that moment, two cars appear from the city, and eight people get out of the vehicles. "Crap, they called in reinforcements," Stephen says. The chainsaw people move away from the tree when they arrive, and the guards at the back move to the front of the truck. The newcomers ready their weapons at the truck. "Okay, maybe it is a rival group," Stephen says. One of the people at the back starts yelling at the person on top of the truck. Their conversation is barely audible from where Stephen and Velma are crouching. The conversation turns violent, and the groups start to fire on each other. "Shit, Tim is on the other side all alone," Velma says. The firing lasts a few minutes, and all of the people are down. "What should we do now?" Stephen asks. They see a man start to walk through the wreckage holding a gun. Tim jumps and waves them over to the battle site. "Tim, what are you doing? You could've been killed," Stephen says. "Trust me. I was close enough to the site. I knew they were dead," Tim says. "Who were these people?" Velma asks. "This group," Tim points at the truck, "is your standard network that is trying to create a semblance of a society. They were transporting food." "They," he points at the cars, "are a part of a group that calls themselves the Followers of Gabriel. They are a cult that wants to wipe out all they deem impure." "Creepy," Stephen says. "I think we should deliver their supplies," Tim says. "What? They would shoot us on sight. Hi, we sabotaged your transport and got your people killed. Please let us in," Stephen says. "They wouldn't have been here if it wasn't for us, and from the way the network talked, it seems like the cult is winning," Tim says, "I think we should help them." "I cannot believe this. We are scavengers. We only join other wandering groups," Stephen says. "We should help," Velma says. "What the, Velma, you agree with him?" Stephen asks. "Tim is right. They got into this mess because of us. Besides, they made a lot of progress with the tree. We can clear it out," Velma says. "Alright," Stephen says. The three of them clear out the rest of the tree. They agree to have Velma and Stephen be in the truck while Tim takes the car. "Sarah, are you there? Please answer me," the truck radio sparks. Stephen looks at Velma. "Are you gonna answer that?" Stephen asks.


“Mommy, come here!” Tommy shouted eagerly, standing next to the sliding door opening onto the back porch. “Just a minute!” came his mother’s faint reply from somewhere inside the house. “Hurry up!” he yelled frantically, tapping his hand on the glass window. “What is it, Tommy?” she asked, coming up behind him. “Look!” He pointed out the window at a fluffy ball sitting outside the door. “What is that?” she exclaimed, peering through the smudged glass. “It’s a mouse head!” he replied excitedly. “Eww, gross!” Lucy gagged, peeking over Tommy’s shoulder. “Where could that have come from?” Mom wondered aloud. “I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out!” Tommy proudly exclaimed. “Really?” Lucy peered at him skeptically. “And how do you propose to do that ?” “You don’t need to be all mean, just cause I’m younger than you,” Tommy pouted. “Lucy, be nice to your little brother,” Mom gently scolded. “How about you offer to help him?” “No way!” she protested. “Leave me out of this! I want nothing to do with a gross mouse head that was left by who-knows-what on our back porch. How about you ask Justin? Aren’t dead animals more a boy’s thing anyway?” “Great idea!” Mom agreed. “Wait!” Tommy called out suddenly. “I want to do this by myself.” “Are you sure?” Mom questioned. “Yes!” he replied with a determined look on his face. “Well, all right, then,” Mom sighed. “But if you need any help, make sure to ask your dad or me or one of your siblings, okay?” “Ok, Mom! Now go! I have some investigating to do!” The little boy shooed his mother and sister away with impatient hands. “Ok, ok, we’re going!” Mom laughed. “Good luck!” “You’ll need it,” Lucy muttered under her breath. Ignoring his sister, Tommy turned and tugged the sliding glass door open. Stepping outside, he tiptoed over to the furry ball on the patio. “Well, well, well. What have we got here?” he murmured, walking in a circle around the ball to examine it from all angles. He pranced over to a cluster of trees near the edge of the backyard and picked up a loose twig lying on the ground. Running back to the decapitated head, he proceeded to poke and prod it with the stick. “Ew! Good thing Lucy isn’t here. This thing is gross ! Look, there’s even dried blood on the patio. Uh oh, I hope Mom doesn’t make me clean it up!” “Hey, Tommy, whatcha got there?” Sarah poked her head out the door, smiling at him. “A dead mouse’s head!” he replied proudly. Sarah’s grin quickly faded. “Gross!” she exclaimed, before hastily pulling herself back inside and slamming the door closed. Tommy laughed out loud. “Silly girls! Can’t handle dead animals. Anyway, back to business. I’ve got to find out where this thing came from. Hmm...let’s see. What could have happened? Someone in my family could have put it here as a joke. Nah, none of the girls would be brave enough and Dad and Justin are too busy to play a prank like this. What about Scruffy? Maybe he found it somewhere and dragged it here as a present. Better yet, maybe he killed the mouse! That’s it! I’ll keep watch on Scruffy! Here, Scruffy! Where’d that dog run off to this time?” Impatiently, Tommy jumped up, brushed off his knees, and ran around the backyard, calling for his dog. Not under the playset, not in the pool, not behind the bushes. Is he inside the house? Tommy darted back to the sliding door, pulled it open, and began running through the house calling out for Scruffy. “Hey, pipe down out there!” Justin yelled angrily from behind his closed bedroom door. “You pipe down!” Tommy yelled back in reply. “Tommy, dear!” Mom called up the stairs. “Can you please be a little quieter? Grandma is trying to sleep.” “Again?” Tommy sighed. “Ok, Mom, I’ll be quieter,” he called down to her. “Grandma is always sleeping. Hmm, maybe when she wakes up I can show her my dead mouse’s head! No, I better not. Mom and Dad will get mad at me if I scare Grandma.” He continued to search through the house, peeking in bedrooms, peering under furniture, searching through all the rooms. “Aha! There you are, boy!” Tommy ran eagerly towards the fluffy dog, sleeping next to the couch. “Were you the one who left the mouse head on the back porch? Were you?” The dog lay silent and unmoving. “Hey, Scruffy! Wake up!” The furry nose twitched a few times and Scruffy sleepily opened his eyes to peer up at Tommy. “I asked you if you were the one who left the mouse head on the back porch?” Scruffy blinked at Tommy and let out a bark before resting his head on his paws. “Oh right, you’re a dog. You can’t answer me. How am I going to figure out if you did this? Hmm, maybe you still have blood on your paws or in your mouth?” Tommy picked up the dog’s paws to examine them before cautiously peering at his mouth. “Well, I don’t see any blood there, so maybe you weren’t the one who left the mouse head on the porch. Let’s see...what else could have happened? Did the mouse go there itself and die? No, how else would it have been decapitated? Maybe a bird dropped it! That’s it! But how am I going to find the bird that did it? I can’t go find every bird in the neighborhood and look for bloody claws and beaks. Now I’m stuck again. Oh well. I’m going to go sit outside and think for a while.” The dejected boy slowly dragged his way towards the back door and sat down with a sigh. As he sat there, looking around at his backyard, he noticed some birds flying around. They flitted here and there, sometimes landing in a tree, sometimes grabbing some seeds from the birdfeeder. “I know!” Tommy exclaimed excitedly. “I can just watch the birds from here and see if any of them drop off another mouse’s head! But I better not wait right here otherwise I might scare the birds away. Hmm...I know! I’ll hide behind that bush over there.” Quickly, Tommy jumped off the back porch and darted behind a round rose bush planted at the edge of his backyard. He sat there a while, watching the birds flit to and fro, smelling the fragrant scent of the roses. Every once in a while, he yawned and shifted to a more comfortable position. I wonder why no birds are coming? Maybe they can see me still and I’m scaring them away. Or maybe they see the mouse head that I left... “Oops! I left the mouse head on the patio! I better to move that out of the way so that the birds can drop off a new one!” He squirmed out of his hiding place and hurried towards the fluffy ball. Picking up the stick he had discarded earlier, he pushed at the head until it rolled off the edge of the patio into the grass, leaving a faint trail of blood behind. “Uh oh. I didn’t see that. Oh well.” Jumping down next to the ball, he brushed some dirt over it in an imitation of a burial and then quickly ran back to hide behind the bush. For a few minutes, Tommy patiently sat behind the rosebush, yawning every once in a while. About five minutes later, he fell asleep, drowsy in the warm sunlight. Taking no notice of the animals’ activities around him, Tommy slumbered peacefully in the shadow of the rosebush. “Tommy!” A sharp call from somewhere close by roused the boy from his nap. “Tommy! It’s time for dinner! Come in and wash your hands!” Tommy yawned and rubbed his eyes. Sitting up, he looked around and realized his mistake. “Oh no! I fell asleep! And I didn’t see if any birds dropped off another mouse head!” Quickly, he peeked around the rosebush to get a clearer view of the patio. “Phew! No mouse head. That means the birds didn’t leave another one yet. But that also means I still don’t know who’s behind this mystery. Maybe I can sit out here a few more minutes to see if a bird comes. “Tommy!” Mom came to the door and peeked her head out. “Did you not hear me? It’s time for dinner!” “Just five more minutes!” Tommy begged eagerly. “I really want to see if a bird comes and drops off another mouse head.” “Oh, all right,” his mother agreed reluctantly. “Five more minutes. But after that, you come right inside, ok?” “Ok!” Excitedly, Tommy hunkered down again in preparation for his five-minute vigil. As two minutes stretched to three, Tommy grew worried that no animal would show up and he would be forced to go inside for dinner. Crossing his fingers and hoping with all his might, Tommy fixed his eyes upon the porch and stared determinedly. A faint movement in the bushes drew Tommy’s attention to the left of the porch. A shadowy figure crept out of the shrubs and danced up to the porch. Leaning forward to get a better glimpse, Tommy recognized the gold and white stripes of one of the neighborhood cats. Silently, he watched. Proudly, the cat pranced right up to the door and dropped a small bundle of fur. Jumping down gracefully, the cat ran back into the bushes and disappeared from sight. Popping up out of the rosebush, Tommy sprinted towards the porch, yelling at the top of his lungs. “Mommy! Mommy! Come here! Come here!” Dropping on his knees next to the furry ball, he gasped for breath. The sliding door screeched open and his mother’s head popped out, followed by Lucy’s. “What is it, Tommy?” his mother asked patiently. “I figured it out! I solved the mystery!” “You did?” Lucy asked incredulously. “Yes, I did! It was the cat all this time!” “How do you know?” Sarah asked, joining the crowd at the door. “I was watching from behind the rosebush over there,” he pointed to the right, “when I saw the cat--you know, the gold and white striped neighborhood cat--come out from the bushes over there,” again, he pointed in the correct direction, “carrying something small in its mouth. It jumped up here, dropped the ball, and ran back into the bushes. That’s when I ran up here, calling for you, and found this!” Four heads peered down at the bloody bundle of fur sitting in the middle of the porch. “Another dead mouse’s head!”


