*Fimbulwinter: Proper Noun (Norse Mythology): One of the signs of the onset of Ragnarok. A constant three-year winter. “The bunker should be this way!” One man shouted as he led a group of about eight people through the heavy snowfall. The year was 2591, and the world had been completely covered in snow and ice for over a century at that point. Why? No one could tell you. Over the years, snowfall began to become heavier and heavier, even covering places like the Sahara and Arizona in thick snow layers nearly year around. The population had gone from a staggering twenty-two billion individuals to little more than one billion, and it was still dropping quick. With food supplies dwindling and the extreme temperatures, survival was a difficult task to put it lightly. “Where’d yah hear about this bunker, anyway, Butch?” Another man yelled from the back of the group. The had bright red hair and a long neck beard. His hair fell in braids off the back of his head. He was blind in one eye, evident by his eye being whited out. In between the two individuals walking on the ground was a tall, futuristic looking tank. Built out of rusted metal and even some wood, the machine plowed through the snow. One the top of the tank sat three women. One woman, wearing padded clothing, gloves, and her head was wrapped and goggles covering her eyes. Her mouth was the only exposed skin on her body. Her black hair stuck out from her head wrappings. On her back was a large nameplate that read “BUTCH”. “That man who came into the safehouse two weeks ago who had survived the wolf attack told me.” Butch answered. She was fiddling with a small flare gun she had strapped to her thigh. “I didn’t believe him at first! A bunker with several years supplies worth of food sounded too good to be true. The I put Kaiyo on the case, and things seemed more plausible.” Kaiyo, a young Asian woman with bright pink hair, less padded than Butch but still heavily clothed, sat next to a small garbage-can fire on top of the tank. When her name was mentioned, she simply nodded. “It does sound too good to be true!” The red-headed man responded. “This is a suicide mission, through and through! I cannot believe I let you guys talk me into going with you!” “Shut up, Roach!” The man in the front of the group shouted back at the red-headed man. “My wife and kids haven’t had food for over four days! I’ll do anything to bring them back some nourishment!” “We’ve been gone two days, Scott.” Butch shouted down from the top of the tank. “I pray they’ll survive until we get back.” “I pray we survive.” Roach mumbled. “Wait. Scratch that. I don’t pray. I refuse to pray, in fact, because any of those retched gods that allowed this crap-heap of a winter doesn’t deserve my prayers!” “I thought you didn’t believe in any gods?” Scott asked. “That is also why I won’t pray.” “At some point, Roach, you’ll realize that you’re gonna have to fall back on someone other than yourself for survival.” Butch said. “And at that point, you may not have anyone left but a god.” “I’m the only person whose never let me down.” Roach responded. Everyone rolled their eyes at Roach’s comment. “Anyway, based off of Kaiyo’s estimates, we should reach the bunker within the next hour.” Scott shouted to the group behind him. “How do we know we’ve been going the right direction?” The third woman asked from atop the tank. She was stick-thin with long blonde hair reaching down to her knees. She looked malnourished more than anything, with bones showing through her skin, and her eyes being sunken into her head. If the group hadn’t know her for several years, they might have assumed she was the oldest among them. But they all knew little Scrapper (the nickname the crew had given her) was far younger than anyone of them. “The man we heard the rumor from gave us basic directions.” Butch answered. “Kaiyo charted the area and found that a bunker did in fact exist within the range that the man had said. After that, it’s a lot of faith.” “Blind faith.” Roach muttered. After another forty-five minutes of walking, the group could see ahead of them a formation. A man-made structure that was clearly the bunker they were looking for. “I can’t freakin’ believe.” Roach whispered to himself. “Good work, Kaiyo.” Scott exclaimed. Kaiyo simply nodded. “Wait a sec.” Butch muttered. She stood up, revealing she was actually much taller and more muscular than she previously seemed, standing close to eight feet tall. “Guys, there’s more than just a bunker there.” The crew stopped and looked for a moment, realizing Butch was correct. There was not just a singular bunker there, but also a large city. “A city?” Scott confusedly asked. “Nothing was ever said about a city?” “He never mentioned anything about it.” Butch responded. “Kaiyo, is it possible we lost track of where we’re going and found something else?” Kaiyo shook her had. “Bunker here in city.” “I should’ve known better than trusting that freakin’ pink-haired little...!” Roach began shouting. “Roach, shut up!” Butch shouted back. She walked over to Kaiyo and placed her hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Kaiyo, do you know if the city is abandoned or not?” Scott asked. “If it’s abandoned, our plans don’t change.” “City inhabited.” “Great. Just great!” Roach exclaimed. “Well. Time to turn around, I guess.” “Why do you just assume this city won’t try to help us?” Scott asked optimistically. “Maybe they’ll give us some of their food.” “Because, Scott. It’s a dog-eat-dog world now!” Roach answered. “I know you like to think we are still living in some sort of fantasy world where ‘we’re all in this together’, but really, most of us are just in it for ourselves, being dragged out here to die in the snow because of people like you!” “I’m sorry that I’m trying to help other people that aren’t me, Roach!” Scott shouted back. “I’m sorry that I want to help the human race maybe survive another century!” “If you two are done making a scene, I’d like to know what the plan is now.” Butch calmly stated. “I’m going in.” Scott answered, not breaking his angry gaze from Roach. “Maybe they’ll help us out, at least to some extent.” “I’m going in, too.” Butch responded. “You’re a good man Scott, but a bad fighter.” She winked at Scott. “Kaiyo. Scrapper. I’m not gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to do. You either wait out here or come in with us. You’re choice.” Scott explained. “I’ll come in with you.” Scrapper answered. “Roach creeps me out.” “Same.” Kaiyo added. “Good.” Roach muttered. “Means it’s working.” “Okay, then.” Scott continued. “Roach? What are you gonna do?” Roach thought for a moment, trying to figure out how best to answer. “You guys are gonna freakin’ die in there.” “You don’t know that, Roach.” Butch responded. He nodded his head. “I’d rather die in there than out here in the snow.” Roach answered. “I’m going in.” *** When the crew pulled up to what seemed to be the front entrance of the city, Scott stood at the front of the group. The five people gathered together, all on the ground off of the tank, which they had left further back to keep from intimidating their potential help. The door in front of them was huge, standing at least fifty feet tall and twenty feet wide. The city stood as a massive closed-off dome made of stone. Scott was unclear of how to go about opening the door. Kaiyo stepped in front of Scott and placed her hand on the door. In a moment, her eyes glowed pink, before the door opened. “Nice one.” Butch mentioned. “Yeah. Let’s just break into this city.” Roach commented. “That’ll end well.” As the door opened in front of them, six armed guards stood behind the entrance. In between the six guards stood a tall woman wearing a white suit. She had short, curly brown hair that extended to her chin. “You are a crafty one, young android.” The woman stated, staring straight at Kaiyo. “Good job opening our door.” “Great. We’re gonna die.” “Shut up, Roach.” Scott muttered. “Hello. My name is Scott. This is my crew of scouts from Colony B-76 from the upper east territories. These are Kaiyo, Butch, Roach, and Scrapper.” “What brings your crew here, Scott?” The woman asked. “We were informed of a bunker containing edible foods this way out of our colony.” Scott explained. “We came on the assumption it was abandoned, but now realize it is actually an inhabited city. We simply ask that if there are any portions you are willing to part with, we may have some for our people.” “While a nice request, our people do not so openly spread our food to outsiders.” The woman responded. My husband, the Prime President of this city-state, has made it clear that outsiders are not to...” The woman paused, listening as someone spoke to her over an earpiece. She nodded. “Yes sir.” She answered. She looked back up at Scott, then moved her eyes over to Roach. “My husband has informed me he would like to meet you before sending you off. Please, come in.” As the crew walked into the city the doors closed behind them. Once they were completely shut, the guards each chose a particular member of the crew to stand by, with one covering the woman in white. “I will have my maid-servants prepare you a place to stay over the week, per my husband’s request.” The woman stated. “Okay, listen here, Snow.” Butch interjected. “We’re not staying a week. One night, maybe, but we’ve got families back at our colony who need food, and soon.” “My husband never said anything about gifting you food.” The woman responded. “He just wants to meet... one of you.” She looked straight at Roach. “Me?” Roach asked. “Why me?” The woman simply smiled, then turned around and continued walking forward. “I don’t like this.” Roach whispered to Scott. “I’m starting to agree.” They were led into a large, open room full of people. While the woman leading them was dressed quite well, the people in this room were dirty, dressed in rags and covered in dirt. “What is this place?” Scrapper asked. “This is where all of the people found in the wild stay waiting for clearance to enter into the city-proper.” The woman responded. “Most have been here their entire life times. Sad, but the Prime President has his priorities.” “How is this any better than being out in the wild?” Butch asked. “We have heating.” At the doorway at the end of the room stood a man wearing a blue suit. He had bright red hair, and a long, scruffy beard. Roach froze dead in his tracks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Roach whispered. As the man looked Roach in the eyes, he extended out his arms. “Welcome home, younger brother.” “Oh, crap.” Scott whispered. “How long has it been?” Roach’s brother asked. “What? Like twenty-three years or something like that?” “Not long enough.” Roach answered. “Come on, brother. Don’t be like that.” “You sold me!” Roach shouted. “For what, Mark?” “A wife.” Mark responded. “She’s still with me if that’s any concern to you. She’s my favorite out of my five.” He laughed smugly, while the woman in white had a slight look of shame come over her face. “Screw you.” Roach said. “Let’s go. I want nothing from this guy.” “Can’t we talk this out?” Mark asked. “Don’t you think I might’ve come to regret that over the years?” “Honestly, no.” “Listen, brother. Just stay the night. You and I can talk and get caught up on life.” Mark continued. “Tomorrow morning you can leave, and I’ll send you off with plenty of food to last your colony months!” Roach thought for a minute. He hated the idea of staying with his brother for more time than he wanted. But at the same time, he knew his colony needed food, and he didn’t want this trip to be worthless. “Fine. One night.” Roach agreed. “But first thing tomorrow, there better be food waiting for us to deliver home.” Scott looked at Roach and mouthed ‘thank you’. He had known Roach for a long time, and while the two did not always get along, he knew just how much Roach’s family had hurt him. “Good. You can stay in my quarters, brother.” Mark explained. “I’ll make sure your friends have a safe place to stay as well.” *** Roach and Mark arrived in Mark’s living quarters about half and hour later. Upon arriving, Roach was disgusted at what he saw. Five women all dressed in white gowns and with gold and blue paint over their faces. On their backs were written the words ‘The Wives of Mark’. “Worse than I thought. “Roach stated in a quiet tone. “You’re sick. What do they even do all day?” “That is... none of your business.” Mark answered. “I don’t see why you’re so resistant to me, brother. I’m trying to help.” “You are not trying to help, Mark.” Roach responded. “You’re trying to get something from me. What you could possibly want from me, I’m not sure. I kinda suck.” “Is this what your life’s become?” Mark asked. “I’ve had success while you and and your little crew is struggle to make it day to day.” “Success, Mark? Is that what this is? You force women to ‘love’ you so you can feel better about yourself while there are people in your own city starving because you are too arrogant to help them!” “You don’t know the stuff I deal with everyday to keep this city running!” Mark shouted. “I’ve seen pain and trauma you wouldn’t believe!” “And I watched my daughter take her own life because it seemed better than my inability to provide for her!” Roach shouted back. “So shut up!” “I’m sorry, brother.” Mark responded. “I really am.” Before Roach could continue, the woman in white stormed into the room. “Sir. The giant, she broke into the locker and stole food.” ‘Crap.’ Roach thought. ‘Butch’. The three walked down to the large room they had been in earlier. In the center of the room was Butch surrounded by three guards who had Butch chained up. “Chains? Really?” Roach stated. “Little overkill, don’t yah think?” “Speak for yourself, giant.” Mark shouted at Butch. “First off, my name is Butch, not giant.” She answered. “Secondly, the door was open, and people were walking in and out getting food as they please. Remember, I haven’t eaten in two whole days!” “Listen, sir. We got some food too, so whatever you do to her should be done to us as well.” Scott interjected. Mark ignored Scott. “Non-citizens stealing from us is a grave offense. You will be punished greatly.” “Giants make for great slave labor, sir.” The woman in white stated. “Shall we condemn her to the mines?” “Agreed.” Mark continued. “I too feel that would best suit her.” “Holy crap.” Roach muttered. “I knew it! I knew all you wanted was to get something from me. You weren’t gonna help us until you saw Butch. All you wanted was an excuse to get an extra slave for your city!” “Brother. Giants make for great slave labor. I’m sure you understand.” Mark explained. “She’s my friend, jack-wad!” Roach shouted. “Punishment must be served.” “This isn’t punishment! You tricked us just so you could steal my friend as a slave!” “You wish to propose some sort of deal?” Mark asked. “Literally anything other than what you want right now.” Mark and the woman in white paused to think for a moment. After some silence, Mark spoke. “Kill them all. Take the giant.” The guards instantly rose their weapons and aimed at the crew. They began open firing on them instantly. Kaiyo was the first to be hit, but as an android she was able to withstand the shot more so than anyone else. Scott was shot in the back, falling over dead immediately. Roach looked for Butch but saw she had been taken out of the room right away and was gone before he knew it. He picked up Scrapper and began running with Kaiyo by his side. They ran towards the exit they had come in, but the guards were too many. Kaiyo continued to take the majority of the shots, but was able to withstand much of them, though even she was slowing down too. As they entered into the hallway where the exit was, Kaiyo used her last moments to open the door. As the door began to open, she fell over dead, too. Roach and Scrapper were the only ones left and ran out the door as quickly as they could into the freezing snow. Mark and his guards stood at the door, this time with a larger weapon that would surely kill them. Roach was smart, though, and took Scrapper straight toward the tank they had left behind. They jumped in as quickly as they could and aimed straight at the doorway. Within a moment, Scrapper hit the button and shot a missile straight into the door, killing the guards, and presumably Mark, too. Roach and Scrapper sat for a moment, trying to catch their breath from what they had experienced. “What now?” Scrapper asked. Roach thought for a moment, partially concerned at how unaffected she was by this. He knew what she had experience in her thirteen years of life, and it horrified him. “We go back in for Butch.” Roach answered. “Then we take some food back home.”


“You’re sittin’ in it.” “No, not just some bar. THE bar.” “Oh! ‘THE’ bar. I guess I don’t know where ‘THE’ bar is, Stew.” “The bar that tells you what’s makes a person. See, like, today I see a woman put out a cigarette and throw the butt in the grass at central park. Which, yeah, I think, ‘that’s a no-good thing to do,’ but it’s not like she put it out in someone’s eye. She didn’t blow smoke in an old guy’s face, or... or attack anybody, or anything like that. So how no-good is she? Where’s the bar for good and bad, y’know? Say I’ve drank and drove, but I’ve never, y’know, killed a lady. Or I’ve killed, say, think like, a cat, but not a person. Would I still be good? Where’s that bar?” “After all this time, this is still just ‘some bar?’” “I didn’t mean it like that. Were you listening to what I said?” “Maybe. I mean, no, not really. Don’t get paid to listen. I get paid to bartend. And, y’know, that’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m good at, so that’s what I like to be.” “Don’t we all.” “Hope not. Otherwise I’d be out of business.” “I’m just saying, like... well, y’know what else? I see this same lady not an hour later, and she’s giving her spot up on the bench to some oldie from the home. Same park. So where’s that put her on the bar? How many good things you gotta do to make up for the bad things?” “I don’t know, Stewie. I don’t think there’s a transfer rate. Don’t think you gotta get it down to a ratio.” “Well, is this lady a good person or a bad person? That’s my question.” “Then I guess I don’t got an answer for you. Now let me wash my glasses, you nut.” “...Hey.” “Yeah?” “Does this line of work make you feel fulfilled?” “What’s your problem tonight?” “That’s not how I meant it.” “Yeah? How’d you meant it?” “I’m considering going into a different line of work.” “Bartending?” “Maybe.” “Well, I don’t know your line of work. I don’t know what you like to do. Jesus, I’ve known you for a decade and I don’t know what you do!” “You never asked.” “You never asked me to ask.” “Is that my job?” “I mean you’d never make a motion that’d make me think to ask about you. You strike me as secluded.” “That wasn’t my intention.” “And it wasn’t my concern. So that’s where we are. Here we are. Forgive me. What is it that you do, Stuart?” “Well... this and that, you know. Nothing much.” “Well, I guess, there you go. Look, I love this job. I love the people. I love makin’ em happy. And, in all honesty, I love guys like you.” “You don’t know me.” “Well, yeah, I suppose, but I know the you that comes here. I know the everybody that comes here. My favorite part of working here is nights like this, right here, where even a loud city like this goes quiet, and you just sit with a guy like you and talk about whatever crazy world you live in. Just sitting in a silent city, it’s--it’s something else.” “How long does it last?” “The silence? I don’t know, couple of hours? Thirty minutes? Depends on the night. But comin’ home to a room I paid for, sittin’ on my bed, turnin’ on a TV I paid for, pouring myself a drink that only I know how to make? After a quiet day like this? I know no greater fulfillment.” “Hmm.” “Does that interest you?” “What?” “Any of that. What I just said. Bartending.” “The... quiet sounds nice.” “Yeah, well, you’d have to work with people. It’s not always quiet.” “I could work around that.” “Plus... I think a guy like you in a quiet like this might get lost in his own ramblings.” “I’ve been in quiet rooms before.” “Right. You’re right. Just never pictured you doing anything *but* rambling, I guess. do you want a drink?” “Not tonight.” “Seriously, Stew, what’s goin’ on? You still thinkin’ about that lady?” “It’s just... what’s the worst thing you can do to still be a good person? Say you’ve killed a cat but you’ve never blown up a building. Which side of the bar are you on?” “Stew, did you kill a cat?” “What? No.” “You keep bringin’ it up.” “I thought you weren’t listening.” “I try not to. You just say some heavy stuff sometimes.” “Sorry.” “Don’t apologize... look, if you’re really interested in bar work, I can show you how to pour your own drink.” “I’m not thirsty.” “We don’t drink for thirst, you maniac. Watch me. Look at the shot glass. *Bam*, right there, slam it on the table. Make *sure* you can slam your glasses on the table. Most people don’t think about it, but you see the boys that run through this place. Young ‘n fresh Neanderthals who think they’re in the damn Wild West. *Slam*, every time. They slam a glass and it breaks, they’re not comin’ back. And you’re down a glass. So none a' that cheapy bargain bin crap. Got it? Thick, heavy glass.” “Am I gonna be in charge of buying glasses?” “Well, no. Just letting you know.” “Gotcha.” “Okay, time to pour. The key is half an ounce per second. Can you picture half an ounce?” “No.” “Alright, watch. One. There, that’s half an ounce. You got that? Two, three, four. Four seconds, two ounces, you see?” “I’m not great with numbers.” “Okay, well, this one’s mine. You wanna try?” “I’m fine.” “You givin’ up on bar work that easy?” “I think I’m kidding myself.” “Well, it takes practice. You aren’t gonna get the perfect shot day zero. If it was easy, everyone would do it.” “I guess.” “Can’t say I didn’t try.” “You ever think you drink too much?” “What? No, not really.” “How often do you drink?” “As often as I’d like. Most nights I work.” “That’s not too much?” “As often as I’d like? No, I don’t think so. I own the place.” “You afraid of getting addicted?” “Like, being an alcoholic? Sometimes. Depends on the day.” “How much do you drink on your worst day?” “What’s this about, Stew?” “Just asking.” “I’d say my worst day was probably the day pops died. And, y’know, I had just got my hands around these bottles, so I might have taken it a little too far. But I learned the lesson.” “What was the lesson?” “Don’t drink for dead people.” “How do you know you won’t have that bad of a day again?” “Well, like I said, it was my worst day.” “You won’t have another worst day?” “If I did, what’d be the point of learning a lesson?” “I guess sometimes I feel like I can’t learn.” “What’d make you think a thing like that? We all gotta learn. Someone taught you to walk in here and buy a drink.” “It’s not what I’m good at.” “Yeah, no kidding. When was the last time you actually bought something from me?” “Before I got my new job.” “Give me somethin’, Stew.” “Social work.” “Ah, social work. Social work’s not too bad. Do you like it?” “Not really.” “What’s wrong with it?” “It’s what I’m good at. But it’s not what I like to do. Or I hope it isn’t.” “You hope it isn’t?” “I-I mean I think it isn’t. I mean, I don’t think I could do it for the rest of my life. I don’t want to.” “Yeah, well, they say you gotta find that happy medium.” “I don’t think I have a happy medium.” “Sure you do.” “I keep having the worst day. Or I keep thinking it’s the worst day, but it’s not. The next day is.” “Well, are you learning?” “What am I supposed to learn? That it doesn’t get better? That I’m doomed?” “No, of course not. You’re not doomed. You’re still here. It gets better.” “When?” “I don’t know. When you find something you like to do.” “...I think I need a drink.” “Ah, now look who’s thirsty. Alright, remember, what’s the key to the drink?” “Thick glass.” “Right. One, two, three, four, and that’s yours. Drink responsibly.” “Always do.” “...I think you’re above the bar, Stew.” “Thanks.


