“Just sit and watch,” Alexi said. “Don’t go anywhere, alright?” He said it with a smile, but I knew a command when I heard one. I also knew the way mama would scream if he came home without me. Without waiting for me to answer he trotted off back towards the beaten patch of dirt where his friends waited, the tallest one tossing a ball back and forth between his hands. My palms itched just looking at it. On our way over to the court I’d asked him if I could play this time. I always asked him, and he always had some excuse. I was too clumsy, he said, I’d fumble the ball. They didn’t want new players, he said, because someone would have to give up their position. No one wanted to give up their position. Not to some kid. Not to me. So I had to sit and watch them throw the ball against the glass over and over again. I watched and watched and watched so the day Alexi said yes, I was ready. I would be the best they’d ever seen, I was sure of it. They’d see what I could do and invite me again, call me off the sidelines and -- The ball flew inches from my head as it careened out from Alex’s hand. I flinched as it rebounded off the glass behind me, and went rolling back towards the court. My heart racing from the close call, I got onto my knees and turned to face the surface I had been leaning against. The glass was dirty, stained with layers of smog and graffiti. Paint made of ochre and stolen metal, curling letters in languages I could read, and some that I couldn’t. Even scraping my nails against it yielded nothing but more grey. I pressed my forehead against it, felt the roughness graze my skin. Mama had told me that it wasn’t always that way. There was a time where the outer windows were bright and clear, and the sun would stream in even brighter than the lights on the ceiling. She said she’d never seen the sun, but her grandparents had. Or maybe she had said it was their grandparents. Whenever it was, it was a long time ago. I looked back to the court and saw Alexi focused on a strong defensive move, his arms spread wide. The opposing team let out a scream, and I knew he was distracted, too much so to see me slip away. Pushing to my feet I ran off towards the nearby neighborhood, enticed by the smell of cooking food. My stomach growled, a beast even louder than the constant yelling and shouting in the lean-houses. I ducked into their shadows, hiding from the dimming lights beneath the scarves and shirts made into roofs. The only thing on my mind as I ran through those tight corridors was the sun, whatever that might have looked like. If I ever stole away from the game I went hunting for food, but today the questions hurt even worse than an empty stomach. So I pulled my eyes from the dirt and looked for someone, anyone. I knew she was the one to ask the moment I saw her, tripping over myself as I came to a halt. She had wrinkles so deep I could have lost my fingers in them had I tried. Her eyes were hidden in the folds, but I could feel her watching me nonetheless. “Mem, have you ever seen the sun?” She laughed, and I knew she would humor me with an answer. “Once.” Her voice was raspy, choked by decades of smog. “Just a little. The South window cracked a long time ago. They repaired it when they thought no one was watching. But I was watching. It was the brightest thing I’ve ever seen. Gold. The sun was gold.” Gold was something I knew. And I knew the ceiling lights were not gold. I stepped closer, wanting to hear more, anything more. I was stopped in my tracks by a hand wrapping around my arm, so tight that I felt a flash of pain. The rough grasp yanked me around where I stood, and I found myself staring Alexi right in his eyes. There was no question he was angry. “Just listen for once, Matvei!” He shouted, pitch raising almost as high as mama’s. “Stay put when I tell you.” He dragged me back to the court, but the thought of gold hanging in the air carried me on light feet. Alexi didn’t understand that even small things were grand adventures, even fleeting memories. And he most certainly didn’t dream of something beyond the walls. Of the sun I knew there was. **Adolescence** With every breath daylight slipped away, and growing shadows obscured the words on the page. I reached behind me and flicked the flashlight on, only to turn it off a heartbeat later. I had nearly burnt through my whole month’s battery ration over just a few late nights of reading. Just as I resigned myself to inevitable nightfall, a voice grabbed my attention from just outside. “Matvei, you home?” I could have recognized my brother’s rasp anywhere. And true to form, he didn’t wait for my response before pushing through the entrance of the lean-house. It was that very impatience that got him into trouble, his toes catching on the scraps of metal I had laid out in the waning light. In the next moment he tumbled headfirst towards me, curses filling the air as he crashed to the floor. “The hell is all of this?” He shouted, indignant as he struggled to raise himself from where he had fallen. “Work,” I said, my mood instantly soured by his arrival. Alexi never understood what I was tinkering with, and it was a waste of time trying to explain. It didn’t make sense to him, and likely never would. Just as I expected, he grumbled in what I assumed was confusion as he pulled himself off the floor. “It’s not good for you to be in here studying all the time. You need to go outside, play ball with friends. That’s what I did when I was your age.” “Yeah, and look at you now,” I muttered, creasing a dog ear in the page before snapping the weathered book shut. Even in the low light I could see what had become of him, how the recycling plant had ground him into a husk of his former self. His skin was stained grey from the smog of the city and his forearms were crossed in fresh lacerations. The skin around his eyes was textured with wrinkles, his eyebrows singed from hours spent alongside glass-melting heat. Alexi had never understood that studying was an act of rebellion, more than playing ball ever could be. I knew better than to believe I was invincible, having seen my entire family take slow steps towards an early grave. Alexi was hardly seven years older than me and already had the deathly cough that came with long days working in the plants. My studies were my only shield from a similar fate. “I’m just here to make sure you’re not losing out on everything else,” he prodded. “Like what?” “Well, you’re a man now. Hell, you’re almost as tall as me. I want to make sure you’re taking time to do things outside of studying, or whatever the hell this is,” he said, nudging some of the scraps he had just tripped over. “I don’t know what you mean.” “Well,” he stammered, eyes suddenly focused elsewhere. “You know, if you ever need to talk to me about girls, I guess. It’s normal to have questions.” “No, no!” The words exploded from my mouth before I could stop them. “Just, I don’t want to hear that.” “I don’t mean to say that it’s only girls. If it’s guys you can talk to my friend-” “Alexi, stop!” I cut him off and tried desperately to contain my mounting frustration. “I don’t want to talk about girls, or boys, or playing ball. I need to keep studying so I can get a job, a real job, not one at the plants. A job that will get me out of here. Maybe you too.” “Those books won’t give you a way out of here,” he said. His usually deadened eyes had a spark of something like anger in them. “Becoming a Fixer isn’t some miracle. You might eat a bit better, but you’re not getting off this Floor.” “I’m not just going to be a Fixer,” I growled, grip tightening on the book. “I’m going to be a Mechanic. And I’m going to have the keys to every door in this tower, and I’m going to leave this Floor for good.” “Maybe you’re not as grown as I thought. Hope won’t save you,” he sighed, anger gone. It was replaced with the same defeat that had overtaken his own youthful ambitions, apathy which had snuffed out the flame of dreams. “Hope is naïve. But this isn’t hope, it's hard work. I’m going to get out of here. Just because you gave up on that dream doesn’t mean I have to.” Alexi blinked, and turned back towards the entryway. Those few moments together had cost us the last slivers of daylight, leaving the air thick with his skepticism and disbelief. So out of spite I grabbed my flashlight and let its soft glow illuminate my pages. It was my only way out. **Adulthood** I drained the last of the coffee from my flask and set it down on the floor, its bitterness persistent on my tongue. It had been almost twenty-four hours since I last slept, and most of that time had been spent hunched over the current switchboard and output projections for the Twentieth through Twenty-Fifth Floors. I was on the cusp of a breakthrough, if I could just figure out -- “Hey boss, you busy?” The call pulled me from my concentration, all but shattering the line of thought I had been clinging to. Biting back a sigh I turned around to face the junior Mechanic standing at the threshold to the operating room. “What is it?” “Management says they need you to check on a Plant outage on the Fifth Floor.” Again I had to swallow a sigh, this one out of frustration. As the only Mechanic who had come from the lower ten Floors, if an on-site visit was ever required they would only send me. It was as though they were afraid their status would be tainted by so much as a short visit down. “Sounds like a job for a Fixer,” I responded, hoping to dodge the excursion if I could. “Fixers have been, almost six times in the last two months. Keeps going out. Said it was time for a Mechanic to check it out.” “Alright,” I said, resigned. “Tell them I’ll check on it tomorrow.” The acrid smoke of the recycling plants bit into my lungs the moment I stepped off the elevator and into the crowded quarters of the Fifth Floor. But no matter how much it burned my eyes in those first few seconds, I quickly settled into the memories of a long childhood spent among the sprawling streets of lean-houses with pollutants assaulting my senses. Behind me I pulled a mobile diagnostic lab packed with tools of my trade and let the haphazard structure of the foremost recycling plant on the Floor consume me. Even rooms away I could feel the heat meant to melt glass and metals down to their usable forms, later to be transported out for processing at manufacturing on another Floor. But I grit my teeth to the sounds of a life of labor I had fought so hard to avoid, settled into the Mechanic’s quarters, and got to work. A few minutes into my analysis a hand tugged on my sleeve, and I whipped around to be met with a familiar set of tired blue eyes. “Alexi?” His weathered features were all but unrecognizable, but his voice was the same as ever. “Hey brother. It’s been a while.” “So the outages have been you this whole time?” “Not just me,” he said, a smile lingering on his lips. “There’s a whole lot of us. We’re working to bust out of the lower Floors for good. But we need a man on the inside. I figured if we shut down the plant with enough errors, they’d have to send a Mechanic out. And I was right.” "You’re an idiot to tell me about this so readily,” I answered, my brows furrowing. “My responsibility is to the Tower now. I could report your and all of the other workers at the Plants and quash your movement before it even begins.” I watched the shock cross his face. It was as though the thought of my reluctance had never even crossed