The stranger seemed to float down the street. Broad shoulders and a tall physique gave him away as a man who was not born on this side of the continent. He was not from this town. His dark cloak billowed behind him like the night, sweeping its soiled hem along the ground. I watched him through the rain-spattered window, curiously, as did the other patrons in the tavern. When he crossed the street toward the pub, we collectively returned to our drinks or meals. A soft rustling of conversation struck up as the door slammed open in the wind, letting in the gray daylight. He entered the small room with confidence, as if he belonged in this place. I knew better. “I have something for you.” The man said as he approached me from the other end of the rickety pub. His eyes were obscured by the hood of his cloak, one strand of greasy brown hair fell down his chest. I clutched the almost empty beer mug between my hands. “Do I know you?” I could feel the gaze of the locals upon us, waiting for something to gossip about--the new girl and the dark stranger walked into a bar. Or some such nonsense. “No. But I know you.” The man eyed the sword at my hip. I did not take it off, even when sitting, which lead to some uncomfortable positions. But I would rather be uncomfortable than unprepared. “What is it then? What do you have for me?” “Come with me,” he replied. “Like hell I’m going with you.” I relaxed a little in my chair, regaining control of the situation. If he needed me to come with him to give whatever it was to me, then I now held the cards. The man took a step closer. Rain pelted the wooden roof of the small room. There were few other visitors to this remote town, mostly travelers who stopped for a bite to eat and to get dry by the roaring fireplace of the public house. This man, however, was making a scene. “Who are you? It’s rude not to introduce yourself when approaching a maiden.” I said, taking a sip from my mug of beer. “You’re no maiden.” The man replied. “You know me well, then?” I raised my eyebrow in question, although anyone could see by my weapons and armor that I didn’t subscribe to the traditional idea that a woman must be a lady, not a warrior. “I know your son.” I almost choked on my beer. “My son’s dead.” “Your son is very much alive.” I could feel my heart beating in my chest, but I kept my posture relaxed. If this man was a blood-reader, he would surely be able to tell I was faking my calm demeanor. Still, I decided to take that chance. I swallowed, wetting my lips before continuing. “You still haven’t introduced yourself.” “I am a death-dealer. You do not need to know more than that.” “What’s a death-dealer doing bringing me news of my son’s life?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Death-dealers were rare, and what’s more: they were dangerous. Not the type you wanted to make friends with in this world. “I have something for you.” “You said that already.” I snapped back. This was going nowhere. The lantern burned low between us as I stared him down. The death-dealer sighed and slid a piece of paper toward me. The parchment was old, and the handwritten lettering had faded over time, but I recognized it nevertheless. My brow furrowed. “How dare you?” Something caught in the back of my throat as I spoke. “Take it.” The man gestured to the paper. “I don’t want it.” I choked on the words. Before me sat the proof of my greatest regret: Sale of one child, two-pounds, paid-in-full. Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them away, refusing to reach for the record of purchase in front of me. When I looked up, the death-dealer was gone. * * * I didn’t have a choice. When the orchard started to die and the crops withered, we sold the furniture. The next year we sold what was left of the livestock; pigs and cows and chickens that hadn’t perished to disease or famine. The third year we sold the house. My boy’s father left us soon after. My son was barely three years old, and I couldn’t feed him on my own. I was so far away from that life now, it was so long ago. The day seemed to creep on as I stared at the paper in front of me. The barmaid, bless her soul, left me to my drinking. I knew I had a job to do that night. Finally, I grabbed the slip of parchment and folded it haphazardly, stuffing it into my satchel. I stood up and chugged the remainder of my beer, leaving a couple of coins on the wooden table. The gray sky had turned to charcoal. Rainwater ran in channels down the road between cobblestones, creating tiny rivers and pooling in deep murky puddles at the base of the curb. I made my way to the nobleman’s residence, picking the most shadowed alleys and deserted laneways for my path. The price on his head was more than my normal year’s worth of work. The walls surrounding his property were clean and bare, absent of footholds or hiding places. I stalked the outside of the grounds, circling until I found a gated back entrance. The lock was easy to pick, and I found myself in a picturesque garden. The trees were neatly arranged in rows, and a stunning fountain stood in the middle of the yard. Water cascaded down marble horses and dolphins, landing in black pools. The rain blurred edges and deepened shadows, making the whole scene appear haunted. Across from me, a great house stood starkly against the dark sky. There were no lights in the windows, no movement inside. On the second story was the master bedroom balcony. I made my way to the base of the structure, beneath the balcony, and found that the walls of the house were not nearly as modern as the outside fence. How does a death-dealer know my son? My mind wandered as I climbed the wall, hoisting myself vertically up as I had done a million times before. I carried the things I had done to stay alive with me, like a great weight that got heavier every day. I was tired, and getting older. Yet I could still climb these walls, sneak into bedrooms, deal in the darkness. I could still hold my own. Maybe after this job I wouldn’t have to for a while. I could run from this place, as I had done before, but this time not in search of a job--in search of rest. I reached the balcony and silently unlatched the door to the bedroom, searching the darkness for any sign of movement. A soft snore came from the center of the room as I let my eyes adjust. Then I jumped. He was waiting for me. The death-dealer. “What are you doing here?” I hissed, as quietly as I could. My bounty was asleep mere feet away--my ticket out of this life. The death-dealer stood up and moved toward me. “I have come to watch you work,” he said, not bothering to speak softly. “Shh, you’ll wake him.” “Will I?” The death-dealer reached over to the bed with one hand, and tapped the sleeping man on the leg. The room lit up like it was on fire. A bright white star formed in the death-dealer’s hand, pulled from the body of the nobleman. “W--what is that?” My voice shook. “His soul.” “Excuse me?” “I’ve done your job for you.” The death-dealer raised his hand and let the soul drift up to the sky. I lifted my head to follow its path, unable to take my eyes off it as it left through the balcony doorway and flew of its own accord into the clouds above. “You killed him.” I said, staring back at the nobleman. Then something struck me, the man in the bed was familiar to me. I walked over to him, and pulled down the covers. The air escaped my lungs. Thomas. I stared at the dead body of my former husband. “Why else do you think I found you here, of all places?” The death-dealer stepped towards me, and I stumbled backward. “Who are you?” “You do not know? I’ve been watching you. The people you’ve killed, the lives you’ve destroyed--” He removed his hood. His face was strong, chin broad and firm. The death-dealer smiled. “I’m your final reckoning.” The blood in my veins ran cold. I tripped over my own feet trying to back away from him as I stared at the young man’s familiar face. He had Thomas’s eyes. Dying crops, diseased trees, starved livestock--the pieces clicked into place as my son reached out to me, to hold me, one last time.