Viktor sneaked inside the remnants of a collapsed parking garage just in time. Two Toxins walked by, talking loudly, boasting about their 'accomplishments,' such as beating up a defenceless twelve-year-old. Cowards. But with Tox in command, and his private army of Toxins patrolling the streets, this was the way of the world. Viktor himself had been recruited as a Toxin. He was plucked from the street and had to start training under strict surveillance. After the first round, he received an 'E' rating, meaning he had the build, speed and intelligence to train for the elite squad, Tox' personal guards. This also meant the surveillance measured were slacked. Within a week Viktor had crafted a knife of a piece of bent metal and some charred wood, held it to a guards' throat and ran of. That's why he had to be so careful to stay out of sight. The wisest thing would be to hide, to run off into the woods and never go back. But Viktor knew he was the only one capable of overthrowing the reign of the maniac Tox had become. He had seen an inside view of the guarding system. He was lean, swift and bright. He could craft a weapon out of nearly anything. Most importantly, he wasn't afraid of some blood on his hands. It's not as if he walks through the street randomly cutting out young boys' gobs, like some of the Toxins do. But he wasn't one to let harm come upon himself and he wielded his knife in any way necessary. When the Toxins were gone, Viktor crept out of hiding and continued his path. At seventeen, he was one of the oldest boys still alive. When the collision drew near, it was decided that all fifteen-year-olds would live. They were old enough to take care of themselves and eventually reproduce, but young enough to adapt and create government in the new world. When all the fifteen-year-olds were saved, the remainder of places in the bunkers was distributed to anyone between twelve and eighteen. Viktor had been lucky, unlike many. The silence was pierced by a shuffling sound and Viktor turned with a start. There was no one there, except a rat gnawing on something that looked suspiciously much like human flesh. Irritated by the distraction, Viktor threw one of his knifes. The rat let out a shriek as it was skewered, then dropped dead. It tumbled off of the beam it was crawling over, into the basement of the garage. It was a shame to lose that knife, but Viktor was happy. In the end, he would only need one. Tox' lair was in sight and his training, carried out all alone in the woods, proved solid. He stowed away his other weapons and starting creeping along the final mile.


In this fast moving times of internet technology friendship of Human beings has been replaced by Android human communication. It has become a most loveable friend connecting people from different countries to have video chats and even see each other. Android has become a life breath of Modern society without any distinction of caste, colour, religion or nationality. Dr K.P.Singh a famous professor of space technology was badly in need of enfolding himself into the Arms of Miss Natasha Gandhi who was the sister of his wife Kamalesha. He felt a strong passion for her and she also oscillated between to reach for him and it is herein that the Mobile became an intervening agent. She was also married to Rai-Saheb, but his sexual demand seemed to be very less. K.P. could fill in the sexual hunger. K.P. had often been calling her. The mobile when one day finally she met him in his cabin. She was a distributor of medicinal products. The Android became their agent and gradually she could not afford to be stiff with her sister’s husband. “Finally she came to the conclusion that her brother-In-law was equally entitled and she too as well. “No I cannot meet you today. My younger brother who stays in a boys’ hostel has come to spend his week end with me .Just wait till Monday. Just then he received a call from her husband. Jaspreet was in the habit of calling her quite often times and something always felt some uneasiness. The Android had become an ultra modern flying pigeon of various colours and multiple advantages. It brought People very far in U.K. or States to become close to them and the neighbors around your area were now redundant. They were making friends in New York or Hampstead and even fly by air to see them. One man Mr. Suresh Avasth went to Hampstead to meet Jane Cornforth and he had a very nice Time with her. He was her guest from Bombay and he had to be entertained as her special guest. It is no surprising to know That Android has become a means to profligate indulgence and even helps people several ways of kissing in different styles. Android has become a useful means of fraudsters and cheaters and this part of the story needs to be skipped of. Mrs. Rita Mehta had a long list of call boys who were working as food Tiffin delivery boys or a tuition teacher or other boys in Tomato or Swiggy. These some of the boys who have also given their mobile numbers to fashionable ladies who are interested in this kind of boys.They are usually handsome and they don’t mind to do something if they get one thousands or even fifteen hundred. Ramesh Chopra was always available to many women around Delhi University campus.Call him on the mobile and he would go running on his two wheelers.Really Android is giving great service to the present time society.Android also helps fraudsters and cheaters like Nirav Modi or Mehul Choksi. Dr K.P loved his sister in law and it is Android that help the both meet each other.Kamlesha wanted her husband’s friend Anil Kumar who worked in some production company. They were two together in one garden and they were having Some drinks along with snacks. Kamlesha also knew not with whom Jaspreet was talking. The mobile made it very easy for many people to meet each other. This modern mobile has opened all the world to People of different sorts to imteract and inhibitions have Vanished since long time. The modern mobile has made it possible for every one to meet anyone and it has become a Hybrid, homosexual and lesbian world of summits of satiation. It has opened the sexual world of all sorts of characters. Several ‘love Jehads’ and the people of this community have caused a havoc in the entire country. There are most wicked stories all around this issue. Helen Fox is with Shirley Foster meeting each other during afternoons and how sincerely faithful is this Android.Peter Crawford meets Henry Johnson meeting in each Other’s bungalow. Never before homo-sexuality was so comfortable. Just a few calls and they met and did what they needed amongst themselves. Imagine the surprise when Jasapreet reached to Meet Natasha. Kamlesha had caught her sister and husband in an uncompromising situations. Android has let loose several Sexual adventures. Tremendous transformation have been caused and one taxi-driver came to sleep with one woman Right under the nose of her husband. How many stories I Can possibly relate. Social inhibitions have ever long since Gone.David Thomson had no time to chat with his wife except a Call on the mobile. She would send him messages to bring her cosmetics and domestic things were communicated through Whats ’App. Whenever he had to attend a high business Conference and left for other city. She enjoyed herself with several boys for days together. Just one call to one, then another and then still another. Mobile calls went on ringing Continuously. One Anne Hersford her friend told her to call Black Boy with red belt. He could give her all funs for two hours at a stretch. Android caused a whole social revolution all over the World. A girl of thirteen called her eighteen years old boy-friend and I saw her kissing the cheeks of the boy on the bench Itself. It has lead to optimum level and the floods are now overflowing. Android has also inflated live-in-relationships And legal marriage is not being preferred. An irony or blessing.! Anil bhai Bhatt lost all his money for getting entangled with Neha Bhattacharya and was reduced to becoming a bankrupt.Live in relationship of fifty years with a girl who was twenty- two for eighteen months. Lost his five crores of bank balance. Let me tell you an episode of a Managing Director of Good Land who used to get calls from several women. A man With large amounts of money is always sought after. “ I am passionate to an infinite degree to look into you from face to feet. I will kiss your feet too in my love for you.” He went on : ‘’ Hang your boss in hell. I will give you a gift of diamond necklace of ten lac rupees’ Sunita Bhattacharya melted like a burning candle’ But at that very time Harish Malhotra’s wife Mridula was fixing herself with one Om Prakash Batra and she fixed her meeting at Capitol where she too had fixed meeting him. Her room number was 104 and Harish with Mridula Malhotra had fixed room number 105. She looked at her husband and her husband looked at her. They both were damn terrified. Both were caught red-Handed. Before any shouting upon her he realized that he was also with another girl. He should have shot her dead and she should have shot him dead to see her husband with another woman.She realized that both of them were culprits and who had right to be annoyed!None had any right to kill the other. The atendents of the hotel came with good dinner of Seekh-kebab and Chicken Korma along with Black-Horse and Thums-Up and Spiral Soda and Mountain-Dew. They Entered their respective rooms and began taking their dinner with those drinks. Just at that moment the Android of the Hotel Manager gave a ring “ Sir you are wasting your precious time. Stop bothering about your wife. ‘” Sab chalta hai ( Everything is O.K.” The same is going on in all rooms here. Then he sent one song to both the lovers. “ Carry on Carry on. Enjoy the best Kick all worries let them for tomorrow rest: Carry on best of funs; Life time fastly runs.” The video device was kept on in C.C.TV Camera Open...... Undress..... Drinks and Kisses. No more worries .No more fusses.