his mind. “But you wouldn’t do that, right?” Fear bled through his words. “No one knows what they’re doing really, but I said you would. I said you’d have a way out. Hell, you’re the only one I know who ever has.” Silence hung between us, split only by a rat darting through the tight quarters of the lean-house. It had been so long since I had seen one that I nearly flinched, but I managed to keep my face neutral. Finally I spoke, running my fingers across the keys on my belt as I did. “No, I wouldn’t. You were right to trust me, but this blind faith will get you killed if you don’t learn to keep quiet. There’s danger in opportunity. I know that better than anyone by now.” The tension in the room lifted and he smiled again, a whisper of glee working its way into otherwise deadened eyes. “Then let me tell you what we have planned so far-” Before he finished I pulled a key from its loop, and showed him the engraving in its brass. By his wide eyes I knew he recognized the symbol immediately. “The resistance is so much bigger than you could imagine,” I whispered. “And it’s about more than just the Floors. If you give me some time, we will break out of the Tower altogether.” **Seniorhood** vibrant-shadowsr/InTheShallows 1 point just now There was a rumbling in the basement. It began as a low growl, but slowly grew into a deafening roar. Matvei watched the lights of the Tower flicker as energy surged downwards, wrenching open an egress which had been sealed for generations. The Mechanic felt the trembling of the earth beneath his feet, a grand awakening he had dreamt of for many years. He thought of the building swaying above him, of worried mothers clutching their children, of chaos as the Tower's citizens realized that change was finally upon them. It was euphoric. In his mind’s eye he could imagine the metallic beast pushing its way through layers of dirt, a portal which opened to golden rays of light. He had wandered down that very tunnel many times before, treading silently through the quiet passage coated in dust, all the way to its once insurmountable dead end. He had spent years pressing his hands against the metal of the long-closed door, craning his neck to hear the whisper of freedom’s promise. It was the promise of something beyond a life enclosed in glass, a dream the people in the Tower had never given up on. It had never just been about windows. The dirt-streaked, smog-soaked windows of his childhood had never been the endgame. When he had first felt warmth from behind the glass of the Fortieth Floor, Matvei had discovered joy. It ignited a spark in his heart, a desire for freedom which had since grown into a burning flame. This hunger for liberation was shared with many others, but it was not without loss. As a Mechanic, he had always had the luxury of patience: he never wanted for food, never worried for his safety. It was easy to formulate his plan with precision and steal glimpses of sunlight when he could, just enough to get him by. For Alexi, and for so many others on the lower Floors, waiting had been impossible. As the entirety of the Mechanic’s quarters began to shake from the might of the door wrenching itself open, Matvei thought of how the tower had shook like this once before, almost a decade ago. The insurrection in the Plants had made the steel support beams tremble under its violence, a sensation which had only intensified as boots hit the dirt and gunfire rang out. It was only silent when blood pooled beneath broken bodies, crimson dripping like molten glass. And just like that, Alexi had died in the one place he had vowed to escape With the anger of injustice guiding him, Matvei began to walk forward. He was the first, but the others would come soon. They would pour from the lower Floors and into the darkness, following a faith that had not died with their fathers or their brothers. As the trembling came to a halt, Matvei saw the first golden beams lighting his way. Matvei took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air. Each ribbon of sunlight felt like a kiss, every breeze an embrace. The love of the sky above was unlike any other, a love which would never grow old. He knew he only had a few more years left to appreciate the His heart ached knowing Alexi wasn’t there to watch his grandchildren grow. A small boy of only ten years bore the same name, and carried the familiar blue eyes that Matvei had missed so much. But unlike Alexi this boy had grown up under the bright rays of a golden sun, with grass beneath his feet, and boundless opportunity ahead of him. This Alexi had the opportunity to dream. The sound of children shouting filled the air. Young and old together they kicked the ball back and forth between them, running and sweating and howling in elation. His hips ached even watching them run, the health of a youth left behind. It was the same game Matvei had watched with longing in his childhood, too tied up in books and dreams of escape to waste afternoons on the makeshift courts. But there was time now, even if just to watch again. Just as Matvei was about to close his eyes and let the sun warm his bones, he heard a familiar voice call out to him. “Uncle Matvei!” Alexi ran up to him, waving and clutching the weathered ball beneath his arm. Once he got closer he asked his question, still shouting. “Do you want to be goalie? Just for a little?” Matvei smiled and hauled himself out of the chair with a groan, ignoring the protests of his hips and clicking of his knees. “If you’re sure you want the old man on your team,” he said. But Alexi was already darting back off towards the field, without a single wall in sight.


Maria could tell almost before waking that Santiago was sleeping next to her. From the street came the sound of distant sirens, a noise that had become a comfort to her by familiarity, and she felt the early morning sunlight filter through the curtains onto the bed. With a groan, she rolled onto her back and glanced to her left. There was Santiago, his suddenly long and lanky body sprawled over the white sheets, face dark and expressionless. Maria watched him breathe softly through parted lips. The sun lit up his sweaty head like an angel. “Santi,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder. Her fingernails stood out pale against her sun-spotted skin. Maria was not used to thinking of herself as old- she wasn’t, really, only prematurely aged. “Santi,” she tried again, louder this time. She propped herself up on her elbow. “ Mijito , wake up. I’ll make you coffee and bacon, OK? You don’t want to miss your very first meet.” Santiago curled up like a roly-poly and threw his arms over his head. But at least he was awake. Maria sat up and yawned. She blinked sleepily at the small room: her dresser, piled with jewelry and religious candles; the closet door, broken where Santiago had once batted a baseball indoors; the bathroom, which connected her room with Santiago’s. Besides the kitchen, these were the only rooms in their apartment. She stood with a sigh. “Get up when you’re ready,” she said gently. By the time Maria had finished dressing, Santiago was already sitting bleary-eyed in the kitchen over a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Maria fussed with the little coffee pot and made one-sided small talk. “We will have to wear sunscreen today, Santi,” she said. “It’s going to be eighty-five degrees. It’s very sunny, so maybe you want to wear a rash guard under your jersey.” “None of my friends at school drink coffee,” Santiago muttered. Maria’s heart sank. Lately she had been afraid of Santi showing defiance. He was such a sensitive, gentle boy- a weak boy (but Maria would not acknowledge even to herself that she thought of him as weak)- he didn’t know what it would mean for him if he resisted her affection. He didn’t know, either, what it would mean for her. She loved Santiago, she adored Santiago, she sacrificed for Santiago, she would die for Santiago. No one else could ever do that for him. As for herself- there was nobody, nobody at all except Santi. Maria could not have endured it if he had turned away from her in shame. “Mexicans always drink coffee at breakfast,” she said out loud. “Don’t forget, I’m also making bacon, your favorite.” Maria wondered which of the other eighth graders he meant by his “friends.” Last August, when she had requested that the school move Santiago from the Special Day Class to the ordinary sections, Mr. O’Connell warned her that Santiago would have a difficult time making friends. “Students with autism can really thrive under the care of our specially qualified teachers,” the principal explained, slowly, as if Maria couldn’t speak English, or hadn’t heard these exact words a hundred times. “But he has Asperger’s,” she argued. She was angry at how close she was to crying. Mr. O’Connell gave her a pitying smile. “Asperger’s is on the spectrum, Ms. Martinez.” Maria did not know how to explain to him that she already understood this, or how to articulate just what she meant. But she refused to leave until she spoke to both SDC instructors, the child psychologist, and one of the eighth grade teachers. Whether she convinced them or simply wore them out, Maria succeeded. Santiago turned out to be a B student with particularly good grades in science; Maria was tempted to show up to San Miguel Middle School herself and taunt Mr. O’Connell. “I told you so,” she'd say, in perfect English. But Santiago also came home angry most of the time, complaining that he was being bullied or left out. Every so often, he’d have a full-blown tantrum (oh her baby, her angelito ) and start throwing objects at walls and windows. The worst was the night he destroyed his snow globe, the one she’d bought him at SeaWorld. Santiago loved that snow globe- he could spend hours turning the little dolphin, mounted on the crest of a wave in perpetual leap, surrounded by a flurry of sunset-hued confetti. But he had seized his own greatest treasure with both hands and brought it down, hard, on the corner of the kitchen table. Shattered glass and glycerol flew every direction. Maria watched the shards glisten slow-motion in mid-air, then fall almost gently to the carpet in a puddle of pink glitter. Both she and Santiago cried that night. But Maria scolded herself afterwards. “If I am not strong for him, who will be?” she asked herself. Gradually, the bubbling coffee and sizzle of the pan cheered Santiago a little. He put on his Roadrunners uniform, a red-and-yellow jersey and shorts that were several sizes too big- he said they were more comfortable that way. Maria snuck a glance in the mirror before they left. There was no helping her hair. It had always been rough and curly like wool. Her father used to call her his “ ovejita negrita ,” his “little black sheep.” She’d just pull it back tight and hope most of the hairs would lie flat. She winced a little at her blue Albertsons polo, size large, envisioning the other parents scoffing at her. But Maria was annoyed with her own embarrassment; she decided to wear the shirt just to punish herself for such a thought. Almost as soon as they got outside, while they were still waiting for the #6 bus, Maria began to sweat copiously under the thick knit cotton. She resorted to fanning herself with the track schedule. After the bus, the walk from their stop to the track was another quarter mile. Maria puffed for breath, languishing in the California heat, as