The Magnificent. Rolling into Pondaroak. Benzie’s Discovery. Taika Maru, a strikingly beautiful Bengal tiger, lolled in her cage, lazily watching rhododendron trees go by as the rickety wagon exited the forest. “Pondaroak,” she heard the guide say. Seated in the wagon’s pilot chair, Maron Maloney, a lanky Gaelwyn man with an impressive handlebar mustache with waxed, curled ends, said, “Ha! And as you promised, long before dusk, ranger . You’ve earned your commission and then some. I’ll see to it you’re rightly compensated once we reach the Swindle & Swine.” In a cage above Taika, a yellow cockatoo named Pip flapped her wings, whistled, and repeated, “Rightly compensated.” Taika smiled listlessly at Pip as she squawked. “Nah, that’d be unnecessary,” the guide assured Maron, speaking alongside the wagon. Taika saw he was a dingy halfling with greasy long hair parted down the middle. He was armed with a shortbow. “I did what I said I’d do. That’s all.” Maron hitched the reins to instruct Ammon, a strong Clydesdale horse, to pick up the pace. The wagon lurched forward. “Well then, that’ll conclude our business, Master Muckwalker. Pleasures’ been all mine.” “Same,” Kindle Muckwalker said. “‘Round these parts, find a guide named Ginny Greenhill. Folks know her. She’ll help you back to Mosshollow.” “Obliged,” waved Maron, and his wagon rolled on while the ranger slowed his pace. Taika passed him a sorrowful, lingering glance before the halfling turned and made for the forest. The wagon was painted bright red and was emblazoned with yellow lettering that read The Magnificent Maron Maloney . It was ladened with cages containing a variety of animals. Taika was naturally the largest and heaviest, and her cage was positioned to the rear. Aside from her and Pip, there were two ferrets, a puppy with two heads, a snarling quick-to-anger honey badger, a smattering of songbirds, an owlbear cub, a duck, a flumph , and a domesticated orange cat named Kimchi; Kimchi was the only animal not in a cage, accompanying Maron in the pilot’s chair. Taika sprawled under the hot sun. She yawned and stretched, pushing against the cage with her paws. In the cage beside her, the honey badger hissed and snarled. “Quiet, Barty,” Maron admonished, scratching Kimchi behind her ears. Kimchi purred and smugly enjoyed the attention. “This isn’t anything special. Pondaroak’s a backwater smallfoot town full of naive suckers . We’ll make a night out of it, then swoop down to Ehrendvale. That’s where the big money’ll be.” Taika Maru stared at the duck, Mrs. Featherby, who was sad, still, and motionless in her cage. Nobody dared speak about what happened to Mr. Featherby , not since the incident . Barty twisted, squirmed, and turned himself upside down. He growled and flailed his legs in the air as if he were playing with something invisible. Taika wasn’t sure if Barty was insane by now or just bored. Taika wasn’t the first acquisition in Maron Maloney’s troop, but she was the veteran of the bunch, whereas Pica and Pika, the dual-headed death dog, was Maron’s latest addition; they were cute, but neither of them shared a brain between them. And none of the animals knew exactly how long Kimchi had been there. Kimchi had been Maron’s favorite since Taika arrived. The curious eye stalks of the flumph studied Pondaroak as they approached, and its tentacles wrapped eagerly around the bars of its cage. Its body glowed green. By far the weirdest attraction in Maron’s menagerie and the biggest revenue generator, a flumph was a floating, two-foot diameter pancake with a dozen dangling blue tendrils for appendages. As far as Taika was concerned, Malony had yet to name the flumph . He called it flumph . Week-long journeys across untamed wilderness were part of life with Maron Maloney. Over time, Taika had learned to relax on the road and make the best of it. She’d lost track of exactly how long it’d been. Four, maybe five years? She wasn’t sure; time spent in captivity wasn’t relevant. The only other animal in the wagon that seemingly enjoyed the long rides was Hornsby the owlbear cub. His preference was to nap, and presently, the owlbear was curled up in his cage, emitting snoring-like whistles from its beak. Sid and Pan, the ferrets, on the other hand, hated to travel. They were restless, and everything captured their attention. Often stir-crazy, they’d run loops in their cage before sitting at prairie-dog-like attention to watch passers go by. At the head of the wagon, Taika saw Maron Maloney remove his black showman’s hat to wipe his brow with a handkerchief. The hot sun relentlessly fell on their company, depressing all save Taika, who thoroughly appreciated the direct heat. She’d always loved the sun and couldn’t understand why none of the other animals enjoyed it as much as she did. It wasn’t always this way for Taika. There was a time when she railed against her cage and made Maron’s audience frightened and uncomfortable. It wasn’t until six months after her capture that Taika gave in and accepted her situation. Thereafter, she came to appreciate the little things - the frequent meals, the beautiful landscapes, the exciting new locations, the gawking attention from the spectating crowd - and stopped worrying about what was, and what had been. “Okay, everyone,” Maron cried out from the front, tapping the top of his hat. “ It’s showtime! ” Ammon shifted to a steady Clydesdale judge , cleanly lifting his feet from the ground with heavy clips and clops. Kimchi, the fat orange cat upfront, marched right out on Ammon’s back and pranced in time with the horse. Knowing her part, Taika rose to her hind legs and let out a deep, ferocious roar to announce their arrival. Above her, Pip flapped and squawked, continuously repeating “Maron Maloney! Maron Maloney!” while the songbirds launched into a jaunty marching tune perfectly timed to Ammon’s high-stepping. Magnificent Maron Maloney’s big red wagon entered Pondaroak with spectacle and panache. Halfling children took to the streets to chase Maloney’s cart down the road, and friendly halfling parents parted neighborly waves and whistled as the wagon rolled by. Some clapped along with the music, whereas a clutch of halfling teenagers guffawed, assuring each other they were too old for Maron’s childish amusements. Maron Maloney reached under his seat into a bag and tossed tiny sacks of sugar candy and confetti into the air, and he outstretched his arms as if to embrace everyone he saw. Unconsciously twirling the end of his mustache, Maron would boisterously laugh and point to halflings as if he knew them, and, of course, those halflings would wave back as if they knew him, too, yet, all the while, neither of them had ever met the other in all their lives. Ever the showman, occasionally, Maron would lean out of the wagon and shake waving hands, or turn to face his animals and pretend to conduct them. Still, regardless of all of their practice and training, Taika knew some would flub their parts. Unable to deal with the stress, Barty anxiously chewed on the metal bars of his cage. Sid and Pan had stopped their routine, sat upright, and madly darted their heads around to see each and every child running up to the cart. Pica and Pika barked, growled, whined, and wagged its tail as puppies might, except they shared one freakish puppy body, and unable to get their timing right, they’d trip over their own paws and fall faces-first into the cage. Mrs. Featherby conscientiously objected as she always had since the incident , and remained quiet and disdainful, keeping her eyes closed and her beautiful voice silent. Hornsby, meanwhile, slept through it all, and the flumph simply flumphed . Its hovering body assumed a soft magenta color and its eye stalks glanced excitedly back and forth. “Hello, hello! Greetings, one and all!” boomed Maron Maloney’s voice. He threw out his hands and shouted, “Good folk of Pondaroak! Join me, will you, to wine and dine at your Swindle & Swine?! Curated Curiosities! Exemplary Exotics! Pettings, performances, and peculiarities! Our show begins before dusk!” Bounding after Maloney’s cart, halfling children celebrated, clapped, whistled, and danced. A few had stopped to pick up Maron’s candy strewn behind the wagon. Some ran up to their mothers and pleaded to see the show, while parents gasped and fearfully pointed to Taika. Taika loved that feeling, and she roused herself to fiercely growl at the sky. Her roar tore through town and shook windows, rattled fences, and even got old man Hicklefoot’s attention; his hearing was so bad, Taika’s was the first sound he’d heard in over twenty years. Holding two fingers to his mustached lips, the Magnificent Maron Maloney blew everyone a kiss, and whispered, “ Ignitus fulmine,” sending a bolt of fire roiling