I was walking to my car down a city street at about midnight. I had a couple of tamales that tasted terrible. I passed a woman sitting at the bus stop who was humming something to herself. I tossed my tamales in the trash and I heard her for a second start to say something. I turned around and asked what's up. She responded with dejection that she was going to ask if she could have the food I threw away. I apologized, the thought hadn't occurred to me in that moment that someone would be so hungry that they'd want to eat after me. I walked over and gave her a $20. She thanked me but, a few steps later she nearly yelled "Are you serious?". Her tone, her words, her voice still rings in my head. I nodded, unsure of what to do and she began to tear up. It still makes me angry. 1000 people as capable as me must pass her by everyday and do nothing. I didn't hate those people, I just wish we'd pick our brothers and sisters up off the ground. Help them as we're able. The occurrence inspired me so that some number of weekends later I returned to the city center. It was a crisp Saturday morning. Sun was out and breath could be seen in the air. I parked and began to walk. I found a man packing up his bed onto a bicycle basket. I asked him if I could buy him breakfast. He said sure and asked me to meet him at the McDonald's up the block. I was a little dejected as I'd hoped to talk with him on the way, see if I could find a way to truly help. A few minutes later I met him at the McDonald's. He told me what he wanted but, at this point it felt like he just saw free lunch and not the love I was trying to impart. I gave him a $20 and wished him well, letting him order on his own. I continued my walk until I found a man leaning against a light post. He was covered in filth with his head down. I kneeled down beside him to say hello. I asked what was wrong but, he was in no mood for conversation. I asked if I could get him anything from inside and he told me to get him a coffee, with two sugars, one cream, and to mix them up good. I handed him a $20 and wished him well. At this point I was feeling my idealism had lied to me. That these people weren't dying and desperate to be healed. They were nothing like I was when I was laying on the side of that store in the cold drizzle. When the little child asked his mom what was wrong with me and she tried to explain, a tear formed in my eye. I was in desperate pain. When he ran over and handed me a dollar, it reminded me that I wasn't dead yet. I wondered why they didn't react the same. Sometime later, it was two in the morning and rather than wake up anyone trying to sleep, I just rolled down my window and dropped a $20. I wrote a note saying that God loves them. That if the finder didn't need it, to please drop it for someone who did. I prayed it would reach the right hands. The last time I gave it was a box of energy bars. Then buying all the bakery items in a store display and asking they give it to the people in need who come in. I wish I could connect with them. I wish I could heal their broken souls but, all I find are zombies. Brains fried on drugs who've long lost their ability to feel anything. Maybe those people who passed by that woman everyday had become as numb. Maybe they tried to help once but, found the same as I'd found later. The ones who are still alive, still feeling the pain of going hungry, the despair of living with nothing but their souls, their spirits humming on those benches get lost in all the death and yet, they live on. She does, in my memory.


I often wonder what others think of me and, whenever I do, it makes me feel anxious. It’s sort of a sinking feeling, where you slowly drown in your insecurities. The best way to avoid this feeling is to be like others because if they see themselves in you, they won’t judge you. I decided to buy a mirror and hang it around my neck so, whenever I meet somebody, they will see themselves. At first the mirror felt uncomfortable but, sort of like glasses, after a while I didn’t even feel it anymore. Almost immediately, my life changed! At parties people actually started speaking to me and those who used to ignore me now wanted to talk to me. Many of these people were also wearing mirrors, and this made me feel more comfortable. I guess I saw myself in them. They reflected my opinions, my taste in clothing, and my sense of humor, and I reflected theirs. “It’s so awesome hanging out with you man,” Andrew excitedly remarked, “we should do this more often!” I’ve known him for a while, however in recent months our friendship suddenly rekindled. We attended many more parties together. One evening, Andrew, myself and a few others were enjoying a few drinks when, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a childhood friend entering the bar alone. “Oh my god, I haven’t seen him in so long! That kid is the biggest weirdo ever!” My friend’s remark were followed by laughter, however I didn’t join in. I wanted to go over and say hi, but the weight of my mirror didn’t allow me to move. I wanted to tell my new friends he is a good person, but my mirror prevented me from speaking my mind. I hated this mirror, but I was afraid that if I removed it, I’d be alone again. I wanted to cry right then and there, but my mirror wouldn’t let me. The mirror was getting so heavy I was barely able to stand, so I told the mirror gang “ I’ve got to go home.” I walked outside when, suddenly, I was blindsided by a loud, rambunctious laughter. It was a laughter so pure, it brought me back to my childhood days, when I could laugh for hours without any reason. It brought me back to the days where the joy that created the universe emanated through my eyes and smile. But, although the laughter was so close to me, it couldn’t have been further away from my soul. As I was staring at this group of light hearted adults, something struck me as incredibly odd. It wasn’t that they were all dressed, or acted differently. It was that none of them had a mirror dangling from their necks. One of them connected with my eyes before I could shyly look away, and approached me. “Do you have a cigarette I can borrow?” I always wondered why people used the word borrow for something they wouldn’t return. I gave him the cigarette and struck the liter. “You know, I used to have a mirror as well,” he said, appreciating the cigarette as if it had been years. “What happened to it?” I asked “I slipped once, and the mirror shattered. And not a single person who, all had mirrors, helped me to my feet. I felt crushed at first. But after some time reflecting, I felt a joy I hadn’t felt in years. I no longer worried about fitting in and for the first time, my soul was able to breathe.” “But if I remove it, the people I’ve invested so much time in will leave me,” I said. “You see, that’s what I thought. But you see my friends over there? They were the ones who didn’t help me up that day.


A ghost and a zombie were staring at each other. It was hard to tell which one of them was more dead. The zombie had a greenish skin that matched perfectly her pink destroyed clothes. Some said she had once been this famous singer that no one ever remembers. Nobody listened to her songs anymore. She was really dead and yet, she could talk and walk. Sitting on one of the tombstones in the graveyard, anyone would have thought she was a real person in disguised. An old one, with hair falling from her round skull and not enough teeth in her mouth. But a person nonetheless. The ghost was laying directly at her feet, spread out on a freshly dug grave. Maybe it was his own. Maybe not. The last thing he remembered was being buried six feet under the surface in a wooden coffin. His nails had been scraping the dirt out of his eyes and he had screamed and screamed for someone to save him. No one had come. He had died buried alive at the age of twenty-two. Or maybe ten or two. At this point, all he knew was that his skin had never been so smooth. “I’m hungry,” the zombie grunted. The ghost slowly raised his head to look at her. She was horrific, scary, and ugly, and yet he smiled. For the first time in a long time, he was not alone. If a dead person counted as a company. “Do you still eat?” the ghost asked. The wind blew on the graveyard making everything fly. The dead leaves were the first ones to dance in the gray sky. Some alone, some by couple or families, they all started to turn, jump, and twirl around them. The graves waited for them to find their rhythm before they started to sing. Only the dead could hear what they said but it was beautiful. “Sometimes, even though I don’t like to,” the zombie answered. The ghost raised a brow before he took a seat on the closest tombstone, right in front of the zombie. “Have you seen my teeth?” she added. “I would sell my soul to forget them,” the ghost grinned. It wasn’t his first time seeing the zombie, they had spoken a few times before. They both wanted to know what had pushed them to stay on earth in different ways. The zombie thought she had deserved it because her life had been so full of good intentions. But because the ghost couldn’t remember his own life, he believed that maybe his sins were the reason death had refused him. “You don’t have a soul,” the zombie noticed. The clouds were moving fast above their heads as if time had decided to go even faster. Maybe they would die again. Maybe not. The ghost didn’t know what he would have liked better. An endless life didn’t have to be a happy one. Most of the time, to live forever meant to love and to lose, to laugh and to cry, and to see everyone you knew die. No matter how hard you tried, death always wins the fight. “Maybe not,” the ghost agreed. “But I’m pretty sure that if I had one, I wouldn’t be here talking to you.” “Why not?” The ghost took an apple fallen from the tree that slowly grew above their head and tossed it to the zombie who dodged it. “If we both had a soul, I’d be dead and you would have teeth,” he explained. What he wanted to say was that if they both had a soul, they would be dead. Really dead. They would have found a place either in Hell or Heaven. Yet, they were sitting in the middle of a graveyard, talking to each other as old friends would. “Maybe,” the zombie sighed. “Are you still hungry?” The ghost didn’t know if the zombie really was a zombie. Maybe she was just an old woman not quite ready to die. Or she wasn’t real at all and he was talking to himself. The ghost didn’t know if he really was a ghost either. But it seems to be the most realistic possibility. He had died. He had felt his last breath leave his lungs. But he had not come back as a zombie, he looked better, smelled better, and he didn’t need to eat or sleep anymore. “I could eat an entire family if one would sacrifice itself,” the zombie answered. “Please, don’t eat people in front of me,” the ghost pleaded. The smile on the zombie’s lips was not reassuring. “I could still try to eat you?” she offered. The ghost got to his feet but the zombie was already holding on to his arm. She was strong, way stronger than him. She had still enough life inside her to play human. Before the ghost could do or say anything, she had bitten his hand. Blood flooded between her lips before crashing on the grass beneath them but the ghost did not hurt. Maybe he could not feel anything at all. Maybe this body --what was left of it-- had never been his. “Warn me the next time you try to eat me,” the ghost growled when the zombie took a step back. “You don’t test good,” she noticed. “I’m dead.” “Well, dead don’t taste good.” They exchange a glance before sitting back down on their tombstones. The ghost’s hand had a tooth stuck in its middle but none of them noticed. Someone was coming. A young boy with big blue eyes and blond hair falling on his forehead. If the ghost had been alive, he would have found him cute but the ghost was dead. “What do you think alive taste like?” the zombie asked. “Better?” The zombie was already running, fresh blood dripping down her chin. The boy didn’t see her coming. He did not see her at all. When she tried to catch him, the zombie went right through the boy as if none of them existed. “Maybe dead people can’t taste alive people?” the ghost tried. The zombie snarled back at him. “You could still eat mud, I’m pretty sure it’s not alive,” he added. The ghost saw the zombie hurrying back to her tombstone, passing once more through the boy. She wasn’t pleased, that much was obvious. But the ghost couldn’t tell exactly how she felt because of the burned half of her face. “I’ll never know what alive tastes like,” the zombie cried. “I’m gonna cook you some rocks, you’re gonna love it.” The ghost took a rock and tossed it to the zombie who dropped it in her mouth. Teeth cracked. The ghost looked back at the boy, at the life surrounding him, and thought that maybe alive wasn’t so much better than dead. Alive meant being scared to die, and if dead was only talking to stupid zombies, the ghost could manage. “Iurhvfdezprhgvnrdfkjazepoihzfrn,” the zombie mumbled. “Rocks are good for you,” the ghost answered. “Bet they taste better than me.” The zombie grabbed a handful of mud and ate it with a large smile. “Yiyrtywohyfbdkjzseh?” The ghost faked a smile before swallowing the mud. It tasted horrible and if he had anything in his stomach before, he would have vomited. “Delicious,” the ghost winced. The zombie gave him some more and they both ate, their heads turned toward the dancing leaves. It was easy to get used to eating mud, maybe one day it would even taste good. Better than dead anyway. The boy later came back to the graves of Jane Watel and her son, and all he saw were colored leaves gently flying around the tombstones.