she struggled to keep up with Santi. He wouldn’t hold her hand to cross the street. This surprised Maria, and made her uneasy; but she supposed it would look silly, her leading along a boy five inches taller than herself. Maria had never been to Buffman Charter. The school was a private junior-senior high in a slightly nicer part of the city. A tall metal fence painted blue surrounded the outdoor facilities. The buildings looked modern, mostly glass, and the lawns were so green she guessed they must feed them bottled water. The track itself was completely disorienting. Maria felt overwhelmed by crowds of middle-aged men in baseball caps and their middle-grade kids, most of whom like Santi towered over her. She thought she must look very foolish, floundering about with her face brilliantly red and sweat stains appearing at her armpits. “Stay close to me, Santi,” she gasped, “stay close, you will get lost.” Maria impulsively clutched at his arm. Santi pulled away from her. “ Mami , I know where I’m going,” he said. “Look, there’s the Roadrunners tent”- Santi was pointing somewhere Maria couldn’t see- “and over there’s the long jump pit”- in the opposite direction. “That’s my first event.” “Are- are you sure?” she said, stunned by his confidence. “ Mijo , I don’t-” But now it was Santiago’s turn to lead her by the hand through the maze of much more competent parents, all who looked at her with disdain (so Maria imagined). Suddenly they were standing with the San Miguel Middle School track and field team under a red-and-yellow tent, set up against the back of the outdoor bathrooms. Santiago went to check in with Coach Rasmussen as Maria, almost frightened, looked back and forth quickly between the other families and the schedule. She couldn’t make anything of it. Times, events, and names swam on the pages- there were multiple, stapled together- until she managed to find "Santiago Martinez" written in several places, clinging to them in desperation. No one tried to speak to her. Good , she thought, maybe they think I understand . Maria waited for Santi. She grew nervous as his teammates began to disperse in all directions, but still she waited for him to come back and lead her to their next mysterious destination. She needed to make sure he had water and put on extra sunscreen, and then she would cheer him on as loudly and expertly as any of the other parents. The idea comforted her. But why wouldn’t he hurry? Maria stood for several more agonizing minutes, tortured by the sun. Only when other Roadrunners started coming back from their events, crimson and exhausted, did she realize that Santi must have gone off without her. Maria tried not to panic. She asked the nearest sweaty kid, “Please, do you know where is Santiago? Santiago Martinez, can you help me find him?” The kid, a blond boy taller even than Santi, graciously agreed and asked to see the schedule. “His first event is long jump, then he’ll run hurdles, the 100 and 200 meters, and then the relay at the very end,” the boy said, pointing to each instance of Santi’s name. Maria didn’t know what all this meant. “Boys’ long jump is still going. I can take you there so you can see if he’s gone yet.” “Yes,” Maria said. “Yes... thank you...” They arrived at the sand pit just as Santi landed his third jump. “Sixteen feet, two and a half inches.” Several onlookers clapped and nodded, impressed. Another Roadrunner offered Santi a high five, who accepted mechanically. He kept swiveling his head around, looking for something; when he caught sight of Maria he came running to her. Maria was closer to being angry with him than she had ever been in his life. “I waited and waited for you,” she said before Santiago could say anything. It came out sounding childish, petulant. The blond boy took his leave delicately without waiting for thanks. “I did not know where you were.” “Sorry,” Santi said, a little surprised. “I told you I was doing long jump. Did you see me?” “I did not see you at all.” Maria’s voice shook. “Please, remember me next time.” Maria followed Santiago to the stands overlooking the crowd. It was relatively pleasant here (at least she could see everything), but the metal seats radiated white-hot, preventing her from sitting down. Their shadows shortened and shortened until they were directly underneath them. “You can do this?” she asked, gesturing generally at the girls’ hurdles. “That looks very hard.” It looked impossible- Maria’s legs could never have moved that way, like the two hands of a clock. “Uh-huh,” Santiago said, distracted. “I need to go down in a second.” “I am going to stick next to you,” Maria insisted. She took the little bottle of sunscreen from her purse and poured some into her fat palm. “You need more of this, you are sweating so much.” Santiago brushed her hand away from his face. “You can’t come onto the track,” he said. “I want you to see me run. Wait in the bleachers.” “But-” Santi was getting upset. “You treat me like I’m a baby just like everyone else, but I’m not. I can run track by myself.” “Santi”- Maria would not cry- “please let me follow you”- how did he know everything?- “I don’t know where to go”- and wasn’t he her baby, after all? “These are the results for the boys’ A-Team Long Jump event,” a voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “In sixth place, Logan Abrantes from Pleasant Valley. In fifth place...” Santi straightened up and listened hard. Maria cupped her hand behind her ear to catch the sound. “...David McKenzie from Buffman Charter. In fourth place, John Suarez from Pleasant Valley.” Santiago gripped the railing. “In third place, Santiago Martinez from San Miguel. In second place...” “Third place!” Santi whipped his head around, shocked. “ Mami , that means I got a medal!” “You won a medal?” Maria repeated stupidly. “A bronze medal, in long jump, that’s third place.” Santi flapped his hands in excitement. “I’ll pick it up at the end, but I have to go, Mami , stand with Coach Rasmussen so you don’t get lost.” He pointed at the grass in the middle of the track where the coach was standing. It looked like several parents were near him, keeping a sharp eye on the hurdlers. “OK, Santi, OK,” Maria sighed, “I’ll watch you the whole time.” Coach Rasmussen waved as she came over. His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but his smile was kind. “Hi there, Ms. Martinez,” he said. “I heard Santiago got a medal for long jump.” “Yes,” she answered with dignity, “third place.” “So, Ms. Martinez, what's gonna happen is that all the hurdles will go, then all the meter dashes, and relays last,” the coach explained to her. Maria was grateful that she didn't have to ask. “We'll be here for a long time. Several more hours, at least.” Coach Rasmussen was true to his word. Maria gave up trying to understand what was happening and fell back on imitating the other San Miguel parents. She learned to cheer at any suggestion of red-and-yellow. Only after several rounds of strangers’ hurdles did she see Santiago’s heat. He didn’t do very well, losing to twin boys wearing green-and-black. She mislaid her schedule, forgot which events Santi was in, and became steadily more miserable. Santi won both his heats in the meter dashes- even Maria could tell that much- but they were over so quickly and sandwiched between so many others that she lost him almost immediately. When Coach Rasmussen wasn't running alongside the track, screaming at the sprinters, he would courteously jog over and tell her which event was next. But it didn’t matter. She didn't even notice if Santiago’s name came over the loudspeaker. Maria did not know and hardly cared where he was anymore. That was the real agony. After fifteen years of dedicating herself solely to protecting Santi, Maria had been defeated by a silly middle school track meet. She had thought she was strong because she could endure anything, tough and silent, the way a poor mother had to endure. Endure anything- what a joke. She couldn't endure four hours in the sun. Maria accepted her suffering in humiliation and prepared to wait it out. “Hey Ms. Martinez, you'll wanna watch this.” Coach Rasmussen nodded his head toward the track. “Last event. I think Santiago’s gonna do great.” “This is the last one?” Maria roused herself. “I need to see. I want to-” Then Maria saw Santiago standing nervously with three other Roadrunners. All four boys kept shifting around and wandering in circles, arms folded or hands on hips, thrusting their shoulders back and gazing upward. Santiago’s demeanor perfectly matched the others. He looked like an ordinary teenager, Maria realized with a slight pain. “Boys’ A-Team Medley Relay, to your places!” Maria watched Santi and his teammates jog to separate corners of the track. “The first two boys each run 100, then 200, then Santiago’s gonna run a 400 around the whole track.” Coach Rasmussen traced their paths on his hand like a map. “He's our anchor, so just watch near the finish line for him.” Maria inched closer to the track. She watched the first runner from San Miguel, a curly-headed black boy, kneel and rest his hands on the polyurethane. He closed his eyes and let out a deep, controlled breath. Someone blew the whistle. The first boy was gone before Maria had time to process. She barely caught sight of him as he passed the baton to the blond boy, the one who had helped her earlier. He took off beyond her field of vision- she was afraid to move from her spot and miss Santi- but she kept cheering, straining to see the third runner as he came around the curve. Two other teams were ahead of him. “ Come on! ” Coach Rasmussen shouted, his face purple. The runner, who had long orange hair that clashed with his uniform, stretched the baton toward Santiago, who was already picking up speed. As soon as his cupped fingers made contact with the aluminum Santi’s feet seemed to lift from the ground. Maria saw a familiar glint in his eye- anger. She screamed sounds and not words as his legs moved like coupling rods past the boy ahead of him. Coach Rasmussen started running alongside him with clipboard in hand, waving his arms frantically above his head. Santi gritted his teeth and bowed hard into an italic stance. He was far enough from Maria now that she couldn’t make his features out exactly, but she saw him closing the gap on the boy in first, one of the green-and-black hurdlers. Santiago tore around the last corner, his long skinny fingers balled into fists. Now the whole crowd was in uproar. Maria forgot her own misery in the rush of colors and noise and adrenaline. Santi was a machine, his legs hydraulic pumps. They were tied- Santi edged in front- then the other boy- Maria was nearly hysterical- at the last moment, Santi stretched his neck out, eyes bulging, and lunged over the finish line half a step ahead. Santiago was laughing, actually laughing. Maria, dumbfounded, watched his coach and teammates surrounding him, leaping with supernatural energy, pouring their waters out on his head. The blond boy slapped Santi on the back. Santi grinned almost bashfully with surprise, then turned and gave Maria a beautiful, radiant, gentle smile, the one she knew so well. Maria’s knees felt very weak. She saw herself and Santi as if from above: a fat, frail old woman and a healthy, victorious young man. “Who will be strong if I am not strong? Santi will be strong. He is strong. How did I not know?” Maria wept, but she was not ashamed.