into the sky. Shouts, screams, and gasps of awe graced the proceeding as the wagon wheeled through Pondaroak. Maron waved farewell to his admiring fans with his hat before replacing it atop his head. Returning to sit in the pilot’s chair, he brought Ammon’s reigns back into his hands. Talking over his shoulder, he said, “Ammon, Taika: you stole the show. Double your rations tonight!” Taika proudly plopped down in her cage, and Ammon briefly high-stepped to acknowledge his reward. “Barty, Barty, Barty,” Maron tsked, glancing over his shoulder. “What’s so hard about waving your tail in time to the music?” Barty the honey badger spun around, hunched forward, and snarled at Maron Maloney. “That’s right, so, again, nothing for you tonight, you hellion ,” Maron breathed. Righting his mood, Maron gave a nod to the others. “Songbirds, Pip: you were top-shelf entertainment! Flumph?” The flumph’s eye stalks swung toward Maron. “ Upside down ? Can we hover upside down next time, please?” Flumph’s stalks returned to watching the scenery. “Maybe roll around in the air a bit?” Maron added, stroking his mustache. “Oh, and you guys, Pika and Pica. Keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll catch on. I know you will!” Indifferent, the two-headed puppy dog licked its paws and groin at the same time. “Pan?” The ferret eagerly sat up. Shaking his head, Maron called back over his shoulder. “Disappointed.” Pan slumped and frowned at his feet. “Listen, keep Sid in line. He’s distracting you. Maybe he needs more practice?” Turning, Pan angrily gave Sid a shove, and Sid rolled on his back and jumped on Pan, resulting in a frantic squealing tussle. “And you!” Maron exclaimed, scooping up Kimchi and cuddling her close. Speaking in babytalk , Maron nuzzled the purring orange monstrosity and said, “You were spectacular, daddy is so very proud of you, yes he is.” Kimchi glared self-righteously over Maron’s shoulder at Taika, but Taika let Kimchi’s attitude roll right off. It was always that way between them, and Taika honestly wasn’t sure why. Taika certainly didn’t want her job. Eventually, Maron Maloney’s big red wagon wobbled by the Swindle & Swine, Pondaroak’s sole inn and tavern. The Swindle was a proud, three-hundred-year-old two-story structure with a big, round door painted burgundy and topped with a green-gabled roof. A chimney of limestone and gray mortar shot up the street-facing wall, and a second chimney for the kitchen poked over the roof in the back to exhale smoke from its cooking fire. A massive oak tree with rambling roots flourished in its front yard, and a copse of tall, reaching pine trees swayed gently in the back. Taika could hear the sound of the wind rushing through the very tiptops of the pines. The property was surrounded by a carpet of lush green grass that’d feel good on the soles of anybody’s naked feet, halfling or otherwise. On its second floor, a round stained-glass window depicted a Tree of Life , and a wrap-around porch offered ample, comfortable, breezy outdoor seating for discerning guests. Abundant emerald-colored ivy crawled up its side, and cheery tulips, petunias, and daffodils were lovingly planted along the foundation. And nearby, a row of six homey single-room, halfling-sized cottages were open to the road; accommodations for the likes of Man were found upstairs on the second floor. Colorful banners strewn over the porch railings celebrated the Magnificent Maron Maloney’s traveling show. The Swindle & Swine almost vibrated with life. Swarms of minute gnats buzzed over Taika’s cage, attracting a train of sparrows that went dashing by overhead. And as Taika smelled wafts of succulent pork, her mouth watered. A middle-aged, brown-haired halfling woman broke away from conversations with tavern patrons to wave at the wagon from the porch. “Mister Maloney!” Rounding the old oak and squinting from the sunlight, Maron raised his arm. “Miss Hogsbreath? Elina?” “One and the same, sir!” she pleasantly confirmed. Descending the front steps to approach the wagon, Taika could see that she wore a white sunflower in her hair and offered a kind and welcoming smile. She wore a shoulderless white blouse, a brown skirt, and a loosely-fitted corset over her apron - attire common to tavern maids. Taika heard Maron Maloney snap the hitch to slow the wagon’s roll. Locking the parking brake, Maron jumped down from the pilot’s chair. Taika watched Maron approach Elina, and he gave her a deep, theatric bow. Elina smiled in such a way that her eyes pinched together. She placed her hands behind her back and curtsied. “You’re right on time, Mister Maloney,” Elina beamed. “Your room’s been prepared with clean linens on the bed and fresh water in the basin-” “My dear Miss Hogsbreath,” Maron interrupted. Rising from his swooping bow and rushing to her like a caped, black-hatted phantom, he said, “Your humble establishment is everything it’s rumored to be!” “Why thank you!” Elina smiled, masking her irritation at being interrupted. Taika knew Maron was always like that, speaking over others he felt were inferior . Elina continued, “You can park your wagon ‘round back.” “Absolutely,” Maron agreed, his voice trailing and twisting the ends of his mustache. Taika could tell that Maron was already sizing Elina up and wondering how much he could take her for. “Have you any help to assist with offloading my animals?” Elina nodded and grinned. “We sure do! I’ll summon him, right’n’quick. Benzie !” A crashing sound came from somewhere inside the inn before Taika saw a young halfling carrying a mop rush outside from the front door. “Here! I-I, um, here, um, I’m Benzie! Hullo !” Benzie waved the head of the mop at Elina and Maron, and a stream of dirty mop water ran over his forearm and shoulder. Realizing he was wet, Benzie lowered the handle and shook out his arm, sending a spray of mop water over a nearby table occupied by tavern guests. They flinched in disgust. “Benzie,” Elina pointed to the wagon. “You’ll aid Mister Maron. Whatever he needs, y’ bring ‘em. Whatever he needs done, y’ do it. Got it?” “I got it!” Benzie cried, throwing his mop to the porch and racing down the stairs to the wagon. Turning to Maron Maloney, Elina smiled and added, “We’ve all been anxiously waitin’ for the show. Can’t wait to see what you’ve got in store for us tonight!” Taika saw Maron smile the most disingenuous smile he’d ever made, and he said, “I assure you, Miss Hogsbreath, it’ll be the best. How do you say, all crickets , no cobblers ?” “Mister Maloney!” Elina Hogsbreath laughed, slapping her knee joyously. “I see you’ve familiarized yourself with our country talk!” He snickered and raised his eyebrows at the rather unsuspecting halfling, twirled his mustache, and said, “Oh ... quite . For now, start by untying the ropes, lad.” “Yes sir, right away,” Benzie replied. Approaching the wagon, Benzie grabbed a handle and hoisted himself up to its side. When he appeared over the edge, Barty tucked, hissed, and growled at him. “Woh,” Benize exclaimed, having never seen a honey badger up close before. Realizing he was closer to Taika’s cage, Benzie unthinkingly said, “Oh, hey, you Tiger, um, you’re very big.” As Benzie climbed in to untie the securing ropes for the cages, Taika issued a low grumble and nodded at Benize. Benzie paused, for he felt something unusual about the tiger. Taika was patient and steadfast, calm in the face of strangers, and Benize sensed she acknowledged him. Taika rolled her tail, her ears twitched, and Benzie, now thoroughly sure that the great cat was smiling at him, was taken aback. Their eyes locked, and, stunned, Benzie uncomprehendingly believed they just communicated . Maron Maloney unlatched his cape and threw it into the pilot’s chair. He smiled a snake-oil smile and said, “I promise an unusual evening of spectacle and surprise, Miss Hogsbreath!” Taika rolled her head towards Benzie and glowered. Benzie narrowed his eyes and whispered, “Um, hi ?” Taika nodded. Stunned, Benzie froze, glanced back to Elina and Maron, then whispered slowly out of the side of his mouth, “Do ... you ... understand ... me?” And Taika nodded. Benzie was stunned, utterly confused. He, himself, had never heard tigers were so smart, but he was definitely going to ask around. Taika, on the other hand, was familiar with halflings and their propensity to be more curious than afraid. Taika rolled her head to glare at Maron and to draw Benzie’s attention to him. “Maron?” Benzie whispered, and Taika nodded before glowering deeply at Benize. She exposed her teeth. “Danger?” Benzie gasped, leaning in towards Taika’s cage. “Wait, he ... Maron’s dangerous ?” Satisfied the halfling was puzzling it out, Taika raised her brows knowingly at Benzie, stared him directly in the eyes, and nodded.