Am I dead? I guess I am dead. I guess that means this must be a story of how I died No, not a story, this is a retelling. An accurate description, how accurately precise. Described exactly as it happened, as I remember it perfectly. This is how I found myself dead I walked into my room today and saw myself lying facedown. Disgustingly torn apart, my eyes had been plucked out of their sockets and my insides had been ripped from their place My hair was torn out and cut and my skin was black, shredded, and torn off of my muscles. What killed me, To say I didn’t know would be inaccurate, but whatever it was did not have a name. Whatever it was doesn’t grace the earth with its presence, but I imagine if it chose to it would mean the end of many things. While I can’t name it, I can describe the image it burned into my eyes before ripping them out. My mind still intact, but my body lay in pieces, it has allowed me to retell, perhaps to spread fear of its presence for all who read this, for all who come to know it. I was laying down, wasting time as usual, the great task of nothing consuming all of my energy. It came into view as I was about to go do my daily tasks that keep me occupied, that keep me safe. It wore a suit, like armor, but so black I couldn’t look at it. It’s armor was cold to the touch, more than freezing. Not the kind of cold that forms crystals of ice, or delicate snowflakes. The kind of cold that you feel in the air. The kind of cold that chills your bones. The kind of cold you feel when you’re sick and your skin burns. The kind of cold sweat that threatens to make you vomit, that pales your skin, and darkens your eyes. It’s armor alone had a vacuum of an atmosphere, as if a cold breeze had walked in with the figure. The figure itself was human like, but taller. Out of proportion and thin, although hard to see masked by how he carried himself. His fingers really stuck out to me, their grasp had ripped through my flesh like bread. Pale, cold fingers. It did not have a face. It had no expression, no eyes, just a cold presence and a present of death. It took its time killing me, carefully separating my muscle from bone, pulling my tendons from my ligaments and picking apart my brain with its cold hands. Painfully keeping me alive to suffer every second. My pet bird of 3 years sat on my window sill. It picked apart my remains after my bitter friend was through with me. Picking apart my eyes and throwing my insides across my room. Keep in mind that I loved my bird. It was a crow, Incredibly intelligent creatures by the way. I spent more time with him than I did any of my colleagues. My bird and I were thick as thieves. I loved to test his capacity for understanding by giving him puzzles to figure out. He loved to solve them. And now I am dead. My body is beyond recognition and my mind is none the wiser. Perhaps I can still study with my colleagues, perhaps they won’t notice my absence, perhaps I will be able to convince them nothing has happened.


The Hatted Man A light flickered off in the hallway. The hallway was not a clean one. Not a hopeful one. Not an important one. But nevertheless, it was a hallway. The boy that lived with his two parents on one side of the hallway saw the light flicker off. He was curious what had caused the light to abruptly end its attempt at illumination, as it was usually on for hours, never turning off for any soul. This force of curiosity was enough to overcome the boy’s force of sleepiness, and thus he left his room. The boy walked out into the hallway, and looked both ways, as all young boys are taught to do before approaching a new and potentially dangerous situation. To the left, he saw nothing. To the right, he wondered as to why the hall to his right was copying the hall to the left, as it was also empty. Just to be sure, he once again looked to his left, since he had in the past had bad experiences with his left. This time, to his total appalament, the hallway was not completely empty, as a man with a black top-hat was turning the corner. He disappeared out of the boy’s vision, and so, after a second of hesitation, the boy followed suit. Around the corner, he saw the top of the man’s hat going down a stairwell at the end of the next hallway. This time, however, the hallway was illuminated and the boy saw what the man was leaving in his wake. On the floor, after every step, the man was dropping chocolate. Not sweet chocolate, but a bitter sweet. The boy, being a young and impulsive child, picked up and ate one of the chocolates, to find that it tasted slightly salty, with a red, gooey inside. Nevertheless, he continued on after the man, his curiosity pulling him forward. Down the stairs he went, and around another corner, following the trail of chocolates. He turned and went out through the front door of the building. That is where his curiosity indeed paid off. In front of him, he saw what can only be described as an “awesome spaceship”. The man had stopped and turned back towards the boy, with a cold look on his face. He put his hand out, and in a cold, but enticing voice said, “come with me”. The boy happily bounded forward towards the man, and took his hand, following him onto the spaceship. Once he stepped inside, the ramp up to the entrance contracted in and the door closed. The boy saw the inside to be a sleek, white metal with glowing red lines distributed around the room evenly. The man led him down another hallway, a circular tube of sorts with unmistakable alien life held in water-filled tanks on either side.They arrived at a door with an alien keypad, which the man typed a password into, prompting the door to open. Cold air spewed out, to reveal a chamber holding what seemed to be coffin-like containment units. The man led the boy over to one, and placed some chocolate within it, which the child then climbed in to acquire. Once was within it, the man pushed the child down and pushed a button, causing the capsule door to close, concealing him inside. Soundlessly, the man left the boy in the room, once again closing the password-locked door. 10 minutes passed, and the capsule once again opened, revealing an empty space where the boy just minutes before lay.