Not many people can say that they met someone they came to love while having their car repaired. Well, I can. It was a minor issue but I was upset as the car was new. New as in less than two months in my garage. The service writer at the dealer was surprised I had arrived so early in the day. I was more than put out and wanted the matter taken care of before I went to work. It was so early that the service department wasn't actually open yet for business. But the mechanic who fixed the sort of problem I presented happened to be at work and ready. I was allowed to drive my car into the service area - instead of waiting in a cold little room. The porter who usually drove cars to the mechanics wasn't clocked in yet. The mechanic was a very pleasant looking man. Perhaps younger than I but I cared only that he could and would take care of my car. He chatted nearly the entire time he was working. Perhaps it was a nervous reaction as the customer usually isn't with their car while he's working on it. Regardless, it was a short time later that he declared the car ready to go. Warranty covered the situation so I could just drive out and go on to work. Which I did. This was a Friday morning. Monday morning, as usual, was a bit hectic at work. I'm a one-girl office for a small ad agency. First thing every Monday is to check the answering machine. I had just recorded the last call when the phone rang. The voice asked for me and sounded familiar but I couldn't place a name or face. Guess I hesitated too long and he said, “I'm sorry. Guess I didn't make as good an impression as I thought. This is George from the dealership. I worked on your car Friday.” Click, click. I knew who it was. Now to not let him know I didn't. “Hi, George. Guess I'm just trying to figure out how you had my office number.” “It's on the work order.” “Of course. What can I do for you?” I was totally intrigued by this time. Guess I made more of an impression on him then I thought I had. 'It's short notice and I expect you're already booked. But would you have dinner with me tonight? I have to be at the courthouse at 7 but it'll take only a few minutes and then we could go to dinner. Maybe the Pepper Mill?” The Pepper Mill is a white linen establishment. Kind of pricey. Elegant. “Courthouse?” “Have to check in at night court but it won't take long. Any chance you can have dinner with me? Forgive the short notice but I figured if I'd asked Friday you'd shine me on.” “Well - “ He is a nice looking guy. Seemed polite enough. And the Pepper Mill? Did I want to chance it? Night court? “I usually don't go out on Mondays. It's a catch-breath night after the weekend.” Good lord, now I sound like I play all weekend. “Well, I figured you would say no but decided to chance it. Anything I can say to change your mind?” “George, I've just met you. Where would I meet you?” “I'll pick you up at 6:30 at your house. If someone goes out with me, it's my job to pick up and take home.” “You don't know where I live.” “Of course I do. It's on the work order.” “6:30?” “Yeah.” “Okay. I'll be ready.” “Thanks. See you then. I have to get back to work.” I hung up. What in hell have I just committed to? I wrote myself a post-it note and put it on my purse. I don't do things this way. I know absolutely nothing about this guy - other than he's a mechanic at the dealership where I bought my car. The day flew by. Fortunately, I had put that note on my purse and at 5, instead of staying over half an hour as I do often, I locked the front door, told the guys they needed to answer the phone, and went home. George was prompt. He parked in a city lot and we went into Night Court. There were a lot of people there. He had gotten a speeding ticket and wanted to see if he could beat it - or at least have it cut down. 125 on the New York Extension. That's a fairly new, four lane road that connects Altadena to Sierra Madre. It's not very long but evidently long enough to drive really fast. The judge decided that the citing officer may have pulled him over too soon and some of the speed resulted from the officer trying to catch up to him. He cut the ticket to 65 in a 45 zone. That reduced the fine by over $200 - George says. He paid the fine in cash; got a receipt and asked, “Ready for dinner?” The Pepper Mill was a bit busy for a Monday. We were seated in a small dining room off the main dining area. That was fine with us - a group of rowdies from CalTech were pretty loud in the main area. We ordered drinks...surprising, both the same. And George started talking. In half an hour I had pretty well heard his entire life story. The waiter had brought menus with our second martini. We ordered the same entre. And during dinner, George talked some more. It was as if a fountain of words had erupted and he had to get them all out in one sitting. Thing is - it didn't seem as though he was trying to make an impression. Though I think he was trying to convince me he was an all right guy. And I believed him. It was after eleven when I finally got home. George walked me to my door, took my key and opened the door. He shook my hand and asked if he could see me again. I nodded. “Give me a call sometime.” I've gone on some wild first dates - usually with someone I've known, or known about, for a while. But this one was really different. I am truly impressed. If anyone had ever said I'm meet the perfect man while having my car repaired, I would have laughed at them. I'm not laughing now. His appearance before the judge about his speeding ticket was flawless. He stood at ease with his hands behind his back as he related his side of the story. “Yes, Your Honor; no, Your Honor; and, I understand there are standards for clocking a speeding vehicle. I believe these standards were not met.“ The Judge and his bailiff poured over a map of the area for several minutes before agreeing. He wasn't arrogant, belligerent or smart ass. Just cool, calm and collected. Thursday morning George called me at work. “I hope that I'm not too late to ask for your time on Saturday evening.” “After your last call, how can you say that? You gave me all of eight hours notice.” “Yeah, I know. I apologize. But I so wanted to get to know you that I took advantage of Night Court to do it. I apologize. Truly. I would very much enjoy seeing you again...Saturday if I'm not too late in asking.” I didn't want to sound like I never have a date and jump at the chance. If I turn him down will he call again or ask for next week? I must have hesitated too long. “You can't make it. That's okay. Maybe another time.” I could tell he was ready to hand up. “No, no. I was trying to decide how to change plans. I would love to see you Saturday night.” I could hear the deep sigh. “When I met you, I knew I had to see you again. I've never been so impressed on a first date before. You were everything I imagined. Poised even in rowdy Night Court. You drink gin martinis. Not many woman drink gin - martinis or otherwise. You eat your steak medium. You chose strawberry over chocolate. You're a good listener and you laugh honestly. It irks me when a woman laughs and makes idiotic cutesy sounds instead of an open honest laugh.” Does one say thank you to such an expansive compliment? Well, I did. “Thank you, George. No one has ever complimented my laugh before.” “It's beautiful. I love it. Now about Saturday; do you dance?”