For those interested, you can read the story for free online on Dance of Death's website. ***M****ichael Knight* *is a 20 year old living in Moore, Oklahoma. He lives with his mom, brother, and dog Emmett. He’s loved to create and write stories ever since he was in the third grade, but only in the last few years decided to pursue it as a career. Until his big break, he’s working at a pizza call center, and currently not in school.* *Check him out on Reddit at* u/MichaelKnightWriter An ancient demonological tale states God created every creature on earth, except for the fly, which was a creation of Satan. I am inclined to believe this is true, for if what I witnessed that night was a creation of God he is no god I wish to follow. I will never forget the events which befell me and my friend. I think the guilt is the worst part. Every night I awake in a cold sweat, thankfully forgetting the nightmare that caused it, and whenever I hear the buzzing of a house fly, I am taken back to that day. It happened on September the 14th, 1933. It was a rather slow day at our office. Outside, the gray clouds blocked out the sun over the city. I sat on the couch reserved for clients and sipped coffee, preparing myself for the long day ahead. Angel sat at his desk, taking advantage of the lull to work on his manuscript. Angel tore a page from his typewriter and crumpled it into a ball, throwing it towards the trash bin and missing. His novel, a dark comedy in the vein of Stella Gibbons, took inspiration from occult practices, which he obsessed over. He had extensive knowledge on the occult, accumulated from years of research back when he studied at university. While his story's premise was original, I found his characters and scenarios cliched. He was much better at being a detective than an artist. As Angel contemplated over his typewriter, the telephone rang, which jolted us both. Angel picked up the cup and held it to his ear. After a brief conversation, he hung up. He informed me a new client wanted to come and brief us on a missing person. This excited me at the time. With no cases to work on and a longing for new ones, I jumped at the opportunity to work. Angel didn't seem so excited, since he had less time to work on his novel. According to Angel, the client was a woman, and lived about a block away. She would show up at our office at any moment. Not ten minutes later did the glass pane on our door shudder from a frantic knocking. I let the woman in and directed her to sit. She looked nervous. Her eyes darted around the room, never locking onto a single object, but always in motion. After she sat, Angel and I began the questioning. She gave us her name, Camille Patterson, and said she worked as a seamstress ever since her husband had died. He took his own life after losing his job due to the Stock Market Crash. Earlier that morning, her eight year old son, Alfred Patterson, went missing. She had woken up to find the window to their first floor apartment opened, and Alfred nowhere to be seen. Camille didn't believe Alfred had ran away. Something in her gut screamed, “Abduction.” She went to the authorities first, but she knew they would only put her case in a pile with the others. We continued to question her on other places Alfred might visit and took note of her answers. Angel assured her we would find Alfred and said it would be best for her to go home, rest, and call us if anything else came to mind. I showed her out the door and turned to Angel, already going over his notes. One question that stood out to me was when Alfred asked where Camille's husband was buried. She told him and he wrote it down. As we rode in the elevator, he explained to me his theory, which he had already developed in his head. Alfred snuck out to visit his father's grave, and was kidnapped there. Angel knew of an abandoned apartment complex across the way from said graveyard, and thought that was a likely candidate. Angel also mentioned how Alfred's disappearance could be connected to the others that had happened in the weeks prior. The thought had occurred to me as well. Although those other disappearances were all adults, it wasn't too far fetched to assume we had a serial kidnapper on our hands. Minutes later, we arrived at the graveyard, and moved through it to the apartment building on the other side. The building didn't look abandoned from the outside, although peering through the windows, a barren space of what used to be a lobby with faint outlines where furniture used to be stood before me. Stepping back to get a view of the top most floors, I froze in my tracks as my eyes met another pair gazing down at me. This pair of gray eyes belonged to a head containing long, unkempt locks of hair. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again he disappeared. After telling Angel, he suggested we try to make our way in. I went around and tried the front door, but it wouldn't budge, so Angel went back into the alley, got a brick and shattered a window. I frantically glanced around to make sure no one saw him, and then rebuked him as he climbed inside. “Jacob, Alfred could be in there with a very dangerous man. I don't know about you, but I won't sit by and wait while he's in danger.” And that was the problem with Angel. He tended to rush in and act without giving much thought to the consequences. I fear that is what spelled his doom in the end. Reluctantly, I climbed in after him. I followed Angel through the ruined interior and up the stairs to where I saw the man. The apartment door opened inwards on creaky hinges. Some feeling of dread in my gut made me reach my hand out and grab Angel's arm, preventing him from entering. A strange vibe resonated with my primal instincts, and I refused to cross the threshold. Angel said he felt it too, but we had to see if Alfred was okay. Before I could stop him he already threw the door open, and once he glanced inside he froze in his tracks. My stomach sank before Angel uttered a curse in hushed breath. When I finally walked over to join him, my eyes locked on to the shrine in the center of the room. An altar made of concrete bricks stood there with a leather sheet draped over it. On top lied a raccoon's corpse, gutted with a knife embedded in the carcass. While the brutal scene disturbed me, that wasn't what gave my friend pause. He stared at the wall directly to the right of the altar. A strange symbol not unlike a Star of David, but with some noticeable differences and liberties, took up nearly the entire wall. The star itself had nearly triple the points of an actual Star of David, and it was surrounded by Greek-like characters, with a four limbed stick figure in it's center. Angel recognized the surrounding characters as a combination of several Canaanite languages, and the sigil in the center he knew from his studies into the occult, but didn't recall exactly what it meant. I shivered at the thought of some mad cult performing blasphemous rituals so close to our homes. I would've continued to dwell on it, but the slapping of rain against the window made me jump. The clouds had finally burst open and unleashed a torrent of water on the city. I snapped out of my trance and suggested we keep looking for the man. We had not seen him exit the building, so I assumed he was still hiding somewhere. I cursed myself for not bringing my revolver, but luckily Angel had his. After searching the rest of the top floors, we back tracked to the lobby, and went to a previously unnoticed, barely open door. Angel took point and opened the door, which led to a set of concrete stairs leading into darkness. After descending the steps, the rain outside became muffled and I felt the cold basement air hit me like a brick wall. The basement looked even more ruined than the lobby. Rotting wood and decay added a stench of death to the scene. Furniture piles and cardboard boxes lied everywhere, and while we tried to traverse through the narrow pathway between the mountains, we had to do our fair share of climbing across overturned furniture. Once we reached the other side of the basement, I stopped. A table leaned against the wall, the underside facing us, with the same symbol as above carved into it. I walked forward, distracted by the symbol, and tripped on some small object and went flying into the table. It cracked inwards creating a divot that I could barely see through. To my surprise, a tunnel opened up beyond the wooden barrier, about five or six meters long, and angled downwards towards an opening which leaked a weak light into it. I told Angel and he got me to help him move the table out of the way. Normally I'd object to traipsing in like we did, but we trespassed, and the police wouldn't have supported us. So we agreed to go through ourselves, no matter how dangerous it was, and entered the chasm. Towards the end, enough light leaked through to see a two foot dip into a chamber, and we safely dropped into what was, to my surprise, an abandoned subway station. The cylindrical tunnel loomed around us, and some oil lamps hung on the walls, which produced the light I saw in the basement. To our left, the remains of a cylindrical train car, long out of order, blocked the way. The model dated back to the turn of the century. How long had this been here right under our noses? I looked at Angel to see his reaction, and his eyes were lit up. “Underground caverns,” Angel said to himself, “I don't know why I hadn't thought of this sooner. This might just save my novel.” I laughed despite the situation. Angel was the only person who would think of his book in a situation like this. He had spoken to me numerous time about how he wished to get out of the private eye business. His artwork made him exponentially happier. As he contemplated his story, I continued to look around. We could only go to the right, so Angel took point, aiming his revolver. Every now and then as we walked, more glyphs would appear, scratched into the curved walls. A wrongness filled the air which I detected much the same way someone would detect static electricity. I could tell Angel felt it as well. A renewed feeling of dread swept through me as a brighter light appeared ahead of us. We inched closer, and found the light came from a train station. Another train car blocked the way. Or it would've if it didn't have it's back door open. The light came from somewhere beyond it, leaking through the windows and then the door way. When I went towards it, Angel put his hand in front of me. The extra pressure against my chest made me feel how fast and hard my heart was beating. Then, I heard it. Voices. A chorus of deep voices chanting in a language I didn't recognize, but I assumed it to be the same as the language written on the walls. Angel and I crouched and crept up to the train car. We crawled in and went up to the side