As Vicky towel-dried her hair in the swimming pool changing room, she stole a few surreptitious glances at her neighbour Sally. Suddenly, she felt horribly self-conscious in her high-waisted white pants and shapeless triangle bra, which didn’t even match; when had she stopped caring? Vicky was wearing underwear, but Sally - Sally was wearing lingerie. The hot-pink, fine-mesh thong lay snug against Sally’s tanned skin, the stringy part at the back disappearing between her pert, peachy buttocks. As Vicky rummaged in her locker for her clothes, she couldn’t help stealing another glimpse of Sally in the mirror, watching as she pulled a tight-fitting T-shirt over her naked breasts. Her breasts pointed upwards, like the smooth, raised heads of two proud sea lions looking out over the ocean. Vicky hurriedly pulled a sweater over her own breasts, which seemed to sag below the grey, threadbare fabric of her bra. Sally had moved in across the street six months ago, and Vicky had helped her to settle in. She’d taken her fresh muffins and lasagna, filled her in on who’s who in the neighbourhood, and shown her the ropes at the secondary school where their teenage daughters were now in fifth year. She and Sally had quickly become close, and Sally always had a new activity for them on the agenda. Last month, it had been yoga, this month, water aerobics. “How was shopping with the girls yesterday?” asked Vicky tentatively. Their teenage daughters would never ask her to go shopping. Sally was the cooler Mum. “Good, yeah. They had fun,” answered Sally, flicking a coat of mascara on to her already sweeping lashes and triggering a gnawing feeling in Vicky’s stomach. “I am not in the mood for this parent-teacher meeting tonight,” complained Vicky, changing the subject, and fighting the unsavoury feelings in her gut. “We should try to jump out early and grab a wine on the way home.” She looked hopefully at Sally, who was now fully dressed in her white T-shirt and snug indigo jeans. “About that, hun,” she said, pulling on a pair of tan-coloured suede heels and averting her eyes. “I have to take a rain check.” Her nipples nosed against the stretched fabric of her T-shirt, and Vicky once again thought of sea lions. She watched as her friend sprayed a dash of perfume onto her wrist then rubbed it against the other one. “I have a deadline for an article tomorrow, and I’m nowhere near done. Could you cover for me and fill me in?” Sally batted her eyelids sweetly. Vicky tried to hide her disappointment. She couldn’t very well say no, could she? She never said no to Sally. “Yeah, I guess.” “You are the best. That’s why I love you.” Sally pulled her into a tight hug, and she felt her friend’s firm, warm breasts nuzzle into her chest. It was already dark and after ten when Vicky finally left the school. The meeting had dragged on, and she’d gotten held up afterwards by her daughter’s teacher who wanted to discuss the details of the upcoming fundraising event. She regretted having offered her help now. If she had known half a year ago that she’d have a new best friend, she wouldn’t have taken on so much for the parent-teacher association. As she pulled her car into her drive, she noticed the lights were out at Sally’s place. Strange, she thought to herself. Sally usually stayed up until the early hours when she had a big deadline; Vicky always saw her reading lamp burning in the window of her downstairs study. Not tonight. As she ducked out of the moonlit drizzle and into the comforting warmth of her hallway, she heard the back door slam. “Johnny,” she called. The house smelled of cooking, and the dulcet tones of soft jazz music drifted down the hall from the kitchen. That was strange; Johnny never cooked for himself when she was out. He either made himself a sandwich or warmed something up in the microwave, but he never cooked, and he certainly never listened to jazz. She glanced at her wristwatch - ten-thirty - her husband was usually in the den with a whisky at this time of the evening, working on his model airplanes and avoiding their teenage daughter. She tossed her damp coat and swimming bag onto the hallway bench and made her way along the expensive parquet floor without even removing her shoes. She opened the kitchen door to find her husband reading the newspaper at the kitchen table. A half-empty bottle of Merlot stood on the table; there were no glasses to be seen, but the dishwasher was clunking and whirring in the background. He looked up at her, cheeks flushed, and pushed his thick-framed reading glasses further up his nose. “Hi, darling. How was the meeting?” Vicky paused in her tracks. Something wasn’t right here. “Did I just hear the door bang?” she asked, ignoring his question. “Eh, yes, I was just taking the bins out.” Johnny never took the bins out. Johnny never drank wine. Vicky studied her husband for a long moment, but he simply smiled and returned to his newspaper. She felt a pang of anxiety rattle her insides. They’d been a little distant lately, and they hadn’t had sex for months, but he’d never lied to her. Never kept anything from her. What was going on here? “Where is Ava?” she asked. Their teenage daughter was rarely home before eleven these days, and when she was, you could usually hear her shrieking about something from halfway down the street. “Out with Claire.” Claire was Sally’s daughter, and her and Ava were joined at the hip. Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, Vicky retreated from the kitchen. As she closed the door behind her, she thought she heard Johnny exhale a low sigh of relief, but with the silky voice of Dee Dee Bridgewater echoing in the background, she couldn’t be sure. She made her way to the living room at the front of the house, pulled off her shoes and sank on to the deep, comforting cushions of her cream sofa in the darkness. Glancing out the front window, she noticed that Sally’s study light was now on. She curled up on her side and reached to pull a cushion under her head. As she slid her hand under the cushion, her fingers brushed against a rough fabric that was in stark contrast to the soft velour of the sofa. She closed her fingers around the fabric and pulled it out from beneath the cushion. Even in the darkness, she could tell that it was somebody else’s lingerie. Bile rose up her esophagus, burning the back of her throat, and her whole body shook as she reached for the lamp on the side table. As the light flicked on, Vicky felt winded, like she’d just taken a solid blow to the gut. Dangling from her fingers was the hot-pink, fine-mesh thong from the pool. Sally’s thong. It took fifteen minutes; fifteen minutes until her breathing returned to normal and her hands stopped shaking. She still felt sick to the stomach, but she knew what she had to do. She stormed up the stairs to the landing and charged through the door of her daughter’s bedroom. Flicking on the lights, her eyes darted around the silent room. It was in here somewhere. It had to be. On her hands and knees, she dug around under the bed until she located the black rucksack filled with spray paint. She snorted to herself; Ava thought her mum didn’t know that she’d been graffitiing the walls at the bus station with Claire, but Vicky knew everything. She pulled a can of neon-pink paint from the bag. How fitting, she thought bitterly. Not even bothering to close the door or switch off the lights, she flew down the stairs, out the front door, and marched across the street in her bare feet to Sally’s house. When she reached the front door, she didn’t hesitate for a moment. Her fury and despair had given way to a chilling calm, and she was focussed only on the task at hand. Taking aim, she pressed down on the nozzle and let the angry hiss of paint rage from the can. She took a step back to admire her work. The white wooden door on Sally’s front porch was now marred with a seething pink slur. Now everyone in the street would know what Sally really was. Nothing more than a SLUT. Vicky turned and walked calmly back across the street, oblivious to the rain and the cutting gravel beneath her feet as she crossed over her driveway. Back in her living room, she placed the offending pink items side by side on the coffee table before her. She was still staring at them ten minutes later when she heard a tentative knock at the living room door. “Yes,” she barked, her eyes still on the items on the table. “Mum?” came the tentative voice of her daughter from behind the sofa. She turned to see her husband and daughter standing in the doorway. “Vicky,” said her husband gently. “I met with Sally earlier, while you were at the PTA meeting.” Vicky stood from the sofa and turned to face her husband and daughter. What was going on here? This didn’t make sense. Ava looked vulnerable. Terrified. Nothing like her usual strong and rebellious self. “Ava has something to tell you, darling.” “ Ava has something to tell me?” spat Vicky incredulously. “Mum, I’m gay. I’m in love with Claire.” Her daughter’s voice was shrill and laden with emotion. Vicky felt herself begin to fall, hurtling into a dark, bottomless well. She didn’t understand. What were they telling her? “Come, let’s go to your Mum, sweetie,” said Johnny, steering his daughter round to the front of the sofa. Ava’s teary eyes fell on the can of spray paint and the hot-pink, fine-mesh thong on the coffee table. “Mum, what the hell are you doing with my underwear?” she screeched. “And why are your hands pink?” And suddenly, it all began to make sense. Awful, terrible sense.


A clock begun to tick. And I charged into the battlefield. Leaping feet, sword in hand and a silent battle cry filling my mind with blasting rage. I saw her coming from the other side. Shinning white armor, determined stride, face painted death. Overtaken by a terrible ecstasy, my eyes blazed with glorious hatred, my arms transformed into weapons of justice. The command had been given. The enemy was in sight. First blood was about to be drawn. But then, she stopped. Right in the middle of the battlefield, she stopped. Idly staring at me, staring at her own demise. All the better for me, I thought, and tightened the grip on my sword. Adrenaline pumping in my veins and I kept running, but the more I did, it felt more like her unmoving image floated towards me, like I didn't move at all. Or maybe I was stuck on the ground and something else was what pushed me forward. Someone else. I could feel the friction, the resistance, dragging me down more and more as I closed in. So, the moment I reached in front of her I stopped too. Like some godlike force outside of my realm of comprehension abandoned me to the inevitable pull of gravity, back in my earth-bound fate and the stillness of it all. I stood there staring at her, accompanied only by the constant ticking of clocks. Starting and stopping, dictating the war's pace. I was looking at a mirror. That's what it felt like. Her arms touching my things, her hand holding my weapon, her unmoving silhouette matching my own form in every single manner. All but one. Her color was all wrong. She seemed like a negative image of me. Compelled by the invisible wall in front of me, I couldn't take a step further. Frozen in place, I only raised my eyes, until they met hers. And when I peered inside of them, the reflection I saw was of my true self. So different, and yet all the same. It was our role which defined us, not the colors of our banners. We were alike because we shared the purpose our rank and place commanded. That of the foot soldier and the first line of attack. While looking into each others eyes, the realization I knew we both experienced, was the reason why no one would attack. For raising an arm against the other was to threaten oneself. We stayed like this for what felt so long, that the rage and hate all now seemed like a distant memory of a warlike game. Lost in introspection about the vanity of violence and the real purpose of existence. But the battle was not over, and the clocks were ticking still. The sound of horse hooves returned me to the battlefield. The rider galloped closer and stopped right next to me. I didn't turn my gaze from her, but I saw his horse hitting the ground and neighing in the reflection of her narrowing eyes. And we were one no more. Like my reflection in the mirror acting on its own, I was taken by surprise, as she raised her sword and cut down the horse's head. I heard the thud. I knew one of my own was down. Ignoring my presence, she moved out from my sight and stood beside me, above the rider's corpse. I knew she was, but all I could see now, now that the distraction of her was gone, was a vast battlefield stretching away in front of me. A new sense of purpose burned inside of me. Lying in the distance behind the enemy lines, trough a series of unoccupied spaces, a new path led to what was now the sole reason of my existence. There was no other way for me now. Reroute. Reroute to remain relevant. The battle raged on and on, and I kept being pushed forward towards a holy grail most of my kind will never live enough to realize. The crowning achievement. Where I would be exalted among my people. My chance to become something superior. The clocks kept ticking. The slaughter and the pain was fading all around me and I forgot about her, and her fabricated self reflecting illusion, which had enchanted me so. My goal was coming closer and closer by the stride, shedding its white light all around, until it became a radiant platform. The final space. I stepped inside. I was there. Its burning embrace engulfed me and weightless, I was lifted up. I reveled at the glorious moment, as my body stretched and transformed and a black crown was set upon my head. In my new imposing form, I stared down at the battlefield. It was not over yet, but the board had changed. A new queen had come. Far in the distance, I saw her again. She had seen it too. Her own holy grail. I couldn't let that happen. I dashed through the battlefield among towers and knights, bishops and pawns. She could not be granted the same blessing I received. She was the enemy once again and I was set to atone for my missed chance to show that to her. To prove to myself, that she was mislead and stranded from the righteous path. In an instant, I was behind her. She was almost there. Too bad. I sliced her throat. Sorry, we are not the same any more. Maybe, we never were. A hedonic chill crept up my spine as I felt the surge of raw power flooding my veins. The taste of blood. The superiority of my being, dominating and awe-inspiring. With maddened eyes and drooling rage I raised my head, looking for my next target. “Check.” A voice from beyond this world, commanded. So I turned, and I checked. Neither his regal white garments, nor his oversized crown could conceal the crippling fear reflected in his eyes. And I knew, I was the reason. “Your move, King.” I said. And a clock begun to tick.