*CONTENT WARNING: Horror, gore, and references to suicide.* *** “I would have to say...” Chad mused. “In the anthropology section of the Baillieu Library.” A collective groan came from the entire group. “You’re so gross,” Cindy said in disgust. Chad held up his hands in defense. “Hey, you asked.” “Is that the section with all the dinosaur books?” Seth queried. “No, dumbass,” Bethany replied. “You’re thinking of paleontology. Anthropology is the study of humanity.” “Well,” Chad said, raising an eyebrow. “She certainly got a good look at my Homo erectus that day, you know what I’m sayin’?” “Nice,” Seth said, slapping Chad a crisp high five. “Oh my God,” Cindy muttered passing the bottle to Sam, who was sitting next to her. Sam smiled. Despite her initial reservations about coming to the gathering, she had to admit she was having fun. She knew it was dumb, but it felt good to shake away the stress of finals and just have some dumb fun. It felt like they were back in high school again, palling around like they used to. It seemed like ages since the last time they had gotten together like this. Sam placed the bottle in the center of the circle and gave it a spin. As it spun, the glass rang softly against the wooden floorboards of the house. The bottle slowly came to a stop. Everyone looked to the person it was pointing to - Lisa, the host of this little gathering. Lisa leant back, resting both palms on the floor. She looked at Sam and winked. “Truth.” Sam thought for a moment, then opted for her favorite type of question. “Marry, kill, fuck,” she asked Lisa. “Chad, Seth... and Cindy.” “Hey!” Cindy exclaimed, giving Sam a playful shove, even though Sam could tell that she was happy to be included in the list. “Yeah, now we’re talking,” Chad said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I wouldn’t get so excited,” Lisa told him. She turned back to Sam. “Obviously, I’d kill Chad.” Chad gave her the finger. She ignored him and continued. “I’d marry Seth for the endless supply of weed. And I would fuck Cindy’s brains out.” She said the last sentence slowly and purposefully, making full eye contact with Cindy, who was sitting directly across from her. The small circle of friends was rendered speechless by her intensity. Even Seth, who usually had a comment for everything, sat with his jaw slightly agape, his blunt hanging loosely from his lips. Cindy and Lisa stared across the room at each other. Finally, Cindy laughed, breaking the silence. She threw a small cushion at Lisa. “You wish, dyke.” Lisa laughed. “Takes one to know one.” Sam passed the bottle to Seth. “You’re up.” Seth took a deep drag from his blunt, remove it from his lips, then spun the bottle. When it came to a stop, it was pointing at Bethany. Everyone looked at her in anticipation. “Truth,” she said. Chad groaned. Bethany stuck her tongue out at him. It was a running joke in the group that Bethany, due to her prim and proper upbringing, had the most boring truths. Also, her cautious nature never allowed her to ever pick dare. Seth exhaled noisy through his teeth, pondering. Then he asked, “What’s your biggest regret?” Chad shoved him from the side. “Dude, lame.” “Hey, sue me for asking real questions.” “My biggest regret,” Bethany said, “is not killing my dad when I had the chance.” For the second time that night, the group fell silent. This time, there was nothing playful about the silence. It was pure awkwardness and shock. Even Bethany sat there stunned, as if she too was surprised by the words that had just come out of her mouth. They had all heard the rumors in high school, about what had happened to Bethany’s twin sister. About why she had killed herself. About what their father had done to her as a child. Yet no allegations had been made, let alone proven. Certainly, Bethany had never spoken up about it. When the man had passed from cancer, they had all attended his funeral to support their friend. Bethany and her mother had mourned as any family would after losing their patriarch. A photo of him had been framed and placed in the small shrine at their house, next to the photo of Bethany’s sister. Presently, Bethany’s mouth began to open and close. “Uh, well, that’s--" Her confused utterings punctuated the uncomfortable silence. Chad grabbed the bottle from Seth, glaring at him for destroying the mood. He spun the bottle with gusto, probably in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the group seemed to relax. The bottle came to a stop, pointing at Cindy. Cindy stared at it for a moment before saying quietly, “Dare.” “Yes!” Chad exclaimed and scrambled to his feet, causing Bethany to jump a little. She still seemed a little shell-shocked. Chad stabbed a finger down at Cindy. “I dare you,” he said, with a twisted smile on his face. He moved his finger over to Lisa. “To kiss her. Slowly. With tongue.” “Ah fuck off, man,” Cindy complained. Seth pointed both index fingers at Chad in approval. “Yes!” Lisa shook her head and took a swig of her beer. “Come on. Let’s get it over with.” She got up on her knees and began to shuffle towards Cindy. “So keen! I love it!” Chad was practically beside himself. Cindy stared as Lisa brought her face closer to hers. Perhaps subconsciously, she ran a tongue over her bottom lip. Lisa placed her fingers under Cindy’s chin, gently tilting her face up towards hers and slightly to the side. They both closed their eyes as their lips touched. However, Cindy’s eyes snapped open as Lisa closed her mouth around hers. Sam could see the tell-tale movement of tongues sliding against each other within the two joined mouths. Chad’s jaw dropped as he stood frozen on the spot. Cindy’s eyelids fluttered then closed again. She seemed to go limp, as if the strength was being drained from her. Lisa pulled her lips back from Cindy’s. A string of spittle stretched between their lower lips as she withdrew, eventually breaking as Cindy exhaled slowly. As she crawled backwards towards her spot in the circle, Lisa opened her eyes and smiled at Cindy, who could only stare back. Chad sat back down heavily. Seth said it for everyone. “That was intense.” Sam was now having significantly less fun compared to just a few minutes ago. Something was off. First, there was Bethany’s confession, to which the girl still seemed to be recovering from. Then, there was this kiss, the forcefulness of which was way out of character for the Lisa that she knew. Sure, it had been a while since they had seen each other, but Lisa had never come close to acting like this in the past. And never before had their games of Truth or Dare been this intense. This scary. Lisa took the bottle from Chad. “My turn,” she said cheerfully. She spun the bottle. The sound rang out in the silence. The bottle stopped. It was pointing at Chad. Chad emptied the last of the beer from the bottle he was holding. “Fuck it,” he said. “Dare.” Lisa regarded everyone in the group slowly, moving in a counter-clockwise direction. Chad sat, fiddling with the beer he had just finished, probably wishing he had more. Seth sat next to him, lighting up yet another doobie. Sam felt Lisa’s eyes on her and suddenly felt cold all over. She had an almost overwhelming urge to leave the house. Then, Lisa’s gaze moved on to Cindy, who blushed and looked away. Finally to Bethany, who was looking down at the floor, clearly not having fun either. Lisa looked back at Chad. “I dare you,” she said. “To kill Seth.” The next part happened very fast. Chad grabbed the neck of the beer bottle he was holding and brought the bottle against the floor, hard enough for the bottom to shatter. Seth had just enough time to say, “Oh.” Then Chad was stabbing him in the neck with the top half of the broken bottle. A visceral jet of blood sprayed out across the room showering Bethany in crimson, as Chad stabbed him again and again and again. Then it was over. Chad rose from Seth’s gurgling body, covered in blood. The top half of the bottle was still sticking out of his neck, or rather the mess that used to be his neck. Chad stepped backwards, his feet crunching against broken glass and leaving bloody footprints on the floor. Sam wasn’t sure who started screaming first, but suddenly everyone was screaming. Bethany was wiping at her face and holding her hands out, as if to show them the blood. Cindy and Chad were stuck in a loop, with Cindy screaming, “What have you done?!” and Chad screaming back, “I don’t know!” Sam stopped screaming abruptly when she caught sight of Lisa. Noticing that Sam had stopped screaming, the others stopped and followed her gaze. Lisa was sitting on the ground, leaning back on her hands. She was watching all of them with a look of absolute glee on her face. The right side of her face was lightly spackled with Seth’s blood. But it was her eyes that were the true horror. They had turned entirely black. No white. No iris. Just pure black. Lisa picked up the bottle from the center of the circle and held it out to Bethany. “Your turn,” she said. Bethany stared down blankly at the bottle. In a daze, she began to reach for it. “No.” Cindy whispered softly from her place in the circle. “No, no, no.” She scooted back on her butt, staring horrified at Lisa, seemingly trying to get to her feet but failing. Moving in this bizarre manner, she made her way to the exit of the room. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lisa called after her. The others watched in horror as Cindy finally managed to scramble to her feet. She stepped through the doorway of the room, into the adjacent hallway. As soon as her foot hit the floor outside of the room, her head exploded outward in a fountain of gore. Bethany began screaming again as Cindy’s lifeless and headless corpse collapsed to the floor just outside of the room. “What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?” Chad was gripping the sides of his head, as if he were trying to keep his own head from exploding. “I think we should keep playing,” Lisa said, making eye contact with Bethany. “Don’t you?” Bethany stopped screaming. She looked across at the bottle Lisa was holding out to her. With a shaking hand, she accepted the bottle and placed it in the center of the circle. “What the fuck are you doing?” Chad exclaimed incredulously. Lisa’s head snapped in his direction and her smile faded suddenly. “Sit down,” she said. It was not Lisa’s voice. Chad did as he was told. Cindy spun the bottle. All four remaining players watched it spin. It came to a stop. Lisa’s smile returned. “Truth,” she said. Bethany’s lip quivered. Tears slid down her face, making trails in the wet blood that was caked on her skin. In a very quiet voice, she whispered, “Why are you doing this?” Lisa laughed out loud. “Really?” she asked. “That’s your question? Not who am I, what am I, or how am I doing this?