entrance, where we crouched beneath a window. The chanting continued just beyond the train car. Slowly, I peeked around the barrier, and took in the scene in a matter of seconds. The fetor of decaying flesh assaulted my senses, and I had to cover my mouth and pull my head back to keep from vomiting or screaming. It was one side of a normal subway station, with the entry way closed and covered in that same dead language. The pillars, which contained braziers, also had the daemonic script, and the walls and even the c ceiling had it. There was also the same symbol on the floor, and an altar made of concrete bricks lied in it's center. A group of around ten men and women wearing dark robes surrounded the altar, with the man I saw in the window standing behind it, his hands raised in worship. He wore a peculiar black headdress, which Angel explained looked very similar to ancient Philistine head wear, like a cross between a fluted crown and a keffiyeh. The long fabric fell across the mans shoulders and back. Upon the altar, a young boy which I immediately knew to be Alfred lied, naked and bounded at the wrists and ankles. He had a look of existential horror on his face, and I believe he was barely old enough to even comprehend what was happening to him. While that sight gave me feelings of anxiety and empathy, what made me retch was the pile of around four adult bodies on the left side of the station. Gaping holes were in their chests where their hearts should've been. I didn't know where the hearts went, although blood on the lips of some of the cultists allowed me to make my own inferences. I refused to dwell any longer on that aspect of the scene. Angel and I didn't act for a few minutes, seeing as we were outnumbered. As we hid, the leader finally stopped chanting. I peeked around again, morbid curiosity outweighing my terror. Three cultists stepped forward and surrounded the altar. They produced knives from their robes, and I feared for the boys life. Instead of plunging them into Alfred, they took the knives and ran them across their own throats. Alfred screamed as the bodies collapsed. Once they hit the floor, a rumbling began beneath my feet. A mild earthquake had started, but it lasted only a few seconds. I wanted to believe the two events weren't connected, but the cultists dug their feet into the ground, as if wanting to feel as much of the quake as possible. The leader of this sick society inhaled, seeming to relish a sort of pleasure from the event. “Brothers and sisters,” the leader began, “For thousands of years our god has lied dormant. Although many have attempted to praise him, none had the knowledge that we do today, and many misconceptions and lies have been brought forth. Lies such as our god is Satan or an agent for him. No. He was worshiped long before the concept of Satan, before the tower of Babel was erected, before any of the Abrahamic religions were a fleeting idea in the minds of blasphemers.” He produced a knife from his robe and raised it above the boy. Angel aimed his revolver at the man, who didn't notice him, too engrossed in his ritual. I didn't want the boy to die, but I feared that somehow killing the priest wouldn't help anything, but actually make things inconceivably worse. The rumbling in the ground increased gradually, and a new wave of dread washed over me as the priest finished his last rite. “We know our god is the true god of the Philistines! The Lord of the Flies!” The back of the mans head burst outwards in a torrent of blood. The gunshot echoed throughout the claustrophobic chamber and my ears rang loud. The remaining cultists recoiled at the sound and backed away from the altar as Angel rushed out, aiming his gun at them to keep them back. I got out of the train to assist him in untying the boy, who had passed out. The cultists faces trembled, their expression frozen in terror. As I picked up the boys body, knowing they weren't afraid of us, I wondered what could've had them so aghast. The rumbling I felt earlier increased in volume. Soon, I had to struggle to keep my balance, and some of the cultists fell over. A cracking sound resonated throughout the room. Barely audible, maddening voices whispered all around me. I didn't know if it was real or a trick of my mind at the time. Then, I looked to the other end of the station. My knees grew week and I collapsed at the impossible sight. A floating, gelatinous mass of flesh and blood began to spawn. It grew and pulsated, squelching and spewing out giblets of matter which smelled of rotting meat. I averted my eyes from the horror as a red light flashed. It pierced my eye lids with its crimson radiance. After it dissipated, silence overcame the room. A stench like a cross between fecal matter and stomach acid filled the area. A strange chittering noise began. I slowly opened my eyes and looked to Angel, who stared in the direction of the noise, his mouth agape and his eyes transfixed on something. His eyes. Dear God his eyes were dead. That's the only way I can describe them. Staring at something and nothing all at once. Curiosity outweighed the dread I was feeling once again, and I stared, too, at the sight which I know stole a bit of my sanity. I estimate the creature to be around twice the length of an elephant and about as tall, taking up nearly half of the station. If I described it simply it would not do it justice, but I could just as easily describe it as a monstrous fly. It's thorax angled upwards so that it's giant head and bulbous eyes stared down at us. I shudder to remember those damned eyes, so black it appeared to absorb any light which came near them. The beast had a swarm of millions of flies surrounding it, smaller versions of itself, from which emanated a maddening buzzing. It tilted its head at an angle, as if assessing us all. Judging us. That insult to creation was intelligent! The cultists all rushed past me and got on their knees, bowing to the beast, muttering prayers and rites in their language. The beast took it's clawed fore arms and dug into the wall. It hoisted itself onto the ceiling, where it hung directly above the worshipers. It's mandibles opened, and a proboscis slithered out. After a moments pause, the beast sprayed a corrosive acid on to the worshipers. Their screams of agony as they dissolved freed me from my trance of horror. The mad worshipers, betrayed by their own god, had their skin melted off of their bones and on to the floor, a dreadful combination of dark red and tan colors. Their bodies molded together. Three arms merged into one body, reaching up at the sky. It brought down its mouth onto the plash and began sponging up the remains. Seeing as it was distracted, I got up and hoisted Alfred over my shoulder and grabbed Angel by the forearm, pulling him towards the train car. The motion snapped him out of it and soon he began running by himself. We ran out the back of the train car and seemed to have a clear shot ahead of us. Then, a metal groaning began behind us. I turned my head out of instinct. A pulse of anxiety shot through my body as, impossibly, the beast's head squeezed through the back door of the train car. It's fore arms wiggled out, giving it more leverage to slither it's surprisingly malleable body through the entire car. The thing then chased us on four insectoid legs. Compressed by the narrow passageway, it still ever so slowly gained on us. The creature didn't use it's wings, for there wasn't enough room. Not wanting to look anymore, I turned my head and focused on our goal. Flies began to swarm us, drowning my ears with the buzzing and obscuring my vision. They flew up my nose and into my ears, disorienting me. They crawled on my eyeballs, forcing me to close my eyes, but I pressed on. Angel tried to wave away the pests as he ran. The beasts foot steps thundered as it got closer. It's body scraped against the walls. We finally reached the end of the tunnel. A minuscule wave of relief washed over me as the familiar sight of the entryway came into view. Angel and I both turned around and beheld the monster the cultists called Lord of the Flies. It was but a few meters away, and closing in fast. Angel drew his revolver and pushed me towards the exit. “Take the kid and get out of here.” His voice trembled. He and I both knew he wouldn't make it. I wish I could say I wanted to stay and help him; that I would've sacrificed my life in his stead, but that would be a lie. One look at the monstrosity and all courage within me vanished, like a physical thing the creature slaughtered. I ran as fast as I could, without hesitation, and climbed up and in to the tunnel. About half way in, Angel fired his five remaining shots. The thing screamed. It rattled my brain and against my will I had to stop and grab my head. The migraine was nearly unbearable. Then, it stopped. Through the ringing in my ears I could hear the ominous chittering of that living blasphemy. Angel's cry broke my heart. It was not only the cry of a man who knew he was about to die, but it was as if his sanity was crying out for euthanasia. With tears of fear and sadness I clambered out of the tunnel and into the basement. I set Alfred down and grabbed whatever furniture I could find and piled it into the tunnel, blocking it off. I wasn't sure if it would hold, but it was better than doing nothing. Silence, and dare I say calm filled the room, except for the humming of flies which still surrounded me. I collapsed to my knees and screamed for the loss of my friend and the loss of part of myself that day. I screamed out of the guilt of abandoning Angel, even though I had no choice. I knew at the end of the day, even if I did, I would have ran anyway. My screams turned to sobs, and then to whines, until I had vented out what stress I could. A permanent hole in my sanity that I felt could never be filled again had appeared. Of course I couldn't focus on that right away. I still had a job to do. I picked Alfred up and dropped him off at the front doors of a hospital. I then notified Camille over the phone that her child was safe and sound and gave her the hospital address. There is an air conditioning unit in my apartment. I leave it on and it hums all day until it fades into the background and I can no longer hear it or notice it. This event has haunted me in a similar fashion. It's always in the background and always affecting my life, even if I don't notice it at the time, and I know I will never get rid of it. I don't just grieve for my sanity, I grieve for my friend Angel, who I still believe I betrayed. I vow not only to complete his novel for him, but to study the occult as he did and hopefully find an explanation, or perhaps even a way to defeat the abomination. Because to my unimaginable horror, I believe it still remains in those tunnels, waiting to be unleashed on the unsuspecting world.