Paula was furiously vacuuming the living room and shouting at her daughter, Mary, to hurry up and finish the dusting already. Just then, little Tommy rushed in wielding his toy sword. Tommy’s cries mixed with the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Paula sighed. Her parents were arriving in less than an hour and she still had to finish making the dinner. A deafening “crash” came from the kitchen. Paula rushed over to see Mary surrounded by broken plates she was carrying to the dining room. Tommy was standing agape while Paco whined. “Ugh, not now!” grunted Paula and turning to Mary, said aloud: “Please get the Undoer and clean this up”. Mary ran to the closet and pulled out a small tablet. She entered the password, then set the time to five minutes ago. Pointing the tablet toward the mess on the floor, she clicked the “Undo” command. Instantly, the shards of the broken dishes started twirling around and coming back together, exactly how they were five minutes ago: whole and unbroken. “Thank goodness for the Undoer!” said Paula as she walked toward the stove. “Mary, please help your brother pick up his toys in the living room.” “Why can’t he do it himself?”, muttered Mary and to Tommy, she said: “C’mon, shorty!” They left the kitchen, bickering. Paula put on an apron, got a cutting board, and started chopping carrots. “Ouch!” she cried as fresh blood started oozing out from the cut on her finger. She pressed on the cut to stop the blood flow. However, as soon as she let it go, the blood started dripping on the carrots again. Paula reached for the Undoer and set the time to three minutes ago. She pointed it at her finger and clicked on “Undo”. The blood and the scar vanished. “Nice little gadget”, thought Paula, as she wondered how people lived without it in the past. At seven o’clock sharp, the doorbell rang, and a disembodied voice announced the arrival of Paula’s parents. Paula pulled off her apron, patted her hair, and rushed to open the door. “Mom, Dad, how wonderful to see you!” Paula said as her parents walked in. Her mother, Patricia, was a short, slender woman. She looked around the room critically and Paula was pleased the house was clean. Paula’s father, Jim, came in limping and carrying a cane. He was a bit taller than his wife, with a round face and a balding head. Tommy and Mary rushed in to greet them. The dinner was a pleasant affair where Tommy and Mary told the grandparents all about their school and various sports competitions. After the desert, Mary and Tommy were excused to go to their rooms. Patricia turned toward Paula: “How are things with Bill?” Paula dreaded this conversation every time her parents came over. Bill and she divorced over a year ago. Theirs was a turbulent marriage, twelve years full of violent quarrels, usually caused by Bill coming home drunk. The police were called a few times, so the neighbors also knew about their problems. Every time she returned home from work, Paula would rush from her car into the house so no neighbor would get a chance to talk to her. She was ashamed of Bill, and of herself. “It’s OK now, since we moved”, Paula said. “He hasn’t found us yet”. The divorce hadn’t stopped Bill from coming to the house, banging at the door in the middle of the night, asking to see the children, and shouting “this is my house, too, dang it!” Two months earlier, Paula’s parents encouraged her to move across town. After her parents left, Paula went to Tommy’s room. The boy was already asleep. Soft moonlight fell on his face. “He’s my little angel”, Paula thought as she kissed him and turned off the lamp. Mary wasn’t asleep yet. “Hi mom” she said. “Are grandma and grandpa gone?” “Yes, honey”, Paula said sitting at Mary’s bed. “It was good seeing them again.” Mary was quiet, then she turned to Paula: “Mom, I’m really happy here. I’m glad we moved.” Although left unspoken, Paula knew Mary was relieved that her father wasn’t bothering them anymore. Paula hugged her daughter and kissed her on both cheeks. Mary slid down her pillows and said, “Good night, mom”. As she was falling asleep that night, Paula thought that she loved her kids so much she couldn’t imagine her life without them. Paula was dreaming that she and her kids were at a Zoo, watching a gorilla rattling his cage. It was amusing at first. However, as the rattling became louder and more violent, Paula tried to shout, “Stop it!”, but no sound came from her throat. The banging intensified. Paula jerked upright, looking around confused. Then she realized the banging came from the front door. She grabbed her robe and rushed toward the window. The moonlight was bright, and she could see her front door. “Bill!” she gasped “How did he find us?”. Bill was standing at the door, banging his fists on it, and shouting something incoherently. Then he walked toward Paula’s car and lifted up an object that looked like a bat. He then swung it down and the side window shattered. Her hands trembling, Paula dialed the police department. After providing all the information to the dispatcher, Paula rushed to the kids’ bedrooms. She found both children mercifully asleep. She then went down the stairs and crept toward the front door. She didn’t want to confirm to Bill that she indeed lived there, just in case Bill wasn’t sure. A few minutes later, a police car pulled in and two officers came out. They approached Bill who started shouting at them. “My wife ... my kids...I’ll be back, Paula!” Paula could hear him shouting. The officers handcuffed him and locked him in the car. Then, one of the officers came to the door and Paula opened it immediately. She gave the statement to the policeman, saying that she had a restraining order against Bill. “Well, that doesn’t always stop them, does it?” said the policeman sagely. “We’ll take him in and let him sober up overnight. You can press charges against him.” The policeman turned to leave, then stopped and said:” Ma’am, you may want to get a gun.” Paula stared after him. The next day was Monday, so Paula dragged herself out of bed. She woke up the kids, made their lunches, and sent them off to school. She then drove her car to town to get an estimate for the car window. After making an appointment for that morning, she left the car and walked to the cafe across the street. In the restroom, she looked at the mirror and gasped. The previous night’s ordeal made her look very tired, with large bags under her eyes. She splashed her face with some water and combed her hair. “Not much better”, she murmured. In the café, she ordered black coffee. As she sipped it, she looked around. It was pretty early and there were few customers. “Paula is that you?” said a deep voice behind her. She span around to see a tall, tanned man smiling at her. “James!” she gasped. “Oh, my, fancy seeing you here!” Paula smiled widely. “I’ve been visiting my parents over the weekend. I was on my way back to Boston, actually. Well, I’m glad I ran into you! May I join you?” “Sure, said Paula and motioned toward the chair opposite. It turned out that James was a medical doctor. He was happily married to Paula’s childhood friend, and they had three kids. They parted ways about an hour later when Paula got a call from the car shop. While driving home, Paula thought about James. The two dated for a year before James got accepted to medical school. He asked Paula to come with him. However, she couldn’t leave her parents. Her father was just diagnosed with bone cancer and her mother was devastated. Fortunately, her father recovered, but was left with a limp. Paula always regretted not leaving with James. He was very handsome, but also gentle and considerate. Within a few months, though, Paula met Bill and within a year they were married. She wished she could change her past. Then she thought of something and sped up. At home, Paula rushed to her computer and started searching the online stores. She had recently read about a new kind of Undoer that was based on a breakthrough technology. Like everyone else, Paula, of course, had an Undoer. However, hers was an older model. When she reached the page selling the new-age Undoer. She looked at the price. “Well, it’s expensive, but it’s not going to bankrupt me.” She ordered it, and was told it would arrive the next day. The following morning, Paula paced anxiously checking through the window for a delivery vehicle. Her package came just when the kids came back from school. Paula patiently fed the children, read Tommy a story, and tucked both of them in beds. Then she went downstairs. She hastily opened the package and pulled out a shiny new tablet. It was wider and longer than her old one, by just as slim. She turned it on. The Welcome Screen asked her to sign the Disclosures, which she hastily did. Then a new screen asked for her permission to sync the new device with the old one. She clicked “yes”. The next screen asked if she’d like to see a tutorial. She again clicked “yes”. For the next twenty minutes, she read in amazement about various features of the device. When the syncing was done, she took a deep breath and clicked on the Calendar file. She remembered vividly she met Bill at a party on Valentine’s Day, thirteen years ago. She found and clicked on that date. The Undoer then asked her to select the Place and Person. She did. The Undoer blinked several times and said: “Proceed?” She answered “yes”. There was a high pitched whooshing sound that stopped as suddenly as it started. Paula looked around. She was in a different house with fancy furniture. She looked out her front window and saw a different car in the driveway. She called her parents. Her mother answered. Paula said: “Mom, Bill was here last night”, and held her breath. There was a silence, and then her mother said: “I’m sorry, dear, but Bill who?” “Oh, never mind”, answered Paula with a smile. “I’d like to have you and Dad here this weekend. I have some great news.” “But dear, we can’t just get up and go to Boston in a few days!” her mother answered. Paula’s heart started beating fast and she said, mom, I need to go.” As she hung up, she heard footsteps. “Paula, dear, do you know where I left my briefcase?” James deep voice came from his study. Paula rushed to the study and saw James sitting at his desk. She ran to him and kissed him. He returned her kiss. They slowly walked upstairs to their bedroom. When Paula woke up, James was in a deep sleep. Paula smiled, then gasped. She got out of bed and rushed toward the bedrooms on the other side of the staircase. She opened all the doors, but there were no children asleep. Paula rushed toward the Undoer and franticly searched for the Redo function. There was none. At the bottom of the opened page, she read: “Warning, Undo actions cannot be reversed.”