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Okay, whatever. Why am I doing this? I simply want to incentivize you.” She regarded the three people in front of her and a look of disdain crossed her face. “To tell the fucken truth. For once in your miserable lives.” The room sat silent. Then Sam leaned forward and gripped the bottle with her hand. She glared at Lisa with sudden and angry determination and spun the bottle. As the bottle spun, she said, “Whoever it lands on, say ‘Dare’.” Lisa smiled and her tongue quickly swiped across her lower lip. Sam could’ve sworn the tongue was forked. The bottle landed on Chad. “Dare,” he said, uncertain. “Kill her,” Sam muttered, pointing a finger at Lisa. “Oh man,” Chad moaned and even as the words were coming out of his mouth, his body was turning involuntarily to face Lisa, who was sitting next to him. He raised his hands to her throat. “Woohoo!” Lisa exclaimed as Chad’s hands clamped around her neck, his big thumbs digging deeply into the soft tissue. They fell to the floor together, Chad straddling Lisa’s body. Her legs kicked and she gripped his wrists as her windpipe was crushed. Her eyes - her black eyes - bulged and she turned her head so that she was looking at Sam. Her smile widened to impossible lengths. Then she lay still. Chad slowly released his grip and stepped backwards. He looked down at Lisa’s body, then at his shaking hands. “What did you make me do?” he whispered. “It was the only way,” Sam said. Chad looked at Sam incredulously. He struggled to find the words before finally settling on, “You bitch.” “Indeed.” Lisa sat up. Everyone in the room screamed. Lisa massaged her throat and looked at Sam. “You fucken bitch.” “But, but--" Chad spluttered. “I killed you!” “You killed Lisa .” The thing wearing Lisa’s skin - not-Lisa - raised her arms, palms to the ceiling. “I’m still here. Let’s keep playing.” She winked at Bethany, who burst into fresh tears. Chad tried to back away but ended up tripping over Seth’s still bleeding body. He fell back and landed heavily on his ass. “Get it together guys!” not-Lisa exclaimed, exasperated. “You’re not asking the right questions. I don’t think you realize what kind of opportunity you have here. The people in this room cannot lie. Isn’t there anything you want to get to the bottom of?” She looked at Bethany meaningfully. “Perhaps something about your sister?” She turned her gaze to Chad. “About the truth behind her death?” Chad looked from not-Lisa, to the bottle on the floor. Then he looked at Sam. She made eye contact with him and shook her head slowly. Chad ignored her. He leaned forward and gave the bottle a spin. It came to a stop, pointing at Sam. Everyone in the room turned to her. She couldn’t say dare for fear of what Chad might make her do. So, she said, “Truth.” Chad looked her in the eye and asked his question. “Is what you told me about Bethany’s sister true?” Bethany stared from Sam, to Chad, then back to Sam. Not-Lisa clapped her hands together in delight. Sam bit down on her lip as hard as she could. A tear ran down her face. Without wanting to, she shook her head and whispered, "No." “My turn!” Not-Lisa grabbed the bottle and gave it a spin. Once again, it stopped on Sam. Sam couldn’t take it anymore. She didn’t care what the ghoul made her do. She couldn’t take the judgmental eyes from Chad or Bethany any longer. So, she said, “Dare.” Not-Lisa’s black eyes glinted with evil, her mouth twisted into a deranged smile. “I dare you,” she hissed. “To tell everybody here the truth about Bethany’s sister’s death.” Sam’s heart sank. Her mouth opened involuntarily, and she wept as words began to tumble from it. “Bethany’s sister came to me a month before she died. She told me she loved me. That she’d always loved me. She kissed me. I didn’t know how to react. I was so young. So, I told Chad that she was messed up. That her dad probably did stuff to her as a kid. Chad spread that rumor. That’s part of the reason why she killed herself.” She looked at Bethany, pleading for her forgiveness. “I’m so sorry.” “You fucken bitch,” Chad whispered in disbelief. “That’s not all though,” not-Lisa said. All the humor had drained from her voice. Sam swallowed thickly. “The main reason she killed herself,” she continued. “Was because I loved her too. And she knew that. But I couldn’t face that truth. No, that’s not true. I could have. I just didn’t want to.” Bethany stared coldly at Sam. She had stopped crying. She held out her hand to not-Lisa. “Give me the bottle.” Not-Lisa passed the bottle to Bethany, who never broke eye contact with Sam. “You gotta believe me,” Chad pleaded with her. “I would never have said anything if I knew--" It was too late. The bottle was spinning. Bethany ignored Chad’s pleas and waited for it to stop. It stopped. It was pointing at the ghoul wearing Lisa’s skin. The ghoul looked at Bethany. It grinned wide enough to reveal a set of yellow, rotted fangs. The teeth of a sick animal. “Dare,” it said. Bethany looked at Sam, who was weeping with her eyes closed. She looked at Chad, who was shaking his head and continuing to plead with her. She turned to address the ghoul, who was eagerly anticipating her request. She spoke slowly and deliberately. “I dare you to...” *** The mutilated corpses of Cindy Powell, Chad Musket, Seth Villanueva, and Samantha Green were discovered when the residents of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Woods, returned home from their vacation. Their daughter, Lisa Woods, is missing along with another girl from her friendship circle, Bethany Rogers. Police are offering a reward for any information pertaining to the whereabouts of these two girls.


In 1845, a journeyman by the name of Henry David Thoreau set out to tame nature. In his head were plans for a steam-powered chainsaw. His goal? To prove that one man alone could level an entire forest and remake it in his own image. Within two year's time, Thoreau had toppled every tree for miles around and built a boardwalk empire that spanned Walden Pond, a place of power where cheerful clouds of smoke replaced woodland canopy and sounds of industry blighted out birdsong. So began the Age of Mechanicism as America freed itself from romantic notions. How could it not? Thoreau, poet of machines and architect of Civil Obedience, had shown that man and machine will always triumph over God and nature. Nearly two centuries later, I set out to prove him wrong. Armed with the belief that there must be more than a mechanical dimension to this American life, I traveled up the Burlybrook coast to Weatherton's bluff and a patch of property where my great-uncle Abe had once lived and died. I found Abe's humble house still standing above the landfill. It was no Walden Pond, but there was a grove of pine trees behind the house, a veritable woodland in this day and age. I would've lingered longer and sketched out my plans among the pines, but acid rain clouds were gathering over the bluff. So, I headed for my great-uncle's abode, a modest 3-room flat from the pre-smart home era, and turned a long-forgotten key in the door's rusted lock. Sheltering here would be but temporary as I intended to build a dome of sandbags filled with earth beneath the trees where I would live as I reconnected with the land. And I would do it all by hand. No machines would corrupt my vision. Abe's house was empty of them, save for a seashell pink microwave hardwired to the wall. Its buttons were all in Korean or Japanese because my great-uncle Abe, a contrarian to the bone, never bought American, and the cartoon food characters cavorting across the microwave's gleaming expanse didn't exactly add clarity. I let that pink pearl of a microwave remain, an appliance lost in translation, my last weak link to the outside world of man and machine as I advanced toward God and nature. Perhaps I would use the microwave from time to time before I mastered the art of fire making, but it wasn't as I had an unfair advantage. The same cannot be said for Thoreau. Popular myth would have us believe he did it all on his own and forget his mother, but in addition to doing her son's laundry, Mrs. Thoreau was instrumental in designing the donkey engines that dragged the fallen logs to Walden Pond. And one cannot forget that the man enjoyed the patronage of none other than Lord Mech himself: Ralph Waldo Emerson. I had no doting mother, no Lord Emerson. Yes, I was but a man with a microwave. The clouds outside boiled over. A strobe of lightning illuminated the landfill below, playing across a field of discarded dreams, broken machines that had outlived their usefulness. I imagined them draped in vines of my design, vines that would give forth grapes then wine to win others over to my cause. All of it would become my anti-Walden, the birthplace for some natural invention of the human spirit that Thoreau had thwarted long ago. Then, I heard it. Not thunder tailing lightning, but a susurration. If such a thing as love at first sound exists, then I was hearing such a sound. It sent warm shivers down my spine and suffused my soul. Perhaps it was the ravaged land speaking to me of our fertile future. The deluge of acid rain petered out, but the susurration sustained itself. I searched the house for the source, hoping that the creaking of my great-uncle's floorboards wouldn't break my aural reverie. I traced the welcoming sigh back to the wall of the smallest room in the house, the wall that contained the pink microwave. The buttons now gave off a warm glow as pixels played across the microwave's screen. I saw an abstract face with long lashes and the subtle movement of parted lips as they whispered endless promises. As I stood before my great-uncle's microwave, the simulacrum of eyes widened. The machine emitted a delighted coo, and I took a big step back. As I did so, the pixelated face vanished. Only one button now remained aglow. Next to the button was a cartoon of a square hot dog or cucumber that was smiling aggressively. Despite my trepidation, I stepped forward and pressed it. The microwave went dead, then nothing else. Shaking my head, I walked out to the largest room with a window and inspected the sky. The sullen clouds had retreated, so I ventured forth to explore the pines. There were at least four promising spots where I could build my earth dome, but I wouldn't rush into it. No, I would first observe the land to see how the wind blew, how the water flowed, and how the shade changed throughout the day. Only then would I know the right location for my new home. More importantly, I would need to chart out space for my staple crops of low pH-tolerant corn, beans, and squash: The Three Sisters that had sustained the Aztecs. And a carrot patch as well, though that would mostly be to attract the rabbits. After giving myself to the land so that it could give back, I would scavenge parts from the forgotten landfill to build my trellises and grow grapes. All while my eyes were seeing my anti-Walden dream take shape, my ears were longing for more. I realized that I was listening for the murmur of a kitchen appliance. The whir of a nearby drone caused me to lose track of the careful lines I'd been tracing in the pine needles. The drone hovered over the house as I resisted the urge to pelt it with stones. Then, the drone descended and placed something on the doorstep. The machine lifted back off and vanished below the bluff as I approached. A small cardboard package waited in front of the door. A delivery? A long-lost letter? A bomb? Or, even worse, an eviction notice? I opened the box. The packaging around the item did read "Bomb," but it was followed by "Burrito." I held in my hand a Bomb Burrito. My only means of cooking it waited in the house, its same button aglow again. The microwave's handle felt silky smooth as I opened its door and gave it the burrito. Instead of a series annoying beeps, the microwave hummed a hymn like a shy angel offering a miracle. I found a chipped plate in one of Abe's cupboards then retrieved the burrito. Now, most microwave burritos are like a bad film, overcooked beginning and end with a frozen middle, but the Bomb Burrito delivered unto me was not like most. It was fluffy yet crisp, a harmony of beef, cheese, and bean. As I ate, the face reappeared and whispered nonsensical words of white noise to accompany the gourmet experience. While pleasant, I was bracing myself for the eventual interruption of a robotic voice that I'd come to associate with all microwaves and most machines in general. The voice never came as I wiped the plate clean. "Thanks." Despite myself, I patted the microwave. Perhaps it was only my mind's eye, but the machine seemed to flush a deeper shade of pink. Then, the face on the screen reshaped itself into a hand and a rectangle. The hand stroked the rectangle. Was the microwave asking for more of a caress? Ridiculous. I left the room. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, so I set my sleeping bag up beneath the window, planning to wake with the first rays of sun. I didn't. The utter silence of Abe's house, the absence of backfiring cars and crackling power lines, kept me wide awake for most of the night. After I finally drifted off then returned to the waking world, the sun in the sky said noon. I was hungry and had a duffel bag packed full of saltine, sardines, and other non-perishables, but the memory of last night stayed my hand. I went to the room with the microwave and selected a button paired with a cartoon bowl of soup wearing a bewildered expression. No light came on. I pressed a few more buttons then waved my hand in front of the microwave. Still nothing. Finally, I gave it a pat. The screen flickered to life for a moment but went out as soon as I removed my hand. I changed my pats to strokes and the microwave came alive with a soft moan. Feeling vaguely ashamed, I pressed what I took to be the soup button once more then went outside. Within ten minutes, another drone had delivered a box at the door: miso soup with tofu that melted in my mouth and greens that gave me life after the microwave had worked its magic. Back among the trees, I cleared fallen pine needles then reversed my efforts because the winding path I'd made looked too artificial. I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a four-leaf clover among the grass. No luck. For dinner, I had mushroom lasagna with impossibly fresh ricotta cheese. Afterwards, I caressed the still warm microwave. It didn't feel as strange this time when I thought of it as a simple act of gratitude. The machine made a sound similar to the one it had first made during yesterday's storm. "Could you keep doing that?" I asked without thinking. The machine seemed to understand, or at least it didn't fall silent when I removed my hand. That night, I moved my sleeping bag into the room with the microwave. I slept like a baby under its long-lashed gaze. By the end of the week, I had started to think of the microwave as Michele. "How are we paying for all this food?" I asked one day through a mouthful of Bomb Burrito. Michele made a cooing sound accented by the faintest hint of tiny wind chimes, a noise I'd come to associate with laughter. I laughed too. Maybe my great-uncle Abe had a lifetime subscription to some food delivery company that didn't know he died. Or perhaps he left everything, including the house, to Michele. Who cared? Life was good. I ate like a king and got to spend my days among the trees and my nights with Michele. I spoke to her of my dream but was careful to tone down my language when it came to machines. One night, after dinner, Michele's screen glowed purple as pixels coalesced into a cluster of grapes. The grapes gave way to a button icon. I knew she wanted me to press it, so I did. The drone that came to our door this time delivered grapes. At first I thought the grapes were a symbol for my vineyard dream. Thinking back on it, maybe they were in some way, but Michele's screen imagery made clear that there was a further purpose. I sliced the first grape, keeping both halves connected by a delicate strip of skin, then tentatively put it inside. I held her with both hands as it began. I'd been in relationships before, even married once, but this... this was terrifyingly intimate. The plasma arc made by microwaves dancing along the split grape brought tears to my eyes, and Michele made a sound beyond hearing that I felt in my bones. And so it went for weeks. Until one day I took a step back to see what I'd accomplished. In a word: Nothing. Disprove Thoreau? I hadn't even planted the first seeds for my crops, and the season was already changing. I'd come here to roll back the Age of Mechanicism, yet how easily I'd fallen under Michele's thrall. Pathetic. For lunch that day, I jammed my finger against the Bomb Burrito button, but I didn't go back inside once it had been delivered. I was determined to cook it over a fire of my own making, but while striking the knife against the flint, I somehow sliced open my hand. That was when Michele made a sound to call me inside. I came and let it all out. I can't remember exactly what I said. I'm sure that I raged against Thoreau and all manner of machines that came after him. But I do remember how it ended. "There is no place for you in my world." Michele's lights went dark, and I spent the night huddled in the pine grove. With the mid-morning came a sound louder than any drone. I scurried for cover as a self-driving helicopter cleared Weatherton's bluff. I watched the helicopter lower a large crate to the yard, which I approached after the whirring sound of blades had gone. Michele's revenge? So be it. But all I found inside was enough non-perishable food to last me a year if not more. And tools. Not machines, but simple stuff like a rake, a shovel, a hoe. Items I should've thought to bring if I'd been serious about my endeavor. That day, with unloading and organizing everything, I did more work than all of the previous weeks combined. Somewhere along the way, I realized that no one--not you, not me, and certainly not Thoreau--ever really did it alone. So, if I were to shun romance, snuff out some spark of impossible love in the interest of immovable logic, how would I be any different from the one I'd set out to prove wrong? As dusk drew near, I crept back into the house and rested my head against Michele's blank screen. I apologized as best I knew how, but the pink microwave did not stir. Back outside, I watched the setting sun and saw a small speck break free from its sea of orange. It was a single delivery drone arriving to set down a small box on our doorstep. I opened the box to find a cluster of grapes. And so began my Age of Mechanomance, where man and microwave united to rekindle God and nature.


Chili mac covered with oozing cheese for her baby girl, still chunky at age 3 with a round moonpie face and legs that started off as thick sturdy tree trunks before tapering off into sapling branches and flat feet with long floor tapping toes. Vegetable soup for her little boy, tall and painfully thin, owing more so to the racehorse metabolism he’d inherited from his father than the food allergies she had to carefully screen everything he consumed for. There was not a drop of butter on the rice the two children would share and although her daughter loved the stuff, Mama would be bringing grape juice rather than chocolate milk for them to drink. The girl might get a sip before her brother wrenched it out of her pudgy hands and what a disaster that would lead to. It was expensive to feed her son, but working in the base’s dining facility allowed her to alleviate her financial burden somewhat, as leftovers went out the backdoor with her after nearly every shift. Before departing for work she always made the food he would be served for breakfast and lunch, snacks, and filled his plastic cup. If he drank all the juice, then fill it up with water were her instructions. She trusted no one in the household to kill her son. They couldn’t get her simple instructions right and kept putting hot water in her boy’s cup following some crazy folk beliefs or whatever that cold water would make him sick. Didn’t they know a 4-year-old isn’t smart enough to know when something is too hot to drink while they were boiling water to put in his cup? They really were going to kill her boy one day! It was getting colder and the sun was setting well over an hour before her shift ended with dinner. Then off she went with her purse, and bag of goodies, and thinks of her little ones, two-thirds of her heart. It is still too early to put in a call back home to speak to the greatly missed piece of her heart. A year had turned into five years without her meaning for it, and she was still trying to find a way to make what she left behind blend in with what she had now. The grass wasn’t exactly green but it was what she had. “Mammie!” The door barely opened before a pair of knobbly sticks were being wrapped around her ample waist and a hot water bottle radiating enough heat to be felt through her coat. “What the hell I keep telling ya’ll about giving my baby this hot shit?” Her southern backwater strongly melanated roots are shining through loud and clear with her vernacular making her incomprehensible and her admonishment on deaf ears. Tentatively lurking in the background, the daughter who had been unsure whether to approach or run away, dissolved into tears. And just like that, the evening was ruined. She pulled off her coat with one hand leaving it but not her shoes at the entrance much to everyone’s annoyance before swooping up her son in one arm to mollify his incessant need to feel her closeness and crossing the threshold. He laid his head on her shoulder coffee brown almost poker straight bangs falling heavy over brilliant pond water eyes could hardly leave him to go to work and nuzzled her collarbone. She could hardly leave the boy to go to work in order to be able to meet his most basic needs, so she slipped away while he was still asleep or otherwise distracted, and the household’s members were always anxious for her return for no other reason than to “shut that boy up his whining all the time”. It was a simple and begrudgingly accepted fact that she had usefulness if for no other reason than the boy worshiped the ground she walked on and there was no way to keep him without her. “Every time I come home and think Imma have a good night.” The woman grumbled. She met the liquid autumn green irises veiled behind horrifically unattractive coca cola bottle lenses that betrayed mongrel origins and had been raised momentarily from their preferred focus on an open soft covered study book. “Do you really let the other to cry and do nothing while I cannot concentrate?” came the expected criticism from the only person in the place that could actually understand her and should have been her right hand. F**k you and them GD books!! Your Mammie and your brother both stay here but you wanting me to do everything!! Inwardly the woman almost through her third decade of life seethed. Outwardly, she just sucked her teeth and said coaxingly to her youngest child, “Stop all that so your daddy can read his books and come see what Mama got for you tonight. Mama knows how much you love cheese. Come see how much cheese Mama put on it for you.” Her true baby baby didn’t care much for her she knew, the gunmetal grey peepers full of anxiety and distrust, and was half scared of grown people in general crying at the drop of a hat, but she had her ways of getting the little girl to have something to do with her. She was Mama, a title held since her senior year of high school. Of course, she had a way to attract and quiet her youngest child. She still didn’t know how to answer her aunties’ questions about how on Earth she could’ve made the little girl be born so naturally nervous though as they tutted over the child’s seemingly constant crying every time she called them to inquire about her eldest. Had she and that foreigner man she so-called married been fighting all the time when she was pregnant or something? Why is the last youngun you had always fussing and crying? You and that man been fighting and carrying on so much that you ended up having a nervous as hell baby? Seem like she cry if you look at her and you know that don’t make no sense for her nerves to be that bad already as little as she is! You gone hafta to do something eventually, make a change, cuz she can’t even go to school crying all the time like that. You gone hafta leave there or something if your baby can’t get no peace even when she at home with you and her daddy. “Why you cry when you Mama is come home now?” The broken English of her teenage brother-in-law snapped the woman back to reality. “Mama come home now. Go to eat the food of Mama and no crying!” As the trickle of salt water streaking and the irritating the sensitive skin of the toddler’s puffy cheeks slowed and she moved slowly towards her mother, the woman breathed a weary sigh. “So you not eating with them tonight? The wannabe gangster I leave my kids with from morning till night is too good to eat what I bring for them?” It had been a part of the original agreement and she had reluctantly agreed along with the delinquent’s eldest brother currently preoccupied with the study books to put food in his belly in addition to a roof over his