from Love & Chemicals: The Memoir I had an afternoon to kill. Burlington, VT, ‘Bello & Friends’ Summer Tour, 2000. The original ideal of running away had become a full-time profession, working the past month with no rest, until today. A warm July day-off in a Canadian border town, I got off the bus at the central pedestrian shopping district and fulfilled a promise that I had made to myself to eat breakfast before going to the bar. Smoked a few cigarettes to complement the blueberry pancakes and spotted a teenage couple dressed like the Jamaican Flag. I reacted without thinking when they passed me by, ‘Hi, I’m from the circus, you know where I can find a J?’ Like a call to the wild, my people responded instinctively. A passing cab took us out of the decorated New England city into a stale suburban district devoid of any character. ‘You can hook us up, too, right?’ Aaah, the innocence of youth... ‘I’ll give you most of mine, I just have an afternoon to kill...’ ‘No, no, we want some heroin.’ The bright-eyed idealist traveler inside of me dimmed a little that day, and still has not returned. The taxi stopped and I was rushed out of the backseat as they started to beat their fists against an unassuming door. I felt a little safer when I noticed a Dodge caravan in the driveway, but then came a sound that I had heard before, and, unfortunately, have heard again thereafter, the metallic clacking of a weapon being loaded. ‘I told you kids to get the hell out of here!!!’ I took them by their dreads and hustled back to the waiting car. The driver didn’t need any instructions to floor it, I’m sure the looks in our eyes were obvious enough. Back to original street corner, no one spoke a word. They followed me to a local deli, and I bought them sandwiches to satisfy my conscience. I ran away from them down a side street and hid in a sports tavern, but couldn’t even finish a beer, before taking one last taxi back to the lot. I’d had enough reality for that day. I hope that I wouldn’t have bought them their drugs, if the situation had transpired as they had planned, but if I analyze my actions, I never resisted being pulled along. I sat in my trailer with a bottle I had stashed away and debated if I was really the man that I had always dreamed of becoming. After a few more drinks, it didn’t matter anymore, and I still don’t know if I’ve answered it. In my best moments, I can say, I hope so.


The five young men were gathered around in a group. They were the best of friends, even though they'd only recently met each other. A year ago, not one of them knew another. They'd all met while travelling around the world, and quickly gotten to know each other. They were young too, which probably helped establish such a strong friendship. The oldest wasn't a day over 20. Steve was the only one to have been with a girl, which the others were constantly asking him about. Some sitting, some kneeling, and John, whose words they all hung by, standing, they all passed the time by smoking and joking with one another, until John got a call. He nodded a few times before turning to his mates. They all looked up at him, and saw that his face was white. They knew what was coming, and after a moment, it did. John uttered the words they'd been dreading.


Every single day, at nine o'clock on the dot, George would go to the local pub and play pool. This wasn't something he looked forward to, nor did he enjoy it very much, and he wasn't even very good at it. This was simply something he would always do, without really thinking about it. There were a great many things in his life like that. Indeed, he lived pretty much his whole life like that. Day in and day out he would go about his day in an unconscious routine, each day being different only in which form of that routine was performed. One might almost think he was some kind of walking vegetable, incapable of conscious thought entirely. This thought, while understandable to have, is wrong. George had quite an active inner mind, one with a keen eye for every detail of the world around him. One with a very vivid imagination, with dreams and goals and great plans for himself. Day and night, it screamed. Beneath the layers of autonomous actions and rote routines, George's inner mind clawed and scraped to escape. Every day, as he arrived at work, or the pub, he tried desperately to scream and cry at passersby, but no words came out. How could they, when his mouth was not his own? George was trapped. He had been for as long as he could remember. Trapped inside his own body, unable to do a thing except follow the same routines, day in and day out. Sometimes it seemed like nothing ever would change, that he'd be stuck repeating the same days over and over without end. But of course, that's not the case. He may not be able to change, but the world around him did. Every so often, something would be different. minor things, like a traffic jam making him take a detour or a new patron at the pub. He relished them, each one a brief reprieve from the routine. But still, the routine continued. All of these were mere distractions. Even when he conversed with others, it wasn't true communication, just rote responses without any thought put into them. And then one day, something different happened. It was an ordinary night when he met Her. The sun had gone down not long ago, and so he was back in that pub. She was a distinctive-looking woman, wearing an old-fashioned suit with a trilby on her head. He was just setting up the pool table when She sat down at the bar and ordered an Aviation Cocktail. He hadn't even heard of the drink before. He relished the opportunity to distract himself by pondering the new patron. He tried to imagine what Her life must have been like, Her dreams and ambitions, the story of Her life. He imagined the story of the first Aviation Cocktail She'd had. He wondered why She came here of all places. He pondered Her clothing, the story behind her choice of suit and hat. Most of all, he wondered what she was thinking at that very moment. Then he met Her eyes, and he Knew. "She's just like me", he thought. And from then on, his life was never the same. Ever since that day, he'd see Her again frequently, all over the place. At the bar, on the street, at his work... He begins to realize that She was always there, in many of those places, but until now She was just one in a crowd of people, unknowing of his plight; just as he must have seemed to Her. He wanted so desperately to talk to her, to communicate with the one person he had encountered, perhaps the one person in the whole world, who would understand his plight. But he couldn't. Except... that's not entirely true, is it? There was, of course, nary a single word spoken between them. It would be impossible, with the lack of control they had over their bodies, for anything of the sort. But there was communication, nevertheless. For the eyes are the window to the soul, and that was all that was needed. Every time their eyes would meet, they would converse. And what conversations they would have. He told Her his dreams, She told him her woes, and every day they would have this little patch of interaction. Perhaps he was only imagining their conversations, perhaps eyes aren't expressive enough to truly deliver such complex thoughts, but he knew from the look in Her eyes she was doing the same. They were both conversing, what did it matter if they couldn't truly understand each other. Does anyone, really? He wouldn't know. At times he thought he might love Her, but perhaps he was only latching onto the one person in the world he could talk to. Maybe She thought the same. In the end, it didn't matter. Because for the moments they met, he was happy. He could get through the doldrums of the daily routine his bod went through, just for those brief glances between them. But of course it wasn't to last. Nothing good ever does, he supposed. He didn't know exactly what it was. Perhaps something came up at work that forced Her to change her schedule. perhaps She was simply staying at home due to illness or somesuch. Perhaps She had moved away entirely. Perhaps She had gotten free somehow, and had quickly forgotten him. Perhaps She was dead. It didn't matter. All that he knew... is that She was gone. Just like that, here one day and gone the next. He had known this would happen eventually, that the little patch of relief he had found would vanish, someday. Things returned to normal, as they always did. All that changed was that he had one more thing to miss. His mind was the only part of him that had change, the only part that could despair at this return to the status quo, and the only part of him incapable of changing anything. Or was it? As it happened before, and as it always happens, it was yet another perfectly normal day when something changed. He was in his home, shaving his meager stubble and getting ready for his meaningless work. Inside, he had only sunken deeper into despair every day since she was gone. And then... well, it was almost nothing. A slight twinge of a muscle, barely enough to twitch his arm in the wrong direction a few scant fractions of an inch. Normally, something that would have no effect at all. But with the razor so close to his skin... it moved just a hair too close, and the barest of cuts was made. His body didn't react, beyond moving the razor back into position and continuing to shave, but inside he was bewildered. What had happened? Had... had he done this? In the following weeks, he pondered on what it was he had done, as he tried over and over to replicate it. Eventually, he began to succeed once again. It was still the barest of twitches, all his efforts had only slightly increased its strength. Far from enough to do anything meaningful, and with how exhausting it was for his mind it was far from enough to even begin taking back his life. But perhaps... perhaps enough to end it. He waited, patiently, for his opportunity to come again. His hair grew slowly, very slowly, and he only shaved every couple of weeks. And there was no guarantee that he would even manage to pull off the very specific mindset he needed for that little twitch. But he was patient. He had nothing but time. Finally, it arrived. The fateful moment. His body began to run the razor over his neck hair, slowly exposing the skin to air. All he had to do was muster up the willpower to induce a slightly larger muscle spasm, and this sorry existence would be over. A trained medic could save him, but all his body knew how to do was perform the same routine over and over, evading the common hazards along the way. It wouldn't have any way of reacting to this. All of it could be over. But did he really want it to be? The question surprised him. Surely he did, right? His life was a miserable existence, with no hope of ever getting better, isn't it? ...Perhaps not. Perhaps he might rediscover Her again, in the far off future. Perhaps he might find someone else who was the same, or even someone who wasn't and yet could understand him somehow. Perhaps he even might one day expand his limited influence on his body, and take over entirely! Or at least enough to do something worthwhile! Perhaps... Perhaps it doesn't matter if any of that comes to pass. What is the alternative, anyways? He could put an end to it all, but what would that achieve? He'd be in the same place as he was before, with no control over his body. No, it would be worse. At least at this moment, he has one single he can control: his mind. He, himself. at least he can still think, imagine, dream. even if communication has left his grasp forever, he still has himself. Why should he throw that all away, just to kill the pain? In the end, he'd rather be awake and suffering, then sleep and know nothing. George puts the razor down.