It was a quiet fall evening, in which no birds sang, no cars hummed. The frigid air bit Abigail’s cheeks, and she shivered, wrapping her scarf tighter around her. The bright leaves looked like flames as they fell and piled up under the old oak she used to climb. Abigail let out another breath, warming the air around her. Finally, she stepped off the old creaky porch and headed down the well worn path to the woods. It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Looking around at the trees and giant moss covered boulders, a small smile spread across her face. Ghostly memories danced around the forest. She saw herself pretending to be a ship’s captain on top of the biggest rocks, swinging on the frayed rope swing that still stood there, droopy and worn, but still usable. She glazed her fingers along the frayed edges, and remembered. Remembered a time when she was happy, and there wasn’t a care in the world. She could be whoever she wanted to be back then. Her auburn hair whipped in the wind like the tail of the kite. She spread her arms wide, feeling the wind all around her. The leaves flew up and spun around in a dance. Then, the wind picked up and she hugged her arms, and the moment was gone. She sighed, and continued walking. Abigail soon came upon a clearing, and a flood of memories came rushing back; picnics in the warm summer breeze and staring up at the stars on the enormous rocks that stood to the right of the clearing. She circled the area, remembering. Behind her, she could hear a trickle of water from the river. She turned around and reminisced of when she’d jump into the cool water and the sun would hit it just right. She thought about the days in the winter when it was below freezing and she’d dance across the ice with her plain and worn boots and pretend to be a world famous ice skater. She’d been saving up all her life for ice skates, but even she knew it would never happen. But somewhere in that tiny girl’s heart, there had been hope. Hope that things would change and she would one day be in the spotlight with a beautiful glittering dress, not sitting behind a desk watching the time go by and waiting for the chance to go home. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her eyes became wet. She tried to slow her uneven breaths, and started to walk back out of the forest. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Abigail turned around suddenly. She quickly wiped her eyes, and stuck her hands in her pockets. A boy stood in front of her, with brown hair swept to the side and a mischievous smile on his face. He wore a dark brown beanie and a black heavy jacket. “Carter, what are you doing here?” Abigail said disapprovingly. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. “Same as you. I wanted to see the old place. Man, those were the days.” Abigail didn’t want to say, but she agreed with Carter. Instead, she frowned. “I don’t remember anything good about this place.” “You can’t remember anything? But Abi, you--” “Don’t call me Abi. We aren’t friends.” She said. Carter’s smile faded, and he looked down. “Are we gonna do this again?” “Yes, if you keep talking about it. And this is your fault, you know.” “I know,” he said, kicking at the leaves. “I just hoped you would--” “Forgive you? Forget about it? It’s always forgive and forget with you, Carter.” “I’m sorry!” He shouted. “I’m sorry! But that was ages ago! You really can hold a grudge, Abigail!” Birds flew off of the trees, squawking and flying away. The woods were silent. Carter picked up a rock and skipped it across the surface of the crystal clear water of the river. “I’m sorry, okay? But we were kids, and--” He paused, his words drifting away. He walked back toward the clearing and leaned against a boulder. Abigail climbed up to the top, and Carter followed. “All I can remember are the times when I ran here to get away from them.” She said silently. “When they were yelling--my--my parents.” Neither of them tried to say anything. They just lay down, staring up at the sky that was slowly fading away. The oranges and pinks and golds of the sunset slowly became the dark black of the night. Stars shined above them. The sky hung over them like a wide expansion of fabric. “Sometimes, I wish I could go back in time, when things weren’t so hard.” “Things were still hard back then,” Abigail whispered. “You’re right, but life--” Carter thought for a moment, searching for the right words. “Life is just as hard as it was back then as it is now. I thought it would be better when I got older. I would be away from my parents for a change. But things never got better.” Now the moon was right above their heads. Besides the moonlight, it was pitch black. The stars looked like grains of salt. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Abigail said. “It’s alright,” Carter said. Then he paused. “Remember when you would come out here and pretend to ice skate, when the river froze?” “Yeah,” she said wistfully. “This place used to be our own sort of paradise.” As they stared up at the sky, hearts aching, hands clasped together, Abigail said, “It was a safe haven, these woods. A place to go when we needed to get away from our families. I miss this so much.” She turned and looked toward the path back out of the woods reluctantly. “I don’t want to leave. But our life is out there.” She turned and looked back at Carter, asking him the one question she didn’t want to answer. “Are you ready to go?” “I don’t think I ever will be.” “But we have to.” She wore a melancholy smile when she said it. Her wet eyes shone in the moonlight. “I guess this is goodbye.” Carter said, looking around at the place. The wonderful place that had kept him safe through terrible times. They embraced, and Abigail felt warm inside for the first time in so many years. Slowly, she started to walk away. Carter watched as his best friend walked back out of the woods, a bird floating on the wind. Inside, he knew that she had forgiven him. The only reason they used to come here was to get away from the wretched world; from the people they had used to look up to, but now looked down on with pain. But these woods had given them friendship, security, faith, and so much more, and that was all that mattered.


The yellow palm-tree-topped swizzle stick rests against the rim of the glass. Taking the nauseatingly cheerful ornament between my fingers, I give the liquid a swirl and curse the excessive number of mint leaves. I ordered a drink, not a salad. The bartender, noticing my crinkled muzzle, tries to slip by to evade my foreseeable complaint, but I flag her down before she can escape. “Think you can manage a whiskey on the rocks, sweetheart? Whatever kind’s cheapest.” She nods her head without attempting a smile and scoots away to the bar. I watch as she whispers behind a menu with the other blonde who works weeknights. Fuckin bitch. My blue fingertips patter anxiously against the wooden table, and I notice the dirt crusted beneath my nails. I haven’t had a proper shower today, and though I can’t smell it, I know I’m wearing the odor of the previous night. With no watch on my wrist, I estimate the time to be early afternoon, and yet the place is crowded. That’s part of the reason I chose to move down here. Not the only reason, but one of them. The bars serve early and stay open until even earlier, only closing their doors when the sunlight overtakes the shadows. The repetitive reggaetón collides with the Spanish spoken across the room. Despite the noise, my lack of comprehension allows my mind to drown out the sound. My own thoughts push outward, and I am suddenly aware of my ever-present headache. A couple of white guys in cargo shorts push through the front entrance. Their too-sharp buzz cuts mark them as military, eliciting memories of my own time in the service. ... “Texy Baby, you’re gonna win us some money tonight!” “What the hell are you talkin’ about?” I take a hefty swig of my crown and coke. “Slow down, will ya? See that guy over there, the real scary looking son-of-a-bitch?” “Yeah, I see ‘em.” “I bet him and his whole gang that you’d outdrink him. Shot for shot. A hundred dollars--I said slow down! I already put my money down on you, dammit, Tex, slow down!” “Don’t need to.” “That’s the spirit, now!” He slaps me on the back, and I lower my empty glass to the counter. “Last time, Bucko. I’m not doin’ this every port call, now. Hell, I’m basically payin’ your bills--” “Yeah, yeah, I know, Tex. Last time just like last time,” he says and winks at me as he guides me out of my chair by the shoulders. ... The guys used to get the biggest kick out of buying me drinks all night and using the breathalyzer from the boarding kit to check my blood alcohol content. “A point three-eight! Unfuckingbelievable, this guy!” “Tex, look at the tip of this pen--“ “His pupils aren’t even dilated!” “He’s not even fuckin’ drunk!” Superhuman, they’d call me. I haven’t seen Bucko, or any of my old Coast Guard buddies for that matter, in decades. I only did eight years before I got discharged. It wasn’t the alcohol that got me in trouble, believe it or not. I got booted after I decided to solve an argument onboard with my fists, and that was that. “Your whiskey on ice.” “Another one, please,” I say as I empty the glass in one swallow. The bartender looks at me with astonishment and revulsion and hurries off again. I stare at the familiar mural painted on the wall, hoping for a slight blurring of the lines, but the colors remain as sharp as ever. I used to be able to feel tipsy, but I haven’t been able to feel anything for several years. Not since before I moved down here. By the time I returned to the civilian world, word had gotten around and videos had been shared online about my extraordinary alcohol tolerance. World Records contacted me and requested to document my record-breaking “skill.” They later called me back to inform me that they couldn’t move forward with the record. They said that they didn’t want to be responsible for condoning alcoholism. At any rate, I had become quite famous, and several liquor brands offered to sponsor me. I made good money doing interviews and appearances. ... A tourist couple settles at the table next to me, and the woman looks familiar. Those hazel eyes framed by laugh lines and that frizzy brown hair pulled up into a bun remind me of Laura, and I have to look away. I stare back at the mural, urging it to swirl, but it refuses. Little moments of Laura start spilling into my skull, and I’m immediately pissed that I don’t yet have a drink in front of me. I snap at the bartender to hurry up, and she ignores me from a safe distance. I push past the painful image of meeting Laura, a pretty girl, irritated and covered in tire grime, trying to fix her own flat on the side of the road. My too-sober brain recaps our marriage. ... Our little yellow house was quaint. Even though I had enough money to fund her dream home, she refused to live in anything “too over the top.” It sat at the edge of town, next to the Caravan Woods. From the dining table, I’d tell her fantastical tales of adventurers, psychics, or heroes as she prepared supper. She loved my stories most of all. Laura was the only person on earth who could be captivated by a make-believe magical character, while not being the slightest bit impressed by my real-life superpower. But Laura did not celebrate my drinking habit along with the rest of the country. Though it paid the bills, she thought it unnecessary. At first, she hadn’t condemned my work openly, but over time, I watched her frustration grow. The final straw came when a group of local teenagers died in a car accident after a bout of underage drinking. The driver, a 17-year-old boy, had been a fan of mine, as it turned out. The parents of the victims called for my arrest. They wanted to see me held responsible. But there is no law against being a bad example for young people, so the local police ignored their petitions. ... My drink is deposited in front of me. I let the recognizable burn splash down my throat. ... The heat from the flames warmed my entire body like the liquor that had birthed the fire as I watched from the road. The destruction spread to the woods as I waited for help from the Fire Department that never came. ... Another intoxicated vacationer stumbles away from the bar and staggers over to my table. “This seat taken?” “No.” “They really pour ‘em strong here, don’t they?” he asks as he leans closer to my face. With his jolly demeanor and red cheeks, he looks like a fucked up Santa Claus. “Sure.” “Cheers to getting drunk as lords tonight!” He offers his glass, and I raise mine in return. “There's no other way.”