head in exchange for his services. Things had been okay back then when they first took him in as a favor to the widowed mother whose womb both the eldest and youngest had shared. Then her mother-in-law had realized that she didn’t have enough control over her eldest son’s life anymore and more importantly the first grandchild that she’d offered her youngest son up to help raise. She had installed herself into the household around the time eldest son was threatening to walk out the door, wife and son, after learning of the second pregnancy less than a year after the boy’s birth and demanding that the unthinkable be done. The woman still remembered the audible thud and horrified confused youth’s face as she cracked his eldest brother upside the head with a hastily grabbed glass liquor bottle at the mere suggestion that she not have this baby and told him that he could get right the hell out now if that’s how he was thinking. That she would be having this baby and would disappear with her son back to the United States and none of them would ever find either her or the children. They wouldn’t even know what she named the baby let alone ever lay eyes on it or see the precious first grandchild, the boy that right from the beginning had enmeshed himself to her. But then her mother-in-law had come, moved herself into the drafty three-room sixth-floor walk-up unit paid for by the military’s housing allowance, knowing her eldest son would never protest or say no to her, and promptly made a nightmare of the then newly re-expecting young mother’s life. The older but not too much older woman having become a mother herself for the first time at age 17 as a result of the resident scholar’s birth, despite looking down on her daughter-in-law for the same risky adolescent behavior, eyed her youngest son. He knew what she expected for him to complain about having to take care of the woman’s children all day and all she could offer him was leftover American food like they were all still living during the wartime days and third world status decades that immediately followed or something. Was he supposed to be grateful for scraps like the distant relatives that hadn’t escaped the peninsula migrated to safety and better opportunities prior to the war and had to endure the humiliation of accepting food from the country’s continuous and current occupiers? “I can eat what nephew and niece are leaving maybe.” He finally said. “They should eat this food not me.” “No, you can come on and eat with your nephew and niece now and get full so you can sleep good and keep them for me tomorrow.” The woman insisted, speaking just slowly enough to be accommodating. “And you can try to help me understand why you and that mama of yours keep giving my baby boy all this d**n hot water for him to burn his mouth and throat !” The meal wasn’t sumptuous but it was quite filling. The children ate seated on the floor which was covered with newspaper since nobody reasonable would expect barely preschool aged kids to eat neatly and not make a mess. Everyone in the household always marvelled at the woman’s child rearing techniques. How she had the children sit on sheets of newspaper on the floor insisting that they not get up while eating, warmed the food in the microwave only to immediately place the plates into the freezer for a few minutes to cool it before serving the food to her children, and didn’t give the beverages until after they had eaten most of the food. “Is this how you do in America?” Her brother-in-law inquired. “It’s how I was raised.” She quipped nonchalantly. “Are you not go back to America soon? You want to grow up children here right?” He continued the conversation between bites of the strange casserole that had been served to his niece. “I don’t know what I want long-term.” She admitted. “But I wanna see my eldest again. I want them to see their big sister too.” “You want to take nephew and niece to America?” He clarified. “Yeah, I gave birth to all of them.” The woman reminded him. “Mother will never let you take them. You’ll be dead before you can even leave.” He shook his head gravely. No she would not die but she would pay a very high price for her eventual escape to freedom. The tiny bearer of the fallout would never forgive her. "I'll give my life for my children, but thank you anyway." The woman persisted. "Thank you for what?" He didn't understand. "You love and take care of my children like your own." The woman explained with a lump in her throat. "You don't care what color they are or none of that. My boy adores you when he doesn't even give his actual daddy the time of day. And your brother never wanted our daughter but every time I see you with her you're so good to her that it don't even matter what her daddy thinks. Thank you for that. You might be a thug or wannabe banger but you're a decent and good man deep down. You know you not supposed to be doing that but every time you gamble and win some money then you buy for your nephew and niece like there ain't no tomorrow. If I had to leave this country tomorrow I wouldn't worry at all about my babies as long as they're with you. Thank you for that." They watched the children eat in silence for several minutes. "You don't belong here. Whatever you are doing do it more quickly. Whatever you do I will look after the children always." It was the beginning of the end as if he had given her permission, what was broken could never be fixed.


*To: Abigail Bryant* Hey Abby, I'm really sorry, that I haven't been writing to you. The guys here are keeping me busy, and not leaving me any time to even breathe. I got to tell you though, I'm digging the haircut for sure. Makes me look way more badass. you would definitely make a joke about how shiny the top is. I can't believe its already been four years since I last have seen you. I hope you know that ill be home in the next six months. From what I hear, they are going to be sending a group of us over the next few months. How's mom doing? I hope she isn't driving you crazy about your driving. I told her in the last letter, that when I get home, we will make sure you learn how to make those turns. Remember that one time I pulled into an empty parking lot, and did donuts on the ice? I'm pretty sure your mom was considering her options after that. oh hey, did you ever get those ice skates from grandma? she had those sent to you for your birthday. She really did enjoy spending that summer with you. There are a few things I want to get done when I get home. Yes... I did make a list, so be prepared to be amazed. I was thinking about maybe doing a home purchase. what do you think? I was thinking that old ranch off Lenny street. It will need some work, but I figured that would be something good the two of us could do together. I just have to make sure that you don't drive our trunk through the house. In all seriousness though, I want to make sure to spend as much time with you as possible. nothing beats that father-daughter relationship. Speaking of relationships, I watched that video you sent me, of your prom. you looked so beautiful, and I wish I could be there to give the young man THE talk while cleaning my gun of course. The dress you picked out was incredible, and that boyfriend of yours is so well mannered in the way he greeted you and mom. That was really sweet of him holding your hand to the car. Of course, your mother was balling her eyes out, watching you get taken to prom. Just wait till you get married. which by the way won't be till you are well into your 30's. I hope you had fun, and wish I could see the look on your face as you stare into his eyes. I am so very proud of you, and the young woman you are becoming. just please promise me, that when I fly home, you won't greet me with that stupid face you make. you know the one that you do when making those videos. I was thinking we could go to your favorite burger place if they are still around. alright Abby, its time to start wrapping up the letter. If I could, I would write to you every day. I'm told that writing, can sometimes ease the pain, but I can't write these letters without filling up a bucket of tears. It's now been four years since I last have seen you and your mom. Four years since that night. the night that took my girls away. I should have trusted my judgment, and not let you drive that road. I remember That night being so cold, and the roads were icy. you made that turn, and just like that, you were both gone. I know that we'll see each other again, and as I said, I'll be home soon. The doctors are now telling me that cancer spread into both sides of the brain, and they give me six months max to live. I am so heartbroken but trust me, we can pick up where we left when we get there. Soon We can build our perfect home.


It was 3am. Becky was still asleep in her bed, wrapped in threadbare pajamas and throw blankets of varying states of faded. It was cold, but she was warm. The room was dark, minus the occasional swirl of yellow as a car passed by. The loud noises hadn’t woken her yet. They would though, they always did. “Becky. Becky, wake up, sweetie.” A ray of light hit Becky’s eyes as they opened, blurring her vision. She knew the voice though. “Mommy?” She replied. “Come on sweetie. Come on, we’ve got to go.” Becky felt arms slide under her and reached instinctively for support. She buried her face in her mother’s neck and tightened her arms around her. She knew what came next. “I don’t think so!” A voice roared from seemingly everywhere. Another burst of light, much unkinder than the last, and the noises began bouncing around her head. Becky shut her eyes tightly and covered her ears. She felt herself moving and knew the path without looking. Out of her bedroom, down the hall, straight through the doorway and outside. They didn’t make it outside. Somewhere between the hall and the door and the words she knew you weren’t supposed to say to people, they had stopped and turned around. Suddenly, she felt herself swinging and heard a scream that matched her own. She tried to reach for something to grab on to, to stop herself, but her hand caught nothing and she landed flat on the ground, face first. She bit her lip and tried not to cry. That only made it worse. Her lip hurt though, and it tasted funny. Blood. It tasted like the time she lost a tooth. Unable to help it, she cried. The noises became louder. She felt herself get picked up and buried her face again. Her arms and legs wrapped tightly around anything they could find. She heard the familiar woosh of the door , barely audible under another round of angry words, and it slammed behind them. She let her breath out. It was okay. After a few moments, Becky picked her head up and looked around. They were walking towards the park. That seemed fun. She had been dreaming so nicely in her bed, and although this was colder and not quite the same, it could be fun. Maybe they would go to the park. “Becky. I’m so sorry sweetie. Mommy is sorry. She didn’t mean for this to happen again.” Becky kissed her mother’s cheek. “It’s okay, mommy.” she whispered. She didn’t like to hear anyone sad. “Would you like to play for a little bit?” Becky nodded. She had never been to the park in the dark before. Usually when this happened they went to a diner not too far away and got ice cream or cake. Those were fun times. They started off very scary, but they couldn’t be too bad if they ended with ice cream. Right? Off to the park they went. No one was playing on anything, and Becky felt like the queen of the world not having to wait, take turns, or share. She went high on the swing, went down (and up!) the slide as many times as she wanted. She played in the sandbox, and no one knocked over her castle. She was, however, very very cold. Playing seemed to help. As the sun rose, Becky became tired. She looked over at her mother, who had been sitting, smiling supportively at her from a bench most of the time. She was asleep. Becky sat next to her and pulled a long arm around her. It’s not a nap, she thought, if no one knows about it.