When I entered the Walmart, except a family from Puerto Rico having several children of different ages, a few people shopping in different sections and Walmart employees moving from one side to the other with little feeling and arranging the shelves, I didn't see anyone else. Undoubtedly, this emptiness was normal since the morning. I went to the flower shelf and began to walk around the bouquets having been decorated with special beauty and on them, a small paper had congratulated Valentine's Day: "Happy Valentine's Day." While I was moving the bouquets here and there and sometimes I sat down or stood up and I even took pictures of some of them with my mobile phone and tried to find the hidden angles of the flowers by zooming in and out on them, the picture I had taken of the fiery red flower attracted me so much that I forgot to see the flowers in front of me and I got lost in watching the picture of the flower. I zoomed in and out on it and carefully looked at its petals, but suddenly a woman's sideview in the upper corner of the photo with long golden hair got my attention. I mean, wasn't I wrong, did I see Sarah? I brought my mobile phone down and looked along where the photo was. it was empty, there was no one. I said to myself, the last time I saw Sarah, I was a little jealous of her long black hair and put my hand on it and said: "Girl, I wished for your hair, there is nothing more than a few dills on my head." I continued with a laugh: "God took my right and put it on your head." She laughed, but not out of happiness, mostly because of this: " you have a happy heart, but I didn't profit from my hair." She didn't say anything, just took my cup and said: "do you like to drink another cup of tea? Its so pleasant in this air." And then he went to the house without waiting for an answer. The sound of birds was ringing in the garden on that cool autumn evening and I was so happy that Sarah had invited me to an evening meal. Six months ago when I got a job as an English teacher for immigrants to America at an adult education center, I met Sarah there. She had come to America from Mexico and had to get marry a retired army man named John to extend her stay. Unlike other Mexicans, Sarah had fair skin and she didn't like to talk about her family in Mexico, I wasn't too curious about it either. But she always remembered her brother who apparently had autism. Any time she remembered him, she would have stared into the distance and it was as if she was going to her native land with her imagination. She said that her brother's only happiness was that he played with her long black hair at night until he fell asleep. When she remembered this memory, a tear flowed from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek, she said: "I don't know how he falls asleep now? and I used to hug him and caress his hair, maybe this was the only thing I could do for him." Although Sarah and her husband John had an age difference of more than twenty years, she always said that she has no complaints and is happy to live here, and slowly putting the slice of the cake in her mouth, she said: "Well, what do I want from life? Almost everything is available for me, house, good food, money; I think these things are enough." I moved to Sarah's empty place in the photo. I looked at the photo again and once again zoomed in the picture on my mobile phone with my two fingers to make sure it was Sarah. Her hair color had changed, but her sideview was the same as Sarah before she was infected with corona, she used to come to the class before all the students and sometimes she would bring Empanada, the Mexican food to share with everyone in her free time and she would happily say: "I cooked it myself." In the picture, she looked a little thinner, but I attributed it to the corona disease. I moved to the middle aisle of the store. I was holding the bouquet of Valentine's Day red flowers in my right hand, and I don't know why I was pressing it unnecessarily.The store had become a little more crowded, perhaps the Valentine's Day had just started and the lovers had woken up. As crossing the middle aisle, I looked both sides and between the shelves، maybe I'll find Sarah. I knew it would make her happy to see me. It was in the middle of the A7 shelf where I saw Sarah. It was herself, the same simplicity, glowing skin and bright look, but with just one difference, her hair, the same hair that I envied and always told about its beautiful black color and brilliance, but now they were all blonde. The golden color of Sarah's hair made her look a little older. I intended to call on her and go to her, but I realized that she was talking to a young man who wasn't definitely a Walmart employee. I couldn't recognize the young man's face, because his back was to me. I didn't want to judge, I didn't put myself in the place of someone who wanted to judge his English class student badly. I pulled myself back and went to the milk sale fridge. I really didn't know that I need milk or not, but I bought a packet of low-fat milk since I used to eat milk filled with oats every day. I just wanted to take my mind somewhere else by shopping, I didn't want to make up stories like vulgar Hollywood movies and put together the triangle of the old husband, the young beloved, and the girl who falls in love. I went to the scanning machines, first I scanned the flower and then the milk and put them in the plastic bag, and when I raised my head, I saw the glowing, black and beautiful eyes staring at me, it was Sarah. She came to me, hugged me warmly and introduced me to the young man with her. I didn't want or couldn't ask about their relationship with each other, but Sarah looked at the rose branches that were out of the Walmart plastic and said: "What beautiful flowers, Caroline." It was the first time that she called me by my own name. I remember that anytime she had a question in the class, she raised her hand slowly with a little shame and said: "teacher, I have a question", but now she calls me by my own name. Maybe after that evening tea and cake appointment, she had become more intimate with me, or the feeling of shame had gone. Without waiting for my reaction, she continued: "But you told me that you lost your husband years ago." I smiled and looked at the young man who was looking at this conversation with a little impatience and said: "Well, sometimes I buy flowers for myself." I said a short goodbye and left the door. The sky was partly cloudy and the sun was shining on my face from the corner of the cloud. I took the red flower out of the plastic bag and pressed it between my fingers. It was half an hour from the Walmart store to the cemetery.


Upon waking, the flood to my senses was impulsively deafening. Opening my eyes shone anything but comfort. I think in that moment I could have seen farther if I looked through my toe. What I could see was oddly familiar, like all those times as a child that I had pressed my palms to my eyes to view that kaleidoscopic spectacle. A practice of which I’m sure is not the healthiest for the eyes. It was as if the colors, dull and dim though they were, were sentient. Swirling and spinning in their own independent paths, but at the same time, in unison; all on the same voyage. I’m sure of it now that this was just my eyes’ last ditch effort to discern something, anything among the madness. Darker than my eyes could see, and yet what I felt could only be accounted as a sense of grey. The bounds of my being were indiscernible. I couldn’t sense where my body ended and the hell began. Upon trying to stand, I felt the overwhelming fear of falling and a disturbing lack of confirmation that I was moving at all. I was stationary with the ever-present awareness of hurtling toward something. It was a comatose consciousness, much like the sensation I can only imagine one suffers from Restless Leg Syndrome, enveloping my soul. My limbs begged to be outstretched. For a long while, I struggled and for a long while after, I didn’t. My thoughts were all that were left with me. My sanity became my purpose. I found myself philosophizing, for one reason or another. Life and Death were where I would eventually and undoubtedly find myself, because neither applied to me any longer. I would ponder that vastness of the Universe I once called home. I found myself wondering if amongst the infinite amount of infinite sets of infinite digits within the value of pi, the Universe had accounted for a way in which I would eventually end up nowhere. I hadn’t come here, I hadn’t been transported, I just simply was here and wasn’t where I had been. I had come here, by no means at all, for no reason at all; an effect without a cause. There was nothing here for me, and it certainly wanted to be noticed.


How do you explain a problem that never existed. A hatred of something that never was. It leaves you tired of everything. How do you answer a question that has not been asked. I do not lie when I say I do not know what is wrong. I do not. My mind screaming, but is silent, my thoughts run, but are always exhausted. My brain immobile but always moving, I speak but not of truth. My lies are persistent and flow like truth, I trick myself that I am okay. I am not, I have not ever been, a mental threat, no will to go on. Help. I am always wrong, because I never knew. I lie like I breath. I never knew the truth. It runs my life, I’ve lost control. I am wrong and that is right, not me or this but what I say is not truth. I do not know what is wrong or what it is to be happy. Help. I want this to stop, but not to end. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. What do I want. I am not okay. So stop asking because I will lie. I will say I am fine. Wrong. I need a cure, an answer. What is wrong with me. Help. My mind screams so loud, but I sit in silence. Unstable. Anti-Social. But I talk. Loner. But I try. Alone. But surrounded. Wrong am I to want happiness. My mind says help but my lips speak lies. I am not okay. I am wrong.